Rare Medium Everybody has a hobby, or should have one. Anything will suffice... Building ships-in-a-bottle, cultivating rubber tree plants, breeding show-quality earthworms, anything. In between working and fretting about the IRS, it has become an interest of mine to try and figure out what goes on in President Bush's mind. This kind of hobby falls into its own category, somewhere between model rockets and 10,000-piece jigsaw puzzles. It's the Mount Everest of hobbies, really, since there is no logical way to get in there. Hands down, we're talking about the most secure place in America, tougher to breach than Fort Knox, or Area 51, or the Gates Mansion. One cannot rely on public statements which were made in the capacity of our national CEO, because that's all business - no different than the facade a kindergarten teacher presents to the classroom. Documentaries made about our 43rd president offer no greater insight. Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11 was entertaining, but Dubya's role as protagonist in the film was clearly and deliciously contrived. Alexandra Pelosi's Journeys with George portrayed Candidate Bush as a pretty affable, pretty regular guy. But that was during an election run. He wasn't going to do anything stupid, such as pick up a puppy by the ears, like some Texans have been known to do. I mean, how well do we know this president? We must think, "pretty well", because we re-elected him (the fact that his approval ratings summarily went through the floor has to be a curious coincidence). We know he's rich, we know he's an avid exercise junkie, we know he's got faith, we know he hates evil and we know he can't run the country worth a darn. But that's all we know. So I hired a pyschic, a short, skinny woman with a bandana stuck to her head. She said her name was Crystal Ball, no relation to Lucy. For a small fee, she said, a seance could be conducted, and I could (through her) actually communicate with George W. Bush. "But he's very much alive," I said, putting as much stock in the media as I ever have. "How can you make contact with the living?" "If a person's brain waves are so low that they cannot emit past the confines of the skull," she explained, "it's the same thing as being on the other side. He's available to me." I mentioned how nice that must be, and agreed to a retainer. The medium was going to do it. She had another appointment with someone looking for the spirit of Al Gore, she said, so I scheduled an appointment for a later time. That gave me the opportunity to mull things over. Honestly, is this something that anyone would want to do? It's like going to the moon. Sure, we can do it, but it's not going to be cheap and there's nothing up there anyway, so it's not just a waste of money but also a waste of time. Maybe that's the wrong analogy. Perhaps this venture is more comparable to the Iditarod. Either way, I figured there was no other avenue. Upon returning to Crystal's velvet tent, low-lit and brimming with incense smoke, I found her already in a quasi-trancelike state. In the lowest of voices, she told me that she was already in Crawford, on the other side of the fence, visiting with the president. Ever the skeptic, I asked her to get some baseline information from him, so that we could be certain we weren't just talking to some prankster spirit. "Did he go fishing this morning?" I asked. She paused, pursed her lips and replied, "Yes, he did. He says he caught a nineteen-inch bass that was as big around as a summer squash. It took two Secret Service agents to reel it in." It was him, all right. I quickly moved on to serious topics. "Is he going to talk to Cindy Sheehan any time soon?" Crystal began rubbing her temples lightly with the tips of her fingers, and then said, "He says he doesn't know who that is." "Oh, come on. It's the woman who lost her son in Iraq and wants to know why Bush started the war. She just wants some face time, that's all, and the event only became a media circus after he refused to give her any. This whole thing could have been over and done with in a day. It wouldn't have been the greatest day of his life, but he had five weeks of vacation time to get over it. What's the big deal?" Crystal frowned and tilted her head at a very slight angle, and said, "He doesn't know what you're talking about. He wants to discuss Social Security reform." "Yeah, well, too bad, it's my dime. Ask him if he's going to take the country to war with Iran." Her hands began to fidget. I don't think she was at all aware of it happening. "He says all the options are on the table." I crossed my arms and began to think about the money. "I thought," I said, trying to be careful with my words, "you said you could reach this guy. All you're giving me are these evasive, standardized answers. I wanted something in-depth." Crystal let out a deep sigh and was silent for a moment. I supposed I had pushed too hard, but waited in the thick, hazy discomfort. Eyes closed, she rubbed her chin slowly, and then cracked her knuckles, festooned as they were with turquoise rings. "He wants," she said, "to talk about when he was the owner of the Texas Rangers. He says they were only a couple of players, and maybe a couple of plays, away from being a contender. He says he'll talk about that." "The Rangers were awful when he owned them," I said, exasperated. "Even with Rafael Palmeiro - hey, how about that? Ask him, was Rafael Palmiero on steroids when he was in charge of the team?" Without hesitation: "He says he doesn't know who that is." She frowned, filling in the lines between her eyebrows. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. She sat up suddenly, her eyes opened wide, big and round as silver dollars. "Oh, my God!" She shrieked. "No! It's... It's Rosie O'Donnell, she's coming right at me!" "Relax," I said. "That's Scott McClellan, the White House Press Secretary. I should have known he would be lurking in there." Crystal swallowed hard, and asked, "What do you think she wants?" "He, him - you're being confused by all the make-up and the ambiguous physique," I told her. "He's taking George away, isn't he?" She closed her eyes, paused, and said, "Yes. That's right." "Okay, that's it, then. There's no point in going any further." I stood up. "Can I ask you just one more question before I leave?" She nodded. "How about Dick Cheney?" I had to know. "Can I get to him?" "No," she said, in a near whisper. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and she moved her face slightly toward mine, like a cobra about to spit. "But he can get to you." Paul Heller 8/17/05 << back to the archives
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