George Bush Clears His Head With Jack Daniels

The time was 2:32 AM eastern standard time. President George W. Bush could not sleep, so he slipped out of the king bed, leaving Laura sound asleep behind. He walked out of the room in his bare feet wearing navy blue satin pajama pants with a white t-shirt. George was having difficulty making it through the night without waking at least twice. Not to go to the bathroom. Not because of hunger or thirst. It wasn’t anything George could put his finger on. He remembered back to the months immediately following his election against John Kerry. Those were months where he slept through the night and felt strong and clear-headed every morning. That election was a shot in the arm for George, and everything, all his body parts, his sleeping, his eating habits, his sex life with Laura, his relationship with staff and his cabinet, his interest in following sports - it was as if he was back at college on one of those many drinking binges where his youth precluded hangovers and life was filled with possibilities. But that had all passed. In just two years, George’s body chemistry had changed. Little sleep, no sex, eating crappy food, the exercise stopped, the football and baseball fantasy leagues he secretly played were history, he talked with few of his staff, he felt distant from his daughters, his left hip had been stabbing him with a consistent dull pain.

He reached the end of the hallway where a man in a black suit and tie with a walkie talkie was standing. George did not recognize him. Or maybe he did. George did not remember.

“Good evening, sir,” said the man with the walkie talkie.

“Hi,” said George.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” asked the man with the walkie talkie.

“How about a bottle of Coca Cola,” said George.

“Certainly,” said the man.

“And those little airline bottles with whiskey. They have that in the kitchen. In one of the cabinets. You know about that?” said George.

“I did not know that, sir,” said the man.

“Yeah, well, they have them. Can you find two of them. Whiskey. Two little bottles of Jack Daniels. Pour both of them into a bottle of Coke. Of course make room for it in the bottle, and bring it to me,” said George.

“I’ll have to radio for it, sir. I cannot leave my post,” said the man.

“What’s your name?” asked George.

“Timothy, sir,” said the man.

“Timothy, look, I know you answer to the Service and not me. But can you radio for a someone to come up here and hold your post for you while you run this errand for me,” said George.

“Yes. I can do that,” said Timothy.

“I tell you what. Why don’t you grab a few bottles for yourself. We can sit down and shoot the breeze. I need to calm down so I can get some sleep,” said George.

“I am not supposed to do that, sir,” said Timothy.

“Yes, yes, I know, I know. But then just bring a few extra bottles with you. We’ll discuss protocol when we chat. OK?” said George.

Timothy paused briefly, then raised his walkie talkie and pressed the button on the side of the handset.

“This is Alpha One West. Send up a temp replacement. Request of of Alpha One,” said Timothy.

“Roger, roger,” said the voice on the handset.

“Thanks, Timothy. I feel better already,” said George. George sat on the chair in the hallway, waiting for the replacement and for Timothy to do his errand. He could have a few drinks. The Presidential pressure was enormous, and he made it almost six years in the hardest job of the world without touching a drop of alcohol. One drink was not going to kill him. But not sleeping was going to kill him. The Jack Daniels would help him sleep. It would help him forget about the state of things, and he could avoid the dreams. It was those damn dreams that kept waking him. That was it. Whiskey kills dreams. And that’s what he needed to do. It was the only way to be the leader of the free world. No dreams.

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Mike Bloomberg And Ray Kelly Meet With Al Sharpton - Part Two

Continued From Yesterday.

The door opened to the Mayor’s office and in walked Al Sharpton. Mayor Mike Bloomberg stood immediately. Ray Kelly was slower to stand. Bloomberg offered his hand, which Sharpton took.

“Hello, Mayor,” said Sharpton. Sharton did not wait to be offered a chair. He sat in the chair next to Kelly’s. Bloomberg sat. Kelly sat.

“How are you Mr. Kelly?” asked Sharpton.

“Fine, thank you,” said Kelly.

“Fine? How can you be fine under these circumstances. Your guys plowed a bucketload of bullets into an innocent man. A black man. So you tell me, how can you be fine?” said Sharpton.

“I meant I was personally physically, OK,” said Kelly. The second he said it, Kelly knew it didn’t sound right.

“Physically OK? I would be sick to my stomach. In fact, I am sick to my stomach. How can I be feeling sick and you feeling OK?” said Sharpton.

Bloomberg killed a smile that started to form. Sharpton knew how to grab the conversation.

“I think we all feel sick about what happened,” said Bloomberg.

“So what are we going to do about this mess that you have gotten yourselves in?” said Sharpton.

Kelly hated that Sharpton presumed that somehow he was part of the government, as if he was charged with the high purpose of public office, almost as if this was one of his offices.

“The offices are on administrative leave, Al, and they have turned in their guns,” said Bloomberg.

“That means they are still getting paid, and they have desk jobs. Sounds like a promotion,” said Sharpton.

“I can assure you it is not a promotion,” said Kelly.

“It’s a slap on the wrist,” said Sharpton without turning to look at Kelly.

“You don;t know the facts, Mr. Sharpton. We were staking that club out. Drugs. Prostitution. Money laundering. They rented the place out as a cover. There was a bachelor party going on. The kids who got shot were like human shields. Those bastards used their patorns as human shields,” said the Police Commisioner. Kelly was irritated. Police were not never allowed to fuck up. And when they did, their lives were often ruined.

Al Sharpton addressed the Mayor. “Your Police Commisioner says that the African American community of this great City of New York are the human shields for crime. And so what is he saying, that African Americans can be killed to fight crime? Cause if that is what he saying, I’d like to tell that to the media,” said Sharpton.

“I am sure that is not what the Police Commissioner is saying,” said Bloomberg.

“I did not suggest that,” said Kelly.

“It sure sounds like you did. One of those Freudian slipperoos, if you ask me,” said Sharpton.

“Look, we have to deal with this swiftly and aggresively,” said Mayor Bloomberg.

“I’ll say, cause your Police Commissioner has handed me a golden opportunity. It don’t mattter how you play this music, it comes out the same. Fifty bullets at two unarmed innocent black men. That’s music man that only plays one way. And anyway you hear it, it makes the New York City finest seem like the worstest,” s id Sharpton, not blinikng an eye on his misuse of the English language.

“Al, our interests are the same. We need to find out what happened, discipline the officers for what they did, and try to start the healing,” said Bloomberg feeling like he was on the Oprah show.

“You ain’t going to heal sqat without my participation,” said Sharpton.

“Of course. We need you, Al. We need you to be part of the process,” said the Mayor.

“Hey, Mr. Mr. Mayor, I know you’re playing me. You think I don’t know when you are playing me. And that is OK. It’s OK with me. You play me all you want. Just as long as you know I will be playing you. And maybe, if you are lucky, you will come out smelling like roses. But any way this plays out, I will be OK. This is my game you have entered. This is my game,” said Sharpton.

“Yes, yes, I know. And it is my desire to make us all do justice and try to prevent this from happening again,” said Bloomberg.

“So are we ready to meet the media? ‘Cause I’m ready. And don;t take it pewrsonally if I don;t smile with you Mayor and look like we’re friends. ‘Cause I ain’t gong to smile. This ain’t time for smiling,” said Sharpton as he rose from his chair.

“I understand completely,” said Bloomberg as he stood. Kelly did not stand.

“See you gentlemen downstairs. And Mr. Kelly, don’t look so sour. Feel as fine as you said you do,” said Sharpton as he walked out fo the office.

“I hate that sonofabitch,” said Kelly.

“We are all running the city together, Ray,” said Bloomberg. “We are all running the city together.”

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Mike Bloomberg And Ray Kelly Meet With Al Sharpton - Part One

Michael Bloomberg sat in theoak wood desk chair that has scratches and scuff marks from years of mayoral lounging. The desk was also large, oak, heavy, standing in place as if it hadn’t been moved in a century. Bloomberg never bothered to make New York City’s Mayor’s Offcie hi own. He did not consider it his own, anyway. There were times when Bloomberg missed the private world of commerce and business, where one could spend money lavishly and be blunt in one’s discourse. But here he was, presideing over one of the largest and most important citys in the world, the top manager, the spokesperson for a myriad of constituencies, a pandemonium of competing social, racial, cultural and financial interests, a city where the poor and the rich walk the same pavements, and shop at the same grocery stores, and buy coffee at the same Greek delis. It astounded Bloomberg that New York had not imploded from all the exploding quilts that patch the neighborhood landscape.

“Do we really have to meet with that asshole?” said Raymond W. Kelly, New York City’s Police Commisioner as he sat alone with the Mayor.

“Is there a reason why you think we shouldn’t?” said Bloomberg.

“Tawana Brawley,” said Kelly.

“That’s history,” said Bloomberg.

“He’s an opportunist,” said Kelly.

“And we are not?” asked Bloomberg rhetorically.

“I feel like I have to take a shower after I am with him,” said Kelly.

“Oh stop it, Ray. Sharpton is a colorful guy. Entertaining. And whether we like it or not, he has grabbed the stage for a major constituency in this town. If they listen to him, I have to listen to him,” said Bloomberg.

Bloomberg actually liked Al Sharpton. Sharpton was a straight shooter and was very clear about what he was all about. The public face of Sharpton was not the same man that Bloomberg had come to know in private meetings with him. This was not so different from the hundreds of business people he had dealt with. Indeed, he had known Wall Street to be particularly populated by charlatans and pretenders. But sometimes you had to deal with them, and sometimes they held the strings. Quite frankly, from Bloomberg’s perspective, the Wall Streeter’s were boring. Sharpton was anything but. And that mattered.

“You feel like you can trust him? You feel comfortable with Al Sharpton?” asked Kelly.

“Tell me again about the fifty gunshots fired by our police officers. Give it to me in a few words. The Reverend will be here any moment,” said Bloomberg. This was a management tool Bloomberg had used often. The essence of things could be described in a few words. And it was the essence of things that seemed to matter even more in politics than in business.

At that moment, the door flew open and in walked the Reverend Al Sharpton.

To Be Continued.

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James Baker Wants To Spank Baby Bush

James Baker sat in a large dark red leather arm chair next to a fireplace that contained three logs. There was no fire going in the hearth as it was sixty-two degrees outside, and Baker thought it would be a waste of good lumber to burn the wood just for effect, even though it was Thanksgiving. Timothy, Baker’s grandchild of two years old, was playing with a Thomas The Tank Engine metal train that was hand-me-down from Timothy’s older brother. Baker could smell the aroma of the turkey cooking in the kitchen, and there was chattering of activity throughout the house, Baker’s kids, grand-kids, daughters and sons in laws, his own siblings and their spouses and kids. The house was an orchestra of family, the sounds as delicious as the meal being prepared. Baker was feeling content at having arrived in his mid seventies with a solid record of public and private achievements. Though he never thought of himself in these terms, the media and many had described him as a statesman. Baker thought this amusing given that his primary operating principal was honesty and humility, two attributes he considered lessons to be learned early on. And yet, the world seemed to have drifted into a morass of dishonesty and arrogance. And this, Baker knew, to be the case of the White House as well. Baker uttered these thoughts to his wife, and privately communicated the concern to his old friend George Herbert Walker Bush, the father of the sitting president. But he was circumspect about revealing too much. Though honesty was a governing principal, that did not justify communicating with a blunt instrument. Tact was part of the humility of life, that special place where one reserves the possibility that there was another point of view, a different legitimate perspective. Tact permitted others to open up, and such was the start of true communication.

So herein lied Baker’s problem. The truth, the honest truth was that Iraq was an enterprise that was now lost. Baker had no opinion whether the enterprise could have been a success if conducted differently. But he did know this: America could not stay in Iraq, and the sooner America withdrew, the better it would be for his country. But how to communicate this to President Bush in a manner that it would be heard. How much tact should Baker employ? And this was an important question because a mistake at this stage in Baker’s life might just define his whole life. Look what happened to Donald Rumsfeld, thought Baker. It no longer mattered that Donald Rumsfeld had a long history of service to his country, a long and distinguished career. That was now all forgotten, and not likely to be the part of his legacy that had any volume.

James Baker watched Timothy push the toy train on the plush rug. What kind of life would Timothy have? What kind of world had he left Timothy? Baker suddenly found himself getting angry. It felt like all the work of diplomacy he had done, all the work to erect an ethos of international discussion had been destroyed in just six years of Bush’s presidency. This was not just a matter of personal pride. This was a matter that affected Timothy, his two-year old grandson. James Baker adjusted his back in the chair and rubbed his neck. Tact. Was this a time for tact? Or was this a time for blunt language? Maybe Baker could get away with bluntness since it was bluntness that no one expected of him. Baker smelled the stench of incivility to the world’s discourse as he also enjoyed the aromas coming from the kitchen. Timothy and Thanksgiving. As he watched Timothy push the toy train o the plush rug without tracks, he wondered if the train had a set of toy tracks. Trains need tracks. And he would have to get this train on the right track.

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Secret Service Buys Sony PS3 For President Bush

The time was 11:45pm. A line of people stretched around the corner from the suburban Best Buy in Fairfax, Virginia. Max Fine was number two on the line. Max Fine wore a fleece jacket covered by a beige raincoat. His jeans were new with an iron crease down the front. His Nike running shoes were uncomfortable because they had yet to be broken in. Max Fine was a career Secret Service agent, one of the best, and in the inner circle of agents that protected President George W. Bush. He was 43 years old, his 44th birthday just a few weeks away. Max was not married, never had been, no children, and was thankful for the lack of headaches family seems to bring others. But today, tonight that is, he felt like part of a big family, like one of the kids told to go out and run an errand. Afterall, that is exactly what he was doing.

The number one guy on the line outside of Best Buy looked like he was a college kid, long hair, face stubble, frayed baggy jeans, and Asian. The number three guy on the line also looked like a college kid, long hair, face stubble, frayed baggy jeans, and African American. Number four was a girl. Number five was an older woman, maybe 35, overweight with a crew cut, covered in a fuzzy pink coat with round pink buttons the size of silver dollars. Her skinny bare legs were a mismatch for her rotund upper body. There were of course numbers six, seven, eight…by number fifteen or so, the line turned the corner down the long stretch of the side of the large store that sat in the parking lot separate from the Fairfax Shopping Mall.

Max Fine had gotten to the Best Buy to get online at 6:00pm, as instructed by the President. President Bush said “Max, I want you to be the first in there to get me that thing.” Well, Max would not be the first. Max was number two. The Asian college kid was number one. Max would flash his credentials, but the President also said “Don’t let anyone know you’re buying this for me.” Max had no idea there would be a line. Max also was surprised to learn that Best Buy was to stay open until 1:00 AM just so it could be the first to sell Sony’s Playstation 3 at midnight when it legally was to go on sale. The President said “Dick doesn’t know about these things. There is lots of stuff to learn on Playstation. But Dick doesn’t understand that.” Max Fine was not certain why the President launched into a rant about Vice President Dick Cheney, but he suspected that the President had altered his view of “Dickie Bear,” as he was known in the Secret Service. The resignation of Rumsfeld seemed to change everything. The President chatted more with non-essential personnel now, such as Max was referred to though his job was to protect the life of the President, a task that any thinking person would deem essential. But today, or tonight that is, Max was doing what the Service used to call a “coffee run,” but was now called “doing a Starbucks.” Max was doing a Starbucks at Best Buy to get the new Playstation 3 plus a game. The President whispered it: “Resistance - Fall of Man.” Bush said it was supposed to have the best graphics and blow away anything on the Xbox. “Cheney and Rummie wouldn’t understand the usefulness of Resistance - Fall of Man, but the play action and the 3D graphics would give my administration the confidence to do the right thing in Iraq,” said Bush to Max Fine in the same whisper Bush had uttered the name of the game.

Max looked over at the Asian kid. “You ever hear of Resistance - Fall of Man?” asked Max.

“Yeah,” said the Asian kid.

“You buying it?” asked Max.

“Nope. Can’t afford it. Barely enough for the PS3,” said the Asian kid.

“Don’t buy it,” said the African-American kid to Max’s right.

“Oh, yeah. I heard it was good,” said Max.

“You heard wrong. All the idiots think it’s good. The game has no style, no grace. There’s no room for nuance,” said the African-American kid.

“I see,” said Max.

Everyone on the line started to come to attention. It was almost midnight. The end of one day, the beginning of another, the two days separated by a consumer marketing moment. Max thought of his job description. The last sentence of the description says “And anything else the President requests.”

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