My date with George Bush (an excerpt from the "how the war played out in The Breeze" chapter)

...Naturally, given that it was his war, in 2004 I opposed the re-election of George Bush, who naturally made much of his campaign about how dangerous it would be to change warmongers in mid-stream, not to mention piss off political contributors like Haliburton, who were greasing their corporate profit machine with blood.

In another op/ed at around the same time I had taken on Marilyn Musgrave, the representative in the U.S. House representing our district. Musgrave had been carrying the homophobic legislative water for the party with the Federal Marriage Amendment. A guy in Johnstown was running against her in the Republican primary and had encouraged everyone to change their affiliation to GOP so they could vote against her. I did. And then I wrote about why I had done so, namely in response to her work for the amendment.

But the war, and all the anger, was wearing me down. In the spirit of trying to show we all were still Americans, I had written a comic piece the week Bush was at the convention saying that little had I known when I changed my affiliation that the Republican National Committee intended to pick a party member - completely at random - for a special honor: Like some politicized version of a "Tiger Beat" magazine contest, the winner would win a date with George Bush and Dick Cheney. I ran the piece under the headline: “To understand a man, walk in his shoes” 

NEW YORK - "Nice Chuck Taylors...."

The Secret Service agent couldn't have been more than 30. A fine specimen of young American manhood. If he wasn't standing in an elevator with me, admiring my high-top canvas basketball shoes, he could have been on the streets of Najaf or Fallujah.

"Thanks. My wife and daughters bought me three pairs for Father's Day," I said. "One of the other pairs is black with flames. My daughter, Harper, just bought a pink pair to go back to school in."

"Pink?" the agent said, interested and seeming to consider the fashion concept the same way he might appraise security risks in a crowded photo-op for the president. "I'll have to tell my wife. We've got a daughter that'd love that."

The elevator stopped and the doors opened to reveal a hotel hallway filled with more guys in black suits and sunglasses than a screening of "The Matrix." Nobody complimented my choice of footwear. But I was treated like a guest, nonetheless.

"Well, not technically a date," the RNC aide who called me to make the arrangements said when I tried to break the ice by making that joke. That was just sort of the Madison Avenue shorthand. And since I was a guy, that word would definitely not be used, given the pending Federal Marriage Amendment and all. Several agents led me down a hall. One recited the dos and don'ts of my upcoming visit. Basically it came down to do behave, and you don't get beat. Sounded fair to me, I said.

We arrived at a door and an agent knocked. Another agent opened the door and beckoned us in. The president, vice president and Attorney General John Ashcroft were sitting in chairs arranged around a television on which the convention was playing out.

Nobody was paying attention to the action in Madison Square Garden on the screen, however, because Ashcroft was showing Bush and Cheney a T-shirt. On it was an old, sepia-toned photograph of a quartet of Indian braves holding rifles and looking resolute. HOMELAND SECURITY was written above the photo in big, bold letters. Below, it said, "Fighting Terrorism since 1492."

"I got this from a vendor in Times Square," Ashcroft was saying. "I'm going to give it to Tom Ridge for his birthday."

Our arrival interrupted their conversation. Ashcroft quickly shoved the shirt underneath the cushion of his chair like a freshman hiding a bag of weed when someone suddenly came in their dorm room unexpectedly.

"This is Matt Lubich, Mr. President," one of the agents said. "He won the contest."

"Welcome," the commander-in-chief said, rising from his chair and walking across the room to shake hands. "Is this your first trip to New York?"

"No, I was here once before," I said. "But I was so overwhelmed I really didn't see much beyond Times Square. It's a lot easier to get around town with a police escort this time."

"Well, come on in," the president said. "Sit down. You know, I'm sure, Vice President Dick Cheney." The vice president didn't rise, or extend his hand, but squeezed out a tight grimace and said, "Nice to meet you."

"And of course, our attorney general, Mr. John Ashcroft," President Bush continued. Ashcroft rose and shook my hand. Quickly, the attorney general made some sort of excuse and he and the agents exited the room, leaving the two most powerful men in America, and possibly the skinniest, alone.

Ever heard of uncomfortable silences? The television droning on in the background was the only sound. I'm sure, somewhere in the city, a dog barked.

"So, Matt, what do you do for a living?" Dick Cheney asked.

"I edit and co-own a weekly newspaper in northern Colorado," I replied.

"One of the eunuchs at the orgy," Cheney said, a thin smile playing on his lips and a smirk passing between him and the president.

"Ah, Dick's just yanking your chain, Matt," President Bush said. "Sit down."

I took the chair that had been vacated by Ashcroft. The president sat back down. Again, the word uncomfortable silence comes to mind.

"So what are you guys doing in town?" I asked.

More silence. "That was sort of a joke," I said.

"Sort of," the president said. "Here's a better one. How many reporters does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

"I don't know," I said. "How many?"

"Two if they're from the New York Times," the president said. "One to screw it in and one to write a story about watching it, even though they were never in the room."

I had to admit that was funnier.

We sat there, silence enveloping the three of us like a fog. The president, looking bored, picked up the remote and changed the channel. Like most males who can't think of anything to say to each other we sat there watching ESPN Sports Center. On the television, they were showing tape of Dale Earnhardt Jr. winning Saturday night's race at Bristol.

"Nice to see Little E healing up and back on track," the president said.

"He doesn't have a chance," Cheney said, staring straight at the television. "Jeff Gordon's gonna win the championship."

"Hey," the president said, looking down at my feet that rested on the plush pile carpet of the hotel room. "Nice shoes."

Even in this divided nation of ours, it's nice to know that on some things, we can all still find a common ground.

The week after the piece ran, I had three separate people ask me how I liked my trip to New York....