Hammer Mill Days

It's going to take how long? Are you serious? What the hell, Urich - can't this tub move any faster than that? We're only talking about 17 light years. Oh, man... if only there were a "first class" in intergalactic space! Everything... and I mean every thing is coach. Urich, our somewhat fanatical pilot (I think he may be the only surviving German kamikaze, but that's just a guess), tells me that we've got quite a ways yet to go bobbing along here in the trackless void. We're all resorting to the stuff we do when there's nothing to do. Matt catalogues his bird species. John flies virtual airplanes across the Pacific. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) plays with his diode collection (the Frenchman thing wore off after a few days, thank goddess). The Lincolns argue about the war with Mexico. I could go on, but ... you get the idea. And what do I do? Well, not much... I strum my broken down Hagstrom III guitar and reach into the mailbag for whatev...

I expect you saw one or more of the closing performances put in by our erstwhile commander in chief. The last, his farewell address to the nation, was a flaccid medley of his most oft-repeated themes, a bit tired-sounding after eight years, but drafted semi-competently for Bush by whoever is left to do these things at the White House. This was Bush the product - the visionary warrior-prince with the wry "by crackee" half-grin and glint of optimism. For my money, the final press conference provided a far more honest portrait of the man. This is the Bush we really knew - arrogant and dismissive; an obvious imbecile who talks down to you; a man constitutionally incapable of admitting error and for all appearances utterly delighted with the very thought of himself. For him, the presidency is an intensely personal experience - so much so that he seems to measure every trial he put the nation through by its effect on his demeanor. It was a pretty amazing performance. I wonder what ...