Laura Bush,
Rastafarian
by Con Chapman
Jenna
Bush let slip on The Oprah Winfrey Show that her
mother is a "secret Rastafarian" who
listens to Bob Marley around the house.
The New
York Times Book Review
Another scorcher in Texas--in the 90's! Better
turn on all three air conditioning zones to cool
the house or George will have a conniption fit
when he comes in from his bike ride.
Not a Burning
Spear day, I need something mellower--Bob Marley.
As Stevie Wonder put it in tautological terms in
Master Blaster, "Marley's hot on the box,
tonight there'll be a party on the corner at the
end of the block." Duh--where else do
you put a corner but at the end of the block? A
little too much sensimilla fried his brain, which
explains all his "throw your mother off the
train a kiss" lyrics.
I wish George
wouldn't obsess about his legacy so. He read an
article the other day comparing him to James
Buchanan. "That's not fair," he said.
"Buchanan's been dead for a long time--he's
had more time to become a bad president."
I looked him
in the eye and leveled with him. "Dub,"
I said, “No woman, no cry.”
He gave me
that wistful little-boy smirk that won the hearts
of millions. "Maybe you're right," he
said.
"You'd
better believe it," I said. "All you
got to do is oba-oba-serve thee hypocrites enjoy
the freedoms you preserved but make snarky
comments about you all the same." I don't
like that word “snarky” but I picked it
up from the girls.
Speaking of
which, Jenna comes bounding down the stairs.
"I'm going out mom," she says blithely.
"Buh--
"Wait a
minute young lady," I say sharply. "Not
looking like that!"
"What's
wrong with how I look?"
"I've
told you a thousand times," I say through
gritted teeth. "If you want to have nice-looking
dreadlocks, you have to use a lot of cow dung on
them."
"But mom!"
"No 'buts,'
young lady. March!"
She makes her
way back upstairs with that sullen attitude every
mother of girls knows so well. I and I don't
see eye to eye on some things, but I've told them--when
you go out of our house, you represent the family,
and I insist that you look nice. Even if
you smell like a feed lot.
Where is that
man? I wish he'd take up a sport like racquet
ball--fifty minutes and you’re done--so we
could have a regular dinner schedule. Might
as well fire up a spliff. Help me work up an
appetite.
Ah--now that
is one rude boy! A wave of contentment
washes over me. Have to admit--for all
George's whining, we don't have it too bad. A $7
million book contract for him, $2 mill for me.
God’s in his heaven, and . . .
Holy crap--I
forgot. I've got Bible study group tonight. I've
got to hide the pictures of Haile Selassie and
replace them with Jesus!
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