President Bush at the Olympics

First of all, I need to say something about President Bush's interview with Bob Costas in Beijing just after the Opening Ceremonies. Bob Costas has won a zillion Emmys, he's smart, well-spoken, and has full command of the English language. He's imperturbable, always efficiently coiffed, and has an IQ about 80 points higher than Bush.

Bush is...well, he's Bush. And I always react with a certain amount of glee when I see him in an unscripted situation: no teleprompters to read off of, no handlers whispering lines in his ear. It's just fantastic. I always expect him to come off like Billy Bob Thornton in "Sling Blade."

He didn't disappoint.

My second favorite moment was when he was talking about the President of Russia, and blatantly mispronounced his name. Now, I know Medvedev isn't a softball like Smith or Jones, but it's not impossible either. I tried it myself and got the hang of it after a try or two. I don't think it's asking too much for the President of the United States to know how to say the names of important people.

My single favorite moment was when Costas was asking Bush about a number of the ills facing our country - the mortgage crisis, skyrocketing national debt, low consumer confidence, the high price of food, etc. Bush interrupted to say that he didn't think America had those kinds of problems. Then he said things would be a whole lot better if China had more churches.

Costas had no idea how to respond. As soon as he could, he took it to a commercial break.

Priceless.

In honor of our President, here is my actual running diary of his activities during the Opening Ceremonies. The cameras only showed him a handful of times, unfortunately.

0:24 Bush makes his entrance into the stadium, dressed rather dapper in a sharp gray suit and a red tie. He shuffles down the stadium steps with Laura hanging onto his right arm. Amazingly, no one seems to notice him. Or cares to notice him. Not a single head turns as he passes by. He shakes hands with his next-door seat mates, a pleasant looking Chinese couple. Then he shakes hands with a bald guy in front of him who already seems sweaty. They sit down. A tall man suddenly comes into the picture. He's so tall we can't see his head on the screen. All we do know for sure is that he's standing with his crotch about three inches from Laura's face. Laura, looking uncomfortable, decides that she'd rather crane her neck back 90 degrees to look at his face rather than stare directly into his crotch. Meanwhile, Bob Costas, who can't think of anything interesting to say about W, talks about how smart W's father was.

0:41 A huge crowd of children walks onto the floor of the stadium, carrying the flag of China. The camera shifts to Bush, who is leaning across Laura to talk to Vladimir Putin. I can't read their lips very accurately, but I think it went something like this:
Bush: "Vlad, how's it hanging?"
Putin: "Fine. You know we invaded Georgia today."
Bush: "You did?"
Putin: "Yep."
Bush: "Well, alrighty then. Thank god South Carolina's OK."

1:48 The athletes of Turkmenistan march in, all dressed vaguely like Fidel Castro. Bush is shown watching intently through binoculars. This shows you what a huge sports fan Bush is. Clinton would have been scoping out a cute Chinese usher through his binoculars.

2:19 The India contingent strolls by. Meanwhile, Bush couldn't look more bored. He's taken off his suit coat and is sitting practically spread-eagled in his chair. He glares at his watch. Laura, who doesn't appear to be sitting spread-eagled, is staring blankly into space and checks her watch as soon as she sees her husband check his.

2:32 A small group of Iraqis marches in. The crowd gives them an enormous cheer. Bush gives them polite applause, clapping like his palms hurt. Laura, on the other hand, claps with wild, giddy enthusiasm, a strange grin on her face, like someone's tickling her from behind. As soon as W stops clapping, she stops clapping.

2:42 Suriname is in now. Pan to Bush, who looks slightly confused. Where's Suriname? Laura's hands are hidden behind the head of the woman sitting in front of her. She could be knitting for all I know.

2:55 Now it's Puerto Rico's turn. Bush is back to the binoculars. Does he ever let Laura take a turn with the binoculars? Everone around them in the stands is fanning themselves, trying to stay cool in the Beijing heat. Not the Bushes. And does W ever sit with his legs together? Good grief, his knees are sticking out so far he's practically tripping everyone going past him on the steps.

3:01 Here come the Americans! Love the outfits - dark blue blazers with sharp white hats. One of the Lost Boys of Sudan, Lopez Lomong, is the flag bearer. An inspired choice. The symbolism, of course, is poignant. The Bush administration has done next to nothing about the horrors of Darfur other than mouth a few half-hearted condemnations. Seeing the Americans, Bush quickly leaps to his feet, grabbing his jacket and buttoning it up. Because he knows the cameras are on him now for sure, he grabs a small American flag from somewhere and begins shaking it with his right hand, like he's a little boy watching a Memorial Day parade in Galena.

3:05 The camera catches Bush, still standing and shaking his flag, cackling like someone just told him a joke. No one else appears to be laughing. Certainly not Laura, who doesn't appear to have said anything all night long.

3:10 Thailand is marching in now. The Parade of Nations is almost over, thank goodness. Bush is clearly near the end of his rope. He's back to sitting with his knees flung out to the sides. What's with that position? Has he just had hernia surgery? He's still got the little U.S. flag in his hand, except now he's banging it against his right thigh in utter boredom and glaring straight ahead, the furrows in his forehead so deep you could plant corn.

That's it. I'm looking forward to seeing Bush at the World Series.

Random Olympic musings

Some random thoughts about the 2008 Summer Olympic Games:

I see where the great swimmer Michael Phelps consumes in the neighborhood of 12,000 calories per day. That may be as impressive as anything he's done in the pool. Even if you've got a conveyer belt of fried egg sandwiches and pop tarts and plates of pure lard rolling toward your mouth, you've got to work really hard to eat 12,000 calories. All is know is that if I'm in the bathroom when Michael Phelps comes in to take care of business, I head the other way, fast, and give him lots of room.

The Chinese women gymnasts are all supposed to be at least 16 years of age, although rumors continue to swirl that some of them are much younger. I'm not saying the Chinese are lying, but I have an open jar of grape jelly in the refrigerator that's older than some of those girls.

I would last no longer than five minutes playing beach volleyball before either: A) Pitching forward face-first into the sand from exhaustion and barfing, or B) Taking a spike off my forehead that lays me out cold.

My daughter Grace and I watched 10 minutes of dressage the other day. Dressage is when the rider dresses up like he's a butler at a Beverly Hills mansion, top hat and all, and bounces up and down on the back of a horse that's prancing around like its feet hurt. They don't race, they don't jump. They just bounce and prance. And bounce and prance. Dressage has to be the most boring Olympic event ever invented. That's 10 minutes of my life that I'll never get back.

You know what would liven up the pistol event? Someone standing behind the shooter and randomly yelling "Hey!" as they're about to squeeze off a round.

Trampoline is an Olympic event? Really? Did any of us know this? Can Bounce House be far behind?

It was mentioned that Tug of War was an Olympic event from 1900 to 1920. Is it too much to ask that they bring this back? And the losers are forced to watch an entire day of dressage.

Why do I get the feeling that the anchors on the Tug of War teams would be female softball players?

This is my brilliant idea to spice up the last day of the Olympics: One of the traditions of Boxing Day in the British Commonwealth was that on the day after Christmas the masters and servants would change places. For that day the lord of the manor would do the gardening, or the cooking, or the cleaning, or whatever. Why can't we do this in the Olympics? On the final day, all the athletes switch sports. Why couldn't this work? Who wouldn't want to see Michael Phelps on the pommel horse? Or Kobe Bryant in a whitewater kayak? Or Serena Williams on the 10-meter diving platform? It would be fantastic. Let's take the weightlifters and throw them in the pool and see if they can swim. Let's make the archers try to pole vault. People would pay good money to see this, I'm telling you.

I caught just a little of the synchronized diving. I'm kind of embarrassed to admit this, but (whispering here) I kind of enjoyed it.

More thoughts on a later post. Plus a running diary of George Bush at the Opening Ceremonies.

I saw on the news today some video footage of American Olympic cyclists arriving in Beijing, China for the Summer Games.

The athletes looked like world class athletes should look - tall, sleek, strong, moving with a fluid grace through the airport terminal.

They looked fine. Except for the masks.

All of them - at least all of them that I could see - were wearing identical masks. Big black masks that covered their faces from just below their eyes to below their chins, with enormous black straps wrapped clear around their heads.

The group reminded me of some sort of crazed Michael Jackson convention gone bad.

The reason for the masks, of course, was as protection against the air of Beijing, the quality of which, if the reports are to be believed, is a cross between the noxious fumes from an active volcano and the stench from your grandfather's feet after he's mowed the yard on a 90-degree day while wearing rabbit fur boots and then waded barefoot through a pond of liquid manure.

The media, of course, have gotten quite excited about the whole thing. Reporters, barely concealing their glee, have practically announced that they expect most American athletes to keel over and begin retching, right there on the track, or the pool, or the parallel bars, after one deep breath. Or two. Or three at the most.

The cyclists apparently thought that if they didn't strap on their World War I gas masks, well, they would have blood pouring out their noses and eyes in a matter of minutes. Never mind that they'd just stepped off the plane. Never mind that they were still inside the airport. Never mind that they looked like doofuses.

Careful scrutiny revealed that none of the Chinese watching the mummified athletes pass by were wearing enormous black masks with enormous black straps. And none of them, as far as I could tell, had blood pouring out their noses and eyes.

Maybe I wasn't watching closely enough.

Anyway, I don't care. I don't care if Beijing's air is worse than an Iowa hog confinement. I don't care if you have to polish your teeth with sandpaper to get the grit off. I don't care if there's so much poison and radiation in the air that breathing through your mouth lights your hair on fire.

It's just rude to walk into someone else's country and act like you're Howie Mandel at a handshaking convention.

If I'm in your house and your mother brings me over a plate of food, I'm not going to hold my nose and grimace like someone just punched me in the kidney, even if the plate is filled with nothing but boiled curd. I'll suck it up. I'll compliment the chef. I may even eat the curd.

I just won't act like I'm too good for it.