2003-01-28 - 12:45 p.m.
At about 3:30 this morning, the phone rang.
"Hullo?"
"Mr. Miguelito?"
"Yeah. Who the hell are you?"
"This is the White House, Mr. Miguelito. Please hold for the President."
There followed about 10 minutes of what I think was "The Girl from Ipanema," only unsyncopated, on what sounded like a french horn but probably wasn’t. Interrupted at regular intervals by, "This is the White House. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line and the President will be right with you."
Finally, "Hey, Mig? That you?"
"George? What the fuck are you calling me at this hour for? Don’t you know what time it is in California?"
"Hell, I ain’t even sure what time it is here! I been up all night!" Some sniffing sounds. "Whadja do last night?"
"Not much. We had a tenant’s meeting with my building’s new manager."
"Really? What’s she like?"
"Like Bea Arthur with a cattle prod up her ass. Look, is there actually something you want, George? Some of us have to work tomorrow and stimulate the economy and shit."
"Nah. You watchin’ my address tonight? It’s gonna be good--that’s what my speechwriter says. Lots of big words and stuff."
"I wasn’t planning on it."
"Aw, c’mon, Mig! I really could use the--whatchamacallit--amoral support. You know?"
"Moral support, George, moral--oh, fuck it. Look, dude, I didn’t vote for you. I don’t even like you. I wish you’d stop calling me."
"Wanna come over here and hang out afterward?"
"No."
"You won’t know what you’re missing. It’s gonna be a PARTYYYY!!! WHOOOOOO!!"
"Don’t you have a war to start tomorrow?"
"Man, fucking Cheney won’t let me do anything, y'know? I started pushing some of them buttons the other day and he got all pissed off and yelling at me about nucular conflammation or something and just about put my nuts in a sling."
"Well, sorry I’m gonna have to miss it. I’m going to the Rocket From the Crypt show tonight."
"I heard of them! They’re the best goddamn rock ’n roll band in the world!"
"You heard right."
"Can I come?"
"No."
"Please? Can’t you get me a ticket?"
"The show’s sold out."
"Not for the President of the Goddamn Fucking Yoo-nited States of America, it ain’t."
"Do you have a Rocket tattoo?"
"A what?"
"A Rocket From the Crypt tattoo somewhere on your body. If you show it to them they’ll let you into the show for free."
"Hang on a sec."
The sound of the receiver hitting the desk. Cloth rustling, snaps unsnapping, zippers unzipping. Then, "Fuck, I HATE these fuckin’ shoes," then the sound of someone’s ass hitting the floor.
After a minute or so, he came back. "Nope, no tattoos."
"Well, then, I’m afraid you’re SOL, Mr. President. Nighty-night."
Clingy little tweek. I’m so glad he doesn’t know where I live.
***
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