Once again, from the eXile's latest "special report."
Where were you when Bush was assassinated? We Americans have just lived through one of the most profoundly tragic events in the history of the Republic. As with the Challenger explosion or Mike Tyson's rape conviction, Amer-icans may well remember their exact location the moment they heard the news for the rest of their days.
It was an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, with Americans of all walks of life were going about their everyday lives -- enjoying Cinnabons, watching CNBC, filing a complaint with your housing association in your gated community, when the news hit like a neutron bomb: the President had been shot at a campaign rally. The words sped through the internet almost before the bullets pierced the President's suit, a testament to the era of interconnectivity that George W. Bush has come to represent.
In a particularly jarring coincidence, a convention of Marvin Gaye impersonators were re-hearsing their stirring encore rendition of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" planned for that evening at the Stardust Casino in Los Vegas when the news reached them. Coincidence? They learned just as they sang the line, "Not much longer would you be mine."
In Topeka, Kansas, Barry Feldman was selling polyester "Commander in Thief" anti-Bush T-shirts on the corner of 14th and Grove St. when the news reached him. The last thing FeldmAn ever remembered was hearing the broken voice of NPR's Terry Gross telling him the news -- and then, a mob of mourners appeared. From his hospital bed, Feldman, whose T-shirts were grafted into his skin by third degree burns and cattle prods, admits that he will remember exactly where he was on that day.
The children of Amanda Litt's fourth grade class in Carson, Nevada, were composing inspirational letters to Sudanese pen pals when the PA announced the President's untimely sacrifice. They will also associate the day with the moment they were finally allowed to pray together in school. And as the day when the long-haired school counselor, Mr. Dietz, was hauled away by masked police after questioning the legality of school prayer.
Many of us were at work when news hit. Now, suddenly, work seems so trivial. Some of us were driving our children home from school. Now, our children seem trivial.
Only the loss of this great president, who brought the nation together in time of peril, matters to us anymore. For we have not only lost a President, but we have lost a friend, a father, and someone we've never met in our lives. Maybe if we'd met him, maybe if there was even a sliver of a chance that he would acknowledge our existence, we wouldn't be so shocked and so incapable of moving on with our lives. Sadly, we will never know.
The eXile's Special Assassination Supplement was conceived, composed and performed by Jeff Koyen, editor-in-chief of the New York Press, along with eXile editors Jake Rudnitsky and Mark Ames, and eXile designer-babe Dasha Mol'.
Assasination Nation By Thomas Friedman
When I heard the news yesterday about President Bush's assassination, I couldn't help but think to myself, "Gee, this sounds a little bit like the Israeli-Palestinian conflict." Not so much because a great leader and visionary was assassinated by an extremist loner named Pedro Pekman, but rather, because Bush's assassination reminds us that almost no one else in America has been assassinated, and almost no one else is a lone gunman preparing to assassinate. That's the kind of story that just doesn't sell copy at a time like this.
The fact is that most Amer-icans don't want to have their leader assassinated, nor do they want to assassinate their leader. They want the same things everyone else does, which are a decent jobs, security, and some form of representative democracy. Sure it's not going to happen overnight, but I'm not in the pessimist's camp, among those who take the easy road by pointing to new internment camps as proof that somehow our democracy is doomed. Amer-icans are an optimistic people, and our optimism will make even camp life a rewarding experience.
For now, we have an assassinated President, and an assassin. Their differences aren't really as wide as you think. What they lack is someone to say to them, "Hey, I'm going to give you a reality check, guys."
So here I go. Mr. Assassin, guess what? You haven't solved anything by murdering our President. We all saw how Acting President Dick Cheney gracefully consumed his former boss's heart. You know what that means? It means that President Bush's spirit lives inside of Acting President Cheney's vessel. Oops, you probably didn't calculate that into your assassination algebra. America stands firmly behind him, meaning you assassinated him in vain.
Which brings me to you, Mr. Acting President Cheney. Guess what, now more than ever you need to face hard facts. We all know that the assassin is a deranged bum and there was no way to engage him in civil discourse, but at the same time, you need to reach out to moderate assassins with whom you can negotiate. Otherwise, thirty or forty years down the road, someone else might get assassinated. If you do not engage moderate assassins now, you will leave the problem to our children. Think about that, if you dare.
So it's pretty simple. It's time for us all to grow up and face reality. Because if we don't, we'll all be left facing twice as much reality, or else, no reality at all.
I know Why The Dead Bush Sings By Maya Angelou
Dead bush drops
on the podium stand
and airlifted upwind
till the first all-white hospital
and lowers its blades
in the heliport roof
and Cheney fires two more just
to be certain.
But a bush that eats
from a silver spoon
can seldom see through
his mexican gardener's tools
his yard is too huge
his shoelaces are untied
so he opens his throat to say
something.
The dead bush sings
with nonsensical thrill
of big government
waste
but longed for blow
and his gurgle is heard
from operating room
for the dead bush
sings of jogging.
The alive bush thinks of a
possible promotion
and the possible contacts
through the sighing lobbyists
and the fat CEOs waiting on a
dawn-bright golf course
and he names the country club
his own.
But a dead bush lies in
acting president
Cheney's arms
his last impression is
par over three
his branches trimmed
and his leaves dry
so he opens his throat
to sing
The dead bush sings
with a coroner's drill
whirring in his roots
while he cuts a deal
for the dead bush
sings of jogging.