"I read somewhere that Condi Rice says he tried to seduce her," friend who just flew in from the US said. I was genuinely miffed. "So? Was she bragging or complaining?" I shot back, muttering all sorts of mean things under my breath. "What’s with you?" my friend asked. "Donald Rumsfeld is my main poster boy. I don’t get this Condi Rice. What’s her point? What’s yours?" Rumsfeld gets me in high emotional gear.
But I didn’t fall in love until Baghdad fell and he was (rightfully, I thought) annoyed with the media. "We just got rid of a dictator and now... Henny Penny, the sky is going to fall. Of course, it’s chaos out there. War is messy. Life is messy..." The sky may not have fallen but there went my heart flip-flopping flirtatiously before it fell to the floor. I can’t resist a man who at a critical point in history quotes Chicken Little. That’s glory. And on media, that’s guts. And that line, "Life is messy." I can live and breathe that line. Sigh! Come on, Don, let’s you and me see just how messy life can get.
Of course, he wasn’t always on TV, so sometimes I amused myself with Brigadier General Vincent Brooks, young for me, yes, but life is messy, no rules. Where did they find this tall, dark, handsome hunk with Moorish almost Arabic features? What a terrific spokesperson, soft, level emotionless voice, almost deadpan, very much in control of himself and the situation. How much earth-moving equipment would you have to rent to get him to invite you for coffee? To get him to say "I love you"? I bet it would take a lot for this man of restraint. He would never publicly quote Chicken Little. Sometimes, very rarely, his sense of humor threatened to leak through, but only after the war was essentially over. Vince had a very strong a grip on himself. That’s what came across anyway. What do you expect? He’s young, Rumsfeld’s subordinate. To me Donald Rumsfeld, even if much older, is sexier because while he looks like he has a firm grip on himself he also looks like he knows how to lose it. In Pinoy, marunong magwala. Yes, like that old country and western song once said, He can eat crackers in my bed any time.
I cannot believe I have come to this. My old male buddies, a rowdy bunch who now think a lot more than they do, watch ladies tennis intently then get together for drinks to discuss the lady tennis players’ breasts. I used to laugh at them, creating this scenario where their wives would come in to ask something important like, "Have you paid our taxes?" and they would say, "Shhh, don’t bother me, I’m watching the game," when actually they were watching the bodies. Now here I am lusting after the generals while watching the war. Tony Blair, the yummy war god, he was the best of them, in a class all his own but the line of worshippers was far too long. I would get lost in that crowd. I think I have a better chance at the Rumsfeld line, though the few women I spoke to about him agreed with me. Fantasizing that one has a chance is part of the thrill. I guess we all have our poster boys and girls.
George Bush. He could have been his grandmother’s poster boy so she passionately pulled his nose so much it brought his eyes together permanently. I like best the photographer’s moral question that I received by e-mail: "You are a photographer out getting still photos for a news service, traveling alone, looking for particularly poignant scenes. Suddenly, you stumble across a helicopter crash. It’s George Bush and he’s struggling to keep from being swept away in a raging river. You have the choice of rescuing him or getting a Pulitzer prize-winning photograph of the death of the leader of the free world. What shutter speed would you use?" My answer? I have an idiot-proof camera. I can take this picture. Regardless of shutter speed, my camera won’t break.
The war’s over. I miss my main poster boys, Donald Rumsfeld and Vince Brooks. Jay Garner just doesn’t do anything for me.
Wow, thank you, Sharon, for that unexpected blessing. Your endorsement made me grow in my students’ esteem. My writing course is based on a book whose author recounts that one day she received a phone call from a timid woman who wanted a tutorial because she was shy about taking the public class. The author convinced the shy lady about the merits of the public class and the experience led to much joy and many collaborations. The timid caller was Joan Baez. Shall we repeat the experience?