Oh, dear. Back from interminable time in airplanes, hotel rooms and conference centers, giving briefings, listening to dumb questions, maintaining a straight face. The life of a lonely economist running a one-man think tank. Or something. In any event, it seems that all has gone to hell in a handbasket in my absence; my friend and colleague, the Great Reynolds, seems not to have maintained, as they used to say in the Soviet Union, when standards meant something, the eternal vigilance promised when I paid him a huge honorarium to keep an eye on things in my absence. For this transgression he is likely to find himself in a nice, cozy cell with a gorgeous view of the Arctic Ocean. Better that than to find himself walking across a bridge in front of some thug carrying an umbrella. (Google “Georgi Markov.”) So I return to find Laura Bush—a class act, a lovely Lady, the UnHillary—regaling the unwashed masses with off-color humor about President W turning in by 9pm, desperate housewives, male strippers, and attempts to milk male horses presumably wearing blue dresses. Is there a cigar in there somewhere? What do I mean by “is?”
Oh, well. What gives here? Is the fair Laura trying to expand the tent? Or are the Bushes now schmoozing the Beltway elite with signals about their true sophistication? Put aside whether the jokes were funny (yes) or in good taste (I think so). Can it actually be the case that W has decided that he needs the Beltway’s approval? It strikes me that there is here both less and more than meets the eye: Nothing wrong with a little off-color bawdiness, but in front of this crowd? W and Laura will never have their approval, nor should they want it. And the more they pursue it, the worse off they will be.