O, The Huge Manatee!

Gerry's World: Gentle readers, I am steaming mad right now. Steaming, I tell you!

Why, you ask?

Well. First of all, there was that whole issue this fall of the school named after me not naming its building after me. Instead, it chose the Chuck Schumer look-a-like. That was a bad move. I refused to come to the opening ceremony, later regretted it, and admitted as much.

End of story, right?

WRONG. You see, since I didn't fly out to crummy ol' Michigan back in October or whenever it was, they want me to come out in January for their IPE, which stands for Igloo Preparation Emergency, I think. Anyway, it's three days long and they told me that if I don't come, they're going to change the name of the school to the Lorch School of Public Policy. You know and I know that that's an unacceptable outcome, but they really need to understand that I have better things to do with those three days. Much better.

January is when most of the legitimate presidential candidates will make their announcements about whether or not they will run. Those first few days of the month are the critical time period when I can sit down and talk with my family about the stresses of a campaign and then a term or two in office. And if I had to go to my stupid school and build igloos with the dumb students for this IPE bullshit, then I'd miss my window of opportunity. There'd be no other time when I could have those important conversations about my political career with my family.

And just what do they want me to do instead? They want me to build huts out of ice cubes. It's sooooo dumb, I can't take it. Why can't they just let me send them a novel on international monetary systems? I wrote them a freaking speech last time that my son seemed to have read okay (judging by the DVD of the ceremony, though I guess they could have overdubbed). What's wrong with just letting me phone it in this time 'round? Do I really have to show some particular enthusiasm for that place?



Look - I even have the opening paragraph of that novel written. Here it is:

As Jean-Luc looked out from the balcony of his chateau, white drapes fluttering in the light breeze like panicked seagulls, he took the final drag of his last cigarette. "I know that smoking is bad for me, and yet I still crave it like an addiction," he said aloud. Inside the room, with her foot draped over the side of the mattress, Nancy heard her paramour complain about his absence of smokes. Determined not to be a mere one-night stand, she called out to her lover. "Jean-Luc!" she cried. "I have money in my purse, if you want to get a pack at the corner store." Inside her purse, though, was nothing but a wad of dollars - useless here in France, ruled by the almighty franc, or perhaps the euro.

It goes on from there - I'm pretty sure people would be interested if I finished it - and I could do that for the Fordies and that would be fine. But no. They're being so hard-assed about this, and I don't see what the big deal is.

It's not just that I hate igloos and the Eskimos and everything they stand for, even though I've never been in an igloo, nor have I met an Eskimo, nor am I familiar with the belief system of the Eskimo people. I've been assigned to chimney construction duty (we all have different roles), which I think is totally futile, because if you live in a house of ice, the last thing you want to do is melt it. Honestly!

If I weren't at the Ford School making stupid frozen huts on their terrace, freezing my butt off for nothing, I'd be able to take advantage of the opportunity to talk with my wife and my children - if I don't speak with them during those three days, then they'll likely be unhappy with whatever decision I make about the presidential race, because they won't have been involved in the conversation at all. They might even get so mad that they'd decide not to come to my inauguration at all.

Inaugurations make me nauseous. They say there'll be big parties and a to-do about your taking office, but in the end, it's just a silly ceremony with a bunch of important people who want to spend as little time there as possible because the last thing they want to do is get cornered by some intense young intern they've brought in for the weekend to serve them drinks who wants a real job. I mean, that's how Dan Quayle became vice-president that one time, but that's totally a fluke. Usually, it's just a room filled with awkwardness and ennui, covered by C-Span and watched by people with more than a dash of schadenfreude. They're trumped-up affairs that have no real significance - who can tell me anything about any inauguration ever, aside from the fact that William Henry Harrison died from pneumonia he caught during his, and Maya Angelou read a poem during Clinton's (I think it was a poem that Chelsea had written, if memory serves)? And that's it - you recite an oath, there's a parade, and then a mélange of terrible wedding bands do Fleetwood Mac covers at various venues around town, and you don't even get to dance to a single tune because you're too busy getting your flesh pressed by insufferable twits who've come into town for the weekend to corner you for a job.

This is all actually kind of weighing on my mind as I start trying to make my decision about running for president myself. If only I could consult with my family and trusted advisors (notice how those are separate people), but if my school has its way, that will never happen.

For the love of God, someone really needs to help me. I know! You could all make me some Gerald Art to cheer me up - the contest ends in three days, and I've had a depressingly small number of submissions thus far. I'm hoping everyone is just taking their time putting the finishing touches on their artistic creations.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry