Dreams of George H. W. Bush

I dreamt of George H. W. Bush again the other night. We were planning to meet for dinner, which turned out to be a coffee, although I don't remember having anything at all to drink, or to eat for that matter, in the end. Earlier that day, I met Putin. I told him what an honor it was for me to meet him and then started to try to explain why, realizing rather quickly that this was a dangerous path to travel. Putin smiled, then nicked his head a little, as if to say, "well, I don't think so," but instead he said, "You know what? I don't believe you," which prompted the security guard standing next to me put a gun to my head. Somehow I managed to convince him (Putin, not the security guard) that, despite my lack of eloquence, I was being sincere, and he spared me. At one point I tried to bribe him for my life by inviting him to join me meet Bush later. Actually, I don't think Bush would have been particularly delighted to see that I had brought Putin along, but even in my dream I figured that my life was worth a little social embarassment. Either before or after meeting Putin, I met the Russian president who happened to be Sarah Palin or someone who looked very much like her. She didn't try to kill me, but apart from that our meeting was unremarkable.

I guess Putin wasn't very interested in meeting Bush, because he didn't show up. I sat at a round table across from two old ladies and an old man who looked like members of the only Episcopalian church in a predominantly working class Midwestern town. They sat very stiffly and unsmiling. Everything was in bright starched white and pastels. The room appeared to be the convention space in a Holiday Inn. As Bush introduced the first old lady to me, she stretched out her pinky as stiff and erect as a pencil and pointed it towards me. I felt very uncomfortable not knowing whether I should grab and wag it or bring it to my lips for a kiss. The next lady did the same, and finally the man. I think I decided to wag it after all, which I realized to be a wise decision when it was the man's turn. Then I woke up.

In my first dream of George H. W. Bush, we were on our way to the wedding of Condoleezza Rice, who had been my Russian teacher at boarding school. I was in the car with George, who was driving, and younger relatives, including some small children. Suddenly I realized that I wasn't wearing any pants and told George that I had to get some. He said we had no time. I insisted that he stop the car, but he refused. With my growing realization that I couldn't appear at the wedding of the U.S. Secretary of State pantless, I started to panic, and George finally let me out. Then I found myself in a street somewhere in India where all I saw were souvenir shops. I don't remember anymore whether I had found pants, but I never made it to the wedding anyway.