The President in Denver

Coming down capitol hill this morning towards my office something was obviously amiss. Cops on motor bikes were flanking Broadway while a motorcade was clearly being established outside of the Brown Palace. A handful of onlookers were perched on the sides of Broadway. In this day and age the first thing I thought, of course, was "bomb threat?". But then it dawned on me what was happening and before I could even stop myself I turned to my friend Mari and said "it's the fucking president". I was about three feet from a cop.

Thankfully, the cop just ignored me. However, I suddenly became oppressed by the dire need to get inside my building. If the president was coming my way, if Bush was going to be even in the vicinity, I needed to be protected, hidden and away from the damage which he reeks so well by his very existence. I didn't want to be one of those onlookers, I didn't want Bush to see me. Because, even if he did, even for a moment, then he would think of me as one of his people, and I am not his, I don't even want to be an American if it means being linked to Bush.

And so, with the world getting smaller around me (I swear I heard the motorcade revving up) my strongest visceral reaction was just to get inside and away from the impending doom of Bush passing me by. Let him go south, let him go say his silly remarks down at the airforce academy, let him give "solace" to the soldiers who have died in Iraq and "praise" for how the academy has dealt with the sex scandal. Then, let him go to some lunch which costs $1000 plate for a bunch of old rich white men. Let him be. But his is not America, he is not my president and I don't like him in my city.