"Where you from, boy?"
Texas proud.

If you had told me four years ago I'd get the opportunity to shake hands with the man I viewed as a symbol for all that was wrong in the world, I would have recoiled in disgust.

George "Yo, Blair" Bush?! The man who redefined the meaning of the word "axis"? The man who once said the problem with the French was that they didn't have a word for "entrepreneur" in their language? The man who actually used the word "crusade" in the early days of the global struggle against radical Islam? Guantanamo, what? "Mission Accomplished," what? Abu Ghraib, what? "Kenny Boy," what? And a RANGERS fan? WHAT?

Maybe I've sold out since college. Maybe I've just gotten soft in my old age. I know that my 20-year-old self would be disgusted with present day me. But I don't care. I got to meet George W. Bush on Monday, and I was damn excited about it.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You could see the gears in motion behind those eyes, eyes that once looked into Vladimir Putin's own and "got a sense of his soul," but that I never dreamed would be fixed directly upon me from less than a foot away. But it wasn't me that was causing Bush's gears to get in motion; it was what I was wearing on my head. For almost as soon as we started shaking hands, W's gaze shifted upwards, coming to rest upon the words printed on the red, mesh trucker hat I deemed appropriate for a meeting with the leader of the free world.

With our state flag as a the backdrop, these words caught his attention:

TEXAS PROUD Sesquicentennial 1836-1986.

"I wore my special hat for you, sir," I said, knowing he was about to ask.

"Boy, I tell ya. Until I saw yer hat, I thought the word 'Sesquicentennial' was some kinda Indian chief from one of those John Wayne movies. That's good stuff, Bayless. Good stuff."

Those gears, they were a clickin' all right. Our handshake still going, he asked in that unmistakable good ole boy accent, "Where you from?"

All that was missing was the word "boy" at the end.

"Houston," I replied. My heart was racing. I couldn't help it.

"Really?" He kind of paused: the hat had worked. His eyebrows raised a bit: I was racking up points now.

"Yes, sir," I said, stupidly (read: maturely? wisely?) missing an opportunity that 20-year-old me would have been all over. If I'd really had a pair, I would have come back at him with a Borat voice: "Nooooot!"; then finished him with more Borat voice: "Premier Bush! Strong, like Stalin."

Apparently ole George approved, because he went from the handshake straight into the shoulder slap -- as in, the patented, George W. Bush shoulder slap. The one he gives to awkward, non-Texan dignitaries the world over. And for me, someone who also loves to dish out the shoulder slap myself, it was pretty cool. He still didn't call me "boy," which I wanted to hear more than you know, but we did get to see the "Bush Face" -- the one where he looks like he's trying to make the random three-year-old kid sitting four tables down laugh, while his/her parents have their backs turned to his distorted facial expressions that can only described as downright goofy. The Bush Face is kind of like how that judge once described pornography: you know it when you see it.

"Yes sir, my name is Bayless Parsley."

The Bob had sworn that if President Bush met a Houstonian with that name, it would just click. The Bayless family and the Bush family have roots that go way back to the days before George H. W. got into politics -- my grandmother still gets their Christmas card (my favorite was in December 2003, when George and Barbara wished "Peace on Earth, and Goodwill to All") if you want proof. But judging from Dubya's reaction, or non-reaction, to put it more accurately, it didn't appear as if anything had clicked at all. So I got more specific.

"You're friends with my uncle actually. Jim Bayless."

Still, nothing. But he did his best to pretend.

"Oh, well give him my best, will ya?"

I thought to myself how many people must "be friends with George Bush." I can't even remember the names of half my graduating class from Strake Jesuit, and that was about 165 people.

"Yes, sir."

My heart was still racing. It was hard to breathe, let alone make chit chat. Just take a peek into my thought process as this was all going down if you want to try and understand why: I can't believe George Bush just gave me the shoulder slap. I can't believe I'm excited to meet this joker. I can't believe George Bush just gave me the shoulder slap!! I can't believe I'm excited to meet this joker!!!

"Now my niece lives in town, and I want a nice, southern gentleman like yerself to look after her, ya hear? And no monkey business, either. I've got satellites watchin'.... oh I'm just kiddin'! Heh heh."

"Are you from Texas, too?" he asked Hunter, who was standing directly to my left.

"No, sir," Mwindaji said. "I'm fortunate enough to not be from there."

Even my 20-year-old self would have been shocked that Hunter could show so little respect to our Commander in Chief. Who does this kid think he is, Stephen Colbert? It's one thing to hate on Bush for turning "USA" into a four-letter word, but it's another thing to hate on Texas.

It's like making fun of my mom. I can; you can't.

I can criticize things about Texas, but Mr. Queen City can't.

Outsiders shouldn't Mess With Texas.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I fished the Texas Proud Sesquicentennial hat out from under a pile of other American hand me downs at the Tengeru sokoni last August, "face time with George Bush" was not one of the potential windfalls I had in mind.

Looking like a badass: that was on the list. Representing: also a consideration. You know I was keeping it real, that much is obvious, but what no one probably ever could have expected from that hat was getting President Bush's attention. That was an audible called out at the line of scrimmage just last week.

As part of his five-day, six-country Africa visit that ends today, President Bush had penciled in an appearance at the Emusoi Center for Pastoralist Girls during his pit stop in Arusha. We just happened to have sponsored a girl this past January from Emusoi, essentially a haven for teenage Maasai young ladies who prefer an education to forced marriage and domestic abuse. In this world, it's all about who you know. The White House knew about Emusoi, and we knew Sister Mary, the American born nun who runs Emusoi.




Man, am I glad we sponsored Agness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Our new friend "John," a rare Mzungu aid worker that Hunter and I actually click with, empathized with the inner conflict I underwent on Monday.

PHOTO UNAVAILABLE.

He reminds me a lot of my best friend from my travels in the Balkans, Stewy. Add seven years and a few gray hairs; subtract a little bit of Stewy's intensity on matters Bush, and you've really got a match. "John" even looks like Stewy, quite frankly. Even had a mohawk back in the day, and likes girls from Uganda. But what they've really got in common is the fact that they really, really dislike George Walker Bush.

They're both Cali boys, after all.

"Man, I can't believe I just shook his hand like that, like an idiot," he regretted over the not cold beers we had after it was all over. "If my friends at home saw me, they'd be like, 'Maaaaan, why weren't you out there protestin' that shit!'"

My friends at home, on the other hand, will probably be upset that I didn't get them an autograph. Not a very liberal bunch, the ole gang from high school.

Earlier in the day, while we were waiting in the shade for Bush to arrive, I'd explained my situation to "John" by saying, "I'd probably be this excited to meet Stalin, to be quite honest." Strong, like Premier Bush!

But "John" was just doing what he had to do to better the NGO that he co-founded, based outside Arusha.

PHOTO UNAVAILABLE

(note: In no way shape or form am I saying that Bush could hold Stalin's jock strap when it comes to the "What a dickhead" sweepstakes. But it is funny to hear Borat say it.)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I could go on about the way I felt inside about meeting this man. It was tough. It was amazing. It made me feel like a freaking hypocrite. It made me feel incredibly special -- the President actually talked to me. About stuff.

But that was nothing, as it turned out.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Bayless? I'll see if I can find him," we heard the old man who had been sitting behind us say into his cell phone. Hunter and I were chilling with Peter in the back; Bush had disappeared behind the hedges into VIP land.

"Niko hapa!" I yelled. "I'm here!"

Turns out the guy didn't speak Swahili. "They wanna talk to you on the phone!" he hollered back across the 100 or so guests still sitting in the shade, all Tanzanian save for us three and this old man and his wife.

As I walked up to answer, all I could think was, "Oh. My. God."

"Hello?"

"Is this Bayless?"

"Yeah."

It was Bush's 24-year-old assistant, who just happens to be friends with one of my St. Vincent's buddies from back in the day. She said the President wanted my contact information.

Huh??????

I guess he DID know my uncle!

I gave her my home address, my email, my phone numbers, my everything. Everyone was watching me, Hunter said, in awe. Who is this guy? Is he dating one of Bush's daughters? And the like.

I cannot explain it. He never called. What a jerk. Just stood me up like that. Men.

But still.....

I feel like a 16-year-old girl on the set of the Ed Sullivan Show. George plays himself. He wanted my phone number!! OMG!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And still, we have not come to the coolest part.

"Those Maasai dancer guys said they want a picture with you," Peter told me, the interpreter his Maasai buddy named Grosper (his parents misspelled "Prosper" at the hospital, and now, he's ... unique).

"Huh?"

"I don't know man. Not Hunter; not me; just you. I think they think you're big time or something."

Big time because I'm big time boys with George Bush I suppose!

Not me, the Mzungu tourist wanting a photo with the "wild African" Maasai. Oh no, it's the Maasai, most of whom in this picture don't even speak Swahili, they're that legit, wanting a picture with me! And they'll never even see the photo! Maybe they think this will bring them good medicine or something.

Of course, I obliged them. One even made me hold his Maasai beat stick to look more like one of them, or maybe to rub some of my power onto its handle. Presidential power.

This really isn't getting to my head, though.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

George Bush once looked into Vladimir Putin's eyes and "got a sense of his soul." I looked into George Bush's eyes and got confirmation that he is that guy who you just wanna sit down and have a beer with, the Lone Star Series on TV in the background. I have to admit, I really liked the guy. Personally.

"I really cannot spell the word 'Afghanistan' for the life of me! Can you? That 'h' after the 'g' always gets me."

Politically, though, he's a joke. Or an embarrassment. Or a failure.

But our 60 seconds of shmoozing convinced me that he really is the way the media portrays him to be: simple.

Maybe not the best of presidential material, but definitely the friend-of-your-dad type, a guy you know is going to buy a ton of raffle tickets or Little League candy if you're a 12-year-old with the balls to call him up and make your pitch. If September 11, 2001 had been just another day, had "compassionate conservatism" not given way to "Bring it on," I could honestly see myself saying, "I like George Bush."

But like The Bob always says, "If 'if's' and 'but's' were candies and nuts, we'd all be fat at Christmas."

We gotta come up with a better saying than that. How about, "If 'if's' and 'but's' were WMD's, we'd all be dead at Christmas."

That's more like it.