The Politzero

At 5 p.m. NY1 showed George and Laura Bush walking the ramp at ground zero to lay a wreath upon a pool of water. I wouldn't have known how angry this scene could make me if I hadn't just found myself sneering at the screen, altogether rapt in pain and contempt.

This man, who has made our lives so much more frightening, potentially full of so much more danger than already was probable, bowed his head in the place where so many died, attempting to resemble a man who cared.

I imagined that when he held Laura's hand and closed his eyes, he prayed some methodical prayer to God. Others in my office said they are sure the only thing going through his head was "zhhhhhhzhzhzhhhhh"—the buzz of static.

Then Bush climbed into a black car to take him one block to St. Paul's (zip, zoom, leave the pit, because you were never truly in it to begin with). Pataki and Giuliani followed along behind him. Bloomberg, however, had to cross around to the other side of a car, and we all happily imagined him climbing in to sit facing backwards, in a kiddie seat.

(And in a game of Know Thy Mayor:
"He's wishing he could take a Lexis instead," one reporter said.
"Nah," I reasoned. "He's going to take the subway.")