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Show Page A10 Thursday, September 29, 1988 Park Record Ejmnw? .v : f t i BY RICK BROUGH y.v.v.v.v.v.vjF Last 1 me You la Campaign '88 now try walking and chewing bum Vice-president George Bush emerged from last weekend's debate with no serious wounds. Still, I'm worried about the boy. The first indication of trouble came when Bush said that the Japanese attacked Pearl, Harbor on Sept. 7, making an error about one of the most famous dates in recent American history. (The Dukakis campaign, of course, is capitalizing on this. I heard one Salt Lake disc jockey say that Democrats were organizing a fund to send Bush his Christmas present on Sept. 25! ) Next, Bush promised to crack down to "drugpins." What are drugpins something you set up in the bowling alley at the Betty Ford Clinic? Then came last Sunday's debate. I missed the program, but one radio report said the Bush asserted there were "three qualified people" on his ticket? What on earth is wrong with George Bush? "It's campaign fatique," said Bush advisor Bob Turbo. "Every campaigner suffers from it, but in only in a few cases does it strike with this severity." severi-ty." I talked to Turbo during a visit to the Fortress of Solitude, Bush's secret campaign headquarters in Connecticut. "Frankly," said Turbo. "Mr. Bush is suffering from Bill McKay's Syndrome. That's named after the character that Robert Redford played in "The Candidate." You remember, the Redford character started out as a well-intentional energetic liberal. But the treadmill of his schedule flattened him out the thousands of sweaty hands he had to shake; the trips from one city to the next; the bad dinners consisting of plastic chicken and rubber carrots; the same speech delivered over and over and over and over again. By the time the election was done, Redford was sitting in his limo talking about housing the homeless and feeding the foodless, babbling like an extra from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." "The vice-president isn't just making the normal nor-mal campaign gaffes like saying trees cause pollution. Thanks to President Reagan, that's just normal election rhetoric. Mr. Bush is having trouble trou-ble with everyday mental functions." We entered a room where another campaign aide, Larry Mainstream was quizzing the. Vice-,; President. "Now, Vice-President, what is your name?" "George Bush!" ' "What is your goal?" "I seek the Presidency of the United States, the best darn country in the world ! " "Fine, sir. Now...what is your favorite color? " "Red! No, wait...blue! Hold iL.it's, uh, yellow!" "Damn," said Mainstream, turning to us. "We've been on the Monty Python Drill for six hours and he hasn't go it right yet ! " Turbo glanced at me. "I'll try the hand-eye coordination test next." He took a small rubber ball out of his pocket. "George! Think fast!" he yelled, throwing it at the vice-president. "No! No! No!" said Turbo. "Don't catch it in your lap. Only wimps catch it in their laps. Use your hands, sir, your hands! " Bush bristled, "I resent that. I flew dozens of bomber missions in World War II. And when I played baseball with the flight crew, I caught them in my lap all the time. I caught them between bet-ween my knees. Sometimes it was painful. Those were painful times. But we survived them. And we will survive the struggles ahead of us." "Well, I have some good news to report," said Mainstream. "He's improved his time on the rat's maze. He wasn't making good progress at first, but then we told him that Gov. Dukakis had just released Willie Horton into the maze on a weekend furlough. He finished the rest of the maze in two minutes flat!" Next up for the vice-president was the visual shapes test. "Now, Mr. Bush, put the square pegs in the square holes and the round pegs in the round holes," said Turbo. "Wait a minute," said Bush. "This isn't a round peg. This is a roll of 50's. This should go in the campaign fund." "Very good, sir," said Mainstream. "Good, he still recognizes money! Well, sir we're off to another campaign appearance. Now what do you say when you see the flag." Bush replied. "I pledge allegiance to the flag..." "No sir! Simon Says I pledge allegiance to the t ? r - i f - byTERIORR For whom The Clock chimes My 17-year-old son Randy, fixed our grandfather-style clock last week and while I enjoy en-joy hearing the hourly chime, it is the constant ticking that is proving unsettling. For more than 15 years the antique wall regulator has been a part of our lives. From Tahoe to Park City it has moved with us and finding a wall for the clock was always a priority in each relocation. In all honesty the clock has seldom worked for more than a week at a time. It is highly sensitive, I am told and it must hang very straight to work and it must not be overwound. I haven't minded the down times it is still a handsome vail decoration whether or not it is functional. At the base of the clock for the past oh, dozen years or so, sits a little stuffed mouse dressed in a red and white striped nightgown and holding a teddy ted-dy bear. Randy has, no doubt, long forgotten he put it there one Christmas as the "mouse who ran up the clock." For more than a year now Randy has been the man of the house. He has taken his duties seriouslyI serious-lyI never have to tell him it is garbage day for example, he puts the cans on the street each Thursday before he heads off to school. Lightbulbs are replaced and the hot tub bubbles with all the right chemicals inside. He washes my car and tells me when it is time for an oil change. And while those are all nice things they are the sort of things he needs to do to make his life function func-tion more smoothly. He wants light in the dark-he dark-he replaces the bulb. He wants to take my car out on a Saturday night, he washes it. Motives methods madness there is a logic to it all. Until he fixed The Clock. The Clock hasn't worked for about five years now. Every once in a while I would mention I missed hearing it chime the hours, but I don't think I had said a word about it for the past year. Two Saturdays ago I was upstairs slugging through paperwork in my room when I heard "BONG! BONG! BONG!" "Was that The Clock?" I bellowed downstairs. And Randy answered "Yeah, I think I've got it working again." I thought once it was working I would be acutely aware of The Clock striking each hour, day and night, but a funny thing happens when it's nighttime night-time I tune out the clock. Oh, the moon woke me up a few nights ago and I heard the clock strike five but then I realized I hadn't heard it strike say, two or four. Selective listening, a trait mothers and editors develop, among other paraprofes-sionals. paraprofes-sionals. I used the same technique lately with the mail. Each day for the past three or four months I pull out of the mailbox catalogues and brochures and flyers not addressed to me. I try not to focus on all the volumes of mail meant only for my son. Every once in a while, like The Clock chiming, I notice a return address for some college in say, Maine or Malibu. Last night another mother, whose son is also on the football team, remarked how suddenly this year the boys had become such good friends. "There aren't any real stars to this team. They really play well together. And they genuinely seem to enjoy each other as a group. Funny how all these years went by that they could have been close and it's taken until their senior year for the real friendships to form . " Funny. And it strikes a vein with me I don't really know why Randy decided to fix The Clock right now. When I chose to be aware I enjoy hearing it strike away the hours. 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