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1297 pages, Kindle Edition
First published June 23, 1992
As it was, they spent half their lives waiting; it was dreariest when the schedule got busted and H-hour came and went and nobody even knew anymore what was supposed to happen. But with George Bush, they could fire up their gleaming Harleys at H-hour minus five, and he'd be there, with his crew in the cars, right on the hour. Then came the part that was their specialty, as they roared away from Ellington Field, southeast of town, and onto the open concrete of I-45, where seven or eight of their buddies had already closed the first few ramps and held back traffic on the northbound side. Not a car, not one truck in the way! And another half-dozen men in jodhpurs would peel away from the motorcade, and throw their hogs wide open - sixty, seventy, eighty miles per hour! - roaring up to the next ramps to close them until the motorcade sailed by. And after the trailing Harleys passed, they'd open those ramps again and thunder on past the motorcade with the wind keening off their farings and flattening their smiles inside their helmets - ninety, a hundred, if they could - past the motorcade again to block off the ramps and road ahead...That limo was never gonna need a brake job. Never had to stop - not while these boys were around.
No, they told you to be yourself, but they didn't want you to be like yourself. They wanted you to be like a President! They wanted you to be huge for them.
"I'll tell you the weird part--is when you stop. ... I was in Louisiana. Little town ... I don't think they'd had a Presidential candidate since, uh ... Millard Fillmore.
"So, I get there, and there's cops and motorcycles, and a limousine the size of Ohio. There's the Mayor, and marching bands ... and they treat me like the King of Spain.
"I do my speech, I get back in the limo, get to the airport ... and two hours later, I'm back in O'Hare ... hauling my suitcase off the place ... carry it half a mile ... I gotta wait in line for a lousy hot dog...
"All of a sudden, I'm back, I'm a ... a, uh..." He was hunting a word." "I'm a, uh... a shit-bum!

George Bush walked through a flea market in North Carolina. Actually, he got out of his car and walked about fifty yards, shaking hands and chatting. Someone—maybe a reporter who worked his way through the Service cordon—asked him about Panama. Noriega was acting up again: canceled the elections and beat up the winners. Bush said something—his mouth moved, anyway—which sent the rest of the press running, asking: “Whadd’e say? Whadd’e say?” After a minute, one reporter announced: “Panama. Democracy will prevail.” There were glum nods. It was shorthand. The reporters had heard the Veep’s nonanswer on Panama. Bush had nonanswers on everything. One of the reporters said, “I don’t think I’d drive three minutes to see this.” In fact, she had driven and flown a hundred thousand miles.
It had to do with Hart’s theory of campaigning. (Hart always had a theory.) He liked to build from the bottom up. That meant all organizing was local: once a person signed on to run a town, they need only turn to the state office for supplies, resources, and requests for the candidate’s time. In the same way, the state campaigns never had to follow orders from the national staff. The national staff was there to serve the states. When Hart explained the theory, he talked about concentric circles. The base of the campaign, and the locus of his greatest effort, was that first circle. It wasn’t too big—could not be—maybe ten or twelve souls in any one state, handpicked for their energy, credibility, and contacts, who knew Hart, knew what he stood for, had internalized the message. Those ten or twelve would then create a second, larger circle: people they knew, in their neighborhoods, or places of work. They might invite a group to their house to meet Hart, or get a member of the second circle to host a coffee, with his friends, which would start a third circle. The point was, the message would radiate out to the final, largest circle, the voters as a mass....
Forget about endorsements: he could do more with half a dozen good twenty-two-year-old organizers than a score of State Senators who climbed on because they thought he was a winner.
Democrats stuck it to Bush for months, had everybody in the country saying Bush was for a capital-gains cut because it would benefit the rich—Bush was for the rich ... the Democrats were for “tax fairness,” and “a break for the middle class.” It was gorgeous! And they finally did pummel Bush to submission. They made him admit he’d have to raise taxes, have to take the heat with them. ... They cornered him, finally, in the Oval Office, where Bush stared glumly at his desk drawer and said, okay ... he had Darman write out a statement: It is clear there is a need for taxes ... which, of course, was no good because the sentence mentioned no human beings (mistakes were made) ... so they sat there till Bush inserted the words “to me.”
...And that took half a year...
“If he didn’t want to do anything,” Dick kept saying about George Bush, “why’d he run?”
George Bush tore a strip of paper off the bottom of a letter, and with his pen in his left hand, leaned his forearms flush against a wall, and wrote:
“We count our special blessings.
“We are grateful for our friends.
“We give thanks to God.”
“Don’t lose that!” Bar commanded Steely. “That’s our only copy.”
True enough, but soon to be replicated, for so many thousands ... the first written order of the Age of Bush: the message for the annual Christmas Card.