Master of the House

September 12th, 2001, I walked out of my morning psychology class and walked down Baldwin Street into North Campus. Rounding the library where I turned right to trudge up the steep hill, I saw students filing into the Coke Room. I must have stopped and stared because a tall blond guy tugged at my Oxford University sweatshirt sleeve, "The President's addressing the nation, come on!"

Wordlessly I followed him into the Coke Room. Coca-Cola bought a lounge in the economics building. It had purple Coca-Cola themed couches and chaise lounges, coffee tables, a winding counter punctuated with black barstools. Around the wall were Coca-Cola clocks that told the time in various countries; it was midnight in Singapore. Along the main wall were, of course, several vending machines next to, of course, the giant Coca-Cola floor-to-ceiling logo sculpture. Hanging from each corner in the Coke Room were TVs, all tuned to CNN.

I heard someone murmur that classes were postponed until after his speech and we crammed our way inside. A short brown-haired frat guy stood filed in next to me, coffee cup in hand. I prayed he wouldn't spill any on me. We packed so tightly into that room that everyone had to take off their bookbags and shove them between their feet. An English major, I never had more to carry than a notebook and a novel checked out from the library. I shifted the weight to my left arm and pressed them to my chest. Hundreds of students stuffed in that room in a few moments of solidarity because we thought the President's words would actually mean something.

It's funny that I can tell you everything about that speech except for the actual speech itself. And that was the singular time Bush's words meant anything to me. When I turned on House last night and saw a different type of House, I lasted until his horseshit facade of being pleased to say, "Madam of the House," before screaming and throwing the remote.

You know he turned "Madam of the House" into a dirty joke in his head.