So I’m sitting here at this big sundown-at-the-seashore party vacationing Bill Clinton threw for us newsies at the posh, luxurious Martha’s Vineyard estate of this nice, rich former Chicago lady named Susie Trees.
And I’m watching the actual president of the United States play the saxophone for no less than 45 minutes straight , jamming and doing riffs with a “lite” rock band and no less a singing megastar than Carly Simon for the entertainment of all present.
And I’m listening to them smoke along with such happy classics as “Respect,” “Kansas City” and the immortal 1957 Everly Brothers oldie “Dream, Dream, Dream” (I told you it was lite).
And, I’m looking at the almost beatific, it’s-so-cool, I’m-in-heaven look on Clinton’s sunburned face and I’m thinking, this is not just another overworked, shell-shocked American president having a good time on summer vacation; here is a man who knows the miraculous, unfettered joy of having at long last found his true calling.
Which is to say, David Sanborn and Kenny G., move over. Please.
I don’t know if Bill and Hillary Rodham have yet given any thought to their post-presidential years (though I know a few nervous, perspiring Democrats who are contemplating such a post-Clinton era with some decided fervor at the moment).
But I do hope they’re not going to settle for building a Clinton Presidential Library out there in Little Rock, or for adding to their nest egg with a string of $100,000-a-pop speaking engagements and $5 million book advances-though I’m sure they’re going to do all those things.
In all seriousness-and I truly, truly mean this-I think Bill Clinton should pursue a second career after the White House and I think that second career should be as an actual professional saxophone player.
I mean, holy snakes, Amanda Bob (as they say in Arkansas), you never see such a look on Clinton’s face after a Cabinet meeting. And he was as good as Carly and even better than the band!
A man of his stature ought to have his own band. He and Carly could team up and do concerts and cut albums together. Maybe Bill could become an Everly Brother. He’s almost old enough.
Some Clinton loyalists might infer here that, by urging our president to seek work as a saxophone player, I am in some way casting aspersions on his greatness as an American statesman, or maybe suggesting that he shouldn’t seek-or get-a second term.
All I can say in response is that it doesn’t matter. My take on all our postwar presidents since Kennedy is that they come in like conquering heroes and go out like ex-cons-with the latter prospect the likelier the longer they stay in.
Besides, Clinton already has declared that his administration has accomplished more with Congress than any other in recent history, and the other day his people were even giving him credit for bringing peace to Northern Ireland.
Anyway, I’m sure he and Hillary Rodham only got into politics in the first place just to get out of Arkansas, and they’ve done that. Heck, here they are on Martha’s Vineyard.
So let Bill get out on a high note, and then start playing all the other notes.
In fact, having watched his charm and drollery at work here at this seaside soiree, it occurs to me that he could do pretty well as a standup comedian too.
His Bill Clinton impersonation is far, far more hilarious than Phil Hartman’s or any of those other impressionists’.
What the president really ought to do is have his own TV talk show. (Why not? Everybody else has one.)
You know how Jay Leno leers and David Letterman breaks out in a sweat when a beautiful woman comes on their shows? Those guys are just a bunch of stumbling, mumbling schoolboys compared with a smoothie like Clinton.
While mingling with the guests at this evening’s seaside soiree, for example, Bill came upon a beautiful blond network news producer who, in typical Martha’s Vineyard party fashion, was wearing shorts, a blouse and a straw hat.
The president of the United States’ eyes fell to her shoes, then ever so slowly lifted to her ankles, her knees, her thighs, her shorts, her blouse, her neck and her beautiful blue-eyed face, whereupon he smiled, twinkled and drawled: “I like your hat.”
If Chevy Chase had been that suave, his talk show might still be on the air.
