We don't speak reverently enough
of our courtiers in the Executive
Mansion, whose waking hours, and
evidently several others, are de-
voted to our amusement. It is pos-
sibly a measure of their success,
that levity and delight tempt e-
ven their most humble subject to
assume humaneness in their intent.
But who knew, in the somber hours
of reflection in these days before
the state funeral and naval obse-
quies to unfold this weekend, that
the White House would turn its own
flagpole into a go-go dancer's prop
for Presidential peevishness? Who
could have expected such inspired
sympathy for lost statesmanship?
Film buffs could not help but rel-
ish their emulation of the snit in-
to which the Duke of Edinburgh plum-
meted in Stephen Frears' comedy on
the funeral for Princess Diana, as
modernizing Socialists complained
that "the flag" wasn't flying at
half staff over Buckingham Palace;
there isn't a flag, he fumed, be-
cause the Sovereign isn't there.
Thus, at 1600, where the Sovereign
is the People, though a President
may come and go, the flag flew at
full staff, even when lowered at
the Capitol; then at half staff,
sort of to catch up; then raised
again when Someone Had Had Enough;
then lowered again when a Nanny
turned up, to mute all the fun.
And yet, and yet. Every day un-
til the interment must be a prov-
ocation for its seizure of our
attention, a goading inspiration
to his courtiers, to offer rap-
turous diversion. Fire someone?
Shame the saints of Bunker Hill?
We frequently ask, ain't we got
fun? Not because we wonder, but
because we marvel at these many
quarterings of gaudy slapstick
farce, flickering as he dances,
from his casuists' own gibbet.
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