I spent part of last week at a family resort in the Poconos — an old-school place, with a dining hall and shuffleboard and horseshoe tournaments — and on Tuesday morning, some dreadful news circulated around the swimming pool. At the local Shop-Rite, where someone had gone for provisions, everyone was talking about how George W. Bush had died. Had a massive heart attack while sleeping. Was discovered by his wife.
I turned to my iPhone, but couldn’t get a signal. So I went into the main lodge and flipped through cable news, expecting retrospectives and tributes and details. All I found were anchors discussing Tom Cruise’s divorce and watching tape of a judge in West Virginia, yelling at a litigant. Bush, it was clear, was alive and well.