BUSH IN RETROSPECTIVE: SEAL OF APPROVAL

Here's a curious confession, one that comes hard for a boy raised in New Madrid County and who didn't see a Republican (except perhaps in pictures) until the eighth grade.

I miss George Bush.

He's like the uncle who made your dad mad and doesn't come around any more. Poor George, about to face a muggy Houston summer, imprisoned by the opulence provided by a liberated trust fund, he must surround himself these days with rowdy grandkids and memoriesof glory.

It's not that I want to relive the salad days of his presidency, when that thug Noriega found no place to hide in his homeland and Chamorro downed Ortega in a fifth set tiebreaker. Hey, just keeping the Arabs and Israelis from beating up one another while the decent folk of the world piled on Saddam Hussein was quite an achievement.

It's not that I miss his clumsy stabs at policy making or the monochromatic cast of his advisers (so what if white men can't jump; they have access) or the general aimlessness of his administration.

It's not that I want to join the chorus of criticism aimed at Bill Clinton, since this rhapsody is loud enough to shatter glass already. Unfortunately, the new president proves accommodating where pundits and late-night comics are concerned, what with his appetite, his Tinseltown buddies, his personnel moves and his coiffure decisions ... and that's before you even get to his policy agenda.

It's just that, well ...

Compare it to this: I've always liked the rock band Huey Lewis and The News. But the band's music doesn't intrigue me as much as the band itself.

Huey and the boys seem always to be laughing, organizing a softball game or heading for the golf course. You never catch them in the people columns or on the tabloid shows complaining about a lack of privacy or whining about the rigors of being a celebrity.

The point is Huey Lewis and his bandmates understand their lot in life and relish it. They earn millions and get all the adulation they can handle. They are pleased with this and have every right to be. It's a renewable scholarship; in life's struggle, they've lucked into a free pass.

Showing themselves as miserable would ruin it for everybody. No one likes to see the rich complain.

Which brings me back to George Bush. For whatever might be said about him or his four years in office (his waffling on tax policy, his inattention to domestic matters), George Bush liked being president.

Maureen Dowd, in her quirky writing about the presidency for The New York Times, noted that Bush was wont to have his name embossed, painted and monogrammed on every item associated with the White House between 1989 and this January.

When visitors went fishing with him in Maine, all could be seen on the family speedboat Fidelity wearing borrowed blue jackets bearing the executive seal and carrying the threaded legend "President Bush."

Bush enjoyed the give-and-take of policy arguments, but occasionally became bored with long discussions, according to Dowd. At such moments, he would cut off an opposing viewpoint with the rejoinder, "If you're so smart, why aren't you president?"

As responses go, that's a pretty good one.

There is something to be said for that, a man playful with his power.

Like we want rich rock stars to appreciate the gift life has given them, there is something endearing about a man who enjoys having an important title, a big house, lots of bodyguards, catered meals, entree to important people, a fleet of limousines, helicopters and jets ... not to mention command over the world's most sophisticated military when some global butt-kicking is called for.

Not a bad salary, either.

I met George Bush here in 1984, interviewed him as he campaigned for a second term as vice president. We sat awkwardly knee to knee in a small room at the University Center and he handled graciously the transposed responsibility of an interviewee putting his questioner at ease.

After we had talked for a time, the interview was called to a halt by an aide. The vice president stood up and I was surprised by his height. I told him that it was nice to meet him.

"Hey, the pleasure was mine," he said. We shook hands and he was gone.

As I watched him leave the room, I only then noticed he had, as if by magic, slipped a small box into my hand. Its gold top had a scrawl across it that I later recognized as his signature. Inside was a pair of cufflinks that bore that vice presidential seal.

Though I owned no shirts with French cuffs (still don't) and probably wouldn't wear vice presidential cufflinks if I did, I decided against chasing down Mr. Bush, returning the box and perhaps asking for a nice vice presidential fountain pen. Not only was this the polite choice, it saved the Secret Service from hurling me to the ground and standing on my neck.

At a recent speech, George Bush said he has no regrets about his presidency, that he's now in the full-time grandfather business and enjoying it. Maybe he'll get one of those t-shirts that reads, "Ask Me About My Grandchildren." Maybe he'll add the presidential seal. I hope so.