I watched the second half of Frontline overview of the Iraq war last night on Public Broadcasting. The first half was depressing enough, focusing on the political maneuvering between the major players in the administration in the run up to the war, the second half even more so watching the complete fantasy of their knowledge of Iraq crash head on into the reality of Iraq itself: virginal Maria of West Side Story meets the horny Pablo Escobar of the Medellín Cartel.

We not only live in a dream, dear reader, but true blue straight shooter clear headed I live in it every bit as blind as anyone else. How embarrassing. I was adamantly against the invasion of Iraq, it made no sense whatsoever, but I'm realizing my fuzzy headed going along with the invasion of Afghanistan, for example, is probably just as bad a “no thinking go with the flow” mistake as any anyone else has made on Iraq, particularly when I hear the Afghans had communicated to us they were willing to give up bin Laden before we invaded.

And, as this mess has progressed, I'm reminded again of something I thought I knew: not only does killing innocent people not guarantee your entrance into heaven, but it drives up the price of oil. You don't go to war unless you're attacked. A good rule. And even then you do everything you can to deflect, coopt and outright buy out your potential enemy before he can even think about taking a poke. So much easier, so much cheaper in dollars and lives and we do it so well. Grown up behavior, in other words. Hard, you know, when you're so busy out there shopping. I find it so.

You're our of your depth.

We're all out of our depth, my man: thee, me and Bill O'Reilly (make three).

You've never watched Bill O'Reilly.

Yes, but I've heard stories. Someone named Limbaugh has been mentioned as well.

Another beautiful day, by the way, the temperature into the low sixties which gives me confidence I wasn't spirited away to (say) Alaska last night and still reside here in the Bay Area. Nobody dropping bombs on the neighbors, no frozen tootsies. (Take a moment to check.) Yes, still here in Oakland, head relatively clear, a run having been made after breakfast to the pet store to buy a case of magic cat food, Ms. Emmy curled up in the bedroom, whatever in that can contentedly sloshing about inside as she sleeps. No bombs, no frozen tootsies.