A front page story in The New York Times this morning detailing the economic interests of Peter W. Galbraith in a company benefiting from oil operations in the Kurdish areas of Iraq; Galbraith, an early promoter of the Iraq invasion, a man who had a significant role in the drafting of the Iraq Constitution, sections of which allowed his (unknown at the time) business interests to now pay him something more than one hundred million dollars. He's one of the “Serious Persons” you've heard for years in or on Fox, CNN, The Washington Post, The New York Times, NPR and all the rest of the rags giving his “disinterested, non-biased, non-compensated” opinions on Iraq, the Kurds and why we needed to invade to protect our vital national interests.

A group of Norwegian reporters first broke the story, but today it made the front page of The Times confirming it and all its details. And we wonder why we go to bed at night fretting what we only vaguely remember as the thorough fucking we received during the day from our elected representatives and protectors. That's a bit strong, but I've just had two large cups of coffee.

Why even mention it? Why even bring it up? Why let it get to me? Well, it gives me something to write about, maybe, drives me out the door to cloud my mind by shooting pictures. I grew up in my teenage years in a culture that promotes this kind of “gentlemen's club”, a club that introduces you to clever ways to skate around the crowd and in through back doors available to members who take pretty much what they want from the un-scrubbed and un-enlightened rest of us. In my day it was Wall Street that mattered. Still does, but they've augmented an always profitable government connection. But this story's gotten me going again, now hasn't it? Grabbed me and put me into my knee jerk automatic mode? No good in carping. Don't really know what I'm talking about anyway. Everyone knows roughly what's going on, no one cares to do anything more than become temporarily excited.

More politics, my friend. Nothing new here, no one's interested.

I'd like to say I'm interested, although I know my reaction has been to put my head down and attempt to survive whatever number of years there may be remaining before the oceans rise, the terrorists strike and you can't buy cameras anymore because the dollar is worthless. Oh, and swine flu. We don't want to forget pestilence. And asteroids. We live in interesting times, probably not more interesting than times gone by, but more visible now with our various new forms of communication (including this one).

One day, I'm afraid, someone will figure out how to grab hold of this underlying anger and you have to hope whomever that turns out to be isn't some well oiled authoritarian on a MISSION FROM GOD to rid the world of whatever. These things happen. “Never let a wave of public anger go unexploited”, there's a chapter on it in the How to Win an Election and Rule the World for Dummies series of books so popular with politicians. But I digress. Pictures. Best to babble on about pictures and my mornings over breakfast. No need to worry any about the world at large. It's not going to blow up for quite some time yet, I'm sure of it, in Oakland.

Later. Another extended walk without any urge to stop, hop a bus and come home. My, my. A trip downtown, a walk around Old Oakland, a walk to the Chinese Cultural Center to sit for a minute, a walk back to the café across from Sears (The Madrid Café) to have a cup of coffee and three of the small (three for a dollar) chocolate muffins. Life is good. A walk the rest of the way back to the apartment, the construction crews still in evidence, although making progress, a snapshot of an almost, but not quite denuded tree preparing for winter, a television crew shooting a bank robbery scene for the series Trauma and a flock of seagulls. What more could be wanted in a couple of hours? Hard to imagine, here in Oakland.

You're six pack of pictures for the morning?

Sure, why not?