Of My Demise
Tuesday. After writing yesterday's entry I walked down the way to have a late breakfast and read the paper where I found a column by Patrick Buchanan, professional wingnut and political pundit, in which he lays out the reasons he believes the Bush administration is going to make a massive air attack on Iran in an attempt to not only destroy their nuclear program, but destroy their entire military infrastructure. I've read other accounts recently, one of which said the military had calculated whether we bombed just the nuclear facilities or bombed the entire military infrastructure, we'd essentially pay the same price, so let's go for a three day campaign against the full 1,200 targets and see what happens.
Buchanan is not one I'd care to quote, although his analysis is straightforward and compelling and I suspect he has good sources of information within the administration that say flat out we're going to attack and soon. I remember another commentator who wrote just after the invasion of Iraq saying Bush has a reputation as “a plunger”, someone who's willing to bet the rent on another throw of the dice and this, in my mind, fits that description. Nothing I hear, nothing my gut tells me says this is a good idea. Anyone remember the story of Br'er Rabbit and the tar baby?
Wednesday. Another sunny morning, another breakfast down at the usual café, the air just after eight nice and cool, some bills to pay before setting out to have lunch with the usual crew in Fairfield. Where is Fairfield? I have not a clue, but the plan is to meet Mr. E and Mr. S at the Concord BART station and for Mr. E to drive us to Fairfield to meet Ms. Wd for lunch for reasons complicated to relate so I won't except we've done this many times before.
Later. Well, lunch started as many of our lunches have started in the past, but then the waitress suggested we were at a “family” restaurant and my two companions (Ms. Wd having skedaddled) had consumed more beer than was allowed and they wouldn't serve us any more. So much for Fairfield. We drove south to The Nantucket, a funky river side restaurant just under the Carquinez bridge with a welcoming bar and waitresses and we stayed well into the evening sampling their, well, drinking Bloody Marys and Guinness and Red Label and beer. Truth be told, I stuck to Guinness and consumed but four bottles over the course of the afternoon having voted myself the designated driver. I would exaggerate and suggest I kept up with my companions, but I have friends scattered here and there who read this and I want to tell the truth lest they put together a lottery and sell tickets predicting the month of my demise. Deedle-dee-dice.
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