Conspiracies

I have been spending WAY too much time on conspiracy theories this week, and there has been chaos on the personal front. I was thinking that last night, siting by the pool swaddled in a hoodie, t-shirt and sweatpants. I watched the clock, and at 1930 precisely, disrobed and jumped into the pool.

I paddled there for about twenty minutes. My younger son appeared in his new late-model Explorer, which we had spent the day acquiring. The winter is coming, I thought, as the chill from the blue water began to sink into my thermal core. With his acquisition, he can return the Bluesmobile. I will have winter transportation, and the Hubrismobile can go back into hibernation until the azaleas return.

Finding the right used car was easy. I had the iPad-2 and the network in the police car as we drove from dealer to dealer, and found a likely VIN number in the right color scheme down in Springfield, where the salesman had to deal with me accessing Kelly Blue Book and his on-line inventory as we negotiated.

It is a new world, with new tools. Maurice the salesman must think that technology is conspiring against him, removing the mystery from his trips to “talk to the General Manager,” even I was able to research his profit margin.

Between the earthquake, the hurricane and the anniversary of the terror attacks there has been a lot to think about, and whether it is all linked somehow into some grand connection, nature conspiring against us.

It is tempting to think that. I am human, and of course I personally do embrace some conspiracies. Some are real and current.

One is in cyberspace. A variety of the spook agencies have been hacked for sensitive data lately. That is no surprise, but what did concern me was that an organization to which I belong- the Intelligence and National Security Alliance (INSA) was one of them.

The organization is headed by Fran Townsend, President Bush II’s Homeland Security Advisor. INSA released a paper last week calling for a government strategy to prevent cyber attacks through better information sharing.

Fran then had to send a note to the membership, informing us of “the fact of” the disclosure. The hackers apparently got off with the names, e-mail addresses and phone numbers of all of us, including former DNI Mike McConnell, DDCI Charlie Allen and USD-I Steve Cambone.

And Mr. Socotra, of course. I found myself listed on-line at a hacker site called “Cryptome” as a US Spy, along with my employer and private address at Big Pink. The site is run by two people named John Young and Deboarh Natsios. I have no idea why my residence is of interest to them, and have to consider them cyberterrorists.

I suppose it is Fran’s fault for letting her IT system be compromised, but then again, I suppose in this world we need to assume that we are being targeted all the time and take appropriate action. Fran sent a message warning us not to take communications appearing to come from the organization completely at face value. So in addition to everything else, we may be open to “Spear Fishing” attacks. Be alert.

So, Mr. Young and Ms Natsios are involved in a real and current conspiracy against me, but this is not new. Other conspiracies are historical. The Lincoln assassination was originally chartered and funded by an embattled and failing Confederate government. John Wilkes Booth had to change the mission from kidnapping to murder at the last moment based on the dynamic political situation. It was not the act of a deranged Lone Gunman.

My own pet conspiracy is that I think John Kennedy was ambushed and killed by more than one gunman. I base my opinion on a bit of film, captured by amateur cameraman Abraham Zapruder.

To me, the sequence suggests that the President was struck by a blow from behind, and then another almost simultaneous shot aimed from the right front- from the famous Grassy Knoll. You can look at it yourself- it is all out there- and it makes the jerk-jerk of the slain President’s head  make sense. It requires no “magic bullet.”

Beyond that, I do not want to walk into the hall of mirrors of the conspiracy buffs. I do not have any particular opinion on anything beyond that. More than one gunman means there was a conspiracy, and it had significant consequences. Jackie Kennedy apparently agrees with me, (or vice versa) though we will not see what she says until the long sequestered 1963 interview is revealed this Fall.

Further, I think there are some troubling things about the deaths of RFK and Dr. King, but I have no Unifying Field Theory to link them together. Shit, as they say, does sometimes happen. But high-profile murder normally has a motive.

So believing what I do, I was surprised to find myself growing increasingly agitated about a conspiracy theory regarding the attacks of 9/11. I was looking for some images of the attack as part of a tribute to those who perished when I found some that are much more widespread than I had suspected, and all out there on he wild-and-wooly worldwide web.

Apparently the US Government, assisted by Mossad, directed the 9/11 attacks.

I groaned. This is tortured stuff, so bear with me. The contention goes something like this: prepared demolition charges were rigged in the Trade Center; the two towers came down because they were blown down. WTC Building 7 is proof of this, since it collapsed without being struck.

I will talk about that in the morning, and concentrate on what got me going this morning.

The conspiracy continues: the Pentagon, meanwhile, was stuck by a rocket- or maybe a Global Hawk or something- since no aircraft wreckage or impact wing marks were found on the façade of the building. The single image from the Heliport security camera only shows a white streak in one frame prior to the explosion.

Let’s leave aside the impossibility of a Global Hawk to do anything like that, based on size, speed and payload.

Charges must have been planted in the building to account for the destruction.

I had just got back from Arlington, placing flowers there at the memorial in Section 64, and was looking for an image of the Pentagon burning that I should have taken myself the night of 9/11 from the BOQ at Ft. McNair. I found one- but it was imbedded in one of the Denier sites. I read with growing anger the lies contained in the site.

The site- I won’t dignify it with the URL anymore than I would provide you the home address, apartment number and contact phone of Deborah Artemos Natsios in New York.

The Conspiracy folks make it clear that there was something funny about the whole thing. The 9/11 Commission lied, just like the Warren Commission did. There is no evidence of an aircraft hitting the Pentagon.

I am quite serious about this- I have had inquiries before from people who find this crap credulous, citing the same sort of bogus experts pontificating that what clearly DID happen could not, based on the laws of physics, and that something else quite extraordinary happened.

Let us leave aside the problem of the “missing” Boeing 757, or two or them, if one contends there was nothing in the holes at the Pentagon or in the ground in Shanksville, PA.

For that to be true, of course, the latter two aircraft would have to have been spirited away to an undisclosed location, and crew, hijackers and passengers murdered and their DNA and selective generic wreckage then spirited into the attack sites.

Why people would prefer to believe that line of reasoning is beyond me.

I do not trust the Government, that is a given. Parts of it may have participated in a variety of plots down through the years, but on the whole, I have found its evil to be more on the banal side of poor policy implementation than of active malice.

The Pentagon lies are incredible, and I take this personally. The conspiracy crowd says there is no picture of what hit the building, and thus, it was a rocket (or something) other than a Boeing 757 operated as AA Flight 77. A pal mentioned this contention to me, and I had to write back in high warble:

“The aircraft was captured a “a thin white blue” in the helipad tape. It was a low data-rate camera with a limited field of view, and considering the black box indicated the aircraft was moving at 530 knots, not surprising that it only caught a partial.

The NEX gas station and the Doubletree videos show nothing (NEX camera pointed at the pumps, not the Pentagon) and only the tip of the explosion is seen from the Doubletree over the I-395 overpass.

So, there is no image of the jet moving at 530KTS indicated airspeed over Washington Boulevard, the Navy Annex, Route 27 and down into the Pentagon.

Here is what a trained pilot observed about AA Flight 77 when queried by Reagan National (DCA) controllers. They were mystified by the rapidly moving radar contact, turning and descending rapidly- this is a key point in the conspiracy theory, that the track was that of a military jet. Controllers asked Lt. Col. Steven O’Brien, flying a C-130 out of Andrews AFB, to make a visual ID. He responded that “it was a Boeing 757 or 767, and its silver fuselage meant it was probably an American Airlines jet.”

Approaching the Pentagon in his aircraft, he saw the impact site on the building’s west- heliport- side and reported to Reagan control, “Looks like that aircraft crashed into the Pentagon, sir.”

Flight 77 was reported en route Washington by passenger Barbara Olson (spouse of the US Solicitor General) on her cellphone, as she said “The airplane is flying over a residential area” at 9:26, one of five calls made by passengers during the brief flight.

The Pentagon is surrounded by roads. In addition to my pal Eileen, stuck on Rt 27 abeam the impact site, 186 eyewitnesses made depositions that a large passenger jet hit the Pentagon, and many were much more specific as to what kind and what airline:

USA Today reporter Mike Walter from Washington Boulevard: “I looked out my window and I saw this plane, this jet, an American Airlines jet, coming. And I thought, ‘This doesn’t add up, it’s really low.’ This is the quote that is twisted to suggest that something other than Flight 77 hit the building, but it is complete bullshit. Mike completed his phrase this way, after clearly identifying Flight 77, saying “And I saw it. I mean it was like a cruise missile with wings. It went right there and slammed right into the Pentagon.”

Terrance Kean, who lived in a nearby apartment building, heard the noise of loud jet engines, glanced out his window, and saw a “very, very large passenger jet”. He watched “it just plow right into the side of the Pentagon. The nose penetrated into the portico. And then it sort of disappeared, and there was fire and smoke everywhere.”

Associated Press reporter Dave Winslow: “I saw the tail of a large airliner … It plowed right into the Pentagon.”

Pilot Tim Timmerman noticed American Airlines markings on the aircraft as he saw it hit the Pentagon.

Motorist Mary Lyman, on I-395, saw the airplane pass over at a “steep angle toward the ground and going fast” and then saw the cloud of smoke from the Pentagon.

Omar Campo, another witness, was cutting the grass on the other side of Route 27 when the airplane flew over his head. “I was cutting the grass and it came in screaming over my head. I felt the impact. The whole ground shook and the whole area was full of fire. I could never imagine I would see anything like that here.”

Afework Hagos, a computer programmer, was stuck in a traffic jam near the Pentagon when the airplane flew over. “There was a huge screaming noise and I got out of the car as the plane came over. Everybody was running away in different directions. It was tilting its wings up and down like it was trying to balance. It hit some lampposts on the way in.”

The two black boxes from the 757 were recovered at the site, and nose cone and nose landing gear were sighted by Pentagon survivors within minutes of the crash. Engine sections with identifiable serial numbers were found in situ.

I personally saw identifiable aircraft wreckage in the growing pile of debris in North Parking daily for weeks afterward and smelled jet fuel in the Pentagon- along with other odors- when I was there for a very surreal meeting on 12 September.

DNA evidence from all but five manifested passengers or crew was found at the site.

Radar data from the Reagan tower was confirmed by the flight data recorder found at the site.

The attack happened at rush hour, and there were thousands of other people who saw what happened and what struck the Pentagon, my pal Eileen just being one of the hundreds who were not contacted by the 9/11 Commission because there was no question about what happened.

I have found absolutely zero evidence of anything happening during the attacks that is not consistent with the impact of four large commercial jets at near full fuel capacity.

There are a lot of other things about 9/11 that are not pretty, and likewise other things- policy driven- about what happened afterward that were downright ugly. But the facts of the attack, masterminded by KSM, executed by whack-job Saudi jihadists and sponsored by that asshole bin Laden, are incontrovertible.”

I doubt if it will change anything. People will believe what they want to believe. But of all the loony things I have been moved to write about, this is quite possibly the craziest.

We are a screwy species, you know?

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Down on the Farm

(Heckle, the famous feral cat. Photo Socotra.)

I am down at the farm this morning. It was a quiet night, the mercury vapor security light flooding the circular driveway with bright light against the rich, full country dark. I am glad I was not Secretary Geithner, having to look at the Europeans roll their eyes at his advise on the currency when he visited the EuroZone summit. I would have been squirming in embarrassment at the presumption.

I am amazed I know that this morning- my connectivity survived shock and aftershock without problem down here.

It has been a while. The guy who cuts the fields in back of the barn was kind enough to put out food for Heckle, the feral cat. But there was no sign of the feline in the afternoon when I drove up. It is entirely possible that that she has found a better paying gig elsewhere, and I was resigned to the idea that I might actually be feeding the raccoons.

Frank brings in the mail so it did not spill out of the box on the county road out front- the local papers in the stack still had the reaction to the earthquake, which had it’s epicenter over at Mineral, VA, not far away.

I had been apprehensive- there was no telling what might have happened inside The only damage here was a stack of magazines that went crooked and fell over and the pictures were all crooked on the walls. I bustled around for a while straightening things, cranked up the satellite radio and let myself sink into being in the place.

I fired up the truck, pleased that the trickle-charger has kept the battery strong. I found some things I had been looking for elsewhere stored in the cab, and some furniture I had completely forgotten about in the wake of the sale of the little condo at Big Pink. How long ago was that?

Jeeze, surprising the engine on the truck is so strong. Tires need air, and it needs a good wash and the oil pressure gauge has given up the ghost.

Projects and things to do in all directions. I want to go visit Rosemary down the road at Summerduck Farm and inquire about riding lessons in the Fall. It would be interesting to learn how to get around in a manner that takes exactly one horsepower.

I spend a lot of time taking care of the multi-horsepower machines. No time for horseplay today, though. The pool is open for the last two days, today and tomorrow, and my younger boy wants to shop for cars today with me along as the good cop/bad cop partner. Maybe it will work. I mean, how tough is a car salesman?

We will arrive at the dealerships in the Bluesmobile.

Appropriate, really, since the last one that Ford is ever going to produce came off the assembly line at the plant at . Thomas in Ontario, Canada. That is where mine came from, though the actual end of the line was not a Police Interceptor like the Bluesmobile.

It was an alabaster white civilian model, tan interior, bench seats and an optional rear-seat air conditioner for customer in Saudi.

They are not so sensitive to the cost of gas there, apparently. With it’s cousin, the Lincoln Town Car, that marks the end of the Panther full-sized body-on-frame automobile. Thirty-two years in production, and that is it, turn out the lights. The plant will be decommissioned, and 250 of the plant’s roughly 1,200 workers will be kept through December to help shut it down.

Rest in Peace, Crown Vic. I think I will hang on to mine. They never offered anything except a V-8 in those beasts. Oh well, I will never buy another.

I intend to get a good swim in this afternoon, if the temperature permits. It has turned Fall in earnest, with the temperature plunging down to the 40s at night out here on the road to Cedar Mountain.

I slept the night in two parts, dreaming hard in between.

Good to be down on the farm. The next time I will be here will be with the colors changing around the pastures, and I will get to work on cleaning out the barn and garage for what is going to come next- not that I know precisely what that is. But it will be for longer than a night’s rest.

And the best news was that Heckle the black and white feral cat returned home for breakfast. She must look for me each morning, on her patrol.

She will be finding me more often as the trees turn.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

The Whole Left Side

So, the grand opening of the Nosh experiment at Willow continued Thursday evening- Day Deux of the grand experiment.

We were there in force, again. Mary and Old Jim; John with an H, and his bride; Jake and the lovely Celia; Melissa, Big Chris-with-a-C, the Good Doctor, and a burgeoining cast of characters eager to sample the new menu.

Tracy O’Grady had us signed up for a table, and we got the featured one, the eight-person nook o’ the Nosh right in front.

Elisabeth-with-an-S was the The Man behind the bar, and Tink was hustling to keep up with the demands of an energized crowd.

We were seated with an air of ordered chaos by Deborah, the Ops Boss, and Rene the waiter took orders for more drinks as we discussed what to order. I made a short PowerPoint presentation on my iPad on the dishes we had devoured the night before, emphasizing the finer points of each.

I wished I have brought my laser pointer, and there was animated discussion about whether to do appetizers or select from the menu, carefully divided into “Bites,” “Earth,” “Sea,” and “Land.”

“How is this,” I said. “Why don’t we get everything on the left page? Sort of a Tapas thing, like in Spain?”

Here is what that meant, as the parade of food began to come out of the kitchen:

Cheese on granite:

Pollyface Farms Deviled eggs, of course-

And then the battalions of legumes:

Creamy lentils with pearl onions, all local….

Kate’s breadbasket with Amish butter:

And of course, Tomato-Potato gratin with Arugula:

My God, that is a pleasant way to spend an evening. The grand opening is going on tonight, too I wonder if I could get hungry enough to try the whole right side of the page.

Did I mention the wine was pretty good, too?

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Noshing at Willow

It is Indian Summer here, warm and glowing and filled with denial of the coming change in the weather. I wanted to be in the pad-locked pool yesterday. The last weekend looms at the Big Pink pool- and I am praying that the weather holds.

It is supposed to cool off here- down to the sixties- and I may be fully swaddled in sweatshirt and pants before the last plunge. Tracy and the merry band at Willow have embarked on an entirely new adventure, as I told you the other day, and it started last night.

I was ready for something different. I had been dragged out to Manassas in the morning to review a proposal that for reasons best known to the government could only be reviewed in a copper-lined room.

I thought I had left plenty of time to navigate out there in the Hubrismobile against the grain of mass attempting to penetrate the Beltway and get to their desks.

My mistake. The traffic sucked. I mean, I have no expectation that it would be any other way in suburban Washington, but the infrastructure is completely screwed up. I think this must have been something they deemed “shovel ready” at the time, which clearly much was not.

The fly-overs and new track bed for the Metro extension out to Tysons and eventually Dulles International Airport are now in place, but the construction crews are still swarming. There appears to be another lane being placed on the same east-west highway inside the Beltway, but the expansion in progress has led to the inevitable contraction of available transit lanes.

I sat at the left hand turn across my office for four cycles of the long light, waiting to try to get on the expressway and it did not get better from there. Creeping west, looking at the tremendous backup of traffic attempting to come east into the city.

Listening to the radio, the economic news continues to be depressing. Germany may deign to save Greece at least temporarily, though the din of bad news is quite remarkable. Foreclosures on mortgages up 30%; poverty increased over the last decade. Not uplifting news, and that is going to mean more hot air out of the White House and an early start to full campaign mode.

Speaking of that, Mr. Gore was conducting a Climate-thon to get the word out on Climate Change, sort of an environmental Jerry Lewis event, but I didn’t actually hear a word of it. I saw a strange notice from Facebook the other day that it was going to inactivate a feature that allowed me to share my electronic “friends” list, and was generally gratified by it. I did not connect the dots that that feature was exactly what Mr. gore was intending to utilize on his internet to go viral.

Like I said, I heard nothing about it all day.

What I did hear was something much better. There was a big win for the division down at our Charlottesville office, so there was cause to raise a glass of cheer against the rest of the doom and gloom of the larger economy here and in Europe. It was bright and beautiful in Arlington, the dog-end of Summer, and a last time to take stock of what has been, and what is to come.

It was cool and dark in the bar. Elisabeth-with-an-S was there, and visibly excited. Patrons were filing in to take places in the casual bistro area inside the front door. Dazzling white tablecloths and polished silver lent a note of elegance. Old Jim anchored the Amen Corner, and there were new faces and a new logo emblazoned on the back wall of the bar.

As part of the impromptu win party, four or five of us from the office were strung down the bar. The lovely Bea, with no Jon-no-H was there, flanking Jim, and two of her co-workers were at the bar for an informal lady’s night out.

“Check the new menu,” said Elisabeth-with-and-S. “It is for Nosh, the casual part of Willow.”

“Wait a minute,” I said suspiciously. “No Neighborhood bar menu? I am not sure I can endorse that sort of radical change!”

She shook her head, her chestnut ponytail swaying across the back of her slim neck. “Check it out,” she said. “The favorites are all still there, but see what has been added.”

I opened the Willow folder with the four-page inset and scanned down the lost. The Pollyface Farms deviled eggs were still there, and the cheese puff pastry with the black truffle butter sauce, still at $5 bucks. Ditto the spring rolls and the miniature fish and chips, though the price had gone up to $7.50, and they have lost their loss-leader position on the menu.

“Look,” said Elisabeth. “Now you can order the fish tacos or the tuna sliders individually, so if you want one or three you can do it the way you want.”

“I would like to do it like White Castle,” I said. “A sack of halibut sliders, to go.” I stabbed my index finger at the list of appetizers, “So far, so good. What about these stuffed mushroom caps? They are new.”

“To die for,” she said, rolling her eyes. “See, what Tracy has done is open up the other parts of the dinner menu and made it more accessible.” I ordered some, and we talked about the other appetizers, freed from the stricture of having to get an entrée.

Tracy came out, wearing a glow from the extra labors in the kitchen and carrying a long narrow ceramic tray with five stuffed mushroom caps aligned in a row. “What do you think?” she asked. “The new Bistro Nosh menu is supposed to provide you with a creative food outlet right here in the neighborhood at lower cost.”

I speared one of the mushroom caps and munched happily. “Delicious!”

“The menu is going to change regularly, and there will be some creative dishes for fish and more for vegetarians.  Of course, we will keep some meat and poultry as well.  We are going to have all kinds of new ingredients, especially grains, legumes and beans as well as lots of local winter greens.”

“Local is good. Don’t you do farmer’s markets on the Weekends?
Tracy smiled. “Yep. We got some fabulous kale and chards last weekend. Did you see we also put Kate’s hand-crafted bread baskets with local Amish butter on the Nosh menu?”

“Carbs are my enemy,” I said wistfully. “But it is a great idea. I can do the cheese plates, though.”

“It is hard to find high-quality food, particularly vegetarian dishes outside of vegetarian restaurants, and these dishes tend to be very Asian influenced.  Nosh is going to be a place to come where you can get seasonal food at affordable prices.”

“You got me,” I said, spearing another mushroom. “It is an enhanced dining experience!” I said. “Could I get some more wine?”

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Chicken Soup

The contractors at the Agency on Monday morning scuttled like cockroaches when the kitchen light is switched on. Many had wheeled carts piled high with cardboard boxes filled with binders and tens of thousands of top-quality words promising to meet all the requirements of the Agency.

I was one of them, of course, or I would not have been there. My lovely associated secured the signature of the young woman who is the gatekeeper for the Big Contract. There was a pulse of adrenaline to the morning; uncertainty mingled with the mundane.

I mean, how hard is it to drive across the river and get through a military check-point, find a place to park, drag the big box on the cart from the distant point on the base to the building, past placid Lake Manzelman that nestles the formal entrance with the fountain shooting a silver spay into the air amid the bulrushes, have it x-rayed, store the personal communications devices in the little locked cubbies, then wheel the thing up the long ramp, past the sober olive-drab hulk of the SCUD missile that decorates the soaring atrium of the new wing of the building.

With the signatures secured, we were free. Our box went into Jennifer’s office with the others, a growing bulk of brown cardboard. We could prove that our Notification was made via Blackberry, and then, light as air, we were back in the car, all responsibility dissolved.

I did not feel it that day- still jagged from the weeks and weeks of frantic activity that went with generating the proposal. Add to the mix the delicious stabbing realization that if we do not win a seat at the table, my job will be on the block.

And life is pretty good at the moment, with dark clouds looming. I would hate to lose the job, just as the storm hits. The stress did not dissolve immediately. There are so many things that had been deferred for so long. I could barely amass the list of them Monday afternoon. By Tuesday, the realization that two other minor proposals were due this week began to penetrate.

Willow that afternoon helped, but there was a fog that lingered Tuesday. A hangover, of a sort, that had nothing to do with Happy Hour White. I had a craving for chicken soup.

It was there with me when I rose. I thought about it all morning- the odor of it, the slow-cooked bird, the veggies chopped, the pungent integration of desire and action with the flashing blade of my trusty J.A. Henkels knife.

I will not trouble you with the recipe. What is on the stove is Stone Soup, pure and simple, constructed of what is on hand: Chicken, slow-cooked. Broccoli. Cherry tomatoes. Onions. Mushrooms. Garlic. Translucent yam noodles. Sea salt, fresh ground black pepper. Heart of Artichoke. Celery.

I left it on the slow burner when I collapsed last night. Here is what I saw in the morning, when the gentle heat had worked its magic:

One of lingering action items requires my presence in distant Manassas this morning, and hence, I am out of here. This senryu is just in from a colleague in Japan this morning. The three-line poems are structurally similar to haiku, and is unrhymed and the subject is based human nature. It is usually satirical or ironic, which seems to fit the mood.

I will have the thoroughly un-ironic soup when I get home.

SALARY-MAN SENRYU:

NEN-KIN WA
IRANAI HITO GA
SEIDO KI-ME

My Pension system
Is decided by those
Who don’t need one

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Pass the Bill

It is another of those mornings that defines the New Normal. Lovely day for an early walk; the fading silver disk of the full moon hanging in a bluing sky.

I was on foot early, since the electronic prompt on the dash of the Hubrismobile has been scolding me with the count-down to “A”-level service for the last month. It is something I knew was coming, scheduled with the American Service Center, and delivered on time this morning.

I have no idea what is in “A”-level service. It will be somewhere between a few hundred and a few thousand dollars, the same sort of fuzzy math they do on the Hill. It does not matter- I had to stop the harsh Germanic scolding from the dashboard.

There is a lot of Germany in the New Normal. I got a call from my Swedish financial counselor at the end of a frantic day in The Hague. The report was bizarre: apparently American officials fear that if German Chancellor Angela Merkel does not “act more decisively,” bank lending could freeze up and the result would be another sharp financial downturn.

If US banks are too exposed to Euro losses, we could get bit on the ass again, chilling the markets and throwing us into turmoil.

Counting on Germany to do something decisive used to make everyone nervous. Some wags have been saying that Mrs. Merkel, who grew up in the old GDR, has focused too much on protecting her political standing inside Germany, placing her position as Chancellor above the need for bold, risk-taking leadership to rescue the European currency zone.

That is on par with those on this side of the Atlantic who are saying The American Jobs Act is designed to protect only one: Mr. Obama’s.

I think that is tremendously unfair. The jobs bill has a bunch of cool stimulus stuff in it. Just because it didn’t work last time in much larger amounts, doesn’t mean it won’t not work again, you know?

The President has been accused of making good speeches, but providing little in terms of specifics about what he actually proposes. That must have stung. This time, he actually has a Bill to propose, and it confirms that all the goodies are paid for.

In addition to the provisions we heard about, the First Responders and Teachers, there is a section on increasing Public Spectrum Bandwidth access and auctioning off more of the electromagnetic ether that was, in theory, absolutely free before the government claimed it.

That was a huge deal for us when I worked at the phone company, and we were opposed by the Big Broadcasters. They didn’t want to give up what they had, selfish bastards, any more than Big Oil and the evil commercial jet owners, or those asshole millionaires and billionaires who make more than $250,000 a year. Or, as I was surprised to read this morning, what that means is:
(A) $250,000 in the case of a joint return within the meaning of section 6013,
whatever that might be;
(B) $225,000 in the case of a head of household return, which I think I am, though I am not sure;
(C) $125,000 in the case of a married person, heterosexual or not, filing a separate return.
Or, (D) $200,000 in all other cases. That makes me nervous.

That is the almost exact quote from the section titled “Offsets” in the American Jobs Act. The last time I looked, my older son and his girlfriend could probably qualify as millionaires and billionaires under section (C), so I am glad we have finally identified the oppressors, and defined them in the Bill.

I don’t want to leap to conclusions, and will have to study on this.

I mean, I don’t mind paying the taxes I do, which amounts to around half of what I make. I don’t mind that most Americans pay little or no Federal Income Tax; it only seems fair, since the rest of the tax structure is so oppressively regressive.

I don’t mind if Warren Buffet thinks he pays too little in the way of taxes, and there is nothing at all I would do to stop him from writing another check to the Treasury if he thought it would do anything at all against the sea of red ink.

I wouldn’t even mind if there was something like a National Emergency Fund, for which there would be a temporary, directed and specific purpose. But there isn’t. There is just more of everything, just like there was last time.

Let’s do this, shall we? Let’s read the bill. Some pals think I am crazy to not trust the government, and accuse me of being a secret sycophant of the reviled Grover Norquist.

Here is what I am not. I am not a Republican, since those bastards were on watch when this catastrophe began.
I am certainly not a Democrat, since they have become so tone deaf that they cannot accept criticism of their wanton spendthrift ways without accusing the rest of us of extremism.

Here is what I am: an American citizen who is scared as shit of what is coming.

Here are exactly the words from The Bill. I defy you understand it, and that is precisely the problem with our tax code.

Some folks- I hate to use that word, since that is what the leadership does when they are lying the hardest- have said that the “Millionaires and Billionaires” rhetoric is part of a strategy to incite class warfare, and bolster the progressive ideal of “spreading the wealth around.”

I think we are all concerned about the increasing gap in wealth in this country; my deep concern is that I am on the wrong side of it.

Not that it is going to make much difference if Chancellor Merkel does not display bold action, save the Euro, splinter her fragile coalition of support and lose her job.
I am mostly concerned that the government has declared war on us, like Mr. Hoffa and his Teamsters did in Detroit last week.

Have you seen what the EPA is doing to ranchers? Hay and dust have been declared pollutants, and family businesses are being forced out of business.

What the Fish and Wildlife Service is doing to poor Gibson Guitars? Legally imported wood for fretboards has been confiscated and millions in fines levied.

Crucifying Boeing for having the temerity of attempting to open a new plant in Georgia when not a single Union job in Washington was at stake?

I did not bother to include all the provisions here, but you have to see what is in the bill for those bastards who actually produce the oil and gas we use to drive around and keep our houses warm.

Read the Bill. The President wants us to. Then he wants us to tweet our legislators. Read ‘em and weep.

From the American Job Act:

TITLE IV – OFFSETS
SUBTITLE A — 28 PERCENT LIMITATION ON CERTAIN DEDUCTIONS AND EXCLUSIONS
SEC. 401. 28 PERCENT LIMITATION ON CERTAIN DEDUCTIONS AND EXCLUSIONS.
(a) IN GENERAL.—Part I of subchapter B of chapter 1 of the Internal Revenue Code of 1986 is amended by adding at the end the following new section:
‘‘SEC. 69. LIMITATION ON CERTAIN DEDUCTIONS AND EXCLUSIONS. “(a) IN GENERAL.—In the case of an individual for any taxable year, if—
(1) the taxpayer’s adjusted gross income is above—

(A) $250,000 in the case of a joint return within the meaning of section 6013,
(B) $225,000 in the case of a head of household return,
(C) $125,000 in the case of a married filing separately return. or (D) $200,000 in all other cases; and
(2) the taxpayer’s adjusted taxable income for such taxable year exceeds the minimum marginal rate amount, then the tax imposed under section 1 with respect to such taxpayer for such taxable year shall be increased by the amount determined under subsection (b). If the taxpayer is subject to tax under section 55, then in lieu of an increase in tax under section 1, the tax imposed under section 55 with respect to such taxpayer for such taxable year shall be increased by the amount determined under subsection (c).
“(b) ADDITIONAL AMOUNT.—The amount determined under this subsection with respect to any taxpayer for any taxable year is the excess (if any) of—
(1) the tax which would be imposed under section 1 with respect to such taxpayer for such taxable year if ‘adjusted taxable income’ were substituted for ‘taxable income’ each place it appears therein, over
(2) the sum of—
(A) the tax which would be imposed under such section with respect to such taxpayer for such taxable year on the greater of— (i) taxable income, or
(ii) the minimum marginal rate amount, plus
(B) 28 percent of the excess (if any) of the taxpayer’s adjusted taxable income over the greater of—
(i) the taxpayer’s taxable income, or
(ii) the minimum marginal rate amount. “(c) ADDITIONAL AMT AMOUNT.
(1) The amount determined under this subsection with respect to any taxpayer for any taxable year is the additional amount computed under subsection (b) multiplied by the ratio that—
(A) the result of—
(i) all itemized deductions (before the application of section
68), plus
(ii) the specified above-the-line deductions and specified exclusions, minus
(iii) the amount of deductions disallowed under section
56(b)(1)(A) and (B), minus
(iv) the non-preference disallowed deductions, bears to–
(B) the sum of—
(i) the total of itemized deductions (after the application of section 68), plus
(ii) the specified above-the-line deductions and specified exclusions.
(2) If the top of the AMT exemption phase-out range for the taxpayer exceeds the minimum marginal rate amount for the taxpayer and if the taxpayer’s alternative minimum taxable income does not exceed the top of the AMT exemption phase-out range, the taxpayer must increase its additional AMT amount by 7 percent of the excess of—
(A) the lesser of—
(i) the top of the AMT exemption phase-out range, or (ii) the taxpayer’s alternative minimum taxable income, computed—
(I) without regard to any itemized deduction or any specified above-the-line deduction, and
(II) by including the amount of any specified exclusion; over
(B) the greater of—
(i) the taxpayer’s alternative minimum taxable income, or (ii) the minimum marginal rate amount.
“(d) MINIMUM MARGINAL RATE AMOUNT.—For purposes of this section, the term ‘minimum marginal rate amount’ means, with respect to any taxpayer for any taxable year, the highest amount of the taxpayer’s taxable income which would be subject to a marginal rate of tax under section 1 that is less than 36 percent with respect to such taxable year.
“(e) ADJUSTED TAXABLE INCOME.—For purposes of this section—
(1) IN GENERAL.—The term ‘adjusted taxable income’ means taxable
income computed—
(A) without regard to any itemized deduction or any specified
above-the-line deduction, and
(B) by including in gross income any specified exclusion.
(2) SPECIFIED ABOVE-THE-LINE DEDUCTION.—The term ‘specified above-the-line deduction means—
(A) the deduction provided under section 162(l) (relating to special rules for health insurance costs of self-employed individuals),
(B) the deduction provided under section 199 (relating to income attributable to domestic production activities), and
(C) the deductions provided under the following paragraphs of section 62(a):
(i) Paragraph (2) (relating to certain trade and business deductions of employees), other than subparagraph (A) thereof.
(ii) Paragraph (15) (relating to moving expenses).
(iii) Paragraph (16) (relating to Archer MSAs).
(iv) Paragraph (17) (relating to interest on education loans). (v) Paragraph (18) (relating to higher education expenses). (vi) Paragraph (19) (relating to health savings accounts).
(3) SPECIFIED EXCLUSION.—The term ‘specified exclusion’ means— (A) any interest excluded under section 103,
(B) any exclusion with respect to the cost described in section
6051(a)(14) (without regard to subparagraph (B) thereof), and
(C) any foreign earned income excluded under section 911.
“(f) NON-PREFERENCE DISALLOWED DEDUCTIONS.—For purposes of this section, the term ‘AMT-allowed deductions’ means all itemized deductions disallowed by section 68 multiplied by the ratio that—
(1) a taxpayer’s itemized deductions for the taxable year that are subject to section 68 (that is, not including those excluded under section 68(c)) and that are not limited under section 56(b)(1)(A) or (B), bears to
(2) the taxpayer’s itemized deductions for the taxable year that are subject to section 68 (that is, not including those excluded under section 68(c))
“(g) REGULATIONS.—The Secretary shall prescribe such regulations as may be appropriate to carry out this section, including regulations which provide appropriate adjustments to the additional AMT amount.
”
(b) EFFECTIVE DATE.—The amendments made by this section shall apply to taxable years beginning on or after January 1, 2013.
SUBTITLE B — TAX CARRIED INTEREST IN INVESTMENT PARTNERSHIPS AS ORDINARY INCOME
SEC. 411. PARTNERSHIP INTERESTS TRANSFERRED IN CONNECTION WITH PERFORMANCE OF SERVICES.

(a) MODIFICATION TO ELECTION TO INCLUDE PARTNERSHIP INTEREST IN GROSS INCOME IN YEAR OF TRANSFER.—Subsection (c) of section 83 of the Internal Revenue Code of 1986 is amended by redesignating paragraph (4) as paragraph (5) and by inserting after paragraph (3) the following new paragraph:
“(4) PARTNERSHIP INTERESTS.—Except as provided by the Secretary— “(A) IN GENERAL.—In the case of any transfer of an interest in a partnership in connection with the provision of services to (or for the benefit of) such partnership—
“(i) the fair market value of such interest shall be treated for purposes of this section as being equal to the amount of the distribution which the partner would receive if the partnership sold (at the time of the transfer) all of its assets at fair market value and distributed the proceeds of such sale (reduced by the liabilities of the partnership) to its partners in liquidation of the partnership, and
“(ii) the person receiving such interest shall be treated as having made the election under subsection (b)(1) unless such person makes an election under this paragraph to have such subsection not apply.

“(B) ELECTION.—The election under subparagraph (A)(ii) shall be made under rules similar to the rules of subsection (b)(2).”.
(b) EFFECTIVE DATE.—The amendments made by this section shall apply to interests in partnerships transferred after December 31, 2012.”

++++++++++++++++
There is a lot more. An awful lot more. I invite you to read it and see what you think.
I sure as hell am glad I don’t manufacture jet aircraft, or extract oil or gas, though I am confident this will go a long way to ensuring that there is less of all three. They all used to produce jobs, too.

http://s3.documentcloud.org/documents/243547/whitehousejobsproposal.pdf
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicocotra.com

The Day

I wrote the date and then I had to stop. Ten years, almost to the tick of the clock. I was not going to do this to you. I was going to write about the incredible victory under the lights at the Big House last night, but I cannot disrespect the people who died by trivializing the day with some stupid sporting event.

Damn.

The marriage had been on the rocks that summer, and I can’t at this distance say what part the growing dread and fear of that summer played in what came to pass. I have the note in my work journals from the time- there was a sense of dread; there were things that had happened that made something here seem inevitable.

I went down to the office of the Director of Plans on the intelligence Community Staff one day not long after I left the Pentagon to work at Langley, and plopped down on the chair across from Deborah’s desk. Her windows looked out of the Original Headquarters Building on the sixth floor over the trees.

It is a pretty campus, very pastoral.

“You know they are going to smack us, right?” She nodded. We all knew something was coming. I have the notes.

The marriage officially went on hiatus on the first of September. I was in terra incognita. For the first time in my life I had no place to live, and was bouncing from Bachelor Officers Quarters on a space-available basis, and it sucked. People with orders took priority, so I had to move every couple days, living out of the trunk of the Sebring convertible.

Fifty years old that year, and starting out again with zip-squat.

On the morning, ten years ago, I happened to be in the Walter Reed BOQ on Fort Leslie J. McNair. It was an old brick structure, built to the standard plan of the 1880s Army. It was a drafty structure with small rooms and doors that did not quite fit the frames anymore.

In keeping with the pre-airconditioned era in which it was built, each floor featured a broad veranda accessible from the central hallway. There was a splendid view of the Potomac to the east, and the vast low sandstone bulk of the Pentagon across the river.

I had attended the Armed Forces Industrial College in academic year 1997-98, the Best Year of Our Lives. That is what we called it, ironically, along with the companion motto: “It is only a lot of reading if you do it.”

I felt adrift and filled with dread about the future, and also a strange exhilaration that a Rubicon had been crossed, and maybe there was hope. And guilt, of course. I am the oldest kid in the family, and that comes with the turf.

The Community Management Staff does not rise early, but my habits die hard, and I was up at five on that Tuesday morning to shower and shrug on my tropical whites, shoulder-boards and ribbons with the identification badge of the Joint Chiefs of staff below.

I could have worn civvies; CMS was not much of a stickler for military precision, and living with the Agency we did, was more than accustomed to people not being exactly who they pretended to be. Plus, without the contents of my closet, a uniform has certain advantages.

I walked down to the car, to head for the office just like the assholes who were going to change our world. I put the top down; it was beautiful in the pre-dawn. The inky sky was illuminated by a elegant silvery moon, no clouds. The temperature was perfect.

I drove out Maine Avenue to catch the 14th Street Bridge and cross over into Virginia. Langley is best accessed by the George Washington Parkway, and the spaghetti of roads around the Pentagon is confusing enough as it is. I took the Pentagon exit, since I knew that way to the Parkway better than any other from the eight years I worked there. I drove up Boundary Channel Drive, past the River Entrance to the Building.

Lady Bird Johnson Park is to the east, across the little stream that is actually the boundary between the District and Virginia. I recall thinking that I might be able to use the Pentagon Officer’s Athletic Club to shower in the morning, if no rooms were available in the Q and I was reduced to living out of my car.

The great mass of the Pentagon was lit by moonlight, just starting to come awake with the business of Defense. I passed the wide swath of the North Parking asphalt, and then arced onto Route 27 to hook up to the Parkway.

All I recall from there, smoothly passing under the leafy limited-access road was the pleasant quality of the air against my skin. There was nothing remarkable about the exit onto Dolly Madison to approach the campus from the east. I did not like the wait at the light if you came from the west.

There is a reason for that. The dual left-hand turn lanes were where that asshole Mir Aimal Kasi murdered two Agency employees as they waited for the light to change in January, 1993. He shot three others, and got away clean before he fled back to Pakistan.

He then took up residence in the FATA- the FATA – The Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Pakistan. He made a living smuggling Russian electronics out of Afghanistan during the Russian War, but was ratted out by a member of the Pashtun clan who were sheltering him.

They rendered him back to Virginia for trial, and executed the son of a bitch in 2002.

The passage through the gate was uneventful, the black-clad guards, mostly recruited out of the Marine Embassy Guard detachments were crisp and professional.

I got a decent parking place, a perk of arriving early, and badged in and took the elevator up to the office suite on the sixth floor. I forget whether I had to unlock the vault; normally I did, being one of the first ones in.

That would have been about the time that assholes Mohammed Atta and Abdulaziz al-Omari passed through security at Portland International Jetport in Maine to connect to Los Angeles-bound American Airlines Flight 11 at Logan in Beantown.

I did not have a window, but did have my own office, so I did not see how pretty the light was coming up on the trees outside as Marty and Rock arrived in their shared office across the passageway to continue the agonizing process of coordinating a DCI directive through the fractious and uncooperative members of the Community.

Seventeen other assholes cleared security checks at Logan Airport, Newark International Airport, and Washington Dulles Airport as we got ready for a day of bureaucratic process. Even though the assholes aroused suspicion at security screening, none were prevented from boarding their flights.

We were talking about some nuance in one of the paragraphs in our document in our morning huddle that started at 0830 sharp.  Steph came down the hall, announcing to all within earshot that an airplane had hit the Trade Center a few minutes before.

“Jesus,” I said. “It has happened before. A B-25  bomber flew into the Empire State Building during the war.”

Marty and Rock looked dubious, and the conversation about the objections that Fort Meade had to our document was suspended. News of the second crash was in real time, what with attention glued to CNN in the offices that had televisions.

“That’s it,” I said and shut my notebook. “We are under attack. You guys get out of here and get home.” They were both retired officers, contractors now, and they left with alacrity, to spend the next several hours in their cars in the mess of the entire Federal Government attempting to flee.
I went back to my office to wait for whatever was going to happen next, numb. The Boss stuck her head in the office minutes later to tell me that since I was wearing a uniform, there was a plan for these sorts of things and we were going to execute it.

That was about the time my pal Eileen was sitting in her car on 27 waiting to get through the jam to Memorial Bridge and get to her job in the attic of the capital when American Flight 77 flashed downslope from the direction of the Navy Annex on the hill, over her car then the heliport and into the Pentagon.

When the images came on the CNN the camera angle made it plain that the aircraft had gone into the area where my old office had been moved in the big re-construction project. Flames rose from the sandstone below the roof. I tried to call my old number but all circuits were busy.
We were moving at that point, to a secure location on the campus, and I found myself with the Director and at a desk with a phone and nothing else.

“Get me the Director of NSA,” said George, and turned back to watch the CNN coverage as the unimaginable happened. His face went gray, gray as the plume of dust that was billowing from the disintegrating tower.

I had no phone book. I do not know how I got through to Fort Meade, but I did. “There is another airplane out there,” someone said. “They say it is coming here.”

I later heard everyone in town thought the same thing, from the White House to the Department of Agriculture.

You know the rest of it, and by then I was just another person watching television like you. Once the realization came that everything was grounded, except Air Force One, they realized that phones without phone lists were no good, they let us go back to our offices.

The Real Plan was going into effect, the one no one talked about, and the Grownups were disappearing. I shuffled paper at my desk until sometime after a lunch that did not happen. I dialed cell numbers randomly to see if any of my co-workers at the Pentagon had survived. I finally got a call through to Kristina.

She said she had seen the fireball out the window, but the office was intact, and everyone had got out safely. I was bathed with relief and the sour scent of adrenaline.

The Boss told us to get home. “There will be plenty to do tomorrow. Rest up, if you can,” she said. I did not have one, and I did not know if it would be possible to get back across the river to Fort McNair.

As it turned out, it was a piece of cake. There was no traffic on the Parkway, and I saw people roller-blading on the bike path. It was a beautiful day. I had a big bottle of Popov Industrial Strength vodka back in the room, and I was able to knock back enough of it out on the stately veranda, watching the soldiers swarm around on post, and as darkness came on, the bright orange of the Pentagon burning across the Potomac.

In my relief that my old office had survived, I discovered that the Navy Command Center had been at ground zero, and Vince and Dan and the other five kids who worked the intel watch were still in the building.

Damn.

The Boss was right. There was plenty of work to be done, and it is not done yet. We were just getting started on it the next year when we finally executed Mir Aimal Kasi on November 14, 2002.

It is a measure of the amount of work left to be done that when his body was repatriated to Pakistan, his funeral was attended by the entire civil hierarchy of Balochistand, the local Pakistani Army Corps Commander and the Pakistani Ambassador to the United States, the Hon. Ashraf Jajangir Qazi.

Osama lived there without fear for years, too, after we blew his capture at Tora Bora. With friends like the Pakis, who needs enemies?

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Willow Introduces…

There is something in the air this morning. It is not rain, for a change. The skies have cleared and there should be an optimistic stride in our steps. The Big Pink pool is open, today and tomorrow; and again for the swan song next weekend.

For good or for ill, the Big Proposal goes in on Monday, so that epic saga will be over until the notification of win or loss is made in a coupe months, and the future will be revealed. So that is good.

But there is something I can’t put my finger on, not precisely. Maybe it is the idea- credible, according to our officials- that some asshole is putting the finishing touches on a truck-bomb or VB-IED to strike a bridge, monument or tunnel right here in my own town.

Or, the endless recollections of where we were on that awful day, ten years ago. I won’t inflict that on you. There is enough of that.

I vented my displeasure with the state of affairs in this great Republic this morning privately, and there is no need for you to suffer it, nor for me to try to re-type it in a more measured and temperate manner.

Instead, I want to pay tribute to someone who is actually doing something about the economy. Tracy O’Grady was working at her Willow last night. Her partner Kate Jansen was not- she was dolled up and looking good and sitting in the conversation nook waiting for friends. I think that the pastry chef can finish up the days work of creation by starting early.

The Chef has to cook as it goes. That is the division of labor.

And labor is what a small business is about. I don’t know how many people Tracy and Kate keep working. I would estimate it might be twenty people on an average night like it was last night. The work is produced by the passion and energy of those two extraordinary women who made the Willow out of a dream.

We had a small group from the office there, Melissa, and John Q Citizen and the T-man. Jim and his lovely wife Mary were at the Amen Corner. We were all a little shell-shocked by the end of the constant gray rain, and the sudden emergence of blue sky after such a thorough drenching made us blink in wonder.

“What is that thing up in the sky?” I asked. “It seems awfully bright.”

Mary googled it up on her smart phone. “I think it is something called ‘Sol,’ a class G2V yellow dwarf composed of hot plasma interwoven with intense magnetic fields.”

“No shit,” I said. “I wondered.”

Traffic was fairly light at the bar, so we did our best to support the workers and see if we could stimulate the economy. Tracy came by with a clipboard. “Did you guys figure out which of the Bistro nights you want to sign up for?” she asked.

“No, we still have to coordinate that,” said Melissa. “We will get you a commitment next week when the madness dies down.”

“Doesn’t matter which one,” responded the red-head. “We just need to know so we can have enough food on hand to cook.”

“So what is the plan?” I asked. “A little casual nook in front of the formal dining room?”

Tracy nodded. “It is pretty exciting. You have to continue to grow and innovate or you get stale.” She passed me a brightly colored flyer. I looked at it, and found everything I needed. In fact, I found the story that didn’t make me either apoplectic or consumed with loss.

So, here is what you can expect at Willow. Big changes. Good ones, by the way. Willow introduces….

Willow Restaurant Announces Exciting Changes…

Willow has had the privilege to provide some of  the finest cuisine in Arlington and the Ballston Neighborhood in particular, for the past 6 years. Chefs and owners Tracy O’Grady and Kate Jansen have recently been hard at work crafting Nosh… a Willowesque Bistro. Nosh was inspired by our popular Bar Menu and a desire to provide a refined yet highly accessible meal on a busy work night or for an impromptu weekend dinner. No reservations are needed at Nosh, making it the perfect spot to drop by whether you are already in the neighborhood or venturing out from afar.

Set amidst stained glass windows and gleaming black granite tables in Willow’s main vestibule, Nosh will offer a constantly changing roster of small and large dishes fit to carry the Willow name. Chef O’Grady’s commitment to local and sustainable ingredients will also be readily apparent. A far cry from common pub fare, the Nosh menu will feature a wide variety of vegetarian and fresh fish options along with dishes to satisfy any conscientious carnivore.

We invite you to enjoy the results of all our hard work and look forward to seeing you soon!

Nosh Menu

Bites
Deviled Eggs 5
Smoked Paprika & Dill
Gougeres  (V)  6
Black Truffle Butter
Crispy Pork Spring Rolls 5
Spicy Ginger-Lime Mignonette
Pork Sausage Stuffed Mushroom Caps 5
House-made Pork Sausage
Kate’s Bread Basket with Amish Butter (V) 2
Assortment of Rolls &  Amish Butter
Ricotta & Zucchini Fritters (V)  5
Smoked Tomato Butter
Goat Cheese Stuffed Banana Pepper “Poppers” (V) 5
Yellow Tomato Vinaigrette
Fava Bean Hummus  (V) 6
Baguette, Sesame Seeds & Olive Oil
Artisanal Cheese Plate
See Cheese Menu for Descriptions

Earth
Rissole Cauliflower with Capers & Almonds (V) 8
Tomato-Potato Gratin with Arugula (V) 9
Creamy Lentils, Bacon & Pearl Onions 7
Warm Barley, Parmesan & Broccoli Salad (V) 8
Gigante Beans, Peas & Ham Hocks 8
Pan Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Bacon 9
Wheatberry, Barley & Mushroom Risotto (V) 10
Spicy Stewed Chick Peas & Kale (V) 8
Kale, Feta, Chickpea & Lemon Salad (V) 8

Sea
Yellowfin Tuna Taco on House-made Corn Tortillas 3.5
Chipotle-Lime Crema, Avocado Mousse & Cabbage  Slaw
Salmon Kabob  7
Crispy Quinoa & Dill Yogurt Sauce
Calamari Fricassee 8.5
Mushrooms & Potato Gnocchi
Fish & Chips  7.5
Halibut, Scallop, Shrimp & Calamari with House Made Tartar Sauce
Burgers on House Made Potato Buns :3.5 Each
*Tuna-Bacon  Oven Dried Tomato & Avocado Mayo
*Halibut  House Sauce Made Tartar
*Quinoa  (V) Feta-Lebna Sauce & Roasted Tomato

Land
Half Lemon & Thyme Roasted Murray’s Farm Chicken 18
Chicken “Jus”
Chicken & Foie Gras Meat Balls Paprikash 14
Mushrooms, Crispy Quinoa & Smoked Paprika Sauce
Slow Roasted Pork Belly Porchetta 18
Duo of Chimichuri Sauces
Chicken Sausage & Scarlet Runner Bean Stew 14
Crispy Moulard Duck Leg Confit 15
Braised Cabbage & Apples

* Menu Subject to Change & Seasonal Availability

Willow is also extremely pleased to announce the Grand Opening of Kate at Willow, our new, elegant retail bakery located in the heart of the restaurant. If you have dined with us in the past several months, then you have surely noticed the gradual transformation that has taken place. We are now excited to offer the finest baked goods and sinful sweets in the neighborhood. As a co-founder of Firehook Bakery, Pastry Chef Kate Jansen has both the expertise and experience to bring a successful retail bakery to life.

Kate at Willow will be offering a wide variety of cookies, brownies, bars, cup cakes and more, conveniently and beautifully packaged to go. It is a great option if you are dining in the restaurant and want to bring dessert home or simply just make an impromptu stop to satisfy a sweet tooth. With a little extra notice, Kate will also whip up one of her famous layer cakes to make your next occasion that much more special. And as the seasons change, there will be many additions to the menu to reflect the fall harvest and provide for all of your holiday needs.

Kate at Willow Bakery Menu

Kate’s Home-made Goodies Packaged To Go
$6
Cherry-Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies
“Almost Nutter-Butter” Peanut Butter Cookies
“Sweet Dream Cookies”
-Crunchy, Chewy Cinnamon & Chocolate Chip
Crunchy Walnut Fudge Brownies
Vanilla Bean Shortbread Cookies
Sticky Toffee Pudding Cake
Spicy Ginger Shortbread
Triple Chocolate Biscotti
Italian Almond Macaroons
with Raspberry  or Chocolate  Ganache Filling
Hazelnut Linzer Sandwich Cookies
S’Mores Sandwich Cookies
Chocolate Decadence Cookies
Raspberry Bars
Dried Blueberry Scones
Ginger Scones

Cup Cakes To Go
$4
Pineapple Upside-down Cupcake
Red Velvet Cupcake
New Cupcake of the Week

Tarts
$Seasonal Price
Individual Fruit Tarts (Changes Seasonally)
Pecan Praline Pear
Chocolate Caramel
Chocolate Cream
Key Lime

Special Order Bakery Items
Bakery Items by Special Order with 72 hour notice:

Cakes
8 inch  $45   (serves 8-10 generous slices)
10 inch  $65   (serves 12-14 generous slices)

Black Forest
Chocolate Sponge Cake, Chocolate Mousse & Cherries
Coconut Cream
Coconut Cake layered with Coconut Cream & Coconut Flakes
Almond Joy
Rich Chocolate Cake with Coconut-Almond Filling
Strawberry Chiffon
Strawberry Sponge Cake with Fresh Strawberries & Vanilla Butter Cream
Chocolate Hazelnut
Rich Chocolate Cake with Hazelnut Butter Cream
Carrot
Cream Cheese Frosting
Red Velvet
Cream Cheese Frosting
“Dreamsicle” Cake
Vanilla Cake with Orange Cream Cheese Frosting
Triple Chocolate Fantasy ($50/$70)
White Chocolate Cake with Dark Chocolate Mousse & Milk Chocolate Butter Cream

* Menu Subject to Change & Seasonal Availability

Commentary Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra/Willow promo Copyright 2011 Tracy O”Grady and Kate Janen
www.vicsocotra.com

Specific and Credible

(NOAA’s GOES-13 satellite took a stunning image of 4 tropical systems in the Atlantic on Sept. 8, 2011. Hurricane Katia in the western Atlantic; Tropical Storm Lee’s remnants are battering Arlington and Big Pink with a specific and credible amount of moisture; Tropical Storm Maria is well organized in the central Atlantic; and newborn Tropical Storm Nate is in the Bay of Campeche, Gulf of Mexico appears to be the only one that does not threaten to spoil the last dip in the Big Pink Pool for Season 2011. Photo NASA/NOAA GOES Project)

It is still raining, a persistent wet comforter slung over the capital, and as insistent as the jobs numbers. It down to the short-and-curlies on the big contract submission we have been working on. The time for good ideas is long past, and we are into the production phase, with only a few dozen hours until it is delivered to Alison, the nice young lady in the gray cubical in the big building on Joint Base Bolling-Anacostia across the river.

The proposal is filled with really cool stuff that will undoubtedly prove compelling to the anonymous reviewers in the government, this preserving my job and livelihood.

Maybe. Everything else seems to be going in the crapper. I got a note from my Swedish financial correspondent that indicated profound disquiet with the Euro-zone, featuring a schism between self-reliant North and Needy South, and the real possibility that Germany could pull out of the Euro in disgust and the whole continent will come down.

If Europe fails…well, there will be implications here. We were at Willow for an after-action session on the proposal and some other crap last night. The rain continued to come in bands, and I was happy that almost everything on Friday could be done by phone from the refuge of my- currently- dry office.

“So, did you see that there is a specific and credible terror threat for the anniversary?” I took sip of happy hour white, produced with crisp efficiency form the lovely Elisabeth-with-an-S.

Jim looked over at me, beetling his formidable brows. “New York or Washington, is what Napolitano said. Then she said we were safer than we were ten years ago. I have my doubts.”

“It won’t be a fortified target, I bet. Maybe the rain will keep the bombs from going off.”

“Oh, by the way, you blew the weather report yesterday. The storm has got a name. It is Tropical Storm Lee.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That is the problem with the first rough draft of history. My pal Dave called me up to tell me his Porsche Panamera is the Turbo model, the one with 500 horsepower. I should have known he would have the top-of-the-line. What a rocket.”

“Useful for getting away from the city,” he said firmly.

“I am staying away from public buildings for a few days,” I said. “Except for delivering the proposal on Monday.”

“You would be smart to do that,” said Jarhead Ray with a scowl. He took a pull on his second Flying Dog Double Dog Pale Ale. “Except THIS is a public building, of a sort, and suppose they targeted the Fish and Wildlife Service next door?”

“The only ones who would want to do that is the Gibson Guitar Company, who the Fishheads are trying to put out of business over exotic wood the use in their frets. Don’t know why they are doing it now. Makes my head hurt,” said Eric, a short-haired guy with a short goatee. He is a newcomer to the Amen Corner, a co-worker of jarhead Ray. I don’t know if he has the staying power to be a regular, but seemed like a good guy.

The vivacious owner, Tracey O’Grady, worked the crowd at the bar in her white chef’s coat. “Hi Vic,” she said, when she got to me. “What do you think of the changes?”

“What changes?” I said cleverly. “I have given up on believing in change.”

Tracey smiled. “We installed carpeting, fixed the floor by the maitre’d station so people won’t trip, and worked on Kate’s bakery. It should make things more quiet and a little more elegant.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, “That is huge. I love lunch here, but I can never hear what is being said around the table.” She smiled and grabbed my arm and walked me around the tall wooden divider that separates the bar from what is going to be the Bistro area by the entrance and the large dining room and the private rooms in the back.

“Look,” she said, gesturing to the pale tongue-in-groove oblong that smoothed the intersection between the Bistro area, the food service area, Kate’s Bakery and the large dining room.

“It looks a little like a bowling alley,” I said.

Tracey shook her head. “They had to do it on Sunday when we were closed, and they swear they are going to get the color right. At least people won’t trip. I can’t believe no one sued us over that hump.”

“I have stumbled myself,” I said. “But I suspect there may have been external factors involved.”

She pointed to the dining room. “The carpet will absorb some of the noise, and we are going to replace the sheer curtains that are on their last legs.”

“That is the sort of jobs program that keeps things going. Would you mind turning on the television to hear the President tonight? He is on at seven, so he doesn’t confuse the Packers and Saints fans with his employment initiative.”

“I suppose,” she said. “But Willow is not a sports bar and it goes off right after the speech.”

“I will stay for that,” I said. “Look at those darn cupcakes!” I said as she guided me past the bakery counter. “Kate is an incredible artist.”

There were people in the private dining area and I snapped a picture of the new rug covertly, in keeping with the best practices of my old tradecraft.

“It looks wonderful, Tracy,” I said. “And if I can hear myself think at lunch just imagine what we might be able to accomplish here.”

“I think it is gong to work out,” she said, and waved as she headed back to supervise the line. Walking into the bar, I saw Jake and Melissa concluding some business and Elisabeth-S scaling the bar to turn on the television. She is a graceful person, I thought, and waved at Jasper to signify a low-wine warning light was starting to flicker. He is working on full-sleeve tattoos, and the art is progressing nicely.

The compromise on the television thing was that we had to read the speech without audio. Seemed to make it better, in a way, and more focused.

The words crawled along the bottom of the screen. Apparently Mr. Obama was urging Congress to “stop the political circus and actually do something.” The only time those blockheads scare me is when they do that, but never mind. The times are desperate, and someone ought to do something, don’t you think?

I took a sip of wine as my eyes widened. The package was larger than expected, coming in at $447 billion. “That is half of the last stimulus,” I said to no one in particular. ”That is about what the Department of Defense used to cost before we lost our collective wallets.”

“Or minds,” growled Jim. “It is a specific enough plan, but I don’t know how credible it is.” Jim’s lovely wife Mary rolled her eyes, and a server delivered a half Willow flatbread to Robert, the unemployed jazz musician and the Miniature Fish and Chips to the couple next to him.

Jim growled that FDR would have ended the Depression sooner if he had not chickened out with the Republican gains in the 1938 Congress. “FDR tried to target selected Republicans for defeat, kind of like Mr. Obama is tee-ing off on that jerk Cantor.”

“Didn’t work though,” I said. “The Conservatives said the same tired policies had failed and they gained seats. The Depression-era equivalents of the Blue Dog Democrats aligned with Republicans to prevent FDR from completing the New Deal. It is a lot like the attacks on ObamaCare.”

“The recession of ‘37 and ‘38 weakened the Administration and made the New Deal more vulnerable to attack.”

The President’s words continued to scrawl across the bottom of the screen above us. There were initiatives for Teachers, and for Payroll tax reductions, and a hundred billion for roads and bridges. “He says it is all paid for,” I said. “I wonder how that works?”

“It is the 2012 campaign, you moron,” said Jarhead Ray. “This is never going to fly with the House, at least not all of it, and the President just wants to have something to beat Eric Cantor over the head with.”

“Pass it right now, is what he said. Figure the odds. Maybe they just ought to do it, and see if it works.”

“They are just going to say this is a tired re-hash of the same tired bullshit.” Said Ray. “I am going to go outside and get wet.”

I contemplated the level of wine in the tulip glass.  I waved at Elisabeth for the check, and wondered if somewhere out in the darkness there was some specific and credible jerk wiring something up in a Ryder truck or large sedan.

“See you tomorrow, Vic?” she said brightly, shaking her chestnut ponytail.

“God willing and the creek don’t rise,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “But it is still raining. I can’t get any more specific than that.”

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

No-Name Rain

It rained and rained and rained. Five inches in Arlington; the District was saturated and the streets flooded. The storm had no name, and lasted longer than the last one that did- great greats of gray water that kept coming like the Monsoons that washed away Yongsan Garrison when I lived in Seoul.

I had foolishly agreed to accompany my associate Melissa to the ballgame (Dodgers) downtown at National’s Park. She got the season ticket package and hangs out at the home games. I have arrived at that pleasant point in the baseball season when I am taking note of the action as we drive toward the end of the regular season. The Nationals are not threatening anyone, but they are not in the cellar, either.

The senior-circuit Phillies threaten to return to the Series in the post season. They have four starters with ERA’s under three, and win counts in the teens. They appear to be prohibitive favorites in the post season, but there is hope. My home-town Tigers are leading the AL Central and hurler Justin Verlander just notched his 22nd win, tenth in a row and became the first Tiger since Jack Morris to win ten straight back in 1983.

My pal Joe commented that with a healthy Verlander, a solid performance by 14-8 Max Scherzer, a short series, a little rain and manager Jim Leyland suggest to me the Tigers can get to the World Series like the Giants did last year.

So there is that to mitigate the rain-induced malaise. I knew going to the game would be a disaster. I was not dressed for it, since I knew the game was going to be cancelled, but the way Big Baseball works is that will not cancel a game before you have expended the energy to get to the park and are sipping one of their over-priced in time for you to simply go to Willow, where it is safe and dry.

Despite the grim warning of my younger boy- he traveled the opposite direction across the city coming from Suitland where he works now- the drive down was not bad. We parked at the Navy Yard, and with the amount of discretionary time available, decided to go to the Ugly Mug for a refreshing cocktail. They have a golf cart that delivers patrons to the field after a god warm up.

Stadium $8 beer, or Ugly Mug happy hour at $4, with 27 brands on tap? No-brainer.

We were between bands of rain, and did not get soaked as we walked. We plodded up M street past the old ceremonial entrance to the Navy Yard, and I marveled at the change in the neighborhood. When I went to The Industrial College it was worth your life to be out and about in this segment of SW-SE Washington. I volunteered at the Van Ness Elementary School nearby, a disquieting adventure into the goodness of teachers and the dysfunction of urban families.

I often wondered if my car would be where I left it when my hours were done.

The Marines have been here as long as the Navy. There is a carefully tended line of enlisted graves not far away at Congressional Cemetery that the Barracks people tend to. The tombs on the grand avenue of the dead have fallen to wrack and ruin, but not the resting place of the Marines.

We saw dozens of desert cammie-clad Leathernecks as we walked the five blocks up 8th Street, passing the intersection at I Street, which has become an adjective, as in “he is an 8th and I Marine.”

The term signifies parade-ground elegance and detachment from the mud of the real Corps. I think Ollie North disparaged Senator Chuck Robb that way, back at a time when either of them mattered.

Now, 8th Street is a hip destination with bars like Mollie Malone’s just up the block. People on the street. Women walking alone. Truly, a remarkable change.

Dave was at the bar when we got there and I brightened. He is one of my favorite people- bluff, intelligent, hard working and a vast success in our contacting world. He had attended a Conflict Resolution seminar over near Foggy Bottom during the day and had driven his amazing ride- a Porsche Panamera- across town at slightly less than walking speed due to the widespread panic in the District from the afternoon drenching.

Dave is not much for ostentation, and is as down to earth as you get. His one external manifestation of prosperity is that damn car, a 2010 Porsche Panamera.

Porsche’s whole concept with the sedan is a little outré, given the times, since it amounts to taking the two-seat Carrera and tugging out the wheelbase to make it a spacious four-door sedan. The Panamera is a screaming performance car, just like it’s two -eat cousins. The base engine for the 2010 model year is a 400-horsepower 4.8-liter V-8 engine.

There is plenty of room for four adults in the car, and more bells and whistles than you can imagine. Dave treats it like a regular car, driving it wherever and parking in the lots like  normal person.

Me, I find myself walking hundreds of yards to wherever I am going to avoid parking the Hubrismobile next to anyone with a DC license plate, but that is just the inherent paranoia of driving a car you can’t really afford. The Panamera rear seats fold down and you could get two bikes in there, if you didn’t care about scuffing the fine leather, which Dave doesn’t.

I am sure that his better judgment would have dictated just driving out I-66 and the Greenway to get home, but Satchel had left her phone and jacket in the Wunderkar when she escaped from the rain-soaked tailgate on Monday night with Dave, and he graciously agreed to come to the game and reunite her with her possessions.

The effects of the tail-gate adventure had lingered across Tuesday and right into the Wednesday workday.

As the sheets of rain came down, I listened to people actually talking about baseball, a refreshing change from the apprehension that the nutcases will do something to commemorate the anniversary this Sunday, or what the President or the Seven Dwarfs are going to say about the sorry economy.

I mean, DC is a football town, mostly. We did not have a Fall alternative in the years we were abandoned by Major League Baseball. Now, the baseball buzz is big in town, at least as big as the discomfort with the no-name rain.

The young phenom pitcher Steve Strasburg had pitched five scoreless innings in his return from the injured reserve in a rain-interrupted game the night before that did not end until 0200. I was afraid that this evening would turn into the same thing, and introduced myself to Lauren, the buxom blonde bartender, and ordered a Jack and Diet Coke to fortify myself against the elements.

Somewhere in the next four drinks, fried calamari and chicken tenders, the clouds opened again and monsoon rain drenched the streets. The game was canceled- finally- and everyone relaxed.

Satchel showed up in time for the game that wasn’t going to be played, and a grand time was had by all, unmarred by actually going to the field.

Dave graciously agreed to drop us at our residences in Crystal City and Big Pink on his way out to Loudoun County. His Porsche was still at the curb when we walked out of the Ugly Mug under our own power. What a change in the neighborhood.

We blasted across the District in the rain, across the 14th Street Bridge and were doing 70 on Washington Boulevard. I was safe and dry by 2030 at home at Big Pink.

It was enough to make me think that post season baseball was something normal, and that we had not been at war for nearly ten years and gone bankrupt. What a freaking car.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com