Buckets

(Prepping for the game last night at Willow. Tex-the-bartender has come up with a solution to keep Old Jim and Vic contented at the Amen Corner of the bar: the Bucket o’ Bud has been supplemented with the Bucket o’ Sauvignon Blanc. It is important to be prepared. Photo Socotra.)

OK, the Tigers leaned on pitcher Justin Verlander, who sparkled on the mound and put the series with the Money Ball Athletics away in Oakland. Verlander has allowed one earned run in three postseason starts against Oakland the past two years, striking out 11 each game, not that the past is prologue, and the Tigers wound up breaking my heart again last year. On to Boston, and fabled Fenway for the Motor City Nine.

I love the playoffs, when the drudgery of the regular season falls away and everything is on the line. I wish it were the same here in Your Nation’s Capital. A pal wrote me a thoughtful piece this morning, looking beyond the circus that is Washington today. I thought his conclusion was pretty good, and very much in line with what I have been thinking:

“…none of the likely outcomes for the current crisis in Washington would shift the trend. Today, we see some small movement toward what I called option 3, wherein the President makes some concessions to Republicans while preserving the status quo of reckless overspending and runaway debt. Even that outcome would require Mr. Obama to pretend he didn’t compromise and House Republicans to pretend they actually achieved something. That is pretty much the sum of what’s politically achievable.”

He went on to address the question that no one outside the loony Right sees fit to articulate. Like, what happens if someone miscalculates and this goes off the rails?

The movement that has caused a spike in the sale of luxury fallout shelters is called the “preppers,” and not because they prefer chinos and madras shirts and appliqué belts. They are the lineal successors to the survivalists, who in turn replaced the Fallout Generation. The whole thing makes polite society a little uneasy.

See, most of us live in a happy place where things work out, eventually, and progress is the norm. All our history indicates that is the American Way, but when we continue to do things that a plainly and demonstrably unsustainable, my pal articulated the common sense position that we should be prepared just in case Mother Nature or al Qaida or the Park Service shuts everything down.

Sitting at Willow last night getting ready for the Game, I had a chance to chat with the Chief of one of the Agencies closely aligned with the Park Service. He was working, without pay, and was more than a little frustrated with what he and his people had to do.

With responsibility for millions of acres of public lands, he has to deal with the onset of hunting season, and the prospect that there will be tens of thousands of armed hunters eager to take to Federal Lands- the ones he is sworn to protect, and follow the orders of those elected to be in charge.

He is a Great American, and he has a problem to deal with. The problem is, of course, us: the fractious, contrarian and stiff-necked American people.

With a population that seems split pretty rigidly down the middle on a host of issues. The rhetoric, from what I see in the “comments” sections of the blogs I follow, is superheated. It is entirely possible that something could happen. If you consider Mother Nature and severe weather, acts of terror and the rest, I think it is really important to have a plan.

I doubt it will matter much, but my pal argues that there are matters short of a bomb shelter that are only prudent.

I agree, and my vote is for those who live outside the cities. I cast it when I started looking for rural properties that met the criteria the government applied to alternate operating centers- they had to be a hundred miles from Washington, at a minimum, and able to host at least some of the day-to-day operations.

Refuge Farm met the requirements. I was singularly blessed that I had friends who were looking for the same sorts of things- quiet, space, and acreage- and now have three generations of the family on their adjacent (and much larger) agricultural property.

The Russians have made a great start in growing their own food; the bounty is still coming out of their extensive garden. For my part, I have a supply of assorted dried foods and water on the property. It is not an elegant mixture, but should be sufficient for a few months in the event of a social dislocation.

The Derecho wind event of last summer here in Washington is a case in point: it had nothing to do with politics or acts of war; there was no warning and no regional contingencies were in place to bring in utilities workers from unaffected areas. Power was out in Blue Arlington for nearly a week.

When I got down to the farm, I was delighted to discover that things were just fine- full power and air conditioning- but the back-ups in terms of the cast-iron fireplace were ready to go just in case of some event with much more widespread consequences.

My pal recommends paying off the mortgage, and I am inclined to agree with him, but don’t have the resources. I have the place structured so that should things stumble along as they are I can make ends meet. I am not going to worry about the mortgage. If inflation kicks off, as it well might, I have a low rate that will essentially let the place pay for itself, and in the event of something really bad, it won’t matter.

I have some unease about squatters occupying the place in my absence is a concern, but I do have the neighborhood watch.

If the period of transition or recovery goes on an extended time, well, I may be able to deal with it. As my pal noted, we humans are an interconnected lot and down on the farm we have a small but cohesive local militia. We are well stocked with food, have water on the property, and are armed and stocked with ammunition in various calibers.

I guess we will see if we need it, won’t we?

My pal’s note was a good one for a society that seems unable to think much further out than the next round of the Major League playoffs. Things might be fine, and the Tigers could even win the World Series at the end of it.

But they also may not, and things will not work out the way we hope. The generator and hand-crank for the well are next up on my agenda. After all, It is only paranoia if they are not actually in the process of trying to get you, right?

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

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Rainy Day Blues (and White Sauce)

(It is bogus. The casket is not filled, or at least not necessarily, and did not arrive from anywhere except the Central Identification Lab. This has been going on for seven years across the last two idiots who have occupied the White House. Photo USAF).

It had been a really odd day, catching bits and pieces about what they are doing- or not doing- downtown. I am militantly not going to go into the current fiscal lunacy. This is either going to be OK, or it is not, and I doubt seriously whether what I think about it means a great Goddamn.

I think the final straw came when a pal sent along a note from Honolulu that for seven years, phony ceremonies were held representing the return of the remains of American soldiers killed in action.

Oh, the ceremonies were all real enough, but the remains had already been to the Central Identification Laboratory, and the airplanes from which they were unloaded were not even airworthy.

Screwing around with the people who attended the events is bad enough, but to trifle with the Dead…oh, hell. Enough. I have had it with “optics” and politicians surrounding themselves with decorative citizens when they lie to us.

I was in a sour mood and worse I had a legal conference about confronting the new reality that did not wrap up until almost 1800, and the chill remnants of the tropical storm were flooding the streets of the Ballston neighborhood where I used to work. I used to have free parking under the building where the company had offices, but do not now.

I chose not to walk to Willow, since all my foul weather gear is now deployed to Refuge Farm.

Consequently, I climbed in the car and motored down Fairfax Drive toward the bar, knowing that finding a parking place would be problematic.

It was, and with no clear alternative to the long walk in the rain, I gave up and went home and hour or two earlier than normal and much more sober.

I made the mistake of turning on the television- I was confronted with the Columbia Broadcasting System’s view of the world, as articulated by Mr. Scott Pelley. I had to think hard about the last time I had watched network news, couldn’t remember, and turned it off.

I wandered back in the kitchen and remembered I had a chunk of salmon in the freezer and dragged it out to thaw in the covered Lodge cast-iron fry pan on the gas stove. Salmon is good, but it needed something to zip it up.

In the old days, I might have reached for the bottled tartar sauce, but I had a couple recipes I wanted to try. I fished out the three-by-five index cards from the junk drawer to see if I had what I needed.

White Barbecue Sauce

Southern food writer Christiana Roussel channels down home goodness for me. This recipe produces a creamy, tangy concoction that goes well with the usual barbeque stuff, but is particularly tasty on crudités. It was reportedly invented by Bob Gibson of the Big Bob Gibson Bar-B-Q in Decatur, Alabama, back in 1925.

The ingredients are simple enough and featured staples that I had on hand with no requirement to venture out into the rain. This seemed simple enough that I could whip up a batch without even having to stop at the Harris Tweeter Market for anything special.

The possibilities really are quite limitless. I like to keep a bag of that pre-cut cabbage so I an just toss a quarter-cup of Duke’s with vinegar on top and shake it up to make a nice slaw- but try this as a variation. Top a toasted piece of good French bread with a late summer tomato slice from the Russian’s garden next door and a teaspoon of white barbecue sauce.

Celery and carrot sticks love taking a dip in it too. You see where I am going here.

White Barbecue Sauce – Makes 1 cup

Ingredients: 1 even cup Duke’s mayonnaise (really, only use Duke’s)
1 tablespoon cider vinegar
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons barbecue seasoning (like McCormick’s Grill-Mates)

Combine all ingredients and taste. Adjust seasonings as desired. There, now it’s your recipe too.

It being rainy and chill, I accompanied the salmon and white barbeque with a solid Seven Crown cocktail, and eventually (though it took a while) I completely forgot about what is really going on.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

Furlough Beards and Mohawks

(Former EPA Administrator on furlough. Photo EPA)

This has been an interesting morning for a variety of reasons that I can’t go into for reasons of client confidentiality. So, we will have to do something else.

I don’t want to beat a dead-horse, but all I can think about are the antics surrounding semi- and highly selective- Government shut down. I think the Commissary is open, again, and thank goodness the Ft Myer Liquor Store never closed.

So I am OK until the VA and pension checks don’t come in a few weeks. That will be a major personal watershed, since it appears possible that we could stumble into the debt ceiling and still manage to pay the interest on the National Debt before we start starving Grandma and the Vets.

But that shows how subjective this is. A lot of people do not have much to do with the Feds on a daily basis, and a lot of other people do. The less interaction you have, the less it seems to matter. I imagine it is sort of like getting a partial haircut.

I don’t know. That seems like strolling to the brink of the Abyss just to see what the view might be. I expect it is pretty spectacular, but I would prefer not to find out.

It certainly matters to some of us. One pal is really hot at the GOP because his son is not getting paid, regardless of the fact that the House passed a bill to cover retroactive compensation for the Feds. For his part, Mr. Reid in the Senate is holding firm that he will not do business piecemeal, and only one, big, clean bill will do to fund everything.

Everyone is confused, or pissed. A pal from one of the three-letter agencies wrote to say this:

It looks like our paychecks will be deferred until this whole budget mess gets resolved. Kind of off-putting to think that there are feds at, oh, hell, I dunno, Agriculture who are going to get paid when this is all over but they get to spend their time at home, playing with their kids, pursuing their hobbies. I will get paid when this is all over yet I’m here…

My rebellion is that I am not wearing suits and ties. My excuse is “Those nice work clothes require dry cleaning. I’m not getting paid and if it is between going grocery shopping or paying for dry cleaning I’m gonna’ eat. And so are my wife and kids…”

I understand a lot of people are growing Furlough Beards. Not being particularly hirsute I couldn’t go that route. Logically enough, I decided to get a Mohawk last week not expecting that we would be back so soon. I figured “Hey, I’m 46, I’ve always wanted a Mohawk and when else will I get the chance?” And then I got called back to work. Kept the Mohawk. Good thing I didn’t dye it red…”

We have been through this 17 times in living memory, and about half the time the Continuing Resolutions are “clean,” and about half the times they are not. It seems to me that an omnibus CR that has all sorts of provisions to cover back pay and stuff rapidly ceases to be anything like “clean,” but what do I know?

My kids are still drawing a check, so I am not as personally involved, and won’t be until the Feds short me at the bank.

For the moment, anyway, the Park Service continues to get the “bully” epithet that has been pinned on it for the in-your-face conduct of its employees across the country. Armed Rangers versus senior citizens at Yellowstone, cops-and-robbers chases at the Gettysburg National Military Park, closing the Grand Canyon.

My pals sent me snippets from around the country about armed Rangers getting into it with the citizens who theoretically own the land from which they are being ejected: Scenic Rivers, historic Inns, etc., etc.

It is all quite remarkable, and clearly directed from what some wags are calling the Spite House.

This is, of course, about the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, and there is enough that is really wrong with it from a technical basis to merit some additional time to think it through. Couldn’t we compromise on that?

The administration could spin it as a victory of reason, just as they said that delaying the Employer Mandate was. But no one wants to blink, or give the other side anything that looks like a win.

The PP-ACA website is a symptom of the train wreck. The Administration has pronounced it a success, with the problem just being “high volume” traffic due to intense support for the Act, and whatever problems exist will be quickly fixed.

Maybe. But doesn’t it tell you that this thing is half-baked? Shouldn’t someone have anticipated the volume like the designers of the Bush-era Medicare Part D website did? Just for the record, I opposed that, too, because it did not look like we could afford it. But that apparently isn’t something that either the Stupid Party or the Corrupt Party seem to care about.

Wait, isn’t that why we are where we are?

Looking at the IT side of the thing, experts who have looked at the code behind the web portal say it is built to fail. For example, when a user attempts to get an insurance quote by clicking into the options, that act triggers 92 scripts – the equivalent of a self-inflicted Distributed Denial of Service attack.

Then there’s the problem of the incompatibility of state and federal software, and the fact that the majority of those who think they’ve signed up for insurance actually haven’t.

The website, as every hacker and scam artist now knows, is also a personal data privacy disaster area- and whether we participate or not, all of our crap is in the databases of HHS and the IRS, and accessible to the minimum-wage Navigators and anyone with a modicum of hacking skills.

You would think we might have a little bi-partisan time-out to take a breath, get the Government open again and fix this disaster in the interest of everyone concerned- which we are now starting to realize is all of us.

None of the arguments from either side seem to make much sense outside the context of the 2014 elections, and trying to demonize the other side to cement a triumph at the ballot box that will close out the Obama Administration with either continued stalemate or the opportunity to pass some more signature legislation.

Based on how we are doing with that so far, I would not hold my breath in anticipation of anything good.

Jeeze, I am thinking about growing my own Mohawk and a beard.

(Mr. T may be the only one who has this whole thing right. He pities the fools.)

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

Rushmore

It just keeps getting better and better, or at least weirder and weirder.

Word this morning was that Park Service personnel had placed cones on a state-maintained highway in South Dakota to prevent motorists from pulling off the road to look, at a distance, at the busts of the greatest Presidents carved into the side of a mountain.

We aren’t even allowed to look at a national monument. The Park Service is busily blackening their previously not-bad reputation as the people in the white hats, protecting our natural resources and conserving our national monuments for future generations.

From one bone-headed policy implementation, the Park Service has been used as the shock troops for the partial government shut down. On the off-chance that people would not notice that Rangers had been furloughed, the NPS added on overtime for essential Rangers, who did all sorts of non-essential stuff that they normally don’t do.

As far as I know, they are still blockading the parking lot to the privately-owned Pisgah Inn in North Carolina, evicting retirees from their homes in the park land in Lake Meade, and attempting to cone-off the waters of the Gulf of Florida. I understand it was not successful, but the verdict is out. Some of the cones might float.

I was wondering who had converted the Park Service to the vanguard of pain for the otherwise blameless taxpayers. Jon Jarvis is the head of the Service these days, and has been so since 2009.

(Jon Jarvis. Photo NPS)

By training and experience, he is a career protection ranger, resource management specialist, park biologist, and has served at parks such as Prince William Forest in Virginia, Guadalupe Mountains, Crater Lake in Oregon, North Cascades in Washington State, and positions of increasing authority in Idaho and Alaska before assuming duty as the Regional Director of the Pacific West Region.

Along the way, he has gained expertise in developing government-to-government relations with native tribes and wilderness management. We missed each other by a year at the Harvard JFK School of Government for that executive course.

I wish I could have met him then. He doesn’t strike me as a doctrinaire sort of fellow, and an unlikely one to be the poster child for Federal Over Reach.

(Secretary Sarah Jewell. Photo courtesy of the Interior Department).

Sally Jewell? She is the Secretary of the Interior, and has been since February of this year, replacing Ken Salazar. She is, among other things, one of the first naturalized citizens to serve as a Cabinet Secretary and is not in line for succession to the Presidency. She is also a successful engineer and capitalist, having served as CEO of the outdoors supply house REI. Her last tweets in September were about the Duck Stamp, and has no comment on activities of the Park Service.

She is a complex woman. A petroleum engineer by training, she worked on technology that became the juggernaut of fracking. She was also an ardent conservationist who sat on the board of an organization that used litigation to shut down exploration for hydrocarbons on public lands.

I don’t have a problem with that, since I am an environmentalist as well, although not as hysterical as some. I concentrate my efforts on trying to preserve Civil War battlefields in Northern Virginia, on the premise that we really ought to remember that national emotion sometimes runs even higher than it does today.

I think. Anyway, I had the chance to spend some time as the intelligence briefer to Secretary Gale Norton, which was a curious thing. Still reeling from the shock of the attack, President Bush implemented the succession plan that meant at least one of the officials in line to succeed to the Presidency had to be physically out of the capital at all times.

The Secretaries hated that, let me tell you. We spent time trying to entertain the Secretaries of the VA, Education, Energy and Health and Human Services, and to a person, they would have preferred to be back in town and safe in their own beds for their one-week deployments to the windowless underground facility right after 9/11, when we thought there was a war on. Spending some time with the Secretary of the Interior was a treat.

Her views on all sorts of things were interesting, coming from the senior-most official in charge of all public lands. Not exactly a DoD perspective, you know?

She didn’t mention coning things off against the terrorists, but she was not a woman to be trifled with. I am confident that she would have in a heartbeat if she thought it was the right thing to do, though I am not sure al Qaida would have paid any attention.

A pal out West said that the level of hysteria about Mt. Rushmore had been blanketed by a couple feet of snow, and the cones were gone until the plows have completed their work. Early snow this season, and a lot of it.

If the Park Service had just waited, Mother Nature would have taken care of things all by herself. There is apparently an alternative, though it would require Federalizing the South Dakota National Guard.

Relax. It is photo-shopped, and courtesy of Mr. Pinko. But actually, even if it were true, it wouldn’t be any weirder than everything else in this surreal sort-of shut down season.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

Meet George

The Turf Tiger tractor got a name yesterday. I could tell you about it, or wax hysterical about what is happening in that strange city inside its concrete straightjacket seventy miles to the northwest.

I mentioned that one of my buddies had been on the road for the last week, and is looking now at the crisis from a larger perspective than we have. You know I like to take individual leaves from the tree of the Republic as exemplars of something larger.

In the case of Washington, that might be the execution of a disturbed citizen in front of her child, or the man who committed self-immolation on the National Mall, or the battle of the WW II veterans to enter their memorial.

Yesterday’s surreal story was the closing of the Gulf of Florida to sport fishing; this morning it is the eviction of people from the homes they own on Lake Meade because they are leased from the Park Service.

You know my appreciation for the absurd is vast and playful. But I have missed my pal’s prescient take on the situation. He is looking at the forest, and not the leaves on the trees.

His view is that we are on the edge of something absolutely profound, and deeply troubling. It is much darker than I had considered, and the resolution of this particular crisis could come at a cost that is unimaginable for an old apparatchik like myself.

It takes a step back to see the enormity of what is going on. We have not had a real budget for years. Everyone has become inured to that blatant violation of the Constitutional process.

The reason we do not have a budget is intentional. The Continuing Resolution means that the traditional eleven appropriations bills do not have to be debated and voted upon by the two chambers. In the old world, differences were hammered out in a conference committee. Or at least they used to be.

We are shambling on with the Continuing Resolution because the people who allegedly are running this circus like it that way: spending levels are frozen at the 2010 level, which was, as you recall, pretty lavish.

We have become inured to the assault on the basic agreement between the governed and the governing- this latest crisis takes it to an entirely new level.

Could the President just declare that everyone in the Government is an “essential worker” and then rule without a budget? I don’t know.

Before, the assault on the Bill of Rights jumped around. Political Correctness imposed nullification on free speech in the First Amendment; the concerted attack on the Second will resume with the next horror; the militarization of DHS and local police undermines the Third; the essential revocation of the Fourth by NSA and secret courts; trial by media destroying the Fifth…you know the litany. The list culminates with the precious Tenth, long buried, that says if we did not explicitly grant power to the Feds, it is retained by the several states, or to you and me.

Now the Fourteenth is cited as the grounds by which the President might rule by decree if the House does not agree to a “clean bill,” which is anything but that.

Could this be happening? Could we be on the edge of that real hope-and-change thing? I hope I am wrong. But I think it is entirely possible that there is no going back to representative government the way we knew it. Just think how far we have come in such a short time.

Oh well. That is too much to handle this morning. It was too much to handle yesterday, too, so I wandered down to the barn to see if the trickle-charger had worked on the battery to the tractor. It looked like it had, and I jumped up into the saddle and did the pre-flight check list.

Parking break. Set. Operating levers at disengaged. Check. Feet clear; mower disengaged. Check. Fuel settings to “Choke” and “Fast.” Ignition…ON.

The Tiger roared to life in the middle of the barn. I checked that the charger was stowed away and there was no impediment to forward motion, and unshipped the control levers and brought them together in front of my chest. A gentle forward motion engaged the wheels and the Turf tiger edged forward.

I goosed it and emerged from the barn and pulled back slightly on the left controller and pushed slightly forward on the right. The two motions swung the orange machine gracefully around the JG’s hulking Explorer that was resting in front of the garage.

Clear of obstructions, I pushed full forward on both levers and headed up the hill toward the country road.

Hell, I needed to return the bowl the Russians had filled with garden fresh purple peppers! Two birds with one stone! I swung to the right and around the Panzer and shut the machine down so I could limp into the farmhouse, retrieve the white pottery bowl and limp back to the tractor.

As I stepped down from the porch, I thought about what the legendary country singer Tammy Wynette said about her tumultuous marriage to the equally legendary crooner George Jones. I put the bowl on the orange mower deck and climbed gingerly into the seat, dialing back the choke a bit and firing the beast up with a puff of blue smoke.

Tammy said she woke up one time at one in the morning to find her husband gone. She got into her Caddie and drove to the nearest bar, which was ten miles away. When she pulled into the parking lot, she saw the family rider-mower right by the entrance. George had driven that mower right down a main highway to get there at about five miles and hour. She said that when she walked into the bar, George looked up and said, ‘Well, fellas, here she is now. My little wife, I told you she’d come after me.’”

I maneuvered the Tiger out and peered into the mirror to check for oncoming traffic. There was none that I could see, and I did the fore-and-aft move with the levers and roared out onto the road. I found I could keep it pretty well centered with a little tug on the left control arm.

Top speed? I dunno. Maybe ten miles an hour? How long would it take to get to the Ruby Tuesdays in town at that speed? I roared down the road and pushed left forward and right back to zoom into the gravel driveway and bounce over the ruts toward where the Russians were sitting in plastic chairs next to the truck patch.

“Hey!” I said, shutting down the tractor. “I figured out what to name the Turf Tiger!”

Mattski looked at me phlegmatically. “Why do you have to anthropomorphize everything?” he said.

“I just do. Meet George,” I said, gesturing at the orange beast. “Perfect country vehicle for going out for drinks.”

Mattski nodded, as if that made perfect sense. Natasha poured a glass of Old House chardonnay and handed it to me. “Now for the real news. Yesterday, Sasha fell from the tree.”

“Damn,” I said. “Finally some real news.”

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

The Special at Madam’s

(Madam’s profile is a landmark in Adams-Morgan in DC, and though controversial, remains open despite the budget crisis).

If you had been on the road this week, someplace headed across the vast spaces of the interior of this Great Land you would have missed a lot, and missed exactly nothing.

Despite the political theater, our security services performed well: they were able gun down an unarmed young mother over a delusional traffic encounter with a political angle; technically, the motor vehicle she was operating with her toddler in the car seat could be construed as a deadly weapon under the current rules of engagement, and that being the way we do things these days, she is dead.

The guy who set himself afire on the Mall below the shadow of the Capitol died in the hospital yesterday. We still don’t know what is up with that, but you can imagine that somehow the toxic waves of energy attracted his last spectacular, if inexplicable act.

It would have been a splendid week to be off the grid. I find this all so very tiresome- the closing of open-are public places like the WW II Memorial (using essential workers to perform non-essential tasks)- has been a cruel and unnecessary imposition on the long-suffering taxpayers, just like the Sequestration-induced cancellation of White House tours that apparently continues today.

The latest act of contempt for the people who actually pay for all these things includes something new: the closure of usually un-patrolled ocean spaces.

According to the Miami Herald, “Charter guides received a message from the National Park Service this week informing them that they are not permitted to take clients fishing in Florida Bay until the feds get back to work. That means that more than 1,100 square miles of prime fishing is off limits between the southern tip of the mainland to the Keys until further notice.”

The Park Service is an interesting group to use as the vanguard of Federal disapproval, , but a logical one and highly visible.

Here in Arlington, the Commissary and it’s perishable foods were deemed non-essential as a way to irritate military folks, but I made a quick call to the base as I went through the pre-crisis checklist for necessary consumables, just in case the idiocy escalates.

Paradoxically, my call revealed that the Class Six, PX and Gas Station were operating as usual, even if the Commissary wasn’t. So off I went to top off the fuel tanks on the vehicles and purchase enough liquor to deaden the opening days of a fiscal melt-down, hopefully at the farm and away from the political zombie apocalypse.

I understand this morning that Defense Secretary Hagel is going to allow us to shop for vegetables as soon as tomorrow. I guess we will see.

So, yesterday was in the 80’s, last gasp of warmth for the year, and I walked with Heavy Hands weights with my shirt off under the puffy clouds and bright sunshine after stocking up on essentials at the Class Six.

I was not at the Farm Saturday due to a reception being thrown by an old colleague who has fetched up at the Naval War College and has her eyes on a Finnish military officer. She is a DC sort of person, and lived in Adams-Morgan, the edgy mostly Hispanic neighborhood that is so cool and so terminally hip.

It is gentrifying with alarming velocity, and there is nowhere to park. I did not want to navigate the Panzer or the Bluesmobile after several drinks at Perry’s Roof Garden on Columbia Road. I could have taken the Metro, I suppose, and got off at the Zoo, but that was more of a hike than I wanted to do and instead chartered a Red Top Cab to go down.

You know Washington- you are either a half hour early, or a half hour late. I was early this time, and contemplated the three flights of steep stairs at Perry’s to get to the roof. I decided to be fashionably on-time and looked around the neighborhood where the young Douglas MacArthur had lived at a residence hotel long ago, before the area hit the skids after the riots that followed the assassination of Dr. King.

I decided to walk a block or two and get a drink at a bar I have wanted to visit many times. The last time I tugged on the door, a couple body parts still smarting from a procedure at the tattoo studio up the block, it had been locked.

This afternoon it was not, and that is how I came to be sitting at the bar in Madam’s Organ late yesterday afternoon, waiting for the appropriate moment to walk up the block to the academic reception that had kept me in town for a Saturday night. Madam’s is a splendid dive bar in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood. The area has had a resurgence of life with the flood of Federal money and the tide of young and idealistic professionals who have come to live the dream.

A pleasant African-American lady was behind the bar, and she produced a perfectly serviceable vodka tonic as I surveyed the eclectic décor. The walls were festooned with curious objects: a lot of old guitars, an old portable radio, an LP album cover with the face of the young Joe Cocker. Above the bar, a de-militarized rifle was clutched in the paws of a stuffed ursa hybrid, above the sign that said Management supported the Second Amendment: the right to keep and arm bears.

Behind the bar was the chalk-board that had drink specials scrawled across, including one that read: “GOP Special: $10 for Nothing.” I was impressed. It seemed to sum up the situation pretty well.

I looked in vain for the other special, the one that would have read “Democrat Happy Hour Special: $10 double shot, half the amount billed to your kids.”

I liked the first drink so much that I had another. As it turned out, I was still early for the affair at Perry’s, and I left early. Sitting in the cab, waiting in the long line of traffic to turn left off the rock Creek Parkway and get to Virginia safe and sound.

I scrolled through the messages to catch up on what I missed while I was actually talking to human beings. No break-throughs. I sighed, as we finally got through the light and onto US 50 westbound across the Potomac.

I know there will be an answer to the crisis before our incredible though sclerotic system collapses of its own weight. There always is, and I will be interested to see it.

Just like the Specials at Madam’s.

(I missed the Specials in this shot- they are just to the left of the Second Amendment sign ratifying the right to keep and arm bears.)

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

The Big Shut Down, Part 23

(Tex is triumphant over the new self-serve suds delivery device, known as “the Champagne Bucket.”
The big government shut-down is affecting everything. I strolled into Willow after a day spent in the pursuit of moderation. I exercised moderately, getting my shirt off to capture the last rays of the season, and thought only moderately about what was going on. Other than that, there wasn’t much moderation in town.

Attitudes seem to be hardening, and people were busy painting themselves into corners they are going to have a difficult time getting out of. Regrettably, we are all collateral road kill in their game.

The weather was wonderful; warm and sunny in Washington, though portents of snow were coming in from the higher elevations out West, and it is clear we are on borrowed time. I ordered the components for the Halloween Party, though, and that was my sole concession to the coming change of season.

I did my best to stay away from the toxic mess downtown, but it was hard not to run into it on the radio and with all the email flying around.

Willow was a pleasant diversion from all of that. I walked into the dimness and slid into my usual stool next to Old Jim. He had his ear-buds jammed in, listening to sounds from some other place. He gestured in front of him to something altogether new. I gaped in amazement.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Guess who did it?”

“Brenna?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Nope. Tex figured it out: the perfect delivery system.”

A silver bucket sat at the apex of the Amen Corner. It contained precisely six long-necked Budweiser beers, buried to their dark caramel shoulders in chipped ice.

“It’s a result of the shut-down,” said Tex with a grin. “We have to save manpower wherever we can!”

“Self-serve, just like the monuments downtown,” I said.

Jon-without arrived in a crisp dress shirt and sport-jacket without tie. He has his standards, even between jobs. “Speaking of which,” he said, “did you hear about the guy who set himself on fire on the Mall? The latest reports say that the man is in critical condition.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Yesterday it was the cops gunning down a young mom. Now it is Buddhist monk wannabees. What the hell is next?”

“Self-serve beer,” growled Jim.

“They closed all the Commissaries,” I said. “But the liquor stores on base are still open. I called to make sure. I might want to stock up.”

“Well, at least they have their priorities straight. I heard the golf course at Andrews is open, too, just in case.”

The Lovely Bea and Jamie strolled in. Both had large deadlines in the week and were ready to ignore current events, though it was hard.

The lovely Bea crinkled her brow as Jon-without said: “Is it the situation that is driving people to these terrible acts? Are the politicians fomenting it with their rhetoric? Or is NSA bombarding us with mind control beams like the Navy Yard killer?”

“Knock it off,” said Jim. “You are starting to sound that that pompous John-with.”

“Well, how is it that his Department is working, and I can’t get fresh veggies at the Commissary? All that food is going to rot, and they actually make a slight profit with the surcharge.”

“It is all intentional, isn’t it? Asked Jon-without. “Seems like they want to inflict the maximum pain, even if it means assigning essential Park Service police to arrest people for going to places that don’t have people assigned to them even when the government is open.”

Jon decided he was not going to have a draft beer- he is watching his carbs, and asked Tex if he needed to come behind the bar himself and make something if that would help out during the period of staff reductions. Tex laughed and told him to do something colorful with himself as he bustled off to make a strawberry vodka and soda.

Jim cleared his throat. He is an old-school Democrat, you might remember the kind, though he once ran against Marion Barry for Mayor as a Republican, and actually served briefly in the Nixon White House. “Gail Norton, Bush’s Secretary of the Interior, once told me that the Park Service has always had its jackbooted thugs. She had to watch them like a hawk.”

“You mean Ranger Smith from Jellystone Park is the Administration’s Brown Shirt?”

“Green Shirt, I think. Gail was a fox. She was a Cabinet Secretary I would have done in a New York Minute. She said the retaliatory tactics from the Park Service over budget cuts has always been to maximize the visibility of the “hardships” to the Service by shuttering the most iconic memorials.”

“Yeah, and messing with the Rangers is a Federal beef you want to stay away from. I remember we used to call that the Washington Monument strategy- put the most popular thing in your budget on the cut list when we were told to reduce the budget. But of course, this time it was already closed because of the earthquake damage, so they had to pick other stuff.”

“Politics has always been about high elbows, but this is high-sticking at an entirely new level in national politics.”

“Still just politics.”

“I don’t know. Ranger Smith versus the WW II Vets? Think of the optics of that. It seems like this is nasty and personal. The last guy that tried this level of spite was Dick Nixon, and his was much smaller crap: and it got him tarred, feathered, and run out of town on a rail.”

“Yeah. I remember the White House tours being cancelled over sequestration,” said Jon-without. “That was right before the $100 million African Safari.”

“Give it a rest,” growled Jim, leaning over to snag a bud from the bucket in front of him. He twisted the cap off and drained the first golden mouthful from the bottle glistening with dew. “We are all going to need one before this is over.”

“Maybe the way to go is just let the Leviathan fail, push this crisis right through the budget ceiling and just say, fuck it.”

“Not going to happen,” said Jim. “Someone is going to blink.”

“I hope you are right, but they are saying that this is really scary.”

“Bullshit.” Said Jim. “The 14th Amendment to the Constitution says the Government can’t default, even if it wanted to. It will just not be able to borrow more money to keep running up new bills.”

“You think? Trying to impose a balanced budget means they may just leave the Commissaries closed, and start talking about your Navy pension,” said Jon-without pensively.

“Crap,” I said. “We can’t have that. But I think I can have another glass of Happy Hour White.”

“I think this is serious enough that I will have an Amaretto,” said Jon-without. “And then go home and write my Congressman about Ranger Smith.”

(A Willow tableaux by Jamie Austin.)

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

Ricky Wyatt v. Stonewall Stickney

(Aftermath of the violent afternoon on Constitution Ave in Washington DC, 3 October, 2013.)

Is it just me or is everyone a little nuts here in Washington?

I was doing something constructive yesterday afternoon and was not plugged into the global information grid- or, better said- I just wasn’t paying any attention to it. I got an Instant Message on my screen that asked me what the hell was going on.

I typed back: WTF?

The chimes came a moment later with the words: “Shots at Capitol.”

“Checking.”

A quick search indicated an incident in progress downtown. “Four shots. Pop pop pop pop. Corner of Constitution and 1st. Everything we know now is wrong.”

Fully alerted, I stopped doing anything useful and started to follow something that had the promise to be apocalyptic. Team Party assault teams attacking the Capitol? Terrorists trying to insert themselves into the ongoing domestic melt-down? Occupy Capitol Hill?

National Public Radio told me breathlessly that they had two reporters headed to the scene and that the stately Capitol had been locked down with Shelter in Place in effect for the lawmakers and their staffs. I checked off the contents of the Go Bag, just in case: two MREs, two bottles of wine, a liter of vodka, knife and that other thing that might be useful in case of Zombie Attack during a very long walk to the farm.

Preps complete, I moved the status of the bag up from “stand-by” to “Alert Five.” I don’t think you can blame me. It has been a very strange couple of weeks since the slaughter at the Navy Yard, and I am not quite over the mild PTSD that comes from living for years in a high profile target area. Add the nonsense and political theater of the current crisis and I think it sums up just about everything.

The afternoon did not feature a trip to Willow, though it was a golden and delightful one, if a little surreal. It seemed like a much more prudent course of action to figure out what was happening, and see if there were grounds to leave Big Pink, or whether it was better to Shelter In Place.

Thankfully, the police executed the perpetrator in short order, and the lock-down was suspended only an hour or so after it was announced. That was when things got very strange indeed.

Five or six of our local First Responders had mobilized against an attack on both the White House and Capitol Hill. Secret Service, uniformed and not, Capitol Hill Police, Treasury, DC Police, FBI, you know, the usual gang was out in force, government shut down or not.

All those police managed to eventually shoot and kill an unarmed 34-year-old single mom from Connecticut with her one-year-old in a car seat in the back.Miriam Carey was her name, and she was a dental hygienist who recently lost her job.

Yep. I was as mystified as you were. The talking heads were mentioning the young woman may have post partum depression or something- I assume that had to be part of it- and that she apparently thought that President Obama was stalking her.

That last bit was reported by NBC and cited “Law Enforcement Sources.” I have no idea if it is true or not. But it certainly is a function of a common thread through all the irrational acts that have horrified, galvanized and polarized the nation. We have people with real problems who have convinced themselves that there are no apparent alternatives to dramatic acts of violent and criminal behavior.

Of course the chit-chat this morning is about over-reaction by law enforcement. Miriam had no gun, of course, but I have to dismiss that out of hand. The police were well within their rules of engagement. We have established a national security state in which standard operating procedure is to kill individuals who are acting out. I understand it, and I sympathize to a degree. After all, were I in the crosshairs of some troubled soul with a gun, I would just as soon see the threat terminated, swiftly and with extreme prejudice.

(Ricky Wyatt in 2011 prior to his death at the age of 57. His landmark lawsuit set tens of thousands free from mental institutions.)

But it still makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Like maybe we should be talking about mental health a little? I remember when the great liberation occurred in 1972. Ricky Wyatt vs Stonewall Stickney (Alabama Commissioner of Mental Health) was the case from Alabama that Federal Judges decided in favor of plaintiff Ricky, who had been held in confinement since the age of 15. His “illness” was that his Aunt dropped him off at the psychiatric hospital because he was being disruptive at school.

That may or may not have more to do with the Great State of Alabama than anything else, but the ruling became the basis for federal minimum standards for those with mental illness in institutional settings. A pal commented that it was also where the persistent homeless problem arose, and I responded that it also freed my orthodontist Doc Boucher from the Michigan Home for the Criminally Insane, since he had pled insanity after shooting his wife and son and got it. Since the sentence was indeterminate, the court-ordered agreements following Wyatt v. Stickney meant the Doc was permitted to walk free.

None of this makes much sense, outside the narrow bounds of jurisprudence, but it may also have something very relevant to the fact that some other very disturbed young men walk among us. Like the Navy Yard shooter, and the shooter at Sandy Hook and one at the theater in Aurora, and the assassin who shot Gabbie Gifford and the…well, hell, you get my point.

Don’t get me wrong. Miriam’s black Infinity, operated the way it was, met the criteria for being a clear and present threat, and the shooting was justified under the rules of engagement. Still, this one is different from the other acts of deranged lone male gunmen.

I have long been a proponent of the idea that there should be an effective, quick-acting and non-lethal alternative to gunfire. I never got any traction on that when I was in the government and I am not sure why. Many of the chemical approaches to incapacitation, I was told, violated existing weapons treaties. So here we are.

And Miriam is dead and her daughter is an orphan. But the threat was neutralized, right?

No guns involved except the ones in the hands of the police.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

Taps

(Tex shows off the new draft beer taps at Willow. This is a great day for the Republic. Photo Socotra.)

It was a little after five, and we were at our places at the Amen Corner of the Willow Bar. “So, did you hear Tom Clancy is dead?”

“Yeah. 66 years old, the son of a bitch. That is too soon to go,” I said, calculating the number of days I would have if I went the same way. I was having a hard time getting to four digits, and the thought was vaguely disturbing.

Brett the dashing bartender leaned in. “I never read any of his stuff.” He is almost a dead-ringer for the younger James Garner, who played Brett Maverick on TV in the days of our youth: glossy jet black hair and a twinkle in his eye.

“Couldn’t write a decent sex scene to save his life,” said Old Jim. “But he could sell some damned books.”

Brett had been on an extended monologue regarding the history of the James Bond film franchise, and then we transitioned naturally to Sean Connery as the definitive Bond, and then all the rest of them. I made a mental note to actually watch Daniel Craig’s latest outing, which I probably will not get too, since I bought all five seasons of “Breaking Bad” and have not even started on it.

“Clancy hit it right on for timing,” I said. I always envied him. Back in the Cold War, the Navy was looking around for a way to influence what the Commies were going to do in terms of technical investment in the submarine force. We knew they were ripping off everything they could, old school, just like the Chinese are doing today in cyberspace. So, The OPNAV Staff decided to approach this insurance-agent-wannabee-thriller-writer and offered to show him around some real high tech shit. That was Clancy, and he got some classified stuff to put in his book, and some stuff that was just bullshit. But it was all wrapped together so the Russians couldn’t tell what was what.”
“And it was a best seller?”

“Never was intended to be. It was published by the Naval Institute Press, and they assumed it would go on the back list, since they don’t do fiction, and the only ones who would notice would be the Soviet collectors.”

“Huh. Life’s funny, ain’t it. They didn’t say what he died of. Goes to show you cash and talent can’t beat the reaper,” said Brett.

Jim looked a little pensive. “Fuck that.” I smirked in amusement. “And fuck you, Vic.” We clinked wineglass against Bud long neck and went back to talking about the shut-down.
Tracy O’Grady stopped by to press the flesh with the regulars, since aside from a fair crowd on the patio enjoying the last of the nice afternoons, the dinner traffic was light.

“It is the shut-down,” she said. “Everyone is cutting back until they know how long this is going to go on.”

“Suppose they closed the Government and nobody noticed,” I said.

Tracy shook her head, a little sadly. “I worry. We feel it here immediately, and trust me, I notice. Dining out is one of the first things to go when there is uncertainty.”
“That’s why the politics is so amazing,” I said. “I remember the shutdown seventeen years ago. I think they closed the visitor’s kiosk at the Lincoln Memorial. They did not put barricades around it.”

“Well, seventeen years ago nobody was splashing green paint on Mr. Lincoln like they did last month. Did you see the World War Two vets were storming their Memorial yesterday? There were supposed to be more going there today,” said Tex, who had a smaller than usual crowd along the bar to keep happy.

“Yeah, they were there with some Congressmen. It was a circus- there were some paid SEIU demonstrators, too, to suck up to the cameras. They were masquerading as furloughed federal workers, but they actually were paid $15 bucks to carry signs.”

“Politics in Washington? Go figure. I think the Park Service deployed people and resources to close a plaza that is open all the time, 24×7.”

“Don’t believe that tea party bullshit. It is all politics,” growled Jim.
“It is not bullshit. That is what drives me nuts. Some idiot actually spent time thinking up the idea of the barricades and the signs and the cops on horseback to close the plaza to demonstrate that this is really serious and Speaker Boehner is personally responsible for all of it.”

Tex began to screw in the tap handles on the used six-headed keg cooler he had finagled from the Cowboy Bar on Lee Highway. He had three handles, so far: a stylized Dogfish Ale blue fish, a Presidential Jefferson and a Longboard Lager replica surfboard.

“Did you go operational with the draft suds today?” I asked in amazement, having forgotten that today was Der Tag- the day. “I was actually thinking about having a beer today to commemorate the occasion.”

Tex nodded with satisfaction. “Yep,” he said. “I have been dreaming of this moment since I came here two years ago. Now this is a full-service bar. He filled two glasses with Longboard, golden rich and topped with white foamy goodness and handed them to Jasper who was working the patio.

“That would be some Presidential appointee that thought it up. The Park Service normally doesn’t like to be used as a prop, any more than political messages used to be sent by the SECDEF to the active duty military.”

“It is a hoot, let me tell you. We are in a completely new place these days. The DC War Memorial had just one Jersey Barrier in front of it, since they needed a place to hang the sign saying it was closed except for First Amendment purposes.”

“Wait, isn’t just about everything a First Amendment issue if you say it is?”
“Just goes to show how stupid this is,” said Jim. “I am going to have one more beer and go home and contemplate the nature of the political discourse in these decadent times.”
“That is actually a brilliant idea, Jim. In honor of the shut down and the arrival of draft beer, I am going to have a Longboard.”

“Now that is some progressive thinking,” He said, slamming down his empty Bud, and reaching for the next one. “They ought to try some more of that around here.”
“Yep,” I said. “This is something I will never forget, a real national moment.”
“You mean the shutdown?”

“No,” I said. “The day that Willow re-instituted the Draft.”

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

Three Martini Lunch

“Silvio Berlusconi has plunged Italy into another political crisis. It’s a wake-up call for Europe and a reminder that, despite what the recent German election campaign suggested, the euro crisis is by no means over yet.”

– Gregor-Peter Schmitz writing in Der Spiegal

WTOP’s class-enclosed nerve center (“Traffic and Weather on the Eights!”) was telling us that nearly a million federal workers are idled by the shut down that begin Monday night at midnight.

I was in traffic, listening intently, and it still sucked yesterday, so they were doing something, even if it wasn’t the work of the taxpayers. I was, too, though it had little to do directly with the budget battles, though it was a consequence of them. I was at Willow in the middle of the day, watching a three-martini lunch in progress with wonderment.

Here is how it came about: last week, with the Government shutdown looming, we agreed with State Department John-with that should that sad event come to pass, we would gather for lunch on Tuesday and discuss the great matters of state.

Old Jim was seated at the apex of the Amen Corner as I came in this delightful lunchtime, the skies clear and the leaves just turning yellow. “I am not staying and I am not going to start drinking this early,” he said. “You did not show up last night, so John-with told me that it turns out the State Department tucked away a little cash for a rainy day and isn’t going to furlough anyone.”

“I thought rainy day slush funds were illegal,” I said. “Isn’t that why they have Congressional committees to appropriate funds for specific purposes?”

“Fuck if I know. You would have to have a functioning Republic. Anyway, he is working and not going to be here for lunch. I am going to limp back up the block, do some writing and take a nap. See you later.” Jim grabbed his cane and stomped out the double glass doors.

Brenna was the on-call bartender but running out to cover the patio crowd when Jon-without appeared and slid onto the stool next to me. “Where is our Foggy Bottom friend?” he asked.

“Jim says he is working, even if the rest of the town is shut down.”

“That calls into question the whole idea of being here for lunch,” I said. “Are we living in Italy now? I don’t recall even packing.”

“But we are here,” said Jon.

“Fair enough. A Willow Caesar salad would be an appropriate response; healthy, nutritious and moderate. And maybe a glass of what will, in as little as five hours, be the Happy Hour White.” I had a few things to do that afternoon and know my limits. Two glasses of wine will slow me down a bit but not leave me addled.

“Brenna,” called Jon, “Could I get a Bombay Sapphire martini?”

“That is a bold luncheon order,” I said with wonder. “A martini, or two, would render me insensate. Three would just leave me asleep.”

“I have no public responsibilities until I start with the Heavy Bomber people later this month. I consider this a function of being at temporary leisure. And I may have the award-winning Willow Burger, if it is still on the new menu.”

“Dad used to say that the best thing about getting promoted was not having to go out with the Boss and have three drinks at lunch. Then everyone was wasted all afternoon.”

“He was a wise man. Wish I had met him. But sometimes the situation calls for strong medicine.”

I looked at the maroon folder with the manila inserts for today’s offerings. Both the salad and the burger, with hand-cut fries, were on a pared-down but fresh list of the a la carte.

Brenna slowed down enough to get me a glass of wine and drop a silver shaker in front of Jon-without. Then she was gone again and we were alone at the bar.

“I heard they put up barricades at the Lincoln Memorial and the World War Two monument.”

“I thought they were open to the public all the time. I have never seen guards there before, and there are no entrances. They are just open on the Mall.”

“They said some World War Two Vets knocked over the saw-horses and went into the plaza anyway.”

“Well, I guess if you landed at Omaha Beach, the Park Service probably isn’t that big a threat. I think they are just trying to make this worse than it looks, like the did with Sequestration.”

“Yeah, outside DC no one seemed to notice.”

I reached in the pocket of my jacket and fished out a folded sheet of paper. “Yeah, but look at this. It is a message from SECDEF to all workers in DoD. A pal sent it to me this morning. I have no idea what to make of it. I handed it over and Jon looked at it, taking a sip of Bombay Silver with the three olives in it. “Look down to the bolded part after the Defense gobblety-gook.”

Jon’s eyes got larger. He read the words back to me:

“FROM THE SECRETARY OF DEFENSE. MESSAGE FROM PRESIDENT OBAMA TO ALL U.S. GOVERNMENT EMPLOYEES
Importance: High
PASSED FOR ACTION REROUTE DETECTED
IMMEDIATE PRECEDENCE.” He looked over at me with curiosity. “Sounds important.”

“Yeah, and I think it is appropriate to keep the workforce informed, but look down.” Jon glanced back at the message.

“You mean the part that goes: THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT IS AMERICA’S LARGEST EMPLOYER, WITH MORE THAN 2 MILLION CIVILIAN WORKERS AND 1.4 MILLION ACTIVE DUTY MILITARY WHO SERVE IN ALL 50 STATES AND AROUND THE WORLD. BUT CONGRESS HAS FAILED TO MEET ITS RESPONSIBILITY TO PASS A BUDGET BEFORE THE FISCAL YEAR THAT BEGINS TODAY AND THAT MEANS MUCH OF OUR GOVERNMENT MUST SHUT DOWN EFFECTIVE TODAY. That seems sort of important.”

“Sure it does. But read a couple paragraphs down.”

Jon scanned down to the part that my pal had bolded, and read the words aloud. “THIS SHUTDOWN WAS COMPLETELY PREVENTABLE. IT SHOULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED. AND THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES CAN END IT AS SOON AS IT FOLLOWS THE SENATE’S LEAD, AND FUNDS YOUR WORK IN THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT WITHOUT TRYING TO ATTACH HIGHLY CONTROVERSIAL AND PARTISAN MEASURES IN THE PROCESS.” He took a sip of his martini and plucked an olive off the toothpick in the glass. “Wait, isn’t that a highly partisan paragraph? I mean, couldn’t the Senate have conferenced with the House, come up with a compromise on something and sent it to the President?”

“Sure. That is the way it is supposed to work, and then the President can veto it if he wants. I swear, this is like some banana republic. Maybe worse than Italy since no one there takes it seriously. But words like that in an OPIMMEDIATE message? I have read a couple hundred thousand DoD cables in my life and I have never seen something like that. We are supposed to be non-partisan in the Defense Department.”

“Goodness, this seems sort of serious.” Jon looked up with gratification as my Caesar salad arrived, and his award-winning burger was deposited in front of him. It smelled delicious, but I was happy I had stuck with my guns for something lighter.

“I think I am going to have another martini,” said Jon.

“I wish I was joining you, “ I said. “But I totally support your decision. I have not seen a three martini lunch in a long time.”

“Desperate times,” said Jon, “call for desperate measures. Cheers.”

I raised my glass in tribute to an American institution. If there had been time for a nap before happy hour, I might just have joined him.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303