Welcome to Baghdad West….
She raked four sharp claws over my face, pore by pore. I knew from earlier encounters that Lena's imprints were already being highlighted by blood oozing through damage skin from just beneath my right eye to a point an inch right of my lip. I wanted to sleep longer, but having felt the pain she could inflict I had second thoughts. A shiver jerked my body as I remembered what my doctor said after my fit of coughing during my last exam. "Wiping blood from the scratches is not a sure-fire way to avoid Cat Pneumonitis."
With the help of a wan blue night-light and outstretched arms I felt my way to the kitchen. While the coffee gurgled Lena finished her breakfast, swallowed two tuna treats and, exhausted by her effort to get our day started properly, slipped away to Catland.
I was sipping good black coffee and waiting for the TV commercials to end when "Breaking News," flashed on the screen. Better sit down, I thought.
One of the pretty early morning announcers said. "Breaking News!" The second said, "We have Breaking News." The soundtrack boom-de-booms melded with rata-ta-tats fabricated an air of impending doom. More bad news from Iraq, I wondered. Bad accident on the Beltway?
The fanfare from the TV faded and a face I recognized replaced the studio picture. I've seen him so often that I once thought he was a freelance NBC-TV4 Reporter. Seeing his rugged features with antenna-like dreadlocks sticking out from under a dark fedora, flawless tailored clothing and a bearing that radiated authority I knew what the news would be. I think of him as The Man from Homicide.
This morning's count is three shot: one dead, one critical, one stable. There were five people shot a couple of day's back. The numbers change so fast it is hard to keep track. I began this little story on April 1st, my birth month. The best I can do is employ dead reckoning to help me guess how things will be by year-end, how many of you will be, how shall I put it — unable to make the bowl games? According to Metropolitan Police Department statistics during the 90-day period from January 1st through March 31st there were 39 murders for an average of one murder every 55 hours. This year, 8760 hours, less 2160 hours already used divided by 55 hours means we have a fair chance of seeing The Man from Homicide another 120 times. Think things are tough in Iraq? I'll be back with more dead reckoning after the holiday. Till then Welcome to Baghdad West
Monday, April 17, 2006
Friday, February 17, 2006
Greenspam wants to do what?
Do the Greenspams really see themselves as being all that important? Not him—after one of his bouts with Congress he’s tired, wants to sit down, lean back on the green bales and do nothing. I’ll bet he says things like "I get so bored manipulating those people on the hill" or "It’s always the same. They sit like a bunch of hungry sea lions with their tongues hanging out barking for me to throw them fish. I feel like an employee at the National Zoo."
Can you picture Andrea? She’s always deep in serious thought. Been around Washington so long she’s not the least bit impressed by the goings on. I’ll wager she’s into furniture. Probably saying something like, "Al, I’m sick of sleeping on money. We’ve been married long enough to have some decent furniture. I want a real bed, a sofa, maybe a couple of wingback chairs. Let’s go shopping,"
With Alan it’s reflex, "Furniture? Furniture doesn’t make money. Why blow our money when we can sleep on someone else’s?" He’ll give her those "rainy day, interest rate too low, I might lose my job," stories.
Mrs. Greenspam has a snappy "I earn money for rainy days. You control the interest rate, jobs are a dime a dozen."
Do you think Alan will give up? No, he’s a fighter, listen: "I can’t imagine living on your writer’s income and I’m certainly not going to work for the kind of money other people get, especially after I raise the discount rate. Can you imagine me, a Doctor, working alongside the common people who didn’t get a raise because of what I did or didn’t do?"
That kind of talk will get Mrs. Greenspam angry. "Listen Al, don’t knock my profession. You could do worse than live on a writer’s income. And no, I can’t imagine your working with real people. I have another job in mind."
You’d think at this point Alan Greenspam would cave in and say "OK, you win, we’ll buy furniture." Instead he pleads, "Another job? I only do two things well, Andrea; It’s ‘up a quarter point’ or ‘down.’ I’m not holding back, Honey. That’s the whole shebang. My whole life is built on up and down. There’s nothing else in the wagon."
It’s the break she’s waiting for. She really wants that furniture. "Al, Baby, you have all you need for the job I have in mind. Some may laugh but, we really are ‘America’s Sweethearts’, surrounded by wealth, making love, and you’re certainly the master when it comes to suspending belief. Don’t you realize what the mob was shouting at the Capital? They screamed for you. It’s not just McCain—all the politicians want to hug you, everybody in the whole wide world wants to hug you and," she kissed his cheek, "I want to hug you."
Allan felt her warm breath. "You mentioned a job?"
"From now on keep your hearing aid on high, baby. If you had heard the mob on the Capital steps yelling ‘Alan Greenspam, he de man, Alan Greenspam, he de man.’ you’d know what I’m talking about …".
‘That job, Andrea?"
"Yes Al, that job. You can be--- President!
Excuse me, I must stop writing for a moment. My wife’s shouting about breaking news on TV. He did what? Resigned? He wants to do what?
Do the Greenspams really see themselves as being all that important? Not him—after one of his bouts with Congress he’s tired, wants to sit down, lean back on the green bales and do nothing. I’ll bet he says things like "I get so bored manipulating those people on the hill" or "It’s always the same. They sit like a bunch of hungry sea lions with their tongues hanging out barking for me to throw them fish. I feel like an employee at the National Zoo."
Can you picture Andrea? She’s always deep in serious thought. Been around Washington so long she’s not the least bit impressed by the goings on. I’ll wager she’s into furniture. Probably saying something like, "Al, I’m sick of sleeping on money. We’ve been married long enough to have some decent furniture. I want a real bed, a sofa, maybe a couple of wingback chairs. Let’s go shopping,"
With Alan it’s reflex, "Furniture? Furniture doesn’t make money. Why blow our money when we can sleep on someone else’s?" He’ll give her those "rainy day, interest rate too low, I might lose my job," stories.
Mrs. Greenspam has a snappy "I earn money for rainy days. You control the interest rate, jobs are a dime a dozen."
Do you think Alan will give up? No, he’s a fighter, listen: "I can’t imagine living on your writer’s income and I’m certainly not going to work for the kind of money other people get, especially after I raise the discount rate. Can you imagine me, a Doctor, working alongside the common people who didn’t get a raise because of what I did or didn’t do?"
That kind of talk will get Mrs. Greenspam angry. "Listen Al, don’t knock my profession. You could do worse than live on a writer’s income. And no, I can’t imagine your working with real people. I have another job in mind."
You’d think at this point Alan Greenspam would cave in and say "OK, you win, we’ll buy furniture." Instead he pleads, "Another job? I only do two things well, Andrea; It’s ‘up a quarter point’ or ‘down.’ I’m not holding back, Honey. That’s the whole shebang. My whole life is built on up and down. There’s nothing else in the wagon."
It’s the break she’s waiting for. She really wants that furniture. "Al, Baby, you have all you need for the job I have in mind. Some may laugh but, we really are ‘America’s Sweethearts’, surrounded by wealth, making love, and you’re certainly the master when it comes to suspending belief. Don’t you realize what the mob was shouting at the Capital? They screamed for you. It’s not just McCain—all the politicians want to hug you, everybody in the whole wide world wants to hug you and," she kissed his cheek, "I want to hug you."
Allan felt her warm breath. "You mentioned a job?"
"From now on keep your hearing aid on high, baby. If you had heard the mob on the Capital steps yelling ‘Alan Greenspam, he de man, Alan Greenspam, he de man.’ you’d know what I’m talking about …".
‘That job, Andrea?"
"Yes Al, that job. You can be--- President!
Excuse me, I must stop writing for a moment. My wife’s shouting about breaking news on TV. He did what? Resigned? He wants to do what?
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Are the Greenspams America's Sweethearts?
See them holding hands as they walk up Pennsylvania Avenue. At15th Street and New York Avenue watch them turn left, across from old Riggs Bank, to approach the hallowed, ornate, black iron gates of our Nation’s most sacred place: the Treasury of the United States of America. The Washington Monument soars in the backdrop, a reminder of the Presidency. The White House is across the street to the West. Two guards with rouged cheeks wearing red, white and blue toy soldier uniforms, leftovers from the Nixon show, swing open the gates then stand at attention. Hand in hand, Andrea and Alan take big steps across the stone walk to the hammered bronze doors and on entering, fade into welcoming darkness.
Inside they wander to the sub-vaults of the Treasury where we find them embracing surrounded by romantic stacks of our money. Intrigue? Follow them far underground to the secret passage leading to the White House air raid shelter. There they meet with other Fed bankers to hammer out vague fiscal lingo shot with fiduciary Latin for presentation to bewildered congressmen. Cut to the next scene. The Economaster is telling our elected vassals that he might, (he’s a real actor,) or he might not, (what a devil,) raise or lower the interest rate. The film ends when Alan Greenspam receives a standing ovation. Triumphant, he walks with wide-eyed worshipping Andrea down the steps of the Capitol through the adoring crowd. They climb into a glistening black bulletproof limo. The proper chauffeur closes the door and as the sweet sounds of Ray Charles singing ‘America, the Beautiful’ seduce our souls. America’s Sweethearts wave one more time, roll up the tinted window and disappear up Pennsylvania Avenue to return to their love nest in the Treasury. What a movie! I’m shaking with emotion. Secret stuff!-- next week.
See them holding hands as they walk up Pennsylvania Avenue. At15th Street and New York Avenue watch them turn left, across from old Riggs Bank, to approach the hallowed, ornate, black iron gates of our Nation’s most sacred place: the Treasury of the United States of America. The Washington Monument soars in the backdrop, a reminder of the Presidency. The White House is across the street to the West. Two guards with rouged cheeks wearing red, white and blue toy soldier uniforms, leftovers from the Nixon show, swing open the gates then stand at attention. Hand in hand, Andrea and Alan take big steps across the stone walk to the hammered bronze doors and on entering, fade into welcoming darkness.
Inside they wander to the sub-vaults of the Treasury where we find them embracing surrounded by romantic stacks of our money. Intrigue? Follow them far underground to the secret passage leading to the White House air raid shelter. There they meet with other Fed bankers to hammer out vague fiscal lingo shot with fiduciary Latin for presentation to bewildered congressmen. Cut to the next scene. The Economaster is telling our elected vassals that he might, (he’s a real actor,) or he might not, (what a devil,) raise or lower the interest rate. The film ends when Alan Greenspam receives a standing ovation. Triumphant, he walks with wide-eyed worshipping Andrea down the steps of the Capitol through the adoring crowd. They climb into a glistening black bulletproof limo. The proper chauffeur closes the door and as the sweet sounds of Ray Charles singing ‘America, the Beautiful’ seduce our souls. America’s Sweethearts wave one more time, roll up the tinted window and disappear up Pennsylvania Avenue to return to their love nest in the Treasury. What a movie! I’m shaking with emotion. Secret stuff!-- next week.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Alan Greenspam
The more I hear about Alan Greenspam the more I ask myself “What the heck is going on?” Do you realize there isn’t a politician in America who doesn’t love Alan Greenspam? Is this a healthy situation? John McCain, in response to a trick question told Imus, the shrewd interrogator, that if he, McCain, were elected President he would hug Greenspam. I heard him say, “I will hug Alan Greenspam.” Everyone jumped on the bandwagon in the months prior to the first election of George W. Al Gore, Bill Bradley, too many to name, have said, “I will hug Alan Greenspam.” Republicans joining Democrats. Left joining Right? Conservatives kissing up to Liberals? Even President Clinton, we all know about his preferences, embraced Greenspam.
But it’s not just politicians. Ace reporter Andrea Mitchell wanted to be more than just another “I will hug Alan Greenspam” groupie. She married him. Now investors refer to her as “the source close to the horse” and carefully watch the shape of her coiffure, the color of her lipstick and the topography of her chest for clues as to whether interest rates will sag or soar. I wonder when we will be able to buy a book to help interpret her subtle signs the way gypsies read tea leaves. Although crafty Imus dug the hugging admission from McCain, he’s been unsuccessful in his attempts to pilfer Al’s financial intentions from Andrea.
There are other puzzlers. Do you ever wonder why the Chairman of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System and Mrs. Chairman are referred to as “America’s Sweethearts? Haven’t heard that?
Come to the DC MOCKINGBIRD next week and I’ll tell you more.
The more I hear about Alan Greenspam the more I ask myself “What the heck is going on?” Do you realize there isn’t a politician in America who doesn’t love Alan Greenspam? Is this a healthy situation? John McCain, in response to a trick question told Imus, the shrewd interrogator, that if he, McCain, were elected President he would hug Greenspam. I heard him say, “I will hug Alan Greenspam.” Everyone jumped on the bandwagon in the months prior to the first election of George W. Al Gore, Bill Bradley, too many to name, have said, “I will hug Alan Greenspam.” Republicans joining Democrats. Left joining Right? Conservatives kissing up to Liberals? Even President Clinton, we all know about his preferences, embraced Greenspam.
But it’s not just politicians. Ace reporter Andrea Mitchell wanted to be more than just another “I will hug Alan Greenspam” groupie. She married him. Now investors refer to her as “the source close to the horse” and carefully watch the shape of her coiffure, the color of her lipstick and the topography of her chest for clues as to whether interest rates will sag or soar. I wonder when we will be able to buy a book to help interpret her subtle signs the way gypsies read tea leaves. Although crafty Imus dug the hugging admission from McCain, he’s been unsuccessful in his attempts to pilfer Al’s financial intentions from Andrea.
There are other puzzlers. Do you ever wonder why the Chairman of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System and Mrs. Chairman are referred to as “America’s Sweethearts? Haven’t heard that?
Come to the DC MOCKINGBIRD next week and I’ll tell you more.
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