As I read Vlad's op-ed in the New York Times, a Judy Collins tune kept replaying in my head: "Isn't it rich? Isn't it queer?" The song -- actually written by Stephen Sondheim, although it is Collins's signature hit -- is "Send in the Clowns," and it seems an apt soundtrack for current events.
Waging a little bit of war is like being a little bit pregnant. History and human experience tell us that neither is possible, yet we seem bent on believing it. Or, should I say, deceiving ourselves.
Sen. Bob Corker: "What is it you're seeking?" Gen. Martin Dempsey, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff: "I can't answer that, what we're seeking." -- Senate hearing on the use of force in Syria, Sept. 3 We have a problem. The president proposes attacking Syria, and his top military officer cannot tell you the objective. Does the commander in chief know his own objective? Why, yes. "A shot across the bow," explained Barack Obama.
Thousands of Chinese are fleeing to the United States. We are not talking about impoverished peasants hiding in cargo containers. We're talking about millionaires flying first class and buying condos in the choicest ZIP codes. A big reason for this relocation, real estate agents say, is a desire for America's clean air, as opposed to China's suffocating smog.
The Wall Street Journal had one of its trademark front-page features the other day about how slow-bicycling sans spandex and road helmets is making a fast comeback. One man's "Slow Bicycle Movement" Facebook group has 7,300 members, the article said.
The president is up early, already showered and preparing to shave. Wiping steam from the mirror, he grimaces slightly at his image. Obama: Good grief, I look old. So much gray. Mirror: Aw, lighten up, Bo. It makes you look distinguished. You can't wage war without a few streaks of worry showing in your face and hair.
A little infidelity, a little cheating, is OK in a marriage -- or even protective of it -- if the sneaking is just about money. Note the emphasis on "little."
Now that the world is rid of a dangerous Deep South cook named Paula Deen, we can rest easy. Stripped of her epicurean empire and rode out on a rail through the virtual streets all buttered and feathered, our nation finally is free of racism. Isn't it?
If I had a son, he would look like Christopher Lane, the 22-year-old Australian baseball player shot dead while jogging in Oklahoma.
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