Happy in the Haze

[A Spoonful of Sugar Dept.: M. le President on NPR, upon returning from his usual summer bacchanal in Crawford, declaring Israel "the winner" in the late unpleasantness in southern Lebanon. Gotta have a winner! Hmmm...I think the stated goal was to disarm Hezbollah so they can never threated Israel again. Did that happen? I don't think so. But the U.S. can never back a loser or ever lose a war itself (I think of Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda calling Vietnam "a tie"), so this is your new truth: Israel won.]

[This kind of thinking was brought home to me as I walked thru the Civic Center on Saturday en route to lunch and museum goodness. The pro-Palestinian/Lebanese faction had the plaza side, and was about three times as big as the pro-Israeli/U.S. faction facing them across Dr. Carlton B. Goodlett Place in front of City Hall. I didn't see the sign, posted elsewhere, that said "Nazi Kikes Out Of Lebanon," but that spirit was very much alive on both sides. The fact that this whole thing is immensely complicated, that both sides have serious, legitimate, and difficult to solve grievances, and that it's just not possible to cast either as good guys or bad guys wasn't admissible here.]

[Either-or. Black-or-white. It's never, ever true, but it's what grabs the folks' imaginations, every time. The haze of probabilities, the uncertainity of multipolarity...no one wants to know.]

["The battle's done/And we kinda won/So we'll walk alone in fear/Tell me, where do we go from here?"]

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[Speaking of haze, as in "happy in the haze of a humdrum hour": OK, part-time job secured, at least for one day this weekend. For while my mom and others aren't allowed to say it, it has occurred to me that I've had perhaps a little too much free time lately.]

[Note, though, that I did nothing to secure this gig on my own. It fell into my lap, so all I had to do was make sure my lap was open. And that means it doesn't really count.]

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[In a town of great french fries, how do you choose the best? You could do worse than to start at the Connecticut Yankee, an otherwise unremarkable sports bar n' grill at the foot of Potrero Hill, 17th St. & Connecticut. Shoestring, very slightly battered, crisp and fresh. Also fresh? The bald fellow who brought them to Charlotte and me yesterday; he reminded me strangely of Matthew Broderick, but 15-20 years younger, and dressed all in sloppy black.]

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[I hope the sun comes out soon, because the last clean outfit in my closet this morning was all linen and light cotton. It was appropriate for Greece three years ago, but the overcast is tenacious today. Laundry tonight, no more lollygagging!]

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