Remember the record snows of last winter? Our Diarist does.
Now, this is what i call work. I am in Las Vegas. I am not feeling at all well. Food poisoning, I think. My suitcase handle is broken. My hotel room is about five miles from the check-in counter at the Venetian. It is the middle of the night and I am sick, sick, sick. I called the room service folks to get some tea. They said it would be roughly two hours — yes! Two hours for tea!!!!
So, I am lying in my bed in a room with a wall at an angle to the rest of the room, making me feel crazy. I decided I would take a hot, steamy shower to feel better.
No hot water. That’s right. No hot water.
Well, it is my own fault. If I lived more modestly, I could retire. But I live like a maharajah, so I have to work.
Anyway, dawn finally came, rosy fingered, and I had to go about another five miles, all within the hotel, to get to where I was doing my appearance and guess what? The old ham bone blood in me got pumping and I woke up, felt great, and did my thing and was happy, happy, happy.
I rushed like a madman to McCarran Airport, named for an old Commie-hunting senator from Nevada, Pat McCarran, boarded my plane, and was asleep in seconds. Ooops. Not so fast, the insane couple across the aisle from me were playing gin and shuffling the cards as loudly as they could. That should be totally illegal but it’s not. Anyway, my super Bose QC-15 noise-canceling headphones and my Bob Dylan disc saved me and I did not have to throw a fit. God bless Bob and God bless Mr. Bose.
I awakened in Dallas. A kindly man from American Airlines, world’s greatest, most caring personal service organization, picked my poor, beleaguered self up at the gate in a little cart, took me to my next gate for my flight to Baltimore, and once again, off I went to sleep, in a wonderful sound sleep.
It was one a.m. when i landed at Baltimore-Washington Airport and a heavy snow was falling. I felt so tired I could hardly drag myself to the luggage area, but I did, and there was my loyal driver, Bob Noah, with a front-wheel-drive Cadillac.
It was a winter wonderland. Just beautiful along the Baltimore-Washington Parkway with heavy snow everywhere, then on the George Washington Parkway with snow and immense trees and no sound at all except our Cadillac tires on the virgin snow. Just a paradisal scene.
How well I know this GW Parkway. Forty-four years ago, I used to take my girlfriend, little Alex, to park on a driveway near the CIA building, and we would hug and kiss and listen to “The Glory of Love.” Neither of us could possibly have known we would still be together by 2010.
Then somewhere near here Vince Foster was either murdered or committed suicide.
Frankly, I don’t believe the stories about how he just happened to do it by chance. He had just started on anti-depressants and these are known to cause suicidal ideation. So, my theory is that the drugs did it to him. But it is a bit of a coincidence that it was so near the CIA….
Usually I am not a conspiracy theorist. I don’t believe in the Bilderbergers as a conspiracy or the Trilateralists. But I am certain that the Communists killed JFK. There is a super great book called Legend by Edward Jay Epstein that makes it all perfectly clear. Oswald was a nut job, but he was used by the KGB and Castro to kill Kennedy. They were furious at him because he had humiliated the Soviets about the Cuban Missile Crisis and also because he had tried repeatedly to topple Castro and also to kill Castro.
Assassination was the KGB’s main tool. It would have been quite in their line of work to kill even the head of state of the United States to achieve their means. And the Warren Commission? A titanic cover-up of Soviet murder. Not surprising. Just another of Earl Warren’s major league screw-ups, which are still haunting us many years later. The top dogs in Russia were not so coy. Once they learned the risks that Khrushchev had taken in Cuba and by killing JFK, they kicked his sorry ass out of the Kremlin.
Well, anyway, all water over the dam. Here we are in the winter wonderland that is Washington, D.C., tonight. We slipped and slid to the front of the Watergate. Bob Noah, my Sherpa guide, got me and my stuff into my glorious, unbelievably wonderful apartment at Watergate east, north building, where, by the way, someone has carved a swastika and a peace sign and an anarchy sign into my door. I had some toast, drank my huge ration of fiber, and then, off to dreamland.
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In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
The debacle of this president’s administration is both a cause and a symptom of the decline of American values. Unless Congress impeaches him, that decline will go on unchecked. An eminent jurist surveys the damage and assesses the chances for the recovery of our culture.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
The American Christmas, like the songs that celebrate it, makes room for everybody under the rainbow. Is that why so many people seem to be hostile to it?
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?