I remember a time when the question of whether women ought to serve in combat roles was not confused with the question of whether it is hot to see an empowered eighteen-year-old in fatigues toting a giant machine gun. Is the guy who pauses to feel discomfort at this little spectacle while the dead body count rises now a stick in the mud? Have we gone so far so fast, with such enthusiasm, to the gloriously gung-ho coed future caught on celluloid in Starship Troopers? When does the party end? When do the good-natured catcalls cease? When Hezbollah turns part of Tel Aviv into a slant of blood and bone?
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