Loving the scraps fluttering out from Woodward's book on Ohbummer and the frontier war in the 'Stans. From what I can gather, despite great twists and anguish, the POTUS determined last year there can be no exit from empire.
That, in the end, is the message of every one of these dramas stretching back to Korea in the winter of '51.
Reading about the Emperor Barry and his evil dwarf minions grappling with Uncle's toy generals as they ponder and scuffle over the future course in the Afpak -- well, damn it all, what great sport the Great Game is.
Is the Woodward account to be swallowed whole, just as cooked and presented? Why not? Surely we can be allowed this suspension of the critical-ideological faculty. As Monsignor Smiff might opine, none of us was invited to the meetings; Woodward is about as good as we're going to get.
Oh, I just love stuff like this. Blow by blow! Clever midget in agon with lumbering gold braid splashed oaf, whilst the hooded brow and deep penetrating gaze of our mocha Odin, the Unitary Prez, monitors it all, by turns petting, herding, culling, cuffing....
Missiles of October, maybe, it ain't, and as with all dramas in this ironic-mode age(*), all the parts are played by frogs and mice. Makes me wistful for the circles around the Generalissimo and Franklin. Ah, those guys, now they was giants!
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(*) Another taunt at your long-suffering editor, who always had a sneaking fondness for Northrop Frye.
