| 04 December 2006 Landslide I had no idea that people under thirty years of age shopped for groceries. I mean, I know they feed themselves somehow, or else they would not survive. I just wasn't sure how it happened. As it turns out, they rent tiny little duplex houses in Arlington across from the Giant Supermarket and walk across the street. It was quite amazing. I walked there with my son, who has just moved into a tiny little duplex house, his first independent residence as a taxpaying citizen. Due to support activities involved with his relocation, I did not have an opportunity to get to the Commissary at Fort Myer, the magnet store for the large retired military community inside the Beltway. That is part of my regular weekend routine, which has been subject to dislocation due to the NCAA football season, and my experiment with unemployment. I expect both situations are finite, and had some indication of that when the polls boosted a talented Florida Gators football team over a slightly more talented University of Michigan squad with identical records. We talked about that as we walked to the Giant, and the confirmation hearings for Robert Gates as Secretary of Defense. My son is more phlegmatic than I am. I don't know if that is a factor of the global environment in which he was raised. I am of the duck-and-cover, everything-is-going-up-in a -boiling-cloud-of-radioactivity school. He is more accustomed to the idea of belt-bombers, or the selective destruction of his office building. I don't know what that does to one's perspective, but he was matter of fact about changing the media relations posture in Ann Arbor, while I was on the side of direct intervention. Neither of us had any firm opinions about Mr. Gates. I opined that as a career intelligence officer, he was more likely to accommodate Ambassador Negroponte's new authorities over the agencies which are lodged in the DoD, which is just about everything except the CIA. “Rumsfeld's crew was adamant about retaining control over what was in their table of organization. That left the Ambassador's folks mostly writing instructions to themselves.” I said. “I'm not going to the Rose Bowl,” answered my son. “The whole thing is a load of crap. We need a playoff system and decide who is best on the football field.” I had to agree with him, but that has been the problem all along. The old intelligence system made the DCI, the weaker predecessor to the DNI, take the field with a pick-up team of diplomats and case officers. DoD would show up with a couple battalions and covering artillery. It was no contest. When we walked in the store I was amazed. Young women walked the aisles alongside the young men. The average age looked to be about twenty-six. I have been shopping so long at the military commissary that I had forgotten such a world existed. The average age of the shoppers there is around sixty-four. I shop there, a relative junior, because the prices offered by DeCA- the Defense Commissary Agency- are between 30-40% cheaper than they are on the outside. It is very appealing to the pensioners, and it is one of the entitlement programs I firmly support, since I am eligible for it. There is something missing there, though, that positively pulsates at the Giant. It is a little like an edible discothèque. I got a loaf of bread and a couple potatoes to cook for dinner. My son bought luncheon supplies, since he had already looted a pantry full of supplies at my house that I purchased at the Commissary. We parted at his doorstep, and I drove the twelve blocks back to Big Pink. I walked into the place, almost cooled off from the announcement on the football schedule to find that Venezuela's Hugo Chávez was re-elected in a landslide. His margin was better than Richard Nixon's second Presidential tally, and with only around 78% of the ballots counted, they were claiming victory. Manual Rosales, the last voice of common sense polled around 38%, or something a little better than Barry Goldwater got against Lyndon Johnson. He graciously conceded defeat to the socialists, who are enormously popular based on land re-distribution schemes, and cheap food for the poor. I know how effective that can be. Maybe the next Presidential election here can turn on that. If everyone could go to the Commissary, wouldn't that be a good thing? I think I may send a letter to Mr. Obama, since he shops at the Giant, and he is talking about throwing his hat in the ring for the Democratic nomination in '08. There is a long way to go on that, but it should be entertaining. I turned on the television to the obscure cable channel that does not carry football or situation comedies on Sunday night. Channel 136 had images of thousands Chavez supporters in red shirts swarming around Miraflores, the White House of Caracas. It was pouring rain, but the red shirts did not seem to care. President-elect Chavez, the now and future President, stepped out on the balcony to make his address. “Long live the socialist revolution!” Chávez yelled to the crowd, and he shot his fist into the air. It was powerful stuff. I mixed a tall drink and sat down to watch. Like I said, it is going to be an interesting few years. Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra |