Postcard from the Swamp #42

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I feel like I have whiplash, almost as severe as that suffered by the politicians, pundits and production crews who crossed twelve time zones to create and cover the events in Singapore. This morning, the President is home after spending literally days on Air Force ONE and US diplomats are still strewn across greater Asia.

As I mentioned yesterday, I will believe a positive outcome to all this spectacle when it happens. Once (or several) times bitten, at least a few times shy.

But I take heart that we appear to be further from an impromptu nuclear exchange than we were the weekend a few months ago when my son called to tell me the missile-inbound warning had been passed in Honolulu, and this might be his last call. I advised him to take shelter immediately and stared at the phone numbly when the connection dropped.

As we approach Father’s Day, I want to point out what a stark blow to the solar plexus a conversation like that causes.

But no nukes today, I think. The big IG report about how much fun we had here in The Swamp is supposed to be released tomorrow. That will undoubtedly set off a firestorm of commentary that could eclipse the impact of the Singapore Sling we just chugged at The Long Bar at the Raffles Hotel. At least for a moment.

I would make an observation about the general coarsening of American discourse, with explicits being tossed about with a sort of guilty glee. But I think we are beyond that these days. The country we grew up in, or at least heard about, seems to be gone. You know, the one with principled politicians whose partisanship halted at the shoreline. Quaint idea.

Oh well. The way we have been numbing ourselves to the impact of words- you know the ones- may use up the reason we curse in the first place. It is a means of getting attention, which is why the FCC had those silly rules. The kids could be listening. Maybe a new business case could be made for creation of firm to devise new and more shocking ones.

Oh, wait, I think we already have one. I think you know what it is.

– Vic

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Copyright 2018 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Written by Vic Socotra

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