I have had something for a month or so, sudden nagging bouts of vertigo. If I move too rapidly, or hang my head at an awkward angle, the dizziness rises and I have to clutch something solid to get my bearings back.
I suspect a minor inner ear infection or something, but it has not been bad enough to drag myself to Bethesda, which would be impossible this morning anyway.
We got shredded last night by a swiftly-moving ice and snow storm. As I noted in the story yesterday, it started out in rain; I wound up driving to the Pentagon City mall to park and walk the half mile over to the five-sided Adult Care facility. At that point the ice storm of Tuesday had turned to a chill mist, and I had to have the car to get to the office for an 1100.
The one o’clock teleconference didn’t happen for some technical reason, and the Boss forwarded a note from the Wide World that gave me pause. Apparently government investigators are finding an air gap between PFC Bradley Manning and Julian Assange of WikiLeaks, and accordingly charging either one will require a little more cyber gumshoeing before we understand what is up with the espionage.
That caused me to concentrate not on the crime, but on the latest manifestation of the downstream consequences of Bradley Manning’s espionage- or public service as some of the loons out there apparently consider it.
I alarmed about the amazing synergy of technology and leaked information. I am determined to bush up a little on what is happening in the Middle East while we are worried about snow.
The WikiLeaks disclosures of the corruption in the Tunisian government, coupled with the inability of the entrenched regime to deal with the ability of the people to communicate via the new technology of the internet and social media like Twitter and Facebook had brought them low. In no small part the ceaseless pressure of American diplomacy on extending democracy has had some dramatic and unintended consequences, and I wanted to explore that.
Democracy for the Palestinians and the Lebanese has resulted in the prompt election of implacable Islamists. In Tunisia, the hard line religious figures who had been banished by the old secular regime are back, and could very well seize power. The same sort of unrest, fueled by the ability of the people to communicate in new ways, could threaten the government next of Egypt, whose tepid loyalty to peace we have purchased at the cost of hundreds of billions of dollars.
An Islamist Egypt could be the worst of our regional nightmares, not to mention the other dominoes that could fall with our friends in Jordan, or the kleptocracies in Syria and Yemen or the source of our borrowed oil in Saudi. Our relentless emphasis on a governmental form alien to the regions must give our friends vertigo.
It is worth thinking about our implacable commitment to the concept of one-person, one-vote, since the radicals are the first to take the vote away from women, hooding them, and shackling them in the dark ages. Maybe Metternich was right- there is a certain imperative for expediency in diplomacy, and sometimes that may mean leaving well enough alone.
Anyway, The Federal Government threw in the towel shortly after lunch, and announced a two-hour early closing, and rush hour began in earnest.
The day stayed dark and around three thirty the snow began to come in earnest from the dank moist clouds coming up from the south. My son called from the parking lot that had been the interstate, coming back from his TAD assignment as an assistant to the Officer Recruiter out in the wilds of Chantilly. I was able to check the real-time traffic status on the computer to assure him that he probably only had another hour or two out there in the slush before he got back to Arlington.
It was already a mess as anyone with any brains tried to hit the road and get ahead of the weather. Looking down from my aerie on the eighth floor, I could see the orange Arlington County dump trucks pouring salt on the streets. The Hubrismobile had been wet earlier, but not coated in corrosive acid, and I decided to leave it that way.
The blessing of living close to work is that I always have the option to walk home, or take a cab, I thought optimistically, as if every other Metro commuter would not opt to dig into his or her purse and ante up for a dry ride back to their apartment.
I decided to walk home, and since I was on foot, decided to stop at Willow to see how the usual suspects were faring in the mess.
Tracey O’Grady was fretting about how to run a business in the face of such a savage and arbitrary climate. I sympathized with her about the roles that a small business confronts: a staff of dozens, the search for fresh and wholesome foodstuffs to cook, menu planning, keeping the lights on and the bills paid.
Imagine being the creative engine, the acquisition czar, the HR department and CEO all at once.
It is a relief not to have all of those responsibilities. All I had to do was ask for a glass of happy hour white from Robert, the short and earnest bartender, and flirt with LeeAnn, the busty new barmaid from Pittsburgh.
I listen to Old Jim at the end of the bar argue around me with John-with-an-H about the President’s State of the Union address. The exchange gave me a bit of dizziness, since Old Jim is an unreconstructed Kennedy Democrat, and John has never met a donkey that he liked. Jim’s wife Mary came in, covered with snow, and so did Ray the ex-Marine, who explained that long-hair Mike had been diagnosed with some nastiness like Lupus. He is restricted to home due to his depressed immune system and susceptibility to infection for at least three months. The leaves will be full and green and we will be out on the patio before we see him again, ins’hallah.
“121 days until the pool opens,” I said, draining the last of the friendly gold wine from the tulip glass and sliding into my sport jacket and then the Burberry mackintosh. I clapped the Indiana Jones brown fedora low on my forehead, and fished in my pockets for gloves.
“Wish me luck,” I said, and waved farewell to the thin but loyal crowd as I tugged the gloves and hit the double doors and ventured out into the storm.
I almost immediately regretted my decision. The footing was treacherous, a thin layer of moist slush covered with a couple inches of new heavy snow. It crunched down unevenly under my brogans and I wished I had been more diligent in my search for my unfashionable but well-treaded motorcycle boots that morning. Cars moved slow and tentative up and down Fairfax Drive, throwing little rooster tails of slush behind them, and low as I pulled the brim of my hat, the wet snow still blew chill on my cheeks.
Dots of moisture soon peppered my glasses, and slipping and sliding, I made my way across the road at the intersection and saw the mass of people huddled in the nooks of the buildings that surround the Metro entrance. The trains were still running, at least in the underground sections of the network, and it looked like a lot of people were stranded and waiting for rescue by spouses or relatives. Little Bobcat tractors bustled about with plows to try to keep the approaches clear, but while they skimmed the white stuff up, they left a hard wet crust of ice on the concrete.
It actually was easier to walk in the undisturbed stuff, and on I plodded, taking the journey a block at a time.
It is a blessing and a curse to live close to the office, but I thanked my lucky stars when I saw the vast bulk of Big Pink looming over the garden apartments at Buckingham. It took a half hour to get home, probably faster than taking a cab.
I broiled a steak for dinner, and cleaned up the kitchen, seeing the white stuff still coming down on the balcony outside. I realized I was going to be asleep in my chair if I stayed there, I decamped for the snowy-white safety of the big soft bed. I turned off the light and punched on the sleep-timer on the radio set to the classical station and thought that even with a touch of vertigo, life is pretty damn good.
121 days until the pool opens.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
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