EMP and EOS
(Hillbilly rockers Jumpin’ Jupiter belt it out in the courtyard next to Willow)
I have been trying to get back to the fascinating article by a design engineer named Dennis Feucht. It seemed important at the time, and it is worth an examination to see what our pipsqueak impending nuclear-armed rivals are up to. The article explained a lot about what the point is of the nuclear weapons program in North Korea.
The whole thing has mystified me- I mean, having five bombs or even ten doesn’t get you much, except a suicide pact if they used one. Dennis points out- quite rightly- that the point of the device might not be the first step on a ruinously expensive program to try to have a comprehensive nuclear exchange capability, but just to have the capability to lob something into low earth orbit and detonate it over- say, Kansas. It is abut Electro Magnetic Pulse, or EMP.
Then he went on to describe the practical effect on dental implants, which might surprise you. The title of the article was so captivating that I thought I would borrow it. But I am tired of finding new things to worry about, and I won’t do it this morning. There is so much weirdness going on. I mean, the President just spent more time talking to the President of Iran than he did with the Speaker of the House as we approach the ultimate dysfunction of our Constitutional government.
But hey, if the people downtown don’t seem to be worried about it, why should we? I decided not to worry about EMP and instead, concentrate on EOS.
I mentioned the End of Summer bash at Willow yesterday, and it actually serves as a sort of New Year’s Eve festival, if you go by the Federal Fiscal Year. The reason we are having a budget crisis at the moment is the fact that the appropriations for FY-13 run out at midnight on the 30th- and technically, without a budget, we are going to start shutting stuff down.
Not that there is a budget, nor has there been one for almost four years. It is funny- when you get used to the unthinkable as being business as usual- all things are possible. In fact, it seems quite possible that the people on the other side of the Potomac actually like this: no one has to actually debate anything, or justify policy or the expenditure of taxpayer dollars. The Continuing Resolution we have been operating under has transformed the Federal budget into a gigantic slush fund.
(John-With samples the bratwurst on conventional home-made torpedo roll)
John-with-an-H was moaning about the QFR’s his office was required to answer to Congress about the confirmation hearings of some of his political seniors at Foggy Bottom. He got a bratwurst to eat there to get his mind off of it, since he had been informed he was a non-essential person and would not be working the weekend. Then he asked Tex for two sandwiches to go.
I told him we used to get hundreds of congressional questions on the intelligence budget, and sweated bullets about. “Now no one has to do anything. It all seems optional. I remember when Don Rumsfeld didn’t submit a DoD budget because he said it was just too hard with all the changes he wanted to make, and Congress let him get away with it. It is like the House and Senate have given up their only real Constitutional duty.”
“Power of the Purse,” growled Jim, “It got picked.” He was waving his long-neck Budweiser in a vane attempt to get Tex’s attention. Did I mention that Willow was jammed? Or that Brenna was sent home sick to avoid contaminating the customers at the EOS bash, and that the poor harried wait-staff and bartenders were hopping. “Gates Brown, the famous Tiger DH died today,” he said.
“Damn. He was a star in the greatest decade of Detroit baseball.”
Jon-without displayed his new bumper sticker. “I went to the gun show out at Chantilly this afternoon. Unemployment isn’t so bad.”
“Yeah, enjoy it. But you have another job to look forward to.”
“We all do. It just might not be what you think.” I had to ponder that one for a moment.
Mary was interested in one of the Stachowski hand-crafted bratwursts, and was curious about how things were going to work. Tex stopped briefly behind the new beer cooler and explained it: “we are grilling the sausages outside, and you can get them from Kate Jansen and Heather at the grill.”
“Can I get one on a Weck roll?” she asked.
“This isn’t Alice’s, but you can get anything you want.”
(Stachowski hand-crafted bratwurst on Kate Jansen’s kemmelweck roll.)
Jon-without and the Lovely Bea were having none of that. It was the last Friday of the month and they were interested in the legendary Beef on Kemmelwck roll with horseradish, sautéed onions and sour cream. “Can we order from here?” they asked.
(Tex in a brief moment before his bar began to really start jumping).
Tex shook his head. “Too hard. Cash sales outside for grilled brats, but I can get the Beef on Wecks for you here and put it on your tab.” Then he bustled off, amazingly agile despite his size.
(Jerry the Barrister enjoys hard cider and a signature sandwhich.)
It was a fair enough arrangement, since the place was growing more chaotic by the moment. Jerry the Barrister arrived, as the crowd mounted, jostling for positions by the bar. So did the cognoscenti who know what the last Friday of the month signified, some opting for the Buffalo-style dip or the pommes frites with Lake Erie-style brown gravy.
(Jon-without and The Lovely Bea opted for the Beef on Weck)
I was more interested in the circus, and like placid Jamie, did not have much of an appetite. Still, the food was oriented toward the “comfort” place, a modern take on the meals that used to draw the family to the dinner table when the terrors of the world seemed a little more manageable.
I said as much, and Jim glowered at me. “You are saying the Good Old Days of mutually assured destruction were relaxed? Bombers on seven minute alert and the moles down in the missile silos ready to turn their keys and usher in the end of the world.”
“I suppose you are right. But things seem a little more personal, like 9/11 or the mall in Kenya. I think it seems like we have traded the surreal for the immediate.”
“Relax. Have a glass of wine. It will all sort itself out.”
(Old Jim and The Lovely Bea)
The strains of hillbilly rock crafted by an authentically seedy Jumpin’ Jupier wafted through the open door, bringing us the last gasp of a strange, unsettled but lovely summer. Jim has decided to quit combing his hair, and in his all-black ensemble looked a little like the conductor of an intricate symphony as he waved his beer to try to get someone’s attention. “Goddamn it! Who do I have to assault to get another beer?” he shouted.
So long as the drinks kept coming, I assumed everything was going to be OK. I decided to go out and listen to the music, embrace the disorder, and say goodbye to the strangest summer of my life. Job, national dysfunction, family matters and friendship, everything from great to little, all happening at once. The noise was great, and the crowd seemed not to have a care in the world.
When I got back inside, I discovered that Jamie had decided that the idea of all that meat, was making her claustrophobic. She would just get a slice of Kate Jansen’s famous layer cake. Really, that was the thing that made the most sense.
(Despite the continuing crisis, there is always time for a nice dessert.)
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
