There's always something deliciously transfixing, obscenely sophomoric when the rich and famous fall head-first into uh, a big steaming pile. We don't care, but we want to know. Titillated by a flaying five iron, a Cadillac escalade's air bags which didn't deploy (huh?) after hitting a hydrant and a tree, and not one but 2 women who have surfaced as potential dalliances, there's grist for weeks. You play with the zipper, sometimes you get caught in the zipper. There isn't a suit in the world who could spin this caper.
Before el Presidente speaks this evening, word is already leaking out that 30,000 more troops are being committed to Afghanistan. I understand the concept of keeping America safe. But this military intervention is wearing thin and has all the earmarks of a borderline bust. More of our young men and women will die in a country which is unforgiving, mired in religious fervor (which we could never wrap our heads around) and a perpetual cash cow for the opiate drug trade.
Interventions. I have several friends who need them. But I know them. And I love them. Detox one person? Maybe. If you're lucky.
So, there are these 2 guys I know, maybe you heard...one of them is trying to find the yellow brick road; the other one is behind a curtain in the Emerald City.
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