War

Soul sick. The big Bush declaration of war is scheduled for five o'clock Eastern time today, and since everyone knows what he's going to say beforehand, I'm wondering at the pomp and circumstance – why wait? I hate Bush with a hatred that feels personal and close – as though he is someone I could spit on in the street instead of a gaseous Macy's Thanksgiving balloon, floating just atop the New York Times headlines. The end of an era, this. The red stroke on the calendar that marks the beginning of the end for the United States. I hate it that my children are going to suffer all their lives for this man's hubris.

The beginning of the end for America…

God doesn't talk to me. I know, I've listened. Hard. I have a hard time believing that God talks to George Bush. I have a hard time believing that there's room for anything in that man's head beyond the shadow dance of Oedipal fixation.

At lunch with Morgan last week I was blathering, my usual apocalyptic set piece, Für Elise: "I suppose every generation faces its own spectre of total annihilation – in the Middle Ages, it was the Black Plague, in the 90's it was AIDS. But it seems worst now, doesn't it?"

Morgan chewed a mouthful of salad and shrugged. "It seems better to me, actually."

"It does?"

"Sure. Now it's localized. So the terrorists take out New York City? New York City is a long way away from here."