A state of war only serves as an excuse for domestic tyranny.
A little sluggish this morning, after totally abandoning our diet for an evening spent in search of a Mexican feast, rather impulsively after nine mediocre holes of golf at sunset yesterday.
These shorter days mean the indulgence of slipping out the door for a quick trip around the links before dark is slipping over the horizon, soon gone until the spring thaw. We'll transition to nighttime walks most likely, until Corning's treacherous frozen sidewalks take that away as well, and we're consigned to quality time inside. Or spending more time in Florida during the long freeze, like most folks here who have the option.
We elected not to return to the Mexican place at the east end of Market Street after a very bad experience there maybe three months ago, basically acting as our own wait staff. The decision last night was made easy by Google's revelation that the restaurant was closed---I've always suspected the place is a front for something nefarious, open only sporadically and operated by folks who don't seem to know much about running a restaurant. This just buttresses that suspicion.
So we headed east, towards Horseheads and Garcia's, a Mexican place tucked inauspiciously in what appears to have once been the breakfast area of the Quality Inn. To say the furnishings are spare is an understatement. There is no real ambiance, with only a couple grainy old photos of Pancho Villa to remind you that you're in a Mexican dining establishment.
But the food! We're both a little picky about our Mexican food, P and I, she because she's a really good cook and always judges restaurant food with the question of whether she could do better herself at home, me because of years spent in California and Texas, where authentic Mexican fare is abundant. These guys brought a hot salsa that actually packed a little punch, a green sauce swimming in tomatillo and green chile goodness, and a chile verde we split that had our eyes rolling back in our heads in delight at the slow roasted pork and tart, spicy verde sauce. We'll definitely be back.
This morning the news is filled with conjecture about the meaning of Putin's speech a couple nights ago, calling up 300,000 conscripts and signaling that Russian intends to annex the two renegade provinces Ukraine seems on the verge of reabsorbing as the Russian Army flees east. In turn, we're told breathlessly that Russia's suddenly in turmoil and about to implode on itself.
I'm having trouble buying that, however. Everything Putin does, although it may not be as brilliant as my MAGA friends all seem to believe, is certainly to a purpose. And Putin's purpose here is to save himself, above all else, by recasting this war of "reunification" into a defensive war to protect Mother Russia. Anyone who isn't on board is a traitor; hell, the damned Ukrainians are invading sovereign Russian soil! Never mind that it was Ukraine until the Russians annexed it out from under their feet.
Actually, we've seen this one before in the U.S., this sometimes violent pushback against a draft for an unpopular internicene war, although the analogy is imperfect. In 1863 we were engaged in a battle to bring back into the fold by force a chunk of what had once been the United States. The effort began with an all-volunteer army, which was never adequate to meet the needs of mid-nineteenth century warfare, our first foray into industrial slaughter using Napoleonic tactics. We killed those young men faster than we could entice them to join, so we drafted them.
But around the time the casualty rolls from Gettysburg were posted in New York City, all hell broke loose. Thousands rioted in the street against the draft.
Of course, Americans being Americans, the whole mess soon digressed into a race riot, as mostly Irish white folks blamed their black neighbors for causing the whole war thing by being overly restless in their servitude. But then after the smoke cleared and the bodies were buried, the war and the draft went on, with the mighty, industrialized North crushing the plucky little Confederate Army with its weapons provided by admiring European world powers.
As I said, the analogy is imperfect, but it may give a little insight into what's coming. As Mark Twain observed, "History doesn't repeat itself, but it rhymes."
I'm skeptical about the notion of a popular uprising in Russia based on these protests in the news this morning. Most of the protestors are in Moscow and St. Petersburg. My impression is that outside of those two metropoles, Russia is mostly a dump filled with hopeless people. Call me when they start protesting in Omsk, or Novosibirsk.
Speaking of a dump filled with hopeless people, it seems we have some work to do in the U.S. these days. A recent U.N. report tags us as both wealthy and mostly miserable.
But hey, we're doing better than Cuba, albeit marginally. Suck it, Commies!
Why is the second wealthiest country in the world (China apparently now takes first place. Suck it, capitalists!) such a lousy place to live? The report points to massive wealth and structural inequalities, two sides of the same coin, often tied to race. We generate a lot of wealth. We just do a horrible job of taking care of the folks who mostly help to create it. This is not inevitable, not economically determined by the Big Ol' Hand O' the Market. It's a choice, a choice we make every time we step into the voting booth, or buy slave-made junk in a giant box store.
But now I need to generate a little wealth myself, to pay for all that chile verde and ensure I'm done with my work chores when P arrives home and wants to go for a walk. Gotta step out and climb these hills while we still can. Winter's coming.
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