My Home Town

Current t-shirt: actually a gray sweater (went to church this morning)
Current music: Abba (blame my husband)

Yes, you read right. I got up and went to an Episcopalian service this morning. Dad says' Episcopalianism's a great religion 'cause it doesn't interfere with your politics or your religion. Actually his dad said that, too. But the family was Protestant back when it was badass. Got kicked out of France for it. (Actually, our venerable ancestor dressed up in many disguises, including as a woman, to protect himself. He thought he made a good woman.)

The peace talks were held in my home town. Was down there at the time, but thought nothing of this except that a)there might be roadblocks, which is difficult in a town on a penninsula and b) I might not be able to get to one of the two pubs worth frequenting in the town. (Reynold's Tavern and Middleton Tavern. People say the Ram's Head is good. Don't believe them.)

Mostly I was bothered by the brand spankin' new Starbucks in the basement of the building where the Treaty of Paris, the document ending the Revolutionary War was signed. Something's wrong with that.


But with an article in The Guardian today about Al-Zawahiri (Taliban - scary) saying that the Annapolis talks will do nothing, I realized something frightening. Thanks to George Bush, Al-Qaeda now has my home address.

Before this, I could always think to myself "New York might be blown up, riot itself to death, or die spiritually of a sort of cancer due to exponential real estate prices, but my home town will always remain. I'll always have a place to go back to.

Now, maybe not.

Thanks, George.

(I used to like the name George. George Plimpton. George of the Jungle. George the Third thinking he was a teapot. It was a sound, wholesome name.)

Love and a different zip code,
The Red Pooka!