January 19, 2017--The 2400 Family Diner

Here's another diner story from on the road south. This one from three years ago--

We had just placed our order at one of our favorite on-the-road places, the 2400 Family Diner in Fredericksburg, Virginia--eggs and grits for Rona, and the $7.95 county ham special for me--when the owner plopped an overflowing plate of eggs and sides on the counter and himself on a stool.

"That looks good," Rona said, sipping her tea.

He turned in our direction, not responding, looking annoyed by her interrupting what must be a daily ritual.

I thought, "Here we go. We're already in trouble."

"Is that lemon you're squeezing on your eggs?" Rona asked, ignoring his ignoring us.

Without turning he nodded and grunted something indecipherable.

"I've never seen that before."

I mouthed to Rona to "Cool it."

But she persisted, "I never tried that. I love lemon and maybe I'd also like it on eggs."

"Very Grek," he said with a thick accent, squeezing another half lemon all over everything on his plate.

"Grek?" Rona said.

"Grek," he turned fully in our direction, "Grek, Greek. Dot's me. Grek."

"The lemon is very Mediterranean," Rona smiled at him.

At that, with effort, he lifted himself off the stool and lumbered in our direction, hunched over with his arms dangling at his side.

"Lemon we have with everything in Grek." His accent thickened as he neared us.

I was beginning to feel nervous. We were the only customers. 8:30 is often a quiet time in diners that cater mainly to locals--late for those headed to work, too early for older folks, and too off the tourist route for travelers. Exactly our favorite kind of place.

But at the 2400 I was beginning to feel threatened. The two waitresses, who looked as if they had worked there for decades, watched, smiling, which partially reassured me.

"You Brooklyn?" he asked.

"What?" I finally joined in, thinking that might ease the situation. He stood pressing his huge stomach against our table, still with his arms dangling and swinging simian-like.

"Brooklyn? From dare?"

"Yes," Rona chirped, the caffeine in her tea taking hold. "Both of us." She included me in her sweeping gesture.

He glared at me and pointed, laboriously hoisting one of his thick arms. "Him too?"

"Yes, he and me. We were both born there. Are you also from Brooklyn?"

"Grek," he said.

"So how did you know we--"

"Sound just like your mayor. Bloom. Both you and him." He dismissed me with a wave of his massive hand.

"Bloomberg," I said, taking a chance by correcting him.

"No gut."

"He's not our mayor anymore," Rona informed him. "As of January 1st we have a new one. De Blasio."

"De who?"

"Bill De Blasio."

"What kind of name dat?"

"I'm not sure," Rona said. "Maybe Italian?" I nodded.

"Where does he stand on guns?" His accent miraculously gone. "Not like Bloomberg I hope."

"I assume--" I cut myself off, stunned by the change in the way he spoke and not clear where this might be headed.

"He doesn't understand us." What happened to all the Grek business, I wondered. He sounded like someone more from Virginia than Athens.

"In what way?" Rona asked, eating away at her eggs and grits as if not noticing. I was feeling substantially relieved and took to enjoying the wonderful country ham.

"He should come here and talk to people. Real people. Then he would see."

"I think he's not--"

"He is," he corrected me before I could finish.

"Is what?" I was feeling bolder with him backed off from us. But I was still thinking about his disappearing accent.

"Take my son, for example," the taller of the two waitresses said, joint in.

"Your son?" Rona said.

"Yes. He has a gun. Most of his friends do."

"I assume," I stammered, "To me it depends on how old he is. I mean from my perspective. But what do I know about these things. I'm just like Bloomberg. From New York. The city. Brooklyn."

"Exactly," she said, having wandered over to us.

"I mean, if I may ask, how old is he? You don't have to tell me, of course."

"I know that." She smiled a bit condescendingly in my direction. I deserved that, I acknowledged. "If you must know, he's eight."

"Eight?" Rona could not hide her surprise. 

"I know what you're thinking but you don't know my boy. Or his grandfather."

"Who is?" Rona ventured.

"He works for Homeland Security."

"Really? What does he--"

"He teaches marksmanship. Trains their best people to become snipers."

"Really? That's amazing," I said.

"To tell you--"

She interrupted Rona. "I think I know what you're thinking. That this is a terrible thing to do and--"

"Not really. I mean I know--"

"That in the real world," she completed Rona's thought, "as awful as it is, it's necessary. Don't you think? I don't need to spell out all the situations where we need them. Snipers. There's no other way to describe them. That's what they do. So we should call them what they are. And are proud to be. To help keep us safe. You remember those Somali pirates?" We both nodded. "Well, my father teaches Navy Seals too."

There was no need to say more. "His grandfather taught him, my son, all about guns. Starting at six."

"Not to--"

"No not to become a sniper," she and Rona laughed together. "But how to handle and respect them. Guns."

"To tell you the truth," Rona said. "This is not something or a world that I know anything about. I guess I'm OK with people having guns. I mean--"

"Among other things, it's in the Constitution," the owner rejoined the discussion. "The Second Amendment says--"

"We coud debate that all day," I said, "The history and meaning of it."

"You mean about the 'well regulated militia' part?'" He said, now directly to me.

"That and other things," I said. "But at the moment I'm just enjoying your eggs and wonderful ham. Every year when we're here I can't wait to have some."

"Let's just agree," he offered,  "that things are often more complicated than they seem."

I couldn't disagree about that.

"Like, for example," the waitress said, "how few people from where you're from could learn from my father how to defend us."

"Fair enough," Rona said, "But there are many ways to do that. Not everyone has to . . . . There are other things that need to be done. And people from Brooklyn and other places are helping as well. In their own ways. About things they know how to do."

"One thing, for sure we all agree about," he said, "is that there are some bad guys out there and we have to figure out ways to keep people safe. There are probably other things we could agree about. Like privacy, for example. On the other hand," he caught himself, "considering where you're from, maybe not."

"It might surprise you," I said, finishing my ham, "but for a New York liberal I'm no so liberal about privacy and some of the things the N.S.A. does."

"And it might surprise you that I voted for Obama. Twice. And she did too," he pointed toward the waitress who was refilling the coffee pot.

"Just once," she winked. "The second time, I didn't vote at all. A plague on all their houses," she said.

"While I'm holding this can I heat up your cup?"

"I'd love some," I said.

October 20, 2015--Globalization

I'm a creature of deep habit so when I need new underwear I order them on line from Jockey.

I like them because they shun printed labels and come in long sizes. Unless I have long undershirts, they ride up and out pops my plumber's crack.

Part of my obsessiveness has me doing this twice a year--early fall and early spring. Each time 12 pairs of briefs and 12 v-neck tees.

My recent order just arrived and I was pleased to see stitched-on labels in the shorts but, alas, printed ones in the tees. I should have ordered a few more dozen and stashed them away because the trend in labels is clear.

I did notice on them that all the underwear was made in Cambodia.

Cambodia? Not China? Not the Philippines? Not Sri Lanka? Cambodia? Isn't Cambodia Pol Pot's country? The evil butcher of uncounted millions of his own countrymen? The head of the Khmer Rouge? The communist monster?  Now they're making Jockey shorts?

I know he was overthrown in about 1995 and I suppose it's good news that Cambodians are making underwear for Americans, though I suspect workers are probably fortunate if they are making more than $5.00 a day.

Also, for years I have been using Bic razors for shaving. Metal ones. In fact, my favorites are called just that--"Metal." They haven't been for sale in drug stores for at least a decade so I've bought them mainly on line through eBay. They come in packs of five and so, when I can, I order as many as possible. The last time, a few years ago, I bought a dozen packages and have been using them very carefully, knowing the time will soon come when they will no longer be available from anyone, anywhere.

But I keep searching the Web.

About a month ago a treasure trove of Bic Metals was offered for sale--20 packages of five! One-hundred individual razors. All for about $48 dollars, including shipping.

By my calculation, since one razor lasts me three months, using four a year, I would have a 25-year supply.

For me, virtually a lifetime's amount because I'm assuming if I'm still alive in 25 years I'll probably have a beard down to my waist and no longer have need for a Bic or any other kind of razor.

I'm assuming that Rona will give me a trim with a scissor when she visits me in the nursing home.

But then there was my mother who lived to three days past her 107th birthday. If I have her genes . . . who knows. But for razors, one way or another, I'll be all set. As to underwear, that's another story.

It took forever for the razors to arrive. After about a month, they were waiting at the post office. Rona went in to retrieve them. Usually when there's a package (mainly books from dozens of different booksellers and of course Amazon), it takes her about five minutes to gather what's waiting for us (mainly me) at the postmistress's window. This time Rona was inside for at least 15 minutes.

She was shaking her head when she finally emerged, clutching to her chest the package of what I assumed were the razors.

"You won't believe what they put me through."

"Put you through?"

"Yes. I had to show them two forms of ID and . . . "

"ID? They known you for years. But still they carded you?"

"Yes. And I had to fill out and sign three forms. Homeland Security forms." She collapsed in the passenger seat.

"Homeland Security? Those are the razors, right?" She nodded. "I can understand not being allowed to take them on a plane but these are just razors for shaving. Bic Metals."

"I know what they are and how you're obsessed with them but . . . "

"But what?"

"They came from the Ukraine."

"From where?"

"Ukraine. I think you say it without the The."

Skeptical, I said, "Can I see the package?"

And sure enough it did come from The Ukraine. I mean Ukraine, where the Ukrainians and Russians are fighting. It had Ukrainian and U.S. customs stamps all over it and was wrapped and double wrapped in brown paper and transparent tape. So totally taped up that I knew it would take me half an hour to unpack it.

"I'll bet it not the razors. It must be something else. Do we know anyone who lives in The . . . ?"

"Not as far as I know," Rona said. "Let's get home and open it to see what's in it."

After unloading the car I asked Rona to unwrap the package since I'm not good with those that are all taped up, especially one that was likely to contain something delicate.

But, it turned out, it contained my razors. As advertised, one-hundred of them.

"You mean you didn't realize the razors were coming from Ukraine?"

"Obviously. All I cared about was getting a big hoard to last me forever. It didn't matter where they were coming from."

"The ladies at the post office are dying to hear what's in the package. They're very professional and discrete and never would ask. I assume they know, if they're interested, that they're mainly books. About this one though . . ."

"What a world," I said. "And of course it's OK to tell them about the razors. Even my underwear if you or they would like."

Rona siad, "If you behave like this I won't be coming to the old age home to cut your beard."

September 2, 2014--ISIS

Most objective historians contend that George W. Bush and, before him, Bill Clinton ignored the many early signs that Al-Queda represented a deadly threat to the U.S. homeland.

Famously or infamously, President Bush was cutting brush at his ranch in Crawford, Texas and didn't want to be disturbed by a National Security memo that warned of an imminent attack by Al-Qaeda on America.

It was a failure to "connect the dots," both critics and apologists said retrospectively. It was at least that. Worse--why did citizens and our government have to learn about the reach and power of Al Qaeda for the first time on 9/11?

Which brings me to today to ISIS, the even more radical successor to Al-Qaeda.

ISIS, the jihadist faction that has recently swept out of Syria, where it was incubated, and is rampaging through central Iraq, slaughtering Shiites, Kurds, and Christians as it expands the borders of its self-procliamed Caliphate is now commanding the attention of Western leaders. President Obama as well as British Prime Minister Cameron cut short their vacations to pay more attention to this dangerous movement.

Where did they come from seemingly so quickly? How did they develop the capacity, apparently overnight, to take on first Syria's army and then roll back Kurdish and Iraqi armed forces? Armies that we equipped and trained for years to be self-sufficient retreated across Iraq with hardly a fight in the face of ISIS's self-trained militias.

Why does it appears that the president and other world leaders are just now learning about ISIS and finally taking action to halt its advance? Including, President Obama implied late last week, seeking them out at their sanctuaries in Syria.

Did we again forget to connect the dots when we began to notice that scores of Americans and hundreds of Europeans were making their way to Syria to join the rebels fighting the Assad regime and then to enlist in ISIS's brigades?

It is understandable that we did not want to get directly involved in arming the rebels in Syria much less supplying air cover or, worse, boots on the ground. The situation is a quagmire, best to remain uninvolved; but if we had evidence that the situation there was an incubator of jihadist terrorists who might ultimately threaten us directly, maybe we should have reconsidered keeping our hands off.

Perhaps we should have learned some lessons from our own history of involvement in the region. First, how we intervened in a surrogate Cold War confrontation with Russia in Afghanistan. How we armed the Mujahideen who in turn defeated the Russians and then, without pausing to thank us, using our weapons, transformed themselves into the Taliban who shortly thereafter supported and provided sanctuary to Osama bin Laden and his Al-Qaeda fighters. As a result there was 9/11.

A version of the same thing is now happening in Syria-Iraq.

After we brought down Saddam Hussein, with the full participation of the American occupying forces, we agreed with the Shiite majority to rid the government and, more importantly, the military of any Sunni Muslims who were members of Hussein's Baathist Party. We took the lead in the de-Baathification of the country and placed our support behind the Shiites who, in the process, disenfranchising this talented group of government officials and military leaders, also doing all they could to publicly humiliate them.

So it should come as no surprise to find them now in leadership roles within ISIS. A major reason ISIS is so effective, so able to fight with discipline and precision, is because of their Baathist allies, who, as in Afghanistan, have taken possession of massive amounts of American arms and weapon systems that they seized from the retreating Shiite forces.

As a consequence, again because of inept American and European leadership, expect to see us engaged soon in various forms of combat in the lands now controlled by ISIS--in Iraq, Kurdistan, and even Syria, where, as a result, ironically, we may wind up helping Bashar al-Assad to keep his grip on power.

January 9, 2014--The 2040 Diner

We had just placed our order at one of our favorite on-the-road places, the 2040 Diner in Fredericksburg, Virginia--eggs and grits for Rona, and the $7.95 county ham special for me--when the owner plopped an overflowing plate of eggs and sides on the counter and himself on a stool.

"That looks good," Rona said, sipping her tea.

He turned in our direction, not responding, looking annoyed by her interrupting what must be a daily ritual.

I thought, "Here we go. We're already in trouble."

"Is that lemon you're squeezing on your eggs?" Rona asked, ignoring his ignoring us.

Without turning he nodded and grunted something indecipherable.

"I've never seen that before."

I mouthed to Rona to "Cool it."

But she persisted, "I never tried that. I love lemon and maybe I'd also like it on eggs."

"Very Grek," he said with a thick accent, squeezing another half lemon all over everything on his plate.

"Grek?" Rona said.

"Grek," he turned fully in our direction, "Grek, Greek. Dot's me. Grek."

"The lemon is very Mediterranean," Rona smiled at him.

At that, with effort, he lifted himself off the stool and lumbered in our direction, hunched over with his arms dangling at his side.

"Lemon we have with everything in Grek." His accent thickened as he neared us.

I was beginning to feel nervous. We were the only customers. 8:30 is often a quiet time in diners that cater mainly to locals--late for those headed to work, too early for older folks, and too off the tourist route for travelers. Usually, exactly our favorite kind of place.

But at the 2040 I was beginning to feel threatened. The two waitresses, who looked as if they had worked there for decades, watched, smiling, which partially reassured me.

"You Brooklyn?" he asked.

"What?" I finally joined in, thinking that might ease the situation. He stood pressing his huge stomach against our table, still with his arms dangling and swinging simian-like.

"Brooklyn? From dare?"

"Yes," Rona chirped, the caffeine in her tea taking hold. "Both of us." She included me in her sweeping gesture.

He glared at me and pointed, laboriously hoisting one of his thick arms. "Him too?"

"Yes, he and me. We were both born there. Are you also from Brooklyn?"

"Grek," he said.

"So how did you know we--"

"Sound just like your mayor. Bloom. Both you and him." He dismissed me with a wave of his massive hand.

"Bloomberg," I said, taking a chance by correcting him.

"No gut."

"He's not our mayor anymore," Rona informed him. "As of January 1st we have a new one. De Blasio."

"De who?"

"Bill De Blasio."

"What kind of name dat?"

"I'm not sure," Rona said. "Maybe Italian?" I nodded.

"Where does he stand on guns?" His accent miraculously gone. "Not like Bloomberg I hope."

"I assume--" I cut myself off, stunned by the change in the way he spoke and not clear where this might be headed.

"He doesn't understand us." What happened to all the Grek business, I wondered. He sounded like someone more from Virginia than Athens.

"In what way?" Rona asked, eating away at her eggs and grits as if not noticing. I was feeling substantially relieved and took to enjoying the wonderful country ham.

"He should come here and talk to people. Real people. Then he would see."

"I think he's not--"

"He is," he corrected me before I could finish.

"Is what?" I was feeling bolder with him backed off from us. But I was still thinking about his disappearing accent.

"Take my son, for example," the taller of the two waitresses said.

"Your son?" Rona said.

"Yes. He has a gun. Most of his friends do."

"I assume," I stammered, "To me it depends on how old he is. I mean from my perspective. But what do I know about these things. I'm just like Bloomberg. From New York. The city. Brooklyn."

"Exactly," she said, having wandered over to us.

"I mean, if I may ask, how old is he? You don't have to tell me, of course."

"I know that." She smiled a bit condescendingly in my direction. I deserved that, I acknowledged. "If you must know, he's eight."

"Eight?" Rona could not hide her surprise. 

"I know what you're thinking but you don't know my boy. Or his grandfather."

"Who is?" Rona ventured.

"He works for Homeland Security."

"Really? What does he--"

"He teaches marksmanship. Trains their best people to become snipers."

"Really? That's amazing," I said.

"To tell you--"

She interrupted Rona. "I think I know what you're thinking. That this is a terrible thing to do and--"

"Not really. I mean I know--"

"That in the real world," she completed Rona's thought, "as awful as it is, it's necessary. Don't you think? I don't need to spell out all the situations where we need them. Snipers. There's no other way to describe them. That's what they do. So we should call them what they are. And are proud to be. To help keep us safe. You remember those Somali pirates?" We both nodded. "Well, my father teaches Navy Seals too."

There was no need to say more. "His grandfather taught him, my son, all about guns. Starting at six."

"Not to--"

"No not to become a sniper," she and Rona laughed together. "But how to handle and respect them. Guns."

"To tell you the truth," Rona said. "This is not something or a world that I know anything about. I guess I'm OK with people having guns. I mean--"

"Among other things, it's in the Constitution," the owner rejoined the discussion. "The Second Amendment says--"

"We coud debate that all day," I said, "The history and meaning of it."

"You mean about the 'well regulated militia' part?" He said, now directly to me.

"That and other things," I said. "But at the moment I'm just enjoying your eggs and wonderful ham. Every year when we're here I can't wait to have some."

"Let's just agree," he offered,  "that things are often more complicated than they seem."

I couldn't disagree about that.

"Like, for example," the waitress said, "how few people from where you're from could learn from my father how to defend us."

"Fair enough," Rona said, "But there are many ways to do that. Not everyone has to . . . . There are other things that need to be done. And people from Brooklyn and other places are helping as well. In their own ways. About things they know how to do."

"One thing, for sure we all agree about," he said, "is that there are some bad guys out there and we have to figure out ways to keep people safe. There are probably other things we could agree about. Like privacy, for example. On the other hand," he caught himself, "considering where you're from, maybe not."

"It might surprise you," I said, finishing my ham, "but for a New York liberal I'm no so liberal about privacy and some of the things the N.S.A. does."

"And it might surprise you that I voted for Obama. Twice. And she did to,"he pointed toward the waitress who was refilling the coffee pot.

"Just once," she winked. "The second time, I didn't vote at all. A plague on all their houses," she said.

"While I'm holding this can I heat up your cup?"

"I'd love some," I said.