Today, on my way to have lunch with Paula, Dean, Paulo, and Suzanne at Akbar, I had a little automobile accident. I was driving up the hill of Monument St. near Baltimore's Washington Monument, and a Baltimore City truck was pulling away from the curb. I stopped, shifted into neutral to back up to give him room, looked in my rear view and lifted my foot off the break.

Crunch.

On the passenger side, a black BMW (license plate “LAW MAN”) had pulled up behind me in my blind spot. My bumper pushed in his grille.

#$%!#$%!

Paula was torqued. Her first thoughts were, “Oh great, there goes our insurance rate.”

I exchanged information with the other driver (a lawyer) and we went on our way.

So, we finally found a parking place. Paula didn't want to talk about the accident at lunch. I didn't argue with that. We had lunch, which was lovely, thank you, and came home.

The phone rang seconds after we came in the door; it was GEICO, the other guy's insurer. Already.

So I described the incident to the claims rep. And then I called my insurer, USAA, so they would know what was going on.

When the claims person came on the line, she asked a few quick identifying questions. Then she asked, “Are you in a safe place?”

Why did that seem like such an existential question to me at that moment?

I continue to oppose the war because of the almost certain geopolitical implications it will have, as well as for moral reasons. But I think that the folks on the ground there are doing remarkably well, considering the can of shit they were handed and asked to turn into a sundae. War is a brutal business, an unclean business no matter how it is sold, or how honorable the intentions. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and…well, everybody knows the well-worn cliche made popular by one of the great road-pavers of all time, William Tecumseh Sherman.

The rest of this post, as per my policy of war-blog partitioning, is on Rogue Nation.