“...an awfully big adventure.”
Belle has been paying more attention to the Fighting Keebees than I have; she’s found they’ve gone straight from singing “Over There” to playing “Waltzing Matilda.” She quotes a chickenhawk auxiliary:
I think [Tapscott, Morrissey, and Bainbridge] may be suffering some variant of PTSD, worn down by defending difficult positions at the forefront of the battle against irredentist [sic] Democrats in Congress and their fifth-column [sic] in the media.
Which is, itself, enough to send Kieran Healy shrieking for a bottle of Sorkin.
You don’t want the truth because deep down, in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that blog. You need me on that blog.
But it’s Bruce Baugh with the piercing insight that once and for all demolishes the meme: oh, I see. Oh, I get it.
Talking with Mom and Dad about their personal histories led me to this association: what the war party bloggers have done is recreate the experience of being a child in World War II. They write patriotic essays and make patriotic collages, and get pats on the head and congratulations from the authorities. They watch diligently for the mutant, I mean, for the subversive among us, and help maintain the proper atmosphere of combined courage and vigilance. They are not expected to manage the family books, nor invited into discussion of the nitty-gritty, and it seldom occurs to them that there’s even a possibility there—that’s for the grown-ups, and rightly so.
