Around the country he flew, reckless and audacious, stopping long enough to make a new charge, to exhibit a new list, a good newsworthy press conference at the airport, hail-fellow well met with the reporters, and then on to the next stop, the emptiness of the charge never catching up with him, the American press exploited in its false sense of objectivity (if a high official said something, then it was news, if not fact, and the role of the reporter was to print it straight without commenting, without assaulting the credibility of the incredulous; that was objectivity). It was like a circus; he was always on the move, his figures varied, his work was erratic and sloppy, he seemed to have no genuine interest in any true nature of security.
… in terms of mass, anyway.
Have you seen one of those pretty color-coded BMI charts lately? As of today, I’ve moved into one of those green squares. Now, it’s an edge green square, with a yellow square next to it, looking ominous and whispering “Danger, Will Robinson, danger!” But, still, it’s green.
A year ago, I was in one of those orange Whataburger-colored squares, of which a contributing cause may or may not have been Whataburgers. I was a semi-permanent resident; I had been in that square for ten years or so—there were pictures on the wall, a well-lived in couch, and stacks of chocolate in the closet.