Ebola is a nasty piece of work, no doubt about it. But if President Obama really wants to combat the disease, he should spend less time ringing global alarms and a lot more denouncing the ignorance and corruption that have made the virus Africa’s most notable export
I have given up on myself. Since everyone I know accepts that my views are to the right of Gengis Khan, I no longer have to make the pretense of drinking soy milk or eating tofu and pretending to enjoy it. I am what I am and happy to be that way, even if my children’s faces go red when I open my mouth in polite company. They look pleadingly at others present, trying telepathically, I think, to transmit the thought that every family has its own dotty uncle who, in their case, happens to be their own, beloved and sometimes moderately useful, but very barmy, two-cans-short-of-a six-pack dad.
I know that look of theirs very well indeed. It says, ‘What do you expect? Dad remembers those weird days when steam engines were used to pull trains, people were paid only for working, kids ran around playgrounds largely unsupervised, and men could grow older, and little more portly, without attracting universal ostracism.
Well, being portly and dotty has its compensations, let me tell you. Nobody is surprised when you ask stupid questions or say things that are sooo politically incorrect they would be beyond the pale for everyone except yours truly. This is fun – looking at the same pictures on the TV screen as everyone else and seeing things differently.
Here’s an example of how liberating it can be to embrace dottiness. Take as a given that a considerable body of ill-informed opinion regards President Obama as just the world’s most wonderful leader. But what I see is a middle aged man who seems tired, careworn, prematurely grey and, quite often these days, somewhat unsettled. To my eyes the revered Mr President brings to mind a precocious kid who has bitten off more than he can chew, created an awful mess and is now scared to tell his parents about it.