BIG DOI . . .

Shrub keeps Saddam Hussein's pistol, mounted onto a plaque, in his office in the West Wing. A psychoanalyst calls this "the phallic equivalent of a scalp," the clearest sign of revenge wreaked for Saddam's attempt to assassinate the elder Shrub in 1993. Ahhhh, I feel much better knowing now exactly why Shrub waged war in Iraq in the first place. I knew there was a reason -- we just had to wait for it to come to light. Sigh.

***

DOUBLE WHAMMY . . .

Both my countries' men are under attack. First went Nicholas Berg. Then went Paul Johnson. Now here kneels Kim Sun-Il, a South Korean translator, perched in a familiar position, flanked by familiar hooded and cloaked figures, being threatened with the familar litany: "Get your soldiers out of here or he loses his head."

I thought I couldn't be made sicker or more heartbroken or more angry. I am. I guess that's good -- I haven't turned into an uncaring zombie yet. But I'm angry at so much more than the stupidity of Islamic fundamentalists who use murder as a faux-political tool. I'm angry that no one is safe. Not Americans, not Koreans, not anyone wearing blue jeans or speaking English or with yellow skin. I'm angry at the pride of governments who will not negotiate with terrorists to get their citizens home safe. I'm angry at the terrorists who won't release their hostages anyway, who know no rules of engagement. And in a small way, I'm also angry that they're picking on South Korea, the little guy, the country that is sending recontructive troops, not combat troops, the country that is still struggling to firmly establish its own democratic, political roots, the country that, in my mind, doesn't deserve this.

Come to think of it, I guess no one really does.

***

ROUGH RIDERS . . .

There are only a few good things about being bullied into going biking with C:
1. It's usually a nice day.
2. There's usually at least one other person whose thighs burn as much as mine do after the first hill, so I don't feel too wimpy (never mind that the other one was also lugging a baby behind him and I had no such weight, but really, minor detail).
3. My thighs are like steel the day after.

Yes, my friends, today, my thighs are like steel. I have to gloat about my steel-like thighs right now, because they might not be here tomorrow. But today, they are here. My steely thighs. I love them.

***

FOOTNOTE . . .

Omma comes home tonight. Could Appa BE more excited?