I'll be brief this time. Even though it's three hours earlier where I am, I'm a writer. And as you certainly already know, we writers regard even bankers' hours as excessive. So scheduling--well, scheduling at least as far as the end of the day is concerned--is one arena where I'm effectively on East Coast Time.
And no, I agree with you, no buried nastiness so far. We've both been admirably civil. Or perhaps it has nothing to do with admirability; perhaps we're simply civil people. In which case...well, something tells me that isn't exactly what Michael had in mind. He may be tempted to fire us if we don't start pulling some hair.
If we're going to talk about architecture, then forget the Clinton Library. The retrofitted Bay Bridge is still clamoring for our attention.
Enemies, friends, and self-destruction: Different rules apply to Democrats in the current situation, of course. When an ally of yours is self-destructing, you take a few gingerly steps away from him so the fragments don't accidentally fall on you. We'll probably be seeing some more of this phenomenon in the days ahead.
Russia. Not exactly a fabulous advertisement for capitalism, is it? However, that distressing thought notwithstanding, I suspect Yeltsin's vacant stare might actually improve after a few glasses of room-temperature vodka. White grease optional.
And for all your justified complaints, I think your snail mail nevertheless beats my snail mail. The special-report Time issue just arrived today, which rather defeats the whole point. I'm still waiting for the special fall-of-Saigon issue to appear in my post box.
And yes, yes, of course people are talking about the sex scandal. I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. But maybe we can re-visit that topic tomorrow, and wrap it right up. After which we'll have only three days in which to chew over the retrofitted Bay Bridge. Hardly adequate!