An impromptu 'Postcard from the Secret City"

Noon, first Wednesday of the month.  Drill time.  Happens every first Wednesday, at noon. 


The sirens are going off.  I used to have a magnet on my frig:  red, white and blue, emblazoned with the American flag and eagle.  The gold lettered caption read, "What to do if the sirens go off."  Seal the windows, of course, shelter in place, and wait for information.


Around here, sirens mean an accident at the nuclear weapons factory, the one with the oblique, Orwellian name:  The Y-12 National Security Complex.


How, I wonder, do the masters of the universe have the gall to call the thermonuclear warhead factory a 'security complex' when it is nuclear weapons that pose the most dire and urgent threat to the security, indeed, the life, of every living thing on the planet.


Oh, but as Sister Megan Rice observed at trial, some people are getting very rich off of nuclear weapons.


In the Secret City, politics and public discourse are dominated by those who divvy up the vast sums of federal money that flow through this town, the federal contractors, managers, sub-contractors and sub-sub contractors, the elites who are just a little too comfortable, cosseted in their cookie cutter MacMansions, sucking government teat.


Do I think they're patriots?  Nope.  I think they're self delusional degenerates who've lost touch with their own humanity, sold out, made a deal with the devil.


"What so profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?"  Jesus must have been a seer, peering  into a looking glass darkly, surveying The Secret City, and weeping at the mushrooming gluttony of the nuclear weapons industry. 

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