If Iran The Zoo

What are we going to do with Iran? There are lots of ideas out there, flying in the ether, floating in the ointment. So I pick and choose between the buffet offerings at the realpolitik cafeteria. In geopolitical terms, we’re at a fork in the road (or on the plate). I’ve spoken to generals who’ve actually said that. But what if we’re focusing on the wrong utensil. Like a toothpick? What if the road isn’t split by a fork, but a spoon, curving off in every direction, confusing us and ruining what little respect we had left for Robert "Bite" Frost. Or, what if it’s a spork - something no poet - not even the Bard - had to combat. That would really be bad.

I was eating a bialy, extra butter, toasted, soaking up the wax paper, pondering these questions. That’s when I thought – the generals have gotten us into this mess. The politicians have brought us to the brink. Do they deserve to help claw us out of the diplomatic broth? I asked a different person, a strange person, a person without credentials. Just some guy who happened to walk past me and go “nice bialy, mister.” I nodded and said, “hello friend, what should do we do about Iran?”

“I walk,” he said, and kept walking. 

There it was, as clear as my windshield on a snowy day. It hit me like a pallet of imported cheese, both pungent and portly. I knew this man was onto something – in this case, it was common floor tile. Linoleum? I thought so by the scuffs. No matter, what if we reframed the debate about Iran and their atomic aspirations with a different verb. Why run when you could walk? Why walk when you can sit? Why sit when you can sleep? 

Some people like to sleep on an idea while it’s still percolating. I've come to appreciate percolation ever since my spoils of scribbling rewarded me with an expensive Italian espresso maker. There are others, call them the non-somnolescent, who take a shower as an idea gestates. Me? I sleep in the shower. The best of both worlds. It’s worked wonders for my career (three pulitzers and counting). I've said too much already, having pulled back the shower curtain back on my mysteriously magical process.

Iran doesn’t have to run. And neither do we. I don’t even have to write. And I don't. 

With no apologies to Thomas L. Friedman.