A Night on the Town
by Thomas L. Friedman
I was in London last week, where I learned that Tony Blair is having many of the same problems as President Bush. Only Blair's problems are worse because of a belief he is not in control of his own policy, but rather the Bush Administration is.
However, while getting a White Zinfindel (which in London, taste like Coca-Cola) at a club in Soho, I met her. At first, I assumed she was a taxi cab driver, because I meet a lot of those. But upon reflection I do not belief that she was, she may have been a chimney sweep.
I was contemplating the quality of my beverage, as well as the current political make up of the Syrian government when she walked up to me and she asked me to dance. I asked her her name and in a dark brown voice she said Lola.
Well, though many of you may have surmised this, I am not the New York Times Editorial page's most physical guy (that would be Kristof, ha ha just kidding!). However, I do pride myself on both my walrous-like mustache and rugged Minnesota build. But, when Lola came up to me, she squeezed me tight and I felt for a moment she nearly broke my spine.
At first, we talked about a few things; the people of Iran wanting greater democracy, and whether the current Tehran government was trying to hide a nuclear weapons program; how there is commonality between the nations of the west and the lslamic world in that we both really love fudge, though tragically we differ on the method in which it is packed...somewhat.
In speaking with Lola though I was having some trouble. Now, I'm not the New York Times Editorial page's dumbest columnist (that would be David Brooks) but I could not understand why Lola walked like she was a woman and but talked like she was a man.
Well we switched to champagne and talked about the Balfour Declaration, Mustafa Kemal, Saladin, Al Zarqawi, and bin Laden all night, under the electric candlelight. Eventually, after I made what was, as usual, a particularly trenchant point about how "liquid paper" would eventually bring both east and west together, she picked me up and sat me on her knee, and said "Tommy boy won’t you come home with me".
Well I’m not the New York Times Editorial page's most passionate guy (that would be Safire), but when I looked in her crossed-eyes, well I almost fell for Lola.
But I remembered that I am a professional editorial writer and gadfly, so I pushed her away and then I walked to the door. Unfortunately, I had had two drinks over the course of eight hours so I fell to the floor. I then was down on my knees and then I looked at her and she at me.
Well that is clearly the way that I want it to stay, and I am now writing this column so that I can state that I always want it to be that way for my Lola. Terrorists will be terrorists; neo-cons will be neo-cons; and finally girls will be boys and boys will be girls, it is clearly a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world, except for Lola.
Well I left home just a week before, and I had never so completely exhausted my ample NY Times' expense account before. But Lola smiled and took me by the hand
And said dear Tommy boy I am gonna make you a less thick-headed, pussified man.
Well, I am not the NY Times Editorial page's most masculine man (that would be Maureen Dowd) but I know what I am and I am ,in general, glad I am, approximately, a man.
And so is Lola.