When Raven brought his friend to my garden yesterday,
he looked tense, restless, stressed out. It’s hard for a
creature to keep his/her head these days when so many
have lost theirs or have inserted it into an unusual orifice,
and are blaming the resultant chaos (blindness?) on
The Goat of the Moment (a nod to Kipling....)

Turns out Raven wanted to know who Adlai Stevenson
was. I don’t know who he had been talking with, but
clearly it was someone with a longer life expectancy than
Raven and his feathered folk. (Although these days, the
“dicho”: Nadie tiene la vida comprada, seems more
prophecy than folklore.)

A glance through a few websites today solved the mystery
of Raven’s sudden interest in a two-time presidential
candidate from the 50s: Apparently a few irreverant
journalists either remembered or had read about Stevenson’s
presentation in 1962 of photographs of Soviet missiles in
Cuba, and had usurped the liberty of unfavorably comparing
Colin (Professional Good Cop) Powell´s performance in the
UN yesterday to Stevenson’s during his term of Ambassador
to that same body.

And speaking of bodies—one of the more notable products
of war have always been the bodies of the poor. Not too
many CEOs of multinational companies, or their sons, or
their grandsons are lining up to bite the dust in the desert of
Iraq. To be shipped home in a body bag (such elegant luggage),
or--if counted a survivor--to suffer the inexplicable malaise of
radiation sickness are the roles available, for a cast of thousands
of poor black and hispanic soldiers who signed up for 3 hots and
a flop and will get more than they bargained for. Not to mention
the bodies of the poor people of Iraq (which after 12 years of
inhumane sanctions includes just about everybody...)

No, Colin Powell is not Adlai Stevenson.

And Raven is not Woody Woodpecker.

But that’s all, folks.