My father died Thursday, in the scheme of things nothing remarkable. Almost 2.5 million Americans die each year, over 6,700 each day. Birth and death are the two human certainties (I’ll leave aside taxes), one joyfully anticipated, the other dreaded. Our metaphors for death — “a falling star,” “the birthday of eternity,” “wilted leaves on the tree of life,” “the next great adventure” — are but weak attempts to understand our most profound mystery.
The “feminist nightmare” is recurring.
Adding to all its other problems, the intelligence community’s inspector general, I. Charles McCullough III, has discovered a rash of fraud cases involving employees and contractors within the 16 agencies and the Office of the Director of National Intelligence (ODNI).