More Notes from the Hurricane that swept DC
I briefly made the acquaintaince of Benjamin Ferencz, a Chief Prosecutor at the Nuremberg Trials. My law student friend told him it was an honor to meet him because he had been a Chief Prosecutor. He responded in good humor: "I probably should have been a defendant." I think this hilarious. I mean, he was calling himself a Nazi. He is a man of short stature. 88 in years. Everyone at the conference knew who he was, and people basically bowed in respect whenever he spoke. He wasn't particularly impressed by my friend and me. His joke was his way of getting around us and getting to the cheese table.
The Dean of the Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs at Princeton, Anne-Marie Slaughter, is hot, for a lady of a certain age. She moderated a panel discussion on the future of international law. I didn't understand most of what was said: dense language, heavy accents, un-captivating speakers. Plus, I had just downed three glasses of wine and a plate of hummus, cheese, and olives, after a long day of walking and listening to other boring discussions. I fell asleep and drooled all down my tie and made a puddle on the crotch of my pants. I wonder if Ms. Slaughter would have liked a younger man for an evening in D.C. I didn't ask anyway.
And the Woodrow Wilson School... I can imagine all the high-mindedness that goes on there. People probably deciding how everyone else in the world should live. Lots of talk of human rights. That school is the most ivory of ivory towers, and I imagine the people there are out of touch with the sitch on the ground. But I could be wrong. I don't know anyone there, nor would I ever be accepted into that club. And if they don't want me, I don't want to be there. That being said, I would enroll if accepted, but I would define myself as an insurgent.
In a busy park, full of people reading and lounging, near the White House, on a beautiful spring afternoon, during the Cherry Blossom Festival, a bum was screaming at the very top of his lungs to no one in particular: "Suck my dick! Suck my dick! Suck my dick!" People were staring.
The Dean of the Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs at Princeton, Anne-Marie Slaughter, is hot, for a lady of a certain age. She moderated a panel discussion on the future of international law. I didn't understand most of what was said: dense language, heavy accents, un-captivating speakers. Plus, I had just downed three glasses of wine and a plate of hummus, cheese, and olives, after a long day of walking and listening to other boring discussions. I fell asleep and drooled all down my tie and made a puddle on the crotch of my pants. I wonder if Ms. Slaughter would have liked a younger man for an evening in D.C. I didn't ask anyway.
And the Woodrow Wilson School... I can imagine all the high-mindedness that goes on there. People probably deciding how everyone else in the world should live. Lots of talk of human rights. That school is the most ivory of ivory towers, and I imagine the people there are out of touch with the sitch on the ground. But I could be wrong. I don't know anyone there, nor would I ever be accepted into that club. And if they don't want me, I don't want to be there. That being said, I would enroll if accepted, but I would define myself as an insurgent.
In a busy park, full of people reading and lounging, near the White House, on a beautiful spring afternoon, during the Cherry Blossom Festival, a bum was screaming at the very top of his lungs to no one in particular: "Suck my dick! Suck my dick! Suck my dick!" People were staring.
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