My dad, who turns 59 today, is like the far-right conservative conscience every left-leaning weenie journalist like myself ought to have. Just one of the reasons I love the guy.
Example: during the birthday phone call tonight, the conversation veers -- as it pretty much always does -- into politics. My dad is not a big fan of the State Department, it turns out. Colin Powell, he believes, was "co-opted" by all those conciliatory wusses at Foggy Bottom. Condi Rice hasn't shown herself to be much better, in dad's eyes.
"You know who'd be perfect for the job?" he says, and I can hear him grinning a mile wide on the other end of the phone.
"John Bolton," we say in unison, laughing.
Don't worry; only one of us was serious, and he doesn't write for an influential Washington news organization.
Correction: Mom notes that I forgot Dad's age. Gave him his year back accordingly.
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