Where am I?
Bomb shelter. Slash office. Peering myopically at Dubi’s flatscreen, which is strategically headquartered behind reams of news clippings, old faxes, frosted, plastic sleeved quarterly earnings reports, scribblings, index cards, prescription drug RSS printouts, and a wandering rebel army of pens, pencils and highlighters big enough to take Beirut.
It’s Haifa, it’s hot out, I’m eating baby figs and rubbing the jet-lag out of my eyes. Outside, the morning shines like a flash-bang grenade. Breeze over the bay is northwesterly, bringing with it the smoggy haze of industry from near the Kishon. They tell me 4000 rockets fell on Haifa in the war last month. None of them managed to hit the petrochemical district. Gas prices were plummeting last I checked in Ann Arbor. Unrelated? Sure. Relevant? What isn’t?