The Chihuahua, the Rottweiler, and the Strait of Hormuz

The Chihuahua, the Rottweiler, and the Strait of Hormuz

By midnight I am six drinks into a problem that cannot be solved with alcohol but can certainly be made more entertaining by it.

The television is explaining that negotiations with Iran have encountered unexpected difficulties.

Unexpected.

As though a meteor struck the conference table.

As though some unforeseeable force descended from the heavens and sabotaged the process.

Meanwhile half the Middle East is watching Israel drop ordnance on the very conflict American negotiators are desperately trying to shut down because somebody in Washington finally figured out that Hezbollah, Iran, Lebanon, Hormuz, sanctions, oil prices, and the possibility of World War III are all connected by a series of wires that even a drunken electrician could identify.

The administration wants a deal.

The Iranians apparently wanted a deal.

The markets desperately wanted a deal.

The oil traders wanted a deal so badly they were practically conducting séances.

Then Israel looked at the entire arrangement and treated it the way a cocaine-addled golden retriever treats a wedding cake.

Now Iran is suspending negotiations.

Trump is posting that talks are moving at a rapid pace.

Oil is soaring.

Oil is falling.

Oil is soaring again.

The entire global economy has become emotionally dependent on Truth Social.

This is not a serious civilization.

A serious civilization does not price energy futures based on whether a seventy-nine-year-old man had what he describes as a “very productive call.”

The phrase alone should trigger SEC intervention.

A very productive call.

Jesus Christ.

Every divorced father in America has had a very productive call.

That doesn’t usually move two trillion dollars in market capitalization.

The attorney beside me has stopped pretending any of this makes sense.

He is drawing organizational charts on cocktail napkins.

The arrows point in every direction.

Washington funds Israel.

Washington arms Israel.

Washington protects Israel diplomatically.

Washington provides strategic cover for Israel.

Washington is theoretically the senior partner in the relationship.

And yet every day I wake up and discover the relationship functions like a rottweiler being dragged across a parking lot by a Chihuahua.

Nobody is supposed to notice this.

You’re supposed to stare respectfully at the official hierarchy.

You’re supposed to nod solemnly while spokesmen explain who is influencing whom.

You’re supposed to believe the giant animal is in charge because the giant animal is obviously larger.

Meanwhile the Chihuahua has the leash wrapped three times around its paw and is sprinting directly toward traffic.

The truly fascinating thing is watching otherwise intelligent people discuss this reality like medieval astronomers trying to explain why the sun appears to revolve around the Earth.

You can see the strain.

The visible discomfort.

The desperate linguistic gymnastics.

Nobody wants to describe the obvious picture because the obvious picture immediately raises questions.

Unpleasant questions.

Career-ending questions.

Questions that cause think tank fellows to suddenly remember they have another panel discussion to attend.

Questions that make newspaper editors reach for antacids.

Questions that can transform a respectable dinner party into a crime scene.

Who is actually driving policy?

Who has veto power?

Who decides when American strategic objectives matter and when they don’t?

At what point does a client become a handler?

And how exactly did the most powerful military apparatus in human history end up repeatedly explaining why events it doesn’t want to happen keep happening?

The attorney stares at his napkin.

The bartender turns up the volume.

Another official appears on television.

Everything is under control.

Negotiations continue.

Progress is being made.

The situation remains fluid.

Outside, oil traders are having cardiac episodes.

Inside, nobody can answer the only question that matters.

Not because the answer is unknown.

Because everybody knows exactly where the conversation goes once somebody says it out loud.

And that, more than the missiles, more than the markets, more than the diplomacy, is what makes the whole thing smell dangerous.

The spring remains compressed.

The bombs keep falling.

The talks continue rapidly toward nowhere.

And somewhere in Washington another very productive call is already being scheduled.