The Long View - Brief Article - Column

National Review, Nov 19, 2001 by Rob Long

The Crisis Adviser

Dear Adviser:

My husband comes home from work and is very closemouthed about his day and everything and never wants to just talk or whatever. And we never go anywhere nice, and when he gets the clicker it's just click, click, click all through the channels so another person can't even figure out what's on or anything. And we never talk about what we're feeling. When I ask he just goes, "Well, you know, whatever," and I'm like, How can we have a real relationship when we don't share stuff and all?

Could he be a terrorist?

Wondering in Westover

Dear Wondering:

Terrorists are secretive people who lock their emotions away in a dark part of their soul. This enables them to perform terrible acts without remorse. So, yes, your husband could be one of these people. Please contact your local FBI office immediately.

Dear Adviser:

In my work as the CFO of a technology company, I have achieved a certain level of fame, with appearances on CNBC, etc. Since the outbreak of anthrax-laced envelopes, I have taken the precaution of having my 5-year-old son open all of the mail that comes to the house, on the theory that I'm the breadwinner, we have two other kids, etc., etc.

My question is: Should he open it in a sealed, secure location (like our pool house)? Or should we have him moved off-site?

Curious in Cupertino

Dear Curious:

Why not take a page from the federal government and have your son open all mail (family AND business) at a secure off-site location, such as Grandma's house? Or for that matter, why not have Grandma and Grandpa receive the mail at their location (it can be easily forwarded-ask your letter carrier for the form) for opening and inspection? Let's take advantage of this current crisis to get America's Silver Citizens back into action!

Dear Adviser:

Oh my God! Oh my God! The inside of my purse is covered in a white powdery substance! I just opened it and all this white powder just poofed out! And I breathed it! And some got on my skin! Oh my God! Oh my God! I'm going to die! There's white powder everywhere! Oh sweet Jesus I'm dying! I need medicine! I need Cipro! Please God somebody help me! Please God somebody! Oh Lord! Oh my God! I've got anthrax! Oh God!

Wait. Just a sec. It's just a crushed Altoid.

Close one, though.

Nervous in Newark

Dear Nervous:

Are you sure they're just Altoids? I mean, really, really sure? They don't look like Altoids. But if you're sure, then I guess there's no need to worry. If you're sure, that is.

Dear Adviser:

My son sits in his room all day just listening to loud music and playing games on his computer. He doesn't come out except to eat-he refuses to eat with the family, he thinks we're all "retards"-and hasn't exchanged a word with his father in six months. He and I barely communicate at all. When I talk to him, just to say "Hi," or "How was your day, dear?" or "Gee, that music is awfully loud, I mean, I like it, it's really hip and happening, but, honey, it's awfully loud," he just rolls his eyes and points to the "Do Not Disturb" sign on his door.

Could he be a terrorist?

Upset in Utica

Dear Upset:

Your son could quite possibly be part of the mysterious al-Qaeda network. I have alerted the FBI and they are on their way to your home.

Dear Adviser:

I am the anchor of a local news broadcast here in the Los Angeles area. Is there any way I can get on "the list" for possible inclusion in the next round of anthrax attacks? I'm concerned that the next wave of them will skip me and hit some of the anchors on the higher-rated competition, which I think is unfair. My goal here is to break into network news, and I think that having my secretary open one of those anthrax-letter dealies would really put me on the map.

Lagging in L.A.

Dear Lagging:

Great idea! Why not take the bull by the horns and send some to yourself? Just be sure to misspell a few words in the threatening letter.

Dear Adviser:

Oh my God! Oh my God! I've got a little tickle in the back of my throat! Oh my God! Oh sweet Jesus! Flu-like symptoms! I've got flu-like symptoms! I must have got some anthrax on me! Oh Lord! I'm dying here! I'm going to die!

Wait. Just a sec. It was just a piece of a potato chip caught in my throat.

Close one, though.

Nervous in Newark

Dear Nervous:

Are you sure it was just a potato chip? Better call the FBI and have them deal with it. I mean, you never know.