Kissinger finally meets the reaper

Henry Kissinger, dead at 100. They say if you can’t say anything nice about the dead, you should say nothing at all.

I give kudos to anyone that can live to triple digits. It’s an impressive achievement.

There, my obligation to positivity has been accomplished.

I could talk about what an evil, horrible human being thrived within Kissinger’s clothes, but others have done that well, like here or here.

But rather than duplicate such noble efforts, instead I’ll retreat to my comfort zone, the juvenile and puerile.

I met Henry Kissinger once, back in 1981, around April, bare weeks following an attempted coup d’etat in Spain. I was browsing the Goya room at the Prado in Madrid, when an armada of henchmen swarmed in and emptied the place. For reasons unknown, I was permitted to stay – probably I didn’t appear to be very dangerous. In walked Kissinger. I wondered at what might have been the deep thoughts of this renowed mover of international pawns. Was he here to save Juan Carlos from the fascists? Or was he here to help the fascists take back another nation for pillaging by the power elite?

He stood in the center of the room, hands clasped at his back, and scanned up, down, left, right. While gazing at Saturn eating a snack, Kissinger grunted and excreted a noxious gas. I looked at him. He looked at me. I left the room.

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