Dear Diary,
Ugh! I have named today
Hangover 4. Last night my Hawaii golf buddies and I did major damage to a case of
Tsingtao beer that had been specially flown in from Beijing to lubricate my informal talks with President Xi, but after he departed in a snit, my buddies and I decided it it was pointless to waste the beer and demolished the rest, chased by a few shots of Jagermeister. I was wakened early Sunday to fly back to DC. After boarding Air Force One, I fortified myself by with a Bloody Michelle (vodka and beetroot juice), to face the wrath of M, who has had to write a letter to Mrs. Xi, apologizing for the breach of protocol in not being at Palm Springs to meet her.
The privacy "scandals" are still going strong, but James Clapper's attempts to reassure people on TV this morning seem to be bearing fruit: To quote an email intercepted by NSA:
"I mean, who really cares if the government monitors our every move, knows what we're doing, and even what we're wearing? By the way, are you sure that shirt you have on goes with those pants?" [note to self: Ask Clapper if PRISM has an irony filter.
