Diana Moon on Dubai

Dubai, and a couple of other choice topics. Balance. That's why I keep checking in with Diana Moon. If you think you are getting the straight scoop on something be careful. Diana may come at it from a different angle, so prepare to get your clock cleaned. And she sucks up to nobody.

Of all the blogs I have found, hers is one of the few that makes me want to meet the writer in person. Why? Because if the occasion presented itself I think she would not pretend it was good to meet me, just because convention expected it. After a short time I expect she would make an assessment then let me know in no uncertain terms that she either enjoyed meeting me or I was full of baloney and need to get a life. And she would mean it.

Like everyone else, she is checking out Dubai. Responding to a report of a French woman who become a rape victim in a jusisdiction deriving its authority from Sharia law, she uncovered a pretty ugly scene. That part is not surprising, but she looks for some kind of meaningful reaction from those who purport to be defenders of Dubai.

After a couple of local sites that offer what is at best a tepid reaction, she comes across the US expat business types at Aquol. It's like a scene from a movie. A tawdry, dark film in black and white with a woman looking for a lost friend finds herself in a grimy local saloon with a bunch of unsavory characters who drink too much, cuss too loudly and haven't shaved for a day or two.

Sweet, eh? All that oil money, recycled back to its source. And what does the American workingman get out of this deal?

Debt, and a ticket to indentured servitude in the National Guard.

Anyway, business is business and "the Lousebury's" shrieking hysteria just shows that he's no businessman. The real eagle-eyes will just wait for the fuss to blow over and then make a killing. They always do.

I swear, I was going to predict yesterday that one of the contributors of Aqoul would post something dismissive and contemptuous of Wafa Sultan. I was not disappointed. What a pathetic little failed attempt at a louse-up.

You go, girl! I'm on your side. These guys are like cats. They will always land on their feet. Somewhere inside your heart is in the right place. And you are not for sale. Not for petro-dollars or any other kind.