Had a phone catchup with an old buddy, and we were flinging outrages back and forth across the wires. “When did we decide Bibi Netanyahu was co-commander in chief?1” one of us said, and then the other replied, “And why do we have to find ourselves agreeing with Candace Owens when we say stuff like this?!”

It was a spirited discussion, as they say.

This war is not going to go well. It’ll end someday, they always do, and the people who started it will say we won, but nah, we aren’t going to win anything other than another Middle East tinderbox. I got into another spirited discussion with a group chat, which I started by asking when we might see retaliatory strikes in this country, by civilians. One or more targeted mass shootings at synagogues, perhaps. Or worse. One of our number said I was thinking too small, that it’d be another 9/11-scale event. Hijack a UPS or FedEx plane (smaller crew to overcome), then fly it into a packed stadium. There’s a cheery thought. Or truck bombs, detonated randomly around the country. They certainly won’t find it difficult to get guns, not in the freedom-loving United States.

Operation Epic Fury is perhaps the dumbest marketing tag for an American war I’ve yet heard, but there you are. It will soon be one of the most ironic details about this whole misadventure, I fear.

In the midst of this chaos, we went to see Bridget Everett last night. You might remember her HBO show, “Somebody Somewhere,” which is loosely based on Everett’s own life. She was as expected — loud, sloppy, sings great, very blue. The seats, in the first row of the balcony, were the most uncomfortable I’ve ever occupied. Think the tightest airline seat you’ve ever occupied, then subtract 20 percent. Also, the drunken WOOOOOs from the audience were annoying, but that’s the Bridget Everett fan base.

She was very entertaining. Not a bad way to do a Monday night.

I wish I had more to report, but alas, it’s one of those weeks.