I'll probably regret this, but here goes: I write today in defense of coziness. My text is Mark Leibovich's "This Town," his delicious indictment of inside-the-Beltway incestuousness in its various manifestations.
Let me begin where all how-small-is-Washington stories must: Leibovich and I worked together for years and see each other around ... well, around this town. He is a friend. So, too, are most of the people he skewered.