Oh Bellhorn, You Whore!

I know at least one former Sox player shows up down in Joe "Aunty Entity" Steinbrenner's Bronx Bartertown every season but I liked Bellhorn. Local boy makes good and all that. Now he's wearing pinstripes and looks like Joey Lawrence. That hair will have to go, Mark; George's orders.

Mark Bellhorn- dead to me now.

Mr. President, Take Pity On The Working Man

Hmm... a day after Hurricane Katrina passed overhead the levees along the Mississippi are failing in New Orleans, potentially resulting in the crescent city being inundated by upwards of 24 feet of water. Not too healthy for a city that lies several feet below sea level. Add into that the destruction of the State of Mississipi's Hancock, Harrison, and Jackson counties and the outlying areas of Louisiana as yet to be widely reported on and one might say we have a national disaster on our hands.

Therefore; where the HELL is the federal government? President Bush plans to return to DC tomorrow to coordinate the national response- what is he doing tonight? Reading My Pet Goat? When the tsunami hit south Asia last December the US Navy was able to dispatch a Marine battle group to assist with relief efforts. So far, no word whether forces out of Norfolk, VA (probably a day and a half's steaming) or even air units out of Pensacola NAS have been mobilized; no word on Air Force Hercules transports laden with supplies and expert rescue/logs/disaster management teams streaming into Barksdale Air Force Base, the place that proved so hospitable to Bush on 9/11; and not even an official statement from the vacationer-in-chief intended to comfort those poor bewildered people in the Superdome (what a reverse by the way- working class blacks on the seats rather than on the field)? Heck, maybe its like he said in response to Cindy Sheehan: Mr. Bush can't be dealing with those working class shmucks stranded in New Orleans or sheltering in the ruined footprints of their homes in Mississippi- after all, he thinks that "it's also important for me to go on with my life, to keep a balanced life.". Sort of makes a $200 haircut or a blow job from an itern take on a new perspective, doesn't it?

While Mr. Bush lingers over putting the twins' mountain bikes on the Tule rack on Air Force One a valiant few from the Coast Guard and the Louisiana National Guard plucked 1,200 people from their roofs today. The (correct) emphasis on saving lives however meant that sand bags and other supplies needed to shore up New Orleans' crumbling levees went undelivered. Meanwhile literally 1000s of tons of airlift capacity sits idle while the President allows a poor, majority black, and traditionally neglected region slowly drown. If this storm had hit Kennebunkport, I can offer no better than evens that my driveway here in Maine wouldn't be crammed with rescue vehicles and million dollar life-saving gizmos.

Regardless of ideology, this guy Bush is a dilittante, souless, hypocritical, sociopathic joke.

Hurricane Katrina

Two major beefs with CNN et al and their coverage of Hurricane Katrina:

Why no reports on the damaging effects of man-made levees on wetlands depredation and why the absence of said wetlands/silt banks/and so on actually increased the inshore damage, as with the tsunami of December 2004?

And why no coverage of the lack of government provided evacuation transport that essentially condemned the poorest, vehicle-less (and therefore in Louisiana, Missisippi, and Alabama the blackest) residents of the region to staying in the affected areas and risking their lives while I-10 was clogged with SUVs? Jim Baumer has more on that and the oil situation at Write for You.

Still, at least Anderson Cooper got to see a crane swinging in the wind. As did we. Repeatedly. He's Gloria Vandebilt's son you know. No, really.

Ten Things To Do When Driving From Franklin, Maine to Camden, Maine

What a nice weekend: sunny both days, temps in the high 70s, ragin' Cajuns all over the radio (live broadcasts from the American Folk Festival up in Bangor), the sweetcorn harvest is coming in (and its wicked cheap), and a trip up to Donnell's Pond in Franklin to visit The Reverend Liberal Thunderer and The Herbal Bluebird and collect our dog Dinah from a week at "camp". Dinah swam, hiked, wrestled with Kya and Shaloin and got filthy hunting for frogs every day last week. She now smells like a clam flat at low tide and is- well- dog tired. Excellent.

The drive home from Franklin to Camden is only about 1 1/2 hours long but fear not, I found plenty to amuse myself as Country Mouse put the pedal to the metal. Should you find yourself ever travelling the same stretch of US Route One during an August weekend you could try one or all of these fun activities:

10) Give the finger to every Hummer you pass.

9) Beg the driver to stop at every flea market/antique shop/bargain barn you approach and then say "never mind" as she slows down.

8) Wonder out loud why the "Toziers' II" bar in Bucksport already has it's Miller Lite blaze orange "Welcome Hunters" sign up when deer season doesn't start until November.

7) Try and remember the odd name of the "historical exhibit" found on the edge of Franklin, the one that looks like a cross between a horse cart and a trebuchet and was either used in logging or quarrying.

6) Speculate whether the last Sox games of the regular season (against the Yankees at Fenway) will become a mini-ALCS by default if the Sox can't get their asses back in gear.

5) Bereft of any automotive engineering experience or skill, ponder the possibility of converting a gasoline powered Subaru Legacy to a biodiesel vehicle in the driveway with a crescent wrench and a 55 gallon drum.

4) Smile inwardly at the knowledge that should the conversion work, the car will always smell like fish and chips.

3) Shout "Clam in a boot! Clam in a boot!" at the restaurant "Just Barb's" in Stockton Springs whose sign, appropriately enough, is a clam wearing a boot.

2) Make up a country song about the occupants of the truck in front along the lines of "Oh your mullet makes me ponder your gender from askance, should I crack a brew with you, or should I ask you to dance?" then decide the driver is undoubtedly a man sporting a Washington County Waterfall hairstyle.

1) Every time you spot a vehicle flying an American flag from the hood ornament or antenna, greet the driver with the phrase "greetings, Ambassador", unless it is a pre-1990 Buick or Pontiac, has more than one flag, or has more than two magnetic ribbons of any color; if that is the case greet the driver with "hello Mr. President."

Strangler White

From my dad tonight:

"...I liked the George Davis piece, the graffiti is still there. last time I looked as is (I think I told you) "Veneer of the Week" (at Shadbolts), Steady Eddy Stobart is still naming his lorries after women he knew from his days in the Land Army and all is well with the world. I was debating whether you were fair in calling dad eccentric and decided that you were somewhat unusually understated. I wish I could find the photo of him in his Strangler White leotard (Red and White horizontal stripes); maybe one day..."

For some reason I am deeply elated by the idea that this gentle ex- Essex Yeomanry artilleryman, master plasterer, and lover of horse racing shown here:


once earned his living looking something like this.



I sincerely hope that a search of various shoe boxes and other potential repositories turns up the fabled wrestling picture. One day I'll get around to writing about my grandfather and his odd adventures that took him at right angles to a quotidian life (and my maternal grandfather's merchant sailor/country policeman stories too) but until then these images conjured by dad will suffice.

Maradona Admits To Being a Git

Diego Maradona yesterday, disproving the idea that cocaine is slimming

When I first heard about this yesterday my initial working title was "Maradona admits to being a c-word" but Country Mouse wisely counseled me against alienating most of you who visit this page with extremely vulgar language originating from an obscure dispute I had no more role in than a spectator. Anyway, to the meat:

In the 1986 World Cup quarter finals, England faced Argentina on the football pitch for the first time since the 1982 Falklands War (and for those of you who suspect less than ideologically correct bias on my part, here's an Argentine account of the island's history and the conflict) and 20 years after their solitary World Cup win of 1966. At the time the Argentinian number 10, Diego Maradona, was fast cementing his reputation as the best footballer of his generation and his national team were doing a good job of throwing off their image as "animals". Enter Maradona and the "Hand of God":

"Maradona stands by 'Hand of God'
Argentine football hero Diego Maradona has said he is unrepentant about using his fist in a controversial goal against England in the 1986 World Cup. Speaking on his TV show, Maradona said the intervention, which he nicknamed "The Hand of God", was justified.

"The truth is that I don't for a second regret scoring that goal with my hand," he said on the programme. The footballer apparently defended his goal as his response to Britain's claim to the Falkland islands. He said he wanted to let Argentines and the whole world know the truth about a key moment in football history.

Maradona scored the goal by punching the ball into the net during a jump as goalkeeper Peter Shilton leapt into the air towards the ball.

Argentina won the match 2-1 thanks to a second, impressive goal scored by Maradona, and described by England coach Bobby Robson as "a miracle". The South American team went on to win the World Cup that year.But that first Argentine goal will remain among the most controversial episodes in football history.

From the referee's angle it looked as though Maradona had headed the ball into the back of the net. After scoring during the quarter-final match, Maradona said the boys came over to celebrate.

"They were quite timid. They came over to embrace me but it was as if they were saying: 'We've robbed them'," he said. "But I said to them: 'Whoever robs a thief gets a 100-year pardon.'"

The player was apparently referring to the Falklands War, fought unsuccessfully by Argentina against the UK to take control of the islands it claimed as its own."


The 1986 World Cup was the first I have strong memories about. Spain 82 saw my family camping in Italy (next to a Spanish family- cue me trying to communicate with my book of world flags with the Spanish boy and girl about the same age as my brother and me: I think I borded them shitless with my pointing to the Royal Mail ensign et al, but I always have been a little didactic). I was away at boarding school for much of Mexico 86 and so spent most of it in the TV room in the company of 80 or so testosterone surging teenage boys like myself (most of the girls wisely cleared out to make the most of the English spring). I marvelled at Gary Lineker single-handedly destroying Poland; Lineker and Beardsley gutting Paraguay; and then almost exploding with anticipation for England vs. Argentina.

As detailed above, the game ended in disaster; first the one Spanish speaking football fans reverently call the "hombre gordo que tiene gusto de la cocaína y de prostitutes" cheated and then to add insult to injury he scored one of the most spectacular and breathtaking goals in football history. Result- Argentina 2 England 1, and one orange haired boy on the eve of his 13th birthday sobbing in disbelief along with most of a nation. To my baseball fan friends- Maradona's hand was Bill Buckner for a whole country. 1986 was a truly cursed year.

So until June 7 2002 World Cups were all about a) hoping England won b) hoping Germany blew it and c) hoping Maradona either left the field in tears or in an ambulance. In that regard, 1998 was particularly hard. I say 6/7/02 as that was the day we beat Argentina in South Korea/Japan; for many English it was like winning the World Cup; a similar feeling described by the Argentinians in regards to 1986.

Philately Won't Get You Anywhere

Finally the Royal Mail seem to have recognised me for all my humble contributions to British society and trans-atlantic relations and will be putting a picture of me eating sushi on the 42p stamp:



I have to say I'm very touch and honoured, so much so I restored the 'u' to honoured and damn the spellcheck. All the other lovely stamp designs in the Wisdom Weasel Eating Sushi series can be found here, while the real back story of this interesting design scheme can be found here.

Time for a War on Analogies?

On ABC's This Week last Sunday, Senator Chuck Hagel (Republican, Nebraska and potential presidential candidate in 2008) rolled out the spectre of Vietnam while discussing Iraq.

I'm not sure if the parallel holds up all the way. While things certainly seem to be bogging down and the Iraqi military seems about as trustworthy and committed as the ARVN, American intervention in Vietnam was intended to stop a civil war and halt the spread of an ideology deemed antethical to the development of free societies. In Iraq the opposite seems to be coming true.

I suppose it is like that old joke:

How many Vietnam vets does it take to change a light bulb?
You don't know man! You weren't there!

History Friday On A Monday: George Davis Is Innocent!

A few days late, to be sure, but what would a week be without a History Friday®? This week my friends, hold tight to my hand as we plunge into the grimy depths of the London underworld and the sordid tale of George Davis:


"August 19, 1975: Davis campaigners stop Test match
Campaigners calling for the release of robber George Davis from prison have vandalised the pitch at Headingley cricket ground in Leeds. The walls surrounding the ground were also daubed with the now- familiar slogans demanding the release of Davis, the east London minicab driver jailed for his part in an armed robbery.

The damaged pitch was discovered early on Tuesday by the head groundsman, George Cawthray. Mr Cawthray said: 'When I first saw the damage it did not sink in. I was amazed. I thought I should be able to repair the holes but it was the oil that did the damage.' The campaigners' actions led to the final match between England and Australia on Tuesday being abandoned. It was declared a draw robbing England of the chance to win back the Ashes and the trophy."

Hold it right there a second: that alone, even if he was totally innocent, should have resulted in the life imprisonment of George Davis. Now back to the BBC:

"Detectives are searching for several men believed to have travelled from London to Leeds on Monday. Four police officers from Leeds have travelled to London to assist the Metropolitan police in their investigations.

Davis, 34, who was sentenced to a 20-year term last year, is serving his sentence at Albany Prison on the Isle of Wight. His supporters say he was the victim of mistaken identity and did not take part in a payroll robbery in Ilford, Essex, when a police officer was shot and injured. Since Davis' imprisonment they have organised marches, petitions and fund-raising events to increase public awareness of his case. In May two campaigners - Davis' brothers-in-law Jim and Colin Dean - carried out a seven-hour roof-top protest at St Paul's cathedral in London.

Four people were tried for digging up the pitch at Headingley. Three received suspended sentences but one, Peter Chappell, was jailed for 18 months. After the Headingley incident an internal inquiry was set up to investigation the Metropolitan police's handling of George Davis' case. He was released in May 1976 after Home Secretary Roy Jenkins said there was serious doubt about his identification - which was based on the evidence of two police officers.

However in July 1978 he was jailed for 15 years after pleading guilty to taking part in a bank robbery. Davis was freed in 1984 but three years later he was sentenced to 18-months for attempting to steal mailbags."

Back in 1976 Britain had never seen the like; a furious and sustained campaign to convince the British public and the government of Davis' innocence saw his friends and family engage in acts of civil disobedience like those detailed above. Perhaps the lasting legacy of the Davis case however was in the masses of graffiti daubed by his supporters- almost every railway and road bridge in north east and east London, from the North Circular to the Mile End Road, was painted with the slogan "G. Davis is Innocent".

If I had been aware of the case prior to Davis' arrest for his subsequent robberies I have no doubt that I would have considered him the victim of a miscarriage of justice and would have felt satisfaction at the actions of the government in releasing him. I was only three when George got out of jail the first time however and by the time I was old enough to notice the graffiti old Davis was back inside doing porridge.

The "G. Davis is Innocent" scrawls were indeed a real part of my childhood. My dad was born and raised in the north east corner of London called Walthamstow, where everyone dresses like this, says gor blimey guvnor like good cocker-nees, and eats jellied eels like they are jelly babies. OK, I'm kidding. But Walthamstow was prime "G. Davis is Innocent" country, buting up as it does with both the county of Essex (England's New Jersey, and home of Davis) and the (in)famous East End of the Kray Twins, the fictional Piranha Brothers, and their ilk.

Every time we went to visit my grandparents or had reason to pass under a railway bridge in north London, I begged dad to tell the George Davis story. He was never able to make it through without giggling which of course would set us off in the back seat. We'd then ask for the one about Great Granddad Roly throwing fruit and veg at the local toughs to win the hand of my great grandmother, or of great uncle Ernie hiding from his wife at my grandparent's house after a night of beer and dominoes, or of my wonderfully eccentric grandfather in the aftermath of his war service taking on all comers as the professional wrestler Strangler White (he played a heel).

Both my dad's parents have passed on, and I have yet to take Country Mouse on a pilgrimage to Walthamstow E17, down to the toy shop on Wood Street or around the back of my greatgrandmother's tower bock to Walthamstow Central tube station, or to the Plough for a pint, or down to Manzes' for a pie. In my head though those wonderful nostalgia soaked times run on automatic whenever something takes me back to those odd days of the seventies and early eighties- when England was poorer, shops shut on Sundays, and it never rained in photos of family visits.

So wherever you are George Davis, and regardless if you are innocent or not, cheers mate for reminding me of my urban side, good stories and happy times. And thanks too to your friends for being so handy upside down with a paint brush.

My Dog Just Went To Camp

I promise that is not as horrifically yuppie or "my-dog-is-Mr.-Snuggles- Isn't-he-cute-in his sweater?" as it sounds. Country Mouse's dad, the Very Reverend Liberal Thunderer and his wife The Herbal Bluebird* are up home in Maine from his parish on Cape Cod for a month, using up all that comp time from having to work Sundays by lounging (or rather hiking, boating, etc) about on a lake down east. As is their way, their menagerie (two dogs, two cats, and a rescued parrot named Inca) travel with them. It just so happens that our younger dog Dinah (that's her scrawny arse above) boarded with them at the same camp when we were in England for my mother's wedding last year, and following that visit her two best friends in the world are Kya and Shaloin, the dog component of said menagerie.

Fast forward a year: about a month ago The Very Reverend Liberal Thunderer called and offered to take Dinah up to camp to play with the other two young dogs for a week. Cue much anguished hand-wringing at this end. On the one hand, Di would get to swim, hike, and wrestle all day (and maybe make a macaroni face picture or whatever one does at summer camp), things that elderly dog Bailey (see below) will not do and Country Mouse and me can only do on a work-restricted basis with her. On the other, she is part of our household and the only one who gets deliriously happy to see me every afternoon (Mrs. Weasel is usually happy I think, but she doesn't try and jump into my arms every day at 5:15pm) and will 'sing' "Louie Louie" with me not knowing or caring what I'm doing but rather just enjoying a good howl. Besides, I think I saw an episode of "Nature" that dogs don't like to be separated from their familiar environs etc, etc.

Despite realizing that I was acting like the worst "dog person" in the whole world and indeed, like the parent of a first-time preschooler en route to kindergarden I did actually have a fair amount of mental anguish about this. However I ultimately agreed that Dinah would have a fine time and would come back leaner, fitter, and smellier than ever, so off she went tonight. Her various ragbag toys stayed (nothing like a semi-destroyed tennis ball to spark possessive scraping amongst even the best of beasts) but her green bed and dog house went with her; the former as she seems to be comfortable wherever it is and the latter so that TVRLT can shut her in occasionally to get some respite from the non-stop ear bitin', play-growlin', furniture-hurdlin', tight-circle-runnin' three dog bundle that will be his lot for the next seven days.

It will be a bittersweet week for me with Dinah away (and Country Mouse popping off to the Dolly Parton concert in Portland on Thursday) but I can at least rest easy knowing that whatever happens, Di will be better off than The Random Doubts of Walter Mondale's niece and nephews' guinea pigs.


Bailey tries to join Dinah in hip canine teenager extreme sports, but his heart really isn't in it

*:Jolly good Bluebird Botanicals' concoctions are too, should one be in the market for medicine or soaps, etc.

G'Day Clokeeeey!

Although this story might seem a little stereotypical in regards to our antipodean cousins, it does highlight why I love 'em so. There is no greater supporter of informality between the people's servants and the people who serve the people's servants than me. Good on yer, mates.

"Australian Government Building 'Mate' Ban Recinded
Security guards at Australia's parliament can continue addressing politicians and visitors as "mate", after a ban on the term was reversed.
After a complaint from a civil servant about informality, guards were told to address everyone as "sir" or "madam".

But Prime Minister John Howard said barring the classic Australian greeting was "absurd and ridiculous". With many of his mates in Canberra also up in arms, the official edict was overturned within 24 hours (Read More...)"

Also while down under, those with even the slightest sliver of interest in the mighty Ashes battle being contested by England and Australia's finest cricketers might enjoy this little diversion (courtesy of Jamie Ape), in which one gets to be venerable cricket legend W.G. Grace smacking ockers back to Oz with a drive through covers.

Toodle pip.

Farsi Fission Freakout

WEASEL UNIVERSITY ONLINE: THE PERSIAN PROBLEM, OR JUST WHERE ARE THOSE IRANIAN MISSILES GOING TO BE POINTED?
Sit down class. Question one: why are the Iranians allegedly chasing a nuclear bomb? No Bush the Younger, not because they are 'evildoers'- you haven't been paying attention at all these past four years, have you? Well, for all of you who want to know more about the subject but don't have the time to wade through acres of paper or megabytes of websites, Professor Wisdom W. Weasel is here with his own highly speculative and mildly researched Q&A on the Iranian nuclear program. Read on at your own peril.

Q. Why is your map funny colors?
A. Because good maps that show the specific part of the world we are talking about are hard to pinch off the net.

Q. So why this map then?
A. Well, if you look in the bottom left-center, you'll find Iran. Look left and there's Iraq. Further left but off the map is nuclear armed Israel. To the right is Afghanistan and to the north the former central asian republics of the old Soviet Union. Further to the right of the map are three nuclear armed powers; Pakistan, India, and China. To the north is nuclear armed Russia, but you have to get through Chechnya and a couple of other unstable crazy towns to get there. Oh, and not shown on the map but stradling northern Iran, Iraq, and Turkey are the largest ethnic group in the world without a dedicated country, the Kurds.

Q. So what?
A. Well, the key to understanding Iran's desire to become a nuclear power can be found in the geo-political situation it finds itself in. Hence the map.

Q. Gigga-wha?
A. No, geo-politics. What makes Iran unique?

Q. Now you are asking me questions?
A. Yes.

Q. The wine 'Chardonnay' is named after its former king?
A. Nice guess, but wrong spelling of 'shah'. No, Iran is the only majority shia muslim country in the world governed by members of that sect. Iraq is majority shia, but should they ever finish writing a constitution in that poor, benightened country the shia will most likely have been pressured into playing nice with their kurdish and sunni compatriots resulting in a tripartate government structure about as stable as the one enshrined in the Lebanese constitution (but that's another Q&A).

Q. Big whupp.
A. Sarcasm does not suit you. Iran has a justifiable degree of paranoia about being surrounded by sunni dominated countries, given that no less an authority than the wahabbi sect of sunni Islam that predominates in our 'ally' Saudi Arabia, the Pakistani military intelligence arm, and Al Qadea condemns shi'ites as apostates. Between the 16th and the mid 18th century England faced similar challenges and fears as the most prominent Protestant nation adrift on a sea of militant and armed Catholicism, so the world has seen this kind of thing before.

Q. So the Iranians want nukes to protect themselves from the sunnis?
A. In part, but that would be too easy and explanation.

Q. -Groan-
A. Iran is on the periphery of the upcoming superpower tug-of-war of the 21st Century-

Q. The USA and China?
A. Actually, China and India. Now bitter economic rivals, with ideological differences in spades, India and China have already had a couple of shooting run-ins up around their shared border (back in the 60s or 70s China siezed control of a chunk of disputed territory from India; a sub-continental Alsace-Lorraine a la France's beef with Germany from 1870 to 1918). Both seek to be the voice of Asia in this new century and have aspirations to punch in their weight class in international institutions. China's concerns about India run deep- to the extent of maintaining a strategic relationship with India's blood enemy Pakistan (Pakistani arms shipments into their 'strategic depth' neighbor Afghanistan during the war with the Soviets ran along the 'Sino-Pak' highway over Chinese laid asphalt. The Pakistani military supported the Afghan muj for religious, ethnic, and security reasons; the Soviets were arming India, the muj trained Kashmiri militants to bleed India, and a stable, fundamentalist Afghanistan ruled by Pakistan's Pashtun kin gave Islamabad room to retreat and still fight if attacked by Indian conventional forces. This is why Pakistan backed the horrifically stabilizing Taleaban). India and China are nuclear powers, as is China's potential ally Pakistan.

Q. So Iran wants nukes in order to join the aspirant superpower dance?
A. Well, maybe. But more likely its in order to force its eastern neighbors to think about Iran when carving up the map and before they decide to throw their weight around like European powers in the late 19th century. For some reason the mullahs believe that Iran, its oil, and its quirky version of islam will be at risk should China and India start jockeying for position, or should Pakistan's current government be replaced by sunni extremists, or should the Taleaban continue their rebirth.

Q. But isn't Iran an extremist supporter of terrorism? What do they have to fear from other islamic extremists?
A. Undoubtedly. But the weird thing is- and I never thought I'd have to say this kind of thing- a state sponsor of terrorism is a much less dangerous beast than an ideological franchise like Al Qadea. Along with spreading the islamic revolution laid out by Kohmeni (more akin actually to Stalin's 'Socialism in One Country' concept than the internationalism of Leon Trotsky), the mullahs have a country to run, an economy to grow, and a population to keep quiet. To the latter end, a nuclear program appeals to Iranian nationalism and deflects attention from internal woes onto external enemies, but the post-Shah Iran is a mature society lacking the white heat of revolution (their war with Iraq put paid to much of that). Like everywhere else, Iranians are more concerned with their economic well being than with continuously emulating the prophet's march on Mecca. With my suposition that their desire to aquire nuclear weapons is a form of insurance, I dont see them giving a suitcase nuke to their proxy Hizbollah to use on Israel or America- something tells me that Tehran would be vaporized in response. Non-state actors like bin Laden don't have those worries. Also, when you operate out of a cave paying for things from your own private fortune you can expend energy on multiple enemies- the USA, Europe, Israel, and those you consider deviants from your own religion. Now, bin Laden wouldn't worry about an Iranian nuclear strike, but the governments or tribal leaders who shelter him most certainly would.

Q. So you are suggesting that an nuclear armed Iran would make us safer from Al Qadea?
A. Not for a second. But the Iranian government believes it would make them safer from a multitude of threats, That they believe that doesn't make them right, but nobody said world leaders had a monopoly on clear headed rationalism.

Q. What about the threat to us or to Israel?
A. First, I refer you to the last but one answer. They could try to hit Israel, but won't for the same reason the Soviets never nuked us- MAD. Also, the Iranians lack a suitable delivery system to hit the USA, or even Europe. Like Iraq, the best they will be able to muster is a homegrown variant on the Scud, or some piece of shoddy North Korean or Chinese missile kit. Do you think a North Korean missile delivery technology is going to make it undetected through the espionage cordon around the penninsula? China could be a problem- they need access to oil and might be induced to trade. But should an Iranian missile be seen atop a Chinese delivery system in a parade or spy-photo be prepared for a distinct cooling of cooperation economically and over Taiwan, China's priority number one. As for weakening our interests and friends, the Iranians have pretty much had a free ride for their proxy terrorism since the eighties (in Lebanon, Kofar Towers, Hizbollah, hijackings, etc) and have calmed things down since the end of the first Iraq War. As for Iraq itself, the Iranians don't need nukes- they have a carefully built and deep running connection with significant elements of the shia majority that means they can conduct policy subtly and through third parties in order to try and look out for their interests.

Q. So why are we freaked out?
A. Because any new country getting nukes is a serious issue. Things go wrong; coups happen. And limiting nukes is generally considered to be a good idea. Besides (and can you really claim to be surprised?) Iran appears to be talking out of both sides of its mouth claiming to negotiate to the outside world while telling Iranians it was only playing for time; suggesting that the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei issued anti-nuclear weapons fatwas and loudly protesting their innocence while not really offering any convincing reasons as to why they need nuclear power.

Q. So what can we do? Are we going to go to war with Iran?
A. Part one of your question- there is a real case for the USA to step back and to pressure China into using its economic leverage and assumed regional clout (given their increasing economic relationship with Iran and their energy resources; relationships the USA chose to forgo through sanctions. Additionally, the Chinese aren't seen as responsible for maintaining the repressive regime of the Shah for decades. Imagine the British asking George Washington to not to build warships in the aftermath of the American Revolution while calling him an evil arsehole and you can imagine how well received American overtures are in Terhan. Notice they called America alone the "Great Satan", not western culture in general). Indeed, this week's The Economist suggests the very same thing, with the added bonus that a nuclear negotiator China could probably squeeze North Korea. As for part two, it all depends on what those maniacs in the Bush Administration had for breakfast.

Q. Is that it then?
A. I guess- you are the one asking the questions. Are you done?

Yeah, Sportscenter is on.

Professor Wisdom W. Weasel welcomes further questions and peer review (especially by his esteemed colleague Brooklyn Jim). That is if you read this far, you ADHD sport obsessed, insular bastards. Elk nipples! Just checking to see if you made it to the bottom

Gratuitous Self Promotion II

The English football season is back underway, and with it comes the revivification of my occasional column over at NY Canaries, the United States wing of the sad and deluded Norwich City FC fan army. Following the disappointments of last season, Norwich find themselves out of the Premiership and back in the Championship (thanks to the mobility between our equivalents of MLB and AAA) and so this year could promise more wins than last, as well as the positive excitement of a promotion race rather than the nail biting crappiness of a relegation battle (although Norwich has started off with three 1-1 draws; hardly sizzling stuff). My first column of the new season can be found here:
Yellow Canary Down

For those of you bored stupid with the prospect of even more sub-par sports writing obsessed with narrow base esoterica, I did score the front page of the August Bar Harbor Squash writing as Elvis Parsley, one of my 10,000 pseudonyms (and the one most associated with Bar Harbor, Acadia National Park, and Mount Desert Island) for a childish display of lashing out at tourists (but it is so deeply cathartic).

Country Wedding

Country Mouse and I have just had a splendid weekend thanks in most part to the wedding of Chase and Sarah (college friends of CM) over in Wayne, Maine. The wedding was actually in North Wayne, a hamlet too small even for epodunk.com to have an entry for but you get the general idea.

CM's paternal grandmother's family was from Wayne so en route for the wedding we stopped by the Wing Ring Cemetery (just to the left of the "L" in "Pocasset Lake") to visit her and Burr (her grandfather), leaving a blue jay feather for them. I was able to combat my unease over being in a cemetery (ancient folk memories run deep even for English atheists) by reminding myself that all the headstones around us were her family and thus should my views on the afterlife be spectacularly disproved on a sunny Saturday afternoon the resulting spectres would be unlikely to do us any harm. I have to say I really enjoy those moments when I am reminded of Country Mouse's deep roots in this state. I know we all have ancestors that date back to the 1600s and beyond, but to see them all physically represented the way they are in the Wing Ring (so named for its circular shape) and then to turn to my left and see their extant descendent appeals deeply to the historian within. It helps that said descendent is wicked cute too. Oddly, we saw that one of the graves in CM's eternal family potluck bore the same last name as that afternoon's groom. Given that his family is as North Wayne as it comes it was no real surprise, but it made me wonder once again if everyone with rich Maine genes really are distantly related to one another.

Back to the wedding. It was one of those interior Maine hotter-than-heck August afternoons and the air was still thick from the thunderstorms of the night before. Everyone parked in a recently brush-hogged field next to Chase's parents' house; all the men in fairly smart shorts and open collared shirts, all the women in summer dresses and sandals as they hopped down from trucks and cars to mill about on the side of the road. Colin arrived with his kegerator and I made it over just in time to not be of any help in carrying it from his truck to the outdoor bar. We were just getting the beer lines hooked up when the church bells began to ring, so we joined our girls and wandered with the rest of the guests the 10th of a mile to the Methodist Church.

Inside it must have been 110 degrees but the ideosyncratic organist kept everyone distracted from the heat by some highly individual interpretations of church music including "Here Comes The Bride (Extended Remix)". Even in our summer clothes the guests sweated and dripped through the brief and jocular ceremony and it was with both happiness for the newlyweds and with anticipation of a cold brew and a jump in the lake that the minister's blessing was recieved.

Back at Chase's parent's garden the beer was flowing after a fashion (Colin was baffled by the rather suds heavy output and I found myself being his pitcher assistant, exchanging empty jugs for full as somehow we had wound up serving all the guests beer at the theoretically self-serve Kegerator). Old friendships were renewed, new ones minted, and the official photographer had the brilliant idea of snapping pictures of the multitude of tattoos on the guests (a mixture of hippies, ecologists, lefties and old school Mainers) for a special bride and groom scrapbook. CM's morrigan between her shoulder blades made it in while I kept kicking myself for putting off my inevitable Maine right-of-passage inking (for the curious, the planned order of my tattoos are as follows: small owl on left chest or upper shoulder, the badge of Clan Gunn on my left bicep, and a jolly roger on my right bicep).

I was talking to the Philadelphia native boyfriend of an old pal, up on his first visit to Maine, and he remarked happily how relaxed and informal the wedding appeared to be. I suppose I've been here a long time, and most of the weddings I've attended have been in Maine, but until he mentioned this I hadn't noticed (his remarks made me decide to post this tonight). I guess it was a pretty chill affair, with guests popping across the road to slip out of their wedding togs, into their swimming costumes and into Pocasset Lake (I didn't think to bring a towel or trunks otherwise I'd have been in there like a shot. It was so damn hot!) and then wandering back to the reception to grab a drink and a slice from one of the six wedding cakes (all the aunts had been asked to contibute their variation on carrot cake). Maybe it was the outstanding temporary outhouse (a two holer with a hand sink, electric light, mirror and a seperate external urinal with privacy shield) that was one of the main topics of admiring comment (it was spectacular), or Chase's home-made rum slurpee machine, or the customized rummage sale plates we ate off and were encouraged to take home as a momento. Personally, I think it was the general bonhomie of Chase, Sarah, and their families that made the day so perfect for them and their guests.

Country Mouse and I are to be married next May in what we hope will be a similar affair (more than a couple of the guests from yesterday will be at ours so the omens for crowd ambience are good). Along with visually measuring the tent and counting tables and chairs (and having Chase and Sarah offer to pass on their cake hardware- thanks guys) I think we took away some of the great spirit of the North Wayne wedding, which can only mean good things for the Weasel-Country Mouse nuptials.

Mondale Has Powers Beyond Our Comprehension

My dear and almost oldest pal Alex (aka Walter Mondale) is currently disporting himself in the fair county of Norfolk in our native land of The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Island, Overseas Territories, Crown Possessions and Dependencies (Inc). During his visit two rather cool things have happened with regards to Norfolk's native fauna, which I shall reproduce in brief below.

First, for the edification of Country Mouse:

"Successful season for barn owls
Barn owls are thriving in Britain because of a good supply of the food they live on, say wildlife experts.

The birds' progress is followed by the British Trust for Ornithology-led Barn Owl Monitoring Programme. Initial reports showed prolific sites were in Sussex, Hampshire, Devon, North Lincolnshire and Salisbury Plain. East Anglia, Northamptonshire, parts of the East Midlands, Nottinghamshire, East Yorkshire, Cumbria and the Solway Plain were also successful areas.

Colin Shawyer, from the Wildlife Conservation Partnership, said: "These are the earliest egg-laying dates we have seen in 20 years of barn owl recording in Britain. Most clutches were started in the first week of April, over two weeks earlier than average."...(read more)

And courtesy of both the BBC website and my dad's sharp eye:

"Frog with Norfolk accent returns
A frog species which had a distinct Norfolk accent, but which became extinct in England in the 1990s is being reintroduced. About 70 northern pool frogs - one of Europe's rarest species - will be reintroduced to Norfolk by English Nature and partners on Friday.

The frog was thought to be a European import, but researchers have now found they are native to East Anglia.

Recordings of mating Norfolk frogs show they had a characteristic inflection."(read more)

As in "cum orn mawther, les' get orl sexy daaarlin. Wudyuh mean werin public? Blust yew! Thus is a three sided bus shelter so gorn get yer knickers orf and stop yer rorplin'!" Or is that the characteristic inflection of the Norfolk rural male homo sapiens? No matter.

Anyway, both of these things have been observed while Alex is over there buggering about on tractors, boats, and in saloon bars. And England are doing jolly well in the cricket. No coincidence, surely?

Fly The Friendly Skies

Just when it was assumed that the United States had the monopoly on gun toting crazed octagenarians along comes France to disprove such lazy shorthand:

France nabs gun-toting pensioner
"An 81-year-old Frenchman has been given a one-year suspended jail sentence for firing a hunting rifle at helicopters dropping water on a forest blaze.
David Thiel opened fire on 21 July when the low-flying helicopters disturbed his afternoon nap near Grasse in the south of France, court sources said.

During his arrest the man swore at the policemen and hit them with saucepans."
(Read more...)

I can only dream of being that surly when I'm that age.

Who Is She? Where Am I?

Firstly, I'd like to thank all of you how entered the great "Name Mrs. Weasel" contest. After entries closed on Friday, I copied them all onto a sheet of legal paper and presented them to Mrs. Weasel without names attached. She reviewed her options (including a late entry by me, borrowing "Cheesus Crust" from Darrell Hammond's Donald Trump impersonation on Saturday Night Live) and decided that while they were all very good she was going to go with one of her own, namely "Country Mouse" in emulation of the nickname bestowed by Howard Hughes on Katherine Hepburn (I always tell Mrs. W that with her elegantly drawled New England vowels, classy poise, and willowy height she reminds me of the Philadelphia Story era KH. She who must be obyed has just come in and points out that Katherine Hepburn is "sassy and takes no guff" too). To all the entrants, congratulations, well done, and unfortunately we cannot return your entries as none of you sent them with a stamped, addressed envelope.

Now, onto something interactive and fun.


Mrs. Weasel- I'm sorry- Country Mouse came home the other day with the baffling news that she was apparently destined to live in Arkansas. When pressed further, she claimed that she had been told to move to the Razorback State by a website that offered a survey of your personal living situation preferences and then calculated the best places for you to live in the United States. I figured the Arkansas economic development people had a hand in determining her results (she is the consumate small-y yankee for goodness' sake, despite claiming descent from Jefferson Davis) but she admitted that her frankly un-Mainer-like detestation of cold weather influenced her answers. The only thing I could do was try the quiz myself, with the inevitable results that we apparently don't share a common locale aspiration outside of Northern California (its just so west coast over there).

I wasn't surprised; she dreams of vacationing in the Carribean while I hanker after the glaciers of Iceland. She wants to learn how to surf; I'm just getting into skiing. When the mercury climbs above 80 I become as irritable as Andy Rooney or Jeremy Paxman (just covering my tranatlantic bases) but when it is dark at 4pm Country Mouse begins to slump. Sunday afternoon sunshine means the beach to her, a solar topee and a beer vat full of factor 30 sunblock for me (the results without sunblock are a horrifc purple visage for me. Still, a compromise will be found, I have no doubt, even if it means we move to Humboldt County.

Should you want to find out where you are supposed to be, here are two quiz options:
Find Your Spot (who recommended that I move to Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts and the more urban:
Find Your Best Place who recommended I move to Long Island.

I'll be interested to see if anyone lives where they are supposed to.

The Naming Contest May Be Back On

After the Denise Eckersley bombshell (see below) Mrs. W had this to say:

"I would hate to cause Eck any harm by bringing up sore memories so perhaps I should stop the name change process. Denise is a lame name anyway. It seemed way funnier last night when it was just us but now that it's out there in the blogosphere...?"

OK, name Mrs. Weasel. Best effort wins a candy bar but be warned; your suggestion may not necessarily be adopted (she has definite views on image control).

Mrs. Weasel Emerges From The Shadows

My divine consort Mrs. Weasel had long grumbled that given the nomenclature deployed on this blog she appears only as a mere apendage of me; "Weasel" with a "Mrs." added. We have toyed with the idea of holding a contest among you all, as in "Provide a Better Psuedonym For Mrs. Weasel, Win a Prize" but last night NESN's post game baseball coverage provided her with the inspiration to create a monkier for herself.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am very proud to present, president of the Dennis Eckersley Fan Club, Denise Eckersley!

Say what you like about the Eck, you can't deny he's had a consistent look:


PS: Further research after this piece was originally posted reveals that the Eck's first wife was actually called "Denise". As ESPN notes:
"That same day, March 30, Eckersley's first wife, Denise, told him she wanted a divorce; she had become romantically involved with Eckersley's Cleveland teammate Rick Manning. The two later married."
Weird.

And to make things even stranger, the following seemingly coincidental question was asked in the British House of Commons on January 18, 2001:
"Denise Eckersley:
Mr. Hilary Benn: To ask the Secretary of State for the Home Department when he expects to reach a decision on the West Yorkshire Coroner's request for an order to be issued to allow an inquest to be held into the death of Denise Eckersley. [146103]

Mr. Boateng: An order was issued on 10 January."

Weirder and weirder.