Briefly Noted...

Headline on MSN Sports today:

Texans Insulted by Bush Talk

False alarm. The Lone Star State hasn't turned its back on it's favorite Connecticut carpetbagger George W, triggering a regime collapse of a magnitude unseen since the Romanian Army turned its guns on Ceauşescu back in 1989. Its a football story, about how the Houston Texans resent talk about Reggie Bush (no relation) joining their team next season. Even so, shame on you MSN for giving us such a brief moment of hope so cruelly dashed.

Meanwhile over in Britain, one of my compatriots loves New Years Eve so much he has decided to made himself over for the evening:

"Mark Davis, 31 from Pontypool, south Wales, of Newport Transport, spent the festive season with a fully-decorated fir tree woven into his hair. His new look sees him with a fully-functioning disco ball on his head, with "2006" shaven into his hair. (the rest, plus photo, here)."

Mr. Davis notes: ""I haven't had one miserable comment." You have now. When someone feels compelled to say "I'm going to go even madder for the rest of the year" it usually means that they won't. Next year take it a step further; dress up in a full Christmas tree/disco ball suit and run a marathon. We'll see who is laughing "madder" then. WHAT? Oh, come on! It's an act on my part- I'm only playing cumudgeonly for contrasting effect!

Finally, a word on Meaners. There are two types of people born and raised in Maine; Mainers and Meaners. Mainers can be a little crusty and bluff but once you get past their salty carapace and overpowering spruce scent they are generally lovely folks. Meaners on the other hand are snarling, grizzled tubs of piss and vinegar who show up early to yard sales desite the "no early birds!" sign and hate everyone whose predecessors had the immagination and gumption to either leave or move to the Meaners home town.

Meanerism manifests itself in many forms, most often in town office/citizen interactions (lots of Meaners become town clerks, code enforcement officers etc), the retail environment (usually at the local hardware store you are trying to help keep alive in the face of Home Depot), and in the kitchen at bean suppers.

I was reminded of the presence of Meaners among us by two things this week. The first was a failed attempt by Country Mouse to buy wood screws at a local independent home improvement store, apparently from Mama Fratelli from the movie Goonies. The other was a radio report; a heartwarming story about kids at a New Hampshire high school on the border with Maine raising money in order to travel to New Orleans during February break in order to help rebuild schools devastated by Hurricane Katrina. The kids are going to give up their vacation and are currently working hard to make their trip a reality, but the news anchor closed the story by saying "the school's principal wants to emphasize that under no circumstances will the students be allowed to participate in any Mardi Gras activities".

You see? That was put in for the Meaners! Any hint of the kids kicking back would have seen letters to the paper and attempts to derail the project by pursed-lipped matrons. Its not enough that these kids should volunteer to help others but they should be denied all fun while doing it. If the Meaners have to be cold and miserable during a Maine winter, damn straight anyone who travels outside the state should be too. No Shirley Temples or virgin daquiris out of big silly plastic goblets for you! No fun parade watching or bead catching, you little bastards! Work! Work in the hot sun and suffer! MEANERS! You want to kick back at a casino? Go to Connecticut cause you ain't getting one here- MEANERS! You want to play music after 11pm one night of the year, at the ACS Relay for Life at the high school track to help keep the funraisers walking and motivated? Too bad, we are calling the police to shut it down- MEANERS! Want a state bond to finance further education? No, we don't hold with book learnin'- MEANERS!

All I'm saying is that you Meaners will get yours, you damn dirty apes.

A typical Meaner, photographed earlier today taking a break from kicking in kids' snowmen and writing Letters To The Editor about how much better it was before he was born

Ahhhh, What A Good Christmas!

For Christmas the dogs wanted spooky alien eye contact lenses. Those kooky canines! (Dogs sitting in profile pose courtesy of lovable Ned's Dessicated Liver Treats). I suppose I could have straightened out the blinds.
Country Mouse and I had a wonderful Christmas; I hope everybody else had a splendid time at whatever level and for whatever reason they celebrate. It was great to hang out with CM's family and essentially laugh my bum off for four days, eat lobsters and Chinese food, and generally relax cocooned from the outside world for a while.

The fun and thoughtful nature of Christmas with the Country Mice can be made emblematic for me by one gift I received from future-mother-in-law and her fellah The Flaming Arrow:
Not only is it (or rather was it- burp) beer, but it's organic, traditional beer from my home region of East Anglia (Bungay on the Norfolk/Suffolk border, where I almost went to secondary school at Bungay Cathedral School, spared only by my limited potential as a choir boy). As soon as I got home on Christmas night it was off with the crown cork, into a glass, and down the neck slowly, each sip savored and enjoyed with geeky rapture. St Peter's Organic Ale (exported to the States as St Peter's English Ale): two thumbs up from the Weasel.

What is more, given that it was bought not 15 miles fom where Country Mouse and I are getting married in May my wheels got turning and I tracked down the Maine distributor. Low and behold, the distributor (Central, of Lewiston) also carry Black Sheep that was such a hit at my brother's wedding AND are suppliers to my liquor biz contact. Along with a good sampling of locally brewed beer I think that Country Mouse's insistence on quality rather than quantity will really bear fruit on the brewski front.

On a seperate topic, spare a thought for that psychotic Albanian raisin in a whimple Mother Teresa, whose ego compelled her to return to earth in pastry form. Alas, her familiar has been stolen from a store in Nashville: Christmas thief steals 'Nun Bun'.

Merry Christmas

Don't mind Saddam Claus; he's just sore because instead of milk and cookies (or in English homes, a mince pie and a hefty belt of brandy) he got an ass-whuppin' from the Arkansas National Guard. But we are not here today to discuss politics and world affairs- no! Instead, let me from the bottom of my Weasel heart wish you a merry christmas, happy hanukkah, or best wishes for whatever holiday you chose to commemorate or use as an excuse for time off work and visits with family. One more day of work (Thursday) and then on Friday Country Mouse and I will be loading the dogs into the charabanc and pootling off all over hell and creation in pursuit of relatives and (hopefully) keeping ahead of various predicted snow and rain storms. Normal ranting will be resumed Tuesday or Wednesday of next week.

One thing however. Like many of you I have noticed a couple of trends this year, stronger than in years previous. One is from the right, bemoaning the removal of Christ from Christmas (not coincidentally a campaign taken up with intense vigor by Fox News after one of their presenters wrote a book on the subject this year that needed a shove up the Amazon listings). The other is from the left, wailing and gnashing teeth about the horrendous commercialization of Christmas (because we all have guns to our temples forcing us to shop and watch Frosty II: This Time Its Personal). Some of the religious wrong have gone so far as to suggest that stores that are having "Holiday Sales" rather than "Christmas Sales" should be boycotted, as we all know Jesus ultimately wanted retailers to flog crap mde in China in his name rather than in honor of a non-specific "holiday". Meanwhile, my fellow lefties have been long on having a good bemoan (oh, how we lefties love a good bemoan) and short of alternatives.

For those of you who, regardless of how you align yourself with in the culture war, feel Christmas is lacking a little, well, Christmas spirit; might I suggest forgoing that reissue of the Chronicles of Narnia released to cash in on the movie buzz or that subscription to the Nation that confirms that smart angry people feel like you do and instead sling a few bucks in the direction of this?

It will make you feel good, I promise.

At Least It Ain't Pinstripe Manny.

Johnny Damon (holding shoulder medication and still wearing his wedding shirt) ponders the true value of 40 pieces of silver: "$52 million over four years? That's like 52,000 dollar bills!"

Zip it,all of you. I'm not going to comment, but instead I hand you over to Mr. Rod Stewart:

If I stand all alone, will the shadow hide the color of my heart;
Blue for the tears, black for the night’s fears.
The star in the sky don’t mean nothin’ to you, they’re a mirror.
I don’t want to talk about it, how you broke my heart.
(and for those of you wondering what the deal is, Red Sox outfielder and cultural rallying point of recent years Johnny Damon is whoring himself out to the New York Yankees. Rabid fan reaction here).

IMPORTANT ADDENDUM: Credit where credit is due. I should point out that Listmaker (in Danny Baseball mode) called this on July 31, 2005 while halfway through the Sea Dogs/Fisher Cats game at Hadlock Stadium, Portland, Maine.

Taa-Daaa!

Some of you may have noticed that my profile image is changed- gone is the picture of the ale sipping Michael Elphick as Jake the poacher from Withnail and I at the request of Country Mouse who to be fair has always found it slightly icky and reprobate. Why would I change the photo on my blog to suit the whims of Country Mouse? Well for one thing its only nice to heed the wishes of your intended, and secondly because we are happy to announce the launch of a joint blog venture chronicling our other great joint venture, our impending wedding.

Ladies and gentlemen, As You Wish.

Spam

I don't know how spam emails get their subject lines: random combinations of words, or some psychological analysis of words likely to make the unwary to open them perhaps. All I know is that the spam message that just zipped through my mail box on its way to the junk mail folder had my favorite spam title ever:

Waterfowl Ownership

I was almost tempted to open it out of sympathy with the great name.

Its The Most Wonderful Time of The Lists..

As the new year approaches the world turns into one big compiler of lists. All the newspapers, TV shows, and so on are falling over themselves with present recommendations, reprospectives of all sorts, and the best of the best compendiums. Our little corner of the blogosphere is not exempt, with M!key down under bewailing in bullet points his current fate, J Edward Keyes helping out with the Christmas shopping, Bri at Unwellness inviting you to try your hand at a list of your own, her husband Wes at Coveting maintaining an ongoing 365 day-a-year list of yearning, Mondale stepping up with a photo list, and Mitch over at Handwashings providing a tour de force review of a life in smelly building dwelling-gum rating-marathon running chap. We of course await Listmaker's entry into the field.

I wasn't going to do a year-in-review, list and recap entry but Country Mouse, the lovely Mrs Weasel herself, came home clutching a slip of paper one night last week from the small arthouse cinema she runs. As is typical of movie people (she is also a fresh-faced, struggling documentarian and sound engineer for hire) she has apparently decline to name an unequivocal "best movie"- lest she limit any future gigs I suspect (I imagine you can guess her favorite from the nominations below). So without any further ado, I humbly present Country Mouse's 2005 Movie Awards:

Best Cinematography: Tie: The Constant Gardener (narrative), Deep Blue (doc).

Best Editing: The Constant Gardener.

Best Sountrack: Tie: The Constant Gardener, Everything is Illuminated.

Best Documentary: Murderball.

Best Actor: Bruno Ganz in Downfall.

Best Actress:: (Ominously empty- Weasel).

Supporting Actor: Eugene Hutz, Everything is Illuminated.

Supporting Actress: Amy Adams, Junebug.

Best Nick Nolte Film, 2005: Beautiful Country.

Best Writing: Crash.

Best Scenery: Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress.

Best Drama Based on a True Story Set in Minnesota: North Country.

Best Quirky Performance Art Piece Turned into a Movie: Me and You and Everyone We Know.

Best Cute Kids With Accents Movie: Tie: Millions (narrative), Mad Hot Ballroom (doc).

Let the arguing and kevetching commence.

Story of my Effin' Life

This was my twenties, and the early years of my thirties:




I should probably change my lifestyle if I am to fit into my kilt for the wedding:
Goodbye, 30 lbs by May.

Please consider this, by the way, a tickler for the upcoming nuptial online presence.

Briefly Noted...

This is just plain creepy. Thanks be to Listmaker for revealing I lead a Connor McLeod existence. Weasel, there can be only one.

Also, Country Mouse would like me to advise all dog owners out there that grapes and raisins are highly toxic to dawgs. Apparently a local dog was laid low by a raisin recently and research shows this to be true. Who knew? Other seemingly innocuous but horrible grub can be found here.

What I'd Like For Christmas

If you want to all go in together, I'd love one of these. Ordering details can be found here somewhere.

They are good in the snow, could probably be converted to bio-diesel, and would allow me to be like Donald Sutherland in Kelly's Heroes. I wonder if Country Mouse would let me add this to the wedding registry?

Back to Normal

England collapse to record defeat

I knew the Ashes series was too good to be true. We must also factor in that England's professional athletes, skillful as they may be, don't travel well as abroad is full of "foreigners" and the food is "foreign muck". After Graham Gooch infamously blamed the curry for a particularly heavy defeat on one of the India tours of the early nineties, English cricket followers have tended to write off trips to the subcontinent as lost causes, and with good reason this time:
England equalled their heaviest defeat ever with a 165-run loss in the third one-day game against Pakistan...

Strange Parallels

No, not that sort of extraordinary rendition.

Better qualified minds than me have been weighing in these past couple of weeks on the legality or otherwise of "extraordinary rendition" (the abduction of 'persons of interest' by the CIA in foreign parts for delivery to a third country for interrogation and allegedly sometimes torture) but I will say I am at a loss to see much difference between this:

Probe into CIA prisoner flights
An influential group of MPs is to investigate claims that CIA planes have been touching down at British airfields carrying terrorist suspects...The CIA's controversial "extraordinary rendition" programme involves removing suspects without court approval to third party countries....

And this:

North Korea confesses to kidnappings
Not many people can claim to have spent much time with the enigmatic North Korean leader, Kim Jong-il. But South Korean film director Shin Sang-ok and his wife, Choe Eun-hui, have that dubious distinction...."Kim Jong-il later confessed to me that the reason he kidnapped my wife first was because he wanted me to come and make films for him," Shin Sang-ok said....

OK, one country wanted their captives to remake Rambo while the other prefers to water-board them but the lack of legal niceties in both cases ring a familiar bell.

The best bit about the North Korea story is that after the couple escaped:
Kim Jong-il became convinced that the couple had been kidnapped by the Americans, and sent them a message offering to help them get them back to Pyongyang.

No chance. the Americans would have kidnapped the wrong couple and held them for months before dropping them off on a mountain telling them "this never happened."

Jeremiahs

Doomed, Aye, We're All Doomed.
Have you ever wondered why on earth anybody would get into a train carriage, hotel, country house, or even the same town as Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher*? everywhere these female sleuths would go, people would drop dead in the most grizzly manner and disasters would befall entire communities but no finger of suspicion was ever pointed at either lady, nor did any harm befall them personally. It was the strangest thing. Now an accumulation of circumstatial evidence suggests that my family would make excellent detectives from St Mary Mead or Cabot Cove; sewing the seeds of destruction by their mere presence in the general chronological and geographic vicinity of doom while avoiding injury themselves.

A selection of the evidence:

1973: My cousin Jim and I are born two weeks apart. 4 months later, the Yom Kippur war starts.

1974: My parents move to Cyprus. 6 months later the Turkish army invades, and a war ensues that resulted in a divided island. The division persists to this very day.

1975: Jehovah's Witnesses claimed that Armageddon would happen in 1975 and many of them sold their houses and businesses to prepare for the new world of paradise on earth which they believe will exist when Jesus comes back. The day after Christmas my brother is born and proves a disappointment to an entire religion.

December 12, 1988: Britain's deadliest train crash to date happens at Clapham Junction in South London. My parents, who rode that train everyday to work, are away on vacation.

July 7, 2005: Islamist terrorists strike the public transport system at several points around Kings Cross station, London, the terminus my parents pass through everyday on their way to work. Dad went in early: mum had the day off.

October 1, 2005: My mother and her husband Mark, visiting friends in Malaysia, take a side trip to Bali. A week later suicide bombers attack bars on the island.

October 29, 2005: A week after my cousin Jim shopped there, a bomb destroys a market in Delhi.

December 7, 2005: I post the infamous moustache picture, causing the biggest outbreak of global vomiting since the epidemic of the Norwalk Virus aboard cruise ships in 2002. Truly a day that will live in infamy.

December 11, 2005: Europe's biggest explosion and fire since 1945 rips through the fuel storage depot at Buncefield, just outside Hemel Hemstead in Herfordshire. My parents live 8 and 10 miles away from the the depot respectively.

It appears that the pace of disaster is accelerating. Not to be alarmist or anything, but anyone planning to attend the Weasel/Country Mouse nuptuials (where the biggest concentration of my relatives for quite a while is expected) might want to check that they have adequate life insurance.

(*Both played by Angela Lansbury in her long career. Perhaps she is the angel of death?)

Buncefield Burns On...

Smoke from the burning fuel depot spreads over London....

...southward along the M1, Britain's main artery....

..and out over the toney and agreeable comuter-belt towns of Hertfordshire. Hey! I can see dad's house from here! And mum's apartment building- no truth to the rumour that all that smoke is mum and Mark having a ciggie on the balcony.

(All photos via the BBC)

Crikey!

At about 6am GMT this morning, the Buncefield fuel depot near Hemel Hempstead in England blew up. First I heard of it was when I called Dad (who lives about 8 miles away from Hemel) to let him know the Christmas presents had arrived. Like all good Brits he is having an outpouring of the old Blitz Spirit, watching the night sky at noon caused by billowing smoke, and attempting to roast a chicken on a brick in the oven. We did briefly discuss the practicality of him digging out his old gas mask from the shed, but the filters were last checked in 1986 and it might send the wrong message to walk about with a respirator on while my sisters and Mrs. Dad have to make do with handkerchiefs over their noses. I have yet to call Mother but I hope she didn't have any washing out.

As the BBC puts it:
A fire is continuing to blaze at a fuel depot in Hertfordshire after a series of large explosions sent black smoke drifting across south-east England.
Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott has visited the scene of the blasts which injured 43 people, two seriously.

A fire chief described the incident at the Buncefield fuel depot near Hemel Hempstead, after 0600 GMT, as possibly the largest in peacetime Europe.

The fire, which police believe was an accident, could burn for another day. In total, 20 petrol tanks were involved, each said to hold three million gallons of fuel.

Many houses have been damaged, with some reporting feeling effects from the explosion as far away as Oxfordshire - while it was heard in a number of counties and even France and the Netherlands. (the full story & pictures.)

Dad, who had been out to the bakery to pick up breakfast not long after the explosion (which he had initially taken to be a small earthquake; rare, but not unknown) also reports the second modern reaction to adverse events after looking for a reporter to talk to- car owners rushing to fill up lest supply be disrupted. For all the British sneering at loonies in Montana waiting for the end of the world, its only a short step from panic fuel buying to storing water, bullets, and Geiger counters under the stairs in anticipation of Armageddon, you know.

Cocky, Cocky...

In my defence, I am living in a different house with a different driveway cut on a different (much steeper) street than last winter. Also, it was the first big storm of the year (we've been lucky so far, Brooklynites have your moment of grim winter superiority...wait for it....ok, now). However, after all these years of driving in the Maine snow I probably should have been able to make the turn into the drive rather than sliding right past it and winding up parked on my front lawn yesterday. Just saying.

Oh and Mum, don't worry, both car and driver were unhurt (although I did swear a lot).

Stumped for Gifts?

For those of you looking for a gift (or eight- shalom) this holiday season but are unable to get up to Adam and Deidre's wonderful new Manos Market* in Hancock, Maine (you need a website and mail order, you crazy cheese book reading kids) might I make a few suggestions?

First, in this renewed climate of culture war, is there a better way to express your contempt for evolution, rational thought, and the precepts of the holy book(s) you claim to follow than with a bit of religious kitch?


Presenting the ibelieve. What better way to listen to your Amy Grant or Stryper songs than on a re-engineered ipod that says "Hey! I may be an evangelical minister but at least I'm an evangelical youth minister!" No word yet if excessive use of the ibelieve causes stigmata but if you do happen to find yourself nailed up this Christmas, you can always pass the time with your fellow danglers by enjoying a few hands of America's hot new pastime, poker!


And the religious gift opportunities don't stop there! Proving that eccesiastical junk has moved on from the Jesus Shooting Hoops figurine of a few years back, those good folks at shipoffools.com have compiled a list of 11 Christian, 1 Muslim, and 1 Atheist gift ideas for the Twelve Days of Kitschmas.

Not in the mood for religious gifts and content to burn in hell-fire? How about a great piece of bespoke suitery? You could of course visit the fine chaps at English Cut but the suits that are sweeping the fashion world come from the tailor's bench of Recep Cesur, Turkey's finest exponent of the rag trade. Don't believe me? Then you explain the rush of orders that followed the Anatolian needlesmith's most famous client inadvertently showing the "Cesur" label of his suit in court the other day:

As no less an authority on men's fashion as the Christian Science Monitor says,

ISTANBUL, TURKEY – It should have been the downfall of Recep Cesur's business. There, standing in the dock of a Baghdad courtroom on charges of orchestrating mass murder, was Saddam Hussein wearing a pinstriped suit made by Mr. Cesur's Istanbul-based clothing company. Whenever the former Iraqi dictator reached inside his jacket for a pen, the "Cesur" label was flashed on TV screens across the world.

But rather than taking a nosedive, Cesur's sales have been booming since Mr. Hussein's court appearances began this fall. In fact, Cesur's link to Hussein has proved to be - to paraphrase his now most famous customer - the mother of all endorsements.

"Before Saddam's trial, people knew our suits, our quality, our price. But now they are looking at us differently, like we're a big brand, big quality. They think that's why Saddam is wearing our suit," says Cesur as he stands in his Istanbul showroom.

Should a handmade suit be beyond your budget, you could of course get out the scissors and the fabric yourself and turn your hand to crafting your own gifts. For inspiration, why not turn to the world of simian millinery?


Mr. Monkey over at The House of the Orange Monkey models a wide range of tifters, and all come with construction instructions.

Still stumped? The last but quite possibly least, might I suggest a signed Wisdom Weasel photograph to keep your loved ones warm this winter?


$5 gets you the personalization of your choice, $10 a pair of accompanying worn underpants sealed in a Ziploc bag.

Happy shopping!

*Not named after the movie.

The World According To Granddad Len

My Graddad Len with my niece Short-Round,"talking about the 1946 Freemantle Docker's Strike and going to sea with the hatches open" according to my brother.

A week or so ago I mentioned that I'd been talking to my Granddad about New York and arming British police officers, which drew the following comment from Walter Mondale: "I want to hear what yer grandad says about shooters". Mondale, your wish is my command.

But first Granddad Len on New York. After my recent visit to Brooklyn I mentioned to him that I had been on the Staten Island ferry and as a consequence I got a remarkably similar view of New York Harbor and the island of Manhattan that he must have seen on his first visit to the city aboard a British merchant ship in 1944. "It must have been really impressive Granddad, coming in from wartime Britain and the hazzards of the Battle of the Atlantic, to see the Verrazano Narrows bridge and the Statue of Liberty" I said. Granddad gave this short shrift, pointing out that he didn't see the Statue of Liberty the whole time he was there. How could this be, I asked, seeing as I was even able to see it from Mondale's roof, never mind the deck of a freighter?

Apparently, by late 1944 the US authorities had belatedly realized that the Statue of Liberty made a great aiming point for German submarines and therefore blacked out the statue at night; Granddad's ship slipped into the Hudson and up to the berth next to the Cunard dock in the dead of night. No Statue of Liberty on the way in.

As the cargo loaded Granddad did get a little shore leave and recalls the following:
1) Longshoremen asking to go aboard and use the heads, only to be caught in the act of drinking out of paper bags in the toilets by young Granddad. In order to buy his silence they offered him a drink which apparently tasted like "paint thinners".

2) Finding a New York bar and ordering beer, Granddad was bemused by the cold, fizzy, weak nature of the beer but was most taken by the old drunk ("like the bloke in that Sinatra song about closing time") dropping depth charges of whisky into his beer. "Waste of whisky" was Granddad's verdict.

3) Walking around Times Square, Granddad and some of his ship mates noticed a War Bond display that featured a dud V1 Flying Bomb. They started talking among themselves about air raids and watching the London docks burning from their ships on the Thames and their accents began to draw a crowd. The assembled sailors then addressed the throng for a hour or so about the blitz, Churchill, and other brave, stoic British stuff and received a round of applause at the end. As Granddad noted, "we should have taken a collection. It would have paid for more depth charges."

And the Statue of Liberty on the homeward leg? Granddad was asigned the starboard waist watch- the channel passed to the right of the Statue of Liberty, and as a consequence his parting view of New York Harbor consisted of New Jersey and Staten Island. I asked him why he didn't pop up to the bow or back to the stern for a look, but I was informed that would have been dereliction of duty. So no Statue of Liberty.

Now for arming British coppers. After leaving the Merchant Navy Granddad joined the police, first serving with London's Metropolitan Police and then moving up to the Norfolk Constabulary. He was a copper for about 25 years, rode a bike around the countryside armed with a truncheon and whistle, arrested a couple of villains caught stealing the lead off church roofs, acted as the sole representative of the law in a couple of villages, and got into Carrow Road for free- officially to police the crowd but mostly to watch the football. He never carried a gun in his whole service.

The reason the subject of arming the police came up was the shooting of two officers during a robbery in Bradford, one town over from where he retired in Yorkshire. Such occurences are still rare enough in Britain to provoke a national debate about law and order, and given that my Granddad is imbued with the typical ex-cop's cynical and depressed view on the state of humanity I was expecting him to come down in favour of arming the police. Not so, to my surprise.

After complaining about the ostentatious armament of anti-terrorism officers ("Swaggering through town with machine guns? At least American coppers are discreet and have pistols in holsters.") he pointed out that the country and the police forces have gone through this on numerous occasions. When he was a young officer in London, the famous Derek Bentley case took place: during a botched robbery a policeman was shot dead by Bentley's associate apparently at the urging of Bentley (the link above explains the case and Bentley's eventual pardon). Granddad and his colleagues were polled on whether they wanted guns or not- the suggestion was overwhelmingly rejected. Granddad explained it thus (and I paraphrase slightly, as I didn't transcribe the whole conversation):

"I was in the police, not the army. I didn't want the death of some poor sod on my hands just because they were breaking the law. The decision to shoot is too instant; even if I caught someone red-handed or I knew they were guilty, my job was to nick them, not punish them. That's what court is for."

Bless him. Jaded, cynical, and suspicious of most human beings he may be, but bloodthirsty he is not.

Crazy Rockland

For those of you who think Maine is just a sleepy New England backwater where the last thing of note that happened was Harriet Beecher Stowe writing Uncle Tom's Cabin, let me quickly disabuse you of that notion. In the past three weeks I have had front row seats from my kitchen window for both a slow motion police foot chase on foot across my back lawn, and this afternoon a two engine fire 20 yards away across my garden on Broad Street. Admittedly, there was more smoke than flame (no flames at all, actually) and most of the Rockland and Thomaston fire departments spent more time struggling in and out of their oxygen tanks and snapping photos of each other in their gear than operating hoses and axing down doors but they did get to use their sirens and lights. The most perplexing thing was the presence of the ubiquitous old lady in a night gown and curlers badgering the fire fighters despite it being three in the afternoon. Is an old lady in a night gown akin to a dalmatian? Do fire fighters carry an old lady in a night gown on the truck at all hours of the day for luck?

I wonder what's next? Maybe the air ambulance will land on the porch.