Geopolitical Geek Heaven

Oh man, this is so cool: Tracking the Threat.

It explains itself somewhat here, but for my money this is the most fun part to play with: Terrorism Network Navigator. It's like having your very own virtual Richard Clarke.

Back to less eoseteric and brain-hurty stuff tomorrow night, I swear.

Not as Widely Reported As it Should Be.

Something to think about on the eve of the State of the Union address; the death toll in Iraq among the "Coalition of the Willing", civillian contractors, and of course Iraqi citizens as compiled by the BBC:


The Iraq Coalition Casualty Count also estimates 309 civilian contractors have been killed in Iraq, while according to the International News Safety Institute, 101 journalists and support staff have died there.

There is not a widely accepted equivalent figure for the number of Iraqi civilian deaths. Estimates have varied between 10,000 and 100,000. The US and UK governments say the chaos in the war-torn country has made it impossible to gain accurate information.

One organisation, the UK-based Iraq Body Count, used media reports as the basis of a dossier that estimated the civilian death toll from March 2003 to March 2005 at 24,865. But some critics have questioned the groups' methods of compiling statistics, and the Iraqi government described the dossier as "mistaken".

Ayatollah Assahollah

"You know where you are? You're in the jungle baby, and you're gonna daaiieeee!"*
With all this heightened fuss and bother for the past few months over Iran's atomic energy/nuclear weapons program I thought I'd better get up to speed on the latest public info out there, and so just before Christmas I strolled down to the Reading Corner here in Rockland and picked up a copy of The Persian Puzzle by Kenneth M. Pollack.

Pollack, a former CIA and NSC staffer, has written a pretty good book; a bit orientalist perhaps and less than well received by Iranian scholars but nonetheless thought provoking (and besides, since when should any book be taken as gospel? Not even the gospels should be taken as gospel). The point he raises that I have often overlooked in my amateur mental rambles through Persia concerns the tradition of matyrdom in Shia Islam that dates to its very establishment with the killing of Husayn (grandson-in-law of Mohammed, and son of Ali, from which the name Shia- Shi'at Ali, meaning "party of Ali"- comes from). To whit:

"Martydom and the story of Husayn dominate Sh'i theology...throughout his brief time in power Mossadeq (1950s prime minister forced out by supporters of the Shah with CIA/MI6 support) himself doubtless found it easy to assume that role... This tendency would be resurrected to an even greater extent during Ayatollah Khomeini's reign, when Iran almost seemed to be seeking its own destruction by taking on the whole world and hewing to causes that had long been lost."

And now of course the late Ayatollah's man Mahmoud Ahmadinejad holds the presidency of Iran, with the blessing of the powerful clerical autocracy, and he's johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to decisions about their nuclear program. Will this deep seated aspect of Shia belief influence this very devout man?

(*This man is actually sunni but shia clerics don't do action photos often).

I Should Work For a Tabloid

You know that The Sun and the other British gutter press titles were hoping against hope that Liberal Democrat leadership hopeful Simon Hughes would take the same test for the cameras.

Another Weekend of Winter Outdoors.

This time we went the other direction, to Merryspring Park in our former home of Camden:
The fabled dog gallop.

Fly Dinah, fly!

Expert trackers could tell you that one pretty lady and one orange haired galoot passed this way. Apparently hopping all the while.

Bailey is darker than a Bergman film.

The key when taking the mound in these conditions is to be careful not to balk. Or fall on your arse.

A chance meeting with Dinah's old pal Zeus, the half German Shepherd half Great Dane. Good grief.

This Is Not A Baseball Blog 10

Red Sox co-owner John Henry (not really a steel-drivin' man)

An older Anthony Perkins at the end of his career.
I'm surprised that the Red Sox didn't go with the Bobby Ewing plotline from Dallas and claim that Theo's absence was all a dream and that he had been in the shower all the time. "Theo! Manny's in here and he's peeing in the corner again!"

Painting 3 of 10: Dr. Syn

Dr. Syn
Andrew Wyeth, 1981
Poor Andrew Wyeth. Even with a new retrospective exhibition doing the rounds Wyeth is often pooh-poohed by critics as belonging in "the company of.. an amiable mythmonger (like) Norman Rockwell" as opposed to more rarefied company. The main argument against Wyeth is that he has taken the specialized artistic talents bequeathed him by his illustrator father N.C. Wyeth and has tried to spin them into something more than the sum of their parts (much the same accusation has been levelled at Martin Amis in regard to his father Kingsley in the literary realm).

I hadn't heard of the Wyeths until I moved to Maine. Now however I live in what tourist officials would no doubt love to dub the heart of "Wyeth Country"; Rockland, ME- home to the Farnsworth Museum and the Wyeth Center and where Andy and artistic scion Jamie come to do their grocery shopping and register their cars. I dare say that if she were still alive Christina Olsen could drag herself down Main Street and not see a single raised eyebrow. The Wyeth clan actually lives about 12 miles away on the St George Peninsula, but it is no great bother to hop in the car and drive through the landscapes the family paints. For Wyeth there is mystery in this land while for me there appears to be mostly mud, but I do appreciate the way Andrew and Jamie paint the odd light and ragged claustrophobic edges of this part of the Pine Tree State.

For while they might be from away, mere seasonal dillitantes, the Wyeths do manage to capture much of the essence of this state. The feeling of distance, not far enough to be epic like out west but rather more like spaces created by both humans and the environment in an almost distracted yet slightly studied way. Even with its relative size for a New England state, much of Maine is empty by choice not due to vast distances and it really is a fraudulent wilderness given the nearby presence of Quebec to the north and the more populous New England states to the south. Unlike Texas, nowhere in Maine could you feasibly drive between dawn and dusk and not hit a habitation unless you chose to; it just feels like you could. Often when in the woods, the supposed forest primeval reveals your predecessors- a crumbling barn wall in a clearing long reclaimed by trees, or an aging cemetery on the side of a seemingly prehistoric lake shore. Wyeth's paintings present that dichotomy in stark detail.

But back to Dr. Syn and the idea that Andrew had best mind the example of his father. The idea that he is overreaching and should retreat into the work habits of N.C. is the central joke of this painting. The laughing skeleton is Andrew himself, wearing a naval officer's coat from the War of 1812 that used to belong to his father and his father's mentor Howard Pyle before him. Both N.C. and Pyle were prolific illustrators of adventure stories (N.C. famously illustrated a wonderful edition of Treasure Island) and used the coat in sketches and paintings of everyone from pirates to Revolutionary War soldiers. Andrew has placed himself aboard a ship (maybe a pirate ship) and is looking out of the stern into his wake. Perhaps without his father's coat he would literally be stripped to the bone, or maybe if he draped himself in his father's mantle he would be reduced to a mere skeleton of himself doomed to forever be looking backward.

Whatever the meaning, it looks like a big "fuck you" to his critics to me...

Shang-a-Lang-a-Nose-Sherbert

They may have seen their sound ripped off by popular British children's TV characters the Wombles and their career might have shrivelled in the withering blastwave of punk, but if a court case in the UK goes against them at least two of the Bay City Rollers will have been found guilty of continuing the rock and roll lifestyle:

Bay City pair deny drugs charges
Bay City Roll-up?

This Time I Got To Go To The Beach Too

I won't go in there in August, never mind January.

Weeeeeeee!

Where the wild things are.

I can't tell if this is any good or not. At least I didn't get my shadow in it.

The January thaw appears to be over. It was nice while it lasted.

I Blame Tom Clancy

"Ahh. my bed linens! And on your head, too! Thank you." Another cultural faux pas by the CIA.
Ever since the mythical weapons of mass destruction failed to appear in Iraq it has been fashionable for the Bushies and the neo-cons to both mutter sotto voce and yell out loud that there were failures of intelligence that contributed to the rush to war in 2002-03. No doubt the CIA brass bolstered the case the administration tried to make (such as when George Tenet described the WMD case as a "slam dunk") but I really don't think a war of opportunity like Iraq that appears to have been White House option one since at least 9/12/2001 can be laid at Langley's door.

However railroaded and scapegoated the CIA might have been in the case of Iraq, I don't think that they should have carte blanche in other areas of their operations. They are still the CIA after all, not some mythical white knight riding expertly to the rescue of western civilisation. Sometimes the basic lack of knowledge by their employees is as breathtaking as it is disturbing, as detailed in this excerpt from a review of the ponderously titled Jawbreaker: The Attack on Bin Laden and Al Qaeda—A Personal Account by the CIA's Key Field Commander (by Gary Berntsen and Ralph Pezzullo) in The Economist:

"Mr Berntsen.... seems to have done a remarkable and risky job pushing CIA air-strike controllers high into Tora Bora at a time when the army— though it had not lost a single soldier to enemy fire— refused to send even special forces troops there. Less acceptable is the self-love and ignorance Mr Berntsen exhibits throughout this important yet awful book. His description of Nairobi, to which CIA officers flocked after a 1998 al-Qaeda attack, is erroneous. Bantu denotes an African linguistic group, not a tribe; the language of Afghanistan's biggest group is Pushtu, not Pashtun; Wahhabism, not Wahhanism, is an extremist Islamic movement."

Come on! I knew those, and I work in the non-profit community service area, not as a CIA paramilitary field commander! Jesus. Such ignorance so high up the chain of command certainly makes the rocky escapades of Britain's James Bonds and their Boris-watching boulder seem quite charming.

Painting 2 of 10: Les Bateaux De Sainte-Marie

Fishing Boats on the Beach at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer
Vincent Van Gogh, 1888.
After the sombre gloom of Butler's Balaclava I thought I'd leaven the loaf with probably the most cheerful of the 10 paintings on my list.

I knew Fishing Boats on the Beach at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer long before I knew of Van Gogh because my family had a print of it hanging on the walls of our various houses throughout my childhood and teens. Before I understood the power of art to comfort this painting was part of the reassuring permanence behind our various front doors as we followed my dad from one Air Force posting to another. Mercifully, despite being uprooted and moved every two years or so- new school, new friends, new towns; the same old newness time after time- Air Force houses were pretty much the same inside. Much the same furniture followed us from house to house, and the same applied to the pictures, prints and paintings on the walls. Thus Fishing Boats on the Beach at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer (along with an L.S. Lowry reproduction, various Victorian military portraits, and a Maori war club hung on the wall) takes its place as an indicator of stability in the face of a constantly changing view out of the windows.

To me today Fishing Boats on the Beach at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mere doesn't immediately bring forth images of the sunny Mediterranean that must have fired Van Gogh with the tremendous enthusiasm and optimism he splashed on this particular canvas (according to the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam, "in a matter of days, he produced two seascapes, a view of the village and nine drawings."). The early June light he reproduces in the sky gives the painting a feel of the North Sea coast of his native Holland and despite their distinctive colours and design the boats suggest working beaches anywhere; places like England's Cromer, or Spain, or Gambia, or Bali .

It certainly doesn't look warm, and even with my family's odd travel patterns ("off-season is always cheaper") I can't help but associate the Med with balmy temperatures and cheap snorkel/mask combos bought from Maltese gift shops. Thanks to Van Gogh's urgent brush stokes and the suggestion of movement he gives to the sky and the ocean I'm able to engage my other senses fairly easily. I've already touched on the weather, but with a little imagination I can smell the mixture of salt water, wet nets, and bait; I can feel the sand blowing around in that brisk breeze; and being the Englishman that I am I feel a distinct urge to walk up from the beach to the promenade and get fish and chips and a Whippy.

One last reason I enjoy this painting so much; the angle he presents. Many shorescapes present the p.o.v. of looking directly from the shore or town out to sea- very epic and no doubt designed to make one wax philosophic on the relationship between solid ground and moving sea, humankind and its environment etc. Van Gogh however turns everything through 90 degrees so that you are looking at the scene from the perspective of a man who was obsessive enough about his work that he apparently didn't care if the tide came in and soaked his shoes. When he was on the manic swing of his bipolar disorder he must have been as overbearingly enthusiastic as a St. Bernard puppy.

Van Gogh painted extremes of mood and the sheer emotion poured into his work can make one exhillarated or fill one with trepidation. Thank goodness my parents decided upon a print one of his most optimistic works to hang on those ever-changing walls.

Haiku. Bless You.

First things first- at long last my dear chum RPS has switched from a static website to a blog. As one of the most interested people I know, his blog is sure to collect fascinating minutae from across the globe and distill it into easily enjoyable chunks of yummy. Furthermore, he is languishing in exile from Maine in deepest darkest Vermont and therefor anything any of you can do to take his mind off his predicament will surely be appreciated, such as dropping by to see what he is up to. The Pine Tree Curtain, open for business.

Secondly, I can't recommend Mitch over at Handwashings' entry into the annual movie lists highly enough: 62 movie reviews, all in haiku. Mitch truly is the Seattle Seahawks of blogging- quietly producing excellence and ignoring the flash-bang efforts of the less talented. The coincidence of Mitch's timing is striking, as the organization I work for has just launched a haiku contest as an ongoing fundraiser. Details can be found here. A measily five bucks buys you three cracks at the pinata and a different theme is posted each week. The weekly winners get the glory of being published in a pair of local newspapers and bragging rights (we are working on securing a prize of suitably high perceived totemic value without it costing the organization anything: what do you want should you be declared the 6 monthly grand champ? Suggestions below, please).

Good luck and good 5-7-5ing.

I'm No Good At Lists....

Recently a bunch of bloggers I loosely associate with threw up their year end lists of various cultural touchstones or began or continued ongoing lists of movies, books and music. I have to say that I am truly in awe of these folks. This is something I'd never be able to do- I consume information and culture like junk food, forgetting much of it as soon as I've finished reading, watching, or listening. The stuff that sticks sits leadenly like pounds of undigested red meat, occasionally refluxing to the surface ages after it was consumed. So no year end or favorite all time lists for me.

While pondering this recently I felt a desperate longing to join the list compiler's club. While staring at a print of Turner's Fighting Temeraire that I keep in my office at work it struck me that I could write about my ten favorite paintings. There are many people of both my close and nodding acquaintance who are much better qualified to analyze art than me (my cousin Jim who stops by occasionally is a fully paid up sculptor for instance, while Living on Less is an accomplished and witty graphic artist) but if Pete and Dud could pull it off, perhaps I can too. The paintings aren't in any particular order of preference, I'll just post whichever one I feel like writing about. Forgive me any digressions or faux pas; I may not know art, but I know what I like. First up:

Balaclava
Lady Elizabeth Butler, painted sometime between 1874 and 1877

I was at a party this past new year's eve talking to a friend of a friend. In the course of the conversation she mentioned that she had just completed her master's thesis on Tennyson's poem The Charge of the Light Brigade. I mentioned that I had always thought of the poem as an anti-war piece of the tradition later expanded by Wilfred Owen et al during the First World War. She argued the opposite, stating (probably correctly) that the poem reflected the jingoistic and bellicose sentimentality of Victorian England. I kept going, pulling a theory out of thin air that given the social strictures of 19th century Britain, the criticism of the generals in the second verse ("Not tho' the soldier knew, Someone had blunder'd") was incendiary in itself and that the poem made a distinction between the folly of the commanders and the bravery of the doomed cavalry (a theme often alluded to in British war poetry, cf; Owen's "What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? - Only the monstrous anger of the guns..."). Then I wandered off to continue my demolition of a case of Sam Adams.

The next day, dealing with "the monstrous anger" of a killer hangover, I ran the conversation over in my head and my mind pulled forth the painting Balaclava from the recesses. I think perhaps that it was this work by Butler that made me think of Tennyson's poem as anti-war. However inadvertently, the painting certainly is an indictment of war to me.

I doubt Lady Butler intended it to be so. The wife of a British general, she specialised in paintings with an often glorious martial theme. Her more sombre pieces tend to deal with incidents like the charge of the Light Brigade or the escape from Afghanistan by Dr. William Brydon; examples of Britain's peculiar habit to turn military disaster into iconic moments of national pluck. In this painting however (showing the remnants of the Light Brigade [Hussars, Lancers, and Light Dragoons] returning from the disastrous charge during the Battle of Balaclava in the Crimean War) Butler has made a blinded Hussar the main focal point; in the background a Lancer holds a gravely wounded or dead comrade atop his horse while another cavalryman cries out. The painting does not show the suicidal charge at the Russian guns mounted on three sides of the onrushing horsemen ("Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred") or an battered but orderly aftermath of battle as in Butler's Roll Call. Rather, there is a canvas full of chaos, shock, pain, and death.

This may well have made the list not least because of dad's old hobby of making model soldiers (an obession I shared until quite late in my teens). Dad used to subscribe to a magazine called Military Modelling that used to regularly feature dioramas made in 1/35th scale of famous military paintings. One of the first projects, undertaken I think by a star in this very particular world called Sid Horton, was a recreation of Butler's Balaclava. The magazine showed the original painting of course, as well as a series of views of Horton's models, in particular the blinded Hussar (he's the one in the fur hat who looks a little like Timothy Dalton). Maybe because Adam and the Ants were big at the time or because I liked gold braid I was drawn to his pelisse but I soon found his staring sightless eyes burned into my brain. Ever since, I have associated this painting with lives squandered in a meaningless cause.

This painting is reflected back at me in photos of blinded gas casualties in the First World War, or in a Falklands War photo of a wounded Argentinian on the slopes of Tumbledown staring dumbfounded into the camera, or in the image of a howling, wounded American tanker aboard a Gulf War I medivac crying over the news of a friend's death. There are thousand more images that serve as a mirror to this painting and no doubt, sadly no doubt, there will be others too many to count.

So while Tennyson's words may be ambiguous on the page or in the ear, I humbly submit that when taken with Butler's painting they lose their dulce et decorum est pro patria mori gloss and turn to bitter ash in the reader's mouth. For while words can inspire people to embark on a search for glory in battle, images can often show the horrific reality of what "boots on the ground" really means. Which is why President Bush continues to make speeches but photos of returning caskets are not allowed.

Tennyson's poem:
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

A Little Larceny, A Little House Keeping

First, via Unwellness, states that I have been to:
create your own visited states map

I wish I could remember what the middle bit did to piss me off and make me take the long way around.

Second, I was tagged for a meme by M!key, and at the risk of further encouraging such chain letter-like behaviour, thought I owed him the courtesy of compliance:

What were you doing 10 years ago?
January 1996: unemployed for three weeks, broke, enduring my first Maine winter in the world's smallest house, looking at mold on the walls and ice on the inside of the windows, eating ramen and wondering if I had made a mistake in moving to the States.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
January 2005: visiting jewellers, booking a nice hotel in Boston, getting ready to propose to Country Mouse (don't be fooled: I ended up doing it at home one night before we were going bowling).

Five snacks you enjoy:
Marmite on toast, clam flavoured chips (crisps), kit-kats, cough drops, and custardy yogurt.

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
"Karma Chameleon", Wymondham College school song, both "God Save the Queens", "Jerusalem". And "On the Ball City". God Save The Queen(s) counts as one.

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1) Try to live up to my values and give $300,000 away, 2) Take Country Mouse to the BVI, 3) Jaguar Sovereign XJ40, 4) buy a suit with a velvet collar, 5) drink better wine.

Five bad habits:
Procrastination, impatience with bureaucracy (they won't work faster if you are shouting), overt skepticism about most things, using google as a spell check, not dumbing down enough to get by every day.

Five things you like doing:
Writing, reading, learning, speaking in free association gibberish for five minutes after I wake up, drinking beer.

Five things you would never wear, buy or get new again:
Speedo, toupee, humvee/SUV, Coors products, flights on Continential. You decide which one belongs in which category ( I only used two of the three).

OK, theft accomplished, obligations paid.

Hitchens vs. Galloway

I've been looking for a hassle free link to the Christopher Hitchens vs. George Galloway debate on Iraq since I first heard a recording of the clash in September. It has to be one of the best debates on these shores in recent times. Despite it being (to use Oscar Wilde's phrase describing fox hunting) "the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable"- that is the incorrigible chancer Galloway pursuing the tragically stubborn Hitchens- the quality and venom of the exchange gives proceedings a heady whiff of brimstone. It really should be listened to by all political geeks, lovers of spoken English, and collectors of examples of deeply held personal hatreds. Recently the BBC have revamped their streaming radio website making listening to the debate a heck of a lot easier. Therefore I'm very glad to be able to link to "Gorgeous" George Galloway vs. Christopher "The Chain Smoker" Hitchens. Lets have a good dirty fight, puching below the belt only, seconds out, round one.

A Long Over Due Blogger Arrives

Occasional visitors to this blog might have retained that I have a radio show on Thursday nights on Rockland's local community station WRFR. Two hours of mildly left field rock, me yelling about things I find annoying (more things as I grow older, it seems) and the opportunity every now and then to join in a communal singing of "Car Wash" (on the honor system, obviously; I can never know if you are singing with Rose Royce and me). But this is not a promotional message for "Elvis Parsley's Late Late Breakfast Show" (Thursdays, 8-10pm ET, streamed on wrfr.org), hell no! For Thursday night is a veritable twofer, a double threat, and a barn-raisin'-barn-stormin'-barn-burnin'-call the barn insurance people because the barn is frankly ruined evening of radio as the EPLLBS follows three hours of Chasradio, presented by the one and lonely Charlie Hendrick.

Charlie is an audiophile (no, it doesn't mean he can only get off with speakers) and an avid collector of music peculiar and arcane. Not novelty songs in the Dr Demento/Wierd Al/Dungeons and Dragons club sense (although the more odd ones of that genre sneak through) but rather... well, you'll just have to listen. To the point of this post however; Charlie has joined the blogosphere.

So now those of you jonesing for both halves of your "Must Listen Radio Thursdays" (take that, NBC) can now play the home game of both, thanks to the creation of Chasradio.

I can't urge you enough to pop by. The raw obscurity of Charlie's discoveries are breath-taking. For example:
"When people hear the name 'Keir Dullea' they either think "Oh, that child actor from the 80's" or "Isn't that a brand of ski boots?". Then again others may think "He's the guy in Stanley Kubrick's 2001." He was good in close ups. You see his face alot in some of his movies. There is something unique about his expressions. There's also something unique about his music, but in a very different way. I'm afraid I'd have to put his music in the "Oddball Actor Who Likes Singing In Public" category. I wonder if Keir ever took Stanley aside during the making of 2001 and said "You know Stanny baby, you could use a good Broadway number here. Choregraph some of these switchboard lights, bring out some tuxedos, we could have HAL and me do a duet, whaddya think Stanny? Will it work?" (2.3 MB file)Keir Dullea- Mother Earth"

More Maine Winter

The view from the front porch of our (decidedly less grand) house:


The road in the foreground marks the northward boundary of gentrification on Masonic Street; verily, we are pioneers two houses up the hill.

A Tale of Two Fridays

My Friday consisted of getting up horrifically early, driving through a fine spray of road mud to Bangor (some 70 miles distant) and spending my day at an Office of Substance Abuse online database training for the job at the behest of the the government of the Great State o' Maine. Not terrible as days at work go, but compare and contrast with the following photos of my consort Country Mouse's day with dogs Dinah and Bailey (you can click on the pictures to enlarge):

Off to Birch Point State Park, some 5 miles from our front door...

She even puts the seat down when she is done. Good dog, Dinah.

Where is everyone? Oh that's right: they only get 10 days vacation a year. The rest of the time its OURS.

Make the most of any and all winter sun.

Brief cameo by senior dog Bailey, who is probably eating shit/seaweed/sea urchin/sea gull (deceased).



Bailey. Rocks shown for scale.



Time to go home.

Was It Something I Said?

Not claiming to be a sage or anything, but I was listening to the news about the various hummings and hawings in Israel and Palestine about the upcoming Palestinian election and suddenly remembered something I wrote almost two years ago that might be relevant: Wisdom Weasel: Can A Hamas Sandwich Ever be Kosher?

And if that all seems too finger-on-the-pulse, crazy obsessed with the middle east (regardless of what you think of my conclusions), here's one I got woefully, hideously wrong from four days prior to the Hamas post:Time For Self Belief. I guess we shouldn't count on a litany of GOP bungling, corruption, and mendacity to chase them out of office this year either. Although, Katrina might have changed a few things even among the apathetic and indolent; I hope to be proved wrong for opposite reasons in November.

We Are Getting Too Old For This Sort of Tomfoolery

Mondale and I were chatting on the phone last night about the travails of our beloved Norwich City FC when he mentioned a football diversion he and some old pals used to pass the time with. It's a variation on fantasy football, and fittingly for Mondale it involves putting your ego front and centre of the action.

Essentially, what one does is imagine oneself as a football (meaning in this case "soccer") player and project a career trajectory for yourself through five teams, from wet-behind-the-ears apprentice to battered shinned veteran. For those of you not versed in the arcane world of English footie, the game would work equally well for baseball, or cricket, or Aussie Rules, or kabbaddi, or maybe even co-ed over thirties bocce.

After discussing the concept for a while, both Mondale and I decided that we would both ponder our selections and post our "careers" simultaneously. I did wait for him at the appointed noon hour but I imagine that he is having a busier day than he first anticipated (I told him to write it last night like I did, but in his defence he does have a life). Hope he catches up at some point.

Here goes for my five:
NAME: WISDOM "CHOPPER" WEASEL. POSITION: RIGHT BACK.
FIRST CLUB: Norwich City FC, 6 years (2 years youth, reserve, 4 years first team)

Discovered as an unremarkable but reliable stopper at the back with legs toughened by playing on a surface that alternated between marsh and ice floe, I begin my career with every schoolboy's dream; playing for my home side. After progressing through the youth ranks and reserve side, I make my first team debut aged 19 at Carrow Road against Ipswich, a game we win 3-0. After 4 nailbiting years and one League Cup semi final, I am part of the team that wins promotion to the Premiership.

SECOND CLUB: Sunderland (3 years)

The next season Sunderland pass us on the way into the Premiership as we slip back down a division. Eager to screw things up further, Norwich manager Nigel Worthington flogs off the starting back four to various Premiership sides in order to buy "this cracking Ghanaian lad from Trondheim" for a club record 5 million quid. I'm sold for 300,000 to Sunderland, where while never looking likely to claim a place in the England side, I do enjoy 3 seasons of Premiership graft.

THIRD CLUB: Glasgow Rangers (3 years)

Bought on a whim by Rangers new Russian oligarch owner in the off season because of my red hair, at first I take to the Scottish Premiership like a duck to water. Lots of clattering tackles, ginger haired types, and deep fried Mars Bars at half time: smashing! Thanks to the inflated wage packets handed out by the oil tsar I soon begin entertaining delusions of grandeur both on and off the pitch. An ill-timed and ugly challenge during the Scottish cup final tears my right ankle ligaments, a hole in an advertising hoarding, and a nun's wimple in the Celtic fans section. Despite recovering match fitness, my off season drinking gets me in trouble and I'm caught in a sting by a reporter from the Glasgow Herald saying rude things about the pope and yelling "Galsgow's miles shitter". I am released from my contract.

FOURTH CLUB: Beijing Guoan (18 months)

By now paranoid and suspicious, my agent only persuades me to sign with Bejing Guoan because their club colours are yellow and green like Norwich. Out of shape yet still with a vestige of the old skill, I seem to be making a come back, helming the club to third in the league. Unfortunately, both homesickness and a clash of styles with Guoan's new perepetetic Dutch coach Ruud Kokk cut my time in China short. My return to Heathrow, bloated and be-stubbled, is headlined "Sino-us Infection" by Britain's Sun tabloid.

FIFTH CLUB: Leyton Orient (5 years)

I never thought I'd be seeing out my career as player-manager at Brisbane Road, just down the way from my late paternal grandparents' patch. But then again, after the trails and tribulations of my rapid fall from grace I thought the only career open to be around a football ground would be driving the burger van. Luckily, a good turn on the BBC's "Question of Sport" quiz show was enough to catch the eye of the O's chairman who through a set of brandy goggles mistook me for Gordon Strachan. I have done nothing to disabuse him of that notion, and find the few words of Glaswegian slang I picked up at Rangers quite handy in keeping my job.
***************************************

Well that was fun. Not one for memes myself, but I'd be interested in other people's trajectories; any sport (or even fantasy career I suppose) you like.

We Have The Technology, We Can Rebuild Him.

My Mission: To Go From Being Bitter To Being A Trophy*
The "him" of the title of this post being me.... Inspired by both Mondale and my good pal Boo Jones, and needing to shed 30lbs by my wedding day on May 28th, I have abandoned my habitual practice of weeknight tippling. It's not that I drank a ton during the week, but as Mondale pointed out in a moment of clarity even the odd beer or cocktail here or there soon adds up and makes the shedding of the three and a half decent sized babies I have gained in weight since I moved to the USA ten years ago a little less effortless.

I long maintained that the odd pop of an evening was only natural given my expatriate lifestyle (cf. most characters in Somerset Maugham novels), not drinking of an evening was strangely effete and puritan, and that I was following the healthy example of the French in staving off heart attacks. No more; I shall reserve my elbow bending for weekends and even then try to follow the path of moderation.

This is not to say that I shall be adopting a Fugazi-esque hardcore stance and may occasionally bend my definition of "weekend" to include Wednesday. Brewers and distillers of the world, I apologize, but occasionally one must put oneself first.

*Even if only a slightly tarnished bowling trophy.

A New Hero (And no, its not David Irving)

I'd let him rot in jail.
I love blasts of withering contempt directed at the intellectually vacuous. As counterproductive among the public at large as it might be, no words get me giggling happily and my pulse racing faster than yawning dismissals of creationists, intelligent designers, fundamentalists, supply siders, state planners, prudes, rabid ideologues, or racists. I revelled in the blue state invective directed at the red staters and their empty "moral values" in the aftermath of the 2004 election. I rejoiced at US Federal Judge John Jones defenestration of intelligent design in the Dover, PA school board case. I cherish Winston Churchill's quip upon being told that he was drunk by a shocked society doyen: "Madam, I may be drunk tonight but tomorrow I will be sober and you will still be ugly". The sharp sword of spite can cut through layers of cant and hypocrisy.

Therefore, I feel compelled to reproduce part of an interview with my new hero, Dr. Deborah Lipstadt, who bested holocaust denier David Irving in Britain's libel courts and who now suggests he should be released from jail in Austria where he awaits trial on criminal charges concerning his lies about the Shoah.

"I am not interested in debating with Holocaust deniers," she (Lipstadt) says. "You wouldn't ask a scientist to debate with someone who thinks the Earth is flat. They are not historians, they are liars. Debating them would be nonsensical. But we also should not allow them to become martyrs. Nothing is served by having David Irving in a jail cell, except that he has become an international news issue. Let him go home and let him continue talking to six people in a basement. Let him fade into obscurity where he belongs."

The full piece can be found here.

Some Things I Can't Make Up

"The Rolling Stones would be too old to watch their own Super Bowl performance, organisers have ruled.

Two thousand people will be invited onto the pitch to watch the band's half-time performance on 5 February but only people aged between 18 and 45 are eligible, US National Football League spokesman Brian McCarthy said.

"You have to attend rehearsal and be able to stand for long stretches of time," he told Detroit Free Press.

The youngest Rolling Stones member is 58."

Hey you, Get off of my colostomy bag tube. And to think, its now 24 years since the only retired Stone Bill Wyman wrote "We could go on the hovercraft across the wat-er, They'll think I'm your dad and you're my daugh-ter" in the fantastic song Je Suis Un Rock Star.

Not as embarrassing as Roger Daltrey singing "Hope I die before I get old", however. Or American radio stations treating classic rock like this as if it was released just this morning.

I Blame The Red Shoes

Celebrity Spokesperson for RLS (Road Runner is a Paid Endorser)
There is a new ad doing the rounds for a prescription medicine called Requip. Requip, or to give it its lab name ropinirole (originally developed to control the tremors associated with Parkinson's disease) is being hawked to deal with Restless Legs Syndrome.

Being the cynic that I am I thought "My goodness! Glaxo has come up with a treatment for Happy Feet! What next? A Cure for Jazz Hands?"* After a little research, it turns out however that RLS is another one of those drug industry killer apps, a predominantly mild chronic condition that requires constant prescription refills for a proprietary drug. The government estimates that 12 million Americans may be effected to some degree (about 4% of the population, not the 10% claimed breathlessly by an RLS support site). Glaxo is gambling on those you you who fidget to self diagnose and clamour for that lovely Requip. Be still, oh my beating legs.

As the ad says, "Side effects include nausea, drowsiness, vomiting and dizziness. Most patients were not bothered enough by the vomiting to stop taking Requip."

I wonder how many of the above side effects the following RLS mitigations suggested by the National Institutes of Health induce?
"For those with mild to moderate symptoms, prevention is key, and many physicians suggest certain lifestyle changes and activities to reduce or eliminate symptoms. Decreased use of caffeine, alcohol, and tobacco may provide some relief. Physicians may suggest that certain individuals take supplements to correct deficiencies in iron, folate, and magnesium. Studies also have shown that maintaining a regular sleep pattern can reduce symptoms. Some individuals, finding that RLS symptoms are minimized in the early morning, change their sleep patterns. Others have found that a program of regular moderate exercise helps them sleep better...."

Now I ain't no medical doctor like that Michael J. Fox in "Doc Hollywood", but my ole country bones is tellin' me that gittin' up of yer fat ass and cuttin' down on them there cups of coffee is a mighty better way to quit yer twitchin' than pukin' up after scarfing expensive pills. Funny how they don't mention that in the commercial.

*( You can treat Jazz Hands, or Shimmying Wrist Syndrome, with just one Aljolsonol a day! Side effects may include the donning of offensive "black face" makeup, talking in movies, and the obligatory vomiting. Ask your doctor about Aljolsonol today!)

Economics 203: Crassness as a market force (elective).

Are cellphones edible?
Happy 2006. Now with that out of the way, let me turn my attention to a shocking article in the most recent edition of The Economist.

I enjoy getting The Economist: the reporting and writing are good and the magazine reiterates its particular liberal market economy philosophy often so that I'm not second guessing the editorial spin at every turn or simply reading things I mindlessly agree with. However, I fear that one story in the 12/24 to 1/6 edition takes zeal for the market into the realm of the barking ideologue.

In a report on the booming mobile phone sector in Somalia since the collapse of any form of civil society in 1991, the reporter writes:

"No government means no state telecoms to worry about... Taxes, payable to a tentative local authority or strongman are seldom more than 5%... There is no need to pay for licenses, or to pay to put up masts. It is a vivid illustration of the way in which governments, for all their lip service to extending communications, can often be more of a hinderance than a help."

I see. So the price of a fully deregulated cellular communications industry in Somalia is a complete absence of any from of government besides the capricious whims of warlords and militias? I wonder which the Somalis themselves would prefer: cheap phones or a functioning civil society? Incredible.

The article goes on to note that "Pricing is especially important in Somalia...because many potential customers are illiterate and so immune to advertising." Not much of a market for SMS text messaging then, I imagine.

I had to check the date on the cover because the whole piece had the air of a bad taste April Fools joke. The letters page in the next edition is going to be a doozy.