Wisdom Weasel: Entrepreneur

Figure One: In which a young Weasel tries to sell something to a one-armed man in a bar

Figure Two: Four years later, in which Weasel demonstrates that he got the bar thing down, but not the selling
I had been planning to write something about the cool free music service Pandora, but Listmaker pointed out that I was being derivative of Bile & Venom and my friend RPS does a much better job than I could ever have done here. So no Pandora for you. At least not in these pages.

Instead I will address a much more pressing concern, making moolah.

Those of you playing along at home may have gathered that I'm to be married in 58 days time. The wedding promises to be a blast- very relaxed, very Maine- but even the subtlest of ceremonies cost an astounding amount of money.

As the groom-to-be it falls to me to round up some of this cash. Plan A: get on Jeopardy and win a few grand, doesn't appear to have paid off. Raising capital through scratch-off lottery tickets also appears to be a non-starter. You only get a nickel per returnable bottle here in Maine. I did cat sit for my neighbor last week but I can't guarantee steady income there unless I can convince her to join a band of gypsies who are allergic to moggies. Therefore I decided on Tuesday to start flogging off a bunch of old tat on Ebay and Amazon.

Going through my bookcases and CD towers I was amazed at how much crap I didn't want I owned. The music was easier; having worked in radio I had a bunch of promo CDs on for bands I liked for about 20 seconds 7 years ago and advance singles from albums I eventually ended up buying in their entirety. I was certain that, for example, the 2 versions of Blur's MOR complete with a pair of 11 second call out research hooks would set collectors of the work of Damon Albarn salivating.

The books were harder; how do you give up a book? You might want to read it 5 years from now! Or more likely in my case, you might remember a pertinent passage buried deep in its pages that would help you win a future pedantic argument. The only one I didn't agonize over was actually a recent purchase I paid full price for; Thomas P.M. Barnett's Blueprint for Action: A Future Worth Creating. It's a military-political strategy book based on a fascinating premise that is completely undone by Barnett's horrific writing; he manages to come across as a slightly creepy youth pastor trying to use with-it language and is so packed with buzzwords you could mistake it for a bee hive. I won't mind if that one goes for a loss. I did finally choose a few books (and a couple of movies) and posted them along with the CDs.

So far my great money making scheme as generated a net profit of $6.97.

I have a long way to go.

How Am I Supposed To Know About Sandy Bloody Dennis's Broadway Career?

I wanted to be Connery
I am not Jeopardy material. I don't know what I was thinking. But when America's favorite dinner time quiz show constantly trails its first ever online contestant pre-test I couldn't resist. Alright, it was just a pre-qualifier to see who would move on to a live action audition at a later date, but we can all dream a little, can't we?

Tonight was the appointed night for East Coast aspirants. At 8pm I had to be at the computer but at 7:30 I figured it wouldn't hurt to brush up a little by watching the real show on TV. One of the "Double Jeopardy" categories tonight was "The BBC's 100 Greatest Britons List"- man, why couldn't I just skip the test and go and tackle that category in front of the hot lights and Trebek?

It was a lucky thing that I was watching the show as just prior to the last commercial break before "Final Jeopardy" they announced the online contest again and reminded would-be contestants that they had to register. Register? Bugger me! I was up the stairs and into the office faster than someone who is particularly fast when running up a flight of stairs!

I checked eligibilty: You are not eligible to be a contestant on JEOPARDY! if you have appeared on a game show/dating show/relationship show/reality show in the last year or three game shows/dating shows/relationship shows/reality shows in the last 10 years, ok, didn't apply to me.

Passing this online test does not make you eligible to appear on JEOPARDY! or guarantee you a spot for a tryout on JEOPARDY! This is a preliminary screening only- fine, fine.

On the night of your test, be at your computer and online 15 minutes before the test begins. Don't wait until the last minute! Thanks. Would have been helpful to know that 16 minutes ago.

Still, I made it in time. I submitted my registration information and clicked to start the test. Boy, was it ever wicked official- a countdown clock, a real air of "do not turn over your papers or touch your pencils until I say so", and the Jeopardy music as the last 10 seconds ticked down.

50 questions drawn from 50 categories. A 15 second time limit to answer each question. No need to type the answer in the form of a question unlike on the show but an admonition to watch your spelling. I know I got the one about Oliver Cromwell right. The others? Ehhh. Who knows?

I certainly won't. According to the website, Jeopardy never reveals scores from tryouts. I won't even get a commiserations email telling me I didn't make the grade. In fact, Jeopardy is so Ayn Rand-ian they won't even give a time-frame within which they will notify the elect: people even more deluded than me could be waiting in vain for the blessed email for weeks only for it to never come. They could neglect their families and their health, and die. In the Jeopardy universe, only the strong are worthy of respect and encouragement. The rest of us are but dust under the wheels of Trebek's juggernaut.

My only consolation is that I at least was able to master the mechanics of answering the questions even if I didn't get enough right. The time I tried to qualify for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? by using a touchtone phone I damaged my right thumb and almost fell down the stairs.

The Easily Confused Brit

I am not a huge basketball fan. Nor am I completely au fait with the myriad choices in American higher education. Therefore I think I can be excused my surprise when I mixed up two universities, George Mason and James Madison, and marvelled to myself in the car that a seat of higher learning named after this slightly creepy character actor had made the NCAA Final Four:


James Mason University: Go Fighting Lolitas! If only Mr. Abbot covered NCAA as well as NBA basketball I wouldn't feel so silly.

The Man is Clearly Typhoid Mary

Based on the evidence of the past six years, anyone or anywhere fingered by President Bush as a success worthy of emulation is going to have a hard time getting insurance. Ken "Kenny Boy" Lay, the US military and "Mission Accomplished", Ahmad Chalabi, "Brownie", and many others have found themselves crushed by the logging truck of reality after receiving the blessing of Dubya. Now it appears it is the turn of the Iraqi city of Tal Afar, held up recently by the President as an example of security successes and a rebuttal of all those darned unpatriotic, unamerican, Osama lovers who say the war is going badly. Let us review:

ABC News, 3/20/06: Bush voices optimism for Iraq 3 years after invasion

Reuters, 3/24/06: Iraqis in Tal Afar question Bush's optimism

Daily Telegraph (London), 3/27/06: Up to 40 dead in Iraq suicide blast

The last story, if not immediately apparent, comes from Tal Afar.

Another Sunday Out & About With Weasel & Country Mouse

After one or other of my photoblogs about our weekend meanderings, my good pal Mondale noted:

"Bloody hell, you go out all the time don't ya?"
Well, we don't want to disappoint Mondale, so here's a Sunday drive around Cushing, Friendship, and Waldoboro. As always, click to enlarge any image.

Dragon Cement, Thomaston.

The village of Friendship.

Friendship again.

Yet more Friendship.

Final Friendship.

Eat at Moody's, get gas.

If I wore glasses, I could be in Buggles. What the hell is going on with my head?

This food, eaten everyday, can take years off your life.

For all your odd German food needs. And just where you'd expect to find a German specialty store too: 8 miles up an obscure country road in Maine, opposite a dairy farm.

CM, content with her Haribo candies.

And off to home. "Time for bed" said Zebedee.

End of the World II: Reptilians

Actor Jane Badler reveals herself to be one.
The rapture index got me thinking. Its all well and good for jewish people like Listmaker as they can claim the antichrist as one of their own, but what about us WASP-y types? What do we have to look forward to in the end times?

Thankfully, a very helpful woman of no fixed mental health status has compiled a list to warm the heart of the bluest of bloods:

Reptilians in Government

Her research is amazing. For example, she has succeeded where the DC police and FBI failed: "Condit, Gary; California 18th ([Chandra]Levy died because she found out his secret-- he's Reptilian...)"

The only disappointment about the list is that not one of the Maine delegation- Senators Olympia Snowe and Susan Collins, Reps Tom Allen and Mike Michaud- is a reptilian. Sigh. When it comes to sinister consipracies and the end of the world the Pine Tree State is always the bridesmaid, never the bride. I may have to come up with my own series of signs and portents, perhaps based around meat pies and IPA.

Maine has however attracted the attention of one group of fearless warriors for God:

Church group targets fallen soldier's funeral
The service for the 22-year-old soldier (Sgt. Corey Dan of Oxford Hills, ME) is in danger of being overshadowed by the uproar over a planned demonstration outside the funeral by members of a Baptist church in Kansas.
The picketers say they intend to use the service to draw attention to their belief that God is killing American soldiers as retribution for the nation's failure to condemn homosexuality.

Or is it the Reptilians' doing?

Armageddon-outta-here

That beard will have to go
I'm sitting here listening to my first baseball on the radio of the year- Red Sox vs. the Yankees down in Tampa in pre-season action (3-3 right now). Its nice to hear my old friends Jerry Trupiano and Joe Castiglione cast sly aspersions about Giambi's "virus" and to get to know a bunch of new Sox. The opening day of the regular season is just around the corner, the days are getting longer, and the crackly AM sports radio station comes in fine in the home office. What could possibly be wrong in the world?

Then in an unguarded moment I hear the name "Johnny Damon" and immediately my mind shouts "antichrist!"

But how can I be sure that Johnny Damon is truly the spawn of hell, sent forth by Lucifer to oversee the end of days? Luckily, there is a website that tracks these sort of portents:


Let me tell you, this is a really handy site! You can track all sort of indicators of the impending end of the world. No mention of Johnny Damon in the index, but I did learn that "Jewish religious groups are making plans to rebuild the Temple" and that "Satanism is reported to be flourishing in Russia". I also learned that "The U.S. Patriot Act has failed to get enough votes for extension" which along with being untrue as of the date of the site's last stated update is also apparently a "Mark of the Beast" (but only 32nd on the index- come on beast, pull your socks up!).

Having struck out while looking searching for Damon in the index, my heart felt a little heavy but I perked up when I saw that there was a photo gallery of potential antichrists. Surely the former darling of the Green Monster seats would be found here? Unfortunately not, but some chap called "King Jaun Carlos" can be. I wonder if he is related to King Juan Carlos of Spain? Wouldn't it be weird if he was; their names are almost the same and they are both kings! And isn't that such a happy font for an end of the world site gallery?

A search of the rest of the site still didn't unearth Damon nor any indicator that the "Rapture Index" is a joke. I did however learn that "The Lord Would Certainly Not Be a Democrat". Loaves and fishes; truly supply side economics?

Damon 1 for 4, single and a run scored. The Yankees currently lead 5-3 in the top of the 8th. The end is nigh.

The other night I tripped a nice continental drift divide. Mount St. Edelite. Leonard Bernstein. Leonid Breshnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester Bangs. Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom! You symbiotic, patriotic, slam, but neck, right? Right.

It's the end of the world as we know it.
It's the end of the world as we know it.
It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine

Has It Really Been Six Weeks?

Time for another painting:

Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector of England.
Peter Lely, c.1653
When I was a precocious, pretentious and extremist teenager I thought Oliver Cromwell was the dog's bollocks. To my binary-inclined adolescent brain the idea of an avenging pillar of East Anglian fire smiting the monarchy, religious sophistry, pomp, time servers, wafflers, and cant was peculiarly attractive. Like many teenagers trying to justify a political position, I jumped through all manner of hoops to either minimize or explain away the very dark, very 17th century nature of Oliver. Perhaps his words and actions did not provide a blueprint for my internal plans to take over the world, but his lack of prevarication and ruthless pursuit of his goals would come in handy.

As I got too old to be described as precocious and as I grew into a pretentious and extremist adult I found the contradictions of Cromwell more and more troubling. He was a republican who ruled as a king in all but name, a meritocrat who squashed the aspirations of the ordinary people, a benificiary of freedom of concience who unleashed sectarian slaughter, a soldier's soldier who betrayed his troops, and a parliamentarian who so gutted the institution he made the restoration of an expensive, illiberal, and hereditary monarchy a popular option. Unlike so many English radicals who are at heart conservative, yearning for the order of a simpler, mythical time of a fairer social order, Cromwell was a revolutionary. And like most revolutionaries, Cromwell's view of utopia and a new order spelled misery for many and was ultimately corrupted.

If I were to invent a time machine and travel back to the 1640s to meet Cromwell, he would have me imprisioned or killed for the contents of my head. He was the head of the English Protestant Taliban: if I had brought a sampling of modern American religious speech with me in my mythical time machine, Cromwell would find more comfort in the words of Pat Robertson than those of Martin Luther King.

Suffice to say, these days I only like parts of Cromwell and have taken the falling of the scales from my eyes as my cue for evaluating anyone I might carelessly describe as "a hero of mine".

So why do I still like this painting? Its less for the painting itself (it is hardly a remarkable portrait). I like it more for what Cromwell told Lely as he inspected the first version the Dutchman attempted, only to find that Lely had painted a traditional court portrait, radiant with heroism and divine munificence:

"Mr Lely, I desire you would use all your skill to paint your picture truly like me, and not flatter me at all; but remark all these roughness, pimples, warts, and everything as you see me. Otherwise, I will never pay a farthing for it."

If I only hold onto one Cromwellian aspiration for the rest of my life let it be this unflinching honesty about oneself, in examination of both the external and internal. Thanks Ollie, you magnificent, flawed bastard.

(Paintings 1 to 4 are here: #1, #2, #3, & #4. Half way to ten!)

Happy Anniversary

A David Low cartoon published in 1935 commenting on the Italian invasion of Abyssinia (modern Ethiopia) undertaken to "stabilize" the horn of Africa. (Amateurish scan from the book Britain & Europe 1848-1980 by Martin Roberts, stolen from Wymondham College by Weasel in 1991).

Three years on from the invasion of Iraq and the airwaves were hot with talking heads strategizing away for all they were worth this morning. Far be for me to add my own ill-informed voice to the cacophony but I did want to comment on one story that aired on NPR this morning about the evolving role of the US Air Force in Iraq.

The piece focused on how the traditional strike role of the USAF fighter/bomber- in, munitions away, out- was being replaced by an emphasis on ground support/interdiction missions backing up both American and Iraqi infantry forces. In layman's terms (and correct me if I'm making a total hash of this, Dad) this means the USAF is partially moving out of the role of bombing as dictated by a pre-decided mission and target set and is concentrating more on "bombing-on-demand"; throwing iron at the request and direction of troops on the ground.

The unspoken secondary story line in the report was that as the Iraqi armed forces scaled up and the US army and marines the brunt of American military force projection would be bourne by the USAF. The obvious advantage here is that a fast moving fighter jet is a lot harder to hurt than an infantryman, humvee, or even attack helicopter. Through the gee-whizz technology of smart weapons fired safely from an altitude no roadside bomb can reach the US will be able to kill insurgents while preventing American casualties, perhaps with the added bonus of providing enough cover to convince the Iraqi army to fully engage in the fight.

Here's the problem with this approach, in my opinion. It won't work. Air power alone has yet to win a war (and no, Kosovo was not an air victory; Kosovo was a political victory. Russia pulled the rug from under Milosevic; he would have allowed any number of his citizens to die under NATO's bombs). No matter how accurate the weaponry, it won't work. Furthermore, this tactic has been tried in Iraq before, with negative consequences. Putting aside ideas I'd love to explore about the Iraqi Army (I think they might be keeping their powder dry should the civil war escalate; they are mostly Shia following Bremer's disasterous De-Baathification of the army officer corps and so have no reason to demur from fighting Sunni insurgents) and the understandable need for US air support given that Saddam sent half his air force to be interned in Iran in the first Gulf War (and never got it back) and buried the other half in the desert (not so good for avionics) I'd like to look at Iraqi history for hints why this tactical shift is breathtaking in it's shortsighted stupidity.

Simply put, back when Britain occupied Iraq in the aftermath of the First World War she faced a nationalist insurgency determined to drive the occupiers out. Mindful of the need to draw down the size of Britain's occupation army the Secretary of State for both War and Air Wintston Churchill created a plan that saw the fledgling Royal Air Force take on most of the policing and counter-insurgency work. Using the latest technology (including the use of chemical weapons), the RAF set out to bomb the Iraqis into submission. The bombing only succeeded in escalating the insurgency, culminating in the combined shia and sunni revolt of 1920 (known as the Ath Thawra al Iraqiyya al Kubra, or Great Iraqi Revolution, this was the first time all of Mesopotamia/Iraq's disperate factions, clans, and tribes united to attack a common enemy).

The Ath Thawra al Iraqiyya al Kubra is refered to often by contempary insurgents (I know of at least one group that calls itself something along the line of "The 1920 Brigade") and the folk and community memories of the last attempt to break an Iraqi rebellion from the air run deep.

Good luck making it work this time around. Who knows? Perhaps every bomb dropped on Iraq's closely packed urban centers will hit its intended target and not one civillian will die, and maybe despite the lessons of the Ho Chi Min Trail air power will be able to disrupt guerilla supply lines this time around. For me though, when an occupying force displays such a lack of understanding of local legend and history (not to mention the symbolism of air attacks on insurgent groups- a favorite tactic of the Israelis and thus unlikely to be seen as a positive by the Iraqis) this far into an intense and unrelenting conflict I really have to scratch my head and wonder what they are teaching our military leaders.

Crazy Like a Fox.. A Big, Reactionary Tory Fox.

I was pondering writing a long considered post on this story I saw a few days ago, but instead I'll let the BBC speak for me:

"Charity removes Churchill statue
A charity's controversial statue of Sir Winston Churchill in a straitjacket has been removed after it caused outcry. Rethink commissioned the sculpture, unveiled in The Forum building in Norwich at the weekend, to highlight the stigma of mental health problems.

Forum managers said the 9ft statue had to go after complaints from tenants and members of the public who said it was insulting to the Churchill family. The sculpture had been due to stay in place until the end of this week.

Churchill's grandson, Conservative MP Nicholas Soames, said the piece was "absurd and pathetic" and "sensation-seeking" and the Churchill family condemned the statue as "offensive to them and to the people who revered him".

In the House of Commons on Monday, it was also condemned as "an ignorant gimmick". Senior Tory Sir Patrick Cormack said the glass fibre sculpture was an insult to both the former prime minister and to those with mental health problems.

Not everyone was critical of the statue. Lecturer John Britton who 12 years ago lost everything through manic depression said he thought it was brilliant." (The rest of the story)

If it's any consolation, he was still less mad than Hitler.

My favorite bit: "the Churchill family condemned the statue as 'offensive to them and to the people who revered him'". God, I should hope so. Anyone who reveres anyone else- living or dead- needs to have their arses kicked and their ears boxed. I also read elsewhere that WW2 veterans groups were also pissed off. I suppose that means all the veterans who voted for Labour in 1945 and contributed to kicking Churchill out of office were traitorous scum too then, eh?

Screw you, Fatty Soames. You aren't even half the reactionary bigot your grandfather was, never mind any pretentions you might have towards claiming the more inspiring parts of his personality and mind as your own.

I'm also oddly comforted that a need was felt to raise awareness of mental illness in Norwich. Dear concerned charities, they are not mentally ill, they are Norfolk people. It's not down to synaptic malfunction or chemical imbalance, those people act like that because they shag their cousins.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day

May I be among the many to wish you all a happy Saint Patrick's Day, whatever degree of Irishness you claim (if any) or however much you like a good party. For today is a day for celebrating the man who introduced Christianity to Ireland, and we all know what a boon that turned out to be. A big hand for Saint Patrick, then:


Indeed, I tip my hat to him.

When I was Seventeen, It Was A Very Good Year...

In response to the comments on the previous post, I'd like to present the following mitigating evidence:

Weasel on his last evening of being 17, waiting for the summer solstice sunrise onboard Amabelle, dockside in the village of Thurne.

A three-months 18 Mondale, captain of the Amabelle getting ready to go ashore for a bifter.

Different night, roughly the same epoch. The boys protest rampant housing development in rural Norfolk by engaging in direct action. Amazingly, not the same night as the N****n Fl*****r incident described below.

See? We were nice, smiling teenagers. The super-observant will note that both Mondale and I have had roughly the same hairstyles since high school.

I Should Probably Listen To Sigue Sigue Sputnik Instead

One of the nice things about having my own office is that I can close the door and listen to music while I work. One of the downsides of listening to music while I work is that today I felt like a few rounds with the soundtrack to Betty Blue. As cool and gallic as this music is, it makes me want to go immediately to sleep.

The Betty Blue soundtrack brings up memories of summer, being 17, and hanging out with Mondale in place of working. I can smell freshly harvested fields, Ted the goat, Marlboros, and the reedy air of the broads. I can feel the warmth of a Norfolk summer, the pleasant body buzz of one too many beers, and the special shoulder ache brought on by sleeping on boats, bridle paths, and Mondale's parent's couch. I'm wrapped up in memories of carefree late adolecence; a time when I could sleep for either 4 or 12 hours and wake up refreshed and ready to go, when summer mornings were happily wasted sitting in the sunshine just hanging out with friends, and when we would happily watch Betty Blue over and over again just to look at Beatrice Dalle. Ahh, the power of music.

And I don't think the afternoon sun streaming through my office window or the central heating are helping me recapture my young executive's drive either. Maybe I should switch CDs and stick on The Bends instead.

Sticky Wicket

On the last post, my old chum Mockney dropped by to sledge a little, noting that the Queen might be:

"..miserable cuz her cricket team got ass-whupped by the natives. Again."

Just as I was thinking about cricket too, having seen this photo in The Economist:

Grumpy Old Moo

She's the richest woman in the world, is nominal Head of State in a myriad of countries (all of the swanky benefits with none of the heavy lifting), and she is Australia while Britain suffers under a cold snap. You think she'd cheer up a bit, wouldn't you? It must be generational- my grandmother pulls the same face in photos.

Mass Observations

Now for the text version of our weekend in Beantown.

1) Country Mouse and I have been engaged for 13 months now. I bought her a nice ring and promptly spoiled the effect by giving it to her 15 minutes before we were going out to go candlepin bowling. After we had been through the Museum of Science CM redressed the balance by proposing to me in turn, presenting me with a handcrafted paper Star Wars ring. I shall be wearing it at our reception, and to all dress occasions from here on out.

2) The unintended best bit of the Star Wars exhibit came after we had left it. As we were doing our best to cover the rest of the museum members of the New England Garrison of the 501st Legion (spods who dress up as stormtroopers, etc) began to filter in for their costume weekend. Nothing beats the sight of a bunch of folks in street clothes carrying garment bags in one hand and stormtrooper helmets in the other. Laugh if you must (and I did) but bear in mind that these folks probably mint coin in their day jobs- if the tech support guy needs an outlet and isn't coordinated enough for softball, be it so (says Yoda). I did see from their photos however that they have four Boba Fetts (don't you hate it when you show up at an event and someone else is wearing the same outfit?) and the world's largest jawa. Actually, knowing the height requirements for a jawa probably qualifies me for immediate membership. Bags I get to be Bumface.

3) The defining theme of the weekend was gluttony. Such is the outcome of a) having to eat out for every meal; b) not having a fridge for leftovers (the minute I request a key to a hotel minibar, even just to store cheesecake, it's all over); and c) being brought up as members of the empty plate club- there are children starving in Africa, you know. May I make a futile request to American restaurants to please reduce portion sizes? I hate to waste but I hate my waist.

4) Its all well and good having funky leopard skin print robes for your hotel guests, but not all hotel guests are midgets. I tried one on and looked like an orange haired drag queen taking off Gina Lollabrigida. Other than that, Kimpton hotels rock. Well, this one did.

5) Although putting your doormen in fedoras is a bit much.

6) Neither CM or myself can comfortably hold a conversation with a cabbie.

7) Baby strollers are for children, not for pushing around cramped aquariums empty while you darling turd of a child runs about like Atilla the Hun. That's why there is a stroller drop-off. Nobody is going to steal your precious McLaren- park the damn thing. If your kid needs to sit down, its probably time to leave as they have reached the end of their "educational absorption experience". And if you are going to spend hours composing a portrait of precious in front of a fish tank, the fish tank is probably superfluous to the photo. Take your kid to Sears, have them drop a fake background, order the 8x10, 5x6 and wallets, and be done with it.

8) And an IMAX theatre is just as good as a regular cinema for teaching your kids to shut the hell up during a movie. Don't miss those teachable moments.

9) Does one tip aquarium employees in costume who pose for photos with one's beloved?

10) Every Weasel needs a Country Mouse to remind him not to start a fight in an Irish pub, especially given that his English accent will render allies thin on the ground.

11) Speaking of Irish pubs, when two are on adjacent street corners they really should coordinate their Guinness St Patrick's Day digital coutdown window clocks so that the countdowns on both match. Unless that means they get a rolling start in Boston, or maybe State Street marks the convergence of two alternative universes.

12) FILENES IS CLOSING????? Now, that was a true vision of hell. All I wanted was a couple of shirts and a sports jacket. No chance. However, I could have bought all the Sean John lounge wear I wanted at 75% off.

13) Massachusetts' liquor laws are crap. It is no longer the 17th century. Let groceries sell wine- if not for God's sake, for mine.

14) I really like that hotels in Boston pull all the advertising sections out of the free Sunday newspaper. That's service.

15) Finally, Maine has its faults and I had a wonderful time visiting the city, but I have to admit my heart lifted involuntarily as we crossed the Piscataqua Bridge. Ultimately, I wish it was a drawbridge but you can't have everything.

A Massive Post About A Weekend Of Science

Back from a wonderful weekend in Boston. Lots of photos of me acting like a prune, and a only a couple of Country Mouse, which just shows who is the better photographer in our family (mostly mine were of dark blurs). Let the photoblogging commence (and as always, for a larger view, click on the picture).

A piece of statuary in the park next to our digs (the Hotel Marlowe in Cambridge). Both Country Mouse and I firmly believe that the second head on the left is a rendering of the Eck.

About to enter the Museum of Science for the Star Wars exhibit. Poor Country Mouse. My excitement- genuine; to the point where I can't even see the school kids jeering at me behind CM.

Weasel stares rapt at the actual Millennium Falcon used in The Empire Strikes Back. "How did the actors fit?" He wonders.

Like all good Mainers, Country Mouse ain't skirr'd of no stormtroopah, bub. Jist like the Federal gov'mint, aint they; frickin' all baahhk an' no bite, ayuh.

If you are minor geek like me, this is a Sand Person. If you are a major geek, like the dude behind me at this case, this is a Tusken raider who rides a bantha and fights with a gaffi stick.

My attempt to build a lego mag-lev car (like a landspeeder) comes a cropper due to a failure to read the instructions.

Out of Star Wars and into the museum proper. The change causes my congential case of "big eye" to flare up.

I had no idea that when I accepted the after dinner speaking gig that it was for the American Nazi Party. Or that they would make me my own politically offensive backdrop.

I bugger up a completely innocent anatomy model. Again, I really must read the instructions.

I attempt to simulate zero gravity. Ground control to major idiot.

CM called this one "cocktail hour onboard Apollo".

On to Saturday. Our room at the Marlowe after a night's sleep punctuated with loud after effects of Indian food.

On to the New England Aquarium, or "Baby Stroller Hell". Lots of penguins with signs emphasising that they would make terrible pets. I'm sure Wes would disagree.

CM gamely indulges me by posing with some poor BU student trying to make tuition.

"B-b-b-Benny, Benny and the Jets..."

"Magic, Old Navy has savings to die for..." 3-D IMAX is pretty damn cool. We even found out from his narration that Johnny Depp's nightmares are about killer squid in a feeding frenzy.

And finally, back to Friday and Star Wars. I promised photos of us in the Millennium Falcon simulator but they didn't allow cameras. For the record, I sat in Han's seat and we did make the jump to hyperspace. I can however present a facsimile of the experience:

Peter Mayhew, Carrie Fisher, Mark Hamill, Anthony Daniels and Harrison Ford recreate the visit to the Millennium Falcon by Weasel, Country Mouse, and a nice young family who shared the simulator ride with us. Harrison occupies Weasel's seat.

Stay Tuned For Scenes From Next Week's Wisdom Weasel

Off to Boston (apparently home to F.C. Fipps, Britain's Best Butcher- odd. Unless...there...are...two...Bostons! Doh!) for a grown up romantic weekend of Burdick's hot chocolate, hipster hotels, Indian food (nothing so romantic as the after-effects of chicken jalfrezi), strolls through Cambridge to laugh at students, and A RIDE ON THE MILLENNIUM FALCON SIMULATOR!!!

WAHAEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY! MILLENNIUM FALCON! YIPPEEEEEEEEEE! I'M GOING TO MAKE THE KESSEL RUN IN LESS THAN TWELVE PARSECS!

Needless to say, I am excited and grateful that the Museum of Science Star Wars: Where Science Meets Imagination exhibit is still on. I will not however be posting from the road. Instead, here's a preview of upcoming posts that will tumble out upon my return:

Painting #5. The halfway point of Weasel's 10 favorite pictures fast approaches with a look at portraits of Oliver Cromwell.

Industrial Rockland. Out and about with the digital camera to document odd signs of heavy industry in rural coastal Maine.

Me flying the Millennium Falcon. Nuff said.

Probably something profoundly interesting to me about the middle east which is a dense as German christmas cake to everyone else.

In the interim, if you need something to do, I highly recommend the splendid cricket game shared by Mondale.

Ennui Killed The Radio Star

A 25 year old Weasel (in sunglasses) 18 months into his radio career.

Weasel at the end, after the stations were mercifully sold.
Until last Thursday, I had played at radio on and off for 8 years. For a while I yelled and played rock music for a living, and more recently I have done it as a hobby with our local community station, WRFR. At the start of the year, WRFR had one of its periodic burst of energy, with new committees being set up to take the station forward and so on. With my previous life a matter of public record, it wasn't long before I was asked to get involved with the admin side of things (something I had promised myself I wouldn't do even though my career- broadcasting and non-profit admin/management- lent itself well to the needs of the station). I ummed and ahhed about it; did I really want to essentially add another four hours or so a day to my day job in the name of my hobby? No, because I'm a coward and the task in front of the station is daunting.

Professional radio was fun 48% of the time. The rest of the time, when I was off air or not writing cute little jokes or playing with new CDs, was enough to turn me from the trim, carefree lad in the first picture into an overweight chain smoker with persistent heartburn. I never had the drive to try and see if I could keep at it; frankly I've always felt that the rise of Clear Channel et al made that career field somewhat odious and I enjoyed being willfully obscure a little too much. My time at WRFR was great because all I had to do was write cute little jokes and play with new CDs. Two hours a week on a Thursday night, suitably obscure so that nobody was turning off "Must See TV" to tune in, and a chance to make a continually shifting mix tape; it was a real treat. Nobody really listened, I could fart about with stuff that made me laugh, I wasn't under orders from management to interview anybody, and finally and most importantly, I wasn't management in any sense. I didn't have to hold anyone to account. I didn't have to fret about ad revenue. I didn't have to deal with the lunatic egos of DJs. I could play all the Bowie songs that made me smile and I could crack gags that made myself giggle. I didn't care if anybody else liked it.

As the reform juggernaut began to gather pace at WRFR, I reluctantly agreed to take part in a couple of committees and I learned the depth of the challenge ahead for the station. Suffice to say, both my broadcasting and non-profit circuits were overloaded by the herculean task of kicking the station into some sort of sustainable shape. So I decided to quit. And with that, I decided I had to fold my show. Ethically, could I still sit in the studio for my show every week knowing that all around me folks were working to try and implement changes that I was qualified to help with in many ways but I chose instead to do nothing but play? "No" is the correct answer, if you were wondering. Besides, my show wasn't coming up to my standards. I wasn't really doing anything new from when I started out in 1997. The same format, the same sort of gags and riffs, the same persona projecting the same exagerated eccentricities; I could see it rapidly losing it's lustre and decided to jump before I pushed myself.

And then tonight I got this email: "My wife and I heard you on the radio last week on WRFR and I have to say we haven't laughed that hard in years! Do you sell any CDs or audio tapes with your segments?" I suspect a plot by station management to get me to stay.. Seriously, I was really touched: I suppose this shows that I'm going out on top. I also saw that Charlie, whose show I followed, had put up a nice post about my departure. If you are interested, there are samples of some of our handover conversations over at Chas Radio.

I do have regrets. Small ones but regrets nonetheless. I've done the right thing though. And who knows? Maybe a comeback is in my future. The mediums are multiplying and the technology is getting cheaper. Perhaps alter ego #1, Elvis Parsley, will ride again in all his vainglorious idiocy.

Oh, and keep listening to Charlie; 5-8pm on Thursdays. He rocks, in an entirely insanely unhinged brillant sort of way.