Speaking of Science.....

Original Caption: "A delegation from the Malaysian ministry of science and technology marches as part of the National Day celebrations in Borneo, marking 49 years of independence from Britain."
I so want to work at the Malaysian Ministry of Science & Technology if this is what you get to wear to work every day.

I don't know: should this be a caption contest? Feel free to make it one in the comments if you wish. I'm off to figure out where I can get one of those suits.

UPDATE: Ignore the comments, they have degenerated into a lame geography fight in dialect between myself and Mondale.

A New-To-Me-Blog I Love

Christian musicians: all the ass but none of the premature death of secular rockers
Do you have conversations about matters scientific where your interlocutor is obviously a complete moron, making points grounded in a place NPR journalist and author of The Holy Vote: The Politics of Faith in America Ray Suarez recently called "the secure bunker of ignorance"? Do you wish you were more able to formulate your devastating reply in understandable yet authoritative scientific language, but like me you are nothing more than a gadfly generalist? Fear not, for there is Bad Science.

Written by Dr. Ben Goldacre, Bad Science is a handy digest of inane stories and theories with varying degrees of popular currency put to the test of the scientific method. While Goldacre acts as a solo aggregator, he doesn't claim omnipotence or infalibility. And for those of you eager to argue that Goldacre represents just one strain of opinion in a multifaceted world of ideas, I'd like to point out that so did Gallileo, Da Vinci, Newton, Faraday, Jenner, Pasteur, Curie, Rutherford, that troublesome Darwin, and so on. Not that Ben is in that group by any means, but when pooh-poohing science remember that without the methodology and peer review built up over the centuries we'd still believe that humans were made by God from clay after he had created the earth in 6 days about 6,000 years ago. Oh that's right, some of you do. After all, evidence is for Satanists.

My favorite story on Bad Science in recent weeks comes from the "Fictional Epidemiology" archives. Goldacre reports on a group of Christians who set out to prove Proverbs 10:27 ("The fear of the Lord prolongeth days, but the years of the wicked shall be shortened") by analyzing the age of rock stars at their death as compared to the general population. As Goldacre says in his post:

"I particularly enjoy the way they take the average age at death of the normal population, and compare that against the average age at death of… some rock stars who died young. Rock stars who die young do indeed, on average, die young."

Fantastic stuff. And speaking of context free science, apparently my grandparents, Tony Benn, and myself will live forever. Cor, I love my tea, I really do.

I Got Answers!

She runs the tilt-a-whirl
Firstly, for some reason people are still posting handy piss-removal tips to the Urine Begone post even though that was a year ago. There appears to be a misunderstanding. I don't have urine stain issues, I really don't. I swear.

On a more edifying note, Country Mouse came through big time for me yesterday. Last week while writing about the Union Fair I pondered the lot of carnies:

"Going to the fair always gets me thinking about carnies. Last night I found myself thinking about how the whole thing works: do they lease the booths and rides and buy the prizes, darts, etc at a discounted rate from the fair-company like a gang of fried-dough sharecroppers? And where do all the Kid Rock-alikes stay when on the road? I imagine the more established carnies and carny management have their own RVs and campers (you see them scattered around the perimeter) but do junior carnies have to provide their own digs or does the midway operator own campers that serve as mobile dorms or bunkhouses? And what sort of vision of hell-on-earth would the interior of a single men's carnie dorm camper be?..."

CM happens to know an ex-carnie who gave her the skinny.

There are two types of carnies, "Rideys" and "Gameys". Rideys run the rides and Gameys run the midway booths. Rideys are bottom of the totem pole; back when CM's contact was in the game they made about $200 a week. They are responsible for assembling the rides and they have been known to consume a 30 pack of beer per head before doing so, so it is often a good idea to stay off the more rickety looking apparatus. Gameys either own or rent their midway games. Regardless, they pay the carnival operator rent per foot of frontage for each event. They buy their own prizes, balloons, etc. Gameys tend to make more money that Rideys. The work day for both groups is usually 8am to at least midnight.

As for domestic conditions, at the more wealthy carnival companies there are indeed bunkhouses: 18 wheeler trailers converted into single men's (mostly Rideys) dorms. Carnies used to wash at public showers (state park campgrounds, etc) but many municipalities have banned them as they have a tendency to cause trouble. The better carnival companies now have shower trucks. Gameys and management at these better companies usually sleep in RVs or their truck cabs. At the less salubrious carnival companies, Rideys will sleep under their rides and go without bathing for weeks.

I think I should rename this blog the Encyclopedia Weaseltannia, or at the very least Weaselpaedia.

Don't Call It Folk Music

Steve Riley & The Mamou Playboys
I am married to a woman with very catholic tastes in music. Country Mouse's CD library encompasses everything from reggae to bluegrass, and unlike me she's less concerned at how sharp the lead guitarist looks in a skinny vintage three button suit than with if the music is danceable or the singing sublime. She does love her American music, though. In the past year she completed her personal country trifecta of seeing Dolly Parton, Allison Krauss, and the Dixie Chicks live. Since we've been together she's dragged me into Florida pickin' sheds, to the Lobster Festival to see the Neville Brothers (2003) and Beau Soleil (2005), to the National Folk Festival to see gospel shout brass bands, and to the Blue Hill Fair to see Charlie Daniels sing a song about lynching marijuana smokers. I have to admit that I have enjoyed every minute of it.

Tonight it was the turn of some old favorites of hers, the cajun and creole music of Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys five minutes walk away on Main Street at the Strand Theatre. That in itself is a sign that she really loves her cajun music, as the Strand is the sworn blood enemy of the movie theater she runs, the Bayview Street Cinema up the road in Camden. CM first saw the Steve Riley in 1997 at a CD launch party in Eunice, Louisiana while she was in college and has the signed CD to prove it. (Personally I think she has a crush on the diminutive accordionist but I'm secure enough to not worry about her fantasies involving midget Cajun squeezebox pumpers.)

As with most concerts with the frozen chosen of Northern New England in attendance it took a while for the crowd to warm up and for the polite applause to be replaced by dancing and hollering. But when the ice melted, oh boy. What my Yankee neighbors lack in rhythm they make up for in enthusiasm. Watching a bunch of Mainers dance to cajun music is less like watching a carefree two-step and more like watching a series of coreographed muggings, and seeing some of the unatural stiff twists and turns suddenly made me realize why there are so many chiropractors around here. Still, they danced, which is more than could be said of me. The trouble is, whenever I'm at a traditional music performance I can't decide if I'm there as a rug-cutter or anthopologist. There's never enough booze at these things to make me frug. I think that's my problem.

No matter. The music was brilliant- not too many of the slow and meaningful songs and lots of frantic accordion playing numbers that had me gyrating in my seat. There was the obligatory sideways reference to the perfidious English and the expulsion of the Acadians from Northern Maine, Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick 250 years ago (yes, yes, we were evil bastards and if the French had won they would have done something similar like expelling all the English from Massachusetts to Newfoundland or Jamaica. Get over it: you got Chef Boyardee out the experience; we got fluffer nutter.) but no Katrina stuff which was a little odd. The Playboys are a tight unit, from the 12 year old bassist to Smiley Mulleteaux* the Bill Hicks lookalike drummer. Even though they seemed to be painting by numbers a bit (a reticent crowd will do that to you) once they realized that the polite applause was the Maine equivalent of rapturous cheering and wolf-whistles they stepped it up.

When the traditional goodnight-off we go-everyone shouts 'encore'-out we come again coda** rolled around it was obvious that the Playboys had been to Maine before as they barely waited 10 seconds before retaking the stage. When we saw Allison Krauss and Union Station in Augusta last year some of the crowd took them at their word when the band said goodnight and started to leave, which must have been embarrassing for the 20 time Grammy winner when she came back out for the standard a cappella number plus greatest hit plus stomping-extended-jam-send-off. The Playboys did the a cappella bit (ick) but redeemed themselves by giving their all on an extended Allons Danser that induced a fresh wave of physical jerks from the hoofers and mass clapping and grinning from the rest of us. There was even, dare I admit it, some singing along in French.

Weird to think that the culture of the Cajuns got its new world start not too far to the north of here in the crown of Maine in Acadie***. Weirder still to think that I made myself mushroom and onion ployes for breakfast without making the connection that I'd be at a Mamou Playboy's concert tonight. This country will trick you both with its diversity and its community connections every day if you aren't careful.

One last thought. I'm sort of glad that most of the Acadians escaped the northeast and wound up as Cajuns in Louisiana. Otherwise I fear given the climate and the innate puritanism of our region the phrase would have been "lassiez le bon temps arrete".

*Not his real name. That's Kevin Dugas. But he does smile a lot and he has a mullet.
**Why do bands do that?
***Northern Acadian last names don't have the "x" on the end like Louisianans do. That's because many of the original Acadians were illiterate when they were deported back to French America and thus dictated their last names to the receiving officals and signed with an "x". Thus, "Thibodeau" from Maine became "Thibodeaux" in Louisiana.

Out and About With Country Mouse and Weasel: Double Shot Special

We haven't had one of these in a while. We have had a splendid couple of weekends in a row but have been so busy we haven't been able to share much of our bit of Maine with y'all. Fear not, here's some photos.

PART THE FIRST: THE MAINE BOATS, HOMES, & HARBORS "BOATYARD DOG SHOW", 8/13/06
This was the sort of thing that would appeal to Mondale even though he's one of those strange men who prefers cats to dogs. Lots of lovely boats to make a Hickling skipper drool with the added bonus of mutts leaping off docks. The dogs who competed for the boat yard dog title weren't pure breds or agility champs, but rather the sort of beasts that hang around boat yards adding canine colour to the nautical proceedings. My apologies for the distant photos; while lining up for the show I ran into a rude lady who was reserving a stretch of railing for the other folks at her exhibit. Normally I don't mind if someone saves space but this woman was foul and I almost lost my temper. I wanted to say "I'm not going to buy one of your boats then" but then it dawned on me that I couldn't buy one of her boats, so I let it go. Anway, on with the show:

Rockland harbor looking pretty with about a squazillion dollars worth of boats tied up.

The very corrupt (by their own admission) judges.

Distant dogs doing tricks.

Oh alright. I'll have one of these, if you insist.

One of these people is a rude lady.
After the show we had a big piss up in our back garden, with a small amount of grilling, a little bit of badminton, and lots of yummy beer. I also got to meet fellow 04841 blogger Rick, so a good day all round.

Then onto last weekend:

PART THE SECOND: THE ADAM/CHELSEA WEDDING, COLLEGE OF THE ATLANTIC, BAR HARBOR, MAINE 8/19/06.
We are of that age; if our friends aren't procreating they are getting married. Beats being the age when all you get to go to are funerals and divorce parties. Oh, you poor boomers: I feel for you. Not only did you squander your chance to be useful, you are now dealing with prostate trouble. Oh well.

Maine men in suits; groom on far left.

The bride (no way Weasel, is it really?).

Boat rides with Cap'n Ed (former host the gnarliest heavy metal show on my old radio station)

An Italio-Canadian and Vermont's finest Russell Crowe looky-likey.

Country Mouse chats with the next bride (at the plate, 9/3/06).

Biggie (aka she who plays badminton like Monica Seles) retrieving the shuttlecock/birdie.

Gage waits patiently.

Witherell and Biggie ham it up after the pig roast.

An itunes account does not a DJ make.

James Taylor cleared the dance floor.

Country Mouse after a night of rug-cutting and champagne.

Oiv'e Gotta Brand New Combine Harvester...

Photo via Union Farm Equipment
Last night Country Mouse and I headed inland a piece to pay a visit to the Union Fair. It was demolition derby night, which meant that the traffic was heavy and the fairgrounds heaving with people but as we were there for the livestock and the fair food it really didn't matter to us.

As usual the fairground was thronged with some of the largest people on planet earth, rides that looked like they were last serviced during the Eisenhower administration, a surfeit of hand-knitted mittens, and gigantic ram gonads at every turn. Country Mouse's well-tuned instinct for self-preservation kept us off the ferris wheel and the parachute chairs and although I had pledged to ride the dodgems prior to arrival the fact that I would have been at least 15 years older than my fellow drivers and thus would have looked vaguely creepy out there under the sparking cables kept me walking the midway.

Half way through my gigantic keilbasa it dawned on me that I had paid $7 admission so that I could pay $6 for a sausage. Country Mouse calling the keilbasa "The Girth" wasn't aiding digestion any, but I did finish it all, even the peppers and onions, and only managed to get the minimum of mustard on my shirt. My later nightcap of french fries was made all the more tasty thanks to the addition of hot pepper vinegar, a condiment I think I'll have to search out or rustle up on my own. The habenero tang of the vinegar certainly helped keep my mind off the fact that we were sharing our picnic table with what appeared to be a couple of members of the Future Meth Heads of America and their ladyfriend who seemed intent on using her limited feminine whiles to scam as many free portions of fries as possible. I was certainly stuffed to the gills when we left but one of the things I love about the fair is the relativist self-image possibilities. No matter how much I ate I was always going to be one of the slimmest people there.

The livestock as always were facinating, the sheep and poultry especially taking me back to my rural youth, along with the barnyard air. I was very happy to see two exhibits by youngsters in particular; one a painting in the art competition of a greyhound in an admiral's coat in the style of Jamie Wyeth, and an art project by a 4H adolecent sheep farmer in which he attempted to paint pictures of his farm in the styles of various impressionists. Oh, and I also liked the colored pencil on scrap paper rendition of "Deviltopia", a scribbled rendition of hell by a deliriously odd 8-and-under kid which had drawn second prize from the judges.

Going to the fair always gets me thinking about carnies. Last night I found myself thinking about how the whole thing works: do they lease the booths and rides and buy the prizes, darts, etc at a discounted rate from the fair-company like a gang of fried-dough sharecroppers? And where do all the Kid Rock-alikes stay when on the road? I imagine the more established carnies and carny management have their own RVs and campers (you see them scattered around the perimeter) but do junior carnies have to provide their own digs or does the midway operator own campers that serve as mobile dorms or bunkhouses? And what sort of vision of hell-on-earth would the interior of a single men's carnie dorm camper be? Questions,questions...

Another year at the fair has passed without me buying a tractor or Country Mouse bringing home a couple of bantams and a piglet. The Maine fair season runs until the Fryeburg in October however, so there is still time for that to change.

New TV Obsession

"Course, when I was a copper we didn't have cars. We had bikes, and if we were lucky, a whistle. Sometimes we didn't even have trousers. Patrolled hundreds of square miles on our bikes in our underpants on our own...." © since time inmemoriam, my grandfather.
I know it is summer and that I should be outside until all hours of the night enjoying balmy temperatures but I have become hooked on a splendid TV show from the mother country shown on BBC America called Life on Mars. Not only is the show named after my favorite Bowie song and is set in the year of my birth, its also a fantastically mindless cop drama with very few pretentions to real-life relevance. As for a basic synopsis, here's what Wikipedia has to say:

"The format of this show mixes time travel with police drama, with the central character being modern-day policeman Sam Tyler (played by John Simm), who after being hit by a car in 2006 finds himself back in 1973. There he is working for Manchester and Salford Police CID under DCI Gene Hunt (played by Philip Glenister). Over the course of the series, Tyler faces various culture clashes, most frequently regarding the difference in approach to policing between Tyler - a product of a more politically correct twenty-first century approach to policing, where suspect rights and the chain and preservation of forensic evidence are more stringently observed - and his 1973 counterparts, who work in a police force where sexism and racism, police brutality and institutionalised minor corruption are regarded more casually as routine parts of the job."

Believe me, they make it sound much darker than it really is. It is crackingly silly in the way many British dramas used to be, and despite the obligatory moments of violence inserted to help it compete with its slicker American competitors and the obvious attempts at emulating The Sweeney it seems to work. The plotting is inconsistent and trite as the writers fail to balance the now standard issue psychological subplot with their itch to have the characters charge about in unmarked souped-up Ford Cortinas*. The main character, Sam, is a complete drip, prone to humourless interludes about his "mam" and modern policing. The foreshadowing of plot points is so overbearing that the producers would be better served by putting up a summary kyron each episode before the opening credits and allowing more time for Ford Cortina driving. What redeems this show and puts it on my current favorites list is that the supporting cast understand all of the above and therefore go at their scenes like Alan Rickman playing the Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin Hood.

There's comedy moustaches and comedy sports coats. There's male costume jewelry and an ashtray on every flat surface. There's the afore-mentioned vintage cars. There's every copper cliche in the book and the added bonus of those clunky time-travel jokes beloved of the Back to the Future franchise (i.e. protagonist inadvertently "invents" a very common modern object while trapped in the past). There's camel-hair coats and polyester suits. There's fisticuffs set to a glam rock soundtrack. It's almost enough to make you forget about the mopeing lead actor and his crappy "is it a coma/is it time travel?" arc. I think I've found a new fave.

If you have the increasingly pathetic BBC America (Benny Hill? Benny Hill? Did I move to Bulgaria in my sleep?) on your cable system or fancy checking Netflix to see if it's out on DVD I highly recommend you track this show down.

(*The Ford Cortina: family car of Clan Weasel for much of the 70s and early 80s)

This is not a world traveler blog

Anthony Bourdain (center, in hat): chef, author, and world traveler looking refreshed at the start of a trip.

Listmaker: teacher, baseball fan, and world traveler, looking shagged out after eating crickets and dodging the persistent boom-boom girls.
If you haven't been following Listmaker's rather brilliant Asian tour, I suggest you start now. if you are of a more foodie bent, Listmaker's consort Youthlarge has chronicled her leg of the trip here. Pack a bag and dig in.

Slacker

I have just wasted 25 minutes of my life, watching the end of Soylent Green starring that maniac Charlton Heston (a man with two last names and no first name: always a rum sign) just so that I could hear this:

"Det. Thorn: It's people. Soylent Green is made out of people. They're making our food out of people. Next thing they'll be breeding us like cattle for food. You've gotta tell them. You've gotta tell them!

Hatcher: I promise, Tiger. I promise. I'll tell the exchange.

Det. Thorn: You tell everybody. Listen to me, Hatcher. You've gotta tell them! Soylent Green is people! We've gotta stop them somehow!"

I need to get out more.

Vanishing Questions

In all the hubbub over the alleged terrorist plot uncovered last week, I'm begining to worry that certain questions are going unanswered. So for my own peace of mind I'm going to write them down. If anyone knows if they have been answered and can point me to a reputable source (or preferably multiple sources) for confimation, I'd be very grateful.

1) Have the British authorities revealed if they actually found any explosives?

2) The police were apparently watching these plotters for months. If they knew of the plan, why didn't they step up airport security earlier?

3) This method of bringing down a plane was first mooted and attempted by Al Qadea in 1994 (Ramzi Yousef's plan to bring down aircraft crossing the Pacific). Why weren't authorities screening for this known threat- liquid explosives carried on in soda bottles- since 1994?

4) If one must now pack liquids and gels in one's hold baggage, does this mean that the woefully inadequate hold-baggage explosives screening rate has drastically improved in recent months?

5) Given the amount of time and effort it takes a terrorist cell to plan a big attack on civil aviation targets (9/11 took two years, this one is alleged to have been in the works for many months) surely we are actually safer immediately after an attack or the disruption of an alleged attack? Notwithstanding the possibility of a "second wave" (of all AQ or AQ inspired attacks in the west there was only one with a second wave- London 2005- and they failed) given the vast drain on resources one of these attacks represents the chances of a second attack in close order is very, very unlikely. Or can someone show me evidence to the contrary?

6) Vaguely related; did the police anywhere ever catch the second wave or copycat bombers who tried to attack the London Underground on July 21 last year, and have they been tried or scheduled for trial? I lost track of that one somehow.

"Get off me Dad, You're crushing my insulin pump"

The Lord-Lieutenant of Norfolk and his deputy on the steps of County Hall yesterday
What is it about people called Gibson? First that born again Australian midget Mel Gibson went off about the tribe to the fuzz while off his noggin on Vicky Bitter and Bunderberg. Then Dr. Ian Gibson, MP for South Norwich in my spiritual homeland of Norfolk, England blamed his constituents' suceptibility to diabetes on inbreeding. He then called the female interviewer "Sugar beet tits". Its got everyone back in Mustardland all thredickled.

Us North Norfolk and North Norwich types have long had our suspicions. And my Norfolk antecedents, the Highs and the Bunnetts, may have married each other in large waves, but at least we didn't marry our cousins like those filthy South Norfolk shammocks. Well, not first cousins.

Thank goodness so many of my ancestors married furriners, otherwise I'd have four nipples instead of the normal three.

Sang Froid, Please

In relation to the post below I thought I'd post this from Simon Carr (political columnist and parliamentary sketch writer for The Independent). It neatly sums up the way we should probably approach the challenges of terrorism in the modern west:

"In a speech to Demos, Dr "Demento" Reid said just now, "we may have to modify some of our freedoms in the short-term in order to prevent their misuse and abuse by those who oppose our fundamental values and would destroy our freedoms and values in the long-term".

One of our fundamental values – perhaps the most important - is stoicism. Over the years, Britain has prided itself on courage under fire, steady nerve, a refusal to panic, or indeed to surrender. The idea that these loony-tunes, jihad-jumping nutcases are a threat to "our freedoms and values" is absurd. Sooner or later they will succeed again with more bombs. Our task is to suffer. Our task is to take it. As we always have before."

Can't Fight The Fearing Anymore....

Chertoff, Reid: hit it, boys!
Details are still emerging about the foiled (alleged) plot to attack airliners en route from the UK to the US, and one would of course be loath to doubt the utterances of politicians or those with a dog in the security hunt on such a serious matter. That said, is meaningless, vague, and unquantifiable hyperbole really the best contribution to national security and the public psyche? One violent death is a tragedy in and of itself. Any increase in the order of magnitude of death is horrific. So why the compulsion to describe every foiled attack as if it were deserving of its own macabre place in the Guinness Book of Records?

Lets go to the blog equivalent of the video tape and I'll try and show you what I mean. Roll VT, Errol.

"A plot to blow up planes in flight from the UK to the US and commit 'mass murder on an unimaginable scale' has been disrupted, Scotland Yard has said" (BBC, 8/10/06)

"(British Home Secretary John) Reid said had the attack gone ahead it would have caused a loss of life of 'unprecedented scale'."(BBC, 8/10/06)

"Mass murder on an unimaginable scale". Really? 2,976 people died on 9/11. The standard maximum passenger load on the Boeing 747 set up to accomodate three service classes is 416. (And the 747 is the largest airliner in service; many Transatlantic passengers are carried on the smaller Airbus and Boeing variants with many fewer passengers.) "Loss of life of 'unprecedented scale'": unfortunately, the death of around 3,000 people in a single incident on September 11 set the precedent for our western terror attack upper limit. To achieve this level of carnage this time the alleged terrorists would have had to have downed 7 airliners. And if 3,000 is imaginable, what is unimaginable or unprecedented? 6,000 (14 airliners)? 9,000 (21 airliners)?

"Mass murder on an unimaginable scale". I assume the police are talking about in a single incident, as opposed to systematic campaigns like the Holocaust, the Armenian genocide, or the Killing Fields of Cambodia. Reid's "Unprecedented scale" probably uses the same frame of reference. So no recollection then of the third attempted reason to justify the invasion of Iraq, Saddam's mistreatment of his subjects, specifically the poison gas attack on the Kurdish town of Halabja? 5,000 killed immediately, 7,000 died of the effects afterwards; total death toll around 12,000 from one attack. 28, almost 29 airliners. Is that what we are talking about here?

"Mass murder on an unimaginable scale". Staying with the single incident limitation, I suppose no consideration was given to Syria's crushing of the Muslim Brotherhood in Hama in 1982. Amnesty International has calculated that the Syrian government killed 25,000 of its own citizens in one day. 60 airliners. Are we really talking about simultaneous explosions on 60 airliners?

And so on, and so on. I'm not trying to be factitious or pedantic here, but I think public offficals and politicians have a duty to either provide full context for their remarks or to avoid meaningless and emotive terms while people are trying to come to terms with the latest disruption in their lives.

I'm sure the threat is very real, and that this plot if undiscovered could have caused the death of many. I honestly applaud the police for having prevented these attacks, and understand that flying is going to be even more of a pain in the ass from now on. And there is an outside chance that this foiled attack would have been as serious as has been implied, although tragically the only places where death tolls exceed initial claims seem to be in the developing world rather than the west (remember the 20,000 projected dead on 9/11? The "hundreds" presumed killed in the Tube attacks on London last year?).

Of course, If I was feeling cynical I could point out that by having the news dutifully cover airline passengers fretting about hair gel and bottled water is an unexpected bonus for politicians eager to see the carnage in Lebanon, Iraq, and Afghanistan off domestic TV screens. And no doubt the British police acted in the nick of time, foiling the plot on the cusp of its execution, rather than stiking today to provide an exclamation point to Home Secretary Reid's chilling speech yesterday in which he declared "We may have to modify some of our freedoms in the short-term in order to prevent their misuse and abuse by those who oppose our fundamental values and would destroy our freedoms and values in the long-term". But there's no way that this could be a combination of well-expolited coincidence and stage-managed politicking, is there? I mean that would take a level of breath-taking, even "unprecedented" and "unimaginable" cynicism on the part of our governments, wouldn't it?

(PS: My semi-educated guess is the plotters will turn out to be British born east Indian muslims, centered in western suburbs and commuter belt of London, the Midlands, and maybe West Yorkshire, under 30, with perhaps a sub-saharan African or middle eastern quartermaster providing the sole link to "official" Al Qadea. Again, just a guess.)
UPDATE: One of the suspects was apparently arrested in Walthamstow, where my dad was born and grew up. Cor, back in the day it were a luverly neighbourhood; everyone left their doors unlocked and they were in and out of each others houses all the time, nicking the silver.... etc, etc.

Caption Contest Time

OK folks, try to keep it clean:
Original BBC Caption: "South Korean schoolgirls mud-wrestle at a military summer camp in Seoul."

Its Hard Out There For a Nutrageous

"Pimped Out Twix"
I am very grateful that my immediate sibling Weasel's Little Bruvva shares our family's taste for the peculiar, otherwise I would never have learned about:

Pimp that Snack
Now that I have seen a gigantic chupa chup I can probably retire. And as much as I hate the word "pimp" in its current incarnation (Hey! Lets "Violent Exploiter of Prostitutes My Ride" MTV!) this website does at least give me hope that my last roll of the TV development dice- "Pimp My Whimple" for EWTN TV- might bear fruit. At least more fruit than the P Diddy infomercial for Proactiv called "Pimp my Pimple" did at any rate.

New Resident at Disgracelands

Ladies and Gents,

With all the sorrow and uncertainty in the world, it is always pleasant to welcome a new dog, knowing that you'll not have to worry about the great trials of life in canine company. So without any further ado, here is young Mira:

Long dog = Dinah (she's been our long and hairy chum for three years). Squat dog = Mira (she has been our portly and instantly comfortable chum for 48 hours).
Despite looking like a corgi, Mira is allegedly an Australian Cattle Dog and something. Australian Cattle Dog, eh? Better lock up the silver and put a lock on the fridge to stop her getting to the beer. Like Dinah, Mira is approximately just shy of three years old and from the south originally (thank goodness for the underground railroad: this is Maine after all, home to the Luckiest Dogs In America). Unlike Dinah she is quite overweight but that will soon change. We don't do obese dogs here at Disgracelands (although we do fat Weasels- I'm working on it, joined a gym this month, but that's a different story) as there is far too much countryside in Maine for us to let a jelly belly slide. So its going to be exercise galore, decent food, and a breaking of what appears to be an unfortunate table scraps history. Watch this space.

Both beasts are down east with Country Mouse this weekend as she had family bid'ness to tend to and I had to march in the Lobster Festival parade with the kids from work ( although this isn't me in the linked photo I do like being in a parade: a great opportunity to embarass everyone around me, which is one of favorite hobbies). As a consequence, I'm contemplating going to bed at 10:30pm on a Saturday night so I can carpe diem tomorrow. God, I'm getting old. So night, and here's one more of the proper number of dogs for a two person household:

Plus Ca Change Le Meme Que Chose: Ich Bin Ein Auslander

"Come and work!" "They ain't stayin', bubba!"
I have avoided expressing my opinions on the American immigration debate in these pages precisely because I am a legal immigrant myself. As a legitimate holder of a green card any position I take would probably be dismissed by the other side as the rantings of someone with a dog in the hunt. Recently however some elements of the anti-immigration crowd have reached such a pitch of inanity I had to break my self imposed omerta and have a little comment.

I'm a firm believer in the rule of law. Although onerous, I went through the proper channels to get my visa and would never have considered having done it any other way. That said, I am white, speak English as a first language, come from the United States's strongest ally, and am university educated. That all probably counted in my favour. I also wasn't fleeing economic hardship or the collapse of civil society (no matter that John Major and the Tories were still in power- tee hee!).

I know how tough it was to be away from my family and everything I had known all my life in those early years. Even though I had been independent from a young age having left home to go to boarding school at 11, I always returned to the bosom of my family every 6 weeks or so while at school. And from my arrival in the USA to today, I have always been able to go back to Britain to visit my family or entertain them over here safe in the knowledge that I had the correct papers to return at will and that I came from circumstances that meant my visitors were not considered risks to over-stay.

Even if I had stayed in Britain and made my life there, I know I would feel the same about immigrants, both legal and illegal. The act of leaving one's safety zone- for adventure or to escape hardship- is quite brave and not a decision undertaken lightly. Those who have shown the gumption and stamina to risk it all by enduring the processes of the US Embassy consular division or crossing deserts and rivers while hunted like deer should be welcomed as exactly the sort of resourceful and tenacious individuals we want in a country. I'm not being completely factitious when I suggest that beating the obstacles and challenges placed in front of the prospective immigrant should be enough alone to put them on the fast-track to citizenship. If a Navy Seal escapes, evades, and infiltrates as well as an illegal immigrant they give him a medal. They don't make him install drywall for less than minimum wage and threaten to deport him.

But my personal philosophy of immigration is not why I started writing this post. What I wanted to do was pick up on two things said during the recent House of Representatives immigration road show that I think bear more scutiny than the 24 hour news cycle allows for. I shall be be brief, but I hope I make my points.

On July 5th House Republicans held hearings (months after they passed their version of an immigration bill) in San Diego to discuss the national security and crime implications of illegal immigration. Two popular topics were the risk that Mexico would serve as a conduit for Al Qadea and their ilk and that incarcerating illegal immigrants (25% of the population of jails in L.A. county, for example) was costing local and state governments a fortune.

First, the incarceration issue. No doubt that jailing illegal immigrants is expensive. Jailing anyone is expensive. Hookers, robbers, Andrew Fastow; prison is not a cheap option. Therefore I would love to hear a GOP house member explain how making the 11 million illegal immigrants currently in the United States guilty of a felony rather than a civil offense would do anything to lower the burden of prison expenses. If the President were to sign their bill in an instant we'd have the need for 11 million prison beds, new prisons, new prison staff, new courts, and the kicker is the food needed to feed the felonious immigrants would be more expensive as there would be nobody to pick it cheaply. Mind you, even Fox "News" is discussing that juicy potential $385 million prison building contract awarded to Kellogg, Brown, & Root in the context of future immigration detention centres, so perhaps these nuts are doing more than just posturing.

Second, the national security issue. Like any controversial policy or cause deemed to need unquestioning support post 9/11, the horned beast of "terrorism" was wheeled out to demonstrate the need for electrifying the Rio Grande or something. Why not? After all, "Wetbacks of Mass Destruction" is just plain offensive, and the "Mexico is a threat to our national security" line is almost as old as the Louisiana Purchase. Consider this passage from The American Home Front, 1941-1942* by British reporter/American citizen Alistair Cooke, written in the fall of 1941 as the USA got into the swing of the Second World War:

"(Phoenix, AZ) The people you talk with have a sense of alertness that springs from something more that a new call for long staple cotton. It is the sense of living on a possible frontline..... Here in the Southwest, there seems to be an active fear of what might be done through the back door of Mexico. Many people tell you that for a decade before Pearl Harbor the only people who seemed to know much about the tactical possibilities of the Baja California coastline were Japanese fishermen.... The taxi-driver who takes you to the station boasts of the number of airfields around Phoenix.... He repeats- in case I happen to be a Japanese agent- fearful rumors of 'hundreds, yeah thousands of our planes patrolling the Mexican border'..." (Full passage can be found on pg 121 of The American Home Front 1941-1942 Atlantic Montly Press. I edited for brevity, not context; I'm not Fox News).

What fear of terrorism should we have, if the modern equivalents of that Phoenix cabbie are scanning the beaches of Cabo for bearded and be-turbaned sunbathers? Of course, the fact that most probing of the United States by terrorists and alleged terrorists has come from the much more socially hetrogeneous Canada is neither here-nor-there. Those opposed to northbound immigration find it convenient to say that the threat is in Mexico, the threat will be in Mexico, the threat has always been in Mexico.

So here I leave this subject. Truth be told on subjects like these minds are not changed by pithy argument or logical dissection but rather by personal experience and empathy. I fear that for many Americans the cartoon image of the sneaky illegal will always overshadow the real human beings unless they get to meet, live, and work alongside the "other".

*Thanks Listmaker & Youthlarge!

More Pertinent Blogs

Welcome to Tony Blair Airport! I assure you Emir, no bombs for Israel here!" (note man in shades, bottom left, doing the robot, and man in red, bottom right, dressed as a Sgt Pepper's era Beatle. Its the Kuwaiti rock follies!)
Even though these are the dog days of summer and many of our coterie are off on vacation or buried under work, there are still choice cuts cropping up in our corner of the blogosphere. So once again may I offer up some of my recent favorites?

There has been quite the fuss in Britain recently over the use of Prestwick Airport (in Scotland) by US charter flights transporting munitions for Israel to use against Lebanon. The flights have apparently been halted but yet more damage was done to the already fragile reputations of both the United States and Tony Blair in the UK. Blogger BBDO has managed to quarry a few gems from the turd mine however, and if he ever finishes it his website for Tony Blair International Airport will be a classic bit of satire. Even while it is under construction, it is well worth reading his hillarious message from our Tone.

Fellow Rocklander Arguably So has been highlighting some excellent journalism recently. One story- the brewing trap war off Matinicus (if you have to ask "what's a trap war?", you can't get there from here bub, ayuh) as covered by the Christian Science Monitor- is of great local interest. The other, a story from the Chicago Tribune is a magisterial and magnificent tour de force tracking one gallon of gasoline backwards from the pump in Chicago to the oil fields of the global south and taking in the trail of capital, labor, misery, violence, and complaceny it follows. Read it here.

Listmaker and Youthlarge continue their tour of Asia, moving from Korea to Japan. Between them, they have the grub, the pop culture, baseball, and uncomfortable dining seating covered.

Harry Hutton, as always, is off his gourd.

And finally, congratulations to Unwellness and Coverting, who are avec un petit choufleur after displaying both stamina, doggedness, and an understanding of the desirability of the odd tantrum.

P.S. I also meant to highlight a rather cogent defence of blogging against the sneers of Yasmin Alibhai-Brown (one of my favorite old media columnists) by Doctor Vee. So here you go.