It Wasn't My Fault, I Was 80 Miles Away

Bar Harbor two weeks ago...

...And today. Or not.
Strange things are afoot just above the mantle in coastal Maine, as a series of small earthquakes have hit Country Mouse's home town of Bar Harbor in the past couple of weeks. We are travelling up there this weekend so I shall pack my earthquake-proof wellingtons just in case. I am no great believer in fate but after the news of the tremors reached Disgracelands (my current abode) I did wonder about my family's unfortunate propensity to be connected to all manner of disasters (mostly man-made, but as I think I neglected to mention, my Thailand-dwelling Great-Uncle Roy had a brush with the Indian Ocean tsunami).

Perhaps however this is a sign, like the one given to Bruce Willis by the train crash in the awful Unbreakable ("They call me Mr. Glass! The Children! The Children!") that I am destined to save the world, again. Therefore should the ultimate earthquake strike this weekend during our visit I shall face whichever mythical mutant sea creature- created by our own abuse of the environment through nuclear testing in Gouldsboro- should arise out of Frenchman Bay unafraid.

Everybody has a little Raymond Burr in them, after all.

I Have The Same Swimsuit

I suppose if you wanted a primer on the two sides of my personality, you could do worse than consider these two filums whose US releases I am eagerly awaiting. No doubt both are terrible, but I never claimed to be Roger Ebert or Barry Norman.

He Wants His Ball Back, He's Going Home

"Once we have done sorted this intelligence leak mess, Laura and me will be taking President Karzai down to Crawford." You have to agree, there is at least a slight resemblance.
I don't have anything to say about the content of the declassified portions of the recent National Intelligence Estimate that suggests that the war in Iraq has made terrorism more, not less, virrulent. I have yet to read it and while I want to comment on some of Bush's non sequiturs that arise from his assertion that there has always been terrorism so feelings over Iraq makes no difference, I'll leave the fevered rehashing of reporter's takes on other reporter's takes on the declassified fragments of a much broader report to others for now.

The most interesting thing yesterday was that in responding to questions about the report, Mr. Bush became most grumpy when considering the implications of the leaks for his party's fortunes in the November elections. At one point he said angrily:

"Here we are, coming down the homestretch of an election campaign and it’s on the front page of your newspapers. Isn’t that interesting?" (Full story, NY Times 9/26/06)

This suggests one of two things. Either he is such a master operator that he can blithely accuse others of attempting to exploit national security for political gain while never once acknowledging that he has built his entire post 9/11 career on the exact same expolitation; or he is a brittle, spoiled little rich boy who behind the surface bonhomie has the personality of Francis in Pee Wee's Big Adventure and while able to dish it out in spades is unable to take even a thimbleful in return.

I wonder if the President ever gets suspicious about the fact that he is never wrong. Even the infalible pope admits mistakes sometimes, but this guy... It must be quite unnerving, always being so certain.

My Enemy's Enemy Is Not Always My Friend

Imagine a president who is possessed of a singular vision, a man who believes the world to be in the grip of a battle between the forces of good and evil. This president is so certain of his rightness that he employs biblical language to describe this fight and his tongue often evades the diplomatic conventions of global politics when discussing his enemies. Some have alleged that this president has whipped up fear of his enemy at home for cynical reasons of power, and while many in the chattering classes dismiss him as an idiot he has managed to see off all challengers at the polls. On the domestic front, this president uses the forces of populism to overwhelm constitutional checks and balances. Abroad he alternates between checkbook diplomacy and cuddling up to odious dictators in order to further his foreign policy and economic aims. His government has encouraged union busting and is accused of tampering with electoral rolls in order to manipulate the results of elections. Finally, this president and his administration were widely blamed for inadequate preparations and delayed relief efforts when a massive natural disaster hit one of the poorest parts of his country.

Step forward, Hugo Chavez. Oh, and while in the army Chavez also attempted a coup in 1992 in an effort to overthrow the demcratically elected president (an attempt to end Venezuela's tradition since 1958 of democratic, civillian government). It might have been a good thing then that Bush dodged the draft.

I don't expect much from any politician of any stripe. I certainly don't expect them to be perfect. It does pain me however that anyone of even the vaguest left wing stripe who opposes Bush on the international stage is lauded as a hero despite their own rather serious shortcomings. A dictatorship of the proletariat is still a dictatorship, and history suggests that the proletariat still gets the shaft even when people govern in their name. This hugging of every rascal who emerges from the opposite pole from whichever right wing bastard du jour occupies our corridors of power doesn't suggest international solidarity but rather a pathetic schoolgirl crush on the part of my fellow oppositionists here in the United States. Yes, Chavez has made some wonderful gestures like subsidized heating oil, and he seems to be achieving much through his missiones in regards to literacy and mortality rates at home in Venezuela. I am however at a loss to understand how in the face of howls of protest against President Bush's assault on what we regard as our fundamental political rights we can embrace a man who seems intent on shredding Venezuela's democratic process in the name of peace, stability, and prosperity. In the first half of the last century people who offered populism, economic insulation, and security at the expense of democracy were men like Stalin, Hoxa, Hitler, Mussolini, and Franco. I don't subscribe to that feverish fringe who insist inanely on comparing every dictator or strongman to Hitler but perhaps the Mussolini comparison might bear examination. I don't expect organized extermination in Venezuela but I don't think forced ingestion of castor oil and club wielding thugs are out of the question.

What I'm really doing is making a plea to my fellow leftists. By all means giggle when Chavez calls Bush names (although you do shudder when Bush resorts to the ethics of the playground); we have all called him worse in the comfort of our own homes (hello, NSA). Point out the philanthropic example of Venezuelan owned oil company Citgo to our more parsimonious American fuel pushers (or better yet, encourage the state to offer biofuel assistance). Mock those politicians who have nothing better to do than attack Chavez for calling Bush "el diablo" and tell them to keep their hands off the Citgo sign; instead encourage them to encourage him to respect the rule of law the same way we angrily insist that Mr. Bush and his coven should.

Politics is not a zero sum game; my enemy's enemy is not always my friend. If we continue to apply such inconsistent standards in the name of false ideological comfort we will have nobody but ourselves to blame when like Orwell's farm animals we peek through the window at our leaders or champions and find that "“The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”

This is why I don't believe in having heroes. Everybody's feet are made of clay, and some people's tootsies are more terracotta than others.

Revuhuhuhuvenge!

The realization dawns on Weasel that the Sox beat the Yankees last weekend
Regular Weaselettes out there will be aware that I have been enduring a season-long bet with Bill Norris of Notes From A Former New Yorker on the results of the meetings of baseball's Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees. Last weekend while I was out and about undergoing a twisted pennance of Bill's devising following a Red Sox loss the word came through the WEEI Red Sox Radio Network that Boston had triumphed over the Yankees.

Revenge would be mine.

Of course, after being forced to parade around Red Sox nation while wearing a pink Yankees hat I knew I had to come up with something good to inflict on Bill. Country Mouse and I have been throwing suggestions around all week, resulting in this shortlist:

1) Write a 250 word essay on why David Ortiz should be the MVP over Derek Jeter.

2) Pose for photographs in front of his undergraduate class at big orange acting as if he is teaching them about the quality of the prose in Jim Gerard's Yankees Suck! (which would be mailed down to Texas presently. It's a good read).

3) Arange to be hit in the face by a custard pie featuring a picture of Trot Nixon picked out in frosting.

4) Become a franchisee in my new business that I'm hoping David Ortiz will agree to endorse: "Big Papi Schmears Bagel Shops", to be situated in women's clinics and OBGYN departments.

However, as tasty as these ideas are, I was hit with greater inspiration on Wednesday night and for a small amount of folding green I sent off for the very special props I would need to seek satisfaction. The props arrived today.

So Bill, there is no better way to acknowledge that one has lost a bet than by adorning one's body with emblems of the enemy and parading in public. As an honest Red Sox fan I could be trusted to don the pink hat even without Bill's direct supervision and fulfill my sentence. While I am sure Bill is a paragon of moral probity he is a Yankees fan and therefore not be trusted not to seek a loophole. Therefore, I'm not sending clothing but temporary tattoos.

There are enough in a package to cover both arms to the point where Bill will resemble a riveter on the Big Dig.

I expect photos of you as a fully-inked construction worker from Providence or Saugus, Mr. Norris. A pillow up your shirt to simulate the accompanying beer gut is optional.

Advice and Suggestions, Please.

I really should know more about what you lot call the Revolutionary War and what my lot call The American War of Independence. I just read a short book on the writing of the constitiution (which Country Mouse picked up from her school book club when she was in 7th grade) and it was very interesting but only alluded in passing to the great struggle that preceeded it. I've read the first of Tom Paine's "Crisis" pamphlets ("These are the times that try men's souls..." and so on) but that's more about stiring up the chaps than recounting the story of the revolution. So...

NEEDED: advice on a good primer on the Revolutionary period from the end of the French & Indian War in 1763 to the Peace of Paris in 1783. Nothing too tabloidy or poppy, nor anything that resembles the Hollywood revisionism of The Patriot. Something in the style of a McCullough or a Kearns Goodwin, but not as faux heroic as an Ambrose. I will however keep an open mind and am eager to read your suggestions. Thank you.

Mean Green, erm, Green Machine

From Yahoo UK:
"LONDON (AFP) - British arms manufacturer BAE Systems is reportedly designing "environmentally friendly" weapons, including "reduced lead" bullets, "reduced smoke" grenades and rockets with fewer toxins.

Other initiatives include developing armoured vehicles with lower carbon emissions, safer and more sustainable artillery and even recycling or composting waste explosives, The Sunday Times added.

"Weapons are going to be used and when they are, we try to make them as safe for the user as possible, to limit the collateral damage and to impact as little as possible on the environment," Debbie Allen, BAE Systems' director of corporate social responsibility, was quoted as saying.

But Symon Hill, from Campaign Against Arms Trade, described the policy as "laughable."

"BAE is determined to try to make itself look ethical but they make weapons to kill people and it's utterly ridiculous to suggest they are environmentally friendly," he told the newspaper.

BAE Systems' policy is reportedly endorsed by Britain's Ministry of Defence, which defended the concept of "green munitions" as not a contradiction in terms. The US Army already has its own sustainability website."

If I remember correctly, one of the arguments advanced in favour of the neutron bomb is that it would vaporise a population but leave buildings intact, making reconstruction easier and less environmentally hazardous. But the facitious tone of this story aside, as superficially ironic as this seems as long as the the world is in the war business it is better to fire a shell that only kills on impact and not also over time through the slow release of toxic compounds. It does all seem a bit rich though, like one of those awful theoretical questions posed in schoolboy philosophy circles (i.e. "would you cut your leg off and risk bleeding to death in order to escape a burning building?").

I propose instead that armies stock up on American grown spinach and throw it at their enemies instead. Not only would it be lethal, it would be easily compostable. Or would that be biological warfare?

Calling My Grandparents

My grandparents and their neighbours last week
I knew when this week started I was long overdue on calling my maternal grandparents back in England and that I would have to pick up the phone this weekend. I knew I would have to steel myself for much shouting down the line and complaints about the quality of the transatlantic phone cable (poor hearing having been discounted at the other end as the reason for our too-quiet conversations that lead to clipped yelling; we sound like characters in an early talkie when we get going). I do love talking to both my Nan and Granddad despite their peculiar politics ("I 'ate the bloomin' Queen AND I 'ate bloomin' foreigners" © 'Ghengis' Nan, 2006) and their propensity to repeat stories; if you can't be slightly fascist and repetitious when you are in Shakespeare's sixth and seventh stages of man, when can you?

Then a freak tornado hit the town they had retired to and call home. Tornadoes are extemely rare in Britain. And this one also brought the added bonus of a month's rain in half an hour.

"Bugger" I thought, "This is going to be a long call".

My reasoning was sound. When the washing machine hose had parted and flooded the space behind the sink earlier this summer, my grandparents' telling of the events on the phone rivalled the Mahabharata in terms of epic length. If the mere severing of a laundry hose provoked such a detailed and intricately woven tale of disaster, woe, setback, then ultimate triumph* I couldn't imagine what a close brush with a tornado would bring forth.

It turns out I needn't have worried. Enough time had passed between the event and the call for my Grandparents to have moved from British Reaction Stage One (slightly ineffective dithering) to British Reaction Stage Two (stiff-upper-lip, "We Can Take it Herr Hitler", must downplay the seriousness of the event). British Reaction Stage Three (waxing nostalgic for how we all rallied during the disaster to face down nature or evil and still had time battle unthinking bureaucracy) had not yet set in. Total tornado conversation time was about 10 minutes. Then it was onto the safe ground of how famed English cookery writer Deliah Smith can't make proper bread pudding and really how the bread isn't the same today with all the foreign wheat and whatnot so nobody can really make a proper bread pudding and why don't restaurants cook carrots enough these days I mean who likes a crunchy carrot?

I love my grandparents.

*"The first shop didn't have the hose, and then the second shop didn't have the hose, and neither did the third, and the water was still off and I couldn't do a wash, and then the bloke at the fourth shop said that they didn't make our model of machine anymore, and Granddad said thet's the trouble today nothing is made to last and so we almost gave up but almost by magic we found just what we were looking for at a Sue Ryder shop in Harehills but then the battery on the car died and the AA man said well they don't make them for 24 year old Nissan Sunny's anymore and we should get a new car but we hardly drive anywhere except Tescos..." and so on.

Oh, and don't miss my debt payment to Bill Norris, below. I owe him appropriate coverage.

My Dad Warned Me About Wagering

Back at the start of the baseball season Bill Norris from Texas's Notes From A Former New Yorker and I entered into a bet. If over the course of the innumerable meetings between the Red Sox and the Yankees over the length of the season Boston won a series I could inflict humiliation on Bill, and if New York won he could inflict humilation on me.

I gave Bill a rain-out reprieve for the first series and won the second. Bill returned the favour by giving me a bye for my wedding when the Yanks won for the first time this season. Then the post All Star break collapse hit the Red Sox and the Yankees hammered them in August, 5 games to 0. Much like New Orleans's levies in the face of Katrina, I had nowhere to hide and was hit with the full force of Yankee Bill in Bleacher Creature mode. He laid out his terms here.

After a great deal of procrastination and a busy few weeks at work, I finally decided to be a man and get this over with. So with the late summer sun warming a midcoast Maine bejewelled with the earliest of turning leaves, Country Mouse and I set about our usual Saturday chores, except this time with me wearing a pink Yankees ball cap.

Given that I live in a small town of 10,000 (mostly Red Sox-rooting) people and while I'm no celebrity I cannot pass anonymously among my fellow townsfolk, I did allow myself a little disguise. I hope this in no way detracts from Bill's filthy and perverse pleasure at having done the following to me:

About to buy vacuum bags, wanting to shout "Whose your Miele?" at Gary Sheffield.

Why do I stand like that when having my picture taken? It looks like I have a hand palsy. There is an Olympia Sports to my right with a crapload of unsold "NYY Damon 18" t-shirts on a rack outside, 70% off.

Fully entering the Yankee fan character by riding a mobility scooter, the prefered mode of transport of said fans between their living room couches and their fridges for more shitty light beer.
As I type, the Sox lead the Yanks in the Bronx 4-2 in the bottom of the 7th. After this and despite last night's weather, there will be NO rain let-offs for Bill should I prevail this time....

Olbermann has an attack of "the Murrows". Jolly Good!

I have been meaning to post this for a while but you know how things are. I know he is an aquired taste, but I do like a little Olbermann now and again. When I saw this this other night on his show I thought how splendid. Well worth the 7 minute investment.

UPDATE: Here's a related bit from Olbermann from last night, this time addressing the President:

Max Kelly: Diamond Geezer

From Max's "CabanaHavana" project
I was recently chatting to my pal Max Kelly when he mention he wanted to link to this blog from a page of illustrations he had done back in the day for a magazine column I used to write that also went by the name "Wisdom Weasel". Like the moron I am I completely forgot about the conversation until about 3 minutes ago. So I'm making amends.

Max- and Max's work- blows me away. He's one talented bastard, and he makes me want to write more off line stuff just so that I can get the benefit of his brilliant cartoons that so captured the mood of the story. I want to work with him again, so I had better get scribbling. Here's his home page.

They Don't Do Anything To Dispel The Stereotypes, Do They?

In football/soccer news, Germany beat San Marino 13-0 in European Championship qualifying earlier today.

Frankly, scoring more than 9 is a bit rude. Once you go past that mark you might as well rub dog poo in the opposing goalkeeper's hair, or shag the striker's wife on the sideline. England was much more polite, beating Macedonia 1-0 after the stringy noblet Peter Crouch fell over in front of the goal and the ball bounced off his odd head. Incredibly, it was Crouch's 10th goal in 14 games for England, which means we are stuck with the albino Manute Bol up front for the forseeable future. Meanwhile the French wrought revanche on Italy, beating them 3-1 and nary a reference to defiling the flower of French womanhood was heard from the Azzuri.

The World Cup is dead, long live the 2008 European Championships!

Housekeeping

First things first: in order to make better use of the Newly Wed blog jointly authored by Country Mouse and myself I'm going to post our weekend jaunts and photo essays over there from now on. The latest post is an account of our past weekend at Susan and Andy's wedding in Bootbay Harbor. This also means that this blog can draw down to its original focus of whatever garbage is running through my head at any given time.

Second, Infinite Thought has some interesting points about the recent terrorism raids in London and the quietly shrinking magnitude of the alleged threat. Much of the detail included in the New York Times story she cites is unavailable in the UK for legal reasons (the sub judice convention prevents the publication of material potentially prejudicial to a defendant's pending or ongoing case) and from many US outlets due to the gnat-like attention spans of the mainstream news organizations and the fact that it doesn't fit the overarching "holy-shit-they-want-to-kill-us-all" narrative so beloved of said organizations. It's worth a read.

A Very Specialized World

I read a story on the BBC over lunch about how model kit company Airfix were going out of business. This stirred memories in me of making thousands of model planes, tanks, and soldiers as a kid, so I went on a little google ramble around some of the model companies of my youth. When I reached the page for the magazine Military Modelling (which was to our household as Time is to many others) however I stopped short and decided that this was far too geeky a pursuit after reading this article teaser:

"Charles Buchanan looks at the difficulties modellers experience with making miniature hands."

Model makers, serial killers, midget Frankensteins: all one and the same in the end.

I Have No Title

I laughed all the way through The Aristocrats and despite my thin veneer of spohistication the second chorus of this still cracks me up as much as it did when I was 14, so I was bound to find this funny. Apologies to all of you who don't.



Via Back Word, who got it from some Kiwis.