YOO-HOO!!!

ANYBODY STILL AWAKE OUT THERE?

Rumours of Winefred's death have been greatly exaggerated -- it's a matter of being alternately asleep at the wheel, travelling hither and yon ocean to ocean, or trying to put life back in order in the home we haven't been in much this summer.

One day we were in Newfoundland for dinner, and the next day in San Diego for breakfast. A study in contrasts. San Diego is a landscape of burnt toast interrupted by lush greenery, courtesy of mass irrigation borrowed from nearby states. Hangin' out at the beach can look like this:

or this:

[Not bad, really.]

Newfoundland, on t'other hand, is lumpy, rugged, and [seasonally] green all over. Checkin' out the other ocean can look like this:

Newfoundland also has a moose population of over 150,000 on a land mass less than half the size of Norway.

That's Norway-- which boasts only 120,000 moose, but is apparently in a panic about their greenhouse gas emissions (that's eco-talk for moose-farts). So says Germany's Der Speigel, so it must be true. If Newfoundland is similarly doomed, no one seems to have noticed, b'y. Folks there have other things to worry about.

["Crazy Moose" -- hat-tip to the Computer Science Dept. at Memorial University of Newf'n'land]



Meanwhile, back in civilization:

BRAVELY VENTURING INTO THE "DMZ"

That's the "Dennis Miller Zone" for you civilians out there, the talk radio guy with the most laid-back temperament and absolutely THE best guest-list.

In his copious free time, the aforementioned Mr. Miller appears on one or two FOXNews shows. It seems that during a recent Half-Hour [Alleged] Comedy Hour (sorry-- I only watched the first one and it reeked), Miller did a riff on Defeatist-in-Chief Senate Majority Loser Harry Reid, which immediately went viral on the internet. No comedy here, folks, just a flat-out statement o' fact and a challenge for Reid to do the honourable thing and, if not fall on his letter-opener, at least shut his Mojave-dry pie-hole. Watch and snort:

Miller is also to be congratulated for proposing to the squealing infants of both Houses of Congress that they pass urgent legislation at the earliest opportunity, called the "LET'S SHUT UP UNTIL PETRAEUS GETS BACK" ADULT ACT -- and that we all pledge to adopt the mantra that until the General returns and makes his report, WE DON'T SAY NUTTIN' ABOUT NUTTIN' !!!

Hear, hear.

Got it, Senator Reid? And Mr. Dodd-Murtha-Kennedy-Obama-Rodham/Clinton? And on the distaff side, Ms. Pelosi-Boxer-E.Edwards-J.Edwards/Breck? And from the booth/keyboard: Mr. Blitzer-Moyers-Olberman-Matthews-Schneider/ Sullivan-Fisk-Herbert/ Cronkite-Gregory-blah-blah-blah-BLECH?????............

In the absence of up-to-date info from The Source on the Field, wouldja just, as the kids text it, STFU -- 'K?



U.S. NAVY TRAGEDY -- NEWFOUNDLAND HEROISM -- 1942 -- LEST WE FORGET

Early August: visited the site of the horrific wreck [February 18, 1942] of the U.S.S. Truxtun near St. Lawrence, Newfoundland.

In the pitch-dark pre-dawn, during a sleet-chucking gale, three American Navy vessels ran aground on massive rocks at the base of 200-foot cliffs that form the southern tip of the Burin Peninsula, between the fishing/mining town of St. Lawrence and the fishing village of Lawn.

The flagship Wilkes eventually floated loose and was saved, but the Truxtun broke up and lost 110 of 156 on board. Those who survived did so because the local inhabitants braved the ice and snow to haul the near-frozen, oil-encrusted bodies of the sailors up the cliffs, all day and into the next evening, and delivered them into the tender care of local women who scrubbed and warmed them back to life. Every available scrap of extra clothing and foodstocks in the St. Lawrence area went to the shipwrecked men.

Below: the cliffs at Chambers Cove where the Truxtun was impaled between the two projecting offshore rocks:

Pink cliffs at the right are still stained with the black oil which was hurled at them from the shipwreck by 40-foot swells.

To the west of Chambers Cove, at Lawn Head, the Pollux heeled over but remained partially intact. The crew and officers eventually executed the textbook maneuver, attaching a lifeline to the shore and getting as many across as possible. As it turned out, they might have done better to have stayed on board the remnants of their ship. Those who weren't drowned in oil or dashed against the sharp slate cliffs [one sailor was seen decapitated in an instant] were stranded on a frozen ledge. But 140 out of 233 survived, thanks again to the local men who raised them one by one up the cliffs and got them to safety.


A rusted cross, raised by the Catholic parish of St. Thomas Aquinas, pays tribute to the dead of the Truxtun.

In 1954 the American government built the U.S. Memorial hospital to serve the inhabitants of St. Lawrence and Lawn, in gratitude for their sacrifice. (It has since been demolished, and services are provided by a small modern hospital in Burin.)

In 1992, on the 50th anniversary of the disaster, a memorial called "Echoes of Valour" was unveiled in St. Lawrence, honouring the perseverance and and sacrifice of the sailors and their rescuers.

Read Cassie Brown's Standing Into Danger, a gripping hour-by-hour account of the sea disaster and the flawed investigation that followed it.

Survivor tales are equally fascinating, such as that of Lanier Phillips, a black cook's-assistant from Georgia, whose life was saved, and changed forever, in 1942 by the first white people to ever show him kindness. Meet him here [CBC video] on the occasion of the christening of the sixth U.S.Navy ship to be the Truxtun, which took place in June of this year.

This inspiring story and its majestic setting seldom peep on the radar screen of American tourists and admirers of military heroism. Attention should be paid.

And no (in case any of you are wondering), there ain't too many of us who are made of this kind of stuff anymore.

Thank God there are some-- maybe just enough.


HANGIN' OUT -- NEWFOUNDLAND STYLE -- IN ST. JOHN'S

NEWFIE TERRORISM UPDATE (Part deux)

From the St. John's Telegram, Saturday July 28, 2007

"LEAVE A THREAT AT THE TONE"

A young person allegedly attempting to phone in a bomb threat to Marystown central high school last December had to leave a message -- and even called back -- because there was nobody available to answer the phone...it was after 3 p.m. before anybody got the message, which stated, quite simply, "You're all going to die."

No evacuation was required at that point because the students had already left...

A school staff member told the court that the principal was out of school and the secretary was off sick that day, leaving the office staff short-handed.

Etc.

Chortle.

NEWFIE TERRORISM UPDATE

Sleep soundly, world. My 82-year-old terrorist mother-in-law is no longer in possession of her exploding hand-lotion.

Let me explain.

Somebody thought this was funny a few years ago:

















I have my own take on the Newfoundland anti-terrorism effort.

Not long ago I was returning to YYZ from YYT and decided, in order to avoid the infamous Air Canada lost baggage disaster threat, to take my small bag with me as a carry-on. I have little experience at this business, and naturally ended up bringing a few cosmetic items which ran up against the new anti-liquid/gel regulations. Silly me.

I have nothing against those regulations mind you. I happened to be flying out of Heathrow just days after the big exploding plane plot, which prompted the new rules, was thwarted-- so I have been face to face with the harsh reality of what folks can do with some nefarious goo.

Among my luggage leaving St. John's that day was a nearly full pump-spray bottle of the now-extinct, impossible-to-buy Vidal Sassoon alcohol-free hair gel, which I had stockpiled years ago as the brand was disappearing from the market. It's like gold to me-- the only hair gunk I've ever tried that I don't get allergic to in a few weeks.

But the meticulous inspectress at the security line rifled everything in my suitcase, placed the liquids and gels in the smallest plastic bag I'd ever seen, and confiscated my Sassoon treasure. I begged. I pleaded. I offered to demonstrate its non-inflammability. It was no good. She took it away.

Damn that Bin Laden!, I hissed to myself. IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT! BASTARD! I'm such an idiot! A full bottle! From my secret stash! GONE FOREVER!

BASTARDS!

Yesterday we were returning from St. John's again, this time travelling with my mother-in-law.

She's 82 years old, about five feet tall, less than a hundred pounds, frail to the point of skeletal, white-skinned and white-haired, and walks slowly with a cane.

Airport security confiscated her hand-lotion. It was way over the 30 ml limit.

Whew! We were in serious danger for a minute there. Who knows what she could have done with that little bottle of suspicious liquid.

It's stuff like this keeps us safe in our beds at night. But damn those terrorist bastards! No one is safe from little old ladies anymore!

Newfoundlanders made an outsized contribution to the big wars of the last century, and aquitted themselves with the greatest honour. They continue to punch above their weight in Afghanistan today. But let's get real people-- an octogenarian's hand-lotion is not a threat to national security. Unless maybe she's hiding it under a burka-- and she's a he....

There is but one remedy for these outrages: one must write a poem.

We overthrew the Taliban (too late to save the Buddhas).
And if Bin Laden isn’t dead, he’s cornered like rat.
We’ve backed the Kurds and helped to keep them safe from mad intrudas.
We chased down old Saddam Hussein and squished him like gnat.
It’s been a long time coming, but we finally got the surge,
And now our guys are kicking ass and showing how to win.
So real signs of victory are starting to emerge,
(Unless the politicians grab the towel and throw it in).
With all our will and muscle soon the battle could be done—
But when they take my hair gel, folks, the terrorists have won.

Concerned about the borders, Dubai ports, sharia law?
Pelosi in a head-scarf kinda sticking in your craw?
Wondering if the mosque next door is preaching suicide?
Or if the loo at Burger King is where jihadists hide?
Still, NEVER FEAR! Security is tighter than a drum
In Newfoundland, where dangerous cosmetics dare not come!

If you try to depart St.John’s with goo in small amounts,
Forget it, man, you’re busted! Every millilitre counts!
Those crack investigators will probe every zippered purse
For incendiary hand-cream, and conditioner, and worse!
You may think you’re pretty clever, trying to smuggle that stuff on,
But if you’ve got extra after-shave or wrinkle goop, it’s GONE.

Our first line of defense here in the True North Strong and Free
Are the Gunk’n’Grease Gestapo who watch way too much TV.
Is your granny packing Semtex? Is that lip-gloss wired to blow?
Do they strip-search up in Newfoundland? That’s all I want to know.

We’ve chased them out of Anbar, and Diyala’s coming clean.
It took two trips to Falluja, but that’s now a calmer scene.
We’ve smoked out plots and bombers and the homeland’s not been hit.
And despite what Harry Reid says, things are looking up a bit.
But if you think that victory is just around the bend,
And on the far horizon is the hope that this will end--
Sure, Al Qaeda’s star is sinking and we’ve got them on the run,
But when a Newfie takes my hair-gel, the terrorists have won.

CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?

CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?

Look what the Fwench are up to!

Mon Dieu!


Yes, that's right-- a bunch of the French had an attack of gratitude [hat-tip: Gateway Pundit via Instapundit] about the staggering, blood-drenched sacrifice offered on their behalf by the American military heroes of D-Day. Those of us who have visited Normandy are not as surprised as one might think-- residents of that region, of all ages, seem to have learned the lessons of history and suffer from no amnesia. But this is a gesture that must not pass unheralded. Wow. Merci buckets.

Check out the video here [beautifully set to one of the world's great movie scores, music by Ennio Morricone for The Mission].

SALUT, NOTRES AMIS FRANÇAIS!

Quick, everyone, buy some cheese.

BLUB (continued)

Your indulgence, gentle reader, for prolonged absence from the blog-waves.

Keeping up a frantic schedule of late, f'rinstance: several weeks of prep for mere hour-and-a-half lecture about such disparate aspects of the Corpus Christi feast as Los Hombres de Musgo...














and El Misteri d'Elche...














...followed by other less edifying distractions like sewage backing up into shower stall of Newfoundland retreat.

From the sublime to the subterranean slime. Blub, indeed.

Checked my e-mail and apparently the world keeps turning even when I'm out here in the weird time-and-a-half zone. Nice to know some things are ever the same, though. Harry Reid's still a moron. [Should introduce him to Premier Danny Williams-- two peas in a cod.] I can sleep peacefully. As the locals say, "God love ya, m'darlin'." [They do, I swear it.]

Shall return to planet earth soon-- still "live" apparently, despite best efforts of Al Gore to bore it to death.

BLUB


















Fear not-- Winefred has been hiding out, adrift at the bottom of the well (think Dustin Hoffman in his scuba gear at the Braddocks' pool party)-- but has not totally drownded, just gone all purply-white and wrinkled.

Blogging shall re-commence shortly, with wildly random thoughts, political Fredheadings, Arrowhead rippings, movies, reading material, and grandmotherly reflections on super-baby in flannel burka.

I've been working on a post, but today
VICTOR DAVIS HANSEN says

EVERYTHING THAT NEEDS SAYING
[hat-tip Jewish World Review]


The other
D-Day

Sixty-three years ago this week, we landed on the Normandy beaches. As on each anniversary of June 6, 1944, much has been written to commemorate the bravery and competence of the victorious Anglo-American forces.

All true. But as we ponder this achievement of the Greatest Generation that helped lead to the surrender of Nazi Germany less than a year later, we should remember that the entire campaign was, as Wellington said of Waterloo, a near-run thing.

Our forefathers made several mistakes. They attacked nonexistent artillery emplacements. Planes dropped paratroopers far from intended targets. Critical landing assignments on Omaha Beach were missed.

Once they left shore, it got worse. Indeed, D-Day was soon forgotten in the nightmare of GIs being blown apart in the Normandy hedgerows by well-concealed, entrenched German panzers.

Apparently, no American planners — from Army Chief of Staff Gen. George Marshall down to the staff of Allied Supreme Commander Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower — had anticipated either the difficulty of penetrating miles of these dense thickets or the deadliness of new German model tanks and anti-tank weapons. So we landed in Europe with the weaponry we had — and it was in large part vastly inferior to that of the Wehrmacht .

The most brilliant armored commander in U.S. history, George S. Patton, had been sacked from theater command for slapping an ill soldier the prior year in Sicily. Gens. Omar N. Bradley and Bernard L. Montgomery lacked his genius and audacity — and tens of thousands of Allied soldiers were to pay for Patton's absence at Normandy.

We finally broke out of the mess, after using heavy bombers to blast holes in the German lines. But again, these operations were fraught with foul-ups.

On two successive occasions we bombed our own troops, altogether killing or wounding over 1,000 Americans, including the highest-ranking officer to die in the European Theater, Lt. Gen. Lesley J. McNair. The nature of his death was hidden from the press — as were many mistakes and casualties both leading up to and after Normandy.

When the disaster in the bocage near the Normandy beaches ended over two months after D-Day, the victorious Americans, British and Canadians had been bled white.

Altogether, the winners of the Normandy campaign suffered a quarter-million dead, wounded or missing, including almost 30,000 American fatalities — losing nearly 10 times the number of combat dead in four years of fighting in Iraq....

....While we were ground up in the hedgerows, in the Pacific theater thousands of American amphibious troops were lost during the Marianas campaign. True, we kept winning gruesome amphibious assaults, but we didn't seem to learn much from them.

Instead, far worse carnage lay in store at places named Peleliu, Iwo Jima and Okinawa.

All these bloodbaths near the end of the war were characterized by the sheer heroism of the American soldier — who suffered terribly from intelligence failures and poor leadership of his superiors.

What can we learn, then, on this anniversary of the Normandy campaign?

By any historical measure, our forefathers committed as many strategic and tactical blunders as we have in Afghanistan and Iraq — but lost tens of thousands more Americans as a result of such errors. We worry about emboldening Iran by going into Iraq; the Normandy generation fretted about empowering a colossal Soviet Union.

Of course, World War II was an all-out fight for our very existence in a way many believe the war against terror that began on 9/11 is not. Even more would doubt that al-Qaida jihadists in Iraq pose the same threat to civilization as the Wehrmacht did in Europe.

Nevertheless, the Normandy campaign reminds us that war is by nature horrific, fraught with foolish error — and only won by the side that commits the least number of mistakes. Our grandfathers knew that. So they pressed on as best they could, convinced that they needn't be perfect, only good enough, to win.

The American lesson of D-Day and its aftermath was how to overcome occasional abject stupidity while never giving up in the face of an utterly savage enemy. We need to remember that now more than ever.

Victor Davis Hanson is a classicist and military historian at the Hoover Institution, Stanford University. [his website here]

Winefred observes: See the German POW's sitting on the ground in a row. They are not handcuffed or hooded or on their knees. They are disarmed; they wait; their guards look genial. Maybe that's their reward for never having been part of a cell that plotted car-bomb attacks on civilians, never having constructed suicide belts to be worn by their sisters or mothers, never having beheaded anyone and danced in his blood while ululating for a video camera. If they'd been concentration camp guards things would have gone harder for them, but as far as we know they were just grunts on the battlefield.

There are parallels from war to war-- but there are differences too.

LOST LUGGAGE CHRONICLES -- PART DEUX

[AIR CANADA -- BUSINESS AS USUAL]



If I wanted my holiday to end in ruins, they'd look like this:


























Just returned from splendid family doin's, as we graduated the last of


-- four generations represented, lots of pomp and circumstance, toasting and blubbering, ooh-ing and coo-ing, and all the good stuff. Enough good fun to make some among us forget that their flights had been delayed by hours-- but heck, that was all about thunderstorms.

However, it's tough to come away from such good times, to board the little plane familiar from so many trips...

[no, I'm not kidding -- this is it -- the Beechcraft 1900] ...
and have it all come apart. [the travel experience, not the plane -- this time]

The Little Beechcraft Engine That Probably Could holds 19 people. I have never yet been on one filled to capacity-- until today.

The reader will recall that the last unhappy adventure on this same route involved the same plane carrying 6 [SIX] passengers and 6 [SIX] pieces of luggage, of which one [mine] failed to appear. It was eventually reclaimed after much misery about two weeks later.

Today, as noted, the plane was filled. The perky blonde pilot (it's too small for an attendant) approached those sitting at the emergency exits to 'splain how they work. A dignified white-haired gentleman with a thick French accent was clearly distracted and not listening-- he pointed out the window opposite him and said, "The luggage." The perky pilot didn't click to the message right away, so the gentleman 'splained it to her: he had seen his luggage on a motorized cart being driven away from the plane.

Yes, Miss Perky 'splained, getting less perky and more condescending-- you see, when there is a large amount of luggage the plane can't carry all the weight so some of the luggage has to be "bumped."

The explanation is so absurd that it takes a minute or so to grasp what this woman is saying in Anglais: when the plane is carrying 19 passengers, it is unable to carry the 38 pieces of luggage those passengers are legally permitted to check. This is secret knowledge which rarely comes to light because under normal circumstances (a) this plane is never full, and (b) this route caters to business commuters who never bring much checked baggage.

This is secret knowledge to which many people are privy, with the glaring exception of the passengers who have never been informed that their legally permitted luggage isn't actually permitted on this plane.

What ensued was an absurd conversation between Pesky Pilot and gentleman as to what his options were: he could sigh and accept that his luggage was sitting out on the tarmac and would (hopefully) follow him later on the next flight; he could deplane, retrieve the luggage, and take his lumps as to arranging for a later flight. "Is there another flight after this?" He asked. "I don't know-- I'm just the pilot, I don't have any information about the schedule."

That, my friends, was a cool-headed, bald-faced LIE. Pilots assigned to the PVD-YYZ-Beechcraft-run just fly back and forth on that one-leg route all day long. They know exactly when it flies. They may not know if seats are available, or if it will be cancelled due to low reservation numbers. But they know the daily schedule like their own names.

She continued to claim ignorance of anything relevant, and told the increasingly impatient assembled passengers that we couldn't get moving until the gentleman had heard all she had to say about deploying the emergency exit door.

Finally the passenger in question accepted his fate, and agreed to proceed to his weekend convention without any of his belongings. Turns out he was one of several on the plane going to the American Society for Microbiology's 107th Annual General Meeting at the Metro Convention Centre. I suspect they will not be returning for another 107 years.

So we departed PVD with about half a baggage-cart of luggage sitting on the ground. We arrived at YYZ and watched as three full baggage-carts of luggage were removed from our little planette (we sat and watched while we waited 10 minutes for the gate agent to arrive, so she could assist us with deplaning-- presumably by standing outside and pointing to the door-- check out the plane again, above, and try to figure out what else a gate agent might possibly be needed for).

We took the inexplicably long bus-ride to the terminal, passed through Customs fairly quickly, and arrived at the baggage carousel just in time for the buzzer-signal that our bags were about to emerge. The conveyor belt spat out about 6 or 8 bags. That was it. No more. No soup for you.

The majority of the 19 passengers stumbled in disbelief toward the lost luggage desk, manned, as usual, by only two or three harried people. Forms, descriptions, promises, all played out in the ritualistic dance and dialogue of
the deaf. We plan to return to the airport this evening, get our permission slip from Lost and Found, and wait to be escorted, two-by-two, into the sacred spinning precincts of the baggage carousels, and try to reclaim what is rightfully ours: 6 [SIX] checked bags, belonging to three of us, some of which we know were left behind and others of which may just have gone AWOL between the plane and the terminal.

We will face down the typically clueless, helpless, graceless, defensive, rude, and ethically-challenged Air Canada employees who go through the motions of carrying out the business of the Greater Toronto Airports Authority-- neither institution capable of grasping the basic organizing principle behind a police lineup or a Rockettes kick-line.

This blog stands behind its previous pronouncement on this issue:

If the only way to get to Heaven was on Air Canada, I wouldn't go.

When my mood improves, I will wax eloquent on the emotional passage when the last fledgling leaves the nest, and on the the unfathomable cuteness of the Grandchild. They deserve a better frame of mind than this.

PRINCE HARRY TO MISS THE "BIG SHOW"

The word over the wire is that Britain's Prince Harry (Henry-- the Spare, not the Heir) will not get his way on the subject of his military deployment, having been denied the chance to earn his stripes in Iraq.

I feel for the kid-- as a military parent I know that, despite the obvious dangers, there is a sense in which any member of the professional military wants to be a part of the landmark action of his particular era, to be able to say that he did as hard a duty as any of his comrades and will thus always be able to see the lay of the land through that shared lens.

But it is equally clear that Prince Harry's presence would plant an extra bed-sheet-sized target on the back of every British soldier in proximity to him, for kidnap, assassination, and whatever else the beasts of Basra could manage.

We had an interesting dinner a couple of weeks ago with a couple who have between them (and whose children therefore share with them) multiple British Commonwealth passports/nationalities, which explains why these residents of Canada have a military son not in Afghanistan with the Princess Pats and other storied Canadian regiments, but in Basra, Iraq, with the Blackwatch. We shared with them the isolation felt by any resident of a still deeply anti-military Canada who has a son or daughter in uniform, made worse by the fact that ours fight under the flag of a different country. We (us two) at least have the advantage of living just over the border from a good 150 million people who appreciate the honour in military service and understand how we must sometimes fight to the death for certain principles-- not to mention being within arm's length of the huge network of active civilian support of military personnel and their mission.

Our friends with the son in Basra have no connection to any such network, and were so grateful to have people to talk to about the good work of their son's compatriots. I was delighted to be able to point them to the recent articles by Michael Yon, describing, with immense admiration, the hard-scrabble fighting by the Basra-based Brits.

Of one thing our newfound friends were absolutely certain: they did NOT want Prince Harry deployed anywhere near their kid. They were in agreement that a deployment to Iraq would probably be the making of this particular Royal Pain, but his ascent to manhood had every chance of exacting a price, out of the hides of others, far beyond its worth. We're all very sorry that the young fella will miss the Big Show, but that's life-- and we'd like to hang on to it, thank you.

The truth is, if he's really determined, I bet he could find his way into some hot battlefield action without all the damned fanfare-- there's more than one way to carry forward "a little touch of Harry in the night." He'd just have to morph into a real rebel instead of the conventional drinking/shagging/swastika-wearing case of arrested development he has so far been acting out in the tiresome "ne'er-do-well rebel" mode that generations of princes have affected. Instead of disappearing to the family hut in Mustique, he should go to ground for six months or so, and later let it be known that he had disappeared to Mazari Sharif. I bet it could be done. You just have to think outside the Royal Box.

Sorry kid. Better luck next war.

JERRY FALWELL (REV.)












Intellectual and theological featherweight,
physical heavyweight,
political deadweight --

McDead at 73.

Now checking out the whole 72 Virgins thing for himself.

R.I.P.*


* "RATS!!! It's Papist!"

That's right, Jerry. Neener, neener, neener!

But even Falwell probably doesnt deserve a Hitchens obit.

THE LAST WORD...


from Marine Corporal Tyler Rock [who, you'll recall, had a few choice words for Senator Harry Reid -- Rock seen here on his last day in Ramadi, having worked his way through four years of re-enlistments]

its weird not being there anymore. its almost likes ramadi is mine. thats odd to say but like i feel awkward leaving it for someone else to take care of. haha. almost like i dont think they can do the job. granted. i know they can and im glad to not be there anymore but i guess its the whole parent-child thing. all the other guys feel the same.

The New York Post wanted to know if Rock was the genuine article. So in the process of verifying his identity, he got off a few more good shots in the email exchange:

the truth is that we have done much more for the people in iraq than is posted to the people. ramadi was a terrible place in the beginning of this deployment (september). now the police in ramadi are doing patrols everyday and coming back with many, many IED’s and other explosive ordinance. the civilians are coming to us and telling us where the insurgents are. that should scream to the people back home that the iraqi’s want our help. they dont want insurgents in the area. all the insurgents are, are thugs and gangs. just in larger scale and more weapons. they terrorize the people to get what they want and the people are fed up with it. we dont “just blow things up”.

we care about the people here. we want these people to live as free as we do back home. thats why we are here. if we didnt care then why would we be working so hard to rebuild what is destroyed. we give them water. we give them food. and we respect their way of living.

with the other topic. my opinion is what i already stated in the email to pat. i am a marine in iraq that isnt getting the support from a senator that should support his fellow americans. when was the last time he was here. what does he know about us “losing” besides what he wants to believe. the truth is that we are pushing al qaeda out and we are pushing the insurgency out. we are here to support a nation.

Hat-tip for all of this to Young Americans documentarian Pat Dollard, who also provided the following clip from the Neal Boortz radio show. It's got lots of patriotic production values, which are nice but not necessary to the message. Watch and listen-- spread this word. And when push comes to shove, think about making that trip to D.C. if the day comes that we have to march on the chamber and wrestle it free from the turncoats.

SEEN ON DRUDGE:

"Bill Clinton warns of looming disasters"

Here's one:

GOP HOPEFULS DEBATE


AND THE WINNER IS:
RUN, FRED, RUN!

Things in Fred Thompson's favor:

(a) James Dobson has questioned his religious credentials.

(b) Ambassadorable Joseph Wilson the Freakin' Fourth has called him a traitor.

(c) He was smeared by the L.A. Times (for having once played a white supremacist on television).

(c) He drives a red pick-up.

(d) He found a way to stuff it to Michael Moore, Fidel Castro, and Hillary-care all in one article.

The kind of guys who've been hanging around my garden this week:


























The kind of guys who have not been hanging around my garden this week:





However, I did host
a gathering of
blackbirds
recently.

ELVIS MAY HAVE LEFT THE BUILDING...
BUT HIS BLADES OF GLORY ARE ALIVE AND WELL.

Another Saturday night of high cult-chah led us to the subtle comic stylings of Will Ferrell starring in what a former colleague of my spousal-unit might have sub-titled "Poofters on Ice" [his perennial name for certain portions of the Winter Olympics]. In Blades of Glory Ferrell forms a chalk-and-cheese pairing with his totally opposite number, a fair, lithe and easily-bruised Jon Heder, to enter a faux-Olympic event as the first male/male pairs skating team.

The finale takes place in Montréal, where indeed some of the climactic scenes were shot. But Canada provided more than just a location for this film-- without the ground-work of some of Canada's greatest skaters, there would probably be no film at all.

The principal inspiration for Ferrell's outlandish character has got to be none other than Canada's Silver Medal-winning (and Gold Medal deserving) Olympic superstar, Elvis Stojko, the man who proved single-handedly (and perhaps alone in all of history, if things keep on as they are) that being a figure-skating male need not be synonymous with being a puff-sleeved pansy. Elvis packed a great deal into his spandex suits, not least of which was a form and a persona that radiated cojones. A man of singular talent who, knowing he could never compete as one of a corral of pretty-boys, reconfigured the sport to open up a class of his own and cram it full of square shoulders and leather. [costumes by.... his mom.]

The villains of the piece, brother and sister pairs skating team of Stranz and Fairchild Van Waldenburg (played by real life husband and wife team of Will Arnett and Amy Poehler), were at least marginally inspired by the sibling ice-dancing team Isabelle and Paul Duchesnay, who, like Elvis (and Toller Cranston before him-- one of the "blue peacock" rather than leather school), skated for Canada and were innovators in their field, sometimes shockingly ahead of their time.









Blades of Glory is another truly dumb-fun way to unwind at the end of a week, and while not as tight and non-stop funny as Ferrell's Talledega Nights, still offered

wonderfully unanticipated sight-gags and skewering skating-world satire, and left its audiences well-wrung out with hoots and howls of laughter.

For those of us in the Great White North (and the many adjunct fans in other countries) it was also an opportunity to reflect warmly (from a weird angle) on the fine Canajun-made skating mavericks who left their mark on the Sport of Flings.


Thanks, Elvis.





We miss ya', Hotstuff.











Addendum: Gracias to my Spanish Editrix, for correct spelling of cojones. I definitely did not mean cajones.