Brooklyn pics

It's been such a ridiculously gorgeous fall day. Here are a few pictures of Prospect Park and Grand Army Plaza

Grand Army Plaza from Prospect Park West.




The Long Meadow.

THINGS I DID TODAY.

By Mondale, age 33 and a half.

Hey, I think I made it to older than Jesus. That's fairly cool eh?

Confiscated some NBAHoops cards from the two kids who keep playing with them in class.

Discovered that any future offspring will get INSTANT UK citizenship (Thank you, British Nationality Act 1981!- Hey, who would have thought the Tories would ever do me any favours?)

Stole food from a dear co worker. That doesn't look good but she was upset and I was trying to help. I ended up with 4 garlic doughballs. NIce.

Inserted a shopping bag into a small Volvic bottle. When another co-worker questioned the logic of this I did it again. TWO shopping bags into a small Volvic bottle. (Dear Guinness Book of Records, Is this a record?) That will show you.

I did that because I was trying to distract dear co worker from her own upset. Think of it, if you will, like a very small magic show in the faculty room. I didn't announce it as such because that would have been 'showy' but those who saw it knew what it was. I'm not sure I helped but the thought was there.

Became very bored, very quickly. I had to wait for an evening function at school. I decided to remain at my post and eat the free pizza that they provide for the losers who choose not to go home between the end of school and the evening function. That'll be me then.

I tried to stretch my legs and buy a cup of tea and a scone from the Trendy Loungery on Union st. This was a bad idea.
I had to fight, no, really, FIGHT my way past twenty or thirty moms with strollers and babies. There were no decent baked poroducts left and I just couldn't stand it.
I had to retreat to the expensive deli/market on the corner and buy a coffee and some chocolate bread just to stay awake.

I'm awake now.

Still several hours to go before I meet the parents of 2006/07.

I've scattered books around the room top make the place look 'learned'.

I've tidied Lego.

I've thought about tidying my desk but refuse.
My desk could be so much worse.
It's got a good 'slightly dotty teacher' look about it and a cool ornament that tell the temperature, air pressure and humidity.

I'm sure I'll blog more in a bit.

Go Mets!

National League East Champions 2006!!!

Proper Course.

I found a sailing blog that is not only rather good in it's own way but also links to several thousand gazillion other sailing blogs.
I just wish Theta Club would establish a blog. Although on second thoughts it's probably best that they remain as secretive as possible.
You can check the link at the bottom.
(I guess I could have just emailed Weasel and been done with it).

Sailing blog

I've been away, I've been reading 'Propercourse' and all his millions of amazing sailing links.
I'll be back soon.
Go Mets.

I kid you not.

Have you ever heard of somebody actually, really slipping on a banana skin?
In real life? Really?

Well my friends, now you have.

Last Tuesday evening whilst strolling through Bay Ridge (lost, with Listmaker on our way to visit Seesaw/Angel'swife) I suddenly slipped on something. It felt like slipping on ice. I didn't fall over but merely wobbled on one leg, regained my balance and turned to look at the offending thing that had caused such a loss of balance.

It was a banana skin.

I waited to see if a large cat would chase after me with a hammer or a mouse attempt to blow me up with a stick of dynamite but sadly the banana skin incident was the extent of my cartoon comedy moment.

Let it not be said such things never happen.

It's official...

...I'm obsessed with the impending demise of "My little Tony".
In the absence of a major soccer championship I turn my attentions to the front pages.
I read about coups and conspiracies, backbench meetings and cabinet plots.
I simply cannot see him surviving past the Party Conference in October.

Blair, The last call?

I give him until October.
A big beast will challenge him at the conference.
That's what should happen anyway.

It seems that everyone in Britain is either obsessed with his imminent departure or just quietly assured about it. I have said before that I love the lack of term limits for this very reason, term limits deprive the British voting public of the joy of seeing their elected officals twist in the wind. Term limits go against the brilliant irrationality of British life.

$20 says he's gone by November 1st. Anyone?

An end to confusion

After a series of random and sometimes drunken conversations over the past few weeks, conversations with Americans AND my Dad.
I have finally pinned a location on the 2008 European Championships.

Euro 2008 will be joint hosted by Austria and Switzerland.

I'm sure I could have looked it up sooner or perhaps bothered to watch a qualifying game.

Because Weasel needs 'aseeinto'

Because Weasel never spares an opportunity to bait me and all that I stand for.
Because Weasel cannot recognise the verdant, wooded plains of my home turf.
Because Weasel cannot distinguish the beauty of South Norfolk and the Cockney infested dustbowl that is affectionately known as 'Breckland'.
For these reasons I have included a map which highlights the political boundaries of the County of Norfolk, in England.

South Norfolk is #6 whilst Breckland is #3 . Clearly quite not the same.
For those of you who could even begin to care the term 'aseeinto' means a thump to the person, a punch not needing to cause tremendous pain but to provoke a pause for thought. Perhaps a clip around the ear.



Who is this boyish young fop?

Steady ladies, this is the elected representative for South Norfolk, Mr Richard Bacon,MP, a Conservative alas, but what can you do?
I added his picture to lend weight to my argument.

Ridin' the bus.

I love my bus.

It gets me to work every day with a simple route, you can always get a seat and there's often 'Dave Bus' to hang out with or just grunt at.

This morning I sat alone enjoying my morning commute when the bus pulled up to Smith St (by the subway stop).
People often dash from subway to bus so it's fairly common for somebody already on the bus to yell at the driver when they see a potential commuter legging it across Smith in an olympian attempt to get aboard.

This morning I saw a man doing the 'Smith St shuffle' and duly pointed this out to the driver.

The trouble was that my version of "Driver my good man, theres a swift little fellow attempting to join our route! Stop I say, Stop at once!" Turned into a muffled sort of "ughrtdgfhmmmmmmm" .

Everyone else looked at me with polite pity.
And I mean everyone.
'Oh, bless him, that mentally retarded guy just tried to call the bus drivers attention to that sweaty bloke trying to catch the bus'.

Book learning #22

The Fall of Rome by Martha Southgate.

I had to read this for a shool bookclub.
I don't mind bookclubs just as long as there's plenty of booze and you don't actually have to have read the book. I prefer movie nights, you can watch the movie and then discuss.
I really don't like being told by the 'man' what to read.

Having said that I picked this up, read it in a weekend involving two lengthy train rides and quite enjoyed it. It wasn't great but I got through it. I felt good about committing to something that would prepare me for the start of school. I was almost hoping that the Director would try and trip me up with questions but he didn't.

When our group met for discussion noone really mentioned the book at all. I had to reference it so that the rest of the room would know that I had even bothered to read it.

Book Learning #21

'The Fall of Berlin 1945' by Anthony Beevor.

Phew, Maybe it was the intensive ammount of reading I undertook this summer or perhaps the deeply disturbing content but this one took a while.
I found parts hardgoing, "Company X moved 12 km to the west, outflanking the remnants of Waffen SS division 'Unabrow' and thus dividing the leftovers of Wehrmacht companies J, Q, Z, 1, 2, and 3 to surrender to the massed ranks of Red Army divisions 34, 56, 765 and the elite 'Stalinfire' brigade.

Eh?

That and the immensly harrowing tales of rape and revenge killings.
Still, it was very well researched and written and I pretty well enjoyed it.

Michigan snaps

Following some regurgitated book reviews it's time for some vacation snaps!!!

Frau Random Doubt takes the place of Secretary of Agriculture in the mock up of the Ford cabinet table.

Frau Random Doubt poses under the sign of the best Presidential Museum in Grand Rapids, MI.

Frau Random Doubt was getting mighty snippy about the lack of 'Betty Ford/alcoholic' related exhibits. Instead she became obsessive about the 'Gerald Ford/assasination attempts' exhibits.

Your man Mondale wondering how it could have all been so different had all those states not voted for Reagan in '84

Still, the beach was bloomin gorgeous!

Book Learning # 20

In a Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson.

I’ve always liked Bill Bryson; I’ve read most of his books over the last 15 years and have found them fascinating troves of information and amusing anecdote.
I would have enjoyed this so very much more had I not been hit in the middle with a ferocious bout of mid vacation vomiting, diarrhea and fever (Michigan’s revenge). Now the book is synonymous with trying to catch both ends of similtaneous bodily discharge.

I also think I prefer it when Bryson writes about people and places rather than plants or animals. The fact that half this book is about flora and fauna took some of the shine off.
That and the liquid poo.

Book Learning #19.

10 days that shook the world by John Reed.

Almost literally, a blow by blow account of the Soviet revolution of November 1917, This was recommended to me by the father of a college roommate, way back in the day. We were at a Bristol City game and began to numb the agony by plotting revolution. Ringers’ father told me to read this, one of the greatest acts of journalism of the twentieth century. Him being a journalist and the man who had gotten me into the game for free I vowed to take him up on his advice.

The problem was finding a copy. In the 10 years that followed, I would, from time to time make attempts to seek out the book, still feeling it to be part of an unfinished literary quest, a hangover from a freezing night at Ashton Gate. Many times it slipped from my consciousness only to pop up whilst flipping through channels and seeing red guards ‘storming’ the winter palace or catching a snippet of ‘Dr Zchivago’. I tried Amazon and a variety of other online sources but it was always reported back as out of print or for sale by some weird dealer in South Dakota. As you can only imagine, delight was unbounded when browsing through the Barnes & Noble on 7th ave in Park Slope I found a copy right there. Sitting on the shelf.

Reed was an American journalist, sympathetic to the cause of the Bolsheviks and the Soviets. He recorded events in Petrograd (mostly) and partly in Moscow. Such events as he encounters are recorded in extraordinary detail and a fine tuned journalistic ear. He admits in his preface that the first two or three chapters are rather hard going, a chronology and list of terms used and organizations, and golly, what a lot of organizations. Much of the book reads like a scene from Monty Python’s “The Life of Brian” “We, the Judean People’s liberation front reject the proposal etc etc”.
The book covers multiple debates, arguments and even a few gunfights between any of the myriad of different groups aiming for ultimate power in the broken Russia of November 1917.

It’s an amazing read; not least because of some of the insane detail he regales us with,
Trotsky attempting to enter the Smolny Institute without the correct pass “I had it a moment ago” claims the visionary behind international socialist revolution. “That’s what they all say” replies the Red Guard who’s having none of it.
The difficulty getting a taxi driver to take you to the scene of the action “I’m not going there, people are shooting” and where to get a good vegetarian meal in revolutionary Petrograd (a restaurant called ‘I eat nobody’).

I began reading this whilst sunbathing on a yacht, hardly the place to be thinking about the struggles of the proletariat, I ended it on the shores of Lake Michigan which, whilst no winter in Petrograd had a slightly more egalitarian feel to it.
I really wanted to revive the struggle, to establish the People’s Socialist Republic of East Anglia, to throw off the capitalist , Imperialist English yoke, to smash their guns and create a society of equals, based upon a few simple truths and a deadly sinister secret police force with cool leather uniforms.
This book also takes you to another place, another time; an amazing sense of optimism permeates the text. A fine read.

Ridiculously quick update.

It's been a nice, hot summer.
Camp ended and Mondale was a free man. Spent a few days outta the city at Montauk (gotta love them rich friends!)
Then off to Union Pier, MI for a week of beaching, reading and hanging out with Frau Random Doubt. Did I mention the Gerald Ford Museum?
Union Pier was a tiny beach 'town' with a diner and a deli. That was all we needed.
We spent every afternoon at the beach and spent the rest of everyday sleeping, eating and reading. No cell phones, no modern world, just beautiful weather and sandy feet. We did drive to Grand Rapids to visit the Gerald Ford Museum, that was cool.
I'll try and upload some pics but the 'puter is fritzing (forgive the pun Mondale lovers).
A full write up on the Gerald Ford Museum is in the works.

"What condition my condition is in"

I'm still here, It's August and my apt is in a mess and the internet is wobbly.
Still, Having a great summer.
See ya.

Book learning #18

The Accidental American: Tony Blair and the Presidency by James Naughtie.

Naughtie is the aggressive host of Radio 4's 'Today' show where he harrasses politicians at a time too early in the morning for anyone to make a lot of sense.

I'd read his earlier book on Blair 'The Rivals' which outlined his relationships and dealing during his rise to power. This book looks at his relationships and dealings as Prime Minister, with his own parliamentary party, his cabinet and most of all with President Bush.

Naughtie is a heavyweight journalist dealing with a heavyweight topic (the case for war in Iraq and the dealings between London and Washington) so it's not always a light read, in fact if it wasnt all such open currency the stuff in this book would scare the crap out of most poeple reading it, except perhaps Paul Wolfovitz and Donald Rumsfeld.

A number of excellent chapters highlighted the following themes, making it well worth the read.

Religion in the UK and US and the comparitive roles in policy making at the highest levels.

The role of secret intelligence services, and why they should really remain secret.

The nature of the 'Special relationship' since WW2.

Weasel will love it, it's in the mail!

ZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz......

Ah, summertime. The temperatures creep up into the high 90s and I find myself becoming increasingly sleepy. We are off to the beach for a day or two. Photos to follow.

Book learning #17

The Natural, The misunderstood presidency of Bill Clinton. By Joe Klein.

A quick read, this one went down faster than a Diet Coke at a Clinton policy meeting (KApoom!!)
Klein whizzes through the 1992 campaign and thereafter in 219 pages, he casts a look at all the scandals and missed opportunites and examines the wierd relationships within the Clinton White House from Bill and Hillary down.

There's not really anything new in this book but it serves as a timely read when Clinton is so readily described as the greatest ever President ever. That's a fairly easy claim to make in light of the last three years. He makes the point that Clinton was the greatest politician of his generation (except perhaps Tony Blair) but look at his generation, Newt Gingrich, Al Gore, Tom Daschle, ummm.

You read on, realising that revionism about Clinton is all too easy and there are many facts that get in the way of hailing him as the new Messiah. You also understand that he was an exceptionally bright man, charming to an absolute fault and he had a West Wing full of good ideas. He also failed to achieve much of what he set out to do. That's politics.

A compact read for the political Junkie.

3 days left.

Summer camp is nearly over!!
Unfortunately 'they' have moved my schedule about, this means that I will in fact have to work today.
I am willing to risk bodily infection by jumping in the pool with the kids as it means that I don't have to help them get dressed again afterwards.
Ummm.

Book learning #16.

'Don't let's go to the dogs tonight' by Alexandra Fuller.

This is the memoir of a girl growing up in a bunch of African countries in the 1970s and 80s.
A number of themes come through.

Her parents are dirt poor farmers who move from farm to farm depending on circumstances (civil wars, independence and majority rule, economics).
Life in rural Africa is very tough and often unduly fatal.
Justice in rural Africa is often swift and brutal, (especially if you happen to be black).
Racism.

Her family are well bred, slightly obsessed with the British class system and completely, stoically insane.
They are living remnants of the end of The Empire, who, despite their economic straits attempt to retain a superior lifestyle.
They drink a lot, sweat alot, send their girls to distant boarding schools, drive beaten up Land Rovers, watch out for terrorists and land mines and smoke profusely.

Throughout the book you become accustomed to their casual rascism, right wing perspective and exhaustingly rugged lives. It shook some of my ideas about Africa (A division of Mondale International are based in Capetown, SA where they lead a very 21st century, urban and urbane existence) and made me damned thankful for the comforts of my own little world.
Still, the love of Africa for all it's tremendous faults shines through. As does the adventure of childhood.
A good read.

A much better field trip.

Last weekend I was sh*tting my pants about this trip.
I thought that it was going to happen on Tuesday. On Tuesday the weather in New York hit a roasty-toasty 103 degrees. If I had been sitting at a ballpark with 40 children I would have expected to spend at least almost all day in the emergency room with heat related concerns. Added to which, those who did not succumb to 'the stroke' would have whined all day about how effin hot it was, there is nothing Mondale likes less than whining children, that and a lack of initiative, and bad manners.

So I was quite pleased, verging on the almost very happy when I discovered that I had been a fool and had misread the dates. I'm big enough to admit my mistake, I think that admitting mistakes shows that you are a fallible and realistic person, There is nothing Mondale likes less than those who won't admit their own mistakes.

Thursday rolls around, the temperatures have plopped down to a cool and breezy 81 degrees and we are all set for a gorgeous day of baseball related/Coney Island based fun as the Brooklyn Cyclones take on some team we have never heard of and have now forgotten (oh, the joys of minor league baseball for the casual fan!)

You know how I feel about those yellow buses, Contempt is a kingdom which holds no valley deep enough, no stinking wretched cave low enough for my bruised soul as far as the yellow bus is concerned. So it was with some surprise that the bus arrived on time, with a friendly (if mildly OCD) driver who insisted on cleaning the bus before we got on. YES KIDS, HE'S CLEANING THE BUS. TAKE A GOOD LOOK. He also knew exactly where he was going and drove there in a calm and fairly relaxed manner, a bit heavy on the brake but you can't have it all. He went some tiny way to restore my faith in this institution, just a little bit, just maybe.

We arrived at the game in time for the start, what fun, we're not late already!
We approach the Cyclones gate people who usher us in with all our lunches, telling us to eat inside (despite the big signs posted telling us "OUTSIDE FOOD NOT PERMITTED") . The man at the gate with the walkie talkie tells us "You got 40 kids, you're on a budget. we aint gonna charge you $5 for a hotdawg, take your lunches inside, have a great day".

( This was a complete turnabout from our trip last year to the Staten Island Yankees when we were refused entry until our children had eaten their lunches AND disposed of any leftovers. We were made to eat in a scorching parking lot with no shade. We were not even aloud to bring bottled water into the game. Apparently The SI Yankees stadium is a major terrorist target and any one of our 4-8 year olds could have been concealing explosives, that and they wanted to rip us off with their food.)



Lovely, breezy Keyspan park.

When we got into the game we bumped into King Henry. He's Brooklyn's favourite overweight children's entertainer. He did a gig at our camp last year and started greeting the kids as we waited to find our seats. he gave the kids some free stuff and joked and did his thing. I like King Henry. As a professional educator it's easy to be snobby about the world of Kid's entertainment but I think I know a good thing when I see it. King Henry is a great guy, a lovely way with the kids and he's also pretty funny for the adults, and he remembers things, not individual's names exactly (come on, there were 500 kids at the game, be reasonable) but stuff about our school and our neighborhood. The kids like that. I like that.

Throughout the game the Cyclones people were strolling about throwing all manner of free stuff at the kids, snacks, squidgy balls, Tshirts. Bloody marvellous.

After a few innings in our rather nice seats (way to go summer camp! no scrimping there!!) we decided to hit the beach, the youngest kids were getting figetty and despite the cool beeze and nice temperatures we were all getting a bit sunstroked.


The ragged sands of Coney Island with Jungle gym.
During the singing during the stretching we discovered a golden tonsilled young camper. He just wouldon't let go when siinging along with the Cyclones 'Hands" song "HANDS, TOUCHING HANDS, REACHING OUTTTT, TOUCHING MEEEEEEE, TOUCHING YOUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!" The rest of us all sat staring at him as he belted out what was obviously his all time favourite song.
We strolled out just after the seventh inning* stretch, made our way onto the beach and played for an hour on the jungle gym.
The kids loved it, I stood between them and the sea and all was fine.
I gotta tell you, it all worked, the bus, the kids, the ballgame. A day of simple, simple pleasures.

*Good job we left when we did as the game went to a mammoth 26 innings!!!! I think that might be a record.

Material Girl

Frau Random Doubt and I are off to see Madonna tonight.
Just thought I'd throw that one in the mix.

Book learning #15.

Watership Down by Richard Adams.

I loved this book!
Loved it! Loved it! Loved it!

Well written, gentle (although in places horrifically violent) escapism. Perfect for the rural Englishman trapped in a New York summer.

I never thought that i would enjoy a novel about rabbits. I had recently seen the movie again (after a twenty five year lapse) and enjoyed it. I showed the movie to my class in June, they liked it, (except child of teacher chum who was freaked out and had to leave the room).
I was in a bookstore a few weeks ago looking for something for Frau Random Doubt when I picked this up, thought "Why not? It's summer, not alot else going on? A novel about rabbits? The worst that can happen is that it can suck, right?"

Well it did not suck, it delighted me at every turn.
The characters, their adventures, the journey through the English countryside. Everything about this book had me in love with it. It also made me homesick, but in a nice way, I'm not often homesick like that.

As I write I am sad, sad in the way that finishing a wonderful tale can make you sad. Sad also for the two great looking books I have lined up next.

They have a hell of a lot of living up to do.

Borstal.

Creative Athletics is horrid!
I am surrounded by 8 year old Alpha Jocks who mock my every attempt to educate them.
They upset other teachers and I have to reprimand them.
This is not Summer, this is awful.
At least my assistants are pretty damn fantastic.

But wait, there is a future, bright and rosy.
In less than three weeks I shall visit the Gerald Ford Museum in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
It's going to be the highlight of a week of chilling on the lovely dunes of Lake Michigan.

For my English readers it's probably the equivalent of visiting the Sir Alec Douglas-Home, or perhaps James Callaghan museum (Ah, if only there were such things!!)

I love the MTA (part two).

This morning we took the train to the beach!

Yes, that's right, the train.

Frau Random Doubt came up with this idea as a convenient way of getting to the beach without using the car (it's really too far to walk, what with a beach umbrella and towels and stuff). I was a bit concerned at first, the train? To the beach? But how?
Well it's easy! Flatbush Ave to Jamaica to Long Beach, a five block stroll and a beach pass later we were sunning ourselves on a foggy beach. That's right, FOG.
Still, we had a great time, the sun broke through and then we went home on the train.
Marvellous!

I love the MTA (part one).

That's the Metropolitan Transit Authority folks.

Here's how the story goes.
Yesterday I needed to run a couple of errands prior to meeting some coworkers down the pub for some sunny Friday beer. I had an armful of crap that I needed to drop off at home (I cannot be relied upon to remember things after a few Brooklyn Lagers, let alone carry items such as damp towel, goggles and other assorted swimming paraphanalia). I also needed to drop into Target to buy a beach umbrella for the planned early morning trip to the beach on Saturday. There was no way I was going to hang out drinking with a 4 foot umbrella (oh, guess I already made that point didn't I?)
So, I needed to find my way from school to Target, to home, to pub. In an hour. By public transport. Oh, it was also close to 90 degrees but not that humid you'll be pleased to hear.
Here's the great part, I strolled to 7th Avenue and hopped onto a B67. This airconditioned beast of the street was right there where and when I needed it. Thank you very much Mr Bloomberg.
I disembark right outside Target, go in, find nothing I need so I leave, cross the street and find a B63 waiting for me, yes a bus waiting for a passenger at the corner of 4th Avenue and Atlantic Avenue. Thanks again Mr Mayor.
I then ride a few blocks to Court and Atlantic where, yep, you guessed it! The B75 is there to help me on my way! I'm going to send the Mayor a card!
I then get off at Court and Degraw where I hop into the Winn Discount store for the beach umbrella I condn't find at Target.
I then walk home three blocks, dump my crap and stroll across the street to where the ever reliable B71 is waiting! Fan-f*cking-tastic!!!
This lady of the bus lanes deposits me right outside the pub a few minutes after said pub had opened! Beer Ahoy! Hey, Mr Bloomberg, When's your birthday? I want to send you a cake!!
For the record, I travelled about 4 miles in less than an hour (with stops etc) and only spent about 10 minutes outside in the heat.
Rock on MTA!!!

Book learning, never made the cut. Half time report.

You may well have realised that I liked the books that I read in 2006.
In order to get reviewed here I had to have finished the book, thus, I had to be able to stick it through to the end. Accordingly, the chances of my liking it would inevitably be higher than the stuff I tossed aside after 3 pages.

Here are the ones that never made the cut.

January
American Sphinx, the character of Thomas Jefferson by Joseph Ellis.

I fell in love with Thomas Jefferson some years ago, from afar. It was August 2001, I was trawling through DC sniffing the very sidewalks that LBJ had once stode. My guide, the very lovely cousin Emily took me over to the Jefferson Monument where we spied the most amazing National Parks guide fer-reaking out about how Jefferson started this great experiment, this dream, this vision, this United States. He had me at hello.
Fast forward five years, I'd just read Christopher Hitchen's bio of Jefferson which pleased me greatly. This was for a number of reasons, it was thin and quick and gave me a cursory knowledge of one of history's most fascinating men. In lust for more information I turned to this expecting more depth and thus improving myself as a human being. I have to say that I'm sure I'll read this within the next five years but coming so soon on the tails of a much better jefferson book I didn't have the guts to stick it through. It still sits upon my shelf waiting it's time.

I got about 2 chapters in, then my show came on.

Guns, Germs and Steel by Jared Diamond.

This was heavily recommended by a friend who had spent the previous six months telling me all about it. Whilst I had enjoyed our drunken conversations about civilisation and how some stuff happens to some people and not to others I had no idea that I would be loaned this book and expected to read it.
I tried. I really, almost tried. There were just too many big scientific words.
Then I discovered that there's a PBS show of the same name!
Netflix just saved my life.

I struggled through the first chapter, that "Yali's question" one.

What's the matter with Kansas? by Thomas Frank.

I should care more. I really should. I should be much more interested in why the Democrats have lost chunks of the American Heartland. But when whinging liberals wring out their whinging tears in self loathing such as this I'm inclined to vote Republican.
Of course I didn't mean that, and I'm sure that this book contains much that we can all learn from and that by working together we can eventually overthrow the evil Rumsfeld/Cheney Politburo. It's just that I hated his tone, his style and his withering "Oh look at me, I've discovered why nobody likes Democrats". Listen Buddy, If you had all the answers we would have all read your book and taken down the man.

I read about 6 pages.

February must have been a pretty cool month for reading as I have no failures to report. Onto March.

March.

The History of the Church by Eusebius.

What with all the hoolah about 'The Da Vinci Code' I figured that I should get to the root of the matter. Whilst redecorating the apartment I discovered a copy, belonging to Frau Random Doubt, of an ancient text that would surely explain everything I needed to know. The trouble with ancient texts is that they tend to be written in an ancient style, with an archaic use of language, having been translated by some old communist from Oxford University in the 1930s. I would have been better off watching the History Channel with it's endless 'Cracking the code' specials.
This also reminded me of the books I had to read during Classics A' Level at Wymondham College. I enjoyed those.

I got about three pages in on the subway but boy did I look esteemed and scholarly with my battered penguin and big coat.

Testament of Youth by Vera Brittan.

Will somebody please make a superb movie (or even better a BBC Miniseries?) about this book?
I should have loved it. Anyone who knows me will know that I am openly fascinated by the 'lost generation', those who did not return from what I still like to refer to as 'The Great War'.
Frau Random Doubt read this book last summer having stolen it from my mother's shelves. She spent the next month weeping, asking questions and just being completely engrossed in this account of love and life and death in the upper middle classes of English society during the first quarter of the 20th century. It was a real delight to see such a voracious reader so completely hooked. I tried, and funnily enough I enjoyed it, well, what I read. But there you go, sometimes you just fall at the third chapter, which I did.
On a side note, I purchased the sequel 'Testament of Experience' for 20p in a Norfolk charity shop. Which Frau Random Doubt also enjoyed.

I got about halfway through the second chapter, I await the miniseries.

I suppose I have done fairly well in my choices since then. I have nothing more to add. I shall update this list towards the end of the year.

Your choice, first caller gets a prize.

I am in summer limbo, Working under vaguely Talibanesque conditions which keep me away from a reliable computer and force me to actually work with children.

I have three upcoming blog projects, one is a certainty, the Mondale CD with liner notes. If you wait long enough I will publish said notes in this space to prevent Unwellness from becoming bored and to keep up my end of the pact I have unkowingly made with the boy Norris.

The other two are yours for the choosing.

I) A summer quiz.

II) Books I failed to read this year and why they suck.
This is the inverse of my critcally acclaimed 'Book Learning' series (Just wait and see what's coming next, you'll never believe it).

So? What's it to be?

Let summer begin...

Whether it's the Wymondham open air jazz picnic, or the slow journey home from the Glastonbury Festival, summer has to begin somewhere. I'm not a Memorial Day believer, prefering to keep my thoughts for a November Sunday.
I believe that the beginning of summer shifts, each year it depends upon circumstance, that something as beautiful and transient as summer cannot be pinned down to a date in a diary, that it depends upon friends, food and sunshine.
Today feels like the beginning of summer. The World Cup is over, Italy won. I drunk a bunch of beers watching the Final and would have rather seen the French win.
That's it, the business part of the year is done, we just have to wait out the hot months until September rolls around.

Book learning 14.

31 Days by Barry Werth.

Right, this is a bit of a tricky one. How to describe this book and all that it is without giving away the essential plot theme. I would hate to ruin the entire book for you so I will just say this. It could best be summed up as a sort of "How do you solve a problem like Dick Nixon?" (to the tune of "How do you solve a problem like Maria?" from "The Sound of Music").
There, The first 31 days of the Ford administration. Sound geeky? Damn right it is, that's exactly why Mondale purchased, read and enjoyed the thing! Geeky aside it's nicely written and the fact that each chapter is a day lends it a certain ease of passage.
Amongst the other cool things the author manages to accomplish are a nice dose of contemporia and a slightly sinister portrayal of a few of the men behind the scenes of mid 1970's Republican politics, A certain Mr G.H.W.Bush, a Mr D.Rumsfeld and a Mr R.Cheney.
It's fascinating to see these guys cutting their teeth over 30 years ago in the West Wing or in George Bush's case weasling to try and get the job of Vice President and having to settle for a role in China.
It was also fun reading about Alexander Haig, was he really just an overpromoted flunkey attempting to hang onto his own influence by his fingernails or was he the outright Nixon/Watergate apologist we all thought he was? Read this book and decide for yourself!
I also enjoyed the contemporary touches, President Ford's taste in wide lapelled plaid sportcoats deemed innapropriate for a chief executive (at least during the week), His wife's personal habits- you end up feeling a real sympathy and admiration for Betty Ford- and her stubborn yet resentful support of her husband and his dilemmas.
A good choice for a political junkie, and don't forget the unmentioned plot, the one I cannot mention. It's a cracker.

European Championships 2006

At least Brazil went out.
All I want now is for Germany and France to meet in the final and the French to win.
The French have made my day a little better, just a little.
Merci beacoup.

England v Portugal.

Bollocks.
I'm supporting France.
Fuck.
I'm off down the pub.

World Cup.

I'm nervous.
The longer it goes on, the more nervous I become.
If we meet success tomorrow my nerves will go crazy.
If it is a broken sunrise my nerves will turn to sorrow.
Either way I shall face them down with a long weekend of beer, meat and my own brand of affectionate American patriotism.

The worst field trip ever.

Somethings are so bad that they are actually funny.
Today was like that. I should point out that no children were injured and they actually seemed to enjoy it (in a completely bizarre fashion).



We took a bus to the location in the picture below, The little Red Lighthouse under The George Washington Bridge. I can tell you this, the photographer certainly managed to make the scene look a damn sight more attractive than the reality.
It's frickin miles away and the bus driver HAD NO CLUE ABOUT DIRECTION, ABOUT HOW TO DRIVE, ABOUT STREETS IN MANHATTAN BEING NUMBERED!!!!! I'm not sure but at one point I think I saw him crying.
We get to the place where we get off the bus. Fine. We have to walk through mugger's paradise (shady, leafy paths with a multitude of escape routes and places where your body could lie for weeks before being disturbed by a fevered crack head) and across a highway to get to the LRL.
When we get there our guide is nowhere to be seen, the LRL is locked and I notice the signs on the fence of the construction site warning us about POISON. Great.
The trip leader makes a bunch of calls, we eat our lunch on benches on the swampy, mosquito infested lawn. One of our group, an Albanian said that the place reminds her of Kosovo during the war "but without all the bullets and killing".
The kids were great, eating their lunch and geting muddy. I think most of them just figured that it was a trip to 'see' the LRL rather than go in it.
Then we decide to leave. We call our bus driver to meet us. He is completely fucking clueless! He has absolutely no idea about where we are, where he is and how to connect the two. The man has zero initiative, and if there's one thing Mondale cannot stand it's lack of initiative!
Plus, I hate yellow buses, ask anyone who knows me.



We had to cross three very dangerous roads (and I'm talking exit ramps from the West Side Highway, yeah!) in order to get to the bus because the driver was an utter fuckwit who wouldnt, couldnt, shouldnt come to us!
aaaarggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!.
Thank you for listening.

Drunk Blogging

Did I write that?
OK, I stand by every word of it but it's just funny when you wake up after a night of Becks (the beer, not the God) and you see that you have made a brilliantly coherent point.

I dont want to say "I told you so"

But I've always liked Al Gore.
I liked him when he was Vice President ( I felt that he was unlucky to be the #2 to a political genius like William Jefferson Clinton and thus be deprived a decent run at the White House).
I liked him when he ran against GWBush in 2000. I really. genuinely felt that after 8 years of Vice Presidential constraints he was actually campaigning in a way that suited him and I saw a man who was enjoying himself.
I also told friends in December 2000 that he was going to be the 'Nixon' of the 21st Century.
I Just hope I'm right.
Gore 2008!!!

some musings....

Do you remember when I said that I would educate poor Americans with a quick history of Britain? Never really got around to it did I?
Ah well, welcome to my world.

Hungover breakfast of three doughnuts and a coffee this morning.

The Mondale CD IS on it's way, MacTechwitch has been jibing me about it. It's in place, set to roll off the presses. I just need to write some thoughtful liner notes. Should all be done by the start of August.

Teaching four year olds how to dance with a hangover is a very strange thing. This year I have changed the music (last year it was all 'Yellow Submarine' and 'Hello Goodbye'-I haven't willingly listened to the Beatles since) and am hitting the wee beggars with a mix of indie pop and left field country. I feel desperately sorry for my teenage sidekick who has to listen to Belle and Sebastian and Steve Earle. Actually I don't. It's my class, I'm the boss and I'm the one dancing with a toy turtle on my head. My tunes.

The older kid who groaned about playing 'bombardment' will soon learn. It's going to be a very long, hot summer in these parts if you don't like bombardment. You will be playing lots of bombardment. 'Coach' Mondale loves playing bombardment.

We are playing Portugal in the World Cup quarter final on Saturday! How excited am I?

Italy v Australia.

I was getting nosebleeds from having to support Australia. Nosebleeds and headaches, sleepless nights and strange sweats. Whilst I can't stand the Italian team (Just ask my Dad) I'm pleased that now I can concentrate all my energies on the Ecuador-busters.

Holland v Portugal

Did you see that? Did you f*cking well see that game?
Marvellous!!

Mondale's mix CD.

It's coming!
I just need to buy the CDs, write the cover notes and produce the damn thing. Should be ready by the end of the week!

Book learning #13 and a half.

I saw the Da Vinci Code yesterday. It beat the crap out of reading it.
It was great, The movie theater was cool and dark and the seats were comfy. Just the place to nap on a humid New York afternoon.
I ate a hot dog and a gallon of Soda. Frau Random Doubt ate nachos and Sprite. Are we off diet or what? We'll go to hell for that!
Except we wont, you see the movie told us that everything we've ever believed was wrong and that God was in fact French.
French indeed?

Australia v Brazil.

It's half time.
I have never, ever supported Australia in any kind of sporting competition ever (OK, except the 1983 America's Cup).
Until now.

What's not to love?

Friends, I will now quote the author Nick Hornby from his book 'Fever Pitch'.

"Seven Goals and a punch up"

"For a match to be really, truly memorable, the kind of game that sends you home buzzing inside with the fulfilment of it all, you require as many of the following as possible: 1, Goals. 2,Outrageously bad refereeing decisions. 3, A noisy crowd. 4,Rain, a greasy surface, etc. 5, Opposition misses a penalty. 6, Member of opposition receives a red card. 7,Some kind of disgraceful incident (aka silliness, aka nonsense, aka unpleasantness)".

The USA Italy game met most of these criteria. Best of all the USA got a great result thus depriving Italy of the result they wanted. Yeah! Italy got the shaft!
I'm that close to buying a USA jersey.

Book learning #13.

Fun Home by Alison Bechdel.

One wouldn't nessecarily put the following into the same space as entertainment.

Closetted gay dad who picks up teens.
Emerging Lesbian.
Funeral home.
Rural Pennsylvania.
Empty marriage.
Fatal road accident.

But entertaining it was, amusing yet thoughtful. This graphic novel has what you want, if what you want is other people's sexual complexities and death.
The storyline is a bio of the author's father. It's intertwined with her own childhood (he died when she was in college) and sexuality. The interesting bit is the generational thing, her father could have come out in the 50's but didn't. He remained closetted, married, had a family etc. He admits that his actions have, well, had repercussions. His admission (but not his outing, he never actually comes out, it's fascinating) runs parallel with his daughter's coming out twenty five years later.

It's a great read.

Soca Warriors

First, let's get the emotions out of the way. A 2-0 scoreline does little to impress the outrageous nervousness of the situation. When the first of those goals is scored in the 83rd minute and, if it were not for Mr Terry of Chelsea, would have drawn the game.
Holy mother of God.
Shitting crikey.
Crazy Heck.

Now for the good bit. I watched the game in Sugarcane, a Trinidadian restaurant on Flatbush Avenue. Being 6'5 and coming straight from school's closing ceremonies I was the English guy in the jacket and tie. Nice.
Luckily a few of Listmaker's friends had grabbed a table near the big TV at the back. Drinks and the best damn chicken ever.
200 Trinidadians and their friends singing and banging every kind of drum and whistling whistles, a dance party at half time (nice touch) and me.
Me, occaisonally shouting out "COME ON ENGLAND!" We really need some funkier songs.
I managed to succeed on several fronts.
I managed to come away with a victory.
The old lady whispering friendly death threats turned out to be an empty vessel.
Best of all, I managed to do 'The Crouch'.
I did 'The Crouch' in front of 200 Trinidadians and some of their friends.

Do I look nervous?

We should beat them, The are a tiny island in the sun drenched Carribean. We should beat them, right?

If it's going to be so easy why am I so nervous?

Must stick to normal routine. I'll swim in the morning, I did that on Saturday, we won on Saturday.

I really tried to shake it off but the old World Cup nerves are back. I'll need friends and beer to help me through tomorrow.

The next phase has already begun.

Tomorrow we play Trinidad and Tobago. I've forgone the England HQ (I've not actually watched a game there yet, preferring to watch at home or at friend's homes). I'll be visiting a local Trindadian restaurant with the ever loyal Mr Glen. Assorted co-workers hope to join me at half time.
I can't stress enough, this is an absolute must win.

"Now it's a World Cup"

That bloke on ESPN2, what's his name? Eric Wynalda? He just dropped a classic. He was describing the spawny bastard Germans and their spawny, spawny win over the Poles. I quote "YadaYadaYada, Alot of passion, a lot of color, and a lot of history as well". When he said the last bit about history there was a definite sinister glint in his eye, he wasn't talking about Beckenbauer against Boniek, He was talking about Stukas against cavalry, about panzer divisions rumbling through the early September dawn.

Which leads me nicely into why I hate the Germans, why I always want them to lose and why they just spoilt my night.
Fuckin Germans.

Book Learning #12

'Sir Alf' A major reappraisal of England's greatest football manager. Leo McKinistry.

Sir Alf Ramsey won the World Cup with England in 1966.
He was clearly a bit of a genius but also a rather odd fellow. He hated the media and his employers and they, in turn disliked him.

If I learned anything from this it will probably be this.
People who are gregarious, a little bit outgoing and able to deal with people are much more likely to succeed than those intense genius types who keep close counsel and/or are terribly shy and introverted.
If you can make people smile with a witty remark they are likely to let you get away with things, even if your actual track record is sub par. Inspire confidence beyond your ability and people will give you some grace.

Having said all that this bio is full of amusing anecdotes from a time before my own. Sir Alf was essentially a modest and highly reserved conservative Englishman, the book reads like that, it's no page turner but if you are willing to put in the effort you will reap the rewards. That's Sir Alf's philosophy in a nutshell.

A nice little pre World Cup bit of nostalgia

Lovely World Cup Moments #1

The girl in the grocery store, turns out that she is from Ecuador. She was so happy and was telling anyone who would listen about the 2-0 victory over Poland. I did more than listen, I told her it was a great result and that the Polish team must be fuming for all the missed chances late in the second half (I caught the second half after work) but I congratulated her anyway (never having really liked Poland ever).

Hooray! World Cup brings people together on Day one!

Frau Random Doubt is enjoying watching me watch footy. It should be noted that she has found a number of amusing household chores for me to do when I'm not watching the games.

Ummmm. World Cup forces me to make my top secret delicious Brownies from scratch.

Another sad yet inevitable aspect of the World Cup is the nightly 'Town Square Cam'.
This is a staple feature of any British news team, especially when England play in a European based tournament.
The reporters sit with their camera crews watching English fans getting drunker and drunker and waiting for something to happen. Something generally does and it gets blown all over the news, between an Iraqi car bomb and Baby Pittgolina.
It's sad.

Why England matters.

For the vast majority of the world tomorrow brings the beginning of the 2006 World Cup. From this point on I really couldn't care if you are a Democrat, Republican, straight, gay, black or white or from Delaware. From this point on all I really care about are the chances of 22 young Englishmen and their slightly dotty Swedish coach. Of course I'll be nice to Frau Random Doubt and I will feed the cat but beyond that it's all about events in Germany.

Why does England matter? I don't live there anymore; it's a long way away and it tends to rain. So why is it so important to me, achingly, heartstoppingly important that the England win the World Cup in 2006?

Its a little bit history, a little bit culture and a ridiculous bit pride. I've tried to follow that line from 'Pulp Fiction' "That's pride fucking with you" and walk away, except I haven’t and I never could, even if I wanted to.

Let’s look at the history of all this, albeit briefly.
Football began in England and very quickly spread across the globe. The arrogance of my imperialist forefathers prevented the England team from entering the first three world cup tournaments, in the 1930s as it was obvious to anyone listening that England would wipe the floor with the unwashed, uncivilized foreign opposition. They went instead to play a constant round of friendlies including one where the team had to give the Nazi salute before playing Germany, wouldn’t want to upset that nice Herr Hitler now, would we?
It wasn’t until after WW2 that we actually entered a world cup. It was in Brazil and we were beaten 0-1 by the USA. Arguably one of the greatest sporting upsets of all time. Right, yeah, thanks.

In 1966 we won the bloody thing.
There have been acres of books written about each and every single aspect of that undoubted triumph, I’m even reading one of them right now. On a warm July afternoon we beat the Germans 4-2 and Bobby Moore lifted the Jules Rimet trophy to proclaim England’s glory to the world. I could go on; I could go on and on and on. Most English people do. That’s always been the trouble with being one of the post 1966 generation. We have had to hear so much about this from the generations that witnessed it (although fortunately my own father tends to go on about Norwich City’s 1959 cup run considerably more than he does the winning of the World Cup, for those interested he watched the final in a German bar whilst serving in the RAF).

The 70’s were bleak. In Mexico in 1970 we went out in heartbreaking style to the Germans 3-2 after being 0-2 ahead. We failed to qualify for 1974 and 1978. Truly a dour decade for our World Cup dreams.

I was really too young to appreciate the 1982 tournament except for Bryan Robson’s goal against France and reports of England fans causing trouble and getting stabbed., that scared me, I was 9.

1986 was the year that Maradona cheated by hand balling the ball past Peter Shilton’s head into the England goal. We were starting to see a pattern with our rivalries, Germany, Argentina; if shots had been fired between our two nations then the likelihood was that we would meet (and lose) upon the football pitch.1986 was also the year that many of the games were played at odd hours of the day, the tournament being in Mexico. I remember my father leaving notes beside my bedside as I was too young to be staying up every night for a month just to watch Canada play Hungary.

I remember the Italian tournament of 1990 very fondly indeed. I remember it for a number of fantastic reasons.
It was my first grown up World Cup. I was 17 and was allowed to have a beer or two whilst watching the games. The games were in the same time zone as we were, we had a large TV in the conservatory and our friends would all pile over and watch as David Platt and Paul Gascoigne became our new World Cup heroes. It was also a beautiful summer, hot and dry (uncommon for England) and we reached the semi finals playing fantastic football.
Ah yes, we reached the semi finals, the semi finals.
And who did we meet in the semi finals?
Germany. The new Germany, the oh so cool now the wall has come down Germany.
And yes, we lost on penalties and ‘Gazza’ Gascoigne cried and became an icon and lived off that moment for the rest of his drunken, confused life, and fuck! We lost to Germany. It seemed that one afternoon 7 years before I was born was destined to milk all the World Cup karma for ever and ever. I was 17 and I hated my father’s generation for what they had done 24 years earlier. I hated the fact that I would never ever get to live through what they had lived through. I hated the Germans too.
That year we were good enough. Plenty good enough. The final should have been Italy and England and it would have been a thing of beauty. We had emerged from the dark ages of aggro and being crap but it was not to be. Instead they ended up with Argentina and Germany and the Germans won by a miserable penalty in one of the most boring games ever seen.

We failed to qualify in 1994, something to do with a turnip. The tournament was hosted by the USA so we were better off at home anyway. Al Gore presented the trophy to the winning Brazilians in LA.

But we were back in 1998, two years after reaching the European championship semi finals in England and losing to Germany on penalties (I kid you not, In 1996 Football 'came home' to England. It came home but as Frank Skinner pointed out, "Found that it had forgotten it's doorkey"). We had fantastic players like some of the ones you may have heard of like David Beckham and Michael Owen and we met Argentina in the quarter finals and lost. Sometimes you can only hurt so much. Sometimes you just have to wonder what might have been if Beckham hadn’t been sent off for a pointless yet understandable retaliation.
The thing is this; I doubt we would have beaten France that year. We would have given them a good game and we were certainly good enough but sometimes the stars don’t shine for you. Sometimes you leave your umbrella at home and it rains. The French had home advantage and were good enough-even though Brazil should have won.
It was shortly after this that a friend at the time, Vinny, a French dude who worried about how much we English all drank came up with one of the best and most disconcerting lines I’ve ever heard. “ I have seen something that only your father has seen”. I was about the punch the frog, assuming he’d been peering into my mother’s bedroom window when he explained. “I have seen my country lift the World Cup* in triumph”. Bastard.

*Technically no, Vinny, technically you are wrong. Wrong and French. Ouch!
The trophy Bobby Moore lifted in 1966 was the Jules Rimet Trophy which was used until 1970 when Brazil won the tournament for the third time thus earning the right to keep the trophy forever. The trophy Didier Deschamps lifted in Paris in 1998 was the much less glamorous sounding FIFA World Cup Trophy which was introduced for the 1974 tournament held, and won by West Germany. So there is a difference. Vinny, you will read this and thank me.

And onto 2002 Japan and Korea. We beat Argentina which was quite simply divine old boy. Then we messed it up against Brazil. Fair enough, they were worthy winners but dammit!

That’s sort of why I think this has to be our year. We have rebuilt ourselves as a footballing nation. When I was a kid going to football was often pretty scary. There were hooligans (they haven’t quite gone away but they used to be everywhere) there were deathtrap stadiums that either burned you to death or crushed the life out of you and following the England team was best done at home under a blanket. Neo fascists corrupted the support with their racist chants and paramilitary banners.
We have taken all that back. England’s support is blacker and more Asian, there are actually women involved these days and we have reclaimed the cross of St George as our rightful national symbol. I hope to God that we are not blighted by hooligans in this tournament although I am sure there will be some violence, although not on any kind of scale as we saw in the past and hopefully not involving English supporters.
Of course we mock the Germans, its impossible not to, ask Red Sox fans to be nice to Yankees? See what I mean?
None of this happened with government initiative (although plenty of politicians have tried to cash in) it happened because the fans made it happen, because when we lose we hurt and winning is at best a distant memory and for most of us a dream unfulfilled.
I know it’s been a ramble but please, if you have a choice, why not tune in Saturday morning at 9am, ESPN and give the boys with three lions your support.

I'm ready.

I've spent the last few months in training.
I've been watching my diet, running and swimming.
I've lost some weight and am now in a better physical and mental shape than I've been in years.
All I have to do now is grab the remote and sit back.
I am ready to win the World Cup!

It's a broad church.

Is this blogging thing.
I have to admit that when it comes to music I haven't got the faintest idea what he's taking about almost all of the time.
But he's Cumpstey, Rev Milo, The dude who once wore a snood, one of the originals.

He's got a blog.

You can read it (Radio Speedwagon) and see if it makes any sense.
Even so it's a thing of beauty just like the man himself.

And then there was lobstah!

As the party wound down the four happy wanderers from the emerald City of the Empire State found the nearest mountain and drove up it.

Cadillac Mountain, a wonderful spot to end an afternoon of wedding style partying.



Youthlarge and Listmaker hold onto each other in the face of a summit breeze.



Frau Random Doubt and myself take in the fresh air (They have a gift shop and bathrooms at the summit, very user friendly).



After driving back down the mountain discussing all of our family's idiosyncracies we had time to do the one thing remaining on our three day Maine tourist checklist... LOBSTER!!!



Frau Random Doubt about to make short work of this one.

Jeepers Creepers! yet more action from the State of Maine!!

After the ceremonies the festivities kicked in!

Mr and Mrs Weasel with Weasel's mum and Mark. Under a whicker arch! Yeah!


We told Listmaker that this was traditional Maine headgear.


Salty Pete, Weasel and Mondale.


Let the good times roll!!


Like, I was pretty wasted by this point and I started to take like, cosmic pictures of groovy garden ornaments.

Mazeltof! Some actual pictures of the actual wedding!

And now, some real wedding pics....

The path to married bliss is lined by family, friends and New Yorkers discussing real estate.


Weasel is wearing a kilt. That's right. Hoots! He's wearing a kilt!


"Stop pacing, you'll sink this thing".


"She'll be here, it'll be fine".


The happy couple!! (that's the top of Country Mouse's mom in the foreground.

Oi Vey! Some pictures from Maine.

At last! After a week of not even bothering and then a few days of technical issues I present to you some pictures of our fantastic weekend in Bar Harbor. We were there to celebrate the Weasel/Country Mouse union, wedding photos to follow.

Three New Yorkers wander the country lanes of Maine gently discussing real estate prices.

It's all so beautiful, so fresh, so fragrant. We also keep reminding ourselves that it's all so completely frozen for 6 months of the year.

Weasel and General Weasel with an assortment of mini Weaselettes

Frau Random Doubt, Listmaker and Youthlarge wander the gorgeous coastal paths of Bar Harbor discussing real estate prices.

Weasel's cuzzen Jim and bruvver Baz discuss breakfast products, Jim the veggie vs Baz the pork afficianado.