"Do You Like Kipling?"

...the young man asked; to which the young woman replied: "Why, I don't know you naughty boy, I've never Kipled."

Heh, an ancient joke, but it gets me everytime. Anyway, I like Kipling, Rudyard that is. Too bad he's probably not taught in schools anymore. I suppose a poem like 'The Grave of the Hundred Head' is entirely too savage for a generation of children not allowed to play dodgeball, and 'The White Man's Burden' is definitely not the thing these days.

But still - how can anyone, especially a child, read this....

This is the story of the great war that Rikki-tikki-tavi fought single-handed, through the bathrooms of the big bungalow in Segowlee cantonment. Darzee, the tailor-bird, helped him, and Chuchundra, the musk-rat, who never comes out into the middle of the floor, but always creeps round by the wall, gave him advice; but Rikki-tikki did the real fighting.

...and not want to know what happens next?

Anyone else remember the animated telling of Rikki Tikki Tavi that used to air once a year or so on TV? Looking back, I think that cartoon single-handedly brought up my intense dislike of snakes.

Is It Spring Yet?

It's snowing here, on this the first day of baseball, and the snow is making me all harumphy and cranky.

The following anecdote did give me a laugh though, especially this bit:

When I was getting back on the train, there were protesters on the train platform handing out pamphlets on the evils of America. I politely declined to take one. An elderly woman was behind me getting off the escalator and a young (20ish) female protester offered her a pamphlet, which she politely declined. The young protester put her hand on the old woman's shoulder as a guesture of friendship and in a very soft voice said, "Ma'am, don't you care about the children of Iraq?" The old woman looked up at her and said, "Honey, my first husband died in France during World War II so you could have the right to stand here and bad mouth your country. And if you touch me again, I'll stick this umbrella up your ass and open it."

Hello?

I simply can't believe that more people aren't asking a lot of questions about this.

I Have Returned

Yes, I've been busy.

No, I have forgotten you, my loyal dozen of readers.

Yes, I still love you all.

Here, give me a hug.

Better?

Just to show you that I mean it, here's a lovely bit on the trials and tribulations of trying to submit a piece to the New York Times.

Like most of you, I've been watching a lot news. And I keep on seeing this one clip of Saddam Hussein, dressed not in a uniform but in a suit with some sort of bowler/derby/hat. Now I know the guy's a sociopathic monster, but everytime I see this image I have to suppress a giggle. He looks like some sort of weird extra in an off-off-off Broadway musical, and I half-expect him to break out into a thickly accented version of 'Luck Be A Lady' everytime I see that clip. Maybe bust out a few dance moves too.

No, I haven't finished my coffee yet.

...From the Foreign Affairs Desk

A number of other sites and blogs have already linked to or posted the text of Lieutenant-Colonel Tim Collins' speech to the soldiers of the 1st Battalion of The Royal Irish. But I think it is worth repeating here; the fundamental decency and honorable nature of Col. Collin's thoughts stand in marked contrast to much of the nonsenical rhetoric I hear, from both the left and right, the pro-war and the anti-war.

'Grieve for fallen comrades after battle is over'
From Sarah Oliver at the Iraqi border

A BRITISH commander told his men last night that not all of them would come home alive. He instructed his soldiers to wrap their fallen comrades in a sleeping bag, fight on and grieve for them after the heat of the battle.
Lieutenant-Colonel Tim Collins, the man leading the battle group of the 1st Battalion of The Royal Irish, told his troops: “It is my foremost intention to bring every single one of you out alive, but there may be people among us who will not see the end of this campaign.

“We will put them in their sleeping bags and send them back. There will be no time for sorrow.”

In an emotionally charged address that reduced many of Britain’s toughest infantry troops to tears, the commanding officer told his men that he would tolerate neither cowardice nor a killing spree but that they should show no mercy to forces who remained loyal to President Saddam Hussein. He also declared that any Iraqi troops who declared a truce in the face of the advancing Allies would be embraced by the coalition and permitted to fight for regime change in their own nation.

He said: “The enemy should be in no doubt that we are his Nemesis and that we are bringing about his rightful destruction. There are many regional commanders who have stains on their souls and they are stoking the fires of Hell for Saddam. He and his forces will be destroyed by this coalition for what they have done. As they die they will know their deeds have brought them to this place. Show them no pity.”

Wearing his kukri, the Gurkha blade that he is entitled to carry as a Gurkha commander, Colonel Collins spoke to his 800 men, an arm of Britain’s 16 Air Assault Brigade, at Fort Blair Mayne, their desert camp 20 miles from the Iraqi border.

He said: “We go to liberate, not to conquer. We will not fly our flags in their country. We are entering Iraq to free a people and the only flag that will be flown in that ancient land is their own. Show respect for them. There are some who are alive at this moment who will not be alive shortly. Those who do not wish to go on that journey, we will not send.

“As for the others, I expect you to rock their world. Wipe them out if that is what they choose. But if you are ferocious in battle, remember to be magnanimous in victory.

“It is a big step to take another human life. It is not to be done lightly.

“I know of men who have taken life needlessly in other conflicts. I can assure you they live with the mark of Cain upon them. If someone surrenders to you, then remember they have that right in international law and ensure that one day they go home to their family. The ones who wish to fight, well, we aim to please.”

As the men listened in silence, the dying minutes of a day-long dust storm giving added drama to his address, Colonel Collins reminded them that they were a band of brothers. He said: “If you harm the regiment or its history by over-enthusiasm in killing or in cowardice, know it is your family who will suffer. You will be shunned unless your conduct is of the highest, for your deeds will follow you down through history. We will bring shame on neither our uniform nor our nation.”

He said they would certainly face Saddam’s chemical and biological arsenal. “It is not a question of if, it’s a question of when. We know he has already devolved the decision to his lower commanders, and that means he has already taken the decision himself. If we survive the first strike, we will survive the attack.”

The commander said he expected the conflict to last between ten days and three weeks and that it was vital if the West was to curb the threat of Muslim fundamentalists. But he made it clear that his men were to respect Iraqi culture and religion and not to confuse it with the international terrorism that Saddam had cultivated within his borders.

He said: “Iraq is steeped in history. It is the site of the Garden of Eden, of the Great Flood and the birthplace of Abraham. Tread lightly there.

“You will see things that no man could pay to see and you will have to go a long way to find a more decent, generous and upright people than the Iraqis. You will be embarrassed by their hospitality even though they have nothing.

“Don’t treat them as refugees for they are in their own country. Their children will be poor. In years to come they will know that the light of liberation in their lives was brought by you. If there are casualties of war, then remember that when they woke up and got dressed in the morning they did not plan to die this day. Allow them dignity in death. Bury them properly and mark their graves.”

His closing words were resolute: “As for ourselves, let’s bring everyone home and leave Iraq a better place for us having been there. Our business now is north.”

I found the text of the speech at the London Times onlines.

For more on Col. Collins, go here.

Patriotism and Scoundrels

Sometimes I can't decided who I have more contempt for, Democrats or Republicans. Today I think it's the Republicans.

By a vote along party lines, the majority members of the House Budget Committee passed and reported for a vote by the House a budget resolution that would cut $844 million from veterans’ medical care next year and $9.7 billion over the next 10 years. In addition, the budget resolution would cut $15 billion from the disability compensation and other benefit programs over the next 10 years. The House leadership are pushing these cuts to offset the cost of the President’s $1.57 trillion tax reduction plan.

So, if I'm understanding this correctly...during a time of war the Republican House leaders are strippng away benefits from veterans to pay for their tax cuts for their wealthy friends.

Requiescat In Pace

Bibliophile
SYLLABICATION: bib·li·o·phile
NOUN: 1. A lover of books. 2. A collector of books.

Yes, that’s me, a genuine word junky. Robert E. Howard said something to the effect that nothing short of a bullet to the head could have stopped his quest for new reading material and I think I know exactly how he felt. Which probably makes me slightly insane, but at least bibliophilia is known as ‘the gentle madness.’ So I’m clearly no danger to myself or others.

The reason I’m writing about this is that almost a year ago now, my good friend Lucio died. And as far as I can recall, he was the first person I ever encountered who was also a bibliophile. My parents certainly encouraged me to read – and bought me books, and took me to the library. But Lucio was the first person I met who shared my absolute addiction to the written word. Like any self-respecting bibliophile I could go on for pages about the books Lucio and I exchanged, the authors we introduced one another to, and the many, many conversations we had about reading and books. But I’ll limit myself to a few memories that stand out in my mind.

Second-hand bookstores are a must for the true bibliophile, and as of this writing I think I’ve ventured into most of the ones to be found within a 30-mile radius of my apartment. I can thank Lucio for this habit; he took to me my first used bookstore, Readmore Books in Taunton. There couldn’t have been a better place for a ten year old kid with limited spending cash and a constant need for more books, this almost magic store where you could take the books you’d already read and exchange them for new ones. I’ve clearly never recovered from this revelation.

I was sick fairly often as a child, and consequently stuck indoors fairly often as well. We didn’t have cable back then, which meant there were about six TV channels to choose from, and I never really watched that much of the tube anyway. What I wanted in that situation was – of course – something to read. I’m sure I must’ve driven both of my parents bonkers with my incessant demands, requests and pleas for more books. But on one occasion Lucio gave me the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket. He brought my housebound-no-books-to-read self a big shopping bag full of books. A big brown paper shopping bag overflowing with worn paperbacks. This was my introduction to the westerns of Louis L’Amour and the Horatio Hornblower sea-stories by C.S. Forrester. Both of these authors remain firmly ensconced on my list of favorites today; copies of their works have gone with me to every place I’ve ever lived.

The second-to-last time I ever saw Lucio was the Saturday before he died. By then the cancer had worn him down to the point where he really didn’t feel much like talking. Since I’ve never been much of a talker myself, we spent the afternoon in a comfortable silence watching a Red Sox spring training game. About the only thing he said to me that day was to tell me how much he enjoyed a book I had given him; I told him I’d bring him some others by the same author.

Lucio died the following Friday. I never did speak to him again, not when he was conscious to respond anyway, and the book I intended to bring him wound up riding around in my trunk for months.

I suppose this is the part of what has turned into a rather personal (and disjointed) essay where a more skilled writer would grab hold of the various threads running from the comments and observations. And weave them all into some revelation that would demonstrate to you the reader Some Great Truth About Life and leave you in awe of my wisdom and command of the English language.

But that particular rabbit does not live in my magic Red Sox hat. This is just a slice of my life and if you can render any Great Truths from all this…well you’re miles ahead of me. And probably lying too.

I mean, I could probably tell you that life is short and you never know what will happen and that you should let your loved ones know how much you care about them. But you know what? If you haven’t already figured that out- if it takes this collection of ones and zeros on a remote outpost of the Internet to make you realize this – then you’re probably well on your way to be a failure as a human being. If you can’t match your actions to your feelings because, you know, you have ‘important’ things to take care of…I recommend you take a good long look in the mirror and decide exactly what is important to you.

About the only point I can really distill from all of the above goes something like this...

Some time after Lucio died my Mom told me that he had stopped reading towards the end. Until I brought him that Pelecanos novel, the one he thanked me for the last time we spoke.

So a friendship founded on a shared love of books, ended that way. And if during that last long walk to death that he took, I occasionally failed to match my own actions to my own feelings, well then...my own gift of a worn paperback returned a favor done long ago; it was a winning lottery ticket that allowed him to enjoy for the last time a pleasure that the cancer had seemingly stripped away.

I wouldn't change a goddam thing.

No we're not going to fucking do Stonehenge...

I, for one, do not think the problem was that the band was down. I think that the problem may have been that there was a Stonehenge monument on the stage that was in danger of being crushed by a dwarf.
-David St. Hubbins

The weirdness surrounding Stonehenge and it's legendary connection to the Druids continues to this very day. This gentleman's sentiments are certainly admirable - aren't we all for peace, in one way or another? But what I really want to know is 'Dude, what's with the plastic dinosaur? What does that symbolize?'

Blessed be.

UPDATE
My trusty pal Ranty McGrumbles tipped me to a section of Peace Druid's site that I somehow overlooked.

There some people introduced me to magic mushrooms. During one particular stonking trip I perceived the earth goddess as a green dragon. This peak experience inspired me to change my name by deed poll to Kreb Dragonrider.


Where'd he get 'Kreb' from? Why not Lionel Dragonrider, or Vivian Dragonrider, or even Bill Dragonrider?

But at least I get the bit about the dinosaur now.

Nobody Puts Baby In A Corner

Oh my cup runneth over! Feast your eyes:

Set against the decadent glamour and escalating danger of revolution-eve Cuba, Havana Nights: Dirty Dancing 2 re-imagines the 1987 film phenomenon from an exciting new perspective.

Yes...don't doubt what you see...it's true:

The resulting film is certain to give audiences – from newcomers to those who cherish the first Dirty Dancing – the time of their lives, and then some

Well I certainly cherished the first one - so much in fact, that I saw it twice. In the theater. Yes, women figure into that equation - I mean really, do you think I asked to see it twice? Please.

This reeks of straight-to-video. Sorry - I can't imagine this being a hit. I can however, imagine it being a pleasure somewhere along the lines of..oh ..say...this one.

O frabjous day.

Gentle Madness

Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity... we cherish books even if unread, their mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access, reassurance." A.E. Newton.


Which would explain why everytime I'm in a bluefunk I seem to wind up at a bookstore.

Related: the Avenue Victor Hugo bookstore has re-opened at its new location - still on Newbury Street. Hoo-rah! One small step towards preserving some of Boston's uniqueness and warding off the dreaded AnyCity USA malaise brought on by too many chainstores.

Anyhoo - the new location is just a block from the old and seems to have as much space. The folks there are still unpacking but you can go in and browse - and if you live in or around Boston, love books and the process of acquiring them, and have never visited Avenue Victor Hugo - then get thee hence!

Support Your Local Coast Guard

Ask your average Joe or Jill Citizen 'what are the armed forces of the U.S.?' and they'll most likely name four: Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marines. If they think of the U.S. Coast Guard at all, they may imagine the Coast Guard to be some sort of waterborne police force. Folks who work or spend leisure time on the water may be more familiar with the Coast Guard as a rescue group, and there is a certainly that noble tradition.

But the United States Coast Guard is most definitely a military service, with a long and proud history of battle, dating back to the foundation of the United States. Not only have Coast Guardsmen served in action to defend American ports and coasts, which is to be expected after all, but they have served abroad as well. Coast Guard units have seen action in the far Pacific, in Europe, and in South East Asia.

In the wake of the September 11th attacks, and with the possibility of war with Irag looming, Coast Guard reserves have been activated and Coast Guard units deployed overseas. In the coming months, remember to honor those who serve - including your local Coast Guard.

Friend To All, Ally To None

NATO is dead; outside of Britain we have few (if any) true allies. Victor Davis Hanson sees this as an opportunity:

The American people are not naifs who yearn for isolationism, but they are starting to ask some hard questions about the way we have been doing business for 50 years, and it may well be time to grant the French, Canadians, Germans, Turks, South Koreans, and a host of others their wishes for independence from us: polite friendship — but no alliances, no bases, no money, no trade concessions, and no more begging for the privilege of protecting them

The Seventy Year War is over. Perhaps it's time we slowed down our march to Empire (been there, done that, remember?) and returned to some of the earliest guiding principles of this Republic:

"I sincerely join... in abjuring all political connection with every foreign power; and though I cordially wish well to the progress of liberty in all nations, and would forever give it the weight of our countenance, yet they are not to be touched without contamination from their other bad principles. Commerce with all nations, alliance with none, should be our motto." Thomas Jefferson

And while I'm on the subject of foreign policy, think on this and then discuss among yourselves.

...From the Multi-Syllabic Desk

Attention Scrabble players and word junkies! Not sure if decubitis is a real word? Your prayers have been answered!

Awe your friends....impress your co-workers....be the envy of all those around you.

I would've met that deadline if it wasn't for all those meddling quiddlers!

I'm Ready For My Close-Up Mr. De Mille

Several weeks ago - maybe as long as a month or two - I found myself with an hour to spare and a serious hunger. So, I grabbed an issue from my ever-growing backlog of New Yorkers and zipped over to the local for a beer and a bite to eat.

Happily ensconced at my favorite hidden lunch eating table in the back, I noticed a group of strange (read: non-regulars) people milling about - rather unusual for a Saturday. Stranger still was the boom-mike hovering over this group, the camera guy dancing about its fringes, and the short woman shouting out various instructions. Magnum P.E.I. (a regular in the know) told they were filming 'some sort of thing for BBC America or something.' Or something indeed - I tuned them out and turned my attention back to my beer and porkchops and magazine.

Flash forward to this past weekend: I receive an email from a friend wondering exactly what the hell was I doing popping up on her TV on Saturday night? Er....news to me. When I stopped by the local on Tuesday night to meet some friends, Sonny the Den Mother/Bartender announced she'd spotted me on TV as well.

It's true people. I'm leaving this drudgery behind to become a big star.

...From the Twisted Humor Desk

Thanks to the gentlemen at Silflay Hraka I found this entirely morbid site. Enjoy.

...From the Random Idiocy Desk

"Take the man who left his car idling at a Dunkin' Donuts earlier this winter and came out to find it gone. He told police he was carjacked, knocked to the ground, and beaten up. When police, suspecting otherwise, brought him to the station for questioning and told him they had a videotape of him in the coffee shop holding an unspilled cardboard tray of coffee after the supposed attack, he retracted his story. "

I know getting your daily fix of Dunkin' Donuts is important people, I really do. But let's be careful out there, eh?

Thank you ladies and gentlemen...I'll be here all week...tip your waitress.