What Do I Know?

Some Things Are Worth the Sacrifice

British Prime Minister Tony Blair insists that British troops "will stay in Iraq as long as we are needed and not a day longer."

"Is the sacrifice worth it? It is worth it and it is vital to the security of our country," he said.

In related news, Downing Street has announced Tony Blair's oldest son, Euan, will be joining the cause:

Euan Blair, the prime minister's eldest son, is to work in Washington DC as an intern for Republican politicians. The 21-year-old will spend three months working for the Committee on Rules in the House of Representatives - the lower chamber of the US Congress.

Has anyone asked former Independent candidate Reg Keys for his thoughts?

Wednesday Food Blogging: Rice and Roasted Corn Salad

Move over, potatoes. Celebrate the Fourth with Rice, Roasted Corn and Zucchini Salad, about as all-American as it gets.

I imagine my comrades in the States will be gathering for barbecues and picnics this weekend, their patriotism pasted to their shirtsleeves like ketchup stains.

Here in England, the Fourth of July is just another manic Monday.

At Chez Flake we'll be celebrating our country's independence from the tyranny of King George. (A girl can dream, can't she?) For your potluck pleasure, this week features Rice and Roasted Corn Salad, a truly American dish. In fact, it's so foreign to these shores I had to pay dearly for sweetcorn on the cob—£1.89 for two ears. Yes, you read that right. Almost $4 for a couple lousy ears of corn. Next year, I'm plowing my garden and planting corn.

Now there's some true American enterprise.

(Still don't believe me? Cavier, or sweet corn? The choice is obvious, isn't it?)

UPDATE: Chris points out in comments that we have possibly discovered a new sea delicacy.

"But He Hasn't Got Anything On," a Little Child Said.

Now that Bush's popularity ratings are at an all time low, maybe the Washington Post feels they can finally point out what we've known all along: Emperor George has no clothes.

When it comes to the lead up to the war in Iraq, the evidence is in: George Bush was stark naked. Caught with his pants down, so to speak.

The question now is, did anyone notice the Emperor's lack of suitable attire, and if so, what did they do to prevent what, in hindsight (no pun intended), has turned out to be rather worse than one little boy shouting from the sidelines of history?

Here's Jack Straw, British Foreign Secretary, in an obvious allusion to Bush's attire:

But, Straw added, "the case was thin."

Straw pokes even further, exposing clear "holes":

But even after legal justification, Straw added, "We have also to answer the big question -- what will this action achieve? There seems to be a larger hole on this than on anything."

And Straw wasn't the only one casting doubt on the Emperor's new "threads." Here's another British official:

On March 22, Peter Ricketts, then political director of the Foreign Office, wrote to Straw that Blair could also "bring home to Bush some of the realities" and "help Bush make good decisions by telling him things his own machine probably isn't."

I think anyone who's read the original tale knows what he's really saying: No one in Washington is pointing out that new suit the Emperor had made isn't really there.

Emperor George's friend, Tony Blair, who had his own wardrobe malfunction (a case of pants-on-fire), didn't agree with his cabinet that pointing out the obvious was the way to go:

In a post-summit speech at the George Bush Presidential Library in College Station, Tex., Blair offered a cryptic criticism of his own advisers. His commitment to democratic values, Blair said, "means that when America is fighting for those values, then, however tough, we fight with her -- no grandstanding, no offering implausible and impractical advice from the touchline."

By "impractical advice" he obviously meant something along the lines of: "You have no clothes, Mr. Emperor!"

Although we aren't certain he didn't take him aside at one point and whisper, "Hey George—XYZ!":

"In the end, only Blair and Bush know what they said to each other at Crawford and what they agreed to," said a senior British official. "They spent a long time together with no one else around, which was most unusual."

Does Tony regret not doing more to prevent his friend exposing himself on the world stage?

"No doubt from the British point of view Iraq has been a strategic blunder -- not just a mistake, but a mistake that we're still paying for," said Clarke, of King's College. "Still, while no one in government would ever say it, the rationale from the British point of view is that our strategic relationship with the U.S. is more important than any single campaign we fight on its behalf. The basic calculation was: Right or wrong, it is in our interest to stand with the United States."

Right. There you go. Let's stick a fig leaf on it and carry on.

The sartorial blunders continue. Emperor George, in response to his sinking poll numbers, has had a new set of "clothes" made, and tonight, he plans to wear them as he reviews his troops, in full view of all his kingdom, i.e., prime time viewing audience.

But is there a child—a reporter, a pundit, a British cabinet official—who'll say "But he hasn't got anything on!"?

From The Emperor's New Clothes by Hans Christian Anderson:

"But he hasn't got anything on," a little child said.

"Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?" said its father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, "He hasn't anything on. A child says he hasn't anything on."

"But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last.

The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This procession has got to go on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all.

An All-Too Revealing Meme

Shakespeare's Sister has infected me with the latest meme. Here goes...

What were three of the stupidest things you have done in your life?

1. Eat meat.
2. Forgot the salt.
3. Graduation night, champagne, swimming pool...I forget the rest.

At the current moment, who has the most influence in you life?

BBC Radio 4. (Who? Whoever decides what to broadcast—a novel, Desert Island Discs, an interview with Jack Straw, a history programme, Woman's Hour—the list is eclectic and enlightening.)

If you were given a time machine that functioned, and you were allowed to only pick up to five people to dine with, who would you pick?

1. Hitler, in his youth
2. Charlotte Bronte ("Don't listen to your husband; that last manuscript really is good!")
3. Issac Bashevis Singer
4. Franz Kafka
5. Michael Stipe
(All five are/claim to be vegetarians, although Hitler lied about that. But we'd definately be dining at Eat and Two Veg on Marylebone High Street.)

If you had three wishes that were not supernatural, what would they be?

1. Animals were no longer considered food.
2. Hunger eliminated. (See no. 1)
3. Peace and prosperity across the planet (turns out they go together).

Someone is visiting your hometown/place where you live at the moment. Name two things you regret your city not having, and two things people should avoid:

Regret not having:
1. A well-stocked health food store.
2. A favorable exchange rate.

Avoid:
1. The train at rush hour.
2. Any road I'm driving on, especially if it's one lane.

Name one event that has changed your life.

My mom's diagnosis with Huntington's Disease. It's incurable, untreatable, and genetic—a dominant gene, too, which means my brother and I have a 50/50 chance of having it as well. My negative test results meant I will live a long, normal, mentally clear life, as opposed to living my final days in a nursing home on a feeding tube, incapable of coordinated movement, or of thinking clearly.

("Born again," to me, means hearing the words "negative test results" sometime in your lifetime.)

Tag 5 people:

My Kathy Posse: Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, and Catherine.
(Isn't that five, or so?)

When Your Hand's in the Cookie Jar, Someone Ends Up with Crumbs

Over at Eschaton, Atrios can't seem to make up his mind if this is merely a bad thing or an "oh shit" moment. Which means there's mass confusion breaking out in the blogosphere: "Does Atrios love/hate the latest SCOTUS decision, or no...wait...he's lukewarm." Handwringing ensues among the comment crowd, along with the usual mix of tasteless remarks.

I have no trouble making up my mind. The Supremes did the right thing for once, in holding that "one who distributes a device with the object of promoting its use to infringe copyright, as shown by the clear expression or other affirmative steps taken to foster infringement, is liable for the resulting acts of infringement by third parties."

I like my iPod as much as the next person, but this is hardly going to "stunt growth of cool tech gadgets such as the next iPod."

And I really don't care if it does. An artist's right to be paid for his or her work is every bit as important as a techie's right to develop software to steal that work, or a user's right to enjoy that work without paying...oh, but wait. A user has no right to enjoy the work of another without paying, not when enjoying it means stealing.

A lot of small time artists—alternative music artists who haven't been noticed by shun the idea of a major record label—say they don't mind their music being shared over the internet. Exposure is better than no exposure, they say.

That's fine; giving away freebies is an easy way to get noticed—not by the right crowd, perhaps, but still...it's your right. Hold a free concert too, while you're at it. Your other job probably pays for your Birkenstocks and guitar picks.

But there are plenty of people who make their living off the fruits of their creativity, be it music or poetry. Imagine if your main source of income was from the neato jewelry you made, and someone regularly broke into your house and took the pieces they liked, then wore them around town, letting others admire them.

You'd still be mad, wouldn't you?

I think there's a generational gap here as well as a perceived class divide. Under 30s think just because they've grown up filesharing, it must be in the constitution they have a right to do so. It's not.

There's a similar misconception that someone who's got their name on the cover of a book must be raking in the bucks.

Not so.

I have a lot of friends who are authors. Most can't support themselves from their writing, despite the fact they've published several books with major publishers and have made a name for themselves in their chosen genre. They either have another job or a spouse who supplements their income. (How little does writing pay? Advances for a first novel usually range from $5k to $10k, with few exceptions upward.)

One multi-pubbed writer I know recently went back to teaching so she could make enough money to send her twins to college in a few years.

(Don't argue that it's the executives who are making all the money either. Profits in the publishing industry are minimal; in fact, it's the entertainment divisions at corporations like Time Warner that support their book divisions.)

Oh, but we were talking about music, weren't we? It's not the same.....is it?

Creative fruit is creative fruit, as far as the law is concerned. When they can steal music with impunity, they'll come for your manuscript file next. Or your knitting pattern. Or your iPod.

If property rights are to mean anything, they must be equally protected, and this means preventing those who develop better ways to steal them from doing so.

Which is what the Supreme Court ruling says.

I hope I've shamed you into dumping all those stolen MP3 files. Or better yet, going to iTunes and paying for them.

If not, better lock your doors...I know some angry artists, and they write crime fiction.

Who Will Report this Story, Asked the Little Red Hen

In yesterday's Sunday Times reporter Michael Smith recounts the story of his own Deep Throat source at Downing Street.

Every time he released new damning information about the Bush administration's plans for war (or lack thereof) he just knew the American press would be all over the story:

After reporting these secret memos, which revealed the dubious manoeuvrings of government, I expected the US press to react. Surely there would be a storm of anger over the way in which the American public had been deceived into going to war?

He was wrong.

The American media, like every other American enterprise, has been outsourced, in this case to their overseas counterparts in Britain. They ignored the story, or maybe the wireless at the cushy Santa Barbara hotels where they were holed up, feverishly covering the Michael Jackson trial, wasn't working.

Instead, it was the bloggers who jumped on the story, not in October when the first memo came out, but later, as further information trickled out. Hundreds—thousands—of stories have been written, not in the press, but by bloggers who for the most part didn't go to journalism school.

As Smith recalled in the Times:

Then slowly something astonishing happened. People power took over.

The Sunday Times website was inundated with ordinary US citizens wanting to read the minutes of the July meeting. Bloggers set to work passing the word.

It took us a while to figure it out. If we want news—real news—to be reported, we have to do it ourselves.

Welcome to the Little Red Hen-style of journalism.

The first reaction was a timid "Well, I think this is a big story, but the mainstream press is ignoring it...am I missing something?" Then "Well, why ISN'T the mainstream media reporting this?" to finally "Give me my keyboard.  I'LL report the biggest story involving deception, misuse of public trust, and malfeasance in office since Watergate."

When they pass out the Pulitzers next year, I hope Shakespeare's Sister (who organized the 500+ Big Brass Alliance) and the folks at AfterDowningStreet.org are on hand to accept their prizes.

I can't wait to see the members of the media—the "newsroom" staff from the NY Times, the Washington Post, CNN, MSNBC, CBS, and all the rest—stand up to applaud the bloggers who take home the awards for Outstanding Journalism.

Of course, they probably won't be there. Any number of breaking news entertainment stories—white girls gone missing, hurricanes ravaging I-10 signage, Joe Celebrity's court proceedings—may require their presence.

That's okay—more noshes for us! We'll enjoy the food, settle in to our role as the new news media, and continue to cover the news of the day.

When the halls of the Fourth Estate are vacant, don't be surprised when the chickens come to roost.

I Hope a Picture's Worth a Thousand Words...

...cause I'm too tired to write any words tonight.

Spent the day in London, and here's a few highlights:

At the Museum of Garden History I sought to solve the mystery of why the English are such good gardeners. Turns out it has something to do with the fact they've enjoyed so many years of peace and prosperity. Ironically, the Museum of Garden History is located just down the street from the Imperial War Museum.

The best view of Westminster Palace, where Parliament hangs out, is across the Thames near Lambeth Palace, where the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the Church of England, hangs out. That doesn't rank quite as high on the irony scale, but it is interesting.

From Southbank near Lambeth Pier...the London Eye in the distance.

The London Eye up close, hatching another pod full of people. Which solves the mystery of where the tourists come from.

For the engineers, the mechanics shot. (I thought it worked with giant rubber bands.)

Big Ben from the south bank. With a zoom. Portcullis House on the right edge.

If your a writer of graffiti, you might want to study up on grammar:

What to Read When You've Finished War and Peace:

We're fiddling with the computer today, so no original posting. Instead, check out some of the additions to my blogroll.

New Dharma Bums—We've got a tattered copy of Kerouac's Dharma Bums upstairs. I bought my daughter a copy at City Lights bookstore when she was 12, and it became her favorite book. The blog's just as good.

Pharyngula: We love science here at What Do I Know? because, after all, we really don't know anything. Including how to pronounce this blog.

Media Girl: This one was under my radar for a while. Glad I found it, during the late Girls vs. Clueless Boys Piefight 2005.

The Sideshow: Another American in London. Someone else who's awake when I am. But how does she find so many great links? Must have a faster internet connection.

DC Media Girl: This is who I want to be when I grow up. If I can't be Roxanne, that is.

Prolix: He found me during the Great Piefight. Don't miss his rant on Governor Goodhair of Texas. Remind me to post one day about the time I worked at the Texas State capital, otherwise known as God's Fortress.

This guy has a blog about rescuing dogs, Save Dogs. He's doing the lord's work, as far as I'm concerned.

And...drumroll...another Chatty Kathy has joined the list, only she's a much more upscale "Catherine" at PovertyBarn. Yes, we shop there; you should too.

Meanwhile, Kathy at Freshman 44 has moved to a new pad...TypePad, that is. And with her new digs comes a new name: Everybody Knows. (Everybody else may know, Kathy, but I still haven't a clue.)

And those blogging Brits...they're rather reserved, you know, but I still managed to find these additions to the "Food's Not Good but the Blog's Great" blogroll: Actually Existing,  Where There Were No Doors, Bloggerheads, and A Big Stick and a Small Carrot.

Friday Cow Blogging (in the Rain Edition)

Cows in the Mist, starring SoGuernsey Weaver

I must be a casting director, they've decided, and they line up to audition. The calves are almost as big as their moms now, and like most teenagers, have had their ears pierced, probably at one of those places in the mall.

Look! Over Here! Shameful and Treasonous Behavior!

In light of Karl Rove's turning up the heat in the Battle between Good and Evil, I'd like to share something I heard Matt Miller say the other night.

Seems he was at a dinner party with some Republicans he occasionally hangs out with, and Karen Hughes was there. This was last April, when it looked like John Kerry would be the nominee. A Republican asked him how Democrats would handle national security issues. He said, What do you mean? Kerry's a decorated war hero.

Karen Hughes said something like, that won't matter because we're...nevermind, I can't talk about it.

These guys don't have any intention of playing fair. They never did.

Calling liberals and Democrats traitors is the least of their shame.

Sending 300,000 brave soldiers to fight a war that didn't need to be fought is not only shameful, it's traitorous.

Mocking those who earned purple hearts at their convention is shameful.

Ignoring the real threat to our country—Al Queda—both before and after September 11 is shameful, and traitorous.

Sending multi-billion dollar contracts to their buddies at Halliburton while refusing to armor our soldiers adequately is shameful and traitorous.

Condoning torture is shameful and, ultimately, traitorous.

Having the guts to call it what it is: Priceless.

UPDATE: Kristen Breitweiser has guts too. Go read. Now.

When Matt Miller Demagogues, Liberal Elites Listen

Matt Miller demagoging responsibly at the Royal Institute of London.

Last night I joined other liberal elites at the Royal Institute in London to hear Matt Miller talk about his book The Two Percent Solution, a subversive piece of literature if ever there was one.

The book claims if we were to spend just 2 percent of GDP-—2 cents of every dollar we earn—we could afford to cover the uninsured, hire better teachers for the poorest children, and basically fix our domestic problems.

I didn't have my calculator with me, so I couldn't do the maths, but hey, any plan that calls for covering all 45 million uninsured Americans sounds good to me right now. Here's another math question: How many states would it take to hold all 45 million if we decided to segregate them geographically? The answer, as Matt Miller provided by theatrically whipping out a cheat sheet, is 24:

Link: Matt Miller Online.

"The uninsured are equal to the combined populations of Oklahoma, Connecticut, Iowa, Mississippi, Kansas, Arkansas, Utah, Nevada, New Mexico, Oregon, West Virginia, Nebraska, Idaho, Maine, New Hampshire, Hawaii, Rhode Island, Montana, Delaware, North Dakota, South Dakota, Alaska, Vermont, and Wyoming."

Liberals are very smart, and this guy is no exception. There's no shortage of solutions among liberals—ever since the price of calculators came down, we've been cranking them out pretty regularly. The problem, of course, is selling them to the American people.

Yes, we've been told, when Americans hear the facts, they agree with us. Give them a pretend budget, and they slice and dice it in a way that would make any liberal proud. (These are actual people, I mean, not Econ 350 students.)

So why don't politicians get it?

Probably because they fear the certain death that would occur if they, say, advocated any cuts in the defense budget, much less the drastic cuts the average un-foxed American would advocate: "No cherries in your pie, Mr. DoD. Better shop at WalMart like the rest of us for your toilet seats."

But when politicians talk like this, the New York Times et al. take them to task. Tom Friedman, a supposed liberal, would be the first to accuse them of being soft on security, as would Peter Beinart of the pseudo-liberal New Republic.

Maybe Matt Miller would make better use of his time showing his colleagues Tom and Peter how his calculator works.

There was some grumbling among my fellow liberal elites, especially when Miller used the "C" word: Compromise. We've made all the compromises, someone complained, only to have them smeared on us like cream pie. Miller responded he wished to compromise from a position of strength, perhaps after we've won a landslide electoral victory on a platform of massive social change.

I write fiction too, and as an editor once told me, "Interesting plot, but the characters aren't plausible."

Is it just a matter of finding the right messenger? If so, the primary process we have now isn't the way to go about IDing the person who can convincingly argue for a solution that involves taking money out of one pocket to put it in another.

If the problem is bigger than that—if what we need to do is change attitudes, convince Americans those less fortunate are no less deserving than the Donald Trumps of the world, then one book is not enough.

Not even the Bible could do that, and it tried awfully hard.

This compassion gap, which Miller spent some time discussing, is at the heart of American domestic policy. Are we who we are due to luck or hard work, he asks, and again, the polls he cites—indicating Democrats and Independents both answer "luck," a basically liberal belief—simplify the harsher reality. Americans are collectively convinced they will win at Powerball tomorrow, and thus wipe away all their debts and forego any need for further savings. Luck, therefore, is heaped on those who deserve it, i.e., those who play the lottery.

I don't want to poo-poo what, at least in a soundbite, sounds like a perfectly reasonable solution. But my ears and eyes are wired differently from most Americans—I hear "tax cuts" and see children in need. My neighbor hears the same words and sees a new hi-def TV.

But I also know a lot of Americans who have no health insurance. Whose children attend sub-standard schools. Who work two jobs and still can't afford to retire at 65.

Who, as it turns out, don't vote.

The optimist in me wants to believe all they need is an honest politician to vote for, someone who'll stand up, speak the truth, give 'em hell—a taller Howard Dean maybe.

The pessimist in me, however, knows anyone can and will be Swift Boat-ed.

There was one glimmer of hope: As Miller pointed out, George Bush Senior had a plan to insure 30 million out of 35 million uninsured Americans, and Democrats turned it down, hoping to have a better hand when they won back the White House. Nixon also had a universal health care proposal that went nowhere once our Democratic forebears smelled blood.

Which leads me to believe, the only way we'll see universal health care in our life time is to bring Nixon back from the dead, and send Barbara Bush in as his running mate.

(Nixon would know how to handle those Swift Boat Veterans for Truth, trust me.)

Barring that, liberal elites like me and Matt Miller will continue to propose pie-in-the-sky solutions, whip out our cheat sheets, and, as he put it, "demagogue responsibly."

Peak Science?

American scientists are slacking off:

Link: The wages of fundamentalism:

CAMBRIDGE, England For decades, "big science" - indeed any kind of science - has been led by the United States. There are warning signs, however, that American science is losing its edge, and may even have peaked. One reason is that as religious and political fundamentalism tighten their grip, they are beginning to sap America's intellectual vitality.

By contrast, the political turmoil that has broken out on the other side of the Atlantic shows that Europeans grasp how destructive fundamentalism can be.

According to a survey in Physical Review, reported in May 2004, the number of scientific papers published by West European authors had overtaken those by U.S. authors in 2003, whereas in 1983 there were three American authors for every West European. The percentage of patents granted to American scientists has been falling since 1980, from 60.2 percent of the world total to 51.8 percent. In 1989, America trained the same number of science and engineering PhDs as Britain, Germany and France put together; now the United States is 5 percent behind. The number of citations in science journals, hitherto led by American scientists, is now led by Europeans.

American brains contain the same number of neurons as their European counterparts. However, due to the fact they were developed in seven days instead of the requisite 3.5 million years, those neurons have shorter life spans, thus resulting in lower output.

Don't you love the way science can explain everything?

Wednesday Food Blogging: Mad Cow-Free "Steak" and Gravy

Overheard at dinner table: "I can't believe it's not Mad Cow!"

I understand there's a new case of mad cow disease in the U.S., which is like saying there's a new case of herpes in the whorehouse—everyone knows it's rampant, but users of the product prefer to ignore it.

Really, I hate to sound sanctimonious, but I could have told you. The U.S. beef industry is one of the most powerful lobbies in Washington, and they've insured that testing cows for BSE—mad cow—is almost non-existent, and further, the test they use has a high rate of false negatives. In other words, don't look for it, and you won't find it!

So as a public service, here's a recipe for Mad Cow-free Salisbury "steak" and gravy. I've heard it's fooled many a hard-core carnivore into thinking it must be real flesh, but I would never personally advocate fooling anyone. It's cruel, in my opinion, to tell someone they're eating something that might be dangerous when it's merely an innocuous soy product.

Personally, I never liked meat to begin with; all that gristle and fat turned my stomach as well as my broccoli-loving taste buds. But this has none of that, and the gravy, I must say, is delicious. My daughter, who probably can't remember the last time she ate real meat, was as excited as a 16-year-old gets when she heard this was on the menu the other night. "That's my favorite," she told me, a rare compliment.

The cows out back just nodded in agreement, and went on chewing their cud.

"Men are Beasts," say Lions, Disgustedly

This is amazing:

ADDIS ABABA, Ethiopia (AP) -- Police say three lions rescued a 12-year-old girl kidnapped by men who wanted to force her into marriage, chasing off her abductors and guarding her until police and relatives tracked her down in a remote corner of Ethiopia.

Read the rest. It sounds like the girl's wimpering led the lions to mistake her for a cub.

What I want to know is, didn't the men even try to rescue the girl, or were they just going to let the lions, presumably, eat her?

Live Blogging the Summer Solstice

Today's the longest day of the year, the Summer Solstice. I think I'm making blogging history, liveblogging it from the 51st parallel.

I've been looking forward to this day like I used to look forward to Christmas, only instead of gaily wrapped packages I'm excited about a few extra minutes of daylight to play with. Last night when I went to bed at 10:30 the sky was still a flaxen color. This morning when I got up at 4:30, the sky was already light enough to play chess outdoors.

4:44 a.m. Sunrise on the longest day of the year. I can't see it well from here; we live in a hollow. But the cows know something's up. They peer at me, wondering if I know it's the crack of dawn, but soon decide me and my Nikon are okay.

5:45 a.m. I've decided to learn how to use my Nikon properly. I dig out the user manual, it's in Spanish. Find the English one, and read enough to learn I've got a "sunset" mode as well as a "dusk/dawn" mode. If only I'd known.

5:59 a.m. I should explain how I knew when the sun would rise, exactly where I am. I went here and typed in my coordinates (my nephew was here last week with his GPS) which told me sunrise at 4:44, sunset at 21:24. Civil twilight begins at 3:57 and ends at 22:12. I think that means that civilized people aren't out any earlier or later than that.

6:10 a.m. I think this photo, taken around 5:30, is better.

7:33 a.m. If I were a typical summer solstice fanatic, I'd be at Stonehenge right now. But wacky religions, even wacky religions from the Bronze Age, don't interest me nearly as much as my own back yard. Besides, I've been seeing signs on the M25 for a week now, warning of delays on the A303 at Stonehenge. I thought it was for road works, but no, it's because of the solstice worshippers. And to complicate matters further, English Heritage, who run the monument, are on strike.

7:59 a.m. The actual solstice occurred at around 7:45 a.m. I took this photo then. For some reason all the cows were lying down.

Here's what a summer solstice actually is:

At the time of this solstice, the earth is in that point of its orbit at which the hemisphere in question is most tilted towards the sun, causing the sun to appear at its farthest above the celestial equator when viewed from earth.

Wonder if they knew that in the Bronze Age?

11:10 a.m. Took a walk in the woods, made lots of photos. Felt bad for others who did not have sun today. Came up with the following list:

Things to do today with all the extra daylight:
    •Read the Nikon instruction manual.
    •After first mastering Spanish.
    •Put away the flannel sheets
    •Where I can get them out again on the Winter Solstice.
    •Learn something that would be useful in a novel.
    •And then type the words "Chapter One" and wait for inspiration.
    •Take a new path through the woods.
    •But first discuss options with dog.
    •Climb a tree.
    •Or maybe not.
    •Make iced tea.
    •After first making ice.
    •Plant some herbs, parsley and dill.
    •After first weeding the garden.
    •Finish reading Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum.
    •Have dictionary handy.
    •Think of more things to do today with all the extra daylight.

12:00 p.m.: I changed the date on this post since I started it before midnight California time. For some reason all my dates and times are in Pacific Time, probably because California is located in the center of the known universe.

14:19 (that's 2:19 p.m. for you colonists): Stinging nettle. Don't mess with it.

14:21: Let's just leave it in the garden, shall we? Besides, this will make up for when I accidently weeded out the hollyhocks.

15:35: God, it it only 3:30?

17:41/5:41 p.m.: Time for a solstice check: Here's the earth (that's me, there, near that greenish spot). Here are scenes from Stonehenge earlier today. Clouds are starting to come in, but that's a good thing. Grass is starting to turn brown, but heh, I've been told there's no such thing as global warming, so that can't be it. Meanwhile I've taken some new pics. Here's that perfect rose Dorothy Parker was talking about (my camera even has a special button just for roses!):

18:22/6:22 p.m. Why, look! It's mojito time!

19:44/7:44: I guess some might wonder why this day is so special here on the 51.5 parallel. To understand that, you have to have lived through a winter here. I remember counting the days to the winter solstice, longing to have a few more minutes of daylight. By 3 every afternoon the shadows would lengthen, and darkness would descend shortly after 4 p.m. But after the solstice, the days gradually began to lengthen.

It's been cool, watching to see how late the sun stays out to play. The other night in Stratford, we left the theatre at 10:30 and the sky was still streaked with blue. The birds wake us in the wee hours of the morning, but I don't blame them. I want to chirp every morning too.

Grass grows almost before your eyes. Weeds do too. But so do flowers.

No wonder the pagans marked the day with religious ritual.

I'm off to enjoy what's left.

21:57 (non-EU, 9:57) The sun has gone on its merry way. We played a rousing game of badminton until 9—Serena came over, said the competition was bollocks at Wimbledon this year. At sunset, 9:24, I decided to prune the dogrose, but it got too dark to distinguish my finger from a bud.

Gosh, it's been a long day.

Tomorrow will be shorter, they say, by about a minute. But a month from now the daylight will last 41 fewer minutes. And by the Winter Solstice, the sun will rise at 8:04 and set at 3:58.

I'd better start looking for a Happy Lite tomorrow.

Those of you on the other side, enjoy what's left of your day.

Stratford-upon-Avon: The Play's the Thing

For writers, a pilgrimage to William Shakespeare's birthplace, Stratford-upon-Avon, seems almost mandatory. It's hard to imagine the bard roaming the streets these days, although I thought I caught a glimpse of his balding pate once. Now there's a Mickey D's across from the River Avon. The town market sells flip flops and made-in-China underwear. The natives speak not of the "pernicious bloodsucker of sleeping men" but offer advice on how to avoid the parking attendant.

Things have probably changed since William was born in 1564, the son of a mildly prosperous glover and his wife. Now double decker tour buses squeeze through the narrow streets, dodging horse drawn carriages. Daring tourists dart into  the streets to photograph the half-timbered buildings. And there's a lovely 17th century Pizza Hut on High Street now.

Even the cottage garden has a twenty-first century update: you can now watch the garden grow via live video.

But much remains the same, including Shakespeare's school, his birthplace (furnished with period pieces and replicas), and New House, the home where he died at age 52. The sleepy River Avon sidles alongside the town, hosting flocks of  opportunistic swans and Canada geese.

Speaking of water fowl...don't miss The Dirty Duck, on Waterside across from the river. Imagine my surprise finding more than a couple of vegetarian dishes on a pub menu, each one innovative and well prepared. And priced right too—five of us ate for £34, though the bartender charged extra for cheeky repartee—this is the home of the bard, remember.

No literary pilgrimage would be complete without a stop at a book store, so we spent a hour or so in a used bookshop at the corner of Rother and Ely, where we found quaint leatherbound editions of other writers, some priced as low as £2. And for quiet contemplation, we settled on the short turf in the Great Garden of New Place on Chapel Street and admired the poppies.

Nowhere, however, did I feel closer to Shakespeare than in the nosebleed section of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, where we sat to see Twelfth Night. Next time I'll order tickets earlier, but not even the uncomfortable seats and the altitude could detract from seeing Shakespeare performed in the place where he lived and died.

Twelfth Night pokes fun at the emerging Puritan ethic—since Puritans felt the theatre was sinful, there wasn't much to lose by mocking them, and Shakespeare did a masterful job sending up the puritanical character Malvolio. When he attempts to earn his mistress's favor by appearing in yellow stockings—interpreted by the costume department of the RST as a screaming yellow wetsuit—the audience howled, much like, I imagine, the audience in 1602 reacted.

Stratford-upon-Avon is about an hour's drive from my house, but they say it took Will Shakespeare four days to reach London when he left there after being caught poaching at nearby Charlcote. Guess he took the scenic route. The M40 is quicker, but the A44 and A3400 takes you through the upper edge of the Cotswolds, including the pretty villages of Woodstock and Shipston on Stour.

Just stay away from the "filthy officers", those parking attendants, aka "marble-hearted fiends". (I would have loved to see Shakespeare take on one of those guys in a poetry slam!)

Why Sharon Osbourne is Cooler than Tom Cruise

You heard about the pranksters from Channel 4 who squirted Tom Cruise with water from a fake microphone yesterday in London? His reaction: Get mad.

My neighbor Sharon had the same thing happen to her. Here's what she did:

Link: The Irish News Online.

The pranksters who drenched Tom Cruise with water at his film premiere last night have also targeted Sharon Osbourne.

The team from new Channel 4 show Grand Classics carried out the same stunt with Osbourne last month.

A cameraman began filming the reality TV star as she walked through London's West End — only for his "camera" to squirt her with water.

But while Cruise lost his cool, Osbourne, 52, decided to get even.

She dived into a nearby restaurant and filled a champagne bucket with water, which she threw over the cameraman.

"I Can't Believe It's Not Napalm!"

Tim Ireland at Bloggerheads talks about the U.S. use of napalm in Iraq:

The secret to this denial is that they don't call it napalm any more. It's been rebranded for PR reasons. It's still fiery, indiscriminating death from above... it just has a different name is all.

So you'd best regard that headline above as US used I Can't Believe It's Not Napalm in Fallujah.

The new improved napalm is MK77, which uses a slightly different combination of chemicals but still rains destruction upon those it hits. It's delivered in dumb bombs, which have piss-poor guidance, so even when it's aimed at military targets, there's no assurance it doesn't hit nearby civilians instead.

U.S. officials lied to the British, who've banned its use, when asked if napalm were being used in Iraq:

The confirmation that US officials misled British ministers led to new questions last night about the value of the latest assurances by the US. Mr Cohen said there were rumours that the firebombs were used in the US assault on the insurgent stronghold in Fallujah last year, claims denied by the US.

Gives a whole new meaning to "liar, liar, pants on fire" doesn't it?

UPDATE: I think the Brits are getting fed up—Chicken Yoghurt has more.

Go to War with Dogs, Wake up with Fleas

The British papers today inadvertently expose the yin and the yang of one of the unhealthiest international relationships since Pocahontas and John Rolfe.

In the Times of London, we read how Britain joined the U.S. in bombing raids of Iraqi installations a year before the war, called "spikes of activity" in militarese. These raids were designed to provoke the Iraqis into a full scale war, but history will record Saddam resisted the provocation. (Probably because like Rumsfeld, he knew that you "go to war with the army you have, not the one you wish you had" and WMD were still on his wish list.)

Only problem, the raids were illegal:

Link: British bombing raids were illegal, says Foreign Office.

A SHARP increase in British and American bombing raids on Iraq in the run-up to war "to put pressure on the regime" was illegal under international law, according to leaked Foreign Office legal advice. The advice was first provided to senior ministers in March 2002. Two months later RAF and USAF jets began "spikes of activity" designed to goad Saddam Hussein into retaliating and giving the allies a pretext for war.

The Foreign Office advice shows military action to pressurise the regime was "not consistent with" UN law, despite American claims that it was.

Interestingly, the article also exposes a further bit of American military hubris:

General Tommy Franks, the allied commander, recalled in his autobiography, American Soldier, that during this meeting he rejected a call from Condoleezza Rice, the national security adviser, to cut the bombing patrols because he wanted to use them to make Iraq's defences "as weak as possible".

Guess he didn't know what he was doing was illegal, which is what I'm going to say next time I'm caught speeding.

If this were the Sopranos, Tony Blair would be a "made" man, a full-fledged wiseguy, but young Turk George Bush stabs his goodfella in the back. After risking international censure by joining George in his illegal raids, poor Tony is skewered like a pig on the barbecue spit at the Crawford ranch.

In the Observer, we read that the White House has gone to extraordinary lengths to "scupper" Britain's attempts to contain global warming. Someone (again at Downing Street) has leaked U.S. submission papers for the G8 conference next month in Scotland.

Link: New US move to spoil climate accord.

These papers - part of the Bush administration's submission to the G8 action plan for Gleneagles next month - show how the United States, over the past two months, has been secretly undermining Tony Blair's proposals to tackle climate change.

Looks like someone sent out to Office Depot for a case of white-out:

The documents show that Washington officials: 

Removed all reference to the fact that climate change is a 'serious threat to human health and to ecosystems';

Deleted any suggestion that global warming has already started;

Expunged any suggestion that human activity was to blame for climate change. 

Among the sentences removed was the following: 'Unless urgent action is taken, there will be a growing risk of adverse effects on economic development, human health and the natural environment, and of irreversible long-term changes to our climate and oceans.' 

Another section erased by the White House adds: 'Our world is warming. Climate change is a serious threat that has the potential to affect every part of the globe. And we know that ... mankind's activities are contributing to this warming. This is an issue we must address urgently.'

Undoubtedly Tony Blair, being British, believed in notions of honor, even among thieves. George Bush, being American, hasn't got centuries of tradition ingrained in his genotype, and therefore is willing to justify the means—whether they be illegal bombing or undermining your ally's attempts to prevent dramatic climate change—by the end.

The end, in this case, hasn't yet been written, but will no doubt involve large numbers of fleas.

Dear Tony: Your Cabinet is Leaking

Dear Rt. Honorable Tony Blair,

Hi again. Last time I wrote, you were looking frazzled, trousers in tatters, the campaign wearing you down. I guess you didn't need my advice, though I must point out I was right: no one woke up with Michael Howard except his wife, despite the defection of some of "your" voters.

Since you've extended your lease on No. 10 Downing, I thought I might alert you to a problem you haven't seemed to notice: your Cabinet is leaking. There's a "drip drip" sound coming from somewhere in the basement, which pretty soon will turn into a giant sucking sound when all your credibility (what's left of it, I mean) drains right through those ancient pipes.

Now, British plumbing certainly has its detractors, mainly me, but I don't think this can be blamed on sixteenth century technology. No, something more sinister is afoot. (Ohh, I've always wanted to write that!)

Since I know you're focusing these days on the G8 and EU and your cross-channel tiff with Jacques, here's a recap of what's been happening:

A few weeks ago, someone leaked a document that's come to be known as the "Downing Street Memo" to the London Times. It didn't seem to hurt you in the election, save for a few seats in the wild wild West (you know it as Wales), but over in America the thing's taken on a life of its own. There's even talk of—get this—impeachment! Yes, it's become the metaphorical Blue Dress of your friend George's metaphorical screwing of the entire world.

And then more documents plopped into the press: Raw Story has the uncooked (un-"fixed" in Downing Street vernacular) story, the documents in full. Go read them, refresh your memory.

Meanwhile, I'm dying to know who did this. Since you don't seem too curious, I'll speculate for you. After all, I saw All The President's Men. I know how Deep Throat operates.

I know some are saying it's Christopher Meyer, the former ambassador to the U.S., but he's writing his own book—and you never give away the plot, as J.K. Rowling can tell you.

Let's dig deeper.

Remember Katherine Gun, the GCHQ employee who exposed the fact the U.S. was spying on its allies at the U.N.? Frankly, I thought wiretapping went out of vogue with Nixonian diplomacy, but the Bush team must've found some old equipment in the basement. It caused you some embarrassment, and your government finally let her off, despite some pretty serious charges, since it looked like other documents might come out if you didn't back off. She got fired, though, so she can't be leaking again.

Then there was David Kelly, whose suicide prompted an investigation that, again, threatened to expose your thinking before the war. He can't be the leaker, either, as he's no longer talking, so let's keep looking, shall we?

Clare Short. The name brings back painful memories, doesn't it? A former friend and cabinet member, now an outspoken critic of the war, and your actions leading up to it. Could be, but she resigned, and probably had to turn over her secret decoder ring and all associated documents.

Speaking of spies, remember, Deep Throat was clever, a master of deception...have you checked the car parks around Whitehall? Oh wait, there aren't any. You'll have to look for someone who disagrees with your Iraq policy...oh wait, there are lots of those. Any more resignations, by the way? I've been looking for a job in government. I can't keep my mouth shut, either, so I should fit in just fine.

And I've been wanting to meet Gordon Brown...speaking of, has anyone seen him near a copier lately? I'm just sayin'...he wouldn't have far to move if you were, say, called to the International Criminal Court to answer for the Iraq War crimes you seemed so worried about in the leaked documents. I know you guys mended your tiff, but Scots can hold grudges a long time, I'm told.

But as long as I'm speculating here...I noticed you looked a little miffed with your friend George the other day, when he wouldn't pony up on the Africa thing. You're afraid he's going to spoil that G8 party you've been planning for years. What better way to bring him to heel than to tell the world what really happened in those months before war? You've won your last election, despite smoking trousers, (but you probably didn't inhale either) so what have you got to lose? (There's a nice car park in Slough, if you're looking to throw them off the scent.)

Poodles do occasionally bite their owners, don't they? (And everyone agrees you've been provoked.) Go ahead. You know you want to.

As always, give Cherie and little Leo my best. (Good thing you're married to a human rights lawyer. She may have some pull with the judge during your war crimes trial.)

Cheers,
Kathy