Robocon

I suppose most kids my age would remember Herbie as their Volkswagon role model, but for me it was Robocon. He had a live action kids show with a few other mechanical looking friends (that I only vaguely recall). This small collection of photos show him standing up, but by sitting down he could get in a car-like configuration with the front wheels at the end of his outstretched legs. If I remember correctly, when he was in that that position, he looked like a Beetle riding a street bike that was...also a part of him. Confusing? Well, such is the memory of a 5 year old child thirty years later. The scan above is from a 3" round trading card that I recovered from storage not long ago. Incidentally, I have no idea what he's doing to that poor kid. I can't remember too much from the show, but I do remember having a pair of Robocon shoes, more than likely a shirt, and a die cast metal toy that has since gone missing.
Just to prove that Robocon had appeal for other kids besides me:


UPDATE:

Funny thing, a memory. What I took to be Robocon on a Harley is actually more like Robocon on a golf stroller/wheel chair:

Still, I wonder if there was a variant to this. I was scrounging online for more photos and came across this one from a 1974 movie - what on earth could he have done?:

Sean Penn is a hero

I wish I had his courage to speak truth to power and befriend righteous freedom lovers with a sensitive proboscis like Hugo Chavez. He is one cool dude.

Ed Copeland on Ingmar Bergman (1918 to 2007)

What I have learned from the Bond books

As you all may have realized, my reading for the past couple of months has been almost exclusively Bond novels. I started with Casino Royale and recently finished with Octopussy/The Living Daylights. I’d read a little Fleming prior to this, but not enough to really get a good idea of what the book Bond was like. Now I know. As much as I wanted to create several posts on Bond: a list of every drink and meal he eats in the novels, a reading list of book titles mentioned throughout the series, a description of all the Bond women - I did not keep adequate notes. So this is a brief list of what I learned:

Bond relies less on gadgets and more on his wits and physical endurance. For the most part, I knew this going into the books – but I didn’t realize how much it changes the action. Throughout the entire series I can only name a handful of gadgets, usually very low tech: the attaché case (in From Russia with Love - mostly the same as the movie), steel toed shoes with knives hidden in the heels (mentioned in a couple of books, most prominently used in Goldfinger), hidden compartments on the Aston Martin (again, Goldfinger. But alas, no machine guns or other perks). And that’s basically it unless you want to include the Geiger counter in Dr. No.

Bond prefers single breasted suits, wears steel toed loafers and prefers an under the shoulder holster, first for his Berretta with a skeleton grip, then for his Walther PPK.

Bond usually needs at least a month of recuperation after each adventure to heal from the injuries he has sustained.

Bond has a scar on his cheek, a comma of hair on his forehead and cruel lips. He’s not particularly good looking, but does manage to strike a handsome figure and usually gets the girl (I said usually, not always).

Bond is a sympathetic womanizer. He tends to stick with one girl per book and he actually is very devoted to that girl. He is also something of a kissing bandit. Often, in the middle of danger, before he’s shagged the gal, he’ll abruptly kiss the girl full on the lips.

Bond gets his heart broken a few times.

The novels are much more in line with the hardboiled detective genre than the playboy spy genre of the movies.

Bond rarely drinks martinis. He’s a bourbon man. And he can drink a stiff bourbon and branch at virtually any time of the day. When I was reading the books, I tried to emulate his drinking habits, but I soon had to give that up. Bond can be drugged by the enemy for 3 straight days and left in a confined space, and when he comes to, the first thing he wants is a whisky and then a shower (Goldfinger). His drinking does vary, however. He’s had his share of vodka on ice, champagne and whatever the local specialty is. When in the Athens airport, he’ll drink ouzo. When in Japan, he’ll drink sake. So on and so forth.

Bond does not like to be dirty. He takes lots of showers. Four in one day in Live & Let Die. He also takes ice cold showers.

Bond does not have uppity tastes. While they are particular, they tend to be simple and often plebian.

As in the films, Bond loves to gamble. Because it is fiction, he usually wins. When it’s for queen and country…or for M, he will cheat. He’s the best card player in MI6.

MI6 maintains about 3000 employees and is a relatively small outfit.

There are two other double 0s.

Bond enjoys the low rumble of an older car. He drives older Bentleys that are painted dull gunmetal gray and have rough suspension. At first, it’s an early 30’s model, then an early 50’s model, then a customized job. All the other cars tend to be from the motor pool or rentals.

Bond does not like killing. Especially in cold blood. He frets about this all the time.

Bond is always thinking and calculating. If you have a gun on him, he’s gauging the distance between you and him and figuring out what tools are immediately available to disable you.

Bond also thinks more long term. When he’s up in the ski resort in OHMSS, he knows he will likely have to ski down the mountain in a hasty escape, so he starts exercising at night to get into condition to make the demanding run.

Bond has many friends that are outright outlaws or somehow between the law or otherwise amoral – this includes smugglers and crime bosses and his father-in-law.

Felix Leiter is one person.

Bond is very loyal to M. He fears, likes and respects him...and curses him on several occassions.

M likes Bond, though Bond is from a different generation. M does not care for Bond’s womanizing.

I thoroughly respect M's worldview, more than Bond's, thought Bond's worldview is similar. However, Bond is not quite a mature as M (see conversation with Mathis in Casino Royale about good guys and bad guys).

Bond’s friend in France is Mathis. His friend in the U.S. is Felix. His friend in Japan is Tanaka.

Mary Goodnight is not a hopeless idiot.

M in the book could very well be Bernard Lee (brilliant casting)

Jamaica is a central spot in Bond's world: Live & Let Die, Dr. No, Man With the Golden Gun all take place there. Also, the double murder in "A View to a Kill" from For Your Eyes Only takes place there.

Tracy is the ultimate Bond girl. Bond chose wisely to marry her.

Solitaire is the runner up.

Tiffany Case was a little neurotic for my tastes.

The Spy Who Loved Me, followed closely, would make an excellent film.

Suntory commericials

This is really a piece of art:


This one is funny. I have a feeling that if I was drinking this whisky, I'd expect a tatami floor and then sleep right there where I was drinking:


And this one because it has a young Mickey Rourke. Suntory was a Japanese marketing pioneer in exploiting western celebraties:


Who can forget Bill Murray?

James Bond on Kissy Suzuki

from You Only Live Twice.

[James Bond is preparing to infiltrate the mysterious Death Collector's castle, with its garden of death. He's been deposited at a nearby island which will be his base. He is staying at village of Japanese shell divers. He is staying with the young Kissy Suzuki and her aging parents]

The sweat began to pour down Bond’s face and chest into his bathing pants. Kissy undid the kerchief round her hair and leant forward and mopped at him gently. Bond smiled into her almond eyes and had his first close-up of her snub nose and petalled mouth. She wore no make-up and did not need to, for she had that rosy-tinted skin on a golden background – the colours of a golden peach – that is quite common in Japan. Her hair, released from the kerchief, was black with dark-brown high-lights. It was heavily waved, but with a soft fringe that ended an inch or so above the straight, fine eyebrows that showed no signs of having been plucked. Her teeth were even and showed no more prominently between the lips than with a European girl, so that she avoided the toothiness that is a weak point in the Japanese face. Her arms and legs were longer and less masculine than is usual with Japanese girls and, the day before, Bond had seen that her stomach was almost flat – a beautiful figure, equal to that of any of the star chorus girls he had seen in the cabarets of Tokyo. But her hands and feet were rough and scarred with work, and her finger-nails and toe-nails, although they were cut very short, were broken. Bond found this rather endearing. Ama means ‘sea-girl’ or ‘sea-man’, and Kissy wore the marks of competing with the creatures of the ocean with obvious indifference, and her skin, which might have suffered from constant contact with salt water, in fact glowed with a golden sheen of health and vitality. But it was the charm and directness of her eyes and smile as well as her complete naturalness – for instance, when she mopped at Bond’s face and chest – that endeared her so utterly to Bond. At that moment, he thought there would be nothing more wonderful than to spend the rest of his life rowing her out towards the horizon during the day and coming back with her to the small, clean house in the dusk.

He shrugged the whimsy aside. Only another two days to the full moon and he would have to get back to reality, to the dark, dirty life he had chosen for himself.

.

James Bond gun barrel sequences, from various perspectives

First: a compilation of all the sequences together. I wish the quality was a little better, but it's fascinating nonetheless -


Second: How to make your own gun barrel sequence -


Third: A Pierce Brosnan gun barrel sequence to the Andy Griffith theme -


There's several variations on the last part, with different themes songs, but they start losing the charm around the fourth one.

007 in '007: Dr. No

After months of negotiations and legal work, I have managed to convince Ross at the Rued Morgue to let me submit the Dr. No installment of his 007 in '007 series. I hope it proves a worthy cadaver for his morgue.

James Bond's poetry lesson

[Tiger Tanaka has been grooming Bondo-san for a difficult mission.]

from You Only Live Twice

Meanwhile, Tiger and Bond sat in the first class dining-room and consumed ‘Hamlets’ – ham omelets – and saké. Tiger was in a lecturing mood. He was determined to correct Bond’s boorish ignorance of Japanese culture. ‘Bondo-san, I wonder if I will ever get you to appreciate the nuances of the Japanese tanka, or of the haiku, which are the classical forms of Japanese verse. Have you ever heard of Bashō, for instance?’

‘No,’ said Bond with polite interest. ‘Who’s he?’

‘Just so,’ said Tiger bitterly. ‘And yet you would think me grossly uneducated if I had never heard of Shakespeare, Homer, Dante, Cervantes, Goethe. And yet Bashō, who lived in the seventeenth century, is the equal of any of them.’

‘What did he write?’

‘He was an itinerant poet. He was particularly at home with the haiku, the verse of seventeen syllables.’ Tiger assumed a contemplative expression. He intonded:

‘In the bitter radish
that bites me, I feel
the autumn wind.

‘Does that not say anything to you? Or this:

‘The butterfly is perfuming
its wings, in the scent
of the orchid.

‘You do not grasp the beauty of that image?’

‘Rather elusive compared to Shakespeare.’

‘In the fisherman’s hut
mingled with dried shrimps
crickets are chirping.’

Tiger looked at him hopefully.

‘Can’t get the hang of that one,’ said Bond apologetically.

‘You do not catch the still-life quality of these verses? The flash of insight into humanity, into nature? Now, do me a favour, Bondo-san. Write a haiku for me yourself. I am sure you could get the hang of it. After all you must have had some education?’

Bond laughed. ‘Mostly in Latin and Greek. All about Caesar and Balbus and so on. Absolutely no help in ordering a cup of coffee in Rome or Athens after I’d left school. And things like trigonometry, which I’ve totally forgotten. But give me a pen and a piece of paper and I’ll have a bash, if you’ll forgive the bad joke.’ Tiger handed them over and Bond put his head in his hands. Finally, after much crossing out and rewriting he said, ‘Tiger, how’s this? It makes just as much sense as old Bashō and it’s much more pithy.’ He read out:

‘You only live twice:
Once when you are born
And once when you look death in the face.’

Tiger clapped his hands softly. He said with real delight, ‘But that is excellent, Bondo-san. Most sincere.’ He took the pen and paper and jotted some ideograms up the page. He shook his head. ‘No, it won’t do in Japanese. You have the wrong number of syllables. But it is a most honourable attempt.’ He looked keenly at Bond. ‘You were perhaps thinking of your mission?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bond with indifference.

Manzinger Z and....Ms. Manzinger Z

A credit that was missing from the previous compilations. (I never realized Neil Diamond sang the theme song):

And then there's this gem (about a minute into the clip). Robots are people, too:

A more touching love story I can't recall.

God bless America

Tiger Tanaka on gaijin

From You Only Live Twice

[Tanaka, head of the Japanese secret service, is speaking to Bondo-san about gaijin, as a prelude to the impossible job he is fixing to ask Bondo-san to do.]

He [Tanaka] got out of his chair and sat down on the tatami and arranged himself in the lotus position. He was obviously more comfortable in this posture. He said, in a expository tone of voice, ‘Ever since the beginning of the era of Meiji, who you will know was the Emperor who fathered the modernization and Westernization of Japan from the beginning of his reign nearly a hundred years ago, there have from time to time been foreigners who have come to this country and settled here. They have for the most part been cranks and scholars, and the European-born American Lafcadio Hearn, who became a Japanese citizen, is a very typical example. In general, they have been tolerated, usually with some amusement. So, perhaps, would be a Japanese who bought a castle in the Highlands of Scotland, and who learned and spoke Gaelic with his neighbours and expressed unusual and often impertinent interest in Scottish folkways. If he went about his researches politely and peaceably, he would be dubbed an amiable eccentric. And so it has been with the Westerners who have settled and spent their lives in Japan, though occasionally, in time of war, as would no doubt be the case with our mythical Japanese in Scotland, they have been regarded as spies and suffered internment and hardship. Now, since occupation, there have been many such settlers, the great majority of whom, as you can imagine, have been American. The Oriental way of life is particularly attractive to the American who wishes to escape from a culture which, I am sure you will agree, has become, to say the least of it, more and more unattractive except to the lower grades of the human species to whom bad but plentiful food, shiny toys such as the automobile and the television, and the “quick buck”, often dishonestly earned, or earned in exchange for minimal labour or skills, are the summum bonum, if you will allow the sentimental echo from my Cambridge education.’

‘I will,’ said Bond. ‘But is this not a picture of the life that is being officially encouraged in your own country?’

Tiger Tanaka’s face darkened perceptibly. ‘For the time being,’ he said with distaste, ‘we are being subjected to what I can best describe as the “Scuola di Coca Cola”. Baseball, amusement arcades, hot dogs, hideously large bosoms, neon lighting – these are part of our payment for defeat – a denial of our ancestors, a denial of our gods. They are a despicable way of life’ – Tiger almost spat the words – ‘but fortunately they are also expendable and temporary. They have as much importance in the history of Japan as the life of a dragonfly.’ He paused. ‘But to return to my story. Our American residents are of a sympathetic type – on a low level of course. They enjoy the subservience, which I may say is only superficial, of our women. They enjoy the remaining strict patterns of our life – the symmetry, compared with the chaos that reigns in America. They enjoy our simplicity, with its underlying hint of deep meaning, as expressed for instance in the tea ceremony, flower arrangements, NO plays – none of which of course they understand. They also enjoy, because they have no ancestors and probably no family life worth speaking of, our veneration of the old and our worship of the past. For, in their impermanent world, they recognize these as permanent things just as, in their ignorant and childish way, they admire the fictions of the Wild West and other American myths that have become known to them, not through their education, of which they have none, but through television.’

‘This is tough stuff, Tiger. I’ve got a lot of American friends who don’t equate with what you’re saying. Presumably you’re talking about the lower level G.I.s – second generation Americans who are basically Irish or Germans or Czechs or Poles who probably out to be working in the fields or coalmines of their countries of origin instead of swaggering around a conquered country under the blessed coverlet of the Stars and Stripes with too much money to spend. I daresay they occasionally marry a Japanese girl and settle down here. But surely they pull up stumps pretty quickly. Our Tommies have done the same thing in Germany. But that’s quite a different thing from the Lafcadio Hearns of the world.’

Tiger Tanaka bowed almost to the ground. ‘Forgive me, Bondo-san. Of course you are right, and I have been diverted from my story down most unworthy paths….'

Classic early 70s anime

Prepare to rock out in memory lane. My memory, anyway. With the exception of the second credit sequence, these were some of the main cartoon shows I watched as a navy brat in Japan. Combattler V was my favorite (cartoon and song). I believe the one with the face mask was also aired in California, circa '77-'78. These guys also formed the bulk of my pre-Star Wars toy collection.


And just as I was about to note the absence of my other fav: Raijin (Laijin?), here's another compilation that starts off with it:

Farfur the Mouse beaten to death by Israeli

for speaking truth to power!

GAZA CITY, Gaza Strip (AP) - A Mickey Mouse lookalike who preached Islamic domination on a Hamas- affiliated children's television program was beaten to death in the show's final episode Friday.
In the final skit, "Farfour" was killed by an actor posing as an Israeli official trying to buy Farfour's land. At one point, the mouse called the Israeli a "terrorist."

"Farfour was martyred while defending his land," said Sara, the teen presenter. He was killed "by the killers of children," she added.

The actor playing the Jew will, no doubt, later be killed to protect the fragile honor of Islam.

Farewell, Mr. Blair

Blair may be a "worm" according to my English history professor (pre-9/11, though I imagine that professor still feels the same way) in regards to his changing various institutions in England, namely the qualifications for the House of Lords - but, no matter how low his approval numbers get in the U.K. or how many times his courage and conviction is mistaken for being poodle-esque, he'll forever be welcome in my humble home - a pallet would be made and he'll get the best possible food in my cupboard, (should he ever need a place to stay) just for being such a loyal Anglosphere ally in the War on Terror. I always felt thankful when watching him in those lively parliament debates and listening to his eloquent and inspired defense for the war. God bless Tony Blair! Civilization owes him plenty.

James Bond on personal hygiene, travel, tourism and cuisine

from On Her Majesty's Secret Service, 1963

[Bond has just arrived to Royale-les-Eaux for his annual gambling tournament]

His two battered suitcases came and he unpacked leisurely and then ordered from Room Service a bottle of the Taittinger Blanc de Blanc that he had made his traditional drink at Royale. When the bottle, in its frosted silver bucket, came, he drank a quarter of it rather fast and then went into the bathroom and had an ice-cold shower and washed his hair with Pinaud Elixir, that prince among shampoos, to get the dust of the roads out of it. Then he slipped on his dark-blue tropical worsted trousers, white sea-island cotton shirt, socks and black casual shows (he abhorred shoe-laces), and went and sat by the window and looked out across the promenade to the sea and wondered where he would have dinner and what he would choose to eat.

James Bond was not a gourmet. In England he lived on grilled soles, œufs cocotte and cold roast beef with potato salad. But when traveling abroad, generally by himself, meals were a welcome break in the day, something to look forward to, something to break the tension of fast driving, with its risks taken or avoided, the narrow squeaks, the permanent background of concern for the fitness of his machine. In fact, at this moment, after covering the long stretch from the Italian frontier at Ventimiglia in a comfortable three days (God knew there was no reason to hurry back to Headquarters!), he was fed to the teeth with the sucker-traps for gourmandizing tourists. The ‘Hostelleries’, the ‘Vieilles Auberges’, the ‘Relais Fleuris’ – he had had the lot. He had had their “Bonnes Tables’, and their ‘Fines Bouteilles’. He had had their ‘Spécialités de Chef’ – generally a rich sauce of cream and wine and a few button mushrooms concealing poor quality meat or fish. He had had the whole lip-smacking ritual of wine-manship and foodmanship and, incidentally, he had had quite enough of the Bisodol that went with it!

The French belly-religion had delivered its final kick at him the night before. Wishing to avoid Orléan, he had stopped south of this uninspiring city and had chosen a mock-Breton Auberge on the south bank of the Loire, despite its profusion of window-boxes and sham beams, ignoring the china cat pursuing the china bird across its gabled roof, because it was right on the edge of the Loire – perhaps Bond’s favourite river in the world. He had stoically accepted the hammered copper warming pans, brass cooking utensils and other antique bogosities that cluttered the walls of the entrance hall, had left his bag in his rooms and had gone for an agreeable walk along the softly running, swallow-skimmed river. The dining-room in which he was one of a small handful of tourists, had sound the alarm. Above the fire-place of electric logs and over-polished fire-irons there had hung a coloured plaster escutcheon bearing the dread device: ICY DOULCE FRANCE. All the plates, of some hideous local ware, bore the jingle, irritatingly inscrutable, ‘Jamais en Vain, Toujours en Vin’, and the surly waiter, stale with ‘fin de saison’, had served him with the fly-walk of the Pâté Maison (sent back for a new slice) and a Poularde à la crème that was the only genuine antique in the place. Bond had moodily washed down this sleazy provender with a bottle of instant Pouilly Fuissé and was finally insulted the next morning by a bill for the meal in excess of five pounds.

It was to efface all these dyspeptic memories that Bond now sat at his window, sipped his Taittinger and weighed up the pros and cons of the local eating places and wondered what dishes it would be best to gamble on. he finally chose one of his favourite restaurants in France, a modest establishment, unpromisingly placed exactly opposite the railway station of Étaples, rang up his old friend Monsieur Bécaud for a table and, two hours later, was motoring back to the Casino with Turbot poché, sauce mousseline, and half the best roast partridge he had eaten in his life, under his belt.

Greatly encouraged, and further stimulated by half a bottle of Mouton Rothschild ’53 and a glass of ten-year-old Calvados with his three cups of coffee, he went cheerfully up the thronged steps of the Casino with the absolute certitude that this was going to be a night to remember.

Rice

Political Notes from the Continent

by EscutcheonBlot

Hurrah for the Queen. Of course I am not sure who actually put Salman Rushdie's name on the honors list, that generally being the prerogative of the PM (a very soon to be departed Tony Blair), she deserves kudos, however, for showing a little of the balls that won the Battle of Britain nearly seventy years ago. Unfortunately, she did not have the option of choosing a very good writer to do it with. This was probably necessitated by the humiliating display of British ball-less nancyboyism in the recent incident in the Persian Gulf. More and more the oldsters of Europe are getting fed up with the fecklessness of the '68 generation, and telling them to fight for it, or lose it ('it' being Europe, personal freedom, liberal democracy...you name it). Pope Benedict XVI is also among these brave octagenerians not buying into this "Religion of Peace" b.s., noting famously, if privately, that Islam, being founded on the writings of one man, Muhammed, is fundamentally infallible, and not subject to reform. It can be piecemeal ignored, as do the moderate muslims, or followed, as do the many flavours of muslim extremists, but it cannot be reformed.

Boo for Sarkozy. Really it's a modified boo, for the incredible stupidity of allowing information out about the planned VAT (value-added tax...sales tax to you and me) increase to 25%, a more than 30% take hike(!) before the second round in the french parliamentary elections. Actually, this makes some economic sense, in a supply-side frame of economic planning, as he intends to reduce France's considerable corporate and personal tax rates to liberalize the economy. 'But he pays for it on the backs of the poor'--is how it was seen. He is also, quite obviously, uncommitted to real budget reductions, showing that a real reformer he ain't. Those waiting for a Thatcherite "le rupture" in France can just go on waiting. I would predict that, with his substantially diminished majority in parliament, and somewhat foolishly ideologically mixed appointments to his cabinet, that he has chosen a G W Bush path of go-along, get-along, which in the end neither gets nor goes.

Boo Hoo for Germany's Social Democratic Party (the SPD of Gerhardt Schroeder). This weekend, with the fusion of the former Communists of the East with the former Communist Stooges of the West (the heretofore fringe party WASG, a 2% to 3% outfit), the traditional anti-communist socialists (they do exist), find themselves increasingly bleeding support to their extremist spin-offs (the Greens being the other one). Die Linke (the leftists) as the new party is called, can count on 10-12% in the next elections, and could rise to as much as 15-20%. That would put them on equal footing with the SPD, giving them frightening power in a system of proportional representation that rewards every fringe party which garners more than 5% of the national vote with un-won seats in parliament. Given that in Germany approximately 5% of the vote is won by several really minor parties, an effective coalition needs to win around 48% of the vote, combined, to garner a majority. The left in all of its guises, regularly gets around 52-54% of the vote, and the right (The Christian Democrats and the Free Liberals) get around 46-48% in the weekly quasi-offical poll.

As Die Linke are mostly a bunch of demogogues and unrepentant former communists (over 60% of their members were members of the East German Communist Party) who wish to end the market economy and expand the wildly unsuccessful nanny state, the SPD at the moment categorically refuses to consider a coalition with them on the national level. That would change, however, as soon as the choice were to be in power, or be in the opposition. SPD-er Klaus Wowereit ('Wowi' to besotted Berliners...voh-vee, not wowie) has already decided to make governing coalitions with the hard left in two successive administrations for the city state of Berlin, although he had the choice of a left-right, so-called "Grand Coalition" after his first electoral win, and a coalition with the much more congenial (to him) Greens in the his second...he chose instead to govern with the communists. After 5 years, Berlin remains mired in astronomical debt and unemployment (around 20%). Wowi blames Bush and Merkel, and his communist bedfellows push for a total ban on autos built before 1990 in the city of Berlin, to combat global warming.

So, although Angela Merkel has shown a deft touch at the behind-the-scenes maneuvering in her right-left government, and a reassuringly tough down-to-earth public face (and she absolutely refuses to look in Putin's eyes and see his 'soul'), she faces a very steep road ahead in staying Chancellor after the next elections (could be 2009, could be a lot sooner). Things are marginally better in Germany now, with unemployment dipping below 10% and the economy roaring along at 1% or 2% (that's good for Germany), the future looks not so hot, with the hard Left lurking in the wings.

Sorry I've been gone so long, but I was working away from home, with no internet access, and I don't like spending inordinate amounts of time in internet cafes, surrounded by Turkish youths who are looking at e-porn. Go figure. Now, though, as my calender is slenderly engaged for the next few months, expect more, and increasingly bitter political, social, and artistic commentary.

Yours,

EB

God rambles

Or rather, Morgan Freeman rambles about playing God. And golf. And flying jet planes. And, well, the upside of being Morgan Freeman. Hey, who couldn't like Easy Reader?

(Another tangent....I've always hated golf. However, in the last few years, my resistance has started to fall. I may even try it before I'm 40.)

Hamas to develop soft skills....

What's next, sensitivity training?

Meanwhile, some Palestinians are trying to get where it is safer: Israel.

UPDATE: And Christians would have taken to the streets to angrily protest the ransacking of a church in Gaza, the destruction of crosses and prayer books therein, if only they had the same capacity towards anger as the Religion of Peace^TM.

More pictures of Japan

Today's focus: people.

Inside James Bond's head

From “For Your Eyes Only”

[Bond is on an early morning ten mile hike across the U.S./Canadian border into Vermont to assassinate a Cuban crime lord.]

Is this a hill or a mountain? At what height does a hill become a mountain? Why don’t they manufacture something out of the silver bark of birch trees? It looks so useful and valuable. The best things in America are chipmunks and oyster stew. In the evening darkness doesn’t really fall, it rises. When you sit on top of a mountain and watch the sun go down behind the mountain opposite, the darkness rises up to you out of the valley. Will the birds one day lose their fear of man? It must be centuries since man has killed a small bird for food in these woods, yet they are still afraid. Who was this Ethan Allen who commanded the Green Mountain Boys of Vermont? Now, in American motels, they advertise Ethan Allen furniture as an attraction. Why? Did he make furniture? Army boots should have rubber soles like these.

A few more pictures of Japan

Starting out with Fuji-yama, of course.

And then, I'm pretty sure, Edo Castle.

Some farmers....

I'm not sure where this is, but it's picturesque to say the least.

And finally, Nikko temple. It is here that Odie recently visited and was attacked by monkeys (in Nikko City, not the temple). It is here that the great Tokugawa Ieyasu has his tomb.

Stop the Aid, for Pete's sake!

I think I've heard this guy's argument before, but it does make sense. I just don't see the West's collective guilt allowing it to do the humanitarian thing.

SPIEGEL: Do you have an explanation for this paradox?

Shikwati: Huge bureaucracies are financed (with the aid money), corruption and complacency are promoted, Africans are taught to be beggars and not to be independent. In addition, development aid weakens the local markets everywhere and dampens the spirit of entrepreneurship that we so desperately need. As absurd as it may sound: Development aid is one of the reasons for Africa's problems. If the West were to cancel these payments, normal Africans wouldn't even notice. Only the functionaries would be hard hit. Which is why they maintain that the world would stop turning without this development aid.

Japan, ca. 1910

Prepare to see more from this collection of Herbert Geddes photographs of Japanese scenes. I assume the glass transperencies are in color, but I'm not certain. Otherworldly to say the least.

James Bond on drinking while in Paris

from "From A View To A Kill"

James Bond had his first drink of the evening at Fouquet’s. It was not a solid drink. One cannot drink seriously in French cafes. Out of doors on a pavement in the sun is no place for vodka or whisky or gin. A fin a l’ eau is fairly serious, but it intoxicates without tasting very good. A quart de champagne or a champagne a l’ orange is all right before luncheon, but in the evening on quart leads to another quart, and a bottle of indifferent champagne is a bad foundation for the night. Pernod is possible, but it should be drunk in company, and anyway Bond had never liked the stuff because its licorice taste reminded him of his childhood. No, in cafes you have to drink the least offensive of the musical-comedy drinks that go with them, and Bond always had the same thing, an Americano---bitter Campari, Cinzano, a large slice of lemon peel, and soda. For the soda he always stipulated Perrier, for in his opinion expensive soda water was the cheapest way to improve a poor drink.

This day in history - June 7th 2006

Protein Wisdom remembers this remarkable day 1 year ago:

In 2006, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the leader of al-Qaida in Iraq, was killed by a U.S. airstrike—a feat made all the more amazing because al Qaida wasn’t in Iraq to begin with, and because no laughing children flying kites at a rural wedding ceremony were indiscriminately killed by the robotic US war machine. Which was a first.

Goldfinger on Smoking and Drinking

from Goldfinger.

[Bond is over at Auric's for dinner. Goldfinger is speaking:]

‘Please try the Moselle. I hope it will be to your taste. It is a Piesporter Goldtropfchen ’53. Help yourself. These people [the Korean help] are as likely to pour it into your plate as your glass.”

There was a slim bottle in an ice bucket in front of Bond. He poured some of the wine and tasted it. It was nectar and ice cold. Bond congratulated his host. Goldfinger gave a curt nod.

‘I don’t myself drink or smoke, Mr. Bond. Smoking I find the most ridiculous of all the varieties of human behavior and practically the only one that is entirely against nature. Can you imagine a cow or any animal taking a mouthful of smouldering straw then breathing in the smoke and blowing it out through its nostrils? Pah!’ Goldfinger showed a rare trace of emotion. ‘It is a vile practice. As for drinking, I am something of a chemist and I have yet to find a liquor that is free from traces of a number of poisons, some of them deadly, such as fusel oil, acetic acid, ethylacetate, acetaldehyde and furfurol. A quantity of some of these poisons taken neat would kill you. In the small amounts you find in a bottle of liquor they produce various ill effects most of which are lightly written off as “a hangover”.’ Goldfinger paused with a forkful of curried shrimp half way to his mouth. ‘Since you are a drinker, Mr. Bond, I will give you one word of good advice. Never drink so-called Napoleon brandy, particularly when it is described as “aged in the wood”. That particular potion contains more of the poisons I have mentioned than other liquor I have analysed. Old bourbon comes next,’ Goldfinger closed his animadversions with a mouthful of shrimp.

[Bond] ‘Thank you. I’ll remember. Perhaps for those reasons I have recently taken to vodka. They tell me its filtration through activated charcoal is a help.’

How to Embolden the Enemy and Not Influence People Terrorists

ETA is calling off the ceasefire despite Zapatero's capitulations. Perhaps if he just bites his lip a little harder they'll make nice. I mean, just look in the puppy dog eyes of these ETA guys. Doesn't it warm the heart?

Mental note: never join a club that requires you to wear a hood.

Bond on Pussy Galore

From Goldfinger

[Auric Goldfinger has just started his meeting with the major mob bosses in the U.S. Bond and Tilly Masterton are secretaries of the meeting. Pussy Galore has just entered the room and sat down at the table.]

Bond liked the look of her. He felt the sexual challenge all beautiful Lesbians have for men. He was amused by the uncompromising attitude that said to Goldfinger and to the room, ‘All men are bastards and cheats. Don’t try any masculine hocus on me. I don’t go for it. I’m in a separate league.’ Bond thought she would be in her early thirties. She had a pale, Rupert Brooke good looks with high cheekbones and a beautiful jawline. She had the only violet eyes Bond had ever seen. They were the true deep violet of a pansy and they looked candidly out at the world from beneath straight black brows. Her hair, which was as black as Tilly Masterton’s, was worn in an untidy urchin cut. The mouth was a decisive slash of deep vermilion. Bond thought she was superb and so, he noticed, did Tilly Masterton who was gazing at Miss Galore with worshipping eyes and lips that yearned. Bond decided that all was now clear to him about Tilly Masterton.

Tiananmen Square Massacre turns 18

It would be old enough to vote today if it was a person and it was not Chinese. Gateway is on the beat.

Don't expect any activities at the square to remember the dead - except, perhaps, some extra police to see that nothing notable happens.

In related news: No Thanks.