perfidy

The first thing I remember I was fourteen, and I was lying around my room doing homework and listening to the radio when this noise came on, this crazy sprinting noise, and I stopped what I was doing and listened transfixed from the first note to the last. I felt like I'd been socked in the head and the world had unfolded before me into something bigger, badder and louder than I had ever thought it could be.

That was the first time I heard Guns 'n' Roses' "Welcome to the Jungle." Ha... fooled you there, crossed you up, didn't I? This review is about Maiden and here I am yammering away about some hard rock glam hair band from LA. Well, you can cram it if you have a problem, because it relates. And not only because I detect a not-so-subtle musical thread running between G&R and the Maiden, mainly having to do with the quality of their grooves and the fact that they're a five-piece with a yowly lead singer. No, sir.

Maiden reminds me of Guns 'n' Roses because listening to the new Iron Maiden double-live gonzo extravaganza Death on the Road gives me chills all over like I was fourteen again. It takes me back to that age when metal was a thrilling new discovery to this Ohio teenager: Zeppelin, Ministry, Metallica, Megadeth, Judas Priest, and Maiden. Listening to Death on the Road I feel like I did that time we were listening to Somewhere In Time and then went and got Shawn's old Chevette with no passenger seats up to 85 MPH out on the back roads of Portage County. I feel like Columbus sighting land after ten weeks at sea. I feel like Neil Armstrong stepping onto Luna Firma. I feel like I just invented wet t-shirt night.

From the first notes of "Wildest Dreams" to the last chorus of "Run To The Hills," Death on the Road is a headbanging motherschtupper of a record. Maiden's rolling, sprinting grooves have not weakened with age, and the excellent recording captures every bit of guitar squeal and bass grind. Bruce Dickinson's voice is for the most part every bit as grand and overdramatic as ever, lending unexpected depth to epic silliness like "Paschendale" and "The Number of the Beast." So what if the first five minutes of 2003's "Dance of Death" are straight - I mean straight - out of Spinal Tap's "Stonehenge," and so what if the stentorian voice declaring "There are moh things, in heaven and uuuhth, then aaah drrrreamt of in yoh.... PHILOSOPHY!" is just reading - out of context - from Act 1 of Hamlet? It's so metal! The drums! The guitars! The solos! The... AAGH! YEAH! MAIDEN! MAIDEN ! MAIDEN!!!!!

The running order decidedly skews toward newer material, revealing a classic band that has stayed admirably true to itself and generally avoided self-parody. This is especially impressive considering that Maiden has always walked, as Nigel Tufnel said, that "fine line between stupid and clever." Some of the choicest obligatory warhorses are here: "Can I Play With Madness," "The Number of the Beast," "Run To The Hills," "The Trooper," but performances of newer songs like "Fear of the Dark," "Brave New World" and "Wildest Dreams" stand up right next to the classics. Lovingly recorded, the mix even recreates the live-show experience (sans the guy puking on your shoes) with enough audience noise to be fun but not in the way. On some songs the crowd sings along loud enough - and in tune enough - to sound like a choir of millions, ratcheting the intensity up a few more notches. It's so cool! Okay, I would have loved to have heard "Alexander the Great" or "Seventh Son," and "Stranger in a Strange Land," but for the most part the newer material is good enough that I don't really miss the big hits too much.

Iron Maiden are stone professionals, and everything on Death On The Road is right in place with two minor exceptions: the synth lines on "Can I Play With Madness" seem to be out of time, forcing the band to rejig the groove to fit with it (is it tape? Is is live? Am I crazy); and also, I'm sorry. I just can't get over how dorky "Dance of Death" is. Although Iron Maiden deserve a lot of credit in the age of super-aggro rap-metal for recording a song about a guy kidnapped by evil faerie druids and forced to take part in their fell ceremonies - I mean, that's sticking to your guns for the sake of your fans - Christopher Guest has ruined me forever on mystical faerie druid crap, and besides, I'm not fourteen any more. It's also probable that a lot of fans will have stronger feelings than I about the inclusion of the fairly not-good "Lord of the Flies" instead of something classic, but hey... the internet was built for whining about dumb stuff. That and pornography.

But never mind that. Death On The Road rocks so hard. Maiden have been around forever, and apart from the odd personnel change and the occasional laughable hunk of metallic cheese, they have thus far avoided becoming sad drug-addled jokes like Ozzy or dysfunctional therapy junkies like Metallica, or even a nostalgia act working the "metal club" circuit in places like Steubenville Ohio, Strasbourg, and Yorkshire. They are pros at this metal thing, and they've made a totally pro double-live metal album that gets me so wild I feel like I could... oh, oww! Ow, ow... ah... I'm getting too old for this... ow...

What do you want to be doing when you're 91? Me, my aims are modest. Although it would be thrilling indeed if I were one of those spry nonagenarians who still get around fine on their own, live full lives, and trade witty and cantakerous banter with three or four generations of descendents, I will settle for merely drawing breath and retaining a few teeth, some mental acuity, and the power to poop at a time and place of my own choosing. That's not so much to ask, is it?

What does Les Paul do at 91? Well, the inventor of the electric guitar still keeps a weekly gig at the jazz club Iridium in Manhattan and somehow finds the wherewithal to participate in a new album. I say "participate" because the album isn't so much a Les Paul recording as it is a tribute to the man, sort of a roast in reverse, a féte in which the Gods of Rock pay homage to the god that made them.

The album in question, Les Paul & Friends, American Made/World Played is several things: an enjoyable romp by a past master of the guitar; a guest-packed tribute to that master; and an ad brochure for the Gibson Les Paul guitar. After all "American Made, World Played" is a registered trademark of the Gibson guitar company, and making it the title of a Les Paul record is simultaneously nifty and really, really cheesy. Kind of like the record itself, but more on that in a moment.

The obvious point of comparison for any album of this kind is with Sinatra's Duets records, but there are some important differences to note. On Duets Sinatra had it both ways, literally phoning in some of the performances on Duets II via fiber optic line, and yet never ever letting one of his duet partners steal the spotlight. The result was music by Sinatra, with some guests along for the ride.

In contrast, although Les Paul actually plays his instrument on each track on American Made/World Played, his contributions tend to fade deep into the mix, letting his guests take the spotlight. Even though it is ostensibly a Les Paul record, it is through his legacy that Paul influences the proceedings most. Perhaps this speaks to an important personality difference between the larger-than-life Frank Sinatra and the homey and self deprecating Les Paul. Or, perhaps when you cram performances by Keith Richards, Buddy Guy, and Rick Derringer together into one song, the Chairman himself wouldn't get a shoo-be-doo-be-do in edgewise.

It is this logjam of egos that is obviously the biggest challenge to an album of this kind. And what a collection of heavy hitters! The level of star power on American Made World Played staggers the mind, and every track has been carefully engineered to give them their space. Here is merely a selection: on guitar; Kenny Wayne Shepard, Eric Clapton, Peter Frampton, Billy Gibbons, Neal Schon, Jeff Beck, Richie Sambora, Buddy Guy, Keith Richards, Rick Derringer, Steve Miller, and Joe Perry; on vocals, Gibbons, Guy, Johnny Rzeznik, Miller, Gibbons, Edgar Winter, the great Sam Cooke and the soon great Joss Stone. Rhythm duties are held down by studio legends like bassists Will Lee and Abe Laboriel, Sr. and drummers Kenny Aronoff, Vinnie Colaiuta, and Abe Laboriel, Jr. Even if you don't believe that Richie Sambora is fit to lick the mud from Jeff Beck's shoe, that's a Murderer's Row of talent. A 1927 Yankees, a 1975 Reds, a 1985 Celtics. And if Richie Sambora doesn't measure up, well, every championship team needs a utility infielder.

To be honest, it is hard to tell why Richie Sambora (not to pick on him) and Neil Schon are even on this record- they don't sound noticeably Les Paul-influenced, coming instead from the more diffuse tradition that gave us what I dub the Travel Bands (Asia, Boston, Journey, Europe, etc.). On the same note, the blooze-rock tracks that pepper the album's running order are also a bit puzzling, since Les Paul never really did that kind of thing at all; their inclusion seems like a small failure of taste and courage on the part of the producers.

With all the egos bouncing around, sometimes they win the day, such as when Neal Schon wastes a shockingly intense vocal performance by Mary Hart on the blues crawl "I Wanna Know You." Schon squirts deedly blooze lines over, around, and right on top of Hart's deep reading, practically breaking his fingers to upstage her. Frank Zappa once made fun of musicians who made faces while they played what he called the "I'm squirtin' now!" note. Schon achieves the truly Tantric feat of squirtin' all over everything in sight for a full six minutes and 21 seconds.

Luckily, most selections stay closer to the other end of the spectrum, perhaps even too much so. Les Paul is - seriously - the Guitarist's Guitarist, the man who invented the instrument, invented much of its vocabulary, and invented the first electronic effects to go with it, and it seems that his presence reduces even the greatest stars to sidemen. On the blues-rock romp "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl," I can't tell Keith Richards apart from Buddy Guy, Les Paul, session man Hiram Bullock, and the criminally underrated Rick Derringer. The track is mixed beautifully; all the parts are separated nicely. And yet, except for the odd moment when Buddy Guy's tone does the Buddy Guy thing, he pretty much sounds the same as the other guys. This is a little disappointing, considering the prospect of hearing Rick Derringer rip it up with Buddy Guy.

But for the most part the album achieves a nice balance between ego and modesty, and is at minimum eminently listenable. Whereas such a logjam of talent could easily devolve into twelve dire tracks of "1000 Guitars Jamming on 'Freebird'," only a few tracks descend to that numbing level of wankery. Most are much more distinctive. This is especially impressive since (of course) all the songs were cobbled together from various takes and contributions made at different times by musicians who never met in the studio.

The difference between what works and not is not always easy to pin down. Why is the version of U2's "All I Want Is You" with Les Paul, The Goo Goo Dolls' Johnny Rzeznik and the great Peter Frampton a stronger track than "So Into You" with Frampton and Les Paul alone? Or why does "Bad Case of Lovin' You" with Billy Gibbons work better than the aforementioned "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl?" It all seems to come down to accidental chemistry.

In general the idiosyncratic pairings are the most successful, like "(Ain't That) Good News" in which Sam Cooke gospels over a fast shuffle beat while Jeff Beck and Les Paul spray sharp little notes all over the landscape (I wonder if Beck was playing his -no!- Fender Stratocaster?), or the really natural pairings like Billy Gibbons' turn on the surprisingly strong "Bad Case of Loving You" and Steve Miller's revisiting of "Fly Like an Eagle." Youth also seems to help - relative newcomers Kenny Wayne Shepherd and Joss Stone have a great time with Sting in wrenching a snaky, stylish mood out of "Love Sneakin' Up On You," and Shepherd also has fun on a slowed-down "Rock & Roll, Hoochie Koo," which misses a bit only because Edgar Winter's voice is now gravelly beyond parody. I should also mention that Sam Cooke also shines on "Somebody Ease My Troublin' Mind," a slow soul cooker featuring Eric Clapton in a fantastic supporting role. This track is the class of the whole album.

But the really interesting stuff is Les Paul's own recordings. Paul has had more than fifty years in which to perfect the art of expressing himself musically through a cascade of electronic intermediaries. The results are a couple modest little master classes in the right way to do it. The album starts off with the theme from the old Les Paul & Mary Ford radio show, with Paul diddling around in upper-register whole tone scales that positively reek of black and white televisions and stentorian voices lecturing about "SCIENCE!" Elsewhere, Paul loads a cover of the jazz chestnut "Caravan" with funky echo and pitch-doubling effects, and his playing, though no longer lightning fast (every great player loses a step or two when they turn 90), is expressive, nuanced, and drenched in Paul's playful personality.

On the other hand, a remix of the old Les Paul and Mary Ford hit "How High The Moon" is decorated with breathy melismas by Alsou and is really more a vehicle for electronic sound effects and a cute bit of Les & Mary banter about Paul's "Paulverizer," one of his innumerable electronic inventions. Although it's nice, it would have been nicer to leave in more of the original track, including Paul's solo. Still, these little bits of random playfulness manage to cut the tone of the album enough to make it feel human, make it feel like a Les Paul recording.

By and large Les Paul & Friends, American Made/World Played is an okay, not great, romp through the id of the American electric guitar tradition, featuring reverent liner notes essays by Steve Miller and Keith Richards, and pulling mostly tasteful performances out of an armada of guitar slingers. Even if it never quite comes together in a way that satisfies, some of the individual tracks are well worth your time if you're a fan of the fretboard. Mostly, it's just gratifying to see Les Paul still kicking out the jams without fanfare or apology at an age when most people's horizons have devolved to "I wonder what's for lunch today." I don't mean to harp on the age thing as though Les Paul were some sort of dancing bear ('the wonder is not that it dances well but that it dances at all'). It is simply nice to see someone in the seventh decade of their career still out there doing it and clearly enjoying themselves immensely. If anything, therein lies the lasting value of this album.

Capitol Records has thoughtfully provided audio streams for your edification of three cuts off American Made/World Played. I strongly recommend "Rock and Roll Hoochie Koo" and "Bad Case of Lovin' You" if you like that '70s FM rock sound. I recommend "Let Me Roll It" if you like Richie Sambora.

Rock And Roll Hoochie Koo:

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RealONE

Let Me Roll It:

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RealONE

Bad Case Of Lovin You:

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RealONE

Cross posted to blogcritics.org

For my third brew I went for a semi-clone of the Smuttynose brewery's Old Brown Dog Ale. I think mine will be a little more bitter than theirs, but probably pretty close. The guy I usually buy ingredients from helped start that brewery, after all. Goodwyfe Johno really likes malty American Brown Ales, so this one is for her.

Third brew: Naumkeag Brown Ale

Ingredients:
6 lbs Munton & Fison Amber dry malt extract
Specialty grains:
1/2 lb Crystal malt 60L
1/2 lb Crystal malt 120L
1/2 lb Chocolate malt
Hops:
Bittering: 1 oz Brewer's Gold @7.8%
Finishing: 1 oz Willamette @ 4.2%

1 pkg dry Lallemand (?) Doric yeast

Steeped the specialty grains in about 1 gallon filtered tap water for 40 minutes at 160 degrees, give or take. Actual temperature fluctuated between 153 and 175, but I think I am ok as regards making sure high steeping temperatures don't cause tannins to leach into my wort.

Rehydrated the DME in cold water, according to the instructions of the guy who sold it to me. What a sticky, lumpy pain in my ass. From here on out, I'm using liquid wherever possible. The clear advantage of dry powdered extract, however, is a drastically reduced propensity on my part to nearly sever digits on sharp can lids.

Brought about 3 gallons of filtered tap water to a boil and added the steeping water from the grains. Added the Brewer's Gold at the boil. The hot break took like forever.

Added half the Willamette at 30 minutes and the rest at 45 minutes, for a 60-minute total boil. Cooled the wort in the bathtub with six seven-pound bags of ice in cold water.
It took less than an hour to get down to below 80 degrees. Added the wort to the fermentor (holding back the trub and hop sludge with a strainer) and cooled distilled water to make up 5 gallons and bring the wort to 69 degrees. Poured back and forth to aerate.

Tasted the wort: nice hop flavor that I bet will fade a bit, and jeeeez it was sweet. I'm not sure about this yeast so I can't say how the final will shape up; I expect the crystal to donate a lot of unfermentable sugars and the final beer to end up pretty malty. Given the 8 AAUs of bittering hops and the few more alpha acids donated by the first addition of Willamette, this could end up more to my wife's taste than to mine. Which is fine. I made it for her. (Awwwww!)

Rehydrated yeast in 1 1/2 cups distilled water at 90 degrees for 15 minutes. Pitched, stirred, and sealed fermentor.

OG: 1.048, more or less. Checked three times and got .050, .048 and .046ish, so hey... split the dif.

Checked fermentor at the 24 hour mark and things were bubbling away fine.

--
Update from previous brews:

I tasted my Pale Ale from my first brew after 1 week in the bottle... not so good. A little puckery with a pumpkiny note which I (rightly) chalked up to acetaldehydes that had not yet been reconsumed by the yeast. Five days later, it was excellent and now I can't get enough of it. It was designed
to taste like Bass Ale, and whaddaya know, it does, except fresher and much more smooth. Nice reddish-brown color. Buttery notes from diacetyls thanks to the 72 degree fermentation- very nice and in character, with round maltiness and muted bitterness. Well balanced Not a lot of hops on the finish, so next time I might kick the finishing hops up a little and add some crystal malt to the mix to balance that out. Or, I'll do it exactly the same, since it tastes so good.

I also tasted the Porter from my second brew after a week in the bottle, mainly because I couldn't wait but also because I wanted to be sure that nearly severing a tendon in my dominant thumb had been worth it in some way. Surprisingly, it's already excellent. The recipe recommends a 40-day bottle conditioning period to let the roughness and astringency subside, but the Safale 33 seems to work very fast, because the bottle was not only fully carbonated but most by-products had been cleaned up too. Although it is still a little rough tasting and unintegrated, another three weeks in the bottle will smooth everything out nicely. Very fresh tasting, dry, a little toasty from the black patent malt, and generally exactly what I was after. I am surprised the hops don't show up more. I thought I used a good amount of Hallertau Mittelfreuh for aroma; they've disappeared. They might re-emerge as the beer ages, but I don't know. It's not a problem because the subtle freshness they bring is plenty nice anyway, and too
many finishing hops aren't exactly in character for a Porter. Still, maybe next time I'll use Fuggles and more of them for the softness they bring.

So anyway, that's nearly fifteen gallons of beer sitting around the house in various stages of readiness. I could probably take a month or so off, dont'cha think?

[alsø wik] FG: 1.015. It's going to be good! Bitter, like I thought, but with a nice balancing sweetness and a little bit of esters from the yeast. I think it will really benefit from at least four weeks in the bottle before drinking. There was a surprising amount of hop sludge and break material in the fermentor - my straining technique needs work. I think I love Doric yeast; if I had a little more fridge space I'd ranch it.

[alsø alsø wik] Delicious! It tastes more like Ipswich Brown than Old Brown Dog, but who cares? Color is very dark, ruby with brown overtones, with decent head formation and not much retention. Aroma is 100% Willamette up front, with some nice roastiness and complex sugars from the dark crystal malt. Good flavor, maybe a smidge too bitter this time (next time use Eroica or Northern Brewer, maybe Galena instead of Brewer's Gold, and a couple less AAUs). Complex and interesting. A good sipping beer. I'm curious to see how it develops in the bottle.

[wi nøt trei a høliday in Sweden this yër?] So now I find that using too many Willamette hops makes a beer taste a little metallic. Which this one does. I'm still done with Brewer's Gold forever in favor of Northern Brewer, Galena, Target, Perle, or Eroica, but the hop woes of this brew stem from the Willamettes. Next time I'll make this one with something else.

[see the løveli lakes...] By the time this beer was gone, it was merely okay. Next time I will have to cut back on the Chocolate Malt and maybe on the Crystal 120L, because they were just too dark-tasting. DEFINITELY use different hops... And the Doric yeast is okay, but the clean flavor made the maltiness too prominent after a while. That will probably be fixed by cutting back on the caramel malt. If I can, I should next time use 4 ounces or so of Biscuit. That's be reaaaaal nice.

Somewhere, in the murky, storm-tossed depths of the Gulf of Mexico lurks a killer. Intelligent, highly trained, and equipped with an arsenal of high technology weaponry. Trained to kill without mercy. And now free to hunt.

Who is this watery angel of death?

Flipper.

The United States Navy seems to have "misplaced" three dozen highly trained dolphin assassins thanks to the recent hurricanes. These friendly cetaceans have been used for decades for a variety of military missions since the cold war. Other dolphins have been trained to protect submarines in harbor, and a detachment was used for mine clearance in the Persian Gulf. The navy trained this particular batch of dolphins to hunt down and kill terrorists with lethal toxic dart guns attached to their snouts.

The hurricanes breached their compound, letting them escape into the Gulf. So if you are diving in the gulf, don't pet the dolphins. It may be the last thing you ever do.

However, if these are really smart dolphins, the first evidence of their depredations might be mysterious disappearances of tuna-fishing ships...

So last week I was made aware of an initiative by the producers of the new movie by Buffy The Vampire Slayer creator Joss Whedon, Serenity to let bloggers into screenings so we'd get all hepped up and write about it on our weblogs.

Which is cool. I'm a huge fan of Whedon's, even to the point of appreciating the script for Alien: Resurrection even as I consider the movie to be a pile of dog puke. So I sent in my email, and this is the email I got in return:

Congratulations! You are one of the lucky bloggers to be chosen and confirmed for the screening of SERENITY for the time, date and the number of guests that you have requested. Please note, this confirmation DOES NOT guarantee you a seat at the screening.

To significantly increase your chances of getting into the screening, you MUST do the following:

· You MUST include the film’s synopsis on your blog (synopsis below) and you MUST link your blog to the SERENITY website (which has the trailer and production notes) http://www.serenitymovie.com and featured artwork. After you have screened the film, please discuss it on your blog. Please provide us the links to all of your blog posts on SERENITY at serenity@gracehillmedia.com
· Print out and bring a copy of this confirmation.
· Arrive at the theater AT LEAST 45 minutes before the show begins.
· Upon arrival at the theater, please find a UNIVERSAL PICTURES representative and inform him or her that you are part of the SERENITY BLOGGER BONANZA. The Universal rep will then instruct you as to what to do next.
· DO NOT bring in a camera or a cellular phone that takes pictures. They WILL be confiscated, and you will NOT be allowed into the screening.
· Have a great time!

Joss Whedon, the Oscar® - and Emmy - nominated writer/director responsible for the worldwide television phenomena of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE, ANGEL and FIREFLY, now applies his trademark compassion and wit to a small band of galactic outcasts 500 years in the future in his feature film directorial debut, Serenity. The film centers around Captain Malcolm Reynolds, a hardened veteran (on the losing side) of a galactic civil war, who now ekes out a living pulling off small crimes and transport-for-hire aboard his ship, Serenity. He leads a small, eclectic crew who are the closest thing he has left to family –squabbling, insubordinate and undyingly loyal.

So, let me get this straight. I have been "chosen and confirmed" for the screening, but this choosing and confirmation does not guarantee me entry to the theater. Huh. And yet, I'm s'posta do all this stuff.

If I, a weblogger, a breed of writer well known for its intransigence, independence, and bullheadedness, jump through all these here hoops, there's a chance that I might get into a screening of this movie. Do these folks actually *know* what webloggers are like, or did this just come up in a marketing meeting as "hey! I know how we can get oodles of ad space, for free!"?

Hei Lun at Begging To Differ has a similar reaction, except much worse:

In other words, if you become a complete shill for them, they just might let you see their movie. Or they might not—sure, they have only 150 seats in the theater, but if they can get 200 bloggers to get down on their hands and knees and beg them for a ticket, who cares if 50 of them can't get in? Mighty tempting (well, not really), but no thanks.

At the risk of sounding self-important, we're bloggers, not fanboys willing to prostitute away their self-respect for a movie ticket (though I see from Technorati that many bloggers are more than willing). I'm not saying that I'm highly principled and not-for-sale at any price, but it'd sure take more than $9.75 for someone to tell me what to write on this blog. Maybe this is standard operating procedure when big media companies give away free stuff, but if it is I want no part of it.

While I already to take a *certain* amount of direction as regards what I write, in that many of my music pieces are cross-posts from blogcritics.org, which maintains certain community standards, I often tart up my posts for the Ministry, which functions much like, as Buckethead once put it, our back porch. However, on our back porch, we keep shotguns loaded with rock salt for when salesmen come knocking.

How about this: it is confirmed that I have chosen to consider attending the screening of Serenity tomorrow night, but this confirmation does not guarantee I will show up, or write a follow-up review.

Kudos to "[my] Friends at Grace Hill Media" for making what felt like a mildly whorish move on behalf of an auteur whose work I like a great deal into something (that feels, at least) much more thorougly shill-ish. Nice job!

Have you ever seen a TV show so intense you thought you were going to puke? I have, now. Battlestar Galactica is the best show on TV, probably the best sci-fi series EVAR, and not back on the air until January. That's a long time to hold it in.

Seriously... does anybody else watch that show? How can you not?

Last night, while watching some random documentary, I heard the narrator say that of the 700 million privately owned guns in the world, 230 million are in the US. That is so cool.

The Senate has changed the law allowing NASA to buy Russian space hardware and services necessary to keep the ISS operational. Hertofore, NASA was prohibited from paying cash for Russian space tech by the Iran Nonproliferation Act of 2000 that bars U.S. purchases of Russian human spaceflight hardware as long as Russia continues to help Iran in its pursuit of nuclear know-how and advanced weapons technology. Russia is obligated under treaty to provide one more gratis Soyuz launch - that one will carry two crew members and a tourist up to the space station at the end of the month.

After that, though, we get to pay through the nose for forty year old soviet space capsules. Which in some respects is better than paying hundreds of billions for brand new forty year old American space technology over the next fifteen years, but seeing as we'll be doing that anyway, this seems like... not a good deal.

This is so entirely pathetic. Not the Russians, because they have, against great odds and enormous obstacles maintained a space program through the collapse of government, ideology and economy. Good for them, and they keep trying. We, meanwhile, screw around designing endlessly while never actually, you know, building shit.

In light of my earlier post about the inaptly named Walrus airship, I had to post about this one.

Canadian company 21st Century Airships has completed initial testing of this prototype spherical airship. What you see above is a 19m diameter, two-man dirigible airship. That four engine craft is a test bed for a planned 40m diameter craft that the company intends to use to set the world record for longest duration flight by any type of aircraft. Around the world in two weeks, covering 28,000 miles without stopping once for a piss break, refueling, or cheeseburger.

Aside from the soccer ball livery, they've also made versions up to look like baseballs and globes. Just imagine one of those babies, done up in yellow with a smiley face and armed with very large electric gatling guns, or maybe some nasty missiles. At the very least, you could use something with that kind of endurance for all sorts of things - ecological research, communications, espionage, whatever. And, as an added bonus, it's the only airship in the world that can land on water. You could really have fun chasing whales with this thing...

Today's Herald examines Boston's plans for a mass evacuation event. The article is titled pithily, but helpfully:

Hub evac plan useless: Traffic jams mean `you're dead'.

Boston's reputation for horrible driving conditions- and horrible drivers- is nationally renowned. Before the Big Dig, getting in and out of the city was, depending on the time of day, either moderately dangerous or fecklessly lethal. Since the Dig was sort of mostly completed (only a few more billion to go- thanks every taxpayer in America!), the major arteries now are only extended clusterfucks.

Everyone who's been there has a tale to tell about their scrape with danger in Hub traffic. Many have been scraped by Hub traffic. It once took me 6 hours to get from Logan Airport to Northampton, which ought to be 2 hours even with a piss stop on the Turnpike. As it was, I spent about 4 hours just in a fucking tunnel trying to get away from the airport. Oh, and PS my wife was almost in Paris before I'd gone 100 miles. And that was after Bechtel was supposed to have made everyting all better.

As things stand now, one accident or a clutch of knuckleheads with picket signs can shut down traffic effectively. With a million knuckleheads clamoring to escape...well yeah, getting them out of town in a timely manner isn't going to happen.

Some of the excerpts from the plan though were pretty interesting, as vague as they are ambitious; read the whole article for those. Mayor Menino's spokesperson added, "an evacuation plan is a fluid entity'', which could only have been more unhelpful had Hizzoner said it for himself (in which case it would have come out as: "An evacalation plansa floo-oodatitty").

But like I said, the piece is helpful because it tells you plainly what's at stake. In the event of catastrophe, don't expect to drive out, and don't wait for the feds, the schoolbus fleet, or the municipal constabulary to pop in and pick you up.

If you want to live, you're going to have to ruck up and hump out.