perfidy

Or a frog.

Remember kids -- don't stow away on a trans-atlantic flight. From ANN:

Apparent Stowaway Didn't Make It All The Way

It rained body parts in Long Island, NY, Tuesday, as the corpse of an apparent stowaway aboard a South African Airways flight from Dakar to JFK partially disintegrated when the crew lowered the plane's landing gear.

Some of the body parts crashed through the roof of a home in Floral Park.

Flight 203, an Airbus A340-600, landed at JFK on time at 0700 local. It was taxiing from Runway 22R when airport workers noticed part of a body hanging from the wheel well.

There were no apparent injuries in Floral Park, above which the Airbus lowered its gear, allowing parts of the body to fall to the ground.

The FAA is investigating. There's no word yet on the identification of the corpse.

You know how gas pumps now all have computerized advertisments on them, that play across the little screen? Here was the text that scrolled across the screen when I tanked up yesterday:

"B-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R We have just the thing on days like this Why not warm up inside with our hot chocolate or coffee? Free 16oz cup with B-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R We have just the thing..." etc.

Temperature at the pump: ~84F.

Well, that's not quite true - in one forum or another, I state the obvious multiple times per day, and for that I apologize.

But here's a case where the WSJ's Brendan Miniter has done it, and it seems to me to be a public service:

Hero or not, Mark Felt did America a great service

Just when I thought that nobody in a position to widely disseminate such a rational thought was going to do so, Mr. Miniter comes and says:

This is an open memo to those on the right who've spent the past week chastising their counterparts on the left for calling Mark Felt, a k a "Deep Throat," a hero. It's true that the recently outed Watergate supersource might have acted for his own interests, and that real heroes pay the price for their heroism instead of hiding in the shadows of a parking garage. It is therefore difficult to laud his personal character or portray him as someone young people should emulate.

But if Mr. Felt isn't personally a hero, his actions look a lot more heroic than the actions of those who've had the most biting words for the now 91-year-old man who at the time was the No. 2 official at the FBI. Pat Buchanan, a former speechwriter for Richard Nixon, called Mr. Felt a "snake." Charles Colson, another Nixon aide, who served seven months in prison for obstruction of justice, said Mr. Felt was "violating his oath to keep this nation's secrets." Watergate conspirator turned radio personality G. Gordon Liddy, who also served time, is quoted as saying bluntly that Mr. Felt "violated the ethics of the law enforcement profession."

Sounds about right to me, since I was tired of the whining revisionists' history-polishing after the first of the participants opened his gaping pie-hole on the matter.

Miniter's take is a good one, and I commend it to your attention.

[wik] George Friedman, in the Geopolitical Intelligence Report which hit my mailbox a couple hours ago, covers the underpinnings of Felt's methods, along with some of his motivations, and comes to some very obvious conclusions that, ahem, hadn't even crossed my mind. I can't find a link for the briefing at his site, but if anyone's interested, I'd happily forward the Stratfor email.

[alsø wik] For the truly intrepid, the Onion's take on the matter

Court Rules Against Pot for Sick People

The arguments of the majority in this case appear to be "Well, it IS, after all, federal law". They were presented with an opportunity to legislate from the bench, and they refused to do so, an act for which I think they are to be commended.

But, dang - this is such a silly issue for which to have a controlling federal law that it begs for some form of quick legislative solution.

No, I'm not a capital-L Libertarian who believes that all drugs should be legal. In fact, I'm not certain I even have an opinion on the matter, to be honest with you. But this smacks of a matter to be decided locally, particularly since marijuana is among the more benign substances with which Americans self-medicate.

A good friend of mine lives in Mendocino County, CA, and the law there is that pot's OK, for medicinal purposes or any other. I've noticed nothing untoward in my visits to the area, other than the fact that some of the residents are a little more intentionally (faux?) laid back and environmentally wacky than I prefer, but I attribute that to something other than the killer weed.

And no, I don't give much weight to the claims that smoking pot makes you terminally stupid. For that, you can just go sniff the air in Pasadena TX.

I began my daily dumbing-down by perusing the news in the morning's Houston Chronicle. Among items the editors deemed crucial for my continued functioning as a citizen, I found the following:

Pasadena is a suburb way down on the east side of Houston which is home to many of the oil refineries in the area, and not coincidentally stinks to high-heaven. I was only vaguely aware that it was populated by rejected extras from Deliverance, those with low tolerance for chemical fumes, or both.

The parents of four Pasadena children left at home alone have been arrested and charged with child endangerment and possession of marijuana.

Billy Bob Pettey, 31, and his wife, Crystal Pettey, 22, were arrested after Pasadena police officers responded to a disturbance call shortly after 7 p.m. Saturday from a neighbor at their apartment complex in the 4300 block of Shaver.

After reading the beginning of the story, completely aside from the male protagonist's name (which, well, come on - do you actually know anyone named Billy Bob?), it occurred to me that I've never known a girl named Crystal that wasn't either a stripper or should have considered stripping as a career advancement maneuver.

So I read on. And if you've got 30 seconds of your life for which you don't have a better use, feel free to do the same.

If I were a more caring individual, I'd shed a tear for the future of Houston's east side, because I don't think Billy Bob and Crystal are horribly unique among their neighbors. And no, none of the good strip clubs in Houston, of which I hear there are many, happen to be anywhere near Pasadena.

You can be sure of one thing in this life: album projects involving Jon Spencer (late of the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and the Jon Spencer Folk Implosion) are either going to rock hard or suck mightily. Part of the problem is that Spencer frequently comes off as a smarmy con man, perpetrating a giant put-on on anybody dumb enough to actually enjoy the deeply unserious dreck he's putting down. (For what it's worth, I happen to feel the same way about Bob Dylan these last few years, so discerning music fans may assign my opinions whatever worth they deem fit.)

However, if he’s a con man, he’s frequently a good one, as several Blues Explosion records and his collaboration with actual bluesman R.L. Burnside, A Ass Pocket of Whiskey demonstrate.

It also appears that working with others reigns in Spencer's worse tendencies. A Ass Pocket worked in part because Spencer's noisy non-blues approach meshed well with Burnside’s down-and-dirty Mississippi sound.

The same goes for Spencer's new project, Heavy Trash, whose eponymous debut is now out on Yep-Roc. Spencer has teamed with guitarist/bassist Matt Verta-Ray, formerly of the great 90s also-rans Madder Rose and now of Speedball Baby to produce – get this - an album of wild, woolly, and completely (in)sincere rockabilly.

Since rockabilly has always been a genre custom-made for put-ons, characters, and spastic craziness, Spencer's hiccupping vocals and manic guitar work come off not as schick but as loving nods to classic rockabilly weirdos like The Collins Kids and Shorty Ashford, not to mention the masters of cartoony psychobilly, The Cramps. Neither as slick as the Stray Cats nor as trashy as The Cramps, Heavy Trash might be the best thing Spencer has been involved in since the mid-1990s.

Good rockabilly, like good blues, relies more on personality than on talent or training. The ability to play helps, but any shortcomings can be over come through simple force of character. The ability to play simple music with great conviction is therefore crucial to both genres. And despite Spencer's and Verta-Ray's backgrounds as ironic hipsters producing noisy indie music and precious power pop respectively, the best songs on Heavy Trash can take their place in the rockabilly canon.

Chock-full of spanky guitar and slap bass, Heavy Trash offers wild rave-ups and cool, angular workouts in the finest Sun Records style. Highlights include the raucous "The Hump," "Justine Alright," “The Loveless” and the album opener "Dark-Hair'd Rider." Although thirteen songs is perhaps one too many for a rockabilly revival album, Heavy Trash generally adds up to an honest-to-God chopped and channeled hot roddin’ good time.

The only songs that even approach the “suck mightily” standard are "Mr. K.I.A.," which features some out-of-place turntable scratching, and "Gatorade," which suffers from sophomoric lyrics and uncharacteristically tepid playing. Still, two duds out of thirteen is a spectacular ratio for a Spencer project. Overall, Heavy Trash is righteous fun.

(This post also appears at blogcritics.org.)

As my neurons marinate in a vicious combination of a nice Côte du Rhone and potato vodka and limeade (organic!), I am stirred to ask a couple questions and state a couple actualities.

1) What do you call people from Massachusetts? There’s Vermonters, Connecticutian, Virginian, Floridian, Texan, Ohioan. But having gone native up here in the Bay State and being an avid amateur lexicographer besides, I am stumped as to the noun for “resident of Massachusetts.” Yes, yes, I know. Masshole. Very funny. But as devastatingly apt as “Masshole” may be, what do you say in polite company? “Bay Stater” is irritatingly glib, and “Yankee,” though sometimes used by other residents of New England to refer to us when they don’t want to be rude, has at least three other specific meanings. I hereby nominate as the official term for “resident of Massachusetts” as “Massachutsan.” Because I’m sick and tired of hearing “Masshole.”

2) Can any of my readers suggest a good to excellent barbecue restaurant in or around Savannah, GA? I’ll be going there late next week for a weeklong meeting of the North American Anti-Temperance League, of which I am a founding member, president, and chief yazoo. A boy’s got to eat, and when I’m in the south I prefer to eat nice slowcooked pork, preferably doused with judicious amounts of vinegar-based sauce. I expect I just opened a big can of whoop-ass with that last statement, so I will clarify. Barbecue is pork. Barbecue is pork with a vinegar sauce, though such sauce may be adulterated with tomato, molasses, mustard, or other spices if desired. Some pepper heat is preferred. Beef, though delicious made barbecue-style (especially brisket and ribs), is not in and of itself, “barbecue.” This assertion does not apply in Texas or Kansas City. I don’t want to be killed and slow-cooked over hickory by my esteemed coblogger and transplant Texan, Patton.

3) But I digress. The North American Anti-Temperance League is doing important work in the fields of lightening up and unclenching, but our budget is not limitless. Readers wishing to join the League – or offer us donations – may contact me at johno at perfidy dot org. We are always searching for a few good sots, and maybe you have what it takes.

4) I hereby declare my bass-player name (for I am in fact a bass player of immense funkitude) to be Chocolate Thunder.

The Ministry's beloved Bloghostess, Kathy Kinsley of On The Third Hand celebrated her Birthday yesterday. Since we discovered this fact earlier today, we have been slamming our collective heads into any and all available solid objects, trying to banish the shame and horror we feel for not noticing this in time to wish her happy birthday on her birthday. Once we recover from our self-mortification, we will no doubt be able to send happy birthday thoughts in her direction.

Kathy, being the generous type person that she is, also noted that she shared her birthday with Pejman and Suman Palit. Happy belated birthday greetings to them, as well.

Also celebrating a birthday on June 2: the Beav, Dana Carvey, Kyle Petty, and these guys:

1491 Henry VIII King of England (1509-47)
1535 Leo XI, (Alessandro O de' Medici), Italy, Pope, 1605
1624 Jan III Sobieski, King of Poland (1674-96)
1740 Marquis de Sade 1st known sadist, writer (Justine)
1835 St Pius X 257th Roman Catholic pope (1903-14)
1840 Thomas Hardy England, poet/novelist (Mayor of Casterbridge)
1857 Edward Elgar Broadheath, England, composer (Pomp & Circumstance)
1904 John Weissmuller actor (Tarzan)/100m swimmer (Olympic-gold-1924, 28)
1930 Charles Pete Conrad Jr Phila, USN/astro (Gem 5 11, Ap 12, Skylab 2)
1936 Sally Kellerman Long Beach Cal, actress (M*A*S*H, Back to School)
1940 Constantine II deposed king of Greece (-1967)
1941 Charlie Watts drummer (Rolling Stones-Brown Sugar)
1941 Stacy Keach Savannah Ga, actor (Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer)
1944 Garo Yepremian NFL place kicker (Miami Dolphins)
1944 Marvin Hamlisch US, composer/pianist (The Sting, Chorus Line)
1948 Jerry Mathers Sioux City Iowa, actor (Beaver-Leave It To Beaver)
1955 Dana Carvey comedian (Sat Night Live-Church Lady/George Bush)
1970 B-Real (Rapper- Cypress Hill)

Let's face it. Metal is dumb. Metal has always been dumb. And hopefully, metal will always be dumb. (I could, however, do without the "Metallica bleating 12-step recovery program slogans over a tin drum" kind of dumb. Because that's just not metal.) And why fight the dumb? Metal is loud; it's obvious; it's incurably theatrical. Dumb is the way of metal, and the dumber the better. Leather! Flames! Swords! Warriors! Skulls! Hot chicks and motorbikes! Hell, yeah!

John Mikl Thor (his real name) was at one time a winner of the Mr. Canada and Mr. USA pageants, a champion bodybuilder with a taste for training to heavy rock. Back in the '70s, when it was still (relatively) cool to wear studded leather collars and sing about the hammer of the gods, Thor stole a page from Alice Cooper and KISS and took his act on the road as Thor The Rock God, blending metal with Norse mythology and epic stage shows (he claims to have been an influence on GWAR and Manowar). Starting in the late '70s, he toured the globe doing mock battle with evil warlords, brandishing sword and shield, and perform feats of strength such as bending steel bars, smashing bricks against his chest, and blowing up hot water bottles until they burst. He has been known to ride onstage in Charlton Heston's chariot from Ben-Hur.

And even though the world has moved on and metal has turned to rap and weepy teen diary excerpts for new inspiration, Thor is still making music. His new album, Thor Against The World is out next month on Smog Veil Records.

So what does the rock god’s new album sound like? Well, it's goofy, it's bombastic, and it's as satisfying to the primitive part of my lizard-brain where the metal receptors are located as anything I've ever heard. Thor Against The World rocks in the finest tradition of AC/DC, Alice Cooper, KISS, WASP, Judas Priest, and all the other great deep-shag acts of the golden age of hard rock. Is it an instant classic? No. But it is one hell of a lot of fun.

Being that Thor seems bent on partying like it's 1979, the album is rife with classic drum sounds, shouted choruses ("Creature! Feature! I wanna meetcha! Meetcha!") heroic guitar solos, and the occasional soaring synth (on "Megaton Man"). The lyrical content mainly dwells on tough love, universal battles, and the glory and power of Thor. As it turns out, all those years of bodybuilding and bursting hot water bottles have given Thor quite a set of pipes. While he's no Ronnie James Dio, he sings the hell out of his eleven sword-sorcery-and-sex tales in a leathery baritone in the finest tradition of the Alice Cooper/Paul Stanley school of bombastic frontmen. And really… how can one not like a record that features a legion of warriors shouting "Thor! Thor! Thor!" and includes songs called "Creature Feature," "Easy Woman," "Serpents Kiss" and "The Coming of Thor?" The cherry on top is a surprisingly affecting ballad ("Turn To Blue") in the finest SWOBHM* tradition.

Thor has dedicated himself to stoking the flame of that primal, stooped, over-the-top school of rock that went out about the time Gene Simmons took off his makeup. If you long for the days of Trans Ams, pop-top beer, and WASP, KISS, and Alice Cooper, there is no possible way to do better than Thor Against The World. As long as you have a taste for the dumb side of metal (and what red-blooded American doesn't?), I can't recommend this highly enough.

*(That's "Second Wave of British Heavy Metal." Geek.)

www.thorcentral.com

Thor circa 1979

Thor circa 2003

In my era, there were three locales in Germany that you were either preparing (and perhaps dreading) to go back to, just returning from, or in the midst of suffering through: Wildflecken, Hohenfels, and Grafenwoehr . Wildflecken was the least-improved and smallest of the three; Hohenfels was traditionally the spot for force-on-force maneuver. Graf was a series of firing ranges, from small arms to tank guns to anti-tank missiles.

Graf was not only a place to be cold in, bitch about, or not get laid at. It was a place of contradictions, of dichotomies peculiar to federal agencies or major military organizations: the training areas and ranges were all heavily wooded and accessible by dirt road ("tank trail") or helicopter, making everything seem distant and private, but the whole facility exists right next to a small fairy-tale of a town. Monstrous machines of war went from range to range, their crews perfecting their deadly trade, but everything stopped if a boar sow and her brood crossed the road in front of them. It was possible to be wet and sleepless for days on end as you trained for battle, but do bring your clubs because there's a golf course on the main post.

And now we can add a new contradiction: Russians at Graf. Stars & Stripes has coverage here of the first joint live-fire training in Germany between Russian and American forces.

Wildflecken and Graf had the ranges to train for repulsing invading Russian hordes, while Hohenfels had the physical space to simulate maneuvering against Russian hordes. Who'd a thunk that instead of invading, the Russian hordes would be invited?