A new lend-lease act.

A few surprising things came out of the US being the primary host for the World Cup this year. One is that a lot of my friends were following the games closely -- some, having coached soccer for their kids, have learned to like the game somehow. Another is that the American squad made us proud, proving that they were not in the tournament just because we're hosting (the old "it's my party and you have to let me play" rule). And the third?

Ranch dressing. 

Ranch dressing, the little dressing born in Hidden Valley, California, has conquered the nation -- and now the world. It's my wife's favorite salad dressing, and she's not alone in that. In fact, The Takeout noted that in a Kraft survey of favorite dressings by state, Ranch dominated, winning 13 states including the Eastern Seaboard from Maryland down. And our visitors from overseas apparently could not get enough of the stuff. 

I was honestly surprised that they had not tried it before. Many people visit America, and you can't escape Ranch dressing, as a dip or on a salad. I would have thought that you could get it in Western Europe, at least. After all, you can find Japanese curry mix in Walmart, Irish sausage in my local supermarket, and I've even seen Marmite occasionally. Vegemite might take some looking, but you can certainly get it online. I would have thought the buttermilk goodness that is Ranch would have wandered farther afield before now. 

But I am glad that visitors to our mighty nation have found a culinary treat to love. I think what is needed is a new lend-lease act to help our overseas brethren enjoy the wonders of Ranch at home. We can start by filling up some oil tankers that are at loose ends; we'll send them to Europe first. Two or three would be good for starters.

You've seen houseboats, but never ranchboats!

Interest-free loans will be given to finance these exports. And no tariffs! We want them to enjoy the dressing and not try to steal our secret salad technology. There's a reason that Valley is Hidden. 

Enjoy the taste of freedom, friends! 

[P.S.: For the record, I prefer French or Italian or even creamy Caesar to Ranch . . .  but keep it under your Uncle Sam hat.]

Guide to philololology.

Death Virus installed and serviced.

So hurray for the Chinese Communists. Not only do they release a virus into the wild, keep a secret, allow (maybe encourage?) travel from the hotspot of Wuhan, and otherwise make sure it gets everywhere in the world before they make the slightest acknowledgment of the danger, but now they can make some dough off it as well. 

Bought this box of face masks while waiting in the checkout line, because I was getting low and wanted a box for the car. Because this is New York, and our friendly governor Sonny Corleone, the man who puts the dic in dictator, will probably issue an executive order soon that we have to wear masks into our own bathrooms. Meanwhile, you can't go to any store without one.  

But enough about Cuomo, Mr. Leadership himself, who is currently hawking a book around telling us how brilliant he is. What about the Chinese? Here was the Certificate of Approval inside the box of masks, which of course was made in China:

They're A-OK! They'll protect your life! Except they're "Not intended for medical or clinical use," so how are they supposed to actually protect people from a medical problem? I understand we don't all need surgical N95 masks, but isn't protecting one another from the virus a "medical use"? And if it is, should we have different masks? Are these useful at all? Maybe to stop unwanted kissing or to protect your mouth while painting the ceiling.

Furthermore, although sealed in plastic within the box, they expire in two years. What happens to them in two years? The paper degrades? This is all very confusing.

And of course the big question is: Are the masks even helping? 

In Europe, where people are usually more acquiescent to government bureaucracies than we are, people have had it. John McGuirk in Ireland writes, "Across Europe, the picture is the same: Near universal mask wearing, and near universal record-setting in terms of the number of new cases." He questions the assertion that masks have kept this COVID crap crisis from getting much worse, and notes that COVID fatigue is causing people to be less careful now than they were in spring (which I have certainly observed around here). Is it the carelessness that's causing a huge spike in infections in Europe, or is it just that the masks aren't doing the job?

To ask the question is to invite a firestorm of anger, as with so many other things that should be examined rather than accepted dumbly. 

Meanwhile, Chinese industry sells us masks and other products, like the Sani Trendz hand sanitizer on my kitchen windowsill. I'm not accusing the Communist government of starting the pandemic just to sell some more lousy products, although I do accuse it of purposely making sure the infection spread outside the nation just so that the Chinese would not suffer alone and look like sad, incompetent fools. I do think too that, like all good power-hungry bastards, they never let a crisis go to waste. 

Out: "The Capitalists will sell us the rope with which we will hang them." In: "We will put the Capitalists' heads in the noose, and then sell them the scissors to cut their way out."

Personally, I will totally stop wearing a mask tomorrow if places will stop barring people from entering without them. To hell with it; give me the Chinese Death Virus and freedom. But in the meanwhile, for practical purposes I have to wear the stupid things to go grocery shopping. Hey, a guy's gotta eat. But I'm playing this game under protest.

Achtung!

"Grimsley! Come here immediately! I must ask you someting!"

"Yes, Herr Burgermeister?"

"Suddenly I am rackink my brain, Grimsley, unt it is painful! I need to know...
vy am I der only person in dis dumkopf town mit ein Cherman acczent?"

"I mean, didn't ve grow up here? But everyone else ist an American!"

"I'm sure I don't know, Herr Burgermeister."

"Schtop it, Grimsley! Vy do you sound like some silly Britishy person? Vy don't you

sound American? Even dot silly Mickey Rooney -- I mean, de Kringle -- and der schtupid Vinter Varlock kah-nucklehead sound American!"

"I grew up watching Eric Blore films, Herr Burgermeister!"

"I vill not rest until I find out vat is goink on! Vy am I der only person in dis schtupid town who sounds like I belonk in der Chermanic vorld? Vy do you all sound American?"

"Gee, that's a good question, Mister Lederhosen man! We were wondering why most of the folks around us sound French!"

Boris.

I'm thinking a little about Boris today.

No, not Boris Badenov, Notorious No-goodnik. Not Boris the Spider, either. This blog wants to officially congratulate Boris Johnson for becoming the Prime Minister of the UK.

The unlikely named Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, who turned 55 in June, first got my attention at the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing when he was mayor of London. In the closing ceremonies, the Olympic flag was passed to him to carry back to London for the 2012 Games. Who was this guy, this shambling mound of a human being?

He had the hair of a blond Beatle ca. his birth year. His clothes didn't seem to fit well, like he'd just found out with five minutes to spare that it was school picture day. Overall, he looked like some bloke who'd been drinking all afternoon that they pulled out of the stands. ("The London mayor didn't show! Get us an Englishman! ANY Englishman! All whities look alike! Stuff him in a suit and send him out there!")

This is a British politician? Well, surely he had to be one of those Labour Party oiks who purposely dress like pigs to prove they are down with the people, right? Nope, big-time Tory. He looked like he was assembled of parts taken from random English people. Who was this guy?

Soon I learned the one thing about him that explained everything else: He was a journalist.

Journalists, generally speaking, are not meant for visual consumption. The journalists on TV are mere newsreaders (there are exceptions, but not as many as they'd like us to believe). Historically, tweed is the natural environment of the journalist, not Savile Row. Most of them looked like they cut their own hair. Seen this way, Boris Johnson was the proud standard-bearer of his previous profession more so than the standard-bearer of the Olympics.

Any writer is interested when a writer gets elected to high office. We're still excited about Vaclav Havel, and he left office in 2003. Very few writers get a shot at changing the world, but a few big-time politicians are good writers -- Julius Caesar, Theodore Roosevelt, Ulysses S. Grant. The thing is, every writer on some level thinks he'd do a better job running the joint than the people who are; once in a while, one gets a shot. So we'll be following Boris's PM career with interest, especially as regards to Brexit.

Writers are probably only second to actors in terms of people who are 1 billion percent convinced that they are important with virtually no evidence to support that belief. At least actors never cut their own hair.

Albania!

There's a family in the area that seems very nice, very hardworking. They moved into a run-down house and spruced it up, expanded it, made it like new. When I saw all the work being done I initially thought we had some flippers at work, but then they moved in.

Soon after I noticed an elderly woman walking about when the weather was nice, sometimes accompanied by an elderly man. If she was alone she might be talking on the phone; I was never close enough to eavesdrop, nor was I much inclined, but what I did hear was a "myush myush" verbiage that seemed like some Eastern European language.

One day last year I noticed this flag in a window:

That's how I found out they were Albanian. Grandma and Grandpa must have been born there; grandkids no. Don't know about the intervening generation.

I'd hoped to have a chance to meet them to welcome them to the area, but it hasn't come up. I did brush up on a few bits of Albanian knowledge, so we might have something to discuss. For example:

• I found out that Albania actually exports more cheddar cheese than does the U.K. 
• Albania was knocked out of the Round of 16 in World Cup action last year; their appearance in it probably precipitated the temporary posting of the flag in the home's window. 
• Albania's main export is leather footwear. 
• The whole country almost fell apart in 1997 over Ponzi schemes that wrecked the economy. 
• They seem to be tough people; Grandpa looks to be in his eighties, but apparently arranged for a huge shipment of pavers, probably meant for him to build a patio by himself this spring (he's always doing something). 
• Albania's national day is April 28, called Albania Links Day, but I'm not sure why. 

This caught my attention: The national anthem, "Djathi i Madh," means "home of the brave" -- sound familiar? Here's an English translation I found:

Albania! Albania!
We pledge our hearts to thee
Albania! Albania!
Forever shall be free
I stand with all my brethren
Stout Albanian fighting men
Albania! Albania!
Forever shall be free!

Albania! Albania!
Proud home of our birth
Albania! Albania!
Bravest men on earth
By our banner, red and black,
If you strike us we shall strike back
Albania! Albania!
Bravest men on earth

Irishmen: Sober as judges?

Well, here it is, Patty's Day again, and toime to go get likkered up at Ye Olde Pubbe, dance some jigs, and start a donnybook! Wee hoo!

I know a lot of people who are happy to blame their drinking on Irishness, and at any time of year, not just St. Patrick's Day. I also know a lot of people who have stopped drinking who blame their former drinking on Irishness (sometimes Catholicism too, as if the pope forced them to drink). But do the Irish really drink more than other people? Or are the Irish actually sober as judges?

After all, ask any Irishman in New York and he'll tell you that this drunk thing is a slander on the Irish by the English. Note that these are some of the same Irishmen who blame their drinking on being Irish. But let's give it the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

Toby Young, British educator, journalist, sometime politician, and spectacularly failed magazine editor and scriptwriter, once said that "The English drink as if they do not want to live." Perhaps then the English are just projecting their own flaws upon their beleaguered island neighbors?

And what about the French? I edited a French cookbook recently, and apparently they put booze in everything. They will not make a simple side dish of rice without squeezing wine into it. They probably rub framboise in their scalps as a dandruff cure. They can't sneeze without selecting a nice Burgundy to go with it. Are they worse drunks than the Irish?

And don't forget the Scandinavians. They have had the toughest drunk driving laws in the world for a long time because they couldn't stop themselves from flying off the fjords in their Saabs without the force of law. A Norseman of my acquaintance once told me, "Norwegians drink just as much as the Irish, but people don't know it because we don't sing."

But none of this disproves the unspoken assumption that the Irish are the biggest drunks in the world. We need data.

According to World Atlas -- which may not be the most accurate but they seem to use good info -- Belarus is far and away tops in per capita adult alcohol consumption, with the adults of this Eastern European nation each consuming a quite-literally-staggering 17.5 liters of pure alcohol per year. At standard 80 proof (40% alcohol) for the liquor, that means every man and woman is drinking the equivalent of about 44 liters of vodka per year, or more than 11.5 gallons. That's a lot of booze. The first runner-up is Moldova, at 16.8 liters; in fact, with the exception of tiny Andorra (#7), the top ten per capita alcohol consuming nations are all Eastern European countries. Ireland makes the list at #21, in a virtual tie with Luxembourg, and Great Britain is at #25. France (#18) does beat Ireland and Great Britain; the United States isn't in the top 25. We try, but I think the Mormons and Baptists hold us back.

I doubt this will change any of the revelry going on today, but for future reference, if anyone blames his drinking on his heritage, ask if they are Belarusian. We should thus do our most outrageous drinking on St. Euphrosyne's day. St. Euphrosyne of Polotsk is the patron saint of Belarus and her feast day is May 23. She doesn't look like someone who would approve of such shenanigans, though.

Still, if you want to get faced on May 23, just tell everyone you're celebrating St. Euphrosyne of Polotsk and your Belarusian heritage. When they point out (probably with justice) that you are not Belarusian, tell them, "Everyone is Belarusian on St. Euphrosyne of Polotsk's Day!"

Just don't confuse her with St. Euphrosyne of Alexandria, whose feast day is September 25. Getting drunk for no reason on September 25 would be embarrassing.

Be good and begone.

I'm sorry for my friends who are really, horribly, personally distraught over the British vote to exit the European Union. I'm puzzled by my American friends who have taken this as a personal attack somehow.

No one that I've spoken with has made the argument that the European Union's governance by bureaucrat, a ruling class that is unelectable and unaccountable, is a good thing. You can make that case, argue that somehow moral giants will be appointed who will govern better than the Great Unwashed, but that is not the argument being made, far as I can see. And yet it may be the only answer to a primary contention in the Leave argument, that the EU has an accountability deficit.

And this is no small issue. I've heard all my life that the Chinese were inventing things when my ancestors were living in trees, but they also invented a giant bureaucracy that stifled innovation and led to the long collapse of their civilization. The Roman Empire and now the American people also fell victim to creeping stultification by endless rules. The EU has been an accelerated version of this sclerosis, happening daily before the eyes of the world. And yet they could not solve any of the serious problems facing the nations of Europe, such as the economic collapse of irresponsible nations, an inadequate military for existential threats, and the looming menace of retirement entitlements combined with depopulation. So in a way, EU membership was a terrible deal, demanding obedience to endless rules while providing nothing for crucial difficulties.

But even discounting all that, haven't we always been told that smaller is better? The same people who support big government seem to hate everything that's big---big business, Big Oil, Big Pharma, big farms, big military. So why is big government appealing? They support freedom and nonconformity. So why support overbearing government that by its nature suppresses freedom and demands conformity? Moreover, it is self-evident that nations with powerful governments do not remove the wealth of the wealthy, nor protect the interests of the small against them. How does insulation from the popular will do either of those things?

What I've mainly heard from Remainers are a lot of racism charges, and the assumption seems to be that racism is the only reason anyone would not want to be part of the EU. We are undoubtedly at a crisis of civil citizenry when reasonable people cannot accept disagreement with one another. I'm not saying there's no racism in England; there's racism everywhere there's people. But to credit that to all the Exit supporters is a gross distortion at the least.

Maybe being American makes me sympathetic to our British brothers for wanting to be free from an overbearing state that takes more than it gives. (Sounds familiar, eh, my English pals?) This should have been a simple yes or no, with rational arguments made on both sides, and acceptance of the results in the end, and instead we got this horrible tangle of exaggeration, recrimination, and accusation.

I am proud of nations that strike a blow for freedom, never more so than at our own Independence Day. So I say bravo, England. (I just wish more Americans were eager to be independent from government dependence.)

Last thought: I was struck by the proximity of Wimbledon to the Brexit vote. I immediately thought of the Monty Python sketch wherein aliens are turning Englishmen into Scotsmen so that the aliens can win Wimbledon, Scotsmen being poor at tennis.

I wondered if the aliens had returned, and managed to turn 51 percent of Englishmen into Englishmen.

Darkness.

Language alert.

I have little to say about the horrendous attacks in Paris yesterday by the Islamic State, but I'll add these:

When I was a kid, the song "Let There Be Peace on Earth, and Let It Begin with Me" had been around for decades but was as popular as ever, and continues to be popular. Even then I found it treacly, but I appreciated its sentiment.

However, I was never going to wage war against innocent people, so I never had to make that promise. The people who ought to are not taught to sing that song in ISIS training camp.

If I say a farewell to arms, and lay them down, it doesn't stop some asshole with a gun from killing me and everyone me. If I or someone else responsible and decent picks up arms, it may. The problem with the world is that there is a mighty and powerful death cult that has infected millions of people, turning them into murderous assholes; they do not deserve to have willing victims.

As with all these mass murderers on a suicide mission, I wish they would simply begin with the suicide. Just kill yourself, Jihadi Jackass, and then we'll talk about killing others. Sing it: "Let There Be Death on Earth, and Let It Begin With Me."

Europe is in the grip of the most insidious and wicked threat to its survival, perhaps ever, since it has lost its faith, lost its culture, and thus is run by fools who inadvertently abet the murderers. Once again the lamps are going out all over Europe, and this time I truly do believe we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime, or perhaps ever.

The recap: Part 3.

Before the miserable end of the World Series, before Halloween, before the weekend even started, we had a hurricane.

Not much of one, of course, and believe me, Patricia's visit was nothing in the Hudson Valley compared to her visit in Mexico. But then she got on a bus, snuck over the border, hitched a ride, and made her way up here, and last Wednesday night we had a hell of a rain and fierce wind. The trees that were still in full brilliance on October 28 were wet & naked as a newborn on October 29. And, Hurricane Patricia tried to kill me.

Back up:

A few weeks ago I wrote about a tree that was being choked to death by a pokeweed vine. After that I realized that in my own backyard, just outside the boundary of my property, a tree that has been dead for some time was covered in the same tangle of vine, that the vine might have killed it, and now might be the only thing holding it up. But beyond a few comparisons to the situation in Europe, I didn't give it much thought.

Had the storm blown the tree down a couple of degrees toward the north, it would have been off the grass and I would have left it alone to rot. But it landed in my yard. I didn't want the dog getting at it, so I plotted to drag the wood into the tall weeds outside the boundary. It was not very hard to do, since it had broken into chunks when it came down. Had to chop some of the vine off, though.

Just a wee bit snarled.

The labor was not intense enough to require a second shower on the day. Unfortunately.

Because the next morning I was showering up, and I found that something had stuck to my chest. A mere pass with the soap didn't pull it off, as you might with a wad of lint. Nope, it was buried into my flesh. I had to get the tweezers and pull the frigging tick out of me. It had its disgusting little head as far into me as---well, as a German politician has his head up his own ass.

It was less than 24 hours since I'd been at that tree, exposing my delicate writerly self to nature, so it is unlikely I could have caught any of your usual tick-borne illnesses. Unless the little bastard left parts in there. I can assure you it was dead by the time I got it out, and that required some effort.

So the leftover hurricane knocked down the trees, which caused me to deal with dead wood and high weeds, and now I have to watch for symptoms, just to be sure. The main symptom I had after pulling the thing out was pain, a spot of pain that lasted for days, and felt like I got stabbed by a pixie. The CDC doesn't mention that.

So nature sucks, the Mets let me down, someone tried to steal my identity, I have to eat all this candy, and I'm still tired from helping the dog survive trick-or-treating and adjusting to the clocks going back an hour. Basically I'm just still tired and grumpy.

It was a tough weekend. Was it a Halloween curse?

Area restaurant with window painting of Harry Pumpkin casting a Cruciatus Curse at me.

Halloween sucks. But at least I have all this candy to eat.

Stroopwafel!

More sugar. 

Interesting; something I'd not heard of.

Choco Stroopwafel?

Hmm.

Who are these mysterious Belgian Boys, and what do they want?

On their Web site they call themselves "Chubby and Skinny, the Troublemakers of Taste." And yet they don't look like rebels, with their bowler hats and curly mustaches.

What can we infer from the name? We know that the European Union is an antidemocratic conspiracy run out of Brussels, Belgium. So these Belgian Boys could be agents of the EU, fattening up Americans with their Choco Stroopwafels.

And I say: Bring. It. On.

I thought this "Belgian Boys" thing might be one of those "little companies" that actually turns out to be owned by a massive conglomerate, the way Kellogg's owns Kashi, and RJR Reynolds owned the Moonlight Tobacco Company, and Anheuser-Busch owns everything... and is itself owned by Anheuser-Busch InBev of Belgium. (Hmm.) But I could only trace the Belgian Boys to a limited liability company called Le Petite Belge, registered in the U.S.

Suspicious?

Oh, yeah.

Worse: Although the one you see here was purchased in a gas station convenience store, it was no cheap piece of junk food; it had a light, crispy waffle, creamy and not tooth-ruining caramel, and rich, delicious chocolate. Obviously part of their plan to break our will.

So I think we need to investigate this more. You start researching the paper trail; I'm going to look more deeply into the ingredients used in these Belgian Boys treats. The secret lies in the Stroopwafel. I'm sure there are clues there if I can just consume---uh, that is, exhume---them.