Daily archives: June 6, 2003

Oh say can you see….

John and I have been working on preliminary plans for the 4th of July. I can’t reveal more until we start purchasing the relevant stuff, but if it goes to plan it should involve a barbecue, the stars and stripes, one or more effigies of Wubble U and fireworks. This’ll be such a date specific thing that I’ll have to ask everyone I know with digital cameras and video cams to be there (like they weren’t going to be after I said barbecue.)

More details on the project as the kit is acquired.

One born every…..

SpamPal throws most of mine in the bin, but every so often a mail gets through, offering me a bigger dick, firmer breasts (?) or other things such as septic tanks. They’re all bollocks of course, the formulae are made up and they’ll probably overcharge your credit card.

According to court documents, when agents served a search warrant on C.P. Direct´┐Żs offices on May 23, 2002, Rye said that she and Passafiume studied ingredients listed on Web sites advertising similar products before concocting the formula for Longitude. She acknowledged that they had never consulted any medical experts or done any scientific testing of the product, contrary to claims on the C.P. Direct Web site, the documents said.

via LeftPedal.

Omaha, Juno, Gold, Utah, Sword

It’s the anniversary of D-Day, which always seems to sneak up on me. I should plan to do something- a trip, memorial photo collection or something- to mark next year’s sixtieth anniversary.

A few other D-Day resources-

Portsmouth’s D-Day museum

D-Day memorial foundation

britannica.com’s D-Day resources centre

My grandparents used to live in a house called Quenast, after a town in Belgium that my grandfather’s unit liberated. Sadly I can’t find any pertinent information, but appropriately (considering this is me) it is home to a brewery.

This is the Night Mail crossing the border,

Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,

The shop at the corner and the girl next door.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:

The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder

Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily as she passes

Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

‘Night Mail’ by WH Auden

Except that it isn’t going to any more. There’s no romance, and very little logic- beyond short term gain- in the night fleet of lorries, spewing extra pollution and clogging the early morning roads.