THE MULTIPARTY SYSTEM.

A film that redefines American political calculus

despite a muddled, overworn plea at the curtain

A major American political party can be, by one definition, a multiparty system unto itself. This is most evident in primary elections, when candidates vie for their party's "core constituencies" -- and officials adjust the party's platform, striving for a palatable structure that will house as many sub-groups as possible. Political pundits will, for instance, describe the Republican party as being comprised of the religious right, the wealthy, big business, fiscal conservatives, moderates, and the burgeoning Tea Party movement, among others, and these groups can threaten to abandon (i.e., fail to support) the coalition if they feel that the purity of their message is being compromised. The Democratic party may contain even more pieces. Every two years, after the government has been assembled, an expert socio-mathematician could attempt to define just how many blocs are in operation. Some governments can be more unified than others, and surprising partnerships can spring-up around certain issues, and a popular president can squander his mandate overnight. All true. In the end, though, if you want to vote for President, or for Senator, or for Representative, with few exceptions, you either have to vote Democrat or Republican; those are your choices: a two party umbrella. The sum of the little parties out there, simply, doesn't amount to much, beyond, for instance, a single seat in Vermont. A new documentary film, Inside Job, concludes, however, that America might have but a single party, when considering one of the most important facets of our society: the management of our vast, complex financial system. Despite the change in administration -- and the promises to the contrary that have accompanied this change -- the same kinds of faces wind up at the helm of Treasury, the Federal Reserve system, the SEC, and so forth; professionals who have been bred, apparently, on the boards or in the speculative environments of massive financial outfits. While Obama was not elected by his own party alone, and owes his presidency, at the very least, to a coalition that also included "swing voters" from other terrain, he was, nevertheless, nominated by a reinvigorated Democratic party which was driven by its fervor to rid the nation of various policies, support them or not, enacted under the presidency of Bush #2. When Democrats and Republicans alike elected candidate Obama, during a period of extreme economic distress, did they vote for him to appoint the same mold of individual appointed by the likes of Reagan, Bush #1, and Bush #2? (All Republicans.) In some cases, Obama appointed or re-appointed the very same people who served in those -- as well as centrist / similar Clinton -- administrations. One could argue that the Republicans who crossed the aisle to vote for Obama were doing so, in short, because they wanted a different kind of leadership, especially with respect to the economy. "Is there no other kind of economic leadership?" one might ask. Are there no other people? To bolster its suggestion that no, there aren't, Inside Job takes its viewers to the halls of academe where, it asserts, many faculty members employed in top-rated business schools and topnotch economics departments also serve or have served on the boards of major financial corporations, and espouse the viewpoint, to students, i.e., future leaders, that deregulation of the financial sector -- a major culprit behind the 2008 meltdown -- is sound policy. The film was, largely, a strong and frightening documentary, yet ended on a weak note. The actor Matt Damon, who served as the film's narrator, tells the audience that Americans should fight for a new kind of government, while the Statue of Liberty luxuriates in its brave stance, having been filmed, presumably, from a helicopter. It was a mixed message, at best: the voice of a wealthy actor imploring an amorphous "us" to buck for change, while an overly familiar, green and rippling French donation poses for a closeup taken from the cargo bay of an expensive, whirling gadget. The inability of the filmmaker to properly close the film unwittingly serves as a metaphor for the nation's political quagmire. The film probably meant to underscore the need for an "independent" but significant third party to arise, one to steer us Americans with the simplicity of good ideas, but it doesn't explore that slant. It doesn't ask whether independent politics are even possible, in the era of our Wall Street governance. Are we stuck, that is, with corrupt financial leadership that seems to -- magically -- reappoint itself?

CARTAGENA DE INDIAS.

"Panoramica de Cartagena" Enrique Grau

Center panel, triptych, oil on wood (1997-98)

There were at least two homages to the Colombian writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez located in Cartagena's indomitable Museo de Arte Moderno -- the magical elements that can be found in the three-part panorama painted by Enrique Grau (above: glowing religious figure, tumbling pilot, encroaching sheet of rain) and also a painting by Spanish artist Daniel de Campos, "Homenaje a G. Garcia Marquez." The latter, part of a traveling exhibition, Entre las dos orillas, depicts the desk and typewriter of the Nobel laureate, a work-worn, rumpled area that presages the writer's imminent reappearance. While the exhibition's title might translate as "Between the two shores," that is, the Spanish shores of the artist, and the South American shores of the former Spanish colony, it is de Campos' landscapes, in particular, that might recall a Frenchman, Cezanne, in composition and coloring. Cartagena, in its own way, reminds the traveler of other walled cities, the Old City of Acre, for example, in the Middle East, where the tall stone battlements preside over the lapping sea, and in this way, Cartagena, and perhaps Colombia, in general, fulfill de Campos' prediction -- that city and country are moving between many such dualities, if you will, or combinations of 'shores': Old City and towering condominiums; the prevalence of tradition versus oncoming cultural fusion; a period of relative political calm as opposed to recent-enough upheavals involving a vigorous insurgency and narcotics trade. There is more: in October, the lightning flashes offshore and inland, and the rains visit nearly every night -- long, clashing downpours that idle over blocks and neighborhoods, flooding the streets. On Columbus Day, the kids toss firecrackers and slosh through the streets and courtyards, banging a ball between one another in improvised futbol matches. The prescient traveler can purchase a meal of arepas and mango from street vendors then catch the Afro Caribbean dancers or the marching bands, the little girls at the back twisting their cymbals artfully before clattering them together. There are plenty of horse and mule-drawn carts to offset the many busses and tiny Chevy taxicabs, and numerous docile streetdogs roam the tight grid of streets, poking their snouts into garbage bags. Of course, there is more: the traveler can sit in the Iglesia de Santo Domingo, and contemplate the ecumenical weather of its smooth, blue dome. There is also a bone fide sloth to be found hanging out, in a banana tree, at the Palace of the Inquisition. In all, Cartagena is a harmonious place, even in the relatively grittier area of Getsemani, or the sprawling market outside the Old City, but as this blogger (aka Senor Gringo) discovered, one can still make a gruesome finding -- in this case, as part of a side trip, well outside the Old City, in search of more Marquez mythology. To say that one must not stick out his arm, ever, farther than he absolutely needs to, would be a far too facile parry; the finding was a reminder that the forces of brutality are still at work, even as present day Cartagena offers a more panoramic view of tranquility than maybe it had, in recent decades. It has been hundreds of years since swashbuckling Spanish conquistadors slugged inland, through groups of natives spearing them with poison arrows, among other dangers; two hundred years after Napoleon occupied Spain, an act which, in part, precipitated the rebellious figures (Bolivar, et. al.) of New Granada to seek independence from their colonial overlords; and decades since Colombia modernized, in large part due to the coffee economy that other South American, Latin American, and Caribbean nations have, too, enjoyed. The future for Colombia might be brilliant, indeed, and Cartagena once again is the gateway to the Colombian -- and South American -- interior; folks might want to visit before the tourists really dilute the place.

AM PLUTO WATERLY YOURS.

Louis ... Live ... at the Smith Corona!

Think that one kind of genius is 'trapped' within its own genius? Think again. Louis Armstrong reportedly purchased his first typewriter in Chicago, in the 1920s, and banged out letters on it, as a means of keeping time with loved ones back home in New Orleans. He crafted memoir, over the years, and articles, too -- rendered, at times, in jive, and through a unique system of punctuation which, according to Thomas Brothers, gives the reader clues as to how the musician would apply emphasis. Brothers is editor of Louis Armstrong in His Own Words: Selected Writings (Oxford UP, 2001) and author of a companion book, on W. W. Norton (2007): Louis Armstrong's New Orleans, said by one critic to be the finest book about Armstrong not written by the man himself. Consider the following excerpt from Selected Writings, the first sentence of a letter that Satchmo sent in 1967 to a marine serving in Vietnam: I'd like to 'step in here for a 'Minute or 'so' to "tell you how much--I 'feel to know that 'you are a 'Jazz fan, and 'Dig' 'that 'Jive--the same as 'we 'do, "yeah." Note the appearance of quotation marks (") outside their traditional function as well as the appearance of apostrophes (') at the front of words. Louis also underlines, capitalizes, and employs long dashes at surprising moments. How to pronounce the word "we" as Louis types it: 'we. Emphasis upon / within / to clarify / to reinvent Emphasis. Armstrong's writings instruct us to scan language for variations of stress -- in reverse of traditional English scansion, or on a separate axis entirely. There may be a 'new scansion' that the man himself invented, thus meriting close study by writer-folk and other creationists. If that's not enough, then read the Dipper's letters for his closing phrases. The man was, indeed, fond of his laxatives, and in closing "Swiss Krissly", for example, he endorsed the cleansing of things in the herbal way.

THE DISASTER ECONOMY.

It's no longer a 'Bump' after all.

If there is such a thing as The Disaster Economy, then there's hope for America yet. For the Disaster means Jobs. What better way to unite our Blown Wells and our Ne'er Do Wells? "Christmas come early" to some is "oily" to others: "Christmas come oily!" indeed. The Bump has become a Dip and the Dip threatens to Outright Mire. A very yellow bird flies by, a Goldfinch. But the old timer -- you know: fanny pack, green-striped tubesocks pulled to the knees -- calls it a "Dickcissel." How you gonna react to that? Tell him he can't say "Dickcissel"? That's ALL he wants to say, is "Dickcissel" -- he says it about every bird, and every academic theory, and every dip in Gross Domestic Product. "Dickcissel!" he shouts. "DICKCISSEL!" The storm brews and the storm's bruise and work's cruise and work crews: there's hope for America yet.

WORST CASE SCENARIO.

Hope for us all?

If it sleeps two Swedish it can sleep assorted Chosen ou huit chevaux. Which is, basically, Disparities, if not boxcars, but not cuisine. It's a Dug-out if you've Dug, and if you've Dug, you've probably saved your own ass, but either way, it's probably not the Dig-dug pen beside the EconoLodge American Dream, where you may or may not be able to Ambulate, any longer. You may have lost your chance -- to Ambulate. And now for Sport. It is always time for Sport. This has been Sport. And now for Sport. Cuisine should not be confused with Orientalism and it should not be confused with To Do List. There will be Cuisine, in all likelihood, irregardless of procrastination, and at that, please don't elevate your lethargy to some kind of Level. You're just a bum, is all. Anymore have you ever groomed yourself -- combings & pomades, I mean, but not toe jam -- in a way that would obstruct throwback Dissidence? Don't never, not once, don't never obstruct throwback Dissidence. If they don't throw it back, we'll never see our Dissidence ever again, and then we'll be left with wild, improbable scenarios that involve Mustard and Seduction -- dig?

BE MERRY. GO ROUND. BEWARE.

Somebody smelt a gas!

If a man says, "Am I wrong?" -- he's wrong. If a man says, "Am I right?" -- he's bullying. As a result, nobody is ever correct, and the economy can be found out back, under a few mossy rocks, where slugs suffer their blind, miserable lives. Religion says, "Stand up." Religion says, "Sit down." Sit down. And you're out :: of work. Did the Crooner becroon the crony? Did the Crooner becroon the crone? "Be merry," he sang, "go round. Go round," he sang, "beware." "Warfare," says the Commander, "is all about imposing Your will on the Other." Or is that love-making? Either way, it's becoming a world of spinning around and going, "HAH!", only nothing -- nobody -- is ever there: Am I Right?

LIVING AND LOINING.

A no porking violation.

We live on one big, humping planet. It is therefore surprising that a detachment of soldiers would be assigned to investigate a little bovine friendliness on the lea. The army has to plan for everything, I suppose, and a good soldier must be able to identify a field pork in a pinch. A pig in a poke, as it were. Will our predator drones also go to 7-11? It's that, folks, or every 'Ambulance' must be converted to 'Ambulate', and circulate, like busses, so everyday citizens can attend psychotherapies. As for EMTs -- they'll be stowed aboard UPS trucks, delivering packages and patients as profit margins allow. Isn't that the future of health care? As if we were healthy. As if we cared. Most Americans are 'pro choice' if 'choice' means 'kuts' and 'kuts' means 'loin'. Think about it -- there must be 10 billion loins in motion (and countermotion) at any given time, and I hear that one factory in China manufactures 40 percent of the world's loincloths. An investigation took place with scores of loinclothed policemen, even as the findings hardly hampered the humping. I do not know which of the following currencies will triumph -- 'administration', 'blame', or 'hump distribution' -- but we are running some serious deficits; it is some lean loin out there.

AVANT MOI . . . LE PRELUDE.

Le Chat Qui Peep!

Funny how we know just where to assemble, each morning, for the goodbye kiss. People, people, and dessicated animals. The domestic, meanwhile, must toil in the antechambers where the victuals rhyme with vittles. The antechambers, by the by, are where you must call after the flop, and by call, I mean, drop your breeches that rhyme with britches. If it were "Complete the Sentence" then you'd get on this whole Bridges, Ridges, Riches, [Complete the Sentence] thing, which isn't fair, in any stretch of the pagination. Fess Up, Fess Up, and Lie Down. Lie Around, Lie Around. Fess Up, Fess Up, and Lie Down. (Fess! Fess! Fess! etc.) Which brings me to, what I'll call, The Problem of the Summit. I mean, aside from the buzzing spotlamps, the seesaw sirens, the jackbooted regiments of confused irregulars, the fishyssoise, and all that French kookete down by the riverside. The Summit, after all, is just that: The Top, The Heights, and yet, there is nothing, afterwards, to best The Summit, even as The Summit banks on the principle that it will, indeed, be bested. Like a wedding [will be bested] or a weeding [will be bested] by the fertility to follow. This new radical philosophy, folks: I just got weed of it today.

APRES MOI . . . LE DELUDE.

The lesser-known Trojan Elk

After Me, there will be a flood -- of delusion. The Trojan Elk will empty out at 3:20 p.m. in the past, underneath the Flor de Baltimore sign, straddling the tracks, in the Border Town. Out will pour Ionians and Dorics, of course, rounding up all the Helens and Hellenes that they can sway with their Oratory, with their Rhetoric, with their Rubrics of Avant Modern Shizzle. John Coltrane will chant "Delude Supreme, Delude Supreme" while a woman nicknamed Hot Cups will bring the coffee, two sugars, two creams. O, Apres Moi, O, Apres Moi. Because, you know, the flood is taken for granted, by now. It is -- the Whitewashing -- at issue. We are Spectacle, and everything, these days, is a Close Shave. To own your own mind is to be the loaner of an only heart. If there remained only one Heart or one Casket or one Rump of Beef, in which would you invest, as a money-making venture? If you chose the latter, and it got out of hand, you'd be stuck with a Rumpus of Beef, so choose wisely. And roast enough Rumpus to feed those rampaging Ionians. Apres Moi, I would hope that one could tell a Heart from a Casket, a Delude from a Deluge.

HUBBA HUBBA.

O, Seduction, Thy Poultry Is Sizzling!

What would Freud say about a drumstick-wielding Colonel? Is a Freudian Slip a kind of sheer night-wear donned -- "by accident"? Or is it sheer night-mare? (The sleek she-horse who arrives in the dark). One must worship the stormy sea, and one must worship the sun-shine, before one can worship the potato. That would be my triptych, if I were told to have triptych, if our government, say, decided that all Americans should have access to triptych: Water, Light, Tuber. In terms of what I can do for my country -- I can ask what my country can do for me! It's a kind of Perverse Osmosis Patriotism, and it is, now, available in most beverages. We should protest those who engage in windy fascist tactics, The Gustapo. And we should protest those who engage in soupy fascist tactics, The Gazpacho. Pop for weasel, culture, and dislocations. Pop for soda, gramps, and dislocations. Alert: the Fraud Fräulein is a-loose; she must've given her jailers the Freudian Slip. The she-horse is a-galloping; the ocean must be nourishing the potato.

WHEN LOVERS KISS.

How a ménage à trois always ends

It is that -- brief -- time of the year when a lover will don the sweater vest, or a seaman's cap. Well, to be fair, it is always time for a sweater vest in love affairs that are prosecuted by members of The Academy. The train moves, but not like it does in France, or anywhere else, although, it's a real plus that it moves at all. Fliers enter the commuter rail at the airport depot, portly dudes who want to "take back our country" or have a successful encounter with Vice. Preferably, one in which other people get arrested, who do not deserve the misfortune. "Oui" is the stuff of sheets being thrown overhead and God-all knows what else. Whereas "Yes" can lead to the sheets thrown overhead but only if decided upon in advance. What is elliptical versus what is utile. Take the word "intact". It equates, roughly, to "solid in the wake of a dire challenge" but if you chop it in half, make "in tact", then it sounds like diplomacy, which, equates, roughly, to futile. What is intact, in tact, is lessoned. Plat, Platitude; At, Attitude; Drat, Gratitude. All right, portly dudes, take back our country and get a refund. You can't get a brand new country because we're all out of new countries, unless you'd like something in an ecological disaster -- Oh, there's plenty of that to go around, Odorites.

THE ECONOLODGE AMERICAN DREAM.

Get some spellcheck on that tag, yo

Will that be Oral Vulgarity or Written Vulgarity? Inside the safe you'll find the condiment bar, and that'll be two Fins. There ain't enough mustard, though, to feed the god, to free the swallowed child. The children of the gods, therefore, are lost, and this, for all practical purposes, is your final notice. If you want to say "Chine" say "Chine" -- should it ameliorate the repossession of our -- collective -- drywall. Our troubadors crooning the Oleo Leo. I mean, we can't even spell "doomsday" below the window and above the grille. I'm sorry, but all rooms in the EconoLodge American Dream come with Very Aggressive Culture. For an extra charge, your Very Aggressive Culture can be 100 percent certified Organic. If necessary, you can ambulate in the digdug pen beside the dumpster, and then settle down for a complimentary Incontinent Breakfast. Choice of EconoLodge Bananas. Or, if you will, calculate the chance of zealotry viz the appearance of actual zealots. The Fallback? Oh yeah: Nearly forgot: The Center is an idealogy: Queue the pilgrims.

PRIX FIXE PREFIX.

Tusk, Tusk, Tusk, a Shame

Lo, the teenage elephant charges down from the Now 'n' Laters wearing Speed Stick Must. Maybe he shrieks "YEAH-H-H" in the middle of nowhere because he Gotta. It is both inveterate and beyond the paleontology. Similary, the naming rights to the U.S. Gross Domestic Product have been sold, and we now, apparently, have the EconoLodge Economy, which is currently entering a double dip repression, owing to a shortage of ask less, Chaps. There is little difference, anymore, between breaking news and breaking wind. Bejewel your sea creature and call him a Bling Ray. Go ahead, chomp your Sweetmeats and ring your cowbell, champ, your Sweetheart ain't arriving any sooner. Should we be passing Immigration or Ingratiation Reform? How about a New Deal, instead? That is, a fresh hand of cards. Every person in this country should be given a little Duchy, or should that be a little Douchey? The prix fixe prefix is IN. So, I mean, trumpet around in a state of Gotta, and remember that Gotta is just Gotta until it's a boner fide Gotcha. In time, there won't be an Economy anymore, at all, or on the atoll, just the EconoLodge American Dream.

SUFFIXES TO SAY.

That does not explain everything.

Everything "ette". Vinegar + "ette" and incarceration + "ette" and Deity plus "ette". The problem of everyone, in a scandal, having a spokesperson. Suddenly, there are some tall, sturdy Swedes telling us that other tall, sturdy Swedes have nothing to say. Spokespeople is a shovel-ready project. Why not dedicate stimulus funds, thus, to hundreds, if not thousands, of spokespeople. It could be the President's way of including his adversaries in the national dialogue, by way of expanding their political vocabulary. Instead of being "The Party of No" -- well, they could be "The Party of No . . . Comment" if all voters had access to spokespeople. What you used to know about heavy cranes + "ette": No comment. Was that a rabbit or an elk + "ette": No comment. No, wait a minute. Was that, like, a vole, or a sourpuss, or a digdug kind of creature + "ette": No comment. See how that crab works? Chaw Sir, Chaucer, Saucer, Sauce Sir?

THE DANGER OF SHELTERING IN PLACE.

Your Stimulus Dollars in Action

Nothing says "I love you" more than nougat, except, maybe, nugget. Nougat or nugget, eh?, that's the rub. Which brings me to the problem of People with Elegant Wrists. They and their elegant wrists, they don't have to curse, they can't, really, in any event, curse, on account of their elegant wrists. One day, soon, it will be 8 / 9 / 10. That is, it will be August 9, 2010. There must be some -- finality -- on that day: A curtain raised and someone really peeved. "Ta Da!" even if the trick fails, the trick always fails, in real life. O, Big Old Water Tank. Why a Big Old Water Tank and not another form of liquid delivery? Some daredevil will always want to scale it, A., and B., someone will write an unfortunate Ode to His Hometown Water Tank. Will it say "Shibboleth?" it will say "Shibboleth." What can you do, but incorporate some peat humus into the topsoil? You will never be the same, thereafter, but the topsoil will always be the topsoil, just a bit more peat humussy, and awaiting, with some -- finality -- The Drought.

THE PROBLEM OF THE CHOW CHOW.

I'll Never Go Back to Georgia

The problem of the chow chow, unleashed, in a summery rural lane. With no owner, apparently, nearby. And no people, for that matter, anywhere about. The problem of that chow chow, cocking his head, raising his tail, in that rural lane. In Georgia. He'd been clenching a softball in his jaws, and when I arrived, dropped it, slobbery, beaten by bats and gloves. The ball rolled off to the side and the chow chow cocked his head, a black dog with purple gums, its tail not passive, but raising like hackles. To know a dog's name is to know his combination and if you get one or two tries incorrect, unlike a safe -- which will just sit there, dumbly guarding its valuables -- the dog will grow and growl impatient. Or worse. Would nobody name a rottweiler "Rottweiler" or a shepherd "Shepherd" but a chow chow's second name is always "Chow Chow". And so the problem of the rural chow chow, unleashed, was solved. Even though I've never been in a country lane. In Georgia. It was Florida, instead, and the chow chow was a friend of mine.

BAD LUCK OBEDIENCE TRAINING.

Def Leppards.

What I'm saying is, there is a tree out there that not only bears the salami as fruit, but effectively hides the salami as part of its -- daily, monthly, annual -- ritual. A Hide the Salami Tree. O, can you imagine when people became people? It must've been, like, B.C. B.C., cuz, becuz that's when people still didn't know who they were, just yet. Some walked all the way up to Norway! There were savages running around in the hedge, painting themselves blue -- before they became the British. Another man held a snail, or a mushroom, up to his nose and he became a Frenchman. Suddenly there were all kinds of people, and the only logical thing to do was, heat lots of oil and pour it on each other. (This notion would go uncorrected for many centuries, until a band of traveling minstrels, Hard of Hearing Feline, or was it Def Leppard, would aver that one should pour sugar on [the other].) O, Deffen me!

IN CASE YOU DIDN'T KNOW.

"I Like Gravy"

Rabbit, Come Out the Bewilderness, O, Rabbit, Come Out the Bewilderness. The word "collaborate" no longer suggests the arrival of a double bass and submarine sandwiches for all but a "Corporate Strategy Session" with a man named Hammer. Having a "career" is all about not "careering" out of control, i.e., having a good careen after swilling some of the poteen. No, it would not be a good "career move" to career. To my knowledge, only one man -- me -- has ever depreciated all the telephone poles in the United States, and the answer, I came to, was: This job sucks. We should've, instead, depreciated all the rabbit suits in the United States. If the lawsuit fits, wear it, I suppose, unless you're being sued for impersonating a career. "Think outside the lunchbox," says Hammer. When, all of a sudden, the smoked salmon arrives. And that's really why I agreed to depreciate all those telephone poles -- in the hopes that, one day, I could toss my big, fat tie over shoulder and really dig into an everything bagel. O, Rabbit, Come Out the Bewilderness, O, Everything Rabbit, Be Wild, Come Out the Bewilderness. Listen: Okay, kay, kay, ours is not a land flowing with milk and honey. It is, nevertheless, a land flowing with biscuits and gravy, its inhabitants be as numerous as depreciated phone poles, and Lo, they shall revel in the very cholesterol of their imitations, huzzah!

SALAMI TREE.

Uff Da!

The men and women of Salamis are Salamis. If they have more than one salami tree -- and more than one salami -- then these, too, are Salamis, everything is Salamis. It is called Uff Da if a penguin jumps in Minneapolis and Uff Da if a Penguin jumps in Norway. They have all the same kinds of adages -- Minnesotans and Norwegians -- except that they have no magnetic birds. They must, instead, have a fish in-hand, if they want to effect change upon them penguins in the hedge. Adjectives, however, is a different story, when it comes to modifying adages. Can one slop a penguin? And if so, would one slop it with scripture? Many times I have seen people -- who call themselves cultivated -- slopping fowl with scripture. Is Irish sorcery the O'Cult? Maybe, and maybe not, but what must the Persians be thinking, still, after all these years? They failed to capture Salamis in The Battle of Salamis, in part, because, the Greeks harvested the Salamis first, and chased the Persians in angry-mob-style, wielding Salamis. Uff Da, in Norway, and Uff Da, in Minneapolis. Had the Persians triumphed, would the penguin have ever leapt toward a wielding of seafood?

ATTACK!

Showdown at the Phone Camera Corral.