Monday, September 14, 2009
The Government Commission on EMP
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
That poem, written on the battlefield of Ypres in 1915, was almost never published. Canadian Lt. Col. John McCrae composed it while sitting on the bumper of an ambulance. The day previous, he had seen his friend Lt. Alexis Helmer killed by an artillery shell, and buried him in a small cemetery next to an aid station. Sergeant-major Cyril Allinson watched him write it, and thought it was "an exact description of the scene in front of us...". Wild poppies were the only things growing in the churned soil of the battlefield cemetery, and they were moving in a light east wind. McCrae was dissatisfied with what he had written, ripped it out of his notebook, and threw it away. It was retrieved by another officer and sent to newspapers in England. McCrae died at the end of the war during the Great Influenza.
How accurate are military rifles?
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Service Rifles

Monday, September 7, 2009
Fun with an M14
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Coconuts in Caracas

Since the facade of public safety prevents us from traveling with so much as a pocket knife, I am surrounded by one of my favorite foods with no way practical way to avail myself of them. They're on nice, low trees even. I bashed a couple open on rocks and salvaged what liquid I could, but it wasn't much. I would sell my grandmother into sexual bondage for a machete right now.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig

Fascinating biography: The British commander in WWI was a rigid thinker, without any trace of a sense of humor. He sincerely believed that he was chosen by God to defeat evil in the form of Germany. Anyone who opposed him was an instrument of the Devil. He had not an iota of self-doubt, and was apparently able to lose a million men without losing a moment of sleep. Sounds like a reincarnation of Oliver Cromwell. How do such pious killers rise to the top so often? Maybe it's precisely because zealots aren't hindered by the doubts of more rational people, and we find their supreme self-assurance alluring.
