Sunday, December 17, 2006

If I Were King...

Things would be different if I was King. In the words of Glenn Beck, but hopefully not in his style, "I have a list..."

Maybe the first thing I would do if I was King was put news back on Headline News and send Glenn Beck and Nancy Grace back to whence they came. A disgrunted partisan hack and Roland Friesler in nice clothes - I certainly never asked for either one.

But I digress. If I were King, I'd bring Pro Mod and AA/FA back to the NHRA. I was never sure what the movitation for killing Pro Mod was, but in retrospect it seems obvious it was a mistake. Cars with huge V-8s and blowers sticking out of their hoods? What's not to like? This isn't to take anything away from Pro Stock, which is certainly cool in its own right, but c'mon, we're talking about big blowers here!

I read in a book a while back that the NHRA scuttled the AA/FA ("Fuel Altered") class because of the popularly of Funny Cars and the fact that AA/FA cars were more or less indistinguishable from Funny Cars anyway. True? I don't know. I've only seen two FA cars run in person in my life, and most of what I know about the class comes from old magazines and books, so I may not have the slightest idea of what I'm talking about. But I do know that at my local drag strip, as soon as a FA car fires up, everyone stands up and all the guys that were in line to get Cokes at the snack bar or get rid of Cokes at the bathroom turn around to watch the run. Now, this is against a backdrop of cars that, while impressive and fast on their own, are not powered by nitromethane. If there were a bunch of top fuelers or funny cars there, would anyone give a hoot about a Fuel Altered with a ridiculous Topolino body?

Of course they would! They would because I, as King, would decree that it be so.

(Tellingly enough, I've seen about nine FA runs, and only one of them was clean. The others were marred by blown engines, wall rubs and other hijinks brought on by piling too much horsepower on too little car. But that one clean run, somewhere in the vicinity of 5.4 seconds if I remember correctly, that was magic. And there was no prying the grin off the driver's face.)

And while I'm at it, I would decree that the NHRA continue to get crappy TV coverage. One of my greatest fears (in drag racing anyway) is that the NHRA will suddenly become hugely and peculiarly popular for no apparent reason in the way the NASCAR suddenly became hugely and peculiarily popular. I think that would be bad.

Pinks is bad enough. People turn on this wretched program and think they're going to be watching drag racing, but it is to drag racing as the WWE is to Greco-Roman wrestling. It's all a bunch of ego-fueled posing and bad-mouthing, exactly the kind of Dueling Testicles crap I don't want to watch on TV. They could settle the matter at hand within the first 15 seconds of the show. Start your damn cars, get in, and race. But no. The principals must bop heads in a metaphorical sense, shout hoarse nonsense, threaten to take their basketballs and go home, and suddenly remember they were scheduled for tap dance lessons and can't race after all.

And when they do race, some guy waves them off the line with his hat. What is this, a time warp? Is it 1951 again? You mean to say we installed all those fancy timing systems at our drag strips so we can ignore them and wave cars off with our hats?

Oh, right. It's not about racing. It's about drama.

My mistake.

Friday, December 15, 2006

VALIS

I'm rereading Philip K. Dick's novel "VALIS" for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time it makes me think. It's a screwy book that only barely qualifies as a novel by technical definition, and I can never decide if it is brilliant or complete swill. I suppose cynics would argue that since Mr. Dick got my royalty check either way, it doesn't matter, but still, when I read something as dense, strange and thoughtful as VALIS, I want it to mean something. I just don't know if it does.

My favorite part of the book by far, aside from the idea of Soviet technicians scurrying around in the background behind the three-eyed alien cyborgs in Horselover Fat's bizarre vision, is when the narrator talks about his persistent dreams of living in a nice house by a lake in northern California, a house he doesn't own near a lake that doesn't exist with a wife he never had. (For the record, yes, I know that Horselover Fat and the narrator are one and the same, but one of the glories of the book is the way he effortlessly convinces you that they are separate people even though he goes out of his way to remind you that they are not separate people.)

He concludes that not only is the landscape and population in his dreams wrong, but the ideology is wrong. He doesn't even want to live that way, would rather eat a dead dog than succumb to that kind of suburban swill - but the dreams are nevertheless extremely pleasant. He concludes in the end that he isn't dreaming his dreams but is in fact dreaming his father's dreams.

Maybe. Maybe not.

What interests me about this is that I also have recurrent dreams that always take place in a constrained geographical region that doesn't exist, in my case, an entirely fictional part of central Arizona somewhere between Camp Verde and Phoenix. This landscape is fairly rugged, ridged with mountains and slashed with valleys, and the roads wind painfully up and down the mountains in endless switchbacks. But what's really interesting is that this landscale is dominated by what can only be called Herculean earthmoving projects - highways, dams, tunnels and weirder things yet - sometimes I encounter titanic earthmoving projects that appear to have no purpose other than their own mere existence, as though someone decided to move 300 million cubic yards of earth just for the sheer hell of it.

Unlike the narrator's dreams, I don't find this landscape or ideology unnerving. Well, sometimes I do - sometimes the earthmoving projects are a bit hair-raising with dozers and tandem scrapers perched on the narrowest cuts on the sides of nearly vertical slopes, bringing to mind the Fun Old Days when doing my job involved running the right track of my D6C halfway out over the abyss... Strange, isn't it, that I never see hydraulic excavators in my mythic landscape. It's always oval-track dozers, D9Gs to be specific, and strange tractor scrapers like Cat 630s or DW-20s, or Euclid TSS-24s, or even older "pans" pulled by bladeless D9s, and spidery draglines and - oh dear - Wabco graders.

I once dreamed that I was riding on the back of such a grader, gripping the exhaust stack while someone else drove. It was raining and the grader's tires were throwing up great sprays of muddy water, and I decided I didn't want to ride on the back of the grader any more. I tapped on the glass and the driver turned and I saw that it was Adolf Hitler wearing a stamped-metal hard hat. Huh. Go figure that one out. Maybe we would all have been better off if Hitler had been a crabby, dyspeptic grader operator instead of a monstrous dictator...

When I was a kid there were only two kinds of landscape: that which was flat enough to be built on as it was, and that which required a bigger dozer before it could be built upon. I think that's the message of my dream landscape, that no matter what the terrain is like, we (mankind in general) can master it with the proper application of engineering, willpower, guts, and heavy equipment.

Which doesn't have much to do with VALIS at all, now that I think about it, except for the shared habit of dreaming about a specific geographic locale that doesn't actually exist. Well, that and my habit of sitting out on the patio at night and speculating about Gnosticism.

Thursday, December 07, 2006

And They Laugh At MY Music

I "discovered" two new bands the other day. I say "discovered" because they've been around for a while, quite a while in one case. One is Bolt Thrower, which reminds me a bit of, say, Dismember or a somewhat less arty Entombed. The other Insomnium, a Finnish melodic death metal band that reminds me a bit of a less commercially polished In Flames with just a hint of doomdeath mixed in. They're both quite good, though in different ways. Bolt Thrower is heavier, but Insomnium it cut out of the Gothenburg cloth, which I happen to like. I apparently have an infinite appetite for melodic death metal, at least as long as it says away from modern experiments in metalcore. I don't care for all that indecipherable shouting and prefer all that indecipherable growling.

A day or so ago I watched a news story about the Billboard music awards. I'm not a big fan of music awards - I think they are fundamentally irrelevant. I know the kinds of music I like and I don't need to buttress my tottering ego by listening to what's new or cool. And, let's be honest, the music that is likely to win awards just isn't made for me. You like pop music? By all means, enjoy it in good health.

But please stop barging into my cubicle at work just so you can sneer at the music I listen to.

Monday, November 06, 2006

"Lost"

I finally did it - I broke down and bought the first season of Lost on DVD and started watching. I've only seen a handful of episodes thus far and have no theories of any sort, but it's proving to be quite interesting.

I was expecting... Oh, I didn't know what to expect. A modern version of Robinson Crusoe, a dramatized version of Survivor, perhaps a slightly grubbier version of Dallas.

But no, it's actually very different, even weird. And therefore good. It's just weird enough to engage that part of me that enjoys science fiction, but not so weird that it repulses that part of me that prefers more mainstream fare.

Nicely done - so far.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Revell S-100 Schnellboot

I recently finished Revell's new 1/72nd scale S-100 schnellboot model. Quite a nice kit, and very impressive when posed next to Revell's PT boat and Airfix's Vosper MBT. You get a good idea of the S-100's sheer size compared to its smaller rivals, and though German naval doctrine discourged gun battles with Allied fast attack craft, one suspects that given equal leadership and crew quality, S-100s would have held their own at least.

But I have to ask something. Why, given the high quality of the kit in general, is the 37mm gun such a wreck? Everything else is so good; why is the 37mm gun so simplified and blocky, and why its its barrel and muzzle so unlike the real gun? Not a big deal, but it's kind of annoying. Maybe someday I'll build (or find) a replacement barrel for it. I have an Airfix 40mm Bofors in my collection; I suppose I could donate it to that cause since some S-100s carried the 40mm Bofors, but I have pre-existing plans for that gun, namely, arming a late-war US PT boat at such time as I find another model of said boat. I'd try to cast it in resin, but I historically have problems casting long thin pieces like gun barrels. 120mm figures? Sure. Small-scale guns? Tricky.

I also didn't pay enough attention to the instructions. I like to study the instructions before I start building, mainly so I can plan construction around painting, but this time I was apparently watching TV while I studied them and completely missed the requirement to drill holes in the hull for the Effekt rudders and outboard propeller shaft housings. I had to measure and eyeball and drill the holes from the outside, and I think I placed the propeller shaft housing holes just a tad too far aft, and the Effekt rudder holes just a tad too far outboard. It's not really noticeable since all this is under the hull, but just knowing it's there kind of irritates me.

I also failed to cut off the mounting rings for the two inboard smoke generators, so when I went to put the depth charge rails on, they didn't lie completely flat. Doh! Again it's not terribly noticeable, but when I get around to scratchbuilding some depth charges, the problem may get worse. I suppose I could always cut them off, sand the area flat and respray it, but it would have been easier if I had been paying attention in the first place.

So who's up for some schnellboot weiss? Not me! My local hobby shop carries schnellboot weiss, but only in acrylic form, and I personally don't have much success airbrushing acrylics. I prefer my paints toxic and smelly, apparently, so I found an extremely light gray in the Model Master II rack and used it.

Even though I put the boat on the shelf, I'm not sure I'm done with it. I still want to do something about that terrible 37mm gun barrel, I want to scratchbuild some depth charges, I need to paint up some 1/72nd scale crewmen, and I think the boat needs a little weathering. Given my current rate of progress, I'll get to it in, oh, about four centuries.

Waking Up

Well, that was fun - I just spent about three weeks in corporate hell and all for no apparent gain. I can't really comment on anything that happened, it being a violation of my NDA to do so, but suffice it to say I put in a lot of overtime and engineering effort over the last few weeks only to arrive right back at my original starting point. If I were more literate I could come up with a pithy sentence or two that summarizes this, but I'm not, so I'll just grouse about it.

Or not.

Grousing about it would also be a violation of my NDA.

So I'll have to be content with expressing my utter disgust for durian. If it isn't the worst thing I've ever smelled, it's got to be a close second. And people eat it! I'm appalled!

And that's no violation of any NDA, though I suppose now the Durian Grower's Association is going to send some thugs around to break my tumbs.

Monday, October 16, 2006

Short Rounds

Wherein I issue short communiques on the nature of my internal discourse:

1. The other day I was driving to work and saw a National Guard 5-ton truck towing a 155mm M198 howitzer. The Guardsmen were probably going to the local dragstrip, where the National Guard displays (among other things) towed field artillery as recruiting tools. It made me smile, watching this truly immense truck with equally immense howitzer wading through the massed ranks of SUVs and raised pickups. I wonder how many egos it bruised. I see that an M198 costs about $550,000 at the bulk government rate. I'd probably have to come up with about $750,000 to buy one. I imagine a modern field piece parked in the front yard would make the county just a tad nervous, not to mention the neighbors.

2. I just watched Monday Night Football and witnessed another remarkable collapse by the Arizona Cardinals. I live in Arizona, and even I thought it was funny how fast the wheels fell off the cart. Mind you, I don't watch a lot of football. Or even much football. I hardly ever watch football, actually, and my immune system seems to be very efficient at wiping out the football fever virus. There's too much relentless self-promotion in football these days for my taste.

3. I see that the name of the new stadium for the Arizona Cardinals, built and paid for by the taxpayers of Glendale, Arizona, is now named the "Univeristy of Phoenix Stadium." The hell??? It should have been named the "Sales Tax Increase Stadium" or the "Thank You Taxpayers Stadium". I'm glad I don't live in a part of Arizona that was taxed to build said stadium - knowing that I paid for that stadium where the Cardinals humiliate themselves would make me yearn for strong drink. Another good reason to live in an unincorporated area - I'm not taxed so a rich sports team owner can get even richer. I'll gladly refuse the illusory improvement in my "quality of life" in return for not having to help pay for the stadium.

4. I watched "V for Vendetta" the other day, and it was better than I expected. I had to watch it for some twenty minutes before the ridiculous Guy Fawkes mask stopped making me laugh, but once I got over that, it wasn't bad.

5. I recently built a 1/72nd scale Emhar Mark-IV tank, the old Great War rhomboid dinosaur. Very nice kit, I have to say, with nice detail and even better decals. The unditching rails were fiddlesome and I came close to scuppering them a couple of times, but on the whole, I was quite pleased. I'm starting to develop a taste for 1/72nd scale armor (as opposed to the more mainstream 1/35th scale).

6. Wheldon complains that the investigation of his doings is "politically motivated." Once again, I have to say, the hell??? Last time I checked, the director of the FBI was Robert S. Mueller III, appointed by President Bush. Yeah, there's your liberal conspiracy for you - a conservative appointed by a conservative investigating a conservative. He'd have as much luck trying to convince me it is a UFO conspiracy what is bringing him down.

7. But maybe it is UFOs. I recently read that "a majority" of Americans are convinced of the "reality of UFOs". They didn't quantify "majority" nor did they define the "reality of UFOs" but nevertheless, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Mostly laugh. I'd be surprised if it turned out we were the only sentient species in the universe, but I'd be even more surprised if other sentient species were visiting us. My sense is that if we were being visited, we'd know for sure and wouldn't have to rely on wide-eyed and entirely uncritical "documentaries" on the Sci-Fi Channel, or the testimony of people whose UFO contact stories always seem to involve largish quantities of Jim Beam.

8. My friend's wife is having her baby this week - or should I say, they're both hoping she has the baby this week. I wish them the best of luck, but I also dread that moment when they tell me the new arrival's name. I confess that I prefer solid, established names that don't kowtow to fashion or some yuppie's demented urge to be unique. I find trendy yuppie made-up baby names silly, but when they mangle the spelling of existing names to make them "yuneek" I have to choke down a horse tranquilizer to avoid screeching at them like the Pod People in Invasion of the Body-Snatchers. So here's hoping A) that baby and mother come out of this experience healthy, and B) when they tell me the baby's name, it ISN'T something like "Madycen" or "Gessikah" or - Heaven help us - "Nevaeh". Yes, I know it's Heaven spelled backwards, and no, I don't think it's kyoot or yuneek or spayshul at all. Mostly, it's cylly.

9. I'm kind of a language snob and most neologisms rub the wrong way (unless, of course, I coined the neologism in the first place. I'm a language snob, and a hypocrite too). So a few days ago I was walking through my workplace en route to nowhere special and saw a big poster on the wall that spelled out our mission statement. I'm used to the term "mission statement" these days and it hardly fires any neurons at all in that part of my brain that handles tragic irony. But appended to the mission statement was something new - a "Burning Platform." Gagging, I returned to my desk and Googled "burning platform" and read this:

When the oil platform Piper Alpha in the North Sea caught fire, a worker was trapped by the fire on the edge of the platform. Rather than [face] certain death in the fire, he chose probable death by jumping 100 feet into the freezing sea. The term 'burning platform' is now used to describe a situation where people are forced to act by dint of the alternative being somewhat worse. The crisis may already exist and just needs to be highlighted.

So all of a sudden the desperate, agonizing decision to jump out of a burning rig and face quick death on impact with the ocean instead of lingering death on a burning rig has turned into an atrocious piece of management-consultant lingo. What's worse is that there was already a perfectly good word to describe this situation.

Dilemma - A forced choice between courses of action (usually two) which are equally unacceptable.

But I guess "dilemma" just isn't hip in that glib, corporate way so cherished by suits and consultants. If I were that poor guy on the Piper Alpha rig, I'd haunt every last corporate insultant who used the phrase "burning platform" to describe anything other than a platform that happens to be on fire.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Cuba, yes?

There’s a lot about Cuba that I just don’t get.

There is Cuba itself, said to be the last country to officially espouse old-school Leninism. I don’t know if that claim is true, but certainly Cuba is one of the last unabashedly Communist regimes, a political stance that seems kind of silly to me. It’s like being the last feudal kingdom, or the last doctor to treat diseases with bloodletting – someone has to be last, but it’s nothing to be proud of.

I don’t get the way Cuba seems to dominate American politics either. The world is full of interesting challenges – nuclear tensions in south Asia, the rise of Jihadism, how to police Afghanistan, how to salvage something from the mess of Iraq, the negotiation of multilateral trade deals that could affect millions of people. But instead of paying attention to that, we’re transfixed by the image of an old man with a scruffy beard and a green military hat.

I’ve never understood our policy toward Cuba, or rather our lack of policy toward Cuba, and I surely don’t understand why events in Cuba are given considerably more coverage than events in Russia.

Russia: Huge geographic size, large population, immense petroleum reserves, powerful nuclear arsenal, large if somewhat demoralized army, competent nuclear and chemical scientists, and a substantial and deepening role in the industrialized economy.

Cuba: Geographically tiny, small population, no oil reserves I’ve ever heard of, no ability to attack targets off of Cuba itself, and essentially no world role at all except as a nebulous example to other vaguely leftist Latin American governments.

Based on news coverage, one could be excused for imagining that Cuba was Russia and vice versa. We analyze every random rumbling from Castro’s bowels with the seriousness of a Dan Brown fan trying to interpret a late medieval tapestry, while momentous things happen in Russia and we shrug and say “Eh, it’s some kind of Slavic deal, we don’t know.”

The easiest way to defeat a Communist regime is to let its own people subvert it from within. It happened in Russia, it happened throughout Eastern Europe, and it’s happening in China and Vietnam. Allow the citizens of the communist regime to perceive the vast gulf between what was promised and what was delivered, allow them to appreciate the western economic model, allow them to appreciate western ideas in participative government, and pretty soon the whole Lenin-encrusted edifice collapses. And it usually collapses peacefully, the old-line Communist regime simply being rendered irrelevant by economic and cultural facts on the ground.

Why don’t we do this with Cuba? Why do we treat Cuba with the seriousness of a rogue nuclear state? Why do we issue veiled threats of military action? All this does is unite the Cuban people behind their leadership and give them the feeling they are rallying in the face of an external enemy. All of this over a country that has no missiles, no effective air force, no ability to carry out attacks on US territory, and no superpower benefactor.

I just don’t get it. I’m told that we can’t engage with Cuba without somehow legitimizing Castro. But we engaged with the Soviets without legitimizing them. We engaged with Vietnam without legitimizing them. We engaged with China without legitimizing them either. What’s different with Cuba?

I honestly don’t know what’s different. I think in some cases old Cold Warriors are reluctant to part with the Cuba-as-an-enemy stance because it’s the last morsel of the Cold War left for them to savor. I can actually almost understand that position. Whatever else the Cold War was, it offered a certain bracing moral simplicity. One was either a capitalist pig or a Commie stooge; there was no real middle ground. The conflict was uncommonly clearly defined, and almost any kind of political or economic activity could have Cold War overtones (even high school chess tournaments got wrapped up in the Cold War eschatology, imbuing them with a kind of faux drama that apparently appeals to high school chess players and Cold Warriors).

The post-USSR world is scary and ambiguous. In the old days we knew who the enemy was, and we knew it could be held at bay by a combination of horrific nuclear deterrence and ideological rigor. Or so we were told, and in truth there were effectively no major confrontations between the West and the USSR. Proxy wars, sure, but in the end American and Soviet missile-men never came to blows.

The modern world is much scarier. Our fleets of bombers don’t deter terrorists. Our ballistic missile submarines, each loaded with enough nukes to transform a continent into a wasteland, don’t stop masked men from heaving RPG-7s at us. Our comforting Cold War eschatology suddenly shudders to a halt and bursts into flames when confronted with religious and ethnic struggles that we don’t understand and can't win in any meaningful military sense. Being a superpower doesn’t mean squat these days.

Maybe that’s why we vapor over Cuba. It reminds us of simpler times. It’s like a photo album of those heady days when B-52s and Minuteman IIs delivered as much security as they promised.

Human Beans

One summer Dad sent me off to work at Crazy Jose’s pig farm. I think I was about sixteen, and I suspect the decision to send me to pig hell had more to do with getting me out of the house for a couple of weeks than with my potential development as a human being. The pig farm was out in Harquahala Valley, a patch of sun-blasted desert more or less indistinguishable from Hell. The pig farm was interesting experience, to wit:

There were about twelve of us working at the farm. Ten of us were young male Mexicans. In today’s language they would be called “undocumented workers”. Back in the 1970s, they were called something else. They generally referred to one another as “mojies”, which I believe to be a contraction of mojados, or “those who are wet”. Today we avoid the use of terms like “wetback” and “mojie” because they express a kind of neo-colonialism, but back then, they weren’t so much terms of opprobrium as socio-economic labels. The eleventh guy at the pig farm was a much older gentleman, also a mojie, who did the cooking. The twelfth guy was me, a pudgy white suburban kid. My job was to provide unintentional comic relief.

The defining characteristic of a pig farm is the presence of large numbers of pigs. Pigs are gruesome creatures, as far as I’m concerned. Back in the 1970s the west side of Phoenix was dotted with feed lots and on warm summer nights the smell of concentrated cattle manure could rise to nearly life-threatening concentrations, but cow manure is ambrosia compared to the vile sticky mess that is pig shit. (It doesn’t deserve the discreet nomenclature “manure”. It is not manure. It is shit, pure and simple.) Black, vile, odiferous, heaped up in banks, wallowed into mud holes, it was literally everywhere.

But pig shit was a picnic compared to what we fed the pigs. Jose had worked out an arrangement with the Shamrock Dairy where he bought any of their products that could not be sold in grocery stores. And this was the 1970s, before people developed the hair trigger reflex to check the sell-by date on their dairy products. Every so often (my memory says “weekly”) a crew would drive from the pig farm to the Shamrock Dairy, which was more or less in downtown Phoenix, and we would load the tractor-trailer rig with whatever Shamrock didn’t want. Milk, cream, orange juice, essentially anything the dairy couldn’t sell went into the truck. Even potato chips and bread, though exactly how they ended up at the dairy remains a mystery to me.
So we’d drive this mess back to the pig farm, trailing a cloud of rotten milk gas. I remember riding in the trailer, sitting atop leaning heaps of dead and dying milk, heaving half-pints of milk at road signs. It’s a wonder nobody was ever killed riding on that trailer, or that we weren’t struck by lightning by a vengeful God for our sheer gall.

Back at the pig farm, one would now face the job of dumping the rotten dairy products into the tank. The tank was a large cylindrical water tank with no top. One stood on a rickety wooden platform next to the tank, grabbed cartons of milk off the truck, and dumped them into the open top of the tank. The stench that rose from the tank defies description – the mere memory of it makes my eyes water to this day. The stuff in the tank looked a bit like soupy sour cream, but it usually couldn’t be seen because there was a foot-thick layer of foamy dairy froth floating on top of the goop. Flies were attracted to it in droves, and as they tried to land on the dairy froth, they got stuck, sank in, and drowned. The mess looked a little bit like bread pudding with raisins.

The drill was to grab a half-gallon carton of milk in either hand, raise them over your head, and swing them down smartly and smack them on the rim of the tank. The impact would blow the top of the carton open and eject the semi-fluid contents in one vile operation. But sometimes you’d encounter cartons that had already blown open. It was so hot, and the milk was so rotten, that the gas pressure in the cartons had risen beyond the bursting point of the cartons. You’d grab one of these jewels and give it a hearty downward swing, and it would eject its contents on the way down and spray you with rotten dairy product. Curiously, the more rotten the milk was, the less objectionable it was. When milk went really, really rotten it separated to two substances, a straw-colored clear fluid floating on top of a somewhat gelatinous cheesy mass in the bottom of the carton. The cheese wouldn’t usually fly out, so you just got a light shower of the straw-colored whey, which attracted flies and wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it wasn’t horrible. It was the partially-rotten milk that I really hated – imagine being sprayed with sun-warmed sour cream, and not being able to take a shower for a week, and you’ve got the general idea.

To feed the pigs, one pulled a lever that opened a gate. The stuff in the tank – flies, froth and all – flowed into troughs and the pigs went wild, slurping it up as though it were ice cream. Whenever people tell me they own a pet pig, I can’t help but think about hundreds of pigs all covered with spoiled milk, dead flies and pig shit.

The evening meal was always the same: a pot of beans that had been spiced to the point they had become radioactive, and one head of lettuce per person. The lettuce wasn’t cut up or anything; it was literally a head of lettuce, and you’d eat it as you would eat a large apple. The drill was to eat the beans until your nose was running like a junior member of the Niagara Falls and your eyes had swollen shut, and then to eat lettuce until you stopped breathing flames.

All of us slept in a single gutted trailer house. Someone had removed all the interior walls with a sledgehammer and there was no furniture; we slept on the floor. Now recall that the evening meal always consisted primarily of beans. The ripping was not to be believed, and the constant reek of hydrogen sulfide was in some ways worse than the pig shit and rotten milk. To this day I retain memories of twelve people all farting in unison, and nobody being the slightest bit abashed about it. Had we tried to be polite and hold our gas until we could expel it in private, we would have plumped up like Ball Park Franks and exploded.

One weekend one of Jose’s other employees showed up. All I remember is that he was a NorteAmericano and was the kind of guy you didn’t really want to spent time with on an elevator. He wasn’t actively evil, but he had a kind of shifty ne’er-do-well aspect about him that made one wary of trusting him with cameras or expensive wristwatches. His mission was to fix a rickety old truck, and through some mysterious troubleshooting technique that mainly involved a lot of glum staring at the truck, he conceived the notion that there was something wrong with the fuel line. So he crawled under the truck with a hacksaw and started to cut the metal fuel line. Gasoline soon poured from the partially-severed fuel line, and as he fiddled with the saw he touched the positive terminal on the starter. Sparks flew, and soon gouts of orange flame leaped up from the pooled gasoline.

Someone ran off to get the garden hose, but in the meantime all we had to fight the fire was milk. We literally threw half-gallons of milk at the truck, a bizarre form of dairy fire suppression that I can safely report had zero impact on the fire. Eventually we pushed the truck out of the garage before it burned the building down, but the truck, as I recall, was history.

I like to think that I learned something from this experience, and I suppose in a way I did – I learned that I really don't care to work on a pig farm again.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Paper Models



I greatly enjoy building models of spacecraft and launch vehicles, but one of the main problems with this is that there just aren't many plastic models of spacecraft and launch vehicles out there, and most of those are collector's items that are costlier than I can really justify. But as it happens, if you're willing to switch to a different (and, ironically, older) medium, ther are lots of spacecraft and launch vehicle models to be had.

The medium is paper. Just plain old paper. In the photograph above, four boosters are visible. The one on the far left is a composite, a paper Titan-IIIC booster and a paper X-20 Dyna-Soar spacecraft combined together. The interstage isn't quite right, but I'm prepared to live with it. The green one to its immediate right is a plastic model of a Soyuz-U booster, in this case the one that British astronaut Helen Sharman flew aboard. The big blue one next to it is a 1/72nd scale paper Delta II, in this case the one used to launch Spirit to Mars. The one on the right is an old Estes flying model rocket, which I keep in the space museum because painted that way it bears a mild resemblance to a Black Brant sounding rocket.

So, paper models. What's it all about? You download a PDF of the parts and instructions from various websites, usually for free. Even when they aren't free, they aren't very expensive - I bought a CD from Delta 7 Studios that contains more paper models than I can shake a stick at for less than the price of a modern plastic model airplane.

You print out the parts and instructions. I usually print the parts at maximum resolution on fairly heavy paper, 30-poundish for rockets and often 67 or 110 pound paper for satellites and things that don't involve many curves or cylinders (rolling 110 pound paper into a tight cylinder will make you yearn for strong drink. Trust me on this). I've made decent models out of 20-pound paper, but generally speaking, if the paper is too thin it is easy to roll and form, but too weak to hold a shape. If the paper is too heavy, it's very difficult to roll and form cleanly, but fairly sturdy. I usually don't print the instructions - I spend an evening reading them, and then I race back and forth between the workbench and the computer. It's good for my cardiovascular fitness.

My printer is a pretty inexpensive Epson Stylus C66, certainly nothing fancy. I like this printer because the dried ink seems to pretty waterproof, unlike some other inkjet printers, and the ink doesn't crack and flake off like some color laser printers. And since you still have the PDF, if you mess up the parts, you can print more.

At that point, you get to start cutting, folding, rolling and gluing. I use scissors, X-acto knives, a steel straightedge and a self-healing cutting mat. Curiously, the cutting mat is the best investment you can make. A good cutting mat, a fresh X-acto blade, and a good straightedge will produce cuts plenty clean and straight enough for any paper model I ever encountered. Plain old white glue is sufficient for most gluing, though I use a plain old office glue stick in places where the white glue might make the paper buckle or wrinkle.

And that's really it. You don't need a lot of tools. I have some dowels of various sizes I use to help roll fuselage sections and strap-on boosters, and I use some old paint brush handles to help form nose cones, and I occasionally use cheap school markers or dabs of craft paint to touch up cut edges, but you don't need a lot of expensive stuff to make a decent paper model. Certainly not an airbrush and compressor, the sine qua non of good plastic modeling.

I've built quite a few paper models over the last few years, and here is my collected paper model wisdom.

1. Wash your hands frequently. Kentucky Fried Chicken is good stuff, but greasy KFC fingerprints can't be cleaned off a paper model. Before I start a model, I scrub my cutting pad and workbench until they squeak, and I wash my hands every time I go back into the house to consult the instructions or get more coffee.

2. Use fresh knife blades. When you sit down to start a new paper model, take the old blade out of your knife and THROW IT AWAY. Put a new blade in and you will be on the path to contentment.

3. When you're done and you begin to punish yourself for not being able to make a perfect ogival nosecone out of paper, remember that it's just a hobby. It's supposed to be fun. Yes, we should acknowledge our failings and try to do better, but in the end, if it just isn't any fun, what's the point?

Links

Here are a couple of excellent paper model links.

http://www.lansbergen.net/eng/index.htm
An excellent collection of highly-detailed paper models. My Delta II came from this website, as have several of my other models. These are usually in color and build up into striking models. My next paper project will be the Spitzer telescope from this site. This site has some nice simple models like the Jupter AM-18 and Athena I that would make good introductory models. Their Trace model is also a good introduction to building more complex space probe models.

http://www.ninfinger.org/~sven/models/papermodels.html
A pretty comprehensive listing of Internet paper modeling resources, along with a lot of other good stuff.

http://solarsystem.nasa.gov/kids/papermodels.cfm
A link page to a number of paper models of various NASA satellites and space probes, most of them designed by people who had been involved with the actual missions. Some of them are fairly simple black-and-white models, others are in color. I've built the Stardust, Cassini and Galileo models, and can report that the last two are pretty challenging. Galileo is pretty impressive when you photocopy the main radio dish onto clear overhead projection film.

http://www.delta7studios.com/
Here you can get a nice space shuttle Columbia memorial model, and if you're a serious fan of the Gemini Program, I can't recommend their Gemini CD enough. It's not free, but it's more than worth the money. Someday I intend to tackle the Agena docking target and the Gemini spacecraft with the full interior. I have occasional fantasies of walking into Kinko's and handing them the CD and saying "I want you to print every page of every PDF on this disk."

Inspiration

There's a fairly busy regional airport about a mile from where I work, and it happens to include a fairly large restaurant. It's nothing terribly fancy, more like a jumped-up country diner than anything else, a place where you can get a pretty decent patty melt or BLT or hamburger or bowl of chili, but are not likely to find, say, grilled Ahi tacos with mango salsa or cilantro-infused crab tenders wrapped in chilled lettuce.

A couple of weeks ago I went to this restaurant with a friend of mine. We found that they had extensively fixed up the restaurant and augmented its decor by hanging literally hundreds of model airplanes from the ceiling. Most of them are nicely done indeed, and many of them are fairly rare. I'm no expert on collectible model airplanes, but I know enough about model airplanes to know that the old XF-91 Thunderceptor hanging from the ceiling was a legitimate collector's item, along with the Martin Mariner, the F-86 "Dog Sabre" and others.

But that wasn't what I found inspiring.

My friend has suffered no end of difficulty. She was diagnosed with lymphoma some years ago and has undergone radiation treatments, chemotherapy and bone marrow transplants. I've seen her lose all her hair. I've seen her lose about half of her body weight. I've seen her immune system be completely destroyed. I've seen the burns on her neck from radiation treatments. I've seen her come out of remission and have to go through it all again.

And then just when it couldn't get much worse, it did. The chemotherapy severely damaged her mitral valve and she had to have open-heart surgery to have it replaced. Then during that surgery, the nerves leading to her vocal cords were damaged and she lost most of her voice (and her voice with its powerful New Jersey accent was always one of her best features). Her husband left her, unable to deal with her illness. For a while I fully expected each of my visits with her to be the last - and I think she expected it too.

But we were sitting there eating lunch and she was telling me about the time she managed to hold on to Jon Bon Jovi's butt for nine minutes while having him sign things. I found that little story vastly inspiring. In spite of everything that happened, she was able to sit there and experience the pure joy of her nine minutes with Jon Bon Jovi all over again. If she can get excited about Jon Bon Jovi's butt, she must be feeling pretty good. If she can laugh about her open-heart surgery scar and claim that it makes her look like she has more cleavage than she really has, but must be doing okay.

I'm so lucky it is almost embarrassing. My wife suffers from a failed hip replacement operation that left her in a wheelchair and in chronic pain. A friend of mine has a genetic bone disease that has left her in a wheelchair and with bones so brittle they can be broken just sitting down. Another friend of mine has to live every day with the prospect of losing her lymphoma remission and a voice that doesn't work right because of the open-heart surgery. They are inspiring to me, not the groovy collectible model airplanes hanging from the ceiling of the restaurant.

So here I sit with my minor cold and minor sinus headache, feeling very foolish at my lack of intestinal fiber and very lucky that my worst health problem, really, is a tendency for some of my eyebrow hairs to suddenly freak out and turn into Frankenstein hairs.

Author's Note: I'm not terribly comfortable talking about people that are meaningful to me on this blog. They didn't sign up for that, after all, so if any of you have read this and didn't appreciate being mentioned, I apologize.

Top Ten Questions

Here's my Top Ten list of questions I'd like to ask the world. At least for today. Tomorrow my questions will be different, no doubt.

1. How come if the muffler falls off my truck, I get a repair order, but people can rumble up and down the roads all day long on open-pipe motorcycles and they don't get repair orders?

2. How come guys with ATVs always assume that the fact that they have ATVs entitles them to ride them on my property? I guess I'm supposed to be impressed.

3. How come everyone always expects me to be embarrassed by the fact that I listen to death metal music? No, not even embarrassed. More like ashamed, like there's something wrong with it, or me.

4. How come people assume that the bag of peanuts I brought to work was meant for them?

5. Why is it legal for someone to tailgate me, but it's illegal for me to chuck a brick at them through the sunroof? Okay, okay, I'm not asking that seriously, I just want to know why so many suburban yuppies in monster SUVs have to spend all their time glued to my rear bumper while they jabber in earnest self-importance on their cell phones.

6. Why did the Sci-Fi Channel on cable turn out to be such a wretched disappointment?

7. Why do we bother having referendums if the state legislature never acts on them?

8. Why don't we make Congress vote to declare wars the way they used to have to? This War Powers Act stuff just absolves everyone of responsibility and I think that's a mistake.

9. How come everyone thinks Hannibal was a military genius even though the Romans destroyed his civilization and doomed him to die in exile?

10. Why can't I own a powerful infra-red laser? In view of Question #5, the answer is perhaps obvious.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

My Favorite Aeroplanes

And now, in the spirit of the last post, I want to list (in no particular order) some of my favorite airplanes, and why they are my favorites.

North American X-15 (can you say Mach 6.71? Can you say 354,000 feet?)

Heinkel He-219 Owl (so ugly it's fascinating)

RAC RE-8 (very strange looking, known to its crews as "Quirk" because it had so many)

Westland Lysander (it looks more like postmodern sculpture than an airplane)

Bristol Bulldog (classic between-the-wars biplane, perfect proportions)

Nakajima Ki-44 Shoki (not a good interceptor but it looks very aggressive)

Northrop P-61 Black Widow (even uglier than the He-219, and that's saying something)

Lockheed F-104 Starfighter (this thing just screams speed)

Convair B-36 Peacemaker (anything with ten engines just has to be good)

Saab J35 Drakken (weird-looking cranked double-delta, but pretty hot for its day)

North American XB-70 Valkyrie (it looked like the future incarnate)

Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-25 (classical Soviet ugly, powerful, purposeful design, but not as bodacious as its reputation suggested)

Republic F-84F Thunderstreak (I love the symmetry of the swept wings and horizontal stabs)

McDonnell F-101 Voodoo ("You're telling me those are nuclear rockets???")

BAC Lightning (over-and-under jet engines; reminds me of my old shotgun)

Republic F-105 Thunderchief (possibly the most aggressive-looking airplane ever)

Bell P-39 Airacobra (mid-engine layout and a 37mm automatic cannon? Sure, I'm game)

Lockheed Constellation (the best-looking propeller airliner ever, period)

Northrop YB-49 (not a big success, but there was a time when flying wings were tres cool)

Bolton-Paul Defiant (who first had that idea, and why wasn't he sedated?)

Bachem Ba-349 Natter (a vertical-takeoff rocket-propelled wooden airplane? With no landing gear? And a bunch of explosive rockets in its nose? This sounds better all the time)

Hawker Hunter (best subsonic jet fighter ever built, and very pleasing to look at)

Dassault Mirage F1C (I just like the way it looks)

Polikarpov I-16 Rata (looks like a Brewster Buffalo on steroids, or a beer keg with an engine)

Convair B-58 Hustler (four, count them, four J-79s)

Henschel Hs-129B (is that a 75mm gun or are you just happy to see me?)

Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-17 (perhaps the cleanest and best-looking Soviet postwar fighter)

McDonnell XF-85 Goblin (a parasite fighter the size of a VW Bug launched from a B-36? With no landing gear? How could I possibly say no?)

Tupolev Tu-22 Blinder (a curiously shapely aircraft from a country not known for shapely aircraft)

Handley-Page Victor (if it's not the weirdest-looking bomber ever made, it's pretty close)

RAC SE-5A (the classic WWI fighter, but thankfully no castor oil and thus no vomiting)

North American AJ-1 Savage (what on Earth were they thinking?)

Top Ten Part Two

In keeping with my earlier post about gently mocking the History Channel for its propensity to air "top ten" shows, here is my list of the top combat aircraft of World War Two. I find it amusing that my list generally isn't anything like the History Channel's list.

1. Hawker Hurricane (used in every theater, more kills than any other Allied type, long service record, stable, rugged and maneuverable)

2. Consolidated B-24 Liberator (most widely-produced US/UK aircraft, used in a wide range of roles, longer range and heavier bombload than more-famous B-17)

3. Grumman F6F Hellcat (best naval fighter of the war, best kill ratio of the war, huge rugged airplane that was nevertheless highly maneuverable)

4. Ilyushin Il-2M3 Sturmovik (progenitor of the modern armored close-air-support aircraft, built in huge numbers, a constant scourge to the Germans, powerful symbol of resistance, and delivered tremendous firepower for such an unsophisticated airplane)

5. Boeing B-29 Superfortress (hard to argue with Enola Gay and Bock's Car for sheer decisiveness)

6. Messerschmitt Me-163 Komet (aerodynamic test platform, tailless configuration, swept wings, terrible interceptor but brilliant research project)

7. Messerschmitt Me-262 (first operational jet fighter; that's got to count for something)

8. De Havilland Mosquito (fast, inexpensive, and supremely adapatable to a wide range of roles, from light bomber to fighter-bomber to night fighter)

9. TBM/TBF Avenger (big, slow and clunky, but rugged and widely used as a bomber, torpedo bomber and ASW plane. Biggest contribution was probably helping drive U-boats from the North Atlantic)

10. North American P-51 Mustang (pretty fast, nice handling, very long range, laminar-flow wing, somewhat overrated but still, Mustangs did break the Luftwaffe's back in late 1944)

"What's It About?"

Not too long ago (meaning like an hour ago) I asked a friend of mine if she wanted to read my blog, and she asked "What's it about?"

So now I'm wondering what, exactly, is my blog about?

Nothing, really. When I started this, I didn't want to have a political blog. Politics to me is always such a huge bummer. Nobody can disagree politely with anyone any more. Political discourse is effectively dead because at the first sign of a disagreement, people start calling one another names. Cable TV is full of shows where the personalities refer to people they disagree with as idiots, lunatics, pinheads, dumbasses and the like. That's why I don't listen to talk radio - the screaming and yelling gets under my skin. It's why I don't watch TV news shows that purport to "interpret" the news for me. It's why I don't listen to talk radio. I can form my own opinions for myself, thank you very much, and I don't need some "host" to form opinions for me while constantly calling the Other Guys idiots or dumbasses. And it's also why I didn't want a political blog.

It's a hell of a way to run a democracy - when the best interests of the population are ignored for the sake of pushing a political agenda or a political personage, we're all in trouble. But then again, we were already in trouble the minute we stopped being "citizens" and turned into "consumers." Maybe it's just me, but being referred to as a "consumer" makes me crazy, as though I'm nothing but a walking collection of credit card numbers and bank accounts. I'm not supposed to have any role in the political process; I'm just supposed to "consume media" like a good little slave and do what my party handlers tell me I should do.

We saw how well that worked in the Soviet Union.

But my point it that my blog isn't about anything in specific. Just stuff. Stuff that interests me, or stuff that only seemed interesting at the time, but I don't have any illusions about anything.

Virus

Boy, am I ever sick. You can interpret that however you wish, but the sickness I'm talking about at the moment is of a medical nature. Yes, I have a cold, and I sit here and pout over my list of unpleasant but thankfully short-term woes, I am once again transfixed by the idea that all of this - the sluggish fluids in my chest, the endless honking of my schnozz, the dull ache in my sinuses - is caused by something too small to see and isn't even alive in the first place.

Most colds are caused by a loose, ever-shifting confederation of viruses known collectively as rhinoviruses, the name coming from the fact that they grow best in the nose and don't do so well in other parts of the body. They are of the Picornaviridae family and are non-enveloped with a single positive strand of RNA. They are pretty small, about one-fortieth the size of a common bacterium.

The part that gets me is that they aren't alive in the sense that I understand life. They can't move on their own. They don't process energy. They don't eat. They don't excrete. They can't even reproduce on their own. By any standard, they are just large, complex, and quite inert molecules. Until they come into contact (quite by chance) with my own cells, and then they do the only thing they can do - they take over my cells to make more copies of themselves.

All this gunk in my body, all this coughing and wheezing, all this feverish whining, is caused by a bunch of tiny non-living replicators who have taken over a bunch of cells in my upper respiratory tract.

I find this utterly fascinating. I'd find it even more fascinating if I didn't feel like such crap at the moment.

My Top Ten

I love those shows on the History Channel where they list the top ten ships, airplanes, tanks or whatever in history. I think they're usually wrong, but shouting at the TV is part of the fun. So in the TV spirit of making dubious "top ten" claims based on opinion, I now offer my list of the "Best of World War Two" based on my opinions.

Today, I propose only to talk about the best tanks of World War Two. Stay tuned for other installments.

Best tanks of World War Two:

1. M4 Sherman (sheer numbers, ease of maintenance, longevity, amenability to radical modification)

2. T-34 (first main battle tank in the modern sense, sloped armor, wide tracks, diesel engine, huge production run)

3. Churchill AVRE (most effective engineering tank ever built and invaluable in the close fighting in northwest Europe)

4. Tiger I (excellent anti-tank weapon with a serious reputation, but too slow, expensive and unreliable to rank higher)

5. M24 Chaffee (a light tank, outgunned and lightly armored, but very reliable and the progenitor of the MPGS/MPWS/airmobile tank concept, IMHO).

Honorable mention goes to (in no particular order)

T26 Pershing (a good enough tank, but important because it formed the design baseline for all US tanks to the M48)

Centurion I (better than the Pershing, and the basis of British tank design all the way to the Chieftain)

T-44 (not much better than a T-34/85, but the basis of Soviet tank design all the way through the T-62)

Comet (a great tank, but a year too late)

Tiger I (great heavy tank, but too expensive and heavy for everyday use)

Panther (too big and expensive for a medium tank, but excellent as a heavy tank)

Saturday, September 30, 2006

Zvezda

This isn't a scientific observation or anything, but it seems to me that the first major exports from Eastern Europe I saw after the breakup of the Soviet Union were plastic models. The Czechs seemed to lead the way, but the Russians were not long in following.

Who remembers the old Ogonek models from the days of the Cold War? Or VEB from East Germany? I paid through the nose to get a VEB model of a Tu-20 "Bear" strategic bomber, and I seem to remember it being the worst thing I ever bought. Not just the worst model, but the worst thing. Worse than the Rotato. Worse than the tube of flat tire sealer than had congealed in the can. Worse than the DVD of "Random Hearts." Worse, indeed, than my 1970 AMC Hornet.

But to quote the movie announcer dude, a new wind was about to blow. Among the first true Russian-made model companies to arise after the tawdy collapse of the USSR was Zvezda. The first Zvezda kits I saw were actually reboxed by Italeri, so at least they had professional graphics and Italeri's traditional ugly but functional instructions. But then I started to see Zvezda stuff in actual Zvezda boxes, though I use the term "boxes" with caution. They weren't so much boxes as monuments to flimsiness. Get them a little wet and they dissolve like toilet paper, and some of them had such a strange texture you almost wonder if they were made of cardboard or recycled skin.

But today, they turn out excellent kits. The most recent Zvezda kits I've bought are their 1/72nd scale Il-2M3 Sturmovik and their 1/72nd scale Roman trireme. They carry on their tradition of having slightly less than optimal instructions and boxes, but the part that counts, the plastic stuff in the box, is excellent. They are to be commended. They are so much better than the dreadful Ogonek things of the Khrushchev era.

I think it was inevitable that we (the West, that is) would win the Cold War. When I was a kid, practically every weapon in the US arsenal was available as a model, especially airplanes. Almost no Warsaw Pact stuff was available. For years the only Soviet models I knew of were an old off-scale Monogram Tu-16 Badger and a very early MiG-21F (so early it was even predated the MiG-21PFMA).

One look at my ceiling could have predicted the outcome. A hundred USAF and USN aircraft, and two Russian ones. I almost felt like loaning them an A-5 Vigilante just so it wouldn't be so grossly unfair.

What was my point?

The Wine Report

I don't know very much about wine. Sad to say, most of the wine I've had over the years has come in boxes, except for the two gigantic magnums of wine I was saddled with after my brother's wedding. I felt a little odd going back to the hotel with wine bottles the size of infants under my arms, but they insisted I take them.

Never mind. It gets iniquitous from there.

The point is that I don't know anything about wine. I have a friend who tries to teach me wine lore, but it's a little bit like trying to teach a chimpanzee about fire. Her task is both Herculean and thankless, but I appreciate the gesture anyway.

So with that in mind, I now wish to give my review of Redwood Creek Syrah, a bottle of wine I just happened to find in the pantry.

My attempts to taste said wine were frustrated by the fact that the bottle was sealed with some thin but incredibly tough material that reminded me of scrith from the "Ringworld" novel. I could find no obvious way to get through the scrith, and somehow I don't imagine gentlemen gnaw the stuff off, so I found a small knife and managed to hack my way through the tough material with only a small loss of personal dignity.

So now I hefted my enormous German-made corkscrew and gave the bottle a once-over. Yep, there was the cork, and yep, there was the corkscrew. Within a few seconds I had the screw in the cork, and then progress shuddered to a halt again.

My corkscrew isn't a lever-action corkscrew; it's basically just a heavy brass handle with a steel screw in it. No levers, no mechanical advantage. Now, I'm not a weak person. I can usually break kitchen gadgets without really trying, or meaning to, but I gave the corkscrew a good yank and nothing happened. Presently it turned into a classic contest of strength, brute force versus the immovable object. I knew I was starting to lose the war when the idea of squirting a little Liquid Wrench onto the cork occurred to me. But then I remembered all those movies where suave gentlemen open wine bottles with magnificent poise and without breaking a sweat and use of Liquid Wrench.

It finally came out with a loud and startling foomp sound, and the recoil of my hand flying toward the ceiling nearly hyperextended my elbow. At last it was out, but surely there must be a better way.

So I poured a couple of fingers into the nearest thing I have to a wine glass, which is to say, a regular tumbler. But at least it was transparent, allowing me to appreciate the subtle colors of the... Hey, what gives, it's black! And so it was, jet black, looking more like a slug of flat Jolt cola or really old coffee than wine. I turned on more lights and suddenly the color became apparent - deep red, very rich-looking, so close to black that in bad light you'd be excused for thinking it was a cup of old motor oil.

I like to smell my wine before I drink it. I think it makes me look sophisticated and helps to make me feel less guilty for washing out relish jars and using them as emergency drinking glasses. So this Syrah struck me has having a particularly bold aroma. I couldn't tell you if it was fruity, smoking, redolent of flint and tinder, wonderfully mineral or what. I just know that it was a lot smellier than the wine I get out of the box.

And then, on to the taste test.

Hey, it's pretty good! I can't describe it, but I like it.

And people say I can't be taught anything!

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Artillery Fire Request

Good morning and welcome to the 1st Armored Division’s Automated Artillery Fire Request Line. If you are calling from a touch-tone radio, press 1 now, otherwise wait on the line and one of our artillery fire request operators will be with you as soon as possible.

beep

Thank you. To speed your artillery fire request, please consider the following options:

If you are assaulting a fixed enemy position, press 1
If you are engaging the enemy in a meeting engagement, press 2
If you are in mobile defense, press 3
If you are defending in fixed positions, press 4
If you are being overrun, press 5

beep

Thank you. To speed your artillery fire request, please consider the following options:

If you wish an 81mm mortar fire mission, press 1
If you wish a 155mm howitzer fire mission, press 2
If you wish an 8-inch howitzer fire mission, press 3
If you wish MLRS support, press 4
If none of these options meet your needs, please stay on the line and an artillery fire request operator will be with you as soon as possible.

beep

Thank you. To speed your artillery fire request, please choose one of the following options

To select illumination rounds, press 1
To select smoke rounds, press 2
To select high explosive rounds, press 3
To select Improved Conventional Munitions, press 4
To select FASCAM, press 5
To select nuclear or chemical rounds, please stay on the line. The Secretary of Defense will be with you as soon as possible to work with you to solve your special artillery needs.

beep

Thank you. To speed your artillery fire request, please enter the desired impact point. Enter the four-digit map number, then press pound, then enter the six-digit coordinate of the impact point on the map, then press pound again.

beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beepity-beep

Thank you. Stand by for map verification. Our records show that that grid location is on the friendly side of the FEBA. This fire mission may cause friendly casualties. To proceed with the fire mission, press 1. To cancel the fire mission, press 2. To talk to an artillery fire request operator, remain on the line.

beep

Thank you. You wish 155mm Improved Conventional Munitions fire on grid location 182874 on map 1883. Is this correct? Press 1 to accept these choices. Press 2 to change them.

beep

Please enter your battalion code and press pound.

beep-beep-beep-beep

Thank you. Please stand by while your fire request is processed.

We are sorry. All of our artillery batteries are currently in use. Please try again later, and thank you for using the 1st Armored Division's Automated Artillery Fire Request Line.

click.

Comic Books

I went to a local comic book convention yesterday, and boy did I feel out of place. I was literally the only guy there wearing a shirt with buttons on it. Everyone else (meaning a couple thousand comic book fans) was either in costume or wearing the new American uniform, the ironic T-shirt. You've seen them - the network administrators who wear T-shirts bearing Spam logos, the world-weary angstmongers with the Jetsons T-shirts, the stoners with the DARE T-shirts.

But it's all fundamentally harmless and they all seemed quite happy in their geekdom, so who am I to harsh their collective buzz? Just because I was the only guy there in a blue checked shirt with buttons doesn't give me a right to snicker at the outrageous anime costumes... does it?

I didn't buy very much, and let's be honest, the main reason most people go to such conventions is to buy stuff. My comic book tastes are quite pedestrian. I don't read the major cash cow comics like X-men, Batman, Superman, or the Avengers. Nor do I read the "edgy" independent comics, which as far as I can tell are mostly peopled by foul-mouthed slackers. I don't read manga or anime because I find the characteristic anime wink unsettling and the stories generally incomprehensible. It's as though I was supposed to do some readings first to help me understand them. I don't read most of the horror comics either, though I do dabble in the occasional Rob Zombie effort simply because of his strange mental landscape.

I used to read Sergeant Rock, which shouldn't really surprise anyone. Sergeant Fury and his Howling Commandos was good, and I was a devotee of Ghost Tank. But they don't make comics like those any more - the closest thing to them I've seen in years was DC's very uncharacteristic but interesting Light Brigade, but that was a short-run thing probably not to be repeated. A close second would the Predator "Sands of Time" thing, which managed to combine the historical battle of Verdun in World War One with science fiction in the form of the Predator and form a most satisfactory whole.

I like to read the Punisher, which is entirely unreconstructed and devoid of redeeming social value but at least doesn't confront me with moral ambiguities. There are the bad guys, there is the Punisher, and there are innocent people. Very easy to grasp, quite unlike the strange amorality that seems to afflict a lot of anime. I particularly liked the "Born" series - the full page illustration of a red-eyed Castle standing in the shambles of a Vietnam firebase with an M60 in one hand and napalm smoke rising in the background in the shape of the Punisher skull was worth the price of the entire book.

I like to read Black Widow, because I am essentially a product of the Cold War and I find all that KGB spy stuff interesting. I was especially amused when the Black Widow stopped wearing the equipment on her wrists, complaining that the equipment was old Warsaw Pact issue stuff and therefore heavy, antiquated and unreliable. I have less use for Black Widow when she represents nothing but a love interest for other comic book figures, such as Daredevil. I particularly liked the idea of two Black Widows, one who had split from the program and the other who was still with the program and out to 86 the renegade one.

I liked the old Dark Horse Aliens and Alien-versus-Predator comics, though I found I wasn't as excited by the Earth War or Hive War books and stopped reading them.

But my favorite was Red Star. It was beautifully written and beautifully drawn, and was unique in its ability to evoke emotions. I'd try to describe it, but nothing I can say would do it justice. It is to comic books what The Lord of the Rings is to fantasy fiction.

A Correction

Last night I was whining because my legs hurt. That wasn't quite true, and in the spirit of complete disclosure (or complete boredom) I now wish to set the record straight.

I suffer from what is called "Restless Legs Syndrome." It's an apparently neurological condition where when one is trying to sleep, one's legs feel like they want to run a marathon. The sensation is difficult to describe. Mostly it's just an overpowering desire to move one's legs, sort of like Tourette's Syndrome only affecting the legs. I call it "Creepy Legs" because they don't hurt, really, they just feel really strange and creepy and the only thing that helps is moving them. I tell people my legs hurt because everyone knows was pain is, but only 2.7% of the population understands what creepy legs is. How do you describe to someone who doesn't have it the intense and overpowering urge to move your legs? And it's not just a psychological thing where you lay there and think "I believe I'll thrash my legs just to amuse myself." No, it actually feels weird - it feels like there is electrically charged dryer lint between your skin and your muscles.

It varies in degree. Many nights I don't have it at all, and many nights I do. Usually just sleeping in a particular position with my legs stretched a certain way is all the relief that is required, but sometimes it's worse than that. Standing up for a minute or two helps, and curiously enough, standing on one leg (either one) seems to help even more. Sometimes I have to walk for a while. And sometimes nothing helps and I have to just get out of bed and sit at the computer.

It usually starts just as I am about to fall asleep, in that weird netherworld between consciousness and sleep where (among other things) I have all sorts of peculiar "dreamlets", things that aren't really dreams but aren't really real either (hypnagogic hallucinations, I think they are called). If it's bad, I have to get up and walk around, but curiously, the medical evidence suggests that walking around isn't what helps, it's the elevated level of attentiveness. I think that's why standing on one leg is pretty effective - not being a gymnast, I have to concentrate a certain amount to balance, and the act of concentration is probably what brings the good, not the actual muscle movements.

I've never been able to discern a pattern. Exercizing before bed neither hurts nor helps. Hot baths neither hurt nor help. Eliminating sugar from my diet helps to a point, and leaving my legs uncovered when I get in bed helps to a point. Nothing seems to reliably banish it, though I know of a way to trigger it that works every time. If I take a nap in the afternoon, I always get creepy legs; it's just a matter of how long it takes. And the attacks are extremely intense and annoying, so bad that when they come, I often leap out of bed as though the house is on fire. Needless to say, I don't take a lot of afternoon naps.

I used to take clonazepam, which doesn't really do anything about the condition; it just sedates one and allows one to sleep through the creepiness. Very odd medication, clonazepam. It would make me goofy. I would blurt nonsense phrases and would be filled with a strange and, at bedtime anyway, entirely inappropriate sense of euphoria. I would wander around, blunder into walls and basically comport myself like a sixteen-year-old who had just had his first beer. I'm told that I would occasionally start laughing for no obvious reason, though I hasten to point out that I do that most of the time even without clonazepam.

Clonazepam is not without its risks, including habituation (which I noticed) and addiction (which I also noticed, though I suspect my addiction was psychological rather than physical - I became uneasy when my prescription ran out). It has other side-effects, including an odd thing called "emotional anesthesia." That didn't sound like something I wanted, so I stopped taking clonazepam and figured that a certain amount of disturbed sleep was better than emotional anesthesia, whatever that was. Why couldn't the chief side-effect of clonazepam been boss sound effects? I mean really.

So these days I do battle with creepy legs mano a mano, without pharmacological reinforcement. Some days I win, and some days I don't. Last night I didn't.

(cough cough) Excuse me!

I was watching a TV show about the New Horizons spacecraft currently en route to Pluto, and the narrator mentioned that it was launched with an Atlas booster, "America's most powerful booster."

The Atlas 5 is a good booster, though I'm still a bit wary of its Russian-made engine, not because it is Russian-made but because it seems to run at an unbelievably high chamber pressure. I seem to recall a chamber pressure of something like 300 Bar, versus the 70 Bar or so that the F-1 ran at. That's a lot of pressure and I find it a tad worrisome. But it is still a good booster, far and away more capable than the Delta II family. But the claim that it is America's most powerful booster is not true.

The Delta IV Heavy lifts more than the Atlas 552, and the Space Shuttle lifts more yet.

Why does this bother me? I don't know. My only defense is that it is very late at night and I'm very sleepy, but my legs hurt and I can't sleep, so I post useless rants.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

PETA vs Steve Irwin

It seems to me that PETA would be a lot more successful if they stopped turning on people who are really their allies.

I read an article a little while ago on the PETA website that scourged Steve Irwin, even in death, for a wide range of alleged offenses, including invasion of personal crocodilian space and disturbances of animal dens. I guess they'd be happier if Steve Irwin left the crocodile where it was and let some Australian rancher put a couple of .303 rounds through its brain.

You'd think they'd have something good to say about someone who put a good deal of his personal fortune into conservation and who worked fairly tirelessly on the behalf of animals. Alas, earwax. PETA or at least the elitist who wrote the attack on Steve Irwin seems unable to get past the fact that Steve Irwin jumped on crocodiles. But when development and crocodiles come into conflict, crocodiles are going to lose. That's a fact of life. It may not be right, but that's the way it is. So we can either let the crocodile remain where it is and eventually be gunned down, or we can capture it and move it elsewhere, where it has a chance of living. Oh, wait, no we can't; we'd have to use rope and duct tape and jump on top of it and wound its self-esteem. "Hand me my Enfield, better we pop this thing now than violate its personal space in an attempt to rescue it."

Or maybe they're just irritated because Steve Irwin was more popular than PETA will ever be. Millions of people watched his TV shows. Millions of people roll their eyes when PETA is mentioned.

But it seems that it's PETA's way or the highway. Maybe that was Steve Irwin's real crime - he didn't submit to PETA orthodoxy.

There are two ways of effecting change. One is to be a relentless scold who constantly wags a disapproving finger at everything, no matter how well-intentioned. That is, to make people change because they get sick of listening to you whine. The other is to change the world through enthusiasm and involvement. That is, to make people change because they want to change.

I'll let history judge who is more successful in the end.

That reminds me - I need to have my propane tank refilled so I can barbecue some ribeyes over the weekend. Oh, that was catty of me, wasn't it?

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Trouble With My Priorities

Every now and then I look at my accumulation of stuff and swear all sorts of mighty oaths to simplify my life. This usually means that I intend to try to liquidate some of my junk on eBay. Now and then I actually do, but in the meantime I backfill the old junk with even more new junk and end up even deeper in the hole.

Lately I've taken to buying things via eBay, so the great engine of life simplification has suddenly turned into the great engine of junk accumulation.

I am doomed.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Luft 46

In the admittedly small world of model airplane enthusiasts, there is a smaller circle of enthusiasts who stalk the "Luft 46" collection. It stands for "Luftwaffe 1946" and supposes that World War Two had lasted into 1946, giving the Germans time to fully develop many of the wonder weapons that existed either as a loose collection of sketches or half-finished wooden mockups in April of 1945 when events in the Fuehrerbunker moved into the final act.

I used to heap endless quantities of scorn on the Luft 46 fashion trend, even going so far as to accuse some of its more notable practitioners of closet Nazi worship. Now, I'm not one of those modelers who gets offended if someone puts a swastika on model Fw190 - I recognize the difference between building a model airplane and celebrating (or, for that matter, hating) the cause that the swastika represents. But the Luft 46 thing seemed a bit much, even for me, a veteran of many an Me-109 and Hs-129 model.

But now... I don't know. Maybe I'm mellowing with age, or maybe I've forgotten how to be indignant, but I have to say, there are aspects of the Luft 46 thing that appeal to me. I didn't realize the extent of the infection until the other way when I was reviewing my Wall O' Unbuilt Models and discovered (with some shock) that I have three Arado Ar-234s of various sorts, two identical Bachem Natters, two Me-163s (not technically Luft 46 but in the same spirit), two "German guided missile" kits, and two variants of the V2 ballistic missile, in this case the A9 and the A4b (if the A9 and A4b don't qualify as Luft 46, I have no idea what would).

I don't know why I find this surprising, but I do.

A River Ran Through It


Behold! Water!

This actually happened a week ago, but it wasn't until today that I got around to writing about it. We had a rather intense thunderstorm last Saturday morning. We got quite a bit of rain out of it, but there was a good deal more rain north of us. Our part of the rain didn't produce any runoff to speak of, but about an hour after it stopped raining, the general north-to-south drainage pattern saw to it that all the rain that came down north of us then proceeded down our wash. At first it was a flow of brown water about a foot wide. Then two feet wide. Then many feet wide. In the photograph above, the water is about 25 feet wide and about four feet deep at its deepest point, right next to the largish green tree. That's a lot of water around these parts.

But it wasn't so bad. The wash is wide and deep and easily accomodated the flow, though with what I imagine hydrologists would call "significant recontouring of the flood plain". Nothing was damaged, other than my self-esteem for appearing in this photograph, and the flow did a pretty good job of tearing out and flushing away the dead weeds and half-dead brush that had been clogging the wash.

I'm the one on the left, shoveling dirt onto an impromptu levee to keep the water from overtopping a low spot on the bank and proceeding down a secondary channel that is barely visible just below my soggy feet.

Man do I ever look seedy in that photograph!

Friday, September 15, 2006

"I Didn't See You"

I am not a small person. I'm no NFL lineman, but I stand about 6'4" and my weight remains classified but on the high side of 250 pounds. I'm hard to overlook, let's put it that way.

Why is this relevant? I stopped at the grocery store on the way home from work. I had had a migraine most of the day, and worse than that what I suspect was a basal migraine, where the pain is more in the back of the head just above the neck and not on the side of the head. I find these headaches disturbing. I smell things that aren't there. I have visual disturbances. I become very sensitive to light (but curiously, music is calming, even the death metal that I tend to prefer these days). My mood becomes odd. Not evil, not dark, just... odd.

The point isn't to brag about the severity of my headache. I'm just pointing out that I had a headache and decided to stop at the grocery store and get, among other things, carbonated water. Sometimes drinking a lot of water helps. Sometimes it doesn't. So I was walking across the parking lot toward the store entrance. Granted, I was walking with one eye closed because it feels better to close my left eye when I have these sorts of headaches. Actually, it feels better to close my right eye, but I can't close my right eye indepedently, only my left eye.

I waited for traffic to clear. A car stopped on my left. A minivan stopped on my right. I started to cross the last stretch of parking lot to get to the sidewalk and suddenly the minivan shot forward at more or less full throttle, and then came to a screeching halt about three feet away from me. So I stare at the alleged driver of this misbegotten heap, giving her my best one-eyed look of utter disbelief.

"Sorry, I didn't see you," she said from inside the van.

Sorry, she didn't see me??? She didn't see a 6'4" man in a bright pink shirt eight feet in front of her van, after she had already stopped to let me cross?

I think I am dubious.

So what could she have been looking at, if not the road in front of her? And if she wasn't looking, why had she mashed the pedal to the metal? Who goes to full throttle in a Safeway parking lot anyway?

Oh, I know what it was - I just figured it out. She was stunned to the point of incoherence by my raw animal magnetism. That must be it. I feel better already!

Friday, September 08, 2006

Almost Sad

Well, it is done - I have vanquished the pile of gravel in my yard. And, like a remorseful big game hunter who has just gunned down the last hairless beaked gnunnel left in the wild, I sort of wish I hadn't.

Not that I was in love with the pile. Nor were the pile and I really friends. The sight of the pile didn't fill my heart with desperate yearning, nor did it greet me in the mornings with a hearty "Howdy, neighbor! Pull up a chair and set a spell!" It was more European than that. I'd look out the window and the pile would say "Ah, Herr Doktor, I see that you haven't yet slipped into the cold sleep of death." And I would screw in my monocle and say "Ja, Herr Pile, dat vich does not kill me makes me schtronger. Und vun day, you'll experience an involuntary Anschluss mit the rest of my front yard." And the pile would emit a cold, sinister laugh.

No, our relationship wasn't very friendly. We weren't even at the point where we exchanged Christmas cards or wan, insincere birthday greetings. But we didn't hate one another either. Mostly it was a combination of mild European contempt and benign lack of interest. (The difference between mild European contempt and mild American contempt, it occurs to me, is that mild American contempt generally involves cursing while the European variant doesn't. I don't have a problem with cursing, but having been brought up on a steady diet of Alistair MacLean spy novels, I prefer my contempt cool and reserved, thank you very much.)

Well, the Anschlussing is complete. The pile and my front yard are now one, and I find myself somewhat at sea. Toward what do I now direct my mild European contempt? I'm sure I'll think of something. If nothing else, I have a sudden profusion of cardboard boxes that need to be cut up and stuffed into the trash can. It's hard to work up proper contempt for cardboard. It's so fundamentally harmless and defenseless that it's like feeling contempt for a manatee - it just doesn't seem fair. A friend of mine in high school once described that as being like "stepping on a puppy's head" - it's wrong, and it's unsporting to boot. But since cardboard is all I have for the time being, it'll have to do.

Cardboard boxes of the world, tremble.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

One-Sentence Novel

"Drat, now we'll never reach Swakopmund," Rachel said in exasperation as the last camel rolled over and died, spilling its cargo of tea, silver flatware and rope sandals down the flank of the sand dune and into the brackish water of the alkaki spring.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Imagine My Horror!

I felt the urge to write today, as I often do, and I sat down at the computer thinking I would be channeling the spirit of Ernest Hemingway. Alas, it turned out I was channeling the spirit of Ernest T. Bass.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Change in Format

Veterans of my blog (at least I hope there are veterans of my blog) will note that I changed the format. I found it difficult to read the posts in my old blog, and I figured that if I was having trouble figuring out what I was saying, my many visitors would have no chance at all. I think this new format is easier to read, but I think all sorts of unlikely things.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

BMD

I see we managed to intercept another test missile with a kinetic kill vehicle over the Pacific. It's quite a technical achievement and I'm impressed that the kinetic kill vehicle can guide itself to hard impact at such a high closing rate.

Missile defense isn't entirely new. We first proposed the Sentinel system in the 1960s, if I recall, which was supposed to provide a "thin" defense over the entire United States. Not enough to take the edge of a determined Soviet attack, but maybe enough to blunt an attack from a lesser nuclear threat (that is, the People's Republic of China). The system comprised two missiles - Spartan, a long-range missile designed for exo-atmospheric interceptions, armed with a thermonuclear warhead and designed to score X-ray kills against incoming warheads. The other missile was the Sprint, a short-range terminal defense missile armed with a neutron bomb and designed to score neutron kills against incoming warheads. The Sprint in particular was a fabulous piece of rocket technology.

The value of this "thin defense" was eventually adjudged to be not worth the money, so the project was rescoped into Safeguard, which would protect a small number of ICBM silos in the Northern Great Plains. It used the same basic missiles, Spartan and Sprint, but now instead of protecting cities, it protected ICBM silos. (This has value in nuclear game theory. Whether one wants to believe it or not, the "doctrine" of Mutual Assured Destruction was the underpinning of the nuclear standoff, and any attempt to "harden" the civilian population was seen as destabilizing. On the other hand, hardening nuclear forces was seen as stabilizing because it made the enemy even more uncertain that his first strike could seriously incapacitate the enemy).

Safeguard was operational for a few days, but in the end it was canceled. One big reason was that its stated mission - reinforcing MAD by protecting US ICBM silos - seemed a little redunant in view of the fact that even one US Navy ballistic missile submarine could devastate the Soviet Union. The Soviets could never besure of killing all our submarines in a first strike, so the real nuclear safeguard lay in our submarines, not in the small set of Safeguard-protected ICBM silos. (A US nuclear submarine at the time carried 16 Poseideon missiles, each armed with about ten nuclear weapons and a few decoys. That's about 160 warheads, enough to wipe the Communist aggressors off the map. And that's just one submarine.)

And there the matter rested, inactivity enforced by the ABM Treaty. But in the 1980s, the US Army carried out the "Homing Overlay" experiments, an attempt to develop a missile that could destroy an incoming enemy warhead by direct impact. Homing Overlay didn't require nukes to compensate for errors in guidance; technology was adjudged sufficiently mature to enable direct hits. Homing Overlay was ultimately successful in intercepting a test missile, and the modern US ballistic missile defense system appears to be really nothing more than a better-developed Homing Overlay system.

In missile defense, there are roughly four "kill zones", or more properly four kill-times. They are, in order of effectiveness:

1. Prelaunch. Blowing the enemy's missiles up on the ground. This is both easy and hard. It's easy because if you can get a spy close enough to the missile she can simply stab it with an icepick. It's hard because it's hard to get enough spies that close to enemy missiles. In practice you end up having to rely on standoff kill techniques, preferably fast ones, and if the enemy shows any inclination to base his missiles in silos, you're basically forced to use nukes to preempt the enemy attack. This requires precise intelligence and carries significant political costs - try explaining to the world that you nuked Kreplakistan off the face of the Earth because you had a hunch they were going to launch a missile. And what if you're wrong?

2. Boost phase. Blowing up the booster while it is still burning. This is perhaps the best time to intercept an enemy missile. Their booster is still burning, producing a very energetic exhaust plume that is painfully easy for infra-red systems to track. The missile isn't moving very fast (in the early part of the boost phase at least) and best of all, you don't have to actually disable the warhead, just the booster. Liquid-fuel boosters are quite easy to disable. A brick would suffice. Solid-fuel boosters are harder to disable because their steel combustion chamber walls provide an armor effect for free, but it can still be done. The chief problem with boost-phase interception is the time problem. You've got a few minutes at the most in which to detect the launch, characterize its trajectory, assign an interceptor, and kill it. Time-of-flight considerations mean that your interceptor missiles have to be either in or very near the hostile country. The US Navy is developing the SM-3 and SM-4 missiles which may have some utility in boost-phase interceptions, but as a general rule of thumb, boost-phase interception pretty much requires directed energy weapons (lasers, particle beams and the like).

3. Exo-atmospheric phase (often called the mid-course phase). Blowing up the warhead while it is still outside the atmosphere. The idea here is that shortly after the enemy launches its missiles, you launch your interceptors. Once out of the atmosphere, the kill vehicle tracks the enemy warhead by some means (infra-red, most likely) and steers itself in for the kill. The actual interception takes place at altitudes of over 100 miles, above the atmosphere. The advantages of this are that the interception takes place above the atmosphere and presumably over an ocean, so if you use thermonuclear weapons (as Spartan did) to enhance your kill ratio, you don't have to worry so much about radiation. Also, enemy warheads in the exo-atmospheric phase aren't really able to maneuver all that much. Once you have a good estimate of its trajectory, getting the interceptor to the target is largely a matter of mathematics. The main disadvantage is the kill ratio may not be all that great. The enemy's booster has burned out so you don't have that juicy exhaust plume to track. The enemy warhead is moving about as fast as it ever will, so your closing rate may well be on the order of five kilometers per second. The fairly late intercept also gives the enemy time to deploy various countermeasures, chiefly balloons and other decoys, so your tracking and classification problem is more difficult. The Safeguard system's Spartan missile was designed to operate in this phase. It used a thermonuclear weapon whose powerful pulse of X-ray radiation could degrade, deactive or seriously mess up an enemy warhead even if the Spartan missed by a fairly wide margin. More modern systems delete the thermonuclear weapon and aim to destroy the enemy warhead by physically smacking into it at extremely high speed - again, a brick would suffice if you could somehow guide the brick to its target.

4. Terminal defense. Intercepting the warhead just over its target. This is the least feasible technique, used only in desperation. It amounts to intercepting the enemy warhead directly over its target, presumably a city. Reaction time is critical as the enemy warhead is coming down extremely quickly. The enemy warhead can also use the atmosphere to maneuver, flying a primitive but reasonably effective spiral evasion pattern that, at high enough speeds, makes interception very difficult. You'll need to augment your interceptor with nuclear weapons to improve your chance of a kill. The Sprint missile used a neutron bomb (also known as an "ERRB" or "Enhanced-Radiation Reduced-Blast" warhead, basically a thermonuclear weapon whose X-ray mirrors don't absorb neutrons). The pulse of neutrons from the ERRB warhead had a pretty good chance of either deactivating the enemy nuke or causing it to fizzle in a low-order detonation, especially if it used plutonium instead of uranium. Good, right? Well, not really. According to the designer of the neutron bomb, detonating a neutron bomb ten miles above a city would produce so much neutron radiation at ground level it would kill trees and grass, not to mention people. So maybe you're better off not intercepting the warhead at all and hoping that it's a dud (which isn't necessarily a vain hope).

It thus strikes me that kinetic exo-atmospheric kill is the only feasible interception technique. Boost-phase interception requires reaction times faster than missiles can provide, and terminal phase interception causes so much damage it's hard to see how a successful interception is any better than an unsuccessful one.

So where do I stand on all of this politically?

I was opposed to deployment of anything like the Reagan Star Wars program, for the following reasons. First, I thought it was too expensive and would bankrupt the country. Second, I thought it was inherently destabilizing and would make nuclear war more likely rather than less likely. (Assume you're the Soviet commander in chief and your staff tells you that tomorrow the Americans are going to turn on a ballistic missile defense system that can intercept 99.9% of your warheads. What do you do? Submit to American supremacy, or nuke them before they turn the system on?) And third, I couldn't imagine how the system could ever be subjected to a full-scale test. Its first combat employment would be its first test, and I just didn't think that was good.

I was in favor of Star Wars research. My rule of thumb is that more research is always better than less research. It's difficult to say what will come out of any given line of research, and I was prepared to fund Star Wars research at a modest level even though I was quite sure that a functional Star Wars system would never come out of the end of the research pipeline. But other stuff might, and I couldn't say what.

I am in favor of US Army and US Navy attempst to develop theater-level ballistic missile defenses, in particular the US Navy's Aegis effort. Protection of fielded forces from enemy ballistic missiles seems like a worthy goal to me, and forward-deployed warships armed with SM-3 or SM-4 missiles seems like a reasonable basis for such a system.

I am also in favor of the current GMD system deployed in Alaksa and California, but only so long as its objectives are clearly stated. It should not be sold as a nationwide defense system, because it can't deliver on that claim. It can't blunt a Chinese attack, far less a Russian one, and attempts to morph it into such a system turn it into just another variant of Star Wars. But as long as the system's objective is to defeat small attacks from countries like North Korea and Iran, I am in favor of it. Intercepting ten relatively crude North Korean ICBMs is something I believe the system can affordably do.

It's a matter of percentages. Let's say that the GMD system can intercept 50% of incoming warheads. Say the North Koreans launch ten missiles. We pick off five. The result is a horrendous catastrophe in that we lose five cities, but better to lose five cities than ten (though one could assume that the North Koreans would double-target five cities, so we'd lose two or three). Now let's assume a Chinese attack. I'm not saying that a Chinese attack is likely, but just for the sake of discussion let's make that supposition. They could probably deliver 400 warheads in a first strike. We intercept 200. That leaves 200, and 200 nukes on the United States would still be the end of American civilization, so why bother? Better in this case to work to make sure the war never happens in the first place than to try to survive 200 nukes.

My point is that as long as the objectives of ballistic missile defense remain modest - blunting a North Korean attack, say - I'm in favor. But the moment the system begins to be sold as a Star Wars-like system capable of blunting a full scale attack from other quarters, I'm opposed for the same reasons I was opposed to the original Star Wars program - cost, destabilizing influence, and untestability.

The best nuclear war, of course, is the nuclear war that is never fought. The best arms race is the arms race that doesn't cost any money. The best missile defense system is one that can protect us against rogue states who have no vested interest in the status quo, but one that is not so large that it makes countries who do have a vested interest in the status quo nervous. The system needs to be big enough to blunt a North Korean attack, but not nearly big enough to give Chinese and Russian nuclear strategists the jitters - or American taxpayers the vapors.

And that's where I stand.