Well, gosh.
At this time of the year it gets quite hot here in the Southern climes, while North of the Equator it's been known to cool down a bit.
And, with the old global warming thing starting to hit (and really, anyone who remains a denier must also be one of those whose grasp of the idea of a globular Earth is weak..) it's not unexpected that summer will mean more extremes of summery-type weather (heat, drought, humidity, storms, floods, etc) while those in the wintery areas must expect an equal and opposite outpouring of energy: cold, sleet, hail, snow, and so on.
So when it happens - as it has over Europe this year (it was America's turn last year, and every year is Russia's turn) - I get amused by people bleating.
"I can't see why they couldn't take off from Heathrow. There's only 50 centimetres of snow on the runway.."
"We've been held up here in New York by the European snows, and it's just not good enough. It's just - well, you'd think the airlines could do better."
Excuse me? When you have a weather system with a similar energy quotient as a few dozen Hiroshima-sized atomic bombs dropping a gazillion tons of snow, you also have conditions that ain't all that propitious for flying.
No use complaining. You may as well complain about the moon changing shape every day.
Heat is energy. We keep on pumping heat / energy into the atmosphere, and it's got to go somewhere. That somewhere is... the weather. People should stop bleating about the difficulties they've caused.. They need to get off their pimply white arses and do something about it. (I say "white" arses, because the damage was initiated by, and largely done by, the white, European First and New World ountries. The Third World nations are, by and large, catching up: but they're also leading the way with conservation efforts..)
And talking as though the airport management team and the airlines can actually do something to stop a multi-megaton weather system is simply asking them to play god. Can't be done.
So, either accept the shitty weather, or do something about it. Complaining won't acheive anything.
Reading: Stephen Hunter "The Master SWniper". An oldy and a goody.
Listening to: Anything but Snoopy's Fucking Christmas....
More "Paper Heroes":
It came to them that, despite not actually discussing the question, they had all made the decision to go ahead with the mission.
Five things happened on November 24th: Blunt, Crayne, and the other four Sleepers finally met with Charles, and formally told him of their decision to try and destroy the transmitter which had been causing chaos and mass death. Grey had summed it up for all of them the night before: “It’s always been the case of the politicians who foul the nest up, and it’s the soldiers who have to clean it out. These people seem to be harmless, working together in peace and harmony, and someone’s using their homes as a toilet. I cain’t say as I like ‘em much, but they do seem to be a better bet than whut’s taken over my old home.
“I don’t like the way we was brung here, but here I am, there don’t seem to be no way of going back, so we’re stuck here. And there may be some way I can help. So, I’m voting yes, we help ‘em. I don’t know as how I could sleep nights if I didn’t, anyways.”
To which John Prester and Rambo, his Calico kitten, had said “Amen.”
The second thing that happened that day was another target was hit by the transmitter: this time, it was New Zealand’s turn. A sleepy University town in the heartland was obliterated: more than 15,000 died, and some 4,500 were left gibbering wrecks.
The third thing: The train that The Equus and the Black Brigade were travelling on got to the foot of the Rockies. In just six days’ time they would reach ‘Francisco.
The fourth was the unveiling of the plan for getting the Sleepers on land: they would arrive in four days’ time, at night, near Francisco.
The fifth was a surprise. Cienwyn and Adam stated that they wanted to join the expedition to ‘Merika. Naturally, they were insane. Their embot deprogramming had given them emotions and thoughts they had not experienced before. They were out-of-control children, and they revelled in it. That evening, the only disappointed voice had been Thomas Crayne’s. “I’d just wanted to be able to say ‘Into the Valley of Death strode the six.’ Still, if they come, they stay in the rear.”
And it was agreed. Crayne left the room with Winter, his cat, to give his equipment a final check.
The next day, they were on their way.
Showing posts with label Global Warming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Global Warming. Show all posts
Monday, December 20, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Sunday Scribbles, XXV
It's a beautiful day. The sun is chirping, the birds are humming, the bees are shining. There's a couple of beers in the fridge just begging for some up-close-and-personal attention later this afternoon, and I have a beaut looking piece of beef marinating away for dinner tonight. Ah, me. Life can be pretty darn good.
Jenny's sister and brother-in-law are visiting with us. This is always cause for celebration, but today's a little special. Heather was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, but seems to have caught it in time. The diagnosis was grim, the prognosis is good. And Rip, her husband, is one of the best people I know.
Some have said that I tend to see people's good side. As far as I'm aware, that's not a sin. And anyway, some people do have excellent good sides.
Let's see: breakfast. I'm thinking Kinky's Fried Egg Sandwiches. Kinky Friedman's pals turned out a cookbook in his dishonour, and it's probably the most tatty cookbook on our shelves. The Fried Egg Sandwich is this: Toast two slices of bread. I favour Mollenburg. Spread on a little butter, a thin scraping of peanut butter, and a little jam (I prefer boysenberry, but apricot's good, too). Yes, this is an American recipe. Texan, to be specific. Sprinkle on some chopped spring onion, a little (very little) grated cheese, then add a couple of slices of grilled and crispy strip bacon. On top of that you bung your fried egg. Top with your second slice of toast, bite and chew. Yum!
Kinky Friedman is one of the funniest American writers ever. He is the 20th century Sam Clemens, and deserves huge fame and wealth. Go to the library and borrow one of his books, then buy the rest.
READING: The Storm of Our Grandchildren. I don't recall the author's name off-hand, and the book's in the bedroom, and I don't wnat to wake Jenny. The author was the man who first came up with the science behind global warming... back in the early 80s. He says the problem's bigger than is publicly acknowledged, and our grandchildren are going to curse us for knowing about it and doing nothing. I will report more, as time goes by.
LISTENING TO: Avishai Cohen, "As Is". It's a live jazz album, and very cool.
WORD OF THE DAY: Walk. It's actually quite good for you.
More RATS:
e counted up to five, and the storm of bullets swept back. Left to right the first time, right to left: they were tap-firing. The machine gun was clamped onto its heavy base, firing levers locked, while the crew serving the weapon simply tapped the side of weapon from one side of its firing arc to the other, keeping the belt-bed breech fed, bullet after bullet, 700 and more rounds every minute, every twentieth round a tracer, fouling the barrel, making the shot careen about the sky, unpredictable. But the tap-tap-tap of the mallet on the weapon's chattering block allowed the crew to keep under as much cover as possible while laying down a devastating field of fire.
Arthur counted. Ten, eleven, twelve, and the air above the crater was ripped apart by another forty or more bullets. Three, four, five, and it came back. He had twelve seconds, and he burst from cover, running zig zag to his right, away from the the stream of fire. By now he could hear the guns of his own regiment chiming in, shooting at nothing, just making noise and adding to the confusion. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, hit the dirt, but he was outside the German's Maxim gun's field of fire, and he was up and running, no rifleman would be so foolish as to show themselves, and a second German machine gun chattered into life, shooting just a few feet low, he could see the ground kicking up, clods of earth sprinting into the sky just a few feet from his scampering feet and he counted five six seven then stopped suddenly and watched as the gunner corrected too late, and he ducked and flew into the trench near the latrines.
“Get yourself in the shit a bit there, Sergeant?” came the question, as he lay, gasping, at the bottom of the trench.
“No, mate. They missed me, I missed the dunnies, seems to have been a morning for missing.”
“They've got your hidey-hole buggered, though, sniper. You'll have to be looking for another – Christ! Incoming!” The Germans seemed to be desperate to express their displeasure at Arthur's antics this morning, and they had set up a half-dozen trench mortars, which were now lobbing their three pound bombs into the New Zealanders' trenches. Arthur hit the ground again, and his body was pummelled as a bomb exploded nearby. Fire and death, steel and shit. The Germans fired five rounds from each mortar, then the short bombardment stopped. A man was screaming thinly just thirty yards from Arthur, and the private soldier who'd greeted him so laconically now lay dead. A shard of bomb casing had ripped into his head, and he lay on the duckboards, his dead eyes gazing accusingly at Arthur. “See what you've done with your smart-arse sniping?”
Arthur slumped back against the wall of the trench, and sobbed.
Jenny's sister and brother-in-law are visiting with us. This is always cause for celebration, but today's a little special. Heather was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, but seems to have caught it in time. The diagnosis was grim, the prognosis is good. And Rip, her husband, is one of the best people I know.
Some have said that I tend to see people's good side. As far as I'm aware, that's not a sin. And anyway, some people do have excellent good sides.
Let's see: breakfast. I'm thinking Kinky's Fried Egg Sandwiches. Kinky Friedman's pals turned out a cookbook in his dishonour, and it's probably the most tatty cookbook on our shelves. The Fried Egg Sandwich is this: Toast two slices of bread. I favour Mollenburg. Spread on a little butter, a thin scraping of peanut butter, and a little jam (I prefer boysenberry, but apricot's good, too). Yes, this is an American recipe. Texan, to be specific. Sprinkle on some chopped spring onion, a little (very little) grated cheese, then add a couple of slices of grilled and crispy strip bacon. On top of that you bung your fried egg. Top with your second slice of toast, bite and chew. Yum!
Kinky Friedman is one of the funniest American writers ever. He is the 20th century Sam Clemens, and deserves huge fame and wealth. Go to the library and borrow one of his books, then buy the rest.
READING: The Storm of Our Grandchildren. I don't recall the author's name off-hand, and the book's in the bedroom, and I don't wnat to wake Jenny. The author was the man who first came up with the science behind global warming... back in the early 80s. He says the problem's bigger than is publicly acknowledged, and our grandchildren are going to curse us for knowing about it and doing nothing. I will report more, as time goes by.
LISTENING TO: Avishai Cohen, "As Is". It's a live jazz album, and very cool.
WORD OF THE DAY: Walk. It's actually quite good for you.
More RATS:
e counted up to five, and the storm of bullets swept back. Left to right the first time, right to left: they were tap-firing. The machine gun was clamped onto its heavy base, firing levers locked, while the crew serving the weapon simply tapped the side of weapon from one side of its firing arc to the other, keeping the belt-bed breech fed, bullet after bullet, 700 and more rounds every minute, every twentieth round a tracer, fouling the barrel, making the shot careen about the sky, unpredictable. But the tap-tap-tap of the mallet on the weapon's chattering block allowed the crew to keep under as much cover as possible while laying down a devastating field of fire.
Arthur counted. Ten, eleven, twelve, and the air above the crater was ripped apart by another forty or more bullets. Three, four, five, and it came back. He had twelve seconds, and he burst from cover, running zig zag to his right, away from the the stream of fire. By now he could hear the guns of his own regiment chiming in, shooting at nothing, just making noise and adding to the confusion. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, hit the dirt, but he was outside the German's Maxim gun's field of fire, and he was up and running, no rifleman would be so foolish as to show themselves, and a second German machine gun chattered into life, shooting just a few feet low, he could see the ground kicking up, clods of earth sprinting into the sky just a few feet from his scampering feet and he counted five six seven then stopped suddenly and watched as the gunner corrected too late, and he ducked and flew into the trench near the latrines.
“Get yourself in the shit a bit there, Sergeant?” came the question, as he lay, gasping, at the bottom of the trench.
“No, mate. They missed me, I missed the dunnies, seems to have been a morning for missing.”
“They've got your hidey-hole buggered, though, sniper. You'll have to be looking for another – Christ! Incoming!” The Germans seemed to be desperate to express their displeasure at Arthur's antics this morning, and they had set up a half-dozen trench mortars, which were now lobbing their three pound bombs into the New Zealanders' trenches. Arthur hit the ground again, and his body was pummelled as a bomb exploded nearby. Fire and death, steel and shit. The Germans fired five rounds from each mortar, then the short bombardment stopped. A man was screaming thinly just thirty yards from Arthur, and the private soldier who'd greeted him so laconically now lay dead. A shard of bomb casing had ripped into his head, and he lay on the duckboards, his dead eyes gazing accusingly at Arthur. “See what you've done with your smart-arse sniping?”
Arthur slumped back against the wall of the trench, and sobbed.
Monday, February 15, 2010
I Believe, Part 4
There's been a bit of blather in the press recently. By the press, I mean all news sources, including the internet, radio, tv, magazines, and yes, newspapers. The blather's been about scientists retracting previous statements that have been made about global warming.
Well, guys, guess what: that's what science does. They announce their findings, then they retract 'em if further research shows them to have been mistaken. The point is this: Of the million verifiable facts that point, arrow-like, toward man-made global warming, maybe a dozen have been taken from the quiver because their fletching has been found to be wanting. (I know that Dean Koontz could have carried on the archery metaphor for another 2 pages, but he does get a little overheated... thus contributing to global warming).
So yes, here it comes: I believe in Global Warming, and I believe it's man-made. I can't say that I know it to be fact, because I don't. I ain't a scentist. But I do trust scientists, and the scientific methods - and I know that science says it's 98% proven, and that's good enough for me.
A chap I was conversing with the other was howling victoriously, saying the blizzards over a fair-sized chunk of North America showed him that the planet was cooling. He doesn't understand that violent weather swings happen because there's too much heat in the atmosphere. Heat is energy, baby... and a blizzard is nothing but a huge dump of energy.
Listening to: Leonard Cohen, "Dear Heather". This is art. The title song is, well, different. I've listened to it maybe 50 times. I'm starting to understand it.
Reading: Still on Ambrose's book about Eisenhower. More of a hagiography than a biography, but it's an entertaining read.
Today's word: What else? Hagiography. I originally thought it had to do with witches, or ex-wives, or something. (Actually, not my ex-wives. I think of them very fondly, when I think of them at all).
Rats: I'm slowly but surely catching up to where i've written up to, so I'm going to shorten the excerpts, and pick up on the writing. I'm doing about 3,000 words a week on Rats, and this week I've also done 3,000 wordson a new project. Sigh.)
young men like themselves, separated from each other by the twin barriers of language and fear.
It was these Germans in their field-grey uniforms that Arthur went to commune with every day. He always started each day with twenty rounds, and always came home with twenty pieces of empty brass cartridge in his pocket. He crawled and slithered his way to the church. It took him the better part of an hour to cover the seventy yards of torn ground. He was aware of the fact that as he was climbing a slight slope, he would be visible to anyone who bothered to look from the other side of the lines. He had set out well before dawn, but the night was clear, with a bright quarter moon shining down. When he reached the church he rolled in behind the shattered stone wall, and took a moment to collect his breath. He knew that his counterpart on the other side of the lines was probably doing exactly the same thing: watching the steam of his breath stain the early morning air, waiting until the thunder of his heart calmed down.
The armour was heavy on his back. He slipped out of it, and carried it up the broken stone stairs that led to the top of what was left of the church tower. Here, he had almost perfect cover: he could lie in the shadowy corner, and fire from the darkness. He had a wide field of fire, nearly 180 degrees. He set up the armour plating, and poked his rifle barrel through the slot. He has left several sandbags here some weeks ago. They were exactly as he had left them, carrying the imprints of his rifle and elbows.
Well, guys, guess what: that's what science does. They announce their findings, then they retract 'em if further research shows them to have been mistaken. The point is this: Of the million verifiable facts that point, arrow-like, toward man-made global warming, maybe a dozen have been taken from the quiver because their fletching has been found to be wanting. (I know that Dean Koontz could have carried on the archery metaphor for another 2 pages, but he does get a little overheated... thus contributing to global warming).
So yes, here it comes: I believe in Global Warming, and I believe it's man-made. I can't say that I know it to be fact, because I don't. I ain't a scentist. But I do trust scientists, and the scientific methods - and I know that science says it's 98% proven, and that's good enough for me.
A chap I was conversing with the other was howling victoriously, saying the blizzards over a fair-sized chunk of North America showed him that the planet was cooling. He doesn't understand that violent weather swings happen because there's too much heat in the atmosphere. Heat is energy, baby... and a blizzard is nothing but a huge dump of energy.
Listening to: Leonard Cohen, "Dear Heather". This is art. The title song is, well, different. I've listened to it maybe 50 times. I'm starting to understand it.
Reading: Still on Ambrose's book about Eisenhower. More of a hagiography than a biography, but it's an entertaining read.
Today's word: What else? Hagiography. I originally thought it had to do with witches, or ex-wives, or something. (Actually, not my ex-wives. I think of them very fondly, when I think of them at all).
Rats: I'm slowly but surely catching up to where i've written up to, so I'm going to shorten the excerpts, and pick up on the writing. I'm doing about 3,000 words a week on Rats, and this week I've also done 3,000 wordson a new project. Sigh.)
young men like themselves, separated from each other by the twin barriers of language and fear.
It was these Germans in their field-grey uniforms that Arthur went to commune with every day. He always started each day with twenty rounds, and always came home with twenty pieces of empty brass cartridge in his pocket. He crawled and slithered his way to the church. It took him the better part of an hour to cover the seventy yards of torn ground. He was aware of the fact that as he was climbing a slight slope, he would be visible to anyone who bothered to look from the other side of the lines. He had set out well before dawn, but the night was clear, with a bright quarter moon shining down. When he reached the church he rolled in behind the shattered stone wall, and took a moment to collect his breath. He knew that his counterpart on the other side of the lines was probably doing exactly the same thing: watching the steam of his breath stain the early morning air, waiting until the thunder of his heart calmed down.
The armour was heavy on his back. He slipped out of it, and carried it up the broken stone stairs that led to the top of what was left of the church tower. Here, he had almost perfect cover: he could lie in the shadowy corner, and fire from the darkness. He had a wide field of fire, nearly 180 degrees. He set up the armour plating, and poked his rifle barrel through the slot. He has left several sandbags here some weeks ago. They were exactly as he had left them, carrying the imprints of his rifle and elbows.
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