Most of the Internet is not in the cloud but on fiber optic cable spanning the bottom of the oceans—including the arctic circle.
Where Wretchard the Cat says Russia may be working on mini-subs to cut or otherwise interfere with the cable in a digital Pearl Harbor.
No I don’t mean Barry’s Hopenchange campaign babble, which he will drop like a hot enchilada when it suits him. I mean the good old American urge to hope. For instance, that the recent economic diddle, however apparently catastrophic, won’t necessarily lead to something truly awful in 2009 and beyond.
Like the Depressionistas fear it will. A commenter at the Seablogger also cites a new, despairing Spengler essay that I read but must frankly admit that I really don’t understand. So I’ll go on being optimistic. And with some good company. As Wretchard says in a similar context, we all have the right to worry, but no one is right to despair. The bears are out in force these days, true enough, but, hey, it just might surprise us all and actually get better.
Wretchard at the Belmont Club has long been eloquently describing how, and why, the political divide in this country is impeding the war on terrorism. On the latest debacle in Iraq, between Iran’s favorite son al Maliki, and the Blackwater security company (with cooperation from our State Department and the Dems in Congress), he shows why history is such a sad story. We get closer all the time to retreating and coming home to circle the wagons. Without closed borders, of course, to make the circle work. While continuing our profilgate energy ways to make the oil ticks rich, so they can support the terrorists.
Wretchard says you can tell a lot about what’s going on with the big offensive in Iraq just by glancing down the long list of Multi-National Force-Iraq press releases and their titles, a lot more than usual.
I saw the picture of the embracing skeletons on Drudge, read the headline, and moved on to something else. Then I read Belmont Club’s take "Now and Forever" and got more interested. I had not thought of the Romeo and Juliet angle on this presumed 5,000- to 6,000-year-old couple. Nor of their contradiction of Marvell’s poem about how "The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace." But I agree with Wretchard’s commentor that it’s a shame the bones were disturbed, and now sit in plastic bags in a warehouse awaiting DNA analysis. So much for now and forever.