The full cost of the Iraqi war, so far...

The Iraq War Ledger: A Tabulation of the Human, Financial, and Strategic Costs

Human costs

• Total deaths: Between 110,663 and 119,380
• Coalition deaths: 4,712
• U.S. deaths: 4,394
• U.S. wounded: 31,768
• U.S. deaths as a percentage of coalition deaths: 93.25 percent
• Iraqi Security Force deaths: At least 9,451
• Total coalition and ISF deaths: At least 14,163
• Iraqi civilian deaths: Between 96,037 and 104,7542
• Non-Iraqi contractor deaths: At least 463
• Internally displaced persons: 2.6 million
• Refugees: 1.9 million

Financial costs

• Cost of Operation Iraqi Freedom: $748.2 billion
• Projected total cost of veterans’ health care and disability: $422 billion to $717 billion

Strategic costs

• Empowered Iran in Iraq and region
• Created terrorist training ground.
• Loss of moral authority.
• Diverted resources and attention from Afghanistan.
• Stifled democracy reform.
• Rising sectarianism in region

So...

Did we win?

Today is my birthday!

So, today is Traci Lords' birthday.

That being the case, it is also mine. I'm 44 years old today, and if I haven't run out my warranty certainly it feels like I'm in need of an overhaul.

For the past year, I haven't been reading very much. Part of that might be having been laid off, but part of that is probably due to my generically failing eyesight. This week, I bought my first non-ironic pair of reading glasses, and have re-discovered the joys of reading for pleasure. I've even finished one book Jack Campbell's The Lost Fleet: Victorious, and another novella, Michael Flynn's Dawn, and Sunset, and the Colours of the Earth.

And since reading is an absolutely necessary precursor to writing, maybe I'll start writing again. That would be nice.

Why Hollywood still fails...

If you've ever wondered what it looks like when a starship sinks into the sea, these photos of the Deepwater Horizon listing to one side will give your imagination an eyeball kick.

Nothing I've ever seen in a theater looks quite like that.

It's this kind of day, in one regard...

I bet some of you would recognize this:

Well, I was young and ignorant of everything outside ten million books I'd gobbled and guilty- unsure about my imaginative flights away from my father's realism and of course stoned of course but I finally understood why he was watching me that way, it was (this part of it) pure Zen, there was nothing I could do consciously or by volition that would satisfy him and I had to do exactly that which I could not not do, namely be Simon Moon. Which led to deciding then and there without any time to mull it over and rationalize it just what the hell being Simon Moon or, more precisely SimonMooning, consisted of, and it seemed to be a matter of wandering through room after room of my brain looking for the owner and not finding him anywhere, sweat broke out on my forehead, it was becoming desperate because I was running out of rooms and the Padre was still watching me.

"Nobody home," I said finally, sure that the answer wasn't good enough.

"That's odd," he said. "Who's conducting the search?"

A nice, quiet day...

Burien, WA, 160th & 1st.

It was an interesting Friday here at the Villa. My car had been acting up, so I took it into the shop this morning around 9, only to discover that the next bus to take me home was at 10. Since I had an hour, I pulled out my book and read Michael Flynn's Dawn, and Sunset, and the Colours of the Earth.

It's a good story, a novella I think, that was nominated for a Hugo. It's set in Seattle-- I didn't know that when I started reading it-- but as a "Seattle story" it completely works. There's no plot; it's a series of vignettes about how a skiffy disaster, an intermittent Bermuda-triangle-like event opening up in the middle of Elliot Bay, affect the lives of various people in Seattle. It starts with the disappearance of a Washington State Ferry with a thousand people on board. It very effective-- as a long-time Seatttle resident, I probably knew someone from every frame Flynn describes, including the angsty professor writing the woo-laden essay and the playwright writing the equally angsty coming-out story (told by Flynn actually writing act one of the play). Seattle is a city full of angst, on-line bulletin boards and woo-woo hypotheses, and Flynn successfully described them all.

It was chilly this morning, but there were zero clouds in the sky and it's hard to emphasize just how blue it all was. I ran into the Starbucks for a coffee about halfway to combat the chill, but mostly I sat and read. I also took a pano shot of my bus stop.

When I got home, I coded my brains out, mastering the delicate ins and outs of guiding users through the filter selections on our website (genre, length, rating, country of origin), fixing a few typos (the "Intended Audience" rating wasn't capitalized correctly), and adding film counts to director's names with a single SQL-fu, which is way cheaper than a SQL hit for each and every goddamn director, which is how Django wants to do it.

I had a lox sandwich for lunch. With capers, red onion, sliced tomatoes, and cream cheese. And a kosher Coke. I feel all Fort Lauderdale Jewish all of a sudden.

Around four, I went to get the car, which needed about $300 worth of work to fix a broken air intake that had spewed unfiltered air into my engine. That explained the chronic stalling in city traffic. Sucks, but what can you do?

I rode my bike. It's about 2.3 miles, using the Ambaum Cutoff, which is a much safer road than 1st avenue. I'm in surprisingly good shape after all.

When I got home, I took some of the seedlings I've been tending for the past three weeks and repotted them on the porch out back. Most of what I potted was the basil, which is a staple of my summers. I need to till some of the soil in the raised beds on the west side before I plant the carrots & tomatoes, though. I have no idea where to put the parsley.

I made marinara sauce & spaghetti for dinner.

Now that's a pretty good birthday.

And Michael Flynn leads me to an awesome poem...

THE DEAD

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
  Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
  And sunset, and the colours of the earth.

These had seen movement, and heard music; known
  Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
  Touched flowers and furs, and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
  Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
  Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.

-- Rupert Brooke, 1915

The worst cover art theme in recent memory

The Lost Fleet: Victorious

I'll have a book review for the actual book in a little bit, but I have a gripe about the cover art that I really want to get off my chest.

Take a look at this cover. It shows a man in powered armor holding a big gun. The name tag engraved on the breastplate reads "Geary," and that would serve to indicate that the illustration in meant to be Captain Jack Geary, the hero of the series. Every cover of the series shows Captain Geary armed and usually armored, and at least one shows him on a planet without a helmet on.

The premise of the series is that Jack Geary is rescued from a century-long cryogenic suspension just hours before the fleet that finds him has its entire admirality team killed. A quirk in circumstances makes Captain Geary fleet commander, and worse, he really is the best commander-- a century of warfare has reduced battle competency to near nil. It's his job to get them out of enemy space, and over the course of five books he does that job.

He's fleet commander. Never once does he leave his flagship. Never once does he don armor. Never once does he hold a pistol, much less an assault rifle! In fact, that's a major point of the sixth book-- Geary makes a big deal about how his meeting with the Alliance forces requires him to leave his ship for the first time. Author Jack "No really, it's not Mary Sueism" Campbell is ex-Navy himself and did a fine job of showing the stresses of command-- and the responsibilities, which include not leaving the ship and getting killed.

I mean, who greenlighted the idea that we should pump up the volume on the covers by making the hero a "man of action," dressed as a Marine?