Possumblog

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.


Thursday, September 12, 2002

And speaking of Canadians, via The Fat Guy, a link to Jane Galt's tribute page of yesterday, in which a photo of the WTC was presented with the poem In Flanders Fields.

Major (later Lieutenant-Colonel) John McCrae, the author of the poem, was a surgeon attached to the Canadian 1st Field Artillery Brigade and wrote the poem after the death of a friend during the fighting along the Ypres Salient. This link is a short and nicely done biography of McCrae.

By the way, I just had to add The Fat Guy into my much too cumbersome list of people I try to read every day, if for no other reason than his bio page.
[...] I read a ton of books, listen to a lot of music, eat a lot of food, and love my Kubota tractor. I don't get to drive the tractor often enough. My plan for this little space is to use it to inject my own viewpoints into the web. I've got close friends (and a really insistent wife) that tell me I should be writing regularly. So this is where I am going to do that. I don't personally believe that I have the skill or talent to engage anything approaching a readership, but this might just sharpen that dull blade. The probable end-point to this is that I will quit my job to write full-time, become impoverished and alcoholic, fail disasterously, lose my family and friends, and die in a cold room, utterly unlamented. [...]
Ah, such are the dreams of all nascent writers. He goes on to say that his Kubota is his penultimate tool. We can only hope he does not favor us with paeans to his ultimate tool.


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