I finally got a good night sleep. Not in the way I had hoped, but certainly in the way I knew would work and expected. Ketel One was the main contributor to my late night pass out on the couch and this morning luckily I'm still thankful. I could pursue drugs for sleep instead of this self medication. That's a scary concept, both sides. Drinking to sleep sets me up for becoming an alcoholic and dependant on the drug. Taking pills to sleep is the same risk of dependency.
The concern is there for me as well as from the ones that love me. Alcoholism doesn't really run in my family, and though it's socially accepted at work to drink as much or as often as I do, it's certainly not so in a civilian-common-sense-ran society. What does that mean for me then? I've gone countless nights without being able to sleep for more than an hour here or an hour there, but I tip back a 60 dollar tab at the bar and it's zees for hours. Self-medication.
I'm not the only one with this problem. It seems my entire platoon suffers from not being able to sleep, and while at work it's very apparent. We can barely make it to noon without long yawns and deep drooping bags under the eyes. We all have the problem, and hopefully it will go away. It's still kind of early to try and get fully adjusted back into the stateside world. I guess anyways. I thought all I was going to get from that deployment was the cancer from the electronic warfare systems we use. I never expected this.
Other than the lack of sleep, my leave has been going rather well. I stayed for a week in North Carolina to be with my girlfriend before I came home to Cali, and she went home to Wisconsin. It was a great week for me, sleeping in and relaxing. I did some Christmas shopping and tried to surprise Gina with a couple things, including a Wii. I got Jodie's subs installed in my car. Thanks Jodie. The last weekend (this past one) spent in North Carolina was in Charlotte. I had never been to Charlotte and found it very refreshing. I find that anywhere outside of Fayetteville in North Carolina is nice. The Triangle area where Gina lives is fantastic. And fortunately Charlotte was too. The downtown was reminiscint of a bigger city, and at times felt like it could be Chicago. It wasn't windy enough though.
Gina and I had a lot of fun there. We went ice skating and went to the Carolina Panthers game. Ate dinner at some nice restaraunts, and pub hopped. I hadn't been ice skating since I was a small boy, but the years of roller blading in the Southern California sun seemed to translate well when it came to lacing up out on the ice. The Panthers game wasn't much of a game after the first half, and I watched my Vikings suffer only their third loss season at the hands of a local hero here in So Cal, Matt Moore. The pubs had been nice the night before, and downtown wasn't as crowded as I thought it could, or should be on a Saturday night. Everything was in walking distance, and despite the cold it was well worth it. Gina and I ate at an upper scale restaraunt that was nearly barren. Even though I had a reservation, I certainly did not need one. Our Matt Dillon look-a-like waiter was good, and the food was even better. Some Mahi-Mahi and garlic mashed potatoes hit the spot perfect. If you're ever in Charlotte, I suggest Aquavina as a good place for a nice dinner. A little pricey, but 80 for the two of us with a couple of drinks, it was well worth it.
I'm in California now. Not a whole lot planned till after Christmas. My birthday at the races, and maybe some camping. Not looking forward to the days flying by as they have been, but having a good time despite. Lunch today with my old bosses and drinks tonight with my twin sis coming all the way down from Berk-town. Exciting the holiday season isn't it.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Tiger Woods, The Age-Old Story We Love
Tiger Woods has been through quite an ordeal over the last few weeks, starting with his wife hitting him in the head with a golf club. The media has had a field day with it, and as well they should. Tiger Woods, a seemingly morale compass on the list of high profile athletes and celebrities in our world, proved he's no different from a Terrell Owens, Michael Vick, Adam Jones, Justin Timberlake or even more similar Kobe Bryant. They all have made mistakes, and being so close the public eye, even under a microscope on the pedestals we have put them on, they have made mistakes. Tiger Woods, who was so perfect, and by far the world's greatest golfer of perhaps all time, head and shoulders above all others in any sport not only in skill of sport, but in popularity and celebrity from his accomplishments. Even someone so pure, who we have bought Nike and Gatorade products just because, can fall from such high grace.
Tiger Woods is only different in one way from the top 10% of celebrities and athletes alike. And that's that he's been caught. Men like John F. Kennedy, Bill Clinton, who we elected due to their morale and ethical obligations to a nation did just as bad, if not worse at the stage that they were representing. We've held Tiger accountable for being a role model, as we do with every major athlete that we thrust into the spotlight. It's not un-American even. Adultery dates back to even the greatest and first American's like Thomas Jefferson. I'm not saying what Tiger Woods did is right, along the lines of ethics, morals, or even in the prospect of responsibility of wife and kids and above all else, the essence of being a man. But our history has proved that that is what a man does. Great men, leaders in public sway and opinion have always had that flaw in the bedroom, and with spouses. Infidelity has always been their greatest weakness'.
It's not excusable, other than the fact that traditionally we have excused it. As long as the man is considered 'great' enough or loved enough by society, we've allowed such mistakes to go without punishment. Other than the comedy writers slants and jokes that make the headlines. This Tiger Woods ordeal seems a lot different though, than other scandals that I've known in the past. For one, it proves that People, Star and Esquire are horrible at their jobs if they can expose the scandals that don't happen, and not this big one that is happening. It also proves how big Tiger Woods actually is. Kobe Bryant's cheating flew over in a few weeks with a 2 million dollar ring to his wife, and his endorsement losses with Sprite and Adidas. Tiger might lose his endorsement with Gatorade, or more or less with his own Gatorade product line. But Nike seems to be holding with him. Then again, they can take some heat off of their sweatshops.
There are a lot of celebrity stories just like this one, or even worse. This is legendary though only because we had believed that Tiger was that moral compass that despite his immense pressure and stardom, we thought he could prevail as that perfect individual. And not just in his short game. He broke that compass, and isn't the role model we all wanted him to be. He may never have been, but wouldn't it be great if he was? We wanted to believe it, we wanted him to be that great of a guy. It's disappointing that he's not. But it's not the end of the world. It's not the worst thing that any person has done, that any American has done. It's been weeks, and he's apologized. Time will heal this wound no doubt, and I think he's handled the situation the media has now crammed into his face with a lot of professionalism and moxie. Best of luck returning to the best of the public's eye Mr. Woods. I'm sure you'll win a major or two and all will be forgotten.
Tiger Woods is only different in one way from the top 10% of celebrities and athletes alike. And that's that he's been caught. Men like John F. Kennedy, Bill Clinton, who we elected due to their morale and ethical obligations to a nation did just as bad, if not worse at the stage that they were representing. We've held Tiger accountable for being a role model, as we do with every major athlete that we thrust into the spotlight. It's not un-American even. Adultery dates back to even the greatest and first American's like Thomas Jefferson. I'm not saying what Tiger Woods did is right, along the lines of ethics, morals, or even in the prospect of responsibility of wife and kids and above all else, the essence of being a man. But our history has proved that that is what a man does. Great men, leaders in public sway and opinion have always had that flaw in the bedroom, and with spouses. Infidelity has always been their greatest weakness'.
It's not excusable, other than the fact that traditionally we have excused it. As long as the man is considered 'great' enough or loved enough by society, we've allowed such mistakes to go without punishment. Other than the comedy writers slants and jokes that make the headlines. This Tiger Woods ordeal seems a lot different though, than other scandals that I've known in the past. For one, it proves that People, Star and Esquire are horrible at their jobs if they can expose the scandals that don't happen, and not this big one that is happening. It also proves how big Tiger Woods actually is. Kobe Bryant's cheating flew over in a few weeks with a 2 million dollar ring to his wife, and his endorsement losses with Sprite and Adidas. Tiger might lose his endorsement with Gatorade, or more or less with his own Gatorade product line. But Nike seems to be holding with him. Then again, they can take some heat off of their sweatshops.
There are a lot of celebrity stories just like this one, or even worse. This is legendary though only because we had believed that Tiger was that moral compass that despite his immense pressure and stardom, we thought he could prevail as that perfect individual. And not just in his short game. He broke that compass, and isn't the role model we all wanted him to be. He may never have been, but wouldn't it be great if he was? We wanted to believe it, we wanted him to be that great of a guy. It's disappointing that he's not. But it's not the end of the world. It's not the worst thing that any person has done, that any American has done. It's been weeks, and he's apologized. Time will heal this wound no doubt, and I think he's handled the situation the media has now crammed into his face with a lot of professionalism and moxie. Best of luck returning to the best of the public's eye Mr. Woods. I'm sure you'll win a major or two and all will be forgotten.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The Wooden Shoe-Bragg Edition
With my mom being a preschool teacher for so many years, I didn't really grow out of the phase of playing House. Not the M.D. either. The classroom at the nursery school had a section in every class for napping, playing with blocks, finger painting, and living like an adult. Pretend adult hood anyways. Those teachers, the Ms. Cynthia's, they would take away any chance of a plastic food fight or disagreement that the would-be adult kids could have. I'd throw the plastic banana, and time-out, then nap. Maybe some fish watching and finger painting too.
You probably did the same things, and though I'm a boy, I could still play wife, and dress up to. I was a fairly open-minded young lad. You pushed around the baby carriage with the racially mixed baby to include everyone, even though half my class didn't even speak english. The teacher would drag me away from any fun I would be having. Good fun, or bad. Either it was a time stipulation, or a break in the rules causing my ejection from the 6x6 square that was my un-walled house. My refrigerator, microwave were the wood kind, and didn't work. The phone wasn't connected into the wall, and the dishes were always piled up on the sink. I thought I had escaped those boundaries with adulthood. I thought that there would no longer be anyone to mess with my time, to have unrestricted access into my home, and to have the authority to tell me all of the rules. The hindrance of all that still exists today.
The biggest is the time interference. Our job at the moment does not consist of a lot, other than the medial paperwork to be filled out. No benefit to us, just the C-Y-A of a commander and his great idea for making something 'safer.' The plan will most certainly fail every time, and the wasted trees, ink and time are made up for with this DUI, this fight or that death. And every time the leaders are covered. Little do they realize it's usually their hindrances, their interferences, their covering their own asses that leads to the problem. Trying to stop the problem only increases it. You can preach and preach not to do something. Hold people at work longer, and take away weekends, or use some duplicity to try and scare individuals to not to the wrong thing. To not drink so much, to not fight so hard. But the stresses added have a bigger effect on the every day, and the not-so every day soldier. They cope with drinking, and pushing and punching, because after all didn't you train them to do that? and then pull hard on the reigns when it came time to run.
They not only fuck with our time out of their own personal ass protection, but they also fuck with our families time. A family who has been waiting to see us for 11 months or more, and they can't get a straight answer. They get the run around like we do, and they wait all night for us to arrive, only to be told multiple times of this change or that. A 3 hour bus ride later, and then an early morning the next day, and a shorter than promised weekend (promises have not been kept), and then the grand invention of re-instituting our normal schedule of CQ, or PT and all for what? To waste our time more, and yours too. Be wary of any man with marital problems who is in charge. They like work.
I'm not saying that I don't want to do nothing, I have a job in garrison. It has to be done, but you have to wonder at what point it should start. The common sense factor, a factor not used in 2P, would determine that if your equipment is still on a boat on it's way from Iraq, and won't get here for awhile, what work, what training can be done? 24 hour guard duties on long weekends? Is that training for what a day of deployment felt like for their girlfriends or wives? I'm pretty sure they don't need any reminders. A man not being able to come home to dinner because a ridiculous time wasting institute like 24 hour duty of guarding the barracks.
The barracks, they're not all bad, except they might as well not have walls. Suite style, with two people per a bathroom and kind-of-kitchen area, that is more like the one from my preschool class. Dishes piled high in the sink with the pizza boxes on the refrigerator, and the microwave filled with aroma of Ramen Noodles. Not a real kitchen. No where to cook. So you're subject to eating on a time schedule at the Dining Facility, that's always over crowded and always changing times it opens, and you finish dinner at 5 and hungry at 9, and you wish you were old so you could just go to bed. You eat the same menu day after day, and long for one from mom's table. Or at least your best imitation.
They are always clean, but not out of discipline, or good house-keeping, more out of fear of punishment. Anyone ranked above you can come in and go through all your belongings, search your drawers and be satisfied with you cleanliness or make you pine oil one more time. You don't have any rights, and though you don't pay for your room, you would rather have the option to. It's something a civilian would call and invasion of privacy, and you wonder why your CO doesn't have to have a search warrant.
The Physical Training in the 35 degree weather with shorts and t-shirts is something I've been used to since day one of the Army. Infantry is hard, and it gets tiring. At some point it's okay not be hard every day. You don't have to prove that you are a bad ass by exercising cold, or staying at work late or going in god awfully early. I don't buy into it, especially with the wasted efforts. All that we do, our early morning wake ups and the 5 mornings we have ran till we puked the night befores wine, beer, or whiskey up, is not going to matter come January 13th. We have 30 days approximately of doing nothing but kickin' back at home, tippin' up beers and get fat on all the foods that our mom's can cook. The fish you're going to reminisce about to buddies that your aunt can make is going to negate all the efforts we are putting in this morning and tomorrow. Worthless really, and it's amazing that something so clear isn't perceived that way. So we run our 5 miles and 100 push-ups and freeze in the process, all so we can get fat and bloated on Christmas turkey and New Years champagne.
This might sound like some kind of sob story, or a complaint about work. I don't mind doing what I need to do here. PT is whatever, and I've never had a problem, even after a long night of drinking. But it's this sense that it matters, that we should be hard and not miss our families, not want to spend time with them, and that that power is put into the discretion of morons who are so institutionalized that they wear a belt to wal*mart that has enough gadgets to make Q or Batman a little upset. Life is a preschool class to us. We have our finger painting areas, and our outside areas. We have our teachers that enforce the rules, and give us timeouts. I guess the only real difference, other than the obvious age one, is that in my preschool class was organized. Even through all of that chaos, my teacher always got us our nap time, our playtime, our food, and didn't hold us after class just because she thought there was more that we could do.
Without a kitchen, and my desire to cook... I'm drawn to my g/f Gina's kitchen where I attempt recipes I grew up on.
Even for my gringo mom, this enchilada casserole is excellente.
there is nothing that says killer better than a calendar full of kittens...
You probably did the same things, and though I'm a boy, I could still play wife, and dress up to. I was a fairly open-minded young lad. You pushed around the baby carriage with the racially mixed baby to include everyone, even though half my class didn't even speak english. The teacher would drag me away from any fun I would be having. Good fun, or bad. Either it was a time stipulation, or a break in the rules causing my ejection from the 6x6 square that was my un-walled house. My refrigerator, microwave were the wood kind, and didn't work. The phone wasn't connected into the wall, and the dishes were always piled up on the sink. I thought I had escaped those boundaries with adulthood. I thought that there would no longer be anyone to mess with my time, to have unrestricted access into my home, and to have the authority to tell me all of the rules. The hindrance of all that still exists today.
The biggest is the time interference. Our job at the moment does not consist of a lot, other than the medial paperwork to be filled out. No benefit to us, just the C-Y-A of a commander and his great idea for making something 'safer.' The plan will most certainly fail every time, and the wasted trees, ink and time are made up for with this DUI, this fight or that death. And every time the leaders are covered. Little do they realize it's usually their hindrances, their interferences, their covering their own asses that leads to the problem. Trying to stop the problem only increases it. You can preach and preach not to do something. Hold people at work longer, and take away weekends, or use some duplicity to try and scare individuals to not to the wrong thing. To not drink so much, to not fight so hard. But the stresses added have a bigger effect on the every day, and the not-so every day soldier. They cope with drinking, and pushing and punching, because after all didn't you train them to do that? and then pull hard on the reigns when it came time to run.
They not only fuck with our time out of their own personal ass protection, but they also fuck with our families time. A family who has been waiting to see us for 11 months or more, and they can't get a straight answer. They get the run around like we do, and they wait all night for us to arrive, only to be told multiple times of this change or that. A 3 hour bus ride later, and then an early morning the next day, and a shorter than promised weekend (promises have not been kept), and then the grand invention of re-instituting our normal schedule of CQ, or PT and all for what? To waste our time more, and yours too. Be wary of any man with marital problems who is in charge. They like work.
I'm not saying that I don't want to do nothing, I have a job in garrison. It has to be done, but you have to wonder at what point it should start. The common sense factor, a factor not used in 2P, would determine that if your equipment is still on a boat on it's way from Iraq, and won't get here for awhile, what work, what training can be done? 24 hour guard duties on long weekends? Is that training for what a day of deployment felt like for their girlfriends or wives? I'm pretty sure they don't need any reminders. A man not being able to come home to dinner because a ridiculous time wasting institute like 24 hour duty of guarding the barracks.
The barracks, they're not all bad, except they might as well not have walls. Suite style, with two people per a bathroom and kind-of-kitchen area, that is more like the one from my preschool class. Dishes piled high in the sink with the pizza boxes on the refrigerator, and the microwave filled with aroma of Ramen Noodles. Not a real kitchen. No where to cook. So you're subject to eating on a time schedule at the Dining Facility, that's always over crowded and always changing times it opens, and you finish dinner at 5 and hungry at 9, and you wish you were old so you could just go to bed. You eat the same menu day after day, and long for one from mom's table. Or at least your best imitation.
They are always clean, but not out of discipline, or good house-keeping, more out of fear of punishment. Anyone ranked above you can come in and go through all your belongings, search your drawers and be satisfied with you cleanliness or make you pine oil one more time. You don't have any rights, and though you don't pay for your room, you would rather have the option to. It's something a civilian would call and invasion of privacy, and you wonder why your CO doesn't have to have a search warrant.
The Physical Training in the 35 degree weather with shorts and t-shirts is something I've been used to since day one of the Army. Infantry is hard, and it gets tiring. At some point it's okay not be hard every day. You don't have to prove that you are a bad ass by exercising cold, or staying at work late or going in god awfully early. I don't buy into it, especially with the wasted efforts. All that we do, our early morning wake ups and the 5 mornings we have ran till we puked the night befores wine, beer, or whiskey up, is not going to matter come January 13th. We have 30 days approximately of doing nothing but kickin' back at home, tippin' up beers and get fat on all the foods that our mom's can cook. The fish you're going to reminisce about to buddies that your aunt can make is going to negate all the efforts we are putting in this morning and tomorrow. Worthless really, and it's amazing that something so clear isn't perceived that way. So we run our 5 miles and 100 push-ups and freeze in the process, all so we can get fat and bloated on Christmas turkey and New Years champagne.
This might sound like some kind of sob story, or a complaint about work. I don't mind doing what I need to do here. PT is whatever, and I've never had a problem, even after a long night of drinking. But it's this sense that it matters, that we should be hard and not miss our families, not want to spend time with them, and that that power is put into the discretion of morons who are so institutionalized that they wear a belt to wal*mart that has enough gadgets to make Q or Batman a little upset. Life is a preschool class to us. We have our finger painting areas, and our outside areas. We have our teachers that enforce the rules, and give us timeouts. I guess the only real difference, other than the obvious age one, is that in my preschool class was organized. Even through all of that chaos, my teacher always got us our nap time, our playtime, our food, and didn't hold us after class just because she thought there was more that we could do.
Without a kitchen, and my desire to cook... I'm drawn to my g/f Gina's kitchen where I attempt recipes I grew up on.
Even for my gringo mom, this enchilada casserole is excellente.
there is nothing that says killer better than a calendar full of kittens...
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
It's Alright, We Know Where You've Been, Son
No internet and my paws have been yearning to swim the keyboard, so I compromise with a “to post later” in my Open Office. I sat and thanked myself for taking time to think today, before I started being productive. Then again that started around the crow of the cock and not the time you want to be checking any kind of clock.
I moved all the way into my room, but still only half way. It's a jail cell regardless, and it doesn't represent myself as well as it should. All the ways a home should be, it is not. I keep busy just to stay busy, and almost spend my last two dimes on a router to get internet to mine and JD's computers, or any other persons for that matter. I stopped and thunked a think, and instead did dishes in the kitchen-bathroom-hallway sink.
No one came into our room, except for one visitor, welcomed at that. We printed off papers for work, and yelled at a slow computer. The afternoon doesn't move as fast as the evening. Organizing and filing is something I've always left for my mother, but found myself doing it now, and liking it. Consumed with busy but productive work, I built up a sweat. Bragg isn't what I remembered, but nothing is. I find sleeping hard without the trash bag clanking in the morning. Since this is my first night of sobriety there hasn't really been to much otherwise variety.
I didn't expect any of this to happen to me. I thought I was mentally tougher, and that the effects of a deployment would not rain on my head. My eyes are red.
This morning was the real kicker that I was home. It wasn't the pizza, beer, or sex that made it sink in, it was running hungover at to early of an hour with the bottle cap's bruising pouring out of mine, and everyone else's pits. The long street seemed longer than before, and the old aches and pains of asphalt knees and shuffle stomped backs were the only reminder of what was a year ago. Thank god we have Brown to help us move slow.
The decisions are the hardest. Perhaps, though, maybe the motivation to make one is what's toughest. It's too bright of a light in the eyes and I'm still squinting. I try and do nothing, which gets me in more trouble, and the only medication every other time I'm not doing anything is a sinful one. I guzzle this bottle and that one. Buy a case for this place, and that one too. But tonight I pass the Class XI aisle without a regret, and without purchase. I suppose in the car on my way back to prison that it's because I can try and face sleep or lack there of on my own. But a room full of people, or a decision other than work tomorrow, and what to do with the night is easier chosen, especially when placed at my feet. Easily I kick those ones off the mat and each night institutionalized is easier at that.
I do laundry and worry about ruining my perfect bed. Brush and floss my teeth till they bleed, and then drink another glass of water in fear and preparation. I separate mine from Danny's and refuse to fold his underwear because I still am sane enough to know I'm not his mother. I turn on some Floyd to help with the settling for the night, and am still too much of an adolescent to think that 12:15 AM is late. I debate on what next I should do, and decide to try and write another line. Not tonight, maybe another time.
Welcome to the machine...
I moved all the way into my room, but still only half way. It's a jail cell regardless, and it doesn't represent myself as well as it should. All the ways a home should be, it is not. I keep busy just to stay busy, and almost spend my last two dimes on a router to get internet to mine and JD's computers, or any other persons for that matter. I stopped and thunked a think, and instead did dishes in the kitchen-bathroom-hallway sink.
No one came into our room, except for one visitor, welcomed at that. We printed off papers for work, and yelled at a slow computer. The afternoon doesn't move as fast as the evening. Organizing and filing is something I've always left for my mother, but found myself doing it now, and liking it. Consumed with busy but productive work, I built up a sweat. Bragg isn't what I remembered, but nothing is. I find sleeping hard without the trash bag clanking in the morning. Since this is my first night of sobriety there hasn't really been to much otherwise variety.
I didn't expect any of this to happen to me. I thought I was mentally tougher, and that the effects of a deployment would not rain on my head. My eyes are red.
This morning was the real kicker that I was home. It wasn't the pizza, beer, or sex that made it sink in, it was running hungover at to early of an hour with the bottle cap's bruising pouring out of mine, and everyone else's pits. The long street seemed longer than before, and the old aches and pains of asphalt knees and shuffle stomped backs were the only reminder of what was a year ago. Thank god we have Brown to help us move slow.
The decisions are the hardest. Perhaps, though, maybe the motivation to make one is what's toughest. It's too bright of a light in the eyes and I'm still squinting. I try and do nothing, which gets me in more trouble, and the only medication every other time I'm not doing anything is a sinful one. I guzzle this bottle and that one. Buy a case for this place, and that one too. But tonight I pass the Class XI aisle without a regret, and without purchase. I suppose in the car on my way back to prison that it's because I can try and face sleep or lack there of on my own. But a room full of people, or a decision other than work tomorrow, and what to do with the night is easier chosen, especially when placed at my feet. Easily I kick those ones off the mat and each night institutionalized is easier at that.
I do laundry and worry about ruining my perfect bed. Brush and floss my teeth till they bleed, and then drink another glass of water in fear and preparation. I separate mine from Danny's and refuse to fold his underwear because I still am sane enough to know I'm not his mother. I turn on some Floyd to help with the settling for the night, and am still too much of an adolescent to think that 12:15 AM is late. I debate on what next I should do, and decide to try and write another line. Not tonight, maybe another time.
Welcome to the machine...
Saturday, November 14, 2009
In Your Own Words
Perhaps it was coincidence, or divine intervention, or choice; but no matter what faith you have one thing is for sure, when the historian decided to interview with me, he couldn't have made a better choice. I've always striven to be as objective as possible when 'complaining' about the conditions of Iraq, and though I'm not always successful, through this blog at least I have some practice.
The tall, well spoken Minnesotan sat across from me, and still loomed over. I thought that I would be more nervous. Not that talking to tall Minnesotans is nerve racking, but with a pen and paper, tape recorder and journalistic eyes I was nervous at what I was about to say. 'State your name for the record,' W-R-I-G-H-T. The recorder silently listening, but paying attention. Every word, every detail would be taken in, objectively as I could put it. I suppose I might not have been the first to talk about it, but I was perhaps the first to say it. "You're not going to like what I have to say, but I'm going to say it..." The rest, as they say, is history.
I recounted to him to the best of my ability the events of this deployment. From beginning to end, and then some. I tried to quote only fact, and relate the experience to the realm of what was occurring at the time. I didn't fabricate any stories, or events for any personal gain or glory. I stated the truth, nearly the whole truth, and certainly nothing short of the truth. The words coming out of my mouth, I had sometimes said before. I could still see the end destination. The stinging that such words can do now not only on a blog, but in the annals of military records. On the record, for the record. Again, I tried my best to say all that I had, and needed to say. I wasn't going to let myself down, and certainly not my buddies. Certainly not you.
The aid station, the mock interrogation/interview room, was my only safe haven. I imagined the walls impenetrable, and that the walls could block all of the sound. Despite my fears and trepidation about discussing the military to the military, I felt confident in knowing that I could always do one of two things to secure my 'release.' 1) it's the truth, and I'll tell it to anybody. The media is so very powerful, and 2) I have PTSD! Problem solved. I started from the beginning...
December 2008, we arrived here in theater, and things were still under that tone of, we're the invader and we will do what we want. We didn't have to have an escort, and it was our show. We called the shots, and treated things as any invasion force should. January 1st arrived, and with it the SOFA. Status Of Forces Agreement. This is the proverbial handcuff, or the proverbial last nail in the coffin on what we once were to what we are now. An invasion force to occupational force.
Our stay started at a place called FOB Loyalty. It had all the amenities that any forward operating base shouldn't have. The chow hall ran by KBR, the force protection ran by EODT and it's Ugandan Army. It's PX was always stocked with need-nots and luxuries. The Gym was nice as nice as the buildings to be stayed in, and considering the location, in the heart of the city, it was 'nice' to say the least.
Operations in this area started with one of two words we learned to despise. Vigilant Guard. This was the Army's brilliant strategy to helping to secure Iraq during the democratic elections upcoming at the end of January. It wasn't for protection of ourselves, but for the protection of the people. Iraq wasn't the wild west it once was a few years back, and because it wasn't, all common sense, all Army training went right out the window. We had designated times for missions, when we were to be out in 'sector' and when we could return. There was no standard to get to other than time. We would be out twice a day from this hour to that. Not killing bad guys, or even capturing them. Hours were wasted doing 'check-point over watch.' Where we literally sat in our trucks, and watched to make sure the National Police had not fallen asleep, and were doing their jobs. At this point, we needed an escort to move throughout the country, but we were still very much in control.
We spent hours and hour outside of the wire, and though it was tiring, and exhausting, even running our platoon 'ragged,' it was those reasons for all the wrong ones. We weren't being proactive, and certainly not productive. The allotted times eventually cost this battalion it's first casualty. January 10th, 2009 Staff Sergeant Justin L. Bauer, a section leader in Delta Company's 2nd Platoon, was killed when his vehicle was struck by an EFP. He was killed instantly in the blast. His driver lost his foot, but lived. The chain of command had set us up for failure, and we failed. They further dug the hole deeper when, instead of going after the guys responsible, or harassing the neighborhood until they gave up those responsible, they simply ordered us to stay away from the area. To pass our blankets, and not take any revenge or vengeance upon those.
We continued our Vigilant Guard requirement. We continued to go out during the same hours of the day until after elections. We continued operations under a chain of command that didn't care about it's lower level. They sent us out on mission after mission, risking our lives over and over for no reason but personal and political gain and glory. The incompetence was easily viewed through the ranks of high and low, and yet nothing was done to mitigate it. We sat by idly at the hands of an insanely selfish and incompetent company commander. Even though the upper echelon, the Battalion Commander knew that he had a flawed commander in his ranks, and had the power to relieve him, he did nothing.
The mission continued, and day in and out we were punished for the incompetence of the commander. Battalion would punish us with more patrols. Putting us out in sector more often, with less sleep, and more of a margin for complacency, and death. If it wasn't the Battalion Commander handing out the increase in pointless patrols, it was the company commanders incompetence and stupidity that punished us.
March 6th, 2009 my platoon was attacked when a roadside bomb exploded on our second vehicle. Our mission that day was to take humanitarian aid to a small, 'squatter town' community that bordered Sodr City. Our company commander had told the populace there that we were coming that day. What time we would be coming, and which route we were taking. He could have killed one of us with that information. He let out pertinent information that is protected under Operational Security, and it almost got American's killed. He stayed in command.
During the month of April, we finally found ourselves on the offensive. For the first time, we gathered intel, and didn't pass it up to higher. We kept it close to the chest, and bent the rules of the SOFA as much as we could. We learned who was responsible for the loss of American lives, and more specifically, who killed SSG Bauer. After days of gathering exact locations, and names from an informant we had managed to get information from after helping his sick daughter. We planned a raid on this house, and though Iraqi Security Forces were to be the 'lead' as the SOFA
demanded they be, we were going to use any means necessary to kill or capture these guys. Sneaking up on a neighborhood, on bad guys is difficult, because the vehicles we had are not the most discreet. The decision was made for us to get to a certain point, and then our dismounts jump in the back of the national police trucks and drive to the target house. This added to our surprise and when we arrived at the house, the national police were the first to touch the door. We then kicked it in. We captured one of the two people we were after, and the other one we had barely missed. His pants, cell phone and ID were still there. We requested the Fox team with a tracking dog to come out to our location. Perhaps this individual was still in the area, and was hiding somewhere close. We had the neighborhood blocked off, and would have noticed someone trying to leave. We were denied by our company commander, who didn't even ask battalion if they could send them out there.
After we returned to base, our informant called us, and said that he had been trying to call us (but since we have jamming devices that block cell phones), but was unable to get through. Apparently right after we had mounted back up, the individual started heading back to his house on foot. He was in the neighborhood, and probably could have been found with the help of the tracking dogs. We took the younger brother of him in for arrest, and the national police were anything but cooperative. Our informant was interrogated, and feared to say anything because the national police would harass him or call him a traitor. The arresstee would have gotten off scotch free if it hadn't been for the fact that he was carrying fake ID's. He would go to Iraqi court, where he could easily buy his way out of the corrupt system.
The luck of AT4 and Delta Company continued turned back to it's run of low. After getting a new Platoon Leader during April, we were moved from the luxurious conditions of FOB Loyalty and the area of Beladiyat to the ghettos of Kamaliyah and the horrible living conditions of COP 763. The company operations outpost in Mahalla 763 is located in a postage stamp sized. It only consisted of one building, at 5 story burned out noodle factory. The bottom floor was the maintenance bay. The second floor was ours, with the National Police living above. Unlike the National Police of the Beladiyat area, these National Police were unwilling to work with us. They were uneducated, and given their positions based on status as a gang, or mafia. The leaders were that of a group that used to oppose Saddam, and who had a tight grip on the communities around the COP. The level of corruption was considered 'acceptable.' Working alongside these criminals was tough, as they stole food, water, and anything else they could get their hands on from us. We were patrolling in an area that hadn't really seen the likes of American patrols since the early part of the war. The unit we replaced didn't even go into the neighborhoods, simply because if they did, they usually did not come out in one piece.
There were a lot of bad people in the area of Kamaliyah. One in particular who had been gone for some years had returned to the area. Bashram Israel. This man is a wanted criminal by the United States. He has a U.S. Arrest Warrant. He's killed Americans, and countless numbers of his own people. He is responsible for a 40 person grave site in that area. If we were FBI agents or US Marshall's, we could go to his house and arrest him. Since we operate under the SOFA we have aren't allowed to. There is a tougher process that must be done, with more hoops to jump through. Even after we learned the location of this individual, and locations of his safe houses (which wasn't easy between the rock throwers and grim looks of the people that hate us in this area), we were unable to go capture and more importantly kill this man. Our company commander was not in support, because his higher ups and himself were convinced as to 'not stir up the hornets nest.' We can allow them to place IED's and other roadside bombs and mortar or rocket our bases, but when we try and go on the counter attack, we are handcuffed not only by the SOFA that we stupidly agreed to, but also by our own chains of command. It's hard to imagine that we are allowing known American killers off the hook. At the same time, that we are risking our lives to end this war quicker, not by kicking doors down or finding the enemy, but allowing him to kill us without consequence. The politics are sickening.
After working hard at trying to get around the SOFA, and even being somewhat successful in annoying and harassing bad people enough, we had some small victories. Our platoon grew away from the rest of battalion who kept being as passive as the higher ups wanted them to be. We were being proactive. 763's conditions, especially during the summer were not very great. The A/C's kept breaking down from their over exertion, and we didn't have the money to fix them. Our rooms became sweat boxes. On top of all of that, our supplies lines were so dwindled, that we only were eating two meals a day, and those two meals were rationed. Weight loss was the current fad that we all adhered to.
June 30th came and with it, a promise that all American and Coalition Forces would be out of the major cities. It was reported on the news that we were all gone, except for a slight few to help to continue to train the Iraqi's. It was a blatant lie, and part of the propaganda and politics that this war had already seen to much of. It did though put us deeper into the back seat and closer to the trunk of protecting and supplying ourselves. We were no longer aloud to go out during the day. We were no longer aloud to go anywhere unescorted. Our Iraqi counterparts, had taken the baton and were now in the lead. They no longer wanted to work with us. Our supply lines that were already dwindled, continued. It allowed for the enemy, more freedom of movement, and less of a chance of us doing anything about it. For the first time of any war, we are at the mercy of those we defeated.
After proving, over and over, that we were perhaps the best platoon in battalion, we were somewhat rewarded when there was a request for the 'Battalion Reserve' which is a platoon outside of HHC that comes and gets attached to them. One of our platoons from Delta Company had done this earlier in deployment, but we now had our shot. One mission in particular that granted us this, was one of the worst I've ever been a part of. Not that we didn't do our job, or that we didn't do a good job, but the task that we followed through with was ridiculous. We were assigned to pick up prisoners, and release them back to Iraq. The process was sickening, acting like the Iraqi's were the one's responsible for releasing their own terrorist people back into the country. We even had to stop before we got entirely back to the drop off point, cut the handcuffs and remove the blindfolds from the prisoners. We got zero credit for risking our lives for the rehabilitation of American killers. It was the first time in history that we released POW's while the war was still going on. The captured one of the one's that our mission or others like it had released, after he had implaced an IED set to detonate on coalition forces. This was literally days after he had been released.
We had a mission in between the transition from COP 763 to JSS Beladiyat. It was to remove the barriers on the a dangerous route, that was deemed 'black' and that nobody could drive on until it had been cleared by the combat engineers. That's a bullshit process in itself, that I will touch on later. Removing the barriers down this stretch of road was dangerous. Not that it had to be, but we were instructed by higher ups to go down specified routes. The mission time was always the same, and these factors increased our risks, simply because someone had made a slide in a slide show that showed a route, and was too lazy to change it. They put us in danger because of their laziness. It's a double edged sword for us, so we try and mitigate the risk the best we can. Two IED's were implaced on the specific routes that we were supposed to go down. Thanks to luck or divine intervention, both times we were not the unit that was hit. One of those two roadside bombs catastrophically struck a National Guard Unit, killing two Americans. We were lucky.
JSS Beladiyat, is where our Battalion headquarters moved from after JSS Loyalty had downsized to next to nothing. It's still open, but only because of the KBR and EODT personnel who have contracts signed until 2011. Another example of the poor politics, and the planning that should not have been allowed to take place. Beladiyat, though not very far from the rest of the bases, has three sometimes four meals a day. There are always cold drinks and snacks available throughout the day. The battalion commander will even send people over to Loyalty, a hop skip and a jump away but through enemy territory, and down the same route over and over, just because we have ran out of Diet Coke. He wants some diet coke, which is worth the risking of a platoons life. The selfishness is apparent. It lingers here like a thick smoke that can be seen and certainly breathed in.
Our missions here could be considered to that of a taxi or delivery service. We pick up people and supplies from JSS Loyalty and back and forth. We respond to anyone that comes into our O/E when they get into trouble. The route clearance, the combat engineers always get hit when they are clearing. They've even been blown up, had an RPG fired at them, and not returned fire. They clear routes by just driving down them. They aren't a good unit, and because they have no idea how to take care of themselves, they put others at risk. An infantry platoon now must escort them wherever they drive. Another example of the bullshit we've had to deal with all deployment. From Vigilant Guard, to Sapper Guard.
I was asked a question by that historian, on what positives I could take from this deployment. I was silent for a long time. I could only think of all the injustices that came with this place. Not the enemy killing us, or trying to kill us, but from the management of this war that our battalion, that our nation has allowed. People are here to advance their careers. When Americans die, they care nothing, and do nothing for vengeance, and more importantly justice. Bauer and Davis are deaths that have gone in vain. The way things are worded, the blanket awards, and the politics played show us as doing a great job here. In comparison to Delta Company and HHC, we have been the only platoon trying to do anything good. Less than 20 guys make the rest of everyone look bad, not because we are some kind of War Gods, but because we came here, and despite all the adversity, have done our jobs. The credit will go to the Battalion for a job greatly done. Despite them doing absolutely nothing to deserve it. Unless risking the lives of Americans unnecessarily, not being held to any standards, and countless acts of selfishness is enough for good credit.
I invite you, if you were part of this deployment, and have read this, to leave your comments below. Let me know the injustices you faced. The bullshit you endured, and the friends lost or injured that we did nothing about. Let me know the incompetent leaders you had, and despite the fact that they were known to be incompetent were allowed to manage your lives freely, and selfishly.
Anything else you'd like to add?
You have no idea... Just remember my name, and look for my book.
The tall, well spoken Minnesotan sat across from me, and still loomed over. I thought that I would be more nervous. Not that talking to tall Minnesotans is nerve racking, but with a pen and paper, tape recorder and journalistic eyes I was nervous at what I was about to say. 'State your name for the record,' W-R-I-G-H-T. The recorder silently listening, but paying attention. Every word, every detail would be taken in, objectively as I could put it. I suppose I might not have been the first to talk about it, but I was perhaps the first to say it. "You're not going to like what I have to say, but I'm going to say it..." The rest, as they say, is history.
I recounted to him to the best of my ability the events of this deployment. From beginning to end, and then some. I tried to quote only fact, and relate the experience to the realm of what was occurring at the time. I didn't fabricate any stories, or events for any personal gain or glory. I stated the truth, nearly the whole truth, and certainly nothing short of the truth. The words coming out of my mouth, I had sometimes said before. I could still see the end destination. The stinging that such words can do now not only on a blog, but in the annals of military records. On the record, for the record. Again, I tried my best to say all that I had, and needed to say. I wasn't going to let myself down, and certainly not my buddies. Certainly not you.
The aid station, the mock interrogation/interview room, was my only safe haven. I imagined the walls impenetrable, and that the walls could block all of the sound. Despite my fears and trepidation about discussing the military to the military, I felt confident in knowing that I could always do one of two things to secure my 'release.' 1) it's the truth, and I'll tell it to anybody. The media is so very powerful, and 2) I have PTSD! Problem solved. I started from the beginning...
December 2008, we arrived here in theater, and things were still under that tone of, we're the invader and we will do what we want. We didn't have to have an escort, and it was our show. We called the shots, and treated things as any invasion force should. January 1st arrived, and with it the SOFA. Status Of Forces Agreement. This is the proverbial handcuff, or the proverbial last nail in the coffin on what we once were to what we are now. An invasion force to occupational force.
Our stay started at a place called FOB Loyalty. It had all the amenities that any forward operating base shouldn't have. The chow hall ran by KBR, the force protection ran by EODT and it's Ugandan Army. It's PX was always stocked with need-nots and luxuries. The Gym was nice as nice as the buildings to be stayed in, and considering the location, in the heart of the city, it was 'nice' to say the least.
Operations in this area started with one of two words we learned to despise. Vigilant Guard. This was the Army's brilliant strategy to helping to secure Iraq during the democratic elections upcoming at the end of January. It wasn't for protection of ourselves, but for the protection of the people. Iraq wasn't the wild west it once was a few years back, and because it wasn't, all common sense, all Army training went right out the window. We had designated times for missions, when we were to be out in 'sector' and when we could return. There was no standard to get to other than time. We would be out twice a day from this hour to that. Not killing bad guys, or even capturing them. Hours were wasted doing 'check-point over watch.' Where we literally sat in our trucks, and watched to make sure the National Police had not fallen asleep, and were doing their jobs. At this point, we needed an escort to move throughout the country, but we were still very much in control.
We spent hours and hour outside of the wire, and though it was tiring, and exhausting, even running our platoon 'ragged,' it was those reasons for all the wrong ones. We weren't being proactive, and certainly not productive. The allotted times eventually cost this battalion it's first casualty. January 10th, 2009 Staff Sergeant Justin L. Bauer, a section leader in Delta Company's 2nd Platoon, was killed when his vehicle was struck by an EFP. He was killed instantly in the blast. His driver lost his foot, but lived. The chain of command had set us up for failure, and we failed. They further dug the hole deeper when, instead of going after the guys responsible, or harassing the neighborhood until they gave up those responsible, they simply ordered us to stay away from the area. To pass our blankets, and not take any revenge or vengeance upon those.
We continued our Vigilant Guard requirement. We continued to go out during the same hours of the day until after elections. We continued operations under a chain of command that didn't care about it's lower level. They sent us out on mission after mission, risking our lives over and over for no reason but personal and political gain and glory. The incompetence was easily viewed through the ranks of high and low, and yet nothing was done to mitigate it. We sat by idly at the hands of an insanely selfish and incompetent company commander. Even though the upper echelon, the Battalion Commander knew that he had a flawed commander in his ranks, and had the power to relieve him, he did nothing.
The mission continued, and day in and out we were punished for the incompetence of the commander. Battalion would punish us with more patrols. Putting us out in sector more often, with less sleep, and more of a margin for complacency, and death. If it wasn't the Battalion Commander handing out the increase in pointless patrols, it was the company commanders incompetence and stupidity that punished us.
March 6th, 2009 my platoon was attacked when a roadside bomb exploded on our second vehicle. Our mission that day was to take humanitarian aid to a small, 'squatter town' community that bordered Sodr City. Our company commander had told the populace there that we were coming that day. What time we would be coming, and which route we were taking. He could have killed one of us with that information. He let out pertinent information that is protected under Operational Security, and it almost got American's killed. He stayed in command.
During the month of April, we finally found ourselves on the offensive. For the first time, we gathered intel, and didn't pass it up to higher. We kept it close to the chest, and bent the rules of the SOFA as much as we could. We learned who was responsible for the loss of American lives, and more specifically, who killed SSG Bauer. After days of gathering exact locations, and names from an informant we had managed to get information from after helping his sick daughter. We planned a raid on this house, and though Iraqi Security Forces were to be the 'lead' as the SOFA
demanded they be, we were going to use any means necessary to kill or capture these guys. Sneaking up on a neighborhood, on bad guys is difficult, because the vehicles we had are not the most discreet. The decision was made for us to get to a certain point, and then our dismounts jump in the back of the national police trucks and drive to the target house. This added to our surprise and when we arrived at the house, the national police were the first to touch the door. We then kicked it in. We captured one of the two people we were after, and the other one we had barely missed. His pants, cell phone and ID were still there. We requested the Fox team with a tracking dog to come out to our location. Perhaps this individual was still in the area, and was hiding somewhere close. We had the neighborhood blocked off, and would have noticed someone trying to leave. We were denied by our company commander, who didn't even ask battalion if they could send them out there.
After we returned to base, our informant called us, and said that he had been trying to call us (but since we have jamming devices that block cell phones), but was unable to get through. Apparently right after we had mounted back up, the individual started heading back to his house on foot. He was in the neighborhood, and probably could have been found with the help of the tracking dogs. We took the younger brother of him in for arrest, and the national police were anything but cooperative. Our informant was interrogated, and feared to say anything because the national police would harass him or call him a traitor. The arresstee would have gotten off scotch free if it hadn't been for the fact that he was carrying fake ID's. He would go to Iraqi court, where he could easily buy his way out of the corrupt system.
The luck of AT4 and Delta Company continued turned back to it's run of low. After getting a new Platoon Leader during April, we were moved from the luxurious conditions of FOB Loyalty and the area of Beladiyat to the ghettos of Kamaliyah and the horrible living conditions of COP 763. The company operations outpost in Mahalla 763 is located in a postage stamp sized. It only consisted of one building, at 5 story burned out noodle factory. The bottom floor was the maintenance bay. The second floor was ours, with the National Police living above. Unlike the National Police of the Beladiyat area, these National Police were unwilling to work with us. They were uneducated, and given their positions based on status as a gang, or mafia. The leaders were that of a group that used to oppose Saddam, and who had a tight grip on the communities around the COP. The level of corruption was considered 'acceptable.' Working alongside these criminals was tough, as they stole food, water, and anything else they could get their hands on from us. We were patrolling in an area that hadn't really seen the likes of American patrols since the early part of the war. The unit we replaced didn't even go into the neighborhoods, simply because if they did, they usually did not come out in one piece.
There were a lot of bad people in the area of Kamaliyah. One in particular who had been gone for some years had returned to the area. Bashram Israel. This man is a wanted criminal by the United States. He has a U.S. Arrest Warrant. He's killed Americans, and countless numbers of his own people. He is responsible for a 40 person grave site in that area. If we were FBI agents or US Marshall's, we could go to his house and arrest him. Since we operate under the SOFA we have aren't allowed to. There is a tougher process that must be done, with more hoops to jump through. Even after we learned the location of this individual, and locations of his safe houses (which wasn't easy between the rock throwers and grim looks of the people that hate us in this area), we were unable to go capture and more importantly kill this man. Our company commander was not in support, because his higher ups and himself were convinced as to 'not stir up the hornets nest.' We can allow them to place IED's and other roadside bombs and mortar or rocket our bases, but when we try and go on the counter attack, we are handcuffed not only by the SOFA that we stupidly agreed to, but also by our own chains of command. It's hard to imagine that we are allowing known American killers off the hook. At the same time, that we are risking our lives to end this war quicker, not by kicking doors down or finding the enemy, but allowing him to kill us without consequence. The politics are sickening.
After working hard at trying to get around the SOFA, and even being somewhat successful in annoying and harassing bad people enough, we had some small victories. Our platoon grew away from the rest of battalion who kept being as passive as the higher ups wanted them to be. We were being proactive. 763's conditions, especially during the summer were not very great. The A/C's kept breaking down from their over exertion, and we didn't have the money to fix them. Our rooms became sweat boxes. On top of all of that, our supplies lines were so dwindled, that we only were eating two meals a day, and those two meals were rationed. Weight loss was the current fad that we all adhered to.
June 30th came and with it, a promise that all American and Coalition Forces would be out of the major cities. It was reported on the news that we were all gone, except for a slight few to help to continue to train the Iraqi's. It was a blatant lie, and part of the propaganda and politics that this war had already seen to much of. It did though put us deeper into the back seat and closer to the trunk of protecting and supplying ourselves. We were no longer aloud to go out during the day. We were no longer aloud to go anywhere unescorted. Our Iraqi counterparts, had taken the baton and were now in the lead. They no longer wanted to work with us. Our supply lines that were already dwindled, continued. It allowed for the enemy, more freedom of movement, and less of a chance of us doing anything about it. For the first time of any war, we are at the mercy of those we defeated.
After proving, over and over, that we were perhaps the best platoon in battalion, we were somewhat rewarded when there was a request for the 'Battalion Reserve' which is a platoon outside of HHC that comes and gets attached to them. One of our platoons from Delta Company had done this earlier in deployment, but we now had our shot. One mission in particular that granted us this, was one of the worst I've ever been a part of. Not that we didn't do our job, or that we didn't do a good job, but the task that we followed through with was ridiculous. We were assigned to pick up prisoners, and release them back to Iraq. The process was sickening, acting like the Iraqi's were the one's responsible for releasing their own terrorist people back into the country. We even had to stop before we got entirely back to the drop off point, cut the handcuffs and remove the blindfolds from the prisoners. We got zero credit for risking our lives for the rehabilitation of American killers. It was the first time in history that we released POW's while the war was still going on. The captured one of the one's that our mission or others like it had released, after he had implaced an IED set to detonate on coalition forces. This was literally days after he had been released.
We had a mission in between the transition from COP 763 to JSS Beladiyat. It was to remove the barriers on the a dangerous route, that was deemed 'black' and that nobody could drive on until it had been cleared by the combat engineers. That's a bullshit process in itself, that I will touch on later. Removing the barriers down this stretch of road was dangerous. Not that it had to be, but we were instructed by higher ups to go down specified routes. The mission time was always the same, and these factors increased our risks, simply because someone had made a slide in a slide show that showed a route, and was too lazy to change it. They put us in danger because of their laziness. It's a double edged sword for us, so we try and mitigate the risk the best we can. Two IED's were implaced on the specific routes that we were supposed to go down. Thanks to luck or divine intervention, both times we were not the unit that was hit. One of those two roadside bombs catastrophically struck a National Guard Unit, killing two Americans. We were lucky.
JSS Beladiyat, is where our Battalion headquarters moved from after JSS Loyalty had downsized to next to nothing. It's still open, but only because of the KBR and EODT personnel who have contracts signed until 2011. Another example of the poor politics, and the planning that should not have been allowed to take place. Beladiyat, though not very far from the rest of the bases, has three sometimes four meals a day. There are always cold drinks and snacks available throughout the day. The battalion commander will even send people over to Loyalty, a hop skip and a jump away but through enemy territory, and down the same route over and over, just because we have ran out of Diet Coke. He wants some diet coke, which is worth the risking of a platoons life. The selfishness is apparent. It lingers here like a thick smoke that can be seen and certainly breathed in.
Our missions here could be considered to that of a taxi or delivery service. We pick up people and supplies from JSS Loyalty and back and forth. We respond to anyone that comes into our O/E when they get into trouble. The route clearance, the combat engineers always get hit when they are clearing. They've even been blown up, had an RPG fired at them, and not returned fire. They clear routes by just driving down them. They aren't a good unit, and because they have no idea how to take care of themselves, they put others at risk. An infantry platoon now must escort them wherever they drive. Another example of the bullshit we've had to deal with all deployment. From Vigilant Guard, to Sapper Guard.
I was asked a question by that historian, on what positives I could take from this deployment. I was silent for a long time. I could only think of all the injustices that came with this place. Not the enemy killing us, or trying to kill us, but from the management of this war that our battalion, that our nation has allowed. People are here to advance their careers. When Americans die, they care nothing, and do nothing for vengeance, and more importantly justice. Bauer and Davis are deaths that have gone in vain. The way things are worded, the blanket awards, and the politics played show us as doing a great job here. In comparison to Delta Company and HHC, we have been the only platoon trying to do anything good. Less than 20 guys make the rest of everyone look bad, not because we are some kind of War Gods, but because we came here, and despite all the adversity, have done our jobs. The credit will go to the Battalion for a job greatly done. Despite them doing absolutely nothing to deserve it. Unless risking the lives of Americans unnecessarily, not being held to any standards, and countless acts of selfishness is enough for good credit.
I invite you, if you were part of this deployment, and have read this, to leave your comments below. Let me know the injustices you faced. The bullshit you endured, and the friends lost or injured that we did nothing about. Let me know the incompetent leaders you had, and despite the fact that they were known to be incompetent were allowed to manage your lives freely, and selfishly.
Anything else you'd like to add?
You have no idea... Just remember my name, and look for my book.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
In The Shuffle
I shouldn't be amazed, and therefore am not, at the way the end of deployment has gone down. Most specifically in the means of getting soldiers home to their families. Being a soldier, a couple hours difference is not a very big difference to us. Our hopes have been crushed so many times that to give us bad news after bad news, of the unworthy nonsense that shouldn't even exist in the majority of our lives; well, we are used to it.
Today, supposedly the last of our deployment, has been exactly like the rest of deployment. We aren't surprised. Our original flight time has passed hours ago, and we sit and wait. And then wait some more. We are through US Customs, and to be quite frank, that was the most of my worries. Customs can be that annoying friend that you deal with to drive you to the mall, or buy you a beer. Worth it in the long run, but you fret it before and during.
We are now on lock-down, due to the risk that we might be able to sneak an AK47 or grenade back to the great states of America. Unlikely. So we sit in our tent, alphabetically of course, the Lima's and Zulu's all looped in one. Mooo. The other heard from Alpha to Mike in their own corral. We wait on the word, and it's constantly changing. Lock-down isn't to bad. That is if you don't mind eating cliff bars, or Lays, or drinking a cup of over priced joe, and free sodas, gatorade, water, and different from the last time, internet.
Everyone is snoring, or attempting sleep sitting or standing. The brave souls hoping for a sleeping arm or sore back are doing their best attempts at sleep on the concrete floor. The TV is playing a Veterans Day movie tribute, and I had to check my watch to remind myself it was still, or now just the 11th. Crossed arms, tilted heads, hunched backs, and laptops the heart, lungs and soul of tent 6, our very own cattle shack.
The worst part about getting our time line pushed back, is for our families. As it always is. We are enough of a brotherhood here that even if we are down each others throats, we still hold strong together. But our families, waiting, hoping, and praying that we be on time, they get let down. So we get in at 1 am, and then what? 15 minutes of hugs, kisses and tears for the already weary eyed and tired family who have been waiting around in the butthole of North Carolina, Fayetteville, all day. We get a half an hour speech from some General or someone building their own career, and just like those who have the awake enough starbucks can afford we don't give a shit. We just want to be with our families. Drink a beer or two. Eat a nice dinner, which most certainly won't happen and have sex. Now another up in the air.
It's the same every time, no matter here or there. Someone who has nothing to do with us, always wants to say how proud he is, and how we helped to get his promotion. We don't want to hear it and neither do you. Especially at 1 am. But it's bound to happen. So after a lovely discussion going on way to long, then it's barracks room assignment and weapons turn in. A couple hours later and you can take me to waffle house for my first meal. All plans, diminished, changed, and not worthy for us, and certainly not for people like Jeri, Gina, Scott, Jody, and anyone else traveling long and far for our arrival. Is it even fair for us?
Jason lies on the floor next to me like a vagabond, and Sampson on a chair reminding me of math class. So close, and yet so far. And though the walls are sand colored, and the air conditioning is blowing just enough to make those sleeping tuck their hands into pits, the view outside isn't much better, or different. Sand as far as the eye can see, with the occasional Gulf War tank casualty, nearly rusted away, as forgotten as the war is fought. My anxiety kicks in for you, waiting. You should've been seeing me in 12 hours, and yet we've doubled that for apparently no reason. The photo op off the plane will be ruined for this guy or that, and you will have to stand the bullshit speeches or parades along with the non-militarized zone between our formation and your longing arms.
And yet I'm still holding tight to this dream of distant light, and that somehow I'll survive, but this night has been a long one, waiting on word that just won't come.
Today, supposedly the last of our deployment, has been exactly like the rest of deployment. We aren't surprised. Our original flight time has passed hours ago, and we sit and wait. And then wait some more. We are through US Customs, and to be quite frank, that was the most of my worries. Customs can be that annoying friend that you deal with to drive you to the mall, or buy you a beer. Worth it in the long run, but you fret it before and during.
We are now on lock-down, due to the risk that we might be able to sneak an AK47 or grenade back to the great states of America. Unlikely. So we sit in our tent, alphabetically of course, the Lima's and Zulu's all looped in one. Mooo. The other heard from Alpha to Mike in their own corral. We wait on the word, and it's constantly changing. Lock-down isn't to bad. That is if you don't mind eating cliff bars, or Lays, or drinking a cup of over priced joe, and free sodas, gatorade, water, and different from the last time, internet.
Everyone is snoring, or attempting sleep sitting or standing. The brave souls hoping for a sleeping arm or sore back are doing their best attempts at sleep on the concrete floor. The TV is playing a Veterans Day movie tribute, and I had to check my watch to remind myself it was still, or now just the 11th. Crossed arms, tilted heads, hunched backs, and laptops the heart, lungs and soul of tent 6, our very own cattle shack.
The worst part about getting our time line pushed back, is for our families. As it always is. We are enough of a brotherhood here that even if we are down each others throats, we still hold strong together. But our families, waiting, hoping, and praying that we be on time, they get let down. So we get in at 1 am, and then what? 15 minutes of hugs, kisses and tears for the already weary eyed and tired family who have been waiting around in the butthole of North Carolina, Fayetteville, all day. We get a half an hour speech from some General or someone building their own career, and just like those who have the awake enough starbucks can afford we don't give a shit. We just want to be with our families. Drink a beer or two. Eat a nice dinner, which most certainly won't happen and have sex. Now another up in the air.
It's the same every time, no matter here or there. Someone who has nothing to do with us, always wants to say how proud he is, and how we helped to get his promotion. We don't want to hear it and neither do you. Especially at 1 am. But it's bound to happen. So after a lovely discussion going on way to long, then it's barracks room assignment and weapons turn in. A couple hours later and you can take me to waffle house for my first meal. All plans, diminished, changed, and not worthy for us, and certainly not for people like Jeri, Gina, Scott, Jody, and anyone else traveling long and far for our arrival. Is it even fair for us?
Jason lies on the floor next to me like a vagabond, and Sampson on a chair reminding me of math class. So close, and yet so far. And though the walls are sand colored, and the air conditioning is blowing just enough to make those sleeping tuck their hands into pits, the view outside isn't much better, or different. Sand as far as the eye can see, with the occasional Gulf War tank casualty, nearly rusted away, as forgotten as the war is fought. My anxiety kicks in for you, waiting. You should've been seeing me in 12 hours, and yet we've doubled that for apparently no reason. The photo op off the plane will be ruined for this guy or that, and you will have to stand the bullshit speeches or parades along with the non-militarized zone between our formation and your longing arms.
And yet I'm still holding tight to this dream of distant light, and that somehow I'll survive, but this night has been a long one, waiting on word that just won't come.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Lookin Minnesota, Feelin California
As more and more boys of the 2P arrive here in BIAP, the reality becomes more and more real. We are leaving here, one way or another. Baghdad's airport isn't exactly what you think. We are not actually sitting in any kind of terminal at the actual airport. We are on the military side of it all, with our transient tents, good food, and fresh haircuts.
It wouldn't be the 82nd if we didn't have to have a fresh haircut within the first 6 hours that we had arrived here. I was abruptly awoken at 9 am, after laying on the uncomfortable cot, in the freezer of a tent whippin in the wind. I didn't believe that they would have woken us up after only less than a few hours of sleep, but it is the 82nd, and after all the Army. Fresh haircuts across the board. Probably the best one I've had in months.
Our platoon the only one that seems any kind of happy here out of all of Delta company. The others down trodden and sad. We try and laugh and joke, and they seem to be taking no part in it. Beaten delta dogs, they barely lift their heads, or find joy in the fact that we are almost home. Thinking about the way we had it when we were at 763, I don't blame them. We were too.
Our Beladiyat move ended up being somewhat of a blessing, even though we were worked like dogs. We had good, well at least decent food, even though the majority of us ate like 9 year olds. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a smorgasbord of children's cereal. We didn't lose anymore weight, but we certainly didn't gain much back. Looking back at pictures of the round faces of individuals in the platoon, and their now feeble, thin appearance is kind of an amazing sight. Looking at all those who did nothing but eat well, work out with 'help' and the size they had amassed, they had dwarfed our platoon. The 'Scouts' our elite guys, who we ended up taking their job over, are already on the shrink plan from the week ago that we saw them. A close friend over their looks as if he's already lost 15 lbs, and he hasn't even spent a day at 763.
Our platoon, the misfits, we are one happy family. Sure we have our dislikes of this guy or that, and disagreements here and there from one guy to another. But considering we are mostly Alpha males, and have spent the better part of a year becoming brothers, that's expected, and certainly bound to happen. Three individuals are still missing, already home, or doing Army work somewhere else. Our LT Dan did catch up to us, and at least after today all of us should be out of the level of harms way that we were on a day to day in the likes of Beladiyat or 763.
The food here at BIAP has been the biggest and best change. Imagine eating at Sizzler for months on end, and then having a permanent table at the Ruth Criss. It's hard to even consume the portions put on our plates, but it's so well cooked, and though you probably wouldn't think so, we do. The dessert bar is splendid, and worthy of seconds. The sunken in eyes that we all had are starting to go away. Those frowns, starting to turn upside down. The belts are getting tighter around the waste, and we are loosenin' 'em up. That big weight is off the shoulders, and the clamp is off the stomachs. Home is smellin' closer, and even the 78 cold that it is here, feels like the 58 North Carolina should feel. Contrary to Mr Cornell, we're lookin a little like Minnesota, but we're feelin' a lot like California. Hang loose bro, not hung over. Not yet.
Is he 'avin a laugh?He's 'avin a laugh. -Ricky Gervais
It wouldn't be the 82nd if we didn't have to have a fresh haircut within the first 6 hours that we had arrived here. I was abruptly awoken at 9 am, after laying on the uncomfortable cot, in the freezer of a tent whippin in the wind. I didn't believe that they would have woken us up after only less than a few hours of sleep, but it is the 82nd, and after all the Army. Fresh haircuts across the board. Probably the best one I've had in months.
Our platoon the only one that seems any kind of happy here out of all of Delta company. The others down trodden and sad. We try and laugh and joke, and they seem to be taking no part in it. Beaten delta dogs, they barely lift their heads, or find joy in the fact that we are almost home. Thinking about the way we had it when we were at 763, I don't blame them. We were too.
Our Beladiyat move ended up being somewhat of a blessing, even though we were worked like dogs. We had good, well at least decent food, even though the majority of us ate like 9 year olds. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a smorgasbord of children's cereal. We didn't lose anymore weight, but we certainly didn't gain much back. Looking back at pictures of the round faces of individuals in the platoon, and their now feeble, thin appearance is kind of an amazing sight. Looking at all those who did nothing but eat well, work out with 'help' and the size they had amassed, they had dwarfed our platoon. The 'Scouts' our elite guys, who we ended up taking their job over, are already on the shrink plan from the week ago that we saw them. A close friend over their looks as if he's already lost 15 lbs, and he hasn't even spent a day at 763.
Our platoon, the misfits, we are one happy family. Sure we have our dislikes of this guy or that, and disagreements here and there from one guy to another. But considering we are mostly Alpha males, and have spent the better part of a year becoming brothers, that's expected, and certainly bound to happen. Three individuals are still missing, already home, or doing Army work somewhere else. Our LT Dan did catch up to us, and at least after today all of us should be out of the level of harms way that we were on a day to day in the likes of Beladiyat or 763.
The food here at BIAP has been the biggest and best change. Imagine eating at Sizzler for months on end, and then having a permanent table at the Ruth Criss. It's hard to even consume the portions put on our plates, but it's so well cooked, and though you probably wouldn't think so, we do. The dessert bar is splendid, and worthy of seconds. The sunken in eyes that we all had are starting to go away. Those frowns, starting to turn upside down. The belts are getting tighter around the waste, and we are loosenin' 'em up. That big weight is off the shoulders, and the clamp is off the stomachs. Home is smellin' closer, and even the 78 cold that it is here, feels like the 58 North Carolina should feel. Contrary to Mr Cornell, we're lookin a little like Minnesota, but we're feelin' a lot like California. Hang loose bro, not hung over. Not yet.
Is he 'avin a laugh?He's 'avin a laugh. -Ricky Gervais
Friday, November 6, 2009
No Longer Wishing I Were-Homeward Bound, Paul and Ar
As my stomach lifted along with my feet, I peered out past the silhouette of a precariously perched and balanced individual. The lights, both white and orange became smaller and more, disrupted beautifully by the exhaust of the helicopter. Further and further we rose into the moonlit Arabian night, perhaps my last ever. Eastern Baghdad, furthering from view and no longer recognizable by the normal means of on the ground encounters. Deployment over, the weight of it lifting off the shoulders like the lift of the helicopter. Fast and smooth.
The ride out of Loyalty to BIAP wasn't very long, but the 7 minutes were certainly enjoyable. Sitting at the end of the Chinook, with the door wide open, the views only obstruction an individual with a futuristic helmet, his cat like seat he had taken, and the machine gun. The view as beautiful as ever. Clear skies with a near full moon, and the cities last breath still in my lungs.
The night had almost not been so perfect, and fear and trepidation had consumed me most of the time. After arriving at Loyalty, our platoon incomplete, still missing one. Lt. Nelson on the last mission for any Misfit. We sat uncomfortably on the gravel, our stomachs full from a much needed decent meal. We waited, and hurried like we have always been trained to do. Unsure if we were even leaving, due to the 120+ spear chuckers who were taking our seats on the birds. We lucked out, and the little room they had left, just enough for a dozen of us and a few more.
Landing in BIAP is a great feeling, knowing that you are in the 'green zone' and nearly all the way out of harms way. A day spent with good food and more options than any of us know what to do with, was as enjoyed as could be. In limbo, waiting to go home. The longest days of deployment are surely to come. The bullshit continues with fresh haircuts and clean uniforms, and as close as garrison life is, it's already started to take over.
The frustrations, and anger have settled a little, or at least more easily controlled. With so much moving at the speed of sound, and so much else moving at the speed of snail, you find yourself holding tight to the dream of distant light. It's ever so close. Stayin' as happy as possible, smelling the bullshit and sometimes bathing in it too. Almost done, almost home. It's starting to feel real. Do my best to forget and live this lie. Done, done, done the siren calls.
Somehow, I'll survive though this night be a long one. Waiting on the sun that just won't come.
The ride out of Loyalty to BIAP wasn't very long, but the 7 minutes were certainly enjoyable. Sitting at the end of the Chinook, with the door wide open, the views only obstruction an individual with a futuristic helmet, his cat like seat he had taken, and the machine gun. The view as beautiful as ever. Clear skies with a near full moon, and the cities last breath still in my lungs.
The night had almost not been so perfect, and fear and trepidation had consumed me most of the time. After arriving at Loyalty, our platoon incomplete, still missing one. Lt. Nelson on the last mission for any Misfit. We sat uncomfortably on the gravel, our stomachs full from a much needed decent meal. We waited, and hurried like we have always been trained to do. Unsure if we were even leaving, due to the 120+ spear chuckers who were taking our seats on the birds. We lucked out, and the little room they had left, just enough for a dozen of us and a few more.
Landing in BIAP is a great feeling, knowing that you are in the 'green zone' and nearly all the way out of harms way. A day spent with good food and more options than any of us know what to do with, was as enjoyed as could be. In limbo, waiting to go home. The longest days of deployment are surely to come. The bullshit continues with fresh haircuts and clean uniforms, and as close as garrison life is, it's already started to take over.
The frustrations, and anger have settled a little, or at least more easily controlled. With so much moving at the speed of sound, and so much else moving at the speed of snail, you find yourself holding tight to the dream of distant light. It's ever so close. Stayin' as happy as possible, smelling the bullshit and sometimes bathing in it too. Almost done, almost home. It's starting to feel real. Do my best to forget and live this lie. Done, done, done the siren calls.
Somehow, I'll survive though this night be a long one. Waiting on the sun that just won't come.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Bloggin'
Three days already into November, and I haven't had a chance to blog.
What have we been doing lately that has kept me so busy? Getting ready to come home. It's strange that we have been here for 11 months now, and to be honest, it has been the quickest 11 months of my life. I suppose not ever having a 'day off' or nights forgotten due to blackout drunkenness, or fast food, has allowed the time to fly.
The strangest thing happened. I shivered and it was 88 degrees. I also drove a vehicle more than just backing it up, or pulling it forward. It was quite an adventure, considering I hadn't driven since May.
You would think, with deployment nearly over, and home so close I would be in a better state of ecstasy. I haven't really even thought about home as a possibility though. It seems unreal. Dreams are weirder, and I can't seem to place how or why they happen. Even with Beer, family, and friends on the horizon, my thoughts can't seem to escape to the bliss. They stay near, and don't drift.
Even coming so close, my writing ideas are failing me. All I want to talk about is the stupidity of missions that we are going on lately, but due to operations security, I can't yet do that. (Give me a few weeks) So, instead I sit and think, and look at football scores, root against the Phillies, skip meals from over sleep, and look at the faces of the FNG's as I denounce all the expectations they had for here. My anger and frustration seeps over, and they're turned off, stop listening, and hope it's the war they joined to fight. Bad news boys, this war's not over, but they're not going to let you fight it.
Who is they anyways?
There's that one click interval they wanted...
What have we been doing lately that has kept me so busy? Getting ready to come home. It's strange that we have been here for 11 months now, and to be honest, it has been the quickest 11 months of my life. I suppose not ever having a 'day off' or nights forgotten due to blackout drunkenness, or fast food, has allowed the time to fly.
The strangest thing happened. I shivered and it was 88 degrees. I also drove a vehicle more than just backing it up, or pulling it forward. It was quite an adventure, considering I hadn't driven since May.
You would think, with deployment nearly over, and home so close I would be in a better state of ecstasy. I haven't really even thought about home as a possibility though. It seems unreal. Dreams are weirder, and I can't seem to place how or why they happen. Even with Beer, family, and friends on the horizon, my thoughts can't seem to escape to the bliss. They stay near, and don't drift.
Even coming so close, my writing ideas are failing me. All I want to talk about is the stupidity of missions that we are going on lately, but due to operations security, I can't yet do that. (Give me a few weeks) So, instead I sit and think, and look at football scores, root against the Phillies, skip meals from over sleep, and look at the faces of the FNG's as I denounce all the expectations they had for here. My anger and frustration seeps over, and they're turned off, stop listening, and hope it's the war they joined to fight. Bad news boys, this war's not over, but they're not going to let you fight it.
Who is they anyways?
There's that one click interval they wanted...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Hide The Cheese
On guard shift again, where every good blog is thought of, or bad one, I ran my fingers through my short hair and pondered. Many different questions are always scratching the surface, but today was slightly different. The threats of punishment sometimes more severe than the wrong-doing were as felt as the cool breeze that whipped through my small guard shack. No gloves, knee pads, or eye pro would surely be the end of me, and so I wore them just as I had every other time.
Lou was on one of his normal rampages, and obviously had nothing better to do with his time. He probably had spent most of the morning saying his name over and over again to himself, while relaxing in his hot tub, and making love to his face in the mirror. The standards that are set for those in the lower position are always to a higher level than those enforced on those who make the decision for it to be a standard. The old, do as I say not as I do-really kicks you right in the balls.
I find the hypocrisy of the entire situation preposterous to say the least. Here we are grown men, assigned to do one thing under the conforms of the military doctrine restricts our actions and gives us a heading for duty. We are grown men, or considered at least that, from the bottom private to the top general. Schooling is the only separation between the two individuals, and perhaps time. Time is the biggest factor that can separate me from you, and though time heals all wounds, it doesn't necessarily make you smarter. Time certainly doesn't make you less vain, or less hypocritical. I'll use Lou as my example.
The standards are the same, or should be at least throughout the ranks, regardless of rank or position. It's military doctrine that says this. Though, they are not. The constant failures from the top, the lack of discipline, the lack of responsibility for it, and the lack of accountability for it is staggering. The meat hammer reigns down on me, or you if we are out of uniform. If we do not adhere to the standards set forth. But when they are broken from the men above, those who preach it and enforce it, nothing is done. If your job is to pull guard duty, with knee pads and maxi pads on, you will do it, or you will be punished. If your job is to mitigate the risk of losing those under you's lives, and you do not do it, nothing will happen. You can even get men killed out of your negligence, your egotistical selfishness, and nothing will happen. It's all very sickening. Where's my barf bucket.
Someone loses their weapon and it's an act that is punishable as close to death as the Army can make it. You'd certainly rather be dead. You fall asleep on duty, and it's the same. Unless of course you have a high level of rank on your chest. You are given more responsibility at that level. Not only for yourself, or belongings, but for men's lives. There is no one above you to catch you, or enforce policy, you are supposed to on your own. It's amazing how that simply doesn't happen. After years of service, those simple rules are able to be broken. People have 'careers' to worry about. They have their Steelers game to watch, or more important issues, like their own health, or want or need. If you ran out of Diet Coke, but had water, or even other kinds of similar sodas, would you send your sons to go get some from the store, if their was a high possibility that they could be blown up, killed, or mangled? I would hope you wouldn't make the decision. But that decision, and one's like that are made on a day to day basis here. Because someone wants a small luxury, they send people under them to risk their lives for something the rest of us simply go without.
No one views that negligence or selfishness but us, the small fish. The big fish that could do something about it, even if they see it or don't see it, simply either do not care, nor want to hurt the careers of those who have done some time. Someone needs to answer. There needs to be some kind of fairness. Not because I want it, or because there are 800+ who feel cheated by the decisions of one or two individuals, but because it's the rules. It's Army doctrine. It's what's right. I'm coming home in less than two weeks. I am the new war vet, not the one that killed people and suffer their faces. I'm the one who was told to take shit, and eat it, and do nothing about it. We are pissed off, not just at the enemy that tried to kill us countless times, but at you Lou, and you Herb. You let us down. You didn't wear your knee pads. And unlike the absurdity of the minuscule restrictions and rules you enforced on us, yours were important standards. Important decisions. You failed us all, you failed yourselves, you failed this country and America too. And just like the rest of all you have done to us, you get the reward. You get the cheese, and we get the mousetrap.
Stay off the sprinting bench line...
Lou was on one of his normal rampages, and obviously had nothing better to do with his time. He probably had spent most of the morning saying his name over and over again to himself, while relaxing in his hot tub, and making love to his face in the mirror. The standards that are set for those in the lower position are always to a higher level than those enforced on those who make the decision for it to be a standard. The old, do as I say not as I do-really kicks you right in the balls.
I find the hypocrisy of the entire situation preposterous to say the least. Here we are grown men, assigned to do one thing under the conforms of the military doctrine restricts our actions and gives us a heading for duty. We are grown men, or considered at least that, from the bottom private to the top general. Schooling is the only separation between the two individuals, and perhaps time. Time is the biggest factor that can separate me from you, and though time heals all wounds, it doesn't necessarily make you smarter. Time certainly doesn't make you less vain, or less hypocritical. I'll use Lou as my example.
The standards are the same, or should be at least throughout the ranks, regardless of rank or position. It's military doctrine that says this. Though, they are not. The constant failures from the top, the lack of discipline, the lack of responsibility for it, and the lack of accountability for it is staggering. The meat hammer reigns down on me, or you if we are out of uniform. If we do not adhere to the standards set forth. But when they are broken from the men above, those who preach it and enforce it, nothing is done. If your job is to pull guard duty, with knee pads and maxi pads on, you will do it, or you will be punished. If your job is to mitigate the risk of losing those under you's lives, and you do not do it, nothing will happen. You can even get men killed out of your negligence, your egotistical selfishness, and nothing will happen. It's all very sickening. Where's my barf bucket.
Someone loses their weapon and it's an act that is punishable as close to death as the Army can make it. You'd certainly rather be dead. You fall asleep on duty, and it's the same. Unless of course you have a high level of rank on your chest. You are given more responsibility at that level. Not only for yourself, or belongings, but for men's lives. There is no one above you to catch you, or enforce policy, you are supposed to on your own. It's amazing how that simply doesn't happen. After years of service, those simple rules are able to be broken. People have 'careers' to worry about. They have their Steelers game to watch, or more important issues, like their own health, or want or need. If you ran out of Diet Coke, but had water, or even other kinds of similar sodas, would you send your sons to go get some from the store, if their was a high possibility that they could be blown up, killed, or mangled? I would hope you wouldn't make the decision. But that decision, and one's like that are made on a day to day basis here. Because someone wants a small luxury, they send people under them to risk their lives for something the rest of us simply go without.
No one views that negligence or selfishness but us, the small fish. The big fish that could do something about it, even if they see it or don't see it, simply either do not care, nor want to hurt the careers of those who have done some time. Someone needs to answer. There needs to be some kind of fairness. Not because I want it, or because there are 800+ who feel cheated by the decisions of one or two individuals, but because it's the rules. It's Army doctrine. It's what's right. I'm coming home in less than two weeks. I am the new war vet, not the one that killed people and suffer their faces. I'm the one who was told to take shit, and eat it, and do nothing about it. We are pissed off, not just at the enemy that tried to kill us countless times, but at you Lou, and you Herb. You let us down. You didn't wear your knee pads. And unlike the absurdity of the minuscule restrictions and rules you enforced on us, yours were important standards. Important decisions. You failed us all, you failed yourselves, you failed this country and America too. And just like the rest of all you have done to us, you get the reward. You get the cheese, and we get the mousetrap.
Stay off the sprinting bench line...
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The One That Got Away, Everytime
I am about as fed up with this creature as any of the rest of you. He, she... it strikes without warning or prejudice. It prays on you from this wash to the next, and always leaves you missing one thing, a sock. Not a pair of socks, just one. Called the 'Sock Monster' by most people, this name is simply to generic. But I think I have finally put the pieces together. I've figured out what, or who this entity is.
It's gotten to the point, that I actually to a check to see if I have complete sets of socks before I take my laundry bag down to the washing machines to do work. I get to the washer, and do another check as I load the machine. I've found that from the washer to the dryer you have just as much chance of losing the sock, as you do if there are complete pairs that go into the dryer. The 'sock monster' doesn't care if it takes them wet, or dry. It usually seems that the harder I try and prevent losing a sock, the more often it happens. Even on one such occasion, I didn't come up with just one sock missing, but three different colors all had a sock missing. One black sock, one green and one white. Brutal.
Whatever organism steals socks, is obviously highly evolved, and possibly even genetically altered. It's much like a Vampire, or the Lockness Monster, or even Sasquatch. But it sets the bar higher than any of those, because it's never been seen. Combating the unseen foe is very difficult, with no steak or onion, harpoon or sword, shotgun or motor home as a weapon known to be effective against such a voracious villain like the sock monster. My only conclusion is that the sock monster does exist, and it's an enemy closer than you think.
Yourself.
History, research, science, power, and deductive reasoning are none of the factors that factor into my conclusion. It's not because I don't know how to use any of that jargon, but because those have all been used before to try and figure out who, or mainly what, the sock monster is. Scratch the deductive reasoning off that list. We are our own enemies. It might not be our personal choice, and could be some deeper seeded mental block. A subconscious decision that we don't recognize. It could even be some kind of life form inside of us, attached to the central nervous system, or mons pubis perhaps controlling what we do. We throw the sock away. We discard it off to somewhere else. We block out the memory, or simply do not remember doing it. Made to forget by ourselves, or aliens, but it's an absent 3 seconds of our lives. The reasoning? There are too many that I can only touch on few, but perhaps these are the most important.
Socks' elastic, over time, over washing and wearing eventually craps out. Degrades and becomes useless. Socks become less and less comfortable during that period. After a certain time in life your feet stop growing, and if you're like me, you could wear the same set of socks for the rest of your life. This is a defense mechanism, an alien life forms control of you, or a Government-Maytag conspiracy. It's hard to tell at this point, one thing is for certain. You need to replenish that lost sock. With sock styles changing at a pace that can only be measured in nano-seconds you simply discard the mate that no longer completes a pair. You buy new socks, and you forget about the ones lost. You buy new ones, and complete the cycle that they wanted you to. Even if it's yourself!
I start to lean more towards this Maytag government conspiracy, the more I look into it, the more the signs are pointing towards it. I have to be careful, and you are my only life line at this time. Keep this close to the chest, but look at this information I found on the company and it's origins, timeline and the history it has with our military. I found this on a very reliable source, wikipedia... . "During World War II, the company participated in war production by making special components for military equipment. In 1946, production of washing machines was resumed;" I find it weird that it doesn't really specify what equipment they were making. And it later went on to say this... "in 1949, the first automatic washers were produced in a new purpose-built plant. In 1946, Maytag began marketing a separate line of ranges and refrigerators made by other companies under the Maytag name. During the Korean War, the company again produced parts for military equipment, although washing-machine production continued." So in 1949, they made an automatic washing machine. One that could take your socks at any time it wanted to.
The ideas that Maytag is somehow responsible, with help from the military and government of the United States isn't that far fetched. I think it's a good possibility, and should be something we as a people look further into. My socks are missing, and so are yours, and there is someone or something responsible. Time to start digging deeper. As I write this two sharp looking individuals in black suits just walked into the MWR. Strange, they have ear pieces and they're staring right at me. Those are some nice suits for here in the middle of Iraq. I wonder wh
I lift my eyes and say, come on and take me away... BOC, more cowbell
It's gotten to the point, that I actually to a check to see if I have complete sets of socks before I take my laundry bag down to the washing machines to do work. I get to the washer, and do another check as I load the machine. I've found that from the washer to the dryer you have just as much chance of losing the sock, as you do if there are complete pairs that go into the dryer. The 'sock monster' doesn't care if it takes them wet, or dry. It usually seems that the harder I try and prevent losing a sock, the more often it happens. Even on one such occasion, I didn't come up with just one sock missing, but three different colors all had a sock missing. One black sock, one green and one white. Brutal.
Whatever organism steals socks, is obviously highly evolved, and possibly even genetically altered. It's much like a Vampire, or the Lockness Monster, or even Sasquatch. But it sets the bar higher than any of those, because it's never been seen. Combating the unseen foe is very difficult, with no steak or onion, harpoon or sword, shotgun or motor home as a weapon known to be effective against such a voracious villain like the sock monster. My only conclusion is that the sock monster does exist, and it's an enemy closer than you think.
Yourself.
History, research, science, power, and deductive reasoning are none of the factors that factor into my conclusion. It's not because I don't know how to use any of that jargon, but because those have all been used before to try and figure out who, or mainly what, the sock monster is. Scratch the deductive reasoning off that list. We are our own enemies. It might not be our personal choice, and could be some deeper seeded mental block. A subconscious decision that we don't recognize. It could even be some kind of life form inside of us, attached to the central nervous system, or mons pubis perhaps controlling what we do. We throw the sock away. We discard it off to somewhere else. We block out the memory, or simply do not remember doing it. Made to forget by ourselves, or aliens, but it's an absent 3 seconds of our lives. The reasoning? There are too many that I can only touch on few, but perhaps these are the most important.
Socks' elastic, over time, over washing and wearing eventually craps out. Degrades and becomes useless. Socks become less and less comfortable during that period. After a certain time in life your feet stop growing, and if you're like me, you could wear the same set of socks for the rest of your life. This is a defense mechanism, an alien life forms control of you, or a Government-Maytag conspiracy. It's hard to tell at this point, one thing is for certain. You need to replenish that lost sock. With sock styles changing at a pace that can only be measured in nano-seconds you simply discard the mate that no longer completes a pair. You buy new socks, and you forget about the ones lost. You buy new ones, and complete the cycle that they wanted you to. Even if it's yourself!
I start to lean more towards this Maytag government conspiracy, the more I look into it, the more the signs are pointing towards it. I have to be careful, and you are my only life line at this time. Keep this close to the chest, but look at this information I found on the company and it's origins, timeline and the history it has with our military. I found this on a very reliable source, wikipedia... . "During World War II, the company participated in war production by making special components for military equipment. In 1946, production of washing machines was resumed;" I find it weird that it doesn't really specify what equipment they were making. And it later went on to say this... "in 1949, the first automatic washers were produced in a new purpose-built plant. In 1946, Maytag began marketing a separate line of ranges and refrigerators made by other companies under the Maytag name. During the Korean War, the company again produced parts for military equipment, although washing-machine production continued." So in 1949, they made an automatic washing machine. One that could take your socks at any time it wanted to.
The ideas that Maytag is somehow responsible, with help from the military and government of the United States isn't that far fetched. I think it's a good possibility, and should be something we as a people look further into. My socks are missing, and so are yours, and there is someone or something responsible. Time to start digging deeper. As I write this two sharp looking individuals in black suits just walked into the MWR. Strange, they have ear pieces and they're staring right at me. Those are some nice suits for here in the middle of Iraq. I wonder wh
I lift my eyes and say, come on and take me away... BOC, more cowbell
Sunday, October 25, 2009
My Red Shirt
It was perhaps a shirt I was never meant to have. Luck was certainly a factor in it's decision to find me, and me find it. It's not just a shirt anymore. A simple possession years ago, is now a reminder, a deep seeded catcher of dreams and memories. It's a conveyor of feelings and experiences. It's construction is simple. The red cotton is slightly faded. The yellow vinyl iron on graphics are cracking to reveal their age. Show their washing machine rides on their chests. If you saw it, you wouldn't think much of it. Small holes here and there through the old cotton, that's scratchy to the skin when you put it on. It's faded and old, but to me, it's so much more. Memories, feelings and friendship.
At Eric's house, I was a constant visitor that summer. Probably even perhaps considered to have over stayed my welcome. Eric or his parents didn't mind though, and even if they didn't, they never complained. Happenstance found my life, and tagged me it. Ventura mornings, afternoons and nights became my future for the next week. Beach fun, and peanut butter jelly bellies were a constant. Eric and I lived that week and the rest of the summer with no regrets. We became surfers, and beach bums. We tanned darker than we had ever had, and the beach blond hairdo's grew out with the time. We didn't leave anything to regret.
Years later, the t-shirt still fits. One year short of a decade I've worn that shirt here and there and everywhere else. When times get tougher than they should be it's there for a hug. When the light is almost out, it's fresh batteries and bulb. Here, I pull the shirt from it's hiding place. I smell it, and no matter how dirty or how clean-it always smells great. Like home. I slip it on, and close my eyes. I run down the beach, or crack open a beer with friends and family. I'm transported home. It breaks the ice and allows a much needed smile. It's my only gateway to a past life. It invites the memories to freely flow, for unfiltered happiness to rush forward, and it doesn't even ask them to leave their shoes at the door. It warms the heart and soothes the soul. My red shirt, my helping hand. The reminder to home, and with it great laughs, great smiles, great friends and a loving family. I'm wearing it now, and feel so much better.
We all have these simple reminders, our own red shirts. Mine might mean as much to my past as that afghan from your grandma, or that smokers hat from your grandpa. That blue cowboy shirt, or pair of slippers. They are time machines. They bring you to the past or revive the dead. They might not let you interact with either, but they do the best they can. Help you to remember, to view, to feel. Are you going to wear your red shirt today?
nachos and lemon heads, and my red shirt!
At Eric's house, I was a constant visitor that summer. Probably even perhaps considered to have over stayed my welcome. Eric or his parents didn't mind though, and even if they didn't, they never complained. Happenstance found my life, and tagged me it. Ventura mornings, afternoons and nights became my future for the next week. Beach fun, and peanut butter jelly bellies were a constant. Eric and I lived that week and the rest of the summer with no regrets. We became surfers, and beach bums. We tanned darker than we had ever had, and the beach blond hairdo's grew out with the time. We didn't leave anything to regret.
Years later, the t-shirt still fits. One year short of a decade I've worn that shirt here and there and everywhere else. When times get tougher than they should be it's there for a hug. When the light is almost out, it's fresh batteries and bulb. Here, I pull the shirt from it's hiding place. I smell it, and no matter how dirty or how clean-it always smells great. Like home. I slip it on, and close my eyes. I run down the beach, or crack open a beer with friends and family. I'm transported home. It breaks the ice and allows a much needed smile. It's my only gateway to a past life. It invites the memories to freely flow, for unfiltered happiness to rush forward, and it doesn't even ask them to leave their shoes at the door. It warms the heart and soothes the soul. My red shirt, my helping hand. The reminder to home, and with it great laughs, great smiles, great friends and a loving family. I'm wearing it now, and feel so much better.
We all have these simple reminders, our own red shirts. Mine might mean as much to my past as that afghan from your grandma, or that smokers hat from your grandpa. That blue cowboy shirt, or pair of slippers. They are time machines. They bring you to the past or revive the dead. They might not let you interact with either, but they do the best they can. Help you to remember, to view, to feel. Are you going to wear your red shirt today?
nachos and lemon heads, and my red shirt!
Friday, October 23, 2009
Little Wing
This mornings elegant breeze helped to cool the back of the neck after the end of the thirteen hours and the deflating feeling that had heated us all. I tried to enjoy the soft morning breeze, closing my eyes I found my mind walking joyfully down the boardwalk of a quiet morning on some pier of some beach. The morning sky fortuitously lifted my mood, and I breathed in the sights hoping they would continue to lighten my thoughts. The sleep lifted from the eye lids with a soft pull, and I found new strength in tender caress of this Arabian fall morn.
The water was about as warm as a half drank cup of coffee. It poured soft, but strong like the stony creek behind a house. Crisp and refreshing as a good stretch. It held the rest of the body, and stroked the bodies lost energy back in. The cold water faucet's slow drip moving more slowly this morning. It knew the unfair score of the night, and didn't want to remind you. The sun was still rising somewhere out of sight, and I took a promise that it might not give. I struggled to will the water of the shower back off, and almost failed. The last drops better than the first, it was finally off.
Contemplating the long day ahead, I knew that I had to find strength out of just crying in my coffee. Complaints will not validate the pain or the process dealt with. Last night sucked, and I'll be the first to admit it, even with Lt. Dan singing Christmas carols. We all went through it, and everyone is worse from the ware. Guard shift is always that annoying bully, but one that's certainly necessary to complete the playground. This was the one day you had wished he didn't pick on you, but you take your lickings and let the other kids run. Run buddies, chase some sleep.
The countdown doesn't seem very real, and I have trouble believing it sometimes. There is no joy or excitement. I look, and I don't see less than three weeks. I still see the sweat left to sweat, the blood left to bleed, and the tears left to shed. I try and think of the things that I miss, and few come to mind. I would have thought I would crave beer, pizza and sex. I try hard to miss them, and forward out of the memory banks come the flood of all of those. Like a image across the screen, they don't seem real anymore. The connotations seemingly gone. My guard hasn't let down, and I get frustrated. It's not the memories that remind you. It's not pictures or even video. It's the smells, the atmosphere of a place that can bring you back. Without the aura, there is no connecting to the past. The smell has to find you. The breeze has to blow a certain way. The taste has to melt in your mouth. You try and reach for it, force the feelings back. It's been to long to remember. Amazing, how soon I've forgot.
This morning at least, has helped me go home.
when I'm sad, she comes to me, with a thousand smiles she gives to me...
The water was about as warm as a half drank cup of coffee. It poured soft, but strong like the stony creek behind a house. Crisp and refreshing as a good stretch. It held the rest of the body, and stroked the bodies lost energy back in. The cold water faucet's slow drip moving more slowly this morning. It knew the unfair score of the night, and didn't want to remind you. The sun was still rising somewhere out of sight, and I took a promise that it might not give. I struggled to will the water of the shower back off, and almost failed. The last drops better than the first, it was finally off.
Contemplating the long day ahead, I knew that I had to find strength out of just crying in my coffee. Complaints will not validate the pain or the process dealt with. Last night sucked, and I'll be the first to admit it, even with Lt. Dan singing Christmas carols. We all went through it, and everyone is worse from the ware. Guard shift is always that annoying bully, but one that's certainly necessary to complete the playground. This was the one day you had wished he didn't pick on you, but you take your lickings and let the other kids run. Run buddies, chase some sleep.
The countdown doesn't seem very real, and I have trouble believing it sometimes. There is no joy or excitement. I look, and I don't see less than three weeks. I still see the sweat left to sweat, the blood left to bleed, and the tears left to shed. I try and think of the things that I miss, and few come to mind. I would have thought I would crave beer, pizza and sex. I try hard to miss them, and forward out of the memory banks come the flood of all of those. Like a image across the screen, they don't seem real anymore. The connotations seemingly gone. My guard hasn't let down, and I get frustrated. It's not the memories that remind you. It's not pictures or even video. It's the smells, the atmosphere of a place that can bring you back. Without the aura, there is no connecting to the past. The smell has to find you. The breeze has to blow a certain way. The taste has to melt in your mouth. You try and reach for it, force the feelings back. It's been to long to remember. Amazing, how soon I've forgot.
This morning at least, has helped me go home.
when I'm sad, she comes to me, with a thousand smiles she gives to me...
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Brainwashing The Flu
On the sickest day of the year, I laid in bed thinking about how perhaps this was only the eve of the sickest day. Not that tomorrow I would feel any better, but only much worse. The perpetual declining of a semi-torch lit circular staircase with no bottom entered my feverish dreams as I dosed in and out of consciousness. The dancing shadows of myself and invisible demons left me with only one conclusion. It was indeed the eve. Flu vaccinations tomorrow. I never used to hate needles. I never was scared when the doctor or dentist pulled out the towering to thin to see, silver metal perpetrator. I never thought how it resembled a number 2 pencil, but thinner and deadlier. My stomach never saw butterflies. My lungs never caught a shortness of breath. I never had sweat break at my hairline. My legs never shook, and my fingers never gripped any harder. But now, now all of that has changed. The military has made me terrified of needles. It's one of the first things you do in the military. Wake up early, after no sleep, and get needles in an out of every body part, with the whammy being at the end. The literal end, the right or left buttocks.
The funny thing about the penicillin in the butt is not the pain in which is inflicts. The funny thing is looking at 60 or 80 men, sitting in an open room on 2X4 benches, leaning to one side, the left or right. Leaning far off of the pricked and painful penicillin pinch. The days of 30th AG seem very long ago, but the trends it helped set seem to have found their permanent place in not just me, but all of us. The brainwashing beginning there can be seen in not only quick and brief flashbacks of the here and now, but in sustained everyday operations of me and other men alike. It might look out of place, or perfectly in suit depending on how you, the civilian, could view it. If you are the type that doesn't get into the hoopla of the snap crack of the militaries dress right dress, you would see what we do as utterly insane. It's only occasionally that I can still view these small things as out of the norm. However, if you've been exposed or think, 'Oh how cool! Guys in uniform,' you probably don't see it, as we don't. But there is a certain amount of brainwashing, some necessary and some ridiculoussary. JD and I have come to realize, and though I believe that two are more than enough to start a revolution; I think this train is too far and fast a rollin' for two to derail.
The biggest brainwashing that comes into play, is that people eventually forget why they do something. They do it for so long, that it becomes the thing to do, just to do it. They forget the purpose of why they've done it, and in turn the worth of the common sense stock just plummeted and you're compelled to leap off of the 30th story on Wall Street. Kuurrplatt. At first, the time is 1745. Fifteen minutes early to 1800. It's fine, and everyone strolls around right around that first time. It's not mandatory, and there's no be headings if you're a few minutes tardy. Then, you do it for so long that the brainwashing, the think for yourself no more goes right out the 30th story window with you. 1730, you find yourself down there. Why is the general question, that no one seems to be able to hear. Moooooo, right along with the heard you eat your grass and don't complain. Eventually you arrive fifteen minutes earlier to that. Your complaints go on to the deaf, and you take some thanks in at least the alfalfa is fresher. It still tastes like shit.
Those are just the first steps of the brainwashing. 30th AG and the beginning of the Army isn't the only place that can shape and mold you. Places like this, Iraq, are the epitomised brain washing site. The combat stress, regardless of bullets flying over head is enough to herald an immediate change. Imagine driving through the neighborhood at home, and every flower box or mail box could be your demise. BOOM! Never saw it coming. The changes in the way you live is perhaps the biggest to deal with. This is what time you wake up. This is where you eat. This is what you eat. This is what you clean. This is where you sit. Off-time? Here's your bed, here's the computer or telephones. Movie theater is at your bed. It's all very convenient, but in the end it brainwashes you the worst. I haven't dealt with the full flood that this effect has, but I'm standing up to my waste in water with it. Decisions. Freedom of choice. Options. All of that is very scary coming from a world like this one. It's almost unimaginable after a year of literally having one option. Sleep or MWR.
Sure, you have your little ones, the unimportant ones of which cereal cup do I want? But they don't have every option that a cereal aisle would have. You do have to thank the lord someone was smart enough to send 10 tons of Captain Crunch over, even if you aren't religious. Looking at what I can do when I get home, is simply overwhelming. Even a decision that only affects one or two days seems as looming as that needle pressed against ones arm. I can jump out of airplanes, and carry over 100 lbs of equipment, but I can't decide Vegas or Carpinteria for New Years, and quiver when a needle presents itself. I suppose that makes some sense, as adjusting back into the real world will probably be hard across the board. Assuming I don't beat my wife or children I don't have, or someone elses for that matter, some indecision about what restaurant to eat at, or where to vacation should be the appropriate amount of stress for myself. Better than a damn needle in the ass. *Shudder*
regular or h1n1? or both?
The funny thing about the penicillin in the butt is not the pain in which is inflicts. The funny thing is looking at 60 or 80 men, sitting in an open room on 2X4 benches, leaning to one side, the left or right. Leaning far off of the pricked and painful penicillin pinch. The days of 30th AG seem very long ago, but the trends it helped set seem to have found their permanent place in not just me, but all of us. The brainwashing beginning there can be seen in not only quick and brief flashbacks of the here and now, but in sustained everyday operations of me and other men alike. It might look out of place, or perfectly in suit depending on how you, the civilian, could view it. If you are the type that doesn't get into the hoopla of the snap crack of the militaries dress right dress, you would see what we do as utterly insane. It's only occasionally that I can still view these small things as out of the norm. However, if you've been exposed or think, 'Oh how cool! Guys in uniform,' you probably don't see it, as we don't. But there is a certain amount of brainwashing, some necessary and some ridiculoussary. JD and I have come to realize, and though I believe that two are more than enough to start a revolution; I think this train is too far and fast a rollin' for two to derail.
The biggest brainwashing that comes into play, is that people eventually forget why they do something. They do it for so long, that it becomes the thing to do, just to do it. They forget the purpose of why they've done it, and in turn the worth of the common sense stock just plummeted and you're compelled to leap off of the 30th story on Wall Street. Kuurrplatt. At first, the time is 1745. Fifteen minutes early to 1800. It's fine, and everyone strolls around right around that first time. It's not mandatory, and there's no be headings if you're a few minutes tardy. Then, you do it for so long that the brainwashing, the think for yourself no more goes right out the 30th story window with you. 1730, you find yourself down there. Why is the general question, that no one seems to be able to hear. Moooooo, right along with the heard you eat your grass and don't complain. Eventually you arrive fifteen minutes earlier to that. Your complaints go on to the deaf, and you take some thanks in at least the alfalfa is fresher. It still tastes like shit.
Those are just the first steps of the brainwashing. 30th AG and the beginning of the Army isn't the only place that can shape and mold you. Places like this, Iraq, are the epitomised brain washing site. The combat stress, regardless of bullets flying over head is enough to herald an immediate change. Imagine driving through the neighborhood at home, and every flower box or mail box could be your demise. BOOM! Never saw it coming. The changes in the way you live is perhaps the biggest to deal with. This is what time you wake up. This is where you eat. This is what you eat. This is what you clean. This is where you sit. Off-time? Here's your bed, here's the computer or telephones. Movie theater is at your bed. It's all very convenient, but in the end it brainwashes you the worst. I haven't dealt with the full flood that this effect has, but I'm standing up to my waste in water with it. Decisions. Freedom of choice. Options. All of that is very scary coming from a world like this one. It's almost unimaginable after a year of literally having one option. Sleep or MWR.
Sure, you have your little ones, the unimportant ones of which cereal cup do I want? But they don't have every option that a cereal aisle would have. You do have to thank the lord someone was smart enough to send 10 tons of Captain Crunch over, even if you aren't religious. Looking at what I can do when I get home, is simply overwhelming. Even a decision that only affects one or two days seems as looming as that needle pressed against ones arm. I can jump out of airplanes, and carry over 100 lbs of equipment, but I can't decide Vegas or Carpinteria for New Years, and quiver when a needle presents itself. I suppose that makes some sense, as adjusting back into the real world will probably be hard across the board. Assuming I don't beat my wife or children I don't have, or someone elses for that matter, some indecision about what restaurant to eat at, or where to vacation should be the appropriate amount of stress for myself. Better than a damn needle in the ass. *Shudder*
regular or h1n1? or both?
the army flu vaccine
is it for swine flu too?
it's not a flu vaccine at all
ok
it pretends to be one
but it just makes you sick
and then you get over it, and then are deemed 'vaccinated'
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tangents and Hypocrisy All Off The Cuff
I'm convinced that my best thinking comes while I'm doing one of two things. Standing on guard shift, or like every other man in the world, sitting on the crapper. Unfortunately the only two things have to write on in both situations, is a belt of ammunition or a roll of tee pee. Regardless of how much I try and hold on to and idea, or draw the play out in my head, I am never able to retain it, and so instead of the awesome blog I was going to post, you'll have to deal with this one.
One thing I have left out of my blog all too often, or at least not put enough effort or emphasis into, is our interpreter Bob. Bob's country, his people, his morals and culture all suck. 11 months in this country has taught me a lot about this middle eastern country. The cradle of civilization and all the culture, morals, and ethics of the people that haven't seemed to evolve at the same rate as any other being on this planet. I learned, after seeing their work ethic, that either it took a million years to build the pyramids, or there are aliens. The stoning of women is still accepted, along with handcuffing them to the bars outside a window, punching them in the face and hitting them with a blunt object. Though in all the differences, the biggest resemblance to any Western thinking is greed and hypocrisy in religion, even despite the opposition and denial that the 'radical' extremists Muslims have. I've learned that Muslims care about money, sex, and getting out of doing anything honest. Perhaps the worst underbelly of America can relate, and why should it not? Our Media, MTV, it's around the Globe, and didn't just skip over here.
You would think learning this culture I would be more tolerant, have more of an understanding of the hardships, and empathize for the people of this country. It has in fact done the exact opposite, I despise these people, and almost wish that we were still radical enough to be controlled by the Catholic church and crusade in the name of God to eradicate these people. What about Bob? I know, I started to get off on a tangent there, but this is all caused by Bob and his people. I like Bob, he's in his 30's, teaches computer science when he's not translating for us. Has a good sense of humor, proclaims himself as a 'bitch,' and on top of all that is a really good terp. He's a horrible Muslim, as they are all turning out to be. But his discrepancies in religion don't stray far from that of any Americans religious ideals. I mean unless they are over the top extremists, taking every word literal; I find those people the weirdest of all. Especially when they express their opinions upon others. Fortunately for us, the thought process of radical Christians has changed away from blood thirsty and martyrdom. We can leave that for the Arab's, who apparently can't think of something themselves, and have to steal all of their ideas from the west. Bob will be the first to denounce Alcohol, and Pork. Calling them a sin to eat, that Allah will not forgive him if he ever indulged in these things. Then he goes home and has sex with his girlfriend, who is Christian, and they unwed.
My mind run circles around religion, and I hate writing about it as much as I hate writing about politics. To many people are on the fence, and they all to often just try and defend it for defense sake, even though I'm not attacking anyone. Well maybe the hypocrisy and ignorance, but I believe if you believe in something, do it if it makes you happy. If it doesn't infringe on my rights or the rights of my fellow neighbors, you can believe it. It just makes my head bleed from scratching when I get the lectures from friends back home for using the Lord's name in vain. The part time, fair weather, convenient religioners. Most of my friends are Catholic, and sure I don't like the way the church itself handles the affairs of it's own, using faith as a profit making machine, but none the less I have friends who are Catholic. They are the ones that scoff at me when I say God Damn. They don't eat meat on Fridays during lent. But then they go have sex with their girlfriends. Then consume more than a moderate amount of alcohol. And then go stab someone else to death because they looked at them cross-ways. Wow, this turned a lot more hostile than I wanted to. I'm sure I've offended at least someone out there, reading this, mouth wide open. But it's all the same everywhere. We are the same as these people. Religion is the same. We might have transgressed a little bit, not thinking that 'women are slaves' and they 'will listen to man, or else.' We don't blow each other up for money or beliefs, but not too long ago we were.
Thomas Jefferson said it best, so I'm sure I'll say it much worse. I do not see religious beliefs or political views as a means to end a friendship. I believe that whole heartily. I think it actually can enrich a friendship (as long as you can keep things civil), as it points out other sides of the argument, and opinions. I've drank the Chai, and learned some phrases, and in the end I only can say I like two Iraqi's. Bob, and one of the first one's I met here, the Policeman Ferras. The rest of this back asswards country can burn in hell, God Damn it!
Get 'em out, get 'em up, get 'em off, RAWHIDE! (Whi chuh!)
One thing I have left out of my blog all too often, or at least not put enough effort or emphasis into, is our interpreter Bob. Bob's country, his people, his morals and culture all suck. 11 months in this country has taught me a lot about this middle eastern country. The cradle of civilization and all the culture, morals, and ethics of the people that haven't seemed to evolve at the same rate as any other being on this planet. I learned, after seeing their work ethic, that either it took a million years to build the pyramids, or there are aliens. The stoning of women is still accepted, along with handcuffing them to the bars outside a window, punching them in the face and hitting them with a blunt object. Though in all the differences, the biggest resemblance to any Western thinking is greed and hypocrisy in religion, even despite the opposition and denial that the 'radical' extremists Muslims have. I've learned that Muslims care about money, sex, and getting out of doing anything honest. Perhaps the worst underbelly of America can relate, and why should it not? Our Media, MTV, it's around the Globe, and didn't just skip over here.
You would think learning this culture I would be more tolerant, have more of an understanding of the hardships, and empathize for the people of this country. It has in fact done the exact opposite, I despise these people, and almost wish that we were still radical enough to be controlled by the Catholic church and crusade in the name of God to eradicate these people. What about Bob? I know, I started to get off on a tangent there, but this is all caused by Bob and his people. I like Bob, he's in his 30's, teaches computer science when he's not translating for us. Has a good sense of humor, proclaims himself as a 'bitch,' and on top of all that is a really good terp. He's a horrible Muslim, as they are all turning out to be. But his discrepancies in religion don't stray far from that of any Americans religious ideals. I mean unless they are over the top extremists, taking every word literal; I find those people the weirdest of all. Especially when they express their opinions upon others. Fortunately for us, the thought process of radical Christians has changed away from blood thirsty and martyrdom. We can leave that for the Arab's, who apparently can't think of something themselves, and have to steal all of their ideas from the west. Bob will be the first to denounce Alcohol, and Pork. Calling them a sin to eat, that Allah will not forgive him if he ever indulged in these things. Then he goes home and has sex with his girlfriend, who is Christian, and they unwed.
My mind run circles around religion, and I hate writing about it as much as I hate writing about politics. To many people are on the fence, and they all to often just try and defend it for defense sake, even though I'm not attacking anyone. Well maybe the hypocrisy and ignorance, but I believe if you believe in something, do it if it makes you happy. If it doesn't infringe on my rights or the rights of my fellow neighbors, you can believe it. It just makes my head bleed from scratching when I get the lectures from friends back home for using the Lord's name in vain. The part time, fair weather, convenient religioners. Most of my friends are Catholic, and sure I don't like the way the church itself handles the affairs of it's own, using faith as a profit making machine, but none the less I have friends who are Catholic. They are the ones that scoff at me when I say God Damn. They don't eat meat on Fridays during lent. But then they go have sex with their girlfriends. Then consume more than a moderate amount of alcohol. And then go stab someone else to death because they looked at them cross-ways. Wow, this turned a lot more hostile than I wanted to. I'm sure I've offended at least someone out there, reading this, mouth wide open. But it's all the same everywhere. We are the same as these people. Religion is the same. We might have transgressed a little bit, not thinking that 'women are slaves' and they 'will listen to man, or else.' We don't blow each other up for money or beliefs, but not too long ago we were.
Thomas Jefferson said it best, so I'm sure I'll say it much worse. I do not see religious beliefs or political views as a means to end a friendship. I believe that whole heartily. I think it actually can enrich a friendship (as long as you can keep things civil), as it points out other sides of the argument, and opinions. I've drank the Chai, and learned some phrases, and in the end I only can say I like two Iraqi's. Bob, and one of the first one's I met here, the Policeman Ferras. The rest of this back asswards country can burn in hell, God Damn it!
Get 'em out, get 'em up, get 'em off, RAWHIDE! (Whi chuh!)
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Luck, Suck
Today started off as horribly as any other. Even with the bed against the wall, I still couldn't manage to get up on the right side. I turned off the chirping alarm that was set all too early, and quickly and unwillingly got into Army mode. I threw on my boots, and stood up just in time to realize what I had known was coming. SMACK!, head cold. The worst kind too, Iraqi. The cold or flu that I had been fighting off for the last couple of days had finally hit me square in the face.
I meagerly assumed the normal position of the days guard at that time in the morning when you'd usually like to hit the snooze one more time. The queasy, nauseous feeling wasn't helping the situation, and even after all the pill therapy I could handle, and over filling my bladder, I could not be saved. Up-chucking into a Gatorade bottle is not my idea of a good Sunday morning, but it's certainly one I've known before. Usually for a different kind of sick. The four hours of standing, watching and praying something exciting and worthwhile would happen ended as it always did, on time but late.
After being saved by the afternoon four hour nap, I felt only slightly better. Garage band still practicing in my head, nose still marathoning, chest still crumbling, and eyes still bleeding. I started to move around, and tried my best to will my sickness away. It seemed to work after I got some more fluids in me, and some anthrax covered Iraqi pizza. 'It's for Americans.' 'Does that mean he's going to put anthrax on it?' 'Hold the anthrax.' 'Does that look like anthrax to you? Aw fuck it, we got the immunizations anyways.' After gorging myself on the food, it was time for my favorite part of Sundays. Though no longer a morning routine while here, it was still time for Football. I headed upstairs with mom's age old remedy for curing sickness, 7up, saltines and TV. Somehow no one had claimed the remote yet, and I was able to flick on the Viking game which just so happened to be on one of the AFN channels. My luck for the day had turned. Finally.
The game as I was watching it, was pretty one sided. The Vikings were dominant, and before I could watch them destroy the team at hand, it was time for our platoon quality time. Nearly two hours fell off the clock, and I returned upstairs, still my seat open where I had been. The score was closer than it was when I left, and that grinding feeling in the bottom of my stomach was no longer from the nausea. I watched as the lead slipped out of the grasp of the Vikes. I watched as the old man threw a huge pass down field, setting us up for the go-ahead score. Too much time left on the clock, and the other team was able to get into field goal range, and take a shot at the win with time expiring. I hadn't held my breath for that long in awhile. The kicker pulled it, and my slight run of luck continued. VICTORY!
Like rolling a snake eyes when betting it all, my lucky lady decided to leave me. We sat on the trucks waiting to see if we were going to be needed for the length of the pregame show and 5 innings. The Dodgers game was on, and I was missing it. I suppose it was a good thing. After finally being let off mission, I caught the game right as the Phillies, the hated ones, scored their 7th and 8th runs. Wake up is just a few hours away, and since I'm an L.A. fan, I left early to beat the traffic. Laying in bed, sniffling and snorting, I couldn't find peace. I listened to my ipod and tried to sleep on the Dark Side of the Moon. After over an hour of tossing and turning, sniffing and sneezing and coughing, I made my way to what was supposed to be a nice warm shower with the fresh morning light poking in through the windows. I turned on the shower and stepped in, just in time to be scolded by the last of the hot water, and then immediately stung by the cold. No sleep, no shower, plenty of sick, no good.
The best thing about going to bed before midnight, is knowing that tomorrow is a new day. But always going to be at 3, 4, 5, 10 in the morning? It's still just the same day. It's always a new afternoon. Morning, afternoon, evening, even night or day, it's still just another day of Dog & Pony. But tomorrow is not just another day, not just another MNF, or Dodgers playoff game. It's not just a new day, or new beginning, it's a day closer to home. Even with a loss, or a made field goal, lack of sleep, a freezing cold shower, or winning the dog & pony show, I have something else to celebrate. _____ is only a day away.
Count it...
I meagerly assumed the normal position of the days guard at that time in the morning when you'd usually like to hit the snooze one more time. The queasy, nauseous feeling wasn't helping the situation, and even after all the pill therapy I could handle, and over filling my bladder, I could not be saved. Up-chucking into a Gatorade bottle is not my idea of a good Sunday morning, but it's certainly one I've known before. Usually for a different kind of sick. The four hours of standing, watching and praying something exciting and worthwhile would happen ended as it always did, on time but late.
After being saved by the afternoon four hour nap, I felt only slightly better. Garage band still practicing in my head, nose still marathoning, chest still crumbling, and eyes still bleeding. I started to move around, and tried my best to will my sickness away. It seemed to work after I got some more fluids in me, and some anthrax covered Iraqi pizza. 'It's for Americans.' 'Does that mean he's going to put anthrax on it?' 'Hold the anthrax.' 'Does that look like anthrax to you? Aw fuck it, we got the immunizations anyways.' After gorging myself on the food, it was time for my favorite part of Sundays. Though no longer a morning routine while here, it was still time for Football. I headed upstairs with mom's age old remedy for curing sickness, 7up, saltines and TV. Somehow no one had claimed the remote yet, and I was able to flick on the Viking game which just so happened to be on one of the AFN channels. My luck for the day had turned. Finally.
The game as I was watching it, was pretty one sided. The Vikings were dominant, and before I could watch them destroy the team at hand, it was time for our platoon quality time. Nearly two hours fell off the clock, and I returned upstairs, still my seat open where I had been. The score was closer than it was when I left, and that grinding feeling in the bottom of my stomach was no longer from the nausea. I watched as the lead slipped out of the grasp of the Vikes. I watched as the old man threw a huge pass down field, setting us up for the go-ahead score. Too much time left on the clock, and the other team was able to get into field goal range, and take a shot at the win with time expiring. I hadn't held my breath for that long in awhile. The kicker pulled it, and my slight run of luck continued. VICTORY!
Like rolling a snake eyes when betting it all, my lucky lady decided to leave me. We sat on the trucks waiting to see if we were going to be needed for the length of the pregame show and 5 innings. The Dodgers game was on, and I was missing it. I suppose it was a good thing. After finally being let off mission, I caught the game right as the Phillies, the hated ones, scored their 7th and 8th runs. Wake up is just a few hours away, and since I'm an L.A. fan, I left early to beat the traffic. Laying in bed, sniffling and snorting, I couldn't find peace. I listened to my ipod and tried to sleep on the Dark Side of the Moon. After over an hour of tossing and turning, sniffing and sneezing and coughing, I made my way to what was supposed to be a nice warm shower with the fresh morning light poking in through the windows. I turned on the shower and stepped in, just in time to be scolded by the last of the hot water, and then immediately stung by the cold. No sleep, no shower, plenty of sick, no good.
The best thing about going to bed before midnight, is knowing that tomorrow is a new day. But always going to be at 3, 4, 5, 10 in the morning? It's still just the same day. It's always a new afternoon. Morning, afternoon, evening, even night or day, it's still just another day of Dog & Pony. But tomorrow is not just another day, not just another MNF, or Dodgers playoff game. It's not just a new day, or new beginning, it's a day closer to home. Even with a loss, or a made field goal, lack of sleep, a freezing cold shower, or winning the dog & pony show, I have something else to celebrate. _____ is only a day away.
Count it...
The Road Less Traveled
You're at that point where you have that tough decision. The worst part is you know which is the right decision, which makes it that much tougher. It comes down to your free will, mixed in with some discipline, and just a pinch of maturity. As a young lad or lass you almost always make the wrong one regardless. Peer pressure is a bitch. It's the come out and grab a drink or two, when you should be studying. It's the doughnut instead of the salad. It's the two miles instead of the one. It's the, I know this is going to suck for the next year or two, but in the end look where I'll be. As the hands of the clock continue to swing and spin during your life, making these kinds of decisions can get easier. You realize, that making the little sacrifices here and there, the not having fun now, pays it's dividends in full and sometimes double later.
Usually you don't think about it, you brush off your quick on-the-go spontaneous decision to go out with friends instead of stay in, save money, and work on your life over the weekend. It's not hard to do, and the decision is usually made without any regret, and with hidden consequences never to be seen. In today's day in age, especially with the economy as weak as it is, the job market is very, very competitive. A bachelors degree is just a check in the proverbial box nowadays. It seems you have to have that extra something that can separate you from the rest of the flock. The worst part is, we all know what could've separated us from the rest, but usually only see it in hindsight. Those hidden consequences, lost rewards.
I always thought that I should do what I love, and not settle for anything less. I suppose that's still true, but to be able to enjoy doing what you love, you have to earn that. If you love being a shopping bag clerk, and would like to do that your whole life, you probably aren't going to have a very enjoyable one. You'll be working paycheck to paycheck, struggling to pay bills, and not being able to fulfill any other goals or dreams in life. If you can handle all that, and still be happy, then I have to give credit where credit is due, and shake your hand, because that is an amazing way to live and be happy about. It's an unfortunate thing that if you would like to be a part of society, things like money, status and 'worth' have an affect on who you are. We all want to be a part of society in one way or another, from the beggar to the horse riding prince. And there's the one fortunate thing about our society. We're all given the choice, the chance if you will, to pick any job within that society, to earn your status, and gain your own worth. How, in our youths, we waste it.
I look back in hindsight and am sometimes thankful of what I see, for the little clarity in vision I now have. But at the same time I look back on my younger days, and wish I had put together the blocks, listened a little more to my role models and set myself up in a better position than I am. How many times have you looked back on your life, and said 4 years have passed by, there is so much I could've done. I had fun, sure. But those pictures of fun with friends and money spent on vacations or weekend getaways, if I had taken my life, my career, myself more seriously, made more sacrifices and worked harder; well where would I be now? If I had worked harder, gotten better grades, I would have so many more options in life. So many ways to pursue my happiness.
There's a lot I could've accomplished in my life up until this point. There is a lot I have too, but on the resume of what I've done, on the pages of the novel of my life, there isn't anything that really separates me from a lot of other books. Not that I haven't made some of those decisions that take me down the hard road, over the larger mountains, but I haven't made those decisions enough. I earn a little, and my human nature of well-I-deserve-a-vacation or break kicks in, and I reward myself too often. I'm not saying that you have to go on through life without any of it's pleasures, but too often I find at least myself indulging to often. Especially in the foods and exercise departments.
The mountain left to climb.
This time I'm going to make it to the summit. It's hard to say that I'm not going to just get to one of the tallest peaks, look up at the snow covered, cloud surrounded one and say screw it, I'm happy I was able to make it this far. I hope that I have the drive to reach that peak, the top of my potential. We all have it, we just usually never pursue it, or take the easy road to often, not enabling us to make it. 70% of high school graduates go to college now. A high education is no longer for the rich or few. A bachelors degree doesn't separate you anymore. It's not the leg-up you need to be noticed. It's time I put together my pieces, finish my puzzle and get that separation.
Despite my early-on fumbles of life, I've been fortunate enough to recover them and end up with the ball on the goal line ready to score. Considering I have college paid for, in one or more ways, I'm looking at 'starting' life debt free. Ha ha ha. I laugh, cause I will be almost thirty. I have a security clearance that in the civilian world is upwards of $70,000 to get. The one thing that I still need, to separate me from the rest of the other ex-military, college graduates. What am I going to be proud of? When others look at me, look at what I've done or where I've been, what am I going to be able to show them that makes them cock their heads and go 'Wow.' It's that tough road, the non easy decision. The sacrifice, the accomplishments that you do not just for others, but for yourself. The discipline and effort put forth that's going to make it all possible. That's going to separate you from the rest of the field. You might not see or feel the pay off right away, and probably most definitely won't. But four years, ten years from now you'll be sitting pretty, proud of making that hard decision. Proud of yourself. At some point everyone realizes this as they grow up, and yet so few are able to give up the immediate gratifications, give up the fun, work hard and achieve their greatest dreams, and their deepest desires.
See you at the summit.
Accomplishment are addictive -Jason Watkins
Usually you don't think about it, you brush off your quick on-the-go spontaneous decision to go out with friends instead of stay in, save money, and work on your life over the weekend. It's not hard to do, and the decision is usually made without any regret, and with hidden consequences never to be seen. In today's day in age, especially with the economy as weak as it is, the job market is very, very competitive. A bachelors degree is just a check in the proverbial box nowadays. It seems you have to have that extra something that can separate you from the rest of the flock. The worst part is, we all know what could've separated us from the rest, but usually only see it in hindsight. Those hidden consequences, lost rewards.
I always thought that I should do what I love, and not settle for anything less. I suppose that's still true, but to be able to enjoy doing what you love, you have to earn that. If you love being a shopping bag clerk, and would like to do that your whole life, you probably aren't going to have a very enjoyable one. You'll be working paycheck to paycheck, struggling to pay bills, and not being able to fulfill any other goals or dreams in life. If you can handle all that, and still be happy, then I have to give credit where credit is due, and shake your hand, because that is an amazing way to live and be happy about. It's an unfortunate thing that if you would like to be a part of society, things like money, status and 'worth' have an affect on who you are. We all want to be a part of society in one way or another, from the beggar to the horse riding prince. And there's the one fortunate thing about our society. We're all given the choice, the chance if you will, to pick any job within that society, to earn your status, and gain your own worth. How, in our youths, we waste it.
I look back in hindsight and am sometimes thankful of what I see, for the little clarity in vision I now have. But at the same time I look back on my younger days, and wish I had put together the blocks, listened a little more to my role models and set myself up in a better position than I am. How many times have you looked back on your life, and said 4 years have passed by, there is so much I could've done. I had fun, sure. But those pictures of fun with friends and money spent on vacations or weekend getaways, if I had taken my life, my career, myself more seriously, made more sacrifices and worked harder; well where would I be now? If I had worked harder, gotten better grades, I would have so many more options in life. So many ways to pursue my happiness.
There's a lot I could've accomplished in my life up until this point. There is a lot I have too, but on the resume of what I've done, on the pages of the novel of my life, there isn't anything that really separates me from a lot of other books. Not that I haven't made some of those decisions that take me down the hard road, over the larger mountains, but I haven't made those decisions enough. I earn a little, and my human nature of well-I-deserve-a-vacation or break kicks in, and I reward myself too often. I'm not saying that you have to go on through life without any of it's pleasures, but too often I find at least myself indulging to often. Especially in the foods and exercise departments.
The mountain left to climb.
This time I'm going to make it to the summit. It's hard to say that I'm not going to just get to one of the tallest peaks, look up at the snow covered, cloud surrounded one and say screw it, I'm happy I was able to make it this far. I hope that I have the drive to reach that peak, the top of my potential. We all have it, we just usually never pursue it, or take the easy road to often, not enabling us to make it. 70% of high school graduates go to college now. A high education is no longer for the rich or few. A bachelors degree doesn't separate you anymore. It's not the leg-up you need to be noticed. It's time I put together my pieces, finish my puzzle and get that separation.
Despite my early-on fumbles of life, I've been fortunate enough to recover them and end up with the ball on the goal line ready to score. Considering I have college paid for, in one or more ways, I'm looking at 'starting' life debt free. Ha ha ha. I laugh, cause I will be almost thirty. I have a security clearance that in the civilian world is upwards of $70,000 to get. The one thing that I still need, to separate me from the rest of the other ex-military, college graduates. What am I going to be proud of? When others look at me, look at what I've done or where I've been, what am I going to be able to show them that makes them cock their heads and go 'Wow.' It's that tough road, the non easy decision. The sacrifice, the accomplishments that you do not just for others, but for yourself. The discipline and effort put forth that's going to make it all possible. That's going to separate you from the rest of the field. You might not see or feel the pay off right away, and probably most definitely won't. But four years, ten years from now you'll be sitting pretty, proud of making that hard decision. Proud of yourself. At some point everyone realizes this as they grow up, and yet so few are able to give up the immediate gratifications, give up the fun, work hard and achieve their greatest dreams, and their deepest desires.
See you at the summit.
Accomplishment are addictive -Jason Watkins
Friday, October 16, 2009
Randomness Blues and Birthdays Too
0345 and the witches start to make their beds. The last 15 minutes of the witching hour are always the longest, and tonight was no different. I had attempted to delay the inevitable for as long as possible, and stood around the TV on the third floor for an extra 15 minutes to put me that much closer to the bottom of the third. I stood in my favorite evening spot, overlooking the nothingness that everything is. The first thing I looked for was the moon, not out of habit or ritual, but for a just because. It was nearly impossible to find, but I finally spotted the yellow sliver of a thin crescent. The bottom of the moon barely exposed in the purple black night.
0413 and I looked at my watch. I had been staring still at the moon waiting for it to move, but it had not. I glanced away and started to day dream, buckling up to let my mind run wild. It felt like yesterday we were almost here, and today we are almost gone. I loosened the pipes for some Morrison, and then the harmonica of some Petty. I couldn't get the beat, and so skatted something on my own, and played it back on the harmonica. I checked in for a score and got no good news. I wanted to start rhyming, and wrote a few songs, but in the end I couldn't think of what could rhyme with songs.
0510 and the moon was gone. Sunrise. I hadn't watched one in a long time, and this one was different than I remembered. The sky lit before the dawn broke, and it revealed a beautiful chalkboard, streaked perfectly with three lines of chalk. The clouds were straighter than I could have thought they could be, like a music teachers 5 chalk holder drawn straight across the sky. The golden hues of the sun lit clouds were the perfect contrast to the light blue wall. Then the sun came, slowly creeping, putting one finger around each building as it pulled itself into view. I stared at it for too long, watching the soft deep orange turn to a bright stabbing yellow. The sun moves fast, and doesn't look round. I check in again to hear a score. Grab the harmonica and sing some blues.
0547 and the sun is still low. I watch the dogs stretch their backs, yawn and moan, awoken by the touch of light. Random thoughts keep filling my head, conversations won and lost. I switch feet from left to right and right to left. Spread them out just a little and still wonder what I'm looking for. I think about questions of life, and of self. I never seem to find any answers, or at least none that I remember, but then again I barely remember the questions. The mosquitoes didn't bother me all night long, but do their best now. Somehow, I scratch at a fresh bite beneath my gloves. Not that it's hard to scratch through gloves, but what kind of mosquito can bite through gloves?
0623 and I'm still scratching. Perhaps the mosquitoes had won the nights battle silently I think. I take of my knee pads and throw them on the floor. I have never taken a knee up here. Then again I've never drank from my camelback either, and yet it's along with every journey. I get another report of a Dodgers score, and it's back to the harmonica. I sing some more but silently, and start to watch the dogs again. Maybe this one is stupid, but he's having a good time. Running over mounds of dirt, or to the top. He slides down on his stomach, and rolls like Jack or Jill. The other dogs sit and scoff, but this one is doing what it's all about; entertaining oneself. I'm a little envious.
0716 and eight. six. final score. I smash the harmonica. My relief is coming soon, and I straighten up. I didn't make a mess, but am just trying to find something to do with the time remaining. I keep thinking about good thoughts and marvelous blogs. Knowing I should write this sort of stuff down, figuring I'll do as always and forget what I was going to say and where I was going. The dog isn't smart I conclude, no forehead, small brain. I quit the dialogue I had made up for him and the others, and watch him dig in the sand. Smart or not, at least he's found something to occupy his time. I don't even see the sun anymore, and I'm still confused as to what shape the building I'm standing in and on is. I think about the day upcoming, the breakfast soon to be eaten, and the pick-up football game against the Mortars platoon this afternoon.
0746 and I just threw away my watch. My relief is more than late, blood pressure rises to infuriate. I always can rhyme when I'm upset. Finally the footsteps around the corner. I take off my helmet and give a small cheer. I walk downstairs, and remember what I had been thinking. Call your mom, it's her birthday. Ring-ring. Love ya, and blog.
Happy Birthday, Love You Mom
0413 and I looked at my watch. I had been staring still at the moon waiting for it to move, but it had not. I glanced away and started to day dream, buckling up to let my mind run wild. It felt like yesterday we were almost here, and today we are almost gone. I loosened the pipes for some Morrison, and then the harmonica of some Petty. I couldn't get the beat, and so skatted something on my own, and played it back on the harmonica. I checked in for a score and got no good news. I wanted to start rhyming, and wrote a few songs, but in the end I couldn't think of what could rhyme with songs.
0510 and the moon was gone. Sunrise. I hadn't watched one in a long time, and this one was different than I remembered. The sky lit before the dawn broke, and it revealed a beautiful chalkboard, streaked perfectly with three lines of chalk. The clouds were straighter than I could have thought they could be, like a music teachers 5 chalk holder drawn straight across the sky. The golden hues of the sun lit clouds were the perfect contrast to the light blue wall. Then the sun came, slowly creeping, putting one finger around each building as it pulled itself into view. I stared at it for too long, watching the soft deep orange turn to a bright stabbing yellow. The sun moves fast, and doesn't look round. I check in again to hear a score. Grab the harmonica and sing some blues.
0547 and the sun is still low. I watch the dogs stretch their backs, yawn and moan, awoken by the touch of light. Random thoughts keep filling my head, conversations won and lost. I switch feet from left to right and right to left. Spread them out just a little and still wonder what I'm looking for. I think about questions of life, and of self. I never seem to find any answers, or at least none that I remember, but then again I barely remember the questions. The mosquitoes didn't bother me all night long, but do their best now. Somehow, I scratch at a fresh bite beneath my gloves. Not that it's hard to scratch through gloves, but what kind of mosquito can bite through gloves?
0623 and I'm still scratching. Perhaps the mosquitoes had won the nights battle silently I think. I take of my knee pads and throw them on the floor. I have never taken a knee up here. Then again I've never drank from my camelback either, and yet it's along with every journey. I get another report of a Dodgers score, and it's back to the harmonica. I sing some more but silently, and start to watch the dogs again. Maybe this one is stupid, but he's having a good time. Running over mounds of dirt, or to the top. He slides down on his stomach, and rolls like Jack or Jill. The other dogs sit and scoff, but this one is doing what it's all about; entertaining oneself. I'm a little envious.
0716 and eight. six. final score. I smash the harmonica. My relief is coming soon, and I straighten up. I didn't make a mess, but am just trying to find something to do with the time remaining. I keep thinking about good thoughts and marvelous blogs. Knowing I should write this sort of stuff down, figuring I'll do as always and forget what I was going to say and where I was going. The dog isn't smart I conclude, no forehead, small brain. I quit the dialogue I had made up for him and the others, and watch him dig in the sand. Smart or not, at least he's found something to occupy his time. I don't even see the sun anymore, and I'm still confused as to what shape the building I'm standing in and on is. I think about the day upcoming, the breakfast soon to be eaten, and the pick-up football game against the Mortars platoon this afternoon.
0746 and I just threw away my watch. My relief is more than late, blood pressure rises to infuriate. I always can rhyme when I'm upset. Finally the footsteps around the corner. I take off my helmet and give a small cheer. I walk downstairs, and remember what I had been thinking. Call your mom, it's her birthday. Ring-ring. Love ya, and blog.
Happy Birthday, Love You Mom
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