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...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Break The Chain
Here in Iraq, my view of the outside world is perhaps like the view through a large glass window, than that of the small port hole that the United States allows. This is because, even if it's news on the TV, it's CNN from Europe, which covers a larger portion of the world than just the United States. I read the news from different sources on the internet and try and get a better understanding of the whole spectrum of what's going on everywhere. And yet, somehow, and I guess along the lines of physics, the bullshit, the fluff with no weight, no substance, always floats to the top. Every time, on LATimes, or the Washington Post, or Yahoo, or Bullshittybullshitnews.com, it's always the same. The big headline, one of unimportance in the grand scheme of things. Usually some insignificant tragedy, assuring the readers that they have missed another one, and they will live again to read tomorrows edition.
I'm not talking about fires in California, or Tsunami's in Somoa tragedies. I'm talking about Taylor Swift tragedies, and the Boy in The Balloon. This all reverts back to the idea of what we have done. It's actually a tragedy, though you won't see it in any newspaper. The tragedy of what we as people have done, civilized people anyways, with our interference of natural selection. We have been catering to the dumb and stupid for too many generations. Giving them the handouts they want, the freedoms that they only take advantage of, and the burden they put on the strong. It is a truth of life that the strong will carry the burden of and for the weak. It's the competent that will do more work, take less, and seemingly be punished.
I read the news, and all I get is this sad story, about stupid parents and a 6 year old boy in Colorado. The disdain grows like a disease in my mouth, and I can barely swallow my now infected saliva. I can't believe that this is getting so much attention. It's not right in the category with the idiots who spill hot coffee in their laps at drive thru's, but it's overlapped in that circle. These parents should pay, not just in apology, but some kind of sentence to the people of Colorado, to America, to the World for wasting all of our time. They should be sentenced to hours of community service, and be under court supervision for the raising of their child.
The more we cater to these kinds of people, the further our social system is going to crumble. The movie Idiocracy is not that far off. We make so many rules that do nothing but protect, cater to the stupid, lazy, and lame of our communities. They take advantage, and the competent work harder, pay for it more and more, and eventually start to turn into those who take advantage of the system. Become players in the game. Lessening the amount of smart people in our society. The amount of good working hard people gets lower and lower every year. We suffer.
It's amazing that we still allow, with all the smart people we have in the United States, all of these idiots to live and actually thrive in our community. The person that sues McDonald's for making them fat. The person who sues Starbucks for too hot of coffee when they burn their genitals by driving out of the drive thru too fast. These people win their cases, and make their millions of dollars. They make it inconvenient for the smart people of the world to put out a product. Putting tons of warning labels on everything. The saddest part, is when you read a warning label that says not to do something that you would never think about doing, ever. Something like opening up a blender, and it's warning label tells you not to place your hand in the blender when it's on. No shit Sherlock. People have actually done that! It's not some this might happen so we'll put it on there, it's this has happened so now we must pay for you being a fucktard.
These people don't get punished for being stupid. They are taken under the wing of society, and protected. They get their settlement, and plastic surgery, wasting court time, tax payers dollars, and brain cells. They don't get punished as nature intended it. Karma even has a hard time believing that they would do something that stupid, and can't even think up a fair enough punishment. The Darwinism Law needs to be made real. People should have to pay for their stupidity. If you're 4'0" and 320lbs, you should not be allowed to go eat 35 cheeseburgers at McDonald's. If I burn my mouth on the coffee I make at home, there's not going to be any class action suit. It won't even be mentioned due to embarrassment. Just because I'm an idiot that can't test weather a liquid will be to hot for my mouth or not, doesn't mean that I should get some kind of reward for being that idiot. I probably should be stoned, or at least laughed at and made fun of for being an idiot. The way nature intended it.
They should close down drive thru's to the lazy, and actually label people with a stamp to the forehead, as lazy, non-contributor, or idiot. And they should be treated as such. If you're a non-contributor to society, you should be banned from using the system. From getting food stamps or welfare. At least have a program that you can only be on welfare for so long before you have to get a job. If you're labeled Lazy, you should not be allowed to use drive thru's. If you want that cup of coffee in the morning, wake up 20 minutes earlier and brew your own cup. Make your own bagel. Idiot, they should just wrap you in bubble wrap and castrate you before you can do the rest of the world any damage.
I know all of this sounds a little harsh, but damn it that's life! It's cruel. And the more you try and protect the dumb, the weak the worse it's going to get. The more we allow the 'not right' to continue, the more people are going to start taking advantage. It's amazing how many people I know say they 'hate cops' but the moment their own situation turns into a shit sandwich they rely on them to help them and save them. It's amazing how many people skip out on paying taxes and then complain about not getting taken care of by the government. It's amazing that I should even have to point this out, how our society is on the cusp of Idiocracy. Don't believe me? In a free democracy like we have, we RE-elected the likes of Bush.
Break the silence, damn the dark, damn the light....
I'm not talking about fires in California, or Tsunami's in Somoa tragedies. I'm talking about Taylor Swift tragedies, and the Boy in The Balloon. This all reverts back to the idea of what we have done. It's actually a tragedy, though you won't see it in any newspaper. The tragedy of what we as people have done, civilized people anyways, with our interference of natural selection. We have been catering to the dumb and stupid for too many generations. Giving them the handouts they want, the freedoms that they only take advantage of, and the burden they put on the strong. It is a truth of life that the strong will carry the burden of and for the weak. It's the competent that will do more work, take less, and seemingly be punished.
I read the news, and all I get is this sad story, about stupid parents and a 6 year old boy in Colorado. The disdain grows like a disease in my mouth, and I can barely swallow my now infected saliva. I can't believe that this is getting so much attention. It's not right in the category with the idiots who spill hot coffee in their laps at drive thru's, but it's overlapped in that circle. These parents should pay, not just in apology, but some kind of sentence to the people of Colorado, to America, to the World for wasting all of our time. They should be sentenced to hours of community service, and be under court supervision for the raising of their child.
The more we cater to these kinds of people, the further our social system is going to crumble. The movie Idiocracy is not that far off. We make so many rules that do nothing but protect, cater to the stupid, lazy, and lame of our communities. They take advantage, and the competent work harder, pay for it more and more, and eventually start to turn into those who take advantage of the system. Become players in the game. Lessening the amount of smart people in our society. The amount of good working hard people gets lower and lower every year. We suffer.
It's amazing that we still allow, with all the smart people we have in the United States, all of these idiots to live and actually thrive in our community. The person that sues McDonald's for making them fat. The person who sues Starbucks for too hot of coffee when they burn their genitals by driving out of the drive thru too fast. These people win their cases, and make their millions of dollars. They make it inconvenient for the smart people of the world to put out a product. Putting tons of warning labels on everything. The saddest part, is when you read a warning label that says not to do something that you would never think about doing, ever. Something like opening up a blender, and it's warning label tells you not to place your hand in the blender when it's on. No shit Sherlock. People have actually done that! It's not some this might happen so we'll put it on there, it's this has happened so now we must pay for you being a fucktard.
These people don't get punished for being stupid. They are taken under the wing of society, and protected. They get their settlement, and plastic surgery, wasting court time, tax payers dollars, and brain cells. They don't get punished as nature intended it. Karma even has a hard time believing that they would do something that stupid, and can't even think up a fair enough punishment. The Darwinism Law needs to be made real. People should have to pay for their stupidity. If you're 4'0" and 320lbs, you should not be allowed to go eat 35 cheeseburgers at McDonald's. If I burn my mouth on the coffee I make at home, there's not going to be any class action suit. It won't even be mentioned due to embarrassment. Just because I'm an idiot that can't test weather a liquid will be to hot for my mouth or not, doesn't mean that I should get some kind of reward for being that idiot. I probably should be stoned, or at least laughed at and made fun of for being an idiot. The way nature intended it.
They should close down drive thru's to the lazy, and actually label people with a stamp to the forehead, as lazy, non-contributor, or idiot. And they should be treated as such. If you're a non-contributor to society, you should be banned from using the system. From getting food stamps or welfare. At least have a program that you can only be on welfare for so long before you have to get a job. If you're labeled Lazy, you should not be allowed to use drive thru's. If you want that cup of coffee in the morning, wake up 20 minutes earlier and brew your own cup. Make your own bagel. Idiot, they should just wrap you in bubble wrap and castrate you before you can do the rest of the world any damage.
I know all of this sounds a little harsh, but damn it that's life! It's cruel. And the more you try and protect the dumb, the weak the worse it's going to get. The more we allow the 'not right' to continue, the more people are going to start taking advantage. It's amazing how many people I know say they 'hate cops' but the moment their own situation turns into a shit sandwich they rely on them to help them and save them. It's amazing how many people skip out on paying taxes and then complain about not getting taken care of by the government. It's amazing that I should even have to point this out, how our society is on the cusp of Idiocracy. Don't believe me? In a free democracy like we have, we RE-elected the likes of Bush.
Break the silence, damn the dark, damn the light....
The Condition I Got From A Movie
I have been discriminated against long enough. It's not really any one's fault but perhaps my own, but regardless of that small fact, I think it's time that people are aware of a condition that effects more than just me. Some people will tell me that I do not have a personality, that I only have my quotes, from movies and tv shows. I learned recently that I am not the only one with this condition. I am not the only one that gets criticized and discriminated against. There are more like me out there, and it's time the world learns to make exceptions for us. Why not? everyone else gets a handout, time to take ours.
I'm your huckleberry.
My condition began at an early age. 6th grade was the year that Austin Powers had come out, it was hugely popular for at least my age group. I found my popularity there because I could do impressions (which had gone unnoticed) of Mike Myers. Quoting that movie then made sky rocket to the top of school popularity, not that it matters now, but it did then. I remember being summoned by all my peers, pressured to repeat line after line. Laughter, smiles and joy were prevalent in the circle of faces leaning in to hear every last word. The similarities to the middle school click and the click of faces leaning in to hear a Christopher Walken impression are almost a flashback of the nightmares of middle school peer pressure. But as long as everyone is laughing and having a good time, I suppose I'll continue. I can't stand people not being happy around me.
Do you want me to use the Spanish accent?
After middle school, after Austin Powers was long and gone, in the days of high school, my passion for remembering movie quotes kept on keeping on. The more obscure, the more powerful, the better. I would come into conversations with a one liner or a short monologue only to be stared at blankly, or if it were directly in the right context, I would be applauded, laughed with or looked at with some kind of fondness of a better understanding and perfect way to say what everyone was thinking. That didn't happen to often, only rarely. If it wasn't a very popular movie, did anyone get the reference and laugh along with me. Creating a secret club where only we really understood what was said.
Do I make you horny, randy, do I baby? Yeah!
After high school, I suppose things only got worse. I started watching more movies, and my 'new' group of friends were very similar. Randomly throwing out movie quotes and demanding to know where the quote came from. Some kind of weird, but fun game. You would try and find those obscure references. Movies like Snatch, Boogie Nights, The Big Lebowski and Tombstone were always favorites, with tons of powerfully obscure lines that we could throw out nearly anytime. My obsession grew, and with it my condition worsened. Movies like American Psycho consumed me with all of it's hilarity lines, and I think I lived for a pure month not even talking as anyone but Patrick Bateman.
Two minutes Turkish
My newest group of friends, my work mates in the Army, they just don't understand the disease, the comedic side of it all. They don't understand I have a condition. Have I ever told you about Sammy Jankis? My condition wasn't able to be cured as it had been started, by peer pressure. The constant comeback, 'Did you hear that in a movie,' 'What movie did that come from?' They were all slices that hurt deep, and yet I let them bleed, inflicting more pain on myself. My condition won't allow me to revert back to normal, un-plagiarists times. It appears my hypocrisy know no bounds. Hypocritical in the fact that I love originality, but use movie quotes as personal dialogue. Isn't it all about the context though? If I can't say it as good, but can reference that one line that fits perfectly, isn't that better for the conversation as a whole?
That rug really tied the room together
Well, in lieu of the shenanigans and lack of understanding of the people of the world, I continue to randomly quote movie lines. And with the addition of some knew people in my life, two others who suffer the same condition, I have new strength. The arrival of our new LT into the platoon, also brought a fellow sufferer of this condition. The couple extra years Lt. Dan has on me, showed the more advanced stages of this condition. The inability to only quote more popular movies, and less obscure quotes. As you do at my stage so that you can include everyone. He says things like, "note to self, sex with blowup dolls, not as good as advertised." I know what you're thinking, of course, that's a quote from Dirty Work, a B-movie from the 90's. Know one knows though! They haven't seen it, and if they did, they don't remember even the simplest of lines from it! I find myself the only one laughing with him, at his obscure quotes. Then again, maybe Lt. Dan wasn't quoting a movie. It's especially bad though, when he starts saying things from Monty Python's Flying Circus. I think it's possible we are the only two Americans to even know that show existed. Sometimes we get so criticized, it feels like we're facing the Spanish Inquisition.
I've never seen so many dead hookers in all my life!
Lord knows I have.
But guys like Me and the LT, my brother and my old Cali roommates, we are not the only affected by this condition. It's apparently doesn't only effect guys either. My friend, the enemy blogger, Kennan also randomly quotes movies! We are the minority in this world. Constantly discriminated against, misunderstood and usually alone. The boys of the platoon give me the most shit, but it's the spike that divides personal relationships even. Gina, my girlfriend, tells me that when she sees movies, she hears things I say all the time. I have a condition. Did I ever tell you about Sammy Jankis?
Do you like Huey Lewis and The News?
So what that we aren't original in everything we say? At least we aren't part timers, occasionally throwing out a funny quote here and there. We don't take credit for it or anything like that, we just suffer from the condition of random, obscure quoting of movie and television lines! It's time that you start being more tolerant of others problems, get off your high horses, and help find a cure for our condition! Until you can do that, go home and get your fuckin' shine box.
Remember Sammy Jankis?
NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our chief weapon is surprise...surprise and fear...fear and surprise.... Our two weapons are fear and surprise...and ruthless efficiency.... Our *three* weapons are fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency...and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope.... Our *four*...no... *Amongst* our weapons.... Amongst our weaponry...are such elements as fear, surprise.... I'll come in again....
I'm your huckleberry.
My condition began at an early age. 6th grade was the year that Austin Powers had come out, it was hugely popular for at least my age group. I found my popularity there because I could do impressions (which had gone unnoticed) of Mike Myers. Quoting that movie then made sky rocket to the top of school popularity, not that it matters now, but it did then. I remember being summoned by all my peers, pressured to repeat line after line. Laughter, smiles and joy were prevalent in the circle of faces leaning in to hear every last word. The similarities to the middle school click and the click of faces leaning in to hear a Christopher Walken impression are almost a flashback of the nightmares of middle school peer pressure. But as long as everyone is laughing and having a good time, I suppose I'll continue. I can't stand people not being happy around me.
Do you want me to use the Spanish accent?
After middle school, after Austin Powers was long and gone, in the days of high school, my passion for remembering movie quotes kept on keeping on. The more obscure, the more powerful, the better. I would come into conversations with a one liner or a short monologue only to be stared at blankly, or if it were directly in the right context, I would be applauded, laughed with or looked at with some kind of fondness of a better understanding and perfect way to say what everyone was thinking. That didn't happen to often, only rarely. If it wasn't a very popular movie, did anyone get the reference and laugh along with me. Creating a secret club where only we really understood what was said.
Do I make you horny, randy, do I baby? Yeah!
After high school, I suppose things only got worse. I started watching more movies, and my 'new' group of friends were very similar. Randomly throwing out movie quotes and demanding to know where the quote came from. Some kind of weird, but fun game. You would try and find those obscure references. Movies like Snatch, Boogie Nights, The Big Lebowski and Tombstone were always favorites, with tons of powerfully obscure lines that we could throw out nearly anytime. My obsession grew, and with it my condition worsened. Movies like American Psycho consumed me with all of it's hilarity lines, and I think I lived for a pure month not even talking as anyone but Patrick Bateman.
Two minutes Turkish
My newest group of friends, my work mates in the Army, they just don't understand the disease, the comedic side of it all. They don't understand I have a condition. Have I ever told you about Sammy Jankis? My condition wasn't able to be cured as it had been started, by peer pressure. The constant comeback, 'Did you hear that in a movie,' 'What movie did that come from?' They were all slices that hurt deep, and yet I let them bleed, inflicting more pain on myself. My condition won't allow me to revert back to normal, un-plagiarists times. It appears my hypocrisy know no bounds. Hypocritical in the fact that I love originality, but use movie quotes as personal dialogue. Isn't it all about the context though? If I can't say it as good, but can reference that one line that fits perfectly, isn't that better for the conversation as a whole?
That rug really tied the room together
Well, in lieu of the shenanigans and lack of understanding of the people of the world, I continue to randomly quote movie lines. And with the addition of some knew people in my life, two others who suffer the same condition, I have new strength. The arrival of our new LT into the platoon, also brought a fellow sufferer of this condition. The couple extra years Lt. Dan has on me, showed the more advanced stages of this condition. The inability to only quote more popular movies, and less obscure quotes. As you do at my stage so that you can include everyone. He says things like, "note to self, sex with blowup dolls, not as good as advertised." I know what you're thinking, of course, that's a quote from Dirty Work, a B-movie from the 90's. Know one knows though! They haven't seen it, and if they did, they don't remember even the simplest of lines from it! I find myself the only one laughing with him, at his obscure quotes. Then again, maybe Lt. Dan wasn't quoting a movie. It's especially bad though, when he starts saying things from Monty Python's Flying Circus. I think it's possible we are the only two Americans to even know that show existed. Sometimes we get so criticized, it feels like we're facing the Spanish Inquisition.
I've never seen so many dead hookers in all my life!
Lord knows I have.
But guys like Me and the LT, my brother and my old Cali roommates, we are not the only affected by this condition. It's apparently doesn't only effect guys either. My friend, the enemy blogger, Kennan also randomly quotes movies! We are the minority in this world. Constantly discriminated against, misunderstood and usually alone. The boys of the platoon give me the most shit, but it's the spike that divides personal relationships even. Gina, my girlfriend, tells me that when she sees movies, she hears things I say all the time. I have a condition. Did I ever tell you about Sammy Jankis?
Do you like Huey Lewis and The News?
So what that we aren't original in everything we say? At least we aren't part timers, occasionally throwing out a funny quote here and there. We don't take credit for it or anything like that, we just suffer from the condition of random, obscure quoting of movie and television lines! It's time that you start being more tolerant of others problems, get off your high horses, and help find a cure for our condition! Until you can do that, go home and get your fuckin' shine box.
Remember Sammy Jankis?
NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our chief weapon is surprise...surprise and fear...fear and surprise.... Our two weapons are fear and surprise...and ruthless efficiency.... Our *three* weapons are fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency...and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope.... Our *four*...no... *Amongst* our weapons.... Amongst our weaponry...are such elements as fear, surprise.... I'll come in again....
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A Little Slice of Heaven
Sycamore Canyon State Park will always have that special place in my heart. The place in the heart that makes your vision fuzz & crisp, your stomachs rise and swim, and allow that extra pep in your step. The campground, though in a canyon, has direct access to the best vacation destination in the world; The Pacific Ocean.
The campground itself is nestled tightly between the two mountain ridges that tower high and close above. The mouth of the ridges opens up to the vast blue of the pacific. The beach is guarded on both sides by seawalls and rocks that fall into perfect formation or stand out for their own attention, white foam smashing and leaping to grab hold and tear down their defiance. The foam staying near, not defeated, as defiant as the rock itself. It lingers.
The beautiful blue water is always cold but refreshing, like the beer half buried in ice. The activities on the drift wood and rock filled beach seem to vary between the dog chasing the tennis ball, or kiddies building sand castles or narrowly escaping the splash of waves. From picnicking and barbecuing to running with the sand squishing through your toes. Or as simple as laying, listening to tunes reading and watching the sun glinted waves roll in. The beach is always the funnest adventure, and when it comes to my family and friends, we've always at least made one.
The mornings in the campground, the neighbor to the beach, separated only by the Pacific Coast Highway, are always good mornings. The fires embers still give off their heat from the long nights before, with coffee brewin', eggs cookin', and the morning sun pampering the sleep from you. After a breakfast or two, it's always the best time to start the days adventure. With a backpack full of goodies and water to boot, a relaxing hike to the summit of one of the coast keepers allows for that humbling tell tell of human existence. As you look westward, the ocean with it's thousand diamonds strewn across it's endless blanket, and below you to the east, the sycamore and oak trees like shrubs from such a heighth, the realization sets in. How small we really are. How vast the world is, and how wonderful it is to stand at the top, feel the breeze and smell the salty air.
After a race to the bottom, the sweat working up the perfect excuse for a mid-morning dip. Dive under a wave or two, and catch one back to shore. The appetite has grown and it's time to refuel. Of all of the divine foods in the world, none even remotely compare to that of a creamy peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich cut into four triangles, and crust-less. Another few hours spent in the caress of the pacific, ending with a dangerous ascent up the seagull covered cliffs and watching the sunset on the horizon. The blue of the water no longer, only that of the matching hues of the reds and oranges of the fire burning in the sky. You sit close with friends, arms wrapped around the backs of one another, waves crashing low beneath, spraying you with the fingertips of it's touch. You all talk, enjoy the company of one another, but eventually the conversations stop. Cease to exist. You sit and stare at the falling sun, the never ending horizon, and the never ending assault of waves coming forward. It's too much to take in, and the many questions scramble in your head. You scratch your thoughts until you figure it out, why the feeling inside is so warm. Then if it was almost to obvious, you put your finger right on it. You have your little slice of heaven. An error in the gods construction, they left part of their kingdom accessible to mortals. You breath it in, and hold your breath. It's to clean and crisp a breath to ever let out.
Back at the tents the fire is holding the cold of a night at the shore back. It's flames lighting the area enough to see faces, but not fully. You drink a beer and eat your carne. Roast some mallows and tell stories. After you wash the sticky off the cheeks and throw on a sweatshirt and pants, you can't but stroll back towards the beach. The starry night, complimented by a few moonlit clouds and white of waves of the black sea and sky. Sitting in the cool sand, you stare for hours, talk without saying a word, and hope there is no cleaning crew coming from the heavens to sweep up this gods mess. You exhale finally, and have to admit that life is that good.
Shine on you crazy diamond...
The campground itself is nestled tightly between the two mountain ridges that tower high and close above. The mouth of the ridges opens up to the vast blue of the pacific. The beach is guarded on both sides by seawalls and rocks that fall into perfect formation or stand out for their own attention, white foam smashing and leaping to grab hold and tear down their defiance. The foam staying near, not defeated, as defiant as the rock itself. It lingers.
The beautiful blue water is always cold but refreshing, like the beer half buried in ice. The activities on the drift wood and rock filled beach seem to vary between the dog chasing the tennis ball, or kiddies building sand castles or narrowly escaping the splash of waves. From picnicking and barbecuing to running with the sand squishing through your toes. Or as simple as laying, listening to tunes reading and watching the sun glinted waves roll in. The beach is always the funnest adventure, and when it comes to my family and friends, we've always at least made one.
The mornings in the campground, the neighbor to the beach, separated only by the Pacific Coast Highway, are always good mornings. The fires embers still give off their heat from the long nights before, with coffee brewin', eggs cookin', and the morning sun pampering the sleep from you. After a breakfast or two, it's always the best time to start the days adventure. With a backpack full of goodies and water to boot, a relaxing hike to the summit of one of the coast keepers allows for that humbling tell tell of human existence. As you look westward, the ocean with it's thousand diamonds strewn across it's endless blanket, and below you to the east, the sycamore and oak trees like shrubs from such a heighth, the realization sets in. How small we really are. How vast the world is, and how wonderful it is to stand at the top, feel the breeze and smell the salty air.
After a race to the bottom, the sweat working up the perfect excuse for a mid-morning dip. Dive under a wave or two, and catch one back to shore. The appetite has grown and it's time to refuel. Of all of the divine foods in the world, none even remotely compare to that of a creamy peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich cut into four triangles, and crust-less. Another few hours spent in the caress of the pacific, ending with a dangerous ascent up the seagull covered cliffs and watching the sunset on the horizon. The blue of the water no longer, only that of the matching hues of the reds and oranges of the fire burning in the sky. You sit close with friends, arms wrapped around the backs of one another, waves crashing low beneath, spraying you with the fingertips of it's touch. You all talk, enjoy the company of one another, but eventually the conversations stop. Cease to exist. You sit and stare at the falling sun, the never ending horizon, and the never ending assault of waves coming forward. It's too much to take in, and the many questions scramble in your head. You scratch your thoughts until you figure it out, why the feeling inside is so warm. Then if it was almost to obvious, you put your finger right on it. You have your little slice of heaven. An error in the gods construction, they left part of their kingdom accessible to mortals. You breath it in, and hold your breath. It's to clean and crisp a breath to ever let out.
Back at the tents the fire is holding the cold of a night at the shore back. It's flames lighting the area enough to see faces, but not fully. You drink a beer and eat your carne. Roast some mallows and tell stories. After you wash the sticky off the cheeks and throw on a sweatshirt and pants, you can't but stroll back towards the beach. The starry night, complimented by a few moonlit clouds and white of waves of the black sea and sky. Sitting in the cool sand, you stare for hours, talk without saying a word, and hope there is no cleaning crew coming from the heavens to sweep up this gods mess. You exhale finally, and have to admit that life is that good.
Shine on you crazy diamond...
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Recruiter Never Told Me There Would Be Days Like This
Another unwanted day rolls along here in Baghdad. It's filled to the brim with the usual strange salutes and awkward hellos that always seem to plague days like this. Recruiter never told me that there would be days like this one. Momma never did either. The worst way to start a day like today, especially after a long night of a half gone moon and the chaos that only a full one can bring, is when you have to wake up. It's not that the act of getting up, shaving your teeth or brushing your face that gets to you, or the fact that you only slept for a few winks and have to do the unwanted. It's the pounding of hammers, the backing up of trucks, and the breaking of glass that makes it unbearable.
About the time my ipod stopped screeching the Pearl Jam into my ears, was about the time I woke up. Not because of the absence of the melodic Ed Ved purring in my ears, but because of the constant bang and smack of the hammer just outside my window. It was the second day in a row, the same time that the annoyance of working men startled me awake. My first suspicions of a terrorist attack were thrown out the window, when my old roommate Nicky the Chin DeDario stated with his thunderous voice how great the Gold and Blue of the Irish were this year, despite their loss to Michigan. I listened for as long as I could will my eyes shut, before reaching back to my ipod and pressing the triangle for luck. The same songs already running through my brief dreams started their journey again. The volume didn't seem like it was loud enough to even block out the scurrying of a mouse. With the great effort that anything takes when you are sleep deprived, abruptly and unwantingly awoken, I tapped the volume to it's max, and searched for the sheep further down the path.
Bang and buzz and smash and crash came louder and louder. The volume struggled to climb further but had already reach the summit. I kept my eyes willed shut and begged for the mercy of sleep to take hold. When it finally did, too late, time to get up. Important day ahead, everyone must get out of bed. The freshness of a cool shave and clean socks were wasted again in my haste. In one month perhaps I will start to enjoy mornings again.
The sun had already risen straight over head, and even this far into October, had yet to yield it's touch. It penetrated the clothes and started the sweat. We were the ants that we always are, working too busy for the task at hand. We finished up our tasking at hand, another day in the heat and sand. It's already the 13th, and we're feeling spry. Under 30 days for us all. The packing up, the extra bullshit we are dealing with, all the process of going home. The consilation to it all I suppose. Especially in the contrast to the usual what-the-hell am I supposed to take from this that is our normal?
Hide the AT-4 step-child. We finished operation Cinderella, and Phase II as well. We even completed Catastrophuck CCCXIVCXX something r'other along with classified operation Sitaround&waitforhoursonendwhentheotherpeoplecanjustdriveanother1500meters&dothesamething III. Even complimented on our ability to handle the bullshit of these missions, told that we are the hardest workers, and yet when Jeziesman holds his last supper, it's the kiddie room for us. Out of sight, and beaten back like the red headed step children we are, the Soup Nazi's NO SOUP FOR YOU! Only, perhaps we don't care because it's not Rigatoni, but Iraqi-butt food. Our battalion elite unit, the eldest son was even banished with the arrival of our presence. Now we're the red head stepchild that isn't only just cleaning up, but also doing the 'glorified job' of the eldest boy. We're the JV squad that's better than the Varsity, and squashin' 'em.
I catch a break, then a punch to the head, I smile big with a toothless grin. -Eddie Vedder
About the time my ipod stopped screeching the Pearl Jam into my ears, was about the time I woke up. Not because of the absence of the melodic Ed Ved purring in my ears, but because of the constant bang and smack of the hammer just outside my window. It was the second day in a row, the same time that the annoyance of working men startled me awake. My first suspicions of a terrorist attack were thrown out the window, when my old roommate Nicky the Chin DeDario stated with his thunderous voice how great the Gold and Blue of the Irish were this year, despite their loss to Michigan. I listened for as long as I could will my eyes shut, before reaching back to my ipod and pressing the triangle for luck. The same songs already running through my brief dreams started their journey again. The volume didn't seem like it was loud enough to even block out the scurrying of a mouse. With the great effort that anything takes when you are sleep deprived, abruptly and unwantingly awoken, I tapped the volume to it's max, and searched for the sheep further down the path.
Bang and buzz and smash and crash came louder and louder. The volume struggled to climb further but had already reach the summit. I kept my eyes willed shut and begged for the mercy of sleep to take hold. When it finally did, too late, time to get up. Important day ahead, everyone must get out of bed. The freshness of a cool shave and clean socks were wasted again in my haste. In one month perhaps I will start to enjoy mornings again.
The sun had already risen straight over head, and even this far into October, had yet to yield it's touch. It penetrated the clothes and started the sweat. We were the ants that we always are, working too busy for the task at hand. We finished up our tasking at hand, another day in the heat and sand. It's already the 13th, and we're feeling spry. Under 30 days for us all. The packing up, the extra bullshit we are dealing with, all the process of going home. The consilation to it all I suppose. Especially in the contrast to the usual what-the-hell am I supposed to take from this that is our normal?
Hide the AT-4 step-child. We finished operation Cinderella, and Phase II as well. We even completed Catastrophuck CCCXIVCXX something r'other along with classified operation Sitaround&waitforhoursonendwhentheotherpeoplecanjustdriveanother1500meters&dothesamething III. Even complimented on our ability to handle the bullshit of these missions, told that we are the hardest workers, and yet when Jeziesman holds his last supper, it's the kiddie room for us. Out of sight, and beaten back like the red headed step children we are, the Soup Nazi's NO SOUP FOR YOU! Only, perhaps we don't care because it's not Rigatoni, but Iraqi-butt food. Our battalion elite unit, the eldest son was even banished with the arrival of our presence. Now we're the red head stepchild that isn't only just cleaning up, but also doing the 'glorified job' of the eldest boy. We're the JV squad that's better than the Varsity, and squashin' 'em.
I catch a break, then a punch to the head, I smile big with a toothless grin. -Eddie Vedder
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Day The Mosquitoes Attacked
I'll be the first to admit that my luck with mosquitoes has always been good. Even after El Nino had come through before summer camp and everyone gotten eaten alive, I yielded no bites among my skin. Fourth of July in the humid of Iowa, I was left unharmed by the swarms of skeeters that seemed to eat my white-corn-fed-brethren alive. Nearly 11 months here, and I had yet to be bitten by the annoying creature. Of course it's easy to kill one or two zombies without being bitten or defeat the scouts of a large army, but when the horde comes over the hill or the zombie apocalypse breaks out, even the best warrior will surely fall. Will surely be bitten.
Last night we responded to another IED attack, and disabled American vehicle. Luckily no one had been hurt except for a few tires, a truck's engine, and some armor. Apparently standing sewage water mixed with decently warm weather are signs of the mosquito apocalypse. The rich American blood attracting the dismal creatures from their habitat of stand still water. They came in swarm after swarm, and my attempts to bat them away only miserably failed. I was careful to only breath through my nose, as one after the other were sucked in to the back of my throat, followed by spitting and coughing to dislodged the evil from it's grasp on my tonsils. The change in strategy only worked so far, as one after another mosquito was sucked in like a line of blow at Robert Downey Jr. party.
Pulling security while being eaten alive by mosquitoes is not very fun, and takes a lot more discipline than I would rather muster. After watching idiots nearly tip the vehicle as they tried to recover it, Mr. Incredible had had enough and we went to sit back in the truck. I thought this would be my asylum. The up-armored humvee, weighing over 14,000 pounds, nearly invincible to enemies attacks, but tonight it's perimeter had been breached. Hand to hand combat it would be. I sat in the truck, and to my dismay the mosquitoes had infiltrated in a swarm greater than I could have ever anticipated. True epidemic ensued as the entire truck combated these wretched creatures. They attacked relentlessly, in overwhelming numbers. The odds were in their favor. It was like the scene in Star Wars, where the rebels are fighting the imperials in a space dog fight. Only this time with gravity, and no special effects. It was perhaps greater than the final battle from the Lord of The Rings films.
Mosquito after mosquito attacked perilously. My only defense, the wave of a hand in front of the face and a girly scream. They were everywhere. From before morning nautical twilight to well after the sun had risen into the sky, the two winged beasts gave it there all. Inflicting wounds among me and the men. The scratching nearly out of control. Eventually we had dwindled their numbers into the manageable level, but not before they had made their marks. We arrived back to base in the morning light, victors in battle and war, but losers in heart and soul. The mosquitoes made their mark, we limped slowly and quietly into the base. No welcoming party, just the death tolls amounted. 273,000 mosquitoes dead. Our casualty toll, 7 dead, 13 wounded.
Hannah Montanna Six Out
Last night we responded to another IED attack, and disabled American vehicle. Luckily no one had been hurt except for a few tires, a truck's engine, and some armor. Apparently standing sewage water mixed with decently warm weather are signs of the mosquito apocalypse. The rich American blood attracting the dismal creatures from their habitat of stand still water. They came in swarm after swarm, and my attempts to bat them away only miserably failed. I was careful to only breath through my nose, as one after the other were sucked in to the back of my throat, followed by spitting and coughing to dislodged the evil from it's grasp on my tonsils. The change in strategy only worked so far, as one after another mosquito was sucked in like a line of blow at Robert Downey Jr. party.
Pulling security while being eaten alive by mosquitoes is not very fun, and takes a lot more discipline than I would rather muster. After watching idiots nearly tip the vehicle as they tried to recover it, Mr. Incredible had had enough and we went to sit back in the truck. I thought this would be my asylum. The up-armored humvee, weighing over 14,000 pounds, nearly invincible to enemies attacks, but tonight it's perimeter had been breached. Hand to hand combat it would be. I sat in the truck, and to my dismay the mosquitoes had infiltrated in a swarm greater than I could have ever anticipated. True epidemic ensued as the entire truck combated these wretched creatures. They attacked relentlessly, in overwhelming numbers. The odds were in their favor. It was like the scene in Star Wars, where the rebels are fighting the imperials in a space dog fight. Only this time with gravity, and no special effects. It was perhaps greater than the final battle from the Lord of The Rings films.
Mosquito after mosquito attacked perilously. My only defense, the wave of a hand in front of the face and a girly scream. They were everywhere. From before morning nautical twilight to well after the sun had risen into the sky, the two winged beasts gave it there all. Inflicting wounds among me and the men. The scratching nearly out of control. Eventually we had dwindled their numbers into the manageable level, but not before they had made their marks. We arrived back to base in the morning light, victors in battle and war, but losers in heart and soul. The mosquitoes made their mark, we limped slowly and quietly into the base. No welcoming party, just the death tolls amounted. 273,000 mosquitoes dead. Our casualty toll, 7 dead, 13 wounded.
Hannah Montanna Six Out
Friday, October 9, 2009
Really World?
Ahead of the hours of the world in as far off place as Baghdad, Iraq, I was just put into shock. President Barack Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. The first thing that pops into my head is for what? I scratch my head and try and think of what our President has done since he was elected a year ago. I'm still thinkin...
Being that my Middle School Alma Mader was Alfred B. Nobel Middle School, I know one or two things about the fellow that the prize was named after. Mr. Nobel was a Swedish Chemist, who lived in the second half of the 19th century. His family business was in manufacturing explosives. Nobel's claim to fame is creating a more stable explosive than nitroglycerin, and it's what we know as TNT. He had some reservations about what his invention had the power to do. He left behind a fund for annual awards to be given, called Nobel Prizes in several different areas, including literature, physics, chemistry to just name a few, and of course finally the most romanticized one of all, the Nobel Prize for the promotion of international peace.
I know that President Obama has certainly made a lot of promises, and even put in a little bit of effort on a global scale to repair some relations with his 'diplomacy.' But telling Russia that we should downsize our Nuclear Warhead stockpiles is so far just a pipe dream. Those commies, who already have more than us couldn't even keep track of their suit-case nukes when they crumbled in 1989. Do we really expect them to just oblige, and do you really expect us to start destroying our own? Don't let the promise of peace fool you, the best promised peace is the one backed up with a big stick.
Obama has done a lot in his first year. A lot of promising. The promises haven't even begun to take any kind of effect, and the only things that have changed are not for bettering the world but for reshaping America into a new kind of monster, one with all the power at the head. Something we have fought for not allowing for more than 200 years. And yet, our deficit promises to increase, despite even the criticism Obama directly gave to the Bush administration for it's budgeting. And yet, the projected deficit this year for Obama is 1.75 Trillion, triple 454.8 Billion from Bush's office in 2008. Go world peace.
He also hasn't pulled out the troops in Iraq like he said he 'was' going to. And in addition he will have added and additional 60 thousand troops to Afghanistan. So much for stopping the war. The Federal law for emissions regulations hasn't passed, and furthermore even if it does, how does that have anything to do with peace, and what difference will it make when countries like China and Russia have no restrictions on what they put into our atmosphere.
Perhaps he won it for allowing the government to purchase the majority of the three major American auto-makers Ford, GM and Chrysler, and handpick CEO's to run them, even though our whole economy is based on free enterprise and capitalism, something the government should have no hand in. Not too mention bailing out all the banks, and giving handouts to the special interest group ran agencies. Where the hell is my bail out? It's all for world peace. And peace it will be when the Prez stops people from protecting themselves, amending the second amendmant. Putting more restrictions on our freedom of speech with the "Fairness Doctrine." And allows the government to control credit cards and mortgages too.
Does anyone else not see what is happening here? Everyone is still in the honey moon with Barack, and before they know it, this country will be socialist, or communist and we'll all be fearing our government. Blood or pity are sure to ensue. But somehow the world is even fooled. No they aren't, they're just fooling us. America is getting weaker, and that is good for all the countries who haven't been in the sun due to the shadow we cast among them. They no longer fear our leader, he's a softy, a pushover who will apologize for what must be done. The respect for our country is going down. Don't believe me, talk to any Iraqi here. If that's not world opinion I don't know what is. We are being fooled, and led blindly like the sheep we have become. Just like the Romans we've lived to long without knowing what it was like before we had it made. We forget the sacrifices that we must make, and the victories we must achieve to keep ourselves safe, and free.
What has been done? What is so much better, how more aware are people since Obama has been in office? How is peace being delivered through the change of America? Nobel Peace Prize, you can apparently be given out for an idea. As Desmond Tutu would say of the awardee, "It is an award that speaks to the promise of President Obama's message of hope." Yes that's right, you just got awarded the Stanley Cup because you have the hope that your team is going to win.
"I don't think Obama deserves this. I don't know who's making all these decisions. The prize should go to someone who has done something for peace and humanity," said Ahmad Shabir, 18-year-old student in Kabul. "Since he is the president, I don't see any change in U.S. strategy in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan." -I couldn't agree more
Being that my Middle School Alma Mader was Alfred B. Nobel Middle School, I know one or two things about the fellow that the prize was named after. Mr. Nobel was a Swedish Chemist, who lived in the second half of the 19th century. His family business was in manufacturing explosives. Nobel's claim to fame is creating a more stable explosive than nitroglycerin, and it's what we know as TNT. He had some reservations about what his invention had the power to do. He left behind a fund for annual awards to be given, called Nobel Prizes in several different areas, including literature, physics, chemistry to just name a few, and of course finally the most romanticized one of all, the Nobel Prize for the promotion of international peace.
I know that President Obama has certainly made a lot of promises, and even put in a little bit of effort on a global scale to repair some relations with his 'diplomacy.' But telling Russia that we should downsize our Nuclear Warhead stockpiles is so far just a pipe dream. Those commies, who already have more than us couldn't even keep track of their suit-case nukes when they crumbled in 1989. Do we really expect them to just oblige, and do you really expect us to start destroying our own? Don't let the promise of peace fool you, the best promised peace is the one backed up with a big stick.
Obama has done a lot in his first year. A lot of promising. The promises haven't even begun to take any kind of effect, and the only things that have changed are not for bettering the world but for reshaping America into a new kind of monster, one with all the power at the head. Something we have fought for not allowing for more than 200 years. And yet, our deficit promises to increase, despite even the criticism Obama directly gave to the Bush administration for it's budgeting. And yet, the projected deficit this year for Obama is 1.75 Trillion, triple 454.8 Billion from Bush's office in 2008. Go world peace.
He also hasn't pulled out the troops in Iraq like he said he 'was' going to. And in addition he will have added and additional 60 thousand troops to Afghanistan. So much for stopping the war. The Federal law for emissions regulations hasn't passed, and furthermore even if it does, how does that have anything to do with peace, and what difference will it make when countries like China and Russia have no restrictions on what they put into our atmosphere.
Perhaps he won it for allowing the government to purchase the majority of the three major American auto-makers Ford, GM and Chrysler, and handpick CEO's to run them, even though our whole economy is based on free enterprise and capitalism, something the government should have no hand in. Not too mention bailing out all the banks, and giving handouts to the special interest group ran agencies. Where the hell is my bail out? It's all for world peace. And peace it will be when the Prez stops people from protecting themselves, amending the second amendmant. Putting more restrictions on our freedom of speech with the "Fairness Doctrine." And allows the government to control credit cards and mortgages too.
Does anyone else not see what is happening here? Everyone is still in the honey moon with Barack, and before they know it, this country will be socialist, or communist and we'll all be fearing our government. Blood or pity are sure to ensue. But somehow the world is even fooled. No they aren't, they're just fooling us. America is getting weaker, and that is good for all the countries who haven't been in the sun due to the shadow we cast among them. They no longer fear our leader, he's a softy, a pushover who will apologize for what must be done. The respect for our country is going down. Don't believe me, talk to any Iraqi here. If that's not world opinion I don't know what is. We are being fooled, and led blindly like the sheep we have become. Just like the Romans we've lived to long without knowing what it was like before we had it made. We forget the sacrifices that we must make, and the victories we must achieve to keep ourselves safe, and free.
What has been done? What is so much better, how more aware are people since Obama has been in office? How is peace being delivered through the change of America? Nobel Peace Prize, you can apparently be given out for an idea. As Desmond Tutu would say of the awardee, "It is an award that speaks to the promise of President Obama's message of hope." Yes that's right, you just got awarded the Stanley Cup because you have the hope that your team is going to win.
"I don't think Obama deserves this. I don't know who's making all these decisions. The prize should go to someone who has done something for peace and humanity," said Ahmad Shabir, 18-year-old student in Kabul. "Since he is the president, I don't see any change in U.S. strategy in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan." -I couldn't agree more
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Frampton
The Frampton as it should be known, was a legend in it's own right. Don't get me wrong, the Frampton probably should have been left somewhere in the 70's and sheared off before it was able to grow into the monstrosity it eventually became, but it's existence, self proclamated legendary. Thanks Peter.
If you didn't know me for these 9 months of my life, you didn't have to deal with it. Hair slapping your face, itching your ears constantly, and always in a state of disarray. I grew my hair out as long as I could stand it. I had never let my hair grow for more than maybe a month previous to this, and with a little personal freedom, it was time to give it a try. I learned one thing very quickly. My hair did not have a stitch of listen in it, and loved to be as chaotic as possible. Oh the wonders of curly hair. Thanks dad.
The Frampton
The beginning stages actually could be considered fashionable on an account of today's fashion. The bed-head, I don't care look hadn't come back into style until last year, and certainly 2007 was not the time to employ it. Just like me, a trend setter, I was dawning this 1970's, Disco-groove, out of control, Jew-Fro-Mullet. I took my licks and got some compliments, but neither ever made me change the fact that I was going to grow out my hair. Thanks rebellious teenager syndrome.
Let me back track a second though. This all started at a far and distant land, the growing out of my hair. Iowa, I was still living there whenever I decided that I was no longer going to cut my hair the every other week or once a month that I had nearly my entire life. The hair was coming in like I said, in disarray. It was still somewhat manageable, and in it's beginning awkward stages, I kept it hidden under a baseball cap. As it began to grow out, I also decided that the peach fuzz on my chin was not long enough, and gave it it's first chance to grow out as well. Thanks puberty.
The actual Frampton, Peter
My hair was a mess, and looking back I can't believe how stylish I was before it was popular. The goatee got pretty ridiculous and so it was cleaned up on more than one occasion. Not necessarily because I didn't like it, but I didn't like getting called 'Goat Boy' every time I was in a public place. The hair continued it's descent into the depths of 'what the hell' and became more curly, out of control, and extravagant. I found out that I had so very little control, and the longer it became, the more I resembled one man in particular. My good friend Eddie Pole pointed it out, and since he has a few years on my other peers, he would be the one to figure it out. Peter Frampton shares the same hair as me. Thanks Eddie.
Goat boy me
Goat Boy SNL
The name stuck, and the more I tried to do crazy things with my hair, the more it would resist. I'm not big on hair products, and would rarely use even gel, but water and combing wasn't cutting it. Not even hand full scoops of gel was enough to hold my hair in place. The spraying of hair spray became a constant to hold what I had in place, and even that would only hold the hair for so long. Trapped under styling products, the Frampton would not be held down. I let it ride free, the way it should be. I took on the Matthew McConaughey mentality with it-that I don't care, I'm going to have a good time anyways, and always it shared the same. Thanks for nothing Paul Mitchell.
Matt McCon status
Long hair allows for somethings to be possible, that are certainly not with short hair. First and foremost, head-banging is awesome! Long hair also brings you the luck to catch a guitar pick from over 200 feet away as it's tossed by Jerry Cantrell at an Alice In Chains show. Actually this should be mentioned, just because it's simply amazing. San Diego House of Blues is a two story building. The bottom floor hosts the bar, along with the 'pit' in front of the stage. The second deck is very small, and a balcony that only along the sides gets close to the stage. I was as far back from the stage as you could possibly be. Even in the front row of the standing room, I'm to young to drink area, I still had about 5 or 6 rows of seats in front of me, cascading down in stadium seating style of course. For a $70, and being separated from my friends, it certainly wasn't seeming to be worth the cost. Thanks San Diego House of Blues and your floor age laws.
SD HOB, with BRMC, but this is where I caught the pick.
I had been watching the band mainly on the small monitors above my head because the people in front of me, though they had seats had declined to use them. After the band had finished their set, and then encore, they started tossing guitar picks and drum sticks into the crowd. I could only view this from the 17 inch monitor that was 20 feet above my head. I saw Jerry, wind up and flick one as hard as you'd throw a frisbee. I felt something strike me in the abs. It looked like it lined up with his toss, but I couldn't believe it. I reached down on the small ledge in front of me, and felt it. The small triangular shaped piece of plastic was under my thumb, literally. It was so unbelievable how far the pick had to travel, not only in distance, but up to where I was standing. I picked it up and held it in the air, triumphantly. Thanks Jerry.
The Pick
The only other plus, other than absolutely rockin' out with long hair, is that when you emerge from water, with the hair sticking to your eye lashes, and blinding your open eyes, you can whip it back. You don't do it trying to be sexy, but that's how it always turns out. It's not everyday a guy gets to do something that only women are privileged to. To long have women had the advantages in our society, and that's just one way of taking that power. I would love diving under waves at Zuma, emerging to catch a breath and flip my hair. Thanks Surfer Dude.
Eventually, despite my love for the Frampton, as well as the opposition from others, the Frampton was cut off for a part I was portraying in a documentary/reenactment that October, 3 years ago. Strangely enough, it was a documentary about the Army, in Iraq. Irony. Thanks Military Channel.
...when someone drops a cup and I submerge...
If you didn't know me for these 9 months of my life, you didn't have to deal with it. Hair slapping your face, itching your ears constantly, and always in a state of disarray. I grew my hair out as long as I could stand it. I had never let my hair grow for more than maybe a month previous to this, and with a little personal freedom, it was time to give it a try. I learned one thing very quickly. My hair did not have a stitch of listen in it, and loved to be as chaotic as possible. Oh the wonders of curly hair. Thanks dad.
The Frampton
The beginning stages actually could be considered fashionable on an account of today's fashion. The bed-head, I don't care look hadn't come back into style until last year, and certainly 2007 was not the time to employ it. Just like me, a trend setter, I was dawning this 1970's, Disco-groove, out of control, Jew-Fro-Mullet. I took my licks and got some compliments, but neither ever made me change the fact that I was going to grow out my hair. Thanks rebellious teenager syndrome.
Let me back track a second though. This all started at a far and distant land, the growing out of my hair. Iowa, I was still living there whenever I decided that I was no longer going to cut my hair the every other week or once a month that I had nearly my entire life. The hair was coming in like I said, in disarray. It was still somewhat manageable, and in it's beginning awkward stages, I kept it hidden under a baseball cap. As it began to grow out, I also decided that the peach fuzz on my chin was not long enough, and gave it it's first chance to grow out as well. Thanks puberty.
The actual Frampton, Peter
My hair was a mess, and looking back I can't believe how stylish I was before it was popular. The goatee got pretty ridiculous and so it was cleaned up on more than one occasion. Not necessarily because I didn't like it, but I didn't like getting called 'Goat Boy' every time I was in a public place. The hair continued it's descent into the depths of 'what the hell' and became more curly, out of control, and extravagant. I found out that I had so very little control, and the longer it became, the more I resembled one man in particular. My good friend Eddie Pole pointed it out, and since he has a few years on my other peers, he would be the one to figure it out. Peter Frampton shares the same hair as me. Thanks Eddie.
Goat boy me
Goat Boy SNL
The name stuck, and the more I tried to do crazy things with my hair, the more it would resist. I'm not big on hair products, and would rarely use even gel, but water and combing wasn't cutting it. Not even hand full scoops of gel was enough to hold my hair in place. The spraying of hair spray became a constant to hold what I had in place, and even that would only hold the hair for so long. Trapped under styling products, the Frampton would not be held down. I let it ride free, the way it should be. I took on the Matthew McConaughey mentality with it-that I don't care, I'm going to have a good time anyways, and always it shared the same. Thanks for nothing Paul Mitchell.
Matt McCon status
Long hair allows for somethings to be possible, that are certainly not with short hair. First and foremost, head-banging is awesome! Long hair also brings you the luck to catch a guitar pick from over 200 feet away as it's tossed by Jerry Cantrell at an Alice In Chains show. Actually this should be mentioned, just because it's simply amazing. San Diego House of Blues is a two story building. The bottom floor hosts the bar, along with the 'pit' in front of the stage. The second deck is very small, and a balcony that only along the sides gets close to the stage. I was as far back from the stage as you could possibly be. Even in the front row of the standing room, I'm to young to drink area, I still had about 5 or 6 rows of seats in front of me, cascading down in stadium seating style of course. For a $70, and being separated from my friends, it certainly wasn't seeming to be worth the cost. Thanks San Diego House of Blues and your floor age laws.
SD HOB, with BRMC, but this is where I caught the pick.
I had been watching the band mainly on the small monitors above my head because the people in front of me, though they had seats had declined to use them. After the band had finished their set, and then encore, they started tossing guitar picks and drum sticks into the crowd. I could only view this from the 17 inch monitor that was 20 feet above my head. I saw Jerry, wind up and flick one as hard as you'd throw a frisbee. I felt something strike me in the abs. It looked like it lined up with his toss, but I couldn't believe it. I reached down on the small ledge in front of me, and felt it. The small triangular shaped piece of plastic was under my thumb, literally. It was so unbelievable how far the pick had to travel, not only in distance, but up to where I was standing. I picked it up and held it in the air, triumphantly. Thanks Jerry.
The Pick
The only other plus, other than absolutely rockin' out with long hair, is that when you emerge from water, with the hair sticking to your eye lashes, and blinding your open eyes, you can whip it back. You don't do it trying to be sexy, but that's how it always turns out. It's not everyday a guy gets to do something that only women are privileged to. To long have women had the advantages in our society, and that's just one way of taking that power. I would love diving under waves at Zuma, emerging to catch a breath and flip my hair. Thanks Surfer Dude.
Eventually, despite my love for the Frampton, as well as the opposition from others, the Frampton was cut off for a part I was portraying in a documentary/reenactment that October, 3 years ago. Strangely enough, it was a documentary about the Army, in Iraq. Irony. Thanks Military Channel.
...when someone drops a cup and I submerge...
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
I'm Hungry, Aren't You?
The month left here in Iraq, seems as staggering as the year once faced. Time is slowing down, or speeding up, and my anticipation for home comfort is exceeding itself. I am hungry. Not that I don't eat three meals a day, or that they aren't filling, but I am missing out on something during each dining session. Taste. The bland food that is military chow is, and probably always will be bland. They probably have made improvements since the dawn of Army chow, but in the end the chow will still never be as good as a high school or hospital cafeterias. The lack of taste, variety and specialization are probably the best of the main contributors.
I know this month is not going to fly by, and I've made things worse on myself by making tentative, nearly concrete plans for when I do come home. It's nearly impossible to not think of home, and I find myself forcing it unwillingly out of my brain before going on to do something important, like release terrorists back into their natural habitat or anarchy. A few weeks ago, our interpreter Bob brought me a pizza, and I blogged about it. The taste of that pizza was near to the taste of one you might find at home. It was delicious to say the least, and continued to show the difference between the truly flavorful food out there, and the same old same old that we eat day in and day out. Army chow. I think they call it chow because it isn't food, only substance. Food is tasty.
Hours of standing on force pro, hungry and parched, you often times find yourself thinking of all the foods, beverages, and establishments you miss. There are probably too many to name, to include dives like McDonald's, but that isn't going to stop you from explaining some of my favorites, and most missed foods.
First and foremost, I must start at where I'm going to be able to eat first upon arriving back at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The south certainly has it's awesome assortment of foods that us Yank's tend not to see. The BBQ is a different animal. Road kill is a cuisine. And the Mexican food has a more Puerto Rican taste than the Mexican food of the west coast. Then again that's probably more of an east coast thing, and not a southern thang. The first restaurant I would love to eat at when back in the fine city of Fayetteville is a little place called The Mash House. It's a micro brewery that features only it's beers, which are very tasty to say the least. The food selection is what you would consider of American choice, with Steaks being the primary option for selection. The atmosphere is somewhat 'posh' but only to the level the south will allow it. It's dimly lit, with a small bar, and huge dining room. They have paper on the tables, and crayons that the waitress' write with, introducing themselves and leaving their graffiti on table top. This will be night one of my return and the robust meal I will have will certainly take it's beating. Perhaps the coolest thing about The Mash House, other than the atmosphere that it can pull you into, is that hint of southern kindness and tradition, as you can get your beer poured into what they call a Growler. This is a 64oz. glass jug of one of the beers on tap, that you can take home, and bring back in to get refills at a discounted price. If that's not southern I don't know what is.
Giddy up!
Steaks and beer are great. Micro breweries and non-chain steak houses are some of my favorite places to go, because they are so unique. North Carolina has it's uniqueness none the less. New Yorkness can also be found. A little north of Fayetteville, you have the triangle area. These are the three cities of Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill. Raleigh is the state capital and has a very professional feeling downtown life. Chapel Hill is the college town, home of the Tarheels of the University of North Carolina. Durham is most popular for the Tim Robbins movie Bull Durham about the AAA baseball farm team the Durham Bulls, who still play in the city. All three cities have a lot to offer as far as food, beverages and night life. Two of my favorite spots, that I am most looking forward to eating at are in Durham and Raleigh, and I cannot wait to be on top of the world at my favorite Micro-Brew-Bar in Chapel Hill. Or should that be Top Of The Hill?
Chic isn't it?
Shiki Sushi is among the pioneers of sushi in the frontier of the south. This is a place that is right down the street from my girlfriend dojo, and has some of the best sushi I have ever eaten. (That's saying a lot coming from a place like California-where the sushi flows like wine) It's hidden and tucked away as a seemingly store front restaurant. Tucked between a barber shop and Baba Ghannouj delicatessen, it's expected to be small. The entrance is barely visible, and the walk between the two gold dragons sitting majestically outside the door makes you feel a bit like a Japanese Atreyu. The inside is absolutely gorgeous, with perfect lighting and the most friendliest hosts. The bar is as stocked as the patrons are stacked, and even with the line forming, you always seem to get a drink on time. The sushi is amazing. It's mouth watering, delectable, and the best part, cheap. It's always buy one get one free so the pocket book doesn't take to big of a bruising. I've been so impressed on several occasions that I make it a lunch stop the next day after the amazing dinner felt from the night before.
Marvelous Spread
Perhaps the next stop is more or less for the atmosphere and perhaps a staging area for a night out rather than the food. The city of Raleigh holds many great wonders, and Oliver Twists Tapas and Martini Bar. The lavish restaurant is filled with a soft lighting, cool jazz, enveloping scarlet drapes and the styling of a Hollywood club exported. The belly dancers are just one of the main attractions, along with a laundry list of the most inventive martini's around. The tapas is good, though the price is steep. The couches and coffee tables allow for a very intimate dining with you and your friends. It's chic, private, and quiet. Perfect.
The last corner of the triangle, is Top of The Hill. This is the destination of choice as far as micro breweries go for me. The top deck overlooking the historic college town strip of Franklin St. in Chapel Hill is just the beginning. The atmosphere is so North Carolina. Everyone has their khaki's blue button ups rolled up at the sleeves, and deck shoes to boot. It's filled with that college hipster atmosphere, but also with the deep seated roots that is North Carolina. The beer is the main draw though, and perhaps the Michael Jordan gargoyle that is slam dunking over the head. With such a broad spectrum of beers to enjoy, from the fruity to the bitter, it's hard to imagine that you could like 'em all, but I certainly do. It's also where I met my girlfriend Gina, and will now always have a special place somewhere in my heart, along with her.
Destiny
160 years later, I will be an 09er on my way out to the gold of California. There are too many places that hold a special place in my heart here, and so I'll stick to what I miss the most, the simple food and brew. The first place on my list, anytime I am in Cali, is Mexican food. It can be a vendor on the street or a friend's mom's wonderful cooking, but bottom line is there is no better place for Mexican food in world. The San Fernando Valley has so many little family owned restaurants, that it's almost hard to choose a favorite. But, with a gun to my head, I pick Graciana's. Or as we know it, the Store Front. This is a little family owned place, that holds it's ground between a laundromat and 97+ discount store. It's holds that special place in my heart, not only because the food is so magnificent, but also because my family has been going there since I was a kid. It's the place my grandparents take us out to eat. From the time my mom would split he Grande Chicken and Rice Burrito with me cause I couldn't finish it, to the present day when I order my own because I can. Even with a couple of Dos Equis gulleted.
It can't be California with a little sushi, my favorite place of all time. Cheap, store front sushi with sake bombs spicy tuna. Love Sushi & Roll, my favorite Santa Clarita hot spot. It's changed drastically since I had last been there, expanding in size, and changing decor. It's always a multi-visit anytime I'm home on leave. Gotta love that Sushi.
Right behind the camera, the beach.
What says California better than Mexican food and Sushi? Burgers and Beer, Beach-side. This is a little drive, but always worth it. Ventura is the quiet little town just an hour north of my house on the 101. It's a beach bum town. It has wonderful food, and two of the best places I have ever eaten. The first is a place called Duke's. It's a burger joint on the beach, that offers some fish and chips and chili bread bowls like any good surfers hangout would. The inside is set up for the beach, including the tables being made from old surfboards. The best there is the Sex Wax Burger. Everything you can imagine, plus some avocado on top for the Sex Wax. It's delicious and ginormous. Nothing goes better with it than a pitcher of beer. Domestic of course.
One of the best visuals in the world
After chowin' down on a Burger or sourdough bread bowl of chili from Duke's a surf sesh is in order. Hours at the beach is the best way to develop and appetite, and if you don't want to repeat the performance of finishing a Duke's burger, you can stop at a little place called Corrales. This is another Mexican joint, and is an outside walk up order window only. The burritos are cheap, big and tasty. Wash down the spicy of shredded chicken and pico de gallo with an ice cold horchata, and you'll never forget the name or location of this wonderful dive. It's obviously a guarded secret for the locals, and there's no wonder why.
The last place, on my list, the Yard House. The food and atmosphere are amazing here. Rock n' Roll with some class is just the tip of the ice berg for a place like this. It's real commodity, the keg room. Over 150 beers on tap at this place make it a win for me. You have so many options to choose from, and the serving comes in a 3 foot tall glass. The first time I ate here was in the San Diego location, and I was certainly impressed. The Los Angeles local opened up, and is a for sure stop at LA Live in downtown next to the Staples Center, before seeing any kind of show or game at the venue.
Look at all those taps! Salad Fingers would be in heaven... Tap!
But what's a visit home without stopping at Chi Chi's? This is my favorite Italian restaurant, and I hate that places like the Olive Garden are considered Italian, and more reveered. Fuck Olive Garden, Chi Chi's is king. The pizza is amazing. The bread roles are sensational, and my favorite is the Beef Ravioli in White Sauce. Damn Paul, you can't do any better. Pizza, pitcher of beer, and some endless noodles, you can't get more American than that Italian slant.
Get the hell away from my Chi Chi's Pizza ASSHOLE!
Ventura, home town and downtown are awesome places, with awesome food and drink. California has amazing food which is so eclectic due to all of the outside influences that are part of the melting pot that is California. Though the restaurants are grand and the food is great, there is nothing that beats a dinner with family. A gathering of my family, with all the wonderful cooks that we have in my Aunts, my mom and everyone else, there is no better place to be. Pouring a glass of my favorite Mondavi, and catching up on conversations missed, memories relived and the warmth and comfort that only family love can bring is perhaps what I'm most looking forward too.
Oh yeah
Oh, and if it's not too much trouble, could you meet me at the airport with a 6 pack of beer, a large pizza and a Lawry's Bowl Cut Prime Rib?
The Beef Bowl Cut---MMMMMMMMMMMMMM
Can't wait for a Wine-Down Sunday...
I know this month is not going to fly by, and I've made things worse on myself by making tentative, nearly concrete plans for when I do come home. It's nearly impossible to not think of home, and I find myself forcing it unwillingly out of my brain before going on to do something important, like release terrorists back into their natural habitat or anarchy. A few weeks ago, our interpreter Bob brought me a pizza, and I blogged about it. The taste of that pizza was near to the taste of one you might find at home. It was delicious to say the least, and continued to show the difference between the truly flavorful food out there, and the same old same old that we eat day in and day out. Army chow. I think they call it chow because it isn't food, only substance. Food is tasty.
Hours of standing on force pro, hungry and parched, you often times find yourself thinking of all the foods, beverages, and establishments you miss. There are probably too many to name, to include dives like McDonald's, but that isn't going to stop you from explaining some of my favorites, and most missed foods.
First and foremost, I must start at where I'm going to be able to eat first upon arriving back at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The south certainly has it's awesome assortment of foods that us Yank's tend not to see. The BBQ is a different animal. Road kill is a cuisine. And the Mexican food has a more Puerto Rican taste than the Mexican food of the west coast. Then again that's probably more of an east coast thing, and not a southern thang. The first restaurant I would love to eat at when back in the fine city of Fayetteville is a little place called The Mash House. It's a micro brewery that features only it's beers, which are very tasty to say the least. The food selection is what you would consider of American choice, with Steaks being the primary option for selection. The atmosphere is somewhat 'posh' but only to the level the south will allow it. It's dimly lit, with a small bar, and huge dining room. They have paper on the tables, and crayons that the waitress' write with, introducing themselves and leaving their graffiti on table top. This will be night one of my return and the robust meal I will have will certainly take it's beating. Perhaps the coolest thing about The Mash House, other than the atmosphere that it can pull you into, is that hint of southern kindness and tradition, as you can get your beer poured into what they call a Growler. This is a 64oz. glass jug of one of the beers on tap, that you can take home, and bring back in to get refills at a discounted price. If that's not southern I don't know what is.
Giddy up!
Steaks and beer are great. Micro breweries and non-chain steak houses are some of my favorite places to go, because they are so unique. North Carolina has it's uniqueness none the less. New Yorkness can also be found. A little north of Fayetteville, you have the triangle area. These are the three cities of Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill. Raleigh is the state capital and has a very professional feeling downtown life. Chapel Hill is the college town, home of the Tarheels of the University of North Carolina. Durham is most popular for the Tim Robbins movie Bull Durham about the AAA baseball farm team the Durham Bulls, who still play in the city. All three cities have a lot to offer as far as food, beverages and night life. Two of my favorite spots, that I am most looking forward to eating at are in Durham and Raleigh, and I cannot wait to be on top of the world at my favorite Micro-Brew-Bar in Chapel Hill. Or should that be Top Of The Hill?
Chic isn't it?
Shiki Sushi is among the pioneers of sushi in the frontier of the south. This is a place that is right down the street from my girlfriend dojo, and has some of the best sushi I have ever eaten. (That's saying a lot coming from a place like California-where the sushi flows like wine) It's hidden and tucked away as a seemingly store front restaurant. Tucked between a barber shop and Baba Ghannouj delicatessen, it's expected to be small. The entrance is barely visible, and the walk between the two gold dragons sitting majestically outside the door makes you feel a bit like a Japanese Atreyu. The inside is absolutely gorgeous, with perfect lighting and the most friendliest hosts. The bar is as stocked as the patrons are stacked, and even with the line forming, you always seem to get a drink on time. The sushi is amazing. It's mouth watering, delectable, and the best part, cheap. It's always buy one get one free so the pocket book doesn't take to big of a bruising. I've been so impressed on several occasions that I make it a lunch stop the next day after the amazing dinner felt from the night before.
Marvelous Spread
Perhaps the next stop is more or less for the atmosphere and perhaps a staging area for a night out rather than the food. The city of Raleigh holds many great wonders, and Oliver Twists Tapas and Martini Bar. The lavish restaurant is filled with a soft lighting, cool jazz, enveloping scarlet drapes and the styling of a Hollywood club exported. The belly dancers are just one of the main attractions, along with a laundry list of the most inventive martini's around. The tapas is good, though the price is steep. The couches and coffee tables allow for a very intimate dining with you and your friends. It's chic, private, and quiet. Perfect.
The last corner of the triangle, is Top of The Hill. This is the destination of choice as far as micro breweries go for me. The top deck overlooking the historic college town strip of Franklin St. in Chapel Hill is just the beginning. The atmosphere is so North Carolina. Everyone has their khaki's blue button ups rolled up at the sleeves, and deck shoes to boot. It's filled with that college hipster atmosphere, but also with the deep seated roots that is North Carolina. The beer is the main draw though, and perhaps the Michael Jordan gargoyle that is slam dunking over the head. With such a broad spectrum of beers to enjoy, from the fruity to the bitter, it's hard to imagine that you could like 'em all, but I certainly do. It's also where I met my girlfriend Gina, and will now always have a special place somewhere in my heart, along with her.
Destiny
160 years later, I will be an 09er on my way out to the gold of California. There are too many places that hold a special place in my heart here, and so I'll stick to what I miss the most, the simple food and brew. The first place on my list, anytime I am in Cali, is Mexican food. It can be a vendor on the street or a friend's mom's wonderful cooking, but bottom line is there is no better place for Mexican food in world. The San Fernando Valley has so many little family owned restaurants, that it's almost hard to choose a favorite. But, with a gun to my head, I pick Graciana's. Or as we know it, the Store Front. This is a little family owned place, that holds it's ground between a laundromat and 97+ discount store. It's holds that special place in my heart, not only because the food is so magnificent, but also because my family has been going there since I was a kid. It's the place my grandparents take us out to eat. From the time my mom would split he Grande Chicken and Rice Burrito with me cause I couldn't finish it, to the present day when I order my own because I can. Even with a couple of Dos Equis gulleted.
It can't be California with a little sushi, my favorite place of all time. Cheap, store front sushi with sake bombs spicy tuna. Love Sushi & Roll, my favorite Santa Clarita hot spot. It's changed drastically since I had last been there, expanding in size, and changing decor. It's always a multi-visit anytime I'm home on leave. Gotta love that Sushi.
Right behind the camera, the beach.
What says California better than Mexican food and Sushi? Burgers and Beer, Beach-side. This is a little drive, but always worth it. Ventura is the quiet little town just an hour north of my house on the 101. It's a beach bum town. It has wonderful food, and two of the best places I have ever eaten. The first is a place called Duke's. It's a burger joint on the beach, that offers some fish and chips and chili bread bowls like any good surfers hangout would. The inside is set up for the beach, including the tables being made from old surfboards. The best there is the Sex Wax Burger. Everything you can imagine, plus some avocado on top for the Sex Wax. It's delicious and ginormous. Nothing goes better with it than a pitcher of beer. Domestic of course.
One of the best visuals in the world
After chowin' down on a Burger or sourdough bread bowl of chili from Duke's a surf sesh is in order. Hours at the beach is the best way to develop and appetite, and if you don't want to repeat the performance of finishing a Duke's burger, you can stop at a little place called Corrales. This is another Mexican joint, and is an outside walk up order window only. The burritos are cheap, big and tasty. Wash down the spicy of shredded chicken and pico de gallo with an ice cold horchata, and you'll never forget the name or location of this wonderful dive. It's obviously a guarded secret for the locals, and there's no wonder why.
The last place, on my list, the Yard House. The food and atmosphere are amazing here. Rock n' Roll with some class is just the tip of the ice berg for a place like this. It's real commodity, the keg room. Over 150 beers on tap at this place make it a win for me. You have so many options to choose from, and the serving comes in a 3 foot tall glass. The first time I ate here was in the San Diego location, and I was certainly impressed. The Los Angeles local opened up, and is a for sure stop at LA Live in downtown next to the Staples Center, before seeing any kind of show or game at the venue.
Look at all those taps! Salad Fingers would be in heaven... Tap!
But what's a visit home without stopping at Chi Chi's? This is my favorite Italian restaurant, and I hate that places like the Olive Garden are considered Italian, and more reveered. Fuck Olive Garden, Chi Chi's is king. The pizza is amazing. The bread roles are sensational, and my favorite is the Beef Ravioli in White Sauce. Damn Paul, you can't do any better. Pizza, pitcher of beer, and some endless noodles, you can't get more American than that Italian slant.
Get the hell away from my Chi Chi's Pizza ASSHOLE!
Ventura, home town and downtown are awesome places, with awesome food and drink. California has amazing food which is so eclectic due to all of the outside influences that are part of the melting pot that is California. Though the restaurants are grand and the food is great, there is nothing that beats a dinner with family. A gathering of my family, with all the wonderful cooks that we have in my Aunts, my mom and everyone else, there is no better place to be. Pouring a glass of my favorite Mondavi, and catching up on conversations missed, memories relived and the warmth and comfort that only family love can bring is perhaps what I'm most looking forward too.
Oh yeah
Oh, and if it's not too much trouble, could you meet me at the airport with a 6 pack of beer, a large pizza and a Lawry's Bowl Cut Prime Rib?
The Beef Bowl Cut---MMMMMMMMMMMMMM
Can't wait for a Wine-Down Sunday...
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