Rooster

Hurt Locker.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Here's the thing about Hurt Locker. Iwanted to like it. For the first part of the movie I completely ignored the glaring implausible situations because the action-movie junkie in me maintained that the movie portrayed the authentic "feel," rather than actual authenticity of situations. Guy Pearce, funny enough, felt the most "real" here. The main character, SFC James (played by the dude from 28 Weeks Later), also felt fairly "real." Ditto the younger EOD dude (save for one big caveat, where his real counterpart would have shot that triggerman immediately). Because of these great performances, as the movie progressed, I wrote the inaccuracies off as mere nitpicks. I can shape my viewing experience by agreeing to the idea that Hurt Locker is to EOD as Top Gun was to the Navy Fighter Weapons School. The absolutely impossible idea of an Iraqi taxi cab (they're the cars with orange painted fenders) getting through a cordon without getting hundreds of rounds ripping through the driver's body only elicited a slight eye roll, rather than the audible "bullshit" that it should have. I justified it through two reasons. First, the aforementioned suspension of disbelief for Hollywood. It's entertainment, and reality won't work in a 2 hour movie. Second, I justified the ridiculous situation (one of many in that 15 minute stretch alone) by the notion that the film makers relayed the very real fact that Iraqis sometimes do apparently shortbus-retarded things that cannot be written off as language barrier. Four out of five times the average Iraqi pays heed to the fact you have a weapon that spews half inch diameter bullets. That one out five, though...

And it's those little things that made me forget my eye rolls. There's that random hajji absolutely intent on practicing his broken English with you. The tiny speck of realism of "Mister, where are you from?" colored tidbits of everyday reality, counteracting the ridiculousness in everything else in this film. So I but my tongue. I understood that layman civilians find jittery camerawork and cusswords gritty and realistic. Who am I to shatter illusions?

Half way through the flick, though, it went from nitpicks about the wrong badges and the implausible/impossible, to walk-out-the-theater ridiculous.

So EOD are snipers now too, huh? That question broke the camel's back. It's the cumulative impossibilities, the cumulative WTF that kept drowning out the good stuff. From dudes randomly leaving their vehicles, to the three-man super EOD team wandering the city all by themselves. Questions, questions, questions digging a hole in my brain (you wouldn't leave your shitty Honda with its engine running on Main Street, Podunkville, why the fuck would anybody in the middle of fucking Iraq? Especially when that Honda of yours has a mounted .50 cal that sure as hell is a lot more expensive and useful than that ghetto tape deck). I couldn't simply write these questions off. I hated the next thirty minutes after super-EOD put on their sniper/spotter hats.

But then a funny thing happened. By the time the main character put on a hoodie and did some fucking one-man cop show, I let it all go. His renegade cop/loose cannon routine was Riggs from Lethal Weapon, not Band of Brothers. So that's what this is. It's Speed in Iraq. Or Blown Away in Iraq. Or, fittingly Kathryn Bigelow, it's Point Break in Iraq. Fine. Consider me half way entertained. The filmmakers could have saved me a lot of grief if they ditched the ACUs, if they ditched the pretense of the characters being an Army EOD team.

And so, that's where we were. Me and Hurt Locker came to an understanding. It does its thing, and I will turn off my brain. Detente. From implausible UXO cordons through super-EOD-sniper adventures, all the way to detective-work and Jack Bauer-esque Baghdad fun, the flick plods along in its wackiness. "Speed in Iraq," I promise to mutter instead of "bullshit." I can stomach it.

Until finally Hurt Locker goes on and changes complete directions. When we reach the supermarket, the movie suddenly clicks. When we see the last chinook land, I understand. The nitpicks of the fact we have chinooks incorrectly painted as Marine helos or that a SSG has velcro rank taped to his PC is only picked out moments later as the credits roll because they've been drowned out by how right the scene is.

Can you love a whole movie for the last ten minutes alone?

While a short list of movies/books have almost had me change my mind about it in its last ten minutes (i.e. seeing ICBMs fly and our veritable JC reluctantly keying the mic in Terminator 3), Hurt Locker is the only piece of work that has ever completely turned me around. Those few minutes have completely surpassed just any "war movie." That tiny percentage of film connected to me in a more solid way than anything in my recent memory. The juxtaposition of absolute over-the-top ridiculousness to the most authentic portrayal in recent memory, in ONE movie is simply astounding. Again, I come to the idea that maybe the movie pushes authentic "feel," rather than authentic plot points. The last few minutes would be out of place if not contrasted with the prior 90. Perhaps they needed to go over-the-top to convey the "feeling" of a deployment. Fittingly, like those first 90 minutes of the movie, I have been saying "bullshit" under my breath throughout my entire deployment.

Cynically, one wonders if that was planned. Did the filmmakers know the viewer would cry "utter bullshit" for 90 minutes straight, only to completely drop stone silent for the next ten? If so, genius. They've substituted frustration and the nagging unease of the situation that is a combat tour with the frustration and nagging unease of movie nitpicks. Then they substitute your unease and vague familiarity of a homecoming with your vague familiarity of Evangaline Lilly and supermarkets that seem a little off, unreal, in sharp contrast with what your life was for the last 12 months. You recognize the chick from Lost as someone you feel you should know but realize that you don't--that you have memories that are different from what you now see. If it's by pure happenstance, I can still say the last scenes of Hurt Locker are some of the most truthful I've seen in celluloid war. It gave me some things to ponder.

I can't get my feelings on coming home into words. I keep thinking I will get around to it, but I can't help feeling exploitative of my experience in Iraq. I can't put it all in a way that won't sound either self-centered or melodramatic. That's the big reason I haven't really posted anything I wrote down "over there."

It's not First Blood, it's not The Deer Hunter. But in ways, it is. Comparing it to that feels self-important--over dramatizing a whole lot of nothing. But a lot of what I'm feeling is a cold disconnect with everything and everyone here at what's supposedly "home." Satisfaction. Paint It Black. Rooster.



I find myself being short and testy, and carrying a scary sense of entitlement. You're making me wait in line for the cash register when I had a fucking rocket fly over me just last week? The DMV bitch is giving me the run around when I've led over a hundred combat patrols? The TSA is hassling me about too much electronic equipment in my carry-on when I had live grenades on my dashboard mere weeks ago? When I'm responsible for the lives of soldiers? When I've had fucking bullet holes in my windows? When I've woken to explosions and automatic gun fire whizzing overhead? When I've secured caches with hundreds of EFP kits and live explosives? When I've explained to sheiks and Iraqi colonels on why we're going into this neighborhood or denying a request of some starving kid or amputee? When I've lived a real life, year-long National Geographic issue?

I find myself angry at the minivans and asshole drivers on cellphones--angry that they sent me to do things that they have no clue about. Angry at fucking soccer moms and fucking oblivious reality show stars and even the fucking pogues that stayed on a super-FOB for the last year, or the cheesedicks that have 7 month deployments. I find myself angry at the assholes that patronize me, that "want to know what it was like." I'm angry at all of the talking heads on TV. I'm angry at everyone carrying on with their lives, me knowing that for the last year they all drove their SUVs and drank their three dollar coffee obliviously. Ignorant. Absorbed. Unmindful. I'm angry at Katie Couric and Brian Williams and Charlie fucking Gibson, all telling me about the tragic death of fucking Michael Jackson.

I've not even broached the stupid things I find myself doing (I was looking for my weapon thinking I needed my carbine to go to Walmart. It took 30 minutes of angry searching until I felt foolish). I find myself avoiding things that serve as reminders. I've avoided war movies and even crap like Terminator Salvation gave me some very odd gut-tightening. I waded into Hurt Locker like a kid afraid of a cold swimming pool--dipping a toe first, slightly relieved to find initial inaccuracies ballooning into farce, but finding slight discomfort along the way. It's not that I'm gonna go into some cliche 'Nam vet flashback, it's just that I'd rather not be reminded about a year of suck. In all, though, I'm not too worried about reliving the year of purgatory, but I am instead alienated about the year ahead of me. The world seems like a different place. I rant about Twilight and scratch my head at all sorts of things that popped up over the last year because it's frustrating that I feel left behind. I feel like I've been on Mars for the last century finding an Earth that is different from what I remember.

How lame am I?

I feel like such a tool. How can I even compare my deployment with what other generations in my shoes have faced? I didn't even approach the things that others have seen and experienced. For me, war is hell purgatory. But I have an understanding that I didn't have 15 months ago and an understanding that others couldn't.

I don't want to sound like a whiny bitch. You could always tell which of the so-called milblogs were written by pogues. Some truck driver complaining about the food or some female complaining about how she has to carry her gun or those mean guys that are, well, mean to her. War is hell, indeed. Truthfully, the deployment wasn't nearly as bad as a lot make it out to be. Really, the only issue in a deployment is the fact you put your life on hold for a year. It's hard to illustrate that to others. No one does that outside of the US Army. People make trips, expeditions, go on sabbaticals. But none of them cut themselves off from recognizable civilization completely, nor for such a long period of time. Missionaries and aid workers still do not have the same experience as a combat arms Soldier deployed for 12-15 month stretches on isolated outposts rather than super-FOBs. It's different to build a school, eat with the teachers, and promptly throw your hands in the air dumping responsibility for the safety of everyone around you when assholes with AK-47s show up. Soldiers can't order that menu a la carte. Even still, the threat of death honestly didn't factor in that much. I wasn't a nurse or aircraft mechanic or truck driver or security guard--closing with the enemy is my chosen profession. Others pray to hear "here comes the cavalry." I am the Cavalry. Literally. And for the most part, the bad guys in 2008 were hired criminals, not committed terrorists, and certainly not professional soldiers.

But I still feel like a maudlin little fool. Much ado about nothing. I should mention that I'm not really this morose and one may get the impression that this is all the inane ramblings of a drama queen. I'm just letting the keyboard work out some thoughts, is all. Still, much ado about not-a-whole-heckuva-lot.

Nothing is over! Nothing! You just don't turn it off! It wasn't my war! You asked me, I didn't ask you! And I did what I had to do to win! But somebody wouldn't let us win! And I come back to the world and I see all those maggots at the airport, protesting me, spitting. Calling me baby killer and all kinds of vile crap! Who are they to protest me? Who are they? Unless they've been me and been there and know what the hell they're yelling about!

...Here they come to snuff the rooster...
...You know he ain't gonna die...

Dazed and Confused

This place is dusty.

My "round to-it" got lost, so I've neglected to update this blog. It isn't that I haven't got stuff to write about. There's beyond plenty--from Army bullshit through...everything else. I'll eventually get around to it.

Among the things I'll get to putting into words: the state of sheer insanity I found America to be in, coming home from exotic Iraq (the crown jewel of Southwest Asia). Among the absolutely baffling hangups that ya'll have here back in the world: Twilight.

Seriously? When the fuck did this happen? Vampires. And High School? Seriously? Everywhere I look, it's this stupid combination. Vampires. Plus High School. Plus Angst. I can rant all day about this apparently new "Young Adult Vampire" genre. After actually seeing that Twilight movie (can't say I ain't open-minded), I will maintain my WTF. What a completely underwhelming movie. I concede one thing alone: Ashley Greene (I paused the movie to immediately imdb-stalk her) is the prettiest vampire ever (sorry, Kate Beckinsale).

For now, I have two questions.

If Twilight hipster, Volvo-drivin', sunlight glowin', slow-mo runnin' vamps go crazy at the mere smell of blood from a mere papercut...why would they be hanging around a fucking highschool where half the students regularly bleed a couple days of the month? I will gloss over why anyone that's, say, 150 years old would hang around a high school to begin with; but if you're a family of trendy vegan-vamps that abhor partaking in the sucking of human blood, why would you choose to go the Twilight route? The preview for the (sigh) sequel shows a papercut yielding a drop of blood that sends mr. paleface into a bloodlust. If that happens for an unforseen papercut, what happens during um...them lady cycles?

And... One other thing. Vampires can't have errections. Right? No heart. No blood. No circulation. Uh..? Am I missing something? So, WTF?

Sloop John B

You know the problem with this dog and pony show you call the military? Number one, TOO MANY DUDES.

It's something few will ever understand back home. See here, the mere voice of sirens will lead men to destruction. Mark it as another truth that I used to write off as literary invention, or plot device. Homer wasn't Tolkien giving us Lord of The Rings, he was Mike Wallace giving us 60 Minutes.

So it's been a few months now since an episode of 30 Rock found its way onto my HD. I got this external 1 TB that is completely full of movies and TV shows and games. Mostly TV shows. It's a pretty good alternative to an actual TV. Considering we don't have one out here. Yet another crazy thing I've picked up in this last year of Iraqi purgatory: I'm a complete digital format convert. So much so that I feel I can safely transition from my DVD-gluttony. I dunno why, but since DVD's came out I've had this obsessive compulsion to buy, buy, buy. I've noticed I'm not the only one. It's something that didn't occur with VHS tapes. If anything, DVD's came about with a heavier price tag. In hindsight, I realized that the DVD collection (it's boxes-, rooms-, closets-full) is less a product of need to archive/watch, and more a product of showcasing. "Check out my eclectic movie collection--wonder at my fine taste in movies!" Like house guests will have non-awkward conversations with me because they are impressed with my awesome Tarentino shelf.

So, 30 Rock. I'd have to say that that show and Everybody Hates Chris are two shows that are simply hilarious. Two shows that have completely slipped past my radar before being introduced to my computer. Two shows that I have never actually sat down and watched before Iraq. Two shows that I should have.

Anyway, I've written before on the fact that my first waking moment every morning has been along the lines of, "Man, I'm still here?" That's not entirely true. Mostly, I've had this twist in the gut that seems more like I'm in fucking jr high. I feel all warm and with an unshakable desire to see HER again. I remember her jokes, the funny way she walks, her cute little idiosyncrasies. I wake up remembering the last thing she said, and with the unshakable need to hear her voice and see her face.

Liz Lemon, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

It hurts when I remind myself that she's fictional.

I make a firm distinction that it's not a hang up on Tina Fey. I know nothing about Fey. Even if she had based the character completely on herself, the fact that she's married with children is certainly a turnoff, if not a, um, major hurdle to a relationship. Oh, and that she's a celebrity. That's certainly more unattainable than being... fictional. ...oh.

Aw, nerds.

I'm not in love with an SNL alum. Again, I know nothing about Tina Fey. I'm in love with the frustrated 30-something head writer of TGS. The one who has a fear of dying alone choking on a tv dinner in her apartment. The one who only suddenly realized that she deserved to be called the C -word. The one who berates co-workers for mixing up Star WARS with Star TREK. The one that always felt she was the nerd that was picked on in high school, but didn't realize she was actually the jerk until her high school reunion. The one that went to this crazy nightclub last week, called...Chili's. The one that's angrily frustrated with all the stupid people that don't know how nice and kind she is! The one who is the middle manager of a group of petty children that simply don't know the responsibility she keeps, or the stress she's under.

"And meeting someone new? eh. All the nodding, and smiling, and sibling listing? And what's the upside? It works, and you have to have a bunch of sex?"

"Lemon, what do you want? Do you want to be alone for the rest of your life?"

"No, I just wish you could start a relationship twelve years in. Where you really don't have to try anymore. And where you could sit around together and goof on TV shows, and then you could go to bed without anyone trying any funny business."

Blerg.

---

I'm a little disturbed by this, in retrospect.

God, I don't know if I need to see a shrink or a chaplain.

I dunno if I'm experiencing hormone craziness or wacky fantasy clinginess because of my extreme disdain of my current environment or sneaking realization of my age. I'm not a kid anymore and that certainly is slightly distressing. I do not understand the crap music that my joes are listening to. I am increasingly finding myself shaking a fist and yelling at those gay Jonas Brothers to get fucking haircuts and throw away those idiotic scarves.

I read another possible explanation for my Ninja Turtle outbreaks, my give-a-fuck attitude shifts and outright immaturity explosions. I read that a regression is a sign of a desire to let go of responsibility.

---

Everyone opines that they can't find women like that where ever they're at. And you know, I hate to make this another contest, but I got you beat. I certainly can't find women like that on FOB [-----] in the middle of fucking [---], Iraq. I'm not on a pogue-farm super-FOB. God, there's yet another topic digression: people back home don't realize a good 90% of the military are pogues who sit at desks or fill gas tanks or heat MREs in order to call themselves "cooks," or even yell at you for bringing dirty uniforms into their DFAC. Such places where said pogues are in legion are places far from me. Someone insisted only dudes get to kick in doors, but that someone didn't really think through the fact that those dudes would have to be celibate on 12-15 month tours away from anything resembling a female. Conan didn't worry about this, because he lived to hear ze lamentation of der womens.



This damn war keeps bringing me down. A costly foreign policy that has created vast discord across the globe, a staggeringly widening culture gap between mall shoppers and their demographically identical neighbors in uniform enacting said foreign policy, the economy, death, destruction, blah, blah, blah. Damnit, the real issue is how am I to solve late blossoming, quarter-age angst? I'm on a boat, tied to a fucking mast. Quit trying to kill me, and let me go home. I wanna go home. Why won't they let me go home? This is the worst trip I've ever been on.

Riding Dolphins

Everyone hates their job? I call bullshit.

But, as of the last few months, I am firmly in the 'hates their job' category. I could say it's disillusion of faith in the organization, the mission, the way said non-mission is being handled. But I don't want any of that to be ammunition for the wannabe neo-hippies. Because when I say 'mission' I don't mean Dubya's crusade. I belittle it by the name, but in the end, I understand that most undeducated (or even over-educated sheep) don't give it credit for what it actually is. The foreign policy we have been enacting over the last few years is not--as the neo-hippies' simplifications insist--an act of evil by a cabal of super villains. Contrary to the intellectually-lazy, knee-jerk cries of being led by a 'dumb president,' the former administration did indeed hold a valid theory concerning a democratic Iraq bringing about a stable Middle East. A lynch pin of vague democracy in bordering Afghanistan and Iraq would certainly look interesting on an Iranian map. These aren't ideas borne of Lex Luthor's bald head. These are ideas of scholars and intellectuals and policy wonks, not the unclean masses. That would be the issue, though. [Correctly] Assuming the American public is too dense to understand a far-reaching, long-term solution that extends well beyond any sitting administration's stay, Dubya wrapped the whole thing under the 'WMD' excuse. Most (read: not Joe Sixpack) knew otherwise, understanding the sound theory--whether or not they agreed of its viability. So there's the rub: a policy that has a sound background, that was framed with something Joe Sixpack could understand. Unfortunately that frame fell apart. And the actual painting still had its detractors. Whatever, my beef still has to do with the leadership. A good leader gets people to do things because they want to do it, not because they are forced to do it. That administration didn't have the chops. Whether or not you, or history, judges the poilicy on Iraq as a long-term success is irrelevant in the case of the success of presidential leadership. If he were a great leader, the American people and its allies would have been behind it. I'm not saying it was easy, to make the understatement of the century. The media alone were a formidable opponent to any such intentions. Don't think I'm making a statement one way or another about whether or not this policy was correct. I'm not an apologist here. I only point out that the most vocal critics of it are knee-jerk 'tards that simplify things to 'Republicans evil' or 'war bad.'

Oh boy, that was a ridiculous side thought. What started off as a job rant turned into leadership analysis and my devolving to policy apologist. So. Yeah. I hate my job.

I have a list. One that I couldn't possibly enumerate in a satisfactory way. Let's start with mission. I'm not focusing on 2003, but here in the middle of [censored], Iraq as of 2009. I'll self censor again, here, but let's just say that the Army is the largest bureaucracy in the world. THe military is one big, dumb silverback gorilla. I say nothing about the organization's or individuals' level of competence and intelligence (Read: smarts). But the bureaucracy is completely incapable, it seems, to readjust battalions or brigades. If a battalion is not needed in one place, it cannot be flexed home. If a brigade shows up, completes its mission, and/or finds a mission that has dried up, there are no provisions for it to do anything about it. That's understandable on the grounds of the logistical and financial nightmare that it is to move something like a Heavy Mechanized Brigade Combat Team. But it doesn't mean I like it. Worse, a brigade set to deploy is deploying; there's no possibility, apparently, of a commander telling the powers-that-be that the replacement unit is not necessary, that they can stay home or go elsewhere. I do not know if this is on the part of individual links being powerless, the chain being powerless, or that the individual links see something I don't. Either way, I hate being jerked around on said chain.

I got here as a meat-eating combat platoon leader. Ready to kick in doors. Blow stuff up. And also to (truthfully) shake hands, kiss babies, calm shieks, build bridges. I'm a political nerd, a public policy grognard. I love the decisions, the process, and (on my immediate end) the enaction. Not to toot my own horn, but this deployment has given me more hands-on experience than the average policy wonk in Washington. Stuff that such analysts could only dream of: more on the immediate level than most diplomats to low-profile countries. And that is energizing.

But that was months ago.

Worse still, I hate the fact that I am spending more than a year living in a locker room. A bunch of sweaty dudes. Cussing, scratching, smelling terribly. I am tired of the same stupid movies, the same stupid conversations, the same stupid, filthy jokes.

I wake up every morning disappointed that I did not wake up out of a terrible dream. Every day is better than the next.

Of course, I used to be simply tired of the vague "them," rather than anyone specific. Unfortunately, I'm being tested, apparently. Enter [fake name] LT Franken. Take all of the terrible, terrible proto-Marxist distrust of Officers--i.e. them being know-nothing, meritless college brats whose family's relative social caste paid for their commission--and hyper-project it into a walking cliche. What's worse is that he's completely oblivious to his downright arrogance. To be fair, it's not a trait one normally associates with the bookish, froggy-voiced, bespectacled guy he is. But there's inherent jackassery when you go into a lecture about binary code or CD laser imagery (complete with dry-erase board diagrams), thinking it's a good conversation starter. "Yes, sergeant, listen, computers actually 'speak' in these following terms..." he says, picking up a dry-erase marker. Now, this seems alright in the context of a question asked. But how big of an asshole are you, that you so desperately go out of your way to bring us poor, useless wretches out of the pitch dark cave of idiocy you think we all live in? We're apparently so stupid that we need your daily lessons to be better people. Half of these lessons we know--which adds to how big of an asshole you look like.

"Oh, that's a song by this band called Cheap Trick."

"This Lay Mizerah-bless is a good movie. It's French for 'the miserable'."

"That sounded like it was 343.5 meters to our north. They train us that in artillery school."

And leadership tips? Thanks, LT. Led any um...people...of any kind, have you? Oh, no? hm. I guess your book knowledge trumps all of my book knowledge. Or even my--I dunno--actual experience? So apparently you can show up halfway through a deployment, make jackass remarks about how jaded you are and how much life sucks out here, not be in an actual leadership position with any actual soldiers under you, and throw on a fucking combat patch on your own arm because everyone else has one. Promote yourself while you're at it.

The thing is, I felt guilty about this a couple months ago. He has a personality that screams to be teased. I have defended him, telling others, "Aww, they're just personality quirks, he's a good guy." It was scary how much of myself I saw in him. Recently, someone told me, "See, XO, that's the thing. You're the nerd that played video games in highschool--the guy you got the cheat codes from, the guy you played Goldeneye with. The wacky, funny nerd. Franken, that was the one we beat up. The one that thinks he's smarter than you. The one that annoys everybody."

"Personality quirks," I say.

Flash forward to last week. "Hey, [spacecadet], can I have a word?" Oh. Maybe he wants some help with something.

"Sure," I say. We find somewhere away from the joes and NCOs that way I can help the kid out away from others so he won't be embarrassed.

"There's something that's been chewing away at me." Sure, ok, let's help you out, I think. But he continues into a counseling session on how he can see I can improve.

WTF? I didn't know whether to chew his ass, punch his face in, or simply walk away. I let him know that those were the reactions I was debating on. In perhaps the most lazy sarcasm produced in my lifetime, I offer him a thanks for the advice and a STFU. There was 'arrogant,' 'presumptuous,' and other such words I threw in there. It could have went worse. I'm not dickhead's peer, I'm his superior. A few minutes later I realized I simply didn't care enough about what he thought about me to make it a bigger issue than the STFU I left it as.

That's the big Eureka!, light bulb over the head moment. If I had a list of people I hated before this deployment it would sum up to a big zero. Somewhere along the way I learned to hate. How's that for a book title?

Individuals have surpassed simply getting on my nerves. There are a distinct few that have firmly established themselves under this new found emotion of mine, hate. I'm kinda disturbed by it. But then, I think it all stems from simple exhaustion. I am simply tired of it all. I talked about this to someone and he said it was that my give a fuck meter got broke (oh, and another endearing trait I picked up: the word "fuck." You'd think my "'give a damn' broke"--but no, it's now 'fuck this,' and 'fuck that.' Locker room). Makes sense. Inhibitions that come about from my trying to be pleasant default to simple apathy (in times past, I failed in that because of social retardedness--big distinction). Whatever.

I don't give a fuck.



Anyone can relate to an ad. That's what makes one successful. But, I can one-up you in this game.

Hate going to work? Check.

Coworkers don't respect you? Check.

Always wish I was somewhere else? Check.

Cry constantly? Umm...I'm still anonymous here, right? Check...

Daydream of punching small animals? Definitely, CHECK.

Sit next to THAT guy? God, yes. Check.

Make loads of money? I guess better than if I were laid off...

But my cubicle is in Iraq. I still get shot at, can't sleep in my bed every night, and that guy who you sit next to? I sleep next to him. I couldn't even see that fucking commercial until I spent weeks trying to get it to load on youtube. And this 'interwebs' luxury is the porcelain toilet for a caveman. It don't flush 100% of the time and it just got installed.

Sorry. Rant. I read somewhere that it was a rookie move to apologize on your blog. STFU. Geek cred: I've been doing this shit since honeyz be wearin sasoon.

Paint it Black

Truthfully, I am loathe to talk about what I've done in Iraq. For reasons I can't quite satisfactorily describe in words. People wonder why I find their going to the store or seeing their family infinitely more interesting than my daily grind. Well, words fail me. I will say though: anyone who feels they have a firm grasp on Middle East policy or this war without having lived, slept, and ate with Iraqis--without potentially getting killed alongside of, in defense of, or even directly because of the actions of Iraqis--you do not have a clue. I don't say this closed-mindedly, but dejectedly.

A few months ago I thought I had a new perspective on this place, only to realize I never really had an actual perspective on it. Not before I became the de facto neighborhood American diplomat. It absolutely staggers the mind a little Lieutenant--a small unit leader--is viewed by these people as an agent for medical care, criminal investigations, job security, and all the minutiae of daily living for the local population. There are old men--sheiks, Iraqi Army colonels, city council members--that somehow have serious conversations with me: the commissioned official. It's frightening that they don't know I got a B- in a West European Policy class. It staggers my mind more that in an Army with officers with degrees in engineering, English Literature and “Kinesiology,” stupid me is actually among the better qualified [yes, “kinesiology” deserves ironic quotes]. There's only so much you could read. None of it is sufficient to actually form a proper opinion on all of this.

And maybe that's why there's so much interest. They want to “understand.” But the problem I get is that every single person I've talked to only wants to shape second-hand experience into their own world view. They're not interested in so much about what I've seen or experienced. They're interested in how my experiences can justify their opinions. Succinctly, you don't know shit. I'm a fairly liberal (read: classically liberal) person (some would say radically so), with a firm belief that any citizen's opinion is as valid as any other. But I suddenly realized that issues on policy like this are well beyond the scope of what you can get out of an episode of Frontline or even peer-reviewed policy journal. I've had suspicions in the inherent close-mindedness of humanity: push for degradation of the 2^nd Amendment has largely been from those who have a fear of mere tools that they are not familiar with beyond violence. Everyone always votes to tax “the other guy.”

My experiences the last few months make me want to tell all academics, laymen, celebrities and pundits to STFU. I see no constructive way that one could bridge this gap.

This leaves me disturbed, frustrated, and disillusioned with the ability for the political process to function in spheres beyond the decision maker. I do not know the answers. But I know that the pundits certainly can't begin to. I question the ability of the political process to decide policy. I question my ability as a nominally politically informed citizen to form any sufficiently valid opinion on issues beyond my experience. If you can't understand the actual ramifications of Iraq policy on Iraqis, the Middle East, the American soldier, how can I truly understand the minute details of political thought in farm subsidies? You can lampoon him all you want, but how can you understand the problems of Joe the Plumber? [we just got our satellite TV dish to get a bit of the last debate, I did not realize how intrusive this meme was until I got home for R&R] There's too much talking over each other in politics and I am disappointed to realize sympathy and open-mindedness is bordering on wishful thinking.

Punching Timecards and Ninja Turtles

Well, I don't even know how to approach updating anyone on what I've seen and experienced in the last five months or so. Uh...you know I'm in Iraq right? I would apologize to the reader for being away from this for so long, but who am I kidding? Most anyone reading this is reading this blog for the first time. And will promptly click on to someplace else. S'ok. Putting it down is for me. If anyone gets anything out of it, even better. I would have kept all of my inane ramblings on the hard drive (I swear I don't have a pink notebook with heart and unicorn stickers on it, hidden under a dresser). But some actually have gotten something out of it, over the years, so on the off chance it connects with anyone else again...

Snippits of the last few months. Cliché, I know, but rollercoaster, folks. This post will only be about one particular talky subject. If you're lookin' for “war stories,” I can entertain you another time.

***

[...]I've noticed it has affected us in different ways. Some people deal with the incomprehensibly high pile of bullshit by just giving up. Turning in the shoddy product. “You know, this is bullshit, my work isn't getting anywhere. Why worry about shit I can't change? I'll be here, 'leading' this clusterfuck, do my job, whatever.” This is where we do the minimum for mission success.

I think part of me gets thrown into this group. Of course, for most, having assholes try to fucking kill you kinda shakes you up some. IED goes off and the Magic 8 Ball is shaken, message pops up. Something along the lines of, “Hey knucklehead, wake up, this shit's serious.”

I can see the differing leadership personalities among the LTs. Myself, I tried to be as true to the textbook I could when it came to the “real” stuff. By “real” I mean the potentially getting shot at and blown up stuff. It's amazing that so many leaders treat walking down the street as walking down the street. Dude, it's not. There are literally terrorists wanting to kill you mere feet away from you. It's not simply walking down the street. They're not abstract “enemy.” So by textbook, the planning process was deliberate. One of the big things that struck me upon commissioning and leaving the TRADOC side and entering the “operational” side of the Army was how from-the-hip everything was.

NCOs were a wonder for me. At the risk of sounding gay, I am in love with the US Army noncommissioned offiicer. They simply make things happen. Nothing would function without them--officers could all disappear and the Army will still have the ability to carry out tasks. That was probably the biggest shock I had coming into my unit as a platoon leader for the first time. On the enlisted side, you know that they're indispensable, but you never truly knew how dependable and vital they are.

That said, I've been in the Army for a couple years before I became a platoon leader. As much as it opened my eyes to the greatness of the NCO, the perspective shift showed me just how much our leadership isn't as on-top of all things as young junior soldiers often feel it is. When I showed up at Fort Hood in 2007, almost all of my Army experience was textbook, schoolhouse. Officers did this, this, and this so that soldiers could do that in order to accomplish mission. By the time I was leading missions with real soldiers rather than classmates, I realized shortcuts that I would get reamed for in TRADOC were actual close to necessary in the “real world.” But it still never sat well with me. I still didn't like how much was left to luck or practice. And the Army NCO is complicit in this--often diminishing the role of the officer, who, apparently, just gums up the works.

I won't go too far into the absolute fact that most people have no clue on the responsibilities of officers (even among officers themselves!). But unless you've had the distinction of having both stripes on your arm and a gold bar on your collar, I don't want to hear a word from you that officers don't do anything. We've seen first hand what “officers not doing anything” actually looks like. It looks like a clusterfuck. NCOs, the backbone of the Army, whose experience is relied on for anything happening, cannot be depended on for everything. Ignorance notwithstanding, decisions are made and reasons are factored beyond the scope of the faithful and competent sergeant. Officers still need to do their job. It's a shame so many have not seen “what right looks like” in this regard. It's even worse that ignorance downplays what an officer (especially LTs) are supposed to do.

Anyway, yeah, different personalities. [I'm throwing in fake names from here on out, by the way] LT Dahl is the type who knows how right kinda looks like. So he knows things are just screwed up. [I've edited out our specific reservations and misgivings here] Ultimately, Dahl has no faith in the ability [censored]

A command climate survey summed up my feelings when I wrote in the following regarding my misgivings of [censored]. “There are too many chiefs, not enough Indians. The chiefs are too disconnected from reality, in their sweat lodge. And the Indians are throwing their efforts into individually making their own fires.”

I won't go into much more detail about the misgivings. Such things affected us LTs, the line managers, if you will, in our own ways. Corporate was acting wonky. The boss was incompetent. But my little cubicle farm will make it through this. Dahl initially pounded on tables and made noises. [...edited out]

I've read about introverts having different personas according to role. This came as a surprise to me at the time. I was having a problem reconciling my introversion with the way I acted at work. Why do I act this way on the job, but regular social situations cause anxiety and/or impatience? Anyway, irrelevant. I only bring it up because I am: One. Wacky. Officer. I devolve to immaturity and get hyper. I bounce off walls like a five year old, cracking jokes about all things taboo. In reflection, it's probably my way to deal with frustration. On some occasions the wackiness is a hindrance to my authority. I'm wacky so often now that many ask if I'm being serious. It'd be difficult to even give an “direct order” anymore.

In the end, some leaders are great by action. Some are great by sentiment. Some are “almost” great through effort. Many are disillusioned and punch timecards. At least one [ahem] jumps around and makes jokes about your face [...]

***

Lots of rambling. Almost all of it you probably find irrelevant or poorly discussed. Lo siento.

Next episode: Explosions! Guns! Bad language! Senseless violence! Gratuitous nudity! Tune in next time.

I'm So Excited

I bought another car. I really need an intervention.



Anyway, I'm in California. Block leave. Long story, short: I sold the RX-7. It was in a fender bender and when it was being repaired, the shop couldn't continue the work because they discovered the front end of the frame was warped and heat treated into place. That salvage title from the previous owner, rearing its head. For liability reasons, they didn't want to fix it. They said more unscrupulous shops could fix it, but it'd cost an arm and a leg. I sold it...to much inner turmoil. Honestly, you should try and find a 3rd gen RX-7 out there that hasn't been molested by Vin Diesel wannabes. In its factory form, the finest sportscar of the 90s (one of the finest of all time) and one of two perfect things that ever came out of Japan.

So I needed a replacement. Someone who's merely fond of cars, and not truly addicted as I am, would wait until after deployment, right? Well, like I said, that ain't me. I set to buy another 240z. Regretted like hell selling my first one. And it is the other perfect thing that came from Japan. Really, if you're contesting this, you need to look into more of your automotive history there, bud.

Anyway. The one I was tracking on craigslist managed to be sold a day before I got back to California. It was a perfect red thing, if I could believe the pictures and the words of the seller. It's no use to lament the situation now...

The next car I looked at was in Palos Verdes. It lived in a quintessentially California home overlooking the ocean. 50s style architecture and the seller was a tall, middle aged man with longish gray hair and was supremely laid back (and evidently rich). He spoke in the casual manner people do when they live near the beach. His cluttered garage had a classic Ducati being worked on, the curb housed a Porsche Boxster under covers, a surfboard hanging from a wall. The man was in board shorts, an unbuttoned shirt, sunglasses, and stood on bare feet. We approached him as he was on the phone and was in the process of cleaning another of his cars. When I rounded the corner approaching the home of the seller, my heart honestly skipped a beat. It was the most beautifully 240z I had ever seen. It drove like a dream, through the narrow seaside roads which wound and curved around the neighborhood. Its engine rumbled to a perfect note of bass. The paint was perfect, the interior like it came from the factory. The body straight, the engine bay gleaming.

But I couldn't buy it. The rust. The salt sea air gave the poor car syphilis rashes on her perfect model body. The most beautiful girl in the world looked to be a tad promiscuous with the wrong kind of people. You couldn't see it from mere feet away. But the disease was there. I was disappointed to leave the car. But my true sense of mourning was saved for the fact such a beautiful specimen was struck with such a terrible affliction.

The next car was in Aliso Viejo. I won't wax poetic about that trip. It looked good, but it was incomplete. I wanted a turn key car for this purchase.

I beat myself up over not getting to nab the Z that was sold before I was able to get to Cali.

My eye wandered to another. She caught my eye before, but the timing was never right. She's cute, she's British and she has the most beautiful accent.California. MGB's. Nuff said.

That's What She Said

srry just got msg. Im tired. Not feelin Austin 2nite. cu@work

Texted that last night. Guess I texted it because I didn't want to be talked into going.

Fellow LT asked if I wanted to go to Austin for Saturday night again. Went last week. This week, not really feeling it.

Still looking for a date for the ball. I've already resigned myself that that's a no go. But there's still that underlying nagging in my head that I should have gone out.

Spent all of Saturday riding. Came back home, exhausted, napped a 15 minute power nap, then went out on the roads again in the Boxster S. I'm actually fulfilled coming out of Saturday. I love riding. Have a buddy that had his bike stolen. Near suicidal. Myself, the Ducati is my release. It's a hassle, at times, to get on it. It's not like a car, where I can just go. Riding takes a slightly more involved prep with putting on the jacket, gloves, helmet, then taking it all off again realizing I can't put anything on fully, with my gloves inhibiting dexterity. And I wear my regular GI Joe boots riding, because MotoGP-esque riding boots seem silly in jeans, and big, bad biker boots similarly so. All in all, it feels like it takes hours to just get the bike rolling. And apparently I'm impatient. By that time, the Porsche is tempting. I get almost as much a thrill in it, with the top down. And all I need are the keys. Often, it wins out. But the days I do get on the bike are just...great. I really need a Thesaurus. Or a better vocabulary.

We're getting really close to deployment! Right. Anyway, the BC was telling us all to let our joes loose and go home as soon as possible. He insisted that a couple months from now we're not gonna look back and say “Man, I wish I had stayed in the office a while longer and completed more paperwork.” Instead, we're gonna say, “Man, I wish I had spent a few more hours with my family.” True enough. So he insisted we go out and spend some time with the wife, the girlfriend, the kids. "Oh, for you single guys, uh...work on your hobbies.” I didn't feel dejected by this, as I would assume. Truthfully, I'm gonna miss the cars, the motorcycle probably the most during the impending trip to Southwest Asia.

Rode for hours Saturday. Weather was perfect. We throw that around a lot. But I mean, perfect.

A tornado touched ground down the road from my house the afternoon before Saturday's perfect weather. Texas is weird like that. I don't know what is more disconcerting: earthquakes or tornadoes. I don't really find any anxiety from earthquakes. And when the “air raid” siren went off (later found out from a neighbor that it was a tornado warning siren), and I turned on the TV, I thought everyone was terribly nutty in their chicken little impressions. All sorts of emergency talk was on the TV. I thought for sure the Japs were attacking, with what the air raid siren still blaring. When they got around to letting me know about this tornado thing, I wondered which trailer park would be hit in some distant county. Then: “yes, it seems, the National Weather Service has declared a tornado touched down in Morgan's Point. If you are in the north side of Belton, anywhere near the lake, you really must be in your storm shelters now! We will stay with you. We will not leave the air.”

Oh shit. Really? Really? It's the promise to “stay with us” that sold it. It's touching down near the mansions! God must really have it in for us if he's avoiding the trailer park.

I don't have a storm shelter. The guy on TV answered back: “if you don't have a storm shelter, find the inner most room on the ground floor. Bathrooms are safe bets because of the piping lining the walls.”

Thanks, bud.

Electricity blinked out for a while. I was in the laundry room. Loud noises. Still unsure about how excited I should be. It kinda felt silly. Hail the size of baseballs. Tornado touched down near “firestation 2,” says talking head on TV. That's right down the street!

Anyway. I survived. Scratching my head, still. Tornado knocked over part of a tree in my backyard. Got a call form one of my NCOs asking if I was ok.

It is really difficult for me to make friends. I've grown up debilitatingly shy. Over the years, I 'd just lived with it. For work, as an officer, supposedly leading Soldiers into battle, I overcome it. It's a professional thing. And I talked about it in earlier posts, but I get empowerment in the position I'm in. Someone could probably tell that I overcompensate at work, at times. Many guys can't tell that I'd ever be considered “shy” or “reserved,” if judging from my “work persona.” Awkward? Most definitely, yes. Shy? Yeah, right.

Anyway, E called and asked if I was alright. Made me feel good that someone cared enough. In the Army, fraternization gaps aren't nearly as wide as they are in, say, the Navy. Us officers on the green side don't have separate shipboard staterooms and officers mess halls. We aren't served by enlisted stewards and our workplace isn't away from “joe.” Particularly on the combat arms side of the Army, we eat, live, and sleep with the Privates. We need close relationships in order to rely on each other. It is also unlike being a fighter pilot, where the officer goes off on sorties like some mounted knight and all of his enlisted personnel are support and left on some aircraft carrier—our enlisted guys aren't relegated to nailing horseshoees and shining our armor. The taboo of fraternization, for us, isn't about mere association between the Marxist classes of officer/enlisted. It's simply limited to unfair favoritism, and the obvious limitation of empowered demands, romantic liaisons, etc. And most of that is irrelevant for us anyway, considering we're all male in the combat arms.

That aside, I would consider this sergeant a friend. In other places, the vaguely Marxist borders would be at play. My friends from work should be the likewise white-collared officers. My fellow LTs. But it just doesn't work that way for me. I'm with my guys more often.

Concurrently, there's the “individual” equation. The other LTs, like most LTs, are Type-A personalities. I am painfully not. Great guys, that I can vaguely consider friends, or at the very least much more than vague acquaintances. But would I be friends with them in college? Would I have been friends with them in any environment if we had not been lumped together by profession? No. I don't think so. These are guys that are “corporate” in the world of The Office. They're off in New York. Or perhaps they'd more embody Jim. I am firmly within the walls of Scranton. As a mix of Dwight and Michael. I am...quirky...and often fall into the “tool” traps that the boss falls into. I can't help my Steve Carell impression, at times. Add a smattering of Jim, simply because I am self aware. Outside of work, I'm more Tobey.

I've talked to E about this once. I don't have any misgivings about tactical competence. But I do submit that other Type-A personality officers are better LTs than me. People follow said Type-As moreso than they do Michael Scott of Dunder Mifflin, Scranton. I'm only a capable leader because of that bar on my chest--the commission that places me legally in my position. He said I was off my rocker. I'm a great LT, says he. The others are cheesedicks. I dunno what that means.

Anyway. Austin. Hours of awkwardness. Being “the other guy” when the Type-As are schmozing into a bachelorette party. That guy that doesn't know what drink to get because he can count the number of times he's drank anything other than a beer, on one hand. That guy who is the worst wingman ever. That guy who shakes his head in mortal fear at being pushed to talk to some nameless girl.

Yea, thanks, I'd rather carve some roads.

That Crazy Old Wizard

So the Boxster S is leaking coolant. Noticed it the other day after driving it moderately hard. Part of my trip to work is this little stretch of chicanes and mini-switchbacks. Not even minutely as entertaining as Tujunga, Angeles Crest, or even my old standby: quaint little Carbon Canyon...but for Texas, it'll do. Like Carbon when I was in grad school, I drive it everyday to and from work, so I do get to warm the tires a tiny bit.

I was about to digress into blathering about driving bliss...but I do that enough. Suffice it to say, I love driving. Said it again.

Anyway. Sucks finding coolant pooling under your car. Sure, it shelves sportscar time...but it's worse for the single guy I am. Brings up one of the infinite ways choices are different for me than they are for some married shmuck. To that guy, he could just drop the car off at the shop; he has a ride to and from. Myself, I have to bother my nonexistent list of friends...of the few I could call, they're off doing stuff with their wives or living it up as a socially-busy single. Either way, lifestyles are incompatible with the loner like me.

I find it funny that in the movies the loner is always this mysterious, cool guy. He's a maverick, he's Wolverine. In reality, most loners are the folks whose minds instantly flashed an image of yellow tights and Adamantium claws and cigars, with my reference to Wolverine. The loner is Fat Comic Book Nerd...

While I am nothing like him physically, nor am I repulsively snide, or live with my mother, I'm closer to Fat Comic Book Guy than James Dean.

[In reflection, I got the Boxster S because of its lineage to the 550 Spyder. Porsche has expressly made a modern 550 out of the Boxster. When I originally bought it, I was looking at a 550 replica kit car, but bought the Boxster for sake of practicality. The color I picked was the closest I could get to Dean's own Little Bastard (the car he died in). I dunno what that says. I digress.]

Back to car woes. I was about to call up a shop. Eventually, I just tinkered with the car myself. I'm not a gearhead. I love cars. I love engines. I love machinery. I do not like endlessly maintaining them. I love driving cars. I love collecting cars. I can even love doing minor stuff like oil changes and spark plugs. Initially, I can even get into diagnosing problems...but eventually my inherent laziness kicks in. The decadent American I am tends to throw money at problems to fix'em.

But here's me being cheap. As much as it takes effort to combat the lethargy, I've done all of my car work myself this last year. It's a little bit of both--penny pinching and lifestyle. At the end of the day, my options have limited me to doing it myself.

I've lived alone before. As an undergrad. But it was college...there was always someone around. Paths diverge at my age, as everyone gets married. Or cling to living like those college kids. I'm doing neither right now...so I'm out of sync. I'm not a part of a couple that goes out and does things with other couples. I'm not the "single guy" either--who frequents bars and/or commits to his frat boy imitation that's years past due.

Right now, I'm liking my life. Part of me wonders if I am merely justifying loneliness. It's cliche to note that I know "the difference between being alone and being lonely." I know I love being alone. I am unsure if I am lonely. 95% of the time I am confident I am not. I would simply tear my hair out if there was anyone else in this house bothering me while I was tinkering with the car or reading a book. I love coming to a quiet, empty home from a day (or months, if we're doing some silly Army thing) of "people interaction." I do not want to watch Sex & the City, or have my radio set to some pop station. I do not want anyone taking down my robots and throwing out my Darth Vader bobblehead for some floral arrangement. I do not want to go into a debate or negotiation at every piddly decision from what to eat to where to go. I want to get in the car and just go...nowhere. I contemplate while on the interstate. I do not need Avril Lavigne suddenly interrupting my thoughts, or my passenger asking me if I want to play tennis with Hank and Lisa (or Bill and Stacy, or Jon and Janie, or...). I do not want anyone else in that car as I navigate hairpins--that girl would be voicing reactions or spewing asinine talk. Sportscars aren't for passengers!

bleh. end rant. Truthfully, I can see other times I wonder how it could be different. After cooking myself a meal and sitting at an empty dining table. There are single times out of thousands that I do wish I can live in a 50's sitcom and say "honey, I'm home." But those are times few and far between.

I know I am hiding the fact I am socially inept. That I am burying my head in the sand by telling myself that I like being alone. I know that loving solitary activity is simply saying I hate interaction with people. That I am avoiding what I am painfully awkward at.

I know I don't want an uncle telling his adopted son that I'm a crazy old wizard. That I don't exist anymore. That he should just go and wipe the droids' memory a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. But, I am just fine twirling lightsabers in the here and now. I rather like being Ewan McGregor flying spaceships, rather than Alec Guinness living in a cave.


It's funny how time lines shift. There was a time when I'd call it at 30. But right now, I'm telling you I wouldn't want to be a lonely 40 year old. I like being alone in my mid twenties, though.

Crown Moulding

Watching House Hunters on HGTV right now. They got an Austin episode (I insist I'm "near Austin," rather than Waco, which is technically closer by a smidge. Guess why). It's the reason I tuned in--saw the description on the channel guide thing. Me browsing the guide makes it sound less like I routinely watch the show. Because I don't. That's gay.

It amuses me to no end that all of the houses she's looking at suck compared to mine. BWAAAHAA...I measure my penis size by how much my house rawks. Spelling it "rawks" is pretty gay. I meant rocks. I find it even funnier that I am measuring manhood in a way that is supremely estrogen-tied.

Really, I never thought I'd be in this position. I still feel like a kid. Never thought I'd own a house. Part of me wonders if I'm being way too self-important...a four bedroom, 1950 sq. ft. house and .67 acres for an asshole who does not have a wife or kids. A guy whose chief concern was garage space finds himself in a house that he's actually proud of. Had some people over the last couple months. All of them pretty much note the lack of feminine touch. The robots and stormtrooper painting over the fireplace can't be placed by a girl, apparently.

Anyway, yeah. Never thought I'd be watching HGTV. I hate the way every asshole under 30 has all the same IKEA furniture. Random fact: got a Cali expatriate theme going on. Got wall deco that includes prints of the Bear Flag, Bixby Bridge, and the Pacific Coast Highway. Makes me feel better. Still trying to combat the hipster/ikea/yuppie/crap vibe I'm afraid my home gives. But oh well. We all can't start underground fight clubs and make bombs out of soap. Or run amok of drugs in Scotland. I choose life...

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose...

Pictures, eventually. Gushing...at a minimum. But I love this house. If that was out loud, I just sounded flamboyantly gay. It's a good thing I don't read the stuff I type aloud. Much. So far, all I got...took when it snowed one morning back in February:

So I'm still watching HGTV. Apparently, they're doing a whole week of first-time homeowners. Just watched a show called Property Virgin. There's this dude with a silly little growth on his chin and his parents are with him. It's his chin growth that's funny. My parents actually closed for me, with Power of Attorney--you stupid tax payers insisted I spend November in the Mojave Desert at NTC committing "simulated" war crimes. Bleh, I digress. ...Just watched a show called My First Place and theres this blonde chick. Interesting. I can't say it's hilarious. Or funny. I find this odd. While I am feeling a lot of empathy from watching these people my age doing the same stuff I'm doing, I still find it absolutely baffling that I find it at all interesting. This first time homeowner marathon HGTV's doing is great. And I just realized I've been watching it for two hours. Shit.

Why does Suzanne Whang spell Wong, "Whang"? I mean, really.

Shoot'em Up. Part Deux.

There's this discussion going on in an internet forum I frequent. In this thread, the original poster relates a story about a retired Marine being politically opposed to him owning a gun. The former-Marine is against private gun ownership. Yep, the ol' gun control debate. Anyway, the original poster called the conversation "surrealistic" [sic], because, obviously, Marines have to believe in the Second Amendment. Well, I had some extra change in my pocket. So the following is the two cents I put in.

The guy being a Marine is irrelevant because there's absolutely no connection between being in the military and opinion on domestic public policy. On one hand you're talking about being a tool of foreign policy (being in the military). On the other, you're talking about DOMESTIC policy. A Marine's opinion on domestic issues is the same as the opinion of any other citizen's. It shouldn't be weighted because he's in the military. You're on the slippery slope of "qualifications" on opinion. Maybe you're saying my opinion on policy should be greater than yours because I am a Cavalry officer? Thanks, slightly flattered...but that's really silly.

[Another thread contributor, "marinepilot81," has a ranting post about how all "Marine leadership" he knows are evil "liberals" who want to go door-to-door and take away your dad's shotgun. BTW, nothing says 'cool' like having a screen-name that is your job. It's like introducing yourself as "Maverick," and calling yourself a "Naval Aviator," when approaching girls at bars, even though your name is really Pete Mitchell).]

And as far as marinepilot81's comments on Marine "leadership." It's a good thing that in the representative democracy that is America, the military is run by the popularly elected civilian government. I don't know what silly world we'd be in if some general (a marine general, no less!) dictates domestic public policy. This isn't a banana republic. Moustached men with mirrored sunglasses and epaulets and cords and medals on their chests don't tell everyone what to do here. I hold appointed office as a Cavalry Officer. I have no authority over anyone but soldiers, sailors, marines, etc. My mom doesn't salute me. She could still tan my hide--no matter the fact grizzled Command Sergeants Major salute me. My opinion that every American should be able to buy whatever gun they can afford with no government intervention is just as relevant as any other citizen's opinion on the matter. It matters not one bit that all of the marines you know are "evil gungrabbers."

Besides, all the disconnect of using a gun in the course of one's job versus an individual's right to bear arms has been talked about in all of the posts above. some are closing their ears to it, but I'll say it again: it is entirely plausible that a trained worker who has his duty gun SEVERELY regulated would have the opinion that "guns shouldn't be in the hands of 'mere' civilians." The military does not even let its own servicemen have guns without draconian rules. If you're joe private, your POW (privately owned weapon) must be kept in the company arms room. It must be approved by your commander. 99% of the time when you're not deployed, even your duty weapon is locked up away from you. And when you do have it, it is UNLOADED without magazines. A soldier stateside only has a loaded weapon .000001% of their time in uniform. True story: any given military installation, citing they're federal government facilities, is guaranteed to have less loaded guns on the streets than your average rural town or big city. Today's "force-protection" military is the epitome of the nanny-state that many Americans dream of: from guns, to motorcycles, to cellphones--it's all regulated for the "safety" of the individual soldier. The deck is stacked against RKBA if you're forming your opinion within the military [RKBA: Right to Keep & Bear Arms--it's what us real gun nuts call it...you're not cool unless you throw in acronyms]. Anyone who has a strong opinion FOR the RKBA has formed it BEFORE the military.

Opinions on RKBA is the same in the military as it is in any other field. These opinions should weigh the same as it does in any other field as well. Unless you think that servicemen are somehow better than every other American... hate to burst your bubble, but we're not.

[another poster chimed in with the following:]

There was a fellow Lt. in the training battalion at Ft. Knox who said he didn't like guns, "Because they hurt people." I asked him, "What branch do you belong to?" He replied, "Field Artillery". I asked him, "What branch kills the most people on the battlefield?" "Artillery", he replied. I asked him, "You belong to the branch that kills the most people on the battlefield, but you claim to not like guns 'because they kill people'; can you reconcile those two?" After a pause came the reply, "No..."

[I replied:]

To play devil's advocate, here...if your redleg buddy had any actual convictions he could have easily argued that HE's trained to use those guns and has the authority to employ them against the enemy. The peasant...erm...average American has neither the training nor authority. THis is the same tripe that's being spewed about on this thread. Somehow because he fires 155 downrange, he's a more "qualified" citizen. Somehow a marine "should know better" than to argue against the 2nd Amendment. That's all baloney.

The marine is just as ignorant (sometimes even moreso) as any other American. Look at this thread: how many times have you seen "liberal" misused by Marines? It's extremely illiberal to desire a government to regulate the purchases of the individual. But like any other American who takes cues from Limbaugh, or Michael Moore, etc, we spout what we hear. Marine, baker, nurse, construction worker, school teacher, clown, engineer, housewife, celebrity--all of these opinions should have the same weight...they're all equally flawed :)

Anyway.