After a long hiatus, during which I had the opportunity for a visit with my wife, I find myself writing again. One of the few free moments I have captured and I am stuck doing laundry. Its just like one of those you see on any street, except that there is no sorting. Everything goes in, with extra soap, on “COLORS”. When almost everything you wear is green, black brown or some mixture of those three, laundry is almost mindless.
It is funny the things you take for granted at home. Stuff like the washer and dryer being in the same building, or the food being available to you 24/7 in the fridge. Here, my food is kept in a blue container, and the laundry is a ten minute walk. I can sympathize with the city-dweller, who has to tote 30 punds of crap (laundry, soap, quarters, etc) to wash clothes. I spend this time quietly playing games and watching. Some people read, others call home. Interestingly, many here are trying to learn some form of the language over there. (Bosnia, Hungarian, Serbo-Croat, depending on the bookstore where they bought the book.) While many of my peers are really bright, not everyone has the ability to learn a language by book (I certainly don’t). I look forward to the day I am called to quell a disturbance because someone asked directions to the farmer’s daughter’s crotch.
On July 30, we left the United States. And everything human. But not before we had a “Family Day.” Family Day is the military’s form of an office party. It has the usual uncomfortable moments; the semi-inappropriate jokes, the overly drunk guy, and the boss who everyone’s lips are attaching to. However, the military’s form of the office party has one thing, the office doesn’t have: It usually concludes with the disruption of the family. I have to admit, among the toughest problems for me, was the young soldier whose wife was there, dressed in her best, showing her pride in her husband. Her husband happens to be among my best troops and dedicated to country as much as to family. When she turned around to look at the guy responsible for her husband’s well-being, all of this hit home.
Among the many people there was a remarkable woman named Jean Campbell. Her mission was not as an immediate family, but as a supporter of family members. Her son is serving overseas in Oman currently, and she volunteered with an organization called Blue Star Mothers. This organization was originally developed on the backbone of the blue star flag which hung on the windows during World War II to symbolize the family’s member serving in the war over seas. The flag would hang until the soldier returned, or the star was changed to gold, to show that the family member was killed in action.
Jean’s cause was not remarkable in and of itself, but rather that her resolved and dedication was representative of what I think this country should be about. The Pennsylvania chapter of this organization was being run by a woman older than her fifties. She also had two knees in braces, and carried that 75 pounds of weight, I am sure she would have rather lost. Ultimately, Jean’s resolve was what drove my wife to tears, and us to join her cause. If she believed in car sales like she believed in these flags, I would now be the proud owner of three. It’s pretty remarkable what one life altering incident in September can do. Her son now serves proudly in Oman, while she does her part in the States.
People like Jean came out in droves after the 11th of September 2002. But I think people like Jean existed prior to that fall. She made me remember what being dedicated and proud meant. And she reminded me that for every soldier out on the front in Germany, in Bosnia, or in Afghanistan, there are 2 – 3 people in the States, waiting for their return. Wives, mothers, fathers, and husbands all sit by the television, waiting for news, hoping nothing comes by telegram, and trying to live their lives. My wife sits at home, going to work, and trying to enjoy her free time with friends, but every person she sees, and every news story on the television comes around to me, sitting thousands of miles away.
I hope my wife realizes that while I sit here, passing the time, writing in this journal, I know the sacrifice she makes is exponentially greater than mine.
Now, I sit here trying to think about how to describe the relationship I have with my wife. Words like loyalty, dedication, and pride come to mind. I have never known someone who is more dedicated and so intensely proud of what we have done together. The love we share seems to have gone beyond that of when we first saw the stars in the eyes, and the romance, and all of those things which lovers start with. We have been good at keeping these things alive, but what we have been best at is growing together, in tandem.
I see couples whose passion and feverish love burns so bright at the start that they soon lose that flame, and rapidly fizzle. Others have fallen into a groove of life, and exist day-to-day. However, Amy and I seem to have as strong a passion as when we started. (Not the same passion, just the same strength.) And yet our groove is that of a partnership. We make decisions together, we reach common goals, and together we have found common success. This isn’t Oprah, this isn’t Dr. Phil. This is just the way we have worked it out over the time we have been together.
But we never fight. Ok, we fight, to the point where the neighbors think we’re insane. We fight until we’re blue in the face, and we rant and rave like lunatics. Probably not the best approach, and when I return, I think this is one area where I would change our relationship. However, at the end of it, we often realize that we are better together than apart.
I am nothing more than a person, and yet I know her love for me is without question. We have survived problems, and pain, and fights and tears, and through all of this we have managed to remember where our love lives. Over the years, we have tried many different tricks to minimize the anger which comes after a fight. For years, we subscribed to the theory of never going to sleep angry. Then, we heard that it is ok to sleep angry, so long as you confront the problem and resolve it. Then, we realized that whether we sleep angry or not, so long as our feet were touching when we went to sleep, then we still loved each other. (We saw that last one in a movie, or television.) Despite the resolution to the problem, we found only one thing which pulled us through. Our dedication to solving the problem, and our ability to communicate through the issue, generally at the top of our lungs, lead to the success we have seen.
It sounds weird that sometimes we communicate through yelling, but it has worked so far. The yelling is our way to get heard. As I write this, I again realize how insane this must sound. I plan to revise this communication strategy as soon as I get home. I really do miss her.
It’s funny the things you miss the most. I call it her “Remember to breathe,” stuff. It’s the little things she does which I can’t see here but I know she does, even when I am not there. The way her face gets a worried look on it, when she doesn’t understand. The way she tries to undertake arduous tasks while waiting for dinner to cook, thereby allowing the chicken to harden beyond well done. The way, once in a blue moon, the dinner comes out perfectly. The way she routinely fails to remember how great she is when she has a bad day at the office. I especially miss the loving reminders, her telling me to be careful, or be safe, or some other reminder to breathe, as her parting words, just hoping to have one more sentence before we separate. Most of all, I just miss her.
Now, back to reality. I am sitting in a tent right now. The date is August 4, 2002. The time is approximately 2000. (8:00, normal human time, 2:00 home time.) The 15’ x 30’ rubber and aluminum tent is a throw back to the field days of Washington, at Valley Forge, only bigger. There are probably 50 tents surrounding me at 4’ intervals. The tops leak through the pin holes formed over time, so we have used green packing tape to hold the water back, but we have to replace it pretty routinely.
At night the temperatures fall into the 50-60 degree range, which is in the -50,000 Celsius, I think based upon some rudimentary math conversions. During the day, the temperatures climb into the 90’s, which is comfortable here as the humidity is lower than Pennsylvania. Comfort is relative to the surroundings in which we survive. When you live in tents, and on an aluminum and canvas cot, with concrete and dirt floors, good weather goes a long way.
We are about 30 minutes from a nearby town which is off limits to us. I drove around the German countryside today, visiting a soldier in the hospital. The country here is a strange dream. I don’t understand why, but as I rode along the autobahn, everything seemed covered in a haze. The people aren’t real. They talk funny, and while I understand them and can speak their funny talk, I can’t appreciate them as I don’t see them routinely.
While at the hospital, I went to the gift shop looking for some antacid. However, I don’t remember learning the word for “Oh Jesus Christ, there is an inferno in my belly, and I am begging you to piss on it to put it out,” in German. So I sat there, bumbling through, and pleading for help. What a day. . .
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
“Crime” and Punishment
Tonight was one soldier’s 21st birthday. Interesting the memories we have of this monumentous day. Some spend it throwing alcohol into their bellies while friends help keep their hair from the foul toilet water. I spent my day, planning how I would go to Operation Desert Storm, as I played Operation Just Watch. Also known as sitting on the bar stool, watching the news. I am sure some warriors spent their day walking into the desert, while some Iraqi troops spent theirs trying to figure out a way out.
Well, in the interest of Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR, the Army’s form of forced fun), the unit took up a collection, hired some dancing girls, acquired a building, rigged a stereo system, and threw one hell of a party. Until the police showed up. That’s when the real party started.
Some facts about this particular evening. Cover charge for the event was $10. There were two women whose ages were in the 22-28 range. The “blonde” was the younger of the two, though her leathery skin, too tanned from the booths at Hollywood Tans, and whose abdomen was covered in strech marks from child[ren] delivered recently. She was attractive. Right up until the time she smiled. Then you see the quality of dental coverage in the region. For a definition of attractive, please see the starving man’s definition of an oyster cracker. When you haven’t seen anything female in four days. . .
Her business partner was a shorter brunette. She was Italian, or from somewhere in the Mediterranean, and about 10 degrees from being beautiful. But while she may have been on the beautiful path at some point in her life, she deviated about ten degrees, left or right of center. Putting her smack dab in the middle of mediocrity. Fifteen pounds overweight, all centered on her belly, piss poor wardrobe, and a boredom in her work performance, only equaled by the quality control employee in the lint factory.
Now, all of the women’s rights and empowerment zealots are angry. I have valued a woman on her looks alone. Things I don’t know about these women –
1. Education
2. Family responsibilities. (financial and other)
3. “Inner beauty”
4. Other information I didn’t bother to gather.
In short, what I don’t know about these women could just about fit into the Grand Canyon. But, with all of the unknowns, what I know is that these women trade on their bodies, and therefore their bodies are their workplace. I would complain that same if I entered a store with a filthy floor, or a doctor’s office with diplomas from Jo-ellen’s school of colorectal surgery and engine repair. You have to have the skills to pay the bills.
So, as soldiers will do, the men of the Cavalry threw the party. I personally came early and left shortly thereafter. I’m no saint. I intended to return within the hour but frankly wasn’t into the girls. Reasons for the departure could have legitimately been any of the following – (Pick all that apply)
1. Exhaustion
2. Filth, (Needed a shower)
3. Filth, (the girls needed a sand-blasting)
4. Didn’t need another reason to be hornier.
5. All of the above.
On my way back, clean, and carrying two airplane bottles of Jack Daniels, I see the members of the social event standing outside of the barracks, and in the distance I can make out the reflections of red and blue lights off of the warehouse in the background. Being the keen detective I am, I knew something was amiss.
Years ago I would have gone forward, to see if I could help. At 32, some self-preservation and some intelligence kick in. At this point in my life, I realize a few things. I am not here as a lawyer, and I am not here to be a scapegoat. So I turn around and hang out with the other cowards in the shadows. From the groups comes a lot of bravado, spoken in hushed voices. Everyone is a big man outside of the reach of the law. I would have liked to seen these guys while they were in front of the man.
So the police begin their investigation. The next morning, I am at the police station working through a more minor unrelated incident for a soldier, and I get to meet the “Chief” of Police here at Ft. Indiantown Gap. The Chief is a small man, in every visible manner. His height, his mind, and he department are all on the small side. When you meet him, you can immediately sense why. He gives you all of the comfort of a weasel, with his beady eyes, wanna-be-tougher soldier haircut, and “different” uniform. He wears a grey woolen shirt, which I’m sure the vendor told the buyer was “summer” weight, but over its many washings seems to have grown thicker. Above his left breast pocket is a military style name tape, printed in block letters, CHIEF WORLEY. It reminds me of the movie Blazing Saddles, where Mel Brooks in his role as the governor, has the word GOV displayed on the back of his robe. I’m no genius, but you can generally tell who the chief of a police department is, by when he says, “Hello, I am CHIEF So-and-so.” I really doubt I need to see his name tag.
So we chat about the business I am there on, and then we begin to move on to what else is new. While we haven’t ever met, I am nosy, and people seem to tell me stuff when I ask. Chief Worley begins to enlighten me on the activities on post, and the events which transpired in the make-shift strip club. Things to mention were the cover charge, paid at the door, the strippers who were gyrating wildly, and the two beds, “which had space to walk around them, as though they were there for people to gather around. The beds were made, but not in a military style.” His implication was clear here. People were planning on some form of orgy. That’s what city folk do. His crack investigative team discovered these beds, in a building surrounded by barracks, with sheets on them, no other evidence of sexual inter-relations (besides the strippers), and they immediately conclude that the beds were to be used later by the strippers and the men around them.
Someone once told me that the explanation for a situation is usually the most obvious explanation for a situation. The “cover charge” at the door was being charged, but not because anyone was trying to make a profit. The beds were not really made, but had their hygienic cotton slip covers over them and while there were strippers and while the desire of the crowd was probably there, there was in fact no orgy, actual or planned. The corollary to this problem is that when you couple the risqué dancers with the other facts, and mesh in a police department whose entire blotter consists of underage drinking, DUI, speeding and some domestic battery and incest, this is what you get. The most egregious wrongdoing here is the police’s inexperience. I don’t fault the police. It just might have been nice to figure out what was going on, before they leveled the accusation gun.
Well, in the interest of Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR, the Army’s form of forced fun), the unit took up a collection, hired some dancing girls, acquired a building, rigged a stereo system, and threw one hell of a party. Until the police showed up. That’s when the real party started.
Some facts about this particular evening. Cover charge for the event was $10. There were two women whose ages were in the 22-28 range. The “blonde” was the younger of the two, though her leathery skin, too tanned from the booths at Hollywood Tans, and whose abdomen was covered in strech marks from child[ren] delivered recently. She was attractive. Right up until the time she smiled. Then you see the quality of dental coverage in the region. For a definition of attractive, please see the starving man’s definition of an oyster cracker. When you haven’t seen anything female in four days. . .
Her business partner was a shorter brunette. She was Italian, or from somewhere in the Mediterranean, and about 10 degrees from being beautiful. But while she may have been on the beautiful path at some point in her life, she deviated about ten degrees, left or right of center. Putting her smack dab in the middle of mediocrity. Fifteen pounds overweight, all centered on her belly, piss poor wardrobe, and a boredom in her work performance, only equaled by the quality control employee in the lint factory.
Now, all of the women’s rights and empowerment zealots are angry. I have valued a woman on her looks alone. Things I don’t know about these women –
1. Education
2. Family responsibilities. (financial and other)
3. “Inner beauty”
4. Other information I didn’t bother to gather.
In short, what I don’t know about these women could just about fit into the Grand Canyon. But, with all of the unknowns, what I know is that these women trade on their bodies, and therefore their bodies are their workplace. I would complain that same if I entered a store with a filthy floor, or a doctor’s office with diplomas from Jo-ellen’s school of colorectal surgery and engine repair. You have to have the skills to pay the bills.
So, as soldiers will do, the men of the Cavalry threw the party. I personally came early and left shortly thereafter. I’m no saint. I intended to return within the hour but frankly wasn’t into the girls. Reasons for the departure could have legitimately been any of the following – (Pick all that apply)
1. Exhaustion
2. Filth, (Needed a shower)
3. Filth, (the girls needed a sand-blasting)
4. Didn’t need another reason to be hornier.
5. All of the above.
On my way back, clean, and carrying two airplane bottles of Jack Daniels, I see the members of the social event standing outside of the barracks, and in the distance I can make out the reflections of red and blue lights off of the warehouse in the background. Being the keen detective I am, I knew something was amiss.
Years ago I would have gone forward, to see if I could help. At 32, some self-preservation and some intelligence kick in. At this point in my life, I realize a few things. I am not here as a lawyer, and I am not here to be a scapegoat. So I turn around and hang out with the other cowards in the shadows. From the groups comes a lot of bravado, spoken in hushed voices. Everyone is a big man outside of the reach of the law. I would have liked to seen these guys while they were in front of the man.
So the police begin their investigation. The next morning, I am at the police station working through a more minor unrelated incident for a soldier, and I get to meet the “Chief” of Police here at Ft. Indiantown Gap. The Chief is a small man, in every visible manner. His height, his mind, and he department are all on the small side. When you meet him, you can immediately sense why. He gives you all of the comfort of a weasel, with his beady eyes, wanna-be-tougher soldier haircut, and “different” uniform. He wears a grey woolen shirt, which I’m sure the vendor told the buyer was “summer” weight, but over its many washings seems to have grown thicker. Above his left breast pocket is a military style name tape, printed in block letters, CHIEF WORLEY. It reminds me of the movie Blazing Saddles, where Mel Brooks in his role as the governor, has the word GOV displayed on the back of his robe. I’m no genius, but you can generally tell who the chief of a police department is, by when he says, “Hello, I am CHIEF So-and-so.” I really doubt I need to see his name tag.
So we chat about the business I am there on, and then we begin to move on to what else is new. While we haven’t ever met, I am nosy, and people seem to tell me stuff when I ask. Chief Worley begins to enlighten me on the activities on post, and the events which transpired in the make-shift strip club. Things to mention were the cover charge, paid at the door, the strippers who were gyrating wildly, and the two beds, “which had space to walk around them, as though they were there for people to gather around. The beds were made, but not in a military style.” His implication was clear here. People were planning on some form of orgy. That’s what city folk do. His crack investigative team discovered these beds, in a building surrounded by barracks, with sheets on them, no other evidence of sexual inter-relations (besides the strippers), and they immediately conclude that the beds were to be used later by the strippers and the men around them.
Someone once told me that the explanation for a situation is usually the most obvious explanation for a situation. The “cover charge” at the door was being charged, but not because anyone was trying to make a profit. The beds were not really made, but had their hygienic cotton slip covers over them and while there were strippers and while the desire of the crowd was probably there, there was in fact no orgy, actual or planned. The corollary to this problem is that when you couple the risqué dancers with the other facts, and mesh in a police department whose entire blotter consists of underage drinking, DUI, speeding and some domestic battery and incest, this is what you get. The most egregious wrongdoing here is the police’s inexperience. I don’t fault the police. It just might have been nice to figure out what was going on, before they leveled the accusation gun.
Army Training, SIr!
While I haven’t written in two weeks, it doesn’t mean I am not having fun. It is just a coincidence. Sitting here in limbo, we train as we intend to fight in training.
Our training has moved from the basics, thing which we learning in Basic Training, to more advanced infantry fighting. While the basics showed us how to move as individuals (crawling, for laypersons), we have learned now how to crawl as a group of 18 soldiers. These soldiers can now “fire and maneuver”, a principle where some of the group sits and shoots while the others crawl or charge, forward or backward to their objective. We begin this by talking it through, then we practice. And then we run it with “fake” blank ammunition. And then we run it live ammunition. The training is designed to build confidence in your buddies, without requiring you to lay your life on the line.
Every day, we encounter a similar set or facts and circumstances, which we approach with the same method as the day before. We find then that while the facts of the situation are the same, the approach we must take is different, as the evaluator has changed.
I think one of the most magical parts of my life today is knowing the technical advances our society has made. When my old neighbor Joe Patrizio came to Ft. Indiantown Gap for his training prior to World War II (same barracks, different paint, probably), he came without much contact from home. Letters were few and far between, and the people who wrote him were trying to ration their stamps, paper and other commodities. I think, as my history is terrible.
On July 8th, I realized how far we have come. I received a “care package” of the most disturbing sort. Those cardboard storage boxes, businesses use for their long term storage of files, and other materials, was the transport of choice in this case. It would seem that some co-workers of mine discovered exactly how much stuff could be shaken from the candy machine. The amazement from technology stems from the potent chemicals which kept the krimpets, coffee cakes, and other pastries alive for the several days the package was in transit and the several more it sat in a military post office, as they don’t deliver mail while I am attending to the important bar-b-ques over the July 4th weekend. Patriotism only goes so far.
While I am thoroughly grateful for everything that was sent, and for the effort that went into the package, I found a few more notable items.
Rocco Albano – Rocco is a quick talking, Mercedes driving, South Philadelphian with a fast wit, and an even faster way of getting himself in trouble. Rocco’s contribution to the Bosnian Comic Relief effort was four quarters. ($1.00). He either got this money from my desk prior to my departure, or from trading illegal playing cards on eBay.
Emily Goodwin – Emily is pure of heart and dedicated to the many social causes designed to protect our earthly existence for the next million years. Low emission vehicles, and preservation of life are among the causes she fights for. She is the truest of patriots as her dedication extends beyond the nation and to the planet. He contribution was a die cast metal HUMMER, the kinds Rap Stars and wanna-be-outdoorsmen park in their driveways, so that lesser men can ogle their shiny trucks. I loved it as it had the message inscribed in 3M Post It notes – The freedom I am defending is ‘. . .cheap gasoline for SUV owners.” I laughed out loud.
Richard Schwartz – Rich is intensity. Occasionally unbridled and unrestrained, but intensity. While I can’t directly attribute the Kodak disposable camera to Rich, his last words to me as I left three weeks ago were “Just do me a favor. Send me a picture of you sitting on the hood of the HUMM-VEE, wearing nothing but your boots, your helmet, your rifle and a smile. I got his smile.
Other notable items which made the box, but went un-signed –
The sign of a former co-worker – My disturbed habit of collecting peoples former name plates seems to have outlived me, and even in my absence will hopefully live on. Beware any new people. If you sign shows up in my old cell, I mean office, you should consider packing your things. Bad things are in your future.
The airline bottle of Jack Daniels – I have strong reason to believe that this was stolen from aboard a plane during a sales call to the west coast. I am worried that my former brethren (sip) think I may (sip) have a problem controlling my (sip, sip) consumption.
The Can of Whoop Ass – A soda orders by another former MBC employee through a perverse catalog, Whoop Ass is a sick cocktail of amphetamine, caffeine and soda water. (Not really, but don’t drink this if you intend on sleeping. Ever.)
I know I didn’t mention everyone, but this is not an Emmy acceptance speech, and I only picked on those I love. (No, really Rocco, I mean it.) I know that among the many loving signatories, there were a few who really went the extra mile. I really appreciate it, and on my return, please know that I will repay the favor. If someone would clue me in on who they were, I will save the last drink for them. Thank you. And if someone could please explain to Andrew that no matter how many times I tell the Army, I am not really gay.
The really great thing about the care package concept is the surprise. It is one of the few last surprises in my life as I enter my mid-thirties. The surprise comes from not knowing when it is coming or what is inside. I had heard rumors through e-mail of its contents, and the occasional call, but when it arrived I tore it open with more passion than many of my high school girlfriends dresses. I was told later that I have been the only care package so far this year and the post office here on base hasn’t seen one in memory.
A lament running through this monologue is the re-kindled annoyance at technology. I can remember the last time I was away from home for longer than two weeks. In 1990, I entered US Army Basic Training, at Ft. Benning, Georgia. Phone calls with the outside were a seldom provided privilege. Mobile phones were not around, in full force, and e-mail was something still in development. However, the mail system worked. For pennies, and some free time, you could mail a missive across the country to where your sweetie, or mother, or sister could feel your love, stories, and homesickness as though they were next to you. I learned to appreciate the written word, and savored every letter. (In fact, the cost of receiving a letter was ten push-ups. One kid received ten letters in one day, and had to have his suits altered to fit his increasing chest).
My girlfriend at the time wrote almost daily, and I would reply with discussions of love, the future, and our plans. Some poetry found its way in, and she would reply with even greater zeal. I think to this day, one of the reasons why she pops in my head is that commitment we shared being separated, and the dialog we had 1,500 miles apart. Like prisoners separated by a wall who tap messages to each other, we had our letters, mine often written under the sheets by flashlight, and hers written during any free moment.
Now I have a cell phone that only leads to arguments with my wife, homesickness so heavy my belly feels like it holds a stone balloon, and inadvertent comments which cause me worry.
But I also have the internet. Housed in a building where temperatures hover consistently in the 100’s, the state-of-the-art Compaq computers run at sub-par speeds while their internal mechanisms fail from the heat. I refuse to look at the news, as information comes out daily, and I can use none of it for now. A notable piece of human psychology: When each day is planned to the minute, and when the next six months of days are planned with 90% certainty, world events have no bearing on your life. And when these event have no bearing, then apathy grows. The only thing I am certain of at this point about the news is than barring WW III, we are going to Bosnia. Any other world news is simply noise.
Our training has moved from the basics, thing which we learning in Basic Training, to more advanced infantry fighting. While the basics showed us how to move as individuals (crawling, for laypersons), we have learned now how to crawl as a group of 18 soldiers. These soldiers can now “fire and maneuver”, a principle where some of the group sits and shoots while the others crawl or charge, forward or backward to their objective. We begin this by talking it through, then we practice. And then we run it with “fake” blank ammunition. And then we run it live ammunition. The training is designed to build confidence in your buddies, without requiring you to lay your life on the line.
Every day, we encounter a similar set or facts and circumstances, which we approach with the same method as the day before. We find then that while the facts of the situation are the same, the approach we must take is different, as the evaluator has changed.
I think one of the most magical parts of my life today is knowing the technical advances our society has made. When my old neighbor Joe Patrizio came to Ft. Indiantown Gap for his training prior to World War II (same barracks, different paint, probably), he came without much contact from home. Letters were few and far between, and the people who wrote him were trying to ration their stamps, paper and other commodities. I think, as my history is terrible.
On July 8th, I realized how far we have come. I received a “care package” of the most disturbing sort. Those cardboard storage boxes, businesses use for their long term storage of files, and other materials, was the transport of choice in this case. It would seem that some co-workers of mine discovered exactly how much stuff could be shaken from the candy machine. The amazement from technology stems from the potent chemicals which kept the krimpets, coffee cakes, and other pastries alive for the several days the package was in transit and the several more it sat in a military post office, as they don’t deliver mail while I am attending to the important bar-b-ques over the July 4th weekend. Patriotism only goes so far.
While I am thoroughly grateful for everything that was sent, and for the effort that went into the package, I found a few more notable items.
Rocco Albano – Rocco is a quick talking, Mercedes driving, South Philadelphian with a fast wit, and an even faster way of getting himself in trouble. Rocco’s contribution to the Bosnian Comic Relief effort was four quarters. ($1.00). He either got this money from my desk prior to my departure, or from trading illegal playing cards on eBay.
Emily Goodwin – Emily is pure of heart and dedicated to the many social causes designed to protect our earthly existence for the next million years. Low emission vehicles, and preservation of life are among the causes she fights for. She is the truest of patriots as her dedication extends beyond the nation and to the planet. He contribution was a die cast metal HUMMER, the kinds Rap Stars and wanna-be-outdoorsmen park in their driveways, so that lesser men can ogle their shiny trucks. I loved it as it had the message inscribed in 3M Post It notes – The freedom I am defending is ‘. . .cheap gasoline for SUV owners.” I laughed out loud.
Richard Schwartz – Rich is intensity. Occasionally unbridled and unrestrained, but intensity. While I can’t directly attribute the Kodak disposable camera to Rich, his last words to me as I left three weeks ago were “Just do me a favor. Send me a picture of you sitting on the hood of the HUMM-VEE, wearing nothing but your boots, your helmet, your rifle and a smile. I got his smile.
Other notable items which made the box, but went un-signed –
The sign of a former co-worker – My disturbed habit of collecting peoples former name plates seems to have outlived me, and even in my absence will hopefully live on. Beware any new people. If you sign shows up in my old cell, I mean office, you should consider packing your things. Bad things are in your future.
The airline bottle of Jack Daniels – I have strong reason to believe that this was stolen from aboard a plane during a sales call to the west coast. I am worried that my former brethren (sip) think I may (sip) have a problem controlling my (sip, sip) consumption.
The Can of Whoop Ass – A soda orders by another former MBC employee through a perverse catalog, Whoop Ass is a sick cocktail of amphetamine, caffeine and soda water. (Not really, but don’t drink this if you intend on sleeping. Ever.)
I know I didn’t mention everyone, but this is not an Emmy acceptance speech, and I only picked on those I love. (No, really Rocco, I mean it.) I know that among the many loving signatories, there were a few who really went the extra mile. I really appreciate it, and on my return, please know that I will repay the favor. If someone would clue me in on who they were, I will save the last drink for them. Thank you. And if someone could please explain to Andrew that no matter how many times I tell the Army, I am not really gay.
The really great thing about the care package concept is the surprise. It is one of the few last surprises in my life as I enter my mid-thirties. The surprise comes from not knowing when it is coming or what is inside. I had heard rumors through e-mail of its contents, and the occasional call, but when it arrived I tore it open with more passion than many of my high school girlfriends dresses. I was told later that I have been the only care package so far this year and the post office here on base hasn’t seen one in memory.
A lament running through this monologue is the re-kindled annoyance at technology. I can remember the last time I was away from home for longer than two weeks. In 1990, I entered US Army Basic Training, at Ft. Benning, Georgia. Phone calls with the outside were a seldom provided privilege. Mobile phones were not around, in full force, and e-mail was something still in development. However, the mail system worked. For pennies, and some free time, you could mail a missive across the country to where your sweetie, or mother, or sister could feel your love, stories, and homesickness as though they were next to you. I learned to appreciate the written word, and savored every letter. (In fact, the cost of receiving a letter was ten push-ups. One kid received ten letters in one day, and had to have his suits altered to fit his increasing chest).
My girlfriend at the time wrote almost daily, and I would reply with discussions of love, the future, and our plans. Some poetry found its way in, and she would reply with even greater zeal. I think to this day, one of the reasons why she pops in my head is that commitment we shared being separated, and the dialog we had 1,500 miles apart. Like prisoners separated by a wall who tap messages to each other, we had our letters, mine often written under the sheets by flashlight, and hers written during any free moment.
Now I have a cell phone that only leads to arguments with my wife, homesickness so heavy my belly feels like it holds a stone balloon, and inadvertent comments which cause me worry.
But I also have the internet. Housed in a building where temperatures hover consistently in the 100’s, the state-of-the-art Compaq computers run at sub-par speeds while their internal mechanisms fail from the heat. I refuse to look at the news, as information comes out daily, and I can use none of it for now. A notable piece of human psychology: When each day is planned to the minute, and when the next six months of days are planned with 90% certainty, world events have no bearing on your life. And when these event have no bearing, then apathy grows. The only thing I am certain of at this point about the news is than barring WW III, we are going to Bosnia. Any other world news is simply noise.
So here is comes.
So I haven't posted anything interesting in a while (perhaps ever). I fell into a writer's funk I guess, as having watched our political system degrade, I haven't really felt like ranting. However, I also found a little piece of history. The original blog if you will. These writings were written over a period of months while sitting in the sweltering heat of the Summer of 2002 near Harrisburg, PA, and into the bowels of eastern Europe (lower bowels, pretty much in the worst condition of their history. . .) So, without further adieu, I am posting the dispatches from the "front" so that my son can read "what Daddy did during the war" which can be summarized as "sitting on my ass."
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
I am Jason's red hot rage
As I sit here watching the potential leadership of our nation debate the issues of today, I find myself in bewildered disgust. While I am certain a fan of neither candidate in toto, I am now completely against the Senator from Arizona. His thought on mortgage buys outs and fear mongering coupled with his annoying whistle when he speaks sends chills up my spine. While I am certain he brings volumes of experience, but he brings a twinge of insanity as well.
As I think back to my wife and I, when we sold our home near Philadelphia, we sold at a premium based on market demand. We sold to a young couple who were just starting out, and who took out a 100% mortgage on the property. Now, Amy and I knew at the time, that their collective income was no more than $50,000 per year, and that their mortgage payments would be somewhere in the neighborhood of $2,500 per month. Now, I am no mathematician, but I am certain that at this rate, with normal taxes and normal expenses, this couple would not be eating for the next thirty years. And they had their friend and mortgage broker to thank for it.
Senator McCain proposed this evening that couples like this would be bailed out by the federal government so that they could keep their home and get it at a discounted rate. Great plan, but let's look at what could happen.
The property was sold for $312,000 three years ago, with a 100% mortgage. Let's assume that this property now has a fair market value based on comparable properties and the tax assessor, of $250,000. The Senator proposed tonight that the federal government buys out the mortgage, at 312, and re-issues it for $250,000, the remaining balance (or something near that. Remember that the capital on many mortgages is relatively unaffected until year 5 or later on a 30 year mortgage.) So, the buyer of my old house now has a $62,000 gift from the federal government. Further, let's assume something else. Let's pretend that this bailout saves the economy. Huzzah! Now this property is worth 312 again. Or more. Does this couple repay this gift? Of course not. Let's pretend again that in ten years the property is worth $400,000. The couple now walks away with $150,000 from the party, thanks to our government. This is a blatant purchase of the vote.
Now, let's look at those this effects. This impacts people who bought homes, who simply could not afford it, and rather than wait or find a cheaper property, or have a commute longer than 30 minutes. Tough. Read my article on economic darwinism.
However, let's look at others who are in less dire straits. Let's assume you have a couple in Philadelphia who bought a $900,000 home 7 years ago. Let's assume they mortgaged it for 100%. Four years later, the property is worth $1MM and they refinance the mortgage for $990k to add a pool to the back. Nice place. I wish I lived there. Now the market tanks two years later, and their property is worth $700k. Do they get the benefit? What if the owner lost their job? What if they make $1MM per year? Does it matter? Probably not under the McCain plan. . .
Now, I am going back to the debates - To watch both of these guys not answer the questions. . .
The Senator from Arizona has taken a stance which will cost this nation hundreds of millions of dollars within days of his potential inauguration
As I think back to my wife and I, when we sold our home near Philadelphia, we sold at a premium based on market demand. We sold to a young couple who were just starting out, and who took out a 100% mortgage on the property. Now, Amy and I knew at the time, that their collective income was no more than $50,000 per year, and that their mortgage payments would be somewhere in the neighborhood of $2,500 per month. Now, I am no mathematician, but I am certain that at this rate, with normal taxes and normal expenses, this couple would not be eating for the next thirty years. And they had their friend and mortgage broker to thank for it.
Senator McCain proposed this evening that couples like this would be bailed out by the federal government so that they could keep their home and get it at a discounted rate. Great plan, but let's look at what could happen.
The property was sold for $312,000 three years ago, with a 100% mortgage. Let's assume that this property now has a fair market value based on comparable properties and the tax assessor, of $250,000. The Senator proposed tonight that the federal government buys out the mortgage, at 312, and re-issues it for $250,000, the remaining balance (or something near that. Remember that the capital on many mortgages is relatively unaffected until year 5 or later on a 30 year mortgage.) So, the buyer of my old house now has a $62,000 gift from the federal government. Further, let's assume something else. Let's pretend that this bailout saves the economy. Huzzah! Now this property is worth 312 again. Or more. Does this couple repay this gift? Of course not. Let's pretend again that in ten years the property is worth $400,000. The couple now walks away with $150,000 from the party, thanks to our government. This is a blatant purchase of the vote.
Now, let's look at those this effects. This impacts people who bought homes, who simply could not afford it, and rather than wait or find a cheaper property, or have a commute longer than 30 minutes. Tough. Read my article on economic darwinism.
However, let's look at others who are in less dire straits. Let's assume you have a couple in Philadelphia who bought a $900,000 home 7 years ago. Let's assume they mortgaged it for 100%. Four years later, the property is worth $1MM and they refinance the mortgage for $990k to add a pool to the back. Nice place. I wish I lived there. Now the market tanks two years later, and their property is worth $700k. Do they get the benefit? What if the owner lost their job? What if they make $1MM per year? Does it matter? Probably not under the McCain plan. . .
Now, I am going back to the debates - To watch both of these guys not answer the questions. . .
The Senator from Arizona has taken a stance which will cost this nation hundreds of millions of dollars within days of his potential inauguration
Community Service
When I was around 12, still idealistic, and hopeful that there was redemption for a soul I knew I would surely torture, I volunteered through my school to work with local community institutions. I went to what we today call an "elder care facility", but back then we called it a retirement community. I sat with older people and watched soap operas, and kept them company while their own children squandered their future inheritance on novelties like the personal computer (this was 1982 afterall.).
I then worked for a home for what we now call "special needs" children, who were really truly and completely without an ability to do anything for themselves. These are for lack of a better term the "worst of the worst" of mentally retarded. Disadvantaged or disabled barely scratched the surface. I don't mean to be harsh; I just want to paint a real picture here. The people who worked for the center full time were the noblest of the noble.
During these formative years I realized the importance of service to the greater good. Don't get me wrong. There is nothing heroic about what I did - I pulled my share - but it taught me that no matter how tough life can be, there is always time to give a little back, and that someone always has it tougher than you. However, we today have a generation which appears to be somewhat directionless. I remember on September 12, 2001 a college student from my alma mater, Temple University, was interviewed. His comment (paraphrased slightly) was 'it was horrible, but I don't know if it is worth dying for.' At that moment in time, the one galvanizing event of our generation was wiped away, like dust in an eye for many. The more mature of our population cried. We got angry. We saw people join the Army and Marine Corps, leaving jobs paying hundreds of thousands to live below the poverty level, but the masses remained behind thinking that its bad, but not enough to interfere with their lifes. I mean, 3,000 bankers, businessmen and lawyers? Well, they were rich, right? Not worth dying for. Oh brother, what a message.
Our current populace en masse between the ages of 17 and 50 have never really had a common cause to unite a nation. World War II galvanized a nation to action. Sacrifice. Loss. Victory. We saw people sacrifice sugar for their cakes at home, so our soldiers overseas could have sugar in their coffee. We saw people forego the purchase of a new automobile so that our soldiers could ride in the protection of the Sherman tank. We had an enemy who needed to be dethroned, and we did it. Victory. Unification.
Today, more than 60 years later, as the last World War II warriors take their place in Valhalla, we have a new generation of Americans, forged in the history of Vietnam and Korea, where war was unpopular because we lacked a unifying cause. We have a generation where the gap between the haves and have nots have grown exponentially, and where many of the haves have chosen to move from public service into the private sector. And in turn we have a nation where the military is at war and many of the remainder are on vacation.
7,000 miles from the United States, we have over 160,000 servicemen and women standing in harms way, and no one here is giving up their sugar for them. Where people can still buy the HUMMER H2 and fuel it on the back of these people and pay homage to them with an occasional magnet or flag sticker. They ask for little in return, and the people of our nation has been great at giving them very little. So I propose a plan to pay them homage.
I submit that Community Service is the road to unifying our nation. When I failed out of college and had to join the Army to pay for school, I learned the true value of an education. I believe that when something is earned, something is truly gained. If I had to earn my right to vote at 18, then I would take it more seriously. If I lost my citizenship because I simply existed here, I would do more than just exist. Unfortunately again, this generation of residents has yet to earn its citizenship. Robert Heinlein, the sci-fi author who was the impetus behind "Starship Troopers" imagines a society where service equals citizenship, and this is an idea whose principles need to be embraced.
I am not suggesting that the only form of service is military - quite the opposite. The draft is a failed idea of a time of desperation. While we should encourage military service, it should no more or less required than participating in non-military service to the nation. Conscription of civilians into military service is a horrible idea which results in lower acceptance standards, high risk on the front lines and an overall reduction in discipline.
Instead, I would think that for the vast majority of residents, citizenship is retained through services to the greater good. Work for a non-profit? The service counts. Work for a non-profit that preaches anger, hate and violence? Sadly, while I would try to dissuade you from this path, the service counts. Work on a campaign for state senator? Counts. Pick up trash on a weekend? Peace Corps? USAID work? Time in El Salvador, teaching english to spanish speakers? Still good. Play video games on Saturday until your thumbs are sore? Sorry, here's your one-way ticket to Mexico City.
We have come a long way since June of 1944. Many would point to our technical advances, our strong position in foreign affairs and our historically strong economic markets and say that we as a nation have advanced. However, I would submit that if I compare the average 22 year old male of today against that of 64 years ago today, I would suggest that we have devolved from where we should have been with 60 years of "advancement". When you don't have to work for your rights, you lose the appreciation for them. And eventually you will lose them entirely. While our best Americans serve around the world in many of these military and non-military roles, our majority remains secure behind the service these men and women provide and a little shake up would help us get together again, before someone seizes our rights to freedom entirely.
I then worked for a home for what we now call "special needs" children, who were really truly and completely without an ability to do anything for themselves. These are for lack of a better term the "worst of the worst" of mentally retarded. Disadvantaged or disabled barely scratched the surface. I don't mean to be harsh; I just want to paint a real picture here. The people who worked for the center full time were the noblest of the noble.
During these formative years I realized the importance of service to the greater good. Don't get me wrong. There is nothing heroic about what I did - I pulled my share - but it taught me that no matter how tough life can be, there is always time to give a little back, and that someone always has it tougher than you. However, we today have a generation which appears to be somewhat directionless. I remember on September 12, 2001 a college student from my alma mater, Temple University, was interviewed. His comment (paraphrased slightly) was 'it was horrible, but I don't know if it is worth dying for.' At that moment in time, the one galvanizing event of our generation was wiped away, like dust in an eye for many. The more mature of our population cried. We got angry. We saw people join the Army and Marine Corps, leaving jobs paying hundreds of thousands to live below the poverty level, but the masses remained behind thinking that its bad, but not enough to interfere with their lifes. I mean, 3,000 bankers, businessmen and lawyers? Well, they were rich, right? Not worth dying for. Oh brother, what a message.
Our current populace en masse between the ages of 17 and 50 have never really had a common cause to unite a nation. World War II galvanized a nation to action. Sacrifice. Loss. Victory. We saw people sacrifice sugar for their cakes at home, so our soldiers overseas could have sugar in their coffee. We saw people forego the purchase of a new automobile so that our soldiers could ride in the protection of the Sherman tank. We had an enemy who needed to be dethroned, and we did it. Victory. Unification.
Today, more than 60 years later, as the last World War II warriors take their place in Valhalla, we have a new generation of Americans, forged in the history of Vietnam and Korea, where war was unpopular because we lacked a unifying cause. We have a generation where the gap between the haves and have nots have grown exponentially, and where many of the haves have chosen to move from public service into the private sector. And in turn we have a nation where the military is at war and many of the remainder are on vacation.
7,000 miles from the United States, we have over 160,000 servicemen and women standing in harms way, and no one here is giving up their sugar for them. Where people can still buy the HUMMER H2 and fuel it on the back of these people and pay homage to them with an occasional magnet or flag sticker. They ask for little in return, and the people of our nation has been great at giving them very little. So I propose a plan to pay them homage.
I submit that Community Service is the road to unifying our nation. When I failed out of college and had to join the Army to pay for school, I learned the true value of an education. I believe that when something is earned, something is truly gained. If I had to earn my right to vote at 18, then I would take it more seriously. If I lost my citizenship because I simply existed here, I would do more than just exist. Unfortunately again, this generation of residents has yet to earn its citizenship. Robert Heinlein, the sci-fi author who was the impetus behind "Starship Troopers" imagines a society where service equals citizenship, and this is an idea whose principles need to be embraced.
I am not suggesting that the only form of service is military - quite the opposite. The draft is a failed idea of a time of desperation. While we should encourage military service, it should no more or less required than participating in non-military service to the nation. Conscription of civilians into military service is a horrible idea which results in lower acceptance standards, high risk on the front lines and an overall reduction in discipline.
Instead, I would think that for the vast majority of residents, citizenship is retained through services to the greater good. Work for a non-profit? The service counts. Work for a non-profit that preaches anger, hate and violence? Sadly, while I would try to dissuade you from this path, the service counts. Work on a campaign for state senator? Counts. Pick up trash on a weekend? Peace Corps? USAID work? Time in El Salvador, teaching english to spanish speakers? Still good. Play video games on Saturday until your thumbs are sore? Sorry, here's your one-way ticket to Mexico City.
We have come a long way since June of 1944. Many would point to our technical advances, our strong position in foreign affairs and our historically strong economic markets and say that we as a nation have advanced. However, I would submit that if I compare the average 22 year old male of today against that of 64 years ago today, I would suggest that we have devolved from where we should have been with 60 years of "advancement". When you don't have to work for your rights, you lose the appreciation for them. And eventually you will lose them entirely. While our best Americans serve around the world in many of these military and non-military roles, our majority remains secure behind the service these men and women provide and a little shake up would help us get together again, before someone seizes our rights to freedom entirely.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Flying Sleepless from Seattle.
I originally posted this to Craigslist in Rants and Raves, and didn't want to lose this nugget.
To the middle seat airline passenger from Canada who shared a 3 hour and 30 minute ride from Seattle to Houston as I made my way to Philadelphia. I want to thank you. You made my trip notable, even though it was miserable. I can't wait to get back to my new home town Raleigh
First, when you sat down and started chatting, I understand. We’re going to share a few hours together. You regaled me of international Latin American travels. Stories of great living in Canada and discussed US politics. Not horrible. When you started describing your work and told me of the 30-40 million dollar properties your clients buy through you, my bullshit flags triggered off, and I began to zone out. You sell to the Canadian elite, and you are here in coach with me. Nice play, Trump.
However, when we passed 10,000 feet and you opened your laptop, to show me your modern day equivalent of family trip slide shows (without your family within), I pretty much realized I would not be sleeping. As you browsed through which image collections in your 10 year old bootleg copy of Photoshop Elements, I worried the show would never begin, and therefore never, ever end. But then you opened the “People” folder, and I was greeted with images of a nude, overweight woman perhaps in her 50’s or 60’s at which point my own manhood leapt up in to my abdomen. Her bloated belly, floppy tits and beaten posture were enough to make me want to start an investment portfolio designed to keep my wife in plastic surgery for the next 30 years. When I finally see my wife on Sunday, rest assured sex won’t come into play thanks to those horrid images of what gravity does to the body. I suspect the next time I see an erection we will have either an African American or woman president. I know, your photography makes you an “artist”. And my sense of decorum and personal space makes me a human with decorum and personal space. You should focus on these latter traits and let people with talent be artists. I just pray that isn’t your wife, or I will never erase this disturbing piece of my personal history from my memory.
But the second strike was when you played an audio track of some tribal music as you showed me your third rate imagery on a legacy laptop which was built sometime around the time the B-52s were popular, and microprocessors could do amazing things like add integers. The music sounded great over the deafening roar of turbine engines and babies crying. Yes, you told me about the amazing photo gear you have in your cool carry-on bag. And just like my amazing golf clubs don’t make me a decent golfer, clearly your equipment has outclassed you. The difference is that I don't make people watch me suck at golf. Great random pictures of seaside towns in Latin America. Got it. I am sitting next to Magellan. You discover people of color that no one has seen before. Oh wait, that kid in the photo is wearing a Phillies jersey. Some f*&$ing discovery, Ponce DeLeon. It was great when the lesbian couple turned around, with that annoyed look that you deftly ignored. When I asked you to turn down the music, to help assuage their pain, you simply pretended not to hear. It wasn’t until I told you I needed some rest that the show ended and the next phase of my indoctrination into hell began.
But then swing number three and you tip the ball, so I don’t want to kill you yet (out of sheer bewilderment. Like a car accident I am prevented from looking away). You try to describe to me what is happening in the photos. But surprise, I am not pretending not to hear you. The god damned engines we sit above drown you out, so while you attempt to describe the scenery and how you took these Ansel Adams-like masterpieces, your non-audible drone simply added to the din, and now, all I want to do is turn on my Zune and ignore you. Christ, why didn’t the skinny, hot co-ed get the damned E seat and stuck you against the window. Karma sucks. I never killed an innocent, never kicked a kitty and all of my impure thoughts remain in my head, so why do I get punished. I am not saying anything would happen. Quite the opposite – Like all 20 something hotties, they simply don’t talk to me – or touch me – and I would get the needed sleep. Everyone wins. At least me.
But my favorite part comes after you doze off into the slumber which now escapes me. Flying Continental Airlines the seats are already small, like some form of torture designed to create body odor and uncomfortable situations. But somehow you were able to infringe into my personal space so far (as well as to the pretty college girl sitting in the window seat) Your elbow rested comfortably on my love handles and allowed you to sleep deeply, while my disdain for the touch of total strangers kept me from sleeping, let alone sitting with any reasonable comfort. Sure, I understand you are in the middle seat, and therefore, I will give you the arm rest. That's fair. However, jerkoff, it is for your elbow, and not your wrist. Take your elbow and shove it.
So instead of sleeping, I am writing this pseudo-personal fuck you to the internet for all to read. However, I will say you aren’t entirely to blame. The woman in front of me is easily six foot six and 250. Her tryout with the Dallas Cowboys is tomorrow, and she clearly needs her sleep. Every time she does her grizzly bear stretch, she crushes my laptop closed on my fingers. It is amazing, because I can hear the frame of the chair bend with every yawn. Her pitiful chair creaks like an aluminum garden chair from my aunt's 1970's collection of cheap, crappy chairs. (the kind that gave you tetanus.)
I really miss Southwest airlines.
Sleepless flying from Seattle.
To the middle seat airline passenger from Canada who shared a 3 hour and 30 minute ride from Seattle to Houston as I made my way to Philadelphia. I want to thank you. You made my trip notable, even though it was miserable. I can't wait to get back to my new home town Raleigh
First, when you sat down and started chatting, I understand. We’re going to share a few hours together. You regaled me of international Latin American travels. Stories of great living in Canada and discussed US politics. Not horrible. When you started describing your work and told me of the 30-40 million dollar properties your clients buy through you, my bullshit flags triggered off, and I began to zone out. You sell to the Canadian elite, and you are here in coach with me. Nice play, Trump.
However, when we passed 10,000 feet and you opened your laptop, to show me your modern day equivalent of family trip slide shows (without your family within), I pretty much realized I would not be sleeping. As you browsed through which image collections in your 10 year old bootleg copy of Photoshop Elements, I worried the show would never begin, and therefore never, ever end. But then you opened the “People” folder, and I was greeted with images of a nude, overweight woman perhaps in her 50’s or 60’s at which point my own manhood leapt up in to my abdomen. Her bloated belly, floppy tits and beaten posture were enough to make me want to start an investment portfolio designed to keep my wife in plastic surgery for the next 30 years. When I finally see my wife on Sunday, rest assured sex won’t come into play thanks to those horrid images of what gravity does to the body. I suspect the next time I see an erection we will have either an African American or woman president. I know, your photography makes you an “artist”. And my sense of decorum and personal space makes me a human with decorum and personal space. You should focus on these latter traits and let people with talent be artists. I just pray that isn’t your wife, or I will never erase this disturbing piece of my personal history from my memory.
But the second strike was when you played an audio track of some tribal music as you showed me your third rate imagery on a legacy laptop which was built sometime around the time the B-52s were popular, and microprocessors could do amazing things like add integers. The music sounded great over the deafening roar of turbine engines and babies crying. Yes, you told me about the amazing photo gear you have in your cool carry-on bag. And just like my amazing golf clubs don’t make me a decent golfer, clearly your equipment has outclassed you. The difference is that I don't make people watch me suck at golf. Great random pictures of seaside towns in Latin America. Got it. I am sitting next to Magellan. You discover people of color that no one has seen before. Oh wait, that kid in the photo is wearing a Phillies jersey. Some f*&$ing discovery, Ponce DeLeon. It was great when the lesbian couple turned around, with that annoyed look that you deftly ignored. When I asked you to turn down the music, to help assuage their pain, you simply pretended not to hear. It wasn’t until I told you I needed some rest that the show ended and the next phase of my indoctrination into hell began.
But then swing number three and you tip the ball, so I don’t want to kill you yet (out of sheer bewilderment. Like a car accident I am prevented from looking away). You try to describe to me what is happening in the photos. But surprise, I am not pretending not to hear you. The god damned engines we sit above drown you out, so while you attempt to describe the scenery and how you took these Ansel Adams-like masterpieces, your non-audible drone simply added to the din, and now, all I want to do is turn on my Zune and ignore you. Christ, why didn’t the skinny, hot co-ed get the damned E seat and stuck you against the window. Karma sucks. I never killed an innocent, never kicked a kitty and all of my impure thoughts remain in my head, so why do I get punished. I am not saying anything would happen. Quite the opposite – Like all 20 something hotties, they simply don’t talk to me – or touch me – and I would get the needed sleep. Everyone wins. At least me.
But my favorite part comes after you doze off into the slumber which now escapes me. Flying Continental Airlines the seats are already small, like some form of torture designed to create body odor and uncomfortable situations. But somehow you were able to infringe into my personal space so far (as well as to the pretty college girl sitting in the window seat) Your elbow rested comfortably on my love handles and allowed you to sleep deeply, while my disdain for the touch of total strangers kept me from sleeping, let alone sitting with any reasonable comfort. Sure, I understand you are in the middle seat, and therefore, I will give you the arm rest. That's fair. However, jerkoff, it is for your elbow, and not your wrist. Take your elbow and shove it.
So instead of sleeping, I am writing this pseudo-personal fuck you to the internet for all to read. However, I will say you aren’t entirely to blame. The woman in front of me is easily six foot six and 250. Her tryout with the Dallas Cowboys is tomorrow, and she clearly needs her sleep. Every time she does her grizzly bear stretch, she crushes my laptop closed on my fingers. It is amazing, because I can hear the frame of the chair bend with every yawn. Her pitiful chair creaks like an aluminum garden chair from my aunt's 1970's collection of cheap, crappy chairs. (the kind that gave you tetanus.)
I really miss Southwest airlines.
Sleepless flying from Seattle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)