So, while lately, I have only posted segments of my life told during a more dull time in my life, the news of late demands my return to the work of writing to no one (or at least to the two people who have honored me by reading the content of these pages.)
In watching this past election, I realized this year more than ever, the two party system failed again to adequately represent the populous. This year the core business issues - the economy, health care, the little heard of war which consumes the lives of hundreds of thousands, gay marriage, immigration - were overshadowed by the politics of race, age, gender, and other issues which we as a people say we are past - until our arrival in the confines of the voting booth.
The masses voted in record numbers, many voting on the latter criteria, and relatively few voting because they believed that the winner policies would work. However the question remains - who do I vote for?
Let's look at the policies and beliefs of the candidate and examine their ideologies against my own - and ask yourself where do you vote?
Economy - Take away the benefits to the large corporations and let the banks suffer who wrote the bad debt. Let the nation have 5 years of suffering in exchange for not charging me for the mistakes made by both the borrower and lender. I know there will be a ripple effect and it will impact me. However, it will impact my son and I if we bail out the failures, and it will teach millions a bad lesson - if you fail, the government will bail you out. This is a fiction and I certainly didn't read this in the constitution.
Healthcare - Nationally available health insurance issued by non-profit organizations who incentivize healthy living, but still support those in need. I know this is a pipe dream, but similar to GEICO auto insurance, if enough people are members, everyone's rates decline. Further, if you don't have $35MM salaries for those at the top and an investor base to be reporting to, you can keep rates lower and pay for those who need the care.
The War - Let's face it, no one is withdrawing this year. We will be there for 3-4 more if we want to leave Iraq better than we found it. (Oh by the way, no one was mentioning Afghanistan - That war must be ok on its own.) We need a serious and reasonable plan which may have a 10 year duration, but McCain (100 years) and Obama (next week) have crappy plans. Get some big brain guys in a room and come up with a plan and milestones.
Gay Marriage - It is a state's rights issue for sure, as both candidates spoke about. The federal government has a need to stay out of this. Licensing is handled at the local level, so I understand that the candidates could push this down. However, let's be realistic. Marriage is a bond between two people. Frankly, I don't understand this bond between two men, but I know a few gay people and honestly, their relationships are often better than many heterosexual couples. Let's call it a day and endorse it from the federal level. If they want to be miserably bound for eternity, then give them the "Marriage License" as it says on my license issued by the city of Philadelphia (Ha! It is not a religious institution as the candidate framed it making it reasonable to push it to civil unions in lieu of marriage.)
Immigration - Make this country back to what it was - If you come here, work hard, care for your family, and learn English, then I welcome you. But bring value. And when you do, you get the green card and citizenship. And when you do, I will find one person who has been on welfare for a decade and ship them back to where their geneology says they are from.
So, with that being said, I am for small government, some social assistance, reasonably open borders and I even align with Pelosi on the gay rights thing, so long as she stays away from my firearms. So where do I vote?
Instead, I listen to the many Americans who voted. Many voted republican, despite being in the lower or disadvantaged class, not because of the candidate, but rather because they believe in the pundits. Limbaugh, Hannity, you have destroyed critical thought. Instead, white males who bitch about welfare and social programs and "the gays" think you are right. Ironic given that they make less than $150,000 and will see less financial benefits under a republican administration. On the other hand 94% of the black populace voted for Obama. Why? Well, I am certain than many took the vote as a matter of advancement. I watched Oprah cry for Obama and then comment later about the pride of her ancestry at this moment. However, on the issues, she was fairly quiet.
Now truthfully, there was no scientific poll in the development. I should also say that I voted for Obama as well, because I did more closely align with his policies, and I was deathly afraid of McCain's less than liberal running mate. However, for those of us who think critically, where was our true choice?
The concept of a real third party needs advancement. For too long, people who believe in:
- small government,
- pro-choice,
- pro-death penalty,
- pro-gay rights,
- pro-national healthcare reform,
- pro-alternative energy
- pro-defense
- pro-fair tax
- term limits for all
have been overlooked. People who want straight talk - not the McCain version, but real straight talk which doesn't involve calling the opposition names or spouting half truths. We need a catchy name, an understanding of the needs of the people, and a realization that our nation has lost some of its lustre in the eyes of the world and in the eyes of many of its people. And that at the end of the day, if we won't repair it, someone else will. And then we will have failed.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
My war story -
So this isn't the scariest war story ever written, but I still think back and laugh about the time I almost shot a guy who was so old and beaten he was already dead. . .
Well, some time has passed since my last de-briefing and I thought this might be the time to write. Emotions are running high around the nation and around the camp today. We are having a flag raising ceremony for soldiers today so that they can raise a personal American flag over the compound here in Bosnia, which they serve and protect. There is also a service today of remembrance for the US personnel here. (It is a canned service distributed to the Chaplains of the Army in Europe, but it will be my first religious service, which I actually wanted to attend since I was 8 years old.) It is at 1430 local time, which is 8:30 NYC time.
It’s pretty remarkable that a year has passed. While my family is inundated with news reports and increased threat levels, and the country moves faster towards war, my knowledge of the world back home is limited to cnn.com and snippets on CNN television. I actually like being limited in my news intake, as I tend to think that the modern media has taken a tragedy and made it still worse by whoring out footage that has been viewed a countless number of times.
While we tend to look back on that day with remorse, as we should, I hope that we remember the progress and unification since then. People in general became more united around our common interests, and for a while at least everyone was a little friendlier. Hopefully we can take that lesson and move on without requiring a repeat of that morning.
The event struck everyone differently.
Changing topics. Thirty years ago, US soldiers walked through villages looking for weapons caches in Southeastern Asia. They tread lightly fearing booby traps, considered everyone a risk, and oftentimes found nothing. Yesterday, I saw the European version of the same.
We received a report of a weapons cache near a farm, from a nearby resident. We drove two and a half hours to a town near the farm, where we met our information provider. (Informant). The most risky thing to date has been the other local drivers. Wrong side of the road, passing on the shoulder, and oncoming collisions are among the greatest dangers, not to mention the mines on the sides of the road, left by farmers, as they find them in there fields.
Once we arrived, we met our Finnish, Polish and Latvian counterparts. They seem like US troops, only a little more insane. I hopped into their roofless-trucks (Think my jeep wrangler, on steroids), and the three truckloads bounced down a goat path to the location of the “weapons cache”. On the route, the Lieutenant in charge, a poster boy for the Finnish Army, stern jaw, ruddy complexion and shoulders capable of carrying more than a pack mule, calls his follow-on trucks on the radio. "If anything happens, be prepared to back up really fast". I hear this, and realize that he is the Explosive Ordinance Disposal guy. The bomb squad guy, who is just a little too high on adrenaline.
We arrive at the farm, and begin working on the owner. The farmer is over 80, and his wife is too. The lead a tough live, with one pig, two chickens and a dog, farming a small plot of land by hand, growing enough food to survive on.
However, the farmer is not shaken. This man has seen enough soldiers in his 80 years, to know that we will not be the last, and some, like the local militia who are hiding the cache, have more lenient rules of engagement. He denies any knowledge of weapons in his area.
So we search. Not like the Vietnam style of searching. We are more cautious, but also more respectful. We walk around his land, and we walk through his buildings. We walk and we walk. The informant has told us that the weapons were there, but had been recently moved to within 800 meters of the farm. An 800-meter circle is a lot of ground to cover, when you can't leave the roads. (Mines).
Once we got about 1000 meters away, the rain started. Hail, the size of bullets, fell, and the rain swept sideways. The temperature dropped 15 degrees in 1.5 minutes, and I have only been this saturated in the combat water skills survival test, when they throw you into the pool. (The Army calls it drownproofing; I called it being wet with your clothes on.)
On our return from our walk around the farm, we found one disposable rocket of Soviet make in one of the many outbuildings,. They call it disposable, because once it is shot, like a Kodak disposable camera, you throw it away. Unlike the camera, the thing you shoot the rocket at becomes a cloud of fire and pink mist. This is the red herring, designed to make us leave and not come back.
So now, I am soaking wet, freezing cold, and we have found only a needle in the haystack, when looking for the sewing kit. I am loving the job, but I could see how the soldiers in Southeast Asia, grew angry, being lied to, powerless to affect change, and knowing that their job was as much a part of helping protect innocent civilians as it was to protect themselves. In short, the elder was lying. There was more there, but we'll never know now.
He invited us in for coffee, which we have to accept (I declined), and we came into the house, if for nothing else, just to warm the frostbitten pieces. (Of course, we have no rain gear with us, and no gloves (It was nice outside when we left. . . (See Blackhawk Down, by Mark Bowdon for lessons learned the hard way))
Then we left, or tried to. The goat path we came in on, had more hills than all of Great Adventure’s roller coasters. And they were now all covered in mud. I hopped into the open topped truck, as the hail pelted my Russian (Latvian) driver and I. We began our trek, but were stopped 10 feet into it, when the Finnish lieutenant slid off of the road, into a cornfield. (Note - The Finnish Lieutenant has the rocket on the roof of his truck, for um, safety.) My driver spins our truck and tried easing into a ditch. He started easing, but easing became sliding too.
Next thing I know, I am in a truck with no roof, and no seat belt and the left side began lifting. We settle to a stop, without rolling, by the forces, of God, gravity or just plain fate. He juices the truck out of the ditch, and I bail out.
I can’t bail out because I don’t want to be perceived as the scared American, no matter how scary it seemed.
He maneuvers this thing like a child’s Tonka toy truck, and tows the other truck out. And now the adventure begins. We lead the escort out of this valley, bouncing down the mud covered goat trail, as the hail pelts us and the driving rain blinds us. I am laughing my ass off, as a fear has been displaced by resignation, and the kid next to me, who only speaks key words in English – mainly profanities and “ouch” - has regained the color in his face which he lost during the near rollover. I drain my sleeves every few minutes as the water collects in my shirt, and we finally get back to the road where my patrol was waiting. Dry. The weather, 1000 meters away had been light misty rain, and some lightening in the distance.
That's what I was doing one day before the one year anniversary of September 11. Jumping out of planes is probably as thrilling, but at least you know what can kill you. Rolling into a suspected arms cache, down a road, which is not cleared of mines, with lunatics, and returning in a mudslide, gives you too many ways to die. This is the ultimate adventure seekers trip. Now, someone please call Amy and let her know it’s not that risky.
And all for one rocket.
Well, some time has passed since my last de-briefing and I thought this might be the time to write. Emotions are running high around the nation and around the camp today. We are having a flag raising ceremony for soldiers today so that they can raise a personal American flag over the compound here in Bosnia, which they serve and protect. There is also a service today of remembrance for the US personnel here. (It is a canned service distributed to the Chaplains of the Army in Europe, but it will be my first religious service, which I actually wanted to attend since I was 8 years old.) It is at 1430 local time, which is 8:30 NYC time.
It’s pretty remarkable that a year has passed. While my family is inundated with news reports and increased threat levels, and the country moves faster towards war, my knowledge of the world back home is limited to cnn.com and snippets on CNN television. I actually like being limited in my news intake, as I tend to think that the modern media has taken a tragedy and made it still worse by whoring out footage that has been viewed a countless number of times.
While we tend to look back on that day with remorse, as we should, I hope that we remember the progress and unification since then. People in general became more united around our common interests, and for a while at least everyone was a little friendlier. Hopefully we can take that lesson and move on without requiring a repeat of that morning.
The event struck everyone differently.
Changing topics. Thirty years ago, US soldiers walked through villages looking for weapons caches in Southeastern Asia. They tread lightly fearing booby traps, considered everyone a risk, and oftentimes found nothing. Yesterday, I saw the European version of the same.
We received a report of a weapons cache near a farm, from a nearby resident. We drove two and a half hours to a town near the farm, where we met our information provider. (Informant). The most risky thing to date has been the other local drivers. Wrong side of the road, passing on the shoulder, and oncoming collisions are among the greatest dangers, not to mention the mines on the sides of the road, left by farmers, as they find them in there fields.
Once we arrived, we met our Finnish, Polish and Latvian counterparts. They seem like US troops, only a little more insane. I hopped into their roofless-trucks (Think my jeep wrangler, on steroids), and the three truckloads bounced down a goat path to the location of the “weapons cache”. On the route, the Lieutenant in charge, a poster boy for the Finnish Army, stern jaw, ruddy complexion and shoulders capable of carrying more than a pack mule, calls his follow-on trucks on the radio. "If anything happens, be prepared to back up really fast". I hear this, and realize that he is the Explosive Ordinance Disposal guy. The bomb squad guy, who is just a little too high on adrenaline.
We arrive at the farm, and begin working on the owner. The farmer is over 80, and his wife is too. The lead a tough live, with one pig, two chickens and a dog, farming a small plot of land by hand, growing enough food to survive on.
However, the farmer is not shaken. This man has seen enough soldiers in his 80 years, to know that we will not be the last, and some, like the local militia who are hiding the cache, have more lenient rules of engagement. He denies any knowledge of weapons in his area.
So we search. Not like the Vietnam style of searching. We are more cautious, but also more respectful. We walk around his land, and we walk through his buildings. We walk and we walk. The informant has told us that the weapons were there, but had been recently moved to within 800 meters of the farm. An 800-meter circle is a lot of ground to cover, when you can't leave the roads. (Mines).
Once we got about 1000 meters away, the rain started. Hail, the size of bullets, fell, and the rain swept sideways. The temperature dropped 15 degrees in 1.5 minutes, and I have only been this saturated in the combat water skills survival test, when they throw you into the pool. (The Army calls it drownproofing; I called it being wet with your clothes on.)
On our return from our walk around the farm, we found one disposable rocket of Soviet make in one of the many outbuildings,. They call it disposable, because once it is shot, like a Kodak disposable camera, you throw it away. Unlike the camera, the thing you shoot the rocket at becomes a cloud of fire and pink mist. This is the red herring, designed to make us leave and not come back.
So now, I am soaking wet, freezing cold, and we have found only a needle in the haystack, when looking for the sewing kit. I am loving the job, but I could see how the soldiers in Southeast Asia, grew angry, being lied to, powerless to affect change, and knowing that their job was as much a part of helping protect innocent civilians as it was to protect themselves. In short, the elder was lying. There was more there, but we'll never know now.
He invited us in for coffee, which we have to accept (I declined), and we came into the house, if for nothing else, just to warm the frostbitten pieces. (Of course, we have no rain gear with us, and no gloves (It was nice outside when we left. . . (See Blackhawk Down, by Mark Bowdon for lessons learned the hard way))
Then we left, or tried to. The goat path we came in on, had more hills than all of Great Adventure’s roller coasters. And they were now all covered in mud. I hopped into the open topped truck, as the hail pelted my Russian (Latvian) driver and I. We began our trek, but were stopped 10 feet into it, when the Finnish lieutenant slid off of the road, into a cornfield. (Note - The Finnish Lieutenant has the rocket on the roof of his truck, for um, safety.) My driver spins our truck and tried easing into a ditch. He started easing, but easing became sliding too.
Next thing I know, I am in a truck with no roof, and no seat belt and the left side began lifting. We settle to a stop, without rolling, by the forces, of God, gravity or just plain fate. He juices the truck out of the ditch, and I bail out.
I can’t bail out because I don’t want to be perceived as the scared American, no matter how scary it seemed.
He maneuvers this thing like a child’s Tonka toy truck, and tows the other truck out. And now the adventure begins. We lead the escort out of this valley, bouncing down the mud covered goat trail, as the hail pelts us and the driving rain blinds us. I am laughing my ass off, as a fear has been displaced by resignation, and the kid next to me, who only speaks key words in English – mainly profanities and “ouch” - has regained the color in his face which he lost during the near rollover. I drain my sleeves every few minutes as the water collects in my shirt, and we finally get back to the road where my patrol was waiting. Dry. The weather, 1000 meters away had been light misty rain, and some lightening in the distance.
That's what I was doing one day before the one year anniversary of September 11. Jumping out of planes is probably as thrilling, but at least you know what can kill you. Rolling into a suspected arms cache, down a road, which is not cleared of mines, with lunatics, and returning in a mudslide, gives you too many ways to die. This is the ultimate adventure seekers trip. Now, someone please call Amy and let her know it’s not that risky.
And all for one rocket.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Off to Germany
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. . .
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. . .
“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
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