Leprechauns, Unicorns, and Liberal Support for the Troops

Well, here I am. I made it through my first week in what must be the hottest place on Earth. It’s about a zillion degrees here in the Persian Gulf and I think we must be about 10 miles from the sun. We flew over on a charter flight from Oklahoma City and our first stop was Portsmouth, N.H. where we were met by the VFW and other local supporters. I know that there are people out there who support us and believe in what we’re doing, but it sure is good to see it in person sometimes. I get so sick of hearing the squeaky wheels that constantly criticize the war and say we need to bring “our troops” home immediately. The fact is, they only care about military members insofar that we’re a useful prop for their Bush-hating agenda. They practically gloat as the death toll rises—more proof of Bush’s so-called failed foreign policy. I’m really into jewelry-making and there’s a bead shop back home that I love, but I’ve quit going there. The guy that works there always wants to discuss how much he hates George Bush, the war, and Republicans every time I come in the store, but he supports the troops! Sure he does and he’s always polite to my face. Then I came in one Saturday when the owner happened to be there and she asked me, “Do you know about our military discount?”

I told her no I didn’t, but thank you. I saw the Bush-hater in the background purse his lips and look away as she told me about the discount. Where is that oh-so elusive liberal support for the troops? In reality this guy is just like the rest of the anti-military crowd. He thinks we’re all too stupid, uneducated, and poor to get better jobs.

We didn’t get the same welcome when we stopped in Bucharest. Not that we would expect it anyway, it’s a different country and they have no obligation to like us. It’s just that when we landed, they wouldn’t let us disembark. We could stand on the airplane steps—that is until somebody got the idea to stand on the bottom step and step one foot onto the tarmac. Instantly, the control tower barked at the crew to “get those people back on the plane”. I hope the air traffic controller remembers this when Putin starts to extend his clammy tentacles into Romania (and don’t think the SOB won’t try).

One thing I’m finding out is that if you’re going to war, it pays to be in the Air Force. It may not be heaven here, but I’m not getting shot at and I’m not exactly deprived. The only thing that really sucks so far is that I’m sharing a room with a perpetually pissed-off diva. Everything seems to set her off. Walking into the room while she’s asleep sets her off. Speaking to her sets her off.

There is a very tiny BX here as well. It sells only the most basic necessities and very little of what you’d actually want. However, when it’s all there is, I find myself eyeballing things I would never spend money on back home. Cheap, chintzy crap I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. The A/C here blows out ice chunks and it gets cold at night so I went looking for a blanket. I ended up with a Korean “mink” blanket with dolphins leaping across it. I bet you’d never see it in Martha Stewart’s house.

In addition to the gym, the giant pool, and free food 24/7, we have a Subway, Pizza Hut, and Baskin-Robbins. Plus, I won’t have to pay for gas for the rest of the year and I’m making money hand over fist. Without having to pay to fill up my car, I’ll be rich as Croesus by the time I leave here compared to before I came.

Please, Please Mr. Postman--Go Away-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay

I don't know why, but whenever the mailman comes by and I'm at home I feel compelled to hide. My sofa is right in front of the picture window and it sits about 20 feet from the mailbox on the porch. If I happen to be I'm in my living room (which I usually am) and the postman starts coming up the front walk, I suddenly remember that I may need to go to the bathroom or I that I really could use a can of pop. He delivers my mail, he leaves, I come out of the bathroom and get my mail. Today I happened to be sitting in my truck. My local postal carrier came up the walk and I tried to look occupied.

I know how absurd this is, but it must be genetic because my mom told me that my dad does the same thing. He hears the mail truck outside and hides behind the open door until it drives off. It annoys the hell out of my mom.

Maybe it's something subconscious. Mail is a personal kind of thing. You're not allowed to open it if it's not yours and you don't want people reading your letters. The mail carrier sees your magazines, the type of stuff you shop for, who your relatives are, and how many credit cards you have. It's a little like running into your gynecologist in the checkout line at the market. Here's a person, a virtual stranger, who's seen you naked and looked directly at your private parts. Yet here you are at Super Target, making unofficial eye contact knowing that this person could be formulating opinions about you based on the items in your cart, critically eyeballing the three pints of Ben and Jerry's and jalapeno poppers.

Of course it could be just a ridiculous personal hang-up.

Rebuilding the Empire One Pup tent at a Time

In order to "preserve his legacy" (read, advance his personality cult and his autocratic agenda), Vladamir Putin and the Kremlin have a youth group of 18-23 year olds called Nashi (Ours). Bear in mind, these kids were barely out of diapers when the Berlin Wall fell. This is the first generation with no real memory of communism.

Putin's goal is to establish democracy in Russia, independent of any outside assistance. He insists on looking to Russia's own democratic traditions. This is a beautiful idea in theory, but there's just one minor fly in the ointment--Russia has had no democratic traditions for over 500 years.

Nashi just finished with a two-week summer camp at the end of July. Here are a few of the more interesting shots from Reuters.

The top picture is my favourite. It pretty much says it all, doesn't it? This kid looks like he weighs about a buck fifty. He labours under the stern countenance of Vladamir Putin, finger wagging in disapproval. Here we have the mock Siberian labour camp experience, perhaps for the complainers and other assorted squeaky wheels in this two-week wilderness venture.
"Keep moving, Dmitri. You have 70 more bags of turnips to take to the chow hall and you STILL have to make borscht for all 800 people at the camp. Maybe next time you'll think before you speak. This is NOT a Brave New World--it is a SOVEREIGN DEMOCRACY, dammit. And don't you forget it."

Didn't we all do this at camp? I went to band camp for two summers in a row in Malcolm, NE. I played the flute (and to answer what you're undoubtedly thinking...NO! I didn't). In between band practice, watching Ferris Bueller's Day Off for the 87th time, and getting together to play another rousing rendition of Louie, Louie, we managed to work in enough free time to grab our AK-47s, dress up like U.N. peacekeepers, and kick each other's heads in. Now those were the days.

It just dawned on me that it's been twenty years since I've been at band camp. Back then, it didn't occur to me to do naughty things with my flute. It was 1987 and we were thirteen years old. We were too busy emptying cans of hairspray trying to get our bangs to a consistency that would stand up to wind, rain, or a nuclear holocaust.

Here we have the People's Democratic Inflatable Raft Regatta. Note the ubiquitousness of the colour RED.

Attack of the Hollyweirdos

Sean Penn just went on a grip and grin tour of Venezuela where he was praised to the skies by El Presidente Chavez for being a man of such great courage and standing against the so-called imperialist Bush administration.

Yes, Mr. Penn is the epitome of bravery. His badmouthing of America and the Bush administration to adoring foreign audiences continues unabated. Penn and the other Hollyweirdos would rather be king for a day in a foreign dictatorship than a hardworking citizen in his own free country. He does publicly what Venezuelans will soon only be doing behind closed doors in hushed whispers. Here is just one article with the fulsome, scurvy truth.

http://www.foxnews.com/wires/2007Aug02/0,4670,PeopleSeanPenn,00.html

And just in case you were wondering how religious freedoms might fare under El Presidente's watchful eye, here is another one for you.

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,290617,00.html?sPage=fnc.world/americas

Honduran cardinal Oscar Andres Rodriguez Maradiaga warned of increasing authoritarianism in Venezuela and was lambasted by Chavez as a "clown". Additionally, Chavez has called Roman Catholic critics in Venezuela "liars" and "perverts."

Don't you dare call him a dictator.


¡Mire A Mama! El emperador no tiene ninguna ropa.

The Revolution Will Not Be Criticized

Nobody better criticize El Presidente Hugo Chavez. Especially not on his own turf. He issued a declaration today regarding this after international visitors to Venezuela accused him of being a dictator.

"How long are we going to allow a person — from any country in the world — to come to our own house to say there's a dictatorship here, that the president is a tyrant, and nobody does anything about it?"

So, in order to make an example of those that would dare to criticize him, he'll just deport them. In order to prove to the world that he's not a dictator, he's going to expel from the country anybody who calls him a dictator. That'll show 'em.

Chavez despises imperialism, which is obviously why he's been accused of meddling in every major Latin American election over the last year. He only hates imperialism when he's not at the helm.

This is from the man who came to America's shore and called President Bush "the devil" and was condemned by Charlie Rangel (of all people).

The Screaming Craptop of Doom

I just bought a new HP laptop. I did this for two main reasons. 1) My desktop just died and the laptop isn't far behind. I've had both of them for six years now, which makes them about 257 years old in computer years. 2) I'm about to deploy and I'll be damned if I'm going to wait in line for 45 minutes to check my e-mail on the communal computers while some airman tools around on his MySpace account. I don't want to share and I don't want to feel guilty about surfing the net for something frivolous and stupid while a line of people wait to use the computer.

So I went to Best Buy the other day to look for a laptop. I took my old laptop to SOS and it sounded like it was going into orbit every time I turned it on. It even looks archaic. People would look at it and ask, "What is that?"

I was ashamed of the laptop. Everyone else was working on sleek, silent hyperspace laptops. Laptops that didn't threaten to explode when a Word document was opened. Meanwhile, I was using the bulky, Screaming Craptop of Doom. I may as well have been using a Commodore. I may as well have walked in with feathered bangs and leg warmers. That's when it dawned on me--I'm turning into my parents.

My parents don't jump on every new technological development the nanosecond it hits the shelf. My parents still have dial-up internet. They finally bought a push button phone while I was in college--in the mid '90s. Then my mom got nostalgic and bought another rotary phone last year. It's not that they're cheap (actually I should say it's not just that they're cheap). But if an item still works, why buy something new? Every car my family ever owned was on its last leg when we traded it in. We had a 1960-something mustard-coloured Toyota Corolla station wagon that we kept around until 1986. It had a lovely black vinyl interior that was suffocatingly hot in the summer and necessitated the use of towels if you wanted to wear shorts. It got really sporty if we took the dog anywhere with us. She would pant like an obscene phone caller while producing copious amounts of drool. In addition to the doggy smell that ensued, it made things very slippery.

I'm wondering if this is hereditary. It may explain why most of my cameras are no less than 40 years old. My house is 55 years old. I secretly wish I had a VW bus.

I guess I'm a bit of a Luddite, although I won't go so far as to live with dial-up. So, maybe I'm just a retro ho.

Hellcat

My parents have been cat-sitting for me while I was away over the last month. Oskar's usually a well-behaved host when I have people over--gracious, charming, and conversational. I think he gets sick of seeing just me and wants to see a new face.

At Mom and Dad's house, he usually doesn't have much to do with company. He already has two people to give him undivided attention, not to mention the two extremely irritating and impossibly stupid dogs he has to share his abode with. When company comes to call, he has no need of them. He just slinks off to his room.

And it started out that way the other day. A nice, older gentleman came over and had a seat on the sofa. Oskar stood in front of him and stared at him briefly. Then he turned around and started to walk off. That's when the guest said, "Good thing I took my pill--I'm allergic."

Well, apparently the word "allergic" was the magic word that spurred Oskar into action. He inexplicably turned around, ran back, and leaped onto the guest's lap.

If he could talk, I'm sure it would have gone something like this...
"Oh my goodness gracious, where are my manners? I'm Oskar. What did you say your name was? You know Bob, you're my kind of person. I don't know what it is, but it's like I've known you all my life. Is that sweater cashmere? Oh god, I love cashmere. Can I just feel it? Oh pretty please. Let me just rub my face on it. I can warm your lap while I'm at it. I feel so close to you right now. I could really use a hug. How about a kiss on the lips? Hey, where are you going? That's okay, I'll be waiting when you get back."

Betrayed!

My aunt and uncle just brought home their new baby, Abby. They already have a little girl, Raven, who's two years old. Raven is cute as a bug and daddy's little girl. She's been okay with the baby--so far. As long as daddy's not paying too much attention to Abby. My aunt was telling me that the other night, Raven walked into the room while her dad was holding Abby and the look on her face was one of utter dismay. Raven said, "Oh, Daddy. Oh, Daddy. OH, DADDY!" She threw herself on the floor like a mackerel flopping around the bottom of a canoe. It was such a terrible betrayal. She thought she was the one and only. She'll get over it. Especially when she finds out how fun and useful younger siblings can be.

Mt Rainier

This is Mt Rainier in Washington. I took this from the cockpit of an airplane.

Canada

Vancouver Island

Exercise CHARLIE FOXTROT

Have you ever sat at your desk after lunch in your mid-afternoon torpor and pondered the great mysteries of life? You may ruminate on such weighty questions as...

How do they get the ship inside the bottle?
What causes the skin to form on top of pudding?

And the $64,000 question...

Why are mission support personnel always so perpetually pissed off?

I'm supposed to leave for this big exercise next week. I was actually looking forward to it--until Friday. It started when I walked in the door. The exercise is on hold, they told me. The MAJCOM realized they have no money. We all know the ideal time to realize this would be fiscally challenging is right when everybody going out the door. Finally, they decided we could go after all, but they were cutting the number of people they would send in half to save money.

So, in another attempt at saving money they decided to change the per diem that people would get. Initially, everyone would get partial per diem while a lucky few the full per diem. I'm not sure how they arrived at who would get what. I'm starting to suspect they're using a magic eight ball because they changed it so that now most everyone would get full per diem, except for a few who would get completely screwed, one of them being yours truly. The aircrew would get full per diem because they won't be around to use the meal card except for every other day. Oh yeah, they do get meals from the flight kitchen, so they're still getting free food AND full per diem even though they'll be around to use the chow hall every other day.

If the MAJCOM was so desperate to save money, wouldn't it make more sense to just give everybody the partial per diem? Evidently, it's good enough for the other squadron that we'll be flying with. Another way they decided to save money was to cut the number of intel personnel they would send. The initial plan was to send two intel people--one from each squadron. Now, they're just sending one who will do all the work for two squadrons. I'll be the extremely fortunate individual who will get to work 16 hour days, back to back for two straight weeks. If I'm lucky (and it's a distinct possibility that I will be--this is AWACS after all) the jets will break the minute we land.

Bamboo

Little Miss Perfect

If you're familiar with the comic strip Baby Blues, you know that Wanda McPherson has a nemesis named Bunny. Bunny is supermom. Bunny can squeeze out kids, whip up souffles, keep the house spotless and still manage to look beautiful. She's also oblivious to the fact that Wanda can't stand her.

I have a Bunny in my life, a coworker as it so happens, only she doesn't have Bunny's charm and she doesn't pretend to be friendly. I'll call her "Bambi". At least she's in another squadron so, I don't work with her every day. She's uber-competent and uber-organized. She runs marathons, eats a perfectly balanced diet, and for the icing on the cake, she used to be in beauty pageants. I haven't seen her house, but I'm sure that's perfect too. She doesn't have a cat that pukes on the carpet in 17 places after eating the dog's food and it's probably organized like a Real Simple magazine. She's the type that will probably separate in a few years after the first baby comes along and make a mint being an Arbonne International consultant.

My dislike began at the end of my last deployment. She was the officer taking my place. The second she stepped off the jet, she was snippy and dismissive and acted like she was barely tolerating my presence. I tried to show her the folder and template for writing a mission report. Bambi cut me off saying she already knew how to write one. The next day she needed my help writing the mission report. She managed to cop the attitude until I left. Every request I made was met with a heavy sigh. Before she got to the FOL, I had called her to make sure she had everything in order and if she needed anything. I suggested that when she got here, maybe we could go for dinner or something. She bluntly told me, "I already have friends."

Well, screw you too. You'd think what with all Bambi's training to be Miss America, she might have picked up some social graces somewhere along the way. I guess charm school wasn't on the agenda. I expressed my irritation with the deployed DO on my way out the door. He said she didn't have any idea what she was doing.

It's not that I resent the fact that she's so together and disciplined. Nobody's holding a gun to my head making me eat jalapenos stuffed with cream cheese and I could always organize my house instead of watching Corner Gas reruns. It's just that she's so uppity--like people don't meet her standards. Hell, people are people. Everybody has some kind of vice. Even Bambi. Now to find the chink in her armor.

World's Meanest Boss

This morning I had to be the bearer of bad tidings. I told my troops they couldn't take the day off to go play paintball. One of the other squadrons is having a paintball tournament. Of course for our squadron this is still a workday. They looked like people who just found out Neil Diamond would be opening for Jimi Hendrix. They were so glum.

They didn't seem to understand why I wouldn't let them leave in the middle of the workday for a squadron activity of a squadron we're not even a part of. What irritates me is that I have to drag them kicking and screaming by the hair to our own squadron functions. They're like stray cats--they won't come out unless somebody sets out food. Then they load up a plate and hurriedly
slink back to the vault so they won't have to socialize.

Kaykas

Brother, Can You Spare a Square...

...I'm sorry, Mother Earth doesn't have a square to spare. At least Sheryl Crow doesn't think so. Remind me never to shake hands with Sheryl Crow. Not that the opportunity will ever present itself. I don't even listen to her music. I'll ride my bike and walk, I buy organic food, and I make it a habit to use biodegradable cleaning products. I've started buying organic cotton and every month I donate to Leave No Trace through CFC, but I'm sorry lady. I've got to use more than one crappy square of toilet paper (so to speak).

Daddy, I Want My Tofu!

I was sitting in City Bites, an OKC hoagie shop, for lunch this afternoon when a man came in with a little girl who looked to be about four or five years old. There was nothing particularly remarkable about them. The guy was wearing a t-shirt that said, "Mothers love good boys, but chicks dig bad boys". A real high-class kind of guy. As he collected his carry-out food, the little girl suddenly started to screech and stomp, not an unusual scene for a four-year old in public. However, the words that came out of her mouth were incongruous considering the white trash slogan her daddy's t-shirt was emblazoned with. She pounded the tile beneath her little feet, following him out the door, past the cookies and brownies screaming at the top of her lungs, "I WANT A SALAD! I WANT A SALAD! I WANT A SALAD! WAAAAAAH!"

This continued out the door and probably into the parking lot. Most kids would kick and scream at the idea of eating a salad. This girl is a dream come true for the anti-trans fat big government nannies. Maybe there's hope for the childhood obesity epidemic yet.

Or maybe not. As I related this anecdote to a guy in M-9 class, he told me about the time he was in a 7-11 when a woman was fingering the candy bars by the register. In a thick Oklahoma accent he heard her little boy say, "Momma, put that candy bar down. You're gonna ruin your appetite for McDonald's!"