Back home where it is COLD

Well, by the time I got up the other day in Texas at 0400 it was already about 50 degrees. I can safely say I won't see that again for a few weeks. Less than 8 hours after leaving BOB (I do hope he's doing well without me) I landed at home in a blissful 12 degrees. (-10C for those of you Europeans or Canadians keeping score at home).

So, now I'm home and reaquainting myself with my children - the four year old who refuses to go to sleep and the 8 year old who in the past five months has discovered a whole new world of vocabulary -- the swear words section. I'm fortunate in that the 8 year old doesn't actually say these words, but he does rather ferret about the fringes. A typical conversation will go something like this, "Dad, does this song have any bad words in it?"

"No."

"Oh, because I was driving home with a friend the other day and his mom's radio had a song with a swear word. It was the really bad one... with an 'F'... like duck..."

Now, the part of me that is supposed to care about these types of things is mildly annoyed because of all the song and dancing it takes to skirt around some of this stuff. You know, let the childhood last as long as possible as far as I'm concerned. If he's a naive 8 year old who becomes a naive 9 year old so be it. It won't last forever I'm sure. Plus, let's not forget, I'm the guy who as a first-grade enrollee punched a nun in the gut and told her to F-herself. Paternally speaking, I'm on pretty thin ice here.

What I really find myself proud of, however, is that he says "an" F as opposed to 'a' F. From the point of view of a former newspaper editor, that kind of thing is just money.

Speaking of which, full props to USAA insurance for finally reading the police report on my car accident and making that other doofus pay the whole tab plus my rental car expenses. The car is coming along nicely. The last couple installments of photos from the body shop show the cutting surgery and the grafting. I don't even want to know where that skin is grafted from.

Thanks to all of you who sent some nice comments through this site and through Facebook regarding my last couple posts. We're up to 9 followers here - still not sure who 2 or 3 are, but I'm not complaining. And the fact that all of the recent comments are from people who aren't followers means at least a few people actually read this thing, which is kind of gratifying. (By the way, I don't think Shadow has actually read that last post, when I got home and said happy anniversary to her she told me what I'd been waiting to hear: "oh, I completely forgot!"  I think that's really part of her charm now because she forgets every year. (Actually, she forgets twice a year - both December and our church wedding in June). Guys, when your woman complains that you forget important stuff, feel free to relay this little story.

In other non-news news, Christmas is next week obviously and we'll find out at least one truth. The truth being - is that list prepared by the 8 year old real, or is he just testing the limits of this whole Santa thing. Because I know for a fact, Santa is not bringing him a laptop or an Ipod Touch. Thankfully though, he still likes Legos.

That last thought makes me want to ask another question no one will answer:  What has been your most unusual or funnest/funniest Christmas gift? You know where the comment link is. For the record, I once got a bag of flour, a bottle of water and a newspaper. ... It was a do-it-yourself paper-mache kit!

20 Years of The Shadow...

By the time most of you read this it will be at least Dec 15 and I will be on my way home, if I’m not actually already there (depending, of course, on when you read this). As I mentioned in yesterday’s rather long post, a story is a fine thing, but without an audience it doesn’t do much. Please humor me one more time.

This story is certainly a little more personal as it directly involves The Shadow. For you see, as I arrive home on the 15th, it is our 20th wedding anniversary – and if you know me, even if you’ve never met the Shadow, you are aware she has miles of patience and an unlikely tolerance for sophomoric behavior. Bless her.

The story I’d like to tell involves how such an unlikely couple met in the first place. I promise it won’t be as long as the Road Trip post, but I also promise it’s all true even if it sounds sort of like an '80s John Hughes movie.

On an August Friday in 1990 a friend of mine asked what I was doing on a weekend and the answer, fortunately, turned out to be, "not a damned thing." So he told me that I should go with him and some other folks to something called an English Civil War Society Recreation Battle. It’s like a Renaissance faire but with firearms. I was hesitant, because as much as I wanted to be an 28th-Level Powder Monkey or whatever it was they had in the 1640s, I was less than enthused.

“What else you got?” I asked.

“Well, after the battle, basically there’s just a whole lot of drinking,” he said. 

. . . . . . .  

“What do you recommend I wear?”

So, on Saturday we went to the car (yup, same POS car plus a moderately passable heating and ventilation system, a window that went all the way to the top, windshield wipers that stayed put, and a stereo. Thanks for asking.) The deal was this – apparently, there is a lot of gear associated with battles of this timeframe, armor, gauntlets, more armor etc. So the first trip we would take down only the stuff we needed for a weekend sleeping outdoors playing dress-up.

Essentially, we loaded the car with booze.

The Brits got by on beer. We were bringing everything else. And Mountain Dew. Apparently Brits couldn’t get Mountain Dew at the time and they seemed to really like the stuff. After the 2 hour trip to the destination, we would turn around and get all the armor and non-essential crap like sleeping bags, tents etc. So, I had 6 hours driving in front of me which was fair enough as I figured I didn’t have to pay for the booze.

In the parking lot my friend, Mark, introduced me around to the other Americans and a family of Brits, one brother and two sisters. I smiled, shook hands and got in my car. When my friend got in, I looked him straight in the eye and said this:



Yes, this is the Shadow. Just to prove it's not Vera from Cheers
whom you always hear about but never see. Shadow exists.

 “That’s my wife.”

“What?”

“That girl, right there,” I pointed through the window, “that’s my wife.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t remember; it’s something really weird though.”

“Whatever.”

Two hours later, before our return trip back to base, he said the following to me.

“Roe, go ask her to come with us already, you’re driving me fucking crazy.”

I asked. She looked at me like I was Geppetto’s first attempt at a wooden boy.

Four hours later and with Mark no longer speaking to me, I did what any guy my age would do. I grabbed a bottle of booze (It was honey meade. I mean, come on, it was a civil war recreation after all) and found this woman with the funny name. Turns out she would speak to me after all, which came as a pleasant surprise and we talked for some time.

Now, I’m a bit of a believer in serendipity and not believing this woman was the age she told me, I asked for an ID. When she showed me, I was hit with the serendipity hammer -- her birthday coincided with a girl I had dated in high school and who was (and still is) a very good friend of mine. This girl’s mother was British. The girl in front of me was British and from a serendipity standpoint how often is it you find someone born on Valentine’s Day?

Much less two?

Who like you?

And aren’t related to you?

Well, we hung out that weekend together and the following weekend she came to the base. I’d pick her up at the train station on Friday evening and bring her back Sunday night or Monday morning. I believe it was the third weekend I finally just asked her to marry me. To this day I’m not exactly sure where that came from. You know how on TV and the movies, guys sit around in angst about that question for days or months? That always makes me laugh.

Well, she said yes, which meant there were things to be done. But first, I had to go back to the States for a month to go to a training class. So I was gone most of September and a bit of October and we decided to get married by a magistrate in December. Honestly, I think by the time we were actually married, we had probably spent all of 30-45 days in each other’s company. But I did get to meet her mother first.

This is a good time to point out that the Shadow has a wry bit of humor and an excellent sense of timing. Upon arriving at her mum’s house, I was ushered into the kitchen -- and already being overwhelmed at a 16th century house with brick floors and large beams, goats and cats -- I sat at the table. Polite introductions all around; offers of tea and then mum looks straight at me and says, “Why do you want to marry my daughter?”

Huh? I look to the Shadow for help. She looks at me, starts to laugh and leaves the room with me staring at her mother...

I don’t remember anything else that happened that day. I’m fortunate, in an odd way, however, in that her mum had spent part of the war (WWII) in tunnels in London during the Blitz and was well disposed toward Americans.

Now, back to the wedding… The office pool had this marriage lasting for 6 months – tops. And that was from some of my co-workers who actually liked me. And I’m sure there were people who believed we “had” to get married. You’ll note I’ve mentioned that my eldest is 8. And we’ve been married 20 years. The naysayers lost that pool too.

By the time we had an apartment, Gulf War I was kicking off in good form and I was sent to western England where I spent just over a month. When I got back, we had about 3-4 weeks together before I was sent to Turkey for a month and a half. I got back in mid-May of 1991 and we had a church wedding in late June. I’d been married for 6 months and had spent about 3 of those months actually with my wife. I suppose as we had spent so little time together in what passed for a courtship, it wasn’t such a big deal.

Military people spend an inordinate amount of time away from their families. My time away in the last 20 years is negligible compared to a lot of people. Our civilian friends were mortified when we told them I would be coming to Texas and likely to spend upwards of a year away. We just kind of shrug our shoulders and move on – it’s just the way it’s been since day one. If you’re not from a military family, and you meet one, I’ll guarantee it’s the same way. It’s just part of the culture – and it’s why you’ll always hear people say that the spouse and family serve too. Because they certainly do, make no mistake about it.

I’d like to thank Mark, my friend who invited me on that ECW re-enactment. I’d like to thank him for putting up with me on the car journey, and threatening me with physical violence should I not go talk to the girl with odd name.

Now, it's 20 years later and I still look at her and think, "That’s my wife… Aren’t I a lucky bastard"
Shadow, I love you. Happy Anniversary.

The Great Road Trip of 1989 Remembered

So, to help pass the days in BOB, and now without homework to keep my brain occupied, I’ve been going through some old photos and slides I’ve had lying around for a couple decades. The thought was, that here, with little else to do, I’d find the time to scan them and put them to some useful purpose. This is that time.

One of the things I found was a kind of photo diary I made in the late ‘80s chronicling my first couple years in the Air Force and of particular interest (to me at least) was a section on a trip a friend named Frank and I took from Comiso Air Station Sicily, to RAF Bentwaters, England in late September 1989.

Now, it must be said upfront that at the time I was only 21 years old and extremely broke. Frank was about the same age and only slightly less broke. When he asked to come with me on the trip I was more than happy to have him along for two reasons - he was great company and he had beer money. Whereas I had a piece of crap 1976 BMW316 which was merely adequate until it literally started falling to bits on the drive - it was one of those ‘character’ cars I mentioned last post. I think we lost three passenger side windshield wipers before we had enough and just taped a sock to the wiper mechanism.

Any of you who know me even a little today know I am perhaps the world’s worst navigator - if we are reincarnated, I was probably the scout for the Donner Party. In 1989 as we studied the map of Europe we would use for our journey, Frank actually said these words: “hey, did you know England was an island?” It was at that point I knew we were well and truly screwed and the map would be of only trifling use to us.

Before leaving Sicily, we decided we had to take a souvenir from base so we 'liberated' a pink flamingo from my boss’ front lawn. We named her Pasha – heaven knows why. We took photos at various points on the route and wrote postcards back to her owner letting her know she was fine and being well looked after. Some postcards had photos – including this one with me in disgustingly dirty jeans (which I’ve cropped) – waving at mortified Swiss people from the highway.

Back in the day, U.S. Forces had gas coupons so we could buy gasoline at US prices (around a buck a gallon) instead of European prices (around $3-4 a gallon) Well, as you can see by a picture here, we didn’t have enough to even get us out of Italy, much less to England. But we made do by sleeping in the car, eating Spam and generally just driving as fast as possible.

Border crossings were fun before the Euro-Zone - it was cold and raining at the Austrian border and a guy straight out of the SS met us and actually said, “I need to zee your payh-pahs” with that stereotypical Teutonic accent that you’d think people really didn’t have and you have a hard time not laughing at when you realize it’s entirely accurate. In Switzerland we stopped at a restaurant called the Churchill because we figured they’d have an outside shot at English. Not so much. We did the whole, ‘point at the menu and eat what comes to the table.’ We got egg rolls. They were awful.

While in Switzerland, Frank christened his Swiss Army knife by cutting a sapling. It was a treasured moment – much like the baptism of a child but without the cake. I swear I saw a little tear form in Frank’s eye. Or perhaps he was just going through detox. It was really difficult to tell back then.



Frank - and what he called "The Cathedral of the world"

 At the West German (it was East and West back then) border, Frank thought it would be funny to play the theme to Patton. The border guard was not amused. We went through 6 international borders on that trip - getting into Germany was the longest. I can't definitively say it was the music, but I can't discount the notion either.  

Now keep in mind we didn’t have anything like an itinerary or schedule. So while driving down the autobahn, shedding windshield wipers, we saw a sign that read, “Munchen 61 km”. In one of those weird, slow-motion, Fred-turns-to-Barney-as-they-both-get-the-same-idea kind of moments, Frank and I looked at each other and after a two second pause where we both whirled through the calendar in our heads, we said, “OKTOBERFEST!”

I'm sure it was the same kind of feeling hippies must have gotten when given Grateful Dead tickets.  

Now, by way of explanation, it’s fair to point out that 12 months in Sicily had given me (and Frank) a prodigious tolerance for alcohol. The mission at Comiso Air Base was that of the Ground Launched Cruise Missile – a ‘special weapon’ variety of the Tomahawk Cruise Missile, that was rendered obsolete due to the Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces Treaty. To even think we were the only ones who had an increased tolerance due to our time at the base (known throughout US Air Forces in Europe at the time as “The Wild West”) would be more than a little naïve. I once witnessed one of my roommates and our first sergeant come perilously close to physical violence with each other – both being nearly paralytic at the time. My two roommates and I even turned half our living space into a bar, which they thoughtfully named in my honor. I was touched.

But I digress… 21 years ago, despite being only 135 pounds, I had a capacity for distilled spirits my slight build belied quite readily. Fortunately for me, however, upon arriving in Munich I was more than a little ill and more than a lot broke. Frank had no such issues.

Our map didn’t actually go to a scale useful for anything other than national highway systems, and as God is my witness, when we pulled off the autobahn we just kind of pointed the car to where we thought the middle of town might be. In less than 15 minutes we were parked in a multi-story car park literally across the street from the Oktoberfest grounds.

As an aside: I would like to think the people who laughingly refer to me as “Magellan” for my total lack of navigational skills, would overlook years of map-reading inadequacy for the one blinding flash of inspiration that allowed us to make quick and easy landfall at the biggest booze-up on the planet. You may leave your apologies in the comments section.

We settled in at the Haufbrau House (the HB) tent. Calling this thing a tent is like calling the Sistine Chapel a painting. It was enormous and there were probably about 2000 people in it - or at least it seemed that way. We settled in with some Kiwis, Aussies and Brits and started in on the traditional “ordering of the beers.” If you’ve never been to Oktoberfest in Munich, beer is delivered by the liter in (or used to anyway) thick-glass steins. And the beauty of this was that they only cost about 7 Marks (about 4 bucks) each. Feeling fragile my notes say I only made my way through about three of these and sat out the next 7 hours or so eating and revelling in a generally sober manner. Frank I believe, again according to my notes, made it through no fewer than 8 – a couple of which he left unceremoniously in the corner directly before we led him away.

Drinking songs, Ein Zwei, Drei, Vier (one, two, three, four – the extent of our German) amidst the English speaking peoples of the Commonwealth ended up in glasses being slammed together. Interestingly, there is a direct correlation between the quantity of beer drunk, and the force at which glasses meet during these songs. Eventually there were pieces of big, thick, glass steins everywhere. And of course there was the obligatory table-top dancing – and polka music - which is almost tolerable once you get sauced up a bit.

Somehow (again a seminal act of navigational inspiration), we made it back to the car. Not being in any way inebriated (many hours, few beers, lots of food – mostly chicken, whole, with no utensils, and very greasy – incredibly fun to rip apart with your hands, eat, and generally wave around like an over-accessorized Monty Python skit.) we made it back to the highway where we slept at a rest area.

The next morning, early, was very, very cold. It was at this point we discovered my car, sock on windshield wiper, did not actually have what amounted to a fan or heat distribution system of any kind. This sucked as we had no ice scraper but plenty of frost/ice. The solution was quite simply to drive like a dog. By putting my head out the window and driving fast, the engine eventually produced enough heat to defrost the windshield – I think it took 15-20 minutes. And despite not really having heat, it felt really good to bring my head in again – although it was then I discovered my window no longer went all the way up. This car would continue to plague me well into 1991 when I just took it out and had it shot.

Finally we ended up at an Air Force base in Germany where Frank knew some folks and we got to take showers – the first in four or five days. Then Frank’s friend took us to Frankfurt where he said we would do something they called “Walking the Steps” whatever the hell that meant.

I find it necessary to point out at this juncture, that all we did was “Walk” – there was no stopping or anything else involved. It is also hopefully unnecessary to remind you that we were, after all, very tired and very broke – even, by this point, Frank.

“Walking the steps” is what it was called to go to the red light district. These were apartment buildings – several stories tall, with steps which you would simply walk up and around the floor and carry on up the next flight of steps. The idea, I suppose, is that it’s like window shopping. I bring this up only because aside from eat, sleep and shower, we didn’t really do anything else in Frankfurt. We had long stopped taking photos.

After Frankfurt, it was on to England. We arrived at Zeebrugge Belgium late at night and just made the last ferry for Felixstowe, England. Frank had some Monty Python lined up for our arrival but alas, the radio died as we reached English shores…it just stopped working, which really summed up the trip quite nicely. We were spent – monetarily and enthusiastically and any other way you want to describe two very tired young men.

The entire trip took just about a week – maybe a little less and was done on a budget, after gas, of probably less than $200 cash, and a couple extra socks. If I had it to do all over again, I’d like to say I would have made a better plan, had a better car, and had more money. But I’m not sure I would.

In the end, I did it with a friend and I honestly don’t think a better car or plan would have made it a better trip. In fact, I think the car being such an utter piece of shit actually makes the memory better if not the actual drive. The lack of a coherent plan – or a coherent understanding of the geography of modern nation-states – was also a bonus – freeing us to just do what we wanted to do.

I’m not sure a trip like that would be a wise (or necessarily possible) thing to do in 2010 and that's kind of sad. Still, I am sure that somewhere, there are a couple of 21-year-old broke guys doing or planning something fairly stupid that in 2031, they’ll look back on and think, ‘those were pretty good times.’

If you’re still with me here, thanks for slogging your way through this. I like to think it’s a pretty good story (but I have the book version and you have the movie-trailer version). In the end, any story that’s pretty good to at least a few people deserves to get out and breathe every now and then rather than just sit unused in someone’s head. So thanks.

 For your trouble, here's a little more of Switzerland/Austria...

Home for Christmas

Well, it's almost here - in a few days I hop a plane and go back to see the family in lovely, snowy really frickin' cold New England. Yesterday I went running after work. It was 74 degrees. Back home, I think it was - literally, 2 degrees. So long as I stay inside wrapped in a thermal blanket and hot water bottle for a week I'll probably be alright.  Actually, it's not as bad as that. In 1999 I came home from Saudi Arabia in December - but home at that time was in Fairbanks Alaska. I think at the time I figured the 36-hour drop in temperature that I took to be something like 130 degrees. Word of advice for people - if you are considering going to Alaska (the real interior part of Alaska, not Anchorage) ask yourself these couple questions:

1. Do I like to go into the woods and kill large animals?

2. Do I like convenience of any sort?

If you answered Yes to number one. Pack heavy and have a nice trip. You'll love Alaska. Just remember that up there, the stuff you're hunting may have a chance to return the favor.
If you answered Yes to number two. Consider your options carefully. While there is indoor plumbing and running water, you may have to drive upwards of 350 miles to get to a Home Depot or something - and when shopping for nearly anything in the interior, there is usually only one of said type of store - they've got you over a barrell and they know it.

My advice if you're thinking about it is to go for a couple weeks in the summer. Take a raft ride in Denali, watch moose from a safe distance, be awed by the majestic 'vastness' of it all. And then go home. Because when it's 60 below zero (and it is) or when the temp doesn't go above -20 for weeks on end (and it doesn't) all the pretty scenery in the world isn't going to make you feel any better about it.

The upshot, however, is that during football season, you can watch Monday Night Football starting at 3:30 and get to bed by 8 p.m. So, it's got that going for it.

In other news, my car is being ripped apart. As you may recall, my car is in the shop and the shop it is in sends me pictures every couple days to keep me aprised of how it's going. They have to this point, ripped the red skin off as the picture clearly shows. 

I haven't named a car in some years as I always seem to have cars with very little character (unlike the 800 dollar hoopties I had in my youth which were absolute pieces of crap, but were loaded with character). I think, however, that this whole process makes naming this car a worthy endeavor. If any of you would like to submit names please do. Besides, I named my bloody apartment and I spend about as much time in my car, so it's only fair, really.

Oh, and we have an 8th person 'following' the blog. I believe it's probably one of my brothers because of the name 'vtoutsiders' and the fact there is no picture. My family - in all directions - are not the first people you would think to call in the event of a technological emergency. I include myself in this, because as you may remember, I had never sent as much as a text message until 5 months ago. I do it all the time now and wish rather desperately The Shadow had a text enabled phone.

I'm sure I'll probably update this while I'm at home so thanks for stopping by and keep on coming back.

I wonder if BOB will miss me while I'm gone?

A very merry holiday for the auto body shop

Well, the dust has settled and the auto body place has determined that to fix my car it will cost just under half what it cost me to buy it three months ago - so fix it they shall. I guess that's ok as it's guaranteed and all, but I'm a little miffed. Anyway, the upshot is the body shop said they take pictures throughout the repair process and they'll send them to me so I should have some to post here - kind of like on-going metal surgery, which is kind of cool in a way. I think they'll come through too - this place calls you no less than every other day to let you know the status of your car. I'm almost surprised they don't put a giant plastic band around the hood like you get when you go to the hospital.

 

While that sounds kind of stupid, so does the idea of a 'hospital' for dolls. If you think that's kind of foolish, you've obviously never heard of American Girl dolls. They have such a hospital and people (Shadow) pay for such services like replacing legs and arms that have been ripped off by older brothers. When the doll comes back it's in a little box with a plastic wrist band and a get well balloon and some other stuff. At the very least, however, AG dolls are actually quite collectable and if they're fixed at the AGHospital they retain their value pretty well - which isn't insignificant I might add. (well, at least as far as dolls go, so don't get all weirded out about it)

Today, Saturday, also marked the end of my first semester of doctoral classes. I'm pretty sure I ended up with an "A" in both classes -- 6 credits down and a whole lot more to go. Unfortunately, there will be a year break between now and my next class until I figure out what's happening with potential deployments later this year. But the deed has been started, and successfully as well, so it will carry on. Might take a few years, but hell, it took me 14 years to get a 4 year degree. The oral final was interesting but it went fairly well - it is as I imagine a job interview will be in a year. (Oh, by the way, if you know of anyone who needs a public affairs person or a corporate training/development person, do let me know)

It appears that a reader has correctly guessed the photo put up with the last posting - it is, in fact, a hummingbird feeding out of a red plastic feeder. I told you it was easy. I'll have to make the next one more difficult so I won't have one this time. Next time around though, there will be something there.  This photo was taken at the house of a friend of mine in the woods in New England. Wonderful place - lots of space, and trees (and hummingbirds of course) and sap lines running own to a sugar house. Very idyllic.

The Air Force has also decided that this week was a good time to promote me, so that was nice. Still, next year's promotion to "Mr." will be even more exciting. It's very interesting listening to all the people who have left the service and continued on in the civilian world - a little nerve-wracking, but I think that's what makes it even more exciting/ interesting. I'm really looking forward to the change. It's not often you get to see a lot of the world and retire while you're still young enough to do something else for another career-span, so I'm actually quite grateful for the opportunities I've had in the last 20+ years, but it's just time to do something new.

Here's the full photo from last week. Thanks for reading, and don't forget if you'd like to click the 'share' button at the top if you think your Facebook friends would enjoy reading. And if you have any ideas of something you'd like to hear about, let me know. Now that I don't have classes, I'll have some extra weekend time to go check things out in the local area.

Cheers for now.

Really? For crying out loud...

Thanks to the magic of facebook, many of the three of you who actually read this probably know by now that my uber-expensive trip to Texas is just so much fun I can hardly stand it. But today as I was out for a drive, I got to do something I've really always kind of wanted to do - a 180 in an intersection.

Of course, that sounds pretty cool if you do it on purpose with a hot car. But when some yahoo in a Jeep decides to spin your new car around like a debutante at a cotillion by slamming into the back quarter panel - well, it takes some of the luster off what should have been kind of fun. If you don't see facebook, I've inlcuded my very own version of a demotivational poster here that shows my car - which I've made all of three payments on, by the way. You'll notice there is no hint of a rear bumper, yeah, the SAPD pulled off the last bolt holding that on so we could clear the car off the street. (The SAPD were really nice, btw, and I even got to ride in the back of a cop car without handcuffs - that was a treat. Note to all would-be criminals, if you are taller than say, 5'3" you do NOT want to ride in the back of a police cruiser -- you are literally wedged into that seat.)

So, that was the fun of my holiday weekend. Black Friday was no big deal here - the roads were actually pretty calm, but the stores - especially Best Buy and WalMart - jammed. For all of you who wonder what the difference is between WalMart and Target, I'll tell you. Go look at the room of your 6 year old - or remember it - and then think of how the room looks (looked) before you moved all your crap into the house before you bought it. That sums it up nicely. Target is clean and tidy and the WalMart looks something akin to downtown Kuwait 6 hours after the Iraqis decided they'd rather go home (or to belabor a point - the Basra Road before the Iraqis decided to go home, and the Basra Road after A-10s and B-52s left the area). The difference is that obvious. Seriously, you would have thought that we shipped in a bunch of Cold War Era Soviets and let them loose with Ronald Reagans' Amex Card.

Despite the car, which hopefully I'll find out this week whether or not its repairable (although the guy at the dealership said I probably wouldn't want it even if it is), this coming week looks interesting. T-W-Th I have my transition assistance seminar which will hopefully help make a civilian out of me and, somewhat ironically, I'll also receive my last military promotion before being promoted to "Mister" sometime in 2012.
 

A small stream in the hill by Payne Mtn - Northfield, VT


In other news, all of one person tried to take a guess at the photo posted here in the last installment. That photo is shown here in full - it's a small stream of water tumbling over rocks. The next photo detail is also provided. 

Right here. Take your guess as to what you think it might be by leaving a comment at the end of this blog.

You'll note that there is now a 'share' link at the top of this blog so if you like what you see and think someone else might get a chuckle - or if you think that someone else's life may seem a little more interesting by comparison and you want to cheer them up - feel free to click the link and it will post this blog address on your facebook site.

Enjoy the rest of your holiday weekend and look out for morons on the roads.

The movie-going experience is saved - and your first photo quiz

All right, I admit it. The other day I went to see Harry Potte 7 part 1. It was a pretty decent movie as HP flicks go - those kids (now in their early 20s) are finally starting to learn how to act. Too bad they put us through five movies before they figured it out. Anyway....

So I'm at the theater and I suppose I should preface this all by saying that my favorite theater experience was in England. Not the huge mega-opti-collosal-cineplex, but a theater with only a few screens. After the trailers they'd bring up the houselights about half way and a concession worker would come to the front of the audience and have a tray with candy and stuff. They'd sell this for a couple minutes - and there were always people who waited until then to get their food gear, and they'd leave. If the movie was really long (like HP7/1 at 2.5 hours) they'd come back for an intermission which was great because if you didn't want food, you could go to the loo and not miss anything.  All that and the Brits sell sweet popcorn - with sugar instead of salt - and it's awesome.

Anyway, I've been to this theater before since I've been in Texas and what I saw was new. After by-passing the candy concession - where they wanted $4 - yes, FOUR BUCKS for a 500ml bottle of water - I saw on my way to the theater, a small bar. Five feet of wooded splendor lined with adult beverages - beer, wine and I think wine coolers although I'm not sure technically a wine cooler can be considered an adult beverage as the only people I've ever known to drink them were 16 year old girls. Curious, I asked how much a beer was, expecting a typical movie theater answer - $12 or something similarly outrageous. But not so - only $3 or $4 depending on what you wanted.

Really. Beer is actually cheaper than water - and a whole LOT cheaper than a bucket of popcorn at the movie theater. And you can take it into the theater with you. It's a lot like being at home I imagine but without the potential comfort of sticking your hand in the belt of your trousers and just really relaxing.

Overall, I thought this was a good sign. A sign that the American movie-going experience is finally relaxing a little. Of course, I didn't have a beer because beer treats me like a urinary expressway. Not the best way to actually enjoy a movie. Still, I love the thought and think a little Europeanizing of America is good and it's only a matter of time before we can get a Heiniken at McDonalds.

In other news, the photo to the right (hopefully if I can figure out how to place it) is a detail of a larger photo. I don't think this will be difficult to guess but by way of hint, it was taken in New England not Texas. I'll get out and about with the camera soon. 

I invite you all - both of you - to give it a guess and when you do, please just note where you're reading from just for grins. Winner gets...well, probably nothing, but you never know. Maybe I'll take you to the movies and buy you a  beer.

Ok, what next?

As I sit here with BOB, or more correctly, IN BOB, I'm trying to discover what I can actually blog about. The ride down to Texas was fun enough and all, but let's face it, I don't really want to go through that particular scenario every week just to have something to write about. You're all very nice (the two or three of you who are there) but c'mon, let's be practical.

So, last night I finished reading my first e-book on a 'NOOK' I bought The Shadow for Christmas last year. I kind of like the ebook thing - never thought I would, but I do. And the book was Julie & Julia - you may have seen the movie - if you haven't you should, it's quite good.

The book is good too - chronicaling a woman who decided to start a blog and cook her way through the entire Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking cookbook - in one year. Well, that's a great idea but it's not going to happen. First, it's already been done and second, just reading that book raised my cholestorol - the amount of butter used for the recipies in that book are ludicrous. That and the fact that my kitchen and kitchen utensils just aren't up to the task.

So, what to do, what to do? I think what I'll try to do is come up with several interesting photos every week and post them here - and you can guess what they are. That might be fun for my kids anyway, plus it will get me outside (or inside BOB you never know) and taking some pictures. So that might be fun. It certainly couldn't be worse than not writing anything. Hell, there are only 7 of you as it is and I dare say only 2 of you probably show up and see if this thing is ever updated.

So that's it then. I'll do a photo quiz kind of thing. (unless one of you has a brilliant idea). But probably not starting today. I have my finals coming up in less than three weeks and I really need to start studying for that and I'm going home to see the Shadow and kids in four weeks - very excited for that - can't wait to get home even if it is god-awful cold up there.

Perhaps though I'll do a photo or two a week as a warm up starting this week. Check back soon.

FriMday and Potpourri

This Thursday is Veteran's Day -- to all those who have ever served, happy day and thanks for what you've done. Veteran's Day in its most non-veteran sense, however, is a  day off. And it's a Thursday off. Which means you've got to go back to work on Friday. So, do you have two Fridays that week ... or two Mondays?  Whichever you choose, I vote that we call a Friday at work after a Thursday off FriMday.

Obviously I'm not going to get into the budget thing yet - probably not until the new year - but on the way home tonight I heard a story on NPR that bears thinking about. Recently, the Brazilian government threatened taxing a bunch of American goods because of our policy to provide American cotton farmers subsidies. So at this point, we have a couple options. Under World Trade Organization rules, the subsidies are probably illegal - so we could, I don't know ... stop paying US cotton farmers the subsidies.

But wait! There is another option. Instead, with all the shrewdness of a trailer park lottery winner, we offer to pay Brazillian farmers $175 MILLION dollars a year to let it go. Not being stupid, the Brazillians say, OK. Thanks for the cash.

This is sad in a number of ways. 1. Instead of saving some of our money by getting rid of subsidies, the US government has now taken another $175 Mil of our tax dollars and given them away to a foreign power.  and 2. It shows that our negotiators are, let's face it, stupid. The Brazillians thought they'd be getting a token amount of money - and then what did they get the first month? $12.5 million bucks. WHOA! they said (although with a Portuguese inflection). That's a lot of money!

What this tells me is that we didn't really 'bargain' in any meaningful sense. Hell, we probably could have gotten away with paying them $25mil a year, but instead we just gave away the (cotton) farm.

It's irritating beyond words really, how easily bureaucrats throw away our money.

If you know of an easy way for the government to save money, by all means leave a comment. I'm looking for realistic, reasonable ways too - not something silly like "get rid of the Navy". I'm really looking to compile a list of comparatively 'small' savings such as getting rid of the penny ($50Million) and the like - to prove that a few million here and a few million there and pretty soon we're talking about real money. Let's have your ideas.

Time does fly

Obviously the posting 'every week' thing isn't working out as well as I though. But me and BOB (my apartment, BOB, the Box Of Boredom) are doing fine. We know this because I've bothered to name my apartment. As of yet, I haven't started talking to him. And more thankfully,  he hasn't started talking to me. If that happens it's definitely time to move.

So the mid-terms went far FAR better than expected with As in each - actually one was a 100 which kind of floored me. But the big surprise, grade wise, this week came from my semi-annual AirForce Fitness Test - which I have never scored higher than about an 83 on. Well, for one of the few times I maxed my push-ups and sit-ups and had to have a run time faster than I figured was likely (although not impossible). Suffice to say that at the end, I had a 90.1 on the test, good enough for an 'excellent' rating, and more importantly, good enough where I don't have to take the test again for a year. So that's nice.

Class wise we have two more meetings before the end of the semester and right now it looks like my first semester will be my last for a while. It seems that while I have only about 15 months left in the service, Uncle Sam wants 6 of those to be over in Iraq or some such place. Soooooo we'll see what happens. It's not a done deal yet, but it's looking that way. Regardless, in my last two classes we are assigned a group and we have to do a 30 minute class on a subject.   Remember that Father Guido Sarducci video I linked to in the last blog? Well, I did and if you don't remember, go back and click the link and watch the video. Anyway, if you watch that, you'll have a good idea of what's in store for my class in a couple weeks. This isn't just me, either, this is me and four other adults who have agreed to this. I think it will be fun. Maybe I'll get a clip and put it here but I doubt it.

And one last note - I have successfully lost the 12 pounds I've gained since arriving here. I topped out at a rather stunning 200 pounds at one point here back about a month or so ago. I'm 'back down' to 188ish and I think this is the start of getting me down some more. Ultimately the goal of course is 160 but right now I think getting into the 179 range will be excellent and then we'll worry about lower numbers.

Ok, this was a bit of a 'letter home' kind of post and hopefully next time it will be more along the lines of previous stuff. My project I'm looking at it to take a good look at the federal budget. It's amazing how little people pay attention to what we're spending our money on.

So, stay tuned for that -- Roe's ideas of how we can save federal dollars without doing anything really stupid.

for the sake of writing something

I figure I should write something here at least once a week but it's been a fairly uneventful week except that I've purchased airplane tickets to go home and see the family in December - but that's still two months away. Well, that and I took my first mid-term exam last weekend - that was not fun. Actually, neither of them were fun.

Because of the Thanksgiving break falling where it does, there are only 3 or 4 more class sessions left before the final - which as much as the mid-term wasn't fun, the final will be much worse. First of all, it's an oral final which I've never had to take or prepare for before. Second is that in addition to knowing the 'stuff', I also have to know who said what 'stuff' and that's where I fall to bits. You see, I've made my educational living off short-term memory. Dump as much as I can in the ole memory banks a day and hours before the test, regurgitate as much as possible onto the paper and presto. But I think this class is different in that they actually want you to retain alot.

What I need is something like this ...  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pFAJapLN4XU
Father Guido Sarducci's 5-Minute University. You wouldn't even have to take out a loan - you could spend one weekend collecting soda bottles on the side of the road and get your degree Monday morning. It's an idea whose time has come in this recession.

So, I've actually got some homework to do, and as fun as this blog is, it isn't being graded (which is just as well, really) So, I hope to see you back next week - or maybe before. And, before I forget, welcome to follower No. 7 - O'Hare who was a student of mine at NU and who is involved in law enforcement operations up that way -- so slow down.

No point but it smells nice

So, I'm sitting around the 600 square foot box of boredom the other day trying to study but being constantly interrupted by the constant stream of nothing, and I notice a couple things that four months ago I would not have noticed at all.

A. I have got to do the dishes - they are not going to clean themselves. Now this is a little odd because back home I 'm the dish washer and I hate hate hate having dirty dishes lying around. Here...neh, not so much. No idea why that is at all but I'll probably do them tomorrow night. I can't tonight because I'm writing my blog.

B. I should probably vaccuum the floor again. the little roads I made through it last time are gone so it's time.

C. The sofa is actually a good place for the laundry - if you fold a little of it you can just kind of lay it on the arms and the back and you don't really ever need to put it away.

D. It, the apartment, doesn't smell exactly right. Now, it's not really smelly, but there's a little acridness which is kind of gross sounding but not really. At least no worse than any office you've ever been in so it's not like the plants would be wilting (if I had any).

But, there it is. So today I had to take the plunge and I actually went and bought one of those reed diffuser thinggys. I actually bought two so I don't have to do it again any time soon. I know as an adult I shouldn't feel at all awkward about that, but it was kind of like buying condoms for the first time - you know, head down, mumbling, trying to hurry the cashier along, really not wanting small talk or even change, just an escape route.

Just to make it look like it wasn't my idea and save some dignity I also bought some Kotex. (Well, ok, no I didn't ... but only because I didn't think of it until now.)

So, the big bachelor experiment is showing me some subtle truths...namely that I'll never be an interior decorator. But you know, it's not just a 'guy thing' and I know this because today I spoke with a friend in DC who is doing sort of the same thing - working in DC and driving to Southern Virginia on the weekends to be with her family -- she's having many of the same difficulties with laundry and dishes and such which I thought was interesting and it made me feel a little better.

I bet she doesn't have any problem buying reed diffusers though.

Heros are as Heros do - or something like that

This post comes on the tail of an email I received earlier this week about a guy who has retired from the service and had to go out of his way to be listed with "Wounded Warrior" status. His 'disability' wasn't originally listed as "combat related" so he fought to get it over-turned ... and won. He's participated in Wounded Warrior events etc.

All very well and good. Until the email. The email casts this persons' claims in some doubt. Did he really go through all the stuff he said he went through? Were his injuries really combat-related or were they problems he's had for a while? Is it really PTSD, or is he just an attention-seeker?

"Wait," you say, "people don't do that."

Aye, verily and sadly, they do. Back in the late '90s when I was editing a newspaper in Alaska, I had a conversation with a gentleman who worked in our building and he told me his story of his time in Vietnam. It was quite the conversation to be sure, and when it was over, I had the complete story of how he had earned the Medal of Honor.

Fantastic. It was a great story. It was near Veterans' Day and we could have this bono-fide hero come out and tell his tale etc etc etc.

But it wasn't true. About a week after the story ran, I got a call from an organization in D.C. They asked me some questions: "Let me guess," the guy said, "He was sent forward as part of a small team - but a team outside his unit" check.  "He was involved in a firefight and he was the only one left alive." Check. "His records mysteriously disappeared in a fire at an Army storage facility" Check. "He's lying to you. We have a list of everyone who has ever been awarded the Medal of Honor, and this guy's not on the list. And he's not the first to lie about it."

Wow. That sucked. This guy flat out lied to me. He sure seemed to believe what he was saying, but other than him being in the Army and maybe being in Vietnam, the rest was about as fake as a campaign speech.

So, now here we are, more than a decade and a couple wars later, and people are still pulling this stuff?  Granted, I don't know that the Wounded Warrior guy is lying - maybe he's not. But I've heard from some people who were there at the same time as the guy, and the story they remember is significantly different.

If the guy IS lying, I think he's utter scum trying to grab a little, I don't know, glory?, for himself while men and women who really have lost limbs, eyes, motor function etc., are doing what they can to get by and have no desire to say "look at me, aren't I a hero".  Still, the real dirt-bags in this fetid little tale are the people who must have written letters on this guy's behalf.

I've read his story and it just doesn't sound 'right'. It sounds like something everyone in the country would have been talking about for at least a little while had it happened like he described it. The brazeness of his story - if untrue - is shocking. I'm not going to link to this story because I don't think it should get any more plan than is warranted - which if not true, is none - but it's hard to disprove something like this unless a bunch of people who were there come forward to set the record straight. It certainly wouldn't be a task to take lightly and it wouldn't be something that could be done quickly and without significant emotional distress for all involved - so what would you do?

But how do the powers that be tell if he (or anyone else for that matter) is telling the truth? That's the question. You don't want to not take people at their word, but you also don't want to put the hero designation on someone who is an outright liar - that's just a slap in the face to those who have earned the honorific.

I've got no answers, just a bit of bile at the back of my throat. What do you think? Leave me a comment and let me know. (And, no, I wasn't there and I don't know the guy).

On a slightly lighter but still semi-related note... I opened a book last night that I hadn't opened in a while and an old airline ticket fell out which is unremarkable except for the notes I had written on it.

It happened on a flight from Atlanta to Newport News, Virginia on Aug 24 (probably 2005) in Seat 7C. I was sitting next to an elderly man and we got to chatting about where we were heading etc., and it turns out this guy, R.W. Rubley was a WWII veteran on his way to a reunion. Mr. Rubley was a truck driver with the 95th Quartermaster Company, driving routes on the Red Ball Express - a logistics operation that opened roads in newly occupied Europe and allowed only RBE vehicles access in order to quickly get needed supplies to the front lines. 

Rubley was driving a truck loaded with Coke, shaving cream, and chocolate among other things, when he was waved down by a soldier on the side of the road. He stopped and after he answered the question "what are you carrying", the soldier approached his truck. In Rubley's own words, "I was shaking, what the hell do I do now? So, [this soldier] tells me that I'm to go to tell Colonel so-and-so to take the contents of this truck and shove it up his ass and fill it up with fuel and bring it back."

That was how a 20-year old soldier in 1945 came to meet Gen. George S. Patton. 

And people who pretend to be heroes should all have to sit with some real ones for a while to learn what integrity, honor and self-respect really mean.

All the world's indeed a stage

Normally, I write this blog in the same manner I would if it were a column in a newspaper - I try to have a point of some sort. Not so much this time, so please, just humor me.

This week I had the opportunity to see, for the 6th time, my favorite musical group - Rush. 3 friends from Canada who have been putting out music since 1974. Incredible really when you think about it that two of these guys knew each other since grade school and still live next to each other, work together and, from the point of view beyond the lighted stage, are still great friends.

Over the last 25 years I've seen lots of bands - Boston, Pink Floyd, The Grateful Dead (another blog post altogether that one), Ted Nugent, 10,000 Maniacs, Marillion, etc etc etc (all old bands who are no longer together, I know). Not one of those was as good as the worst Rush show for a variety of reasons.

I got to the arena about 90 minutes before the doors opened and just spent the time looking around. The crowd was diverse only in age. Most of them were about my age plus or minus a few years -- definitely there would be no mosh pit at this gig. (Keep in mind the band members themselves are 58 years old) The biggest difference, apart from probably 10-15% of the crowd being female (a huge boost in the number of women from Rush shows in years past let me tell you) the biggest difference was the number of kids. Parents with their sons and daughters.

In the immediate group of people around me there were probably 10 kids between the ages of 6 and 12 - all of them, according to the parent who accompanied them (always it seemed parent in the singular -- the $77 cheapest ticket could have something to do with it) anyway, all of them having done nothing but listen to Rush albums for the preceeding several months - pouring through their dads' collection and desperately wanting to hear Tom Sawyer (the lad behind me) or La Villa Strangiato (the young man to my right). Each got their wish although Strangiato was the first song of the encore and I think the little dude may have been asleep as it was on 11 p.m. by that time. He was nearly drooling on his mother's shoulder as the band raced into 2112.

The crowd at these shows, instead of being insular, drunk, stoned or whatever they are at most rock concerts, were really an odd family of sorts. Kind of like the camaraderie you get at a renessaince faire -- quite possibly the very same people as a matter of fact. This is almost certainly the group of kids who made Dungeons & Dragons popular and I would be willing to bet most of them have copies of the Lord of the Rings movies at home. Still, you could talk to people and they talked back - which is nice in a large group of strangers. The guy on my left was an infantry soldier heading out for his second tour to Iraq but he stayed in San Antonio a few extra days on leave so he could see the show before he left. In the parking lot you'd hear people talk about the next shows later in the week in Houston and Dallas -- they were going to all three. I'm a fan, but not like that.

In addition to the feeling of goodwill in the audience, it was interesting to watch the band itself. You can generally tell when a band is playing well or not; whether they are putting on smiles for show or not. This time, as I watched, it seemed that these three guys, for all the extra weight carried by Alex; for the (thankfully) lowered voice of Geddy; for the slightly balding head of Neil; these three guys were doing what they loved doing and doing it with their best friends. I've never seen a band so genuinely at ease. Ged and Alex making faces at drummer Neil; Alex talking to people in the front rows or throwing back his eyes to make fun of Geddy. They are much less high-strung than they were 20 years ago, more willing to make fun of themselves and it seems more willing to let the world in a little bit. Best of all, and perhaps considering their age, most impressively of all, their playing skill is still something to marvel at.

In 2007 when my friend Jason and I saw Rush in Montreal (which was a bit of a leap of faith as he isn't a really a fan of the band) I said I would like to bring my son to their next show - which, obviously, and unfortunately, I couldn't do this time. I'm hoping they tour again so I can - you never know how much longer they'll be doing this. But I think he would not only enjoy it, but he could also see that doing what you love doing matters; that you never stop learning and practicing and trying if you want to be the best at what you do; and that, in the end, if you have your friends, you'll be where you need/want to be.

It might seem a stretch to put that kind of expectation on a rock band -- but watching the kids at the show, and talking to their parents, I don't really think it is. Rush is the exception - holding onto their principles despite not being commercially "correct". They made a decision to make the music they wanted to make and hang the 'industry executives'. You've got to admire that even if you hate their music. That's really an excellent example of tenacity and the need to work hard for kids (and adults too).  

Will you risk going back to the farm equipment sales job? Yes, you run that risk.

Will you risk failing? No. Not if you're true to your values. I think that is a lesson anyone can take away from Rush's example -- the music, well, it's a helluva bonus. 

You don't get something for nothing

You can't have freedom for free

You won't get wise with the sleep still in your eyes

No matter what your dreams might be...

Must write ... something...

OK, it's been over a week, I know - no excuses. I have to try to make this at least weekly - but not weakly - so you'll have to get over it. But thanks for coming back anyway. 

Got a comment from anonymous last week - I'll call him John because, well, that's his name so I don't know why he didn't just sign up and follow, but that's ok - thanks for the comment JB. Hope all is well with you and fam in Mass - did you ever find a job?

John is one of those guys who did his time in Blue and moved on - good for him. Sadly, there are people in the military who think that if you don't do 20 years you're 'quitting.' Well, those people are just dicks.

I had cause to think of my last post just today, as the top of an aqua massager closed in over top of me, trapping me yet again inside a tube. But this time my hands were free, i had access to headphones and as I had just run 4 miles, the water pounding on my back and legs felt great, so I didn't think about anything except how much I couldn't wait until I went running again so I could give myself an excuse to get back in that thing.   If you ever come across a water massage table, give it a try. You don't get wet. Basically you lay on what is a massage table, except a top half of a tube closes over you like a sun-bed. This half has a very plyable plastic sheet against which the water jets hit you - so you're dry and it feels great. Not as good as a 'real' massage, but about 1/3 the price and you don't have to worry if that number your buddys shaved in your back hair is still visible from your last new years party.

Speaking of running, I had confirmation today that I am not only old, and fat, but also slow.  The Shadow called me and asked what my mile time was. Grudgingly I told her the truth - about 9.5 to 10 minutes (but it will get faster).  My son, Al, the 8 year old, did a timed mile at school earlier in the day - 9 minutes on the nose. Fastest runner out there too. I could burst. Maybe some of my old cross country running genes have found their way to him - I hope he enjoys running. Being first will certainly help him get started.

Sadly today I realized that had I been left alone at my last assignment, I'd have only about 6 months left before going on terminal leave. Then I realized that I still had 20 months. It will go be quickly, though, the last 24 years certainly have. And while I can't say I'm a big fan of the Lone Star state and it's still 90+ degree weather, I notice that the highs for the Shadow and company right now are only in the 60s - barely. While 60s would probably feel nice, they are inevitably followed by 30s, 20s and zeros. I'll be happy to go back to that as soon as I can, but I won't think about it much until next July when it starts to get 110 here again.

For now, the best weather season of the south is nigh upon me, and I plan to take advantage of it by getting out there and putting some miles down - if for no other reason that so when I get home, I can catch my son and tell him how proud I am of him.

MRI machines finding unwanted growths

Remember way back at the beginning of this blog I mentioned that guys are genetically predisposed to picking a mental point somewhere between 16-24 and staying there their whole life? Ok, just keep that in mind.

Last week I had one of those opportunities to be part of the fiscal devil that is medical care. Fortunately for me, I live in a world that has socialized medicine so it doesn't actually cost me anything. And I think I know why...

...and the why is that they skimped on pretty much everything including, I'm concerned to note, the size of MRI tubes. Now, I'm a little heavier than I want to be, but I don't think I'm in any danger of showing up on "PeopleofWalmart.com" anytime soon. So it was more than a little disconcerting when they pushed me into the MRI machine they had to spray me down with PAM. Ok, they didn't have to grease me like a sheet of Thanksgiving rolls, but it was ... snug.

So my two questions are these: 1. In the questionnaire you get before they shove you in this thing, they ask if you're claustrophobic. What if you say. 'yes?' I want to know because if there's a way to do that for people who are claustrophobic, I want that option. I didn't think I was claustrophobic, and I guess I'm not as I didn't scream like a 5 year old girl or shake uncontrollably, but mostly because there wasn't room enough to do either of those things.

My 2nd question is: How do people who are really fat get in there. You know the people...those women who wear spandex the same way crushed meat wears a sausage casing. If I'm uncomfortable in that thing, they've got to feel like Play-doh in a clenched fist.

But besides all that, the real potential awkwardness from an MRI machine comes from the 16-year old male brain - and I really feel for any 15-16 year old male that has to spend any time in one of these things.

First, if you've never experienced one of these, they give you the traditional hospital gown, with the saving grace of you get to keep your underwear on. But then they drop a light towel or blanket or something over you and shove you in the tube.

For, like, 20 minutes.

And you CAN'T MOVE

And the machine is vibrating like an unbalanced washing machine.

If you are a guy sitting there trying ... how shall we say ... trying not to think of anything except maybe baseball, for 20 minutes and not move, there is the potential for your mind to wander.

Science has proven that the average male thinks about sex roughly every seven seconds. For the ease of math, let's say every 6 seconds - that's 10 times per minute. 20 minutes, times 10 -- so 200 times you're thinking about sex ... but WAIT...you're in a tube and you can't move! So you obviously can't think about anything remotely sexual (like the phrase "lubed up to fit in the tube" - you just can't and you know why.

So you have to NOT think about sex. Yeah, right. Ok, so let's call it every three seconds now, because you know once you can't think about something, that's all you can think about.

So, what to do. Sleep? Hell No! That's probably the worst thing you could do. Plus it's really loud in that thing - and that is probably a design feature - the noise gives you a distraction.

Until it becomes a kind of subtle rythym.

Damn.

(And to those of you wondering ... I managed to think of nothing but baseball for 20 minutes. Well, that and kind of writing this blog in my head and thinking about just what it would say had I not been able to think about baseball, and the reaction I would have received when a laughing doctor would inevitably tell me that the scan picked up a growth.)

Next time you're in one of those - you'll be thinking about this blog.
Good luck with that.

The World Wide Web certainly is

Wasn't really planning on writing anything tonight but I got looking at the stats page on the blog site that hosts this thing and it showed some interesting statistics - people from a bunch of foreign countries have logged onto this blog - almost certainly by accident, but it's interesting nonetheless.

The following are the total page hits since I've started this - not counting my own or else these numbers would be at least 2 higher.

United States 301 -- ok, I've got pretty decent sized family out there so I can buy off on this.

Canada 10 - I've got a couple friends north of the border as well - who obviously don't read this religiously, but we'll let them off the hook because they at least got into double digits and let's face it, their beer is much better than ours.

United Kingdom 8 -- Have some family there too who are starting to see what I'm doing down here.

China 5 - yeah, no idea. I figure maybe one of the words in the title translates to 'pizza' or something. I don't know anyone in China so this is a bit of a mystery. If you're reading this and you're from China, please let me know ... and what's up with only 5 page hits - i've got more than a dozen articles here! Come on, there are more than a billion of you; you can do better than that, surely!

Germany 5 - Again, not sure. Perhaps some people I know in the service who live there - that's probably it.

Italy 4 - That would be AFNBroadcaster. Of the 6 comments I've received since starting this, he accounts for 2 of them. The Shadow accounts for the rest.

New Zealand 2 - Probably my in-laws. Hope you had a nice trip back - we want to come visit.

Austria 1 - I've got nothing here. I've driven through Austria before but that was like 22 years ago so any statute of limitation is well past by now. I take it though that they weren't suitable impressed enough to come back.

Israel 1 - Never been there. Don't know anyone there. Hello to you.

Latvia 1 - Not exactly sure where Latvia is. No, I kid, of course I know. I also know I don't know you, but welcome just the same.

So, what does all this prove - nothing I can think of off-hand, except that when you think about people in 10 different countries reading something that has no real purpose, it gives you a bit of perspective on the scope and potential of the internet. And it gives me a new unofficial goal to go along with getting two dozen followers and more comments - viewers from at least 20 countries.

But, you ask, how can you do that? Well, I can't and so I don't have to worry about it. But if I keep this up long enough, it will happen and that's pretty cool in a way. If only dieting worked along these lines.

Because it's been almost a week

I need to remind myself occasionally, that part of the reason I'm doing this is to get some writing practice. I wish I could do it and have a point, but at least once a week makes it like doing a newspaper column - only without the layout worries and the commander having to review every word (see Griffiss AFB, c. 1992-1995). Still there are weeks when, truth be told, there's just not that much happening.

Over the course of the last week or 8 days or so, I've actually been running about 5 times which is good. My knees are tight and I groan like an octagenarian when I get up, but I suppose that's just practice for 40 years down the road. That much practice and I'll be able to make that getting up noise without moving. Hopefully people will just bring me drinks in the hopes that I don't - we'll see.

The running is actually alright (other than said knees) my runs are up to about 3.5 miles and the time per mile has dropped about 15 seconds, so I guess I'm feeling pretty good about that. What I'm not feeling good about is the way the government wastes your money.

That's right. Believe it or not the government is buying shoddy equipment. Take the scale at the gym for instance. Two weeks ago I weighed a rather portly 190 pounds -- hence I started running. Now, granted, it's only been a week and I don't really expect to be significantly lighter - or lighter at all really. So you can imagine my surprise when I got on the scale after my run today and weighed in at 194!

What makes me feel slightly - and I emphasize 'slightly' (ironically) - is that in the couple of times I've managed to eclipse the 190 plateau - I've really "felt" 190+. I didn't - and don't right now, so 194 came as a bit of a shock to say the least. Now I've been told that there is always a little gain before the loss, so I'll keep an open mind about the whole thing.

Still, I think we should stop buying our equipment from the lowest bidder.