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Maoma awlweeys saiyed lawf is lawk a bawxa chawclits . . .

Here's a new old dispatch from everybody's favorite Army Specialist. Give it a thorough read; it's a piece o' work. Context: He's in North Carolina, in the midst of Special Forces selection or training or whatever, which like all things Army is mostly about waiting interminably for orders, with the occasional moment like this.

26 May 2005
"Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name"

I had seen in the Fayetteville Observer that "All
American Week" was culminating with a division review
with a very special guest speaker. The entire 82nd
Airborne (The All-American Division) was home at one
time, most of the regiments having just returned from
various parts of the sandbox. All this ciss-boom-bah
pageantry leading straight into Memorial Day Weekend.
I couldn't miss this spectacle.

The show started at 1000, but I had to go top the
intelligence office to check on the progress of my
security clearance. So I rush out there 40 minutes
late and have to park a click away. This is a huge
event-- thousands attend. As I'm heading to the parade
ground, I can start to make out a voice echoing from
the PA system. There is a stiff wind blowing in gusts,
so I can only make out a word or two every few
seconds. "Paratroopers (roar) undaunted courage (roar)
blah blah sacrifice (roar)." But I heard enough
sound-bites to know it was him. When I finally arrived
at the bleachers, he said, " God bless you all. All
the way, Airborne!" Loud thunderous applause, and he
was done. Shit.

I climbed up the bleachers to see where the hell I
was-- just to the rear and right of the main review
platform, where all the VIPs were. It was time for the
review to begin. This means the entire division and
all its assets parades past the platform for the CG
(Commanding General) to admire. The division XO
(executive officer), a brigadier general stood and
called out in a booming voice, "pass, and review!" The
division band struck up a march, and the show was on.
Two men in the front of the review platform stand up.
One is in uniform-- the CG, the other is "the
Honorable" himself, in the flesh, and damn I'm close.
I descended from the bleachers and moved even closer,
to a nice vantage point next to a Green Beret Master
Sergeant.

A word on security: I passed no security checkpoints,
secret service or otherwise. I just wandered up within
a clear sight picture of The Honorable. The troops had
their weapons with bayonets fixed, but without
magazines or drums. But MP's had clips in their 9mms.
I could see only one obvious secret serviceman on the
platform. There had to be more undercover, but it
seemed pretty lax. I coulda been anyone who bought a
used uniform at a surplus store, snuck on base and
walked right on up.

A word on appearance: besides being America's
"Strategic Response Force," the 82nd is also the
Army's crown jewel. A fucking spit 'n starch dog and
pony show. It is known simply as "The Division." A
post combat division review was guaranteed to be
clean. They would've been polishing and scrubbing for
weeks straight, with every level of sub-inspections,
from fire-team to regimental level. This worried me,
because we at the Special Warfare Center and School
are almost the opposite. Most guys that go SF do so
partly to escape the bullshit of the regular army.
This includes to no small end, garrison appearance
practices. The rigorous starching and ironing of
Battle Dress Uniforms. The hours wasted with cotton
balls and Kiwi, polishing our boots to an obsidian
shine. We share the attitude that sharp instincts, not
sharp trouser creases will kill the enemy. We don't
have to starch our uniforms, and we don't really even
have to iron them. Just as long as they don't look
straight out of the duffle bag. And our boots needn't
be spit shinned. A good brush shine is the standard,
but you're good as long as they're visibly black. As
for cover (head gear), we wear PC's (patrol caps)
everywhere. Normally, PC's are only worn when training
in the field. When In garrison at Bragg, soldiers wear
maroon paratrooper berets. I don't even have a maroon
beret yet. So there I am in the faded PC I wore
through airborne school. It's floppy and dirty with
pronounced salt rings. There are jagged cat eyes sewn
in the back-- strips of glow-in-the-dark tape that
keep me visible to my teammates on night patrol. My
uniform has the faint memory of creases from some long
ago in-ranks inspection in Baumholder. I brush-shined
my boots for the occasion, but they had a layer of
dust from the trek to the parade ground. I was
relieved to see that the 82nd was sporting DCUs
(Desert Camouflage Uniform) to commemorate their
return from the sandbox. This was lowering their
standard, as the boots are non-shineable suede. But
they had their berets smartly shaped and they even
starched and pressed their DCUs, which is unheard of.
So now I stood out even more, the only asshole in
jungle BDUs and PC. To top things off, I had shaved
the night before, instead of at 0515 that morning (and
I'd done a lousy job after watching a playoff game at
the bar around the corner). So I had a shabby 12 hours
worth of stubble.

The Division passed in full splendor, looking as proud
and magnificent as advertised. Their rifles and
machine guns looked straight off the production line,
their bayonets gleaming. The CG proudly bullshat with
The Honorable, who clapped and nodded approvingly with
the passing of each element. After the lowest
personnel clerks put the "nance" in finance, an
aeronautic team did a fly-by. The squadrons of Kiowas,
Blackhawks and Apaches buzzed in slow and low in wedge
formation. Looking at The Honorable, I wondered what
it must feel like to lord over so much goddamn power.

After the festivities, I decided to stick around for
egress, just to see how they would get the old man out
of there. The brass and VIPs in the review stand
mingled for about 10 minutes before trickling out and
walking up a flag lined sidewalk. I saw a Green Beret
3 star general, which is the highest ranking dude I've
ever seen. His aide, a major, was blocking for him as
he moved through the crowd. Eventually some MPs came
to clear the walkway, and I could see a horde leaving
the review stand slowly heading our way. There were TV
cameras and a mild commotion, indicating The
Honorable. Some lady said, "here he comes!" And there
he was, with that cold smile, stopping every now and
then to greet people and shake hands. He was 25 ft and
closing, 15, 10, damn he's close. I was sucked into
this group of about 10 guys from the 82nd who were
going for the greetings. I was just going to watch him
pass 5 feet from me, but this big ol' 82nd vet in a
mesh hat covered in Nam pins barged in front of me,
gushing, "I wish I coulda served under you, sir!" or
some bullshit to that effect. I filled in this guy's
wake, and suddenly I was right there. The Honorable
was in a hurry, so it seemed, to turn away from this
vet and get on up the path. I thought "fuck it" and
extended my hand. He must've seen me out of his
periphery, on account of my unique uniform. He had
almost passed me by, but quickly turned back and took
my hand. The instant our hands clenched, I felt a
weird chill jolt through me. Like I'd just closed a
deal with the devil. Like in cheesy horror flicks when
demons are passed on contact and the actor flinches
and the soundtrack does a quick eerie hit of the
violins. I was ready to do my master's bidding.
A pregnant awkward moment passed as we locked eyes
and shook hands. Awkward for several reasons: 1) I was
speechless. Everyone else who approached to meet him
had something to say, like the gushing vet. "It's an
honor to meet you!" "Thank you!" "Keep up the effort!"
or even just a murmured "hooah", to which he could
give a stock response like, "God bless you" or "thank
you for your hard work." These exchanges create a
familiar pattern for public figures. There is a rhythm
to each exchange. And this was not like a campaign
stop with 20 seconds of quick shakes and baby kisses
with a ten deep crowd. There was just a handful of
uniformed soldiers and vets, and The Honorable was
just moseying to his ride. He took careful time to
pause with each enlisted man, look them in the eye,
shake their hand and exchange pleasantries. This
familiar pattern ended abruptly with me. Not that I
meant to give him the silent treatment. I didn't
really plan to get that close at all. I just gently
floated there with the human tide and watched myself
extend my hand. So I was befuddled by the heaviness of
it, the adrenaline whacked me out. Here was by far the
most powerful man I had ever shook hands with. the
only person that comes close is Corozon Aquino. Then a
distant third is giving 5 to MC Hammer at a Blazer
game in the early 90's. No, here I'm holding the hand
that has signed off on a lot of heavy shit. Wholesale
slaughter of hundreds of thousands of ragheads comes
to mind. And I'm just a pawn in his game.
Another reason I'm speechless is I didn't know how to
address him. He is way up at the top of my chain of
command, but he is a civilian, so is it "sir?"?
"Mister Secretary"? I just jammed up. I had no
greeting or salutation. With celebrities, I usually do
some smartass reference to one of their worst pieces
of work. Like when I met Donald Sutherland and told
him, "I loved you in Animal House! I'm a big fan." But
I can't get smart with this lording superior, no
matter how tempting it is. I can't run up and say,
"Mr. Secretary, I loved you in the Abu Garib scandal,
love your stuff, how 'bout a picture?"
I was also stammering because I have mixed feelings
for the guy. He was my hero during Afghanistan. I love
his cantankerous Pentagon press briefings. He has been
especially great for Special OPs. He believes in SF,
and he gave them virtual free reign in Afghan and
Iraq, leading to the second coming of SF. The ramp up
that has me here at Bragg. He is single-handedly
reforming our military from a Cold War beast to a
quick strike modern warfare killing machine. But this
cold hand I'm shaking also signed quite a few
stop-loss extensions, extended tours-- pissed off a
lot of soldiers in general. And if I'm to be at all
swayed by the liberal critics, including those in my
family, the guy don't give a shit about Joe (G.I.___,
lower enlisted grunt). He is pure evil, huh? Damn
right, and that's what I like from a man holding his
title. An unapologetically evil hawk. An unwavering
"mission first" kinda guy. He's just doing the job his
superior ordered him to do. Sounds like I have some
sympathy for the old devil.

So no shit-- there we were. He had granted me 5-7
seconds of his busy life, and I was like, "LINE?" He
pumped my hand anticipating the rhythm to continue. I
say something stock, he gives a stock reply and moves
on. But I'm standing there suddenly painfully aware
that I'm wearing my confusion on my face. Instead of
the usual warm smile, my jaw is agape, nostrils
flared, brow furled, like "what the fuck?!" As soon as
I felt this expression, I realized that it must've
looked unfriendly. I could tell that I'd fucked up his
rhythm, and he was waiting for SOMETHING. In the
discomfort, he tried to enhance his smile, which
looked even more forced, and his default squint
narrowed even further. I unconsciously adapted with
the nonverbal communication phenomenon of expression
matching. Without thinking, I myself squinted in
return, then tried to smile, which ended up like a
hostile gnashed teeth grimace. He must've thought he
had a disgruntled soldier on his hands. Had I been
one, I sure had the perfect chance to unleash my
feelings. Not that I was trying to out-squint him.
Shit, don't fuck with a guy who can out-squint Jon
Voight. This guy is second only to Squint Eastwood
himself, when it comes to squint power. He is one
western diamondback lookin' motherfucker.
When my 5-7 seconds were up, he moved on up the
promenade to his armored black suburban. I walked away
not so much with a good excited adrenaline buzz, but
shuddering with creepy goosebump shivers. An MP
halted me as the short motorcade of suburbans blew by
on the way to Pope AFB. Soldiers came to attention and
saluted, others waved. I just stared indifferently. On
my way back to the barracks, I saw his white lear jet
scream over the tree line back to D.C.

Name That Tunesmith Redux

Washington Canard points to an aggressively pointless piece of commercial art in which allusions to 74 band names can be found. His crack team of music geeks is nearing the solution to the puzzle, with little help from me, but I thought the whole enterprise might go gentler if it included a little bit of low-hanging fruit. So here's my version:

Where is the water, mama?

So, how can a week be awesome? Here's how:

1. It's Tuesday of Dead Week, with 3 finals looming and 2/3 of a 30 page writing project not yet actually in existence.

2. You just made a really ripping turkey soup, all mire poix and jalepeno and barley just itching to tear it up.

3. You just got cable again on Monday, and Colbert Report is on.

4. As you sit down to eat, you hear a buzzing, crackling sound from the kitchen.

5. Within minutes, one of the electrical outlets in the kitchen is emitting acrid rubbery smoke.

6. Panicked, you run out to the fuse box and flip any switch that'll cut power to that outlet.

7. The first one you find also happens to cut power to everything but the stove and the water heater.

8. Did I mention it was well after dark?

9. Cursing your ass luck, you fumble in the dark to find a less complete circuit breaker, unaided by the gibberish scribbled in the fuse box, but your efforts only result in more smoke and a power surge.

10. Leaving the power off, you open up the suspect outlet and discover a nightmare cave of cobwebs, well-entrenched rust, and copious rainwater trickling onto open electrical points. We got the results back from the lab, and we think we know what the problem is.

11. You stand there in the dark, making simple calculations: it is unsafe to be in this house with the power turned on, and impossible with the power turned off.

12. The result, arrived at at 8:30PM, is: empty the fridge, dump tasty perishables at a cousin's house, pack up sundry essentials and all four pets, shut down the house, and flee 135 miles north to the in-laws' place.

13. Try, so far in vain, to contact landlord.

14. Deal with your ass-pile of studying sometime later, and be glad your first final is on the 7th. (Yes, infamy and all of that.)

15. And to top it off, on the way up, a McDonald's in Albany served me a hamburger into which they must have accidentally spilled an entire salt shaker.

Been refugees since Tuesday, but today, good news: I drove down here and was able to isolate a smaller power circuit dealing with the problem area, and leaving that one off, I have restored power to 80% of the house, including such vital areas as the heating, fridge, stove, water heater, microwave, and laundry. But some areas remain impassable and without power. It's like a one-house natural disaster up in here. The outside wall of the kitchen, and all of the outlets in the living room, are our own private Lower Ninth Ward.

So, this explains my, FLOGette's, and Zuma's absence if anyone was wondering. Zuma was also out of town last Friday for Thanksgiving. Blogging pales in comparison to turkey giblets and the bits of stuffing that roll off the counter.