Blather

2012-01-20T18:59:00.000-08:00

Tonight I'm resting up from shoveling gravel in the backyard. Watching TV, I thought about my time in Iraq. One of the nicer memories was Heskette. She was a kitten that lived under the pallets outside the Brits' PX. Being small and young, she was at the mercy of the other cats. But she knew that humans were OK. She was very food-driven. I'd sit in one of the cheap aluminum deck chairs outside the container hooch that was the PX and she'd come by. She wasn't fussy; Heskette ate anything that I did. Poor silly girl, she even tried to eat my lit cigar a few times. She never learned that a lit cigar isn't a good thing to eat. The photo above is her second home, the former motor pool. After the Brits pulled out, they took the hooches and removed the pallets that were the adjacent patio. Her mother, another cat I called Gigi, wasn't very maternal. I guess an adult cat was just more competition in the fang-and-tooth world of FOB Quebec. Heskette was smaller, so she had to live wherever Gigi wouldn't bother her. I think she lived for awhile in a tree next to the main building. For awhile, she lived in the motor pool. That's where she was living when I took this photo of her. Jeff and I had snuck a bit of chicken out of the chow hall. She knew us, and even let us hold her so we could put the just-visible flea collar on her. After living there for awhile, she moved to a storage space under the building. We moved to Camp Bucca. Then I went on leave. When I got back, she was nowhere to be seen. A few times I'd walk by where I thought she could be, but I didn't see her again.

Had a few happy moments with this feline. I'd give her a bit to eat, smoke a cigar, and wonder how I got to the same place Alexander the Great did, just a couple of millenia apart. Once or twice, she'd put her face under my elbow, closing off her ears and eyes to the world. I interpreted this as a lot of trust- that I would neither eat her nor let another animal eat her. When I got back from Iraq, I found a couple more cats in California, but they have their own stories.

Maybe Afghanistan

2012-01-17T19:05:00.000-08:00

Today I phoned FedSys. My recruiter wasn't there today, so I'll try again tomorrow. If all goes well, I'll be spending a year overseas. I'm not too worried about the work. I am hoping that I get the job because I need the money. Lots of questions about my homes. I might be able to keep the Hayward house, with me making the payments from my salary.

Of course, I'll have to consult with my attorney about my interminable alimony. I'm inclined to insist on rent from my ex, but I'll see how the numbers work out. Ideally, I'd like to be at a break-even point: send her as much alimony as I collect in rent. If I end up out of pocket by a bit, I won't feel too bad.

I'm hoping to earn enough money to do one of two things- pay down my Hayward mortgage so I can afford to live in the house, then rent the Stockton house for a bit of extra money since my retirement is pretty small, or rent the Hayward house and live in Stockton. I might like to do that, since Stockton isn't bad at all. And if I live in Stockton, I might also buy a third house, as a rental.

Today I saw that my former Fort Benning battle buddy is going to be there at the end of this month. His Facebook post had a reply from a guy whom I might know. He noted that the CRC in Indiana wasn't as good as Georgia, and to bring some warm clothes. I'll pack accordingly, if I go.

But all the good stuff is dependent on getting the job. Tomorrow may be the beginning.

A good Stockton day

2012-01-07T19:56:00.000-08:00

Pretty good day today. Yesterday, my small son and I moved the old couch out onto the porch and set up the bed that was mine when I was a child. (Richie used it in San Luis Obispo when he was living there.) Much more comfy than I'd expected, since the mattress was a bit tired, but I slept well. Really well. This morning, I slept in a bit, waking to the sound of the pellet stove's blower spinning. In the adjacent room, Richie had disassembled the pellet stove. I got dressed, fixed oatmeal and Tetley's for brekkie, then went to see how he was doing. He showed me a rather hefty auger that drives pellets up and then they drop into the firebox. The auger hadn't been spinning. One end was crusty with some sort of lubricant residue, so I cleaned it off. When he put it back, the auger worked. We shoved the heavy stove back into the fireplace and I wrapped some aluminum tape (good stuff!) around the exhaust vent. Took us awhile to get the pellets lit, since we were new to pellet stoves. They kept going out, but finally we got 'em going and they've stayed lit for about five hours now. The living room is nice and warm; the adjacent rooms are not as cozy, but far more livable than before we started putting some BTUs into that end of the house.

Oh, the day also included some yardwork and I cleaned up the kitchen a bit, but the best part of today was making half the house far more comfortable than it was yesterday.

Still have to try dialing in the blower speed and the feed rate. To my uneducated eyes, it seems that there's too much air and not quite enough pellets, but only by a bit.

With this plateau, making Stockton my permanent home is that much closer. This time I brought out my two BMX bikes. Next time I'll bring Schaffe's bicycle and some of my other bikes. My too-tall bike runs, but its name is indicative of why I shouldn't try BMX stuff on it- it's too tall for my short inseam. Might bring some bedroom furniture and some of my closet stuff, too. Tomorrow I might try working in the two closets- rip out the rugs, paint the walls, find the closet poles and the folding doors so no one has to look at my messy closets when I begin sleeping there.

Not the most productive day ever, but I'm happy with the results.

2012-01-06T00:53:00.000-08:00

For Christmas, my big son Richie got me some tickets to "Xanadu the Musical" at the New Conservatory Theatre Center. (Let's remain positive regarding their choice of name- they chose the British "Theatre" but the American "Center." Yeah, only *I* would notice this lexical hiccup. Well, let's get beyond that, OK?

Richie took me to dinner at a very good Italian restaurant in downtown Hayward, Buon Apetito, then to see "Xanadu the Musical." He is a bit less acquisitive than I am, so he favors gifts that don't take up space in one's closet. (Discussion of various overcrowded closets is tabled for another time.) I had lamb with tomato and polenta, washed down with a glass of nice wine. We had a nice, post-rush-hour drive to San Francisco, and hit the Holy Grail for us knee-jerk cheapskates: a free parking spot on Van Ness 100 feet south of Market Street. I was a happy camper. We hiked all of 200 yards to the theater, got our tickets at will-call and had a half-hour to kill. The Chinese cafe on the corner sold excellent take-away coffee, so we took away a cup and strolled San Francisco. Cool shop windows interspersed with clumps of street people sizing us up for possible panhandling. Even in my casual best, I wasn't enough of a toff to get accosted. Saw fire trucks come screaming out of a station, going the wrong way on two intersecting streets. Then it was time to look for our seats.

'Twas a small theater, so the stage was tiny. But the cast was terrific!! Kira (Olivia Newton-John's role) was very good, very young and very pretty. Sonny Malone (Micheal Beck's role) was a great actor, funny and confident enough to wear goofy 80's clothing. Gene Kelly's part, Danny McGuire, went to an older guy who was both a good singer and funny in an almost burlesque manner. Two muses stole the show- a rather pretty gal who got very un-pretty by wearing goofy hair and glasses, and a saftig gal with an outstanding voice and a ton of moxie. These two really carried the plot which differed from the movie. In this production, the two sister muses conspired, amid lots of hysterical cackling, to make Kira and Sonny fall in love, a serious Mount Olympus faux pas. They were perfect as malicious siblings, but in a very funny, non-threatening way. This wasn't a serious play, just an excuse to sing a lot, skate a little, and have bunches of campy fun. They poked fun at a lot of things, including themselves. Of necessity, Zeus had to note that if Kira stopped being a muse, there would be no creative work in "the arts" for several decades, beginning in 1980. And there was a hilarious moment when this led to a pessimistic appraisal of a bad movie's music getting thrown at a group of actors in a futile attempt to revive a thin plot. Yep, if you can laugh at yourself, you're all right with me.

Probably because the cast had to be small, they only had seven muses, six of whom had a second role, but allowed two of the muse sisters to be in the "technical box" at the back of the theater. (Hey, someone had to wind up the lighting and music, right?) And in an only-in-San Francisco way, two of the muse sisters were guys, again with a lot of individual, personal confidence. A few costume changes, some rolling scenery and some pretty good mikes up in the air made for a not-so-complex production. But the best part was the singing and fun everyone had. Sonny broke the fourth wall frequently, had a lot of tongue-in-cheek lines and the personality to go with that approach. Kira put on a very hokey Aus-try-lee-ann accent. (We all know where Olivia Newton-John is from, right?) For the scene when Gene Kelly recalls his youth, she becomes Kitty, with an equally broad and annoying Southern Belle accent. One of the male sisters was a terrific dancer, and slid onto the stage when Gene Kelly was recalling his youth with Kitty/Kyra, tap-dancing and dancing with Kyra. She and two female sisters did the 40's medley of songs, and Sonny and the two male sisters, now dressed in suitably macho punk slashed jeans, did the modern hard-rock stuff. Really fun, really good. The other male sister muse got a second role as Mercury, messenger from Zeus and brought the house down the way he dissed Kira when she moaned about Zeus' impending anger. Kira and two of the other females sang the 40's medley while Sonny and the two male sisters, dressed in suitably punkish slashed-levis, sleeveless jacket clothes, did a great number, eventually filling the stage with six talented and dancing actors.

I guess I expected a low-budget version of the movie. The music kinda got shuffled around a bit, Richie noted a couple of ELO songs that weren't in the movie, but the plot wasn't badly bruised. The movie scenes where Sonny argues with his boss were gone, just not essential to the story. We agreed that all you needed for the plot to work was for Sonny and Kira to "fall in love," so the office stuff wasn't needed. The scenes with Zeus were a bit different, with three sisters putting on ridiculously big wigs on and trying to stick up for Kyra. The gal who played Euterpe was an outstanding dancer, tall and willowy yet strong and never hesitant in her gestures. The program says she trained with Ann Reinking's Broadway Theater Project. (Who could forget Ann Reinking in "All That Jazz?" What a dancer!!)

The big finale with everyone on roller skates was more like a couple of slowly-rotating pinwheels, but the small size of the stage meant no one had much chance to skate well. There was a cool scene where Sonny got into a telephone booth and sang with Kira as she rolled the booth across the stage. When he exited the stage, he was on skates. Oh, all right, not the most difficult of sleight-of-hand, but everyone gasped a bit at the "magic."

Not sure how often you get to the city, but if you have a chance, go see this schmalzy, warm, funny bit of theater that will end soon in the middle of January. Thumbs way up!!! I dare you not to sing along and laugh at the humor. This was a terrific show, woo hooo!

One down, ten to go

2011-08-10T22:20:00.000-07:00

This is the first room done. Done as in "no more needs doing." The walls are fixed and primed, the ceiling is uniformly white. I put some darker yellow, slightly orange trim along the baseboards and on the door edges, with white semi-gloss on the window casings and the single panels on the doors. I put new mortise locksets in the doors, new porcelain knobs on the built-in dresser, and even got drawer liner in the built-in dresser. The bed is my son's, stashed in storage because he broke the side rail and one of the slats. I repaired the slat, built another slat, and put a steel screw into the broken part of the side rail before re-assembling the whole thing. Bed is nice. Everything's great- lights, paint, floors, blinds, bed.

The living room is almost done. I patched the 3" hole my son made to pull wires. Getting pretty good at patching round holes in plaster walls. I'll touch-up the yellow walls, then put a coat of white semi-gloss on the baseboards. I patched holes in the bathroom, also so we could re-wire the room, and I'll try to put some light green semi-gloss on the walls. The light fixture that was there looks much better with a coat of blue-green metalic paint. (The clods that had the house before us had hit the fixture a few times with a paint roller.)

Got some yardwork to do, but I'm trying to focus on the inside of the house for now. One down, ten to go.

You can't go home again

2011-08-01T22:49:00.000-07:00

This post should be about the way I feel about the five of us and the title, "You can't go home again."

It's been two weeks since my ex-wife, daughter and small son moved into part of my Stockton house. They'd been evicted for non-payment; my big son and I helped them move all their stuff into two storage lockers and some at my house. They showed up and began occupying one large room and one small room. In the last two weeks, things have been very different for me. The five of us have spent time together, but being together isn't like before the divorce.

For the last five years, the divorce has caused me a lot of heartburn. I got stuck with huge alimony and my ex got huge chunks of money. She spent it all, even losing her inherited house to foreclosure. The list of grievances goes on, but this isn't about the grievances, it's about the last two weeks and how I got to this confused condition.

I was working in the Stockton house when they drove up. My ex looked amazingly different. I remember seeing a strong woman, albeit hostile. That woman was replaced by a weak, haggard one. She shuffled into the room wearing pull-on slippers, the kind my mom wore while she was sick from cancer. Her hair was grey for six inches at the roots, but auburn for a similar length at the tips. Her shoulders were very thin, but she was pear-shaped, with a lot of mass around her stomach and hips. She was very weak.

My daughter continued to care for her, making sure she had a bed and something to eat and drink. In many ways, my daughter is in charge. She decides what to do, when to begin and how to get accomplish what needs doing.

My small son is around, but remains very passive about many things. When not asked to do anything, he's glued to his computer, playing games. He can be helpful, but doesn't volunteer much, nor does he see a need and take care of it. He has helped a lot with yardwork; he's installed outlets and breakers, pulled wires for them and even painted a bit. He's capable, but not very ambitious.

My big son and I drive to Stockton in the morning, work, then come back in the evening. To get more done, I've spent several nights there, sleeping in Last Resort. One evening, I talked with my daughter about how long they'd be living with me. My daughter wants to find a job, get an apartment and move into her own place. This is a plan, but she has no way to accomplish her goal. Moving into an apartment will require about $3000 and she said they don't have that much money. They have no income except my ex's half of my retirement. After the eviction, their credit is even more tarnished.

There's a medical tail wagging their financial dog. My ex still has an open incision, needing a couple of months to heal. After that, she'll need more surgery to remove the colostomy bag, and that'll need more time to heal. No one is certain, but it looks like six months to a year before my ex will be physically able to care for herself. My daughter can look for work, but a job that conflicts with her care-giving will be difficult. I mentioned them being there for Christmas, and I think that's very likely.

On another occasion, I asked my ex to sit outside and talk with me. This is the tricky part, since I'm not sure what prompted me to be so friendly. We sat under the awning in camping chairs. I smoked a cigar and she didn't gripe about the second-hand smoke. The conversation wandered a bit, with me telling her that I was afraid she'd get me angry. She knows where my hot buttons are and I was nervous that she'd find an unexpected one and push it firmly. She replied that she couldn't because without me, they'd have nowhere to live. If I got angry and told her to leave, she'd have nowhere to go. The implicit part is that she has to be nice, or she'll be homeless. Hard to argue with that logic.

Oh, there has been a minor irritation- they watch bad TV. It irks me when I go in to take a break. I grab a water bottle and sit down for a few minutes, but I leave quickly because they watch the kind of TV that requires no intelligence. This is not a deal-killing facet, since I can change the channel if I want, though I seldom do so because I want to get back to work.

The strange part, the key to this whole post, is that I missed having my family very much. I'm not sorry I divorced her, but I regretted not being together with my kids. More than once, I'd mentioned to my big son that if I hadn't divorced his mom, we'd still be together, even if my ex and I slept in different rooms. Well, we are together again, but things aren't the same. Sure, they're pleasant enough, but not the same.

Tomorrow we're taking a load of their stuff to them, a pickup bed full of boxes and my trailer full of bookshelves and bedding. They seem to have found a home in my big family room, and the small room is better organized than it was. I think they'll put some stuff in my storage container container, but we're all downsizing. They used to have a large 2500-square-foot townhouse, and now they're occupying about 500 square feet. When I get the Stockton house ready, I'll rent my Hayward house and move to Stockton, too. Not sure how we'll cram all their stuff and my stuff into one small house, but we'll worry about that later.

We're all five back under the same roof, but we're not the same. I reckon you can't go home again. Maybe things will improve. I don't know. I'll remain confused and hopeful about the future, but for now, I'm not "home again."

Reality nibbles

2011-07-07T17:16:00.000-07:00

Today my big son walked to his bank, then to BART for a trip to San Francisco. No big deal, right? Well, I had a strange moment. He's 40 years old, twice as big as I am, very capable at everything. But I had this compulsion to drive him, so he wouldn't have to walk. As he said "Bye" and closed the door, I saw a very large man with my eyes, but my heart saw this happy, round-faced little boy who depended on me for everything. He is very much able to walk a mile and ride the train to the City, but he's still my little boy.

The moment passed quickly enough. I went into the yard and did some gardening.

In a few minutes, my daughter texted me, asking if I were going to be around or go to Stockton. I phoned her and left a voicemail, saying I'd be here, but please call if she wanted to come over. She didn't call back. This moment left a different echo in me. Something she wants, but can't articulate because there is some sort of split in what used to be my family. The divorce wasn't just between my ex-wife and me, it includes the children. No, not legally, but pretty effectively. Their form of hostility is passive-aggressive: by not saying anything, they are effectively cutting me out of their lives. This sad condition arises from their mom's approach. By being silent, no one can accuse her of being rude.

But that's her approach, not mine. I communicate with my children, even if they don't reciprocate. That's my approach.

Yet I had a feeling that I wasn't doing enough with my big son when he left this afternoon. Yep, monoculture is hard to understand.

My San Francisco

2010-12-06T21:59:00.000-08:00

While in Iraq, I wrote about the Iraq I saw. This is about the San Francisco I see.

Dickens Fair is something I played with before retirement, the divorce, Iraq. Yesterday I was in the Cow Palace, kitted out in funny clothes. No, not the ballistic armor and weapons I wore in Iraq, but a "toff" outfit: Top hat, blue-and-gold cravat, stick pin, vest, cutaway coat, black tuxedo pants, grey gloves and shiny boots. I sat at a wooden picnic table in semi-dark, seeing the painted timbers of the Cow Palace above the painted facade of the food booth. People walked by, dressed like Victorian folks, some a bit more outlandish than others. There was sawdust on the floor, a practical attempt to simulate snow. Outside, San Francisco drizzled; inside, the air was cool, but not frigid. The folks were an amalgam of entertainers, food preparers, security and participants.

I participated in the Adventurer's Club. My friend Julianna, playing the role of Jenny Lind, greeted me and introduced me as P. T. Barnum, a complete shock to me. But I went along- I talked off the top of my head about Jumbo the elephant, Tom Thumb, an 18"-tall man, and my own creation, a way to get gawkers out of my show: a sign that read, "To the Egress." Later during the morning, I met Charles Darwin who discoursed on evolution. I posed a few questions about albinos, twins, and similar issues with the new concept of evolution. Later, just as the day closed, we had "Toasties," an event where the actors make toasts to various worthwhile concepts. Mr. Darwin proposed a toast to me, very much surprising me.

Around lunch, I got my picture taken with a pretty girl who lives in Germany. As we posed, she took my elbow and leaned in towards me, a moment of slight but pleasant intimacy I hadn't expected.

I had a drink with my friend Patrick, who will run the School of the Renaissance Soldier in April. We had a nice couple of minutes with the bartender as we drank.

My big son and I watched a few excellent shows. He and I get along well, a situation that's improved since all the drama with the divorce. I'm glad he's around.

My day started out in a darkened food court, and ended with a warm event. Not a bad day at all.

A Goood Wednesday

2010-11-11T17:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my big son and I went to the Stockton house. For a couple of weeks, we'd been working at ripping up the ruined floors. The breezeway, glued wood strips over leveling concrete and the hallway, glued Pergo over concrete, took a long time because where the wood was rotted, we had to scrape the glue off and where the wood wasn't rotted, it was hard to peel the glue off. And because the termite guys said to leave the materials in the house so the termites would get killed instead of merely annoyed, walking around meant stepping over (or tripping over) ripped-up boards.

But that's over- we loaded all the debris into my truck. Then we loaded the old rug from the upper bedroom, including the closet. Then the pad. Then the linoleum from the dining area. Then the linoleum from the laundry room. Then the ruined bath vanity. Then the ruined plywood counter in the front patio. Then we took a walk around the lot, looking for the odd piece of trash- a bit wood here, a paper cup there, and even the old tire.

An easy ride to the Material Transfer Station and $18 later, my truck was empty. When we went back, the place smelled better and looked infinitely better. Are we 5% done? 10% done? I don't know. But we made a big dent in getting the place fixed up. Next trip out, we'll try to get the lower bath's sink installed and the lower bath's toilet fixed so we can have two bathrooms.

I'll begin putting paper on the hardwood floors, tape plastic over the fireplace, doors and windows, and shoot the first coat of primer onto the gloss black walls in the upper living room. I'm not sure who thought a gloss black living room was a good idea, but it's sure not my vision of a living room.

Yep, we still have a lot to do. But yesterday we made a very noticeable difference. A good Wednesday, indeed.

Day One

2010-10-21T23:06:00.000-07:00

Met my realtor at the house and got the keys. He gave me a sketch of the house and other documents. The official title is still not there. My big son and I went to Home Depot and got some deadbolts, came back and installed 'em. My neighbor came over and said "Hi." She's a nice lady. We started a list of things that need doing, some immediately, others afterwards. We need the pump replaced, something we knew before I went ahead with the deal. After we have water, we'll get a septic inspection. My son and I will take ladders and remove some satellite dishes. We'll remove some flooring and see what we can do with the inside of the house. Once we have gas and electricity, we can do a bit more work.

I smoked my celebratory cigar while I was installing the deadbolts, then finished it on the walk around the yard. This cigar came with me from Iraq. I'd been saving the cigar for a special occation. I think smoking in my own house counts as a special occasion.

'Tis somewhat premature, but I'm hoping to have Thanksgiving Dinner there. A gazillion things to take care of- a new stove, new floors, yardwork, repair the sections of fence, etc. We've got to remove/replace some mudsill and fix a broken glass in the front door. Yep, there are a lot of chores in my future.

But we're talking about "my house," so that'll help a lot.

Done Deal

2010-10-20T12:09:00.001-07:00

My broker emailed me today, forwarding an email from the title company. Since my house was an all-cash deal, I don't have to go in and sign documents. The company will send him the stuff I need- title, title insurance, etc. But it's a done deal.

I'm a homeowner. Oh, sure, for four decades, I've been IRS's version of a "homeowner," a person paying a mortgage and having the tax benefits thereof. But as of today, I own a home free and clear.

I have been trying to wrap my brain around that concept, but it's still new. I can live in this Stockton house without a mortgage. I'll always have taxes, but those have always been rolled into the concept of a mortgage.

This house needs a lot of work, and a few big-ticket items are in my immediate future. I'll have to buy a pump for the well. And I've got to get about $2900 worth of termite remediation. Beyond that, the whole house will get a make-over: paint, rugs, tile, maybe some new kitchen cabinets. And since the house is lacking a garage, I'll have to get a couple of storage containers to be my workshop.

But these are details that I'll deal with later. The good part is, I still have a bit of money with which to pay for these repairs. My original goal was to get a home for $100,000, all told. I don't know if I'll make that goal, but I think I'll be close.

Today I've got other things to take care of. And Friday I have a dentist appointment. But tomorrow I'll go out and collect the keys to my home. A couple of immediate repairs seem a good idea- the gate to the driveway is off the hinge, so I'll have to fix that. There are a couple of sections of fence that have fallen, so I'll try to do something with that as well. And we can't go out there without a few bottles of water so we can drink something. Even if we don't shower there, we'll need to flush the toilets, and that'll require water from our well.

Yep, lots of things to worry about. But for the moment, I'll try to get used to being a homeowner, someone without a mortgage.

Almost Escrow

2010-10-19T00:17:00.000-07:00

Been a busy few days. I'm working my butt off, trying to get this house in order and trying to buy another one. Plus, I've got a temporary cap on a chipped front tooth. And I've forwarded a resume.

In the last few weeks, my son and I have installed a granite slab in the kitchen counter and fabricated a big stainless-steel backsplash for the stove. I attacked a huge part of the back yard that has been neglected. I dug out some feral saplings, berry bushes, weeds and even rescued a couple of bicycles.

More recently, I've knocked down a small retaining wall, built another, dug with a pickaxe and shovel, remodeled the flower bed, installed sprinklers and raked and raked. I still want to modify what I've done- I need to lower the PVC pipe so the sprinkler heads will be level with the lawn. And I could get some flowers for the bed, then attach some drip irrigation. Wednesday, the rolls of sod will be at the rock shop for me to pick up. I've got some extra dirt to wheelbarrow into the back yard and some paving bricks to set into the ground. I've done a lot, and I can see light at the end of my gardening slave-labor tunnel.

I juggle my emails, voice mails, calls to my dentist and calls from my realtor with calls to my credit union and scanned docs to the escrow company. But I *am* getting close to owning a house. 'Tis an older house, with a lot of issues, but it's on 3/4 of an acre in a quiet residential street across the street from a light industrial area. The insurance guy wants to know about fire hydrant locations, thermostats, emergency gas shut-off valves, etc.

The house has two definite bedrooms, two nice living rooms, a formal dining room, a nice dining area adjacent to the kitchen, two bathrooms, and a nice, large laundry room. The living and dining rooms have hardwood floors, but the living room is painted in gloss black. I'm guessing that the living room will need at least two coats of white primer to bring the color down to a grey so that some sort of normal color can go on the walls.

Today was a flurry of phone calls, emails, scans and more phone calls, yadda yadda. But the title company finally got the wire transfer from my credit union, so my realtor advises I *might* get a visit from the Roaming Notary (not the Roaming Gnome) tomorrow to sign a bunch of papers. I'm hoping I'll be a real homeowner soon.

I say that I'm a "homeowner" now, but I'm not. I'm a mortgage payer. This time tomorrow, I might own a home without a mortgage, woo hoo!!

And to curdle the icing on my stress cake, I'm also waiting to see how a Border Mentor job application goes. My resume went forward last Friday; today's Monday and I haven't heard a peep. Well, I guess big corporations need a day or so just to clear their corporate throat before they say much to me. The recuiter I spoke with on Thursday said he'd forward my resume to the right folks in Afghanistan and they'd decide if they could use me. I like the work, enjoy being with military guys, and feel good about seeing money come in that I control.

So- my house is occupying a lot of my time and sweat; the Stockton house is a pit of emails, scans, voicemails, etc.; my tooth isn't right, but maybe on Friday it'll be better; and I am beginning to think of myself as just temporary here, waiting to see how my job (that hasn't yet materialized) will get me to Fort Benning, Dubai and Afghanistan.

But I guess the biggest thing happening to me right now is being within hours of owning a home. Though I've worked for a lot of years, I've never really owned a house- just signed mortgages. My ex-wife almost lost this house for me five years ago, but as a single guy, I'm very happy to pay cash for a modest house. Sure, it's not as nice as this house, but it'll be mine. with no mortgage, woo hoo!!

Hubba Hubba for the Hubba Hubba Revue

2010-08-10T00:19:00.000-07:00

Last Monday, I begged off, so I didn't go. Tonight, I had no excuse, so my big son took me to the Hubba Hubba Revue in Oakland, across the street from the Fox Oakland theater. Parking was easy- lots of parking on the curb and no meters. We paid $5 per head then went inside. We had a beer apiece at $4 each, and I tipped the happy, smiling bar gal $2. We went into the converted warehouse- it had 20' ceilings and nice hardwood floors, with half-round tables screwed to the wall and a few bar stools. We chatted a bit until the show started around 10:15 PM. Two guys came out and announced the different girls. The first one was the ticket seller gal who did her ecdysiast thing. She was chubbier than I noticed, but she danced well, and the extra kilo or two of female flesh did nothing to diminish her attractiveness.

A couple more came out and stripped to different music. Between performers, the two guys got us to applaud, told a brief joke and announced the next girl. One girl from Los Angeles was very cute, but my favorite was a funny and talented girl from Seattle. The guy doing the introductions mentioned that Seattle was either the top of the United States or the butt of Canada. This gal is a great performer, going through the requisite disrobing but speaking volumes with her facial expressions, looking at different people in the audience.

I'm not sure how many gals performed- maybe six or eight in each half of the show. When they had intermission, I went out and had a cigar while my son finished my beer, since I was driving. We came back, enjoyed more girls showing us their feminine charms. The last girl was the Seattle gal, who entered from the audience in a CHiPs costume and used a photo of Ponch as a prop. She came down into the audience and held the photo up next to lots of people, including me, then she selected someone else to go up on stage and sit in a chair while she dug two pairs of handcuffs out of her skimpy costume. One pair went on the audience person, and she put the other pair on herself. Then she reached around her back and undid the bra while wearing handcuffs.

All in all, this was a great night out with my big son. Nothing but pretty girls, skimpy costumes and dancing.

The Hubba Hubba Revue in Oakland. I'll be back for sure!

Feels Like Home

2010-08-08T20:49:00.000-07:00

Been back from Iraq for twelve days. I no longer fall asleep at six PM and wake up at three in the morning. Today, a nice California Sunday, I woke up at nine with the sun streaming in my window and one of our cats on my bed. I fed our two indoor cats, let them out and took some food to our outdoor cats. Sam, a grey and cream cat, was hiding somewhere, until he decided to saunter over and have some food. He eats more or less regularly with us, but sometimes he's gone for a few days. His tortoise-shell girlfriend Sybil was waiting on the outdoor carpet outside our glass doors. I gave her some kibble and a bit of canned cat food. She ate it and hung around. I petted her a bit, but she's still nervous around people. A long-haired cat, she's rather scruffy-looking from the gazillions of burrs she picks up. When I pet her, I can tell she's got no tissue separating her spine from her skin. She makes a runway model look chubby.

I made breakfast; a bit of Sunday-morning television got me to KQED-FM's broadcast of "Click and Clack" and " A Prairie Home Companion." I turned on the radio in the garage and got my leaf blower from the tool shed. With a bit of starting fluid, it fired right up, but died. I suspected fuel had varnished, since I hadn't fired it up for a long time. So I took the carburetor off. Then the fuel line that went under the housing to the fuel tank disappeared inside the housing. I spent some time looking for all the 5/32" screws that held the housing together and finally got it apart. The fuel lines had hardened, breaking into chunks at the places where they went through the fuel tank. I stopped, not sure how I wanted to proceed. Looking online, the tank and pieces for my ten-year-old leaf blower would cost me about $50; a new one will cost about $100.

I decided to make no decision. I gave Sybil some more food and did a bit of gardening, filling our green waste can and rolling it to the curb. Then I came back to the glass doors and scooped Sybil up. I was a bit nervous about a fearful feral cat's claws. But she surprised me. She tucked her nose under my elbow and rested for a few minutes. When she'd had enough of me, she squirmed and I let her go.

With a few hours till dark, I tackled our sticking screen door that's part of the sliding doors. I saw some scraping on the back part of the screen, so I took it down, ground about 1/8" from the aluminum frame. Then the small wheel's mounting hole got a slot treatment in my vise with a small round file. Before I put it back up, I gave each wheel a small shot of oil. When I put the sliding screen door back, it closed easily.

My big son had planned barbecued chicken, but it was still frozen. His impromptu dinner was baked eggplant with toasted cheese on top, sausages and Acme bread. I had some Gatorade to wash down the meal and gave Sybil a bit more cat food.

When not busy with chores, TV fare included some National Geographic and History International and some bad apocalyptic sci-fi. Hey, it's my television, so I watch what I want.

Tomorrow I'll drive to Stockton in the morning. Later, I may see about fuel line replacement for my leaf blower. If I get back in time, I may start tuning up my chainsaw and weed whacker.

Today was a good day- I slept well, ate well, accomplished a bit of work that I can point to and I have something to look forward to tomorrow.

Feels different from being here for a few weeks of vacation. Feels like home.

In the Bosom of Klecker, Saturday July 18, 2010

2010-07-18T10:07:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in Stan's Cigar Lounge, three wooden benches in Camp Klecker, DynCorp's older compound in Baghdad. I can see a few concrete bunkers, in case mortars drop here. Generators make a constant thrumming sound, diesel exhaust not quite muffled. I am smoking a cigar, sipping water from a one-liter bottle. Last night, several IPAs sat around and talked. You learn what's happening that way. It's hard for me to care very much, yet I can't ignore their observations because they are the ones actually doing something here in Iraq. Off to the right is the large plywood bin overflowing with used bed linen. I don't need any, or I'd paw through the pile until I found a bottom sheet. Yeah, my issued linen is a single flat sheet and a blanket. Not quite like the Amman Sheraton, but adequate. I've learned that you don't need to be quite as fussy about a lot of things as you thought.

In the distance I see the green Evergreen container that is one of many here. That's not the ATO storage one, it's a similar container. Lots of gravel, a few quonset-shaped tents. The gym is part of the bus stop where people wait for a ride to BIAP or Liberty Pad, so they can go out to their mission. I look at the white board merely out of curiosity, since I won't be needing that information. In a week, I'll be at the bus stop at 0630 for my ride to Baghdad International Airport and my Royal Jordanian flight to Amman, where I'll catch a quick shower, a steak dinner with real beer, and a few hours of sleep before heading back to Queen Alia for my Air France flight to Paris and a connector to San Francisco.

In nine days, I'll be home. Home for good.

Two years in Iraq have sharpened my perspective. I know what hard work is like, what young military kids do, and I'm impressed. They are all good! But this isn't about them, it's about me. I will be here for a week, because I made good time traveling and I would rather spend a few extra days here than miss my flight.

I've had some satisfying moments here- working with Iraqi Customs, with US Marines and US Army units. I've learned how to get things done when you have very little. I've survived two Ramadans, really hot months. I've learned how to use Space-A as a mode of transportation, even getting my first-ever Sherpa ride a couple of nights ago. The KBR folks at the Bucca Post Office remembered me when I got to Basrah. I've done some drills with Marines, learning to shoot various crew-served weapons, though I never actually fired a real round through any of them. My issued M-4 and my M-9 Beretta, both of which shoot very well, went to the Dyn Armorer today. I gave up my armored vest and kevlar helmet, too. I've got my own clothes, a few cigars in my double-water-bottle humidor (two bottles cut off and jammed together), and not much else. That's what I'll have when I get on the plane.

Tomorrow morning, we'll have our regular 0900 meeting, after which I'll try to catch a ride to Camp Butler and finish out-processing.

My cigar is getting short, and even though it's been dark for an hour, it's still hot and muggy outside. The horizon is lit a sickly orange color from the lights around the runway. Must be some dust in the air, too, because the stars aren't visible. The moon, however, is looking cold and white, with a chunk missing from the seven o'clock to ten o'clock portion.

Jimmy Buffet's radiomargaritaville is keeping me company, getting to my computer from the MWR's wireless modem. One bar isn't much bandwidth, but it's enough.

I've got an airplane book waiting- Jason Bourne may have found his biological son, with lots of terrorists and CIA "kill-on-sight" orders.

I'm bored. I may stay here until the battery runs down rather than go inside and read. Cabin fever is hard to take, even if it's just for a week.

Yep, a week from now, I'll be trying to get some sleep for the next day's early show time for the ride to Baghdad International. Not sure what I'll do in the mean time. I'll have to learn to deal with boredom.

Insomnia City

2010-06-25T17:03:00.000-07:00

This is Saturday morning. On Monday, I woke up early, showered and dressed for my trip. Hugged and waved good-bye at the airport, then dove into the out-of-my-hands processes at SFO- the mile-long line for ssecurity, hiking to Gate 102, 11 hours on the plane to Frankfurt, a 10-hour layover, then a nice Lufthansa semi-dozing flight to Amman. Got to Amman at 0200; my Royal Jordanian flight got pushed back from 0830 to 1600. Napped for a half-hour on the 90-minute flight. Got to the lap of Klecker, showered and slept. That was a Wednesday. Thursday I got a lot done at Camp Butler, but I kept falling asleep at six PM and waking up at 0100.

Friday I had breakfast, but skipped lunch and dinner. I won't skip breakfast today. That is, unless I fall asleep and doze through our 0900 formation. I feel pretty awake, since it's a bit after five PM California time, and I think my circadian clock is still set to PDT.

Been listening to Jimmy Buffet on Radio Margaritaville via my semi-decent internet. He has a way with words that makes me think there's a connection to everything. What sort of connection? Well, when I was much younger, the Beatles told me what I needed to know about life, love, and J. Alfred Prufrock-style life. Today, nine days after my 65th birthday, Jimmy Buffet is continuing to teach me. He sang a song about loving his ex, but in his own way. I think about my ex, but I don't know if I can label my thoughts as "love." Why not? we were married for 36 years, right? Well, there was a time when my happiness depended on her. Without her, I believed I couldn't be happy. Lots of Sturm und Drang later, I find I was not quite right. But Love isn't Happiness. Maybe in my own way (akin to Jimmy's song) I still love her. But I can't bring myself to admit it.

I step back and see things that happen to me affect me. I didn't know what I wanted when I was 25, so I married. Felt good for awhile. Sure a few less-than-ideal bumps, but my perception of marriage was that everyone went through "rough patches." Then the concept of rough or smooth lost its distinction, its panache: I was married, forever. Full Stop. This lasted a long time, a few decades.

The marriage ended and my life changed. But my brain and my heart didn't die. Hence I'm still thinking of larger, philosophical concepts. Concepts like Love and how Jimmy's song echoes in my memory, bouncing off thoughts I'd had when I was 16, when I was 27, when I was 57.

Thanks, Jimmy.

The back bump hump to Arifjan or How I learned to love being a transient in Kuwait.

2010-04-25T11:56:00.000-07:00

Ali Al Saleem Tuesday, April 20, 2010
What a day! Monday I went to the port on a mission. Started out badly, but improved well enough. Came back, ate lunch early, then took myself to the TMC. The really nice gal who talked to me looked at my lump, the "back bump" of the title above. She took notes, then got two more doctors, a lady Captain and a nice LTC Doc. They poked and prodded a bit, then decided I need to go to Arifjan, in Kuwait. But before they'd make the phone call, I needed a ride. So I went to MTC and was told I could go that evening. I scurried back to the TMC, and the LTC made the phone call to Kuwait. Then I went back to MTC and gave them my LOA and CAC card, yadda yadda. Then I went to the office and let Tommy know where I was going. I borrowed Johnny's lightweight vest. We had some chow, then back to the office to send Richie and Pense and Schaffe an email. I had told Dyn that the TMC wanted me to get the cyst removed. David asked where and sent me the forms I'd need. So I have ignored his email just yet, though I'll try to get as much info as I can when I get the thing done.

Came back to my hooch, after picking up laundry. I had two hours till the helo show time, so I took a shower and packed. Then I repacked because I wanted to bring an extra shirt and it wouldn't fit with the laptop. When I put the laptop in its own bag, I had room in my backpack for the shirt and the shower shoes, plus my blood-sugar thing. I ran into Jared by the MTC and he and I went to his office and schmoozed a bit. Then he took me to the helipad. First there were large pipes on the helo, then there weren't. Then there were and then there weren't, again. The Chinooks were early by a half hour. We made a quick stop at Umm Qasr's south port, then a longer, slow ride, not very high up, to Ali Al Saleem. Another soldier and I got off there, but there was no one to meet us. We didn't know what to do, but experience kicked in- we walked away from the helos out to the edge of the pad and waited. Fifteen minutes later, one of the guys from the helo walked out and told us that they couldn't leave until they knew someone had come to pick us up. Then he returned to the helo. So we chatted, with “whuppa-whuppa” noise in the background for another 45 minutes or so, when we saw a bus on the far side of the pad. We trudged over there and a very low-ranking Air Force guy drove around awhile. I'm not sure he knew where he was going. He asked where we were going. We told him the passenger terminal. So he went somewhere that had a control tower, but no one was there. We further explained, “The place with big tents, numbers one, two and three.” That helped him, so he took us where we needed to go. A nice kid, but just about the least competent military guy I've run into yet.

Inside the tent, I talked with the contractor at the “contractor desk.” I explained that I wanted to go to Arifjan. He said I needed a visa and that it would cost me $15 and be ready that evening at 1730, about 17 hours away. I paid the money and asked if there were a faster way. He said I could talk to the base commander. So I paid and found my way to billeting where my CAC card got me a luxurious suite. Actually I got a bunk. I parked my gear and walked to the PX where I bought a blanket and pillow for $14 and came back to my bed in tent P-7. I parked my stuff on the floor next to me and played a game of Hearts on the laptop. I shut the laptop and snuggled into my blanket around two in the morning.

About nine AM I woke up. But I didn't get up, rolling over for some missed sleep. At ten I woke up, went to the latrine and came back to type this. I believe this will have to remain resident on my laptop until I can get to someplace that lets me get online. I have a thumb drive, but the MWR computers don't let us use thumb drives. In a bit, I'll take myself over to the McDonalds and see what I want for brunch. Maybe I'll find a newspaper, something that's common here but almost unavailable in Bucca.

All this and I still haven't even gotten to Arifjan.

Ali Al Saleem 04202010 1620

Got a Big Mac meal, ate it in the shade of a trailer near the compound where Subway, McDonald's, et al vend their wares. The well-worn picnic table held my newspaper and I munched the burger with a very tasty diet Coke. I wandered back towards tent P-7 and visited the men's latrine before arriving at my luxurious suite. OK, my bunk. I read the paper a bit, then dropped off to sleep, with my $14 of blanket and pillow. Off and on, I dozed until about 1600 when the call of nature made me put on my boots and visit the men's latrine one more time. I'll pack up, take myself to Tent Two and see if my visa is ready so I can take the 1800 bus to Arifjan. Then I'll do the process again- look for the hosipital, find a transient billet and see if I can get some food and sleep for the next day. One small advantage- if I have to wake up early, I'll have time to buy an alarm clock, one item I neglected to pack.

Outside, it's over 100 degrees, but it doesn't feel too bad. As the sun gets lower, this part of the world gets its best attribute- evenings are just great!

Camp Arifjan 04212010 1135

Whew! What a burocratic mess! I got the OK from Ali Al Saleem to travel- I have a piece of paper and a generic stamp in my passport- I'm OK to exist in Kuwait. Not a single Kuwaiti Immigration person checked my passport, but I'm finally legit in Kuwait. That's the good part. The harder part follows: Arrived after a long bus ride at the security checkpoint for Arifjan. I didn't have a Kuwait ID for the military, so got secondaried at the checkpoint. Then they saw I was carrying a weapon. (Hey, I don't feel quite dressed without a firearm.) This caused more consternation. The security folks called the MPs, who arrived in the person of a Navy reservist, who's a CBPO in Baltimore. When he saw my hat's pins- CBP and US Customs, he was much inclined to help me. Mike took me to the medical place where a corpsman-slash-armorer took my weapon and then I got a memo to the billeting office saying to please give me a bed. I got the top bunk above a soldier named Jeff. Clean sheets, a pillow and a blanket were my swag from the linen office. I made my bed, thought about getting some food, but decided that sleep was more necessary. I slept well, waking up in time to get to the clinic. The medic took my vitals (good blood pressure- 127/75) and then the doctors talked with me, looked at my hump, and said I did, in fact, need surgery, but not until the swelling went down. We talked about the hassle in getting here, and they suggested I talk to the Bucca TMC and see if I can't get the problem fixed in Basrah, after a week or ten days. If not, I am welcome back in Arifjan.

I went back, packed up, then went to the big PX where I bought a red T-shirt that says “Kuwait.” I saw a red print shirt that looks vaguely Hawaiian and recreational, so that went into my basket, too. I bought the world's smallest backpack for my Ali Al Saleem-bought blanket. Now I'm traveling with my laptop bag and two backpacks. If I'd not been so lazy, I would have brought everything in my big green rucksack, and shopped my heart out in Kuwait.

Ali Al Saleem 04212010 1410
After a slow and uneventful ride from Arifjan, I got to Tent 5 at Ali Al Saleem. Went through the normal procedure of picking up my CAC card from the clerk inside. Asked about getting back to Bucca. He sent me to Tent 1 which sent me to Tent 3 which sent me to Tent 2 which was the least help of all. I have five hours until the bus for Buehring leaves, so I may go back and squeeze the Contractor LNO to help me with a convoy to Bucca from Buehring. I may have to wait until tomorrow from Buehring, but that's better than having to wait here until tomorrow for the chance of a fixed wing to Basrah. And the Contractor LNO's adamance that I have to cancel my visa before I can leave Kuwait rankles. I didn't once need my Kuwaiti visa on the way to Arifjan, so I don't think I need to cancel it. Maybe I'm just a bit testy because of all the “Go somewhere else” run-around I'm getting. The PFC in Tent 3 was no help at all. They do R &R stuff, so I guess they could care less about a contractor. No one seems to know where the desk is that might know about a helo to Bucca. I'll keep trying but I'm thinking that my best bet will be to bus to Buehring and take my chances from there. Oh, there is no bus tonight. The next one is tomorrow morning around noon. The military folk who know nothing except what someone else put on an old timetable leave me underwhelmed with their ability. Yeah, I guess I'm testy.

After talking with the pretty good guy at the bus station, I decided that my best bet is to take the 1000 bus to Buehring tomorrow morning and try to catch a flight from there or a convoy on Friday. I went to the MWR, signed up for a computer and waited a half-hour for my 30 minutes of time. I sent Tommy an email telling him that I'm stuck waiting to get back to Bucca. I emailed the chitlins an M-W word with the same sketchy story. I took myself over to McDonald's and had another burger meal, chatting with a guy going somewhere else, too. Then I came back to the smoke pit near my O-7 tent and smoked a cigar, sipping a tea I got from the PX. Done with the cigar, I came back to the tent and began reading another John Lescroart book, “Nothing but the truth.” I nibbled a few pork rinds and finished the tea. I'm not sleepy yet, but I won't stay awake too much longer so I can wake up for the 1000 formation. I need a shower and then I'll do some laundry. Exciting details to follow.

After relaxing a bit, I put my stuff near the bed and went to sleep. Well, I tried to sleep. I was tired but my back hurt where the bunp is. Then someone snored. A lot. Then we got a few new guys into the tent. Then the new guys chatted awhile. In loud voices. They only had to converse a distance of a bunk, but you'd think they were on adjacent Alps. Finally I went to sleep. I woke up the first time around 0600 because someone turned on the light to pack up. But about 0800, I woke up for good. I grabbed my shower kit and ambled to the shower trailer. Just me and a dozen of my never-met friends getting naked and wet. You can't be shy around here. I showered, dried, shaved, and came back to the tent in my boots with no socks. As I was getting dressed, a camp employee with a clipboard came along and woke people up for their name. I was already awake and I was on his clipboard. One guy who got woken up was unkind toward the guy. He was just doing his job and it was after eight, not too early.

I put on clean socks and went to McDonald's for breakfast. No egg mcmuffin, no breakfast menu at all. So I had a burger without cheese and ate while a bunch of tiny birds hovered around me. I believe they live there and they remembered me from yesterday when I tossed leetle pieces of hamburger bun towards them. Today, they got a lot closer than yesterday. I think they learned that I am not a threat but a source of easy food. Today they came right down near my boots. One of the little chunks got blown as I dropped it and the one that picked it up brushed my boot as he scampered away. I wondered if I were part of their environment, helping a few of this species to survive better than they might otherwise. Darwin was on my mind as I sat there eating my burger and feeding the sparrows.

Came back to my tent, clicked on my little green flashlight and packed up. I left some fries and a bag of pork skins for anyone who might like them. I went to the bleachers with the sign “Kandahar” because that's where the briefing would be. I sat, relaxed a bit and read my book. At ten, a guy came out with a clipboard, said “You all know the drill.” That much is true. He said we'll meet at Tent 5 at 1130 and ride to Buehring. I had already given up my tent, so I just kept walking from the meeting place to Tent 5 where I know there's electricity for my laptop and air conditioning, albeit with no TV. I've got an hour to be here before we start boarding the Buehring bus.

Ali Al Saleem Thursday, 04222010 1010

Just finished the 1000 brief with the Iraq LNO: Meet at the bus station at Tent 5 at 1130 for a ride to Buehring. Then, since today's Thursday, we might catch a flight tonight for Bucca. If not, then the choice is to reside in lovely Buehring or return to luxurious accommodations at Ali Al Saleem. If we have no helo tonight, I'll see if my Kuwaiti visa might get me on a Friday convoy.

Around noon the bus left Ali Al Saleem for Camp Virginia and Camp Buehring. A PFC, a worthless lump of armed security slept the whole time. Good job his rifle was empty. Got to see a bit of Camp Virginia- the security guards and a sort of bus stop where we picked up one guy headed for Camp Buehring. Got to Buehring around 1300. An NCOC who recognized me told us he'd be back at 1900 with info about the flights. We set up our cot- about eight of us- in a huge 3,000 sf tent with room for maybe 100 bodies. I wandered towards the PX, looking for a pair of gym shorts that said “Kuwait,” but found only some shiny, hip-hop duds. There were “official” Air Force and Navy and Army shorts, but I passed because I wanted some “Kuwait” clothes. Wandered towards the fast-food area and picked Subway, just because. I got a six-inch Spicy Italian and brought it back to the tent. Walking back was painful- the wind was blowing hard, picking up sand and stinging me in the face. After ¾ of my sandwich, I took my pills. Happily, they seem to work well- my back isn't quite as tender when I try to sleep. I've got some antibiotics and a 500 mg naproxen, sort of a super Advil. Maybe that's why I'm not feeling much pain. He also told me to not skip my Lisinopril, so I just stopped typing and ate the Vytorin and Lisinopril. (Pause for brief pat on the back.)

Sometime after five PM, a young soldier came by and told us that with the wind as strong as it was, the flight was canceled. He was also pretty sure there wasn't going to be a Friday flight, either. He gave us all the option of going back to Ali Al Saleem, waiting until Saturday in a place where we have a cot (period; full stop) or staying here until Saturday and then going back to Ali Al Saleem and trying for a fixed-wing to Basrah, taking our chances on transportation from Basrah to Bucca.

I finished my John Lescroart book, then walked the long ten-minute way to the chow hall, since I was feeling a wee bit peckish. I had no idea what I wanted, so I just looked through the glass at the serving line and decided a Polish sausage was the ticket. I asked for extra sauerkraut and got plenty. 'Twas about 45 minutes till they closed the chow hall, so no one was stingy with anything. I took a few brussel sprouts as well. Then I slid over to the salad bar and started with lettuce, adding some tomato wedges and a bit of bacon, then a dollop of some cucumber and sour cream sauce. I grabbed some canteloupe chunks and a paper cup half full of diet Coke, and added a squirt of Mountain Dew in. I recognized no one, so I sat by myself and read the paper while I ate. I brought back a small box of grapefruit juice and a banana, just in case I get the munchies and don't feel like hiking all the way to the chow hall.

Just as I left the DFAC, the skies opened up. I got drenched before I got to the USO. I could have gone a bit further and made it to my tent (hey, I was already soaked) but decided to spend a bit of time among members of my species. I got a computer and checked my emails- nothing critical, just Tommy asking if I'm OK and an M-W word that I forwarded to the chitlins with sketchy details of my day.

I quit the computer, wandered over to the lounge and had a cup of coffee with two Girl Scout cookies from an open box while I did the crossword. The crossword mysteries fell to my lexical prowess. I scoured the USO's classy book shelves, found an old two-in-one Poul Anderson book and came back to my tent, only getting slightly disoriented in the dark. I will read awhile, then put on my freebie eyeshade from an old flight and try to get some sleep- on top of and under my $11 blanket, with my noodle on my $3.29 pillow.

Oh, I am lugging a faire find- a pair of size 7W boots that someone left in the O-7 tent at Ali Al Saleem. I think I'll clean 'em a bit before I try letting my tender tootsies slip into those brogans.

Friday, April 23
Woke up with the 0600 Reveille. But then I went back for a bit more sleep. You'd be surprised how comfy a canvas cot can be, with a single layer of blanket under you. Woke up again, too late for brekkie, so I waited until eleven for lunch. While waiting, I slipped over to the USO for a half-hour of internet and today's paper. Lunch was chicken, a bit of okra (not bad, but a bit slimy in texture), rice and some slightly greasy Indian bread, sorta like a chewy flour tortilla. Actually the bread was quite tasty. Came back to my tent and read a bit, until one of the tent mates said he found a laundromat. Showed me on the map where it was- just beyond the DFAC. I took my laundry with me, wandering around, not seeing anything. There was a large brown building that had a women's latrine on one side and a men's on the other. I saw a guy coming out of the showers, so I asked him where the laundromat was. He hesitated a second, then pointed to a building across the street. The hesitation should have been my clue- he sent me to the laundry, not the laundromat. But I think he knew what he was doing- he just didn't want to share “his” laundromat with the world. I walked to the laundry, where a very helpful guy said he could have my clothes back by tomorrow, but I thanked him and kept looking. I finally found the laundromat, in the same building as the guy whom I'd asked. I went in, loaded a free washer and left. 45 minutes later, I came back, took my towel and two day's of underwear to the dryer and set it for 50 minutes. 45 minutes later, I had some nice, warm, clean clothes, woo hooo!

I came back to the tent, folded them and rested with Scientific American, reading some good articles about brain structures and how they affect things like OCD and depression. The second half of the issue seems devoted to ecological stuff, some I remain slightly skeptical about, but well-written nonetheless.

At 1700, the big voice towers blew some other bugle thing. Retreat? I don't know, but I guess that means you're done working. I'm giving everyone a chance to flood the chow hall before I get there. I'm half-way deciding to take a cigar with me and head across the street to something called Potato and Steak. No, I don't think I can smoke inside, but if I get something tasty to eat, I might find a place to just relax with a cigar before I go back to my tent.

Yep, the tent is OK for sleeping, but it's borr-rring in here. No TV, no radio, no entertainment. The USO is good but it's not my tent. There's a few picnic tables outside the USO, so I might be able to enjoy a cigar out there.

My tent mates told me that the army guy came by and said we could fly tomorrow evening. Well, if the weather doesn't get lousy. This afternoon the wind picked up pretty good, but then stopped blowing. Might be, we will get out tomorrow. I guess I've got one more night sleeping on a canvas cot with a hole in it, half laying on and half covering myself with a thin blanket. Actually, it's not so bad. A couple of times, I found my feet feeling warm and toasty, when I was sure I'd be chilled.

Saturday, April 24, 2010 2255
Woke up with the 0600 Reveille call on the Big Voice. Rolled over for more snooze, since I had a little trouble falling asleep last night. I finally got out of bed for good, too late for brekkie. I went to the USO and checked my emails. Then I took a today's paper to the chow hall, where I read it for about 20 minutes until the chow hall opened. Had something to eat, then went back to the tent and lay down. Around 1330, some people came into the tent- the noon bus from Ali Al Saleem had discharged a few people who were also hoping to get to Bucca. Among them, the chaplain that I met on Easter, his chaplain's assistant and our Coastie O-6. We wandered over to the PX and I got a T-shirt that says “Kuwait” and a chocolate bar. Then we went to Green Beans and I popped for three coffees and we chatted awhile. Around five PM, we went back to the tent. I packed my stuff- two small backpacks and my laptop bag. We chatted until seven, when we sat on the T-wall near the bus turn-around and waited. The sky got darker, the moon was bright, with shapes on them that made me think of “man in the moon” shapes- they did look like a person. Pretty soon some soldiers also joined us, waiting for a flight to Bucca. Around eight PM, a bus came and took us to the helipad.

The night was balmy and beautiful. A dozen and a half of us waited for the birds, laying on the ground and chatting. I lay down, but couldn't stay because the tarmac hurt my cyst. I walked around, enjoying the perfect evening and wondering how a place where nights are so wonderful could have so many shortcomings. Two chinooks arrived, taxied to where we were waiting, and discharged a bunch of soldiers who carried their gear into a conex and were waiting to board our bus. A fuel truck ambled to one helo, then the other. And then all of us got busy, gearing up. I put in my earplugs and picked up my stuff, then the Army NCO who was leaving tomorrow himself said for us civilians to go in one helo and the military would go in the other one. We hiked out to the helo and sat down. The inside was still quiet, maybe because they were still fueling the other one. The starboard gunner was in a good mood. I told him a lot had changed in the Army. He agreed. I asked if there were any females doing his job, since I'd never seen one. He said that there were, though he had reservations about some of them. Then it was time to get going. A whine got the rear rotor spinning, then the whole helo started shaking when the front rotor got going. We taxied away from the buildings and sat for a second. Suddenly we were up in the air. Through the back door, I saw Camp Buehring lagging. I couldn't see ahead of us, but I could see the horizon through one of the starboard portholes. Almost right away, you could see the line of yellow lights that marked the border between Kuwait and Iraq. At least I thought that was the border. Down below, I couldn't tell if we were over dark water or over dark sand. Then I saw red taillights and twin headlight beams, so I guessed it was dark sand. We slipped over the line of yellow lights and into Iraq. I looked for Safwan, but maybe we didn't go near there. Makes sense, not going too close to where a lot of people could hear us, maybe shoot a TOW at us. We kept going, bouncing like we were driving over railroad tracks, with lights here and there. I couldn't recognize anything. In a few minutes, I saw some petty bright lights, like the ones on top of those small generators we have everywhere. The symmetry and regular spacing convinced me we were approaching Camp Bucca.

And so we were. I saw more lights, but couldn't make out anything until I saw some blue lights and knew we were at the helipad. I nudged the guy next to me, “We're here” and the bump told us we were at Bucca. They turned on the interior lights. We stood and grabbed our stuff and headed out the back ramp. A large bunch of soldiers were waiting for us, eager to fly to Kuwait and home beyond. Jared saw me first, grabbed my bag and we headed for his pickup. We came back for Captain Cinalli, Chaplain Crawford and the Chaplain's Assistant, SSG Trammel. A few good-byes to the guys leaving and we headed back to our hooches. I hiked from the convoy area and unlocked my hooch, happy to be what felt like home.

2010-03-04T11:24:00.000-08:00

Here's a picture of me with a Playboy, circa 1966. Had to be, since I made SP4 with 51 weeks in the Army and that would have been mid September 1966. Thus this photo was earlier. Note the cool angle at which I wear the Army cap. As you can see, I'm studiously reading the articles; definitely not looking at nekkid females. Note, too, the classy Army billet- a genuine wood floor, a steel bed and steel wall locker.

Nowadays, my life has improved vastly. Oh, the steel bed and steel wall lockers remain, but I have linoleum instead of wood.

And to be honest, my life is, in fact, better. I have internet, a small fridge, a microwave, and AFN TV. In those days, AFN broadcast only in radio, and not everywhere. Soon after this photo, I acquired a PX-procured, battery-powered record player. I played my European-version LP albums on that record player. I went to the wood shop and built myself a plywood box with a lock to store about 50 albums and the record player.

On the front of my baseball cap is the 97th Signal Battalion emblem. I've got a beer stein with the same logo. And today, I ordered a coffee mug with that logo, just for sentimental reasons.

Bucca Ennui

2009-12-03T09:54:00.000-08:00

Today was a fairly normal work day- went to the JIATF and found a source for a wheelchair for one of my KLEs. His son needs the chair to get around. Here on the camp, if you need a wheelchair, you won't stay here, so there aren't any wheelchairs. But a bit of networking got me some assurance that one is in my KLE's future. Other admin chores got ironed out- my pay got returned from the credit union, my itinerary for my vacation, the one guy who's going to replace the BEA who left a couple of months ago, and I snagged the keys to the JIATF pick-up truck. And that takes us to this bit of ennui.

Tonight I drove the pickup and took Greg, the Aussie who's my partner, and Paul, an IPA who came to Iraq with me, out to the helo pad because they're leaving for vacation tonight. This means I'm the only one in four clumps of boardwalk hooches. Feels a bit like I'm the last man on earth. Oh, there are still lots more people here. My cerebral side knows I'm far from alone. But it *feels* like there's no one left but me. Tomorrow I'll go up to the office and do what I can, getting ready for Friday's trip to the port with Rich, the DHS guy who's going out to the cargo side. I've got a few more patrols before I, too, take myself out to the helo pad and start my three-legged trip to Baghdad, then on to California.

Iraq's nights remain gorgeous. Sure, it's cold out there, but it's a clear, out-to-the stars kind of cold. I look down a bit, and I see my Iraq- the inside of a military compound. Not so bad, a little piece of America in the middle of a foreign and occasionally hostile country. The moon last night was full, and very orange. And it came up above the chow hall, grey and hulking in the distance, beyond the hesco walls everywhere. I tried to reconcile the manufactured hulk of the chow hall with the naturally bright moon's color. Made me think, someone out there has a sense of irony and humor, putting those two items next to each other, and using that particular palette.

In a bit, I'll brush my teeth and try to get some sleep for tomorrow, to see if I can sleep my way out of this flu that's now just a cold. But I'll think about going home, the color of the moon, and the more tangible isolation I'm experiencing tonight.

A Day in the Life

2009-09-16T11:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, this title is the same as that old Beatles song that we all remember. But it's about my life now, not the Liverpuddlian life then.

I woke up, decided to skip breakfast because I wasn't hungry. Don't know why, but being here doesn't stimulate my appetite like being in California. Oh, the food's pretty good, but something in me says I don't need it or don't want it, so I skip breakfast.

Did a few chores, like J. Alfred Prufrock, emptying my waste basket, making my bed, putting clothes and shoes on, nothing exciting. My laundry tag says "Thursday," so I'll take care of that chore tomorrow.

Stopping by my colleague's door but receiving no reply, I went to lunch alone. Though institutional, the food is very good. Not quite as tasty as my son's California cooking, but more than adequate. Came back and checked emails. While I was doing that, the first sergeant asked me for my weapons' serial numbers. We're never too long from repetitive information requests. The thought crossed my mind to ask why he wanted these, but it didn't matter. I gave him the one from my pistol, but my rifle was locked up in the MRAP. We went out there and I read the serial number to him. I took my kevlar and vest because I wasn't going along when we have our visitors because there won't be enough room.

The visitors are arriving at a time when we're not sure what will happen to the team. I can guess that one reason we're having visitors is to determine how much more we need to do, or if we've already done sufficient and the mission can end. We could declare victory and go home. But this leads me to my subjective and completely uneducated guess as to who's position is where. So in total ignorance, let me begin:

I think there is political impetus for the military to say, "We're done."

I think there is another shove from State to say, "We need more."

And I think there is corporate motivation to urge, "Keep our guys working."

These three positions are a bit over-simplified, and motives seem fairly transparent. The military has more urgent need for soldiers in Afghanistan, so if they can say, "Good enough" for Iraq, they'll try to do that. Is this the smart thing, the correct thing? The answer to that is above my pay grade. And I think the ones whose pay grade is commensurate with that answer have no functioning crystal ball.

State can see that there is a long way to go for this port to function at a world-class level, to be accreditied. So they'll push to keep us here. The rub is that State doesn't have an army at its disposal to support the BEA mission. The only army around may be gone.

Dyn gets paid to have boots on the ground. Thus they want to keep us here. We've been remarking that Dyn hasn't asked us for any sort of in-depth analysis of the situation. When we send in our sitreps and say, "We trained today," they're quite happy. But they seem disinterested in the overall conditions at the port or in the ongoing and future needs.

I've asked about ASYCUDA for the port. This is a computer system to automate cargo transactions. This has worked for several countries who are now in the modern customs world. But no one seems interested in getting ASYCUDA for Iraq. More the pity because this could be a big influence.

My take on this- Iraq has a different way of getting things done. Their way is good for them. But I think they're too provincial to see that doing things in a more modern way would still allow them to accomplish what they want in the tradtional way. Does the Sheik require his good right away? Well, under today's procedures, he smiles and gets what he wants. Under automated procedures, someone would direct a subordinate to release the cargo and the Sheik would get what he wants, all the while having the process be accredited as a world-class customs process. This is a bit simplified, but if you were here, this would make sense to you. This might also require some adjustment among the players as to what constitutes propriety, duty, expenses, but everything could be acceptable to everyone.

T. E. Lawrence understood the psyche of the Arab. He said you've got to get the top guy on board, then everything else will follow. The top guy here isn't the top guy in Iraq. This is where things get a bit fuzzy. Who's the top guy? I suspect the real answer may be: there are several gop guys, but as a group, they function like one person. And we have to get this one group to say, "Let's get ASYCUDA."

On a local level, we can get security screeners to do a better job; we can show customs personnel how we do baggage exams. But we can't foist big changes onto a process that depends on top-down approval, which, in turn, depends on further top-down approval.

Today has been uneventful, except for this post. Maybe that's a reflection of what's going on in this day in my life.

2009-08-13T15:16:00.000-07:00

Hayward 08042009

Today was my lunch with George. He brought Rooster with him. Ron Anderson, the world's shortest living Norwegian, was a surprise but made for an interesting lunch. We looked at photos of old Customs folks, some still alive, some not. We talked about old times, Iraq, who was decent and who was rotten.

The food was good- I had fish tacos, George had some pasta and Rooster had a burger. Rooster also paid for the whole thing, though George and I popped a bit for the tip.

On the way back, Richie phoned to say he and Kimmie were doing some errands, and did I want to go with? I said sure and met them at the Oakland Museum BART station. Soon's we got to Ikea in Emeryville, the clutch went out. It stuck on the floor, not functioning. We fiddled with it, and it seemed OK. We went inside and got some bedding and a few dishes that we didn't need, but this was Kimmie's idea of what we couldn't live without, so we went home with some dishes and linens. I devised this gimmick to make the clutch work- I tied the tail end of a tie-down strap to the clutch pedal and Richie wore it over his shoulder, so he could pull the clutch up. Mostly he drove home without the clutch. We got the old slave and master cylinders out, and replaced them with Autozone ones for $65. This could have become difficult, but Richie and I work well together. We ate dinner, then they took the 4-Runner to OSH for some grout solvent as a shake-down. Apparently, everything is fine.

2009-08-13T15:14:00.000-07:00

Camp Klecker & Dubai 07252009

Got packed last night, so all I had to do is set my alarm for 0610. Got up, showered and dressed and went to the bus stop. On the way, I found my backpack was a bit too stuffed with my Crocs, so I put those into the conex that was taking everyone else's stuff. With a 90% backpack, we hung around until a bit after seven. We rode to Baghdad civilian airport, went through a few security checks, then finally inside. Some waiting, I drank a Diet Pepsi that I stashed, and got on the plane for Dubai. Things were better here. The airport officials all wear white robes, looking a bit civilian. Got cleared through passport control and found a taxi to my hotel. $20 later, I got to the Flora Creek Hotel Apartments. A very nice palce to stay- big one room with a small kitchen and an adequate bathtub. Also a washer/dryer, so I washed my dirty clothes. On the airplane, I kept smelling some bad body odor. I realized that bad smell was coming from me. Apparently I didn't wash my new shirt well enough and it carried some stench in its fibers. I was very happy to put it to wash, even though I didn't understand how to work the machine. The thing has been going for something like six hours and it's not quite done yet. 'Tis eight PM local time. At ten, I've gotta leave, so I'll let it keep going until I have to leave, then I'll either take my dry clothes and pack them or take my damp clothes and pack them.

The hotel has a good TV and lots of channels. I forgot what haji TV can be like. I came into “ET the Extra Terrestrial” with a baby Drew Barrymore and a good story with Elliot and ET. I enjoyed watching this movie a lot. When I get home, and I maybe get a new HDTV, I'd like to get this movie on BlueRay and watch it with Richie, who might remember this movie through some very young eyes.

Now that I've enjoyed this, I'm thinking that I might try to get a dish and park it on top of my hooch so I can watch haji TV from Bucca. But that's grist for next month's mill.

Fox Movies is now showing “Dungeons and Dragons,” a movie that has heretofore escaped my attention. It likely will not be memorable because I think I have about an hour and a half before I go downstairs and check out. The staff here is Filipino and they're very good but a bit slow. So I won't wait until the last minute to get myself ready.

I ordered a room service hamburger, carefully noting that it came with “beef bacon.” 'Twas satisfactory, but not really up to Oakland Grill standards. I'm also thinking of one more quick shower and a shave since it'll be 24 hours till I get another. Would it make a big difference if I went 24 hours or 30 hours between showers? Probably not. But I'm still clean, so rinsing my slightly-funky body might not be necessary. However, a warm shower feels very good. A clean shave would make me feel better, even if the results aren't entirely necessary.

Some good special effects in this movie, though it's a bit over the top in depicting evil, evil lords, and quasi-medieval style. Well, maybe a minute or two longer, then I'll take that shower.

Camp Klecker 07202009

2009-08-13T15:08:00.000-07:00

'Tis been a couple of days since I wrote here. The trip from Bucca went well. I got on the helo at 2100, got to Ali Al Saleem in an hour or so. I got handed off to a terrific Air Force Tech Sergeant who drove me to the terminal and got me listed on the embassy flight the next morning for BIAP. Of course, I had to sit and wait with a bunch of other people, but we all made the flight at 0500. Got to BIAP around 0800, a young Air Force gal collected our CAC cards and when I was done, I walked the 100 yards or so to the sidewalk. I set my gear down, took my rifle and went out to the parking log. Sure 'nuff, in ten minutes, a blue and white Nissan bus came along with a blue Dyncorp sign in the windshield. I waved at them, asked if they'd wait a second until I got my gear, and one of the guys even came and helped me carry my rucksack. They dropped me off at Klecker around nine AM. I got my linens, signed in and made my bed. I unpacked a bit, grabbed a shower and took myself to the armorer and the rest of the Dyn processing at Camp Butler.

My boss recognized me in the parking lot, so he and I chatted awhile. He gave me the form for every office to initial, and I got done in about an hour. He asked about Greg- told him that Greg was very capable- and Al- told him I saw him in the tent just an hour ago. He didn't like that. I came back to Klecker, did the usual schmoozing and socializing with a few folks I know and met a few more I didn't know.

Comment: That blue and white bus is a good thing. Sure, it's a sort of chore for some new IPAs, but it's a lot more successful than the transportation guys who are both hard to get on the phone and harder to get them to take you anywhere.

I have a sort of routine- sleep in, get cleaned up, go to Sather for an early lunch, come back, do emails and surf awhile, then go to Sather for dinner. Tonight, however was a bit different- I wanted to mail some stuff home, so I took the 1700 Stryker bus; got there after closing for the post office, and I had a bag of stuff I wanted to mail, so the chow hall was a no-go. I had a $7 Burger King dinner instead. Came back, surfed a bit, then had a cigar with some IPAs. Now it's 2300, time for some sleep.

Klecker still feels strange, not quite Iraq, not quite anything wonderful, either.

A few days till my vacation

2009-08-13T15:07:00.001-07:00

Camp Bucca 07162009

Stayed up a bit later than I thought last night. Oh, sure, I couldn't get SimCity4 to work. I clicked on the icon in my start menu, and I got the first little image on my desktop. But instead of the earth bumping up and watching the robot stroll around, the first little image went away. I tried a few times, with no success, so I put Tiger Woods in my CD drive and played three matches. A couple of times I got ino the rough and took ten swings to hit 2 yards each. But I got an couple of birdies and an eagle. And I even sunk a 20-something yard chip.However, it was midnight before I powered down and went to sleep.

This morning, someone knocked on my door. I ignored it. Then a little while later, it was Jeff, so I opened the door- he brought me some cable that's hooked to a satellite dish and now I have limited AFN. Something with the dish. And I don't have a plipper to change channels- I've gotta stand up and push the channel up/down buttons on the decoder box. Might not be the best choice of programs, but I've got something that I didn't have last night.

Jeff was in and out in a minute. After he left, I routed the cable to be in the same place the other cable fit into. In a bit, I'll go see if he wants to get some lunch. I may be unable to sleep till noon any more. Well, I didn't sleep that late before, either. But in a few days, I'll be sleeping comfortably in California.

Fourth of July, 2009

2009-08-13T15:03:00.000-07:00

Umm Qasr 07042009

Today's the Fourth of July. At breakfast with Jeff, I mentioned to him and SSG Bowman that I'll spend three Fourth of July holidays in Iraq. I arrived in Baghdad last year and I'll be here for the next one, though I'll be really short by the next Fourth.

Eating brekkie was new, I haven't done that in a few weeks. I woke up a bit early, thanks to my alarm. After showering I decided to get some breakfast before our patrol at 0900. I've got about ten minutes before I go to the helipad to meet the rest of our patrol.

I want to watch TV tonight, or maybe tomorrow, when AFN might show the big DC program. We're seven hours ahead, so if the show is on at, say, noon, it'll be seven in the evening for me. Still, I might get to watch last year's show earlier.

Richie said he'll try to spend the Fourth with Bonnie. I wished him good luck, but got a bit negative afterwards. I also suggested that if things go well, maybe all of us could go to the Santa Clara county fair. I doubt she'll be in favor of such an event. Not until she's financially constrained to conduct herself in a friendly manner (because she'll be needing some financial help), I believe she'll continue to be shitty. She can't avoid this- her basic insecurity demands that she be “right.” Being right won't allow her to be wrong; being nice is tantamount to admitting to error. The only way she can continue to be “right” is to continue to remain angry and adamant that she's “right” about her behavior. Yes, it's cyclic, her psychology.

Moi's happy birthday

2009-08-13T14:56:00.000-07:00

Umm Qasr 06172009

Slept in a bit, just long enough to miss brekkie. And I put down my book around ten PM last night, too. I guess I'm sleeping more in my dotage.

Which brings me to the point of today's piece: Today is my sixty-fourth birthday.

No, I didn't make a big deal about it. I had some over-carbed Raisin Bran with a box of cold, full-fat milk. Yep, 57 grams of carbs was too many for my brekkie, but it's my birthday, so I fell off the carb wagon.

I did a quick internet check. Darned Yahoo wouldn't work for me- sure, I could open and delete emails, but I couldn't send emails. And the browsers were really slow to load, too.

Around ten-thirty I came back to my hooch, having put off any productive activity for the first half of the morning. I got out the battery-powered skilsaw and drill, the combination square (curiously, only in metric, not in inches), tape measure (happily in both inches and metric), a large box of grabbers and the big table from the MWR. Then I got the small box of grabbers, my phillips bit holder and a roll of duct tape from my tool drawer. Once I got the table set up, cutting pieces of two-by-four and plywood, pre-drilling and screwing the two-by lumber went quickly. I made one more target holder. At eleven-fifteen, I finished the first one and decided to go as quickly as I could to finish the second one. By a few minutes to noon, I'd finished the tallest one of the bunch. With four finished target holders, I felt pretty good about the time to myself here. But I was all sweaty and covered with sawdust, so a shower felt great. Caution: don't take showers at noon. The cold water is hot and the hot water is scalding. I had to soap up quickly, trying not to get too wet because there was no tepid water, only hot and hotter coming out of the faucets. I dried off, crossed the patio to my hooch and got dressed for lunch. I ate alone, since no POETT people were around and eating alone isn't such an odious chore. After lunch, I cleaned my hooch a bit, then looked at the shower trailer door- it had been dragging on the linoleum and tore a hole so that you couldn't open the door without a lot of pushing and tearing the floor more. I had already seen that the original hinge pins were missing. So I took a door off one of the toilet stalls and stole the hinge pins and hinge pin sleeves from that door. Then I took the trailer door off. I replaced the hinge pin sleeves and hinge pins (well, only two- the top and bottom; the middle one is empty yet) and the door closes very easily- no more dragging. Heck, even the door latch works. I had to fiddle a bit with the toilet stall that was the donor for the hinge pins and sleeves, but I got it back together and I don't think anyone will notice the difference. Mission accomplished!

Feeling good about my day, I went back to the internet where I was once again frustrated by the inability to send emails. I had a good one that I wanted to send to Schaffe. Since I couldn't send it, I copied it to an OpenOffice blank doc and then to my thumb drive. What I had to say to him is in “For me 06172009.”

I made some popcorn and drank a diet Coke while writing “For me 06172009” and keeping an eye on AFN. The MWR isn't such a bad place. I guess one of the reasons I haven't spent much time here is that the MWR isn't “my” place, it's a common area. Spending time in a common area seems less desirable than spending time in your own personal area.

I've got a bit more than an hour till dinner. I expect to eat, visit the gals, give the lads some food, try one more time to see if the internet works, then lay in my rack and watch TV until nine or ten, when I'll try to get some sleep.

Movie Reviewer, c'est moi

2009-02-15T03:51:00.000-08:00

At the request of a gentle reader, herewith is a review of a movie I wrote but haven't put here. Hey, it's my blog and I can do what I want here.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Tonight’s movie was a sleeper of a surprise. Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett in “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” a movie that, like “The Legend of 1900,” takes an impossible premise and gets you to buy into the concept. This movie gets you to believe that a baby is born as an old man, then gets younger and younger, eventually dying of old age as a newborn.

Along the way, you get compelling but not cloying doses of romantic philosophy about life. I’m going to have to watch this again but the protagonist does quite well with accepting what he is- a biological freak. The movie has some interesting dialogue, reminiscent of the effect Beatles lyrics had on this immature, maturing writer, talking about what is, what isn’t and what you gotta accept. Do you remember “All you need is love” and “Let it be?” Let those lyrics and times percolate through your psyche again. Now you’ll comprehend the great scene where he discovers who his biological father is and, after some understandable anger, does the human thing and takes his dying father to where his father liked to be as a young boy- watching the dawn over Lake Ponchetrain.

There were some fantastic aural images- on a former tugboat recently commissioned as a US Navy vessel, they come across a series of destroyed vessels. As images of dead sailors’ arms float across the screen, he says how silent the world is; he’s a remarkable diarist. Later, as one of a series of pivotal events transpires, a hummingbird flies outside a window; he notes how he’s never seen a hummingbird that far from land. And at the end of the movie, as the love of his life (Cate Blanchett in old-age makeup doing a really terrific job as an old woman) holds him as a newborn, dying, letting go of what he can’t control, you see a humming bird outside the window again.

There’s a couple of touching scenes where the two lovers, separated by events they can’t control (she’s very young, overly vibrant as a New York dancer and he’s studious, introspective) yet they each love the other, You see Daisy saying a phrase “Good night, Benjamin” as she is in bed with some generic good-looking guy while Benjamin says the corresponding “Good night, Daisy,” as he is in bed without her.

And you can’t overlook the existential analysis of how she got injured- a series of unrelated minor events came together to ruin her dancing- she got hit by a French taxi- and she’s subsequently curt with him, yet he doesn’t abandon her. He’s got a good heart. She reciprocates by being a wonderfully loving middle-aged woman and a very tender old woman with him as a young boy. The aging hippie in me revels in the non-traditional love these two have- when she’s too young, he’s patient; when he’s too young, she’s reciprocally patient. But when they’re about right for each other, they’re crazy, happy in love. The central part of the movie is not as sappy as Titanic, yet convinces you that a one-of-a-kind love can happen. How romantic! And how Romantic, too!

The closing scenes are little vignettes that distill each character- some people are mothers (Queenie, the loving black woman who found him as an infant), some are dancers (Daisy with some very attractive and feminine dancing), some are artists (the drunken tugboat captain who is a frustrated artist, yet manages to be a real person). And the screenwriters didn’t ignore all the “little people” in the script, each member of the tugboat getting some background and seeming very real.

That canard about “no small parts, only small actors” is blaring in my consciousness- everyone on screen is real, human and perfect in their roles. I liked the black midget who takes a too-young Benjamin out to see the world and leaves him to find his own way home. The crew of the tug are real. Even Daisy’s subsequent husband is a genuine person, though his character has only a few lines. The child Daisy is a cutie with élan and sophistication. The French nurse caring for Daisy in the hospital is very much a nurse and very French. Their 12-year-old daughter is real, with adolescent behavior and speech.

The director and screenwriter throw away gems of moviedom- In Russia before the war, he meets and has an affair with a classy British woman. She’s already had her big moment in her life, having nearly swum the English Channel as a teen. Now, in her middle years, she seems a failure, only snatching something from an affair with Benjamin. Later, as Benjamin is in a diner with Daisy, he turns to leave and glances at the diner’s old black-and-white television. He sees an older version of this woman who didn’t quit, trying again as a middle-aged competitor- she swam the channel, taking more than two hours longer than her previous attempt. The unspoken message here, reflected in Benjamin’s fleeting and satisfied smile, is that we don’t end our lives after we’re no longer teen-agers. “Keep trying, keep looking and accept what is” is the message of this vignette and of the whole damned movie. It’s wonderful! But if you blink, you’ll miss this moment.

Make-up and special effects are outstanding in this effort. I’m still scratching my head at how they filmed a four-foot-six Brad Pitt with much taller adults. Sure, you give him a bald wig and some wrinkles and he can be seven years old again. But all in all, the make-up was convincing. I guess it was a CG baby because Benjamin as a newborn was impossibly ugly. But Cate Blanchett’s dying-woman makeup was great! I don’t know if they used a body double, but the past-her-prime Daisy goes to see and make love to Benjamin one more time; afterward, as she’s getting dressed, her body really looks 50-something- still attractive but saggy here and there. Or maybe it was Cate, moving like she’s old, as she climbs into her clothes: just one more memorable one-second scene.

Someone took a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald and did a really good job with the movie. I hope this gets some Oscars. Lots of realistic scenes from the interwar era, the 50’s and 60’s. The scene where the lovers go sailing in Florida waters with a space launch as background is great; even better that no one was overly didactic by pointing out the historical events, they were just there. He rides a 30’s era motorcycle and each succeeding era has him on a different motorcycle, the last one a very nicely-restored 60’s Triumph. However, the movie isn’t just a collection of good props, it’s a cohesive process that makes you say, “Yeah! What a movie!”

This movie succeeds in convincing me Benjamin lived his physical life in reverse, though he learned a lot about being old as a child. And Daisy learned a lot about being young as she got older. And a few comments about aging and life are positive. All in all, this is a movie that’ll go back to my personal future, maybe watching this again in the next segment of my life.

Umm Qasr 02132009

2009-02-13T09:15:00.000-08:00

This is what happens in Iraq from time to time. No shadows, no sun. Just an orange color to the atmosphere, like living in a huge flourescent tube. My laptop says 02112009 for this photo, so that's when I took it. We had this condition for a couple of days.

Since today is a slow day no one will go to the port. I took advantage and slept in. Last night I sketched in ¼” scale what three side-by-side containers would look like. Briefly, two small-but-adequate 8’ x 12’ bedrooms at one end with two adjacent bathrooms, one of which is only a half-bath because I put in a washer and dryer where the tub is in the mirror-image bathroom. Next to the bathrooms, in the big, open area, I have two tiled areas, one for the main entry and the other for a Franklin stove. Next to the Franklin stove I have a sliding-glass patio door; next to the entry way is my living-room area. Just outside the bathroom with the laundry are my Bangkok computer desk and two file cabinets; in the same area against the outer wall of my bathroom is the dresser I refinished for Pense. Adjacent to the living room is my small dinette table. In the far corner is the nice dining room- an oval table, four chairs, the buffet and china closet. Back-to-back with the china closet is Bill’s old computer desk. Not placed are the étagère and my favorite old coffee table. I may try again, making my bedroom large enough to accommodate this old coffee table. The smallish bedroom might be squeezed with two twin beds, but it might be OK, too- no closet, dresser, drawers or coffee table, just two beds and some lamps on a small table. I’ll have to do some more layouts of the bedrooms, perhaps in ½” scale. There seems to be plenty of room if I just scoot the walls towards the kitchen by two or even four feet. Looking at the layout, I may even be able to shoehorn in one more bedroom, making a small-but-standardish 3BR/2BA home. Never mind that one of the bedrooms is only a half bath.

In a half hour, it’ll be lunch. Right now, Fox Movies has some slightly sappy film about a very young Audrey Hepburn growing up in postwar London- ballet, musicals and now movies. Good costumes, though a lot of smiles that approach cloying. Now a woman with a French accent is offering her the role of Gigi. Well, the girl is cute and someone has spent some resources trying to recreate postwar life. The movie feels like someone lost the last 50 pages of the screenplay. Audrey breathlessly tells someone she’s going to Hollywood to make a movie. then the credits start to roll. Someone said, “Well we’re out of budget. Finish the film in the next 30 minutes and we’re done.”

In a bit, I’ll go drop off my laundry and go to lunch.

1435 – My oopsie. Once again, one part of me knew it was Friday, the day I can sleep in. But another part of me forgot that today’s the day the cookhouse stops serving at noon. Thus when I went over around 1215, the door was closed. Locked to me and a few calories. So I came back, ate two packets of Muesli and some pistachio nuts, a couple of mini-Snickers bars and some of my “I’m hungry” staples, sunflower seeds.

I sketched some more, some ¼” of the entire three-container house and a bit of ½” for just the bedroom, trying to fit what I want into 10’ x 12’. I like the three-container layout because I don’t have to be good. It feels like the adage about loading a van- “Throw stuff in until you run out of stuff.” Three containers allow me enough space to have two bedrooms easily and two bathrooms. More challenging is making all my stuff fit into two containers. And for grins and giggles, I sketched my hooch, too, as it is today.

Then around 1400, I got ambitious. I turned off the TV and turned on the radio. BFBS played music while I took down my shower curtain and soaked it in my plastic bucket. Without the shower curtain, I had access to the entire shower. I squirted it a bit, then attacked with Ajax and my green scrubber. The floor was amazingly dirty, having been scrubbed not so long ago. But it’s better now. Then I squirted the toilet and spread more Ajax around, scrubbing the whole thing with my green scrubber. The floor got plenty of warm water, so I squeegeed until the floor was mostly dry. Then I did the sink and mirror. In a bit, I’ll put back the laundry hamper and small collapsible table that keeps my Stars and Stripes for bathroom reading. I’ve got the shower curtain draining now, so I reckon that’ll be first. BFBS riddled us with ‘What occurs once in June, once in July and twice in August?” As I was finishing the bathroom, I knew- the letter “U.” A few minutes later, BFBS confirmed my guess. Oh, I’m such a clever fellow!

While in a homemaker mood, I also put a piece of tape on my cord from the cable descrambler into the front of my TV. Now the cord doesn’t drag into the top drawer of my dresser and it doesn’t get in the way of the picture. All in all, I’m kinda proud of myself for getting these chores done.

And that takes me to a dose of reality- if a small, 250 square foot hooch is about as much as I can maintain, how will I take care of something with 960 square feet, with kitchen, dishes, stove and other things that need regular attention? I suppose I could ask Bonnie but I’m afraid her answer would be “Eat another bacon sandwich and forget about it.” Oh, that wasn’t very charitable, was it? I have to be careful not to let myself get wound up in anger over her. Most of the time, I just want an easy life somewhere; I don’t really want to keep roasting her over my sarcasm spit. Poor girl, I wonder what she does with her life- roast me over her own variation of a vicious, bile-basted spit or is she OK with what she’s got left? I suspect she’s a lot like me- many moments are spent in her own mostly pleasant world. But occasionally, she’ll start thinking about her situation and she’ll become angry, hostile and bitter.

Umm Qasr 02122009

2009-02-13T09:14:00.001-08:00

1610 – I had a quiet morning, cleaning up, getting laundry put away, then shaving and going to Spawar before chow. At lunch, the team who meets with Amed (not Ahmed) and I went to the pax terminal and met with him for nearly an hour. A very good meeting. We talked about stuff that pertained to Customs and got some info that the team will use in trying to make things better at the port. I gave Amed a patch from US Customs, one of the old oval patches that came on my uniforms in 1989. He seemed pleased. I hope next time I go see him, we’ll be more like colleagues than visitors.

This is the big satellite dish that’s anchored by lots of cement blocks. I may one day become a satellite dish user, too, so I wanted this as a way to remember the technique of how to keep a satellite firm to the ground. Doesn’t look too difficult- one-inch angle iron frame with the legs for the tripod screwed in.

Came back, did my timesheets (very important, if I want to get paid) then slipped over to the smoke pit for a small cigar. Carlie and a few of the lads were there. Heskette came along, meowed for food but was OK with just sitting on my lap. She got playful, rolling over and chewing on my hand while she boxed my hand with no claws. Finished my cigar, came back to my hooch and taped some plastic over the non-functioning fan in my bathroom. Now maybe I won’t have so many mosquitoes in here at night. Last night I got three bites.
Fox Movies has an old Robin Williams film, “One Hour Photo.” In a bit, I’ll get ready for dinner, then back to some chill-out time.

1847 – Missed some of Fox Movie’s “Smilla’s Sense of Snow” because I went to chow. Maybe it’ll be on another time. In a few minutes, I’ll go to our weekly team meeting and see what I’ll be doing tomorrow.

2145 – 884 games, 453 wins. Darn. Came back from sending Jesse his photos and stopped at the smoke pit. Bought an orange drink and a liter of half cream milk. Chatted awhile, then saw the door open at my neighbors, so I stopped in for some hookah and a bit of a Vin Diesel movie. After a bit, I excused myself and came to my hooch for my dessert, some apple pie from the chow hall and some of my milk. Hey, the apple pie has too many carbs, so I moderate my diet by adding good stuff- milk.

MBCMax has “Pirates of the Carribean” and I’ll watch that for awhile. I may chill out awhile, then try to get some sleep at a decent hour so I can get up early tomorrow. Maybe I’ll write some more, or start sketching my three-container home.

Umm Qasr 02092009

2009-02-13T09:12:00.001-08:00

Slept in a bit, watched an English-language program, “France 24,” on one of the channels I found through surfing. Sarkozy is in Baghdad today on an unannounced visit. Australia is trying to find some arsonists who may have set fires in Victoria. Israel is voting today. Iran is celebrating 30 years since the Khomeni uprising. All in all, this is a pretty good news channel. And if the news reader is a pretty blonde with a classy British accent, who’s to find fault with that?

As I was waking up, in my mind I was writing more in my “Make yourself comfortable” story. Like many dreams, this one’s details faded as I awoke. However, I recall that my small son was candid and my ex was desperately balancing contrition with knee-jerk nastiness with me. One part of her wanted to apologize for her behavior but another part couldn’t admit to anything wrong, ever. If I could get the feeling of this conversation back, it would be good reading.
I wrote more, in an ongoing series called “For Me” because the series is, as the discerning reader can easily discern, for me. The germ of today’s “For Me” was that small part about writing, dreaming, writing while dreaming and dreaming of writing.

Went to check emails then had lunch. Emails included two from the useless POS that’s sitting in for Blaine. Lunch was good- spaghetti, brussel sprouts and watermelon for dessert. In 40 minutes, I’ll walk to the helipad and meet the group going to the port.

Just now, a Merlin flew over my hooch, landing at the helipad 50 meters away. With the window open for ventilation, I got a lot of noise from the monstrous motors holding up the helicopter. By the time I got to the window, sliding it shut, I was standing in a small sandstorm blowing in from the rotor wash. Hoo boy! Dat one big ol’ buncha helicopter and tons of sand out there!
1730 – At our regular 1600 meeting, the Major said he’d been talking with our Basrah Colonel and someone was making noises about sending this detachment to a land border site. More rumbles about getting another BEA for this site but the one guy in Basrah ended up in Baghdad. All these noises are the result of a VIP visit – something to do with possible Japanese investment in this port.

At 1600, I was in the smoke pit when a Merlin flew so low I could see the gunner and waved to him. The helo blew down our cammo netting and sent an aluminum chair into me. Heskette was with me, so I picked her up but she got antsy so I set her down.

Tomorrow the team will go to Bucca at 0830. I offered to stay back with the major so he could get some info on the political situation in the port. He said he doesn’t need me so I’ll stay back. If the weather holds up, I’ll go for chow soon, then maybe emails and at 1900, I’ll try for one more cigar at the smoke pit.

2400 – 448 wins out of 871 games and still stuck at 51%. Maybe tomorrow?

Umm Qasr 02082009

2009-02-13T08:58:00.000-08:00

1255 - Since I took my shower last night, after buzzing my hair, I slept in a wee bit, hitting the snooze button a few times. I shaved and waxed my moustache. Yes, it’s looking veddy good these days with adequate waxing.

For 0830, I was out by the helipad. We left for the port and observation of the arriving ferry. We observed nothing because the ferry wasn’t there. The tugboat that nudges the ferry to the pier was tied up where the ferry should be and the ferry’s satellite dish was on the ground, still wired up. We presumed the ferry wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. The major fielded some questions from one of the casual laborers on the dock- “Can you help my uncle get his green card?” We shook hands and came back to the camp.

This is the building in the port in the container yards. Men congregate to find labor. Behind this building is a place where a vendor sells drinks and food. The identical portraits are of five of Mohammed’s grandchildren, five subsequent leaders of Islam. I may not have the story quite right. Apparently you’re not supposed to have a depiction of Mohammed but you can have images of others whom you revere.

I checked my emails- nothing useful there. I went to visit Dave the Turner Maintenance supe and had a cuppa with him. Then I stopped by the tailor and asked about getting some embroidery done; he doesn’t do anything like that but I got an invitation to watch some TV and have some hookah. I did both. The hookah was like I remembered from Gannon- tasty and easy to inhale. The TV was OK- some sort of killers with bulging pectorals were in league with gummint baddies. I didn’t pay much attention to the movie. One of the guys got tired of the movie and lay down on a cot for a nap, about a foot behind me. I stayed about 20 minutes, then greeted Ricky, one of the new NCOs.

I walked to the NAAFI smoke pit and had a cigar with Carlie. Well, I had a cigar, she just chatted with me. Heskette got some doggie treats, meowed for more but stopped meowing quickly enough and climbed up on my lap for a nap. This time she laid her head off the side of my lap. I thought that might be OK for a bit but her vertebrae weren’t designed for long-term tippy-over stretching like that. Sure ‘nuff, after a couple of minutes, she slid off my lap and lay on the floor of the smoke pit for a further nap.

Went to lunch and told my “Gunny and the Goldfish” joke getting some appreciative chuckles. Al sat at the next table but didn’t have much going on.

Back in my hooch, I found a movie with Nicholas Cage in which he’s a magician that has a genuine talent for foreseeing the future but only for a few minutes. Right now, the pretty girl stopped him from drinking some drugged orange juice. We’ll see how the movie pans out.
I believe I’ll take my boots off and rest a bit, then maybe clean my rifle. I have a few other things I’d like to do- work on my sketches for a container home, read about the Second Crusade, more about post-WWI Iraq, and clean my hooch. Right now, my hooch is pretty clean, though it’s been a week since I last scrubbed the shower. Should you scrub showers more often? I dunno, I don’t do so at home.

1615 – Missed the 1600 meeting. Hope Al was there and will fill me in on what I missed. The day was pretty nice, so my food-induced coma kept me zonked until after the meeting. I wouldn’t have done this on purpose. I try to participate in as much as I can with the team.
“A Beautiful Mind” is on the tube right now. The commercials are very brief, just two short ones, one for KFC spicey hot chicken and another for a man’s hair product. Now I’m going to have to track what gets sold here. And who’s in the commercials. The KFC commercial had a guy with the Arafat shave and long scraggly hair in some bright red clothes. He takes a bite of the chicken and immediately takes a long belly-flop on snow into a snow bank. He gets up, goes back for more chicken. Then we see a bunch of people sliding on their bellies over snow, presumably for an imminent plunge into many snow banks. The second commercial had this male model with perfectly-falling hair doing a few things to emphasize how perfect his already too-perfect hair is- dancing with the energy only a male model can have, shaking his head in dealing with other people, thereby showing the world how his use of a hair shampoo left his hair cascading around his head and life. The guy seems a bit too metrosexual, if not gay but maybe that’s just my bias against advertising compounded with my lack of understanding of this culture.
2236 – Watching movies on TV. Ben Stiller is getting together with Jennifer Aniston in some romantic chick flick. Oh, the credits just started rolling. I thought I detected some too-thick French accent: it’s Hank Azaria doing the waa-aaay too French ag-zehnt, yew knew? Like Peter Sellers accent on steroids.

Got to 434 wins out of 840 games in Hearts. When will I hit that magic 52%? Oh, I reckon we all need goals in life, even if this one of mine is a bit on the “so-what” side.
At chow tonight, the XO told me the team is going to Bucca tomorrow at 0645. So I reckon my day will be uneventful tomorrow. If I hook up with anyone going to the port, that’ll be fine but I may spend my day lolling around here. Maybe I’ll write or blog or sift through my photos. The nap I had this afternoon seems to have kept me awake for awhile.

Earlier, I went to the smoke pit where Carlie had made a “Happy Birthday” banner for one of the lads who’s 24 today. She hung some chem. Lights from the net, too, making the dreary unpainted wood nailed over a pile of pallets seem festive. I sat around and gave Heskette a few bits of my steak from tea and the last of the baggie with kitty treats and one whole doggie treat. When Carlie brought out her cake to share with one of the other lads, Heskette was eyeballing the cake very, very seriously. “Hey, how come I didn’t get any cake? What, just because I’m one of the feline citizens of Iraq, I can’t have any cake?”

The Three-Footed Noble Cat

2009-01-17T04:04:00.000-08:00

The three-footed cat under our office trailer

The team went to Camp Bucca for more out-processing and a mail run. I opted to stay back. Did some internet work, posted a blog entry with photos. At lunch, Al told me I had a parcel from the mail run. I went to the office to see if it were there. Just outside the office is a pile of lumber and shelving that someone left there. Going up the steps, I looked to the left and saw an orange cat. I kept going inside, not wanting to make him skittish. But I took out my camera, turned it on and came back to the doorway. About ten feet away was the cat above. I am used to seeing grey cats, and havin seen only one orange cat, I thought this one was remarkable.

This guy looked at me, as if I had disturbed his siesta in the Umm Qasr sun. He had been sunning himself, enjoying the warmth of the sun after last night’s below-freezing weather.

I concentrated on getting the focus and composition. I talked to him a bit, but in a couple of seconds, he got skittish and got up. As he stood up and moved under the trailer, I saw clearly that he is missing his right rear foot. I think he can put some weight on the stump, but seems to hop with his back left foot instead of striding on the stump.

I could see that, though ambulatory, he isn’t up to catching his own food. I went to my hooch and got my stash of sandwich-sliced chicken from the still-cool fridge (‘tis been unplugged since yesterday because my power strip died and the replacement hasn’t got enough outlets), cut off the bottom of another water bottle and took it to him. Before I got too close, I bent down and saw a large orange shape under the trailer, kind of motionless. Slowly and quietly (but not silently) I took the food to where I saw him hiding under the trailer. I told him I hoped this would be good for him. I’m sure he didn’t understand the words but I wanted him to associate my voice with something edible.

I left the food there and came back to my hooch. I don’t think I’m an emotional guy but I felt bad to see this cat trying to survive with only three feet. If he ventures outside our compound, he won’t be able to run away from the packs of dogs that are out there. Sandbag, our compound dog, seems OK with cats. And he eats well enough that he doesn’t have to hunt cats for food. But the other dogs may.

I’ve been leaving food and water in the bunker outside my hooch most nights. Most mornings, it’s gone. Now I may take an extra few steps and leave it under the office trailer where it should be unnoticed.

I wonder about this guy. In looking at his photo, I didn’t notice that grey spot on his back. Is that a bruise or a smudge of oil? He’s pretty big as cats go. And to have survived long enough to be a big cat, he has to have some smarts and abilities. I reckon he’s also had some bad luck because he’s missing his right rear foot. Did he get run over by a car? Did a dog bite his leg off? I can’t imagine he’d lose it in a fight with another cat, so I guess he’s had some serious events in his life.
I hope he comes back. Hope he didn’t run away when I put his food there. Heskette does pretty well at the NAAFI smoke pit but this guy could use some thumb-people help.

Umm Qasr - Immer noch Pech gehabt

2009-01-16T02:28:00.000-08:00

Immer noch Pech gehabt, Umm Qasr Abteilung. Yep, today was gonna be a good day, but got off to a bad start. I woke up and decided that since I had nothing special to do today, I’d use my hair clippers then take a shower. Though it wasn’t warm inside my hooch, I took my clothes off because I didn’t want to get ‘em full of hair. Turned on the light in the bathroom, fired up the hair clippers and began trimming some of the long areas- behind my ears, the nape of my neck, and so forth. Got done, brushed myself off and started the shower so I could rinse off the leetle itchy hairs, right? Wrong. I had no hot water. I was standing there in the cold, with nothing but the ice-cold water flowing. The Hot was both a trickle and quite as icy-cold as the Cold. I was shivering, so I shut off the shower and put on my clothes again. Sorry, gentle reader, you’ll have to use your imagination to see a skinny old geezer shivering with hairs on his shoulders.

What to do? I didn’t want to go looking for a communal shower; I couldn’t wander the compound in a towel until I found the maintenance guys who’d fix the shower. A couple of facts stared me in the face- my water heater is next door. If the water heater is 1) not flowing water and 2) contains only cold water, a warm shower isn’t imminent.

I didn’t know if the maintenance guys did something to shut off the water last night. Maybe they did. Of course, telling someone would be rude, so they’d just do it and not say anything. But maybe there’s a more rational rationale.

However, my dilemma was not the “why” but the “here and now.” So I put three bottles of water in front of my space heater and turned it up high. After an hour, the water seemed lukewarm. In another hour, it’d be lunchtime, so maybe by then the water would be warm enough for me to take a water-bottle shower, like I did in Gannon. This wouldn’t have been a tragedy if I weren’t wearing all that itchy hair.

I sat in my slightly stained Ikea chair, trying to ignore the itching and I kept checking to see how warm the water bottles were. I played Hearts with Richie smiling at me from the desktop, listening to BFVS Radio 1 from Kuwait. The music isn’t ideal for a geezer, but occasionally I recognized a song. I just put some paperback books on the floor next to my heater so the water bottles would be a few inches higher and maybe heat faster. I also opened the dresser drawer and parked two bottles on the top edge, just above the heater.

My plans were to use warmed water bottles to shower the itchy hairs off, get dressed, walk to the main building and look for my laundry. Then lunch. After lunch, I’d try to get my hot water fixed.

No hot water? There’s ya problem!

I showered and got dressed. Feeling infinitely better, I walked to get my laundry, then looked next door to see if I could troubleshoot my lack of hot water. I looked at the water heater in the hooch next door, the one that supplies hot water to both hooches. Exercising my highly-trained Inspectorial observational skills, I detected something slightly amiss with the plumbing system: apparently someone had removed the hot water heater completely. They cleverly looped the hot water line into the cold water. Hence I got a drip from the hot water faucet but adequate pressure from the freezing water faucet. I shall attempt to resolve this today with the maintenance guys.

Immer noch Pech gehabt, Zweigestelle: Since today is Friday, the cook house had Brunch until noon. So when I went to eat at 12:20, the place was closed tighter than my ex-wife’s grip on our son.

This is my food for today, until the cook house opens at 18:00.

Not visible is the Tostitos label on my jar of salsa and the scoops Fritos. I reckon I’ll wash this complete meal down with my four-to-one Gatorade then check the internet.

Put my clean laundry away, stuffed the dirty laundry into the bag and I’ll take it to the laundry pick-up bin tomorrow morning. I put a small stack of water bottles in front of my heater to warm up for the next time I need a shower. And I downloaded some photos so I can save this blither for my blog.

BFVS Radio 1 tells me that it’ll be clear in Baghdad today. Southern Afghanistan remains cloudy. A jet plane crashed in the Hudson River but no one died. I may take my bottle of Richie-made granola and go to the spawar café to see what’s going on with the internet.

Do I want you this close to me? You thumb-people don’t understand us, do you?

Here’s one of the unnamed cookhouse cats. This one is a bit lighter in color than the others. She wants the bit of chicken I’ve got in my hand, but doesn’t know how to get close enough to 1) get the chicken and 2) remain a safe distance from me.

Yep, it’s gonna be a problem. The maintenance chief said they took the water heater for the Major’s room. Good on him. But that leaves me with no hot water. He said he’ll try to find another water heater. He’s the head of maintenance and used to people’s problems. I think he’ll look for another heater but there aren’t any to be had, so “I’ll look” is merely a euphemism for “Sorry, mate.”

After talking to the maintenance chief, I had a cigar and took pix of Heskette, the cat. (There’s a Brit gal who calls her “Hesco,” but that sounds like a boy’s name, so I’ve changed it to “Heskette.”)

This is Heskette atop the railing around the NAAFI smoke pit.

Heskette patrols the patio by the NAAFI store. “This is my turf. I’ll give you a temporary visa to be here. Pay up in food, OK?”

Here’s my impromptu water heater- two cartons of water with two mailing boxes and a third water carton straddling my heater.

Slow but the water is nice and warm. No one gets third-degree burns from this water but I can shower in the morning. Visible are my rifle, 75-pound vest and salvaged dresser.

I’m facing no hot water for the immediate future. So I did what I do best- make something good out of what I have. I took a case of bottled water from the pile on the pallet and stacked it on one side of my space heater. Took another and stacked it on the other side. Then I took two of the boxes Richie mailed me (empty) and put them on top of the water cartons. I cut a slit in the bottom of a third box and laid about half a case of water in the box so it straddles the hot air vent at the top of my space heater. Six hours later, I’ve got a half-dozen bottles of fairly warm water. Tomorrow I’ll shower with those. I could just get more water bottles, but I think I’ll practice a bit of conservation and re-use these bottles by filling them from my cold shower and putting them back in the box.

Here’s ya other problem- you need a fuse.

As if I weren’t having enough mechanical problems, my power strip burned a fuse this afternoon. I asked the British maintenance guy for another fuse but he had none. Al gave me another power strip but that one didn’t have enough outlets for everything so my frozen water will have to thaw a bit. However, Al’s power strip got my laptop from battery power to shore power. Hence this addendum to today’s post. I guess I’ll just get used to no fridge for a bit until I can get my power strip re-fused. There are about 20 liters of frozen water in the top of my fridge. Yes, I sorta planned this problem. We used to keep frozen water in the big freezers at Gannon and I borrowed the concept from them.

Umm Qasr 01082009

2009-01-11T00:58:00.000-08:00

This is the cat that lurks in the smoke pit next to the NAAFI store. This cat is used to people because she likes to be around. Though she's feral, she's not afraid of humans and meows when she wants something. I saw one soldier give her some fried cheese snack and she ate it. When my mail gets to me, I'm hoping for some kitty treats in there so she'll have something better than fried cheese snacks.

In the morning, I got up, showered and went to chow a bit early. Inside the chow hall , Joshua said we’d be leaving at 0800 instead of 0830, so I had a single French toast and half a cup of coffee. That was enough to keep me from starving. I went with the Army guys to the port and observed pax screening as they came into the building. There was a full colonel observing an Iraqi Marine screen people entering the building. Not the best of all possible searches, but a lot better than before.

Came back, checked my emails at the spawar café. Coming back to my hooch, two maintenance guys were under my trailer, looking at a lake that had formed from the draining water. They put together the drain (which had separated) and wanted to check the inside of my bathroom for leaks, so I let ‘em in. One guy, really pretty capable at plumbing, found a leaky flap on the toilet. I left the two guys there and went to check my laundry and have a cigar. When I got back, he’d fixed it with silicone caulk and asked me not to use the toilet until tomorrow morning. I think if I use the bucket filled from the shower, I can still use my own toilet, though I went next door to the empty hooch and used that one. I put my laundry away and relaxed a bit until I dozed off a bit. It’s a bit after noon, so I’ll go get some chow.

I found another book to read in the library. But that’s for later. Chow now, try to stay busy in the afternoon. The sun makes the temperature more bearable, so maybe I can do something outside. My hooch is nice, but I’m beginning to get a case of cabin fever.

Had a good chat with the Brits at chow tonight. Talked about interesting things, like how in a political sense, we’re carpetbaggers here, trying to cram our style of doing things down their collective cultural throat. I’d never thought that I might be doing that, being the Northerner “in charge” of the Southerner’s culture. But by trying to get them to work like we do, that’s so. We don’t have to do what we’re doing, we could just let them do things their own way. Sure, they’d be excluded from the modern world but they’d be doing things the way they want to. I think what it boils down to is a basic lack of homogeneity in Iraq. Some people want to be modern, some don’t. So while we’re annoying (in a cultural sense) those who want to do things like Mohamed did, we are, indeed, accommodating those who want to be modern. I guess similar cultural dynamics exist back home, too, otherwise politicians and policymakers would be out of a job.

Been reading a British-authored book about Texas. Though Lee Child is a man from the industrial midlands, he seems to have gotten a feel for Texas. When I run across “tyre” or “colour,” I’m reminded that this isn’t an American writing. Otherwise, even the dialogue is very American. “Echo Burning” is a pretty gripping book. No movie tonight, just this book.

Umm Qasr 01072009

2009-01-11T00:57:00.000-08:00

One more day gone. Today started slow- nothing to do in the morning. After lunch, I cleaned my weapons. The M-4 and the M-9 are nice and clean now. The Sergeant Major’s spray can of cleaner and lube works pretty well.

I checked laundry but there was no new clean laundry. My number 0171 had no tick next to it, so my laundry is still somewhere else.

Around 16:00, one of the Army captains came to get me for a meeting with the British Navy Captain who’s our big boss. Lots of people there, talking over the main issues that we have to consider at the port. Many things remain unclear, things like what the volume of traffic is, how much cargo goes through the south port (I’m at the north port.), training, the organizational structure (MOI, MOT, MOF) and I proposed that the overall director of the port should be able to tell which agency where they should do what.

Tonight’s fare is a 1965 James Garner and Sidney Poitier cowboy flick, “Duel at Diablo.” It’s two notches above a B-Western; “Gone with the Wind” and “Lawrence of Arabia” don’t have to look over their film shoulders at this one. Even “The Wild Bunch” doesn’t need to fret much.
I emailed a nag to Richie- please finish up his degree. I asked his thoughts on the Pense conundrum. In my sardonic, callous mind, I wonder at her motives in asking me for her tea set and her old couch. I suggested asking for storage money- $650 seems fair for two years storage. And it’s not clear which tea set she’s asking about. If it’s the Rosenthal, she’ll need to see me face-to-face and convince me it’s hers. If it’s another tea set, the rabbit one, it feels to me like she’s asking for the last of her stuff so she can stop seeing me, ever. I guess I can’t know what’s in her mind until she tells me. And then, I have to weigh everything to see if there’s anything I’ve missed.

Finished a book, a sorta “the gummint as bad guys” book that dealt with finding Jesus’s bones, thereby proving he didn’t rise from the dead. The protagonist discovers that he’s wrong and all the good guys live happily ever after, but it’s a good book nonetheless. Some aphorisms (hope that’s right) are opposite the chapter headings and I like them. Things like “Ignorance is bliss until you realize you’re not ignorant.”

Half done with another book, written by a Brit, outlining 12 books that changed the world. I learned about Newton’s “Principia” and the Magna Carta and about Marie Stowe’s marital primer. We’ll see what comes next.

Umm Qasr 01052009

2009-01-11T00:55:00.000-08:00

Wow, what wonderful things life gives you when you least expect! I just finished watching “The Legend of 1900” with Tim Roth. This is a terrific movie. The existentialism reeks but if you listen and pay attention, it’s very cohesive. I don’t remember even seeing teasers for this movie. But if you find a way to get this into your DVD, do it.

I got this tonight because my money came back to me. Yes, I foolishly sent my pants to get washed and left all my money in the pocket. When I picked up my laundry, there was an envelope in the pocket with “Umm Qasr North, ticket 0171, 854$” on it. I’d be fussy and gripe that my money clip didn’t come back, but with all that money, I guess I can find myself another. But I digress- I took my returned money (I’d be flat broke without it) and visited the haji shop on base. Instead of five movies for $20, I got ten movies for $36. He said seven movies were $3 and three were $5. When I got to my hooch, I sifted through my pile of movie treasures and picked this one. What a great pick! This movie is great! When I leave here, this DVD will go with me. The soundtrack has a lot of original Jelly Roll Morton pieces. Now I may have to ask Richie to find more and send ‘em to me on a CD.

I spent a bit of time this afternoon working on the US Customs cargo processing stuff that Al asked about. But I feel like I’m stealing- I work in a comfy Ikea chair with my laptop, listening to Jimmy Buffet and the Beatles and Rhonda Vincent.

Tomorrow is a meeting that the military guys seem to pooh-pooh. Well, maybe something good will come of this meeting.

Today was also a bit productive for my blog. I put up something I wrote from Thanksgiving, something I wrote for Caitlin, Sue’s Granddaughter and for myself, a piece about a fictional conversation with my daughter. Well, it’s fictional in that the conversation never has happened but not-so-fictional in that I project a lot of my suspicions onto the characters, suspicions about what’s happened to Pense since my divorce from her mother. The story’s not done, not yet.
But things epistemological resonate. I see glimmers of another life yet. Something that hasn’t yet happened but will. Not too many glimmers, since I’m pushing 64, but a few. Some of them involve my big Richiesohn, some involve just me. I don’t mind if some of the glimmers feature Pense and Schaffe, too. And maybe some of the glimmers might be just me, continuing to work here. LOL, after tomorrow’s security meeting, the crystal ball gets pretty murky.
And to put a bit of emotional icing on my day, just now, the movie’s music video ended, so I minimized a few things to get to my iTunes on the desktop. And guess who was smiling at me from my desktop? Yep, my big happy Richiesohn. He’s looking straight into the camera, holding some tongs that he’s using to flip the pork roast in our smoker. He’s standing on our patio; behind him I can see the beige color of the back of our house, the wisteria and grapevines on the now-historical trellis, and our fence that I painted some redwood preservative on when I painted the house. My computer tells me it’s 11:02 for him because my computer is set to the time when I left California for Iraq. Maybe one day I’ll make my computer say the time it is in Iraq. But not now. Now my laptop is becoming a sort of icon, in the mystical sense. I’ve got Hayward time, with my big son on the desktop. Heck, it’s even the vehicle I just used to watch that “1900” movie. KK, better stop before Richie thinks I’m getting too metaphysical.

Umm Qasr 01032009

2009-01-11T00:52:00.000-08:00

I was waiting for 14:00 to go out with the Major to check the passenger ferry info and looked at the training stuff I have- good powerpoints on vehicles, baggage, etc. Bored a bit, I looked in my recycle bin to see what I might dump. Somehow there were lots of photos there. I clicked on one and it was a shot of Richie, last summer, playing with his new smoker. His hair is down and he’s smiling into the camera, holding some tongs. I dragged it to the desktop. Not sure why, but I right-clicked and there was an option to put it as my desktop. So I did. And then I had a big photo of a happy, smiling Richie. I surprised myself a bit when my voice said, “Hi, Richie!” I don’t usually talk to computers but this time I couldn’t help myself. One moment I was OK with what I had- a decent hooch with a good job and plenty of money coming in and the next moment, I was missing him and hoping for a warm summer in Hayward. Strange, these metaphysical moments.

15:10
We found Sandbag near the gate and he went out with us. I petted him and he seemed to enjoy the ritual. He parked is butt on the ground and looked at me. He sure could use a bath but it wasn’t about personal hygiene; it was about physical contact. He put his body next to my knee and leaned on me while I rubbed his ribs and head. In my next care package from home, I want some flea pills so I can find a way to get them to him.

Earlier today, on my way to the helipad, a grey cat with a ring tail scurried across my path and stopped under a container. He turned around and looked at me a bit. Not quite afraid, nor hostile, just cautious. That’s fine. I’m not able to make his hellish life heaven. So if any of the cats will let me pet them, that’s fine. If they don’t want that, then it’s OK, too. After all, I’ve got cats at home who know me and like me.

At two PM we went to the port. The purpose was to get information about the passengers. I think we didn’t have a lot of success. But at least the weather wasn’t quite so bitterly cold. Sure, I wore gloves and a thermal vest with my long-sleeved shirt over my long-sleeved US Customs turtleneck. My ears stung a wee bit but not too badly. When I left, my feet were cold. Walking kind of circulated a bit of blood and now my feet feel fine. In a bit, I’ll go check mail at spawar. Maybe I’ll find something from Richie, though maybe not. It’s 04:12 for him (from the readout on my laptop) so he may be asleep.

My iPod is playing Johnny Cash’s “Walk the Line” and I’m amazed at how my life has flowed: In 1969, this song played through large metal speaker at the Hayward Speedway’s track. I hear this song and I smell Castrol R in the air, mingled with hot dogs and onions, while two-strokes buzz and whine. And today, Johnny’s singing through some very nice-sounding speakers that I bought in Camp Bucca, while I sit in my hooch, trying to stay warm.

Val sent me an email saying it seems I’m building a nest here. She may see something I can’t: I took a dirty, dark trailer and changed it to suit myself using what resources I had- the empty trailer next door. I scavenged a heater, dresser, chair and lamp. Once I hung my clothes in the closet, I freed up an entire drawer and now I’m organized. On the floor of the closet is my duffel with the NBC gear that I have to turn back in and on top is my large rucksack, stuffed with my small ruck, canvas bag and laptop bag. My 511 boots are on the floor next to my tennies and krocs. My sleeping bag is on top of the shelf next to the box the speakers came in. My Romanian punga is on top of a cardboard box that held water bottles. One small joy is that my cammo poncho came back from the laundry looking very nice indeed. It’s hanging on a hanger over my too-tight 30-30 511 pants. Those pants fit very well when I got to California but they’re a bit snug now. Right next to that is my red-and-white checkered cowboy shirt. That’ll likely be my “getting on the airplane for California” shirt. Darn, I need one more. Well, it’ll be June, so I may use my Disney T-shirt for the first leg, the Baghdad-to-Amman leg. And I may carry that shirt in the cabin, putting it on in Frankfurt so I’ll look not too disheveled when I arrive at SFO, to see one more time my large, smiling son, the one who’s now on my desktop.

Strange musings, no? I started this piece talking about Richie and ended with him.

Umm Qasr 01022009

2009-01-11T00:39:00.000-08:00

This is Sandbag, our unofficial POETT member. He's not quite tame, as he likes to bark a lot. But he's friendly enough, sitting with his ribs next to my leg so I can rub his head and talk to him.

Today the schedule was a bit different. It seems that Fridays are no-work days for both the Iraqis and the Americans. Not entirely a goof-off day, though.

The day started a bit sparse- breakfast was almost non-existent, consisting of cold cereal and milk. That was OK, Muesli kept me going until 10:30 when brunch was on the schedule. I spent some time scouring my toilet and sink, then swept my rug. I went a bit late to brunch because I was looking at emails. Brunch looked a lot like a combination of breakfast and lunch: French toast and hamburgers, bacon and salad.

After Brunch, I took a walk around the camp. My trailer is against the west road so all I did is go around back and begin walking. The camp is small, maybe a five minute walk. As I walked around the perimeter, I smoked a small cigar. The walk is so short, I didn’t quite finish the cigar. Walking was good but the wind was so cold that I got chilled. I came inside to warm up a bit, straddling my heater and letting the heat rise up to keep me warm. It got so cold, I took a shower. Then I went to look for my laundry again with no success.

I plugged my new speakers into my iPod and listened to the music Richie loaded into it for me while I used my laptop to write more of “for Caitlin,” a continuation of Bube in which the main character is a small girl named Medlitsa. Heck, in this story, Bube was there, too. As I wrote, the story seemed to need a woman that I saw in my mind as Sue, so I named the character Oma Mama. And Bube’s Uncle Vincent sorta became me. Aida, Green Riding Hood’s mom, was a sort of Aida that I met in Kyrgyzstan and Sue’s daughter Donna. Hey, this is my story, so I can people it with whomever I want. Paul, Medlitsa’s dad, isn’t anyone I know personally. Not yet. I’ll give him some time to become someone real. One strange thing- in the Bube story, I was his dad. But in this story, I seem to fit Vincent, Bube’s uncle. No, I’m not vain. But some parts of me seem appropriate for each character. Ah, maybe I am vain.

After I wrote, I saved the story to my thumb drive and went back to the Spawar café to check emails. I sent some photos to Jason Actis, one of which was a really good photo of him, with the Syrian gate behind him in Tower One. I tried to save some stuff from DynCorp but couldn’t. And then I uploaded the story to Sue, asking her to tell the story to Caitlin. I’ll give Sue a few days and see what happens. Me, I like the story. I hope Caitlin does, too. If Caitlin likes it, then Sue will like it and tell me so.

I stopped by the haji shop and told the man that one of my movies didn’t play well. He said to get another. So I came back with “Australia” with Nicole Kidman.

On the way back from getting my movie, I went to the laundry bin and there was my missing laundry. Woo hooo! I came back, put away my clothes and went to dinner.

Ate dinner, which was a bit special. The table reserved for officers and senior NCOs had wine glasses and white tablecloths. I felt awkward sitting there. MSGT Smith was behind me and I asked him where we were sitting. He found a “regular” table away from there. Even the Navy commander sat with us and he’s the highest-ranking officer here.

I liked the lamb. Some rice and veggies and a few crackers with cheese went before I got two dishes of apple pie stuff. MSGT Smith said the cream behind was good, so I put that on my second helping and he was right- it was delicious.

Been thinking about this place. It feels almost like stealing when I think of the money I’m making here and the comfort I’m enjoying. I’ve got my own hooch with shower and toilet, my own bed and furniture. I can watch all the $4 movies I want. And the work isn’t even challenging. Tonight I asked one of the majors when he would like to have a Customs Inspector go to the port. Apparently tomorrow will be a slow day- only going around two PM to check on passenger stuff.

I compare the work and the living here with what I did in Husaibah and Camp Gannon and the difference seems unfair- I earn the same here as there but I work less and suffer a lot less.
Pretty soon I’ve got to think about where I’ll go for vacation. Not right away but I can’t let this matter slide indefinitely.

Well, back to the movie. Maybe another time, I’ll re-read my first Gannon entries anc compare them to this one. I seem a lot more at peace with everything. My divorce seems more like an inconvenience than a tragedy; living here isn’t half-bad; even my Pensebaby and Schaffemann’s behavior seems to bother me less. Yep, life isn’t so bad these days.

Umm Qasr, Day Two

2008-12-28T08:01:00.001-08:00

Umm Qasr 12272008
This morning, after no shower because I had no hot water because I had no electricity, I put on some clean clothes and went to breakfast with “Tiny.” The chow hall is small, but the food is excellent. I had one French toast, some bacon, a small flat tater-tot and some orange juice. We came back and chatted a bit, then met some Army guys from the POETT and walked to the port. The walk took us through some trashed-out areas of the port- someone had stacked containers on top of railroad tracks, seriously denting them. One interesting element occurred- “Sandbag,” a large white dog for which someone got shots and a collar, trotted along with us to the port. When we got closer, there was activity that he didn’t like, so he went back to our camp. Or maybe he just went where he wanted.
There were rows of brightly-painted trucks waiting for something to do. Lots of Iraqi guys chatted in twos and threes as we walked by. We waived to them, smiling and trying to do the “Hearts and Minds” thing. The port building is pretty big. We went to see one guy who was pretty busy, talking on his cell phone while signing some documents that people kept bringing him. He surprised me by talking with us about his problems. I expected to hear that everything was fine, no training needed. Maybe that’ll be a subsequent shoe that drops.
The meeting lasted an hour, and then another of our group opened the door and said there was a line a mile long waiting to see him. We didn’t dawdle, thanked him and walked back. I talked with a Captain who seemed interested in my lore of port operations, container volumes, etc.
When we got back, Tiny said we didn’t have anything else to do today, so I organized myself, cleaned my room, re-organized the room, cleaned more, and finally have a pretty acceptable room. We spoke with a nice guy who seems capable in a maintenance sort of way. He got us into the room next door where my circuit breaker lives. Our water heater is in that room, too. We reset the main breaker, and then a few minutes later it popped. We reset it, waited and it popped. They left the door open, telling me that if the circuit breaker opened, I could go in and reset it myself. Sure enough, that’s what happened. I timed it- every three minutes, it would pop. I think it was the water heater that overloaded it. While waiting for the circuit breaker, I got some hot water in a bucket and scrubbed my shower, toilet and sink. The floor was next. Then I came into the main room and swept lots of mess out the door. I moved the fridge and splashed water from the drain on the floor. I got the shower mat from the bathroom (that said Holiday Inn Dubai) and put it on the wet spot. The towel soaked up some of the damp, but six hours later, I still have a dark spot where the water isn’t dry yet.
I put two cases of water inside the fridge and one inside the freezer so it’ll work less and maybe I’ll have cold water. I used the cardboard boxes from the cases of water as a place to store my underwear and uniforms. The room next door has a broken dresser- the front panel is secured to the sides with small pegs. If I can find some Elmer’s Wood Glue (or a European substitute), I may lug it into my room and put it in the corner where I have a 750-watt heater going to take the chill out of the room.
After taking one bed next door, my room now has two dingy Ikea chairs, a fridge with water, a nightstand and a reading light, a bed with clean sheets and a blanket, a small table with a TV that doesn’t work because there’s no signal, a chair that fits under the table, a small electric heater and a few rugs. The bathroom has a collapsible basket for dirty clothes and a small collapsible table that may be where I park a newspaper or magazine for those moments when moi needs a bit of time to complete moi’s bathroom activities. (Details will not be provided upon request.)
I’ve got a few things that came with the room and I just didn’t want to take next door. I’ve got a cot and an extra blanket. I’ve got three pillows that I’ll use after I get the pillow cases back from the laundry. And tomorrow I’ll find out how to do the laundry. I’ve got my clothes plus a big flat sheet-envelope that fits my blanket well. I’d use it but it smells like some strong perfume. A good wash will take that aroma away and I’ll use it. When I drop it off, I’ll ask about washing a big fluffy blanket, too.
I spent the afternoon scrubbing and cleaning and unpacking and organizing. Maybe tomorrow I’ll relax in the Ikea chairs and put my feet up on my footlocker with a cloth over it that I’m using as a coffee table. Moi desires to live a slightly civilized life, after all. My cold weather clothes are in the canvas bag that I brought from home. The closet doors are closed, making the place look tidy. If this were mine, I’d get a carpet cleaner and curtains for the windows. But since I’ll be here only five months, I’m satisfied with the way it is.
Moi would like to get something to watch TV with- a satellite maybe. And a few movies, too. A vacuum cleaner will be on my wish list, but at the bottom. KK, time for late chow.
When I went to the chow hall at 1800, someone else said the chow was delayed until 1930. At 1930, I went and got in but the place was nearly deserted. However, I got some pork in what tasted a bit like curry and some white rice with something like beef stew over it. Diced tomatoes were one side, diced peppers on another and something I couldn’t identify- kind of crispy yams, but without the sweetness. A bit bland, but the flavor that was there was nice. I took my time eating and when I got done, I was the last one there. I think they might have been delayed a bit, but not much. I had my mouth set for ice cream and did without. I took my opened Diet Coke and slipped another into my pocket for later. I don’t think it’s such a big thing but I don’t want to become a compulsive hoarder. I have a cookie and an apple and some peanut brittle and gum and a few cigars. Plenty of diversion for when the moment strikes my fancy.
When I went outside, Sandbag was there. He was about 30 feet away, looking at me. I made a noise with my tongue, clicking at him to come over. Another soldier, whom Sandbag recognized, got his attention for a moment, then Sandbag came over to me. I held my hand out to the side, so he could watch me and sniff my hand. Then he sniffed my holstered Beretta and turned around and sat down, letting me pet him on his neck and head. I think he liked it, but didn’t get all puppy-ish with pleasure. I think he’s a good dog. I’m glad someone got him a collar and some shots. Now I’ll have to look for something like bacon or tuna or some other people food that he might like to nibble.
We also have cats. I haven’t seen the white and tan cats with the ringtails but I’ve seen several grey cats, skittering along a bit antsy. I think they are less socialized to people. They probably scrounge what they can from the garbage and maybe prey on rodents who are attracted to the garbage as well but they don’t seem interested in people or in slowing down when they cross my path. I’m remembering the clutch of white and tan cats that patrolled past the place where Johnny and I had coffee- very attractive felines. There were several males ahead of a larger, heavier female. Not sure of the dynamics in that clan but the males seemed very equal in size. I told Johnny that when I get home to California, I want to find the pound and see if I can find a cat that looks like these ones- short-haired, cream-colored with tan splotches, ring-tails and a kind of chopped-off pointy nose.
See where Sandbag took me? I started out with scrubbing my room and ended up with wanting another cat in California, one that looks like an Iraqi cat.
Took a nice hot shower in my clean shower. Put on a long-sleeve thermal shirt to sleep in and my warm-up bottoms. Just in case my tootsies get cold, I put on the freebie socks that came in my first-class seat on the SFO-LHR flight. I didn’t shave because I’ll shave tomorrow morning before we go out. Tiny says we’ll see how the weekly passenger ferry processing goes. I’ll take my camera.
In a bit, I’ll brush my teeth and take my pills and play Hearts until I get sleepy. Then it’s time to close my eyes until tomorrow morning. All in all, I’ve got a pretty decent place to live here. Gotta find a way to get internet in my hooch but if I can only use the one that’s available to the entire camp, that’ll be OK. Tomorrow will be two days without checking emails, so my queue will be full. I’ll try to upload the last two days to my thumb drive so I can put ‘em in my blog and send ‘em to my big Richiesohn.
G’night, gentle reader.

Umm Qasr at last!

2008-12-28T07:54:00.000-08:00

Umm Qasr 12262008

“How’d I get here” has to be my perpetual refrain. Right now, it’s 21:30 and I’m in an unusual place, one more page in my saga of post-divorce Sturm und Drang. Where am I, you might ask? Good question, that. I’m in my new hooch in the FOB Umm Qasr North.

Ah, but that might not seem so unusual unless you note the details associated with this mild-mannered statement. My hooch is a pre-fabricated steel container that has a single room, about 10 feet by 12 feet. In this area I have a medium top-and-bottom white refrigerator with two beds, two small chairs, a desk, a nightstand and a television that may or may not work. May or may not, you continue to ask in your perspicacious manner? Yes. Though the other hooches have power, mine does not. Apparently the electricity which the other half-dozen hooches have mine does not. So I semi-unpacked by flashlight, made my bed and began this entry with only the light from the laptop.

I flew an English fixed wing from Baghdad’s BIAP to Basrah Air Station. I stayed a few days in a nice hooch in Camp Harper. Tonight I flew from Basrah to Umm Qasr in an English Merlin helicopter. It looked small, not big enough for the 20 or so of us who were coming here. We made three stops letting a couple of Brits on and off at each stop. Several times when we were close to the ground, the pilot set off some flares. Hoo boy, dem flares were very bright! The ramp in back wasn’t closed so our crewman could man his machinegun and the brightness of the flares lit up the inside of the cabin as they left small white-hot squares of burning material behind us. When we got here, Tiny met me and helped me get my gear to the hooch. We walked less distance than I used to walk to take a shower at Gannon.

But I digress- let me outline the various conditions that strike me as unusual. I’m in my own hooch. In the dark. In Umm Qasr North where Brits have run things but where a few Army guys seem to be running the POETT. I got here, in a place I can’t easily get away from sitting in the dark cabin with a bunch of too-young-looking British soldiers, several of whom cheerfully helped me lug my stuff from the staging area to the helicopter and from the helicopter out to where we split up. I’m typing this by the light of my laptop. I brushed my teeth by the light of my flashlight. I ate some very tasty steak and fried chicken with potatoes and delicious onions. A handful of peanut brittle made by my Immigration buddy Johnny’s Thai wife in California and carried in my small brown rucksack whose oilstains from the leaky Marine stallion helicopter in August seem to have gone away.

The lights of Basrah tilted a lot this way and that way as the helicopter pilot left the airfield. No attempt to fly a straight line. We didn’t go very high nor very far, then we came down, dropped a bit of mail and a few Brits, took on a couple more Brits and left. Two more milk-run stops with Iraq’s night blinking through the cabin windows. Once again, I was literally rubbing elbows with people who had weapons and were 1/3 my age, going somewhere I couldn’t see, to do a job I haven’t done and my mind registers only the tilting horizon line composed of Iraq’s lights.

I’m siting in bed listening to the soundtrack of “Xanadu,” entranced by the magic of Gene Kelly and Olivia Newton-John singing about a real-life muse, a movie that came out while I lived overseas but which I watched on VHS when we moved home, back in a time when I was happy with my wife and my family felt complete, unified and cohesive. Now my estranged wife lives with my daughter and my small son; my big son and his girlfriend live in the house I can afford to keep only by working in Iraq.

Yep, life is strange. I feel like a snowflake in a Christmas globe, not sure where I’ll land in relation to the rest of the snowflakes. Less sure who shook my globe, less so of why the someone shook my globe. And to twist the ironic dagger in my mind’s heart, Jeri Southern is crooning to me, “When I give my heart, it will be completely or I’ll never give my heart.” Her 50’s sound is rich, warm, vibrant and talks to me of love and kisses and …. Hope.

Maybe if I outline what my senses are feeling, this will help settle the confusion. I’m seeing my laptop’s screen in the dark room. I’m hearing the soundtrack to “Xanadu” and Jeri Southern love songs. I’m smelling the ammonia that was in the toilet trailer this afternoon in Basrah. I’m feeling my sleeping bag under my legs while my California pillow supports my head. I’m still tasting the chicken that the cookhouse folks kept in an oven for us. I’m not touching anything but the keys of my laptop but I’m remembering what’s touched me recently, things like the kindness of the British Army lads and the contextual sights of flares and skylines and dust and noise.

Seems like my life is a cacophony of never-before and never-again factors- my children, my divorce, my job, my flights in lots of military aircraft, my poor timing in real estate matters, hostility associated with custody, and a strange acceptance of those things I can’t change. Maybe this is what getting old is like. Pity, too, since I might like to be with a woman again, just a few more times. I walked around Camp Harper, just talking with Johnny; I flew next to a Brit in a Merlin; I am in a new place with no idea what I’ll do but strangeness doesn’t seem to have quite the fear-inducing effect it once had.

Time to find my alarm and set it by flashlight for tomorrow’s breakfast with Tiny and a day of wandering around this part of the world, both professionally and emotionally. Fair dinkum life I’ve got these last few moments.

The Basrah Saga

2008-12-28T07:49:00.000-08:00

Basrah 12242008
‘Tis Christmas Eve morning. Last night I came back from chow and fell asleep early. With no TV or radio, this isn’t difficult. I did, however, have my son’s music on my laptop and I borrowed the speakers left here.
Yesterday was interesting. Not yet 24 hours here, I went with the US Army military commander to a training center to be the Customs Expert. I geared up and we went in a nice, new MRAP. The Iraqis were very polite in their headquarters. Lots of different uniforms, some I recognized, some I didn’t. The meeting went on and on and I didn’t have a translator but I gathered that one of their problems is literacy- many new recruits can’t read or write and theses recruits are “must haves” in their ranks. Beyond that, they wanted training in fraud documents, something the termed “Customs” instead of “Immigration” or “Passport Control.”
When I got back, it was almost 1400, so the military guys walked me to DFAC 4, somewhere near their office with 5th Rifles. After chow, I drove back to our hooches compound, Camp Harper, only getting lost once or twice. My biggest mistake was in thinking I should take a left from the NAAFI building instead of a right. So when I found the NAAFI store, I went the wrong direction. But that was a five-minute error, no worse.
Got back, called Johnny and told him where I was, asking when we’d go to chow. He said around five-thirty. I lay down. At six, he woke me from a deep slumber, saying Nadi was waiting. I put on my boots and went to chow. I wasn’t really hungry but didn’t want to go from one lunch to the next without anything else. I ate some dry chicken and tasty fried tortilla and some mini carrots and veggies, opting to go without ice cream because of the carbs. We came back and I lay down (see above) and that was pretty much all I did last night except sleep. Let me see – a good two hours in the afternoon plus about nine or ten hours after chow. I guess sleep deprivation isn’t one of my issues.
In a bit I’ll take a shower and get cleaned up. I’ve got to find a laundry pretty soon, or else I’ll be washing my clothes in a bucket and letting them hang dry. Johnny says we can drop our clothes off in the morning and pick them up in the afternoon. But I haven’t had a chance to do that yet.
This is a different working environment for me. In Husaibah, there were the few Marines that I knew plus about 200 that I didn’t know so well, but we were all in the same desert boat, so nothing was strange or harsh. Here, there are many officers. And the Iraqis have a different level of resources- they have more rank and the concomitant infrastructure that goes with a higher level of authority. A bit like moving from a small border port to a headquarters environment. Wait, that’s precisely what I’ve done.
More later …

Klecker to Basrah

2008-12-28T07:43:00.000-08:00

Basrah 12212008
It’s 03:43 in Basrah. How’d I get here? Good story- All day long the internet at Klecker was spotty. We’d get wireless for an hour, then it would fade for two hours. Then the wireless would be good and fast for five minutes, then in the middle of an email, the signal would go away. So after some less-than-successful Hearts, I went to chow at 17:00. Everett was going to go with, but he disappeared. I got on the bus by myself and went to chow. The food was adequate but not memorable. After chow, I took the bus back to Klecker where the internet was back up. There were four or five emails from Johnny to Cameron and back about my trip tonight. Yes, in about three hours, I’d have to be at BIAP ready to go. I ran to Cameron and got his help with the armorer, who’d gone home and didn’t plan to be back until tomorrow. But while he was on his way, I packed everything. I didn’t get to mail anything home, so I ended up with an extra duffel bag. However, the task wasn’t so odious. The footlocker had just a bit of extra gear that I had to bring- the gas mask, some extra vest plates, etc. During the day, I’d done a wash, so I had no dirty clothes except the ones I was wearing. The pile of clean clothes went into the large rucksack. The footlocker got the cold weather clothes I’d brought from California and my extra boots, tennies and krocs. The canvas bag I used as a check-in bag from California went into the footlocker too. Finally, I crammed my personal pillow (that my Richiesohn sent me from home) into the top of the duffel bag. My small brown rucksack carried all the small miscellaneous stuff like my prescriptions, glasses, my screwdriver and leather sewing needle, kind of my “junk drawer.” Four pieces of luggage, but no one was very heavy. And the footlocker rolled.
Our driver asked if I wanted to go to the PX with him. He works nights driving people to the various locations where they fly from and I think doesn’t get to talk much with people, so I said “sure.” We went to the PX where he shopped for movies and nearly got an amplified speaker for his home. Then we came back to Klecker. While I was bringing my stuff over to the porch, he said he needed gas. Around nine-thirty, he came back and we drove to the British side of the terminal. He showed me how to check my bags with the Brits and I got the standard treatment with my weapons- they loaded all my magazines with ammo and my belt knife into a sack, then put that into an ammo can. I’d get that back at the other end. Then we waited. And waited. And dozed and waited. Finally, one of the Brits mad an announcement. The Americans needed an interpreter. Something about Basra folks get on last. We marched out the door and down to the plane. Not a stroll, a real fast walk. After a few minutes, I was huffing and puffing. Not painfully, but I guess my stamina isn’t what it used to be- nothing but my gear and guns and my laptop bag and a fast walk make me huff and puff. The 22:05 flight left at 01:00. The seats were all right, two rows lengthwise in the front of the plane, then one row on each side aft. I got the last of the double rows along the bulkhead. The skinny Brit crewman talked to us through a decent amplified system, telling us that in the event of a water landing, oh never mind- we wouldn’t be over water. Otherwise, he pointed out the emergency exits and told us to put our heads on our knees and cover up. If we couldn’t do that (I sure couldn’t with all the gear on), then we should just sit up and pay attention to the crew’s instructions.
Now it gets a bit fun. The plane taxied a bit, then we just waited. Then a bit more taxiing and a bit more waiting. Then the pilot opened the throttles and we accelerated very hard. I was surprised at the power we had. I steadied myself by putting my left hand out onto the bulkhead. We lifted off at a fairly steep angle and kept that angle for a few minutes. When we leveled off, we were fairly high in the air. I looked at my left hand, the one that held the buttstock of my M-4, covered with the nomex gloves that Doc Glawe gave me at Gannon. The interior lights made my hand look an eerie green but beyond my hand, the plane was dark. My ears popped a few times, then the motors settled into a very precise, rhythmic, high-pitched sound that didn’t waiver until we began our descent. Maybe because I was tired, I slept. Not well, though, because the seats weren’t all that comfortable. Towards the end of the flight, I noticed the soldier next to me lean over towards the guy on his right- someone was playing a video game. These kids were geared up for war and were playing videos. “Welcome to war in the 21st century,” I told myself.
Touchdown was nice and easy. I think we taxied about a mile or more. I was thinking to myself, “Hey, we don’t need to fly to Basrah, we just drove there.” But I was impatient. When we got to where the plane didn’t roll any more, we piled out and into a tall tour bus. Though I’m not big, I had trouble navigating the aisle of the bus with my gear. I kept catching the laptop bag or my rifle on the armrests of the seats as I stumbled by. We single-filed into the terminal where a very pretty British girl made another unintelligible announcement, something about “fall on the ground and cover your ears” but no one quite knew why she was making this announcement.
As I was wandering around the terminal, I heard Johnny’s voice: “Bubba!” I turned and said, “Johnny!” And he motioned me over to him. He said we’d get my gear after this briefing. I didn’t mind the briefing because I had an excuse to focus on the briefer; the British gal was very pretty. We went outside and found my four pieces of luggage. Then we took them to his SUV. We went back for my ammo. He drove to our compound, an Army Seals place. He gave me Everett’s hooch because Everett is on his way home and won’t need it for a lot longer time than I’ll be using it. I took some photos of this place. Johnny’s place is much more comfortable – he has television and a microwave. This place doesn’t even have a radio. But it’s just for a day or two, so I won’t gripe much about the lack of music. If I start jonesing for television, I can watch TV at Johnny’s hooch.
Once again, I found myself with people who are physically much more fit than I am. And the novelty is wearing off. I’m on my way to Umm Qasr in a couple of days. I’ll do what I can there. I’ll try to finish my contract and see what I might do after this.
Good night, gentle reader.

Klecker 11/17/2008 - Almost home

2008-11-17T23:08:00.000-08:00

Been here a couple of days. Made the trip in an astounding 14 hours. Gannon to Al-Asad to TQ to Camp Liberty without an overnight or even a delay. Jason did a good thing. When I got here, I emailed him and told him what a genius he is. He replied with an email telling me that Mollie sent me a package of goodies and a letter and asking me if I'd share the goodies with the guys. Of course I said "Sure." And I gave him my home address so he can forward the letter to me. I still gotta get Camp Bucca's APO so I can ask him to send me my boxes and my footlocker when it gets to me.

Tomorrow I'll pack up the stuff I won't take- my gear and kevlar and some clean clothes. I'll keep out the extra clothes I'll wear and take with me. Dana says he'll wear one set and wash one set. Good idea. The only small rub is that I'll have a towel left over. Oh well ... it'll work out.

Been talking with lots of people this trip. Everywhere I go, there's someone new, someone with a point of view, some experiences or some advice. "Don't let anyone check your bags at the stairs to the airplane" is common advice. Last night I met a good guy at the chow hall. Looking for a job with nine years in the Army. The IPAs are plentiful and inclined to be helpful. Roger, a BEA from Basrah has been most helpful, giving me a pretty good idea of what to expect. Mainly everything. There are supposed to be four BEAs there. Right now there's one, trying to keep things under temporary control. He'll be back in Basrah by December. When I get there, maybe around Christmas, I'll be alone and I'll have to figure things out for myself.

But this journal is also about what's going on inside my skull, not just the mundane nuts-and-bolts of being in Iraq. I'm two ways about being here. Make that three or four ways. I'm frustrated because the wireless is stuck on "local only" so I can't surf or check emails. I'm bored because there's not much going on; I'm not a newbie any more and I'd like to have something to do. I'm also looking forward to being with Richie and Kimmie in my own house. I hope I can get Schaffe and Pense to meet me. I've also sent Bonnie an email asking (for a fourth time) if she'd come over and spend some time with us. I'm apprehensive about going home without some assurance I'll see Schaffe and Pense. When (and if) Bonnie comes over, I'll talk about stuff that's "safe" - gas prices in California, weather in Iraq, applying for other work when this contract runs out. I can ramble a lot about Dyn, Iraq, contractors, Iraqi folks and culture, being sick and losing inches from my waist, etc. Might be better to avoid talking about money, custody, family court, etc. Well, we'll cross that bridge when Bonnie runs up against that particular wall with her hair on fire. (Just love those mangles cliches ...)

Today I went with Dana (a cop from Massachussets who is having marital troubles with his still-wife.) We went to the bazaar. I shopped and shopped, haggled and got a wee bit smaller price on some stuff. I got gifts like you can't find in California for Pense, Kimmie, Richie, Glen (Sue's hubby in Oz), Bill & Dolores, Sherry, and Bonnie, if she comes over. That leaves a small silver box with no recipient. Perhaps Sue? Perhaps Val? Or I could get one more small gift and give something to each of them. They are both terrific women, each in her own way. Sue and I have been friends since early 2000; Val and I met on the net after that though there were a few years when we didn't say much to each other. Lately, Sue and I don't talk much because of our schedules but Val is very good at sending me emails.

I am focused on getting out of here. I've got my tickets. I'm not sure what else I need, but I'll go touch base with the Dyn folks today and make sure everything's all right.

I may have misplaced my camera. I can't find it, and it's not like I have a whole house to look in, just a couple of backpacks. Well, that'll be my task for today- get checked out here and find my camera. Couple of days more at Klecker's Sheraton and I'll be on the plane.

Dental Work at Abraham's Oasis

2008-10-22T12:19:00.002-07:00

A couple of days ago, my robo-chopper, a dental implant, broke. I took a Space-A flight to Al Asad where there is a dental clinic. While here, I took the opportunity to visit Abraham's Oasis. Below is a picture of yours truly with the oasis in the background. Not visible is the cracked crown and the concomitant wobbly tooth that the dentist said might not be repairable here. So I'll chew on my left side until I get back to California and have the opportunity to inquire about the warranty on my crown.

2008-10-22T12:19:00.001-07:00

Gannon 09172008

2008-09-17T01:02:00.001-07:00

This post is a bit unusual because I'm doing this straight from the only functioning internet location without first drafting and subsequently editing my post.

The team left for the port today, so I took the opportunity to do some laundry. Wearing my last clean clothes, I scrounged a freight-damaged three-hole sink with no drains. I scrubbed the sand from it, then cut three bottoms from garbage-salvaged cereal containers and duct-taped the lids to the bottom of the sinks, making a nice, water-tight container. I used about 18 liters of water to wash, 12 to rinse and the third sink became my "wet clothes drain here" container.

Hand-washing socks, underwear, T-shirts, golf shirts, 511 pants and shirts took awhile. Rinsing was not so difficult. Then I had to use a clean cardboard box to hold my wet laundry while I nailed two nails behind the Wag Bag Shack and tied 550 cord to the Hesco walls for a clothesline.

I watched AlJazeera English TV's show on "Israel- the Promised Land?" for awhile, then checked my clothes. When I put them on the line, they were dripping; after a half hour, they were merely damp. I'm hoping they'll be dry soon, so I can put them away.

I noticed that some of the sand-colored stains hadn't come out in the wash. Iraq's sand is so fine, it's like powder. Powder so fine it won't come out with soap and water. Or maybe what my clothes need is better washing.

Thus my morning has involved trash, tape, laundry soap, hammer and nails and some chagrin at my less-than-perfect hand-washing skills.

Gannon 09082008

2008-09-09T02:49:00.000-07:00

Last night Gunny L asked if I wanted to go to the port today, so I said "Yes." Today we went in three vehicles- the BATS marines and a few terps, the Major, the Intel Captain and the CWO2. I helped carry the BATS equipment inside, then they set up. After a bit, the Major wanted to go see the Port Director and I asked if I could meet him, too. I think this was a bit of a surprise to the Major, but he graciously let me go along. We walked the 200 yards or so across the yard to his office. When we got there, Major Malik said his boss, the General, was out inspecting the Syrian gate but he would be happy to talk with us. We filled up his office with the five of us- Leo the terp, the Major, the two other officers and me. But we had a good visit. After a while, General Fouad came in and we went to his office, a much larger, more nicely furnished one. We visited for about an hour and I asked some questions. I didn't want to upstage anyone else, but the conversation went towards the proposed Free Trade Zone and the Syrians' lack of effort in making such an entity happen. It was a very good meeting. Then the Major wanted some alone time with him, so the two officers and I went to the lobby. We chatted a bit until the Major came out. We did the polite hand-shaking thing all around with the General and his Major, then we left.

Back in the admin building where the BATS were having a very slow day, we went to the break room and found some food. I ate a 28 gram MRE cracker with some peanut butter and drank a diet Pepsi. (Gotta watch those carbs.) The Major and I talked about a Free Trade Zone. I explained how a FTZ works- you physically have merchandise in a country without paying duty on it until you 1) import it or 2) re-export it, giving him some practical examples. He confirmed that the FTZ is supposed to go in the old Gannon location. I think that's an excellent choice for a location. I told him that physical security of the site is paramount. And given the local Customs' tendency towards corruption, security and accountability are extremely important.
I left the Major to see if my friend the Civil Customs guy was around. He wasn't, but his deputy was there, so Stephan and I chatted a long time with him and another customs guy. I wasn't trying to accomplish any specific task, but merely to get acquainted and compare Customs stories. We did that for well over an hour. I think it all went well. During our talk, we lost power twice- each time for only a few minutes, but this seemed so normal that no one got very excited.
Around three in the afternoon, the port was getting ready to close. Stephan and I went back to see how the BATS were doing- two of the three stations were packed up, and the one working one had two customers waiting. The processing took a few more minutes, then we geared up and left. The drive back was through the town of Husiabah, and I got some photos of houses and a couple of residents. (If I ever get back to blogging, I may put those photos up along with this text.)

When we returned, I helped the marines lug some ammo from the humvee to the armory. Then I changed clothes, putting on the gym shorts that SSGT R gave me. Yes, my T-shirt was still funky, but I wanted to do something active. I jogged one lap around the camp. Took me five minutes, since this isn't a very large camp. But I was all done by the time I finished one lap. I sat in the smoke pit and rested, chatting with a few marines and terps. After I'd rested, it was after five PM and time for chow.

Chow- crab legs and pork chops. I had hoped for steak, so I passed on the pork chops. The chow hall was packed, so I carried my tray back to our smoke pit and ate. A few of Iraq'a more tenacious flies kept me from eating too quickly- it's very difficult to eat and flap your hands at the flies. And they don't mind landing on your hand while you're doing the flapping, either. In my "can't we all just get along on this planet" mode, I put a piece of crabshell on the table so they could land on that and leave my tray alone, but they called a lot of their friends and did both, swarming the crabshell and landing on my plate. Stephan saw me trying to deal with the flies and said to either let them have my food or take my food inside to the MWR. I didn't want to be defeated by mere insects. I smashed a few of them with my boonie hat while I was eating, hoping that the dead flies would discourage the rest. But such was not to be. The pesky critters ate the dead flies as well as landing on my tray.

After eating, I took a shower. I stopped by the laundry to see if I had a chance of doing a wash. The laundry was deserted! I couldn't believe my luck, so I opened each washer and yes, there were no clothes in any of them. And the dryers were silent, too. This was too good to be true! I lifted the lever on the sink's faucet and there was no water. That explained the dearth of people doing laundry. So I puffed up my confidence and tried the shower. There was water and that was enough for me. I took my shower, shaved and brushed my teeth. Since I'd forgotten to bring pants, I put on my last pair of clean underwear and slipped the funky gym shorts on over. Yes, my personal standards of hygiene have slipped since I've been here. I'm not as fussy about what touches me as I used to be. I came back, checked the list of who was going out tomorrow and saw that my name was absent. This disappointed me because I had a good day at the port and would like to have another. But I can't change what's written there.

I saw the Major and asked how our internet was going. He said we had it. And the guy who fixed it was sleeping in Rick's bed. We needed the router's password from the CWO2 whose router we were using. The Major and I caught him in the COC and he said he'd give the password first to the POETT Marines (mainly the senior NCOs and the officers), then to the CBP and DHS guys, then to the BATS marines and lastly to the terps. If the router got too slow, he'd change the password and limit who could use the wireless. This disappointment seemed a bit arbitrary, but the router belongs to him personally, so asking him to make exceptions seems difficult. I went back to the MWR and saw that the other computers there were working fine. They were fine because they were all being used. I endured some bad TV hoping for some time on the internet, but no one got up.

I took myself outside and sat on the dusty, not-too-broken couch for a minute, looking up at the sky through the hole in the cammo netting and decided that I wanted to see the entire sky, so I walked across the dusty road and sat on the single humvee seat that someone left on the ground next to the storage container. I wanted a cigar, but I have only one left, and my chances of getting more in the next 11 days before the PX truck appears are slim.

Tonight was different, the moon was hiding and peeking out behind clouds. We saw lightening over Husaibah. The wooden sidewalk was wet. But the few raindrops might not have been measurable. As I sat in my humvee seat, I noticed that it was damp. I didn't get up because I didn't care if my butt got damp, I wanted to watch the sky awhile. I did.

The clouds hid the moon but the moon lit them up, shaping them like Africa. Or maybe like a big huge question mark whose irony went over my earthbound head. The moon's light lit up the clouds from behind, making white streaks across the sky. Only a few of the brighter stars were visible through the cloud cover, but they sure seemed bright. I waited for the mosque's singing, but I guess I was too late, so tonight, my Iraq was just about clouds and the moon and the stillness of the night.

As I sat in my damp humvee seat, two different people came out with the Iridium phone. I had an impulse to sign up for it myself, but that would have ended my gazing at the sky. The stillness wasn't quite complete, either. The generators, too loud for conversation when you're next to them, were pretty muffled by distance and the swahuts of the POETT. Though you could hear the generators faintly, the stillness was there. Some marines came and smoked cigarettes but I stayed where I was. The need to be near someone was not as strong as my desire to just look at the stars and let my mind think about other things, like going home for vacation. I wanted the peace to think. I'd had some good times with everyone already, so I didn't think I was being too much of a loner or a hermit. But, upon reflection, I think I was: the others did congregate for a smoke or a visit and I stayed by myself across the road in my damp humvee seat.
It's 23:30, later than I've stayed awake for a long time. Writing seems more than a compulsion, it's a way to get my thoughts straight and had its own intrinsic therapeutic value for me. Not sure why, but writing seems to compliment star-gazing.

Gannon 09072008 part deux

2008-09-09T02:48:00.000-07:00

Heute Abend ist was anderes gewesen. Ich betrachte einige Sterne durch das bewolktes Wetter. Auch die Monde ist halb-belichtete worden. Der Himmel scheint nicht ganz dunkel, als ob der von unten teilweise gelichtet ist.

Tonight, I saw one or two stars peeking from behind the clouds, high up where they don't have shape. Under the drooping canopy of the smoke pit, two marines were incandescently brilliant, to the point where details went away, and they looked like too-bright shadows, as they foot-patroled a humvee down the road. Under the canopy it was nearly black. Someone had the Iridium phone at the big chair because I could see a red glow from the handset. Light shown under the door to the terps' swahut. The humvee seat that someone had mounted on top of some four-by-fours was my perch. The cool water tasted surprisingly good, even though it had been in my thigh pocket for some time. I'd visited the piss tube, then strolled through the moon dust to this perch where I observed the sky's many shades, lighter along the horizon from the town of Husaibah up to the darker parts overhead. Just above my head was a textured mesh of another cammo net over the motor pool. From over the berm on my left, the mosque's singing went on. I think there were two mosques singing because sometimes the notes harmonized, sometimes not. This is my Iraq.

The picnic tables where we sit and smoke, and where I sometimes eat my dinner, a bit closer to the human waste garbage can container than seems tolerable, these tables remained quiet and dark, like wooden servants waiting to serve us whenever we want them. Behind them is the blue storage container that's next to the two small hescos which hold up some four-by-fours and the chin-up bar. During the day, this area is busy. Tonight the terps cooked some veggies on the barbecue. The left the eggplant, onion and tomatoes in the frying pan with a piece of flat bread, baked locally. I tore off a piece and scooped the veggie mix up. Very tasty, this simple food. I think we need to help the terps fix up a kitchen because the chow hall food, while sustaining life, is incomplete. But these are micro-political things that only tangentenally affect my Iraq.
My Iraq is about the texture of the night, dark and quiet, warm and alive with history. This is the place where civilization began. Sure, humans started in Africa, but only as intelligent apes. This is where the zero was invented, where Hamurabi's Code was law. What's here for Americans to think about? Well, once upon a time, this was the navel of the universe, a bit like Los Angeles today. One day, someone from a smugly superior culture may stumble along a dusty LA freeway and wonder how such a backward country gave us Elvis and Coke and cute, freckle-faced ideals of beauty.

Tomorrow we go to the port. I'll be in everyone else's Iraq for awhile. But my Iraq waits for me, patiently, inhaling light and exhaling metaphysical thoughts. It's not black-and-white, since some light remains but these times are mine alone. Maybe like when I was in the Army and had no children to think about, nor even aware of my mortality. So tonight, I'll go to sleep thinking of my children and what's left of my time on this orb. And tomorrow night, my Iraq waits for me, a bit misty, a lot dark, and with singing and dusty smells in the air.

I hope I can find some of this solitude when I leave my Iraq.

Gannon 09072008

2008-09-09T02:45:00.000-07:00

Stream-of-consciousness blather for now: I've been going to sleep for a couple of weeks, thinking of what my arrival in Fredericksburg would be like- setting up in the RV park, fixing dinner, etc. But the last couple of nights, I've been planning on how to leave Hayward before I get to Fredicksburg. The part about going down I-5 and over to Bakersfield, down to Tehachepi and down to I-10 then out to Texas remains unclear. The trip will take two days for sure, maybe three. But I still have to leave Hayward, and that's where this begins.

I've finished my contract. I left Baghdad on June 28th and arrived in California on June 29th. Suitable celebrations with Richie and Kimmie and the cats ensued. Maybe Pense and Schaffe came by for my visitation weekend. I rested and chatted with them and got ready for the Novato Fourth of July Parade with RMS. Did that, had fun, told lots of stories about Iraq. Now it's July 5th and I'm ready to begin the next phase of my life, traveling to Texas. Sure, if I find someplace I like before I get there, that's fine. But my plan is to drive to Fredericksburg, rent an RV spot for a month and see how the place wears on me. Here goes ...

I wake up on time July 5th. Oatmeal and Tetley's with Perry Mason at nine AM. Then I begin fixing my trailer. The first thing is the door, whose shade has disintegrated in 20+ years of sitting in the sun. I have to drill out the rivets holding the door together. I get the door disassembled, replace the shade and re-rivet the door together. But while the door's apart, I decide to laminate a layer of fabric-backed vinyl wall covering over the door to make it look nicer. That takes another day and a few extra $$$. Now I'm very satisfied with the door.
I get a sharp putty knife and remove the coving from the corners of the shower. I peel away the wall covering that was originally there and hit the walls with my pogo stick, sanding the crusty parts off. Going to TAP plastics, I talk about a primer before I laminate the walls with fiberglass and resin. I get some extra spreaders because I think the wet fiberglass will need to get squeegeed out before the resin sets. I talk to them about putting on vinyl wall covering over the fiberglass. But I think, since I can't get patterned fiberglass cloth, I'll go with just the tinted resin over plain white fiberglass cloth. I check Home Depot for more plastic coving to nail and glue in the corners before I start the fiberglass. Then I bondo any edges so the cloth will look very smooth in the corners. Applying the bondo and waiting to sand it smooth takes some time, but I get a good basis before I take a chance with the fiberglass cloth and tinted resin. And I remember to do the corners of the ceiling, too. While I'm doing the ceiling, I take out the light fixture because I want to replace the automotive light bulb with some new LED lights from AutoZone. I have to noodle a bit on how to modify what I've got to accommodate the to-the-rear-only LED lights. Once I figure that out, I may re-do all the light fixtures because LEDs are more energy efficient. Heck, I might re-do all of them just because I don't want old fixtures. Might take a ride to the RV store and see what they have for fixtures, too, while the bondo is curing.

With the one shower ceiling light fixture out, I finish the corners and the bondoing of the entire shower. Then I sand what needs sanding. Then I apply the fiberglass cloth and squeegee it out with the plastic spreaders. I even shape one plastic putty knife to fit the corners so I can get everything just right. I take down the shower holder so I can do that part of the wall, too. And the bifolding shower curtain comes down so I can take it outside and scrub it well. I contemplate replacing it with a normal shower curtain. This remains to be seen. Yes, I make a much bigger job of re-doing the walls than the walls required. But I have a pretty good shower afterwards and this might be my main shower for an indeterminate future. I thought the shower would take me three days, but it's more like a week.

Then I start on the curtains. Kimmie helps, and we plan to get them done in about four days. Some of the curtain hardware we recycle. Some we can't. I decide to go with an off-the-shelf curtain for the kitchen window because it's small and nothing gets damaged if it flops a bit on the bottom. Then I go with a shade instead. That gives us more sliding things to sew onto the curtains where they slide in a curved track. The bathroom shade gets replaced as well. The curtains involve issues that I didn't anticipate, but we get them done in a week.
I reinforce the cabinet under the microwave and attache my toaster oven to the top of the microwave. I noodle if I want a toaster so I can have bagels, etc. and decide to use either the comal on top of the stove or the toaster oven if I have shore power. I don't like the contrast between the black toaster oven and the white microwave, so at the last minute, a trip to Home Depot gives me a can of white stove paint that I use after I disassemble the toaster oven. This is the same toaster oven we had when Richie lived in our first apartment in San Leandro. Yes, Bonnie was there, too. I'm not sure why I want this old toaster oven. I was pretty secure in my marriage then and maybe this toaster oven is a tangible memory of those good times. I think I'll keep it, white over black over rusty chrome. I won't touch the inside, apart from some scrubbing, because I don't want to flavor my bagels with burned paint.

The toaster oven took another couple of days, and I'm running out of July. What's left? The shower's fine, the curtains are done. The door is good. The toaster oven's fine. Oh, my bed. Sure, I look around for a mattress like I had in Dubai. Boy, that was a very comfy foam mattress. I noodle over spending some $120 or so at Ikea on a Swedish foam mattress. I take Richie and Kimmie and we go there. I ask to lay the mattress on the floor so I can see how it feels without springs. I like it. And I'm flush enough to decide to pop for the extra retail price instead of the craigslist price. I bring the mattress home and make another cardboard template. I cut the corner off and save the piece for later. I use the template to trim some fitted sheets so I can have fitted sheets. Kimmie helps me with the stretchy stuff around the trimmed part of the two fitted sheets. One for putting on, the other for when I want to wash the dirty one. I suppose I could get by with only one sheet, but the hausfrau in me wants two. And one is flannel, so when it's cold, my tush won't get chilly. The extra piece I make into a sheet-covered pillow, for the corner up by the headboard. That makes my bed very nest-like, roundy at the foot, and with a roundy pillow at the head. Then I put some extra pillows there, including that one long Thai pillow and maybe a small triangle-shaped Thai pillow. If I decide there are too many pillows, I can stuff some in the closet or put them on the couch in the front room.

The bed's done. And I've got four storage tubs for stuff- Rennie gear, Dickens gear and Cowboy Action Shooting gear. Do I really need to take my Rennie stuff to Texas? I decide to do so, since I'm not sure when I'll be back. Maybe I'll stay in the RV park for a few months. And I take an empty tub, since I don't have anything to put in him. The shelves in my closet hold my clothes, as many as I want to take. I'll take one suit and two dress shirts and a pair of nice shoes. I'll put my black steel-toed work boots in there, along with my cowboy boots. At the last minute, I put in my roller skates, too. I might go roller skating on a family night, just for fun. I take my tennies and my crocs for sentimental reasons. And a pair of Iraq boots. I can't make up my mind whether to take the steel-toed Marine Corps boots or the softer 511s. So my shelves have a mix of tan 511 pants and blue BDUs. I've got some tan 511 shirts and some light and dark Customs shirts without the patches. And a ample collection of T-shirts. I try to find a way to hang my Morion and cowboy hat and Rennie hat on the walls so I don't have to use a storage tub for them. I get fussy- sure a nail would do, but I don't want to look tacky. I want something nice.
I get Richie to help me run some cable from the access hatch near the door to both just inside the door where I want my TV and the back, where I want the other TV. Ditto some ethernet connections so I can have a laptop on the couch and/or a desktop on my desk in the bedroom. And I try to use the two drawers that Riche took out from the family room because 1) I like to re-use resources and 2) I like to have something from my house in my trailer. Along that line, I also talk to Richie about having a 110VAC light in the trailer, the switch to which goes in the wall with my pewter light switch cover just inside the door. Oh, it's good to have a second switch maybe in the back, but I want to have my pewter light switch cover in my trailer, too. And I leave the 12V light under the desk, since there's a hatch to the outside there. But I also want another 12V cigarette lighter outlet (or two) there.

Then Richie and I look for a 12V TV, just in case I'm where 110VAC isn't available. We also take a ride to the RV store and talk about a second (and third) deep-cycle battery so I can get some 12V fans in case the power fails on my 110VAC air conditioner. Lots of technical dealings with vendors. Richie and I come up with solutions that please me. I spend a few $$$, but I'm happy with what I get.

Whew! I didn't know I had so many loose ends to tie up before I was satisfied. But now it seems Last Resort is ready. I do one more thing- I phone Lee's Tires and ask Lester if he can do some checks on the tires. We work something out. Now I change the oil in my truck and get Lester to check my spare. Richie and I take a ride to the wreckers and see if I can find one rim that matches my truck's aluminum ones because the spare is the stock tire and is a bit smaller than the ones on the four rims. We find one and get Lester to put one of my old 30" tires on it, with a tube inside. This is a spare I can trust.

I'll need to make a spare tire mount for the trailer, too. I got the trailer with a loose spare tire on a pallet. And I want to make a custom spare tire cover for him, maybe from a Toyota van. And I'll need to paint "Last Resort" on him. While I'm doing that, may as well make a bicycle carrier for my Rotterdam bike. Though if Kimmie expresses a wish to keep it, I may let that bike stay in Hayward and take my too-tall mountain bike, though I gotta get him a third sprocket and some new tires. Decisions, decisions!

One evening, we take a ride to Best Buy and see about a different radio for my truck as well as a connector for the CD player I got from Bonnie that I'd like to put in Last Resort. I don't like what I see, so I'll keep the cassette player for the truck.

Richie and I make a tool kit for the road. I decide to take my Honda, so the ramps go too. That leaves less space in the bed for tools. But I squeeze in the generator and MIG welder and air compressor. My 3/4" drive set goes, and so does a pretty good set of 1/2" and 3/8" sockets, my hammers and screwdrivers, etc. I have a couple of footlockers from Iraq, so I use them for tools. A lot of my tools stay back with Richie, but I don't mind because he's good with them. I probably would get by with a pair of pliers and a screwdriver, but I like tools, so I take more. Painting tools? No. Plumbing? Well, maybe a bit of teflon tape and a small pipe wrench. Woodworking tools? My Japanese saw and some sandpaper. Gardening? Nope.

I think I'm done with mechanical preparations. One last item is my small six-pack cooler that goes in the front seat with me. But I think I'm done except for food.

Richie and I put some steaks in plastic bags and put 'em in my freezer. Ditto some hamburgers and chicken pieces. Before I let them get hard-frozen, I put some sauce in the bags so when I thaw them out, they'll have a bit of flavor. If I decide to barbecue, that's fine and if I decide to pan-fry them, the flavor will be good there, too. I have some ice trays (from ancient history, methinks) and I know my one Aussie ice tray is there. I put a case of Richiebrau under the sink and an extra six in the door of the fridge. Kimmie helps me pack some few veggies, including a quart of tomatoes from my backyard, in the bottom of the fridge, along with a bit of farmer's market goodies- an eggplant, some onions, etc. The fridge gets full and is happy. I put my aluminum ladder in the bed of the truck along with the home-made hibachi (from the old stove) and some charcoal briquets in a couple of one-gallon paint cans.

One afternoon, we check everything- the trailer's fine, the truck's fine, the motorcycle's secure in back, and so are the tools. I wash the truck carefully, trying not to wet the stuff in back. I clean the insides of the windows, too. Then I wash Last Resort, too. I coil the 110VAC extension cord and the sewer drain hose. I put in the locking wheel chocks. I double check everything. Then Richie and Kimmie and I have dinner. In the morning, I'm off.

Dinner is good. Richie makes his usual terrific dinner. Kimmie talks more than usual. The cats sense something's up, but are nice anyway. I get to talk to Sam a bit. Of course, he doesn't understand me, nor even come close to grasping why I bother talking to him. But I get the usual stare from him and that suffices. I can't sleep because tomorrow's the day. Can I stall and stay home one more day? Sure. But I've stalled plenty. Tomorrow's the day to begin. With a full stomach, we sit and talk.

Richie's concerned that I'll be too tired if I drive beyond Bakersfield, but trying to get to Arizona might be possible. Me, I don't know where I'll go. I'll try for Bakersfield but since I won't be driving fast, I may stop sooner. For sure, I'll stop at Kettleman City for diesel and burgers and I'll see if I can stay within my former 17-minute pit stop routine. Used to take me 17 minutes from leaving I-5 till I got back on I-5. 'Tis but a small item. If my stop takes 20 minutes or 30 or more, it's all right. Not much to look at till well beyond Kettleman City. Should I try for a more scenic route? Go on Yahoo maps and see if I can head east from Bakersfield along some small roads till I get to Nevada? Or should I stay on the interstate and see what amenities await the frugal RVer? I am confident that I can stop in a Walmart parking lot for one night, maybe near the California-Arizona border. Then I could drive across Arizona and New Mexico, maybe a bit beyond El Paso the next day, and arrive in Fredericksburg on the afternoon of the third day. I wouldn't be too tired from driving, and I could even see how my trailer handles in an RV park. When I stop at a Walmart parking lot, I could have dinner and breakfast there, then do a fuel and food pit stop somewhere along the way.

This storyline would be better if I were online and could plan out my driving. Is there a decent Walmart east of Bakersfield? What's the scoop with the road along Arizona and New Mexico? Would I like to stop in New Mexico for a day or two, just to see what it's like? Richie said he didn't like it. Maybe I'll fuel up in Arizona and just motor on through New Mexico, below the speed limit. From El Paso, I recall a lot of miles until Kerrville. I may stop in Kerrville and see what their RV park is like. After all, it's just 26 miles to Fredericksburg and I can do that on the Honda or even in my truck. And I may find some property in Kerrville to look at before I go to Fbg. Too many possibilities here. But I have been focusing on my arrival in Fbg- the set-up, the cooking dinner, the walking to the grocery store, etc. Maybe if it's not too late, I can stretch a bit and take those last 26 miles to Fbg.

Gannon 09062008

2008-09-09T02:44:00.000-07:00

Today General Petreus paid us a visit at the Port of Husaibah. The early group left at 0600 to begin patrolling theport with a K-9. The second group left at 0800 to stand guard and watch for unusual events that could threaten him.I was in Tower 1 with a Marine SSGT and a SAW-equipped marine from another company. We had radios and binoculars. I was in the meeting where the radios got handed out, so I took ours. But the first opportunity I had, I gave the radio to the SSGT along with our area of responsibility. The other marine's job was to look outside the port's perimeter and ours was to watch the interior. The conversation was good, but the ballistic vest and 195 rounds of ammo were hurting my back before I got up the tower. Fortunately, I remembered Richie's advice to take ibuprofen before the pain, so the weight was bearable. All in all, I'd rather not have stood for 160 minutes in the hot sun with the really heavy stuff on my shoulders. SSGT Hale told me that the plates were 18 pounds apiece, plus the two side plates were each half as heavy. That makes for 54 pounds of plates, plus the normal ballistic vest's weight. Add 150 rounds of .223 and 45 rounds of 9mm to the weight of the M-4 and M-9 and I think I was carrying a lot of weight on my skinny, old and decrepit back. I found that I could put the lens of my binoculars against the camera's lens and get a decent telephoto. Not sure why, but this seems to work. I have a good shot of a sign saying "Welcome to Syria." And a short video clip of panning from right to left of the Syrian Port of Albu Kamal. At least that's what I think the Syrian border town is called. There are lots of things wrong with the layout of both ports, but this is what the place looks like. The Iraqi Port of Husaibah is too large to get from where I stood, but I got a good shot of the three buildings that we call the Syrian gate. There are two lanes between the three small buildings, one for incoming, the other for outgoing. From the tower, I couldn't see much of what happens in the primary processing and outgoing processing areas. No one asked me, but I think we'd have had better success with standing on the ground instead of in the tower. However, that might have put us in a more vulnerable position. Not my call, so I'll let that drop for now.

I got bumped from the ride back by the K-9, so I stayed at the port all day with the BATS marines. After taking off my heavy vest, I ate two small plastic containers of fruit cocktail, spilling some on myself each time I opened the peel-off lid. You'd think I'd have learned how to open food containers, but this was under some pressure. Tasted very good, though, since I skipped brekkie because I didn't want to overload my stomach while standing in the tower. Then I found some MRE crackers with only 28 grams of carbs, so I ate those, too. Later on, I found an MRE plastic envelope with peanut butter, and that went down my gullet as well.

I came out of the break room and watched the BATS marines a bit. I don't quite understand their processing, but I have the drift- they do fingerprint and retinal scans of travelers. There's a similar group for the Iraqis called PISCES. Then I went to say hello to the Civil customs guy. He welcomed me and got a couple of Iraqi folks who could speak a bit of English. This was a good session, maybe because I didn't bring one of my own interpreters. This was purely a social visit. He showed me how to write his nickname in Arabic- Abu Hamid. Hamid is his son's name, so he is called "Father of Hamid." I told him my son's name is Richie, and he helped me write "Abu Richie" in Arabic. All in all, it was a good visit. I stayed about an hour, then went back to the BATS area. As we were getting ready to leave, I went back to say good-bye, but he was gone. Because it's Ramadan, I think a lot of people spend a lot of the day sleeping, in order to make the fasting easier.

We came back around 1600. I helped unload the gunner's weapons and the ammo. Then I helped carry the big cooler back to the MWR and went to sit on my bed. I fell asleep, very soundly. Someone knocked on our door and said we had a debrief at 1700, in about 30 seconds, so I jumped up and ran in. The Major told us everything went well. Some issues include a Free Trade Zone, security, etc. One surprise was the General's suggestion that we host a dinner here for our counterparts. Not sure how that will play out, but I like the notion of having Abu Hamid and maybe one of his lieutenants visit. The security of the base is always an issue. The Port Director, General Faoud, said when Ramadan is over, he might host something for us, too. Again, security will be a consideration. In my own small way, I'd like to get better acquainted with the civil customs, since that's my background, but I'll go with the flow in any decisions regarding group meals and social events.

After the meeting, I grabbed some food from the chow hall. The guys who were here for lunch raved about the spaghetti and meatballs and the four desserts. Those of us who didn't have lunch also didn't have leftovers for dinner- I had a cheeseburger with no bun and a sausage with some canned beans. But I did manage to get a small piece of chocolate cake that was quite tasty. I washed it down with a liter of water and some no-sugar Tang plus a box of grapefruit juice. After dinner, I went to Spawar, the internet cafe, and did some emails, writing to Richie about his Happytown Express email. We seem to have enough money for now, and about $6K extra, woo hooo! Richie noted that I seem to be existential in my recent emails. Maybe he's right.
With finances in good shape, I strolled back to the POETT in the almost-dark, got a small cigar from my hooch and went out to the smoke pit. The Doc was there, Gunny L from Hawaii was there, and we chatted. They left and Rex the Iraqi terp came along. I told him I liked this time of night, when "hwai nejoom" hapens- that's bad Iraqi for "a lot of stars." He is an older guy, 60 I think. He seems a lot more decrepit than I am, but maybe he just knows when to stop pushing himself. He told me a couple of ways to say good-bye at the port. We chatted a bit about Iraq and its future. I told him I think Iraq could skip the electricity infrastructure thing and go straight to photo-voltaic for every house. Still have the water, sewer and transportation infrastructures to worry about, but electricity could be resolved.

I finished my cigar after Rex left and went into the MWR to see what was happening there. The BATS marines were playing their nightly Texas Hold 'Em game with packets of Nutri-Sweet and someone put on a horror movie, "Cult," about the curse of an amulet that was caused when a medieval Japanese girl got pregnant and her father killed her. Fast forward to today, and some college kids are taking a liberal-arts class from a knock-out English woman and ...I left because I didn't want to see how college kids deal with cults and curses and people stabbing each other with big ceremonial knives. Better to type this than to lower my IQ with that drivel. But that's a subjective opinion, isn't it?

Seems sufficient for now. G'night dear reader.

Camp Gannon 09012008

2008-09-09T02:39:00.000-07:00

Gannon 09012008

Today began early- Wake up at 0530 for an 0600 meeting, then 0700 depart for the port. Got there, drove around a bit, then we got out of the Humvees and walked the port. We went up to the exit gate and I watched the Iraqis process arriving people. The pat-downs were cursory at best. But the hardest part for me was standing around in IBA. No matter what I did, I hurt. Well, my back hurt. After a bit we climbed into a lookout tower where I tried to rest my elbows on the edge. But the effort of lifting my elbows up to almost chest level put a kink in my back so I stopped that. We walked back and watched more passengers get processed. By then, I was just a bundle of pain in my back. We walked around and watched the pedestrians go through the luggage check, then went over to the admin building where I could drop the IBA. I watched the marines do their BATS thing, then I asked one of our terps to help me find the civilian customs guy. He did. I got a captain to go with me so I wouldn't be alone. The two of us had a good conversation with the customs guy. I asked commodities and volume of cargo. Since there are no commercial trucks through here, he didn't have a lot to tell me about commercial ops.
When we got back, we had a good de-brief and I mentioned what I saw that was not good- after the men are patted down, they comingle with the women on the way to the luggage x-ray and female exam. I pointed out that this was very bad- whatever contraband people may have, the could begin by letting the woman carry it, then while they are comingled along the wall to the baggage check/female pat-down, she could slip the contraband to him because he's done being patted down. Additionally, once in the female pat-down and baggage X-ray building, there seem to be zero female pat downs because there is no female available. And to make things even worse, people put their luggage into the machine, but the females uniformly kept their purses and small plastic bags with them, so something the size of a football didn't get x-rayed. I told our Major that this seemed impossible to me. Additionally, the Iraqi customs guy at the X-ray machine was working alone, a bad situation. He needs a partner, a back-up. If he told the ladies to put their bags through the X-ray machine, he'd have no one to back him up if they got angry.
Now for some observations of my own. I was exhausted after carrying the IBA with ammo and rifle all morning. My back hurts. I will sleep well tonight.

For moi: Been seeing myself at the Fbg RV park. Here's what I see, and maybe I'll put in some caveats afterwards. I pull in to the RV park, get my trailer sited. I hook up the water, sewer, internet and electricity. Then I pull open the awning and set out my small table and a camp chair. I pull out my ladder and attach my hibachi to it. One or two match-light coals and a handful of regular charcoal on top. I go inside and take out a steak from the marinating fridge. I peel an ear of corn and pick the cornsilk off. I put some butter and salt and pepper and Mrs. Dash's on and wrap the whole thing in aluminum foil. I get a Richiebrau beer from the fridge and open it. The TV says it's evening news time. At the commercial, I glance at the coals- it's time to cook. I carry the corn and steak outside and put them on the hibachi. Quickly I go back inside and make a salad- lettuce and tomatoes and some vinegar and oil. I go outside, flip the steak and roll the corn. I go back inside and get a plate and silverware. A few more minutes and it's time to eat. The steak goes from the grill to my plate, so does the corn. I spray some water on the coals to save them for another time. Inside again, I sit and eat- steak nice and rare, corn, salad and the rest of my Richiebrau. TV is good, but I'm glad I have a plipper. The tasty steak warms my stomach. The corn is sweet and salty at the same time, improved by the goodness of the butter. Even the salad is refreshing because it's crisp and the tomatoes are tangy. And the Richiebrau is still good.

I finish eating and take my dish to the sink. Washing one dish and a few pieces of silverware takes no time. Then I go outside and get the grill from the hibachi. That takes a bit longer, but still goes quickly. I re-use the tinfoil from the corn to store the left-over charcoal for another time. The few ashes go into my trash bag. I walk the trash to the RV park's trash can. The empty beer bottle goes into the cardboard case because one day, Richie will refill that bottle and I'll have more Richiebrau. Yes, even though I set up my small table outside, I chose to eat inside because I could watch TV better. Maybe I'll need a trip to the bathroom. That's fine because my bathroom works very well.

I relax a bit more with the TV. But it's now almost completely dark so I take another Richiebrau and a cigar and go outside. I do a bad thing- I put my feet up on the steps from the camp chair while I smoke my cigar and I use the table to park the Richiebrau. From there, I can hear the TV but I pretty much tune it out. I can't see the stars from in front of the door, so I get up and move my chair to the area between the trailer and my truck. I drop the tailgate and put my feet up on the trailer and lean back to blow cigar smoke up in the air. I feel warm air around me. I see stars come out, some brighter, some fainter. the sky's the same gunmetal blue-black as in Iraq, but the world around me is very different. How can that be? The same stars rendering me an insignificant speck in the universe but the world is so different. My surroundings are paved, not dusty. The air is warm in both worlds. But the air smells different. And I am different. In Iraq, I was grungy and sweaty. Here' I'm clean, thanks to the shower I carry with me. In Iraq, I could hear the faint call of the mosque at this time of the evening. Here I hear the TV faintly. But there's more. In Iraq I carried a gun everywhere. Here, I *could* carry a gun, but usually don't. And though there were, I believed, many people with AK-47s in Iraq who'd have loved to shoot me, none did. Here I can't tell who might want to mug me but neither situation bothers/bothered me much.

My mind drifts along such confusing and contradictory paths. Maybe I shouldn't try to compare the two. But with a cigar in my hand and a beer next to me, my mind goes where it wants, not where other people might think was typical.

Here's where my fantasies diverge. One way is that I meet a nice female about now- not a child anymore, but with grown children of her own. I see her, ask if she'd like to sit with me a spell, and we talk. I give her the choice of a Richiebrau or a glass of wine because I have both in my fridge. I turn on the radio inside and we don't quite listen to the music while we talk. Down this path are companionship and romance. Nice to think about but embarassing to write about just yet. Embarassing because it seems presumptuous to declare myself so attractive that nice women would chat me and romance me.

The other fantasy path is where I finish my cigar and beer, check to make sure the truck is locked and go inside and fix my bed. Yes, it's my bed. I built it so it's "mine." I put on my sleeping shorts and slip into my Sylvester slippers. Make that "Sylvester Slyppers." I watch the small TV in the bedroom and when the shows get a bit boring, I brush my teeth. Then I come back to bed and floss while I watch TV. Now I become downright decadent. While in my nice, clean bed with nice, clean sheets and my teeth brushed nicely and flossed even more nicely, I pull out my laptop and surf the net while I watch cable TV. If I wait a bit, maybe Australia will be waking up. Or I might find Michigan online just about now. Heck, maybe I'll catch my son in California and we'll chat because he and I get along so well. So my day will wind up with a good meal in me, a philosophical cigar behind me, and some emotional support from friends and family online. I'll set my alarm, but pretty late, like nine in the morning, so if I wake up earlier, I can convince myself that I'm ever-so-diligent about my schedule.

During the night, the toilet is just a few steps away. And I don't need shower shoes to hike 50 yards to the toilet.

In the morning, I'll fix some standard brekkie- oatmeal with Tetley's tea. Then I'll be a nervous nellie about security and lock the trailer as I drive off to meet my realtor. We'll sit down and talk about what's available and where the homes are and what they'll cost and how I can apply for a mortgage, yadda yadda. We'll drive out to look at houses. (I'll offer to drive so I can learn the area while she co-pilots.) I've brought my camera and a notebook. No, I've brought my laptop. I can upload the pix into the laptop and save each one as a separate page. Later, I'll review each. Aw, maybe I'll just take the hand-written notes and the pix. I'll look for what I want- a place to park my trailer, a place to have a garden and a shop, and maybe a place to build another home out of containers. Lots of variables, but I'm in no hurry. For the moment, I'm living in the RV park. Worst case scenario, I decide that nothing suits me, so I hook up my trailer and keep driving. But I'm also hoping to find a place where Richie and Kimmie could be happy. Maybe Texas isn't that place. But maybe Texas is that place for me. This will be a tough choice because I like living with them. It might take some courage to live alone.

And that takes us back to the caveats above. Living in Texas could be nice. But Richie and Kimmie might decide not to live with me because they don't like Texas. Ah, maybe if they come with me, they might decide it's not so bad. We'll have to see.

Boy, this is one thin-skinned fantasy, no?

Camp Gannon 08312008

2008-09-09T02:35:00.000-07:00

Ah, the last day of August. As I walked to chow through the moon dust, I wondered at what has happened to me in the last, um, 72 days. (Ten in June, 31 each in July and August. At first, it seemed like I was back in the Army. In a way, Fort Benning was, indeed, the Army. But things were different. Then the flight to Bangor, Leipzig and Ali Al-Saleem. Work of the physical variety, living in less-than-normal conditions, and further downgrades in my standard of living.
The last couple of days, I've been realizing that my trailer isn't such a bad place to live. Sure, when I was in California, it was a disincentive to sleep there because I didn't have cable TV and stinging hot water in the shower. My bed was much larger in the house than in the trailer. But I guess the biggest downside was (and I just now realized this) that I was further away from my family, Richie and Kimmie. Sure, if they went upstairs to be alone, that was one thing. (And I gotta point out that they seemed exceedingly discreet about their personal life.) But being in the trailer seemed like I was further away from them, more isolated than if I were in the family room and they were upstairs. The extra 30 feet or so seemed to make a big difference. I was no longer in the house, I was in my trailer. And being in the trailer was a solitary place to be. Solitude slipped emotionally into loneliness. Thus merely being in my trailer,while I was doing something to the shower or bed was fine, because I wasn't being alone in the trailer, merely being inside the trailer to accomplish some task. But sleeping in the trailer meant being apart from those inside the house. And choosing solitude seemed frightening. The sensation reminds me of when I was contemplating divorce after three and a half decades of being married. I didn't want to be alone.

And that takes me to the recent Fantasy Thing- moving to Texas. If I go alone, I'll be alone. Sure, I believe Richie and Kimmie will help me make the move and even stay awhile with me. But I'll be alone eventually. Though there are plenty of people around me in Iraq, in the emotional sense, I'm alone. Each of us here is alone, though we're all part of a team. We work together but the camaraderie has limits. When I go to Texas, I think I'll be alone.

Now if I stay in Hayward with Richie and Kimmie, I still want to take off for the occasional trip somewhere. If they work, they won't be able to go with me. But I still want to take off and see Texas and Montreal and North Dakota (again) and maybe Mondovi and points in between. I'll be alone during these travels but I'll still have a home. Maybe this is the point I missed when I didn't sleep in my trailer much before I left- having a home isn't about where you sleep, it's about having people who care for you. And as long as Richie and Kimmie care about me, that's my home. In their constrained and constricted way, I think Pense and Schaffe care about me, but they have trouble demonstrating that because Bonnie controls their external behavior so much. They are required to love her and any affection towards me is a visible detraction of their love for her. (Moi doesn't think that's real love, but it passes for love among those three.)
This shouldn't be a roastof Bonnie's maternal control, this is about me and my thoughts about being alone.

Lately, I've learned that being alone isn't bad. As long as you have something to do, you're all right. Tomorrow may be a patrol, so I may find myself at the port. That'll occupy a lot of my day. Breakfast, a patrol to the port, dinner, a visit to the internet cafe and a cigar at dusk. These things seem simple, yet they make a day full. I have a few of those left before I get to be home for good.

I brought my laptop out to the camo net because I'm tired of hanging out in the swahut with nothing to do. At least I get to see daylight from here. Occasionally someone will ask if I have wireless. I don't. This is just a place for me to type. Right now the sun's out, there's a small breeze, the dust is minimal and it's very quiet. About 100 feet away is the berm that separates us from the town of Husaibah. I can't see the town, but in the evening I can hear the mosque faintly. It seems sad that I'm in a country but I can't see much of it.

Back to solitude and loneliness. In the Texas Fantasy, I mentioned that I might accept Schaffe and Pense and even Bonnie as dependents when I'm settled in. That seems odd to me because of the history of antipathy that Bonnie and I have. She knows how to annoy me and seems to have no reluctance in doing so. I just want to be happy, in my limited way. I can't really live in my house because it's not mine- it's the bank's. And I can't work another 27 years to satisfy the bank, so I'll have to leave. Unless Richie and Kimmie want to make it their home, too, then it might be home to the three of us. If that happens, I'd be happy right where I am- and I might even live in my trailer in the driveway, so the three of them could have two bedrooms. Bonnie will always have about $1500 per month from my retirement, and that might be enough for room rent for two rooms. If I took all her money, she'd just ask me for food and gas and McDonald's money. Maybe if I charge her $1200/month for two rooms, that would leave her with a bit of her own money. And I'd be in my trailer when I want to be. Not sure how she'd manage with me do close. She might feel threatened. No, I'm sure she'd be threatened- her values, her lifestyle would look bad in comparison to mine. Her two younger children would see that her decisions and values have been foolish. And she couldn't handle that. She needs to be right all the time. Not just "mostly right," but all the time. And from time to time, I might disappear down the driveway for a week or three. Texas? Sure. Maybe just out to Modesto or Angel's Camp for a long weekend. I could take a guest or two, since the couch up front makes into a bed. Heck, there's even room under the shelf in my bedroom for a camping pad. Not as comfortable as living in a house, but it would be up to me when and if I decide to visit somewhere.

Bay Area Backroads sounds like a good plan. With 40 gallons of water and a charged battery, I could be self-sufficient for about a week. And if I stay at a camp-ground, even longer.
Blithering all the time. I have a mind like a drop of water on a frying pan- it skitters around scarecely touching the important parts.

Well, back to the swahut. I'll charge my laptop and see about a walk to the internet cafe.

Camp Gannon 08222008 & 08302008

2008-09-09T02:16:00.000-07:00

Gannon, 08222008 (Stream-of Consciousness Alert!)

Some people went to Al-Qaim today. I watched more Olympics. Around noon, I nuked a small pizza. Plenty of carbs for me. I wonder if my nutrition will suffer from being here- the food is mainly sugars and carbs. Tons of breakfast cereal next to a freezer of individual pizzas. The fridge has full-strength Gatorade, Cokes and fruit juices loaded with corn syrup. A huge box of candy is there, in case the above aren't tasty enough. Bread and bagels are above the freezers. I saw some frozen veggies, so I may go with that. Kinda tasteless, but better than nothing. The chow hall has apples. Not wonderful apples, but adequate. I ignore the brown spots in the apples and they don't taste funny. The new gunny asked me if I'd act as a driver for them on Sunday on a road trip to Al-Qaim. I told him "Sure!" I'm looking forward to doing something useful. Playing hearts and watching the Olympics has a limit. So I may drive a Hummvee in two days. Today after the 0800 meeting, we went under the camo canopy and stood around for a bit, waiting for an awards ceremony. I took some pictures and later on, offered them to the logistics SSG. He said when his computer is ready, he'll use them. The old Doc gave me a sling so I don't have to carry my rifle in my hand when I'm not wearing IBA. Curiously, the Marines refer to this as "the flak jacket" for reasons I haven't yet discovered. Maybe it's the sound that's more attractive. Or three stressed syllables are less conducive to communication than two. The old Doc fixed some Top Ramen with a bit of sausages and some frozen mixed veggies. Very tasty. He's a good guy, works hard and will go back to Corpus Christy and look for a GS-12 job after this deployment. He wants to be the purchasing logistics guy for the hospital. He got an award from this detachment, and that can't hurt his chances of getting hired in Texas.

I may go do a laundry tonight after I take a shower. I'm running out of clothes. I have enough for one more day, then I'll have to run around without underwear, though I can still have clean socks for a couple more days. Maybe I'll ask Richie to send me some of mine from home. I'm afraid if I do, he'll send me a gazillion, and all I really want is one or two. This afternoon, I went over to the internet cafe and replied to Johnny's email. He's working at the airport in Basrah. Good on him. I told him that if he liked boredom, he could come here. Being here is difficult enough; being useless just puts a worse spin on the difficulty. I told Johnny about my mantra, "Four twenty four."

Maybe chow was a good thing. Gotta keep a psychic eye open for cycles in one's life- things were pretty depressing this afternoon. At evening chow, I ran into Ernie, the other DynCorp contractor, and his friend Vince. The Major from their group, Jeff Daniels, sat with us for chow. A good meal. Rice, something my stomach likes, and barbecue-flavored pork chops with a large dollop of boiled peas. I had a diet Sprite and a small can of mixed fruit. I probably ate more carbs than I needed, but the meal was good. The company was good. I helped Ernie stuff garbage into bags and carry it to a trailer in their area. Ernie said that he gets along great with his group. I told him that my old group's collective mind was somewhere else and the new group was not yet certain of their pattern. Two more days and the old group will be gone.

I suspect I'll be among those going to the port on their first actual mission. The Gunny who'd asked if I could drive said that I won't be going to Al-Qaim on Sunday to drop off the old group. Pity. I was sorta looking forward to doing something, even just sweating in a Hummvee for an hour each way. Tonight, after chow and a wag-bag session, I sat in the MWR and watched a pirated version of "Mr. Woodcock" with some other guys. You could tell the movie was pirated because the picture wasn't great and because you frequently saw people standing up and moving across the screen as they left their seats, walking around. KK, 'nuff blither.

I think I'll read the third of three separate paperbacks I have to read. Seems like this group is more into movies and Olympics than real reading. John Lescroart's "The Suspect" still has a good inch and a quarter to go. When I'm done with this, I'll swap it with something Ernie has. Gannon 08292008Gee, has it been a week already since my last post? Time flies when you're bored out of your gourd. Maybe I can work my way backwards and see what's been happening. As of 1600 today, I repaired the striker on the door to our swahut. (Not sure of the spelling, but that's what we call these big ol' plywood tents that we live in. Mine has eight "rooms." Each is about seven feet by five or six feet. Just big enough for a bunk bed and a footlocker. Of course, we all customized our areas with cubbies or shelves. I took a few pix so look in Gannon08292008 for them. I'm sneezing because I have a cold. Started out as a sore throat about three or four days ago. The Doc gave me some Cepacol lozenges that work, but only while I have on in my mouth. KK, back to the door- it had a huge gap at the striker. I couldn't figure out why there was so much gap because the striker looked pretty tight towards the stop. Turns out, it was too tight. The latch wasn't going into the hole in the striker, it was backing out and catching on the trim piece outside. So I took off the striker and marked the correct location with a pen (no pencil here). Then I used my handy-dandy, all-purpose home-made knife to whittle away the offending wood. Took a bit, but I got it right the first time. Now it's snug at the bottom, but still has a bit of a gap at the top because the wall has a noticeable warp in it.

Today I also did my TLS for DynCorp. Ernie from the BTT next door said he saw someone had done it all for him, except today. So I added one day, clicked "save," and then submitted it. Hopefully DynCorp will get it right and pay me. Last night I sent out the SitRep for DynCorp, emailing it to the Major, who will forward it to DynCorp if he finds no OpSec violative stuff. I think it's sanitary. No names, no dates, no identifiable details- "Did some good stuff somewhere with some folks sometime." Well, maybe just a wee bit more detail than that. But not much. Oh, this morning I repaired the broom that I broke. If I had a real drill index, I'd drill out the broom handle and reinforce the whittled part with a bit of steel. But I don't, so I can't, and I don't think the broom will last very long. Two of our terps are going to Tripole. One seems OK with going, the other wants to stay. Moving them seems a surprise. No one likes surprises. Been eating brekkie- yesterday 'twas powdered eggs with frozen sausages and french toast that I skipped because of the carbs. and today 'twas powdered eggs with some steak and a bit of potatoes, black beans and some chili seasoning. I looked for hot coffee, but found none. So I washed my steak down with orange juice from a box. Or maybe it was grapefruit juice. I'm not going back to look through the trash for my old box. (He said with a mischievous grin)

Ten months from now, I should be home, EOM for me. I'll have to see what my finances and other compelling situations are like then. If I thought I didn't need the money, I'd go back today. The guys are mostly good, but this is no place for an antique geezer like me. The middle-aged guys have dads who are younger than I am; the younger ones have grandfathers my age. My mantra works. But I don't know if I can last the whole year. It still chaps my hide (that's a good expression, no?) that DynCorp wants me to take that second vacation *at my own expense* but won't let me use it at the end of my contract. Oh, that sure would be nice, wouldn't it? go home for Thanksgiving, then tough it out until May 27, and go home then. Money would be the same. No one gets financially hurt. No one gains. It's a wash. But the earth would spring a huge crack and the world would come to an end if I worked through my second vacation and left here 28 days early.

The two CBP guys laugh because they're here only for six months. Gee, if I had thought I'd end up here, I should have not retired, just come over and make tons of HR22. Oh well ... What else? Sent my SitRep, right? Also an assessment of some sort. In each I cited the lack of internet as the biggest shortcoming here. Oh, there are plenty of wrong elements. It's hot, it's dusty, we have no flush toilets, gotta eat snacks for one meal a day, gotta take "navy showers" where you use about 30 seconds of water, soap up, 30 more seconds to rinse and you're done. And let's not forget the ever-lovely wag bag situation. But all of that would be palatable except for the lack of internet. I'm pissed because the MSW "trial" that came with this laptop expired, while I am here. I can't get online, so I can't 1) surf for Open Office (which is free and supposed to be as good as MSOffice) or 2) let Bill Gates gouge me for $$$ so my laptop will have Word and Excel. Day before yesterday? I dunno. Before that? Ditto. I sit around under the canopy, chat with the terps and marines. I have found that the red electrolyte stuff with no sugar isn't too bad. So I drink that. I fret about doing laundry before they run out of water. No water would also make it difficult to shower. I'm eating better with the brekkies.

Maybe the highlight of my day is dinner. Whatever they serve, I eat. I just go easy with the pasta and bread. Gatorade has too many carbs, but this place has oceans of Gatorade. Water is OK, but kinda tasteless. Maybe I should look more often at this log. Or journal. I can't believe it's been a week since I wrote. 1630. Maybe I should go wait to check my mail. Seems like it's always crowded there. The eight terminals were always busy. Now that someone took away four computers, it's not going to be easier to get online. We keep hoping that the setup we have here will get repaired and *maybe* someone will put up a wireless router so we can have internet in our hooches. That would be sweet. But the logistical and admin hurdles are plentiful and high. Or maybe I'll kick Chess Titan's butt some more.

Gannon 08302008

Last night I decided to write down what I'd like, my own wee personal "Best of all Possible Worlds." So here goes- In ten months, I'd like to be home with a chunk of cash- maybe as much as $70K of my own money. I'd rest up a bit, then take my trailer to Texas and find a suitable domicile, sort of like the one I saw online in Llano- $116K for a 1200 sf Spanish-style home with five acres. Buy it, settle in and return to California to do something with my house and stuff. The stuff part is easier, so I'll begin with that. I'd need to get a 40' trailer on a chassis and park it in the driveway so I could load it with all my garage. Whatever space is left over can be for the stuff I want- my bed, some storage stuff, maybe the dining room furniture. I recall we packed a lot of HHG in four lift vans that came out of a container. Cars? Well, that might require a second container. Stop a second and look at the costs- about $2500 for a container, about $3000 to drive it to Texas. So about $11K to take two containers. That's expensive. But the good part is, I'd have two containers to use as the basis for constructing another home. And I'd have all my stuff.

In this best world scenario, I'd also have Richie and Kimmie to help make the move. We'd put the Biscayne and the LTD in one container, tow the Mazda with the 4-Runner and tow the Volvo with the F-100. That second container could also carry the last of our stuff from the house. What to do with the house? I'd prefer to rent it, so any appreciation would accrue to me and my heirs. And in only 27 years or so, we'd own this bit of the California Dream. (Never mind that I could have owned it a few years ago but for Bonnie's insistance that we *not* pay off the mortgage.) Selling is an act that can't be undone; renting today doesn't mean I can't sell at a future date. Selling today would mean about zero in equity. Renting might entail a monthly negative cash flow. The financial kicker is- can I afford three big expenses: 1) Bonnie's monthly vig (about $800), 2) negative cash flow from the rental of the house (from $1000 to maybe $400) and a mortgage on the Texas house (I probably won't have $116K to buy the house, so I may have a $50K mortgage there, too.) Let's say I have a $500 negative cash flow and a $400 Texas mortgage and Bonnie's $800 vig- that's $1700. My retirement is about $2800. That would leave me with about $1100 to live on. Not a lot, but doable. And I haven't touched my $40K in TSP. And I haven't yet received my inheritance from Gerty's house. Either of those would make my life a lot easier. And in another ten months from 08/2009, my vig will evaporate, so I'd only need to scrimp for less than a year. In July 2010, I'd get to keep about $2700 of my $2800. Who knows? The negative cash flow might get smaller and I could pay down more of my Texas mortgage.

Two people I have to consider in all this are Richie and Kimmie. If Richie should get a good job (or even a mediocre one), he'd be able to pay $1500/month (about half the mortgage) which would be cheap for a place to rent. He and Kimmie could just keep on living where we are living. Best of all worlds, she gets a job, too, and contributes more. If Richie could pay half the mortgage and Kimmie could pay half the expenses, I think we'd be fine just staying where we are. They could get married and have babies. I'd get to be a grandpa to some very cute children. Oh, I'd probably wait till my vig went away, but I'd still take my trailer to Texas, though I might just park it for a few months now and then instead of buying something. Maybe parking it would give me a chance to shop for a real deal in real estate. But back to Richie and Kimmie working- this would be very good for all of us. I'd find a way to "sell" him a part of the house, so he could have some equity. Maybe in a few years, he'd want to buy me out. At least he'd have a good place to live (and the house is a very nice place to live.) And we have a comfortable life there- we go to the farmer's markets in Hayward, Castro Valley and San Leandro, we shop carefully for stuff on craigslist, we fix our cars ourselves (mostly), and we have a good home. Richie's smoker is there, the clothes line works, the garden gets tended, we have a fireplace for cold nights, the cats know where they live, we get good TV and internet, there are plenty of bathrooms for the three of us, about one per person, and I'd even take the trouble to put in a gas line so we could cook with a gas stove. RMS is nearby for me and Richie and Kimmie may go back for another SRS slash Action in the Lowe Countries. We have a good life.

I can't force Richie and Kimmie to work. I believe they are looking for work, but they also have no severe financial incentive to succeed. As long as I'm working, they get supported by me. In fact, if they find a job tomorrow, that would be one more consideration for me- do I want to finish my contract or just leave and work out our support and finances among my retirement and their job(s)?

But back to the Great Gannon Dream: I propose that what we have in Hayward we could have in Texas. Five acres is a nice bit of land. One home already there, one more made from containers. A garage? More containers. Garden? Oh, you betcha! The cats may even get adjusted to the new place. TV, internet, yadda yadda-those are available in Texas, too. 'Twould be some work to get as comfy as we are in Hayward, but life is about work. Gotta have goals and achievments.

I also consider three others- Bonnie, Pense and Schaffe. Bonnie has made a lot of conscious choices, uniformly poorly. Pense has chosen to side with her mom in many ways for reasons that are complicated. Schaffe is the youngest, and for whom I feel more responsible because he seems to have lost out on the ability to grow up. Schaffe will have a place with me for a long time. Not because he's incapable or unable to support himself (though he is for the moment) but because he needs me to grow up. He's not going to grow up with Bonnie's parenting alone. Pense seems better, but she, too, chooses to remain dependent on Bonnie in a lot of ways. So where are Bonnie, Pense and Schaffe in this fantasy? Well, in one version, they're with me in Texas, along with Richie and Kimmie and their children. This situation would happen when Bonnie's income (mainly her share of my retirement) becomes inadequate to support her in the lifestyle to which she's accustomed herself or in any other lifestyle. Would I want to support them? I'll have to see. But it wouldn't be easy for me to abandon any of them if they needed me.

'Tis one thing to be tough in family court and another to deny them whatever comfort I could provide.

In a practical sense, if they find that their expenses are three times their income, they'll need a place to live. That *might* be with me, on my five-acre home. I might let them pitch a tent for awhile, just to underline that their spendthrift ways have brought them to financial despair. But in reality, I would try to accommodate them. I'd have the small home and the trailer. The three of them could sleep in the trailer while the rest of us slept in the house. And if I had completed the container-based home, that would also be an option.

Similarly, if Richie and Kimmie get jobs and contribute to the Hayward home, we might allow the other three to live with us there. The effect of Bonnie moving back to a home she left *as a dependent* would be intense. None of us are very good at biting our individual tongues. Who would tell Bonnie that there are rules? Who'd intimate that her financial ruin is due to her fiscal foolishness? And would Kimmie make a point of being the Lady of the House while Bonnie would be merely the impoverished in-law? I think Richie and Kimmie could have the master bedroom. Schaffe could have my room, perhaps infusing himself with my aura. Bonnie and Pense, two emotional clones, would have to share Richie and Kimmie's room (where Richie and Kimmie lived happily for a long time) and I'd have the option of sleeping in the sewing room with some clutter or in my trailer where I'm confident I could be quite comfortable. (After all, I'd have my own bed, toilet, shower, kitchen and two televisions. The garage and garden would still be my domain, though Kimmie would have free access to the garden and Richie to the garage. Moving back in with me would demonstrate to Schaffe that laziness and sloth are not as good at providing for oneself as work and thrift. And if Bonnie moves back in, I'd have some big-ass televisions to put up in the house. I might charge her rent, payable in televisions. After the rent is used up, I may buy a car from her and allow her to pay me her rent from that price. Once she's out of cars, we'll see about buying her inherited Auntie Rosie's house. Not sure I want it, but it might have some value on the real estate market. Of course, it's also possible that Bonnie will have already lost the house through one refinance or another. Removing them, if life becomes difficult, could be a problem. If Bonnie tried the "I have tenant's rights" business, that would gall me a lot. But going down that road requires the long-range crystal ball. Right now, mine is very short-range. Fantasies glow rosy in my crystal ball.

So there we are- either continuing to live in Hayward with Richie and Kimmie's contributions or taking whatever cash stash I have and moving to Texas. Remaining in Hayward requires little logistical planning- just keep living where we have been happy. Moving to Texas (or somewhere other than Hayward) will be difficult- finding a good place, packing and transporting a big houseful of stuff and starting a new life, with our without Richie and Kimmie. Somehow, having Richie and Kimmie in my future seems a good thing. They've become my family. This takes us to the strictly emotional realm but merits a few synapses worth of effort.

Before Iraq, the three of us were happy together. We ate, slept, worked and played together. Though not 100% free of stress, we were mostly happy. We get along. Kimmie and Richie are a couple; I'm a single. But we feel like we can trust each other and not be embarassed with each other. Defining what a family has can be difficult. We're not a traditional family. But we are emotionally a family. Richie likes to visit Kimmie's mom and stepdad, but it's about visiting, not living with them. I believe Richie likes living with me and I'm pretty sure I like living with him. Richie finds fault with me but he loves me. And it's about coming home in the evening and having someone there tell you "I love you" with some sincerity that makes a house a home. Kimmie lets me get close to her, but I'll never be her dad. Maybe that's better, because I can remain Rich, whoever that might be. If we had another $2000/month, I think we could be fine together, just the three of us, right where we are. But I can't plan my future based on someone else's behavior. If Richie and Kimmie don't find jobs, then my life probably won't remain in Hayward. Thus the Texas connection. I believe I could afford to live in Texas on what I'd have left after Bonnie's vig, the negative cash flow from renting my house and a small mortgage for the house in Texas. Since this is still a fantasy, let's continue in that vein: I'd like to have photovoltaic power for my trailer so I could run the trailer without electrical hook-up. Still need water and sewer, right? Gotta touch base with the locals there, but I could dig a septic tank and drill a well. Power for the well might be a problem but might be soluble with a few $$$ thrown at the problem. Ditto the water and sewer. And the occasional tank of propane would cost, too. Could I learn to cook on a wood stove and heat water for my shower in a wood-fired water heater? Maybe. Not sure I'd have to go all-out back-to-the-earth hippie-style "drop out of the world" mentality. With about $1000/month, I think utilities would be a soluble problem. But making some of my own resources appeals to me. And this is a lot about emotional stuff and what appeals to me. I have a few square feet of roof above Last Resort- would that suffice to power lights? Probably. If I build a house out of containers, we're talking about increments of 320 square feet of roof, easily used for PV panels. Probably more than enough space, but the cost of the panels becomes a factor. And the house in Llano probably already has utilities of some sort in place. No need to change much, though a solar water pre-heater might be an economical idea. At least a project for the frugal homeowner, no?I could end this train of thought right now, but I'll summarize and come back to it another time. Staying in Hayward is simpler but requires some additional regular income. Without that income, moving somewhere else seems unavoidable. If it's Merced or Grass Valley or somewhere similarly a couple of hours away, it'll still be more expensive than I can afford. Affordable pretty much means somewhere a couple of days away. Could I find someplace east of Bakersfield? Maybe. But would I want to live there? It used to be all about proximity to Schaffe, with the concomitant access to my small son. I'm getting to where his future seems beyond my control, so access (and the daddy-like "here's how to live your life" influence) seem more and more remote. Thus my focus may be more on being comfortable in my old age than in being near and being a positive influence on my small son. And I can't ignore the possibility of having Richie and Kimmie live with me if they don't find jobs. I really hope they do. But I'm comfortable enough with them around me that if they want to live frugally, the three of us could survive on my retirement. Would I have more disposable income of my own if I didn't support them? Sure. But I'd rather support them and have them around me as my family than just count my bank balance with them 2500 miles away. And maybe even Bonnie, Pense and Schaffe fall into that category. One of the wiser things I learned from going through the divorce is that you can only stress yourself if you stress over a failure to control someone else's behavior. I love Richie and Kimmie enough that their work behavior (meaning they don't have jobs) isn't enough to make me abandon them. Pense and Schaffe, too. I am still very pissed with Bonnie, but I don't know that I'm so pissed I'd not help her if she needed it. I'd just have to be very, very careful with what I tell her and how I give her anything. What are the factors here? Money. Location. Mortgages. People. Responsibility. My age. Vehicles. Stuff. Behavior. Ah, the whole thing goes on and on, doesn't it?

Camp Gannon 08182008, 08192008 & 08212008

2008-09-09T02:08:00.000-07:00

Went out on my first mission today. Toured the port from inside a Hummvee. Went inside the admin building and shook a couple of hands. Tomorrow the replacements arrive, so I'll probably stay here. Day after? Who can tell? Tonight, I found the chow hall, where we have one hot meal a day, the evening one around 1700. Also found the showers. The facilities are decent, though there's a strange smell inside the back of the showers. I think there are toilets there, though you're not supposed to use them. Doesn't mean someone hasn't, hence the strange aroma. Might also be from stale water in the toilet plumbing. The laundry is right next to the showers, so I brought back my clothes. Bad timing- lots of people with the same idea, including two guys, one of whom flew with me in the leaky Sea Stallion from Al-Asad to Al-Qaim. That sorta broke the ice. They're building the helipad on the other side of our berm. And I made not one but *two* trips to the internet facility. The keyboards are sticky- gotta type very slowly. The computers are even slower. Yahoo mail won't load, so I use the old mail. Got a nice email from Chuckles, telling me that he's read my blog and that I should think about a career in writing when I'm done with DynCorp. His girls are all well. And he reminded me, I have an invitation to visit him anytime. I ate, showered, but didn't do a laundry. All in all, not a bad day.

Gannon, 08192008

At the 0800 meeting, the First Sergeant made vehicle assignments- I stayed back with Gerald. The rest of them took five vehicles and drove to Al-Qaim to pick their replacements. Gerald and I talked about the port's operations. He and Hector are DHS-CBP on six-month TDY. During their absence, I did my laundry. That took a while, since the two operating machines stay pretty busy. I checked the internet, but it was full, with three or four people waiting. I finally got a washer and came back for a few minutes to help Gerald while it was cycling. I watched the radio while he went to get some lunch, then when he came back, I put my clothes in the dryer and nuked some frozen chicken drumsticks. Around one-thirty, the group got back, but by then Gerald had gone down to Golf Company to see if one of the regular marines could make our radio work. The radio seemed to work, but didn't. Finally our guys got back and one of them reset the control- seems as though the radio lost a code of some sort. The First Sergeant had an all-hands meeting, doing a PowerPoint presentation about camp and team procedures-wear a blouse whenever you're not in "our" area, keep a weapon on your body, etc. The new guys wanted to meet me, so I told them that I'm retired from US Customs, yadda yadda. After the briefing, we split up a bit, wandering over to the MWR for some Olympic coverage and some social chit-chat. When the generator went out, I went outside and sat under a shade canopy of camoflage netting. One or two of the new guys came over and got acquainted. Around five, a captain and I walked to the chow hall, but food wasn't ready because of the power failure. He selected some cereal instead of hot food and almost left it there becausethere wasn't any milk- that gets put in the fridges only for breakfast. I told him I thought we had some in our fridge, so he brought his cereal back. He ate his cereal while I watched the Olympics. At six, I walked over with the new gunny and another sergeant and we had some pasta with chicken, barbecued chicken and peas. I got some fruit cocktail for dessert. We ate outside, under the canopy. As the sun went behind the horizon, the Iraqi evening heard us talk about lots of things. From behind the berm, we heard the mosque's call to prayer.

Around eight, it was fully dark and everyone had something to do. I finished my cigar out on the big chair and looked at the stars. Across the sand road, the peaks of the camoflage nets poked up into the blue-white horizon. I tried to see if the peaks resembled a woman's torso, but they didn't quite have a feminine silhouette. Even with my libidinous imagination, I couldn't do a Mount Tamalpais kind of silhouette. I wanted to read my trashy novel, something about a woman forensics sculptor, but it was too dark. So I came into the hooch and read a chapter. I read one chapter and started falling asleep, but I wanted to write something here.

Gannon, 08212008

Yesterday was of little consequence. More of the new guys got a ride to the port. Today, another short mission to the port, sans moi. That "sans moi" should indicate to the perspecacious reader that moi isn't happy with the lack of activity. As icing on this boredom cake, today was a dust storm. You can't see well 100 feet in front of you. It's constantly hot, too- the screen of dust didn't block the sun. You can taste the dust everywhere. Your skin gets grimy from being outside, damp from the heat and grimy from flying dust. The camo net fell down. I volunteered to help lash it back up, but no one is interested because the winds are still blowing pretty hard. I checked emails this morning instead of eating. I skipped lunch because of a lack of interest. I won't skip dinner tonight because skipping too many meals isn't good for moi. Nothing to do but watch the Olympics with guys who think a girl likes girls because she looks like she likes girls. I keep telling myself, "$400 per day." It's my mantra to endure this place. The old guys are tuned to teaching the new ones what they've been doing and the new guys are tuned to learning from the old ones. No one seems to take much interest in me- Do I have something to occupy my time? Anyone want to get some chow with the DynCorp guy? The new Doc showed me how to take apart my M-4 and we spent the morning cleaning our weapons. Then the new warrant officer opined that we shouldn't do that on the table where others might eat. Good point, I can't fault that. But that took the wind out of my sails once more. "$400 per day." I'm here so Richie and Kimmie will have a place to live, our house, until they can find jobs on their own. A half-hour more and I'll go get some chow. I may eat there and then see if I can't snag my alloted 30 minutes at the internet. "$400 per day." I'm here so I can make the mortgage until the market bounces back and I can sell with some equity. I have sheets on my bed, the ones I found as extras at Camp Mesa, washed and put in my footlocker. Should have put a pillow in there, too. Blanket? None issued here. They ran out. I found two half-blankets with holes in them that had been used as doors. One I put up for my own door, the other I washed so I could have a half-blanket. Last night, my footlocker from Al-Asad arrived. And so did my sleeping bag which makes a fairly decent blanket. "$400 per day." Well, I ran the calculations, and it's really more like $424. Seems like a lot. But I have to endure a lot to earn it, too. I guess the cadence is better: "Four hundred twenty-four dollars per day" sounds better as a mantra. Out of desperation, I went to find Ernie, the DynCorp guy that Johnny knew from Klecker. He was gone, out on a mission. So I lay here on my thin foam mattress, with my back damp from the heat because the air conditioning isn't on right now. Only 20 minutes until I stroll over for chow. "Four twenty-four" is my mantra. We'll see how long my mantra suffices. If things don't get better, when I leave here for my vacation, I'll make sure I leave nothing here that I really care about. If I went home on vacation today, I'd be brainstorming with Richie about how we could survive with what I've already earned and leave this behind. My hope, if the reader understands the full concept of the word "hope," is to be able to buy a home much like the one in Llano- $116K, five acres, 1200 square feet. Take Last Resort there, fly back and do what I can to load all my stuff into a container and get it trucked there. If it took two containers to load everything, I'd be OK with that, too, as long as I had the money to buy the container and pay for the trucking. Maybe food will brighten my outlook. Fifteen minutes until I stroll through the dust storm and find some chow.

Immernoch Pech Gehabt, part deux 08172008

2008-09-09T02:02:00.000-07:00

The POETT group has a week to go. In two days, their replacements will be here. Arriving when I did, I think no one is trying hard to make me part of their team.I'm a late-comer, someone to be tolerated for a short time, while their collective minds are elsewhere. Maybe it'll take some time to become integrated with them,but they seem disinterested in a lot. I got a bunk and a sheet. I didn't get any blankets, nor even a piece of a blanket to screen off my hooch from the rest of the POETT enlisted area. Tonight, when the entire unit disappeared, I swept up the plywood tent. In the spare room where everyone parks their weapons, I saw two pieces of blanket wedged behind a flattened bunk, up against the wall. I remembered seeing a piece of 550 cord danglling from the corner of a container, so I "liberated" about 40" if cord. It wasn't quite long enough to tie around the two 2 x 4s that framed my doorway, but there was a small gap where a knot with a nail would not pull through, so I had just enough 55 cord to string my my half-blanket and I now have a door like everyone else. The other half-blanket piece, I'll use to keep myself warm. When they showed me my bunk last night, all I got was a sheet, so I slept under my towel.

I went all day without eating a meal because I didn't know where the chow arrived. There are a few small teams in this compound, Camp Gannon. The chow hall is in another small clump. And the shower trailers are in yet another small clump of plywood tents.
Perhaps I should clarify. The hooches aren't tents. They're structures made of plywood walls with sheetmetal roofs. The interior is partitioned into small hooches each an inch or two longer than a bunk, and about twice the width of a bunk. Thus you have just enough room for a bunk, and almost enough room to turn around.

Most guys have made shelves of 2 x 4 and plywood. This is where they keep their stuff- clothes, shaving gear, etc. My stuff remains in my rucksack. Now that I know where the chow should be, and where the laundry and showers should be, I'll make an effort to use them tomorrow. I lived on a handful of trail mix,beef jerky, popcorn and apple juice today. I don't think anyone is trying to make my life miserable, but I don't know how to ask "Where do you get hot food?"And no one seems concerned that I'm at loose ends.

Last night, the medic showed me how to use a Wag Bag- a single-use plastic bag for disposing of human excrement. But no one showed me the plastic tubes sticking out of the ground where you pee. Maybe it's me- maybe I need to speak up more. But I'm trying to refrain from seeming "needy." The group has been together for awhile, and I'm just someone who showed up at the eleventh hour. I don't know if we'll go to the port in the next two days. I suspect when the replacements arrive, I'll go along. The port is not too far. But with its proximity, these guys may not want to go any more.

The Osprey - Another E-Ticket Ride

2008-08-09T08:39:00.000-07:00

The burocratic muddle with my travel from Klecker to Gannon/Al-Qaim cleared and I got a show time in the evening. “Show time” means the time you show up. The BIAP folks were helpful and got me on tonight’s E-Ticket ride, a Marine Corps Osprey.

We waited outside the terminal. The horizon looked like a huge, dark umbrella, around whose circumference lights of varying intensity peeked. Belying this image was the sky overhead, full of stars sprinkled in a very deep purple, almost black sky. The air was lovingly warm. I stood there in my battle rattle, sweating under the ballistic vest. They had allowed me a footlocker and my carry-on, a big rucksack. My M-4 was clipped to the vest with a Wolf clip, a quick-release attachment.

The Osprey appeared, sounding like two deep-throated helicopters. The twin rotors pointed at the sky. We ambled the couple hundred meters to the waiting white helicopter. A jockey-sized Marine, the smallest I’ve ever seen, signaled us with a green flashlight and we walked up the short ramp. The helo was full. My flying partner, a Treasury Department civilian, and I got the last two seats at the back. There were green lights overhead to help us find our seats. We stood my footlocker on end and sat down.

Once again, I didn’t know how to latch the four belts. A gentleman of approximately my age, showed me- the two shoulder straps have a thin slot through which the normal-looking lap belt goes, then all three clip into a very normal looking lap belt with a lift-up release.

We taxied (Still can’t get over a helicopter that rolls) a bit then the pilot gunned the motors and we were in the air with a couple of small aerial bounces. I tried a bit of collegiality: I tapped the guy who’d shown me how to work the seat belts, and shouted in his ear, “This is cool!” He smiled and nodded his helmeted head. We saw the lights of the airport; I tried to see Klecker’s layout, but I think we went over a different small compound. Then I noticed that the ramp didn’t close. The Marine had a strap tether and didn’t sit down. Why was that? As soon as we got a bit of altitude, the Marine sat behind a machine gun that I’d overlooked on my way up. Like the Blackhawk gunners, this one used NVG to look behind us and swung the machine gun where he was looking.

We flew just a few minutes, then came down and landed. Everyone got off but my partner and me. The second crewman motioned for us to sit further front, next to him. A couple of minutes later, three soldiers and an unarmed contractor boarded. We took off again, bouncing once before settling into a nice pace. While still fairly low, the pilot veered to the left and to the right. Not quite the steep angle that the Blackhawk achieved, but the square of the open rear hatch showed me a perfect 45-degree angle of the horizon’s lights. The difference with the Osprey’s piloting was that we maintained this angle for longer times, spiraling upward rather than just quick zig-zags.

We made one more stop. I heard the front crewman say “gas.” The soldier next to me began to pick up his rucksack, but I tapped him on the back and motioned for him to leave it on board. We all got off, walked behind a few pieces of T-wall and waited. I took the opportunity to visit the porta-potty with my flashlight showing me where to pee so I didn’t end up with damp boots. Then we waited a bit more. Pretty soon, someone on an ATV drove by and motioned with a couple of chemical light sticks. We tramped single-file back out to the Osprey.

Taking off was getting easier. Sure, there was still the rumble but that indicated power. After getting in the air, there was serious acceleration happening. Good job I had shoulder belts to keep me upright. The Osprey also flew higher and faster, once it got going. The inside of the Osprey reminded me of huge dinosaur entrails- large pipes ran along the ceiling and walls, some white, some grey, some turning here and others going straight there. An Osprey is a raptor, so maybe that’s where the subconscious link to a dinosaur’s belly came from. I sat opposite a window that had instructions on how to open it in an emergency. I wasn’t sure that with my battle rattle on, I’d be able to fit through that window. Fortunately, I’ve not yet learned if I’ll fit through that exit.

Flying with someone manning a machine gun was strange, too. Would there be someone down there trying to shoot us down? This was Iraq, after all. As Iraq’s nighttime landscape scrolled by the small round window opposite, I thought about my companions- all young, all strong, all armed. And I couldn’t help ask myself, “What the heck am I doing here?” No cogent answer appeared in my mind, so I concentrated on drinking water because I was pretty damp all over from sweating under my vest. I noticed that my water bottle was thinner. As I unscrewed the cap, the release of pressure let it get round again. Was going down a few hundred feet really doing that? What would Mr. Wizard have to say about a plastic water bottle and going up and down in a helicopter?

One more stop, and the soldiers got out. The front crewman opened at his aluminum clipboard’s manifest and shouted over the din of the motors, “Next stop.” We nodded. We picked up about a dozen soldiers and lifted in the air. The trip had become a milk run. We got some altitude, sped up, and cruised pretty briskly for about 20 minutes until we got to Al-Asad. I got off the helicopter, slung my backpack over my head and down my arms. Then I put my rifle in front of the footlocker and lifted it, following the few people who were ahead of me. A Marine pointed us to a bus. He stood in the doorway and asked us for our CAC cards. Eventually, I got into the terminal. I dragged my footlocker and rucksack to a bench. Someone returned my CAC card. I checked in with the manifest desk. My travel numbers existed in his computer. He told me that my next flight was in about seven hours. I went to the next counter and checked in with the too-young gal who manned the transient register. ("Womaned" is more PC, but my idiolect won't let me go there grammatically.) I signed in. She showed me a drawing of where the terminal is and how to walk to the transient tents. I got the closest one. Not exactly luxurious, these accommodations: folding cots on a wood floor inside a huge tent. Period, full stop. I got some rest, not really sleep, then I got up and lugged my stuff back to the terminal. I’d been in Al-Asad for three hours. At the manifest desk, they told me my next leg was at 0815, almost five hours away. I watched PBS news on a slightly fuzzy large-screen TV with frequent video drop-outs. We’ll see what kind of transportation I have for the next leg of my flight.

Blackhawk Air is the Ultimate E-Ticket Ride!

2008-08-03T03:48:00.000-07:00

I’m back from Taji. We took a one-ton pickup from the Iraqi part of the base to Echo, where we tried for space-available seats. We signed in and grabbed a liter of water and a bag of beef jerky and chatted with an Army captain and a British captain about lots of things under the outdoor porch. A soldier slept on his rucksack on the wooden benches and a couple of contractors in 70’s-era body armor stood around talking quietly. About a half hour later, the Echo guy emerged from the ops shed. "The bird's here early, so grab your gear and let's go!” I donned the 50-pound Individual Body Armor and my Kevlar helmet, swung my backpack over my head and grabbed my rifle. The gunner-slash-cabin crew had an aluminum clipboard with a manifest. He made the tiniest “come here” gesture to us and turned around, walking towards the helicopter. He had loaded everyone else into the back of the Blackhawk and pointed to a seat in front of the sliding door. I put my backpack in the space in front of the seat and set my rifle next to it. Then I climbed up. He slid the door closed and climbed in through the gun window.

I had a four-point seat belt whose buckle rotated to release. The buckle was on my right and three belts clipped into it. Finding the shoulder belts was a chore because they were behind me and because my IBA is so bulky. The gunner grabbed two shoulder belts and showed me how to click them into the buckle. I sat behind the gunner on the left side. The left belt went over the top of my 9mm pouches and the right belt fit next to my med pack. My backpack was where my feet should be, so I sat splayed in the web chair. My rifle stayed between my right knee and my backpack. As soon as I sat down, the dust from the field went everywhere, so I put my goggles down from my helmet. It took a bit of finesse to get my glasses inside. (I’d done that before, but without the helmet)

Then, with no warning, we took off.

There were two pilots up front, and right behind them, two gunners. I could see some pilot controls and a little glass bubble with flying-saucer green lights that moved around. It was very noisy- my earplugs helped a lot, but the motor was so loud, no one could talk. The air was hot, like an oven, as it came through the gunners’ windows.

I might be delusional, but there’s a scent in the air that smells of where civilization began.

Most of the time we flew straight and level, but when the pilot felt like it, he banked us hard so the craft was 90 degrees to the horizontal. Woo hoo!! Talk about an E-ticket ride!

The gunners had night vision goggles and they kept scanning everything everywhere. The guns were small- maybe 7.62mm or even .223. I noticed that both gunners weren’t big guys- they had to fit through the window and then put their feet underneath their web chairs because only a couple of inches separated their web chairs from the bulkhead.

My body was three temperature zones- cold where the air was drying my perspiration, hot where I wasn't perspiring and really hot where my IBA just soaked my clothes. During the flight, I noticed something wet on my bottom lip- that was perspiration from my head, being shunted past my goggles, around my nose and through my moustache.

I had the best seat in the house! I got to see Baghdad by night. When I wasn't thinking about someone shooting at me, I liked the lights and the layout. It’s a huge place. Nothing but streets and lights from horizon to horizon. I saw mini-dramas from the sky. Down below, a single vehicle drove along a wide road that should have been straight, but which took a lot of bends and dog-legs. There were red and blue lights on a vehicle whose headlights lit up a walled house’s gates. The lights went off. Then they came back on. For no apparent reason, we did one of those E-ticket banks to the left and parked in a big, empty field near what looked like a swell in the road, something like an overpass, but there wasn’t any traffic underneath. We waited there for a few minutes, then took off again. It seemed as though the pilot was choosing to veer this way and that way, so as not to establish a “regular route” for anyone down below to see. Close to where we landed were several large water ponds. Water purification plant sprung to mind. Part of Baghdad’s infrastructure? Sure, could be. And though this is a war zone, the plants seemed to be functioning.

We landed for fuel and had to stand away from the fuel mechanisms. After ten minutes, we got back in and flew another mile to our destination. We rolled up to the terminal and everyone got out. The few hundred yards from the Blackhawk to the terminal seemed to take forever because my backpack, IBA and rifle hadn’t gotten lighter during the ride. Inside the terminal, we gave our CAC cards to the clerk who scanned them and were officially “arrived.” We tried several times to raise our transport guy, finally succeeded and headed back to Klecker, where we made our beds by flashlight in the dark tent. After couple of quick emails to my sons, sleep came swiftly. A shower, food and even laundry could wait.

Night Time Magic

2008-07-28T05:24:00.000-07:00

The golden mist was gone. A shower rinsed off the funky residue of being sweaty all day long. We all had a bit of time before sleep. I loaded my language CD into my laptop, took a cigar and went outside. There was a stack of sandbags that looked promising. I set the laptop on the sandbags and lay down next to the laptop with my freebie-from-the-plane headphones. The sky was dark and primordial. Yes, primordial. The air was warm but not oppressive. The cigar didn’t impede my diction.

Stress and duration seemed critical in pronouncing Arabic. Though the sequence of words seemed illogical, I only wanted to hear the sounds and practice the morphemes, so if “machine gun” came after “left,” and English homonyms “here” and “hear” weren’t clear, the sounds of Arabic were finding a linguistic home in my ears. That’s how I learn- through my ears. I practiced the sounds. Curiously, the word or phrase was spoken at a normal pace first, then repeated slowly, for diction and clarity. And sometimes the vowels seemed to blend. But the sounds were there.

The night heard my efforts at making Arabic sounds. By the time my cigar was done, I’d reached some limit of hearing and making sounds. My hour on the sandbags was pleasant, making me wonder what would happen if I slept there. I’m not much of a sleep-under-the-stars kind of guy, but I’ve spent a couple of evenings in Iraq where this seemed like a good thing to try.

The Golden Storm

2008-07-28T05:20:00.001-07:00

A few disappointments marred an otherwise uneventful day. We went to our first language class. The letters of the alphabet, along with single words that are use a particular letter, went by lickety-split. We went to an unclassified briefing on insurgency theory and counterinsurgency theory. Examples like Che Guevarra and Diep came up on the PowerPoint screen. Some highly intelligent and well-read people among the students participated with erudition. The moderator noted one student had used an educated word. "You can't be above grade E-5," he joked.

Then we left because the next class was classified. We went to the language lab. Locked. Then the Internet Café where the nice gal didn’t have Ethernet cables and didn’t know when any would become available. So we came back and reviewed stuff in the barracks, where it was at least air-conditioned. After lunch, we came back and rested a bit. I fell asleep. When I woke up, I went outside, but the air had turned Martian. It wasn’t fog, and it wasn’t dust. But you couldn’t see 50 yards for the yellow-orange mist everywhere. The sun, trying to burn away what was keeping him from warming the earth, lit up the air with a glow from everywhere. No shadows, just a golden light. And since everyone else was in a class, it seemed like we’d been moved to some other planet- quiet, golden, hot and alien.

Back to the language lab where no one answered. Then back to the Internet Café where we used the power strip from the TV to charge our laptops. (I’m typing this on a 90% charge.)

Dinner was good. Then we went to the language lab and got into discussions with the language teachers. Ours is very good. He’s from the north, and he talked a bit about himself and his family. He’s lived in New Mexico for awhile. He talked about Iraqi history and culture. And he answered my question about Iraq’s King Faisal very well- he’s the cousin of the Saudi Faisal from Lawrence of Arabia fame.

Our homework for tomorrow is to write our name. He gave us a list of phonemes. I found no “ch” sound (like in “church”) so my name will be Rish. Three rather long, complicated letters make that name. Johnny came to me for help with his name- he wanted to write an “O” from “Johnny,” but I talked him into writing it with an “ah” sound. (Otherwise his name would sound like “Joanie.”) So our homework is done.

I’m in a building with a Marine unit. They are all great guys. The major in charge let me borrow his “Modern Iraqi Arabi” book. I may try to download the CD to my laptop. But I may also just use the CD that the language teachers gave me, “Iraqi Basic- language survival guide” and see how that works for me. It’s hard to evaluate a language CD in just an hour or so. In a bit,

I’ll call it a night and try to sleep. Though there’s a lot of boring downtime, the session with our language teacher was excellent. I may learn to like being here.

The Rocks Were Soft

2008-07-28T05:12:00.000-07:00

Johnny and I put on our battle rattle and walked to the porch, where we’d get a ride to the airport. Our driver, a really nice and helpful guy, had been doing this for five years. He knew all the players at each place where passengers needed to be. His vehicle was the cleanest one I’ve seen in Baghdad.

We got to the terminal, did a bit of negotiating to check in. Did we have official orders? I wanted to say, “No, we just thought we’d fly to an Iraqi air base just for the heck of it.” But I refrained. An hour of waiting in the terminal went by. A top sergeant came and told us we could wait in the terminal because it was cooler than outside. But finally, someone got us and walked us to a large gravel parking lot. We stood around awhile, sweating lightly in the 95-degree night. The IBA battle rattle wasn’t getting any lighter. The company of soldiers we were to tag along with weren’t kitted up. Some were on the ground, relaxing. I dropped my backpack and vest, parked my helmet on the butt of my rifle and lay down on the dusty gravel.

The rocks were soft.

My upper back was on the vest, which was tipped against my backpack. My lower back and the rest of me were on the gravel. I was surprised how comfortable one layer of 511 pants made the hard rocks. I did a quick mental scan of my dorsal area. Nothing felt out of place. Nothing sharp, nothing poked me. I covered my eyes with my long-sleeved arm and let my senses take over.

The ground was comfortable. The air was warm, but not uncomfortable. I smelled something faint, something like flowers. I thought about Iraq’s history a few millennia ago and imagined someone else smelling the same scent. Then I got to the other immediate senses. The breeze was soft, just enough to let me know the air wasn’t still. I heard a vehicle, maybe a pickup truck, drive along the road created by putting k-rails along the edge of the tarmac. The vehicle went further and I heard the constant growl of the generator that powered the single pole of lights where we were.

The lights were too bright to ignore, so I dug my boonie hat out and covered my face. I drifted off to someplace where generators hummed constantly, where breezes made you think of other times, where the lights of the civilian terminal glowed orange, contrasting with the white of the military airport lights. I went somewhere while my body rested on soft rocks.

And the rocks were still soft when Johnny nudged my foot. “Look there.” He pointed to a huge plane. It had parked about 100 yards from us. A ramp was full of orange-jumpsuited prisoners. A steady stream of these guys walked down the ramp and into one of four buses. Pretty soon our helicopters arrived, but the prisoner transfer wasn’t over. As I got into my seat in the helicopter, I saw white-jumpsuited prisoners going up into the plane. I couldn’t count, but I’d guess over 200 got off and 100 got on. Could have been more getting on, but I couldn’t watch because I was treading the tarmac with soldiers 1/3 my age onto our ride to Taji.

This job has a lot of drawbacks but I don’t think I could have paid enough to watch the lit-up ramp discharge humans surrounded by blackness. And then, watch the same plane take on more humans.

The crewman didn’t look old enough to shave. Yet he wore these night vision goggles, and he waved out the plane, presumably at his colleague on the other helicopter.

We lifted off, and climbed to maybe 100 feet, maybe a bit more. To me, it seemed we were skimming the treetops. But I guess we were several hundred feet up. I sat up near the pilot. I saw a hand from the left pilot’s seat play with a touchpad. Every time he did something, the helicopter did something. The lights of Baghdad got fewer, then they got more and more numerous, until they lit up the world below us. I saw a great concentric ring of lights, some white, some orange. This had to be the center of the city. Then they got fewer again. The lights never went away, like they would if we were in the country. Just as I looked at my watch to see how long we’d been flying, I felt a bump. We were here at Taji.

We left the helicopter, following the hand signals of a crewman. We filed out to the edge of the tarmac where we loaded our backpacks onto a truck. Then we walked to the compound where we were briefed. “Smoke only in the designated area. Don’t wake your roommates up- there are 34 to a barracks. The dining facility is there (he pointed and we looked) and the internet café is over there (ditto).” The two civilians (that included me) are in this dorm right here. And one female got a building all to herself.

We put our stuff away by flashlight so as not to wake our neighbors. And that’s all for tonight, folks!

The Long and Tangled Road

2008-07-22T01:14:00.000-07:00

The phone chimed. Shit, the ex-husband's landline. But he's not in the country. Had to be her son who was living there. May as well pick up.

"Hello, mom? The kids are invited to spend the weekend with us. Would you like to come along?"

She didn't know how to reply. This call was unexpected and being unexpected, unwelcome. Her life had been about control, especially controlling the children, though the ex-husband had escaped via divorce. However, she had kept him on an uncomfortable chain through California's Never-Ending Divorce. But the issue at hand was not the divorce. "Who's on top" is the issue right now. This unexpected invitation put her on the bottom. Being bottom bitch was an unpleasant reminder of how her mother had treated all her children. Damn! I don't need this aggravation.

"What? Um, when are you inviting the kids?" That was a sufficient stall. Answering a question with a question was good because it didn't provide any information and it put the conversational burden on someone else. If we discuss something or someone else, we don't have to talk about me, at least unless I'm sure it's a positive conversation. Yeah, the invitation was for this weekend, but not hearing what was said is a selective perception thing, well within conversational perquisites.

"Well, we thought next weekend would be good. I'll barbecue and grill. And the little guy can help me with some yard chores that require a tall helper. Plus the two younger gals can see who makes a better pie. We all win, there. And they can play in the newly-done sewing room." Remaining unsaid was what she would do, she of the horizontally stately and perpetually queenly bent. She could recline in front of the TV, or she could remain on the bed, waiting for someone to bring her a sandwich, chips and a tall Coke with plenty of ice cubes. As long as she had a TV plipper and food, she was fine. What Oprah didn't tell her about real life, she'd learn from another male-bashing Lifetime movie. Maybe this time the wife-beater would get roasted in a fire; last time he got his comeuppance by drowning in his favorite muscle car, after rubbernecking a pretty girl. A bit simple, but getting even with a man needn't be complicated.

But how to respond? The conversational clock was ticking. "Next weekend? I'm not sure ...." Safe enough response. Slightly in the negative, but still leaving the option of "I'm so magnanimous that I'll juggle stuff to satisfy you." Maybe 'twould be good to underline that concept. "We might be doing something then." There, that created a world where there was something compelling, something more important than her son. And by inserting this concept into the conversation, she retained the possibility that she might change her mind. After all, he was the supplicant, not she.

"Well, it'll be good to see the brats again. Maybe I'll collect that Disney T-shirt that they promised me." A bit of intra-familial humor showed he wasn't yet angry. The reference to his siblings as brats showed he could demean them, but everyone knew it wasn't serious. And underneath the humor was the unspoken wait: the offer is still on the table.

"Oh, did they promise you a shirt?" was just a further stall. Let the conversation go to something that required no thought while the Big Issue hung in the background- to accept or not.

Accepting. What would that do? She'd have to return to the house from which she left, starting her life over, after 36 years with the same man. Sure, he was working in Iraq, but the house was there. She'd signed legal documents giving her ex her share. And she'd gotten half the serious equity before the real estate bubble burst, so she made out well. But the money she'd received had mostly evaporated in fast food meals, quarterly trips to her "happy spot," Disneyland and her yearly (and pricey) trips to Disney World. So going back to that house would only remind her of her fiscal foolishness. That much was certain. And thinking along that long and tangled road was a negative thing: reminding her of anything negative in her behavior was dangerous. Her personal event horizon was the end of the current month, so if she looked at the last few years as a financial manager, she'd have to live with the head-to-toe shame of red ink. Not good, no.

"Yeah, I usually get one from each of them. They're nice shirts. I try not to wear 'em in the yard for a year or so, till they get a bit tatty." The conversation can remain with the shirts a bit. He understood on a non-verbal level that she needed some time to think about visiting, let alone staying the night. Let's keep going with the shirts. "I dropped some tree-spray stuff on the Pirates of the Carribean one. But it came out with the second wash." Nothing but the sound of breathing. The pause drew out one more conversationally-required inanity. "Yep, it was still there after one wash, but it looks great now."

The word "ignominious" didn't come into her conscious mind. A feeling of error did. Washing over her was guilt for having wasted so much money. The money she borrowed to buy her sister's half of their inherited house, the money she took when she closed her retirement without saying anything, the money that should have gone to the mortgage three months in a row, the money she'd taken from her son because she told him it would be simpler for his money to go to their joint account, the money wasted in refusing to refinance a bad loan, the money she took from their joint account and hid, and the huge sums she got from her share of the equity. And now, she was being invited back to the house where she used to be in charge. As a guest. Yes, she could demand access to look for some of the personal property she'd left there over two years ago. But she didn't really need a broken sewing machine or a missing cake pan. And two years is ample time for personal property to move somewhere else. The missing box of photos hadn't yet turned up, but she couldn't make much of a ruckus over that, since she'd told her ex in a very sincere manner that they should go through that box together, after she got her daughter to sneak it somewhere.

She made the self-preservation decision. "No, I'm sorry. We can't make it." Stretching out the "we" implied that she was speaking for everyone. This presumed a lot. This presumed she could speak for her adult daughter and her driving-age son. But that was a simple, small step. That decision underlined her position as clan alpha. And further ratified her position as the party in the divorce who was in the right. The ex-husband had filed, therefor she was the aggrieved. With all the events that had ever happened in the marriage, some of which were genuinely not her fault, she needed constant reinforcement of her position and merit. And, like a bully who learns that bullying works, she learned that being alpha works because you are, in fact, the alpha. And you continue to be the alpha by being the alpha. And you're justified in being the alpha by continuing to be the alpha.

"Sorry to hear that. Maybe the kids can come over just for dinner one night." No use asking about the following weekend. Next month would not be easier for his mother. And tossing him a bone- letting the kids come for an hour or so- might make things easier, since no mother really wants to split her children from each other, right? Besides, some of the stuff she'd said to him and done to him still rankled. He wasn't entirely sure it would be a good thing to have his mom spend the night with him. Too many ways an adult man could find himself kow-towing to a mother who wants control.

A spark of something like love flared in her. "Yeah, maybe they can find some time soon." That was a sop for him. He could see his siblings, but not her. After all, an alpha can't back down, even to her adult son. Yet some small part of her motherhood would feel like she was doing something good for her son, letting him see his siblings. Heck, she was also letting the sibs see their older brother. That counts, too. Being magnanimous stroked her ego, making her feel better.

"OK, mom. We'll catch up another time." Seeing the sibs would be good. Now he didn't have to worry about dealing with his hard-to-deal-with mother.

"Sure thing. Thanks for the call." You're dismissed. Time to click the end button and get on with my life.

Where was that cold Coke? Let's see what's on Oprah. Where's that half-box of See's candies; they taste really good with Oprah. I need more than these eight pillows. Should I get up and see what sort of snacks are in the kitchen or should I call my daughter and get her to fix me a sandwich? I'm stressed from dealing with this call and some high-carb, high-calorie food would make me feel better.

In the Baghdad Doldrums

2008-07-19T07:12:00.000-07:00

Today was an uneventful day. The day went slowly, beginning with an early morning decision to skip breakfast. At lunch we were going to head for Camp Liberty, but some of our IPA colleagues came back from the air base without getting on a plane for somewhere else. So we skipped Camp Liberty for lunch, planning to go there for dinner. But that got eclipsed by other not-very-compelling urgencies.

The steel trailers absorbed too much sunlight and radiated infrared. Cool water helped, but not much. More people arrived, taking some vacant beds in the tent. The internet seemed to stop working for awhile, so I read some of the e-book my son bought me online.

All in all, a day full of something that nautical Germans call "Windstille," a more descriptive term for the doldrums- literally, "No wind." That pretty much describes today- no wind nor other propulsive element to make progress in being here. Iraq just seems so far away and so close. The dust is out there, and the 120-degree heat makes any effort seem pointless. Inside, things are a bit more comfortable but the word "interminable" comes to mind in describing the slow way the day unfolds.

Barbecue and Far-Away America

2008-07-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

Today was the penultimate day of our "Death by PowerPoint" sentence. The presentations are dry, mandated by the omniscient Higher Authorities but made palatable by the presenters' wit and experience. But this isn't about the training.

This is about coming back on the bus and getting a whiff of barbecue. This is about a bit of Americana in Baghdad. As soon as I stepped off the bus in front of the plywood gym's porch, I smelled America.

Camp Klecker has a lot of transients (including moi) but it's home to a lot more Americans. Periodically, people try to bring a bit of home to this place. Today the air was a mixture of Baghdad's hot, dusty atmosphere scented with grilled steaks. Amid casual-dress folks poking at a steak on plastic dishes, sliding around the Army-provided golf-ball-sized gravel in their flip-flops, their bare legs tipped this way and that below non-regulation shorts. Some people wore their Sunday-best sunglasses, others just the issued baseball hats. But everyone worked the floor in their own way. An alcohol-free Lowenbrau and crispy ribs puncutated discussions of work, of assignments, of this or that FOB (Forward Operating Base) and the work there. Sometimes you heard bits of conversation regarding plans for a vacation or how long it took to get somewhere from here via Blackhawk helicopter.

You couldn't get away from the endemic heat. The gal who poked the steaks over the coals had company. And she was casual about her beer bottle in one hand while the other flipped the well-done steaks. And there were more than just Americans around. Some South Africans are part of the cadre, so they were there, too. Maybe American culture is spreading world-wide. These folks were participating in what was essentially and quintessentially an American rite.

Though the inside of the MWR (an acronym for where you can sit in a comfy chair and watch TV in an air-conditioned trailer) was just a step away, these hardy folks chose to sit outside and make the best of a too-hot situation. Steak, non-beer, and soft drinks out of a cooler were the afternoon's importance.

The occasional staccato burst of automatic weapons from the neighboring Iraqi compound and the times when conversation comes to a stop while the helicopters fly overhead are the woof and warp of this life's fabric.

And just to underline the casualness of the event, many people chose to be elsewhere. No one took offense at the ones who didn't make an appearance. This is overseas and almost a forced casualness pervades like the oppressive heat- attendance is purely voluntary. It's so casual, it's *not* forced. You can't see this aspect, but it's there.

In some ways, I'm a million miles from home; this afternoon's camaraderie and barbecue made me realize- we bring America to wherever we are. One day, we'll all be somewhere else. But we'll always have this moment as part of our collective life far away.

I don't know if Baghdad will ever be universally Americanized. But that doesn't matter. For us, this afternoon, Baghdad didn't need to be more than it is- a hot, dusty, far-away place where lots of Americans collectively create something unique- clinking bottles amid steak-laden aromas, dusty feet below tanned legs and memories to bring back home.

First Mortars

2008-07-10T10:06:00.000-07:00

This afternoon around five, we boarded the white and purple Nissan bus and headed for the Sather chow hall. Just as we pulled off the road, there were a few cars waiting to get past the gate guard. Up went our ID cards for the guards to check.

But no one moved forward.

Then we noticed that the Bollard was up. (Maybe it's not a genuine Bollard, but that's what I call a humongous piece of steel that lifts up out of the ground and keeps you from driving farther.) Could this be a test? Maybe a periodic check of the security processes? The guard put on his armor and kevlar. Uh oh, maybe this isn't a test.

We were wondering what was going on when we heard a loud "Thump!" and saw a plume of black smoke over near Camp Liberty, just on the horizon. Over the next hour and a bit, nine more "Thumps!" happened. During this time a few helicopters flew overhead. A large white plane with no windows taxied somewhere, but didn't take off. A thin-skinned MP Suburban drove to the gate; the driver talked to the gate guards and they let him by. He took off, leaving a cloud of dust 30 feet in the air as he headed for the area over open fields. Periodically, the two gate guards, wearing armor and kevlar, would patrol around the guard shack. They shuffled in the heat and dust, looking down as if they'd lost their keys and couldn't go home until they found them. I felt sorry for them because the heat was oppressive and the armor was heavy and hot. They were doing what they were supposed to do, but they knew they wouldn't find anything in their searches. This took some grit and determination.

In front of us were three humvees with hungry crew who were headed for the same chow hall. One soldier with a black bandana looked right out of "Apocalypse Now" with the bandana and attitude from that movie. He put his kevlar over the scarf and got back into his humvee. Two more MP vehicles went through and took off for the horizon. About 1/4 mile away were the cement bunkers that we were supposed to get inside if the excrement hit the ventilator. (Aw, you know what I mean.) But we stayed put in the bus until the guys with the M-16s told us it was OK to go there.

After we heard a loudspeaker from the horizon call "All Clear," the Bollard went down. By the time we got to the guard, he was out of his armor and everything was back to normal. "Nine DOD" got us past him and we went for chow. In the chow hall, the food was hot, the lights were on and everything was normal. Well, as normal as life can get after mortars hit inside the wire.

Heat and Alembic

2008-07-10T04:49:00.000-07:00

Today we got trained on improvised explosives and the operation of Humvees. Both training sessions were conducted by soldiers who are really young. I see children with guns. But they're all decent. Something about the military makes better people. I can't put my finger on what it is, but these are all great young people. I want to refer to them as "kids," but they are too competent and deserve a better label.

Now for the details: After some classroom stuff, we boarded a bus and rode through Baghdad's hot, dusty air to a different part of the city. The sun burned overhead, the breeze cooled a wee bit, but picked up the extremely fine Baghdad dust so we were like in a flour warehouse, full of fine dust that makes your teeth gritty and sticks to your face like talcum powder. The heat occupies your attention. Your brain goes to your immediate condition- sweat running into your eyes and down your back; where's that liter of water?

The EOD guys showed us the latest in improvised explosives. Shaped charges that create a stream of plasma can cut through almost anything, including armor. PVC pipes and propane tanks look harmless enough until someone rigs them with high explosives or even home-made ANFO. (Remember, the Oklahoma bombing was done with ANFO.)

We got to look at their tracked robots. Very clever little gizmos. They didn't actually drive them for us, but we got to touch them and ask questions. Later on, I talked with the 20-something sergeant who briefed us. He's a great kid, someone I'd be proud to have in my family.

We broke for lunch, then the delayed Humvees from yesterday showed up. Again, the young soldiers were terrific- knowledgeable, friendly and helpful. They showed us where passengers sit, but also showed us how to operate the driver's and navigator's equipment. Honestly, I think this is beyond me, though I might be able to drive one. The other stuff is too techy for geezers like me. One uf us climbed up into the gunner's perch, but we won't be there for real. We're passengers, period.

The Humvee operators are, again, very young and very capable. I hadn't thought much about the individuals who are stationed here, fighting a not-too-popular war. But they are the best anyone could ask for. Yeah, being patriotic is often regarded as foolish and backward, the venue of old soldiers who reminisce about "Dub-ya Dub-ya Eye Eye" and appear in our consciousness only at Veteran's Day spaghetti feeds at the local VFW building. But I can't avoid being proud of the things these guys (not "kids") are doing for me. I am a lot more appreciative of their efforts.

Thus I think more of these young people after today than I did before. Is this some sort of event an alembic? Sure. But it's very appropriate.

Certifiably deadly

2008-07-09T09:51:00.000-07:00

Moi went shooting yesterday. The day started off easily enough- a couple of hours of classroom stuff. Then we got our TA-50 gear and weapons and went to the range. In case you forgot, TA-50 gear is named for the Tough Ass 50 pounds you wear. That stuff is heeeaaaa-veeee!! Then we had to load up magazines of .223 and go zero the weapons. Since I'd never touched an M-16 or M-4, I was unfamiliar with the operation of this weapon. The Army guy who was in charge of the range took pity on me and showed me how to do everything. Here's the charging handle, there's the magazine release, etc.

Too soon, we had to begin shooting. The first position was prone. I got down in the dirt and gravel and tried to get a sight picture. Among the sharp rocks and shell casings, the fine powder of Iraq's soil was extremely fine, like 7A pancake makeup. My body slid away from the vest because I was laying on the three .223 magazines and the two 9mm magazines which were attached to the front of my vest which, in turn, was rendered thicker by the afore-mentioned heavy-ass plate. The vest slid up towards my neck. The helmet's back hit the vest so I couldn't get enough of the helmet above my forehead to get a good look at the rifle's sights. The very first round gave me some recoil, scraping my right elbow. We were supposed to get three rounds off to see where the rifle was aimed. I got two off, because I just could not see well enough. One round hit the paper. The sergeant helped me by adjusting the helmet, removing the sling and coaching me on breathing. The next time, I got three rounds in a straight line, about four inches across. He adjusted my sights for me, and one more time I got three rounds in a decent sized triangle, but below the silhouette. He advised me to put the front post on the center of the target. The last time, I put three rounds in the one-inch circle inside the target. Woo hoo!!! Sure, it sounds like I'm a very quick study, but the credit has to go to the Army seargeant who gave me months of training in as many minutes.

Then we took a break while others in my group shot the Beretta. (I didn't shoot then because I was going to qualify later on.) Then it was my turn to qualify with the M-4. We loaded mags, walked out and took instructions. Prone again, darn! But I scooted my body forward along the ground, and that slid the vest down towards my waist. I could *barely* get a sight picture, but I did. I think I didn't shoot all the rounds from the prone position, but I shot enough. Then we backed up and shot more, some standing and some kneeling. I've qualified enough times to know not to just pull, pull, pull the trigger- I waited till I had a good sight picture and then squeezed the trigger. Kneeling wasn't very hard. The rifle is light, so even a geek like me can hold it and aim in.

We shot, then went up and counted the holes. I had plenty to qualify. Not exactly a perfect score, but very respectable. Then one more break, and out to qual with the Beretta. I'd never operated one, so I had to look at the guy next to me. I saw he was having trouble because the decock lever was not showing the red dot. I made mine show the red dot and when we got the command to fire, I pulled and shot center mass. I figured out the magazine release and slide release on my own. I kinda like the Beretta- it's a good gun. Anyway, I qualled the first time out, too. I beat my Immigration buddy who's had a Beretta as a duty weapon. He said if we got into a firefight, he wanted to be with me and my Beretta. Hee hee- I don't want to get into a fight with the 9mm, but ... I qualified. Thus, for someone who never touched an M-4, I did pretty well. Ditto the Beretta.

But the day wore me out. You try wearing 50 pounds while sweating four liters. Yep, I drank five liters of water yesterday, but only peed about one. The other four liters were in my clothes. I was muddy- sweat mixed with Iraqi powder was like paint. This training was physically more taxing on me than working Miami CET.

I came back to the tent, did some admin stuff, then took a shower. Oh, I felt soooo much better!! I was ravenous and achy, so I had to decide whether to eat or sleep. I jumped on the chow bus and rode to Sather AFB for chow. I ate plenty, too- hamburger *and* chicken, rice and watermelon and lots of kool-aid. Then I fell off the carb wagon by eating a scoop of ice cream and a macadamia cookie. Yeah, I've got to watch my carbs, but I was so drained yesterday, I thought my body could handle the extra 40 grams of carbs. By seven-thirty, I was back in the hooch, clean, fed and extremely exhausted. Around seven forty-five, I was asleep.

That was a tough day, yesterday. I've got a pic of my target under the M-4, with my dusty feet in the frame, but I'm not sure when it'll be OK to post it. I qualified with both the M-4 and the M-9 on the first try with each weapon. I'm kinda proud of this accomplishment.

The Rats Among Us

2008-07-07T01:26:00.000-07:00

First- the porch (from the preceding post) is attached to a plywood building that would never pass code. But that's OK, it's not a habitable building anyway- it's the gym. Some weight machines, stair-steppers and treadmills and a pretty decent TV occupy the space. The gym also has a fridge with a freezer where people people put the water bottles so they'll get nice and cold.

But back to the Rats Among Us: Two nights ago, our single female who sleeps in another tent got bit by a rat. The same night, so did one of our group in the male tent. The next day they went everywhere to get checked by lots of medics and doctors. Though the bites were small, everyone panicked because of the possibility of rabies.

Yesterday evening, the gal chased a mouse out of her bed. She was certain it was a mouse because it was small, not a rat. Later that afternoon, someone spotted a rodent in the gravel parking lot. He called for back up, and several guys went to surround the fleeing felonious rat. I wasn't there, but I believe they dispatched the rat by (avert your eyes, PETA) stepping on him. Since we don't yet have guns, I don't know if there would have been an alternative. I don't think "trap and release" is a viable option here in the Green Zone.

Then last night, one more guy got bitten by a rat. Ever the solicitous individual, I asked if he were OK. He assured me that he was fine. Then I opined that perhaps someone should make sure the rat won't get sick from biting him. My droll sensibilities did not go over anyone's head; this is a sharp crowd!

Thus, I've updated the gentle reader regarding the actual porch and adjacent building; I've also described the vermin situation in our abode. Unfortunately, photos of the dead rat are not yet approved by the appropriate officials. Aw, if you've seen one dead rat, you've seen 'em all- pointy nose, whiskers, you get the idea.

The Stewardess wore coveralls, a ballistic vest and size 14 boots but I've got no pictures

2008-07-03T10:21:00.000-07:00

Still in Kuwait's Ali Al Salem aka Camp LSA, I did my emails, went to midnight chow. I got a nap after midnight till three AM. Then we got up, dressed and put our duffel bags outside the tent, waiting for the ATV to take them to the staging area. Made a pile of duffel bags in one place, then moved the pile 40 yards to where they needed to be. The flight guys loaded the duffels onto an aluminum pallet while we went inside for processing. Scan our CAC cards, turn in two copies of our orders, then sit and wait. They briefed us- roll call at 0630 and
"no pictures."

Around six-thirty, they called out out our last names, we responded with our first names and boarded some buses for the plane. A bit of excitement because there appeared to be one body more than was supposed to be on the buses. We got on the plane and waited an hour before take off. This is the part where the stewardess in coveralls told us to buckle up. Never mind "here's how the buckle works." The oxygen mask instructions were a bit scarier because of the possibility we'd actually need to learn them. When the pilot got to the runway, he revved the motors and locked the brakes. When he released the brakes, we shot forward like from a huge slingshot. Every flown a 747 and felt the acceleration? This was more intense, even though we were carrying cargo to the gunwales. (OK, that's a nautical expression and we were on a plane, but you get my drift.)

The one-hour flight wasn't bad- noisy, but that's what the ear plugs were for. The pilot brought us in quick and we went to a hangar where they briefed us- no pictures.

We got shepherded by our meet-n-greet guy, then carried the duffels in the hot morning sun to a flatbed tow truck and boarded a couple of small buses for Camp Klecker. Got into a tent, where we were briefed- "Don't take no pictures." In spite of the ungrammatical double negative, we got the message.

Seems like the awareness is high for pictures. They told us of all the things we shouldn't take pictures of. So until I understand better what I can post and what not, this will remain text-only. Apparently, the Department of State has minions whose job it is to search the web and find who's posting pictures on the net. Thus my briefing to you- no pictures.

We grabbed a bunk in the Hilton. This is some genuine military humor. "The Hilton" is a huge tent, full of beds and contrasts with the Sheraton, another tent. Mine is terrific- one skinny, lumpy mattress, one fitted sheet and one blanket. No wall locker, no foot locker, not even a hook. The male latrine and showers are separated from this tent by rows of shipping pallets on the ground, along which we traipse with alacrity, lest our shower shoes slip between the slats of the pallets. I have one luxury- the bed next to mine is now empty. The guy there just left- he's headed for a helicopter nearby; that's his taxi to his assignment. I helped him carry his gear out to the van taking him to the helicopter. Wow, I see two extra pillows and another blanket. Ah, the vagaries of life! No sooner did I type this, than someone came in and took the vacancy.

Maybe this part is better without pictures- The toilets, in trailers, have optional toilet seats. That's "optional" as in "they ain't there" in more than half the cases. The showers have no place for your dry clothes to sit, so you hang everything from one hook inside the shower stall. The construction makes me wonder what was going on in the mind of the architect. Take a standard, molded shower floor. Attach it to the floor and run some plumbing. Not too difficult so far, right? But then construct a small room, just about one foot larger in two dimensions than the shower. This leaves you with a foot of "bathroom floor" on two sides of the shower. No shower curtain, so splashing water on the floor is very likely. But that's the only place for your shaving kit. I learned to put all my dry clothes on the hook, my shaving kit on the doorknob, and I left my old clothes on the floor; if they got wet, they were going to get washed anyway.

There's an old Coke cooler and a cooler with strange writing on it on a small porch. Each is stuffed with one-liter water bottles. No building for us, just a porch. The building looks like a quick-and-dirty job- plywood exterior with non-standard roofing. It's got lights, so I assume it also has a function. Someone made a two-by-four armchair and another on rockers to go with the park bench. This is the common area, a place where smokers enjoy the evening. Past these tall plastic containers of dirt, there are trailers or "hooches" where some people live. One of the trailers is a laundry. There's a nice Filipina lady who will wash your clothes for a fee. But if you prefer to do your own laundry (I do) it's fine with her. I think she has sufficient business that she doesn't mind losing a potential client.

There is more here, but I haven't been to see all of it. Check again later.

I didn't shovel shit in Louisiana

2008-07-01T01:54:00.000-07:00

This is the hallway of my building in Fort Benning's CRC. Down at the end is the men's room aka "latrine." Next to that are the stackable washing machines that work pretty well. Not visible are the ants that plagued us. Half the time, the building smelled like Raid.

Part of the processing for working in Iraq involved training and processing at Fort Benning. There were a lot of regular soldiers deploying to Iraq with us. I noticed a few things different from the Army I recalled in 1968. There were many more females in the group. Not so many that it was half-and-half, but anything above zero is memorable.

I noticed that there was a lot less separation between officers and enlisted. And we contractors were a class among ourselves, neither officer nor enlisted. The strange part is that during the Vietnam era, when you needed more soldiers, you got more soldiers. These days, if you need more soldiers, you get some contractors. The majority of contractors are middle-aged guys, retired guys, though there are a few younger ones, too.

The training was good- it was intensive, and the first-aid parts had some gory videos. But the training was very thorough. I now carry a medical kit with two thoractic needles, with which to stab someone between the second and third rib to help a collapsed lung and an 8mm nasal tube to help with breathing. I also have this large clotting pad, but we shouldn't use it for traumatic abdominal wounds.

The cadre at the CRC's Charlie Company were great! Everyone knew what we were supposed to do, and they all helped us get the mandated processing done. Some people had problems with the paperwork for medical and dental, others needed to draw their equipment. And everyone needed to eat. Those soldiers whose jobs it was to get everyone processed were conscientious and friendly, helpful and efficient.

When we got to the air terminal, our routing was supposed to remain confidential. I guess I'll leave it so here, too. But the commander spoke to all of us, soldiers and contractors, when he paraphrased General Patton. "When you tell your grandchildren what you did in the war on terrorism, you won't say, 'I shoveled shit in Louisiana.'"

Serendipity, Aussie style

2008-06-26T11:56:00.000-07:00

'Twas early 2000 when factors (see early posts) brought me to Yahoo chat. Like many of us, I did the A/S/L thing. Something clicked with one gal, from about as far away on this planet as you can get, and we began chatting. We've been more than friends since.

Today, sitting in Fort Benning and waiting for my plane to Kuwait, I'm thinking about how I got here and seeing no plan at all.

Eight years ago, I was the typical guy- mortgage, marriage, children and a job. Now I'm divorced and going to Iraq. And my Aussie-style mate in all this has been a great gal, this one who happened to be in the chat room I didn't anticipate being in, for reasons I can't quite pin down, at a time in my life when I didn't need anyone beyond my (former) wife.

The wife's out of my life (except for the Never-Ending Divorce crap) but Sue is still here.

Those who have been unfortunate enough to go through a divorce will understand the turmoil. For those who haven't, suffice to say it's exceedingly painful. Sue's been with me through each little event, each uncomfortable step in the process of going from happily married to a condition that isn't quite " happily divorced," but resembles what cancer patients say. Thus, "I'm a divorce survivor."

And now I'm both confident and happy that Sue will be with me as I become a not-quite-soldier in Iraq.

Sue has been an element of joy, a loving woman who gives me a female's perspective on things, and who's shared parts of her life with me, too. When her granddaughter was born and came home, the first thing she did was to show me with her webcam what this bundle of joy looked like. Her daughter was a bit perturbed- What's this? Showing my new baby to some strange guy in California? But she also trusted her mother, so I guess everything has worked out OK.

And while I've not been entirely celibate since the divorce, we're OK with each other's exclusive arrangements with someone else. I think her husband is a great guy, and I've told her so. She knows about a warm and intelligent woman I am off-and-on involved with. For each of us, it's not "I'm better than that other person," it's "I'm happy for you."

Thus I find myself (almost) in the Army, waiting for a flight tomorrow to a different sort of lifestyle, reflecting on the one gal who's been with me through a lot. And I'm grateful she's in my life. Thanks, Sue. Ain't serendipity ... well, serendipitous?

Atlanta, Columbus and not-quite-earthly locales

2008-06-22T07:51:00.000-07:00

Atlanta, Friday June 20, 2008

I woke up at the way-too-early hour of 03:55 so I could get to Oakland Airport in time to go through security and board my flight to Salt Lake City. Richie and Kimmie woke up soon after I did. The cats were confused because it was still night and we were awake. Schlanke was happy to get a whole handful of kitty greenies, but mussed up my blankets in trying to bury the few that she couldn’t eat.

I had showered and shaved only five hours before, so I just got dressed in my traveling clothes. A pair of slacks from my Thailand days, a Disney T-shirt, my Hawaiian shirt and the latest addition to my sartorial elegance, a pair of Big-5 Crocs clones. Took us about ten minutes to get out the door, which was fine, since there was no traffic at 04:10. Kimmie gave me a big hug before we got in their 4-Runner. We talked about things they could do without me- painting, yard work, etc. When we got to the airport, I got a big group hug from these two terrific kids and I went inside to check in. No problem with Delta’s check-in gal. I could have carried my one small bag, but I wanted to bring my home-made knife and my tiny Swiss Army knife, so I needed a check-in bag. I saw lots of other passengers with humongous wheelie bags, computer bags, purses, backpacks, and even Camelback backpacks. Made me feel downright semi-dressed.

The flight to Salt Lake City was 100%. They were asking for people to give up their seats and fly later. I couldn’t do that, so I didn’t volunteer. About that time, I regretted leaving my gum in the carry-on because my ears were popping. I took my glasses off and pulled my Web Nation baseball cap down over my eyes and tried to sleep. I took an El Paso on the free coffee.

In Salt Lake City, I had an hour until my next flight, so I bought a newspaper for fifty cents. Seemed like a very good price for something that you get from a “they have no alternative” airport monopoly. I guess the vendors make up for it with bottled water- two dollars for a half-liter.

The flight to Atlanta was long and boring. I got stuck in the middle seat between two uncommunicative guys. The crew tried to flog headsets so I could watch the movie. I did the crossword instead. From time to time, I glanced up at the movie- something about strange creatures and some endearing, middle-class children. If I get a chance, I may watch it on HBO soon.

Atlanta is a big airport. Took me 20 minutes to find the baggage claim area. I got my one small bag, called my son for the number of the contact here in Georgia, and gave him a call. Mike said to meet the guys at the Greyhound area on the lower level. I grabbed a Wendy’s burger and found the meeting place.

After an hour watching a gaggle of black Suburbans pick up folks who thought they were rock stars, I noticed a group of what looked like off-duty cops. (You have to have a bit of experience with cops to get a sense of what they look like.) Sure enough, that was the right group. We waited a bit for a large charter bus and then spent 90 minutes looking at rural Georgia until we got to Fort Benning. We went through some classic Army-style burocracy, getting our bed linens from a rolling rack and our pillows from a giant garbage bag. Bunk assignments were by alphabetical order. Or should that be “alphabedical” order? A quick shower and then a novelty- going to sleep without a TV in the room. My roomies were good- no snoring- but I didn’t sleep well. Woke up at 7AM, three hours earlier for this California kid, and began a day of processing. I’d forgotten how convoluted, arbitrary and superficially pointless the Army can be. This is strange, not quite military, not quite civilian employment. Our den mother is competent, which helps, but he has to touch all the military bases, some of which do not appear to have earthly locales.

We filled out many, many forms, each with LastName, FirstName, DateOfBirth and Social Security Number on them. For reasons only known to my employer and the Army, the other BEA guy and I did not have to do the physical performance stuff in Fredericksburg, VA. One of my roomies regaled me with tales of being loaded down with gear and having to drag one of the other deployees, a rather stout 250-pound guy, about 40 feet after running and climbing a two-story ladder, etc. Most telling was this fact: 49 people showed up and 34 passed.

An early breakfast because the chow hall closed at eight AM, then we waited two hours for our first formation. Formerly, a “formation” was a group of individuals standing in a formation. Around here, it’s more like a casual, outdoor meeting. Our den mother, Mike, led us to the one-acre tent where we filled out all the forms. About noon, he was done with us. As I was walking back to where our billets and chow hall were, we stopped. An Army bus was discharging passengers to the tent and we were supposed to ride the bus to the chow hall. Then, without warning, we were not supposed to ride the bus. So we walked.

The food was good- I elected the veal parmesan which was cooked well and some rice. I’m trying to avoid potatoes because of the carbs. I had some fruit for dessert and a glass of half-Diet Coke and half Mr. Pibb. We assembled on a basketball court and about two hundred of us route-stepped to a gym where we all sat down for a quick talk about finishing the forms (my group had none) and about how to complete the checklist regarding the computer-based training.

We went through the PowerPoint presentations quickly- terrorism, cultural awareness, sexual harassment, the Army’s morals, etc. Then we were done for today. Tomorrow morning at seven, we’ll meet and do more things. Mike briefed us – we’ll watch videos tomorrow morning, then we’ll see the Army’s medical and psychological folks, and by Friday we should be on a plane for Dubai.

Two days to Atlanta

2008-06-18T18:03:00.000-07:00

Here's the baby walnut tree that the squirrels left me. There are three more in the front yard, but I haven't yet tried to move them. One is small, like this one, the other two are about knee-high and will require some (as the Wicked Witch of the East said) "deh-lee-cate" transplanting.

This morning there was an email from the Dallas HR guy. I fly to Atlanta via Salt Lake City on Friday, then on to Iraq after some time at Fort Benning. I have been trying to get as much done as I can before I leave. I spent the day in the backyard, moving garden tools into their new garden-shed home, trimming and raking and I even fixed the plum tree which had dropped a branch from too many plums. I put lots of trashy wood from the shed (the bad floor and roof) into a trash can; my big son knows it's there and will get it into the garbage cycle. Before the lawn got mowed, I found a gift from the squirrels- a six-inch walnut tree.

This is where the plum tree broke a branch off. The black stuff is tree repair. I'm hoping the plum tree will survive this semi-major disaster.

I cleared the grass away and used a small shovel to transfer the baby tree to a one-gallon pot. The soil came away in a nice chunk, so I think the tree wasn't too disturbed.

Here's the east side of the yard. The lawn looks better mowed. It'll look better still when the rains come in the fall. Not sure what those flowers are growing there, but I'm glad they chose my yard to go wild in- they hide my compost pile. Note the smoker up against the house. It sleeps there because it rolls so easily out on the cement patio when my big son fires it up.

I turned the sprinklers on. The lawn has been looking a bit brown in places because I have had the timer shut off while I worked on the shed and it wasn't until today that the lawn was cleared enough to run the sprinklers.

Tonight I'll pack and get myself ready, as if I were leaving tomorrow.

Tomorrow I might do a few small chores- clean my room, organize my shoes, stuff like that. But my daughter and big son are supposed to be here in the afternoon. I want to say good-bye to them, and to see if we can commit to some sort of communication schedule. There's a lot going on there. My ex is involved in everything with my son. She keeps a white-knuckle grip on him. Ditto my daughter, though she might volunteer to be controlled a bit. It's hard for me to say if they just don't pay much attention to me because I'm boring, old, and out of touch with their younger lives or if they won't spend much time with me because my ex would interpret that as disloyalty to her. It's complicated and involves her control over my children.

I could write more about her influence, but most of what I have to say is speculation. Oh, sure, I speculate gladly and with sufficient bitterness toward my ex. But I don't feel like speculating right now.

My ambitious big son bought a ten-pack of four-foot florescent fixtures yesterday. Today he decided to change out the two two-foot fixtures above the kitchen sink for one four-foot. He asked me use my Japanese saw to remove the piece from the middle of the frame. Then he preferred that I do the free-hand routing to get the trim pieces to match the frame. He seems to think that I'm better at this eye-hand motor control business.

More next time.

Here's No-Foot aka Frigga. This one I've nicknamed "Schlanke" because she seems to have so little excess avoirdupois. She is quieter, more reserved. She's near the tangerine tree, surveying "her" yard.

Here's Fulla aka Four-Foot. I've nicknamed this one "Saftig" because she's smaller and pudgier than her sister. Here, she's balanced on the edge of a 2 x 4 fence holding the flowers behind the compost pile.

The New Smoker

2008-06-15T23:13:00.000-07:00

Here's the finished product. At the bottom is the re-worked BuckStove fireplace insert. On top is the gutted Dacor oven. At the top right is the former Dacor blower box converted to a firebox and now a secondary smoker. The trash can on the right contains fruitwood for smoking.

A few blog posts below, I put up some pix of the smoker my big son and I built from our Fancy-schmanzy Dacor stove that died. (The replacement is a plain-vanilla Magic Chef, but that's another rant.)

My big son wasn't happy with the firebox I devised. It worked, but not as well as he'd like. So he went to craigslist and found a free fireplace insert that someone in Oakland was trying to give away. We drove out to the house, brought it home and then we began to fix it up. The sheet-metal flanges that framed the Buck Stove insert got unscrewed and set aside. He put the doors in some Simple Green while I worked on converting the fireplace insert into a smoker firebox.

Here's the product of our test run: two nice, smoky pork roasts. My big son is getting the hang of keeping the fire going and maintaining an oven temp of 220-240 degrees.

The Buck Stove had some good features- the firebox was lined with cast firebrick; the top was 1/4" steel plate, the three layers of stove were 1/8" steel; the doors had a good seal; the whole thing was designed to hold a fire, enough to heat a house, so keeping a small, smokey fire wouldn't tax it at all.

I measured everything, then we took a ride to Alco in San Leandro. We got some industrial-strength wheels, one of which would carry more weight than the whole thing weighs. And we got some rectangular tubing, about ten inches internal area. (The old smoker box was plumbed with four-inch flex aluminum tubing, about ten square inches there, too.) My son, who hadn't welded in ten years, laid two pieces of this tubing together and ran some very nice welds along them, making twenty square inches of flue.

I fabbed a plate so the two welded tubes would sit in the stove flue and stick up about six inches. We drilled and screwed the plate-and-tube assembly to the top of the stove.

The next step was tricky, but it worked out very well. We lifted the old Dacor oven and laid it on top of the plate assembly. I traced the outline with a marker. Then we flipped the oven over; my son suggested I drill the corners first. I used my skilsaw with a metal-cutting blade to plunge-cut the long sides and my air-powered rotary cutter to cut the short ends. When we set the oven over the plate, everything fit perfectly the first time! Woo hooo!!

Here's my big son checking the progress of those roasts.

This is the result of him getting the smoking bug from watching Alton Brown.

I was a big disappointed that the firebox I'd worked on so long was going to be discarded. But my big son thought he could use the same box and flex aluminum tubing to make a secondary, lukewarm cooler; that's what he did.

Father's Day dinner was pork with baked beans, coleslaw, corn on the cob and lemonade. Happily, my daughter brought my small son and we all ate a terrific meal.

Just before dinner, my small son and I fabbed a tool for the smoker- a sort of S-shaped piece of steel on a piece of cherry tree for a handle. Now there's a good push-pull gizmo for my son to use on the oven racks.

A Day Dream, Stress and Happy Exhaustion

2008-06-14T02:02:00.000-07:00

I just came in from trying to wade through the leaves in the front yard and haven't had a nap yet; sleep will come early for me tonight.

The stress: I did not, not, NOT want to go to court. But the results weren’t as bad as I had feared, so I'm happy. However, I have a new stress- I'm leaving my home in a week and I might not be back for awhile. So while the money stress is better, I'm becoming more stressed over leaving my home. You have no idea how happy I am here- I have my garden, my garage of tools, and I do things that are useful. Today I fixed the latch on the door to Richie's Buck Stove firebox which was rusted so badly it wouldn't turn. I cut it off with my Sawzall then drilled it out. Three times. Each time the drill got bumpier and choppier but I finally got the hole smooth and I replaced the crappy part with a bolt. I eyeballed the right angle for the latch and welded it back on while the door was on the floor of my garage. Now the whole thing works better than before, plus the latch is much stronger. Richie and I rolled the whole shebang around to the side of the house on its wheels, parking the smoker on the cement patio.

Kimmie and I worked in the garden while Richie (very much like a little boy with a new toy) fired it up, putting in this wood and that charcoal, opening the vent and checking the temperature. That wonderful big son of mine even put the old firebox on top as a secondary, lukewarm smoker. He played with his new toy all afternoon. Kimmie dug out some of the too-close tomato plants while I prepared some of the garden for her to put them into. Now we've got lots of new tomato plants in the ground, plus we have pumpkins and a couple of cantaloupes. We got a lot done in the back yard. When the hot afternoon began to cool off a bit, we sat in the patio chairs and talked; we played "stick" with the cats. Before the entire afternoon got frittered away, I replaced a broken piece of sprinkler hose so the front yard gets its drip irrigation now. And then I swept up the area where Richie had cleaned the Buck Stove, leaving quite a bit of sand and ash and a few bits of steel that were left over from repairing the stove.

I'm tired, sweaty, grungy, but I'm happy. Heck, even the cats were fun today: While we were outside, they followed us everywhere; we talked with 'em, played with 'em, even watched 'em sneak under the porch, where Sam the Feral Cat lives.

Work, sweat, grime, dirt, and a lot of happiness. That’s been my day today.

Richie said I should pack, at least for the first time. I've got this large gym bag with a few pockets on the outside. This bag became my carry-on when 9-11 took me to North Dakota. I'll check the gym bag because I want my knife and I can't carry it on the plane any more. I used to fly with a gun but now I can't even have my knife.

I put up a piece on my blog about going to court yesterday. My finances won't be so bad. She'll have a lot more money by herself than we had while I was working but I'll have some, too, so maybe my future won’t be so glum. There's a pic of my anvil and hammer there; 'tis an "environmental portrait."

Today's Friday. I don't know if Pense or Schaffe will be here for Sunday but I'm OK. I have my own mini-family- Richie and Kimmie and the cats. If my daughter and small son come for Father’s Day, that’ll be great. If they don’t, that’ll be acceptable. Ditto the following Tuesday, my birthday.

The dream: Let me tell you something. A lot of years ago, before Bonnie and I went to Germany with a 2-year-old Richie, I had a strange dream. I told her about it then, and we'd forgotten about it, but it's still there in the back of my mind. I dreamt that I was someplace that felt not quite like Europe. Something was going on. I looked up a street that was a big boulevard, sort of. The grey, dusty road sloped uphill a bit- two blocks away was about three feet higher than where we were standing. Something was going on. I did something, then I swung around this big, chest-high cement block, about three meters square with a statue on top of it. I sat on the ground. I reached my hand up to my ear, and felt something wet. I immediately looked at it; there was blood on my hand. I had a feeling of surprise, because I didn't feel any pain and if something caused me to bleed, I should be feeling some pain. Then I woke up. I don't know what else happened in the dream. The items I recall well are the street, the cement thing and waking up as soon as I saw blood on my hand.

What I saw clearly was the base for a statue, maybe not quite three meters on a side, but big enough to provide plenty of protection from small-arms fire. Statues are usually on big blocks of something like cement. Something was happening, and I ducked behind the cement for protection. A bit scary, this dream. I think there was someone with me but I don't have a name or face, just the feeling that I wasn't alone- like I was part of a team or something, maybe just one or two guys.

Waking up straight after- that meant that I was afraid, so in order to get away from the fear, I took myself somewhere less fearful, to being awake.

There was a time when I'd have avoided going somewhere that my dream told me could be dangerous to me. But not anymore. I'm not as afraid as I was before. Since then, I’ve considered this all-too-real dream a few times. This was before Bonnie, Richie and I went to Germany. There was another time when we went to Romania- I was antsy because Romania wasn't quite Europe, but I came back fine. Then we went to Thailand. I wasn't as concerned because when I got there, Thailand really didn't feel like the not-quite-Europe of my dream. A large impact on me was the feeling of something like Europe, but not quite like Europe. I had similar almost-subconscious reservations each time I've been back across the Atlantic- to Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, once again to Romania and then to Rotterdam.

I'll be fine.

I've got lots to look forward to- my house, my future, heck, maybe even finding my way to a nice vacation in Brisbane. Yep, I'll be fine. I may get tired, sick, sleepy, lonely, yadda yadda. But I'm not going to let a dream make me afraid any more.

Thanks, SLM

Never-Ending Divorce - Coulda been worse today

2008-06-12T19:32:00.000-07:00

On the right is the anvil my big son bought for me a few years ago. You don't go to your friendly, neighborhood anvil storer, so the one he found had quite a bit of damage- the sides were chipped and broken. I heated it with my acetylene torch, then cranked up the heat on my Lincoln AC welder and built up the sides with good rod from Airgas. I ground the edges close to where I wanted them with my little 4-1/2" Makita grinder and finished with my old Craftsman belt sander. The tired, re-tuned anvil turned out pretty good.

I had the ball-peen hammer head laying around in my toolbox for a decade or two before I got around to shaping a piece of tree limb from my back yard into a slightly longer-than-store-bought hammer handle. Note the last few inches that still have bark on the handle. The stump under the anvil came from a heavy branch of my avocado tree.

What does this picture have to do with the Never-Ending Divorce? Well, after I got back from family court today, I changed clothes and began to fix the door to the Buck Stove that my son got from Craigslist. But before I began, I walked by this stump-anvil-hammer piece of domestic and intensely personal art and was overwhelmed by a sense of self-imaging gestalt.

I worked on the Buck Stove doors with only half my mind. The other half was still re-winding the events of this afternoon. Family court is stressful. I made an offer to my ex-wife about child support and spousal support that wouldn't leave me broke from the job I'll take in Iraq. Nothing is yet 100% certain, but the possibility is getting better that I'll go to Georgia next week, then on to Iraq.

My attorney said that it's unusual for a wife to get twice the spousal support that the court ordered, but such is the case- I go to Iraq and carry two guns, she gets twice the money plus she gets to spend the extra money that I have to give her for child support. And she gets to keep her share of my retirement and the SSA that my son gets because I retired. All in all, she'll have $4500 each month and won't have to work for a living. The sardonic bounce leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but I'm glad that it won't be worse.

California believes that divorce isn't final; divorce just keeps on lingering, like a fart in a space suit. Don't like that comparison? Yeah, neither do I. But California believes that, because I was married for a long time, she merits support for the rest of her life. And if I stick my neck out in Iraq, she's entitled to more money from me. Sure, I merit support from her, but the operative yet missing element here is any sort of productive income on her part. She hasn't worked since 2001, so my chances of getting support from her are slim to none.

Though this Never-Ending Divorce keeps benefiting her, I can bask in the consolation that it's not worse.

Good environmental photo of me up there- my anvil, my hammer, even my stump. When the next year is over, I'll polish up the anvil and hammer.

Cat Gazette Feuilleton

2008-06-06T21:58:00.000-07:00

A feuilleton is a short, illustrative essay. That isn't quite a piece of plagiarism from Merriam Webster, though it should be. This will be a feuilleton about our cats, both mostly domesticated and mostly feral.

News from the Grove Way Cat Gazette: Sam the Feral Cat has been making more of an appearance and has been less skittish.

He had a couple of run-ins of the ... um ... reproductive kind with Fulla aka Four-Foot. She fights and screams, he tries to ... um ... well, you know what boy cats try to do with girl cats, don't you? He can't help himself, she's so "saftig." He thinks of himself as Sir Mixalot. (If you don't know this reference, that's all right. My big son had to explain the reference to me; I'm hoping some younger folks will catch on.)

Richie has threatened to trap him and take him to get ... um ... "modified surgically." I talked to Sam, telling him that he'll be OK as long as I'm around. I won't let Richie do that. But if I'm not around, he's on his own. Richie seems to have a paternal approach to our two girl cats. Me, I think cats aren't people, so if one cat catches another, that's the way things go. Of course, it could be something more than mere reproductive impulse; Sam's behavior might be some sort of territorial imperative. That might make things different. But this takes us to the misty, ethereal world of cat psychology.

So, are we on the cusp of trapping him? No. Kimmie has been doing her "cat whisperer" thing. She got him to eat right outside our glass doors. That's the good part. Of course, our two cats are watching him like a hawk from inside the glass doors. Yesterday, Fulla watched him and growled. For five minutes all we heard was "Grrrrrrr" in a very low pitch. I think she's not happy with him, but as long as we're around, she's not quite as unhappy.

Here's Sam the Feral Cat, through the glass doors. He's nibbling the other cats' kibble out of their bowl. When he was younger last summer, he was striped all over. Now he's got some stripes on his shoulders and hips, but his body is kinda buff-colored. He's a small tom but bigger than either of our other cats. Does he look like a randy rascal? Look behind those eyes- there's initiative and feline intent that's incomprehensible to us thumbed folk.

This morning he ate for awhile right outside the door. Then he went under the deck. After a minute, Frigga/No-Foot went outside and sniffed the carpet where he was sitting and sniffed the bowl he ate from. He didn't go far, just under the deck. Kimmie opened the door and talked to him from just outside the glass doors and he just watched her from under the deck. Then he went around the side of the house by the low-quat trees. The two girls went outside, Fulla on the deck by the smoker and Friga down by the firewood on the patio. Sam came back and Fulla went on Full Alert. Friga watched him, but she seems less afraid. We believe she's less afraid of Sam because she's larger, thinner and faster. So if Sam tried to chase her, she'd just tell him, "How do you like my ass from waa-aay back there?" and zoom away. Poor Fulla is smaller and chubbier, so Sam might have better luck chasing and catching her. Or "he just likes 'em saftig," as Richie opines.

Here are our two formerly feral cats. On the left is the saftig Four-Foot aka Fulla. On the right, getting some attention from her sister, is the schlanke Frigga aka No-Foot. Frigga likes the attention until she says, "That's enough!" Then she hisses and the two of them get into some feline fisticuffs.

We don't know if Sam will ever come inside and spend the night with us. He eats our cat food but he doesn't let us get too close. And "too close" is his determination. Sometimes it's five feet, sometimes it's 20 feet. He is a very skittish, mostly feral cat. I give him some flea pills, broken up between two spoons like you do with babies and pills, and mixed with some canned cat food. I'd like to take him to a vet for a full set of shots, but I don't know how to get close enough to touch him. I'm not sure that "trap and release" will sit well with his very independent attitude. If I can keep him from having too many fleas and if I can feed him a few days per week, I'll be satisfied with this not-quite-domesticated approach. Some pets are tied to their owners' laps by an invisible umbilical; Sam isn't my "pet," so if he has a distant relationship with me, that's enough for now. We each have a life outside being a pet and an owner. Heck, I can't say that I "own" him at all. And he isn't anyone's "pet."

Here's my little big son playing Stick with Fulla aka Four-Foot, the focus of Sam's romantic attentions. Stick is a game Schaffe plays with her because she's a lot of fun to play with. You take a five-foot piece of tree, strip the leaves off and drag it on the ground. Something in Four-Foot's predatory DNA makes her want to "attack" the end, catch it and bite it. She's crouching, waiting for the precise instant to make a four-legged jump and capture that perpetually elusive Stick.

Her sister, Frigga aka No-Foot, also plays, but there seem to be unspoken rules between them. Only one at a time "attacks," even though both are out there. I think for Frigga, playing Stick is as much a spectator sport as it is a participant sport.

Iraqi blip on my radar

2008-06-03T14:45:00.000-07:00

I had laid the roofing on the shed and was fixing some lunch when the voicemail told me that I'd passed the background. When can I leave?

I emailed with the response that I have a family court date on June 12, nine days from today, that I can't get out of. After that, we'll see how it goes. There is an all-day trial in August, but maybe we can resolve everything in June. I don't really want to hassle her, I just want this Never-Ending Divorce to be over.

Yep, "Never-Ending" seems a bit harsh, but here's how I see it- 14 months ago, I got the final decree, 16 months after I filed. And I still have family court issues, lawyer fees, and the inevitable hassles associated with custody. I didn't even ask for my son to be on my tax return.

But this shouldn't devolve into a rant about the divorce industry (avoid it if you can), this is just a heads-up that I may find myself in Iraq soon. That should be grist for my blog's mill, no?

Rusty, dusty, crusty and smoky

2008-06-01T17:37:00.000-07:00

This involves a dusty home-improvement project, a defective high-zoot appliance and a television show's nudge.

A couple of decades ago, I built a microwave cart for our condo's kitchen. When we moved here, I brought the cart, but because the kitchen had a different place for the microwave, I've been using the microwave cart to hold barbecue tools out on the deck, not the best use of this sturdy piece of kitchen furniture.

The fancy-schmancy Dacor "restaurant" stove that came with the house kept dying. Richie rebuilt the burners, replaced the oven heating element, and still that stove kept failing us. A few weeks ago, we were down to two burners and broil only when we got a no-frills basic-white Magic Chef, the Ford Pinto of stoves. The Dacor was on its way to a $50 grave at the local waste management.

My big son the Mechanical Engineer and certified genius likes to cook. He watches Alton Brown and got me to watching this guy's antics. AB is great because he gets me grinning with parodies and humor, all the while teaching me stuff I never knew I was interested in, like why the butt part is lower on the animal than the shoulder, yadda yadda.

One of AB's projects involved a smoker. In a pastiche of Junkyard Wars and that goofy cooking challenge show, Iron Chef, AB's challenge was to MacGyver-cobble a smoker out of a couple of wall lockers, cardboard boxes, an iron, yadda yadda. Amid chuckles at sophisticated humor, I learned how to make your own bacon and how to cook in a smoker.

Well, we love bacon, and my son is a really good cook, so we decided to try our Junkyard Wars hand at assembling a smoker. Could we have gone to the store and gotten one? Sure, but both Richie and I are both ecological enough and cheap enough that making one seemed like a good thing. OK, he's frugal; I'm penurious.

On the left is a shot of the back of the stove. There was a hole in the box where the light bulb uas. This is what we used to duct the hot smoke in.

This is the microwave cart on the right. I've removed one structural element that once held a shelf at chin height.

Brainstorming, we decided to re-use the old Dacor stove. The oven was an enameled steel box designed to withstand temperatures of 450+ degrees and came with stainless steel racks, just the ideal environment for making your own bacon, beef jerky, etc. After we disassembled the burner section from the oven section, we were stumped: what to use for a firebox? Alton brown used half of a wall locker with an iron in the bottom. I dug out this old 30-gallon steel drum. Good, but it would need some modification to use it as a pedestal, and then we might have the issue of tip-over-ness. (Yeah, that's not a word, but you get my drift.)

This is the oven box on its side. The mechanism on the right is the door closing latch. Latching the door shut is a good thing- it helps keep the heat in.

On the right is the steel box holding the blower motor and which supported the entire stove off the floor.

However, my son pointed out that the microwave cart might make a suitable frame for the smoker. And he was right. I cut a couple of pieces of bed frame to fit and put them on the inside. The oven fit perfectly.

On the left is the back of the firebox. Note the recycled dryer ducting coming out of the box and the nice aluminum flex tubing.

On the right is the firebox opened up. The holes are from a part of a recycled barbecue.

All that was left was a firebox. Again we considered the steel drum. Then an old tool box, but Richie was loathe to destroy something useful and iconic, like a tool box. We even considered sawing a helium can in half. We looked at an old ammo can, but while the metal was sturdy, the volume wasn't enough to sustain much of a fire.

The old Dacor had a rather large blower underneath. The box holding the blower was also the main support for the entire stove, so I thought, "Why not use the support, too?" The box had a few holes associated with air coming in and going out, but it was still sturdy and fairly large. So I covered up the rectangular holes and made one new one, for the $8 flexible aluminum tubing going from the firebox to the smoking chamber. We recycled an old rusted-out barbecue for the sliding air dampers and a couple of four-inch clothes dryer ducting adapters.

Here are the main components- the cart, the oven that'll be the smoke chamber and the blower box that will be the firebox.

On the right is my son's thermometer, stuck in the hole that Dacor used for the thermocouple. Just above is the ceramic stack that was the standard heat vent for the oven.

Here's my gravity-powered latch for the firebox door. That's a small bolt welded to the back piece of steel. A hole in that bar stock makes it swivel. A larger bolt welded to the end is the weight that makes it rotate to vertical, effecting the latching action.

I think we're about $10 into this smoker. We fired up some charcoal this evening to see how it works. The firebox has a few leaks and I need to fab a latch of some sort to keep the door closed. But my son put a thermometer into the hole in the oven where the Dacor folks had routed a thermocouple, and found we could achieve 220 degrees with a medium fire; with a low fire, 165 was quite possible.

Now we've got to find a butcher shop that will sell us pork bellies so we can make our own bacon. And maybe we can find a meat grinder and some casings so we can make our own sausages. With a bit of practice, we might cook a couple of chickens or even a turkey in this smoker.

Richie's asked me if I'll name this smoker. And I might. Anthropomorphism demands a name for this guy.

Post script: The steel burner units included a quasi-barbecue one that I will modify into a small, portable charcoal grill for my trailer. I've got a good steel box and a good-quality stainless-steel grate. That'll be another post, one day.