Friday, March 29, 2013

It's Not Like Your Hair Is On Fire, Your Hair IS On Fire

Warning: In this entry I speak very frankly about an experience that I had. This is one of those things where unless you have a deep curiosity, it might be something that you just don’t want to know about.  Now that I’ve said that, I have probably divided my audience into those who want to read it because it is my weekly missive and those who absolutely must read it because of what I just said. I probably also have gained a massive college student audience who were looking for something else entirely using Google and this popped up.

During any seven day week I have 28 hours which are completely mine and that can be used in any way that I choose.  In case you’re curious, that is two hours for each of my work days and 16 hours on Sunday.  So, I have a tendency to try to do things very efficiently and combine things together during those free hours so that I can make the most of them.

I had written previously that I found a great place to get my haircut, but because it is in the center of the city it can take me 45 minutes each way or more. When you add in the 90 minutes to two hours or so for the “works”; this eats up almost half of my Sunday. So, this week I opted to do something different when I spotted a Men’s Salon in my new neighborhood.  The place had a sign out front that said in English Turkish Barber.  It would be nice to have a place closer for those times when I was forcibly limited on time and still need a haircut.

Now, it is not unusual here for the nationality of the tradesmen to be posted here on a sign outside of his shop.  I have seen Indian Mechanic, Lebanese Chef, Pakistani Carpenter and Filipino Cook posted outside of various establishments. Just like in the US where you tend to look for a specific type of person for specific type of service, the same holds true here.  So, it is really not an ethnicity thing as much as it is a badge of pride. However, saying this, I had no idea what Turkish Barber really meant.

A long time ago, in America, barbers were responsible not only for cutting hair but also for performing dentistry. I will summarize my experience now by telling you that I found that a Turkish Barber not only cuts hair on the head but it is also responsible for all other hair above the shoulders.  This entailed the use of not only scissors and clippers but also string, tweezers, razors, wax, and fire.  Before I go on in detail what exactly happened please read the warning at the top of this passage again.

I walked into the shop and was greeted by one of the two barbers who worked there.  I looked over both men before selecting which one I wanted to cut my hair.  I used the barbershop rule for small towns:  If there are only two barbers always go to the one with the worst haircut, because his hair was cut by the other guy.

I sat down in the chair and he offered me a cup of Turkish tea, which I passed on taking a bottle of water instead. I like Turkish tea, but is very difficult to drink anything out of the cup while getting a haircut.  You wind up with a cup full of hair clippings along with whatever it is you’re trying to drink.  He placed the apron around me and then told me that he did not speak any English.  I guess it is a good thing that the one bit of English he really did know well was how to say that he didn’t speak it. I described what I want it done with both hand gestures and using a combination of Arabic and street slang to explain what I wanted.  He nodded, which I took as a good sign because it wasn’t a head wobble -- I know, I need to explain what that is at some point as well.  Another time.

He sprayed my hair down with water and then started cutting the sides using his fingers to grip various bits of hair to ensure that it is going to be layered properly.  At this point, I actually relaxed a little because what he was doing was familiar to me. After cutting both sides he went through and layered the top and then used a special pair of scissors to thin out some of the bulk and overall I thought it looked pretty good when I glanced into the mirror.  This had taken slightly longer than I haircut in the states, but I felt he had done a fairly good job. And I was getting ready to get up when he asked me if I wanted him to trim my eyebrows.  I said yes and he did this using a comb and a pair of scissors. Again he did a very good job and I again prepared to get up and leave.  Then he said something in Turkish which I did not understand and when he saw a curious look on my face he said something that sounded like ”It is okay, you will like”.  I was apprehensive again.

He reappeared a few moments later and then produced a cotton swab which appear to be covered in some sort of green goo that he then proceeded to put into my nose.  To say this was an odd feeling is an understatement as the goo was also very warm.  Having been told all my life not pick my nose, it was odd to have some stranger doing it with a Q-Tip.  I realized after a moment that what he was doing was a nasal wax, something I had never done before but obviously was halfway committed to at this point. He disappeared again coming back with another cotton swab full of goo and soon my nose had been waxed shut.
He stood there for a moment and then leaned forward looking closely at my cheeks; then he disappeared again.  This time we came back he had a stick full of goo and spread this on my upper cheek just below my eye.  I thought to myself that if this was wax then he must be removing those small hairs on my upper cheek that I often miss while shaving.  At least that made a little sense to me.  After doing  this to both cheeks he departed leaving me alone for a few moments.

Have you ever seen The 40-Year Old Virgin?  While sitting there I had visions of the scene where the hero gets his chest waxed as I realized that those Q-Tips in my nose would have eventually to come out. I also knew from experience that if you ever accidentally pulled one of those small hairs in your nose it would bring tears to your eyes. Now I was faced with a reality of what would happen when you grab several and rip them out all at once.  I suddenly felt an enormous amount of empathy for all the women in the world who had gone through a Brazilian wax.

About then the Barber reappeared and without warning grabbed both swabs and pulled them out at the same time.  Ouch does not begin to describe it.  Apparently there are several English words that require no translation into Turkish to be understood.  I used all of those words and a few more.  To be truthful, the pain was momentary.

He then removed the wax from my cheeks which was more painful.  The Barber then looked again closely at my cheeks and made a “tsk tsk” sound; he then disappeared and reappeared with a piece of string.  I had heard of threading before, but was not sure what it was all about.  I now know.  He proceeded to somehow loop the string around the individual hairs that remained and yanked them out.  This hurt and brought about a sudden epiphany as I suddenly remembered the characterization of Turks in both Lawrence of Arabia and Midnight Express. 

Next, he took up set of clippers and trimmed my goatee and mustache; doing a very good job but trimming it shorter than I normally would.  I thought about it, since I was about to walk out of the barbershop, I should expect it to be shorter than it will be later when I walk back in for my next trim.  He completed this he used a small pair of tweezers to remove the errant hairs from around my mustache that were too short to clip into long to be ignored.

Fine, I had survived the Turkish Barber house of horrors and was wondering how much I should tip this man at this point; when I noticed him walk off to one side of the station and pulled out a long thin stick.  He wrapped a small piece of tissue around the end of this and then sprayed it with hairspray. Next, he lit it on fire. I felt I had been a fairly good sport up to now not objecting too much about the treatment that I was going through, but I was not going to let him light anything on my face on fire. That was not what he was about to do.

Taking a step behind me and holding my ear out from the rest of my head, he used this flame to incinerate the small hairs around the rim of my ear. About the time that you could hear the crackling of the hair burning he would slap it with his hand to put it out. I guess the only thing I can really say about this entire processes is do not try this by yourself at home. I’m fairly sure you would wind up setting your head on fire.

Next, he applied a small amount of shaving cream to his hand and used it to coat my the back of my neck and then used a razor to make the line back there as neat as possible. They used to do this in the states but at some point when I was in Guam they stopped doing it. My understanding was that it was due to fear of blood-borne diseases from using a shared blade. I watched as he unwrapped and used a brand-new razor on me so I felt fairly safe allowing this to happen.

Okay, there was no hair left above my shoulders that he had not somehow cut, shaved, ripped out, burned, tweezed, yanked, strangled with string or otherwise mutilated – I was ready to leave.  He then motioned for me to follow him to the back of the shop so that my hair could be washed. This is something that is very different in Kuwait than any other place I’ve been to in the world. They wash your hair after it is cut rather than before.  As result, when you walk out your hair no longer has a bunch of small clippings in it and it can be styled in the way that it should look from that point on.

After he styled my hair and gave me a brief neck massage, the Turkish Barber removed the apron and pronounced me finished.  I had been in the chair roughly an hour or so. I think he was a little surprised I also didn’t want a shave while I was there as this is part of the normal treatment. That probably would have taken another 30 minutes or so.  Anyway, total bill for this assault on my follicles: 4KD, roughly $15.  There are things that are outrageously expensive in Kuwait, personal services is not one of them.

Looking back a few days after this experience, I have to admit that my hair looks great and that all the other treatments provided actually make me look a bit more well-coiffed and professional.  I’m still not so sure about the whole nasal waxing thing or using fire is a hair cutting tool, but I’ve always maintained that I am somewhat of road less traveled kind of a guy.  



18799 

Saturday, March 23, 2013

It Is March 2003 and You Are There


10 years ago, I found myself sitting on an airbase in the Middle East as part of the forces that were going to war against Iraq in a conflict then known as Operation Iraqi Freedom.  At the time, I decided that I needed to record what I was doing for posterity. I know, it is a bit egotistical to figure that anyone would want to read anything that I had to say – – but it might happen you never know. So, this week, for your reading pleasure, I am reposting a few entries that I posted way back then on my website Life in Germany (before such things became known as blogs).  A few things that you might want to be aware of before you start reading:

How I ended up going in the first place is a story all its own. At the time that this event occurred I had one person assigned to me who had the responsibility of going down range to accompany military units in the field. Most people who deployed were identified weeks in advance, to include my employee. This gave them time to pack, and prepare, and mentally focus on the job ahead. Three days prior to his schedule departure date he claimed to have a back injury and could not deploy. Since I had recently come off duty with the Air Force Reserve, all of my training for combat contingencies was still current and therefore, I was the one who ended up deploying.
  • It should be obvious from the name of my website that I was actually assigned in Germany, but if you miss that I was assigned to Germany and had arrived there just three months before 9/11.  It was 9/11 that caused me to start posting a blog so that family and friends in the US knew what was going on.

  •  You might notice from the pictures that we are all wearing the wrong uniforms,  you are right.   Our unit was supposed to deploy within Europe not the Middle East.  So, we had Woodland versus Desert BDUs.  I figured if we all stood still in a group that we would just look like a clump of bushes and they might ignore us.
  • At the time I created these entries, I was not allowed to mention where I was or what unit I was working for; now I can.  I was positioned at Incirlik Airbase, Turkey and I was also assigned to the Joint Multinational Forces Command Center -- I am pretty sure that was probably renamed several times during the conflict.
  • The purpose for being in Turkey was to support the 4th Infantry Division that was supposed to go into Iraq in the north via the Turkish border. However, that never happened as Turkey would not approve our forces going across their border. Eventually, the 4th Infantry Division went into Iraq through the South, although I did not accompany them. 
  • The patriotism and pride felt by myself and those I deployed with was genuine and based on doing what we were called upon by our nation to do. I am not judging through the prism of history whether or not the invasion of Iraq was the best course of action. That ship has sailed and is over and cannot be changed now. Dwelling upon it now is the same as trying to determine if FDR could’ve handled Pearl Harbor differently or claiming that if Truman had allowed McArthur to talk to Ho Chi Minh Vietnam have been averted.  It is always easier to judge actions in hindsight – – it is much harder to make decisions and live with the consequences in real time. (BTW Yes and probably)
  • What you are about to read is unedited and includes my opus on Jell-O the night the war began.  You think of some strange things at times like those, but you do have to keep an eye on Jell-O.  It jiggles.

So, without further ado here is my historical account of the events that occurred a decade ago...


Day #5 -- 18 March 2003

I was awoken at 5 by the first guy who flipped on the TV and saw the ultimatum.  No one here wants a war; they are the ones that have to fight it.  But there comes a time when you have to stand up against a tyrant – that time has come.   We all know it here.  It is better to be doing the job that needs to be done, than to delay it.

Because I was up that early I actually got a hot shower for the first time in three days.  I don’t know how much you guys see in the news about things over here, especially closer to the front.  Right now they get a shower once a week.  It is hard to bitch about a cold shower when at least you get one daily. 

The US is said to have the best equipped and trained military in the world.  Yes, we do.  But we also try to provide the troops with the best available where they are, always.  We may have it cushy compared to the guys on the Iraqi frontline, but there are people further back who have it better than we do – and so on.  At each location you would have to say we get the best available.  But most never say that – after all it is a GI’s prerogative to bitch.

I have managed to start my work out regimen again.  After falling down the stairs just before Thanksgiving, I had to quit doing anything for a while to give my back and wrist a chance to recuperate.  I am slowly getting back into it bit by bit.   The reason I mention this here is that I am spending a lot of time walking already.  We live 2 miles from the base proper and have no dedicated transport to get around.  That has helped to force me into moving more.  Not a bad thing.

Actually, there is an army of taxis here that continually roams the base picking up and dropping off.  They are all cleared to be on base and charge about $3 to get anywhere we can go.  But just like a cop never being where you need him, these taxis often seem to be anywhere but where I need to be picked up.  It’s okay the walking does me good.

One question I did get asked by a friend was just how the heck I ended up here.    Well, one of the people I supervise was originally assigned to take on this assignment; however, three days before he was scheduled to deploy he hurt his back.   The slot needed to be filled and I was prepared to go.  Luckily they delayed the departure for a few more days and I had time to get my stuff together before hitting the road.

I don’t like being away from home but I have a mission to accomplish and if I do it right everyone I support will be able to do their job and the troops will have the support they need.  I am just part of the picture – but I am proud to do my part.

 Day #6 -- 19 March 2003

The day before the night that it might all begin.  It was a rather droll day, very routine.  But just under the surface was what may happen later tonight.  We are very aware of the clock.  Security was raised and we expect to be carrying chemical warfare suits with us shortly.    It is a strange sort of uneasiness that everyone feels but no one mentions.

This is the room I shared with the Chaplains
Today four more of our folks arrived.  We are no longer the “new guys”. I was able to take them on a short tour and point out where to eat, where to use a phone, and the locations of the gym and the post office.  I guess I have now been here long enough to be a veteran.   Due to the number of folks arriving daily our “newbies” ended up down in tent city rather than in the houses.  At least they are in a tent that holds only 12, and it does have dividers in it so they get a little more privacy. 

I have noticed that within our group everyone is starting to settle in and we are getting to know each other.  Ever heard that old saying there are no dumb questions?  Chris seems to find new ones everyday.  He is probably the youngest one in the crew and is very green.  On the other end of the spectrum is Troy, a Navy retiree who is now about to retire form Civil Service, almost every sentence starts with “Well we used to….”.  Cleavan’s claim to fame is that he got sick from the fish they served on the inbound flight.  He almost didn’t make it out of the car in time when he was going to hospital to get checked out – it would have been a mess.  Brett has faith that Saddam will just “quit” midway through the first round of bombing and we will be home real quick.  Cain is quiet, but occasionally adds comments that show true reflection.    The personalities are diverse but we have a common goal – to do our best and get home in one piece.  I know we will all get there.

 We watched the last episode of “Band Of Brothers” tonight.  Watching the scenes of Garmisch and Austria made me homesick.  Realizing what was actually accomplished during that period in history makes me proud to be an American and a little guilty that my generation tends to forget what sacrifices made by those before us. It is a moving story.

To those of you who have written:  Thanks!  Those messages that contained general words of support for our mission and our troops ended up on our entryway board or the office bulletin board to all to read.   Everyone here tends to share those types of messages.  Without meaning to,  you have supported more troops than just me.

To answer a few questions I have gotten, without giving away anything:  Yes, there are Navy here.  Also Marines, Air Force, DoD Agencies and the Army -- but I have not seen any Coast Guard.  There are Brits and Aussies too – BTW the one question I have been asked by them is how come our media seems to be obsessed with what movie stars have to say about the pending war.  I don’t have any sort of answer to that one – I would actually like to know the answer myself.  We do get both CNN and Fox News, Fox has less bias and seems to be getting the facts right more often.

You can't put a blackboard and pens in a room and not
expect people to get creative
During the day I seem to think of 100s of things I want to say, but by the time I sit down most of them escape me.  A few of the random ramblings I do remember: I have been able to call home and even help my son with homework quite often thanks to a cell phone – when my Dad was in Viet Nam we would get audio tapes weekly but that was about it.  I know I like it this way better.     Email makes it possible for me to share things I am thinking and what is going on with me “real time” that is also a first.  Even when I went to Kuwait we were not to a point technologically for me to have this much access.   I like that too.  I think it is a great idea to put reporters with units, I think that if they got to know the servicemen as people and not as “the enemy” it would bring a more truthful and less antagonistic attitude to the reporting.  BTW I haven’t seen the reporters that are with the units here, but I have heard we have a few.  France?  We don’t need France – history has shown that in the 228+ years since Lafayette they have been the ones needing us.  They have a right to their opinion; we have a right to ignore them.    Britain and Australia have never failed to be there.  Dump the French wine and croissant -- have a Fosters Lager and some Bangers & Mash instead.  I have heard this is going to be called Operation Iraqi Freedom – I can deal with that – I would rather be thought of as part of a freedom force than a conquering one.

Well, the late news just said that the sandstorm is finally dying down.  Given that bit of info – I have a feeling I will be woken by the sound of jet engines in a few hours (it is 2330 here now).   Everyone in the hooch is still up, even though most of us go in at 0600 – no surprise there.  We are to a point now that we almost need something to happen to relax.  Like I said before we are all worried about everyone but ourselves. 

Day #7 -- 20 March 2003

Jell-O is wonderful food.  It is fun to play with, feels squiggly on your tongue and slides down your throat-- without much chewing.  It is never too sweet or too cold.  Yup, Jell-O is wonderful food.    Believe it or not that was that extent of my thoughts tonight as I watched the news (keep in mind I am 7-9 hours ahead of most of you).  The reporters were doing their best trying to report something when not much is going on.  At this point I am exhausted, so I basically let the TV watch me eat my Jell-O  -- it was just background noise.  Besides you have to pay attention to Jell-O – it jiggles.

The view I saw on the way out
Late last night/early this morning they evacuated the dependents that were on the base here and shipped them back to the US as a precaution.  My Chaplain roommate spent a lot of time running in and out trying to smooth over problems.  It is what a Chaplain does.  I did my part to help by not getting too upset when he kept making noise running in and out all night.  It did not make for a restful night.

Today was long and tiring.  We are now carrying around our chemical suits, but are not wearing them.  I can, incidentally, get the mask on in less than 7 seconds, and the complete suit in less than 3 minutes.  We have not been targeted, the leadership is just being cautious.   See, they are trying to care of me too.    We also have a couple of Patriot batteries nearby to shoot down anything inbound.  That feels comforting too.

Spirits here are high, but everyone is a little leery as well.  The news is so sketchy and when you combine that with other information we are privy to it just makes it all seem a little unreal.  Are we really finally doing something or is it just confusion?  There is also an aura of exhaustion too, as the late nights & tension starts to catch up with us.  Tonight almost everyone went to bed by 2100.    I guess that since we launched against Saddam they all figured we were no longer waiting but starting and sleep might be important.

I am going to turn off the TV and turn in myself.    Well, after I get more Jell-O.

Day #8 -- 21 March 2003

First to answer a couple of questions:  I write everyday, actually every night just prior to turning in, then the next morning I review it and send it – if I can.  Some days I can’t send, so I just hold onto that day’s message until I can.  So if you get nothing on one day, you might get two the next.  I don’t mind if you share these with other folks, the only problem with that is that they don’t know me and might be confused by some personal references I make.  Like I keep saying, I am not directly in harms way.  So unless things change drastically I stand a better chance of being run over by some private in a Humvee than of even seeing an Iraqi that hasn’t surrendered.  I am not a combatant so the one thing I am not carrying with my other gear is any kind of weapon.  I have bunches of Army and Air Force guys around to protect me.  Yes, I have a camera and I am including a picture with this mailing.

Today was totally “on target”.  Things were smooth and energized as we went about our tasks.  My task here is almost complete, but rumors of a possible move are preventing me from “icing the cake” and heading home.  Things will be clearer on Monday.  If things keep going at this pace I will end up staying to help pack out, if things slow down I will go home and send the person who had the back injury back to pack the stuff out.

Me and Ghost Rider
Chris got an added nickname of “Ghost Rider”.  He is quick to grab the keys to the vehicle we now have, but he is just as quick to spend a lot of time lost trying to get from one place to another.   Before this is over he probably will have seen every square inch of this base.  Troy is coordinating a “steakacide” for tomorrow.  We scored the beef, a grill, and some charcoal.  We may end up using JP4 to light it (just like in my AF days), but we will have a decent meal when it is all said and done.   It is things we do like that that help with unit cohesiveness and esprit de corps.  We work together, we stay together, and we play together.   We are one team, with one focus.  Sounds like something from a recruiting commercial, but here you find the reality of it.

I actually got to go to real live movie tonight.  The movie was awful, but being in that environment was a total escape from what goes on here day to day.    From the theatre I walked through Tent City before I walked back to the hooch. 

The City has a feel all its own, it is almost the same spirit that you might find in a kids camp – but the jokes aren’t G or PG.  A lot of jokes about the French and while I was talking to a group of soldiers who were playing cards the news of another casualty came across the radio.  Utter silence.  Everyone paused, as if they were saying individual silent prayers – or wondering if they knew the victim.  As I looked from face to face I watched as the expressions changed from shock, to concern, to acceptance, to relief.   Someone made a nervous one-line joke, I didn’t catch it, and then after a pause there was nervous laughter.   As I walked on I heard the game starting again behind me.  As harsh as it may sound respects had been paid, condolences given – it was time for life to go on.   

Rather than catching a cab or grabbing a ride, I walked all the way back to the hooch and enjoyed the feel of the cold air around me.  The temperature has actually dropped over the past few days and the evenings feel chilly by comparison to the days.  I thought about all I had seen and heard that day.  War is a scary thing; there can be no doubt about that.  But there is not any doubt in the confidence I have in my nation and its Armed Forces.  If I can find any comfort at all in this situation, that is the extent of it.
  
Day #9 -- 22 March 2003

Today I wrapped up a lot of loose ends.  Most of the guys took the day off to get laundry done and prepare for the next phase of what might happen.  Since I will not be remaining here much longer and will not be moving forward, I used the time to be alone to make some adjustments and do some fine-tuning without having to interrupt anyone.

This was really the first time I had been totally alone since getting here.  Even when I write these entries late at night there are 11 other people nearby snoozing or watching TV.    It felt a little strange but not unwelcome.

When I was in Kuwait years ago I hated it because they kept us so separated from the local population that it felt like everyone that was not with you was a threat.   I have never felt so on edge in my entire life.   This time we are surrounded by locals and interact with then daily, so they are not a threat but part of the fabric of the landscape here.  Unlike Kuwait, we even have merchants we deal with to buy some of the local wares –.  We are learning who they are as people and they are learning about us as well.  When you start dealing with people on that level you realize that everyone is alike more than they are different.  It leads to less nervousness and more harmony.  It is harder for someone who knows you to hate you, than someone who has no relationship with you. Peoples are peoples.

Our “steakout” went well.  It was a time when we all got to know each other better and a time when we could blow off steam and refocus.  There are actually a total of 12 members in our immediate team; the 6 I have not mentioned yet are Gustavo, Santiago, Cam, Turner, Rod and Robert.  They are all active duty Navy and Army.

The team is very diverse in terms of where we originated from to form this group.  6 of us are from Wiesbaden, another from elsewhere in Germany, 1 from Richmond, 2 from Pennsylvania, 1 from Italy, and 1 from Japan (he won the “person who traveled the furthest to attend the war” award). As a result some of us knew each other but at least half the folks were unknown entities to anyone else.

As we all sat around after eating we started sharing some war stories.  War stories are not always about specific military battles, but more about life and personal “battles.  If you have never swapped stories like this, it turns into a hodge-podge of personal history as one person’s story prompts another in a different direction, which in turn spawns another.  The topics are as wide and varied as the group talking – and of course everyone is free to add comments as the storyteller spins his tale.  This does serve a functional purpose in circumstances like this – you learn about the people you are with on a human level not just on a functional one.

At one point the active duty guys started talking about “us” civilians.  It started out with them poking some good-natured fun at but they were all quickly in agreement that they admired us for being here.    It never really occurred to me before they mentioned it but you see, we are the only true volunteers here. 

The Army may be a volunteer force, but once in you go where you are sent or face the consequences.  The civilians that are here did not have to be. The consequences we may face are the result of the decision to come; we faced none for not coming.  When we were prepping and leaving what we knew was that we were within range of missiles, drones, and other “bad things” in Saddam’s arsenal.  The chemical gear we carry is real, as is all the other protective gear.  It is here for a reason, and we all knew it was likely to be needed.  There are no material rewards for the risk:  we can’t earn the campaign medals the soldiers do; we don’t get the tax breaks or additional pay either.  But we still came in spite of the risk.  As a result we have earned the respect of the active duty guys here with us.  Add to that the fact that we have all been crossing over into areas other than our individual specialties and helping out in any way needed and we have earned the respect of “an equal not just a tagalong”.  I for one appreciate that fact.  Even if it is not material it is a reward in its own right.


Day #10 -- 23 March 2003

When you live with a Chaplain, you get told when the church services are in subtle ways.  Brochures on your bed, times listed on the entryway board, sticky notes left on the mirror, etc.  He says he doesn’t mind if you don’t go, but he will make sure you know when it is.  Since I was slightly aware of when it was, I decided to drop in to refuel and say some words of thanks.    It was a nice service, but with all the dependents gone and only about 3 women at the service the singing tended to be bassy.

Overall, there are not many female service members here – I don’t think I have seen 20 the whole time I have been here.  Most of them are Air Force, the Army troops that are here are in specialties and units that are either closed to women or that have only recently been opened to them.  As a result there just aren’t any to send here from elsewhere.

The only picture of all of us together and in the middle of it the "bat phone" started ringing
The day was quiet and I only went in for 5 hours.  I will finish writing up my summary in the morning and I will have done all I can do.  My people can now reach out and touch anywhere in the world with data, voice, & digital imagery – in both classified and non-classified modes – with or without wires – with or without electricity.  Also, and in some ways more importantly to them, they can access their civilian email accounts, Fox News and ESPN as well.  With all that done I will probably pull out of here in the next 72 hours, if I can get clearances and a ride out. 

When I first got here and the Imams would start their calls to prayer at the local mosque the sound threw me.  That was the same singing that seemed to accompany every war movie that was set in the Middle East (think Iron Eagles) or movies where something bad happened in the Middle East (think  Midnight Express).  So, when I first heard it my body immediately tensed – a conditioned reflex.  I went from that to kind of ignoring it.  In the past few days though, when I listen I kind of like the sound of it and find it in some ways soothing.   It is just a part of the local colour that has grown on me.

Recent images from the war, the POWs and the incident with the 101st, have split emotions two ways.  No one here is scared or put off by the POW images – they are pissed off and ready to kick ass in retaliatory payback.  When the press asked if it affected US troops psychologically, to a man we all answered yes – it motivated us.  The incident in the 101st leaves most of us with just on question:  Why?  How can you possible be so upset about a situation or at a person to do something like that in a situation like this?  All of us have been mad, but never mad to that extent.  It is treason.  It is a tragedy.

Watched “The Patriot” tonight.  A lot of talk about freedom and fighting for what you believe in ad against tyranny.  Rest assured, there are a lot of folks here that meet that definition of Patriot.  




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Sunday, March 17, 2013

Every Now and Then Take a Dive into the Delicious Deep Blue Melancholy



Saturday night I got off work and for some reason I happened to walk out of the building right when it was time to take down the flag for the day.  If you have not been on a military base when flags are raised and lowered, it happens without fail twice a day it is always preceded by a bugle call which alerts you that is about to happen. When the bugle starts the world on the base, at least the world outside the buildings, pauses.

Vehicles stop where they are on the streets, quite often the driver will get out of the vehicle and face the flag or the direction of the music. Pedestrians and workers who are outside will stop, turn to face the music, and bring themselves to attention. At this point either Reveille or Retreat will be played and those in uniform are salute the flag. Since I am a retiree now, and thanks to an act by Congress about seven years ago, I have the option of saluting as well. Then while the music is played, the flag is raised or lowered and at the last note of music you drop your salute and continue on about your business.

The unique thing to me is the fact that everybody stops during those two times a day and has a chance to take a pause to remember why we are here, wherever here happens to be. Ever since I put on a uniform, seeing the flag raised and lowered has taken on a special meaning. It is not that I did not know symbolism of those actions before, as a Boy Scout I participated in many flag ceremonies, it just took on a different meaning when I was the person in uniform charged with protecting and defending the Constitution of the United States of America.

More so than just patriotic feeling, or the remembrances that I have during those few moments when the world is paused.  I think about those I have known in uniform who served faithfully with me and are no longer here for one reason or another. I think about all the places that I have served that were outside of the United States ---  those places that for some reason we as a people decided were worthy of our protection and worth the risk of spilling the blood of our sons. I think about all the times that I've spent far away from home doing something that I have always felt was justified and worthwhile. Even though there were times I questioned the wisdom of what we were involved in, I never doubted that in the end some righteous cause was being served.

It is easy at these times to open myself and allow my spirit to be taken to a place that is not happy or joyous but tends to be rather blue or melancholy. I've never been one of those who feels that we were ever supposed to be happy all the time, there are events in life that will always get us down but even if we bring ourselves down by remembering things and events in our life that were less than joyful this is not a bad thing. To me it is how you keep in touch with the root feeling of who you are – – it reminds you that there are things of value that were part of your life that are no longer there for one reason or another.  You must allow yourself to wallow in times that were lonely or sad and therefore caress the human side of your spirit. I think that Americans spend too much time trying to ensure they are continually happy when allowing themselves to indulge in a blue mood now and then would actually make them appreciate happiness more and make them well-rounded individuals. All those blues songs were written for a reason – – listen to the lyrics, allow the music to bathe you, and enjoy the down feeling for a moment or two. 

After Retreat was over I continued my walk to my car and upon climbing in whipped out my iTouch and played a Merle Haggard song from long ago that was always filled with deep emotion for me. Silver Wings has never matched up with anything that ever occurred in my life, but when I was a young Airman in Germany it was a song that was always played at going away parties.  It became one of those happy to be blue songs that somehow work themselves into your collective consciousness even though the lyrics of the song in no way match the event that you pair with it. There was also another song about waitresses, originally by The Popes covered by every bar band in Europe, that holds a lot of memories as well but of a totally different kind.

So with that start of the evening, I went home and walked Falkor and then sank into my recliner and watched several old movies that allowed me to deeply sink into the funk that had started a few hours earlier. I pondered memories of other times and other places allowing them to gently dance across my psyche.
  




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Sunday, March 10, 2013

Apply, Lather, Rinse, Repeat


Falkor wakes up exactly 14 minutes before my alarm goes off and jumps on the bed demanding to be pet from that time until the alarm actually goes off  (I have no idea how his internal clock is that accurate)

Alarm goes off

I start the coffee and then take Falkor for a quick walk

Jump in the shower, get dressed, and slurp down coffee before heading out the door

Taking my life and my own hands, I brave Kuwaiti traffic and drive to work

Clear security

Stop at the dining facility and pick up breakfast

Get to the office 

Work, supporting the troops

Go to lunch

Work, keeping the world safe for Democracy

Pick up supper to go and head for the gate

Clear security

Again brave Kuwaiti traffic and drive home while eating supper

Take a very excited Falkor for a walk

Check my email and do a few other odds and ends

Watch TV for about an hour

Walk Falkor again

Go to bed and get ready to do the exact same thing tomorrow



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Saturday, March 2, 2013

A Political Discourse of Sorts

As a government employee there are limits as to what I can say publicly.  In other words, by having a job where I protect and defend the Constitution I have to give up some of my Constitutional Rights. The same is true for all other government employees as well as every person in uniform. Having been at this for a while, I understand the rationale and it really does not trouble me too much.  I consider the trade-off to be worth it.

At this point as we look at the severe ramifications of sequestration I am compelled to speak openly regarding my feelings concerning who I feel is responsible and alternatives that would prevent the furlough of almost 1,000,000 civilian employees in the governmental workforce:

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Someday, after I retire, I will say that out in the open.  Did you notice the way I also solved world hunger, obliterated poverty, and brought peace to the Middle East? 

Learning something new

When I returned to my last trip and the kennel was returning Falkor, I met the new grooming person that they had on staff there. She had just clipped him as a teaching tool (I really like the new haircut). The groomer told me that he had been misidentified as a Maltese and that Falkor was actually a Coton de Tuléar. So, with that piece of information I went in and pulled up on Wikipedia and based on what I read there I believe it. [Link] 

Falkor's persona is almost exactly as described in Wikipedia, right down to his greeting people by standing on his hind legs and making all sorts of funny sounds when he plays. Of course the defining characteristic is the softness of his hair (he has hair and not fur) which feels just like soft cotton.

I tried speaking French to Falkor (the language of his Madagascar origin) and he just looked at me funny. Of course, he never reacted when I tried speaking Portuguese to them either (the language of Malta).  That's okay, he seems to understand American just fine or I guess I should say he understands this American just fine.

Jumping into the Way-Back Machine (Easier than getting the DeLorean up to 88 MPH)


My first trip to Kuwait was as an Air Force Reservist just after the first Gulf War in the early 90s. My unit was assigned to something called Southern Watch which was designed to keep an eye on Iraqi forces.  Because I was part of an advance team,  I flew into the international airport rather than on military transport. At that time, I was assigned a visa number by Kuwaiti immigration.


Fast-forward to last Monday when I arrived back from Oman and processed through the airport. I did not realize it, but when I came back to Kuwait a year or so ago the number of was given was the same number I'd been provided more than a decade before. From what I can tell, they assign the number forever as a personal identifier. I gave my identification to immigration person behind the counter and she proceeded to look me up in the system.

When she handed my ID back she said that she was the one who originally assigned my visa number all those years before. I was surprised, and she explained that when she called up the record it showed the person who created it and it was her.

I suppose we could've shot the breeze since we hadn't seen each other for a long time, but I just thanked her and went on into the customs area. I probably should have said that she didn't look any different – – it wouldn't have really been a lie because I had no memory of her due to being so jet-lagged the first time I processed into country.



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