Chillin' like a Willy

That's a quote from one of the local 'terps at at Shkin. I don't feel like explaining so go look it up. More than likely you'll just find some story about an ambush or a rocket attack... just as in-depth as anything else, I suppose. My buddy Tom said hi to this guy and he replied trying to use some slang, but Tom just didn't understand, "Uh, I don't speak Pashtu."

It's Halloween and I'm finishing up the bottle of Jameson my dad so generously bought for me and then drank most of. (NEVER END A SENTENCE WITH A PREPOSITION!) I sign my lease tomorrow and I'm hoping that if I'm all out of whiskey that my dad will buy me one more bottle before I have to be a boozehound on my own income. I wonder if the government knows that the majority of the money they give me is gonna go towards booze n' beer.

They sent me an email today! 'They' being a sergeant for the IRR, reminding me to update my address if I move. hahahaha. Just seeing it in my inbox made me frown, but when I opened it, the bold and italicized phrase caught my eye "you have already received mobilization orders" and I choked on my coffee. After catching my breath I read the rest of the sentence that said, "If you have already received mobilization orders, please let us know," and gave a huge sigh of relief. Appropriately, it arrived on Halloween!

Time with Tony was wonderful and entirely too fast. Those five days were over in an instant and now he's in Texas to spend time with his family before he heads back to Iraq.

The Johnny Cash movie is coming out soon!!!! And two -- TWO -- from George Clooney are due out in the near future as well. Suh-weeeeeeeeeet!!

Injustice

Daniel Goetz's blog has been shut down. Not because he was violating opsec, but because he expressed one of those.... shudder.... personalities. I can see them now, miserable TOC workin' fuckers gathered around this display of their ineptitude realizing that all their faults were there to see for anyone with half a brain, "Oh god, we can't let the public know that some soldiers don't believe in the mission!!!!!"

To the officers of the 3rd Infantry Division: You goddamn traitors. Your actions are un-American and should (and likely will) be scorned. Know that when you finally get home (again) that the parades and accolades shouted upon your troops will not be directed at you, but at your hapless soldiers who are the true embodiment of American values. Those you seek to squash are Americans who know honesty, integrity and honor and just aren't fucking seeing it in this shithole you constantly glorify.

I'm tired and this is not well written. I apologize, as American heros deserve better. In the meantime, link your site to everywhere you can and get the word out. Also, his fiance Holly, has her own site. My best wishes go out to all who are somehow involved in this debacle.

Negligent Discharges

Great name for a band, huh? Apparently, and my source shall remain anonymous, my old brigade has been having some problems with negligent discharges. In case you're confused, a negligent discharge is army-speak for accidentally firing your weapon. It used to be called 'accidental discharge' but that wasn't an accusatory enough phrase, so it was changed to 'negligent' to emphasize the dumbassity of such an action. The number one excuse for a negligent discharge? "I was cleaning my weapon and..." Right. The first thing *I* do when cleaning my million dollar gadegtry enhanced M4 is put a round into the chamber, flip the safety off and pull the trigger. I mean, that's the fastest way to clean a weapon, right? Anyway, my old brigade was experiencing a string of these incidents and the BDE commander was fed up and declared that everyone would receive a class taught by a commissioned officer. I guess it takes a college degree to explain to the underlings why firing bullets at things you didn't intend to shoot is a bad thing. However, the BDE commander must have missed his own class, as recently he himself - the INFANTRY COLONEL - had a negligent discharge of his M9 pistol. What a tard. How fucking glad am I these people don't run my life anymore?

On the short list of people in Iraq that I do like, Tony is back in the states! Woohoo! He called last night to inform me that he was 3 Guinness into a layover in Ireland and that he had another hour before his flight left for New York. Lucky for him, he bought me a gift of some sort of Irish moonshine. Hope he managed to stumble onto the plane.

This morning Mom and I footed it through town leaving fliers explaining all the doom a new ugly development in our little town will bring. It was quite fun to be doing something for my community for once. I even got to wear a button!

Two days until Tony is here!!!

...Cuz you've gotta have goals

American Short-Timer made me realize today that I'm not drinking enough. He describes his flight towards basic training, which he managed to share with a bunch of soldiers headed towards civilian-land freedom and describes his fellow passengers:

They drank their asses off, shirts untucked, jackets open, cunt-caps askew. Wild-eyed and intoxicated from those first tokes of freedom. The freedom to go be a burger-flipper. The freedom to sleep in hungover or drunker-than-fuck. And get fired for it. Free to tell the boss to shove it where the sun don't shine and walk off the job whistling. To not give one indecent fuck-all about any of it and less. To wake up in the middle of the afternoon without a single commitment. Without a single coherent thought. Penniless.

What the fuck happened to me? I used to dream about this shit. Before I was stoplossed. Back when I had a modicum of respect from both superiors and subordinates alike. I used to get shaky and drooly over thoughts of back to back shows and waking up to alcohol for breakfast.

One day after a weekend of driving and daydreaming and staring at maps to plot my destructive path of madness and freedom, my friend told me that we had an early-morning battalion formation. "We're getting deployed," we both chuckled uneasily. Sure enough, that was the gist of it. December 15 was the fateful days the news was broke. August was to be our departure date. Funny thing is, it was also my ETS (ie: day one gets the fuck out of the army). 14 extra months in the army. Too bad for me though. Nobody cared that I had already been to Afghanistan (the REAL and forgotten 'War on Terror'), nobody cared that I went to Korea, that I'd never be promoted again (someone finally figured out they don't speak Korean in Iraqistan and stopped promoting those lowly Korean linguists. Won't kick them out though, oh no.). Our platoon sergeant had the audacity to chuckle at the miserable faces of my platoon mates and I screamed at him. He was genuinely taken aback. "Are you really mad?" he asked incredulously. "WELL YEAH I'M FUCKING MAD!! THESE ARE PEOPLES' LIVES HERE AND YOU THINK IT'S A FUCKING JOKE!!"

I seethed. I went from silence to screaming. I had fights with platoon sergeants, first sergeants, captains, any shithead who dared accost me with some comment about a "negative attitude." But the good-natured part of me wanted to teach - to help those that would be in this mess for even longer. I tried teaching them the things I learned in A-stan - the reality of things, not the bullshit officer-speak they have you memorize and regurgitate. That got me in trouble. Standing up for my soldiers got me in trouble. In fact, nothing I did was ever fucking good enough for them ever again.

But gradually and very VERY slowly, I started to get over it. My screaming had turned into subdued snarling under my breath. I went out drinking with the new guys to try and make friends with SOMEONE before I went to get shot at with them, to make them feel like someone understood what they were about to go through. I guess I even came to acceptance. Reluctant acceptance, but acceptance nonetheless.

And then, suddenly, I wasn't going. Three weeks before departure, they had me pull my stuff out of the quadcon and move units. I moved, outprocessed the army, did some backpacking in Europe and now I'm at home with the parents, waiting for my first apartment all to myself.

Did I burn out? Did all that hate, anxiety, anger cause me to lose my dream of being a drooling-drunk, scenester punk? I wanted to go to every show and drink myself into a stupor. Run into the mosh pit and not even feel the blows delivered.

Then why the fuck am I at home typing on my stupid blog?

November 1 is the day I move out on my own. From November 1 on, I vow to be beligerently drunk for as much as possible in each 24-hour time period.

Flogging Molly!!!!!

I've yet to be disappointed with this band, even when Bridget (the violinist/tin whistler) was gone for a show. Last night was no exception and in fact, may have been the best performance yet. I haven't been to the WOW Hall in 5 years, and I haven't totally forgotten how awesome the place is, though I was due for some reminding. I remember in awe my first few shows there. Looking back I thought that it was maybe due to youthful exuberance and I was afraid that the novelty would wear off as an adult. Thankfully, that didn't happen. The short, ratty stage with the crowd jutted up against it, the "backstage" area actually outside next to the stage - all of this makes you feel like you're posing for a MRR photo. "This is what punk rock is supposed to be!" you think. What I really love about the WOW Hall is that bands enjoy playing there. You can tell just looking at their faces and it results in a better show. While Flogging Molly is usually a happy band, they were all smiles last night - way more than usual. It's a small crowd, but wayyy louder than it should be for its size.

Which brings me to my next point: the crowd definitely had some obnoxious shitheads in it. Whatever happened to mosh pits being about fun and dancing? Eugene was known as being the opposite of Portland, in that the moshers were not out to hurt people and looked out for one another. Last night the drunken frat boys decided that since the band plays Irish music, they were going to live a stereotype and be rowdy bastards at the expense of everyone around them. The whole point of the show to them was to see how hard they could shove each other into the crowd - if they hit a section of girls, even better because they could knock more of us over. I got kicked out of my front row spot about 3 minutes into the show - no big deal, I've seen the band a number of times and I'd rather have room to dance anyway. But the above mentioned rowdy bastards would find the sections where people were trying to dance and actually see THE BAND instead of some sweaty t-shirt in front of them, and they would start a shoving match in the middle of it, just to see everyone fall over or get smacked in the face. If you were at the show last night and participated in any of the above activities with glee, fuck you.

On the other hand, some punishment I kind of enjoy. When I wasn't getting pummeled on purpose, I was getting pummeled benignly by other dancers/friendly moshers. Here it is, 12 hours later and I'm still finding bruises. At least I can bend my elbow again - that was a bit of an issue trying to drive home last night. These injuries I don't mind. I enjoy showing off my battle scars and every twinge of pain brings back happy memories.

So! Now that I've had my non-alcoholic happiness dose (THANK YOU FLOGGING MOLLY!) I can go on with my life of doing absolutely nothing and enjoying the hell out of it. I'll post the next time something mildly exciting happens.

...And the boredom sets in

Knew it was going to happen eventually. I actually got a lot of stuff done today, but I feel like I've done nothing. Tony's not online and I didn't get an email from him today either, so I'm lonely too. Sigh.
The pitfalls of being unemployed and living at home are pretty minimal, I guess. No more First Sergeants who hate their lives and try to ruin everyone else's; no more Colonels gunnin' for a star who send us out on shitty "movement to contact" (ie: "get ambushed on purpose") missions; no more ruck marches in the snow or radio checks all by myself in the driving rain; no more slipping on the ice and falling on my face/ass while walking to the motorpool for the 30th fucking time; no more listening for whistles and exchanging knowing looks or determining if that 'boom' was incoming or outgoing; no more showering in the dark with a water bottle; no more digging holes in the rocky ground at night for my bed (and my interpreter's); no more ice crystals forming on my eyelashes during a 5-mile run when it's -20 degrees; no more peecho; no more 250 sq ft concrete room shared with a person that I didn't pick out and heaps of equipment I'd rather not have; no more carrying 3/4 of my body weight in gear around at 8,000 ft; no more gut-wrenching Chinook rides with pilots screaming obscenities; no more hoping a bus would hit me so I wouldn't have to get Stoplossed and go to Iraq.... in short, no more army = way less shittyness!
It wasn't all bad today, I guess. Aside from not getting rocketed, I got some good couch time re-Oregonizing myself. My parents have a split-level and the living room downstairs at the front-door has no television or stereo or anything like that. It almost seems like a waste of the only good furniture in the house, but I beg to differ. The simple setting, couch, love seat and chair, around a large stone-heart, wood burning fireplace and a view of the mountains is all ya need - that and a good Oregon brew like one of the Rogue Ales. I seem to remember enjoying the view here as a kid, but as I only lived in this house for a year, I don't think I built quite as much of an appreciation as I have for it now. Everytime I look out the windows, both upstairs and down, I am amazed. With the clouds and fog moving in all the time it constantly changes things. Hills and trees appear, new lighting turns a stand of trees a different color. I'm making it a point to spend some time downstairs everyday just staring out at the view, sipping on a beer, enjoying Oregon and enjoying my life again.

"Cuz baby, I'm an anarchist"

No, I haven't done anything anarchist today. In fact, I paid my bills, filed a claim with the VA, and worked on my apartment application. Against Me! is much more fun to listen to when it's blasting out the open windows of your car on a military base. Especially if you're singing along to "Baby I'm an Anarchist." Nope, sitting in the family room looking at the street just isn't the same atmosphere.
I'm trying a stress-free day today, as I think I've found an apartment. Problem is, everytime I look at the behemoth of an application I feel my blood pressure rising. Army bureaucracy meets VA bureaucracy meets civilian bureaucracy. None of it meshes and it always ends up with the little guy losing. I can't prove how much money I'm going to get in January or even if I'm going to get it at all. It's especially hard to prove how much if even *I* don't know! GI Bill is pretty well spelled out on the VA benefits page, but the Army College Fund isn't a VA program, thus it has no explanation on that page. The Army of course, offers about two completely unhelpful sentences on it. Methinks I'm going to get ripped-off. Won't be the first time, Army.

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

The grizzled vets who have been living on their own for quite some time - and yet are probably younger than me - may laugh at my ignorance, but today I discovered just how much goes into a kitchen. I was mainly concerned about dishes, silverware, and pots and pans. As I pushed my cart through the rather small Target in Eugene, I ran across all sorts of gadgets that I would imagine are absolutely essential to cooking anything other than coffee, oatmeal and frozen pizzas. Things such as measuring cups, spoons, glasses; spatulas, tongs, flippers (is there an official word for those things?); cheese graters, mixing bowls, salt and pepper shakers; all of these things I recall using at one time or another when cooking with mom - and all I ever made were cooking and french toast! I'm gonna starve.

In the good news section, Tony got a 145 out of 150 at his promotion board and was recommended to Sergeant! Woohooo! Let's hear it for the sexy beast!

The rain is here. We'd all been wondering when it was going to show up. It's unusual to have so many beautiful, sunny days in a row here in the Willamette Valley. I don't mind the fog and rain, but it makes me sleepy and unmotivated. I seem to spend most of my time on the couch downstairs watching the clouds roll in from the coastal mountains. heh, just a short time ago I'd have killed to have been doing exactly that! Tomorrow I will take Harper for a walk. I didn't tonight and the past two nights have just been around the neighborhood. There are lots of good trails around here, some that are particularly beautiful now that the leaves are changing. There is no reason to get soggy walking around the neighborhood when I can get soggy with much better scenery just down the road.

Mysteries

Last night, 4:45 am to be exact, my phone turned itself on. Funny thing is, it was already on. It's been in the back of my mind all day and tonight we watched Donnie Darko which got me thinking about strange things. To top it off, my dad says that his phone also turned itself on this morning; all the buttons and lights came on while it was powered down. I can't figure out what would have caused it. First off I would say it had something to do with the Verizon network, but how does the network control the power of the phone? If you go out of a reception area your phone doesn't turn itself off. The power shouldn't be connected or even related to the information the phone receives; they're two separate systems. Was there a power surge? Again, the phone shouldn't turn off just because the charger did. Then again, if there was a surge it might have produced enough energy to shock the system into restarting. But maybe I'm underestimating the power of the cell phone provider and maybe Verizon can send a signal to its phones that causes them to turn themselves on, even if they already are. Or maybe Dad is right and the CIA is spying on me.