A shameful confession, and a fond memory
It's time that I came clean on this issue. I hope this isn't a disapointment to the five of you, but I need to get this out in the open. I have been in denial about this for a long time, but it's getting to the point that I can't hide it from myself any longer. Heaven knows I must have been found out by now. There are some things that everyone around realises before we do ourselves.

I had my first taste of it in South Korea. A few friends took me along with them to a little place they knew. It was a smokey room, somewhat dark, and everyone was doing it. Well, almost everyone. Some just thought it was funny to watch. Someone suggested I give it a try. I thought, "What could it hurt? It's just one."

I told the man what I wanted. He told me I would have to wait my turn. They actually had people in LINE. I had to put my name on a list.

I'll never forget my first, though. In The Midnight Hour by Wilson Pickett. From that moment, I formed an unhealthy attachment to karaoke.

Years down the road, and hundreds of songs, I still get the itch for it. I can remember the high points. There were contests I won, involving cash money. There was the cheering of the crowd at the end of Unchained Melody.

There were the degrading moments, to. I once, at the request of a friend, actually sang a Madonna song. There were times I sang in groups of people that could have stunned a water buffalo at 30 metres. And there were those I encouraged, in spite of the pain they were causing.

I had a friend who could not sing. There are many people that will tell you they cannot sing, but Rob was one of those people whom everyone else told you they couldn't sing. Every Friday and Saturday night, without fail, Rob was up there. Rob could not carry a tune in a bucket. Heck, Rob could not carry a tune in a backhoe. Listening to him was like sitting through the suffering of an elephant getting a hemoroid treatment.

The only thing worse than Rob's singing was his dancing. Rob had the moves, alright. He had the moves of an arthritic, epeleptic leech. Sometimes he would try to do this little spin while he was singing, and lose his balance, as well as his place in the song, and just stand there and stare at the screen for a few moments, his mouth in an "O" shape, his eyes slightly squinted, until he found his spot. Those were the moments we prayed for.

Rob had an incredible knack for choosing bad music. Calendar Girl, Joy To The World (sorry to all you Three Dog Night fans, but, face it, it'a a lousy song), the only thing that could have possible made those songs worse was Rob's voice.

The combination was almost deadly. It was like a malevolent force of nature, hurled at an unsuspecting crowd. Like facing a hurricane or a typhoon, all you could do was brace yourself. The crowd heckled him with passion and enthusiasm. And when he was done, they would cheer wildly, not for the performance, but like those people you see in mid-1970's disaster films, who have survived some catastrophic event.

My favorite part, though, was the smile on Rob's face at the end. Rob knew he sang like a hound dog with a belly ache, and couldn't dance his way out of a wet paper bag. But he had fun. And he encouraged other people to get up there and have fun, too. People would buy him a beverage and say, "You know, I didn't have the nerve to get up there in front of all those people, but now I know that I can't possibly be the worst guy up there tonight." He actually enjoyed that. Or maybe it was the free beverages. Either way, he had a good time.

I am reminded of Rob every now and again, when someone tells me that they don't have the nerve to do something because the crowd will be watching. Rob is a good friend, and a brave man.

I wonder what he is up to now ...

The Married-vs-Single Debate continues, and I stay out
My friend The Yeti seems to have taken exception with Deb, who had taken exception with Neil Steinberg of the Chicago Sun-Times, who took exception to people responding to a column written by Richard Roeper, in response to other people's response to a University of Chicago study that says the average American adult, in an urban setting, will spend the majority of his or her life unmarried.

If you think that was a difficult chain to follow, try typing the web links for it.

So let me see if I have this straight.

Mr. Roeper thinks married people should get off the collective back of their single friends, because being single, in his environment, is the social norm.

Mr. Steinberg thinks that single people that are over the age of 30 are desperate, lonely people that have deluded themselves into believing that they have to wait around for someone that is far closer to perfect than they will ever be, and yet will marry them anyway.

Deb thinks Steinberg is a jerk, because frequently single people are not married because they have fulfilled lives just the way they are, and don't need to "settle" just so they can "settle down", and that a reasonable person could attribute the current high divorce rate to people who thought they could "settle" and realised they were dissatisfied with their choices.

Yeti thinks that Deb should have read the article more carefully, because there is a large difference between "settling" and accepting someone, in spite of their flaws, and making a life with them, and that married people do make the majority of contribution to society in general (althought this isn't really his major point).

To add to the mix, each of these commentators, all of whom I enjoyed reading, have various comments from readers at each of their sites (or, in the case of the Sun-Times, letters to the Editor) in which their views are supported or refuted.

And people wonder why I love the internet.

This is a great example of the kind of interaction that society has been missing for a few decades. It may not be the kind of face-to-face animated discussions our grandparents had at the ice-cream social on Saturday afternoon at Esterhauzy Memorial Park, sponsored by the Optomistic Veteran Ruritanial Rotary Lions of the Order of the Mystic Coffee Table, but it is a step toward the kind of social interaction that we once enjoyed as a society. And I believe, as technology advances, we will break the divisions down even further.

Feel free to argue the point with me, or among yourselves. Of course, that would prove my point all the more.

The Nature of Hate
I was over at Dean Esmay's place earlier today. Dean tells us he is working on a book, along with John Eddy. Go for it, guys. I wish you the best of luck.

That wasn't what I was going to discuss, though. Dean has this interesting post regarding Hate. I made a comment, but eventually I remembered that I have my own blog, and I should probably do my ranting over there.

My gut reaction was to disagree. Hate has been a destructive force throughout the history of humanity. I am hard-pressed to think of any constructive thing that has been accomplished by hate. Additionally, we have discussed my serious pursuit of virtue in a few previous posts, and so Hate seemed ananthema to my goals.

After a few minutes, though, I started to think over my initial reaction. I still can't think of anything constructive accomplished through hatred. But hate, in and of itself, doesn't appear to be evil. It isn't listed among the Seven Deadly Sins. It is an emotion, and therefore subject to the same caveats and controls as other emotions.

Few people would argue that Love is destructive. The few that would, however, will prove my point. Even the most noble of emotions, when unchecked, can become destructive. Hate, unfortunately, is one of those emotions that we have difficulty exercising in moderation.

Dean, in the post mentioned above, provides a list of people that are worthy of universal hatred. If I were to find myself in need of such a list, this is probably the same list I would make. I only have one issue with it, and that is of a personal nature.

In my line of work (saving the world), I don't just talk about fighting against Evil. I have seen Evil. I have met Evil. I put a vast amount of my time, talent, and energy into fighting Evil. Hatred, while a great enabler, is more often a great distraction. Hatred clouds the judgement much the same way that Love does. In this fight, I can't afford that distraction.

Thunder, and other rumblings
We had a mighty thunderstorm tonight. It is the first one I have seen out here.

I chose that moment to take a walk to the Post Exchange, which is like a tiny little General Store, electronics shop, gift shop, and grocer, all packed into a little building that is next to what used to be one of Saddam's outdoor pools. The rain started coming down heavily as I reached the halfway point. It was cold, and the wind whipped at me with enthusiasm.

I rather enjoyed it.

The locals tell me that they haven't seen this much rain since before Saddam took power. They see it as a good sign. I had been wondering, actually, what they thought of the rain, and if it was a nusance or a blessing to see so much.

There are other words on the street, though. On the one hand, some would like the Coalition to take more responsibility for the daily security of the streets and businesses of citties and towns throughout the country. They would like to feel safe walking to market, or sending their children to the new schools. I understand their desire, but don't agree that handing the problem to the Coalition is the answer.

There are others that want the Coalition to leave. There is talk of a 1930's-style revolution, which would wrest control of the national government from the Coalition. I can testify that the Coalition agrees on one point; they want to hand the reins of responsibility to the people of Iraq. They would insist on it following an orderly course, though.

I recall a similar situation in South Korea. There are demonstrations every year, suggesting that the American soldiers leave South Korea. The Soldiers are told to stay away from the demonstrations. The soldiers do so, but some of them I have spoken to think they should attend.

"We have a common purpose," one said. "They want the American Soldiers to go home, and we want the American Soldiers to go home, too."

The fact is, no one is leaving South Korea, or Iraq, any time soon. The situations in Korea and Iraq are too unstable to just walk away now. America and the Coalition do not want to leave a house of cards in the hands of inexperienced leaders in Iraq, and American feels the threat of North Korea too keenly to leave that region.

So the rumblings will continue, and the rain will fall, but little will be washed away in the end.

It makes me wonder
Nine-toe Norman is OK. He is back among us. And he has stylish footwear.

Norman lives in the same tent as me. He sleeps on the bunk above mine. We have generally gotten along well. His snoring is moderate, he doesn't leave his undergarments on the bedpost, and he is thoughtful of people that are trying to sleep when he comes in.

I was pretty angry with him for a few days. There were people that met him at the door on his return. Someone came by my office to let me know he was here.

"Aren't you going to come out and cheer for him?" they asked.

"Why?" was my response. "He has cost his government a king's ransom in local currency, endangered himself and a local patrol, and nearly lost a load of classified equipment to a roving band of halfwit terrorists that apparently can't even shoot straight. And after all that, he didn't even accomplish the mission he set out to do. Cheer for him? I should shoot him in the other foot."

I did happen to leave the building as he was coming in, and I mentioned that I was glad he didn't get himself killed. But that was the last thing I said to him for a few days.

We are back to exchanging pleasantries as of today. I wondered, though, at why I was so angry at him. All that I said above was true, but didn't really affect me. It seemed uncharacteristic of me to be upset in such a way. I thought about it for a while, and I came up with a few conclusions.

For one, I consider Norman a friend. We are not close, but we are not at odds, and have been cooperative with each other's efforts. There has been enough loss of people whom I respect and considered friends without Norman dying, especially for no more reason than his impetuousity.

Another is that his foolhardy act demeans the security precautions we have all taken here. That I have spent so much time in body armour, accompanied by armed guards, and he goes out with not so much as a decent pocket knife, indicates his distain for my concerns. He has received the same warnings as I, and seen the same reports and briefings. Am I cowardly because I give them credence? I think not, and he has proved it.

I think on occasion about how I was no more than 50 metres from him when he made the decision and left. I think that I should have stopped him somehow or another. It is irrational, of course. Besides the fact that the intervening space was filled with buildings and walls that prevented my even knowing he was in the area, Norman would have no more listened to me than he did his closer associate that refused to ride along.

Finally, though, I think how his attack has reminded me of my own mortality. I have been reminded, as if the mortars and the bounties weren't enough, that there are numerous people that want to take my life. I am not afraid of death. I am, however, not eager to put my loved ones through the event.

Thoughts from deeper within
Nothing like a nice, hot shower after a good workout.

And this was definitely nothing like a nice, hot shower. This was a vengeful shower, in which the temperature fluctuated from scalding to tepid without notice. Added to that is the fact that this is the first workout in 6 months, coming at the end of a 30-hour shift, and you can imagine why "Mr. E" (how I cringe at that awful, hokey pseudonym) is eager to catch a nap.

Well, if you are one of the five regular readers of this whatever-it-is, you will know that the italics indicate that this is an inner monologue. The agreement is that I can have this entry to tell you a few things he wouldn't say himself. Please note that he isn't psychotic. There isn't some kind of multiple personality disorder going on here. I am as much him as he is.

So who am I? Use whatever name suits you: Conscience, Id, Super Ego, there are many names, and you have one yourself. There are some people who have managed to silence theirs, but they usually end up on Jerry Springer confessing to having had an affair with their neighbor's cousin's zookeeper. Besides, it is always so much easier to be critical in the third person than in the first, if you catch my meaning.

So let me tell you a few things about E.

In spite of the things a few people say about him, he isn't heroic, or even all that interesting. He is, quite frankly, whiney. He constantly gripes about the living conditions, the food, the hours, the people with whom he is surrounded. He wants to go home. Has he mentioned that? Because I hear it all the time. It's a constant, inceasant drone, like a fly in the room that is just out of reach.

He is impatient. I honestly think the main reason he is unarmed is because he believes so many people could desperately benefit from someone shooting at their feet, for motivational purposes. The term, "Dance, Varmint!" pops up frequently when he is imagining these scenarios. He has a particularly difficult time dealing with people who are unfortunate enough to have missed out on any of the education that he has obtained, as he expects any adult to know as much about any topic as he does. This doesn't appear to apply to children, though. Perhaps it is because, socialy and emotionally, he is still very much the same person he was in his early teens.

He is, when it comes down to it, rather timid and afraid. He will not put himself in any sort of danger if he can possibly avoid it. When he absolutely has to, he prays at a level that would make Mother Theresa look like an agnostic. He at least has the courtesy to insist that a minimum of additional personnel be put in danger along with him, but he tends to exagerate the hazzards of helicopter flights and convoys more than they deserve. He is also afraid of heights, by the way.

When it comes down to it, there is very little admirable about him. The only truly respectable thing about him is also his greatest vice, in my opinion. Because of his enormous pride and ego, he doesn't subject everyone around him to all this. He may be a whiney, impatient sniveling little coward, but at least he keeps it to himself. The only one that has to listen to it is me.

Except, that is, for his poetry. As hard as I try, I haven't been able to get him to give it up. He writes some of the most awful verse imaginable, and then puts it, not in the wastebasket like a sensible man would, but on the internet.

But that is a discussion for another time. Pretty soon that enormous ego of his is going to keep him from hitting the "save" button on this, or he is going to lose his nerve and delete the entry. If he ever lets me write again, maybe I will do one of those, "50 Things Mr. E. Doesn't Want You To Know About Him" lists.

If only I were a Darwinist ...
One of my friends has been shot.

He is alive, and coherent, and able to speak. This is good, because he has a LOT of explaining to do.

It seems that he was supposed to be in a convoy of vehicles, so that he could go do some necessary work. The convoy, for various reasons, fell through, so he decided to drive alone.

He didn't get far.

He was ambushed. He was pursued. His tires were shot out. He took a bullet in the foot.

He managed to keep driving until he found a nearby military unit, who was kind enough to return fire on my friend's behalf. He was loaded into a helicopter and transported to a Combat Support Hospital, where they were able to put him right.

Unfortunately, his vehicle is impounded, along with several thousand dollars of equipment.

He could have been killed.

He ought to be fired.

He should at least be sent home. A war zone is no place to get the idea that you are vastly more intelligent than either the enemy or the local command.

In the next few days, I will be writing, "The Ballad of Norman Nine-Toes". But first, I am going to take a nap.

The Chicken In the Army, They Say It's Mighty Fine ...
NOTE: Time has gotten out of hand again, as the mission has gone into overtime. Therefore, I am sharing another entry from my personal journal. This is from mid-November.


So, what did you have for dinner?

It has been said that man does not live by bread alone, but it never even occurred to anyone that they might need to mention that man does, indeed, need bread. So, what was for dinner? Who did you eat with? Did you grab something on the run? Was dinner a family event, or perhaps a business meeting? Did you microwave a TV dinner or heat up a frozen pizza and sit in front of the news?

Meals are an event here. Meals are scheduled to be served at the same times every day, so events can be planned around meals. Now and then, someone has a package from home that gives them the flexibility to eat something different, and eat it whenever they want, but generally life here revolves around the set of prefab trailers affectionately known as the Chow Hall.

Ask any servicemember here, from any nation, about the best part of their day, and there will be three answers. The first will generally be mail call. Think about how much you enjoy getting a letter or a box from the postman, and then try to imagine how much more it would mean to you eight thousand miles and 11 months away from the people you love, and you will start to get the idea.

The second will usually be shift change. Working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week for a year, with two weeks off, makes quitting time a sweet thought. Now, add in the uncertainty of the shift change, since an event could trigger a delay, factor in the hoops through which one must jump to schedule that two-week break, and sprinkle in surprise tasks, equipment failures, and a thousand other people facing the same troubles as you, and you understand how the time away from the desk can be precious.

The third, more often than not, is mealtime. Meals are a brief break from the efforts of the day. You can usually choose with whom you will have your meal, and you can talk about anything, even work, if you must.

Another reason mealtime is so popular is that everyone has a menu entry that they consider to be the best item out here. When that item pops up on the little white sign in front of the door, it is a time of celebration, one of those brief, happy moments in life that get you through the others. It can be a double-edged sword, however. There have been those moments when the little white sign has told little white lies, and a brief moment of elation is turned into just another choice between the lesser of two evils.

In Baghdad, chicken is for dinner. Chicken is served in every way imaginable.
With so many different nations represented, chicken seems to be the Esperanto of ingredients. Chicken here gets baked, boiled, fried, sauced, broiled, steamed, roasted, spiced, coated, smothered, pressed, dunked, and occasionally nuggetted. It has been served in soups, stews, casseroles, salads, pies, and in the standalone configuration. When they are too small to have been let outside alone, they are called Cornish Hens. If the truck hit a pothole, it is stew.

Of course, no one really minds having a lot of chicken. There are some out here that don?t even have that much comfort. Everyone learns to make due with what they have on hand, even if it gets a bit monotonous. The alternative, of course, is the MRE.

The Meal, Ready to Eat, in its khaki plastic pouch, is the stuff of legend. The contents are reassuringly consistent: Entree, some form of cracker or bread, hot sauce, salt, pepper, brown plastic spoon, beverage powder, and a small folded parcel of toilet tissue. The accoutrements vary from one to the next, but Meal #10 will always contain ChiliMac, Cheese Spread, Wheat Bread, and Cocoa Powder. Everyone has their favorite, not so much for the main item as much as the accessories. But you would be hard pressed to find more than a half of a handful of people that would prefer their favorite MRE to a hot meal at the Chow Hall.

When you sit down with your family tonight, or pull up a chair next to a business associate, think for a minute about the event in which you are participating. Even if you are just grabbing something at the drive-through on your way to wherever it is you need to go, take a moment to think about the ritual of food, it?s surprises and comforts. We remember it here, and it has taken on a whole new meaning.

Heroes, stories, and the guy with 3 hearts
If someone were to ask me to suggest a likely candidate for the title of War Hero, I would have to say you couldn't make a much better choice than a man with three hearts.

Inside Battery A, hunkered on a site beneath the skeletal beginnings of the unfinished Great Mosque, it?s easy to find a soldier who has taken shrapnel.


?To date, we?ve had 26 attacks,? says 1st Sgt. Stephen Smith. Three were ambushes.

The troops trained at close combat in the Kuwaiti desert in the spring, but the soldiers are still surprised their artillery battery wound up here, patrolling a wasp?s nest.

?It?s just a fluke,? Smith says.

At the risk of practically giving away a sure-fire Pultzer by putting this in the hands of the blogosphere, may I direct your attention to the following?

At the risk of sounding like Glen Reynolds, I would ask you to read the article in its entirety.

This may end up all over the internet by tomorrow. If so, then I have done my part. This is a story that deserves to be told, and one that a lot of people need to hear.

I need to caveat what I am about to say. It is not my intention or desire to belittle anyone, or to reduce the significance of their experience in this conflict. I am in no position to judge anyone's courage or valour, nor, quite frankly, are you. Courage is a very personal matter, perhaps even more so than any religious or other moral conviction.

Having said that, I have followed the reporting of events in this war in several of the Coalition nations. At present, the only heroes the public has seen from this war are a group of people who were put in a bad position because they failed to take care of their own equipment, and whom the adversary did not kill when they had the chance.

?It?s crazy around here, sir,? says Cpl. Wayne Santos, pulling guard duty out front. He pulls back his Kevlar collar to expose a bulging lozenge of a scar. ?I was lucky, because I?ve got a 1?-inch hole that goes through the back of my neck.?

The Soldiers of 4/27 Field Artillery, the subject of the article linked above, could not have reasonably expected to be thrust into the level of conflict in which they find themselves. Artillerymen don't generally engage the enemy at close range in this fashion. But because they are well trained in the basic skills required by any soldier, because they respect themselves and their commerades, and because the leadership of that battery was unwilling to accept anything less than a full effort, they are not POWs. They are standing toe to toe with the adversary in the most active kill zone in this sector (under 25 Kilometers or so from where I sit now), and they are not backing down.

[PFC Jonathan] Mayberry was restricted from normal duty for one month after his second attack, but he?s still in Iraq. Soldiers typically leave a theater after attack injuries, but Mayberry says his unit is too small and sees too much action for that.

?I wish it were that way,? Mayberry says. Then he pauses. ?But I don?t know. I?m serving my country ... maybe if I got some leave.?

He says he?d be too worried about his fellow soldiers to stay back in Germany while they fought. He says he couldn?t even stand being on restriction.

PFC Jonathan Mayberry has received the Purple Heart, probably the most famous of America's awards for Vaolur in the face of combat, twice since his arrival out here. According to the US Air Force, it is an award the American military bestows in recognition of wounds or death as result of an act of any opposing Armed Force, as a result of an international terrorist attack or as a result of military operations while serving as part of a peacekeeping force. PFC Mayberry didn't sign on for this mission to get a Purple Heart. Of the people I know that have received that award, none had made it a goal. And I would be willing to bet a month's pay that he didn't say to himself, "This is cool! Let's see if I can get another one!" As far as I have been able to determine, he hasn't called any attention to himself. But that is generally the way heroes operate. He was uninterested in leaving his team behind, even after being wounded twice.

It isn't the two Purple Hearts that makes him a hero, but the one that he brought with him to the conflict.

Almost Paradise
My current weird schedule, I have opportunity to vary my experience a bit. Today I had a pleasant walk from the tent to the office, tucked away in a room that, I am told, was once a kitchen. The wind was light and cool, and the sky was just going into a deep blue, with copper on the fringes of the horizon.

Its ironic to consider, if you take Biblical geography seriously, that this place is as physcally close to Paradise as it gets. I am about equidistant from the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Somewhere in the neighborhood, so the story goes, is Eden and the Tree of Knowledge. Babylon, where people first tried to reach the sky, and where the variety of languages are reported to have originated, is about a relaxed Sunday drive from here.

So near, and yet so far.

The word on the street is that the local populace is getting tired of the attacks. For the last few months, more Iraqi people have been killed in these blasts than Coalition forces. They are starting to prefer the new Dinar over the American Dollar, and some shops will not anything but the local currency. The local police and protection forces are growing. The first class of women graduated from the training program this month, and will take their place alongside the men in the struggle to return this land to peace.

So near, and yet so far.

The violence continues. Not far from where I am, in a place I have walked through on occasion, another explosive took another 20 lives, mostly innocent local bystanders. Rumors continue to be spread, and conversation over a shisha pipe or a coffee often carries more weight than statements through a microphone or a television camera. In the British sector, they would rather have the Americans. In the American sector, they would rather have the British. In the Italian sector, they would rather not have anyone. There is talk of civil war on the horizon. The Shia are preparing for the Sunni to attack. The Sunni are preparing for the Shia to attack.So near, and yet so far.

But is it really so different than anywhere else in the world? Sixteen were killed and twenty wounded here last night. But how many were killed in Los Angeles, or Cairo? People are upset that prices are rising here. But who isn't upset that prices are rising? Today, thousands protested here because they want free elections to be held earlier. Students protested in Haiti against the current government, and in Seattle thousands more protest the lack of affordable housing.

So, Iraq is close to Paradise, but still far away. And yet aren't we all? We have those who love and nurture us near at hand, and others cry out in pain, or injustice, or fear, or simple frustration. Just go out your front door and listen.

A turning point is approaching here, I believe. Ordinary people are preparing for change in this area, and it is change for the good. I'm not saying that the work here is over, but I am saying that I can see that the wind is changing, and things could be getting better here sooner, rather than later.

More to follow.