In which we touch on a variety of topics
It has been a hard, busy day. My work has kept me as occupied as I could want to be for the past few days, with little time to write, or to be self-examinatory (note to self: make sure self-examinatory is a real word). However, the past hour has seen things come to a dead halt, in preparation for some upcoming events, and I have time to do both, if I do them at the same time, on the fly, and don't do a lot of proofreading. Therefore, this entry may have a few typos, and is almost guaranteed to ramble.

The first topic is identity. Someone has been trying to trace me. It isn't a big deal. If you really need to know who I am, ask, and I will probably tell you. If you just want to know if I am that guy you knew in grammer school, the answer is most likely "no", even if you went to grammer school with me, as I was not terrible popular. I am a lot less concerned with the whole "secret identity" thing that I was when I started all this. I will write about that soon, but I don't have time to go into it this time. I am suprisingly open to answering just about any question, so fire away.

Second, and most disconcerting to me, is occupational. I found myself asking the following questions, only a few hours ago, and within a few minutes of each other:

1) What other job could I have where I can say I strapped on body armour and had an armed escort to go do what I do?

2) What other job could I have where I don't have to strap on body armour and have an armed escort to go do what I do?

I laid in bed last night, in those minutes after thanking God that I was niether killed, wounded, or captured, nor did I fail in my mission, and before falling into what turned out to be a fitful sleep, and asked myself "the question". People who save the world for a living and have a successful, intact family life are rare indeed, so I have a good combination of adventure and domestic harmony that assures I will not have mid-life crises, but I have studiously avoided asking myself "the question" for years now, until last night.

"Why do you do this?"

My life does not lack for meaning or significance. How could it? Being a man of very little financial ambition (which I consider a monumental blessing), I am in the enviable position of having everything I could possibly want in life, and have contributed to the betterment of the world in ways I can't even tell Mrs. E. Poet, but pretty much assure me that I could go the rest of my life satisfied that I have done my fair share for humanity.

So, having opened the box, I decided I might as well try on the hats.

"What would you have me do instead?"

"Well, you could teach. You are an excellent teacher. You've written your own curricula, and you have a way of communicating with younger people that makes them feel like you treat them, not like children, but human beings that don't know some of the things you do."

"I don't have a teaching certificate. What else have you got?"

"You could go into ministry ..."

"No. Maybe, if every minister on the face of the Earth were consumed by fire from the heavens and the voice of The Almighty boomed from the heavens, 'Take the pulpit, Mr. E.', I would give it some thought, but I would have to ask God for some I.D. first. What else?"

"You could just go get a nice, ordinary job doing what you do, and be satisfied that you've done enough."

I thought about it for a moment. I could live in a house in the country, commute to work, and probably never have to get another set of anthrax shots. The grandkids, years from now, would ask me, "Granddaddy E., were you in the Great War?" I would tell them, "No, but I was in the war before the Great War." (We'll talk about that one later on.)

I didn't think about it long, though, because I asked "the question that follows the question."

"How much is enough?"

I think that is just about the only time I have left my inner monologue speechless. I thought about the people I consider my role models. It's a short list. But all of them, to a man, ended up martyred, or died of natural causes while still in pursuit of their goal. They did all that they could, all their lives, to make the world a better place, and died for it, or with it.

Do I want to be a martyr? Not particularly. I have absolutely no fear of death, and I am not even really all that afraid of suffering, though I don't actively seek either. But how do you decided that you are going to quit trying to save the world? If the world was worth saving in the first place, then it is worth continuing to save.

Someone, whom I hold in high regard, once told me they were taught to never make irrevokable decisions when either tired or hungry. I am glad I do not have to decide this today. As you can see, I can barely even phrase the question in a coherent manner. It only gets worse from here, as I am about to abandon the leisurely 14-hour workday schedule for a more rigourous regimine of working until I can't stand myself, then catching a nap, which usually puts me in a wierd kind of 30-hour-day sleep cycle. However, the question will return, and it will demand an answer.

I'll keep you posted.

Adventures in Social Anthropology
I was reading a poem the other day. Someone was doing a freewriting exercise, and they were talking about younger days, shorter skirts, blonde babes, and beer joints. It was a fun read.

It also reminded me of my own misspent youth, a long time ago, on a completely different planet I refer to as "College". Life there bore no resemblance to life on our own planet, other than the species having the same number of arms, legs, and sensory organs. The creatures on that planet were all slender, and had the most peculiar constitution. They could consume large quanitites of the cheapest alcoholic beverage available. They eat foods that would cause ordinary human beings heartburn, indigestion, massive attacks of gas, and cholesterol level that one would make the blood as thick as motor oil. They subject themselves to sleep deprivation on a weekly basis. And yet not only do they survive, they stay slender.

They did have a few unusual weaknesses, though. Among the most unusual was that they seemed to have this unpleasant reaction, almost like an allergy, to sunlight. The strangest part about it was that the sunlight only seemed to affect them at a particular angle, which was low on the eastern horizon. Because of this, venturing outdoors during early hours was considered a hardship, and there was a general feeling of sympathy for anyone who was put in this position, much like we would feel for someone who needs a root canal.

I lived in a moderately tall building with a number of the aboriginals, on the seventh floor. Through my window, I could see one of their ceremonial mating grounds, a brick structure called "Daddy's Money," which was an apparent reference to their source of income. Ever the inquisitive social anthropologist, I spent numerous evenings observing the mating rituals, and, once they had accepted me as one of them, even tried to participate.

There was a strange beauty to the ritual. The male would put on a costume that consisted of a pair of snug, restrictive leg coverings made of blue denim, with an upper body cover that bore a small insignia of a man engaged in a sports activity on horseback. Upon arrival, the male would immediately begin drinking a mild alcoholic beverage, consuming several as rapidly as possible, and then begin looking for a mate. Apparently one of the indicators of a female being in a mating status was hair color, because the males often gravitated to the females with lighter shades of hair.

The females would wear a small peice of cloth around their waists, although some were known to wear the same restrictive denim leg covers as the males, only even more restrictive. The upper body cover appeared to be designed to enhance the position of the secondary auditory organs, located in the chest, as the males seemed to spend the most time talking directly into the chest area of the females. The females would indicate that the mating ritual was about to begin by obtaining some fortified fruit juice.

Although the precise manner of the ritual vaired from one male to the other, generally the male indicated his interest in begining by obtaining a second fruit juice for one of the females. It took me a while to figure this part out because I was apparently getting them the wrong fruit juice, as there were several evenings that I couldn't get any of the females to accept the beverage so we could go to the next step. Eventually, though, I discovered that the code was to obtain the drink that had the highest cost.

Once the exchange of beverage is complete, the mating dance begins. This is another pert of the ritual that, even to this day, I don't completely understand. Generally one of them would play recorded music in a small room nearby, but occasionally a group would play music with actual instruments. Although they displayed a great deal of excitement when the musicians played, it seemed to disrupt the mating process for the whole evening, because fewer of them actually did the mating dance, and the musicians were the only males that succeeded. The dance itself seemed unique to each, and so I decided to try it as well. Unfortunately, though it amused them to see me try, I was unsuccessful with the mating dance, although some did suggest my version might be acceptible to other species. However, sea monkeys had not, at that time, captured my interest.

I did notice that there were some others that didn't dance, but went through a different ritual, which involved some sort of verbal exchange. For the male, it was an intricate combination of personal boasting and displaying a fervent interest in the activities of the female. The success of the male, it appeared, hinged on being able to speak into the secondary hearing organs without the female realizing it, maintain the conversation about the female activities, and listing a set of accomplishments that would convince the female that he was prepared to begin the actual mating, after an appropriate length of discussion. I tried this, also, and discovered that the length of discussion is absolutely critical to the ritual. When I indicated my readiness to begin too soon, the female indicated that I would have to start the ritual again from the begining. This is indicated by striking the male's face with her open hand. This was done with enthusiasm, and it took me several attempts before I understood this fully.

There was a third mating ritual, which involved the male showing certain females some of the local currency, but that one lacked the mystery of the others, so I didn't give it more than a casual observance, although a number of the males, and some of the females, suggested it would be my best option.

That, unfortunately, was where my observations ended. I tried, one time, to follow a pair of them to observe the next phase of the ritual. I even carried a camera for further documantation. Unfortuantely, I became a participant in an entirely different ritual which appeared to be related to the transition into adulthood, as it involved isolation in a small room and an interview with one of the mature members of the society, dressed in a ceremonial garment.

NOTE: OK, that last part didn't really happen. But is sounded good.

I Can Still Drive 'em Crazy
OK, people, let's review a few important lessons we learned today in regards to driving a Sport Utility Vehicle (SUV) in an Urban Combat Environment (UCE).

1. When arranging a convoy through a UCE, count the number of vehicles, count the number of drivers, and make sure they are equal.

2. When assigning impromptu drivers from the collection of passengers, make sure that the recruited drivers are aware of the safest, most efficient route from point A to point B, or, at miminum, where point B is.

3. If your unarmed civilian says he doesn't know the way to point B, and has not been to point B in a number of months, do NOT have him/her drive the lead position in the convoy.

These are the lessons we learned today. And how do we learn these lessons? That's right, through experience. That is how I ended up on the back streets of downtown Baghdad this afternoon, with nervous, well-armed, trained marksmen keeping a wary eye on tenaments and shop windows, in an attempt to make sure we did not end up being the latest "target of opportunity".

I learned a few personal lessons today, as well.

1. I remember a LOT more about Protective Services Driving than I thought I did. My American friends have a charming phrase they used afterward. Does the term "Drive it like you stole it" ring any bells?

2. There are certain people, who shall remain nameless, from whom I will NEVER AGAIN take driving directions.

3. When a government, justifiably cautions about terrorist activities, puts up unannounced roadblocks, it throws traffic into confusion to the point that people will drive in the opposite direction of the flow of traffic to get back to their workplace from their lunch break.

4. These same people, in spite of the size or condition of the car they are driving, are not intimidated by a large SUV executing a bootleg turn, crossing a concrete median, and attempting to merge into traffic.

Never mind where I was trying to go, or what I was going to accomplish when I got there. I made it, I did it, and I got back to where I started without loss of life, limb, eyesight, or even paint. In transit, though, I did end up on a back alley in a less than friendly area of town.

Several thoughts came to mind, completely of their own accord. If we are intercepted and roadblocked, I have adequate room on the left to execute a bootleg. However, should I find myself being boxed from the front and the rear, and need to ram the interceding car, aim for the trunk, as it generally weighs less and will be easier to move. Try to angle slightly to the right at the last moment, to facilitate spinning said vehicle. In the event of a chase, evade. The average high-speed chase lasts, at best, about three minutes, primarily due to gunfire and accidental crashes. In the event of pursuit, look for the nearest bank, and drive into it. Through the front door and into the lobby. In this particular area, there is an American M-1 tank, with crew, carrying a .50 calibre machine gun, within 1 mile of our present location, which I can reach by doubling back and taking the next right, which will be against the flow of traffic.

I am not a violent man, but I am aware of violence around me. I am aware that, even though Saddam Hussein has been captured, there is a substantial amount of money for which no accounting has been made, and a number of people are still promising to give some of it to anyone that will kill me. I am aware the people have died in this conflict, and that vengance is more often an act of opportunity than of calculation. I am aware that, though I am not a combatant, there are those here that do not care about the Law of Land Warfare. If they kill me, they will not send the money to my wife and sons, nor will they take responsibility for them, and so I have a duty to do whatever is required to get home alive.

Other than that, it was a quiet day. Not much to tell, really. Hopefully, I will have something more interesting to write tomorrow.

Hey, Jealousy
Envy is not an actractive attribute.

It causes people to do some very unatractive things. I have seen people steal, lie, and physically fight out of envy. It is a pecular form of madness, in which we imagine that our lives would be ever so much more satisfying if we simply had some posession, or attribute, or aspect, of someone else's life. There is very little logic involved. As a matter of fact, the object of desire is generally something that would be harmful to the envious one, were it to actually be obtained.

For example, I spoke to a young member of the coalition today. He told me that there are people in his workplace at home that wish they could be here. The mortars, the small arms fire, the explosives at the side of the road, none of that is real to them. Whet they want are the "boasting rights," and the stories to tell at the pub, and the attention of comerades who will whisper among themselves, "Ooh, look at him! He must be very brave, indeed, to have tested his mettle against the dogs of war and come out with such a swagger to his step."

In contrast, there are some out here that envy their associates at home. Their mates back in the homeland sleep in a comfortable bed, and drink whatever beverage they choose, even to excess. They walk the streets without armour, sauntering casually in and out of shops, perhaps buying fish and chips from a vendor on the street, or going to a pizza parlour and a movie afterward.

One of the things I have found most odd is that anyone would envy me, other than that part about being married to Mrs. E. Poet, and having my Poetlings gathered around my feet (when I am not off saving the world). I have a beard, and some military organisations don't allow their members to sport much facial hair. I have the option to wear ordinary clothes, rather than a combat uniform, and generally do so on the weekends. I have worked hard to obtain my level of knowledge, and some governments have found it usefull. On the other hand, I am in a war zone, without so much as a slingshot with which to repel some hostile person, and utterly dependent on the graces of the Coalition for food, shelter, medical treatment, transportation, protection, and various other needs. It seems a poor exchange for the privelege of growing a scraggly beard.

As of late, I have even noticed this madness in myself. I find myself occasionally envious of writers I know, who are seeing some measure of success with their work, although I know full well the sacrifices they have made to get to their currentlevel of success and have chosen not to make those sacrifices myself. I know people that are, to be frank, smarter than me, and I would like to be as smart as they. I know people that are not shy. They express themselves openly, without reservation, for all the world to know. They have no need for masks or pen names.

I even know people that have no compulsion to write.

They are content to watch the news and an occasional television show, perhaps a drama inspired by the life of a talented yet humble chiropractor who races llamas on the weekends and rises to fame and fortune, yet retains his homespun charm. They eat their meals, never thinking to describe the taste, texture, or influence of the choice of beverage on the dining experience, to some complete stranger. They go to work, raise a family, and go bowling on the weekends, and never feel the need to tell anyone what it is like to be them, or to find out if anyone else has the same hopes, fears, or pains that they feel.

In the pursuit of virtue, I try to kill these thoughts before they gain any power over me. I have seen how, unchecked, they can control a life, or even an entire family. But sometimes, when I am not paying attention, and when no one else is around, I take a deep breath, and admit it to myself.

I envy you, who are reading this.

You are not compelled, by forces you don't quite comprehend, to try to save the world. You could quite likely spend the rest of your lives having never put yourself in harms way to get your job done, and be perfectly comfortable with yourself. You can see the injustice of the world, and do small things to help correct it, but not take it as a personal insult when a dictator abuses his people.

In the final analysis, though, I realize that I am who I am, and that there is a reason for that. This could have been someone else's adventure, but for some reason I was the one that needed to be here, at this time, in this place, doing these things with these people. Faith, above all else, enables me to accept what and who I am. Nothing special, mind you. I am, in the final analysis, just some guy. The comfort comes in the belief that there is One who guides the course of human events down to the personal level. I such a Universe, envy is reduced from a deadly obsession to merely an silly, vain habit.

I make a Startling Discovery: I like to write.
Recently I did a freewriting exercise, which I am posting to the prose section of the site. The topic involved an imaginary scenario, in which, ten years from now, I am at a signing event for my latest book, and someone asks me what prompted me to write some particular thing.

I strayed from the topic a bit, but the results were interesting. I don?t think I have ever really asked myself why I write. Having now asked the question, I was surprised to find out what the answer was.

Go ahead and read the story at the bottom of the page. It is titled, "The Signing". I?ll wait.


Do you think they read it?
I hope so, or else what comes next won?t make near as much sense.



I hope you enjoyed it. Mrs. E. Poet said she thought it was my best work so far. That wasn?t what I sent you to the story for, though. It was the marble/ball-bearing thing.

I have been stupid in my life on many occasions. I have been deluded in many ways over the years of my life. I have lacked self-awareness to the point that I failed to notice simple, fundamental requirements of biology, such as the need to eat, until others around me have had to draw my attention to the fact that I have not lifted my head from my current project for ten or more hours. But this simple truth utterly stunned me. I watched, dumbfounded, as the words fell from my hands and on to the screen. It was as if I had been hiding this knowledge from myself for the past slightly-more-than-a-decade, which is the last time I did any writing on a professional basis.

So, the truth comes out. You realize, I hope, that this is more than you have ever told anyone that reads this site.

That?s not true. I have told three (3) other people.

No, you haven?t. You have told two (2), and one of them is not a regular reader. The third person knows more about you than the other two, but you neglected to mention that you had ever written professionally.

Well, my hand is going to be forced soon, anyway. Now, can I continue?

Oh, yes! Please do! I can?t wait to see where you are going with this.

I really hate it when my inner monologue cops an attitude with me.

If you have read any of my stuff from the past few years, you know that I don?t write for money. Even when I actually made a living at writing, I didn?t do it for the money. (It?s complicated. If you want details, drop me a note and I will go over it.) If that were the case, I imagine I would be a lot thinner. I am also not one to buy into flattery, being rather serious about the whole ?pursuit of humility? thing. So when people have told me that I should look into getting published, or pursuing this on a more lucrative level, I generally dismissed the idea.

However, this changes things. With this realization, I can start writing something more substantial and know, without a doubt, that I am not doing it for either my ego or my wallet, but because it is one of the many things that for which, it seems, God has given me a talent.

A long time ago, when I was in college, I started a novel. I got, if I remember correctly, three chapters into the project before I decided it was too much of a distraction from my musical career. Another thing I remember about the project is that it was absolute drivel. I had so little life experience from which to draw a plot, and so little knowledge of people from which to construct realistic characters, that I cringe at the thought of anyone reading it now. But, then again, I cringe at a lot of things I did at that age. The third thing I remember about that document is that I have a copy of it in a briefcase in my basement. I have no intention of completing that particular story, but I may see if I can wrestle it a bit, to work on my characterization skills, and put a bit in the Prose section.

Regardless, I have decided that it is time to do more writing. I don?t know exactly how, but I do know that it will mean some changes to this site. It may also mean that I have to come out from behind the curtain. If I am going to write seriously, I don?t want someone picking up something from this site, calling it their own, then accusing me of plagiarism if I use one of the characters, situations, or even a stanza of verse, in something else down the road.

In the interim, do stay tuned. Things are, I imagine, going to start getting rather interesting once I make it back to my homeland.

Rain
I stood in the rain last night.

It was rather poetic in and of itself, actually. I was standing in the rain, in the night, in Baghdad. In spite of warnings to the contrary, I was without armour, without helmet, without escort. The rain was cold, and light, but steady. It was, for all practical purposes, a flood. My friends in the Aviation community told us that we could expect as much as 5 cm in one day, which, according to these guys is more than this area usually receives in a year. I wonder what that says about God's opinion of Operation Iraqi Freedom?

I love rain. Rain is the great intensifier. Rain makes hard work all the more difficult. It makes a quiet evening at home all the more peaceful. It makes a dangerous situation all the more dangerous. If one wants pass the time in sport, playing in the rain makes sport more intense (unless you play baseball, in which case rain makes you go home and return to your needlepoint). If you are going to sleep, rain on the roof will make you sleep all the more deeply.

There are those who cancel their activities because of rain. Personally, I extend them. Picnics, trips to the zoological society, and other simple outdoor functions are perfect for rainy days, because the crowds are subdued. Concerts are wonderful in the rain, if proper electrical precautions are made. There is nothing quite like playing for a crowd in the rain, knowing that these, who have gathered in spite of the elements, are the real, hardcore fans, and watching them dance and cheer as the rain falls. When I have the chance to play for a crowd in the rain, I play until they are ready to leave, or the venue owner says we have to shut down.

So here, when the rain falls, soft and cold, I find a way to get outside. It is during these walks, during which I am certain people are questioning my sanity, that I think the most about my home and family. They are always in my thoughts, of course, but the urgency of my work can distract me, and takes the edge off the longing. When I stand in the rain, and all around is what passes for peaceful and still in this war, meaning that I tune out the explosives and small arms fire and listen to the sound of the rainfall, that is when my feelings for my family and my homeland are also intensified. In those moments, the responsibility starts to get heavy, and I start to think I am never going to be finished saving the world. But just before it gets to be too heavy for me to bear, I remember what Mrs. E. Poet told me, as I picked up my duffle and prepared to go out the door. ?We know that you are one of the forces for Good in this world, and where other men have abandoned their families for no reason at all, you go to make this world a better place for us. And when you go to save the world, we send you with the love and support that you need. In that way, we are saving the world, too. So go, save the world, and come back to enjoy this world with your wife and your sons.?

She is a remarkable woman, indeed.

Merry Christmas.
Now GET BACK TO WORK!!!!!
Well, it's over.

Christmas is one of my favorite times of year. I love the weather. I love the music. I love the change in people's attitudes. People are desperate to do things for other people at Christmastime. Yeah, they get a little crazy with the shopping, but at least, for a few moments, they think a little bit less about themselves and a little more about others.

Charities, so I am told, do well this time of year. People throw money into buckets for the good of people that don't have as much.

However, Christmas is different out here. Shopping, naturally, is limited. It's hard to jump in the car and run out to the mall when there isn't a mall. Even harder when the car is an M1 tank or a Blackhawk helicopter. The explosives don't exactly make for a convenient trip, either. We get our gift-giving done for the folks back home, though, either by shopping online or asking people to pick things up for us. We even get a few things for each other.

Decorations abound. Carols are both sung and played. The boxes of gifts and baked items from home have arrived, and are being shared amongst us all. Mass, service, or whatever observance anyone makes of the religious aspects of the season are observed thoroughly. Every effort has been made to ensure that Baghdad has a Merry Christmas.

And therein lies the problem.

You have all, I am sure, been in situations where someone was just trying too hard. Sometimes, things are, for whatever reason, not normal. And there are those who accept that things are not normal and go on. Then there are those who insist on trying to act like everything is normal. Rather like tossing a tablecloth over the meteor that has just come crashing through your roof and now sits smouldering in your living room, so that you can carry on with Uncle Henry's 58th Birthday dinner.

Only this isn't just "not normal". "Not normal" is your cousin Mike bringing his new girlfriend over for Christmas Dinner, when she used to be married to your Cousin Frank. "Not normal" is when Grandma has spent her savings on breast implants and has worn a particularly low-cut dress to Mass to show off her "presents". In Baghdad, people are lobbing explosives at me. People have taken an oath that either I will die, or they will. There are people that believe that their status in Eternity hinges on whether or not they can personally kill me. This goes a little beyond "not normal". This is, if you will pardon the phrase, "$&*(*^&$ NUTS!!!!!"

As much as I love Christmas, and as much as I tried to keep Christmas, in reasonable ways, out here, I found myself hoping for one thing this Christmas. Knowing that I couldn't make it home, my own personal wish, I was suprised to discover, was that some General would walk into the area at midnight after Christmas Day and say, "OK, It is now 26DEC. You sonsabiches have exactly FIVE minutes to get all this crap off my walls and start acting like there are people trying to kill us!"

Again, I want to emphasize how much I love Christmas. I even got to do one of my favorite things this year. I had a meal with a person from the Special Ops Community who had been separated from his people. I was able to help him contact the appropriate people to get a flight back to his area, give him some coffee and snacks to take back with him, and helped him check his email and get in touch with family. Doing something for a stranger is my favorite Christmas activity of all. But, that being said, I am ready to put away the carol books and get back to saving the world, and, quite frankly, my own personal backside.

Christmas Eve
Merry Christmas to all of you (all three of you).

Well, the Australians put on a great show. The Royal Navy showband was the opener. If you ever saw The Commitments, you have an idea of how it went. Think "Australian Soul". Lots of Motown, a great horn section, backup singers, light show, the whole bag of gerbils. It was fortunate that I received a set of good gloves and ear warmers from my Mother in the mail today, as it was pretty cold, and windy, and near a lake. About halfway through the show, we could hear the .50 calibre machine guns on the perimeter, and gunships flew overhead soon after. So much for my "one day of peace on Earth" theory.

There has got to be a better way to save the world.

Tomorrow will be mostly just another work day out here, except fot better food at the dining hall, and the Aussies will repeat their performance. Angry Anderson still has his famous stage presence, and holds a crowd better than any man under 5 feet tall that I have ever seen. He was backed by a group called Kitara, who was a very tight group.

On the way back from the show, I was thinking about my own days in the music business. There are times that I really miss performing. I still write music, and I occasionally perform, but taking the stage with your band, for your show, with an audience that paid their own money to come hear you, that's more addictive, and more satisfying, that just about anything I have experienced.

NOTE: The following is blatant nostalgia, and has nothing to do with Christmas, or Baghdad, and bery little to do with poetry. All readers that have no interest in my past, or my waxing nostalgic, should eject IMMEDIATELY.

Back in the days of my misspent youth, I was extremely serious about my future music career. I attended a School of Performing Arts, I practiced for hours a day, and played any instrument I could grab. I didn't write much, because I hadn't really had any life experience, and didn't really understand the mechanics and science of music yet. But I could sing, and I could play a lot of instruments in a lot of different styles. Additionally, though I was (and obviously still am) rather shy in person, I could perform on stage without choking. Consequently, I fronted more than my share of rock and roll garage bands. There was even a brief period as an adult that I supported my family of four as a musician, which is an accomplishment in itself. You will not find me in your local music store, though, as I managed to keep my name off anything that was recorded. I did work with some fine musicians, though, some of whom have gone on to be respected recording artists, and whose names you would see in your local music stor, or even in your own CD collection.

So why did I get out? It was a priorities thing. I illustrate it thusly. I have spent my entire life in, around, and making music, but I can't dance. When you are they man behind the guitar or the drums or the microphone, you don't get to dance. You don't get a lot of other things that happen on the listening side of music, either, like meeting someone and falling in love, or talking about the impact of the music on your emotions after it is over, or going home from the concert with memories and stories for your friends. When you finish a gig, you pack your gear, go grab a bite with the other guys in the band, and go rest up for the next show. After a while, I found that I wanted something more.

Another problem was the business end. I, like many musicians, love to play, and love to write, and love to feel the reactions of the audience, but I don't love planning marketing of my latest album, or deciding where I will tour based on the promotional value of the venue. I don't like contracts, or copyrights, or intellectual property arrangements. But those things have to be handled, and if you don't handle those things yourself, then you put yourself at the mercy of the kind of people that DO like dealing with those type of things. At worst, you end up losing your shirt, and Michael Jackson owns every song you ever wrote. At best, you lose touch with reality, because other people are doing the things you don't like to do, and you get used to never having to deal with anything you don't like. you have heard enough stories to know what I mean.

So I left the music scene. I still think about it now and again. I also remember a quote from Janice Joplin. She once said, "Every night, I make love to ten thousand people, and then I go to bed alone." That quote, which she said only days before her death, reminds me of the cost I decided I wasn't willing to pay. When I see Mrs. E. Poet, and the little poetlings, I am convinced I made the right choice.

Having said that, I wish you all a Merry Christmas. We in Baghdad will be thinking of you, and even envying you a little. Not a lot, actually, but a bit. I'll discuss that concept a bit more next time.

A Moment, a Deep Breath, and ... German coffee?
Well, when the press conference ended (see below), things got rather busy. Over a week later, I now find time to sit down and write.

I really wish I could tell you more about why we were so busy. Look me up in another 20 years.

In the interim, we are making our preparations for Christmas in the desert. Little plastic faux-evergreens are springing up all over, decorated with whatever the associated organisation can find. My personal favorite is out at an area called Range 54. They have a 60-foot cedar, dug up and transplanted. They had a soldier suspended from a crane hang lights, and it is decorated with pieces of uniforms, body armour, and stuff from home.

The Chaplains, as one would expect, are working overtime. We received a visit from the Archbishop of the Archdiocese for the Military Services. I didn't even know there was an Archdiocese for the Military Services. Those guys think of everything, don't they? Additionally, the American Army has a band out here, and they have broken up into small groups and are playing holiday music. No dreidle songs, unfortunately, but a good mix of hymns and modern secular holiday tunes that the masses seem to enjoy. I think it is the effort, more than anything else, that we appreciate.

So, with the dust settling just a bit, I am taking a minute to have a cup of German coffee (we seem to get most of our non-essential supplies from friends and relatives in Germany. Wenn die deutschen Leute nicht im Krieg sein konnen, konnen sie ruhig den Kaffee fur den Krieg senden.) and putting some thoughts down.

There is a feast scheduled for Christmas Day, which will be a welcome relief from the usual fare. There is an ongoing football tournament, which I anticipate the Australians will take a commanding lead of before the month is out, and someone has organised a league for "touch rugby". I am not sure how one plays touch rugby, but it sounds like a lark. The event to which I look forward, though, is the Christmas Day party being hosted by the Australians. The headline performer is Angry Anderson, which in itself promises a great show. He is being backed by some other groups as well, though. It should be a great morale booster for all.

Well, time is again running short. I'll get back again soon. Hopefully tomorrow I will have a bit of respite and go at greater length.

Ace in the Hole
Earlier today I received the news, along with a large number of Coalition forces, that Saddam Hussein has been captured. He was hiding in a hole in a basement in Tikrit. He appears to have lost quite a bit of weight, looks somewhat worn, has a substantial grey beard, and didn't really put up much of a fight.

Celebratory gunfire has already begun. We expect it to continue through the night and into the next day. We will be wearing helmets whenever we go outdoors, since the celebratory bullets still hurt as much as the hostile kind.

Don't expect anything here that you won't see in the news eventually, but this does bring up an interesting question or two. For one, who runs the tribunal? Knowing the American and British forces and their leaders, they aren't just going to hand him over to The Hague and leave it at that. On the other hand, keeping him in the area is not a good idea. No doubt there will be a military tribunal, likely composed of a cross-section of the Coalition and headed by either Ambassador Bremmer, LG Sanchez, or a member of the ruling council, perhaps Mr. Talibani.

We have broken out the last pound of Starbucks, and are settling in to listen to the press conference. I'll come back to the discussion afterward.