Nights out

One of the things I enjoy about visiting my friends in Michigan is the unique night spots.

There are clubs around, but Sonny and I prefer the bar scene, which is still loud and a bit put-on, but actually a lot of fun with the right people.

There's a street in Grand Rapids, Michigan, called Ionia, which has several well-to-do pubs to spend $10-20 a drink on.

Sonny and I will head to one of these spots after chilling at the office all day -- which is a pretty fun gig in itself, since it's in a very creative space and involves watching him edit film and mix music tracks.

Anyway, one of these places, called Bar Divani, has always fascinated me, since it is just so surreal compared to my normal soldiering routine.

It's just downstairs from the office. Once out in the evening, you hang a left, dodge the valet parking sign and push through the entrance.

The music is low -- a welcome change. The light is soft, to the sides, behind couches that line the walls, and drifts out of warm, hushed, overhead lamps.

Bottles of wine abound, with cases upon cases of the stuff put around for show. Plastic cases displaying wine bottles are even a part of the floor, which are also lit.

All of it is to foster this sort of chill vibe, peppered with enough culture to attract the best and the brightest (i.e. rich/white) of the city.

And boy how they come! Men sip their this-could-be-worth-$10,000 drinks with their trophy wives/girlfriends. Everyone dots the air with those too-loud laughs. The kind that you hear at Shakespeare plays, showing a patron understands the cryptic humor; the sort that proves sophistication.

The girls are too cute. Damn hot, actually. That sort of old-money, I've had a personal trainer since four, kind of hot. And definitely the kind a soldier doesn't talk to. Partly because I wouldn't be able to afford to buy them anything, but mostly because the manicured boyfriends they keep sedated on the fringes of the conversation still use those personal trainers.

Sure, I can ruck march with a full pack, carry a squad automatic weapon, and tug along my camera case, but I don't have as chiseled a physique as these gents.

A few tries at visual flirting end with the blow-off eye roll and body-shift-away reaction.

No biggie, I'm there with Sonny, who is pretty well known among the primped and pretty, not because of his bank account, but more for his vision.

He's a film director and artist, which will still buy you a friendy regard and bout of small talk with just about anybody at a place like Bar Divani.

Which gives me a certain by-association free pass, and a head nod from the regulars when they're done showing Sonny they remember his name. Still, I don't push it. I sense the limits of my visa.

But Sonny has a genuine interest in how people are doing, and hearing about the waitress' own documentary film about a senior's retirement community's field trip bus driver is genuinely interesting. Moreover, $20-a-shot vodka tastes pretty damn good.

Again, surreal, fascinating.

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Better served cold

I've noticed when writing about things that irk the heck outta me (see recent post: Christ says, "Shoot 'em") that I'm frazzled and disjointed.

Things seem to vibe more when I've had a few drinks and chill. So, I'll try to be a little more composed before composing.

But wait! Quickies have their place too. Daigual.

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Couldn't have said it better

My former soldier from Fort Knox, Ian Boudreau, wrote a very true view on clubs that sums up my thoughts exactly.

Why I hate Clubs <-- Check it

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Christ says, "Shoot 'em"

CNN story <-- check it

Now, I pretty chill with this Jesus guy. We've gone back a long time. I'm learning a lot about him and have several very wise spiritual friends that help me through life's bumps, using the knowledge and knowhow that comes through the Bible and all that business.

That said, I often find myself on the verge of being physically ill when I hear certain "Christians" spout their spiel.

Pat Robertson is the founder of the 700 Club, a media outlet for the religious right. I don't say "the right" in a bad way, as I'm usually painted with that brush, but he's one of our front men -- one of those lucky enough to have captured the public eye to have influence in certain circles of politics and the mainstream conservative body politic.

Mainstream conservative body politic? Yes, and why church and state should remain separate will be addressed in another post, although this example is probably enough for that too.

Anyway, Robertson was even a contender for the Republican 1988 presidential campaign, so he's not just some bum.

Now, when a person decides to walk the life that Christ walked, to learn to become a power of love and compassion to restore the hope and spirit of we the people of planet Earth, there are levels of responsibility that come with it.

When people start to find out that others are "Christians," they'll expect them to be perfect, like that nerdy kid in school that's arrogant enough to say he's so damned fantastic at math. Everybody else who's making little tick marks on their paper to help count is just waiting for this kid to screw up, to prove he doesn't have it all together.

The actions and attitudes of Christians are carefully scrutinized. They are ambassadors of God's love to the world. Thus what Christians say, for many people, is what God is saying.

Now, I'm skipping through a lot of stereotypes and half-truths, but for the Machiavelli in all of us: as you are perceived, so you are. Moving on.

So, when Pat Robertson goes on the air of his Christian and very religious program to call for the killing of world leaders that he doesn't like, it sends a very damaging and frankly *expletive* view of how God is.

Is this Venezuelan cat not the nicest guy? No, he's a jerk. Is he a "threat" to America? Well, who knows. Should a person charged with bringing hope and life to the world through Christ use his religious clout to ask for the killing of another of God's creations? I'm going with *expletive* no!

Yes, help the poor. Go in and feed the hungry. Defend the defenseless. Plead the case of the orphan and the widow. All of these are straight out of the Bible.

Using assassination to achieve political ends while implying that God wants it? I've missed that chapter.

Politics is not our game, and we can't whisk the woes of the world away with a couple rich, white "conservatives" in office.

If churches want to be political, then they should be taxed, and should leave God out of it, 'cause he'd rather me give a homeless guy a dollar than travel halfway around the world to put a bullet in someone's head.

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Slipping by

And there went a week.

I am now halfway through my time away from Fort Hood, trying to soak in the below-100-degree temperatures before heading to the steamy Texan summer, and then to the broiling Iraq wastes.

There were a couple things I wanted to knock out while up here. The first was to eat in those few favorite spots of mine, since my patronage will probably be a bit sparse over the next several months.

And second, I was hoping to hash out some of this whole, "Where should life go from here," problem.

I joined the Army on a bit of a whim, and have struggled to find where I should fit in while in service. I've mucked around for almost a year now on whether to pursue a commission as an Army or perhaps an Air Force officer.

Getting that brass bar would give a good boost to the ol' bank account, but now that I've seen how life is for officers, I'm shifting more and more toward remaining where I am. I think I'll just do my time and scat, if I'm not extended, that is.

As a journalist, I constantly have to operate in the butt-kissing realm, writing stories that will please the command rather than relevant news. Officers have to operate exclusively in that world, lest they be robbed of that next promotion.

Performance on the field of battle used to be measured in acts of valor, bravery, cunning, ingenuity, and tenacity in the face of a determined and ruthless enemy. But in this war, there is no uniformed enemy, no great nation to outmaneuver, no hills to climb, no flanks to assault.

That means it's hard for ambitious young leaders to snatch glory from the jaws of ferocious war, leaving them to court it instead through paperwork, memos, powerpoint presentations, and proposed cargo load plans.

Moreover, there is still the cult-worship of dead generals. I can't tell you how many copies of "The Art of War" or some commentary on Patton I see on desks of would-be four stars.

Not that this is new, but seems strangely placed when Sun Tzu's methods of cutting down foes with arrow and sword are applied to how a personnel clerk can cut down paperwork with copier and fax.

All that to say no one ever seems to be commanding, and only chase after shadows of old glory, all won in the past, through grisly means closed off to the information-age military.

So that leaves me with the resolve to remain in enlisted service for my allotted time. Now, I will have to choose a course of action for my time afterwards, assuming everything goes hunky-dory while in Iraq.

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Open for everyone

I've set things up so that everyone can comment on stuff. Not that I'm expecting ten thousand new peeps chiming in, but for the couple that read our beloved SNS, feel free to flame on.

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The Boys

Allow me to introduce my crew:

The Santino -- Santino grew up in Madrid and is a documentary film maker, currently working for a company named Flannel, producing short spiritual vignettes called Noomas. Terribly talented, I try to stick with this kid...you know, for the whole popular-by-association thing. Santino Stoner, remember that one.

The Seth -- Currently en route to join his compatriots at Flannel, Seth is a graphic designer and budding film maker who moved back to small-town Ohio to help out with his family for awhile. This guy is a rock, and constantly is on call for me whenever I have one of my freak-out-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life moments.


The Nikos -- Our Greek cultural liaison, Nik is the senior planner for the Grand Rapids transit system. This kid is versed in all sorts of political movements and philosophies, and is a good coffee shop companion. Nik is one of those good-hearted guys that'll buy you a drink and have a chat whenever you happen by, which is always a pleasant perk.


The Billy -- Baseball phenom, Nik and Sonny have known Billy longer than I have, but with his dad's military service, Bill and I sort of share a bond that makes us vibe pretty well. I enjoy talking with this guy a lot.

Rockin good chums. Of course my Army gig keeps me away from the gang for most of the year, I get to visit every once in a while.

And finally...

The Josh -- Here is your humble blogger. I forgo style and panache for bluntness and boring clothing.

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Travel day

Two hours after beginning a dream, the alarm rang. I was up again, like a shot, to the bathroom, putting toothpaste on my brush before my mind even registered sleep had stopped.

Normally I would sit and stare at myself for a few seconds, toothbrush in mouth, paste beginning to dribble into the sink, like some catatonic zombie as my synapse finally kicked in. I’d let out a sigh, mark a mental register as to how far along I was in my sentence, and continue on.

Although I was just two hours rested from the prior day, my excitement of traveling to see friends in Michigan helped wash away the normal morning ka-kas.

After two more hours, I was on a plane, zooming off on the first leg of my journey to Grand Rapids. First stop was Houston, where I’d connect with a flight to Detroit before the final push to GR.

I was carrying my luggage, having just packed a small bag for two weeks. I’d wear each shirt twice, and had enough underthings for a weeks time. With a dash of laundering at my visit’s halfway point, I’d earn enough cleanliness to last out the month.

Unfortunately in Detroit I learned my final flight to GR was cancelled due to a “major mechanical problem.”

These things happen, but I was faced with reconnecting flights through far-away parts of the country that would add hours and hours to my travel day. Detroit to Grand Rapids through Cleveland? Or Minneapolis? Arriving when? 10:30 tonight?

It was only just past noon. Ten more hours of connections didn’t seem very fun at all.

Luckily some crafty customers in line hatched a plan to rent a car to drive to Grand Rapids, as it would take far less time than waiting on the airline to shuffle us to our destination.

Five of us piled into a small SUV and began our trek. We were quite a crew: myself, the Army guy, at the helm; navigating was Rachel, a pretty speech pathologist; holding down the rear was an older business executive, and a father with his eight-year-old daughter.

Rachel and I softly rocked out to some Verve while the gentlemen in the back hashed out all of life’s problems. Anna piped in with random tidbits here and then, keeping herself in the conversation.

The business exec was from Tennessee, close enough to my Kentucky for me to be family. Rachel was good friends with my neighbors from my time living in the city and frequented a bar that Sonny and I knew well. Anna hounded me for polluting the environment by driving humvees in the Army, asked if I liked cats, and was insistent that German cars were far superior our SUV. Her dad felt a special bond with what the country was accomplishing in Iraq, thus earning me a certain status as a military man.

There were more laughs than pauses, a stop at Wendy’s for some frosties, and a general appreciation for each other’s company.

Anna grabbed my cell phone and snapped some pictures, which I kept to remind me of the trip.

By the time I arrived, I felt like I had already had a bit of a vacation.

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Skipping town

I'm out, peeps, on leave to Grand Rapids for a few days. I'll be on to update things here and there.

Until then, peace.

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Big blue

An apache zips along the sky toward the airfield on Fort Hood. Dozens of these things whril around post everyday. Still, they're pretty rockin.

The constant question

When in uniform out in public, invariably someone will ask me if I a’m for or against the war.

War is an unfortunate side effect to life. At the heart of any drama or any segment of reality is conflict. And war is sort of the ultimate solution to the need for conflict. But I think people often fall in love with the romance of war -- –of heroes and stalwart hearts fighting against evil and the unrelenting enemy. Men charge off to glory for hearth and home -- –all that business.

But that'’s not war, that'’s a fairy tale. I don'’t view my time of service as some sort of lottery ticket to heroism, where my number could come up and, bingo, I'’m somebody that needs to be sung about.

There was a quote in the recent movie, "“Sin City,"” that stuck with me.

The saying goes, "It'’s time to prove to your friends that you'’re worth a damn. Sometimes that means dying, sometimes that means killing a whole lot of people."

Now, morbidity aside, there'’s something to that. There comes a time, though all the rants and ravings about how things should be, that a man chooses to stand in the breach and weather the storm of life and conflict.

Look at the emperor penguins, for a quick aside. While hanging out in one of the coldest regions of the world, they take turns rotinsidefrom the insdie to the outside of their huddle, enduring the fierce cold. If those on the outside stayed there, they would die from the winds. But they all do their time, they all serve their stint in the hell they'’re in.

There's also something to that.

This war won'’t be won, it can only be endured.

I guess that'’s as good of an explanation as to why I serve as any. It'’s a sort of romantic reason, so I suppose I've just embellished what I urge people to avoid, but I'm at a loss.

Do I agree with the war? What does it matter? I'm a soldier. I don't have to worry about stuff like that. It's a citizen's place to argue and discuss...all I have to do is get shot at. Pretty straightforward, and arguably better than politics.

Rockit.

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More on the hammer bit

So I was asked to go into a little more detail about this whole hammer/tent stakes thing.

We use huge dome tents, called "Drash Tents." I dunno what Drash stands for, but it's something mind-blowingly important, I'm sure.

Basically the Drash system consists of a series of geodesic dome modules that are propped up and velcroed together to form whatever configuration the unit needs. The domes are nicknamed A, B, C, or D domes, based on size (something to do with breasts, I'm told).

They are a lot easier to put up than the old slab-sided tents, and we get to use an enourmous rubber bladder (see previous post) to prop up the middle of the dome, and then stake down the sides to anchor it in place.

A call came down to see if we possessed all the parts for these tents, so we broke out the Drash trailers with all the components and began throwing them together.

After an hour of unfolding and bladder-inflating, the order came down to anchor the edges of the dome. You know, to see if gravity and geometry were still true, and if the tent would indeed stand on its own.

Thus the pounding of the stakes.

Here are some images captured by the ol' trusty cell phone camera.


*Tunk* *tunk* *tunk* *tunk* The stubborn concrete yeilds little ground to the tent stakes. We must crush this new enemy!


Here is the reaction of the Salemonz to the whole situation. Yikes.


This is a typical setup at the beloved motor pool. Four people work, while 10-20 watch. But the rub is that any more than four people working would just get in the way...so it's not like they're being lazy, it's just that there isn't enough work to go around. Yet, we wait.

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1 a.m. and all is well

Washington D.C. is a commuter city. By day, the population is nearly 2 million. By night, it's just a few hundred thousand. The mass transit stations that handle the entering and exiting masses stand empty in the later hours. It's almost serene.

Fleeting Moment

I remember my dream last night.

It's not often that I can hold on to one, so I always get a kick out of the memory...sort of like having a sober weekend, I suppose.

There's not much to the whole plot of the dream. It was more of a character-based piece.

I was with this girl that I apparently was completely in love with. There wasn't much to the dream, I just walked up to her and hugged her. That was it, but it was the feel of the whole thing that stuck with me.

You know that lump you get in the back of your throat when someone pins you down, catches you in a lie, or just on the whole, makes you completely vulnerable? That's what hit me.

It was a sort of soul-ache, the kind of punch to the gut that makes you afraid to move, as if you might break something, or maybe scare the moment away. I don't know--I just thought it was awesome.

It made me wonder if I've ever been in love, you know? I've been in to girls here and there, but nothing like that. I wonder why my heart decided to break out of the gate and run crazy for those couple of minutes? Maybe I'm feeling a bit restless.

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The "What If" Game

Three years ago this month, I was standing at the window of a film company in Grand Rapids, Michigan, watching the traffic below. At the time, the plan was to join them as a film editor and assistant writer.

Now I'm a sergeant in the Army, with soldiers to train for war, and the war itself to deal with. It's a far throw from film editing, that's for sure.

Picturing the prose

Instead of writing, I'll just take a picture of words...more later, but for now I'm out to get a FedEx package. Peace!

Well, that's odd

This is me standing next to an enormous rubber bladder used to prop up our giant dome tents. Yes, that is an enourmous giant bladder. Yes, there is a sign that says "Do not enter rubber bladder." Mmmmm, Freudianistic.

A Little Heavy on the Orange

Barracks life. Glad I'm out of that place.

A Day Like Many Others

Several people have asked, "What is a typical day like for you?" Well here goes...don't worry, a minute-by-minute summary of life won't be the norm for SNS.

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0600

I wake up, standing in formation. What? What day is it? Oh, Monday. Lovely. It's dark and the first sergeant is talking with the platoon leaders again. The rest of us stand by, waiting to hear what joyous wonders await us.

Before long shadows shift around and I'm bumped on my right: the signal for me to scoot down one spot in line. With the rightful leader of the group back in power, we go from standing at ease to attention, then to parade rest, which is a sort of at ease, but not quite.

0630

Sing, damn you! We sing the Army song. We sing the 4th Infantry March. Afterward for desert, a soldier is elected to run to the front to lead the group in reciting the soldier's creed. Whew, done with that for another day.

0642

Announcements are given. The platoon sergeant spits out what we're going to do today. The trick is that no one really receives any specific instructions, and before I know it...

0650

...we're released to go get breakfast. Be back by 0830, or else!

0834

I wake up again in formation. Did I leave? Am I hungry? First sergeant calls the platoon leaders to a meeting.

0845

Announcements are given. The platoon sergeant spits out what we're going to do today. The trick is that no one really receives any specific instructions, and before I know it...

0853

...we're released to our sections to complete the work we need to do. My NCO is on leave, meaning I'm in charge. And I say I have work to do at the office. So long suckers! Have fun sweating all day in the motor pool!

0907

I unlock my office door, start up my laptop and check my emails. Some guy named PhantomDistro emails me like 40 times a day. At first I thought it was some sort of cool scuba-ninja club, but it turns out it's just a glorified post announcement service...sort of like cable access for email. Oh well.

0915

I begin to write my story on up-armored humvees, due to division by 1200. Now it's a race against the clock! Start the engines!

1030

I finish my story and look over it a few times. Some other cats have arrived in the office and I chat for a bit. I remember that I have to process some photos to go along with the story and start in on that.

1100

Staff Sgt. Barlow and I run next door to grab some A&W goodness. Alas, I had munched a Rice Krispy Big Bar just a few minutes earlier, and it had killed my hunger. Goodbye, sweet grilled chicken sandwitch, I pine for you.

1128

I send off my story to division, but come to a realization: People take lunch from 1130-1300. Not much I can do until then. Time to read CNN over and over, since most websites are blocked from my government computer.

1301

I head over to division to check on my story and inquire about what's going on with a planned media day on Wednesday. I'm told it's my show, and I'll have to coordinate with local media to get them to a specific part of post, where my colonel will be on hand to answer questions about how up-armored humvees are winning the cause for freedom and democracy.

Simple enough.

1304

I ask how I'm supposed to do all that.

1415

I meet with my XO to tell him what's being expected of the colonel for this shindig. The colonel is on leave, and won't be available to make any decisions until late Tuesday. The other speaker, a chief warrant officer, is in the field, and I don't know if he even knows he's being interviewed by the media on Wednesday.

Hrmmm.

1735

I wake up and find myself in a conversation with the rest of the office. It's technically after hours, and we're just joshing around until it's time for the enlisted personnel to head to the 1800 formation. After a few minutes, we leave the officers to their evening and head back to the motor pool.

1820

There we stand, in formation again. Lovely day/evening for a formation, eh? The first sergeant is talking with the platoon leaders...

1824

The battalion sergeant major takes the stand and begins a pep talk about how we need to pay attention or die a horrible death in Iraq.

1906

Feet aching, the sergeant major finally calls us back to attention and hands control back to the first sergeants.

1907

It's getting dark and the first sergeant is talking with the platoon leaders again. The rest of us stand by, waiting to hear what joyous wonders await us.

1913

The leaders are released, the unit comes together again. We're snapped to attention, and the E4s and below are released.

Uh oh. Sucks to be a sergeant.

1917

We're instructed that the NCOs will be cleaning the motor pool. There were some sightings of cigarette butts and empty water bottles somewhere, so it was up to the mighty NCOs to rock that stuff out. Booya ka-sha!

2030

We finish with the cleanup and are let go. Hooray!

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A Sergeant and His Hammer

This is me with a hammer, next to a tent. Yes, we're on concrete. Yes, in an effort to see "if the tent will go up" we were ordered to drive tent spikes through said concrete. Yes, it was difficult. Yes, I'm in the Army.

A View From Home

Here's the ol' appartment. It's a good spot to rest when the day finishes. Too bad I'll have to leave it when it comes time to deploy.

A Quick Hello

G'day. At long last, here is the blog.

Many family and friends have hounded me for some time to create one of these things, so here it is.

Lovely, isn't it. All this and nothing to talk about.

I'm sure that in the coming days, things will pop up. This will definitely be one of those posts that appear on the bottom for filler, showing that I've been here since XXXX date.

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