Leon,
I awoke this morning to the sound of my NCO knocking on my door. I wasn't late for work, but I did manage to sleep through his morning racket, which usually consists of anything from blaring Prodigy to something out of the Godfather sound track. I answered the door, looking and feeling very hung over despite my two month sobriety — which I'm now convinced will be a regular occurrence for the rest of my rotation.
I threw on a uniform that I had tossed in my chair last night when I shed it just before crawling into my bag. I wandered to the showers, brushed my teeth, then headed to the chow hall for coffee and a muffin – not bothering to shave – and sauntered to the office.
Following the untimely crash of my graphic station, I've been forced to work from a laptop that happens to have my monitor attached to it. Both a blessing and a curse; I've had few requests for specialized graphics since then. This has left me with quite a bit of time on my hands, which for someone like me, who contemplates the very existence of the universe on any given day, tends to wear on my sanity.
I've been passing the time reading various Wikipedia articles and doing simple busy work, such as cleaning out the desks in our office or seeing what I can procure from the chow hall and supply. I also finished Scar Tissue, the autobiography of Anthony Keidis, which was an excellent read.
My seniors around me are beginning to stress the need for me to become an NCO, and I've been thrust into a leadership position on a few occasions, with another one on its way. However, I currently have no drive or desire to become a "leader" of any sort and have already declined attending the board once, for which I was given a counseling statement. Not necessarily a negative action, just an aid of sorts to help me reflect on my decision and the advancement of my "career."
The military, as it stands, will not be a career. The prospect of working as a writer or poet is too appealing to me.
Yesterday, I was given the opportunity to assess the military's beloved concept of respect. This is the belief that anyone of a higher rank than you deserves your utmost respect and obedience — most of which is purely by demand. Early in life, I adopted the "Respect those who deserve it" creed. And I'm a firm believer in the fact that respect should be inspired, not commanded.
The military fails miserably at understanding this concept. NCOs, especially those in the E-7 range, demand that they receive the highest respect and honestly believe they deserve it. These people follow the "I am Alpha and Omega" concept of leadership. This is something I despise, but given the military's policy on customs and courtesies, I have no choice but to concur. As it stands, I can no longer suffer my military service and anxiously await the day — four years from now — when my contract is over. Unless I can find a way to cut it short without causing damage to my civilian reputation.
And now:
The Dogs of War
Bark
Growl
And howl ye Dogs of War
Do as your master commands
And tear at our enemies' hands
You are merely beasts
Wild and feral
Suffering no will of your own
Peace,
Feelgoode
Monday, December 24, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Whispering Morrison in the Sand
Poetic musings from the Front.
******
The Wolf
A howl
Somber and cold
The Wolf cries out in loneliness
A low melancholy moan
For him alone
Cry not my brother
For we are kindred spirits
You and I
Though the pack has abandoned us
We will find our way
Lift your weary head
And howl in pride
For you
My friend
Are a testament to our
Freedom
******
Retreat
Run! Soldier! Run!
Or the Mad Men w/ beards
Will kill you!
******
Solitudarity (Or Observations: On Solitude)
Alone in my little box of wood
The carpet collects dust
My bed will break
And my weapons will soon rust
Outside
Airplane roar
Jet fighter scream
The Ghosts walk the white Earth
The Big Voice
Oh it's her again
******
The Wolf
A howl
Somber and cold
The Wolf cries out in loneliness
A low melancholy moan
For him alone
Cry not my brother
For we are kindred spirits
You and I
Though the pack has abandoned us
We will find our way
Lift your weary head
And howl in pride
For you
My friend
Are a testament to our
Freedom
******
Retreat
Run! Soldier! Run!
Or the Mad Men w/ beards
Will kill you!
******
Solitudarity (Or Observations: On Solitude)
Alone in my little box of wood
The carpet collects dust
My bed will break
And my weapons will soon rust
Outside
Airplane roar
Jet fighter scream
The Ghosts walk the white Earth
The Big Voice
Oh it's her again
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Time out of Mind
Leon,
I found myself awake at roughly 0200 this morning to the sound of my cell phone screaming its cheerful beat of Super Mario fame. Peeling myself out of my sleeping bag and reaching for my phone, I glanced at the caller display which read "Unknown."
No sooner had I read this, the music stopped abruptly, as if the phone had suddenly been placed on silent. Understandably disgruntled, mostly in part due to my rude awakening, I rolled off of my bed, unable to sleep due to an excruciating, hangover-grade headache and nausea that had manifested itself out of the abysmal confines of my weary mind.
Recent nights have been laden with unusual, almost delirious, dreams, often involving friends, new and old, family and an icon — Jim Morrison — on numerous occasions. Now, normally I would chalk these up to the mefloquine — a drug we're required to take once a week to fight malaria. But these are slightly more awkward than the standard mefloquine dream.
These dreams have led to a rereading of Morrison's published poetry and a reassessment of my existence as a whole. I've spent a number of hours since my arrival in this country looking back on the choices I've made in my life and the odd and unforeseen twists and turns I've taken to reach my now not known goal in life.
I don't see myself maintaining a military lifestyle. It goes against everything I am, or at least everything I believe I am. I consider myself a nonconformist, which, as you know, is a major staple of military service. You're expected — commanded — to think and act a certain way and anything otherwise calls for on-the-spot reprimand and "corrective" training — brainwashing, if you want a call to extremes.
I feel I've lost the very freedom I'm supposed to be fighting for. I've grown disgusted with my current lot in life. Simply put, I want to start over. I've grown tired and want so badly to sleep. I'll grow a beard, find a place to myself, and write a book under an alias of sorts. Or even travel the country and write of my misadventures and experiences when I'm finished and spend the rest of my life as an anonymous poet.
Perhaps I should take inspiration from Jack Kerouac and indulge in a little spontaneous prose — see what magic my tired thoughts may concoct. In fact, I may start on that today and e-mail a verdict.
"The 'stranger' was sensed as greatest menace in ancient communities" ~ Jim Morrison.
Peace,
Feelgoode
I found myself awake at roughly 0200 this morning to the sound of my cell phone screaming its cheerful beat of Super Mario fame. Peeling myself out of my sleeping bag and reaching for my phone, I glanced at the caller display which read "Unknown."
No sooner had I read this, the music stopped abruptly, as if the phone had suddenly been placed on silent. Understandably disgruntled, mostly in part due to my rude awakening, I rolled off of my bed, unable to sleep due to an excruciating, hangover-grade headache and nausea that had manifested itself out of the abysmal confines of my weary mind.
Recent nights have been laden with unusual, almost delirious, dreams, often involving friends, new and old, family and an icon — Jim Morrison — on numerous occasions. Now, normally I would chalk these up to the mefloquine — a drug we're required to take once a week to fight malaria. But these are slightly more awkward than the standard mefloquine dream.
These dreams have led to a rereading of Morrison's published poetry and a reassessment of my existence as a whole. I've spent a number of hours since my arrival in this country looking back on the choices I've made in my life and the odd and unforeseen twists and turns I've taken to reach my now not known goal in life.
I don't see myself maintaining a military lifestyle. It goes against everything I am, or at least everything I believe I am. I consider myself a nonconformist, which, as you know, is a major staple of military service. You're expected — commanded — to think and act a certain way and anything otherwise calls for on-the-spot reprimand and "corrective" training — brainwashing, if you want a call to extremes.
I feel I've lost the very freedom I'm supposed to be fighting for. I've grown disgusted with my current lot in life. Simply put, I want to start over. I've grown tired and want so badly to sleep. I'll grow a beard, find a place to myself, and write a book under an alias of sorts. Or even travel the country and write of my misadventures and experiences when I'm finished and spend the rest of my life as an anonymous poet.
Perhaps I should take inspiration from Jack Kerouac and indulge in a little spontaneous prose — see what magic my tired thoughts may concoct. In fact, I may start on that today and e-mail a verdict.
"The 'stranger' was sensed as greatest menace in ancient communities" ~ Jim Morrison.
Peace,
Feelgoode
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Observations: On Afghan Winter
Awake
2 am
Eyes burning and mind reeling
The Ghosts are wandering the white Earth
Glowing in the darkness
Shallow broken hearts
Delerium
Ashes in the air
Burning garbage
The thick stench of shit
The Mad Men with gray beards are coming to kill us all
The snow is blood red
There's blood on my boots
2 am
Eyes burning and mind reeling
The Ghosts are wandering the white Earth
Glowing in the darkness
Shallow broken hearts
Delerium
Ashes in the air
Burning garbage
The thick stench of shit
The Mad Men with gray beards are coming to kill us all
The snow is blood red
There's blood on my boots
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The RG-31: No Ordinary SUV
Leon,
Sorry about the extended moment of silence, but for the past week I've been pleasantly occupied and haven't had much to complain about. I've been spending my free time watching Japanese TV dramas and a hysterical BBC sitcom called "The IT Crowd."
Now, penny for my thoughts: I recently had the chance to play around with the RG-31, one of the Army's new toys. This piece of equipment is a large SUV-style vehicle that comes heavily armored with portholes in the thick windows that can be fired from.
It's been seen to survive IEDs and is predicted to drastically reduce the deaths of American soldiers like myself. However, the gravy on those potatoes is the fact that the vehicle is equipped with remote-controlled .50-cal or Mark 19 turrets that can be fired from the safety of the inside of the vehicle, via a joystick and computer screen.
Sounds too good to be true, doesn't it? Well, it is.
Despite these advantages, the vehicle has its defects. First of all, let me point out that I now know what a sardine actually feels like — minus being dead of course.
The vehicle can be configured to accommodate 10 personnel, but ours had room for the driver, the Truck Commander, the gunner and four passengers. Now, being the former three of that list isn't really a problem. It's the passengers that have it the worst.
There are two seats that line each side of the back of the vehicle, each one just barely large enough to conform to my ass — and I am by no means a large person. Add the fact that there's roughly an inch of space between each side-by-side seat and about one-and-a-half feet between the opposing seats. This fact left me shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy next to me and sharing the experience of having someone's knee, and my weapon, in my crotch with the guy across from me.
The top hatches on this vehicle can be pushed open, allowing soldiers to stand up to provide fire from outside the vehicle, with the armored hatch providing cover. Of course, as is the case with the seating, there's barely enough room for two. When the time finally came to exit the vehicle through the new-fangled hydraulic back door, it felt great to work some feeling back into my left leg and ass cheek.
This brings me to actually exiting the vehicle, which is a timely and cramped task, making the procedure sorely inefficient, should it be required in a firefight.
Now, you may be thinking, "What about the turret?" Yes, the turrets provide excellent coverage and suppressive fire, but this brings me to the next issue: reloading said turret.
Having had first-hand experience with this weapon allows me to say that its accuracy is something to be envied, and applying the three-round burst to any target with the .50-caliber munitions is more than enough to neutralize the opposition before having to reload. However, in the case that you do have to reload, you're looking at a genuine Matrix: Revolutions situation.
Any available soldier will have to climb on top of the vehicle, break open an ammo box, and reload the ammunition cache and weapon before it can open fire again. If the weapon malfunctions, it's usually an easy fix.
I do have to give credit where it's due, though. Provided there's a convoy of these vehicles — maybe four or so, like I had — the problems I've listed above most likely won't be much of an issue. But let's hope this new piece of equipment does what it's designed to do. Namely, protect us and neutralize the opposition.
Peace,
Feelgoode
Sorry about the extended moment of silence, but for the past week I've been pleasantly occupied and haven't had much to complain about. I've been spending my free time watching Japanese TV dramas and a hysterical BBC sitcom called "The IT Crowd."
Now, penny for my thoughts: I recently had the chance to play around with the RG-31, one of the Army's new toys. This piece of equipment is a large SUV-style vehicle that comes heavily armored with portholes in the thick windows that can be fired from.
It's been seen to survive IEDs and is predicted to drastically reduce the deaths of American soldiers like myself. However, the gravy on those potatoes is the fact that the vehicle is equipped with remote-controlled .50-cal or Mark 19 turrets that can be fired from the safety of the inside of the vehicle, via a joystick and computer screen.
Sounds too good to be true, doesn't it? Well, it is.
Despite these advantages, the vehicle has its defects. First of all, let me point out that I now know what a sardine actually feels like — minus being dead of course.
The vehicle can be configured to accommodate 10 personnel, but ours had room for the driver, the Truck Commander, the gunner and four passengers. Now, being the former three of that list isn't really a problem. It's the passengers that have it the worst.
There are two seats that line each side of the back of the vehicle, each one just barely large enough to conform to my ass — and I am by no means a large person. Add the fact that there's roughly an inch of space between each side-by-side seat and about one-and-a-half feet between the opposing seats. This fact left me shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy next to me and sharing the experience of having someone's knee, and my weapon, in my crotch with the guy across from me.
The top hatches on this vehicle can be pushed open, allowing soldiers to stand up to provide fire from outside the vehicle, with the armored hatch providing cover. Of course, as is the case with the seating, there's barely enough room for two. When the time finally came to exit the vehicle through the new-fangled hydraulic back door, it felt great to work some feeling back into my left leg and ass cheek.
This brings me to actually exiting the vehicle, which is a timely and cramped task, making the procedure sorely inefficient, should it be required in a firefight.
Now, you may be thinking, "What about the turret?" Yes, the turrets provide excellent coverage and suppressive fire, but this brings me to the next issue: reloading said turret.
Having had first-hand experience with this weapon allows me to say that its accuracy is something to be envied, and applying the three-round burst to any target with the .50-caliber munitions is more than enough to neutralize the opposition before having to reload. However, in the case that you do have to reload, you're looking at a genuine Matrix: Revolutions situation.
Any available soldier will have to climb on top of the vehicle, break open an ammo box, and reload the ammunition cache and weapon before it can open fire again. If the weapon malfunctions, it's usually an easy fix.
I do have to give credit where it's due, though. Provided there's a convoy of these vehicles — maybe four or so, like I had — the problems I've listed above most likely won't be much of an issue. But let's hope this new piece of equipment does what it's designed to do. Namely, protect us and neutralize the opposition.
Peace,
Feelgoode
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Travails of a Poster Boy
Leon,
Good evening, my friend. I've just finished dinner and have found time to dwell on recent tasks which serve as this entry's muse. It would seem that word of my occupational specialty has made its way across the camp, as numerous fellow soldiers have come to me with various requests. Most of these requests revolve around the same thing; that is, they want a special logo just for them.
Naturally, these kinds of tasks fall to the bottom of the barrel as I have a multitude of other tasks that take priority. One such task is the creation of a propaganda poster for the Afghan National Army (ANA). My problem is that we already have one.
The issue is that the top brass, for some reason or another, doesn't like the one we already have, after I took the trouble to frame it and hang it in the conference room. You see, our current poster was put together by the PSYOP command, but what these guys want is their own claim to fame.
So, they task me, one of two illustrators — the other never really does his job, so all tasks get pushed to me — to create a brand new one from scratch. But wait! There's more! They want this bitch to read in Dari. So, on top of creating a brand new poster, I have to somehow pull an English-to-Dari translation from the deepest recesses of my colon — a very difficult process, mind you.
Of course, a task coming from the highest ranks in the unit precedes everything, but there's a problem with this. I've been working toward some designs for some T-shirts and sweatshirts for the re-enlistment NCO. I've been working on this project for roughly two weeks now, with other tasks interrupting the process at every turn. This is wearing on my client's patience, which in turn is wearing on his clients' patience. This all comes down on me in the end, which wears on my overall sanity — and I'm disgruntled enough as it is, I assure you.
There is a light at the end of this long tunnel. I put in many an extra hour in the office last night working on said poster, which is currently near completion. I'm just waiting on the Dari. With this extra time, I was able to work on another design for the shirts, which I will turn in to my client as soon as possible.
Oh yes, four more years.
Peace,
Feelgoode
Good evening, my friend. I've just finished dinner and have found time to dwell on recent tasks which serve as this entry's muse. It would seem that word of my occupational specialty has made its way across the camp, as numerous fellow soldiers have come to me with various requests. Most of these requests revolve around the same thing; that is, they want a special logo just for them.
Naturally, these kinds of tasks fall to the bottom of the barrel as I have a multitude of other tasks that take priority. One such task is the creation of a propaganda poster for the Afghan National Army (ANA). My problem is that we already have one.
The issue is that the top brass, for some reason or another, doesn't like the one we already have, after I took the trouble to frame it and hang it in the conference room. You see, our current poster was put together by the PSYOP command, but what these guys want is their own claim to fame.
So, they task me, one of two illustrators — the other never really does his job, so all tasks get pushed to me — to create a brand new one from scratch. But wait! There's more! They want this bitch to read in Dari. So, on top of creating a brand new poster, I have to somehow pull an English-to-Dari translation from the deepest recesses of my colon — a very difficult process, mind you.
Of course, a task coming from the highest ranks in the unit precedes everything, but there's a problem with this. I've been working toward some designs for some T-shirts and sweatshirts for the re-enlistment NCO. I've been working on this project for roughly two weeks now, with other tasks interrupting the process at every turn. This is wearing on my client's patience, which in turn is wearing on his clients' patience. This all comes down on me in the end, which wears on my overall sanity — and I'm disgruntled enough as it is, I assure you.
There is a light at the end of this long tunnel. I put in many an extra hour in the office last night working on said poster, which is currently near completion. I'm just waiting on the Dari. With this extra time, I was able to work on another design for the shirts, which I will turn in to my client as soon as possible.
Oh yes, four more years.
Peace,
Feelgoode
Sunday, November 25, 2007
A Breakfast With Champions
So I found myself barely awake at 0530 this morning, my small room lit only by the light that poured over the wall from the room next to mine. It was my cell phone that woke me on this particular morning, having set my alarm before going to sleep the previous night.
I rolled out of my bed, slowly and deliberately as my bed wobbled about on its two-by-four legs, and my phone screams out the theme from Super Mario Brothers. It would be this morning that I would enjoy a breakfast with the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, as my friend in the room next to mine took our pictures.
I was looking forward to an awkward and unenjoyable romp through the world of military celebrity. Fortunately, I was pleasantly mistaken. We entered the chow hall, grabbed our breakfasts, and asked to be directed to the appropriate room. Upon our entrance, we noticed a handful of familiar faces and decided to join the small group, making a total of five misfits.
We finished our breakfasts and began discussing our situation, when in walks a Maxim model by the name of Mayra Veronica—a Latino woman who was well endowed on both ends. Followed by her were two men: Wilmer Valderrama and Russell Peters, Fez of That 70s Show and an Indian-Canadian comedian, respectively. Now I had seen these three the previous night, having attended the USO show and been treated to a humorous stand-up act by Mister Peters.
(I would later get an autographed photo and have my picture taken with each of these individuals, but that has nothing to do with today's anecdote.)
My comrade who had accompanied me took this as a cue to start doing his job, and promptly stood up, snapping away with his "weapon of choice." The Vice Chairman—a four-star general—made his way into the room without anyone noticing, which at this moment is beyond my comprehension.
As the event went on, our four celebrities took their seats among the 30 or so soldiers in the room and struck up conversation. Mister Peters decided to grace our table with his presence, but having seen and enjoyed his show the previous night didn't stop me from informing him that he was in my friend's seat and asking if he could relocate. He obliged, and my friend returned shortly after, finding great amusement in the story that he would be told of the event that had just unfolded in his absence.
After the event was over, each soldier was allowed a photo of him/herself with three of our four "stars," and a number of soldiers broke off to have their picture taken with the Vice Chairman. It was about this time that our motley crew decided to do a group photo with the Vice Chairman—so we did.
For the record, this was far from a serious photo. Having accomplished this task, we each shook the Marine General's hand and continued on to our next objective: a group photo with the other three VIPs. I took up a spot, sandwiching myself between Fez and Miss Maxim as the rest of our group filled in around and behind me. Having taken the picture, we shook their hands and proceeded to move out, our morning mission being complete.
Upon return to our camp, I swung into our chow hall and grabbed a cup of coffee before heading back to the office to embrace whatever other tasks may or may not rear their ugly heads—albeit with a smile.
Peace,
Feelgoode
I rolled out of my bed, slowly and deliberately as my bed wobbled about on its two-by-four legs, and my phone screams out the theme from Super Mario Brothers. It would be this morning that I would enjoy a breakfast with the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, as my friend in the room next to mine took our pictures.
I was looking forward to an awkward and unenjoyable romp through the world of military celebrity. Fortunately, I was pleasantly mistaken. We entered the chow hall, grabbed our breakfasts, and asked to be directed to the appropriate room. Upon our entrance, we noticed a handful of familiar faces and decided to join the small group, making a total of five misfits.
We finished our breakfasts and began discussing our situation, when in walks a Maxim model by the name of Mayra Veronica—a Latino woman who was well endowed on both ends. Followed by her were two men: Wilmer Valderrama and Russell Peters, Fez of That 70s Show and an Indian-Canadian comedian, respectively. Now I had seen these three the previous night, having attended the USO show and been treated to a humorous stand-up act by Mister Peters.
(I would later get an autographed photo and have my picture taken with each of these individuals, but that has nothing to do with today's anecdote.)
My comrade who had accompanied me took this as a cue to start doing his job, and promptly stood up, snapping away with his "weapon of choice." The Vice Chairman—a four-star general—made his way into the room without anyone noticing, which at this moment is beyond my comprehension.
As the event went on, our four celebrities took their seats among the 30 or so soldiers in the room and struck up conversation. Mister Peters decided to grace our table with his presence, but having seen and enjoyed his show the previous night didn't stop me from informing him that he was in my friend's seat and asking if he could relocate. He obliged, and my friend returned shortly after, finding great amusement in the story that he would be told of the event that had just unfolded in his absence.
After the event was over, each soldier was allowed a photo of him/herself with three of our four "stars," and a number of soldiers broke off to have their picture taken with the Vice Chairman. It was about this time that our motley crew decided to do a group photo with the Vice Chairman—so we did.
For the record, this was far from a serious photo. Having accomplished this task, we each shook the Marine General's hand and continued on to our next objective: a group photo with the other three VIPs. I took up a spot, sandwiching myself between Fez and Miss Maxim as the rest of our group filled in around and behind me. Having taken the picture, we shook their hands and proceeded to move out, our morning mission being complete.
Upon return to our camp, I swung into our chow hall and grabbed a cup of coffee before heading back to the office to embrace whatever other tasks may or may not rear their ugly heads—albeit with a smile.
Peace,
Feelgoode
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Morale, Welfare and Recreation (Or the Lack of It)
Leon,
Good morning. I sit here, at 0810, writing to you and enjoying my cup of warm coffee with a hint of vanilla. I'd say I'm in a relatively decent mood, having gotten a good night's sleep and waking up early to shave, brush my teeth and indulge in a modest breakfast. In fact, I don't think much could go wrong today. At least, that's what I thought as I watched the stream of scalding hot brew pouring into my Styrofoam cup at 0700.
Having woken up earlier than usual, I decided to spend some time at the MWR — a small building dedicated to upholding the rare commodity that we soldiers call "motivation." However, it would seem that very little effort is put into this subject. The two pool tables we have are warped, torn, and generally non-serviceable. Fortunately, playing pool was not this morning's objective. No, what I had in mind was spending roughly 30 minutes on one of the four computers, chatting with old friends on MSN Messenger before they tucked themselves in for the night.
It started off well enough, getting in some conversation with my mother, an old flame, and a couple of other friends. This, however, didn't last long. Somewhere in the vicinity of five minutes I got this little message at the top of my window that read "You cannot send messages because you are not logged on." My eye twitched. I attempted to log back on, only to receive a message relaying the fact that the Messenger service could not be reached at this time.
Now by this time I'm frustrated, borderline irate. Not because that happened this particular morning, but because this has been happening for two-and-a-half weeks now. Just, this particular morning saw it fit to connect me for the first time in over a week, only to shut me down as I was finally able to get in touch with someone. I'm beginning to think this is the punch line of some long-running joke that I've missed.
Here we have a facility dedicated to providing entertainment and morale for the soldiers, which fails miserably at its task. Not only that but it gets worse. Last rotation we had six computers and a number of phones that worked well enough so as not to incite complaint. Near the end of said rotation, we had dropped to four computers and fewer phones, but they still maintained a satisfactory working order.
This rotation is a different story. Our four computers work, however, I'll be damned if your 30 minutes is up by the time you get one page to load! Every day I see fellow soldiers and civilians storm out of the MWR in utter disgust and dissatisfaction at the poor service that we're expected to put up with. As it would turn out, the phones seldom work as desired and given the 15-minute time limit, contacting friends and family has become a frustrating and difficult endeavor which leaves most tapped out and demoralized.
Yes, we do have the Net in the offices. Unfortunately, these connections either don't work at all, or block you from visiting an excessive number of Web pages. So as it stands, I'll be reading random tidbits on Wikipedia until this issue gets fixed. Did you know that the creation of pizza is often credited to the peasants in Naples, who would deck their bread with the tomatoes that the upper-class thought were poisonous?
Peace,
Feelgoode
Good morning. I sit here, at 0810, writing to you and enjoying my cup of warm coffee with a hint of vanilla. I'd say I'm in a relatively decent mood, having gotten a good night's sleep and waking up early to shave, brush my teeth and indulge in a modest breakfast. In fact, I don't think much could go wrong today. At least, that's what I thought as I watched the stream of scalding hot brew pouring into my Styrofoam cup at 0700.
Having woken up earlier than usual, I decided to spend some time at the MWR — a small building dedicated to upholding the rare commodity that we soldiers call "motivation." However, it would seem that very little effort is put into this subject. The two pool tables we have are warped, torn, and generally non-serviceable. Fortunately, playing pool was not this morning's objective. No, what I had in mind was spending roughly 30 minutes on one of the four computers, chatting with old friends on MSN Messenger before they tucked themselves in for the night.
It started off well enough, getting in some conversation with my mother, an old flame, and a couple of other friends. This, however, didn't last long. Somewhere in the vicinity of five minutes I got this little message at the top of my window that read "You cannot send messages because you are not logged on." My eye twitched. I attempted to log back on, only to receive a message relaying the fact that the Messenger service could not be reached at this time.
Now by this time I'm frustrated, borderline irate. Not because that happened this particular morning, but because this has been happening for two-and-a-half weeks now. Just, this particular morning saw it fit to connect me for the first time in over a week, only to shut me down as I was finally able to get in touch with someone. I'm beginning to think this is the punch line of some long-running joke that I've missed.
Here we have a facility dedicated to providing entertainment and morale for the soldiers, which fails miserably at its task. Not only that but it gets worse. Last rotation we had six computers and a number of phones that worked well enough so as not to incite complaint. Near the end of said rotation, we had dropped to four computers and fewer phones, but they still maintained a satisfactory working order.
This rotation is a different story. Our four computers work, however, I'll be damned if your 30 minutes is up by the time you get one page to load! Every day I see fellow soldiers and civilians storm out of the MWR in utter disgust and dissatisfaction at the poor service that we're expected to put up with. As it would turn out, the phones seldom work as desired and given the 15-minute time limit, contacting friends and family has become a frustrating and difficult endeavor which leaves most tapped out and demoralized.
Yes, we do have the Net in the offices. Unfortunately, these connections either don't work at all, or block you from visiting an excessive number of Web pages. So as it stands, I'll be reading random tidbits on Wikipedia until this issue gets fixed. Did you know that the creation of pizza is often credited to the peasants in Naples, who would deck their bread with the tomatoes that the upper-class thought were poisonous?
Peace,
Feelgoode
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Greetings From Afghanistan
Leon,
Long time no see, bro. How are things? The situation here is simple enough, although I'm working both as an illustrator and a combat camera. No local watch for me this rotation—it would seem they've earned the right to meander about on their own. I've taken up pipe smoking as a relaxing past time, though it's been a while since my last smoking. I also enjoy the occasional cigar.
I'd be lying if I said my time here was well spent. The vast majority of my time is spent providing graphics for any videos we happen to be putting together...oh, and watching movies, I do a lot of movie watching. You should watch Transformers, if you haven't already.
I may get sent to the more southern portion of this forsaken country where things are a little less uneventful, but until then, I'm here. If I could afford a computer, I could make better use of my time doing what I joined the Army to do—taking college courses.
I'm sure there will be more to come as my deployment unfolds. Until then, I'm off to create a flyer for the local soccer tournament.
Peace.
Long time no see, bro. How are things? The situation here is simple enough, although I'm working both as an illustrator and a combat camera. No local watch for me this rotation—it would seem they've earned the right to meander about on their own. I've taken up pipe smoking as a relaxing past time, though it's been a while since my last smoking. I also enjoy the occasional cigar.
I'd be lying if I said my time here was well spent. The vast majority of my time is spent providing graphics for any videos we happen to be putting together...oh, and watching movies, I do a lot of movie watching. You should watch Transformers, if you haven't already.
I may get sent to the more southern portion of this forsaken country where things are a little less uneventful, but until then, I'm here. If I could afford a computer, I could make better use of my time doing what I joined the Army to do—taking college courses.
I'm sure there will be more to come as my deployment unfolds. Until then, I'm off to create a flyer for the local soccer tournament.
Peace.
*****
Meanwhile in Washington this week, Defense Secretary Robert Gates warned Congress that without an urgent infusion of another $196 billion, U.S. military bases in Iraq and Afghanistan could face partial closures and civilian job losses.
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