Editor's Note: After nearly eight months of trudging through the soulless sands of the Afghanistan desert, Doctor Feelgoode, our intrepid artist in combat boots, is back home. There will be no more dispatches from the front.
This is where our story ends.
On July 3, 1971, at approximately 0400, James Douglas Morrison was pronounced dead in his Paris home. The cause of death was heart failure as a result of an asthma attack. I wouldn't know who he was until nearly 40 years later, after a fateful purchase in the Spring of 2006.
I had a friend at boot camp who had spoken highly of The Doors on numerous occasions. Shortly after finishing AIT and arriving at my first duty station, I decided to explore my new surroundings and found myself browsing a CD rack at a nearby electronics shop. It was then that I spotted a single copy of The Doors Legacy: The Absolute Best sitting right up front. Remembering my friend's recommendation, I bought it and took it back to my empty barracks room.
Later that night, I would fall asleep to the sound of Ray Manzarek's organ/keyboard, John Densmore's drums, Robby Krieger's guitar, and Jim Morrison's deep, brooding vocals.
Two years later, I'm an avid fan of their music and Jim Morrison's poetry. I had come to the realization that I had always known The Doors, having heard their songs on the radio as a kid, and would even go so far as to say that my stumbling upon that album was more than just coincidence.
I'll have to pay Jim a visit sometime in the future...
A Dedication
To the poet of the damned
To the son
To the brother
To the back door man
To the Lizard King
To the friend I never knew
Thank You.
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The amusing digressions of Doctor Feelgoode, straight from the front in Afghanistan.
History
Editor's Note
Corporal Adobe, a.k.a. "Doctor Feelgoode," isn't your run-of-the-mill grunt. He's what the Army calls a "multimedia illustrator" – a pen-and-mouse wielding computer graphics maestro in combat boots. Although combat really isn't part of the job description.
Feelgoode's been dispatched to the frontlines to draw pictures. Not frenzied sketches of nerve-racking street battles or grim portraits of war-torn faces contorted in anguish, but as the rock band R.E.M. might put it, pictures of shiny happy people holding hands.
(Yes, "propaganda," I can hear you all collectively sneer).
The often uninspired art finds its way onto leaflets and posters, sometimes strewn about the place like sandy toilet paper. It's not a very gratifying business, Feelgoode will tell you.
So, on this, his second tour of northern Afghanistan within the space of a year, the disgruntled twentysomething has turned to more fulfilling pastimes, like journaling and pipe smoking.
Ever the eager publisher, I asked Feelgoode to send me his deadpan epistles from the Middle East. They will be reproduced here, unedited and unvarnished, as hard proof of the crippling boredom that is the lot of many as the Bush administration's momentous-sounding "War on Terror" grinds on.
Feelgoode's been dispatched to the frontlines to draw pictures. Not frenzied sketches of nerve-racking street battles or grim portraits of war-torn faces contorted in anguish, but as the rock band R.E.M. might put it, pictures of shiny happy people holding hands.
(Yes, "propaganda," I can hear you all collectively sneer).
The often uninspired art finds its way onto leaflets and posters, sometimes strewn about the place like sandy toilet paper. It's not a very gratifying business, Feelgoode will tell you.
So, on this, his second tour of northern Afghanistan within the space of a year, the disgruntled twentysomething has turned to more fulfilling pastimes, like journaling and pipe smoking.
Ever the eager publisher, I asked Feelgoode to send me his deadpan epistles from the Middle East. They will be reproduced here, unedited and unvarnished, as hard proof of the crippling boredom that is the lot of many as the Bush administration's momentous-sounding "War on Terror" grinds on.
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