A Little of All is All of A Little...

This isn't going to count....for awhile

2008-03-18T05:55:00.004+03:00

I've been meaning to start a new blog. An interim blog. One that would allow me to just blather away with out order, reason or humor. And not give one shit about meating interest or standard.

But...I couldn't find an accectable title, even if it was temporary. Futhermore, it's taken me several months just to open a blog. So it's probably best that I stick with a familiar address.

I'm looking for a place type. To type out loud. To get started again, but maybe a little differently than I'm used too.

Have you ever read about yourself as the theme of someone's blog? It's fun. I've been dating this girl for about seven months and we are kind of at an impasse. Maybe more on that some other time.

Anyway, an old friend of mine text messaged me one day and says...

"Does someone have a girlfriend?"

"Yes"

"Do you live in the same building?

"Yes"

"I think your girlfriend has a blog..."

I didn't know this.

Yup, I was properly identified as the subject of my girlfriends blog by a friend who stumbled across it. The investigative prowress of an innocent party.

The drama didn't last long however, as the blog was cancelled. A consequence of someone reading my text messages.

I guess it's fair. Blogs can be personal too. And I read hers.

Woah...let's dust this fucker off!

2007-07-13T05:14:00.000+03:00

I didn't intend to post. Wasn't even a breezy thought. In fact the only reason I did is I happened to check in with an old and never ending favorite. The kind that never dies. Anyhow, I clicked my own link and what the hell?!?!?! It's been awhile....

What I was suppose to be doing...instead of blathering in this fucking thing, is preparing for a presentation at work. Long and dazzling story short, I have to give a presentation to my work in regards to a work instructions process that I re-wrote and made a few modest changes too.

There is nothing interesting about this.

That's probably why I stopped at power point slide number two and moved on to new endeavors. The good side is that I'm drinking a beer and couldn't care less.......at the moment. Normally, I'm stressed out my fucking mind trying to prove myself and accomplish as mush I possibly can.

That's a hard life to lead.

Which I think is why I'm so looking forward to retirement. Granted, I don't intend to do so until I'm 60...but I do plan to enjoy it very much when that happens. I think I should make that a blog post. Retirement goals. I have lot's of 'em and assuming I make it that far, I promise they will happen. Anyway, back to the now. Oh...I should be working on the presentation. Fuck it. Back to idealism...

Another interesting thing in my life on the social side which i sacrifice heavily, is sort of relationship I have. I have been dating possibly the most easy going, independent women from birth to date. I met her because of my spastic dog. She's a doggie psychologist. I don't know what to make of it.

A very dear person to me asked if I was "dating out of convenience?"

I can assure you, reader, that this is not the case.

I will masturbate out of convenience, but dating is anything but.

I do like spending time with her....it's just...something is missing and I think it's time to look for that something somewhere else.

But first I have a presentation to prepare for...a paper to write....Army training this weekend....and so on...

I guess that's how life works.

You consume yourself with the axis you turn on...

~Rolligun

Random Thoughts

2007-04-23T06:52:00.000+03:00

I was walkiing my dog down by the lake and I saw a little kid, maybe 8, wearing a t-shirt that says "tobacco free." I wasn't sure what to think...In fact, I think it should be implied. For example, I am not going to wear a shirt that says "fuck you." People should just know. In any event, what to do about the kid...do I congratulate him or do I give his parents some clothes money?

I'm trying to make a conscious effort to smile at people when I walk. I think it's nice. But there's a trade-off when manufacturing smiles.

I give a presentation tomorrow night for my class. I haven't done this in about three years. Maybe I'll try the infomercial approach and use an unessearcy amount of enthusiasm.

I left my apartment the other night and when I opened the door, there were three pepole, in a file, eating food next to my door. This bothered me. I think I'll put up sign requiring reservations.

One of my boss's is an Air Force guy. He can't get enough of the Air Force guys as opposed to Army guys kind of joking. I couldn't give a fuck. See manufactured smiles.

I have a new nemsis in the Army. He's an old brittle man, who I presume once audtitioned for the role of John Wayne. He thinks he's a presidential appointee. I think he'll have a heart-attack the first time I express my disagreement with him.

~Rolligun

An Email Conspiracy

2007-02-18T00:39:00.000+03:00

The following is my reply in an email thread with some friends. It consists of old college buddies with the point of planning a get together next fall. Anyway, my friend Ryan uses his work email address and for whatever reason they have the most ridiculous email filter. And given my affections for swearing, it comes as no surprise that none of my responses get through to him. So that means that I have to edit what I say and that drives me fucking nuts! I don't know how to get my messages across properly with out swearing. Anyhow here goes...

Dear Ryan,

Ryan I'm worried about you. See, I fear that you may not know the entire story behind your company's emailing policies. For example, getting an email through "Quality One's" gauntlet of grammatical algorithms is not as easy as using a series of decoy characters from the numeric row, as you have suggested.

The email I sent regarding bandwagons and debauchery, did not make it through the "Quality One" electronic filtering system. I had to resend it to you as a second hand attachment. Despite using a strategically placed assterisk, "Quality One" was not to be fooled.

But back to the beginning, regarding the part about me being "worried about you." It is not because I'm concerned about you not getting important company memos, detailing such policies as email. It is that I don't think "Quality One" is who they say they are. Let me explain...

You see, I fear that "Quality One," as they are most commonly known, is actually an indirect subsidiary of the infamous Halliburton defense contracting company. Otherwise known as VP Chaney’s vehicle for world domination. I don't think that "Quali-Burton" as I shall now refer to them, makes just "cabinets."

In fact, I think that they are secretly a kitchen surveillance company. The “custom cabinetry” as they call it, is really a tool for domestic spying, perhaps to help discredit the FDA. When “Quali-Burton” speaks of “framing” what they are really saying is watch the F*ck out, A**hole, big brother is watching you cook!

Why would Big Brother want to monitor the culinary habits of honest Americans? I'm not sure. Granted, it’s kind of a Hickory, Maple and Oak approach, but maybe their planning on using the Intel to eventually wage a war on the “nutritionists.” Claiming that their dietary rhetoric is terrorizing the U.S. Department of Agriculture. That in turn could possibly prevent the USDA from endorsing the chemically charged food products that we, as a nation, have spent years swallowing. Just think about all the profits that would be lost by these chemical companies that vigorously research new ways to manipulate the size of cow balls, so that more milk can be produced, per ball. What about pesticides? It’s apparently not acceptable to have healthy cows piss all over the crops to encourage growth, instead we need to “spray them” to protect from something or other.

All I’m saying Ryan, is be careful man. Why else would “Quality One” have such a ridiculous email system? What are they trying to hide?

~Rolligun

A Doggie Journal...

2007-02-15T01:20:00.000+03:00

I've recently begun taking my dog, who will call "Cody" to an anmial behaviorist. Cody got in a little bit of trouble awhile back, the kind of trouble that requires stitches. So seeing as though I don't want give him up or threaten the safety of my dog or anyone else, I've decided to get him a therapist. Part of his training includes me keeping a journal of his contact with other people.

This is an extremely boring assignment, especially since I'm suppose to prevent any human to dog contact until we're further along with the process. So to make it a littlle more interesting, I put a slightly "operational" spin to it as well as some bonus observations for the therapist to enjoy.

I hope she doesn't think my behavior (i.e journal) is the reason for his undesriable behavior. In any event, here is the format and highlights of the journal that I submitted to her today, his second appointment.

Task Force Cody
Canine Surveillance

February 1, 2007

Old lady walking…

Cody's walking on the left side; lady is approaching on the right. Lady is concentrating solely on forward movement. Cody identifies target and crosses in front of observer, or me. Cody's disposition is curious with wagging tale and ears pointed back. Target focus is subject’s right hand. Subject passes and observer pulls Cody before contact is made. A 270 degree turn is required by observer in order to continue forward with out risk of leash entanglement.

Training notes: All three maneuvers are completed. Approximate time seven minuets. Canine Disposition: Cody views this solely as “treat time.”

February 2, 2007

Guy in elevator…

Cody wanted to greet. Wagging tale, ears pointed back. Guy asserts position in corner of elevator. Cody continues to engage meeting, but no canine to human contact is made. Guy in corner is happy about that.

February 3, 2007

Guy waiting for Bus…

Cody zeros in on the back of strange man’s knee. Cody begins quick approach toward back of knee. Observer halts momentum and instead suggests nearby newspaper stand. The man knows nothing.

Saturday night Dog sitting….

My sister drops off her dogs. Cody demands more attention/affection with other dogs around. He accepts there presence but makes little attempt to socialize. Mainly harbors in my room. He did, when notified that everybody would be going for a “walk,” attempt to play with my sister’s dog, Virgil. Virgil is also an alpha dog and is not always receptive to unsolicited attention. He did not appreciate Cody’s attempts and all spontaneous play time was averted.

Cody did find toys previously thought to be of no consequence to now be suddenly useful in the presence of other dogs.

February 4, 2007

Cleaning Lady in Stairway…

On my way down the stairs a lady petted Cody before I had the chance to preemptively yell at her. She patted his head and I continued to concentrate on my descent. Cody paused for the attention, but quickly lost interest due to imminent thoughts of sniffing shrubbery.

February 7, 2007

Girl in elevator…

Cody was eager to receive attention from random girl. Girl in elevator was interested in giving Cody attention; however contact was averted with the words “my dog is in training.” I was expecting leper treatment from girl, however she happily obliged. Cody settled into a seated position, next to me but facing girl.

February 8, 2007

Couple Walking…

Cody leads with nose, wagging tale, eager to join walking couple. I pull Cody back before couple has opportunity to separate their fused hands and pet Cody. Within two steps, Cody is now fixated on looming pile of snow.

February 9, 2007

Lady in elevator with mini-dog and partial shopping cart…

Lady asks “is he friendly” “No” I replay, “he’s in training.” Cody makes no attempt to greet lady and her dog.

February 11, 2007

Scrubby man in elevator…

Elevator is small and man avoids customary step which is normally executed to allow for more room when additional occupants enter. Cody is eager to greet scrubby, immobile man, but as I pull him back man begins to pet Cody. I ask that he “please not pet my dog as he is in training.” The man responds with an immediate, however softly toned grunt. I attempt to translate the meaning of this grunt and I conclude that it is simply acknowledgement of his auditory abilities. Furthermore I consider his communication skills to be consistent with his avoidance of customary behavior. Cody spends his time wagging his tale and looking at socially challenged man. Cody’s jaw is open and his tongue is hanging out. Coincidently, so is the man.

{I hope this helps, becuase the alternative is even less interesting than that.}

~Rolligun

what am i thinking now?

2007-02-10T11:43:00.000+03:00

I'm sitting in my favorite pair of jeans. I just found them in one of the old boxes I have. I have a collection of sand colored boxes, decorated with duct tape, that contain the things I didn't throw out. Anyway my jeans, they're probably about nine years old and have ridiculous holes in them. Originally, the holes started out of natural development, but one day I decided to encourage the process and self destruct them under my own free will. So now, as I sit, they have gaping holes in each knee. They have random tears and a history wear. They have strategically placed safety pins, ironically, to continue their presence. I like these jeans because they're comfortable and they're sloppy, kind of like bowling shoes. I'm a horrible bowler.

I saw a women speak on Fox News. I hate Fox news, but I'll come back to that later. This woman had an important message, as she represented a lobbying group that was pushing for a change in foreign policy. She advocates the color pink. So this woman spoke on Fox news and all Fox news wanted to do was to manipulate her message. The correspondent, whose name rhymes with Vanity, would never shut up and continually pressured this woman to say the things he wanted her to say. If you’re not from this country, you should know that we have a two party media system as well as a two party political system, and everyone answers to the popular dollar. They work in teams. Anyway, this woman stood her ground and didn't give the answers she was pressured for. I admired this and sent her an email sharing my affirmation. She has since responded, and is curious to tap my mind, but I don't think I want to get involved in that. I just wanted to tell her that I admired her posture. Fox news is a horrible outlet of one sided, televised propaganda. Ruport Murdoch himself has admitted this in interview, well at least to the notion of pushing ideology. But anyway, check more sources than the link I gave you, nobody is ever completely right. It is always the person who’s loudest on stage that gives form to popular understanding.

So what am I thinking now? I'm thinking that I want to become a dirty recluse. A person who jots his thoughts and travels the world. That's what I want. I want to answer to myself and be able to tell the people who want my answers to fuck off. That's what I want. But will I do that? Probably not. I will continue to study and learn, but unfortunately I'll keep learning things of secondary interest. I will grow to pay taxes and strive for a retirement empire. Actually, I have grand plans for "retirement" so I do want money for that, but the commonly traveled process troubles me. What does that make me? I have presented and forecasted my own contradiction. I don't know. So I guess this entire post was leading up to the fact that I don't know anything , much less what I'm thinking.

~Rolligun

A Breif Tale of Europe

2006-11-18T08:23:00.000+03:00

I spent the previous two months in Europe. I started in Spain and didn’t originally have any interest in going to there, but I’m glad I did. The country was beautiful and plus I would get really excited when I would remember a phrase or two from my two years of high school Spanish, which was twelve and thirteen years ago. Anyway, my temporary excitement quickly led to disappointment when I couldn’t understand their answers. From there I caught a flight to London and arrived at a friend’s house at 3:00 in the morning. It was the best I could do at the time. So I was standing outside her door at three o’clock in the morning, tired and still pissed off about my experiences at Stanstedt Airport. I rang the bell. No answer. Rang again. No answer. Now I was fully prepared to sleep on her front lawn, as I had no where else to go, but I figured I would try and find a phone first. One last try before snuggling up with the roses. Just as I started on my payphone mission my residential benefactor came to the door. She was in her pajamas and began rubbing her eyes. As one would do when guests show up at that hour. Sorry I say. She welcomed me nonetheless. London was great and my generous host was a far more interesting person than I am. But I’m trying. Anyhow we had fun and I miss my time there. After London I went to Amsterdam where I lost complete control of myself. As you do in Amsterdam. But I didn’t do anything I regretted. Next stop was Munich for Oktoberfest. Now that was cool. Large tents with large mugs of delicious beer. Girls in Bavarian dress and somehow drunk people managed to get along. Definitely not an American thing. After Munich I went to Copenhagen, saw a castle, and went to Christianville, an autonomous community (look it up). From Copenhagen, I went to Stockholm. Land of the blondes. I am Swedish so I tried to explain to the girls that I’m just as much a part of the community as they are. They disagreed and looked for someone else to talk too. After Sweden I went to Prague. Prague was excellent and I have a special affinity for post nations of the eastern bloc. They became fraternal soviets, more or less. After Prague I went to Budapest were I missed riots by only a week. I was mad about that, because I’ll protest anything. "Yeah, and Fuck You." I would also point my finger. Then my final stop was Rome. Rome is a must see. Such dramatic history in Rome. And it’s all still there!

This was definitely the fast version of my travels. I loved it all and didn’t want to come back. I wanted to keep going lead my life in an entirely different direction. I think I will plan a trip to Thailand next winter but I do want to go back to Europe, one way or another. I’ll figure it out somehow.

~Rolligun

....just a couple more

2006-11-18T07:42:00.000+03:00

Pictures #2

2006-11-18T07:25:00.000+03:00

How should I title this...hmm, let's call it, let's call it, "Pictures"

2006-11-18T06:08:00.000+03:00

What can I say, I'm a flake.

2006-09-13T10:18:00.000+03:00

Alright, last week I set a short term goal that I would post five times in the following days. And I didn't do that. I was going to jot down some short and sweet words about whatever awkward observations I've had or places I've slept or something. And I didn't do that. Instead I'm spitting this dribble down. Again, only hours before I depart. I leave for Barcelona in 9 1/2 hours and coincidently enough, it was also approximatly 9 1/2 ago that a convinence store clerk, who is Arab, was informing me of Osama Bin ladens new threats. I thanked him for the update and assured him I would "be careful." Anyway, I'll be gone for maybe six weeks or so. Depends on financials, otherwise know as the ability to not spend money you don't have. Either definition will do. So off I go. Barcelona, Ibiza, London, Munich, Rome, Prague, and of course Amsterdamn. Plus whatever places I end up because of improperly getting off trains. Sometimes known as "the wrong stop" however more frequently expressed as "god DAMMIT!" by me. So I'm a flake I say. It's true. I've always been a flake with skipping plans or not calling people back, bouncing crowds and now because of writing. I'm a flaky writer. Sometimes I can. Somtimes I want to. And most times I don't. I had grand aspirations, of well the earlier mentioned "five posts in the next week" kind of grand. Plus I really wanted to write something that kind of made me feel like...I felt something. An almost equally cofusing way of saying that also comes to mind, it goes "I thought about thinking but didn't" In any event This is another one of those times where my ambition has exceeded my talent. So I'm a flake. But that isn't likely to change.

Rolligun

Sorry Janie...

2006-09-08T08:12:00.000+03:00

Dear Janie,

I am a horrible person. You have been so kind to me this past year and even extended an invitation for me to say hello in person while I was in Seattle. Not only didn't I take the time to meet you, but I didn't even have the decensy to call and say hello. I want you to know that I know that. My first excuse is that the nature of our trip was simply fast. We breezed through many states and places with out having as much time as we would have liked. I could have called regardless, just to add a personal touch to our acquintenace, but you mangaged to support a selfish and unappreciative soldier. My next excuse. I meant to call you, but I had forgotten. I remembered again, but by then I was in Wyoming and apparently Wyoming has some on going disagreement with the satelite companies, which basically disallows use of cell phones in that state. Eventually, we entered Coloarado and I remembered again how bad I felt about not even calling. Excuse number three. So I felt bad and started to wonder what I could have done differently. I still meant to call, but then I started wondering about Pluto, and how Pluto must also feel excluded. Then wondering about Pluto got me thinking about whether or not there has ever been a disney character named pluto. Then I started thinking about how I've never been to disney land. And so on. Anyway, this is my apology. Sorry Janie.

~Rolligun

Aspiring Arts

2006-09-08T07:40:00.000+03:00

Below you will find several random photos from a quick (13 days) road trip out west. I’ve decided that I need to add a hobby to my life, and photography is my new passion! Granted, this endeavor is heavily influenced by my friend Will who assigned me the responsibilities of taking the photos. This is what I ended up with. It’s his own fault for not owning a camera, but I think this is something I want to get into. So any photo enthusiasts out please feel free to email me some simple photography terms and other appropriate types of jargon so that can effectively convince people I know what I’m doing with a camera. Obviously those photos won’t help.

Some notes:

The picture of a lady with turtles is a picture of a lady with turtles who wanted to charge me for that picture. I asked if she took visa, she said "no." So I thanked her instead and left. What's up Venice Beach.

The big statue thing is a knome under a bridge in Seatle. I want one for my apartment.

The dudes playing basketball was also at Venice Beach. I took the photo because it reminded me of the backetball scene in "American History X" which is where the setting of the story took place. Anyway I was determined to find some skin heads and say "Hey man, have you seen Derek or Danny Vinyard?" My buddy Will told me that he would have no part of that, but I could find any skinheads anyway. Perhaps another time.

The other photos all fall under a particular "style" that I have, but more on that later.

~Rolligun

RaNdOm PhOtOz

2006-09-08T06:37:00.000+03:00

Homeless and Sandstone

2006-08-23T06:23:00.000+03:00

Last night I was in San Diego. We were staying on the beach and in the back of the hotel is a gate with a coded lock. The code is of general knowledge to all guests, except for me. There could be a number of reasons for these kinds of circumstances, they seem to be of familiar occurrence for me, but this isn’t the right time to talk about that. So I’m standing at this back gate and I’m trying to decide if I should continue on and worry about the entry code later or if I should walk way back up to my room to get the information that I needed. Standing maybe ten steps in front of me, plus two to the right, was a lady. At first I thought she was one of the select few privileged enough to have the required information that I had been exluded from. That being the access code for the back gate, at least at the time. I asked her if she knew what it was and she said that she didn’t. So naturally I said fuck it and decided to worry about getting back in at a later time. I stepped out letting the gate door slam, and my unhelpful acquaintance instead offered her knowledge that my recent action will not allow me to reenter the gate just as I had exited. I was pretty much aware of that fact the second my foot hit bottom step and coincidently enough, that is exactly what I intended on happening. I thanked her for the alert anyway and proceeded to take the ten steps across the sidewalk to her general area, not because I was hoping to ask another question, but because it was on the way to the beach. It wasn’t until I got a bit closer that I realized she was homeless. She was probably in her early forties and I had the impression she was very pretty at one time. She talked with drawn out syllables, similar to what I’d expect a drunken surfer to sound like and her hair was a short sandstone. She was friendly and interested in casual details. Things such as why you don’t see diving boards on pools anymore or why I had two bracelets on the same wrist. I was curious about her, especially with the events leading to her standing by the beach with four bags, all different colors, and an old bicycle. I didn’t ask her any of those things so I can’t tell you who she is. Just homeless with sandstone hair and had at one point in her life gotten more attention than she gets now. Just then a man and his girlfriend approached the gate and proceed to apply the knowledge they had regarding the gate access code. I wasn’t envious or anything but I wanted to know the code too so I hollered a bunch of words that I thought would come off as friendly and serve to let them know what I wanted. The guy was apprehensive and asked my room number as well as providing the simple steps he took in order to attain the information before exiting the premises. I agreeded that those actions, such as asking the clerk, were simple and had put him in a better position than I was in at the time. Either way he approached me face to face, shot a glance at the sandstone and detail orientated lady and then whispered the code to me while covering his mouth. I thanked him for it, felt bad for the lady. She wasn’t of any harm and seemed more interested in migrating along then she was with another hotel. Especially one that didn't have a diving board at the pool. I’m not sure if she was aware of the exclusion, but it was unessecary. The guy left and I fineshed up the conversation with the homeless lady. I wanted to give her something, but didn’t have anything. She didn’t ask for anything either. I wanted to know things about her and I sure as hell wouldn’t have cared if she was given the code as well. Sometimes people get the things they need in life and sometimes those people are not you. Anyway, in the end I walked out to where the sand was washing back and forth. Once I go there I stood still and did that thing where you let the water suck the sand from around your feet and you feel like your moving while sinking. That was fun.

~Rolligun

Hey Jack Kerouac

2006-08-21T11:35:00.000+03:00

C’mon on Jack….were takin off. I've spent the last three weeks bouncing from town to town visiting friends and family. It’s been a bit exhausting not being able to stay in one spot, but I think your use to that. I've been traveling on a bike with back pack and an Army Luandry bag full of clothes. The long highway drives have been a drag, but the country roads make up for it. I haven’t been able to write for the last three weeks and you for the last 37 years, but hopefully that will all change. You missed the welcome back parade. I’m not much for celebrations and all, but I have to admit that rolling into town on a bus to people waving American flags while welcoming you back from the sidewalk was a cool feeling. But as I said, it’s time to go again. We’ll be using planes, rental autos, trains, motorcycles and maybe your favorite, a good ole fashion hitch. The first trip is a quick little jaunt out west to Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, something Wyoming, then Denver and back “home.” We are meeting a friend out there who will be driving up the coast and back east. This is the little trip, but you’ll have to pack fast, our flight to L.A. takes off in five hours. Apparently you can’t bring your flask along, or your toothpaste, but that’s anothher deal. Anyway, if I remember correctly, you’ve always been a light packer with little to hold you back. We’ll be back about Labor Day weekend and will probably rent a car to get the twin cities and see some old college friends. One of them acquired a wife and a mortgage while we were gone while the other has managed to cut his hair. Then we’ll part ways for about ten days, till September 13, which is when we’ll meet up again and catch a flight to Barcelona. I was thinking something like four weeks, but it’s starting to look more like six or seven. We have London, Amsterdam, Ibiza, Oktoberfest (munich), Rome and Prague on the agenda. I’m looking forward to the travel and maybe finding something new. I’ve been answering the same questions over and over for the last three weeks, with all the Army one’s ending with simplest description of what I did. I’m fine with that, but the only question that bothers me a bit is when everyone asks “so how does it feel to be back?” They always answer it for me, saying something like “it must be such relief” or “you must be so excited” but that’s not how I feel. I don’t feel much of anything, but I’m not worried about that, I simply agree and wait for the next question. In any case the last three weeks have been good, I’ve seen lot’s of people that I’ve missed and been catching up on as much as I can. But there’s something about travel that I’m hoping for. I’m not sure what it is, but that’s why I’m asking you to go. Drinking, traveling, writing and counter culture has always been your thing, so that’s what will do.

Pack your bags Jack, we got places to go!

~Rolligun

A little HNT et. al.

2006-08-17T20:35:00.000+03:00

I've been meaning to get out a quick little post and catch up with all my favorite bloggers (i.e. the one's that comment here) but it's quite hard given my current lifestyle. More to come on that later. In the mean time here is a few photos I wish to spit out!

(I've mentioned a long time ago that I use to have my neck pierced before I left. Getting it redone was one of the first things I did, it takes FOREVER to heal. Anyhow, I'm pretty much done with the body art thing and my four piericings are down to just this one, but I still some holes open. I plan to keep it for the rest of my days. Either way it's a confusing piericing to most people, so here's a picture of my neck. I was instructed to use it as an HNT)

Other photos include my old home, how I travel for "visiting" as they say and of course my favorite soul in the world!

~Rolligun

the baseball player

2006-07-26T01:54:00.000+03:00

"You ready?"

"Yeah, just going to bring some coffee along"

"You said leave by four?"

"Yeah. It's a three hour drive"

"It's ten after, we..."

"...I know, just going to fill this up and throw my shit in the back. I'm ready."

"Alright"

It's dark outside. My body is tired but I'm not. We get in the car, it starts, and we leave. My shit is a green duffle bag. It's in the back. It occurs to me that this is the first time in probably twelve years that I sat passenger side next to my dad. My last memory of this is when I was fifteen years old and he would take me to school two hours early so I could work out. He still drives the same speed, but in a different car.

"Are you hungry, we can stop for something on the way?"

"Not really, but if you want to stop, feel free. I'm going to be gone for a year, so I could give a shit if I'm ten minutes late. Maybe for something to drink."

Everything is quite. My dad never listens to music when he drives. He didn't when I was young and he still doesn't. I do. The talking sounds like an echo, something I'm listening too, although not a part of. But everything is peaceful.

"I saw a Cubs game with your uncle Bob last week"

"Yeah..."

"He's coming up for a Brewers game pretty soon"

"Tell him I said Hi"

"Bobby is turning into one hell of a ball player. Just hitting the skin off the ball"

"How old is he now?"

"Twelve, He's going to be a hell of a..."

"Bob must be pretty excited about that"

"Oh he is, and I saw him play...Bob says he's going to be..."

I like quiet roads and morning fog. I like drizzled settings and long drives. I hate waking up early, but scenes like this are a worthy consolation. I just want to be silent. Just think. My dad is usually the same way, but he wants to talk. We have periods of silence while I watch the quiet city pass. The day hasn't started yet.

"So what did your mom have to say?"

"I don't know...not much, just usual. She was embarrassed to see you last night, that's why she left right away"

"How's she doing?"

"She has a ways to go"

"I would have liked to have said hi to her"

"I know. But she wanted to go"

"I hope she's doing well"

"She has a ways to go"

I'm wide a wake but I'm not even sure if I have a beating pulse. I feel so calm. No worries, no concerns, just distant thoughts. The buildings are being replaced by trees but the day still hasn't started.

"Did I ever tell you about your grandfather and what he did in Germany?"

"Yeah, he was a forward observer"

"He was a forward observer"

"Oh yeah"

"how you would like that job? Someone says to you "Hey take this radio and crawl into enemy territory and then call us back and tell us what you see"

"That's crazy"

"There's a long history military service on that side"

"Does he know I'm getting deployed?"

"Yes"

"What did he say?"

"He said "well, that's what happens..."

I once told Amy, my closest girlfriend, that if we ever went to war that I would probably join the Army. She said she wouldn't let me. That was eight years ago. I remember that and the Sun's is coming up.

"So how's Jessica?"

"Fine I think"

"Are you still together?"

"We broke up a few a months ago"

"Do you still talk to her?"

"Not really, random text messages here and there, but not much"

"Does she know your leaving?"

"Yeah"

"What she'd say?"

"...not to be a hero and that she would think of me "always""

"So what happened?"

"Different lives"

When we dated, Jessica said she didn't want to think about me being deployed. So I never talked about it, even though I knew it was going to happen. She once said she'd wait for me. I didn't believe her.

"Your grandparents are watching your dog?"

"Yeah, I couldn't imagine a better place for him. I tried taking him for a long walk last night before we left, but it rained earlier, so he wasn't interested"

"That's too bad"

"No big deal, we've been walking constantly over the last few weeks, I think we covered it all"

I'm thinking about the life I've separated myself from, the things I've either left behind or let go of. I'm already thinking about what I'll do when I get back. What happens in the mean time doesn't matter.

"So you got everything taken care of that you needed too?"

"Yeah, all set. Everything I'm keeping is already in your basement, everything else I either threw out or gave to Nathan"

"What are you doing with your Blazer?"

"Grandpa is selling it for me?"

"You should be selling that motorcycle"

"I should be riding that motorcycle"

"How'd your company take the news?"

"Fine, not much they can say. I rushed to get the things done I could, but didn't quite finish it all"

"Are you going back there?"

"I can, but I don't think sales is my thing. I'll probably look elsewhere when I get back, I'll have that luxery"

"Like what?"

"Construction again, only this time the white collar side of it. I'm thinking project management, I want to get into developments"

I've cut lose so many things, and I'm looking forward to replacing them all when I get back. I already haven't been feeling like the person I was, but I'm feeling more the way I'm suppose too.

"Have you heard where you'll be stationed?"

"Nope, and take the next exit. It's still a mystery, apparently. We hear different things but nobody knows"

"How about what you'll be doing?"

"Not that either. There have been some rumors of this and that, but again, nothing certain"

"How about training, what kinds of things will you be doing?"

"Convoys, weapons, security, check points, physical training, it's all standard stuff. They prepare pretty much everyone for that"

"How long will it last?"

"About two months or so, until we clear all the training"

I don't know what to expect. I don't know where I'm going or what I'll be doing. I've imagined it all. I don't know what to expect and I don't care.

"Where too?"

"Take a left at the light, then the next right and pull into the parking lot. You'll see it, there will over a hundred soldiers standing around waiting for a formation and saying good bye"

I remember this town. I went to college here and Jessica is still living here.

"Where should I park?"

"Right here is fine"

"Do you need help with anything"

"No"

"Well take care Son, I'm proud of you."

"Will do...thanks for everything"

"Good bye"

"Good bye, Dad"

We shook hands and he turned right around and drove the three hours back to the other side of the state. That was the morning of July 5, 2005 and now the day has started...

My dad is a good man. I always felt we could have talked a bit more than we did, not just that morning, but others as well. I didn't have much to say then, and we'll usually talk about the same things anyway, but sometimes, he really makes sense. And he loves to do that, to make reason of things and talk in anologies. So I do the same.

One of the strongest connections we had was "baseball." It sounds simple enough, but there's more to it. He used to play ball when he was younger and his enthusiasm became my enthusiasm as I grew up. One the most powerful things he was able to do for me was to make me feel like I was the best twelve year old baseball player on the planet. Of course this wasn't true and eventually I realized that I wasn't the glove wielding hero that I thought I was, but what did occur to me, eventually, was the power of influence that a parent has. He was able to make me beleive in something that is more than what's there. That's powerful. So naturally, one day my kid will also be the best 12 year old baseball player on the planet (or dancer, depending on whoever shows up).

~Rolligun

My next post will be from home.

this 'n that

2006-07-22T23:04:00.004+03:00

I have since completed a “draft” of my graduate essay. It was done almost a week ago, but it’s not very good. I hate this draft and managed to not create anything of interest or insight by any stretch of an elastic imagination. It bothers me to know that, but it is what it is and its time to move on.

I had to relive a part of the DCS briefing today. My thoughts on this have not changed. But on a positive note, I made some extraordinary advances in facial dexterity. I was going to publish my results, but decided to look into scientific patents first.

I leave the desert very soon! All of our missions ended and I’ve since been re-attached to my old unit. I’ve been very successful in still maintaining operational distance from my old unit, otherwise known as being in command of myself; however that has since come to an end. So for the last remaining days my time will be eaten up with erroneous tasks and I will also be responsible for eating the time of the people under me. With equally non-sensical bullshit. That’s how the chain of command works. So it is.

But I do have matters of great importance to discuss, so if time is not of any value, feel free to read on or maybe duplicate my advances in facial dexterity.

~Rolligun

ToothPastE

2006-07-22T23:04:00.003+03:00

I like brushing my teeth. True it’s about hygiene but it also serves as a temporary “mindless task” which helps to aid in moments of reflection. Plus, I always feel like I’m racing someone or maybe I’m being timed. It’s fun. As is counting, but interestingly enough, alphabetizing isn’t. Eh, subjects for another time. Back to “toothpaste.” Another reason I like brushing is because I usually do it in the shower, this adds to my pleasure, and it’s safer, but I’ll come back to that. Anyway, to my knowledge, I have never been beaten in this event. Another interesting note is that I never brush my teeth the same way twice. I’ll start in different parts of my mouth and, without warning, will spontaneously switch to another location. My teeth are never prepared for this. My hand barely even knows what to expect. It keeps everyone honest. Sometimes I’ll employ a circular motion or maybe, for no reason whatsoever, decide that I’m adamantly concerned about one particular tooth and will proceed to violently scrub away at that one single spot. Not because of an assigned punishment, more than likely it’s because of a clot in my thought process, which serves to stunt my active behavior. In any case, it’s different every time, with no one brushing the same as another. Kind of like snowflakes.

However, there is a dark, unpredictable side to brushing. An erratic nuisance for which I have not determined a mechanism to avoid it. It’s called a “toothpaste stain” or something to that effect. I’ve always thought there was more serious name for this type of occurrence, but when I asked other people what they call it; they gave me weird looks that said “get out of the sun.” So as not to cause further alarm, I quickly started talking about weapons instead. They obviously don’t feel the same way I do. Anyway, we’ll call them toothpastes stains for lack of a better term.

The major issue with toothpaste stains is that they are temporarily un-removable. I don’t know why, and I have thought about it. But before I examine that topic any further, I want share the reasons for which they occur. This, I think I do know. I’ve determined that toothpaste stains are the result of one of three factors. The first two were mentioned in the beginning. One, I believe, is an inability to coordinate my motor skills. This happens when the neurons in my head are firing to fast for the messenger pony’s to deliver the instructions. For example, when attempting to switch to a new position in my mouth, the orders to prepare and execute are not received on time, and inevitably, you have a toothpaste stain. The second is when my distant but concurrent thought process I employ during brushing, stalls on one particular issue. I refer to this as a “clot.” My thoughts on this random query begin to gather and gather and eventually the puddle of thought is to much for the given moment and, yes…you guessed it, my thoughts spill over in the from of a toothpaste stain. I usually swear loudly when this happens, but it doesn’t help. The last way, is what I call an equipment malfunction. For example, I recently started using a new toothbrush. It’s one with the flexible head. Looks like a slinky. This toothbrush SUCKS. I feel like I’m brushing my teeth with a broken finger. It has soft bristles and I hate this toothbrush. I started using it because it was available and I change toothbrushes fairly often. But it’s a very misleading device and I have no idea why the research and development people from Hasbro, were hired on to develop dental tools. But they were, and with them came dated toy technology. This kind of toothbrush doesn’t work, but it looks like it would. Its lazy head causes problems similar to those that my leisurely messenger pony’s are accused of. That being poor coordination. However the pony’s have no control over this. This leads to lots of toothpaste stains on account of its slinky type design, which is erroneously marketed as a flexible head. Foolish consumers. Anyhow, those are the three main causes. I still have yet to figure out what it is about toothpaste stains that make them impossible to remove, but they are definitely a badge of idiocy that cannot be eliminated. I suggest you make no more mistakes for the rest of the day, because between the two of them, you are likely to never be respected again. So be careful.

I have one more hitch to add. This occurred to me when discussing the R&D developments in the toothbrush industry. It has to do with bristle tension. See, I prefer the ones with hard bristles. Although I’m not convinced they exist. I’m led to believe that a “hard” setting is available, but frustratingly enough, the hardest bristles I’ve seen on market are designated as “medium.” This suggests there is a hard option, but I’ve never seen one. The problem is further complicated by availability of a “soft”, but still no hard. I wish they would just say that no such toothbrush exists so I can save my self the immeasurable journey. However until they do, I will keep using the medium ones while on lookout for the elusive and most likely non-existent “hard” bristled toothbrush.

That’s pretty much covers the highs and low’s of brushing my teeth. Sometimes the things that are important to me are of no importance to others. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me and life is simply too hard. I won’t bother you with these troubles anymore.

WAIT…yes I will…

I have one other issue of major consequence that I think we should devote some time too. It happens when I prepare to transition my clothes for the “laundry process.” You see, when I get undressed, I have this habit of ripping of my clothes in reverse fashion, resulting in an abundance of inside out clothes. This is especially troublesome when it comes to socks. Now the short term gain is completely cancelled out when it comes time to putting my clothes back in wearable form. This is after removing them from the drying machine. This means that I have to re-invert every single article of clothing before I even start “folding”, as they say. This is a VERY time consuming and an unnecessary burden in life. But I fight like hell to keep myself from balling everything up and stuffing it into my dirty clothes bag. (It’s green with white draw strings.) The only thing that keeps me from doing that is the very likely possibility of me complimenting my wrinkly shirt with a large and unforgiving toothpaste stain. That would be completely unacceptable and would exceed the allotted number of blunders I’m afforded in any given day. So it is.

I think I started taking care of myself at too early of an age.

~Rolligun

It's not you...It's me

2006-07-13T14:09:00.000+03:00

Ah Ha! I finally got the chance to be the one to say it.

But in this case I'm referring to a self-imposed blog suspension. This suspension of duty is here by contingent on my completion of a grad school application. I've been in clear avoidance of this endeavor with a certain determination to do anything but. I am here by required to write an essay and otherwise complete at least one application in order to release myself from this compulsory ruling.

Rolligun

Rolligun
13 July, 2006

So until further notice, I will be suspended from blogging.

I'm not anticipating a long suspension, but do know that I have a contingency plan in case this one doesn't work. The contingency plan will include such consequences as forbidding the use of my pillow, required listening of country music, mandatory waiting in lines or a reduction of simple pleasures such as my shower time.

I'm not happy about any of this, but the clock is ticking so it's time to make something happen.

I'm sorry that things had to come to this, but as I said before...it's not you, it's me.

The DCS Briefing

2006-07-09T01:33:00.000+03:00

*Warning –- if there is anything else that you could possibly do instead of reading this post…Do it!!! And I mean when was the last time you checked the length of your toenails? If they need trimming, then do that instead. I’m about to relive an Army briefing in the following post. Don’t hold on to anything because this post is going nowhere…it’s an Army Briefing.

The DCS briefing is, like all army briefings, a box to be checked. They’re a consequence of the great thinkers in the world who somehow believe information is retained at these gatherings. They are usually conducted by other soldiers who, oddly enough, have the natural stage presence of bedroom furniture. This inspiring display of energy is usually complimented with the public speaking savvy of a grade school George Bush. Needless to say, the table is set for a scholarly delight. How it could be anything but?

The main idea behind this briefing is “re-deployment” so that should at least gather some positive esteem for the event. However, all is lost before we even enter the door. I was scheduled to attend this briefing with a mock platoon of soldiers from my old unit. There was some troops I haven’t seen in awhile. In some cases I cared and in others I didn’t. The Sergeant First Class, who was in charge of the group, took his responsibilities very seriously. I wasn’t under the impression that a “senior leader” was needed for this event and as far as I could tell the only responsibility available was in taking attendance. In any case, the SFC decided we needed to assemble an hour before hand and proceed to our destination in a ridiculously early manner. Seven minutes later were standing like a herd of idiots outside the building only to be told that we can’t enter for another 53 minutes. Keep in mind it’s about a 115 degrees outside, mid-day and there is what I believe to be four different colored suns in the sky. I’ve been up most of the previous night, I have sweat comfortably puddling in the corners of both my eyes and the only words I can eloquently assemble for the guy next to me are “WHAT in the fuck are we doing here!?!?!” So much for the positive esteem I had been preparing.

I had already been given several pieces of paper that, among other things, describe who I am both physically and numerically and otherwise serve purpose as to my admittance for the event. Well armed with these pieces of paper, I was still asked to fill out several others with information that is eerily similar to what’s included in the one’s I had presently been carrying. I offered to trade in the papers I already had, relieving myself of two burdens, but my offer was abruptly declined and instead I was directed to “sign here” and “move on.” Eventually everyone was seated and the briefing began.

(Note: I hate sitting for long periods of time and I’m not what people would refer to as “patient”)

The bright side is the chairs were comfortable and the building was air conditioned. This was a pleasant improvement from our pre-mobilization briefings which took place in a very old wooden church with very old wooden benches and one large iron fan, which had been agreeably aimed at exactly 1/5 of the audience. The large iron fan was similar to those you may remember from the hallways of your old elementary school. The fans didn’t work back then and they certainly didn’t improve with age. Anyway, that was last June. Despite any comfort the new amenities provided, the subject matter itself did a brilliant job of balancing the situation by instilling a never ending sensation of stabbing discomfort. Topics of interest include finance, JAG, medical (w/interview) and of course an all-embracing dissertation from the Chaplin. The total estimated time for the briefing is four hours; however the total estimated time index is believed to be 2012.

The first part of the briefing was finance. This part of the briefing included a run down of certain allowances and credits that were to be expected from serving overseas as well as a complete description of the common financial obligations one might expect when returning home. Things such as paying bills or saving money. Apparently, the Army believes these concepts, to include counting, will need to be re-learned. I think that many soldiers already know this stuff and those who don’t, but care, will ask. Now, I’m sure there are those who weren’t able to determine their financial position over the course of a year and perhaps forgot how to count, however I don’t think any new enlightenments were afforded to them on this day either. But there was financial advice, such as “open a savings account” if you don’t already have one, or maybe open second one if you already do. Or something to that effect. So there could have been some benefit. In any case, several pieces of paper were handed out regarding these matters.

The second part of the briefing was J.A.G. For those of you unfamiliar with what that is, it’s basically the legal arm of the military. I knew the guy giving the briefing, he’s a civilian lawyer from Illinois and I had briefly served with him earlier in the year before we both got re-attached someplace else. We still talk and I had actually met up with him a few days earlier. Anyhow, he managed to cover all issues legal (relative to soldiers) both military and civilian, in matter of eleven minutes. He was the most extraordinarily efficient and therefore the best presenter I had ever seen in all my days of military service. Simply fantastic. Eleven minutes and only one piece of paper. I don’t know what else I can say about this. He was the best.

We took a quick break at this point. Initially, I stood up and started to turn a little, but then I realized that I have nothing to do. So I scratched behind my ear for a bit, completed my circle, and sat back down.

The briefing continued when everyone returned. I’m not sure what could possibly have been more important than “getting through this” but apparently people had some ideas. Either way, the briefing started back up with a couple of other speakers and topics that were not expected -- by me. I thought I had a complete understanding of what the briefing was going to entail but somehow more subjects managed to sneak their way into the briefing. I tried to find there scheduled appointments on some sort of “agenda” but curiously enough, an “agenda” was not among the pieces of paper that had been handed out. So with nothing to base my argument on, I was forced to sit in continued silence and listen to the surprise information. Something about press releases, employer programs, more security and so on. I spent most of this time comparing my right hand to my left, but if you have any questions, feel free to address them in an email. I can always find the answers for you in the additional pieces of paper that I received from them.

Next up is the Chaplin’s briefing. The Chaplin is invited, to what I conclude to be, every single Army briefing known to man. Now the Chaplin did speak about some issues that are important. Things that could be considered hard to hard to make fun of, however, I will do my best. Until recently, I thought the name “Chaplin” had in fact been a family name and not a job title. I had simply thought it to be some bizarre family custom where the surname was given first. The rationale for my flaw in reasoning was that everyone I ever met named “Chaplin” all seemed to have the same character traits in common and therefore must have been family relation. As far as I could tell, all Chaplin’s were exceedingly soft spoken, consistently jovial yet frighteningly calm and all told excruciatingly unfunny jokes. Plus of course there’s the common belief system they all seemed to share, although I’m so completely uninvolved during that part of their speeches that I wouldn’t even know how to begin describing it. Anyway, they were clearly related and clearly different from me, which explains both my apprehension and confusion surrounding their family background. (I’m not sure if these are the type of people I could comfortably leave my child with). Whatever the case may be, Army Chaplins are related in spirit, not genealogy. O.k. back to the briefing. The most important thing the Chaplin spoke of, as far as I was concerned, was regarding the transition from serving in war to serving in a household. He spoke about the differences in roles, changes in expectations and the psychological effects on younger children. He talked about marital problems and I do remember one thing he said which I thought was worth remembering. He said if there were family problems before you left there will be family problems when you return…”distance doesn’t solve problems, people solve problems.” That wasn’t novel to me but I appreciated his brevity. I don’t have a family, not in the sense he was referring too, but I thought this was the part of the briefing that served to benefit others. Fortunately for me, I didn’t leave anyone behind. I was the perfect person to be deployed. But so many soldiers here do have families so I did like this part. Also he spoke of suicide rates and how they rise both towards the end of a deployment and during the summer months. Maybe I should get back to singularity of Army Chaplins. Either way, I received more papers which included words assorted in inspirational order, casual reading about family issues, and contact information for people who will undoubtedly have more pieces of paper to give to you.

The last part of the briefing (which reminds me, I really think we need to define what sort of criteria constitutes a “briefing”) was the medical. This was the exact same presentation that was given to us last summer as well as in the fall. The exact same one. It included knowledge about various geographically specific skin disorders in addition to other forms of illness that had befallen soldiers from past conflicts. Such as uranium exposure or post traumatic stress disorder. I did take a personal moment to once again applaud myself for refusing to get vaccinated for anthrax. You see last summer we were strongly encouraged to get a series of vaccinations (six shots total) that had been “temporarily” approved by the FDA. Now I don’t remember how exactly they phrased it (they didn’t use the word temporary), but the message I got out of it was someone got pressured by someone else to approve a drug that will stop one thing but has a wait see approach when considering future side effects. I did personally expand on their explanations regarding the vaccine, but why take that chance? Anyhow, this opens the door wide open for discussion, but I’m going to skip that topic out of respect for the “time index.”

About two-thirds of my unit went on to take the shots despite my unprepared attempts to lobby against it. Either way, I quietly congratulated myself once again for that decision. Once I was done accepting my personally appointed medal for valor, I reluctantly rejoined the “briefing.” However, I wasn’t there for long. The medical person went on and on about god knows what and I became fixated on using my fingers to stretch my eye lids as well as practice other kinds of facial skills such as pulling my bottom lip over my top lip. Finally I snapped out of it by dropping all of the pieces of paper I had accumulated all over my feet. This was a fascinating development in its own right, because not only did valuable time pass on the account of how long my scattered retrieval took, but also because I never took the time to notice how exactly someone could print so many pieces of paper with such a non-distinguishable font. In fact, if I had never taken the time to observe how an elderly person reads, I never would have known to use both hands and place the paper immediately in front of my eyes in order to figure it all out. This was truly amazing and kept me well occupied for the remainder of the briefing.

Eventually the medical briefing was over and one by one each person in attendance went to speak with the physician where they were asked to disclose any health related issues over a series of questions. This was finally the part of the day where we were able to speak casually with the person next to us, however I didn’t like the person next to me and I was still very much busy with the investigation. My research was halted on the account that it was my turn to speak with the physician (my findings remain inconclusive). Naturally, I entered the room fully prepared to answer “no” to everything single thing I heard, but my plan was quickly derailed when the physician I saw was (same word backwards) the same one I saw about my broken ear. This led to casual chatting and thus broke my defiant concentration on the word “no.” Now the ear injury I suffered was in no way a war related injury. In fact, it wasn’t even honorable by “jackass standards” but it was an injury and was documented. Also, my mission was noted as some sort of default setting in the paper work. I really need to concentrate harder in the future.

Interestingly enough, one of the pieces of information that wasn’t covered was “what does DCS stand for?” The Army loves acronyms. Unconditionally loves them. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to ascertain the meaning of those letters and had unsuccessfully solicited their meaning from the others in attendance. In fact, I didn’t even receive an answer either of the times I asked. I simply received the non-verbal message that says “who fucking cares?” So, I don’t know what DCS means. But I do have a small tree’s worth of informative papers, so maybe it’s in there somewhere. If only I could read them.

~Rolligun

Just turn the handle and push...

2006-07-07T00:31:00.000+03:00

There are exactly two things left for me to do in the applying for grad school process. Everything else is taken care of. I’ve studied, scheduled and took the GMAT. I contacted people who I didn’t keep in touch with and was still able to arrange some letters of recommendation. I’ve filled out papers, chosen schools (pseudo decided), and mailed transcripts. All that’s left, aside from applying stamp and envelope, is to cut a check and write the admissions essays. That should not be a big deal. The tasks which I originally figured would transpire into a headache were the rec. letters and the GMAT. But for some reason I’m dragging my feet on completing the essays. (Note: the only obstacle to writing a check is finding my checkbook).

If anything, this whole application process just got a lot easier on the account of a free education if I stay in Milwaukee, meaning fewer schools to apply to, and therefore fewer choices. I’m not exactly sure how I feel about that, a financial gain but I'm well limeted geographically. But how could you make the choice to go someplace else and pay $30,000 plus when I wouldn’t have to pay anything otherwise. However, I’m not even that far yet. I don’t seem to be able to actually complete any of the essays. The deadline isn’t until September 1, but I wanted to have everything completed and submitted by, well, seven days ago.

I have zero enthusiasm when I begin the essay scribbling process. I’ve only made two attempts total and this should be so easy. Just explain the following…

Why pursue graduate studies (why this school/program)?

What are your experiences? Your skills? Your interests and goals?

What can you offer the program?

Who are you?

How hard is to answer these questions? It’s not and I have no idea what my problem is. All I have to do is write with some sort of thought process, develop my ideas to at least the age of infancy and show a level of enthusiasm that’s something on par with buying ice cream. For whatever reason this seems to be a major challenge for me.

My attempts have been mild at best and every single day I wake up with intentions of using my down time to write the essays. But I keep finding other things to do. I don't know what the deal is? I’m starting to think that I won’t believe the things I would say. Maybe I'll find out I don’t know what I want or why I want it. Then again, I have a habit of making things more complicated than they need to be. I'm hoping for the latter.

I use to think I knew all this shit.

~Rolligun

A Post Alternative

2006-07-05T00:07:00.000+03:00

The other day I was writing to another blogger who had written to me about blogging and writing for a blog, not only as a blogger but also as a writer.

That was a confusing sentence, wasn’t it?

That’s probably because I kept using the same word throughout the whole thing. Or maybe it was the truly hideous display of grammatical reasoning. In any case, it’s the former that I’m concerned with, the need of having to use the same word multiple times. See, this problem occurred to me when I was returning the email and had to use the word “post” several times and for several different reasons. I was annoying myself and god only knows what my unchallenged reader must have been thinking. I don’t think this guy reads. I could be exaggerating the number of times I actually used the word “post,” but the impression I had remains the same.

So listen: My conclusion is this…I no longer like the word “post.”

I mean, I’m at the point where I don’t feel as though I’m prepared to answer a question such as…

“So what do you write?”

“Well, I don’t write stories, and I don’t write essays or anecdotes, what I write…are posts. Yes, I write posts.

I try to offer a little bit of variety in the things I write or rather that I post. Some of my posts are serious, some of them reflective, others are bit of searching and the rest of them, are apparently nonsensical, such as this. I could maybe handle lumping all these themes under a single generic term such as “post” but I’ll be damned if I have to introduce the generic noun with its generic cousin, even in the form of a verb. Example…

Yesterday, I posted my post.

See what I mean?

There will be no more writing posts and there will certainly be no more posting of posts, for me.

Some may think I’m inflating the seriousness of the matter or they might assume the role of mordant problem solver and therefore suggest a thesaurus. But I’m not and don’t be an asshole. If you don’t believe me, then let me demonstrate the range of the problem. I’ll continue on with my example from before.

Yesterday, I posted my post. I wrote the post, while on post, at my military camp, otherwise known as a post. Since I had been guarding my post while writing the post, I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t even pretend like I was supposed to be posted someplace else because the place I was posted was marked with a post that had been posted by the post commander.

Now I’m reasonably sure I could find an ample number of appropriate substitutes to be used in place of the word “post,” but where I fall short, is when finding a way to classify the things I’ve written for this blog. That in addition to desribing the process of putting those posts {dammit} on the screen.

So I’m prepared to look for my replacement.

I’ve started by assembling a list of suggestions and then giving them a trial run with the first words that come to mind, just to see what each term evokes.

Here goes.

Composition ~ Here is my composition Professor Handel, it can either be read or it can be sung, either or.

Umm, that’s too much and I don’t write things that can be sung.

Script ~ Playwright.

Nevermind, I’d never be allowed on a stage. Ever.

Column ~ Yes, I have a weekly column for the Daily Post {wtf} where I explore the, ugh-urh-ahk-ahh, -- Sorry, I have this unfortunate habit of talking with a pencil in my mouth and then choking on it.

No, I’m not a journalist either.

Feature ~ Here is my feature. Would you like to see my feature? No No, don’t run…I mean read it, I mean read my feature. Shit.

Uhh, too ambiguous.

Editorial ~ See the guy with the pencil.

Article ~ If I ever achieve the rank of article writer, that means I’m getting paid to waste people’s time, so until that day comes, I don’t think I’m entitled.

Story ~ Too limiting, this means that every time I want to write about one of my daily fascinations, such as gravel patterns, I have to somehow insert a character into it.

Essay ~ Oh god, I’m not researching shit!

Piece ~ O.k., I’m thinking drugs, sex or puzzles (which reminds me…I haven’t posted about puzzles yet)

Examinations ~ No, to much like essay, and I’m getting a headache just thinking about the word

Text ~ I already yammer long enough in my….uhh, posts, I don’t need any encouragement.

Chronicle ~ You’ve traveled long and far my son, but have you retrieved the lost chronicles?

What’s going on here? Is this an adventure?

Passage ~ No this tells me that I just graduated from puberty and I'm now prepared for manhood or perhaps I have a new journey to embark, but not so much a literary mark.

Message ~ 7:00 Don’t forget!!!

Nothing to do with writing, just obligations.

Letter ~ Is there such a thing anymore?

Note ~ Do you think I’m cute? Check yes or no.

Those never worked.

Alright, I’m out of ideas. I have absolutely no idea how to solve this problem. I was hoping to write a piece that included an examination of the possible alternatives of my post problem and eventually saunter my way to a conclusion. That didn’t work and this turned out to be an extremely unsuccessful narrative (hmm…nah). I think I’ll just call this an absurdity, but then I still have no other choice but to post it. What else would I do?

So If anyone has any suggestions, do share them. Otherwise I’m destined to imagining myself bopping up and down on the back of horse for as long as I blog.

~Rolligun

Smile for the Camera!

2006-07-01T22:35:00.000+03:00

I’m not really one for having my picture taken. It usually takes some amount of prodding and pushing and that’s only after my attempts to quietly duck out the back prove unsuccessful. Then someone will notice and inevitably start waving their hands. Thus the prodding begins. I’ll usually give in after the second, maybe third attempt, because I’m also not interested in gathering a bunch of attention over my refusal. So fuck it, I’ll get in the photo and manufacture a smile. My other line of defense is to volunteer to be one holding the camera. Sometimes that works. Other times it doesn’t, but I’m sure to let everyone know that I’m well qualified for such a task. See, I use to wait tables at the type of restaurant where people get really dressed up and go out to celebrate shit. So it goes with out saying, that occasions such as that always presented a photo opportunity for those in attendance. Typically, they would solicit their server for the assisted fun. That would mean me. I’m not a real big fan of this, but I do like lending a hand to those who are having a good time. So I oblige. Not that I actually had a choice and besides, it could always be worse. For example, they could ask me to actually be inside their photo, which happens or even worse, I could be asked to take a photo, to be in a photo AND to round up the dinning troops to sing a celebratory song! Which also happened. (I still remember that song and every time I sang it I secretly wished someone would start throwing food at me). But back to the matter at hand, I will always avoid having my picture taken if I can manage it.

The other day we had a visit from a three star General. This is a man of extreme rank and extreme importance. He takes orders from Rumsfeld. Anyway, he came by our operation more or less to thank us for what we do and to pat our backs. It was a good thing and I was proud to have both his presence and his approval. I genuinely am. However that doesn’t mean I necessarily want my picture taken. At the conclusion of his visit, we (all of about ten people) gathered in front of the American flag to have a group photo with the General. O.k. no problem I can do this. Now one way or another I managed to end up directly beside the General. This was not by design. I’m perfectly happy off to either side, but I couldn’t direct myself to that location this time around.

So we take the photos. Now sometime during this process, someone suggests doing individual photos. The General was all for it. After all, he was here to show his support and respect for what we do. We finished the group photo and the General, a very busy man, was eager to continue with event so he could be on his way. So he say’s “who wants a photo” and before I’m given the chance to make way for someone else, he puts his arm around me and everyone else happens to clear the way. Alrighty then. So rolligun gets an individual photo with the General. There wasn’t much I could do to avoid it, it’s not like I was going to excuse myself from the situation. What would I say?...

“Oh that’s quite alright Sir, I’d love to share a photo, but I really must be getting back to my counting of the holes in the wall”

And so it goes.

“Counter Column, March”

Today turned out to be a rather shit day. It started off so well and it was even my day off. So I didn’t see any of thist coming. For starters I was really looking forward to an email from an old friend. I couldn’t get to it from the camp I was at so I had to wait until we traveled back to were we came from. I was very much looking forward to this. Also, there was a “Support the Troops and build morale” kind of visit from the girls of WWF or WWE or wherever. Now I couldn’t care less about that kind of wrestling. In fact I hate it and never watch it. I use to compete at the actual sport of wrestling, so I cringe at the thought of all this fake uncompetitive theatre. But then again it’s just entertainment and I was actually interested in seeing a female that wasn’t wearing the same thing I was. Normally, I don’t even go to these things. The only other show/visit I can remember going to was “Dave Attel” back in October or something. But I awoke in good spirits and besides they were doing the “Meet the WWF girls and have a picture” thing in the gym, which is where I was going anyway. Yes, that’s right…I said “picture.” At the risk of sounding like a complete hypocrite I did enter the gym with the small possibility of actually getting involved in the event, meeting one of the girls, and even, gasp, doing the picture thing (I have a friend who loves these girls so I planned to do the “HA” thing and send evidence of my encounter). But long story short I quickly abandoned that plan as soon as I saw the line of soldiers who were waiting. Despite my high spirits and slightly higher than nominal interest in meeting the semi-celebs, there was no way that any of that was strong enough for me break my golden rule of never waiting in a line, unless I absolutely have too! So I skipped the photo ops. and went to straight to working out. Since everyone and their brother was on the other side of the gym, I had a pretty good workout. Didn’t have to wait for anything and was able to do all my exercises in their preferred order.

Just as I was finishing up I happen to run into one my old soldiers that use to be on my team, when I was with my old company. He was thrilled as hell to have been there and had gotten his picture taken with ALL of the girls. Also individually. God knows how long he had to wait for all of that, but hey, to each is own. He’s a really good soldier and a good guy in that goofy harmless sort of way. He was actually the subject of one of my very first posts. Something about issues with his old girlfriend. For whatever reason he seemed to think I had a clue about that sort of thing and an even bigger mystery to me was I thought I had the temerity to actually help him. Anyway, he got his photos and showed them to me. He was smiling. We chatted for a bit and both of us coincidently enough, happened to be doing “really good.” After the mutual determination he cut our meeting a bit short with the words, and I quote…

“Sorry Sarge, I’m leaving. I can’t wait to go jerk it”

How funny is that!!!

I was happy for him and wished him the best of luck in his endeavor.

He left and he was smiling.

Unfortunately that comment was probably the highlight of my day.

How frustrating is that?!?!?

Afterwards, I quickly finished the rest of my workout and eagerly moved on to the reading of my “email” which I had so greatly been anticipating. Of course my excitement was deferred while I waited to get on a computer. Hate waiting…but it’s unavoidable sometimes. Eventually I was seated and comfortably ready to read my new message. This didn’t turn out to be what I was hoping for and quickly sent my day spiraling into habitual torment. After that, I went back to my tent. The A/C was out again. So I went back the gym.

In other news, there is this guy I serve with, who is only in his late thirties; however he looks to be the age of 64. We haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately and I think the heat is perpetuating both of our issues. Naturally, mine our more important. But with out getting into details, were just not getting along. Plus he has this habit of thinking he’s John Wayne and talking to the soldiers like the camera is rolling and he has fucking cigar in his mouth. This just drives me nuts and John Wayne is exactly one more comment away from ME BEATING HIS ASS!!! The bright side is we haven’t spoken in about five days, so that’s good.

At any rate, my time is finishing up fast. I can not wait to go out with my friends and hit a bar and forget about all of this SHIT. (This is what I would have done instead of returning to the gym). I can’t wait to get my life back. And I really can’t wait to walk my dog again! As shit as this day turned out to be I’m finally getting to the point where I'll start saying fuck you to everything. As angry as that sounds, it’s actually a good thing. It means progress.

Whatever. By next month, I’ll be walking my dog!

~Rolligun

(This was a ranting post…I’ll be changing my literary course very soon.)

When Writing Life?

2006-06-29T00:08:00.000+03:00

I don’t really know how to do this, haven’t figured it all out yet. All I know is that sometimes a moment in the day will capture a thought, memory, or an observation and I will be motivated to write about it. Something that has to do with life. I haven’t had that happen in while. I think I’m missing some inspiration or something. But I’m actually interested in writing again so I’m just going to grind this out to the bitter end if I have too. I need something to write about. Thinking. Thinking. What about….uh, no...ahhh, not that either. I just miss that feeling you get when you write something that you actually like or even better that little bit of a thrill you have as you transfer thoughts to paper or so it goes. The best part is when your fingers seem to be moving faster than your mind. Then you go back and read the last couple of sentences and find yourself surprised with the direction you took. O.k. where going that way now. Here we go!

I’m hoping that I can get things going again by the fall or something when my world changes once again. I think I need a new scene. Right now I’m just stuck on the escalator, walking the wrong way. Coincidently enough, I use to do that in the mall as a little kid because I thought it was fun. Nobody else seemed to share my amusement. Anyway, I’m doing that again, only now it’s not any fun. Just going through the motions.

I think I’m looking for other kinds of answers these days. You get set in a frame of mind and if your content with that set of thoughts, then your able to let in more and more and more. But what happens if you lose sight of the originals or maybe you lose a part of them (your thoughts) and then it feels like your back at the near beginning again. So now you don’t let so much in anymore. At least I think that’s how it works for me. I suppose I can be somewhat methodical when comes to life. I need certain things in place and when those things are disorganized I am not as able to move on with the rest of it. This is what gives me that wrong way escalator feeling or “spinning your wheels” so to speak.

I’ve always admired the people who seem either extremely free or extremely ignorant. Either or. I think the benefits are the same. I’m not really that way, not as carefree or untroubled as I’d like to be. I have some inherent commitment of always being consumed by something. Always dwelling. The first time I ever heard that word “dwelling” was when my sister pointed that problem out to me at some young age. I don’t know if it was years of surveillance that lead her to that that assessment or maybe she also happened to learn the meaning of the word “Dwell” that day and found an opportunity to use it in a moment of spontaneity. Either way, I remember that comment that observation. (Excuse me while a take a moment to think about that…)

“Dwelling” has a ceiling to it, a limit to its meaning. You can only dwell on details. If it’s anything more important than the details, then it isn’t dwelling anymore. It gravitates beyond burdens to obsession to afflictions and so on. But it’s not that hard to get lost in life’s details either.

That parenthesis was suppose to be an easy joke a simple play on the word’s meaning, but it turned out to be a quick reality instead, which is why I shared my extended definition of the word.

The carefree or the ignorant -- they don’t do that. I like them for it.

This is getting odd, I think and I have to get back to the duality of my point. Do I even have any idea what my point is anymore?

It’s hard to write something if you don’t know what the point is. It’s harder to live if you don’t know what your point is. This is what you end up with… a paroxysmal series of uncollected thoughts and actions. Maybe that’s the problem…I need to find my point my original thought. One that I still have and take it from there. But that’s how things go. Sometimes you get it and sometimes you don’t. No problem there.

It’s all just a big cycle and you go with it when you can and you stand in the way when you can’t. I don’t think there is much point in following or going the other way, sometimes you just have to grind it out to the bitter end. You have to search for your point. You have to find your point. Develop it. Then find another one. And another. And you ride it until you lose it all again. That’s one of life’s certainties. Everything always comes and goes. You just have to keep finding it. Then you can live it then you can write it. I don’t really know how to do this, I just know I like it when when my fingers move faster than my mind and then you go back and read the last bit of life that has happened and find yourself surprised with the direction you took. And you like it.

O.k. where going that way now. Here we go!

~Rolligun

*I just learned of the word paroxysmal today and found an opportunity to use it. It's not like I come complete with a working knowledge of rare and pecuiler looking words.

Finding a means to a loss

2006-06-26T10:21:00.000+03:00

Is there ever a certain person that you think about whenever you want to forget about someone else? I have a girl like that. I was thinking back about some of the girls I’ve either dated or strongly desired and how while sometimes it was probably a good thing that the attraction or the relationship ended; there were other times where I wished it hadn’t.

Whoops, I may have fucked that one up.

Every now and then you meet someone and relish in the stages of infatuation. Your mind and your body just seem to change chemical structure and you run wild the fantastic possibilities of being or always being with that person. Sometimes those possibilities become the reality and an extraordinary romance evolves. Or maybe sometimes your illusions get ahead of the reality. Or simply, it’s just time for the relationship to end.

There have been a couple of girls in my life where my hopes and expectations exceeded theirs. Hmm. Which of course spell’s the end of that affair. That’s alright though and everything eventually comes back to zero again, but in the mean time all you have is disappointment and this consuming sense of loss.

I didn’t want to deal with anything like that while overseas. Having a relationship or ending a relationship or anything of that nature. Even though my impending deployment wasn’t the major reason my last girlfriend and I broke up, it was however, one of the things I was considering. So many soldiers I serve with had rushed into marriages and commitments as a result being deployed. I guess that’s one way to handle the situation, to find someone to hold on too. Still others, (myself included) would do the opposite, which is to detach from that kind of thing.

I didn’t have a particularly hard time getting over the last girlfriend. Jessica was a great girl, who I’m sure is doing quite well, however we were just too different. I didn’t want to be with her anymore, especially while being gone. The transition was smooth and I didn’t need any help in getting over her. It was simply time for our relationship to end. But it’s not always that easy.

I can remember a few girls that gave me absolute fits when trying to get over them. Relationships where my desires were either stronger than theirs or had outlived theirs. Not all were actual girlfriends, one for example, was just a girl I grew up knowing (a year older) through Middle and High School. We weren’t even that close and I didn’t get that many chances to talk to her, but I knew she always liked having such devoted admirer. Anyway, she had my affections for several years. So there is a varying range of history & closeness between me and the girl who happened to evoke that sense of loss.

Coincidently enough, the girl who ended my affections for the older girl, is still today, the same one that I think about when I need help in getting over the loss of someone else. I haven’t talked to her for a few years and I think she married recently. She was my first real girlfriend and long term relationship. If I had ever loved anyone, it was her.

We dated for about a year and it took twice that time for me to get over her. Everyday of elation equaled two days of loss. Not a fair equation as far as I’m concerned and one that I don’t forget. Anyhow, the gift she did leave me is the ability for her to sometimes help with getting over the overwhelming feelings I had for another. If I could handle two for one, then I could handle this.

So for whatever the reasons were that things didn’t continue or evolve with the few that I had lost, I would always eventually start to think about Amy. I would remember how we spent 13 months together and had never fought once, about anything. Ever. I would remember how every time I tried to be serious or assertive; she would just step right over my stoic bearing in a way that would change all perspectives. If I was mad or upset about something, she would just bypass that too, also in way that defeated whatever importance I applied to the situation. She made me laugh, all the time and especially at myself. She could pick up and set down my ego whenever she wanted while always being able to make me happier than I could imagine. I did those same things for her. (except for picking up and setting down of an ego, she was better at that). I would remember, just simply, how much fun it was to be with her, in a car ride, or a walk, or anything. But mostly I remember how I never once felt, that any moment with her was less than perfect. Never wanted to be anyplace else. I can’t forget about the two days of loss for every day of her, but she has always been able to help me get over the loss of someone else. Eventually.

That usually works for me, so how do you do it?

~Rolligun

Back to School

2006-06-24T12:29:00.000+03:00

I took the GMAT in Kuwait City in early May This was right before I left for R&R. For those of you who don't know what that test is, it's the test you take to apply to graduate schools for business. Anyway, I spent almost two months studying for it whenever I could find the time in between all the other things. I did extremely well on one part of the test, but I didn't do as well as I hoped on the overall part of it. Whatever. I was a little frustrated by that becasue I'm usually a decent test taker and my practice tests were going well. So I'm not sure what happened. Naturally, my quick answer is that this was the result of an unexplainable mystery through no fault of my own. You know the stars the planets and all that. I could retake it when I get back to the states and have a more agreable schedule to prepare, but I don't think I'm going to. This was a one shot one kill kind of endeavor and besides, I either met or exceeded the average test score of the four schools I was looking at. So maybe it was just my ego that was damaged.

That part of the process is out of the way and I've sinced started moving on to the actual part where you apply. I need to figure this out quickly because it's a major factor in deciding where I want to live when I get back. It's kind of an exhausting process. There's the test itself, the application, the letters of recommendation, transcripts, essays, and apparently, interviews! I'm surpirsed I don't need a security clearence, a physical and be required to pass some sort of medival endurance gauntlet. Anyway this is what I'm working on at the moment, trying to get these applications out before I de-mob (go home).

Oh yeah, I rejoin my unit on the tenth of July. The mission I'm on now will handed over to a new company very soon and and my old unit is set go home, also within the near future. I've been gone for about 12 months total at this point and I really don't have very much time left. I think a change of scenery is going to be good.

The four schools I was looking at were in Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Chicago and Denver. I'm from Milwuakee but I was really planning on not living there when I get back. Minneapolis and Chicago were kind of the front runners and I was getting pretty interested in the idea of moving to either of those places. But I think I may stay in Milwuakee. My reasoning for this is that, as a veteren and a resident, I will get free tuition at any of the state schools. That's a pretty big deal. That would save me $30,000 in student loans so I think it would be pretty stupid to not stay. The school in Chicago (Depaul) would probably be my first choice overall, but it's even more expensive than Milwaukee and plus I would have to pay for it all. So I think I'm going to stay in Milwaukee for four years (doing the part time thing). Then I'll move on. Still, I don't know how I feel about this.

In other news, my ear did in fact start to heal on it's own. I've been to the Army med clinic twice since I've been back and have also had an audiogram. I do have some hearing loss and supposeldy my left ear will get to call the shots from now on (my right was the dominent one) but I think the hearing loss is going to be minimal. So no big deal.

Any volunteers to edit an essay or two?

~Rolligun

Untitled

2006-06-21T21:38:00.000+03:00

Last night was one the worst I've seen. We received what is believed to be the two kidnapped soldiers. In the sixth months I've been with this unit and the over two hundred soldiers I've personally helped send home, this is the first time that I almost threw up.

I don't even know what to say. If I did, I couldn't post it.

So I might be done with the military posting from now on.

I think I want to start doing the fuzzy posting thing.

~Rolligun

Remembrance Pieces

2006-06-20T12:00:00.000+03:00

The Army has its own paper that gets distributed through out the theatre. It’s called the Stars & Stripes. Most of the articles are syndicated just the same as many news publications. I’ll usually read an AP article online before I see it again in the Stars and Stripes. Just like any good publication, the Stars & Stripes will take into account their audience, so there are also plenty of articles written about issues that are important to the military. Articles about policy changes, new equipment, political speeches, institutional rhetoric, and of course some stories from the war that weren’t quite exciting enough for the associated press. I’m leaving something out. What kind of periodical would the Stars & Stripes be if it didn’t have human interest stories? There are different kinds of human interest stories, the Stars & Stripes usually covers all the bases, but the ones I’m referring too are the ones that highlight the life of a recently deceased soldier. Remembrance Pieces. I think it’s a good thing to reflect on these soldiers and for others to read about them. These articles usually follow the same format. I always know the names.

They talk about the impressions that soldier left behind.

They talk about the interests that soldier left behind.

They talk about the family that soldier left behind.

They talk about how that solider moved on.

Remembrance.

The format is usually pretty typical but the content is personal. It’s specific to the soldier. The last one I read the soldier was described as committed and courages. Qualities he undoubtedly possessed, but he also came off as bit awkward. In a simple and amiable sort of way. It talked about him not having a girlfriend and how he and a close female friend of his would always talk about that. I’m not sure if that’s something I would necessarily want in an article like that, but it’s sincere nonetheless. It doesn’t much matter anyway. The article talked about a particular tattoo he had on his shoulder. He was described as being proud of that tattoo and had identified himself with it. It was a tattoo of the superman symbol.

I don’t always read the Stars & Stripes, but when I do, I always read these stories.

I remember looking at his tattoo.

~Rolligun

This is the End of Australia

2006-06-15T07:53:00.000+03:00

This has been a ridiculous post. I'm not going to completely finish the whole thing. This is just the rest of it. If you want to comment, but you don't want to devote the time, feel free to pick out a random sentence or two and comment on that. I'm o.k. with it.

So anyway, I spent the rest of my time walking around the deck, reading, and building a comfortable lead with my bar tab over the rest of the guests. I hung out with the two Polish guys, an Australian Police officer, (who had a lizard that bit her from time to time) and the captain of the ship, who was appropriately named “Bob.” I met Bob the first night while hanging out with the Polish guys at the front of the ship. The Polish guys were smokers and that was the only part of the boat were you were allowed asphyxiate yourself, so that’s where we were. Bob, our captain, came over and introduced himself. He then promptly sat down to begin the choking process. Bob was a platoon sergeant in Vietnam for the Australian Army. I don’t remember how exactly the conversation unfolded but within several sentences of Bob’s arrival we each determined that we were both military veterans. Up until now, the Polish guys didn't didn’t know that I was in the Army and that I was enjoying a temporary exile from the desert. Bob and I exchanged stories (his were much more interesting than mine) and to my surprise the Polish guys asked very few questions. They just listened (which is what I wish they would have done during the classes). Bob finished several cigarettes and invited me to meet him the following morning up at the part of the boat where the captain stands in front of a large wooden wheel. The wooden wheel is for changing directions. The next morning I skipped breakfast, grabbed some coffee and continued talking to Bob in his part of the boat. We talked about war and he let me stand in front of the wooden wheel.

Back to my broken ear. After the Reef trip I went to a 24 hour medical center the following morning. I hastily filled out some paper work and sat down in the lobby for about an hour and a half. There were other things I rather would have done. In the mean time I read various magazines that clued me in to the latest dating gossip and movie news from Hollywood. It was also in this office that I determined that Aborigine’s have some of the most flexible looking joints I have ever seen. In some cases it looks like their arms are in fact bending backwards. Eventually my name was called and I ambled my way into the doctor’s office. The longest part of the diagnosis took place in the beginning. It was the part where the doctor was trying to decipher what code of characters I had used to communicate with on the paper work. We dedicated the next ten minutes or so to redoing the paperwork on the account of my sloppy right hand. I found this both funny and typical but I don’t think the doctor was as amused as I was. In any case the doctor started poking various tools into my ear before finally declaring that I have a very large hole in my ear and will in fact need surgery. “You need surgery, you going to have to see a specialist.” Oh. “Did you go into the water after you did this” “Yes, I started too but…” I never actually finished that sentence. It wasn’t necessary for me to do so as the doctor gave me the kind of look you would give someone who just dropped a baby. She then quickly resumed jotting down medical words. She prescribed me an anti-biotic and told me that I need to see an ear specialist as soon as I got back. O.k I didn’t believe her, as far as surgery goes, so I did my own research and have since determined that I will in fact heal myself (common with most ear perforations depending on size of rupture). I’ve also seen an Army doctor since I’ve been back but that was by no means a productive visit. He too, was not an ear specialist nor was he able to answer any of my questions. His advice was to wait. Thanks doc. In any case I spent the rest of my trip saying the word “what?” (I still hear very little out of my right ear) Later that night I met the Australian Police officer and the two Polish guys for drinks. I felt more like I was watching them on television than being physically there, on the account of my ear. It wouldn’t be until I actually left Australia that I started getting use to the detached feeling my broken ear gave me.

My options were now limited seeing as though all water activities were no longer recommended so I booked a one day rainforest trip. This would be the only other activity sort of thing I would do. The trip included a walk through park, a boat ride on the Daintree River and a trip to the Heritage Rainforest (a zoo). The walkthrough part of the trip was mainly devoted to looking at plant life. I don’t find this particularly exciting but I was determined to enjoy myself and take pictures. Also, our tour guide had some fixation on the sugar cane business. It started with scattered comments about the industry here and there. Pretty much whenever we saw a field or a farmer. The surprise he had for us was an ad hoc trip to the sugar cane mill itself. The mill just happened to be on the way to something or other and the tour guide couldn’t resist the opportunity to dart in there and share more of the sugar cane mystery with us. I started laughing by myself on this one. This had nothing to do with the trip and I couldn't have cared less about it. The brochure that lured me into this venture certainly didn't speak of it.This is pretty much were I’m going to stop. There isn’t much else to say. I made my way back to Sydney where I just socialized for a couple of days before heading back to the desert. Overall, I had an excellent time in Australia. There so much to do and I would really like to go back!

I doubt that I ever will.

~Rolligun

Sometimes it's the things that didn't happen that you remember most.

Pictures Again

2006-06-13T07:47:00.000+03:00

Australia part II

2006-06-10T09:52:00.000+03:00

So now I’m in Cairns, Queensland and I have nothing planned but I have some ideas of what I want to do. All of that will wait for the following day. It’s time to check out the night life in Cairns. I was disappointed with my bar selections in Sydney so I was pretty excited to see so many cool bars in one little area. It remind me of me of my college town, which once held the proud bragging rights of holding the world record for the most amount of bars on one street. That’s right on any given weekend you could find over two thousand drunk and energetic student stumblers’s on the same street. What an environment to foster an education! Anyway, I was more than delighted at the scene Cairns presented. My first night out I’m bouncing bars by myself before I settle on a place that had an upper deck, outside, and was playing music videos. I was already a bit distracted with random thoughts as well as continuously moving around so I welcomed the opportunity to just sit outside and drink while watching music videos. The upper deck was busy but I did find a random seat with good viewing distance which I set my eyes on. Across from that seat was a cute yet eccentric looking girl. That’s interesting. She smiled as I thought about sitting down and she smiled again as I made up my mind. So naturally the first thing I do is start talking to the Asian couple on my left. I have very little interest in hearing what they have to say and I’m sure they felt the same about my contributions. I’m stalling. Eventually a conversation starts between me and the cute yet eccentric looking girl across from me. I’m not sure if we ever exchanged names but I do remember how difficult it was to determine where she came from. Once our conversation started I quickly defaulted to the brand of conversation you would expect from a class reunion…

Rolligun Class of ’97: ”How long have you been here?”

Rolligun w/o nametag: “What have you been doing?”

Rolligun Voted most likely to ask questions: “Where are you from?”

And that was the question right there! That was the question that let the cat out of the bag and opened the door to all things weird.

Eccentric Girl delighted with the depths of the question: “In this life or my last life?”

Rolligun smiling with anticipation: “Let’s start with your first life”

This was most definitely an interesting conversation as I learned about her sixth and seventh senses, her uncommitted marriage to a guy traveling around China, and her explanations of concepts such as free will, fortitude and sacrifice. As interesting as it was talking to her, it was also quite exhausting because the simplest things (or so I thought) would turn into another expansive discussion. It was like taking test and every question was either long division or essay. That’s best I can do to explain it. Maybe I just wasn’t deep enough to keep up with her, although I did hang in there for over two hours. The more we talked the more I also began to notice how her physical characteristics began to compliment her unusual beleifs. For example, her neck was bit longer than standard and stood very erect. Similar to that of a person who recovered from a car accident (or perhaps she was once a leaf eating animal in the savannah). Her eyes were sharp and extremely open (I had already asked her if she took ecstasy earlier and she hadn’t). Now I’m a mildly eccentric person myself, but she was definitely winning as I was getting a little freaked out by her. I began imagining her placing a curse on me…just because she could. I had to wrap this up and head back. I had long walk and I wanted to wake up early and plan some adventures. Anyway, she might have been from Czech Republic.

Some thirty-two hours later I was bungee jumping in the Rainforest. What’s up A.J. Hacket the father of Bungee? The platform was a large arch 44m in height and nestled comfortably in the valley of lot’s of trees. It looked like a mini-version of the St. Louis Arch. I got picked up in the morning by a little van that had the letters A – J in large bold fonts all over the place. If nothing else it was easy to recognize that that was my ride. Most thoughtful really. I had planned on spending the whole day out there as I knew one jump would not be enough. So I purchased the super-combo-unlimited package (something like that). This dazzling arrangement of promotions came with all sorts of conveniences and extras but there was only one thing I was concerned with. Unlimited jumps. That’s all that’s important. I’ve been sky diving before, but had never done bungee. As far as I’m concerned it’s a pretty simple process with little opportunity for confusion. I had wished the jump was a little higher (New Zealand has one that’s 125M!!!) but there is one important factor between bungee and sky diving. That factor is point of reference, a visual. When sky diving you’ll hit speeds of say 140 mph or so but there isn’t any physical comparison and it feels more as if you’re floating. With bungee you have the rocks, the trees, and the ground all rushing through your eyeballs in a flood of visual stimulation and all in a matter of seconds. It’s a hell of a time! For an extra fifteen dollars I was able to go up a couple of meters higher, have the bungee attached to my chest and run off the roof. I recommend that. I also met a couple of Irish dudes who were heading out to a Irish bar for happy hour and to catch some sort of game (unfamiliar to me) on the large televisions. I hadn’t planned on doing anything that night on the account of several continuous nights of drinking and the fact I would be starting my dive course the following day. But I figured the hell with it. I’ll meet these blokes for a few early beers and call it a night nice and early. That’s a fine idea.

I get back to my hostel and change into some comfortable but scrubby looking clothes and journey back into town at about 1900 hours. I met my two Irish friends at the Irish bar where they were hanging out with the rest of their, ahh, Irish Rugby team. Oh, this is interesting. I thought I was meeting two dudes from bungee for a couple of drinks but in fact I showed up for a little more than that. I end up shaking about fifteen different hands and explaining the brief history of me, many times over. After the compound greetings and jovial exchanges I found myself continually supplied with free beer from my new mates, the Irish Rugby team. I still have all intentions of heading out early as I have eight hours of classroom stuff starting at 0730, for the dive course. On the other hand, I’m hanging out with a fun crowd that takes pride in drinking and behaving in loud volumes. I’m not necessarily a loud person myself, I’m more kind of chill, but I am from Wisconsin, which as far as I’m concerned is the Ireland of the United States, for drinking purposes. They were also the most supportive group of people I’d come across yet, considering the Army and all. (Mostly I’d been trying to keep that to myself, unsuccessfully). Several hours later and god knows how many drinks, I finally separate myself from the group. Not an easy task. By this time it’s a blurry 0130. I had planned on being back by 2100. Either way I begin the staggering marathon back to my hostel. Do remember this is a 30 minute walk given normal conditions. More often than not I like drunk walking. Its night time it’s peaceful and I can let my saturated mind wander. The down side is that I will become completely oblivious as to where I’m going. This time is no different. The sky is full of stars (for some reason Kuwait rarely has visible stars), the air is comfortable and I’m content. Left foot right foot my limbs are placed on auto pilot. Some fifty minutes later I’m still walking in the same direction. Huh. It’s now very apparent to me that I’ve passed my turn so I head back in the other direction for fifteen minutes or so and I still don’t recognize my turn so I head back again in another direction. This is when walking is no longer fun. I’ve determined that I have no fucking clue where I’m going and my blissful thoughts are now being replaced by aggravated concentration. Where the hell is my street? What is the name of my Street? Shit. By nearly 0300 I finally find the hostel, which to my surprise is locked up by an unfamiliar gate. Where the hell did this gate come from? So now I’m left to create my own obstacle course of jumping, climbing and crawling to get into this inaccessible fortress (tearing my colored T-shirt in the process) and finally completing my stagger into bed. This is the night I decide to change hostels. Five hours later I will be sitting in a classroom supporting my right eyelid with two fingers and an elbow.

I don’t have much to say about the next couple of days except for the fact that I was grossly unprepared to remain seated for eight hours at a time. At least the second day had a bunch of pool exercises. My classmates included a Scottish girl and two Polish guys. The Scottish girl had some sort of peninsula shaped blemish on her chin. She was cute but self-conscious about her piece of geography. The Polish guys were extremely nice and were in constant competition with each other for who could ask the most amount of questions at one time with out receiving an answer. Also, there was an American who could not decide on a single posture and kept poking himself in the eye with two fingers.

The big thing I planned for this holliday was my scuba diving trip in the Great Barrier Reef. I had never done scuba before and I didn’t want to have someone hold my hand the whole time so I decided to book a trip that would allow me to get certified before I spend a couple of nights out on the reef. That was a long sentence. The only down side of this venture was that it was a five day commitment and wouldn’t leave me enough time to check out Byron Bay, for a little surf and a little party. In any case I decided it would be a worthy sacrifice for one of the world’s seven wonders! After we completed the two days of classroom stuff we headed out for three days and two nights on the boat. The Scottish girl who I had drinks with the night earlier got sick on the way to the Reef so she decided to end the certification process and not transfer boats. The Polish guys were still nice and still inquisitive. We completed our certification after the first four dives and the rest of the trip would be reserved for diving on your own. However, I never made it that far. In all of my self-appointed glory I managed to perforate my ear doing a back flip with a little too much spin off the front of the boat. I’ve done plenty of stupid things in my day and anticipated zero threat with this endeavor but one way or another I hit the water wrong (with side of my head) and ruptured my eardrum. I seriously have more control of my body than this freak performance. A couple of hours later (after the ringing subsided) I tried to dive again but my ear was met with sharp stinging pains only a couple of meters down so I abandoned the dive. I kept thinking about trying the next dive or the dive after that but my ear kept bleeding and kept serving no functional purpose whatsoever. Needless to say that event ended all water activities. No surfing, no whitewater rafting, and no more diving. That sucked and was one of only two downers for the whole trip. But things could have been worse.

(will finish with the blathering details tomorrow)

~Rolligun

mOrE aUsSiE pHoToS

2006-06-10T09:43:00.000+03:00

433

2006-06-09T12:49:00.000+03:00

Get woken up at 0350.

"SGT, we got three coming - - fifteen minutes out"

Three come in followed by two more an hour and a half later.

That makes five total. No time for breakfast this morning. (Not a problem)

All I.E.D. All sepearted.

433 is the number of Soldiers we sent home since the new year (from my camp).

Saw another picture of a child.

In other news...Al Zarqawi was killed himself.

This is a guy that would have sawed my head off given the chance.

Take care Al Zarqawi.

The pictures I saw of him were in better shape than the guys I saw this morning.

433 is the number of soldiers we sent home this year.

~Rolligun

Australia

2006-06-08T09:49:00.000+03:00

Rest & Relaxation…

Travel to Air Force camp at 0700 – Get Dropped off in front of large white tent – Wrong white tent – Look for another white tent (there all over the fucking place) – Enter next white tent and congratulate self on accomplishment – Sit down and wait 75 minutes to begin a life changing and exhilarating Army Briefing – Quickly redefine life based on contents of the briefing and proceed to follow the herd – Enter next white tent and verify important pieces of information such as name, social security number and favorite color – Follow arrow to next tent - Herd is separated into two groups, one for slaughter and one for breeding or maybe it was one for stateside travelers and one for international travelers – Change out of uniform and into civilian clothes (for security on international flights) - Rejoin the breeders or rather the group for international travelers – Wait in line – Think about Australia – Still waiting – Enter mindless waiting in line banter – Waiting becomes harder – Get to front of line to receive flight plan and tickets – Before I get my flight plan I’m told I have to change my shirt (wearing plain white T-shirt) – “Sir, why do I have change my shirt?” “Because it’s CFLCC (SEE-Flick) policy, SEARRRGENT, and the Army wants to portray a professional appearance” “But I’m not suppose to look like I’m in the Army and I think this shirt is professional” “SEARGENT!! You’ll change your shirt if you want to leave” (Bite tongue and blink) “Just curious, thanks for the explanation” (blink) – Wait for transportation to another camp – Wait at “another camp” – Wait for transportation to Kuwaiti airport – Wait for flight - - - Board flight.

First Stop Dubai International Airport, United Arab Emirates. I take my seat in the exact middle of the plane. On my left is a very large and very old Pakistani, he smells like a plant. On my right is either a very curious Egyptian or an Egyptian with a dysfunctional eye condition that repeatedly slants left. Either way, the flight is approximately 110 minutes and words spoken by me is approximately four. That’s one word every 27 ½ minutes. Not bad. (Egyptian eye slants are approximately one every six minutes.)

Touchdown Dubai.

(Dubai 6 Sydney 0)

I reach Dubai at approximately 0100. I have a twelve hour layover but fortunately for me and my colored T-shirt, I have a hotel room waiting. By 0230 I’m in my room. By 0236 I’m downstairs having my first beer in ten months. I purchase the alcohol by way of Visa at the tune of 18 dhs per beer (dhs = U.A.E Currency). I have no idea how many dhs equal a dollar but I quickly determine the answer to be inconsequential. “Yes, I’ll have another. 18 more dhs you say, no problem, Visa will take care of it” I read, I jot mental notes, and I think about the changes my life is bound to take on the account of so many briefings. Satisfied with the amount dhs’s that I’ve either spent, given, or traded, I retire to my room and into the shower. I take a very long shower.

Wake up and Back to Dubai International Airport. I wander the airport and as I wait for my flight and I begin to get the impression that I’m not actually a human creature but in fact a fugitive zoo animal, or so my impression goes. In any case I board my flight and prepare for non-stop to Sydney! (My seat is a comfortable window location next to only one person, who easily passes for an acceptable travel mate. He quickly wins me over with simply a nod and by ordering a cocktail on the first pass of the stewardess.)

I reached Sydney at 0515 however the biological time is 2215. I catch a shuttle to my hostel on Pitt Street where I meet, who would eventually become, my gay friend Andy. He’s from Leeds (U.K). Now I didn’t know Andy was gay nor would I care one way or another, but for the first two days I knew him, he was simply Andy, my British friend who I would partner up with (Shud’up) and meet some girls. Eventually, he made his declaration to me and he became Andy, my British friend who I would just drink a beer with. I found this funny, but he was hesitant to disclose his preferences to me on the account of my being in the Army. In any case his moment of truth wasn’t worth me delaying my next round, so on it was to new subjects.

I didn’t stay in Sydney very long, just a few days before I booked a flight and headed to Queensland. The weather was shit and I was wasting too much time sleeping, drinking and hanging out with a gay guy. I did manage to do quite a lot of walking, and to check out the harbor as well as a couple of museums before I left. I flew straight to Cairns and made plans to stay at a pretty nice hostel, although it was a 30 minute walk from the center of town. I don’t mind walking, in fact I enjoy it very much, however I didn’t consider the impact alcohol has on my sense of direction. This would become a problem later on down the road.

(Will continue Tommorrow...)

AuSsIE pHoToS

2006-06-08T09:41:00.000+03:00

Normal

2006-05-11T08:57:00.000+03:00

Sometime in the next 18 hours I should finally be on a plane for R&R. Yes, I’m leaving now, finally leaving. Leaving for R&R. Time to go on R&R. I haven’t done anything in ten moths. I didn’t go any “morale & welfare” trips. Personal choice. Didn’t do the four-day trip to Qatar thing. Also Personal choice. But this, I very much need-- indeed. I’m already starting to feel a sense of normalcy. I’ve packed some clothes to make me look good. I’m guilty of the “dress to impress” mentality, not always, but I will dress up for the show. (Even ordered some clothes online since I didn’t bring anything like that with me).

I’ve checked out some things I want to do, but I haven’t actually planned anything. I’ll make it up as I go. A little bit of social, a little bit of adventure, and a touch of culture. That’s what I’m hoping for. Some clubs, some jumping from high altitudes and maybe a museum. That’s what I want to do. I was supposed to leave last week, but the Army has a way of poking you with a stick when you’re not expecting it. You think someone is going to unlock the cage, but instead you get poked with a stick.

The Army has poking a stick. It looks like this...

===--------[

(thanks Vonnegut).

But now I’m out of here! I almost excited about it. I don’t think it will actually set in until I hit the airport. I like airports. There are too many people, I don’t like that, but airports are busy and they are mysterious. I do like that. I like the idea of being somewhere that could take you to so many different places. No one knows where you are from and nobody knows where you are going. I like those things as well.

I think I’ll feel normal again when I get there. When I get somewhere else. It’s been so long.

~Rolligun

A Fish out of Water

2006-04-28T00:36:00.000+03:00

I went to church the other day. Voluntarily. One of the soldiers on my team asked me to go with. I thought this was because he liked me, to which I was flattered for being such a likeable leader, but in hind sight, I think he just wanted to entertain himself. Anyway, I thought…what the hell (?)...and accepted the invitation. But before you begin reading yourself to sleep, or decide that this topic isn’t something that would interest you, let me tell you a little bit about my religious background. et. seq.

Arrival 1979. I had finally fought my way out of the depths of detention and into the brighter yet colder, baby welcoming room. All my fans were waiting. This is also known, in laymen’s, as a birth. In addition to the blinding light, breezy chill and irritating photo requests, this was the first time I was linked with god in the same sentence. As it turns out, this would be one of the last times. Interestingly enough, this was also the first time I was linked with the unfamiliar. That would be one of the first. Either way, enter baby Rolligun. All the fans cheered and the first person to speak spoke…

“God Bless...huh…err…what is it?”

(The first part of that comment is the important part, relative to my story anyway, nevermind the rest of it)

Another day in 1979, my parents saw that the drive through for community baptisms was longer than they had hoped. So they kept going. That was it. It wasn’t tried again and I had never been baptized. This wasn’t the only of life’s rituals and introductions that I would be unknowingly excused from. Maybe my parents didn’t know about these things? I am still not sure. I would however, learn about baptisms and how they were a perquisite for holy admission, later on in life.

In 1984, I got in a disagreement with my older sister. I don’t remember exactly why she was wrong, but I do know that most my concerns at that age had to do with possessions and “no.” As you’d expect, I was getting fed up with all domestic bureaucracy and finally realized the convenience of associating god with my troubles, primarily as a way to characterize the importance of the situation. We fought about something or other and had both decided to solicit the judicial branch of the household. Or maybe they impatiently volunteered their guidance, I’m not sure. Anyway, I won this debate, basically by rendering the judges speechless when announcing, at the top of my lungs, that my God Damn Sister wouldn’t something or other. So it went. While we're on the subject, this was when I was first introduced to the concept of delayed punishment.

In 1987, I was scared of God and the idea of Hell. That might have had something to do with finding out, during recess one day, how a baptism would be related to my mortal fate. Which was delightfully and collectively explained to me by my peers. At any rate, I decided I was going to read the bible. I’ll be damned if I was going to let anybody get the best of me on a subject I knew nothing about, but really, I was scared of what they told me. So I found a bible, dusted it off and placed it next to my bed. This is where it stayed for some time. I never opened it and one day it just disappeared, but for the time being it served as excellent platform for juice or small toys.

In 1989, I slept over at a friend’s house. His family went to church. Mine didn’t. I didn’t. They believed in all sorts of spiritual manners. Mine didn’t. I didn’t. But seeing as I was under their observation for the weekend, they decided it would be a good idea to bring me along. Instead of say, returning me to my keepers. They were a nice family although he was kind of a sickly child, but they did eat dinner as a group and even placed napkins on their laps. My family had napkins.

In the 90’s, I mainly just swore a lot, employing the association technique mentioned earlier. Sometimes I would pray to God, but only when I wanted something.

In 2000, I joined the Army. My recruiter asked me what denomination I was. Naturally, I asked him what the hell he was talking about. He explained that it was my religious affiliation. So I explained to him, my theory of God as well as the understanding we shared. He came to the conclusion that I was non-denominational. Huh? Since I didn’t like the idea of that being printed on my dog tags, I adopted a Lutheran preference.

In summery, I was a genetically confusing baby. I’ve never been baptized. I never read a bible or listened to one when being read. I’ve only been to church once, when I’d slept over at a friend’s house in fifth grade. I swear a lot. I pray only when I want something, (which is about every two or three years). And lastly, I have no religious affiliation, except maybe Lutheran. That’s pretty much the history of me and religion. On to 2006…

I went to church the other day. Voluntarily.

My first concern was “how crowded is this place going to be.” I have a committed aversion to organizations who don’t acknowledge the fire code. Fire safety is indeed fine, quickly, quickly, try not to trample the weak on your way out, but my main concern as far as fire safety goes, is with relative space. My space. Not exit alley’s. I’m not weak. I may even help someone if they were polite about it. Not even general overcrowding, simply just…my space. Anyway, I knew that I would need plenty of it. “Breathing” or “wiggle” room as the popular idioms go.

I’m not sure if it was an adherence to regulation or lack of spiritual interest, but in any event, space was available. As well as plenty of traveling lanes in the case of catastrophe. Somewhere on my list, that was a concern. I was sure to check it off. So as I was saying, plenty of space was available, but for some un-godly reason a man was employed with the sole purpose of restricting the available space. He acted like it was a public service, an appointed crusade to assist people in finding a seat and otherwise limit the amount of space available. I’m able to manage finding a location just fine with out any assistance. So I thanked him for his offer and elected to try doing it by myself first. For some reason he didn’t like that. We continued to assert our positions, but I backed off earlier than I otherwise would have. Not that I didn’t think I wouldn’t have won easily, but I wanted to approach this event with more understanding and openness, as opposed to my normal speed of impatient belligerence. The soldier I was with didn’t seem to have a problem with any of it. In fact, he welcomed the logistical support. He even expected someone to tell him where to sit. In the end, I was positioned next to a lady. She kept her hands folded most of the time. So I did the same.

Do the same as everybody else. That was my credo. What I forgot to mention, before I went in to my fixation on attendance and capacity restrictions, was that this was the singing and dancing kind of assembly. I thought that was cool, kind of liking seeing a live show (always a good time). Or at least that was the comparison I made. Everybody started out on their feet. Some people had two hands waving in the air, some swayed back and forth, and still others sang along. Some even did all three. Overachievers. Unfortunately, I’m not capable of any those things. I can’t sing, I can’t dance (agreeably) and otherwise have no rhythm. None. Those are skill I don’t have. I’ve accepted that and never attached very much concern to the fact. I will dance at a bar, sometimes you have too, but in order to get through that event with out offending anyone, I usually need a patient and supportive partner to help guide me. If she can do that, then I can catch on to the simple steps or moves. Basically, I used the same kind of courage I’d use for dancing at a bar and applied it to the church activities. Do the same as everybody else.

The challenging part was keeping pace with everything. Just as soon as I could get my hands to clap and hips to sway, at the same time and in the same direction, (who was operating my limbs?) the church leader would change the activity.

Music stops. People stop. I need a minute.

“Please take your seats for the reading of the…..”

Finally, I sit down. I continue to observe what everyone else is doing so I don’t miss anything. They all seemed to have found books hidden beneath their seats. I’m amazed by the collaboration. So I do the same. Low and behold, somebody had hidden a book just for me! How thoughtful, I wasn’t even a regular. The next challenge was to find the place in the weird and wonderful book that everyone was concentrating on. I tried looking out of the corner of my eye at the page number we were on. Everything was quiet, except for the church leader, and I was still trying to act like I knew what was going on. My head tilts, my body leans and my eyes strain themselves to furthest degree possible in order to see the page number of the lady next to me. This reminds me of cheating in high school. The lady, whose hands are still folded, whispers in my ear…

“Psalm 77, page 513”

I don’t know how she knew, but god bless her anyway.

I found the page, in what I thought was rapid time, but naturally the church leader was ready to move on.

“Everyone please take your feet”

I missed the next words he said, inspiring I’m sure, and had something to do with moving around and hugging your neighbor. So the people sneaked the books back under their seats, stood up and started moving around. Feverishly moving around. It was like someone heated up a beaker full of molecules, the way they all kept bouncing into each other and in no particular order. Now I’m not what you’d call a “hugger” so I approached cautiously. I wanted to fit in. But then someone would come lurching into me with their arms wide open and this crazy fanatical grin. I tried to run but everywhere I turned, there was another one. I’d back away and swiftly turn in the other direction, but there was too many of them. Open arms and fanatical grins. I was scared, but I gave in, I did the same as everyone else. I opened my arms, pasted an overly-enthusiastic smile on my face, and formulated my way through the particles.

Once we were done publicly molesting each other, or hugging, everyone sat back down and retrieved their hidden books.

“Let’s begin reading psalm 51…”

{turn page, lean, and look,…turn page, lean and look,…turn, lean and look}

Lady with folded hands: “page 350”

Sacred Rolligun: “God bless you”

The church leader began reading from the page and expressing the culmination of his breath on the last word in every sentence. Then the church people would all read the next part, which had been conveniently distinguished by font.

It was all very simple. The last word in every sentence was the most important, and when the font changes, that’s when it’s your turn to read. The only distracting part, which is apparently acceptable, is to blurt out at the slightest sign of a vocal twitch, any words of encouragement that come to mind. Doesn’t even have to make grammatical sense. Just whenever the urge strikes, go ahead and yell out a “yes, yes” or maybe a “be tru, oh lo be tru.”

Stand up if you have too.

Like I said, in hind sight I think I was invited solely for entertainment, not for being the likeable leader as I had hoped. Being a witness to all kinds of behavioral oddities and unexplainable yammering, I wasn’t entirely comfortable being there. Which is surprising, because I can fit in to any situation with anyone? The criminals or the scholars. If I wasn’t so distracted by my assigned location, I probably could have absorbed more of what he was saying. In any event, the church leader did speak of a concept foreign to me. Forgiveness. He spoke of it. I avoided it. My expectations are both high and particular. My memory far-reaching. I’m stubborn and I hold grudges. A creature of pride. There are some things that as much as I have tried, I haven’t been able to forgive. I’ve tried fooling myself into believing I have. That doesn’t work. I’m not sure what does work, but I think the church leader was on to something. So consider it a notion revisited. Either way, if I hadn’t lost my watch, I would have kept looking at it. I didn’t want to be there. In an unrelated event, I think one of my wrists is bigger than the other, but that isn’t important anymore. What is important is that sometimes fish can survive out of water. However, they still can’t hug. God bless ‘em.

In 2006 I went to church with one of my soldiers…

~Rolligun

Letter of Recommendation

2006-04-20T18:25:00.000+03:00

Here is one of those situations where that hyper-active person who was always telling you how important “networking” and “building relationships” with people is, was right. Well almost. I always hated that idea anyway. The idea of getting to know someone or continuing to know someone, just in case one day you need something from them. What the hell is that? Nevertheless, relationship building has never been a strong suit of mine. Well maybe it is and I just never tried, who knows?

I contacted an old professor of mine last week to, you guessed it, ask for a letter of recommendation. I wrote a two page email in which I attempted to describe, advertise and glorify myself, all at the same time. There is no way he was going to remember me. Even with a little prodding; the jury would still be out on that one. I was one of a couple hundred students, a couple of years ago. So how is he going to remember me? Well let’s see, who was I to him? I never hung around after class and discussed lecture. I was always the last to arrive. I was always the first to ask someone, what “happened last time.” I sat in the back. God, was I even a good student?

Depending on your definition, probably not, but despite the evidence, I wouldn’t say I was a detached student. Simply an efficient student. I did the most I could with the time I had and if that meant skipping a class here and there, then so be it. I didn’t have time to go to every class. I worked a lot (expensive living by yourself!). I had a dog to take care of and I was still in the Army. Plus, I had the business club to go to. Just kidding, I didn’t join the business club and if I did, I probably wouldn’t have made any friends or ever shown up anyway, based on information provided. Also, I had to make some scholastic sacrifices for social endeavors. I always felt leading a balanced life is very important for personal development. But I did do some good things, and this is where I banked my hopes on the letter of recommendation.

I gave good presentations. Not just stand up and read presentations, but presentations where I put as much effort into including the class as I did in to the actual content itself. I don’t mind getting in front of people and speaking. I’ll just put my own spin on it. Veiled entertainment wrapped in a professional package. The other thing I had going for me was the “A” he gave me on my senior project. I don’t think I deserved an actual “A”, but regardless, I thanked him for it and that was that. Thirty months later, here I am, looking for a letter of recommendation.

In addition to the email, I included an updated resume. This isn’t something I enjoy doing, updating resumes that is, and I had no intentions of doing so until later this summer. But the circumstances suggested it be done a little earlier. So after a two page, self-glorifying email, and a hastily updated resume, I was ready to pursue my contact.

Dear Dr. Bravo,

Hello…this is…I was…of yours…in…and…addition to… good fortune….advisees…familiarize yourself…who..was...illustration sheds….However….understand…intended connection… not kept…contact…

Currently….stationed…in support…in charge…Before activation...The reason…writing…Dr. Bravo…in regards…encouraged me… to thank you…focus…professional interests…kept in…would normally expect…privileged acknowledgment…understand…most grateful...to discuss…in reference…

Please find…this will…any further…look forward...Dr. Bravo…
do not…hesitate…additional information.

Thank you… time…consideration,… forward…from you!

Sincerely,

Rolligun

And so it goes.

To my amazement I received an email back from Dr. Bravo with an agreement to write the letter of recommendation. Excellent. Outstanding. Fuck you “I need to network guy.” And most importantly, thank you, Dr. Bravo. So this is good news. Now the interesting part of his email is this.

“I want you to write the first draft of the letter. What do you think I would say?”

No problem.

I find this a little bit like voting for yourself, but whatever, I’ll be happy to write my own letter of recommendation. I’ll write it and you sign it. How perfect is that? Actually, why even stop there. I think he is on to something. Why I don’t I just start hiring myself to do shit for people, and then when I’m all done, I’ll let them know it’s time for me to be paid. Have a bad weekend and get arrested for something? To easy, just be sure and tell the judge about Dr. Bravo’s philosophy as well as how much you learned and how better you will be for society because of it!

Smart man that Dr. Bravo. I do know that his request is not as simple as I made it out to be. I am sure he has several intentions for doing so, among them, making his job easier. But also, this is a challenge if you will, and that my efforts will only reflect his. Dr. Bravo was an excellent professor and I am indeed thankful for the recommendation he is willing to give, but he’s not fooling me. Oh no. I’ll write myself an excellent letter of recommendation. I’ll make him proud and I’ll dazzle myself at the same time. If you don’t believe, just shoot me an email. I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.

~Rolligun

I got lost

2006-04-18T00:39:00.000+03:00

I've been looking for this address for some time now. I hate it when I get lost. You set out with a destination, a purpose even, but then you can't find it. How frustrating is that? I use to get lost intentionally on my bike, but that was a little more fun. You've already accounted for the inevitable loss of time, so that isn't a concern, plus you always have the option of going faster to get nowhere. It's a fundamental diversion in that regard, you don't know what you're doing or where you're going, so you just do everything "faster." Based on the rationale that speed applies purpose, or something to that effect. Things have been good. Things have also been busy. We've had surge of fallen soldiers come in recently, some of them suicides. I don't have the same kind of sympathy for the suicides. I can't judge them, becuase I don't know what their motivations were, maybe they had good reasons for doing so, who knows? But it's hard to imagine a nineteen year old having good reasons to give up so soon, for example. One of the saddest parts of this job is finding a picture. I have a weird gift for perspective, or so I believe, but with that I think I'm easly capable of detaching myself, creating an understanding or adjusting to the circumstances of situations. That was a very disorganized sentence that doesn't really include a coherent thought, but I'm gonna leave it alone. Changing it would go against the grain of this post, which as I said earlier, has an emphasis on speed. My intention here is to blather as quickly as possible and then leave. Who knows when I'll be able to find this place again. But as I was saying, it's the pictures that I find to be the most sorrowing. Family pictures. Young familys. Young familys that don't even know, at that moment, that there family has changed. That's what I think about when I look at the pictures. Moments before this post, my volunteered purpose in life was to sweep and mop our work area. I wanted to do this. I wanted to put my headphones on and start rearranging things in locations that would be more agreeable to my mop. Then put the mop where the things use to be. Then move the things once more and follow them with the mop. Everyone has their own way. The majority of my thoughts while doing this actually had to do with girls and "things I need to do." I am not sure which of those subjects I should continue on with from this point. After a quick reflection, a quick pause of my fingers, I think I determined that neither topic is very interesting, especially since I didn't come to any conclusions. So will just move on from here. But where do I go? I guess you can't call that being lost if you don't have any idea of where you want to go, so I'll just fast forward several months ahead. I'm really looking forward to getting back. I want to start my life again. I've been wanting to move to Minneapolis, but lately my head has been shifting to Chicago. Either place will do, so I guess I'll just leave it up to whichever offers the best oppurtunities. Problem solved. On to the next. My dad has a habit of alerting me of small problems that typically present themselves in envelopes, however he doesn't send me the envelopes or give me a good idea of what the problem is. It's kind of frustrating. It's sort of like telling someone there is a small fire, not a big fire, but an undesirable one nonetheless. He'll tell me that much, and maybe where it is, but he won't say how it got started or where to find the extinguisher. Those are important peices to know. Why don't you tell me shit? My dog is doing really well. He just got his teeth cleaned and am very lucky to have such a good home for him. He's with my grandparents who are doing an excellent job of taking care of him. My sister told me he put on a few pounds, but that I'm not suppose to let my grandparents know that I know. They don't want me to know. It's fine, I know he's happy, and I'll just run it off him when I get back anyhow. Part of me wants to leave him with them, simply because I know they've become attacthed to him and I know that moving and changing environments causes stress in dogs. Especially my dog. He was a stray at the humane society when I got him, and his luck placed him with an owner that moves constantly. I hope to slow that process down, my habitual changing of address's, but so far I haven't had that chance. Anyway, I'm a little hesitent to take him back becuase of those reasons, but he's my dog. He's gonna have to come with me. Selfish? Maybe, but I miss him the most. So my plan is to present a new dog to the situation. I will show up with another dog, not a replacement dog, a new dog. At this point he'll be a free agent, meaning he can stay with my grandparents if they decide that they want their own dog, or he will come with me as well, and become my second dog. That should work. Even if they take the dog, I'll probably get another anyway. So one way or another I'll have two dogs. In either Chicago or Minianapolis.

A Soldier Too

2006-03-16T14:50:00.000+03:00

Everyone has already been told that dogs have a strong sense of smell, so don’t anticipate any sort of press release with the following. A dog’s sense of smell is so strong in fact, that many of them have been able to find employment becuase of it. Gone are the days where canines have to stand in the unemployment line. With their noses, dogs are able to locate drugs, explosives, chemicals, people (dead or alive), various forms of cancer and perhaps most important of all, exotic foods. If nobody told you that, then I’m telling you now.

The military will eagerly accept anyone capable of doing what their told, occasionally in addition to those who are not, but so goes a story for another day. Suffice to say, someone with these very talents in both olfaction and listening, are in high demand from the United States military. After all, god forbid a soldier should have difficulty locating an avocado.

Interestingly enough it isn’t the problem of finding exotic fruit that keeps canines employed in the military. More often than not, they are here for the purposes of locating explosives during searches or while at control points. Ultimately they support the mission, save lives and receive monetary compensation (in the form of treats) just the same as any other who serves. Therefore meeting the defining terms of a soldier. There is even a corresponding memorandum to support this notion, along with an acronym. Somewhere I imagine. For those of you who haven’t been told, the Army loves acronyms (ALA).

Earlier today I saw one of these dogs. That isn’t a good thing. He was sleeping with the same coarse eyes that they all have. Fortunately it wasn’t an I.E.D that took him, so he looked good, but instead he had drowned. Well maybe that isn’t any better because from what I understand, that isn’t a desirable choice either.

Typically when a soldier arrives, we inventory their possessions, ice the body and prepare an indefinite number of forms, among other things. I didn’t know we did these things with dogs, but apparently we do. However, I am happy to report that we do in fact treat them just the same as everyone else. By this, I mean a canine even gets his own transfer case with an American flag proudly draped across the top.

Later on tonight, at approximately 0300, I will be standing at attention while several airmen are loading this dog and his flag onto a cargo plane, along with seven other soldiers. This is a ceremonial event and someday I will tell more about it. But for now, it is only important to know that it is an honor to be there. There’s a feeling in the air and sometimes a breeze.

His name was Ray and he never did like avocados.

~Rolligun

nothing to talk about, verse two

2006-03-08T12:15:00.000+03:00

second verse similar to the first...

I changed missions and switched companies back in mid-December. My new mission is Mortuary Affairs. Use your imagination.

I kept a semi-journal about the people who died that I personally saw and processed. I stopped updating it. Last count was 38.

That was on January 9.

I finally received my newly repaired Ipod.

Thank you to the fine folks from Apple, you have single handedly improved the security of the free world in the most infinitesimal way possible.

I still can’t speak Spanish, even in the form of functional yammering…so I continue to smile as pretty as I can.

{my new unit is from Puerto Rico}

I received three more magazines from my dad. Still no letter attached, however, at least I now understand the ambiguous nature behind his selections.

I recently watched the movie Spider Man. The last time I saw it, I was with my old girlfriend. I liked this movie. So naturally, I played Spider Man when we got back to my place. She called me “spidey” for the rest our relationship after that. Also, she bought me a pair of Spider man boxers, although I have never wore them. This is the only thing I could think about while I watched the movie.

There is a wonderful lady in the States who I have never met, yet she takes the time to send me things and thank the soldiers for their support. She’s my favorite silent reader, probably because she sends me things.

I started helping one of the guys in my new unit prepare to find a new job when he gets back. He promised his young family that he would get out of the Army when he's done. So I started helping him explore his interests and his skills, conduct research, interview prep and any other needed formalities (i.e. resume).

He shook my hand.

I recently benched 225 lbs ten times. “It’s no big deal.”

But secretly I’m happy about this.

I weigh 165 lbs.

I’ve been stalling on my R&R plans, in part because my original plan was shot in the ass when I transferred companies. Originally I was to travel with some friends from my old unit. I had successfully campaigned among them for these plans long ago, but now I will be traveling solo. This isn’t a problem however.

I was invited via email, to be a “friend,” on the Myspace page, of the former girlfriend, of a good friend of mine. I never really liked her and won’t be joining her site. I do like my friend though.

Sometimes I like to use commas unnecessarily.

I have a Myspace account, but don’t bother ever looking at it. It’s a desolate collection of nothingness as I have never done anything with it other than indicate the college I went too. I don’t even know how to find it.

I found out my mom has Lyme’s disease in an email from my sister that read, and I quote “Mom’s Lyme’s disease isn’t improving.” That was all. It was at the bottom of the email.

My initial reaction was “when the hell did this happen?!?” I reiterated that eloquencey in a return email and have yet to get a reply. That was a month ago.

Information flow is not a strength of the Rolligun Family.

It’s a good thing my family is small, otherwise I imagine I would still be learning people’s names.

Every other night I “sleep” on the Army’s version of a cot. By now you would think I should be professional assembler of these “cots”, but in actuality, they have never once failed in their pursuit to make a blundering fool out of me. Further insult is continually found in the added form of one loose, bar like extremity that frequently clangs off something at intolerable decibels while I blunder through the construction process. This pisses me off.

I unsuccessfully tried to send someone flowers on Valentines Day. That didn’t work by any stretch of the imagination.

I am taking the GMAT either during my R&R or instead of taking my four-day pass in Qatar. Either way, I’ll take the test in May. This is a good thing and I'll be happy to get it out of the way.

There is a sweet yet, conservative secretary who works in a professional setting at my old office. She occasionally emails me and had recently complimented me on the entertainment value of my return replies. So I decided to send her one of the absurdities I had written. I thought this was a good idea, mainly because I didn’t have much else to say that was different from the last time, but also because it was applicable. What wasn’t a good idea was the fact that I forgot to edit what I had written. So this sweet, yet conservative secretary who works in a professional setting at my old office, received a story annotated with profanities by me. That wasn’t part of my good idea.

I recently wore my “Navy” shirt. I’m not in the Navy, I’m in the Army. I had bought it earlier in the year to upset my old LT. I knew this would annoy him beyond belief by my wearing a navy shirt and it proved to have sufficiently done so. The first time he saw me in it, he said, again I quote “Rolligun! What is your problem?” To which I replied with my desire to show support for all of our forces. How can you argue with that?

In a related event…

The camp I’m at will invite local merchants to come and sell their crap to the United States military from time to time. One of these merchants was selling glass tobacco pipes, otherwise known as a bongs. As surprising as it was to see such an item available for purchase, I found even greater amusement in actually acquiring it. Not only did I believe in its value as pleasant decorative, but I assumed my LT would also find it’s appearance more than agreeable. Suprisingly, he didn’t see it that way. He responded with another rhetorical question and I was feverishly told to abandon it.

I put my Navy shirt back on instead.

The point of nothing to talk about is to relay relatively current things. Since I'm going back in time with the latter, I can consider this post compete. Also since I didn't pay much attention to conventional rules of grammar or design for that matter, I won't feel the least bit bad about ending this post abruptly.

The...

Nineteen Seconds

2006-03-03T00:03:00.000+03:00

When I was eight years old I started wrestling. I was an aggressive little guy and wrestling appealed to me. So I joined. My earliest experience with a kids wrestling tournament was intimidating, even for a little kid’s event. People were everywhere. Mats were everywhere. The entire gym was full of young wrestlers running around. Kids were screaming and kids were crying. People were yelling, and parents were cheering. Whistles were blowing.
It was a lot to take in.

That atmosphere never really changed over the years. It just slowly became more exclusive. Eventually, it was only you and another guy in the middle of mat, in the middle of the gym, in the middle of a lot of people. Everyone in attendance, focused on that one mat. Every whistle meant only for that match. One side of gym cheered for you. The other side didn’t.

Little kids tournaments were structured in four man round robins. Meaning, each kid would wrestle each other for a total of three matches. When I first walked on to the mat, I was nervous. My stomach was sick. The referee was impatient. We each walked to the center and placed are foot on the line. The referee stood between us. He had a whistle. We got ready and the referee dropped his hand and the whistle blew. Everything around you becomes silent. If you’re lucky you can hear a coach or a father, but mainly, you hear only the whistle and your heart.

I won the first time I ever stepped on the mat.

The final match that day, I lost. I was defeated and had failed. My young manhood humiliated. All from with in and all in the presence of my dad. It was very common for the kid who lost to break down in tears afterwards. It’s a hard thing to explain, how a simple loss could bring so many young kids to such unmerciful tears. The best I can do, is that for many, it’s the first time you ever put your pride on the line. This isn’t done quietly. That pride is put on the line at younger age than most and in front of so many people, both relation and strange. Despite losing a match, I didn’t cry that day. Instead I loved it. I found competition. Challenge.

I wrestled for the next ten years.

My senior year I walked onto the mat for my “sectional final.” Eight guys, who all had placed in the top four at different regionals, would move on to the “sectional” tournament. The top two from this tournament would go to “State,” the final tournament of the year. The wrestler, who eventually won the state tournament in my weight class that year, had already won the sectional tourney that day. He was the first of two, to go back to state. There was one spot left and it was between me and my opponent. He had been to state the last two years, and I had lost to him earlier in the year by a score of 4-2.

I was having a pretty good year, but my senior season was harder than most…in part because I didn’t get along with my coach (imagine that) but mainly because of “cutting” weight. At the beginning of the year I had originally weighed 146 lbs. I was lean, strong and in good shape, I’ve always been. I wrestled at 125 lbs.

I cut 21 lbs, by far, more than anyone else on the team, to specifically wrestle in that weight class. To make weight, I use to run in the hallways before school. I didn’t run to burn fat, I ran to sweat. After practice, I use to come back at night and jump rope in the pool room. Always with layers of sweat clothes. Sometimes, on days when there was a meet, I would have to work out during lunch or right before a weigh-in. I would drain every last bit of water and energy I had leading up to a meet in order to make weight. I ate nothing. Drank nothing.

That same year over Christmas break, four days before a tournament, our coach had us all line up to get weighed after practice.

“Everyone should be within five pounds by now…”

As I stood in line I started laughing. The guy next to me asked what was so funny.

“Just wait.”

I stepped on the scale and was fifteen pounds over. Four days to go. Coach wasn’t pleased and I didn’t wrestle that weekend. He didn’t want me to cut that much in four days, but it wasn’t even a big deal for me. I was always way over. I would be ten pounds heavier the day after a meet.

I spent the whole year making weight. But I loved wrestling.

I had been wrestling for ten years.

The season was exhausting, a four month roller coaster. I fought my coach, I fought my weight. I would get tired. My body would sometimes break down in the final period. It would get to heavy for me. My mind too slow.

The last match of the day for the 125 lbs sectional is about to begin.

I listen to headphones as I wait. I’m on deck, I wrestle next and I’m slowly jumping rope as I watch the 119 lbs final. I break a light sweat as I prepare. My heart is beating steady, but slow. My mind is visualizing every step of the upcoming match. It moves much quicker than my heart.

I watch the match, but I think about my own. The clock ticks. The buzzer sounds. Half the gym cheers. The other half doesn’t. One guy jumps and throws his arms into the air. The other guy stays down. He pauses on one knee and curls his head into his arms. He stays that way, only for a moment, but was probably more of an eternity. They shake hands and the ref raises one of the arms into the air. The 119 lbs match is over.

I set down my rope and shed my clothes. Cool air surfaces my body and my heart finally starts moving faster than my mind. My opponent rushes to the middle of the mat. He stares at me. I run to the center, in the same cocky way I always did. Chin up, and shaking my arms out as I move, nonchalant, but my eyes never leave his. My face is stone and my mind is clear. I’m confident. My whole body is rushing and I have a light layer of sweat. I felt stronger than I ever have. This was my match and I can hear my heart.

We place our feet on the line and the whistle blows.

We went right after each other. It was one of the more intense beginnings of match I can remember. We work back and forth, offensively and defensively. Each of us seeing and feeling how the other reacts.

I see something. His hips are open, and I hit it. I take him down with a fireman’s carry. He goes straight to his back.

“Two, Takedown, Red”

Thirty seconds into this match I have him on his back, and a five point lead (I’ll get 3 pts for him on his back). I don’t want the points I want to finish it. Now. I slide in a deep half-nelson, and I squeeze as hard as I can. I want to pop his head off, create so much pain that he stops fighting me. He continues to fight and the clock continues to tick. He spends ninety seconds on his back, fighting for his life and struggling to breathe, but I don’t pin him. The clock ticks and the period ends.

We start the second period in the referee’s position, one guy has top and the other bottom. I have a 5-0 lead. My mind is clear and my heart is beating. This was my match. Red has the choice and I choose top in the referee’s position. The whistle blows. We continue to work back and forth. Grabbing ankles and grabbing wrists. Fighting for position. Everything is silent. My opponent breaks free from me. I hear my heart.

“One, Escape, Green”

The period continues and now we’re back on our feet in the neutral position. We work back and forth and cover the entire mat. Working for position. Fighting for a takedown. Everything is silent. He shoots in and I counter his move. We work for position. I shoot and he counters. We go out of bounds and start again. The whistle blows. We fight for position. He shoots. Everything is silent. I give up a takedown and the period ends.

“Two, Takedown, Green”

The third period starts. This period hasn’t been good to me this year. I’m tired and I’m weak. I have a 5-3 lead and my opponent chooses the bottom position. My heart is beating, but my mind isn’t clear. I don’t want to lose. I can’t lose. Everything else is silent.

The whistle blows.

We work back and forth. Grabbing ankles and grabbing wrists. We fight for position.

I don’t want to lose.

“One, Escape, Green”

We’re back on our feet, and immediately start working for position and fighting for the next takedown. We cover the whole mat and things are moving faster than my mind.

The score is 5-4. I am still ahead, but I’m losing. I’m losing my body. It’s getting to heavy and I can’t hear anything. I look at the clock, it’s just under a minute to go.

Everything is silent.

He shoots in and I counter his move. We work for position. He shoots in again and I almost give up a takedown, but we go out of bounds.

I don’t want to lose. My body. I can’t lose.

I get back up and look at the clock. The clock says 00:19. I almost lost it, but this is it. I can’t lose. I have 19 seconds left. The score is 5-4 and I’m still ahead. The winner moves on. I hold my head up and tell myself that it’s time now, it’s time to finish this match. Time to get control of my body. My mind. I run back in my cocky way and my mind is clear. I’m confident and I can hear my heart again. This is it for me. My foot is on the line and there is 19 seconds left.

The whistles blows.

We fight for position. I see something and I shoot in. I take a hold of his leg and work to pull it out and drive through him. I get stuck and I’m unable to drive. I can’t lose. Everything is silent. We fight for position. The clock ticks and he grabs my ankle, frees his leg and gets behind me. I look at the clock, it says 00:01. The buzzer sounds.

“Two, Takedown, Green”

I look at the scoreboard. It reads 05-06. The time is 00:00

I lost with one second left.

I had 19.

Everything is silent. My whole fucking world is silent.

My coach wasn’t there and my father wasn’t there.

I got up and shook hands. The ref raised the other arm and I left the mat.

I left quietly, but quickly. I kept my head up, but that meant nothing. I couldn’t hear my heart.

I shouldered my way threw the crowd, went straight to the locker room and lost it. I lost it first with rage and then quietly with tears. I could probably count the number, in my lifetime, on one hand. I never cry.

I flushed ten years of my life out of my eyes.

I had lost the very last time I ever stepped on the mat.

~Rolligun

Moral of Story~~~I lost this match because I was afraid to lose. Instead of wrestling to win, I wrestled to not lose. There’s a difference, successful people approach life to achieve, not to avoid.

Afterthought~~~I’ll never forget this. Sometimes I’ll talk sports with friends. We'd drink and they’d speak of their “glory days” in athletics. But I never say anything. I have my success stories too, but I don’t deserve to speak of them. I try not to regret anything, but I can’t help regretting this match and that season. I didn’t do everything the way I should have. And that last match, I wrestled to not lose. Instead of wrestling to win, I wrestled not to lose. That’s the way it should be. You do something to win, not to avoid. I had nineteen seconds left. Nineteen seconds to regain my posture and my mind, my body. Nineteen seconds, not to hold on, but to win.

You do things to achieve, not to avoid.

dEsqUAmAtIOn

2006-02-28T15:41:00.000+03:00

Some days I just feel like jumping out of my fucking Skin. I want gone of everything…I don’t want be a part of this moment anymore. I don’t want to be here or there.

I don’t care about what’s going on…couldn’t care less about what you’re saying…I want to leave.

But I can’t. I have to stay. I have to tell other people what to do. Other people have to tell me what to do. Everyone has to do.

I can’t leave, so I want to shed my Skin.

Sometimes I don’t want what’s on my mind. I have too much on my mind. I have other things on my mind. I have nothing on my mind. I can’t change it.

So I want to shed my Skin.

Is that possible?

To Shed your skin and reappear somewhere else.

How would you go about doing that?

I use to be able to get away if I needed too…

Could go for a walk with my dog,
A ride,
I could drink,
Something...

But I can’t do any of that stuff. I can’t leave anything.
I’m stuck in my own skin,
which is currently under U.S. command.

The human skin is our body’s largest organ. It has remarkable healing properties. It protects us. Regulates temperature. Holds moisture. It can sense both pleasure and pain. It has two layers.

But sometimes I don’t care about that.

300 million cells that I don’t care about.

February 14 was more than a consumer headache, an emotional heartache, or a passionate love make, depending on whichever you were. To me, it also marked the fifth month I’ve been in country.

That’s fives months in with seven more to go. Not to mention the 73 days of “pre-mobilization.” So five months and 73 days with approximately 210 more to go. Oh stupid me, that 210 figure doesn’t include the anywhere from 20-40 days of demobilization. So we’ll estimate the remaining two and call it 240 more days.

Every twenty four hours your body sheds its outermost layer of skin. The layer beneath it replaces the subsequent layer and assumes that layers responsibilities. The layer most likely to be torn off by me. The other layers do not aspire to have this position.

Every thirty days, your skin will completely recycle itself. One day at time your body replaces its own barrier. This is why we don’t look like mobile red carcasses, as opposed to the not-so-mobile ones.

It has remarkable healing properties.

So I’ve determined that I will have to shed my body of its entire shell eight more times. Then I’m done. Thus proving that my clenching state of silence, where I can think about nothing except jumping out of my fucking Skin, is in fact a natural one.

Biological impatience.

~Rolligun

So how do you shed your Skin?

This i'll do

2006-02-21T23:40:00.000+03:00

Recently I went to the firing range. It was an ad hoc shooting gallery that was used for training by the United States Army. This range wasn’t so much constructed as it was, well, a, “lets shoot here kind of thing.” There were plenty of locations available for this training exercise as every where you look there is nothing but flat desert. Infinite stretches of desolate tracts. Might as well be the surface area of Planet Zero, or so it seems to me.

This is the first time I have shot my weapon since I have been in country. This is a good thing. I won’t hesitate, I said I wouldn’t when I raised my hand, but nonetheless I would prefer not having to live with a decision like that.

The vast majority of our forces have issued to them what is known as an M16. It’s a nice weapon, a little picky and not as powerful as an AK-47, but it’s meant to mar and disable as opposed to kill. The thought process behind this is that two men will have to carry one man who is injured, thus removing more of the enemy from the battle field. I don’t see how this logic transfers accordingly to our enemy. Their M.O. is pretty much pull the trigger in the random vicinity of a U.S. Soldier (often times following an I.E.D.) and then run like hell. I don’t believe they wait for any of their wounded.

I have what is known as a M249 “Saw”’ machine gun. It’s twice the weight of an M16 and fires 600 rounds a minute. It comes with an extra barrel due to excessive heat and needs to be changed out when firing. It’s also what is known as a “crew serv” weapon meaning that it is sometimes operated in groups of two and is most often times used in a turret, or the weapon mount portion of a humvee. These are the guys you see half exposed from an Army vehicle operating the weapon. These are also the guys I eventually see, in half parts after an I.E.D. explodes next to them. The shrapnel and/or blast will separate themselves from their own torso.

Given my mission, it is highly unlikely I would ever be in a turret on a convoy, although I very much want too. Sounds ridiculous I know, but it is something I want to experience. I don’t want to kill anybody and I see what happens to these soldiers all the time, but I would still do it.

~Rolligun

Blowin' in the Wind

2006-02-16T13:38:00.000+03:00

Have you ever been sitting down, perfectly content to entertain yourself as you deliberate your troubles. You have a problem, but your temporary answer is to let the issue breeze in and out of your mind. This spoken breeze bangs shudders back and forth, open and close, kicks up cerebral dirt and echoes deep blustery taunts for your inner-audio. But every so often it will blow a randomly plausible solution to your problem. This solution will whisk briefly past the backs of your eyeballs giving you a windy element of hope, only to be funneled out of your mind just as quickly as it came and rapidly forgotten with the bang of a shudder. But this is why you sit in peace, occupying yourself in a solitary ponder with the hope that one of these gusty premises will hold on, that it will swirl around long enough for you to turn it into a viable solution to your problems. It’s a meteorologically exhausting process that requires the combined attention of solitude, some form of troubling inspiration and at least one mindless physical task.

Note: Any task will do, just something to keep your hands busy while you wait for the next breeze.

Anyway, there you are sitting down (or whichever behavioral form of occupancy you choose) indirectly trying set your mind at ease. It’s just you, your problem and your mindless physical task. This is how you want it, with the exclusion of the problem of course, but that’s invariable at this point. Then something gets in the way. A disruption in the very course of nature. It’s called…a conversation. Sometimes unavoidable.

I’m not a patient person to begin with, but under circumstances like this, well, it’d be best if we hurry this discussion along. Urgently hurry along. For the safety of all at stake. A churning urgency.

Disruption: “Did you see my newest pictures from back home”

Rolligun: “Yes”

Persistent Disruption: “No, I’m mean the ones I just got”s

{shit}

Rolligun: “Oh…, no, not yet”

{quickly, quickly, concentrate on mindless physical task in an obvious manner}

Armed Disruption: “Here, look at this one”

{Shudders banging}

Rolligun: “oh, wow, I didn’t know you guys had one of those circular drive ways”

Puzzled Disruption: “Yeah, well, we do, but that’s not why I’m showing you the picture”

Rolligun: “no”

Jovial Disruption: “No, That’s my cousin Maggie standing next to our new car!”

Rolligun: “Well Maggie looks like a treat and the car, it’s nice, compliments the circular drive way”

A discussion like this continues on for several centuries, and I slowly start imagining myself banging my head off the corner of a table. I don’t want to be selfish, but I’m rather consumed at the moment with my own sense of loss and frustration, which is shrouded under the disguise of a mindless physical task. It has nothing to do with Maggie and the new car. (Although I will consider having a circular drive way one day)

Eventually we come to the conclusion of the photos and I wonder how many roles of film this project took. Also, I quietly take comfort in the fact that I made it through this enduring event without actually breaking anything on my forehead.

Then the unthinkable occurs. I accidentally get caught up in the natural pursuit of an amiable exchange. A temporary achievement in stupidity, I make the mistake of mentioning something…that is on my mind.

{Oh god what have I done?}

This opens the door for a whole new topic of conversation. I just wanted to go back to letting my mind float around the atmosphere in the hopes that it will settle itself. I especially didn’t want to continue talking, much less about what’s on my mind.

This prompts my photo wielding enthusiast to assume the role of advice giver. He begins with recounting personal stories of both triumph and malfunction, all in effort to support his unnecessary diagnosis.

{Oh please God give me a table, a brick, anything with a density greater than my head, please.}

I don’t take to advice. Giving me your guidance is on par with prodding a donkey. Good luck. I already have a system in place for determining my awareness or choosing which foolish course of action to take. It involves separation, a stormy conscious, and a mindless physical task. Quite simple really, all I ask from the public is that they let me be.

Often times one’s advice is a reflection of themselves. Consequently, people take great pride in giving advice, at least the ones who set out to make a valuable contribution and at the same time are able to take themselves seriously. So I do appreciate these efforts, even if they are unwelcome by my stoic donkey demeanor. In turn, I do my best to portray a reasonably interested appearance. I listen, but I strategically place as many encouraging yet (here’s the important part) culminating remarks as possible. I say things like…

Your absolutely right, I’ll do that.

Holy SHIT, that’s exactly what I needed to hear.

Well said, I just didn’t know how to put it into words.

True man, very True.

And finally…

FUCK YOU!!! That’s it!! That’s it right there, you’ve FUCKING got it!

Tactfully littered annotations from me that suggest the advice giver has made his point. The message has been received and everything will now be the better for it. Thank you for your courageous work. Please go now.

Apparently I didn’t achieve a suitable balance of agreeable comments vs. you can go now comments, and the advice giver found himself continually satisfied with the progress he was making. So I had to resort to blatant non-verbal clues such as piercing my eyes, paralyzing my facial muscles (with mouth open), juggling readily available objects, and finally knocking myself out with an ammo can. My efforts finally registered, and the advice giving session ended. It was an awkward ending, the kind where you each look at each other for an uncomfortable period of time, but nonetheless, it was all done now.

So back it is to my solitude, my troubles and of course, the mindless physical task. I can now peacefully resume waiting for all the answers to come blowing in.

~Rolligun

(feel free to act out “facial paralysis” if you haven’t already done so)

The fourteenth Of February

2006-02-14T00:17:00.000+03:00

Today is only the fourteenth.

It’s just like any other day,

I’m thinking of someone, but it’s not because it’s the fourteenth.

I think of her everyday, regardless of what number it is.

Tomorrow is the Fifteenth, it’s another day too.

~Rolligun

Who's the foreigner here?

2006-02-08T00:07:00.000+03:00

It’s very rare that I get out in the public where I’m stationed at. Basically, I just get shuttled from one camp to the next. I spend a fair amount of time traveling some of the roads, but the local connections I make are more along the lines of a window affair. I look at you, and you look at me. Sometimes there’s an exchange, a nod, a wave, but most times you could find more of a cultural merging hiding in an assortment of vegetables.

Anyway, today was a rare opportunity that I walked among the regulars, albeit briefly. I was at a Kuwaiti airport and I had to enter a building to pick something up. In order to get to where I needed to go, I had to walk through a large tunnel/lounge type of area.

I was by myself as I walked through this particular quarter and it took me all of three minutes from entry to exit. The setting is a waiting area, a place for casual lounging. There was a front desk with a gold lamp, rotating doors, and an abundance of couches, windows and TVs. The walls were full of Kuwaiti artifacts, pictures and other signified treasures. Also, there were rugs, plants and LOTS of people.

As I walked through, I noticed huddles of Japanese people, all standing in distorted circles. Apparently, they all packed under the same set of travel instructions, for everyone one of them seemed to be wielding similar items, namely pencils, eyeglasses, cameras and shoulder bags.

But there weren’t just parabolas of Japanese around me. There were significantly larger gatherings of Arab people, also arranged loosely in geometric patterns. Some were standing equilaterally in groups of three while others were forming more abstract patterns that didn’t strike me as graph-able.

All these people had been talking amongst themselves, concerned only with affable chit chat and perhaps travel plans, but regardless of interest or location, every single person automatically stopped talking and started looking as soon as I entered the area. Immediately, all eyes were mechanically fixed on me.

I came waltzing in wearing my desert camouflage and the look appropriate of a soldier. As I walked by, the sets of eyes fixated on me seemed to multiply indefinitely. The genial yet incomprehensible chit chat, faded into elastic banter. The lounge had become an idle party. I was the only American and military figure of any kind in the passing audience.

I had originally entered with a dry but sharp expression on my face, not deliberately, really by default, but in any case I couldn’t keep that posture for very long. There was simply way to many people staring at me and the lounging area was just too long.

I tried to maintain my discipline, my detachment from the environment, but I couldn’t take it any longer. The more eyes on me that I noticed, the more my disposition began to change. Half way through my unusual amble the expression on my face slowly began to change from a look of gravity to progressively fading into a smile, and shortly thereafter, it became all out laughter. I just couldn’t believe how many fucking people where staring at me as I walked by them. Their odd formations didn’t help matters any.

In addition to my solitary existence, my uniform, and my purpose for being there, the overall presence of my attendance was probably extra confusing to these people as I seemed to be laughing all by myself as I strutted on by. Foreigners.

~Rolligun

Going to the Zoo

2006-02-05T00:09:00.000+03:00

Awhile back Meghan posted some ridiculous story about how she got out of not one, but two speeding tickets. Swift girl that Meghan, I wonder how she really did it?

I have never been that fortunate. As a matter of fact the only time I’ve ever been pulled over by a cop and avoided the inclusion of pen & paper, or worse, was that of my very first time.

When I was five years old I had about the same level of patience that I have today. With that level of patience comes an equal but polar need for adventure. No patience yes adventure. I was five years old and decided that the solution to these needs was a trip to the Zoo. The frustrating part about this plan was that I needed an escort. Most communities simply aren’t ready for independent five years to do things on their own. I had to get my mom to take me. But first I had to get her out of the bathroom.

Down the Hall and on the right…I knock on the bathroom door.

I knock and wait. Knock again. And kick.

Rolliugn: “moMMMM”

…Knock, Knock, KICK…

Lady in the Bathroom: “what is it”

Rolligun with a plan: “I wanna go to the zoo.”

Evasive Lady in the Bathroom: “We’ll talk about when I’m done.”

I’m ready to go now, I have no intentions of talking about anything, much less with a door in my way.

...Kick, Kick, Knock,...

The hell with it, I open the door and enter.

Lady with hands on hips: “I told you we’d talk about it when I’m done.”

Well shit, this could take forever! I’m standing there watching her conduct some endless facial operation and god only knows when this could be over.

Intolerant Rolligun: “I’m just gonna meet you there.”

Lady now interested in negotiations: “…Rolligun,…Hey Rolligun……Rol..”

I grab my best shoes, the ones with the Velcro and head out. Goin to the Zoo. The city Zoo was about a half hour away, by auto. Of course I had no idea how to get there, but at five years old the only direction I needed was down the hall, a left and out the door. I saw no problem with any of that. My chosen course of transportation was my “big wheel.” For those of you who aren’t familiar with what the were, it was a plastic three wheeled toy of a ride, intended for transport, with one single hand brake and a big plastic wheel in the front. How they ever came to name this thing, I’ll never know.

I started wheeling my way down the sidewalk and proceeded to take various lefts and rights. I come across a new city block every so often and promptly follow with another turn to some direction or another. Doesn’t matter which road I chose, I’m goin to the Zoo.

Eventually a police officer pulls up along side me. Apparently he had been following me, without my knowledge. Sneaky fucker, but this would also serve as my first lesson in their tactics.

Blue man with Sunglasses: “where you going?”

Rolligun with Big Wheel: “Goin to the Zoo”

Blue man with Sunglasses: “That’s a long ways away, I don’t think you can make it from here.”

Rolligun with Big Wheel: “I’m almost there”

Blue Man becoming Police Officer: “Where is your mom?”

Rolligun with Big Wheel: “There is something wrong with her face, but she’s gonna meet me there”

Police Officer: “I think I better take you home”

My vehicle is confiscated and placed into the custody of the back seat. Luckily, I posed little threat to the officer at this point and he allowed me to sit in the front, un-cuffed.

Police Officer: “Where do you live?”

Rolligun without Big Wheel: “I don’t know”

Police Officer: “What’s your name?”

Rolligun without Big Wheel: “Troy”

My name isn’t Troy. It has never been Troy. I was asked a direct question from a large and strange figure of authority, in sunglasses. I needed to give an answer. I didn’t give a fake name out of fear. Instead I gave the name of Troy to “honor” a friend of mine from “day care.” “Day care” was brick building devoted to compound baby sitting, or rather continuous nap time, as far as I could tell. Anyway, “Troy” was my chubby buddy who spoke slowly and didn’t have any other friends. This was my impulsive way of showing him respect.

Police Officer with Radio: “Troy, I need to find out where you live, so where gonna go to the police station”

Troy: “O.K.” (I’m not sure if he’s speaking to me or the radio)

Police Officer: “Have you ever been to a Police Station”

Troy: “No” (It would be a few years)

The police officer proceeds to make his way back to the station. I think to myself that, one, this isn’t the way to the zoo, and two, I’m quite sure that I could go faster in my Big Wheel.

While the police officer continues his verbal assault to determine where I’ve come from, I happen to see my mom drive past us.

Troy: “That’s my mom right there”

The police officer turns around, the lights go on and he pulls over my mom.

She stops and he approaches the car. I try to get out, but and the doors are locked. I turn around and look out the back. The officer speaks to the window and then instructs the door to open. My mom gets out of the car. The police officer comes over to release me from my temporary confinement.

I remember the expression on my mom’s face when she speaks to the cop. It’ a look of concern and obedience. It has nothing to do with going to the Zoo.

The officer free’s my ride from back seat impound and my mom turns to me.

Come on “--Troy--” we’re going Home.

Her new expression is more along the lines of something I was hoping to see at the Zoo.

We didn’t go the Zoo, we went straight home instead where I was quickly shuttled into my room and once again placed in confinement. My Big Wheel was also sent back to”impound.”

It would take some time before either of us were released again.

~Rolligun

I feel like Bill Murray

2006-02-02T09:26:00.000+03:00

I’m not a film critic and I couldn’t name very many of his movies, but what I do know of Bill Murray is the type of character he usually seems to play. Apathetic. Constant and sardonic. It’s the way he absorbs life and his reactions to it. Those are the qualities I always found entertaining about him. I don’t want to be like Bill Murray, but that’s what I feel like. I feel like Bill Murray.

Well I think I’m done with my “sabbatical” as it was amusingly described at one point. I don’t think I’m entitled to such notions, but nonetheless, blogging resumes with the help of Bill Murray.

I was hopping to kick this off again with some tales of heroism, the realizations of deep internal thoughts, perhaps some danger or even travel. Instead I have nothing, so I will dazzle you with the following…

My pay is all messed up. The military seems to be giving me money and then taking it away. This isn’t a new phenomenon in the Army, however it is unexpected. I have yet to determine the reasoning behind the mysterious debt that is so finely referred to miniature fonts at the bottom of my LES (Electronic Pay Stub). It would almost be hard to notice the slight deductions, but I tend to be quite detailed when it comes to that sort of thing. Especially when it’s coming from Uncle Sam’s wallet. I sometimes get the impression he likes to pay out in large quantities of singles and every so often, he’ll accidentally miscount. Here is your three hundred dollars in singles, feel free to count them out. Well, I can count, and will be using all ten of my fingers when I get the chance to go the finance detachment and explain the situation.

Also, my LES is indicating that my ETS (The day I’m no longer a Soldier) is in fact three years longer than I had understood it to be. This is an interesting turn of events as far as my future is concerned. I don’t plan on being in the Army that long. No plans whatsoever. I had to look for additional assistance from the people around me to confirm if my eyes were working properly or not. Yep. Seems as though Uncle Sam has been transforming those dollars he’s been keeping into additional days on my enlistment contract. Quite the magician, that dear uncle of mine. Anyway, I’ve never signed such a document, that isn’t my correct date of discharge and this story isn’t over.

I have managed to pay off the last of my $12,000 in debt that was the creation of personal loans and credit cards combined (we’ll leave student loans at bay). I also topped off an investment account that I started with residential ambitions. Not quite ready for that point in my life, but the affairs are in order. Anyway, I’m free of creditors and bankers. Take your letters, your bonus points, and new offers and insert them somewhere else.

Things that have kept me busy, all described to you in run of the mill one word descriptions… (Not related to my everyday responsibilities)

Counting
Cleaning
Swearing
Planning
Documenting
Repairing
Swearing
Guarding
Moving
Packing
Unpacking
Swearing
&
Shadowing
(I’d been tasked with the temporary role of “arm candy” for my first sergeant. We bounced among camps and I served as an escort. I followed in stride and tried to look my best.)

~Rolligun

A Special thanks to Bill Murray.

Leave of absence

2006-01-19T23:57:00.000+03:00

I wanted to let my loyal readers know that I will be leaving the computer alone for a little while.

We didn’t get in any sort of argument and there isn’t anything wrong from these parts, I’ve just decided to take a little break.

I want to start paying more attention to some other things, start paying more attention to what’s around me.

I feel myself getting away from what I’m trying to do, neglecting the things I shouldn’t be.

I want to thank everyone who keeps coming back and leaving their insights in the form of comments. I look forward to catching up with you all when I’m done and until then, take care everyone.

Please don’t forget about me, I’ll catch a ride back into town soon…

~Rolligun

What am I going to do with myself?

2006-01-19T23:48:00.000+03:00

Thank you Auburn. You are now on my list. I have lot’s of lists and you’re on the one titled “bloggers revenge.” I’m gonna do this tag, but do know that your name is written down.

So what am I gonna do with myself?

1. I want to do my job and go home.
2. Learn a second language, perhaps Dutch, but more than likely Spanish.
3. Go to Amsterdam, London, Prague, and Rome.
4. Live in another country, at least for a year.
5. I want to publish something. Don’t care what it is.
6. I want to get my masters degree.
7. Do amateur stand-up, just once though.
8. Brew my own beer.
9. Make having sex in public places a hobby.
10. Go Base Jumping.
11. Becom a part-time community college professor as a retirement job.
12. Retire on a sailboat and spend a couple of months a year getting lost.
13. Go to Vegas and place a ten thousand dollar bet.
14. Have a king size bed.
15. Sell my motorcycle and get a new one, a Triumph this time.
16. Hit a new personal record for speed, current is 152mph.
17. Re-pierce the back of my neck, but this time leave it in until I die (Army dependant)
18. Coach my kid’s little league team.
19. Own a club.
20. Have my own Pond.
21. Have children, don’t care how many, however I don’t want to field a sports team.
22. Learn how to analyze handwriting.
23. Learn to be more patient.
24. Get married, once.
25. Buy Steph a pair of shoes, and put them on her feet.
26. Raise children who have the things they want.
27. Get another dog from the humane society.
28. Buy a condo when I get back
29. Then move a couple years later and build my own house.
30. Commit to a career path.
31. Get a 650 or better on the GMAT
32. Take a long train ride in the Pacific Northwest.
33. Take up photography.
34. Do something with the “Make a Wish Foundation”
35. Do a better job staying in touch with people.
36. Learn calligraphy.
37. Stay in shape forever.
38. Make sure that everyone in my family is smarter than me (shouldn’t be hard)
39. Fly to New York and see a Broadway play, as a date.
40. Go to a live concert at least once a year for the rest of my life.
41. When I’m really old, do some drugs and sit in a park.
42. Give my phone number to a famous actress, again don’t care who it is.
43. Purposely drive my car into the parking police car.
44. Never lose my sense of humor.
45. Get a big tattoo on my rig cage.
46.Remove the one I have with an old girlfriend (or change it a little)
47. Walk a dog everyday.
48. Always reserve the ability to act like a teenager.
49. Make a woman happier than she has ever been.
50. Have a “poker night” when I get older.
51. Go scuba diving in the Caribbean.
52. Help a runaway.
53. Beat up my high school wrestling coach and athletic director.
54. Cut down my own Christmas trees and drag my kids with me.
55. Play in softball and volleyball leagues until I’m so old I get kicked out.
56. Always be able to truly surprise my wife, at least once a year on Valentines or anniversary.
57. Have a closer relationship with my sister.
58. Always be there for my friends
59. Figure out what motivates me.
60. Avoid talking about what I want (writing is o.k.)
61. To one day wake up next to someone I love.

~Rolligun

Guard Duty

2006-01-18T23:35:00.000+03:00

I spent part of my day outside watching people build shit. This was by no means an exciting event to speak of. I somehow doubt it could turn into a any sort of screenplay, so I’ll make it a blog post instead.

I started out in a chair. I had a book with me. I opened the book but I never read a single page. I sat their watching the guys work. I stood up and watched them work. Arms folded. Walked, stood and sat. My purpose for being there was to make sure that these foreign contractors weren’t planting explosives or rigging shit in some way to create casualties.

Last month there were ten Marines who were blown into charred pieces at the commencement of an award ceremony. They were in a building left over from something or other and one of the Marines stepped on a floor panel that trigged, I believe, three artillery shells that were hidden underneath the floor. I’ve already told you the rest. So this isn’t a job to be taken lightly.

Not that it makes a difference who it is, but it could be myself and the guy next to me who one day who fills a back page article about an explosion. Some obscure media line about a couple of soldiers who died while on duty.

Two Army soldiers were killed Thursday from explosives hidden in concrete. PVT Charlie, age 20 of Pleasantville, USA and SGT Rolligun, age 26, of SpringTown, USA, died as result of the blast. Both were assigned to Army’s 242 Command Battalion.

The story would be on page 10C.

I didn’t have a loaded weapon with me, just a knife. It was just me and three workers. Most people like Americans, appreciate what were trying to do and the jobs we provide, but not everyone. I asked myself what would happen if these three guys decided they didn’t like me. It’s one of me and three of them. Then what? To my knowledge there hasn’t been any incidents of foreign contractors attacking a soldier on any kind of post, but it was something I thought about. All I had was knife and at least one them would go down with me. But I digress, I don’t won’t to say that there was any real threat in that situation. There wasn’t. It’s nothing like patrolling a hostile town or going door to door looking for insurgants. Things I’ve never done, it’s just my imagination asking what if this were to happen, what would I do?

Mainly I just paced around the work site. I would sit down and then get up. Take a lap and then stand. Sit down, get up, take a lap, stand. I would stand there with my arms folded across my chest and my hat pulled down low, just above my eyes. I watched them work and let my mind wander. Stand and pace. Think. They must have thought I was the most anal and serious guard they’ve had yet. I just stared with arms folded, but really I was just lost in thought.

~Rolligun

36 Hour Day

2006-01-18T00:00:00.000+03:00

Life has been pretty busy lately. But I’m not sure if that statement accurately describes what I mean. I tend to be a creature of habit. I’m at my best when I operate on a schedule in which I’m familiar and with everyday jobs that I’m aware of. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind breaking my schedule to do things out of the ordinary, but that’s only when I can reserve those interruptions for activities that are convenient for me. Needless to say, such opportunities don’t exist anymore.

My days during this deployment have always blended together to one degree or another, but lately I have come to the conclusion that I don’t operate on a 24 hour schedule any longer. In an effort to manage my life, my expectations, my agenda, I’ve elected to change the typical calendar day to a 36 hour model. The usual necessity of knowing whether or not today is Monday or Thursday does not apply. Rarely do I know what day of the week it is, nor can I remember the last time that information was important to me. So 36 hour days it is. My intent is to regain that sense of balance.

In the last seventy-two hours, or rather two days, I’ve been bouncing back and forth between different camps, sleeping in irregular three and four hour intervals and only sensing a repetitive familiarity but once.

(Insert your own Transition)

The Kuwaiti Emir recently died. I believe he had been in power since 1978. Kuwait is governed under a “constitutional monarchy” which is very similar to the type of government in the UK for example. I know these things because I had prepared a cultural awareness class for my troops several months back. The country is roughly the size of New Jersey. Also, there are approximately 1.6 males for every female. Interesting number that 1.6, it is also commonly referred to as Phi, but you can research that for yourselves. It’s purely coincidence in this case, nothing scientific about it, as the heavy population of males is attributed to an imported work force. Anyway, his death, as tragic as it is, is also a factor in the 36 hour day.

I still have some loose ends to tie up with this new plan, of officially having a longer day. I realize that this will have an effect on universal titles for 24 hour groupings (i.e. days of the week) as well as some holidays. But none of those things have been important to me, so I will iron out the kinks sometime in Mapril.

~Rolligun

My Ipod

2006-01-14T08:30:00.000+03:00

I’m trying to decide whether or not it’s worth the $300 or so dollars for me to throw my IPOD at the wall. For no good reason it has decided to stop working. Not that I needed any further indication that things didn’t work the way I remember, but just in case, Apple corp. was kind enough to program an LED display alerting me of the situation.

This display, both convenient and comforting, was simply an “explanation point” next to a “frown face.” [! ):] Below that was the web address for product support. That can’t be good.

First chance I got I was online trying to figure this tiny complexity out. Nobody ever mistook me for being technically savvy, but I am cable of reading. Furtherer more I’m also capable of comprehension after two or more tries. Point being I read instructions and followed instructions. No luck, no progress, nothing.

So I appeal to you.

Dear public…what should I do?

Just in Case~

~The Things I’ll Remember Most…

The way you sang me to sleep at night…

The way you use to encourage me when I worked out…

All those times we spent traveling together, by air, by auto, you were always there…

That little way you had, of associating yourself with pleasant memories of my past…

Your ability to keep things organized, just for me, and just the way I liked them…

You always knew just what to say…

You were so supportive, didn’t matter what mood I was in, you were there to help…

You never USE to argue with me, and were always willing to change at a moments notice…

I feel incomplete without you.

~Rolligun

thanks Meg

2006-01-12T13:43:00.000+03:00

My return reply from a tag created by Ang and assigned to me by Meghan.

Feel free to save yourselves some time, but come back soon.

Two Parts of Your Heritage
1. Dutch (Henry Hudson was an ancestor, however he was English)
2. Sweedish

Two Things That Scare You
1. Paralysis
2. Ghosts

A fear you overcame
1. Jumping off large cliff (later ticketed for trespassing)

I don’t have answers for this one.

Your Everyday Essentials
1. Long shower
2. Serve at least one purpose that day
3. Music*

Two things you are Wearing Right Now
1. Cotton shorts
2. Dog tags

Two things you wore too much this year
1. Dog tags
2. Cotton shorts

This year's Favorite Bands or Musical Artists
I’ve been out of the loop with what’s new that I would like

Two Things You Want in a Relationship
1. Spontaneity
2. Stimulation

Two of your favorite Movies of the Year
See, “Favorite Bands”

Best movies of all time
1. American History X
2. Stand by Me

Two things You hate
1. Slow walkers
2. Watching people look for change

Two of Your Favorite Hobbies
1. Dog Walking past days
2. Blogging these days

Two things you learned this year
1. It’s not about me
2. You can’t control everything

I would consider these to be more of a “heightened awareness” it’s hard to reverse the first 25 years of your beliefs.

One Accomplishment You are Proud of
1. Bachelors Degree…(that was a close one)

Two Things You Want Really Badly
1. To have exclusive sex (its been awhile and won’t change anytime soon)
2. a mini-me

Two place you went this year.
1. American Embassy in Kuwait City
2. In A Rut

Two Places You Want to go on Vacation
1. Australia/Greece
2. Anywhere I can do what I want.

Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die
1. Be a Husband and father
2. Retire on a sailboat

Two Ways that you are a Stereotypical Example of your Gender
1. I’ll park anywhere. Regardless of ordinances or relative distance.
2. I’ll wear clothes to the bitter fucking end

Two things that make you stand out.
1. Confrontational & Opinionated
2. Usually not doing as the others

Two Things You Normally Wouldn't Admit
1. I judge to quickly, most likely made up my mind after “hello”
2. I don’t have any passion

Two Goals for the New Year
1. Decide next two years of my life (after deployment)
2. Have a positive effect on someone I serve with

Hmmm…thanks for reading but you must have time to spare, if that’s the case consider yourself tagged as well. We’ll use the honor system on this one.

~Rolligun

12 Down

2006-01-10T11:07:00.000+03:00

Last night was a bad night, a long night. We processed the entire remains of the Black Hawk helicopter that went down in Tell-Afar. The good part of the story was that the crash itself was the product of an immediate dismissal. It was found approximately two hours after it crashed and was the result of bad weather. There was no fire.

In addition to our regular crew, we had the Command Sergeant Major, the Battalion Commander, a Colonel with his men, and a visit by a two star general who was also accompanied by personal escorts. It was good to see all these soldiers here to help out, join in and show both their support and respect.

The room in which our work is done was more crowed then I had ever seen it. In part because of the extra “brass” that was in town, but mainly it was the numbers.

I’m getting use to this job. I got use to the dark. I got use to riding a bike. You can get use to a lot of things.

Look at the case.

Open the case.

Look at the bag.

Unzip the bag.

Look.

Look away.

Inventory everything.

Ask yourself questions.

Think.

Look again.

Zip the bag.

Position the ice.

Close the case.

Look at the case.

Process the paper work.

Lay the Flag.

Look at the flag.

Load.

Walk away.

Repeat eleven times.

The spouse of one of the deceased was at a nearby camp. She came to where we were. She was there to be with her husband and to escort him home. She wanted to see him, but decided not too. That was the worst part of the night. My vote doesn’t compare.

The Command Sergeant Major gave me a coin for duty last night. It was gesture of service, a token of appreciation. It’s a good thing, but I don’t deserve it. I don’t want it.

Twelve soldiers got flags last night.

I got a coin.

~Rolligun

Moot Points

2006-01-09T14:36:00.000+03:00

Things have been really busy as of late. I have written some posts and planned to write about some others, but all of it is relatively pointless compared to what’s been going on. It’s crazy when you think about the things that are important to you. What point of reference do you use? Then go ahead and change that reference point. Its weird how a simple point of view will automatically change so many things, create so many alternatives. Guilt. Distress. Confusion.

If anyone has been reading the news, we’ve lost over thirty people in the last four days. We’ve had IED’s, always IED’s. There were small arms causalities, vehicle accidents, suicides. Most recently a helicopter crash tallied 12 more.

Chaireborne recently posted some of our enduring few who were among the first to sacrifice this year. I read that list in it’s entirely but once, then I read it individually several times. I read a name and saw a face. Saw a name then read the face. The process confused itself and my recent memory of them ran concurrently with his post as I absorbed it. I’ve met most of the men on that list.

What do you think about? What do you write about? What do you care about? There all related but sometimes the challenge is putting them together. Then again, change the reference point…does any of it really matter?

~Rolligun

Nothing to talk about...

2006-01-05T20:44:00.000+03:00

I’m living in an old tent. This is my third home. The first was some sort of warehouse thing, followed by a trailer/billet combination, and now finally a tent. It’s not one of the newer 2’nd generation tents the camp has to offer. It’s from round one.

Also, they all look the same to me. I would get careless when I walk. My mind would wander and sometimes I’d walk down the wrong line of tents and have to start over. It took two weeks to get past this. I need to be more careful.

Everyone from my unit is from Puerto Rico. I’m not from Puerto Rico. They all speak Spanish. I don’t. I smile instead.

I heard back from my dad. He sent a follow up email regarding the envelope. It was typical email that lacked any greeting or close, much less a post scripture. It was a total of five lines. Anyway, he said…and I quote “I intentionally picked things that are out of the norm. A lot of times, when we look and study things out of our normal daily range of inputs, we are truly entertained.” Fine whatever, one point for the old man.

I don’t have a regular sleep schedule. I am woke up at any time, between the hours of 0000 and 0600. Sometimes twice a night. I average six or seven hours a sleep a day, split between two or more pillow encounters.

I stood outside the other night, quietly waiting for a cargo plane. There was another SGT with me. He’s in his 40’s. He asked me what I was thinking about. I told him, “oh, a little of all, my mind wanders quite a bit.” How about yourself? He replied the same way…“my wind wanders too.” He then went on to talk about the differences between “today’s Army” and the “old Army.” He talked about the job he left and his girlfriend. He talked about his expectations in a round about way. I listened to him and waited for the cargo plane. I chimed in with some sort of comment here and there. I stood outside quietly listening and waiting. He’s frustrated with things and regrets coming back into the Army.

I no longer have a nemesis, that being my old 2lt, that’s good. But I’ve been hearing some conflicting things about our acting 1SGT. He’s up north right now and I haven’t met him yet. I wonder how we’ll get along?

I like the guys I’m with. There’s a younger, cocky one, who’s now from New York. We get along well.

I have to find a way to help develop these guys and build a relationship with them. It’s still a little early for some of it, but I’ll pick my points in due time.

I don’t know what’s going on at home.

In a few days I will meet a three star general. He’s the top guy in all of the “Army Reserve.” He’s a very accomplished man who deserves great respect, but it’s not a big deal for me.

When I first got here, I spent most of my free time studying for the GMAT. I haven’t done so much with it in the last six weeks or so. It’s important to me, and I have to find the time.

I plan on going to Europe for a month when I get back. I will bring an extra t-shirt.

I’m looking forward to moving again, when I get home. I think I will find a new city to live in. I’m considering several different options, but I have one I’m leaning towards.

I will get a second dog when I settle. I’ll get him from the humane society also.

I don’t want to do anything that has to do with sales when I get back.

I use to build houses, while I was in college. I think I want to get into development.

I want to get my Master’s degree for the fuck of it. But that isn’t how I’ll necessarily describe my ambition in an interview.

I like this whole idea of “blogging” I think there are some really talented and thoughtful people out there. It gives me an opportunity to do random jottings and learn about others.

Nobody who knows me back home or over here, knows about this blog.

There are people who I’ve met in this sprawling community that I would like to meet one day.

I want to change the title of this blog. But I won’t.

I have an anal habit of taking mental notes. I transfer them to paper and look at them later. Sometimes it’s just as simple as a list of “shit to do” other times it isn’t.

I come with a weird combination of frustration and resilience.

I’m not at all looking forward to the infernal heat this country produces. It comes back in six weeks or so.

I ran out of ideas for shit to write about in the blog, this is what I came up with.

Thanks for reading it anyway.

~Rolligun

The Drag Show

2006-01-01T22:29:00.000+03:00

I read a comment by DrunkinChud that he posted on Laurie(akabuggy)'s blog. He made a funny comment about gay bars or something. This in turn reminded me of a story.

My last girlfriend use to like to drag me out with her friends, it was always “I haven’t seen her since fourth grade, you have to meet her” O.k. it wasn’t quite as ridiculous as elementary school friends, but she somehow had an endless supply of people I needed to meet and had continued to meet. We dated for about a year, plus we were a pretty social couple to boot. Where these people came from I’ll never know. One weekend we went back to her parent’s house in the “Twin Cities.” I begged and pleaded to stay home, even used the excuse that my dog doesn’t like to travel, which she knows is not so. But she had these plans to go out with “one of her best friends” and I, apparently, had to be there. I’d had already met this girl, she’s lovely, and we got along well. Why not just leave it at that? Why the hell did she always have to drag me out for her “female nights?” I would rather have hung out with her step dad or the one brother who did like me. What was I needed for?

xGirlfriend: “I can’t wait to see Courtney tonight, she has something really fun planned for us. Do you care what we do?”

Me: “No, whatever you want.”

Girlfriend: “Great, she wants to go to “Gay 90’s” It’s a club downtown.”

Me: “What?!?”

Girlfriend: “It’s a drag show, where these men dress up as women and sing songs. There just gorgeous, you can’t even tell and they sing really well. Do you want to go?”

Me: Fuck No!!!

Girlfriend: “You won’t be the only guy there, and they sing really well!”

Me: “Have you lost your mind?”

“I don’t care”

Girlfriend: “You said you didn’t care what we did, and I haven’t seen her in sooo long. Please come with, you have too. You owe me.”

Me: “For what! What the HELL are you talking about?”

Girlfriend: Please it would mean so much to me! {smiles, tugs on arm} and Courtney is excited to see you again. {finishes with a hop}

Me: “AARRRGGGG!!!!”

Girlfriend: “Excellent, I want you to dress nice, wear the…”

Me: {Blank Stare}

(Why I’m choosing to relive this fuckin nightmare, I don’t know.)

So we go to this club, my girlfriend, one of her various “best” friends and me. I dressed well, but absolutely refused to wear the shirt she wanted. I could already tell that mustering any sort of dignity tonight was going to be quite the challenge for me. I was ready to pounce on any winnable battle I could find. They giggled and chatted the whole way there. I sat quietly in the back seat with my nose pressed tightly against the window. I do a quick mental comparison between the imminent pain of tonight verse what would happen if I jump out the back of the car as we hang a left. It’s a close call. The deciding factor was that it was still a club, they serve alcohol and I wasn’t driving. You always have to try to focus on the good in life.

Enter the “Gay 90’s”,

I see a dance floor {not interested},

I see a stage with rows of seats {walk faster, have to walk faster}

Girlfriend: “See, that’s where we sit, I want to sit towards the front.”

Me: “Of course you do”

I see booths, they’re an inviting alternative, but still isn’t what I need right now.

Finally!! For the GLORY of all that is MAN, there’s huge giant square for a bar.

It’s glowing.

I lose the girls and push my way through several unidentifiable genders to reach the bar. I promptly order a beer and a shot.

Girlfriend: “There you are, can you get us two martinis?”

Me: “Yes”

“Add two martinis, dry, with kettle one, extra olives and another shot for me”

I have the drinks but I decide to take a break next to the bar. I’m safe over here. I stay put. As I look around I begin to scratch myself and roll my neck. I continue to scratch and begin to stick out my chest a bit. I do anything I can think of to send out the “all man vibe.”

Courtney taps me on the shoulder,

“Come on, Jess has some really good seats. You’ll have fun trust me”

{Trust you? No.}

I sit down next to Jess, she’s in the middle with Courtney on the other side.

There giggling again.

I scratch myself.

The lights go out and the show begins. Something walks on to the stage in a long shiny dress. It walks the stage and proceeds to have an intimate relationship with the microphone. It plays the part of a transgender host and introduces the next walking mystery. This one starts to sing a song that I’m unfamiliar with. The mystery finishes its set and out comes another obscurity, also dressed in shiny materials. The obscurity does pretty much the same thing that the mystery did. The obscurity finishes and the something walks back out on to the stage, it tells a joke that is completely lost on me but then indicates a break in the “fun.”

Thank God. I get back up. And back to the bar. I’ll have another beer and another shot.

I start to walk back down the aisle, I had taken my time, which is starting to feel like a mistake. The lights start to dim, I pause to look for Jess and retrace my steps. Where the hell is she? I’m getting nervous now. I feel clouds coming. Something is back on stage and I’m standing in the middle of the aisle looking for Jess. Something takes a hold of the mike and here comes the storm.

Something: “Hey there Cutie. What do they call you?”

Me: “Rolligun”

(My mind says): {Straight, Drunk, Lost}

Something: “Are you enjoying the show?”

Me: “Never seen anything like it”

(My mind): {I would rather look at stamps with someone else’s grandma}

Something: “Who’s your favorite so far?”

Me: “They all have there good points”

(My mind): {Go to Hell}

Something: “Oh come Sugar, you have to pick one”

Me: “The one who tripped on the cord”

(My mind): {I’m gonna run up there and beat your ass}

Something: (Laughs) “Alright Cutie, I think this fabulous young lady over here is waiting for you”

I yammer some sort of grunt, include a pointing gesture, and go about my way.

I scratch myself once more.

I make it back to my seat and swiftly extinguish the beer.

Girlfriend: “This is so much fun!”

Me: “Couldn’t imagine anything better”

{Fuck off}

Me: “I’m gonna go back to the bar”

Girlfriend: “Can you get us…”

{NO}

“…some more drinks”

Me: “Yes”

Girlfriend: “You’re having a good time right?”

Me: “As long as I’m with you”

{Why do you hate me?}

That was the pinnacle of the night, the part where I got busted out by the host or hostess, or rather something. I tried to keep my answers short and play-up my involuntary part. But something was a little more inquisitive than I had hoped for.

I should of have just jumped out of the car when I had the chance, a long time ago.

~Rolligun

Thank you for your time..Goodbye.

2005-12-29T08:41:00.000+03:00

We met on Christmas Day. The sun wasn't even up yet.

I wanted to know what it meant to you, to serve your country? How could you have explained it to someone you didn’t know? When I first met you, you told me right away. So easily, without any hesitation. But there wasn’t anything I could say in return. The explanation you gave was deeper and more profound than anything I could’ve imagined. There is more than one way to answer that question, with an infinite possibility of direction, but you said everything so simply, almost without saying anything at all.

Your apartment is in California. Your number is 108. You forgot to mention if there was anyone there waiting for you. I imagine there was. Why else would you carry so many calling cards?

What does the ring on your dog chain mean? Is it something romantic or is it a memory of yours?

You spoke of your faith. All the more evident, by the spiritual possessions you showed me. You believe in a higher purpose. And your not afraid to fight for one either.

I notice that you’re a SGT. I am too. So what kinds of things did you do to make life better for the people around you? I’m not trying to judge, I ask everyone this question, whether they know it or not. I just happen to notice the notebook you had. It had some notes in it. I thought they might be for your soldiers.

I forgot to say Happy Belated Birthday, you just turned 24 on the 18 of this month. Did you get to speak to your family? Did you get what you wanted from the person in your apartment?

I hope the watch you wear on your left hand, had ticked slowly that day, your 24’th birthday. I hope it ticked long enough for you to enjoy every second of celebration and memory you had brought with you.

Your platoon was hit by an RPG. What did you think had happened at that moment? Did you think of your country? Did you think about who was in your apartment, waiting for you? What do you remember about that day, about your life? There wasn’t enough time for you to ask yourself those questions, but I know you thought about it.

The RPG hit. It exploded and placed a hole inside of your body. In some mortal sense of divine justification, the whole was large and eternal. It was enough to release your sacrifice, the love for your family, your spirit and the inspiration of your fortitude.

The wrist that held your time was gone.

Thank you for everything. You’re an American Soldier. You took an oath and you honored your word. There couldn’t be a more perfect definition.

Your watch stopped ticking at 1436.

She died on Christmas Eve.

Her number is 2,166.

~Rolligun

Dad, do you know who your son is?

2005-12-27T23:54:00.000+03:00

I got a large white envelope from my dad. It could have been for Christmas, but I think it was a timely coincidence. Inside this white envelope were the following four magazines…

1. DuPont Registry: A buyer’s Gallery of fine automobiles
(Did someone else give you this, and instead of throwing it out, you passed it on to me?)

2. Lewis & Clark the Corps of Discover
(This looks like it was published in the late 80’s, aside from that, why would you think I am suddenly curious about North American exploration?)

3. Archeology “Mysterious Mongolia”
(Ok. I will probably look at the pictures in this one, but wouldn’t this magazine better serve its purpose fooling visitors on a coffee table?)

4. Air & Space
(I’m not aero physicist, but I don’t believe the geometrically bizarre creation on the cover, was ever meant to fly. Ever.)

There was no card or any additional information accompanying the envelope. Just four magazines I have never read, and in some cases heard of, in my entire life. I was able to see his handwriting on the outside.

(I think he used a stencil?)

I am not surprised. For birthdays I’ll usually get another envelope, although not as big, with a small check and nothing else. No card. Not even a scribbled napkin. However, the memo line will usually provide some explanation as to why the envelope was sent. Also, it’s never in the right month. I know he knows the correct date. I just believe that particular part of the problem lies in “Time management” not necessarily in “parental oblivion.” Although occurrences such as this, are cause for great wonder.

My dad is a good man, god love him, but sometimes I just don’t know.

~Rolligun

Christmas Coal

2005-12-24T17:07:00.000+03:00

I like Christmas. I like getting things and enjoy giving them as well. The holiday energy isn’t lost, on me. Despite any internal tendencies to become rather grinch-ish. There’s lots of lights and lot’s of money being spent (I have a business background, and I’m shameful spender, this holiday makes sense to me). Even the month itself is great. It has the best snow, large fluffy flakes, complete with a slow descend. December has the most smiles and the most excitement, in all of winter. January and February on the other hand, bring gray skies, icy snow, and harbor the dreaded “calendar row” (my term for boring days of charted dullness). Until spring finally arrives, the best season of all. In any case, I vote “nay” on having Christmas bi-yearly or anything less. I get it, when people talk of ad nuaseum family visits. But I avoid that problem.

When I was six years old, I was just like any other little guy this time of year. I was looking forward to PRESENTS. The concept of Christmas wasn’t something I was aware of, much less important to me. I just did what little boys do. When no one was looking. For all intensive purposes I was greatly deserving, on an annual basis, to be rewarded each Christmas, for my visible behavior. Thank you Santa, now turn around please, and look the other way.

I don’t intend on analyzing my childhood behavior for you, rather I aspire to paint a picture of Christmas morning. I had a dad who enjoyed asserting himself as the gift giving benefactor, next to the tree. I had a mom who would sneak early Christmas presents and an older sister who did her best to provide separation and drama to the event. Despite growing up in a disconnected household, I could always say I came from a generous assembly of residents. Lot’s of presents for all!!!

On Christmas Eve, I would go to bed unable to control my excitement just likes thousands of other fortunate kids. Santa isn’t aware of my crimes, tomorrow will be grand! The sooner I sleep the sooner I un-wrap. It didn’t take long for me to realize that falling asleep under these conditions wasn’t possible, so I did the only thing any logical six year would do. I convinced myself of imminent disappointment. Tomorrow morning nothing will happen, no presents are given. Forget it. None whatsoever. My ruse works and I fall asleep, under the impression that I will be exchanging households in the coming New Year. Whatever works I suppose.

I wake up and quickly remind myself that the bad dreams I had the night before were a result of my own doing, my medium to fall asleep. Off to the tree I go.

“Wake up, Wake up!”
“We got shit to do!” (I say something similar to that effect)

Everybody takes their positions. My dad kneels down by the tree. My mom (use to be a photographer) gets her camera, and positions herself at a 45 degree angle. My sister yells about something and plays with the dogs.

I have to wait for her and it pisses me off.

Eventually the festivities begin.

My dad hands out a present to my sister. She opens it and cheers. Flash, Click. My mom takes a picture. My dad then hands a present to my mom. It’s from one of our dogs. No pictures are taken. My dad looks at me, and hands out another present, to my sister. It’s from different dog, followed by another picture. Flash, Click. My dad looks at me again, and gives a present, to another dog.

“Quit fucking with me old man!”

I yell with all the conviction my little lungs could offer. (I may have edited that message before it was actually delivered.)

Somebody spills coffee or something and all activities are put on hold.

“Dammit! I’ll take care of it.”
We have presents to open. (If I don’t take control of the situation, it could an hour or more before I get my presents)

My Dad gets back under the tree and gives another present to my mom.
Apparently, it’s from me, and she thanks me for it.

“No Problem”

O.k. O.k. Let’s keep moving here.

The phone rings.

(Oh, bloody hell)

Rolligun, come say merry Christmas to your grandmother.

“No” (I am not ready to speak to anyone yet)

“Get OVER HERE!!!”

“Fine”

“But when I’m done I better be unwrapping something”

I delicately handle the holiday conversation with my grandma. I engineer a perfect balance between courtesy and expedience. It’s not an easy thing to do.

Alright, back to the tree. But first, I unplug the phone.

Everyone gets back into position. All ready to go. Then my mom decides she needs a different camera. My sister gets back up and starts playing with the dogs and her presents.

I wait, again.

I think about jumping out the window.

(Little did I know this training would pay off in the Army one day)

Finally!! Festivities resume.

For all those concerned, I have been an excellent example of a “big boy” all year long. I didn’t cry about anything. I didn’t destroy any of our own property. Didn’t run away once. Not one teacher or baby sitter had cried to date. Absolutely perfect. I am ready to receive.

My dad looks at me. I look at him. He grabs a present. I look at the present. He looks at me. He’s grinning. I’m not.

Here you go Rolligun.

(‘bout fucking time)

My mom changes angles and gets in position.

The present is small, but that is o.k. It’s heavy.

I unwrap this gift with ferocity of a wild dog, although I don’t eat the paper.

In my hands is a small, odd shaped and chalky object. It’s black.

And it’s a Lump of coal.

“…From Santa, To Rolligun”

“What the fuck is this?!!!”

Flash. Click.

My dad is grinning, my mom is changing film and my sister has taken it upon herself to look for more presents.

The dogs sit next to me, and they aren’t laughing either.

That’s it! I am putting plan B into effect.

January 1’st, I’m moving out. Not far, just down the street. I will also change all future philosophies on obedience. I think I will choose the “Whitaker” household. There are no other children, they’re old and move slowly. They also have a dog. It will make for a fine home, for me.

Afterthought~~

I was warned about this possibility, but I couldn’t imagine my dad would actually materialize such a cruelty.

I will always remember how much he enjoyed the event. At my delicate expense.

I never actually moved out. My parents did redeem themselves.

Also, the phone didn’t ring for the rest of the day. Woops.

~Rolligun

*Merry Christmas*

Reality

2005-12-22T17:39:00.000+03:00

It’s sometimes hard to understand why we do the things that we do. How we come to feel the way that we do. Why one decision is made over another. These are all natural curiosities and questions in life. They can be applied one way or another to everything that happens. Generalities. In an attempt to apply select meaning to this assertion, I will focus on one venue in particular.

One of the most confusing platforms of misunderstanding is in the form of attraction. Attraction and any extension of it, whether it be relationships, dating, lust or the simple crush. Attraction can exist with or with out the conscious knowledge of two people. Even if the other person is unaware of the attraction, they still are a variable in the equation nonetheless. I do have a simple mathematical explanation as to why the notion of attraction is so much more complicated than the other avenues of life. Take for example, your personal struggles when it comes to your own handling of stressful events or what happens when you’re faced with decisions you don’t want to make? What about regrets? How come I feel this way? Everyone has asked themselves questions like this at one time or another, if you haven’t, I would say you’re not human, and the expression “ignorance is bliss” truly applies to you, in the strongest and most biological context possible. Your life is simple and empty, but you don’t care to know. Remember back on that episode of “internal confusion.” That episode you experienced, alone, all by yourself in a circumstance exclusive to you and only you. Now add another person. Intensify the equation by the inclusion of one. I warned you it was a simple explanation; it’s the difference between one and two.

It’s a matter of understanding two different sets of motivations. Two different sets emotions, two sets of perception and two sets of interpretation. Include all others I miss. Every factor multiplied exponentially by the power of two. With all that room for error, it’s no wonder that the stages of attraction generate so much confusion, heartache and misunderstanding.

It’s important to note the difference between perception and interpretation. The difference between perception and interpretation is, perception is what you believe to be true, while interpretation is what you deem the variable would believe to be true. It’s slight, but significant.

Inspirations for attraction are as unpredictable as anything else metaphysical. Attraction can be the result from year’s of acquaintance, triggered one day by a delicate smile. It could happen instantly, from the first time you see their eyes, and you witness more than a retina. It can grow from what you discover about someone or by what you learn from them personally. However, that knowledge may be disseminated. The possibilities are infinite. There simply is no explanation for the causes of attraction. The levels of certain chemicals in the brain can be measured, but that is only a symptom, not the cause. Sometimes the only rational explanation could be found in the alignment of the moon and the stars, but to my knowledge, the bounds of science, also, haven’t been able to predict, determine, or explain attraction. I’m sure Stephen Hawking is trying his damdest.

So what is my point? Am I here to self-indulge my own explanation concerning the principles of attraction? Would that even mean anything to anyone, or would they want their time back? How many questions can I possibly ask in a row?

My point is to bring the elements of unexplainable cause back to reality. To find away to bring functionality to a disabling equation. The only way, for me, to find the answers is to break everything down. The same process used in any sort of progressive mathematics. We begin by factoring the questions asked earlier. Ultimately, we want to set the equation equal to zero. That is the starting point for everyone.

What is my motivation? - What is her's? = Do we want the same thing?

What am I feeling? X What does she feel? = Emotional Anarchy.

(What do I believe – What do I think she believes?) / (What does she believe – What she thinks I believe) = Where does everybody come from?

Simplify the equation: Sum the totals and you’ll find it = The Chaos Theory

Start over and do it again.

Continue to Simplify and cancel out. This time rearrange everything. The objective is to bring the equation back down to zero. That is how to achieve function.

Otherwise, your solution is the Chaos Theory.

*Assemble this equation however you see fit, this is my perception only, yours may (and should) be different.*

Like I said, the purpose of my dissertation is to find a way to bring the elements of unexplainable cause back to reality. I don’t like confusions or distractions. Relationships, dating and crushes precede those results.

I like simplicity, reason and function.

Simplify the factors and cancel out the variables. The objective is to set the equation equal to zero. That is how to achieve function.

If you can’t solve it, can’t bring it all back down to zero, then it means that the combined attraction equals more than the sum of its parts. Then you may have something. A special circumstance for the two of you, and you are ready to move on to the equations of intimacy and love. I have never been there, so I can’t help. Good luck.

~Rolligun

What she should have said

2005-12-21T11:06:00.000+03:00

I heard from Jessica, my old girlfriend.

When I last emailed her, I asked her “what was important to you.” I know she doesn’t know. I know she looks in the wrong places.

She never answers the question.

Well, she emails me back “….How are you?…Sorry I haven’t written earlier…I’ve been busy…I’m thinking of you…”

Um, Yeah…Say Goodbye.

Awkward Moment

2005-12-19T16:43:00.000+03:00

I Wake up 0445…and spend the next two hours riding in a humvee on my way to another camp. The logistics behind this awkward moment include 3 ½ hours of sleep, an M249 (Saw/Machine Gun) and one sore ass (humvee’s aren’t known for their tender rides). My posture enroute was chin on elbow, head tilted sideways and one long blank fucking stare, into right field. Five years of Army discipline allowed me to keep this position for the entire two hours.

Once we got to our intended destination, the next logical thing to do was get out of the humvee. I didn’t find this process to be as easy as it sounds so I’ll try to describe it more accurately. I begin by detaching my chin from my elbow, placing the heel of my right hand against the temple of my forehead and applying steady pressure until my head reaches the upright position. Next, I burden my right hand, again, and attempt to open the interior door latch. It slips but I try again. Once this obstacle has been cleared, I task both hands with the responsibility of lifting my right leg and placing it on the ground. The momentum of my body causes my left leg to follow suit, although this pursuit isn’t as smooth as I assumed it would be. I bang my left knee on something and I don’t understand physics. Now that I am completely, or at least physically, out of the humvee, I reach in and grab my Saw (military nickname for the M249). This is the weapon I have been assigned to since the day I got out of basic training. It’s a badass weapon that requires two barrels (change for heat) and pumps enough lead to cut down a tree. I like it. It’s also twice the weight of an M16 and much clumsier, due to its size and additional extremities. Which in turn creates more opportunity for the weapon to get snagged on shit? With that said I reach into the humvee and grab my weapon. It gets caught on something. I pull harder. It releases itself and bangs into something else. Now that we’re both outside the humvee, I attempt to sling it around my neck and shoulder. I struggle for an additional moment and find this frustrating. I hope no one is watching me. The weapon is now successfully slung around my body. I initiate my first step in a forward manner.

After the course is set, I slowly begin to raise my head with out the assistance of my hands. Once this is complete, I rub my eyes and take another step. I’m starting to build a little bit of confidence at this point so I open my eyes further. They are met with the blinding glare of a foreign sun. Fuck. I rub my eyes once more, take another step and try again. Things seem to get easier in volumes of two. My fourth step is met with the presence of another soldier about 10 yards to my NW. I see the silhouette but that is all. By my fifth step I determine that this soldier is either an officer of the Army or an enlisted seaman (Navy). If it’s a seaman, I don’t necessarily care and continue to direct my attention towards completing forward steps. I take my sixth step and the soldier slows his pace and begins to stare at me. If it’s an officer I am required to execute the military courtesy known as a salute. I just came from a non-salute area, this location however, is a salute area. It takes me another step to identify this. The soldier is still staring at me.

I have the second piece of the puzzle in place, being that I am in salute zone, but I still don’t know if this soldier is a seamen or an officer. I take my eighth step. The soldier has since stopped. I’m not familiar with the designations of Navy rank. I’m tired and I’m partially blind. My ass hurts and my weapon is conniving to get caught again. I take my ninth step. The soldier glares.

Well, I’m at loss. I have too much going on at this moment to continue my investigation. So fuck it, I make a decision. I snap to attention and throw up a salute. The soldier takes one step closer to me. He returns the salute and just as quickly, steps off in the other direction. He’s a Colonel in the United States Army. He also makes dexterity look easy. Woops. Well, I felt like a dumb ass. I guess that’s the definition of an awkward moment, where at least one person fills that role.

~Rolligun

Quick post with a pre-emptive answer to Meghans Question

2005-12-17T00:30:00.000+03:00

I'm still in the midst of day one with my new mission and new unit. Not much to report so far. The unit is from Puerto Rico, and they frequently look at me like I'm holding part of a cow when I speak. My sense of humor is also completely lost on them. I do laugh and smile and all that, but I otherwise tend to be straight faced with dry taste for humor. This only provokes more looks that suggest I'm retarded. We'll get through it in due time.

So far the day has been pretty casual with nothing to speak of, but that's the way the DAYTIME is suppose to be. Later tonight, which for me, is in an hour or so is when things are suppose to happen. I'm not sure how I feel about this...in the very near future I will be witness to physical causilties from the war today. I will see their bodies, or what remains. I will see their possesions. I will know their names. I won't forget.

"Change Step"

Meghan has recently posted about all of the difficiencies and problems caused by shorter dudes in society today. As if there couldn't be anything worse than being swayed by someone who knows your own chin better than you. As I said before, I am 5"7 and realize this declaration may prevent any future blogging crushes for me. If that's the case, I am o.k. with it and the world will still turn.

This post isn't the first time I have ever heard this objection, my first expieriance came when I was in the seventh grade. God was I cool back then. I just so happen to be dating...A GIRL, in the EIGTH grade. She was hot!!! And for two weeks of my life, I knew what it felt like to be a stud!

One night there was a dance.

I've been able to historically trace my hormones back to at least kindergarten, and this night was no different. All day at school I walked with a stride, nodded at people in the hallways and pointed my finger as if to say hello. So cool. I gave dating advice to all my friends and dressed to impress.

"The dance"

It got off to a great start...my dad dropped me off a block away so I looked like I just came walking out of the wilderness, and automatically prepared to entered the stage.

There I found Katie, the beautiful and taller than me Katie.

We laughed and talked. I continued to nod and point. And then, things took a cruel and twisted turn of events...the first slow song had just begun. I wasn't afraid. I was a stud! Ready to perform my duites as an intimate dance machine.

The slow dance begins.

We rock back and forth, back and forth and slowly complete perfect 360 degree circles. Pretty much the same with all adolescent couples back then.

Every 90 degrees, I nodded at someone. Didn't care who it was. I just fucking nodded every 90 degrees.

At the end of the dance, we separted and took a customary timeout and headed back to our corners to converse with our ring coaches, or friends.

As I stand there, sharing glorious tales of success about being with an "older" woman, one of Katie's friends approaches me.

Katie's friend: "Rolligun, Katie doesn't want to dance with you anymore"

4'6 Stud: "What?!?"

Katie's friend: "She says you kept going up and down on your tip-e-toes"

4'6 Boy: "I was not!!!"

Katies' friend: "She says she doesn't want to dance with you anymore. She was embarrassed."

What the fuck!!! I was ready to beg and plead with Katie, to promise her that I could keep consistant altitude in the future. But by the time I found her, she was already hanging out with a boy in her own grade. His name was Gary and he smoked cigarettes. At twelve years old, I wasn't prepared to compete with five inches and tobacco.

No more nodding that nite, my head was down, permanently.

Mission Change

2005-12-15T23:26:00.000+03:00

Finally I have been released! I have been tasked out to another company for a new mission. Five months (three in country) of being both a problem and a solution for my LT.

“Oh’ say can you see…”

I just found out this morning, knew nothing of it. I leave tomorrow. Start tomorrow. It will be my third change of residence since I have been here. The first two were with my company, this one I leave solo. Tonight, I pack my shit.

2Lt: “Sgt Rolligun, I need to speak with you.” {always with the hands, (what is his deal?)}

Me: “Yeah”

I thought this was going to be my weekly lecture and turn into another homework assignment. (I may write about those someday)

I have been pleading and volunteering for things that don’t even exist. That’s how bad I wanted out. Originally I was trying to go further north, and was hoping to jump on one mission in particular come February or so. That may not happen anymore, it may have never happened. But I’ll take this. I wasn’t necessarily given a choice, my company commander needed someone and my platoon SGT suggested me, good ole LT obliged.

Thank you and GOOD BYE.

I have spoken very little of my old mission, in part because of OPSEC (Operational Security), but also because it was painfully uneventful. Trust me, you weren’t missing anything by me not writing about it. This new mission, however, is a whole different story. I won’t be going on patrol or living in a combat zone, like Chairborne does. I will still be stationed in Kuwait, but it may provide more opportunity for travel, experience and service.

Anyway here’s the jist of it. It’s kind of fucked up. Basically, I will be attached to a mortuary affairs unit. My job will be to inventory and filter the final possessions of our proudly deceased. To classify and collect, as well as making sure there isn’t any conflicting, embarrassing or illegal stuff leftover, that eventually goes back to the family. My excitement definitely tampered a bit when this was explained to me. I could have backed out if I really wanted too; my commander asked me if I could do it, if I could handle it. I accepted.

As the mission was being explained to me, my mind started to wander and I thought about what the hardest part will be. Here goes. It will come when I have to start watching the home movies. A home movie of say, a birthday party held for the absent soldier. A video that was previously sent to the deceased to say “we miss you, we love you, whether you are here or not we will celebrate for you, we’re proud of you.”

(As I write this, one of my roommates, a father, is smiling and stops me to share his own home video with me. It’s about his daughter, davy crockett and apple seeds) This is what I am talking about!!!, something graphic and physical, something that brings infinite happiness to him as he misses his family…What timing.

I watch him smile.

I smile.

Back to the hypothetical video.

The video will be full of laughs and excitement. There will be a proud and anxious spouse lighting candles on a cake. Everyone doing everything they can to celebrate their love and pretend this feeling of absence doesn’t exist. There will be young kids frolicking around in the back yard with birthday hats on. Missing part of their world, but celebrating just the same. The video will end with an enthusiastic…

“Happy Birthday!, We love!!, Come home soon!!!.”

The whole family blows out the candles together, makes a wish, and the video stops.

Never in my wildest imagination have I ever thought I’d being doing something like this. I am not even sure if this is something I want to do, although a little late now. I just wanted OUT of my last mission and I couldn’t work for my LT. But what the fuck!!, I am not a mortician. I don’t even like doctor visits. I’ll quarrel intensely with anyone who wants to stick me with a needle. It won’t be an easy process. Well digress, I’ve been disillusioned with my role over here anyway, this definitely is something different.

I wonder if they’ll let me write letters to these people.

One step further…

I will be sorry to leave some of my troops. I have some good relationships with them. I take pride in the fact that I’m kind of the alternative SGT, the one who they can talk off the record with. Balance and variety is my forte.

I will also miss SGT Oscar, we were the only two people who fought for things. We have twenty miserable soldiers, who keep asking “what and why.”
Despite never ending headaches, we tried to establish as much reason and sensibility as we could. I really admire this guy, he’s about fifteen years older than me, but is probably the most gifted “people” person I know. He’s also a career professional in his civilian life, and I’m just getting started. He doesn’t know it, but I quietly assigned him as one of my mentors. I tend to do that sometimes, even without them knowing about it.

Still, I am happy to be leaving.

I don’t know how long I will do this and I am not sure what happens next, but in any case, I leave tomorrow.

~Rolligun

"A Million Little Pieces"

2005-12-13T23:54:00.000+03:00

My sister sent me this book. She’s an organic type of girl, a Psychology Grad, and very intriguing.

I started to type a quick description about the book, but then I realized I could just retype what‘s on the back of the book. An editor was already paid and tasked with providing that message. Where do I get the temerity to redo the work? Here’s the back of the book.

At the age of 23, James Frey woke up on a plane to find his four front teeth knocked out, his nose broken, and a whole through his cheek. He had no idea where the plane was headed nor any recollection of the past two weeks. An alcoholic for ten years and a crack addict for three, he checked into a treatment facility shortly after landing. There he was told he could either stop using or die before he reached age 24. This is Frey’s acclaimed account of his six weeks in rehab.

I thought this book was outstanding! Simple. Telling. Angry.

It’s a glimpse of addiction at its worst. Uncontrollable, disabling torment.

It’s a true story, and I actually have a friend who attended the same treatment facility.

I could be alone on this one, but I have asked myself “why did I do (or so much of) that last night.” Only to answer with, “Don’t worry about it now.”

Or

…”what will happen if I keep this up?” Only to answer with, “…it feels good now.”

Instant gratification. Compounded. And Repeated.

I’ve woken up feeling like shit, broke, and unprepared for the day.
The sun not shinning for me. I’ve worked hard all day,
Completing motions and tasks, Looking forward to the release,
A change of perception, A change of angles,
I embrace, not fear, the alternatives.
What will I find out? What can I solve? What is avoided?
Recuperation.
More Perception, More Angles, More Answers.

More.

Now.

I am no were near the afflictions of James Frey. Thank god.
But I can feel, I can imagine.

Experiment. It’s an interesting word.

I would be a closer reflection of my friend. Mainly I drank too much. The only difference being that I have never lost it, never did anything I didn’t want to do.

I’m not her, I’m not James Frey.

However that doesn’t vindicate me.

I am who I am.

I have questioned my own habits and motives.
I believe in self-awareness, self-criticism.
If you can’t question yourself,
How will you grow? What will you learn?

Is anyone else guilty?

~Rolligun

Directions For Your Mind...

2005-12-11T20:02:00.000+03:00

In high school, I took a creative writing course. Why, I am not sure. It probably included the same logic that inspired me to also choose home ec and welding. Regardless of curriculum, I was truant for everything. My teacher was old and eccentric and I liked her for that. I don’t remember her name.

I thought about one of the assignments she gave us. I don’t know how I came to think of this, but in any case, the instructions were as follows:

Step One…Locate Pen & Paper
Step Two…Apply Pen to Paper, and under no circumstances will you stop applying pen to paper. Just keep writing.

Actually, I think her directions were a little different. This is a paraphrased recollection; however the premise remains the same. Just keep writing.

The idea is too write without stopping. Even if it means you begin counting or naming. Anything chronological or any form of continuous identification will do, so long as you don’t stop applying pen to paper. Just keep writing. Eventually you will begin to write things you never would have thought possible. You may surprise yourself or you may learn something new. You may find answers or you may start asking the *right* questions. Just keep writing.

I believe it is called “Free Association Writing” although I am not positive. The objective is too tap into your sub-conscious by continuing to write. A conscious form of dreaming. Just keep writing.

It is my nature to question everything.

Why did that happen?
Where did that come from?
Why do people do what they do?
What will happen next?

I dwell on the answers.

Sometimes you have to find a creative solution to figure things out for yourself.

I don’t remember my dreams, so this sounds like a good alternative.

Just keep writing.

~Rolligun

No Devise Ergo No Title

2005-12-09T01:03:00.000+03:00

Here is a disorganized rendition of three days this past week. Opening scene is another conversation with my platoon leader, my nemesis.

2LT: “SGT Rolligun, Do you want to go on a mission, actually it’s more of a class, but its good training. {The hands begin shaping the air}

Me: “What is it for?”

2lt: “It’s for so and so, I need to have someone certified” {they are impulsive, move like cerebral children}

Me: “That has nothing to do with our mission”

2LT: “Its good training” {their afflicted, the hands are afflicted}

Me: “What are my options?”

2LT “You don’t have any, it starts on the 9’th and runs through the 11’th” {the right hand executes an acute karate chop}

Me: “Fine”

2LT: “It’s good training” {The left hand breaks the same board}

Me: “Fine, are we good here? I gotta get goin.”

2LT “Yes, you can go” {the hands resume the default position, just floating, ready to speak at their own will}

Me: “Alright”

I turn and begin walking.
Left foot, and Right foot, left, then right.
Chin up, jaw clenched, straight ahead

{Fuck You!} I think Out Loud, a Little too Loud

2LT: “SGT Rolligun” {the hands, each pointing in different directions}

Me: I stop, Say nothing. Had said nothing.

2LT: “Did you say something?” {I think he truly desires to conduct music}

Me: “Excuse me?”

2LT: “Did you say something?” {Chorus}

Me: “What do you mean, sir?”

2LT “Did you just say something?” {More Chorus}

Me: “I said excuse me.”

2LT: “No, before that” {he signals the percussion section}

Me: “Before I said excuse me?”

2LT? “Yes!” {Frustrated…the whole damn orchestra begins to play}

Me: “Alright”

2LT: “No?!?!” {The pinnacle of harmony is flowing}

Me: “What?”

2LT: “Nevermind” {The hands bump into to each other, twice, and no more music}

So I was given a choice, a choice with one possible answer (still almost got it wrong) to go on this mission or class or training, depending on which moment it was described to me. I was told only of the type of certification and of the dates. The dates were wrong. I was to start the next morning. Didn’t know that. It took place at another camp, didn’t know that either. Holliday surprises.

I was already scheduled to travel somewhere else, twice this week. Once to pick up equipment and supplies, and the other trip was suppose to be for two of my soldiers who are on the “Weight Control Program.” One of my many roles, I’m also the weight control NCO. I was to take them to their follow-up appointments. Both missions put on hold, for this.

Thirty hours, three days, no big deal. My only challenge is to figure out how this will apply to what I am doing. It doesn’t, I stop figuring. At least I get to get a way for a few days. I leave at 0500.

The next day I arrive at the new camp. I haven’t been here before. It looks exactly the same as the place I came from. Although it seems a little bit brighter, and the air a little lighter.

I walk around aimlessly until I stumble across my temporary billets. It’s a large white tent, large enough to bed fifty. The inside is full of naked mattresses, lying carelessly on broken bunk frames. Two soldiers have already placed their stuff on a couple of the bunks and left. I search for a functional, relatively clean looking bed. I’m picky, it takes awhile. I think I see a dust bunny, inside.

I head to the class.

The class is taught by civilian contractors. It’s another white tent. The main instructor is wearing some sort of eyewear. They could possibly serve as assistance for his vision, or they just as easily could be protection from the sun. I am not sure which.

Guy with Dual Purpose Eyewear: “Good morning everybody, it’s good to have you here.”

Class: {blank stares}

Guy with Dual Purpose Eyewear: “I will be your main instructor. We have lots of exciting material to cover!”

Class: {blank stares}

Guy with Dual Purpose Eyewear: “We just started teaching this stuff, in theatre, this year. We have done 200 soldiers so far. You guys are history in the making. Although it’s not written down anywhere.”

(Pause for laughter)

Class: {blank stares}

We begin the class.

I take notes. I rub my eyes. I Miss something. Take notes. Rub eyes. Miss something.

Ten hours later, the day’s class is done. I leave, search for the gym and find it. It’s another white tent. When I’m done working out, I search for an internet café. I find it. It’s a little white trailer. This will do. But first I wait, in line, I hate lines. I wait in fucking line. Next to a little white trailer.

Once inside I quickly commence my usual routine. Email. News. Bank Account. Sports Headlines. Finally, my latest venture, blogging.

Surprise, Surprise! I have been tagged. This is interesting, I’ve read them but never been apart of one. It looks like fun. I have eighteen minutes to reply. There are soldiers waiting in line.

I finish and walk back to my tent, large and white with broken bed frames. Once inside, I see the other two soldiers.

Me: “hey what’s up” (as I walk by)

Dude: “hey, were you in that class today?”

Me: “Yeah”

Dude: “you looked familiar”

Me: “yeah”

Dude: “well, good night”

Me: “yeah, good night”

The class starts again at 0700. I set my alarm for 0635. Five minutes to dress. Five minutes to shave. Five minutes to brush. It’s a ten minute walk and I have no intentions of eating breakfast. I never do, sleep comes first.

At 0600, the other soldiers wake up. Lights go on. A bed frame breaks. I wake, but try to ignore them. I have 35 minutes.

At 0620…

Dude: “hey man, wake up. We got class at 0700”

{Yes I know, this is true}

Me: “okay, thanks. I got it”

Dude: “It’s 0620”

Me: “I know, I got fifteen minutes. Thank you.”

I wake up on time, at 0635. I do everything a minute faster than the prescribed time and make it to class four minutes early.

We have tables now, but only so many. The seating arrangements from the day before, that I had hoped would transfer over to the next day, were no more. My usual position, in the back left of any room, whether it’s a class or a waiting area, has been taken. My new position is closer to the front and directly between two other soldiers. This new location doesn’t bother me so much as the lack of personal space. I’m not just picky. I also want as much room as I can have. In every situation. I look at the back left. My arms move only from the elbows on down.

There is a female soldier next to me, she attempts to kill a fly.

Class begins.

Today’s teacher stands sideways when he speaks. Always facing to our left. There is nothing of particular importance about the wall to our left.

Sideways Guy: “Good morning everybody. We have lots to cover today.”

Class: {Blank stares}

I rub my eyes.

I wonder if the sideways guy is wearing a toupee. I don’t care, I just want to know for sure. I think about asking the female soldier next to me, but she’s watching a fly. I leave her alone.

Sideways guy goes through his power point presentation while looking at the wall. I can’t see his right arm. Part way through, he takes a break and another guy steps in to talk about something else. He stands directly in the middle of the room. In the middle of all the tables, and directly in front of me. As he speaks, he takes one step to his right and two steps to his left. This process continues to repeat itself until he gets to the end of the tables and starts over. As he speaks, he decides he needs a volunteer to include in his lecture. He doesn’t need someone to demonstrate any form of action, just the name of somebody. I sit quietly and take notes.

Guy in the middle of the room: “So what would happen if…err…(he looks at me) SGT Rolligun comes across this situation. What should SGT Rolligun do?”

I rub my eyes.

Am I supposed to answer?

Class: {Blank stares}

The guy in the middle of the room answers his own questions and continues to use me, or my name, as an aid in his presentation. It catches me off guard, but I’m o.k. with it. It gives me a warm feeling of convergence. I want to stand next to him. One step to the right, two to the left. I know the pattern.

Instead, I take notes. Rub my eyes. Try not to miss anything.

Class: {Blank Stares}

The female soldier tries to kill another fly. She misses, again.

At the end of the day, I look for the white tent that has a gym inside it. It’s between two other large white tents. When I’m done I look for the white trailer. The line is to long. Fuck it. I go back to my tent. It takes twelve minutes this time.

The next day class starts fifteen minutes earlier. So now I wake up at 0620. I thought this would please the other two soldiers. They don’t seem to care.

Class Begins.

Guy with Dual Purpose Eyewear: “Last day of class, is anyone gonna miss me?”

(Pause for laughter)

Class: {You get the point}

I take notes. I rub my eyes. I Miss something. Take notes. Rub eyes. Miss something.

We take a break at about 1000. I happen to exit the door at the same time as another soldier. An inevitable conversation is required. He’s funny and I like him. But I’d rather just think to myself and get some air. This doesn’t happen.

Class continues till we break for chow. The soldier from this morning glances back at me as everyone starts to leave. I pretend to shuffle papers in some fashion of importance. He passes. I head to the chow hall, eat quickly and return to my seat in the middle of the room. I look at the back left corner and wish I were there. I am early, so I start to read. A different female soldier returns and sits two seats to my left. She starts to read a magazine. She reads aloud and begins to do some sort of bizarre stretch. She is still in her seat and it looks awkward. Despite my curiosity, I continue to read.

Class resumes.

Guy with Dual Purpose Eyewear: “Were almost done, two more sections. But we could go longer.”

(Pause)

Class: {Blank Stares}

Class continues on and on.

I take notes. I rub my eyes. I Miss something. Take notes. Rub eyes. Miss something.

The female soldier next to me finally kills a fly. I congratulate her and she laughs. It’s the only thing I said to her.

Eventually we finish and to conclude the course, we actually had to take a class picture. Allegedly for head count purposes. I usually don’t like having my picture taken, but I don’t ask any questions. Although I have them.

Well that’s my latest post with no devise and essentially, the last three days of my life. I leave tomorrow morning.

I will wake up at 0610.

~Rolligun

Tag Return "2005" ala Steph

2005-12-06T01:02:00.000+03:00

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?
That one’s easy…stop everything and put my life on hold, move to the middle east and otherwise get activated for “Operation Iraqi Freedom.” First time.

2. Did anyone close to you give birth?
No, I asked them to move…politely.

3. Did anyone close to you die?
Not physically

4. Did you travel? Where did you go? Best holiday memory?
Travel, not so much. I moved almost three hundred miles, but that’s no big deal. Of course, I got activated, but I can’t classify it as travel. I am told where to go and what to do.

Best Holliday memory…none this year. I didn’t really celebrate anything. But I do like holidays.

Well wait, it wasn’t validated by a “calendar date” but my best memory would be that some my friends made some serious sacrifices and travel plans to see me before I left. That was cool. I didn’t expect it and told them not too. I’m glad they did.

5. Best thing you bought?
Laptop and Ipod…really paying big divdends these days. My stock holders should be happy with me.

6. Where did most of your money go?

Old girlfriend and lawyer (they have a reputation for a reason*)

7. What do you wish you had done more of?
I wish I spent more time at the beach with my dog.

8. What do you wish you had done less of?
Interviewing for jobs (early) and wiping sand off of shit (everyday)

9. What kept you sane?
Dog walks, music, alcohol

10. What drove you mad?
Job hunt…old girlfriend…lawyer…leadership (see 1000 post)

11. What made you celebrate?
Finally getting good job! (followed by deployment)

12. What made you sad?

Nothing, o.k. wait… dropping off “Rollie” my dog, at my grandparents. I wanted to take him on one last walk (super long one) but it had been storming out and he didn’t want to particpate. Scared shitless of rain and all that, even if it clears up, he takes the day off. No negotiation whatsoever with him.

13. How was your birthday this year?
Not the best one ever, didn’t want to be where I was.

14. What political issue stirred you the most this year?
elections, foreign policies (Iraq, Iran, North Korea)

15. Where you in love in 2005?
No

16. What would you like to have in 2006 that you didn't have this year?
Two different worlds, can’t compare. I won’t be back for good until fall of 06, but I am looking more at 2007*

17. What date from 2005 will be etched in your memory and why?
July 5, the day my orders began

18. What song will remind you of 2005?
”I’m Not Okay”, My Chemical Romance. Not nearly as significant as other songs in my life, but will do for 2005.

19. Compared to this time last year are you happier?

It’s all relative…but sure

20. Biggest achievement this year?
Winning one court thing, getting a good job, and answering when my name was called *by uncle sam* (not so much an accomplishment, but is a source of pride)

21. Biggest disappointment this year?
Losing one other court thing and too much time fumbling around with ridiculous jobs

22. What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?

Finding my last job much earlier. Being with the right person (but that doesn't fall on any given year, it measured by a lifetime)

23. Best new person you met this year?
There are some cool people in my unit that were cross leveled in from other states. I won’t discriminate, I like them all.

24. A valuable life lesson you learnt this year?
The things you may think are really important to you are not necessarily what really is. (still working on this one)

The Thousand Word Essay

2005-12-03T20:36:00.000+03:00

Disclaimer: Sometimes I like to pick on the simple stories in life. The following is in no way a representation of my biggest concerns in this war. It is merely a tale of true absurdity.

Alright, the purpose of that was to alleviate any attitudes that may arise from my ranting. I am now able to comfortably direct your attention to my story.

“The Thousand Word Essay”

In order for there to be balance in my life, I need opposition. My platoon leader or first line commanding officer, fills that role admirably. To give a quick character description that includes absolutely no bias, this guy is a complete fanatic. He has my respect; however he will never get a Christmas card, from me. He believes in only two things or shall I say two categories; right and wrong. And before any of you bleeding hearts get the wrong idea and say “oh how wonderful” please remember my unequivocal and accurately captured description of him with only one word…Fanatic!

Also, before I go any further, I will take the time to note that there is no such thing as “black and white.” The world, in all its complexities, is full of factors and conditions, manipulated equations, and chaos. Don’t sit there and tell me about black and white, even a rainbow could prove otherwise. So, now that I have explained myself and brought you all back to my side, I will continue.

Our Platoon Leader is under the impression that without his presence, the world would stop turning. If there is a rule to be made he would be sure to do so, but not without first following the bureaucratic process to come up with a preparatory rule to serve as an introduction to the original, unnecessary rule. I completely loathe this philosophy; rules on top of rules. The last thing I want is more regulation. The good news is I am not the only one who feels this way. The bad news is that nobody else has ever taken it upon themselves to inform him of this problem.

This is where I come in, a self-appointed committee of one.

The latest “guideline” that I took offense too may seem rather trivial to the untrained eye. But don’t let that discourage you from seeing my side. The “white” side...O.k., nevermind that, (my alliteration attempt). Just keep an open mind and remember that the important thing here is not the subject detail but the “big picture.”

Here goes...

“SGT Rolligun, I want you to tell your guys that there is no use of smokeless tobacco on duty”

“I beg your pardon………sir?”

(Remember open mind and big picture)

My chosen course of action was to stare at him blankly, pause, and then immediately leave to collect my thoughts. Once I completed reflecting on what had just happen, I was ready to re-approach the situation to explain my concern and instill in him the voice of reason. We quickly fell into our pattern of circular discussion before he finally agreed to consult the other squad leaders and reevaluate his decision. Temporarily satisfied, I left and began preparing for our next encounter. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that he would actually change his mind, because first off, that has never happened and secondly, pride will always prove to be the most challenging of all barriers.

A quick background of the dispute included this and that about cigarettes, clean-up and professionalism, but his real objection, unadmittingly from him, was simply that it was “bad” or black. Whether partaking in smokeless tobacco is an intelligent decision or not, I don’t believe that to be relevant explanation. It is simply not against the decree of our military, civilian, or foreign host for that matter. Adding to a regulation, unfortunately, is one thing while rewriting the law is another.

Anyway, all of his blathering was mixed in with the usual dose of generalizations and analogies that come complete with an annoying habit of physically gesturing his hands in such a way that he assembles his ideas into a little ball right before your eyes. As if all appropriate reasoning was readily available just floating around in orbit.

Even without using the aid of my limbs, I had successfully defended my argument against every single atmospheric objection he had. But the real issue wasn’t what we spent most of our time debating, although I delicately devoted some time to addressing it.

The real problem I have is when these guiding principles are imposed upon me and my troops that in no way affect the professionalism or function of the mission in question. It’s when these “guidelines” interfere with the personal choices of the soldier, that I take great offense. I don’t believe the value system of any one individual should trump the personal decisions that are inherently within ones right to make.

Round Two

I knew going in that SGT Foxtrot would agree with LT, because he has no vested interest, and is easily manipulated. I also knew that SGT Oscar, would agree with me. He’s strong minded, has perspective and is equally frustrated with our platoon leader’s excessive need for control. And if it was one thing only that I knew, it was that no matter what, the platoon leader wasn’t going to change his mind. At this point talking to him is merely a formality in following the chain of command (1SG & Commander are miles and miles away). I had been preparing to take this issue to the next level, not because of the “policy” alone, but because it is representative of the “big picture.” There you have it. That’s why I can become so ardent over the little things; there is always the “bigger issue” that I am worried about.

So my whole objective in round two was to accept my momentary defeat, relieve myself from the position of parade rest, and continue on with my agenda. By no means was I planning on being done at this point. Unfortunately, my emotion and argumentative nature got the best of me and I didn’t stick to my well scripted plan.

It all unfolded when the LT told me that the soldier who happens to agree with me was in fact “indifferent” and didn’t have any supporting disposition. This was completely untrue as I was very aware of SGT Oscar’s stance on the issue.

“Actually, Sir, I know the soldier in question you are referring to is SGT Oscar, and I also know that his position is in no way indifferent.”

The hands cease movement and a puzzled look of surprise forms itself.

“SGT Rolligun! Are you saying that I am intentionally painting a picture to support my case?”

(Well yea, using hands to create a message through analogies and generalizations is what painters do, whether it’s an accurate picture or an abstract)

“Yes Sir, I am”

That concluded that conversation as my Platoon Leader walked away without anything further.

About an hour later…

“SGT Rolligun, LT wants to see you in his office.”

“Fine”

Moments later I am receiving a “counseling statement,” only this time I am standing at the position of attention. At his request.
His major premise was that I questioned his integrity as an officer and that is unacceptable from a non-commissioned officer, that being me. He’s right about the latter but as for the former, I did no such thing! I was asked for my opinion of an indirect question. I can’t help that he hid his intentions behind some implied meaning. What the hell is that?

So now I have another counseling statement and included as a punishment is an assignment to write a 1000 word essay on various subjects of Army doctrine. As far as I am concerned a counseling statement is the same as getting your name written on the board. My first grade teacher use to exaggerate that bullshit as well!

~Rolligun

"What is Important to You, part II"

2005-11-29T22:40:00.000+03:00

Continued…

Jessica once told me that I was the most unemotional person she had ever known. That I was incapable of this and that. The truth was we were just too different in the wrong categories. Jess was a blast, always up to do anything, outgoing, a social butterfly. I loved that, she wasn’t afraid to do anything and could interject herself in any situation. But when it was just the two of us, things weren’t quite that smooth. This beautiful and spirited girl couldn’t believe in herself. She was entirely dependant and to my complete and utter bafflement, had no self esteem.

I once spent a Christmas party for my job at the time, consoling her in a parking lot for almost two hours while she cried because she was wearing a cardigan (I think?) with dress pants and all of the other girls there were in cocktail dresses or whatever. She looked great and I could have cared less about that party or anyone other than her for that matter. I was planning on quitting before the New Year anyway. It was all because she felt out of place, overwhelmed, unfit. It was that night that I realized I couldn’t help her anymore. What could I do?

If that is what she meant by emotion, then maybe she had a point. I don’t get embarrassed or overwhelmed. I don’t cry or loose control. But I don’t think those things make me unemotional.

By the time I was ten years old; I was washing my own clothes and preparing my own food. Nobody ever told me play sports or go to school. I bought my own car, paid for college, and everything else in between. I’ve had eleven addresses in the last eight years, in three different cities. A polar opposite compared to Jess, I’m ultra independent. To the point that it sometimes causes me to lose sight of other people. It’s a personal fault that I am well aware of. I try to slow down, be patient, and look through the eyes of others, but it wasn’t enough with her. We were just too different. Since I’ve been deployed, I miss only my dog and the freedom to make my own choices (Army doesn’t endorse that). Most of the soldiers here, they miss their families, friends, girlfriends and everything else. When I talk to them, I try to understand that, otherwise I can’t help with anything.

In the two months leading up to my ship out date, I was training at what was called a pre-mob site. We had been emailing and talking and made plans to get together my last weekend in the states. This was the only pass we got before we left. So I hitched some rides with people to meet some friends at my old college town. Spent the night with them and hit the bars. The next morning, I caught a ride up to the “Twin Cities” were Jess was living. We met and spent the rest of the time together at a nice hotel. It was about six months or so between the time we met and when we last saw each other. It took her a couple of hours and the first drink before she even looked me in the eye. Never did get that.

We went out to eat, to the bars, and I even rubbed her feet (something I don’t always do willingly, however very good at it) to the background of music, candles and wine. It was a good weekend. We talked about were she wanted to move, how to interview for jobs, money and car problems. Tell me if this is selfish (ahh…asking questions in a letter?) but she never asked about what I’ve been doing or more troubling yet, not one hint of a question about what kind of training I’ve done, where I was going or how I felt about it. That bothered me, and reminded me of part of our disconnect. Was I the selfish one?

The last day in the U.S., I was at some random Army airport, (at least it was a place my phone picked up service, it had been almost entirely useless for the previous two months) and just before I cancelled my service, I texted Jess to say good bye. It was about 530 in the morning, and she happened to be up because she couldn’t sleep. We exchanged a cute series of messages before I finally had to turn off my phone. She said, “I will be thinking of you…and blah, blah, blah…I will send you…blah” Then I didn’t hear from her for almost three months…till a week ago or so.

"RE: Imagine That "

Jess returns this email, and goes on to tell me about some stupid shit she did the other night at a birthday party, and how she wonders…“but socially, who am I” Are you fucking serious?!?, your done with high school and college, there are people blowing themselves up at historic rates, dying for their defenses, a world full of conflict and if nothing else, you have a life to assemble and take control of. Is that still is what’s important to you? We broke up because of distance, priorities and fundamental differences. What the hell is this belated and superficial email suppose to mean? My first response was to just email her back and I was gonna let her have it! Not in 18 months have I ever done that, just gone off and tell her what I really think. So there I am…about to purge my soul and let all the cats out of the bag!

The cursor blinks….and blinks…and I change my mind.

What did I want to do? She isn’t an emotionally stable person, and as hard as I tried, I failed to help Jessica. Who am I to tell her about every little thing that I think is wrong and how she’s this and that and doesn’t care about…whatever. It would probably make me feel good, temporarily, but would completely devastate and hurt her.

A few days later, I sent her an email thanking her for getting back to me. It included a stupid and jestful comment about her tales of blunder. It also included the only encouraging thing I could think of and still genuinely mean. I kept it short, but the only way I could capture my frustration with her was with a question.

“What is important to you?”

That was how I ended it, and I don’t imagine I will hear back from her for some time. That’s fine, we weren’t the right match, just able to play the part for a little while.

But then I thought about that question I asked her…and asked myself instead. Me, in all of my self-appointed glory, and just full of answers. Always knowing what I want and where to go…I had to think about it. And I struggled to come up with an intelligent answer. The more I thought, the farther away I got. If asked in a job interview or off the top of my head in the heat of a spontaneous street quiz, I could have come up with something. Something that would be good enough to qualify my fooled listener into believing I knew. But when I asked myself, honestly asked myself…I didn’t know how to answer it. The only thing I could come up with, was that I will know…someday.

So… “What is important to you?”

~Rollligun

What is important to you?

2005-11-29T19:36:00.000+03:00

Haven’t posted in a few, sorry ‘bout that to my thousands of readers…things have just been stupid these last couple of days.

I received an email from my old girlfriend about a week ago and just sent my return reply. This was the first I’ve heard from her since I have been in country, almost three months now. She was responding to a group email that I had sent out to my friends. I don’t necessarily give her full credit for the gesture, based on that. I actually hate group emails, but started writing them because of a time vs. numbers problem. But now I occasionally write a completely random email that hopes to be funny and is otherwise intended to let people know… “Hey, still alive, still here.” Entertainment and attendance all in one. I introduced this new and infrequent habit, with what else, but a group email about why I hate group emails, and then sent it out to everyone I know (see past post on “dissertation”). Yeah, that post was originally an email until I transformed into an edited blogger post. I imagine that is some sort of blog violation, sorry for the deviance that you were unable to detect. My whole point is that’s how she finally chose to contact me, to say what’s up, by responding to a group email. Sorry, but that doesn’t count for much. Not in my book.

Anyway, we broke up several weeks before I got my orders, for reasons unrelated to the future in the desert. We were together for about a year and our once avid union had been reduced to irrelevant long distance quarrelling. Even before our split, I had already known (just unofficially) that I was gonna be activated. It was one of a quiet factor in support of my role of our split. I never shared that knowledge with Jessica, that I was most likely going to be activated in the spring. She never asked me about it either, “do you think you will get activated?” not once. (I sometimes use to wonder if she knew whether or not the world was bigger than the just places her car took her) The next “drill” I went too, we were officially placed on stop-loss and that whole deal. The good part was, we had about four months to prepare. That cushion of time was both a rare and fortunate luxury. Not to keep referencing past blog posts, but my whole demeanor changed. All steps with a new direction. Some of it was an effect of no longer sharing something good with Jess, but our best days had already passed us anyway. Mostly, I just wanted to change my purpose. Prepare for the day I would close the door for the last time, take off the tie and pick up a weapon. They gave us a date, could even find it on a calendar if I needed too. I placed aside whatever charm I had and didn’t date anyone else after that. Wasn’t important to me anymore.

Wow, this is turning into a blathering mess, I will try to get back to the point of the title…tomorrow.

Because I said so...

2005-11-26T15:45:00.000+03:00

Based on what I can remember in my history of auditory comprehension, that single paraphrased answer to my questions, “because I said so” is the second most frustrating thing I have ever heard. The first and forever reigning king of “frustrating answers” is and always will be …“no.” But that’s a whole different essay. This one is devoted to number two. As you get older, that kind of response to your concerns becomes less and less acceptable. With a growing sense of comprehension, people learn how to better articulate their objections and thereby force the eloquently lazy authoritarian into providing an acceptable explanation.

Me: “Why do I have to tell all of my guys that we need to start walking backwards and begin meowing at the introduction of our sentences?”

Leader: “Because I make the rules, and what I say, goes. It is your job to carry out my orders, not to question them”

That type of response is simply a glorified version of the title, however still equally frustrating.

The exasperating fact of the matter is, that’s true and is commonly understood to be a sufficient answer to anybody’s questions. Even in the event that an explanation is granted. As a sergeant, I don’t have the ability to question the orders of my officers, assuming they are legal. It is my job to carry out and enforce the intent of my leaders.

But that’s not quite the end of it, the trouble continues when it’s my turn to convey this message to my troops.

Me: “meow…alright guys, you all have to go turn your uniforms inside out.”
Troops: “Are you serious?”
Me: “meow…afraid so.”
Troops: “Why do we have to do that?”
Me: “cough,cough” (hairball) “…because…err… (ah fuck it)…because I said so”

Actually, I never quite default to that ordinary of an answer when asked for one because I can appreciate how unfulfilling it is. Unfortunately, I often times am left only with the option of A.) telling it how it is or B.) glorifying my own bullshit reply. I always choose the former, even if it is the sarcastic form of the latter. They get the point, and either laugh at me or grudgingly accept the answer. Anything to keep them from looking at me like I just flew in on a cow.

The whole point of the passage is to illustrate my frequent dilemma when acting as the messenger/enforcer in the chain of command. It’s actually quite difficult, especially when I, myself, don’t see the reason or value behind something, but I need to present it with as much strength and validity as I can. If I can’t do it in a genuine matter, then I am forced to be creative en route to arousing motivation and enthusiasm. More on this subject in the future. It’s a daily affair. Consider it part one. If this conclusion doesn’t provide you with any resolution as to what my point was, then let me rephrase it for you.

“This is my point because that’s what I said it was.”

~Rolligun

Umm.....who am I to speak

2005-11-24T00:37:00.000+03:00

Seriously, based on my postings to this point I would not blame you if you don't actually think I am serving in a war. I myself don't always feel that way.

Anyway I am sitting here at a computer ("no shit") intently focused on how to arrange this blog and read the news and check boxscores all at the same time. I never do only one thing at time...remember this deficiancy. So as focused as I am on my own world, I am approached by a younger enlisted soldier who is conserned about an old girlfriend. We discuss what would constitute "stalker"behavior (he somehow wanted to find out if she was lieing to him about living with another dude) how to get closure and how to otherwise deal with girls.

The first thought to cross my mind, apart from transitioning from my own interests to now actually helping someone else was..."in all my history of infinate brilliance, how can this kid possibley think I am qualified to help?" If only he knew the stupid shit I sometimes do like unessecarly burn bridges because I won't sacrafice my pride or send emails to old relationships (see november 16?) or hell, I can can on and on, but it's just not the subject of this post.

Whatever, he isn't standing in front of me with this drousy look of concern becuase he wants to hear about how little I have to offer, he wants something, a voice, support, if not the golden solution to his problems. Well I'll give it go and see what happens...

I can always empathize, if not acutally help, so I will start with an understanding...

He has no other outlet or replacement stimuli (other girls) to help divert his undying focus on the old girlfriend. That's a problem of being so far away from the home you know. The girl he is dealing with sounds like she has no clue what she wants, changes her mind from day to day and has unrealistic expectations of him(How common is this?). Such as, "it's me or the Army" she tells him. What kind of request is that?, you can't just put a two week notice in. I can see the difficultly someone would have in relating to another that harbors this foundation of logic. (Good luck, dude)

Anyway, he wants to know first off if having a friend determine if she is living with someone would qualify him as a stalker? I tell him that there is two answers to this one, take your pick. The first is, "this is obviously of great concern to you and there is fear that she may be lieing." So in order to establish some piece of mind enroute to closure, I would say go ahead and have someone investigate. However, if it takes an effort of anything greater than telling someone to "walk around the block" then forget it. That would approach unreasonable behavior, kind of like slowing down for a yellow light. The second school thought, a"Dr. Laura" sort of answer is that it is simply none of your business and she has whatever rights entitled to her as not being your girlfriend.

However, I suggest option one. (At this point the young trooper needs answers, not textbook theory")

Well I will skip several parts of the discussion so I can bring this passage to a relative conclusion.
Mostly, he was full of heartache and misdirection. This young lass was good at her craft and he had absolutely no idea what to make of her actions. He complained intensely about the things she would do and the different languages she spoke in (all versions of English).

I asked him what he wanted. The head sunk and the shoulders shrugged. O.K. then, you have more options. Each one is dependat on figuring out yourself first.

(I really don't give out advice, sometimes I just tend to give my answers in the form of a "multiple choice test" Takes away the burden of error, from me, I think)

1. You can find out if she lied to you and send her a big "Fuck You!" type of letter and hope that it closes the book or finally sends the message that you want truth and clarity, if the two of you are ever to speak again. (I didn't pitch this option with any enthusiasm as it is quite immature and not very productive. Just one way to go.)

2. Ignore the fact that she may have lied to you and make a well disciplined and conscious effort to change your intentions. He still cared for her, so I told him he could just stay in touch but skip all the emotional crap and simply stick to chatter. Basically, it is a more practical application of option one. You simply stop being the subservant lamb by removing your desire to please her (sends same message) but at the same time you remain supportive and humane. Also captured by being "indifferent" to her actions. (I recommended this approach with a little more sway)

3. Decide what it is that you really want. It didn't really seem as though this was the girl of his dreams, I think his emotions were intensified because of distance. If you want to be with her, you have to achieve an extreem level of patience and support from over here. If your not so sure, than tell her goodbye and wish her luck.

Option three kind of seemed like the way to go. We were able to determine that she has excessive attention needs and fear of loss issues. I am not pyscologist, but intuition is one of my strenghts. Anyway, I just found found out I have go so I am gonna wrap this up right quick and apolojize for not bringing closure (or spell check) to this posting. We talked for about half hour and he thanked me at the end. That was cool. It's one of the roles I do have, over here, that I enjoy. All of my "couseling" responsibilities. Some of it unofficial, but I'll help where I can. My LT complains that I do too much non-millitary stuff with my troops, but I don't see it that way. Everything I do is in some way meant to improve the personal welfare of the individual, which will always help the function of the mission, even if it is indirect. There is plenty of people here who concern themselves only with what is printed as an Army regulation. I try to bring balance and variety. That' my unofficial job as I describe it.

Discontent

2005-11-22T00:31:00.000+03:00

I have been in the Army for almost six years and this is the first time I have been deployed. When I first got my orders, my attitude was pretty much, “whatever, it’s time to go.” I took an oath and now it’s my turn. Up to that point, I was focusing on my post graduate career and trying to balance a long distance relationship, unsuccessfully. Once the orders came, my “personal clock” kind of stopped and from then on out, every breath I took was supported by a feeling of urgency and importance. My smiles a bit shorter and laughs a little quieter. It wasn’t because I was afraid or upset in anyway, it was because I was becoming focused.

On the front end, the attention I had applied to my career filtered a bit. My bar time was earlier. I took longer walks with my dog and began working out a bit harder. As childish as it is, I even started to watch war movies. On the back end, the priorities in my life and things I had neglected, now were coming to the surface. This was all part of my coping process, to find piece and satisfaction with where I was and prepare for the future I would have. It was an important and methodical transition for me. To prepare for anything.

I spent the entire summer training for convoy operations, force security and weapons, among other things. We never knew from day to day were we would be stationed or what our mission would be. It got to the point that no one in our company ever asked that question. It was mute, always changing and never known. If any friends or family of mine had ever asked that question, it would take me by surprise because it just wasn’t a something I was consciously aware of. Where am I going, what will I do? It was all wake up and train.

That was up until about two months ago, when we hit “boots on the ground.” I ended up in Kuwait, and as of yet, I haven’t left this country. My mission and the purpose I serve, isn’t really anything to speak of. I try to tell myself, that I should feel lucky. That in the Army, you are not allowed to choose your missions, that everything is inclusive and therefore important.

Well fuck all of that. I just can’t convince myself of that train of thought. Not for the expectations I have or the way I prepared myself. This won’t cut it. I have been trying to volunteer for new missions, but those opportunities (from were I am) are scarce. My LT keeps saying how he needs me where I am. Even goes so far as to say that my ambition is offensive to him as an officer, something like not wanting serve with him or whatever. Alright, as touching as that is, Sir, it doesn’t mean anything to me. This is not what I trained for or how I want to serve.

On the bright side I have only been here a couple months, so hopefully I will figure out a way to change my role.

I haven’t been in Iraq, and for any readers of this blog, who were looking for a glimpse of that environment, you should check out Chairborne Stranger it’s a good site, well written and provocative.

~Rolligun

Conundrum of a Hypocrite...

2005-11-19T00:06:00.000+03:00

I am not much of fan when it comes to group emails. It’s not that often that I say to myself,

“Oh yea! This email is important enough for everyone to read. I just don’t seem to like it when someone has something for only me to know.”

This of course is not true; I am way too selfish to ever feel that way.

The problem begins with having too many people to talk to and “group email” being the habitually chosen recourse. The social default is finding the easiest way to say hello to as many people as you can and as effortlessly as possible. But all too often the reader is left unsatisfied with your attempt because it failed to invoke a personal appeal. Life was easier when you could just use the hallway between classes to get these multiple greetings across. But as time passes by, so does the opportunity to use your hallways. Therefore as people get older they begin to become more selective when it comes to extending these greetings and keeping in touch. This is based on the reality that the opportunity to greet is less frequent and communication therefore becomes more difficult. Unless an increase in one’s effort is applied. But realistically speaking, the implied result is less communication with the people we know as we get older. Consequently, “group emails” are then used as a remedy; however this only leads to confusion surrounding this ineffective and impersonal concept of compound correspondence. This “problem” is suppose to be avoided as technology evolves, but as you read you will see that it doesn’t work that way.

Today’s propensity is to say hello by sending an email, not a phone call. Or to even go further back, when was the last time you wrote a letter to someone? At one time, I will remind you, getting the mail did include more excitement than escorting your findings to the garbage and cursing your creditors. Nevertheless, email has its own flaws. The one I am concerned with is this idea of sending “group emails” to continue relationships. “Group emails” are inherently flawed when used for this purpose because they contradict their intended desire of sending a personal message, which is the principle of any genuine greeting. Let’s examine some of these other methods before we come back to “group emails.” We’ll do this in a chronological order of two, considering their place in evolution.

The postal service, as exhausting as it is, is at least less deceiving when it comes to determining who the message was meant for. For example, if a letter was meant for several readers, one could quickly identify that letter’s intentions by reading the heading on the envelope. It might say something like “To the Kensington Household” (use pompous tone). That type of courtesy would save you the disappointment of realizing that you are in fact not special. But not “group emails”, they set you up! It’s only after that moment of anticipation followed by the three seconds you invest, waiting for time to process, are you able to determine that you are of no consequence to its contents. I asked earlier, “When was the last time you wrote a letter?” Under what circumstances would someone determine that their salutatory assignment requires the combined attention of pen, paper, stamp and envelope? It just isn’t practical without that applied effort, also mentioned earlier. Especially considering the convenience of sending everyone you know a once written electronic hello. Writing letters doesn’t commonly solve this problem because, evidently, no one does it anymore.

Telephone calls at first were easy and personal however they presented a questionable risk to the receiver. Until caller ID was introduced, one had no idea if the call was even for them. This was very problematic. Not only were you never intended to be a part of the transaction, but now you have inherently volunteered to be tasked with taking a message or locating the desired listener. That scenario is on par with stubbing your toe. The only thing worse than that is “stubbing your toe” on piece of furniture that you never wanted to talk to in the first place. For example, answering the phone call on your “sick day” only to end up fielding questions from your boss is a different set of problems unrelated to the disappointment of receiving a generally written message to the public. Caller ID was able to solve that problem; however cell phones came to ruin that mechanism for defense, because by definition, you are expected to always be able to answer. So eventually people buy caller ID, purchase answering machines, and turn off their cell phones all in a tactical effort to filter communication. Saying hello by virtue of a telephone also doesn’t work anymore.

I realize the tone of this grammatical mess is beginning to discuss a problem of social behavior, to which I am unqualified to speak. So I will stop this impending digression and steer myself back to the problem of receiving a generally written email for several that evokes absolutely no curiosity or interest from anything other than a “spell check function.” Imagine ten disillusioned faces scanning a computer screen versus the meticulous interest under which “spell check” would evaluate your document.

So how can one person both effectively and effortlessly stay in touch with as many people as possible? Unfortunately, I don’t know. I have spent most of my time concluding that “group emails” are nothing more than a generically driven effort, kind of like winning one dollar on a lottery ticket. You remain unfulfilled and somewhat confused as to whether you should be excited or rather insulted, for winning your dollar. That is why I don’t like them and will avoid sending out community greetings. I will acknowledge that they do solve part of the problem, that being the numerical side. Nevertheless, I still haven’t sent out very many emails or greetings since my deployment. As one might do in a hallway. With that said I will take group emails as an oppurtunity to correct my lack of communication, without any remorse for sending impartial messages.

~Rolligun

...and so it is, a Conundrum of a Hypocrite.

To Tell on Myself

2005-11-18T00:59:00.000+03:00

I recently took up one of the most misguided ventures of human behavior.

Contacting old flames.

From every possible point of view, this is not an intelligent move. Under no circumstances would a proud and confident person choose to toil in the past and attempt to regenerate old feelings or otherwise resurrect the dead.

This common undertaking by no means results from a moment of spontaneity, unless drugs or alcohol are involved. It would have to take a conscious effort to prepare and implement any final decisions from one’s inner monologue. I imagine people who do this fall into one of three categories.

1. Self denial…one looks for approval of their existence instead of confronting interpersonal challenges. This could also qualify as an ego feed, where by said individual wants to see if they still matter or have influence in the lives of others.
2. Mid life whining…one is at a crossroads of indirection and is looking for answers to questions they aren’t aware of.
3. Been gone awhile and haven’t talked to any females in some time.

(This was hardly a scientific explanation for behavior)

I fall into the third. There is 12,000 miles between me and my old stomping grounds. Actually, I move quite often, so familiar grounds don't really apply. But I hope you get the point.
I justify my actions based on the principals of geography.

So far I have been emailing…

…a girl who I dated three years ago, never trusted and ended on abrupt terms at my disposal. Still don’t trust her or would ever want to date her again, so why did I make contact?
She was perfect in so many ways. Except for those nagging tendencies to be manipulative, controlling and deceitful. Other than all that…she was a keeper.

…a girl who I never actually did date, but has a habit of including me in her mass grouping of emails. I hate group emails and will explain this further at a later date. She was one of the most pleasent and caring people I have ever known. Anyway, we use to have a cute flirty thing at a common place of employment back in the day, but nothing ever happened. Nor have I ever responded to one of those group emails of her’s of over the past two years! Until last month. Not sure what I am trying to do with this one either.

…a girl who I just recently dated for awhile (almost a year) and spent my last weekend in the states with, (not together at the time) before being activated. This I suppose makes a little more sense, however, we have only been apart for six months or so at the date of the occasion and there may not have been enough time for our separation to mature and therefore cause confusion. Haven’t been in contact with her just recently, but I am trying to be rationale about this one. I will probably reference this relationship in the future as well. It had some interesting virtues.

Anyway, I am not sure what I am trying to accomplish and there is no logical reasoning behind these efforts. I just know that these types of actions would be entirely unacceptable if it wasn’t for geography. I hope that counts.

~Rolligun

Where I Am Coming From...

2005-11-17T00:28:00.000+03:00

Not sure how to kick this whole thing off, but to me it would make sense to give it a little bit of foundation. I am kind of excited about this new venture, I have never done anything like it. Anyway, I am currently stationed overseas in Kuwait, in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom as a SGT in the Army Reserve. Well now active army of course. My mission is quite an uneventful one, and as much as I would like to dazzle you with stories of adventure and heroism, I have none.

(So far anyway, hoping to fulflill my need in having something worth speaking of to my grand kids...one day.)

This is a source of disillusionment for me, because I am not serving in the capacity that I want too. However, in the Army you don’t get to choose your missions. I am trying to change this trend, unsuccessfully, for now. It is what it is. More on this topic in the future. I won’t quite share my views on foreign policy and otherwise politics at this point, but I will give you a glimpse of my direction on the issue. I think we picked up the wrong map. But even when you’re lost you can’t take back a wrong turn. You have to keep driving to find your way. This is no different.

(Any hypocrisy to note?)

Time is short and so is my first posting, but alas "Mission Complete." Besides, I am not sure how devoted I will become to this new endeavor. Even a simple email is likely to produce unpredicatable results, from me. Needless to say, I will save my words for tomorrow, figurtively speaking, I imagine.