Monday, October 31, 2005
Done!!!
Well, I guess all good things must come to an end. If that is true then I suppose must those things that are not so good. What I am trying to say here is that my tour in Iraq is now over. I am back in the good old US of A. I was sent home early. No, I was not kicked out of Iraq. I was brought home to make sure everything was ready for the rest of the unit to come home in the next few months. So, I guess that is it. The website has run its cycle. Thank you to all of you who have visited and contributed. Thanks also to all of those who prayed for me and the rest of the Soldiers, Marines, Airmen and Navy people (I don’t know what you call those folks). Please continue to do so. There are still hard times ahead for 3ID and the rest of the military in Iraq as well as in Afghanistan. Tough times still lie ahead for the people of Iraq; please pray for them. Thank you, Lord for your protection and for the blessings you have given me in my life. God bless all of you.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Oops, I threw up in my mouth
There are many stories in Iraq. Some, like those dealing with the success of the recent elections, are about victory. This, however, is a story about failure. A story of a man coming to grips with his limitations in a war-torn nation.
It all started with a simple conversation about “Cool Hand Luke”, the movie starring Paul Newman. In the movie Paul Newman accepts a dare to eat 50 hard-boiled eggs. Our conversation turned to stupid bets we have all taken part in. Someone at the table mentioned the “Dairy Challenge”. This bet is simple. Drink a gallon of milk in one hour. Sounds simple, but the rub is that stomach acids react to the milk and essentially turn the milk into cottage cheese inside your stomach. There by making it seemingly impossible to drink the entire gallon. Shortly after this conversation my good friend Myers asked me if I wanted some ice cream. Me, still think along the lines of the previous conversation, asked, “Is this a challenge?” To which he jokingly replied “Yes.” So we both went to get ice cream. Taking this as a challenge, I decided that the best thing to do was get as much ice cream as I could and top it with as much whipped cream, chocolate and caramel syrup and nuts, as the pap
er bowl the ice cream was served in, could handle. Upon my return to the table, with the mammoth sized serving of ice cream in tow, the concept of the ice cream challenge was born. It was as follows: 50 ice cream sandwiches in less than one hour. I proudly proclaimed, “Easy!” So then, as the saying goes, it was on. The rules were established. They were fairly simple. Rule 1: No vomiting. Puke and rally was not an option. Rule 2: No more rules. So there you go. It was very simple.
The next day my thinking was that is simply was not possible, due to the time factor. I thought it would take at least one minute to eat one sandwich. That leaves very little time for error. To test this time theory, that night, I got a head start and decided to see how quickly I could eat five. Total time for five sandwiches: 2 minutes 20 seconds. I felt very relieved by this fact. My number one concern was no vanished. At that pace it would only take about one half and hour to complete the entire feat. So I was confident, but not over confident.
For the next few days the careful stealing of 50 ice cream sandwiches ensued. All ice cream sandwiches were carefully collected in the freezer at our workplace. With the masses assembled I began my quest for immortality. At exactly 7:38 pm I began, and with mountains of ice cream sandwiches in front of me I eat my first sandwich in two large bites. I was feeling good and sailing through with no effort. My first ten sandwiches were vanquished in less than five minutes. I was right on pace, and feeling great. The next ten went down just as smoothly and in nearly the same amount of time. I had eaten 20 ice cream sandwiches in 11 minutes. Sure, my pace might have slowed a tad, but that was to be expected. What was not expected was the taste the ice cream sandwich took on sandwich number 21. The ice cream turned from sweet, delectable treat of goodness, to thick, creamy, tasteless brick of goo. I had either frozen off all my taste buds or the ice cream had gone bad. But I was n
ot going to let a little thing like taste interfere with my eating, so I powered through.
8 minutes and 30 seconds later I had reached the start of sandwich number 25. Things were obviously going badly. My pace was way off. I had wasted a good deal of time trying to simple things like drink water and breath, instead of staying focused on the task at hand, that being my desire to do something so stupid, it would go down in the annals of history. My brain and stomach knew they were losing, but my heart kept saying, “Fight on, man.” At 22 minutes in I had reached the halfway point and finished number 25. I had 38 minutes to go and only 25 sandwiches left to go. For the next several minutes, I powered through another five sandwiches, and was amazed to find myself sitting in a good position 30 sandwiches eaten in roughly 30 minutes. I regained my focus, and knew I could make this dream into a reality. At exactly 8:09 pm I took my first bite of sandwich number 31. I thought powering through each of the remaining 20 sandwiches was the best play. I figured that if I cou
ld eat each sandwich in two large bites, and forced the contents down my throat, I would surely conquer. I could not have been more wrong. The first bite of number 31 was over half of the sandwich. As I began to swallow, and felt the thick cream slide down my throat, something in my stomach fought back. The previous 30 sandwiches had all made a home for themselves, in my stomach, and did not like the concept of sharing their space with anything else. As bite one of sandwich 31 went down, it immediately came back up. I had a decision to make. I could spit out the rejected bite, thus forfeiting the remainder of the challenge, and potentially bringing on the outbreak of a greater number of previous bites. Or I could attempt to re-swallow. I sat there, for what seemed like an eternity, with a thrown up chunk of ice cream sandwich resting in my mouth. I made a choice and forced it all back down, and as soon as I knew I was clear I took bite number 2. This bite did not fare any bet
ter. Every subsequent bit followed the same agonizing path.
At 8:38 pm, Myers called time, and I sat there. 35 empty ice cream sandwich wrappers lined the trash can that had been strategically placed there. What started off with so much promise, ended in utter failure. It took me 22 minutes to eat the first 25 sandwiches. 9½ minutes to eat the next five. Over the remaining 30½ minutes I was only able to squeeze down five more. So there you have it. 35 ice cream sandwiches in one hour = failure. At least I tried. I, much like Astronaut Buzz Aldrin, dared to fly where eagles dare. I shot for the heavens, and missed. So I guess the saying is true, the surest way to fail at something, is to try.
It all started with a simple conversation about “Cool Hand Luke”, the movie starring Paul Newman. In the movie Paul Newman accepts a dare to eat 50 hard-boiled eggs. Our conversation turned to stupid bets we have all taken part in. Someone at the table mentioned the “Dairy Challenge”. This bet is simple. Drink a gallon of milk in one hour. Sounds simple, but the rub is that stomach acids react to the milk and essentially turn the milk into cottage cheese inside your stomach. There by making it seemingly impossible to drink the entire gallon. Shortly after this conversation my good friend Myers asked me if I wanted some ice cream. Me, still think along the lines of the previous conversation, asked, “Is this a challenge?” To which he jokingly replied “Yes.” So we both went to get ice cream. Taking this as a challenge, I decided that the best thing to do was get as much ice cream as I could and top it with as much whipped cream, chocolate and caramel syrup and nuts, as the pap
er bowl the ice cream was served in, could handle. Upon my return to the table, with the mammoth sized serving of ice cream in tow, the concept of the ice cream challenge was born. It was as follows: 50 ice cream sandwiches in less than one hour. I proudly proclaimed, “Easy!” So then, as the saying goes, it was on. The rules were established. They were fairly simple. Rule 1: No vomiting. Puke and rally was not an option. Rule 2: No more rules. So there you go. It was very simple.
The next day my thinking was that is simply was not possible, due to the time factor. I thought it would take at least one minute to eat one sandwich. That leaves very little time for error. To test this time theory, that night, I got a head start and decided to see how quickly I could eat five. Total time for five sandwiches: 2 minutes 20 seconds. I felt very relieved by this fact. My number one concern was no vanished. At that pace it would only take about one half and hour to complete the entire feat. So I was confident, but not over confident.
For the next few days the careful stealing of 50 ice cream sandwiches ensued. All ice cream sandwiches were carefully collected in the freezer at our workplace. With the masses assembled I began my quest for immortality. At exactly 7:38 pm I began, and with mountains of ice cream sandwiches in front of me I eat my first sandwich in two large bites. I was feeling good and sailing through with no effort. My first ten sandwiches were vanquished in less than five minutes. I was right on pace, and feeling great. The next ten went down just as smoothly and in nearly the same amount of time. I had eaten 20 ice cream sandwiches in 11 minutes. Sure, my pace might have slowed a tad, but that was to be expected. What was not expected was the taste the ice cream sandwich took on sandwich number 21. The ice cream turned from sweet, delectable treat of goodness, to thick, creamy, tasteless brick of goo. I had either frozen off all my taste buds or the ice cream had gone bad. But I was n
ot going to let a little thing like taste interfere with my eating, so I powered through.
8 minutes and 30 seconds later I had reached the start of sandwich number 25. Things were obviously going badly. My pace was way off. I had wasted a good deal of time trying to simple things like drink water and breath, instead of staying focused on the task at hand, that being my desire to do something so stupid, it would go down in the annals of history. My brain and stomach knew they were losing, but my heart kept saying, “Fight on, man.” At 22 minutes in I had reached the halfway point and finished number 25. I had 38 minutes to go and only 25 sandwiches left to go. For the next several minutes, I powered through another five sandwiches, and was amazed to find myself sitting in a good position 30 sandwiches eaten in roughly 30 minutes. I regained my focus, and knew I could make this dream into a reality. At exactly 8:09 pm I took my first bite of sandwich number 31. I thought powering through each of the remaining 20 sandwiches was the best play. I figured that if I cou
ld eat each sandwich in two large bites, and forced the contents down my throat, I would surely conquer. I could not have been more wrong. The first bite of number 31 was over half of the sandwich. As I began to swallow, and felt the thick cream slide down my throat, something in my stomach fought back. The previous 30 sandwiches had all made a home for themselves, in my stomach, and did not like the concept of sharing their space with anything else. As bite one of sandwich 31 went down, it immediately came back up. I had a decision to make. I could spit out the rejected bite, thus forfeiting the remainder of the challenge, and potentially bringing on the outbreak of a greater number of previous bites. Or I could attempt to re-swallow. I sat there, for what seemed like an eternity, with a thrown up chunk of ice cream sandwich resting in my mouth. I made a choice and forced it all back down, and as soon as I knew I was clear I took bite number 2. This bite did not fare any bet
ter. Every subsequent bit followed the same agonizing path.
At 8:38 pm, Myers called time, and I sat there. 35 empty ice cream sandwich wrappers lined the trash can that had been strategically placed there. What started off with so much promise, ended in utter failure. It took me 22 minutes to eat the first 25 sandwiches. 9½ minutes to eat the next five. Over the remaining 30½ minutes I was only able to squeeze down five more. So there you have it. 35 ice cream sandwiches in one hour = failure. At least I tried. I, much like Astronaut Buzz Aldrin, dared to fly where eagles dare. I shot for the heavens, and missed. So I guess the saying is true, the surest way to fail at something, is to try.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
The Message of Randell Watson
With the elections only a few days away, I just wanted to take a second and share some recent photos. These photos are a great deal of what we are doing here. These pictures are of regular Soldiers interacting with regular kids. These kinds of scenes happen a thousand times a day around here. We are here to help give these kids a future. So this weekend keep in mind what the outcome of this election really has at stake. These kids and millions more like them. Just remember the words of Jackson Heights’ own Randell Watson, “I believe the children are the future.” For those of you who don't remember, Randell starred in the "What's Goin' Down" episode of "That's My Mama." That boy good!!
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Part of the Joy
Well it has been a while since I have written anything about Iraq. So I guess it is time for me to do so. Lately I have been dealing with a good deal of locals. I have even got a cell phone that I use to call primarily other people I work with and Iraqi contractors. I like working this closely with so many contactors, engineers and government employees. There is one problem, and that problem is:
ahmed hio mshr
What exactly is “ahmed hio mshr” you ask. I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. Not because it is some classified, if I told you I would have to kill you thing. No, the explanation is much simpler than that. I honestly have no idea what it means. These exact words “ahmed hio mshr” appeared in an e-mail I received a few days ago. They were the only words in the whole e-mail, “ahmed hio mshr”. That was it the entire body of the e-mail read:
ahmed hio mshr
What? It doesn’t make sense. It is clearly not English, but it is also not Arabic. It is something that meaning to someone, or they would not have taken the time to e-mail it to me. On top of that I have no idea who sent this e-mail. The problem is that everyone I have met in Iraq has a Yahoo account. They all, for the most part, use some variation of their name as the Yahoo ID, as do most people. The problem with this system is that when you meet like 5 Mohammed’s in a week, and then you get an e-mail for Mo_hamMan2081@yahoo.com there is no way in the world to tell which Mohammed just sent this to you. I wouldn’t try that e-mail by the way, even though I just made that up, I would bet a dollar someone uses that address. What should I have expected when I give my e-mail address to a good number of people who don’t speak English, and tell them if the need anything just send me an e-mail I will do what I can to help them. So next time you feel lost or confused about a situation, just think at least no one just asked you to “ahmed hio mshr”. So to close, I will quote a very kind salutation I received in another e-mail, and say:
“My you be blessed my darling to have warm regards.”
ahmed hio mshr
What exactly is “ahmed hio mshr” you ask. I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. Not because it is some classified, if I told you I would have to kill you thing. No, the explanation is much simpler than that. I honestly have no idea what it means. These exact words “ahmed hio mshr” appeared in an e-mail I received a few days ago. They were the only words in the whole e-mail, “ahmed hio mshr”. That was it the entire body of the e-mail read:
ahmed hio mshr
What? It doesn’t make sense. It is clearly not English, but it is also not Arabic. It is something that meaning to someone, or they would not have taken the time to e-mail it to me. On top of that I have no idea who sent this e-mail. The problem is that everyone I have met in Iraq has a Yahoo account. They all, for the most part, use some variation of their name as the Yahoo ID, as do most people. The problem with this system is that when you meet like 5 Mohammed’s in a week, and then you get an e-mail for Mo_hamMan2081@yahoo.com there is no way in the world to tell which Mohammed just sent this to you. I wouldn’t try that e-mail by the way, even though I just made that up, I would bet a dollar someone uses that address. What should I have expected when I give my e-mail address to a good number of people who don’t speak English, and tell them if the need anything just send me an e-mail I will do what I can to help them. So next time you feel lost or confused about a situation, just think at least no one just asked you to “ahmed hio mshr”. So to close, I will quote a very kind salutation I received in another e-mail, and say:
“My you be blessed my darling to have warm regards.”
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Yeah, Girl's Basketball
Being in Iraq I don't get a chance to watch much TV, so I have missed most of the baseball season (Go Pads!), and have seen only one football game so far. I have, however, been able to catch numerous WNBA games. AFN (Armed Forces Network) is the only TV we have over here and they play a lot of WNBA games. It is not like the is an alternative to AFN. You could watch local TV, which believe me delivers quality coverage of many goat hearding festivals. You could pay for some crazy European Satellite that delivers 587 channels in Hungarian, most of them being sexually confusing music video channels. So AFN is it, and if you are watching sports on AFN you are probably watching the WNBA. Below is an article written by Jay Mohr. He is a stand-up comic, who often writes for Sports Illustrated. He also played Bob Sugar in Jerry MacGuire (one of my all time favorite movies). The guy is hilarious, so read the story below and know that he could not be more on point with this subject. Enjoy.
The WNBA finals begin Wednesday, and if you listen very closely you'll be able to hear that nobody cares. Apparently, the Sacramento Monarchs are playing the Connecticut Sun in a best-of-whatever series. The Monarchs earned their way into the finals by beating the Houston Comets. The Sun got in because they're owned and operated by a casino. Seriously, a casino owns the team. No conflict of interest there, right? I guess the NBA and whoever else desperately backs this debacle of a league finally found themselves an ownership group that can actually afford to hemorrhage cash.
Now, let me admit that all of these women ballers are far better athletes than I will ever be. That doesn't forgive the fact that the product is still unwatchable. Playing with a multi-colored ball that looks as if was stolen from Meadowlark Lemon's trunk, these women are capable of putting up 40, sometimes 50, points a night. I went to a New York Liberty game a couple of years ago and found myself, for the first time, in the minority at a sporting event. As my buddy and I sat courtside with other celebrities like, uh, um, well, I'm sure there was somebody else, we realized what a bizarre collection of souls made up the lower tier of the arena. Little girls and lumberjacks seemed to be the primary ticket holders. The little girls looked at the court in admiration of their heroes, and the lumberjacks looked at the court in a completely different type of admiration. Other than my buddy, I was the only guy in my row, so I was hesitant to stand up and move around. I was afraid of offending the brutes surrounding me. These people were large and in charge, loud and proud, and very capable of beating me to within an inch of my life.
Not feeling that uncomfortable since the "gangbangers versus non-gangbangers" era of the Raiders, I made sure to root for the home team, and root I did. When the giants next to me stood up to cheer, I stood up and cheered. When they booed, I booed. I didn't want them to think I was an outsider.
Sadly, when it comes to the WNBA, almost all of us are outsiders. Do you know anybody who has ever watched a game? Have you ever spoken about the WNBA at work? At home? Anywhere? The NBA and the networks that have aired the sport have tried in vain for far too long to prop up this league as entertainment. If you are entertained by 7-foot, 225-pound women from Poland who have less basketball skills than the worst NBA D-Leaguer then I guess you are one of the few people who cares.
There are only 13 teams in the WNBA, but for some reason league and network executives refuse to admit failure. They want you to believe that this is the ideal number for competitiveness and not the result of entire cities saying, "Why would people go to these games?" The WNBA has been propped up more than JFK during bouts of Addison's disease and all with a great big "You're gonna love it!" smile. Well, we don't love it. The fact that it only costs a hundred bucks to sit on the floor should clue you in that something is wrong. When I was at my one and only WNBA game the two women next to me, in matching flannel shirts and motorcycle boots, told me they got their courtside seats by winning first place in a contest. I immediately wondered if second place was four tickets. If I am ever forced to attend another of these games, I'll insist on sitting in the nose bleed seats. At least from up high I could avoid the icy stares from my fellow "fans", get loaded, squint real hard and imagine the people down on the floor were men.
The WNBA finals begin Wednesday, and if you listen very closely you'll be able to hear that nobody cares. Apparently, the Sacramento Monarchs are playing the Connecticut Sun in a best-of-whatever series. The Monarchs earned their way into the finals by beating the Houston Comets. The Sun got in because they're owned and operated by a casino. Seriously, a casino owns the team. No conflict of interest there, right? I guess the NBA and whoever else desperately backs this debacle of a league finally found themselves an ownership group that can actually afford to hemorrhage cash.
Now, let me admit that all of these women ballers are far better athletes than I will ever be. That doesn't forgive the fact that the product is still unwatchable. Playing with a multi-colored ball that looks as if was stolen from Meadowlark Lemon's trunk, these women are capable of putting up 40, sometimes 50, points a night. I went to a New York Liberty game a couple of years ago and found myself, for the first time, in the minority at a sporting event. As my buddy and I sat courtside with other celebrities like, uh, um, well, I'm sure there was somebody else, we realized what a bizarre collection of souls made up the lower tier of the arena. Little girls and lumberjacks seemed to be the primary ticket holders. The little girls looked at the court in admiration of their heroes, and the lumberjacks looked at the court in a completely different type of admiration. Other than my buddy, I was the only guy in my row, so I was hesitant to stand up and move around. I was afraid of offending the brutes surrounding me. These people were large and in charge, loud and proud, and very capable of beating me to within an inch of my life.
Not feeling that uncomfortable since the "gangbangers versus non-gangbangers" era of the Raiders, I made sure to root for the home team, and root I did. When the giants next to me stood up to cheer, I stood up and cheered. When they booed, I booed. I didn't want them to think I was an outsider.
Sadly, when it comes to the WNBA, almost all of us are outsiders. Do you know anybody who has ever watched a game? Have you ever spoken about the WNBA at work? At home? Anywhere? The NBA and the networks that have aired the sport have tried in vain for far too long to prop up this league as entertainment. If you are entertained by 7-foot, 225-pound women from Poland who have less basketball skills than the worst NBA D-Leaguer then I guess you are one of the few people who cares.
There are only 13 teams in the WNBA, but for some reason league and network executives refuse to admit failure. They want you to believe that this is the ideal number for competitiveness and not the result of entire cities saying, "Why would people go to these games?" The WNBA has been propped up more than JFK during bouts of Addison's disease and all with a great big "You're gonna love it!" smile. Well, we don't love it. The fact that it only costs a hundred bucks to sit on the floor should clue you in that something is wrong. When I was at my one and only WNBA game the two women next to me, in matching flannel shirts and motorcycle boots, told me they got their courtside seats by winning first place in a contest. I immediately wondered if second place was four tickets. If I am ever forced to attend another of these games, I'll insist on sitting in the nose bleed seats. At least from up high I could avoid the icy stares from my fellow "fans", get loaded, squint real hard and imagine the people down on the floor were men.
More R&R pictures
Rob sent me some more pictures from when he was home on R&R so I thought I would post a few more. Niki
Monday, September 12, 2005
Kids
The birth of two new kids in the family, combined with my being able to spend time with my own children while on leave has left me with real sense of how profoundly children will change you. I have a chance to meet a lot of children over here, and I am always amazed how children are pretty much the same across cultural lines. Kids are essentially the same; it is only as they become adults do most of them begin to be different along cultural lines. Adult behaviors are most often learned, childhood behaviors are most often natural. I am not trying to be profound here, I am just amazed how much my own kids, my nieces, my nephews and the children I have met in Iraq act alike. Similarities include but are not limited to the following:
1. Kids like candy.
2. Kids ask for crap they can’t have or don’t need.
3. Kids run, a lot! Even if it is 120 degrees outside.
4. Kids are loud.
One of the most important things parents, and for that matter all grown-ups, can do is to always keep the heart of a young child. However, the most important thing is to put that heart in a place where the cops won’t find it, because that is not something you want to have to explain, under oath, in a court of law.
1. Kids like candy.
2. Kids ask for crap they can’t have or don’t need.
3. Kids run, a lot! Even if it is 120 degrees outside.
4. Kids are loud.
One of the most important things parents, and for that matter all grown-ups, can do is to always keep the heart of a young child. However, the most important thing is to put that heart in a place where the cops won’t find it, because that is not something you want to have to explain, under oath, in a court of law.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Announcing the birth of my son's future wife
I just wanted to post that my best friend Amy had her baby Elizabeth Jane Dibert, September 4th, she is 7 lbs, 5 oz. I hope she doesn't mind me posting this picture but I think she looks pretty darn good for just having a baby. Congratulations Ben and Amy. Niki
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