Documenting dumbness

The NYT has a collection of user submitted photos and captions of the last decade. Many of the pictures are moving, several of the captions are retarded. Pay special attention to all of the global warming by anecdote ones (contra this one), but my favorite one for overall irrationality is this.

Apparently a picture of one's father dying of a self confessed incurable brain disease is a call for the government to stop spending money on war and spend massively on health care, which of course couldn't possibly result in any price controls or regulation that would slow the development of future cures to currently incurable diseases.

And major kudos to the editor who let in four separate photos of the same post-Katrina house, albeit from different angles and months.

Worst Katrina caption, however, goes to this. No, a picture of Lake Pontchartrain with "water stretching beyond the viewer's sight," does not indicate anything about flooding. I look forward to the 2019 version, when a photograph of the Atlantic and the inability to see Europe anymore on the horizon demonstrates the rise of the oceans.

Baby business

My boss brought his 4 year old daughter and 19 month old son to work today. I just sort of basked in their extreme cuteness for several minutes, and then belatedly realized that a fairly sharp 6" knife we'd used recently to cut a cake was a foot away from the girl's hand just as she started to eyeball it. My quick snatch disappointed her, but she did learn a new curse word from daddy.

One of my former gunners in Iraq invited me to his daughter's first birthday party. I have no idea what to get for her, my jokes on Facebook about incendiary sippy cups aside. (Her parents are both from Nigeria.)

I've been reading via RSS the baby blog of my former law school classmate and very good friend Brian Hrach for many months. Today I clicked over to the actual site and found to my horror a link to this blog whereby his family and friends, many of whom I met at his wedding, can read my demented commentary over here. Ack.

Al Qaeda urban renewal

Seriously?

A Nigerian man tried to ignite an explosive device aboard a trans-Atlantic Northwest Airlines flight as the plane prepared to land in Detroit on Friday, in an incident the United States believes was “an attempted act of terrorism,” according to a White House official who declined to be identified.

I'm not surprised when these things go wrong at the tactical level, since you probably aren't able to recruit the smartest people in the world for these sorts of missions. But when the strategic planners are picking targets whose entire destruction would arguably provide a net benefit to the US economy (the minor issue of the population aside), I have to wonder.

You autocomplete me

One of the best ideas ever, don't miss the Christmas themed stuff up right now.

And I say there's trouble When everything is fine

Your Christmas Rilo Kiley song is The Absence of God for reasons both obvious and otherwise.

The absence of God will bring you comfort, baby
And planning's for the poor so let's pretend that we're rich
And I'm not my body or how I choose to destroy it
Folk singers sing songs for the working, baby

We're just recreation for all those doctors and lawyers
There's no relief for the bleeding heart
'Cause they'll be losing bodies tonight

And Rob says you love, love, love and then you die
I've watched him while sleeping and seen him crying with closed eyes
And you're not happy but you're funny and I'm tripping over my joy
But I just keep on getting up again

We could be daytime drunks if we wanted
We'd never get anything done that way baby
And we'd still be ruled by our dueling perspectives
And I'm not my perspective
Or the lies I'll tell you every time

And Morgan says, maybe love won't let you down
All of your failures are training grounds
And just as your back's turned you'll be surprised she says
As your solitude subsides

And Mike I'll teach you how to swim
If you turn the bad in me into good again

And I say there's trouble
When everything is fine
The need to destroy things
Creeps up on me every time
Just as love's silhouette appears
I close my eyes and disappear tonight

And something's got to change
'Cause our love's the slowest moving train

Remind me of who I used to be

Any fellow conflicted Dollhouse fans wondering what that song was at the end of "The Attic" will find it here.

Doggone

This may actually be the hardest thing to get used to for servicemembers who have deployed to Iraq moving to Afghanistan.

Shooting Dogs. There is no dog in Nawa province not accounted for by a local. They love their dogs and keep them for security purposes and treasured pets. You kill one and you have problems. It would be like shooting a West Virginian's dog. If he wasn't actively supporting the Taliban before hand, he is now. Unfortunately, we had to learn some hard lessons. Guys who have deployed to Iraq, shoot the fuckers like it is going out of style. It's different here. There are not a thousand stray, rabid dogs running about. Dogs are owned and cared for.

I had a relatively pro-dog policy, unlike the mentally questionable infantry platoon leader who lived with me. His men allegedly shot dozens in the sheep market we patrolled daily, with absolutely no perceptible impact on their numbers. We only shot one, and that one popped out of some reeds to menace one of my guys at close range and no warning.

Or rather we only shot one that I knew about. Apparently the same guy was blowing them away in small, consistent lots down on the Iraqi army rifle range while I was several hundred meters away talking to their officers.

Bizarro blog

This post on Joss Whedon's Dollhouse and the comments (!) are the most rational and correct things that will ever be written over there. Until I wake up and realize I imagined it all.

Monk-y business

In today's NYT:

FORWARD OPERATING BASE MAREZ, Iraq — When the 101st Airborne Division captured this base back in 2003, an American tank blasted the turret off a T-72 tank, catapulting it into the side of St. Elijah’s Monastery.

The force buckled a wall of mortar and stone that had stood for more than 1,000 years here in one of the earliest redoubts of Christianity. Such is the tragedy of war.

The division then made the site a garrison and painted its emblem on the stucco above the low door to the monastery’s chapel. The insignia remained there until a chaplain contemplated the righteousness of having “Screaming Eagles” adorn a house of God.

“That’s not right,” the chaplain said, as the story goes.

Thus began the accidental American stewardship of St. Elijah’s, an ancient site of Christian worship and martyrdom now stuck in the middle of a sprawling military base just south of Mosul, in northern Iraq.

Now, in one small act of preservation, and perhaps penance, the Americans hope to restore St. Elijah’s. Army engineers have drawn up plans to shore up the roof and walls of its main sanctuary — believed to have been built in the 11th century — before the last American troops leave the monastery to an uncertain fate.

I had to drive by this several times on the way to firing ranges, and I understand there were once a week tours that bussed in Iraqi Christians. My main area of interest was the boneyard across the road from it, full of broken Soviet-built tanks, artillery pieces, and armored personnel carriers. Alas, no photos were permitted, probably to stop a couple of thousand soldiers driving out there and blocking the road for people with actual business.

Before my old laptop crashed and I lost everything on the hard drive, I used to have many photos of a very cool Christian monastery on the side of a mountain overlooking what is believed to be the site of the Battle of Gaugamela.

That was easily my strangest day in Iraq. We drove our struggling, underpowered MRAPs up a steep switchback onto the tallest, most isolated mountain for 20 miles, and got out and ran out around without weapons or body armor for a couple of hours, interrupted only a confused Humvee patrol that came out from the radio retransmission station on an adjacent spur to find out what we were doing.

Rock climbing, picture taking, and acting like fools, mostly, although officially we were reconning the battle site for a helicopter flyby and history lesson for the brass that never happened. I also took the opportunity to chat with our company command post, located twice as far away as the official maximum range on my radio. It was the clearest radio conversation I ever had.

On the way down my commander, who was tagging along in my truck, diverted us to large monastery on a side road about halfway between the peak and base. He's fluent in Arabic, and struck up a conversation with the custodians/tour guides, who agreed to show us around, but only if we brought no weapons. While everyone else relaxed and took pictures of old 13th century architecture and newer additions, I made plans with my infantry squad leader to take away the one guard's loosely slung AK-47, barricade ourselves in the chapel with the heavy pews, and sell our lives dearly with the one captured gun and the 2" blade on my Gerber.

In the event, the worst threats we faced were the daunting climb up to the original cave that started it all, unfamiliar ice cream for $0.25 per, and "the library," which proved to a rapacious gift shop.

And if you’re well off, well then I’m happy some for you. But I’d rather not celebrate my defeat and humiliation here with you

Some advice for ugly breakups with somewhat crazy people - unless you're willing to risk paying a high ongoing cost, make a complete break and don't try a lingering, fading friendship to let them down easy. Don't respond to the periodic bursts of paranoid delusional texts. Don't remain Facebook friends so that they can pollute your wall with drive by slurs or gather information to feed their twisted alternate histories of the recent past.

Case in point: in addition to the highly disturbing digging into my private Facebook messages I already knew about, apparently the ex also obsessively(?) used my account at some point during one of her visits to run through the pages of various female friends she found threatening. One of these led to a mention of my blog, which today she decided to revisit and found my breakup posts, which for reasons I don't entirely grasp are apparently both beyond the pale and potentially libelous[1].

In addition to a few mildly unhinged texts that I unwisely responded to, blowing it up into scores of responses and counter responses, this occasioned a hyperbolic post on her own Facebook wall, a link to this blog, and various mindless outraged comments from the usual assortment of friends largely composed of un(der)employed potheads, unselfaware narcissists[2], and one borderline illiterate mental case former Army deserter[3], who to my everlasting relief declared me the douchiest lieutenant he'd ever encountered.

All of which was forgiveable, as I don't concern myself with the goings on in various degenerate subculture ghettos, but, alas, a gross mischaracterization of our conversation of the day, to the false effect that I'd repeatedly asked her "am I creepy? lol" also appeared on my wall where friends, family, and coworkers could see it.

While composing this blog post a couple of interesting comments have appeared and begun the deletion/ban game. Certain fans and friends of a kindred blogger will be familiar with a not entirely dissimilar drama unfolding over there a year ago. Enjoy; I won't be.

If you really want to wade into some sordid crazy and awesome personal details about me, find her new blog. I won't help you.

Today's Rilo Kiley song is The Execution of All Things, a song about wreaking total destruction on the world as a form of revenge on a former lover.

Soldiers come quickly, I feel the earth beneath my feet.
I’m feeling badly, it’s not an attempt at decency.
And if you’re well off, well then I’m happy some for you.
But I’d rather not celebrate my defeat and humiliation here with you.

Someone come quickly, this place was built for moving out.
Leave behind buildings, the city planners got mapped out.
Bring with you history, and make your hard earned feast.
Then we’ll go to Omaha to work and exploit the booming music scene and humility.

And we’ve been talking all night….

Oh god come quickly, the execution of all things.
Let’s start with the bears and the air and mountains, rivers, and streams.
Then we’ll murder what matters to you and move on to your neighbors and kids.
Crush all hopes of happiness with disease ‘cause of what you did.

And lastly, you’re all alone with nothing left but sleep.
But sleep never comes to you, it’s just the guilt and forever wakefulness of
the weak.
It’s just you and me….

The execution of all things.
The execution of all things.
The execution of all things.

P.S. - Hi, Mom.
--
[1] - If she's upset it must be illegal, a concept I first encountered during an argument that hurt her feelings and led to threats to call the police for "abuse," which I learned after demonstrating hilarious incredulity, apparently meant I was "being very rude to a guest." Mentioning the Lautenberg Amendment in the context of a soldier may have had something do with this, as well. At the crisis point I had to actually visit a police station and invite them to either arrest me or help me remove this blackmail threat before it escalated into something real.

[2] - The author of this blog is, of necessity, fully support of selfaware narcissists.

[3] - Who, after she saw a similar arrangement with me in Extract, was apparently "hired" to bang the new girlfriend of her previous ex-boyfriend, who is also somehow and sometimes and sort of her best friend.

I think I thought I saw you try

I'm debating one of Matthew Yglesias's typically moronic and ignorant commenters about a fundamentally silly topic (hypothetical future Iranian nukes against non-existent US forces not actually in the Middle East today), if anyone cares. The first of so far two rounds is down at comment #33.

It rather makes me miss the Slithery D v. Publius days.

Synopsis

So to recap the last few weeks:

On November 4th the girlfriend came into town, for the second time in a row when I was on or just coming off staff duty (which requires me to spend the night at work), which contributed to our second fight at first sight.

On November 5th we attended my former battalion's formal ball, which ended in her crying in front of the assembled officers and many of the soldiers and NCOs before leaving with my worst enemy, who I presumed, not without considerable relief, that she was going to bang in revenge. This proved not to be the case.

On November 6th we got back together, not least because she wasn't due to leave until the 15th.

On November 7th we attended my brigade's formal ball, which went considerably better; even the shocked looks and commentary from witnesses of the penultimate night's events were amusing.

On November 12th the accumulated incompatibilities and annoyances of living with me resulted in a dinner conversation that implicitly acknowledged this relationship wasn't going to work. Several hours later her umpteenth reversal on this point caused a huge fight. Mistakes were made.

On November 13th I visited the police. That night and the 14th I stayed at a friend's house. I wrote an ill advised blog post about the events of the previous night. I took it down.

On November 15th I took her to airport on reasonable speaking terms. I also had staff duty again, marking my third night in a row not sleeping in a real bed and my fourth night without proper sleep.

On November 16th I attended the Hail & Farewell for my former battalion. I got home at 2230. As usual, I got up at 0430 the next morning.

On November 17th I finally finished Call of Duty: Red Dawn MW2. This had been the cause of some friction the previous week. I didn't go to bed at a terribly reasonable time.

On November 18th I attended the Hail & Farewell for my new battalion. I got home at 2200 this time.

On November 19th I attended the fourth going away speech of our outgoing battalion commander; he had nothing new to say, but he said it at considerable length. I got home a couple of hours late, but nothing too drastic.

On November 20th I arrived home and left the apartment only once in the next 48 hours.

On November 23 I got up even earlier than usual for a brigade run. It lasted an hour. Casualties approached 50% overall, and greatly exceeded that in the support battalions. Ten days into running after 45 off with a severe case of tendinitis, I lasted longer than I expected, and then took comfort in the awesome disaster at the rear of the formation that I became part of as each unexpected additional loop broke the hearts of more soldiers, a few company commanders, and even most of the brigade staff. On the drive home I spoke to the ex-girlfriend for the first time since she left.

On November 24th I attended the mandatory change of command ceremony that my friends skipped. It was cold. I sat next to the most annoying and verbose lieutenant in the Army. The outgoing brigade commander elected to ride a horse during the ceremony; of the four people who did so, he was given the smallest, fattest, most mulely looking beast, and proved unable to control it for a long time as it came to a stubborn stop and then turned circles while his bosses and replacement confidently cantered along. This may have been a metaphor for something.

On November 26th I flew to Texas for Thanksgiving. My step-father's annoying family were there. My sister brought her hobo hoard for dinner. There was barely enough food. I spoke very little between dinner and my departure on the 28th.

On November 29th I decided to finally unpack the majority of my equipment from Iraq that has sucked up half of my living room space for two months. It now looks like I moved in at least a week ago.

On November 30th I signed a form acknowledging that I have staff duty on Christmas day. Apparently my commander's intervention got me removed from the duty schedule on New Year's Eve.

Today I finally felt like blogging again.