What is in my pockets today

flashlight
thumb drive
roshan phone
pocket knife
dog tags
two keys
ipod
wallet
one Bonine pack -1 pill
lens cloth (2)
90 Euro cents
two pens
military ID
two security ID cards
one postal clerk card
notepad
mag (30 rounds)
...
Hey! Where's my sharpie!?

I would send you a photo but I don't have a printer for my mind.

On the street where I live

You know back when you were a kid and you're neighbor, Mrs. McWhatzerface fell down those stairs and broke her leg? And how it was the biggest thing that had happened on your street, ever? And then the next week everyone was still talking about it until little Johnny Whozit from accross the way came home from the war and had a Purple Heart for losing his leg? And the very next day when farmer Idontar Emembers pet hamster had been run over by the "bad" neighbors steamroller?

And then all of a sudden nobody remembered that Mrs. McWhatzerface had a broken leg and that they promised to bring her meals and go shopping for her and bring her mail up from the box?

Yep. The war in Afghanistan is officially old news.

They are insane

My favorite question people ask is "Of all the places you have visited, which one has the worst living conditions?" On one hand I cannot complain about having the best job of anybody out here (it really is). Or that it actually makes sense to spend money taking care of places that are more mission essential. But it is also quite entertaining to compare our home with living on mars.

We have quite possibly the worst stretch of road of any other place in the world. I have thought about making a diagram that compares the cost of replacing vehicle suspension versus filling the crater-like potholes that would probably make Neil Armstrong feel right at home. And yet there is a bulldozer, excavator, dumptruck and steamroller hard at work sitting in a parking lot.

We have some (er had) covers for the lights. They are so old that they have become grumpy, crusty and senile and lie in wait for some unsuspecting passerby to fall and smash into pieces over (all of our office grumps have dispatched themselves, the hallways are still waiting, so beware).

And I won't even bother with a burnt out lightbulb anymore. I believe you may need a letter from a Congressman to get a replacement, not sure though, it may need to be from the Secretary of State.

I have not been briefed on the rules for the game yet but I am working hard at figuring it out. So far I know this much:

-When approaching a sidewalk you do not have the right of way.

-Walking faster than the approaching pedestrian, even if it is a significant speed difference, does not mean you have the right of way.

-If driving a car you do not have the right of way.

-If someone else is driving in a car towards you, you do not have the right of way.

-If you are carrying a full backpack and boxes and obviously struggling, you do not have the right of way.

-If you are walking on the main road and someone approaches from the side you do not have the right of way.

-If you are on the left you do not have the right of way.

-If you are on the right you do not have the right of way.

-If you are on the far left side of a 30+ wide stretch of road carrying boxes and backpacks and obviously struggling and there are no other vehicles or pedestrians on the road and a car approaches you must walk off of the road to avoid being hit because you do not have the right of way.

-If you see a group of people walking at about .1 miles per hour stacked 7 people taking up the entire width of walkway and you are approaching from either direction you do not have the right of way.

-But I digress.

Lastly, and this is still making my brain hurt just thinking about it, somehow, inconceivably, an email doesn't constitute communication. I don't know how it works, maybe if I spell it out you can help. Here is how the conversation played out...

A: Where are you guys?

B: We are at Stone.

A: You are not at Shindand?

B: No.

A: Why not?

B: I told you already in an email.

A: You are going to take a plane from Shindand to Arena.

B: We are at Stone.

A: You must take the plane.

B: Did you get the email that we are at Stone.

A: Yes. You need to take the flight from Shindand to Arena.

B: We are at Stone, not Shindand.

A: But you didn't tell me that.

B: What?

Welcome to Mars.

Typing class

I remember typing class.
Learning to type on actual typewriters
Replacing ribbons
No delete key
Using white out or starting over after a mistake
I don't really care about all that
I'm just thankful my fingers know where the letters are
I just bought a new flashlight
It has 150 lumens
I looked right at the light and now I can't see
I'm glad my fingers know where to go

The Perfect Worse Day

'Extreme Mega Triple Shot Expressos' should come with a warning label on them. Or at least advertise the incredible advantages of drinking too many.

Yesterday everything that could have gone wrong, did. Or at least I think it did. You see, 'Extreme Mega Triple Shot Expressos' don't come by our camp very often and we were very fortunate to score a large number of them. Enough of them to not worry about rationing them out to last for a few weeks.

So I had a few yesterday. About five of them, it might have been seven. I'm really not sure.
All I really remember is that after dinner I had a real pleasant sense that everything in the world was alright. I felt really at peace.

But then the caffeine wore off and I crashed hard.

Almost instantly a darkness fell over my heart like the smoke of a crashed plane. Like the dread of realizing you are being followed by zombies. Like realizing that the burnt rib you are eating is mostly bone anyways and not worth working through the charcoal part for.

I then thought back on everything that went wrong during the day. I was shocked that I had made it through the day with all of the dissapointments, frustrations, stresses and evils. It all happened, It was like I wasn't really there.

Like I said, 'Extreme Mega Triple Shot Expressos' should at least tell you that drinking them non-stop will give you super human powers against a bad attitude.

But at least warn a guy to go to sleep before the last drinks effects wear off, sheesh. It's like cinderella's night except the fairy godmother doesn't tell her it's going to end and then video tapes her changing back to normal with all the people laughing at her and then posts it on YouTube.

Chopping Wood With Rocks

First there is the outfitting: the wool cap, the plaid fleece, the burly boots, and the beard. Then there is the equipment: the maul, the axe and the splitter wedge thingy. And of course the wood.

One of my favorite times in Washington was splitting wood with all the right accessories on a chilly misty evening. The missus watching through the window sipping hot chocolate. Moss and wood chips flying through the air I provided heat for my family.

Today we split wood with a rock. No beards. No special tools from Home Despot. No hot chocolate. We gather crate wood from around our camp. Discarded scraps. Any little piece will do. Today we were fortunate to come across an entire pallet.

The fifteen pound rock bounced off the flexed board and almost hit me in the leg as I jumped out of the way. The rock continued toward the barbecue grill and stopped inches short of putting our dinner on the side of our tent. A few more hits and the board shattered into a million pieces.

The beans cooked in the cast iron pan while the pork chops with way too much hot sauce grilled on the fire fueled by the split wood that was now illuminated by the same stars that had glittered the sky thousands of miles away on that same misty Washington evening.

For just these moments I am at home. (until the zombies kick the tent)

Nobody Nose

In confined areas there are few options for surviving in zombie populaces. Not washing your sheets is one of them. The dried dead skin, the body odor reak, the foot fungus, all are a normal undead odor. One can wear old sheets around like a halloween ghost costume. Nobody notices. I sometimes take the same approach with my everyday clothes. Not wearing undergarments helps the reak. One test to see if you're smelly disguise is working is to stand in a group of those smelly moaners, don't forget to keep an exit though. If you can still smell your stink in the midst of their stink... you're golden. One key issue on the sheets: use standard issue zombie sheets. The wrong linens are like talking in English at an Italian pizzeria, not the way to lay low. If you're linen masquerade is blown, don't worry, you may just need a little more work on stench. I recommend buying a wetsuit, stuffing your sheets inside, around the pits especially, and then going for a run. Happy stinking!

End the war on toilets

People take toilets for granted. Granted, toilets are overated. They are glorified holes in the ground. But since they do exist, I say they are taken for granted. But why must they be tormented? They just sit there and take our crap (sorry, that came out wrong ((that came out wrong too)) ). The seats are somewhat obvious: they go up and down. They do not go side to side. The tanks are stationary. They do not move. The toilet paper dispensors are attached to the wall. They do not come off. Additionally they serve no purpose without toilet paper. The pipes attached to the toilet are also fixed. They do not need to be pulled, twisted, stood on or even touched. All of these little things about toilets, one would think, is obvious. Which leads me to believe that zombie octochickens are using the bathroom when we aren't looking. They are jumping on the pipes, kicking the tanks, hitting TP dispensors with bats and ripping the toilet seats or something, maybe they are just launching RPG's in the stalls. Whatever it is, whoever they are, they are not migratory. In the south the stall conditions somewhat mantain a human standard of operability.

Walking

Zombies are known for walking slowly. Maybe it is that they are in love with whoever is walking next to them. Maybe they have finished their Valentines day shopping and are relaxing. Maybe they ate too many candies vice brains and are crashing after the sugar rush. Maybe lunch doesn't open for three more hours and they are passing the time daydreaming of their special someones.

Whichever it is, the fact remains that they walk incredibly slow. Which is good and bad. Good if you are in front of them; It is really easy to get away. Bad if you are in back of them. Let alone if you are trying to get something done. Let alone if you need to go to the bathroom. Let alone if you forgot to brush your teeth and need to rush home to take care of that before meeting that special someone at that appointed time in less than five minutes from now. Being stuck behind zombies is especially bad if they notice you being stuck behind them.

They will eat the pasta noodles in your head!

Happy Valentines day (non-zombies)

octochicken

At the cafeteria entrance are two lines. The line was backed up with hundreds of people. Not both lines, just one. The other didn't have a line. Slightly embarrassed to walk past so many hungry people I took my place in the non-existent line. Under my breath I snickered at those who were so dependent on following peer pressure and grabbed a tray to receive my portion of chicken and potatoes cooked in tomato sauce with black olives. As the chicken was raised to my tray it twitched and spurted and turned into the arm from an octopus. Not one to let a single tentacle ruin my day, I threw it in the trash and went back to my tent for a nap. A siesta is always the right way to end a story.