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)