Remember Petey

I heard about this school the other day. It's a massive school; the third largest in the state. And it's very elite. It's a public school, but people all over clamber to get in because it has a really good reputation. And it's a well-deserved reputation, too. The school has an awesome football team, and it's students are among the most industrious and entrepreneurial when compared to their peers elsewhere. It is the most influential school in the state, and is the permanent host to the regional district schoolboard. Of them, it is also the wealthiest and most diverse, boasting classes in every discipline that attract students from all over the place. Despite all these fine qualities, though, the school is falling apart from the inside, and is on the verge of collapse.

The root of the problem can be traced to the school's charter, which stipulates the student body must elect a peer to act as Chancellor. The Chancellor chairs the powerful Advisory Committee, another elected body. Together, they maintain and adjudicate policy under the intense scrutiny of the student body and the school newspaper. The headmaster plays absolutely no role in the school's functions and, in fact, was divested of power by the charter. The system's genius beckoned students from far and wide. The message was clear: anyone could come to this school to study and participate in the process of making studying better for everyone. It was perfect. Until one day...

One day, a bunch of students got together and decided that the headmaster wasn't playing a large enough role in the way things were getting done. Together, they were able to get a like-minded Chancellor elected. The student body reeled in horror. It had gotten complacent and forgot about it's civic duties, allowing the new Chancellor to slide through by a narrow margin. At the same time, though, something horrible happened. The team mascot, "Petey" (a peacock, chosen for his pride and beauty) was murdered, his corpse nailed to the front entrance. It took weeks to bleach the blood off the white gates.

Word spread quickly that a neighboring school harbored kids with bad attitudes, and that they were responsible for the peacockicide. The plot thickened, though, when it was revealed that these kids were also supplying the large bulk of cigarettes to the Chancellor and his school. For many years, the students there had been addicted to massive quantities of cigarettes, and they came almost exclusively from the offending school. In fact, the Chancellor himself was very good friends with some of the cigarette suppliers. Of course, his own students weren't aware of this, and they lapped it up like kitties on spilled milk when he told them, "what the other school needs is a good trouncing by our awesome football team."

Sadly, nobody told the Chancellor that the other school only played cricket. But off they went anyway - quarterback and all - to an "away" game on the other side of the state. When they got there, it shocked everyone when they didn't win. In fact, on the front page of the school newspaper was a photograph of the nervous and bewildered quarterback scratching his head. Beneath him, the caption: "what the hell is a wicket?" Unfortunately, the Chancellor didn't recognize defeat, and even as the other team piled up one run after the other, he gave an interview in which he said that sending a football team to a cricket match was the right thing to do because, "those are the bastards that got Petey"!

At the same time, the price of cigarettes was skyrocketing and the student body was more addicted than ever. The regional district schoolboard was loosing patience with the Chancellor, and slowly each of the board members inched away. In an effort to distance themselves from the insanity of a football team lost in the middle of a cricket match, a disgusting cigarette addiction, and plummeting popular support in their own schools, they turned their backs, one-by-one, on the Chancellor.

Meanwhile, back home, the Chancellor had to abandon a wildly unpopular plan to appease the alumni who had become a huge red mark in his balance sheets. Worse, he had to deal with the student body who, jarred from their relative acquiescence, had assembled a foundation of support. Shocked at the changes made to the school charter giving hall monitors new and broad powers in the wake of Petey's murder, the school newspaper began leaking stories about abuses.

Finally, surrounded by unpopular sentiment at home and in other schools, the Chancellor decided to make the football game his main focus once again. Under the scrutiny of the whole student body, regional board members, the parent teacher associations of several schools and under the watchful eye of the headmaster, he threw away the chance to set the record straight. Instead, he justified sending a football team to a cricket match. "Remember Petey", he said. "Remember how I did this for us because they got Petey. It was the right thing to do then, and it's the right thing to do now. We went over there to play a game of football and, damn it, we're going to win a game of football. Nevermind they are playing cricket. Nevermind they are winning. Nevermind the score is 1,740 runs to nil. Nevermind all that; those bastards got Petey!"

Interlude

Some things were recently changed on this site. Among them was the color. I sacrificed the midnight blue - one of my favorite colors - for something a little less clandestine. I figure if what I write here is a mirror to the soul, then altering what is reflected may change the source. Well. I didn't really sit down and plot all that out. Really, I just got sick of looking at the same thing all the time. I use this page as a homepage, sort of. Thus the peculiar assortment of links, and the annoying everything opening in it's own window.

I received a lot of feedback from my last post. It was really nice and supportive to get lots of people to say such super things. Even the "suck it up" person took some time out of his or her day to impart some of their wisdom. And I'm pretty sure I owe Patrick my firstborn or something. I mean, "wow". Thanks. It all goes appreciated.

I realize I whine a lot. I think I created this place so I could bitch and moan. I wanted lots of people to listen to me complain, too. I get melodramatic all the time. I was recently reminded by a friend that it's in my nature. In one of my first posts, I reminisce about a time when I was barred from watching "The A Team". On that day, I began a single-entry diary in which I wrote, "This is the worst day of my life".

I've had a lot of "worst" days since, and I get all worked up each time I have a new one. After I get over it, I always feel embarrassed and ashamed of the lives affected by my "drama queen" ways. But this is the first time I've invited just about anyone in the world to pull up a chair and watch me misbehave. I like to think that I will be so happy when this is all over, that I will forget that I ever involved any of you in my life and, by extension, save myself from the shame.

If you haven't had the chance to yet, take a look at some of the blogs from soldiers who haven't updated their sites in months. They're all home now, living normal lives. Some are out of the Army; some are still in, gearing up to come back over here. Whatever the case, though, there's still that lingering ghost of who they were before, still up for grabs for the whole world to take a gander. It's kind of neat to think about it like that. In a way, it's like a reptile shedding a layer of skin. When I get home, I'll put to good use my goetzIT.com website, but I think I'll leave this blog here as a reminder of how low I got and how close I came to being consumed by anger.

Here is where you can comment on my colors. And my soul. And my potentially improper use of "affected", above.

Out of Step

I joined the Army during the Clinton White House. It was the twilight of the dot com bubble, and the country was euphoric. There was little love and no respect for the men and women serving in the armed forces. We were a tax burden and proved a rancorous mob when put to the booze. Only strip bars and pawn shops would cut us a discount. Bases on the verge of bankruptcy were abandoned, decaying, and decrepit reminders of the Cold War-era arms race. That's the Army I joined.

It's true, then. I was a volunteer. I knew what I was getting into. Despite the relative tranquility of the decade leading up to September Eleventh, I knew that war was possible, even inevitable. I understood that by enlisting, it meant utter capitulation to the will of others. For that reason, I placed tremendous importance in my enlistment contract. It was - to me - my word of honor that I would do and die without ever questioning why. It was also my statute of limitations. I was giving everything up, but not indefinitely. The term of the contract was concrete. Five years, to the day.

So, I boxed-up my independent thinking and moth-balled my creativity and initiative. In it's place, I fostered a motivation that grew with the realization that I was a damn good soldier. Logical precision combined with an uncanny (borderline obsessive) awareness of details distinguished me from my peers. However, as insurance against insurgent creative impulses, I had to build a fragile world of denial on the foundations of closet alcoholism. This was an unfortunate but necessary step, as I quickly discovered the regimen of military life was suffocating my character.

In my darkest hours, though, I would take refuge in the knowledge that this is what I had signed up for. By taking responsibility for my decision, I have been able to overcome the most grievous obstacles. That simple and undeniable logic is a foolproof justification based entirely on the foundations of the oath of enlistment. It meant for bleak times. I bore the weight of all the blame for everything bad that happened to me. And bad things happen all the time in the Army. From doing push-ups for not having a pressed uniform, to loosing one of your best friends to a roadside bomb in Iraq. It sucks on so many different levels, and I have to carry them all.

Imagine having to carry a very heavy bucket of water for five miles. "This sucks," you tell yourself, "but I made the decision, and I'm going to see it out". Good for you. Now, imagine you're at mile four. Your hands are bleeding, and you're pissed off because someone lied to you, and the bucket was twice as heavy to begin with, and some idiot kept pouring more water in as you went. But it's alright, only one... more... mile! But wait! Suddenly, the rules change. You're given another bucket, and worse, you're told you have to walk an extra mile - maybe more. And then you're told that on this "last" stretch, there are bears that want to devour you and - in fact - your very close friend who just a moment ago walked that last mile did get devoured. So, how do you feel now?

Strangely, despite all my bitching and moaning, I have no regret. It may be a byproduct of intricate webs of denial that have't yet been demolished, but I have never dwelt on the decision itself. Instead, I focus more on the present. I can't help feel betrayal. The very institution the oath of enlistment represents was made a mockery to me. My foundation to which I turned whenever I needed strength was kicked out from under me. Suddenly, my bottled-up independence and creativity broke from their shackles and my motivation plummeted.

All that's left now is a tremendous feeling of hopelessness and helplessness. I'm standing there - well past mile five - lost, and scared. I am surrounded by the organization that betrayed me, and every time I look at someone in uniform, I get slightly sick to my stomach. Even when I look at myself in the mirror, I can't feel pride or accomplishment. I only feel bitter disappointment. With nowhere else to shelve my grief, I am putting it here. If you're interested, send me a self-addressed envelope and five-plus years of your life, and you can share some of it with me. Together we can be an Army of One.

Censorship

I initially posted the following as a comment on an article about military blog censorship. Upon proofing it, I became very pleased with myself for what I had written, so I decided to post it. The original article can be found here (Author's note: Link no longer valid).

A heightened sense of mortality lends to a particular brand of introspective soul-searching that has become a trademark of wartime writing. The difference today, of course, is that technology makes idle ramblings instantly available to everyone.

For some of us, we have discovered that we can instigate knowledge and awareness among the American public, galvanizing political action.

Knowledge is power, but I imagine some would prefer that neither belong to the public. That having been said, however, it isn't for the Army or the government to curb the creative impulses of those under the knife. It is very un-American.

Violating operations security aside, there have been numerous blogs snuffed out because they have been deemed "bad for morale". Suffice it to say that my own could easily be the next. I will not give up my soap box easily, though. It's all I have in this miserable place.

Black Hole

I ate too much today. I was thinking of all the poor, starving kids in L.A., and it made me hungry. In the end, it's for the better. As taxpayers, you're dishing out a small fortune each time I sit and scarf down a meal. The Army gets charged on a per-meal basis, which means if I just pop in, grab a cereal and jet, they still have to shell out for a full meal. When I eat too much, it's just because I want you to get your money's worth! Do you want to know where else your money goes in Iraq?

Sure, you need to buy ammunition and pay for fuel and all that jazz. What's odd, though, is I have fired infinitely fewer bullets than I would were we back home (we don't do firing ranges here). And fuel? I spent until May without a truck, and I know I'm not the only one in the Army who still knows how to walk. So, where is your money really going?

Alright, I admit I'm getting an extra few hundred bucks a month out here. It's no secret, though, that the Army almost halved "hostile fire pay" (compensation for living in dangerous places like Iraq, Afghanistan, or L.A.). All-in-all, I make about six hundred dollars extra per month. Wow. Thanks, America. But, wait... so, if the money isn't going for ammunition, fuel, and soldiers, where does the one billion dollars a week end up?

A visit to the Green Zone in Baghdad shed some light on my questions. Just about every other person there is a civilian contractor, and I guarantee each one draws a six-digit paycheck. Some, even more. There is a civilian who is a gym director here. What is that? Are you serious? A GYM DIRECTOR. Thank you, America, for sending a gym director to make life better for me while I'm stop-lossed and forced to remain in the Army against my will. A gym director who gets paid nearly a hundred thousand dollars a year (while I make less than half that) is exactly what I needed.

So, the huge "shadow army" of civilian contractors is surely a drain on the coffers, but gym directors alone can't account for a billion dollars a week. What else? Well, the life of a soldier is a rugged and spartan one... unless you're American. If you're the American Army, you import laborers from poor, third-world countries and have them cook your food, wash your clothes, and clean your toilets. Yes, your taxes are going towards another "shadow army" of third-country nationals who clean the commodes for wages that would make you sick to even comprehend. Meanwhile, their American overlord masters hide from the heat in their nearby brand-new Ford F350 trucks (thanks to - you guessed it: you!). With the airconditioner blasting, they chill out as they rake in a salary five hundred times that of their workers. We invaded Iraq to... what, enslave the Bangladeshis?

Oh. Guess you won't read about that on Fox News. "Fair and balanced" means non-stop coverage of a missing girl in Aruba. Meanwhile, elections were held in Iran, five Marines were killed in Iraq, our Secretary of State is conducting historic meetings in Gaza & Jerusalem, BUT WAIT... there's a girl missing from Aruba! Stop the press!

What's it all really for, then? I'm convinced it's some kind of sick social experiment. On every base in Iraq, the caste system is thriving. Contractors make so much more money than us, I am scared to look at them in the eye. The imported laborers are forbidden from using our telephones and internet, and are estranged to far-away living quarters. Meanwhile, the only thing we do as soldiers is drive around and get blown up. It's quite an arrangement.

In the end, the only thing left is the amazingly immense and complicated logistical system that spans the country, interlocking civilian and military truck routes with air-lifts, supply convoys, and storage facilities. Each link is integral to the daunting task of feeding an army of armies. But Our Country doesn't need the billions that pay for all that. It doesn't need the billions that pay for our plasma screen televisions, our computers, satellite internet, catering, laundry services, or landscaping technicians. Our Country doesn't need any of that money, because there's simply too much of it. If it did need the money, we certainly wouldn't be cutting taxes. Again.

God Save The President

Today, I am going to be writing about my feelings towards the current administration. Because I am forbidden to say or write anything that could cause any of my leaders embarrassment, I will only be exploring the positive aspects of our President and his government.

Club Fed

Are you tired of your nine-to-five job? Have you had enough from your routine? Are you looking for respite from the tedium of a monotonous life, barricaded from reality behind the crumbling walls of derelict delusions of success? If you are looking for an escape from the downward spiral of every-day-life, then consider an interlude from depression and escapism; consider a sabbatical from the doldrums; consider Club Fed.

Club Fed (Federal Military Service) is a dramatic getaway from it all, where you can put concerns of your 401k and job security behind you. In Club Fed - just like any world-class resort - your worries will be half a world away! As a member of Club Fed, you will be transported to luxurious getaways in distant and exotic lands, where you will participate in any number of our guided activities, closely supervised by a specialized team of highly-trained "activity coordinators".

Customized packages tailored to meet every need are available, but no matter where you spend your time in Club Fed, you will have access to our extensive and exclusive members-only amenities. At every Club Fed facility, for example, you will find an enormous array of all-terrain vehicles, robust enough to satisfy even the most intrepid off-road enthusiasts. Do you prefer to fly? Most of our special packages include aerial tours in any one of our helicopters; our's is one of the largest fleets in the world!

If you enjoy athletic activities, you will be delighted with the fantastic selection Club Fed offers. Your "activities coordinator" will take direct responsibility for the development of your physique, and will provide the type of outstanding motivation to excel that has become a world-renowned trademark of Club Fed. For those who would like to pursue even greater variety, there are daily "boutique exercises", examples of which include the Stairmaster Juggernaut, a grueling two-hundred foot ascent, burdened by a forty-pound "comfort vest" in temperatures that soar into triple-digits.

After a good day of the Stairmaster Juggernaut, it will be time to feed the body and mind. You will find that Club Fed spares no expense in feeding you. In fact, the lavishness of our meals has thrice prompted senate committees to examine how we can possibly spend such astronomical amounts on our food! And that is our commitment to you: we promise that each time you sit down to eat, your dining experience will be one whose price is on-par with that of five-star restaurants. With that type of investment, it is no wonder that our customers are constantly re-evaluating their expectations!

In the evening and after dinner, it's time to retreat to your all-expenses-paid resort chalet. Accommodations vary dramatically, but almost always include somewhere to sleep. Your personally-assigned "activity coordinator" will be on-hand to provide guidance should you be at a loss for what to do. Club Fed guarantees that no minute of your day will be misspent.

As an added bonus for our Club Fed "regulars", returning customers are awarded VIP passes, where - in exchange for assuming some "activity coordinator" responsibilities, you will be offered a team of indentured servants who will bend to your every whim. Customers who wish to can also apply to any of the managerial vacancies at Club Fed (but are encouraged not to since this can jeopardize the overlord-client relationship so integral to the Club Fed experience).

Our customers can choose from a variety of our package sabbaticals, but specials are now available for The Mediterranean (or vicinity). We are now pleased to offer free airfare for all Mediterranean (or vicinity) destinations. Furthermore, clients who select the Mediterranean (or vicinity) package will be awarded a bonus extended-stay, but this is a limited time offer. New slots are constantly becoming available for our Mediterranean (or vicinity) package at an average rate of two per day, so keep alert; you don't want to miss out on this terrific deal!

Don't take our word for it, though. Click on "comments", below to see some of our client testimony, or add your own Club Fed story! Millions of satisfied customers can't be wrong! Come experience Club Fed for yourself today and you'll see why our motto is, "You'll come for five years, but stay for six... guaranteed!"


Disclaimer: Club Fed is not responsible for any injury or death incurred while the client is under our purview. The client accepts all responsibility for his or her welfare. Club Fed food is not suitable to be eaten. Club Fed accepts no responsibility for loss of life, limb, or eyesight as a result of eating our food. Although Club Fed extends every possible opportunity to make living accommodations as pleasant as possible, Club Fed does not guarantee that they will exist. Each of Club Fed's lodgings presents a real and grave fire risk, and Club Fed accepts no responsibility for loss of life, limb, or eyesight caused by the imminent conflagration or subsequent structure-collapse. Club Fed guarantees that you will come for five years, but stay for six. Club Fed reserves the right to make you stay longer. Club Fed reserves the right to your life. Club Fed reserves the right to reserve your rights.

Tax Refund

It's too bad I'm not fat or lazy. Or maybe I should say it's too bad I'm not fatter or lazier. If I were, I wouldn't be stop-lossed, and I'd be making the first payments on my brand-new Mini Cooper. How? Well, I will let you in on a little-known secret. There is a way to learn a foreign language and get a security clearance that's available to just about anyone under the age of thirty-five in America. The best part? You get paid to do it! At the same time, you will have the opportunity to soak in the ambiance and culture on one of the world's most beautiful spans of coastline.

What is this miracle? It is the Defense Language Institute and Foreign Language Center on the Presidio of Monterey. This world-renowned establishment boasts the penultimate language learning facilities. Mini-communities in each part of the facility reflect it's parent language and culture, complete with street signs in Arabic, Korean, Russian, and more. You will be pampered by a team of six to eight native instructors who work exclusively with your small group (of between twelve and twenty students), placing the instructor-to-student ratio at or about two-to-one. Total language immersion will leave you completely capable to communicate on advanced levels in your target language in no more than sixty-three weeks.

There is a catch, but only one. It is that you must submit to and pass the Army's basic training. Don't worry, though; you need not serve one day in the real military. Once you are done learning your language, you can "withdraw" from the school. Although you are bound to your contract, the Army has shown time and again that they do not value honor. This works both ways; as long as you are still in your "training" phase, there are a wealth of tools available to those who have gotten all they want out of the Army, but don't care to actually serve in it. Here are some ideas:

1. Fatter & LazierThis is the easiest way to cut your enlistment short. It isn't widely known outside certain circles that a training duty station (such as DLI) is forbidden to move a soldier who is over the weight requirement or unable to pass a PT (Physical Training) test. Being fat is not hard in the Army, unless you have a propensity for slenderism. If this is a problem, you need only be too lazy to do forty (or so) push-ups. In either case, you might need to wait it out a while before they boot you, but don't forget that you'll be living in beautiful Monterey, California... on the government's expense!

2. Queer Eye For The Straight SoldierA married friend of mine ran into some trouble when he tried to pull this one off, but if you have the mannerisms, why not take advantage of them? It's best if you establish a rapport of spontaneous acts of flamboyancy from the very beginning. This will facilitate the inevitable investigation, in which all your friends will be interviewed. Make sure to take part in a myriad of the events scheduled in nearby San Francisco any chance you get. If you are gay, make sure you're not caught until you've finished learning your language.

3. My Parents Were So Poor, They Got Married For The RiceFinancial hardship is an excellent way to get out of the Army. When it didn't repay the student loans the Army promised to when I enlisted, I petitioned. The results were a recommendation from a bunch'a'brass in the Pentagon that I apply for a financial hardship discharge. Woe be me that I felt it my duty to oblige my enlistment contract. I still have my honor intact. Whomsoever initiated stop-loss, on the other hand, will see out the rest of their days from inside a moral vacuum.

Conversely, you can win the lottery or find a windfall inheritance. Massive amounts of money are considered "lifestyle changes", and the Army's policy on those are to give you the opportunity to make a dash for the door. It doesn't want anyone who doesn't want it. Unless you're stop-lossed. Keeping people in Iraq against their will is not considered a lifestyle change. It's the status-quo in today's modern Army. Deal with it.

4. Make Love, Not WarI don't even know how to spell "conciensious objector". Hopefully, the spell checker will take care of that. It is a dirty, dirty word in the Army and those who utter it are considered the lowest of the low. My roommate said he was one. Do you know what happened to him? They sent him away to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba for ever and ever. He didn't even get a chance to petition his case! In that respect, he shared a lot more in common with the detainees than he did with anyone else there. The sad thing is that being a peace junkie isn't enough to get you the boot. You really need to reconsider your options if that's all you have going for you. Try drinking a lot of beer. Maybe it'll make you fat and/or lazy. (All I'm saying is, "give beer a chance!")

5. Break A LegBecoming broken is always a good way of getting out of the Army. However, it is not advised to shoot yourself in the foot. Although I do know a successful foot-shooter who dodged deployment, it came only after extensive investigations determined that he probably didn't shoot himself in the foot. Furthermore, due to the extremely foul medical treatment provided by the organization in question, complications from the foot-shooting are liable to prevent him from walking unaided again. The fact that they didn't amputate is only due to his having gone to a civilian hospital as a first-response after the, um, accident.

I am reminded of a story concerning Army medical treatment. A friend of a friend is a nurse at an Army hospital and once overheard two Army doctors discuss a soldier's treatment. One doctor remarked at the soldier having requested a popular prescription pain medication to which the other responded, "he wants that? He can't have that unless he's at least a Major"!

6. Get PregnantThe best reason to get out of the Army. If you're pregnant, you should get out as quick as possible. Beware, though. Should you get pregnant JUST to get out of the Army, woe be you. Your misery is your punishment. Do not bring another into the world just to share it. Shame on you. You are not worthy of my time, and I hope I never have the misfortune of meeting you.

* * * * * *

When I graduated DLI, my record was not sparkling with achievements and awards. But I did graduate. Only eight of the twenty that began the class with me share that honor. Some people who fail DLI are awarded a "second-go-around", where the Army has already invested too much money in you to have you fail (after all, it costs taxpayers $80,000 anually for each DLI student). Fat Hani was one of those. Fat Hani, like many others, couldn't leave DLI on account of his fatness. In a return visit months after graduation, I met up with Fat Hani. He was still at DLI, but had one foot out the door and had secured an 80K+ job in D.C. translating Arabic.

I pulled him aside that day and told him how much sense graduation day made to me. It made sense that Fat Hani received awards for an almost-perfect GPA (because he went through the course twice, he was always one of the best students in my class). It made sense that he was not only awarded one, but TWO medals for the number of volunteer hours he had put in at DLI (almost double what I had done!). In fact, his ovations were so numerous, I was obliged to carry them for him such that he could shake the hands of congratulators (my hands had been ovation-free and conveniently... on-hand).

It all made sense to me. Me, who had finished in one go-'round without ever being fat, lazy, pregnant, or broken. It makes the same sense now. I used to be proud to be a soldier. I used to love the Army. I was "hooah" once. I wanted to do well and to excel and to give everything I had to make the Army and America a better place. I was a good soldier. Something happened to me, though. The Army started to screw me. And not just me, but everyone around me. Severely. And it's not just a mild rogering, either. It's a right rogering that we're being dealt. It's costing us our lives, and we're still getting it. It's coming from Washington, from Baghdad, and everywhere in between. We are getting f**ked! THAT is the sense in it all, and DLI was my first serving. My appetizer. My teasing.

Now. Let's take a look at what we learned. 1) You can learn a language for free. 2) I don't care much for the Army. One of those things is the ramblings of a disenchanted, bitter fool. The other is a weapon. Wield it how you see fit. If you or a friend want a little more bang for your tax bucks, then maybe you should go for a wild ride at the government's expense. If that's too much to consider, then think about all the people that are going for a wild ride at your expense.