Rap Translated

I suspect this is what happens when English professors have too much time on their hands (of course, the only time that's possible is when they're unemployed).

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Hat tip: Chap

Hanlon's Razor

Over at Enrevanche, cousin Barry has finally explained, in today's post, why I've felt Murphy was sniping at me from a Saruman's tower. The proposition is that I've been mistaking a confederacy of dunces for supernatural Irish marksmanship. Maybe. I'll still give Murphy credit for orchestrating the confluence of so many for whom the Peter Principle seems to have been no impediment whatsoever.

Computercate

Other than astonishment at my own age, I did come away from that AF birthday celebration the other day with something interesting. Likely I misheard, but I like the way I heard it so I'm going to share. The guest speaker was challenging a roomful of future officers to get out from behind their future desks and mingle with the troops. And especially not to hide behind a computer and command through e-mail.

I think what she said was that "you have to do more than communicate like that," but what I heard was "you have to do more than computercate like that." If that is what she said, then she's on the cutting edge of language--the Webster's Online definition of the word is barely two months old.

Either way, I like it.

Cheerwine: "The Nectar of North Carolina"

I managed, in a 27-yr Air Force career, to be stationed in or next door to North Carolina for ten of those years. The other 17 were split between Colorado and California. During the 10 years in Colorado, I used to get my "southern fix" in a couple of different ways, largely with the help of my Dad. Sometimes he just made sure when I was packing up to drive back from a visit that I wasn't forgetting essentials. Other times, he would ship those essentials to me. Essentials, in this case, translates to cases of Cheerwine and gallon jars of Duke's mayonnaise--two of the first things to enter my fridge in the new place here on the SC coast.

So, I thought it worth noting that there were two articles in the hometown paper Thursday about the soft drink I grew up considering a natural part of the world. The first regards "a new branding, packaging and marketing campaign" and the second tells us that, "Cheerwine has taken a foothold in New York City."

I couldn't help but smile at both of these. I could smile because it doesn't sound, for now at least, as if the company is trying to make itself into anything new. Rather, it sounds as though they're wisely attempting to do a better job of marketing what Cheerwine has always been. The article's quote from the company's CEO pretty much nails it: "Those who know and love Cheerwine have always connected the brand to simple and relaxed times, hanging out, eating Southern barbecue and being laid back." So long as they don't mess with that, I don't expect too many people will get bent out of shape about new packaging. It's changed before.

And that image of what Cheerwine is really all about is why I also had to smile at the second article. I recently had a series of conversations with several friends about the difference between Yankees and damned Yankees. You can't really fault a person for the geography of his or her birth. But you can sure fault them for their attitude, blue and grey alike. I have good friends who are Yankees; damned Yankees give me a fairly wide berth.

Here's why. Throughout my sojourns into over a dozen foreign countries through the years, I've tried, everywhere I've gone, not to be the obnoxious American (I'd have said Yankee here, but it might have muddied my point, despite the upsetting behavior being pretty much the same in either case). I've tried to make it clear that I've been interested in learning about the culture of the place I was visiting, in occasionally immersing myself in that culture, in appreciating it for its own values and pace. I have tried, studiously, to avoid giving any impression that I expected that culture to conform to my values, my pace, my concept of the shape the world should hold. I have tried, tried consciously, carefully, consistently, not to be a "damned Yankee."

I've noticed, especially now that I'm back here in the land of y'all somewhat permanently I hope, that some of these people are noticeable before they say a word. They wear an expression much as if someone had just waved a teenager's unwashed sneaker under their nose a good month into gym class. They hate it here. The pace irritates them. The culture we treasure, they revile. They cannot understand why, if the North won the war over a century ago, the South should remain so utterly foreign a place to them. They want quick service, they don't want to know how you're doing, and would rather you didn't ask about them. Their desire, their expectation even, is that we should have been just like them by now. On the whole, they are a good example of the very things that make the stereotypical obnoxious American abroad obnoxious. They are, if you think about it, a good example of some of the most misguided features of American policy abroad: the inappropriate drive, not to thoroughly understand a foreign culture and work within it to emphasize the better qualities, but to reshape it wholesale toward an American model. I'm well aware that we don't always get it this wrong, but on the whole, I think we far too frequently do.

But, I digress. My point is simple. The war goes on folks, never doubt it. It's not for real estate now though. It's for hearts and minds. The culture is both the battleground and the prize. And in that war, food is one of our main weapons. So when I read in that second article:

Brother Jimmy's Barbecue, which has six restaurants in New York, has begun offering Cheerwine with its traditional North Carolina-style barbecue and hush puppies. 'We have finally brought the nectar of Carolina to New York City,' said Jim Goldman, an owner and founder of Brother Jimmy's BBQ.

I couldn't help but smile. I had to smile at Brother Jimmy's slogan too: "Put Some South in Yo Mouth." Yeah! Take that ya'll.

The Coming Crash

Cormac McCarthy was right when he said in Suttree: "There are no absolutes in human misery and things can always get worse."

I've been saying for some time that, economically, things are going to get a whole lot worse before they get better. Part of that has been a carry over of a general sense I had, and have commented on before, that this year, the world as we know it, was going to change. Not a small change, but a major shift on its axis, the kind that leaves us measuring time in a new way: before the change, and after. It's not a personal shift I have in mind, but a shift for all humanity. It will feel personal, very personal. But our personal perception of it will only be a part of something larger.

I've been speaking from the gut, from personal experience, from a strange sense of foreboding and little else. Over at Enrevanche, Barry posted a piece in toto by someone qualified to speak on the economy from more than his gut.

If you need to keep your head in the sand in order to avoid despair, then don't read this. If you believe that knowing what's coming doesn't really make it any worse, if you're committed to seeing the crisis through to the other side by simply putting one foot in front of the other, one day at a time, then, by all means, read it.

We look back on history and we wonder how some of the worst things could have been allowed to happen. Where were the good Germans during the Holocaust? Why didn't someone stand up to Joe McCarthy sooner? How was the massacre in Rwanda allowed to happen? You can find your own example of something, I'm sure, that you just know you'd never have allowed to take place on your watch. Well, it's our watch now. In the coming days, probably years, there will be ample opportunities to show our mettle, or to burrow into a corner in the interest of self-preservation. I had said "cower in the corner," but I'll not cast that stone. For some, saving one life will mean putting other lives for which they're responsible at risk. The firefighter who's a sole breadwinner for a family does that every day. Not everyone faces that dilemma, and not everyone facing it decides for altruism.

We look back on history and wonder. When our children and grandchildren look back on the coming days and wonder, it will fall on us to explain. If we can.

Be kind to one another. Putting one foot in front of the other will carry our bodies through this. Nothing less than kindness will ferry our souls across.

Happy Birthday USAF

Went to an Air Force birthday celebration today. Created by the National Security Act of 1947, your Air Force is now 61 years old.

I came away from said celebration with a single significant realization: having been initially sworn in back in June of 1977 and just under two weeks from true retirement, I've been in the Air Force more than half of its life. Crossed that line with respect to my own life (having been in the AF more than half of it) about eleven years ago. Maybe there's something to all those jokes Buzzard likes to make about my age after all.

Bhut Jolokia; Gotta Get Some of 'Dat

Foodie Jay will appreciate this one.

As I strive to find some sort of routine in my life, I've begun to breakfast in front of the computer, scanning not one paper online, but about eight. Occasionally, something other than a headline distracts me. Like this feature from the Charleston Post & Courier about the Bhut Jolokia pepper.

This pepper has a flowery aroma and taste similar to a Habanero, but the similarity stops right there. Heatwise, the Jolokia, at 1,001,000 SHU (Yes, that's right. That's not a typo.), blows the doors off the typical Habanero, which can muster only a paltry 250,000 SHU. Even the Savina Habanero can put out only 577,000 SHU. The Jolokia's flavor is like a sip of nectar ... with a napalm chaser.

That's what I'm talkin' about.

Striving for Second Worst

Yesterday's blog post and the news story that spawned it reminded me of a story published in the Raleigh News & Observer back when I was a grad student at Chapel Hill.

Seems North Carolina had had the distinction of sporting the second worst SAT scores in the nation, then SC, who had been worst, moved up a notch, knocking us to the very bottom of the list. Comment from the state's education head? Not that we needed to look at the programs of the states near the top of the list and see what we could apply to The Old North State. No. In a remark that really revealed more about the roots of the problem than it was probably meant to, the person in charge of educating our Tarheel children remarked (and I may paraphrase here, after 19 years or so, but not much, if at all): "We clearly need to find out what South Carolina is doing, and do more of that."

Yeah. Second worst is so much better than the bottom.

If you get ambitious (I have the ambition, but not the time) and look up the original story (sometime between summer 89 and summer 91), I'd love to have a link.

Things I Wish I Still Didn't Know

From today's Post & Courier:

South Carolina suffered more violent crime than any other state last year, matching its dismal performance in the FBI's annual report for the second year in a row.

Now you tell me.

Jill Greenberg: True Evil

I don't have a lot of time to blog these days. I don't even have enough time to keep up with the blogs of my friends who do. I will, again, eventually. But this transitional time is busy, sleepless, crucial, overwhelming, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once.

Still, now and then I have a second to peruse my old haunts. And tonight over at Lex's place, I hit a thread I almost wish I hadn't. Lex ran a post about Jill Greenberg's portrait of John McCain for the October Atlantic. That led me to a post in American Digest that contained the outtakes causing all the hubbub. Even this didn't get my ire up. Politics is ugly. What she did is unacceptable, base, unprofessional, etc, but not necessarily evil.

Then, somehow, I found my way to a site about Greenberg's End Times. I learn there that this is a woman who intentionally invoked anguish in children.

Photographer Jill Greenberg has whipped up a storm of controversy with her new exhibition, End Times. The pictures in the show, for which she deliberately provoked tearful outbursts from children by taking away lollipops she had just given them, have been described by some as tantamount to child abuse.

Greenberg herself insists that the children had the sweets returned within 30 seconds, that no lasting harm has been done, and that her concern was to depict what she says reminded her of the "helplessness and anger I feel about our current political and social situation."

I'm sure this issue has been covered to death already. But I'd not heard of it, and maybe some of you hadn't either.

I'd like to know, just for the record, Ms. Greenberg's position on the interrogation technique known as waterboarding. And I'd like to ask her about those photos again, just as soon as her panic subsided with no lasting harm done, say, 30 seconds after the towel was removed from her face.

Interesting difference here between me and her, I guess. There are complicated reasons, that, though I'm not in favor of the practice, I wouldn't consider waterboarding a terror suspect "evil." Yet, deliberately inducing anguish in children, even temporarily, I do think of as deserving that label pure and simple. For her, I guess, it's the other way around. There's room for both of us to be wrong, but I sleep just fine on my side of that line. I wonder about Ms. Greenberg's slumbers.

Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

Charleston. Thanks for asking.

Building a new life, while still awash in the detritus of an old one.

More grateful than ever for friends. New and old. Including soon-to-be-ex-spouse. We got along better than 4 of 5 couples I knew while we were married. We get along better than 9 of 10 couples I know going through a divorce. (Okay, so technically, I don't know 10 couples getting a divorce, which means, in truth, we get along better than 6 of 7 divorcing couples I've ever known.) Know what? Still sucks. But it could be so much worse.

Anyway, eventually, I'll take up the keyboard again more regularly. Beginning to see the first glimmers of a routine into which daily writing here will hopefully fit. Meantime, I am still alive. I will have much to say about lots of stuff.

Treading Water

You'll find my name in here somewhere.

I'm about 10 days behind. Literally. Had hoped to move in on the 10th. Secured a place that was supposed to be ready on the 13th, then the 15th, then the 18th, then I finally said screw it and found another place to live, but by the time I did, and moved in on the 21st, I was 10 days behind where I needed to be. The ripples from that will last until October. Literally. So blogging will likely be light to non-existent for a while. Sorry.

Oh the stories I'll eventually tell though.

The Ugly: When Blogspot Goes Bad

What was temporarily posted here yesterday was about one-third of a post that took hours to write. As such, it was incomplete and I've deleted it. What happened to the other two-thirds of probably the longest post I've written in a year . . . beats me. In the end, everything turns out okay. Maybe I'll eventually have time to re-write. Doubt it though. It was a purgative exercise. It worked. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be. It was funny, tragic, painful, and all ok by day's end. But it was, as I said to start with, a long story that I certainly don't have time to recreate now.

Best to all. Doc.

The Bad: Jen, the "inaccessible" Realtor

I had every intention of naming names, complete with links, but Fate is kinder than yours truly, so Jen will be spared that for now.

I've already mentioned that I thought, briefly, on Saturday night last, that my search for a place to live in Charleston was finished. Of all the places I'd seen during the day, only one had merited the comment, in my semi-legible scrawl on the bottom of the MLS printout, "Could live here." That place, we had seen early in the day, about sixth or so on the list of places we'd visited.

From the beginning, we'd had no luck getting through to the listing agent, Jen. There was a lock box on the property, but a call to the listing agent is a common courtesy. No answer, but no big deal--courtesy was still satisfied. Until, that is, the combo for the lock box turned out not to work. More calls to Jen went unreturned. I walked around to the back of the townhome while Sue continued to try to reach Jen. Then, peering in the back window, I saw Sue walking through toward me. "The front door was unlocked," she said, as she let me in the back door. "Still nothing from Jen."

It was a great place though. (You can find photos of the neighborhood here, and you'll have no trouble seeing why my daughter thought it was way cool, the kind of place where it wouldn't be possible to forget you lived at the beach. "That other place [in Byrnes Downes] is more like living in Fayetteville," she quipped. 'Nuff said.) Three stories. (Floor plan here.) Living, dining, kitchen, half bath on the ground. Small, fully fenced, gated patio with small grass area in back for Sydni. Parking behind the building. Two bedrooms and two baths on the second floor, with a way cool balcony off the master. Easy to picture myself out there in the afternoon, reading in prep for the next day's classes, gin & tonic on the arm of an Adirondack chair. Then one more bedroom on a third floor. (It would be one more guest room. I didn't plan to cart my desk up all those stairs. More likely would be having the study as part of the main living area on the ground floor.)

The place still smelled new. Some people hate that smell. I always loved it. When I moved out of my first home in 1985, it still had that smell even after three years of me living in it. I especially loved the new smell considering that at least four of the places we'd seen earlier in the day had been inhabited by smokers. Blehhhhhh!

Anyway, I left the place after that initial viewing (my daughter was having a well-deserved morning of sleeping in), knowing that if I didn't find something closer in and less expensive, this, at least, would do. I could look forward to coming home to this every day. Balcony. Gin & tonic. Sunsets overlooking a lake. Yeah.

But it was the second farthest out from town of everything we looked at during the entire day. You could figure that a gallon or more of gas used each day, round trip, would add about $100 monthly to the cost of living there, already at the upper end of what I was willing to pay. So the search went on . . . all day.

Several times during the day, because we wanted to confirm that Sydni would be acceptable as a tenant, Sue continued to try to call Jen. Never any return calls. Later in the day, I called myself, both her mobile and her office number. Left messages. When, as the sun was setting, I drove back out with Jacquelyn to show her the neighborhood and she gave it a huge thumbs up, I tried yet again. Finally, I let Sue know I'd decided. This was it.

At that point, she began an even more intense effort to reach the listing agent, Jen. Phone, no response. E-mail, no response. In the end, she e-mailed the agency Broker. That worked. Minutes later, she got a call back from Jen. "I'm sorry. I've had guests in town and I haven't been very accessible today," is what Sue related to me was Jen's excuse. Excuse me? If that were my property, I'd be a little disappointed to learn that my Realtor was "inaccessible," ever, for an entire day without someone being really ill. Forward calls to another agent. To a central office. Somewhere!

Now I realize that everyone deserves to have a life. Even Inspector's General deserve a life. But guess what: some jobs require that you be accessible, or make arrangements for someone else to be so. Being an IG is one of those jobs. I should think that being a Realtor would be one as well. Apparently not though. At least, not for Jen.

It gets better though. If you've read the earlier post, you know that when she did call, it was to say that she'd offered a lease to someone the day before. Well, thank you so much! Had she been "accessible," she could have saved my Realtor a trip out there with me that morning. She could have saved us the 30 minutes spent walking through, imagining myself in it. She could have saved me and my daughter the trip back out there at the day's end. She could have saved me the false relaxation of thinking the search was over. She could have saved everyone a lot of trouble and time. She could have, in short, done her job. But no, her job, as she conceives it, apparently allows for inaccessibility when it suits her.

Like I said, I'd have no problem naming names here, but I've temporarily misplaced the MLS printout with her full name or the name of the listing agency. Maybe another day. Maybe an update. Maybe she should consider other work, as a favor to us all. Please.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm."

I'm inaugurating a new label for posts: "Things that make you go Hmmm." And to start things off right, here's what elicited that reaction today:

The handicap spaces at the grocery are closest to the door because, ostensibly, the handicapped patrons have mobility issues. (Of course, sometimes they're a little further away because the ramp onto the sidewalk is further from the door.) At the Food Lion in Sunset Beach however, all the parking is in a large lot separated from the store itself by the fire lane. So, the blue-marked handicap spaces are at the end of each row, as close to the door as you can get. Funny thing though: if you're handicapped, and you happen to use a shopping cart to get your groceries to the car, you'll need to venture another five or six spaces into the middle of the lot to properly return your cart. Hmmm. Or, you can just leave it in the handicapped space next door like a very elderly man I watched do so today. I would have too--even if I weren't worried about my younger wife driving off without me, which he probably was, since she didn't even wait for him to close the car door before she was backing that Caddy out of the space. Hmmm. >-)

The Good: Super 8 Motel, Nashville, TN

Spend three days crossing the country and there will be bright spots and potholes. Bright spots are more fun, so we're going to start with one of those.

I think of Super 8 Motels as being just one step above Motel 6. There is, after all, no Motel 7. Crossing the country alone, I used to make a habit of staying where they left the light on for me. Traveling with a family full of women, we usually opted for a Best Western or Days Inn. Coming across the country this time, and spending nights we hadn't really planned for on the road, I opted for economy in lodging. At least, so I thought. I am going to tell you, and my daughter would be happy to verify, that the Super 8 Motel at 720 Royal Parkway, just off I-40 at exit 216, has more in common with a Hampton Inn than a Motel pickanynumber.

It has to do, I suspect, with the Wyndham chain being the corporate overlord of the Super 8 brand. For the most part, I'm sold. Though I'm still not likely to re-visit the Super 8 in Asheville, NC, that caused me to associate them with Motel 6 to begin with. But that's not a pretty story, so we'll just skip it for now. :-)

Sunset Gourmet, Sunset Beach, NC

New Yelp review posted for Sunset Gourmet. Great little place. Sat there for a while this afternoon and worked. Had lunch (shredded, sharp cheddar w Jalepenos, grilled on a ciabatta roll, homemade potato salad, dill pickle; dessert was a chocolate chip muffin with white icing and shredded coconut; beverage was dark coffee you could just hover over and breathe). Great people too. Then sat outside here after they closed and worked until my battery died and watched a few dozen people come up and try the door and go away disappointed. They close at 3, but not for lack of business. Everybody deserves a life. ;-)

As I Lay Dying, Redux

I recently completed what had to be one of the most challenging trips I'll ever make, driving from Colorado Springs, home for the last four years, to Charleston, home for at least the next nine months. I made the trip driving my Jeep Grand Cherokee, towing a 6 x 12 U-Haul trailer, loaded to its recommended max weight. Following close behind was my teenage (for a few more months) daughter in her VW Beetle.

We'd made the trip in the opposite direction a few short months ago at the end of May, both of us in the Beetle. We made it in two and a half easy days. I anticipated that we'd be a little slower eastbound. I had no idea.

It wasn't possible to drive that trailer above 60 mph without it developing a mind of its own. I gradually learned how to dampen its contortions while slowing to a speed where it would settle into straight trail again, but, let me tell you, that was work. Hard work by the end of a long day on the road. And it was frequent, even at 60. So I didn't push it. Anything encouraged it. Uneven road. Big trucks with bigger bow waves. I was careful never to let it approach the point where it would be in the driver's seat, but I could sense that it would be happy to take that position if I ever pressed it. The result was long, slow, exhausting days. What had been two and a half, ten to twelve hour days westbound became three, solid, twelve to fifteen hour days eastbound. Plans to stay with friends had to be abandoned. We arrived in Charleston after midnight at the end of the day I'd planned to be there by lunch, already half a day behind in my search for a new place to live. (I had begun looking for a place to live at least a month before, but had given up hope of finding the right place before my arrival because the best ones, the ones I had any interest in, always rented within days. So, I resolved to keep an eye on what was available, but knew that really making a decision would require being there.)

After just four hours of sleep, I met the world's kindest Realtor (who, if I ever have the opportunity to buy a home in Charleston, has my business, hands down) at 0800 the next morning and began a long day of looking at houses, condos, townhomes, and apartments. I can never sufficiently repay her for that day. That search itself may be the topic of another post altogether. It could have been much more painful. It didn't seem painful at first. We narrowed it, by day's end, to two places. I finally chose one based on the fact that it was far more accommodating to visits from my daughters, especially the one in Wilmington, who would, I was sure, drive down several times with friends if I chose the one I did--opting, at the same price, for twice as much space, newly constructed and "beachy," vs the much closer in, half as large, nearly as old as my parents, but in the neighborhood everyone wants to be in (for the same reason everyone wants a Gold Card). Everyone except me and Billy Bob Thorton. It would be worth the drive, I explained, to be in a place my daughters would look forward to visiting--even for only nine months.

Anyway, called to tell the Realtor my decision, and she began to really press the other agent to return our calls. All day, from the initial showing, we'd been trying to reach her and not had our calls returned. Once I decided that was the place I wanted, the real press began. It finally took an e-mail to the other Realtor's broker. Result, delivered to me at dinner, finally relaxing with my daughter after the long day of searching: it rented the day before. Back to square one. Especially when my daughter said, "Don't take the old one. That's not where you're supposed to be."

So, Sunday morning, the search continued. On my own this time. After looking at a house only blocks from the Citadel, I decided to drive by a place I'd discounted early on because of the lack of a yard. Almost instantly, Jackie started nodding yes. Only a few more blocks from the Citadel, it was, for all practical purposes, new. I can't imagine what was left of the original building other than the frame itself and the stairs. One building, four apartments, two up, two down, with interior entrances from a central foyer. New brick facade exterior, new walls, new floors, new ceilings, wiring, pipes, cabinets, counters, appliances, etc. Seriously, I can't imagine what other than the frame and the stairs is original. Off street, gated parking on oyster-shell lot, common area w gazebo, grill, bar.

My daughter had said at dinner the night before, "Don't worry. That place (the one I thought I'd settled on) is rented because that's not where you're supposed to be either. There's a better place waiting. You'll see." The kid is clairvoyant. Less monthly rent, more space, walking distance to work, virtually new construction, and new construction in a class nothing else had approached (new hardwood floors, new stainless appliances, granite counters, all stone tile bath (of the sort my airline captain friend used in constructing his 6000 sq-ft "captain's house"), chair molding throughout the main living area. So I'll have to walk Sydni several times a day. Big deal. We'd started that already anyway. Good for both of us. And easy to do when you can walk to work in ten minutes.

So, happy ending to the house search. Only hitch, the two finished units were, of course, already rented. But the site supervisor promised one of the remaining units would be done by this Wednesday. "I guarantee it." Watching him work, on Sunday no less, I chose to believe him. I still do. We'll see. At any rate, I signed a lease.

All of this, of course--especially the happy ending--would seem to belie the title of this post. Trust me. Stay tuned. I'll get around to some of the other adventures that kept giving me flashbacks to images of a mule's four stiff legs rotating into the air as its bloated corpse floats by on the flood (unless I mis-remember my Faulkner). Eventually, I hope to have time for a good, bad, and ugly post of some of the "highlights" of this journey.

I'll say this up front though. Beyond good, beyond beautiful, beyond completely irreplaceable, has been the company of my oldest daughter. I've missed my youngest every step of the way, but I've been cheered throughout by the older of the two. We have similar tastes in most things, similar wit, similar peeves. We've laughed, stewed, and generally had a grand time, despite trials beyond any I would have willingly put her through. She's been a trooper of the most remarkable kind, never complaining. This is the daughter who sulked for a solid year after we moved the family to Fayetteville, NC, back in 2002. This nomadic odyssey? Nothing but good cheer, tolerance, always a step ahead when I needed help, fun. Fun even when everything else around us was anything but. As a result, for all its "just shoot me" moments, it'll be fun to look back on and remember. Always.

UPDATE: My new place will be ready Monday. Meanwhile, there's a park bench I've had my eye on just outside the gate to the Citadel. Doesn't get more convenient than that. Sydni will keep watch.

Back in the Land of "Ya'll"

One of my most vivid memories from one of the most vivid expenditures of however many lives I seem to have is climbing out from under my totaled 1975 Carmine Red Spitfire, upside down in a field of corn in eastern North Carolina in 1983, brushing the dust from my shoulders and hair, staring at the underbelly of my car and thinking, "Who can I get to help me turn this thing right side up so I can drive on back to Goldsboro--I've got to fly tomorrow" (never mind that the rear wheels were almost touching in the middle, the point of impact with the telephone pole having been about even with those rear wheels, except about three-quarters of the way through a roll) then turning to walk out of the field and being greeted immediately by a middle-aged, African-American woman of substantial girth, arms raised in praise, eyes wide and white and shifting between God's heaven and the ghost I suspect she thought she saw before her, and voice proclaiming for a now gathering crowd (I'd taken my time crawling out from under that totaled shell, taking inventory of limbs to make sure everything moved and was still attached--something I'd learned from having read Fleming's entire Jame's Bond series over the past year while killing time on nuclear alert waiting for WWIII), "HE'S ALIVE! HE'S ALIVE! PRAISE GOD ALMIGHTY HE'S ALIVE!"

I remember smiling warmly, struck by the enthusiasm of her earnest rejoicing at my fate, then asking politely, "I don't suppose ya'll might have a phone I could use?"

The rest of that story I'll save for another day, but I've told that much because her voice keeps echoing in my head today. My own inner voice keeps paraphrasing her chorus, but the enthusiasm matches her pitch just perfectly, "HE'S BACK! HE'S BACK! PRAISE GOD ALMIGHTY HE'S BACK!" Back in the land of "ya'll," the land of pine, azaleas, dogwoods, sundresses, 30-second-shirt-soaking humidity, red clay, cotton, soy beans, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Doobie Brothers, Charlie Daniels, and Jack too. Home. Slightly off target perhaps, landing here in Charleston, South Carolina, rather than 3 hrs north, nearer Kannapolis, North Carolina, but closer than a lot of Soviet re-entry vehicles I think, and close enough that the language is the same, the customs much the same, the heritage much the same.

Charleston will have its own character that I may never fully understand--I got that much (and more) from Conroy, but this is still the South, with a capital S. And the differences from place to place in the South stand out far more starkly to someone who's never left it than to someone who's been too much out of it in the past three decades. I see far more similarity across its regions than I ever might have if I'd never left.

So, I'm back. And tomorrow, with the aid of a truly incredible Realtor, I hope to find the right place to live for a bit--nine months at least, while I fill a position as a Visiting Professor at the Citadel--longer maybe, depending on what fortunes the coming year brings. One step at a time.

I'll say this though, coming in those last 20 miles, I found the FM station that became the first new preset on my car stereo. Q104.5, Charleston's Classic Rock, is the clearest station I've ever heard. Ever. I'm nearing half a century. That station must broadcast with enough power to reach nearby galaxies. Classic tunes, crystal clear. I'd been three of the longest days ever on the road, pulling a six-by-twelve-foot trailer heavy enough not to like traveling faster than 60 mph without developing a mind of its own. Last time I'd crossed the country at that speed it was in that Spitfire and I was busting the national speed limit by 5 mph at the time. Having grown used to speeds closer to 80 mph on long trips, I'd forgotten how long such a road trip really can be. (And I have to offer a hat tip here to my teenage daughter who dropped out of warp to follow that trailer at that crawling pace in the same VW Beetle that the two of us had used to make the same trip in only two days heading the other direction only two months ago. Just another half day longer and they have needed to commit us both.) So when I was moving through the dial, looking for static so as to listen to an Audible book from my Palm Treo broadcast on FM, I was stopped in my tracks by the clarity of the sound, then riveted by the appropriateness of the words, as Bob Seger voiced my very thoughts, "And you don't feel much like riding, you just wish the trip was through."

That was my welcome to Charleston around 1 a.m. this morning. About the time I was thinking, "This trip almost is through," and about the time I was hearing that big, beautiful, booming, woman's voice in my head, and thinking, "Yes. Yes. Yes. Praise God Almighty indeed. He's back."

When You Think of It That Way . . .

Last night I was enjoying what will be one of the final evenings on my front porch with the friend who's really taught me the most about appreciating a good cigar. It was one of those windless nights after a sweltering day, but it was cool enough to be comfortable. He usually brings along whatever book he's enjoying at the moment. These days, one of the three books I'm reading (always at least that many at once) is The Art of Racing in the Rain, a recommendation I got from the same friend about a month ago when we met for breakfast.

Last night, he brought along Merle's Door, another book centered on dogs (The Art of Racing in the Rain is narrated by a dog). When I asked how he learned of Merle's Door, he replied that he'd read about it in Bark, "my dog magazine."

"Let me get this straight: You don't own a dog, but you subscribe to a dog magazine?"

Without even a blush, he nodded and said, "Yeah."

Then I thought about it for a second. I remembered that there were plenty of months in college and immediately after that I'd not had a girl friend, or even the prospect of a date. Yet, the entire time, my best friend and I made a birthday tradition of giving one another subscriptions to Hugh Hefner's monthly celebration of "the girl next door." I said as much to my friend, and then said, "So, when you think of it that way, I guess if you love dogs there's really nothing odd about subscribing to a dog magazine even when you can't claim the daily companionship of one."

That said though, as my friend is just beginning what promises to be a contentious divorce, I will worry about him if he subscribes to Modern Bride any time soon.

:-)

Cashback

"The bad news is that time flies. The good news is that you're the pilot."

It's been a while since I posted anything like a movie review. I've seen plenty. Well, actually, hectic as life has been lately, I haven't really seen enough, but I've seen the majors: Wanted, Hancock, The Dark Knight. You can find plenty of reviews on them. And they're all good (the movies, not the reviews)--all worth the chunk of your salary you'll pay to escape real life for two hours or more. (Though the one you might expect to be the most escapist may surprise you in it's fidelity to the realities of the human psyche.)

I'm more inclined to review in this space the movies you're likely to otherwise miss. So, quickly, because my life is still more hectic than ever as I prepare to move from Colorado to South Carolina in the next ten days, here's another movie worth your time that you've probably missed already. I would have missed it too. I stumbled on it. Unable to sleep, I decided to give a movie a try.

Netflix has this cool feature that allows you to "watch instantly." I pulled up comedy as the category and on the first row was a movie called Cashback. Okay, I'll admit it, the cover bore the image of pretty girl, and I'm sure that's what attracted me. But it's not what kept me watching to the end.

Over the past year, I've named two movies that you really shouldn't miss: Once and Reign Over Me. If you followed those recommendations, but didn't like the movies, then you shouldn't watch this one either. But if those recommendations proved worthwhile, this one is for a movie I would consider to be in the same category. I'll warn you up front though, that the nudity in it is total (women only; no guys in the buff; sorry ladies), but it's not prurient. It is, actually, quite beautiful. And if ever there were a movie for which a soundtrack were a crucial part of the overall effect, this is one. (I tried to buy the soundtrack after the movie was over, but I don't think it exists.) Billed as a comedy and rated R for "graphic nudity"--a poor choice of words really--it's not likely to be something you would pull off the shelf or order from Netflix on your own.

I realize, of course, that I'm telling on myself in that, I did order up and start watching that movie, but my choices to "watch instantly" were limited, and it looked like the most promising of the few. Little did I know. And whatever telling on myself I may be doing, I'll live with it in order to recommend the movie. I can easily imagine how someone might accuse it of being a glorification of voyeurism. I think that would be an unfortunate misinterpretation and reflect a misunderstanding of that word. It will depend, in the end, on your answer to the protagonist's question posed to the object of his own affection in the movie's final moments: "Do you trust me?"

At any rate, I found it a good movie, a cathartic experience, worth both the time it took to watch, and the time it took to write this. See for yourself. You'll know after the first half hour whether it's worth the next 70 minutes or not.

Once upon a time I wanted to know what love was. Love is there if you want it to be. You just have to see that it's wrapped in beauty and hidden away between the seconds of your life. If you don't stop for a minute, you might miss it.

New Orleans's Long Road Back

An important step on the road to recovery, from anything, is the ability to face criticism again. So it's worthy of note that New Orleans has reached a milestone of sorts.

From today's New York Times:

New Orleans has gotten its beans back.

These are not the creole red beans that hold a sacred place on Monday lunch menus across the city. Rather, they are the measures of restaurant quality that the city’s daily newspaper awards. Let other critics use stars; The Times-Picayune deals in beans.

In its Friday issue, for the first time since every restaurant in the city shut down after Hurricane Katrina nearly three years ago, the newspaper was handing out beans alongside a formal restaurant review.

Lee Barbour

If you've been reading this blog for any time at all, you know that I really don't believe in coincidence. I had a great conversation this afternoon with a Charleston musician about to try his luck in the Big Apple. I may even end up renting his pad for the next academic year while I join the faculty at a small college in that seaport I think of as closer to New Orleans East than anything else on that coast--a college, by the way, more similar to the one I'm leaving than different.

Regardless of what happens with the house, I wanted to share a link to his web site and the music I've been listening to for over an hour now. Enjoy!

"At least it's my aspirational peer group!"

Over at Enrevanche, Barry posted a snippet from James Fallows and a link to a post meant to be rather sadly revealing about, as Fallows titled it, "Our American Media Landscape." Reading the whole Fallows post though, I was struck by a different chord.

For reasons too odd to contemplate, a quick, business-related, out-and-back trip from Beijing airport to.... Newark! With stay at an airport hotel designed to make me newly grateful for the environmental pleasures of Beijing. Surrounded on three sides by freeways. On the fourth, by check-cashing storefronts, pawn shops, liquor stores, tattoo parlors, car-auction sites. Kind of disappointed not to see some gun shops in there too.

All the other occupants of the hotel that I have seen are flight crews on Newark layovers. At least it's my aspirational peer group! Get to sit with the grizzled pilots in the bar and talk about "there I was...."-type flying tales and which airline will fold next.

I'm sure Fallows's description of the conversation here was every bit as accurate as his sad truth about the NYT (go read). Sadly, it reminded me of another piece of "humor" I received lately from a pilot friend--one that struck way too close to home. I'll share it, because a) it's funny; and, b) every aviator will recognize a piece of himself in there somewhere. I've no doubt whatsoever it's a pretty accurate description of some poor guy's life, start to finish. I know there's some of me there--ahead of the time line in some places, behind in others. One more good reason to make the move to academics as a profession. ;-)

'Life as a Pilot'

22 years old: Graduated from college. Go to military flight school. Become HSJP (hot shit jet pilot). Get married.

25 years old: Have 1st kid. Now hot shot fighter jock getting shot at in war. Just want to get back to USA in one piece. Get back to USA as primary flight instructor pilot. Get bored. Volunteer for war again.

29 years old: Get back from war all tuckered out. Wants out of military.

30 years old: Join airline. World is your oyster.

31 years old: Buy flashy car, house and lots of toys. Get over the military poverty feeling.

32 years old: Divorce boring 1st wife. Pay child support and maintenance. Drink lots of booze and screw around while looking for 2nd wife.

33 years old: Furloughed. Join military reserve unit and fly for fun. Repeat above for a few more years.

35 years old: Airline recall. More screwing around but looking forward to a good marriage and settling down.

36 years old: Marry young spunky 25 year old flight attendant.

37 years old: Buy another house. Gave first one to first wife.

38 years old: Give in to second wife to have more kids. Father again. Wife concerned about 'risky' military Reserve flying so you resign commission.

39 years old: Now a captain. Hooray! Upgrade house, buy boat, small single engine airplane and even flashier cars.

42 years old: 2nd wife runs off with wealthy investment banker but still wants to share house (100%).

43 years old: Settle with wife # 2 and resolve to stay away from women forever. Seek a position as a check Captain for 10% pay override to pay mounting bills. Move into 1 bedroom apartment with window air conditioners.

44 years old: Company resizes and you're returned to copilot status. 25% pay cut. Become simulator instructor for 10% override pay.

49 years old: Captain again. Move into 2-bedroom luxury apartment with central air conditioning.

50 years old: Meet sexy Danish model on International trip. She loves you and says you are very 'beeeeg!'

51 years old: Marry sexy Danish model for wife #3. Buy big house, boat, twin engine airplane and upgrade cars.

52 years old: Sexy model wants kids (not again). Resolve to get vasectomy.

54 years old: Try to talk wife out of kids, but presto, she's pregnant. She says she got sick after taking the pill. Accident, sorry, won't happen again.

55 years old: Father of triplets.

56 years old: Wife #3 wants very big house, bigger boat and very flashy cars, 'worried' about your private flying and wants you to sell twin engine airplane. You give in. You buy a motorcycle and join motorcycle club.

57 years old: Make rash investments to try and have enough money for retirement.

59 years old: Lose money on rash investment and get audited by the IRS. You have to fly 100% International night trips just to keep up with child support and alimony to wife #1 and #2.

60 years old: Wife #3 (sexy model) says you're too damned old and no fun. She leaves. She takes most of your assets. You're forced to retire due to Age 60 rule. No money left.

61 years old: Now Captain on a non-schedule South American 727 freight outfit and living in a non-air conditioned studio apartment directly underneath the final approach to runway 9 at Miami Int'l. You have 'interesting' Hispanic neighbors who ask you if you've ever flown DC-3's.

65 years old: Lose FAA medical and get job as sim instructor. Don't look forward to years of getting up at 2 AM for 3 AM sim in every god-forsaken town you train in due to the fact your carrier can find cheap, off-hours sim time at various Brand X Airlines.

70 years old: Hotel alarm clock set by previous FedEx crew member goes off at 1:00 AM. Have heart attack and die with smile on face. Happy at last!

Ain't aviation great?

27 Years Is Long Enough

My retirement ceremony was last Friday. Though I don't actually become a civilian for slightly over another two months, Friday was theoretically my last day in uniform. It was a day marked by moments, shared by those dearest to me.

There was a last jump, accompanied by people with greater significance in my personal skydiving world than some even knew. In the photo below are one of the two sisters who assembled the jump suit I'm wearing (given to me as a father's day gift by my daughters over eight years ago), a new cadet member of the Wings of Blue Parachute Team, the staff member who's helping shepherd the cadet team into the future by contributing his seriously sick skills to both the wing suit syllabus and the free fly program, a member of the world-record canopy relative work formation from November 2007, and my longtime friend Marty. Marty has been part of more skydiving milestones than I can list here, and has likely forgotten more about skydiving than I may ever know. He was a Senior Airman at the academy when I was a cadet. He taught me the basics and signed the first five jumps I ever entered into a skydiving log.


After opening, I hung out above everyone for a while, being sure to take in the view one last time, as I'll probably never be suspended under fabric in that particular piece of airspace again, ever. At the bottom end, my friend Buzzard captured in digits the final fraction of a second of what was almost certainly my last flight under an Air Force canopy:

The ceremony itself was followed by refreshments, the centerpiece of which was a cake my daughter spent most of the day prior making from scratch, complete with a skydiver under canopy. She got the detail right, down to the relative work "grippies" on the suit, the helmet visor, and the number of cells in the canopy:

And around the edge, my assignment history:


It was a very small ceremony. I'd planned it that way. My closest friends were there. And I was honored to look up and see none other than Jay "the Piper" standing in the back of the room.

In some respects, it was a day like any other day. And in others, it was surreal from start to finish. Mostly, I was just glad when it was over. People have asked if I felt different. Mostly the answer's been no. But today, reality hit. What did it? I was sitting on the porch, looking at housing options where I'm headed next, and I heard the Otter passing overhead. In the past, my thought pattern on hearing that has always been to consider whether it would be worth my time to head down to the squadron for a jump. Most days lately, I've had too much to do, and the decision has always been not to. But today was the first day that I've had to hear that and consciously think, "There goes a plane I'll probably never board again." That was reality. That was about the only thing I'm really going to miss. That I'll miss the great men and women I've had the honor of serving with, in every service, should go without saying. "Above all," I'll miss the people, but I'm still glad to be done. :-)

81% Dixie

"81% (Dixie). Did you have any Confederate ancestors?" Well, duh.

Find out how you score here.

Hat tip: Lex.

Why I Avoid Reporters, Always

The photo caption leading to this story reads:

Rev. Jesse Jackson speaks during a news conference in Chicago, Wednesday, July 9, 2008. Jackson apologized Wednesday for comments he made about Barack Obama's speeches in black churches during what he thought was a private conversation with a reporter.

Right. I'm pretty sure that part I bolded is more imaginary a thing than the unicorn. I thought all politicians knew that.

War, Literature, & the Arts

There are a couple of new posts from me over at the other blog I maintain. Enjoy.

It Seemed Like a Good Idea

I could spend time coming up with something new, but I'll just use Buck's tagging of me the other day to reiterate that, yes, there really is an autobiography (of sorts) in progress, and yes, it should be damned funny. Most of the major events in my life either call for tears or laughter, and sometimes both, and whenever there's a toss up, I try to opt for the laughter.

With that in mind, here are the rules of the meme sent my way.

1 – Write the title to your own memoir using exactly six words.

2 – Post it on your blog.

3 – Link to the person who tagged you.

4 – Tag five other bloggers.

So, as one possibility, the title of today's post is a shortened version of what's already the working title: It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time. If I had to come up with a new one though, in just six words, I'd be most likely to pilfer the working title of the work we joke about around the office, but which, for obvious reasons, I'll never be able to actually write: You Can't Make This Shit Up! I suspect publishers might have an issue with such a scatological title, but as a working option, it has the virtue of consoling us on a daily basis. ;-)

As for whom I might tag, Buck's already hit Jay, but I'd be interested to hear from Barry, Chap, and Phil on this one. Or not. I usually opt out of these sorts of viral things, so I'm just throwing it out there in case they've got time on their hands.

Milestones and Bright Spots

Where did this week go? At least my good intentions to post make for a quick read after that last tome. :-)

Here's the thing: I told my father at the beginning of 2007 that I thought it was going to be a year of phenomenal change for our world, that we would see a shift of the sort that serves as a major milestone from which people then measure the rest of their lives. Not a personal shift, we all have those. But a societal one, the sort that make it into the history books: the Great Depression, either World War, the American Revolution. I think I was about a year early.

It's possible, of course, that I'm mistaking the turmoil of my own life at the moment for a shift that all can feel. I scored, after all, about 487 points on the Holmes-Rahe Life Stress Inventory. Wahoo. That just makes me chuckle. I read their note:

Now, add up all the points you have to find your score.

• 150pts or less means a relatively low amount of life change and a low susceptibility to stress-induced health breakdown.
• 150 to 300 pts implies about a 50% chance of a major health breakdown in the next 2 years.
• 300pts or more raises the odds to about 80%, according to the Holmes-Rahe statistical prediction model.

and I think, "Wow, guess it's amazing I'm still standing." And then I remember that my life is so much better than so many people's. I think the difference is friends. In truth, I think there are some problems with that whole inventory thing. Some of the items that I test positive for are just that, positives. They create some stress, true, but they come with their own counteracting positive excitement. Retirement is a stressor, as is moving to a new job, but both are positive things in my case. Bottom line, there's a lot on my plate, but I don't plan to crumble any time soon. Nobody's shooting at me at the moment. I can walk the dog without worrying about land mines or snipers. I jump out of airplanes for fun; I've been in uniform for 31 years; I eat stress for breakfast. Perspective.

Back to the rest of the world though. We are in a recession. Homes are not selling and those that are, are losing value. Jobs are harder to find. We continue, as a nation, to fight a war on two fronts while the threat of a third looms ever present. And this last reality is something that mainstream America has only been marginally conscious of. As I heard one officer put it: "America isn't at war; America's military is at war." A subtle but meaningful distinction. Gas prices have finally reached that magic mark of $4/gal where people actually begin to change their driving habits. I could go on, but you get the idea.

I don't know what it will be called, how we will refer to it, what capstone event or shift will lend its name to this year, but I think we are approaching that milestone in the road of all our lives that will serve as a crest, a bend, an embarkation to which people refer when they say, "Yeah, that was back before . . . "

Take inventory. Begin to decide now what really matters. Count yourself lucky if you are among those who already know. Friends, family, health--those seem good starts.

Yesterday, I gave what will certainly be one of my final tours of the institution I've called home for 14 years of 31 in uniform. It was an honor to do that for a family that so obviously has a good grip on those things that really matter.

I don't mean to be all doom and gloom here. I'm not. I just have a pretty good sense that a number of things--the economy, the climate, the stretching of our military--are going to get worse before they get better. But they will get better. At any rate, I think things are going to be different in the coming years. One thing won't change. It will be important to have people that you love with whom to share those years.

My best to you all. Doc.

UPDATE: Phil, from the Archer Pelican, provided the following link to an online version of the stress inventory that allows you to check the events then click a button for the results. I scored 523 this time around. After I hit "Calculate Results" a window popped up that said, more or less, "This individual will self-destruct in five seconds." Don't count on it.

Talk Less; Listen More

Warning: This is long. If you hang to the end, you may be throwing my own advice back at me. ;-)

It’s a hard truth in the world I chose for my first career that if you don’t like your boss, there’s usually not a lot you can do about it. Fortunately, most of the people I’ve worked for have ranged from not-all-that-bad to downright awe-inspiring. A rare few were mentors from whom I’ve taken lessons that will serve me to the end of my days, whether leading from a command position, executing another’s policy as first mate, or consensus building as a member of a group of equals.

I list those three particular realms here (there is, of course, also simply doing as one’s told in the follower role, and though even that is harder than many think, it requires far less finesse than any of the foregoing three) because I believe they cover three very distinct roles that may be required of a leader, and they require three very distinct skill sets for success. The latter two I’m going to give short shrift today; not because I don’t value them as much as the first, or think them equally complex, but because this post is really about that first skill set, and about the danger of confusing the requirements of any of those three roles. So what I will say about those other roles will be in relation to the role of commander.

To begin with, one of the most important roles of the first mate is to give honest input to the captain of the ship, and then to execute the captain’s policies whether in agreement or not. That person incapable of executing policy with which he or she disagrees will necessarily fail as a first mate. Likewise, the person without the courage to speak up when the ship’s course places all in danger may seem to succeed depending on the character of the captain, but that person seems guilty to me of a moral failing not much less serious than mutiny. What good is such an officer except as an agent to crack the whip on the backs of the crew? In all cases, the captain’s role is to make such input possible, to encourage it, to value it, to actually hear it, and then to make a decision with confidence that mate and crew alike will execute that decision. This pas de deux obviously requires a great deal from both parties. One of the worst things someone in a position of genuine command can do is squelch input. Input doesn’t always begin as dissent, but input discarded immediately because it doesn’t token full agreement will often fester into dissent of the worst kind—the silent sort that eats at the heart of an organization.

Equally as dangerous is input never heard because the commander is too busy mistakenly assuming that third role of consensus-builder. Commanders must frequently play this role, but only at “the big table” with their fellow commanders, their equals, whom they must convince rather than direct. (I use the word commander very consciously here. There are many organizations where leadership rotates, where the position of head is occupied temporarily by someone who will eventually return to the ranks, yielding leadership responsibilities to someone in those very ranks now. Many civilian academic departments function this way. In such organizations, consensus building may very well trump outright command as the appropriate mode, but the military is not such a place.) In the military, a skilled commander must be able to shift from consensus building with equals to blunt direction with subordinates, still soliciting, hearing, and incorporating input from below as appropriate. But this latter skill is not to be confused with consensus building. I have seen what can happen in an organization where someone in a position of full command makes the mistake of believing that consensus is necessary. Kahlil Gibran said in The Prophet, “You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts.” The commander who spends an inordinate amount of time attempting to convince subordinates that the ship is on the right course will inspire nothing but worry in the crew.

And that is what all that follows is really about. A younger friend in just such a position of command with just such a problem recently asked for help in understanding why his unit’s morale was dragging along the depths like an anchor. It didn’t help that he’d been given command of a unit whose demographics were wholly unlike anything he’d ever commanded before, and that he neglected, largely, to take those differences into account. Nor did it help that he lacked experience with many of the finer points of the mission. This latter challenge though, was easily surmountable by depending on the seasoned crew, especially the ship’s officers. What paralyzed this person though, and undermined his success more than any other thing, was an over-valuation of consensus and an accompanying drive toward speaking it into existence that simultaneously silenced the voices of those who might have helped and announced to the crew at large that the captain was uncertain of both his role and his course. The result was an exodus of both officers and crew at the first opportunity they had. Those who stayed largely did so because they were not at a place where their careers would allow their departure. And those who stayed were and are unhappy.

But there may be hope. That person, whose very drive to consensus building is, among other things, a sign of how much he genuinely cares, recently asked for help in understanding the rancor among the ranks. Again, a person who didn’t genuinely care would not be so heart-wounded by the state of things. In answer, I offered some encouragement and the following simple advice: Talk less; listen more.

So, while this post is already longer than most anything I’ve bothered to share before, here, somewhat edited for more general application, is advice for anyone in a position of genuine command who struggles with a desire for consensus from the ranks. Bottom line: Talk less; listen more.

My friend, keep caring and keep trying. No one willing to objectively evaluate your time at the helm could realistically accuse you of being unconcerned with the welfare of your troops, the care with which you execute the mission, or the overall health of your parent unit as a whole. You have most of the right concerns at heart.

But all that said, you must somehow learn to change one thing before your unit’s morale is going to begin the long journey from the depths it’s plumbed back to the surface: Talk less; listen more.

Take as an example, any policy you wish to which the majority of your command may have once voiced objections. What are people’s objections to it? Ask your secretary and you’ll probably be told that no one really has any. Actually, they did once upon a time, but they’ve learned how fruitless it is to voice those objections. If someone were to come to the front office to “discuss” a policy, one might hope that they would be asked “What is it you don’t like about it?” “What do you suggest instead?” “Are there any adjustments we could make to the current program to make it more palatable?” The bottom line is, every question should lead to another question, because, in the end, if the commander’s mind isn’t changed by the complainant, then nothing changes. No justification from the commander is required, period. You can thank a troop for his/her input and send them on their merry way. You’ve lost nothing by listening, but you might learn something, hear some view that you were unaware of before.

Too often however, by all reports, that brave hypothetical soul can expect to spend 25 of their 30 minutes in your office hearing answers to all of the following questions, notwithstanding the fact that they never asked them: “Why does the commander think it’s a good idea?” “How does the commander think it should affect their morale?” “How does the commander think it aligns with current service policy?” “What advantages does the image of the unit gain from such a policy?” “What personal gains will the individual inevitably achieve as a result of the policy?” “How does the time commitment compare favorably to some other equally onerous policy that might be instituted instead?” “How popular by contrast (or similarly unpopular) was a similar policy that the commander enforced in a previous assignment?” “How did the commander handle objections from people in that unit?” “What were those people’s objections?” “How is the policy, and particularly any objections anyone might have to it, indicative of larger issues within the unit?” “In what way does the troop’s complaint or attitude remind the commander of some incident that occurred during the commander’s tenure as Executive Officer to some other well-respected commander?” And so on. The point is, people in your unit have learned that anyone coming to you to voice an objection to a policy or procedure can plan on spending 25 of any 30 minutes listening to the commander’s arguments for something rather than having their own input on it heard. Result: people stop trying to voice an opinion and you are left wondering why morale is in the toilet.

I am not suggesting that every complaint or objection should drive a commander to change a policy or procedure—far from it. Military command is not a democracy. In many cases, you can let your troops talk for 30 minutes, thank them for their honesty, and leave the policy or procedure in place. You will still have changed something: they will feel that you listened, perhaps even that you heard. That in itself will earn their respect and go a long way toward gaining their less grudging compliance. But if you spend most of the time you have with them talking to them, giving them your rationale for a decision, trying to sway them to your point of view, you will accomplish one thing and one thing only: they will stop talking to you. They will learn that, despite the fact that you may be interested in their opinion, you lack the listening skills to receive it, to draw it out, to encourage it. They’ll learn to be quiet. You will isolate yourself. And you will wonder how it happened. How it has already happened.

Talk less; listen more. In any 30 minutes spent with someone you command, you should spend 25 of it listening. Three of your five minutes should be spent in asking questions to keep them talking. Give yourself no more than two for expressing your own opinion. That’s more than enough.

Talk less; listen more. The same rules apply even if someone comes to you for advice. Ask them questions. What they really mean when they ask for advice is not, “What would you do?” but, “How would you go about making this decision?” The answer is not, “I would consider this, then this, then this?” The answer is, “Have you thought about this? What about this? And this?” Each question asked with pauses to allow them to answer. In the end, they’ll have done most of the talking, but you’ll get credit for having “given” them the advice they sought.

Talk less; listen more. You wondered aloud recently why unit members don’t want to spend time with one another at functions like your annual social, but I’m told, I’m sorry to relate, that you give little heed to the answers when they come. Rather than asking the right questions of the right people, they say you spend your time trying to talk them into enthusiasm. “Everyone should want to go. Everyone should feel an obligation to go. We owe it to each other. It’s tradition. It’s simply part of being a good officer.” Talk less, and listen more, and you may learn how to make it an event no one will want to miss. Or maybe not. But you will certainly never talk such an event or attitude into existence. Such consensus is impossible to build through words. The event was originally conceived as something that would be fun. Somewhere along the way it lost that as a raison d’etre. Restore the fun or abolish the event. Is there some risk in such an activity? Absolutely. But it’s worth remembering Churchill’s remark that there’s nothing so exhilarating as to be fired upon without effect. These are warriors after all.

I’ll just say it one more time: Talk less; listen more. If you doubt my analysis of the root problem here, then I challenge you to put it to the test. Keep a stopwatch discreetly in your hand during an office visit from some troop. Use it to time the amount of time they spend speaking and compare it to the overall length of the visit. If the result, initially, doesn’t support what I’ve said above about the way most conversations in your office go, then you can feel vindicated. But, if it does support it, then you simply need to decide whether my advice is worth anything or not. If you think an open-door policy is really just a good opportunity for you to transmit instead of receive, then you should save yourself some time and have more frequent commander’s calls to lecture everyone at once.

Lastly, if you decide there may be something to that simple four-word mantra I’m offering, you’ll need to be cognizant of one final hurdle. The longer you’ve spent in transmit-only mode, the longer it may take for your troops to recover. But it’s an intelligent bunch we have the honor of leading, and while it doesn’t take long for such unbridled consensus seeking from a commander to engender a culture of studied silence, neither does it take long for genuine change of almost any sort to be noticed. If you are willing to learn to listen, it may amaze you how much you’ll hear and how soon.

At any rate, I hope this is helpful. I wish you nothing but the best, now and always.

Of Jalapeños and Ballons

Two interesting tidbits from today's news:

On the Salmonella front, now they're focusing on jalapeños. Just great. My idea of a great appetizer is one of these peppers cut in half lengthwise, seeds removed, then filled with peanut butter. I eat them in my scrambled eggs most mornings, my salads most evenings, my popcorn whenever I have it (though the eye-stinging aroma of peppers in hot oil did cause my in-laws to abandon their home once like radicals fleeing a tear-gas cannister).

And in the competition for this year's Darwin award, lawn chair balloon guy is at it again. At least he's wearing a parachute. ;-) Go here for my comments on last year's attempt.

I've Got How Long?!

An interesting post over at Lex's place this morning reminded me of a revelation that came a little over a month ago as I sat in the Transition Assistance Program at my base, trying, for real this time, to wrap my mind around my impending departure from military service. It went like this:

The counselor for our Survivor Benefit Program had the stage. SBP is a program whereby you give up a set percentage of your retirement $ now in order to guarantee that your spouse will continue to receive a significant percentage of that retirement, even after your death, should he/she outlive you. On the screen was a chart showing the statistical chances that said event would occur. Average lifespan of the American male, average lifespan of the American female, etc.

Initially, I looked at that chart and thought, okay, so I've got x number of years left. Plenty of time. Then I did some mental calculations and realized that x equaled the number of years of my military career to that point. Considering that it seems like I just put the uniform on for the first time yesterday, last week at most, I realized that meant I'd be gone well before the end of the month, relatively speaking. And considering how much life continues to speed up with each passing day, I figure I'll be done more like next week.

I'd better get busy, and now. I'm not sure I've slept well since.

Betrayal, Free Will, and Cormac McCarthy

Over on The Extended Table, there was a conversation I missed back in April. My life lately has been a blur. I've commented little in the blogosphere and actually posted here even less. But the thread on this blog generated by the post on mercy below, led Piper to point out the earlier exchange over at his place. I eventually left a comment there, but rather than get long-winded on Piper's site, I decided to bring the bulk of my remarks here.

The aspect of his thread that generated the most thought for me was the assertion of one commenter that the why of "betrayal" wasn't necessarily important. That she had done something with good intention but bad result that left a friend feeling betrayed. For that commenter, as I understood her, this meant that she had betrayed that person. I disagree. Here's why.

I wrote an entire dissertation on Cormac McCarthy. Really, it was a very personal exploration of McCarthy's concept of God and man's relationship to him. I chose McCarthy because he seemed to put most of what I believed into words with far better skill than I could hope for. When I read that thread over at Piper's place, and that commenter's opinion on the seeming precedence of result over intent, I couldn't help but think back to my own work on McCarthy, his ideas, his fictional world, and how it applied.

Bottom line: intent is the important thing in truly establishing the character of an act.

But here, if you're interested, is the expanded version, extracted from my earlier writing:

Beginning with Judge Holden in Blood Meridian and continuing through Cities of the Plain with a varied cast of outspoken and occasionally somewhat unlikely philosophers, McCarthy gives voice to a system in which destiny is both real and immutable, a system which has governed events in McCarthy’s fictional worlds even before he gave voice to it through such spokespersons.

One important facet of such a system is a very Catholic belief that God (or Ben Telfair’s “something”) does know all that will be and has been, as well as every alternative that never was nor will be. While this system effectively negates man’s capacity to choose or control the course of events in actuality, it nevertheless preserves his illusion of choice. The key difference between man’s belief in choice and the fact of choice’s non-existence rests in the difference between consequence and intent. In this system, man can only intend. In such a system, the consequence of any act is destined before the act itself even takes place; therefore, the act is destined as well. But because man cannot foresee that consequence, the illusion of choice remains bright for him, and he believes that he chooses one path over another based on the consequence he intends to bring about. That the said consequence may or may not ever come to pass is beside the point. Intention is all. In intention rests free will. God has determined outcome. Man is nonetheless left free to intend what he will. This is the philosophy of McCarthy’s metaphysical spokespersons, and this is the reality of McCarthy’s fictional world.

When I wrote that, McCarthy wasn't still an unknown--he'd won the National Book Award for All the Pretty Horses. But he had still granted only one interview, ever. This was pre-Oprah, pre-Pulitzer. Maybe it's time to get to work on publishing that dissertation as a book. I've been a little distracted of late, but this "year of change" is half over. By Christmas, I should be settled into new routines. God only knows whether that will be the case or not, but I intend to be. ;-)

(I love the point in the interview where Oprah asks him, "You haven't worked out 'the God thing' or not, yet?" His reply: "Well," chuckling, "it would depend on what day you asked me." Ain't it the truth.)

Red Skelton: The Pledge of Allegiance

One thing is certain: I won't be the only blogger to post this for the Fourth of July, but it's better than anything else I have to offer. Here's Red Skelton, explicating the Pledge of Allegiance. Enjoy.

Hat tip: JPL