Sacha Baron Cohen Does It Again

Bruno might have a point.
The mavens of Newport Beach and New Jersey will only support the troops if a degree of style is added into the mix.

I wanna know ...who did his wig? What skincare products did he use? How does he stay so thin?

Signs of Perspective

They need a sign that says,
"Waffle House"

Back from Georgia. It was a very full two weeks. In a way, it was good that it was so hot and humid. One was forced to slow down, to forget for a moment that there's a war going on, that people are losing their lives, and all the other countless events that go unreported and the service that goes unappreciated in "that other" part of the world.

I think my daughter had the best insight of anyone. We caught a glimpse of the demonstrations in Iran. She turned to me, clearly stressed, and said that she thought POTUS shouldn't say anything beyond what others have already said. Her reason?

"We've already got soldiers all over the world, and if we say anything we're going to send them over there too."

Hers is a perspective that no one --no pundit, not the son of the deposed Shah, has sought. That of a child whose father is serving. And perhaps those whose father's have deployed three times in six years might think the same thing. Who can blame them? For it's the children who have given the most --without consultation, without a choice.

So to her, it's come down to understanding that if we say something, we could end up sending in troops or money. And if we do, our actions will be met on some level with resistance. People on both sides get hurt, and for kids over here, having a parent not come back from a very distant land where they were fighting for ideals is difficult to comprehend.

And while hers might seem like the naive view of a child, there is an essential point that has to be made to all of the pundits, but especially those who unfavorably stereotype our military (Stephen Colbert not-so-mockingly calls them "The America Haters.") They can and have given sermons in churches; they march in large cities holding placards for humanitarian aid. While they are quick to decry inequities in other countries what they conveniently ignore is that less than 1% of the present US population serves in the military. Much of the humanitarian aid they insist upon is delivered not by NGO's, but by soldiers from many countries.

Soldiers who are: nurses, doctors, medics, analysts, logicians, veterinarians, lawyers, social workers, chaplains, scientists, specialists, administrators, engineers, builders, and any number of positions you'd find here, but are also needed within.

So I have to say, their pleas do something for every circumstance are made in the abstract, never thinking themselves about going over in any capacity --whether governmental, private or with a NPO, and extending themselves into an unknown world. While we might say something on an official level, it's our promises that can end up causing rifts. Forcing this less than 1% of the population to do their bidding at making the world more equitable and just is hardly democratic.

Techno-Free Week?

We pulled into Columbus. Tomorrow we'll drop hubby off, and either stay here another night or proceed to St. Simon's Island for the week before flying back to home to California.

Georgia is a beautiful state. I have a perfectly lousy GPS named Helga who we call the "angry bitter woman," and gives bad directions. Usually Helga involves using paper maps and also her. Once she had me turning right into a forest. Another time, she told us a building was on the right, not the left. Today was no different.

Because of Helga's "blonde moments," we stumbled onto a small town with a little police department who gave us directions back to the 96. The lady in charge over there told hubby, "Good luck, Sir, and thank you."

Speaking of, it's been a time of people expressing their good wishes. Either in person (the Winn AH crew), in email (thank you Troy, Barry, Holly, Bee & Charlie, Wade, Howie & Tawny), and also my ailing uncle (retired Air Force) who called while we were driving to say, "God Speed."

After 20 years as a surgeon in private practice and battling every healthcare insurer and administrator hellbent on stripping away physicians' self esteem, it is NICE to be appreciated for what you do, and also to be serving populations that are truly deserving of the very best care. In case I haven't told you: hubby is in the top 1/2 of 1% in Medical Board Scores, he has been chair at 3 hospitals, he had one of the highest ranking amongst his peers in our region. Let's just say the AMEDD recruitment team made a coup when they chose him. But really? We feel blessed to be here.

This is my last post until I return to California. Hubby has taken his Mac!!! Arghhhhhh!!!!! Do I sense a Twitter meltdown? Or do I storm the public library at St. Simon's or drive all the way to the PX at Ft. Stew to buy that Mac? Oh, but the little cottage I rented has no internet! So that would mean I would be spending my ENTIRE week at the coffee shop? See, already I am stressing over be disconnected. Ah well. Ha ha. I guess I will pretend this is 1995. So all of you tuck in, hold tight, your spouses will be home soon. Thank you for your support. I'll email some of you with my phone number if ever you wanna talk.
xxx
Kanani

It's hot

If you want to read a Meme of 5 things I'm proud of go over to my other blog

I have to say that as the spouse of an Individual Augmentee, the deployment thing either seems easier or harder than it ought to be. The days are ticking by and I realize in a few days it'll be me and the teens. We will be in the same position so many of you are in right now. Can't call him to ask him how to do things, can't call him to ask his advice about our son, can't call him just to touch base. And I guess that's what all of you miss --those short moments of contact that reaffirm your relationship, and that you are a unit.

Anyway, it's so hot. I live in the west where the heat is scorching (it literally bubbles the paint off my house). Humidity is something I have experienced in Hawaii, but when you're not in it for a long time, it's just enervating.  Anyway, I find myself wanting to think and move in the California style --which is fast, but I can't. From my walking to thinking ...I'm in slow motion. And I can't get used to the AC, the hot and cold. 

There are lots of things to do. Shutting down the apartment, sending packages of treats and RUTS (Really useful things) to his APO address so that they are there when he arrives. And one last thing: buying him a Father's Day present and celebrating it early because he'll be gone.

Am I overwhelmed? Not yet. But close.

Traveling

I woke up yesterday in Los Angeles to the sound of a scavenger going through my recyclables left on the curb. I find this extraordinarily annoying given that they start a 1 a.m. So that was the start of my day, which consisted of flying on Delta to Atlanta. May I say that the interior of the Delta jets is extraordinarily ugly and plain? Those blue seats look like a Greyhound bus. And that food, which you have to pay for, is deplorable. Usually I bring pizzas on board, but we were rushing through LAX. Anyhoo, once at Hartfield, I ate collard greens at Paschal's in Concourse A. We had a stupid layover of 4 hours, then caught a connecting flight to Savannah.

As we were landing in Savannah the flight attendant did something different. She notified the passengers that there were several Marines on board, as well as other military personnel and families, and would everyone give them a hand?

I thought this was nice. This would never happen in California.
Anyway, today I'm kicking back. The weather is thick with humidity, which as a westerner, I find just gross. I have some pretty bad jet lag and I'll probably nap in the comfort of AC, then venture out later today to meet up with a realtor at 3 p.m.

I have access to a computer for the next few days. Then zip --nothing!
I'll try to take photos for those of you who have lived here before. Right now, though, I can't even figure out what to do with my hair.

Hiatus

For just a bit. Everything normal, everything good, just a load of work to catch up on.
Until then, enjoy this glimpse into my other world.

Lock and Load, Pray and Shoot

"I am bitterly clinging to guns and religion."

This is what was on the car in front of me as I drove home from the airport, having just dropped off hubby for his upcoming deployment. The lady with this plastered on her car, turned left into one of the local "rock and roll" fundamentalist churches. While this is a jibe at the under-processed words from the overly verbose President, trying to satirize it by taking his words to heart and putting it on one's car as a proclamation of self is equally short-sighted.

Yeah, I get it. I accept the right to bear arms as written in the Constitution. I remember growing up when everyone had a rifle for hunting. But in the context of today, the irony wasn't lost on me that this is precisely what the Taliban and other extremist groups aren't just saying, they're doing. And yet here was an American, who from what I could see enjoys the right to worship, drive (yes, in some countries women aren't allowed), and wear gobs of makeup (yes, it was noticeable from a distance). Let's not forget the freedom to express herself, even on the trunk of her white Honda civic.

And so I wondered about her church, and just what they're leaving out. I prefer not to mix God and guns, or in fact any deity and guns. But I wonder if the church that she goes to thinks this deeply, or if their preacher might have something to say about this. Frankly, this is exactly the mindset that our soldiers find themselves fighting right now. Such stereotypes of Americans can only fuel the madrasas, and also the extremists who truly believe the west is evil.


note: I got a long-winded email detailing the history of hillbillies and Appalachia...somehow justifying the driver's behavior. It doesn't apply here. This is southern California --not far from L.A. What I left out was that she also had stickers of handguns on her car. This isn't someone who grew up hunting. Handguns have only one purpose, and it's not hunting fowl or beast. While she probably would never murder an IRC worker, launch rockets into schools, plant IED's, it does seem she hasn't thought very deeply about what people in other parts of the world are doing to meet their religious needs. I have fundamentalists in my family --missionaries to be exact. I have no doubt they'd frown on this line of thinking. In fact, my cousins never talk politics at all. Instead, they work in the trenches doing good works in Mexico to avoid becoming "bitter."

This Isn't Disco. This Aint No Party.

At hours like this, I remember it being the last drink of the evening in some roaring disco and then, stumbling back to the apartment with my girlfriends, laughing over the evening's offerings or better yet, going out for breakfast.

But now, things have changed.
Imagine if you would, you have been working all day long. In the morning you went to Camp Pendleton to barbecue hot dogs for 342 Marines who have just finished their 5 day hike. You got through traffic to get home and clean for the party of 50 coming over tomorrow. At 11:15 you finally fall into bed. An hour later, happily sleeping, having forgotten the dog got left outside. This thought is tucked somewhere in the trenches of your subconsciousness until you hear the familiar bark.

Hubby mutters, gets up to let the dog in. El perro stupido runs up the stairs to see you. He rubs all over the blankets, all over you, and only then do you realize the bozo dog has been skunked.

So hubby throws the dog into the kitchen but it's too late. The blankets and sheets and whatever else the mutt has rubbed against emanates the stench of eau d' skunk. But you are so tired, you pass out --but not really because it absolutely stinks. Besides, the dog hasn't stopped barking. He's saying, "I stink!"

So at 1:15, you get up. You remember that last time you used straight vinegar on the dog after having bought expensive stuff at the pet store that did not work. The vinegar and water worked, however it did make the dog smell vaguely of potato salad. So you search through the cabinets, but unfortunately, you are out.

So you google amid the odiferous waves of oil d'skunk and find this recipe:
In a bath tub full of water mix:
1/8 cup hydrogen peroxide
1 cup baking soda
1 tsp. detergent
Oddly enough, you realize you have all of the above.

So at 1:20 you are hauling the 35 pound mutt up the stairs --never mind the stinkeroo is now on your nice new night gown. Yeah, the one you bought because hubby would like.

You proceed to wash the dog, wait the required 5 minutes to let the solution settle, and then it dawns on you that while the dog is washed, the carpets, walls, floors and furnishings all have the polish of glands 'o skunk.
And because you are having a party, you are resigned that yes, at 1:45 you will be mopping the floors, ordering your still awake teenager to take the house and spray down the yard, and well --hopefully going to bed after writing this post.

Lastly, imagine your spouse slept through the entire thing. You wonder if his olfactory nerves work at all. And then you realize ---skunk duty isn't his war.

The Gift

We talked at dusk, the dog pulling ahead as we made our way down the hill, the night air just a tad cooler than we would have liked, words lost as the countdown for his deployment nears. A car passed by, then a kid with a dog, and as we approached three houses in a row decorated with Tibetan Prayer flag to honor the life of our neighbor's son, my husband found the words.
"You know, I'm supposed to set certain things straight with you. I'm not supposed to leave anything unsaid."

I looked straight ahead, uncertain as to what we were supposed to say. Was this going to be a movie moment when the dog's leash is released and we fall into one another's arms? Or was it going to be a day of reckoning where every gripe is brought up, accusations are made, blame is affixed and apologized for?

And so I nodded, not knowing what to expect. Glad to let him take the lead in this conversation. I am, after all, past the point of movie moments in my life. There is a certain pragmatic streak in me --let's just get it done, which makes me seem at times like a slow-moving train in the night.

Our marriage has lasted at least 25 years, at times a careen through more dramarama than I care to recall. Simply put, we have loved and fought. Anyone with a marriage as long or longer than ours will have had those times when words were barely spoken, when the whole thing seemed like an impossible puzzle --one to be quietly put away for awhile. Times we look back at with a bit of regret.

The dog pulled in next to us as our pace slowed, and my husband told me what was on his mind.
"I need you to know what I want you to do if I'm captured," he said, describing what I was supposed to do, who I was to contact, what would happen, how I wasn't to speak to anyone.

This isn't what I expected. Not at all. I did not want to hear this, to think this. No, not now. I mean, I know bad things happen in wars. I may not watch TV, but my reading list is a model for intellectual self-flagellation. In other words, you don't want to know about bad things, so you read ridiculous amounts analysis and reports, hoping to intellectualize to keep the deeper feelings at bay. But all it does is leave you exhausted.
And so all I could manage after hearing his instructions was a feeble,"okay."

We walked a bit further as the dog moved forward, straining the leash, until my husband snapped him back into line. And then, he said of our son --the one who has taken almost all of our energy, my patience, the one I had to sue the school district over to get him services, so overwhelming at times, I felt shut down.
"I think I've done all I can for him," he said.

I slowed, watching him walk ahead. The pieces of the puzzles fell into place and it struck me that this wasn't an admission of defeat, no, he really has done as much as he can. Not only for our son, but for all of us. My husband is ready to move on in every sense of the word, to go to war knowing he did his best. This is probably one of the greatest realizations one could ever have.
While I could have felt very alone at that point, suddenly I felt very loved, and immensely grateful.

A Loss, And The Breezes Come To Us

Our response to the tragic demise of our neighbors' son was to go outside and do something. Jonny Copp was a world-class mountaineer, who died in an avalanche. My usually surly teens and I hung Tibetan prayer flags,* made by exiled nuns living in India. The breeze catches the mantras and sends them into the air we breathe and the space we inhabit.

In addition, we've hung the Tibetan flag, since the tragedy was on Mt. Gongga. The American flag is up because Jonny was an American, who worked toward making the world a better place.
Anyway, it was a good day to put them up for everyone.

As I write, the low notes of the chimes are ringing, the breeze has picked up and the flags are fluttering. The wind is blowing toward the house, and I smile as I imagine those I've known and loved playing with the breeze, sending the mantras our way. I'm also thinking of people who lived with purpose and clarity, bringing a fresh perspective to those they touched. I think of those who are impacted by war and violence, as well as my children, my husband and every Mil Spouse, family and reader of this blog.

Putting them up slowed us down. Working on it gave me pause to give thanks for all those whose sense of purpose brings meaning to my life. During this time of war, loss, and uncertainty, I try to remember our mission must surpass politics and tribal divisions. Rather, what we work for are the values promoted by the flags: peace, compassion, strength, and wisdom.

The prayer flags are the five small ones all in a row. They do not send prayers to the gods, but send good will, peace and compassion on the wind. You can order them from The Tibetan Nuns Project.

Notes on MilBloggers and Writing

My Work
I was writing on Jim Belshaw's blog about one of my favorite topics: writing. He was talking about obsessions, and though I never thought of writing in that way, I'd have to agree.

In order to write about anything well, one must be passionate about the topic. For instance, when I was writing my novel, the setting turned out to be where I'd grown up. I didn't know anything about the ecology, and so I set out to learn about it. While I didn't find out everything, I did find out what I needed. I read books, called and wrote organizations to take me out on boats to the river. A farmer even offered to take me on his helicopter. I bought plane tickets and flew up there, then rented a car and drove for hours along the banks of the Delta, driving over small metal bridges, along roads with breathtaking views of marshes. I took it all in, writing notes, becoming part of that world.

However, this isn't to say that one can't write well about anything they are being paid to do and not be totally in love with it. But even this requires a drive to learn, because without understanding the subtleties the writing devolves into bland clichés. Curiosity and learning are essential.

Which brings me around to MilBloggers. Once in awhile I come across one, who has:

• 1. A natural way of putting the words together in a unique way.
• 2. An innate understanding of rhythm. Writing is after all, an experiment in both sound and design. Both enhance intent.
  
• 3. They have the ability to write what they see and feel, in a way that transports the reader. As a result, their writing urges the reader to want more.
  
• 4. There's presence and energy to their writing. They are not expounding only on politics or policies, but sharing what is real and happening to them right now.
• These (plus others) add up to something we call in the creative industry: a voice. And when you have a voice, you know how to use it to call urgency, humor, sarcasm, or gentleness to any given situation you depict.

Yes, there are MilBloggers who have fabulous voices, and maybe they don't even realize it yet. I'm not going to tell you which ones they are because I don't want to induce any of them to thinking they are the next gift to the world of publishing.

I'm not sure whether or not they'll continue writing after their service is finished. Some will, others won't. It's not every person who writes that writing in itself becomes their lifeline. Jim writes about this on his blog, and I responded it to his article on mine, in The Screwed Up Life.

Having gone through creative writing programs, workshops, written for business, and more things I can think of, I've seen really good writers quit. And that's what will happen with some of the blogs I've been reading. I treat them all as ephemeral treasures. Writing takes tenacity. Writing is rewriting, and it is above all else, a calling. But for those who have a gnawing urge, writing is immensely rewarding and the bridge into new worlds that can become both sanctuary and lifeline.

Book Review: Sarah Chayes, A Modern Day Girlfriend For Indiana Jones

Gotta love a woman with messy hair

Okay. This woman will kick your butt. She could charm and stare down Bouhammer, America's 1st Sgt, UberPig, Uncle Jimbo, Gryph, Armed Liberal, Brandon Friedman and even that fake conservative Rush Limbnumb. At the end of it they'd all be writing her checks. If she were a milspouse she'd be my best friend. And probably anyone's who reads this blog.

I'm reading a fascinating book by Sarah Chayes, who I've featured in an interview with Charlie Rose a short while back. Her book, "The Punishment Of Virtue" is about her leap from NPR correspondent to an NPO founder, military adivsor and a local Afghani tribal observer, and post-Taliban reconstructionist. Chayse writes in an unpretentious, cards-on-the table kind of way. This book is the missing conversational link that helps people understand the generations-old system of tribal structures in a region we've heard little about. It helps us understand what we're facing. She illustrates why Afghanis put more faith in individuals than they do institutions, which is why the American approach of creating them is met with difficulty.

Two of Chayes's traits are her articulate manner and candor. She doesn't hesistate to describe the mendacity of the tribes in her surroundings, the sloth and self-isolation of reporters, the frustration of Marines who want to build a road. Chayes admits how in the early days, much of the reportage wrong because of the collective journalists's lack of understanding of both history and culture. We learn how her editor's biases at NPR killed reports on the subtleties (Marines wanting to be part of the solution and build a road), instead opting standard, humanitarian-in-a-can stories instead. While these are stories we like, they overlook other nuances that complete our understanding of the aforementioned history and culture. (Coincidentally, it's also the reason why milblogs are so great to follow).

When her assignment ended, Chayes quit NPR. She founded Afghans for Civil Society, the monies of which were raised in a very American way. She went home to Masachusettes, held a series of town hall meetings, talked about the work to be done, and got pledges from individuals. With this she founded her NPO:

"Afghans for Civil Society (ACS) seeks to bring about a democratic alternative for Afghanistan that opposes violence and extremism and encourages a nascent civil society."

In other words, ACS isn't mute when it comes to the political reconstruction of an area receiving heavy subsidies. ACS would, through practical efforts, work to influence a society away from the cycle of corruption and violence entrenched in its system of continual wars, governors and war lords. This deviates from the standard NGO, which subcontracts powerful lords to distribute the goods. The money they give often goes to line their pockets, while millions are left in poverty. There's little leverage used to demand better governance.

Crazy? Yes. Impossible? At times. Yet Chayes takes us along on the bumpy ride from Kabul to Kandahar and points north, south, east and west. We go with her to buy rock, only to discover that she can't, see her finagling her way to get it, only to have to bail people out of jail. She shows us how the locals duped the Army Civil Affairs Team into drilling two wells, when the team had just told Chayes they wouldn't give her a $1k subsidy to help ACS drill a well in the same village. How did the locals get the civil affairs team to do it? They changed the name of the town when they were pitching the project to the two visiting CA team members. We're with her as she discovers the entire region has collective PTSD. A society living amid war and destruction for generations, and one that when it comes to subsidies knows how to best milk the system for the benefit of the few.

Substitute Sarah Chayes For Marian

We meet the cast of characters: the proud, the noble, the charmingly corrupt, and the all out vicious. Through it all is the unflappable American, Sarah Chayes, who by all accounts would be Indiana Jones's Marian Ravenwood had Marian sold Stilton in a cheese store, leapt into reporting on food in Paris, covered the war in Kosovo, and had showdowns with Afghans like Abdullah, the Karzai family's engineer (who is now her de-facto deputy). All in all, this is a woman to be watched and a book that deserves to be read.

Note: As with my day-to-day blog, Easy-Writer I'll be doing book reviews. If you're an author, please ask your agent or publicist to request to send me an ARC. I'll read the synopsis and see if it's something I want to read. If so, I'll accept it via US Mail. All book reviews will be archived over on the sidebar. If you seem truly interesting, I might even interview you via the phone (or in person) as I did on my literary writers blog, The Writerly Pause.

A Novelist's Dream: Major Steve Hutchison

My toughest editor, Panda, who watches me as I finish this 58,000 word MS

Writing fiction is a funny thing. It requires a fair amount of manipulation, while trying to be spontaneous at the same time. Creating characters with full lives is a challenge. And all too often ours pale when compared to the real thing.

I came across a dynamic man who was a novelist's dream. His name was Major Steve Hutchison. He re-enlisted in the Army after having been retired for 17 years. During this time he earned advanced degrees in Psychology, became a university professor, met the love of his life and was by her side through her cancer (which she would die from), worked in corporate health care and then decided to re-join the Army. He was deployed to Iraq. Anyway, sad thing is that he died from the wounds of an IED. While the press gave him the distinction of being the oldest soldier killed at age 61, amid his peers they didn't think about his age, but loved him for his unfailing leadership coupled with pranks.

"He’d often strut to the shower in nothing more than tighty-whiteys, even with females around. When he passed younger soldiers on runs, he did so in non-regulation short-shorts, with pride. He never, ever secured his chin strap on his Kevlar helmet.

Once, he was so mad at the Army’s attention to uniform detail, he didn’t wear a T-shirt to a base ceremony.

"That was awesome," Nestor said. "Man, I laughed so much that day. He didn’t take any BS."

In one of his biggest capers, he adopted a dog. A stray crossed his path and from then on, Hutchison brought it scraps from breakfast, lunch and dinner. He wrote a memo authorizing the dog as a member of the unit and requesting it get shots from the base’s vet. He signed it himself.

Soon his boss, Col. Warren Perry, learned of the transgression. Hutchison merely did what so many soldiers do when caught breaking the rules: He lied.

He said he’d get rid of the dog, but he found the pooch a foster home. It didn’t work out. When he sneaked the dog — he’d named it Princess Leia — back on base, Perry was back on his case.

"I said, ‘They can only make you retire again, sir,’" Rieckmann said with a laugh."

So let's recount all the interesting things: the college professor, the love of his life, losing her, the tighty whiteys, the issuing of a memo, the lying to a superior, the dog named Princess Leia. The fact that a dog is added into the mix punches the reader in the gut. That it's all true, is simply inspiring.

In the final analysis you can say, "Gosh, I really like this guy. He's watchable. I wish I had known him." It's every writer's dream.
Princess Leia arrived from Basra on June 1. (She is now living in Michigan with his friends. Was transported by the SPCA International) Read: Loved Ones Meet Fallen Soldier's Dog | WUSA9.com | Washington, DC |

Read the rest of the fine article at Stars and Stripes.
And check out Baghdad Pups, the efforts through SPCA International that makes bringing home dogs a possibility. The cost to do so is around 4k per dog. But these dogs offer great comfort to the soldiers while they are there, and become their touchstone. So if you can, give them a few bucks.