True Tales of Leave: PART ONE

Something a little different. The following is not my normal narrative, but rather my journal-like/novel style writing. I hope you enjoy. Feedback is always appreciated.

Bearded Gay Bodyguards and the Plight of a Sore Snowboarder and other True Tales of Leave: A look inside the three-week travels and exploits of a soldier on leave from Iraq.

28FEB2007

I’m running around as usual, trying to take care of last minute bullshit. Everyone needs something for some reason. My graphic design skills and military prowess are being put to the test at the zero hour and I’m trying my best to fulfill all orders. It’s not happening smoothly and I’m reminded that this has been my life for as long as I can remember; Everything, all at once, at the very last possible minute. Some things never change, no matter how old you get.

My leave brief is at 19:15 (known as 7:30 p.m. to those not in the know). I look at my watch and realize I have an hour. I’m pretty much packed and it’s kind of silly how hard it is to unhook all my gadgets…It’s like I’ve lived here forever.

I start to get weird nervous. I’m thrust into leave, not even really wanting to take it. I think about how hard it will be, I think that it will take away my “edge,” and needlessly burden my wife with a second good-bye. I worry about my soldiers and my partner in crime, Ken. We run the show at my job and I know that he is more than capable in handling it…but still…It’s like leaving your children.

I go to the leave brief. It’s the usual gayness. We run through the info; where we’re going, how we’re getting there and the rings of fire and dragons we must slaughter to reach the gates of the homeland. Then the guy in charge darts his eyes to the nearest E-6 in the room and appoints him in charge of the manifest (making sure everyone is present and accounted for at all times).

Even though there are several people that outrank E-6 present in the room, E-6 is and always will be the middle rank that can handle the workload of higher responsibility since E-5 and below is considered not quite ready and E-7 and above are too responsible to worry about such issues.

I turn out to be that E-6. Bullocks.

I read off the manifest and tell everyone that I’m only going to read it one more time. Big boy rules apply. You miss your flight then you miss your flight. I’ll still sleep like a baby in my wife’s arms. It’s on you. Surprisingly, everyone is happy about this. The less the control and formations and accountability the better.

We wait.

We wait at the LZ (landing zone) for our aircraft to pick us up. We are given a time that they are supposed to arrive but I’m told that they are always late.

They’re an hour late. Everyone falls in suit and I have no worries as we get on the bird and fly to our next destination.

Baghdad. The Airport. We funnel into the “terminal” and begin the process of letting someone else figure out what the fuck to do with us. I call off manifest one more time, as promised. Everyone’s there. It’s in their hands now.

The Airport is chaos. Transient’s everywhere. Everyone going every which way. No one knowing what’s going on.

Drama begins. Turns out the manifest is wrong. We are not on the correct list. We’re too early. There is no record of us. At all. They have a future manifest of people coming at the end of the month. That’s it.

In short, we are told that we are screwed. This has never, in the history of Operation Iraqi Freedom, ever happened. For some reason, since I was appointed manifest bitch, I feel the need to stick around, take responsibility and figure out how to get things right. I get the assistance from a 1SG (First Sergeant) that is traveling with us and that I know fairly well.

I let him do his thing. Rank has its privileges. And advantages. There are some people you just don’t want to butt heads with. 1SG and above qualifies as such people.

I sleep. On the floor in a waiting tent. The tent is packed with people in transit. Some are on laptops using wireless Internet, some sleep, some watch movies on the cheap big screen TV at the center of the room. They’re playing “Down with Love” which I’ve never seen and have no desire to see, but somehow I still know that it’s playing. I sleep. On the floor, in the dirt.

I check back with the E-6 that is trying to figure out our dilemma. We call back to base. We pull every string we have. We wait. I sleep again.

I wake up and move back to the E-6 in charge of our mess. I am told to check with someone else, somewhere else. I do. A female E-5 at a desk asks me how many people I have and where we’re going. She has a flight. She is anxious to get us on the flight. It’s her job. Filling seats.

I note that she is attractive, even though she looks beat and tired and worn down in the way that the Army wears you down. No matter what sex you are, if you actually work in this Army you will acquire this look at some point during your deployment. If you ride a desk you will no doubt look like you rode a desk.

The female E-5 squabbles with a male E-5 who seems to think he’s in charge and it’s too late because we’re already manifested. They start talking about lists and how things are “supposed” to be done and I realize that this always seems to be the case, especially in the Army.

There is always a way that things are “supposed” to be done, a protocol that “must” be followed. And to the outsider looking in you always seem to wonder, “Why can’t they just fucking do it?”

As if we could take over that person’s job and do it for them to meet our end result and look back at them with a “was that so hard” glare. In most cases, this would be true.

We get everyone on a flight to Kuwait. Everyone except four of us. I’m one of the four. For some reason the four that didn’t get on this particular flight are all from the same battalion. We all know each other. Weird.

We go get a coffee and go to their ramshackle PX. Every overseas PX (meaning “deployment” PX) has the same shit. The same magazines, the same towels, the same OIF t-shirts, the same portable DVD players, shitty selection of “new” DVD’s, and the same choice of beverage.

I buy nothing. I have everything there.

We sleep. On picnic benches. I’m already jetlagged and all I did was ride on a helicopter. This is going to suck.

We catch a flight for later. It’s on a C-130 and we pack it in. Normally, when I’m getting in a C-130 it’s in order to jump out of it. We’d be air landing for sure, so I didn’t fret. However, the ride itself made me queasy as the mix of cold and hot air blowing on me turned me into a 55-year-old woman going through menopause. Only without the ovaries.

You get the idea.

We land. In Kuwait. We get on a bus. I have to pee so bad I can taste it. However, with my superior military training I have mastered the art of holding my bladder. For hours. And I mean hours. I suffer. My traveling companion, Stephen, is having a similar problem. He suffers as well, only not so silently.

The bus ride is long. I am trying to fathom where the fuck we’re going and I don’t understand. I see no civilian airplanes. I see fences and desert and a massive military base.

This is Ali As Saleem. Kuwait.

We make it to a building where we are instructed to go to. We enter and are greeted by female E-4’s (yes, I have to point out the sex…stay with me, this will be long). They look like they’ve been riding a desk. They have.

One of them gets on a microphone and walks us through the process we must endure to get home from there. It is tedious, but necessary. I suppose.

We are released until the next day when our flight is to leave in the evening. We get itineraries for our entire trip, from start to finish. I keep counting the days in my head, hoping to squeeze an extra day or two into my leave. So far the math only gives me one extra day. I still continue to count, hoping for a different number. It comes up the same every time. Fuck.

We are released. To a tent. We drop off our gear and explore the strip. The strip has a McDonalds. We’re all starving, having not eaten anything since Kuwait. I get a Quarter Pounder and fries. It’s not heaven, but it’s at least purgatory.

I’ve been here before. On my way to Iraq the first time. I go to the Internet center and hook up my laptop. I talk to the wife. She’s excited. For the first time, so am I.

I drag myself back to the tent and curl up with my small blanket that only covers my bottom half. At least I’m on a mattress. And on the bottom bunk. I sleep.

Our itinerary doesn’t begin until later in the evening. I have an entire day to waste. How to waste it? I don’t bother with the Internet. Everything is packed already. I eat McDonalds again. I move to a covered area with picnic tables. It’s super windy and annoying because of it. The fries are crunchy and I like them soft. Small birds crowd me, as if to rob me. Relax, they just want the fries. I give them up. Everyone is happy.

I make the rounds, the PX, the shitter, then back to the tent. I play games on the computer. My three traveling companions are finally up and about and we go to the chow hall for lunch. It’s terrible. I would’ve preferred McDonalds again. There are many Australian army personnel here, including females. A lot of them. My traveling companions and me take notice, as it is uncommon for us. Our base has fewer than ten females. There are thousands of males.

One of my companions says that he’d marry one of the female Aussies. There is no proposal on the way out.

FREE TIP: It’s all talk ladies. From the majority of us, anyway. So, take it easy, eh?

We wait some more. We sleep. And finally, we congregate and wait for the next phase of painful movement. We get on a bus. Again. The airport we’ll be taking off from is nearly two hours away. I watch South Park on my iPod. Then, I sleep.

We arrive at the airport. Thankfully, we waste no time. From bus to plane, directly. Thank you, Jesus.

Airborne. We are in a big ass clunker of a plane and on our way. I am in the middle row, sitting next to a female E-4 (see how I did that again?). She makes small talk, asking about my patches. I explain. I watch the in-flight movie “Invincible.” I note how strange it is that I like football movies a lot but not the professional game at all. Perhaps all the dramatics are best captured in a two-hour story rather than an entire afternoon.

In five years I’ll probably be hosting football parties.

I sleep, I eat in-flight meals, I listen to my iPod, and I pray for a quick turnaround.

Germany. They bus us to a terminal where there is a bevy of mini-food courts and a small “German” shop, that sells every sort of thing you’d expect from Germany. Beer mugs and candy underwear. And nude playing cards. I couldn’t make this up.

All of the food seems very stale and hard. They have fresh made sandwiches and doughnuts and pastries and while it all looks good, it’s not. It’s like the plastic toy food that little girls get in order to learn how to be a Betty Crocker and you pick it up and smile and look around, wondering if anyone else finds it amazing how real this plastic pancake looks and how you want to take a bite out of it.

Yeah, so that’s the food at the German airport. Betty Crocker Plastic Chow.

We take off again. Destination: Atlanta. More of the same. Sleep, iPod, Read, Movie, Eat, Sleep, Patch Explanation, Sleep, Eat.

Land.

We are in the U.S. My head is spinning. I have no concept of what time it is or how long it’s been since I’ve been on a schedule. We are filtered along to get our leave forms stamped and sent along our merry connecting flight way.

We meander through the airport. People stare. A lot. Men and women in uniform. They’re real. They aren’t just those guys on CNN that are always yelling and shooting things and wearing all that crazy gear.

Random people stop, shake my hand. Tell me thanks for my service, etc. I am proud, but embarrassed at the same time, but don’t know why. I don’t have a pre-loaded response…it’s usually just “thank you,” even though they just thanked me.

Like when you’re at the movies and the concessionaire says, “Thanks, enjoy your show,” I always feel compelled to say, “Thanks, you too.” Then you walk away, feeling like a moron.

The layover isn’t long. I’m on my way to O’Hare in no time. My old stomping grounds. The plane is small. Almost like a biplane. The flight attendant, a tall black woman, gives the rundown and I wonder if I’m losing my mind because she’s saying things like “Don’t attempt to use your cell phone while we are in the air or I will confiscate it. I have lots of nieces and nephews that need Christmas gifts,” and “For you smokers there is only one authorized area for smoking and that is on the wing of the plane, so good luck.”

The flight is short.

In my daze of stupor I wander out of the secure area and back out to the main terminal. Now, I have to go back in, through security. Fuck.

I make my way through and as I get up and take off my boots and download my laptop and make a stool and semen sample real quick, I find that I am beeping through the walkway. I go back through. I beep again.

“You sure did it now,” is the vibe I get. Move over to this area. Stand up with your arms outstretched. A kid scans me and pats me down. I think about what he’s doing. I think about what all the other soldiers in the very same uniform I’m wearing at this moment are doing in Iraq and Afghanistan right now and it’s this exact same thing, only it’s reversed.

I feel like an insurgent. I don’t expect special treatment as a soldier, but how about a little professional courtesy? They thank me for my service as I walk away and all I can say is “Yeah.”

Putting my boots back on all I can think of is the tragic irony. Getting through airport security is almost enough to validate the war. I can’t even walk through the airport, a U.S. soldier, without being suspect. I almost think this is enough to fight terrorism. I am a suspect in my own country which I am deemed to protect.

Fuck you, terrorists.

I get a cheeseburger. I have a Diet Coke. I calm down.

I use the Internet. I read. I shop. I wander. I watch. I stare. I stare at the ceiling and open my mouth and groan at how slow it’s all going.

Finally, I board a plane to Alaska. It’s a long flight. I drink some cranberry juice and fall immediately asleep. I sleep almost the whole flight. Butterflies kick in my stomach as we land. I start to get excited and don’t allow myself to start a countdown.

The countdown is the worst. Most of us do it. I think. I hope. I can’t be the only one. When there is a deadline of some sort, I start to countdown. I want to know where I stand so that I can measure if I have more or less time in my favor. After the math is computed, I rationalize my time; “Fifteen days…plenty of time. I got it made,” and then “Seven days. That’s a week. A whole week still,” and then “Two days. That’s two more nights that I sleep in my bed and wake up in my house. You can do a lot in two days,” and then “Nine hours. I could watch a movie. Two movies. I could lie on the couch. I could even take a nap and still have time,” and then “Fuck. Time’s up.”

I hate the countdown. It rules my life only when things are good. When I’m in Iraq there is no countdown. I simply wake up and start moving and that’s it. One day we will pack up our shit and leave. That’s my countdown. It will just happen.

I walk off the plane. I’m nervous. I’m excited. You never know what to expect when you see your loved one. Time and distance will do a lot to you. Sometimes you forget their voice. You forget how they move. How they talk. Their mannerisms. You forget what isn’t common. You forget what is so great.

And then, when you see them, if you’re lucky, it all comes back.

And I see her. And I never left.

We embrace, we kiss. We do this again and again. She is crying, but with a smile on her face. I can deal with this.

I put my arm around her and we walk out, slowly. I feel as if I have just completed this huge, epic adventure. And I have. I have followed the tumultuous rainbow and here I am. This is my pot of gold.

END OF PART ONE


Join me for PART TWO, coming later this week (hopefully...I swear!)

BEST and WORST of 2006

WHat So, I’ve had a little pressure to post my "best of list", and well, it’s mid-way through February, but what the hell. Here it is. Enjoy.

The Departed – Martin Scorsese’s epic remake crosses the tracks from the mean streets to the green streets with an Irish-American gangster film that will leave you guessing until the very last frame. It is an exercise in precise and intelligent filmmaking with a cast that becomes the characters they portray. Personality and the quick and unexpectedness of violence make this film shine even beyond its already solid script and perfectly streamlined aesthetics. Scorsese, for the first time, delivers a film that is accessible to modern filmgoers while never sacrificing his filmmaking integrity. A powerhouse.

Blood Diamond – Just as he has done in every film (including the aforementioned “Departed”) DiCaprio “becomes” his own character, alive and original in this politically themed actioner. Director Ed Zwick (The Last Samurai, Glory) continues to prove that he’s not a by-the-numbers filmmaker, providing us with a taught story, infused action sequences, a political message (albeit an unexpected one) and still manages to pull some outstanding performances from his cast, especially DiCaprio and co-star Dijimon Hinsjou. An excellent score by James Newton Howard rounds out this visceral experience, which almost feels like a throwback to a Bogart-esque era film.

Borat – I predicted this would either be huge or fall flat. I’m glad it was the latter. This surpassed even my expectations as THE comedy to see in 2006. Having already been a fan of Sasha Baron Cohen’s “Ali G Show,” I knew we were in for a treat from as a true comedian. Not only does he pull out the laughs, but, much like South Park, brings out the social commentary as well. It's like America being caught with its pants down and there’s nothing funnier than someone calling you out and making an ass out of you. The fact that Cohen was able to stay in character for so long and in so many real-life situations is a tribute to the man as a comedian. However, Borat doesn’t become a U.S.A. bashing film, but rather has fun with our own idiosyncrasies and giving us a character to cheer for even when you’re staring at his naked, hairy ass.

Apocalypto – Say what you will about Mel Gibson (what’s going on with all these actors I grew up with?) but the man is not only a talented actor, but now a three-times proven outstanding filmmaker. Building on the template he’s laid for himself with the classic “Braveheart,” Gibson takes us into another world, another time, and doesn’t preach history, but rather takes us on an action/adventure ride filled with culture, vision, and true cinematic flair. This is an original and exhilarating film and it never fails to give us a glimpse of something we haven’t seen on film before, weather it be hastily made blow darts from a poisoness frog or the ancient sacrificial ceremonies of the Mayan empire, this is something engaging and original. Gibson is a filmmaker to watch and I eagerly look forward to whatever he brings to the table in the future.


Casino Royale – Despite Brosnan being a great Bond, the previous outings (Goldeneye not included) felt a little overly kinetic and drawn out with not enough development beyond its toys and trinkets. Sometimes it takes starting over to get things right again (Batman Begins anyone?). And what a difference it makes. Daniel Craig brings a tough and chiseled presence to the Bond franchise, while also showing a more physically adept 007 as well. Roger Moore was always a little too stiff and Brosnan was able to pull off the stunts but never did any of them look as convincing as Craig. Giving us the first Bond tale ever was an excellent idea and invites an entire new audience to get into the mix without chastising them for not already being in the club. Some great action sequences from director Campbell, who has been here before (Goldeneye), and seems to be forming up into a very formidable action director. Depth, action, character, and freshness bring Bond back in a big way. Jason Bourne is no longer competing with a dinosaur.

Children of Men – Alfonso Cuaron’s epic tale of the near future, which shows what becomes of the world when humans can no longer have children, is probably the most visionary film of the year. Clive Owen is impressive as always, playing a drunk ex-activist forced into helping deliver a miraculously pregnant woman to a safe zone where, along with her child, can begin to repopulate the world. The supporting cast and characters are all outstanding and Cauron stages his world of the future in such a believable and realistic way that you have to wonder how he did it. The film feels almost like a fairy tale in its settings and oddball characters and yet is strikingly violent at times, giving it a darker edge. Watch for the continuous, uncut sequences that put DePalma to shame. This film is kinda brilliant.

Mission: Impossible 3 – On another “say what you will about so-and-so” note, Cruise delivers his best of the MI films in writer/director J.J. Abrams action-spy thriller. Starked in quirky originality and fast paced, cool-guy action sequences, Abrams brings freshness to his vision of the franchise (most likely the last with Cruise) and gives us the best action film of the year. All the elements for success are lined up here and everyone pulls their weight, making nothing less than a rock-solid entry into the action-spy genre. (See my lengthier review below).

United 93 – The most powerful film of 2006 undoubtedly belongs to “United 93”. Director Paul Greengrass (Bourne Supremacy) took great pains and measure to portray the final hours of the doomed flight in a realistic, honest, and non-exploitive way. Kudos to all involved in this film, from the actors that portrayed the passengers, the air control, and even the terrorists. It takes guts to make a film of this magnitude and it leaves a lasting impact long after the credits roll. (See my lengthier review below).

Little Miss Sunshine – The most fun and original film of 2006, this offbeat family road trip film is filled with family dysfunction and in depth characters to boot. What may seem like your run-of-the-mill road trip movie is actually a grown up coming of age story involving people of all ages. The hijinks throughout left me rolling with laughter and many performances moved me at the same time. (Wait…what does “move” me even mean). Many times I found myself predicting the worst but not feeling the filmmakers had the balls to pull it off…and then they did. Great stuff. This is a film you could watch anytime, which speaks volumes.
Hilarious and touching.

Déjà vu – Hey, I’m a Tony Scott fan, what can I say. The only time he ever did wrong was “The Fan” and he’s more than redeemed himself for that. The screenwriters cried about Scott changing the script and although I haven’t been able to take the Pepsi challenge on this one, the film felt on par with the best in the sci-fi thriller genre. Denzel Washington is at his usual best here, playing a cop that finds a way to travel in a limited amount of time to catch a killer. Fast-paced, fun, original (but not TOO much), and with the signature Tony Scott-isms that we have come to appreciate and love over the years make this film an absolute blast. Although clogged with some holes, this is still a great, fun, and clever action Sci-Fi film that hits all the right notes and then some. Added bonus: Harry Gregson-Williams score, another knockout from a composing genius.

Honorable Mentions:

Miami Vice – Michael Mann’s vision of the 80’s show was harshly judged and left to the slaughter, but thankfully critics and viewers alike are starting to recognize the vision that it is now that it’s on DVD, with a director’s cut to boot. Mann does not disappoint.

The Hills Have Eyes – The best horror film of 2006, French director Alexandre Aja takes this remake and jolts it to life with flinching violence and taught suspense. This is what good horror is made of. Although not perfect, this is still ten times better than the original and it’s great to see a horror filmmaker not play it safe for the sake of a rating.


Thank you for Smoking – Brilliance all around in this wordy caper about an exec, played by Aaron Eckart, that backs the tobacco industry. An excellent script is done justice by a stellar cast that showcases both the American tobacco industry, Hollywood, as well as many other organizations, and gives us a comedic social commentary that, for once, doesn’t preach to us, but rather tells it like it is.

Brick - Another notch in the murder/mystery genre for this top-rate film that unravels the mystery of a girls death with teenagers in a modern day setting but with 50’s era dialogue. Great stuff, and with the actors delving so deep into characters that are so out of the norm, this is a film that will leave you confused, interested, and engaged throughout. Joseph Gordon-Levitt proves that he is ready for the big leagues, giving a performance well beyond his "3rd Rock" days.


Over the Hedge – Now that Hollywood is churning out the Pixar-ish animated films at a dime a dozen, it’s come time to separate the good from the trash. Here, thankfully, is the good. Brilliant and vibrant animation brings the “Hedge” comic strip to life with a playful and adventurous story. What really tips the hat in the audiences favor is the voice actors that have a blast voicing their respective characters. Bruce Willis is particularly great as the lead character. This is certainly a “fun for all ages” kind of film, but seriously, I never thought I’d enjoy it as much as I did. Hopefully, my future children will drag me to more of these than to the millions of “Ant Bully’s” out there.

Superman Returns A devout (which doesn't mean I loved the character just for the sake of it) Supes fan, I felt this film did great justice to the character (while still taking some liberties) and brought Superman back to the masses, but ultimately failed todeliver on the action front. Director Bryan Singer (X-Men) has promised a more action-oriented sequel and thankfully so. At – least he got us on track, now it’s time to get down to business.

World Trade Center – The second entry into the 9/11 accounts is no less powerful and thought provoking. Your heart rate will beat at an abnormal rate and your mind can’t help but linger back to that day and reinvigorate those emotions as you watch Oliver Stone’s well made, and well-acted chronology of two trapped police officers inside one of the fallen towers. Emotional and powerful.






The Protector (a.k.a. Tom Yong Gong) – Amazing. That’s the only way to describe Tony Jaa’s martial arts choreography in this kinetic and eye-popping action film that follows a man tracking down his baby elephant. No, seriously. The action scenes go on for 15 minutes or longer at a time and some of them with ZERO cuts, which leaves you in awe of Jaa’s abilities and presence. A force to be reckoned with.

Rocky Balboa – Everyone loves an underdog and I think that Stallone moreso than his character of Rocky plays that role here. Many and eye was rolled when mention of another Rocky film was made, but Stallone has proven himself to still be a formidable writer, actor, and director with this final entry into the Italian Stallion’s tale. Filled with great monologues and a fitting wrap up to the franchise, this film could be watched after the original Rocky and stand alone as the only sequel to the film. Great work and a great comeback for Stallone.

Babel – Interwoven stories of the confusion, violence, and fear that is caused when people of different languages and cultures collide, Babel is a strong and scary film, which certainly doesn’t encourage you to travel abroad (but seriously, WHY would you want to go to some of these places?) but also dives deeper into the emotional distress of not being understood and how victims are created out of this confusion as lives are shattered as a result. Nail-biting throughout.

Little Children – Todd Fields gives his second film another bout of originality, this time featuring a voice over that reads from the book throughout the film it is adapting (got all that?). A smart and talented cast round out this film about the secret lives that supposed “ordinary” people lead and the repercussions of them. Much like “Babel” this is a film that you can’t predict and you can only imagine the worst, but you may be surprised by the actual outcome. Kudos to Thomas Newman for another great score.


Inside Man – The smartest heist movie made since David Mamet’s “Heist” is a another nod to Denzel Washington and Clive Owen respectively. A tight script and unpredictable story is given an urban feel, both with suspense and comedy, as Spike Lee takes a break from preaching and takes a stab at filmmaking. Entertaining, solid, and unpredictable. The way a good heist movie should be.

Give me my time and money back

Bloodrayne – Made with a SVHS camera crap.

Ultraviolet – Who thought Matrix-style action could be made boring? Who thought that even Milla Jovovich could be just as bad?

Slither – Waste of talent and potential. Teases us with a genuine entry into the horror genre and turns out to be more of the same.

The Benchwarmers – Holy fuck, please, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just don’t make me watch “Benchwarmers” again, PLEASE!!”

Scary Movie 4 – Hang it up. It’s done.

American Dreamz – Message to Paul Weitz. You made American Pie. Also, your political views have the resonance of an MSNBC headline story that you read after checking your hotmail. Thanks for the garbage. We’ll clean it up.

The Sentinal – How the fuck did Jack Baeur get boring? Keifer Sutherland took a wrong turn out of “24” and stumbled onto this paycheck with Michael Douglas trying to be an action star again and forgot to do anything new or original. Don’t forget your caffeine pills for the action sequences.

Silent Hill – The director of the awesome “Brotherhood of the Wolf” decides to quit making cool shit and give us some extremely Unhorrifying crap that severely disappoints due to the talent involved. Back to the drawing board, kids.

Running with Scissors – Fuck this gay opus on Augusten Burroughs life. I’m sorry, but this is an exercise in homosexual boredom. Plus, perfect opportunity to show Evan Rachel Woods tits. But, the protagonist is gay. Even Brokeback Mountain gave us some gratuitous female nudity.

Eragon – Piece of crap Harry Potter wannabe without a SHRED of originality.

We Are Marshall – Holy melodrama and disgustingly bad wardrobes, Batman. This is just plain achingly sappy and dull. Waste of celluloid.

Power to the (i)Pod, People!

Yes, yes, I’ve been gone for…a while. Get over it. To throw out the old clichés…I’ve been so busy, it’s been crazy, or, one of my old faves, I just haven’t had time…

Well, those all apply, but I’ll also add in that I’ve been lazy and unmotivated to knock out a blog. SO sue me.

So, I can imagine that we’d all like to hear about how many people I’ve killed and how many bombs I’ve dodged and “what’s it like” style questions, but, for the purposes of OPSEC (Operational Security) and to keep me in the good graces of UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice…jeez, I’m gonna have to do this a lot) I’m going to abstain from the gory details and stick to what I can talk about.

So…what can I talk about?

IPods.

Let’s start with the ipod video and the digital revolution in general and how it has affected this deployment (Oh, yeah, I’m in Iraq…in case you’re just passing through…yes, yes…at war…no shit).

So, what is a digital revolution you ask? Well, it’s not the fucking Matrix if that’s what you’re thinking. Rather, it is the movement of all information and technology from paper to computer.

And nothing is more affected by this than one of the most widely used types of entertainment by United States Army personnel: PORNO.

Yes, gone are the days of rolling up that copy of Swank you scored out of the men’s shitter three days ago (it wasn’t THAT tattered), stuffing it down your pants and awkwardly moving your way to the port-a-john for a little personal attention that can only be found in the privacy of such a place.

That means whacking off, people.

Anyways, instead of rolling up that magazine and taking the risk of getting caught by your peers and ridiculed for the obvious when you are seen with an unnatural bulge inside your shirt, you can now easily stuff a small device, roughly the size of your wallet, deep into your cargo pocket and make your way to the port-o-john without any problems at all.

And WHOA to the imagination! The possibilities!

Forget about dragging a DVD player or a laptop into that motherfucker, let alone a magazine. It’s all on the ipod! I’m talking full PORNO movies in DVD quality (granted, the screen is like a plasma TV for a mouse, but still, we’re flexible). DUDE. The revolution is here.


This is all made possible by the ingenuity of some genius out there that has created some awesome software that allows you to burn DVD’s onto your ipod. So, not only do you have pocket porno, you also have full-length movies. Seriously. Are you getting all this?

All information travels through thumb drives and external hard drives. Every soldier, large and small, has a damn external hard drive. And on every one of these hard drives you will find a massive amount of porn, no doubt put together by the devil himself to create the ultimate digital media library of sin that will absolutely secure you a spot in hell.

The file sharing is immense. I have little doubt that you will find the exact same files on every external hard drive. From the lowest ranking private to the battalion commander, I’m sure that Amateur Creampies Volume 2 is sittin’ pretty on every one of these guys drives.

And so be it!

Let it be known that we were all briefed that pornography was BANNED in Iraq. You could not bring it and cannot have it.

Seriously. Did they forget that they are sending MEN away for a YEAR? (Okay, and a few chicks…but that’s a whole other topic…we’ll get there) Away from women and weekends and strip clubs and wives and chicken wings and beer, etc? And you’re gonna take away his right to masturbate, too? Are you fucking kidding me?

In that same brief they advised we use condoms while in country.

Uhhhh, did I miss something? How is it you can use condoms but you can’t look at porn and take care of business with Mrs. Rosy Palm (oh yes, she’s married). Does that mean that it’s okay for the OVER 50 percentile of men that are MARRIED to have an extramarital affair as long as they use a condom but they can’t jack off to some amateur creampies Volume 2??

Let’s break out the calculator and building blocks and put this one together…

Yep, results are in…it doesn’t fucking add up!

All right. I’m calm. Are you calm? Let’s continue…

So, Iraq. Yeah, yeah, I’m not gonna go into the political climate here, that’ll come later, and yes, I’ve got A LOT to say. Let’s talk about the actual climate.


Well, it smells like poop most of the time and there is trash everywhere and most of the people are friendly, but extremely lazy…so, yeah, it’s a lot like living in a trailer park. Sorry if I offend any of you that DO live in a trailer park…but seriously, pick up your trash, clean your septic tanks, and get a fucking job, because you don’t ever want to be compared to these people.

I’m all for these guys getting their shit together and taking their country back, but, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, it’s gonna take a lot more than U.S. involvement to do that. It’s going to take them getting off their lazy asses and taking the bitch back. There is a reason Saddam was in power for so long. It could not be more clear at this point.

Fuck, you just made me get political. Ah, well.


Anyways…compared to my prior deployment to Afghanistan, the living conditions are much, much better…the fighting conditions are much, much worse. So it goes. No, I’m not going to elaborate. Buy my book in a few years.

The advent of the webcam and Internet chat and our dependency and desire for the Internet in general has became an Army-wide campaign. While in Afghanistan we had about 6 DSN phones and 2 slower-than-dial-up computers for over 1400 soldiers to use. (Although, they beefed it up just before we left). Now, we have wireless Internet in our rooms. Now we can chat, see our significant other and flash our humps, bumps, and pointy sticks at one another and no one will be the wiser. For some, this is just like being at home.

Except there are bombs.

Most people work out and watch bootleg DVDs, which, thankfully are in abundance here. I don’t know what I’d do, being the movie FREAK that I am, without the beautiful presence of pirated DVDs. It is amazing how fast these guys get the new flicks. I’m talkin’ five to ten days and I will be watching Smokin’ Aces (along with all the other people present in the audience at that time). That’s pretty badass for a guy like me. Even though it was recorded with a camcorder.

However, I have gotten quite lucky as of late, seeing as awards season sees the rush of Award Screener copies of movies deemed of such grace. This is splendid for me (did I just say fucking splendid?) and I’m able to enjoy these movies in DVD quality.

Another change for me was a jump in rank, which has taken me to a level I never thought I’d make it to in the U.S. Army. E-6 (Staff Sergeant) always seemed like such a big, unattainable rank when I first came in and looking back at the E-6’s that have come and gone before me, I now see that the difference is all in your own perspective.


The only real difference, aside from pay and position, when you move up in rank is the ability to tell people of the same rank to fuck off. That’s right, the true power comes in telling people that outranked you yesterday to go outside and play hide and go fuck themselves today. It can be a beautiful thing.

However, there’s a catch. The people that you really wanted to tell to fuck off, namely the E-6’s from years before that trained, led, and abused you as a young private are all either E-7/E-8 or out of the Army. So, you basically don’t get to relieve that built up angst on anyone but your own soldiers, which in turn keeps the cycle going.

I’ll tell you something about fate. Fate is the boss. Know it. Believe it. Own it.


The mail comes in lightspeed intervals compared to Afghanistan. There it was roughly every 2-3 weeks that mail would show up. Here, we get mail about once a week. What gets me, and constantly, is the attitude of my non-previously deployed soldiers who don’t realize how good they have it. I’ve heard things like, “We haven’t had mail in a week. That’s fucking bullshit,” to which I am shocked. I have to remind my cherry soldiers of their good fortune and explain it to them and as the words come out of my mouth I realize that I have become that NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer) that you roll your eyes at every time he starts a sentence with “Back in Afghanistan…”

So, be it.

Another compare and contrast to “the Stan” is my ability to whore myself out with my artistic abilities. Back in Afghanistan (see what I just did there?) I designed the battalion t-shirt and coin and also became the go-to-guy for any signage that was needed around the FOB (Forward Operating Base…where troops live on deployments…drrrrrrr). On any given day I had planks of wood being tossed my way and told to decorate. Like junior Picasso lost at war I did my duty (that really makes no sense) and turned these battered pieces of wood into works of art.

Now, once again, my abilities discovered, I have taken to creating…mouse pads. Oh yeah, you heard me right…big, bad, mothafuckin’ mouse pads. You know you want one, so shut up. However, remember where we are now. We’re in the digital revolution and part of the digital warrior’s kit is a mouse pad. And now, with the exploits of one SSG Shirey, they can have their very own, Photoshop-vomited design of such complexity and awe that you will no longer surf the net, but rather stare at your hand over that mouse, getting lost in what lies beneath…


Yeah, so they’re gonna be like five bucks. While supplies last.

Anyways, a task not so much fun, but certainly honorable, is designing prints for the fallen. Thus far I have done two and intend to do as many as are asked for the departed and their families. The Brigade is planning on building a memorial site on Fort Richardson in honor of these soldiers and I have been kind of thrown into the process. Although I’m not sure to what capacity I’ll contribute yet, I believe it a worthy cause, and am honored to be a part of it.

I have already designed the intro to the web page and hopefully it will draw in some folks. Obviously it is being used to raise money to build this memorial site. I have no doubt it will bear fruit.

Whoa, someone got on a serious note! Dude, we came here to laugh and be amused…I know, I know. However, and I do believe it gives reason to why I haven’t written as much, the realities of this place are enough to stop you in your tracks and turn your focus to your job. And I mean REALLY focus.

Which brings me to my next topic.

God.

…Okay, who’s still here? Let’s get a count…you in the back, put your hand up higher. Okay, everyone’s here. Good. Let’s get started.

So, just as in Afghanistan, I do my best to make it to services. Those not in the know, yes, I am a Christian. And I do say, “fuck” a lot. I didn’t say I was perfect.

The thing that I find somewhat hilarious is singing in services. Now, at a real church in the United States we can fake sing all we want because there’s always some 50-year-old lady who yodels like a country western singer and outshines any of us that would be the laughing stock of the American Idol tryouts. But, not in Iraq, where the underachieving singers are now center stage.

I’m such a bad singer that I’d be on the highlights portion of Reality Show Clip Time on E!’s “The Soup.” I shit you not. I shatter glass and make dogs howl. I induce labor, vomiting, and hives when you hear my singing voice break the surface. I’ll Photoshop, write, draw, direct, oh, and kill, my way to the top, but I will sing in the lowly bowels of hell before I make a difference with my voice of song.

However, it has become evident that I do not suffer alone. Remember when you were a kid and you had to go to choir? Oh, you didn’t go? Oh, you didn’t go to church? Well, let’s get our uncomfortable silence out of the way while we all quietly judge you…

Anyways, back to choir. I was in choir as a kid. I was made to go and it wasn’t all bad and my balls hadn’t dropped yet, so I was like Christian Bale in “Empire of the Sun” only not in Japan and not in a concentration camp. Okay, so I had nothing to do with Christian Bale.

I sang though. And I sang low, people. When I say sing, what I really mean is “mumble.” However, to look at me, you’d think I was in the fucking Vienna Boys Choir. I was sure to over exaggerate every motion; all the while the only thing coming out of my vocal chords was the subtle chirp of a dying mouse.

Which brings me back to now. Looking around the room, I see that we never stop doing that as kids. We just get bigger, fatter, hairier, and older and we keep faking it. Yet, somehow, some way, we manage to get those two to five people that aren’t faking it and are able to pull us out of harms way and allow our low grumbling to pass for the real thing.

Another way to keep things interesting and also create a historical account of my journey is through photos. Again, back to the digital revolution..."Back in Afghanistan..." I used throw away cameras and used only about six. The rest of the photos I have from that deployment were collected from everyone else who was smart enough to bring a digital.

Such as it was at the time, we were told not to bring any "digital" equipment because it would all be destroyed in that climate. Which is, for lack of a better term, bullshit. Although, my portable DVD player did crap out on me, I was still able to use it by opening it up and fusing it together with baby wipes whenever I wanted to watch a movie.

I'm not joking.

Anyways, photos. Yeah. I take a lot of them. I am making up for the last deployment by overtaking photos. And, being the artistic crackhead that I am, I have taken on a new mission, which came to me in a vision while smelling poo on the streets of Iraq.

Puppies.

Yes, we all love and adore puppies. Except for people that like cats. Oh, and before I forget, yeah, cats suck. Yes, yes. Your pussy sucks. Sorry. It's true.


Anyways, back to puppies. Cute, lovable, adorable, puppies, rummaging through trash, dirty, homeless, abandoned, and left to the circle of life in Iraq. They're fucking everywhere! So, as we drive along, staring out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of command wire or an IED before we get blown to shit, there is always the opportunity to see a cute, little, abandoned pup, digging through trash or lying dead on the side of the road.

Stop crying, you PETA person, or I'll smack you. I am going to save the puppies. Yes, you heard me right. Wait, wasn't I talking about photos and shit? Yeah, glad you're paying attention, so hang on.

Puppies of Iraq; wall calendar 2008. Oh, it's coming. I am on a mission to round up the scraggliest little pup-tarts Iraq has to offer, so adorable in their filthy cuteness, and slap them into the months of the year and served up at your local Fred meyer's or Target, where you can purchase a month-to-month look at what it means to be cute and living in Iraq. And also, you're a dog.

I estimate that this will cause a worldwide surge in animal-loving hippies to flood the borders of Iraq and begin sweeping up these little miscreants for salvation in the U.S. Animal rights groups unite! Now, is your calling! This is the ultimate mission! Pack your bags, we're going to Iraq to save the puppies!!

Here is how I imagine a one-sided conversation would go with the leader of one of these groups:

Hey, c'mon, get moving, we're running out of time!

What? Yeah, I know they're in Iraq, so what?

There's bombs there? And violence? They chop people's heads off? So? Oh, hey, I'm glad you said "Iraq", 'cause we don't wanna forget sunscreen.

These are puppies we're talking about here...Have you never held a puppy? Had him lick your face? Have him shit on your bath robe? Put peanut butter on your-look, that's not important. It's just-

Too dangerous? I thought you were dedicated to the cause. To save the animals of the planet. To give them a soft bed and a bowl of doggie cocoa puffs every morning and to play and frolic and toss a frisbee and kick when you're angry and dress it up in--

Okay, I'm getting sidetracked. Let me get this straight...You don't want to go to Iraq to save the puppies because it's too dangerous in Iraq. Does this mean that you'll only save puppies in "safe" areas? What kind of animal lover are you?? Have you ever truly loved an animal before?

And in their mad rush to get to Iraq, in their idealistic crusade to save the puppies, we will be rid of the animal loving hippies of the world, who dedicate their entire lives to the betterment of all other species but their own.

And then we can keep up the war mongering.

Okay, so I'm being harsh. I have nothing against animal lovers. I am an animal lover myself. However, I do think that those that put animals above people and dedicate themselves to a furry non-speaking creature of God (and I'm not talking about your crazy uncle), are very misguided and have alienated themselves from the rest of the human race. Yeah, dogs need love, but last time I checked, we haven't had a dog cure cancer or run for office.

So, aside from my current exploits on the job and political views on everything to do with this conflict, I hope you are caught up enough to continue your day with glee. My perspective on many things has “evolved” and I look forward to sharing them to whoever will listen. In truth, it doesn’t matter. I’m putting it out there no matter what.

However, if a tree falls in the woods…

…Squirrels are homeless and our animal activists have a new crusade.

I fully intend to get my blogging back on track, so those that are interested and want to come along for the ride, by all means, hop in, take the keys, take the wheel, and I’ll guide you with directions, because I’m drunk and a little out of it, but we’ll get there.

A Lunchdate at the Comic Shop with Extra Napkins

Sometimes I give my wife a hard time. Okay, I give her a hard time A LOT. But, she deserves it. Okay, maybe not, but still…

I guess it comes with marriage that you begin to nitpick each other (sometimes quite literally) and the ribbing is endless when you are both annoyed, intrigued, amazed, and flat out embarrassed by the little ticks that your life mate has.

For instance…napkins.

Now, this isn’t just for her. This goes for all you napkin-loving hippy-yentas out there. Yes, we all know that I am an Army/Infantry/Blood-Drinker/Baby killer that bounces bullets off his ball sack and eats live rabbits like they’re Jalapeno poppers from Popeye’s chicken, so naturally, when I go to a restaurant or sit down at home to enjoy my meal, the very LAST thing I’m concerned with is a napkin.

Think about it…you’re wiping away small fractions of your lusciously prepared meal…why not lick it off your fingers like the Viking brute that you are?

My Point: When out and about and sitting down to eat somewhere, my belly HOWLING for sustenance, my focus is eternally on the food. And when it arrives my chief concerns are:
A) Side of Ranch…STAT!
B) Where’s my fucking drink refill?
C) How fast can I get this down?

But not my wife. No, before anything can proceed beyond the lips there must be napkins. Not A napkin, but many napkins. Enough to make a tent after the meal is done. We’re camping out at Red Robin. Refill the fucking bottomless fries. We’re putting your hospitality to the test.

Now, for an exceptionally messy meal I can certainly understand the importance and/or urgency of a napkin…but not for every occasion. I don’t need a napkin with my coke. I know it’s fizzy. I know that there is condensation. I’m all set.

The worst thing you could do is send my wife off to GET napkins. The bitch will bring back the whole dispenser, emptied out into each of her pockets and ready for easy distribution. People will actually walk up and take the fucking napkins out of her as if she were the dispenser.

“Whoa, check it out…a female mannequin napkin dispenser…dude, get some napkins…and cop a feel while you’re at it…”

And you’ll find that it’s usually the really prissy little hippy bitches that will grab the most napkins. They want to make sure they ‘dab’ away and wipe the unhealthy greases from their fingers completely with the five trillion napkins they use as the TREES ARE CRYING and the monkeys in the rainforests pack up and move and the cure for AIDS is lost forever so that we can all get that glob of ketchup off our fingertip.

This does not mean I am opposed to napkins or their use. I will, in fact, utilize a napkin. I’ll even put the motherfucker on my lap at the restaurant, letting everyone know that I’m a sophisticated white boy with manners galore.

But usually…I just use my wife’s napkin.

I have a laundry list of things that have piqued my senses of late (like napkins and their excessive use) and perhaps this will come out a little misguided, but fuck it, I think like only two people read my fucking blogs anymore anyways…however, I have things to say…they need to be heard. You will be better off, trust me.

Next up: DVD Bins.

What the fuck? I mean, really, this is a fucking phenomenon. Wal-Mart is the master of this shit. I don’t know who came up with the idea, but they are the most brilliant and twisted motherfuckers on the planet. Seriously.

If you’re a somewhat normal person who frequents a Wal-Mart then you know what I’m talking about. You know your eyes light up the same as Christmas morning when you see that fucking bin. 2 for $11.00 sends your eyeballs to your chin and you jump in like a maniac on the amazing race, looking for another clue or some shit.

I mean, really, what the hell are we looking for? Seriously, they’re not gonna throw in a season of Smallville, or the director’s cut of Sin City, or Star Wars: Episode 3. Dude, you’re gonna get fucking gems like “Bedazzled” “Striking Distance” and “Along Came a Spider.”

Now, if you just looked at the aforementioned titles and are about to get on the defense and sprout out a “…but I liked that movie,” then you are wrong. Nobody likes those movies. Nobody. I don’t care how many millions of dollars they made.

No one sits around talking about great Bruce Willis movies and mentions “Striking Distance.” They will get punched in the face. By me. Yes, I’ll be there. Even if you’re in Canada.

Even better than the fact that people are digging in these bins looking for that gem of a movie, that fucking long-lost great from their childhood that starred some no-name fucker and gave them their first boner, is the people themselves.

The conversations are awesome.

“I bought ‘Passenger 57’ already…did you see a ‘Pushing Tin?’”
“Naw…Ooo, but here’s that Steven Seagal one you were looking for…”
“Which one?…Oh, hell yeah, ‘Fire Down Below,’ that’s a fuckin’ classic.”
“Oh wait…look…this is that one with that bitch from ‘American Beauty’ that shows her tits…where she’s homeless and shit and goes to Harvard…”
“Hell yeah, put that in my cart…”

Obviously, the entire DVD bin thing is working because people are buying up bullshit that they WOULDN’T EVEN RENT, let alone watch on HBO, but all of a sudden the bin comes a callin’ and they’ve been looking for the piece of shit for years.

“Finally! ‘Frogs’ on DVD!”

Now, I don’t view the DVD bins as a sign of Christ’s second coming, but I do find it highly entertaining and I love to witness the social distortion that takes place in and around the bin.

What bothers me is this: I have actually gone looking to buy an older movie and couldn’t find it on the shelves and was forced to take the plunge. And there it was…fucking “Hamburger Hill”…buried and bearing the price tag of six bucks.

To keep the drones coming back for more, I think Wal-Mart would benefit from advertising an actual prize inside the bin…namely a Jenna Jameson feature length porn tossed deep into the abyss of the bin once a day…every teenage boy and perverted old man in America would tear that fucking bin apart…and maybe finally get their copy of “The Last Starfighter” in the process.

And speaking of porn.

Look, I’ve got issues. I’m a flawed human. Deeply flawed. I blame my genes. Really, everything is mom and dad’s fault.

However, on this one I’m gonna go ahead and blame my porn addiction on society. I mean, let’s face it…Now, more than ever in our society, SKIN is IN. Or out, depending on how you look at it.

Pornography, or the visual stimuli that promotes it, is everywhere. Everywhere you look seems to lead to the thoughts a la dirty.

That being said…we are ALL doomed. Sex no longer sells…It’s free trade now, motherfucker.

So, being the F-R-E-A-K that I am, I found myself venturing into the ‘forbidden’ zone of the comic book store (which is obscured only by a ‘beaded’ curtain) and began to peruse of the pornographic, yet artful and informative, comics and reading material.

People, there are some fucking crazy porno comics out there. I tend to shy away from many of them. But, on this particular day I was feeling bold (a.ka. perverted and ‘in heat’) and decided that I would buy an adult comic book.

Now, I should note that, even though we’re all cozy with the porno shit these days, it doesn’t stop you from feeling like the lowliest pervert on the planet when you’re in that section. Even more so is the fact that you are looking around to choose your porno poison.

It’s as if there is an angel on your shoulder looking over every book you pick up. And it’s not like you can open them up to see if it fits your…taste. No, they’re all in child-safe plastic bags. You take your chances with these books.

And that fucking Angel, man. He’s onto you. Every book you pick up you hear this guy in your ear…

“Oh, ‘Head’…how nice. You really gonna take that up to the counter and pay for it?”
“Goin’ for ‘MILFs in Heat,’ huh? Seriously, you should be ashamed…”
“Nice…’Teens in Love’…what are you, a pedophile now?”
“There you go…’Demon Bitch’…I’m sure they’ll allow that through the pearly gates when you die…”

Once the sweat dries and you decide to pay for your book, as if you’re crossing into some new territory in your life, overcoming a lifelong obstacle, the angel never shuts up. He’s yelling at you to reconsider, to stop being a perv, and you’re yelling back at him, which makes you look even more shady.

I approach the line and stand, waiting for two kids to buy their pack of role playing game cards. I calm myself and start running the facts through my brain…I convince myself that I’m exercising my right to choose and all that other Free Country stuff that we usually toss around when in a moral question.

I set my books down, leaving the adult book on top of the rest of my ‘normal’ books. I do this to let the clerk know that I’m not ashamed to buy this book. It’s nothing to me. It’s second nature. Like buying the newspaper and a coffee every morning. This is my routine. Get used to it.

The clerk in question today is a native Alaskan (a.k.a. Eskimo) who speaks with a slight lisp. He’s a big motherfucker, who, honestly looks like he’ll leave the store and hold up a cardboard sign on the side of the road after his shift looking for spare change and a cheeseburger.

Yes, I realize I’m an asshole for saying that. But, I made up for it by giving him a dollar later that day at the corner of Spenard and Arctic. And what was left of my Diet Coke.

Okay, FIRST and FOREMOST. A word about Comic shop owners/employers. Unless you are an uber geek like myself, then you’ve probably never stepped foot into a comic book store. You’ve probably only laughed and thrown slurpees at those that do. And thanks for ruining my Daredevil jacket by the way you insensitive fuckers.

The thing about ‘comic shop people’ is that they are fucking WEIRD. They ARE the uber of uber geeks. They are the equivalent of movie critics when it comes to comics and gaming. They know every issue of their favorite character’s books and swear by them as if Jesus Christ Himself created them.

They are the freaks, geeks, losers, and nerds. Imagine a store owned and run by Napoleon Dynamite and his friends. That’s a comic book shop. And beyond that they are generally dicks. Not every last one of them, but they all have that chip of weirdness on their shoulders that is undeniably annoying and sad at the same time. It’s as if they are in the “safe-nerd zone” where they are untouchable. They are in their element. They are Gods here.

And checkout is always a fucking surreal experience. I mean, they actually make it painful with all their nervous ticks, weird personality traits, and off kilter remarks. These are the weird kids that you would never normally talk to at school. And now you have to. And they say EXACTLY the kind of fucked up shit you’d expect. They also, in true weirdo fashion, bring their personal problems to the checkout experience.

“Man…I’m in SUCH a bad mood right now. My life is like misery. Peanut butter doesn’t make sense and jelly is just not jelly at all. Fuck. Dude, the art in the new Superman is KICK ASS by the way.”

“Yeah, I just want to hand you my credit card, you can run it through, bag up my shit, complete this motherfucker and get me the fuck out of here. Let’s just NOT talk at all. Howabout that, Columbine?”

Anyways, this guy, this comic shop clerk, has the audacity, the gall, the motherfuckin’ cajones to LECTURE me about the placement of my comics.
“Next time if you could put the adult book at the bottom of the stack when the kids are around…”

The angel on my shoulder starts laughing hysterically. He covers his face and points at me. I try to muster a response to my native friend. All I can get out is a rebellious “Sure.” Like, yeah, that would be no fucking problem, dick.

Not another word is exchanged as he finishes ringing up my books. He puts them in a bag and I walk out, my mind still reeling from our little exchange. Naturally, it takes me a few minutes of reflection to come up with the response I failed to give.

If they want their adult books stacked underneath the ‘safe’ books then why don’t they inform their customers? And further still, the book in question merely had a portrait shot of a blonde female with ZERO nudity and an ‘Adults Only’ sticker on it.

What did he think the kids were gonna see exactly? I didn’t break open the bag and say, “Hey kid, you ready to kickstart the mess that your brain will become after you’re exposed to porno?”

No, I merely walked up to pay and got humiliated by a drunk native with an overly concerned conscience for “the children”. The books that are lain out for all to see have WAY more racier images on their covers than my true-to-life porno comic. The new issue of Wonder Woman shows more tits. Seriously.

As I stood outside contemplating the events that had just transpired, the two brats that were in danger of being exposed to my perverted buying habits were tearing open their role playing cards and flipping through them like a heroin addict fixing his shot. And there, on the cover of the card packs, is a drawing of a woman with a piece of cloth jammed up her ass and nipples ready to do battle with a piece of glass.

I look at the angel on my shoulder. I biff him in the forehead and spit in his face. Yeah. I think the comic shop clerk’s intentions were in the right place, but I doubt he’ll ever realize how wrong he was.

Which is why the next time I saw him on the corner of Spenard and Arctic I sped the fuck up and splashed a whole puddle of water on him while simultaneously jutting my cup of hot fucking coffee in his face, mixed with the muddy water so he’ll never understand why he got freezing cold wet and burned about the neck and head at the same time.

The last thing I’d like to comment on is restaurant conversation. Otherwise known as “Me eavesdropping on everything you say so that I can write about it in my blog.”

While eating breakfast this past weekend at a place in downtown Anchorage, my wife and I happened to catch onto two twenty something ladies’ conversation and I found that, upon comparison to past eavesdropping, there is a pattern that transpires amongst women when they are on a lunch/dinner date: Namely, the making of plans that are so ridiculously over the top and obviously never going to happen yet still discussed as if set in stone.

EXAMPLE: My wife will come home after her numerous ‘lunch dates’ with all her lady friends and I’ll be bombarded with the results of said date.

“We’re going to start doing lunchtime Yoga and start rock climbing on Mondays, nature photography on Wednesdays, and we’re also gonna work to get our periods on the same cycle so that we’ll always be in a similar mood and we’re also going on the South Beach Diet for one month and we’re going to start holding each other’s hair when we barf up everything we eat after lunch. I mean, we both do it anyways, but now we both know, so why not help each other out, right?”

Okay, obviously an exaggeration. Or is it?

At our splendid little breakfast where our twenty something duo sat nearby we learned that they would be starting a fucking wine garden business, become pilates instructors, start making charm bracelets to symbolize child slave labor, and will plant 100 trees in 100 days. And get their periods on the same cycle.

Now, I’m not picking on women. Men talk some crazy trash sometimes on their lunch/dinner dates, but mostly they both just point out girls to check out to each other and grunt and moan about how they’d ‘bone that chick hardcore’ even though they’re on complete pussy lockdown back at home.

This is why Hooters has such allure to men. We can go and eat some decent food, watch sports (if you’re into it), and stare at a waitresses assets in scantily clad clothing while downing a beer. It’s not because we intend to land that waitress. We just want to satisfy the main urges that drive us on a daily basis without sacrificing the sanctity of our pussy lockdown at home.

Anyways, back to the big plans. It is merely an observation…a fascination and wonder as to why women are so damn busy. While we’re eating chicken wings and rooting for the Red Socks and staring at orange clad ass, women are planning a ‘help the homeless’ campaign, having a bake sale for kids on Ritalin, and starting up a lab in their garage to assist in finding a cure for breast cancer.

Do I have a point? No. I have an observation. It is an interesting thing to watch the two sexes interact with members of the same, almost as much as the opposite. My wife had nothing to offer when I asked why women are so prone to making big plans for the future. Nor do I have an answer as to why men are usually just in the moment, staring at stems and fun bags.

We each have our own quirky and oddball ways of doing things, but ultimately, what separates us is what draws us together. For men and women it’s the differences that make us attracted to one another. It sounds all too simple…and it is.

The lesson to take home kids, is thus:

Save a few trees for the sake of mankind and the monkeys and the rainforests and lick your damn fingers once in a while; Don’t be afraid of your perversions when standing at the checkout line and especially, don’t be afraid of the ignorant weirdo that’s ringing you up…he’s just pissed that you stiffed him on your console change while waiting for the light to turn green; And finally, don’t make plans to go to the moon when you know you’ll never even try on a spacesuit…and watch out for the weirdo sitting next to you, reading the porno comic and licking his fingers clean…he’s listening, watching, and probably recording everything you say and do.

Look, Up in the Sky!

Superman Returns

Directed by: Bryan Singer
(X-men, X-men2, The Usual Suspects, Apt Pupil)
Starring: Brandon Routh, Kate Bosworth, Kevin Spacey, Parker Posey, James Marsden, Frank Langella

Obviously, as both a fan of Superman, in both comic book, film, and TV form, I was eagerly anticipating this film. As I stated in my earlier post…it was a long time coming. With a 20 year build up of anticipation and expectation, Superman Returns has a lot to live up to.

The only question is, does it?

And I’m sure you’d like me to answer that right off the bat and just say “Hell yeah!” and throw up a high five so that you can sit back and relax and read this review without getting uncomfortable.

Like you’re gonna get in that much of a tizzy over Superman.

Well, I do. But, I’m kind of a dork and totally cool with that. I could still kill you in more ways than you could imagine, so BACK OFF.

I liked Superman Returns a lot. There’s a lot to like. I didn’t love Superman Returns. I’m not going to profess my heartfelt thanks and offer a muddy-kneed blowjob to Bryan Singer and crew for crafting the perfect piece of fanboy celluloid heaven and beg for more.

The truth is, the creative team did a good job, not a GREAT job. They did not outdo themselves or knock it out of the park. They did a really nice job of bringing the last son of Krypton (this is how we dorks reference Superman) back into the realms of coolness and out of the realms of comedic guest stars and hammy peace films.

Superman is most definitely back and in probably the truest form ever…meaning that, notwithstanding the superb F/X, this could very well be Superman 3, made only a few years after the original sequel. The style, the casting, the music, the story, everything feels very “Donner-ish” (For those not in the know, Richard Donner was the director of the first and kinda/sorta the second Superman films – deep breath).

And that’s no surprise, as director Bryan Singer has continued to confess his love of the Donner Superman films and his deep respect and admiration of them that has spawned this love letter of a follow up.

I won’t go too deep into the storyline, but here’s some tidbits: Superman has been away for five years, searching for any remains of Krypton, while Lex Luthor is again scamming away at a real estate plot to take over the world and kill Superman, and then there’s Lois doing…news stories and shit. Oh, and she has a kid…who is about five years old…hope I didn’t give anything away with that.

Anyways, the world has supposedly gotten along just fine without ol’ Supes and then he comes back all dramatic like in a pretty kick ass space shuttle rescue sequence and slowly makes his way back into the good graces of God’s Green Earth.

This film is long and most people aren’t feeling it, but it is over two-and-a-half hours long and that’s a good little trip.

Here’s what’s good:

Brandon Routh – yes, the question lingered: Could this no-namer pull off one of the biggest roles in cinema? Well, yes and yes. Routh completely embodies Christopher Reeve, albeit a younger, fresher faced version, but he does a really nice job and for me, gets me excited to see what he’d do with an even meatier Superman story, rather than the gooey one he’s dealing with.

F/X – awesome. They’ve (Hollywood you nimrod) have finally gotten to the point where a man flying is believable onscreen and doesn’t look like a Neo-video game. Although there were a few instances where I questioned whether a shot was CG or not, it moved fast enough that the question didn’t stick around long. The cinematography is crisp as hell and the detail is super sharp. There is no messy CG, which is common in many low-budget escapades (Fantastic Four-cough-cough)

Music – John Ottman (also serving as an editor on the film) does a great job of bringing back the Williams theme, while incorporating his own unique blend into the genre. It’s a rousing and heartfelt score that builds nicely on the original.

Opening Sequence – Just like the original films, only better. A really nice touch.

That damn kid – Dude, I was worried about this brat and his unkempt hair, but I’ll be damned if he isn’t one of the most normal onscreen kids of all time. He acted and talked like a five-year-old kid, not some annoying Culkin that has a one-liner written by a 30-year-old screenwriter every two seconds.

Superman Shot in the Eye with Bullet – Nice. Flippin’ Sweet even.

Here’s what’s not so good:

Kate Bosworth – Yeah, she’s attractive and talented, but she’s not Lois Lane. Lois Lane, in all her incarnations has one thing that is nonexistent in Bosworth’s interpretation – spunk. She’s got attitude. She’s snappy. Neurotic. None of that here. She’s just way too normal and doesn’t embody anything that is Lois Lane.

Not Enough Lex – Yeah, he’s got some decent screen time, but he doesn’t quite reach the heights that he could have. I mean, c’mon, you got Kevin Spacey. Let him walk off the leash a little more. He gives some great stuff here, but there could’ve been more.

Parker Posey sucks – Lame. Sorry, but she should’ve been A LOT more evil and believable. She was a big, predictable softy. SnoozeVille.

James Marsden – Okay, so maybe Singer was feeling bad that he turned down X3 and left Marsden to basically cameo in that ho-hum film long enough to die and decided to give him a bigger part in his new film. But, it’s such an unnecessary and thankless role. I almost feel bad for Marsden, but he’s a rich, Hollywood actor, so I don’t.

Here’s what sucks:

Not Enough Action: For a $200 plus budget you get some decent action, but nothing that qualifies that cost. I am still waiting on the Superman movie that rivals the action bar set by the Justice League cartoon series. That may sound odd, but the action in those cartoons is far better than ANY live action superhero movie out there. I’ll take the Pepsi Challenge on that one.

I want to see Superman punch a supervillain like he does in both the comics and in Justice League. For once, give us a big-screen fight that can raise the roof and make my boner shoot out of my pants and knock the popcorn out of my wife’s hands. Let’s not forget that Superman was introduced in “ACTION” comics.

My idea: Bring in Brainiac or Doomsday and just tear it up. A knock down, bad ass brawl across Metropolis…that would be the shit.

Trim some fat while adding some muscle: Some of the lovey-dovey crap could have been cut down a bit and beefed up with either some action or back-story. I know I’m playing Monday-Morning-Quarterback here, but that’s the way it goes when you’re critiquing a film. Trust me, I’ve done the same to my own low budget “masterpieces.”

Henchman…what, they aren’t allowed to talk? – Zak Penn, who is a pretty funny actor, is completely wasted here. I mean, it could’ve been anyone there. Why not just hire bums off the street and cut back that $200 million plus budget? Seriously. A little more personality in your toss-away henchman would be good. Let’s not forget how entertaining Otis was in the first series of movies…

That’s about it on the suckiness.

All in all, I think that Superman Returns is a great start. It gets you excited about Superman once again, reestablishes his place on the big screen and hopefully will catapult him into the GREAT Superman movie we’re all still waiting for.

I thoroughly enjoyed the film and there were many times where I thought “That was pretty fucking cool,” but with the lack of action and the weak supporting characters and softer, not-so-original or crafty plot, this cape could have flown better.

However, I am being nit-picky and this is still a good film. I look forward to seeing it again, but I don’t think I will try to beat my record of theatrical visits (Die Hard – 14 times) with this one.

It’s a fun ride and it’s great to see Superman back in top form…Now, let’s all fanboys hold hands and hope for that REALLY kick ass Superman film to come along and not try to convince each other that this one was IT. Again, it’s good, not great, but open for SO much potential. Here’s to the future of Superman.

GRADE: B+