An update? Me? Why.... yes!

Holy crap, I've become an ex-blogger.

I guess it's a combination of things. I've been pretty busy, which is one excuse. Part of that has come from an intensive PT program I've been participating in for the past two months. After I left Korea, I gained something like 30 pounds -- none of which was good. But I'd gotten to a point where I felt like it was becoming a problem, and after busting tape a while back, it was clear I needed to do some more physical training.

That's come in the form of running four and five mile courses three times a week. It was murderous at first, in part because it was still hot and humid here, and in part because I had previously had no particular reason to focus on running. I was appalled at my two-mile time when I finally got around to having it measured, so I knew I needed to basically just run my ass off.

And a certain staff sergeant at HHC Garrison has been happy to help out, which is to his credit. My company holds PT three times a week, and generally it's a waste of time. Some pushups, crunches, and maybe a few laps on the quarter-mile track -- and then we're done. Generally, I'm home by 7:30, which is when the sessions are supposed to end.

We make up for it in the afternoons. We stretch out at 3:30 p.m., and then head off to various far-away points on Fort Knox. The most brutal is a five-mile jaunt over hill and dale, which takes us across Wilson Road and into the old basic training grounds -- out to the original water tower, which is usually covered in turkey vultures looking for roadkill, and around Triangle Motor Pool, then back down toward Wilson, down to Gold Vault Road, and a left turn up the steep hill to the company.

The first time we ran it, I didn't even make it to the water tower (which is at about the two-mile mark) without quitting and walking. I couldn't imagine being able to maintain a run -- even a shambling "airborne shuffle." I was pouring sweat and my shins felt like they were being sawed off.

Three weeks later, I was keeping pace with the other runners, and beating a couple of them back to the company. It's not fun, but I can do it now -- sucking air in through my nose (which dehydrates you less, since breathing through your mouth loses more water to respiration) and running from my hips instead of my knees, letting both feet roll from heel to toe on each step.

In the time since I started the additional PT, I've dropped nearly 20 pounds. I can see the lines delineating my calves again, and my ankles have narrowed down. My reflective PT belt started hanging loose around my waist two weeks ago, and last week I had to readjust it just to keep it from slipping down over my hips.

Don't let me make you think I've become a health nut. There has never been a single time when I've looked forward to our brutal afternoon runs -- I do them because I know I have to, and now that I'm seeing results, it's easier to force myself to attend. On the way there, I always hope something will happen that will cancel the session... but that never happens, and when I'm there, I put everything I've got into the exercise. At first, it was "don't quit!" Now, it's "how hard can I push this? Can I go faster?"

Running hurts. On Fridays, when we do our final run for the week, my knees scream in protest. My shins burn, and the soles of my feet feel like I've been running barefoot over gravel. My lower back aches, and my abdomen tightens and cramps. But that's not because I'm injured or particularly old -- it's just because I was in rotten shape, because I was irresponsible and let myself go. Everyone who devotes themselves to running goes through the same aches and pains.

There's not really any short cut to getting better at running -- you just have to do it, and as far as I'm concerned, it sucks -- at least to do it. But now that I'm seeing results, I want to keep at it. But I'm going to hate every moment of it.

In the meantime, I rocked the house this week at the paper. It comes out tomorrow (Thursday, October 19), so check it out once it updates here. I've got one in there on a Georgetown-educated professor giving our legal folks a class on the Middle East (which was riveting -- a great class), one on some guys who have an idea about how to re-route traffic around one of Knox's gates, a story about a World War II veteran who jumped into Operation Market Garden with the 82nd Airborne and is still the division's most decorated soldier, and a piece on the "Field of Screams" in nearby Brandenburg. The two photos on this week's front page are also mine, which is pretty nice, too. I liked how they all turned out, at least in general, so if you get a chance, check 'em out.

Okay, so that's an update. Peace out, bitches.

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Uniform, and an affirmation

It took a while, but I finally broke down and bought a set of the Army's new ACU -- the strangely-colored, Velcro'ed, "great new thing."

I admit -- I was a detractor when the new uniform first came out. I didn't like the look, or the fact that patches were stuck on via velcro rather than sewing. I'm a convert, though... and maybe it has something to do with the fact that the uniforms I've worn for four years were initially thrown at me over a CIF counter in Georgia, but the new threads feel more like street clothes or pajamas... they actually fit me, and don't feel like garbage bags.

Saturday, I worked as designated driver for my stupid, fascist roommate. Considering my distaste for clubs, it was as good as can be expected. I'm sure a blog will be forthcoming once I've sobered up.

Anyway, folks, I'm through here. Stay semi-tuned for an amusing account of my weekend.

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Sippin' on Gin and Juice

That's a Snoop Dogg song. I don't listen to him, but I've got a little glass of Woodford Reserve here, and it's a nice way to wind down.

I don't post much these days, and I'm sort of sorry about that. Only a little, though -- because it wasn't for any of you that I ever posted in the first place, really. This is just a little space on the Internet where I can rant about something I think is relevant at any given time, and there's no financial interest in it, so it's not like I'm letting down the people who sign my paycheck or anything.

The trouble is, I think, that I've got short-timer's disease pretty bad. For those of you who haven't been in the military or served a prison sentence, "short-timer's" is the malaise that creeps over someone who's got their mind completely preoccupied with getting out... When you can almost taste it, it's hard to focus on the present with any kind of drive or clarity.

I'm looking forward to too much, you see. Once I'm through with this Army stint, I'll be hopefully checking into a graduate school for some studies in political science. I'm not sure which excites me more, the coming return to an academic environment or another shot at civilian life.

I've never been a very good soldier. Soldiers, to me, are the guys who carry around weapons in dangerous places, who stand in line, and who keep their hair cut out of a sheer desire to maintain the Standard.

Good soldiers always do well on their physical fitness tests. They march out of the wire in strictly-kept formation spacing. They study Army regulations religiously, readying themselves for the next board. They keep their class A uniforms sharp and up-to-date. Soldiers are men who carry weapons and look for hostile fire.

I'm not one of them. I wear a camouflage uniform to work every day, and it has an American flag on the right shoulder... but I'm not one of those guys. I do my job, but really, it's just a job. I have a lot of what they call cognitive dissonance when I hear "Soldiers died in Iraq today" followed by, "You're a soldier."

God bless those of you who do that dirty work. I'm not among your number. And that's why I'm not long for the Army. Next summer, here I come.

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I hate Us Weekly, and Doug Stanhope rocks.

While it was monsooning here Friday, I dug up some angry feelings toward pop culture magazines and put this together. It's tentatively running in the paper this week, because my editor seemed to like it. It's still a draft, and I've got more messing around with it to do... but see what you think.

To the owners, publishers, editors, and writers of Us Weekly:

I'm writing to address a few concerns I have about the publication Us Weekly. I have several problems with the magazine, so I figure I'll begin with the nameplate.

Why on earth did you decide to name the publication "Us Weekly"? The second word is clear, but "Us"? Us is a personal, first person, plural pronoun meaning "you and me," where "you" can either be singular or plural. The word insinuates that the magazine is about you and me, and nothing more. This couldn't be further from the truth. It would be more accurate for Penthouse to call itself Better Homes & Gardens.

Your magazine is filled with the intimate details of the lives of Hollywood stars and media darlings. When Paris Hilton lost the runt she calls her dog, you were on the story. When we needed a faster way to say "Brad and Angelina," you provided us with "Brangelina." Whenever Nicole Richie drops five more pounds off her hideously emaciated frame and decides to hit the beach, your photographers are on the scene.

Thanks to "Us" Weekly, we can keep track of who Jennifer Aniston is dating. We know which Simpson sister is seeing who. We now can look forward every week to a new picture of Britney Spears looking like a social services disaster.

Nowhere in your magazine, however, have I ever been able to find even a single inch of editorial copy that pertains to me. You, perhaps; but certainly not me. Instead, it's all about other people--people who certainly have better things to do than read your publication. For example, they might make anti-Semitic remarks during a DUI stop, or secretly cheat on their significant other with someone we've seen on a "reality show."

Therefore, I suggest you change the name of your magazine to "Them Weekly." It's much clearer, and it takes away the disingenuous nature of your current flag.

Then again, I should probably ask why people read your magazine in the first place. After all, it's filled with nothing but the personal details of the lives of people more interesting than you and me, and presumably the rest of your readership. These facts and speculations couldn't possibly have any practical relevance to my life--or anyone else's, really. So why does anyone read them?

The only guess I can come up with is that people read your rotten magazine to get some kind of voyeuristic thrill out of peeking in at the "ugly" side of the lives of the stars, and by so doing vicariously become someone more "glamorous" and "fabulous" than they'll ever hope to be. You feed a desire many seem to have to be famous, but you do it without challenging them ever to leave the mind-numbing glow of the televisions they have tuned to the E! network (an organization equally as evil as yours).

So maybe calling yourselves "Us" Weekly works out in the end, in some horrible way. We can pick up your magazine, read about Tom Cruise's latest insane outburst, or the hottest Rodeo Drive couple, or who in TV-land might be pregnant, and think to ourselves, "Yes, I'm one of these people, too." And then we can turn back to our televisions, open a fresh package of Oreos, and continue to get dumber and fatter.

Thanks, after all.

Sincerely,

Us.

In other news, I went to see Doug Stanhope at the Comedy Caravan in Louisville Friday. Awesome show -- and in a very close, old-school comedy club atmosphere. Doug stood by the door after his act and I got to shake his hand and exchange a couple words. I'd written him months ago asking him to come to Louisville, and whether that had any impact on his decision to come here or not, I thanked him profusely for having made the trip.

I was almost surprised after his brutal act that he was very gracious and seemed happy to see he had fans in the audience. Anyway... it's Monday, so time to get the old nose to the grindstone.

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Advocacy is not good sports copy

Just so no one thinks I haven't been writing at all lately, here's a column I did last week as I was filling in for the sports editor, who was on leave.

COMMENTARY - Advocacy is not good sports copy

By Spc. IAN BOUDREAU/Turret Staff Writer

"Just the facts, ma'am."

Sgt. Joe Friday used to say that on "Dragnet," and the phrase is four words to live by for reporters today--including sports writers.

I followed the controversy over Sports Editor William "Ski" Wilczewski's alleged non-support of Knox sports teams with some interest, and it seemed to me that there was, at least in some cases, a substantial misunderstanding of what a sports writer's job is--which is, simply, to obtain and report the facts.

I heard the same complaints during my own tenure as sports editor. "You're not supporting the team." "Your negative headlines aren't doing our kids any favors." "Why can't you put a positive spin on this?"

Here's the deal--reporters aren't paid to engage in advocacy. When nations do that in print media, it's called propaganda. When sports writers do, it's called crummy reporting.

The use of words like "amazing" and "breathtaking" is discouraged outside spaces such as this. Editorializing, as it's called, is best left to restaurant critics, uninformed columnists, and amateurs who can't figure out how to make the facts speak for themselves. I don't need to say Xavier Bacon's 73-yard touchdown run Friday night was "awe-inspiring;" the reader can come to that
conclusion on his own.

The other major point here is the fact that if everyone's a winner, then everyone's also a loser. What's the point in reading a glowing account of a team's performance during a 60-point blowout? Doesn't that take the luster away from a well-earned legitimate victory? Who wants to clip out a praise-filled newspaper article about a stunning win when every defeat has been lauded in the
same gushing terms?

The Boston Globe's Mike Reiss reported in February that a youth basketball league in Framingham, Mass., distributed trophies to each participating player. One of Reiss' sources was Roy Baumeister, a professor of psychology at Florida State University.

"The trophies should go to the winners," Baumeister said. "Self-esteem does not lead to success in life. Self-discipline and self-control do, and sports can help teach those."

That's why there's a Stanley Cup, a Lombardi Trophy, Olympic gold medals, and Masters' green jackets--it's to honor those who have struggled and ultimately won. That's why there are sports games held all around the world in the first place--to determine who the winners are, and to give them the respect the losers rue.

If anyone is responsible for encouraging and praising athletes, it's not sports writers. That's the job of the parents, friends, and fans of the team--those people who can afford to be biased in their appraisal of the organization. Heck, if it was the newspaper's job to act as the cheerleader for
the team, then why have actual cheerleaders?

Here's the very simple formula needed to get "positive" headlines in the Turret: win games. I understand that Knox teams are currently struggling to even fill their rosters. I know there aren't as many students as there have been in years past.

That's not the issue. It's the athletes' and coaches' jobs to win games, and it's our job at the Turret to be there when they do--and to stick with "just the facts, ma'am."

# # # #

Had to get my cheerleader dig in there, by the way.

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Great news, everyone! I've got horrible news!

I'm convinced now that I've been at least partially comatose for the past year. Otherwise, I would have noticed something like this when it happened:

Pentagon seeks greater immunity from Freedom of Information Act

May 6, 2005 -- The Department of Defense is pushing for a new rule that would make it easier for the Pentagon to withhold information on United States military operations from the public.

The provision, proposed by the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) in the 2006 National Defense Authorization Act, would render so-called "operational files" fully immune from requests under the Freedom of Information Act, the main mechanism by which watchdog groups, journalists and individuals can access federal documents.

Open government advocates oppose the move, arguing that the proposed exemption is worded so vaguely that it could potentially enable the Pentagon to seal off large amounts of information, including evidence of abuse and misconduct, without proper justification.

The story was written by the New Standard's Michelle Chen. Any guesses as to why the Defense Department wanted to more easily evade reporters' FOIA requests?

Because responding honestly to those questions could threaten national security, you silly goose!
Of course that's why. That's why we do anything these days aside from tracking down pictures of Suri Cruise or pining for a new season of "American Idol."

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Five Years Later

It's been five years since that Tuesday morning when planes driven by terrorists slammed into the twin towers of the World Trade Center in Manhattan and the Pentagon. I remember being rousted awake by my friend Louis, who burst into my room and shouted, "You need to come downstairs and watch the news, now."

We all did. At the time, I was living in the fraternity house on Oregon Avenue in Steubenville, Ohio. There were remnants of the weekend's partying, which had stretched into Monday evening, all around us, but our attention was locked on the television screen. The first tower to be hit was smoldering, and we watched as a second airplane full of people crashed into the second, sending out a huge plume of smoke, debris, and flame.

A year later I was standing in a remembrance ceremony at Fort Benning. I was in basic combat training, my head was shaved, and I was wearing thick Army-issue spectacles and a new set of BDUs. The ceremony was held in the still-dark dawn, and we watched the images from September 11 scroll across a huge projection screen, with inspirational music as accompaniment.

Sometimes people ask me if I joined the Army because of September 11. I've thought about it a lot, and my answer is usually, "I didn't join because of September 11. But if it hadn't been for September 11, I wouldn't have joined."

The anger I felt while I watched the twin towers collapse on live television was certainly the catalyst that drew me to the recruiter's office once I'd finished college. I suppose if that hadn't been there, I would probably have wound up with a job at some small-town newspaper, content to live out the next years covering city council meetings, school boards, and little league games.

As much as my life has changed due to 9/11, it's impossible to have been completely unaffected by what happened that day. For good or ill, that day set into motion the rapid changes in global society we're currently swept up in. The very word American has taken on new and strange meanings around the world, and our military is still engaged in Afghanistan and Iraq.

The event has also served to further polarize our nation. Debate and discussion over national policy has been reduced to such pithy non-sayings such as "stay the course" and "fight or flight" and "cut and run." Gallup runs monthly polls asking American citizens if they "feel safer," we take our shoes off after waiting in huge lines at our airports, and politicians of all stripes cite 9/11 as a main reason they should be elected to whatever office.

Today, five years after the event itself, people across the country will take time to remember what happened that day and to think of the thousands who died. But I think it's also important to remember the fact that September 11 did not happen in a vacuum -- rather, 9/11 was one point on a continuum of world events. There were circumstances that led to it happening, and it has had an indelible mark on the time that has followed it. While we remember the victims who died that day, we should also be mindful of those who have died since, but no less directly because of it.

This includes the civilians and military working that day in the targeted wing of the Pentagon; the passengers aboard American Airlines Flight 11, United Airlines Flight 175, American Airlines Flight 77, and United Airlines Flight 93; the civilians, police officers, firefighters, and first-responders who perished at Ground Zero in Manhattan; Pat Tillman and all those who have died fighting in Afghanistan; and the more than 2,000 who have died in Iraq.

In November 2001, Jean-Marie Colombani wrote in Paris' Le Monde: "We are all Americans! We are all New Yorkers, just as surely as John F. Kennedy declared himself to be a Berliner in 1962 when he visited Berlin."

That sentiment has largely disappeared.

Today, when you remember where you were on 9/11, remember also what havoc that day has wreaked on our country and our world, and what we have spent in human lives in the years that have followed. In a very real sense, it's still September 11, 2001.

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The Donovan has a 9/11 post round-up here.

Football's back, and I stink

Thank God football is back.

I don't have anything major against other professional sports -- at least, not seriously -- but I'm a football fan. Baseball is a nice thing to keep track of, but watching games doesn't have the same gravity when there are some hundred-odd of them to see over the course of the season. I've played baseball, and I loved playing it, but watching -- even as a weekend Yankees fan -- doesn't have the appeal.

Basketball I skip altogether. The pros are full of prima donnas, and the only school I hold any allegiance to -- Syracuse, because it's near home -- only shows up once in a while. I actually booked time to watch the Orange's appearance in the NCAA championship, only to find that our star, Gerry McNamara, decided not to show up. With a season average of somewhere near 20 points per game, the jackass decided he was only going to sink two lousy points in the championship run, and effectively booted Syracuse out of contention on his own.

Besides, it's rare for me to get emotional at all about basketball. When good college teams and pro teams regularly run up 90-110 points a game, where's the payoff after a score? Possession changes too quickly, and while teamwork is absolutely necessary, it still winds up feeling shallow -- at least to me.

Enter football. Every game matters, and every play is a chess match between two coaches. You get to see how each team adapts its plays to take better advantage of its opponent's weaknesses, and you recognize immediately how critical the pure physicality of your players is.

"Will they see this coming? Can we work our way out of this one?"

Incredibly deep questions, both; and they're asked routinely during each game of football played on American soil.

Superstition is not a football-unique phenomenon, and for a long while I thought I was immune -- at least until this past weekend. I'd gotten a bonus in my paycheck, so I splurged and bought a Ben Roethlisberger jersey I found on sale at a mall -- marked down from $79 to around $55. I'd wanted the (wide receiver) Hines Ward version, but they didn't have it in black, so I snagged the Big Ben.

Two days later, I find out the Steelers quarterback has been hospitalized for an emergency appendectomy. Ward, meanwhile, is out for the season opener thanks to a hamstring injury.

Is my buying of merchandise cursed? If so, then I could do well by snapping up Peyton Manning -- equipment. But maybe it's the fact that I got the jersey on sale... so should I make a point of paying full price from now on?

These are questions that are going to plague me while I watch Thusday's season opener of the Steelers versus the Dolphins. Years ago, I'd have given anyone with the same symptoms a free pass to the crazy ward, but now I'm too wrapped up in this thing to protest. Someone find me a bookie.

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Back again? Maybe.

Geez. I've been treating this blog like a meth addict treats his kid. I've got little in the way of excuses -- which I'll go ahead and regale you with now.

First off, I've been picking at this book. It's not going too quickly, but at least it's fun when I get down to actually working on it. So far, we've got a healthy dose of gore and a curse word, and we're not even out the door from the coroner's office.

Second, there's work. It's been sapping most of the will I have to write anything lately, and that's about the long and short of what I'm about to say about it. I'm the only soldier left there, so suffice it to say it's a civilian issue, but it's had plenty of fallout, which even we Swiss are feeling.

I was actually saddened to hear about the death of "Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin today. I'm exactly the kind of mean-spirited, heartless bastard who'd be expected to make a joke about it, but I really was remorseful when I read the story this morning. He seemed to be a genuinely decent dude, even if he was resented by more Australians than Paul Hogan. Argh... there's the joke, I suppose -- which was inappropriate, but the point is that it's a shame to see him go.

At any rate, I figured I'd swing back by this Trainspotting baby just to let anyone left hanging around know that I'm still alive... again.

So please, enjoy yet another worthless update that I only wrote out of guilt for leaving the thing completely abandoned.

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So I've been on vacation. Sue me.

Yep, I've been a rotten blogger. Normally after a hiatus like this, I'd feel a little guilty for not having posted anything for ages. At the moment, though, my conscience is clear.

About 10 days ago I came home to central New York for some leave. I hadn't been home since Christmas, and the family had been planning a beach-side vacation during August -- since that's about the only time all seven of us could get together. We headed down to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, and spent the entirety of last week sprawled on the beach, swimming in the surf, or drinking the very tasty beer brewed by Rehoboth's own Dogfish Head brewery.

I'm now brown as a nut, my hair has grown far out of regulations, and my vacation is rapidly drawing to a close: I fly back to Louisville tomorrow afternoon, and it's times like these I dread. The last fleeting days and hours of a trip home are always melancholy, since I know that soon I'll be returning to Radcliff, Kentucky, which is a place God has forgotten about.

The good news, though, is that the break has given me some good perspective and focus in terms of this final year of Army service. I've visited some old friends -- one of whom lives in Ocean City, Maryland, and has a dock on the channel for a back yard -- and I've seen a little of what life will look like once I'm out.

I also got some ideas together for the zombie book, which I think will be a fun, violent romp through post-September 11 American schizophrenia. After the events of the past few years, how could a zombie apocalypse story not involve some systematic failure of the Department of Homeland Security and the Federal Emergency Management Agency? Write me now if you want to share in my millions.

It's really just an experiment, and I don't actually expect it to pay off in spades, if at all. But it'll be interesting to slog my way through the process of actually writing something that big, even if the content is going to be heavy on dreadful descriptions of undead cannibalism.

So, onward and upward, I suppose. I'll be back at the grindstone Tuesday, and while I'm not looking forward to it, at least it'll be the beginning of the last 365 days I have left in this business. After that, who knows?

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I'm back. I'm back in the New York groove.

Sort of, anyway.

For those of you who have checked this space with any regularity, I'm sorry it's been so long. I just haven't had anything worthwhile to say.

For those of you who just happened upon this space while looking for Li'l Jon lyrics, go fuck yourselves and find some good music to listen to, because right now, you suck.

Now that that's out of the way, I might as well say that there's nothing interesting for me to talk about. No neat scenes ripe for description, no embarassing stories to tell, and nothing brewing on the professional side that warrants a retelling.

My latest plan is to write a crappy horror novel, which hopefully I can sell to someone who will eventually rid me of financial worry. We'll see how that goes.

Politics? I can't do them any more. It's too tiring. The headlines speak to an audience to dumb to understand what's actually going on, and I don't feel like I have the readership to make explication worthwhile. Figure it out on your own, I don't care anymore.

I just want this phase of my life to be done. I'm tired... it's been four godforsaken years already.

I'm not depressed, really. Just tired. Tired of the same old shit. It's definitely time to move on.

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Name-droppage, Army buddy makes good, and a new project

I'm still foundering in the depths of uninspiration, but I thought I ought to drop by this old place and provide an update of sorts.

First, my old buddy-turned-NCO Josh Salmons has been interviewed over at CK's Blog. He was kind enough to give me a credit for getting his blogging career going. If you haven't been by there yet, definitely check out Talking Salmons. He's doing some great writing from Taji, Iraq.

Unlike the good sergeant, I've somehow managed to avoid deployment. And now that I'm about at the "year left" mark, it looks doubtful that I'll go. I joined the Army, and missed the war. I can't really say I'm that upset.

So now that I'm heading into the home stretch, I'm looking toward the next phase. I've settled, I think (at least for now), on going to graduate school, and Ohio State University seems to have the best program for journalism. I haven't made any firm decisions yet, but the general idea of going back to an academic environment is very appealing.

Anyway, that's it from me at this point. Maybe inspiration will strike this week.

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Time is relative

It was noon, today, and I was pushing the intercom button at the entrance to the post airfield. My first attempt hadn't raised a response, so I held the bastard down for a healthy spell the second time.

"Yeah?" a voice crackled. It was surely one of the civilians in the Ops hangar.

"I'm here for the Autocross event," I said. I ran my hand through my hair. It was too long, and greasy, since I hadn't showered since the day before.

"Not here," the Ops guy said. "You've got to go through the museum park."

"Great, thanks," I said.

I was heading to the airfield to cover the SCCA Autocross race. It's a low-key amateur racing event where anyone with a car and twenty bucks can strap into their vehicle and try winding around a slalom course at high speeds. Normally, this kind of thing would be exciting, but I'd been on 12-hour Charge of Quarters duty until six in the morning, and I was feeling a bit punchy.

The good -- and bad -- thing about CQ is that there's literally nothing to do other than watch television or read. I'd picked up a couple books this week, and at the beginning of the shift I cracked open J.D. Salinger's The Catcher In The Rye. I'd never read it in high school, because back then I'd been reading Greek and Roman stuff primarily -- Homer, Virgil, Caesar, Thucydides, Herodotus, Xenophon. The great books courses I took in college petered out after Communist Manifesto and Origin of Species.

I didn't know what to expect from Salinger. I was only really aware that his seminal work was apparently a favorite among assassins and conspiracy theorists.

I was immediately struck by the tone and language, which reminded me of some of Steinbeck's stuff. But the more resonant element was Holden Caulfield's general disgust for everything in his life, including, to a certain extent, himself. Considering the time it was written, I suppose Salinger published the first book about the modern angry teenage punk.

I'd finished it by 3 a.m. It's one of those books that ends somewhat abruptly, and it's difficult to put my initial reaction into words. I had several, I suppose -- including, "Damn, what a time to pick to read a book like this."

When it comes to the Army, I'd say it's safe to say I have a bit of a Holden Caulfield streak.

Back at the airfield, I turned the truck around and headed for Keyes Park. It was overcast, but still bright for my eyes. I found a narrow dirt access road onto the side of the airfield and turned in, heading eventually onto the tarmac where a guy with a clipboard was standing. He smiled and asked me to sign a waiver.

"I'm here with the paper," I said. He smiled again and handed me the clipboard. Waiver it was, I guessed.

I headed down the landing strip after taping on the paper SCCA bracelet. There were cars of all description lined up along the sides of the tarmac -- lots of Nissan Zs, late-model Mazdas, a few Acuras. There were kit cars with their tiny slicks, some dropped Hondas with loosened suspensions, even a Lotus. Toward the end of the parking area, near the coned-off course, several Corvettes, Cobras, and even a Dodge Viper or two sat waiting their turn to race.

The course headed down a side strip heading south, then veered north-west to the end of the runway I was standing on. Racers made another sharp right and headed straight back toward the beginning. The post commanding general was sitting there in a folding chair next to his wife, wearing civilian clothes and a stern-looking pair of aviators. By the time I'd noticed it was him, he'd noticed me, too, with my large tan Domke camera bag.

"Afternoon, sir," I said as he stood up to turn around.

"Oh, hey there," he said. I was surprised when he reached out to shake my hand. "How are ya?"

"Not bad, sir," I said. "Are you going to be taking your Viper out today?" I'd seen what he had parked in his garage at Quarters 1 during the cricket match several weeks before.

"No," he said. "But my son's taking his Mini-Cooper out."

The CG's kid wasn't driving one of those new Coopers you see everywhere these days... his was vintage, probably 1968 or 69, complete with steering column on the right-hand side for use on the streets of London.

I wished them good luck and headed off on my own. I snapped a few frames of drivers heading into the finish line. It seemed most of them were making it around the course in under 60 seconds... the timer's booth was announcing 58s, 57s, and 56s pretty regularly.

The parking side of the airstrip was littered with people. Some were looking into their engine compartments, others were wandering around looking for refreshments, while others sat under awnings, watching what they could see of the race. The Family Readiness Group from our new Engineer Battalion had set up a concession stand of sorts near where everyone was sitting and watching, and they were handing out Gatorades and candy bars to anyone with a sweaty dollar bill.

Eventually, a volunteer appeared and offered to hook me up with a spotter so I could get some pictures from the sidelines of the course. The spotter wound up knowing who I was -- he was a sergeant who'd sent in some nice words a few weeks ago about a vicious dog story I'd done. We chatted a bit on our way out along the side of the course. As we walked, a newcomer in a red BMW screamed past us, but cranked the steering wheel too hard going into his second turn. His car screeched into a donut and came to a halt.

"We can't all be 'Fast and the Furious,'" I said, trying to crack a lame joke.

"That's 'Too Fast, Too Furious,'" the sergeant said, completely outdoing me in corniness.

We stood a bit back from the first major turn, and I shot about 400 frames of drivers negotiating the curve with varying levels of skill. Some of them, you could tell, were old hands at autocross, while others, despite their flashy rides, stunk at it. Someone in a Mazda RX-8 wound his way around the turn as if he was driving Miss Daisy to church.

"Don't hurt yourself," I said to the back of his car as he meandered down the second leg of the track.

One of the fastest drivers around the track was in a silver Acura. His wasn't the most powerful car out there, but he was beating just about all the rest of the drivers in his division by at least five seconds. He was an 84-year-old dude named Charlie, the sergeant told me.

"Wow," I said. "And they say old people can't drive worth shit."

We watched Charlie hug the cones as his Acura rocketed around the turn and into the slalom section. He wove back and forth effortlessly, without once touching the brakes until he entered the next big turn.

Eventually I headed home. I'd gotten all the shots I needed -- hell, out of about 500, there ought to be a couple good ones. It's a crutch for sub-standard photographers like myself who are lucky enough to have a digital to work with -- pros call it "spray and pray," which is apt, and they thumb their noses at the practice. I didn't care, though. I was sleepy and just wanted a chance to lay down and nap the afternoon away.

-30-

Yes, it's Wednesday

Belated happy Independence Day to everyone, and a hearty congratulations to my old buddy Seth, who got hitched in Nashville this weekend past. I was fortunate enough to attend, and there were multiple episodes of craziness that preceeded the actual wedding.

For the sake of everyone involved, I've been sworn to absolute secrecy on some aspects of what happened. And as for the rest, it'll be a story for another time (which, if my past track record of following up stories is any indication, will probably never arrive).

I'm still pretty fed up with the daily newsreels and the color commentary that seems to go along with all of them, so I'm not in the mood to come up with any topical content.

So yeah -- basically what I'm saying is that I had an awesome weekend, but I'm not going to tell the story; and that I'm good and pissed about a lot of separate issues, but I'm not going to write anything about them. I'm the best, huh?

Anyhow, the suggestion box is open, so if anyone wants to step in and substitute for my erstwhile muse, please feel free. In the meantime, I'll be listening to Opie and Anthony.

-30-

The blogmuse has left the building

It seems that periods of blog inspiration come in waves, and I'm currently sitting in a valley.

It's not that there's nothing to talk or write about -- quite the contrary, really -- but getting into any news-related subject matter these days makes me far too angry to be of any use.

On the way in to work today, I noticed a headline in the local paper, which proclaimed that Elizabethtown had enacted a ban on pit bulls and Rottweilers following a dog attack incident.

"Just another example of the media over-hyping a story and ruining it for everybody," my roommate said.

I looked at him.

"That's about the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I said.

The ban, he seemed to feel, could be blamed on the media for their having reported on the dog bite story. The paper hyped it up and caused an outrage, which led to the city council passing the new ordinance.

I'm still working on a piece on this whole "shoot the messenger" phenomenon. It's ridiculous.

-30-

Update: Conservatives are so full of humor. I just never quit laughing at their constant comedy gold!