I’m thinking of a Country…

I’m thinking of a Country…

The year is 1936

The ruling party monitors the conversations of its people in order to “protect” them. Mail into and out of the country is inspected and often read, to identify those that might be plotting against the country’s government and/or its people. Governmental bodies have been created and are tasked with the monitoring and tracking of “suspicious” citizens based on racial or religious profiling. Individuals can be imprisoned, held and questioned without trial under special government statutes. The majority of the citizens are frustrated and angry with their leadership. The rest of the world believes this country is out-of-control.

Now the year is 2006 - I’m thinking of a Country…

Let’s learn from history…

Fact or Fiction #4 - I want to be an Airborne Ranger

Stand up, hook up, and shuffle to the door…

I’m convinced the people that designed these cargo planes knew the exact frequency of the human skeleton and built these things to resonant on that wave length. The low hum of the engines becomes both painful and hypnotic as my body vibrates, as if molecule by molecule I’m slowly merging into the aircraft.

I’m tightly squeezed between two other soldiers, who are also squeezed tightly between two other soldiers. Nobody is talking. We are all just staring at the packs on our laps that contain about 40 pounds of nylon that only need to perform their function this once – as far as I’m concerned anyway. As I look towards the side of the pack, there is a small slit pocket that contains a card. I manage to pull slightly on the card and read the name Airman First Class Cody Hubert. The name was not important to me – but it would be important to the people that would be recovering my remains if this puppy doesn’t pop open. He was the Rigger that meticulously (hopefully meticulously) packed my chute in accordance with procedures and signed this card in the hopes that nobody ever needs to read it.

Jump right out and count to four…

When the alarm sounds, everyone stands up at once. We are packed together so tightly; I often wondered if I was ever really standing up on my own, or was I just being lifted off my seat as those standing on either side of me stood up. We all turn and begin to slowly move towards the back of plane. It starts as a slow Thorazine shuffle and quickly becomes a fast paced jaunt. I feel the metal floor plating of the plane vibrating under my boots with each step… then the vibration stops - and its silent.

If my chute don’t blossom round…

I’ve heard people say it’s like flying. Um… no. It’s like falling. At least what we do is like falling. There will be no "Yahooing" on the way down. I know there’s not a group of friends with a six-pack of beer waiting for me in the landing zone. There’s neither a bottle of champagne, nor joke telling, nor story swapping to be shared. I’m not going home tonight to tell the family how cool it was and how they should have seen the look on my buddy’s face when he stepped out of the plane.

I’ll be the first one to the ground.

8 seconds. That’s the life threshold for this mission. The odds of surviving this particular engagement increase dramatically after the first 8 seconds. That’s the time it takes from the plane to the ground. That’s the time we are the most vulnerable. That’s when our life is out of our control and in my case… in the hands of Nature, God and Airman Hubert.

Snippets on the News

So I’m in the car this morning (3 – 5 minutes to the train station), and I hear snippets on the news about somebody (possibly several “some bodies” in the form of a country) were surprised to discovery the possible existence of torture facilities in Europe… this is a surprise?

As painful as it might be to understand – my Government (I say “my” as I’m surprised that some readers dwell abroad – how do you people find me?) does train select individuals’ methods in torture and interrogation. If that’s just too difficult to comprehend (many Americans find it appalling that I would suggest such a thing), think about the training that we give to our aircrew members (pilots, navigators, air refueling folks, hell – even the person that serves the boxed lunch) that teach them how to resist interrogation (known as RT or Resistance Training). I think everyone would agree that we want our people to be prepared (as prepared as you can be in such a situation).

Aircrew members are being taught about resisting various methods of torture…. the instructor has been taught in the ways of torture and interrogation to “emulate” what might happen if the aircrew member were to go down in hostile territory. So you see – right there, that instructor has been educated (by the government) on how to torture people. Don’t look all shocked – he’s probably a very nice person with only a minimal of psychological scaring.

As somebody that may (or may not) know something about interrogation, I find it difficult to remain silent when I hear people discussing topics such as Abu Ghurayb prison. So Survival Cookies is going to lay out the good, the bad and the ever so ugly on the topic of interrogation (something in which I may or may not know anything about).

First off, there is no doubt that the troops that were left in charge of Abu Ghurayb were not properly trained nor were they (in my opinion) mentally prepared to deal with the assignment.

Wouldn’t it be great if there was some cool little guide or some sort of manual that illustrated how prisoners of war should be treated? (Rhetorical)

It’s called the Geneva Convention and although adopted in 1949, is a really cute little pamphlet that let’s people know when they have crossed the line. Most of the 143 Articles are fluff (legal babble), but within this document are some very easy to understand (even for Reservist Graner and England) sentences. For example; Article 3 (didn’t have to read to far into it) states: “the following acts are and shall remain prohibited at any time and in any place whatsoever” and refer to “Outrages upon personal dignity, in particular, humiliating and degrading treatment”.

Now don’t get me wrong, many of these prisoners were individuals that wanted to see the end of American life and are deserving of a good ass-kicking… however, part of what they are trying to destroy (what America supposable stands for) is tolerance towards all people’s beliefs and respect towards all individuals (and I’ll quote the Geneva Convention) “without any adverse distinction founded on race, colour, religion or faith, sex, birth or wealth, or any other similar criteria”. Wow…

For the record: Standing a guy on a chair with a bag on his head, taping wires to his fingers and telling him if he steps down he will be shocked… Acceptable. It disorientates and causes fatigue which will aid in the future interrogation (opps, sorry… questioning) of the prisoner (opps – detainee)

Dog piling eight prisoners upon each other naked… Unacceptable. Besides being against the Geneva Convention, it acts as an emotional bonding experience for the prisoners that can be damaging to future questioning.

Anyway – I’ve rattled on too long about this topic and I need caffination… be comforted in the knowledge that such a doctrine exists and as long as we abide by it’s wisdom, prisoners of war are protected. Of course the Nazis got it around it by calling prisoners “spies” and America is getting around it by calling them “terrorist” – but who am I to make such a comparison?

Okay, Fine - Happy New Year

I’m guessing it’s time to finally wish everyone a Happy New Year. So consider the bestowing of warm fuzziness given.

The first few weeks of the New Year are usually a bit chaotic – and this year is no exception. The Adjuster finally graced my home with his presents nearly two-weeks after the flood and then had the nerve to tell me, “Mold is not covered under flood insurance”. In which I replied, “If your happy ass was here 48 hours after the incident, as stated in the policy, perhaps mold could have been avoided.” But alas – he wasn’t, it wasn’t, and now I’m cutting and patching pieces of drywall in my fictitious free-time.

San Francisco apparently received “the gift that keeps on taking” in the form of a new batch of homeless. Last year’s batch contained a large number of “let me entertain you” type homeless, that sang, played some sort of device, told jokes or offered services (I’ll let you imagine). This year however, they are a batch of screaming, whining, crying beggars that engage in violent outbreaks and spout profanity. It’s the gift equivalent to a lump of coal… apparently San Francisco had been bad last year. I’m hoping this year San Francisco behaves and perhaps we can get shiny new homeless that don’t scream or smell like urine.

I’m usually on the train by 5:30AM and I’m fortunate enough to witness many of the colorful impoverished as they attempt to keep warm and collect their 40 minutes of sleep before starting their fairly industrious day. Now before I get slammed with hateful comments about the homeless – I want to be very clear on this matter… screw them. I’ve worked in the city for many years and I have been panhandled as much as 14 times in a six block walk. 14 freaking times! I’ve heard them all… here are some of the most popular:
“Spare change?” – Completely unoriginal and usually does not even get my attention.
“Excuse me; excuse me (shocked when you make eye contact). Um, I’m trying to get to Oakland and all I need is 17 more cents” (waves an old wet BART ticket). – Look slick, BART uses round monetary numbers divisible by five. Asking for 17 cents is just plan stupid. At this point I usually get a pause, quickly followed by the next most popular
“Can you help a brother out?” – Um, no.
Singing, pounding or blowing into an instrument and telling jokes – Enough already. Hearing “Lean on me” every goddamn day for six months makes me want to give them $20… in the form of a roll of quarters clenched in my fist repeatedly upon their face and neck.

It appears to me that there is a logical solution, a symbiosis that could occur, that somebody is choosing to ignore… let me put you on the right track; we have homeless with a hunger problem… we have a city with a pigeon problem. I’m waiting for somebody to just resolve both these issues in one stroke, that’s all I’m saying…

But where was I… oh yes, Happy New Year

10 Types

There are 10 types of people in the world...

Those that understand Binary, and those that don't.

(I've had this posted to my monitor for years... I don't remember where I heard it, but it makes me giggle - geek)

Fact or Fiction #3 - Rock Paradox

As my hands grip the cold rock, I feel the burning chill penetrate through my skin. At this point I’m uncertain whether it’s the cold or the abrasions on my hands that are making them numb, but I welcome the numb.

My hands are no longer “hands”, but they must be tools… in this case – anchors. I shove my hand into a crack of the rock and make a fist, I twist my fist until it’s wedged in – wedged in tight. Tight enough that when I lean away from the cliff, as I push with my legs with all my might, my feet are forced flush to the stone surface. My legs are horizontal, the rock cliff is vertical, I shuffle my feet another few inches up… still leaning away… still pushing away… the paradox of pushing away from the rock to stay connected to the rock has long left my mind… all I know is that it’s working… keep pushing… keep learning away.

I shove my other hand into a higher crack, make a fist… twist that lump of meat until it’s wedged in tight… then lean away… push away. The cold has passed unbearable and has become nonexistent. I feel nothing, but hear everything. My breathing, the cloth of my shirt rubbing against my jacket, my boots as they inch their way up the plumb side of stone, my heart, the wind.

Then suddenly a sensation… nerve ending are stimulated… something colder then the bitter shroud that has engulfed me… on my face… something… wet.

A rain drop… a single drop of rain that was soon followed by others. I watched as they glided softly, quietly from heaven. They landed on the rocky surface and turned it white… solid… frozen. As more drops covered the rock, a layer of ice slowly formed. I was fascinated by the sight. I watched as the ice grew, I watched as it covered my arms and my legs, and as filled the crack.

My hand would no longer wedge into the crack. The ice had made residence there and my soft fleshy tools were no longer up to the task. The hand that was still wedged was slipping… sliding out… covered in ice. I was still leaning… pushing away… holding myself tight into the rock face. I start thinking about the paradox again, a situation where two facts/situations are opposite or contradictory, and a link between them can seem absurd, yet both can sometimes be true at the same time. Pushing away from the rock had kept me close to it. For nearly 200 vertical feet the paradox had worked. My hand is no longer in the crack. I’m puzzled how my hand can be so cut up and still not hurt… my feet are no longer hugging the rock. One of my laces is becoming untied. I hear the wind as it rushes by.

Rule of 3

In a survival situation…

You can survive 3 weeks without food.

You can survive 3 days without water.

You can survive 3 minutes without air.

You can survive 3 seconds without hope.

So far, no good

I sincerely hope that the first 10-days of this year are not an indicator of what I can expect for the remaining 354.

On December 31st there were two statements that could sum-up the start of the new-year: “California had some record breaking rain” and “I live near a creek”.

The water filled underneath my house to the sub-floor (nothing like the sound of water lapping against the bottom of the floor at 3:00AM to make you feel all warm and secure). I understand that many people had as much as 3-feet of water in their homes and lost everything… so I’m not surprised that nearly 2-weeks later I still have not had an adjuster come by, but let’s add 2 points to the Stress-O-meter as I’m moving valuables off the floor, looking for my rain gear and watching the water line slowly rise.

The next few days (thankfully holidays) I surveyed the damage. The garage had about 4-inches of water in it (apparently lower then the house) and unfortunately I’ve been using it as storage instead of a place to park my car. The most interesting thing in the garage that got wet – was a pile of dry cement bags (50 of them) for a Fence Project that I never got around to implementing. Now I have a bunker… a solid cement bunker in my garage. We’re going to add 2 more points to the Stress-O-meter as I figure out whether a jackhammer or explosives will best fit the job of removing this sculpture.

A few days later – did you know it only takes 3-5 days for mold to germinate and grow? I didn’t.

Dark patches down low on the walls and under the carpet (which in spite of the constant running of an electric heater still feels moist). I’m waking up with headaches and a nagging cough… could this be mold related? Oh god – stop this train of thinking… I’ve been running around in the cold and the rain and I’m living in a damp house… hopefully it’s just the start of pneumonia – stop worrying (Bing bing bing 3-points)

Animals sense stress. I have a dog and a cat and they both have been pinging this last week. The cat has been jumping off the bed (and not a gentle leap down, but more like a veteran bungee jumper doing it for the cameras), an event that shakes the bed with a violent jerk. He’s been doing this no less then 3 times (as many as 7) during the night. He’ll hit the floor - then tears into the living room and begin a long recital of low mournful meows. The dog, who is 16, is now awake and has decided that he needs to go outside to pee (hell, when I’m 110 I’ll need to pee several times during the night as well). So lack of sleep will add 2 more points to my Stress-O-meter and we’ll call it a solid 9.

Finally – this morning on the train to work… the 45-minutes I can usually unwind, was spent listening to three yahoos in baseball caps (sitting near me) discussing who would win in a fight between a Great White Shark and a Grizzly Bear. And at that moment I realized, the random events of the past few weeks are just that – random. There is no cosmic conspiracy to drive me mad… I’m not that important. And if I were, I sure the hell won’t let some ethereal entity or celestial design make me crack.

As I leave the train, I hear behind me, “What if the shark had a laser on his head?” and I just smile.

Tangents

I like my coffee black…

90% of Black and Blue Berries are edible, while only 10% of White and Green Berries edible. Red Berries are 50 – 50… but this is just a rule of thumb.

The term “Rule of Thumb”, means a method or procedure which comes from practice or experience, without any formal basis. There is a myth that it comes from English Law dating back to the mid-1700’s and describes the legal thickness of a stick in which a man could beat his wife. The truth is far less colorful. There are records dating back to the early 1500’s that describe carpentry work and measurements done by thumb (much like measurements done by foot) that imply the practice probably dates back even further.

Another misconception is that the world’s oldest profession is that of prostitution. That doesn’t even make sense if you think about it. Poor to average men would have just taken “it” without paying, and wealthy men would have slaves and concubines to provide “it”. I’m not going to count Hunting as a profession (or Gathering for that matter) as it was unlikely that anyone was hired to perform these functions, but instead performed those functions as a means of survival. Which leads me to tribe elder, shaman, which doctor… or as we know them Astrologers. This was a profession, something learned and passed on that was actually compensated (paid) for the giving of a consultation in matters of love, fortune telling and prophecy.

According to Chinese Astrology, I’m a Dragon…

In Eastern culture Dragons are regionalized by the number of claws they have. Most five-clawed Dragons are Chinese, while three clawed Dragons are Japanese. Four clawed Dragons are depicted in Korean, Indonesian and some Chinese art.

Indonesia is the world's third largest producer of coffee…

I like my coffee black…

Fact or Fiction #2 – “17, 22, 47, 8” Part 2

Monochromats can only see shades of black, gray and white. The condition is called Monochromacy.

I’m going to be a Weatherman!

MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Command) is where all recruits get processed before heading out for the most basic of military training. Tests are performed (both physical and mental) to access if an individual is capable of becoming a member of the US Military. Different careers have different requirements (again both physical and mental), and a weatherman was no exception. The final test for me was an assessment of my depth perception (I have great depth perception).

The test (as I remember it) was performed in a small, sparsely furnished examining room. There was an anatomically correct maquette of the human eye, sitting on the counter and a large black and white poster of some Popeye looking man discouraging smoking loosely hung on the back wall. I sat on the examination table while a gentleman in a white lab coat plugged in a tall (perhaps two-foot), thin (no more then three or four inches) black rectangular box in the corner of the room. At the top of this elongated box were three vertical lights, side-by-side. With a push of a button, the gentleman in the white lab coat could manipulate which light was towards the front or towards the back of the box. The test was simple; tell the man which light was farthest away. The test went something like this…

Push of button – “What color light is farthest away from you?’

“The middle one.”

Push of button – “What color now?”

“The one on the left.”

Push of button – “And what color now?”

“The middle one”

Pause… note taking… more pause … “And what color is the middle one?”

Crap… In an instant, my desired career-path vanished like virginity on prom night. I was to be a weatherman. I didn’t really know much about what a weatherman did, but the idea of getting out of the Military and getting a job at a local television station appealed to me. I could stand up there the last 5 minutes of the nightly news, wearing some ugly sports jacket and laugh at some stupid joke the Anchor would toss at me, give my witty retort and present the 7-day forecast. That was the plan… but apparently weathermen need to be able to read Doppler radar. Doppler radar from my understanding uses different colors to show rainfall and other atmospheric events that I just don’t understand… because you see - “17, 22, 47, 8” were not valid answers to the test that shortly followed - I never became a weatherman.

It was then I was introduced to the term, “The needs of the Military come first”.
Let us just say, I was particularly motivated when recruitment for the Special Forces came about – otherwise you would be calling me “Bus Driver Bob” or “Fry Cook Fred”.

While unloading crates of firearms in Nicaragua – I would reflect on what brought me here. I would look around at the trees, the blue sky and the burning sun. It’s about 103 degrees today; winds are mild from the southeast, we are looking at about 96% humidity inland. It’s going to be a hot one – so stay indoors and try to keep cool… back to you Kim.