Whiskey Tango

.....no, not WTF as in my previous column, but just WT. One of the main reasons anyone would feel ashamed to be caucasian. I suppose that for every race or ethnicity, there is a bottom of the barrel. For us of the caucasian persuasion, we have Whiskey Tango, better known as White Trash. Whiskey tango are a not-so-distant cousin (probably by marriage) to the tango papa tango (trailer park trash) and there is a lot of skill involved in noting the subtile differences between the two. I had the misfortune of seeing a group of these types let loose on society this past weekend while the missus and I were helping one of our young friends and his significant other celebrate his 21st birthday. I can hardly remember my own 21st, but not for the reasons you might think. This kid made a what I can only categorize as a very mature decision to be brought down to Williamsburg to go to Busch Gardens for a day of amusement park fun over going to a bar, spending a week's pay to get completely shitfaced and run the risk of being caught trying to drive home. I have worlds of respect for this young man for that very reason among others. But on to my story...
We get to the park around noonish. It isn't too long before I am reminded as to why I don't like going to amusement parks in the first place. Much after childhood, you don't see too much else besides the aforementioned bottom of each ethnicities' respective barrels. One in particular stands out during this visit, but this bears a little backstory.
From the minute you mount the trolly that takes you from your parking lot (as all of them are remote from the park) to the main entrance of the park, you are told in a clear and decisive manner that smoking in the park is prohibited save a few designated smoking areas located near the bathrooms. The smokers in our group made note and away we went. Once dropped off at the area where tickets are purchased, there are is an abundance of signs stating the same park rules regarding smoking. This same announcement is made over a public address system in the lines of each ride (which you have 45 minutes to listen to repeatedly.) That being said, I'll fast forward to about 9:00 or so at night when we were in line for what was to become the last ride of the night for our foursome. We just so happen to get in line and in front of us there is another group of four people. No one would have had to tell us that these four people were together, because it was painfully obvious. All four of them were clearly well above "the legal limit". From the looks, there was a mother, father daughter and son-in-law. The most eye-catching member of this group was the son-in-law. Striped Chaps polo-type shirt three sizes too big with blue denim shorts so long that they were three inches away from being assless/legless pants. High-top sneakers complimented the clothing accented by a lovely overabundance of gold jewelry, to include a clearly bought-from-QVC oversize cubic zirconia earring. A militaryesque medium-regulation haircut with the front "lined up" rounded off this "just-this-side-of-8-mile" picture quite completely. All this could be found on the most obvious redneck who was probably in his mid to late twenties. His wife was uncomfortably thin and pale, probably in her early twenties, dressed in the latest clothing no doubt stolen from off the neighbors' clothesline or quite possibly her mother's own wardrobe. The hair was a dirty blonde done in a style that to me was reminiscent of the white girls who thought they were hood rats back in the 1990's, but had been sweated out between the heat and the sweat produced by drinking entirely too much alcohol. Her eyes were so bloodshot that it made it difficult to decipher in the already low light what color they truly were. The mother looked the same as the daughter but with scraggly, greasy brown hair with no hairstyle, her skin tan and wrinkled throughout added about 30 extra years to her percieved age, although it was likely that she and her daughter were only about 17 years apart. The father was the most inconspicuous, surprisingly enough. He looked in his forties, brown hair, mustache poorly trimmed if trimmed at all, about 2 inches shorter than his already short wife, wearing jeans, sneakers and some random Budweiser t-shirt that was no doubt purchased from the park that day. The father's saving grace was that he was the most quiet. Regardless, here this pack is in front of us and no sooner do we get in the line than we notice the mother and son-in-law were smoking in the line. Only seconds later, the announcement came across the speakers in the line that smoking was prohibited except in the designated areas, to which the mother had the decent sense to discard her cigarette immediately. The son-in-law was a bit more daring as none of us were close enough to any park employees to draw him to their attention, finished his cigarette before getting rid of it. Some time goes by, during which the mother had focused her attention on me and decided to give her family a play-by-play of what I was doing at any given moment. To my relief, none of her family members seemed interested with the exception of the son-in-law who would occasionally turn back to gander at me. After a short time more of this, I gave the mother a look that clearly indicated that physical harm might come to her should she decide to continue this obnoxious behavior. This only prompted her to turn her attention to the youngest in our group, our birthday boy's girlfriend. After about forty minutes of trying to ignore her, we found ourselves toward the tail end of our wait to get onto the ride. At this point, the son-in-law lights another cigarette and cups it in an attempt to hide it as he is standing only about 3 feet away from the nearest ride operator who was just on the other side of the rail. This ride operator turned his head several times to see if he could figure out where the smell of cigarette smoke was coming from but never spotted homeboy. Prior to our hero 8-mile lighting his cigarette, the father in the group had apparently excused himself quietly from the line in order to go to the bathroom. 8-mile wasn't as considerate. As he and the rest of his family were situated in a corner of the building where the ride boarded and deboarded, he decides to take a leak in this corner under the cover of his wife and mother-in-law. Upon finishing his piss, he looks squarely at my wife and tells her "sorry, but when you have to go, you have to go."
Needless to say, as soon as was possible, one of our folks finally brought this jackass to the ride operator's attention, giving him the full details of what 8-mile had done. Only minutes went by before there was another ride operator that wasn't there before. Then a security guard, then three security guards. The beauty of this whole ordeal was that they let these three whiskey tangos wait in line until it was their turn to board the ride. The gate was opened by one of the security guards and all three were escorted across the platform to be questioned. The ride cycled through and the four of us quickly got on and took off. Needless to say, the ride was pisser. When it was over in all of two minutes, we arrived back at the platform where our whiskey tango friends were still being grilled, only to see him 'buck up' (lurching his chest forward as though he might hit someone) on one of the security guards who happened to be female and roughly two-thirds of his size. What we couldn't see until the ride pulled all the way forward was the local cop who was there for 8-mile's behavior while we were having a great time on the ride, which apparently consisted of more bucking up to the security guards. I was hoping if I had to see him still there on the platform, it would be crying in a ball on the ground with the faint smell of pepper spray wafting through the air.
When it was all said and done, I'm sure the modern-day Clampetts were held accoutable for their public drunkenness, the smoking in line and the pissing in public. What definately happened, however, was that the entire family was escorted out of the park in a rather rapid fashion. If I felt bad for anyone, I felt bad for the father who because he had to go to the bathroom, forfeited his place in line and was not there to see what was going on. So, when one of the family members had to inform him that they were being escorted out of the park and why, I have little doubt that it caught him completely by surprise. Unfortunately, the only thing remotely as bad as being a whiskey tango is being associated with whiskey tangos.
Is there a lesson to be learned here? Absolutely. Go to school, get a good job, stay out of amusement parks, and by god, make sure your house doesn't have rims on it.

Generation Kill

HBO has done it again with their new seven-part series "Generation Kill" It chronicles a Marine Force Recon unit through the first months of the Iraq War (Operation Iraqi Freedom) and I'm here to tell you that this show thus far has been fairly true to life. Unfortunately, I was not able to go on the first wave (the same time frame as is chronicled on the show) but I know that things had not evolved too radically by the second wave (2004-2005). No matter the type of unit you're in, you can expect your command to follow the alphabet rule of command: "I" comes before "U". There is a scene in the second installment of Generation Kill where the platoon's convoy is halted and a marine approaches Lt. Fick, the platoon commander of the main platoon focused on in the show, makes a comment to the approaching marine how his platoon's night vision equipment is running at 50% with no additional batteries and this marine has more night vision equipment hanging from his vest than he has in the whole platoon, no doubt with enough batteries to power them for a good while. Lt. Fick gets told that he is way out of line and is instructed to tell his men to conserve their resources as is taught in the marine corps. It is a widely observed and well lamented fact that your command element will ensure that they are taken care of before you are, such as was the case in my unit. My command element made sure that they had the best of equiment and accommodations. Should you decide to question these practices by your command, expect that you will be told to shut your mouth and consider that for your command to take care of you, they must have the proper equipment and resources to do so. A fine justification.
Another couple of scenes in the first two installments of Generation Kill is Sergeant Major Sixta running around Camp Mathilda as well as running around the battlefield screaming about the grooming standard as it pertains to mustaches and how they must be removed immediately. This is a classic example of the kind of skewed priorities command elements carry with them, even under fire. The recon platoon receives a last-minuite order to push through a town (with unarmored humvees and small arms) that a battalion of tanks unsuccessfully attempted to penetrate. The platoon took this 'suicide mission' and completed it with great success. They met at their rally point and were celebrating the completion of their certain-death mission when along came Sixta to give them shit about their mustaches. Seeing those scenes reminded me of being fresh boots-on-ground in Iraq when after some mortar fire, our command decided to have a formation (standing together at a close enough interval where a mortar could have taken out 80% of the element). when called to attention, the entire battalion was silent. This prompted our magnanimous First Sergeant, a sawed-off, butch filipino woman in her 40's to crow "What, no motto?" Because gathering in a tight-knit group waiting for the next mortar wasn't bad enough, we needed to sound off at the top of our lungs letting the enemy know roughly where we were. I knew there had to be a reason that the phrase "A Real Unit of Genius" made it onto our Battalion deployment T-shirt.
Although HBO has fallen into showing the same 10 or 12 movies over and over again throughout most of their programming, I have to say that while the current occupation in Iraq has become a tiresome subject with most of the general public, they have done a great job with this show thus far. If you're looking for non-stop head shots and explosions, you're probably watching the wrong show. I doubt it will be one of those epic TV shows documenting the era, but if anything made about the current occupation in Iraq was going to be epic, this would definately be in the running. I'll keep watching as it is a highly entertaining show that depicts the events fairly accurately by lesser known actors who do a great job of making the show believable. I'll stay tuned and if you have the means to watch this show, it's every sunday night on HBO at 9 PM EST for all you POGs, 2100 for all you rocks.

The Morning After

The hardest thing about waking up this morning was that I had to get up at 7:30 AM after not having fell asleep until 4:30 AM. Was I a little stiff??? Hell yeah, I was a little stiff, but I wasn't anywhere near sore enough to have to limp when I walked. Let's look at the scoreboard: 35 years old, no remotely strenuous activity in two years, easily 30 pounds overweight, ran cold (no stretching), and probably ran about 1.5 to 2 miles too many for a first run. That's a hell of a lot to have going against me. Granted, I could have helped myself slightly by stretching as I have worked for two years to get rid of that 'warrior mentality' I got from the military, but hey, I was on a time crunch. Strange thoughts of pack-running (running with a 30-50 pound pack on) have jumped into my head lately, but last night was a clear indicator that I am not ready for anything of that magnitude. Maybe last night didn't hurt me like it should have because despite the burning lungs and fatigued body parts with the stiffness that followed, it just felt that good to be doing something physical again. I could be in a large enough state of denial about my pain that it is actually being supressed, although I can honestly say that even going down stairs last night on the way to my car I felt pain in places that I certainly didn't expect to like my ankles. I've never had ankle pain after any run, but I have little doubt that little problems like that will right themselves as I continue to run. I am a little pissed, however, that for all the hard work I have done this past week that I haven't lost a single pound. I would have expected to at least have dropped one or two pounds. I guess I don't give a shit as the race between my chest and gut to see who can stick out the furthest seems to be going in reverse. I'd rather drop inches than pounds any day anyway. I really miss swimming two or three times a week. That seemed to be working well. I like being able to mix it up for cardio because I have to be honest, I hated using the bike as it felt like the single most useless thing for me. With no real means of moving the upper half of your body and hardly the range of motion to use the hip flexor muscles to burn those unsightly handles, I just feel like it sucks. Now that I know I can handle the treadmill, I will train myself up to running closer to five miles on that, then look at running on solid ground in my neighborhood. Yeah, this is coming together. I wonder if I was ever this motivated when I was in uniform....

First Run in Two Years

Before I begin, I want to let my friend Chris know that after this post, I will not chronicle any more of these events. I do this out of respect because everyone is entitled to their own thing and Chris has been documenting his runs since before I became a reader of his.
Today, a major milestone has been passed. For the last month or so, I have been more involved in fitness related activities as I just got tired of being a crippled fat-ass. I had been stationary biking and swimming and could feel the weight falling off of me, and in two weeks, I had lost 10 pounds off my max weight of 220. For some of you, 10 pounds off of 220 is like throwing a deck chair off the Titanic, but for me, it's a detectable difference. At that point, I had allowed certain events to adversely affect my fitness regimen and I sidelined myself for almost three weeks. At the beginning if this week, at the behest of a seven-foot angel on my shoulder, I kicked it up a notch and used the elyptical machine and made it just over 3 miles in 35 minutes. Burned 375 calories and was impressed with myself, despite the fact that I looked like meat with eyes for the second half of the workout. Then last night, with the accompaniment of my angel on my shoulder, I used the elyptical again and made it better than three and a half miles in 35 minutes with a noticeable improvement in stamina and pace consistency, burning 450 calories.
Tonight was a different story. The angel on my shoulder wasn't here, so I was on my own. I walked into the wellness center (gym) in my workplace and it was empty. As I made my way through the room, I set up my iPod so all I had to do was mount the machine and press play. I walked right past the elyptical machine and got on the treadmill. I entered my weight, age and duration of time and I was on my way. I must have made a good choice in running shoes because 15 minutes into it, I felt nothing in the way of pain in my back. This only encouraged me. Towards the end I felt like ass and at the 22:00 mark or so, I slowed it down to a brisk walk for about a minute or so. I don't know if it was the shame of having slowed down or some other indicator kicked in, but after roughly a minute of walking, I was right back in the game. I finished at what I felt was a strong 5.5 miles an hour as I didn't take my eye off the distance indicator on the 'dashboard' of the treadmill. If I did, it was only to check how much time I had left to my 35 minute torture session. But then, I KNEW in my heart of hearts that this was going to be anything but a pleasant experience. Once I hit the three mile mark, I couldn't stop my fists from shooting over my head in victory. This was my first run in TWO YEARS. Should it matter that it took 33:40 to make it three miles? Not at this stage in the game. On what could quite possibly be the eve of the two year anniversary of the last time I ran, I made it three miles. I mean, so what if I stopped to walk for a minute? I could very well have jumped off the machine there and then and called it quits, but I didn't. Between the actual three mile run and the cool-down, I managed to burn 550 calories which is more than I probably ate today. I can bet that I will be sore as hell tomorrow. Stress fractures? Time will tell. The one thing I can be assured of is that so long as I keep this pace up, it will never be that hard to run three miles again. My next three miles will be stronger, quicker and more consistent. Wish me luck as I continue on my journey towards physical wellness.

WTF, O?

Hey folks, I know it's been over a month since I have last written, but what can I say? I didn't feel like writing and there hasn't been much to write about. Something hit me today, though. I don't know what triggered it, but it hit me and I just kind of found myself wondering 'WTF???' WTF is with the obsessions that young adults today have with wearing kids' shit and well-beyond-casual clothes as professional business attire? Every once in a while but a little bit too often, I see some kid (relative term) in their low to mid twenties sporting some apparel or accessory with a cartoon character on it. I'm not sure if I can remember my exact age at the time, but I'm pretty sure that it was by the age of 10 that I stopped watching cartoons or having ANYTHING to do with them. I'm not even sure that any of that ridiculous Japanese anime was available to watch when I was 10, but if it was, I'm certain I wouldn't have watched it. I completely fail to see the draw. I'll admit though that some of the things that have come into fashion as a result of these cartoons, particularly some of those short, Japanese-pixie haircuts, are alright. Everything else, however, can go in the rubbish. I have become liberal enough to accept what is in front of me within reason, but there are some things I don't agree with. Flip-flops, whether they be the classic no-frills flip-flop or any variation thereof I don't think should be acceptable footwear in the workplace. Seriously, I don't want to know, much less see first-hand that you have a toenail fungus. (Yes, we can see that shit even if you try to hide it with nail polish.) The same thing can be said for 'jesus cleats' or any other variation of sandal for men for the very same reason. I worked temporarily in a law office a couple of years back that shared a floor with another law firm that specialized in some other type of law. Their entire team was comprised of three attorneys; all male. One of them had a propensity for wearing jesus cleats to work as a regular part of his outfit (Khakis and a button-down shirt in the winter and khaki cargo shorts and a button down shirt in the summer.)This guy used to kick those things off and prop himself into a reclined position in his chair by putting his feet on the wall nearest him, which was in plain view from the hallway through his open door. When that firm bought another office space and moved out, they had to REPAINT the wall for the amount of visible foot funk left on the wall by that attorney. Aside from looking completely unprofessional, it was just fucking disgusting. I can't believe anyone who consulted the attorney I spoke of here wanted to see this guy's foot funk, knobby kneecaps and/or leg hair. Are there any of us who believe in a crease in the trouser leg and a shine on the (closed-toed) shoes any more?
As I have mentioned my extreme distate for cargo shorts in the workplace on males, I don't get the ankle-length, crumpled skirt/wool socks/crocs situation I have seen running rampant on today's 'professional' female lately. There's a time and a place to wear that kind of attire and in this case, there's two: in college and living on skid row. If you want to look like you leave work and commute home to your chosen domicile underneath your favorite highway overpass, then maybe you should seek other employment such as panhandling or recycling cans. Do the world a favor if you happen to make a respectable salary: look like you make a respectable salary. The same can be said for low-rise pants which are entirely inappropriate in the face of the numerous and rapidly multiplying sexual harassment laws in the workplace. I don't care of they cover your ass, they expose enough of that tailbone tattoo and leave enough to the imagination to maintain the shit-eating grins and the sex-nuts looks on the faces of your male counterparts. Form-fitting pants? Same thing. And for all you professional males who think it's okay to wear the faded denim pants that are found in GQ and other magazines: guess what? There's only one type of person who has any business wearing those type of pants to work - the models who wear them for the express purpose of getting their picture taken for magazines. Are Dockers that unfashionable nowadays? My favorite look these days is the idiot who wears the faded jeans with either the untucked button-down shirt or the novelty T-shirt under the pseudo sport coat. You know, the one who hangs out with the young lady who wears the wrinkly ankle-length skirt with flip-flops, hemp tank top, wool sweater and the kids' barretts. Absolutely ridiculous that this is acceptable in today's business environment. I have always believed that the way you are expected to dress should be commensurate with the salary you make. If you're some hot-shot attorney making six figures, then maybe you ought to have to wear the corporate monkey suit (gender suited). After all, what's the sense in making that kind of money if you can't enjoy spending it?
It goes without saying that it just amazes me what different people think is suitable as an outfit to be worn in public. Ever been to the Inner Harbor in Baltimore on Mother's Day? Of course, many that know me could very easily and readily criticize what I wear to work or in public on a regular basis, but at least I can say that I don't make the kind of money to be wearing even remotely nice clothes and I am flagrantly taking advantage of my current employment situation. I still have some fashion sense, though and on a narrower spectrum, I know what is acceptable and unacceptable to wear to work. I don't intend to maintain my current professional station in life, and when I am ready for a professional upgrade, there will be a detectable difference in what I wear. I know that currently, I don't have to deal with the general public - I deal with a very specific portion of the public that is all too forgiving of the way I'm dressed when I show up to work because they dress the same way, and sometimes a little more extreme than me. What matters is my intent to get away from dressing the way I do.
I never thought that the 'professional' world would ever have succombed to dressing the way they do now. It is amazing that some people would look at this trend as being an 'advance' in the way the 'corporate' world now presents itself. Being the perrenial pessimist that I am, I anticipate this current trend going far further out of control before it starts to recover. As with most trends which come back around, I hope that one day the trend of neatness makes a lasting comeback.