Posts
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
2 Big Cups of Coffee After Midnight = Bad Idea
Here I am at almost two in the morning an I'm not remotely tired. I watched a couple episodes of The Wire Season 1 tonight with a Captain from the logistics section. It's become an almost nightly ritual of popcorn, coffee and TV crime drama.
Tonight we tried to build a gasoline-burning pot-bellied stove in our tent for warmth. We were halfway through trying to form a port for the exhaust chimney in the canvas when someone pointed out that we were either A) going to burn this motha down or B) going to asphyxiate from carbon monoxide poisoning. So the brainstorming began. We considered putting it outside, opening a door and putting a fan in front of it. Though, as hot as it could possibly get I think we'd end up with more cold air than hot air pumping in here. I still thought about suspending the exhaust from the ceiling somehow and running it out a door, but that's just ridiculous for the ways it could kill us listed above.
Eventually, Sergeant Phillips came up with an idea to build a lean-to/outhouse outside one of the doors to house the potbellied stove. We'll give a nice little slanted room for the rain, cut a hole for the exhaust and line the inside with aluminum foil as if we were cultivating marijuana in a closet. Will we be able to pull this off? Quite possibly. Will we burn down the tent in the process? Quite possibly, but it should be fun.
Tonight we tried to build a gasoline-burning pot-bellied stove in our tent for warmth. We were halfway through trying to form a port for the exhaust chimney in the canvas when someone pointed out that we were either A) going to burn this motha down or B) going to asphyxiate from carbon monoxide poisoning. So the brainstorming began. We considered putting it outside, opening a door and putting a fan in front of it. Though, as hot as it could possibly get I think we'd end up with more cold air than hot air pumping in here. I still thought about suspending the exhaust from the ceiling somehow and running it out a door, but that's just ridiculous for the ways it could kill us listed above.
Eventually, Sergeant Phillips came up with an idea to build a lean-to/outhouse outside one of the doors to house the potbellied stove. We'll give a nice little slanted room for the rain, cut a hole for the exhaust and line the inside with aluminum foil as if we were cultivating marijuana in a closet. Will we be able to pull this off? Quite possibly. Will we burn down the tent in the process? Quite possibly, but it should be fun.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Road Trip
Sunday afternoon I got a call from the Signal Officer (The Captain) of a battalion to the north of us. Our fielding team had already visited him, installed his radios and trained his operators, but they experienced some setbacks and asked me to come out for a visit. This would not normally have been possible, as the Brigade Signal Officer (The Major) is very covetous of his staff, and once he gets people he only lets them out of his sight when they have been drained either of their usefulness or their blood. Had he been consulted, my ass would've been stapled to a chair and stuck behind a desk... But he's home on R&R. And when the cat's away, the mice will play.
Staff Sergeant Jacobson, anAir Force network manager who has also been snatched up and held hostage by the The Major heard I was heading out and immediately got himself added to the convoy. He has been here for 3 months and hasn't once left KAF or even loaded his weapon, which has been draped flaccid and useless around his neck since he got here. We spoke with the local battalion logistics folks and let them know that there would be two of us moving out to their headquarters in the morning if they had room for us, and we packed for the trip.
I have learned from previous experience that there are certain essential items I should take with me anywhere I go, regardless of whether I plan to stay overnight or not--plans change. But this time it was clear I would be gone at least 2 or 3 days, so I packed accordingly. I made sure I got my microfiber travel towel and my shower shoes, as those are items I tend to forget. Also my wet weather gear and my so-called snivel gear, i.e. long underwear gloves, and cold weather boots.
Jacobson and I met in the morning and awaited the convoy, which finally arrived late in the afternoon. We climbed into an armored vehicle and set out for the FOB which lies about an hour north of KAF. The sun was setting as we drove through downtown Kandahar. While I could barely see anything out of my own window, I could see out the front and the other side a little bit and the impression I got is one of abject poverty. Business takes place right in the street, markets are formed by a loose collection of stalls and carts that are set up in the morning and taken down at night.
The street was at times crowded with young kids on bicycles. The gunner in our vehicle, on the never ending quest for hearts and minds, was shouting obscenities at them, encouraging them to get the $&*! out of way as we made our way through the throngs of people and vehicles. Most folks get over to the side of the road and stay there when the Americans roll through with their gigantic guns on top of their humongous vehicles, but 12 year-old boys know that they are invincible, so they play chicken with the MRAPs and Humvees secure in the knowledge that we are unlikely to crush or explode them.
We arrived to find a FOB under heavy construction. Too late for hot chow, we got some MREs and a bowl of cereal and met with the commo folks to discuss their network and what we could do for them.
When it came time to bed down, we were led to a small building in a walled-in compound. Every room was already jam-packed with cots, so it took some moving around and assembling to get our beds set up. There were two spots big enough to fit a cot and a backpack: a room crowded with American commos and a room crowded with French Canadians, including a female, which is a novelty out here in units below brigade. I elected to take this second room, as it was the closest I've been to a woman in almost two months.
I found out on a trip to France in 1996 that two years of French at Homewood High School only ever gave me enough understanding to ask directions, but not enough to understand them. A fact which was brought forcefully home when Chris Jones and I found ourselves lost in Nice with no idea how to get back to the hotel. Eventually we found a man who spoke French, Spanish, Italian and German, but no English. While his quadrilingual abilities proved ineffective for two-way communication, he was nice enough to walk us in uncomfortable silence to the Best Western Acropol.
Being able to ask "ou est l'hotel?" was a little less than useless with my new roommates, but we stumbled along as needed for the next two days.
After our beds were (literally) made and ready to accept us, we sat down around a firepit which was located conveniently outside our front door.
Sergeant Madden came late to the Army. At 35 he's got some graying hair and has to take orders from guys who are very much his junior. He got his guitar from a trooper at another FOB who had decided to learn how to play on deployment, but quickly and (it would seem) inexorably plateaued. So Madden brought it here and kept it in the back room of the hooch. He took it out for hours each night by the fire; two and a half years of playing has not been able to instill him with any rhythm. He strums the guitar, taps his foot and sings on three different beats, and no one can ever quite get the groove down. Jacobson and I were more than happy to relieve him of his instrument from time to time and trade songs.
My repertoire has dwindled in the last few years, as my guitar has spent most of its time hiding under blankets on the couch, or leaning up against a wall, but I was still able to crank out one or two tunes. And Jacobson taught me a few more which will get some polish when I get home.
Eventually we gave Madden his guitar back and retired to our rooms to sleep late into the morning. We awoke to hot chow and hot coffee and got to work.
The actual work there was mostly more of the same but with different people around. Jacobson got to solve some routing problems and help the battalion plan for some future expansion, and I helped them push position information through the network so that leaders can see where all of their guys are on the map in something resembling real time.
The Captain and I had what amounts to an hours-long Agree Fest. It turns out we're very nearly the same person in terms of our books, movies and music.
The food at the FOB was better than what we get on KAF, strangely enough. It is made by Army cooks and not by the lowest-bid contractors on the huge bases. I watched a man labor over a huge roast with a butcher knife, slicing it into hunks which they served with spicy mashed potatoes and mixed veggies. This was the best meal I'd had since coming to Afghanistan, and it was cooked by professional soldiers in a tent on a mountainside. They ration out two hot meals a day on the here, giving you MREs to supplement during lunch.
We completed our work over 3 days, squaring everyone away as best we could. We were again passing the guitar around the fire when a guy from D Company let us know we could have a ride home the following morning, Christmas Eve. We repacked our bags and turned in for the night.
I woke up this morning, rolled up my bedding and got everything packed away in my ruck sack. I carried it, along with my body armor and helmet to the tent where we were to be picked up an hour later and walked over to the mess tent to claim my hot breakfast. As I was leaving, I heard the opening strains of The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights." I suddenly experienced one of those moments of nostalgia and regret that seem to come so often in the fall and early winter.
"Everything looks perfect from far away/come down now, they'll say."
Walking back to DCO's tent with that song in my head, I took a minute to mourn everything that is no longer a part of my life; every wasted opportunity, every relationship fizzled, the memories only made sweeter by time. Maybe it's because I'm spending Christmas alone in Afghanistan, or maybe it's my thirtieth birthday which is looming so large and just a month away, but every once in a while you have to take a look at your life and ask what you're doing with it?
After a few sips of my Army coffee, I shook off that moment of self reflection, donned my body armor, and boarded the troop carrier for home.
Staff Sergeant Jacobson, anAir Force network manager who has also been snatched up and held hostage by the The Major heard I was heading out and immediately got himself added to the convoy. He has been here for 3 months and hasn't once left KAF or even loaded his weapon, which has been draped flaccid and useless around his neck since he got here. We spoke with the local battalion logistics folks and let them know that there would be two of us moving out to their headquarters in the morning if they had room for us, and we packed for the trip.
I have learned from previous experience that there are certain essential items I should take with me anywhere I go, regardless of whether I plan to stay overnight or not--plans change. But this time it was clear I would be gone at least 2 or 3 days, so I packed accordingly. I made sure I got my microfiber travel towel and my shower shoes, as those are items I tend to forget. Also my wet weather gear and my so-called snivel gear, i.e. long underwear gloves, and cold weather boots.
Jacobson and I met in the morning and awaited the convoy, which finally arrived late in the afternoon. We climbed into an armored vehicle and set out for the FOB which lies about an hour north of KAF. The sun was setting as we drove through downtown Kandahar. While I could barely see anything out of my own window, I could see out the front and the other side a little bit and the impression I got is one of abject poverty. Business takes place right in the street, markets are formed by a loose collection of stalls and carts that are set up in the morning and taken down at night.
The street was at times crowded with young kids on bicycles. The gunner in our vehicle, on the never ending quest for hearts and minds, was shouting obscenities at them, encouraging them to get the $&*! out of way as we made our way through the throngs of people and vehicles. Most folks get over to the side of the road and stay there when the Americans roll through with their gigantic guns on top of their humongous vehicles, but 12 year-old boys know that they are invincible, so they play chicken with the MRAPs and Humvees secure in the knowledge that we are unlikely to crush or explode them.
We arrived to find a FOB under heavy construction. Too late for hot chow, we got some MREs and a bowl of cereal and met with the commo folks to discuss their network and what we could do for them.
When it came time to bed down, we were led to a small building in a walled-in compound. Every room was already jam-packed with cots, so it took some moving around and assembling to get our beds set up. There were two spots big enough to fit a cot and a backpack: a room crowded with American commos and a room crowded with French Canadians, including a female, which is a novelty out here in units below brigade. I elected to take this second room, as it was the closest I've been to a woman in almost two months.
I found out on a trip to France in 1996 that two years of French at Homewood High School only ever gave me enough understanding to ask directions, but not enough to understand them. A fact which was brought forcefully home when Chris Jones and I found ourselves lost in Nice with no idea how to get back to the hotel. Eventually we found a man who spoke French, Spanish, Italian and German, but no English. While his quadrilingual abilities proved ineffective for two-way communication, he was nice enough to walk us in uncomfortable silence to the Best Western Acropol.
Being able to ask "ou est l'hotel?" was a little less than useless with my new roommates, but we stumbled along as needed for the next two days.
After our beds were (literally) made and ready to accept us, we sat down around a firepit which was located conveniently outside our front door.
Sergeant Madden came late to the Army. At 35 he's got some graying hair and has to take orders from guys who are very much his junior. He got his guitar from a trooper at another FOB who had decided to learn how to play on deployment, but quickly and (it would seem) inexorably plateaued. So Madden brought it here and kept it in the back room of the hooch. He took it out for hours each night by the fire; two and a half years of playing has not been able to instill him with any rhythm. He strums the guitar, taps his foot and sings on three different beats, and no one can ever quite get the groove down. Jacobson and I were more than happy to relieve him of his instrument from time to time and trade songs.
My repertoire has dwindled in the last few years, as my guitar has spent most of its time hiding under blankets on the couch, or leaning up against a wall, but I was still able to crank out one or two tunes. And Jacobson taught me a few more which will get some polish when I get home.
Eventually we gave Madden his guitar back and retired to our rooms to sleep late into the morning. We awoke to hot chow and hot coffee and got to work.
The actual work there was mostly more of the same but with different people around. Jacobson got to solve some routing problems and help the battalion plan for some future expansion, and I helped them push position information through the network so that leaders can see where all of their guys are on the map in something resembling real time.
The Captain and I had what amounts to an hours-long Agree Fest. It turns out we're very nearly the same person in terms of our books, movies and music.
Authors in common: Steinbeck, Vonnegut, Tom Robbins.It was eerie. He would say something he liked, and I would have to say "me too!" and I just couldn't stump him on any interest. He also played trumpet in the high school band, but he went on to play it for the Army when he enlisted out of high school. He even juggles and plays Go. He suggested that we hang out more stateside, but is a little afraid to introduce me to his wife since we're so similar and he's deployed so often.
Music in common: Primus (as youths), The Postal Service, Joni Mitchell.
Movies in common: Wes Anderson's films (we had the same impression of Rushmore: the first time wasn't so hot, fell in love with it the next time), The Coen Brothers, Paul Thomas Anderson.
The food at the FOB was better than what we get on KAF, strangely enough. It is made by Army cooks and not by the lowest-bid contractors on the huge bases. I watched a man labor over a huge roast with a butcher knife, slicing it into hunks which they served with spicy mashed potatoes and mixed veggies. This was the best meal I'd had since coming to Afghanistan, and it was cooked by professional soldiers in a tent on a mountainside. They ration out two hot meals a day on the here, giving you MREs to supplement during lunch.
We completed our work over 3 days, squaring everyone away as best we could. We were again passing the guitar around the fire when a guy from D Company let us know we could have a ride home the following morning, Christmas Eve. We repacked our bags and turned in for the night.
I woke up this morning, rolled up my bedding and got everything packed away in my ruck sack. I carried it, along with my body armor and helmet to the tent where we were to be picked up an hour later and walked over to the mess tent to claim my hot breakfast. As I was leaving, I heard the opening strains of The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights." I suddenly experienced one of those moments of nostalgia and regret that seem to come so often in the fall and early winter.
"Everything looks perfect from far away/come down now, they'll say."
Walking back to DCO's tent with that song in my head, I took a minute to mourn everything that is no longer a part of my life; every wasted opportunity, every relationship fizzled, the memories only made sweeter by time. Maybe it's because I'm spending Christmas alone in Afghanistan, or maybe it's my thirtieth birthday which is looming so large and just a month away, but every once in a while you have to take a look at your life and ask what you're doing with it?
After a few sips of my Army coffee, I shook off that moment of self reflection, donned my body armor, and boarded the troop carrier for home.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
I Have Been Remiss
I wish I could say that it was work that has kept me from writing, but it's probably everything else. With the Internet right here at my fingertips I have access to things like Texts from Last Night and Lamebook which provide literally minutes of entertainment each day. That combined with the unparalleled ability for America's fighting men and women to bullshit for extended periods of time have left me with little time to write, and little to write about.
I suppose I could tell you about Tablemus Prime, the transforming furniture engineered by Specialist Mills while he was still in charge of the tent. He took scrap lumber, hinges and electrical tape and turned a stack of tool cabinets into... ... a stack of tool cabinets with a table on top. But, the work table could be folded up and tucked behind the cabinets in case you wanted more room, much like the NordicTrac machines of the 80s, which could fold and up fit under any large, cumbersome bed. However, with Mills now in far away Zabul province, the remaining commo folks took great pleasure in disassembling and destroying Tablemus Prime.
We took off our hats out of respect for the life and service of the table. The soldier in the back there actually stood on top of it at one point to reach a high shelf, while it was already loaded down with tools, radio amplifiers and 20 lbs of paperwork. And Tablemus strained and cried, but supported her throughout the entire operation.
Most days the skies are incredibly clear, and at night I can see all of the stars that I've been missing for the last four years in good ol' overcast Rochester. I actually found myself stepping out of a port-a-john a few nights ago and was so struck by the number and brightness of the stars in the sky that I had to stop and stare a moment. You live under it all your life, and only on rare occasions do you take the time to look up and really see it. I only know a few constellations, but I was able to pick out Orion (thanks to Orion Pictures), Cassiopeia (courtesy of the movie Serendipity, thanks John Cusack), and Mars--Mars is red, and easy to spot. I know this from the movie Red Planet.
It seems like once a month, though, the rainclouds form from whatever moisture there is in this dustbowl and drops dirty, smelly rain on us for a day. While the smell of rain is usually a comfort, out here it's a combination of wet dog, and something truly foul, which is somehow much worse than wet dog. This happened on Friday, while my poncho was safely ensconced in my sleeping tent (not to be confused with the work tent) half a mile away. And of course I had some work to do outside, so the hoodie that my sister sent to me now carries the burden of a month of wear and stinky Afghan rain.
The ground soaks up as much as it can, but it still leaves huge, fetid mud puddles everywhere and misery abounds.
I suppose I could tell you about Tablemus Prime, the transforming furniture engineered by Specialist Mills while he was still in charge of the tent. He took scrap lumber, hinges and electrical tape and turned a stack of tool cabinets into... ... a stack of tool cabinets with a table on top. But, the work table could be folded up and tucked behind the cabinets in case you wanted more room, much like the NordicTrac machines of the 80s, which could fold and up fit under any large, cumbersome bed. However, with Mills now in far away Zabul province, the remaining commo folks took great pleasure in disassembling and destroying Tablemus Prime.We took off our hats out of respect for the life and service of the table. The soldier in the back there actually stood on top of it at one point to reach a high shelf, while it was already loaded down with tools, radio amplifiers and 20 lbs of paperwork. And Tablemus strained and cried, but supported her throughout the entire operation.
Most days the skies are incredibly clear, and at night I can see all of the stars that I've been missing for the last four years in good ol' overcast Rochester. I actually found myself stepping out of a port-a-john a few nights ago and was so struck by the number and brightness of the stars in the sky that I had to stop and stare a moment. You live under it all your life, and only on rare occasions do you take the time to look up and really see it. I only know a few constellations, but I was able to pick out Orion (thanks to Orion Pictures), Cassiopeia (courtesy of the movie Serendipity, thanks John Cusack), and Mars--Mars is red, and easy to spot. I know this from the movie Red Planet.
It seems like once a month, though, the rainclouds form from whatever moisture there is in this dustbowl and drops dirty, smelly rain on us for a day. While the smell of rain is usually a comfort, out here it's a combination of wet dog, and something truly foul, which is somehow much worse than wet dog. This happened on Friday, while my poncho was safely ensconced in my sleeping tent (not to be confused with the work tent) half a mile away. And of course I had some work to do outside, so the hoodie that my sister sent to me now carries the burden of a month of wear and stinky Afghan rain.
The ground soaks up as much as it can, but it still leaves huge, fetid mud puddles everywhere and misery abounds.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Bust a Deal and Face the Wheel
The comparisons began as soon as we stepped off on the tarmac. The dust in the air, the throngs of people each with their own agendas, the pervasive presence of weaponry wherever you look, the stink of poop in the air: KAF is Barter town.
For those that aren't familiar with the story of Mad Max, and his adventures in the post-apocalyptic Wasteland of central Australia, I must refer you to the movies Mad Max, Mad Max II: The Road Warrior and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. It is in this last installment that Max (Mel Gibson), finds himself under the thumb of Auntie Entity (Tina "I'm Not Even Kidding" Turner), the founder and ruler of Bartertown. This oasis is a center for trade, and all life revolves around business, electricity, and the pig sh*t they use to generate the electricity.
Differences are settled in a pretty reasonable manner, in single combat inside the giant steel cage which is Thunderdome. "Two men enter, one man leaves."
Now, I could go on forever about what a terrific movie that is. It's proof that there is no hard and fast rule binding a movie's position in a trilogy to its quality. Take the Godfather series. I & II are phenomenal, but The Godfather: Part III is just a shadow of the previous two. Maybe it's Sofia Coppola's wooden acting, maybe it's that bizarre and anticlimactic death scene at the end, but it's definitely the weakest of the three. In the case of the Godfather, number II is where it's at. The pinnacle of the series.
The Star Wars trilogy also seems to take this tack. While I like Return of the Jedi, it had the best effects, the dark-clothed Luke, and the death of the Emperor, it also had those damn Ewoks. I mean, they're trying to convince us that an uneducated insurgency can beat down a technologically superior occupier with just sticks and rocks?
Bad example. But in that series as well The Empire Strikes Back is more vibrant and more interesting. You get to meet Yoda, you see Luke develop all of his Jedi skills and it has that great downer ending. While hardly a cliff-hanger, it certainly leaves you hungry for more.
My favorite counterexample to the second film being the best is definitely Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. First off, they get points for Nazis and Sean Connery. They completely left the Nazis out of Temple of Doom, and personally I think the movie suffered for it. Last Crusade combines all of those great elements of comedy, action and Christian mysticism which made the first movie so engaging, and then they throw in a guy getting chopped up by a propeller blade. Kudos to Lucas and Spielberg for that.
And like the Indiana Jones trilogy (and it is a trilogy, I consider the fourth movie so terrible, I'm blotting its existence from the very universe of my perceptions), Mad Max has a kick-ass third movie.
Why did I get off on the trilogy rant? One of the side effects of having a singularly disordered mind. The point was to make the comparison between Bartertown and KAF. How do I get back on the thread, here?
Oh yeah:
Who runs Bartertown? The Canadians. That's who.
For those that aren't familiar with the story of Mad Max, and his adventures in the post-apocalyptic Wasteland of central Australia, I must refer you to the movies Mad Max, Mad Max II: The Road Warrior and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. It is in this last installment that Max (Mel Gibson), finds himself under the thumb of Auntie Entity (Tina "I'm Not Even Kidding" Turner), the founder and ruler of Bartertown. This oasis is a center for trade, and all life revolves around business, electricity, and the pig sh*t they use to generate the electricity.
Differences are settled in a pretty reasonable manner, in single combat inside the giant steel cage which is Thunderdome. "Two men enter, one man leaves."
Now, I could go on forever about what a terrific movie that is. It's proof that there is no hard and fast rule binding a movie's position in a trilogy to its quality. Take the Godfather series. I & II are phenomenal, but The Godfather: Part III is just a shadow of the previous two. Maybe it's Sofia Coppola's wooden acting, maybe it's that bizarre and anticlimactic death scene at the end, but it's definitely the weakest of the three. In the case of the Godfather, number II is where it's at. The pinnacle of the series.
The Star Wars trilogy also seems to take this tack. While I like Return of the Jedi, it had the best effects, the dark-clothed Luke, and the death of the Emperor, it also had those damn Ewoks. I mean, they're trying to convince us that an uneducated insurgency can beat down a technologically superior occupier with just sticks and rocks?
Bad example. But in that series as well The Empire Strikes Back is more vibrant and more interesting. You get to meet Yoda, you see Luke develop all of his Jedi skills and it has that great downer ending. While hardly a cliff-hanger, it certainly leaves you hungry for more.
My favorite counterexample to the second film being the best is definitely Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. First off, they get points for Nazis and Sean Connery. They completely left the Nazis out of Temple of Doom, and personally I think the movie suffered for it. Last Crusade combines all of those great elements of comedy, action and Christian mysticism which made the first movie so engaging, and then they throw in a guy getting chopped up by a propeller blade. Kudos to Lucas and Spielberg for that.
And like the Indiana Jones trilogy (and it is a trilogy, I consider the fourth movie so terrible, I'm blotting its existence from the very universe of my perceptions), Mad Max has a kick-ass third movie.
Why did I get off on the trilogy rant? One of the side effects of having a singularly disordered mind. The point was to make the comparison between Bartertown and KAF. How do I get back on the thread, here?
Oh yeah:
Who runs Bartertown? The Canadians. That's who.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
I am not a Teacher
I've known this for years. Whenever someone has asked for help with trig or calculus or physics, be it back in high school or even now, I can give them the quick rundown, the salient points. When, after they've gotten the condensed version, they still don't understand? I'm stumped. "What's so hard to understand about this," I'd think. "I mean, consider the relationship between position, velocity and acceleration and that's derivatives and integrals right there! I don't get what you don't get..."
It is from this wholly un-empathetic position that I dispense my knowledge. If it's something you need to know, and it's stuck in my head? I'm not going to be able to get it out in the right words to make myself understood.
The ironic part of this is that I'm driven to teach people the things that fascinate me. Ask any girl I've ever dated and she can remember the time that I explained the Internet to her--the OSI reference layers, the interconnected web of redundant router links, the Transport Control Protocol which makes the web run, but performs shoddily on high latency or flaky links--they've all had to sit through the rundown. Probably multiple times. I have been accused in the past of "overinforming people against their will."
So I can lecture, but I don't think I teach. Ask any of the people who have had to sit through my diatribes about network architecture if they absorbed anything and I bet you'll get a lot of blank stares.
That's why I was so nervous to teach a radio class today. Actually, nervous is not the word, I've been dreading it. I put off my prep as long as possible, I even pushed the training back by four days when the convenient excuse of a commanders' conference came up. But as always, there comes a reckoning, and it caught up with me today.
Determined to at least get an outline together, some rudimentary lesson plan, I stayed late last night, sitting and staring at a blank Word document. As the temperature ticked down from 42 to 40, my fingers started to get a little stiff, a little numb. Already I had begun a PowerPoint Presentation with some radio features and configuration options, but it wasn't going anywhere. Plus, I had nowhere to project or show the slideshow to them, so it was a wasted exercise. No, what I needed to do here was organize my thoughts.
Finally around 11:0pm, when the temperature reached a balmy 38, I cranked out two pages worth of outline, with all the high points they would need to get two radios to talk to each other. With that much in the can, I called it a night and started the cold walk home. I drifted into the MWR tent which is right next to my place in an effort to warm up before I walked into the indeterminate climate of my tent. It turned out that Predator was playing in the little movie room there, and right at the beginning, too. So despite the late hour, and the impending training the following day, I settled in to watch Arnold earn the begrudging respect of an alien race... by killing one of them.
This morning I woke up and abandoned my cohorts in order to get to work a little early. I figured if I had just a little more time to go over the material, it would all gel and I would have nothing to worry about. All day long I watched the clock, waiting for 1400 when I knew they would arrive and expect me to know something about my own product.
When they finally did come, we had chairs and boxes set up as a rudimentary classroom, with a whiteboard at the front on which I could scrawl my unintelligible chicken scratch. And I proceeded, by fits and starts, to teach them the ins and outs of the radio system.
I definitely screwed up some stuff in the beginning. I made simple things too complicated, and complicated things too simple. I had to go back and explain myself on some points several times. And some of them continued to make mistakes after I showed them the problem multiple times. But eventually, they were getting it.
At the end, I gave them a simple, practical exercise: make one radio talk to another one. We put them on the clock, hoping to get it in under 15 minutes, but that first time they clocked in around 17 minutes. I sent them out for a smoke break while I reset the radios back to factory defaults and then challenged them again, but this time to complete in under 10 minutes. They scraped by at 9:37.
So mission accomplished, I guess. I could definitely do better if I have to do it again. Pick more clear scenarios, explain the concepts a little better from the start instead of having to clean up misunderstandings at the end. The sad thing is, this is really one of our simplest products--7th graders could do as well if they've ever peered into the Linksys router in their house. But I feel good that they can do it now, and that I didn't break into flop sweats and pass out.
Tomorrow is test #2, when they set them up in the field and put them on top of a 50 ft. mast. Will they be able to achieve comms? We'll find out...
It is from this wholly un-empathetic position that I dispense my knowledge. If it's something you need to know, and it's stuck in my head? I'm not going to be able to get it out in the right words to make myself understood.
The ironic part of this is that I'm driven to teach people the things that fascinate me. Ask any girl I've ever dated and she can remember the time that I explained the Internet to her--the OSI reference layers, the interconnected web of redundant router links, the Transport Control Protocol which makes the web run, but performs shoddily on high latency or flaky links--they've all had to sit through the rundown. Probably multiple times. I have been accused in the past of "overinforming people against their will."
So I can lecture, but I don't think I teach. Ask any of the people who have had to sit through my diatribes about network architecture if they absorbed anything and I bet you'll get a lot of blank stares.
That's why I was so nervous to teach a radio class today. Actually, nervous is not the word, I've been dreading it. I put off my prep as long as possible, I even pushed the training back by four days when the convenient excuse of a commanders' conference came up. But as always, there comes a reckoning, and it caught up with me today.
Determined to at least get an outline together, some rudimentary lesson plan, I stayed late last night, sitting and staring at a blank Word document. As the temperature ticked down from 42 to 40, my fingers started to get a little stiff, a little numb. Already I had begun a PowerPoint Presentation with some radio features and configuration options, but it wasn't going anywhere. Plus, I had nowhere to project or show the slideshow to them, so it was a wasted exercise. No, what I needed to do here was organize my thoughts.
Finally around 11:0pm, when the temperature reached a balmy 38, I cranked out two pages worth of outline, with all the high points they would need to get two radios to talk to each other. With that much in the can, I called it a night and started the cold walk home. I drifted into the MWR tent which is right next to my place in an effort to warm up before I walked into the indeterminate climate of my tent. It turned out that Predator was playing in the little movie room there, and right at the beginning, too. So despite the late hour, and the impending training the following day, I settled in to watch Arnold earn the begrudging respect of an alien race... by killing one of them.
Arnold side note: In all those old action movies he plays characters with the most American-sounding names and yet he can't break out of his thick Austrian accent. I suppose Predator may be the exception to the rule as his name is "Dutch," which could be a hint at his region of origin, but just look at some of the others:I think the movie was a way to put off sleep, to push out my conscious mind and more opportunity to worry about the impending training. It's the same reason I listen to my iPod while I'm walking around and why I read before I go to sleep--closing your eyes at night, like walking alone, is an opportunity for honest self-reflection and must be avoided at all costs.Every one of those names is as Anglo Saxon as John Smith, and he talks like he's just off the boat. I wonder if they give him backstories for his characters to explain this little inconsistency, or if they just brush it away with a wink and a nod.
- The Running Man: Ben Richards
- Total Recall: Douglas Quaid -- I don't know if he can pronounce 'Douglas'
- Kindergarten Cop: John Kimble
- True Lies: Harry Tasker
- The Sixth Day: Adam Gibson
This morning I woke up and abandoned my cohorts in order to get to work a little early. I figured if I had just a little more time to go over the material, it would all gel and I would have nothing to worry about. All day long I watched the clock, waiting for 1400 when I knew they would arrive and expect me to know something about my own product.
When they finally did come, we had chairs and boxes set up as a rudimentary classroom, with a whiteboard at the front on which I could scrawl my unintelligible chicken scratch. And I proceeded, by fits and starts, to teach them the ins and outs of the radio system.I definitely screwed up some stuff in the beginning. I made simple things too complicated, and complicated things too simple. I had to go back and explain myself on some points several times. And some of them continued to make mistakes after I showed them the problem multiple times. But eventually, they were getting it.
At the end, I gave them a simple, practical exercise: make one radio talk to another one. We put them on the clock, hoping to get it in under 15 minutes, but that first time they clocked in around 17 minutes. I sent them out for a smoke break while I reset the radios back to factory defaults and then challenged them again, but this time to complete in under 10 minutes. They scraped by at 9:37.
So mission accomplished, I guess. I could definitely do better if I have to do it again. Pick more clear scenarios, explain the concepts a little better from the start instead of having to clean up misunderstandings at the end. The sad thing is, this is really one of our simplest products--7th graders could do as well if they've ever peered into the Linksys router in their house. But I feel good that they can do it now, and that I didn't break into flop sweats and pass out.Tomorrow is test #2, when they set them up in the field and put them on top of a 50 ft. mast. Will they be able to achieve comms? We'll find out...
Monday, December 7, 2009
The National Passtime
The Canucks
They just couldn’t help themselves. Something deep inside the Canadian psyche forced them to build it—they never had a choice. They’re nominally in charge of KAF and therefore have a lot of personnel here, and a vested interest in keeping them sane, and this was the best way to do it: they built a hockey rink in the desert.
In the corner of the boardwalk closest to Tim Horton’s (another hometown favorite in Canadia), they erected an outdoor hockey rink on a concrete slab and every day they spend hours running up and down, chasing an orange ball.
Kudos to them, I suppose. I mean, the Americans have been here for 8 years and I see no signs of a baseball diamond. Though, there are numerous basketball courts and a beach volleyball pit. All that’s left to complete a reenaction of the memorable scene from Top Gun is Kenny Loggins.
I’ve never actually watched a hockey game in my life, in spite of multiple offers from my friends in Rochester. I did watch Slap Shot with Paul Newman a few years ago, supposedly the definitive hockey movie, but I was not impressed. I kept waiting for the contrived depth of Field of Dreams, the hilarity of Bull Durham, or the drama of Remember the Titans—I was left wanting. All I saw were pretty broad attempts at humor and a lot of blood.
Perhaps I’m missing that essential ingredient which makes hockey interesting to me, some kind of ice chromosome. There’s no great tradition of winter sports in Alabama, unless deer hunting counts. I can’t ice skate backwards. I consider the Winter Olympics to be the Boring Olympics. I say that like marathon running is exciting in the summer Olympics, but at least they have the 100 yard dash. It’s thrilling to know how much can change in thousandths of a second; heroes made, dreams crushed, records broken. That’s drama!
Speaking of incomprehensible sports, I stumbled on a cricket match on the Boardwalk yesterday. I think we’ve all seen it on TV at some point, and I believe in the past that someone tried to explain the rules to me, but it’s just bewildering. Luckily there was an English bystander who informed me of the following:
There are 11 players on each side. The offense consists of two batsmen on opposite sides of the pitch, and the defense has a bowler who is hurling the ball at one of the batsmen. Should this batsmen get a hit that goes beyond the far marker, that’s four runs. If the catcher fails to catch the ball, that’s a run, and if the batsman hits a ball inside the field, he has to run between the wickets, and each time he does, he scores a run. Meanwhile the opposite batsman is also running, and they switch places occasionally.
An average games lasts 20 overs, but I’m not sure what makes a batsman out… Or ends an over…
My head is still spinning.
So why am I sitting here watching the Canadians pine for ice, and the English batsmen run between length of the pitch between the wickets? I suppose because there’s nothing else to do. I’m trapped on an airbase in Afghanistan with no TV and limited access to the Internet? It’s made even sports entertaining.
They just couldn’t help themselves. Something deep inside the Canadian psyche forced them to build it—they never had a choice. They’re nominally in charge of KAF and therefore have a lot of personnel here, and a vested interest in keeping them sane, and this was the best way to do it: they built a hockey rink in the desert.In the corner of the boardwalk closest to Tim Horton’s (another hometown favorite in Canadia), they erected an outdoor hockey rink on a concrete slab and every day they spend hours running up and down, chasing an orange ball.
Kudos to them, I suppose. I mean, the Americans have been here for 8 years and I see no signs of a baseball diamond. Though, there are numerous basketball courts and a beach volleyball pit. All that’s left to complete a reenaction of the memorable scene from Top Gun is Kenny Loggins.I’ve never actually watched a hockey game in my life, in spite of multiple offers from my friends in Rochester. I did watch Slap Shot with Paul Newman a few years ago, supposedly the definitive hockey movie, but I was not impressed. I kept waiting for the contrived depth of Field of Dreams, the hilarity of Bull Durham, or the drama of Remember the Titans—I was left wanting. All I saw were pretty broad attempts at humor and a lot of blood.
Perhaps I’m missing that essential ingredient which makes hockey interesting to me, some kind of ice chromosome. There’s no great tradition of winter sports in Alabama, unless deer hunting counts. I can’t ice skate backwards. I consider the Winter Olympics to be the Boring Olympics. I say that like marathon running is exciting in the summer Olympics, but at least they have the 100 yard dash. It’s thrilling to know how much can change in thousandths of a second; heroes made, dreams crushed, records broken. That’s drama!
Speaking of incomprehensible sports, I stumbled on a cricket match on the Boardwalk yesterday. I think we’ve all seen it on TV at some point, and I believe in the past that someone tried to explain the rules to me, but it’s just bewildering. Luckily there was an English bystander who informed me of the following:
There are 11 players on each side. The offense consists of two batsmen on opposite sides of the pitch, and the defense has a bowler who is hurling the ball at one of the batsmen. Should this batsmen get a hit that goes beyond the far marker, that’s four runs. If the catcher fails to catch the ball, that’s a run, and if the batsman hits a ball inside the field, he has to run between the wickets, and each time he does, he scores a run. Meanwhile the opposite batsman is also running, and they switch places occasionally.
An average games lasts 20 overs, but I’m not sure what makes a batsman out… Or ends an over…
My head is still spinning.
So why am I sitting here watching the Canadians pine for ice, and the English batsmen run between length of the pitch between the wickets? I suppose because there’s nothing else to do. I’m trapped on an airbase in Afghanistan with no TV and limited access to the Internet? It’s made even sports entertaining.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
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