UNDERSTANDING MARINES:

UNDERSTANDING NAVAL AVIATORS:

TRUSTING POLITICIANS:

WHY WE LOVE CHILDREN:

A Christmas Story for people having a bad day:

When four of Santa’s elves got sick, the trainee elves did not produce toys as fast as the regular ones, and Santa began to feel the Pre-Christmas pressure.  Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mother was coming to visit, which stressed Santa even more.  When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two others had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where.

Then when Santa began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards cracked, the toy bag fell to the ground and all the toys were scattered.  Frustrated, Santa went in the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum.  When he went to the cupboard, he discovered the elves had drank all the cider and hidden the liquor. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider jug, and it broke into hundreds of little glass pieces all over the kitchen floor.  He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten all the straw off the end of the broom.

Just then the doorbell rang, and an irritated Santa marched to the door, yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.  The angel said very cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, Santa.  Isn’t this a lovely day?  I have a beautiful tree for you.  Where would you like me to stick it?”

And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree. 

It should already be apparent that I was truly captured during my time in Afghanistan.  I previously shared some historic glimpses, then drifted off into Tolstoy for a few days after reading Haji Murat in a sere, resplendent poppy field one cold, dry afternoon.  I did get to travel the country quite a bit while there, and Kandahar and the surrounding areas really caught my attention.  I’m somewhat limited in what details I can relate, so I’m borrowing liberally from a recent story I found in The New Yorker that truly captures the essence of what I would like to share about this country.  It’s a good story; hope you enjoy it.

In late 2007, in Pashmul, a tiny cluster of villages in southern Afghanistan, Muhammad Khan began his tenure as the police commander by torching all the hemp in a farmer’s field.  Farmers in the area had grown plants up to seven feet tall, and, being teetotallers, like many Afghans, they smoked hashish constantly. Afghan soldiers and policemen in the area also smoked, to the exasperation of the NATO troops who were training them.  But Khan wasn’t from Pashmul and he didn’t smoke.  He ordered his men to set the harvest ablaze, moved upwind, then turned his back and left, with an expression of indifference.

Khan and his police officers are members of Afghanistan’s Hazara minority, identifiable among Afghans because of their Asiatic features; the population they patrol is Pashtun.  Hazaras are mostly Shia, with a history of ties to Iran, whereas most Pashtuns are Sunni and have turned to Pakistan for support.  Over the past century, the two peoples have fought periodically, and the Hazaras (who are thought to make up between 9 and 19 percent of Afghanistan’s population; the Pashtuns make up nearly half) have usually lost.

On the border between the Hazara heartland, in the country’s mountainous and impoverished center, and the Pashtun plains in the south and east, conflicts over grazing land are common.  But, working alongside NATO soldiers, Hazara police units are now operating far to the south of these traditional battlegrounds and deep into Pashtun territory.  The Pashmul base is just outside the city of Kandahar, in one of Afghanistan’s most dangerous regions.  Last year, the Taliban all but wiped out the Afghan National Police (ANP) squads there.

Deploying Hazaras in this region is a risky move, and comes at a time when Taliban bombings and assassinations are making clear the failure of the US-led NATO coalition and the Afghan government to secure the country.  Recently, a draft of a National Intelligence Estimate said that increasingly effective insurgent attacks and widespread corruption in President Hamid Karzai’s government have eroded the government’s authority, and concluded that the country is in a “downward spiral.”  And a leaked diplomatic cable quoted the British Ambassador as saying that “the presence of the coalition, in particular its military presence, is part of the problem, not part of its solution.”

If the coalition were to leave, the country would be left with the ragtag Afghan National Army (ANA), which deploys wherever it is needed to fight the Taliban in counter-insurgency battles, and the ANP, which is responsible for street-level law enforcement and now bears the brunt of the Taliban insurgency.  (Last year, nearly four times as many Afghan police were killed as soldiers.)   Among Afghans, the ANP has become known for incompetence and corruption.  Units like Khan’s, made up of a despised minority with an unsparing attitude toward those they police, embody many of the paradoxes involved in trying to bring order to Afghanistan’s ethnically fissured society. 

Pashmul’s police base, a small installation about twice as large as a tennis court and surrounded by ditches and razor wire is located near crumbling Pashtun villages of mud-brick homes, sprinkled with trash and unexploded ordnance.  Pashmul is ideal terrain for an insurgency.  The main sources of livelihood, other than hemp and poppies, are grapes and pomegranates, and, during the summer fighting season, foliage in fields and orchards provides cover for insurgents. 

Because farmers are too poor to use wooden frames in their vineyards, their grapevines are supported by deep furrows cut in the earth; thus in an apparently empty field hundreds of Taliban may be hidden.  Grape huts, scattered around the fields, have mud walls thick enough to stop bullets, and narrow ventilation slits that can accommodate rifle barrels.  Fighting has caused many Pashmul residents to flee to a temporary camp in the desert, from which they trek several miles each morning to cultivate the fields.

Khan’s police unit patrols a war zone, and the men often do the work of soldiers rather than of normal beat police officers.  Although the Army lends support when the police encounter armed resistance, the soldiers then retreat to a base outside Pashmul.  On most days, the police patrol the alleys alone, except for a few Canadian soldiers whom NATO has assigned to train and mentor them.  Taliban snipers routinely fire at the base’s wooden guard towers, and the Hazara policemen fire back. They watch the rickety pickups that pass on a paved road along the base’s eastern edge, on the lookout for suicide bombers.

Khan’s men know the faces in each village, but they remain an alien presence.  One man, who sold goats to the Hazara policemen, would say hello to the patrol when it walked past his home; his corpse later turned up in the next village.  Now in his late twenties, Muhammad Khan has an intense manner and an unsettling stare.  His directness enables him to work efficiently with his Canadian supervisors.  The Canadians and the Hazaras communicate reasonably well, although they mostly use a translator and don’t have more than a few dozen words in common, most of which describe military equipment.  Many consider Khan to be a most effective Afghan police commander and an ideal candidate for district police chief, although, given Khan’s inability to speak Pashto, the local language, and the strength of Pashtun prejudice, this would be an unlikely appointment.

Khan enforces high standards - his men’s blue-gray uniforms are tidy, and military routine is strictly followed - all the more impressive given the lack of discipline and infighting in most Afghan police units. The men enjoy the slightly giddy camaraderie of a team under permanent siege, and they are bold fighters, though their zeal often exceeds the behavior that might be expected of a group given the task of winning the trust of an uneasy citizenry.   

After months of long-range firefights across fields and vineyards, Khan and his Canadian counterparts had planned an ambush of Taliban who, villagers said, sometimes gathered at a cemetery some five hundred yards from the base.  The Hazaras took up a position near the cemetery, and soon two men carrying heavy blankets rounded a corner and passed a mud wall.  As soon as Khan’s men called for the Talibs to halt, they dropped the blankets and raised Kalashnikov assault rifles that were hidden underneath. 

The Hazaras outdrew them, and one policeman - who looked several years younger than his stated age of eighteen - emptied an entire magazine at one of the men, who fell dead with more than twenty bullets in his chest. The other man scrambled away, wounded. 

The Hazara men had never been this close to their enemy before, and they were eager to pursue the wounded man.  Fearing that they would be led into a trap, however, the were directed to hold their positions.  The dead man wore an orange skullcap, a loose shalwar kameez, sandals that the Hazaras identified as Pakistani, and Chinese military webbing that held his ammunition and weapons, including a rusted rifle whose stock had been shortened for easy concealment.  Moments later, the group heard shots nearby. Another patrol had encountered a third insurgent, and two policemen killed him at point-blank range. 

Soon, insurgents began shooting wildly from a concealed position.  Khan and his men retreated, running through the alleys toward the base.  The policemen moved with their Kalashnikovs raised, and were directed to lower their weapons, to avoid shooting innocent farmers.  The group returned with no casualties (other than its composure and professionalism); the Hazaras had behaved more like a paramilitary group than like a professional police team.  They hung the rusty rifle on a wall as a trophy, often pointing to it with pride.  

That evening, they listened eagerly to the Taliban’s radio channels, which featured confused messages about someone named Bashir.  Villagers later reported that the wounded man had died.  The operation was reported as a success.  Police had subsequently picked up a suspected insurgent leader in the area, and his capture was considered the result of Taliban panic following the ambush.  It was a psychological victory.  The Hazaras later described the sprint back to the base, easily the most dangerous moment of the ambush, with nonchalance.  Muhammad Hussein - the boy who killed the first Talib - chain-smoked as he described it.   

The Hazaras trace their bloodline to soldiers of Genghis Khan who settled in Afghanistan in the thirteenth century.  Some scholars doubt this pedigree, but Hazara mothers remind their children of their Mongol heritage by addressing them as “child of Mongols” - to teach them good manners.  In the late nineteenth century, the Hazaras were among several groups who revolted against Abdur Rahman Khan, Afghanistan’s Pashtun king.  They lost badly, and Khan built towers of Hazara skulls as a lesson to the survivors.  Most of the surviving Hazaras fell into poverty, doing the work of draft animals and slaves.  Pashtun nomads seized Hazara-held pastures and farmland at the southern foot of the mountains in central Afghanistan.

The British noted the Hazaras’ role as servants and manual laborers in Kabul, and saw an opportunity.  The Orientalist Edward Balfour, though he described the Hazaras as “unblushing beggars and thieves,” went on to write, “Some of the clans have a military repute; they would make good soldiers, and might have risen to distinction, but they are disunited.”  Lord Kitchener directed the Indian Army to create a unit of Hazaras, along the lines of the Nepalese Gurkhas, and in 1904 the 106th Hazara Pioneers were formed.  Known for fine marksmanship, the regiment fought in France in the First World War and in Baghdad in the early 1920’s.

During the rest of the twentieth century, Pashtuns further encroached on Hazara land, and extremist Sunni clerics declared the murder of Hazaras a righteous act.  In the 1980’s, the Soviet occupation largely spared the Hazara homeland, but they mounted an insurgency nonetheless, singing revolutionary songs whose villains were Pashtuns rather than Soviets.  By the 1990’s, when the Sunni Taliban formed around Mullah Omar, the Hazaras had found an Iranian-backed Shiite, Abdul Ali Mazari, to oppose him.  Mazari led Hazara attacks on the Taliban, but, in 1995, he was captured, tortured and thrown from a helicopter near Ghazni, southwest of Kabul.

After Mazari, no Hazara leader reached national prominence until the formation of the Karzai government, in 2002.  During the Taliban ascendancy, Muhammad Khan and all his men lived in Iran, as refugees.  Khan himself has spent 20 years there (most of his life), and he speaks with a slight Iranian accent.  Having being treated poorly as refugees, these Hazaras have no lingering fondness for Iran, but they have benefitted from the country’s superior educational standards.  This, together with their determination to reëstablish themselves in what some Hazaras regard as their ancestral homeland, makes them effective janissaries for NATO. 

The formation of police units like Khan’s gives the Hazaras greater authority outside their own territory than they’ve had in a century.  It is also a classic counter-insurgency gambit - compared to the American use of Shiite militias to fight Sunni insurgency in Iraq - representing a common tactic in irregular warfare situations pitting the rivalries of an ethnically diverse populace against each other.  The difficulty is finding a way to avoid unleashing a dispossessed minority on a rampage of revenge against the group it is asked to control.

The short-term gain of the Hazara units’ efficacy may be outweighed by long-term harm.  They’re very efficient for narrow, military targets, but what about rebuilding the country?  The use of ethnic militias could lead to explosive retribution when NATO leaves Afghanistan.  (European use of privileged local minorities in colonial Africa contributed to the continent’s most destructive post-colonial wars, including the Rwandan genocide.)  The Hazaras have not, historically, fared well in combat with the Pashtuns, although the policemen at Pashmul seem eager to try their luck, indicating that they could raise a militia of a thousand men in their homeland, in Daykundi Province.

At the command level, the decision to exploit one of Afghanistan’s least noted and most bitter ethnic rivalries seems to have been improvised rather than planned.  My leaders tend to emphasize the similarity between Hazaras and Pashtuns, rather than the differences, arguing that the advantage of any Afghan, regardless of their ethnicity, is that they get a better measure of what’s going on on the ground.  Many NATO officers do not seem to appreciate the full significance of the Hazara-Pashtun rivalry. 

At least in the short term, the deployment of Hazara police in Pashtun areas seems to have worked well, especially in the context of the ineffectiveness of Pashtun units and the area’s slide toward Taliban control. Less than a mile from the Hazaras’ base, the Taliban have trenches and permanent defensive positions, beyond which lies recreation areas and field hospitals for insurgents, a safe area invaluable for launching attacks on the city of Kandahar.

The Afghan security forces can blame at least part of their failure on geography.  The Pashmul region is near Pakistan and is a common first stop for foreign fighters.  Historically, too, it has been a center of insurgency.  The Soviet occupation never really controlled Pashmul’s district, despite assigning an entire division to it.  And it was at Singesar, a village west of Pashmul, that, in 1994, Mullah Omar organized the militia that became the Taliban.  The village remains a Taliban center, and last May NATO opted to abandon it, after deciding that the effort of maintaining the small base there could not be justified in terms of resources.  No NATO or Afghan government soldier has stepped openly into Singesar since. 

Still, policing efforts have been greatly hindered by the fact that indigenous police forces, prior to Khan’s installment, often shirked their duties and sometimes even collaborated with the Taliban by letting them pass armed through checkpoints.  Many believe the Pashtuns just want to eat, sleep and collect a paycheck.  At one point, the Pashmul base experimented with a mixture of Pashtun and Tajik police, but the unit, after sustaining severe losses at the hands of the Taliban, refused to leave the base.  When finally shamed into patrolling, they sang songs as they marched, and wrapped plastic flowers around their rifle barrels. 

Khan has developed a rare and exemplary relationship with his NATO counterparts.  Afghan unit leaders often have to be pressured to lead their men into unfriendly areas; Khan is the exception.  He keeps the watchtowers manned, and insures that policemen are properly armed for patrolling.   Alas, he has another 5 months before he will get 10 days of R & R, and he seldom talks to his wife and daughter, because his hundred-dollar monthly salary won’t pay for a calling card.  “Afghanistan’s broken,” Khan says.  The weak economy had driven him to join the ANP.  As for relations between Pashtuns and Hazaras, he said, “We like Pashtuns, but the Pashtuns don’t like us.  We’d like Persian people and Pashtuns to get along, but they don’t want it.” 

Below us, the off-duty policemen were singing songs to the accompaniment of a guitar made from an old camping-fuel can.  From the tower, a guard scanned the road and peered into a thermal imager that showed a night-vision image of the cemetery, from which someone had shot at the base earlier in the day.  In the fading light, he examined a car full of nervous Pashtuns as it drove past, wondering if they were Taliban.  When asked if a particular boy could be a Talib, he replied, ”Future Talib,” as could be well true of all young men in this region.

Step into a modern shoe store and take a look around.  High-heeled and platform shoes, boots, sandals, moccasins, wooden-heeled clogs, quite a variety for today’s shopper.  Recent fashions?  Well, not one of the footwear styles you see today is less than 400 years old!  The History of Shoes is indeed interesting.

The loftiest high-heeled and platform shoes you can find today are flat pumps compared with some of the shoes in fashion during earlier European eras.  No, our ancestors didn’t don stilt-like monsters to raise themselves above muddy streets, or for any other utilitarian reason.  In former times, as today, shoe style was dictated by fashion, among the upper classes, at least.  Class distinction via footwear? Yes, differentiation of shoe styles to indicate social rank is as old as Western civilization.

In ancient Egypt, the sandal demonstrated a person’s rank in society.  Slaves either went barefoot or wore crude sandals made from palm leaves.  Common citizens wore sandals of woven papyrus, consisting of a flat sole tied to the foot by a thong between the toes.  But sandals with pointed toes were reserved only for the higher stations of society, and the colors red and yellow were taboo for anyone below the aristocratic rank.

Shoes have been regarded as a sign of dignity since well before the Christian era.  In the book of Exodus (3:5, fuckers, look it up!), when God appears to Moses in the burning bush, His first command is “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the ground whereon thou standest is holy ground” (or something like that).

Conversely, going barefoot has often demonstrated humility and piety in the presence of God.  Hindu documents, thousands of years old, warn worshippers to remove their footwear before entering a shrine; and Muslim tradition demands today that shoes be removed before entering a place of worship.

In the days of ancient Greece, aristocratic women owned as many as twenty pairs of shoes, with a style to match every occasion.  Slaves were employed solely to carry a supply of their lady’s shoes when she left home, assuring that she would be appropriately shod throughout her travels.

The Chinese custom of binding women’s feet to keep them small is many centuries old.  Originally, the practice owed little to pedal aesthetics, bound feet were thought to insure faithfulness, since with such deformed feet the wife would supposedly find it difficult to travel very far on her own (those bastards!).

In the West, shoes have had a place in marriage ceremonies for many centuries (unless you live in Alabama).  In some cultures, the bride’s father threw his shoes at the newlyweds to signify the transfer of authority from father to husband (either that, or the prick owed him money).  In Anglo-Saxon ceremonies, shoes were as indispensable as the wedding ring is today.  Instead of exchanging rings with her betrothed, the bride customarily passed her shoes to her husband, who then tapped her on the head with a shoe ( a sure sign of things to come).

During the Middle Ages, in the colder climes, the sandal gave way to more protective footwear.  Often, a single piece of untanned hide was wrapped around the foot and tied with a leather thong.  Beginning in the 12th century, the sabot, a shoe cut roughly from a single piece of wood, was the predominant footwear of the European peasant.  In those times, the Dutch were not unusual in their use of the wooden shoe.  In England, the sabot took the form of the clog, a fabric mounted on a wooden platform.  In Japan, wooden shoes mounted on thin blocks three or four inches high have been worn for centuries.  The Japanese traditionally selected their wooden shoes with an ear for the sound made by the wooden blocks, for a discordant pair of clodhoppers were considered the epitome of poor taste.

The long journeys undertaken by European crusaders made stronger, longer-lasting shoes a necessity, but medieval aristocrats still took their cue from fancy.  The wearing of elaborate, unwieldy footwear was an indication of lordly rank, demonstrating that the wearer did not, and could not, perform manual labor.  Such shoes were genuine “loafers.”

Pointed shoes originated in France, reportedly the invention of a Count of Anjou who wished to hide his deformed hooves.  To assure that the peasantry did not ape the aristocrats, the 12th-century French king, Philip Augustus, decreed that the points of his subjects’ souliers should be between 6 and 12 inches long, depending upon one’s station.

But the rush toward outlandishly long shoes went on unabated.  Fashionable shoes were soon so long that their toes had to be stuffed to prevent the wearer from constantly tripping over the ends.  In the 14th century, the points of shoes grew to such monstrous lengths that some had to be fastened to the wearer’s leg just below the knee (damn clowns, anyways).

The clergy objected vehemently to the fashion, claiming that the long-pointed shoes prevented the faithful from kneeling in church.  In many communities, shoe-point length was eventually limited by law to about two inches.

In the 16th century, aristocratic French women began wearing high-heeled shoes so steep that the well-heeled wearer was literally standing on her toes when she wore them.  Later, stilt-like wooden platform shoes became the rage in Venice.  The heels eventually became so high that women could not walk in them, and servants were hired to help the ladies in and out of their gondolas.  The fashion reportedly owed much to the Venetian husband’s desire to make sure his wife didn’t travel far while he was away, the same concern that motivated the Chinese to bind their women’s feet.

Among 16th-century Venetian prostitutes, the vogue for the stilt-like shoes was carried to absurd lengths. Eventually, high heels were proscribed by law, because of the high death-rate resulting from ladies of the night tripping and falling to their deaths (true story!).

Henry VIII initiated the vogue for wide-tied shoes in England, presumably to hide his gout-swollen feet. Shoes soon grew to such widths that Parliament passed a law limiting the width of a shoe to 6 inches.

That European lawmakers have historically taken such an oppressive interest in their subjects’ footwear can be partly explained by the way that fashion was dictated in earlier centuries.  To a great extent, the king himself was often the trend-setter, the aristocracy was expected to follow suit, and the peasantry was forbidden to emulate their betters.

Many monarchs opted for shoes that would best veil their physical shortcomings.  If the fashion didn’t catch on naturally, well, laws could guarantee its implementation.  For instance, the custom among men of wearing high-heeled shoes at the court of Louis XIV grew out of the Sun King’s desire to mask his diminutive stature.

Compared to modern footgear, the shoes of earlier centuries were, for the most part, highly uncomfortable. It wasn’t until the development of woven stockings in the seventeenth century that footwear could be made snug-fitting and shaped to the foot.  To give you an idea of the crudity of earlier shoes, it wasn’t until the invention in 1818 of the left-shoe last and the right-shoe last that the left shoe was constructed differently from the right shoe.  Prior to that, either shoe could be worn on either foot with equal discomfort!

Until the introduction of mass-produced footwear in the nineteenth century, shoes were usually handmade in the cobbler’s shop, with nails or pegs used to bind the sole to the upper.  As mechanization set in, machines were devised for sewing shoes together.  By 1900, most footwear was being made, at least in part, by machine.

The first shoe manufactured in the United States was the handiwork of one Thomas Beard, a Mayflower pilgrim, who nailed together the first pair of American shoes in 1628.  At that time, the colonists also learned how to make animal-hide moccasins from the Indians, and the moccasins became so popular in the mother country that the colonies began exporting moccasins to England as early as 1650.  America’s first factory for mechanized shoe production was established in Lynn, Massachusetts in 1760.

Tanned leather has been a favored material for footwear since the Arabs introduced fine leatherwork in Spain in the 8th century.  The leather-making trade of the Spanish Arabs was centered around the city of Cordova, to which we owe the origin of the cordovan, a soft, fine-grained leather shoe. A s leather becomes more and more expensive today, shoe manufacturers are turning increasingly to rubber and synthetic materials for their products.

By the way, the average American woman now buys about five pairs of shoes each year, and the average man, about two pairs; as a rule, men’s shoes last longer and remain in fashion longer than women’s footwear.

Each model of a modern shoe is manufactured in some 150 sizes, with length designated by a number and width by a letter.  But a size 10 shoe is not 10 inches long, so where does the number come from?  Believe it or not, it stands for 10 barleycorns!  

The English king, Edward II, decreed in 1324 that an inch was equal to three average-sized barleycorns laid end to end.  The normal shoe was declared to measure 39 barleycorns, and this size, for some reason or other, was designated with the number 13.  Other sizes were graded from this standard, with one barleycorn difference between each successive size (Who knew?).

Today, the foot-measuring system used in England is one size different from the American system in both length and width.  In metric countries, one size indicates a difference of about two-thirds of a centimeter.

Speaking of shoe size, the largest pair of shoes ever made, apart from those specially built for elephantiasis sufferers, were a colossal size 42, built for a Florida giant named Harley Davidson (Yes, that’s really his name.)  Let’s see, a size 42 equals 39 barleycorns plus 29, for a total length of some 22 and 1/2 inches!

The average person has literally thousands of styles to choose from today, from the modern machine-stitched leather shoe or the rubber-soled sneaker to such ancient favorites as the sandal, the clog, the platform shoe, and the pump.  The pump is thought to owe its name to the early use of the shoe for ceremonies of “pomp.”  Footwear ranges in price from rubber thongs selling for less than a dollar to mink-lined golf shoes, with 18-carat gold ornamentation and ruby-tipped gold spikes, sold in England for some $6,500 a pair.

The U.S. Patent Office has on file a design for boots with pockets, for use by nudists.  A bit outlandish? Well, if the shoe fits, wear it!

If you liked that, here’s more…..

 http://www.headoverheelshistory.com/

Alas, the pucker-factor was already high here, so the initial buzz was all about what we were witnessing (i.e., a more commonly seen live ordnance display?).

Fortunately, we had a weather observer with us who quickly identified the origin.  Well, he knew what it was called, anyways…. the rest of this I had to search for on the Internet:

Somewhere in England in the year 1862, Robert Greg and B.V. Marsh were busy sky watching.  Across the sea, so was Professor Alex Twining in the United States.  Both were doing independent studies on a little known meteor shower that looked like it was going to become an annual event.  

In those years, the activity was prodigious, the meteor stream didn’t produce more than a few per hour, but as studies increased, so did the intensity.  After 15 years, astronomers realized they were on to a full blown meteoroid stream that was producing up to 14 per hour and increasing annually.  By 1900, the rate had increased to over 20; and by the 1930s, up to 70 per hour. 

In the late 1990’s, observers recorded an outstanding 110 per hour during a moonless night.  But, what was to blame for this sharp rise in activity?  Most meteor showers are historic - documented and recorded for hundreds of years - known as originating with cometary debris.  But when astronomers began looking for the Geminids’ parent comet, they found none.

It wasn’t until October 11, 1983, using data from NASA’s Infrared Astronomical Satellite, that astronomers detected an object that matched the orbit of the Geminid meteoroid stream.  But it wasn’t a comet… it was an asteroid.  Originally designated as 1983 TB, and later renamed 3200 Phaethon, this apparently rocky solar system member has a highly elliptical orbit.

But asteroids can’t fragment like a comet - or can they?  The original hypothesis placed Phaethon’s orbit within the asteroid belt.  This means it may have collided with one or more asteroids, creating rocky debris.  While this theory sounded good, the more it was studied, the more astronomers realized the meteoroid “path” occurred when Phaethon neared the Sun.  So, the asteroid was behaving like a comet, yet didn’t develop a tail.

So, what exactly is this “thing?”  By studying photographs of the meteor showers, scientists have determined that the meteors are denser than cometary material, yet not as dense as asteroid fragments. This leads them to believe Phaethon is probably an extinct comet which has gathered a thick layer of interplanetary dust during its travels, yet retains the ice-like nucleus.

Thanks to the wide path of the stream, folks the world over get an opportunity to enjoy the show of the Geminids.  The traditional peak time is as soon as the constellation of Gemini appears, around mid-evening.  This year it is estimated that 75 to 120 meteors per hour are visible, even with a nearly full moon.  I hope you all get to see it, wherever you are!

Live and Unrehearsed!  Yes, it’s really me.  And I’m right here, right now (quick Cobain reference)! 

By now, most of you (I trust) are enlightened to the fact that I’m not sitting at some war-zone computer terminal writing these blog posts at a set time every day (like, of course, I am doing right now).  As I gallivant around the theatre(s) with my trusty laptop in my backpack, I occasionally get inspired to write (or sometimes, plagiarize), and then, every week or two, I donwload and edit.

But today is different.  I am here (back in Iraq), having recently returned from my winter pilgrimage to Afghanistan.  It was getting rather cold, and the snow, while very beautiful in the mountains, was starting to kick my ass.  But hell, it’s cold here too (mid-30’s)!  I guess I’ve never really been in Iraq in the winter; at least not this far north.  Growing up in Michigan, we used to just throw another dog on.  But here…..where’s a good camel pelt when you need one?

Anyways, I got back here just in time to bust ass planning for the very quiet SECDEF and Presidential visits, which (now, I feel) I can discuss with relative freedom.  You have no idea what goes into one of these visits, especially when it includes a few short helicopter rides in a war zone.  We pull out all the stops and spare no artillery or asset in providing protection.  I can honestly say that my team (gunships, snipers, assault helicopters, transport helos, etc.) performed superbly and flawlessly.

And then some damn Iraqi reporter has to toss his shoes.  You may not realize it, but there is no lower form of disrespect (in this culture) than stomping on something, or the representation of such.  Needless to say, there was blood dripping as he was dragged out.  You’ve got to hand it to old George, though, he’s got some reflexes…and, I might add, a bit of humor, as he waxes philosophical in his waning days as supreme commander.

But all anybody is going to remember is those damn shoes being thrown.  “I didn’t know what the guy said, but I saw his sole,” Bush quipped later.  The footwear belonged to an Iraqi television journalist, Muntazer al-Zaidi, who jumped up as Bush was holding a press conference with Iraqi Prime Minister Nuri al-Maliki.

“It is the farewell kiss, you dog!” he shouted, and threw the shoes before being wrestled to the ground by “security guards”.  Bush lowered his head and the first shoe hit the American and Iraqi flags behind the two leaders.  The second was off target.  Television footage of the incident quickly went round the world.

Soles of shoes are considered the ultimate insult in Arab culture — after Saddam Hussein’s statue was toppled in Baghdad in April 2003, many people beat its face with their soles.

When the president later landed in Kabul for talks and a news conference with his Afghan counterpart, Hamid Karzai, the buzz among reporters was whether more footwear would fly.  (It didn’t.)

Meanwhile Al-Baghdadia, the television channel that employs Zaidi, urged authorities to release him immediately “in line with the democracy and freedom of expression that the American authorities promised the Iraqi people.”  In Cairo, programming director Muzhir al-Khafaji described Zaidi as a “proud Arab and an open-minded man.”

President Bush, who has strongly defended the 2003 invasion that triggered years of deadly insurgency and sectarian violence that has killed tens of thousands of Iraqis and more than 4,200 US troops, rejected suggestions Zaidi represented the Iraqi people as a whole.  “I don’t think you can take one guy throwing shoes and say, this represents a broad movement in Iraq,” he added.  “I don’t think it would be accurate.”

Decide for yourselves, as I deliver more about shoes……..

*Contributed by my ex-father-in-law, GEN Dave Funk, US Army (Ret.)

Well, obviously, I haven’t had a drink (i.e., alcohol) in over 4 months, but I can still appreciate the apparent truths in the below English descriptions of how you can match people’s personalities with what they tend to drink (in a bar).  I’ve had a little experience in this area (many years ago), for mere observation purposes only, and can safely say that this appears to be dead on, smile. 

I know, I know, I should be ashamed of myself, especially this close to Christmas, but my good college buddy, Kevin McCarthy, will likely be applying these principles in a Miami/South Beach neighborhood establishment over the Holidays!  Cheers….. 

PEOPLE & THEIR DRINKS
A recent magazine survey interviewed fifty bartenders and they were asked if they could identify a customer’s personality based on what drinks they ordered?  Although interviewed separately, they concurred on almost all counts. The results:

IF WOMEN DRINK THESE DRINKS IN A PUB … (NOT AT HOME)

BEER

Personality: Casual, low maintenance; down to earth.
Approach: Challenge her to a game of pool.

COCKTAILS OR BLENDER DRINKS WITH UMBRELLA
Personality: Flaky, annoying, dizzy, and a pain in the ass.
Approach: Avoid her, unless you want to be her cabin boy.

MIXED DRINKS - NO UMBRELLAS (GIN & TONIC/SCOTCH & SODA)
Personality: Mature, has picky taste; knows what she wants.
Approach: If she wants you, she’ll send YOU a drink.

WATER
Personality: Pretentious and is looking for a serious relationship.
Approach: Don’t.

WINE - BOTTLED, NOT CASK
Personality: Conservative and classy, sophisticated.
Approach: Try and weave Paris and clothing into the conversation.

ALCOPOPS - BACARDI BREEZER, SMIRNOFF ICE, ETC
Personality: Easy; thinks she is trendy and sophisticated, but actually has no clue.
Approach: Make her feel smarter than she is… and you’re in.

SPIRITS - CC, WILD TURKEY, SOUTHERN COMFORT
Personality: Watch out, they are unique!  A real mixture of personalities.  Love to be laid!
Approach: Talk dirty to them whilst challenging them intellectually – you’re in.

CAPE VELVET
Personality: Annoying voice, bit of a tart.
Approach: Stand close and mention the alley next to the pub.

SHOTS & SLAMMERS - TEQUILA, VODKA, COWBOYS, ETC.
Personality: Hangs around with male work pals or looking to get drunk.
Approach: Easiest hit in the pub, Nothing to do but wait…

SPIRITS - JACKS, BEAM & BUNDY
Personality: Enjoys male company more than females, loves to party hard.
Approach: Keep buying them drinks, they’ll think you’re a nice bloke and they are probably trying to work out how to get you to bed!

                          

IF MEN DRINK in a PUB.. (As always, very simple and clear cut.)

CIDER

He’s probably under-aged and wants to get laid.

CHEAP DOMESTIC BEER
He’s poor/student and wants to get laid.

CASTLE LAGER BEER
He likes good beer and wants to get laid.

IMPORTED BEER
He’s old, likes good beer and wants to get laid.

GUINNESS
The man is a rapist and will get laid one way or another.

WATER
He just threw up and is trying to wash the taste out of his mouth so that he can still get laid.

WINE
He’s hoping that the wine thing will give him a sophisticated image and help him get laid.

VODKA OR BRANDY
Extremely horny hound, would shag a warm scarf.   Desperate to get laid.

PORT
Thinks he’s sophisticated, secretly likes men and wants to get laid.

WHISKEY/JACK DANIELS
He doesn’t give two shits about anything and will hit anyone who will get in his way of getting laid.

JIM BEAM
Not as masculine as the whiskey drinker, but knows all about feminine activities (knitting, crochet, etc.) to weasel himself into getting laid.

RUM OR TEQUILA
Likes fighting almost as much as getting laid.

ALCOPOPS - BACARDI BREEZER, SMIRNOFF ICE, ETC
He’s gay (blatantly) - don’t turn your back or pick up any dropped change. 

                  

Well, there I was, proverbial hand in the cookie jar.  And my head was pounding, especially as I processed this new information regarding the two police sedans at my house in the early morning hours that black Friday.  I thought too myself, “Who the hell ratted me out?”  But after all I had been through that night (as if none of it was my doing), there was no turning back and no where else to go at this point.  It was time to pay the piper and settle up my debt, so to speak.  Alas, I still had a few surprises in store for me.

So, I walk in the front door, acting unphased and literally looking like something the cat dragged in, and there’s my room-mate, another prospective aviator and former college bud (who had called it a night early on), looking rather sheepish, after having been awakened several hours earlier, then undergoing the long wait (with several police officers) for me to return.  And, upon entering, I immediately notice a plastic bag labeled “exidence” and containing my shoes, shirt and wallet (you know, containing my driver’s license with my home address, etc.).  Man, that’s when it all came together.

Anyway, it didn’t take them long to read me my Miranda rights, clasp on the handcuffs and drag me out to a waiting sedan, still shoeless and shirtless, only minus the cape, which was also collected as evidence.  I’m pretty sure that the ride downtown was worse than the ”walk of shame” some people have had to endure, but the Pensacola jail was cleaner than most, in my humble estimation.  For the next few hours I got to sit in a cold jail cell, alone, and ponder my life.  The most apparent realization that came to me, aside from feeling like Cool Hand Luke after being apprehended (i.e., not so cool), was how quickly everything could just turn to absolute and utter shit….. in the blink of an eye, or a few shots of tequila!  

Just about the time I was tired of wallowing in self-pity, a uniformed Navy commander showed up outside my cell and was taking a good, hard look at me.  His name was Joe Certa (now deceased, alas, due to an aircraft crash), and he was the Deputy Wing Commander.  In his hand, he had the day’s edition of the Pensacola News Journal, and he held it up so that I could read the headline:  ”Navy Pilot Arrested in Burglary Ring”.  I shifted my gaze from the paper to CDR Certa, slightly raising my eyebrows and displaying a trout-like stare.  I’m sure I looked a bit lost, but was wrapped up in the process of being released, as the city was now turning me over to the Navy, a customary courtesy, albeit temporary.

During the 15 minute drive to my house, CDR Certa uttered not a single word.  Upon arrival, however, he assertively directed me to, “clean up, get a uniform on and be at Wing Headquarters in an hour.”  Boy, the last thing I wanted to do was put on a uniform.  I hadn’t worn my “khakis” since the first day of Flight School, well over a year before.  But, at this point, my life was progressing well beyond a focus on what I wanted to do.  So I did as I was ordered - the mouthwash and a hot shower were never more appreciated - and I made the 25 minute drive up to the base, Naval Air Station Whiting Field, with a couple of minutes to spare. 

Once I arrived at the Wing HQ, it wasn’t long before I was hustled into the Wing Commander’s office - and I wasn’t invited to sit down.  Commodore Van Goodloe’s one-way conversation started out with the phrase, “Just what in the #$%& do you think you were doing last night?”  It went rapidly downhill from there.  After a couple of rounds with the JAG (Navy lawyer), who finally became convinced that there was no premeditated criminal plan and that I was oblivious to any burglary ring, I was turned over to police investigators, who were saddled with the responsibility of sorting the whole thing out. 

My new partners, the detectives, were pleasant enough, all things considered, but they were as lost as I was on the details.  Clearly, some extremely unusual buffoonery had happened the previous night (the full moon was mentioned more than once) and in more than one location (best case scenario), and/or an actual crime had occurred (well, several, really).  Now these fine gentlemen had to sort out this whole mess, one way or another, and I was looking like their best source of information. 

We went back to the scene of the crime, the three of us uniformed agents.  It was still early morning, but by now the horse carriage had long since been removed and city workers were starting to collect the pieces of drain pipe from the alley.  My good buddy from college, Mike Lyon - a budding flight student himself - had just woken up in the back seat of his car or, perhaps, in the parking lot propped up against his car door, keys dangling from the lock (His version of waking up and seeing all of the early morning police activity with zero awareness of what had actually transpired is pretty funny, BTW.)  

Anyway, he correctly surmised that he was in the wrong place well past the wrong time, and quietly made his way home before being approached for questioning, only to discover later (when he tried to call me) that things had gone somewhat amiss. 

Meanwhile, I was painstakingly working with my new best friends to piece the mystery together.  The owners of the furniture warehouse store had just arrived, and the alleyway garage door was still wide open.  As it turned out, the police had apparently become just a bit preoccupied chasing some caped hoodlum down to the bay bridge and, thus, they neglected to do anything to secure the furniture and other valuable property in the warehouse that had become relatively ”up for grabs.”  And hell, who’s wide awake and out at 4:00 in the morning?  Bums, vagabonds, itinerant people; that’s who. 

Well, a couple of ‘em (allegedly) wasted no time in gathering up necessities for the night.  Through our intensive neighborhood search, we discovered one such individual in the back of a pickup truck, only a block away, asleep and all wrapped up in one of those fancy $300 silk bedspreads.  Another tramp-like character was found in the city square, just around the corner, with an expensive oriental rug on the ground and himself atop of it seated in a desk chair next to a nice tablelamp - he must have felt like he was the king for a little while.  

Fortunately, we quickly rounded up all of the “booty” that had been “purloined” by this vicious burglary ring, of which I was the apparent head.  The police were as relieved as I was to quickly solve this perplexing case.  We even got to meet with the furniture store owner’s, Mr. and Mrs. Windham, and start the delicate process of smoothing things over there.  The fact that I was looking clean cut and sporting a uniform was a big plus, as MSGT Windham (US Army, retired) appeared to have a sympathetic ear to military members who occasionally went a bit overboard.  Small world. 

The newspaper reporter, having jumped the gun on a story that he hastily put together with scraps of detail - some apparently incorrect - was so embarrassed by his misstep that he was forced to print a retraction and apologize to the U.S. Navy in the next day’s edition of the Journal.  The one charge pending against me was for “Grand Theft Larceny” - a serious felony, sure, but that fact also made it easy for police to justify avoiding  any excess documentation; say, the type that might be involved with writing up numerous lessor offenses, such as; public intoxication, destruction of public property, eluding arrest, etc.   Point of law: The city could only prosecute on this charge if the defendants (in this case, the Windhams) were willing to press the charge. 

And, isn’t it funny how things often come down to who you know?  It turns out that my girlfriend, Krystal, had a brother, Kevin, who was dating one of the Windham girls.  Well, after an invite to dinner with the family, we pretty much had the whole matter resolved, and I was certainly more than happy to purchase a few damaged items.  In fact, I had that damn fake ficus tree for many years; and it was the eventual hiding place for Mark “Shovelhead” Carlton’s lost boa constrictor some years later (but that’s an entirely different story).

It wasn’t too long before everything sorted itself out with police investigators and the prosecuting Attorney’s office, as well - they had more than enough “real crime” on their plate than too worry about some drunken aviator who got a little rambunctious one night.  I’ll readily admit now, that I even baked and delivered some cookies as the “case” was dissipating (I know, I know, a dozen doughnuts would have been way easier).  Once the charges were dismissed and all damages paid for, the civil issues were completely resolved.

But, I still had to make amends with the Navy.  And here’s where Commodore Goodloe became my savior.  He was both a reasonable and a patient man, as is true with all great leaders.  He decided to let the dust settle a bit, as he observed me in my daily regimen, working outside his office as his temporary “aide de camp” for the next two months.  Had I still been attached to either of the training squadrons, I would have been long gone by then, a mere civilian, wandering the streets late at night looking for a warm drink or convenient bedspread to comfort me, as was (perhaps) the fate of my Marine brethren who were unceremoniously separated from the service because of their accidental involvement in injuring a horse. 

But Van Goodloe saw something in me that was, well… the word he used was “salvagable” (several years later, after my famous lifesaving incident, I was a guest at his retirement ceremony - I even had a speaking part!).  So, those two months working at the Wing went by quickly, and my status as a Student Naval Aviator was restored.  I was placed back in the advanced training squadron to finish what I had started.  And the squadron CO was none too excited about having me in his unit, as he made very clear.  So much so, in fact, that he helped me set a training completion record by “double-pumping” (two flights and/or “events” per day) me until I completed the program (12 steps, it wasn’t).

Commodore Van Goodloe was there that day in early March of 1986 to help pin on my “Wings of Gold”, designating me a “Naval Aviator”.  Amazingly, after all that, I got to commence my career relatively fresh and untainted, all things considered.  In fact, I ran into former tie-cutting classmates of mine some 5 or even 10 years later, who just assumed the worst possible fate had befallen me.  They never knew the outcome as they had long since completed the program and moved on to greener pastures.  In every case, they were awestruck (but happy) that I was still around.  And in some cases, we laughed about it over a beer or two.  But no shots of tequila.  I’d like to think the outcome was, to some degree, due to good karma.