While Rome Burns

I don’t know why I read article’s like this http://www.thenation.com/article/178140/feminisms-toxic-twitter-wars?page=0,0. Well in this case I’m avoiding my Electricity and Magnetism homework, but I could just as well have been reading about Tanks on Wikipedia. I guess I have a perverse obsession with proving to myself that there are people out there whose concerns more minor than mine.

It speaks about a movement that their infighting is mostly Twitter cattiness, I mean if they were really serious about their cause they could pull a Spanish Republican and stage a battle in Barcelona. I suppose Twitter cattiness is more…mature? than violence, but it seems less committed. People know you’re serious when you pick up a rifle and start shooting your erstwhile brethren for disagreeing with you (sorry for the Spanish Civil War reference, I’ve been watching WW2 in HD Colour), it’s comparatively easy to lob insults through Twitter. What does that say about me though, sniping from a blog almost no one has read? This might be getting too meta.

Anyway, conversations like that article seem extremely Nero-ish. I suppose it’s not a new phenomenon, to be consumed with ultimate trivialities while bad shit happens, after all the saying originates two-thousand something years ago, but it does make me angry. Why, I’m not exactly sure.

In other news, Iraq prepares to re-take Fallujah, (seems so 9 years ago), Iran creeps closer to joining the Nuclear boys club (I hope no twitter feminists read this….although that would mean at least someone had read it), South Korea and Japan drift apart while China grows more aggressive, and Scarlet Johannsson was dropped by Oxfam for repping a soda company. Oh and Syria continues to fall apart, glad to see we’ve done good work there. I’m sure there are some pressing domestic issues as well, but this homework isn’t going to do itself.

weightloss

I was originally going to write something about the absolute mess that Syria is, but the more I thought about what I wanted to say, the more depressed I became. Probably because I cannot see a good way for the Syrian Civil War to end; the rebels are becoming overtly Islamist/Al-Quaeda, and Bashar Al-Assad is a well known murdering bastard. At this point, I usually think it would be great if both sides just embroiled themselves in an Iran-Iraq war sort of fiasco, but that leaves the rank and file Syrian between a rock and a hard place.

It’s a Sophie’s choice, and since I don’t foresee benevolent alien life bestowing peace guns on us anytime soon, I think my sympathy (not quite the the right word, but I can’t think of something for “less hate”) lies with Assad. There’s a saying that covers another consideration, something about the devil you know.  Finally, I see a headline on Drudge stating that our fearless leader has signed an order authorizing secret (maybe Syria doesn’t get Drudge? poor bastards) support to the Rebels. I propose a new acronym, in the spirit of TANSTAAFL (There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch, coined by the always magnificent Robert Heinlein); WWODTDTO (What Would Obama Do, Then Do The Opposite), which I think applies in this situation. Maybe that’s unjust, Egypt and Libya both turned out great.

I don’t think it will work out in Assad’s favour though, especially now that Al-Quaeda will be supplied with secret American comm gear. Won’t be shedding any tears though.

So instead of writing about Syria, I think I’ll write about weight loss. About a year and a half ago I discovered the secret to taking, and keeping, the pounds off.

Eat less and exercise.

Spread the word.

Epilogue

This morning I ironed a blue button shirt and some black slacks, and grabbed a tie before I stepped out the door. Not my usual Monday morning routine, but this wasn’t a usual Monday morning. Today I was due in court (CUE DRAMATIC MUSIC). Ok so appearing in court on a misdemeanor charge of public intoxication really isn’t that big of a deal, and I did actually sleep fine the night before (I’ve been more nervous the night before a trip out to the slopes), but there is always that niggling little doubt that you’ve just screwed up your life at a time when you really did not want that to happen. Luckily I am pretty good at handling the big stresses of life  (it’s the little ones that get to me), but there are good moments for events and bad moments for things to happen, and this seemed to happen at a bad moment. Still, I was 99% sure that my day would be a 300$ fine and nothing more.

Unfortunately, when I got to work life seemed to have something different planned. In order for my shop to keep everything on the DL (so that my exposure to Marine Corps discipline would be minimal), I needed to make an appearance at morning formation, in cammies, at 0730 on the dot. This seemed to conflict with the piece of paper I had, something about a parole and a warrant being issued for my arrest if I was not at the municipal court house (12 minutes away by mapquest, plus parking time, changing time, and finding somewhere I had never been before) by 0800. Now as I was going to realize, the city of New Orleans and the Marine Corps have slightly different opinions on the virtue of punctuality, but it’s not New Orleans I’ve worked for over the past 3 years. And if I had thought of this, it would have been small consolation as I was scrambling for parking at 0800, on the dot.

As I sprinted toward the court house, directed in my frantic search by a helpful policeman, I felt a sudden rush of relief as I realized that all the people gathered on the steps must mean that the doors open at 0800. It felt good enough to offset the embarrassment I felt at having arrived in a dead sprint, somewhat short of breath.

By the time I found my seat in the courtroom it was 0805. Luckily my charge was one of the first called, the clerk enumerated my offense (this is embarassing, but I am an honest man…I managed to read that I had been walking down a street trying to stop cars and get in. Maybe I was trying to hail a taxi?) and asked me “How do you plead, Guilty or not Guilty?”, to which I responded (not at all meekly) “Guilty”. I sat back down and waited while everyone else had their charges reviewed. There was a handful of University students (with their parents and a Lawyer, of course) and the rest, day labourer’s and vagrants. I looked spectacular by comparison, slightly rumpled shirt notwithstanding (there were also about 30 guys in prison jumpsuits, but it’s hard to look good in orange). When the judge entered, he spent about an hour reviewing other cases, and then I heard “Case number 1097654, City of New Orleans Vs. Thomas Woodard”. I jumped up , was directed toward the stand and stood there, waiting as the judge reviewed my file. He glanced at me, inquired as to my residence, “New Orleans, your Honour”, and then looking at me again, asked me if I had a job, “Yes sir, I’m a Marine”.

“A what?”

“A Marine sir”. I hate to say it, but this definitely seemed to help. He announced that I would pay a 300$ bond, which would be forfeited, for which the city would not prosecute the charge. As the clerk explained to me, this meant that nothing beyond the arrest would be on my record, and apparently it is a relatively simple matter to have that expunged. Again, I felt a palpable sense of relief, and when the clerk asked when I would be able to procure the 300$, I asked to be pointed toward the nearest ATM. I paid the money, waited, received my receipt and a sheet detailing the days proceedings, and was done. Maybe everyone with a first offense for public drunkenness is treated the same, but I still felt relieved.

I’m not even sure if I will have the record of arrest expunged. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it is a reminder that actions have real consequences, and that drunken fun is never what it’s cracked up to be.

My total?

300$ forfeited bond

100$ worth of Alcohol

And 54.38$ to replace the smashed screen of my phone. An expensive night out. I think it will last me a while.

A Very Long Night

While I was home on leave, I realized several things, perhaps chief of which was that I drink too much. There I said it, I drink too much. I’ve said this before, but in the past it’s always been with a wry smile and a rueful tilt of the head. Hell, when I said it to myself on leave, it was in that same bent. That, yeah, I drink too much, but can you hate me for it, bent. Cue lopsided grin. Unrepentant as I was, I still realized that in order for me to be happy,  I would need to drink less. If I really wanted to start taking evening classes, get back in the gym, and stop feeling like I am wasting myself, I would need to cut back on the drinking. Cut back, but not stop. At this point I feel like I should make the point that never was my drinking in what you could consider “Alcoholic” territory. There would be the occasional week where I would spend more days drinking/drunk than sober, but I would stress this was not habitual; when it did happen I made a point of drinking nothing for at least a week, to prove I wasn’t dependent. The problem came from the amount, not the frequency with which I would drink. On my own, with nothing to do on a Friday night, I could polish off a 12 pack, or half a bottle of liquor, and be none the worse for wear the next day. Of course, that’s over the course of several hours, drinking at a reasonable pace and with some snacks thrown in for good measure, watching a movie or playing XBox. The problem with going to the bar is that your sole purpose while you are there, is to drink. Or at least that’s what mine was. I would start to outpace my friends and before you know it, Bam, drunk. Really drunk. That’s while drinking beer, where the sheer mass of liquid consumed limits you to a reasonable pace. If I was having mixed drinks, or God forbid, shots, the night would probably turn dark for me pretty quickly. And honestly it never bothered me all that much, I would wake up the next day with some vague recollection of having been a horrible person, and everyone would tell me the hilarious thing’s I had said/done. I’d spend the day apologizing to people, we’d all have a good laugh about things later. All things must pass though, as George Harrison sings, and it’s no longer so cheap, innocent or fun.

I arrived back in New Orleans on Sunday night, arrived back to a newly single friend and a desire to begin living more of a real life. Pretty much the first thing we did was make plans for the weekend. I had the idea of drinking less firmly in my head, but Friday night is one night out of the week, and the week has 7 days! 1/7 seems like a pretty small fraction to me, so we planned to have a damn good time. We were going to walk out to the French Quarter (took us about half an hour from where we work), and when we were done take a cab home, or call a friend, or just walk back to work and sleep it off. We had all the angles covered.

So Friday night we arrive in the French Quarter, and after a few minutes of perusing the nightlife (pretty sparse because it was only six o’clock) we stepped into a bar for dinner. We have a couple drinks with dinner, and deciding that the atmosphere (dead) of our current bar is somewhat lacking, we move on. The next bar we arrive at is more likely, we’ve been here before and it has a reputation for being a Cop/Military bar, which is alright by us. So we sit down and begin to drink in earnest, and before long we start talking to this lady sitting at the counter about her beautiful Labrador retriever, before long it comes out that her husband is a capital H war Hero who fought in Vietnam. So we take shots with him and the bouncer and continue drinking. At this point, one of the guys we work with shows up with his wife and two dogs, and we all start drinking together. I remember having a good time, and the night turns hazy. At this point I am pretty drunk, so I start to be less guarded with what I am saying. I remember several people yelling at me, being told off at length by someone’s wife for being disrespectful to an officer (it’s hard to drink your beer while someone is trying to yell at you, but I managed it)(the funny thing about that being I had no idea there was an officer present until being yelled at, and afterward I had a conversation with him about southern Ontario, turns out he grew up somewhere near there), and a guy I had met earlier in the evening, and hit it off with, telling me that he wanted to punch me in the face, or arrest me. Why, I’m not sure, but I do remember telling him that if he wanted to hit me to go ahead, no hard feelings from my side. At least I’m cognizant of the fact that I’m an asshole.

That’s pretty much the last thing I remember clearly. I managed to piece together a little more with the help of my friend, apparently we left the bar, both three sheets to the wind. After having avoided several fights, we stop to buy more drinks, and as he’s paying for them, I disappeared.

The next thing I remember is being in the New Orleans lock-up. This wasn’t as surprising to me as you might think, not because I was expecting to end the night in the drunk tank, but because I have some very hazy, very jumbled up memories of a Crown Vic and a fat lady at the medical counter. I won’t say it wasn’t disconcerting though. Nothing finishes a night off heavy drinking off like waking up on a steel bench with your back to a concrete wall, a junkie to your right and a scared university student to your left. I remember being asked why I was there, and responding with (bowdlerized) “I’m not quite sure”, and then falling back asleep. The next time I woke up I was sitting next to a well dressed man and a dude in a fedora; deciding that they were likelier candidates for conversation than the dude who couldn’t understand why they’d arrested him for having four bags of weed on his person, I asked them why they were there. We talked for a little while, both of them having some choice comments about New Orleans finest, conversation I had nothing to contribute to, even if I could have remembered being arrested, I’m sure I would have thought it was justified. The well-dressed man had been on his way home from dinner with his wife, having had a few glasses of wine, and the cop had pulled him over and hassled him, before charging him with driving under the influence. I think Mr. Fedora was in for driving with a suspended license, and many, many traffic tickets. I reiterated that my arrest was a mystery to me. Everyone found this amusing (I will admit I found it amusing at the time).

After what seemed like several hours of mind-numbingly boring sitting on a steel bench, a large Captain in whatever service was detaining us announced that, with the departure of the night shift, things were about to change. We were now all about to be booked, which everyone was looking forward to, as for some of us it was one step closer to getting the hell out of there. After being disappointed in his first selection of individuals to be booked, I was chosen in the second lot, and directed towards a nice young woman who asked me if I was sober. I responded with my most polite, my most marine “Yes Ma’am” and after having been lectured on the evils of over consumption of alcohol, I was informed that I would be getting out for free, but would have to be in court on Monday. I could not just pay the fine on the spot, so resigned to some Marine Corps discipline in addition to a fine, I was returned to the cage. There, Junkie “I can’t believe I’m being arrested for all this weed” was smoking up in one of the half bathroom stalls. I saw this, drew Scared University student and Mr Fedoras attention to it, chuckled, and then studiously avoided looking in that direction. When he was done, Junkie came over to sit with us; I asked him if he was feeling better, to which he responded “Yeah man, you should have walked over”. I laughed and told him I was fine, at which point he once again enumerated the charges laid against him, and laughed at his cleverness in being able to smuggle weed into the lock-up. 5 minutes later the guards pulled him out and told everyone he’d been smoking with they were getting additional charges laid as well.

And then I was released. Tomorrow morning I have to be in court at 8 am and will almost definitely have to pay a deserved 300$ fine. Over the past six months, in addition to the cost of alcohol, drinking has cost me roughly 1800$, 1000$ for the laptop I had to buy one of my Marines after destroying it (accidentally), roughly 500$ for the blackberry and I Pod I drunkenly left in Japan, and then this. It’s not just the money, there are other things, dear to me, which have been and will be affected by this. The decision to stop drinking,  for at least the next two months, is not a knee-jerk reaction based on one bad experience, it is the decision I need to draw if I want to be actually happy, not just treading water, content with my (somewhat) disappointing life. It’s probably a decision I should have made some time ago. Better late than never I suppose.

Actions: Act and Intent

Before you read further, understand that I hold no qualifications as a philosopher or theologian. This could very well be heretical (although I would hope it’s not) for all I know. So if you know better, or think you do, let me know.

It seems to me that whenever we undertake an action, there are at least two discrete elements, which for right now we will define as act and intent.  If we want to look at the morality of an action, these are the elements we must focus on, what you are going to do, and why you will do it. We focus on these because I believe in large part the morality of an action derives from your intent(for good or evil), the sticking point is whether or not an act can by itself be evil.

It is easiest to start small when examining this. We can all agree that firing a pistol is by itself a morally ambiguous act. One can fire a pistol for any number of reasons, the act holds no significance on it’s own; in this case the morality of your action depends upon your intent. Firing in self-defense I think we can all agree is morally acceptable, fired out of anger, to murder, we hold to be an immoral, an evil act. Regardless of the result of either action, here is a situation where we have an identical act, whose morality is defined by the intent of the individual. I think it’s important to state that the result is not significant, it is the intent that defines your action.

So if we can all agree that there are morally ambiguous acts, can we also find that there are acts that are inherently evil? Or conversely, are there acts of inherent good?

If we begin by examining acts which we can regard definitively as evil, why not begin with the extreme. Your act is to kill tens of thousands. At first glance, that strikes one as an act of evil. How can the death of thousands, and let us go further, innocent thousands, be anything but? We would be remiss to dismiss intent so quickly, however. What if the death of tens of thousands of innocents is necessary for peace? When we dropped the Atomic bomb on Hiroshima, we extinguished, in the blink of an eye, tens of thousands of innocent lives. But the intent of this action was not the wanton death of civilians, but the sparing of a great many more lives; those of the Soldiers, Marines, Sailors, Airman, and yes Japanese civilians (if there are any who doubt that a great many Japanese civilians would have played a part in their own death, look up the suicide cliffs on Saipan or Okinawa)  who would have otherwise lost their lives, if we had invaded. Of course there is also genocide, but genocide is not an act, it is an action; it is the killing of thousands for racial purification, an evil intent if ever there was.

Now that we have established (briefly) that there is no act inherently evil, is there an act inherently good? Most would agree that donating (be it time or money) is a moral act, but again, intent is the defining factor. Again, we must stress that result has no bearing on the morality of your action, a murderer who misses is still guilty of evil, someone who kills in self-defense is righteous. So while your donation may benefit another, if you donate in order to enhance your own standing, as the self-righteous pharisee prays, then there is no good in your action. It’s not necessarily evil, and if it is it would seem to be minor, but you have done no good.

So why do we focus so much on act? Why today are headlines descriptions of acts, not actions, and most definitely not intents? Because an act is there, physical and present, and ultimately we now live in a shallow society. We attach more to the self-aggrandizing posturing of a billionaire than we do to the quiet gift of a nobody volunteering in a soup kitchen. Intent is difficult to discern, and in the absence of a societal sense of honour almost impossible to verify. In any case, journalists have (apparently) better things to do with their time.

The PKI explained. Not that anyone asked.

***Disclaimer. I’m serious, all I do in this is explain some of the basics of information security. It’s honestly pretty boring stuff, and it’s remembered from when I certified in Security +, well over a year and a half ago. This is also the first time of really done anything with this knowledge since then, as I’m not concerned with any type of security. So in addition to being boring, there is a very good chance that a lot of this is wrong. So if you want to read something long, boring, and potentially incorrect, you’ve been warned.***

Security is predicated on possession of at least two of three things, what you have, what you know, and what you are. Rather, good security is based on this principle; a car is secured with only one of those three, what you have, and as a result is relatively easy to steal. One can obtain a key, or pick the lock (which we could consider an example of a brute force attack). If you combine two elements you drastically increase the difficulty of the problem, which is why modern banking relies on Debit cards, which combine what you have, a card containing a hash, and what you know, your pin number.

Computer security is in large part based on this principle. A secure modern network will probably implement this through the use of what you have and what you know, in a manner rather like a bank. An individual will be issued with a Common Access Card (CAC) and told to create a pin number. This then ensures physical security of the computer, a user can lose their CAC, or divulge their PIN and security is not compromised (except for the user’s who wrte their PIN on their CAC….).

So now that we have ensured the physical security of the computer how do we secure the network, or at the very least communication within the network? As the OSI model would tell us, the first thing we should secure is the physical. Put up a fence. But in the modern world where people cannot be trusted and all you need to do is splice in a hub to capture every single packet being passed, how do we maintain the intergrity of our network?

This is where the Public Key Infrastructure ( PKI – do not refer to it as the PKI infrastructure, you will look like a moron) comes in. Operating in conjunction with your common access card(the two are part and parcel), the PKI enables you to encrypt a message and send it to anyone also a member of the infrastructure. Everyone a member is in possession of two key’s, a public and a private; the public is made available to all members of the network, and the private is kept, as implied, private. The two keys are married to each other, a message encrypted with the public will only decrypt with the private. So if you need to send a message to A, you take his Public key, encrypt the message and hit send. Voila, information security.

But wait (you cry), this approach means that while the Confidentiality of the message will be ensured, this does not matter, as the Integrity is compromised. And by this, of course, you mean that as everyone has access to the public certificates, you cannot verify the the identity of the sender, thus the content cannot be trusted. This, (I reply, triumphantly) is where digital signature’s come in.

When I send that message to A, I run it through a common function which generates a hash, or a string of bits. This hash I then encrypt using my private key, and attach to the original message as my “Digital Signature”. Then, when the sender receives my message, he both decrypts my signature using my public key and hashes the message himself, if the two hashes match, then he knows that it was indeed myself who sent the message, as only I am in possession of my private key; and that the message itself was not tampered with, if it was his hash would not match that of the signature. Integrity.

Still (you plaintively moan) where do these key’s come from, and how do you trust their authenticity? In a large corporate network, you will have a Certifying Authority responsible for the issue of public and private keys, and an information infrastructure which will support the continual addition of new keys, an enterprise network. In an enterprise network all of what I described will be transparent to the user, a button is clicked, magic happens. You can build a PKI in your private life however, most commonly (among the tin-foil hat brigade) by using what’s called a web of trust.

A web of trust is an implementation of PKI where you rely on personal interaction as opposed to an network to share keys. Instead of relying on a CA to ensure that a person is who their key claims to be, you rely on the digital signatures of others with in the web. So having made your key available to the world, others can verify it’s authenticity by viewing the number of people who have digitally signed your key, the people vouching for the trustworthiness of your key. This signing is done at a key-signing party, once satisfied as to the authenticity of your key other individuals will attach their digital signature, thus, the web of trust. As you can imagine these parties are quite lively, I’ve always held that no party is complete without the transfer of long strings of meaningless ones and zeros.

So (you say, perking up considerably) information security professionals are not total strangers to the world of parties. Unfortunately (I reply with eyes that you have just noticed look particularly deadish) , they are total strangers to the world of parties that occur outside the realm of key-signing, as any kind of work in the field of information technology kills your soul.

Maybe I will try this whole writing thing again.

I miss writing. It’s always been something I’ve loved to do, yet I seldom make the effort. Which is a shame really, writing is in some ways a perishable skill; as you neglect writing your grammar fades, spelling becomes…problematic, and your vocabulary shrinks, words that leapt to the forefront appearing sparsely, if at all. So, time to begin again, even if I have lost most of my former skill (if at any time I had some to speak of).

Writing is not the only once and future past time resurrected, for some reason my political bone has been itching of late. A contrast though, where writing makes me feel, content, the more I follow the world’s today, the more I worry. Today I read an article describing the difficulty funding the First Lady’s pet project “Lets Move”. Democrats were bemoaning the fact that money would have to be taken from the food stamp program; funding was originally provided under the stimulus bill, that is due to expire. How far have we come from the the principles that guided our nations founders. One of the few justifiable social welfare programs, designed to provide those in need with sustenance,  cut to provide for a pet project reducing childhood obesity. Not that I will deny childhood obesity a seat in the pantheon of worrying symptoms, but why the hell is the government attempting to legislate it out of existence? Should we expect to hear of the “War on Fat”? How long till the appointment of the Obesity Czar, tasked with forcing a nation of laggards onto the tread mill? I’m no libertarian, but why do we tolerate such an expansive body of public service? The socialist ratchet spins at a frantic pace and we do nothing. We live a tyranny of the minority, a Government involved in the minutiae of it’s citizens lives, pushed hither and yon by special interest groups with the power to purchase lobbyists, the power to purchase the ear of  a Senator or Congressman. We look down upon nations that have come before us, turning up our noses at their internecine conflict, proclaiming our democracy just and impartial, yet we are no better than they. At least the ancient houses fought over power, real power, to make a nation or destroy it; here we fight bitter battles over fat kids.  When Alexander VI looked at his life, sordid and evil as it was,  he could take satisfaction in knowing that his greatest accomplishment was not helping little Johnny drop twenty pounds.

I don’t even know where this is headed anymore, it’s nice to write again though, even if the end result is a confusing, rambling rant.

One Trick Pony

So my Christmas present from my sister arrived the other day, and as soon as it arrived I ripped the package open and there they were, the two Mark Helprin novels that I had yet to read.It was pretty late that night already and it was going to be a busy week, but I had duty on Friday so I decided that I would wait till then, and then during the 12 hours that I would have been twiddling my thumbs on post, I would devote to reading, first, Refiner’s Fire, and then Memoir from Antproof Case.

So friday rolls around, I wake up, put my cammies on, grab my book and head down to the duty desk. I sit down, mentally prep myself for duty, (I have to remind myself where it is I am answering the phone from, before I sit down to do anything else, otherwise my autopilot will just use whatever the last stored entry was) and then open Refiner’s Fire. I can’t presume to speak for anyone else, but personally, when I open a book, there’s no fanfare, nothing special, no moment where I crack my mental knuckles and think, reading, yes, lets get this done. No, I just open the book, turn to the appropriate page, and begin. Maybe everyone launches into reading the same way, but hey, I haven’t really asked around.

Refiners Fire opens much like Helprin’s, in my opinion, greatest novel, A Soldier of the Great War. Description of a scene, his prose a vivid paintbrush bringing alive colours, spreading a broad, sweeping vista before you. It matters not that he is describing the interior of a helicopter, or the narrow, twisting streets of Rome, or an oppressive jungle. When Helprin writes everything becomes open, illuminated by his words. Ok, maybe describing a scene isn’t such an original way to open a novel, you think to yourself, you’re not going to have very much success as a writer if you don’t describe things, I’m not really sure how you’d write at all really. You could put down random disjointed thoughts, describing nothing, simply stating random unconnected facts. Unfortunately in todays economic climate there’s not much demand for tech writers (I’m unsure of that joke, are tech writer’s really fodder for comedy? Is that even a description of tech writer’s work?). Regardless any novelist worth his salt must open with a description, upon that we are agreed. But Helprin isn’t just painting you a landscape, he’s populating it with a character, one who may not have much time left and is going to use that time to reminisce about the life he has led. I use reminisce for lack of a something better, it is more a reliving, a re experiencing of every moment lived.

Both Soldier and Refiner’s open similarly, a dieing, or at least near death, man begins to relive his life, and when I realized this, I began to think that maybe, for all that I loved his language, his vivid descriptions of all he writes on, Mark Helprin was a one trick pony, selling us the same story in a different skin, new descriptions, old plotline. After all, most of his books focus on a strong, independent, male protagonist, one who, over the course of the book will invariably come into contact with, and love multiple women, always themselves beautiful and unconventional,  in that while strong, intelligent and independent they completely lack any resemblance to that whining image of the modern feminist. All his protagonists will have wide and varied experiences, conquering the wild, capturing cities (not to capture as in take, as in siege, but capture as in become wholly comfortable with, to feel in the city as if it is your natural hunting ground), climbing mountains and flying aircraft. His characters will interact with each other in the most whimsical fashion possible, absurd comedy springing from the most mudane places, comedy springing not from the central characters, but from their interactions with an assortment of insane bit players, who crash through the pages of the novel like a bear with a hat several sizes to small making his through a small child’s birthday party. And then there’s the supernatural, not present as some sort of deus ex machina, some solution to an otherwise impossible problem, but simply present. Not that it never plays a part in the story, the supernatural is the driving element of A City in Winter after all, but present in that he writes of the supernatural as if it is the natural, not mundane, never mundane, but expected. The supernatural is not beyond the scope of his character’s imaginations, they understand not all is meant to be understood.

And all his writing has these elements. And for one moment, just one mind you, disappointment swelled within, the writer over all others was simply a one trick pony. And then just as quickly as it came, it was gone, and to abuse an already overused saying, the scales fell from my eyes. The reason his writing is so easily distinguishable, so unique and distinct, and containing so many similar elements, is because he writes of us, not as we are, but as we should be. Just as the landscape he describes is never drab and boring, even gray factory’s being brought to life, not in a sea of pastels and hum-drum, but in a blaze of colour and magnificence, the gray rectangles becoming brilliant and beautiful; just as his landscape is all of it lifted beyond, enlightened, so are his characters. His heroes are just that, noble, dedicated, even as they fall you wish you could be them, for they in their worst are greater than you in your best. His love interests are not token characters who fall by the wayside, they are magnificent women, who the least of, you would sacrifice your leg to meet. And his heroine’s, never until Refiner’s Fire had I finished a novel and known without a doubt that if she existed, I would do everything in my power to marry Lydia Pearl, any women who is both beautiful and capable of positing that the defeat of the Mongols at Ain-Jalut was inevitable is a jewel beyond price. But more than anything it is in his Hero’s quest that he cements himself in his position above all. For his Hero’s are not trying to conquer a nation, or win their love, or deliver a message although they will almost definitely do all of the above. For his hero’s simply live, and do so magnificently.

Newfound Pessimism

I’m beginning to understand why several people I know have over the years been getting more and more pessimistic about the future of western civilization. Time and time again, someone would start talking about the degeneration of american society, and would without fail bring up the fall of Rome and point at the common denominators; while I, just as inevitably, would marshal my counterpoints and dismiss such talk as alarmist. Sure, America’s not perfect, but lets face it, nothing is; and while Rome ultimately fell because of the vanishing of the middle class, the yeoman farmers and shop owners sons with which the Legions held back the barbarians for so many years; America still has an enormous middle class, a middle class willing to sacrifice 4 or more years of their youth serving their Country. But for all that this is correct, I’m beginning to realize I may have missed the point. To paraphrase Thomas Jefferson, from time to time the tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots, and tyrants. However, I’m beginning to realize that its not just the watering that matters, but where the watering is done. It does your tree of liberty no good if all you do is water your neighbors.

Now if you were alarmist, and liberal I might add, you might misconstrue my comments, given that they concern last weeks election, and think that I am somehow advocating the assassination of our president elect at best, fomenting revolution at worst. Don’t worry I’m not. I’m merely trying to illustrate my point. When Roman Legions were defeated, as they sometimes were, Rome was not. When Hannibal crossed the Alps and destroyed the Roman army at Cannae, Rome did not sue for peace, she raised more legions. When Varus lost 3 eagles and his life in the Teutoburgerwald, Rome recovered the Eagles, and destroyed the tribes responsible. When fleet after fleet was destroyed Rome built more ships. Rome was great because time and again she persevered when others would have given up. After the disasters that followed Hannibals crossing of the Alps; the allied cities deserting, the army of the Scipios left behind in Spain, the disastrous battles at Lake Trasimene and Cannae, the city of Rome itself was left virtually defenseless. And yet, after having suffered 50000+ killed at Lake Trasimene, and 60000+ at Cannae, Rome raised more Legions and, taking the fight to Africa, destroyed the Carthaginian Empire. And here we are, the most powerful Nation on earth, with a Military capable of taking on any nation on earth and winning the battle in a matter of days, and after 7 years and 5000 casualties, we are ready to raise the white flag, ready to sue for peace. Not that the lives lost are insignificant, but they are lives lost defending freedom, and what other price can be paid?

90, 60, 50 years ago, we did not see 5000 lives as too dear a price to be paid in the defense of freedom, in defense of our way of life. In WW1, WW2 and Korea, the nation held fast and even in the face of setbacks, some of which could be psychologically compared, at the very least, to any of the defeats Rome suffered, stayed the course. But now, after all the positive news to come from the Middle East, having suffered no significant strategic military setback, we are ready to throw in the towel. And its wrong to attempt to invalidate the comparison by trying to posit that this war is somehow different, that we are fighting a war for oil or for different motives than we have fought for in the past; in neither Korea nor WW2 was our nation itself attacked, in both cases, as we are now, we were fighting to defend the freedom of others. What makes turn of the century Europe, or mid century Korea any more worthy of our defense than new millennium Mesopotamia? The enemy? Imperialist, Communist or Ba’athist, different ideology, same motives. Perhaps we should have avoided Iraq because it’s none of our business when a ruler engages in the ethnic cleansing and random slaughter of his own people. Even if, in the callousness of your heart you could somehow agree with that statement, Saddam made it our business when he invaded Kuwait in 91 and then every year since then engaged in illegal activities and deception over his weapons programs while attempting to shoot down western combat aircraft attempting to guarantee his peoples safety.

There really isn’t much room for argument over the reason for war, after all, the nation was overwhelmingly for it back in 2003. What then has changed? Nothing. The only difference between 01 or 03 and 08 is the passage of years and 5000 American casualties. Precious lives every one, but given in the defense of freedom, by volunteers proud to fight for their country. And even though the military, those of us on the sharp end of the stick, are overwhelmingly for the war, our nation, in 5 years, has turned volte face. The American people have decided that the war was the wrong decision, and instead of, as a reasonable and repsonsible person would have done, looking at themselves and saying “I was wrong, we should not have gone to war, but now engaged we are honour bound to see it through”; they look at the war, and even if they were initially for it, think “Oh my god, I was for the war but I was wrong why did the President not know that it was wrong?” and blame the President for a war that they were for, that Congress was for, that the Senate approved.

And now, finally, after a long 4 paragraphs of exposition my point. You must be thinking, “hey tom, the history lesson was great, Rome and all that, and I can see your point about the Iraq war, kind of, but what does that have to do with pessimism, or with the election of that marxist, Obama?” (That is, assuming you’re a conservative, as a liberal would have called the secret service when they saw the word’s president and assasination in the same sentence back at the beginning of paragraph 2, consequently missing my roundabout explanation). The American people elected Obama on the platform of change. Change from what? Change from Bush, change from an Administration that has experienced record low approval level’s first for it’s handling of the war, and when that became the norm, the war itself. Black voters may have provided Obama with his base, rich Liberals his money, but it was the voter who became disenfranchised with conservative foreign policy in states like Virginia who handed Obama the election. America no longer knows what it is to go without, so no longer understands why occasionally a good man goes jobless, loses his house, or sacrifices his life for what he believes in. Rather than abolishing the middle class by creating an enormous lower class and decadent elite, we have one-upped Rome by abolishing the middle class in favor of a small lower class and a decadent majority, not rich when measured on the bell curve of american economics; but in a society where even the nominally poor drive to work and come home to a house with a computer and a tv, how can we compare ourselves to the great majority of the worlds citizens? The majority of Americans have never had to spill their blood to afford luxuries, and do not understand what it is to live under a tyrant, and so our tree of liberty has withered, neglected by a society set on affording that second car or larger house.

That is the reason for my newfound pessimism.

Day of Future Passed

So recently I’ve been receiving a lot of questions from people about what it is I actually do. Not much. But for all those of you who actually want to know what the day to day life of tom woodard is like, here we go:

A Day in the Life of Tom Woodard:

Five fifteen is usually about when I get up on a week day; PT usually runs somewhere around 530 and I like to get up about 15 minutes early so I have to time to shave and maybe check the news. This time’s variable, tomorrow PT runs at 5 so I’ll be getting up around 450 (the earlier PT runs the more time i like to shave off my shaving time) and some days we don’t PT we just head up to the shop for 730. After PT, which is almost always over by 630, I head back to my room, shower, change, check my email, make my bed, and if time permits, head over to the chow hall to get some breakfast. If we had no PT that day, I usually wake up around 7, grab a quick shower, throw on my cammies and head off to work.

730 is when the day really starts. Everything up till that point is just preparation for 730 and at 730, you had better be prepared. All the chips are down, and many other metaphors about how you will get messed up if you are not prepared and the absolutely monstrous level of preparedness you must possess. Because at 730, thats when the magic is made. Thats when all those commercials you see about life in the Marine Corps come true, and for one glorious moment, you climb a cliff in your dress blues and then magically transform into a member of the silent drill team crackin sticks in all the cities of the world while flying an attack chopper through the mountains of afghanistan and waving all the banners of righteousness before you as break upon the seawall of Islam in a glorious tide of impending doom. And then you go into your shop and realize, wait, I have nothing to do. And you sit down in a chair and try to avoid getting shanghaied by radio into helping them do something stupid. Or you can be motivated (as I usually try to be) and you can better yourself by advancing your knowledge on the one piece of equipment that  makes Data vitally important to a fake Artillery Battalion.  That glorious piece of kit known as the COC, short for Combat Operations Center, and never to be pronounced phonetically.  The one problem with that is the COC is pretty mystical. It’s function is quite banal, it integrates the battlefield communications net, and the manner in which it achieves that objective is readily accessible to the average understanding, but its how it achieves what it accomplishes that is magical. You plug cables into boxes, telnet into those boxes, make sure all the settings are correct, turn it on and BAM, nothing works! Its quite magical. Every time you turn it on, something else fails to work, so you just change settings until it does. So from 730 till about 11, I sit around in the shop, maybe make a cable, do osme busy work, troubleshoot whatever portion of the COC happens to be failing if we have it running at the moment, basically trying to avoid radio. Around 11, 1130 we usually break for lunch. If i had breakfast, or am not especially hungry, I usually head back to my room, hang out for 2 hours and then head backinto work for one. Conversely, if I didn’t eat breakfast, I head over to the chow hall eat lunch and if its tuesday or monday catch the football games.

1300 is what I like to call the day’s endgame. From this point onward, (or at least until 1600) the day is a fast paced game of cat and mouse, the hunter cagily stalking his prey, using all his wiles and his not inconsiderable natural gifts in an attempt to capture a prey perhaps even wilier than himself, a prey whose entire being bends itself to the task at hand, avoiding a working party. Yeah, from 1300 onward you basically just move around and wait for the day to end. If it’s a busy day, thankful that the work will not only end the day more quickly but make the ending all the sweeter; if it’s a slow day, using the infinite time apparently available to understanding the theoretical physics that make it possible for time to actually stop moving forward altogether.

Wonderful, magnificent 1600 (approximately), the time when our majestic OIC has decreed will be the end of the working day in our shop, unless extenuating circumstances necessitate staying late, an oft spoken of, but rarely encountered occurence, thank the good Lord in his Heavens for blessing us with such mercy. I either head over to the chow hall right after work, or grab something from the shoppette on my way (think 7-11, only more) and then just kick it in my room, eager for my hard earned r and r. My head usually finds the pillow at any time from 2130-2230 (930-1030 ), and then the whole process starts over again. And for those of you with a hazy sense of geography, Okinawa is an island in the Ryuuku chain (named for Okinawa which is actually called Ryuuku by the indigenous population) approximately 400 miles to the south and west of mainland Japan. I’ve never really measured that distance, just guesstimated it from a globe, so it could be a little off. Its also a prefecture of Japan, so for all those of you who are thinking “hey tom told me he was going to japan, not some no name island in the middle of the ocean” right now, Okinawa also happens to be prefecture (read province or state) of Japan, so you can shut up.

tom