New Tricks for Old Dogs

The New Year season is a time for reflection.  I have been thinking a lot about the new communication technologies and my job.  I know this is boring to some/most of the people reading this, and I know that I am being repetitive, but I still don’t have this sorted out in my own mind.

Decisions are easy when values and priorities are clear.  The hard part is figuring them out.  
 
I got along well with Internet in its early incarnations.  It fulfilled dreams of my youth.   They were nerdy dreams, I admit.  I dreamed of a comprehensive searchable data base that could answer all my questions if I posed them correctly.   We got it. I wanted easy access to the accumulated knowledge of mankind.  We got that too. I dreamed of instant communications networks to pass new ideas.  Got it. 
 
My dreams were myopic, just projections and amplifications of what I already knew.   But the world doesn’t stop and innovations spawn unexpected changes.  The Internet shot clean past my slow moving dreams. 

Internet revolutionized the pursuit of knowledge in mostly good ways.   You can find out almost anything you want to know and connectedness of the web is increasing scientific and practical knowledge immensely.    Knowledge and politics, however, don’t always intersect.  Metastasizing politics on the Internet has been less a good thing.  Let me clarify with an example. 
 
Blogs made it possible to write about your opinions and experience and easily publish it for others to read and comment.  This is just an old technique adapted to new technologies.   It is kind of the Federalist Papers on steroids; a quicker marketplace of ideas, this I like.   But it didn’t stay on that high plane very long.  The messages slid downhill and became shorter and more vitriolic.
 
The blogosphere and cyberspace in general experienced a kind of evolution, where selection favored the nastiest and the most extreme.  Rather than a universe of ideas, it debauched into a multiverse of pseudo-intellectual hostility.   Many of the online communities became intolerantly self-policing, driving out anybody with divergent views and in the process increasingly coarsening the rhetoric.  Too many online communities became autoerotic circles of hatred, where participants confirmed each other’s prejudices, sharpened their collective teeth, and pulled their groups farther out of the mainstream.  We often cannot persuade or be persuaded by others because we occupy completely different dimensions.  
 
There used to be a saying that you are entitled to your own opinion, but you are not entitled to your own facts. The new media has developed different fact-universes, each with its own specific sets.  This is a challenge and it gets worse. 
 
Now we have all the interactive systems, the Facebooks etc, Twitter as well as interactive gaming.   I just don’t know what to do with them.  I am not sure it is possible for government based public affairs (i.e. someone in my job) to use these technologies because they are so labor intensive and the messages so often intensely idiosyncratic. 
 
Consider the strengths and weaknesses of a government information operation.  My job is to explain the U.S. and U.S. policies to people in other countries.   In what we see in retrospect as the golden age (it didn’t seem that back then), we had certain advantages.   Most important was that government had a monopoly over some sorts of information, but there were other structural advantages.   The technologies favored the one speaker to many listeners paradigm, so a relatively small number of writers could reach a large number of readers/listeners/viewers.   Beyond that, our enemies were easy to identify and possible to count.  The Soviets produced a lot of deceitful propaganda, but we could usually find the return address if we looked hard enough. 
 
None of this is true anymore.  The government no longer has information dominance and is often not the first or the best source even of things about its own activities.   The information market has splintered into millions of pieces and our adversaries are harder to identify.   Essentially, we went from a situation with one big and dangerous bad guy (or a couple of them) to a world where there are thousands of little ones.   The dragon has been replaced by insects, each one inconsequential, but collectively heavier and more intractable.  And they are more quickly adaptive to changing circumstances.  You could always expect the Soviets to be slow and ponderous, not so our new adversaries.  
 
When it was one-to-many communications, we happy few at State or USIA had a chance to move the communication needle.   In the one-to-dozens communication environment, we just don’t have enough people and never will.   We can get the occasional “viral” hit, but not with any predictability.  
 
I think we still have a chance.  The Internet is starved for content.  We can produce content and/or pictures.  We can also build relationships that might leverage to larger populations.    We can succeed, but I am worried that we will not.  I am also worried that I cannot go along on this ride.   I have been in this business for a quarter century, but I am afraid I might have reached a river I cannot cross.   I have always believed that with the proper tools and permission, I could make a difference and sometimes I have succeeded.   I have not always had the means, but I always had the vision, at least I thought I did.  

My vision is now failing with the newest technologies.   I can understand how something like Twitter can be used to organize a demonstration, communicate sports scores or stock averages, or help maintain an existing social network, but I cannot figure out how we can pass the nuanced explanation of policy over these sorts of networks, nor can I see a way that government officials like me and my colleagues make ourselves trusted participants in enough social networks to make a significant impact.  I can understand the theoretical potential for online communities, but cannot stand the profound lameness of “worlds” like Second Life and I cannot figure out its wider impact.  It is a big world out there and our efforts may just be a p*ss in the ocean.  

This worries me.  I don’t know whether it cannot be done in general or if it is just ME that cannot do it.  I have a responsibility to add value and I always promised myself that I would not hang around after I outlived my usefulness.    I don’t want to try to apply yesterday’s solutions to tomorrow’s problems.    It is funny how things come in circles.  I am having the equivalent of adolescent angst at my age. 
 
I guess I will figure it out, or more correctly I will find people who have figured it out to work with me.  I really don’t understand much of anything, but I have always had the good fortune to find people who do and I have been able to bring out their talents.   I add value the old fashioned way – through good people.  Maybe the old tricks still work for the old dog.  When I cannot do that anymore I will go quietly into that good night – someday, but probably not today.   I still have a lot of thinking to do.

Greenpeace

I ran into a couple Greenpeace activists near the Balston Metro.   They wanted me to sign up for their organization to fight global warming and specifically save the boreal forests, evidently threatened by the likes of Kimberly-Clark.   I think I may have confused them. 

I told them that I respected their passion but I didn’t like their organization because I thought they were usually more of a PR organization than an environmental one.     I didn’t disagree that global warming and forest destruction were serious problems.  If fact, before they stopped me I was listening to the new Thomas Freidman book Hot, Flat & Crowded re the green revolution on my I-Pod.   The woman told me that the boreal forests produced 30% of the world’s oxygen.    Of course this is inaccurate.  A mature forest is essentially carbon neutral, as CO2 from respiration and decay more or less balances oxygen fixed by photosynthesis.  It has to be that way.  Think about what would happen if natural system just kept sucking up CO2 before humans burned fossil fuels.  All the carbon would come to be tied up in wood and leaves and nothing would grow.    However, I told them, I would be happy to put the boreal forests generally off limits because they are nice to look at and the fiber from them is competes with Southern forestry.  There are lots of reasons to protect boreal forests, but that 30% oxygen argument is just bogus.   

I asked them if they wanted to maintain forests and healthy wildlife communities on American land.   Of course they did.  So I discussed the economics of forestry and open land and how organizations such as Greenpeace often worked against their own stated interests by advocating regulations that make it so difficult for landowners to make a living from the land so they sell off to developers.    I also explained that good forestry practices protect soils near watercourses, which also provide wildlife corridors through plantation forests.  

The woman was interested and wanted to hear more, but her partner said, “We shouldn’t talk to this guy anymore.”  He evidently feared the contagion; they both wandered off. 

These young people exhibit admirable passion and Greenpeace is a first class marketing organization.   The scary part is that environmentalism has been subverted to public relations and sincere people are often taken in by it.    I have been interested in the environment as long as I can remember and I worry that the politics of environmentalism too often trumps its nature protection.  I am not alone in this.  Greenpeace founder, Patrick Moore, has come around to supporting nuclear power and good forestry practices because they the best alternatives for protecting the environment.    James Lovelock, the originator of the Gaia hypothesis and as crunchy an environmentalist you can find thinks that nuclear energy is necessary to “save the earth”.   Many of their erstwhile colleagues are not amused.    

We have to move into a more environmentally friendly equilibrium.   This certainly requires some regulation and rule making.  Rules and regulations work well when you are attacking a big, easily identified source.  I use the work attacking purposefully.   That has the feel of a struggle, us v them, good guys v bad guys.   This is the battlefield activists like.   But we have done the rough work.   We now are addressing the more complex finer points, ones that are harder to find and maybe ones that are not even recognized.  Doing this requires the unleashing of human innovation, initiatives and inventiveness.  For this you need to give people and firms incentives and information.   Command and control will not produce the result you want.    

Those cute Greenpeace activists in their quasi-environmental clothes with their quasi-environmental ideas will have to look for other solutions.   It is satisfying to kick the asses of the villains, but our task is to get entrepreneurs involved in finding environmental solutions with government helping create infrastructure to facilitate the work.    It will mean some conservation and higher energy prices, but we cannot conserve our way out of the problem.  We also cannot legislate solutions; we have to invent them.   The government cannot pick winners because the information needed to make those decisions is not yet available.   The futurists and planners always get it wrong.   Nobody foresaw the details of the information technologies we have today.   Society and the people making choices informed by their own specific knowledge and preferences makes decisions that surprise and are better than those of a small group of planners, no matter how smart.  We should unleash those same processes that gave us the wonderful and very inexpensive computer I am using to write and you are using to read as well as the Internet that connects them. 

Sorry, but Greenpeace is so 1970.  They did some good things back then, but we have moved beyond that sort of thing in most ways.   BTW – Greenpeace founder has moved to the next step.   See his site at Greensprit.com

Drunken John Matel

I think that I prefer “drunken” (from the original song) to “fighting”, although I have done neither in Iraq.   The Marines sang the song below at my going away.  It is based on an old Johnny Cash song.  I am flattered that they took the time.   The Marines don’t make fun of people they don’t like.

The Ballad of John Matel
John Matel…
John Matel…

[CHORUS:]
Call him fighting John Matel
He won’t answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin’ Ambassador
Nor the Diplomat who went to war

Gather round me people there’s a story I would tell
About a brave old civil servant you should remember well
From the land of beer and bratwurst
In old Wisconsin land

Who joined the Department of State to serve his Uncle Sam
Now John served in all the world’s hemispheres

The North, South, East, and West
It was his hardship tour in Rio
That he enjoyed the best

[CHORUS:]
Call him fighting John Matel
He won’t answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin’ Ambassador
Nor the Diplomat who went to war

John Matel volunteered to serve in harm’s way,
In the country of Iraq
While his peers looked at him with a sense of awe,
As they chose to remain back
He served with the Marines of worldwide acclaim
In the Western Al Anbar Hinterland
Rubbing shoulders with Mayors and Sheikhs
In the dust, the dirt, and sand

[CHORUS:]
Call him fighting John Matel
He won’t answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin’ Ambassador
Nor the Diplomat who went to war

He traversed the battlefield in the air and on the road
Airborne in the Osprey, on road by MRAP
He was fine with the air-land insert,
It was the road movements he thought were crap

[CHORUS:]
Call him fighting John Matel
He won’t answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin’ Ambassador
Nor the Diplomat who went to war

 [CHORUS:]
Call him jumping John Matel
He won’t answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin’ Ambassador
Nor the Diplomat who went to war

Yeah, call him fighting John Matel
And his legacy will go far
With the Sheikhs, the Mayors, and common man
In the whole of Western Anbar

John Matel…
John Matel…

Iraqi Falafel

The ordinary is the extraordinary in a place like Anbar.   I was reminded of that during a recent visit to a falafel stand in Hadithah.   Instead of the usual chow hall fare, we decided to go out for lunch.  It was a big deal, requiring a convoy, but I think it was worth it.  The shop owner was delighted to have us come in and I think we contributed to the general feeling that peace and normality is returning to this recently-war-torn city.  Reports of these kinds of gestures pass by word of mouth and have strong impact on local attitudes.  Of course, we are not the first.  The Marines at the nearby camp are the ones who told us about the shop, so they presumably have eaten here too.

Here I am with a can of Rani.  Rani is a very sweet fruit-float drink.   It comes in orange, peach, lemon, pineapple, and mango flavors.  With the exception of the mango, I like it a lot, which is why I posed in the semi-advert position.  I have not seen it in America.   We got fifteen falafel sandwiches, plus Rani, for 15000 dinar, which is around fifteen dollars.  The owner said that we could have the food for free, since he was happy with the safety he now enjoyed, but we insisted on paying, which I think was his real desire too.  It was nice that he made the courteous gesture.

The owner of the falafel shop told us that he had come to Hadithah because he wanted to avoid the trouble in Baghdad, because there was more opportunity in Hadithah and because he thought it was generally a better place to live and raise a family.   This presents us with an interesting definitional dilemma.  

Is this man a refugee or an internally displaced person?  I would say no.

He is by the definition we commonly use and I am sure relief groups would count him among those they seek money to support.  But he did not flee any specific violence or persecution, according to what he told us and he does not intend to return to Baghdad, even if/when conditions significantly improve.  He is actually much more like someone who flees the crime and bad schools of a big city to start a new life in a small town.   This is not a refugee problem that will be solved because those actually involved are not really looking for a solution.  I have seen similar situation on other occasions.  It makes me skeptical every time I see a news report that set the numbers of refugees at x or y.  People move for lots of reasons and the line between a migrant and a refugee is often very broad and indistinct. 

An interesting digression involves the location of this falafel shop.   I remember the building well because it used to be the headquarters of Lima Company.  The Marines moved out a couple months ago and I guess this guy, among others, moved in.  I wonder if he is aware of the history of his location.  

My friend Major John Jarrard used to work out of this building.   He is a truly honorable man, a HS history teacher, part time Georgia farmer and Marine officer, who in the course of his tour of duty in Iraq saved a little girl’s life with an extraordinary effort to get her the treatment she needed for a heart condition. 

The falafel shop seems a lot less heroic than the Marines who were there before, but maybe not.  The shop owner faced hardships and danger and now he is starting a new life and will in his small way contribute to the peace and prosperity of his country.

That too is heroism.

Soccer

I don’t know why anybody likes soccer.   It is about as exciting, IMO, as watching grass grow.  But Iraqis like the game a lot and we get some significant public relations mileage out of building and/or rebuilding soccer fields.

The soccer field is in back of the kids.  In Iraq, you don’t even get to watch the grass grow on the soccer fields.  All they do is smooth out that dirt and put in a kind of a sub base.  We are going to fix this soccer field up.  The local kids are excited about it.  When we got out of our cars, they all came running over.

The kids in Rutbah are a little less spoiled than some others.   They were friendly w/o expecting too much candy.  It is funny because kids are similar all over the place.  We asked them if they got to use the field very often.  They said it depended on whether bigger kids came along to run them off.  I remember exactly the same experience.  We used to play football in Humboldt Park.  We got to use the flat, good places to play until some bigger kids came and ran us off.  On the other hand, we would run off any groups who were smaller than ours.

Now that I think about it, the big kids never actually had to run us off and we never actually had to run off any littler kids.  You would see the group coming and make a general estimate of their total mass.   If their total mass was greater than ours, we would pick up our ball and run away.   Kind of an interesting system.  Prepares you well for adult life.

In any case, we have done soccer fields before and will do this one in Rutbah.  I told my guys that I want to see it done before I leave and that I want a few drought tolerant trees nearby, so that people can sit in the shade and not only have to watch soccer.  The kids will  be happy.

Writing Things Down

I am reading a good book called “Partners in Command” about the relationship between George Marshall and Dwight D. Eisenhower.  Biography is my favorite form of literature.  I am always surprised how much these guys wrote down.  They evidently all kept detailed diaries where they wrote their thoughts and plans.  Besides this blog, I have never had the discipline to do that.  I write a lot, but when I write, I tend to speculate and riff, much like you see on this blog.  Even if I assembled all “my papers” I don’t think I could write a decently documented autobiography and nobody else could make sense of it at all.

These guys started keeping journals long before they became famous enough to justify one.  I wonder if the journal keeping helped make them successful.

I HAVE developed one reasonably good journal habit.  It is not biographical, but more pragmatic.   Before something big happens, I write down my prediction and then I don’t look at what I wrote again until well after the event has been decided. Before I look again, I write a brief note of what I thought was going to happen, not what did happen but what I thought I had predicted.  Then I compare them.  I learned this method from a good book on decision making called (appropriately) “Decision Traps”.  

According to the authors, we overestimate our judgment because our memories are not like tape recorders.  Rather they are constantly rewriting and editing memories in light of subsequent events.  We try to make sense of chaotic events and with the benefit of hindsight we emphasize our understanding of trends and facts that turned out to be significant, even if we didn’t recognize them at the time, and forget about those that came to nothing.  That is why all of us are rich and successful in theory but fewer are in practice & that is why we are always sure we could do better than those who were responsible for decisions.  I found that is true for me.  When faced with the evidence written in my own hand, I am often surprised not only by the mistakes I made in the past but also by the fact that my honest memory has been edited to elide or even expunge my most serious  errors. 

The exercise of specifically analyzing my decisions using a concrete written method has improved my decision making, however.  Experience is not a good teacher if you don’t pay attention to the lessons.  I have learned be a lot more disciplined in seeking a wider variety of information, looking at data that disconfirms my assumptions and understanding significant role that chance plays in outcomes.  Of course it is still important to be “certain” once the decision is made.  The hard part is holding the contradictory facts in mind at the same time.  I still make some of the same mistakes I made twenty years ago, but now I see some of the patterns and can anticipate and mitigate.

Anyway, I think the journaling probably provided this kind of look back to great men like Marshall or Eisenhower, just as it does to ordinary guys like me.  They made some serious misjudgements.  Eisenhower was sure he was a failure as a militiary officer and thought he would be selected out.  Douglas MacArthur didn’t think the Japanese would ever invade the Phillipines.  What that shows is that even the best make big mistakes.  Their greatness involves adapting and taking advantage of changes, not in making great predictions.  Eisenhower also said something like no plan every works, but planning does because it makes you think through the permutations.

Our modern Internet age is a little too harsh on people.   Some nerd will fish up any statement you make and use it against you later.  Let me quote Emerson for any future nerd thinking of giving me a hard time.  “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.”  You have to change your mind when facts or conditions change, but at the same time you need to be firm when finishing a job.  Both things are true.  People not involved in real decisions cannot seem to understand the nuance, but as usual I am drifting.

My Iraq blog has helped me and I thank those of you who (I think) are reading regularly.  It is easy to backslide when you are in it alone.  Having others watching tends to make us all more consequent.  I apologize that I sometimes have to generalize or take out details.  Security does not allow me to share some details; others I just prefer to keep to myself.  I hope the story is interesting to you.  It is interesting to me when I go back and remember things I certainly would have forgotten, flushed down the memory hole.

Dogs of War 2: Man’s Best Friend

Man did not tame dogs; dogs tamed men.  I saw the ancient drama played out again just the other day.  Marine foot patrols come in with a couple of dogs at their sides.  The dogs look very official, very proud.  With their heads held high, they are guard dogs or at least guard dog wannabees.  They take the point; they secure the flanks; they bark at anybody or anything that seems to be a threat to “their” Marines.

When I asked the Marines about the dogs, they told me that these were not their dogs.  The dogs just showed up and attached themselves to particular patrols.  There is some kind of pack order among the dogs.  The Marines said that certain dogs follow certain patrols.  The dogs spread out or pack in close depending on the situation.  When they cross the territories of other, hostile, dog packs, they come in closer to Marines.  In open country the range out further.  When the Marines come home, the dogs sit outside the gates and bark at any intruders.   They recognize the uniforms, the smells, sounds or something else.  I don’t know, but they have assigned the security and accompanying job to themselves and in some situations they provide a useful service.  They make it much harder for the bad guys to sneak up, if any bad guys would be stupid enough to try. 

So what do the dogs get out of this?

The Marines didn’t seem to know the answer.  Maybe the dogs just like to be around people.  Maybe it is a mutual protection racket. All these things are probably true, but one of the Marines inadvertently hit on one of the big reasons.  He said, “I don’t know what they want.  We didn’t even feed them AT FIRST.”  Even Colonel Malay, who told me the story of the Ahab dogs in my earlier dogs of war post, admitted that he gave them a few scraps from the chow hall.  I did too.  Everybody does and thinks he is the only one, or it is only this one time.  The dogs know better.  They have learned a body language that gets us to give them what they want.  We humans cannot resist the cute dog.  We are conditioned to support and reward the dogs, just as the dogs are conditioned to guard us.  It is primeval.  Something in our Pleistocene genes compels the partnership. 

No dogs in the above picture, BTW, just an ordinary foot patrol picture.

I felt more secure with these unknown dogs trotting along at my sides.  Of course my furry new buddies would have been absolutely no use against the dangers likely to beset me on an Iraqi street.  My civilized intellect understands this, but my Cro-Magnon core still ain’t got the news.  

Goat Grab

Iraqi feasts are good, but predictable.   You get goat (or sheep) meat on top of rice, topped with a kind of rice-a-roni, with peanuts, raw vegetables and raisins mixed in. All of this is piled high on some very good tortilla style bread.  I like the bread.

Americans try to use the bread to grab the food, making a kind of rice and goat burrito.  Iraqis don’t have much use for that strategy.  They grab a handful, squash it all into a ball, letting juice & pieces fall back on the big plate, and pop it into their mouths. The guy next to you will often rip off a piece of goat  with his hands and put it in front of you.  You are supposed to eat it.  If he likes you, you will get a big fatty piece.  You have to eat that too, it is the honor and all that. Sometimes I suspect it is a long standing practical joke they are playing on us – see what the American will eat.

Some feasts feature roasted chicken and a kind of carp that comes out of the Euphrates.  The chicken is very good.  I am content if I can get a piece of that.  I am also accustomed to eating chicken with my fingers, so it is not so odd.   The fish tastes okay, but it is very boney.   You need to be careful eating it.   I prefer both chicken and fish to the goat. 
What I really cannot get used to is the communal nature of the eating.  All the food is in the middle and you all eat from the same place – with your hands.  Rice just does not lend itself to hand eating, so sometimes they dump some soup on top.  It helps the rice stick together but, IMO, that makes it a worse mess.  At some of the classier meals, a kid comes around with water and soap before the meal.  I am happy wash my hands before the meal and even happier to see my neighbors and future meal mates washing theirs.

There are different shifts of eaters.  The higher ranking people belly up first.  When they wander off, some others come.  It looks like there are at least three waves and I suppose whoever cleans up finishes up the scraps.

After the meal, people sit down around the room and they bring tea.  The tea is very sugary.   I am told it is good manners to drink three little cups of tea.   If you drink less you are not accepting the proper hospitality; if you drink more you are abusing it.
Everybody stands or crouches while eating; you do not sit.  The meal has a kind of ad hoc feeling.  It is sort of like a lot of guys hanging around a public place, say a train station, and then somebody brings out a big bowl of food, forgetting the plates or utensils, and puts it on the counter or on the floor.   I guess you can see how this sort of thing would grow up in a nomadic culture.

Spoons, forks and bowls are good things. 

A Talking Frog

This old guy is walking down the street and sees a frog on the pavement.  To his surprise, the frog speaks and says, “I am an enchanted princess.  If you kiss me, you will break the spell and have a beautiful woman forever.”  The old guy just puts the frog in his pocket and begins to walk along.  The frog complains, “Maybe you didn’t hear me.  I am a beautiful enchanted woman.  If you kiss me, you will have me forever.”  The old guy replies, “At this stage in my life, I figure a talking frog is more interesting.”

I went to see the Purrfect Angelez, pictured above, at a camp show in Al Qaim.  They treated the assembled multitude to an impressive show of gymnastic flexibility, punctuated by less impressive singing.   But it quickly got repetitive, not that it seemed to bother most of the Marines.  I kept thinking about how hard some of those moves would be on a person’s back or knees and it was then I realized that I had been gradually but inexorably moving into the talking frog stage of life.  I am not saying that I am not interested.  The show was worth seeing, although perhaps not worth going to see.  After about a half an hour of watching their vigorous gyrations and observing the enthusiastic response they got from the Marines, I shuffled back to my can to read my book.   I noticed that my PRT colleagues, whose median age is 49, also did not stay much longer.  That is no country for old men. No matter how much we want to pretend, interests develop and that is probably a good thing.

This is kind of a miscellaneous posting.  Take a look at the picture below.  Yes, it is two bottles of mayonnaise sitting in the sun.  I do not know how long they were out there, but let me give you an additional piece of information:  The Marines in Husaybah live with the Iraqi police and they usually prepare their own food.

I was sitting out in the courtyard of the joint Marine-Iraqi Police building listening to the wind and contemplating the nature of things,  when I notice the mayo.  A short time later a couple of Marines came out and we got to talking about their living and working conditions.  They generally liked the Iraqi police and they thought that the fact that they were integrated with the community and got more local food, different from the standard chow hall fare, was a good thing.  It was a more authentic experience than eating the same meat loaf and red jell-o you get in all the chow halls in all the world.  But one of them mentioned, off handedly, that stomach viruses were a bit of a problem among the guys.  Ya think?  Of course, if you leave it out long enough, I hear it turns into special sauce.

All this makes me think of that lesser known Yeats poem.

Happy Birthday USMC

In heaven there is no beer; that’s why we drink it here … NOT.   If Anbar is heaven, we have been seriously misled in Sunday School, but General Order #1 prohibits drinking by U.S. military in Iraq.  It shows respect for the local customs and probably saves a lot of trouble.  As a cruel hoax, the chow hall features coolers full of nonalcoholic beer.   It looks like real beer, but that one word modifier says it is not worth drinking.  If there is any real beer on Al Asad, I have never seen any sign of it, and I have looked – until today.  Today is the birthday of the United States Marine Corps and every Marine gets two beers – two real beers – on this happy day.  This includes honorary Marines like me.  All joking aside, it is an honor to be among Marines on their birthday.

First we got a half hour lecture about the history of 2nd Marine Regiment.  It was an interesting history, very heroically told by true believers.  More than the usual number of people showed up for the meeting.  After that, we all filed out and got two OPEN beers.  Nobody can share a beer; nobody can save a beer for later.  It is two beers for everybody and only two beers. Officers, enlisted men and FSOs all get exactly the same numbers.  Colonel Clardy promised to crush anybody who drank more than two beers.  He seemed serious and probably could do it, so nobody risked provoking his wrath.  There was some choice among brands.  We had Bud Light, Coors Light, Miller Special Draft and ordinary Budweiser, I took the Miller.  Bud Light is no better than that ersatz stuff they have at the PX and Coors Light just a baby step above.  Budweiser is brewed from rice.   Need I say more?  Miller Special Draft really is decent beer and its flavor was significantly enhanced by its being in this here and now place.  We were a little worried there would not be enough beer to go around.  According to the Airforce, several cases of beer were “damaged” in transit and could not be delivered.  I am told their story is true.

As long as I am on the subject of beverages, let me say a few words about my favorite beverage, which is Coca-Cola.   I drink a lot of the stuff – more than 2 liters a day.  Until a couple of years ago, I drank ordinary coke.  I used to run a lot and burn off the calories, but nobody can outrun Father Time and after he trips you, his cousin Mr. Fat comes around.   I switched to Diet Coke in Poland.  In Europe it is called Cola Light.   But the interesting thing about Coca Cola, the ubiquitous symbol of the homogeneity of globalization, is that it tastes different in different places.  The best version of ordinary Coke, for example, is found in Brazil.  Western Europe’s Coke has a peculiar taste, but in Eastern Europe Coke is more like the U.S. variety.   European Cola Light is much better than Diet Coke you get in the U.S., even though the cans look similar.  What tastes like Cola Light in the U.S. is Coke Zero.   So when overseas, I drink Cola Light, which now I like even better than sugary Coke.  In the U.S. I go for the crisp taste of Coke Zero. 

Unfortunately, my switch to Diet Coke proved a temporary fix.  Father Time has delivered another kick in the keister and Mr. Fat moved right in again.   I will have to cut down on the chocolate now.  Life is tough all over, but with the proverbial couple of beers softening the blow, today who cares?