Hi, my name is Rick.

That is something you never say in Iraq.  Granted, that’s something most people wouldn’t say regardless of their locale, but, given someone that would otherwise say “what a glorious breeze,” and, given a theoretical transport a la Star Trek into Iraq, and, as such, into an Iraqi breeze, rest assured, they would not say: “What a glorious breeze!”  Because there is no breeze here.  There is wind.  And said wind, can in no way be misconstrued as glorious.  It is a wind full of fine grains of sand and skin melting heat.  The wind feels like a blow dryer and is somehow hotter than the ambient temperature, which makes no sense.  So, the moral of the story: the wind here is hot.

The wind in Thailand, however, is, as a point of fact, quite glorious.  This is a shot from the beach in Thailand, right across the street from the Patong Market.  When I actually took this picture, I was mad that I had caught the tourists walking through my shot and I took another one.  I like this one much better.

Phuket, Thailand

These fellows are paid to bring a crane onto our little base here on the border of Iraq and Iran, to move various items around.  The pictures here show them moving around “connexes,” which are the big metal containers that you see on the back of semi trucks.  This is how the Army and, I’m assuming, most of the military ships various materials where they are needed.  In our case, Iraq.  They also move T-Wall barriers, Jersey barriers, HESCO barriers, maintenance equipment… you name it.

If you are ever paying an Iraqi crane operator to move items around for you, do not pay him until he is finished.  Once you pay him, he will have a multitude of excuses as to why he needs to be finished right then.  His sister is sick.  His cousin is getting married.  He’s scared he’ll get killed for helping Americans.  He needs to leave before it gets dark.  It’s almost time to pray.  And on, and on, and on.  Just remember that.  If you’re ever in Iraq.  And you need a crane.

I had to decrease the quality and clarity of these shots to load them all onto my website server via the exceptionally slow and finnicky internet connection we have out here.  Forgive me.  That being said, uploading lower quality images here undoubtedly hurts me more than it hurts you.

This is the surly bugger who operates the crane, as is evident.  The second photo is a close-up of this same crane operator.  I believe the close-up effectively conveys his surly nature.

The following shots are of the above surly individual’s assistant.  The assistant gets on top of the containers, attaches the chains as necessary, and facilitates the movement.  He provides intricate and precise direction both verbally as well as with his hands using an established sequence of gestures, all while overseeing the potential stress points for the machinery as well as prediciting possible friction with the… I’m just kidding.  He just gets on the containers and hooks up the chains.  Sometimes he rides the chains up to the top of the container so he doesn’t have to climb.  Sometimes he rides on top of the container as it’s being moved. 

Iraq

Is there anything more delectable than Sam’s Choice Cajun Trail Mix?  I submit to you that there is not.  Well, maybe bagged chicken.  Or angel tears.

This is a shot of my Grandfather Denny in a church in Vienna.  I am specifically describing him as my “Grandfather” for I once introduced him to, literally, a bus full of people as my “Grampa.”  He was mortified.  My Grandmother, Mimi, was likewise mortified.  I didn’t see what the problem was.  In fact, to this day I never really saw what the problem was, until I actually typed out the word “Grampa.”  Turns out, it was pretty ridiculous.  I suppose, in the eyes of Mimi and Denny at least, “Grandfather” is more esteemed, more refined, more patriarchal.  “Grampa” is, so to speak, more overall clad, more toothless, more West Virginia perhaps.  I now see the error in my ways.  That being said, it was quite funny, and, as such, I would do it again, given the same time, place, and opportunity, just to recount it now.  So there.  Grampa.

Denny, Vienna, Austria

Below is another shot I got of the bean in Chicago; there are infinite photo ops there in Millennium Park.  This became evident to my Dad and Eva as they stood by, patiently at first, whilst I took picture after picture after picture.  I consider this shot a self-portrait.

On an interesting note, Eva was able to fly out to my location the other day.  She arrived in a Blackhawk helicopter with a multitude of other people who came to my tiny little outpost to slum it up for the day.  I only got to see her for about two hours and we spent the majority of our time together in a meeting, walking around my base so she could see what he have (she actually came out here to complete a legitimate professional function), or hanging out in my office.  Regardless, it was great.  The second shot is one I grabbed of us while we sat in my office.

Editor’s Note:  Wily readers, and frequenters of this fine online publication, may note, correctly, that I am without moostaash in the second photo.  Let me explain.  Eva tried to surprise me with her visit; she failed to consider that I, like many of you readers, am also rather wily.  I saw through the charade immediately.  There were myriad clues which foretold her arrival, thereby defeating her attempts at said surprise.  She was working in conjunction with my Commander who, I would be remiss were I to not mention, had a hand in blowing said surprise as well.  Blowing the surprise was a group effort; going into the specific clues which effected said blown surprise would serve no purpose other than to confuse the, while wily, (as compared to the superior intellect of yours truly), simpleton minds of this site’s patrons.  Trust that the clues were aplenty.  I discussed with my Commander my summation that Eva was en route and he feigned defeated anger.  The cover being blown as it was, he also told me that Eva had sneakily requested that I both bathe and shave my moostaash prior to her arrival; given the planned surprise, my Commanderwas to somehow pass on these two requests without my realizing there was an alterior motive involved.  The showering was easy enough; I was overdue as it was.  The moostaash was a different story.  Judging by the picture below, however, you can see that I ultimately opted to shave as requested by my wife.  That’s true love, people.

Worry not.  The Moostaash shall return, and this time, it’s for real.

Abstract, Chicago, IL, Eva, Iraq, Rick

This astounding specimen is, of course, found at the top of the fantabulous 63 Building in the cultural epicenter of Korea commonly referred to as “Seoul.”  Why the individual that created this “work of art” decided to sculpt a baby, clothe it in millions of tiny blue sailboat sails, and suspend it from the ceiling will never be known.  In fact, I’m pretty sure the curators of the museum housing this Piece of Scintillating Art, or POS Art, also have no idea what it “means.”  Here’s what I think probably happened:

A disheveled and grime ridden homeless man squatted in an out of business department store.  Most items had been looted, except of course for the mannequins.  The Korean police, who sleep in their cars, got bored of sleeping and not pulling people over for going through red lights, so they decided to raid the department store and rid it of squatters.  They found the disheveled man and told him to leave.  He obliged.  But not before swiping a mannequin on his way out.  A baby mannequin.  He took the mannequin to his former residence, that of an alley.  An alley which happened to additionally house the front entrance of a struggling artist’s one room apartment/gallery combo.  One Thursday, the artist departs his residence/gallery en route to the store for some disgusting kimchi and some disgusting soju.  He buys the kimchi.  He buys the soju.  He makes his way back to his home/gallery and happens to pass the homeless-man-with-child-mannequin asleep in his alley.  He jostles and awakens the man, offering to trade him some kimchi and soju for the child mannequin.  The homeless man refuses the kimchi because even Koreans secretly know it’s disgusting, but accepts the soju and hands over the mannequin.  The artist takes the mannequin back to his abode/gallery and clothes it in a bizarre onesie toddler outfit consisting of a million tiny blue sailboat shaped triangle tags.  With a hood.  He then takes it to the 63 Building museum curator, feigning being mute as that conveys an air of mystery and inherent artistic aptitude, and explains in writing that the “sculpture” is called Deliverance or some such other asinine meaningless drivel, and offers it to the curator for free because “The public deserves to witness this; they deserve deliverance.”  The curator, not wanting to admit that he has no idea what the fu** this lunatic is talking about, agrees and hangs the bizarre blue flying baby mannequin sculpture up in a prominent part of the museum.

And that’s that.

Seoul, Korea

The photo today is one of my all time favorite pictures of Eva.  I took it in the back of a cab in Seoul.  Eva and I, along with our friends Chris and Jeff, went to an area which some consider off-limits.  By “some” I of course mean “the US military command in Korea” and by “off-limits” I of course mean “off-limits.”  We didn’t stay long.  I’m also pretty sure we inadvertently wandered into a Mafia run house of ill repute during our venture into the seedy underworld of Korean nightlife.  At least I like to think we did.  This picture also happens to currently be the background image of my work computer as well as my personal computer.  Yea, I like it that much.  You should too.

Last night two donkeys wandered into our FOB and were eating our garbage.  I haven’t even seen donkeys anywhere near this place since I’ve been here.  Granted, I haven’t been out and about much… well, not at all actually.  But still.  When was the last time you had donkeys wander anywhere?  When was the last time you saw a donkey?  When was the last time you said or even read the word “donkey.”  Donkey.  What a ridiculous word.  The things you see here…

We had some Iraqi contractors here the other day operating a crane to move around some of our connexes in which we shipped stuff here and continue to use as storage on the FOB.  They were like sitcom characters.  Bad sitcom characters.  Very amusing.  I took, and you should therefore expect, pictures of them in the near future.

Eva, Seoul, Korea

That title doesn’t make any sense.  It was the first thing I thought of and I refuse to change it.

The picture today is of my living area here in beautiful Mesopotamia.  It’s really not bad at all.  Once I get my TV and XBox it will improve dramatically.  When my amenities from the colonies arrive here in the near future, I’ll put them in my “room” and take another picture and post it.  If you can’t wait to see that, you need a hobby.  Try blogging.  It works for me!  And how!

Today I was sitting in the Dining Facility here, and I was passively watching two people with names I can’t pronounce, let alone reproduce, as they played tennis.  They were good.  I think.  I don’t know anything about tennis.  Either way, they were playing, and, as is customary, at a break in the action the channel broke for commercials.  Here in Iraq, (but also in Afghanistan, Korea, Bosnia, etc.) we watch AFN — the Armed Forces Network.  It shows a lot of programming from the states which they get for free from the broadcasting and production companies, but the stipulation is that they cannot broadcast normal commercials.  Shows, however, have natural commercial breaks that need filled, and oftentimes the feed is directly from a simultaneous broadcast in the states.  AFN’s solution?  Fill them with what amounts to military public service announcements and branch and unit commercials.  Like, don’t shake your baby, don’t drink and drive, wear a helmet on a motorcycle, join the Air Force Reserves, get involved in activities when you move to a new post, etc.  Today, as I watched the spry foreigners jaunt about the clay court, a commercial break came up, and a commercial for my alma mater came on.  The opening line was: “Where can West Point take you?”

If the irony is lost on you, I’m going to have to ask you to stop visiting my website and never return.  Thank you.

Iraq

Finally.

I got out the other day and snapped a few shots around our FOB (Forward Operating Base).  I’ll take more eventually, but this picture, moreso than the accompanying commentary, should illustrate just how uninspired this place is.  The shot is looking north from a guard tower on our base.  The leaf looking camouflage is a “camo net,” used to break up the silhouette of someone standing in the tower and, in this case, provide some shade.  The metal pipe is for mounting an automatic weapon, generally an M240B.  It would suck to get shot by an M240B.  The fence you see is a fence which encloses our compound inside an Iraqi compound which maintains a port between Iraq and Iran.  Beyond the fence, in the vast and sandy desolation, lies a countless number of mines from the Iran-Iraq war.  I don’t go there.  Sometimes dogs and camels do, and sometimes they go boom.

The moostaash, in case you were wondering, is coming along nicely.  I just sent Eva the first known image of said facial decoration for her to enjoy before anyone else.  She’ll hate it.  Eventually I’ll put a solid picture of my moostaash on this very site; I’m waiting for it to reach Magnum PI proportions first, so, stay tuned.

Iraq