numbers

It was suggested by an Evil Cat that I write about politics . . .

One of my fondest childhood memories is taking a bus from Philadelphia and meeting my dad and his ship, the USS Kitty Hawk, in Norfolk, Viriginia, then steaming up the Atlantic coast back to Philadelphia. Of course, I didn't get to see much of the coast; most of my time was spent exploring the grey bowels of the immense aircraft carrier. I ate like a sailor, slept like a sailor, and pissed like a sailor for three days. A twelve-year-old Navy brat couldn't have been happier. I loved it. I loved the Navy. I loved the United States Amed Forces.

My father served nearly twenty years in the Navy, most of it as the World's Greatest BMET. The whole of my young life was spent around sailors, marines, and soldiers. They were my friends' parents, my little league coach, dear family friends, and, well, my father. They were people.

I remember sitting at a company lunch in early 2003 and expressing confidence that there would be no war. I reasoned that a) it was implausible that, after a decade of sanctions and continuous bombing, Saddam was as heavily armed as was feared, and b) if he had anything, there was no way he would risk total destruction to hold on to a few SCUDS with mustard gas payloads. As it turns out, I was right on point a.

Since March 2003, more than 2,700 Americans have been killed in Iraq, and more than 20,000 have been wounded in a war with shifting rationale and an unclear mission. They are young men and women no different from the young men and women I grew up around. Except they had the misfortune of being in the military at the wrong time. Now they are numbers.

Of course, to their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses, children, and friends, they are memories.

I still love the Navy. I'm still proud of my father. I'm ashamed of my leadership. End the war. Bring them home. Please.



On the bright side, Pete Skilling got 24 years. Rot in hell, asshole.

a flying cat made of chocolate

Right now, Wisconsin is likely awash in fall colors. Bright red, yellow, and orange leaves are warming the cool October air and filling the sky with...life. I've heard that the Northeast is the place to go to in Autumn, but unless pictures don't do it justice, the St. Croix River Valley* is just as gorgeous. Soon, the first winter snow will fall, and the air will become still and quiet, and if you stopped and listened carefully, you might actually hear the snow fall. With enough luck, the snow will fall at night and you could watch the flakes streak through the light of a streetlamp. Then the spring thunderstorms will come with anxious fury, beat back the last traces of winter, and usher in the heat and humidity of summer. When August arrives again, the skies will light up blue and electric with heat lightning, which is like no lightning you've seen in your life.

Few things are more beautiful than midwestern weather.

But certainly not nothing.

As I prod the seemingly friendly Seattle job market and dread the imminent drizzle, I'm finding this an agreeable place to be. I'm spending time with some friends I've missed over the last four seasons, making some new friends, and enjoying the complete lack of 1,600 miles between me and the woman I'm about to fall back to sleep next to. But I hope I haven't seen my last St. Croix fall, my last evening snowfall, my last furious thunderstorm, or my last heat lightning. I could wish for these here in the Northwest, but I might as well wish for a flying cat made out of chocolate.



*If you ever find yourself in Minneapolis/St. Paul in October with a free day, take a drive out to Hudson, Wisconsin and go up WI-35 to St. Croix Falls, then cross back into Minnesota through Taylors Falls and take MN-95 back down to Stillwater. Bring a camera.