(This originally appeared on my Aaronis Burmanski Galoofus Spock blog, which no longer exists. ABGS was an interim blog between my “BestOfOmaha” blog, and “Kraznoy”.)
Reboot – 3/18/2007
I’ve decided to reboot my primary blog, because it wasn’t working. It just didn’t work. This is primarily due to the fact that I lied. All over that blog. I lied, and I withheld the truth, and it just flopped the site.
See, I’m not an interesting person, per se. However, I view things in an interesting way. And I have interesting stories to tell. But only if I don’t bullshit you. And it seems like that’s all I do. I bullshit, and bullshit, and bullshit some more. Well, I’m tired of it. I need to tell you what’s really going on in my little noggin of a brain. I need to tell you how I feel, and what’s going on deep inside. And it has to be interesting. Oh, and it has to be written well. In a conversational tone, not in a boring textbook sort of way. It has to be something that I, myself, would actually enjoy reading if I were an outside observer.
I hope this works. Or in the words of D.A.R.R.Y.L. (or close to the same), “I hope we make it!”
She’s scary for a little ol’ woman – 3/19/2007
So, yeah, I’m afraid of my grandma.
My grandma, one of the nicest ladies you’d ever meet, and I’m afraid of her.
See, last weekend was St. Patrick’s Day. My wife and I had the rare opportunity to return to our respective hometowns of Sioux City and Sioux Falls.
Note that there is a difference between Sioux Falls and Sioux City. The two cities are over an hour apart from one another. Both have general populations of over 100,000 people, a significant number in the part of the country the two are located. Sioux Falls is in southeastern South Dakota, while Sioux City is in northwestern Iowa. Do not mix the two up. I won’t tell you again.
Tangent complete. Continue program.
Since my wife and I live in Omaha, Nebraska, and since we both work varying hours, we don’t get the chance to return home nearly as often as we’d both like. So, it was to be a nice weekend of beer drinking and socializing with our families. Along with this, my wife suggests that we visit my Grandma in Salem, South Dakota.
My Grandma is a remarkable woman, and she’s one-half of a remarkable couple. My Grandma has been a farmer’s wife, a schoolteacher, and a parachute instructor during World War II. My Grandpa, who passed away back in the mid-80’s, was a farmer until the war, where he enlisted as an airplane mechanic, being sent to Africa. While there, he was a sort of loan shark, giving stupid Airmen and Regular Soldiers 1/2 of their paycheck sometime in the middle of the week, then when payday arrived, he’d demand the full check. My Grandpa even enlisted the help of a couple of “heavies” to assist in his endeavor. Eventually he got a contact in the payroll department to simply hand the paycheck directly over to my Grandpa. Between this and a cache of diamonds he supposedly smuggled over to the states, he was able to buy a decent farm upon his leaving the military.
Now, I don’t know if the background of these two is somehow intimidating to me, or the fact that I was a really, really shy kid…but I’m scared of my Grandma. Not coweringly frightened, but I have a real trepidation to taking her out to dinner. I was originally supposed to call her on Friday, in order to set up a meeting time on Saturday. I chickened out, leaving it to the last minute, and finally not calling. Then on Saturday I was supposed to call her again, to attend church with her…again, I just put it off and off and off…and then blew it again.
Finally, I made my Dad do it. How sad is that?
And then, we drove to Salem, or I should say I drove to Salem. And I actually drove the speed limit, which I NEVER do. I speed going to work, even when I have plenty of time. (Never maniacally, just 5mph over the speed limit.) After picking her up and driving to the Cookie Jar diner a block away, the tension for me began. I had a hard time talking at all, and I was hardly myself. I was the masked man, the one who’s real self is underneath this salesman-y exterior. I think the others at the table kind of saw through it, my Dad especially. He’s more observant than he lets on, staying quite and just seeing what’s going on around him.
Well, we got through it though. It was a fun time for everyone else…I just am SO intimidated by her. I actually talked about this with my Mom, by the way. See, I should bring up the fact that my parents are divorced, so I knew that my Mom wouldn’t be telling my Dad anything about this anytime soon. My Mom theorized that because my Grandma never read to me as a child, and didn’t hang out with just me…maybe I just couldn’t bond with her. Maybe I needed a little more 1-on-1 time with her to have cemented that bond when I was a kid.
I don’t know, but I’ll be looking into it.
Leather – 3/22/2007
I like wearing leather.
It makes me feel bad. But I like wearing it anyhow.
Cattle are turned into hamburger everyday. All I’m doing by wearing leather is allowing the remaining “cattle-parts” to be turned into something useful. It’s very…Native American, if you will.
At least that’s how I rationalize it.
I still feel guilty for wearing Cow.
Maybe I should buy an alligator hide coat. At least I’d feel like I was wearing something that would sooner eat me than look at me.
Who knows. Guilt sucks.
Guilty Things – 3/23/2007
Things I feel guilty about:
Christmas Trees. Why do we have to kill these beautiful living things?
And the manner in which we do it…deplorable. We slice them down, effectively starving them. We wrap them up, bring them home, then set them up in some kind of torturous clamp, drilling into their body, in order to support them and make them stand up straight. At its base is a reservoir of water, along with 7-Up, or whatever other agents the tree-killer wants to add, all in order to make the tree’s death much more lengthy. And if having this pleasantly fragrant dying carcass in our living rooms wasn’t enough, we have to decorate it, placing all sorts of embarrassing lights, trinkets, and various Star Trek ornaments in its branches to give us even more pleasure. All the while, the tree is suffering, day after day, asking itself, “Why, why is this happening to me? Why can’t I die? Why God? Why?”
All to celebrate God’s son. I wish we could just get an artificial tree. But I love my wife more than I feel sorry for the trees. I guess it’s this same rationale behind my love for a good steak once in a while.
The Freak Out – 3/23/2007
Ay ya…earlier today, I set foot on a military installation for the first time since I left the Air Force in January, 2006. That’s over 14 months ago. I went on base in order to acquire my W-2 form, which they had been so kind as to email to my old military email address, but not to my current address (which I had left with them), nor to mail a hard copy to my apartment.
I was a little upset. I really did not wish to go on base again. Never. I’ve had enough of the Air Force. What got me on base was my own imagination. I fooled myself into believing that I had gotten over the mind games I was put through, the drudgery, the lack of any real praise or any reinforcement of self-worth. It was enough to get me to the primary security station, where I applied for a temporary base pass. As I was providing the necessary paperwork (ID, car registration, etc) that’s necessary to enter any military installation by POV (Personally Operated Vehicle…i.e. YOUR CAR), I started to get a little tremor in my hands. Just a shake, nothing more. It could easily be caused by a caffeine overload. I pushed any other possibilities to the back of my mind for the time being, acquired my pass, and went on base.
The new gates to our base are now on the opposite end from the Military Processing Flight, or MPF. Thus, I was forced to tour the base, as it were, on my way to get this thing done. At the slow speed of 25mph, I traveled around the base, passing various Airmen exercising on such a nice day, and those dressed up in BDU’s.
BDU’s are French for Battle Dress Uniforms. They are those camouflage-green outfits that do nothing to camouflage a man or woman against concrete and brick that comprise the most of a military base. Their only purpose is to make these land-locked, in-zero-danger Airmen feel like they’re somehow part of the action, instead of just a highly underpaid office-bitch of the U.S. Government. They’re like wearing a Superman costume when you ain’t from Krypton.
Well, the BDU’s freaked me out. I still haven’t gotten rid of mine actually, for they are still in the bottom of a garbage bag, no doubt collecting dust and mold, at the back corner of my garage, untouched for over a year. Seeing them again…well, I don’t have a better term. They freaked me out. I was suddenly flooded with memories and images of some of the things I experienced, both good and bad, memories that I had mostly suppressed for all this time. My foot started to grow heavy, and I sped over to the MPF.
When I got there, I was sweaty, I started to shake more, and I acquired a stutter that doesn’t manifest itself unless I’m under extreme stress. I walked in, registered with the front desk computer, waited about 20 minutes. Every minute seemed like 10. It was bad. I changed seats 3 times in order to somehow see the TV better. I must have seemed like I was high on something to the outside observer. I was going crazy.
Finally, my name was called. A very nice female Airman welcomed me, and I was led through the necessary steps to acquiring a card. For one thing, I didn’t have my separation paperwork that I had acquired when I got out of the Air Force. Like my BDU’s, they were buried in a box in the back of my garage. Luckily they were able to pull up my information with my driver’s license and social security number. But the sweat started to drip more, breaking out on my forehead. I have no idea why she didn’t call Security Forces on my ass. The Airman asked me to sit in the rightmost seat in order to get my photo taken. I actually tried to leave the area, thinking in my panicked mind that she meant somewhere BEHIND the cubicle. However, I mustered a nice, very-slight grin at the camera, and boom, it was done. A laminated piece of plastic, hardly worth the pain it caused.
I quickly thanked her, and almost bolted out of the building, driving off base at the nearest exit. Thereafter, I went to a gas station a healthy 5 miles from base, got about the worst, most unhealthy foods you could imagine, and ate them on my way to a Subway, where I got a footlong cold cut combo, loaded. Which I just ate right before writing this diatribe.
I don’t know what to think. I often wonder if my experience is mostly-unique. I often wonder if my life would be different, if I’d still be in the Air Force, had I gotten into a different career field. Something that better suited my talents for wanting to help people, and not to simply push data. But then I think about the underlying themes of the military: No individuality, and a system for everything. Sometimes I have to be a spur-of-the-moment individual. I don’t take absolute conformity very well.
I’m starting to want to tangent and ramble, so I’m going to avoid temptation. Have some junk food for me, and don’t forget to vote.
The Forgiveness Sandwich – 3/23/2007
As my wife is working overnights this week, I was able to eat my sub and junk food in peace. (see previous post) However, I did not have the forethought to hide the evidence. Even after I roused my wife up, I didn’t think to clean up my junk right away. So, she comes out, looks at the Subway sandwich, and asks, “Where’s mine?”
(Well, it wasn’t quite like that. It just writes better that way. She actually was hoping I’d make up some fettuccine noodles for her. Then she saw the Subway bag. I actually asked “her” if she wanted one. She was all for it, and bang. Reality might not be as pithy perhaps, but oh well.)
So, I hopped back into my car, ran over to the local Subway, ordered her sandwich, and drove back.
On the way back, I did something I do. I like to drive strange sometimes. There’s a gentle slope for the last 1/4 mile down to my apartment building. With a turn in the parking lot, and another couple turns to get down to a parking spot, it makes an almost complete gentle slope. Perfect for a Neutral Coast.
I stick it into neutral, and the object of the game is to make it all the way down without hitting the gas. Sometimes, if someone decides to drive down the middle of the parking lot, it’s impossible – you have to brake too hard, then you have to gas it to get going. But most of the time, it’s a nice cap to a journey home from…wherever.
However, tonight I played a different game. Here’s what you do: grab the steering wheel with your hands…and then don’t move them. You steer by pivoting your arms and shoulders to move the wheel. This severely limits the range of motion to maybe 3/4 the circumference of steering wheel.
Tonight, I made it an even bigger challenge. I criss-crossed my arms, grabbing the wheel with my hands facing away from me. It was great, until I actually turned the wheel too far upon entering the parking lot. If I hadn’t let go of the wheel, I would have run into the brick wall embankment on the side of our garages.
Oh well, points for trying I guess.
Remember boys and girls. Drive nice, drive fun, drive (relatively) safe.
And don’t ever do this stuff.
Ag, No. Not again. – 3/27/2007
The base. That would be, “Offutt Air Force Base”, not “All Your Base”. Offutt. I never thought I’d set foot on that piece of government-owned reservation land again.
Taxes. That was the reason.
See, I got out of the Air Force (…”got out” is another term meaning “escaped”, “was released from after time served”, and so on) in the month of January, 2006. I haven’t been back on base since. The cool deal with the military is that, if you get out on nice-nice terms, you can do stuff on base for about as long as you actually spent in the military to begin with. For example, I signed up on 9/12/2001. I got out after 4 years of active duty. I then have 4 years of inactive-duty that I can go and do stuff on base. I can shop at the cheap-o supermarket, I can go to their dumpy libraries, and I can work out on their old-but-still-very-usable-and-huge workout facility, the OFFUTT FIELD HIZ-OUSE. Or the Frady Fitness Center, which isn’t quite as cool. And has a stupid name. Frady. What are they ‘Fraid of? The OFFUTT FIELD HIZ-OUSE???
Stupid names aside, I finally got my reservist military ID last week so that I could figure out what the deal is with my taxes. I only worked about 1 1/2 weeks in 2006, so it’s really annoying that I have to do a tax form for the military…but I do. *sigh* Having had to travel onto base to re-aquire this card-o-power, allowing me to leap small distances onto any U.S. Military Installation in the world (except for the Area-51 type places, but I don’t dig on autopsies, alien or otherwise), I found it necessary to go the extra step, and finally work out. On base. For the first time in a loooong time.
And it didn’t take long for me to be drenched with sweat. It was actually painfully quick. Like 20 minutes when it used to take nearly an hour. I was soaked. And it felt GREAT. Endorphines. Lovely Endorphines.
Anyhow, I just thought I’d share. My English is horrible in this posting, and if I feel like it, I’ll re-wangle the whole works. For reference, I first posted this one on 3/27. Thanks, and don’t forget to try the fish.
Go here. – 3/31/2007
Well folks, that’s it for the interim blog. I thought of posting them one-by-one on here, in the midst of my other posts, and backdating them to when they were originally posted…but I figured I’d be the only one to get any jollys out of that. Come to think of it, I’m the only one to get any jollys out of anything on here anyhow. Maybe I should have done that, but no matter. Back to life, back to Century 21 reality. And really great puns.
– Hiddan, aka Aaron