I spoke with WTOP’s Nathan Hagar yesterday about the near-term future of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” Is it as easy as a stroke of the pens from the likes of Pelosi and Reid? Is this simply lip service from the Obama administration to the progressive wing of the Democratic party going into the midterm elections? And will repealing affect military readiness and the warfighting effort?
Listen now . . .
Dark, etherial, and soaring. A visual and sonic masterpiece that signaled that prog rock was back in 2009.
As the band prepares to come off a year-and-a-half hiatus, we have dusted off the official site and given it some new features. Check it out here. (Be sure to put on the good headphones.) And while you’re there, please fill out the contact form and we’ll get you on our email list. Don’t be the person who says, “Man, I wish I’d known about that night that is now a moment in rock n’ roll history.”
It all started with a “save the date” email from the White House press office a few weeks ago — sort of cryptic . . . no real specifics other than the fact that the White House press party was happening on Dec. 14 and they wanted to know where to snail mail the actual invite. That email was followed by weeks of silence . . . so much silence I wondered if the list had been re-scrubbed and someone had realized there was a gross mistake and I shouldn’t have been invited in the first place. I emailed a member of the White House press office staff — the guy Military.com usually deals with — and asked if I had missed something or what, (mail has been known to get misplaced around our place) and he replied that the invites still hadn’t been mailed, which turns out to have been slightly inaccurate because it showed up the next day.
In any case, here’s what it looks like:
If Fred Tripp had known he was going to die that day he would have said more. He would have done more, whatever the time and space would have allowed, perhaps joining his wife of a quarter century in the shower one last time before dressing and heading downstairs to hug his teenaged son and daughter and offer them a final bit of advice that might carry them into adulthood.
But he hadn’t known. And minutes before his head struck a fatal blow against the glare shield above the instrument panel, he went through the same steps he had thousands of times in the nearly thirteen years that he’d been an airline pilot. As his copilot acknowledged the tower controller’s “position and hold” command over the radio, he keyed the cabin intercom and told the flight attendants to prepare for takeoff. He pushed the throttles slightly forward and taxied the Trans Coast 757 onto San Francisco International’s runway zero-one left and awaited further instructions.
“Damn, where’d this fog come from?” the copilot muttered, squinting as he leaned into the front windscreen. “Wasn’t it just sunny?”
“You’ve flown out of SFO before, right?” Fred asked.
“Yeah,” the copilot replied. “It’s been a while, though.”
“Marine layer – San Francisco goes from severe clear to zero-zero in minutes when the conditions are right.”
The tower controller’s resonant voice again came over the radio: “CalSky three-four, winds two-nine-zero at ten knots, cleared to land runway two-eight right.”
“CalSky three-four, copies cleared to land runway two-eight right,” the other pilot replied.
“Trans Coast two-five, cleared for takeoff on runway zero-one.”
Fred shot his co-pilot a confused expression as he keyed the radio: “Tower, understand you just cleared another airplane to land on the crossing runway?”
The dead air over the frequency spoke volumes. A second later the controller said, “Trans Coast two-five, continue to position and hold.”
“Trans Coast two-five, continuing position and hold,” Fred intoned, at once impassive while still allowing his voice to carry his displeasure with the controller’s error.
“CalSky three-four, report when passed the crossing runway,” the controller said.
“CalSky three-four, roger.”
“Good catch,” the co-pilot said, eyebrows arched high. “That could’ve been ugly.”
“Yep,” Fred replied. “Make a note. And let’s pay attention here.”
Here I am talking to KGO’s Rosie and Brett about the leaked McChrystal report and what President Obama might want to do about it.
Although being born in 1959 technically makes me a boomer, I’m not a real one. For me Woodstock was a movie I saw a handful of times in a theater in downtown Den Haag and a triple album that expanded my musical influences well beyond the Beatles. The Vietnam War was something that had taken my dad away from the family for 13 months, a topic of the nightly news, articles in Life magazine (a staple in our household), and a coffee table book called War Without Heroes.
By the time I got to the Naval Academy the baggage of the late ’60s/early ’70s had all but disappeared. No war protesters were waiting for us outside the gates; we never felt the impulse to stage any sit-ins on the lawn of the Supe’s house; and we didn’t purchase long-haired wigs as a liberty accessory. I never felt any tension from my civilian couterparts during my college life . . . or my Navy career, for that matter.
So when I read “While Woodstock Rocked, GIs Died” from the latest edition of the VFW magazine, my first thought was that the writer was taking a cheap shot. Wasn’t it a cliche for Vietnam vets to whine about their homecomings and complain that the hippies and the elites enjoyed a life of sex and drugs while they bled and died in the jungles half a world away? Wasn’t the nation over it by now?
I asked as much of a military veterans email group I’m part of, and the Vietnam vets among them all came back with the same sentiment: The societal schism was real and the scars of it remained in each of them. Several of them pointed out what they considered to be the definitive piece on the matter, James Fallow’s “What Did You Do in the Class War, Daddy?” Here’s an excerpt:
The children of bright, good parents were spared the immediate sort of suffering that our inferiors were undergoing. And because of that, when our parents were opposed to the war, they were opposed in a bloodless, theoretical fashion, as they might be opposed to political corruption or racism in South Africa. As long as the little gold stars kept going to homes in Chelsea and the backwoods of West Virginia, the mothers of Beverly Hills and Chevy Chase and Great Neck and Belmont were not on the telephones to their congressmen screaming you killed my boy, they were not writing to the President that this crazy, evil war had put their boys in prison and ruined their careers. It is clear by now that if the men of Harvard had wanted to do the very most they could to help shorten the war they should have been drafted or imprisoned en masse.
But they weren’t drafted en masse. Some got deferments (hello, Citizen Cheney) and some did insane or rude things like throwing urine samples on medics or shitting their pants (hello, Ted Nugent) during the screening process to ensure they wouldn’t have to serve. And who got drafted and who didn’t remains the fundamental matrix of that era — one that those who have fought or are fighting the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, for all of their service and sacrifice, don’t get because it’s impossible to get unless you lived through it. But America’s current generation of vets should appreciate it. In many ways, it’s a the stuff that fuels ongoing public support for the troops in spite of an increasingly unpopular war.
There are many legacies of the Vietnam War. One of them is that a nation that dishonors those who step up when called has lost its way. In time that nation will crumble and fall.
Since the three days of peace, love, and music first happened during the summer of ‘69 Woodstock has been a symbol. It’s at once a metaphor and an overly romaticized fiction. It’s a cool notion, whatever the truth is. And the music holds up forty years on.
I still enjoy watching the Woodstock movie. (I own the director’s cut DVD and the 30th Anniversary edition CD package that includes lots of stuff that wasn’t included on the original albums.) But while Alvin Lee’s performance of “I’m Going Home” might water my eyes and make me want to saw my hands off as I consider my inability to play the guitar with similar speed and articulation, I’m not going to demand that Vietnam-era veterans watch it without some sense of resentment.
I had a song pop into my head from out of nowhere a few days back. It was “I am a Camera” by Gentle Giant. Don’t look for it on YouTube or even iTunes, for that matter. It’s not there. I have it on LP.
That realization got me to thinking about the other songs in my album collection that aren’t available on iTunes. So I broke out my poor man’s analog-to-digital rig — a line from my receiver’s headphone jack into the two-channel mixer I use for podcasting and then into my laptop. I use the Audacity software to digitize the analog LP signal and then save the files as MP3s. At that point I have something that I can burn to a CD-R or upload to iTunes.
The latest spin through my 500-some album collection yielded a couple of long-lost gems that now proudly reside among the 2,500-some songs in my iTunes catalog: Along with “I am a Camera,” I created MP3s for my faves from the Pousette-Dart Band’s first two albums (highlight “All Your Lonely Hours”), Mi Sex’s debut (”It Only Hurts When I’m Laughing”), and Genesis keyboardist Tony Bank’s first solo album (”Lucky Me”).
Now I hadn’t heard these songs for 15 years or more, but as I listened to them, it was as if no time had passed at all. Technology has caused me to ignore my albums, but they never held it against me. They just sat there, crushed against each other in wooden crates I bought at some record store many moons ago. Their magic was dormant among the grooves, waiting ever-patiently for the turntable’s needle to free it once again. That magic got me through my youth, college, and the first part of my working life.
I thank my albums for their understanding and infinite patience. And they never asked for anything in return . . . except maybe to be kept out of direct sunlight.
This is less hokey than the Mancow stunt a few weeks back:
But is waterboarding torture?
I attended SERE in (and well north of) Brunswick, Maine in January 1984. Several of my F-14 RAG (training squadron) classmates had been to the class just before mine and those of us about to go sat them down over beers and had them walk us through the entire week, blow-by-blow. They obliged but qualified their comments with “what I’m telling you won’t help make it easier.”
It didn’t.
Warner Springs (west coast SERE) used waterboarding as the torture simulation. Brunswick used smoke — gooey thick pipe tobacco smoke administered point blank to the nose and mouth via an industrial-width rubber hose. I knew it was coming because of the details my friends had offered. Although I couldn’t see him, I had heard there was a doctor observing the conduct of the interrogation through the full-length one-way mirror in the corner of the cement-walled cell. I was pretty sure all I had to do was show some measure of resistance for a few seconds and my training block would be checked.
A few seconds later — after passing out, coming to, and vomiting (certainly worthy of a “training time out” I thought) my interrogator (a
burly red-head with a full beard — DIA, if I remember my final debrief correctly) hit me with the smoke again. At that point, like the reporter
in the video describes, whatever strength and comfort I was drawing with my knowledge of the antiseptic mechanisms around me vaporized, and I was convinced this guy was willing to kill me. I waited several lifetimes for the doctor to rap on the mirror and chide the red-head with “hey, he’s throwing up already; knock it off,” but that didn’t happen. After coming to a second time, the interrogator decreed I was “insincere” (in his Peoples Republic of North America (PRONA — Cold War scenario) accent and sent me back to my cell to think about what I wanted to tell him a few hours later when the questioning started all over again. The second session was worse than the first.
I don’t know if this constituted torture a la current debate around the topic. I do know I thought I was going to die at the time — I mean really die — even though I knew it was a training environment.
The torturer in the video describes waterboarding as “feeling like you’re drowning.” Have you ever almost drowned? (I did the first time I was made to tread water in full flight gear.) There’s no time for the luxury of rational thought at those moments. Your survival instinct screams - blares! - at your body to do what it takes to live. If you’ve never felt it then it’s impossible to know what it feels like. It’s also impossible to know how you’ll react until you’re there.
SERE was easily the best training I ever got on the Navy’s dime, by the way.
Here’s Ann Coulter’s input to Politco’s Patrick Gavin when asked about who should be featured in the forthcoming “Real Housewives of Washington DC” on Bravo:
Jill Biden — these “Real Housewife” shows always have at least one woman whose husband acts like he’s 30 years younger than she is. And Michelle Obama, of course, because the shows benefit from having one “sassy” cast member…Also, they’ll need at least one trophy wife married to a big, unattractive pile of money. So the producers better line up John Kerry.
Read more at POLITICO.com: http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0609/23326.html#ixzz0HTMSv4Qm&B
This from Ralph Peters’ essay titled “Wishful Thinking and Indecisive Wars” in the Spring 2009 edition of the Journal of National Security Affairs:
. . . to most media practitioners, our troops are always guilty (even if proven innocent), while our barbaric enemies are innocent (even if proven guilty). The phenomenon of Western and world journalists championing the “rights” and causes of blood-drenched butchers who, given the opportunity, would torture and slaughter them, disproves the notion—were any additional proof required—that human beings are rational creatures. Indeed, the passionate belief of so much of the intelligentsia that our civilization is evil and only the savage is noble looks rather like an anemic version of the self-delusions of the terrorists themselves. And, of course, there is a penalty for the intellectual’s dismissal of religion: humans need to believe in something greater than themselves, even if they have a degree from Harvard. Rejecting the god of their fathers, the neo-pagans who dominate the media serve as lackeys at the terrorists’ bloody altar.
I was on KGO in San Francisco last night, talking to Bret and Chris about General McKiernan’s firing and the impact it might have on the war in Afghanistan.
Some have suggested that the impact of milblogs was a function of the Bush Administration’s frustration with the traditional press’ demonstrated unwillingness to tell the “whole story,” particularly about the conduct of the wars. While the unorthodox direct outreach to milbloggers by the Bush White House and the Department of Defense generated mainstream outlet coverage, coverage that mostly posited milblog content as an insouciant lark with the tacit implication that milblogs wouldn’t survive the sea change that the new president has yielded.
The range of profiles and tenor of conversations at the Fourth Annual Milbloggers Conference in DC, which I’m attending right now, prove that the milbloggisphere has legs that will take it well beyond W.’s reign. The good news is the community was never about a political affiliation, in spite of the MSM’s attempts to pigeonhole it as such.
Joining Matt Burden and Uncle Jimbo on the panels is David Stanford and Lily Burana. While their profiles are wildly different, their motivation is not. And listening to all of them I’m struck that the importance of milblogs, where they fit among all forms of media, is not a function of who’s living in the White House.
The Milbloggisphere is alive and well.
Here’s what golf great Tiger Woods said recently during the Inauguration festivities:
“I grew up in a military family - and my role models in life were my Mom and Dad, Lt. Colonel Earl Woods. My dad was a Special Forces operator and many nights friends would visit our home. They represented every branch of the service, and every rank. In my Dad, and in those guests, I saw first hand the dedication and commitment of those who serve. They come from every walk of life. From every part of our country.
Time and again, across generations, they have defended our safety in the dark of night and far from home. Each day — and particularly on this historic day — we honor the men and women in uniform who serve our country and protect our freedom. They travel to the dangerous corners of the world, and we must remember that for every person who is in uniform, there are families who wait for them to come home safely. I am honored that the military is such an important part, not just of my personal life, but of my professional one as well. The golf tournament we do each year here in Washington is a testament to those unsung heroes. I am the son of a man who dedicated his life to his country, family and the military, and I am a better person for it. In the summer of 1864, Abraham Lincoln, the man at whose memorial we stand, spoke to the 164th Ohio Regiment and said: ‘I am greatly obliged to you, and to all who have come forward at the call of their country. ‘Just as they have stood tall for our country - we must always stand by and support the men and women in uniform and their families.”
Amen, Tiger. Now get well soon so people start paying attention to the PGA Tour again.
I’m playing my first solo acoustic gig in a long time this Friday night, and I’ve been working on a set list for the show for the last few days. Like we tried to do with MiLES FRoM CLEVeR I’m trying to pick songs that are at once familiar but not necessarily too much so, which is to say THERE WILL BE NO BUFFETT. I also love it when an artist surprises me with an acoustic version of an electric song (like “Everlong” by the Foo Fighters). So I’m throwing in a couple of those (Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” Pearl Jam’s “Alive,” even The Who’s “Baba O’ Riley”).
As I was in the brainstorming phase of creating the list, this song popped into my head:
More proof that you don’t need a Marshall stack to blow an audience away.
And if you’re in southern Maryland this Friday, please stop on by Fenwicks in downtown Leonardtown. My part of the show starts at 7 pm.
WASHINGTON (AP) - Michael Steele was elected Republican National Committee chairman on Friday, defeating the incumbent party chief and three other challengers over six rounds of voting to become the first black to lead the GOP.
The former Maryland lieutenant governor takes over a beleaguered GOP as Republicans seek to rebound from back-to-back defeats in national elections that gave Democrats control of Congress and the White House.
“As a little boy growing up in this town, this is awesome,” said Steele, the most moderate candidate in the field and considered an outsider because he’s not a committee member.
In a brief acceptance speech, the new GOP chairman struck a tone of inclusiveness.
“We’re going to say to friend and foe alike: We want you to be a part of us, we want you to with be with us, and for those who wish to obstruct, get ready to get knocked over,” Steele said.
He won 91 votes out of a possible 168 in the sixth round. A simple majority of 85 was needed, but it took six rounds for Steele to win.