They Once Shot People For Lesser Crimes

I've spent the last month or so engaged in a series of very long days, (some of them in excess of 20 hours) and a stint on the ship. I feel like an Airman all over again due in large part to the fact that I am being “trained” as a Maintenance Control supervisor. That, perhaps, isn't the right word as it is not so much a matter of “training” as it is a series of well-timed kicks to The Business from my LCPO when I'm not on time and on target with a particular requirement. The up side of this is that I have become quite accustomed to being in the right place at the right time with the answers. The down side is that I managed to lose ten pounds in two weeks on the Aviation Electrician's Mate Chief Petty Officer Peek Maintenance Control Training Direct From the Bowels of Hell Diet.

Lessons learned? Objectivity, man. Objectmotherfuckingtivity.

I've been a maintenance supervisor before. I find where I was before to be a state of such facile puerility that it defies other description. Supervision is, frankly, making stuff go once someone else makes up their mind as to what ought to or ought not happen. This means that in other posts where I've talked about accomplishing many feats of manual labor in the name of Naval Aviation? We're not doing that anymore. Specifically, as Chief Peek put it, “I need a supervisor, not a worker. You can't be in Maintenance Control and running things and on the bird at the same time.”

Sort of a mindset change for me as for the last fifteen years I am the first one to pick up a wrench and go to it when things need done. Now I have to wrap my head around the fact that it is someone else's turn to do that now, I need to make sure that they're trained to do this and that they'll make it through the job, shift, or cruise with all of their biological bits configured as when the model left the factory.

But that isn't it all.

I snapped while we were on the boat – to mean I got madder than I've been in a decade and lost my temper in a pretty uncharacteristic way. I'd like to think that I don't anger easily, and as a matter of fact, I know there are a number of things out there that make other people florid with rage about which I could give two shits. As a matter of fact, short of setting me on fire or trying to put a stick up my butt, I really don't care.

Except for all things related to safety.

During an aircraft move our brake rider came up with a plastic stick used to push the accelerant into the sealant on the two part kits we use. He's found this in the cockpit and it apparently it went flying with the aircraft, pilots, and crewman as a sort of polyvinyl-chloride passenger.

The LPO has a go at yelling for about ten minutes. I like the LPO and all, he's a good guy and he means well, but ass chewing is DEFINITELY NOT his forte.

We dismiss from the hollering and go back to work. I tell my guys to go and get some chow as Food Alarm has been declared (sort of like going to General Quarters or calling an Engineering Casualty) on the mess decks. One of them scoots past, I ask him where he is off to and he replies to check fluid levels. There is something missing from this picture and I cannot quite put my finger on what that is for a brief series of seconds.

I continue to consider what this deficiency might be for a moment longer, turn back around, and find him on top of the aircraft with no cranial.

Ladies and gentleman, please realize this ain't no drum machine and to tip your waiters and waitresses.

For those of you that may have heard: that HSL rotor strike fatality in 2001? I knew that Chief. I liked him. Some of the people I work with now knew him very, very well. The sort of knowing someone well where it gets you an invitation to their wedding as a participant in the ceremony. (Not like bride or groom, either.) I don't like the fact that he's dead, and as a matter of fact I tend to be an absolute dick about anything safety-related as a result.

Your boots worn out? Wearing tinted lenses in your cranial goggles after sunset? No float coat preop signed? Boots not laced up? No gloves on the flight deck? No foul weather jacket in foul weather? Not paying attention to detail? Driving tow tractors on the flight line too fast? Anything else spring to mind?

Expect me to say something about it.

In this case I did say something about it. I said something for about thirty seconds at a volume that probably would require hearing protection should the NAVOSH folks come out and measure the dB levels generated by my vocal chords.

And then I promptly proceeded to get my ass chewed by the LPO. Words like “you just can't do stuff like that” and “hugely disproportionate response” were used. This would be where the New Navy and I part ways. I'm sorry, but the images of a Chief's face and brains scattered across a flight deck are permanently seared into my mind. We'd already had someone slip off of the aircraft during a wash job the night before, and I'd told my guys it was a good thing he was wearing his cranial at the time. This other kid was still in the process of opening cowlings on the aircraft and really had nothing to grab on to should he have slipped.

So does this mean I was right to fly off of the handle?

I don't know. In hindsight I probably should have just quietly told the kid to get off of the plane, but at the time, and under those circumstances, and considering that this is his first real rodeo. It's hard to say that I wouldn't do it again. I apologized to my Chief and LPO for having done this, was shitcanned to days for the rest of the time we were on the boat, and now find myself on very uncertain footing.

Things changed while I was gone. I mean they really, really, changed. You can't yell at people anymore without being censured by your upper chain of command. There are penalties there for misbehaving or lacking vigor when it comes to work, but they all lack teeth and rely on huge mounds of paperwork to document every last little infraction. One of the things I was told later is that yelling at people “constitutes verbal assault, and that's mastable.”

Wait, what? You're joking, right? They wouldn't seriously send a guy to Captain's Mast for yelling at someone? Would they?

They wouldn't, right? In my case, no. But I've been given a stern pointy-finger type lecture that lets me know we're not having any more of that.

John Paul Jones, I apologize for what we've let your service become.

Command Level Confusion: Redux

Charlie and I are in the hanger getting ready to pull blades off of our phase bird. The bulk of the detachment mechs are on the day shift right now getting the FCF finished on the other aircraft following what can only classify as Holy Shit It's Maintenance. (Meaning we took the Main Gearbox (MGB,) out and replaced said in a matter of two weeks. This includes the week of waiting around to get the new MGB.) So now we've a need to pull blades off of the other aircraft for the previously mentioned phase inspection.

Let's see here. A checklist, if you will:
Integrated Electronic Technical Manual (because you can't do a damned thing without The Book,) x1
1/2"-drive 13/16" socket, x1.
1/2"-drive 18" long breaker bar, x1.
24" extension for the breaker bar, x1.
1/2"-drive ratchet, x1.
MAF bags (for four sets of bolts and an extra for FOD,) x5.
Overhead crane (with valid pre-operational inspection and licensed operator,) x1.
Blade stands x1 pair.
Blade lifting clamp with swedged inspection date and RFI tags, x1.
18' rope, x1.
Spotters, x2.

ADC Bloom (one of the night shift Maintenance Control Chiefs) is strolling through the hanger and sees me going up the side of the aircraft with ratchets, MAF bags, breaker bars, and sockets in tow. We already had the blade clamp connected to the crane and on the blade, all that was left for us to do was have me run up the side of the bird and start pulling the bolts.

I'd like to say that the clanging noise that echoed through the hanger was a socket that came off of the ratchet I was carrying. It wasn't. It was Chief's jaw hitting the concrete floor.

"AT1, what'n hell you doin'?" Chief Bloom has a sort of hefty midwest accent that comes out when he gets excited.
"Taking the blades off, Chief."
"You know what yer doin' there?"
"Saw it on TV last week. Got a book up here, too."
"Err." He makes this noise and shuffles forward a few steps, confounded.
"Chief," I turn halfway on the aircraft and face toward him, "I've done this a dozen times before, we've got a book, crane's been preopped, we've got the right tools and number of people for the job, everybody knows what's going on, we briefed what we're going to do, and if anything goes wrong you can hang me out to dry for it."
"Okay." There is some uncertainty in his voice, but he walks on toward the door to Maintenance Control anyway.

Later I find out that I'm going to be allowed to start the process toward getting qualified as a 110 (Powerplants) Collateral Duty Inspector.

AT shit is boring, anyway. Getting dirty and mucking about with the motors and transmissions is way more interesting.

The Floating Five

This is for Phil, who was the first person to introduce me to the concept.

The other day Junior (the other, obviously less senior, AT on the detachment) and I were talking about something when it came up that he needed a couple of dollars for lunch. I pulled my wallet out, grabbed what I think was about seven or eight dollars and handed it to him.

"Here," I speak while stuffing money into his hand.
"Thanks AT1, I'l pay you back," he replies as the bills disappear into a coverall pocket. Have to talk to him about that later to make sure the change goes in a wallet and not out to the aircraft.
"Don't."
"What?"
"Don't pay me back."
"Okay" he says with a certain incredulity.
"Junior, ever heard of a 'floating five?'"
"Nope."
"I lend you five dollars, you throw Aaron five dollars, he gives it to Charlie. Pretty soon someone owes someone five dollars all the time, and as long as no one abuses the privilege, everybody has lunch or smokes or whatever and we're good."
"Cool."
"I'd like to think so."

POLL! IN 3D!

For starters, I apologize to the assortment of readers that I have here for the lack of posting. No one really reads this thing anyway, but I might as well apologize in the event that space aliens find this blog and decide that it ought to be preserved for posterity. Or something like that.

Right. So, the last poll (dating from last year,) posed the question:

Helicopters are clearly the superior form of aviation because:

And our potential answers were:
1. Igor Sikorsky was a sick joke inflicted on us by the Soviets. Have you too, worked on the SH-60, friend?
2. WAT! Ever heard of NHA? No, but EVERYONE LOVES THEM SOME TAILHOOK.
3. This isn't the way we did it when I was in 46's.
4. RRREEEAAAAARRRRGGGGGHHH BOOOM WHIIIIZZZZZ! ARRESTED LANDING ATOP YOUR BUTTOCKS, BITCH!
5. I IZ AN SWO. I LIEK TACO NITE. I HAEV THREEE HOLES IN MY FACE.
6. I was busy eating pizza on the beach. VRC, yo.
7. I was busy cooking pizza by holding it against the windows. E-2C, you know.
8. I was a tube slug. I get per diem. Screw you boat guys.
9. HORNETHORNETHORNET - I named my kids that. All of them.
10. After very careful consideration I've come to the conclusion that the Romeo sucks. Bravos 4 LIFE.
11. FAOLTAEM! And something about Tomcats.

So, it should suffice to say that we had a metric shitload of possible answers. Results? Oh yeah, we need ourselves some results. Not just the same old partisan bickering about how to stimulate the...flight deck parking arrangements. Yeah. About that.

Our results?

- Nobody seems to think that Igor is a sick joke. Good for you, you dissident bowler hat wearing ex-commie.
- One person lurves teh Tailhook. But definitely wasn't at the convention.
- Zero people did it that way in 46's. (Which is hilarious, because I heard that very line this morning.)
- Bolter for the arrested ass landing.
- We, uh, have three shoes here.
- VRC foax apparently don't have an Internet connection for the beach det. Nil.
- Irradiated E-2C guys, for deuce.
- Either no one wants to admit that they're a tube slug, or they thought they were shoes.
- One person apparently named all of their progeny HORNETHORNETHORNET. Reminds me of that thing from New Zealand not too long ago where someone named a kid "Public Bus Shelter Number 16," another one "Violence," but the courts stepped in for "Tula Does the Hula From Hawaii." (Seriously.)
- Two votes to blow up the Romeo. SH-60B fo LIEF. Ya bitches.
- And as usual, nobody liked the Meatloaf answer.

What does this mean? It means that the readership around here is primarily composed of Hawkeye riding shoes that eat their young, don't like the MH-60R, name their kids after fighters, and are card-carrying Tailhook members.

Demographics: an area of considerable expertise for me.

Note: To achieve 3-D effect for this post requires two people. One to sit stationary in a chair and a second to move the monitor closer and farther away from the viewer's face while yelling (preferably in a booming voice): "POLL! IN 3-D! OOOOEEEEEOOOEEEEEOOOOO!"

Photo: SDSU Parking Garage

So I finally managed to get out and shoot with the new 5D Mark II and this was one of the results:



There are a couple of other frames, but this is probably the one that I like the best so far. Making the transition to digital has been sort of interesting given that you're looking for different things. With film I was more worried about emulsion responses in different lighting, how close I was to reciprocity failure in low light, contrast differences due to developing.

Granted, composition in digital is substantially similar but the remainder of the differential represents the gulf between silver halide and CMOS.

Knew a fair piece about how to shoot with Pan-F, HP5+, Ilford 800/1600, Velvia, and Provia. RAW and white balance are now kicking my ass. But I do love being on this learning curve.

WAT

This is a Canon EOS 5D Mark II.

This is sitting on my kitchen counter.

This is clearly superior. We'll be having it large with the pictures here shortly.

Care and Feeding of the Average Airman

For starters, I owe Sid a big thank you for kicking me in the butt. I realised today that I've been away from teh_blog for about a month now and haven't really had time to do anything with the content here.

Being on detachment does that to you. Your life sort of blends into a long procession of days, maintenance actions, tool checks, flights off of the line, and lunch runs to buy a sack of fat pills from McDonald's for the det because the gearbox is out, the blades are off, Maintenance Control wants a FLIR swap done, and there's always the three minutes of training you do with the random kid standing in the hanger with the confused look.

Speaking of kids.

When I had my Check-In interview (Is that hyphenated? Who knows.) with the CO he made mention of something that I hadn't really heard of before now. "Covenant leadership, AT1," Commander Flannagan says, "you know what that is?"
"No sir. I've heard you use the term several times at quarters, but I'm not sure about the specifics." Honesty, when dealing with the CO, is always the best policy.
"It's like this, these kids give us four to six years of their lives, they make a covenant with the Navy. Their end of the bargain is to give us that time. Our end is to take care of them, to make them understand what is going on, and help them as much as we can."
"Aye sir." I think of Senior Kenning and the dozens of others that taught me to do this, but never saw fit to attach a name to the concept. Walking out of the office I decide that I like the CO, he seems to be a reasonable sort of mammal. (And he knows my name now.)

Winters in southern California tend to be a little wet toward the end of December. The weeks preceeding Christmas were no exception. Long stretches of gray days and cold wind give way to rain that comes at first in fits and starts only to turn into a soaking downpour. One of the airframers and I had gone over to another squadron to find a rather specific sort of fastener, and we'd stopped off at the smoking area on the way back to the building so that I could have a coffee while AM2 burns one.

The rain is still coming down pretty good and has been for the last two days. Given the fact that I'm encased in a set of Gore-Tex pants, coveralls, white t-shirt, heavy camouflage jacket, and the all-important liner means I could really care about the fact that we're being rained on in the name of Camel and caffeine. Glancing around, I notice an Airman who had checked in about three weeks prior standing out there as well.
"Harper," I motion him over from under the tree doing a good job of funneling water down his neck. "C'mere."
"Yes AT1." He walks over quickly and I notice that the uniform shirt he is wearing is soaked, as are his pants, and he's got the tell-tale bubbles coming out of the sides of his boots. (Meaning he's probably swimming in his shoes right now.) The same boots, coincidentally, that he was issued in basic training.
"You got a foul weather jacket?"
"A what, AT1?" I get a quizzical look in response.
"Hey, AM2, meet you inside." I motion for Harper to put out his smoke and come with me.

Fifteen minutes later we've got AEAN Harper suited up in a dry set of green organizational coveralls, a foul weather jacket, and a brand new pair of safety boots from Supply.

I couldn't do anything about the socks - forgive me as I didn't have a spare pair with me that day and those things don't come from the Supply cage.

As we part ways, I tell Harper to remember this as he's thanking me profusely for fixing things for him. He sort of looks at me a little funny, and I pause in the hallway.

"Remember this, because next time you're going to have to take care of the new guy. Remember this because if we don't take care of each other, no one will. Remember this because even though it wasn't right that you were here for three weeks before anyone helped you out, don't do that to the next guy that comes along. Fix what you see, make things better."

"Yes AT1." He smiles, lessons for the future sinking in.

Posting and so forth.

I'll get to the poll later on today. I know we're way overdue here and I'll have you know I'm a little busy, see.

In the meantime, enjoy the below post concerning what it is to have your CO sort of know your name.

Command Level Confusion

The CO, for some reason, does not know who I am. There is a school of thought out there amongst my blue-shirted brethren that believes this to be a good thing, in that if they don’t know who you are then this is better. Something about safety in anonymity or some such similar mode of operation, perhaps even a throwback to our collective days in basic training when it was often mediocrity versus excellence or shitbaggery (in all of it’s varied forms) was seen as the best way.

On the other hand, it is something else entirely when the CO repeatedly calls you by the wrong name. My last name is Cray, (at least this is what I will have you believe,) which makes it a little difficult to understand why my Commanding Officer continually addresses me as Foster. AD1 Foster, at that. Now to be fair, there is an AD1 Foster here at HSL-[Integer]. He’s a relatively decent sort of cat and I’ve had the opportunity to talk to him several times. However, the two of us look nothing alike and aren’t even in the same detachment or shop.

The most recent occurrence of this perpetual confusion was yesterday. We were inserting some bits back into the cabin of one of our aircraft currently mired in the midst of a socking great inspection. As CO’s are prone to doing, ours was wandering about in the hanger and surveying his helicopter-based fiefdom. Noticing that we were working, he sticks his head into the cabin, looks directly at me, and says:
“Morning Petty Officer Foster.”

Now at this point I’ve reached something of an impasse. Do I correct him (mind you there are two other people present) in some polite way? We’re less than four feet apart and I do have a nametape on my coveralls, so the option of letting him figure it out on his own springs to mind as well.

I go for the latter.

“Morning sir.”
“How’s the process today?” He asks, leaning somewhat into the cabin and looking around.
“Good sir,” I shift slightly so that the nametape side of the uniform is plainly visible in the available light. “Just putting her back together, hoping to have the rest of what we’re doing here done today.”
“Good, good. AD1, you have a nice day.”
“Sure, sir.”

Several seconds pass as I stare blankly out of the cabin door in confusion.

“Hey, AT1, did he call you Foster again?” One of the detachment electricians is working with me at the moment and says this with a slight snicker.
“Yeah Will, he did,” I pause and sigh in frustration “again.”

Talking About Stuff

I can, at times, get to running my yap.

Airman Jarvis is new. When I say new, he's lost in the sauce new. He's been in the Navy since breakfast last Thursday and he's not quite sure what it is that he is supposed to be doing with his life. I get the sense of a perpetual fog surrounding him, this sort of inexplicable confusion that cuts him away from the reality of which he should be taking part.

Six weeks ago Jarvis and I are sitting in the Line, the place with the lowest ranking and newest people in the squadron. I'm waiting for another AT1 as apparently, you aren't allowed to go see certain people during the check-in process by yourself. Something about the CMC being very much motivated to see that the command's sponsorship program going in the right direction. I'm chafing at this sudden inability to maneuver at will, to launch under visual flight rules and go unfiled into the blue.

Apparently, an AT1 with 15 years and change worth of active duty service is not to be trusted to see and avoid on their own. I don't like that, but I accept this as it is certainly not within my purview to question the wisdom of an OSCM who is now the most senior enlisted person in my chain of command. So wait I must for Andy to finish doing what he needs, and I chat with Jarvis.

"So AT1," he shifts to push his glasses a little farther up his nose. It's hot in here, unusually warm for this time of the year in San Diego. "Like, what were you doing before you came here?"

"I was an instructor at [command], did that for three years."

"So, like, lot's of yelling and shit? You've been in 60's a while?"

"Not really," I'm wondering where he's going with this, but continue to plumb the depths if his intent here. "Yep. I was at HSL-[NUMBERS!] and then down at HSL-[MOAR NUMBERS]. Did [other stuff] for a couple of years, then off to teaching, and now here."

"Wow, now you're here." He says this shaking his head and laughing.

"Everywhere is what you make of it."

"Huh?"

"Everywhere is what you make of it." Spinning well away from the original topic at first, I take him for something of a ride. Describing the period in 1998 off of the coast of Korea, some of the inequities to which I have borne witness, moving through space and time to describe the totality of experience that only long stretches of being underway can bring. Winding down, I finish with this: "Jarvis, take this for what it's worth. I'm an AT1, I've six NAMs, EAWS, probably one of the only ATs you'll ever meet with an individually awarded Sikorksky Superior Maintenance Award. I've been all the way around this planet, I've set foot on every continent except Africa. I've fixed more shit than I can remember, seen good men go in the ground in the service of their country. I've seen things I can't even describe. Beauty, ugliness, good, evil, life, death. But there's one constant in all of this. You know what that is?"

"No." There is no shop, there is no squadron, there are no birds turning on the line close enough to rattle the windows. There is simply AT1 Cray and Airman Jarvis.

"You're sure? Think about it, the one thread that holds you, me, the CO, the CNO, all of us together?"

"No clue, AT1."

"You, Jarvis. You. People like you, all the men and women, our collective humanity together, makes the Navy. So when you say that now I'm here? Son, this squadron is ours. It belongs to all of us. And if you're telling me that it's fucked up, which I'm assuming you are, you're telling me we're all fucked up. All of us. You're not fucked up, are you?"

"No AT1." The answer is prompt, smart, what you'd expect from someone still in the midst of basic training.

"Everything is what you make of it, Jarvis. We're in the business of fixing problems, not bitching about them. We're here to make the difficult happen as a matter of routine and the impossible happen only by appointment. So we're down to drawing a line in the sand. On one side are the people that are going to fix what they see is wrong and never give up, and the people that are going to sit around and bitch and in doing so create more problems. So where are you, Jarvis, where are you?"

He stares at me, opens his mouth, and I stop him by raising my hand.

"Don't tell me. Answer me by making me see you mean it, and by that I mean you work. Good to go?"

"Yes AT1."

Andy is tapping me on the shoulder, he's off of the phone and we're ready to move on to some other part of the check in process. Jarvis? We'll see about that one, we'll see. I'll tell you that he's trending in the right direction, and he's beginning to show signs of some serious motivation.

NEWSFLASH: Blogspot is getting high on it's own supply.

In the event that you don't care, don't read all the posts, or are whatthefucking at the state of the current poll: I know it is borked. The poll (in all of it's shit-talking glory) is in there and ready to go, but there is some problem on Blogspot's end.

I've already fired off a bitchy missive about their totally free service interfering with my overinflated sense of self-importance. I suppose patience is in order.

If it isn't fixed soon, I'll have Myspace shivved in the exercise yard. Such is my power.

whoaaaaa im trippin my nut readership into a frenzy of poll voting

If you don't understand the reference, you probably should. (By the way, I find reading DFC to be a nearly sublime experience. Either that or it's the lack of oxygen from laughing so hard.)

Anyway.

THIRTEEN. THIRTEEN WHOLE VOTES. Yahoo, I'm going to cut your throat with my ever expanding readership. Granted, we will probably be just shy of that mark about the same time that the sun expands and swallows the Earth. But DAMMIT WE'RE COMING FOR YOU YAHOO! I SHALL BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH THE BLOATED CORPSES OF AOL AND MSNBC.

Okay, maybe not.

Last week's poll (for those of you that were paying attention) was:

If I was a Super Jungle Fighter and fighting the Future War with John Connor and blowing shit up all hardcore, I'd be listening to:

Now, before we begin, I'd like to ask those of you that voted for Wagner: I hereby dub thee all lesser specimens unless you've listened to the entire fifteen (give or take) hours of Der Ring des Nibelungen in one sitting. AND CHUCK JONES' INTERPRETATION DOESN'T COUNT, SMARTASS.

So, our answers were:
Lard - Sylvestre Matuschka (from Last Temptation of Reid)
Ministry - Just One Fix (Extended Mix from the 1995 single)
Anything by Wagner
Elvis Prestley - Blue Hawaii
Every track from KMFDM and Rammstein's entire discography played simultaneously.
Gravity Kills - Guilty (Juno Reactor Mix from the Guilty single)
Juno Reactor - Pistolero (from Shango)
Anything by Jonny Cash
Obligatory Meatloaf Answer
WHERE IS SARAH CONNOR?

Results? We've got more results than IS THAT SOME WACK-ASS CONJECTURE ABOUT CABINET POSTINGS OVER HERE. LET US COUNT THE VOTES:
ONE VOTE, HA HA HA for Lard - Sylvestre Matuschka (from Last Temptation of Reid)
ANOTHER SINGLE VOTE, HA HA HA for Ministry - Just One Fix (Extended Mix from the 1995 single)
FIVE VOTES, HA HA HA, DEINEN PAPEIREN IST NICHT IN ORDNUNG. DAS IST NICHT GUT. DAS IST SEHR SCHLECHT FUR DICH UND DU MUSSE MIT UNS GEKOMMEN* and Anything by Wagner
A BIG NO-VOTE FUCK YOU FOR A MISSPELLED Elvis Presley - Blue Hawaii
TWO VOTES FOR MY GOD THE CACOPHONY OF Every track from KMFDM and Rammstein's entire discography played simultaneously.
WHO SERIOUSLY COMES FROM JEFFERSON CITY, MISSOURI? BIG STINKY NIHILISM for Gravity Kills - Guilty (Juno Reactor Mix from the Guilty single)
DUUUUUUDE GOA ONE VOTES for Juno Reactor - Pistolero (from Shango)
THREE ARE THE NUMBER OF VOTINGS, HA HA HA for Anything by Jonny Cash
NO LOVE FOR THE Obligatory Meatloaf Answer
and no one gives a shit about the answer to the question: WHERE IS SARAH CONNOR?

Of course, Wagner IS CHAMPION.

However, you weak sisters among us had better get to listening. All four parts of Der Ring, without stopping (except to change disks).

Also, vote in the new poll. It's going to be here for the next two weeks. ASSUMING BLOGSPOT EVER FIXES THAT SHIT. The poll, (as of posting this) is in there but not visible. Patience, patience. It's a good one.

*Your papers are not in order. This is not good. This is very bad for you. You must come with us. No, I do not care that I am missing umlauts and my verb conjugation is horrible. I haven't been in German class (except for listening to Rammstein, and I am LOOKING AT YOU CERTAIN PEOPLE WHO KNOW WHO YOU ARE BECAUSE YOU GOT ME STARTED LISTENING TO THEM IN 1998) in sixteen years.

On Checking Out

Not too long ago I was in the process of checking out of my last command. It's been a pretty hectic couple of months. Thousands of pages worth of instructions, the Naval Aviation Maintenance Program (NAMP), standard operating procedures, and gouge have been consumed. Qualifications have been gained.

What sticks with me? The last words of an Master Chief I was working for at Old Home:
"Remember, if it's always been done like this, is it really the right way? Some guys are going to have a really hard time admitting they're wrong."

Truth.

"Make the right decisions at the right place. If you're going out on a limb, make sure you've got someone over your head covering your ass. The last place you want to be if something goes south is the position of the guy holding the bag."

More good stuff.

"AT1, you're going to make a good Chief."

That, I wasn't expecting. I responded to him: "I'll give you my word I'll do the best I can by my people, and earn the trust that you've engendered in me."

Looks like New Home is going to be the acid test of my pretty little speeches: looks to be a Detachment Assistant Leading Petty Officer (ALPO) gig for my first time to sea with them. I'd prefer det LPO, but beggars can't be choosers and I am sort of climbing over some people who've been waiting in line. What's going on is that they're feeling me up to find out if I can handle the whole show next time around. I've raw seniority over the LPO, but positionally he has me in spades - meaning it isn't my place to question the decisions of the AMO, MMCO, or detachment Chief. People are looking at me right now, and I will do this job the best that I can. It is, after all, a ticket to my fancy red dancing shoes.

I will not fail. Everything up to now has been building to this, and it is the next step to everything that comes later.

I will not fail? No, I cannot fail. It simply is not one of the available lines of action.

Hagakure

I obtained a copy of Hagakure about six years ago. For those of you that are not familiar with it, the book is a series of translated anecdotes and parables that cover The Way (to mean the Way of the Samurai.) The word Hagakure itself translates from Japanese into English as "in the shadow of leaves."

The book was most prominently featured in the 1999 movie "Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai," in which Forest Whitaker's character quotes from the work during a series of short narratives.

There are two books that I've read over the last ten or so years that have exerted a great deal of influence over my conduct and general perspective on things. Hagakure is one, the second being "Teachings of Buddha," which I obtained as a dual Japanese-English printing on a trip there four years ago.

Oddly, I've taken to giving a select number of people that I work with copies of Hagakure for them to read. Whether or not this constitutes some manner of insurgent proselytizing for the Samurai ethic I do not know. What I do know is the three people I've provided copies to have found it to be most illuminating.

To wit:

To hate injustice and stand on righteousness is a difficult thing. Furthermore, to think that being righteous is the best one can do and to do one's utmost to be righteous will, on the contrary, bring many mistakes. The Way is in a higher place than righteousness. This is very difficult to discover but it is the highest wisdom.

When seen from this standpoint, things like righteousness are rather shallow. If one does not understand this on his own, it cannot be known. There is a method of getting to this Way, however, even if one cannot discover it by himself. This is found in consultation with others.

Even a person who has not attained this Way sees others from the side. It is like the saying from the game of go: "He who sees from the side has eight eyes." The saying, "Thought by thought we see our own mistakes," also means that the highest Way is in discussion with others. Listening to the old stories and reading books for the purpose of sloughing off one's own discriminations and attaching oneself to that of the ancients."

Also relevant:

When something is said to you by the master, whether it is for your good or bad fortune, to withdraw in silence shows perplexity. You should have some appropriate response. It is important to have resolution beforehand.

Moreover, it at the time that you are asked to perform some function you have deep happiness or great pride, it will show exactly as that on your face. This has been seen in many people and is rather unbecoming. But another type of person knows his own defects and thinks, "I'm a clumsy person but I've been asked to go and do this thing anyway. Now how am I going to go about it? I can see that this is going to be much trouble and cause for concern." Though these words are never said, they will appear on the surface. This shows modesty.

By inconsistency and frivolity we stray from the Way and show ourselves to be beginners. In this we do much harm.

I'm seriously considering having my Airmen and junior PO3's start reading and thinking about these sorts of things on a daily basis. Might help them act a little bit more like sailors and less like civilians in uniform.