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Jaimito’s First Haircut

October 20, 2004 / Jim

Jaimito got his first haircut today. What a big boy he was, very
serious, very still. Earlier it was all he could talk about though. In fact, he’d been talking about his haircut since this
weekend. I had mentioned that I needed to get mine cut, and Laura
had offered the idea of taking Jaimito for his first. "It’s
getting kinda long," she said. Jaimito must’ve overheard,
because he could talk of nothing else. "Daddy, we gonna get
‘aircut?"

"Yes little man. We’re going to get a haircut." And we
got in the car and drove off to the local Army post.

Once we got to Ft. Buchanan, we had to stop and get gas.

"Daddy, an’ da ‘aircut?" he asked turning his hands
palm up and shrugging his shoulders.

"We have to get gas first. We’re going to get the haircut
soon." And as luck would have it, the gas station didn’t accept
ATM payment. Sigh – I went to take out cash.

"Daddy? An’ now da ‘aircut?" he asked again, looking
bewildered.

"Soon, Daddy has to get money to pay for the gasolina."
Gasoline sounds cuter in Spanish.

"Oh, da ‘asolina’" He was satiated. Whatever it was
that Daddy said must be okay. Jaimto seemed to be thinking, I don’t know really, but he doesn’t seem worried why should I be?

We took out money. Daddy pushed the funny buttons, and Jaimito
retrieved the cash from the máquina.
After he pulled it out, he looked in the slot to see if there was more.
Good idea.

We got back in the car and drove once again to the gas station. This was just not going to do. "Daddy! Da ‘aircut!"
He wrinkled up his nose in an exasperated fashion.

"Just a second, little man. We’re going to get our haircuts
next. We’re going now. Just a second."

And he acquiesced. Okay, Daddy, whatever.

Once we had paid the gas, climbed back in the car, driven over to
the PX (where the barber shop was), and dismounted the car again,
Jaimito’s alegría begin to take hold.
He started talking excitedly about "Da ‘aircut" and I
would excitedly confirm the hair cutting.

We jumped over some rain puddles in the parking log. Jaimito
loved that, "Wheeeeee! Daddy, da agua!"

Once inside the shopping area, he bolted to the barber shop, but
upon opening the door, he got quiet all of a sudden. Hmm, the moment
of truth has arrived. I’m scared, he seemed to say.

There was an open chair, so there was to be no hesitating. "Up
you go, little man." I told the barber that this was Jaimito’s
first haircut, so we had to save the hair. "My wife will never
speak to me again, if I don’t collect his hair." He chuckled
and began to snip snip on Jaimito’s fine honey colored wisps. Jaimito
was frozen like a statue throughout the entire procedure. Was he
scared? We he just concentrating? I couldn’t say, but I kept up a
barrage of reassuring words and smiles. The other barbers
all remarked how well he had behaved. "Kids twice his age don’t
sit this still," said one.

And when we were done, there stood revealed the handsomest little
hombrecito that I have ever seen. And the
kicker is that on the car ride home he taunted me, saying, "My ‘aircut
better den yours." I couldn’t believe my ears. Did he say what I
thought he said? I laughed with him and said that mine was better. It
went back and forth until I agreed that his was better.

Little CD Shop of Horrors

October 14, 2004 / Jim

Hey look Amazon, I know you’re
all busy and whatnot to ship one stupid little itty bitty CD to me. I
ordered it in February and by June, you’d not sent it. Your suggested
resolution was to cancel the order. I did so and selected another under
the false hope that I may one day hold it in my little hand.

It
is now October, and I still have not seen ANY product from you. You
sell CD’s, right? I see that they are featured prominately on your
website.

Your little shop does, however, seem to be entirely
uncontaminated by CD’s. I just have to ask you: Do you in fact have any
CD’s at all?

El Cafecito

October 12, 2004 / Jim

The security guard stepped out of the bakery, his wrinkled navy
blue uniform baggy around his tightly cinched belt. He wore
comfortable shoes with thick white socks. He walks a lot during the
day, so comfort remains high on his priorities. He had gone into the
bakery to get a cafecito, a small coffee in a tiny white
styrofoam cup. Soon he would return to patrolling the tiny strip mall.

On his way through the swinging glass door, he jostled the full little cup and spilled
hot coffee on his fingers. Our man held on though, held on for dear
life. I could see the pain in his face, but he wasn’t going to give
up that coffee.

Damn
– now he had hot sticky coffee all over his hand. No napkin – he
checked his pants – clean. He sighed mild relief, the
uniform would go for one more day without washing. He exchanged the
cup to his left hand and shook off the drops, and turned looking for
something upon which to wipe his little fingers. He reached out to a
bright
yellow metal pole, a parking barrier, its top peeling paint and, after
a quick glace around to see if anyone was looking, wiped his hand upon
its top, down the side, and gave it a slap.

He brought the cup to his lips and gingerly took a sip.

Drowning in Rats

October 4, 2004 / Jim

There it was. He had rousted the great
beast, disturbed its slumber. He wasn’t sure if he had meant to or
not. Foolish pride? It glared at him with its steaming fiery
eyes, sizing him up. Its tail twitched in the dim
light. He stood frozen for what seemed an hour, wondering if this
would be the end, if his luck had finally run out. Would this
creature devour him here.

The beast snorted.

That was all.

He had elicited a
snort.

He exhaled, relieved but a bit taken
aback, dare he say disappointed; disappointed not to be dead? He
stood for a moment shaking from the adrenaline and tension. "Beast,
I will make a meal for you yet, " he muttered as he stomped off.

"What was that? D’you say something?"

Billy, glanced back at the news editor,
"Hrmph… nothing."

He knew the story wasn’t worth two
bits, small time political scandal, one where the poor slob
bureaucrat got a luxury car, a few bucks or other such
nonsense. Small time stuff. Everybody was scraping by. It’s just
one tiny little stupid little story awash in a sea of similar tiring
uninteresting shit. He was boring himself thinking about it. Why
the hell had he written the piece in the first place? He fancied
himself an investigative journalist. Journalist, now there’s a funny
word, conjures up a mythical mission to expose the underbelly of the

beast, be the final check and balance to any system of government.
Billy smiled. He felt better again. Gotta pump myself up, he
thought, as he left the office.

"In a slump, Billy?" a woman asked.

"Yeah… no. Well sorta. Too many
stinking rats around this place. Nobody cares about the damn things.
Oh sure they complain about them, but who’s gonna go clean ’em out?"

"You lost me." She pushed her
glasses against her brow, "Are you trying to get the city
exterminators on your bad side now?"

"Ho ho, you’re a damn
fine comedienne now aren’t you," he chuckled. "No, it’s just
that if I could take all the rats and cram ’em together into one big
unholy monster, I might have a story, that’s all."

The Monks of our Generation, los melancólicos

September 24, 2004 / Jim

They have always existed, severe melancholics, those for whom
perfection is an attainable goal. The monks lock themselves away with
their craft to the exclusion of what we would call normal. Are these
noble endeavors, to cloister oneself far away from the distractions
of human life? They chose a lifetime of solitude, silence, rigorous
study, self denial, not for ignorant religious reasons, but for the
sake of their craft. These were the ones who preserved history,
recorded deeds, transcribed knowledge and kept it safe
for posterity. They wrote great works of philosophy, theology, and
science. They were the maladjusted geeks of their generation, so they
hid themselves away from the frat boys.

Still, I can’t help but feel a sort of pity for those so ill
equipped to deal with the stupidity and chaos of human existence that
they must flee from it. I cannot help but feel like they’ve missed
out on something, they who lock themselves away from humanity in
search of order, perfections, the divine.

I get the same feeling reading Slashdot,
and I’ve come to realize that programmers are our modern monks, quasi
agoraphobic masters of their craft, who wish strike out all discord
in the universe, make it perfect.

More specifically, these Slashdotters generally cannot tolerate
children, are set on never having any and express disdain for those
ignorant souls in the majority, the stupid politicians, the idiot
masses, the uneducated fools that hurt the environment, muck up the
order, impinge on our monks’ solitude. The disdain is expressed in a
variety of manners, from a quick sharp word to the author of a
factually incorrect statement, to the merciless flagellation of
abusers of grammar or spelling. Slashdotters revile rules imposed
upon themselves, limitations that rob from them the tools used to create
order. Witness the rebellion in both Europe and
the US over software patents. Programmers regard source code as
speech, and to patent it, to limit it, is tantamount to a civil
rights violation. Slashdotters hate spammers as well, these idiot
purveyors of Viagra, cheap real estate, and get rich schemes
withhold from our programmers free and open communication with their
fellows. It is as if all across the silent monastery rang the din of
Brittney Spears 24/7.

Happiness is irrelevant. There is only truth. There is only
perfection, and to the monk, perfection is attainable, if only he
could concentrate on it a bit harder, for a bit longer, with the
right tools, away… from… it… all.

I have come to realize that my pity is misplaced, for the monks of
our generation, as in generations past, are who they are and are
compelled to embark upon their quest to attain the unattainable. They
are the dreamers, the philosophers, the unreasonable forces in the
universe that create, if not perfection, at least a detailed map of
what it might look like. And that is a start, for without a map, how
may we know where to go, what to do with ourselves?

Life is like a cookie

September 10, 2004 / Jim

I opened the freezer and my heart leapt for joy. There they
were, chocolate chip cookies with their delicious golden brown tops
and their moist frozen goodness. In a moment though, my hopes were
dashed as I realized they were burned on the bottom. Why? Why, I
beseech thee, why do you taunt me? WHY!?

“Hon, I’m gonna throw these cookies out. Every time I open
the freezer, I see them and I feel a joy so profound that I believe I
may collapse to my knees in a quivering mass. Yet only a millisecond later I
must bear the pathos of tragedy. I can’t take it I tell you. I
can’t take it. I have enough drama in my life without having to
endure this, these mocking cookies, with their lying tops and their
false hopes. Hey, that’s like a metaphor, you know, like life. All
of the universe and the struggle of human existence contained in an
infinitesimal period of frozen time. Hey that’s very literary, isn’t
it? Hon? Isn’t it?”

“Yes dear, go ahead and throw them out.”

Clarity

September 6, 2004 / Jim

Flashback to 1994

The phone was ringing on a Saturday morning as we were having breakfast. I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Lt. O’Malley, this is LTC Jones, we need to talk. How soon can you get down to the unit?”

“I, uh, I’ll be right there. Can you tell me what this is about?”

“No I can’t.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there.” This couldn’t be good. No way could this be good. What did I do? What is the problem? I had no idea, and the terse tone filled me with dread.

“Hon, I have to go to the unit.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Most definitely, yes, there is something wrong, but I don’t know what. I can’t talk about it… I… “ I fumbled around for keys, shoes, trying to remember where I was.

On the short drive to the port district in Oakland, I searched my memories trying to figure out what this could be about, trying to think if I did or said anything… anything. I had no idea, and that was more disconcerting than anything.

“Lt O’Malley, close the door and have a seat.”

I sat there in stunned silence, waiting for the bell to toll.

“I have received a disturbing report of your behavior, LT.”

…and? I thought.

“Two SGT’s have come forward with racial discrimination complaint against you. I consider these charges grave.”

I felt shocked and relieved at the same time. Shocked that someone could have accused me of such a thing, relieved that I knew it to be untrue.

“I – uh, never. Sir, I have never done such a thing. Who was it?” I was a little rattled, searching for the purpose, the plan, the method, why am I here, I asked myself?

“I can’t tell you, LT, but I consider the charges serious.”

“I am not a racist. What do they say I did? What could I have done? I’m married to a Puerto Rican, I live in Oakland for God’s sake. I love diversity. There’s no way I’m a racist.”

“That may be, LT, but I tell you, you have a problem.”

I stammered, repeated myself, got defensive. “Sir, it’s not true. It’s not true. I didn’t do it.”

LTC Jones, changed his tone a bit. I noticed a slightly fatherly demeanor for this young Lieutenant. “LT, you have a problem. How are you going to solve it?”

“A problem?! I never.. I didn’t. I can’t…”

He cut me off firmly. “LT, YOU have a problem. What are you going to do about it?”

Something clicked at that moment. I have a problem. Yes, I do, don’t I? I have been lost in my own bruised ego. I had tried to shirk the responsibility for this problem that had been thrust upon me. It was mine. All my own. It was not of my own making, but it had been delivered to me. I was now the proud owner of a problem not of my own making. Now novel, eh? – as if no one in humanity’s history had ever had to deal with a problem not of their own making, or consequence, or foundations contrary their own values.

How novel, how rich, how unusual, I reflected sarcastically. This is something that happens everyday. Problems arrive at the doorsteps of unsuspecting fools, delivered by incompetent, malicious, ill-intentioned, or ignorant people. Sometimes problems arrive from the Atlantic kicking up wind gusts of 150 mph. Accidents happen, sometimes through the carelessness of action, thoughtlessness, or just plain dumb luck.

“What can I do?” I asked LTC Jones. But before he could answer, I blurted out, “I want to address the company. Let me address the company, that way the individuals can hear me and I don’t have to single them out. Let me address the company and just nip this in the bud, with an apology.”

LTC Jones hid a smile. “That’s a great idea, LT. We can do it in the morning formation. That way it can be cleared up, and we can get on with the rest of the weekend. I’m glad we had this talk. Now get out of here.”

He was pleased, I could tell. He didn’t want to be too jubilant. It’s not dignified. But reflecting on this many years latter, I understand the difficulties of command. He had a Lieutenant and two Sergeants that were at odds. In order for his unit to function there must be accord. The unit must run without disruption, petty politics, individual negativity, bickering. The unit must have unity, a sense of esprit de corps. He doesn’t know who to trust, and probably doesn’t really care. If the charges go forward, a complaint would be filed, possibly investigated and filed away. As a commander, I can tell you that that is not a solution. It solves nothing, does nothing but document and bury the incident. Meanwhile, relationships suffer, factions form from those that support one side or the other, and the unit becomes less effective.

My direction was clear in that moment of clarity, a momentary bolt of wisdom had shot through that young heart of mine, and allowed me to divorce myself from my ego, my concern for myself, my career, my well-being, and allowed me to see my damaged unit, and know there was something I could do about it.

What LTC Jones really wanted was someone who could solve his problem, and I was the only one capable. To have been able to count on me for that task was probably something for which he was very grateful.

Spam from Colonial America

August 27, 2004 / Jim

Hey, J.M., just got this… Tell me what you think. T.J.

Subject: Gorgeous French properties.
To: f_father2@msn.com
From: bonaparte75@aol.com
Date:
08/01/1802

Take advantage now while the market is undervalued and before
cities go up. Need a place to retire? An international shipping
port? Want to make sure your family is well taken care of? Want to
double the size of your country? At less than 3 cents per acre, you
can’t beat these prices.

How can we sell so low? Simple, we like you. That and we need funds to fight the British.

Do you have a sense of Manifest Destiny? Fulfill that destiny by
taking advantage of this one special offer. We’ve even taken the
special care of pacifying the local inhabitants. Don’t worry, they
won’t cause you any problems. We promise.

Protection Welfare State

August 25, 2004 / Jim

When did the Republican party become the anti-intellectual party, hmmm?

When did we get associated with brain dead policies and never
admitting a mistake, skyrocketting deficits, and religious wacko, quasi
fascist, morons? When did this all happen, because I didn’t get the
memo.

I want to help the poor, but I don’t want to JUST take care of them.
Entitled living can lead to even bigger problems down the line as we’ve
seen. A deep seated sense of entitlement is the biggest soul draining
evil the modern world has ever known… and it sneaks up on ya, get’s
in there slowly, and before you know it you start demanding that your
gub-ment protect you from, Big Macs, dirty cigarettes, rude comments,
and terrorists. Send the poor and lower middle class to shoot the
bastards. I deserve this SUV.

Protect ME, dammit. I deserve it!!

When did this happen? When did EVEN the Republican party become such
a federalist morass of "Don’t worry ’bout nutin’. We’ll take CARE of
them, and we’ll take care of YOU," while we happily shop at Wal-mart
and whine that the government isn’t doing ENOUGH to protect me and my
children.

We need more power to take care of you. We need need more money to
take care of you. We need more wiretapping to take care of you. We need
more bombs to take care of you. We need more government, bigger
government to take care of you.

What happened to "We the People"? I guess it’s now "We the
Government." So instead of shrinking welfare, Bush and crew now have
the whole country on it, a sort of "protection welfare." In fact,
that’s what I’m going to call it. Protection Welfare. Now we’re all in
it, and we think we are entitled to it.

Has anyone stopped to ask if I want those idiots to take care of me?
I don’t need them to take care of me. I don’t expect it. I reject it.
And I reject it because it makes me lazy, robs me of my volition,
steals my thunder.

Do people need a helping hand every once in a while? Sure we do, but
we are not entitled to it. We should be thankful for any help we
receive and try to repay it in kind, because it is a gift from our
fellow citizens. We don’t deserve anything, except maybe a peaceful eternal rest.

Solution to Cheetos Orange Fingers

July 26, 2004 / Jim

Patent #10298498 – Method for the Consumption of Crunchy Cheetos to Avoid Orange Finger Syndrome.

I’ve
done it. They say that necessity is the mother of invention. Well this
one is a mother indeed. Eureka! I jumped, I danced, I rejoiced. Never
again shall I have orange fingers from eating Cheetos brand corn puffs.

Chopsticks, my friends, chopsticks.

Ahem,
it’s only the crunchy ones for me. None of that poofy nonesense. Real
men eat crunchy style Cheetos which, curiously enough, go well with a
rum and coke (lime, not lemon… perhaps another patent opportunity?)

I’ll make millions, I tell you. Millions.

El Gringoqueño