Posted by lex, on April 20, 2006
Never the bride.
While everyone else is heading east to debauch themselves at the milblogger conference, your humble scribe is left here in sunny Southern California, for to work like a galley slave, when he isn’t studying for a test, helping with the homework, tending to the domestic garden or wrestling with pigs – who after all, only seem to enjoy it, the wretches.
I could use a bit of debauchery, it having been some little while, and debauching being a competitive sport, with its own demanding training regime, but no: Tomorrow is SNO’s 20th birthday, if you can grok that. The whole concept spins me right round, baby, right round, like a record baby right round round round.
And everything you need to know about 80’s “rock ‘n roll” is encapsulated there. Sigh.
Even the Boston Globe has gotten into the milblog act, reporting that some think that Rummy should go, and some think he should stay, while others don’t know quite what to think. Some of your favorite names are there: Blackfive is featured, Greyhawk too. And the boyz from Op-For get a nice cameo. And we aren’t the least bit hurt, gentle reader, to labor on in our obscurity, tap-tap-tap. At all. They also serve, etc.
In other news, Scott Crossfield has stepped into the clearing at the end of the path, and the world’s a poorer place for his passing. He was the first man to go mach 2.0, and he did it in a bit of flimsy madness that a modern pilot wouldn’t step into on a dare, back in the day when no one really knew quite what might happen, hard up against the edge of the envelope. I’m sorry for his family’s troubles of course, but I tell you truly that if I meet my maker at age 84 with one hand on the yoke and the other on the throttle, I’ll consider myself well and truly blessed, so I will.
Having caught you up on current events, I’ll trapsie you down the halls of the way-back machine, and reflect that this thing of ours, this dance between Uncle Sam and the government of Iran has been going on for some little time. Operation Praying Mantis, it was y-clept, and although your narrator missed out on all the fun, being between deployments at the time, he heard all about it from his friends in Carrier Air Wing Eleven, as you can well imagine. The bastards. (And thanks to an occasional reader, who reminded me of this event, eighteen years and two days ago today.)
A propos of nothing at all, when an Australian gul tells you that she’s “eighteen” it will come out sounding like “I-deen,” which for some reason sounds so much nicer than “ay-TEEN.”
I have perhaps eleventy-five emails in the bin that I haven’t had the proper time to deal with, and I beg your indulgence, so I do. It’s not as though I don’t read them, certainly (because I do, ever last one) or that I don’t appreciate the personal touch (that too) but that I am hard pressed on every front, gentle reader, and something has to give. Perhaps this weekend. That’s what I told the probs and stats prof, when he asked about last week’s homework, selah.
Off you go then.