Good afternoon readers. Happy Wednesday. I decided to sit down and put down a nice blog post so here we are. The week's going well; in a few hours I have to counsel one of my cadets, which is always fun. More for me to learn as a leader. Oh and by the way my public speaking ability has gone through the roof since I've gotten this flight commander gig. I can whip up a speech on the spot and fucking deliver, like, impromptu. It's great. Anyway, that's not what this blog post is about.
DISCLAIMER: NOTHING WRITTEN IN THIS POST IS TRUE. YUP. MADE IT ALL UP. EVERYTHING YOU ARE READING IS COMPLETELY MADE UP. LITERATURE. FAN FICTION.
I gotta start doing that from now on. My stories (while completely, 100% fabricated) are crazy. What if my blog gets super popular one day and everyone reads stories that probably shouldn't be put on the internet? Exactly... hence the disclaimer. It's all bullshit. I swear.
Anyway sit down, strap in, and shut up because I'm about to take you on a domestic route straight to Miami. Beautiful M-I-to-the-A. SoBe, KMIA. My single favorite location on Earth. Yup, it's gonna be one of those posts.
This story in particular took place during my fourth or fifth trip to Miami, I think, I've honestly lost count. Whichever one is the most recent, the time we went right after field training, that's the trip I'm talking about. Everything went pretty damn well that trip. Getting upgraded to the top floor, corner room, master-suite of our 7th and Ocean hotel; free drinks everywhere we went; and not to mention the dramatic delta of being on South Beach immediately after Field Training.
Now I'm sure you've heard me talk of the club promoters who aren't uncommon in the area. If you're a family, or if you look broke, or if you're just not that cool look looking, you will probably never notice a club promoter regardless of how many times you visit Miami. However, Karen and I must've made the cut because our beach lounging was frequently interrupted by some 30-year-old European wearing Carrera sunglasses.
We never took the promoters up on their offers. Usually we'd find ourselves returning to the hotel with a collection of wristbands inviting us to clubs all over Collins, but by nightfall we'd end up intimidated and just throw them all away. But by like the fourth or fifth time it happened, we decided we might as well go along with it and see what happens.
Enter Alessandro. He slickly cruised up to us on the beach while we were finishing off a few Limearitas. He was wearing the promoter uniform, and spoke the promoter lingo. "Hey you too party right? I'm Alessandro and saw you two just chillin'. You wanna party with Alessandro tonight?" Granted it sounds really weird out of context, and in pretty much ANYWHERE but Miami this would be creepy as hell. But that's how partying gets done on South Beach, it's all part of the game. The only difference was that this time we played back.
So we chatted, found our options (Mansion, Dream, Set, every venue was famous and very exclusive) and started talking pricing. It was ninety bucks, $30 for Karen, and $60 for me and that's when I was like no fucking way. The sticker price included: a limo ride from our hotel, a private pregame party at a 4-star luxury bar, UNLIMITED PREMIUM LIQUOR at said bar, a limo ride from the bar to the club, and wristbands for the VIP line at Mansion. Depending on how much we drank at the open bar, this $90 experience would easily end up costing us well over one or two grand if we hadn't been hunted by the promoter. Mansion is usually at least a $100 to get in, and reservations start at I think like five k min? This was not the kiddie pool.
I exchanged numbers with Alessandro and took his card. I had no clue the social protocol on dealing with your promoter either. It's like it's back to high school ("do I text him now or wait a few hours?") but Karen and I got it all figured out and had our plans for the night set in stone. There was only one problem... We weren't exactly old enough to drink. (Don't forget this whole story is made up. It's all a funny hypothetical situation.)
We had class passes to keep us entertained at the liq stores, restaurants, and smaller joints like Clevelander, but this was Mansion we were venturing towards. This nightclub is mentioned by name in rap songs. There's a top-charting house music song literally named after this place. This type of club simply does not react well with class passes. Regardless, we thought to go ahead and try since they've always worked up to that point.
So 9:00 rolled around, both of us dressed to kill, and as promised we were picked up by Alessandro enroute to the Whitelaw. The $90 was paid, tips given of course, and we spent an hour or two drinking Grey Goose and 1800. Yeah, our bill would've easily been in the hundreds had we not been hooked up by Alessandro.
11:00 then rolled around. A limo comes, we get in, and off we go to Mansion. Now I'm not sure if you've ever rolled into the VIP line of Mansion after just getting out of a limousine, but I would highly recommend it. People from down the block and across the street were looking a little excessively with that classic touristy "I wonder who THAT is" face. We quickly progressed up the line (the regular line, for the peons, extended around the corner) and whipped out our class passes. Go big or go home, right?
The giant, and I mean GIANT, bouncers glanced at them for a split second..."Nope." Well, fuck. They didn't work. I mean they didn't even come close to working. We tried to talk our way in, but that didn't work either. The two bouncers pointed out about seven discrepancies on our beloved American Express cards and guided us away from the door. All that buildup, and we didn't get in. We were three feet from the door! We could practically see Scott Disick inside, drinking to excess and cheating on Kourtney! Despite the disappointment, we accepted defeat, took back our cheat sheets, and walked away. Then we went back to the fucking kiddie pool and enjoyed the rest of our night. And the truth of the matter was we STILL only spent $90 for around a very very expensive night.
But there are two things that really crack me up over this story. First, was the look on everyone's face in the peon line who saw two young people get out of A LIMO, the walk right up to THE VIP LINE of fucking MANSION, and then get rejected and turned away. The confusion amidst all of those tourists watching from across the street was prevalent and priceless.
Second, was the reaction of poor Alessandro. He'd been pulling strings and gracing us with wristbands and limos and free booze. Then, when we finally get to Mansion, we don't get in! I can only imagine, "Wait, they're not 21? What the hell!?" Fortunately however this must have not been the case because 36 hours later I received yet another text from Alessandro, "Hey man anywhere you and your girl trying to party tonight? I can do $20 for her and $40 for you tonight."
Not only did we get offered more wristbands and limos and free booze, he gave us a bigger discount! Didn't SOMEONE tell Alessandro that we aren't 21!? Oh well, I just saved his number for next time.
Anyway, that's the completely made-up story of how Karen and I took a limo to Mansion and didn't get in. I hope you enjoyed it. Well I gotta shower and get ready for this meeting. Until next time...
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Saturday, April 19, 2014
My Life, My Love, and My Lady
Hello everybody. It's a nice quiet Saturday in the early afternoon, a nice time for a blog. Karen's out of town at the Arnold Air Society and Silver Wings National Conclave. Whatever the hell a conclave is, I guess calling it anything else was too . . . conventional (engage sunglasses). Either way I'm all by myself this weekend. There's been a song stuck in my head intermittently for the past several weeks so I thought it may be worth blogging about. You've probably heard the song before, it's called Brandy by the Looking Glass. The song tells a sad tale, one which I hope never hits too close to home for me. Allow me to explain and over-analyze like I do best...
The song describes Brandy, a cute young bombshell who works at a harbor as a bartender. It's a town defined by it's shores; the way Pittsburgh is the city of steel or how bourbon puts the smallest counties of Kentucky on the map. The town that Brandy calls home is one that likely wouldn't be there without the harbor. Every night, life is delivered to the sprawl of quiet streets when a new fleet of ships from all over the world come to moor at the docks of this small port-town to restock.
They never say where exactly the harbor is. Part of what makes the song so enjoyable to me is how the lyrics are filled with unanswered questions and holes for your mind to fill with whatever content you feel fit. Brandy could be a NorCalanese brunette, working nights at one of the several bars which line the docks deep in the San Francisco Bay to pay off student debt. Some may picture Brandy being the only American on staff at an island dive in the Caribbean, a place where only the cruise ship crews go to avoid the tourists. Hell she could be in Höfn, Iceland for all we know; hosting idle chitchat with Sean O'Connell and Walter Mitty.
It reminds me of how much I love hubs. Whether a seaport or an airport, anywhere that connects the long line between two far-away lands is a place in which I couldn't mind spending layover*, enjoying a drink. Airport bars that seat thousands of pilots trying to jumpseat home for the holidays, the heavily used Marriott hotels with crew vans lining the valet drive, or the humble watering-holes lining the docks of Höfn; the places that host people from all over the world on a daily basis are the places in which I typically feel most at home. And that is exactly the type of harbor-town I picture when I listen to the song.
Brandy is hot, that much we do know. She's very popular among the sailors who never see her no more than a few times a year. She gets them drunk for cheap and enjoys hearing about all the distant places her patrons have seen. Brandy probably has a studio apartment within walking distance from the bar filled with trinkets and oddities the sailors bring her. I picture a bunch of socially awkward old men trying to impress a a beautiful young girl with an array of crap.
"This is a machete from the Island of Roatán! I know there's no rainforests around here, but if there were you'd be prepared, Brandy!"
"This bottle of Port came from a port in Portugal that's literally called Port! And you work at a port! Funny huh? It's actually really gross and you wouldn't like it, but I heard fancy people drink it!"
"It's authentic Moroccan leather, they make it with bird shit in a bacteria ridden cesspit in the middle of the medina, but it's softer than any other leather!"
Although among the ranks of desperate men crying for her attention, there does seem to be one sailor who stands out. She always looks forward to seeing him over the thousands of bachelors she serves. Gifts from this charming sailor are different than the rest. She wears the jewelry he brings her, drinks the overseas wine he chooses for her, and keeps every reminder of him nearby.
The young seaman falls pretty hard for her. His whole life he's never questioned spending his life on the water. He's one of us who, at the most fundamental level, possess whatever gene it is that draws our undivided attention to the vastness of the globe and our need to conquer it. It's the only thing that matters in life, going completely unquestioned for most of it, and only ever possibly changed by a girl: Brandy, whose "eyes could steal a sailor from the sea."
Any man who travels can relate. Every time we leave the continent, the availability of the coolest shit in the world skyrockets. The jewelry, the highest quality fabric and leather, the hand-painted artifacts, all only come to those who leave home. However more often than not, leaving home also means leaving your sweetheart for longer than we'd like. Despite wanting nothing more than to bring her along, the best we can do as sailors, pilots, and adventurers is "bring gifts from far away, and make it clear we couldn't stay, as no harbor is our home." The sailors can give her such amazing jewelry from all over the world. They can browse through a Turkish bazaar and come out with hundreds of dollars of gems and diamonds. But the gentleman who loves Brandy the most will never be able to get her the diamond ring she wants the to wear most.
It's a decision we all have to make as men of the sea, the sky, and the road. Secure our angel for good and implant our roots into the soil of a single town, or make do with the one or two weeks out of each month we can actually spend with her. Some blame it on the stubbornness of man or the lack of compassion for our families, but almost all of us choose the latter without much thought. "The sailor said 'Brandy, you're a fine girl, what a good wife you would be. But my life, my love, and my lady is the sea.'" The man stays a sailor, and Brandy stays in her harbor by herself.
Of course we can bring our companions along for the journey every now and then, or craftily set our schedule up to maximize the our time on the ground, but the heart-sinking reality is never forgotten. We will spend far more time holding the yoke or the helm than our sweethearts at night, we will playfully flirt with chop and turbulence more than our wives and children, and the wings pinned to our chest or the curl sewn to our sleeves will feel like a promise harder to uphold than the rings on our finger. It may seem selfish, but the euphoria given to us from the clouds and waves outweigh the guilt of leaving her at home for weeks at a time.
Brandy spends everyday alone, laying whisky down for hundreds of other sailors who rarely spend more than a night in town. It's monotonous and empty for her until her man finally returns, and she's blessed and overly thankful for the 36 hours she gets to spend with him. He'd spend the layover catching her up on stories and reveal a new set of presents to hold her over until next month. Then he would leave with his crew, leaving poor Brandy behind in the harbor for an indefinite amount of time.
And that's the awful part: feeling overjoyed as you rotate your 800,000 pound mistress to part ways with land, and simultaneously nauseated as your Brandy, proudly waving from the fence, fades from view. I imagine it doesn't matter how much adoration you have for flight, contacting your domicile's approach will always feel a thousand times better than switching from it's tower to departure.
I'd really hate to imagine living a life like Brandy and the sailor. I hope my life doesn't have to be torn between the sky and my loved ones. It seems like the happiest people we know are the guys who say their family is all that's important to them; but that's what separates sailors and aviators from the average man. Unfortunately, the life of an airline pilot isn't much negotiable. Christmases will be spent in hotels, birthdays will be celebrated via Skype, and the master schedule is made without taking into account how little time you spent at home last month. The one thing that is promised when the schedule comes out, is that a pilot's incessant need to fly will be satisfied for another month.
I hate admitting it, but I'm no different than the sailor in the song. Every pilot in the world will come to the point where he feels the same way. Flight is what drives us, and spending another month on the line is the priority for everyone like me. It'd be blatantly false to say we don't love the people we are forced leave at home; but the even the most love-struck sailor will soon kiss Brandy goodbye and a reluctantly confess to her "my life, my love, and my lady, is the sea."
And Brandy, just like any woman who shares her husband with his wings, "does her best to understand."
*This does not include the city of Memphis.
The song describes Brandy, a cute young bombshell who works at a harbor as a bartender. It's a town defined by it's shores; the way Pittsburgh is the city of steel or how bourbon puts the smallest counties of Kentucky on the map. The town that Brandy calls home is one that likely wouldn't be there without the harbor. Every night, life is delivered to the sprawl of quiet streets when a new fleet of ships from all over the world come to moor at the docks of this small port-town to restock.
They never say where exactly the harbor is. Part of what makes the song so enjoyable to me is how the lyrics are filled with unanswered questions and holes for your mind to fill with whatever content you feel fit. Brandy could be a NorCalanese brunette, working nights at one of the several bars which line the docks deep in the San Francisco Bay to pay off student debt. Some may picture Brandy being the only American on staff at an island dive in the Caribbean, a place where only the cruise ship crews go to avoid the tourists. Hell she could be in Höfn, Iceland for all we know; hosting idle chitchat with Sean O'Connell and Walter Mitty.
 |
| "There's a port on a western bay, and it serves a hundred ships a day. Lonely sailors pass the time away and talk about their homes." |
Brandy is hot, that much we do know. She's very popular among the sailors who never see her no more than a few times a year. She gets them drunk for cheap and enjoys hearing about all the distant places her patrons have seen. Brandy probably has a studio apartment within walking distance from the bar filled with trinkets and oddities the sailors bring her. I picture a bunch of socially awkward old men trying to impress a a beautiful young girl with an array of crap.
"This is a machete from the Island of Roatán! I know there's no rainforests around here, but if there were you'd be prepared, Brandy!"
"This bottle of Port came from a port in Portugal that's literally called Port! And you work at a port! Funny huh? It's actually really gross and you wouldn't like it, but I heard fancy people drink it!"
"It's authentic Moroccan leather, they make it with bird shit in a bacteria ridden cesspit in the middle of the medina, but it's softer than any other leather!"
Although among the ranks of desperate men crying for her attention, there does seem to be one sailor who stands out. She always looks forward to seeing him over the thousands of bachelors she serves. Gifts from this charming sailor are different than the rest. She wears the jewelry he brings her, drinks the overseas wine he chooses for her, and keeps every reminder of him nearby.
The young seaman falls pretty hard for her. His whole life he's never questioned spending his life on the water. He's one of us who, at the most fundamental level, possess whatever gene it is that draws our undivided attention to the vastness of the globe and our need to conquer it. It's the only thing that matters in life, going completely unquestioned for most of it, and only ever possibly changed by a girl: Brandy, whose "eyes could steal a sailor from the sea."
 |
| "Brandy wears a braided chain made of the finest silver from the north of Spain; a locket, that bears the name, of the man that Brandy loves." |
It's a decision we all have to make as men of the sea, the sky, and the road. Secure our angel for good and implant our roots into the soil of a single town, or make do with the one or two weeks out of each month we can actually spend with her. Some blame it on the stubbornness of man or the lack of compassion for our families, but almost all of us choose the latter without much thought. "The sailor said 'Brandy, you're a fine girl, what a good wife you would be. But my life, my love, and my lady is the sea.'" The man stays a sailor, and Brandy stays in her harbor by herself.
Of course we can bring our companions along for the journey every now and then, or craftily set our schedule up to maximize the our time on the ground, but the heart-sinking reality is never forgotten. We will spend far more time holding the yoke or the helm than our sweethearts at night, we will playfully flirt with chop and turbulence more than our wives and children, and the wings pinned to our chest or the curl sewn to our sleeves will feel like a promise harder to uphold than the rings on our finger. It may seem selfish, but the euphoria given to us from the clouds and waves outweigh the guilt of leaving her at home for weeks at a time.
 |
| "Brandy used to watch his eyes when he told his sailor stories. She could feel the ocean fall and rise, she saw its raging glory." |
And that's the awful part: feeling overjoyed as you rotate your 800,000 pound mistress to part ways with land, and simultaneously nauseated as your Brandy, proudly waving from the fence, fades from view. I imagine it doesn't matter how much adoration you have for flight, contacting your domicile's approach will always feel a thousand times better than switching from it's tower to departure.
I'd really hate to imagine living a life like Brandy and the sailor. I hope my life doesn't have to be torn between the sky and my loved ones. It seems like the happiest people we know are the guys who say their family is all that's important to them; but that's what separates sailors and aviators from the average man. Unfortunately, the life of an airline pilot isn't much negotiable. Christmases will be spent in hotels, birthdays will be celebrated via Skype, and the master schedule is made without taking into account how little time you spent at home last month. The one thing that is promised when the schedule comes out, is that a pilot's incessant need to fly will be satisfied for another month.
I hate admitting it, but I'm no different than the sailor in the song. Every pilot in the world will come to the point where he feels the same way. Flight is what drives us, and spending another month on the line is the priority for everyone like me. It'd be blatantly false to say we don't love the people we are forced leave at home; but the even the most love-struck sailor will soon kiss Brandy goodbye and a reluctantly confess to her "my life, my love, and my lady, is the sea."
And Brandy, just like any woman who shares her husband with his wings, "does her best to understand."
*This does not include the city of Memphis.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Time to Find My Riot Shield
Well it's Championship Day again. Every couple of years it seems the UK basketball team makes it to the championship and Lexington makes the national news for rioting in the streets until 5am after we win. I've been to only two of these riots, but good lord I have never seen anything that comes even close to the level of insanity State Street establishes.
Every high school and college student who actively participates in western nightlife culture has seen the movie Project X. I'd recommend checking it out whenever you get a cheap chance to do so. It basically shadows the experiences of a partying amateur who gets in way over his head upon throwing a little soiree at his parents house. It turned out to be massive; like excessively colossal. The poor kid had no chance. In his circle of friends was a serious marketing genius who had radio stations and television ads promoting this house party. The entire student body of all the nearby universities heard about it through word of mouth, and by Friday evening everyone in the city and even the surrounding counties knew about and were ready to attend this party.
You can kind of see where this is going. Thousands of people showed up, including celebrities and riot police. No one was less than blackout drunk. Everything ended up on fire. Cars were flipped. People went home with gunshot wounds. It got out of hand pretty fast. The movie ends when the Saturday morning sun rises, shedding light upon the widespread carnage.
When the movie gained some major popularity, of course all of the buzz-kill police commissioners and political officials came out with statements about how terrible the movie is because it actually makes the young members America's party-scene feel the absolute need to attend such a crazy party. I'd hate to say it, but the only thing on my mind as I left the movie theater was partying harder than ever. The buzz-kills all over T.V. were exactly right; everyone who saw Project X wanted nothing more but to destroy a city in an out-of-hand party.
Of course the months following were filled with news stories about idiot teenagers attempting to recreate the movie and causing thousands of dollars of unnecessary damage. It happened every weekend somewhere in the first world; someone would sacrifice their parents house, invite everyone with a pulse, and try to create the opportunity to experience what Project X was all about. Unfortunately though, every single imitation attempt honestly ended up being the Great Value brand of Project X.
That held true until March 31st, 2012 in Lexington Kentucky. Just like the rest of the nation, Project X was fresh in our minds here at the University of Kentucky. When our team beat our most-hate rival, Louisville, in the Final Four, all the reagents for a recipe for disaster were present and abundant. Tens of thousands of very drunk people ran out into the streets abeam campus, setting anything and everything on fire, flipping cars, uprooting traffic signs, getting girls to flash, and fending off riot police. It took every factor that made Project X the most potentially desirable event any of us could imagine, and amplified the effect of it.
It's something every club-dwelling party connoisseur wishes they could experience just once. Seeing pillars of smoke rise above the shoulder-to-shoulder crowed from the scattered distribution of furniture fires; having a police officer dressed in full riot gear shield bash the person in front of you who just chucked a beer bottle into the swarm; getting tear gassed or feeling a rubber pellet bounce off of you as the riot police demonstrate their ability to open fire when it gets too rough; the lingering feeling that you might not make it out alive; everything we saw in Project X and daydreamed about ended up being reality. In fact, I watched the movie shortly after surviving what would forever be known as Project Lex and I actually felt like the party portrayed in the movie was a little on the calm side. I can't even find a way to exaggerate what I'm trying to describe, it's literally the craziest night of partying you could ever imagine.
And it happened again! And again! And again! There have been like four of these riots! I have yet to stumble upon anything on the internet that suggests a crazier party has been had. The closest thing I can come up with is the nonstop week-long fiesta that was produced in order to film the movie that I just described as calm by comparison. I'm sure that at some time in history there has been something to top Lexington after winning a championship. Regardless, I feel safe to say almost everyone who's ever existed on Earth, save the 20,000 UK students out there with me, will never experience a night even remotely similar to what I get to partake in about three hours from now.
So wish me luck. It kind of feels like the apocalypse; it's as if there's not a soul in this city who believes there will be a tomorrow. Hopefully I make it out unscathed—understand that not everyone does. Until next time...
Every high school and college student who actively participates in western nightlife culture has seen the movie Project X. I'd recommend checking it out whenever you get a cheap chance to do so. It basically shadows the experiences of a partying amateur who gets in way over his head upon throwing a little soiree at his parents house. It turned out to be massive; like excessively colossal. The poor kid had no chance. In his circle of friends was a serious marketing genius who had radio stations and television ads promoting this house party. The entire student body of all the nearby universities heard about it through word of mouth, and by Friday evening everyone in the city and even the surrounding counties knew about and were ready to attend this party.
You can kind of see where this is going. Thousands of people showed up, including celebrities and riot police. No one was less than blackout drunk. Everything ended up on fire. Cars were flipped. People went home with gunshot wounds. It got out of hand pretty fast. The movie ends when the Saturday morning sun rises, shedding light upon the widespread carnage.
When the movie gained some major popularity, of course all of the buzz-kill police commissioners and political officials came out with statements about how terrible the movie is because it actually makes the young members America's party-scene feel the absolute need to attend such a crazy party. I'd hate to say it, but the only thing on my mind as I left the movie theater was partying harder than ever. The buzz-kills all over T.V. were exactly right; everyone who saw Project X wanted nothing more but to destroy a city in an out-of-hand party.
Of course the months following were filled with news stories about idiot teenagers attempting to recreate the movie and causing thousands of dollars of unnecessary damage. It happened every weekend somewhere in the first world; someone would sacrifice their parents house, invite everyone with a pulse, and try to create the opportunity to experience what Project X was all about. Unfortunately though, every single imitation attempt honestly ended up being the Great Value brand of Project X.
That held true until March 31st, 2012 in Lexington Kentucky. Just like the rest of the nation, Project X was fresh in our minds here at the University of Kentucky. When our team beat our most-hate rival, Louisville, in the Final Four, all the reagents for a recipe for disaster were present and abundant. Tens of thousands of very drunk people ran out into the streets abeam campus, setting anything and everything on fire, flipping cars, uprooting traffic signs, getting girls to flash, and fending off riot police. It took every factor that made Project X the most potentially desirable event any of us could imagine, and amplified the effect of it.
It's something every club-dwelling party connoisseur wishes they could experience just once. Seeing pillars of smoke rise above the shoulder-to-shoulder crowed from the scattered distribution of furniture fires; having a police officer dressed in full riot gear shield bash the person in front of you who just chucked a beer bottle into the swarm; getting tear gassed or feeling a rubber pellet bounce off of you as the riot police demonstrate their ability to open fire when it gets too rough; the lingering feeling that you might not make it out alive; everything we saw in Project X and daydreamed about ended up being reality. In fact, I watched the movie shortly after surviving what would forever be known as Project Lex and I actually felt like the party portrayed in the movie was a little on the calm side. I can't even find a way to exaggerate what I'm trying to describe, it's literally the craziest night of partying you could ever imagine.
And it happened again! And again! And again! There have been like four of these riots! I have yet to stumble upon anything on the internet that suggests a crazier party has been had. The closest thing I can come up with is the nonstop week-long fiesta that was produced in order to film the movie that I just described as calm by comparison. I'm sure that at some time in history there has been something to top Lexington after winning a championship. Regardless, I feel safe to say almost everyone who's ever existed on Earth, save the 20,000 UK students out there with me, will never experience a night even remotely similar to what I get to partake in about three hours from now.
So wish me luck. It kind of feels like the apocalypse; it's as if there's not a soul in this city who believes there will be a tomorrow. Hopefully I make it out unscathed—understand that not everyone does. Until next time...
On Lock like Fort Knox
What's up world. I'm back in the blogpit. Hold on hold on hold on. Pause. Let's take a moment or two to really appreciate the amount of wit it took to just gracefully concatenate of the words blog and cockpit out of no where. I'm so freaking clever.
So last time I rambled for what seemed like hours about something to do with DLX and Field Training. All necessary shit to include in my life's documentation. I apologize if it was a shitty read, my shoulder was killing me so I took some pain meds and long story short my literary capacity wasn't exactly at full-scale deflect. The good news is that I get to attempt to redeem myself with today's post; the bad news is I took more pain meds so it may be more of the same.
I think last time I promised I was going to tell you more about DLX. More specifically, the plan was to tell you about some of the fairly amusing stories. My drug-induced attention span is really the limiting factor as far as the quality of anything I put out right now, so bare with me and understand I'm trying my hardest (something that 75% of my professors are just completely fucking incapable of doing). So with that, let's dive right in.
When most people think of Fort Knox, they think of one of the most fortified buildings on Earth, a massive fleet of tanks practicing convoys through miles of MOA, America's most high-tech combat training simulation facilities, or whatever else your average educated person has seen on Modern Marvels in the past 20 years. The base's reputation is similar to something like Alcatraz. It's just one of those places that has a rather fierce impression on the public; so much so that the term "Fort Knox" has become a pretty common cliche.
It's safe to say you've probably heard someone exaggerating the power and security of something, nonchalantly using Fort Knox as an exact synonym to describe the ridiculous measures you're willing to go to to protect something, typically something really stupid. (E.g. "Someone stole my sandwich right out of the break-room fridge again. I'm done playing games with Professor Five Fingers. We're at DEFCON 1 now. My lunchbox is on Fort Knox status. Maximum security 24/7/365. Starting tomorrow all shields are going all the way up. Step 1: zip-tie the zipper on my lunchbox. Let's see Sargent Shithead steal my food now. Checkmate bitch.") It all clearly shows that Fort Knox has figured out the whole Public Affairs of establishing the base as a high-priority NFA (not fucking around) zone. Like I said, pretty much every average person thinks of it as this bad-ass military super-complex.
Then there's the POC at Det 290. All we think of when we hear "Fort Knox" are shitty barracks with some sewage problems easily identifiable by smell, a depressing and embarrassing attempt at a 'club' (which becomes even sadder when you realize it's the best option you have to get your drink on at Fort Knox), and poorly maintained training equipment. Oh, and gold. We still think of the gold too; I can't say we don't still respect that fortress—the vault's always gonna be cool as hell. But with the exception of the Bullion Depository, the occasional Humvee or Apache you may see, and some of the weapon simulators, Fort Knox is kind of an armpit compared to the somewhat high standard Air Force officers tend to develop. I really hate bashing the other branches but honestly I'm being pretty optimistic by saying it's only "kind of" an armpit. And I pretty much speak for everyone who's been to an Air Force base and Fort Knox in the same year.
It's not without reason though. The intellectual, classy, and more professional breed of officers that make up the Air Force are used to the Air Force bases. The Air Force typically design the bases to match the attributes of the smart and classy population living there. This works very nicely for us in the Air Force. But unfortunately for soldiers, the Army bases also match the culture of the people, which I have personally found to be a little higher in the physical and manly column and a little lower in the classy and cunning column. Air Force bases pretty closely resemble that really nice gated neighborhood in the affluent side of town that has like three golf courses and a country club, while Army bases seem like that part of the city where there's more tattoo parlors than banks. The Army bases are like that part of the city where in the event you have to drive through it for some reason, you make sure you don't take your Audi because of the overly abundant potholes. Fort Knox is no different to an airman.
But that's enough on the unfortunate level of appeal Fort Knox provides to us pompous bitches in the Air Force. It was a long weekend and we ended up spending 3/4ths of DLX cold and wet and wondering what the hell we were doing there since the reason we all committed to Air Force instead of Army was so we'd never have to put up with that shit soldiers do their whole life. Luckily Fort Knox was saving the best for last and gave me some really great fodder to blog about.
Our final training session was in the EST facility, which is a big place with a lot of toys to get soldiers who are going into infantry to get some practice outside of combat as effectively and affordably as possible. EST stands for Engagement Skills Training, which in is just a more structured name for practicing and perfecting the art of blowing shit up. The EST program at Fort Knox is actually one of the more intense weapons simulator the US military uses.
It's actually been on documentaries and Military/History Channel more than once. I haven't looked into it myself but apparently it's America's most expensive and technologically advanced weapons training simulator. I was pretty surprised when I saw it on Modern Marvels and saw on T.V. a demonstration of the Mk 19 fully-functional mockup—the same exact one I've used in past DLX's to blow the turban off of some virtual Taliban bad guys. Twenty-first century grenade launchers aren't exactly small or quiet, a Mk 19 will fire off six explosive boom balls a second and anything and anyone within a half a mile is completely certain to be obliterated if the gunman chooses to do so. Needless to say it's pretty damn cool.
Sometime between March 2013 and March 2014 congress shelled out a cool million dollars on an even newer toy, and get this, they were gracious enough to send us through some training ops. It's called DSTS or Dismounted Soldier Training System. It's basically a virtual reality machine like one that you see in movies, except that DSTS was real life and it worked and most importantly we got to play with it! It was just like you would imagine a virtual reality system to be like; you strapped sensors and a backpack holding a 20lb super computer, then you have a weapon such as an M16 that is all rigged out to be just like a real rifle, and the last piece of equipment that really makes it like the stereotypical virtual reality suit is the helmet with the visor that flips down over your eyes. So then you stand on this black rubber circle and move around just like you would in real life except you just a joystick to walk.
Unfortunately I didn't get the opportunity to play Robocop because my shoulder would've made it too difficult. However, I ended up doing something way more fun. A control center running the whole network of supercomputers was set up in the corner of the room with some army-style portable desks. After a little joking around with the sim-tech and making friends with him, the Wing King (Cadet Garnick) and I earned some playtime on the admin computers.
To help you imagine the setup, picture a big open space with nine rubber pads each holstering a future-tech soldier virtually conducting combat. Then off to the side were some green desks, servers, and three more computer stations with at least two monitors each. The sim-tech was wired into his little command center that looked like the virtual cockpit of something nasty, and he graciously let Garnick and I hook into the silicon-battlefield and go nuts with guns and rocket launchers.
After a little poking around, we—two experienced electrical engineering students—figured out how to tamper with the user interface and make shit happen in the simulation. It started with simply granting us god-like abilities such as teleportation and immortality, but we soon became bored with the minor hacks and more experienced with the programming. One thing lead to another and within an hour the poor, confused, and blindsided GMC cadets who were suited up and in the game were barraged with levitating camels, superhero Taliban, and Humvees falling from the sky; all of which were controlled directly by the role models in the command module.
You can imagine the humor behind a bunch of college kids coming to the world's most advanced combat training system, learning how to use it to fuck with 200s, and doing just that. They don't seem to include much about that on the History Channel. Anyway, another storybook to archive in the National Library of Decker's Life. I'm sure it will be told over many scotches during length layovers to come. Hopefully you enjoyed it. Now I gotta get to work on this Programming Assignment. Until next time...
So last time I rambled for what seemed like hours about something to do with DLX and Field Training. All necessary shit to include in my life's documentation. I apologize if it was a shitty read, my shoulder was killing me so I took some pain meds and long story short my literary capacity wasn't exactly at full-scale deflect. The good news is that I get to attempt to redeem myself with today's post; the bad news is I took more pain meds so it may be more of the same.
I think last time I promised I was going to tell you more about DLX. More specifically, the plan was to tell you about some of the fairly amusing stories. My drug-induced attention span is really the limiting factor as far as the quality of anything I put out right now, so bare with me and understand I'm trying my hardest (something that 75% of my professors are just completely fucking incapable of doing). So with that, let's dive right in.
When most people think of Fort Knox, they think of one of the most fortified buildings on Earth, a massive fleet of tanks practicing convoys through miles of MOA, America's most high-tech combat training simulation facilities, or whatever else your average educated person has seen on Modern Marvels in the past 20 years. The base's reputation is similar to something like Alcatraz. It's just one of those places that has a rather fierce impression on the public; so much so that the term "Fort Knox" has become a pretty common cliche.
It's safe to say you've probably heard someone exaggerating the power and security of something, nonchalantly using Fort Knox as an exact synonym to describe the ridiculous measures you're willing to go to to protect something, typically something really stupid. (E.g. "Someone stole my sandwich right out of the break-room fridge again. I'm done playing games with Professor Five Fingers. We're at DEFCON 1 now. My lunchbox is on Fort Knox status. Maximum security 24/7/365. Starting tomorrow all shields are going all the way up. Step 1: zip-tie the zipper on my lunchbox. Let's see Sargent Shithead steal my food now. Checkmate bitch.") It all clearly shows that Fort Knox has figured out the whole Public Affairs of establishing the base as a high-priority NFA (not fucking around) zone. Like I said, pretty much every average person thinks of it as this bad-ass military super-complex.
Then there's the POC at Det 290. All we think of when we hear "Fort Knox" are shitty barracks with some sewage problems easily identifiable by smell, a depressing and embarrassing attempt at a 'club' (which becomes even sadder when you realize it's the best option you have to get your drink on at Fort Knox), and poorly maintained training equipment. Oh, and gold. We still think of the gold too; I can't say we don't still respect that fortress—the vault's always gonna be cool as hell. But with the exception of the Bullion Depository, the occasional Humvee or Apache you may see, and some of the weapon simulators, Fort Knox is kind of an armpit compared to the somewhat high standard Air Force officers tend to develop. I really hate bashing the other branches but honestly I'm being pretty optimistic by saying it's only "kind of" an armpit. And I pretty much speak for everyone who's been to an Air Force base and Fort Knox in the same year.
It's not without reason though. The intellectual, classy, and more professional breed of officers that make up the Air Force are used to the Air Force bases. The Air Force typically design the bases to match the attributes of the smart and classy population living there. This works very nicely for us in the Air Force. But unfortunately for soldiers, the Army bases also match the culture of the people, which I have personally found to be a little higher in the physical and manly column and a little lower in the classy and cunning column. Air Force bases pretty closely resemble that really nice gated neighborhood in the affluent side of town that has like three golf courses and a country club, while Army bases seem like that part of the city where there's more tattoo parlors than banks. The Army bases are like that part of the city where in the event you have to drive through it for some reason, you make sure you don't take your Audi because of the overly abundant potholes. Fort Knox is no different to an airman.
But that's enough on the unfortunate level of appeal Fort Knox provides to us pompous bitches in the Air Force. It was a long weekend and we ended up spending 3/4ths of DLX cold and wet and wondering what the hell we were doing there since the reason we all committed to Air Force instead of Army was so we'd never have to put up with that shit soldiers do their whole life. Luckily Fort Knox was saving the best for last and gave me some really great fodder to blog about.
Our final training session was in the EST facility, which is a big place with a lot of toys to get soldiers who are going into infantry to get some practice outside of combat as effectively and affordably as possible. EST stands for Engagement Skills Training, which in is just a more structured name for practicing and perfecting the art of blowing shit up. The EST program at Fort Knox is actually one of the more intense weapons simulator the US military uses.
It's actually been on documentaries and Military/History Channel more than once. I haven't looked into it myself but apparently it's America's most expensive and technologically advanced weapons training simulator. I was pretty surprised when I saw it on Modern Marvels and saw on T.V. a demonstration of the Mk 19 fully-functional mockup—the same exact one I've used in past DLX's to blow the turban off of some virtual Taliban bad guys. Twenty-first century grenade launchers aren't exactly small or quiet, a Mk 19 will fire off six explosive boom balls a second and anything and anyone within a half a mile is completely certain to be obliterated if the gunman chooses to do so. Needless to say it's pretty damn cool.
Sometime between March 2013 and March 2014 congress shelled out a cool million dollars on an even newer toy, and get this, they were gracious enough to send us through some training ops. It's called DSTS or Dismounted Soldier Training System. It's basically a virtual reality machine like one that you see in movies, except that DSTS was real life and it worked and most importantly we got to play with it! It was just like you would imagine a virtual reality system to be like; you strapped sensors and a backpack holding a 20lb super computer, then you have a weapon such as an M16 that is all rigged out to be just like a real rifle, and the last piece of equipment that really makes it like the stereotypical virtual reality suit is the helmet with the visor that flips down over your eyes. So then you stand on this black rubber circle and move around just like you would in real life except you just a joystick to walk.
Unfortunately I didn't get the opportunity to play Robocop because my shoulder would've made it too difficult. However, I ended up doing something way more fun. A control center running the whole network of supercomputers was set up in the corner of the room with some army-style portable desks. After a little joking around with the sim-tech and making friends with him, the Wing King (Cadet Garnick) and I earned some playtime on the admin computers.
To help you imagine the setup, picture a big open space with nine rubber pads each holstering a future-tech soldier virtually conducting combat. Then off to the side were some green desks, servers, and three more computer stations with at least two monitors each. The sim-tech was wired into his little command center that looked like the virtual cockpit of something nasty, and he graciously let Garnick and I hook into the silicon-battlefield and go nuts with guns and rocket launchers.
After a little poking around, we—two experienced electrical engineering students—figured out how to tamper with the user interface and make shit happen in the simulation. It started with simply granting us god-like abilities such as teleportation and immortality, but we soon became bored with the minor hacks and more experienced with the programming. One thing lead to another and within an hour the poor, confused, and blindsided GMC cadets who were suited up and in the game were barraged with levitating camels, superhero Taliban, and Humvees falling from the sky; all of which were controlled directly by the role models in the command module.
You can imagine the humor behind a bunch of college kids coming to the world's most advanced combat training system, learning how to use it to fuck with 200s, and doing just that. They don't seem to include much about that on the History Channel. Anyway, another storybook to archive in the National Library of Decker's Life. I'm sure it will be told over many scotches during length layovers to come. Hopefully you enjoyed it. Now I gotta get to work on this Programming Assignment. Until next time...
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