Fleadership

There's a healthy, good-natured ribbing AFIT receives from her students. Last year's student coin expressed the motto of the student body: Learning through Repetition and Rote Memorization. There was also a title slide template going around that had a picture of the campus buildings with the slogan underneath, "The 'L' in AFIT stands for 'Leadership'".

A classmate came up with own slide motto yesterday that was particularly appropriate:

"Strategic Leadership: a degree so well-rounded, it's pointless"

Stalking in the 21st century

My Pregnant Wife called me from her cell phone while driving back home down I-95. I asked her which exit she was near, and what cars were around her and, navigating over to the wtopnews DOT COM! website, I clicked on the traffic cameras, and, sure enough, there she was in the middle lane behind the Chevy pick-up.

Granted, that's no 'watch the Panda give birth'-cam, but it's still pretty cool to me.

Technology. Bringing you that much closer to knowing your spouse's every whereabouts.

Oop. That dude's picking his nose. Gross.

Nature Creeps Me Out

I've dissected a frog, seen "Faces of Death" and enjoyed morgue shots of self-inflicted gunshot wounds in a Criminal Justice class in college.

But there's something about the alien appendage freaky fungus eyeball spindly spuddy-long-legs veiney viney vegetable virusy things that grow out of an old potato that just gives me the willies.

Hoo, me.

A month ago, I volunteered to play the mascot at the annual AFIT picnic (my resume's padded with this kind of work), not realizing then that it would mean dancing "wiggles" songs I don't know with children I know less well.
I took the costume home to try it on, and the first thing I noticed was the stunning lack of an orifice, which you usually find in your common house owl, through which I'd be able to stick a bottle of water, so I bought a Camelback to wear underneath so I'd have my own water supply. It worked gdait, as they say in Scotland.
Unfortunately, I was short a wife and appropriately placed safety pins, so the back zipper kept opening and the legs kept sliding down. I had considered shaving my legs, but figured that the older people would know there was a guy in there anyway, and the children who were young enough to buy a giant owl wouldn't care if it had hairy legs. And I finally had to break my mascot code of silence by asking a confused woman for help (from behind a mask and with a Camelback tube in my mouth):
"Can you zip me up?"
"Can I whut?"
"Can you zip me up?"
(Incredulous): "Can I pick you u-up?"
Otherwise, I did my best to mingle and tickle and wave and hug and embarrass. I helped a girl with Bingo. I stole some guy's burger. I sat on a Colonel. I fenced with an umbrella.
But the piece de Swayzistance was doing the Hot Potato and The Unicorn and the Pointy Fingered Twist with the band. Two AFIT students and two instructors sang the songs and played guitars, maybe a half-dozen kids bounced around with us, and -- amazingly -- no one applauded after any of the songs. I was the one in big yellow feet and I was embarrassed for the band. How rude.
But, ultimately, the little spuds seemed to enjoy themselves. One mom told her 2yr-old son to go over and give me a hug, and instead, he gave me a kiss.
Shucks.

Hoo Let the Dan Out

It was important to me that I retained my anonynimat
my anonymoun
that no one knew who I was while parading around as (groan) "Owlfie". Not that I care if people found out afterwards, but it takes something away if you know the person on the inside. Freedom. I heard many comments from people wondering who it was in the suit, and two people guessed it might be the Commandant, an AF Brigadier General (particularly after I'd decked the Vice Commandant, a Navy Captain). The problem was that we're in the thick of things at school, with several group projects due these last two weeks. One of my groups wanted to get together to work on our briefing, and suggested this particular Friday, but I said I'd be helping set up for the Fest (which was true) in the morning. Maybe late afternoon? We agreed on 2pm at the beer tent.
So sometime in there (Owlfie doesn't wear a watch, nor a wedding ring, which was very odd -- I never realized how often I absent-mindedly rub my ring; its absence was jarring), I sauntered over and saw two of my group members.
Big Right Wing Wave.
"Hi, owl."
I pointed, as much as you can while standing in a quilt, at Jay's watch. I pointed at Rob. I pointed at me.
"I think he wants a beer."
Our briefing was supposed to cover drug legalization; I thought I'd try charades, and tried to mimic someone shooting heroin into his arm.
"Sounds like...?" Rob tried.
Without being able to chastise him on his charade-solving category knowledge, I decided to let him go with sounds like, and gave him a hug. Drug sounds like hug.
"Okay, dude, you have way too hairy knees to be hugging me."
I wandered off in a faux-avian huff.
No, dammit. No--these guys will not be left thinking Dan had blown them off. Once more into the breach.
Firmer big right wing wave. Dammit.
"You must be pretty hot in there."
I pointed at Jay's watch again. At Rob. At Rob's book bag.

"...Maybe this is Dan the Man here!"
Good ol' Jay.

Must Love Dogs

I mean, when you meet a dauchsund named "Hercules" who's curled up in an upper desk drawer recovering from surgery but wagging a pencil of a tail and licking your nose with a tongue the size of a postage stamp, how can you not?
Other stars of Thursday's show were Roxy the Boxer, Collin the Collie, Aubrey the something, and Roy the Hound with brown spots, or as we call them in Space Command, 'satellite footprints'. He didn't seem to care.

Don't Leave Home Without Me

It was nice to have an identity once.
I have received notification from three different agencies in the past six months -- twice this week alone -- that a database with my "sensitive" information has been accessed by someone using that unbelievably clever and unexpected tool of subterfuge, the computer. As a result, my credit status is locked down so tightly that anyone not knowing my secret codeword* with the banks won't be able to get so much as free toothpaste coupons in the mail.

Speaking of which, I have another proposition for Corporate America. Since people usually brush their teeth first thing in the morning, and some people are up all night doing papers for AFIT and aren't getting much sleep and tend to be groggy at said first thing, the people who make Neosporin should really put their product in something other than a squeezable tube.

*bugaloo

Literati

I am confused as to what to do if the packaging says to rotate the item halfway through its microwavable minute mandate if your microwave has a built-in rotating floor. If I'm supposed to only rotate halfway through, will it explode if it rotates continuously? Transport to another dimension? Come out in a skimpy red blue and gold bikini as Wonder Burrito?
You would think that now, thirty years after microwave ovens were a daily item up for bid for Bob Barker and the Redheaded Sultrigal ($450!), the instructions would be more clear for the various options out there.
As a gent reminded me at my job in Colorado when we had finally turned on the security alarms in a civilian facility: I put a note up on the door that explained the change in policy, namely, "This door must remain closed at all times."
After a question from one of our contractors, I amended the note:
"...unless you need to get from one side of the door to the other."

Adopted Ain't His Name-O

Because it was hot and sunny, I didn't want to keep the dogs outside in the heat too long, but that meant I got to walk every adoptable dog in the haunt. Heather and Buddy and CiCi (still) and Lulu and Fred and Bingo. Also more time to spend with the kitties. Apex and Minerva are my current favorites. Friendly to the point of ridiculous.
Buddy, a Basset Hound, surprised the hell out of me. Ears like too-long curtains, I had to bend over because he never got his nose off the ground, but although most dogs of that breed have the energy level of your average ottoman, Buddy was pulling me all over town. He was a cruise missile with ears.
And he got adopted the next day.

My brother is a cheapskate

Which could also be the title of an entry on his blog.
I, too, have not purchased a pair of running shoes that wasn't on sale or cheap as hell. Ever. My last pair I bought just last month on base were around $29. It is amazing to me that sneakers can cost more than $100, even $200. Maybe more. Who knows. I'm no Dion Sanders.
I am fine with inflation. Because I know how much gas costs in the rest of the world ($7/gallon in England, last I checked), these newsbusting headlines of $3 gas in California don't bother me. Just because cars cost $8,000 in 1982 doesn't mean that I think they should now.
But I'm all about bargains, sales, hunting for lower prices for the same quality. Then I splurge when necessary and take my wife to the Plaza or get Really Interesting Pop-Tart Flavors for my brother for Christmas.
I think I've always been like this. I remember moving back to the states when I was 15 and my parents said they would set up a separate cable hookup for my bedroom, but when I heard it was an extra ten bucks a month, I told them not to bother. Their eyes met. "What a boy we've raised," their expression seemed to say.
The military does not make one rich, but you can be comfortable if you live within your means. As recently as 2001, I was still struggling to make ends meet while owning my first house and first dog, often living paycheck to paycheck (me, not her). College, I would not have survived but for a monthly stipend from my father to augment my lowly Ponderosa tips.
I remember when I was a Second Lieutenant at my first training base in Denver, where the big thing was to play ping-pong on breaks, to the point where if the table in the break room was occupied, we'd slam two tables together and jam binders into the cracks to act as the net. One night at the mall, I decided to buy a six-pack of ping-pong balls, and it occurred to me that five months earlier, my hourly wage for filling the food bar with shredded carrots and wiping spills off of tables could barely fill my freezer with forty-nine-cent Kroger frozen pizzas, and here I was, "rich" enough to blow $1.98 on ping-pong balls.
Today, with the wife and I living a yes for now we'll go on living separate lives, I think we're both doing a good job of keeping costs down. I haven't seen a movie at the regular theater since the end of May. I can see recent (about a month old) movies on base for $3.50 and slightly older ones at the dollar theater. And I've also taken advantage of a little quirk they have in Ohio charging sales tax: if you get a food order to go, there is no sales tax added. So people basically have to pay the State government for the privilege of warming a restaurant's seats with their buttcheeks. So what do I do? Go in, order something to go, and sit in the parking lot eating it in the car, perhaps reading a magazine, waving at the people inside subsidising local school districts. Subway, Chipotle, Schlotsky's Deli, Boston Market, everywhere. I save from forty to eighty cents each time. It's silly, I know. But if I hit five places in a week, that's a couple bucks, eight bucks a month, maybe seventy-five bucks a year.
And that buys a lot of Pop-Tarts.

Nice Pants

I am still amazed by people sometimes.
Today I got down to my car and had to stand there like a moron for a few minutes with my hand reaching in behind my shirt buttons because my book bag had knocked my nametag off one of its frogs.* I finally got in, and as I turned the car on, I noticed someone right at my window staring at me.
I rolled down the window. Little guy carrying stereo speakers and some clothes. He just wanted to thank me.
? said my expression.
"I wanted to say I appreciate you for being in the service."
I thanked him in return, because that just never ceases to amaze me when someone can come up and do that. I can't even tell someone in the elevator that they have a nice outfit to make small talk.

*the metal claspy thing that keeps the pokey thing in place.

I am literally a bonehead

People tend to overuse that word (Literally) in casual conversation and writing. In 1991, my Commandant of Cadets at Indiana U. was telling me how bad training camp used to be and how the "drill sergeants made your life a living hell and literally crapped on you." I paused and contemplated his words, and then said, "They didn't literally crap on you..." He was being metaphorical. I understand. But he insinuated his example was actual and factual. (This is also the same man who said we should "always strive, in our careers, to get the fresh poop straight from the horse's mouth.") So I protest. In life. Champion of literal literal causes.
It really annoys people, too.
For instance, the title of this here blog entry: while I do believe I have intelligence above that of the median ursine picnicker, I do happen to also have a very large, if malleable in my case, bone in my head. So call me that if you will. I also just think I'm more literal than most people are comfortable with which.
For another example: this weekend, I flew home so My Pregnant Wife and I could attend a 28-week pregnancy course at Fort Belvoir, where she will probably give birth, assuming they're not full at the time. (Tip of the day: "Full" is "plein" in French which can also mean "pregnant," so teenage daughters or exchange students need to be careful at their french dinnertables.)
We watched a couple videos and discussed some of the various decisions we'd have to make (keep the cord blood? get an epidural? bring Metallica CDs?), and got a quick tour of the delivery rooms and post-pardum & nursery areas. We met an anesthesiologist, who was trying to allay fears about pain medication's effects on the mother or the baby, so he asked the room who had previously had an epidural, and I raised my hand.
Now. People think I was being a smart-ass. I have had 3 epidural injections, though the room didn't need to know my life story, particularly the spanish-speaking woman in the altogether inappropriately low-cut shirt. But I'm not going to lie to the man. I'm an Air Force officer.
If he'd wanted to know which women in the room had had an epidural, he could have said.
Literally.
'sall I'm saying.

It's a large chiton

This is O'Connor. He was a little distant but was glad to be out of his cage for a while. The other two dogs I walked and hung out with are recent arrivals without pictures; a labbish girl named Heather and a female Rottweiler, both very very nice. Heather would walk a few feet and then lie down in front of me so I would rub her belly. When I did, she'd close her eyes, in her own world. Scratch the Rotty down the spine and she was in doggy heaven, not knowing which back leg to reflexively help out with.
I wish I could do more there, but it's a small outfit with little direction. So I walk who they tell me to walk and pet cats in the kennels up front.
We had another astronaut (and former AFIT graduate) guest-lecture today; our third so far. He didn't mention a lot of Strategic Leadership graduates that go on to be mission specialists. He did say that he grows 2 inches taller when he's in orbit, so they have to send you up with clothes that accommodate.
Yesterday, we watched a movie about the Exxon Valez oil spill, so that was fun watching all the dead animals. Our reading said that in 12 years after the 1989 catastrohpe, only 2 of 24 major species had recovered. One of them was not the gumboot.
I asked my instructor what a gumboot was; she didn't know. I asked Rich from Mississippi if he knew, since it sounds like something Mississippian. No.
Got to Statistics class, Dr. Han started out with his usual shut-the-class-up announcement: "Do you have any question?"
"Do you know what a gumboot is?"
"Heh?"
So I looked it up. It's not attractive. It looks like excrecetory organic matter. I think we could have sacrificed a lot more of them if it would have meant the otters and birds would have survived.

Left unexplained by the multiple websites out there on the gumboot is whether or not the plural is gumboots or gumbeet.

Hacajawea

Understandably in a summer full of 100+ degree heat indexes and a medicine ball stuffed in her underoos, My Pregnant Wife cut over 10 inches off of her hair last week. She donated the braid to "Locks of Love," a foundation that makes wigs for children cancer patients. Which I think is just the coolest thing in the world.

There are those on the planet who have met me who assumed I would be crushed, upset, shocked, rancid, ubiquitous, French, or esurient. However, I proposed to, married, and love the woman underneath the hair, so it's really a moot point. Even as a child, I loved the cake more than the icing. And no one likes cake with a lot of hair on it.
My allegories are suffering as much as my poetry.
It also helps that she looks awful cute. And lest you nu-uhsayers out there think I toot smoke, remember that I fell in love with her when she had hair shorter than mine in High School.

d-minus-80

My Pregnant Wife left me a voicemail today informing me that we have 80 days left before we are no longer childless. While some people about to be married go out and sew their wild wheetabix, I am not sure of the procedure for celebrating unenkidcumbered marriage. Perhaps I will stay up until 2 and do homework. No doing that when I'm a dad, no sirrie. I'd get talcum powder all over my calculator.
Many of you have asked if we've picked out a name for the little bugger yet, and while we're down to a short list, we have decided to meet the little fellow before arbitrarily picking a name now that doesn't fit. Especially if he turns out to be ovarily surplused and tinkily challenged, since the pictures at right could be displaying a ham on rye and I wouldn't see it. I can tell you that neither of us want anything too out of the ordinary (his last name is unique enough without calling him Thelbert or Vlad or Ignacious), but did want something not every Tom, Dick, and Jacob has out there these days.

Also important is distinguishing him from the pets. We don't want to be calling for the boy and have one of the dogs think it's time for a bath. So avoiding anything that rhymes with Bailey, Dover, and Griffin, we are forced to leave out... Bailey ...... Grover .... and .... uh... Squiffin.

Remember, I'm not taking poetry classes here, give me a break.

dropoff-minus-79 here in a few minutes...

This is one well-rested case

*sigh*

3 points for those of you still playing along in this gripping drama:

1) Although pictures from the 1970s seem to display the contrary, most individuals do not actually have blazing red eyeballs when photographed at night. This is called a trick of light as the object's reflections were burned onto the film (which may or may not have had Potassium in it), rendering overall positive color pattern identification altogether impeachable.

2) If the original photo were indeed my taller lankier brother (circa 1974) cradling the cat in his arms, the cat, whose length runs from the subject's forehead down to the middle of the thigh (fetal position notwithstanding), would have been the size of your typical petting zoo goat. While Peter did have a weight problem, he certainly did not have a length problem.

3) A separate photo from the era shows an obvious Browns fan wearing the Pants of Hot while blatantly showing some leg between pantcuff and brown sock (as well as a belly that would portend things to come). These particular pantaloons, if worn by my fraternal beanpole, would have stopped at about the kneecap.

I yield the floor to my esteemed colleague, Richard Tracy.

How'd You Ever Track Me Down?

It occurred to me in the shower today that someday soon I will get to show my son "Star Wars" and wondered how I'd do it. If you show it chronologically, the special effects kind of dworp out after Episode III, which may confuse him. It would be like reading Shakespeare and the last half of the book be covered in Dr. Seuss cartoons.

Also, Episode V would lack the suspense it held before we knew the full arc of the story. No. (Fist) I am your father. Well duh.

Then it further hit me, not that I was especially dirty and needed an extended shower but rather that things tend to hit me quickly in rapid succession like when I came up for the idea of drawing black lines on a Legg's carton and taping a soda can pull tab to the top to make it look like a grenade for my oral report on Potassium in the 8th grade and during the report I'd "accidentally" pull the pin and freak out and hold up a sign on a stick that read "BOOM!" and get a big laugh and

where was I

ah yes, water hitting me, long galaxy far ago, right. It occurred to me that if Obi-Wan had anything above the mental capacity of a bucket of Rancor drool, when he hid the baby on some random planet where his father was from, he might have considered changing the boy's last name to "Smith" or something.

(Fist) "Scour the galaxy! I must find my child. He could be anywhere!"
Random nobody with a British accent: "There's a Skywalker here in the phone book, do you suppose...?"

P.S. I realize that Darth makes the (Fist) when he says they can rule the galaxy as father and son, but it was best to visually include it here.

P.P.S. dworp. /dworp'/ (fr. dworper) v. 1. to pitter out unexpectedly; a sudden sufferment in quality. 2. (archaic) n. a small rubber hat for show ponies.

Shower off the mud

Ordinarily, I would have kept this to a select few family members, but I feel I must clear my name that has been harshly dragged through the tarpits, spat upon, and tickled under the armpits upon these very pages:

That is me, yes ME, in the shirt that looks like a moccasin and the sexy plaid pants that got me girls from Rapid City to Sioux Falls.
You may notice a similar outfit on a similar person spooning with Pedro el gato in the photo below.
I believe that timothy and Mrs. McKnight can find it, put it in a cup, and ingest it through a straw.

OH MY GOOD LORD & BUTTER!

BREAKING news from the Dayton Daily News!

Oprah's Coming to Dayton!
Talk show host Oprah Winfrey and poet laureate Maya Angelou are coming to Dayton in September. Details are sketchy, but their Sept. 12 visit

Well, never mind. I'll be home that week. No autographs for you.

No wonder the star of Caddyshack was Chevy Chase

I went to bed at 7:30 last night (after four straight nights of post-1am bedtimes), so I was good and rested for the shelter, when CiCi the Unadoptable decided she doesn't like gentle leader leashes to the point that she broke out of hers, and was FREE FREE FREE! to run at 40 miles an hour in thirty-eight directions, across streets, through fields, and finally, on to the driving range of the golf course across the way. When I finally got close enough to her, I remembered the trick my wife taught me, and ran away from CiCi, dodging the golf balls nestled between the 150- and 200-yard signs, with the hope that she would think it was play time, and she ran after me. I offered her a treat with one hand and a hassan chop down on her collar with the other, just as two guys came out on a golf cart saying that we're not allowed to be there. I told him next time I'll just let the loose dog crap on all the greens next time. This was an underappreciated comment, I feel.
So. Anyone care to adopt a tornado with legs?
The good news is Harley got adopted, and I assume Trey did, too, since he's no longer there. I also met big King (only 5 months old, will be huge), and little Terra, and pet a couple dozen kitties in their cages. I need to grow four more hands, since when I'm petting two cats, the other four in the kennel stacks are mostly reaching out and pawing at me all My Turn My Turn.
So despite the CiCi sprints, and wanting to bring 19 cats home, it was a good day. It seems I've always been like this.

Statistics Applied

Thanks to my current higher education immersion, I understand this:

Weeks don't end

Hitting burnout midway through the first semester is a bad sign, no?
The thing I hated about my history degree studies was the incredible amount of time it took, encroaching on my work and home life, reading book after book, writing papers all hours, researching and studying at the library on weekends. My wife had a ghost of a husband.
But that was only one or two classes per semester, once a week. Here I've got four classes, each with their own reading and homework requirements, the bulk of which are due on Monday and Wednesday. I had two things due today and have four things due Wednesday, plus I had a take-home midterm Friday, which was 10 essay questions that took me over 6 hours. I was in the AFIT computer lab Saturday night until 1, and last night until midnight finishing one of Wednesday's projects. It's 12:34 right now, having just quit on Qualitative Decision Making homework because I just don't get it. Need to ask someone for help tomorrow (later today, that is). Which means the time I was going to spend doing the other two assignments will be extended while I figure this out.
Two of our professors have realized they're behind schedule, so they're going to start giving take-home quizzes instead of doing them in class. More time lost.
To top it off, I've been getting fair-to-poor grades on most of my quizzes up to this point, leaving little hope for glory at the end of this thing. If I had any desire to know any of this stuff, it would help; I enjoyed my history classes immensely. I am a master procrastinator, but I read everything, do all the work, prepare my best. I just do not have a business economics spreadsheet statistics corporate policy IT mindset. Apparently, I should be left-handed, with this right-brain emphasis of mine.
I would feel worse if my family and animals were here being ignored, but their absence is a different kind of distraction.
The thing I loved about my 11 months at the Pentagon was that I worked zero weekends, and brought work home maybe twice. I went to bed at about the same time I used to when I was 10. There was a separation of work and home. Now, mornings, afternoons, late nights, weekends, it's all about what's due; what's next. But I didn't have a choice. Ultimately, this degree will open doors and benefit my career and my family. I had to come. I've tried to excel. It's hard realizing that I'm not going to.