06-01-2004, 09:42 PM
Gang, if you're interested in hearing what Occhi's up to, I'll quote his latest email (with permission). For those not aware, Occhidiangela is currently stationed near the theatre of war in Iraq at an Air Force base, and is unable to access the Lurker Lounge from there. Text follows:
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Ramblin Rogue Survives Encounter with a Djinn, Finds The Desert No Place to Drink Gin! (Random musings on sandstorms and other things)
If you've never been to Arabia nor lived in a desert, your first sand storm is quite an experience. Luckily, my indoctrination into sand storms was rather mild, winds only 35-45 knots and for only part of the day. As I walked home from work, on that blustery and hot Saturday morning, I leaned into the whirling brown vortex, squinting through my sunglasses to behold a wonderous sight: a sky the color of khaki pants. By craning my neck back and looking straight up into the vertical, I espied a small circlet of pale, tan-tinged blue, proof positive that the sky had not completely changed color while I was at work. Standing that way, head back and looking up at the sky above me through dark sunglasses, was not great for my balance. A gust of wind knocked me off kilter and pushed me up against a concrete barrier designed to slow down truck-borne suicide bombers.
"Good morning, rube, and welcome to the Sand Storm," snickered the voices on the wind. Hmmmm, they should have been speaking in Arabic . . . was the gin from yesterday afternoon still fogging my brain?
Having gotten my attention, the djinn orchestrating this particular whirlwind continued to swirl things about with the expected results: plastic bottles taking flight, small rocks scudding across the pavement, and sand working its way into every crack and crevice available. (For you DII players, the whole scenario made me appreciate the plight of Act II spear cats caught in a Twister or Tornado cast by an Elemental Druid.) It also makes you appreciate why the Bedouins dress the way they do. That said, I have to question the wisdom of anyone who lives, on purpose, in a land where hot sandstorms are frequent occurrence. I guess they grow on you as they blow on you.
Walking home through a sand storm, two and a half miles, is not something I'd recommend you do every day, however, it is doable. Sun glasses or other eye protection, tanker goggles, ski goggles, SCUBA masks, safety glasses, a welder's shield -- anything along those lines will do. Sand in the eyes is a Bad Thing™.
Pulling one's t-shirt up, or other suitable parcel of cloth, to cover one's mouth is highly recommended. Rather than chewing on your air with each gritty breath, you'll be breathing the air the way a smoker inhales tobacco in a filtered cigarette. I can't say if sand or the tar-nicotine mixture is more hazardous to your lungs, but I can say that filtered air breathed that way is warmer than ambient air, which on this particular morning started at 90 degrees F. Call me Hot Lips, but don't make me kiss Major Burns! I was glad the day wasn't really hot yet, it got up to 115 F later. That might have caused chapped lips, at the least. The wind itself was quite warm, which made the whole experience something like being sucked into a vacuum cleaner bag and stuffed into an oven.
So there I was, trudging across the Frozen Tundra . . . sorry, extraneous Zappa lyric there, trudging across the Rocky Waste.
As I wandered home, visibility at the airfield reduced to less than a mile. There is a tower under construction about a mile from the road I trudge home on each morning, and it was barely visible as I turned onto that section of road. The few aircraft departing were on instrument departures, I suspect (who in their right mind flies in that mess anyway?), and the one large plane I saw landing, as it disappeared into the khaki soup, arrived on what I recognized as the final approach course of the local instrument approach. Just like landing in a fog bank, only hotter, grittier, and nastier.
The tower had disappeared from view by the time I made the last turn for home, the "trailer park" that sat rattling in the breeze. It may look like a temporary living space, but give the Air Force civil engineers and the contractors who threw these things up credit: the roof on my trailer was on, and the neighboring structures seemed to be handling the wind with aplomb.
I returned to my humble abode, my cell, changed into casual attire (shorts and a t-shirt con flip flops) and then shook a very small amount of sand out of my boots. Wrapping a towel around my head and face, I headed off through the combination sandblaster-convection oven environment to perform my morning ablutions, the sanitary facilities being some 120 metres from my cell. Sunglasses are required equipment here, for eye protection from the sun as well as from the sand.
One short windy stroll later, my toenails, ears, calves, and heels now sandblasted clean, I entered the local Cadillac.
What, you may ask, is a luxury car doing on an Air Base? Well, let me explain that it is not a car, but rather the appelation for the communal shower and sanitary facilities. You can look on the building/trailer and read the name plate: 22340 Cadillac. No nickname, it is the official designation of the building, much like the word "Library" on the face of your local library. (I wonder if the folks at GM got any royalties from
this.) Those not in the know might go looking for the more conventionally named "Latrine" or the terser Naval version "Head" and be in some discomfort while searching for something hidden in plain sight! (There are clues, though . . .)
Why name a communal restroom "Cadillac?" I have inquired about this at some length, and no one here seems to know for sure. What has been confirmed, however, is that the term originated at a place called "Pee Sab," which is how PSAB sounds when people say it. PSAB is short for "Prince Sultan Air Base." That was the Air Base in Saudi Arabia where the USAF used to run its Persian Gulf Air operations, but a few years back our national affection
(???) for Saudi's, such as Osama and his relatives who happen to own that country, cooled a bit. The ambivalence was, and is still, returned in kind; hence the move to Qatar.
But back to the Cadillac. We do know that an Air Base was thrown up around a tent city, much as was done here, and early latrine facilities there were primative. When the first trailer with shower, urinal, sinks, mirrors, and toilets was opened, the grateful patrons apparently remarked on how the upgrade was like trading in a Yugo for a Cadillac. No specific person has been attributed with that observation, but its a universal agreement of PSAB veterans -- there are quite a few here -- that such was the sentiment when the first Cadillac opened its doors.
Upon entering this temple of toiletry, one must first stop, tears in one's eyes, to appreciate the distinctive air: even though the pipes all allegedly drain into a septic tank, the output does not really want to leave. The solid and liquid components go, but the ether, the vapour, the essense remains. The signature Cadilac aroma is not quite what you'd bottle and market as "eau du caddilac" for $45 per ounce, but it is memorable: it makes you remember to breathe through your mouth, or to bring a gas mask. Not even the 35+ mile per hour winds seem to be able to break up the stinking cloud. (Second level D & D spell, anyone?) For all that, 'tis better by orders of magnitude than a slit trench.
But the real attraction of the Cadillac, in the judgement of this ramblin' rogue, is not its marvelous and necessary functional purpose, but rather the prose and verse emblazoned on the walls of its stalls: the Craphouse Chronicles. Some wag used that alliteration to comment on one of many fine examples of wit. I think that nomme de plume it sums up this form of personal expression rather well. One can watch, much as on an internet forum or newsgroup BB, a train of so-called thought develop, albeit one low on erudition and high on scatalogical content. I won't get into particulars, as I see much the same level of brilliance as was the norm when I first encountered restroom grafitti as a youngster on an Army post, but I did see one little snippet that brought a smile, and one that gave me pause.
It strikes me that some graffitists have moved media, and are now posting on internet forums. Same exercise, different medium. Anonimity, generally desired, is preserved. Kilroy can still be declared as "here." While what is written may have little artistic or literary merit, hundreds, mayhap thousands, of readers will peruse what is offered, for better and for worse. The internet forum is generally an improvement over the craphouse chronicle for at least three reasons: GIF files are usually better art, the spellchecker is more frequently used, and one breathes a bit easier while indulging in the reading. One key advantage of the stall wall is brevity. The environment forces a certain terseness, an economy of words, that the internet forum does not. Rambling prose is rarely a failing of the scribes who write the Craphouse Chronicles.
There is, in the various Volumes of the Craphouse Chronicles, even the occasional conundrum, or snippet of philosophy: psychology even!
Below one thread of conversation, some savant appended "The people running the air campaign write on craphouse walls, go figure!" Following that was the comment "It's therapy." Next entry: "Seems to work, doesn't it?" This made me wonder: did that last fellow mean that running an air campaign is therapy for graffitists, or was graffiti some sort of catharsis, some mental therapy, for those who set up the daily flock of aircraft that fly, or was the air campaign working? As there was no way to click on a link and privately send a message the this insightful analyst, I suppose I shall have to work it out myself. (No, I am not going to do as the constipated mathematician did, and work it out with a pencil . . . )
Comparisons to GIF's aside, beyond the scatalogia is a fine collection of amateur art, frequently featuring the human form, or at least parts of it, in both crude sketches and some pictures that I can only assume are
impressionistic renderings.
Some things never change, though, in the military environment. I found yesterday an old standby, which I have morphed into something a bit less crude than the original. It is the same verse as the first one I ever saw, written on a stall wall in West Berlin Germany, near the Post Exchange, some 33 years ago. Nostalgia did not over come the eau du cadillac, but its brevity allowed me a smile at the faded memory. You can guess at the form of the original, let's call this "Variations on a Theme by Francesco Graffiti!"
He who writes on craphouse walls
Rolls his turds in little balls
He who reads these pithy words
Feasts upon the rolled up turds.
I think I am done here, all the cleaning up afterwards being complete, so I will bid you all a fond farewell and leave you with one thought:
Look before you sit, the dispenser may be empty!
Occhi
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Ramblin Rogue Survives Encounter with a Djinn, Finds The Desert No Place to Drink Gin! (Random musings on sandstorms and other things)
If you've never been to Arabia nor lived in a desert, your first sand storm is quite an experience. Luckily, my indoctrination into sand storms was rather mild, winds only 35-45 knots and for only part of the day. As I walked home from work, on that blustery and hot Saturday morning, I leaned into the whirling brown vortex, squinting through my sunglasses to behold a wonderous sight: a sky the color of khaki pants. By craning my neck back and looking straight up into the vertical, I espied a small circlet of pale, tan-tinged blue, proof positive that the sky had not completely changed color while I was at work. Standing that way, head back and looking up at the sky above me through dark sunglasses, was not great for my balance. A gust of wind knocked me off kilter and pushed me up against a concrete barrier designed to slow down truck-borne suicide bombers.
"Good morning, rube, and welcome to the Sand Storm," snickered the voices on the wind. Hmmmm, they should have been speaking in Arabic . . . was the gin from yesterday afternoon still fogging my brain?
Having gotten my attention, the djinn orchestrating this particular whirlwind continued to swirl things about with the expected results: plastic bottles taking flight, small rocks scudding across the pavement, and sand working its way into every crack and crevice available. (For you DII players, the whole scenario made me appreciate the plight of Act II spear cats caught in a Twister or Tornado cast by an Elemental Druid.) It also makes you appreciate why the Bedouins dress the way they do. That said, I have to question the wisdom of anyone who lives, on purpose, in a land where hot sandstorms are frequent occurrence. I guess they grow on you as they blow on you.
Walking home through a sand storm, two and a half miles, is not something I'd recommend you do every day, however, it is doable. Sun glasses or other eye protection, tanker goggles, ski goggles, SCUBA masks, safety glasses, a welder's shield -- anything along those lines will do. Sand in the eyes is a Bad Thing™.
Pulling one's t-shirt up, or other suitable parcel of cloth, to cover one's mouth is highly recommended. Rather than chewing on your air with each gritty breath, you'll be breathing the air the way a smoker inhales tobacco in a filtered cigarette. I can't say if sand or the tar-nicotine mixture is more hazardous to your lungs, but I can say that filtered air breathed that way is warmer than ambient air, which on this particular morning started at 90 degrees F. Call me Hot Lips, but don't make me kiss Major Burns! I was glad the day wasn't really hot yet, it got up to 115 F later. That might have caused chapped lips, at the least. The wind itself was quite warm, which made the whole experience something like being sucked into a vacuum cleaner bag and stuffed into an oven.
So there I was, trudging across the Frozen Tundra . . . sorry, extraneous Zappa lyric there, trudging across the Rocky Waste.
As I wandered home, visibility at the airfield reduced to less than a mile. There is a tower under construction about a mile from the road I trudge home on each morning, and it was barely visible as I turned onto that section of road. The few aircraft departing were on instrument departures, I suspect (who in their right mind flies in that mess anyway?), and the one large plane I saw landing, as it disappeared into the khaki soup, arrived on what I recognized as the final approach course of the local instrument approach. Just like landing in a fog bank, only hotter, grittier, and nastier.
The tower had disappeared from view by the time I made the last turn for home, the "trailer park" that sat rattling in the breeze. It may look like a temporary living space, but give the Air Force civil engineers and the contractors who threw these things up credit: the roof on my trailer was on, and the neighboring structures seemed to be handling the wind with aplomb.
I returned to my humble abode, my cell, changed into casual attire (shorts and a t-shirt con flip flops) and then shook a very small amount of sand out of my boots. Wrapping a towel around my head and face, I headed off through the combination sandblaster-convection oven environment to perform my morning ablutions, the sanitary facilities being some 120 metres from my cell. Sunglasses are required equipment here, for eye protection from the sun as well as from the sand.
One short windy stroll later, my toenails, ears, calves, and heels now sandblasted clean, I entered the local Cadillac.
What, you may ask, is a luxury car doing on an Air Base? Well, let me explain that it is not a car, but rather the appelation for the communal shower and sanitary facilities. You can look on the building/trailer and read the name plate: 22340 Cadillac. No nickname, it is the official designation of the building, much like the word "Library" on the face of your local library. (I wonder if the folks at GM got any royalties from
this.) Those not in the know might go looking for the more conventionally named "Latrine" or the terser Naval version "Head" and be in some discomfort while searching for something hidden in plain sight! (There are clues, though . . .)
Why name a communal restroom "Cadillac?" I have inquired about this at some length, and no one here seems to know for sure. What has been confirmed, however, is that the term originated at a place called "Pee Sab," which is how PSAB sounds when people say it. PSAB is short for "Prince Sultan Air Base." That was the Air Base in Saudi Arabia where the USAF used to run its Persian Gulf Air operations, but a few years back our national affection
(???) for Saudi's, such as Osama and his relatives who happen to own that country, cooled a bit. The ambivalence was, and is still, returned in kind; hence the move to Qatar.
But back to the Cadillac. We do know that an Air Base was thrown up around a tent city, much as was done here, and early latrine facilities there were primative. When the first trailer with shower, urinal, sinks, mirrors, and toilets was opened, the grateful patrons apparently remarked on how the upgrade was like trading in a Yugo for a Cadillac. No specific person has been attributed with that observation, but its a universal agreement of PSAB veterans -- there are quite a few here -- that such was the sentiment when the first Cadillac opened its doors.
Upon entering this temple of toiletry, one must first stop, tears in one's eyes, to appreciate the distinctive air: even though the pipes all allegedly drain into a septic tank, the output does not really want to leave. The solid and liquid components go, but the ether, the vapour, the essense remains. The signature Cadilac aroma is not quite what you'd bottle and market as "eau du caddilac" for $45 per ounce, but it is memorable: it makes you remember to breathe through your mouth, or to bring a gas mask. Not even the 35+ mile per hour winds seem to be able to break up the stinking cloud. (Second level D & D spell, anyone?) For all that, 'tis better by orders of magnitude than a slit trench.
But the real attraction of the Cadillac, in the judgement of this ramblin' rogue, is not its marvelous and necessary functional purpose, but rather the prose and verse emblazoned on the walls of its stalls: the Craphouse Chronicles. Some wag used that alliteration to comment on one of many fine examples of wit. I think that nomme de plume it sums up this form of personal expression rather well. One can watch, much as on an internet forum or newsgroup BB, a train of so-called thought develop, albeit one low on erudition and high on scatalogical content. I won't get into particulars, as I see much the same level of brilliance as was the norm when I first encountered restroom grafitti as a youngster on an Army post, but I did see one little snippet that brought a smile, and one that gave me pause.
It strikes me that some graffitists have moved media, and are now posting on internet forums. Same exercise, different medium. Anonimity, generally desired, is preserved. Kilroy can still be declared as "here." While what is written may have little artistic or literary merit, hundreds, mayhap thousands, of readers will peruse what is offered, for better and for worse. The internet forum is generally an improvement over the craphouse chronicle for at least three reasons: GIF files are usually better art, the spellchecker is more frequently used, and one breathes a bit easier while indulging in the reading. One key advantage of the stall wall is brevity. The environment forces a certain terseness, an economy of words, that the internet forum does not. Rambling prose is rarely a failing of the scribes who write the Craphouse Chronicles.
There is, in the various Volumes of the Craphouse Chronicles, even the occasional conundrum, or snippet of philosophy: psychology even!
Below one thread of conversation, some savant appended "The people running the air campaign write on craphouse walls, go figure!" Following that was the comment "It's therapy." Next entry: "Seems to work, doesn't it?" This made me wonder: did that last fellow mean that running an air campaign is therapy for graffitists, or was graffiti some sort of catharsis, some mental therapy, for those who set up the daily flock of aircraft that fly, or was the air campaign working? As there was no way to click on a link and privately send a message the this insightful analyst, I suppose I shall have to work it out myself. (No, I am not going to do as the constipated mathematician did, and work it out with a pencil . . . )
Comparisons to GIF's aside, beyond the scatalogia is a fine collection of amateur art, frequently featuring the human form, or at least parts of it, in both crude sketches and some pictures that I can only assume are
impressionistic renderings.
Some things never change, though, in the military environment. I found yesterday an old standby, which I have morphed into something a bit less crude than the original. It is the same verse as the first one I ever saw, written on a stall wall in West Berlin Germany, near the Post Exchange, some 33 years ago. Nostalgia did not over come the eau du cadillac, but its brevity allowed me a smile at the faded memory. You can guess at the form of the original, let's call this "Variations on a Theme by Francesco Graffiti!"
He who writes on craphouse walls
Rolls his turds in little balls
He who reads these pithy words
Feasts upon the rolled up turds.
I think I am done here, all the cleaning up afterwards being complete, so I will bid you all a fond farewell and leave you with one thought:
Look before you sit, the dispenser may be empty!
Occhi
Quote:Considering the mods here are generally liberals who seem to have a soft spot for fascism and white supremacy (despite them saying otherwise), me being perma-banned at some point is probably not out of the question.
![[Image: jsoho8.png]](http://i61.tinypic.com/jsoho8.png)
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