Classic AfroSquad Photoshop Week

This week I am featuring several humorous photoshops created by the world-famous Snowman of the Afro-Squad. Snowman has been doing these pictures for years and I have been fortunate to be his subject of photoshop on a few occasions. The next few days will feature some of my favorites.

When Victory Tastes Like Wendy’s

Although humans have boasted about their ability to cook since man first learned to barbeque a brontosaurus, the “foodie” phenomenon that has erupted in the last few years has taken culinary narcissism to a completely new and annoying level. Few things make a meal worse than getting full on the food of a foodie as they meticulously fill you in with the details of their newest delectable delight.

On the other hand, nothing is better than beating the foodies at their own game. Especially with food their pretentious palates would never consider acceptable.

For several years, I worked with a group who took great pride in their culinary abilities. They brought in desserts, breakfasts, and even the occasional stew. They put a lot of time and effort into their food and everyone knew it. While it wasn't a competition, they had an amicable admiration of talent and tried to top each other with every creation.

On the first Friday of every May, these foodie friendships were put to the side for my company’s annual Cinco de Mayo Chili Cook-Off. With a small but significant prize and year-long bragging rights on the line, it was showtime for those who thought they could command a kitchen.

In my third year in the workplace, I decided to throw my hat in the ring and enter the chili cook-off. I wasn't much of a cook, but I had recently purchased a crockpot and was excited to try my hand at my first chili.

In mid-April, the announcement went out for chili cook-off contestants. Besides all the usual suspects, the cook-off also brought out several people who, like the culinary version of Christmas Catholics, only got involved for the big annual event. And then there was me.

Throughout the next few weeks, the upcoming cook-off was the talk of the office. Many of the prospective participants discussed strategies, ingredients, and how they thought they were going to do. Since my name was new to the list, a few even asked me what how my preparations were going. As their enthusiasm grew however, mine waned. Their increasing chatter made me dread the contest. It was all they talked about. I quickly regretted entering the contest. I wasn’t a cook, and if it meant being like them, I didn’t want to be. Despite my negativity, however, I still needed to submit an entry or face horrible workplace embarrassment.

At 10 pm the night before the chili cook-off, while all the other chilis in all the other kitchens of all the other workers were probably simmering in anticipation of the big day, I did what any enterprising person who had lost interest in a chili cook-off would do: I visited my local Wendy's and bought eight 99-cent chilis.

To my surprise, my order took only a few minutes. I wondered how long the chili I purchased had been simmering in the restaurant. Was it there since dinner or did they make a new pot for the late-night crowd?

Regardless, I had my chili. There was no rule that says I had to eat my own submission.

I drove back to my apartment and immediately poured each container of chili into my crock pot, added an unhealthy serving of hot sauce, and set the crock pot on “simmer”.

The next morning, I unplugged my submission, taped the lid to the crock pot, and drove to work. Seeing me with my concoction, several curious co-workers asked the ingredients.

“Something I threw together,” I replied.

That answer thankfully garnered a few laughs, in part I believe because of my rookie naivety. They didn’t consider me a threat, and I didn’t care. To be honest, besides the hot sauce, I really had no idea what was in Wendy’s chili.

Hours before the cook-off, I gave my creation a creative moniker that could tease but still hide its origin: “South of the Border Meets D.T.’s Daughter”. The name openly advertised the hot sauce I used (“S.O.B.: Sauces of the Border”) while slyly hinting the Wendy’s connection (“Dave Thomas = D.T.”). As lunch time approached, I wondered if the name was too revealing.

Ten minutes before noon, the chefs were told to bring their chilis to the outside picnic area. Carefully I carried my creation to the tables, placed the pot next to the other submissions, and taped on the name placard.

At noon, my co-workers poured out of the building, eager to taste the wide array of chilis. Before they could dig in however, a group of judges, including the head of my department, made themselves small bowls of each submission. Once the judges had their samples, the rush was on.

I personally sampled a few of my competitors’ chilis. They were quite good. With each spoonful, I could taste the care and quality of their work. Some chilis were full of flavor, others heavy on heat.

As the majority finished their lunch, the department head stood before the crowd.

“We would like to announce the winners of this year’s contest,” he exclaimed.

He then announced the third place runner-up, a newcomer. Everyone cheered, as someone had broken in the elite circle of chefs. Second place went the regular who had won the year before. Good for them, I thought as I kept eating.

“And the winner of the Chili Cook-Off is ‘South of the Border Meets D.T.’s Daughter’.”

I nearly spit out my mouthful of chili.

While my co-workers clapped, I got out of my seat and accepted my prize – a year membership to the local Costco. As I walked to the front, I was sure someone was going to out me, call me a fraud, and make me give up the gig. I half-contemplated outing myself, admitting my ruse, and handing the prize to the runner-up. That would have be the moral thing to do. But there was no rule against commercial entries and I submitted a pot of chili same as the next guy, even if I didn’t slave over a hot stove to create it.

After the contest, I returned to my office, carrying a nearly empty crock pot, and growing increasingly smug with victory.

I thought about giving the Costco membership to the local Wendy’s, as they played as big a part in my upset as I did. But I didn’t.

Like victory over the annoying foodies, it was mine. All mine.


(Picture from World's Recipe List)

A Perfect Wedding

(This was originally published in the FSView and Florida Flambeau in 2002, but since they don't have my old articles online at all, I decided to post it here.)

According to the unwritten rules of society, marriage is an expected step for most people in their 20s. Following tradition, people should be on the lookout for that lifelong soulmate after their college graduation. Once this mutual discovery of partners is complete and two people decide they want to spend the rest of their lives together, marriage planning becomes horribly one-sided.

For example, every trip to the local magazine rack presents women with plenty of advice on the perfect wedding. These publications give tips such as what to wear, and most importantly, what the groom-to-be should be doing. Apparently, guys have no say in what should be one of the biggest days of their lives. This lack of input may either be the cause or the effect of a predominant male indifference towards the matrimony ceremony.

However, like the minute percentage of women who don't consider their wedding an event of epic proportion, there are some guys who have ideas on what they want to happen on their big day. I am of this small minority. Mine are trivial considerations and in no way alter the grand expectations of my bride-to-be.

My first request is during the planning stages of the wedding. Being somewhat unknowledgeable to the wedding gift procedure, I was recently introduced to gift registration. This is a fairly resourceful idea in which well-wishers buy specific gifts from specific stores. It makes the process very neat and orderly. I have noticed, however, that the usual suggested stores are entirely off-track. Most people want their gifts from Tiffany's, Dillard's, JCPenny's, or even Home Depot for those practical minded folks. Not me. I want my gift-bearers to shop at the Dollar Store. Why ask for one cup for 35 dollars when you can get 35 cups for one dollar? Imagine how many more gifts can be expected. As an added bonus, even the poorest relatives will feel like an integral part of the wedding present parade.

Request number two is slightly more involved. I want a midget, a clown, and an Elvis impersonator to not only be present at the ceremony, but also at the reception. (They must be three different people. I will not accept a midget with clown makeup and sideburns.) Their main purpose is to be in all official wedding photos. Attendees can be photographed with all, two, or only one of these esteemed guests. Who wouldn't smile for the camera knowing they are in the presence of comic and rock'n'roll greatness? I can only imagine how perfect a picture of Elvis, a midget, a clown, and my bride and I will look hanging on the wall of my future home.

My third and final request is that no eating utensils be used or supplied during the reception dinner. I have always been a big fan of the barbaric style of eating featured at Medieval Times and I want my friends and family to share in the joys of finger food. Although peas and spaghetti would be eliminated, entrees such as chicken wings, french fries, or even asparagus are still options. Plenty of napkins are a must of course, as it would appear uncultured if I wiped the barbeque sauce from a plate of ribs on my rented sky-blue polyester tux.

I know the hardest part of achieving these aspirations will be finding someone willing to accept my ideas. I would hate to invest months or years into a relationship only to see the girl of my dreams walk out when she fails to compromise on our wedding plans.

I am flexible, however. Skipping the ceremony, traveling to Vegas, and having a drive-thru wedding is okay as well.

As long as Elvis is there.

The Legend of Uncle Kev

(After posting this, I searched online for Kevin Harbst a.k.a. "Uncle Kev". I eventually found and contacted his stepson on Facebook who replied and informed me that Kevin Harbst died of a heart attack in 2007. He was 44. According to his stepson, I "captured the essence of the man and his life damn near perfectly".)

Here is another one from the binders from an Article and Essay class I took in Spring of 2002. Interesting to read where my mind was at when I was 24. (Note: Some slight grammatical edits made based on the professor's comments.)

I’ve never had many long-term friends.  Most of my good friends last about three years before we go our separate ways.  That was the case while I was in the military, and it will soon be the case again next year when I graduate college.  All I am usually left with is many home addresses, email addresses, phone numbers, and hopes of hanging out with my friends again one day.

These hopes have become reality on several occasions.  I have traveled long hours to visit friends in Savannah, Miami, and even Chicago.  Many of my friends will also tell me when they are in the Tallahassee area, as several did during this year’s spring break.  One of the more interesting trips I have taken was to Hattiesburg, Mississippi to visit an old army sergeant I call “Uncle Kev.”

The trip to Hattiesburg was not exactly easy.  My truck began to overheat and I had to stop in a small Alabama town to let it cool.  I also got lost trying to find Highway 98 in Mississippi.  These problems added about an hour and a half to my expected four-hour drive.

“Hey Mike I didn’t think you were going to show,” Uncle Kev says as I exit the truck.  It seems weird having him call me “Mike,” in the Army I was only known by my last name.

“Sorry I’m late.  I had car trouble,” I reply.  Uncle Kev’s place is a shabby little trailer on a Hattiesburg side road about five miles from Camp Shelby, where he is stationed now.  If any more than one person lived in the trailer, it would be too small.

This was the first time I was able to hang out with Uncle Kev.  Army fraternization rules stated sergeants and lower enlisted soldiers weren’t able to get together off duty.  We always joked around while on duty, however.  I knew finding him was a must when I was discharged.

“So Uncle Kev, how’s the hoggin’ here?” I ask as I entered the trailer.

“Hoggin’,” or picking up extraordinarily large women (450 lbs or larger) with the intent for sexual pleasure, was a favorite subject of Uncle Kev’s.  He had supposedly written books on the subject.

“It’s not bad.  These southern boys know how to feed their women.  But I am having a problem getting them though that tiny doorway,” he replied.

Looking around, I could tell Uncle Kev was hurting financially.  He slept on a mattress in the left corner of the trailer.  Most of his possessions were in boxes filling up the entire right side of the residence.

For the rest of the night, as we caught up on lost time, Uncle Kev told me how he had gotten the shaft from his ex-wife in his recent divorce.  She received their two kids and two of their three cars.  He was left one car and a debt of over 40,000 dollars with no way to pay it off (nearly half of his army salary went to child support).

Uncle Kev also told me I was only the second person to visit him.  His son had spent a weekend with him a year earlier.  As the night continued, we drank some really cheap beer and listened to some songs from his extensive music collection (he had drawers full of tapes and boxes of records and CDs).  “We better get some sleep, tomorrow we are going to the casino,” Uncle Kev warned me.

The next morning at 8:30 am, after Uncle Kev returned from his mandatory hour of physical training, we got ready and drove to Biloxi, about an hour from Hattiesburg.  “I’m a regular there,” Uncle Kev told me, “we can eat and drink for free.”  I wondered why someone so far in debt would frequent a casino.

We arrived at the Biloxi casino by 10:30.  The situation was eerily Rain Man-esque, but unfortunately for Uncle Kev, I had no Dustin Hoffman-like abilities.  He gave me half of his spending money, 150 dollars, to play the slot machines.  I lost it all.  He didn’t do much better.  We totaled 300 dollars for six Heinekens and two lunches.

By about 3:00 we were on our way back to Hattiesburg.  I fell asleep for most the trip.  When I awoke, I asked Uncle Kev how long I had been out.  “I don’t know, I was asleep too,” he joked.  It may have not been a joke.

After shooting the breeze, listening to music, and drinking more cheap beer for yet another night, we went to sleep.  The next morning, I packed my things and prepared for my drive home.  Uncle Kev thanked me for visiting and wished me luck finding some good hogs in Tallahassee.

On my drive back I thought about Uncle Kev, feeling bad for him because of his financial situation and feeling even worse because he had very few people in his life.  At the same time I was glad I was included in his small circle of friends.  I only wish I could have helped.

Return of the Decigram and Decagram

In 4th grade, my teacher, Mr. Tomani, told my class story to help us remember our metric system. In the final line of the tale, a woman named "Milli Kilo" sent a deck of graham crackers to a gentleman named "Hector". When said by the Italian character in the story, the line "Milli Kilo centa Hecta deci deca gram crackers." listed the measures of the metric system. I don't know if Mr. Tomani invented it, or if the mnemonic device was passed down for generations before reaching me, but it worked: this simple way of remembering the metric system is still ingrained in my head.

Milli Kilo and Hector recently came to mind when I read a box of prescription medicine. Whatever happened to hecta (100x), deca (10x), deci (.1 x), and centa (.01 x)? I've never used them in my life. I've never even heard them used outside of the classroom. All I've heard is milli or kilo. My prescription, for example, was 500 mg. Shouldn't that be 5 decigrams? Why not drop the zeroes and use the measurements we all learn?

What would happen if society started using the lesser know measurements again? What if my prescription wasn't working as well as I though it should and I asked to be bumped to a 6 decigram refill or something even stronger? Would my doctor understand my request?

I bet the cost of his eight years of medical school he wouldn't understand something I learned in 4th grade.

Imagine if food labels advertised in more obscure measurements. Suddenly that Big Mac with its 62 grams of fat only has 6.2 decagrams. Sounds healthier, doesn't it? 6.2 is a lot less than 62.

If I ran a restaurant my nutritional chart would purposefully use deca and hecta. I'm sure I could pull the wool over the eyes of quite a few customers. I'd sell a four patty, triple cheese, double bacon burger and advertise only 11 decagrams of fat. I'd call it "The Double Deca".

Of course, the riches and the customers would come to a halt when Mr. Tomani walks in.

Milli Kilo and Hecta would not be happy.

Unemployed vets, liberal arts majors, and understanding the economy

A few months ago, I read an article on the increasing unemployment numbers for military veterans, especially those returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. According to David Lerman of Bloomberg News, these veterans, especially those ages 18 to 24, have faced an increasing unemployment rate, “even as the national jobless rate declines”.

Lerman writes about several young military vets in the combat arms who fail to find gainful employment because their job skills don’t transfer to the civilian economy or they fail to communicate what skills they have to civilian employers.

Although I feel bad for anyone who wants to work but can’t find a job, here is the problem: too many recruiters are pushing kids to military jobs that have no bearing on the civilian economy. Jobs such as infantry, artillery, or even military intelligence are not jobs that translate well in the private sector. Without attractive private sector skills, young vets are forced to lean on leadership, discipline, and other intangible factors of their time in the military.  Their rationale is that those skills are so important, people would rather hire them and train them for a specific skill than hire someone with the skill who needs to be groomed to be a leader.

From my private sector experience, that’s not exactly true. Not all companies are looking for a military-style manager. And depending on what type of position needs to be managed, military management might not fit. Even as a manager, you still need to speak the language and understand the culture of the civilian job. Those are things people expect new managers to understand, otherwise you start at the bottom, where basic skills and not leadership experience are more important.

The ill fit of recently discharged young vets is not unlike those who graduate with Art History degree who wonder why the private sector doesn’t want to hire them. It’s because their skills are not marketable or they are not looking in the right places for their skills. Both of these groups, the young vets and the arts & sciences majors, need to understand what the economy needs. It needs computer programmers. It needs engineers. It needs scientists and mathematicians. It is also hiring financial experts, doctors, and web designers.

One should not aspire to be a middle manager without a niche.

In both cases, I blame the recruiters or the counselors. These are the people who should guide young people towards a career they will enjoy, yet one that fits the outlook of the nation. Too many of them are guiding people towards dead end jobs or degrees that are nearly impossible to fit the private sector.

Although they are only 18 to 21, individuals who sign up for the military or who are in college need to consider the economy when making decisions that will affect their future job potential. Especially if they think they will be moving on to other positions eventually. If a soldier loves being infantry and wants to be infantry for 20 years, God bless ‘em, that’s a career move. But if they are only considering being infantry for three or four years, and have no plan beyond that, like the art major who only takes classes because they are fun, that’s a problem.

Now before anyone criticizes me for being anti-military or anti-liberal arts, I am exhibit A on what I am talking about. I did four years in the military then received a degree in English/Creative Writing. Both of which are completely not useful in the civilian sector. I have only worked outside of the Department of Defense or affiliates for my time in college and four months. If I wanted a job in the private sector, I know I would need additional training. And that’s what the money from my trip to Afghanistan will probably go towards.

Cheap Beer, Chow Halls, and the Cost of Consideration

About a year ago, I went drinking with a friend. Our chosen location of libation was a small, dark, grimy hole in the wall bar in St. Petersburg, Florida. The type of place frequented by college kids, hipsters, and other out-of-the-mainstream scene standards.

Despite their banners for 2-for-1 Pabst and other beer specials, I went for their top shelf and ordered an imported beer that ran me upwards of five dollars. My friend, on the hand, decided on the Pabst special, taking her first beer and arranging with the barkeep to have her second beer ready when she was done with the first.

After we found a table, my friend jokingly gave me a tough time for being one of the only people in the bar who didn’t order a beer special, Pabst or otherwise. Knocked back on my heels and slightly defensive at having my beer taste attacked, I told her I went through my cheap beer phase in college and because I was still living off the savings I accrued from the good job I was laid off from, I was going with a good beer. Since she had once told me she was a beer snob, I flipped the question and asked her why she bought the cheaper beer, implying of course, that the cost was reflective of the quality.

“When in Rome,” she said, smiling and nodding at our less than luxurious surroundings. As the night went on, we continued drinking, her downing two Pabst for half the cost of each one of my beers.

After she poked fun at my selection several times and suggested after each beer that I join her at the level of specially-marked selections, I finally deployed the often-used beer snob defense.

“Life’s too short to drink cheap beer,” I said. I then followed it up with an attack on her selection.

“I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,” I said.

Looking back, that might have been a little harsh, especially considering we had been drinking for a while at that point. But her cool, calm, collected response immediately made me eat my words off the foot I had so elegantly put in my mouth.

“Did it ever occur to you that this is all I can afford?” she asked.

I was silent. To be honest, it hadn’t.

I’ve been reminded of that night quite a bit lately here in Afghanistan.

On my base, there are two main dining facilities. When I arrived, they were both of the same poor quality. People told me they were among the worst on all the bases in the country. And considering there are over 100,000 troops from all over the world at numerous bases scattered all over Afghanistan, that’s bad. There was a joke that the day people stopped complaining about the over-cooked chicken, inedible lasagna, and meat of the day smothered in mystery gravy was the day they had officially been on the base too long.

About two months ago, however, the food at one of the dining facilities started to get better. It was a gradual change, starting with the appearance of individual boxes of cereal such as Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Apple Jacks to replace the giant self-serve dispenser of generic corn flakes. Then various flavors of single-serving milk boxes arrived – strawberry, chocolate, and even banana – regulating the generic milk and the styrofome cups to coffee supplements only.

According to word around the base, the improving dining facility was under a new contract, one that spent more on ingredients and brand-name foods. As the dining facility continued to progress, a spaghetti bar arrived, as well as a sandwich bar, a potato bar, and themed entrée nights, with highly passable, if not well-cooked, Mexican, Cajun, and even steak.

Soon the lines at the improved dining facility started getting longer as many people chose to eat at the place with the better selection, ingredients, and taste.

Unfortunately, not everyone was able to partake.

As part of the new contract at the new dining facility, the nearly 20 or so nations with troops on my base were forced to up their per-meal cost. In other words, instead of each country paying X per meal per customer, the new cost was now X+Y per meal per customer. For most countries, this wasn’t an issue. They paid and their personnel were able to eat better food.

But some countries opted not to pay. Perhaps they didn’t believe in the difference. Perhaps they didn’t have the allocated funds. Or perhaps they just couldn’t afford the increased fee.

I work in an office with at least one person whose country didn’t pay the higher per-meal cost. They are forced to still go to the remaining poorer quality dining facility. When it’s time for lunch or dinner I try not leave at the same time as they do to avoid going one way to my preferred location of dining while they go the other to where they have to go.  And if they ask if I want to go to lunch with them, I never say “No, I want to go to the good chow hall.” I join them. It’s not their fault their nations are not paying.

Sometimes it’s good to take a step back and realize the situation people are in before judging their choices. Sometimes it’s best to join them and partake in what options they have. Sometimes it’s best to put aside what you would prefer for the sake of friendships. They last longer than the taste of beer or Cinnamon Toast Crunch anyway.

DJing, Wrestling, and the Art of Illusion

A few years ago, I saw DJ-entertainer RJD2 in concert in Ybor City in Tampa. I was not impressed. In my YouTube review, I said it was boring and all he was doing was pushing buttons. I didn't see the point.

A few weeks ago, highly famous DJ-producer-entertainer Deadmau5 dropped a bombshell on the Electronic Dance Music community when he claimed too many big-name DJs are only on stage pushing buttons. At first, I'll admit I was happy to read someone in the industry agree with me.

However, I am not so sure. Since writing an article on dubstep for the local newspaper and getting to know some DJs, I've grown to appreciate their art. In the last year, I've been to old school hip-hop shows where I could watch old school DJs spin vinyl and big dance/rave/EDM shows where I can't even see the DJ amidst the light flashes and masses of dancing bodies.

Right now, dance music is in. And that's ok. People want to go to a club to forget the outside world. A majority don't care what the DJ is doing. It's just like a wedding DJ in that regard. You don't see wedding DJs trying to steal the show from the bride and groom. The people want to party and that's what the DJ is there for. To put on a good show.

Some fans however, like to know how the trick is done. These are the fans who really don't care about the people, the crowd, or the lights. Those are nice, but these fans want to get down to the source. They want to see what buttons are being pushed. They want to penetrate the mass entertainment illusion and see where the magician actually hid the rabbit. For them, it may or may not be about reveling the trick, they just may want to appreciate the art and give the DJ credit where credit is due. Some might call them fan-boys, others hardcore fans, whatever their name, they are a demographic.

The same dilemma exists in pro wrestling. Like the new wave of EDM shows, most people go to see a pro wrestling show to be entertained. They want good guys and bad guys, storylines and surprises. Give them a good show and they are happy, whether the show is in a backyard or a major civic center or stadium. It's all wrestling to them.

However, like in EDM, there exists a demographic of wrestling fans who want to know how the soup is made. They don't just want to be entertained, they want to discuss storylines and characters, and analyze movements in the ring. They are the fans who chant "you fucked up" when they see a possible flub in motion. They look at wrestlers for their technical ability in the ring, not just how many people like or dislike them. As a matter of fact, more often than not, these fans look down on fans who don't view wrestling as they do. They project elitist attitudes to those who want only to be entertained. Sort of like what Deadma5 did for the EDM scene.

However, it's one thing for DJs to call out other DJs, just like it's ok for wrestlers to call out other wrestlers. It is a bit of hating, and probably shouldn't be done in Rolling Stone or other public venues, but it's inter-business talk among the profession. Especially where illusion is involved.

The public airing of dirty laundry in an entertainment field only feeds to the masses of fans who enjoy dissecting performances. Once that demographic becomes the majority, and the masses see the emperor has no clothes, then the party is over of the entertainment field. Those in the field, especially those who have made it while others are still trying to get theirs, shouldn't try to tear the house down from the inside.

And I don't think it is ok for fans to use the comments of performers to question another performer's ability. Especially if they have never been of the status of the original commenter. If a wrestler says John Cena can't wrestle or a DJ says Skrillex is performing by rote then that is their opinion based on being in the industry. Knowledge adds perspective and credibility.

I might not have liked RJD2, but I am just some guy with a blog. My opinion does mean squat compared to the opinions of one of his peers.

33% through my Afghanistan adventure

Dear all,

Well, I have passed the latest milestone in my time here in Afghanistan. I have now been here for four months, 33% done. This month has been interesting to say the least. I started the month on night shift. A lot of lonely nights keeping watch in my office, but on the bright side, I did catch up on my movie watching and book reading. Then it was back to day shift, which makes the days go by much quicker, but are loaded with work. But then again, it's not like there is much else to do here.

When I am not working (or in the case of nightshift, just bored), I have been working on my stand-up comedy routine. I created almost 10 minutes of jokes in the last few months and have been rehearsing and rewriting them to be performance-ready. I made it on stage just the past Wed during karaoke night. Although I would love to say I left the crowd in stitches, in reality, I bombed in Afghanistan, and not in the usual way. It was bad. But I am going to keep practicing in my spare time and hopefully soon I might make someone laugh. It's something creative to do.

Four months also makes me sort of a veteran around the office. As I mentioned in previous emails, most of the people I work with, be they military or civilian, are here on individual orders. There are few whole units running around. So people are always coming and going. And in four months, I've seen almost my whole office turn over. I think by October there will only be two people there longer. And they are also on year long assignments, arriving about the same time I did.

I also actually got to drive a vehicle for the first time in a few months this month. That might not sound like a big deal, but when you walk everywhere on base and never leave the base, just driving a few people from one side of the base to the other gives you a strange feeling of familiarity.

This month's update is kinda short, I guess. Which makes me think that life here is getting kinda dull. But then again, I said it was interesting in the first sentence. Maybe what was once the extraordinary is becoming the routine. Which is a good thing.

Anyway, I am 66% to halfway done. And that means I am one day closer to having to figure out what I am going to do when I get home.

Wes Fif - "International Drive" mixtape review

Back in January, Wes Fif, one of the most popular rappers in Orlando, dropped a mixtape entitled "International Drive". The mixtape is "Named for both the happening Orlando entertainment strip - and Fif's goal to be a household name worldwide". If I was grading names of Orlando music releases, this would get an "A". I'm a sucker for double meanings, especially if they mean something special at the local level.

(I know I am crazy late in reviewing this. But I've been busy with the whole Afghanistan thing here.)

Having downloaded Wes Fif's previous mixtape after someone on twitter clued me in to his localness when I asked who was doing quality hip-hop in Florida, I decided to download "International Drive" and check out Wes Fif's latest after he talked about it on his twitter feed.

There are many things I liked about "International Drive". The beats for one, were very catchy. And Wes Fif has a Too Short-type flow that goes nice with the music. Most of the songs have a Florida theme, and I am always about supporting the local scenes of the state. And the production is a lot nicer than his previous offering. If given the chance, I would like to see Wes Fif in concert.

That said, I felt like "International Drive" was very one-dimensional. It's typical southern rap with braggadocio lyrics. There are songs about "hustlin", "cruisin"", being out with his boys, slaying other MCs, his haters, and trying to earn money. That's the whole album.

As I played "International Drive", I started think that there was no way this was an accurate reflection of Wes Fif's life. Perhaps coming from the home of Disney World and Universal Studios, Wes Fif was giving us another fantasy to admire. I'm not surprised, given the state of hip-hop today, and the amount of rappers who lean on these tropes, but I felt like there should be more substance than just materialism.

Wes Fif has a platform I think he should use for more than just fantasy rap. Chuck D once called hip-hop "the black CNN". Here is an MC who lives in the same area of Florida where Trayvon Martin got shot, the same area where Jackie Robinson was once kicked out of town, and an area still strife with racism. And he is rapping about how good he and his crew have it. Escapism rap at it's best. Like a romance novel written by a desperate housewife.

It's ok to have a club banger, a radio song, and maybe even also a song to cruise to on your album. But don't let the only song about a woman be about a girl you slept with who you want nothing else to do with ("Never In Love"). Biggie's "Me and My Bitch" and Apache's "Gangsta Bitch" will never be compared to Shakespearean sonnets, but they do show a level of positive attachment.

I'd also like to hear about Wes Fif's past on a song. What was it like growing up in Orlando? Give me some lyrical versatility. Maybe even some word play, some odd rhyme schemes, something. It's music, not life or death. Have fun with it. Unless the "G"-personality fantasy is Wes Fif's sense of fun.

It might seem like I am down on Wes Fif. Totally not the case. I liked "International Drive". But from Wes Fif the Orlando artist, I wanted more.