Retirement

For those who have been anxiously awaiting another update, you're in the wrong place. My brother and I have consolidated our blogs into a new one. You can check it out here. As it stands, my posts outnumber Andrew's by like 80-1, but I'm sure he'll find time to post something one of these days.

The Essential Pictures of the Past Week

E-mail From Andrew

I've decided to keep my mass emails going from now on. It's a nice way to stay in touch and keep everyone informed.

I found out today that I'm officially playing the waiting game. I will be going home in the next 5 days and have 30 days of leave. Should make both Cubs games and get some time on the river. I cannot wait. However, I will not have my car or my cell phone. So email me your numbers so I can give everyone a call and max out my mom's minutes for this month. You can call her at XXX-XXX-XXXX and talk to me.

I've been going to physical therapy everyday and that is the highlight of my day. I fall down a lot and my strength in my left leg is about 80%. But I am lucky. Very lucky. Being down here is a reality check that I never wanted. I went through seven months feeling invincible. Being here with the burn patients, the amputees, and all the suffering families has demonstrated to me how mortal we all are and how lucky I am. I may never regain feeling or use of my left leg, but I still have my mind and I am still here.

The support I have received over the past 10 days has been unbelievable. I owe you all so much. I'm grateful as are my parents. I'm also grateful that the Sox dropped 33 runs on the Cardinals in two days and I was able to watch it on TV.

Like I said, send the phone numbers this way.

I love you all

Andrew

Go Cubs.

Whoever Said "No News Is Good News" Should Be Smacked

Apparently, according to some friends and family, I’ve been neglecting my duty as press secretary and disappointing the new fan base my brother recently garnered. On the contrary, I was very aware of the five days this blog has gone without update. Unfortunately, that lack of information for you fine people was not a result of my own sloth, but rather my brother’s noncommittal doctors. Simply put, there’s been nothing on the blog, because there’s been nothing to tell. Andrew has had a handful of doctor’s appointments and therapy sessions, but none that lead to any clarification of his future physically, militarily, or otherwise. The dragging out of this whole process is starting to wear thin. I’m at home getting grouchier by the day, and I’m certain my family isn’t doing much better in San Antonio. However, Andrew meets with his orthopedic specialist tomorrow, and if there is an appointment that has real significance, it is this one (although we said that about the day he got to San Antonio, too). So, hopefully, I’ll get some news tomorrow afternoon, and if I do, I’ll be sure to pass it on to the rest of you here.

As of This Morning....

Ok boys and girls, here’s the most significant update on Andrew’s status, even as we must continue to stomach the absence of detailed information we’ve come to expect from the military thus far. My brother left Iraq in serious condition before improving to stable condition by the time he reached Andrews Air Force Base. As of this morning he has been upgraded once more to “not seriously injured.” One must look at that description in the proper context before the jigs commence. Andrew is a soldier who is no longer seriously injured; the military scale for normalcy is drastically different from our civilian scale. A civilian with extensive nerve damage would be considered seriously injured; a soldier is not. As far as his life goes, Andrew is not in any immediate, grave danger.

“Not seriously injured” really means two things of significance. First, Andrew will not undergo any surgical operations to improve his condition. The shrapnel appears to be there to stay. His path of healing now includes therapy, therapy, and more therapy. He has essentially reached “walk it off” on the Army‘s treatment meter. The second aspect of “not seriously injured” that is worth mentioning is the Army will no longer foot the bill for my parents to go see my brother. Of course, that hasn’t stopped them from going. They left at 9:00 this morning for San Antonio.

Despite the upgrade in Andrew’s status, we still know very little about the condition of his leg. The tests at Sam Houston were unable to determine whether the nerve in his leg was severed, cut, or bruised, and they can’t set a plan for his recovery until they do. So, while Andrew’s arrival in San Antonio was supposed to answer many of our lingering questions, it looks like we will have to wait another week for Andrew’s next appointment. As of now, Andrew has had no improvement in feeling returning to his leg, but he’s as active and mobile as he can possibly be (it seems that is what the doctor is recommending for the time being). But as far as questions about Andrew’s rehab, or even his military future, we’ll have to wait another week.

So, mom and dad are gone for now. They have no idea when they will be back. They’ll be with Andrew until he gets settled wherever he will be doing his therapy. If that means they have to drive up to Fort Carson, then that’s what they’ll be doing. I’ll be manning the phones and the blog here. I don’t imagine I’ll have much to update until my empty nest syndrome kicks in and I start begging for companionship. However, if I do get some news on Andrew, or even some new speculation regarding his future, I will be sure to pass it along.

He's Still Ugly, and 10 Other Things I Learned From My Hospital Visit with Andrew

1. Brothers don’t shake hands. Brothers gotta hug. And whimper a little. Perhaps sniffle.

2. It’s clear that there were two types of soldiers in Iraq. Those who were prepared for what they would see, and those who were not. Sadly, those who were not prepared far outnumber those who were. Just listen to my brother’s story about the attack in which he got injured and the difference between his reaction and his gunner's.

3. A part of Andrew wants to get back to his guys, but the further he gets from Iraq the harder it is to find the motivation to return.

4. For a family as active in the community as ours, it’s sort of remarkable to see how private and protective we are when it comes to the people we love.

5. The “exploding pound” may have to be retired as the Rockwell brothers’ high-five of choice.

6. From a purely aesthetic perspective, Andrew’s wound is unimpressive. Blasted nerve damage. It just doesn’t even provide you with cool scars.

7. Any conversation, regardless of how seemingly unrelated, can turn back to the Cubs in a heartbeat.

8. Though I’m sure their medical expertise is exceptional, the most impressive thing to me about the way the Army treats its injured soldiers was the hidden room with the magical filing cabinet filled with every candy bar you can imagine. My diet when to hell with a quickness last night thanks to the US Military's Willy Wonka bureau.

9. Everything about Andrew’s physical condition was a relief to us. He still looks like himself -- no severe burns of note. His broken nose was kids' stuff (he still has a Deines nose, and not a Rockwell one. Bastard.) He was surprisingly mobile (though I can’t say how much of that movement was doctor recommended). If it weren’t from the deep hole on the back of his left thigh, you’d be hard pressed to find something out of whack.

10. And finally, my brother and I have now have a very important story to tell, and we intend on telling it together.


Photo provided by Phil Rockwell and cannot be duplicated without permission.

We Gone

Andrew is laid over at Scott Air Force Base in Belleville, IL for the evening. Me and the parents are rolling out immediately to go see him. Check back here for further word on our adventure.

The Longest Year Continues....

First off, on behalf of my family, I want to thank everyone who has called or stopped by to offer their sympathies, condolences, and most importantly, food. This has been a whirlwind four days (oh lord it’s only been four days) and the limitless generosity of our family and friends has been a tremendous balm for our rattled nerves.

In the coming days, likely tomorrow, my parents will be off to Andrew’s bedside, leaving me to housesit as well as distribute any new information we gather. As of 8:00 he is at Andrew’s (apropos) Air Force Base waiting for word on the next leg of his journey. He called to let us know that he will most likely be headed to San Antonio after all. We’re now awaiting word on when my parents can leave to meet him. My father and I spent the day answering phones and, much to my father’s chagrin, dealing with the press. I’d imagine most of you caught Andrew on the front page of the Argus, but Dad and I will also be on KWQC’s 10 o’clock news embarrassing my brother incessantly with our unabashed praise. KWQC may also be linking to this site from their website, so let’s try and behave people. We may have visitors.

Finally, after a day of fielding phone calls, I wanted to let Andrew’s legions of fans know that this will likely be your main source of news during the coming weeks. Mom and Dad are going to filter all of their info through me, and I will get it to you fine people as soon as I possibly can. And though I never imagined this blog would go longer than Andrew’s tour, it’s clear that The Longest Year will be running indefinitely through Andrew’s rehab process. So, check back in the coming days for new information. And don’t be shy about stopping by. I’ll be all by my lonesome here at the homestead, and company is always appreciated.

E-mail from Andrew

Hello Again.

Just wanted to let everyone know that I'm flying out of Germany tomorrow morning at 9 am. I will arrive at Andrews Air Force Base about 10 hours later. I will layover there until I'm flown down to San Antonio Texas. The Army is flying both of my parents down there to stay with me while I'm there and paying for everything. They will get free plane tickets, hotel, and too much money for food. I'm suggesting that they use it for a mini vacation. Hospitals are depressing anyway. From there, who knows what will happen. I've already had representatives from DOD and VA come to my room to speak to me about disability pay.j I may get the choice to stay in the army but I will never be an infantryman again. For some reason, that saddens me. It also raises the question, if I can't be infantry or even armor or field artillery, do I want to stay in the army? I've watched all the logistics and maintenance teams work in Iraq and I honestly cannot see myself working in that environment. So what do I do? Go back to school? What do I study? I guess that's the problem with me. I no longer have any tactical issues to think about, but my mind still needs something so the future is the next best thing. For the first time since I was 17, my future is not mapped out. And honestly, I don't know what to do.

I want everyone to still go to the Cubs game. I'll be watching on WGN hopefully.

Know that I love you

Andy

Updates from Germany

We talked with Andrew this morning, and he sounded better than the last time. His voice was lighter, perhaps his spirits higher, of course that might have been because he was moments away from morphine. There’s been a lot of information bounced about in the past several days, so some of this information may be old news, but I’m too burnt out to double check. Here is the information we have now:

-- Andrew is currently in Germany. Our phone call didn’t have the usual Desert Delay. As I said, he sounded like he was in much better spirits than the last time we spoke on Friday.

-- Based on our conversation and the call my parents got from an official at Fort Carson, the nerve damage to Andrew’s leg is extensive. He may or may not regain full mobility; it’s too early to tell.

-- He will be headed back to the States in the next couple days, and the most recent itinerary has him going to a base in San Antonio. The Army is supplying my parents with airfare there, or wherever he does end up.

-- Andrew‘s next trip to Wrigley Field will be indefinitely delayed. With the state of Andrew’s health and the Army’s rigid rehab scheduling, it’s just not possible for Andrew to come home for the time being. We have very little information regarding the long term timeline of his recovery, but naturally we want him as strong as possible before he starts jetting all over the country. It’s unclear, as of now, when he will be able to make it back home to the Quad Cities. Dad thinks I should still go to the Cubs games on the 29th and 30th, but I'm conflicted about going without Andrew. My parents will not be going, naturally, but it may not be a bad idea to spend some time with friends and family on the North Side. We’ll see how interested my Chitown blood is in attending without Andrew.

Those are the basics as of this morning. We’ll likely know more once he lands stateside. Until then, keep Andrew in your hearts, and we’ll have further updates as information becomes available.

E-mail from Andrew

I know it has been a long time since I sent out an email. A lot of things have happened.

I took part in the operation to get Zarqawi. We cleaned up the mess. Morale was very high and everyone was feeling invincible.

The next night, our scout platoon was on a routine patrol when they got hit by an IED. The IED flipped the truck off a 30 ft high berm and it landed upside down. Our first soldier died, one was paralized, and three others had to evacuated for surgery. We went from being on top of the world to feeling like we were in hell.

Later that same night, my platoon reacted to a call that an Iraqi Army Headquarters was under attack. We had Apache's supporting us. As we were approaching the compound we saw 20 RPGs fired at once. The Apache engaged a small machine gun position. I called and told him to cease fire because we did not know where the Iraqi Army was. My truck took hunderds of rounds all over. Because we could not identify the enemy I dismounted and my 8 men raided the compound. Turns out it was the Iraqi Army shooting at us and I saved many lives by calling the cease fire.

The next morning, my platoon went on a normal mission. Drive around, and stir something up. I never go the opportunity. As my truck, the lead truck turned onto a dirt road, we hit a massive IED. I remember seeing white smoke on the initial blast and then my face being engulfed in flames. I rolled out of the burning truck and dragged the soldier behind me out of the truck. One of my terps, Ibrahim, pulled the other two soldiers out.

My driver had a compound fracture to his femir, burns on his hands, and a little shrapnel in his knees and feet.

I took shrapnel in my left thigh. We don't know if the shrapnel severed the nerve in my leg or if it is still in shock. The bottom line is that I have no feeling or muscular control over my left leg below the knee. I also have some burns on my face and a broken nose.

I was evacuated to Baghdad with my driver and we're not sitting in Anaconda waiting to be shipped to Germany. They will do another assessment, but more than likely I will be sent to Walter Reed Hospital near DC.

What happens next is anyone's guess. I may get medically chaptered out of the Army or I might regain full mobility and return to work as soon as possible.

I'm drugged up pretty good right now, but I wanted everyone to hear it from me. I am ok. I'm upset to be leaving my soldiers.

The bottom line is that I'm coming home, for good.


I love you all

Andrew

Major Update on Andrew

Yesterday, while many of us were in the midst of a muted celebration of the death of Abu Musab Al-Zarkawi, my brothers hummer was hit by an IED. He sustained minor burns to his face (sorry ladies), a broken nose, and some shrapnel in his leg. His driver suffered a compound fracture, and they were both taken to a hospital in Baghdad for treatment. After the preliminary work was done on Andrew this morning, it appears that there was some nerve damage done and Andrew will have to live with the shrapnel in his leg for the rest of this life. As of now, he doesn't have use of his leg below the knee, but I can't speak to the long-term prognosis for him other than that there will be considerable rehabilitation needed. What we do know, with relative certainty, is that because of the nerve damage in his leg his first tour in Iraq is over.

I still have some hesitation actually writing those words, because with the whirlwind of this morning I can't believe what I just heard. But I asked Andrew twice (we talked to him on the phone), and he said that to the best of his knowledge it's the truth.

Tomorrow he will fly to Germany with his driver. From there he will make his way to Walter Reed hospital in Washington before finally ending up back in Fort Carson. The timeline for this is unclear, but we hope to have more information later. My brother did make it clear that he'll walk across the country on crutches if he has to in order to make the Cubs games at the end of June.

So, that's the basic outline as we currently understand it, and we will hopefully have more later.

One for the Good Guys

Unless visiting this website is the first thing you do every morning, you probably know that Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi -- the leader of Al Qaeda in Iraq -- was killed by a U.S. airstrikeyesterday. Not only that, he was killed in Andrew’s backyard. My mom woke me up with the news at 6:45 this morning, and she was sobbing uncontrollably as she headed to work. Meanwhile I sat up and started to scour my sites to confirm the story. I never got back to bed. I haven’t spoken to him, so I have no idea if he had any involvement in the grand scheme of things (he did promise he would kill Zarqawi a while back), but whether he did or not this is a victory for the U.S. military. And lord knows they could use one of those every once in a while. I don’t necessarily think Andrew is going to write any more e-mails before he leaves Iraq, but if he does, hopefully he can give us more details then. If not, in a couple of weeks we can ask him when he gets home.

The Hum

It’s not outside the realm of possibilities that my brother and I will one day collaborate on a book. We discussed it before he left for Iraq. Part of that discussion may have been our need to find some locus of control in a situation completely out of our hands. Perhaps it was our need to have something concrete to look forward to when his tour ended. Whatever the reason, it gave me something positive to concentrate on while he was away.

So, I started up The Longest Year; I scribble away on my whiteboard nightly; and I gut newspapers and magazines for their most poignant articles. I’ve spent the past many months jotting down every miniscule ripple that Andrew’s absence makes in the placid waters of my family. I want to be certain I have something to contribute when my brother returns home with his volumes of gritty and graphic tales that will doubtless hold oppressive reign over family conversations for many holidays to come.

In the beginning of this odyssey, writing topics fell from the sky. There was no shortage of conflict in the early months of Andrew‘s deployment. Of course, it didn’t help that he left just before the holidays, exacerbating the usual winter strife to epic proportions. I certainly didn’t enjoy the drama in our household, but the head-butting certainly filled up the journal pages. But while it was easy to write about the new experiences and new perspectives one gains at the beginning of such an enterprise, once complacency set in -- and it did set in -- it became much more difficult to find a hook or an angle for the domestic side of this tale.

My daily activities have mostly remained the same; the usual cycle of work, TV, writing, TV, Cubs, destitution, work, TV, etc. My parents remain busy as ever; my father with school board, booster club, and laundry; my mother with quilting and whatever evil machinations keep her at school until the wee hours of the evening. The only real change to the standard grind is my mother’s once-a-day e-mails and the occasional package of bric-a-brac that she demands my father and I contribute to (I supply episodes of Lost and 24 while dad handles the overseas postage).

On the surface things appear much as they always have, but life these days is certainly not the status quo. Everybody who loves my brother knows what I’m talking about. It’s that sense of unease beneath the surface of every day. Andrew doesn’t hold total dominion over my every waking thought, yet his absence and the danger he now faces lingers in my subconscious like a virulent infection. I don’t always think of Andrew, but I always feel him.

How can I articulate this sensation -- this fusion of loss, worry, and anticipation -- and the side-effects that manifest themselves in the most peculiar circumstances? I’ve been pondering this question for a while now, as my insights into the domestic side of deployment become less and less compelling. This feeling, this idea, is the key to my side of the story, of my family’s side of the story, but for the longest time I could not articulate it properly.

Then my I-Pod nearly killed me. As I mentioned in a previous blog, I’ve been weeding through my music library looking for the ideal playlist for my workouts. On this particular day I took a walk to the nearest mailbox to send back some Netflix DVDs, and I took along some music to test. Somewhere near St. Pius Catholic Church Kanye West’s “Jesus Walks” began to play. This tune is significant in two ways. First, the song itself has a distinct militaristic bent; it begins with a drill sergeant barking orders before a thumping cadence chant begins. Second, the song was used in the trailers for Jarhead -- the closest the cinema has come to depicting America’s military involvement in the Middle East (even if the film deals with Desert Storm). As the song began there was a jolt in my stomach, and suddenly my heart was beating out of my chest. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, so I took a knee in the grass and closed my eyes. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced -- a dangerous amalgam of adrenaline, fear, and panic. It felt as if every fiber in my being were vibrating furiously, pulling me apart in a million different directions. I wasn’t completely confident I’d have the wherewithal to pull myself together.

But I did, and by the time I got back home I had landed on a phrase that perfectly encapsulated both the breakdown on my way to the mailbox and the general malaise that has hung on me since Thanksgiving.

I call it The Hum.

Imagine the sound of a ceiling fan swirling overhead as you go to sleep. It‘s not typical for most of us to sleep through noise, but the fan is steady enough and quiet enough that after a few minutes we forget it’s there; we develop a synchronicity that allows us to slip into dreamland without issue. The fan is The Hum -- a constant presence that, for the most part, can be ignored.

But it’s a fragile relationship between you and the fan. Suddenly there’s an arrhythmic click amidst the steady whirr. The beat you’ve gotten used to is quickly, efficiently disrupted. Your heart starts to race as the anxiety of insomnia builds. You start looking at the clock as your window for a good night’s sleep closes. You can’t fix the click, because you can’t place the problem. Turning off the fan is not an option. All you can do is hope that the clicking will stop long enough for you to escape into sleep. So it is with The Hum.

Like with the bothersome click, it’s impossible to anticipate the next issue that will disrupt the agreement between you and The Hum or how the next interruption will manifest itself. Sometimes it’s through tears. Sometimes it’s through misdirected anger. Occasionally, it’s a nervous breakdown on the way to the mailbox. Still, most remarkably, the majority of the time the catalysts for these shake-ups have only tangential relationships to Andrew.

I’ve had issues with anxiety for a while now, but things have only gotten worse in recent months. For me, it’s a lot like waiting to go onstage on opening night of a play. My whole being is buzzing with the usual stage fright, but I know that once I get out there and into the moment the nerves will subside and I’ll be able to breathe again. Well, The Hum is like that, except I never get on stage. I just have to deal with the nerves. I just have to accept the anxiety. It would be nice to be able to point to this thing or that and say “This is why I feel this way.” That would allow me the chance to remove the disruptive stimulus and get back to normal. Unfortunately, I can’t remove my brother’s deployment from my life. Instead, I have to deal with the possibility that a swarm of electrified butterflies could go racing through my heart at any time -- while sitting at a stop sign, or taking a shower, or enjoying my morning Eggo. That’s just the way life is for the immediate future.

Of course, The Hum doesn’t always manifest itself in such an alarming fashion. Sometimes The Hum can be rather cathartic, as in this experience my father shared with me just the other day:

“I was watching Ladder 49 last night,” he told me. “And it’s not even that great of a movie -- but that scene at the end where they know he’s not getting out and he’s saying good-bye to everyone -- I just started bawling. Your mother came into the room and I had tears rolling down my face and she thought I was crazy.”

I don’t cry very often in the context of my own life. I cried when my brother left for Iraq. I cried after finishing my tribute to my grandmother. But usually I go years without a genuine breakdown. That being said, I’m easily manipulated by my favorite movies and TV shows. I leave the room whenever my dad watches Friday Night Lights, because I turn into a blubbering fool when Tim McGraw gives his son his championship ring. The debut of “Laura” on Battlestar Galactica totally messed me up. And Field of Dreams… we’ll just say it’s shameful.

All of those cases I can admit with a certain modicum of self-respect. Unfortunately, because of The Hum, my judgment of what shows are worthy of my tears has gone out the window. Damn near everything on television can choke me up these days. A few weeks back when they brought out a soldier’s daughters on Deal or No Deal I had to stop my workout and go hide in the locker room for five minutes so I could pull myself together. Movies that I know completely suck can squeeze a drop or two out of me thanks to my sensitivity to The Hum. My dad and I sat in the living room during Leo McGarry’s funeral on The West Wing refusing to look at each other‘s glossy cheeks.

Grown men. It’s really quite sad.

It’s hard to imagine living without The Hum. I’ve gotten so use to it. But this week marks the halfway point in Andrew’s tour, and soon enough that anxiety and urgency that has plagued us since November will be relieved. But even though it occasionally appears at inopportune times and in demoralizing ways, The Hum has a way of energizing me to do things I might not have done otherwise. Even as The Hum initially caused me to balloon to my heaviest weight ever, its constant pestering also drove me to my lowest weight and best physical condition in nearly ten years. Even though The Hum occasionally knocks the wind out of me, it pushes me to keep moving and keep the strength of its tone at bay. And even though it will push me to tears once in a while, there’s something refreshing about engaging emotions that too often stay in check.

It’s ridiculous to compare the trials my brother faces with something as abstract and personal as The Hum, however my brother has one advantage over those of us here at home. He can be proactive in silencing his own Hum. Those of us battling it here must accept it and patiently endure. We can’t stop The Hum ourselves. We can only wait for Andrew to come home and stop it for us.

Pilgrimage

Ok Boys and Girls. Mark your calendars. I talked to my brother today, and we agreed on a date for our pilgrimage to Wrigley Field:

June 29th. Cubs vs. Brewers.

For those who are unfamiliar with our practices, my brother and I are passionate bleacher bums. So for those people who would like to accompany us, those are the tickets you want to get. I'll be handling tickets for myself and my brother. Depending on how many people want to make the trip, we'll handle transportation arrangements later.

If you're interested leave a comment on this post or e-mail me. Whichever. The more the merrier.

I Promise this is the Last Time

Since Andrew left, I've been searching around online for the best places for my blogs, pictures, etc. And I think I finally have everything down to the best, most streamlined presentation. So here's what I've come up with.

Blogs: Blogger is by far the best blogging website I've found. So The Longest Year is going to stay where it is, but I've also redesigned and resupplied my original blog Will Write For Food. Will Write has become my all purpose blog, so my (at one time) five blogs have been condensed into that single site (including The Longest Year). So those of you who have come to enjoy my lunacy can check out that site for the random stuff that isn't necessarily appropriate for The Longest Year (like essays on I-Pods and the side-effects of exercise for example).

Pictures: Not only does Tag World have no limit to the pictures I can post (like MySpace does), but it also features that pleasant feature of a slide show. So, any pictures I take will be put up there. The most recent additions were my pictures from Easter in Cordova.

Everything Else: Because there is an extensive number of KWQC employees on MySpace, I wanted to feel like a part of the team. So, I now have a MySpace page set up. It will also feature most of my blogs, but its blog is less user-friendly than my Will Write For Food site. But if any of you Andrew fans who are regular visitors to this site want to boost their friend numbers (I'm thinking Rocky alums), just hunt me down. If I recognize you, I'll add you.

All of these sites have links on the side of this page.

And I talked briefly with Andrew yesterday, and it sounded like he and his boys have dealt a significant blow to the Bag Guys in his area. But you'll have to wait for his next e-mail to hear more details. Good news, though.

New Pictures

Ok kids. Real quick, because I have to go to work. I have the best of my Easter pics up on my Tagworld site. If you look in the right column of this page, just click on the link that says "My Photo Blog" and away you go. Enjoy.

P.S. Talk to my mother if you want prints of any of them.

My Brother Just Murdered My Ego. It Was a Death Most Violent.

So, thanks to an enormous MySpace cult at KWQC, I decided I would jump on the bandwagon. As of this afternoon, I had three friends: Jules from work, the MySpace Guy, and Pam from The Office. So, the co-worker, the friend-whore on everybody's list, and a fictional character from a TV sitcom. That's just sad. I looked to alleviate my measely inner circle by leeching off a young man whose social adventures are that of legend: my brother. So, I punched in his e-mail address and hunted him down.

At first I was quite delighted to find that Andrew's profile picture was the now legendary "Pelican Picture" shot by yours truly. But then I scrolled down to his friend window.

You see... it's not just the number. I mean it is. The number's ridiculous. 134. Not counting my pending friendship (approve me ass). But it's also the... well... it should come as now surprise...

Beautiful

Women

Everywhere

Quantity AND quality.

Now, I knew my brother was friends with a lot of attractive girls. We had quite the harem about the homestead on Thanksgiving weekend before he left. Much as I can appreciate the charms of the "old-schoolers" who've been regulars at the Rockwell home since high school -- the Briannes and the Mels and the Lindsays -- never could I have imagined the magnitude of my brother's magnetism. It's truly a national phenomenon, reaching far beyond the tiny burg of the QC.

I don't want to give people the wrong impression. My brother is truly tired of the lothario label that was stamped on his forehead in his younger days, and he will probably try to kill me (with his bare hands (because he can)) for publicizing my reaction. So let me be clear; I'm not impressed by his friend list in some sort of frat brother, bedpost-notching, drunk high-five sort of way. I'm impressed because I've dated five people in my life and none of them speak to me anymore (ok one would like to, but she's crazy). My brother's dated... many more than that... and I wouldn't be surprised if every one of them is on that list! And all of them still have a genuine love for him.

Hmm. When I look at it that way, it's hard to be jealous. The more love sent his way, the better.

Let me see what I can do to boost that number.

Baseball With Nobody to Call

I cannot properly convey the tremendous uplift I get each spring with the return of the baseball season. Since I retired from sleds and snowball fights, the winter months have been particularly difficult to manage. I get by with new episodes of my favorite television shows and football on Sundays, but there are some days when there’s just nothing interesting going on. All of that changes on opening day, when I no longer have to scour my schedule with a microscope to find a reason to get up in the morning. If it’s spring or summer, there’s a good chance the Cubs are playing. If they happen to be on an off-day, I just turn my attention to the Cordova Confederacy Fantasy League and the odds are good I’ll have somebody to root for or against. But with each euphoria I relish during these next six months, an unfortunate anti-climax will follow close on its heels.

This Monday’s Cubs game against the Florida Marlins is a perfect example. Carlos Zambrano was his usual mercurial self on the hill, alternating between unpredictable flamethrower and off-speed magician. Though the performance was far from the majesty of a Greg Maddux, Big Z proved unhitable save two home runs. It was the type of performance my brother and I love to talk about. We easily could have spent a half hour on Zambrano’s first at-bat alone, a strike-out he punctuated by snapping his bat in half across his knee. This guy is batshit crazy and a watercooler GOD!

Sadly, for the majority of the 2006 season, the Rockwell watercooler diatribes will be tragically infrequent. The full weight of this missing link in my baseball zeitgeist struck me during the Cubs eighth inning rally against the Marlins. Down 3-0, the Marlins opened the door with a number of walks and base hits. Then, with the bases loaded, rising star Matt Murton stroked a liner into center that tied the game.

Any other year, I would have reached for my cell phone and hit speed-dial four: Andrew. We leave dozens, if not hundreds of messages for each other over the course of a baseball season. Brevity is the rule:

“Maddux, baby!”

“Big Z!”

“Murton’s a PIMP!”

Hours or days later, we’d break the voice message cycle and more fully digest the many tagline observations we’d accumulated since our last conversation.

Monday was a night filled with potential euphoric voice messages, but then the blunt reality hit me. I can’t even call my brother. That seems like a realization that would have hit me sooner, but it didn’t. My brother and I only spoke sporadically during the winter months even when he was home. But when baseball starts, we’re locked in a relentless back-and-forth. Only after Jacque Jones followed Matt Murton’s game-tying hit with a three-run blast did it finally strike me that our give-and-take, which is so essential to the baseball experience for me, will be sidelined longer than Prior or Wood.

On the morale roller coaster that has been my brother‘s deployment, I’ve reached a new nadir. Since I’ve started work I’ve shared maybe three or four conversations with my Andrew. I definitely got spoiled by unemployment and our near-daily Instant Message conversations. The big fantasy showdown I was so psyched for ended up on the anti-climactic note. Sure, it ended up being a route -- I beat Andrew 13-5 and threw him into a three-way tie in the cellar -- but my brother still would have had some angle from which to talk shit. He’d call it luck. He’d remind me he still knows more about baseball than I do. Something, anything to add some flavor to our contest. But alas, the week passed with not a word between us. Where’s the fun in that?

So, yes, baseball season is here, and I’m loving every minute of it. But like so many other things in The Longest Year, a very important piece will be missing.

When Death is Your Reward

This afternoon the jury in the Zacharias Moussaoui trail began deliberation. They will now decide whether the lone man to be charged as a result of 9/11 will either be executed or spend the rest of his life in prison. Now, I understand the natural compulsion to kill a man who played a part in such a tragic day in our country's history, and who shows absolutely no remorse. But seeking eye-for-an-eye retribution in this case will be less punishment for Moussaoui than it will be a reward.

Moussaoui comes from a section of Islam that values martyrdom so highly that scores of young men sacrifice their lives on a weekly basis in a quest for this holy status and its celestial rewards. By executing him, not only are we giving him what he wants, the Americans who continue to suffer because of 9/11 will not find themselves liberated from their grief or anger. Moussaoui has already shown his predilection towards defiant outbursts; expect nothing different on the day of his execution.

Death and martyrdom is the only thing Moussaoui can hope from his life now. He hopes to be remembered, by Al Qaeda and their brethren, as a hero who defied the Great Satan of the United States all the way to the grave. And the great irony is that only the United States, specifically the 12 men and women now considering Moussaui's fate, can grant him his last wish.

I hope the jurists have the ability to put aside thoughts of vengeance and justice, and choose instead to truly punish Moussaoui. Put him in jail for the rest of his life. Don't give him or his cohorts anything to celebrate. Don't let him turn death row into a platform for more of his tired rhetoric. Moussaoui's still a young man. It'll be decades before news of his death will come at the tail end of a nightly news cast, long after he's been forgotten by even the most ardent supporters of Al Qaeda. He'll die quietly, without extravagance or fanfare, and we'll take away the attention that he's used to such great effect during his trial.

We love quick fixes in this country, and I'm sure many are hoping their grief and anguish will die with Moussaoui. Unfortunately, there's no quick fix for the wounds of 9/11. Those who suffer today will suffer, to some degree, for the rest of their lives. I say we should let Moussaoui suffer with us.

Sibling Rivalry: Day 5

The offensive explosion I've been expecting since the start of the season came last night as Albert Pujols cruely punished my beloved Cubs and Alfonso Soriano went nuts on the Braves with 3 HRs. My brother and I have basically switched positions since the beginning of the week when he had the bats and I had the pitching. Now I'm owning the offensive categories and he's caught up with my pitching. At the risk of eating crow later, I think the first Rockwell boy showdown is firmly in my hands. Score going into Saturday: Phil 11, Andrew 5

Sibiling Rivalry: Day 4

This is how we want it. With three days of play left, the score is now 8-8. It's going to be a complete nail-biter, with nearly every category up for grabs at this point. Andrew was online yesterday, but we didn't get the chance to talk smack. I don't know why he didn't. I didn't because my hitters have been attrocious all week, and I don't run my mouth unless I have the bats to back it up.

P.S. Derek Lee broke his wrist and is out two to three months. Dagger. Heart. Twist.

Sibling Rivalry: Day 3

Thanks to pitcher's fear of both Albert Pujols and Brian Giles, I stole the walk category last night. And a few of Giles walks translated into runs which put me ahead in that category by two. Things remain tight though, and Andrew is gaining major ground in pitching, with my ERs and ERA slowly climbing. Things looked out of reach yesterday, but at this point, it's anybody's week.

Sibling Rivalry: Day 2

Sibling Rivalry: Day 1

Andrew's bats were large and in charge on our first day of competition, taking an early lead in Runs, 1B, K (fewest), and Batting Average. Thankfully, my closer, Ryan Dempster was the only pitcher to throw yesterday, so I locked up IP, Saves, and K (most) without a challenge.

Score after one day: Phil 5, Andrew 4

Sibling Rivalry

This is a big week for the Cordova Confederacy. Ok. Maybe not the Confederacy as a whole. But in this house. It's huge. For the first time this season my brother and I will go head to head in a week-long battle. Making it even more interesting is the fact that my brother is only one and a half games ahead of me; at this point a virtual tie.

Stay tuned for more...

Wild Night

I first saw the lightning when I walked out of Target. At the time, around eight o'clock, it was far in the distance -- just a handful of flashes every minute or so. I returned home to an empty house; mom was getting her hair done and dad was tending to his booster club. Uninterested in Thursday night's TV offerings, I decided I'd spend some time on the porch -- storm-watching.

Back in my adolescent years I spent a great deal of time watching storms from my front porch. In fact, I commonly took our camcorder with me for those afternoon firecrackers. We probably still have 10-12 video tapes around the house with thunderstorm footage. Well, our video camera has long been retired, but I still had access to my Nikon D70 digital still camera. So, I plucked it out of its case and took a seat on my front steps.

For the next hour, I sat perfectly still against the porch railing, my camera set to rapid-fire, snapping as fast as I could when the clouds flickered. After about an hour of fiddling with shutter speeds and apertures I had gotten fairly good at catching the occasional bright cloud (occasionally good last night meant probably one out of every fifteen shots wasn't completely black). I had been outside for nearly an hour when I heard something I've never heard before.

The town sirens went off. For real. Not a test.

Now, I had spent the afternoon at KWQC and it didn't seem like anything too serious was coming our way in terms of weather. Let alone something so serious that, for the first time in my 26 years in Rock Island, the town sirens would need to be used. This was fairly alarming. I quickly ran inside and turned on the television to see Rock Island county coded in red: Tornado Warning.

I hung out at the kitchen table as the veteran TV6 news team used phrases like "this is classic" and "I've never seen..." Then I saw something on the radar I've never seen before: the color black. Black. What the hell is black? In addition to this rather unpleasant hole in the radar, there was literally a wall of spirals that doppler uses to indicate rotation. And it was all headed our way. I got through three (two and a half) hurricanes in Florida without the slightest hint of a bowel mishap, but I definitely had to clench last night.

From the looks of the radar, I had some time before I had to consider diving into the crawl space. So, I returned to the porch with my camera, assured that things were going to pick up quite a bit. Both of my parents arrived without even noticing their son on the porch with a camera (probably shouldn't make that public knowledge). Not long after my cousin, Amy, came over to brave the storm with us. All in all I spent upwards of two hours shooting. Now 1 for 154 isn't the greatest batting average, but when this is your one hit... no complaints.


Interesting side note: I sent this photo in to my chaps at KWQC and they've made liberal use of it on its broadcasts last night and this morning. However, I didn't get credit for it, despite putting my name in the e-mail. That hurts my feelings a little. So, just remember good people, when you see the above picture on television over the next couple days, you know who shot it.

Wavering Loyalties in America's Pasttime

Though the ChiSox kicked the season off last night, for most of us baseball begins today. Talking to my brother on the phone last night (yes he called), he told me he had butterflies in his stomach awaiting the Cubs opener. I know how he feels. And I'm sure he's having a good day so far after the Cubs put up a five-run first inning which included wonderful contributions from off-season acquisitions Juan Pierre and Jacque Jones, not to mention the Cubs big prospect Matt Murton.

But there's also the spectre of the Cordova Confederacy, my cousin Brian's fantasy league. Already this adventure is playing mind games with me. Acquring Cub killer Albert Pujols with my first pick started it off. Now the Cubs have put up a five run first inning against my bottom pitcher Aaron Harang. I'm a competitive guy. And I really want to do well in my first year in fantasy baseball.

Well, if I must lose in the fantasy league, the least the Cubs could do is give me a World Series. Is it too much to ask?

A Good Day (With a Side of Irony)

There's a rule in life. The minute you settle for something less than what you want, the original object of your desire will come calling. So, when you want a certain job, the rule says you won't hear from said job until you have another, less appealing employ. A month or so ago I interviewed for a studio crew position at KWQC Channel 6, the fillet of local news. Well, I never heard from them. So, I went about looking for other employ (nothing happened there), as well as applying to St. Ambrose's Radio and Television program (accepted). So, while Channel 6 was my dream entry level job, and I never heard back from them, I decided I should get a little more experience in TV in case the opportunity should present itself again.

So, this morning I called my R&T advisor to schedule an appointment for Monday morning, and not three minutes later... wait for it... KWQC called to offer me the studio job.

I start tomorrow afternoon.

And I can't stop smiling.

Kid Sis

The list of people who I envy is short, but those people all share one characteristic: they love what they do.

The list of people who I admire is shorter, but those people also share one characteristic: they’re all good at what they do.

I just got home from spending a half-hour with someone I both envy and admire: my cousin Amy.

My brother and I always wanted a little sister. We liked the idea of being chivalrous in the name of family. We liked the idea of interrogating potential suitors. And even my brother must admit that we unfairly outnumbered Mom on our Florida vacations; we relish the challenge of a more even match-up on the pontoon boat. In the past couple years we’ve unofficially adopted Amy as our surrogate kid sis.

Andrew set the process in motion while I was away at college. Since the two of them were closer in age, they became social confidantes during his junior and senior years in high school. The two of them bonded further during my summer in Los Angeles when Amy pinch hit for me during the family’s annual vacation in Florida. Slowly but surely, he pulled her into our dysfunctional web.

Amy was always somebody both my father and brother shared a great affection for. My dad always commented on what a remarkable (and beautiful) young woman she had become. My brother, on the other hand, seemed to have a unique insight into Amy’s trials because of their similar branches on the family tree – that of the younger sibling. On the list of people of whom my brother feels most protective, Amy is at the top, and I’m sure I can speak for him when I say she is one of the people of which he is most proud. I heartily agree with him.

It’s remarkable how similar Amy’s and Andrew’s stories have been. They both had their share of troubles in their teens before finding a niche for themselves that christened them with adulthood almost overnight. For Andrew it was West Point. And for Amy it was, for lack of a better word, style.

Although it’s laughable now, there was quite a bit of controversy regarding Amy’s decision to pursue a career as a stylist. I guess that’s understandable; it does seem sort of impractical at first glance. But looking at Amy now, living in her own apartment, essentially running her own one-woman salon, those who questioned her choice – it’s ok if you feel a little shame. And for somebody four years her senior living at home, battling for jobs, and returning to school in the fall, seeing her success makes me feel more than a little sheepish.

Before I left for my year in Florida, Amy was in the middle of beauty school. My way of showing support was to regularly offer my mane for her to experiment with. Those first sessions with Amy were terrifically entertaining, as Amy’s apprehension, enthusiasm, and genuine gregariousness combined into this effervescent personality that couldn’t help but make me smile even as she held my vanity in her trembling hands.

“Oh my God,” she always said right before putting clipper to crown.

Still, when somebody you love finds something that they love, you can’t help but want to be a part of it. So I returned time and time again for trims, shampoos, and colorings as Amy became more competent and confident. When I left for Florida, Amy was still pretty green, but she had come along way since our first adventure.

Uncertain about my finances in Florida, I cut corners where I could. One of those corners was my hair. I got a pair of clippers for twenty bucks and sported the shorn skull for the duration of my stay. By the time I returned home, Amy had long since graduated and earned herself a spot at J Michael’s salon. Though I was excited to see Amy’s new digs, my low-maintenance lifestyle meant that I had no hair for my cousin to manage.

But around Christmas the sight of my round dome started to bore me, and I decided to restart the growth. In the few months that followed Amy became a regular visitor at the Rockwell household. I became her TV dealer, getting her hooked on 24, Lost and Smallville as I freely lent out my ample collection of programs for her consumption (Veronica Mars is next). Whenever she stopped by, Amy made sure to check my scalp to anticipate when she’d finally get her hands on my hair again.

That day was today. It’s probably been anywhere from 18 to 20 months since I’ve had Amy cut my hair, and it’s remarkable how far she’s come. For starters, she didn’t say “Oh my God” before she began. She just went at it. Whereas the last time she cut my hair, it was all very much about proper technique (Amy didn’t want to mess up her cousin’s head), today it was clear that technique had given way to instinct. The work had become second nature. The nerves were gone, replaced by an unbridled enthusiasm for all the skills she had mastered over time. Amy gave me a full work-up this afternoon, but she made it clear she still had a handful of tricks she couldn’t wait to employ when she got the opportunity. Highlights are most likely next.

I’d recommend anybody, family or no, hunt down my cousin after J Micheals makes its move to its new location. Not only does Amy do a tremendous job (I walked out of there one handsome cat), but you’ll never find a sweeter, more charming girl in all your days. I can’t recall ever seeing Amy in a bad mood (and she rode to the airport with me on Thanksgiving), and her bright personality and enthusiasm are instantly infectious. She’s like our own little Reese Witherspoon; a ball of limitless positive energy you can’t help but be instantly smitten with. I’m so thrilled to go see this young lady again, my hair can’t grow fast enough.

So, from this honorary big brother, I salute one more family member who followed her dreams and has been rewarded for it. I’m proud of you, kid. We all are.

P.S. Good luck with dad, tomorrow.

It Only Counts if Somebody is There to See It

Stand up and share in the applause boys and girls. This week saw another victory for our young Lieutenant, one that earned him a day off at the pool where he mercilessly flirted with two dozen Air Force girls. The big victory I speak of was the discovery of an enormous weapon's cache buried deep in a hillside.

But, what's really important to note is that Andrew and his men just happened to be followed by a press photographer when they discovered the loot. So, not only is there proper documentation, there are professional photographs of the whole event. Congratulate Andrew next time you speak on his work, and until then check out these exceptional pics.

Consolidating

My blogging situation has gotten out of control. Right now I have four. The only one that I really keep up on is this one, and when you're that blase about the others... keeping them is just silly. So, I've consolidated all of my blogs into one big blog on Tagworld. I'm still keeping this site for you fine people, but everything else from my other sites like Televised and Will Write for Food has been moved over to this one. This new site will give me a place where I can post my random lunacy without spoiling the sanctity of this site. If it's relavent, I'll post both here and there. Only if it's relevant, though.

BUT, the major reason I moved to Tagworld, is they offer a unique feature of a photo slideshow. So, if you go to this site and click on the photos, you'll not only find all of Andrew's Iraq photos, but also photos from Thanksgiving, Christmas, My Year in Florida, and all sorts of other things. As the weather warms up, there'll be more to this slideshow, but as it stands there are nearly 70 photos up. Nothing to sneeze at. Take a look every so often. There's some good stuff to be had.

And the Role of Andrew Rockwell Will be Played By....

The family heard from Andrew this morning. Naturally, his life has been very hectic the past several days, but he seems to see that as a positive. The civil strife has brought the bad guys out of the woodwork, and the Army is going after them relentlessly. My conversation with Andrew was extensive, but I'm going wait for his next e-mail to see exactly what he feels comfortable discussing and what he doesn't (or can't). Long story short, he's ok. Ok and busy.

But for those who will surely complain about the ambiguity of this post, I offer you this to appease your displeasure. It's the first pic of Andrew from Iraq. See how quickly you find him. It took me a moment.

From Left: SGT John Cracauer, SSGT Shawn Klein, PFC James (Toad) Sharon (a.k.a. Andrew's Secret Love Child), Andrew, SPC Smith

Seeing this picture gave me an overwhelming sense of comfort, for it clearly illustrates just how badass my brother has become. But then, I didn't realize how comfortable I was until I clicked by later in the afternoon and saw my brother on FX.

Updates from Andrew

I just got off IM with Andrew. Here's what I learned:

His guys did discover the 47 bodies. They were civilians on their way to work who were pulled out of their cars and killed. The IED explosion killed his Terp's Uncle, who was "the best COL in the Iraqi army." Nobody there knows what is going to happen. There's very much a wait and see attitude. And if things break down into a civil war, nobody knows what the United States' role in that will be. There was a shia/sunni firefight going on as we talked, and our conversation ended when he was called out to, I assume, deal with it. I hope to hear from him in a couple hours.

Probably More Than You Want to Know

So, for those who are keeping up with the news (which should be everyone visiting here), we're entering a time of unprecedented upheaval in Iraq. The question most of you are asking is what this means for Andrew. Well, while reading an article on CNN.com yesterday, I came across this:

At least 54 Sunnis are believed to have been killed since the Golden Mosque bombing, including imams, worshippers and bystanders, according to police figures.

Separately, the bodies of 47 unidentified people who had been shot to death were found Thursday southeast of Baquba.

Also Thursday, an explosion killed 16 people and wounded 20 others in Baquba. Five people were killed and 10 others were wounded in another Baquba blast that's suspected of being a suicide bombing.

This is Andrew's backyard. I'm sure I'll hear from him soon, but I doubt he'll be able to give us much information. That being said, I'll be back on here as soon as I have some news.

Garfield, Your Ass is Next!

Ever dated a manic depressive? I’m pretty sure I did. I can’t say with certainty, because I bailed before a proper diagnosis could be made. I wasn’t about to stick around for the boiled rabbits to debut.

On the bright side of her spectrum of neuroses, this girl was a delight: smart, charming, witty. I had no idea this other malevolent force festered within her dainty frame. Then one night she threw a plate against the wall. Now, I’ve seen this done in the movies and TV. If Carmella Soprano has never thrown a plate against a wall I’ll eat my shoe. I certainly can’t argue its value as dramatic punctuation. Yet when it happened in my kitchen, I had an entirely different reaction. I froze with a fork of pasta dangling at my mouth, and then turned to see the glob of fettucini alfredo making its slow slide to the floor. Then, suddenly, I heard Mike Myers’s alter ego, Austin Powers, in my head.

“Who throws a plate? Honestly?”

Now, as my online persona will attest, my whole personality is based around an inherent grouchiness and repressed anger. Yet, I’ve never thrown a plate. It’s just not civilized, and I usually look for similar etiquette from my companions. But clearly I misjudged this girl’s manners.

I handled the situation like a rider handles a spooked horse – being very still, speaking in hushed tones – meanwhile two opposing thoughts sparred in my mind.

1) This girl is crazy, and I need to get out of this relationship.
2) This girl is crazy, and if I leave she might get really crazy.

I have to believe the US government is dealing with those same two sentiments when it looks at the unrest in the Arab world this past week over… wait for it… a cartoon. Hundreds of protests have erupted across the world over an editorial cartoon published in Denmark depicting the prophet Mohammed with a bomb for a turban.

How bad is this cartoon? I don’t know. The American press, to my knowledge, has not printed it for fear of turning the Arab Street on us. Let them burn the Dutch, we say. Just don’t make eye contact with them and they’ll leave us alone.

If there was ever a time for the US government to stand up and say to the Arab world “You want our respect? Stop acting fucking crazy!” this is it. Yet, we’re caught in a delusional relationship with a culture so far behind our modern (and democratic values) that chastising them at this point would mean undercutting our “progress.”

So, what has the government done? They’ve come out and given a half-hearted statement about that essential cog -- freedom of the press -- in the machine of democracy. For people like me, who desperately want to maintain some optimism towards the Iraq experiment, the riots across the Arab world are the most brazen indicator that “democracy,” as the United States intends, will never survive in such a repressive, angry culture. On the same day that my brother lit up a riverbank like the opening shot of Apocalypse Now, this cartoon absurdity is what leaves me feeling hopeless.

A cartoon! Let us not forget that. Ponder that for a moment, won’t you? Now, I really hate Family Circus. There is something intensely aggravating about banality as entertainment. Still, you won’t find me outside Bill Keane’s home with torches anytime soon (although that might change the tone of those insipid one-liners for a time).

If much of the American public is like me, they’re finding less and less to empathize with when it comes to the Arab world. When the villain in your morality play is Denmark, you’ve taken anger issues to an unprecedented level. Part of the mistaken idealism of heartland America and the Bush administration is that everybody wants what we want, that everybody is essentially “just like us.”

I call bullshit. Americans only burn down buildings when their sports teams win championships. We don’t torch the New York Times when Odie gets the best of Garfield.

Two things terrify me most about this whole ordeal. The first is that it becomes apparent with every passing day that we are in the groundswell of a mythic civil implosion in the Middle East. The tensions between the West and the Arab world will continue to grow, and with Iran flashing its ass to the world with its nuclear program the positive scenarios continue to get pulled off the bulletin board.

But in an ironic twist, the most frightening thing about the recent cartoon controversy is that America has pulled back on its idealism in a fear of inflaming the Arab world’s lunatic sensibility. By not condemning this behavior outright, we’re kowtowing to incivility, and if we intend to solve anything in that region of the world, that’s the last thing we should be doing. We need to step up and set some fires about what we believe in. Freedom of the press. Separation of church and state. Separation of powers.

Whoops. For a second there I forgot which country I was in.

Super Bowl Sunday Live!

I shouldn't be as excited about Super Bowl Sunday as I am. The Bears lost. I know absolutely nothing about the Seahawks. And Super Bowl games are usually as lopsided as the most recent World Series. Still, the traditionalist in me feels compelled to watch, and the sentimentalist in me has chosen to roll with The Bus for this year's big game. So, since my brother won't get to enjoy the game live with us domestic folk, I thought I would spend the day posting a little play-by-play with commentary so he can perhaps live vicariously through my rants.

So, in the most annoying tradition of modern television, Phil Rockwell's Super Bowl blog begins.... right now.

10:59 AM -- Finished my breakfast of a bagel, an egg (scrambled), a banana, and one diet Sierra Mist with a multi-vitamin and two fish oil gels. I never realized until I wrote that line-up out how much that seems like institution food. Nope, just Weight Watchers.

11:41AM -- While ABC's official pregame has yet to begin, ESPN is already getting their piece of that superfluous pie... and I am questioning my humanity. Unfortunately for sports fans, with nearly double digit hours of pregame coverage, an ample portion of those hours will be devoted to so-called "human interest" stories, of which I have no interest whatsoever. It's not that I don't empathize with the misfortune so many have suffered this year, with Katrina and the like, I just find so much of this fluff intolerably self-serving for the NFL. After 9/11, so much of the Super Bowl was about the humility of the game. How many times did we here "It's just a game" in reference to other people's suffering? Yet, this year as in every other, the Super Bowl falls to its standard messianic complex, and becomes the savior for the world's ills. I love football as much as the next guy, but clicking just three channels away to CNN Headline news one can see... a segment about the Super Bowl.

Oh for God's sake...

12:11 PM -- What would Super Bowl Sunday be without... the Bears? Of course, not this season's roster. The one that won the Super Bowl 20 years ago. And how does ESPN personify the esteem the Monsters of the Midway have carried with them across two decades? With a portly Jim McMahon weed-eating around his patio in a banana hammock. Note to self: Find a therapist.

12:19 PM -- There's something about the Guinness commercials featuring the delightfully dim cockney inventors that tickles a part of my funny bone that I should be ashamed of. It's honestly not as funny as my laughs would indicate, but their most recent outing, a highlight reel of bloopers, is inspired. "A spoon? Brilliant!" Brilliant, indeed.

12:22 PM -- Troy Polamalu gets his first profile of the day. Has anybody seen a great white shark's eyes when it attacks? They just go blank and roll back in its head. Look at Polamalu's eyes in the secondary. There's something eerily similar. That cold, black, unconscious... no thank you.

1:00 PM -- I click over to Fox for Howie Long's "Tough Guys" special to find out that Larry the Cable Guy is going to be featured through out the show. Clllllllllllllick.

1:20 PM -- Andrew pops online to talk about our book and other things. He's apparently found his chill since last we spoke. Last time he was like John McClaine, or Peter Finch, or Jack Bauer.

1:30 PM -- Official pregame begins with the ghost of Lombardi, who may have been played by the dad from the Wonder Years. Last time I saw him he was setting football players on fire on Smallville. Ah, the circle of life.

1:40 PM -- An ad for the World Baseball Championships. Awesome.

1:53 PM -- Stunning Sam Ryan talks with Joe Namath. Boomer makes us think we're going there live, but it's clear that this interview was shot earlier. No shocker considering the last time Broadway Joe was paired with a beautiful woman for an interview he spent the entire Q&A begging for a sloppy make-out.

2:01 PM -- Grandpa Rockwell stops by. One month after getting a new computer, he still stops by from time to time to get a refresher course.

2:09 PM -- First Lost commercial. Awesome.

2:13 PM -- With two commercially bastardized covers of Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Were Made for Walkin'" within five minutes, Jessica Simpson takes an early lead in the Most Annoying Super Bowl Presence. Why does this honor always seem to go to overhyped pop singers?

2:31 PM -- The pregame show is sponsored by Pizza Hut, which means Jessica Simpson is going to continue to blister my eardrums for the next three hours.

2:35 PM -- The resurrection of the Superfans featuring portable defibrilators and a hip bone (with some meat still on dere) purchased on Ebay. A great sketch from a simpler time.

2:48 PM -- The first shout-outs from Iraq come courtesy of Seahawk fans in Tikrit and Steeler fans in Mosul. Both seem equally crazy, God bless 'em.

2:51 PM -- In order to pass the time till kick-off, Mom and Dad head down to the boat. Mom had promised Sloppy Joes for the game, but now I have my concerns as to whether that will come to fruition.

3:17 PM -- Jimmy Kimmel gets the key to the city of Detroit. Hilarity ensues. With Ted Nugent and some Piston who is probably good (I haven't watched the NBA in 10 years).

3:21 PM -- Commercial for Invasion, the best new TV show that isn't getting near the cred it should. This show is creepy as hell. Now that it's getting some good pub on Super Bowl Sunday, hopefully it will get a much deserved (and much needed) boost.

3:28 PM -- As pregame returns to the saccharine well of human interest, I take a lap on the dial and stop on......... Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. Doogie Howser as Xtatic letch = BRILLIANT! I know this is going to cost me Joss Stone's pregame performance. Is it worth the risk?

3:35 PM -- Yahoo! News tells me that people are going to get FAT today. No wonder there are more call-ins Super Bowl Monday than any other day. We're pigs. God Bless America.

4:44 PM -- Stevie Wonder heads the pregame entertainment with a Motown flavor and one of the worst sound mixes I have ever heard on a major telecast. With powerhouse vocals like Joss Stone and John Legend, there's no excuse for being unable to hear their voices.

5:00 PM -- Full Throttle wins the award for most non-sensical adverts of the night. I know there were cars, and then a can, and... no idea.

5:08 PM -- Ok, so those Full Throttle commercials were teasers for the big one where all the cars get together. Still stupid.

5:11 PM -- What could have been a very cool, poignant moment -- Jerome Bettis running out alone into his home stadium first -- is completely missed by a surprisingly inept production team.

5:25 -- Tom Brady flips the coin? Boy that's gotta feel retarded. With all those Super Bowl MVPs there -- Marcus Allen, Broadway Joe, etc. -- they pick Tom Brady?

5:27 -- The kick is away. Super Bowl XL starts..... right now.

5:33 -- Seattle's first drive stalls at midfield. Forced to punt.

5:34 -- The Whopperettes just stole the crown for most retarded commercial from Full Throttle.

6:22 -- I hate Tom Cruise. I wish he'd stop making movies that I want to watch. Mission Impossible III will be great for a number of reasons -- Laurence Fishburne, Keri Russell, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and J.J. Abrams -- but none of it could have happened without our resident Fruit Loop. So, for that, I am grateful.

6:30 -- What is with the black and white confessionals about how important the Super Bowl is? Hyping the big game is like adding propane to the sun. If anything doesn't need to be bolstered, it is the public image of the Super Bowl.

7:00 -- The first half ends with an anemic score of 7-3 Steelers.

7:01 -- Since I have no interest in watching Mick Jaggers defeathered chicken dance for halftime, Ill be looking for my suit to prepare for an extremely important job interview tomorrow.

7:02 -- Well, that didn't take long enough for me to avoid the geriatric gyration brigade. I totally respect what the Stones did for rock and roll, but my God, if there's anything less "football" than Mick Jagger's effeminate prancing, I haven't seen it.

8:18 -- Internet problems make this likely my last post for this experiment with a score of 14-10 Pittsburgh.

Dave Rockwell: King of the Penny Slots

It is a proud day in the Rockwell household. Having been frequenting the riverboat casinos for nearly ten years now, my father has always complained that he never hit a jackpot. Well, that streak of misfortune ended last night when my dad sat down at the Frog Prince II video slot on the Fort Knox progressive bank. With some absolutely brilliant play in the bonus round, my father cracked the Platinum Vault and won a $1,200 jackpot. There were bells and whistles and lights. It was everything my father ever dreamed of, and having witnessed it I still get tears in my eyes.

Spreading Love Nationwide (With Pins)

I hope this idea appeals to you lot as much it appeals to me. In my surfing this afternoon I discovered a site called Frappr. It is essentially a world map in which online communities can put virtual pins into their homes to keep tabs on their groups breadth. So, being the resourceful lad I am, I set up one to coincide with this blog. Basically, it's a way for my brother to visualize just how many people he has out there thinking about him and praying for him.

So, here are your step-by-steps for getting your pin in our map.

Click this link, and it'll take you to the map (probably with only my one lonely pin in there at this point). If you scroll down to the bottom, there's a place where you can put in your own information (Name, e-mail, zip code), post a brief message for Andrew, and even upload a photo. If you have the capability to put a photo on there (Brian I know you can figure this out), that would be great. If not, just the basics will do.

Once you enter in your info, it'll show you your pin in the map. If you click on it, there's an opportunity to change your location, which will allow you to put your pin exactly where your home is. This is a little complicated, but not very. If you can figure it out, great. If not, it's not a big deal.

So I'm going to give this a try. If you guys have any questions, just post a comment on this link and I'll get back to you. Let's see how many people we can get on this baby. Right now, a hack shock jock named Bubba the Love Sponge has almost 500 people on his map. Surely we can find more fans of Andrew than that.

Spreading Love Nationwide

As you learned from his most recent e-mail, Andrew has decided to throw our online world into turmoil by changing his e-mail address and forcing those of us on AOL Instant Messenger to convert to Yahoo! Well, my household is now set-up and I felt it was my duty to make things as easy as possible on the rest of you Lil' Rock followers should you want to join our little community.

So, for those of you who wish to venture into the scary world of Instant Messaging, you can get the yahoo instant messenger here free of charge. If you do get set up the screen names for my family are as follows:

RockFromIraq: Andrew
RockFromTheRock: Phil
RockyFBDad: Dad
Teresa_Rockwell: Mom

Though I'll have to get the parents to sign off on this idea, Yahoo! allows a webcam to run permanently, and since our hours differ greatly from Andrew's, I plan on leaving it on as much as possible. That way, even if we're not here to chat with Andrew he can at least see what's going on in our living room (and check out my big ass TV). For the rest of you, it's just an opportunity to be nosy.

E-Mail from Andrew

In order to please my mother's wishes that I use a webcam every once in a while, I'm switching over from AIM and AKO to Yahoo messenger/ email for the remainder of the deployment.

You can reach me at rockfromiraq@yahoo.com and message me wit rockfromiraq on yahoo.

For those that asked, my address is still

1LT Andrew Rockwell

A CO 1-68 CAB

Unit # 51505

APO AE 09336

Thanks for your time

Andrew

Deliciously Sacrilegious

My mother is probably not going appreciate this, but if this isn't a morale boost to my brother and his men...

Let me describe my state right now. I'm buckled over on my computer desk, my cheeks glistening with tears, and I just took a half-dozen puffs off my inhaler from the laughter induced asthma attack I have just suffered.

This is below low brow. It's under brow. But it may be one of the funniest things I've ever seen. Nay. It is one of the funniest things I've ever seen, and I'm compelled to share it.

It may take a moment to download, so be patient. You won't regret it. I swear, whoever created this deserves a medal.

So, without further ado, ladies and gentlemen... the Farting Preacher

Best Birthday Ever!

Even as I've become entrenched in my twenties, I can still rely on a few friends and family for some solid presents. My grandparents are always good for a few bills for the slots. Norm and Dee always send me a book that gets read by the end of the week (though this year I got Lonesome Dove on DVD, which with its 6 hour running time and Larry McMurtry source material is still in the same vein). But even with those all-stars having my back, nothing can compare to the gift the city of Rock Island left at the end of our driveway today.

Check it out.



Jealous?

26 and Climbing

So, last year, fully entrenched in my first year of blogging, I decided I needed some sort of staple for my birthday, to see how I've changed over the years. I fell upon James Lipton's questionnaire from the end of Inside the Actor's Studio. So, being that I have just recently begun my downhill slide to 30, I thought I'd share this year's questionnaire (with last year's answers for perspective).

Phil (dramatic pause) what is your favorite word?

25: Asinine
26: Grace (as in that of a dancer)

What is your least favorite word?

25: Dude.
26: Job,

What turns you on?

25: Intelligent conversation.
26: Grace.

What turns you off?

25: Ignorance, and indifference to one’s own ignorance.
26: Bad and/or irrational arguments.

What sound do you love?

25: The ticking clock theme from 24.
26: Rain with a dash of distant thunder.

What sound do you hate?

25: My dog, Scamp, barking at the raccoons at three in the morning.
26: Wire hangers scraping against the metal crossbeam in my mother's fabric room.

What profession, other than yours, would you like to attempt?

25: Chicago Cubs’ play-by-play man. I’d say starting pitcher, but who are we kidding?
26: Well, being that I'm unemployed, I can pick anything here. Dramatic television writer.

What profession, other than yours, would you not like to participate in?

25: Anything involving tips. Never again.
26: We're gonna stick with last year's on that one.

What is your favorite curse word?

25: Bullshit or horseshit. Any word involving animal excrement I find quite delightful.
26: Bollocks.

Finally, if heaven exists, what would you like God to say when you arrive at the pearly gates?

“I suppose I have some explaining to do.” This answer will never change.

And.... Breathe. An E-mail from Andrew

According to my mother, it's been a long time since I sent and email. Which actually makes me happy because time is flying by. I appologize. I don't have much time but I wanted to relate the highlights of my past week.

-We shot up a car a couple days back. It was driving crazy and we thought it a possible IED. Turns out it was just 3 drunken Haji's attempting to stay on the road. We had to create a drunk tank at the local IP station. They weren't charged.

-A bongo truck got stuck in the mud and we had to push it out. Rather than just get the thing unstuck, my soldiers decided to race it around the FOB getting it stuck over and over again in the 12 inches of mud.

-I've been spending every night working on Falcon view as I'm processing the intelligence i'm gathering in order to help with the missions. It's satellite Imagery

.I will write more later. For now I must call my mommy.

But Yes I am still alive.

Inshallah [Allah willing] I will see you all soon

I love you

Andrew

God Created the Universe in Seven Days. You'd Think Andrew Could Find Time to Write an E-mail

We're all on edge. Obviously. It's been one week since we received any communication from Andrew, and I felt I should come out and tell everyone to take a deep breath and chill. I think we may have been a bit spoiled by the dearth of e-mails we got since his arrival, but with Andrew's unit taking over at Gabe I suspect that his schedule has filled up rather quickly. No worries. I'll try to keep the posts coming, but honestly, when there's little news from him, I'm limited with what I can contribute. Still, I'll try and be a little more gung-ho about entertaining the masses while we wait for word from him.

Aww Snap! William Rusher Just Called Me Out

I have two family members in public office. This is the first time that I ever considered that I could cause them some trouble. I woke up this morning to an editorial in the Rock Island Argus entitled "What are the scientists all afraid of?" In the editorial, which you can hopefully read here he basically calls the scientific community cowards for not adjusting the scientific credo so that it can include intelligent design. Among his more absurd pronouncements is that science "will collapse, sooner or later, like the Soviet Union." Now, people who know me know that that kind of ludicrous shit cannot stand without rebuttal. So, after spending a couple hours at a hopeless job fair *sniff* this afternoon, I got to writing. Since I have serious doubts whether this will actually make it to print, I wanted to share it with you here. This is what the Argus' People's Pulpit will be getting in their inbox this afternoon :

William Rusher’s column of January 12 asked what the scientific community is so afraid of when it comes to intelligent design, and in doing so, he exemplified what terrifies scientists so much. Quite simply, the fear of those in the scientific community is that a philosophical and theological concept will rewrite the definition of what science is. Rusher argues for just that in his column. He chastises science for its adherence to “materialistic interpretations of reality.” He criticizes science for being an empirically based enterprise and not allowing supernatural explanations into the formula. He wants to change the rules of science, plain and simple, and he calls the scientific community cowardly for not doing so. It’s like Peyton Manning deciding to plant landmines in the backfield to keep a defense off his back, and then calling his opponents wimps for not allowing for more lenient interpretation of the rule book. You don't hear any scientists calling for ammendments to the Ten Commandments in order to make them more scientifically inclusive, so why should we twist the fudamentals of science to make room for faith-based explanations?

The rejection of intelligent design in the scientific community comes from an absence of compelling evidence, not some underlying political dogma. Rusher makes a number of baseless suggestions about the scientific community that completely misrepresents their worldview. First among them is that science has a worldview. It does not. The theories and laws that guide science are the result of years of testing and experimentation; science didn’t bend these conclusions to fit with what it believed to be true. If that were the case we’d all still be worried about falling off the edge of the Earth. Rusher also labels the scientific community as intrinsicly godless. Again, incorrect. At worst, the scientific community is, in practice, agnostic. There is no empirical data to support the existence of God, so scientists study independently of that faith-based variable. Still, there is no universal claim from scientists that there is no God. Certainly there are a number of atheists in the scientific community, just as there are in the world at large. But some of the best scientific minds also had deeply held religious beliefs. Albert Einstein, one of the greatest scientific minds in history, often spoke eloquently and faithfully about God, and he is not the only scientist to do so. And despite Rusher’s claims, science does not show, without a doubt, that the universe had no beginning. It suspects. It has ideas. But it is constantly testing those ideas against empirical data. If science played by intelligent design’s rules, the scientific community’s work would be done. They could just give it all up to the "designer".

One of Rusher’s more naive suggestions is that intelligent design leaves the identity of said designer open. Of course, he admits, “one obvious possibility is God.” I’m curious what he believes the other identities to be. Zeus, perhaps? Or possibly some extra-terrestrial? Alf, maybe? Or those little chain-smoking aliens from Men in Black? Let’s ask Tom Cruise who he’d slip in as his cosmic architect. I’m sure Rusher would appreciate an open conversation on the topic. After all, we don’t want to be like those narrow-minded scientists. In truth, God is not one possibility for the intelligent designer in an open-ended spectrum; which God is where I.D. remains mute. Yet, this is where intelligent design becomes more dangerous than Rusher’s aww-shucks presentation. If we institute I.D. into schools, how long before the conversation turns to who, specifically, this designer is? Suddenly, science is no longer science. It is theology. And despite what Rusher seems to believe, that is a bad thing.

Intelligent Design does have its place in public schools, in philosophy or theology classes, but its inclusion in science classes further corrodes an American student body that is falling further and further behind the rest of the world in those “materialistic” areas like math and science. If we want to broaden that divide, we need only adopt a concept like intelligent design into our classrooms under the pretense of inclusiveness and well-roundedness. Despite Rusher’s prediction that science and its godless worldview “will collapse, sooner or later, like the Soviet Union,” I assure him that science and faith will have equal influence on the future of humanity, but that doesn’t mean we should change the nature of either so that we can bring the two together. That is what intelligent design is asking us to do, and that is what scientists and the faithful alike should be afraid of.

Aspirations

In order to succeed in life, one must have goals. Of course the right goals are important. For instance, I probably should have a goal to find a job by my birthday in a week and a half (by the way, if anybody out there knows how I could get some quality snuggle time with Kristen Bell, I can't think of a greater birthday gift. Nothing tawdry. Just some friendly afternoon spooning). But lately, my most pressing goal has been to win a prestigous spot on a watch list. NSA, FBI, Pentagon... I'm not really picky. But by God if the Raging Grannies can get attention from our Federal Government, why can't I?

Well, my family took a good first step towards a reservation at the Black Site Hilton with our newest wall decoration. Warrantless wiretaps... I can almost hear the click on the phone lines now.

Try and Keep Up

One of the things I swore to myself when my brother left was I would learn as much as I could about the situation over there. So occasionally, when I get the chance to talk to my brother on IM in between teasing our mother and talking about the Cubs, I find a chance to ask him about what he's seeing. This is an exchange we had today where I asked him, in so many words, who he was fighting:

Phil: Let me ask you something. The guys who plant the IEDs, are they like hardcore guys, or are they more chickenshits who do that because they can't fight any other way?

Andrew: Everyone here is a chickenshit

Phil: Well, that answers that question.

Andrew: there are only small groups, Terrorists, Shia extremeists, Wahabbis, the Badr Corps or the Madhi army that would actually fight us

Phil: Damn. Now I'm gonna have to go look up all of those words.

Andrew: but most of them prefer to do things the easy way and just take cheapshots and run like little bitches. I went to a town called Narwhan. it's a 100% SHIA town and my experiences there were completely different from my previous towns

Phil: How was the Shia town different?

Andrew: They hated us and want us out

Phil: So, you give them the power, and now they want you guys to bail?

Andrew: No we're taking power from them and giving the Sunni's more

Phil: But weren't the Sunnis in power under Saddam?

Andrew: yet the sunnis think the opposite, but they're afraid of Iran coming in when we leave

Phil: So you're actually trying to create a situation of equality, but both sides think you're screwing them.

Andrew: Basically

Phil: So do you trust anyone there? CAN you trust anyone there?

Andrew: No

I don't know if this is what the experts mean when they use the word "quagmire," but we are undoubtedly caught in a centuries old Catch-22. Groups who hate us need us to stay to protect them from even greater dangers. There don't seem to be any allies for the United States, but merely groups protecting their own self-interests by playing both sides. Nobody trusts us, and in turn, we don't trust them. A complete lack of trust -- the perfect foundation for a sparkling democracy.

It Had to Happen

I didn't go to my first Cubs game until I was 22. It was a remarkable experience, if not a typical Cubs experience. Kerry Wood threw seven innings of one-hit baseball before turning the game over to the bullpen who quickly gave up ten runs in one inning to the Pittsburgh Pirates. Yet one image lingers in my brain from that game. Sometime in the middle innings a Pirate (whose name I cannot remember) hit a rope off Kerry Wood that screeched straight towards my seat in the left-centerfield bleachers. It was a 0-0 game at that point, but this rocket was destined for the gap and would mean at least one run for the Pittsburgh.

Then a streak of blue skirted the outfield and swallowed the ball with a miraculous diving catch. That streak was Corey Patterson. Patterson finished that year looking very much like the heir apparent, hitting the snot out of the ball while becoming a fixture on Web Gems. The next year followed with an unfortunate knee injury. Then last year he returned with substandard numbers that eventually won him a trip to Triple-A.

Well, now that player who I will always identify with my first Cubs game is no longer a North Sider as this afternoon the Cubs deal Patterson to Baltimore. It makes me sad, but like Sosa a year ago, it had to be done. Since Corey will be in the American League (and for the time being will not return to torment us as so many ex-Cubs do), I wish him the best of luck and I look forward to seeing him on Web Gems this spring.

God Bless Pat Robertson

I get so few good belly laughs these days. But running across a certain article on MSNBC this morning... I haven't laughed that hard since... well, since the premiere of Scrubs on Tuesday. Pat Robertson has put his foot in his mouth so many times over the last five years he should just slap a Nike Swoosh on his lips and try to get an endorsement deal. First, 9/11 was the fault of the gays, and abortionists, and feminists, and all those other Ists that get right wingers chastity belts in a bunch (to be fair he tag-teamed with ray of sunshine Jerry Falwell on that one). Then, he recommended we assasinate a head of state. Next, he predicted fire and brimstone for Dover, Pennsylvania for ousting every school board member who voted Intelligent Design into the public school system. And then comes this gem regarding Ariel Sharon's recent health problems.

Not only is the statement itself priceless, but kudos to MSNBC.com for picking a winning screen grab from the 700 Club to properly contextualize more Robertson lunacy.

You Can't Write This Stuff

One things is readily clear here in the states: we just have no clue what's going on in Iraq. I've encountered a lot of weird anecdotes from soldiers and reporters since the war began. Occasionally one will hit home. My brother talking about the blase reaction from Iraqis when U.S. soldiers cross through their backyards or raid their houses was one case. This story from Richard Engel's Baghdad Blog was another.

We have no idea...

"I'm Just Calling to Congratulate You For...."

Probably the biggest nuisance that has arisen during my brother's absence has been the new power granted telemarketers. Every time the phone rings, we're hoping it's Andrew. We can stand the let down if it's family or friends, but when it's some jackass from Legend Windows (who?) well, you'll have to forgive my intolerance. Wasn't there a law passed, not to long ago, that telemarketers can only call people with whom they've done previous business. Who the hell is Legend Windows? Making this nuisance even more intolerable is the international phone delay. Before Iraq, I used to hang up at the first moment of silence before a telemarketer clicked in. Now, if I do that I could be hanging up on my brother, and that would probably get me a shiv to the ribs from Mom (she's ruthless, you see). I don't know if the number of telemarketers has gone up, or if we're just hyper-aware of the phone calls, but it seems like they're getting out of hand again. Again, where is that legislation?

Although there are those moments when the sun shines in, where I get the opportunity to turn the tables on the telemarketers for a brief moment.

"Is there an Andrew Rockwell there?"

"No, he's not here right now."

"Could you tell me when he'll be back?"

"Well, he's in Iraq right now, and we haven't heard from him in two weeks, but I'm sure when he has a moment between mortars and hostile fire he'll be thrilled to learn Visa has preapproved him yet again."

Click.

And then I do the Snoopy Dance.