This could just be the conspiracy theorist in me (inspired by The Mind's new show on TruTV--seriously, it's about conspiracy theories. And it's called Conspiracy Theory. Clever.), but a December Newsweek article about unmanned drones in Afghanistan ignited my critical thinking skills. And conjured images of Valerie Plame and Karl Rove (well, the name of Valerie Plame--a quick mental search brought 0 results for images).
The article probed the dilemma of a super top-secret "clandestine CIA search-and-destroy program" which shoots missiles from unmanned drones in the sky. The dilemma: shoot bad guys, and probably also some good guys. Important debate, but here's my problem: Since we're reading about it, IT'S NOT A FLIPPIN SECRET!!!
In Newsweek, reporter Mark Hosenball writes government officials won't confirm the program exists--at least not officially. He then cites a "U.S. national-security official--who...declined to be named..." and another who speaks on anonymity, and so on and so on. And the faceless voices tell one story: the success of the secret operations.
So you can see beginnings of my conspiracy theory start to take shape, right?
Hell, if I told you I wouldn't reveal what I ate for breakfast and then Tom in Accounting told you he knew what it was, you'd get curious, wouldn't you?
And on top of that, doesn't it seem convenient that there are these mysterious deep throats running amok and leaking all these positive stories about this controversial operation? There aren't any rogue advisors leaking the story of dead civilians all over the place.
Recipe for success
1) Make (name of clandestine death program here) secret.
2) Leak only the details you want to be known. (The best part is, they don't even have to be true! You're an unnamed source!)
3) Watch the media write up stories you want published
Conspiracy or not, leave Tom in Accounting alone. I dropped my fried egg sandwiches on the garage floor.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
La Basurera
This post was written during a mission trip to Coban, Guatemala. It was composed as an entry on www.mattblumphotography.com, but has not been posted yet.
The other day, we stood on broken glass and crushed candy boxes, our eyes squinting through sunglasses from the bright sunlight. Our feet were of course protected by our tennis shoes, probably not our best, because of course we didn’t want to soil our nicer footwear. Some of the people who live there at Coban’s garbage dump weren’t so lucky to have anything to protect their feet. One little toddler boy wasn’t wearing pants.
There are several Guatemalans living there in shacks and they pick through mounds of trash that seem to stretch for miles (or weeks of searching) among mangy dogs and a sea of vultures fighting over pieces of raw meat.
We all were unsettled, if not haunted by our own selfish feelings; we worried about our belongings in the car, we applied our sunscreen and drank bottled water. Those who live here have to wait for weeks to have potable water delivered through a happenstance connection between a local priest and some firemen.
We talked to a government employee asking many questions about the dump and the inhabitants here. Matt Blum translated for the other nine of us, as has become his unofficial job on this trip. The employee in the official blue cap answered many of our questions. Earlier, Blum told us the dump has improved very much since the group from St. Pats visited last year, and the employee’s answers explained these improvements. The mayor of Coban has offered free school to the kids living in the dump given that they are not permitted to search through garbage. The government has also provided land for the people to live on and room to sort recycling to sell--all small but meaningful steps to improve a desperate lifestyle. Most adults living at the dump only speak the Mayan dialect of Q’ecqhi’, making it difficult to find any other job. But now their children will speak Spanish, hopefully improving their chance in the future to gain employment away from this place.
After handing out bread, juice and candy to the children, we jumped back into the back of a pickup truck to make our way back to the monastery. A day later, I continue to be haunted by those images and thoughts, hoping for a brighter tomorrow for those children.
Every night on this trip we have sang several songs, one of which is Open the Eyes of my Heart. Certainly that visit opened our eyes. At the dump, we assisted those children and some of the adults by providing some small sustenance. But I think as we stood there in our clean clothes and sunglassed faces juxtaposed against a landfill and a desperate group of people, the real benefit that came from today was our eyes have opened at least a tiny bit more.
The other day, we stood on broken glass and crushed candy boxes, our eyes squinting through sunglasses from the bright sunlight. Our feet were of course protected by our tennis shoes, probably not our best, because of course we didn’t want to soil our nicer footwear. Some of the people who live there at Coban’s garbage dump weren’t so lucky to have anything to protect their feet. One little toddler boy wasn’t wearing pants.
There are several Guatemalans living there in shacks and they pick through mounds of trash that seem to stretch for miles (or weeks of searching) among mangy dogs and a sea of vultures fighting over pieces of raw meat.
We all were unsettled, if not haunted by our own selfish feelings; we worried about our belongings in the car, we applied our sunscreen and drank bottled water. Those who live here have to wait for weeks to have potable water delivered through a happenstance connection between a local priest and some firemen.
We talked to a government employee asking many questions about the dump and the inhabitants here. Matt Blum translated for the other nine of us, as has become his unofficial job on this trip. The employee in the official blue cap answered many of our questions. Earlier, Blum told us the dump has improved very much since the group from St. Pats visited last year, and the employee’s answers explained these improvements. The mayor of Coban has offered free school to the kids living in the dump given that they are not permitted to search through garbage. The government has also provided land for the people to live on and room to sort recycling to sell--all small but meaningful steps to improve a desperate lifestyle. Most adults living at the dump only speak the Mayan dialect of Q’ecqhi’, making it difficult to find any other job. But now their children will speak Spanish, hopefully improving their chance in the future to gain employment away from this place.
After handing out bread, juice and candy to the children, we jumped back into the back of a pickup truck to make our way back to the monastery. A day later, I continue to be haunted by those images and thoughts, hoping for a brighter tomorrow for those children.
Every night on this trip we have sang several songs, one of which is Open the Eyes of my Heart. Certainly that visit opened our eyes. At the dump, we assisted those children and some of the adults by providing some small sustenance. But I think as we stood there in our clean clothes and sunglassed faces juxtaposed against a landfill and a desperate group of people, the real benefit that came from today was our eyes have opened at least a tiny bit more.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Dream hurl
Dave Matthews Band recently posted a video of some DMB fans getting the ultimate 2 a.m. studio tour in Louisianna. They were invited in to listen to one of the new tracks from their upcoming studio album while Dave and Carter Beuford hung out with them. They listened politely, bobbing their heads, but when the groove kicked in they started hollering and dancing like face-mauling chimpanzees. Go figure. I think they were drunk Canadians. But whatevs. They're standing there with Dave. Who knows what you'd do? I'd probably throw up and then start stealing things. Later that month in jail I would come to with no memory of ever meeting Dave. However, I would have been sober the whole time. But that will never happen. Oh well, we can dream, right?
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Stay away from any girl that is currently occupied, including your best friend's
Generally speaking, according to most man laws, bro codes, and all other pacts of manship, your friends' exes are off limits. Obviously from time to time there are exceptions, but this it's even more important to lay off if they are only sorta broken up or just broke up. Treat just-released-on-DVD My Best Friend's Girl like it is your best friends girl--off limits. The story is mediocre, the acting is what you'd expect, and the ending is outrageously unbelievable. Dane Cook's character is hired by his best friend (Jason Biggs's character)(they call themselves cousins--oh cute) to date his recent ex (already forgot who played this part - oh, Kate Hudson) and be a top-notch dick rag to her. He does a good job, turning on obscene music and bringing her to a strip club--ultimate dick rag moves for a first date. But Kate Hudson's character is cool with raunch and apparently loves boobs flying in her face. At the end of the date, she's looking for adventure after recently breaking up with the all-too-nice Jason Bigg's character. She invites Dane Cook up for a little first date sex. Although he refuses this time, they break all bro codes, man laws and other general niceties of friendship, as Jason Biggs continues to lament over losing Hudson. In the end, he forgives Dane Cook and Kate Hudson and Dane Cook live happily ever after. It's one of those movies that leave you thinking what the f*ck just happened? My Best Friend's Girl should be off limits.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
So I've got a cold. A lousy stinkin' cold. Or at least the beginnin's of one. After laying awake in bed last night with my throbbing throat denying my attempt at sleep, I got up to check what I purchased with my FlexSaver account money at the last minute in 2007.
In the past I've smacked the beginnin's of a cold in the face with Zicam. I swear it works miracles. So I was happy to find Zicam spoons in the closet. The gooey "tastless" zi-crap goo on the spoon was meant to stir into a drink--"hot or cold!" it boasted. I coudn't deny the urge to lick the cover. So I licked. And gagged. I've only gagged thrice in my life. None of them appropriate for television. This was the fourth - well suited for a TV sitcom. I moved on to stirring into the drink--cold ginger ale. The goo would not dissipate so I chugged goo-chunky ginger ale--couldn't be worse than naked tounge on goo. Altogether it probably won't list among the best moments of 2009, but this morning there was no throbbing throat, no headache, and no (full blown) cold. But even after 8 hours of sleep, I'm exhausted. Let's see how tonight goes.
In the past I've smacked the beginnin's of a cold in the face with Zicam. I swear it works miracles. So I was happy to find Zicam spoons in the closet. The gooey "tastless" zi-crap goo on the spoon was meant to stir into a drink--"hot or cold!" it boasted. I coudn't deny the urge to lick the cover. So I licked. And gagged. I've only gagged thrice in my life. None of them appropriate for television. This was the fourth - well suited for a TV sitcom. I moved on to stirring into the drink--cold ginger ale. The goo would not dissipate so I chugged goo-chunky ginger ale--couldn't be worse than naked tounge on goo. Altogether it probably won't list among the best moments of 2009, but this morning there was no throbbing throat, no headache, and no (full blown) cold. But even after 8 hours of sleep, I'm exhausted. Let's see how tonight goes.
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