We Left the Lights On: C-A-N-C-E-R

Ten points is all you get for using "cancer" in a game of Scrabble.

Well I think that's pretty crappy.  Not that cancer should be worth more, that's not really how the game works, but ten lousy points for confronting certain pain and sickness and possibly death?

I realize that cancer treatment has come a very, very long way over the years.  For instance, I have an uncle who is doing incredibly well following treatment and a best friend's father who is in remission.  Just a few years ago I'm sure both types had lower probabilities for successful outcomes and almost a certain guarantee of maximum discomfort before death.

Sometimes, however, I think cancer gets a bad rep because folks believe cancer is associated with poor behavior (i.e. smokers brought it on themselves, etc.) and they deserve their sickness.  Perhaps the magnitude of cancer gets swept aside because of people like Lance Armstrong who beat cancer, but ultimately end up being assholes and cheats and liars and frauds.

Regardless, I think cancer is still a pretty big deal.  This was especially so last summer when I had a bunch of weird moles and bumps appear on my stomach and face.

Now I know that I don't take the greatest care of myself and that I have some bad habits, but I was shocked when the on-base psuedo-practioner-of-medicine that the Air Force lovingly calls a "doctor" referred me to an off-base dermatologist.

Of course my mind cross referenced everything I'd ever "learned" on Grey's Anatomy and I was certain that I was going to die like Izzie Stephens since she found a weird mole on her back that ended up being brain cancer and then she had hallucinations and... 

Yea, I know that thought process is idiotic, but when it takes 90 days to get seen off base you have a teeny tiny amount of time to go all hypochondriac on TRICARE.

Link:  I know I'm an idiot, but come on!

I was reminded of all these feelings this past week when I volunteered at the animal shelter and interacted with a cancer-ridden Rottweiler named Sheba.  This is a really rotten situation as I pointed out to my mom with the use of a blunt, formulaic equation:

Black Dog + Full-body Cancer + Aggressive Breed = Certain Death

I know the vets are trying to treat it, but the little girl is only two and it's not like the shelter is swimming in donations.  

I pushed all of this aside, however, and just focused on having the best walk I could based on her energy levels.

She seemed really good.  She took two nuclear-certified poops (from the chemo) and walked 0.5 miles taking in the sunshine.

And that's when I started to recount my own experience.

Simply, I waited three months to be seen only to have the derm extract some worrisome bumps from my face, which meant I had to wait a few more weeks for the results.

The waiting was the worst followed closely by the big black stitches on my upper lip.

Of course I went back to work after the initial procedure (what else was I going to do besides watch more Grey's and write my own eulogy?) and tried to focus on my projects.  Sadly, only my guys and the civilian leads noticed my inability to speak clearly (numbing) and the stitches.  They showed genuine concern and wanted to know how everything worked out.

Then there was tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum.  They had no idea anything was wrong despite the fact that I had to make repeated requests to miss work for these appointments.  After three years in their organization, nothing.

Now I didn't expect them to give me time off to mope around or to show any true concern, but a feigned amount of indifference would've been nice.  I mean I was one of three other officers in the organization at that point.  A simple, "Let us know if you need anything" would've been sufficient.

But I guess that's what happens when you're busy talking about barbecue and your lawn and other douchebaggery.

Whatever.

Oh, and it ended up being a case of overactive sweat glands.  "Grody," the nurse said as she opened my results like we were at the Emmys.

Fine by me, I thought, fine by me.

We Left the Lights On: The Insubordinate Captain

So, funny story.

I was once told that in order to be a more well-rounded officer and candidate for a prestigious annual award I needed to volunteer with humans.

This came from not one, but two, full-bird colonels who I lovingly referred to as Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

Screenshot:  Colonel Sanders was a better leader than these two...and he wasn't even a real colonel!

NOTE:  These are the same two masterminds that worked out a way to stay at Hill AFB longer than they were supposed to so they could be the very best of friends and talk about barbecue all day long.  But that's a whole nother story.

Anyways, the entire exchange took place when they asked me to write my own annual award package in less than 24 hours.  I didn't deserve the award and refused on those grounds.  When they started to ask why I felt I didn't deserve the accolades I explained that I hadn't really done a great job at work and felt like it wouldn't be setting the right example.  They went on to ask if I had taken any educational courses or been involved with community activities to which I replied that I had already completed my graduate degree, volunteered regularly at the animal shelter, took certification courses, followed HBR and MIT courses online (pre-Coursera), read books off the CSAF Reading List, and...

They stopped me and said, "Well if you want to win these awards you need to volunteer with humans."

Right.  In the next 24 hours I need to get to the hospital and save some lives, correct?

"This is precisely why you will never win at higher levels," they said.

Right.  Because winning awards is what it's all about.  They explained that it was whether I liked it or not.

So I eventually kowtowed and wrote a crappy award package and got called insubordinate because I had a backbone and didn't want to self promote myself (???).

I was so perfect I was insubordinate.  BWAHAHAHAHAHAH, cracks me up just thinking about it.

But you want to know what really chaps my ass?  The assumption that volunteering with animals was somehow less important or meaningful than volunteering with humans.

You want to know why I volunteer with animals?  Because people are assholes.  Serious assholes.

I did BBBS, coached soccer for 10- to 12-year-old boys, built homes for H4H, cleaned houses at a Bob Hope Village, read at elementary schools, fed folks at the mission, fed the homeless in a soup kitchen, and on and on.  And you know what?  Everyone was an asshole.

The parents, the kids, the homeless, the widows, etc.  I know I may not be the best soccer coach or big sister or onion chopper, but I try to do my best and I try to give a little of my time to people.  Not everyone was a thankless mooch, but would you continue to build houses for people that drive better cars than you and always show up with their hair and nails done up real nice?  Nope, didn't think so.

I don't think dogs are people or anything, but they do complete a family and they can offer more than a jerk can to those in need.  They love unconditionally and that is something hard to find in a human soul.

Regardless, I am going to keep caring for the less fortunate (even if they travel on all fours).

Cheers!

<3.

The "I Love Me Wall"

QUICK NOTE:  Another WSJ-inspired blog post with a look back to Major Mercurial.

This morning I skimmed through some front-page articles looking for anything on energy exploration/exploitation in developing countries (check), the disaster that is Iraq (check), and the sad fate of Ukraine (check).  

As usual the ol' WSJ didn't disappoint and even threw in a little bonus article (just for me!) in the A-HED column:  "In Washington, the 'Me Wall' Still Trumps the Selfie".

Oh la la, I thought, what do we have here?!

The article discussed how many politicians and aides still prefer office walls adorned with photos of their greatest triumphs and meetings as opposed to selfies on that other kind of wall (who would even dare suggest that our Congressmen use Facebook?!  Oh the gall!).

What I enjoyed most about this article, however, was realizing just how much farther Air Force leaders take the 'Me Wall' concept.

Said the average Air Force officer, "And you should too!"

Our esteemed leaders don't just have photos.  No way!  They have mini-aircraft and tiny tail flashes and ginormous swords and shit.  Just copious amounts of SHIT all over the place.

Some even bring their wives in to arrange the plastic hunks of grey and blue throughout their office so that each piece is strategically visible while the commander hands out LORs and LOCs to the unit.  A real feat I might add.

These walls always struck me as odd.  Maybe because the first "I Love Me Wall" was Major M's and it was overwhelming.  Everything was level and nothing had dust and it spanned almost twenty years of service.  There were many a lecture that I missed because I was too busy trying to figure out the lame inside jokes on each of the placards.  SERIOUSLY!

So what did I do when I began to accrue my own piles of stuff?

I put all my crap in a box and moved the box around.  I still haven't unpacked it and I probably never will.

Photo:  The "I Hate Myself" Box

What are the contents of the box you ask?  Well, I threw most of the quarterly awards and annual awards in the garbage and kept only the items that really meant something to me:  a paperweight from a great Senior, a wrench from the guys, a Paddington Bear from England, a Lochness Monster from Scotland (it's real, ok?), two tail flashes, and some Mighty Ocho stuff (because it's just cool).

So what's on my walls?  Not my degrees, that's for sure.

Photo:  A mighty rooster from France drinking beer.  Entirely normal.

Photo:  A collage from a great friend!

Photo:  A stolen, I mean otherwise acquired, trail sign from UT.

Photo:  A memory board.

Of course I'll put my dad's painting up when I'm truly settled along with all my framed family photos, but this is all I need for now or ever in an office-like environment.

And I don't hate myself (although, ironically, I am reading Love Yourself Like Your Life Depends On It by Kamal Ravikant), I just don't see the need to have silly crap all over the place.

DISCLAIMER:  Don't remove everything from your walls because of this post; just know that everyone thinks you're a douche.

Thanks Bill!

We Left the Lights On: Lady Gaga

Oh come on now, you know you were guilty of it.

The year?  2009.

The setting?  Any dial on your car radio.

The act?  Singing loudly and proudly to Lady Gaga's Paparazzi or Telephone or whatever.

Don't lie to me.  I know it happened.

Photo:  Oh, nothing like the MTV Music Awards (or a deployment) to bring out the best in a performer.

As is often the case with anamnesis (yea, how do you like that word?!  BAM!), I saw Lady Gaga on the TV the other day promoting her collaboration with Tony Bennett and I was immediately transported back to a different place and time.

Video clip:  Not sure why, but this does not bother me at all.

Unfortunately, my particular memory sequence quickly went from the hilarity of parody videos of guys dancing to Gaga in the desert to an incredibly difficult situation I encountered back at Lakenheath.

Video clip:  Why does everyone dance in the desert?  Still better than Gangnam Style IMHO.

I was still in Accessories Flight (LOL, that word still makes me think of jewelry and not FOHEs) and was working in the Fuels Shop when Major Mercurial called to say that he wanted to see the Senior and I in his office immediately.  We assumed that we were going to be fired, again, and joked that if we actually were fired this time that he would hand out basketballs at the gym while I handed out towels.  Seemed like a good plan.

When we got to the office, however, Major M was pretty upset and was talking to some Americans in suits who were standing in the waiting area.  This was strange considering we were overseas and on a pretty secure installation.  That's when they flashed their badges:  FBI.

They informed my Senior and I that one of our fuels troops had his kids illegally in the UK and that their mother wanted them home and was going to press charges and everything else unless they were on a plane tomorrow.  Now I was no legal expert and I had no idea what had happened in their relationship to bring them to the point of fighting over a three-year-old and a one-year-old, but I knew enough not to push the issue with the FBI.  My Senior and I agreed that the best thing we could do was to offer support for our troop throughout the process.

The FBI explained that in order to get the kids back to the US, however, two members of the unit had to take the kids to Heathrow and give them to an FBI handler for their flight to DC.  One unit member had to be a female and the other a male with no ties to the individual or his kids.  So if you know anything about the demographics of maintenance that female, by default, was me and the male was his immediate supervisor (BTW, an amazing Master Sergeant that continues to do great things).

We coordinated a time to get the kids the following day and the FBI left.  The fuels troop was about as cooperative as one could be in that situation.  I had no idea what to do when he wouldn't stop hugging them so I just figured we would speed to the airport to make up lost time.  I also loaded them up with Capri Suns and Scooby snacks for the plane ride (because who doesn't love a kid jacked up on sugar during an eight-hour flight?!).  I was also of zero assistance getting them through security because they wouldn't stop hugging me or my Master Sergeant.  Pretty much an epic fail on my part, but the situation still breaks my heart when I think about it.

Regardless, it was a very quiet two-hour ride back to Lakenheath.  That's when Lady Gaga came on the radio.

Maybe I beebopped my head or started an unconscious shoulder dance, but my Master Sergeant took it to the next level and started belting it out:

I'M YOUR BIGGEST FAN

I'LL FOLLOW YOU UNTIL YOU LOVE ME

PAPA - PAPARAZZI

And just for a moment everything was okay and it was just funny and we were laughing and shouting and singing and we were human and their was no hierarchy or kids on planes or broken families.

There was Lady Gaga.

Of course I cried when I got home and hoped I never had to do anything like that ever again, but out of all the bad stuff always comes something good and that's what I'll try to remember going forward.

Cheers!

Middle Management & AOCs

Over the course of the last month I have had two distinct conversations with two very different people about the same topic:  AOCs.

For those not well-versed in United States Air Force Academy lingo, an AOC (Air Officer Commanding) is usually a major in charge of a squadron of about 100 cadets.  The role is designed to help guide and mentor officer candidates during their four years at school as well as prepare them to become leaders in the "real Air Force".

Now I think the primary reason that I had these two discussions is that a lot of grads either had great AOCs or terrible AOCs.  I personally had a terrible experience since my particular AOC saw the position as a stepping stone toward bigger and better management positions.  He also seemed to take his responsibilities lightly and operate within a weird set of double standards.

Sadly, when I queried "AOC USAFA" on Google the following video appeared:

Video clip:  Seriously?!

You don't have to watch the whole thing, but there is a telling segment right around the two-minute mark where the interviewee explains that he saw the AOC position as a means to get a master's degree.  I mean never mind the cadets or anything.

Looking back, this would be a trend that I would encounter with most mid-level managers during my active duty career.  Not all, but most majors and captains seem to forget the importance of their current job because they have their eye on the prize (i.e. school slots, commander jobs, etc.).

I was reminded of these conversations yesterday when I saw an article re-posted by my sister that discussed force shaping in the Army.  The piece obviously wanted to bring to light the fact that folks are being kicked out of the military while deployed, but I think the bigger issue is the focus on quantity over quality.

The United States and DOD have experienced countless personnel surges and drawdowns since WWII.  Each time we get too big we cut our most precious resource (human capital) to the bone.  The decisions seem to hinge almost entirely on sheer numbers and dollar figures rather than the type of leader in question as well as the investment made in that individual to date.  My overarching fear, however, is that we have gone a little too far during this particular set of cuts due to an amplified focus on the economy.

DOD:  Between a rock and a hard place?

Most services offered a severance package or payout to junior military officers with, what I believe to be, the unintended consequence of forcing out the best and brightest leaders.  I truly think that those who no longer felt appreciated by their bosses and needed more intrinsic incentives to stick around made the easy choice and left.  Thus, the hollowing of the force is taking place in preciously the area that needs leadership the most:  the middle.

While HBR frequently vacillates on whether middle management is obsolete or crucial, I found their latest research rather compelling.  Specifically, the writers argue that those caught between higher-ups and employees are forced to find a creative way to solve problems, which makes them critical to both the top and bottom line.  This squeeze produces an experienced manager that is often taken for granted or not allowed to continue in this same line of work.

Hmmm, sounds familiar.

I wish I could end this post on a more positive note, but I think that the DOD is on the cusp of a very long and sustained middle management drought that will require years to reverse.

But hopefully I am wrong.

We Left the Lights On: NAMBLA

Just one quick story to lighten the mood of this rather weepy blog.

So there I was harassing the production supervisor out on the flight line trying to track down COPIOUS amounts of information for the evening meeting.  In hindsight, this entire sequence of events, repeated daily, is laughable because regardless of how much information I had going into the briefing, I was going to get beat up and screamed at and chewed out.  Uh, the waste!

But there I was.  Interrupting operations.  Asking questions.  Being driven to problematic aircraft.  Bothering technicians.

I still have no idea why or how the supervisors were all so patient with me and my little clipboard, but they were.  Bless their hearts.

Only one time did they attempt to play a joke on me and I think they only stopped it from going forward because I took the bait hook, line, and sinker.

Photo:  Yes, yes I did.

One evening, during my usual Q&A in the flight line truck, the production supervisor explains that we had a very, very bad day.  

"We had some issues," he says,"and we're out a NAMBLA adaptor."

Oh Christ, I think.  Then I ask the inevitable, "What's a NAMBLA adaptor?  Can we go look at one on an aircraft?"

He goes on, "It's a key component and probably won't come in for weeks.  We might even lose the alert commitment again."

OH MAN AND I HAVE TO BRIEF THIS!?  OH SHIT...OH SHIT...OH SHIT!!!

But just before I hit full-on panic mode he starts laughing and explains that NAMBLA stands for North American Man-Boy Love Association.  It's all a joke.

Video clip:  NAMBLA

While I should've taken the following bet to use "NAMBLA adaptor" during the brief (for a $20 payout), I was just thankful that I had good leaders around me willing to make jokes (potentially at my expense) in order to help me see the bigger picture.

Cheers!