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Fort Atkinson - Capn's Roadhouse
Note: This Friday Night Fish Fry book version includes some of my favorite Southern Wisconsin fish frys after a revisit - a redux as it were. You can find all the fish fry reviews at the Cool Dadio Media Fish Fry Page .
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Note: You can find a chronological list at the Cool Dadio Media Fish Fry Page of these fish frys as we have visited them. The list presents the most recently visited fish fry at the top, in lieu of alphabetical order.
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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"Of course you should go. It would indicate some success on our part don't you think, Bob?" My doctor said.
My doc is a well traveled medical man - he's been to every "bad-lands" on earth on some medical mission or another, at one time or another. As for me, there was some angst, regarding my first trip to the war zone in Iraq, considering my blood and heart condition. My doc did not bat an eye as he sent me on my way in pursuit of my project. It is the new world we live in. People live with all kinds of cancers, conditions, and difficulties. The treatment methods and philosophy for my own humble blood and heart condition has drastically changed over the decades. They used to park me in the hospital when the condition flared up, saying movement would kill me; now, they roust me back to work, proclaiming that being in a hospital bed will...., kill me. Us lucky survivors of health challenges and the medical industry that treats said conditions are mainstreamed amongst the population.
Traveling to Iraq was a stretch though, and I knew it. Expect no doctors at one's beckoning call, no calling 911, no heat to stay warm in the mountains, no electricity, no air conditioning in the desert, no help, few paved roads, no maps, no police, dirty water, and absolutely no ambulances in the rural areas that I would be skirting through.
I was well on my way through Iraq and nearing Iran. My mafia driver of course drove like a madman. There was no shoulders on the narrow road girdling the mountains. A truck came around a corner, he was passing a gaggle of cars, likewise driving like a madman; he ran my driver and I into the dirt and rocks. The ride jostled me around but the driver righted our car. All he did was light up another cigarette, and change the track on the cassette player - a different Kurdish melody.
I usually rode with my arm out the window, when we blasted into the dirt and rocks, I must have clenched the window frame with my forearm. A day later a nasty bruise appeared. I contacted my wife via our code, and mentioned that I had been bounced around, bruised, was tired, sore, but apparently ok. The American and other soldiers there went through 10 far worse episodes, all before breakfast every day.
By the time I had finished my work near the Iranian border - it was the area Saddam Hussein had poison gassed the Kurds in the late 1980s - the bruising on my arm had spread. By the time I was leaving the country at the Turkish border a couple weeks later, my whole upper right side had dark black and blue marks. What was happening? Other than this abnormality, and copious stress, my time in Iraq had saw no military or criminal skirmishes. I weaved in and out of the bad stuff, seeking out the culture of the beleaguered people living in the war zone.
When I got to my fixer dude in Turkey where I had staged up to enter Iraq and rest after my exit, I had trouble walking. My Turkish pal expressed concern. The condition leveled off as I partook in Kurdish culture, music, and homemade wine for a couple days. My Turkish liaison sent me off and I headed to Van, Turkey. On the bus ride to Van, at this point the bruising and mild pain had manifested itself with severe pain and my whole right side was black and blue. Also, I was starting to experience rather pesky headaches.
I set up in Van a couple days - the Kurdish region just south of the infamous Mount Ararat of biblical fame. But because of my condition I cut my Turkish war zone work short and flew back to the Turkish Capital of Ankara to rest in my little hotel in Ulus, the old part of the city, before flying home.
Back in the Ankara, it was not going to work out either, I could no longer walk well, and could not stand the pain. I enlisted the confidence of a British guy that lived at my hotel and worked in Ankara. I had befriended him on my stay there before leaving for Iraq.
"Nothing like a beer and the watching of a good football match on the telly to cure what ails you," he said to me with an apprehensive smile. I had handed him a paper with all my vital information such as my full name and home address, Heide's information, and a way to contact her if I should..., kick the fuck'n bucket.
The next day, off I went to the diplomatic neighborhood of Ankara. The hotel desk man had given me a note for the bus driver explaining to him in Turkish that I was ill. The kind driver gave me the long ride cross town for free. A day before I visited a wood shop near my little hotel and had bought a wooden cane to help me walk.
Across from the U.S. Embassy is a hospital that foreigners sometimes use. I held my breath at what this might cost me. But, it was clear to me, no one would let me on an international flight home, looking and acting like a half dead man. To my surprise it was quiet in their tiny emergency room. None of the staff spoke English. A young nurse took my vitals while smiling with bouts of quite nervous laughter. I had my Turkish language book.
"Blood, heart, problems," I had written in Turkish on a note for her. She smiled and fixated on my tattoos. Back in America, a tattoo of a naked lady with a rose and another naked chick in a firefighter's hat, along with all the other "art" I have on my arm seemed right at home. Here in this 99 percent Muslim country, my crass body art display seemed woefully inappropriate.
After a bit, a young doctor entered the room and looked me over. "A test or two," he said in broken English.
After the cute chuckling young nurse took some blood from me with a needle the size of an ink pen, I waited for a half hour or so.
The doc came back in and said, "Your coagulation level (International Normalized Ratio - INR - used to be called Prothrombin Time - pro-time) is off our scale."
My INR should read about 2.5 or so in my case, to clot my blood normal. Their machine only went up to 10, but I was way above that. That would explain the bruising and the headaches. My blood was so thin I was bleeding internally. The tiny veinuals and arterioles at the microscopic ends of the body's blood system were leaking like a sieve. I was slowly bleeding to death.
I had rarely had trouble with too thin of blood. My troubles always manifested in hyper-clotting, which is likewise deadly.
"You could die," my young Turkish doctor said rather nonchalantly. "You must stop taking your blood thinner. [You think?] Come back every day until you either die or are somewhat better."
So for a week I dutifully went cross town to his little emergency clinic with the cute chuckling nurse who took my blood with her ink pen thick needle. My reading never got below six on their INR scale. That number alone is dangerous on a good day. My doc would have plunked me in the hospital - new treatment philosophies not-with-standing.
"I want to give you a blood transfusion," my young Turkish doctor said after a couple days. I pondered this and asked him if I might decline.
"Of course," he said. "We abide by international ethics." He looked hurt.
The impetus of my refusal was me not wanting to forever have on my record that I had received a blood transfusion in a Third World country.
"I have emailed your doctor in West Consin," the young doctor said on my fifth visit. "We had a good chat. You can go home now, he will take care of you. Go to him as soon as you get home. But no more blood thinner until you speak to him. Remember your INR seems to be stuck on six for now..., way too high."
I had never had this problem before, it was always an over-clotting issue. But here I was slowly bleeding to death. It was one of the most painful experiences I have ever gone through. Pain killers had little effect.
To my surprise, the total bill for all the visits and tests was a whopping..., fifty Bucks. And thinking back, I never saw another patient in that small quiet emergency room.
The only serendipitous moment was at Heathrow Airport in London. A pretty Indian woman working for British Airlines ran to me as I stood in a line of four-hundred people waiting to check in, and pulled me and my cane to the front of the line.
What caused the abnormal reaction to my normally rock solid reliable medications? Who knows? - stress, loss of 30 pounds, little sleep in the war zone, poor diet, heat in the desert, freezing in the mountains. For sure it had nothing to do with the crazy taxi ride. With a way too high INR, the bruising, pain, and black and blue would have come regardless of my activities and good or bad fortune.
A young medical resident in my clinic back home had once warned to his colleagues, "I am concerned Bob is taking so much blood medicine he could suffer a random reaction down the road at some point."
The older docs brushed the Resident's concerns aside. How prophetic the young Resident was. It was not funny now as I struggled in Turkey.
I made it - apparently, but the odd experience will always be part of me.
My first visit to Iraq, and I was never shot at once, but came very, very, damn close to..., bleeding to death anyway.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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"Of course you should go. It would indicate some success on our part don't you think, Bob?" My doctor said.
My doc is a well traveled medical man - he's been to every "bad-lands" on earth on some medical mission or another, at one time or another. As for me, there was some angst, regarding my first trip to the war zone in Iraq, considering my blood and heart condition. My doc did not bat an eye as he sent me on my way in pursuit of my project. It is the new world we live in. People live with all kinds of cancers, conditions, and difficulties. The treatment methods and philosophy for my own humble blood and heart condition has drastically changed over the decades. They used to park me in the hospital when the condition flared up, saying movement would kill me; now, they roust me back to work, proclaiming that being in a hospital bed will...., kill me. Us lucky survivors of health challenges and the medical industry that treats said conditions are mainstreamed amongst the population.
Traveling to Iraq was a stretch though, and I knew it. Expect no doctors at one's beckoning call, no calling 911, no heat to stay warm in the mountains, no electricity, no air conditioning in the desert, no help, few paved roads, no maps, no police, dirty water, and absolutely no ambulances in the rural areas that I would be skirting through.
I was well on my way through Iraq and nearing Iran. My mafia driver of course drove like a madman. There was no shoulders on the narrow road girdling the mountains. A truck came around a corner, he was passing a gaggle of cars, likewise driving like a madman; he ran my driver and I into the dirt and rocks. The ride jostled me around but the driver righted our car. All he did was light up another cigarette, and change the track on the cassette player - a different Kurdish melody.
I usually rode with my arm out the window, when we blasted into the dirt and rocks, I must have clenched the window frame with my forearm. A day later a nasty bruise appeared. I contacted my wife via our code, and mentioned that I had been bounced around, bruised, was tired, sore, but apparently ok. The soldiers there go through 10 far worse episodes, all before breakfast every day.
By the time I had finished my work near the Iranian border - it was the area Saddam Hussein had poison gassed the Kurds in the late 1980s - the bruising on my arm had spread. By the time I was leaving the country at the Turkish border a couple weeks later, my whole upper right side had dark black and blue marks. What was happening? Other than this abnormality, my time in Iraq had saw no military or criminal skirmishes. I weaved in and out of the bad stuff, seeking out the culture of the beleaguered people living in the war zone.
When I got to my fixer dude in Turkey where I had staged up to enter Iraq and rest after my exit, I had trouble walking. My Turkish pal expressed concern. The condition leveled off as I partook in Kurdish culture, music, and homemade wine for a couple days. My Turkish liaison sent me off and I headed to Van, Turkey. On the bus ride to Van, at this point the bruising and mild pain had manifested itself with severe pain and my whole right side was black and blue. Also, I was starting to experience rather pesky headaches.
I set up in Van a couple days - the Kurdish region just south of the infamous Mount Ararat of biblical fame. But because of my condition I cut my Turkish war zone work short and flew back to the Turkish Capital of Ankara to rest in my little hotel in Ulus the old part of the city, before flying home.
Back in the Ankara, it was not going to work out either, I could no longer walk well, and could not stand the pain. I enlisted the confidence of a British guy that lived at my hotel and worked in Ankara. I had befriended him on my stay there before leaving for Iraq.
"Nothing like a beer and a the watching of a good football match on the telly to cure what ails you," he said to me with an apprehensive smile. I had handed him a paper with all my vital information such as my full name and home address, Heide's information, and a way to contact her if I should kick the bucket.
The next day, off I went to the diplomatic neighborhood of Ankara. The hotel desk man had given me a note for the bus driver explaining to him in Turkish that I was ill. He gave me the long ride cross town for free. A day before I visited a wood shop near my little hotel and had bought a wooden cane to help me walk.
Across from the U.S. Embassy is a hospital that foreigners sometimes use. I held my breath at what this might cost me. But, it was clear to me, no one would let me on an international flight home, looking and acting like a half dead man. To my surprise it was quiet in their tiny emergency room. None of the staff spoke English. A young nurse took my vitals while smiling with bouts of quite nervous laughter. I had my Turkish language book.
"Blood, heart, problems," I had wrote on a note for her. She smiled and fixated on my tattoos. Back in America, a tattoo of a naked lady with a rose and another in a firefighter's hat, along with all the other stuff I have on my arm seemed right at home. Here in this 99 percent Muslim country, my crass body art display seem woefully inappropriate.
After a bit, a young doctor entered the room and looked me over. "A test of two," he said in broken English.
After the cute chuckling young nurse took some blood from me with a needle the size of an ink pen, I waited for a half hour or so.
The doc came back in and said, "Your coagulation level (International Normalized Ratio - INR - used to be called Prothrombin Time - pro-time) is off our scale." It should read about 2.5 or so in my case, to clot my blood normal. Their machine only went up to 10, but I was way above that. That would explain the bruising and the headaches. My blood was so thin I was bleeding internally. The tiny veinuals and arterioles at the microscopic ends of the body's blood system were leaking like a sieve. I was slowly bleeding to death.
I had rarely had trouble with too thin of blood. My troubles always manifested in hyper-clotting, which is likewise deadly.
"You could die," my young Turkish doctor said rather nonchalantly. "You must stop taking your blood thinner. Come back every day until you either die or are somewhat better."
So for a week I dutifully went cross town to his little emergency clinic and the cute chuckling nurse took my blood with her ink pen thick needle. It never got below six on their INR scale. That number alone is dangerous on a good day. My doc would have plunked me in the hospital - new treatment philosophies not-with-standing.
"I want to give you a blood transfusion," my young doctor said after a couple days. I pondered this and asked him if I might decline.
"Of course," he said. "We abide by international ethics." He looked hurt.
The impetus of my refusal was me not wanting to forever have on my record that I had received a blood transfusion in a Third World country.
"I have emailed your doctor in West Consin," the young doctor said on my fifth visit. "We had a good chat. You can go home now, he will take care of you. Go to him as soon as you get home. But no more blood thinner until you speak to him. Remember your INR seems to be stuck on six for now - way too high."
I had never had this problem before, it was always an over-clotting issue. But here I was slowly bleeding to death. It was one of the most painful experiences I have ever gone through. Pain killers had little effect.
To my surprise, the total bill for all the visits and tests was a whopping..., fifty Bucks. And thinking back, I never saw another patient in that small quiet emergency room.
The only serendipitous moment was at Heathrow Airport in London. A pretty Indian woman working for British Airlines ran to me as I stood in a line of four-hundred people waiting to check in, and pulled me and my cane to the front of the line.
What caused the abnormal reaction to my normally rock solid reliable medications? Who knows? - stress, loss of 30 pounds, little sleep in the war zone, poor diet, heat in the desert, freezing in the mountains. For sure it had nothing to do with the crazy taxi ride. The bruising, pain, and black and blue would have come regardless of my activities and good or bad fortune.
A young medical resident in my clinic back home had once warned, "I am concerned Bob is taking so much blood medicine he could suffer a random reaction down the road at some point."
The older docs brushed the Resident's concerns aside. How prophetic the young Resident was. It was not funny now as I struggled in Turkey.
I made it - apparently, but the odd experience will always be part of me.
My first visit to Iraq, and I was never shot at once, but came very, very, damn close to..., bleeding to death anyway.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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(Each week Cool Dadio Media collects and updates Weekly War Casualty Data from various sources)
As of this blog entry's posting date:
112,246 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to July 2011.
4,489 Americans were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
2212 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
1085 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
5 American/Coalition/State-Department deaths in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,230 U.S. troops were wounded in action in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
592 Wisconsin military service persons were wounded in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
18,462 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
42 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
4 Wisconsin military contractors have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1 Wisconsin military contractor has been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
38 journalists (Syrian, American, French, UK, freelance) have been killed in Syria since January 2011.
War casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; Brookings Iraq Index; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org .
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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I don't know why no one has ever published a handbook on the new "actual" rules-of-thumb regarding treatment of laborers is this new norm economy. That's the trouble with "actual" trends, versus obfuscated written guidelines. The banal evolution of work is always tribal at heart..., nothing written.
Well, the Dadio is ensconced in the trenches of the blue-collar culture. I'm on the front lines..., in the blue-collar war zone. I'd be happy to jot down an arbitrary guide; a manual of sorts. It is maybe more of a short essay, guiding employers on how to keep those pesky workers in check.
We need an official new norm play book on how to keep the ol' foot on workers' necks.
New Norm work place unconducive for genuine ambitions
We can't have ambitious workers in the work place in the new norm rubric. They are just a nuisance. Eliminating these workers removes the need to give them more money.
Any semblance of benefits must be forbidden
Of course there can be no pay raises. Simply never have performance reviews..., easiest trick in the book.
Never give breaks or lunch. Local, State, and Federal labor rules can be circumvented by following some basic diversions. Facilitate this no-break tactic by designating all your laborers part-time, and declaring the type of task or production as too sporadic and complicated to allow a break or short lunch. If employees are discovered facilitating a break, assign a trustee employee to interrupt these breaks at every dispatch.
And, it should go without saying there should be absolutely no benefits: Sick time; vacation time; retirement fund; in other words, just nothing of the sort.
The new norm philosophy to follow
Your task as a new norm employer is to grind these expendable workers down. Think of the company farm model; never give them enough to survive but just enough so they may keep coming back for what you do pay them. After a time, this grind on their lives will contribute to their alcohol and medication addictions. Once their unreliability becomes systemic you've got them. If they hint that they are unhappy with their meager compensation, simply point out their personal deficiencies regarding the aforementioned dependencies that are causing tardiness, absenteeism, mistakes, et cetera.
Remember, you want to give the worker absolutely no incentive to work hard or even come to work. Once you have accomplished this, their queries for better compensation are moot due to their poor performance.
Obfuscate responsibility of leadership
Now, who are you going to commission to manage this work force rabble? Think of the fascist model. During the ethnic cleansing of the Jews in Europe, the Nazis would designate trustee Jews to help facilitate the process of relocating, disenfranchising, and eventually systematically killing Jews. These trustee Jews would do the task just to survive. They were often called, "Useful Jews." Another example is the trustee prisoners in the chain gang. Back in the day, these prisoners monitored the rest of the chain gang on behalf of the regular guards. Some were even allowed to carry weapons during the work. This type of strategy permeates history. The slave owner would often entrust a "driving-slave" to oversee the rest of the slaves on the plantation.
In our modern version of getting production accomplished, the supervisors should be chosen from workers who are desperate for the full-time position. You might look from the pool of workers that may be in trouble with the Internal Revenue Service, or who are hopelessly in hock to the Child Support system in your county. These type of supervisors can almost always be counted on to maintain the status quo no matter how much the workers complain.
To further confuse the workers, call these supervisors something other than supervisors. Use obfuscated designations like operator, expeditor, facilitator, controller, et cetera. Or rather than officially designate them in charge of the workers, put them in charge of the machines the workers use. That puts a default inanimate buffer between worker and supervisor.
The purging of older workers
Older workers need to be culled out of this new norm work rubric. It is counter productive to have anyone who might remember employee / employer constructs from the past. Remember, the nation and Wisconsin went through a love affair from the 1940s to the 1990s with entitlements, benefits, and a so-called equal-opportunity work place. Older workers and their sentimental memories of a so-called "fair work place" are more often than not, more trouble than their vast and diverse work experience is worth.
When possible put the older worker with the worst younger workers. Those will be workers that would cause the task at hand to be done incorrectly, thereby frustrating the older worker. Tinker with the older workers' hours, bringing them in to work at unpredictable times, always assigning them different shifts each week. With a little luck they will get discouraged and quit. Also, keep poor performance workers on staff rather than firing them. Put these bad workers with the older more reliable workers as well, to expedite the older workers's frustration.
Work older employees by themselves in areas where two or three workers used to do the task.
In lieu of conventional workers
The use of day-labor workers, Huber prisoners, mentally disabled people, and relatives of existing employees and management is imperative. Work release people that are on ankle bracelet monitoring should also be considered. Most of the above categories of alternative workers could deliver potential perks from the State or other overseeing government entity. Relatives are useful considering that once hired, they are then indebted by default to someone in your organization.
Physically handicapped people should not be considered for employment due to longitudinal studies indicating they have an unusual reliability and excellent work out-put once placed in a job and task.
Although it has recently become more challenging to incorporate undocumented workers in your operation, it should still be considered. It should be noted that if this tact is employed, attempt to use all undocumented laborers. Mixing undocumented with documented Americans could cause a disgruntled citizen to call authorities.
If at all possible, consider moving production overseas. There could be compensation from your State government for taking this route. And, if you do move your operation overseas, all the aforementioned concerns in this manual are moot.
Conclusion
These new norm work place techniques should help keep costs of production in check. Remember, your greatest expense and highest liability is..., the worker.
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Unlike Turkey, there just isn't much for bus service in Northern Iraq. So, I had to rely on taxis - or perhaps taxi is too kind - the junk car mafia might be a better description. It is best to pile in with four other travelers because then you all share the price. Often though, they want to short-cut through Mosul and Kirkuk - bad guy places. So I often rented the whole taxi to myself to go through the mountains. And, my first visit to Iraq was the Ramadan holiday time. And this season often sees days without many people at the taxi ''garages'' at certain hours. So on the day in question, I had to ride the 50 miles to Zakho, Iraq alone whether I wanted to or not.
You know one of the only bus lines I was able to use was the ride from Sulaymaniyah to Halabja, which is only five miles from Iran. That ironically, I considered one of my most complicated and dangerous days I had in Iraq. It just wasn't a route you would expect a bus to go. The whole mini bus was stopped for 20 minutes so a theifdom checkpoint could figure out who I was. But the Zakho taxi ride escalated to almost match the Halabja ride.
The 50 mile taxi ride from Dahuk back to Zakho went well until we got to town. ''I'' and only ''I'' of course, misunderstood the Arabic numbers used to agree on the price of the taxi ride before hand. But that was the least of my impending problems.
The taxi driver pulled into Zakho and he immediately shifted into, I-can't-find-the-hotel-mode. And to his credit, all the hot shot mafia drivers were...., off for the holiday. This guy was a mope from top to bottom. He was older and seemed to have trouble seeing and breathing. I knew where the tiny hotel was because I had stayed there on my first night in Iraq. I started to see landmarks and knew I could walk from that point, but he rolled on seemingly determined to play stupid for as long as possible even though I gestured in every sign I could for him to stop.
The straw that broke the camel's back for me was after he drove down three dangerous alleys. One which was a dead end - a great place for an ambush or at best a...., kidnapping. When he finally pulled out of the alley maze, he turned down a one way street the wrong way. The police and militias in Iraq enforce no traffic laws except for that one way thing..., because somebody going down the wrong way could be a bad guy trying to do some kind of damage. So of course this guy being on a ''stuck-in-stupid'' mode broke the only traffic law anyone in the entire region enforces.
Keep in mind this fool drives the Zakho route for a living. By then I had the door open, but he turned right into a machine gun check point. Guns pointed at us from every direction. A Kurdish Pesmerga soldier slung open my door and another the driver's. I was staring at the business end of an AK-47. While the driver tried to explain his lunacy to the soldiers, I got out and waited to pay him. Then he jumped out of the taxi (soldiers at his sides), and wanted to argue about the price after almost getting us both machine-gunned.
It is like their Christmas Day this special day of the long Ramadan month. All the shops are closed except some sidewalk toy vendors. That in itself is creepy, because the streets usually bulge with people. All that was in the streets were plenty of soldiers; adolescent and teenage boys by the hundreds playing with realistic toy guns (to make matters worse they play with fire crackers too); and, a few people trying to get to their relatives' houses for the holiday meal.
When ever there is a car wreck in Turkey or Iraq, or even some problem with a work truck in the street or something similar, the men and boys in the streets crowd into the scene for a first hand view and talk loud about it. They all put in their two cents - it is a custom - even a damn habit if you will. In one minute, the taxi was surrounded by three hundred men and boys (the boys all with real looking toy guns).
I threw the money at the taxi driver, grabbed my bags, pushed away from the taxi, and proceeded to turn right into a Pesmerga soldier with a machine gun. I held my breath. But, he just touched my elbow, gave me a reassuring smile, pointed at the taxi driver and said in rather good English....,
...''Idiot.''
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Army Sergeant First Class Scott J. Brown
Note: This "Wisconsin Military Casualties Afghanistan Iraq Compilation" Daily Dadio blog Category is under construction. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Wisconsin War Casualties Page for a list of names noted by date of death. ( If readers know of other military service persons with Wisconsin connections that are not on the Web site comprehensive list of fatal casualties, or notice errors, please email Bob Keith at keithrg13@cooldadiomedia.com ).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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A few weeks ago wife and I went to one of our long-time old standby fish frys. The parents have pretty much handed off the management to the next generation, but the Lake House Inn over off Lake Koshkonong is still kicking out the good Friday fish frys.
Although I have lost count of all our visits to the place over the years, this is only my third review of Lake House going back to the late 1990s. My first writing was for the Madison Area Technical College newspaper back around 1999. Later when I started this fish fry blog and Web page, I did one in 2007. It was one of the first reviews added to the blog and Web page. Now there are way over 200 fish frys listed.
The lake; the building; the bar; the fireplace; and..., the fish.
Lake House Inn still holds its high fish fry standards after all this time. An accomplishment in a perennially tough business. The old limestone brick building stands its ground against the temperamental Lake Koshkonong weather. The old lake is just big enough to whip up some winds now and then. The lake has a reputation for arbitrary storms that tend to wreck people's boats.
Going clear back to high school, I always considered the bar a good place to take a first date. The old and thick wood theme is overwhelming. It is indeed just like walking back into a hunting lodge back about Civil War time.
In the dining room you will see the huge stone fireplace. Even when it is not fired up, it gives the eating area a comfortable, welcoming, and warm timbre. This night the fireplace was up and running and you could feel the warmth out to several nearby tables.
And then comes the fish. On this night, after an adult beverage or two at the beautiful bar, we were seated at our table with the consummate white table cloth. We had a good peek out the old windows at some of the lake properties from the large old windows. On this cold evening we quickly ordered up some good hot coffee. The java and fresh cream was excellent, another signal the meal would no-doubt follow suit.
To start out we were promptly presented some soft white bread. I smiled at the nearly half stick of real butter that came with. We each dove into a fresh salad with both ranch and French dressings.
We both opted for the fried chicken and deep fried Cod combo. The bird was the good crispy type breading with delectable meat on the inside, and it was not just an afterthought side. The fish came in triangular hunks, soft on the inside with a lighter breading on the outside. I noted the fish had seasoning sprinkles galore.
The tarter sauce was just smooth enough and not your dad's tavern fish dip. I had my coffee refilled a couple times and Heide got her consummate root beer, this evening a Gray's from the local Janesville brewery.
The Lake House Inn is still cool with Cool Dadio. Find them hidden a ways back off the Newville exit on the I-90 side of Lake Koshkonong in the residential area.
Take I-90 south about 25 minutes from the east side of Madison or 10 minutes north of Janesville and take the 163 exit (Newville). Go into Newville past the McDonald's (by the I-90 intersection) on Hwy 59 and take a left on Mallwood Drive. Shortly, take another left on to Hillside Road. After a quarter mile, take a right on Maple Beach Road. Go for a mile and take a left on Elm Street. Look for the Inn just down the road a bit. They serve fish from about 4-10:00 p.m. on Fridays. Phone: (608) 884-4544. There is also an eight hundred listing: 1-800-545-7479.
(June 2007 Lake House Inn Fish Fry Review)
Note: This Friday Night Fish Fry book version includes some of my favorite Southern Wisconsin fish frys after a revisit - a redux as it were. You can find all the fish fry reviews at the Cool Dadio Media Fish Fry Page .
Wisconsin Military Person Special Mention of the Week
(each week Cooldadiomedia mentions a Wisconsin service person or military connected person killed in Iraq or Afghanistan)
Army Sergeant First Class Jesse Bryon Albrecht, 31, Hager City, Wisconsin, died in Iskandariya, Iraq, on Thursday, May 17, 2007. He was killed when an improvised explosive device detonated near his vehicle. Sergeant First Class Albrecht was assigned to Company E, 725th Brigade Support Battalion, 4th Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division, based out of Fort Richardson, Alaska. He was one of three soldiers killed in the attack. Hager City is a town in western Wisconsin off the Mississippi River south east of St. Paul, Minnesota.
The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel mentioned Jesse collected pictures and statues of eagles. He and his wife Crystal had a home in Wasilla, Alaska. Jesse Albrecht was born on Sept. 11, 1975, in River Falls, Wisconsin. He spent his early life in Glenwood City and Emerald, Wisconsin. He was a graduate of Prescott High School, in Prescott, Wisconsin in 1994. He was on the wrestling team in high school. The Journal Sentinel went on to note Albrecht was fond of camping, four-wheeling, salmon fishing (which he gave away the fish), and snow-boarding. He enlisted in the Army in June 1993 before graduating from high school. He took his basic training between his junior and senior years. He arrived for duty in Fort Richardson, Alaska, in September 2005. Albrecht was deployed to Iraq in September of 2006. Besides Iraq and Alaska, Albrecht had also served duty in Germany and Afghanistan.
Wisconsin 2007 Assembly Joint Resolution 58 noted that Jesse Albrecht served as a motor transport operator and was also a paratrooper in his unit. The Web site fallenheroesproject.org notes that Sergeant First Class Albrecht participated in platoon outings that were scheduled on weekends, including paint ball and ice hockey; and, he also enjoyed playing cards
At the time of his death Army Sergeant First Class Jesse Albrecht was survived by his wife Crystal Albrecht; his daughter Salena Albrecht and her mother Brandy; his mother Denise Albrecht; father William Pollei; sisters Kathy (Jeffery) Sylte, and Mary (Jeffery) Liddel; brother Simon (Rachel) Albrecht; half brothers Jonathon and Jacoby Pollei; half sisters Jo C and Julianne Pollei; maternal grandmothers Lillian Rouleau and Norma Albrecht of Emerald; and, paternal grandmother Lucille Pollei of DeForest.
Sergeant First Class Albrecht was laid to rest at Evergreen Cemetery in Couderay, Wisconsin.
Information for this short biography about Army Sergeant First Class Jesse Bryon Albrecht was pieced together from the following sources: Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Eagle soared above after soldier died: Wisconsin native a casualty in Iraq," May 22, 2007; Wisconsin 2007 Assembly Joint Resolution 58, "Relating to: the life and military service of United States Army Sergeant First Class Jesse Bryon Albrecht"; fallenheroesproject.org, "Jesse B Albrecht"; Wisconsin Department of Veteran Affairs "Fallen Heroes Page"; and, CNN.com "War Casualties."
As of this blog entry's posting date:
112,180 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to July 2011.
4,489 Americans were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
2203 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
1085 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
5 American/Coalition/State-Department deaths in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,230 U.S. troops were wounded in action in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
592 Wisconsin military service persons were wounded in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
18,429 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
42 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
4 Wisconsin military contractors have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1 Wisconsin military contractor has been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
38 journalists (Syrian, American, French, UK, freelance) have been killed in Syria since January 2011.
Wisconsin military service person special mention of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; Brookings Iraq Index; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org .
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Just around the corner off Gardner Street (Illinois 75) on Park Avenue in South Beloit, Illinois, you will find Nardo's Cafe. It is an unassuming small light blue building. Inside there is a small eating counter; an eating area is adjacent.
These are the kind of eateries that cater to blue-collar worker and usually open only 'til 2:00 p.m. or so. In the whole of Wisconsin, and northern Illinois at least, they often stay open later of Friday for the ritual of fish fry. Nardo's fits the aforementioned profile.
On this evening, all my other accomplices being otherwise..., busy, I called on Ol' pal Sal. Always needing guidance, corroboration, and moral support, I gave a jingle to the same said long-time friend, confidant, on-again-off-again co-worker, and ol' sage often known-to-drink-more-than-one-Miller-Lite-in-a-sitting....
"Where the hell is South Beloit?" long time friend Sal asked without batting an eye.
"Jeeze," I thought; but smiled. "Get in damn it; we are going to..., South Beloit," I said with the best incredulous response I could muster.
Some hot salsa chips and tasty salsa came as part of the deal. I tried the vegetable soup. Sal ordered a dinner salad with ranch dressing.
Ol' Bob tried the deep-fried Cod. It included three hot hunks of tender fish. Real mashed potatoes with some skins mixed in were the side of choice. A good heap of fresh corn came on the side. A good cup of coffee rounded off my core meal.
Sal tried the baked fish with of course had the good parmesan sprinkles. Onion rings were the side in this case as well as the corn.
To top off the evening a free desert came with the deal. In this case we each got a piece of Chocolate Flan cake. In case you don't know, this is a doubled layered cake with some sugary glaze poured over the presentation.
Nardo's Cafe is cool with Cool Dadio. Find them at 314 Park Avenue, in South Beloit, Illinois. Call 815 389-9959 for more information; or, visit their humble Web site at www.nardosrestaurant.com .
Note: You can find a chronological list at the Cool Dadio Media Fish Fry Page of these fish frys as we have visited them. The list presents the most recently visited fish fry at the top, in lieu of alphabetical order.
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Although extremely stressful, my first trip to Iraq was going surprisingly well..., and safe. I had trekked 500 miles slowly across eastern Turkey via bus to acclimate myself to a Muslim culture. I made several overnight stops along the way. Some for several days. By the time I got to the Iraqi border, I had rolled the potential scenarios around in my head hundreds of time.
The crossing into northern Iraq by the "Taxi Mafia" was worrisome, but within a couple hours I was walking down a street in Zakho, Iraq, ...with thousands of people that fit the profile of most of the 9/11 hijackers.
I stuck with a plan as best I could and over a couple weeks slowly made it the 300 miles east across northern Iraq to the border of Iran; then I made it back again to the western side of Iraq, all with limited peril to my life. I had done extensive research on a route to take, the culture, the people..., the war.
On my entrance into the country, the Turks thought I was nuts but being NATO Allies with the United States, they shook their heads and just waved me through. On arrival to the Kurdish held northern part of Iraq, I was greeted as a long lost friend. We Americans and "The Coalition of the Willing" after all, had rid their country of Saddam Hussein - a man responsible for killing tens of thousands of his own country's Kurdish citizens.
Along my journey, my United States passport got some raised eyebrows and second looks, but at the ubiquitous checkpoints it always prevailed. I never hid the fact I was an American. One of the only things these Iraqi Kurds had left was their honor, they deferred to trust. Lying to them about who I was, I surmised, may be hazardous to my health.
I saw literally no other American civilians or travelers; I did see a random American military unit now and then - I kept a cautious distance from them.., for my own safety and theirs as well. The last thing they needed to do was be worried about the safety of a "stray American."
I had made it back to Dahuk, Iraq. The next town to the west would be Zakho again, and then Turkey, a supposedly safer NATO country in the midst of the Middle East fray. I was almost home free.
I laid up for a night in a wreck of a musty-carpeted, flop-house hotel on the edge of the market streets in busy Dahuk. The war was on hold in Dahuk. When the America soldiers came into town they seemed to notch down the anxiety just a bit. The Kurdish Pesmerga soldiers kept a heavily armed presence at every street corner. They are on our side.
The hotel had three or four floors depending on how you count. It seemed like each floor only had one room. It was one of those narrow and tall Asian buildings tucked on a corner and jammed against other structures. The entrance had a clouded, tinted-window door befitting of a peep shop on Industrial Boulevard in Dallas, Texas.
The kid at the desk in the hotel half-heartedly took my five Bucks and my passport. All was well in musty-carpet land. The television even worked. Cell phones, cigarettes, and ubiquitous tv stations with Kurdish music videos were never at a loss in Iraq.
I finally slept good that night after two weeks of no sleep, poor diet, and surviving on Turkish and Iranian Coca-Cola. Then, at 3:00 a.m. a pounding came at my door.
"Mister, Mister, police here," the voice of the father of the half-hearted kid came through the rickety door.
Owner dude was quit matter-of-fact about the whole episode. He was a heavy set man with a big face and a too-small mustache to complement the size of his head. He met me at the door in his robe, cigarette in mouth.
"Very bad, Mister, very bad, Mister," owner dude kept saying as he shook his head and flicked his cigarette.
There in the small lounge by the aforementioned desk was a plain-cloths Iraqi cop with young assistant in tow. The only recognizable word from the cop's mouth was "Mister."
Said cop looked like a detective right out of an original Hawaii Five-0 episode - open neck cheesy-flowered sport shirt, pistol on a shoulder belt, badge on his pants belt, jet black polyester pants, and jet black pointed shoes. He had enough hair gel to lube an M-1 Abrams tank. He must have been about 30 years old.
After a diatribe and waving of hands and the shaking of my passport at me, I finally figured out what he was trying to say. I took a close at my passport.
For well over 600 miles across Iraq and back again, I had shown my passport at a hundred dangerous check points. No one caught the fact that my entry date into Iraq showed October 2005 instead of October 2006. According to my passport, I had been in Iraq a year - an egregious breach of their immigration laws. And, their country was full of bad guys from..., other countries.
Quickly I cleared my head and looked at the exit stamp from Turkey. It did indeed read October 2006. I showed Hawaii Five-0 dude the Turkish stamp. God bless, or in this case bless Allah for cell phones. Hawaii Five-0 dude got on the phone to the 24-hour border crossing I came in across. On the Iraqi side of the border, the little cement building with faded green paint and a couple broken chairs had seemed humble after going through the first world NATO construct presentations on the Turkish side with all its tanks, legions of soldiers, endless computers, and modern buildings.
The lone Kurdish guard at the sad little green building had smiled, hurriedly stamped my passport and said, "Welcome to Iraqi Kurdishstan, Mister American." I had stepped out the back door into Iraq to face a big banner which proudly said..., "Welcome to Kurdistan."
The rubber stamp apparently had been of the same caliber as the building - falling apart. The date dial did not work. According to my rough interpretation of Hawaii Five-0 dude, said lone Kurdish guard had stamped passports with the wrong date all day. In fact, he talked to the same lone guard who looked me up on his hand written ledger and actually remembered me. I had been the only American to pass by in weeks.
This is when I finally codified my hope for the Kurds. Hawaii Five-0 dude made a jester like he knew a mistake had been made. A burgeoning knew democracy making a mistake they could own up to - perhaps there really was hope.
Tea and cigarettes were ordered all around. A Kurdish music video station was found on the television. Flop-house owner dude served us up the tea. The half-hearted kid jostled the television wires to get it to work.
After a half hour of cigarettes and strong tea, Hawaii Five-0 dude and his young partner took their leave. As they left they said, "Have good travel, Mister."
Flop-house owner dude, said between puffs on yet another cigarette, "Very good, Mister, very good, Mister."
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Always aware that the poetic irony is lurking in the background, I pondered May 1st yesterday. To some it is a pagan holiday celebrating spring. To others it is a day celebrating workers and their toils. We Americans actually lay claim to the labor angle. But, the Commies kind of took over May Day back in the throes of the Cold War with the International Workers' Day thing; you know, the people's proletariate and all.
"Worker's Unit," was the cry.
The poetic irony..., the Commies did little for workers but torment them and mar them in tyranny. And, celebrating workers in America has ebbed over the decades, especially coming to a crescendo of apathy lately.
That's when it dawned on me that Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker just returned from a trade mission to China. That's right..., Communist China. And here it is May Day time. Timing is everything they say.
The 10-day trip was abysmally covered by all things media, but we do glean from the meager reporting that the Gov is sure and confident he will aid in the selling of Wisconsin ginseng to the Communist Chinese medical world. He also found a Harley to ride on. Had it occurred to the ol' Gov the ChiComms are no-doubt reverse-engineering that Harley Hog as we speak to perhaps soon offer their own version to the world at a tenth of the price? Perhaps they will be built in Bangladesh..., assuming that they can keep their buildings from falling down around their own workers.
So on May First yesterday, I paused a second at work while I waited for my production machine to start and gave thought to how we got here. I thought about my work environment and my sad co-workers; most have been conditioned to never know a time when there was full-time work with benefits. Many are in their thirties. The bosses put in 80 hours a week not daring to take a day off, should an Orwellian Animal Farm overload wanna-be slip right in to take over.
I thought about the Cold War of the past (during which I served in the military). I thought about the free-trade out-sourcing architects of the last 30 years. I thought about the Scott Walker-arians who now facilitate the now up and running new norm economy of the aforementioned economic-hell architects.
It's all come full circle hasn't it?
I would think in the climate of rotten Wisconsin job opportunities and ensconced poor employer and worker ethics we would be eager to celebrate with the ChiComms and their current version of May Day. But alas, China used to have a three-day celebration for workers, but since 2008, it has been trimmed to one...,
..., too busy paying their workers a dollar a day while building junk to send over here to sell to our beleaguered horde I guess.
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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The majority of my work during two projects in Iraq will have to be parsed into a book of its own. But, It does certainly merit reference in my first two books, Jobs of Bob, and Fate Fairies. It certainly was the closest I ever got to some real credited over seas journalism. And one can't discount the fate factor that I am lucky I still have all my fingers and toes.
The idea to go to Iraq started long before my third trip to Vietnam. Through my research into how to deal with traveling to 'Nam, I ran into some good references for getting around in "bad" places. A light bulb went on in my pea brain. I was writing about our contentious war in 'Nam thirty years after that war. Why not write about our current contentious war in Iraq...., in real-time...this time around.
Like so much in life, timing is critical. I have no children, my parents are passed away, and I have no siblings. I have been married to the same woman for 30 years and to my knowledge she is used to odd projects coming from my camp. She is also a savvy organizer. As it turned out, said wife would be the "code interpreting" confederate, dug in State-side while I sent dispatches from at least three active war zones in the Iraq war theater. The Northern Iraqi Kurds are at war with the Turks; the same Kurds are at odds with their own Arab southern Iraq countrymen; and, the Northern Region of Iraq is a hodgepodge of theifdoms and often warring tribes and religious sects. My good sport wife, monitored my correspondence through the whole saga.
Continuing on the timing theme, the job I worked at the time I had absolutely no interest in keeping anyway, so leaving town for two months was of no consequence. We had been living in our house for going on a decade and things were tight on that front. And Janesville is a good middle-America base of operations, just a couple hours from Chicago O'Hare airport. I was still in high gear in the throes of using the writing skills I learned in college..., and combining in life skills regarding traveling in difficult places. I also had local media connections having endured journalism training at UW-Whitewater. Then too, as it turned out to be perhaps the most important variable, there was that 10 years of eclectic medical training and experience. Three years in a Combat Engineer unit up by the old Iron Curtain in Germany during the end of 'Nam in the depths of the Cold War did not hurt either.
"There may never be another chance," was the mantra.
Two trips to Iraq in a year and a half would by default probably be the most profound experience in my life. Of course professional and big media journalists, and other people will find my efforts quaint. But, for a kid from previously humble rural means, I surprised myself at pulling it off. No embedded military work or protection - no help from "big media" - the projects were totally funded and run by...., me, and aforementioned wife.
In fact, after I returned from my first trip to Iraq, a local journalist called the State Department to make sure I had not broken the law. She did not want to be associated with an international fugitive. But the State Department lady told said incredulous young journalist, "He is an American, he can go where he wants - just don't cry on "our" shoulder if you get captured, killed, or...., worse!"
A third trip to the region and a first trip to Afghanistan would have to be put on hold. My age, my health, the economy, and the combination of all of the above have put my projects on a dead stop.
But, on the trips I did take, I negotiated crazed mafia taxi drivers; theifdoms of militias; Turks fighting Kurds; hundreds of checkpoints manned by crazy people with machine guns; Kurds fighting Arabs; Arabs fighting Arabs, Kurds, and Turks; cold mountain and desert nights; hot desert plains; travel sickness; hunger; thirst; doubting friends; doubting military public relations officers; more checkpoints; indignant journalists; and, my own battle of traveling with a temperamental heart and blood condition.
My focus was the same as my work in 'Nam..., culture. I found a gold fish shop; a plumbing shop (strange because there is usually no running water); generater shops - no electricity; tons of cigarette shops; beer shops; coffee shops; the Yazidi region and sect temple and its high priest (who was being visited by his nephew from Germany - speaking German in Iraq was odd); and, in the midst of one of the most contentious areas of Iraq near the Iranian border..., I found a bowling alley. All the aforementioned spots, were of course under the watchful eye of various malitia faction soldiers and their AK-47 machine guns.
The crazy taxi mafia took me all the way across the country twice. Their cars were junk. They took short cuts through battle zones. They used me as advertising, "Look, we got the American through the danger zone - we are your go-to taxi service in a war zone." One guy took me over the mountains, offered to take my picture above the Dokan Dam and then at the end of the drive, charged me more money for snapping the picture.
In the end, the only person that stayed on my team from beginning to end was..., my wife. Go figure. While most of the country makes art of ruined relationships, our rather now old fashioned partnership endures. Partners in crime I suppose.
This strange project of Iraq will follow me my whole life. As long as the noun/verb Google and the Internet survive, a quick search of "Iraq AND Bob Keith" will forever find me bound at the hip to said war and country. For that odd reality alone, I must grudgingly surrender to the notion that my Iraq work is to date, the most profound thing I have ever done.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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(Each week Cool Dadio Media collects and updates Weekly War Casualty Data from various sources)
As of this blog entry's posting date:
112,180 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to July 2011.
4,489 Americans were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
2203 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
1085 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
5 American/Coalition/State-Department deaths in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,230 U.S. troops were wounded in action in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
592 Wisconsin military service persons were wounded in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
18,429 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons were killed in Iraq from Spring 2003 to December 2011.
42 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
4 Wisconsin military contractors have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1 Wisconsin military contractor has been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
38 journalists (Syrian, American, French, UK, freelance) have been killed in Syria since January 2011.
War casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; Brookings Iraq Index; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org .
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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I had heard lots of innuendo and commercialized warnings concerning safety for travelers in present day Vietnam. Poetically, in three lengthy visits to the country in the mid-2000s, I never had any significant problems. But, you must understand my station in life of viewing Vietnam at the time. The country had recently opened up to tourism. The young Euro-travelers did not see the country like Americans. And, we Americans don't get six weeks of vacation a year to slink around the World to find ourselves. If we do get a week off, it ain't going to be spent in..., Vietnam. And of course, we had endured a 40-year hostile relationship with Vietnam. Fifteen of those years got almost 60,000 Americans killed.
The consummate question from people I know and meet is usually, "Don't the Vietnamese hate us Americans?" Then to, I had lived through most of those aforementioned 40 years. I had been in the military at the end of our American Vietnam war era. So, long story short, I was a bit nervous to go there.
In the course of my graduate work at the University of Wisconsin - Whitewater, I was studying communication and journalism. Focus is important. I used my experience in life to reconnect with Vietnam, and apply it to graduate work. That more academic approach did not necessarily diminish any anxiety about my visits to the country.
I learned rather quickly, the Vietnamese seem to have a collective awareness that if you rip off tourists..., they won't come back. That does not mean there was not a game being played. If you stay on the well-worn tourist paths, you will be hounded by street venders, hustlers, and hookers. The government in Saigon even set up the Tourist Protection Police to address the situation. Be that as it may, my shtick has always been to find the back roads. Immediately I noticed the working Vietnamese off the beaten path basically ignored me.
But, I and then Heide on subsequent visits, had to cross the well-used tourist trails from time to time.
There is a hotel in downtown Saigon that exchanged Dollars at a good rate. We hopped one of thousands of beat-up cabs for a Dollar to ride to the hotel. The driver pulled up at a busy drop-off spot. I instinctively swung my door open. A confederate of the taxi driver, I later surmised, sped up his car to try to hit the open door. The con would have been, I would have to pay the damages. It is just the way it works in Vietnam. There is no such thing as insurance in Vietnam. Luckily, I pulled the door back just in time.
A valet who watched the incident from the hotel foyer ran out to usher us into the hotel. As we thanked him for opening the hotel door for us, he smiled a bit and said, "Many tricks..., many tricks."
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On our second trip to Vietnam we rented a motor scooter near Nha Trang for a Buck and headed out to the boonies. Along the South China Sea, farmers harvest salt from the sea. We began to pass huge piles of white salt along small trails that checkered through shallow seawater fields. Of course, we got lost.
I remembered the pictures of odious jungle trails from the war. We stopped along a path and looked at a hopelessly useless map. From a solitary cement house surrounded by water came a man across a rickety wood foot-bridge. He wore torn work cloths and had a full, clear bottle in tow.
"We are going to die," I told Heide.
"You drink," the man said and smiled. He shoved two dirty glasses at us. I guessed it was some homemade brew. I could smell it from three feet away.
"I don't drink alcohol," I said. The man looked puzzled and shoved the glassed closer.
"He does now," Heide said chugging down half a glass and shoving the other at me.
"One more," the man said, refilling our dirty classes.
"Drink!" Heide said shoving the second glass at me, "I don't want to offend this guy's hospitality in his world. And, I don't want our relatives to realize we are the last two Americans on "The Vietnam Wall."
We departed our new-found ally - he stumbled back into his stone house apparently satisfied he had honored his salt farm by being nice to rare travelers.
In about three minutes down a narrowing trail. I stopped again. The home-brew was kicking in. What ever it was it was strong as gasoline.
"Which way?" I slurred my question.
"Fuck it," Heide said, "Go down that damn trail there."
We headed into the thick bush adjacent to the salt fields, the scooter weaving like being driven by a four-year old.
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One of the oddest encounters I ever have had was meeting a former American Vietnam veteran in the city of Hue. He had married a Vietnamese woman and now lived in Vietnam. This is not isolated. I ran into literally no American tourists but found several former American soldiers and former Australian veterans of the Vietnam War either living in-country, or making extended visits to the place that had changed their lives forever when they were so very young so long ago. At some point, I took a bit of a look at my own motives for really visiting the country. In the end, it was cathartic.
But, the fellow from Hue had read a couple of my dispatches that I sent out to several people back in academia. I had put him on the list.
He emailed me and wrote, "Hey Bob, don't use the term 'Nam. Only veterans that actually served in-country should use that term."
Oh boy, I thought. The ownership of "re-tooled words" and their meanings by certain groups was alive and well.
My pal from Hue notwithstanding, one of my most important life's physical journeys as well as psychological journeys was finally visiting...
...., 'Nam.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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