Catching up on reading through my favorite blogs (see blogroll) I noticed some discussion about the use, or misuse of cell phones that piqued my interest. It started here and then I read this which led to another post that provided a link to this hilarious site about a couple of guys who go around and grab cell phones from abusers and smash them right in front of the shocked and awed. And there’s video of their antics!

Several years back, before everybody had a cell phone, I was in a restaurant in northern Italy enjoying a meal, wine, and good conversation with some friends when suddenly a commotion broke out a couple of tables away. It seems that a patron was first choking on his meal, and then went into cardiac arrest. As fellow patrons hurriedly worked to keep the poor bastard alive, one of the guests frantically ran to the table next to ours and asked to use the cell phone that one of the diners was using at the time. Why he was calmly sitting at his table chatting away while the rest of us were standing and looking on at the events unfolding before us was a mystery.

The man, obviously of great importance as he was the only fellow in the place with a cell phone, ignored the request and kept chatting away. The frantic guest became a little more animated explaining that a medial emergency necessitated that he use the cell phone to call for an ambulance (which if you’ve ever lived in Italy you know is more of a taxi with a blue light and siren than it is a life saving vehicle). The improtant one again ignored the demand and kept chatting away. Finally, out of anger and frustration, the good samaritan snatched the cell phone from the important one’s hand and dialed 911.

A moment later he removed the phone from his ear, looked at it increduosly, then at the important one disbelievingly, then at the crowd of onlookers and blurted, “It’s a toy! It’s a fucking toy phone!” He threw it on the important one’s table and stormed out of the restaurant in search of a real phone. Everyone’s attention turned from the poor bastard battling for his life to the poor bastard who was suddenly not as important as he thought. Sgt Hook out.

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It’s official. The terrible twos commence today. Happy Birthday to my youngest swashbuckler, Castaway Conner. He came into this world three-weeks early while a teary-eyed Sgt Hook watched as mother and son met face to face (or face to breast) for the first time after so many months of hanging out together.

He’s changed so much since that day in June of 2001, and so have I. Today though, we no longer refer to Castaway Conner’s age in months, from here on out, his age will be counted in years (of course “halfs” will be used until his teens I’m sure). Much to the chagrin of the lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook, he’s not a baby anymore. Happy Birthday son- I love you. Sgt Hook out.

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I just returned from Tripler Army Medical Center leaving Typhoon Tyler of Trieste and the lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook to put the remainder of our crew to bed. I arrived home several hours after what was to be a “routine procedure” called a tonsillectomy for Ty, our 8-year old buccaneer.

We’ve always known that Ty would need this operation as he’s suffered through numerous (I lost count) ear infections over the years and battles allergies to dust and mold daily. It was just a matter of when.

Though getting up at oh-dark-thirty is routine for me, it certainly isn’t for the lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook and our boys. We all did this morning, however, and after dropping the bulk of the crew off at a very dear friend’s house, Typhoon Tyler, TLATADRSMH and I proceeded to the big pink building on the hill overlooking Pearl Harbor.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly, the traffic was light, parking was amiable, admissions efficient, and pre-op briefings reassuring. It wasn’t until we got to the part when the nurse handed Ty his hospital pajamas that we had a problem. Up until he held the open-backed blue cotton PJs in his hands, he was the bravest little buccaneer I’d ever seen. Since the announcement of his impending surgery two days prior, Ty was reveling in the attention. After all, not too many kids have their tonsils removed nowadays, so who wouldn’t be excited to be the only pirate in port without tonsils (yes, we pushed the ice cream and jell-o angle)?

It took me almost fifteen minutes to get him into those damned pajamas. His tears were genuine and I thought maybe his fears about having an operation were coming out, but he insisted otherwise. He flat out professed that he’d look stupid in the stupid pajamas. Reasoning, pleading, ordering, and even bribing didn’t work. Finally, I told him to wait a second and left the room.

When I returned he was sitting on the floor with his head on his knees and the PJs still in his hand. I said, “Now will you get changed?”

To which he replied into his knees, “No.”

“Well, O.K., but I sure am going to look stupid walking around all day in this outfit by myself,” said I. He looked up to see his dad darned in an open-backed hospital gown and he started laughing hysterically. He laughed so hard that he inadvertently (and unknowingly) pulled on the string that summons the nurse in an emergency. Said nurse came running into the room and almost had a coronary when she saw my exposed rump as I was bending over helping Ty to get into his garb. Although I’m terribly sorry for scaring the nurse, my tactics worked for my son; crisis averted.

Things started popping and clicking again now that we were all dressed accordingly. The operating room nurse came by to introduce herself and seemed very competent wearing aquamarine green scrubs. Next, the anesthesiologist, also in scrubs but magenta colored, checked in reassuringly talking as if he knew what he was doing. The janitor then made an appearance, green scrubs, quietly removing and replacing the trash bag next to the bed. Finally, the surgeon stopped by wearing a yellow Izod shirt and pink knickers with knee-high plaid socks and golf shoes and said, “Hi Mark, I’ll be ready in a flash to take out that spleen” (with a wink and a pistol shot from his right hand).

Just kidding. The surgeon left the lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook and I with very warm and fuzzy feelings about how the procedure would go. And that is in spite of the fact that he is a reservist here only on his two-week annual drill (tough duty). I took comfort though, that Army reservist doctors are also civilian doctors and that this particular surgeon has owned and operated a private practice for over 14-years in Virginia (Virginia has excellent physicians don’t they?). Moments later, our brave little buccaneer was wheeled down the hallway into operating room number 3, while TLATADRSMH and I found our way to waiting room number 1.

Waiting room number 1 was filled with parents and loved ones nervously waiting (surprise, surprise). FOX News blared almost annoyingly on the TV, books and magazines and newspapers were being read feverishly, and heads turned in anticipation toward the large glass window facing the hallway every time a noise was heard. Being the big strong man that I am, I quickly gave into my instinctive drive to provide for my very nervous wife, “Honey, you want me to get you something from the cafeteria?”

As I walked down miles of corridors desperately searching for the gottdamned cafeteria, enduring raised eyebrows, strange looks, guffaws, and even a few propositions (try to remember what I’m wearing), I realized that the big pink building on the hill was a friggin maze! Yes, I got lost. And yes, I was reluctant to ask for directions, more so because of my attire than because of my ego. I eventually found it, provided for my wife, and returned just in time for Typhoon Tyler’s post-op experience.

Post-op turned out to be a bit boring. Ty drifted in and out of sleep, sipping cold water when awake and watching Sponge Bob while his mom and I read Harlequin Romance novels that we had the foresight to bring along. Hours passed and all seemed well when the post-op nurse, dressed in flowery scrubs, brought in our discharge paperwork to be signed, as we would be leaving, taking Typhoon Tyler of Trieste home, within the hour. That’s when it happened.

Just after signing the release forms, TLATADRSMH noticed a little blood on Ty’s tongue and asked the nurse to investigate, which she expertly did using a flashlight, tongue depresser, and an official Inspector Gadget magnifying glass. Her discovery, “Let me call the doctor.”

Hello! We are NOT idiots. Let me call the doctor? Is that some kind of ridiculous way of putting the parents at ease? Didn’t work! Didn’t fucking work! I am, however, a quiet man, especially when my Scot blood is boiling, and let me tell you, it was damned near boiling and I was damned near deadly silent.

The look on my face must’ve been menacing as just seconds later the Head Nurse came in to take a look. She provided some reassuring comments that sounded to me like something Charlie Brown’s teacher might have said until I finally made out, “The doctor will be down in a minute.”

Next came the intern, who started shaking when he saw all the blood, or maybe it was a result of my fiery stare, but managed to get out, “The doctor will be down in a minute,” before running out of the room.

Needless to say, I was a little hot under the kilt. I had put an immense amount of faith into this reservist surgeon and his staff as they went about performing a “routine procedure” on my son who was now spitting up globules of crimson blood. It took all I had not to abandon that faith. I almost called a pretty damned good nurse I know for some advice, when the reservist quack walked in.

After looking at Typhoon Tyler’s throat, the Colonel (yes, he is a full-bird) gave me a quick look and said, “The doctor will be down in a minute.” Just kidding, he reassuringly told us that in 2% to 4% of tonsillectomy patients, sufficient clotting might not occur. He confidently looked into my skeptical eyes and recommended that Typhoon Tyler of Trieste return to the OR so that he could cauterize and, if need be, stitch the area to prevent anymore bleeding.

The lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook cried, Ty cried, and I, I got angry. I was angry because now I had to ask my brave little buccaneer to be brave all over again because…?!? Surgery twice in one day sucks! And of course, what was to be an outpatient procedure would now require an overnight stay (not that we’d have it any other way). Poor guy.

He came out of it famously though, and when I left the big pink building on the hill he was watching Fern Gully and sucking on a popsicle with the lovely and talented and down right sexy Mrs. Hook by his side. Sgt Hook out.

UPDATE: I brought Typhoon Tyler of Trieste and the lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook home from the big pink building on the hill to a freezer full of ice cream, sherbert, and popsicles today. He seems to be feeling OK outside of a very soar throat and the stitches are holding. His mom is a little tired, however, hospital chairs are not as comfortable as one might think never mind all the beeping and clicking of modern medicine’s myriad of monitors. Thanks to all the well wishers for their kind comments and prayers.

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June 14th marks 228 years of service to this great country of ours for the United States Army. Since its inception on June 14, 1775- just over a year before the Declaration of Independence- the Army has played an important role in the development of our nation. From gaining the Republic’s independence to protecting Americans against terrorist attacks at home and abroad, the Army has unhesitatingly answered the call to ensure the sanctity of our freedoms. The 174 campaign streamers attached to the staff of the Army Flag are evidence of the Army’s commitment to our nation, each representing the sacrifices made by America’s sons and daughters to defend the Constitution from all enemies, both foreign and domestic.

For 228 years, regardless of the political climate, the soldiers of the United States Army have devoted themselves to the duty of serving America. Soldiers like Corporal (Cpl) John D. Kelly. Cpl Kelly joined the Army in February of 1942, just months after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. He was born and raised in Venango Township, PA and had never left the country until June, 1944 when he found himself pinned down by heavy machinegun fire on a beach in Normandy, France.

Cpl Kelly volunteered to take out the enemy position. Arming himself with a pole charge 10-feet in length and 15 pounds of explosives, he started climbing up the steep slope towards the deadly pillbox. Weathering an incessant barrage of machinegun fire, Kelly methodically made his way to the base of the stronghold and emplaced the charges. The resulting explosion was ineffective, however. Cpl Kelly again, unhesitatingly braved the slope to repeat the operation.

Cpl Kelly, with the soldiers of Easy Company, 314th Infantry anxiously looking on, took two hits from German machinegun fire in his leg and shoulder as he deftly scaled the side of the hill. Undeterred, he continued to work his way to the high ground, again placing the charges at the base of the enemy pillbox. This time the blast took out the deadly weapons.

Cpl Kelly wasn’t done. In spite of his wounds, Kelly climbed the steep slope a third time dragging yet another 10-feet long pole and 15 pounds of charges with him, this time to the rear of the gun emplacement. After blowing a steel door off its hinges, Cpl Kelly hurled several hand grenades into the fighting position killing three of the enemy and forcing the survivors to come out and surrender. Immediately, his unit joined him on the crest of the slope and a weary Cpl Kelly collapsed from exhaustion and loss of blood. He was evacuated to a field hospital where he later died from gunshot and shrapnel wounds.

The gallantry, bravery, tenacity, and utter disregard for personal safety displayed by Cpl Kelly were an incentive to his comrades and worthy of emulation by all who serve in the Army. Cpl John D. Kelly was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for “conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty,” posthumously.

Throughout the Army’s 228-year history, stories like that of Cpl Kelly’s demonstrate the patriotism and valor exhibited by our soldiers, not for profit nor for pleasure, but for Duty, Honor, and Country. Happy Birthday United States Army- This We’ll Defend. Sgt Hook out.

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After having a rough afternoon at soccer practice with his prick of a coach who is overcompensating because he happens to be his dad, Andrew the Adventurous (my 5-year old swashbuckler) had a very difficult evening. I decided to (out of guilt) let him stay up late after putting his brothers to bed, allowing only to let him play his GBA (Game Boy Advance) while I blogged a little. Finally, the GBA became the enemy when the “stupid batteries” gave way and I had to wipe away his tears and carry him off to bed amongst severe protests.

Enduring cries of oppression and displeasure, I laid him in his bed still getting an earful about the conspiracy that was being waged against him. It wasn’t unitl I laid down next to him that he stopped protesting and snuggled under his blanket. Then, in the dark, silent room he softly said, “Dad, you can rest your arm across me if you want.”
I did, he slept, I teared. Sgt Hook out.

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Still rebuilding the archives…

THE F*@#%$! DONKEY

Several years ago I had the pleasure of being stationed in Italy. One of my Saturday morning rituals included taking my coffee at a local cafe, or what Italians call a bar, while reading the Stars and Stripes. Throughout my time there, I marveled at the differences between our cultures and was often fascinated with the Italian people at how they approached life in general. The following is a documentary on events taking place in my favorite bar one such Saturday morning. I’ve translated the dialouge from Italian so it might not read as smooth as you would like in English but hopefully it is organized. My thanks and aplogies to Billy Joel for the use, or abuse, of some lines from Piano Man.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in, there’s an old man sitting next to me making love to his tonic and gin.” Actually it isn’t tonic and gin that he is so enamored with, rather a glass of prosecco, a sparkling dry white wine, and it is nine o’clock in the morning on a Saturday at the local bar just down the road from my house. The words from Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” continue to fill my head while I watch the “waitress practicing politics as the businessmen slowly get stoned.” The “businessmen” in this case are a group of local farmers and artisans who reside in this sleepy little village tucked away in the shadows of the Dolomite mountains of northern Italy.

So here I am in the bar at nine in the morning reveling in the atmosphere produced by a dozen men smoking and drinking and rambling on about any subject imaginable, nothing is too insignificant for these great philosophers of life. Arguments ensue and voices rise as hand gestures come close to hurting someone; pointing, waving, shaking, and flapping. Sometimes it’s one hand, sometimes two. Then it might not be hands at all, but a head nod or a shoulder shrug, and if the point being made is really important it could be a combination of all of these with an eyebrow raised just at the proper moment. I listen in as the town elders contemplate critical issues facing the world today. They go on about how much tax they have to pay and how corrupt the government is. Oh, and how hard they have to work just to make ends meet. In fact they are just one hour into the workday and are already on their first of several “coffee” breaks. Breaks that don’t consist of walking down the hall for a cup of go juice. No, they get into their cars or tractors or on their Vespas and drive to their favorite bar and put down a glass or two of wine or grappa (a unique liquor made from the remnants of grape vines guaranteed to put hair on any part of your body), all the while complaining that they are slaves to their bosses. Poor devils.

As is my usual custom I sit in the corner, drink my cappuccino, and read my newspaper, while enjoying the banter among these great statesmen. Just as I was getting up to leave, a young man stepped into this sacred house of smoke filled opinions. He had long black unkempt hair tied in a nice little ponytail, a week’s growth of beard, and an earring dangling from his left ear. Although he did not fit into the hip looking crowd that frequents Gino’s bar, none of the regulars paid him any mind. That is until he spoke.

As the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress asked the young pony-tailed intruder what he would like, he answered that he wanted to talk to the “cazzo” who owned the donkey outside. At that point all conversations ceased, including those contemplating world peace, an overthrow of the corrupt Italian government, a discussion over what color the town hall should be painted, and who would be fortunate enough to spend siesta that afternoon with the politically practicing large breasted brown eyed waitress. Each conversation stopped dead in its tracks as the young pony-tailed intruder boldly put forth the donkey question.

Intrigued, I sat back down to watch the events unfold. Everybody seemed to freeze momentarily to stare at the new kid in town. Even the smoke seemed to have lifted, when an older gentleman stepped forward to within inches of the young pony-tailed intruder. He stood firm, looking up into the intruder’s eyes. He was gray-hared, dressed in a wool sports coat and vest, wearing a distinguished looking hat, and muddy boots. He definitely had an air about him, yet his hands were large and cracked from years of working in the fields and his face permanently tanned from the weather. Still, he held everyone’s gaze, as he stood stolid, staring at the young pony-tailed intruder. That is when I learned this distinguished gentleman’s name.

“I am Cazzo, the owner of the donkey,” he said. “Why do you ask, are you looking for a date Pinocchio?” He asked.

“No Cazzo, I am not looking for a date, I am trying to work, which is something I am sure you and your cronies know nothing about,” said Pinocchio gesturing with his hands towards the silent men standing in indifferent anticipation.

“Good then go to work,” said Cazzo turning away from the young pony-tailed intruder, and instantly the room filled with smoke and conversation as if Pinocchio had never entered that hallowed bar.

I watched as a vein started to pop out of Pinocchio’s temple when he shouted, “your f*@#%$! donkey is in the middle of the street and I cannot drive my truck to its destination cazzo!”

Instantly the room emptied of smoke and conversation again as Cazzo slowly turned around and calmly asked, “what is it that you would like me to do?”

“Move your donkey!”

“Move my donkey?”

“Yes! Move your f*@#%$! donkey!” said Pinocchio raising both hands in exasperation.

“Move my f*@#%$! donkey?” replied Cazzo pointing with his thumb at his chest and throwing in a raised eyebrow incredulously.

“Yes! Move your f*@#%$! donkey, or I will run over it with my truck,” Pinocchio said looking around the room for support, only to find empty stares eagerly awaiting the outcome of this exciting battle.

“Why would you run over my f*@#%$! donkey?” asked Cazzo.

“Because it is in my way and I have to drive my truck to its destination!” replied the young pony-tailed intruder pointing off into the distance towards some far away place.

“You have to drive your truck?”

“Yes! Are you not listening cazzo? I have to drive my truck and your f*@#%$! donkey is in my way!” he came back with both hands together as if in prayer moving forward and back while rolling his eyes toward the heavens.

Cazzo then pulls off a coup that totally destroys the young pony-tailed intruder, whose vein is now throbbing and who has yet been unable to find any supporters in his plight.

“Then why did you come in here and disturb my coffee break and the coffee break of these hard working men Pinocchio?” said Cazzo sweeping the room with his right hand palm facing upward in a grandiose gesture.

Pinocchio replied, “I did not come in here to disturb your coffee break, or the coffee break of these hard working men,” he pointed in their direction purposely, “I came in here to move your f*@#%$! donkey!”

“You came in here to move my f*@#%$! donkey?” both eyebrows raised.

“Yes! I came in here to move your f*@#%$! donkey!” both hands raised, moving toward his opponent with all fingertips joined and pointing upward.

Cazzo turned to the smokeless and speechless crowd of hard-working men and said, “he just came in here to move my f*@#%$! donkey.” Shoulder shrug.

Heads nodded with understanding and acknowledgment of the young pony-tailed intruder’s mission. Smoke and conversations once again filled the room when the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress who had over the years spent a siesta with all of the men in the room, except for the young pony-tailed intruder, said with some confusion, “but there is not a f*@#%$! donkey in here.”

Once again the smoked cleared and the conversations ceased this time with some annoyance towards the young pony-tailed intruder. After all, it was their coffee break that was continuously being interrupted.

“Gabriella is right,” said Cazzo speaking of the politically practicing large breasted browned-eyed waitress with whom he himself had spent several lovely passion filled afternoons. “There is no f*@#%$! donkey in here.”

“I know there is no f*@#%$! donkey in here, it is in the street blocking my truck from driving to it’s destination!” said the pony-tailed Pinocchio without any body language whatsoever.

“Then why are you in here?” asked Cazzo pointing to the floor.

“Because the f*@#%$!…the…donkey…my truck…destination….” stammered the pony-tailed intruder named Pinocchio, with the vein in his temple throbbing, who had never spent a passionate siesta with Gabriella, the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress.
I couldn’t help but smile as the pony-tailed intruder turned on his heels and stormed out of the bar climbing into his truck determined to run over the f*@#%$! donkey standing in the street. The room filled with smoke and conversation once again as I heard Pinocchio rev his engine with a purpose. My smile quickly vanished as I realized what the young angry pony-tailed intruder was about to do. The hard-working men on their coffee break, who had each enjoyed the company of the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed Gabriella at one time or another, all seemed to have come to the same realization as I. Yet not one moved an inch. They all turned their heads slightly towards the location of where the devastating deed was to occur, froze momentarily, and then nodded in understanding of the inevitability of what was to transpire. After all, the young pony-tailed intruder did have to drive his truck to its destination. The room once again filled with smoke and conversation.

I was beside myself. I could not believe that everyone was going to stand by and allow the young pony-tailed intruder to drive over the f*@#%$! donkey! I jumped to my feet intending to race for the door to save the f*@#%$! donkey, as it wasn’t his fault. He was only standing in the street waiting for his elegantly dressed distinguished gray-hared farmer with muddy boots to finish his seemingly endless coffee break. Before I could maneuver my way out from behind my table, I heard the truck roar down the street. No one seemed to notice until the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress started yelling.

“Hey cazzo! What is this f*@#%$! donkey doing in my bar?!?” hands flying in all directions until they rester on her hips.

“What is it you would like me to do?” replied Cazzo calmly.

“Move your donkey!” said Gabriella.

“Move my donkey?” replied Cazzo.

“Yes! Move your f*@#%$! donkey!” shouted the exasperated politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress throwing her hands to the heavens.

“Move my f*@#%$! donkey?” replied Cazzo pointing with his thumb at his chest and throwing in a raised eyebrow incredulously.

“Yes! Move your f*@#%$! donkey or you can be sure that you will not spend another siesta with me, you can spend it with your f*@#%$! donkey!” arms crossed across her large breasts and eyebrows raised above those brown eyes and a smirk on her face.

The message must have been clear, clearer than that of the young pony-tailed intruder whom the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress desperately hoped would return before siesta, as the elegantly dressed distinguished gray-hared Cazzo with muddy boots led his f*@#%$! donkey down the road back to his farm, mumbling to himself all the way, and the hard-working men were finally able to resume their smoky opinionated coffee break. After all they did have to go back to work and make enough money to pay their taxes to the corrupt government.

I chuckled heartily, sat back down, ordered a glass of prosecco, and wondered what conversations might be going on around the coffee pots and water coolers back home in America.

Sgt Hook out.

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