Did I ever tell you about the time I saw a zombie?

Yeah, I was hanging outside the gate to the house of a former bad guy in Gonaives, Haiti, B.S.ing with a bunch of kids. Billy Badass (Vladimir), a 14 year old punk with the smile of a shark, turned and started yelling at this woman across the street. Starling-like, the kids shifted from the jokes and games we were playing to taunting. Some ran across the street directly in front of the woman and some just started yelling “Go home, zombie!” in Creole.

I looked across the street. “Why is everyone calling her a zombie?” I asked. Billy laughed and looked up at me. “Because she a zombie.”

My orders were explicit when we entered country: Don’t mess with anything of religious significance, including and especially zombies. So I watched. To be honest, that was all I could do.

The zombie walked slowly, like her feet were asleep. You know when you get the needles but have to get up to answer the phone or something? Like that but slower and with purpose. She was dressed like any other Haitian woman— a shirt, a cotton dress down to about mid-calf and an orange and white striped scarf tied around her hair— except she was filthy and her clothes were ripped.

It was difficult to determine her age because she was coated in dirt, ash and soot. Her nappy hair was dusty and covered in twigs and what looked like maggots nestled in each disgusting lock. Tear-trails went from her wide, unblinking eyes, down her face and neck. The open sores on her knees, elbows and hands glistened.

Years later, after the World Trade Center fell and the images of New Yorkers walking around stunned, covered in dirt, ash and soot hit the air, I thought of the zombies again.

As the zombie walked past, the kids broke into a chant about a bloodthirsty general named Badagri, the spirit of war, keeper of the storm and sender of thunder and lightning.

Sitting there, in front of the gate as the zombie kept walking and the children chanted to a war spirit, I, for the first time as an adult, truly appreciated the power of religion and began to question my own beliefs.

And it was bad ass.

Sleep tight.

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Name Drop Time™

It’s that time during dinner at the conference when Joe from Charleston or Greg from Fort Worth whip out their dicks and start measuring in name drops. And yes, it’s usually guys and it seems like one of them is always from Texas.

Usually I turn to whoever’s closest and talk about anything else but tonight I just sat there. See, the topic of the day was Social Media and the audience ranged from those like Greg from Fort Worth, who had it all figured out to Janice who just e-mails AND THAT’S IT [uncomfortable laughter]. So I listened.

“Have your read X?” or “So and so does this and he’s amazing” and “If you don’t know [fill in the blank] you’re missing out.” On and on and naturally the conversation turns to Twitter.

I quickly realized that parts of my body I’ve long forgotten about have gag reflexes or sphincters and when Joe from Charleston explained what Twitter was and how you should be using it, I learned which organs have both.

So what I’m saying is that it was a bad idea and the pork chop was delicious.

The Hurt Locker

So I saw The Hurt Locker almost two weeks ago in New York, and it’s still with me. It’s an intense, bone-saw tremor of a movie that follows an Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) unit through Iraq in 2004, and it will leave you well spent by the closing credits. Katheryn Bigelow directs a movie that is so tight, it smells real.

That’s the easy part to explain. The hard part is why this movie is still in my head.

I’m a veteran. I served in the U.S. Army Reserves in the early/mid Nineties and got deployed to Haiti for Operation Restore, later, Uphold Democracy. Restore was the U.S. Military operation and Uphold was the U.N. peacekeeping mission of an almost decade long commitment. It was never a war, declared or otherwise. It was a deployment, which in military jargon means “go over there and do your job.” The Hurt Locker, like Jarhead effectively captures the feeling of being deployed. Of doing your job, over there.

Which is exactly what the characters are doing. Jeremy Renner, Anthony Mackie and Brian Geraghty could have easily played their parts as the “Renegade” the “Professional” and the “Youngster,” instead they just are. It’s probably best because archetypes rarely stray and these characters just borrow what they need, when needed, as do we all.

Haiti wasn’t a war but it was dangerous at times. We patrolled, came across urgent medical situations and secured perimeters. That was normal.

We chased bad guys (2x), ducked for cover (1x), fired warning shots (2x), were threatened by Voodoo priests, hiked for days in 98F- 98% humidity (1x), pausing every couple hours to stick an IV in our arms to hydrate (6 to 8x), repelled (1x), infiltrated and exfiltrated (1x). This was also normal because we trained for these situations.

And this is what deployment feels like. The job you are trained for is what you do. The men you trained with is who you are. Your leadership will give you the right order at the right time. All of this, training, buddies and leaders, will keep you safe.

None of these parts can be off. If they are, you lose trust. Without trust, unit effectiveness is gone. Without that, you are on your own. It’s a shitty feeling but it happens and there’s even training for this. Training to get things back to normal. But really, if it gets to this point, it’s understood that you are fucked.

And this is also what a deployment feels like. The abnormal situations that you don’t train for are what get to you. Abnormal during a deployment is making friends with the camp-rats, having a child named after you, worrying about the Intel Sergeant with the “WHITE POWER” tattoo across back, and the overwhelming and lovely generosity of desperately poor people.

And this too becomes normal. But when you live that definition of normal every day and come home again, that’s when things get scary. You don’t have a sidearm or a radio. You don’t plan your route to and from the grocery store. You don’t go with your entire unit to get a new driver’s license. And it’s at the point you pass your third McDonald’s and fifth Starbucks in two miles that you realize that this version of normal is bizarre.

And all you want to do is find normal. Maybe it’s in marriage and children. Maybe religion. Maybe sex, drugs and rock & roll. Maybe. Maybe not. One thing that’s for sure though, is this; The harder you try to define and control what normal is, it won’t the less it will be what you expect.

The Hurt Locker nails it that.

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“To support the commander’s relationship with civil authorities and civilian populace, promote mission legitimacy and enhance military effectiveness.” -The Civil Affairs Mission Statement.

Remember…

the first couple Democratic debates? Remember when it was Hilary’s race to lose and there was no way that the same country that put W in office twice* would elect a Muslim named Hussein? Remember how he came off as aloof or as an elitist or inexperienced? Yeah, then he’d come out for the next debate, sharper, clearer and harder than before.

And the speeches. The one on race? Fucking-A incredible. I still look at that and think “Yes. This.” as shorthand for so much confusion and rage and awkwardness in my life explained evenly and intelligently without the negro spiritual music rising in the background. And when he took the stage in Denver to accept the nomination for the Blue? And stormed through the manufactured drama, and then Rocky’d past the Alaskan Ivan Drago and blew by the once venerable senator from Arizona until it was 1080p clear that a majority of us Americans wanted That One in office?

Yeah… that was great.

What we’re forgetting is that during that amazing run-up to the election, we held him to his word, we asked hard questions, we made the man work and he turned around each and every time and showed you his math.

What we’re forgetting is that now that he’s in office he needs to work as hard—harder— because we demanded it back then and now— let’s be honest—now, we’re kinda making little jabs and calling bullshit and dismissing politics at a time when it is lame, scary and disappointing instead of the high-drama of a live-tweet debate.

What we’re forgetting is that it was never really about him. We weren’t kindly asking for change or demanding change; We are the change.

Take five minutes and bang out a quick message to your rep (http://whoismyrepresentative.com/) explaining why the lack of the public option for health care is not an option.

Quit your bitching, get focused and get loud, the same way we did in November.

S’up playa? http://www.whitehouse.gov/contact/

Hat tip to @fedge, @Moltz, Alina Smith, day of dreamweavers and all the other pipe-hitters for keeping the public option.

* Possible steroid use