I officially don’t like YouTube. I was going to send an angry e-mail to their admin guy, but there is no such e-mail link on the site. I propose that every POd American fax angry letters to them for their attempts at censorship. Anti-Obamanation videos are being yanked off faster than one can say Avast. We barely censor journalists in the war zone. Why is the homefront being censored. While I’m at it, SNL/NBC gets 30 lashes, minus one, for being wimps. A video was edited to remove a few items of offense. People can call a defaced cross art, but can’t take a “they need shot” joke. Michelle Malkin transcribed the audio, and has screenshots. Some of her commenters have pointed to places that have saved the video vice the link. I might watch NBC one more day, in order to boycott their advertisers. It pisses me off to no end to see freedoms that I and others have suffered to provide, be shat upon in my own country. I say call the Bos’n, let the cat out of the bag, and commence to flog. If you can’t find a Bos’n, call me. By the way, thirty(or forty, I forget) lashes minus one is attributed to the Hebrew standard of mercy, as enumerated in the Torah. I shall research and edit as appropriate.
Many professional warriors have an institutional distrust of the media. Ever since they helped the commies win in Vietnam, we haven’t liked them. Soldier/sailor math goes like this. Number of dead bad guys greater than number of dead good guys equals a win. According to my tenth grade history teacher, we were actually winning in Vietnam according to the numbers. When we brought journalists aboard during OIF, the rules were simple. No photos of the wounded. Due to our configuration, we would often refuel MEDEVAC helos that were en route to the carrier. On occasion, the Chief Doc would have to perform basic tasks pertaining to IVs and drugs. The CO came to the flight deck and told us personally and in no uncertain terms that there were to be no pictures of wounded. On a warship, in time of war, the CO is the law. One stubborn journalist tried to get a photo of a litter on the deck. One of my mentors was a DC2 built like Jesse Ventura’s stunt double. DC2 and I interfered, per Captain’s orders. Our warnings may have been a bit blunt. We were also physically preventing hi from getting his photo. He went to CO. CO personally came down and told us we had done the right thing. Said journalist stayed upset until he flew back to the carrier. That paricular CO was one of my favorites.
When pressed on controversial votes he made, Sen. Obama siad he pushed the wrong button. That crap can get you fired elsewhere. One of my watches, Damage Control Console Operator(DCC, or dicko) involved buttons. I could start and stop fire pumps remotely, and I could close fire zone doors. That’s three buttons. A total of several, due to multiple pumps and doors. Had I pushed stop in lieu of start, I probably would have been beat about the head and shoulders with something blunt and heavy. During real emergencies, the DCA would tell me what pump to start or stop. If I hit the wrong button in an emergency, someone could have died. A man, with apparently zero attention to detail, wants control of our national arsenal. They make thrillers out of stuff like that. If you haven’t seen yhe earlier video, here is a quote. “You can’t even afford the tax on the price (Senator) McCain payed for his country.” It was directed to liberal drones.
After much thought, this week’s Navy/Marine Corps phrase is Vitamin M. Vitamin M, also known as grunt candy(USMC), or Corpsman candy, is extra strength Motrin™. It is so named, because it is a Hospital Corpsman’s preferred medical treatment. This has led to speculation that HM actually stands for Heeere’s Motrin!, or Hydrate, Motrin. One senior HM actually mentioned, seemingly seriously, bringing a Pez dispenser filled with Motrin to General Quarters, which further perpetuated the stereotype.
I feel that I can can confidently say that I am mulit-cultural. I was raised a Christian by two white folks, and later a white guy named Dad and a Korean lady. Dad was determined to teach us about open-mindedness, without forcing it down our throats. I have dined with families that represented a large portion of races and cultures. I am ashamed to say now, looking back, that my first response to Dad dating a Korean was, “But, why!”. Unfortunately, some of my family is racist, and i was young and impressionable. Now, 15 years later, I count among friends and respected colleagues several LEGAL immigrants, and many different races. I have attended culturally traditional events in the company of Indians(both kinds), Germans, Mexicans, Koreans, and Chamorros. Friends, you have not seen a shindig until you attend a Korean child’s first birthday, or a Chamorro child’s confirmation. I have learned enough language to be polite in a couple of countries. Because of Dad’s efforts, I have learned to truly appreciate different cultures, and what they can teach me. I am forever grateful to him for that, and many other lessons. The one lesson that really stuck in my head, was to not be an Ugly American, and refuse to try a food that looked or smelled funny, until i had tasted it. That is very rude in the Korean culture Dad was becoming a part of by marriage number two. That lesson has taken me farther in the Western Pacific AOR than several others. By the way, I learned the other languages I mentioned while visitng their country. Perhaps our illegal immigrants would be so kind. Every LEGAL immigrant I know speaks English well enough to be understood. I didn’t have anybody cramming a desire to learn language down my throat, I learned what I could as a gesture of courtesy to hosts. It goes back to my tenet of a little bit of respect goes a long way. There will be psots about what I leaned from other cultures as the lessons come to mind. They are never far away, and i still apply them when appropriate.
A long time ago, I found myself helping with a kid’s Sunday school class. I had just returned from some form of exercise or deployment, which one escapes me, and is not germane to the story. At the time, I was assigned to the At-Sea Fire Party. We drilled at all hours to respond to emergencies. On a cruiser, you have three Hospital Corpsman in a good month. Being fellow emergency responder types, we helped Doc during medical emergencies not related to fires and the like. All of that for this. I was in the classroom, learning how to teach children, and a college age friend of mine came screaming through the door. “HELP!HELP! My sister is passing out.” Remember that part about incessant drills? Response was so ingrained into my psyche,almost Pavlovian even, that I came to offer what assistance I could. Almost automatically. Big sister, also college age was writhing in pain on the ground, screaming in pain. I called her by her name, and told her that I was there to help. In my mind my inner dialogue was something akin to, “Check for hazards. Why is she on the ground? How did she get there. Ok here. ABCs. She is screaming, that means she has A and B. No bleeding. I better check the pulse.” By this time, former Army Ranger T showed up, a regular dude in his forties those days. We determined that she had a pulse, and began to question her and sister as best we could. Food consumed, allergies, etc. There were no medic alert bracelets or necklaces, and the Children’s Pastor had shown up. He was slightly panicked, but to his credit, he stood back and watched. During the initial assessment, we sent a runner to find her parents, and had another person call 911. It never ceases to amaze me what kind of crowd this draws. Ranger T was deferring to me since I had been there first. He may also have assumed that my training was more current, since I am active duty. He and I were very no-nonsense about the whole thing. Once we figured out it was a seizure, all we could do was comfort the poor girl, and await the “Dr. Truck”. I have never felt as helpless as I did at that point. A young lady, who I happened to know, screaming for her Mom, her healthy sister sobbing softly on the fringe of the group, and Ranger T and I having nothing more to do than reassure the poor girl. Of all the wounds we train to combat, a seizure is the worst. When the medics arrived, we gave them the info we had, and carried on. The next time I saw her, she was in much better health, and actually thanked me for my efforts. That made it all worth my while.
I have posted a link to The Ambulance Driver Files. AD, as he is known in his blog, drives what my young cousin calls a Doctor Truck. I have a semi-professional interest in emergency medicine. For the time being, on the great big floaty thing, I am a stretcher bearer. That is kind of like Field Medic Jr. We stabilize the wounded and carry them to the actual medics. “Next higher echelon of care” is the military word. I have also responded to various(OK 1) medical mishaps as a Good Samaritan. The fact was, I had sufficent training, and those around me were panicking. I took charge, along with a former Army Ranger, and we did the ABC thing until the real live paramedics showed up. It was a learning experience. A real person is not our “Oscar” dummy, or Rescue Randy. The worst thing was, it was a seizure, and all we could do was keep the poor young lady comfortable until the paramedics arrived. Full story later to come.