The Empirical Manifesto

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THE SINGULARLY DISTINCTIVE ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF SERGEANT ANDERSON CULMINATE A DISTINGUISHED CAREER IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY AND REFLECT GREAT CREDIT UPON HIMSELF AND THE UNITED STATES AIR FORCE. ATTENTION TO ORDERS: SPECIAL ORDER - SENIOR MASTER SERGEANT ANDERSON EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, YOU ARE RELIEVED FROM ACTIVE DUTY, ORGANIZATION AND STATION OF ASSIGNMENT, RETIRED EFFECTIVE TODAY PER AIR FORCE INSTRUCTION IN THE GRADE OF SENIOR MASTER SERGEANT. PROCEED TO HOME OF SELECTION. BY ORDER OF THE SECRETARY OF THE AIR FORCE.

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When some see 'coincidence', I see 'consequence'. When others see 'chance', I see 'cause'.

I felt honored to be one of the five people chosen to closely surround my childhood friend during his extended retirement weekend, and with the inclusion of another's brother who ferried in his deployed kin, there were seven people in total, most of us not knowing the other. Having anticipated this planned predicament, awaiting us in a massive over-sized refrigerator was a litany of beer.¹ In recognition of this momentous occasion, I brought a bottle of black current I'd been saving over three years for just such an event, in order to make the UK's famed Black Snakebites for everyone. Now maybe its just the passing of time, but these were the best I'd ever had, and enjoyed by all. Seven strangers sat down, but no strangers stood up that night. In short, what happened, happened and couldn't have happened any other way.


The doors of Mission Espada

Its not everyday that a man gets a glimpse into his future, and just like the protagonist in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol it can change oneself. People understand the impact which unfolds when faced with their own future, and to a lesser degree we can make minor course corrections along the way as we see further down that future path, but its a rare glimpse indeed for a man to see his own future from a first-person perspective; also the most powerful.

The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!

I saw one possible future - a very real future for myself had I stayed in, and it both excited and frightened me - the consequences of which I have not yet fully realized, but which shall stay with me for some time. You see, everyone there was either current, or recently separated Air Force. I left the service of our country for two multi-faceted reasons which boil down to this: 1) I was moved into a position in which I did not flourish & would be unable to withstand, and 2) I did not wish to raise a family while I was active duty.

As a civilian these last thirteen years, I was unaware of the personal and professional growth I've accomplished since I left the USAF - after all, those days were the best of times, and the worst of times. I was filled with longing as we reminisced deep into the night; missed adventures, sweeping, epic stories! And I was finally among peers. People who understood wholly my experiences in the Middle and Far East and Europe.

Who's Barry Badrinath?

But it was also a frightening time-traveling roller-coaster of DOOM! I was immediately plummeted right back to where I was before I parted ways - looking around at everyone surrounding me, I was exactly as I was 13-years ago, only a little older and with more rank - it was like being frozen in a capsule - the Earth around me progressed while I remained immobile and unchanging. It was sucking me back in, and had I not escaped would've surely either irrevocably cemented me for the remainder of my days or driven me mad! Not that its a bad place to be - I admire and envy those who are doing it, but with my perspective I was offered a unique and special opportunity to both remember, and learn. Its a bittersweet thing.

I felt like I'd been hit in the face with a toaster by Carol Kane.


"I feel it was a great honor to serve the country."

The [retirement] ceremony itself was a fancy affair where solemnity mingled with joviality and participants arrived in a mixture of "mess dress" (military black tie) and utility uniforms. Us civilians were attired just as hodgepodge with some in slacks & ties, full suits, or jeans and a t-shirt. But this event wasn't an exercise in fashion - it was intended to pay our respects to our comrade, and if nothing else was clear in this mixed-bag of people it was that we all loved and respected the object of our attendance.

A man might be thought wealthy if someone were to draw the story of his deeds, that they may be remembered.

And what did he do for us? Let me tell you...he smoked two briskets. Yes, count them - two! The night leading up to the ceremony family as well had come down, and they now filled the kitchen back at the house in a whirlwind of activity. There was a pot of beans, shish-kebob peppers, cole slaw, potato salad and plenty of light-as whipped-butter tortillas ready to accept the 40-pounds of brisket.

It was all eaten.

The house was filled with people who each brought a little joy with them for the occasion and the edifice nearly burst with happy memories.

"There's not enough aspirin in the world, to bring a dead hooker back to life."

I am an American Airman
I am a warrior
I have answered my nation's call...

Daniel, its been one hell of a ride. And I'm proud to call you friend. Congratulations on your retirement. There's not a doubt in my mind you'll continue on this path of success and accomplish GREAT THINGS. From what I've seen, military retirement is only a gateway - a beginning into so much more. You've proven your worth and with that lifetime of experience behind you, can embark on the second part of your journey. Well done, sir. Well done.

I am an American Airman
Wingman, leader, warrior
I will never leave an Airman behind
I will never falter
And I will not fail




20-years: 1990-2010

ROAD TRIP: PART TWO




My "crazy" Uncle Mike was always a lot of fun to be around growing up. He was tattooed, drove a muscle car (a copper Duster if I recall) and was always just wonderful with me and my cousins when then entire Howton family lived in Corsicana, Texas.

My first Halloween was when my Uncle Mike took me around. He introduced me to sliced bananas on a peanut butter sandwich. He lived with us on and off over the years as he was single and either somewhat nomadic or always in and out of trouble - I don't know which, but I'll guess the latter.

And he was a great friend to my brother when he needed him the most. They were very close later in life and I always appreciated Mike's generosity and kindness no matter what the circumstances. When we lived in Irving and he was in Dallas we visited him, often bringing our newborn son with us. But as these things sometimes turn out, by the time we had our daughter, we'd moved out of the area.

I'll guess the latter because he fell on hard times once and I went with my father and grandfather to find him living in a park in East Dallas. They bundled him in the car, took him to my grandfather's house and cut off his beard, bathed him, fed him, and brought him to our house in Rhome, Texas where my father had built an entire apartment in our garage for him to reside. He got a job at the local foundry - one of the few businesses which actually operated within the city, then became a local celebrity.
( Read more... )

A fastidious packer, I. My car, a bento box filled with bento boxes. Smaller versions of themselves in infinite regress, like Russian nesting dolls. Babooshka. Kate Bush. One 8GB iPod Touch (movies & games), one 16GB iPod (music), one 3G Blackberry Bold 9700 (connectivity). Watched the original Fun with Dick and Jane last night. Funny thing to put on television during a recession, no? I was familiar with the opera they used in the unemployment bit of course. Bizet's "Carmen." I have a favorite recording of it. Where though? Not found. 404. Carmen Jones - did for Carmen what The Wiz did for The Wizard of Oz. As a child, seeing The Wiz on the big screen was...confusing.



Electric shaver: charging. Above mentioned devices: syncing. Mobile computing in my hand. Found CD. Wrong label - EMI Classics. Gheorghiu Alagna with the Orchestre National Du Capitole de Toulouse. Michel Plasson conducting. But what I really want, is Herbert Von Karajan conducting the Berliner Philharmoniker. I am ready. I am a racecar. Maybe stop for some brekky along the way. West bound and down. More or less. Mostly down. Interstate 35 for 5 hours. Like going to Kansas, but the other direction. Texas. Big state. Open road once I bust outta Big D. Like going through the planet's core.



Photographs are pensieves - reservoirs of memory. Bookmarks. I've just traveled a lifetime and back, from the contents of a box. Got lost a few times along the way. Funny thing, time - so many constructs in which the theory doesn't fit no matter how hard we want it to. I have no idea how much time passed, if any, while I was away. And ghosts reside there too. Caution is always prudent. Photographs can inadvertently unlock memories we've hidden away. Even those which should remain forgotten.



Summer of 1990. Two years out of High School and my best friend and I enlist in the Air Force. He's three months behind me going in, and I encourage him to join Intelligence so we could have assignments together. Outside of Tech School though, we never did. I left after 7 years; His retirement ceremony as an E8/Senior Master Sergeant is Friday in San Antonio.

I'll be there.

In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco, President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's terrorist camps in Libya My duty was to fly over Libya and take photos recording the damage our F-111's had inflicted. Qaddafi had established a "line of death," a territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra , swearing to shoot down any intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15, I rocketed past the line at 2,125 mph.

I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world's fastest jet, accompanied by Maj Walter Watson, the aircraft's reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and were approaching our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walter informed me that he was receiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it would take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5 - to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn and stayed our course, betting our lives on the plane's performance.

After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the Mediterranean. "You might want to pull it back," Walter suggested. It was then that I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6 seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I pulled the throttles to idle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refueling tanker awaiting us over Gibraltar

Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight, following the achievements of the Wright brothers, which we celebrate in December. Aircraft such as the Boeing 707, the F-86 Sabre Jet, and the P-51 Mustang are among the important machines that have flown our skies. But the SR-71, also known as the Blackbird, stands alone as a significant contributor to Cold War victory and as the fastest plane ever-and only 93 Air Force pilots ever steered the "sled," as we called our aircraft.

As inconceivable as it may sound, I once discarded the plane. Literally. My first encounter with the SR-71 came when I was 10 years old in the form of molded black plastic in a Revell kit. Cementing together the long fuselage parts proved tricky, and my finished product looked less than menacing. Glue,oozing from the seams, discolored the black plastic. It seemed ungainly alongside the fighter planes in my collection, and I threw it away.

Twenty-nine years later, I stood awe-struck in a Beale Air Force Base hangar, staring at the very real SR-71 before me. I had applied to fly the world's fastest jet and was receiving my first walk-around of our nation's most prestigious aircraft. In my previous 13 years as an Air Force fighter pilot, I had never seen an aircraft with such presence. At 107 feet long, it appeared big, but far from ungainly.

Ironically, the plane was dripping, much like the misshapen model had assembled in my youth. Fuel was seeping through the joints, raining down on the hangar floor. At Mach 3, the plane would expand several inches because of the severe temperature, which could heat the leading edge of the wing to 1,100 degrees. To prevent cracking, expansion joints had been built into the plane. Sealant resembling rubber glue covered the seams, but when the plane was subsonic, fuel would leak through the joints.

( I found the rest of the story... )


My high school buddy and I during my Basic Military Training, 1991. This was three months-before he joined, he's now a Senior Master Sergeant (E-8)

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<sup>*Not me. My service was in Intelligence, and this came across the 497th Mailing List, a Reconnaissance Technical Group (RTG) serving the United States Armed Forces in Europe (USAFE) Headquartered (HQ) at Schierstein, (West) Germany - My first assignment.

This is by Brian Shul, from his book SLED DRIVER.</sup>