People!

There are a lot of normal, friendly, socially-adjusted people out there. Well, there’s definitely some. I appreciate such people immensely, regardless of whether I myself am a member of that class. There’s also a lot of crazies out there. Maybe not around every corner, but certainly way more than I feel comfortable knowing are out there. Take this guy, for example. Absolutely crazy. So are many of the commenters at the bottom of the post who clearly dwell in a world of ignorance and paranoia. In fact, most of the website (activistpost.com) appears to be the playground of folks who believe the majority of the world is in on some vast conspiracy, which they themselves have been left out of. For any such conspiracy theorists reading this, I would like you to know: I know who you are and I know where you live. And I am watching.

It’s easy enough to be annoyed with crazy people when they are ranting on the Internet, because in cyberspace they really just sound like morons. In person it’s much more difficult. I found myself at Macy’s the other day buying a suitcase that will in all likelihood turn out to be much bigger than I possibly need (it would be fairly trivial to stuff a body in there). Beside me at the counter was a short, stocky woman in the later stages of her middle life, with hair that could best be described as a wispy, red afro. I imagine she looked like Ms. Frizzle 20 years after she’d been arrested for peddling LSD to schoolchildren.

She seemed harmless and perhaps a little behind the times as she tried to apply for a Macy’s card. She was not succeeding because she didn’t understand she needed a driver’s license and credit card to do so. Meanwhile, I’m working through my purchase with my cashier and talking about my upcoming trip (those Macy’s employees are chatty), when it comes up that my employer will be Raytheon.

“Raytheon?!” Old Frizzle declares incredulously, turning on me. And I see an instant mistrust in her. I am clearly one of those guys, working for Raytheon, funded by the government to secretly build missiles and other weapons to one day use on all the U.S. citizens who… ‘resist.’

“Yes, they are the contractors for Antarctica.”

“Raytheon is in Antarctica?”

That’s where their secret weapon testing station is. Oops, I’ve said too much.

“Yes, they’re in charge of taking care of the facilities. They’re contracted by the NSF – the National Science Foundation – to maintain the stations for scientists to do research.”

“What kind of research?”

Genetic human experiments.

“All kinds, meteorologists studying climate change, geologists studying the history of the Earth, astronomers studying space, zoologists studying the animals.”

“Oh.” I have placated her: I’m at worst a naive pawn in ‘their’ plans. “I’m a researcher too, actually.”

Are you now?

“Sir, I need you to sign here,” the cashier interjects.

Up to that moment, my cashier had been merrily going about my purchase staying as far away from the conversation as she could (later, she confided that Old Frizzle had been a regular nuisance at the store prior to being committed), while the young guy helping Old Frizzle waited uneasily, clearly wanting to be anywhere but here.  And I hoped that would be that, because I cannot get myself away from people such as Old Frizzle on my own. But no.

“You should call me when you get down there. What is your number?”

Panic.

These are the situations I am not made for. Because I want to be friendly to people, even crazy ones. It’s not like she was a bad person. Confused, misguided… perhaps mentally ill, but she was not threatening, or mean or even angry at the cashier who was at this very moment denying her the store card she so desperately wanted. I want to be nice and a good neighbor because I believe that is how the world becomes a better place, naive a sentiment though it may be. I can’t baldly say ‘no,’ or perhaps ‘not on your life,’ as much as I would like to. But there is no way in hell I’m giving this woman my phone number.

The way out was obvious, but I clearly wasn’t going to get it. “I don’t think they have cell phones in Antarctica,” says the cashier.

Oh thank you

“That’s true,” I say, “but, if you want to know more about life down there you can watch this documentary Encounters at the End of the World.”

She writes down the title of the movie. She focuses back on her cashier and shortly thereafter leaves. The conversation wasn’t a trainwreck! And I’m reminded that when they’re on the Internet, or in the other lane on the road or a face in the crowd, it’s easy enough for people to be morons and assholes. But in person, for the most part, people are just… people.

P.S. Encounters at the End of the World is not a documentary I feel like I can recommend. It’s not terrible or anything, except for pretty much every time Herzog speaks.

The Run Around

It is, I’m told, no secret that the deployment process is a messy one, filled with fits and starts, time changes and cancellations. Up until the moment I set foot on the continent of Antarctica, I won’t, with any confidence, be able to say when I will set foot on Antarctica. So I’m not really surprised at the roller coaster of the past few weeks, but it certainly takes its toll.

Of course there was the whole ‘Will they find an icebreaker?’ drama which spunoff to ‘Will I actually have a job come fall?’. That lasted a month, but now it’s old news. Currently it’s a question of ‘When do I leave Tucson?’ Up until the icebreaker issues, in my mind the day was October 1st +/- 1 week. Whether or not that was a realistic belief I’ll never know, but it seemed to be the implied way of things.

Post icebreaker issues, everything seemed to be pushed back some amount of time (or at least that was the sense I was getting). I was given a tentative deploy date of October 11. It meant a lot of things, but most importantly, at the time I was given this estimate, it meant a change. The actual consequences, though significant, were secondary to the overall, unfounded feeling of disruption to my plans. I dislike such things.

But given time to let the change settle in, the drawbacks to a later departure did not seem so bad, and the benefits were nice. And besides, there wasn’t much I could do about it besides unproductive complaining to my managers, so I accepted the new date and set about planning for it.

It should be no surprise what happened next…

So anyway, my official, tentative departure date is back to October 1st. Ultimately, I will believe it when I have the plane tickets in my hand, but until then, this is the best I have to go on, and it will suffice. A recompressed time frame means plenty to do in the next two weeks, and for sure that includes lots of running around.