Frankelstache

Life, America, Randomness

Posts Tagged ‘Army

Why I Decided to Work In Advertising

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I was 18 years and six months old when I joined the Army for a mandatory 3 years service. I hated running, loathed ships, and was too dumb and clumsy to pass the Air Force screenings. I also had clear goals and knew I wanted to do something meaningful with my service, (i.e. 1. Kill a terrorist, 2. Fuck a female officer, 3. Get thrown into Military Prison).  So I found myself happy being drafter into the Armored Corps and was soon enough sent to Basic Training in the desert on my way to a glorious military career at the 74th Battalion of the 188th Brigade in the 36th Division. Awesome.

Time passes really slowly when you’re a soldier, but jumping forward, less than a year after I was stripped of my civilian stature, I found myself deployed in the city of Jenin as a tank driver for “The Wolfs”, arguably the toughest, craziest, funniest and haze-iest Company in the Corps. One random day while cruising the alleys we were informed over the radio that there’s some sneaky action going on inside the Refugee Camp and we should keep our eyes open for snipers (which is, in this location, like telling someone to ‘watch out for boobs’ in a Strip Club).

In any case, some 4-5 people started shooting at us as soon as we crossed a certain intersection and we were struggling to locate the exact window / rooftop that was hosting the undisclosed gunmen. Right as we figured out where the bullets were originating from, the shooters started running and we were suddenly faced with about 100 kids running vehemently in our direction. Everything happened really fast, and all of a sudden stuff was flying at us from every direction and we realized that we were surrounded. Kids emerged from every adjacent corner and burning hot oil was poured on top of our tank. Baskets of rotten cabbage and tomatoes smashed on the top of my periscope and I couldn’t see a thing. Rocks the size of a Biggest Loser prospect made awful noises parachuting from above and the mob was swiftly closing in on us.

The rotten tomatoes on my periscope started dripping and I was able to regain sight on what’s in front of me. I saw dozens of kids, barefoot, dirty and probably all under the age of 12. They were laughing, smiling and yelling at the same time. They were oblivious and naïve, not aware of how fucked up this situation is, in comparison to a normal childhood.
And there he was, little ugly kid in the corner, probably 11 years old with buds of a young mustache and olive-colored skin, hurling stones with sweet mischief, partaking in these shenanigans enthusiastically.

What struck me most about that little kiddo was his shirt. This Refugee Camp resident that probably didn’t even had a home – not to mention shoes, water, electricity or even a warm meal – was proudly sporting a yellow Nike shirt, with the famous “Swoosh” smudged across his petite chest.  And make no mistake about it, this shirt was new and clean, by no means one of those Buffalo Bills Superbowl Champions t-shirts that were never worn and shipped to 3rd World Countries in exchange for $2 and a bag of apricots. This shirt was legit, and he wore it intentionally, proud as a Castro Street resider.

What happened next is loosely described here in the comments section and besides the laughs we had after blinding ourselves with tear gas, everything ended safely; no child was hurt and we returned to base in one piece. We spent the next day cleaning and rejuvenating our tank in the scorching heat while inside my head I couldn’t let go of that kid in the yellow Nike shirt. I was contemplating how this poverty-stricken youngster who fights for his dinners and chases tanks every day desires a Nike shirt. How the hell did they get to him, too? And if a Copywriter sitting somewhere (in Portland Oregon, I later found) can make a Nike commercial that gets all the way to a Refugee Camp in the West Bank and affects its inhabitants, then maybe one day I’ll be able to do the same, and reach those kids with a different message. Perhaps something about peace, possibly something about love – who knows.

However knowing that Peace and Love will probably never be as cool as a new Nike pair, I resumed my cleaning duties, scrubbing a mammoth stain of oil from the top of my tank’s cannon and started planning my future USA adventures.

I was discharged from the army in 04’ without completing all 3 of my contingents for a meaningful service. It’s almost 2010 now, and I’ve yet to create something really meaningful in Advertising as well. But I’ll never forget that little kid in the yellow Nike t-shirt, and every now and then, I’ll try my hardest to use my power to assure that his future kids will lead a safe life somewhere, laughing at their old man’s stories while drinking a cold beer I was paid to advertise.

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Written by Frankelstache

July 13, 2009 at 3:46 pm

Words of Wisdom

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Bible states that God almighty gave Moses the Ten Commandments on top of Mount Sinai some gazillion years ago. Some say these rudiments should be the cornerstones of every living person, whether he or she is religious or not.

But it’s been way too long now, man. Lucky for you, my friend R.D. and yours truly have come up with a list of modern-day commandments, one random night about 7 years ago while we were patrolling the Syrian / Israeli border, seeking excitement between one boar-caused alarm to the other .

Principals to live by – Part 1:

1.    Right or wrong – Bullshit with confidence.

2.    A good tractor plows through the mud.

3.    You can’t teach a father how to make babies – but you can teach him new positions.

4.    Don’t use an AK47 against Mikhail Kalashnikov.

5.    If your wife is not at hand, let your hand be your wife.

Written by Frankelstache

June 8, 2009 at 7:01 pm

Another Reason Why This Country is Odd

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Although in most countries Memorial Day is a sad date, where a country remembers its fallen sons, in America, Memorial Day is about BBQ and baseball. People died. Okay, bummer. Let’s go to the park and wear red hats. Now who wants a hotdog?

Written by Frankelstache

May 26, 2009 at 9:30 am

Posted in America, Humor, Life

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Oh Carolina

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The road is so dark, I can barely see more than 50 meters ahead of me. I pull over to urinate about 40 minutes southeast of Charlotte, and as I unzip my pants I hear an odd sound emerging from the bushes, and recognize the silhouette of a giant deer running away shortly after. It’s 1:30AM, and I’m literally in the middle of nowhere. I look far ahead to see a sign declaring: “God is good. Always” underneath a small church, and note to myself that this is the 5th of these lighted banners I’ve seen since my drive began.

Three days later, my views of America and of Americans had changed dramatically. Excluding a short visit to Fort Lauderdale, this Carolina venture has deflowered me and my innocent perception of the US of A. I’ve heard / read / watched endless tales and legends about “how it’s like in the South”, yet, when my eyes encountered it in real life, I was partly baffled. On Sunday evening I made my way to a local bar alongside Little River on the footsteps of Myrtle Beach, stumbling upon a pack of rednecks, bikers, obese people, little kids, slutty fake-haired blondes and Jesus Christ, tattooed on every 2nd person’s body. All the men are tall and gorgeous. Women are either redhead or platinum blonde, with blue eyes and short skirts. It’s 90+ degrees, the scent of honeysuckle and the ocean is filling my nostrils, and everybody appear to be completely content leading a life that essentially consists of lunches at Ruby Tuesdays and fried chicken with a cold PBR for dinner. So, is this the real America?

The South is so different. It’s poles apart than, say, my beloved San Francisco. A sense of small town mentality rules the atmosphere and people don’t care for much but living the moment. Or do they? I saw the same people wherever I went, and they seemed familiar with all and sundry around them. Lots of Army stickers glued to cars, and from some reason, ‘Hibachi style cooking’ is big here. I saw no “Apple” Paraphernalia, and though I might sound like a jerk for saying this, from a few conversations I had with the natives, people didn’t seem too educated, or even a tad aware of anything happening beyond this small South Carolina town. I thought about it a little, and couldn’t really decide if these people are genuinely satisfied with what they have, and they live in this bubble, drinking excessively and behave the way they do in order to celebrate their existence, or are they miserable, and their demeanor is an attempt of escaping this horrible, no future – no present life?

I’m still thinking about it.

Written by Frankelstache

May 12, 2009 at 3:31 pm

America’s Backbone

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Aside from Baseball and steroids, no connection in America is deeper than the one between Americans and the institution that provided them with their post high-school education. In the spirit of March Madness, I thought it’ll be wise to stop and talk about ‘College’ and its significance in American society.

Every nation needs a backbone. Something that will connect EVERYONE, an experience that one way or another had affected all during his or her lifetime. In Israel, for example, it’s the IDF. Mandatory service laws dictate that every 18-year-old Israeli boy or girl has to serve three and two years (respectively) in the national Army. Put the war issues aside, this is a great bonding experience, a true melting pot for society. It’s something every citizen can relate to, a place where everyone meet and are forced to live together and persevere. America doesn’t really have a melting pot, but College is definitely the closest one. In 2004, 52% of Americans attended college. That’s huge. But that’s barely half the country, not to mention I’m way too lazy to break the 52% into socio-economic backgrounds to get a clearer picture (I tried reading the census and failed due to severe boredom).

The reason that this occupies me is that I always felt that if it weren’t for ‘The Arabs’ who are inescapably trying to kill them, Israelis would hate each other to the point of a civil war. But lucky (or not so lucky) for Israel, the fact that the Arabs are trying to annihilate them from the face of this planet unites them. This is obviously not the best of situations, but the result, I believe, is that no other people in the world care for their fellow citizens like Israelis do. Now answer this – does anyone in Santa Monica cares for anyone in Detroit? Better yet, does anyone in Santa Monica cares for anyone in the San Fernando Valley?

How much of this dog eat dog world has to do with the capitalistic nature of Uncle Sam? Is there a fault or blame here? And who cares if there isn’t really a connection? America has done fairly well without it, so does a country even need to have a correlation between its people? And how come people get along here but can’t stop fighting elsewhere? Is it because of Woodstock? Burning Man?

It’s a tad weird to live in a place where the people are so different from each other, so disjointed and far away. I guess America is like a Paralympic Athlete: not all body parts are connected, but they somehow pull it together enough to be champions. Odd metaphor, I know. Now, if in fact ‘College’ is America’s melting pot, and if in fact we’ve established there’s some sort of Paralympics-ness involved here – isn’t it suitable that the man who represents ‘College’ (and as such, connects America) during this fine month of March is Richard ‘Dick’ Vital?

Written by Frankelstache

March 23, 2009 at 8:22 am

A Day At The Mall

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The woman I love sent me on an errand to fix the squeaking noise in her red automobile. Predictably, the guys in the garage found no squeaking noise, but were nonetheless happy to inform me that a full set of new tires is required. So there you have it: you go to the garage with problem X, and find solution to problem Y. Can’t believe I fell for a trick older than Sophia Lauren.

Refusing to be affected by this unexpected $505 garage visit, I dragged my ass to the nearest shopping Mall for some free people-watching. Ahhhh…. The Mall. Such a lovely blend of homeless men, senior citizens in sweatpants, white trash hoe’s and 20-something year old Latinos dressed in baggy pants and  XXX Large wife beaters. Also in the Mall, you will surely encounter a never-ending scent of baked Choros, loud teenagers and security guards riding Segways.

Entering the Mall, I immediately walk toward the restroom in order to mark my territory and loosen up the leftovers from last night’s dinner. 4 pages into my book, approximately 2 pounds lighter and 8 toilet paper sheets later, I exit the restroom and start wandering around the vicinity. I scope the brands and franchisees, only to stop in bewilderment as I witness a store whose sole purpose appears to be selling people on the idea of joining the Army. Oh man, that’s even weirder than the time I had to witness my mom lifting the woman I love at the gym. I heard about impulse shopping, and sure, I’ve practiced my share of idiotic purchases right near the register. But even if you combine all the beef jerky I bought just because it was placed strategically, all the trashy tabloids and all the Aids cookies* I bought on a whim, altogether is not as stupid as walking into the Mall in search of a new shirt or maybe in hope to pacify your child, and in there – sandwiched between these great marvels listed above – deciding to join the Army. Sweet Moses father of Jesus – how insanely naive can these people be? Sorry, but this Army store disturbs me so much that I must leave this subject behind in fear of reoccurring nightmares. I must stop conversing with this Sergeant without much ado.

The cool thing about the Mall though, is that it’s always been a place of innovation in terms of battery-charged vehicles that move fat people around (I like to call them ‘ObeseMobiles’). No other country in the world offers such a variety of ways to stroll the Mall. Since childhood I was fascinated by these awe-inspiring ObeseMobiles, an invention that appeared to be created just so it’ll be easier for fat people to continually spend their dough on dough(nuts). Awesome.

As I continue touring, I find an earth-shattering discovery. This Mall has a Wall-Mart store inside of it. Ah…Wall-Mart…. The bad guys. The bullies of corporate America. It’s actually been awhile since I entered a Wall-Mart store. Almost 4 years. Now like every other socially-aware kid, I too have once found anti-globalization books to be semi-erotic. I too have read and heard about the wrongdoings of this retail giant. And as I entered the store, all of that (mostly true) propaganda was running through my mind. I was expecting to find a young Chinese boy tormented between the aisles, the store manager to be drinking blood and the employees to be zombies that are scarier looking than Paula Abdul in Drag. Instead, I found four white trash moms, all with different variations of written tattoos across their chest/ necks, 6 socks for only $6, and a bottle of vitamin water for a buck. I thought to myself that this is a damn good deal. So I paid for all of the above (minus the white trash moms and their tattoos – the woman I love wouldn’t approve).

Did it make me feel bad that I’m helping this evil corporation? Yeah, maybe a little, cause obviously I’m writing about it. But in this economy, 6 socks for $6? – Screw Michael Moore.

*You know, cookies that you buy in order to cure Aids or whatever. The checkout lady at Safeways sells them to me all the time for $2 a piece. They’re actually not that bad.

Written by Frankelstache

March 9, 2009 at 11:44 am

Men; Group 1

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As someone who was raised in a communal village and later completed three years of military service, I’ve seen my share of penises. Numbers are hard to divulge, but I’d probably be able to step into a ring with Jenna Jamison and put up a good fight. Heck, I might even win (assuming all the pounding she endured throughout the years caused a mild case of amnesia).

As a result, I consider myself an expert in male behavior and to make life easier on you, I’ve managed to dissect the male population into three distinct groups. Today I want to talk about group one, approximately 47.5% of walking-talking* men.

This group has many distinguishers, no doubt, but what brings all these fine and not so fine gentlemen together is the fact that all of them, all 47.5% are convinced their penises are too small.
Now some of you female readers might smile in embarrassment while you indulge in laughing memory of that guy you once partied with. Some of you male readers might recall a childhood summer (say when you were in Jewish camp or whatever**), glimpsing into the showers and seeing one kid who was significantly smaller than the rest. However this is not about the actual size of these males’ penises. Size has nothing to do with it. This is about how these males perceive their size, not about how their anatomy really is.

We shall now refer to this group of males as ‘The Musts’.

A ‘Must’ lives life mostly inside his own head. Post society’s dictations, a Must believes he’s measured in this world by the amount of women he manages to please during sexual intercourse. The thing is, even if he gets a woman climaxing to the fullest, a Must never believes he actually did it. Even when in bed with a woman, a Must still remains inside his own head. If the woman screams, he thinks she’s faking it. If she shivers, he thinks she’s having a muscle cramp. If her juices start to overflow, well, she must have drank a lot of water earlier. You get the point.

This creates a reality where all Musts go about living with a chip on their shoulder: a constant sense of failure. Now this would’ve been okay if it was their own personal issue, but their failure doesn’t disappear the minute the bedroom door is shut. It goes beyond the sheets. It follows Musts into their offices, their friendships, the way they eat, their Facebook Statuses, their laundry folding techniques and into everything and everywhere you can, or cannot think of.

VERY IMPORTANT: Musts never believe in themselves or in their ability to achieve anything, no matter what they try to portray to the outside world, or how successful, by any standard, they really are. If by accident, they do manage to feel good about themselves, they soon forget about it and go back to their regular point of view.

I’m not saying all Musts are losers, or that a Must’s destiny is to lead a life of failure. Just that inside their heads, nothing is ever enough.

Musts are usually the hardest working men you’ll find. They are on a constant mode of competing, always chasing after the next achievement (only to be oblivious when that achievement crosses their path). Their sense of failure makes them feel they must always prove their value, to their bosses, their peers, family, and most important, they must prove their value to – you guessed it – themselves. Their sense of failure also -almost always- creates a behavioral pattern of a complete egocentric douch. Hence, ‘The Musts’.

A few good examples of Pop Culture Musts:
John Travolta
Billy Hoyle in White Men Can’t Jump
Kobe Bryant
Will Smith
Johnny ‘Drama’ Chase in Entourage ***

By now you’ve probably gathered a few questions (and feel free to ask bellow), but allow me to tackle the main question – can we ‘fix’ The Musts?
Perhaps, you’re thinking, if we just tell them they’re penises are perfectly normal they’ll get over it? But the answer to that question is no. They won’t buy it. They’ve probably been told that once or twice in the past. Imagine you’re Rossan Bar and someone says you look very svelte today. Would you buy it?
How about “The love of a good woman”? can that fix them? maybe. Definitely worth a shot. Problem is these type of women don’t really grow on trees. The only solution I thought of is to introduce them to endless pictures of men with smaller penises than theirs. And that might work, along with some psychotherapy lines to build their nonexistent self-confidence. Fix their self-confidence, and you’ll fix the Musts.

The only problem my solution faces is where, in the name of Miley Cyrus, are you going to find endless pictures of small penises? The Belgian Institute of Pedophilia?

*Deaf and/or handicapped people count, too. I’m just using ‘walking-talikng’ as an expression.

** This is not to say Jews have small penises.

*** Although, at the end of Season 5, Chase leaves Hollywood, goes back to Queens and opens a bar – allegedly leaving his Johnny Drama days behind.


Written by Frankelstache

March 3, 2009 at 4:44 pm