But they aren't alone. There's the bitch class, the bastard class, the boy scout class, the girl scout class, the social class, the anti social class and a guy in the middle wondering "what about me?"
So, let's give him a class: The dick head class and for the ladies that feel left out, the bimbo class.
I don't. Truth is, you've been as we -- us programmers who love to observe the chaos about us -- like to say, you've been tagged and bagged.
When there's nothing else left to explore in the world of real journalism, you slide back into the world of sensationalism and fake news.
Because it takes less journalist and produces higher returns on investment of the ones you have. And what does this produce?
A really bad hair day for the 200,000,000 million who work for a living while the 2,000,000 inherit the earth.
My wife wanted to know why I have gotten so cynical and sarcastic over the years.
I want to tell her that I learned from the best. And while you might think I was redirecting her observation back on her -- which is only three quarters true -- the true reason for my attitude is my own guilty mind knowing I was sleeping at the switch when I should have been doing more for the people I love the most: America.
Believe it or not, I don't love trips down memory lane. They get romanticized, muddied by blurry time tracks and basically, aren't real anymore. These "glory day" moments are nothing more than a coping mechanism for the lack of or, for that matter, no closure on an event that went unrecognized.
Living in a dream world is the best way to describe it and the worst way to die. A pretty good summary of a journalist whose days are numbered. I'd rather wake up kicking and screaming for a cause that effects us all than wake up to the smell of coffee, romancing the past and do nothing about the zombie nation we have become.
Journalism is the medium through which that can happen. Real journalist, real social issues, real stories.
If these things are not highlighted as the tasks in a job description -- what we call a statement of work (SOW) -- it is not a job but a wish list.
Your or a loved one thinks this job description than you think reading the back of your cereal box enhances the nutritional value of its contents:
By the time you get to E-5, you might find yourself at a desk performing the job mentioned above.
By the way, did you notice the Redundancy Department Redundancies?
There are two people who got the blame for destroying some rotor blades with ball pen hammers -- the real person to blame was MG Sidney B Berry -- and out of respect and because I knew both a friends I'm not going to mention their names. I worked for both.
We were in a military taxi headed to another Division Support Command (DISCOM) with one of them in the back seat with our DISCOM Command Sergeant Major. For five minutes this Colonel complained about being passed over once again for his first star.
I had just gotten a personal letter of appreciation from the Commanding Officer of the 101st Airborne Division that the Colonel I am riding with had handed me. Tired of the back seat bemoaning, I said,
"Well if certain Colonels that I know didn't destroy 450,000 dollars worth of helicopter rotor blades with ball pen, they probably wouldn't be getting passed up."
Gawd, I can't believe I said that as I tried to melt back into the seat looking at the Command Sergeant Major turning purple and blue in a fit of rage, the driver, a civilian trying hard not to laugh.
It was a horrible thing to say!
But the Colonel knew I was right and our friendship told him I didn't mean anything by it. So the incident passed without further ramifications.
But sometimes, quick whit statements win the day. Like the time at the Army Aviation of America Association convention in Arlington, VA when I was the official photographer. When General George S. Blanchard told General Bernard Rogers to get out of his way because he wanted me to take a picture of himself with an X POW.
Rogers turned and looked at me, "I don't know, Sergeant Edwards, "Should I get out of his way?"
My response, "Which one of you has more time in grade, time in service? Pull rank."
They both laughed and Rogers got out of the way. And I just realized something, I had to be a good 15 feet away from Rogers, how could he have read my name tag while turning towards me when he asked the question.
Anyway, I wasn't just a writer and a photographer, I was a photo-journalist.
What does that mean?
It means I could take pictures, write the story and combine the two as a photo-feature, use just the images without the feature or write the feature without images.
Sadly, for me, this is my last article on the 4/77th.
Happy Thanksgiving and have a wonderful new year!