OK, we've arrived at the one weekend where overkill flag-waving is acceptable. I'll even give a free pass to those schmucks with their "proud to be an American" stickers, even if they had zero to do with being born inside country lines.

Several things I learned, covering this USO-style event during a Sunday shift:

• Freedom isn't free.
  
  
• These colors don't run.
  
  
• How the hell did I ever have a girlfriend in high school when I did musical theater? I'd like to take a moment and thank her for falling on that grenade.
  
  
• God bless America. (God was an American.)
  
  
• Support our troops.

...That last one's always been tricky - and loaded. Who doesn't want to support the troops? Well, the troops who aren't shooting women and children execution-style, at least? The problem is most people who paste those cheerleader bumper stickers to the back of their cars have a very particular concept of "support," and anything that strays from that idea is unpatriotic.

For others, support transcends mission. Support our troops as human beings who don't deserve to be put in the position to kill, or be killed, or return home with arms and legs blown off - all for questionable purposes at best. Even if they're gung-ho about being there, I say support them and bring 'em the eff home.

Personally? Yesterday's event missed the mark. All those Bob Hope-esque USO variety shows are great for troops stationed abroad in harm's way, to take their minds off the horrors of war, even for just a few hours, and show that we appreciate all they've sacrificed. But why do we need these shows at home, filled with watered-down synopses of wars that've defined the last century, complete with feel-good dancers in uniform?

All this does is sanitize war for the public, associate it with fun and entertainment and ... happiness, which is sort of bizarre. It helps us sleep better at night during times of crisis and tragedy - when we probably shouldn't.

Look, I promise I didn't wanna get up on the soap box today ... but sometimes you just gotta look at yourself in the mirror and say, "when in Rome."

That, and I just watched a friggin "patriotism ballet" yesterday. Think the Nutcracker except all the costumes are red, white and blue and the sugarplum fairies throw in a salute every now and then. I'm not kidding - one of the strangest things I've ever witnessed. All that was missing was the Nutcracker Prince getting blown up by an IED.

I'm not trying to be glib - the audience was totally lapping it up ... just this surreal disconnect with reality, you ask me. During intermission - right after the Nutcracker Salute - I interviewed this guy whose son lost his left arm and now walks with a cane. He's three years younger than me.

Sometimes I want to slap someone...

Okay okay, I'm getting down now. Yeah, gotta quit saying things when they crop up in the ol' skull, huh?



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In other news, my name is Dickie Cronkite and I've been nicotine-free for 25 days. Well, if you don't count that time at 4 a.m. when I took a few drags off someone else's cigarette.

Not that I was (am?) a heavy smoker - we're talking 3-5 cigarettes a day. 'Something to help me think and clear the head during work moments, deal with stress, etc. So far it's been easier than expected, but there are still the times when I want to beat myself up Ed Norton-Fight-Club style, I want a cigarette so bad. But I've been playing basketball on Thursday nights, and the difference has been night-and-day. Anyhow, I'm always one uber-cataclysmic moment away from lighting up again - and this post probably jinxes any progress I've made - but it's been a good run and warranted honorable mention.


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Being on the company softball team is a double-edged sword when you work for a newspaper. Let's say, hypothetically, you get shelled for 17 runs in your first game. Does our second baseman, who also happens to be a feature writer, have to print the score in her next column? All I'm saying is if she outs me as the pitcher, we're having words. Our manager needs to pull an Ozzie Guillen and go on a profanity-laced tirade to the press about how much we suck and need to shape it up out there.


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Anyways, time to grill dead flesh, play cards, and yell at people who take my money. Happy holiday to all - Next week I'm covering a 103-year-old woman out in Chula Vista who claims to have a recipe for the world's greatest meatloaf. (now there's a hot lead!)