Fighting for Beer

In Search of the Perfect Band Name: Fighting for Beer

My buddy just got home from Iraq yesterday. He was already three sheets to the wind by the time I made it to the party at 9 pm. I certainly don’t blame him. Getting back from camping in the desert for a year, on the other side of the globe from his wife and children, is as good of a reason to celebrate I can think of.

In the boy scouts, the most we ever camped out for was a week, and the only shots fired came from the other camper’s slingshots. This was before any of us ever heart of Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs). We only found one tarantula, and that was on the last day so it couldn’t screw up our sleep for fear of its friends and family.

Aaron, my friend, was particularly intent on getting drunk because he hadn’t had any alcohol during the year of his deployment aside from a brief furlough. I guess he was trying to maintain his composure or keep his game face on over there. Kind of like poker players not drinking during a tournament or boxers who refuse to have sex before a fight.

Aaron, so far as I know, refused to have sex while overseas as well. This is mostly due to the fact he was mostly surrounded by other sweaty and sunburned men. Combine this with the lack of alcohol, and I feel confident that he remained as celibate as one can be with the occasional solitary trip to the showers.

His wife told me that he reenlisted. That means he has another six years of service. In my humble but nevertheless accurate opinion, that will certainly mean at least another year away from home, risking life and limb in an inhospitable climate with a few people that would prefer he and the thousands of his friends not be there so that whatever atrocities can continue unabated.

There is a story that has been retold about a man who falls off a cliff. He prays to his higher power, and is miraculously caught by a tree. Ignoring the several improbabilities and impossibilities in the narrative, the man gives thanks and praise for his life, and asks if the holy he, she, or it could spare another moment to rescue him from the cliff. A voice instructs him to let go.

I imagine that is where Aaron is about now. His life has been spared so far, but when presented with the choice of safety in suburban America, he chose to let go. We got in a fight over this; partially due to the fact that he was drunk and partially due to the fact that it has been years since we’ve had a good wrestling match. I was reminded of the fact that he is not stopped by arm bars and choking because he doesn’t feel it until the next day.

            He will continue to serve his country because he wants to be happy. Instead of a privatized notion of well-feeling that we associate with the term today, he is going something closer to what the ancient Greeks meant by the term: a total life lived well – a state of well-being.

He wants to do something worthwhile and noble. Children are now getting access to education and other basic human services, partially because he is there risking his life. I am skeptical that America is really in a position to make lasting change for the better given the lies and torture, but skepticism is what I do best. Maybe historians will forget all the problems because somehow peace in the Middle East was achieved.

But, then again, maybe historians will forget all the horrible things American has done because we have hit the economic, social, and physical limits the human race and the earth will sustain. It certainly feels like it, but then again, look at what happened under Stalin. It seems like the world should have gone belly-up a long time ago.

So, what are we really fighting for? At the end of the day, who knows? In light of these recent revelations, I’ve been thinking of starting a band. We could call ourselves “Fighting for Beer”. We would probably be stuck playing heavy metal during 80s night, and most people wouldn’t get we have angst about more that the crowd at the bar.

I’m already a misunderstood star, and we don’t even have a drummer.

On the other hand, the crowd at eighties night is only getting older, balder, fatter, and less interested in going out at night, even on a weekend. Besides, I didn’t really like the 80’s that much the first time around. Why would you choose to do a retro decade that sucked so much? If we weren’t looking to repeat the screw-ups of the Regan-Bush the first years, what are we doing voting Republican and back in Iraq? Maybe we should find another historical context that would, in the words of John Stewart Mill, create the greatest amount of happiness for the greatest amount of people.  Or at the very least include drinkable beer for everybody that wants it. Maybe I need to continue searching for the perfect band name.