Overt Ops, on the Information Super Highway.

We, here at Life Explained, circle the globe (sort of) flying by the seats of our pants, (whatever that means) facing any risk (at least any risk that comes with browsing the internet) looking for an explanation, a definition, an answer, any small clue that would provide a glimpse, no matter how vague, into the meaning of life.  So far we have had no luck, people seem reluctant to put that kind of powerful information on the world wide web, go figure.  But, sometimes we do find some cool stuff, and we like to share that with you, our loyal, articulate, informed public.

"Welcome to the CIA, and Twitter,
don't make any sudden moves."

On June 6th something fantastic happened (at least we think it was fantastic).  The CIA started tweeting!  That's right, the our International House of Espionage, the serious, tight lipped community of covert agents, and keepers of secrets has started spilling its guts in 140 characters or less, with pictures, and links, of course.   It was a tremendously gutsy decision, and all appropriately adapted citizens of the electronic world should stand and applaud.



Their first tweet is captured below.

So, the CIA has a sense of humor.  Take that 007, shaken, and not stirred.  Though James Bond could be pretty funny at times, too.  One time he was sent to this spa by the director who was lecturing him on the damaging effects of free radicals in the blood stream.  The director was informing him that these free radicals could come from alcohol consumption, exotic foods, white bread.  And he said "I don't really eat that much white bread, sir."  We all found that very amusing, and less than 140 characters, though without context it would probably fall pretty flat.

Anyway, we were so happy to find out about our chance to "watch the watchers" for a change that we started following them, right away.    We will let you know what they are up to, "Getting ready to topple a foreign government." "Planting incriminating evidence on a hostile diplomat." and then we will have to kill you.  Just kidding, we will only exile you, not really.

Safety is our primary goal.

For most of the history of the company nobody felt the need for more than one security guard.  He sat by the front door, behind a big desk, with a raised counter that barely concealed a bank of monitors hooked to cameras scattered throughout, and around the exterior of, the building.  In fact, many people with some responsibility for the budget felt that the only reason there was a security guard at all was to justify the purchase and installation of all those cameras.

It seemed like a valid point, occasionally he dozed but most times he had a small television nestled in the midst of the monitors and watched daytime television.  It was not unusual to enter the building and find the giant, muscular man, billy club, and tear gas spray attached firmly to his black leather, police style duty belt, crying over the latest tragedy on one of the soap operas to which he had become addicted.  It was a little touching, a little sad, and a little troubling, and many people would avoid using the front door between the hours of 11:00 and 2:30.  Those became known as the "weeping hours."  We thought about taking away his night stick, for his own safety, but didn't really want to cause any more distress.

That all changed on that awful day in October.  We made the mistake of hiring an intern without completely vetting him.  He was only going to be there for five or six months, and was mostly in charge of assembling the vital supplies, necessary, and crucial to the execution of a successful business meeting.  Legal pads, and pens for doodling, and writing notes, donuts, bagels, pastries, and coffee for consumption, and pitchers of iced water, with slices of lemon for... well nobody is sure why those are there, but they do look lovely.

Had anybody looked more closely we might have discovered the interns ties to a notorious band of software pirates, agents of industrial espionage, and corporate raiders.  It was kind of disappointing, and you can believe there are several new questions on the application!  

One day, while Bob, the security guard was sobbing into a beach towel, bemoaning the fate of Susan, who lost her baby, her husband and her prized roses in one ten minute segment, between a commercial for bleach, and an advertisement for hair color guaranteed to rid a person of gray, adding a more youthful appearance, and provided a richer and more fulfilling life.  Jill, from the secretarial pool, stopped to console him, holding him and patting his back.  She noticed something odd on a couple of the monitors.

Bob leapt into action, shut off the soap opera, patted the handle of his billy club, and pepper spray, put on his uniform hat, and called the police, who arrested all of the intruders, and the intern, shook Bob's hand and gave him a commendation for quick action, and a clear telephone voice and left.

We are so grateful Bob was there.  We gave him a raise, a new chair, a box of tissues, and took away two of the security monitors so he would have room for a bigger television.  

Wanted, Secret Agent Job.

We all need a place for things.  At home I have a small bucket, a little storage facility, for my keys, my wallet, the security card for my job, spare change, that my son doesn't grab, pocket knives (of which there are an alarming number, it might not be healthy, this obsession) little pocket sized notepads, (again, there seem to be more of these than most people would think necessary) and pens (a lot of pens).  Last Saturday, a new pen showed up in my bucket.  Not just any pen, though, a combination pen / flashlight*, a delightful little gadget.  My wife, who understands me better than she should, left this little gift for me, without saying a word.

Of course, this made me very happy.  This is like something Batman would have on his utility belt.  This was something 007 might use.  A gift from the gods of functional, wonderful, unique items.

But, without putting it to some use that required both tools being used simultaneously it was only a pen, with a flashlight.  I decided to take it for a spin and see what it could do.  Should it be a Batman inspired test or something from the annals of espionage?  Not relishing a climb up the side of a building to confront the Riddler I decided to go the secret agent route.

Since no covert operative worth his salt would ever be caught dead writing a secret note in the evening, no matter how dark it was, the plan was to get up, around 2:00 AM, creep down the hall into the restroom and write a note that someone would find the next morning.  The note would be "Don't wake me until after 10:00, please, these nighttime ops are killin' me."  Everybody would have a good laugh, and the pen \ flashlight would have proven its worth.

Digging around through a bucket full of knives in the middle of the night to find the appropriate paper did not seem very smart, so I secreted a note pad into the bathroom in an inconspicuous place.  It was great, no one would ever see it (it was such a great place to hide a note pad it actually made me giggle a little bit, in a dangerous secret agent way, of course), and the plan was in motion.

I sat there, waiting patiently, until bed time.  Suddenly, my wife said, "who taped the notepad to the back of the painting?  It makes it hang funny."

"Oh, that," I said, thinking quickly, "it isn't a note pad, it's a cushion, I read where you should have one on all paintings, in case of earth quakes.  I just started with that painting"  Sometimes my resourcefulness is so impressive maybe I should have been a spy.

She rolled her eyes up in head so far it had to be painful, and sighed in a way that sounded like she was actually in pain.  It seemed a little familiar, but I can't put my finger on why, exactly, maybe it was just deja vu.

That night, about 2:00 in the morning, I woke, crept without a sound, well not too much sound, down the hall to the restroom to write a note.  This was going to be great!

 Sadly, the people who made this put the pen and the light at different ends.  So when I turned on the light to write my "secret" note it was shining right in my eyes, with a burning, white hot intensity that caused so much pain I became disoriented, and stumbled around, knocking the painting off the wall.  Fortunately, it landed on my foot so neither the frame or the glass broke.  Though it is going to take some time for the foot to heal, those corners can be so sharp, nothing seven stitches can't handle, though.  But, the agony was so intense that I almost blacked out, thinking quickly, (like a good spy should) I grabbed the shower curtain, to slow down my descent into the tub.  This was only marginally successful, but, it  probably kept the concussion from being too bad.


But, my wife, my delicate little angel, came to save me.  Standing in the doorway, and flipping on the overhead light, almost as bright as the sun, and asking "what in the heck are you doing?!?!?!"  She asked, the concern obvious in her voice.

She is so good to me, she said I could have the note pad back in two weeks, and the pen as soon as the stitches are out.  I am so lucky.

* Just so you know what I have to deal with on a daily basis.  When I showed the guys at work my new pen / flashlight combination Bil said he had one already, on his desk, and he would go get it and show us.  Saying he would be back in about 20 minutes.  Then he asked if he could borrow a roll of duct tape and a pen, and a flashlight.