Just too cool

It seems that over in Afghanistan, the used-to-be Taliban aren't thrilled with office jobs in town. Ain't much joy in middle-managing. The pay is better, I'm guessing, but a guy sort of comes to miss sleeping out under the open sky, toting big guns, and, once in a while, bringing down the enemy. Sure, it's rough and the pay ain't that good, but you're out there on your own, you know? You don't have ask to pee.

A guy gets tired of market food. "Life was simple and free during jihad," one former sniper said. "All we had to deal with was making plans for attacks against the enemy and for retreating."

Warn't no need of building things, just ripping things up was all the work involved. Nobody depended on you either. You didn't have to empty wastebaskets or deal with uppity women or crying babies. Life was good.

You just miss it, you know? I mean, you know--late nights around a campfire, jawing away, telling stories, dreaming about bringing it to our women. Out there, it was a man's world. If you wanted to attack, you did--or didn't. Nobody bossed you around. Nobody punched in or punched out--it was all about just being bad boys.
Now, you do the same things every day, and if people have no food, it's a problem I  got to take care of. These days, you got to find a public restroom.

Home, home, on the range. Sing it, boys.

All of that's kind of standard fare, I guess. A. B. Guthrie wrote novels, plenty of them, but a couple sing to the very same tune, even though the characters wouldn't know a Muslim if, midday, one'd walk up to the campfire. The Big Sky lays open the great joy of Bridger and Boone and all those coonskin-capped strappers who wandered the wilderness in search of furry pelts. They lived wild-and-wooly lives under that big sky. Some lived, some died, but mostly they lived lives some men work hard to relive in spendy adventure packages. A whole lot of us would rather be hunter-gatherers than middle managers, rather hunt buffalo than bust sod, like that painting up top says. 

Another Guthrie novel, The Way West, charts the path of families who embarked on an adventure that would, they believed, end in the promised land of Oregon. In order to get there--and they do, and it's a wonderful novel--they need one of those men in coonskin caps. He's the only one who can guide them, and he's the centerpiece of the novel in large part because while he is a John Wayne, he's blessed with a huge heart and a triumphant soul. 

In Native America of that era, a warrior became a headman for two reason not one--not just because he was brave and daring and proud, but because when he returned to camp he made sure everyone had something to eat. He heart was proud and big. 

There's something in the bawling those Taliban are doing these days, something downright silly and comic-book funny. But there's something I understand too, because it resides in many a soul in many a far off residence. Doesn't matter color or race or religion, pardon my giggle, but the very idea of those buckaroos visiting the toilet around the corner of the office is just too cool.

"The Taliban used to be free of restrictions, but now we sit in one place, behind a desk and a computer 24 hours a day, seven days a week," one of them said. "Life’s become so wearisome; you do the same things every day."

Just too cool.