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Posted by on Apr 3, 2014 in Blog, Personal, Politics | 2 comments

My Thoughts on Noah’s Ark and The Great Flood

 

nolan-dalla-1996-in-istanbul-turkey

Istanbul, Turkey in 1996

 

Between 1993 and 1999, most of my workdays were spent inside the Turkish Embassy, in Washington, D.C.

Typical duties consisted of writing and editing official correspondence.  To this day, most foreign missions along Embassy Row hire at least one native-English speaker.  This is because the language used in diplomatic communications must be positively precise.  The wrong word in the wrong place at the wrong time can be misunderstood, triggering unintended consequences.

I was also fortunate enough to be assigned to the public information office during that time.  This put me into direct contact with many Americans who needed assistance with something or someone in the Republic of Turkey.  You can’t even imagine some of the inquiries we received.

Reminiscing now, I look back fondly on those six years.  What a wonderful experience that was.  The Turkish diplomatic corps and embassy staff were always kind to me.  Not only were they thoroughly professional at all times, they were also lots of fun to be around.  I shall always have a soft spot in my heart for the Turks.

Inshallah.

***************

Of the numerous official requests received by the Turkish Embassy, one subject in particular always stood apart from the rest, because it was so unusual and so interesting.

People have been in search of the so-called remnants of “Noah’s Ark” for centuries.  Those with the greatest interest include members of the clergy, academics (often with religious colleges and universities), and the media.  However, only within the past 60 years or so have conditions within Turkey stabilized to the point where researchers have been granted government permission to visit and explore some of the most remote areas within the northeastern part of the country.  That region in far Eastern Anatolia also happens to be highly sensitive to the military, since it’s close to the borders of two nations that have been at odds with Turkey for a long time — Armenia and Iran.  Making matters worse, Turkey has been fighting a brutal separatist movement for decades that’s within close proximity, called the Kurdistan Workers Party (or PKK).  Oh, it’s also about as far from the conveniences of modern civilization as you can get.

It’s easy to understand why Noah’s Ark remains such a fascinating subject for so many, for so long.  For those who are religious, locating the remains of a large wooden ship in the hills somewhere, far away from the sea, would surely seem to be confirmation that the story we know is indeed true.  Perhaps even validation for faith.  Academics, mostly from religiously-affiliated institutions, are also hopeful the ark might be located, which (they believe) would answer questions that have mystified humankind for centuries.  And, the media always seem willing to cover the true believers in search of Noah’s Ark for no other reason than it often makes for a great story.  Besides, who wouldn’t want to be there with video at the instant of discovery?

***************

The real reason why the Turkish Government allows so few search parties into the region that would be of no interest whatsoever to most people otherwise is that this is the site of Mount Ararat.  Repeated denials have little to do with either national security or government paranoia.  Note:  This is probably a bad time to state this claim given the recent developments within Turkey, which now effectively try to censor mass media.  I can only speak for what things were like during the 1990s.

Fact is, Mount Ararat is dangerous.  It actually consists of two large mountains — the smaller peak at 12,000 feet and the larger peak at 18,000 feet.  These mountains are beyond just inhabitable.  They’re covered in deep snow year-round.  Most of the areas suspected to be the final resting place of Noah’s Ark are positioned along rocky cliffs, which would be accessible to only the world’s best mountain climbers.  Unfortunately, most academics don’t have much high-altitude mountaineering experience.  Therein lies much of the problem.

As for Turkey’s position, the last thing the government wants to be held responsible for lots of inexperienced people climbing a dangerous mountain who don’t know what they’re doing.  This isn’t a typical hike with a backpack.  In many ways, Ararat is every bit as challenging as what might be encountered in the Himilayas.  So next time you see a film documentary criticizing the official policy of the Turkish Government, realize it’s for most of these peoples’ own good.

***************

My estimate is we received about one request per month for permission to travel and climb Mount Ararat.  This was the number that came in just from the United States.  I presume Turkish Embassies located in other countries too received multiple requests, pushing the final tally to a few hundred people each year who were completely serious about risking their lives to hunt for what might very well be a hoax.

One academic in particular stood out from the rest.  I won’t use his real name for a number of reasons, but mostly because he didn’t grant me permission to write about our conversations (I haven’t spoken to him in over 12 years).  This man published some of his discoveries (based mostly on theories) and was one of the most well-known authorities on the subject.  He spent most of his adult life studying (and trying to find) Noah’s Ark.  For no other reason than that, I always thought the man deserved respect, even though I didn’t agree with any of the mythology surrounding the story.  Moreover, my job wasn’t to argue with or judge him.  It was to help him if I could.

The man, a university professor, was absolutely convinced Noah’s Ark came to rest — not on Mount Ararat as so many believed — but rather on Mount Judi.  This was hardly news to anyone of the Islamic faith.  In fact, the Koran testifies Mount Judi is the actual resting place of the treasured remains.

The trouble with this alternative theory was, Mount Judi is located about 200 miles south of Mount Ararat.  The direction here is important.  That positions the alleged location much further away from any large body of water.  It does seem geologically possible that following the great flood, water could have run off into what’s now known as the Black Sea, which lies to the north of Mount Ararat.  But anyone with a basic grasp of geography would have a difficult time explaining where all the water went if a great flood carried a giant ark made of wood to Mount Judi since everything around that area remains a desert.

The bottom line is — most Christians believe Noah’s Ark is to be found somewhere on Mount Ararat.  Although the incredible tale is far less purposeful in the Koran, Islam is convinced the ark is on Mount Judi.

As for me, I’m convinced it’s all in the imagination.

***************

Admittedly, I’m thoroughly unqualified to write about this subject.

First, I don’t believe the popular story as it’s been told.  Second, I have no academic training, nor any subject knowledge that gives me any special insights, other than decade-old access to some key people who were experts in this field and some direct familiarity with how they were able to maneuver through the government bureaucracy.  Finally, I’ve never been to either of the places alleged to be the locations of Noah’s Ark — Mount Ararat or Mount Judi.  I’ve only traveled so far as Central Turkey, which is several hundred miles away.

That said, the explanations for Noah’s Ark and The Great Flood seem amazing simple, and logical.  And, there’s even some scientific basis as to what really happened which now explains why so many people centuries later remain convinced that an old man with a white beard bearded a bunch of animals onto a wooden ship and survived a catastrophic flood that lasted 40 days and 40 nights.

More to come…

READ MORE: My views on the “Armenian Genocide”

top-mount-ararat

The view from the top of Mount Ararat, in the far-eastern Anatolian region of Turkey.

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Posted by on Mar 30, 2014 in Blog, Personal, Restaurant Reviews, World Series of Poker | 6 comments

Why in the Hell Aren’t You People Ordering the Rainbow Trouts?

 

Rainbow_Trout

 

You’re all a bunch of bastards.

That’s what you are.

Clueless ignorant bastards!

You obviously don’t have a clue what kind of fish to order at a restaurant.  And because of your blatant ignorance, I am the one who has to suffer from your lack of knowledge about seafood.

On Saturday night, we dined out at Buzio’s.  That’s the seafood restaurant at the Rio in Las Vegas.  Buzio’s is consistently both good and affordable.  I’ve dined at Buzio’s perhaps 200 times within the past ten years.  Yes, that’s — two-hundred.

The primary reason why I eat at Buzio’s so much is — it’s the closest good restaurant to where the World Series of Poker takes place.  It’s within walking distance of the tournament area.  So, when I’m working on the property for nearly 50 days each summer, many of those dinner breaks are spent at Buzio’s, often with close friends and people I haven’t seen in a long while.  Moreover, the dinner break is the highlight of my day.

A few nights ago, I returned to Buzio’s for the first time since July.  It was nice to see the old staff again.  But I was disappointed to see the menu made some changes.  Several entrees have been removed, while others have been added.

No big deal, I thought.  As long as they don’t screw with my favorite entree, damn the rest of the world.

Well, I was in for a shock.  First, there was anger.  Then, tears.  I was stunned to discover that Buzio’s has REMOVED rainbow trouts from the menu!

Can you fucking believe that?

RAINBOW TROUTS!  POOF!  GONE!

Wat’s up with that?  What am I supposed to order instead?  Catfish?  The horror!

Hey, listen up people.  I don’t eat bottom-feeders.  I don’t pay $25 for something an unemployed truck driver can catch off a highway bridge in Mississippi.  And I’m sure as shit not going to order the lobster on my own dime, which costs $70 a whack.  Once, I scarfed down two full lobsters, but that was because it was someone else’s turn to pick up the check.

This devastating development was about as demoralizing as any news I’ve heard all year.  Accordingly, I had to express my opinion to everyone around me, including the other customers who caught wind of my rant.  I told our waiter “Darcy” (like the guy in the “Gone With the Wind” movie) that I was furious they would remove one of the best fish items in the city from the menu.  And you want to know what he told me?  Do you really want to know what Darcy said?  Let me tell you what Darcy said.

Listen to me.  I’m talking here.

Darcy said they took the rainbow trouts off the menu because “IT WASN’T SELLING.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!

Darcy said that.

It was the best thing on the menu!  By far!  And now it’s gone?  Vanished?  What in the hell do people order — hamburgers?  Good grief, people — wake the fuck up!

I’m about to do some serious ass-kicking.  If you pay attention here, you might learn something.  It might improve your health.  It might even save your life.

When someone orders FISH, that often means they’re trying to eat healthily.  They want to eat right.  Good for them.  Sure, I’d love to order gobs of deadly calories and make a pig of myself like most of the rest of you do.  But I have manners and class.  I’d also like to survive past the age of 60 without having to use a walker.

There are some serious health risks with fishes in most restaurants.  Some of the fishes have mercury and other dangerous toxins.  It’s not the fishes’ fault.  They swim in contaminated waters.  So, you might as be eating the poisoned produce right out of Cleveland Bay.  Yes, it’s that bad.

Then, there are the bottom feeders — like catfish.  Let me tell you something.  If you ever order catfish in a seafood restaurant (and you’re sitting at my table), don’t ever count on receiving a dinner invitation from me ever again.  Okay?  You’re embarrassing me.

Oh, and of course, the catfish is still on the menu at Buzio’s.  Fucking catfish!  A bottom feeder that basically survives on sludge.  It’s a pigeon of the sea.

Contrast this with my rainbow trouts, which swim in cold, clean, clear, crystal blue waters.  Healthy eating.  Good for you.  My fish is fucking fresh.  I’ll bet yours is frozen.  And filled with mercury.

Oh, and one more thing:  DON’T TELL ME TO ORDER TILAPIA (however you spell it), BECAUSE TILAPIA IS A FUCKING JOKE!  It’s like the snails of the fishes.  You know how many tilapia have to die to make one decent bite — at least two.  Besides, Talapia has no taste.  I CAN’T STAND TILAPIA!

‘Same with Orange Roughy.  Honestly, when’s the last time you heard someone joyously screams out, “that’s the best orange roughy I’ve ever had?”  Orange roughy is bullshit.

If forced to compromise, I might be able to choke down salmon occasionally (not farm-raised).  Halibut is good too, but it’s always pricey.  So, I usually order that when we’re dividing the check equally and the cost of my dinner won’t matter.  Swordfish is good too, but I have trouble believing they catch that in the wild.  I don’t like eating things that were raised inside a tank.

You disappoint me.  I expected more of you.  So much more.  I thought you people who came to the Rio and could afford to eat at Buzio’s were like me — sophisticated, knowledgeable, and (impossibly demanding).

But no.  You’re the same goddamned jokers who think Olive Garden is a good restaurant.  Yes, you.

You’re the ones who order hamburgers and catfish, which outsells the good stuff like rainbow trout, which now forces people like me to struggle and hunt and peck to find something decent on the menu.

Well, I’m not going to take it!  I’m calling your asses out and taking names.

So let’s get back to what happened on Saturday night.  Darcy the waiter sympathized with me.  He gets it.  He knows what’s right.  He wants to please loyal customers.  So, he went off and got Diane.  She’s the manager at Buzio’s.

Diane really cares.  I like Diane.  Diane came by our table inquiring about how things were going.  Well, this was my big chance.  I had to give Diane a real piece of my mind.  She was very appreciative to hear my opinions.  In fact, after complaining for nearly ten minutes she finally said in frustration, “I really hate to go, but I’ve got to seat some more people and the line is getting really long.”

As I said, I know Diane wanted to hear more about what I thought of the new menu.

Incredibly, Diane later came back to our table.  She informed me that she’ll try and bring back the rainbow trouts this summer, as a “special trial.”  They are going to hold me my own private stock of rainbow trouts.  But she will also keep some rainbow trouts to serve to the common people, too.  Diane obviously doesn’t want to have to deal with me, so she’s flying in fresh rainbow trouts for me during the WSOP.

Well, in that case, I am going to make some demands of those of you who come to Las Vegas every summer.  You know the things that set me off.  So, you better start pleasing me and ordering the rainbow trouts.  Quit with the catfish and tilapia.  Start ordering the rainbow trouts.  That way, if there’s more demand for it, they will put it back on the menu.

Only, don’t mess with my own private stock.  That’s only for me.

READ:  My campaign was too successful — now they are out of trout

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Posted by on Mar 22, 2014 in Blog, Personal, Politics, Travel | 7 comments

My Experience of Getting Detained by the National Security Agency

 

NSA-Entrance

This is the only photo I can legally show you of my recent visit to the National Security Agency.

 

Three flaps of a starlet’s wing off the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, peering over and above the surrounding treetops of piney woods nestled in the rolling Maryland countryside, there’s an ugly rectangular building tiled in the grey-mirrored glass.

Several buildings actually.  They’re grouped into one ominous compound, almost in circle-the-wagons mode, purposely secluded from the outside world and walled off by high-fences topped with razor-wire, ringed by heavily-patroled parking lots with late-model vehicles driven by black-ops bureaucrats.

It’s them versus the world.  Within their universe, everyone is a suspect.  All are potential enemies, even those who walk in and out of those ugly rectangular buildings every single day.  No one is trusted.

Every movement within and around the compound is monitored by non-stop surveillance.  All the time.  Everywhere.  And — those suspicious eyes and nosy ears extend way beyond just the piney woods.  They know what we do.  They know what we say.  They know what we write.  They know what we text.  All this leads to speculation about what’s coming next — will they ultimately know what we think? 

This place has no visitors.  This place doesn’t welcome guests.  This place might as well not exist at all.  Aside from the towers and wires and otherwordly white domes, those ugly grey buildings might otherwise blend in well with the broader and more expansive federal quilt of the national security and defense establishment which has come to blanket (some would say suffocate) the greater National Capital area, a mammoth region of three states growing by the month which now stretches from just south of Baltimore all the way down some 50 miles south through the District of Columbia, across the Potomac, into Northern Virginia and on to Triangle and Quantico — best known as the home of the U.S. Marine Corps, and what’s known in intelligence inner circles as “The Farm.”  [See Footnote 1]

This is a complex of secrets and secrecy.  It’s an arena of perpetual paranoia.  It’s a regimented information labor camp where the loyal foot soldiers who come and go 24-hours-a-day, 365-days-a-year, are the spookiest of spooks.  Not because they’re evil people.  Rather because they’re so extraordinarily knowledgable and powerful, and yet so ordinary.

Today’s superspy isn’t James Bond sitting at a Baccarat table sipping a martini.  He (and increasingly she) is a GS-11 civil servant wearing some cotton-polyester blend purchased on sale at Target with kids’ soccer games to attend on Saturdays.  This is what the national defense establishment has become — not massive armies of soldiers and tanks and navies of battleships — but countless anonymous faces toiling silently behind desks topped with the latest flatscreens who can change lives with a single mouseclick.

And yet, it’s all such a mirage.  As hard as this secret place tries to dissuade the curious from gazing beyond the fence or speculating as to what nefarious deeds happen behind those mirrors of grey glass, the bunker mentality within triggers quite the opposite response.  Any impartial observer is left to conclude that no place that’s this inhospitable can possibly be up to much good.

Earlier today, I found this out firsthand.

On Friday, March 21st, the National Security Agency detained me for nearly two hours for “trespassing into a restricted area.”  What follows is the story of that most unusual ordeal at the entrance to the smartest building in the world.

[See Footnote 2]

***************

The signs off the Baltimore-Washington Parkway read as follows:

NSA — NEXT RIGHT

NSA — AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY

NSA — RESTRICTED ACCESS

Naturally, I didn’t heed any of the warnings.  I didn’t follow the rules.  I’m stubborn, some might even say stupid.  Point conceded.

I wondered.  What would happen if I pulled into the parking lot of the National Security Agency?  Does anyone ever test their security?  Remember, this is unabashedly America’s most secretive government agency.  Its size, scope, staff, and budget exceed that of the Central Intelligence Agency.  That’s right, it’s bigger than the CIA!  And up until a few years ago, most Americans probably couldn’t even tell you what “NSA” stands for.  Accordingly, let me try and explain.  Put into simple terms, it’s where all the phone conversations and e-mails, and texts from just about anywhere in the world are collected, analyzed, re-analyzed, and stored.  It’s the world’s largest communication database.  But if this all sounds like the Library of Congress, think again.  It’s not.

See, there’s a little problem.  That’s because there are some legitimate questions as to what exactly is going on inside the NSA, and how much of what they do is legal.  Come to find out, much of what they do is illegal.  They’re now spying on Americans.

And hardly anyone is doing much about it.  Short of fighting in the courts and trying to reduce their budgets (which are top secret), there’s not much we can do about it.  We’ve all become targets.

***************

I did have some legitimate reasons for visiting the National Security Agency, beyond simple curiosity and some misguided fantasy to engage in political protest.

In town this weekend on a Poker Night in America television shoot, Maryland Live Casino is only a few miles away.  In fact, off the road from the distance, the huge casino might very well be indecipherable from the NSA building, or any other large government installation in the area.

My crazy idea was to have a few of the poker players “accidentally” make a wrong turn off the B/W expressway, end up stuck in the NSA parking lot and get thrown out of a restricted area by uniformed police officers.  Then, capture it all on film.  I wondered — what would happen if a few well-known poker players pulled up into this forbidden zone?  What’s the worst thing that could go wrong?  Being asked to leave?  What are they going to do — shoot Darvin Moon?

Well, I wasn’t about to let our cast and crew take such a monumental risk without a trial run.  Who knows what the NSA might actually do if they saw us with a bunch of electronic equipment and movie cameras?  They could seize everything we own, arrest us, and ship us off to Guantanamo.  As appealing as it seems to have Steve Dannenmann waterboarded, I wasn’t going to gamble the entire production on the whims of some security official carrying a sidearm at the National Security Agency.

I’m dumb, but I’m not stupid.

So, I was willing to play the unrehearsed off-camera role of guinea pig-sacrificial lamb-test dummy.  At 2:30 on Friday afternoon just as a cold rain began to fall over central Maryland, I ventured off on a lonely road.  I took the forbidden exit.  Moments later, I would find myself detained and under interrogation.  [See Footnote 3]

***************

While driving and slowly approaching that ugly grey building, I rolled down my car window and snapped several photographs, I’d later learn a federal crime that carried the possibility of five-year imprisonment and a $10,000 fine, per offense. 

The photos had innocuous intentions really, simple location shots which were meant to be shared with the crew when and if we decided to go through with the crazy idea of filming the poker players testing America’s most fiercely-protected bunker of homeland security.

Suddenly out of nowhere, someone I couldn’t see and from a place unknown shouted — PHOTO!

PHOTO!  WHITE CAR!  NEW YORK PLATES!

At that instant, I’d reached the front gate to the NSA employee foot entrance.  Apparently, I’d made it further inside than most unwelcome guests.  A perfectly-chiseled federal officer brandishing a depot of automatic weapons with several live rounds of ammunition with arms reach stepped out from a hut and approached the car.  The following conversation ensured:

“What’s the nature of your business here, sir?”

“I’m on a location shoot for a new television show.”

“Were you taking photographs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why were you taking photographs?”

“As I said, I’m here scouting a place to film a new television show and I wanted to see if there was a visitor’s center where I could come and ask permission.”

This is protected property.  We don’t have a visitor’s center.” 

“You mean like, you don’t give tours?

Ooops.  I didn’t mean to come across as a smart ass.  But sometimes I can’t help it.  It’s in my nature.  From the instant those words left my mouth, I realized that was the wrong thing to say.

“Sir, pull your vehicle to the side.  I will need identification and proof of registration.”

“It’s a rental car.”

Within minutes, five squad cars emblazoned with NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY POLICE pulled up beside me.  Uniformed officers stood around as another man in a suit began asking me the questions.  Oh, and it was raining.

Not good.

****************

I was detained for an unknown period of time, perhaps a few hours.  It seemed longer than it was.  I was forced to wait until employees began streaming out of the building.  One presumes this must have been at least 4 or 5 pm.  The workers consisted of all kinds of people wearing different military uniforms (fatigues, dess unis, camouflage) and civilian clothes — a mishmash of career spook bureaucrats bonded by regiment and patriotism.

My records were apparently searched during this period of detainment.  I can only speculate what databases were accessed.  Fortunately, my record is clean, despite some very odd associations over the years.  Other officers came up and asked questions.  Others surrounded the car.  Then, yet another officer approached and asked me to step out of the car.

This really wasn’t good.

Oh shit, I thought.  Did they find my website?  All that anti-defense budget stuff and the pro-Palestinian sentiment aren’t going to go over very well with this crowd.  The second officer started to grill me all over again.

“Mr. Dalla — normally, I would ask you like 60 questions.  We have to make sure you’re not Ivan the Terrible coming to take us down.”

“I understand, officer.  I’ll answer your questions honestly.  I assure you I will cooperate.”

So, we went through it again.  And again.  I repeated myself, with the same recount of what happened.  Obviously, the officers were looking for consistency.

I knew I’d be released — eventually.  I wasn’t in any real danger.  But I sure could have been inconvenienced a great deal.  And, according to law, I could have been hit with heavy fines, even imprisonment.  This is the iron grip that permeates within a nation that sacrifices its liberties for “national security.”  Yeah, there’s a valid reason to protect federal installations, especially places where sensitive work goes on.  I get that.  I don’t like it.  But I get it.  I wish there was more transparency.  But, that’s the world we live in, especially in a post-9-11 age.

My cell phone was confiscated.  It was checked and re-checked.  Photos I had taken earlier were erased (with no objection from me).  I was informed that each photo of a restricted area carried a potential $10,000 fine and five years imprisonment.  Adding up a dozen photos, that could have been quite a heavy penalty.  And I don’t think they take MasterCard.  [See Footnote 4]

Clearly, the intent was to intimidate me.  It worked.  I was ready to get the hell out of there, with no desire ever to come back.  Mission accomplished.

In fairness to the security officers, they were polite and professional throughout the ordeal.  They were also firm and businesslike.  I was treated fairly and respectfully.  No complaints.  My beef is with what goes on inside that ugly building.  That’s where our lives hang in the balance of a microchip.

Once my name finally checked out after a mega-search and my identity didn’t trigger an alias for Ivan the Terrible, my identification was returned.  I was released and permitted to go on my way and was escorted out of the restricted area.

***************

So, what secrets do lie within?

What do they really know about what we do?

Moreover, what shall become later of this information they gather?  Perhaps most important what will “national security” mean within our society in another decade, or two?  What will they know about us all then?  Will anyone care?

I wonder — will there be any secrets left?

They’re watching us.  But who’s watching them?

Footnote 1 — “The Farm” is where many covert operatives within the Central Intelligence Agency are trained.

Footnote 2 — Read more about this most secretive of federal agencies here at the National Security Agency Wiki page.

Footnote 3 — This was actually the second time I’ve pulled into the NSA parking lot.  About 15 years ago, I ran out of gas while driving on the B/W Parkway, and coasted off the ramp into the same parking lot (it’s been renovated since then, I came to find out).  I was provided with a free can of gas and was escorted off the property, without incident.

Footnote 4 — The federal officer explained that no photos are permitted which might also contain employee faces or license numbers of cars in the parking lot.  The fear is “the enemy” could target an NSA employee.  So, any imagery of the NSA you see in media has been doctored where all means of identification are removed.  A search of “NSA PHOTOS” reveals only stock photos of the building and generic shots of some insensitive areas. 

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