Monday, December 24, 2012
as the sun sets on battle fields
I will not be your stone. You will not sharpen your accord upon my well being. And as I live and breath I have come to know certain truths to be evident. The one that is most salient; nightfall for a warrior is not a time for sleep. As the sun sets on one battlefield darkness does well to illuminate another. For those prepared, tenebrosity reveals the next inevitable conflict. One that I have spent a lifetime preparing for. It comforts me, this storm. I will not simply endure you, I will show you what resilience is. I will show you how a warrior fights a war. I will be your anathema but I will not be your stone.
author of your fate
The glass slips from her hand but before it fragments in a violently beautiful moment of truth, a life's story unravels.
A beginning like any other, filled with content and hope.
At times it's contents are overflowing whilst others it holds little more than suffering.
yet it's shape and integrity have maintained through frequent vicissitude.
Tripping and stumbling has never led to this. What makes this different? There is a lifetime in this breath, a soul.
A grip otherwise tight has not only released itself it has created a trajectory that years of physics lessons have dictated will result in catastrophe.
A prismatic explosion of life and love sends jagged shards that cut deep into the lives of those closest to her.
Those left wiping the blood from their eyes offer the inevitable cliche about catching, about stopping the unstoppable.
Fresh wounds coagulate and turn to scars. A memory of a life and of a death.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
NO SHIT THERE I WAS
This is the introduction.
In late 2007 I attempted to work through issues that I was having related to my assimilation from the military to the college lifestyle by writing a book. This book was never finished due to my hard drive crashing. This time I have decided to compose my thoughts on a blog so that in the event that my archaic computer decides once again to commit cyber suicide, I will not be forced into another three day "coping" binder.
The transition from the military to college was a difficult era. At that particular time in my life I felt a great deal of cognitive dissonance for having left the military to join the very social environment which we spoke of with disdain in our un-air conditioned tents in Iraq. I felt like I had betrayed my brothers, abandon them in their time of need. Telling the true stories of my experiences as a Ranger medic in Iraq and Afghanistan absolutely helped me to process and cope with what had taken place. It was also very emotionally draining. The feeling of writing just a couple of pages was analogous to running a marathon. This was a big reason why I decided to not rewrite that book. It has been over five years and I finally feel emotionally strong enough to rewrite some of those events. However, the purpose of this project is not simply dedicated to the assimilation process from special operations to the civilian world. My hopes here are multifaceted. It is very important that the stories of the brave men with whom I served be told. The greatest disrespect that we can show our nations warriors is to forget their sacrifices. Throughout the course of these factual, (I reserve the right for up to 10% exaggeration during any of the pages that follow) real life stories I hope to shed light on the mistakes that have been made, the lessons learned and the projection of the world through the eyes of a warrior that no longer has a war to fight. There will be foul language and obscure references that almost no one will understand. There will be stories that involve drinking, fighting, nudity, jail time and other felonies that never stuck. Do not expect a linier format. You've been warned.
In late 2007 I attempted to work through issues that I was having related to my assimilation from the military to the college lifestyle by writing a book. This book was never finished due to my hard drive crashing. This time I have decided to compose my thoughts on a blog so that in the event that my archaic computer decides once again to commit cyber suicide, I will not be forced into another three day "coping" binder.
The transition from the military to college was a difficult era. At that particular time in my life I felt a great deal of cognitive dissonance for having left the military to join the very social environment which we spoke of with disdain in our un-air conditioned tents in Iraq. I felt like I had betrayed my brothers, abandon them in their time of need. Telling the true stories of my experiences as a Ranger medic in Iraq and Afghanistan absolutely helped me to process and cope with what had taken place. It was also very emotionally draining. The feeling of writing just a couple of pages was analogous to running a marathon. This was a big reason why I decided to not rewrite that book. It has been over five years and I finally feel emotionally strong enough to rewrite some of those events. However, the purpose of this project is not simply dedicated to the assimilation process from special operations to the civilian world. My hopes here are multifaceted. It is very important that the stories of the brave men with whom I served be told. The greatest disrespect that we can show our nations warriors is to forget their sacrifices. Throughout the course of these factual, (I reserve the right for up to 10% exaggeration during any of the pages that follow) real life stories I hope to shed light on the mistakes that have been made, the lessons learned and the projection of the world through the eyes of a warrior that no longer has a war to fight. There will be foul language and obscure references that almost no one will understand. There will be stories that involve drinking, fighting, nudity, jail time and other felonies that never stuck. Do not expect a linier format. You've been warned.
30 years of life lessons
A dark shadow casts itself over my shoulder. Hunger pains are no match for my lack of appetite. My desire for anything resembling progression is halted. It is important to remove this knife from my back before laying down. The previous posterior wounds are still coagulating and now I must make mend on this new gaping hole.
I'm not sure if it is rage that consumes me. I don't believe that it is. It feels much more like betrayal. Et tu Brute? There is no concept of loyalty in the world I have found myself in. Litigious words replace personal integrity and certainly any form of what I would constitute as dignity, silent or otherwise. What a sad, pathetic person that has no concept of honor, of loyalty of commitment. An individual that will so quickly dispense of those who have fought their fight when they would not, and done so with verve and allegiance, is an individual no doubt destined for a life of solitude. I believe that this is why I do not feel rage. I feel a degree of pity on such a person. The saddest state is passing these character traits off as brilliance. There is nothing brilliant about a person whose actions are driven entirely from emotion.
I have, for years, been looked upon as dull because of my outward appearance and the path in which I have traveled. I decided to forgo college in my late teens to serve my community. I later served my nation in it's time of need. The assumption here is that such a person is not capable of challenging a "learned" individual in a battle of wit. This is a fact that for some time I have used to my advantage. It has caused people to expect little from me in an intellectual capacity. While I do not necessarily consider myself brilliant, I have learned a few very valuable lessons during my time on this earth.
Lesson 1- Control your emotions, do not allow them to control you.
Have you ever had a person throw a coffee mug at your mug? Now I am not one to say that violence doesn't solve anything, quite the antithesis really. However, in order to be effective violence must be calculated just as any other action must be. When our emotions dictate our actions there is little hope that the product will be favorable.
Lesson 2- be kind but have a plan to kill everyone in the room
This follows the old quote, "Speak softly and carry a big stick"
Lesson 3- Choose your battles.
To state that this fight is not worth fighting is not the statement of a coward, rather that of the most
courageous of soldiers. Stand up and fight when it is time, fight with the whole of your convictions. Yet all too
often we are drawn into fighting battles that will in no way lead to a better version of ourselves, a better
outcome for the ones we cherish, the ones that need protecting. This is the result of pride. Pride is a powerful
companion and an even more destructive foe.
Lesson 4- take the high road
This is more than just a nugget passed down from my father, this is a fucking gem of nearly unparalleled value. When I was going through my divorce (please note that I have never actually been married, but thanks to the common law in Colorado she was entitled to take what she wanted.) I really wanted to fight back. I wanted to attack that person because of the way in which they attacked me. When I spoke to my father and he told me this lesson I didn't fully understand it. It took seeing the reaction of people over several months to grasp what he was saying. For the most part people understand what is going on, there is no need to go around spreading venomous rumors or slander about a person. Their own bitter words will come back on them. People are smart enough to see these patterns and avoid these people. Time and logic can truly be your friends! Be steadfast in the face of vicissitude.
Lesson 5- No matter how big and bad you think you are, there is someone bigger and badder!
This rule in it's simplest form comes down to humility. Just because you are great at making spreadsheets does not mean that you are superior in a comprehensive sense. Just because I can pick up 3 times my body weight doesn't mean that I am a better person. I am a better person, but my dead lift has nothing to do with it really.
I'm not sure if it is rage that consumes me. I don't believe that it is. It feels much more like betrayal. Et tu Brute? There is no concept of loyalty in the world I have found myself in. Litigious words replace personal integrity and certainly any form of what I would constitute as dignity, silent or otherwise. What a sad, pathetic person that has no concept of honor, of loyalty of commitment. An individual that will so quickly dispense of those who have fought their fight when they would not, and done so with verve and allegiance, is an individual no doubt destined for a life of solitude. I believe that this is why I do not feel rage. I feel a degree of pity on such a person. The saddest state is passing these character traits off as brilliance. There is nothing brilliant about a person whose actions are driven entirely from emotion.
I have, for years, been looked upon as dull because of my outward appearance and the path in which I have traveled. I decided to forgo college in my late teens to serve my community. I later served my nation in it's time of need. The assumption here is that such a person is not capable of challenging a "learned" individual in a battle of wit. This is a fact that for some time I have used to my advantage. It has caused people to expect little from me in an intellectual capacity. While I do not necessarily consider myself brilliant, I have learned a few very valuable lessons during my time on this earth.
Lesson 1- Control your emotions, do not allow them to control you.
Have you ever had a person throw a coffee mug at your mug? Now I am not one to say that violence doesn't solve anything, quite the antithesis really. However, in order to be effective violence must be calculated just as any other action must be. When our emotions dictate our actions there is little hope that the product will be favorable.
Lesson 2- be kind but have a plan to kill everyone in the room
This follows the old quote, "Speak softly and carry a big stick"
Lesson 3- Choose your battles.
To state that this fight is not worth fighting is not the statement of a coward, rather that of the most
courageous of soldiers. Stand up and fight when it is time, fight with the whole of your convictions. Yet all too
often we are drawn into fighting battles that will in no way lead to a better version of ourselves, a better
outcome for the ones we cherish, the ones that need protecting. This is the result of pride. Pride is a powerful
companion and an even more destructive foe.
Lesson 4- take the high road
This is more than just a nugget passed down from my father, this is a fucking gem of nearly unparalleled value. When I was going through my divorce (please note that I have never actually been married, but thanks to the common law in Colorado she was entitled to take what she wanted.) I really wanted to fight back. I wanted to attack that person because of the way in which they attacked me. When I spoke to my father and he told me this lesson I didn't fully understand it. It took seeing the reaction of people over several months to grasp what he was saying. For the most part people understand what is going on, there is no need to go around spreading venomous rumors or slander about a person. Their own bitter words will come back on them. People are smart enough to see these patterns and avoid these people. Time and logic can truly be your friends! Be steadfast in the face of vicissitude.
Lesson 5- No matter how big and bad you think you are, there is someone bigger and badder!
This rule in it's simplest form comes down to humility. Just because you are great at making spreadsheets does not mean that you are superior in a comprehensive sense. Just because I can pick up 3 times my body weight doesn't mean that I am a better person. I am a better person, but my dead lift has nothing to do with it really.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Ranger Medic memoir for sofrep
Hey Doc, wake up!
I wasn't...
I didn't even finish saying, I wasn't sleeping. The door slammed shut and Josh had moved on to wake up the next chu, A chu was an 8x8 cell like, connex box that we lived in while working in Takrit Iraq. NCO's and officers got there own, privates typically had to double up. Even with two overgrown Ranger privates in an 8x8 room it was still hands down the best living conditions that I had experienced on any of my deployments. These kids today just don't know how good they have it.
This must be important, Josh usually talks shit for at least a couple of minutes. I glance over at the clock, it's 16:00 so most of our guys were just waking up. I poked my head out of the door to see a handful of guys headed to the makeshift plywood JOC.
What's up??
Come on Doc, let's go. Mission brief in 5.
As usual I had no clue of what was going on. Somehow the medic always seems to evade the chain of information passed through the platoon. I decide that shower shoes aren't the best footwear choice for this occasion and quickly get dressed. I walk in just in time to not get more than a dirty look from my platoon sergeant. I half heartily listen while a certain officer that most everyone in our company had a great disdain for babbled on about two guys in a safe house that we would be our primary kill/capture objectives. We would fast rope in utilizing UH60 "black hawk" helicopters. He said some other things but honestly I was hungry and this was about as routine a wake up call as most college kids alarm clock. We had only been on this deployment for a month and had already executed dozens of successful direct action missions.
Wheels up at 19:00. So by the time that medal hungry Major finished his bloviating, we would have a little under two hours to eat and get our mission essentials together. For me that meant making sure that I had plenty of snacks in what I referred to as my "moral pouch" I'm telling you right now a watermelon jolly rancher is better than Christmas morning to a six year old when you've been on an objective for two days! I will also tell you that half of being a good medic is about keeping up the moral of your guys. When we were on the QRF for operation Red Wing I handed out a lot more candy than trauma medicine!
The boys from the 160th special operations aviation regiment (SOAR) pick us up right on time, which as usual was just past sun down. Those guys are about as nocturnal as they come and more than once I was grateful for their outstanding ability to operate under the dark of night. The feeling of letting your feet dangle out of the door of a black hawk helicopter a couple of hundred feet off the deck is unmatched. On this day, however, I was pushed to the back jump seat which meant that I would be one of the last guys on the ground. Josh takes his fire team to the front door as the black hawk pulled away showering us all with BB sized pebbles and debris from the open field that we had recently landed in.
We are less than 100 meters to the target house as we begin to advance. Second squad was approaching from the side of the building. Weapons squad was set in a blocking position behind the target house in the event that anyone attempted to run. As we moved closer to the tiny house in the middle of that field it happened.....
I feel the heat from the blast from 40 meters away, everything is white, sound is reduced to a high pitch buzzing and then, silence. There is nothing. Time stops. I wait to hear someone scream out for the medic. I wait for something, anything. Every ounce of air has been drawn from me as I wait, a lifetime in that single breath, I wait. As my eyes regained focus I realize that the blast came from the exact position that second squad was just in.The predator drown feed would later show the blast's heat pattern completely white out the screen and erase the six Rangers that stood within a couple of meters of the suicide bomber's position. Air rapidly enters my lungs the way it does after you've been held under water a little too long. I look immediately to my platoon Sergeant and we run. Not to cover, not to safety but directly at that shack of a house, in the middle of that field, in the middle of no where. Josh's fire team reaches the front door just in time to receive a volly of 7.62 slung at them from a PRK set up on the other side of the shacks mud wall. They do not hesitate. They act. They run into the throat of that monster, directly through the door that has the business end of a very large automatic weapon pointed at it, at the helm of that weapon is a man hell bent on their demise. The do not hesitate. They act. At this moment I notice someone running from the objective directly toward weapon squads position. The only thought in my mind was watching second squad disappear at the hand of a suicide bomber just seconds earlier. I raise my rifle. It's dark and he's 75 meters away but the green beam illuminating from my PEC2, only visible by night vision goggles, locks on his chest. Squeeze. Squeeze. I didn't even realize it but I instinctively come to a complete stop to take those two shots. As the figure dropped I continue to run. I'm not entirely sure why but I change directions. Instead of running toward the front door, I begin to run to the motionless body that just a breath ago was standing. I'm within 15 meters. BOOM!!! I feel it. A second blast. This one was much closer. My exposed face is peppered by what feels like tiny ball bearings. I stay on my feet, my eyes never loose focus of the white tunic laying 45 feet in front of me. I will later learn that this blast came from a frag grenade thrown by my good friend Allen in an effort to clear the back room of the shack. The sound of controlled pairs being squeezed off hasn't stopped by the time I reach him. For the second time in the longest minute of my life my breath is stolen from me. He's a boy.... and he's still breathing.
I am going to be completely honest. I don't remember the next few minutes. The world kept moving and I am assuming that I did too because the next thing I know I kneeling over one of the members of second squad talking with my senior medic, John. He was okay. This guy just had a suicide vest detonate within spitting distance, how the hell is he alive? As I look up I see Thomas, second squad leader. He is directing the rest of his guys. They are alive. They are all alive! How? I am at a total loss for words in this moment. I am not a pious man but in this moment I would bet you a hand full of Chili's coupons that those men had were recipients of a little divine intervention. I begin to tend to some of their minor woulds as I realize that first squad took heavy fire upon entering the building. I hand over care to John and quickly make my way to the front door. The mangled flatbed truck where the suicide bomber sat up and proclaimed "allahu akbar" is etched in my mind. I see what looks like his legs and most of his body. His head is completely gone. My best guess is the vest was poorly constructed and the brunt of the blast traveled up rather than out. His head is found, in tact, 30 meters away; popped off like a cork on a cheep bottle of champaign. He should have paid more attention in shit head school. I reach the front door. The small room had already been cleared and the guys from first squad are in search mode. I ask if everyone is okay. All I get is a couple of uneasy laughs. Apparently one of the 7.62 rounds grazed one of the younger guy's helmet's. The room is small and filled with smoke from the gun fight. There is a hole just big enough for a man to crawl through in the back corner of the room. Apparently several men crawled through the hole to another room as first squad made entry to the first room. After eliminating the threat on the PRK, Allen tossed that frag grenade into the back room rather than chase the men on his hands and knees. I joke with him that nearly blowing me up in the process will cost him a beer when we get state side, he just shrugs his shoulders. There are a couple of lifeless bodies on the floor in the front room. One was slumped over the machine gun, the other must have drawn the short straw. He got to be the last guy to get to crawl through the room's only means of egress. Just as my desire to poke them with a stick draws me one step into the room I hear my call signal called on the radio. It's my platoon sergeant. Second squad is chasing someone that our eye in the sky spotted fleeing the target house. I immediately run to their location. By the time I get their the company commander is giving an order to good friend of mine named Nick. Nick and I had recently been promoted to Sargent at the same time. Now Nick has always been a very good Ranger. He promoted quickly because he is smart, well spoken and well liked among the guys. He is also very good at taking orders, normally. They had one of the men pinned down in a sort of a reservoir. The Company commander wanted Nick to send one of the guys on his team down into the reservoir to grab the guy and try to pull him up the side of the reservoir that was about eight feet high. In the kind of tone you would expect a Ranger Sgt. to address a superior officer, Nick asked, "Sir, you want me to send one of my guys that just got blown up by a suicide bomber into that hole and grab another potential suicide bomber, throw him on his shoulder and carry him up that eight foot mud wall?"
"Roger," Replied the Captain. That's not exactly what happened.
Nick responds in a way that I will never forget and in a way that I will not repeat here.
Just about the time that incident is resolved another call comes over the radio requesting my presence on the north side of the target house. As I approach I see Eric, Nathan and our interpreter standing over the boy who I shot earlier. He is still breathing, in fact he is talking. As I kneel down to assess his wounds I ask the interpreter what he is saying. I notice that he has more than just two holes in him. He was hit from multiple shooters. For some reason I now feel less responsible for his situation. The interpreter says that the kid is 14 and came to Iraq from Saudi Arabia. I asked him what he is doing in Iraq. As long as I live I will never forget his response.
"I have come here to kill Americans!"
"Then why did you run?"
"There are too many."
"How did you get here?"
"They paid me to come."
"What would your parents think if they knew that you were here?"
"They would be proud."
Without hesitation I turn and walk away. I have the power to help and do nothing. To this day I have yet to fully process this decision. Guilt, shame, ambivalence? I don't know to feel about it. I am not sure what emotion to affix to such an event. I know that he lived because of the efforts of one of our other medics but I did nothing. A fact that keeps me up some nights still.
As I walk back to the target house I see the severed head of the suicide bomber, fully in tact. It doesn't even phase me, I just walk by it. Once back in the house I link up with my friends from first squad. They have just finished searching the house for any possible links to other cells in the area. The place is an absolute mess. I notice something that I can't help but laugh about. At the feet of one of the dead terrorist lay a couple of bottles of a 7UP knock off drink called CHEER UP. I pick it up and Matt takes a quick picture. Someone cracks a joke, "Feeling down about getting blown the F*** up?? have a refreshing glass of CHEER UP!"
Josh takes a bottle back to the states and uses it's contents to make mix drinks in his barrack room.
Just as we are calling for ex-fill a call comes over the radio. We are getting an add-on mission. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi has just been seen entering a chemical wherehouse less than a hundred miles away. We make our way back to the ex-fill point and wait for the Black Hawks to return. As we wait, a _______ bomb is dropped on the house which on that night served as a crucible for 1st platoon; erasing it from existence but never from our memory.
*** The story can end there or go on ***
The story continues with us going to Balad to grab more ammo. We walk into the hanger to meet with elements of HHC that watched the entire mission live on the predator feed. None of them could believe that we all survived. I have to give a quick refresher on the use of a atropine to our guys because they fear that Zarqawi will use NBC against us. Someone asks, "So Doc, our faces might get melted off tonight?" I say, It's a possibility. He just says, "cool"
I wasn't...
I didn't even finish saying, I wasn't sleeping. The door slammed shut and Josh had moved on to wake up the next chu, A chu was an 8x8 cell like, connex box that we lived in while working in Takrit Iraq. NCO's and officers got there own, privates typically had to double up. Even with two overgrown Ranger privates in an 8x8 room it was still hands down the best living conditions that I had experienced on any of my deployments. These kids today just don't know how good they have it.
This must be important, Josh usually talks shit for at least a couple of minutes. I glance over at the clock, it's 16:00 so most of our guys were just waking up. I poked my head out of the door to see a handful of guys headed to the makeshift plywood JOC.
What's up??
Come on Doc, let's go. Mission brief in 5.
As usual I had no clue of what was going on. Somehow the medic always seems to evade the chain of information passed through the platoon. I decide that shower shoes aren't the best footwear choice for this occasion and quickly get dressed. I walk in just in time to not get more than a dirty look from my platoon sergeant. I half heartily listen while a certain officer that most everyone in our company had a great disdain for babbled on about two guys in a safe house that we would be our primary kill/capture objectives. We would fast rope in utilizing UH60 "black hawk" helicopters. He said some other things but honestly I was hungry and this was about as routine a wake up call as most college kids alarm clock. We had only been on this deployment for a month and had already executed dozens of successful direct action missions.
Wheels up at 19:00. So by the time that medal hungry Major finished his bloviating, we would have a little under two hours to eat and get our mission essentials together. For me that meant making sure that I had plenty of snacks in what I referred to as my "moral pouch" I'm telling you right now a watermelon jolly rancher is better than Christmas morning to a six year old when you've been on an objective for two days! I will also tell you that half of being a good medic is about keeping up the moral of your guys. When we were on the QRF for operation Red Wing I handed out a lot more candy than trauma medicine!
The boys from the 160th special operations aviation regiment (SOAR) pick us up right on time, which as usual was just past sun down. Those guys are about as nocturnal as they come and more than once I was grateful for their outstanding ability to operate under the dark of night. The feeling of letting your feet dangle out of the door of a black hawk helicopter a couple of hundred feet off the deck is unmatched. On this day, however, I was pushed to the back jump seat which meant that I would be one of the last guys on the ground. Josh takes his fire team to the front door as the black hawk pulled away showering us all with BB sized pebbles and debris from the open field that we had recently landed in.
We are less than 100 meters to the target house as we begin to advance. Second squad was approaching from the side of the building. Weapons squad was set in a blocking position behind the target house in the event that anyone attempted to run. As we moved closer to the tiny house in the middle of that field it happened.....
I feel the heat from the blast from 40 meters away, everything is white, sound is reduced to a high pitch buzzing and then, silence. There is nothing. Time stops. I wait to hear someone scream out for the medic. I wait for something, anything. Every ounce of air has been drawn from me as I wait, a lifetime in that single breath, I wait. As my eyes regained focus I realize that the blast came from the exact position that second squad was just in.
I am going to be completely honest. I don't remember the next few minutes. The world kept moving and I am assuming that I did too because the next thing I know I kneeling over one of the members of second squad talking with my senior medic, John. He was okay. This guy just had a suicide vest detonate within spitting distance, how the hell is he alive? As I look up I see Thomas, second squad leader. He is directing the rest of his guys. They are alive. They are all alive! How? I am at a total loss for words in this moment. I am not a pious man but in this moment I would bet you a hand full of Chili's coupons that those men had were recipients of a little divine intervention. I begin to tend to some of their minor woulds as I realize that first squad took heavy fire upon entering the building. I hand over care to John and quickly make my way to the front door. The mangled flatbed truck where the suicide bomber sat up and proclaimed "allahu akbar" is etched in my mind. I see what looks like his legs and most of his body. His head is completely gone. My best guess is the vest was poorly constructed and the brunt of the blast traveled up rather than out. His head is found, in tact, 30 meters away; popped off like a cork on a cheep bottle of champaign. He should have paid more attention in shit head school. I reach the front door. The small room had already been cleared and the guys from first squad are in search mode. I ask if everyone is okay. All I get is a couple of uneasy laughs. Apparently one of the 7.62 rounds grazed one of the younger guy's helmet's. The room is small and filled with smoke from the gun fight. There is a hole just big enough for a man to crawl through in the back corner of the room. Apparently several men crawled through the hole to another room as first squad made entry to the first room. After eliminating the threat on the PRK, Allen tossed that frag grenade into the back room rather than chase the men on his hands and knees. I joke with him that nearly blowing me up in the process will cost him a beer when we get state side, he just shrugs his shoulders. There are a couple of lifeless bodies on the floor in the front room. One was slumped over the machine gun, the other must have drawn the short straw. He got to be the last guy to get to crawl through the room's only means of egress. Just as my desire to poke them with a stick draws me one step into the room I hear my call signal called on the radio. It's my platoon sergeant. Second squad is chasing someone that our eye in the sky spotted fleeing the target house. I immediately run to their location. By the time I get their the company commander is giving an order to good friend of mine named Nick. Nick and I had recently been promoted to Sargent at the same time. Now Nick has always been a very good Ranger. He promoted quickly because he is smart, well spoken and well liked among the guys. He is also very good at taking orders, normally. They had one of the men pinned down in a sort of a reservoir. The Company commander wanted Nick to send one of the guys on his team down into the reservoir to grab the guy and try to pull him up the side of the reservoir that was about eight feet high. In the kind of tone you would expect a Ranger Sgt. to address a superior officer, Nick asked, "Sir, you want me to send one of my guys that just got blown up by a suicide bomber into that hole and grab another potential suicide bomber, throw him on his shoulder and carry him up that eight foot mud wall?"
"Roger," Replied the Captain. That's not exactly what happened.
Nick responds in a way that I will never forget and in a way that I will not repeat here.
Just about the time that incident is resolved another call comes over the radio requesting my presence on the north side of the target house. As I approach I see Eric, Nathan and our interpreter standing over the boy who I shot earlier. He is still breathing, in fact he is talking. As I kneel down to assess his wounds I ask the interpreter what he is saying. I notice that he has more than just two holes in him. He was hit from multiple shooters. For some reason I now feel less responsible for his situation. The interpreter says that the kid is 14 and came to Iraq from Saudi Arabia. I asked him what he is doing in Iraq. As long as I live I will never forget his response.
"I have come here to kill Americans!"
"Then why did you run?"
"There are too many."
"How did you get here?"
"They paid me to come."
"What would your parents think if they knew that you were here?"
"They would be proud."
Without hesitation I turn and walk away. I have the power to help and do nothing. To this day I have yet to fully process this decision. Guilt, shame, ambivalence? I don't know to feel about it. I am not sure what emotion to affix to such an event. I know that he lived because of the efforts of one of our other medics but I did nothing. A fact that keeps me up some nights still.
As I walk back to the target house I see the severed head of the suicide bomber, fully in tact. It doesn't even phase me, I just walk by it. Once back in the house I link up with my friends from first squad. They have just finished searching the house for any possible links to other cells in the area. The place is an absolute mess. I notice something that I can't help but laugh about. At the feet of one of the dead terrorist lay a couple of bottles of a 7UP knock off drink called CHEER UP. I pick it up and Matt takes a quick picture. Someone cracks a joke, "Feeling down about getting blown the F*** up?? have a refreshing glass of CHEER UP!"
Josh takes a bottle back to the states and uses it's contents to make mix drinks in his barrack room.
Just as we are calling for ex-fill a call comes over the radio. We are getting an add-on mission. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi has just been seen entering a chemical wherehouse less than a hundred miles away. We make our way back to the ex-fill point and wait for the Black Hawks to return. As we wait, a _______ bomb is dropped on the house which on that night served as a crucible for 1st platoon; erasing it from existence but never from our memory.
*** The story can end there or go on ***
The story continues with us going to Balad to grab more ammo. We walk into the hanger to meet with elements of HHC that watched the entire mission live on the predator feed. None of them could believe that we all survived. I have to give a quick refresher on the use of a atropine to our guys because they fear that Zarqawi will use NBC against us. Someone asks, "So Doc, our faces might get melted off tonight?" I say, It's a possibility. He just says, "cool"
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
words
pride paired and primed with woeful whispers. beguiled by beautiful brown eyes earning every envious encounter. letting lust linger longer, living like life lacks longevity, loving loquaciously. doubt dances, disrupting delicately devised days. days designed to deliver delight yet yelling yields your youth. venomous vernacular violently invades, inexplicably interrupting interest. today's tender touch turns to tomorrows torment.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Love, an algorithm
How social a creature we are. How dependent on interaction our species that we would suffer the slings and arrows of a thousand misfortunes to simply not be alone. The whiskey provides some company but not the warmth that a body does. It is limited in it's capacity to comprehend solitude. Simultaneously we reject that interaction out of the fear of full release. The chopping block is not a place many would like their head to rest. Giving unconditionally your love to another is truly to hand that person the ax and hope for the best.
When both parties are willing and able to surrender all of who they are the result is a union unmatched.
Regardless the power of this relation and the almost inherent need of companionship the path of many have but one set of foot prints. We converge for a time with others providing a snapshot of comfort yet we are still alone. These times the wise would use for self reflection so that when the next convergence occurs we are capable of better identifying the crucial attributes. These attributes are ever shifting, morphing as a result of all previous encounters and short comings. The subtleties that created divergence will arise as primary focal points for any successor. If the tracks that previously matched our own were frequently late it stands to reason that a requirement of the next set be punctual. If they were deep from a gluttonous lifestyle the next will likely be light and active. This I refer to as the antithesis affinity theory.
Opposites don't necessarily attract, more the opposite attributes of our executioner are highlighted and thrown praise as the most relevant and desirable traits of future companions. Being jaded then is a product of several conflicting attributes. One character trait that upon first meeting was adorable has festered into an intolerance of volcanic proportions. The next quiver match is then completely disregarded if they poses that single idiosyncrasy regardless if every other facet of their personality is juxtaposed perfectly with your own. Well, not exactly. Through a series of relationships we determine what we are willing and unwilling to tolerate. As a result we tend to seek out the antithesis of characteristics that have presented themselves as fissures previously.
This is compatibility but what of love? What is the consequence of having all of these attributes line up yet there is a noticeable lack of Oxytocin and Dopamine response. Currently I am of the opinion that flipping this dilemma is an easier hurdle to overcome. Many experiences in life can be easily justified with the proper amount of cognitive effort, however, love is an exception. We can line up domino's from here to Peoria but if there isn't a reaction strong enough to knock the first one down we are left with little more than a boring tiny little black spotted wall. Nothing about that is breath taking. It is simply not enough to be compatible, we need stimulus. Sadly pain is often a byproduct of that stimulus but that is favorable to being warm and numb.
There is more here but now is not the time.
Love will not betray you, dismay or enslave you... It will set you free.
When both parties are willing and able to surrender all of who they are the result is a union unmatched.
Regardless the power of this relation and the almost inherent need of companionship the path of many have but one set of foot prints. We converge for a time with others providing a snapshot of comfort yet we are still alone. These times the wise would use for self reflection so that when the next convergence occurs we are capable of better identifying the crucial attributes. These attributes are ever shifting, morphing as a result of all previous encounters and short comings. The subtleties that created divergence will arise as primary focal points for any successor. If the tracks that previously matched our own were frequently late it stands to reason that a requirement of the next set be punctual. If they were deep from a gluttonous lifestyle the next will likely be light and active. This I refer to as the antithesis affinity theory.
Opposites don't necessarily attract, more the opposite attributes of our executioner are highlighted and thrown praise as the most relevant and desirable traits of future companions. Being jaded then is a product of several conflicting attributes. One character trait that upon first meeting was adorable has festered into an intolerance of volcanic proportions. The next quiver match is then completely disregarded if they poses that single idiosyncrasy regardless if every other facet of their personality is juxtaposed perfectly with your own. Well, not exactly. Through a series of relationships we determine what we are willing and unwilling to tolerate. As a result we tend to seek out the antithesis of characteristics that have presented themselves as fissures previously.
This is compatibility but what of love? What is the consequence of having all of these attributes line up yet there is a noticeable lack of Oxytocin and Dopamine response. Currently I am of the opinion that flipping this dilemma is an easier hurdle to overcome. Many experiences in life can be easily justified with the proper amount of cognitive effort, however, love is an exception. We can line up domino's from here to Peoria but if there isn't a reaction strong enough to knock the first one down we are left with little more than a boring tiny little black spotted wall. Nothing about that is breath taking. It is simply not enough to be compatible, we need stimulus. Sadly pain is often a byproduct of that stimulus but that is favorable to being warm and numb.
There is more here but now is not the time.
Love will not betray you, dismay or enslave you... It will set you free.
falling asleep on the wrong side of the bed
Certain people, when without misery, create a world of woe within their own mind. Miserable is a place of intoxicating comfort in a way that a blanket is to a child long out grown the need for warmth. I loath the cold. So did she but that and misery are simply an insufficient bind. No longer shrouded in melodrama a discomfort previously unknown arises. At this moment one of my favorite quotes echoes as I fall from the tight rope that I have been walking for weeks. "I was born for the storm, and the clam does not suit me."
abandoned.
three times.
What now?
Little trust, and even less hope. Purgatory. The greatest sunrise in ages could be presenting itself in the most exalted fashion, the first rays of sunlight following years of darkness. What a fool to use that blanket to provide shade. Who chooses darkness over light, damp cold over radiant heat, misery over joy? Someone with sensitive eyes resulting from years in an aphotic environment that's who.
abandoned.
three times.
What now?
Little trust, and even less hope. Purgatory. The greatest sunrise in ages could be presenting itself in the most exalted fashion, the first rays of sunlight following years of darkness. What a fool to use that blanket to provide shade. Who chooses darkness over light, damp cold over radiant heat, misery over joy? Someone with sensitive eyes resulting from years in an aphotic environment that's who.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
disarming villans
So I shit my pants in an Olive Garden one time. I was attempting to break the never ending pasta bowl record, which I believe was 14 bowls. I was around 17 and I am pretty sure it was the last time that I ever wore a pair of khakis. No, that isn't it. That isn't the story that I want to use to bring home my point. Let's try again.....
I recently received a message from a concerned friend regarding my particular alcohol consumption. Basically he believes that it is getting in the way of my goals. We haven't known each other for too long but I respect his opinion. Now most people that know me understand a few basic things about me. #1) I am strong for my size. #2) I am loquacious. #3) I have thrown up more alcohol in my life than most people have consumed. I like whiskey, Jameson to be precise and I'm not ashamed of that. I like it poured tall and on the rocks. When I drink.... I drink. I recall a time in the military when a good friend of mine named Allen (I am not changing his name because he is not in the least bit innocent) walked into our Georgia home with a handle of gin and proclaimed, "Hey Doc, we should drink this!" Now it was 9:30 on a Tuesday night and we both had to be up at 4:30am to make it to formation. So my question was a natural one. "ALL OF IT?? RIGHT NOW?!" Understand that I was not suggesting that we do that but Allen instantly thought this was a terrific idea. So, in the way that two great friends embark on a journey across the Appalachian trail, we set forth to conquer that jug of extra dry. This is one of the evenings that I experienced a great phenomenon that I refer to as "time traveling" That is when you move forward in time without any recollection or understanding of minutes, hours, and on rare occasion entire days.
The 6 mile formation run at 5:30 the next morning was less than enjoyable but that didn't matter because Allen and I accomplished the mission. We set out to do something and we did it. Yeah, it was dumb and it took us over five hours but we were focused and nothing was going to sway us. it was such a gratifying feeling to have accomplished our goal. Over the years I have conquered many goals. I have over 30 podium finishes across every distance in triathlon. I have owned my own business and worked some amazing jobs including being a fire fighter, marketing director, and salon receptionist. Seriously. I have first accents in two different countries and got banned for life from Notre Dame. I am constantly looking for the next challenge, the next adventure, the next chapter in my life's book.
Fast forward to the present day. I have made it a goal to qualify for the crossfit games. If you are unfamiliar it is a worldwide contest to see who the fittest man and woman on the planet are. What it truly is, comes down to who is the best at exercising. Now my aforementioned affinity for Irish whiskey may seem counter intuitive to such a quest since doing CrossFit with a hangover is not the preferred technique. Also the amount of money spent on booze each month could more than pay for better quality food, deep tissue therapy and fancy new shoes designed to make me stronger, faster and more bad ass than the guys in Southern California. Of course the main detrimental factor is the corrosive cellular nature of mass quantities of the sauce. It absolutely keeps our body from recovering from tough training by interfering with the bodies natural inflammation response and hydration levels.
This next part will be difficult for me for a number of reasons. First and foremost, this is not some life event that I have lived though and have contemplated and to some degree internally resolved. This is happening now, as I type this very moment. There are three bottles staring at me. They long for my embrace and I have an almost rapacious desire for what those bottles contain. That brings up the next point of contention, I may very well have a problem with alcohol. I haven't admitted that to anyone and in fact would laugh if someone else suggest that I did. As I am told that Hemingway did, I do my best composing while drinking. This brings up the third issue. You see, this is the very first time that I have sat to write any material for this project without some form of libation in hand. I'm not going to lie, that stuff makes me feel brilliant. It makes words effortless and it makes me uninhibited when recanting very painful memories. So if this particular rant is laking the typical LJ pizazz... well, I'm attempting it dry.
Let us sit around now and place blame on all circumstances. Let us arm those that can do us harm by allowing them to do us harm. Let us create excuses before our attempts so that our short comings will be expected and in turn easier to bare. Let's consume by the gallon the most toxic of substances so that we may implicate them in the court of our own demise. Let gluttony and sloth and greed immediately gratify us, for delaying that gratification is undoubtedly the path to greatness. Let our cup runnith over and our trips to the buffet be plentiful. If our objective is to know no greater glory than the release of dopamine than this is the light, the way. If, however, your aspirations extend beyond your nose perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to pour that fucking bottle down the drain and reserve yourself for a more exalted existence.
We all have a person or a thing or a time in our lives that has delivered to us great pain and sorrow; the antagonist in our life's grand play. We must disarm them. We must take from them all the power they possess. The crux; as I drill deeper into my cognitions it becomes apparent that I am my own anathema.
So what now?
I recently received a message from a concerned friend regarding my particular alcohol consumption. Basically he believes that it is getting in the way of my goals. We haven't known each other for too long but I respect his opinion. Now most people that know me understand a few basic things about me. #1) I am strong for my size. #2) I am loquacious. #3) I have thrown up more alcohol in my life than most people have consumed. I like whiskey, Jameson to be precise and I'm not ashamed of that. I like it poured tall and on the rocks. When I drink.... I drink. I recall a time in the military when a good friend of mine named Allen (I am not changing his name because he is not in the least bit innocent) walked into our Georgia home with a handle of gin and proclaimed, "Hey Doc, we should drink this!" Now it was 9:30 on a Tuesday night and we both had to be up at 4:30am to make it to formation. So my question was a natural one. "ALL OF IT?? RIGHT NOW?!" Understand that I was not suggesting that we do that but Allen instantly thought this was a terrific idea. So, in the way that two great friends embark on a journey across the Appalachian trail, we set forth to conquer that jug of extra dry. This is one of the evenings that I experienced a great phenomenon that I refer to as "time traveling" That is when you move forward in time without any recollection or understanding of minutes, hours, and on rare occasion entire days.
The 6 mile formation run at 5:30 the next morning was less than enjoyable but that didn't matter because Allen and I accomplished the mission. We set out to do something and we did it. Yeah, it was dumb and it took us over five hours but we were focused and nothing was going to sway us. it was such a gratifying feeling to have accomplished our goal. Over the years I have conquered many goals. I have over 30 podium finishes across every distance in triathlon. I have owned my own business and worked some amazing jobs including being a fire fighter, marketing director, and salon receptionist. Seriously. I have first accents in two different countries and got banned for life from Notre Dame. I am constantly looking for the next challenge, the next adventure, the next chapter in my life's book.
Fast forward to the present day. I have made it a goal to qualify for the crossfit games. If you are unfamiliar it is a worldwide contest to see who the fittest man and woman on the planet are. What it truly is, comes down to who is the best at exercising. Now my aforementioned affinity for Irish whiskey may seem counter intuitive to such a quest since doing CrossFit with a hangover is not the preferred technique. Also the amount of money spent on booze each month could more than pay for better quality food, deep tissue therapy and fancy new shoes designed to make me stronger, faster and more bad ass than the guys in Southern California. Of course the main detrimental factor is the corrosive cellular nature of mass quantities of the sauce. It absolutely keeps our body from recovering from tough training by interfering with the bodies natural inflammation response and hydration levels.
This next part will be difficult for me for a number of reasons. First and foremost, this is not some life event that I have lived though and have contemplated and to some degree internally resolved. This is happening now, as I type this very moment. There are three bottles staring at me. They long for my embrace and I have an almost rapacious desire for what those bottles contain. That brings up the next point of contention, I may very well have a problem with alcohol. I haven't admitted that to anyone and in fact would laugh if someone else suggest that I did. As I am told that Hemingway did, I do my best composing while drinking. This brings up the third issue. You see, this is the very first time that I have sat to write any material for this project without some form of libation in hand. I'm not going to lie, that stuff makes me feel brilliant. It makes words effortless and it makes me uninhibited when recanting very painful memories. So if this particular rant is laking the typical LJ pizazz... well, I'm attempting it dry.
Let us sit around now and place blame on all circumstances. Let us arm those that can do us harm by allowing them to do us harm. Let us create excuses before our attempts so that our short comings will be expected and in turn easier to bare. Let's consume by the gallon the most toxic of substances so that we may implicate them in the court of our own demise. Let gluttony and sloth and greed immediately gratify us, for delaying that gratification is undoubtedly the path to greatness. Let our cup runnith over and our trips to the buffet be plentiful. If our objective is to know no greater glory than the release of dopamine than this is the light, the way. If, however, your aspirations extend beyond your nose perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to pour that fucking bottle down the drain and reserve yourself for a more exalted existence.
We all have a person or a thing or a time in our lives that has delivered to us great pain and sorrow; the antagonist in our life's grand play. We must disarm them. We must take from them all the power they possess. The crux; as I drill deeper into my cognitions it becomes apparent that I am my own anathema.
So what now?
Friday, September 28, 2012
fear, loathing and eminent domain
What is it about life that just sneaks up and kicks you right square in the joint! Even when you are feel like you are winning, you are just a breath away from a scrotal kick that will send you straight to your knees. Well, here I am, on my knees again. This time it feels self inflicted though. Man life, you sure are good at this. Making me feel like I did something to deserve this pestilence. My thoughts are clouded. There is something brilliant dying to leap from my mind but it is held captive by my own... self loathing, no, that is a little harsh. It is a struggle that I face every day.
I am the main character in this play but after 30 years I have not yet figured out if I am the good guy or the bad guy.
My thoughts are scattered, you see I had this amazing concept on strength, internal versus external and how our experiences mold our perceptions on each. I composed at least a half a dozen paragraphs in my mind while sitting on that bar stool tonight. Something has me unraveled.
When I was 18, I decided to get my first tattoo. I was a senior in high school and had spent the entire summer between my junior and senior year in my best friend Mark Ziya's garage doing what we still to this day refer to as "The Program" The idea behind said program was to get so fucking huge that all the girls at school would have no choice but to notice us. That was my understanding of woman at the time. If you had muscles, they would be powerless to resist you. I have since learned that that is not exactly the case. It was phoenix in the summer time in his parents garage when we slung weight around like our hero's in those muscle magazines but it was well worth the daily heat stroke, the ladies would soon be swarming us. Mark was partial to the tricept kickback. My God if you could see how much weight that kid could extend in that movement. Personally I loved me some bicept curls and bench press. That summer I also took to wearing shirts that were a little form fitting. Can you blame me, I was HUGE! Alright, I was 155 pounds, but I was only 115 pounds when I started my junior year so I felt like a monster at 155. And what goes with super beast muscles better than a tattoo.
So there I was at some sidi establishment preparing to have myself permanently entered into a data base of people with "distinguishing features" Those who are not familiar with the process, the artist typically puts your design onto a special piece of paper where the artwork can be transferred in non permanent ink onto the skin to see how it will look before the actual needle work begins.
Like most all other occasions at this time in my life my partner in crime Mr. Ziya was in attendance. To this day I am still grateful that he was! I am going to back track a little bit here. In order for you to have an understanding why I would be permanently marking my body with anything at such a young age, it is important to have a some insight to my childhood.
When I was around five my parents separated. My mother was awarded custody of myself and my two sisters shortly after. This decision made by a total stranger would ultimately mold me into the person that I am today. A person with an amount of internal strength that is unwavering and virtually unmatched. You see, my mother didn't always make the best decisions. One Christmas eve stands out when I was a kid. I was just getting to the age where believing in that fat man in the suit was becoming difficult, but my little sisters innocence in that effect was still very much in tact.
It was half past eleven on Christmas eve. My two sisters and I sat and watched TV in our tiny two bedroom apartment awaiting the return of our mother. I could see the look of concern in my older sister's eyes. She spent so much of her early teenage years protecting the two of us from things like this and she knew that tonight was going to be tough. She convinced us that even though mom had not returned that we needed to head to bed.
Do you remember what it felt like to awake on Christmas morning, your heart beating through your chest; the culmination of so much anticipation. The covers are thrown off with zeal and you rush down the hall to find a pile of glorious wrapped treasure under a sparkling evergreen! Eyes as big as dinner plates you sprint to awake your parents so the feeding frenzy may commence. Well it was exactly like that, except there wasn't a God damn thing under that tree and good old parental was in some kind of drug induced coma. Now this is where strength part one comes in. My older sister calmly explained to my little sister and I that since we were awake so late that Santa knew and had to pass our house but would be making another pass soon. Disappointed, we returned to bed. It was at this time that I heard my older sister attempting fervently to wake our dead beat mother. What felt to a child like several days passed trying to fall back to sleep. Finally we were stirred by big sis. If I knew at the time what antipathy meant I would have describe my feelings towards my mother as such. To her credit, she did pull her shit together of a handful of minutes. She pretended that she was Santa and had us sit on her lap as she handed us unwrapped gifts that were clearly bought at a gas station just hours ago. Oh and we each got a twenty out of her wallet.
I can recant dozens of events like this throughout my adolescence.
Now some would say, "Oh no Leo, you were disappointed as a child?! So were the rest of us! suck it up!" The fact is I completely agree with that fictitious asshole. In fact, one of my favorite things to say these days is "Don't be weak." This has little inference to physical strength. The fact is sometimes in life we get shit on. Sometimes we get kicked and things suck. If you don't have patience, perseverance and strength, well... good luck. True strength has little to nothing to do with your one rep max. That brings us back to my terrible back tattoo. I have the word "Strength" inked across my broad shoulders. And if it wasn't for Mark fucking Ziya my first tattoo would have read "Stregth" Now THAT is a good friend! at 17 years old he called out that piece of shit tattoo artist and his bull shit artistic rendering of how a word should be spelled. He had my back in the most literal sense.
At this point in my journey I literally show people how to pick up heavy things for a living. Physical strength is obviously an integral part of my life. That said, the weight placed upon our shoulders by life's incessant tribulations outweighs that of the most impressive squat. I know first hand, I recently squatted well over double my body weight! Was that narcissistic? Probably.... It's my fucking blog!
I am the main character in this play but after 30 years I have not yet figured out if I am the good guy or the bad guy.
My thoughts are scattered, you see I had this amazing concept on strength, internal versus external and how our experiences mold our perceptions on each. I composed at least a half a dozen paragraphs in my mind while sitting on that bar stool tonight. Something has me unraveled.
When I was 18, I decided to get my first tattoo. I was a senior in high school and had spent the entire summer between my junior and senior year in my best friend Mark Ziya's garage doing what we still to this day refer to as "The Program" The idea behind said program was to get so fucking huge that all the girls at school would have no choice but to notice us. That was my understanding of woman at the time. If you had muscles, they would be powerless to resist you. I have since learned that that is not exactly the case. It was phoenix in the summer time in his parents garage when we slung weight around like our hero's in those muscle magazines but it was well worth the daily heat stroke, the ladies would soon be swarming us. Mark was partial to the tricept kickback. My God if you could see how much weight that kid could extend in that movement. Personally I loved me some bicept curls and bench press. That summer I also took to wearing shirts that were a little form fitting. Can you blame me, I was HUGE! Alright, I was 155 pounds, but I was only 115 pounds when I started my junior year so I felt like a monster at 155. And what goes with super beast muscles better than a tattoo.
So there I was at some sidi establishment preparing to have myself permanently entered into a data base of people with "distinguishing features" Those who are not familiar with the process, the artist typically puts your design onto a special piece of paper where the artwork can be transferred in non permanent ink onto the skin to see how it will look before the actual needle work begins.
Like most all other occasions at this time in my life my partner in crime Mr. Ziya was in attendance. To this day I am still grateful that he was! I am going to back track a little bit here. In order for you to have an understanding why I would be permanently marking my body with anything at such a young age, it is important to have a some insight to my childhood.
When I was around five my parents separated. My mother was awarded custody of myself and my two sisters shortly after. This decision made by a total stranger would ultimately mold me into the person that I am today. A person with an amount of internal strength that is unwavering and virtually unmatched. You see, my mother didn't always make the best decisions. One Christmas eve stands out when I was a kid. I was just getting to the age where believing in that fat man in the suit was becoming difficult, but my little sisters innocence in that effect was still very much in tact.
It was half past eleven on Christmas eve. My two sisters and I sat and watched TV in our tiny two bedroom apartment awaiting the return of our mother. I could see the look of concern in my older sister's eyes. She spent so much of her early teenage years protecting the two of us from things like this and she knew that tonight was going to be tough. She convinced us that even though mom had not returned that we needed to head to bed.
Do you remember what it felt like to awake on Christmas morning, your heart beating through your chest; the culmination of so much anticipation. The covers are thrown off with zeal and you rush down the hall to find a pile of glorious wrapped treasure under a sparkling evergreen! Eyes as big as dinner plates you sprint to awake your parents so the feeding frenzy may commence. Well it was exactly like that, except there wasn't a God damn thing under that tree and good old parental was in some kind of drug induced coma. Now this is where strength part one comes in. My older sister calmly explained to my little sister and I that since we were awake so late that Santa knew and had to pass our house but would be making another pass soon. Disappointed, we returned to bed. It was at this time that I heard my older sister attempting fervently to wake our dead beat mother. What felt to a child like several days passed trying to fall back to sleep. Finally we were stirred by big sis. If I knew at the time what antipathy meant I would have describe my feelings towards my mother as such. To her credit, she did pull her shit together of a handful of minutes. She pretended that she was Santa and had us sit on her lap as she handed us unwrapped gifts that were clearly bought at a gas station just hours ago. Oh and we each got a twenty out of her wallet.
I can recant dozens of events like this throughout my adolescence.
Now some would say, "Oh no Leo, you were disappointed as a child?! So were the rest of us! suck it up!" The fact is I completely agree with that fictitious asshole. In fact, one of my favorite things to say these days is "Don't be weak." This has little inference to physical strength. The fact is sometimes in life we get shit on. Sometimes we get kicked and things suck. If you don't have patience, perseverance and strength, well... good luck. True strength has little to nothing to do with your one rep max. That brings us back to my terrible back tattoo. I have the word "Strength" inked across my broad shoulders. And if it wasn't for Mark fucking Ziya my first tattoo would have read "Stregth" Now THAT is a good friend! at 17 years old he called out that piece of shit tattoo artist and his bull shit artistic rendering of how a word should be spelled. He had my back in the most literal sense.
At this point in my journey I literally show people how to pick up heavy things for a living. Physical strength is obviously an integral part of my life. That said, the weight placed upon our shoulders by life's incessant tribulations outweighs that of the most impressive squat. I know first hand, I recently squatted well over double my body weight! Was that narcissistic? Probably.... It's my fucking blog!
Sunday, August 12, 2012
we are common gardens with roses and weeds alike
Let's talk about how bipolar American woman are for just a moment....
Now before you get all pissy with me, I am not referring to some medical condition resulting from a chemical imbalance (no I didn't have to look that shit up!) I am about to say something very in-tune with how chicks think. First, They don't like to be called chicks.
Hold on, I just got a text from a lady friend of mine.... Okay, I'm going out for a while, don't wait up kids, I will pick this up in the am.
Refreshed, or at least as refreshed as one can be after not getting to sleep until 3am. Now before your minds start trying to put two and two together, the only thing that I got on top of last night was a large pizza. What if that wasn't the case though? What if I actually had an ounce of what cool people call game? I get to tell the story to my buddies and receive accolades ranging from jealousy to high fives, man I love me a good high five. That lady has a slightly different experience however. We all know the euphemisms affixed to the female that has frequent relations our of wedlock. We know that there is a negative stigma attached to such a person. Why is that? These women should throw the shackles of sexual oppression aside and then promptly meet up at my place for a discussion on weather they prefer back massage to foot massage. Not going to happen? Well it was worth a shot wasn't it. Now I'm not trying to be a feminist here, but women have a rough go at it these days. I'm not saying that things are all bananas and dancing with toothbrushes for us guys but in the world of courtship, sex and relationships today's woman are faced with a divergence of pretty epic proportions. More is expected from woman than ever before, and in turn, more is expected of the men that they would choose to be with.
The aforementioned female is a perfect example. Now before I start down this road I need to make it clear that this person is a friend. I enjoy her company for many reasons but as far as my knowledge on the subject goes we are simply friends. She is in my opinion a rather successful woman, she has a very good job, her own place and is in awesome shape. She recently turned 30 and to my understanding of things was also recently divorced. This woman clearly does not need someone to open a car door for her. She is independent, well educated and very capable. That being said, it doesn't mean that she doesn't want someone to open a car door for her. This is where we get a little confused and I will admit, a little frustrated ladies. You see, we enjoy opening that door for you. And up until recently it was considered to be chivalrous. Now days certain people look at such a gesture as oppressive or at best unnecessary. We know it is unnecessary, you have arms, but we enjoy doing little things that make you smile. It's okay though, we will figure it out.
So you want a guy to kill a spider for you without hesitation, that seems easy enough. What else? You want a guy who is strong and confident but willing to except indecision, okay. You need to feel like you are in control and independent but you would rather us decide where to eat tonight.
This is starting to sound more like an argument for why guys are having a tough time figuring things out, but really it comes from this power shift in the past few decades. For generations women were looked at like subordinates in our society. They were not allowed to vote, most of them didn't have jobs, much less careers. Women have never been any more or any less important to the world than they are now, the paradigm just shifted. Now that women hold powerful positions in major companies their is a feeling that they have to prove themselves worthy of playing with the boys while all the while maintaining their feminine reserve. If they don't then they are labeled. I'm not saying that shit is right, I'm just saying that is how it is. My female friend mentioned above has a mouth that would make most of my Navy Seal buddies blush. As a result people formulate an opinion of her that they likely wouldn't if I said the exact same things. So now she has a choice, conform to the social mores or do her own thing. Here is the rub though, when we put ourselves too far out of what society deems acceptable then things become difficult. If a woman is promiscuous, the thought is that she will have greater difficulty finding a good partner. What the fuck is that?? It's absurd that's what it is!
Look ladies, the reason why your selection in men is limited to a bunch of skinny jean wearing, indecisive, weak wristed man boys is because you have been giving mixed signals. You say shit like, Johnny Depp is amazing. Really? Fucking really? That guy couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag if he had a box full of ninja weapons! So, feeble minded men everywhere mimic Johnny's worst attributes in hopes of getting your attention leaving us with an army of men that sit down when they pee. That's not your fault though. It is a result of you trying to find yourself in this previously man-dominated world. Women are coming into their own and that is a great thing. But just like anyone in their adolescents, you're trying to figure shit out. You have no idea if you want the pizza or the hamburger so you say fuck it, I've been without for so long that I WANT BOTH! and that is how hamburger pizza came to be. You gluttonous little vixen you! You want a man that will hold your hand and give you his jacket when you are cold, yet you still need a man that will beat the shit out of a guy that grabs your ass in a bar. You don't need his wallet anymore, hell most women make a lot more than I do, but you still want him to pick up the check because it says I can support you.... not that you need it, we know, we know.
Ultimately that is what it comes down to, support. Support, warmth and security. Women desire a man that can support them, provide them warmth and security while simultaneously allowing them to be a primary contributing part of the relationship. I for one am up for the challenge. I've already got the part about beating up the asshole in the bar down, now I am working on the holding hands part. I know that we are not there yet ladies but we are trying and if you are patient it will be worth the wait I promise. In the mean time, try getting your shit together like my friend!
Now before you get all pissy with me, I am not referring to some medical condition resulting from a chemical imbalance (no I didn't have to look that shit up!) I am about to say something very in-tune with how chicks think. First, They don't like to be called chicks.
Hold on, I just got a text from a lady friend of mine.... Okay, I'm going out for a while, don't wait up kids, I will pick this up in the am.
Refreshed, or at least as refreshed as one can be after not getting to sleep until 3am. Now before your minds start trying to put two and two together, the only thing that I got on top of last night was a large pizza. What if that wasn't the case though? What if I actually had an ounce of what cool people call game? I get to tell the story to my buddies and receive accolades ranging from jealousy to high fives, man I love me a good high five. That lady has a slightly different experience however. We all know the euphemisms affixed to the female that has frequent relations our of wedlock. We know that there is a negative stigma attached to such a person. Why is that? These women should throw the shackles of sexual oppression aside and then promptly meet up at my place for a discussion on weather they prefer back massage to foot massage. Not going to happen? Well it was worth a shot wasn't it. Now I'm not trying to be a feminist here, but women have a rough go at it these days. I'm not saying that things are all bananas and dancing with toothbrushes for us guys but in the world of courtship, sex and relationships today's woman are faced with a divergence of pretty epic proportions. More is expected from woman than ever before, and in turn, more is expected of the men that they would choose to be with.
The aforementioned female is a perfect example. Now before I start down this road I need to make it clear that this person is a friend. I enjoy her company for many reasons but as far as my knowledge on the subject goes we are simply friends. She is in my opinion a rather successful woman, she has a very good job, her own place and is in awesome shape. She recently turned 30 and to my understanding of things was also recently divorced. This woman clearly does not need someone to open a car door for her. She is independent, well educated and very capable. That being said, it doesn't mean that she doesn't want someone to open a car door for her. This is where we get a little confused and I will admit, a little frustrated ladies. You see, we enjoy opening that door for you. And up until recently it was considered to be chivalrous. Now days certain people look at such a gesture as oppressive or at best unnecessary. We know it is unnecessary, you have arms, but we enjoy doing little things that make you smile. It's okay though, we will figure it out.
So you want a guy to kill a spider for you without hesitation, that seems easy enough. What else? You want a guy who is strong and confident but willing to except indecision, okay. You need to feel like you are in control and independent but you would rather us decide where to eat tonight.
This is starting to sound more like an argument for why guys are having a tough time figuring things out, but really it comes from this power shift in the past few decades. For generations women were looked at like subordinates in our society. They were not allowed to vote, most of them didn't have jobs, much less careers. Women have never been any more or any less important to the world than they are now, the paradigm just shifted. Now that women hold powerful positions in major companies their is a feeling that they have to prove themselves worthy of playing with the boys while all the while maintaining their feminine reserve. If they don't then they are labeled. I'm not saying that shit is right, I'm just saying that is how it is. My female friend mentioned above has a mouth that would make most of my Navy Seal buddies blush. As a result people formulate an opinion of her that they likely wouldn't if I said the exact same things. So now she has a choice, conform to the social mores or do her own thing. Here is the rub though, when we put ourselves too far out of what society deems acceptable then things become difficult. If a woman is promiscuous, the thought is that she will have greater difficulty finding a good partner. What the fuck is that?? It's absurd that's what it is!
Look ladies, the reason why your selection in men is limited to a bunch of skinny jean wearing, indecisive, weak wristed man boys is because you have been giving mixed signals. You say shit like, Johnny Depp is amazing. Really? Fucking really? That guy couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag if he had a box full of ninja weapons! So, feeble minded men everywhere mimic Johnny's worst attributes in hopes of getting your attention leaving us with an army of men that sit down when they pee. That's not your fault though. It is a result of you trying to find yourself in this previously man-dominated world. Women are coming into their own and that is a great thing. But just like anyone in their adolescents, you're trying to figure shit out. You have no idea if you want the pizza or the hamburger so you say fuck it, I've been without for so long that I WANT BOTH! and that is how hamburger pizza came to be. You gluttonous little vixen you! You want a man that will hold your hand and give you his jacket when you are cold, yet you still need a man that will beat the shit out of a guy that grabs your ass in a bar. You don't need his wallet anymore, hell most women make a lot more than I do, but you still want him to pick up the check because it says I can support you.... not that you need it, we know, we know.
Ultimately that is what it comes down to, support. Support, warmth and security. Women desire a man that can support them, provide them warmth and security while simultaneously allowing them to be a primary contributing part of the relationship. I for one am up for the challenge. I've already got the part about beating up the asshole in the bar down, now I am working on the holding hands part. I know that we are not there yet ladies but we are trying and if you are patient it will be worth the wait I promise. In the mean time, try getting your shit together like my friend!
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Valor is not always stolen, sometimes it's plagiarised
Duality, dichotomy, dualism, and diphenhidramine. So I said no to the halucigenetics, I never said anything about avoiding prescription strength antihistamines. Although I'm not sure if taking large quantities of these little fuckers is going to do much more than make me piss myself after falling asleep. No this isn't a cry for help, it's a Friday night and I no longer have the fortitude to endure the bar scene. When did it become cool to drink PBR? If you are at all curious about my current mental state just know that it's as good as it's going to get. I am not here to make people think that I am a bag of almonds but I am not going to walk around answering "Fine" to the bullshit question How are you doing? The truth is I'm not fine and most likely neither are you. Let's put on a happy face kids so that the strangers in the grocery store think that we are a great family. No, it's cool, I'll ring myself up and then bag my own fucking mac 'n cheese, you want me to stock the shelves while I'm here too? No wonder little Timmy is pissed off coming in this Unicorn forsaken place! What am I talking about? Half of you knows. The half that's pissed off. The half that doesn't think that you should ever receive an $85 ticket for not putting on your own seat belt. You're a grown ass man!! You should have the right to jettison through that windshield if you want to! You paid for that windshield! and this is AMERICA! There is another part of you though, the part that is scratching that patch of grass between your ears. I like to call that person, Johnny do what ever the fuck someone tells me just because they said to conformist. No, wait... that's too long. Let's just call that part JC. JC doesn't ever want to rock the boat. I get it, no one likes to get their fancy dockers and boat shoes wet. Hell, I even have a little JC in me. (A very little) but it's still there, it still exists and I still struggle with it sometimes. Not because I give a shit about rocking the boat... Fuck your khakis! Plain and simple, being excepted makes life easier. We have evolved into a species that celebrates easy. I want a delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwich but I don't want to have to open TWO jars. Ruffling peoples precious little feathers, or worse yet telling them that their feathers look stupid with those shoes is a sure fire way to get yourself ejected from the cool kids table. That's where the good ketchup is! PERKS man, I'm talking about perks. Look if I have to explain every time I make an absurd, random analogy with the faintest of connection to which I am talking this is going to be a lot longer than either of us wants to put up with.
So what's wrong with us? Grab your PBR hipsters and let uncle Leroy explain a few things from his twisted polarized world view.
You see, there are these people called bad guys, commonly refereed to as the villain. Now the fun part about being the villain is that more often than not you don't have to wear your seat belt, you do what you want and that is to be expected because after all, you are a bad guy. Or do we have it backwards? Are you a bad guy for doing what you please? As I just said, we gravitate toward anything easy, in turn, things that make our lives more difficult are perceived abominable and should be discarded. The thought of disrupting the herd is terrifying to us. It's not that we give a shit about the herd, if we did no one would spend six grand on a pair of shoes. That's a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for those lazy people in the bad side of town. But uncle Leroy, I worked hard asking for the money for these kicks, and those people don't do anything. So who is the bad guy now? Just because someone is so indulgent (read selfish) to consume such a gratuitous amount of resources on something as trivial as a pair of shoes or jeans while their fellow human beings starve doesn't make them a villain. I would say that their priorities are just a little twisted. But that's the rub, if you were never given the tools to calibrate your moral compus then you wouldn't know that you were being a total asshole buying those shoes. Six grand!! Really??? Fuck!
Focus. Diphenhidramine... who would have guessed it?
Two beers later and we are back on track.
Good and evil. That is an easy one right? Hitler = evil, Mr. Rogers = Good. But wait, even the most extreme characters in history were not all bad or all good right. If someone would have bought some of Adolf's paintings after WWI then WW2 might not have ever happened. It's possible that all the guy needed was some attention. Now I'm not justifying his actions. His actions were the definition of pure, unadulterated fucking evil. Here is where I am going to loose a few of you. Even one of the worst human beings to ever convert oxygen to carbon dioxide couldn't have been 100% evil all of the time right? In turn, I'm sure that good 'ol Mr. Rogers had a skeleton or two that not even Mr. McFeely had knowledge of. I just refereed to him in the past tense with absolutely zero knowledge if the man is still alive. Don't do that kids, it upsets people with formal degrees.
Let's set this up a little different. Let's take someone who is not quite on the shit head level as the Fuhrer but not nearly as saintly as Mr. Creepy sweaters. Let's place one of my favorite subjects in the hot seat and see how they stack up. This is a person of known brilliance, wash board abs and a degree of narcissism that is rarely matched. I'm talking, of course, about good old me.
All things considered I consider myself a good person overall. I've never cheated on or laid hand to a woman. I give money to homeless people even if I am pretty sure they will use it on cheap booze. In fact, I am typically more prone to do so if they tell me that they are going to buy whiskey. The most I have ever stolen was a pack of gum when I was 11. Yeah fact checker, I went to jail for burglary once but they threw that out didn't they! Besides, it was my dog to begin with! Damn it! Now you've got me off track again.....
These Oktoberfest are going down like water....
Where was I? Right, me. So, I'm a pretty decent guy. In addition to the things stated above, I served my community as a fire fighter and my country as a combat medic in two different wars. And now we have some material for the devil's advocate. Without getting too terribly deep into it, there is really no such thing as a good guy in war. There are guys trying to be hero's, there are guys trying to survive, and there are guys who look at war as an opportunity to wreak havoc upon whomever is in their vicinity. I was a combination of the three. I can honestly say that I did not join the Army in an effort to win medals, but I would also be lying if I said that I wasn't envious of the honor that was affixed to them. That is, until I received a couple. I am going to tell a story right now. This is a story that has been told many times. The only difference between right now and all of the other times is that this time it will be the truth.
It was a hot summer night in 2005 outside of Tikrit Iraq. I was a medic on my third deployment. I had three huge stripes on my uniform that screamed "Big dick Sergent" A rather sophomoric rank in all reality. Between this and my other two deployments I had already conducted well over a hundred missions without ever really killing any one. You might be thinking, yeah but you were the medic so... In all reality most missions, regardless of importance or danger should result in zero casualties. The fact is we get more from taking people alive and the group of guys that I worked with were as good at grabbing a guy asleep in his bed as Bernie Madoff is at ripping people off. We were after a high value target, like we were on most nights. We flowed through the house with a precision that an accomplished surgeon has wet dreams about. We found a hoard of women and children on the roof top. That's where they slept when it got too hot to sleep in the house. As we back cleared the house I found myself in a room of particular interest. I made it my personal mission to scour this room.
Here is the first inaccuracy in the way that the story was initially told. As it is known to others, I was looking for any anti-American material, some bomb making material or anything else that could lead us to the next bad guy. In reality I was pillaging, I'm not proud of it and I am certainly not fucking bragging about it! But it is the truth. The threat had been neutralized now it was time to see if I could find something cool. It was easily justified because, after all, our intelligence confirmed that this was the home of not just an evil terrorist asshole, but one of a "High level enemy leader." So here I am, left alone to go through cabinets and drawers without the slightest concern that someone lives in this place. I actually found a great deal of material that connected the occupants to Saddam Hussein. Good for me, pat on the head. So when all of the drawers had been tossed, I focused my attention on a basket of cloths near the window. I knelt down to sift through the soiled white tunics. Just as I did my left ear picked up an odd sound, it was a type of buzzing that I was familiar with but had not heard in a while. I looked left but it was too late, the buzzing was gone. So naturally I went back to sifting. No more than ten seconds later I heard the noise again. This time, I immediately look left and see a glow just above my head. FUCK! That's a cell phone! That is a cell phone in a terrorists pocket!! That is a cell phone in a terrorists pocket in a hidden location less than a foot away from me! I am on my my feet in a fraction of a second, weapon orientated on target, safety off, finger on the trigger! ...But I don't squeeze.
Now the story originally went, He lunged at me and I fired. Not so much.
I actually called for the guy in the other room, we will call him Steve for the sake of the story. Steve was in the room in an instant. I very briefly told him what happened and both of our M4 carbine assault rifles were fixated on the corner. We couldn't see the man because he was hidden very well behind a closet door. That's when it happened. Steve said, "Doc, we should shoot this guy." No sooner did he utter those six words, I let a volley of fire loose on that man's concealed position that would impress any fan of early 90's Schwarzenegger movies.
Fuck, I need another drink. Whiskey this time...
Immediately after that man's body hit my feet, a call came over the radio to determine where the shots came from. I remember loosing my composure a little. My superior officer asked who fired the shots and all I could say was, "It was me." now that seems like a reasonable answer except that there was about 40 of us all connected on that channel. If you knew this guy, you would know that his response was something close to, "yeah, and who are you asshole!" Then I broke another cardinal rule by saying my name rather than my call sign. (for those who don't know, a call sign is simply a number or nickname assigned to help soldiers maintain anonymity) I gave my location and within seconds a good friend of mine entered the room and gave the lifeless man two more shots to the head for the sake of being fastidious. One of my superiors gave me a high five, and like that it was over. I told my story, or at least the slightly modified version of it that I believed wouldn't get me brought up on charges to my bosses boss and then his boss. They were all giddy. I didn't understand. Later I found out that the man that I shot was one of the primary high value targets in all of Iraq. He was a "bad guy" a really bad guy, by our definition. So why should I feel bad, I eliminated a total villain. Here is where the dichotomy comes into play, and a twisted piece of fuck it is really. I get a medal announcing to the world that I am a hero for eliminating a threat to our nation. In reality, I become a murderer while giving this man martyrdom. Or did I have it right the first time? I guess if you ask my family they would say that I am the hero, if you ask his family they would say that he is. But then again my family has never heard the real story... but his probably hasn't either. They likely didn't know that he was responsible for the death of hundreds of people. Does it matter? I don't have the answer to that. All I know is that as I sit here typing that Unicorn forsaken award hangs from the wall over my right shoulder. And if I did not covet honor so much I would burn it like the piece of hypocritical trash that it is.
So what's wrong with us? Grab your PBR hipsters and let uncle Leroy explain a few things from his twisted polarized world view.
You see, there are these people called bad guys, commonly refereed to as the villain. Now the fun part about being the villain is that more often than not you don't have to wear your seat belt, you do what you want and that is to be expected because after all, you are a bad guy. Or do we have it backwards? Are you a bad guy for doing what you please? As I just said, we gravitate toward anything easy, in turn, things that make our lives more difficult are perceived abominable and should be discarded. The thought of disrupting the herd is terrifying to us. It's not that we give a shit about the herd, if we did no one would spend six grand on a pair of shoes. That's a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for those lazy people in the bad side of town. But uncle Leroy, I worked hard asking for the money for these kicks, and those people don't do anything. So who is the bad guy now? Just because someone is so indulgent (read selfish) to consume such a gratuitous amount of resources on something as trivial as a pair of shoes or jeans while their fellow human beings starve doesn't make them a villain. I would say that their priorities are just a little twisted. But that's the rub, if you were never given the tools to calibrate your moral compus then you wouldn't know that you were being a total asshole buying those shoes. Six grand!! Really??? Fuck!
Focus. Diphenhidramine... who would have guessed it?
Two beers later and we are back on track.
Good and evil. That is an easy one right? Hitler = evil, Mr. Rogers = Good. But wait, even the most extreme characters in history were not all bad or all good right. If someone would have bought some of Adolf's paintings after WWI then WW2 might not have ever happened. It's possible that all the guy needed was some attention. Now I'm not justifying his actions. His actions were the definition of pure, unadulterated fucking evil. Here is where I am going to loose a few of you. Even one of the worst human beings to ever convert oxygen to carbon dioxide couldn't have been 100% evil all of the time right? In turn, I'm sure that good 'ol Mr. Rogers had a skeleton or two that not even Mr. McFeely had knowledge of. I just refereed to him in the past tense with absolutely zero knowledge if the man is still alive. Don't do that kids, it upsets people with formal degrees.
Let's set this up a little different. Let's take someone who is not quite on the shit head level as the Fuhrer but not nearly as saintly as Mr. Creepy sweaters. Let's place one of my favorite subjects in the hot seat and see how they stack up. This is a person of known brilliance, wash board abs and a degree of narcissism that is rarely matched. I'm talking, of course, about good old me.
All things considered I consider myself a good person overall. I've never cheated on or laid hand to a woman. I give money to homeless people even if I am pretty sure they will use it on cheap booze. In fact, I am typically more prone to do so if they tell me that they are going to buy whiskey. The most I have ever stolen was a pack of gum when I was 11. Yeah fact checker, I went to jail for burglary once but they threw that out didn't they! Besides, it was my dog to begin with! Damn it! Now you've got me off track again.....
These Oktoberfest are going down like water....
Where was I? Right, me. So, I'm a pretty decent guy. In addition to the things stated above, I served my community as a fire fighter and my country as a combat medic in two different wars. And now we have some material for the devil's advocate. Without getting too terribly deep into it, there is really no such thing as a good guy in war. There are guys trying to be hero's, there are guys trying to survive, and there are guys who look at war as an opportunity to wreak havoc upon whomever is in their vicinity. I was a combination of the three. I can honestly say that I did not join the Army in an effort to win medals, but I would also be lying if I said that I wasn't envious of the honor that was affixed to them. That is, until I received a couple. I am going to tell a story right now. This is a story that has been told many times. The only difference between right now and all of the other times is that this time it will be the truth.
It was a hot summer night in 2005 outside of Tikrit Iraq. I was a medic on my third deployment. I had three huge stripes on my uniform that screamed "Big dick Sergent" A rather sophomoric rank in all reality. Between this and my other two deployments I had already conducted well over a hundred missions without ever really killing any one. You might be thinking, yeah but you were the medic so... In all reality most missions, regardless of importance or danger should result in zero casualties. The fact is we get more from taking people alive and the group of guys that I worked with were as good at grabbing a guy asleep in his bed as Bernie Madoff is at ripping people off. We were after a high value target, like we were on most nights. We flowed through the house with a precision that an accomplished surgeon has wet dreams about. We found a hoard of women and children on the roof top. That's where they slept when it got too hot to sleep in the house. As we back cleared the house I found myself in a room of particular interest. I made it my personal mission to scour this room.
Here is the first inaccuracy in the way that the story was initially told. As it is known to others, I was looking for any anti-American material, some bomb making material or anything else that could lead us to the next bad guy. In reality I was pillaging, I'm not proud of it and I am certainly not fucking bragging about it! But it is the truth. The threat had been neutralized now it was time to see if I could find something cool. It was easily justified because, after all, our intelligence confirmed that this was the home of not just an evil terrorist asshole, but one of a "High level enemy leader." So here I am, left alone to go through cabinets and drawers without the slightest concern that someone lives in this place. I actually found a great deal of material that connected the occupants to Saddam Hussein. Good for me, pat on the head. So when all of the drawers had been tossed, I focused my attention on a basket of cloths near the window. I knelt down to sift through the soiled white tunics. Just as I did my left ear picked up an odd sound, it was a type of buzzing that I was familiar with but had not heard in a while. I looked left but it was too late, the buzzing was gone. So naturally I went back to sifting. No more than ten seconds later I heard the noise again. This time, I immediately look left and see a glow just above my head. FUCK! That's a cell phone! That is a cell phone in a terrorists pocket!! That is a cell phone in a terrorists pocket in a hidden location less than a foot away from me! I am on my my feet in a fraction of a second, weapon orientated on target, safety off, finger on the trigger! ...But I don't squeeze.
Now the story originally went, He lunged at me and I fired. Not so much.
I actually called for the guy in the other room, we will call him Steve for the sake of the story. Steve was in the room in an instant. I very briefly told him what happened and both of our M4 carbine assault rifles were fixated on the corner. We couldn't see the man because he was hidden very well behind a closet door. That's when it happened. Steve said, "Doc, we should shoot this guy." No sooner did he utter those six words, I let a volley of fire loose on that man's concealed position that would impress any fan of early 90's Schwarzenegger movies.
Fuck, I need another drink. Whiskey this time...
Immediately after that man's body hit my feet, a call came over the radio to determine where the shots came from. I remember loosing my composure a little. My superior officer asked who fired the shots and all I could say was, "It was me." now that seems like a reasonable answer except that there was about 40 of us all connected on that channel. If you knew this guy, you would know that his response was something close to, "yeah, and who are you asshole!" Then I broke another cardinal rule by saying my name rather than my call sign. (for those who don't know, a call sign is simply a number or nickname assigned to help soldiers maintain anonymity) I gave my location and within seconds a good friend of mine entered the room and gave the lifeless man two more shots to the head for the sake of being fastidious. One of my superiors gave me a high five, and like that it was over. I told my story, or at least the slightly modified version of it that I believed wouldn't get me brought up on charges to my bosses boss and then his boss. They were all giddy. I didn't understand. Later I found out that the man that I shot was one of the primary high value targets in all of Iraq. He was a "bad guy" a really bad guy, by our definition. So why should I feel bad, I eliminated a total villain. Here is where the dichotomy comes into play, and a twisted piece of fuck it is really. I get a medal announcing to the world that I am a hero for eliminating a threat to our nation. In reality, I become a murderer while giving this man martyrdom. Or did I have it right the first time? I guess if you ask my family they would say that I am the hero, if you ask his family they would say that he is. But then again my family has never heard the real story... but his probably hasn't either. They likely didn't know that he was responsible for the death of hundreds of people. Does it matter? I don't have the answer to that. All I know is that as I sit here typing that Unicorn forsaken award hangs from the wall over my right shoulder. And if I did not covet honor so much I would burn it like the piece of hypocritical trash that it is.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
You got all my love, Livin in your own hate
Holy hell, I can only imagine that this is what heroine feels like! What an outright rush. Sensations that have been hibernating for what seems like eons brought to life by an unlikely source. Let's call this the prologue.
This nonsense has been going on for far too long with out a direction. A place of platitudinous bloviation that served a purpose for a while, but a weak one at best. My cognitive dissonance is currently a double bass line that would give Joey Jordison a hard on. Self conflict has had me by the throat for weeks and I'm fucking sick of it. I would love to make some comment about how that is all about to end... today's the day... I'm going to attack the world with confidence.... blah blah blah. Nope. I have resolved to embracing the conflicting notions. I've got ring side seats to these shoulder angels going toe to toe in a bare knuckle fight to the death. The glorious part is I don't give a bag of bloody dicks which one wins. I'm just here for the ruckus. So dip your taped fists in glass little shoulder devil, I payed for blood shed and that is what I expect!
What the fuck is he talking about?? If you haven't figured it out by now you should just stop reading now because it's only going to get more tumultuous from here. So far this little shit show of a project has hardly scraped the skin of conscious thought. Well, I've got this axe sharpened and have already resolved to plunging it into the skull of my id. I am going to attempt to do so without the assistance of hallucinogens, but hell, if that's what it takes.... Besides I'm still technically in college and unless I'm off the mark, most of these useless sacks of fuck are on whatever mind altering substances that they can get their liberal little phalanges on.
An immediate reaction to this is, what a narcissistic piece of potty mouthed shit this fellow is. My response to that will never be anything more than nothing at all. Frankly if you think that the word "fuck" is any less expressive than the word Messiah than you haven't been paying attention. I really don't give three quarters of a monks shit if you think this is dribble. Thanks for coming out, you can pick up your free pens and water bottles on your way out. No, I won't validate your parking pass. Don't forget to buckle up before driving yourself into oncoming traffic. And that brings up my first attempt at something poignant. I didn't lose a minute of sleep over this whole theater massacre thing. So some guy went into a theater a couple of miles from my house and shot 70 people, killing a dozen of them. Does that suck? Yes. That is shitty. But for who? Not me. I wasn't effected by this in the slightest. I got to sit and listen to everyone and their mother try to relate this event to themselves. Hearing shit like, "Well I can't even go to work today, I am just too shook up. My cousins friend knew someone that used to work in that theater!" You selfish, slothful prick! Why do people feel the need to make that kind of shit about them. Look, I have been smack dab in the middle of some massacres before so maybe I'm just calloused to it but the fact is I would be pissed if some asshole that was hundreds, if not thousands of miles away tried to gain sympathy for those events. Which brings me to some shit that I will certainly be covering later, stolen valor and indecent piles of toad regurgitation that claim post traumatic stress without a pixie dick of an actual traumatic experience. Do pixies have dicks?
Look, I'm not a bad guy. I don't wish that bad things would happen to innocent people. The events of July 20th, 2012 were no doubt a tragedy. All I am saying is that it didn't keep me from driving to work and making inappropriate jokes. In fact, I recall one of my coworkers commenting about how awful the whole thing is, and my only response was, "Yeah, I mean we all have that one person that we would like to shoot in the head but a dozen... that's a bit excessive!" But that's what we are all about in this country... Let's see how big we can get our value meal, cause it's not REALLY a value until I have diabetes!
It's 2:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday and I am still in my under ware, what does that tell you? First it should tell you that I really don't care and that my job is better than yours! Now, if someone went directly into my place of business and shot a bunch of people that I know, I would likely get a little upset. I actually like those people, sometimes they bring me snacks (Thanks Kristy!) I would have a reason to react because my life had actually been impacted, both emotionally and financially. The simple truth is that life already has so many moments that are emotionally draining, why in the name of Peter Pan would you waste precious catecholamines on an event that you can have zero influence or impact on? Sure, donate to the families if you feel it can help but don't use the event as an excuse to get out of work or even worse, mope around acting like it is the end of the world expecting others to use up their emotional reserves to comfort your sorry ass. Holy fucking run on sentence! Fuck it, I'm sure that the two people that started reading this have long since stopped.
The entire point of this tirade is don't be a fucking leech. Don't, under any circumstance take something that doesn't belong to you, and that includes undeserved sympathy. Having empathy is one thing but by Unicorn please know the difference. Does it suck when twelve people get killed, sure. On average, 600 people a year are murdered in LA alone and I don't hear people in my class whining that they need an extension on their paper because of how distraught they are. They have about the same level of personal connection with that Crip that took five rounds to his face on his 15th birthday as they did to anyone of the people who were slain in that theater. Foolish hypocrisy and an unhealthy need for attention are two things I just don't have a stomach for, now dollar tacos.... That is something worth finally putting my pants on for.
This nonsense has been going on for far too long with out a direction. A place of platitudinous bloviation that served a purpose for a while, but a weak one at best. My cognitive dissonance is currently a double bass line that would give Joey Jordison a hard on. Self conflict has had me by the throat for weeks and I'm fucking sick of it. I would love to make some comment about how that is all about to end... today's the day... I'm going to attack the world with confidence.... blah blah blah. Nope. I have resolved to embracing the conflicting notions. I've got ring side seats to these shoulder angels going toe to toe in a bare knuckle fight to the death. The glorious part is I don't give a bag of bloody dicks which one wins. I'm just here for the ruckus. So dip your taped fists in glass little shoulder devil, I payed for blood shed and that is what I expect!
What the fuck is he talking about?? If you haven't figured it out by now you should just stop reading now because it's only going to get more tumultuous from here. So far this little shit show of a project has hardly scraped the skin of conscious thought. Well, I've got this axe sharpened and have already resolved to plunging it into the skull of my id. I am going to attempt to do so without the assistance of hallucinogens, but hell, if that's what it takes.... Besides I'm still technically in college and unless I'm off the mark, most of these useless sacks of fuck are on whatever mind altering substances that they can get their liberal little phalanges on.
An immediate reaction to this is, what a narcissistic piece of potty mouthed shit this fellow is. My response to that will never be anything more than nothing at all. Frankly if you think that the word "fuck" is any less expressive than the word Messiah than you haven't been paying attention. I really don't give three quarters of a monks shit if you think this is dribble. Thanks for coming out, you can pick up your free pens and water bottles on your way out. No, I won't validate your parking pass. Don't forget to buckle up before driving yourself into oncoming traffic. And that brings up my first attempt at something poignant. I didn't lose a minute of sleep over this whole theater massacre thing. So some guy went into a theater a couple of miles from my house and shot 70 people, killing a dozen of them. Does that suck? Yes. That is shitty. But for who? Not me. I wasn't effected by this in the slightest. I got to sit and listen to everyone and their mother try to relate this event to themselves. Hearing shit like, "Well I can't even go to work today, I am just too shook up. My cousins friend knew someone that used to work in that theater!" You selfish, slothful prick! Why do people feel the need to make that kind of shit about them. Look, I have been smack dab in the middle of some massacres before so maybe I'm just calloused to it but the fact is I would be pissed if some asshole that was hundreds, if not thousands of miles away tried to gain sympathy for those events. Which brings me to some shit that I will certainly be covering later, stolen valor and indecent piles of toad regurgitation that claim post traumatic stress without a pixie dick of an actual traumatic experience. Do pixies have dicks?
Look, I'm not a bad guy. I don't wish that bad things would happen to innocent people. The events of July 20th, 2012 were no doubt a tragedy. All I am saying is that it didn't keep me from driving to work and making inappropriate jokes. In fact, I recall one of my coworkers commenting about how awful the whole thing is, and my only response was, "Yeah, I mean we all have that one person that we would like to shoot in the head but a dozen... that's a bit excessive!" But that's what we are all about in this country... Let's see how big we can get our value meal, cause it's not REALLY a value until I have diabetes!
It's 2:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday and I am still in my under ware, what does that tell you? First it should tell you that I really don't care and that my job is better than yours! Now, if someone went directly into my place of business and shot a bunch of people that I know, I would likely get a little upset. I actually like those people, sometimes they bring me snacks (Thanks Kristy!) I would have a reason to react because my life had actually been impacted, both emotionally and financially. The simple truth is that life already has so many moments that are emotionally draining, why in the name of Peter Pan would you waste precious catecholamines on an event that you can have zero influence or impact on? Sure, donate to the families if you feel it can help but don't use the event as an excuse to get out of work or even worse, mope around acting like it is the end of the world expecting others to use up their emotional reserves to comfort your sorry ass. Holy fucking run on sentence! Fuck it, I'm sure that the two people that started reading this have long since stopped.
The entire point of this tirade is don't be a fucking leech. Don't, under any circumstance take something that doesn't belong to you, and that includes undeserved sympathy. Having empathy is one thing but by Unicorn please know the difference. Does it suck when twelve people get killed, sure. On average, 600 people a year are murdered in LA alone and I don't hear people in my class whining that they need an extension on their paper because of how distraught they are. They have about the same level of personal connection with that Crip that took five rounds to his face on his 15th birthday as they did to anyone of the people who were slain in that theater. Foolish hypocrisy and an unhealthy need for attention are two things I just don't have a stomach for, now dollar tacos.... That is something worth finally putting my pants on for.
Friday, May 11, 2012
this weight is crushing
"Now drive me far.... away.... away.... away..... FAR!! I don't care where just FAR! away"
a scalpel or an axe
a bullet or a bomb
a pearl or a star
an entire lifetime of joy and happiness given to safety. A dream of unconditional surrender and love interrupted by the sound of the dryer spinning towels.
Faith is an interesting concept. belief unwavering. forgive forget forgo. is there a place for analytical process in faith? and in this a death, a rebirth and a willingness to die again. death is the simplest of these things. a willingness to die is different than a willingness to live. i suppose there is a certain degree of romance associated with someone saying they would die for you, however, it lacks complexity. it omits adversity. to roll over and surrender is not the makings of an everlasting love. To fight, persevere and live through hardship, to brave the flame is a choice that requires absolute conviction. a commitment to something more trying. there is nothing enlightened about dying, nothing brave about it. to live is to endure. love is not a sprint, it's a marathon.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
I won't close my eyes
It is eery, a sort of silence that once again pits me against the incessant tick tock. T-minus my life and counting.... I can win this fight, I have the chops. I am 90oz. deep. Who counts this way? People who drink 40's that's who!! A sip, a digression. You know what is annoying? explaining yourself. If I had the intellectual prowess of a James Keenan I would have long ago shot myself in the face. Digress? I do. There was a point to this charade, however, it was long ago forgotten.
ONE.
there is.
Judgement does not exist.
LOVE.
arbitrary.
bring your hammer.
Have faith in me. well, that is the easy part isn't it! Step up for once! Unless you are not in it for the long haul. If that is the case then leave me hear with my thoughts. Make the move or move on.
Walls are for breaking. Libations for indulging. Do not say that you like "certain versions of me" There is me, all of me, always. I will never change. I have dodged bullets, compressed babies dead hearts without success, operated on young and old, killed bad men, written college term papers, and rescued cats from trees (among other things) to be EXACTLY who I am and I WILL NOT change now. I am proud of the person that I am. Forged in fire, crippled by loss. Humbled by grace, fortified by victory. I am the product of all of my triumphs and defeats. I will not apologize.
sigh.
Wish I died instead of lived. I hate the mirror. medals adorn the walls of this hollow thing I refer to as a home. Write ups protesting A HERO RESIDES HERE! bullshit! These words are as hollow as the walls they are mounted on. The true heroes are warm, for they are comforted by six feet of soil. Valor?! The words "I love you" as spoken by my 9 year old niece mean more to me than "you fought with valor" could ever mean from any general! Your medals are arbitrary at best. Politics.
I had a point.
Fuck it.... let's go bowling.
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