A Little About Me (OK, A Lot...)

One of my PC Students from last year wanted to interview me for her U.S. History class. I was immensely flattered but she might have bitten off a little more than she intended. Here is the interview.

A.P. United States History
May 2005

Oral History Interview Questions: Two individuals will be interviewed in order to compare motives and experiences as a United States Marine at mid-century and during the Persian Gulf War through the present day.

1. Why did you decide to join the United States’ military? Why Marines, specifically?

Wow, this is involved. How far back do you want me to go?

OK, I had a rough upbringing with a lot of divorce and step-parents on both sides. I spent my 8th, 9th, and 10th grade years with my father in Seattle. Then my father divorced my first step-mother and my father could not afford to keep me. My brother graduated and went into the Army while I was involuntarily shipped back to Oklahoma to live with my mother and disciplinarian step-father. That year was rough as I didn’t get along with my step-father so the summer after my 11th grade year, I decided to run away to live with my dad in Seattle. But he put the condition that we would live as roommates and not “father and son.” He lived in what could only be described at the poverty level.

This is when I decided to join the Marines. I had always been very patriotic but never considered something as dangerous as the Marine Corps. Who would volunteer to go get killed? You join, you go to boot camp hell, you go to war, you die. Who does this sound good to?

Before I ran away from Oklahoma, I lay in my bed and thought about what I was about to do. My step-father would never pay for my college even though he had the means. My father couldn’t and probably wouldn’t either. I had straight A’s in advanced classes so I figured that if I didn’t get a scholarship, I could just join the military and get to college on my own later on down the line. It was also that night that I decided on the Marines. I hated my step-father and he had served in the Navy. My brother was in the Army and that didn’t impress me much. I thought about the Air Force but I didn’t want to fly and thought that there were only two social castes in the Air Force: pilot or peon. I didn’t want to be a peon.

Then it hit me: if I was going to do this, I was going to do it the right way. I was going all the way and how outrageous it would be for me, the bookish, non-athletic “good boy” to join the Marine Corps? Yep, if I was going to do this, I was going full throttle.

The next day, I went to the recruiter in Oklahoma and told him I was going to “move” soon so he told me to talk to a recruiter once I got to where I was going.

When I got to Seattle, life was not what I was used to. I had gone from upper middle class to poverty. I got a job and paid more than my share for rent and food. I went to the recruiter and told him I wanted to join but he didn’t believe that I was serious because of my good grades (must be college-bound) and apparent lack of any disqualifiers.

I was “too good to be true.” I had no record, no police involvement, no drug involvement, no pregnant girlfriend I was running from, and had high grades in advanced classes. It wasn’t until I almost aced the ASVAB that he took me seriously.

I had to call my mom (the first she had heard of me in weeks after I ran away) to have her sign the papers so that was, you know, awkward. She told me I couldn’t “come home” and that I had made my first adult decision. She wouldn’t stop me from joining the Marines. Also, she told me that the Naval Academy had called two weeks prior to inform me that I won a full ride scholarship. But it was too late. How different my life would have been…

I was in the Delayed Entry Program throughout my senior year in high school and left for bootcamp on July 28th, 1987. (I’ll send the expanded version of all this if you’d like to read it. It involves a lot more drama.)

2. Did you have any qualms about joining? Did/does your experience in the U.S. military meet or surpass your expectations?

Qualms? Absolutely not. I qualified for the Quality Enlisted Program which made me an avionics technician for the Harrier aircraft: one of the best and most technical MOSs in the Marine Corps. I thanked my recruiter years later because he could have made me a cook if he wanted to. All I said was that I wanted to be a Marine but he saw that I had potential and got me the best deal there was at the time.

After being trained in advanced avionics, I was sent to war where I put those skills to use to serve my country. When I got back, I applied for a commissioning program and the Corps let me go to the college of my choice (University of Washington) for 4 years. The GI Bill picked up my tuition and after 4 years, I was commissioned an Officer. Then after a few years I applied for the Special Education Program which gave me this deal: we’ll pay you to get a free master’s degree and you will do so in Monterey, California for 2 years. You will have no other duties but go to classes and study. Are you kidding me?

So now I get to work in the filed of IT for 4 years (my “payback” for taking the master’s degree) at which time I will hit my 20 year mark and be able to retire at 38, get half my pay for the rest of my life, and have a bachelor’s degree, a master’s degree, and 4 years of experience in the field.

Back to the original question, the Marine Corps has exceeded my expectations and I just outlined the benefits I got out of it. I poured my life into it so I could argue that I’ve given and much as I’ve got and I think the Marine Corps and I can tip our hats at each other in 2 years knowing we both benefited from the 20 year love affair.

3. How has it shaped you as an individual?

Being a Marine starts at boot camp. Once you survive through that crucible, you are changed forever. You are a Marine and that is the most valuable possession a Marine can have. It’s not like this in the other services or at least not to that degree. So I was a young, somewhat fractured kid when I entered with literally nothing but the clothes I was wearing and a $10 bill I was told to bring.

The Marine Corps served as my surrogate father. It taught me how to be a man and provided everything for me. Food, shelter, clothing, pay, a trade, and ethos, and a reason to exist. It enabled me to surpass my parents’ standard of living within a few years. It allowed me to build a family and transform from a poor, broken teen into a strong fighter, a caring father, and a loving husband.

So how has it transformed me? It defines what I am today and since I’ve been a Marine for almost exactly half of my life, and all my adult life, I have to say that I am a reflection of the forces that the Marine Corps possesses.

4. How has your view of your country changed from before joining the Marines to after?

I made a vow to my country when I was 18. I was to protect and defend her no matter what. I was not to judge policy or question the decision made by the President. This has not been easy, especially during the Clinton years, but I’ve always believed that a nation needs the strong arm of an obedient military. How to employ that military is not my decision. I have my opinions and I trust that the more powerful members of the military will hold the check and balance at the appropriate levels so we are not abused or expected to be mindless automatons. There is a certain amount of trust that needs to exist and again, it has not always been that easy.

My personal view is that we are the post powerful country this world has ever seen but I also believe that is not a guaranteed continuing situation. We have never been in danger of a foreign army invading our shores and putting our populace through the ravages of occupation. How would that feel to have a foreign enemy rolling across the Midwest?

No one really takes that seriously because they never thought it would be possible. But why isn’t it? Without a powerful deterrent like a strong military, there are plenty of nations that would be more than happy to see America take a hit. Look at 9/11 for a vivid example.

Before I joined, I just saw it as a way to take care of me and to nobly serve my country, as amorphous as that was. But now, I see it as a tangible duty to make it safer for my family and the Americans that I have grown to love. And if that sounds too “flag-waving” and altruistic, consider that we don’t get much money for doing this. As enlisted, I lived just the poverty level (I qualified for WIC when we had Alex) and for what I do now, I could easily make over 6 figures annually. But I’m still here.

5. Can you describe the typical recruit when you joined the Marines? (age/education background /ethnicity/ motives/etc.)

Normally right out of high school. Recruits are required to have a high school education and Officers are required to hold a bachelor’s degree. The demographic varies and is a slice of America itself but the majority are those who are bright but either don’t have the means or the desire to go onto college.

There is a common misconception that we only get the rejects of high schoolers who can’t get into college. Many just don’t want to continue on in education right after high school and most intend to continue their education after or during their stint in the Marines.

And there is another misconception that Marines are stupid knuckle draggers. This comes from the old days when they recruited Marines for one thing: mindless fighting. They wanted the scrappers and the mean bastards that just liked to fight so they went to the bars and recruited the “less than mentally advanced.” But since then, a lot has changed. They still want tough people and that’s what we make. But there is a heavy emphasis on intelligence to go along with the toughness. We don’t want idiots. For this reason, we have the HIGHEST requirements, both mentally and physically, to even join. Yes, higher than any other service.

In the Marine Corps, you are not judged by the color of your skin or where you came from. I know all companies say that but it’s no more evident than it is in the Corps. You rise to your abilities totally void of your ethnic background. For this reason, we do have a lot of minorities in the Corps because it’s the most level playing field for anyone who wants to join and works hard to succeed. I was a poor, half-Mexican runaway with $10 to my name when I joined. I now enjoy a better life than I could have ever expected. That’s a big draw for minorities who don’t get a shot like that from any other place in American society.

6. What was the political climate when you joined the Marines?

Reagonomics. Ultra-Republican. (need more?)

7. How old were you when you joined? Did you join planning to make a career out of the military?

I actually signed the papers when I was 17 but didn’t go in until age 18. I did plan on making it a career and my simpleton’s plan was to serve a few years, get an Officer’s program, and finish out my career as an officer. That it turned out that way is an extreme case of coincidence. I had no idea the twists and turns that my career would take and that it turned out exactly like I had planned overall is just a stunning example of irony. I had not foresaw what it would take or the opportunities that afforded themselves to me. It would have been impossible to project them and since many of them required the opportunity before them to appear, I don’t suggest anyone else count on the same path or try for the same one from their beginning. The likelihood that it would turn out like it did for me is minuscule.

8. What are/were your specific responsibilities/jobs as a Marine? Where were you sent?

OK, here is where you get my official bio:

I was born in Arkansas City, KS and enlisted in the Marine Corps in July 1987 from Seattle, Washington, graduating from San Diego in October 1987. I was then sent to Millington, TN where I learned basic and advanced avionics. In October 1988, I was assigned as an avionics technician with MALS-13 MAG-13 at MCAS Yuma, AZ.

On August 12, 1990, I was sent to King Abdul Aziz Air Base, Saudi Arabia, where I served during the Gulf War as an avionics technician and the Corporal of the Guard for the perimeter defense. Returning on March 21, 1991, I was promoted to Sergeant and was accepted the Marine Enlisted Commissioning Education Program (MECEP).

After 10 weeks of MECEP Prep training at MCRD San Diego, I reported to the NROTC at the University of Washington, Seattle, Washington in the Fall of 1994 where I earned a bachelor’s degree in Technical Communication with a focus on webpage design in the Spring of 1997.

I was commissioned a Second Lieutenant on June 13, 1997. After completion of the Basic School in March 1998, I completed Adjutant School at Camp Johnson, South Carolina and was then assigned to 1st Tank Battalion, MCAGCC, 29 Palms, California where I served as the Battalion Adjutant until January 2000. I was then chosen to serve as the Regimental Adjutant for 7th Marines (REIN), 1st Marine Division (REIN) until June of 2001.

From there, I reported to the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey California to pursue a master’s degree in Information Technology.

Currently, I am stationed at Quantico, VA in a payback tour as a Project Manager for the Training and Education Command Information Management System (TIMS) which is a web-based system that replaces 7 legacy system and tracks all aspects of formal schooling Marine Corps-wide.

I married the former Carrie Schramm of Renton, WA in 1988 and we have a son, Alex (13), and a daughter, Stephanie (10).

9. How has your attitude toward your service changed with (if any) unfavorable administrations?

A lot of tongue-biting during the Clinton years. But toward the service, it has never wavered. Like I pointed out before, I serve the Office of the President of the United States, not the man. And I’m a Marine, my loyalties are for God, Country, Corps, in that order.

10. Did/do you see a lot of government interference in the military as a Marine?

Yes. Of course. And that’s the way it should be. We work for the people of the United States and they are represented by the government. This is what people don’t understand; we are a military force that exists for the people we protect. They call the shots and employ us as they see fit, through the government. We may not like it but we’ve given up a certain amount of freedom to make those kinds of choices when we took our oath.

We do not exist to make the decision on who, where, or when we fight. That set-up only exists in countries where the military is in charge of the government and we all know how that normally turns out. So when people think that we military members hate the “government interference”, they don’t understand that we are aware of who we serve.

11. Any anecdotes? Words of wisdom?

Eat your veggies (if you want to pull anything off my site, I have about a million words you can use. Some of them even make sense.)

For Capt. Jason D. Grose:

13. What was the Persian Gulf like?

Dry. Hot during the summer, cold during the winter. Lonely. Scary. It felt like life was very cheap over there. Again, you can ask more specific questions or read my stories online.

14. How are you being used now that we are at war in Iraq?

Ahh, the hard question. Well, my family is thrilled that I’ll end up spending the rest of my time stateside. And I’m no masochist so the thought of going over there and getting blown up is not topping my list. But I’m a Marine. And I’m trained to do one thing: run to the sound of guns. To fight and to win. That’s what I do. So being told that I will not be going over there is like working hard at every practice and then sitting the bench during the big game. When I was in Monterey, this is when the whole thing started and the Marines there had a hard time looking at each other in the eye.

Given the chance to go, I wouldn’t hesitate.

But I don’t think it’s going to happen. They try to make us feel better by using logic: we are playing an important role right now. If we leave, there will be a bubble in that important role. The Corps set me to get a master’s degree which makes me a very rare commodity in the Corps and they need me in the technical job I’m in because it will help all Marines now and in the future. If we can develop systems that accurately track their training, we take care of the Corps as a whole but also enable that individual Marine to be better trained. A better trained Marine is a stronger Marine and improves his fighting ability. That’s the goal.

So I’m filling a slot that’s hard to fill and that they invested a lot in me to get me here. They will get their money’s worth but despite those facts, it’s rather difficult for a Marine to work in an office when his country is at war.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Remember The Dead, Not Me... Yet

Today is Memorial Day.

I received some very nice emails from people but I have to point out what the real intent of this day is. Although I am proud to serve in the Armed Forces for the last 18 years, I am not dead.

Again, I hate to point out the obvious (unless you know something I don’t) and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but the official intent of this day is…

A day where we actively remember our ancestors, our family members, our loved ones, our neighbors, and our friends who have given the ultimate sacrifice.

How else can you celebrate it?

• by visiting cemeteries and placing flags or flowers on the graves of our fallen heroes.
• by visiting memorials.
• by flying the U.S. Flag at half-staff until noon.
• by flying the 'POW/MIA Flag' as well (Section 1082 of the 1998 Defense Authorization Act).
• by participating in a "National Moment of Remembrance": at 3 p.m. to pause and think upon the true meaning of the day, and for Taps to be played.
• by renewing a pledge to aid the widows, widowers, and orphans of our falled dead, and to aid the disabled veterans.

Also, here's a great poem.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Clown Punching

I was listening to the radio this morning and it reminded me of this story.

I had a good friend while going through TBS in 1997 and we spent a lot of time together, mostly making fun of stuff. He told me some of his OCS stories and one involved being out in the woods during some miserable evolution. The Sergeant Instructor came around at night, shined the light in the faces of candidates in their sleeping bags, and yelled "Hey, where are your hands? What are you doing? You punching the clown?"

Believe me, it was much funnier when he told it but that's not the important part of the story.

It was Halloween in 1997 and I was bored. My buddy told me to come over later and we'd go out to Georgetown to watch all the crazies on the craziest of crazy nights.

In my barracks room, all I had was a radio to keep me company so I got intimately familiar with the local radio station, B101.5. I would always call in to answer some of their trivia questions. So I had an idea.

I called them up and started talking to the DJ, asking him if I could dedicate a song. The song was "Tears Of A Clown" by Smokey Robinson and gave him the following background story:

"A few years ago, I went to a Halloween party with my friend Leon and when we got there, we had a great time up until the time Leon got into a fight with another guest. The guy was dressed up as a clown so the sight of a vampire hooking and jabbing with a clown was beautiful. So if I could, this goes out to the most clown-punchinest guy I know, Jesus Leon."

The DJ told me offline that they were doing the Halloween theme so instead of "Tears Of A Clown" he was going with "Monster Mash." Oh well, the treasure was just putting my story over the waves and unknowingly helping me call Leon an Uber-masterbater to the greater Washington D.C. area.

I got ready and rushed over to Leon's apartment, knowing there would be a delay in airing the dedication. I darted into his apartment and made him turn on the radio without explanation. A few minutes later, we sat there in his apartment and heard the entire thing. Then laughed for 20 minutes.

Somewhere, I have a tape that has this. I set my radio on "record" before I left for his house.

But the sweet topping on the whole story was that the DJ got into a little conversation with himself over it when he introduced the whole piece.

"Yeah, this guy goes around punching clowns, I guess. A clown-punching vampire..."

I swear he said some form of "clown punching"at least a half dozen times, never aware of what we knew to be the truth.

Here's to you, Clown Puncher.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Rio Down

Well, another $200 right down the shithole.

In my never-ending quest to find the perfect MP3 player, I bought a Rio Karma off of Ebay for $200. I didn't find out until after I had won that it was refurbished and the first time I took it running, it started freezing up. But then I slammed it like an idiot and cracked the face so I couldn't return it. It flaked a few more times and tonight, it met its final demise. It had stopped hard and I decided to take it apart to see if it could be salvaged.

This is the aftermath. You be the judge.

My Rio Karma History:

The Beginning

Bad Karma

I Got More Space Than Picasso Got Paint

Heavy Handed Electronic Repair 101

Heavy Handed Electronic Repair 201

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Hypocrite!

I almost got in a wreck on the way home. Some kid wouldn't let me merge and I went anyway, easing into the lane even though he tailgated. I just kept coming and he wasn't budging. It was getting very disturbing and Truckasaurus wasn't giving an inch. I kept coming, halfway into the shoulder with no place to go and way past the merging area. But I kept coming.

Finally he relented and I shot into the space. He got in the other lane and glared at me, as did the other young teens in the car. I was hiding my white hot anger very well and was quelling the desire to follow him until he stopped so I could have a few non-Christian words with him.

I was on my cell phone with my brother at the time.

We are all hypocrites, just to varying degrees. Today was not a shining example.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

This Bud's For You!

I got this from a friend today and almost choked laughing so hard:

I had a fun weekend; Lynda took me and a bunch of people out Saturday night to celebrate my b-day. She was asking Jason (surfer) what he does for a living and he explained that he works for a company that makes CD's and DVD's and stuff. She said "Oh, that's not a job you hear about every day; you need a Budweiser song!"

You've heard the commercials, right? Mr. Over-zealous Foul Ball Catcher and all that... this bud's for you.

Well, we all thought that was pretty funny, especially me. So later we are in the club waiting for the Reggae band we are there to see, but we are watching all the drunkards dance to the opening band. There's this dude out there, probably forty-ish, trying to hang with the younger crowd and doing the head-banging hard rock thrashing dancing that I used to see people do when I was growing up so I just had to show Lyn.

I pulled her over by me so she could see around this beam and just as I pointed him out, he turned his head, threw up, then kept dancing. She was freaking and yelling "He puked! Oh my God did you see that?"

So I didn't skip a beat but went right into my bud commercial, off the cuff...

"Here's to you, Mr. Puke-On-Your-Shoes-and-Keep-Dancing-Man...yes, you know who you are! You're out to have a good time and no amount of alcohol-induced nausea is going to ruin your fun! When your violent thrashing to the music brings up your breakfast, you don't care; you'll puke on your shoes but it won't mess up your groove! So have a Bud Light, Mr. Puke-On-Your-Shoes-and-Keep-Dancing-Man, and show them how a real alcoholic gets the job done.... this Bud's for you!"

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Technological Dependence Realization

My work computer took a dump.

I came in this morning and there it was, blue screen of death. There was kernel-dumping, requests to start over the computer, and advice to call my sysadmin if the problem persists.

What did this translate to?

“OK, here’s the deal. You’re screwed. And I mean like Elton John at a Chippendale’s screwed. Because I know you haven’t backed up in like forever and I know that your entire professional existence is carelessly stored right here on the one drive. Oh, you have it partitioned, you say. Ha, ha, ha, ha. As though that makes any difference at all. I’ll tell you what, I’m just going to shit the bed (in fact, I already have) and you can go ahead and see if the little partitioning thing helped you out…” (..maniacal laughter fade out to silence…)

So I had no email. I had no Internet. I had no will to uncurl myself out of the fetal position nor remove my thumb from my quivering mouth.

Then it occurred to me: I have become so dependent on a computer, A COMPUTER!!! that when it’s gone, I’m rendered almost completely useless.

I mentioned this to my friends the contractors and I tried to convey the abject horror this produced in me that I was a Marine and brought to my professional knees by becoming computer-less. Has it really come to that?

The contractors assured me that it really wasn’t that bad nor uncommon in this computer age. That the computer has become the new “pencil” and it what I do for the Marine Corps, there can be no other way just as they would be set adrift without the omnipotent computer.

But as much sense as that made to me, it still bothered me. They had accepted that reality in their civilian minds and had the luxury of being so dependent. But I was a Marine. I should have contingency plans, a way to changeover to “stubby pencil” if such a technology failure rears it’s ugly head.

But how? I run an IT system for the Marine Corps. I track all my contacts and “to do” lists via my email. Sure, I could go and talk to people but without the background information (the intel) on what specifically I would talk to them about, a sort of dossier, I would just be walking in unarmed.

So this is what it comes to.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Truckasaurus Takes a Hit

I was sitting in my office when this email came in from one of the contractors I work with:

"A driver in a government vehicle backed into your truck in the parking lot. No visible damage to your truck. The GOV's back bumper is dented and scraped. Law enforcement was called. They determined it was a fender-bender and did not file a report. The driver is from TBS. I have his name and contact information and will leave it on your desk. Should you want to get additional information or it is determined that there is damage to your truck you are to call US Claims. They are the insurance company that cover all government vehicles."

It seems they thought I was gone but I was tactically hidden... IN MY OFFICE!!!!

There was no damage to Truckasaurus but the Corporal who hit it asked David if I was "high strung" to which David answered "Oh, yeah."

He really did!!! Contractors are evil.

So I called the good Corporal and assured him it would take a lot more than that to damage Truckasaurus and that I appreciated him taking the time and effort to come inside and take responsibility personally.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

I See Dead Animals

I got done running 18 miles, yes 18 because I'm stupid like that. I never thought I'd say something like this but here it goes: the first 9 were great. The back nine: not so much.

I saw a lot dead animals on my run. Mostly possums and I don't think they were playing.

I just looked at them and really didn't feel all that bad. My reaction was "Dumb bastard." Does this make me callous?

Who asked you?

All I really thought about was the last moment when the little retard was flailing back and forth trying to decide which way to go until **splack**, suddenly its spleen is being forced out its ass.

Of all the hundreds of square miles of woods, it picks the only time available to get hit. I mean what a combination of forces must conspire for that little dumbass to be right on that comparatively narrow strip of road at the right time when a car happens to be coming by. And then most people will swerve, at least a little, to avoid hitting it so it really had to try hard to get under that wheel.

But this doesn't even compare to what I saw in California a couple of weeks ago. I saw the Grand Pubah of all dumbass roadkill. Open freakin' desert, literally as far as the eye can see. In all directions. And maybe an average of 1 car every few hours!!!

So the little moron had to wait! Time it just right and somehow overcome the overwhelming odds that would place a lone car out in the middle of the desert at any time other than what it would take to get hit. I mean, think about it. It could have chosen to be ANYWHERE in the hundreds and hundreds of square miles but it had to choose that little piece of pavement at one of the sliver-thin time slots when a car would be coming by.

"OK, I'll cross... waiting, waiting, waiting... what's that in the distance? I should wait...waiting, waiting, waiting... don't go... don't decide to go...getting closer... must overcome urge to go... waiting... F#^% IT, I'M GOING!!"

**sploit**

Animals are dumbasses.

I stopped by and saw a friend after the run who is home for two weeks from a year deployment overseas. He was mowing the lawn. Travels half way around the world to mow his lawn. And who says life ain't hilarious? (And I can't get off my lazy ass to mow my own lawn, and I live here!).

Got home, took a shower to get the disgusting amount of salt off of my body, ate a turkey sandwich, some pretzels, carrots, and a few chicken tenders. The grapejuice tasted like crapjuice so I dumped it.

Then it was off to blissful sleep. I asked my wife to wake me at 4:00 and I awoke by myself at 4:20, startled from a nightmare. Then I blamed her for not waking me up and if she did, I wouldn't have the nightmare.

I'm an 5th level asshole sometimes.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

A New Blog Is Born, Again, Sorta....

Two things kind of related, here.

Because I have so little to do these days and wile away the hours counting the ever-increasing number of grey hairs I seem to be accumulating at a disturbing rate, I decided just the ticket was to start another blog.

“Why would you possibly start ANOTHER blog when it’s obvious that you can’t even keep up with this one, you jackass.”

I’ll ignore the name-calling and answer the fair question.

Because I’m a jackass.

OK, now that my wife has had her say, can I explain?

It is precisely BECAUSE I can’t seem to keep up with this blog that I must start another.

(…jackass…)

See, I fall behind here but what you don’t know is that I normally have notes or at least a good idea of what I am GOING to write for each day but then I get behind and can’t write about new stuff when the old stuff is sitting in my temp file waiting to be fleshed out (that really sounds dirty, huh?).

So with this new blog, I can write shorter entries when the mood strikes and can keep up with it while still attempting to catch up with this one. Make sense?

(…jackass…)

And the second thing I wanted to point out is that the other blog also provides a way to get the current thoughts down so that I can wholesale steal from it when trying to catch up with this one. So yes, I will be double posting sometimes (like below) but if you are so inclined, check the other site for smaller posts that might not make it over here to this blog.

And if you thinks it unseemly to copy and paste entries from one blog to the other blog, may I remind you that most of YOU don't even do ONE blog? (THWAP!!!)

Here is the link so get it on your favorites: Viper's Den

Oh the tangled web….

Sir Phil's Preakness Freakness

Quick background: Sir Phil is a retired Marine Major who happened to be my first boss as an Officer. He was First Tanks XO and I was the Adj. We became friends and we run marathons together now. I still can't bring myself to call him "Phil" even after his retirement so I compromised with "Sir Phil."

Sir Phil is....unique. OK, a weird freak. But a lovable weird freak with enough idiosyncrasies to fill a dozen therapy sessions. I think my wife nailed it by describing him as a "quirky little man."

So here is his email invitation to a get-together we are going to today. It kind of encapsulates and says it all:

OK, it's time again for the (periodic) horseracing party. As I continue to make plans that interrupt the Derby, I am focusing on the Preakness this year. Accordingly on 21 May, at my hooch in the urban sector of Spotsylvania County, I shall throw out the welcome mat and host a get together.

As with the last time, there shall be an eclectic mix of folks mirroring my sordid past. I have only a vague idea of when the actual race is going to be run (somewhere around 5 or 6 PM) so I figure to start playing Seabiscuit on the TV around 3 and have the thing adjourn when all the food is gone.

RSVPs help in chow planning, so you can hit me up with an e-mail at (removed by Jason) or you can try working through my social butterfly's "phone networking" existence and calling in at (removed by Jason). We're still at (removed by Jason), still mark the terrain with an old British car (though the current exposed one is blue instead of the red one I have to hide from the neighbors).

Directions have changed due to the latest Wal-Mart incursion, so here's how you get here now (assuming you're all in from the North):

Down I-95 to the (removed by Jason) exit, right turn at the light at the bottom onto (removed by Jason). You go down and turn right at the second light (the newly opened (removed by Jason) which takes you up to the Super Wal-Mart) and blow through any lights there. After you have passed the growing shopping extravaganza there, you will eventually come to the traffic signal at (removed by Jason). Turn left (away from Fredericksburg) and head down to the third light. The marker is the 7/11 on your left and you turn left down (removed by Jason). Two miles down that, you come to a spot where a right turn lane opens up and you turn right onto (removed by Jason). There is a neighborhood to your left called the (removed by Jason) but the fact that there is a widening for a right turn is the best landmark. After turning right onto (removed by Jason), you go to the next stop sign (removed by Jason) and turn right. Go to the next available right turn (removed by Jason) and go down there till you find (removed by Jason) on your right.

If anybody brings kids, they better be hungry and easily amused, because the dog is about the only interesting thing to play with and she's probably going to be stuck in the basement most of the time. Our kids are mostly entertained by telephones and video games and I'll be clamping down on both of those for the afternoon.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Ba... ba ba ba ... ba ba ba BAAAA....

Continuing my long tradition starting when I was a kid, I sat in the theater tonight to watch the 6th, yet third in the series, episode of Star Wars. This time I had my kids with me, switching roles that began when I was the kid with my dad, watching the first episode in some theater in Seattle.

We got there over an hour early on the advice from the theater. After all, it was the first Friday it was out so we expected to be surrounded by throngs of people, most of which would be decked out in the nerdiest of all nerd outfits. I braced myself for the stupidity.

But came, it did not (Interjecting Yoda-Speak I will, randomly this post throughout.)

We stood in line for the 7:00 show but discovered the long line was for the 6:30 show and by the time they filed in, we found ourselves at the front of the line. I found it strange that with all the hoopla, I would be the first one in a theater to pick any seat I wanted. I was interested but not Chewbacca-clad or anything (Disturbing, I find it that Word spell-check with Chewbacca problem, it had not!).

This was a mixed blessing because, yeah, I could sit anywhere and dead center was an obvious choice. But that left it open to the Fates to decided who would be sitting around us. The first stroke of luck came when a woman walked up in front of us and reserved the entire aisle. She told us she was bringing her son’s birthday party and I mentally pumped my fist.

“Great, I was hoping for kids or midgets. A child-midget would be the ultimate.”

I think I might have frightened her a bit.

Even when they filed in, I didn’t feel any worry because like I was at that age, I knew they would be silently enthralled in the movie and I could see over them easily. This was shaping up nicely.

After the movie started, it became evident that I didn’t get as lucky behind us. Two idiots in their early twenties had a bad case of the “I can’t shut my retarded suck” and yucked it up through the previews. I thought they would quiet down during the movie.

Well, they didn’t. During the fight scenes, they were quiet enough just like everyone else but during the sappy love scenes (many, there were. Cheesy, suffer us they made) they snickered and talked. I thought my looks back at them would get the point across but they would start all over again during the next scene.

The other downer was that for some reason, the sound was not very good in the theater. It was as though the only speakers were behind the screen and the “Surround Sound”… didn’t.

But overall, here is my take. Fight scenes: cool. Love scene dialogue: vomit-inducing. Special effects: wicked cool. Nostalgia of seeing Darth Vader come to be: awesome.

And some other random thoughts:

Yoda:

Yoda getting his Jedi on. I wrote about this before but it must be restated. F#$% with Yoda, you must not. When he gets his little green ass in motion, look at him go!!!

Frank Oz does the voice and “hearing” Grover The Jedi is entertainment all on its own.

Light Sabers: When I was a kid, like all kids, thought it was “Life Savers.” Now that I’m older, the thought of these things scare me. I mean fighting with a regular sward, you can get nicked, cut, or even use body armor to thwart a direct hit. But with a Light Saber, ANY contact mean you’re losing something. Poof. Gone. That’s freakin’ scary.

Darth Vader: Another ominous name that was closely associated with “Dark Invader” for me as a kid. It was a nice touch that they got James Earl Jones to supply the voice at the end but a little tricky to tell the kids that the voice of evil incarnate was also Mufasa from The Lion King. (Again, spell check had no problem with “Vader” but doesn’t like Mufasa. Go figure.)

I don’t know all the details or the intricate relationships between all the species of characters (because regardless of what you think, I DO have some semblance of a life) so I’ll go with the General bad-guy as the topic. Fake.

Oh yeah, his name was Grievous. Come on, people. I mean you were sly with the whole “Darth Vader / Dark Invader” nomenclature and I’ll give an honorable mention to “Han Solo / Hand Solo” idea (even though it was Luke who lost the hand) but “General Grievous”? Really? This is the best you could do? Was “Colonel Evil Dude” already taken? How about “Captain Not-Such-A-Nice-Person”? "Lieutenant Poo-Poo Head?"

Worst line of the entire movie: “I don’t even know you any more.” TELL ME you didn’t say that. Good gracious.

So all and all, it was a mediocre movie but worth the spectacle to round out the Star Wars experience. And although The Force seems to be with the merchandising department these days, nothing will ever beat the moment that Luke nailed the impossible shot to kill the Death Star. Man, now THAT’S a moment to remember.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

The Written Word

I have found a place where trumpets blare. Where the beer flows like wine. Where every dream comes true. No, not Hooters you degenerates, I’m talking something more along my nerdtastic tastes. The place I speak of is Books-A-Million.

I’ve been to Borders. I’ve been to Barnes & Noble. I’ve been to hundreds of others but this store was a big, fat slice of heaven for me and the moment I walked in, I was hooked. (Soemwhere in there, there is a book worm/ hooked joke but I'm not motivated to find it.)

I just couldn’t stop buying. To hell with the budget, I had a charge card!!! Here was the ones I couldn’t stop myself from buying:

Not Proud: A Smorgasbord Of Shame by Scott Huot and GW Brazier
The Little Guide To Your Well-Read Life by Steve Leveen
This Book Will Change Your Life: 365 Daily Instructions For Hysterical Living by Ben Carey and Henrik Delehag
Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul (For Carrie)
Guinness Book Of World Records 2005 (For Alex)
Mad Cat (For Stephanie)

There were many others that I wanted to get but withheld due to the thousands I have unread on my bookshelves.

Here are a few of my random thoughts about the evening:

1. It scares me that I now consider going to a bookstore for a few hours “a good evening.”
2. Suzy Ormond, the financial counselor, scares the holy living crap out of me with her insane eyes.
3. She is only outdone by the cover spokesman for the female version of “Body For Life.” It just screams “RED RUM!”
4. I still think Rachel Ray sells a lot of books because she puts her own face on the cover.
5. I had to stop from buying Rachel Ray books just because of the cover.
6. There is a reason some books are 90% discounted.
7. There is more “sex sells” approaches on modern book covers than even movie posters.
8. I judge books by their covers. For example, I almost bought the entire Lord Of The Rings series because it was bound in quality leather and looked real dignified.
9. The girl on the “To Kill A Mockingbird” cover catches my eye every time. She is the perfect “Scout.”
10. I’m starting to get tired of being called a dummy.
11. Grown men in comic and anime section REALLY scares the bejesus out of me.
12. There is no wider demographic than book store employees.
13. Life is good when shopping for books and they play an entire Enya CD over the sound system. Or Norah Jones.
14. It depresses me to think I will only read a small sliver of available books in my lifetime.
15. I wonder if I will ever add to the ever-increasing choices of books available in this world.
16. People who leave an aisle really fast probably farted.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Like Everyone Claims, I Suck At Golf. But I MEAN It!

Since I’m no Tiger Woods, I don’t feel the need to stay sober when golfing. It just isn’t that necessary and something needs to offset the numbing boredom of hitting a tiny ball with a stick and then roaming around a yard better than yours will ever be only to maybe or maybe not find the ball at which time you whack it again.

Doc invited me to go after we were done inspecting and who was I to turn down the opportunity to make a complete and utter fool of myself? And pay real money to do it.

I caught a break when I showed up late and they had already played 3 holes. Doc met me at the clubhouse and maybe because we were the last group of the day, the guy only charged me for 9 holes. Doc’s friend, another Marine Captain, lived in the area and was a member so not only did I get member prices, I got it half off. Doc’s friend was there with his wife and they brought along some clubs for me. The beer was there so I literally just had to show up, pay $9, and off we went. Maybe the big Guy upstairs felt the need to make up for the directions fiasco or something. Gift horses, people, gift horses.

Look, have I ever lied to you? No. So here’s what happened.

I pretty much suck at golf. I mean, I’ve never really tried to get any better because the moment I take it too seriously, my temper takes over and it’s a big snowball with shit-chips throughout after that. I took a few lessons at my mom’s insistence when I was young and played almost every Saturday with a buddy back in the late 80s in Yuma, AZ, trying to beat the heat but in the intervening years, I’ve pretty much stayed away from it. Here and there I’d be roped into a game or two but never just gone out for the pure experience of hate and discontent.

When I have played, it’s been feast or famine. I can hit the ball but either it cuts a line down the fairway that you could use as official surveying information or I lose the ball. Nothing in between. As a boss of mine one stated, I have “a lot of postage but no address.”

It had literally been years since I even hit a golf ball (even though my last two duty stations, I’ve lived within ½ mile of a gold course) so I made the appropriate warning to the other three. I suck. I know I suck, and I front-loaded the excuses so there would be no mistake.

“Which one of you three are the worst golfer?”

“That would be me” said the lady.

“Good, because today is your lucky day. You will NOT be coming in last today. Congratulations.”

But if you have ever played golf, you know this is a common tactic for people who don’t really suck. But I did. The more I assured them of my suckiness, the more it sounded like I was one of those people who is a decent player but feels compelled to announce otherwise just in case they have an off game.

The time frame between me showing up, having the conversation and approaching my first shot in many years was about 2 minutes. I squared up to the ball, mentally noting how strange if felt after all these years to even hold a club, and was very aware that three people were intently staring at the statement and impression I was about to make.

PING!

I caught all of the son of a bitch and the ball went screaming in a perfectly straight trajectory, dead center down the fairway.

(“Crap, that ain’t gonna help my argument.”)

I was stunned at what may have been the best tee off I had ever accomplished. I watched it shoot past the other two balls already on the fairway.

On the way back off the tee area, Doc was already mocking me with the dialogue I had just spouted about not being good. Great, I thought, this is only going to make my real game look that much worse when I start mulching up divots like a John Deere.

I had a few more good shots after that and managed not to embarrass myself too much. After a couple of beers, I loosened up even more and despite having a few really embarrassing shots that didn’t go past the ladies’ tees (which they forwent the pants-down requirement out of respect for the lady present), I managed to hold my own. No, not like that, you know what I meant. Pervs!

I insisted they NOT keep my score, even though I noted that because I missed the first three holes, I’d be well ahead of them. I just didn’t want the stigma of a score on my conscious so I just hit the ball down the fairway and drank beer. What could be better? Keeping score was only necessary if you planned on improving on it and since I wouldn’t be golfing until I was dragged out again, what was the use?

OK, I did have my moments. I lost almost every single ball in the bag and after hitting two separate houses on a single hole, I decided I should just sit the rest of that one out. If anyone would have come out to complain, I'd have to pull out my tried and true argument against such complaints:

"YOU LIVE ON A GOLF COURSE!"

But I also made some pretty respectable shots. Nothing like the worm-burner our host accomplished which, and I am NOT exaggerating her, skipped on the water hazard, BOUNCED OFF THE HEAD OF THE CROCODILE THAT HAPPENED TO SURFACE AT THE EXACT TIME THE BALL HIT HIM, and bumped up to the green to end up 20 feet from the hole.

You just can’t make these things up but I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes.

But the shot that made everything worth it had to be THE PUTT. I’m gonna go with about 50 feet because that’s what the Doc guesses. And he’s a doctor (although I don’t know why I had to take my clothes off.)

It was the 17th hole and I was on the green. I had consistently overshot all my putts so I thought hey, maybe this was my distance. I knocked it and it looked good…looked good…. LOOKED GOOD…. Klunk. OH MY GOD!!!

I couldn’t believe I sunk it. I threw my arms in the air and just fell backward, flat on my back without moving to break my fall. Screaming. Maybe the beer had something to do with it but it had worn off by then and it was actually an incredible shot. It would have at least made it in the top 5 on SportsCenter.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Remove Your Clothes. Don't Worry, I'm A Doctor

Tonight, a friend and I were eating at Logan’s Steakhouse in Jacksonville. It’s one of those places that give you a bucket of peanuts and you can throw the shells on the floor. Or at least I hope you are allowed to because if not, I really made an ass out of myself.

Continuing on that tangent, those peanuts are more addictive that crack-laced heroin. Shaped like Skittles. I finally stopped when my food arrived but up to that point, I had eaten, oh, I don’t know, about a cubic ton, give or take a few hundred pounds.

OK, OK, back to the story.

After a few beers (and don’t think this had ANYTHING to do with it, dammit!), Jeff and I had an interesting conversation.

Let me set the table on this one before we go any further. Jeff is a Marine Captain just like me. But unlike me, he holds a doctorate in education which instigates me to say “What’s Up, Doc?” maybe a few too many times, if you define “a few too many times” as every time I see him.

Anyway, he looks at me at one point in the night and says “Jason, it’s time to start getting your doctorate’s degree.”

My first thought was, whoa, I’ll have whatever he’s having! But he was serious and it struck me as weird because although I’ve harbored a desire to someday pursue a doctorate, I had never spoken of this. He told me that he thought I had what it took to get the degree based on my work and what he’s seen of me since we met a year ago.

But wait, there’s more.

He thought I would be perfect for and EDD which is the program he went through. It seems that there are two kinds of doctorate degrees: PhD and EDD. The difference is that a PhD deals more with the philosophy of learning where an EDD is more “in action” work. I guess when you get a doctorate degree, along with the secret handshake, it’s your duty to recruit people you think would add value to the field so Jeff was just doing his part. Obviously, his recruiting criteria needs work but I listened intently (while shoving another gross of peanuts in my suck).

He also told me he would help me through the degree since he had done it himself. He said he would make himself available and show me the way through the degree over the next 3 years.

How would I possibly afford a degree like this? Here is where it gets good.

Jeff also teaches classes online through Strayer University. The classes are asynchronous so he just assigns the work, answers questions via email or phone, collects the work, and grades it. They try to keep the class sizes small and with the sudden increase in student population, they are always looking for instructors. So Jeff asked if I wanted to teach classes and the money would pay for the degree.

I looked at him and said “You realize that you are treading dangerously near to ‘Too Good To Be True’ here, don’t you? You are telling me that you can help me get a job teaching online classes which will pay for a doctorate degree, of which you are offering to help me navigate? That’s what you’re saying?”

He nodded and then immediately spewed a combination of semi-digested beer, peanuts, and the dinner special all over my face before his head hit the bar.

Actually, he just wanted a commitment and told him while it sounded like an incredible opportunity, I would have to talk to my wife over the weekend and I’d get back to him next week.

Then I spewed a combination of semi-digested beer, peanuts, and the dinner special all over his face before my head hit the bar.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Ahhh... We Meet Again

Today was simple. I get up, pack, and head to Jacksonville, NC for a week’s TAD trip. No stress, no hassle, no blinding flashes of anger at my own stupidity. See, I’m learning.

After last week’s fiasco on the road, the very same stretch of road, I kept my promise to banish Mapquest from the Earth, or at least my computer. Yes, Mapquest can choke on it for all time. Choke!

Instead, I went to Yahoo! Maps and even then, I consulted an atlas and decided the best way was to keep to the major highways and avoid the hassle.

All was going fine until I had to get onto I-40 and here is where I will spend a few moments to complain and you judge if I was wrong.

I don’t know the area very well so how am I supposed to know which way to go given only two cities? Can I get a cardinal direction here? No?

Yep, that was the situation. How confoundingly retarded is it to tell a driver “Go this way if you are going to Stickitinyourassville or go that way if you are going to Cramitinyourcrapperville?” I don’t know these places!

Oh, I tried to take a quick glance at the atlas but my only shot before the interchange was foiled because the one I chose to scan for (while driving, mind you) was not on the map. So I took a shot.

A few miles down the road I came to a rest stop and pulled over. Studying the map I determined that yes indeed, I had chosen poorly. Fifty-fifty shot and as you surely guessed by now, I was heading in exactly the wrong direction.

No problem, only a couple of miles back.

The rest stop did not allow you to go the other way.

No problem, I’ll just take the next exit.

A mile goes by. Then Two, THree. FOUr. Freakin’ FIVE!!

Ten miles and a very angry chord in my neck later, I came across a sign that said there was an exit a mile ahead.

WHAT KIND OF FREAKIN’ BACKASS HILLBILLY SHITSTAIN OF A STATE PREVENTS YOU TO TURN AROUND FOR 11 FREAKIN’ MILES?

Answer: North Carolina. Oh, and Ohio as I learned last year.

It took me most of the trip to fully calm down but I made it to Camp Lejeune and checked into my room at the BOQ. Walking in, the first thought I had was that they thought I was a Navy Captain (0-6) instead of a Marine Captain (0-3). The accommodations were… palatial!!

They gave me a suite with a living room, a bedroom, and big bathroom. The ceilings were about 15 feet and all the furniture was new and made of wood. I really didn’t want to mess up the place, like I was staying in someone else’s room. So I abstained from crapping the bed, as is my normal custom.

After getting settled in, I found my route to the school I was to inspect tomorrow. I wanted to get the route down instead of leaving it for the morning because, well, you know me and directions. I didn’t want to end up in Arizona.

By the time I got back, I knew that the Day of Reckoning had come. I had to go for a run since I put it off all weekend and I thought that a night run right as the sun was going down after a long drive was just the thing I needed. After all, I had just run a marathon and I should be primed for a good, solid performance. Four silly little miles should do the trick, just to get the old engine going.

The first mile was wonderful. Mile two was a bit curious because I seemed to struggle. Mile three was debilitatingly horrendous. Mile four was a lot of walking.

What the f#%#$%? Had I NOT just finished a marathon in record time last week? Was 4 miles not a child’s toy in the hands of a man who can run 16 mile training runs? Was that my spleen I left out on the track?

I don’t know folks. I know that the humidity really took its toll but that couldn’t have been everything. Maybe it was that I hadn’t drunk enough water during the day (a common ailment on travel days since the opportunities to go to the bathroom are limited). I was soaking wet by the time I got back and felt like I had just run the entire day. It was pitiful and didn’t really instill a lot of confidence.

So I plopped sown in my King’s Quarters and tried to put it out of my mind. I would do better, humidity or no humidity. I had all week to overcome. And I had a new bed to ... oh yeah, I said I wouldn't. Damn!

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Leslie's Campaign Slogans That Never Made The Final Cut

I'm proud to introduce one of my students. OK, well, I call her one of MY students despite being her volunteer instructor at the Presidential Classroom a year ago for 5 entire days. All of the 40 kids will forever and a day be "MY STUDENTS." Get over it!

This particular student took me up on my caucus-wide offer to stay in touch because I wanted to know how things were going with them and with the magic of email, I have been kept up to speed on her progress over the last year in Catholic School. Yes, folks, it's been a wild, vicarious ride but she made it another year and I'm proud of her NOT being stressed, as was so stressfully explained to me recently.

Here is a list of her school election campaign slogans she came up with but discarded. Note, people, that the future of wit and sarcasm will not be in jeopardy. These kids have "smartass" down to a science. I'm getting all verclempt!

"Leslie Capuano: Dictator For The People!"

"If I Win, I Promise To Never Demand A Recount!"

"Vote For Me - Or Else.....Just A Friendly Suggestion!"

"I Haven't Dated Your Ex - The Least You Can Do Is Vote For Me."

"Hey... Harry Potter Thinks I'm Magical."

"Vote For Me...Please?"

"Vote For Me, At Least My Empty Promises Sound Convincing!"

"Vote For Me, I'm The Lesser Of Two Evils"

"U Can't Spell Leslie Without 'Lie', Which I Will Never Do To U"

"U Can't Spell 'Quality Care: Free Lobotomies' Without 'Leslie C.'"

"U Can't Spell 'Leslie Will Be The Best President' Without 'Leslie.'"

"Read My Lips: No New Taxes"

"Is Leslie The Best Candidate? It All Depends On The Definition Of The Word 'Is'..."

"Hey - It's Not like I Have a Social Life That'll Get in the Way!"

"I Met With Foreign Leaders the Other Day At IHOP And They All Said I Have Their Support For Ousting The Current Administration"

"I Like People......They're Tasty."

" 'Cos I Haven't Disgraced The Junior Class Office Yet!"

"Elect Me and I'll Take Whatever Steps Necessary for the Total Annihilation of Chemistry."

"Who Ever Said Scandal Was A Bad Thing?"

"Elect Me And I'll Make Canada A Holiday...Somehow."

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

When Good Captains Go Stupid: A Less Than Stellar Night With Sarah McLachlan

OK, I’ve put this off for long enough and you people deserve to know the truth. Especially since I make such a big deal of Sarah McLachlan. Things did not go quite as spiffy as I would have liked them tonight.

Here’s a little background to set this story up. I’m a big Sarah McLachlan fan and last night I went to see her in concert for only the second time. Earlier in the week, I had been so busy getting back from my marathon and going in ten thousand directions at once that I was unable to keep up with my constant need to set myself up for the next “big event.”

What am I talking about? Well, I got an email from another Marine who is stationed at the same base I am and she had stumbled on my page, noticing I was a big Sarah fan. It seems that her unit volunteers to provide security for local concerts and the money is used for their Marine Corps Birthday Fund. She wanted to know if I was interested in participating since Sarah was playing in Fairfax, VA.

Once again, because of my hectic schedule, I was not able to work this (if that shows you how busy I was) and left it to TODAY to give her a call and see if the offer was still good. Talking to her, she assured me that she could get me in even though they probably had enough to cover this concert. I was very thankful. Word-fumbling so.

This sudden opportunity created a bit of a logistical problem. I needed to wear black slacks, black shoes, and a white shirt, all of which were at my house. I would have to go home, get changed, and get back to the base in time to meet up with the other volunteers. While I did this, it occurred to me that I had seen her concert the night before and was not only going to see her again tonight, but possibly even MEET her!!! It was another one of those moments where I couldn’t believe the turn my life had taken and the opportunities that presented themselves, almost without asking. I was feeling on top of the world.

Meeting up with the other volunteers made me a little nervous. I was the only Officer in the group of young Marines (and to find out, the only Officer that had EVER volunteered for this), some of which didn’t even know who Sarah McLachlan was. They were just there doing another “working party” and I couldn’t help but consider the fact that my preoccupation for Sarah was a little out there. So I was quiet.

I was introduced to a rather large Sergeant whose age and attitude made it hard for me to believe he was “only” a Sergeant. He seemed like a seasoned Staff NCO and it was evident that he did a lot of these kinds of security details. He was the man in charge and I made sure that I made it clear that I was a worker bee in this situation. It felt kind of strange to once again be a brick in the wall and I hoped it wasn’t awkward for the others, having an Officer in their midst. It helped that was a formerly enlisted Marine but I couldn’t help but feel I was somewhat invading their little inner sanctum.

When we got to the stadium, we parked and I grabbed my backpack that had everything I wanted to bring but didn’t want to carry on me: sunglasses, wallet, water, digital camera. We headed toward the back entrance where all the tour busses were parked and passed the elderly guard sitting on a chair by the entrance. With all of us dressed in black and white, it really felt like the poster for Reservoir Dogs as we walked.

As we walked in, I saw that there were a group of maybe 6 people standing in a circle kicking a hackeysack. I recognized a few of the opening band members (The Perishers) from last night and whispered over to one of the others “That’s the opening band.” Of course I wasn’t star struck because before last night, I had never heard of them but I thought it was neat that I was seeing them up close.

Then I took another look and I saw Sarah.

I almost dropped my backpack.

From the point I saw her to the point I entered the building, I had about 20 steps and I was aware of every single one of them. I looked over as many times as I could, trying not to look like I was gawking but the fact was blaring in my mind’s ear that that was the woman who I had spent many many years with in a detached, listen-only kind of way.

She was not wearing any make-up and her hair was in no way “done.” She was wearing jeans, no shoes, and a casual shirt. Nothing about her said “Vocal Goddess” but instead was just a woman trying to kill some time with her friends.

She looked up as we passed by and I got a smile. It was ever so brief and didn’t return it because I was shocked. Just as fast as it appeared, her concentration went back to the game and the remnant of it lingered on her face, mixed with concentration.

Sarah McLachlan just smiled at me.

Ask my wife, I have never been shy about talking to celebrities. Over the years I’ve come face to face with famous people with not as much as a hesitation about talking to them but this was different. For one thing, it was obvious that we were supposed to just keep going and not interfere with the “talent.” Also, it was Sarah and I don’t think I could have put together a coherent sentence if I read it off a script.

What would I say? Explain to her what her music has meant to me over the years? Yeah, that would sound real stable. And I bet she’s never heard that before. During the day, I had thought about what I would say if given the opportunity and I finally came up with an introduction that went something like this:

“Look, I’m probably going to sound like a nutball but I have a few things that I’ll only be able to get out if I say it in one big confession. So if you will allow me 5 minutes, just 5 minutes, I can say my peace and then I’ll leave you alone if you wish.”

I thought it might just be unique enough to work and then I would spew forth what I had to say, totally blowing past the 5 minute mark. Then she’d be so impressed at my speech that she would ask for more information and we’d spend the next hour with me going into detail about why I’m such a fan.

Yeah, I know, it was a long shot. And the opportunity never came up.

We went back to a room where we were issued yellow wind breakers that just screamed “The Hired Help.” It was the concert industry equivalent to leprosy and we were quickly relegated to the bottom of the concert food chain. We then had to wait so we were told that we could go back out to the loading area and hang out.

You mean back to where Sarah was? Really? FOOLS!!!

When we got out there, I was disappointed to see that the group had already gone away. So then it was just hanging out in a loading area. Fun.

When we got back to the staging room, the Sergeant asked if I wanted him to put my bag in a locker. I kind of wanted to keep it with me because of the camera but I knew this would be problematic, not knowing how they were going to employ me. I was hoping for backstage but wherever it was, I knew keeping track of a bag would be a hassle. So I let him take it and put it away. In a fateful move, I never saw exactly where he put it.

Like any hierarchy, there is a pecking order in the world of concert security of which I was on the bottom rung. The Sergeant was responsible for our group in general but the assignments were made by a supervisor who walked in and grabbed people at random. This did not bode well for a couple of reasons.

Since the Sergeant had no apparent control of the actual assignments and the supervisor had no idea that I wanted to get as close to Sarah as legally possible, I suddenly found myself at the whim of someone who saw me as no more special than a warm body.

And I thought I was OK with this. It had been a long time since I was at the bottom of any food chain and I tried to shake the feeling of resentment. It was irrational, I knew.

The supervisor took a few of us into the causeway and after a few indecisive postings, I ended up guarding the side of a beer tent. They set up some scaffolding inside the walkway with curtains hanging off them for a designated drinking area. They didn’t want anyone sneaking in under the curtains so they posted some of us there to prevent such activity, leaving me standing there and watching the crowd go by.

I was given no instructions at all other than not to let people duck under the curtain. There were many things that sucked about this, some of them being:

1. I was guarding a beer tent
2. I didn’t know the answer to 90% of the questions people asked me because of my authoritative yellow rain coat.
3. I had to watch a demographic I really didn’t want to see up close, despite my penchant for Sarah McLachlan music.
4. I had to stand there for a couple of hours. I was standing a post again!!!

We had been handed off to another supervisor and I liked her because she treated us with respect. I explained to her why I was there and although she had never heard of Sarah McLachlan before, she saw how much I liked Sarah and told me that when the beer garden shut down, she would make sure I got a good posting with a great view of the concert.

That made me happy and got me through the rest of the “beer garden” time.

At one point, as I was really starting to get fed up with standing there like a dope, I saw a man who I correctly determined represented the next level of supervisor up. He was hurriedly walking from place to place with a walkie-talkie in his hand but what really bugged me about him was that he never even so much as looked any of the workers. It was as though we were pillars not worthy of his attention and I took a dislike to him immediately.

As he passed by me, making no eye contact at all, he walked over to my supervisor and started talking to her, pointing my way with the walkie-talkie. She looked over and me, shook her head, and he walked off in the other direction. She came over to me and said,

“They want you to move over here under the emergency exit.”

Internally, I was livid. The exit was literally 3 feet down from where I was standing, along a 50 foot curtain. I saw it as either cowardice to tell me of this glaringly stupid request or arrogance that he wouldn’t bother himself talking to the yellow jackets.

But I smiled.

“Why didn’t he tell me that himself?”

“What?”

“He walked right passed me, said nothing, did not even acknowledge my existence, and tells you to tell me to move. Why couldn’t he bring himself to tell me himself and save us all the time and hassle?”

I think she saw my point and was not used to anyone asking. She looked slightly embarrassed and my smile nor my gaze never wavered.

“Oh, they are supposed to go through us on things like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

After the beer garden shut down, I was getting worried because no one, including my benefactor, was anywhere around. The concert had started and everyone was leaving to see the show. I kept thinking to myself “5th General Order, to quit my post only when properly relieved” and waited for her to show up to take me to my new post with a great view of the concert.

She didn’t show up but another supervisor did. Crap! He wouldn’t know nor would he even care what promises were made to me. What’s worse, he seemed to be taking his supervisory role rather seriously. As far as I could tell, once the concert started, the yellow jackets were put somewhere in the entrances to the seating and allowed to pretty much just watch the concert.

Then I saw her walking up just as he was taking us. Great, I thought, she would snag me and make sure I got somewhere worthy of my obsessive Sarah McLachlan fanaticism.

Whether it was that she forgot (not likely) or that I had pissed her off with the whole authority question, I don’t know but she didn’t seem to eager to step in and instead, let the guy take me with some of the others. Walking around the deserted hallway, I just knew I was going to be stuck, once again, far away from where I wanted to be. When he snapped at us and said “Follow me,” I had to bite my tongue, hard. I had accepted my role as lowly security fodder, I had stood my beer garden post, and now I was being beckoned disrespectfully. I was getting near the end of my patience.

We made a full rotation around the arena without any openings so the supervisor told us to take a 10 minute break and meet him back at his location where they’d find places for us. I saw this as a perfect opportunity to get my camera from my bag so that if I got a good shot, I could take a picture of Sarah.

The problem was that I did not know how to get to the depths of the stadium to where we put our stuff so I asked the lady supervisor, telling her I needed to get into my backpack. I wanted to keep this low because I didn’t know how they would feel about the camera despite being told by the original Sergeant that invited me that cameras were OK.

Instead of giving me directions, she turns to Mr. “Follow Me” supervisor and tells him I need to get to the security area. Thanks a lot because it’s not like I’m about a micron from telling this guy a very enlightening story about respect or anything.

He turns to me and says “Why do you need your bag?” in a way that relayed that he was not too happy about it.

More teeth clenching.

“I need my bag. And I don’t know how to get there.”

“Just a minute.”

What he saw in my eyes, I’m not sure but he got on his radio and relayed the request up the chain. It was at this point that I wondered how many links were actually in this chain.

In what was apparently “lucky for me,” there was someone in the room down there and I was allowed to come down. After getting a set of directions that almost instantly confused me, I shook my head knowingly and set out to find the place on my own.

When I got down there with no problem, there was an older British lady down there and I told her I needed to get into my bag. She was nice enough but didn’t know where the bag was. Since the Sergeant had not told me where he put it, other than “in a locker” we set out to search around the small office. But we couldn’t find it and I was about to give up when I asked if there was any way we could call up the Sergeant and ask him.

She told me he was in the pit to which I asked if there was any way we could contact him. She said “Well, the show has started, hasn’t it?” which prompted me to suppress a really smartass remark since the music was blaring all around us.

“Wait a minute, let’s just go out there and maybe we can get his attention.”

She led me out the door, down the hallway, and through another door into darkness. Except the “darkness” was that of backstage.

I was quite literally backstage at the concert. And I was giddy!!!!

I walked by the sound boards, the roadies, the security, and all the instruments waiting to be handed on stage. I saw the little stairway that led to the actual stage and my head was swimming. I was REALLY here.

We got to the side of the stage were there was a security guard I didn’t know sitting on a chair with a direct view of the entire pit. The Sergeant I knew was about ¼ of the way down and there was only one other guard ¾ of the way down.

I looked up and Sarah was at her piano on the other side of the stage. My heart was about to leap out of my chest.

The British lady told me to go get him and I hunkered down to scuttle over to him with her in tow.

“Hey, Sir,”
“Hey, I need my bag. Where is it?”
“In the locker room.”
“We looked but didn’t see it.”
“OK, I’ll come show you.”

With that, the lady took the seat and we exited the pit area, returned to the locker room, and he showed me where my bag was (the only place in the small office we didn’t look and I was slightly embarrassed as well as confused). He asked me where they had put me and I told him the entire story and how I would appreciate a little help. Maybe even some time in the pit if he could swing it. While we were talking, I took out my camera and put it in the pocket of my yellow rain jacket.

“I don’t know, Sir, they only need two people and I don’t know who that other guy is.”

I knew my chances were low but then he said that maybe he could get me in and we headed back to the stage with new hope. He told me to follow him and I could stay in the pit if no one had a problem with that so when we blew past the first guard, I was hoping no one would say anything. When we got to the seat, the British lady got up and headed back and I had a sneaking suspicion she had expected me to follow. But I stayed with the Sergeant and he asked me if I wanted to man the post.

“If I could. For 5-10 minutes or as long as I could. I’d really appreciate it.”
“No problem, Sir.”

And with that, he hunkered down and left me in the pit.

The realization hit me like a sledgehammer. I was working the pit of a Sarah McLachlan concert. Yesterday I had been on the second row and tonight, right at this moment, I was mere feet away from the stage and in charge of keeping crazies like myself away from the Vocal Goddess.

I set to work right away. I looked up and saw that she was still at her piano and this was an opportunity to get the most treasured picture I had ever taken. Never would I have this chance again.

I pulled out my camera, turned it on, and pointed it at the piano but one of the band members was in the way and I couldn’t get a clear shot (this really does sound like an assassination attempt, does it not?). My hands were shaking furiously as I tried to steady myself and zoom in for a picture. I was almost there… almost… I can’t believe I’m actually…

I never heard him coming.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my right tricep and my right trapezoid. The music was so loud that I was effectively deaf to any approach and I jumped from being startled. All I heard was,

“OK, your outta here. You have to go. Come on!”

Many, many thoughts and emotions bolted through me at that moment. I was startled and almost swung my elbow around out of instinct. It was only the authoritative voice that stopped me. Instantly, that was replaced by confusion. Did he not see that I had a yellow jacket? Could this be a big deal, enough for someone to lay hands on me?

Then anger, how dare he grab me like that. It wasn’t overly violent but was made more dramatic by my convulsing at being surprised by this sneak attack.

“Come on. Let’s go!”

"But I... "

"NOW!"

I fumbled for my camera case that was on the ground and crammed the camera inside it. It was embarrassment that was taking over and cooperation now that I realized that I had really made someone angry enough to grab me like that.

The night before, cameras were going off all over the place and the pit security leaned over to someone and told them they would overlook it if the flash didn’t go off. No flashes. So my next thought in the lightning round was that he might have thought I was using a flash.

How pathetic it must have sounded when I told him on the way out of the pit “There was no flash!!!”

Then came “I didn’t know. No one told me.”

Whoever this man with a “Security” shirt much more important-looking than my yellow windbreaker was, he wasn’t really all that interested in hearing my story.

The next emotion, closely tied to embarrassment was hyper-embarrassment because I realized that the Sergeant who let me into the pit was really going to catch Hell. He put me there and not 20 seconds later I was hauled out of there like a criminal, sputtering excuses about ignorance.

We rushed past the Sergeant who I never got to even look at and I offhandedly noticed he had gone to take my spot (his spot) in the pit. The security guy who was not looking happy told me “It’s lucky I saw you before the performer’s security saw you.”

What? How many flavors of security are we talking here?

He took me further backstage where the British lady was with a similar scowl on her face. While my embarrassment was still in full effect, a bit of anger flashed, probably misplaced, but I was not going to take an entire series of ass-chewings from these people. I had no illegal intent in this matter and I was ready to explain myself. But not over and over.

Now it was just the three of us and I explained that I didn’t know I was forbidden to take a picture. If I would have known, I would have never tried it. He repeated to me that it was lucky that he caught me and not Sarah’s security or there might be a lot more trouble.

Then, in a strange move, he turned to me and apologized for grabbing me like that. He said that he needed to get me out of there before “they” saw me. He then turned to her and asked what they should do.

“Well, I need to talk to him” and she motioned for me to follow her back to the locker room. I had explained myself and while I would reiterate my story to her, I was not going to allow myself to be treated like a criminal. But I was still shaken up over the whole thing.

When we got back to the locker room, I started in first, telling her I was unaware of the rules concerning picture taking, that if I knew, I would have never tried it, and that I now understand, based on their reactions, that it was wrong of me and that I officially apologize. As I was saying this, I was putting the camera in my bag and returning it to the locker, ending by holding up my arms to show her that I had no other equipment nor desire to break the rules again, knowingly or unknowingly.

She was also shaken but very gracious about the entire thing, likely based on the forthcoming explanation I had just given and then obvious embarrassment I had over the matter. She, too, was worried that I would have been caught by the other security team and only briefly mentioned that I was supposed to be watching the crowd and not taking pictures.

“Normally we don’t mind if people take pictures as long as they are not the long, professional lenses but you were right in front of the entire crowd. With a security jacket on.”

I asked her what she wanted me to do and she said to go back upstairs to my assigned area. I was shocked that it would be left at that but I knew that the Sergeant would have to answer to my actions and I knew I would have to take him aside to talk to him about it, as awkward as I knew that would be for the both of us.

For just a moment, after it happened, I must have lost my mind and thought we would get it straightened out and I could get returned to the pit. Then that moment was gone when the reactions became apparent. Then as I was leaving, there it was again. That moment where I thought I could ask. But then the common sense that had obviously been lacking returned and I made my way back upstairs.

It occurred to me that despite being very very embarrassed about the whole situation, only the Sergeant, the security guard, the British lady, and I knew what had happened. But I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed as I ran into a few of the other Marines who were watching the show. I wasn’t about to go back to Mr. “Follow Me” and just found a tunnel to stand in, sulking.

The embarrassment morphed. Shame.

I thought I could watch the concert but when I found a great spot (on the other side, 2nd level) with a great view, I found myself wanting to go home. It no longer mattered that Sarah was singing her little heart out on stage, singing songs I had listened to thousands of times. When I looked down, all I saw was the pit and another mixture of feelings washed over me.

“I could be there. Right there. Look at that, he could reach over his head and grab her ankle if he wanted to. I could be right there and see her singing as close as that. If I would have just been cool.”

“There is the Sergeant. I let him down. I really put him in a bad position and abused his trust. Look at him, sitting there, wondering what was going through my idiot brain.”

“Those pit security guys. They have a job to do, to watch the crowd. How silly I must have looked up on my haunches trying to take a picture. Look at that. Everyone could see me. And the guard at the end had a clear view of the stupidity I was performing. How could I have thought it was OK?”

I no longer wanted to be there. A couple times I left the tunnel but then I had nowhere to go and Mr. Follow Me was roaming around. I was afraid he’d snag me to watch some side door and I’d have to tell him where he could go. I had been through enough this night and didn’t want any more drama. I was through being a cog.

I tried to remember how many songs were left and when Sarah left the stage for the first time, I was glad. But there was a 4-song encore I had to sit through and as relieved as I was to get through it (a situation I could have never imaged with my beloved Sarah), my stress level was rising as I knew I’d have to face the Sergeant after the concert.

When we got back to the locker room, I looked for the Sergeant. I handed in my jacket to the British lady and nothing was said about the incident but I couldn’t find the Sergeant. I looked around and tried to figure out how I could pull him aside without making it too obvious and without putting the other security on high alert if we snuck away to some area where I was probably being watched to ensure I didn’t invade again.

When I found the Sergeant, I didn’t even give him time to say anything.

“We need to talk.”
“Sure, Sir.”

He told everyone to head out and we’d join them in a minute as I led him down a hall and out into a deserted hallway. Closing the door, I had no idea what he thought I was going to say but I bet it wasn’t what I actually said.

“OK, let me have it.”
“Have what, Sir?”
“Don’t give me that shit. I screwed up. You were in charge and in this situation, it is not Sergeant to Captain but superior to worker. If any one of those others would have done what I did, you would have their ass. I pulled a dumbass move and it’s your responsibility to do what must be done so take your best shot and show me what you got.”

He smiled.

“Sir, I’m not going to yell at you. This is a civilian operation and that’s not the way it’s done in the civilian world. You screwed up, you know you did, and that’s all that matters.”

“Look, I really didn’t know. If I thought for one second…”

“Don’t worry about it, Sir. It was a mistake and you obviously know it was.”

“Well, let me tell you this. No matter what you could have come up with, I guarantee you it couldn’t be worse than what I feel about it right now.”

“We’re just lucky the concert security didn’t see you doing it.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. What the hell would they have done that everyone is so afraid of?”

“I don’t know, no one’s ever tried that before.”

“Thanks, that makes me feel a whole lot better.”

“I’m surprised they let you stay. Normally they would have taken your jacket and escorted you to the street. I don’t know why they didn’t.”

“OK, I need three things from you. First, did you or are you going to get an ass chewing from this? Because I want to tell them that I acted independently and that you are not to blame at all. I don’t want you taking heat for this.”

“No, Sir, it’s already done. No one is going to say anything else about it.”

“OK, second, are they going to pay you for my time? Because if they decide to not pay you because of what happened, I will reimburse your Ball fund of the amount you would have received for my hours.”

“Sir, they will pay us. You stayed the entire time and they didn’t kick you out. Don’t worry.”

“OK, and lastly, no one knows about this except you, me, and the other two security people. I would request it stay that way.”

“Don’t worry, Sir, I won’t tell the others.”

(BTW, I’m probably blowing that away if any of you guys are reading this but I didn’t want anyone to know that night).

“Well, I appreciate it and am truly sorry about all this. I doubt if I will be invited back.”

“Oh, no, Sir. If you want to work more concerts, we’d love to have you help out. Just let us know and we’ll get you in to any you want to work.”

I was amazed.

The car ride home was awkward. Only two of the 5 people in the car (the Sergeant and me) knew what happened but I was much quieter than I had been on the drive up. The Sergeant did a good job on including me in on the conversation as though nothing had happened but I couldn’t get over the cocktail of emotions I had running through me. It was with much relief that I bid farewell to the other Marines as I headed toward my car on base. It was well past midnight and all I wanted to do was get home.

But I was still haunted on the 40 minute ride home.

What was I thinking?

You always hear that if you learn some lessons from your mistakes, they were worth something.

I learned not to be blinded by my desire. I had wanted a picture (that I never got, by the way) so desperately, I overlooked the obvious.

I learned that I have a real problem with being at the bottom of the food chain. I never saw this one coming and while I thought I was OK with subordinating myself, I see that I’ve become accustomed to being in charge of situations and decisions.

I learned that one bad experience can sour the milk of something that has given pleasure for many years. I just can’t shake the negative feelings when I hear Sarah music now and I hope this is a temporary condition.

I learned that a Sergeant’s graciousness can be unlimited even when given a justified free shot at an Officer who made a bad move.

I learned that I can still make mistakes even after all these years of being “Officer-Trained.” This was the hardest lesson because I started falling for the infallibility of my choices and this experience made me be more aware of the decisions I make. Yes, in my profession I am rarely challenged and that makes it even more important to evaluate each decision with a very small-toothed comb. Because at best, the wrong decision is very embarrassing and at worst, it could cost someone their life.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Sarah McLachlan and No Fear

Today was the day. I had Sarah McLachlan concert tickets and I was thrilled because

1. Sarah is the goddesses of all music
2. It was only the second time I got to see her live
3. I got tickets through the fan club so it was within the first two rows
4. Isn’t that enough for you people?

If you keep up with my blog, you know that I’m a huge Sarah nut, that I’m pretty sure I’m a lesbian because of it, and that the only reason I joined her fan club was to get some CDs only available through the club (I mean, come on, I still have the remnants of a Y-chromosome). And since I got the tickets through the club, they play a little game of “Pick Them Up At Will Call And Only Then Will You Know How Close You Actually Are".

Carrie and I drove to Norfolk for the occasion and decided to make a day of it. After safely navigating to the location, we set out to the city to see how we could kill a half dozen hours in the raging metropolis that is Norfolk.

Unless you are into maritime history, Norfolk is not all that raging. We managed to find a mall and sunk $2 into a parking meter for as many hours. Once we got to the mall, we noticed there was a $5 valet service for all day so I went and got the Pilot, handing over my brand new vehicle to someone who likely didn’t have a high school education. I hoped she liked Enya because I let it play. I was counting on the soothing factor so she wouldn’t pull a Ferris Beuller’s Day Off on me.

The mall was great and we even snuck in a movie (Fevered Pitch). I love Jimmy Fallon (not that way, you perv!) and Drew Barrymore is actually starting to become palatable.

When we got to the concert, I was as excited as a little kid. Once again, I noticed the fan base was somewhat…how do you say… well… not of my exact demographic make up. Let’s just say that a lot of us batted for the same team. Uh, in case you took that wrong, let me clarify: just about everyone in the place liked chicks.

We got up to the Will Call window and with a shaking hand, gave them my ID. There was a tense moment when the employee (who I couldn’t help but imagine he might not even know WHO Sarah was) searched a few different piles for my tickets. If they didn’t have them, we’re talking mushroom clouds, folks.

He did end up finding them and when he handed this to us,

I had no idea exactly it put us on the floor.

“Let’s see, you are…about… second row… here.”

(My bowels opened.)

All I got out of my mouth was a garbled “Thanks” and walked off on wobbly legs.

Getting inside, I felt like a VIP when we were allowed to go in the “Floor Entrance.” The usher led us down to the stage area and we got closer… and closer…and closer…

By the time we got to our seats, I was ready to faint. I could see the detail of the metal cross pattern on the lead mic. We were so close, she would be RIGHT THERE.

Sarah.

Right there.

Never in my life had I been this close and as I sat there, ignoring the line of site to the microphone because it made me mental, I tried to imagine any other concert I’d rather be at. There was none. And I was mere feet from my single most favorite artist of all time. I would be able to hear her voice without the aid of the speakers!!! We were practically under her piano!!!

When the concert started, the front row wasn’t even filled all the way and Lady With A Peacock Up-Do sat right in front of me but we were to the right so my line of sight was not directly in front. The seat next to Cockatoo Lady was empty so yes, folks, my direct line of site was unobstructed. What was better is that the seat to my left was also empty so I could kind of sit sideways to see The Sarah more clearly (although it would be harder to be closer than I was without sitting in her lap.)

I was hoping that the opening band would be Anna Nalick. She had all the right possibilities: just came out with her debut CD, had a song climbing the charts (Breath (2 AM)) and had a definite “Sarah” flavor to her music. But instead, the band was called The Perishers and were from Sweden. They were your typical moody, skinny, young guys with angst filled love songs. And they dressed retro with Beatleesque hairdos. Yeah, yeah, yeah, your missing the girl but can’t get along with her, yadda yadda yadda, just bring on the Sarah.

The website specifically said no cameras. It even said they would be checking and you’d be asked to take it back out to your car if found. So like the little rule-follower I was, I left it in the car and felt like yet one more chance to get a Sarah pic was lost forever.

When Sarah came on stage, thousands of cameras in the crowd snapped like crazy. Great.

So in response, I whipped out my cell phone and tried to take a bunch of pictures with in. In the viewfinder, Sarah just glowed a bright light like she was in Cocoon. When I got around to downloading the pictures, I got crap like this so the viewfinder was accurate.

You can have a good phone or a good camera. But nary the two shall meet.

When Sarah came out, I was stunned. There she was. Right there. A living Sarah McLachlan singing just a few feet away from me. It didn’t seem real. I was really trying to grasp reality and understand that I was so close to someone who I’ve listened to for an uncountable amount of hours over the last decade.

My God, she was a living, breathing human being after all!

I had seen her show last year in New York and the order of the songs were a little different. Every song she sang, I knew. Word for word, note for note.

About halfway through, I realized she was singing songs she hadn’t in New York and this lead to the logical conclusion that she would have to leave some out. Would my favorite song, Fear be among those that got cut.

Well, it ends up, yeah. You would think I’d be upset about this but the combination of being so close and knowing I had seen her sing it in New York made it all alright. I let her live.

Carrie and I enjoyed the rest of the show and I was content that I had arrived in a point in my life where I could sit on the second row at a concert starring my favorite recording artist of all time and simply enjoy the music. Her voice was simply spectacular and we left talking about the wonderful concert we had just seen as we drove the few hours to get home.

And I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that Sarah was wearing a sleeveless shirt that showcased her arms. If you didn’t know it, I’m an arm guy and obviously Sarah knows this because she wore the shirt for my benefit. She knows it drives me crazy and she’s such a tease with those awesome arms. But I hardly noticed….

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Day Of Reckoning: Day 2

OK, still suffering over here!

“I can tell I’m getting better at these marathons not only because my times are getting better, but I’m recovering faster.”

DUMBASS!!!

Why? Why did you leave me burning in the desert without you? Oh, joyous pain-free legs. Where for art thou, you bastards?

I see dead people!

That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. GO PISS ON YOURSELF!!!

Now I know why Philippides bit it after the first marathon. He CHOSE to!!!!

No one touch me. Just get away. Don’t even think about touching me. In fact, when the subject of “me” comes around, “touching” should be as far away as possible and beat yourself in the head with a diamond mallet if you even get the urge to think about coming within 100 feet of me.

Can one really be tried for murder if it’s the family dog. Who jumped on, oh, I don’t know, let’s say… post-marathon legs?

Why Grandma… you’ve been dead for years…what are you doing here in….

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Day Of Reckoning: Day 1

I swear this is the statement I made yesterday:

“I can tell I’m getting better at these marathons not only because my times are getting better, but I’m recovering faster.”

What a freakin’ moron.

I was so sore this morning, I couldn’t get out of bed. And I’m not just saying “I can’t get out of bed” like an exaggeration or that I was just too lazy. I mean: I. Could. Not. Get. Out. Of. Bed.

Which made having to go to the bathroom a real challenge.

So I’m lying there basting in my own urine and feces (OK, maybe THAT’S exaggerating. I was more like lightly breaded in it.)

Actually, I got up and luckily, the bathroom is a lean and two stumbles from the bed. Then it was Frankensteining over to the phone to let work know that I made the command decision to extend leave for a day. Or two. Or fifty.

Wow, Jason, with a whole day off, you must have achieved gobs and gobs of the little things you’re always bitching about never having time to do.

You know, you shouldn’t mock the invalid like that. It’s unbecoming.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Viper Slithers Home On Mother's Day

Waking up the morning after a marathon is always an interesting proposition. Of course, I slept like crap but when I was asleep, I was like at REM stage 45, near death, couldn’t fog a mirror type of sleep.

When I awoke in a hotel room in Vegas (it’s not often a story that starts like that ends very well), I was momentarily confused at where I was at and why someone had apparently removed my legs and replaced them with burning logs. I finally coaxed them off the bed and when they hit the carpet, all Hell broke loose.

Sir Phil had already been up and wandering around so I had the entire room to myself which was good since I didn’t want the whimpering to wake anyone up. I stiff-legged it to the bathroom and after a few goes at “Electo-Spikes From Legs To Brain” they started loosening enough to restore my sight somewhat.

Everything went smoothly getting to the airport up to the point that we boarded. We were in the last category of seating which meant we got hind tit on the seats (hello, middle seat) and the thought of having overhead bin space was a distant joke. I just didn’t have the will to fight since my defenses were down. Just give me a seat and allow me to be immobile for a half-dozen hours. I promise to try not to vomit.

Getting on the plane, there was only one person behind me. Since it was Southwest, there was no assigned seating and like all cattle, mooed my way to the back of the plane to find a non-existent seat. About halfway, a stewardess came at me and the guy in front of me and told me to turn around because there were no more seats. I had a problem with this because of a few reasons:

1. I thought I saw some seats back there
2. She did not have the cheery, stewardess on X attitude that I KNOW they teach at the Academy.
3. There was nothing but middle seats at the front
4. I had already put my computer in an overhead bin and going forward of the cabin would abandon it, requiring me to fight “upstream” to retrieve it.
5. I had enough lactic acid inside me to choke a horse

Turning around, there was only one person now behind me (lady previously in back of me deftly grabbed a seat already). As I got nearer to the front, I saw two open seats: one middle seat on the left and amazingly, one window seat on the right. But there was a small child on the lap of his mother in the middle seat. The kid had previously occupied the window seat but upon interrogation by Nurse Ratchet the Stewardomimatix, it turns up the kid didn't have a paid seat so had to give it up for the paying customers.

I had to make a split decision. Window seat good. Middle seat bad. Kid on lap. Bad. Fat guys on either side of middle seat bad.

I was temporarily confused on what to do. Should I… but then…. I could…. AHHHH!!!

So I’m sitting next to the kid and he shits his pants.

And I don’t mean Junior just made a little poo. This toxic waste dump gave birth to the most rancid butt-mud I have ever encountered. I think I lost vision for the second time this day for awhile and was surprised the oxygen masks didn’t come tumbling down.

What’s worse is that I seemed to be the only one offended by it. Of course the little mudd-butt didn’t seem to mind but what was more curious that mom and pops either didn’t know (quite impossible) or didn’t have the motivation to get off their own asses to take care of the situation. I was starting to believe it may have been one of them!

Then the turbulence started and it made it just a five star trip.

Laugh it up, jackasses.

When I finally got home (after a healthy dose of road rage because I’m, you know, a Level-5 Road Rager) I was pretty much a mess. Happy Mother’s Day!!!!

Yeah, here is the deal I made.

“How about we delay Mother’s Day until next week? That way we can do it right because to tell you the truth, right now, I’m not in a happy place. And I would not make your place a happy place either so for the sake of domestic tranquility, let’s do the belated approach, waddya say?”

Rest of night: let’s see, 6 hours of flying, 4 hours of driving, post-marathon lactic bath.

Do not go near the Daddy!

(Which made me feel real crappy considering here is a sample of the decorations when I got home)

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

Wild Wild West Trail Marathon Version 2005: The Return of Viper

Race day always starts early. Why does it have to start so damn early? Don’t answer that; I know why.

I had a really bad night’s sleep which is not uncommon for runners before a big race but my deal was not the norm. I was not nervous or even anxious about the race. I think the combination of reading Dean Karnazes’ stories about running 100 miles and the Badwater scare yesterday, 26.2 miles didn’t seem all that intimidating. I knew I was ready and had done all I needed to do to have a good race.

So why couldn’t I sleep worth a damn? Mostly it was the heat. For some reason I was cooking all night as I tossed and turned, ripping the bedding from all sides. I’m sure the maids made sure to change the sheets after they saw and assumed what was going on in that bed.

I got up, took my shower in our OWN BATHROOM just because I could while settling my nerves for the race. By now the early morning routine in Lone Pine was just that: routine. And since my body was still on east coast time, getting up at 0330/0630 was no problem. I was ready to get the race course under my feet.

We met Chris at the café which was renamed High Sierra Café. I asked the waitress why it wasn’t named PJ’s anymore and she simply said “She’s dead.”

OK, a little Asics Gel Kayano along with my eggs. Thanks.

I ate a light breakfast and for the first time, was social and talkative before the race. I told Chris a few more stories and realized this was the social aspect of racing I had always ignored. It felt good to share the stories and a good way to revisit my past experiences in preparation for this 6th installment of the Wild Wild West Trail Marathon.

The day was going to be perfect. Yesterday had seen scattered clouds but I just knew without being told that this day would clear up and be ideal for the run. Everything had fallen into place up to this point so it was a foregone conclusion that the weather would step up and give what it could in the form of a perfect running day. So it didn’t surprise me when the morning was a crisp, clear, windless desert sunrise. I had no excuses this day.

When we got to the course, Chris jumped out to check out the starting line as Sir Phil and I stayed in the warm car. I understood Chris’s need to go out there early, not only to check out the start line but to have a few moments to himself to prep the mind for what was about to happen. There is no more magical running experience than your first marathon and he needed to get his head into the game before putting the body through the grinder.

When it came time to leave the warmth of the car, I took a deep breath and said “Let’s do this” as I popped open the car door and stepped out. The cold air hit me but all I felt was the rush of the beginning of the journey.

Wait a minute, maybe that rush was of a different variety. Historically, I have written many stories about my inability to empty the barn before a race. This has become less of a problem over the years but somewhere in the back of my mind, the questions lingered.

Well, I thought, maybe I can be a hero at the rest room after we make our final preparations. I’m glad you asked. The “final “preparations” consist of applying lubrication to places you don’t want to talk about. And before you think this subject a little raw, try running a marathon without it. Nuff said.

Sir Phil popped the trunk and I rooted around for the plastic bag that had a jar of Vaseline, a tube of the same, and a humongaloid bottle of Coppertone. But there was a problem. Where was it? I know I got it ready and had it sitting next to everything else. I searched through the trunk, I searched through my luggage, I searched the entire car. I was freaking out.

After all of these years I have NEVER forgotten something so important. All the training, all the preparation, all the effort and I have to deal with no lube? Are you kidding me?

Well, maybe these shorts will do the job. Throughout my training, a pair of shorts and a specific shirt had risen to the top and proved themselves the most comfortable in my wardrobe. I had never had chafing issues with these shorts so maybe I could survive. I would have to depend on this.

If this is THE THING then that’s good. There’s always THE THING but each year it takes on a different form. Sometimes it’s getting to the race a little late and having to rush. Sometimes it’s not being able to find the drop bag site. Sometimes it’s not getting your earphones on before the race starts. And sometimes it’s not being able to empty your bowels before the race. Whatever it is, it’s always there and if forgetting my lube at the motel is the 2005 version, so be it. At least the wondering was over.

Coming out of the bathroom, practically skipping and feeling a smidgen too ecstatic about what had just occurred in the bathroom (the women’s again, just like at Badwater), I became what Sir Phil dubbed a “Lube Whore.” Yes, I had to ask perfect strangers for a heaping wad of grease to slather around my crotch. Obviously this took more than a little tact to pull off.

“Got any lube I could borrow?”

“Hey, Snake.”

“Ooh, no, I know, how about ‘Viper’”?

“Oh, I get it. Run when you can, walk when you have to.”

“Yep, that’s pretty much it. But anything under 5 ½ hours would be great.”

“I know. This is my 6th time. I know this ends and I don’t judge the book by this bastard cover.”

“I won it last year.”

I start to walk.

Then I start to cuss.

The course cusses back with more hills.

I push on my thighs.

I sweat profusely the clean sweat of perspiration that hasn’t had time to ferment.

I wonder when the top will arrive.

I get dejected over and over again as I reach false summit after false summit.

When I finally stumble to the apex, I’m more mad than happy with a “it’s about f$#%ing time” attitude.

“You know you are going to pay for this.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ve never gone this fast for this long.”
“I know.”
“And you think you will get away with this scott-free?”
“Shut your f$#% mouth!”
“Remember the cramps last year at mile 20?”
“I’m prepared. Running is 90% mental.”
“Yes, but even 10% can knock you out of the race.”
“I said SHUT UP!!!!!”

“Hey, are we done yet?”
“You keep asking that.”
“Well, if you find me curled up in the fetal position down the road, you can go ahead and spit on me.”

“OK, I understand, it’s been a rough day and I’ve asked a lot. But we got a great time going, the best ever in fact, so while I understand what you’re saying, I can’t let you take over this time. Shut up. Go away.”

“OK, all other transition points have come up faster than expected, it’s got to be around that next corner.”

“Ok, well, then it must be the next one…”

“You have the number of a female. You must have got them switched somehow on the course. Did you run into her during the race?”

“We’re so outta here.”

“Like I’m gonna just scream across the street at her. I don’t even know her name and she has no idea who I am. Obviously she can run faster and farther than I can.”

“Uhh, yes.”

“And you run a webpage and have stories about this race?”

“Uhhh, yes.”

“Man, you’re famous.”

“I read all of those and looked around your website. They’re great.”

“My name is Jason and I’m running the race tomorrow. Ben Jones referred me to you and…”

“Uhhh, yeah.”

“And did you run the Bishop 50 Miler a few years ago?”

“Uhhh, yeah.”

“I ran with you for like 10 miles toward the end.”

“And you wrote that story on your website about the snake.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’ll take the big burger and size that up with the meal deal, coke and fries. Thanks.”

Head West, Brainless Runner

And it begins. Again. For the sixth time.

I got up, headed to Sir Phil’s house, and we loaded all the essentials for the trip to California for my 6th Wild Wild West Marathon. The packing list was complete with everything I'd need, not the least of which was a big mug of coffee just for that special feeling of being stuck in a car during morning rush hour with a full bladder.

We got to the airport with minimal trouble, besides bumper to bumper morning traffic through Washington DC which is analogous to a full scrotum choke hold, and did what all seasoned travelers do.

So we’re sitting there sucking on a beer at 1030 in the morning, wondering what all those flags were and before we knew it, we were feeling OK about the flight. In fact, we were feeling OK about just about everything and soon the flags, which indicated A.M. drinking was less than optimal, fell silent. Yes, folks, my marathon prep glide path is a rocky road indeed.

Unbeknownst to us or our itinerary, we were flying to Columbus before continuing on to Vegas. Yes, Vegas. Because it was Southwest airlines, Sir Phil and I had no assigned seating and thus was able to snag a window/aisle combo for the entire 60 minute trip to Ohio. This smiling face of fate would not last long because after all, I am Jason. I mean, come on.

On Southwest Airlines, there is no assigned seating, so we got to play a rousing game of “Who Will Be Sitting Between Us” for it was going to be a full flight. Judge me if you will but any human with a Y chromosome prefers pretty little woman to big fat hairy guy. Go ahead, blame me! And to be perfectly honest, she didn’t even have to be hot. Small, plain girl? Fine. Why a girl? Not because guys are just wired that way but more toward the fact that in the Land Of Guy, even accidental, slight contact between males of the same species is to be avoided at all costs. With the female version, non-sexual accidental contact is much more acceptable.

So there we sat with an open seat between us. Looking from the other perspective, it probably didn’t look too inviting to a young lady; Sir Phil and I leering at the line of people coming down the aisle. I didn’t have high expectations and fully expected Big Fat Guy to come lumbering down the plane.

We were almost heroes. Seats were filling up and since we were at the back of the plane, it got to the point where anyone that came back that far had a limited choice of seating. As it got farther and farther along, a couple braved their way to the back followed by a skinny young girl. It was almost comical. Although I would have my headphones on and read my book the entire time, it’s just hardwired into guys to give mental high-fives when a pretty woman sits next to him for 4 hours.

The couple stopped the people train and looked around. They eyeballed our seat and an open seat in front of us. They had long since missed the 2 seats next to each other option and now were looking for the next best thing. In a horrifying moment, both the guy’s eyes and the pretty girl behind his wife locked onto the seat between Phil and me.

Don’t do it.

“Honey, I’ll take this one and you take the one in front.”

Yeah, it figures.

So I get to sit next to balding hairy-armed guy for 4 hours. The good news was that he was skinny. The bad news, other than him not being the pretty woman who continued on and found a seat further down the line, was that his hairy stick-of-an-arm was just hairy enough to reach out and brush my arm like some Chewbacca-esque nightmare. Willies all the way around for 4 hours.

We got to Vegas and take it from me, if you ever fly into Vegas and have checked baggage, grab a smoke. You have to walk a mile just to get to the tram that takes you to another mile walk just to get to the baggage claim. Then it was a 20 minute waiting game just to get the carousel to start up. Then they changed carousels on us and finally, the monster crapped out my bag but not before the horror of considering a lost bag that had all my marathon running gear in it. At least I had my running shoes on but that’s it. There would be some crazy shopping if the worst occurred. And all my Vegas money would have been blown on bail.

We paid $4.50 each for the shuttle to the hotel which, as it turns out, was ¾ mile away. Once there, there must have been a retard-bomb set to general vicinity mode that hit the hotel lobby. We were there for 40 minutes despite being 3rd in line. Don’t ask, I never figured it out.

We dropped our bags, slathered up with sunscreen, and headed out. Sir Phil found it somewhat offending that I would strap on my camelback for the trip but I needed to hydrate. Plus, you just can’t beat the cool points of having a camelback on with hotel water that tasted pretty close to monkey piss. (And just to diffuse the inevitable question, yes, I do know what monkey piss tastes like. I drink it by the gallon. Don’t you?)

It was a long walk to the strip. This didn’t seem to bother Sir Phil who doesn’t consider anything a long walk. The problem I had was that all I had eaten was a protein shake, a mug of coffee, a beer, a microscopic bag of peanuts, and a “snack-pak” that consisted of graham crackers, Cheeze Nips (the most offending product name on the market), Oreo cookies, and yet another microscopic baglet of peanuts. So I was ravished by the time we power-walked to the strip.

You know how food is like real cheap in Vegas? Bullshit! We bypassed the Subway and other fares because I pointed out that I can’t come to Vegas and eat fast food. There were $5 buffets to be had, after all. When we finally decided to venture into a casino to cash in on the cheap eats, we came to the buffet which informed my non-believing eyes that it was $24.99 for the dinner buffet.

So we practically ran out of there and then were met with the realization that we had long since bypassed the fast food places and now were left with either paying out the ass or hoofin’ it back. This angered me in my depleted state because neither of the options appealed to me. I realized I was jammin’ through the most spectacular sights built by man with the sole intent on getting something affordable and good to eat.

We finally found some Italian place off the strip but soon discovered that the cheapest thing was a plate of spaghetti for $18. OK, uncle. It came with salad, bread, and a carafe of wine so we broke down and had a good meal. I figured we had earned it with the miles of walking it took just to get there and my cheapskatedness would dictate minimally qualifying pre-marathon meals for the rest of the trip anyway.

I went for the white wine. Sir Phil had the red and we both had the spaghetti. It was our intent to finish our carafes but then reality set in at the ¾ mark when we realized that it wasn’t going to happen and that I had gone blind. The marathon prep just continued.

It was time for the walk back to the motel and to set the stage for you just in case you aren't keeping score, I had a plate of spaghetti, a loaf of bread, ¾ of a carafe of white wine, a cappuccino, and a ½ gallon of water sitting in my gut. Let’s go power-walking again!!

The walk back was a mixture of strong desire to get back to the room and an ever-increasing, slight cramping feeling evolving (and revolving) in my stomach. When I got back, I stripped down and was in bed before the sun went down. Sir Phil tapped away on his computer and that served as my last conscious moment of this day.

BLOG entry for this day from 2004

BLOG entry for this day from 2003

“Work Center 650, Corporal Smith speaking.”
“Is SSGT Seymon there?”
“We don’t have a ‘SSGT Seymon’, Sir. We have a ‘Gunny Seymon’.”
“That’s him, can I speak with him?”
“Well, Sir, he’s at a First Aid class right now. Can I take a message and have him call you back?”
“Corporal, you just tell him that there is a very pissed off Lieutenant giving him a direct order to call me at this number the moment he walks in. Are we clear, Corporal?”
“Y- yes Sir.”
“Good. My number is xxx-xxxx. Out.” (slam phone then laugh for 5 minutes)

“Hello.”
“Uh.. yes, this is Gunny Seymon. I got a message I was supposed to call this number?”
“Ah, yes, well, I suggest, Gunnery Sergeant, that you put a little more respect in your voice when addressing a superior commissioned officer!”
(I thought for sure he’d recognize my voice.)

(long pause)

“Sir, I really don’t know what’s going on here. I just got this message…”
“Well, GUNNERY SERGANT, then I guess you can call me ‘Jason!’”

(another long pause)

“Mark?”
“YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!! YOU ALMOST GAVE MY POOR CORPORAL A HEART ATTACK. HE THOUGHT HIS GUNNY WAS GOING TO THE BRIG!!!”
“Well, you didn’t sound so sure you weren’t either!”

“You realize that’s the first time you have ever referred to me as ‘Sir’?”
“Yeah, I know.”

Top,

I pause each year to think of those that made me what I am today. Being a Marine has infused itself into the very fabric of my being and it provides me with immense pleasure to thank one of the men that actually created that within me.

I wish I could share with you the countless examples of how I’ve made a difference in the lives of Marines over the years. I don’t say that out of self-adulation because we all affect those around us in different ways but I’ve always took to heart that duty to make a difference in the lives of those that I come in contact with. It was something that was instilled in me from the beginning and I have you to thank for that. And in turn, those other Marines have you to thank. And the Marines they affect.

I am that pebble you threw into the pond back in 1987. Every time I see the fruits of my labor, I think of those who made that possible. I have accomplished more than I could have ever hoped for on my own and starting with your guidance at the beginning, I have tried to pass on that level of positive effect at every opportunity. It’s the least I can do for the gift that was given me that summer back in 1987.

I recently attended my grandfather’s funeral and wore by Dress Blues to the occasion. It was the first time my extended family had even seen me in uniform and after the service, the VFW commander asked me if I wanted to present my grandfather’s flag to my grandmother at the burial.

I had never done this before and only had 20 minutes to get the verbiage straight in my head. When the Commander presented me with the flag, I was in essence winging it but I had done enough ceremonies to make it look official. I asked the Commander to bring the color guard, who consisted of elderly WWII vets, to parade rest.

He looked at me curiously but did as I asked, in a manner like he had done with the other commands; in a conversational tone.

With the color guard at parade rest, the Commander walked away and I stood there alone. With everything I had, with 17 years of service behind me, I opened my mouth and issued a very Marine command for the color guard to come to attention. I like to think it would have made you proud.

The old men popped, and I mean POPPED to attention, probably in a manner they hadn’t in decades. At the same time, I saw the entire crowd jump, all 100 or so of them.

You could have heard a pin drop.

I marched forward, at the funeral pace, performed a sharp right facing movement, marched forward, stopped exactly in step (with my heels parallel to my target, just like you taught me) and my heels slammed together. In cadence, I performed a left face and once again, the smacking of my heels were the only thing to be heard and it reverberated throughout the cemetery.

I knelt down and presented the flag to my grandmother. After finishing up with “…from a grateful Nation” I stood up and rendered a quick, popping salute. Cutting the salute and returning to attention, I stepped off correctly (pivot and 40 inch step) and marched back to position.

When I got there, I was very nervous because I was marching on loose Astroturf on top of thick grass: not the best surface for an about face, especially with every eye trained on me. The thought crossed my mind that I could stop, do two facing movements to get back around without anyone knowing the difference. But I heard you, Sgt Robinson, and SSGT Wertjes jump my ass viciously.

I stopped, slammed my heels together, pulled back my right leg without bending the knee, planted the toe, and pushed hard with that toe and my other heel.

Somehow, I had my center of balance in the perfect position because I whipped around smoothly without my arms leaving my side (hand curled as though holding a roll of quarters). The sound of my heels cracking together was louder than before and I didn’t even sway. Without looking, I knew my heels were together and perfectly symmetrical at a 45 degree angle.

For the second time, my voice ripped through the crowd like a buzzsaw. “COLOR GUARD! PA-RADE…REST!!!!)

The crowd was staring at me with watery dinner plates. All of them.

Afterwards, I kind of felt bad because more people rushed to me after the ceremony than the widow.

I wanted to share this with you for a simple reason. I didn’t know the exact order of events or protocol of presenting the flag. But I just KNEW what to do. I attribute that to just being a Marine and the training that goes back to those long days on the Grinder when you were belting out cadence and fixing the most minor of drill mistakes.

I guess I can sum it up with two simple statements:

See what you’ve done?

And

Thank you, Top.

Captain and Forever Your Recruit Grose

Email -- jason@grose.us
Web -- http://www.grose.us/