How Did I Get Here?

Quote of the Day: “Three things are certain: Death, taxes, and lost data. Guess which has occurred.”

Even though this was Pistol Range Day 2, so much happened that the pistol range was just the beginning. Stand by for a thesis which I suspect will not even adequately describe the day.

You would think that having a 0845 show up time would leave me plenty of time to get up, get ready, and get to the range. That was the thought that passed through my head as I left at 0745 and rolled up to a horrendous traffic snarl on Route 3.

Shit.

Instantly, I ran through the possibilities: Would I make it? Would I be dropped from the range? Would they let me come back during the last relay and shoot with them? Could I just ram all these dumb son-of-a-bitches or Bigfoot over them in my little Saturn?

Maybe, probably, probably not, wouldn’t advise trying.

After sweating more than a little, I ended up making it there on time and even had enough time to visit the Honey Bucket where my camping story came floating back to me. Yeah, I looked again, so what.

I decided I had better try the isosceles stance just in case I shot better in a symmetrical pose vice the Weaver. But I knew what would happen: I would shoot better just by virtue of it being the second day and then I would attribute it to the new stance. Turns out I kinda suck no matter how I stand.

Luckily they changed over my magazine release button so that it was in a better place, better known as the correct side. Did it help? Yeah, it gave me more time on the magazine exchange portion but nothing was going to pull the 13 out of 15 shots from the 25 yard line from the white back into the black.

I think the Corporal coach put it best when he bluntly told me “Sir, you’re shooting is shit today.” Gotta love the honesty and respect mixture there. Classic Marine Corps.

“Load one magazine of 8 rounds and one of 15 rounds.”

Seems simple enough right? Well, I did get in right but when you are told to load the magazine of 15 for the 25 slow-fire portion but you decided to load the magazine of 8 instead, well, you are me and painfully stupid.

After the 8th shot (none of which hit black) the upper receiver locked back indicating “Hey idiot, you’re out of rounds.” (my pistol’s inner voice is rather rude.)

A moment later, as expected, the coach stepped up and the retard Captain had to explain to the Corporal coach how he couldn’t follow even the simplest of directions.

“You see, I……what do I do?”

“Just put the other magazine in and shoot 7 more, Sir.”

This of course motivated me to start stripping off rounds so that I would only be LEFT with 7 rounds, knowing that keeping track of just 7 shots out of 15 (no indication I was done) was obviously beyond my capability.

But the coach wasn’t buying what I was selling and told me to keep the rounds in the magazine and just squeeze off seven. Did he NOTICE how much of a pistol jackass I had already demonstrated?

All this did not help the fact that I was still shaking at the moment of truth. It’s not that I’m scared or nervous, I just get the shakes when I hold up the pistol too long and if I hurry the process, I yank the trigger and all my shots go to the right. To be fair, even a slight wobble and you are all over the target at 25 yards. And…. I’m a horrible shot. But other than that…

I made it through the rest of the morning without incident except during one of the magazine exchange drills. I had three rounds in one magazine and three in the other. The deal is that we have ten seconds to shoot the three rounds, drop the magazine, reload the other magazine, and squeeze out the other three.

Because I’m such a spaz, I normally don’t use all the time which makes my rounds a little more squirrelly but it helped me in this situation. After shooting the second round, the upper receiver locked back which normally indicates I’m out of rounds.

I guess I was listening to the immediate action drills because I performed the next step perfectly: I canted the weapon up and looked into the breach. What I saw was that the last round was wedged in there, holding back the upper receiver. Once again, as I was taught, I performed the next step perfectly: I popped the back of the pistol with my non-shooting palm.

But nothing happened.

So I grabbed the sides, pulled back the upper receiver, and released it which luckily fixed everything and the round loaded, bringing up the third correctly performed immediate action response in a row.

I was surprisingly calm after this … on the outside. On the inside I was visiting every curse word I knew and a few I didn’t know I knew. I had burned a lot of time and I still had to go through half the drill. This is where my rushing actually helped me because I still had enough time to complete the drill.

What happened next is beyond description.

When I got that last round loaded and throughout the cursing, I pointed the pistol at the target and squeezed.

I was too preoccupied to see what happened because I was quickly dropping the magazine and loading the other one. When I pulled my pistol up again, I briefly noticed the target before dutifully focusing on my front sight post: the last shot of that first magazine hit a perfect bullseye. And I mean as perfect as can happen. The very center of the target, in the little circle the size of a quarter is a white X. My round hit where the two lines of the X cross.

Then after that phase, we got to see our targets and I discovered I had keyholed that center shot. That means I hit it again “joining” the two holes to make a little figure 8 as the holes merged, or “keyholed.”

So I was proud of all that.. until the next stage of fire a little ways back. We loaded 6 rounds in each magazine and did the magazine exchange drill from a little further back. And let me just announce… YIKES!

I was all over the place and it prompted me to turn to the coach and with a smile say “Look, that’s NOT a reflection of your coaching. It’s a reflection of ME.”

So that was day two and I got two more to figure this thing out before qualification day on Friday. At least I haven’t shot anyone yet.

At lunch I went for a run but it was so hot and muggy that I cut it to three miles so as not to wear myself out while I’m on the range. I’m really in kind of a tight spot because although I have a half marathon on Saturday that I’m not ready for, I can’t go out and pound myself into submission because I fear it will affect my already poor shooting ability.

On the way back, I decided to follow up on a lead I got on the range today. The Gunny shooting next to me (from yesterday’s post, Gunny Competition Shooter) was from MSG (Marine Security Guard) so I asked him if he knew SGTMAJ Wertjes. He did and told me that he had retired and took a job at the State Department. Now he works in the MSG School building RIGHT NEXT TO THE BUILDING I WORK IN!!!!

So after my run, sweating profusely, I dropped in on him and had another one of those 40 minute conversations replete with surreal moments. I was sitting in my Senior Drill Instructor’s office sipping water after PT shooting the shit. I am a luckier man than most. To be able to just have a normal conversation with the man whose actions and guidance was such a foundation in my personal and professional life is just too uncommon to see as anything but pure privilege.

After that experience, I was in a good mood which was good because I had a meeting with my monitor. I have written about my situation in earlier blogs but the deal was that I had to convince her to leave me here through 2006 and part of 2007 so that I could be eligible for the Marine Officer Instructor Billet coming open in 2007.

Meeting with you monitor is always a dicey subject. They have control over where you go next and while you don’t want to be sycophantic to an obvious degree, you want to maintain a modicum of self-respect while both of you know who holds the power.

I explained my situation to her and she understood. Amazingly, she took the time to understand my predicament (amazing because she has to listen to these stories all day every day) and at the end of the conversation, she agreed to “get me over the hump” which meant that she would not move me next year. But since I would be in the promotion zone, the minute I showed up on the promotion list, I would be turned over to the Majors’ monitor and would have to work with him or her. But by that time, it will be too late to move me anyway so what I needed, I got. That is, of course, after she gets it OKed from above.

Cross your fingers, I’ll find out next week.

While I was waiting for my appointment, someone came up to me with their hand outstretched and I made no secret that I looked straight at his name tape. When I read it, I smiled broadly.

Bakion was a fellow Second Lieutenant during my TBS days and I remembered him in a very positive light. We started talking and I remembered why I liked him: he was just a great guy even to the asshole-jackass version of me back in TBS. I talked to him before and after my appointment and could have talked to him even longer if his appointment didn’t pop up. So I’m meeting him at the O-Club tomorrow.

When I got home, I searched my blog archives and found every mention of him during my TBS entries. Here they are:

Friday, August 22, 1997:
Today was an easy day. All that I really had to do was do my medical in-processing. I spent about 2 1/2 hours at medical going through the normal cattle call, receiving a PPD, Yellow Fever shot, and some other shot. I also had blood drawn for a DNA test. I had not eaten anything but despite my light head, I was in a good mood all day. Our section had a lot of time to talk and I met some great guys like Bakion and I got to know Aku a little better. The time went fast and after it was over, we were free until muster.

Friday, September 5, 1997
After the pull-ups, I asked if anyone wanted to go for a short run since the pull-ups only took about 40 minutes. Bakion and Chiow agreed to go and I told them I only wanted to go for three miles at a slow pace. Chiow is a little more beefy than me so I thought they would go slow. I was wrong. We took off like bats out of Hell and I had to keep up. There was no way I was going to let them pull away from me but it was apparent this was not going to be the light run I was expecting. We came it at 19:07 and I was spent. I chided them but they did not seem to think that the run was out of the ordinary. At least I was challenged and I lived up to it.

Wednesday, October 15, 1997
It was drizzling and cold but we had a lot of gear on so it was too bad. We went out to the field and did some formations with me carrying the heavy SAW. At first, it was easy and boring but then Captain Peterson decided to launch us in an attack into the thorny, wet woods. We rushed and got soaked. From then on out, it was an exercise of running through wet, thorny woods until we were exhausted. It really started to suck.

After we were done, we had line training. It was raining so we went to the gym and did it inside on the mats. It was not as bad as I first expected and I had Lt Bakion as a partner. It was defense against knife attack and we threw each other around pretty good.

After that was done, we were released to our SPCs so we went back to the barracks to get anything we needed to get done. We had until 1330 before the next evolution. I worked on my fit rep test and my presentation.

Wednesday, October 22, 1997
After awhile, we went to the staging area by the buses to wait and we sat near a water bull. We discovered that it had been in the direct sunlight and even though it was still pretty chilly, the bull was nice and warm. I put my hands on it and literally moaned. For the first time today, I felt warmth. I kept my hands on it and leaned against it to come in as much body contact as I could with it. Lefringhouse and I probably looked like a couple of flys hanging on it but I did not care. Barney started teaching a class on first aid (she was an EMT) and I stayed leaned up against the water bull for warmth. I think that me and Bakion will win the Ice Cube award because we were the most miserable from the cold.

I know this is running long but like I said, a lot happened today. I will rush the ending and thank you for coming this far with me.

I drove home.

I got a haircut.

I looked into piano lessons for myself.

I stopped by the library to pick up a reserved book on tape but they accidentally sent part 2.

I came home and had a conversation with my daughter about her getting her first detention for leaving her homework in her locker. She was crushed. I told her a story about how I got a paddling in 4th grade when I helped a group pick up handfuls of pebbles in order to fill in the rainwater-filled area at the bottom of the slide. The rule was that we couldn’t pick the pebbles up but the spirit of the rule was so we wouldn’t throw them at each other. I thought it unfair but got the swat anyway.

I thought that story might help her because she is just like I was: straight-laced and NEVER got into trouble at school. I was mortified when it happened just as she was today.

OK, I’ll let you go.

Free Advice for Today: “Remember that all important truths are simple.”

Quote of the Day: “I’ve learned that it takes years to build up trust, and only suspicion, not proof, to destroy it.”

Let’s just call today familiarization in all respects.

First, I got familiar with waking up at 0500. I’m not a happy shiny person at that hour so we’ll skip all that.

I got to the range in time and it actually felt kind of good being on the range at sunrise. I realized the last time I was in this exact same place was when I was an TBS student and that thought gave me a chill but a kind of a thrill that this time I was not being viewed as a near-retard. That would come later when we got farther into the pistol range.

I ran into a friend who I knew back in my college days and we talked while waiting for the pistols to show up.

Pistol issue was supposed to go at 0630-0700. At 0720, we were still waiting. When someone in our little group complained, someone pointed out the most classic thought:

“This is the Marine Corps. We’ll stand here waiting for the pistols for another ½ hour and then someone will yell at us that they could have started the classes while we were waiting if we would have been in the bleachers.”

We finally filed into the bleachers and went through a couple of hours of firing classes. They weren’t quite as bad as I expected for a very simple reason: I needed the help.

Folks, I’ve only shot the 9 mm pistol twice in my life and the last time was 4 years ago. Even then, I just managed a “sharpshooter” score which is the second of three possible categories (from lowest to highest: marksman, sharpshooter, expert).

So I listened intently and many things have changed since I last fired. My overriding thought: “Good Lord, I’m gonna hose this thing up like Hogan’s Goat. I hope I don’t kill anyone, to include myself.”

The other thought was that I liked the Sergeant that was giving the classes. He was very exuberant about teaching us what we needed to know and the kind of funny where he really wasn’t trying. It was just “him.” I was impressed how he handled himself in front of a bunch of senior Staff NCOS and Officers (not always an easy task) and I tried to play a mental game of picturing him from an outsider’s (of the Marine Corps) view of how he would appear. I came to the conclusion that he represented the Corps well and he would strengthen the professional view we Marines enjoy from the public at large. Professional but not a poser or a dick. That too is sometimes hard to convey. I’ve seen it done well and at other times very poorly.

The Primary Marksmanship Instructors (PMIs) are the only other Marines beside Drill Instructors authorized to wear the coveted Campaign Cover (Smokey) and while explaining some of the classes, the Sergeant took his cover off. He got so into his class, he forgot to put it on and from the moment he took it off and set it down, I just stared at it. He just kind of forgot to put it back on when he continued teaching and it was driving me crazy. Finally I turned to my buddy and said “If I rated to wear that cover, I’d never take the son-of-bitch off. EVER! I’d SLEEP with it on!”

On the first break, I found that my very good friend Leon was on the same detail. You will recall I was his very surly wingman a long time ago. And just like so many years ago at TBS in the very same area, we couldn’t help but crack jokes at every opportunity after we found each other. If (when ) I get a less-than-spectacular score, it will be because I should have been listening while Leon was making some quip that made me shoot milk through my nose… and I wasn’t even drinking milk!!!

At the next break, the pistols showed up and I ended up near the front of the line somehow which turned out perfect because I got on the second relay of 5, ensuring me a show up time of 0845 for the rest of the week!!!!

After the classes, we had the function and weapons handling tests. Do you know how dumb a Captain with a master’s degree can feel when required to regurgitate what he had just heard but was trying to stop phantom milk from coming out his nose?

We lined up in groups of three as a Lance Corporal asked us simple questions. A friend of mine who was next to me was asked the 4th weapon condition was, which she promptly screwed up royally, reciting the first. I got asked what the second condition was, which was a trick question because there is no second weapon condition!!! Yes, I nailed it!!!

Then came safety rules and after I was asked the first (and easiest), from SOMEWHERE I’m not quite sure, I rattled it off. Good start, Jason. Two for two. I was feeling pretty good about myself as Tamara (Miss I Don’t Know the 4th Weapon Condition) safely negotiated the second. The Marine next to her rattled off the third and I was still smirking about my 2 for 2 record when the Lance Corporal turned to me and said “4th Safety Rule, Sir?”

Shit. That’s right, there WAS four. I thought I was done.

So with all the professionalism that comes with 18 years in the Marine Corps, I summoned all of my superior Captain of Marines powers, looked the Lance Corporal right in the eye, and said …

“Uhhhh………..”

Dammit.

I drew a total blank.

Tamara started it for me and I finished it out, feeling just about as dumb as I should. Now Tamara and I were even and as we walked away from the test that you really couldn’t really fail, Tamara hit it on the head when she said “You KNOW he’s thinking, ‘dumbass Officers’” to which we all laughed because we knew it to be true.

After we got our relays, we went to the actual firing range. I followed suite with others and hopped in my car to get there. I guess they trust Officers to drive around with the pistol which seemed pretty weird, driving my Saturn with a 9 mm pistol strapped to my side. And you know my road rage…

Here was my approach to the pistol range: they will tell me what I will be shooting. They go through the entire course in one long sentence but I bank on the fact that when I’m supposed to shoot a single round, 5 rounds in 5 minutes, or 3 rounds and change magazines, firing off 3 more rounds all in 20 seconds, well, they will tell me. If they just gave me all the rounds and said do what I was told…. it wouldn’t be pretty.

So I did what I was told and just as I remembered, the tip of my front site was jumping around like I was an epileptic that just downed a pot of espresso during an earthquake.

We were in groups of three for the purposes of coach assignment and I was on the end. The guy on my right was a Gunny with his own earphones and special shooting glasses. Next to him was a young Corporal that looked about 12-years-old. Let’s listen in to the conversation:

“Sir, how do you shoot?”
“What?”
“How do you shoot?”
“What?”

Blank look from the Corporal. I got the hint and took off my hearing protection.

“Sir, how do you shoot?”
“Weaver.”

The blank look again.

“No, I mean HOW do you shoot?”

“No, Sir, I mean are you a good shot? Expert?”

This was a tricky question because I hadn’t shot in 4 years so I really didn’t know. I thought that the honest answer of “Likely fucked up 10 ways till Sunday” was a bit too honest so I ended up just saying “Yeah, sharpshooter.”

“And how about you Gunny?”

“Well, I’m a match shooter but this is the first time with a 9 mm. With a match pistol, I’m money.”

I really didn’t understand what exactly he meant but OK.

Finally he turned to the Corporal who simply shook his head.

“First time?”

“Yeah.”

This told me who would be getting all the coaching. I was the “seasoned Officer”, the Gunny was a competition shooter, and the Corporal was wondering what the squeezy thing was used for. Little did they know that I felt like I would have to swallow my pride this week and ask for more than a little help.

I really didn’t do all that bad except that they told me I was staring at the target instead of the front-sight post like I was supposed to. The 5 shots at the 25 yard line was a joke. My epilepsy was at full throttle at that point and I doubt if I even close to black with any of those shots.

I was amused that Gunny Competition Shooter had a target that looked like a shotgun blast. What’s up with that? Even Captain 4-Year Slacker’s target was better than that. Hell, if Corporal First Time would actually hit his target, even that would likely be better.

So even though I felt a complete loser after it was all done, my spirits were bucked by those around me. Hopefully this will not be like bowling where I get progressively worse the longer I participate.

One of the hardest parts is the drill where you load the weapon, fire three shots, release the magazine, load a fresh magazine, and fire off three more shots. You have 20 seconds which is both an eternity if everything goes right and a whisper in a dream if things are going badly.

Personally, I looked like Jerry Lewis on crack trying to do this and not until after I was done did the coach notice my problem. The magazine release button was on the wrong side of the pistol. I should have noticed that, you say? A Captain that should have fired many many times by this point in his career should have picked up on that little detail, you say?

Screw you!

What do you think made it a bit embarrassing?

Almost as embarrassing as being lost when retrieving my target. We were supposed to pull them down (saving it for a souvenir), staple up a new one, and put pasties across any holes not covered up by the new target.

I dicked this up good.

First, I tried to paste up my target until a coach pointed out “Uh, Sir, you take that down and put a new one up.”

“Oh.”

When I pulled it down, I crumpled it up and couldn’t figure out where everyone else had put their trash. By the time I figured it out (as everyone was comparing theirs with each other), I had unfolded it so I had one that was obviously wadded up.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The last dance with idiocy I will share with a couple of others. We left the firing range and looked for the armory van to turn in our weapons but the van could not be found. We searched for it and generally maligned the enlisted guys who were nowhere to be found. We drove back to the bleacher section just in case they had migrated there. Nope.

I told the others I would return to the range and wait there, calling them if the armors showed up. I drove back, waited for about 40 minutes and decided to call to see if they saw anything.

Well, it ends up that the armors were there the entire time but without the van. They were sitting by the vending machines with their big pistol carrying cases and everyone but me and a couple others figured this out right off the line.

So there was 45 minutes down the tubes topping off a day of feeling like an idiot by putting an idiot cherry on top.

I got until Friday to get all this straight, people.

Free Advice for Today: “Stop blaming others. Take responsibility for every area of your life.”

Quote of the Day: “I’ve learned that it takes years to build up trust, and only suspicion, not proof, to destroy it.”

Let’s just call today familiarization in all respects.

First, I got familiar with waking up at 0500. I’m not a happy shiny person at that hour so we’ll skip all that.

I got to the range in time and it actually felt kind of good being on the range at sunrise. I realized the last time I was in this exact same place was when I was an TBS student and that thought gave me a chill but a kind of a thrill that this time I was not being viewed as a near-retard. That would come later when we got farther into the pistol range.

I ran into a friend who I knew back in my college days and we talked while waiting for the pistols to show up.

Pistol issue was supposed to go at 0630-0700. At 0720, we were still waiting. When someone in our little group complained, someone pointed out the most classic thought:

“This is the Marine Corps. We’ll stand here waiting for the pistols for another ½ hour and then someone will yell at us that they could have started the classes while we were waiting if we would have been in the bleachers.”

We finally filed into the bleachers and went through a couple of hours of firing classes. They weren’t quite as bad as I expected for a very simple reason: I needed the help.

Folks, I’ve only shot the 9 mm pistol twice in my life and the last time was 4 years ago. Even then, I just managed a “sharpshooter” score which is the second of three possible categories (from lowest to highest: marksman, sharpshooter, expert).

So I listened intently and many things have changed since I last fired. My overriding thought: “Good Lord, I’m gonna hose this thing up like Hogan’s Goat. I hope I don’t kill anyone, to include myself.”

The other thought was that I liked the Sergeant that was giving the classes. He was very exuberant about teaching us what we needed to know and the kind of funny where he really wasn’t trying. It was just “him.” I was impressed how he handled himself in front of a bunch of senior Staff NCOS and Officers (not always an easy task) and I tried to play a mental game of picturing him from an outsider’s (of the Marine Corps) view of how he would appear. I came to the conclusion that he represented the Corps well and he would strengthen the professional view we Marines enjoy from the public at large. Professional but not a poser or a dick. That too is sometimes hard to convey. I’ve seen it done well and at other times very poorly.

The Primary Marksmanship Instructors (PMIs) are the only other Marines beside Drill Instructors authorized to wear the coveted Campaign Cover (Smokey) and while explaining some of the classes, the Sergeant took his cover off. He got so into his class, he forgot to put it on and from the moment he took it off and set it down, I just stared at it. He just kind of forgot to put it back on when he continued teaching and it was driving me crazy. Finally I turned to my buddy and said “If I rated to wear that cover, I’d never take the son-of-bitch off. EVER! I’d SLEEP with it on!”

On the first break, I found that my very good friend Leon was on the same detail. You will recall I was his very surly wingman a long time ago. And just like so many years ago at TBS in the very same area, we couldn’t help but crack jokes at every opportunity after we found each other. If (when ) I get a less-than-spectacular score, it will be because I should have been listening while Leon was making some quip that made me shoot milk through my nose… and I wasn’t even drinking milk!!!

At the next break, the pistols showed up and I ended up near the front of the line somehow which turned out perfect because I got on the second relay of 5, ensuring me a show up time of 0845 for the rest of the week!!!!

After the classes, we had the function and weapons handling tests. Do you know how dumb a Captain with a master’s degree can feel when required to regurgitate what he had just heard but was trying to stop phantom milk from coming out his nose?

We lined up in groups of three as a Lance Corporal asked us simple questions. A friend of mine who was next to me was asked the 4th weapon condition was, which she promptly screwed up royally, reciting the first. I got asked what the second condition was, which was a trick question because there is no second weapon condition!!! Yes, I nailed it!!!

Then came safety rules and after I was asked the first (and easiest), from SOMEWHERE I’m not quite sure, I rattled it off. Good start, Jason. Two for two. I was feeling pretty good about myself as Tamara (Miss I Don’t Know the 4th Weapon Condition) safely negotiated the second. The Marine next to her rattled off the third and I was still smirking about my 2 for 2 record when the Lance Corporal turned to me and said “4th Safety Rule, Sir?”

Shit. That’s right, there WAS four. I thought I was done.

So with all the professionalism that comes with 18 years in the Marine Corps, I summoned all of my superior Captain of Marines powers, looked the Lance Corporal right in the eye, and said …

“Uhhhh………..”

Dammit.

I drew a total blank.

Tamara started it for me and I finished it out, feeling just about as dumb as I should. Now Tamara and I were even and as we walked away from the test that you really couldn’t really fail, Tamara hit it on the head when she said “You KNOW he’s thinking, ‘dumbass Officers’” to which we all laughed because we knew it to be true.

After we got our relays, we went to the actual firing range. I followed suite with others and hopped in my car to get there. I guess they trust Officers to drive around with the pistol which seemed pretty weird, driving my Saturn with a 9 mm pistol strapped to my side. And you know my road rage…

Here was my approach to the pistol range: they will tell me what I will be shooting. They go through the entire course in one long sentence but I bank on the fact that when I’m supposed to shoot a single round, 5 rounds in 5 minutes, or 3 rounds and change magazines, firing off 3 more rounds all in 20 seconds, well, they will tell me. If they just gave me all the rounds and said do what I was told…. it wouldn’t be pretty.

So I did what I was told and just as I remembered, the tip of my front site was jumping around like I was an epileptic that just downed a pot of espresso during an earthquake.

We were in groups of three for the purposes of coach assignment and I was on the end. The guy on my right was a Gunny with his own earphones and special shooting glasses. Next to him was a young Corporal that looked about 12-years-old. Let’s listen in to the conversation:

“Sir, how do you shoot?”
“What?”
“How do you shoot?”
“What?”

Blank look from the Corporal. I got the hint and took off my hearing protection.

“Sir, how do you shoot?”
“Weaver.”

The blank look again.

“No, I mean HOW do you shoot?”

“No, Sir, I mean are you a good shot? Expert?”

This was a tricky question because I hadn’t shot in 4 years so I really didn’t know. I thought that the honest answer of “Likely fucked up 10 ways till Sunday” was a bit too honest so I ended up just saying “Yeah, sharpshooter.”

“And how about you Gunny?”

“Well, I’m a match shooter but this is the first time with a 9 mm. With a match pistol, I’m money.”

I really didn’t understand what exactly he meant but OK.

Finally he turned to the Corporal who simply shook his head.

“First time?”

“Yeah.”

This told me who would be getting all the coaching. I was the “seasoned Officer”, the Gunny was a competition shooter, and the Corporal was wondering what the squeezy thing was used for. Little did they know that I felt like I would have to swallow my pride this week and ask for more than a little help.

I really didn’t do all that bad except that they told me I was staring at the target instead of the front-sight post like I was supposed to. The 5 shots at the 25 yard line was a joke. My epilepsy was at full throttle at that point and I doubt if I even close to black with any of those shots.

I was amused that Gunny Competition Shooter had a target that looked like a shotgun blast. What’s up with that? Even Captain 4-Year Slacker’s target was better than that. Hell, if Corporal First Time would actually hit his target, even that would likely be better.

So even though I felt a complete loser after it was all done, my spirits were bucked by those around me. Hopefully this will not be like bowling where I get progressively worse the longer I participate.

One of the hardest parts is the drill where you load the weapon, fire three shots, release the magazine, load a fresh magazine, and fire off three more shots. You have 20 seconds which is both an eternity if everything goes right and a whisper in a dream if things are going badly.

Personally, I looked like Jerry Lewis on crack trying to do this and not until after I was done did the coach notice my problem. The magazine release button was on the wrong side of the pistol. I should have noticed that, you say? A Captain that should have fired many many times by this point in his career should have picked up on that little detail, you say?

Screw you!

What do you think made it a bit embarrassing?

Almost as embarrassing as being lost when retrieving my target. We were supposed to pull them down (saving it for a souvenir), staple up a new one, and put pasties across any holes not covered up by the new target.

I dicked this up good.

First, I tried to paste up my target until a coach pointed out “Uh, Sir, you take that down and put a new one up.”

“Oh.”

When I pulled it down, I crumpled it up and couldn’t figure out where everyone else had put their trash. By the time I figured it out (as everyone was comparing theirs with each other), I had unfolded it so I had one that was obviously wadded up.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The last dance with idiocy I will share with a couple of others. We left the firing range and looked for the armory van to turn in our weapons but the van could not be found. We searched for it and generally maligned the enlisted guys who were nowhere to be found. We drove back to the bleacher section just in case they had migrated there. Nope.

I told the others I would return to the range and wait there, calling them if the armors showed up. I drove back, waited for about 40 minutes and decided to call to see if they saw anything.

Well, it ends up that the armors were there the entire time but without the van. They were sitting by the vending machines with their big pistol carrying cases and everyone but me and a couple others figured this out right off the line.

So there was 45 minutes down the tubes topping off a day of feeling like an idiot by putting an idiot cherry on top.

I got until Friday to get all this straight, people.

Free Advice for Today: “Stop blaming others. Take responsibility for every area of your life.”

Quote of the Day: “Remember, when you are having a really bad day, and everyone seems to be against you…it takes 42 muscles to produce a frown, but only 4 to pull the trigger on a good sniper rifle.”

You all know my dog is Buster and that’s about the only description I got right now. I like to think he’s dumb but in ways he’s smart. Insidiously smart sometimes. So I must periodically outwit the beast just to establish my dominance.

I spied that he was sprawled out so I tried to catch him chillin’ on the back porch but when I tried to sneak up, here is what I saw.

SONOFABITCH! NO WAY HE COULD HAVE HEARD ME!!!

But like a predator, I patiently waited. Much later, I was rewarded with this.

Gotcha, ya lazy bastard!

(Here is another time I tried to match withs with the canine persuasion)

Free Advice for Today: “Don’t mess with drugs, and don’t associate with those who do.”

Quote of the Day: “Sooner or later, the worst possible set of circumstances is bound to occur.”

We decided to just stay home last night so we wouldn’t have to hurry, pack, get to the site, and get the tent set up before darkness. Instead, we agreed to get everything ready lat night and leave early this morning.

We didn’t exactly take advantage of that time AND we slept in. I see my weekend slackerdom is bleeding over to my family.

We took most of the morning getting everything packed up into Truckasaurus and headed to the base.

Truckarius Tiberius Truckasaurus loaded of camping.

Stephanie ahs JUST a FEW more items to bring along.

Actually we made a pit stop at Krispy Kreme because if you are going to be nasty, go full throttle, I say.

This brings me to a blanket statement I will neither defend or discuss. No one can be on a diet when camping. All bets are off and it’s the one opportunity to eat crap all day with reckless abandon. Play now, pay later.

(that always sounds more reasonable during the “play now” phase.)

Looking over the different sites, the kids wanted a more woodsy feel so we found the perfect camping site: trees all around but the lake and a bathroom within sight. Now THAT’S camping!

I had promised to be “happy Jason” for this trip and told myself NOTHING that happened would sour my mood. Nothing.

My promise was severely tested.

Everything was going fine during most of the day. We got the campsite set up, everything unloaded, and even a fishing pole for the kids to share. All was well.

The kids were fishing and I was taking a few minutes to try out the general comfiness of our blow-up mattress inside the tent while reading Tom Clancy’s Without Remorse. I was lulled into a deep relaxation by the sound of distant thunder.

Thunder?

Hell, it hadn’t rained in weeks, maybe months around here. And we were CAMPING so obviously no raining was allowed. I mean all our shit is spread out and rain just wouldn’t be possible.

I got up and headed to the bank and relieved Carrie from watching the kids fish. Alex returned to the campsite with her so it was Stephanie and I talking over the various topics one does between father and daughter while fishing a lake.

The thunder started to get louder. Carrie assured me before she left that “It won’t rain.”

That was the lingering thought when the wind hit a few minutes later. It came in a wave you could see across the lake and as it whipped, I made the feeble assurance to Stephanie that it was just the mist that the wind picked up off the water that we saw.

As we scrambled to gather our possessions, the wind started to get extremely strong and leaves filled the air. I told her to grab what she could and we would head back.

Then the water hit.

It wasn’t just a gentle start to a gentle late-summer rain. It was a million garden hoses pouring out at once. It took about 2 minutes to get to the campsite and by the time we got there, Stephanie wincing with pain because she was barefoot, we were both soaking wet. And the rain still came.

Carrie and Alex had done the best and fastest job they could at getting everything into Truckasaurus or the tent but there was still a few things soaking up the driving rain: our camping chairs, the propane stove, Buster.

Carrie was yelling at Alex to get this and that, Buster was cowering, and you would think I would be yelling and/or freaking out.

But I wasn’t. I figured that personally, I was just about as wet as I could get and after all, it was just water. So it was a matter of helping get everything out of the rain and waiting it out.

The only time I really lost any part of my cool was when I yelled at everyone to keep theirs.

As I ran to the Triple T to dump off a load of something or other, Buster decided it was a good idea to take advantage of the open door situation and jump in the front. The problem that developed was multi-pronged.

First, the poor beast was scared shitless so there was no getting him out. Second, he had mud all over his paws and he was christening the variety of items we threw in there with mud, which now were soaking wet AND had muddy dog prints on them, not the least of which was Truckasaurus’s interior.

Then there was the little matter of the smell. Buster smelled very much like a … well, like a wet dog. And said smell was rapidly filling Truckasaurus’s interior cab. Oh, Trucky, you’re just gonna have to suck it up.

By the time we got everything out of the rain and we cowered in the tent, we were all soaked to the bone and it was still raining. Carrie asked where Buster was and we decided we should probably go get him. That “we” turned out to be “me” and when I got there, Buster was just about the most miserable looking animal I ever laid eyes on. I just hoped that he didn’t piss or shit in there. Luckily he didn’t but I wish I could say the same for Carrie (just kidding, Hon.)

Soaking wet, muddy, and shivering in fear, I tried to coax Buster out. He didn’t want to budge and my admonitions did nothing to help the matter. I finally bullied him out and we returned to the tent where we all 5 sat until the rain subsided.

Coming out of the tent like Noah’s Ark, we assessed the damage and immediately set to work to dry out everything that had gotten wet… which was just about everything. The tent flaps had been open so water poured into the interior and everyone’s sleeping bag and pillow had some level of dampness. Lovely.

The most amazing story of it all was that we still had a half-dozen Krispy Kremes in their box, sitting on top of the picnic table when the storm came. When Carrie was hurrying to get everything secured as the wind hit, the wind picked up the box and a second later she saw the box cartwheeling into the woods.

“There go the donuts” she thought, until she noticed the donuts sitting on the picnic table bench… all sitting there right side up in a little formation. Somehow, the box had blown up in the air, the donuts fell out landing right-side-up. All of them! Not just one, not a couple… ALL OF THEM in a “The Shining” kind of scariness moment. And then the box blew away.

This just proves my theory: Krispy Kremes are not of this world.

We spent most of the afternoon drying stuff out and the rain did not return. We started a fire and tried to get everything that was most egregiously wet nearest to the fire. We succeeded in getting everything done except the double camping chair for Carrie and I. Those suckers just would not dry.

I don’t know if anyone can understand our plight. We were soaked, all our stuff was soaked, and we had very little to do but try to salvage what we could. Could ANYONE understand what we were going through? Water everywhere, everything soaked. How could anyone understand what we were going through? (I tried to make a facetious joke about hurricane victims here but it was getting tough and it was just looking like whining if you didn’t get it so what the hell, I’m just coming out and admitting my poor ability to make a joke here.)

On the eating front, we ate hamburgers and hot dogs, s’mores, popcorn, and told scary stories by the fire until about 10:30 when I turned in for a night’s rest I knew wouldn’t be of the highest quality. Camping sleep as a kid, as I remember, was great. As an adult… not so much.

But I think the scariest part was those Krispy Kremes. That just ain’t normal.

Free Advice for Today: “Don’t allow the telephone to interrupt important moments. It’s there for your convenience, not the caller’s.”

Quote of the Day: “You cannot solve a problem with the same kind of thinking that created the problem.”

Tomorrow we are going camping so I took part of my lunch hour to check out the camp sites. Driving out there was a strange experience because I will be camping in the same area that I run every weekend AND it’s the place I trained for 6 months when I was going through The Basic School back in 1997-1998. That I would ever VOLUNTARILY go out there and camp is just inconceivable.

I drove out to the Lunga Lake area and checked out every single camping spot they had. A Marine Captain in his cammies driving a 2000 Saturn was a weird site at a camping area but I had a mission, dammit. I spotted a few that Carrie and the kids might like and talked to the campground officials who told me that I couldn’t rent a boat because cutbacks prevented personnel from issuing said boats. Looks like no boating, kids but only people over 16 need fishing licenses. I knew they would love that at least.

Getting back to work, I had a meeting at the Death Star. I had only been there once at the “Dead Ladybug Meeting” and it still cracked me up that they call this building “The Death Star.” Like many buildings on Quantico, it was a cubicle farm where the lifeforce of humans are sucked dry.

The meeting was unlike any other I had ever attended. Why? Because we got there, sat down, presented a 30 second intro, discussed issues for about 5 minutes, fielded some simple questions, and then…. it was over!

Yes folks, we achieved critical meeting nirvana. It was…. how all meetings should be.

I wandered around aimless after that, not knowing if my reality was ever going to stop shimmering.

Free Advice for Today: “Be cautious abount lending money to friends. You might lose both.”

Quote of the Day: “There cannot be a crisis this week; my schedule is already full.”

To update on my “house cleaning” project on myself, I found out that I will indeed get credit for the first two of seven portions of my Expeditionary Warfare Distance Education Program. I also signed up for the seminar sessions that go every Monday afternoon starting in October. If I stay on track with this, I will have the course completed by next year when I become eligible for promotion. So all I have to do is do the homework and hang around on Monday’s for a few hours….. ug.

I’m also going to the pistol range next week so that will take care of another overdue responsibility. I hope I can get at least sharpshooter because me plus pistol is a lot like Barney Fife. I figure I will just throw my weapon at he enemy and hope I can hit him in the head.

Next week I also have an appointment with my monitor and hopefully she will leave me at Quantico for my last year so that I can see the results of the MOI board which tells me if I will be getting out or going to Seattle to be the Marine Officer Instructor in 2007. Maybe my studly prowling charms can work to my advantage for once …. yeah, I’m screwed.

A lot of things going on next week and then at the end of it, I have the half-marathon on Saturday and my old friend Rob comes for a one day visit and then off to San Diego for a week (with a requisite rant blog about flying cross-country again. I need to start preparing for that right now.)

Free Advice for Today: “Wave at children on school buses.”

Quote of the Day: “Pride is what we have. Vanity is what others have.”

Routine.

That’s what I crave. That’s how I fit everything I want to do in most of one day. But sometimes….

I don’t know what happened today. Somehow I lost my mind. Normally I will either take a few minutes at night to get things ready for the next day (like almost every successful person’s biography tells you) or at least go through a rushed version of it in the morning.

It goes like this: set the timer on the coffee, put out the mixing cup and breakfast powder, get out a coffee mug, packets of Splenda, a butter knife to stir it with. Pack a green t-shirt and a pair of black socks. Pack white socks, running shorts, a pair of underwear, a running shirt, and a plastic grocery bag. Set a pair of clean underwear on the shelf by the shower.

Plug in my cell phone, my Blackberry, and iPod to charge overnight.

When I got to work today, my mind went back to the moment I was leaving the house and I ignored that little voice that said my backpack was too light. Opening the bag at work, I discovered why.

Remember, I’ve been doing this routine for years so it’s not like I’m not schooled or anything.

I had completely forgotten to bring a green t-shirt and black socks. Why? This is utterly unexplainable.

Just as I was realizing my moronic situation, I opened up the single unread email in my inbox. It was a note from my boss telling me that the new TWO STAR GENERAL was going to be walking around meeting everyone.

OK, I know I’m prone to galactic stupidity so I prepare for such unlikely events. I’ll just go to my locker at work and pull out the old stand-by shirt. Great, I have to put on Second String Shirt when I meet the new General.

And for some reason…. No spare black socks in my little emergency pack.

I stood there wondering what to do. Well, I didn’t have much choice. I would have to wear my little white running socks that go up to the ankle with my boots.

I know what you are saying “Who will see?”

Well, no one but like a woman wearing lingerie underneath, it just sets a tone that the wearer is affected by.

Then I realized that I hadn’t got a haircut, waiting until this afternoon when I was scheduled to take my daughter to piano lessons after work and I would visit my favorite barber next door. But with the General’s impending presence, I would have to go to Q-Town to take care of this little detail.

The haircut went fine but although I have very little up top due to military regulations, what IS there can get a bit unruly without a bit of help. Said help gets brushed out when cut so here is what you got when I was introduced to the General:

A Captain with a loose-necked old green T-shirt, fly-away fuzzy hair, and white socks. As you can imagine, my self-image was THROUGH THE ROOF.

At lunch I discovered I also forgot a workout shirt. It was enough to kill my desire to even work out. (It don’t take much, folks).

What the hell was going on with me? I just completely lost myself today.

Bleh!

Free Advice for Today: “Think twice before burdening a friend with a secret.”

Quote of the Day: “Some people are only alive because it is illegal to kill.”

By a show of hands, how many of you knew I have a motorcycle?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Here is the basic history:

In 2000, I bought a brand new Suzuki GS500E in 29 Palms California.
Rode it almost every weekend around Joshua Tree National Park.
Moved to Monterey
Rode it a few times with friends
Sat in the salt air for about a year without any use
Spent $700 to get it fixed up
Broke down the first time I rode it after that
Sat for a few more months as punishment before I moved
Rode it a few times here in Virginia
Spent 14 months sitting in my garage with no cover
I bought a new battery, charged it, and it sat unused for 6 months

See a pattern here yet? The damn thing only has just over 2000 miles.

Now the registration has lapsed and as far as I could tell, it needs to be registered in Virginia, new plates, inspection, and county registration.

First things first. I re-charged the brand-new battery, hooked it up, and it wouldn’t start. It turned over but it just wouldn’t start. Maybe the same gas in it for 14 months had something to do with it. Bitch.

There was only one thing to do: take it in and get it tuned up… AGAIN.

For $190 they give it a “Full Service” at the local bike shop so today I backed up Truckasaurus (full name “Truckarius Tiberius Truckasaurus” for you long time Truckasaurus fans. Could even answer to TRIPLE T!!!!) into the ditch in front because I have no ramp and it’s the Virginia way of doing things anyway. Carrie and I manhandled Suzi into the bed, strapped her down, and I was off to the dealership.

But I was in Virginia so I was required by law to accessorize Triple T.

First, I brought Buster which met the requirement to have a dog hanging his fool head out the side window. Then I took along my daughter and at 11, she was the perfect age for me to claim her as my missus.

Driving down the barely maintained county roads in my weather-beaten Truckasaurus, dog-head out the window, child-bride in the front seat, and a motorcycle strapped in the bed, I never felt so Virginian since I’d been here. I expected Cooter and his buddies to expose their teeth (both of them) in a smile of approval as I drove by.

When I got there, I admitted to my neglect of the bike and they promised to fix her up for me. At least this part of bringing Suzi back to life didn’t seem all that taxing. In a few days I should know the true damage of my neglectful ways.

Free Advice for Today: “Think quickly.”

Quote of the Day: “Sometimes I wake up grumpy; Other times I let her sleep.”

I had to deal with medical again today. And this time, there was a special little twist: I had a 10:30 appointment at Bethesda which simply means that I had to work through the tangled fallopian tube that is I-95 during morning rush hour.

Left at 0730 and got there about 0930. Ahhhh, northern Virginia.

For those that are not read in to my medical problem, read this.

This is but the latest chapter in my quest to grow a third testicle. Many have tried to solve my little problem but just as many have failed, opting for the old standby of antibiotics and sorrowful looks.

This time I demanded to see a specialist so a lightning quick month later, I got this appointment with a urologist in Bethesda. Whoah-ho! The big leagues!!!

As I sat in the examination room looking at the most humbling charts and demonstration models, I repeated my mantra:

“Don’t let it be a woman, don’t let it be a woman, don’t…”

It was a woman.

Of course it was. It just wouldn’t be an opportunity to drop my drawers for a perfect stranger and describe my testicular problems without a card-carrying ovary-owner to do the sack-fondling now would it?

I went through my entire explanation like I’ve done for many other women-doctors/practitioners/nurses/food service techs… and suddenly, I realized my hands were on my hips. Was this the proper stance? Was there a proper etiquette for showcasing your junk? I didn’t know but it just seemed wrong at that moment to be in a power stance. Moving my arms to my side didn’t help so I determined there just didn’t exist the right way to hold yourself when someone else was doing holding of yourself of their own.

What was the prognosis, you ask?

“Well, I want you to get an ultrasound.”

The thought of “I’m pretty sure I ain’t pregnant” momentarily popped into my head but I dismissed it. Then the thought of them scanning the affected area and me telling them that if they found a baby in there, I had more problems than simple epididymis.

“I already had one. A couple of years ago.”
“What did they say about it?”
“They said it was epididymis, just like I told you.”
“Well, I want you to get another one and then I need you to make a follow up appointment where you’ll talk to Dr……” (I don’t remember his name).

So now I get to come back next month (yes, the quickest appointment I could get after walking down 3 decks to get to the ultrasound desk) and then come back for a return appointment a week after that (the appointment I got after coming BACK up 3 flights of stairs. Good thing I’m somewhat healthy but the thought did occur that this is a lot of walking for a HOSPITAL.)

The game continues.

But at least I didn’t have to get the procedure I saw on one of the wall charts to fix a prostate problem. They showed a cross-section drawing of a long metal tube that looked like those long dentist needles but this one was stuck THROUGH THE PENIS HOLE ALL THE WAY BACK!!!!

GOOD GOD!!!!!

So I’ll mark one in the win column just for avoiding THAT!

Free Advice for Today: “Ask for advice when you need it, but remember that no one is an expert on your life.”