after all these years, still dig it

pearl jam
"daughter"
reminds me of someone that's gone.

"tomorrow," on its feet

short play i wrote called "tomorrow."

performed @ Lebanon Community Theatre in Pennsylvania, 2008. 

starring Brad Hartman and Haley Johnston. directed by Scott Harmon

great job!

little old ladies

it was on the edge of the Tigris.

a hamlet. old, perhaps ancient. and we halted in place; food and drink before Baghdad.

set up the C.O.C.

-combat operation center.

dug in as the sun dipped beyond the horizon.

360 degrees of security.

240 machine-guns; S.A.W.s; frag grenades; new batteries for our night vision; and yer basic grunt, m-16 greased and ready.

the Zero said the town was cleared.

only friendlies, but he wanted to make sure.

assembled the usual suspects: the Texan; s-3 rogues; Arab translator; and several shit-bird Lance Corporals.

-all trigger pullers.

we leave, armed to the teeth. overkilled on grenades, ammo, and honed K-Bars.

CONTACT RIGHT:

B.M.P.

-russian troop carrier. gutted. 

still smoking. 

a round detonates from the heat. some pens and pencils. a button. a shred of clothing. food.

still smoking.

wondered what became of the poor bastards manning this beast. found 'em a short time later.

pieces.

teeth.

molars.

a canine.

pieces.

holy shit.

we push on.

an abandoned bungalow. we enter. walking into someones bedroom. a large mirror. clothes scattered here, there. 

stones lined up along a window sill.

"prayer stones," says the Texan, digging through clothes.

"ey look-a Pepsi t-shirt."

he shoves it into his cargo pocket.

i take a stone. clay or compressed sand. maybe lime?

dunno, but i still got it. 

we leave the bungalow and head towards another.

empty too. 

kinda. 

parakeets. budgies. dozens. blue and yellow and green. chirping away like there wasn't a War on. 

-the nerve.

some lay rigid on the cage floor. 

try to take a few out. free 'em, right?

soon as i grab one-CRUNCH-sonofabitch clamps down on my ham hock like it's going outa style.

deep and gnawing. it hurt. so i left the cage open and headed towards the river.

past a palm grove that obscured thousands of enemy artillery rounds.

-future I.E.D.s.

dates cling tight and leathery high up in the trees. their tops seared by rocket fire.

a Mailer novel, i think.

"Naked and the Dead."

and then we saw 'em.

little old ladies. white flags in hand, waving, forcing smiles.

ugly as sin. teeth yellowed, missing. breath: a pungent combo of garlic and ass.

such an ugly place; Iraq, i think. 

the translator asks them their business here.

-salvaging personal items.

where were the men?

-the men were gone. maybe dead.

were the men soldiers?

-no, just men.

"fuck saddam," blurts one of the old ladies.

i laugh. "yeah, fuck saddam."

the other Marines clear the house as the interpreter and i watch the old ladies.

"sit down," i say.

they sit.

we fix our m-16s in their general direction. one of the ladies shoots me a nervous smile. i counter with the same.

'no more saddam," she says.

"yeah, no more saddam. bush now." i say. smiling.

how absurd, i think.

these little old ladies sitting down, semi-automatic rifles pointed inches from their heads, on the order of a 23-year old punk.

-me.

and it ain't unique. no. nope. not even fucking close.

holding semi-automatic rifles inches away from little old ladies heads' is S.O.P.

WWI; WWII; Korea, 'Nam; Storm, and now me. Iraq.

looking down at them. homely and scared. just living their lives on the Tigris. something that's been done for a millennia. 

KA-BOOM! impacts. outgoing. no. incoming. no...

i dunno.

WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP!

Huey's pile past, sucking air.

can only imagine what's going on in these little old ladies heads'.

tell myself they'd slice my throat given the chance.

given the knife. given the opportunity.

and this is why i have to point my semi-automatic rifle inches from your head, ma'am.

i'm sorry. honest. it's all just so ugly.

but can't apologize now. nope. maybe someday.

when it's settled down and there's a starbucks on every corner. 

someday.

i can explain why i treated you like a dirty dog. but not today. 

today is War. 

today the Legion crosses the Rubicon. 

and my burden is staying alive.

a sound.

glass shattering. falling. 

doors kicked in. wood splintering. pots and pans tumbling, rumbling.

a sickening feeling surges out my gut, up my esophagus-causing me to suck at my teeth. 

"hurry the fuck up!" i shout.

they do. they come out; the Marines, one by one, smiling, pockets full of souvenirs.

KA-BOOM!

direct hit! the Tigris explodes; spraying water high, falling in droplets-heavy. mist suspended in air.

another impact. pounds the earth. the ground rolls like an earthquake. something beyond a single man's control and it's goddamn scary.

WHOOSH!

oh shit. and the fear sets in.

outgoing? no. incoming? no...

panic. the little old ladies get hysteric.

running in circles. really. like chickens, sans heads.

they pepper our translator with questions.

"who was firing?"

"what should we do?"

"where do we go?" 

"what is all this?"

but we don't stick around. 

we have no answers. 

double-timing past those first bungalows, i see the parakeets. 

still inside their cage. chirping. 

eating seed as the world detonates around them.

sure must be nice.

my first paid writing gig!

well it's true: gonna be remunerated for my writing.

another step. 

closer. 

although i did win some dough for playwrighting contests in the past,

this just feels different.

and i gotta thank Judith Royer; Loyola Marymount University professor extraordinaire for bringing me into this project.

she and her comrades received a grant to chronicle "Soldiers' Stories." 

won't be writing about myself-thank god; think i've milked that cow for what it's worth.

instead, i'll be interviewing a Vietnam Vet and creating a dramatic monologue of sorts to be performed @ theatre's in and around Los Angeles. 

to be honest, i'd still do it if i didn't get a lick of cash.

figger it's training. drill. 

jordan wasn't born great. neither was magic. 

or Milius. Hemingway.

steps.

and hell, i love hearing about the past.

of men and women and their stories.

their hopes, dreams, experiences. 

and of War.

how it shaped them.

this country.

the world. 

-seeds of future screenplays.

can't wait to start.

my script won!

"get some"
wrote a script about an 18-year old Jarhead; Pvt. Barnes.
his mission: destroy the enemy planting I.E.D.s on donkeys.
yet, all he wants, is a confirmed kill.
okay, okay, i understand there's no such thing as "confirmed kills," anymore, but hell; it's a movie.
nevertheless, the script was chosen out of the entire U.S.C. Film School (546 contest).
$10,000 budget.
crackerjack cast and crew.
director: christine berg.
producer: gerard mcmurray.
two professionals.
two highly motivated individuals.
and i guess that's what it takes.
skill/passion.
and a little LUCK.
check out the brochure christine made for the script.
and some pix.
good shit.
very good shit.

the fear...

obama.
mccain.
same guys ,different suits.
but this is truly creepy.
sing for most dear leader...

fade in

ext. - al nasiriyah - mid-morning

View Larger Map
we hold a large American flag between us.
still creased. rectangular boxes.
red. white. blue.
stars.
all that shit.
alvarez takes the picture.
we stand in front of a destroyed t-71 tank-soviet type.
smolders. Iraqi's bake inside.
im in a daze of sorts.
still buzzing from the caffeine. the copenhagen snuff; long-cut. the pilfered Iraqi cigarettes. the 72 hours without sleep.
it saturates my system to create a bizarre reality.
Superimpose: "Iraq, the Mini-Series."
Starring (in no particular order):
Vehicle Commander; the All-American.
Gunner; the irascible tattooed Grunt.
A-Gunner; the gung-ho immigrant.
Driver; Mr."By-the-books."
and guest appearances by Bing West: the affable embedded reporter. and the Dead: mostly Iraqi.
it is cinema at its best. pure imagery.
bodies tell the story without uttering a single word.
no exposition.
no voice-overs.
no deus ex machina.
scenes of brutality.
roadkill. staged. scattered about. fleeing. frozen in time.
young guys. like me. maybe you?
mustached. some kids. some women. i try not to look. can feel them seeping in. working their way deep into my brain housing group
locked away.
just waiting. just waiting.
we read a subtitle in the sky: "outskirts of town"
a muddy field.
LCpl. 3 Battalion, 1st Marines.
US Marine. dead.
we see him limp.
and it starts to sink in. our cast, including Bing, are really getting into their roles.
cutting out the air. off script. becoming second nature.
the ancient warriors in our DNA, slowly claw to the surface.
years of shellac, applied directly to our backs by women and effeminate men, begins to crack. muscles fill with blood.
something glimmers beneath all the whitewash:
a pugio dagger; a bolt-action Springfield rifle; a B.A.R. light-machine gun.
we are the Roman Legion. we are the Doughboys. we are GI Joe.
we are the bain of every hippie that ever drove his daddy's car from berkley to san fran international and spit on us.
-but back to the LCpl.
his boots. they hang out doc's vehicle. tan and worn. issued in camp horno.
maybe he stood behind me at the casting call?
did i brush against him as we waited for craft services?
don't really know the kid.
perhaps a flashback is in order?
-unfortunately the footage has been lost.
i still think of him, though.
late at night.
or when i come home from school.
wish i could just insert a DVD, instead of constantly having to regurgitate my bio.
i dont tell it well. i should write it down sometime. practice it like the rest. but i dont.
-i digress.
too many preachy commercials nowadays, dontcha think?
ext. - al nasiriyah - outskirts - mid-morning
a Peugeot.
white and orange.
LCpl tucked away.
im still folding the LT's flag.
we come to a herringbone.
wait for orders.
the XO of 1st marines, a stand up gent, notices something.
movement.
close on - white/orange Peugeot.
bodies crumpled atop each other. something stirs.
slowly.
like a slug buried in mulch, a hand slimes to the surface.
life.
guest appearance: ubiquitous Iraqi family (unpaid extras).
int. - Peugeot - mid-morning
father. mother. child.
we investigate.
father: dead. cold to the touch. blood congealing in his face. pupils dilated. relaxed. (those are the eyes of the dead).
mother: hip blown off; in shock. blood soaked. non-speaking role.
child: just an infant. leg chewed by a 25mm.
i remain composed. must not cry.
-think “on the waterfront.” Stieger and Brando, back seat of the taxi. “I coulda been a contender…”
the XO calls for a medi-vac.
i volunteer: litter bearer.
i get mom.
a robust woman. well-fed. knotted black hair. matted with blood. vacant stare. shirt ripped, big breasts flop about. large and firm. purple nipples. i look away, embarrassed.
the indignities of War.
ext. - al nasiryah - mid-morning
a blackhawk dissolves into the picture. a static negroid blob in the dust storm.
we have to move.
i grab mom. she looks up at me; through me. a faceless Grunt.
a wet day. mud and slime and hay and we all trudge through it; a Marine looses his boot in the process, wind cuts into our faces from the bird.
the back hatch lowers.
cha-chung!
we file in.
yell in bursts. the suction of air distorts our words.
the air-wingers direct us: put the woman there.
child here.
but then
i trip.
fall, actually.
mom falls too.
she has remained without lines prior to the medivac scene. now she howls in pain.
-residuals are owed.
she focuses her anger at me-the Roman Legion. the Doughboy. GI Joe.
like a wounded afghan hound, she yelps an animal plea.
"waaaaahhhhhhhh!"
guttural. inhuman. pain pure, primal.
havent heard such a wail since.
i pick her up. place her into position.
i wait with her. chopper vibrates erratically.
she’s very young to play this role of mother. can’t be more than 18.
a peasant. farmer. simple broad.
i try to assuage her pain, but what the fuck am i gonna do?
smile ? say its going to be alright-the Marines have landed?
who's writing this shit??
someone calls my name.
"mandia, get the fuck back to your vehicle!"
give her once last glance.
shock has set in. she is quiet. serene. morphine takes root.
wider - blackhawk thunders off
fade out.
maybe she died en route. i dont know. she lost alota blood. the deep rich arterial type.
and like the LCPL, i think of her sometimes.
at night.
or after school.
wish I had the footage.
maybe there was one of those superimposed headings at the end i missed.
like in “animal house.”
explaining what happened to her.
where is she now?
did her precious little daughter survive?
does she sit up at night too?
thinking of me?
or that overcast day in 2003?
a song plays.

The Sound Of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel

and an old Marine sits up in bed.
he lights a cigarette.
fade out.

the plan

it was more like a ploy to get me home early.
almost worked.
had the recommendations.
the transcripts.
the required writing samples.
EVERYTHING.
via the internet i investigated USC's screenwriting program.
googled the faculty. their work. past students. achievements.
on the ball to say the least.
but i didn't get in.
another four months in the desert.
i was pissed.
but i did get a personalized letter from a gent named Howard Rodman.
told me to keep on, keeping on.
and i did.
through the disheartening gulags of community college.
the tedium of gay-lesbian-transgendered-bisexual-metrosexual-women studies-animal liberation-algebra for the mildly stupid, required classes of LMU.
and i wrote. a lot.
and read. a lot.
and i'm still writing. and still reading.
hell, i've only been at it three years.
wasn't raised in the theatre. parents never did take me to the opera. or read gothe to me before bed. barely graduated high school. operated exclusively on cliff notes. failed english and math. was the antagonist of nearly every teacher i came in contact with.
needless to say, i was a major fucktard.
never even read a book until my senior year; "catcher in the rye."
first play @ 27; "the importance of being earnest."
and now, well, i'm just an infant.
balancing.
gaining ground.
learning to stumble. busting my nose on occasion.
but yesterday,
i walked.
down the little shaded mazes of the University of Southern California--the same walkways John Milius, George Lucas, Robert Zemeckis, Judd Apatow, Ronnie Howard, etc, etc. walked.

classes start monday.
here we go...

my boots

are tan, weather worn, unimposing.
they've seen a lot.
at times i think they've seen more than me.
marched in step on camp hornos parade deck;
trudged up the uss pearl harbors ladder wells;
dried and cracked in the kuwaiti desert;
soaked through with rain on the streets of fallujah.

one boot has a large dent in it. still rubs awkward against my big toe, makes just an impression to let me know its still there.
forget how i got it.
maybe an ammo can fell on it.
the soles are gnarled smooth. the grit of multiple naval carriers and the heat of the middle-east, creating a lacquered sheen..
some deep cuts are there too.
i know how i got those.
i did it.
i did it with my k-bar five years ago.
on guard duty.
it would be late, quiet.
the world ceasing fire.
then after sharpening it, id test it out on my tan rubber sole.

within the creases of the boot, underneath the beige laces, still covered with iraqi dirt, resides a dog tag. it is dented and dirty and has my name on it, my social security number, blood type, gas mask size, and tells my captors im in the United States Marine Corps.
got quiet a few dog tags floating around.
once had free reign of the dog tag machine at the school of infantry.
that was after my first tour.
thought i was shit hot. a salty dog.
and i walked through my old barracks, passing young Marines, fresh from boot camp, still looking scared and apprehensive.
i liked these kids.
joining after sept 11 2001, these guys actively choose to go to war.
something akin to the old timers after pearl harbor.
romantic patriots.
these kids.
18 year olds.
and i shuddered, thinking about the rabid jihadists they would eventually have to face.
about how their faces would look when they finally realized: this is war.

the prose you've read about in "farewell to arms;"
the jingoistic bullshit they lionized in boot camp;
the crap they protested against in the 60s.

don’t know why I wear my boots anymore.
just do every once in a while.
i mean i dont get all dolled up in my dress blues and march around my house, barking orders at imaginary subordinates. recite lines from 'taxi driver' in front of a full length mirror.

but these boots, they’re mine.
they’re all that I have now: memories.
because im officially out of the marine corps. no more inactive reserve. no more threats of being activated.
no stop-loss.
im a civilian.
a common joe looking in on an alien world.

ulysses, tortoise type

charles bukowski

lived a few blocks down from me.

santa cruz st., san pedro ca 90732.

poet. novelist. dirty old bastard.

and i like him.

a lot.

his prose ain't that hot, but his poetry is beautiful. an off-beat-odd-fellow-type beauty. something akin to a toothless hobo clutching a half empty bottle of mickey's malt liqueur under the setting sun in los angeles harbor.

recently re-read some of his poems and i've come to a disturbing conclusion.

i copy him.

not verbatim, but stylistically.

a mental road map to composition.

in fact, i think many young writers do.

in my defense, i dont think i tried to.

just happened.

seeped into my mental vernacular.

a subconscious seed planted in my medulla oblongata. maybe it happened when i looked for his grave site a few years back.

some half-assed supernatural bond.

i dunno.

but it happened.

should i apologize?

no.

he's dead. and i dont think you can copyright a mentality.

yet, the least i can do is introduce some scouts to my favorite, albeit relatively unknown, poet:

Charles Bukowski

1920-1994

one of my favorites:

I Made a Mistake

I reached up into the top of the closet

and took out a pair of blue panties

and showed them to her and

asked "are these yours?"

and she looked and said,

"no, those belong to a dog."

she left after that and I haven't seen

her since. she's not at her place.

I keep going there, leaving notes stuck

into the door. I go back and the notes

are still there. I take the Maltese cross

cut it down from my car mirror, tie it

to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave

a book of poems.

when I go back the next night everything

is still there.

I keep searching the streets for that

blood-wine battleship she drives

with a weak battery, and the doors

hanging from broken hinges.

I drive around the streets

an inch away from weeping,

ashamed of my sentimentality and

possible love.

a confused old man driving in the rain

wondering where the good luck

went.

private discharged by firing squad

this guy, bush.
death sure follows him closely. wanna know more?
click here:

http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0708/12129.html

sunday morning coming down

and i'm one of three remaining white males in los angeles who mows his own lawn.

its a little known fact that i hold close to my heart. and i like to celebrate said factoid on my porch with a pabst blue ribbon and a sanctimonious sneer. but im starting to think gravel might be a nice alternative. ulysses; my tortoise, masturbated all over my freshly mowed lawn.he was punished. here's some pix. live vicariously through me.

the chicken post

for the full story, click on the month of JUNE and scroll down.

Quickpost this image to Myspace, Digg, Facebook, and others!

War is a Racket

Major General Smedley Butler. Old school Marine. And considering our nation's current plight, I found a fairly interesting quote attributed to him in Random Lengths (local rag). It comes from his book, War is a Racket. Check it out:
http://www.randomlengthsnews.com/content/view/144/33

always open

she asked if i liked to drink beer and play pool.
"yes," i said. drinking coffee black. two splendas.
she started talking about new mexico. she wanted to leave. go to california. matter of fact, her band was playing a gig in stockton, ca soon.
"oh stockton," said a man. he was sitting to my left. he put down his fork. pancakes and bacon, they waited.
"stocktons big time," he continued. "been there once, big time."
she smiled. "yeah, stockton."
i dont remember what she looked like. im sorry. just a non-descript girl, working the late shift at a denny's in albuquerque, NM. and she must of saw something in me. a connection.
the tattoos. the disheveled look. the 1000-yard stare i directed towards the indian cooking hash behind the counter. maybe it was the journal i was scribbling in. trying to write a new story.
but this girl spoke up. said hello. and we talked.
the coffee was good. suitable. black and hot. thats all i drank. she refilled it five times. the cups were small.
"pigs ina blankit!" said the indian. "up!"
she retrieved it. as she did, i pocketed a handful of splenda packets.
she came back.
"must really like splenda, huh?" she said.
"im a diabetic," i said.
she was sorry to hear that.
"me too, " i said.
a customer caught her attention and although she stood directly in front of me, her eyes were looking to right.
i took the opportunity to scrutinize her non-descript face.
eyes; they sat deep.
nose; it breathed.
mouth; it opened, noise came out.
a girl. probably in her early 20s. the apple of some diesel mechanics eye. pretty.
more customers entered.
albuquerque's youth. she served them. i sat, drinking my coffee.
read a book: power screenwriting.
the hero's journey; the path to redemption; change; approaching the cave; the conflict within; and finally the impact on the world.
she came back.
a new pot of coffee. she poured. her mouth opened.
"in a couple months stockon," she said.
"yes," i said. "lots of stuff in stockon."
another order came up. chicken fried steak with a side of seasoned fries.
she got it. i finished my coffee. black, with two splendas.
as i ante'd up with the cashier, she grabbed me by the arm.
"dont got a phone, but if i can get yers, maybe we can grab a bud later."
"sure, " i said. "i like getting wasted."
so i gave her my number and said i would return later that night.
"dont sleep much nowadays," i said.
neither did she. "the heat," she said. "its unbearable."
i waved goodbye. smiled. exited.
the heat of the new mexico came over me quickly. stifling. one almost forgets what cold feels like. deep inside your chest.
driving back to a friends apartment, i rolled down the window and let the breeze hit my face. it was cool. but not cold. i pulled my car up near a dance club.
turned off my lights and watched. the youth. happily coupled. holding.
love, i guess.
so i sat there in my car like some deranged taxi driver, smoking cigarettes, hoping to see something. find something. somebody. connect.
after an hour or so i ran out of cigarettes.
headed back dennys.
i saw her, my waitress, outside drinking a pepsi. bottle type. she was waiting.
but i didnt stop. never came back. just drove in the dark to my friends place.
my waitress, well, she never did call.

when i was in high school

i really dug this song: "the freshmen," by the verve pipe.
about relationships.
strange.
because i didnt have a real girlfriend until years later.
but this song. i heard it recently. its cliche. its juvenile. its pretty melodramatic. but thats high school, yes?
brian vander ark wrote it. he still tours. here's his website:
http://www.brianvanderark.com/
but it made me think about someone.
and i cant decide whether the kid who put it to japanese anime is just a big goober, or a genius.
nevertheless, i still like it.

Wounded Warriors' Writing Program

sometimes i complain about my back.
or nightmares.

and then i see the wounded.

they deserve more than a t-shirt.

got some greenbacks burning a hole in your pocket?

enjoy theatre?

donate.

please.

thank you.

Wounded Warrior Writers Program

http://www.ntwh.org/

McCain, the POW

don't agree with most of his policy.

but one thing's for sure, John McCain is a helluva man.
here's his story (wow):
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1084711/posts

hilton, bahrain

It’s late.
My back burns.
Something’s askew in my spine. I don’t know what, but it’s askew. A disc maybe. A disc protruding pinching a nerve. A muscle strained.
I don’t know.
I’ve been in this pain for two months.
Yesterday I thought I might have recovered, but I was wrong.
I woke up and my back burned. Burned up along my spine, running hot and dull and achy and when I turn my neck something pops and creaks.
Something is always going wrong.
Inevitably.
A big zit on my cheek.
Deep and bulbous and hurting. Can’t find a head to lance, so it remains there until my body consumes it.
An ingrown hair on my testicles.
Another bad hair day.
Starched shirts collapsing around my neck with sweat.
An ulcer steaming inside my stomach.
Unyielding bowl movements.
A torn meniscus hobbling.
Stubbed toe engorged with black blood.
Waking up with a sty.
Huddling in the corner of the USS Pearl Harbor as mononucleosis abrades my throat.
The waxy build-up of dirt and sebum on my “t-zone”.
Stretch marks.
Wrinkles forging their indifferent trails along my forehead.
Pores widening.
Screaming.
Birthmarks.
Liver spots—I’m getting old.
The shotgun blast of exploded melanin on my nose.

So I take my allotted VA narcotics and crack a Coke Zero.

And then I remember being in Bahrain.

View Larger Map

Being in Bahrain alone.
Medi-vac’d off the USS Pearl Harbor.

I’m in the gift store of the Hilton, Bahrain and I buy a Monte Cristo cigar. Take it to my face and inhale. Robusto, dark and reminds me of my grandpa.
It is six inches long and still supple despite its long journey from Cuba.
I began smoking cigars when I was sixteen. I never inhale, but puff, puff and let the blue smoke rise like the connoisseurs suggest. I hold it with a semi-cupped hand, as opposed to how I hold a cigarette; between my forefinger and middle. An assortment of Arabs and Europeans pass me, staring.
A United States Marine alone in the Hilton, Bahrain.
A Sunni Arab floats by silently in his white cloak and black checkered headdress.
I walk to the pool. 102 degrees outside. I sit and look at the pool. Unearthly aqua-marine in this white-hot sun.
I hear a German tourist bark something to his companion.
I think of Hitler and Goebels and Rommel.
Rommel wasn’t that bad—right?
Just a soldier like me.
Walk through the tiny streets and hear the daily Islamic prayers on a loudspeaker.
It is very unnerving.
And I know why.
Finding my way to a British-themed bar later that night, I buy several beers. Soccer is playing on the television and I look at the screen holding my beer and although I appear attentive I have no clue on what is going on.

I spend the money the military has given me on more beer and a pack of Marlboro's that are counterfeits and smoke fine but taste like cow shit.

But I smoke them and smile and drink.
A middle-aged woman nuzzles up to me and talks about nothing and I respond with eager glee.

She tells me she’s in the Air Force and I think about what a bunch of civilians in uniform the Air Force actually is, but I keep that to myself.
I dance with the middle-aged women.
Dancing an awkward boy dance and I don’t care who’s watching and the alcohol runs pretty deep thick in my blood.
She looks too tired for being middle-aged.
She introduces me to her friend: a large man with arms so wide they made taught his short sleeved shirt.
He’s a C-130 pilot in the Air Force. He’s easy with his words. I look at him while’s he’s on the dance floor. I know he is a man and I am really only a boy and as much as I try to believe being a US Marine automatically garners the title of “man”, I know I’m not.
I think I kiss the middle-aged woman.
I do not bring her back to the Hilton, Bahrain and do the things I had hoped.
I contemplate calling upon one of the many European whores that saturate the Hilton, Bahrain and the various themed bars. But I’ve only got one-hundred and fifty dollars and I have two days left in this desert. I take a cold shower and sleep.
The next night I go to a Brazilian-themed bar. A large green flag with a floating globe hangs above the dance floor and the bar is full of Britons and Germans. They wear simple polo’s and deep cordovan slip-on shoes.
I buy beer and sit in a corner and look around.
It gets late, around 10pm ,and the whores miraculously appear in the Brazilian-themed bar like water on litmus paper.
Again I ponder using their services.
I look at them without letting them know I am looking at them, trying to see some underlying sadness that I’ve observed in so many television shows in regards to prostitution.
I find none.
Just handsome European faces waiting for me or some Briton or German to use their service. No empathy wanted.
A handsome Russian with empty blue eyes and a slender bird-like body saunters near me and I get shy and try not to look at her empty blue eyes, but I can’t help it.
I think of Modigliani.
The women he painted with their vacant stares.
Their indifference.
Beauty.
The handsome Russian with empty blue eyes sips a beer for twenty minutes until a short Arab walks by in his white gown and black checkered headdress.
He floats.
They converse and walk out together holding hands smiling. I finish my beer and walk back to the Hilton, Bahrain.
I draw a scalding hot bath.
I put my foot in first and retract it quickly.
Too damn hot.
I let it cool down.
My foot goes back in and absorbs the warmth.
I enter in sections.
Feet.
Calves.
Ass.
Penis.
Stomach. And then recline into the heat.
I don’t remember what I thought about soaking in that bath in the Hilton, Bahrain, but I’m sure it revolved around the fact that I had recently traversed the world on the USS Pearl Harbor and slept in the jungles of Kenya; patrolling the Somalia border for over a month.
But most probably I was thinking about how I would act if I actually went to War in Iraq or if it all was just soldierly speculation and rumor.
I dismissed that thought though; America fighting a War with troops on the ground and firefights and ambushes and confirmed kills.
I was a naïve kid back then. Believed in world peace.
After the bath I spread out on the bed naked and smoked another Monte Cristo cigar in my room at the Hilton, Bahrain.
It felt very good to be alive.

my play won!

just got word.
my play, "tomorrow" won a spot at the lebanon community theatre's annual playwrighting contest! so if you're in lebanon, pennsylvania aug 21-24-CHECK IT OUT!


http://www.lct.cc/index.htm

cousin andy on KSCR 1560AM

interested in lycanthropy, cartoons, and general college malaise?
i know i am.
be a kindred soul and tune in to the "my cousin andy show."
every tue @ 10pm.

http://kscr.org/

don't huff Dust Off

sometimes i wonder if life is composed of many little cliches.

http://www.newsday.com/news/local/ny-lisold0706,0,814136,print.story

on the side of the road

he was an older guy. wore a tweed jacket with leather patches affixed to the elbows. a family man.
no terrorist.
just a guy, maybe like you or me and he was caught up.
probably forced into it.
his AK was old and rusty. doubt it could fire straight.
and even if it did, i doubt he would employ it properly.
from the hip.
i saw this guy.
an older guy.
with the tweed jacket.
leather affixed to the elbows.
somewhere near the town of al nasiriyah.
alongside several of his compatriots.
dead.
on the side of the road.
still steaming,
pupils wide and starry
an agglomeration of red and white and many other things not fit for writing.
yet i wouldn't have known he was a man at all, if it wasn't for the helmet adjacent to his person.
because he was a mess of meat.
there on the side of the road.
the older guy.
a teacher?
engineer?
botanist?
i don't know.
but he had a family.
this mess of meat.
i know.
i saw.
in his helmet.
they stood-his family.
stoic arabs.
not one smiling.
apparently he had placed a picture of his family inside his helmet.
and i found it.
sometimes i wished i had kept the picture.
i dont know why.
its probably better i didnt.
it would keep me up at night.
but i did look.
an odd sight.
one day you're taking pictures in your tweed jacket, the next day you're festering on the side of the road-a robust meal for dogs and crows.
well, it was the heat of battle, so i couldn't stay and philosophize about this poor bastards life-i had to liberate.
from what?
hell if i know.

'their's not to reason why/
their's but to do and die'

those answers are left to the officers.
the rumsfelds. the mcnamaras.
those ivy league fuckheads with the plan.
or cute little rabid girls with the audacity to hope.
and us; well, we deal.
we get caught up.
just like my guy on the side of the road.
i still have his helmet.
i took it.
its in my garage.
up high.
hanging from a black nail. in the dark.
so far removed from where i got it.

on the side of the road.

"remember that night in the Garden?"

'on the waterfront'
written by Budd Schulberg.
i'm humbled.

in the desert

california's high desert is empty.
real empty.
aside from the I-15, the desert just fills up the eye.
mostly dry brush, rocks and used shotgun shells.
sometimes a bullet filled computer monitor or tire sits on the ground.
a mojave rattler beneath.
the bones of a little lost sheep bleaching in the sun.
maybe a desert tortoise.
its bright and clear and never stops.

i like that.

been going since i was fifteen.
with guns.
strange how my life has revolved around the firearm.
hell, i was paid to shoot machine-guns.
big ones.
nasty sonsofbitches.

weapons those pabst blue ribbon-swilling-gun-nut-commandos would spooge their pants for.

dripping wet in front of their nazi memorabilia and cache of ammunition.

and stacks of 'barely legal' porn mags.

yet at the time, i didn't absorb the entirety of my job.

0331-machine-gunner.
nope.

it wasn't a job.

-it was my life.
it wasn't a gun.
-it was 'claire;' 50 caliber browning machine-gun.
i can't find many pictures of her. or me for that matter.

i wasn't fond of the lens back then.

but last weekend i went to the desert again.

halfway between victorville and barstow.

View Larger Map

105 degrees.
we wandered for a bit. but it was hot.

we shot some guns. not many, but some. and we ate sandwiches in the sun and didn't talk too much, just ate.

i like that.

think i'll go back.

alone.

just bring my pistol and some agua and maybe a camera.
my gun and i.

in the desert.

1911 45 acp.

don't really want to kill anything. i'm done with that, i think.
the kill.
it'll be a hot motherfucker.

up between victorville and barstow.

sweat dripping down my face.

salty.
a stifling heat.
everything just curvy and wavy in the distance.

all the animals burrowed deep.
some cars shimmering off in the distance.
i could die there, i think.
out there in california high desert.
alone.
with the heat.
dry brush and shot gun shells and tortoises.

content.

a story.
it went a little like this:
the 1980s.
this guy; a Vietnam Veteran.
successful.
intelligent.
boss type. with the italian suits and penguin ties and florsheim kicks.
once a year he would disappear. i guess being the boss or whatnot, he could do such a thing.
so he vanished for a week or so.
nobody knew where he went.

AWOL.

a week.

he went back to the south pacific.

the 'Nam.
to the jungle.
the dark green bush.
and he would live outside for those few days.
off the land.
hunt.
fish.
a decompression of sorts.

obviously he had PTSD.
and this excursion into the bush was his therapy.
his group hug.

his kumbaya.
his paxil.

and the week would end and he would come back and spit-shine his florsheim's and button his italian suit.

and be the boss again.

i like that.

colby buzzell

i've always been behind the power curb. starting late. making up time. pushing hard to get back into the cut. well, i recently came into the writings of colby buzzell. soldier and blogger since the early 2000s. and in my time back, i've read quite a few iraq memoir's ( hoo-rah fucking officers/badass marine corps special forces, geeked-out embedded reporters, etc.), and none have resonated with me as much as buzzell. here's one of his stories. put the volume up. lower the lights. maybe close your door.

miscreant Marine get booted

i like animals.
dogs.
tortoises.
chickens.

red-tailed boa constrictors.

and i'd be lying if i said that animals aren't suffering alongside humans in Iraq.
they are.
and if you haven't already seen the youtube video where a Marine hurls a puppy off a cliff in Iraq, thats a good thing.
its insanely disturbing.
dumbass jarhead grunt mugs for the camera, picks up puppy by the scruff of its neck, cracks a few jokes, then chucks the innocent pooch off the cliff.

wtf was this fool thinking?

a puppy?

off a cliff?

and videotape it?

and post it on youtube?

i've seen quite a few dead and dying people in my day.
its disheartening.
sad in a way. but thats War, yes?
people die.
people have their limbs torn off.
boiling hot engine oil melts faces.
sand from IEDs detaches retinas.
but this is our wager.
our toss of the coin.
and amidst the chewed up fedeyeen, eviscerated civilians, and few American causalities i happened to come in contact with during my stints in the desert, i felt especially bad when i saw a black and white dog drag its bloodied hindquarters across a date field.

a chunk of shrapnel embedded into his ass.

it yelped as it walked.

no.

not a yelp.

a cry.

and i regret very much that i never put a bullet through its head.

to end that pain.

but i didnt.

its strange.
this empathy.
im sure theres been a study conducted in berkeley.

some hippy retreads justifying peta.
but im digressing.
the marine.
the dumbass cretin.
he got kicked out.
good riddens.
heres a link to the story:
http://www.heraldnet.com/article/20080612/NEWS01/867055405/-1/rss02

yet another reason to hate the french

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/europe/article4124354.ece

fowl assassinated, served with catsup

caution graphic scenes of my dinner

i bought two chickens. a "rhode island red," and a white-breasted "leghorn." i figured it was about time. chickens. i mean, they shit eggs.

well, at least one of them did, the "rhode island red." the "leghorn" was a frying chicken. plus i liked the "rhode island," she didn't scratch up my lawn like the "leghorn," and i just re-seeded my lawn. we(my cousin and i) went about processing the bird.

we wrangled up a chopping block (4"x4") and gave the

"leghorn," some fresh fruit. she liked that. then

i set her on the block. very gently. stroked her little back and before she knew it, her little chicken head was plopped off by my "Cold Steel" kukri. now let me re-enforce something: there was NO animal cruelty going on here. just a good old fashioned fresh chicken dinner. free of hormones. free of disease (hopefully), and open range.

after the head was cut off, i strung her up from my shed, drained the blood (about a cup full), then brought a pot of water to a boil. dipping the bird for several minutes. retrieved her and went about dressing her.

fairly easy work. rip. rip. rip. feathers just slip off. then i inserted my k-bar fighting knife into the gut and cut out the innards. what a sight. and to think, we kinda look like this too. complicated beings my friend. take a moment to reflect.

yes, that's nice...

so the bird is gutted and scrubbed. cut up some taters and an apple. shove the aforementioned accoutrement's up its butt. drizzle some extra virgin olive oil. a shake of garlic salt. insert into 350degree oven for an hour and a half.

it sizzled and browned and smelled rather delicious. mouth-watering even. scrumptious. heavenly.

unfortunately it tasted like a used tampon.

but we had catsup.

lots of catsup.

99cent store catsup.

when bird mites attack

http://wcbstv.com/health/bird.mites.bloodsucking.2.741942.html

"They were biting her all night long," Shea said. "They were coming out of her ears, her nose, some other places."

atonement in a porta-shitter

four years ago today,
a porta-shitter.
103 degrees.
me.
standing.
piss coalescing around my boots.
sun stamping the blue green stall, leaking through rivets; polka-dotting white hot my face.
put shit paper on the seat,
but urine soaks through.
another layer.
still damp.
sit down anyways.
m-16a2 rifle across my lap.
sticks to my thighs.
8am, steaming already.
"fuck this place," i think.

light up a marlboro medium, attempting to stifle the stench.

it works a little.
the porta-shitter is covered in graffiti:
-"jamie gives good head"
-"ftc "(fuck the corps)
-"for a good time contact the colonel's wife"
- explicit drawings of well-endowed men (has someone been been spying on me?)
-a detailed illustration of a vagina circa 1975
-various slurs
the wind steals hollow and carries away the smell.
light drops in.
plastic contorting, bending.

the air feels warm through my fingers.
my hands dry and calloused, and for the first time in many years i look down at them.
veins like roots, travelling beneath tanned hide.

cuticles torn, mean looking.
my palm:
smooth thick skin. i wonder what the lines mean?
scars.
cracks.
a man's hand tells a story.
just look sometime.
a script exfoliating with time.
but i sit for a good long time. i dunno why. but i sit.
paralyzed maybe.
compelled.

i think of many things. some desperate, mostly pragmatic.

this is my lot in life. ive accepted that.

if i survive another week in this shit hole, i head home.

if i get killed, i get killed.

simple as that.

but if i do survive, i will do things.

finish college;

get a girl;

buy a house with chickens, plum tomatoes and a big fig tree.

a car and drive to the ocean.

climb down the cliffs to the tidepools and watch the tide come in.

but if i die, hopefully it is not a painful death.

burning alive inside a hummer.

disemboweled by a 7.62

yes, hopefully a rocket does not come down right now and detonate and i get killed by boiling hot shit and piss and melting porta-shitter plastic.

yes, hopefully its a big mother fucker and it just turns me into a pink mist.

i will hear the whirrr and a flash and there goes cpl mandia.

but the then the smell returns.
piss forms yellow ponds around my boots, flies, heat.
i finish my shit and exit.

spark up another marlboro medium. inhale, exhale. i squint at the sun, follow the smoke into the day.
walking back to my hooch, i pass an iraqi civilian worker.
he wears a nike t-shirt and new balance tennis shoes. he smiles at me. one of those subservient day laborer smiles-fear tinged.
he looks familiar.

they all look familiar.
but i hit my hooch.
think the bunkie is gone, but i dont remember. i retrieve a sketch pad and pen.

4x8 inches of white paper. i write down a few words.
i draw a man.
iraqi.
from the first War.
he holds an ak-47.

appears from behind a building.

every Marine's weapon dialed in on him.

just like the movies, but this time he drops the ak-47 and turns himself in.

nobody dies.

then that smile.

tinged with fear.

we put a burlap sack over his head and load him onto the bed of a 7-ton.
"fuck saddam," he shouts through his burlap sack. "fuck saddam!"

we all laugh.
yes.

fuck saddam.