pearl jam re-issue

ahh, my all-time favorite band - pearl jam - re-did their first album "TEN" unbeknownst to me, and although i'm broke as hell, i'll find a way...

if you're interested, check it out:

http://www.pearljam.com/music/releases/studio-album/ten-reissue

it's late

and i'm still up. just lying rigid on my bed and it's very dark because the electricians haven't hard-wired the light fixtures yet. 

i get up - using my maglight - navigating past chairs and shoes and electrical wiring that's strewn across the floor. 

the beam of light forges a small trail in the quiet night...

...and the Lt. calls the convoy into a herring bone. 

we pull off the road in a zig-zag pattern. find micro-terrain and write up a firewatch list. 

i get first watch. 

my .50 cal is loaded with tungsten rounds. they are silver, pointed mean, and look like aluminum. but they are strong as fuck and have been rumored to tear through several mudhuts before loosing momentum and imbeding themselves in the nearest lump of flesh.

i put on my night-vision goggles. 

they suck. 

none of this perfect green digital shit you've seen in the movies. but grainy and heavy, leaving their mark on the bridge of your nose. 

i scan the area. 

hundreds, maybe thousands of humvees and 5-tons line the road as far as these shitty NVGs can see. 

tracers move through the sky in slow-motion.  seconds later a machine-gun's staccato echoes miles away.

but i scan and see the Marines and Corpsman mull about their vehicles, smoking cigarettes and eating MRE's.

a bright ball of light grows brighter as a Marine takes a drag from his smoke.

it's eerie. especially since it's very quiet. all these men and machines - from texas to cali to new york - move instinctually, like racoons in the night.

muscle memory. hard-wired from our days wandering the African plains - prey to lions and rival clans. 

but we are tired. days without sleep. and it comes to me while i'm on watch. my head bobs, droops, then - SPLAT - my forehead lands sqaurely atop the butterfly trigger of the .50.

it hurts, but i don't feel it. 

i accept it. 

pain. 

in fact, i'm glad it happened - my sleep is temporarily staved off, thus keeping me more alert.

suddenly the mexican relieves me - late of course, but whaddya gonna do?

i tell him everything is all clear.

i didn't see shit. 

these are my lines of fire. 

this is the ammo. 

make radio-checks every 20-minutes. 

and you are to be relieved by the driver in one hour, but it'll be dawn soon, so keep alert.

this done, i step off the hummer. i don't give a shit what i'm wearing or if i've brushed my teeth or even washed my face. 

i want sleep. and that makes me happy - just the thought of it. i know it won't be a long sleep. perhaps a few hours and then we'll push on, but it's sleep nonetheless.

i curl on the hood, use my helmet as a pillow and the cold night does not hinder my intentions.

i fall asleep quick.

then i'm woken up. 

it's the Lt.

'we gotta dig a fighting hole,' he says.

i argue, but he's a smart guy, so i follow orders. grab a shovel and start digging. it's very half-assed - again, i just don't care.

i just don't care if artillery rains in and kills me right this very instant. 

I NEED SLEEP!

i embrace every second my eyelids cover my eyeballs.

he sees me dig and jumps in and helps. although it's nearly freezing we take off our shirts - the action of digging being very labor intensive. sweat rolls down our faces, beads at the nose, and falls.

we talk. i forget the details, but i remember the sight.

me and the Lt., the moonlight falling over our shoulders, the shovels slicing into the water-table, my shotgun slung over my back, the men and machines - silent as raccoons.

we share a smoke. i can see his eyes when he takes a drag and they're gone. he's in another world. operating on a level only seen in combat or concentration camps.

we dig chest deep and my adrenilin is going and the Lt. tells me to hit the rack. 

' roger that, Sir,' i say sotto voce.

this time i take off my boots and the smell emanating from my feet is foul, but the cold air feels good on them, so i endure.

grab my poncho liner and wrap myself in it like a child.

breathing deeply and closing my eyes - but the sleep wasn't there this time.

the boy who cried wolf, i guess.

so i lay still, embrace my shotgun and exhale as the sun rises over the marsh. 

TCM and Nina

been watching TCM lately. although i dislike ted turner, he's got the dope.

and matter of fact, that's pretty much all i watch nowadays.

i'm talking marathons, and since i've got 'on demand,' i can watch these classics whenever i please.

'fugitive from a chain gang;'

'they were expendable;'

'star is born,'

'who's afraid of virginia wolfe?;'

'the caine  mutiny;'

'the ten commandments;'

'an american in paris;'

'a walk in the sun;' 

i could name hundreds...

it's just great. 

really.

they're so simple. so naive. so innocent - or at least portray a more innocent time, when everyone and their mothers didn't want to be famous.

didn't want hordes of myspacers, tweeters, and facebookers, to emulate their so-called 'style.'

i like that.

had the privilege to learn from one too - Nina Foch...well two, I meet Edward Albee @ Kennedy Center - but this one's for Nina.

took her class @ USC and she was very old. 

very, very old. 

always on the verge of death, i told myself. 

but i watched 'an american in paris,' last night and saw her. 

Nina.

and she was beautiful. just slim and pretty and young. 

she passed away shortly after her last class - which i was in. 

sitting in her wheelchair. trying her best to conduct class to the very end. 

literally.

The Very End. 

didn't go to her funeral - i believe the entire USC class was invited - just thought i wouldn't belong. 

and truth be told, i probably didn't. 

but i never really wrote a blog for her - so engrossed with finals and kitchen sink drama's of my own creation.

i hope Nina found some peace.

she was a classic.

pandora productions 'honorable mention'

so i got an 'honorable mention,' from pandora productions for my full length play "a change of heart.' and you know, that's kinda cool. it's not going to be produced, but apparently it's in their 'top 10.' unfortunately they've only got the means to bring five scripts to life. i might just revisit that play and tighten it up, resubmit. who knows. nevertheless, it's still a step in the right direction. as for the top five, you can see them - along with my name in their playbill thingy - jun 26-28. i know i'll be there. 

http://www.panndoraproductions.com/

D-Day

D-Day and i think those men who died 65 years ago would've liked to walk on a beach with a pretty girl. 

because i think we thought alike.

because most of the old timers i've spoken with enjoy the simple pleasures in life. 

a warm summer day;

the waves rolling in, filling the tide pools;

a maritime museum;

a pull from a cigar;

and a breeze - stiff but impartial.

so that's what i did. 

"got some," by...PEARL JAM?

wise minds think alike...
"get some," "got some?"
-a new song from Pearl Jam. kinda dig it. take a listen.

relations w/Vets

they're complicated. 

because you're different.

just a little, but still different. like it or not.

and perhaps victims of violence and tragedy are the same way. 

you can't be exposed to such gore and insanity without losing a piece. 

the veneer chipped, exposed.

doesn't mean all Combat Vets are.

no. 

not at all. most.

but they've opened a door to a world that civilized American's desperately try to lock. 

or at least mock. 

attempt to desensitize themselves through graphic depictions of violence/War in TV/movies. 

and it works, mostly.

because i can remember the first time i saw a dead man. 

not a nice embalmed old timer with a red carnation pinned upon his breast, but a young man.

like me, only born on the wrong side. probably unemployed. probably patriotic. and unlucky as hell.

had a hole in his head, shot in the medulla oblongata from behind. right eyeball missing. 

big bloody hole - the exist wound from a sniper's 7.62.

remember telling myself, "this looks just like the movies." 

"just like the movies..."

so it's been nearly six years, but he's still around. shows his face occasionally. can't shake him yet.

so i read freud's, "on the interpretation of dreams, " to figure things out. understand. banish the fucker. 

and a certain part resonated with me - just a small passage regarding the rods and cones of the human eye. 

and to paraphrase mr. freud: anything the eye sees; that is registered by the rods/cones, is forever ingrained within that person's brain housing group.

meaning, you see it, it's with you forever. 

hidden away in some fleshly wrinkle. crumpled and desciated - waiting for rain.

and it explains those mysterious people/places/objects in your dreams. some way or the other, that image was seen by you. 

really.

although your conscious mind didn't recognize it, the subconscious sure as hell did. 

logged and classified. 

it's hard to explain this because it's...well...it's cliche. 

everything turned into a joke and acknowledged with a smirk.

but some understand, or at least try to.

and that's what counts.

and when you find one, you should probably keep 'em.

as for the rest, well, try not to stare as they circle the bowl...