I expected the typical. It was a “teamwork training day”. We would play games to indicate the importance of working together, get into the usual power clashes about who was leading, fall into our self stylized positions in the company, and somehow make it through the day. Coming out on the other side with a firm reminder of who we are and where we stand in the hierarchy of political tenure. It would be a pleasant day, but I was skeptical of learning anything truly new. The words of a coworker tickled my ear as I arrived in the heavily wooded compound nestled in a vale over a wooden bridge just off the 9 near Felton.
“About tomorrow Chuck, you might want to tone it down. Just a notch”.
Me?! THE center of attention whoring spotlight monger? Tone it back eh? Well…I guess…..
Working with a wide variety of management in my field, means working with a wide variety of personalities. Go getters, laid back, up tight, and darn near reclusive… It takes a while to get to know how to communicate best with each, and God knows, I don’t always succeed. But we get on. And to each member of our staff, I owe a certain debt of gratitude for a lesson learned, an insight gained. These are people that despite our different styles, I have a lot of respect for.
The Games began. Yes, we did the “trust me” drop backwards thing, and a few other more novel methods of pointing out the assumptions we make at the work place. But what made me take a second glance at THIS style, was the approach to translating the games into the work environment. The instructors on this gig had a more laid back attitude with a hint of granola goodness. They respected all sides, and they meant it. These were not Corp zombies nor did they treat us like wayward dmv employees trying to struggle through another sensitivity awareness program. They asked questions, but more importantly…..they kept quiet. It took out team about an hour to put away the self imposed stopwatches and the instant competitive approach.
The first real test was the helium Hula-hoop. Ten people with their index fingers supporting the edge of a hula-hoop on level. The mission? Lower the hula-hoop to the ground without taking anyone’s fingers away from the hoop. Sounds easy right. Twenty minutes of amazed confusion and we were getting close to bickering. The hula-hoop had managed some how to end up almost at neck level…….
A quiet voice spoke from the least expected corner of the circle and we all shut down. The typical leaders had to close lip and we all shut our eyes. We stopped trying to direct and started all taking direction from two unassuming voices that guided us first to our knees, then at last fingers to the ground.
Success.
It is not the first warriors at the clash of steel between two armies that win the battle. It is the army as a whole.
I did my best through the day to keep it back a notch, and a was rewarded richly for it. New respect was not earned that day, but discovered by eyes that were too busy looking at the obvious. The respect had been due for much longer.
The day ended up in the penultimate event that had been plaguing the backs of all our minds. We had been given hints and sidelong remarks about a “rope course” for the two weeks leading up to this event. Helmeted and harnessed, with Carabineers in hand, we each met our challenges at 30 feet in the air, and at ground level. People I never thought would take this head on were climbing the ropes and balancing across the beams with grim determination. More important was the attitude all around. From the ground, we cheered for each others successes, we quieted with respect for those who just wanted to get through this in one piece without the universe hollering catcalls no matter how well intentioned. Not everyone climbed. Some simple knew that this was not the time or place for them to face that challenge. Best of all was the respect afforded them. The only pressure to do this, was the pressure from within.
In my mind, the person who accomplished the most did not even complete the course. Getting the helmet on, the harness adjusted, and climbing a thirty foot rope tunnel to the top was a step beyond where she was comfortable, a climb into realm that she did not start out with the slightest intention of getting anywhere near. She made it out onto the first run of a rope bridge and as the rope dipped and swayed deeply on her first step, she knew that she had found a very real wall that was not to be broken through today. Getting to the very edge of that wall though, took more courage than I have been asked to produce in years. Raise a glass and bow low ladies and gentlemen, for back down that rope ladder goes one who has made a real achievement.
So as for me, I took it down a notch. Playing monkey in the trees is pretty much old hat to me. For the most part my trail by height was lost in the hugs and tears and cheers of those below who had struggled with fears and conquered them. This was an element I was familiar with, but totally foreign to their standard day to day fare. They earned the center stage. For me to go through the soul searching they needed, it would take some other place and some other task. At the end of the course though, I could not resist at least one spotlight whoring moment.
There are a lot of things about my job that I like. What I like best, is the people I get to work with. These people teach me something every day. Every one of them. If I am willing to shut up and listen.
A few days back I dedicated my rant to the video of Berg being murdered. Now I have questions…..below is a cut and paste commentary I posted on my newest “blogs I will revisit list. The original link to the full body is here and my thanks to classicalvalues.com for reminding me why I sign up as a Libertarian.
“I must confess that it was a search for "Berg video a fake?" that brought me to this site. First and foremost, let's all raise a glass to free speech. The internet has saved us from a media environment where only a few are getting more and more control over what you see and how you see it. I downloaded the video as soon as I could get to a computer, then took a day before deciding whether to watch it or not. Why download it? because I was afraid it would be zapped off the lines to keep it hushed up. I am thankful for folks like you that despite so much disagreement about the pros and cons, ALL agree that it should be available. So here's to free speech. (even for the morons;)
My very first reaction to the video was one of horror. I kept reaching for the stop button, knowing what was coming and not sure if I could stand it. I made it through the process and then spent a day spewing anger and hate and slapping down idiot arm chair generals and Monday morning politicians for second guessing what is a horrible and damned either way job.
But I do have questions. Nick Berg is dead. That is fact. His head is not on his body. Also Fact. Beyond that, things do get a little cloudy. I grew up in the military. The son of a high ranking career officer. Let’s not kid our-selves and say that our boys are not capable of throwing together a sham video as a PR ploy. Either side of the aisle in control, we are CAPABLE of it. That said so are THEY. And even if this video is somehow a fake, count on the fact that the enemy does do this sort of thing all the time, and had we handed them an American and a knife, they would have shouted Allah Akbar and started cutting with zeal. So even if it washes out to be a hoax in the end. My mind doesn't change in the least regarding Middle Eastern terrorists.
So here are my discomforts with the video, all political leanings aside:
Why is he wearing an orange jumpsuit? If these are the usual terrorist's, they wouldn't have processed him put his cloths in a bag and handed him a standard orange Property of Al Quida jumpsuit. Their MO is nab em, stick em in a hole, beat em, kill em.
The guys in the line up are awfully big and beefy for underfed Muslim extremists and their posture is Very trained military. That does not equal U.S. Military right up front. Military attention and parade rest is pretty standard no matter what flag you fly over your camp. But these guys are no civilian slouches.
There is an unrealistic quality to the screams as he is killed. Horrific as they are, they don't match up with the video. This could be the result of a hasty edit job, but for a point of reference, I found another Muslim Snuff flick to compare it to. This one is a Russian soldier murdered by way of a buck knife through the throat. If you can stomach such things, here is a link to that ugly event (which only solidifies my argument that it doesn't change my opinion whether Bergs video is a fake or not)http://www.consumptionjunction.com/content/detail.asp?ID=34997&type=1&page=2&fav=0
His screams turn to a nightmare sound that is unfakable in about a half a second.
So, yeah, I have some uncomfortable questions about Nick Berg’s death. But no matter how, he died as part of this brutal war, and nothing can change his family's loss. And no matter what we do in Iraq, the enemy will still be out there.
So really, we are left where we started aren't we? The Left blindly hating Bush, The Right defending him with blind faith, but everyone (I sure as hell hope) hating Al Quida. I really don't care which Political Party gets to wear the "I kicked his ass in November" badge. I have little faith in all politicians. But damn it, I want justice done against the real terrorists. And this media bullshit circus is not where our energy needs to be expended.”
The low clouds of a typical overcast bay area morning left a chill in the air. We parked the car and got out, feeling underdressed in sleeveless shirt and shorts but I knew it would not be long before we would beg for cool water to lighten the heat of the effort in store. My son slowed as we approached the crowd around the field.
"What's wrong"?
"Were we supposed to wear Karate T-shirts Dad?"?
“Nope, not that anyone said. Don't worry, we'll be fine".
Three years of daily training had brought my son here. I myself had less than a year of stretching and training to claim for my own fame, but in less than a month, he would be a first degree black belt.
Today we take the physical fitness tests. The levels of requirement vary with age, and I came half planning to just play chauffeur so I wasn’t even fully aware of what we had to achieve. I masked my totally failing dadness by telling Avery that the numbers were unimportant, we needed to do what ever our best was. (Besides, the chart that our student in charge had was known to be wrong.)
I held his legs as he pushed through one minute of sit ups. Sit ups came next to last on favorite pastimes only to the dreaded and as yet un-achieved pull up. Just one. But his greatest bug-bear. He blew through the sit-ups and barely needed the rest before diving into push-ups. For me, it was more important that he do actual push-ups regardless of how many. Avery tends toward the seven year old favorite of “Butt-ups” which could get you thrown out of most parochial schools but do jack for upper body strength. He was gliding fine. Back straight, chest down, arms bending.
The clouds were thinking about breaking up and the sun had half a mind to make an appearance.
Next would be the adult push ups etc, then the kids’ mile run then the adults. Then we would migrate half a mile down the street and converge on the nearest playground with anything like a pull up bar.
I figured what the hell; I’ll see where I’m at. It would give me somewhere to work from.
Sit ups, not a problem. The first 30 glided by like butter, my mind was focused. Then Body had a chat with Abs without any consultation with Brain and they agreed this would be a great time for a work stoppage. Halfway up and I might as well have been held down with an eighty pound sack on my chest. Down, take a breath, and UP. No not really, there’s that brick wall again. I managed a few more barely.
Push ups were a little better, but again flowing fine until at 52 I just could not move. Hm. 35 is not old durn it…….
As I got up I glanced around for Avery in the press of adults all trying to figure out if “insert age here” was really old durn it. His friend came bolting up to me with one of those looks that sends fear into any parent. It’s the look a seven year old gives you when the news they have to tell you supersedes the fact that you are three times their age and height. They do not bother with uhmmms and giggly pauses.
“Avery fell and he’s bleeding” she said
“Okay! Let’s have all the kids under eighteen come over to the track” said a voice from over by the track.
I ran as nonchalantly as I could toward the direction his friend had come from. Avery was wobbling toward me with that “real pain” shakiness that says, “To hell with the attention factor here pop, I am really and truly in pain. His shirt and shorts were covered in dirt that had tell tale slide marks that matched the general direction of the bleeding scratch marks down his right arm, leg and knee.
Check breathing (mine not his)
Stay cool. Okay boys quick conference time.
<<<
“Wow, that looks bad, can you walk’? I said as I brushed off the dirt, feeling the sting like it was my own.
“I think so” he said. His eyes were shiny but his voice held firm.
“Okay…..lets walk over to the start line and see how it feels”
“…….okay” he said, in the same voice he uses when he knows the options are down to one so he might as well be brave about it.
His legs were a little shaky but no limp prevailed as we set out. We got to the track and he started over with the other kids.
“Avery…..do you want me to run with you”? I asked.
“Nah….I’m okay”
I felt a little relief. In fifteen minutes I was going to have to run My Mile, and I am not unaffected by the silent watchfulness of my peers. Testosterone and competitiveness does not stop at high school. Bad enough that I had not run more than a hundred yards in the past few years. I was counting on the last vestiges of the previous summer’s musical to keep me from flattening on my face after lap two.
Three quarters of the first lap, he loped along at a less than graceful run, but it was his normal less than graceful, not diminished by signs of pain or despair. As he came around to the finish of lap one he slowed to a walk, but kept going...
Something in my broke. Probably my need for ego from the sound of the snap, but My Mile dropped from the horizon and as My Son passed, I jumped out onto the track. Seeing me, he moved back up to a swift jog. “Can I go with you”? I asked.
“Sure…yeah….okay”. he said. We pressed on. Stopping each third quarter to a brisk walk then picking up the pace again. I swore to myself that I would not push him further than he pushed himself. Proud only that he had taken that first step onto the track. As we came to the final third quarter I said,”Okay, this is it Buddy, after this it’s all rest all day. RUN”! He was dieing on the outside but glowing on the inside. I kept waiting for him to fall back and just be content to walk across the line. Thankfully I didn’t hold my breath, I would have gone blue. He grunted, he strained, he gasped, and for the entire world sounded like a bull dieing at the feet of a matador, but he kept pumping forward.
12 minutes 9 seconds.
Someone said something about that being the max-out point for his age group. On the good side, not the bad.
As we lurched together to the grass, the sun sent the clouds home for the day and took over the watch. The grass smelled sweet. We glowed at each other and I told him I was so proud of him for not giving up.
He grinned even bigger as the adults headed to the track then said” Okay Dad, your turn”.
Feel free to add creative sugjestions and Ideas etc. this is a gig for a local Elks lodge shin-dig. Low budget. The lowest, so...they hired me.
Let me remind the public that I am available at 40 bucks an hour do do damn near anything but kill someone.
and so......
Our Story begins with two cast aways, having just crawled onto the shore of a deserted isle:
Dick: (crawling onto stage) Water….water…..must have fresh water…..
Jane: (walking in behind him with a cool blue drink in her hand) Why not just have drink from the bar (waves vaguely at the bar) to audience- They’re only 3 bucks a glass.
Dick: Are you kidding……that’s why I need the water!
Entering from stage left, the Grand Poo-Baa, replete in grass skirt and pooka shell necklace, approaches them.
GPB: Ah Ha Ka Na Ka NEE Kee Agahha. Oookalooka. (He is jovial and appears to be greeting them in some native dialect. As he continues he comes up between them and before putting a meaty arm around each of them, he stops mid sentence, takes a quick drink from Jane’s glass, thin with a nod of approval, continues to babble on)
Jane:, we don’t understand…we just got here, do you speak English?
Dick: of course he doesn’t speak English…. (To GPB) HELLO….WE ARE SHIPWRECKED….NEED WATER (with each word, he adds pantomimes to aid in translation.
Jane: oh that’s much better. Thank God you’re bilingual.
Dick: to Jane WELL…. AT…. LEAST….well at least I’m trying!
Jane: You don’t have to shout at him.
GPB: She’s right ya know.
Dick: SHE IS? OH!!! Um I mean she is? Wait, you speak English.
GPB: Of course! I learned it from our many other visitors here on the Isle of okallllammmmahhhhlalhalahalahalalalalala.
Dick: Wow that’s great, we’re saved! Say, can I get a drink of water?
GPB: Why not just have drink from the Bar?
Dick: For three bucks! That’s outrageous!!
GPB: (under his breath) Cheap Tourists.
Jane: Can we meet some of these other visitors?
GPB: Sure, but you have to call them up with the Ancient Native Signal of Greeting.
Jane: What’s that?
GPB: Demonstrates by clapping his hands, wiggling his hips and making some kind of wild cat call.
Jane repeats, but GPB says Dick has to do it too.
Note- This is a good optional way to get some initial Audience participation. The grand Poo-Baa can claim that they do not have enough island spirit and insist that the audience must help. We can also save that for a later time as before each song and dance bit the Ancient call must be made.
Frankie Avalon and Annette Funachello appear and sing something from Back to the Beach. They can be as close to accurate or as far from real as possible. If we have them as “Now Aged” we can work in a few lines to indicate who they are, which will be all the funnier.
Frankie” hey Annette, look, some cool cats from upstate and out of town!
Annette: Say Frankie, they look swell! Hey guys, wanna boogie on the boards with us?
Dick and Jane stare blankly.
Frankie: you know….hang ten, get loose,……
Annette: Catch a wave?
Dick and Jane: OOOHHHH, you want to surf?
Frankie and Annette: Yeah!! (They run off stage with or without boards, thinking Dick and Jane are right behind them.
Dick: (starts to follow then gets a little nervous) maybe I’ll have that drink after all.
Jane: Get your own ya cheap skate.
GPB: I f surfing is not your ….bag, We do have many other fine things to do here on malallamanannananananshanananananan island.
Jane: malallama……I thought you said it was “Okallllamasomething or other?
GPB: NOT IMPORTANT! Now, we must do the ancient greeting call again.
Dick….um…do we have to?
GPB: yes!
They all do the greeting together and this time a Man with big hair and more sparkles than God can Count comes out. It is Liberace! Only old and dotard. He prances on and Greets GPB Not noticing the cast-aways.
LB: OH, your greatness! My heavens! It’s been so long, how ARE you!
GPB: (polite but trying to fend of LB) I am fine my good friend, but we have guests.
LB (mishearing) Pests? Oh god I know! Those little sand shrimps just want to eat you all up don’t they! And who could blame them. Hehehe.
GPB: No…I mean THESE GUESTS (points to castaways)
LB: (Shocked and Dismayed) OH MY LORD! I am soooo sorry. Nice to meet you, he offers a hand to Jane, takes a sip of her drink, nods approvingly then cozies up to Dick. WEELLLL, what DO we have here? Something else for the Sand shrimps to munch on?
Dick: oh god, I DO need a drink!
LB Great, you go to the bar and mean while…I’ll go to THE BAAAR. (He heads to the organ and plays a song. (Could be a standard Liberace type song, or better still, a Hawaiian song sung Liberace style).
Liberace puts so much effort into the song that he promptly passes out on the organ.
Dick returns with his drink: for 3 bucks you’d think I’d at least get an umbrella.
The bartender hears him and promptly walks over with a lovely pink Parasol. Dick takes it gingerly.
Jane: looking at Liberace: should we wake him up?
GPB: Are you serious?
All: NO.
GPB: well…….shall we?
Dick: if we must.
They perform the greeting again.
Elvis comes in swankers over to the couple. Making eyes only at Jane with a curled lip and a pelvic thrust.
Elvis: Well, hello there pretty lady….
He takes Dicks drink without even looking at him. Has a swig and hands it back.
Elvis: Uh Thank ya very much. So…what brings a doll like you to a sandy ole stretch a ground like this darling.
Jane: We got lost when my friend Dick here fell asleep at the oars.
Dick: Friend?! I’m your fiancé! and you fell asleep first!
Jane” Still looking at Elvis; Whatever……
Elvis: Say there darling…ya remind me of a little lady I once met in kinda the same way…
He takes a Mic (dummy mike that does not work prop only and sings Hawaiian wedding song.
Dick drinks his blue booze and goes back for a huge glass getting steadily drunker as we go from here.
Jane gets angry
They do the greeting bit again
Mary martin appears with some advice
Mary Martin –south Pacific Gonna wash that man right outa my hair
Jane is in agreement and renounces Dick who goes to the GPB for consolement. GPB calls on the audience to help dick in the ancient greeting call for the only man who can help.
Don Ho arrives and comforts the totally blitzed Dick with a rousing rendition of Tiny Bubbles. During which Jane stops pouting and Dick sobers enough to know he screwed up. At the end of the song the are gazing longingly into each others eyes. All the cast comes up from parts of the stage and everyone joins in the final chorus.
After applause, dick and Jane have a brief make up dialogue, but still bemoan that they are stuck on this island.
GPB: You wanna leave?
Dick and Jane: well, no offense but yes.
GPB: well why didn’t you say so. You’ve had the power all along. Just click your heels together three times and say “there’s no place like home…there’s no place like home….
Jane and Dick: There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.
Nothing happens.
GPB and all other islanders burst into laughter.
GPB: Oh god I love that trick. You look so funny.
Dick and Jane are in despair: Are we trapped here forever then?
GPB: Well yeah, but don’t worry, at least we have the bar. Come on everybody, drinks are on me….
As all exit, he looks at Jane and Dick: Say, you guys know any show tunes?
End
A few days ago I soap boxed a bit about the reality of war. The reality of blood, and violence, and the beast within.
Today, we were given a dose of a new kind of reality and a beast that is new to America.
The terrorist.
And if this is who President Bush promised to focus the nations zeal against, then I must ask, why are we not fighting them. It is as if we, soaked in the blood of a thousand civilians and bruised by the rubble of our tallest towers, rose from the bedrock with a shout and charged toward the enemy…..then stopped and turned 90 degrees off course to finish off some old business before REALLY getting down to business. Iraq could have waited another five years while the whole of our resources focused on the enemy we swore to put an end to. Instead we sit with even our national guard (you remember, the boys who signed up to defend our soil ON our soil, sort of an Army Light as it were) slogging in sand ridden tents waiting with baited breath for the REAL Enemy to jump from behind a Mosque that he is not supposed to shoot at and aim an RPG in his general direction. Meanwhile, The Enemy is pouring gasoline on the bodies of four contractors who wouldn’t know an AK-47 from a Red Rider bb gun and stringing the left-overs from a bridge.
Cloaked in rhetoric and a zeal for their cause, they set themselves as the oppressed martyrs. They love God with such sacrifice that they will give even their lives for Him. And in return, he will look down on them with love and welcome them into His arms.
But they do not love their cause or there God enough to show their faces as they gleefully recite their chants. They raise their guns in a defiant middle finger to the oppressive West on grainy videos filmed in dark corners and hidden caves.
But always it is the civilian that they strike at. The unarmed women and children on buses and in malls. They do not stop to ask the faith of the business man that stands next to them before pulling the pin. They do not question the politics of the ambulance driver as he leans into help them from the car, unhinging the switch that will bring him to the place that he spent his life holding others back from. They decry the West for its Satanic lifestyle and its flouting of God in it’s ways. React with shock and outrage at the treatment of prisoners and at the attack on there country.
And they shouted all the louder “Allah Akbar” to mask the hideous screams and the terror of a civilian hostage as they took over a full minute to carve his head from his neck with the skill of a butcher in a pig factory. As the screams turned to bubbling rasps God did not seem so great. The room went strangely silent.
What could anyone say?
Our Story begins with two cast aways, having just crawled onto the shore of a deserted isle:
Dick: (crawling onto stage) Water….water…..must have fresh water…..
Jane: (walking in behind him with a cool blue drink in her hand) Why not just have drink from the bar (waves vaguely at the bar) to audience- They’re only 3 bucks a glass.
Dick: Are you kidding……that’s why I need the water!
Entering from stage left, the Grand Poo-Baa, replete in grass skirt and pooka shell necklace, approaches them.
GPB: Ah Ha Ka Na Ka NEE Kee Agahha. Oookalooka. (He is jovial and appears to be greeting them in some native dialect. As he continues he comes up between them and before putting a meaty arm around each of them, he stops mid sentence, takes a quick drink from Jane’s glass, thin with a nod of approval, continues to babble on)
Jane: hush, we don’t understand…we just got here, do you speak English?
Dick: of course he doesn’t speak English…. (To GPB) HELLO….WE ARE SHIPWRECKED….NEED WATER (with each word, he adds pantomimes to aid in translation.
Jane: oh that’s much better. Thank God you’re bilingual.
Dick: to Jane WELL…. AT…. LEAST….well at least I’m trying!
Jane: You don’t have to shout at him.
GPB: She’s right ya know.
Dick: SHE IS? oH!!! Um I mean she is? Wait, you speak English.
GPB: Of course! I learned it from our many other visitors here on the Isle of okallllammmmahhhhlalhalahalahalalalalala.
Dick: Wow that’s great, we’re saved! Say, can I get a drink of water?
GPB: Why not just have drink from the Bar?
Dick: For three bucks! That’s outrageous!!
GPB: (under his breath) Cheap Tourists.
Jane: Can we meet some of these other visitors?
GPB: Sure, but you have to call them up with the Ancient Native Signal of Greeting.
Jane: What’s that?
GPB: Demonstrates by clapping his hands, wiggling his hips and making some kind of wild cat call.
Jane and repeats, but GPB says Dick has to do it too.
Note- This is a good optional way to get some initial Audience participation. The grand Poo-Baa can claim that they do not have enough island spirit and insist that the audience must help. We can also save that for a later time as before each song and dance bit the Ancient call must be made.
First bit enters
A little lazy on this entry but I was sent a post from a blog I respect and commented so I am all out of fresh brain matter for the midnight posting.....
Mostly becuase after a half hour of flowing mental thought to keyboard, I hit the wrong button and erased it all. God damn it from now on ALL entries are getting written in Word then pasted into the web page!
the original post is here
my comment is below.
Having read the original post and all comments in one fell swoop, I am now at one with the little silver ball in a pinball machine. Bouncing from one part to another, bells and lights flashing at moments then slow rolls down chutes to mad frenzied buffeting in the bonus pit.
First, thank you yet again The Ferret, for a well stated case. In the grand scheme, the point, it seems to me, is not to run from our minorities but to face them as failed examples and deal with them rather than tuck them out the back door and dismiss them to others. Yes, that redheaded stepchild is a part of my family and while he looks a whole lot more like the milk man than he does like Dad, we still have to call him ours.
So much to comment on. The sensible thing would be to walk away and ponder then return with a conclusive thought. I am not well known for my patience. Instead, I will touch on the one thought that I would want to add on the weighted discussion about the Soldiers.
What they have done is inexcusable, is vile, is contemptible, is inhumane, and is war. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, step right up and leave those narrow ideological blinders at the door because you’ve just step out of the CNN tour bus and landed your leather loafers in a great big cow pie called reality. Strip away the politics and the pros and cons of active involvement in conflicts to free the oppressed because this is what it is really all about. We sit in our arm chairs and watch Arnie blow away the stunt boys as blood squibs leave little read shout out stains on there kaki’s and we cheer him on while covering the kids eyes when a brief pair of titties flash across the screen, but we don’t like this other kind of violence. What is it called….oh yeah, the real world. Now just get your hand off the control +C button and hear me out because I am no where NEAR excusing our military for stooping to the level of the opposing side, they fell into the trap and let down their morals, their ethics and their oaths of honor. What I am asking is for us all to get out of this armchair voyeurism and take our medicine with the rest. We sent our men and women out there to represent our side. We gave them any number of methods with which to shatter skulls and scoop out brain matter and pit them against The Other Side. Who by the way, is trying to do the same. Kill. Maim. Massive injury is still the preferred prescription for defeat of the enemy by the way because even though it causes torment and agony, it also sucks up the enemy’s resources for the war by forcing two soldiers to help the wounded one off the field, also leaving them more vulnerable to being shot in the back. Not honorable? Oh, sorry, did I mention that in war, the only real tangible goal is to walk back to your tent with as many fingers and toes as you woke up with?
I have been shot, far less honorably, and I have bled near to death deservedly. I have never been in a war though. I grew up the son of a career officer. It doesn’t qualify me to speak of the horrors of war, but it left me years to ponder this military paradox: We send our soldiers to kill humans on a daily basis, with the burden of an oath to do so with honor. A heavy heavy burden indeed. Those who take up the oath do so willingly. They should be dishonorably discharged and court-martialed. But let’s try not to pretend that this “Isolated Incident” is such a surprise. From the beginning of history war has been about that worst part of our insides that is needed to rip someone else’s insides out and step over their bloody remains to reach for the next target. It’s a tall order to keep that beast on a leash.
So leave the blinders by the door. Keep your eyes open. Hate the carnage and have that much more respect for those soldiers who DO hold to their Oaths. And remember next time what war really is when we are called to fight again. Cause we all know there will be a next time. God have mercy on us, war really is hell.
Am I allowed to sign this? My choice defaults to anonymous….is this like the witness protection program?
www.charles.mckeithan.org
oh, wait….it says no html……who’s that at the door…….
We sat in our circle of friends and hashed out the evening. It was de-brief time. All was well that ended well, and if the worst part of the event was that my counter part got a little too into his part and bit me on the shoulder (leaving a mark to explain to the wife) then it was still a good night. I tucked into my plate of Denny’s Lumberjack Special. We discussed the victory of an artistic success that was even a profitable one. This is not always the Case with PEERS. Ballroom Dance does not lend itself to high profit. But our particular brand has its own special flavor that gives spice to what the young fear is a bland salad. As evidence, this was the Green Man Ball. If you haven’t watched the movie The Wicker Man, you simply must. And DO NOT over read this web site which will kill the plot for you if you haven’t seen it.
So it’s now 2:45 in the A.M. and I am comfortably digging through the last of my plate without a care for the stray bits of food that have landed in the lap of my kilt, when without the least warning, my lungs shut off and every muscle in my body makes for a leap to go for the throat of a nearby patron.
Fear not gentle reader, I am not Anthony Perkins looking to start a hotel chain of one. Sometimes old habits die hard and some instincts never really settle back down to the dark firmament they came from.
Three men had just entered my field of vision and before my conscious cerebellum had even shifted the ocular nerves to focus properly, several lower level nerve endings had already prepped me for a fight. In that split second of recognition, I knew everything I cared to know about them.
1. They were at variable states of drunk.
2. They had all the wrong tattoo marks to be out on a sabbatical from the Mormon all night prayer meet.
3. Two of the three had not gotten lucky at the club and were apparently hoping that the San Mateo Denny’s had something to offer in the way of an easy side order of slickery gash.
4. Two wrong words or one wrong look and they would be ready to brawl.
I started merry into my last portion of hash fries. The beauty to my left handed me a second plate of bacon, sausage, and something brownish with bits of black.
Now, I should warn the gentle reader also that the PEERS crew is very very intelligent, but that has never stopped us from also being incredibly easy on the eyes. I was in the company of a half dozen buxom belles that would set any sober heterosexual man to walking with a noticeable list to one side in a matter of seconds. And we are nowhere near shy about erotic debates about the pros and cons of spitting verses swallowing.
On the more masculine side of things, I new that if it came to a fight, we were well in the odds of things. I was in the company of a scientist who is rabidly protective when it comes to his loved ones, a mortician who had earlier that evening left a half crescent welt on me during a staged argument, and a reclusive intellectual who likely knows sixteen ways to break your nose with a paperclip and does NOT like to be interrupted from his chosen task of the moment. And that was just the boys. These are intelligent women. They are knockouts in corsets and thigh highs. They are also all of them deadly to the last fashion accessory. It would be more likely the men’s job to scrape the remains of the offending adversaries off of the floor while our darling companions went to the powder room to adjust stays, reset ribbons and scrub the DNA out from under their nails.
But nothing screws up a good after-party meal like a painful encounter with drunken idiots so I shifted my position at the table to move my back away from the hombre’s and continued with my self gorging.
Tan Plaid was Mr. lucky. His girl of the moment was with them for their sober up breakfast and she was burbling and flashing cleavage at the three of them in good fashion. She would have been fun to play eye tag with on an ordinary night but this was just serious enough that I thought better of it. Tan Plaid was oldest and soberest (probably why he got lucky) and I noted that he sat on the outside edge of the booth giving him control over his unfortunate buddies.
Red Plaid was my problem though. Just short of puking drunk, his glassy eyes couldn’t pick which set of tits to try and focus on. Lucky him, he was getting four per girl. More to my concern, he had a very hard handle shaped bulge about six inches up from the bottom hem of his pant leg. Back to the plus side though, he’d probably pass out trying to bend over to get the knife out long before anyone would have to go near him.
I finished plate number three of my friends’ left-overs.
It dawned on me. The evening would be fine. Out of the corner of my eye I could see confused giggly looks and glances from the whole crew of them and then bingo; it all came clear.
God Bless the Kilt. Women adore it. Men are frightened by it. Drunkards simply cannot compute the concept of it. Red Plaid was loving the fair flesh at our table but couldn’t get over my naked kneecaps and lack of an inseam. We ended our discussion over which band would be best for the big November event, paid our check and gave lavish, breast filled hugs farewell to each other. As a precaution, the gentlemen made sure the ladies made it to their cars without incident, but in the back of my mind, I almost regretted the ease of our escape.
I would love an excuse to try a reverse jump side kick while regimental in Tartan.