Jacob shook his head violently.  He was starting to spin now, eyes glazing over, dark circles threatening to overcome his blurred vision, as he grasped futilely for the handrail that led to the backdoor of his temporary quarters.  He spun and stumbled again, knee cracking painfully on the wet concrete step that led to the haven inside.  His legs buckled under the strain, and he spun a last 180 degrees, landing with an audible WHUMPHHHH, air forcibly expelled from his lungs from the impact, his left leg bleeding where he had hit his knee.  Jacob took a last ragged breath and cried out in pain as the knife wound in his stomach spilled another wave of fresh blood through his T-shirt and onto the back porch, mixing perversely with the rivulets of rainwater that ran down into the drain at the base of the building.

He grasped the gaping wound with his hand, vainly trying to pinch the edges together to keep his intestines from fleeing his body, but the strength in his hands fled, he gave in, and he let his arm fall to his side.   Searing pain kept him from taking another deep breathe, coughs and slight gasps now wracking his chest.  The last thing he saw before he went under was the dead girl on the picnic table, cherry blossoms covering her bloody face, tiny fingers grasping the chain he had given her that very morning.  She was smiling, he knew, underneath all that blood, and still the cherry blossoms fell, covering her face and body in a gentle caress, almost as if God himself was apologizing for her terrible life.  He thought he felt an aftershock from the earthquake weeks before, but he wasn’t sure if it was that, or the pounding of cherry blossoms, falling over Miho, falling over him.  Funny, how they kept falling.  After almost two weeks now, cherry blossoms were still falling…..

TWO WEEKS BEFORE

CPT Jacob Patrickson flipped the light switch to the living room with one hand, dumping his “A” bag with the other.  The switched let out a small click, but the lights stayed off.

“You’ve got to be flippin’ kidding me.”

He stepped back through the door and pulled his ruck and assault pack into the building; condemned, soon-to-be demolished Sergeant Major quarters, located in an abandoned corner of Camp Zama, right outside Zama City, Japan.  “Of course,” he muttered as dumped his assault pack, searching for his penlight.  The trip to Tokyo had been long and tiring, all 36 hours of it. Now, at 0200 on a sweltering night in Japan, the power to his temporary lodging was non-existent.  Jacob glanced out the window, hoping to see headlights from the douchebag that dropped him off without making sure his quarters were straight.  Nothing to see but swaying cherry blossom trees and more dark condemned buildings.   And I don’t even have a phone to call anyone, Jacob thought.  As soon as I see that ass clown again, we’re gonna have words…

Penlight in hand, Jacob found the fuse box in the kitchen and flipped the switches on, glancing around his new “home.”  He put his penlight on the kitchen counter, noting the absence of a stove, refrigerator, microwave or any other semblance of appliance.  White tile floors extended into the dining/living room, and echoed the sounds of his sandals as they snapped with each step, reminding him of all those old horror novels he had read as a kid.  The ones where the hero stops walking and the echoes of his steps continue, revealing some nefarious foe sneaking up from behind.  Just to clear the heebie-jeebies, Jacob took a step and stopped mid stride, keeping his food from hitting the tile floor.  He smiled at his fearful mind, shaking his head at his own peevishness.  A sharp CLACK startled him, and he spun around, hands in fists, eyes wide for that boogey man that was now haunting his imagination.  His penlight rolled to a lazy stop on the tile floor.

“Easy there stud, no boogey man here, you just need some sleep.”

Stacks of bound cots littered the living room area, and Jacob diligently put two together, one to sleep on and one to stow his gear.  With a perfunctory look around the rest of the house, Jacob collapsed on his cot and fell asleep.

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“Captain Patrickson?”

“Captain Paaaaaatrickson!”

Jacob both heard and felt the pounding on the front door, his eyes automatically going to his watch, a Timex Pathfinder his wife had bought him two Christmases ago.  0600.  Seriously?

“Captain Patrickson?  You in there?”

Jacob rolled off his cot, rubbed his eyes and stretched as he looked around for a shirt.  He pulled on his classic “I Club Hippies” Ranger Up T-Shirt and a pair of black board shorts.

“Captain Patrickson?  Hello?”

“Yeah, hold on, I’m comin’.  Give me a minute”

Jacob stumbled to the bathroom and released the four Jack and diet Cokes he drank on the flight in.  After glancing in the mirror and running his fingers over his two day growth, he walked into the living room and crossed to the front door.  As he opened the door, he interrupted a Soldier mid-knock, stepping back as the Soldier’s arm swung heavily where the door had been.

The short freckled officer jumped back startled, a giant foolish grin on his face.  “Oh, haha, sorry about that.  I almost knocked on your chest!”

“Who…are…you?”

“Oh, sorry about that, my name’s CPT Stillmore, I’m with Corps staff.  I’m here to take you in to meet everyone in the TOC.”

“Your name is CPT, huh?  Well, my rank is CPT, but my name is Jacob.”

“Oh…yeah….I’m Jessie.”

“Well, Jessie, what time am I supposed to be in today?”

“Well, really, right now.  Not sure if CPT Phen told you that last night or not, but you’re to start days in about an hour, you’re taking my spot as the Day Battle Captain.”

“No, CPT Phen didn’t tell me shit.  That turd dropped me off here last night, not real impressed with old CPT Phen.  So, your spot in the TOC?  Where are you headed?”

“I’m going up North, the hurricane site; I’ll be up there for the next two months or so.  A bunch of us are headed up North, that’s why they brought you guys in TDY.”

“All right, give me 30, I’ll be ready to go.”

“Okay, I’ll wait for you here while you get ready.”

Jacob walked into the back bedroom, grabbed his shaving kit and yelled out of the bathroom while he let the water heat up.

“How’s the night life around here?”

“It’s okay, not much going on around here until you head farther North toward Machida and Tokyo.  There isn’t much in Zama City, its pretty low key around here.”

Jacob nodded his head as he lathered up his face and looked into the mirror.

That’s too bad, he thought to himself, I thought this trip would be interesting.

I have PTSD. We all know what it is, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I am one of millions who are affected by it each and every day.  Millions of men and women who have varying symptoms yet manage to maintain a normal lifestyle.   I, along with my cohorts, have been classified as a potential powder keg just waiting on that spark to set us off into a murderous explosion of ire. This is not the case as I am just as normal as you.

At the end of every day I lay my head down in an attempt to sleep.  That in itself is no different than you. But when my eyes close and I should be drifting off into a peaceful bliss, my mind takes over and I am tormented in my dreams with a vivid and exaggerated version of every combat encounter witnessed.  There has been nary a night that I do not have this, and have not had an uninterrupted night of sleep for years.  Yet in the morning, I rise with the consistency of the sun, roll out of my sweat soaked bed, and shake off the remnants of the nightly battles and start my day…just like you.

I am functional in society, but I am a little more vigilant than you, always on the look-out for danger, avoiding large crowds and loud places.  But somehow, I can still manage to go out to eat, shop for my clothes and drive my car.  I pay close attention to those around me, see the drug deal that just took place on my right and notice the people who just don’t belong in a certain situation.  You may not have evil intentions, but I will notice nonetheless.

I have guns. As a matter of fact I just about always have one on me.  You see, even though I have PTSD, I am still a Sheepdog watching out for my flock.  I don’t brandish my weapon and most of the time you won’t even know I have it on my body, but it is there.  I also carry a large knife in my pocket, one that could cause serious injury or death if used improperly.  I have never used any of my weapons in a malicious manner and never will, but in my duties as a Sheepdog I will not hesitate to draw down on you should the circumstance warrant it.  I am armed, but I am not dangerous.

There are times that I am medicated.   My PTSD comes in cycles and when things get bad I need that extra chemical push to regulate me.  I accept this and because of it I do not drink.  I have other physical problems that could easily warrant an addiction to pain killers, but just like most of us with PTSD, I avoid it.

I have never committed violence in the workplace, just like the vast majority of those who suffer with me.  My co-workers know I spent time in the military but they do not know of my daily struggles, and they won’t.   I can still communicate with my subordinates and supervisors in a clear manner.  I have never physically assaulted anyone out of anger or rage.

It pains me when I listen to the news and every time a veteran commits a crime (or commits suicide); it is automatically linked to and blamed on PTSD. Yes, there are some who cannot control their actions due to this imbalance in our heads, but don’t put a label on us that we are all incorrigible.  Very few of us are bad.  There are more of us out there that are trying harder to do good than the lesser alternative.

Do not pity me.  I know who I am and recognize the journey that has shaped me into what I am.  I have no regrets about anything that I have done in the past and look forward to many wonderful years in the future.  I freely take every step of life during the day knowing that there is something that will haunt me at night.

For those who are like me, there is help.  Seek it out.  You were strong enough to make it this far, don’t give up.  Dig a little deeper and make that final push.  If you do not know where to go or have fallen astray, contact me. I will help.  We are all brothers and sisters in this battle that will rage invariably for eternity and the one constant is that we have each other.

To the rest of society and particularly the media: I have PTSD!

On Christmas Day 2007, David Belniak was involved in a horrific traffic accident in Florida.   David, who was estimated to be traveling at 75-85 mph in a 45 mph zone, slammed his truck into the back of a car which was stopped at a red light. Authorities say that Belniak was driving while intoxicated on alcohol, Xanax and cocaine.  Three people died as a result.

Last August, Belniak pleaded guilty to three counts of DUI manslaughter and was sentenced to 12 years in prison.  During the entire court proceedings Belniak never said a word, not even when the victims’ children asked for an apology.

But he is speaking out now.

Through court documents filed with the state, Belniak is now saying that he is not responsible for the crash and that he should be compensated for his suffering.

Yes, you read that right; Douchetastic Belniak is suing the estate of the victims for his “pain and suffering … mental anguish … loss of capacity for the enjoyment of life” and the medical bills he received as a result of the crash HE caused!  Hey dipshit, what about the “pain and suffering” you caused the families of the victims? Is it not good enough that you killed them because of your stupidity, but now you have to throw in another jab at the surviving families?

The case itself was filed by Belniak’s attorney who also just happens to be his sister. Hmmm, I am starting to wonder … is Douchebaggery hereditary? If so, can we call it Douchebagatosis? It appears to me this family may be infected with it. And since we are already speaking about the family, why don’t I go ahead and throw in the fact that Belniak was listed as an officer in the family construction company, one that has 12 properties in its name.  There is no shortage of money but the brains seem to be lacking in this family.

This isn’t the first time this fuck-nugget has been charged with DUI either. One time in 2003, a Florida police officer found a gallon of the date rape drug GHB in the trunk of Belniak’s car after his arrest for DUI.  Yes, I did say a gallon! For this crime of passion, (well maybe not passion) Belniak pled guilty and spent seventeen months in state prison for trafficking GHB and DUI.

In 1994 Belniak was involved in another “accident” when a pedestrian was killed after being hit by our favorite fucktabulous friend.   Somehow, Belniak was not charged for this event.

It is a good thing you will be driven to the court room by means of a jail transport van; otherwise we would probably be down another innocent family to your antics.  I have seen more responsible decision making in the gaggle of geese currently shitting on my car.

David Belniak, I can no longer speak on the retardedness of you or your family.  I hereby sentence you to Douchebagistan and coronate you Minister of Transportation and Population Control.  It is because of you that we will keep the population of D-Stan in check; all we have to do is give you a company car.

Our good friend, Jorge Rivera

There are some friends who you value so much it is really hard to qualify into words.

I met Jorge Rivera three years ago in the same city where he ended his career: Nashville, Tennessee. For that fight, RU was not his largest sponsor, we were a small company that very few people knew, and given the general state of the MMA industry even now, there was no reason to believe we would even exist for his next fight. Furthermore, while fighters are generally very reclusive and private during the buildup to a fight, Jorge had also just lost his seventeen year old daughter, a pain that I can only imagine, and hope to never have to go through. In short, I didn’t expect any of his attention when I arrived at his hotel door to drop off shirts. I wanted to give him his gear, shake his hand, and get out of his way.

Instead, when that hotel door opened, I was greeted by an incredibly hospitable, thoughtful, and giving person who treated me as if we had known each other for years. He refused to let me excuse myself, introduced me to people in the industry I would have never known otherwise, and was incredibly open about his life. By the end of the day before weigh-ins, I felt like I had known Jorge, Matt Phinney, and Tim Burrill for years. I could see in Jorge a man that had made mistakes in life, but through them had acquired incredible wisdom and perspective, and wanted to impart that on those around him. For a guy who had achieved this level as a professional athlete, I was truly amazed by his humility and kindness.

By the time he entered the cage with Nissen Osterneck, hiding a broken hand and partially dislocated shoulder I might add, I felt like my brother was stepping in there. I don’t remember wanting anyone to win so badly in my life.

And he did.

It wasn’t pretty. He gassed early on and we all thought he’d get finished as a result, but he kept on pushing and pushing and refusing to quit. He did what Jorge does best: he fought.

And I don’t mean that in the sense of MMA. Jorge’s had every reason to give up in his life – sometimes because of self-made bad decisions and sometimes because of chance, but I can tell you honestly, he’s had a rough go at it. What makes him special, and what makes me look up to him, even as I examine situations I’d never be in, is that he has never shied from the struggle. When life hits him, he hits back harder. When he can’t hit anymore, he still manages to stand up. He’s not afraid of the fight – he embraces it.

I can’t explain our relationship exactly. Sponsor is almost an afterthought at this point. For my part, I’ve received middle of the night calls about strategy, business, stress, and anything else you can imagine (Jorge, like me, let’s his mind wander at night and can’t sleep). I’ve been there for the highs like beating a very game Nate Quarry in Charlotte with 50 vets cheering him on. I’ve been there for the lows, like watching my friend get kneed in the head and then be disrespected in Australia. Through it all though, it’s just been an honor to be here, to be counted as one of Jorge’s inner circle and to support him as best I could.

So as I sat cageside and Jorge’s last fight started in the same city our friendship had begun, I just wished to God that he would come out on top. As the fight started, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, as if I was the one about to fight. They began and Jorge had a bad start, but he hung in there, and although he lost the first round, he looked confident going into the second round. He shrugged off a takedown and landed a strong right hand. Moments later, Jorge Rivera’s last fight in the Octagon ended via TKO.

I can honestly tell you I don’t think I would have been happier if the win had been my own.

The first trip to Nashville saw us all go out to a swanky nightclub and party into the night around people we barely knew, seeing people and being seen and all that nonsense. This time around, it was just a small group of us renting out the top floor of a tiny bar: friends, family, and a few loyal vets that have supported Jorge for years.

“I just want to be around the people that matter, Nick,” was Jorge’s guidance.

I remember thinking simply, “I hope to always be on that list.”

Congratulations to a true warrior (in the Cav and in the Cage)on an incredible career. On to the next challenge, sir. We’re here every step of the way.

Love you, brother.

First, let me say that in general, I wholeheartedly support the actions of our service members in their daily duties across this vast world. That being said, when a “grabtastic piece of amphibian shit” rears his ugly head only to steal the oxygen from us and besmirch those who so gallantly stand watch, it is my official duty to not only highlight the douchieness of said individual but to also provide a first class, fucktastic beat-down of epic written proportions.

So… let the games begin!

If you have never heard the name PFC Bradley Manning let me give you brief run-down of his alleged accomplishments, I say alleged as he has not yet been convicted of his endeavors. Bradley joined the Army in October 2007 as an (supposed) intelligence analyst and was initially assigned to Ft. Drum, NY where he worked, I refuse to say served as he was a self-centered twit, with the 10th Mountain Division. It was from there that he was deployed to Iraq in October 2009.

I...do solemly swear...that I'm a douche.

While in Iraq, Bradley–boy had access to top level reports, not just from the military but the entire U.S. This network of information was designed as a specific intelligence clearinghouse to those deemed “worthy” to access it. It was in this network which Mr.-I-do-what-I-fucking-want-without-regard-to-any-one-else-Manning took it upon himself to randomly browse and download to his personal data storage units, including overwriting a CD of Lady GaGa with Top Secret information from the State Department and other agencies. It was only a month into his tour in Iraq that Manning decided to leak all of the information collected to the infamous Wikileaks website (a similarly douchestastic organization).

The information allegedly leaked by Manning was a slew of randomly collected and extremely damaging documents from the U.S. relating to combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan as well as communications from U.S. Embassies across the globe. And it wasn’t only written communiqués that Bradley was leaking, but also videos taken in combat zones.

Bradley’s ex-boyfriend ratted him out to the FBI (never piss off an ex) and he was arrested in May of 2010. He was immediately sent to the jail at Quantico, VA and the pussified activist community immediately started bitching about the quality of his detention as he was essentially placed in solitary confinement due to the structure of the facility. This was repeatedly dismissed by the military as they repeatedly sent numerous inspectors there who had the same conclusion, his detention was lawful and warranted due to the nature of his crimes.

Time has passed and earlier this week, an Article 32 (the military equivalent of a grand jury) found enough evidence to proceed to a Court Martial of PFC Manning. What this means is that this little floating turd is going to trial…yippee-kai-yay! His attorney’s argued that the charges should be reduced so that the Brad-meister would only face 30 years in prison as opposed to the prosecution who wanted life! Well, the extremely sexy, Lady Justice prevailed and Manning faces LIFE when convicted (yes, I carry a positive outlook on this issue) and is set to go to trial in the upcoming months. I will be one happy camper when this shit-tard is flushed into the custody of the Bureau of Prisons!

While I would really, really like to send PFC DipShit to Douchebagistan, I truly believe he is best kept right where we have him….bent over in the shower!

I (Crigger) had the pleasure of meeting Seamus Garrahy at the end of the DC to Gettysburg Face of America ride in 2010. The ride ended at his house where all the riders and support staff were welcome with open arms and the biggest barbeque you’ve ever seen. He was an incredibly patriotic man who will be missed.

From OORAH.net:

James L. “Seamus” Garrahy, 70, 30 Plank Road, Gettysburg, PA died Monday, January 9, 2012 at his home.

He was born June 29, 1941 in Chicago, IL the son of the late John R. and Marie Lydon Garrahy. He is survived by his wife Linda Bell.

Jim was a veteran of the US Marine Corps and remained active in Marine affairs for the rest of his life. Through the years he has hosted thousands of active and retired veterans at his home in what had become known as “Steaks and Beers”. Seamus has also for the last five years hosted the finish line and post race event for the “Face of America – Wounded Warriors Bike Ride”.

Jim owned and operated “Jim Garrahy’s Fudge Kitchen”. What started as a single store on Baltimore Street grew over the years into 78 different locations in the United States, England and Scotland. Headquartered in Gettysburg the company was sold in 2009.

Seamus lived a full life filled with adventures, friendships and fun. For a year he served as a crew mate aboard the HMS Bounty tall ship sailing the Atlantic. He founded a singing group known as the “Sault Antlers Men’s Choir” singing Irish drinking songs. They recorded an album and later were a fixture in the area every St. Patrick’s Day.

In addition to his wife he is survived by two step-children; Jessica Sparaco and her husband Gerard of Arizona, Joshua Rutan of Ohio, two step grandchildren; Haley Rutan, Avery Rutan, a sister, Nancy Crawford of Chicago, IL, a brother, John R. “Jack” Garrahy, Jr. of Chicago, IL and a number of nieces and nephews.

A Memorial Service and celebration of Seamus life will be held at a later date. In lieu of flowers memorials can be made to the Injured Marine Semper Fi Fund, 825 College Blvd, Suite 102, Oceanside, CA 92057 or the Adams County SPCA, 11 Goldenville Road, Gettysburg, PA 17325. Online obituary and condolences available at monahanfuneralhom.com. The Monahan Funeral Home in Gettysburg are in charge of the arrangements.

View Photos of Seamus’ Events Here

Monahan Funeral Home
125 Carlisle Street
Gettysburg, PA 17325
717-334-2414
717-334-0103 – fax
www.monahanfuneralhome.com

Once in a while we hear a story that just seems too far-fetched to be true. Your buddy killed eighteen Taliban with a knife? Riiiiiight. Jeremy Meyers has a couple of those “fish that got away” tales as well. As the story has been passed from generation to generation, Jeremy wound up in a shit talking contest with RU favorite and author of Assholes Finish First, Tucker Maxx which led to a fight challenge. Little did Jeremy know at the time, but Tucker trains on the mat regularly and when they finally fought, Jeremy ended up kicking some ass after first realizing that this wasn’t going to be easy, and Tucker cut him a sponsorship check on the spot. From that point on, Tucker has been sponsoring Jeremy and even invited Jeremy to leave his Buckeye state for the land of the Lone Star, which Jeremy did late last year. Now they are BFF’s and like to take walks in the park on Sunday afternoon after they train together.

Jeremy goes by the moniker of Kamikaze, which he picked up as a young fighter because he fought with no real game plan, but rather a mantra of “going crazy on that ass.” The name stuck and he has been going bat-shit on people since although he acknowledges that once he was able to fight with a more technical and planned approach fights have been much easier to manage. Jeremy is such a fierce competitor that last year he took three fights within the span of a month, to which he states that keeping his weight down for such a prolonged period was a “royal pain in the dick.”

Like all of the Ranger Up fighters, Jeremy has worn a uniform and one that included an arm-brassard (I know, I know…WTF is an arm-brassard…but it just sounds so freaking cool) as a Military Policeman. While he has no stories to tell regarding life in the uniform (I am sensing a whole lot more asshattery than he is willing to let on), he does state that the only thing that he is really afraid of are constricting snakes (insert Alabama Black Snake joke here!)

Jeremy has some pretty strong goals in his fight career. He wants to fight a total of 100 times. By my calculations with him accepting every fight he’s offered, he will have that knocked out by fall 2012. That is, if he stays clean off his addictions, namely Sour Patch Kids candy and Arnold Palmer drinks. Really? Iced tea and Lemonade? C’mon son…RTFU and grab a little Maker’s.

Jeremy has been a Ranger Up fighter for some time, and if he keeps his Fun-and-Gun style of fighting with the same disregard for life as a Kamikaze, we will be hearing from him again in the future.

Please welcome Jeremy Meyers to the RU Fight Family!

Welcome to our newest series, Three Drinks With, where we sit down and toss back a few “beverages” with military-friendly celebs and pick their brains from our skewed view.

If Amelia Earhart and Sherlock Holmes had a love child it would be Don Wildman, who is quite possibly the most inquisitive, non-descript dude ever. The host of Travel Channel’s Off Limits and Mysteries at the Museum, Wildman has made a living off of exploring the mysteries, histories, and places most people won’t / can’t / make up excuses for why they shouldn’t go into.

Recently the “Count of Curiosity” sat down with Ranger Up, had three straight bourbons and poured his soul out to us. Okay that’s bullshit since he lives in L.A. and we’re east coasters, but he did spend a gracious amount of time with us on the phone where he admitted to being a bourbon fan and recalled a great story of the time he visited the Jim Beam distillery. That basically makes us drinking buddies, right?

By his own account Wildman was an average kid raised in New Jersey the son of Quaker parents who believed in pacifism. But the signs of war were all around him and sparked an unquenchable drive within to know more of everything.

“My parents still had World War II fresh in their minds and I always wanted to know what went on before my time,” he says. “New Jersey in those days was reeling from the end of the war. Manufacturing bases shut down like crazy in the state, so there were all these derelict plants littering the landscape. I love reading about the Civil War and World War II and exploring places that have a connection to those periods.”

These days Wildman has his pick of places to connect to because of his extensive experience delving into the places behind the fences that hold the rest of us back. Probably no one is more qualified than he when it comes to getting off the beaten path and he has a long and comfortable relationship with the nooks and crannies of life.

He first started hosting TV shows in 1997 for Men’s Journal in a show called…Men’s Journal. I had better luck finding “legit” photos of a chupacabra than I did finding old episodes of this series. Next came Weird Travels on the Travel Channel in 2003, which lasted 23 strange episodes until 2006. After that came The Incurables, a show about mind boggling medical conditions that he narrated in 2007. That year Wildman was also picked to host Cities of the Underworld on The History Channel. It was steady work until 2009, lasting 40 episodes and making his mark on TV lore as a fearless urban explorer.

“It was cooked up to be a WOW show about going into tunnels, but got turned into a more history-based show before being cancelled,” he says. “The show wasn’t doing badly at all. The channel just wanted to change their brand to historical documentaries like Ice Road Truckers and Ax Men. Looking back on it they were right to do so.”

But all was not lost. Wildman is nothing if not the Master of his own destiny and proved on Cities of the Underworld to have a non-Vanna White ability to talk coherently while doing his job. He could speak to the audience while exploring and that interested executives at the Travel Channel, who saw something in this gruff, charismatic guy who didn’t mind doing the things most people didn’t like. Unfortunately Dirty Jobs was already taken, so he settled on Off Limits, a show designed to take people the beyond the red velvet ropes and “Trespassers Will Be Shot” signs.

“I’ve always been fascinated with these locations, but going into places and taking pictures is a lot of times illegal, especially when you do it on TV. It’s always best to do it with the backing of a TV channel.”

Off Limits has taken him from San Quentin’s dungeon to moonshining in the Appalachian Mountains to the miles of underground rivers running beneath Boston and New York City with gems of historical folklore and lost culture at every turn. But back on the surface the prospect of interesting TV wasn’t always clear.

“I remember seeing the list of places for Off Limits and feeling disappointed because they were all domestic sites,” he says. “I though it would be more interesting to explore places outside the US, but I’ve totally changed my mind now. There are very incredible stories everywhere we go. Hawaii was probably my favorite. Besides the tropical locale I had no idea how industrialized Hawaii was. It’s a massive tourist spot, but the real reasons it is the way it is, is because of those spaces left behind by the sugar industry and the military. While we were filming there I figured out why so many people had moved there. It was an industrial region and the sugar industry demanded a great deal of labor, so Hawaii became a fascinating melting pot of people from all over the world. It’s like the UN of island nations. It’s the American ideal.”

For Wildman, exploration is a metaphor for evolution and overcoming obstacles. Factories, like the ones in his native New Jersey, have to change to survive no matter what their industry is.

“I did a segment with Mr. Jim Beam himself, Fred Noe. He’s the great grandson of Jim Beam. I drank from the original family yeast then he took me to the fermenting tanks, opened one up and told me to stick my head in and take a whiff. I did and nearly exploded my sinus cavities. [It’s a] family joke, apparently [because] the carbon dioxide is rather intense.”

Despite the painful prank, Wildman somehow liked Noe more afterward. He felt part of his world and part of the tumultuous story of Kentucky bourbon, an invaluable perk of being who he is. Don Wildman gets to be part of some of the greatest and tight-knit circles in the world much more than Joe Schmoe does because he shows up with a genuine interest in what someone is doing (or was doing) in a place taken over by time.

But this job is not without its risks, and like the people who watch American Idol for the train wrecks, the constant threat of death or dismemberment is one of Off Limits’ attractive qualities.

“It’s there for sure,” he says about the risks. “But I haven’t had anything happen yet. We were under the Schmidt Brewery exploring the limestone caves they used for beer chilling when we found a cave that the brewmaster wouldn’t even go into. No one had been back there for years, so I just went in there to see what I could find. The whole thing could come down at any moment, but I don’t think of that really. I just have to know what’s back there.”

I’m glad he feels that Captain Kirk pull to go where no one has gone before…or at least in a very long time. I’m claustrophobic, a trait Wildman doesn’t share and attributes to the small bedroom he had growing up in the basement of his New Jersey home. He feels good in small tight places and is willing to put his ass on the line to interest people. But neither of those are the greatest drawback to being a modern day Magellan.

“If I KNOW anything it is that I will only never know enough and I really mean that. Life is best lived as a process, not a result. My favorite process is learning and inquisitiveness is the engine of it all. If I’m honest with myself about everything…I will never arrive at the end of the questions.”

Like the legendary martial artist Dan Inosanto, Wildman lives to deconstruct everything to not only see how it works, but understand it as well. You get the impression he looked forward to frog dissection day in biology and if he missed it, he would go out and get his own frog to make up for the lost knowledge. He wants to know the mechanics behind everything and asks the questions most don’t, like why is a park there? Why do we have yards? What’s the airspeed velocity of an overused Monty Python joke?

If there’s one truth to his exploration it’s that every place is more than the sum of its parts. Like a corner gym or a local church, a dilapidated factory in its decayed and rusted death throe has a personality. And when he speaks of these places it’s with a passion that hasn’t echoed from its walls since the last worker walked away.

But Don Wildman is a spokesman for a small group and if there’s a frustration to his endeavors, it’s the lack of shared interest in historical places and interesting faces among the iPod and Xbox youth of today.

“It bothers me that we’re so insulated from the achievements of our past. We have an obligation and honor our past and carry these stories forward. Try to reach out to a fourteen year-old kid today who’s used to sitting in the house and not getting out. Whatever happened to neighborhood football games in the back yard and acorn fights? It’s our responsibility to pass this heritage on to the following generations, but if they don’t care then what can you do?”

Fortunately there are organizations that take preservation seriously. TalkUrbex.com and AtlasObscura.com are dedicated to preserving historical locations with stunning photography to document places of interest before they’re gone. Places that some of us military types know like the 309th AMARG (aircraft bone yard) at Davis Monthan AFB in Tuscon, the North American Aerospace Defense Command deep within Cheyenne Mountain, and the US Army Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technology Directorate at Picatinny Arsenal, all of which Wildman has been to.

“I loved working with the people at those locations. They were so generous, inspiring, and reassuring. They all have a story that matters more than themselves. I have the highest respect for people who put their own needs second to the needs of the country. I wonder if we have that within us now. I think we do. I hope we do. My father served, but I didn’t. Everything was different back then. Everything was at stake in the twentieth century unlike today.”

Rather than end this with the predictable “Don’t we all have a little Don Wildman in all of us?” I’ll end it with a statement that there SHOULD be a little Don Wildman in all of us. He should be your sense of adventure’s panic button. Sure he has a TV show that gets him access to the places most of us can’t go, but does that mean we should stop trying? Don’t we all want to be Indiana Jones without the bullwhip and nagging Nazi’s to fend off while saving irreplaceable treasures? If we didn’t have that driving force to discover the unknown or been born without the inquisitive gene, we’d never have crossed the seas, pushed into the rain forests, landed on the moon, or invented bourbon. What a cruel world that would be.

Follow Don on twitter @donwildman
On Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Don-Wildman/167482979977362

Whoever came up with the idea for a port-a-potty should be given a freaking Nobel Peace Prize for both ingenuity and comedic genius. Never in the history of man has a seemingly simple contraption both eased the pain and suffering of many a Marine and Soldier yet inconvenienced them into suffering and setting up the most hilarious scenarios EVER!

As an introduction we must first properly identify the terminology of the item we are referring to. Cue the port-a-potty, port-a-shitter, out-house, stink-box, shit-shack, jack-box, or whatever you may call it. They come in many sizes and shapes but they all usually stink and have mysterious objects floating in the bottom of them. Some are created so that another ingenious device, the shitter sucker, can come and magically remove the excrement with one sweep of the powerful vacuum yet others must have the MRE reincarnates burned, much to the chagrin of the NCO’s and the dismay of the enlisted.

These little magical marvels of engineering are like the 82nd Airborne, they can relocate to anywhere in the world in under 72 hours to become your drop-zone! They can be ratchet-strapped to any vehicle in our arsenal or delivered via land, sea or air by any one of the billion-dollar contractors we have all come to love. Either way, they seem to appear from a mystical-mist, standing side-by-side in their effervescent-blue-water-glory and become a wonderful, colorful reference point for our enemies who are adjusting indirect fire while we so eloquently relieve ourselves.

As a frequent visitor to places without standard plumbing, I can recall one particular incident that was just too funny to be true. It all started in the quiet country side of Germany. My company was conducting an air-mobile raid and had set up the pick-up zone in a large clearing on a gently sloping, grassy hill. There was a dirt road running down the middle of the field and just like there would be in an actual combat zone (not really but you could imagine), there were a line of about 10 shitters just off the road. The entire company was moving in one lift and we had 15 Blackhawks coming for the pick-up. As is very typical with the infantry, we were in position hours before the actual mission was supposed to kick off and we were running our rehearsals.

About 30 minutes before the actual time of arrival we were given the go ahead to clear our bowels and bladders before we left as it would be a good bit of time before we would have another opportunity. Most of us headed into the wood-line to relieve ourselves standing style and the sitters headed to towards the blue thrones. Eventually everyone returned to their proper locations except for one, he just seemed to have a jump refusal and was taking a bit longer than expected in the crystal cathedral. It was then that we started to hear the familiar thump-thump-thump of the rotors in the distance. Immediately, everyone started rucking up and getting ready (they were actually about 20 minutes early, the ONLY time I can ever remember an Aviation unit being early), and soon the first bird came screaming-in.

Apparently, the unit tasked with supporting us had decided that they too were going to get some training and were coming in hot and fast with a quick flare at the end as they set down. For those of you who have had the opportunity to witness this, it is pretty freaking awesome to see a hulk of a helicopter go from light speed to nothing in a matter of seconds. The only problem with this, is that it also creates a huge amount of prop-wash, momentary hurricane force winds, multiplied by the number if aircraft, that will knock you on your ass or in this case, knock a port-a-potty over. And that is exactly what it did.

The entire company was watching when the shitters collectively were thrown around like plastic lawn furniture in a tornado. We knew there was someone in them, but didn’t know which one. As squad leaders were getting the final count before we loaded –up it was obvious that one soldier was missing. The shitters strewn across the field like small blue icebergs in a sea of green grass. Soon, an entire squad was checking each one while the rest of us were staring in disbelief and laughing our asses off. Finally they found the subject of their quest, it seems that when his house of poo had tipped, it tipped over – on the door, essentially trapping the unlucky occupant in what started as a tranquil deposit of waste and turned into house of horror. The squad quickly converged on the house of ill smell and rolled the structure over only to have the unlucky soldier emerge completely covered in….well you can just imagine how bad it really was.
Knowing the commander was starting to get pissed that we were going to be late making the start time, everyone rushed back to their load points….even the one-who-has-no-luck.

Unfortunately for him, the chopper crew chiefs had disembarked and had witnessed the entire fiasco, and through their body movements you could tell that they were dying inside….until the soldier started making his way to his designated bird. That crew chief went from laughing to dead serious…waving off the soldier and his gear as if to say “there is no way in fucking hell, I am letting you ride in my chariot of the sky!” The soldier, now confused and dejected, looked to his team leader for guidance. The team leader just pointed to where the Executive Officer was standing (he never gets to do anything cool) and motioned for the soldier to head that way. We had our first casualty and hadn’t even left yet. Henceforth, the soldier was referred to as Private Poo and as he was promoted, Specialist Shitter. I am sure that he is probably still seeking psychotherapy for that little incident to this day.

I have heard many a jack-box story over the years and have seen the chaos created by Soldiers with too much time on their hands. What is the funniest thing you have ever witnessed happen with our friend, the little blue box?

Oh and one last thing…don’t eat the big white mints!