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

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

My kid’s soccer team sucks. But that’s not the focus of this story. The focus is the anger that builds up inside me when they’re getting creamed beyond the point of recovery and how I deal with it.

My first reaction is to punch the opposing coach in the face, but I know that’s generally frowned upon and would eternally embarrass my son, so I refrain.

My second reaction is to climb into the rafters and shoot the ball with a hunting rifle and every other replacement ball that the refs bring in to stop the game, but I don’t have a scope powerful enough for that just yet.

My third reaction (and the one I eventually execute) is to shut up and take it. But the game seems to last a fucking eternity and as mature and rational as I am, every second is a moment in hell as my child falls deeper and deeper into self-loathing that I will have to build back up with standard parental phrases like “you did your best” and “it’s just a game.”

But it’s not and we all know it.

Sports are the very essence of who we are as Americans. We’re competitive as hell and a loss is always bitter whether it’s the NFL, an Under-9 Youth Soccer League, or the Retired Fucks Bocce Club of Farmville. Competition is one of the biggest building blocks of the red-blooded American and without it, our military would still be a third rate Boy Scout troop like we were in 1916 as World War I devastated Europe and we were too weak (and too indifferent) to get involved.

The rage I feel makes me understand how legendary competitors like Michael Jordan, Randy Couture, and Rocky keep retiring from their sport only to don their uniforms one more time to mount a failed comeback. They’re wired to compete long after their bodies have lost a step and their sports have passed them by. I’m 43 years old, but completely convinced I can grapple with Tim Kennedy on any given day and not only hold my own, but submit him and beat him at his own game.

The reality? No, I can’t.

Randy could come out of retirement a few times, but the rest of us are fooling ourselves.

In the words of another smart, dead guy – “If you have nothing for which you’re willing to fight and care for nothing more than your own personal safety, then you’ll never be free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than yourself.”

Just because you volunteer to serve your country does not mean you will ever be sent into harm’s way, even if you want to. No matter how patriotic or noble your intentions, the needs of the military come first, and that organization is a very focused machine that maintains a combat force structure based on units and their capabilities, not individuals and their desires. That policy has a side effect of leaving some of us bearing a burden of guilt at not having done more.

A little background. I’m the son of an Army colonel who was the son of an Army colonel who was the son of an Army colonel. My military ambitions were those of Lieutenant Dan in “Forrest Gump,” only none of my ancestors had perished in combat. They had all served multiple tours and lived to fill my head with stories of bravery and honor on the battlefield that made me want to do only one thing in life: be like them. So I joined up straight out of high school in 1986.

In 2006, the global war on terror was in its fifth year and I still had not been deployed. Since 9/11, I had either been in school or assigned to a nondeployable unit in South Korea. I pulled every string I had to get reassigned to a “Hooah” unit that would allow me the honor of getting a ride overseas to be with my brethren.

Finally, I got my ticket. I was assigned to the First Special Forces Group, but guess what? They were off rotation for the next couple of years. Another obstacle. After much ballyhoo, I finally got myself sent to Afghanistan to be with the Third Special Forces Group. Obstacle surmounted. I was elated, which I know is hard for many to understand, but that’s part of the warrior culture.

Upon arrival in theater, I was hit with another setback — I would be confined to a desk in the Joint Operations Center (J.O.C.) at Camp Vance. I rationalized it by convincing myself that I was at least making a difference, that for every war fighter embracing the suck, there were eight support personnel behind him and that everyone in the Army has a job and that job is to support the infantryman.

But it was lipstick on a pig. I wasn’t out on the streets leading troops or in the markets looking for weapons caches. I was behind a desk directing those brave troops from a distance. At that level, being responsible for the death of an enemy combatant is no different than playing a video game. When I saw death, it was usually a photo brought back by our operators or a live Predator feed (dubbed “Kill TV” in the J.O.C. for entertainment purposes). I personally gave the order to kill four Taliban fighters one night as they were emplacing an I.E.D. (improvised explosive device), and then went to sleep comfortably in my hooch without a second thought. It was complete separation and disaffection of the deed from the consequence.

Meanwhile, the troops out on presence patrols were living in crappy conditions with their head on a swivel, holding memorial services for their friends, and dealing with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) when they returned home. Those of us who killed from a distance have no real issues to speak of … but should we? Should we feel guilty at not having done more? Should we feel remorse for not having suffered the trauma of killing at close range?

There are war stories that make you say “Whoa” and there are war stories that make you say “That’s it?” But what people don’t realize is that those of us whose war stories fall short carry the guilt of not having the “no joke, there I was” tale of standing toe-to-toe with the entire Mongol horde armed only with a rusty knife and a gigantic set of cajones, covering the retreat of our comrades. If war is apathetic to its casualties, so is the guilt of not having fought one.

In the movie “Gardens of Stone” the lead character, Jackie Willow, aches to follow in his father’s footsteps and prove himself in Vietnam, a sentiment I can identify with. But instead, Willow is posted to The Old Guard at Arlington National Cemetery to ruminate on how he’s not doing his duty. When he finally gets his chance to deploy, he’s met by two Vietcong bullets to the chest, and Francis Ford Coppola leaves us thinking of the utter futility of standing up for something we believe in. The audience is led to the tired, predictable conclusion that war is bad and that anyone who wants to take part in one is flawed.

We all weep over Jackie Willow and ask the question “Why did he want to go over there so badly?” It’s not an easy question to answer, and the party lines are as close as anyone can really come to explaining it: because we hear the sound of a different calling; because we want to be part of something bigger than ourselves; because we want to make a difference; if I have to explain it, then you won’t understand.

Trigger pullers will have no sympathy for guys like me, and they shouldn’t. They’re the ones who slogged across the mountains smoking the bad guys out of their caves. Not me. I wanted to be out there with them, but no matter how much I jumped up and screamed, there just wasn’t any need for a soldier of my age and background to go outside the wire. And I don’t mean that in an insincere “Oh, I wish I could have gone out there with you, but I had a hangnail” way. I was jealous of the guys coming in off a mission covered in dust, sweat and the satisfaction that they had made it through another day. They had the honor of knowing they gave it their all. I didn’t.

While many Americans now tell their kids about their combat experiences with pride, I hang my head and hope they don’t ask. When they do I quickly change the subject not because I can’t talk about it, but because I don’t have anything to say. “Well … um … I sat behind a desk and, uh … I clicked a mouse and I made decisions,” just doesn’t cut it. In the end, I’m rational and know that at least I volunteered and deployed to combat. I know that at least I gave something, even if there are so many who gave so much more.

Full story here

Like Soldiers these days, Glena is always on the go. She trains an hour and a half from her home because Rise Above MMA is the only gym in Oregon with chicks as bad as her, so she’s willing to drive ninety minutes, four times a week for the training there. That Road Warrior lifestyle takes its toll on being a single mom of a 17 and 9 year old, but it’s worth it when two other hot chicks strap a belt of leather and gold around her waist.

Looking at Glena, you might not realize she’s older than most amateur MMA fighters. Truth be told, she had no intention to fight until she saw a YouTube video of Gina Carano kicking the snot out of someone (okay, we made that up). She immediately ran out back and started sparring with an oak tree…and won. In her first fight, Glena took out a local Muay Thai champ in one round and got an immediate title shot for the women’s 135 pound title. She won that too. That’s prison style “I’m going to call out the barn boss and kick her ass” mentality that we like.

Another reason we like her is she’s under no false pretenses. Glena is like the kid who gets called up from the practice squad and runs through the competition to make a name for himself. She aims to fight for a few years, build a name, become a coach, and train other fighters. She’s like the Tom Brady of MMA. Here’s our list of reasons to like Glena:

There’s an old adage in gyms that says, “Punching someone in the face means you care.” While going in for a shot she took a knee to the temple and knocked herself out. She woke up and apologized for getting knocked out.

Glena has never uttered the phrases, “get a whiff of that one,” or “seek medical attention for an erection lasting more than four hours.”

She trained with Cyborg Santos once. That will come in handy when she kicks her ass.

Glena loves Patti LaBelle as much as we do…which is not at all.

Check out Glena’s website here – http://www.heartlessmma.com/

But Mrs. LaDouche’s antics don’t end there. After the fracas, she decides to greet her only two fans in the world by stepping out of the limo and taking pictures next to the cadet’s bloodstain. Are you fucking kidding me?! Next to his bloodstain? I’m not easily shocked (who is anymore), but this was a jaw dropping moment. It was absolutely disgusting and you have to be a callous bitch to pull that off OR be so self-absorbed in taking pics with your only two fans to not care about the person whose life you just destroyed. And by the way, one of those fans she took pictures with was the police officer investigating the incident. So how do you think she was portrayed in that report? Like a fucking saint.

Think is is too absurd to be true? See the full story and watch the security cam footage here.

I want to thank RU for inducting me into Douchebagistan. I earned it.

Had she come out at any time afterward and said, “This was an unfortunate incident, but I felt my life was in danger” we would have laughed and not believed her. But now it’s even worse. We hate the fact that she showed no remorse and want to see her fat carcass fitted for a windsock at the end of a runway in Iraq. The job of a hired gun is not to start a fight or hurt anyone. A security man’s job is to get the trouble maker away from the person you’re guarding. These fucksticks decided the luggage was so precious that they immediately started throwing bombs at a man half their size. Poor judgment on their part and even poorer judgment on Labelle’s part for hiring them. It turns out that one of them is actually her son. Priceless.

So surely the bastion of integrity, West Point, would come to Cadet King’s aid in his time of need and help prove his innocence in this matter. After all, we all have the right to due process, even under the UCMJ, right? Wrong. West Point crucified the lad. It reminds me of a douchebag Battalion Commander I once had who threw the book at a Warrant Officer for defending himself against 4 attackers in a Korean back alley. The fight started when one attacker broke a bottle over the Warrant Officer’s face and shredded it like wheat. He fought off all 4 men and for his actions received an article 15 for fighting in public. Welcome to the anal ravaging of USMA injustice Cadet King.

And welcome to the douchebag hall of fame, Mrs. LaBelle. You’ve earned it.

As reported by Adam Wells of Bleacher Report:

Jorge Rivera has launched an unprecedented YouTube video campaign that MMA has never seen before—all in order to get under Michael Bisping’s skin—in hopes that the brash Brit will make a tactical error during their upcoming fight. This is psychological of warfare 101—use your enemy’s weakness as your strength. And though not every MMA fan likes it, we’re all interested in the outcome, which accomplishes Rivera’s mission.

Jorge Rivera is 38 years old and is staring retirement in the face. Only the legendary Randy Couture has had a successful MMA career at the highest echelons of the sport into his 40′s and all of us are on the long slide to incontinence and irrelevance.

So Rivera is using his last fit years to make a name for himself. He wants to look out for his future and the future of his family by making money in the sport now. He targeted a bigger name with a hot temper and baited him into taking a fight that he shouldn’t have. Rivera made an in jest video and Bisping put his mouth on the hook. That was a strategic error that Bisping’s future opponents are taking note of.

MMA is not boxing and for the most part, MMA fans do not like the braggadocio and machismo of boxing’s well known trash talkers. But MMA fans also know that a bad blood fight is infinitely more interesting than a boring fight. They spend a lot of money to watch these pay-per-views and is there anything wrong with some extra snuff to make them tune in? We know these guys can fight, some better then others, but what’s wrong with a little bit of showmanship from at least one of the fighters to makes things more interesting, and helps tel (sell) the story. So, Rivera used the incredible power of YouTube to sell a product and make people want to watch. That brings in more pay-per-views, which makes his employer happy; it improves everyone’s bottom line.

For his part, Bisping has held back from true retaliation, but the British middleweight is known for not being able to control his emotions and we all know he’s seething inside at the ridicule—unless of course, he was in on the act from the beginning—and then kudos on the masterful performance. During every pre-fight interview, Bisping is asked about the videos, not about his own skill and career path, not about his desire to bring a UFC belt back to England, but about YouTube. That in itself has to aggravating and his only real comeback is, “I do my talking in the cage.” That’s what every boring fighter says, Mike.

In reality, the pressure is not on Rivera, but rather Bisping. Rivera says Bisping has never knocked anyone out and he uses his cardio and striking to point his way to a decision. This is an undisputed fact and unless Bisping does something spectacular, Rivera will be correct in his accusations.

Bisping counters by saying he wins fights and in the end, that’s all that matters. He says Jorge’s a relic who’s not worthy of this fight and afterward he’ll be back to the undercard, and that very well may pan out. He says he’s going to make a mess of Jorge; he says he’s going to show the world his KO power. So now, Bisping has talked his way into a corner because anything less than a stellar KO of Rivera is a loss to all tuning in.

Whether you laughed at the YouTube videos or cringed, Rivera has accomplished his mission. He’s rattled his opponent’s cage and has gotten people to take interest because he knows that it’s better to go out there and fight like hell than to run around the cage like Kalib Starnes. Whether you love Jorge Rivera or want to see Bisping knock his block off, Rivera has successfully sold a fight, and more of us are buying because of it.

Ask yourself this: Have you ever been so jacked up to watch a Michael Bisping fight?

Hopefully, they don’t ruin it by hugging after the fight is over.

It happened when I was at a friend’s house drinking beer and generally hanging about with several other military couples with multiple kids. The Olympics were on and though I don’t frequently watch ice-skating events, the fit chicks in the skimpy outfits held my attention from across the room. I’m not sure this is a good thing in itself since several of them were, let’s say, not of the legal age and preferred to hold their legs up high as they skated directly in front of the camera. The image gives new meaning to the term, “her country’s little darling.” I felt dirty, but didn’t mind really. If they’re putting it out there…

Anyway, a teaser heralded the upcoming French ice-dancing team as the favorite, but of course all I cared about was the six pack the chick was sporting that she felt the need to not cover up. I was enthralled. But a foul, heinous evil brewed.

“Let’s watch the family guy. It’s hilarious,” toted the host. I agreed whole-heartedly. It is a truly funny show. But the chick with the abs was coming up. What to do?

“Is there any more shrimp?” I feigned an interest in the horrible appetizers growing cold on the coffee table in an attempt to divert attention away from the remote so I could pounce on it and shove it between two cushions, never to be seen until the light of the next day.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll get some more.” The ruse worked! I’m home free, right?

Wrong.

“I got the channel, dude,” another voice proclaimed.

“The wingman!” I muttered. “Cheeky bastard!”

He reached out his hand to grab the sacred scepter of power. Think fast!

“Is that your kid, dude?” I pointed down the hall as one of twenty carpet commandos let out a shriek perfectly timed.

“Austin? Get off of Conor, buddy,” he says sprinting toward the action. I spring the trap for the remote and have it, holding it like my own precious!

“There it is,” I hear as it’s forced from my hand by some vile cur of a … “honey?” I ask staring unbelieving at my spouse.

“It’s time for…” she says pointing the wand of Harry Potter at the tube. I must stop her. It’s time for the weapon of surety in this situation…honesty.

“But the French ice-dancing team is coming on!”

It would be cliché and hard to believe that at this very moment of crisis every sound in the 2600 square foot house full of thirty some-odd people, kids and three legged dogs stopped, leaving only my girlish, pleading voice to fill the void, wouldn’t it? But if that were the case, I wouldn’t be writing this silly story, would I? A thousand stares fell upon me not just from the members in attendance, but from the ghosts of a hundred ancestors past as my sexuality was suddenly and savagely in question. I writhed in agony trying desperately to think of any quip or anecdote to remedy the situation.

Nada! The slings and arrows commenced.

“Dude!”

“The what?”

“Are you sure those are your kids?”

“Have you gone off the farm?”

“Should we call you twinkle toes?”

“Jen, were you artificially inseminated?”

“You tight-wearing, blue-boy!”

“But she’s hot!” I insisted.

Sometimes it’s just better to shut the fuck up!

But what do you do when you run into an old buddy who’s struggling to keep his legs after a very nasty car bomb that took the lives of three other soldiers and fifteen children? It’s hard to deal with even if you weren’t the best of friends. The simple answer-treat him the same as if it were any other day even though it’s not and never will be.

So there we were, Tommy Batboy, Tim Kennedy, and myself (Crigger the Curmudgeon) touring Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio with a handful of MMA fighters. It was the day before the UFC’s Fight for the Troops and we had the opportunity to take Shane Carwin, Anthony “Rumble” Johnson, Kris McCray, and Jared Hamman to the Center for the Intrepid on Fort Sam Houston. We were touring the fourth floor and watching wounded vets participate in a fencing class when a guy in a tattered hat hobbled over to me on crutches and said hi.

Oh. Shit.

I recognized him right away as a guy I served with in Afghanistan and in that instant the war hit home. We’d been at Bagram together in 2006 and I knew him as a smart, stand-up guy, hardcore soldier, and avid grappler. We had a mutual interest in MMA and he was one of those guys you always refer to as “a good dude,” which is damn near the best compliment a soldier can give another soldier.

It was a surreal moment, but also one that reinforces my faith in our incredible soldiers. Here he was, a broken body relegated to south Texas for almost a year, yet all he wanted was to heal up and get back to his unit at Fort Bragg. I would say it was tough for me to witness, but how hypocritical would that be? I’m not the one going through 20 surgeries to keep my legs and dealing with the loss of three comrades who never got out of the same truck alive.

Up until now I’ve been pretty lucky. I’ve been in the Army 24 years and known hundreds of soldiers, but only lost one friend to the war on terrorism. It was a black day, but when you consider the hundreds of thousands of people who have served in Iraq and Afghanistan, I’m fortunate to have only lost this one friend.

Or am I? I had no idea this guy was even wounded and when I heard his story of how it happened, I couldn’t help but wonder if there are any others out there that I don’t know about. So I immediately Googled “casualty list” and scoured it for any name I knew. Thankfully there were none, but that list doesn’t include WIAs. For all I know my close friends from way back in the day are jacked up in a hospital somewhere. So I called and emailed them. All of them.

The point? The Army is the biggest fraternity in the world. Use it to find out what’s up with your buddies. For all you know one of them is in a long-term care unit and could use a call. Or they may be wondering if you’re okay.

Outside the Warrior Transition Center

At first it

It’s crap and I get irritated, but it’s also something that I should expect at this point. Television and movie makers RARELY get our uniforms right and seem to randomly throw anything shiny on a suit to militarize some actor who’s never served. It sucks, but it’s something we all notice and all live with.

Right now you’re thinking, “Dude…chill. It’s just a Bud Light commercial.” And you’re right. On the scale of things that matter, it’s pretty low. I should let it go.

But I can’t because it’s so easy to avoid. In our high-speed, superconnected world it takes mere seconds to Google “Army uniform” and get a link to AR 670-1 which outlines exactly ho to wear the uniform. I’m sure it’s the same way for the Navy, Marines, and Air Force, but I’m on a rant here and didn’t want to take the time to find out…which is exactly the problem.

People (probably some lowly grip) get in a hurry and figure “close enough is good enough.” I can’t count the number of times I’ve watched a movie, TV show, commercial, or whatever and seen a uniform that was being worn not just incorrectly, but stupidly. I even saw a Special Forces patch upside down in an old Vietnam flick once. I always chalked this up to ignorance, told myself we were better than that, and let it go. I even ascribed to that urban legend that the uniform was not allowed to be portrayed correctly…that it was required in Hollywood to make military uniforms off just a little bit for national security.

Bullshit. There is no such law.

There are uniforms in film that are just a little bit off and then there are the ones that are grossly schmaplicated. To me the really jacked up ones are downright disrespectful. All it takes is five minutes of research and a little respect to get the wear of a military uniform correct. We wear these uniforms with pride and put a lot of care into maintaining them. So when I see some actor portraying anyone from Private Ryan to General MacArthur looking like a dirtbag, it’s disrespectful and I’m going to boycott that product.

No more Budweiser for this curmudgeon. Who’s next?