Ranger Up President Nick Palmisciano announced today that wages will be raised by 1.4% in 2010.

Ranger Up, the premier military apparel company in the United States, announced today that despite massive growth in 2009, wages would only be raised 1.4% in 2010, mirroring the proposed Armed Forces wage increase.

Many employees, including COO Tom Amenta, was shocked at company president Nick Palmisciano’s announcement. “It’s insane,” reports Amenta, “All year Nick was promising that if we buckled down, improved our operations, and stopped taking martini lunches, the company would be in great shape. Well, we did that. We got rid of our Tilt-a-Whirl, Ball Crawl, and Petting Zoo, and created a surplus, and you know what that hooker and blow addict did with the money? He gave it all to the dudes that run Absolutely Incompetent Guys T-shirt Company across the street. Those assholes threw a drunken go-kart party and we didn’t even get invited. What the hell’s up with that?”

Palmisciano, was quick to defend his actions, explaining that Amenta didn’t understand all the intricacies of what was going on, especially because “Tommy” was notorious for spending roughly two hours a day “combing his hair” in the bathroom. “Look, if AIG T-shirt goes under, that could affect our shirt supplier. If they don’t ship as many t-shirts, our costs could go up, and we may have to fire someone. By my count I just saved at least four jobs. Trust me, it may seem like a bad decision given the fact that Ranger Up employees routinely work 80 hour weeks, have four job titles each, and sleep on cots in the boiler room while the AIG guys enjoy gourmet lunches, BMWs, and office parties filled with local college hotties, all while being completely oblivious to the fact that their business continues to fail, but trust me, this time it will work differently.”

“They literally are burning money,” Amenta retorted. “They don’t know how to use the thermostat, so they burn money to stay warm. This is not going to end well for us.”

When pressed further on why it would work differently, Palmisciano clasped this writer’s shoulder and explained “Because I said so.”

Amenta wasn’t the only employee to topple Palmisciano’s straw man logic. Warehouse manager Whitney Post also had concerns with the new development. “Nick bought one of those lists of potential customers from every piece-of-shit, third world country known to man and handed it to me with a big box of money. He told me to just start mailing it out,” exclaimed Post. “When I asked him why, he told me that as a company, we needed to build international good will. I retorted that there might be a contradiction between selling a shirt with ‘Douchebagistan’ on it and sending the denizens of that country $20 bills, but he just responded, ‘I love Lamp’. What the hell do I do with that?”

Amenta agreed, “Whitney is already handling shipping and customer service – now in addition to fighting those two wars, she has to deal with this humanitarian crap! 1.4% just doesn’t cut it for that much work – I don’t care what is happening in other companies!”

But while donations to other companies and countries are serious employee concerns, perhaps the biggest issue Ranger Up is having in the New Year is its new health care plan, which oddly only offers wart removal, fungal inspections, and tourniquets. Garrett Schemmel, the CMO complained, “Nick has decided to “scrap” big names like Blue Cross and United Health Care for Ranger Up Health. The dude seriously just spent thousands of dollars installing a clinic in the back of the warehouse with a Filipino voodoo specialist, a gallon of Robitussin, and a giant box of 800mg Motrin capsules that’s labeled ‘Ranger Candy’. After it was built, we realized that we didn’t have the kind of money to staff, you know, a giant fucking hospital, so we took out a loan, putting what was a profitable company into hock. Even with that, all we could pick up was a couple of retired Candy Stripers, so we’re putting Kelly Crigger through medical school. The company is now stretched thin, our healthcare is at the whims of the incompetent, and Crigger is walking around in a candy striper uniform and heels. Disturbing.”

“I want to introduce him to Helga the five knuckled proctologist,” offered Crigger as he threw his rubber doctor’s hammer at Palmisciano’s command photo. “I’m a professional writer and a Lieutenant Colonel. I’m sure as shit not checking Amenta’s balls once a year!”

Amenta agreed, “No one touches my balls but me!”

“That’s what she said,” offered Post.

So do these recent developments mean the end of Ranger Up? “Nah,”mumbles Amenta, “I love this job too much and I think it’s too important. I mean, yeah, it’d be nice if Nick appreciated how hard we worked, got his nails dirty, and put himself in our shoes every once in a while instead of embracing the limelight and worrying about magazine covers and which UFC star he was hanging out with, but at the end of the day, I don’t do it for him. I do it for the guys we ship to.”

After a quiet pause, Post added, “Yeah, but you know…fuck 1.4%”

Schemmel nodded., “Yeah fuck it right in the ear. That shit won’t even cover my higher tax rate.”

And Ranger Up marches on.

For those of you who’ve never been out of the country or deployed during any era of military service, chances are you’ve read some of the posts on this website or headlines from our current Long War and tried to imagine what it would be like to find yourself in some far-off land, thousands of miles from your home. Those of you who have probably find many distinct memories and experiences called to mind each time you think about your travels, regardless of how or why you wound up there. I’m no different, really. But given my current circumstances, I’m compelled to impress upon you one solid fact:

It’s a totally different ballgame when you’re on a boat.

(Except Grin & Barrett, who was probably a loblolly boy on the maiden voyage of USS Constitution… but I digress.)

The trip to Haiti was actually pretty damn fast for this tub – we made “best possible speed” as directed, and that was about 24 knots. Slow going, until you consider that this “small deck” displaces about 11,500 tons – empty.

Four or five days underway were just enough to notice little things like a gentle swaying motion when you lay down to sleep at night, or the deck moving up to meet your feet on occasion. After that, we were anchored for a good three weeks or so – just long enough to lose our collective sea legs. We were there long enough that the battle cry among Marines shifted from “Kill Bodies!” to “Save Babies!” (Seriously.) Then, a few days ago days ago, the fun REALLY started…

I never in my life imagined that (for a strictly random example) sharing one-third of a $400 St. Patrick’s Day bar tab in Chapel Hill and staggering down Franklin Street at 3am would be considered a perfectly-tailored military training opportunity. Yet whenever I try to walk down one of the narrow 40-foot long passageways on this can, that’s exactly what it’s like. Well, everything except that I’m perfectly sober and my body still isn’t moving the way it should.

Thankfully, I’m a big fan of roller coasters and I’m very easily amused, because this is all still cool as shit to me. We hit 28 degrees pitch fore and aft today, and I’m sure we’ve exceeded that in roll more than once. Standing amidships having a cigarette this morning, I couldn’t stop looking out over the gunwales on each side of the ship to see nothing but water… wait 6 or 8 seconds, and… nothing but sky. One of our machinegunners, a 6’4” twentysomething broad-shouldered stud, was leaning against the bulkhead, covering his eyes and sweating profusely. After about the third time I saw his face go completely ashen, I made sure to tell him he was missing out on some good chili-mac on the messdeck for lunch, and they still had plenty of greasy steamed cabbage to go with it.

(I’m sure he’ll probably bag-tag me next time we go ashore, but I just couldn’t resist – it was totally worth it to see spontaneous projectile vomiting without a game of beer pong involved.)

Luckily, most of the embarked Marines are adjusting to the new experience with no problems. As we slide by each other in the p’ways, Marines have already started cracking jokes, many referencing a recent late-night comedy skit:

“Hey, Sergeant, how are ya?”

“I’m ON A BOAT, motherfucker, ON A BOAT!!!”

Being underway also greatly enhances my dull, everyday routine of paperwork, meetings, and general busywork. When I open the armory each morning, I make a little Indiana Jones-style game out of trying to undog the 200 lb. hatch and latch it open with a tiny metal hook before the sea swells roll us and the thing slams shut on one of my more useful body parts. I thank God that I was able to find enough Class III giganto padlocks to secure all my gun lockers last week, because I can also hear the constant, rhythmic CLANK… (pause a few seconds) CLONK! as the spare barrels of my .50 cals shift around on the racks inside. When I sit at my desk to check email and write my morning sight count, it’s as if I’m in an F-16 going 350 knots, gently yanking & banking with no rhyme or reason. Honestly, the typos are not because I’m a dumbass – I just haven’t discovered the best way to zip-tie this damn keyboard to the desk.

Though the novelty of it all probably won’t wear off for the entire trip, it has given me still more appreciation for my predecessors who clawed their way across the Pacific and terrorized veteran Japanese forces island by island in World War II. Yeah, okay, I know Guadalcanal sucked because of the heat, the devastating arty and machinegun fire sweeping the beaches during the invasion, the lack of supplies (thanks, NAVY!), building an airfield with captured enemy equipment, shitting all over yourself from malaria, and other generally accepted inconveniences that come with the territory.

What I’m beginning to realize is that even with a few months’ training and some liberty in Australia or New Zealand before making that initial assault… the ride over had to REALLY SUCK. At least my boat’s comfortable and has good chow… cable TV and Facebook access too, even!

All in all, it’s been a blast so far – and long overdue. The past several years have seen the Corps rotating mass deployments of our most capable combat units through Iraq and Afghanistan for extended inland operations. We’ve lost much of our currency and inherent identity as an expeditionary amphibious force, without which we become “another 82nd Airborne” – no disrespect intended. As a force and as individuals, we need to get back to the point where forced entry from the sea comes naturally, for a Platoon or for three Divisions. That’s what makes the Marine Corps unique and necessary to the defense of our nation. We hit the beach en masse, kill many bad guys, and sustain ourselves until the job is done.

It has crossed my mind in the past couple of days that I would rather be “where the thunder is”, alongside some personal friends who kicked off Operation Moshtarak this week.

Then again, if I can’t go and get some, my second choice would be going somewhere ON A BOAT…

I’m Not a Country Boy

“I’m guessing you’re not much of a golfer,” a suit says beside me.

“The only birdie’s I shoot don’t get up,” his newfound friend at the bar responded. I didn’t want to look, but the smooth, yet gruff Sam Elliot voice was wet with contempt and confrontation has always been my siren song. I kinked my head just enough to see a cowboy hat juxtapositioned against the bewildered expression of a businessman who was trying to make casual conversation, but instead found himself on the wrong end of an irritated Clint Eastwood. It was an innocuous comment between two people I didn’t know in an airport bar while I was half lit on bourbon and a cancelled flight. The curmudgeon in me pleaded with my reasonable side to start an argument, but luckily reason pulled a five-finger death touch and stopped it cold. Still…an inner struggle had begun and I couldn’t have stopped it with anything less than beating my head against the bar.

Is there something so thoroughly shameful about being bereft of bucolic instinct that we should feel ashamed for living in major population centers and not knowing if we’re driving by alfalfa, cabbage, or carrots when we venture into the countryside? When I drive by a farm and get a whiff of soybeans and cow shit, I think two things: Thank God for Farmers and Thank God I’m not a Farmer. Farming is a backbreaking, dusty crotch, ripped nails, unending suckfest work that makes grown men weep and barely earns enough scratch to keep it going, much less live off of. I respect the people who do it, but it’s just not me and I kind of get tired of people like this cowboy at the bar trying to make us concrete jungle dwellers feel like lesser men for not having any country in us.

I like the sounds and smells of Suburbia on a Sunday when I’m sleeping in and not going to church. I got a Swedish Husqvarna riding mover that I don’t even know how to change the oil on. If I were to tell that to this guy here at the bar, he would most assuredly disapprove, though I’m not sure whether it’s for my panty-weight mechanical skills or the fact that I didn’t buy American. He would look down on me because I don’t know the cud chewing side from the ass end of a cow and most of America thinks it’s funny stuff to emulate country folk and emasculate those of us who know the difference between houndstooth and tweed.

I think there’s a conspiracy between Cabelas, Ford, and Jeff Foxworthy to make us non-country boys feel like little Susie Homemakers for not being more outdoorsy. Every so often Hollywood gets in on the act with movies like, “The Cowboy Way” that makes city slicking sinners look like haphazard chumps. I got two words for you, Hoss – Brokeback Mountain. Denim and chaps do not provide you with testosterone, much less an infallible air of superiority.

Truth is, I think we need each other, though not in the way you’re clearly thinking after that Brokeback Mountain comment. It’s like the Yin and the the Yang, the balance in The Force, Obiwan Kenobe and Darth Vader. Who’s who? Not important. The point is country folk and city folk balance each other out. One isn’t greater than the other. If the great white hunter wants to spend twelve hours in a deer stand waiting for a buck to walk into his line of fire so he can make flavorless jerky and an antler hat rack, let him!

And if Armani over there wants to enjoy a frappucino and a scone while bitching about how he had to wait in line to get into a club and then his date with a microwaved sock fell short, well Lamb Chop be damned, this is America and he can do so. So what if he’s never run through a cornfield and felt the sweet sting of a sharp stalk leaf against his supple forearms and suffers PTSD from the sight of a tick. His keen eye for a Coach man purse deal helps define who the rest of us are not.

Us soldiers are even more at risk for having a redneck background than other demographics, but we temper our contempt with integrity and military bearing. The military mindset seems predestined to revert to the hunter-gatherer instinct and many of us go out to the field to train for weeks only to come back in, load the family SUV, and get lost in the Cascade Mountains. Some guys just can’t get enough rain and pine straw. Luckily I’ve beaten that side out of me and convinced myself that climate control is God’s way of saying ‘stay inside, my son.’ My concept of camping now involves a thirty-foot trailer, several propane bottles, and a flat screen TV with satellite hook up.

Sure, I’m no stranger to a torrential downpour, humping through the woods all night, or dragging my footlocker all the way from my Hummer to my GP Medium tent and to be honest, I abhor people who have no survival instinct in them. I’ve done it and I just don’t want to anymore, so I think it’s hypocritical to try to make a guy with hair plugs and four-hundred dollar shoes feel inferior because he doesn’t sit on a porch swilling homebrew while singing John Denver songs. This is America. Individuality and the pursuit of happiness is what makes us who we are, even if that happiness is being a chain smoking, bulimic gimp that you find morally reprehensible.

My inner daydream was suddenly interrupted when the cowboy gathered himself up to leave and reached to the ground for his bag, revealing a Manchu tattoo on his forearm (Manchu = 9^th Infantry Regiment) and turned to go.

“Want to settle up?” the bartender said, holding a receipt that hadn’t been paid. I snatched it like Bill Clinton feverishly scrambling after a discarded bra.

“I’ve got this.”

I’m a pretty easy going guy.

I don’t tend to get too spooled-up over this-and-that (unless, of course, we’re talking about a ridiculous YouTube video by “Rock the Vote.”). But by and large, I’m not prone to temper tantrums, raising my voice, or spouting off with a long tirade of profanity laced emotional explosions. But even the most even-keeled (self professed anyway), level headed of us are bitten by the freak-out bug now and again.

My most notable “freak-out” occurred recently when I walked into the latrine following one of “those guys.”

You know the guy I’m talking about. He’s the one that believes that the entire stall is his crapping ground, and he has absolutely no regard for the poor schmuck who mistakingly walks up to the latrine post-devastation.

After walking in and having every bodily sense shut down in self-induced defense, I fled the latrine as fast as possible.

What’s a man to do in response? After all, there needs to be SOME latrine etiquette, doesn’t there?

Post an articulate and respectable written response, of course.

Dear Disgusting Pig Who Left This Mess:

If you are not able to clean up your disgusting mess in the future, please refrain from using this public restroom. You are not the only one who uses it, and no one else wants to deal with the horrible smell or sight of your child-like defecation. The fact that there was no toilet paper in the bowl, which was full of brown water and poop, leads me to believe that you are incapable of wiping yourself either. I’m sure you didn’t wash your hands when you were done, and you run the risk of infecting everyone else in the BN. If you are not able to clean up after yourself, then please do not use this bathroom again. If I catch anyone leaving a mess like this in the future, you will be cleaning it up with a toothbrush.

- CPT XXXXX (I would be happy to discuss with you if you wish)

Of course I didn’t leave CPT XXXXX at the bottom. I was happy to give my name for anyone who wanted to “hunt me down.” Reactions from my superiors were swift and varied. I got a few pats on the back, and a few kicks in the ass. After I got a call at home from an angry field grade, my wife pointed out the most obvious flaw of logic in my note. I may not have the authority to make someone “clean it up with a toothbrush,” as the perpetrator could have been a superior, or a civilian.

I suppose we all have our moments of temporary blind rage. Perhaps I should have saved mine for a more appropriate, or more significant moment, but sometimes you just gotta’ tell it like it is.

If you’ve had a temper tantrum you’d like to share, we’d love to hear about it.

Ranger Up brings back the Two-Martini Lunch

Who says you have to wait until the sun sets to drink? Getting schnokered in the middle of the day was an executive privilege going back to the days of Romans, Mead, and the always entertaining Coliseum until a bunch of clumsy, tea-totaling Jodies ruined it for all of us by losing too many fingers in wayward heavy machinery accidents. Just when we thought the hell of public bra burnings and pepper spray-laced political conventions was over, America got a conscience, kicked the hard-living Rat Pack to the curb, and mumbled “I’ll never drink again” like a sorority chick on an early morning walk of shame. Overnight, getting buzzed at work was a bad thing.

Well, this is America where unnecessary indulgences are a rite of entrepreneurial passage, so Old Blue Eyes would be proud to know that Ranger Up’s World Headquarters in Raleigh/Durham is a den of gin and vermouth-laced iniquity and profanity between the hours of 1130 and 1300. Wars, laws, and trade routes have been fought over booze, so this small company has tapped into the siren song of libation to get a leg up on the competition. Gird your loins.

“There simply isn’t enough self-righteous egoism in the workplace anymore,” says Ranger Up CEO and Supreme Overlord Nick Palmisciano while killing his first slightly wet, three-olive Hendrix martini. “All these rhinestone and foil wearing, faux hawk coiffed pantyweights don’t know jack about being a revolutionary. Two fingers of your favorite poison was a lunchtime staple for our fathers, but ever since the Carter Administration, everyone’s been uptight about drinking at work…even when we were in the Army. What kind of crap is that?”

Chief Marketing Officer Garrett Schemmel, barely competent after a pair of sugar-rimmed Appletinis, describes the new tactic this way: “One martini is nothing more than an unsatisfying appetizer…like the Minnesota Vikings…and we knew three was too much when a hide-and-seek game didn’t end until we discovered Tommy six days later camping in the rafters like a caveman. Two is just right. It stimulates the creative brain cells, which in turn kill the unproductive ones. So it’s really like brain cell Darwinianism. The weak cells die off leaving the herd stronger…until nap time of course.”

So far the net effect of the two-martini lunch has been limited to a Jackson Pollack wall covered with plans of unrealized world domination, lists of esoteric nonsense like “Kama Sutra uses for peanut butter,” and a collection of crayon drawings depicting RU employees bloodily decimating the greatest MMA fighters. “It’s mostly jibberish with an occasional nugget of stupid,” says Tim Kennedy, who enjoys a vodka martini without vodka. “I don’t know how a fully automated flux capacitor will turn a profit, so I crossed it out and wrote ‘V-necks’ because that shit’s money.”

“We’re still not sure who wrote, ‘I’m a genius surrounded by small vocabularies.’ but I suspect it was our resident curmudgeon, Crigger,” says Tommy Batboy as he polishes off a Tropic-tini and eats the orange, rind and all.

Of course, combining booze and work invariably has its downside. Recently Ranger Up had to let go of their temporary worker, Danielle, because she used the term “inappropriate touching” one too many times. The company also suffered a setback when Tommy donned a Beefeater outfit and trudged the hallways with a giant axe looking for a Queen to behead in order to ‘add realism to the martini coven.’ Thankfully Nick streaking by wearing only fuzzy bunny feet gave Whitney the chance to sweep his leg and put him in a triangle choke before the company’s lawyer woke up.

“It’s not Bacchanalian orgy, at least not a good one,” says Whitney, “but replacing food with intemperance at lunch certainly helps dull the ringing dissonance of Tommy’s apoplexy and dampens Nick’s irritating capriciousness. I mean, it’s cool…as long as they don’t bring back Thighmaster Thursdays. Disturbing.”

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Sometimes things happen and you can’t believe they are really going down. You wonder if you’re on the set of some game show where at the end of you overreacting, the panels come down and everyone laughs at you, then Ryan Seacrest or some other troglodyte pops out and goes, “Hey, you’re on the new MTV show F*ck with Nick until he loses his Shit!”

This was one of those times.

No shit, there I was: the summer of 1999. Star Wars: The Phantom Menace had just come out a few months prior and I had just graduated from Ranger School and was now enjoying my much needed post-suckfest leave before I headed off to my first unit as a 2LT. I hadn’t really been home for any period of time in the last five years having spent four of them locked in the seclusion and wool-lined misery of West Point and the last year graduating from the 237 schools that infantry officers have to go through before they can get their first platoon. I was actually pretty excited to see some of my buddies from high school and decompress.

One of these friends, we’ll call him Qui-jon, or QJ for short, called me up the first day I was back and asked if I wanted to go to a sweet party. Of course, just like every other time anyone has ever asked me this question, I said yes.

Visions of kegs, girls, tomfoolery and hijinks swirled in my freshly minted Ranger head. It was going to be a great time. The party was out in the country, which generally meant it could be louder and more boisterous and no one would give a shit, so all the better.

QJ picked me up and we drove for a small eternity through trees and darkness until we finally arrived at what seemed like a party teeming with life. There was a mid-sized house alongside a barn. Cars filled the field and I could see people everywhere. QJ had outdone himself! I hopped out of the car fired up to have a good time, ignoring the pain in my back from carrying a ruck for 2.5 months and started marching towards my Ranger Objective.

As I got closer to the heart of the party at the barn, however, I felt a disturbance in my personal force. There were a whole lot of dudes here…actually almost all dudes…and many of them were dressed up funny. As I peered closer, I noticed that every one of them, to a man, had a…I can’t believe I am going to say this…light saber.

A. Mother. Fucking. Light. Saber.

I hadn’t been this floored since I found out Darth Vader was Luke’s father. A Star Wars party brought me to, Qui-Jon had. And this wasn’t just a “party”. These guys were deadly serious. Each light saber was different, representing the individual “Jedi’s” personal preferences. Some guys were Sith Lords. Others were righteous Jedi. The light sabers were made of PVC pipe wrapped with a foam exterior and then wrapped again in a special glimmering tape to replicate the blue, green, orange, and red flavors of molten laser from the movie. If the situation wasn’t so catastrophically sad, I would have been very impressed with the construction, but as it stood, I just wanted to get the fuck out of here…NOW. That desire got even stronger when I realized this wasn’t just a party – these dudes were competing in a light saber tournament! I stared in astonishment as loser after pathetic loser lined up to face each other, spinning their little plastic sticks around as if they were seriously fighting for the freedom of the universe. I threw up a little in my mouth.

Me: QJ, let’s get out of here. Let’s go hit a bar or something.

QJ: But Nick, you love Star Wars. You’ll love it man. Give it a shot!

Me: Dude, I love the original Star Wars movies from my childhood. I don’t need to be dressed like a droid to become sexually aroused. There’s a big fucking difference. Let’s get the fuck out of here.

QJ: Come on man, you need to compete. I know you just finished that Ranger shit, so I’m sure you’ve had tons of training.

Me: Oh yeah, dude. We learn this in the Dagobah Phase of Ranger School. Seriously man, I’m gonna start walking. I’m not doing this shit.

QJ(hurt): Dude, come on man. You can use one of my light sabers. I brought three.

Oh my God, I realized. QJ, my longtime friend, was one of them. I had to save him from this and fast.

Me: QJ, I am not going to compete. We need to get out of here right now dude. If you’ve ever trusted me on anything in your life, trust me on this.

Douchey McDoucherston: Sounds like you’re scared to fight!

I look over to see a guy wearing brown pajamas or something. He has a brown cloak on and a hood up. I wish I was making this up. Even through his loose-fitting garments, you could see his complete lack of physique.

Me (ignoring him): QJ, let’s get out of here man. Please.

Douchey McDoucherston: Yeah, you should leave. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.

Me: What did you just say?

Douchey McDoucherston: We wouldn’t want you to get hurt. Jedi fights are not for the weak of heart.

I know better than this. I really do. This is Psychology 101. I should be the bigger man.

Me: Give me the fucking light saber.

QJ: Yeah! Let’s go Nick! (drops to a whisper) Be careful man, he’s good.

I am given a light saber. I am furious at the world. I am pissed at QJ for bringing me here. I am pissed at these asshats for living in this fantasy world. I’m pissed at myself for giving in to his taunts. Most of all, though, I’m pissed that I haven’t eaten in like an hour.

They explain the rules. They are entirely too complex. I am staring my opponent down. He will not make eye contact. Rage is building inside me. I’ve seen about five matches already and these guys dance around as if they are skilled athletes. I have no interest in that.

The referee says go and I come at this kid like a fucking spider monkey hopped up on PCP. He didn’t know what hit him…wait, actually he did – it was my freakin’ light saber drilling him across the chest, face and back in rapid succession as the ref pulled me off of him. There’s point one in the best out of three, endeavor. He resets us and the kid makes some comment about my needing to control my anger or I’ll end up a Sith Lord. I literally want him dead. The ref told us to go again and I hit him with everything I could across the neck and face and snapped the light saber in half, leaving him with a giant red mark for the rest of the night.

The geekdom looked at me like I was an alien creature. I thought I was done at that point, having proven my point and been the first guy ever to snap a light saber in half on someone else, but I was wrong. Apparently, I had to be taught a lesson, and that lesson was that I could kick all of their asses in gay ass light saber fighting.

All the rage built up in 2.5 months of Ranger School (and let’s not even talk about pre-Ranger) was unleashed on these poor unsuspecting fools. For the better part of an hour, I took on all challengers. I broke one dude’s nose, two of another dude’s fingers, and two more light sabers in the process.

Finally, I was up against some dude that was supposed to be the “best” light saber fighter. He had a double-sided Darth Maul light saber. I bludgeoned him badly for the first point. In the second round, I repeated my beat down, pummeling him so hard that he fell to the ground. The ref, however, claimed that he had brushed my arm with his light saber before I crushed him with mine, and he awarded him the next point. The crowd was happy to hear this news. I might still be taught my lesson.

As the third and final round began, I hurled my light saber at him and hit him in the throat, dropping him to his knees gasping for air.

Ref: I’m not sure that’s fair!

Me: Didn’t Darth Vader throw his light saber and cut the staircase Luke was on and knock him to the ground?

Ref: Well, yes.

Me: Wouldn’t a magma hot laser hitting you in the throat kill you?

Ref: Yes.

Me: Well, then fuck off, and may the force be with you.

Fuck with the wrong Infantryman, they did.

A “Radar” Moment: Would you like cream and sugar with that?

Somewhere in the North Atlantic, a long time ago…..

80 foot waves crash over the flight-deck of your current home, a massive nuclear powered aircraft carrier, as the North Atlantic furiously assaults your floating city. Masking the harsh battering the outside of your ship is taking, the inside is a quiet, peaceful place, the only evidence of the current maelstrom outside is the plethora of pilots (say that five times fast) hanging out in the ready room, watching movies, watching porn, and generally just hanging out. You, meanwhile, are on the other side of that thin curtain that separates your little cube from the rest of the ready room -think Oz-ish “Never mind that man behind the curtain!”.  As you catch up on stacks of flight records, training schedules, and log books, a calamity of enormous proportions smacks you in the face like a Fedor Emelienenko overhand looping right. BAM! BOW! BLAM!

“Hey Radar!”

Yeah, okay, so your nickname is Radar, so what. Damn that’s lame…

“Hey Radar! We’re out of coffee!”

AAHHHH, sweet Calamity Jane, whatever shall we do?!? Fortunately, after the shock of this revelation begins to abate, you collect your wits, calm yourself down with a few “Whoo-Sahs” and deliver the most obvious of solutions to LT Freckles, the bringer of this bad news.

“Well Sir, you could brew a pot.”

Silence.

Ever notice how the strikingly obvious can completely befuddle the purposefully ignorant?

“Yeah, but….we’re out of coffee.”

The aforementioned sentence, of course, was accompanied by that look of complete confusion and hopelessness that comes with pretending that you are completely unable to accomplish a task you deem menial, a task that should be accomplished by a subordinate. (See; making copies, making coffee, sending a fax, stapling papers together, wiping/kissing your own ass)

You put down the stack of flight records you are painstakingly logging into the pilot logbooks, and you look up at LT Freckles, his brow furrowed into the universal sign for “I just don’t understand.”

“Sir, it’s easy to make coffee. Just pour ten scoops into the filter and hit brew. Too easy.”

“Yeah, but ….” He hesitates here, he’s not sure which play to run. The “But that’s YOUR job” or the “But I can’t make coffee as good as YOU can.” Another moment of hesitation and he gives up his tell, you know which play he’s running because he breaks out the smarmy, patronizing, half smile.

“Yeah, but…I can’t make coffee as good as YOU can. You make the best coffee on the ship.”

Gee-willikers, do I really? I make the best coffee? Wowee, thanks for that huge compliment! You’re so great to try and manipulate me into thinking I make the best coffee, just so your lazy ass doesn’t have to make it, golly gee whiz…..

But, you don’t really say that, you just think it.

After another moment or two of awkward silence, while LT Freckles shuffles his feet and looks at you with anticipation, you decide that candor is the best course of action.

“Sir, I’ve got hours of work to do right now, so if you’re waiting for me to stop what I’m doing so I can make you coffee, you’ll need to either make it yourself, or wait a while.”

LT Freckles maintains his confused smile and walks away, immediately followed by your department head, LCDR Lexus, (And believe it or not, not every 18 year old daughter of one of your Sailors wants to sit in your Lexus) who walks in and, using his best fatherly tone, instructs you to “take a break from all the paperwork” and make coffee. LT Freckles, still sporting that confused smile, nods his head in the background. That’s LT Freckes 1, Radar 0.

Flash forward 10 years…

You are now an officer in the United States Army, and you make your own damn coffee.

Okay, so “Radar” moments aren’t exclusively the Navy’s property. What “Radar” moments have you had that tested your patience, and made you question the cloth some leaders are made from?

As a kid, I used to love the playdough machines that let you turn red and white playdough into spaghetti and sauce, yellow playdough into funny hair, and every other cool mold that playdough offered. The only problem with this, is that once you’ve made a multi-colored clown, that playdough ain’t ever gonna look the same. After a few times out of the plastic containers, your once multi-colored playdough has turned into one giant gray/brown lump of blah. The colors are no longer distinguishable, and you’re really not happy with the end result. So, what’s the point?

The Annual Family Readiness Group (FRG) Halloween Party is coming up soon, but there is a clear question as to what it is actually being celebrated. This party will have trick or treating, pumpkins, Halloween decorations, costumes, and copious amounts of sugar laden bits of heaven, but it is not, I repeat NOT, a Halloween party. It’s an Autumn Festival. We’ll be seeing who can toilet paper the mummy fastest, we’ll be having the requisite costume contest, and we’ll attempt to scare the bejeezus out of two dozen eight year olds with a hastily thrown together haunted house. Isn’t that what you do at an Autumn Festival? Err… I guess. As long as it isn’t a (gasp!) Halloween party.

Politically correct mantras have been flooding the U.S. for years now, but I always held out hope that the U.S. military would be a last stand for honesty, a refuge for reality in an otherwise PC tainted landscape. A world where self righteous feelings police launch their IRAMs filled with watered down descriptions of truth, and gender-neutral/religion-neutral/view-neutral/opinion-neutral ball bearings (Oops, did I say “ball?” I meant humorous reproductive reference, whether male or female). During these rocket attacks, I imagined the military as the protective bunker, withstanding the ranting and ravings of PC induced hysteria as it rains it’s venom down on the unsuspecting.

OH MY GOD! HE JUST SAID POLICEMAN! IT’S POLICE OFFICER!

OH MY GOD! HE JUST SAID FIREMAN! IT’S A FIREFIGHTER!

OH MY GOD! HE JUST SAID MANHOLE! IT’S A PERSON-HOLE (You can say that again.)

But the wheels that power the PC mobile have come to a rolling stop at the doorsteps of the U.S. military. Halloween has become “Autumn Festival,” and Christmas has become the “Winter Festival.” Santa is still Santa, but he doesn’t visit during an FRG Christmas party, he visits during the FRG Winter Festival. Never mind that the Winter Festival is celebrated around the Christmas tree, with Christmas presents, and Silent Night playing in the background, it’s still not a Christmas party. Just as trick or treating, costume contests, haunted houses, and ghosts and goblins no longer mean Halloween parties.

As the screeching harpies of the PC police continue to demand we toe the line, keep in step, and follow the heard of bleating sheep as they head toward that precipice of ambiguity and sameness, there are a few of us who won’t swallow the blue pill. We’ll take our red pill and see the world for what it is; a cornucopia of varying customs, traditions, and wonderful diversity. “Strength through Diversity” does not mean watering down our differences and combining our playdough into one giant gray blob. It means celebrating all the varying aspects of cultural diversity, appreciating each unique difference for what it has to offer.

I’m attending an “Autumn Festival” in a few weeks. If you see me with scars on my temple, know that I haven’t been lobotomized by the PC police, it’s just my costume. After all, what’s a good Halloween Party without Frankenstein’s Monster.

I can’t honestly say I remember very much about that day. I was 9 years old, after all. The significance did register in my mind, but only years later would I take it to heart and begin to remember.

Twenty-six years ago this week, the headquarters of Battalion Landing Team 1/8, 24th Marine Amphibious Unit, were destroyed by a truck bomb. 220 Marines, 18 Navy Corspmen, and three American soldiers were killed in the attack.

Two minutes later, the barracks of the 3ème Compagnie, 1er Regement de Chasseurs Parachutistes, was attacked in the same manner. 58 French Paratroopers also lost their lives just a few miles away.

In the weeks, months, and years since that somber day, many have debated where the blame lies and what could have been done differently to prevent such a travesty. It remains the single bloodiest day for our Corps since Iwo Jima.

I certainly have my own ideas and opinions… but I’d much rather share my respect and gratitude for those who gave their lives that day. Their sacrifice – and that of their loved ones – became a significant factor in my choice to enlist in the Marine Corps, and continues to have a significant impact on my life daily.

I remember the scenes on the evening news afterward, and one particular newsreel that I will remember always. A Marine, stripped from the waist up, helping to move whatever rubble he could with his bare hands, shouting and directing others to assist him. A reporter asked him why he was clawing his way into the carnage barehanded when recovery equipment was on the way. His response?

“My brother is under there.”

He didn’t mean anyone born into his family, either.

I heard later in Boot Camp the story of LCpl Jeffrey Nashton, who was severely injured in the blast. The Commandant of the Marine Corps, General P.X. Kelly, travelled to Landstuhl, Germany to personally present the Purple Heart to him and every other Marine who survived the blast. President Reagan quoted the Commandant in retelling his story, and I’ll do the same:

“He couldn’t see very well. He reached up and grabbed my four stars, just to make sure I was who I said I was. He held my hand with a firm grip. He was making signals, and we realized he wanted to tell me something. We put a pad of paper in his hand—and he wrote ‘Semper Fi’.”

Well, if you’ve been a Marine or if, like myself, you’re an admirer of the Marines, you know those words are a battle cry, a greeting, and a legend in the Marine Corps. They’re marine shorthand for the motto of the Corps—Semper Fidelis—”always faithful.”

After seeing what LCpl Nashton had written… well, it’s the only moment in history when I’ve ever heard of the Commandant weeping openly.

“If there is to be blame, it properly rests here in this office and with this President,” Reagan said. Again – I can’t speak with authority on that, but I do know that 241 of my brothers who went before me rest in Section 59 of Arlington National Cemetery.

Exactly ten years later, I was signing some pink, yellow and white carbons to enlist in the Marine Corps, hoping to one day live up to their legacy.

I’ve driven countless times past the 241 trees planed in the median strip along Lejeune Boulevard in Jacksonville, NC, knowing full well what each tree represents. Every year in October, this town is pretty much aware that Beirut veterans and their families will be returning to honor and remember them. I have never found it in myself to actually witness that solemn gathering, those moments of somber reflection and remembrance, and take part in it all.

But now, 26 years after the fact, I finally feel ready – worthy – to put on my dress blues and join in honoring their memory here at Camp Lejeune, near a memorial where these words are written:

It does not stand in Washington
By others of its kind
In prominence and dignity
With mission clearly defined.

It does not list the men who died
That tyranny should cease
But speaks in silent eloquence
Of those who came in peace.

This Other Wall is solemn white
And cut in simple lines
And it nestles in the splendor
Of the Carolina pines.

And on this wall there are the names
Of men who once had gone
In friendship’s name offer aid
To Beirut, Lebanon

They did not go as conquerors
To bring a nation down
Or for honor or for glory
Or for praises or renown.

When they landed on that foreign shore
Their only thought in mind
Was the safety of its people
And the good of all mankind

Though they offered only friendship
And freedom’s holy breath
They were met with scorn and mockery
And violence and death.

So the story of their glory
Is not the battles fought
But of their love for freedom
Which was so dearly bought.

And their Wall shall stand forever
So long as freedom shines
On the splendor and the glory
Of the Carolina pines.

Guardian Angels – Part Two

by Grin & Barrett

Be the Father for my children while I am gone, and Husband to my wife until I come back
Fill my family with Peace, Joy, Comfort, Hope, Faith and Happiness
Give my family the strength to choose the hard right over the easy wrong
And give my children the courage to stand up for the weak and the oppressed
Put your mantle of protection around my family, and protect them from all spiritual and physical evils
- Amen

WE ARE BEING FOLLOWED.

Her mom slowly raised her head, eyes wide, and glanced from the man to the young woman. At that moment, she realized it was true, and she was overcome with the sudden realization that they were all in very real danger.

In a ruse, my wife turned in her seat and waved to an elderly couple sitting in the train car behind them. The man jerked his head around, clearly surprised that my wife knew someone on the train. She stood up and went to another car in the train, pulled out her phone and tried like hell to get the number for the Military Police at Camp Darby.

The man followed her. He stayed back and pretended to be looking out the windows as he tried to see what my wife was doing, but she knew he was watching her. She attempted, several more times, to get the number from information, but to no avail. Frustrated, she hung up the phone and walked back toward the cabin with the kids and her mom. Without a word, she gathered the kids up, directed her mom toward another train car in the back, and left the man and the woman behind. As she left, the man, back in his seat now, glared at the young woman, his eyes imploring her to do something.

“Are you guys moving seats?”

My wife nodded her head, and quickly moved out,

“Yes, we’re going to another car, nice to meet you. Have a good trip.”

As they gathered in the next train car, my wife explained the situation to the family.

“Listen, we’re getting off at the next stop. I know it’s not our stop, but we’re being followed by that woman and man, and we need to get off now.”

My kids were scared, but they trusted their mom, and they trusted in God to protect them. My youngest son, ten years old, spoke next.

“I wish Dad was here.”

I wish Dad was here. That’s the phrase that I still think about, home from deployment for almost a year now, and I still can’t get it out of my head. It’s one thing to miss birthdays, Christmas’, special events, school plays, and soccer games, but it’s another to be gone when your kids NEED you. Those moments when they are truly afraid, in need of their father to stand strong against the storm, to be the one to protect them when they are in danger.

I wish Dad was here. But I wasn’t.

At the next stop, my wife waited until the last possible moment, and ushered the kids off the train. My quick thinking mother-in-law quickly shuffled the family behind some stone pillars at the train stop and kept everyone out of view. Within seconds of ducking out of view, and as the train pulled away, the man leaned out from the exact same exit my family had just escaped the train. He hurriedly scanned the crowd that had just exited. As my wife peeked around the corner of the abutment, she saw him go back into the train car and pace down the length of the train. He was clearly looking for them and seethed with anger and frustration. As the train gained momentum, my wife stepped out into view. The man was now standing between rail cars further down the train, speaking into his cell phone, and yelling at someone on the other end of the line. He continued to scan the train station as he spoke and lowered the phone as he made eye contact with my wife, his eyes boring holes into hers and the sneer on his mouth lingering in her mind as he rode out of sight.

The next morning, I spoke to my wife by phone.

After forcing a cab driver to be her personal rear security on the way out of the parking garage in Lucca (story for another time), she swung by Camp Darby to pick up their bags, and drove the entire trip back to Germany straight through, only stopping for gas and bathroom breaks. At four a.m. she led my weary troops back into the house, where they collapsed into their beds. My phone call woke her up. I couldn’t wait to hear about her trip to Italy, but before she told me, I had to tell her about this great movie we had watched the night before, one we had gotten an early bootleg copy of.

“Honey, I just saw the coolest movie last night. It’s called Taken.”

Then she told me her story.

Read Part 1 of Guardian Angels>>