Time to take off the rose-colored glasses

Marines hunt Taliban hiding in tunnels

By Dan Lamothe --  dlamothe@militarytimes.com
Posted : Sunday Apr 29, 2012 15:54:10 EDT

OBSERVATION POST SHRINE, Afghanistan — Under cover of darkness, the Marines stalked their enemy, looking to pick a fight.

From this small hilltop outpost in Helmand province’s Kajaki district, infantrymen with 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, out of Camp Lejeune, N.C., peered at the network of fields, dusty roads and deserted buildings composing Zamindawar, a hostile region home to an elaborate network of irrigation tunnels connected by deep holes known as karezes.

“The Shrine,” as this outpost is known, has seen more firefights than any Marine position in Kajaki over the past few months, but there would be no trading lead with insurgents the night of April 13. Instead, the Marines watched and waited, tracking anyone and anything that looked suspicious.

“I guess I can say that now I know what a cop feels like on a stakeout,” said Staff Sgt. Matthew Hutchenson, platoon sergeant for 1/8’s 2nd Platoon, Alpha Company. “You wait, and wait, and wait — and then you get what you need and move on them.”

Outposts like The Shrine have assumed an increasingly prominent role in the war in Afghanistan this year. After more than 10 years of combat, Marine grunts are patrolling less and closing bases and outposts across the province as part of a planned drawdown of U.S. forces. At the same time, they have used information gathered through observation and surveillance to launch bold raids in parts of Helmand where they don’t have a full-time coalition presence, seizing or destroying drugs, weapons and materials used to make improvised explosive devices.

Above all, they keep the Taliban guessing — and limit the insurgents’ ability to launch attacks on the security bubble Marines and the fledgling Afghan National Security Forces protect, Marines here said.

At The Shrine, that has meant watching insurgents at a distance and pushing them back when they attack. The austere outpost has limited electricity and no plumbing, and is manned by elements of 1/8’s 2nd Platoon, Alpha Company, and the Afghan National Army. They consider the outpost a “static ambush” position, meaning nearby insurgents observed carrying weapons or laying IEDs are targeted. The Marines call for illumination rounds almost nightly, lighting up the fields below and causing men with potentially sinister motives to scatter.

“It’s a known Taliban hangout area,” said 2nd Lt. Jeff Lenar, 2nd Platoon’s commander, of Zamindawar. “It’s a pretty fair guess that it’s where they’re infiltrating from, or at least getting supplies from.”

‘We have the high ground’

Until recently, The Shrine was manned by Golf Battery, 2nd Battalion, 11th Marines, an artillery unit out of Camp Pendleton, Calif. The outpost was created by a previous Marine unit deployed to Kajaki to create standoff distance between Taliban-held areas and Forward Operating Base Zeebrugge, a hillside installation that coalition forces have manned for years to protect the Kajaki Dam, a major hydroelectric facility.

Golf Battery took fire regularly at The Shrine in the first few months of its deployment, said Cpl. Wesley Neville, a squad leader with the unit. Since deploying, he has been in firefights at least 17 days, some of which included more than one engagement, he said. About 10 of those fights ended with him calling in an artillery strike, and in at least one case, coalition forces dropped a 500-pound bomb, he said.

“We know a lot of these compounds are abandoned, so it’s pretty easy to get clearance for fires,” Neville said. “It’s probably one of the safest ways to get into a firefight. From The Shrine we have the high ground and all the equipment we need.”

In January, the Marines took a stand. To push the insurgents back, they added another post to The Shrine on a nearby hill. Known as “Charlie Post,” it faces Zamindawar directly, and is used regularly to scout insurgent activities.

Initially, insurgents ambushed Charlie Post regularly from as close as 300 meters. However, after multiple defeats, they now typically take potshots with 7.62mm AK47 assault rifles and PKM machine guns from at least a kilometer away, said Hutchenson, the platoon sergeant. From there, insurgents can escape into the tunnels.

“I watched one guy the other night disappear, then reappear 800 meters later,” Hutchenson said. “It can definitely be a problem.”

Grunts with 1/8 arrived at The Shrine recently, as Golf Battery prepared to move some of its Marines to operate M777 Howitzers in Shir Ghazi, a village in Musa Qala district. New fighting positions were added at The Shrine and security was beefed up with additional sandbags and Hesco sand blocks.

The expansion of Charlie Post came with a major scare, however. Marines reinforcing it found a pressure-plate IED under an existing .50-caliber machine gun post, said Sgt. Levi Steele, a squad leader in 2nd Platoon. They found the plate buried in the dirt beneath the gun. It was attached to a jug filled with explosives.

“The only thing that saved me and other guys on it,” said Hutchenson, “was the wires being corroded.”

Disrupting the Taliban

The payoff to manning The Shrine and other outposts like it can be significant. Information gathered is combined with other forms of intelligence to paint a picture of what the Taliban is doing — and then to strike.

A recent example is Operation Speargun, a raid overseen by Regimental Combat Team 6, which commands combat operations in northern Helmand. Marines with 1/8’s Alpha and Charlie companies were inserted by helicopter before dawn March 25 in Urmuz, a village in southern Now Zad district involved in processing narcotics. Marine M1A1 Abrams tanks with Alpha Company, 1st Tank Battalion, provided intimidation and long-range optics, and personnel in Marine helicopters provided regular overwatch, Marines said.

Over the next five days, the raid force found mortars, explosives, IED pressure plates and drugs, including black tar-like balls of opium. Much of the contraband was at the bottom of karezes. In some cases, the contraband was hanging from ropes at the bottom of the irrigation holes, Hutchenson said.

Lenar said Marines faced sporadic potshots during the operation, but with the amount of firepower coalition forces used, the Taliban declined to put up a fight.

“They were debating whether to stay and fight us or to just get out of town,” he said. “They chose the latter on that one.”

An earlier raid in Kajaki district was different. In February, Marines launched Operation Barracuda 2 in Zamindawar, inserting forces into another Taliban-held village, Shirahmad. Second Platoon was inserted under cover of darkness Feb. 22 and faced stiff resistance from insurgents the following morning once they realized Marines were there, Lenar said.

Hutchenson said the platoon had “not so much as a trip and fall” despite being in heavy combat from sunrise to sunset Feb. 23. The insurgents wielded machine guns, assault rifles, mortars and other weapons, but the Marines held steady, he said. They found numerous caches of drugs and weapons there, too.

“How we made it out of there with no one getting hurt, I have no idea,” Hutchenson said. “Someone was looking out for us.”

The platoon was pulled out about 30 hours after being inserted — all part of the plan to shake up the Taliban, Lenar said.

“It’s all about disruption,” he said. “If you go in there and pick a fight with them for awhile, it takes the pressure off the ANSF.”

View from the parterre

The Grand Theatre in Warsaw is home to both opera and ballet
Now playing is an operatic version of "Faust" by Charles Gounod

There is more than one way to sell your soul

"Many and many a year ago, in a kingdom not even close to the sea, I signed my name on the dotted line and, forevermore, a Marine came to be. (Recognize who I am sort of paraphrasing / plagiarizing?)

"It has been a few years since, on January 24, Capt. William "Hoppy" Boyd administered the oath to swear me in as a United States Marine. It was in the evening, in a hotel room. I will not bother with the details other than to say the event was witnessed by a Gunny (Gunnery Sergeant) whose name I have forgotten and by a high school friend who just happened to be driving through town on his way to boot camp with the U.S. Navy. He had knocked on my door, looking for a place to spend the night. That was the last time I ever saw him. He stayed in California after his discharge from the Navy, and he is dead now ....

"This date is as important to me as any other anniversary in my life. I mark it each and every year. In a sense, having been a Marine to the "core" while having retained my individuality is a "feel good," personal accomplishment."

Those were the words I wrote a year ago on this very blog to mark my anniversary with the United States Marine Corps. Those words will do for this year, too.

But, here are a few more. Most people are familiar with the story of Faust, the man who sold his soul in exchange for wisdom or power or notoriety or the possession of a beautiful woman or a few other things, depending upon which version a reader selects.

My personal reading has included two versions, "Faust," by Johann von Goethe and "The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus," by Christopher Marlowe.

In Goethe, Faust craves infinite knowledge, as well as his next door neighbor, Margaret, sometimes called Gretchen. In exchange for these things and for having the devil, Mephistopheles, serve him on earth, Faust agrees to serve the devil in hell for eternity.

In Marlowe, Dr. Faustus makes a pact with Lucifer to have the arch demon, Mephastophilis, serve him for twenty-four years in exchange for his soul. Wisdom beyond ordinary human capability is the object of this exercise, as is obtaining the presence of Helen of Troy as his consort when his end approaches.

These things enter my mind at this moment in time for three reasons.

One reason: Some would say joining the Marine Corps is making an accord with the devil. The point certainly is open for debate.

Another reason: Goethe's version of "Faust" recently came up in a discussion with Magdalena, who was in the midst of reading the work. As a result, a desire both to re-read the play and to see a stage production of it rose to the surface with a fair amount of intensity.

The third reason: Glance at the banner in the photograph of the Warsaw opera house.

Knowledge often is costly

Marines storm the command bunker on Tarawa, November 1943

Remembrance Day .... just another reminder

For better or for worse, some battles become mythic in proportion in the memory of mankind after the guns have become silent. So it is in Marine Corps' lore when speaking of an epic struggle which took place on November 20-23, 1943, on the Tarawa Atoll of the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific Ocean during World War II. The primary fighting took place on Betio Island, where this photograph was taken on the third and final full day of "major" combat.

The "hill" the Marines are storming in the photo, incidentally, is not a natural phenomenon, but the Japanese command bunker, which had been constructed from tons of concrete with tons of sand placed atop that to make it virtually indestructible to air or artillery weapons of the era.

About 1,200 Americans and nearly 5,000 Japanese died during the 76-hour ordeal to determine which country would control a tiny piece of land -- only about 300 acres -- in the middle of an ocean. A few years in the aftermath, military analysts agreed it was an unnecessary island invasion in the American war effort to defeat the Japanese Empire -- a battle that should never have been fought.

Why mention this battle today? Because today is Veterans Day, a day of remembrance. In the United States, it first was observed as Armistice Day to honor those who fought in World War I. The date selected to mark this event was that on which an armistice was signed to end the fighting in the "war to end all wars" -- the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.

Unfortunately and predictably, not all wars ended with the conclusion of World War I, so, in the 1950s, the decision was made to use this occasion to honor those who fought in World War II and Korea, as well, and the day was renamed Veterans Day. Some countries in Europe and elsewhere, maybe more appropriately, simply call it Remembrance Day.

Many of the men shown in the photograph died only minutes after it was taken. One of them, the fourth man from the right -- if you are able to distinguish him -- was one of four Marines to win the Medal of Honor that day.

Statistics from the battle include these: Four Medals of Honor, America's highest military award for valor (three of them posthumous); 46 Navy Crosses, the Marine Corps' and Navy's second highest award for valor (22 of them posthumous); four Distinguished Service Medals; 248 Silver Stars; 21 Legion of Merits. The Purple Heart is presented to Americans both killed and wounded in action, which puts that number at roughly 3,500 for this unnecessary, tiny island campaign.

The Battle of Tarawa was fought just a few days after Armistice Day / Veterans Day / Remembrance Day in 1943, barely 25 years after the final shots had been fired in the "war to end all wars." Today, still another 66 years later, it is very evident that few, if any, of those who have been entrusted to "replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth" have learned a blessed thing.

Fight to win or get out

This March 9, 2007, family photo provided by retired Marine 1st Sgt. John Bernard, right, shows him with his wife Sharon, left, and late son, Marine Lance Cpl. Joshua Bernard, at Joshua's graduation from Marine boot camp, Parris Island, S.C. (Photo courtesy of John Bernard via The Associated Press)

Families outraged over engagement restrictions

By Dan Lamothe - Marine Corps Times Staff Writer
Posted : Monday Nov 2, 2009 9:38:12 EST

Enough is enough. Retired 1st Sgt. John Bernard has had it with the war in Afghanistan.

Enough of "shameful" and "suicidal" rules of engagement that leave U.S. troops vulnerable to ambushes. Enough of worrying more about harming Afghan civilians than American forces. Enough of politics.

Bernard was a scout sniper and platoon sergeant during the 1991 Persian Gulf War, so he's familiar with the warrior's creed. But as the father of Lance Cpl. Joshua Bernard, he has reached his limit.

The younger Bernard was killed Aug. 14 by a rocket-propelled grenade, an attack that became a national story after The Associated Press distributed a photograph of Bernard’s son's last living moments in Dahaneh, Afghanistan. The father wrote his representatives in Congress several times during the weeks leading up to Joshua's death, each time expressing apprehension about the more-restrictive guidelines put in place by the new commander of U.S. forces there, Army Gen. Stanley McChrystal.

It wasn't until he was thrust into the spotlight by the AP photo and the controversy that surrounded it that anyone paid him any mind.

After that, things changed.

Bernard, of New Portland, Maine, was mentioned by name Sept. 15 during the Senate confirmation hearing of Adm. Mike Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Sen. Susan Collins, R-Maine, told Mullen that she had received a letter from Bernard before his son's death that "expressed serious concerns about the rules of engagement" in Afghanistan. Those rules were altered in July by McChrystal in response to mounting civilian casualties.

The new guidelines call on U.S. forces to limit the use of heavy fire power — close-air support and long-range artillery — when ordinary Afghans may be at risk. A week before Mullen's hearing, three Marines and a Navy corpsman were killed in an ambush after commanders allegedly refused their requests for fire support for fear it would kill women and children.

"I'm going to send you the letter so that you can read it," Collins told Mullen, according to a congressional transcript. "I promised Mr. Bernard at [his] son's funeral that I would do so. And I hope you and General McChrystal will look seriously at the concerns he raises ... about the rules of engagement."

It wasn't much, but it was a start, Bernard says now.

A fiery, blunt speaker, Bernard is just one among a growing group of vocal family members whose children were killed in fighting overseas. They support the cause and the troops still in harm's way, these family members say, but they also believe U.S. forces are handcuffed by rules and tactics and vulnerable as a result, leaving them with little help when such ambushes occur. Some also question whether the U.S. should have launched a counter-insurgency strategy so quickly, rather than employing search-and-destroy missions that proved successful in Afghanistan during the early part of the decade.

"The rules of engagement are so convoluted, so open-ended, that it puts the people on the ground at risk no matter what they do," said Bernard, who retired from the Corps in 2003. "It's insane. You don't let your guys languish there when these things happen. You err on the side of your guys, not the civilians."

These are not anti-war families. They want the military to succeed in Afghanistan. They're deeply proud of their fallen sons' sacrifices.

The Ganjgal ambush

Army, Marine and Afghan National Army troops experienced the effect of McChrystal's tighter rules directly Sept. 8, when their small outpost in Ganjgal, in Kunar province near the Pakistan border, was blindsided by insurgents.

Three Marines and a corpsman died that day, and a soldier, 41-year-old Sgt. 1st Class Kenneth Westbrook, who was shot through the mouth and neck, died Oct. 7 at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington. An embedded reporter with McClatchy News Service, Jonathan Landay, reported that "U.S. commanders, citing new rules to avoid civilian casualties, rejected repeated calls to unleash artillery rounds at attackers dug into the slopes and tree lines — despite being told repeatedly that they weren't near the village."

(To continue reading this article, please go to the link immediately below:)

http://www.marinecorpstimes.com/news/2009/11/marines_fire_support_110209w/

A way few will ever be & more music

The Silver Strand of Coronado has known thousands of feet running the soft, deep sand before bellies hit ground and hands hold rifles at the ready during seven or eight decades as a training ground for Marine Corps and Navy personnel. This is a naval amphibious base across the bay from San Diego, California. This is a photograph from a few years ago of a Marine Corps Force Recon unit spending an afternoon working on a tan under the southern California sun. This was Fram's sand for a time. This is the way it is in the real world, like it or not.

Once upon a time in another world

A few hours ago, I wrote these words in response to a remark reflecting surprise that I never had seen the band, "Boston," perform live on stage: "I missed a lot of living being too heavy into work .... much of what I love today I never even noticed when it was 'real time'."

A few days earlier, I wrote these words in response to a question about some of my experiences in the Marine Corps: "For as many years since my departure from the Marines, that is how long my comment to such a suggestion (telling war stories) has been: Those stories are six-drink talk, and only with the 'right' people."

These two concepts are different in origin, but are parallel in thought.

War stories fall into line with my general barroom demeanor. Two drinks, and I might bid, to all, a good night. Four drinks, and we approach unknown territories. Six drinks, and I probably am in for the night. I have been in for more than a few.

More than that and far beyond that, actually, such talk, to me is reserved for others like me or for others I am really close to and who I want to understand me to the bottom of my soul. As I have said somewhere (at least two places) within the past couple of weeks or so:

"Late last night, I wrote the following words as part of a comment at another blog: .... life is experience and the object of living, to me, should be to collect it. This is a given. My own interpretation of my own words is that we are the sum of our experiences; and each experience, whether good or bad, is of value to the formation of the whole; and we should be grateful for it."

No matter what experience I have had, no matter how beautiful or ugly, no matter now sensual or painful, no matter how merciful or brutal, I am glad for it, thankful for it, feel fortunate for having had it.

I think there is something intrinsically wrong about or missing from or phony about anyone who can bare his soul on a street corner or in a written piece. By this, I do not mean to imply that the telling of a story about experiences or about obstacles overcome or about hopes and dreams is the wrong thing to do. I do mean to say that reciting moments of heaven or of hell on earth is more id than ego.

Maybe I am wrong. Maybe it is better to unload to the world at large. Maybe it is better to talk to anyone who will listen. But, for me, I know my soul is open only to brethren or to those I love and who I know love me. To each his own, but I also have a distinct line regarding who I listen to and who I walk away from, and that a wannabe who did not earn his merit badge does not count.

Hey, man .... rip it ....

Don Dokken was a Norwegian lad who came out of the Los Angeles music scene in the 1970s. I use the word "was" in initial reference because Dokken is now in his mid-50s. Despite some people who insist on referring to a person who will be 56 on June 29 (Dokken, not me) as being in mid-life, I, personally, do not know anyone who is 112 years old. I believe applying the term mid-life to anyone in his or her mid-50s is being optimistic to the point of silliness.

Anyway, back on topic.

Dokken was one of the biggest and the best hard rock bands of the 1980s. Don was and always will be one of the smoothest and the best lead singers of the era. My vote would be to place him in the No. 2 position, immediately following Boston's Brad Delp, under the category of absolute best singer in the era of rock music. Unlike Brad, Don is still around and performing. I heard him last summer in Fargo, North Dakota, of all places. It was fun. It was great, but I wish I would have had the opportunity (made the opportunity) to have seen him and his band live on stage around 25 years ago, when they still were sort of kids and at their peak.

Below is a link to a video with Don performing the song, "Stay." The invisible powers that be do not permit this clip to be embedded, but the link is there for any who wish to watch and to listen. My personal favorite Dokken piece is, "Alone Again Without You," but his voice, like Brad's, lost more than a bit of its range over the years. This song offers a taste of, shall we say, the voice that was. This song also provides a considerable taste of guitar work by George Lynch, another among the half-dozen or maybe ten premier guitar players to come out of the 1970s and 1980s.

Wild times, loud times, crazy times back then. I am not so sure I would have survived them had I been a 20-year-old in the L.A. club scene during the 1980s. On the plus side, many of the bands back then actually had singers who had a voice, and who understood that songs are meant to be sung, not spoken or shouted; such is Don Dokken.

Here is the link. I hope you take the four minutes and thirty seconds this song lasts to enjoy it. Anyone who is not up and dancing inside of fifteen seconds should consider pinching his leg to make certain rigor mortis has not occurred:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kRMm6bY6Jks

Lyrics to the song
"Stay"
Sung by Don Dokken

Girl, when I think of you, you know it makes me sad
And I wonder, wonder about what we had, what we had

Say we're over baby
That we're through
Can't believe it say that it's not true
Please believe me when I say I do
I'm still missing you, loving you
Loving you

Won't you stay
Can't you see my love is waiting here
Darling, stay
Don't you leave me drowning in my tears

Do you love me baby let me know
Show your feelings 'cause I gotta know
Am I wasting my time, am I being a fool
For loving you, loving you

Every night your name is on my lips
I feel your body at my fingertips
Please believe me when I say I do
I'm still missing, loving you
Am I a fool?

Won't you touch me and stay for a while
I need you so badly
Darling...
Won't you stay

Why not more from Boston?

Since the Don Dokken song could not be embedded, why not toss in another one from Boston and Brad Delp? Sounds like a plan to me. Here is, "Amanda."

Fram, as an artist of trigger work

It is difficult to be a cowboy these days ....

It has been noted by those with greater expertise than we here at the Fram Institute and Repository of Knowledge and Similar Useless Facts that much can be learned about a man by examining the way he squeezes a trigger. It is a reflection of the inner man, it sings the song of his soul and recites the poetry of his heart, among other things.

Having been in the U.S. Marine Corps, our Fram has a considerable amount of "trigger time," as the guys fondly call it. Possibly, we will be able to persuade Fram to sometime tell his story about how he became lost leaving Reno, ended up snowed in at Donner Pass and, more-or-less, was shanghaied into the Corps. Although somewhat reluctant, when he found out there was free room and board and as much ammo has a young man could ever wish to shoot, he decided to hang out there for a while. But, that story is for another day.

If we look to the top left of our illustration, we see James Bond the First and James Bond the Last. The First is holding a Walther PPK, in exact specification of the second weapon carried by Bond in Ian Fleming's series of novels. Fram likes that. The Last is carrying what appears to be an indistinguishable piece, to which a silencer is attached. Although Fleming's Bond may have used such a weapon (Fram merely read the books; he did not memorize them), it was not his norm. Fram does not like that. The First looks suave, debonair, ready to mingle with the "beautiful people." The Last looks mean, angry, brooding, ready to kick butt. Beginning to know him as you do, which do you suppose Fram would choose to emulate? (That question actually might be difficult to answer and, maybe, the answer is neither.)

Next we see Lee Marvin, a genuine gunman among actor gunmen. He knew which end of the weapon to point downrange. He knew how to be the gangster, the lawman, the soldier, the cowboy, the comic of all comics. Yes, Lee certainly had the potential to be a very good role model for Fram.

Then we have Slick and Slim, two pretty boys who did ok for themselves. No, this is not Fram's usual style. No pretty boy stuff for him. (Good looking? Most certainly, just not "pretty.") On the other hand, these two did do a fine job in whatever role they undertook in life or the movies, and Fram does enjoy watching them perform. It certainly is possible he would squeeze the trigger in a manner similar to either gentleman.

Back to the left, we are, and at the bottom rung. There is Clint the Younger and Clint the Elder. How did Clint the Younger keep a straight face while posing for that photograph? Fram just pointed out to me that the Younger carries a Smith & Wesson .44 magnum, the old style, and that the Elder carries a pair of Colt's Navy revolvers, plus what appears to be a Colt 1849 Sheriff's Model. What does this symbolize? One revolver for the Younger; three revolvers for the Elder. Fram does not care to speculate. He wishes to move on. Keep the faith, Clint. See you around.

We have arrived at the end of this evening's illustrations, where there are two guys, one with straight black hair and the other with curly black hair. No matter what their differences might be, they both hold near identical selections in handguns: Each grasping a 1911-style, .45 semi-automatic pistol. These guys are the actual Blues Brothers, Soul Brothers and Brothers Grimm rolled into one, no matter what anyone else might tell you. On some days, Fram thinks that these boys have so much in common with him, they actually must be emulating him rather than he them. Make sense? No difference. Maybe neither. (Love a good mystery?)

Well, no reason to make the call right now. Squeezing the trigger requires contemplation and art, as well as skill and steady nerve, so it makes sense that time also is required to discern the individual Fram most emulates. In fact, Fram says this might be a question best left unanswered.

Thus concludes the "Get to Know Fram Better" series.

Incidental of the evening:

There is light rain, and the temperature is warm: 50 degrees, which is warm after winter in Minnesota. The wind has been ripping for about two days, 30-plus miles-per-hour with gusts topping 50. I stood out in it, face into it, for a few minutes just minutes ago. Very refreshing, very nice, very soothing. Made me think of canoeing into the wind, into the waves. Meanwhile, snow predicted for Wednesday.

Now I am tired of being Japanese,
The daimyo said, after a certain war.
Let there be a kempt jungle in a valley
And from it rise
So that you look through horizontal blossoms
A tall, unmoated fortress where the dolphins
On the gables, tails in the sky,
Swim from the separate quarters of the kingdom
Without thinking;
And with a balcony to every hour
Facing the hills, apart,
Where a sweet particular girl will say the truth
Over and over until I take it in.

"Picture of a Castle"
by William Meredith

Myth, tree tops & my little Amazon girl

Four myths or four truths about the Marine Corps? I had these logos left over from the other day, and decided to throw them into the mix now in order to avoid actually thinking about anything more complicated -- and, sort of, to illustrate a point. Incidentally, the guy on the bottom right, Private Gomer Pyle, taught me everything I know, while the T-shirt slogan above him, hopefully, represents me today. I never have figured out why no one ever is playing a guitar on any T-shirt representing the Marine Corps.

Magic Girl as the ultimate Amazon ....

The subject of friends and buddies came up in a sort of conversation. I am not certain when or where or why the word "buddy" came into being, and not curious enough to do any research. Its primary use seems to be in a military context, i.e., the "buddy system," and essentially is just another way of saying "friend." Or is it? Here is a thought and a story from sort of a conservative, male point of view.

I was in a situation once upon a time (love those words) where I had to pick my No. 2. There were six names on the list, five men and one woman. I had known and worked with all of them for a while. I selected the woman. I was asked why, and my reply was to the effect: "All other qualifications being more-or-less equal, she is the only one on the list I would trust to stand back-to-back with if the shit hit the fan."

In other words, under a worst case scenario, in which we both either would make it or we both would go down, it would be back-to-back, to the end. There was not one man on that list I would have trusted to watch my back. Each one of those five men, I believed from having gotten to know them rather well, potentially was a runner should the proverbial "shit hit the fan."

This might be another category under which to define a "magic girl." The particular "magic girl" in my story was, unfortunately for me, happily married and the mother of two children. The circumstances of this story would make a fascinating debate, I think, between "real worlders" such as myself and ivory tower dispensers of opinion regarding human priorities and motivations. I am speaking of those who have little actual experience in the real world, but years of "book study" and theoretical political and social activism. (I am not anti-intellectual and obviously, I hope it is clear, am not anti-book or anti-education, but simply a person who puts more value on knowledge gained from personal experience than from cloistered consultant clustering.)

Believe it or not (and, I am sure most women will), I had to threaten blood on the floor (figuratively, figuratively, figuratively) in order to have her approved for the slot. A few men in this circle, but not all, later admitted to me that I had made the right decision. I had to tell her that, because none of them had the courage to face her and to admit to her that she might be the best of all of us.

But, I also wonder how many women would find it comfortable to be in the company of another woman who is at once a feminine creature at the height of her allure, while also a warrior who possesses primitive survival skills that equal those of any man. I suspect the average woman might be frightened of or, at least, wary of, this Amazon more so than she would be of a man carrying the same set of credentials.

Come to think of it, the Greek immortal Athena was a warrior as well as a goddess and a magic girl. She aided the mere mortal, Odysseus, more than once and covered his back at times. Ah, yes, the blue waters of the Mediterranean have so much to offer. It must be in the water.

Maybe I should have said, "no" ....

I was reading another's blog in which the writer said that when he had been younger and more agile, he enjoyed sitting in a tree while reading a book. It reminded me that there were a few times when I was younger when I would take a bottle of wine and climb into a tree with it when I had a difficult decision to make. It took more time and more wine to arrive at some decisions than it did others.

Do you suppose such an action is from a lingering, genetic memory? Probably not. Seriously now, the first time it happened was by the circumstance of having to decide whether I would rather sit on the ground or on a tree branch.

I had been offered a promotion at work and was not certain I wanted it. I drove out to a friend's home to talk about it with him. He was in his driveway, rotating the tires on his car. Rather than sit down on the ground, I took my wine and climbed into an adjacent tree. Then, I proceeded to drink my wine, talk with him and stare at the woodlands and blue waters of a lake beyond.

I took the job. Money won out, although I am sure ambition and ego were contributing factors. That was one of the pivotal moments in my past in which I now question whether or not I made the best (right? / correct?) decision. I can never know with absolute certainty, of course, but my hunch is that three or four people, including myself, would be happier (more content? / better off?) today had I continued doing what I was doing and said no thanks to the promotion.

Birthday wishes to the tardy one ....

Happy birthday, Diva, wherever you've run off to. Here is a poem, "To Helen," written by Edgar Allan Poe. The Helen he is referring to is Helen of Troy. I think he might have been visualizing The Diva when he wrote it.

Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!

Music Note: Nearly 2:00 a.m. here & Guns N' Roses just came on the radio ....
"November Rain," but it's March ....

Glory for the Corps & the wolves cometh

As long as I brought up the subject, I thought I would continue it. Here presented, for your education, edification and enjoyment, is a small sample of T-shirts reflecting Marine Corps sentiment. As usual, the technical quality of the photograph is rather dismal but, if you pop it up to full size, most of the slogans should at least be readable. If they are not, let me know and we will hire an attorney and see if we cannot find three or four people to sue. I would think the T-shirt manufacturer alone would pay us a tidy sum just to have us get lost.

Two hunters exchange thoughts ....
Part two of two

The trail is ancient, while the day dawns new.
It skirts the shoreline of a deep, blue lake
which nips at sand and rocks 15 feet below.
There walks a wolf below, big, gray, prowling,
hunting, driving on a search for game
while I watch, admiring its stealth and grace.

While I watch, I am watched. I know it.
I sense it. I feel another presence, near.
I turn my head and see the hunter's mate,
behind me, six feet distant, no more.
Our eyes blend, lock, focus, one upon the other
in a penetrating stare, each the other to know.

His approach I had not heard, so silent was he,
as the pair hunt the lake shore, one high,
one low, he on the upper deer trail
while she stalks the shoreline below.
My eyes record his outer being, long legs,
thick fur, expressionless face but for his eyes.

We probe each other's eyes, even beyond.
A minute it lasts, maybe two before
the wolf seems to shrug his shoulder,
lower his gaze from me to the trail ahead,
step forward, all this in a single motion
does the wolf move past me, continuing
his march along the ancient deer trail.

He passes so closely I can reach my hand
to touch, but do not, for he merely
is offering passage, not a welcome
to his woodland, to his home, to his path.
It is his trail, not mine; it is his mate below
on the lakeshore, not mine; I am his guest.

We might be brothers should we hunt alone,
but he is wary and protects his mate,
who patrols the sandy, rocky shoreline below.
There are times when brothers do not trust
even brothers, and this we both have learned.
I watch them until they disappear, together.

Incidentals ….

I do have a few other elements I want to toss into the wolf mix, part 2, but this is where I am right now and I feel lazy -- like I am on vacation or something like it. Besides that, I woke up today with a bit of a head cold, and it has been catching up to me more and more as the day progresses.

On a more positive note, I learned last night that I can separate the work of artists from the political viewpoints of the artists. That sort of snuck up on me without warning. Small victory, but major good feeling.

The Marine Corps enters my mind every January as I approach my anniversary date. It usually has been washed from my system a few days after the date (January 24) has passed, but this year it keeps coming back. Something must be stirring the blood. I wonder what.

Maybe I will add to this later, maybe I will write an email or two, maybe I will watch a movie, maybe I will pour a brandy and sit outside a while .... it is my time, at least for the moment.

Music Note: Listening to Def Leppard ....
Specifically, "Pyromania" ....
Some lines from: "Foolin':"

Is anybody out there, anybody there
Does anybody wonder, anybody care
Oh, I just gotta know

If you're really there and you really care
Cause baby

I'm not F-f-f-foolin, ah f-f-foolin
F-f-f-foolin, ah f-f-foolin

Good reporters, lovers & earning your way

Do you know what a good reporter is?

I have said this before. I occasionally (often?) have been accused of being overly serious. And, I have said this before. So what? So, here we go with sort of a continuation of last night's conversation.

Do you know what a good reporter is?

A good reporter is a chameleon.

One day, he is able to walk into the office of a bank president, sit down, and within a matter of minutes make himself appear to be like he is the next-door-neighbor to the bank president, that he is the bank president's best friend and his personal confidant. The reporter wants information, details, so he must instill trust.

The next day, he is able to walk into the home of a drug dealer, sit down, and within a matter of minutes make himself appear to be like he is the next-door-neighbor to the drug dealer, that he is the drug dealer's best friend and his personal confidant. The reporter wants information, details, so he must instill trust.

You get the drift? It is not as easy as I tried to make it sound, but that sort of covers the basics.

I am a good reporter. My object with this piece of prose is not to have you distrust me. It is to stir you to think, to study and to learn about the world and people around you.

The important thing here is not what makes a good reporter, but is for you to learn how to tell the difference between someone who is potentially a good reporter and someone who has genuine affection for you and who wants to learn more about you and who wants to try to learn if there might be an "us" in the future.

I know some of you understand this and could have skipped reading what I have written here; I also know some of you do not understand, but I hope you will come to.

Are you still reading, or did you doze off?

Personally, I have been fooled once. Professionally, once, also, and I am speaking in terms of not recognizing when I was being lied to, but I crucified the liar when the lie was discovered because it was my job at the time and I always attempt to be fully professional at my work.

It is evident most of us hanging around here have been dumped, dropped or at least lied to along the way. It is the same for all of us, I think. A great line, a great face, a great bank account, any or all of those things and more might enter the picture, plus our own vulnerabilities at the time. Maybe, the old "rebound" complex.

Then, too, feelings change, do they not? Love can diminish as surely as it can grow when new truths are discovered or when old lies are uncovered or when betrayals occur.

Call it whatever you want, but I would prefer some people dislike me for what I do say rather than for what I do not say. Another one of Ernest Hemingway's thoughts was this: "Men and women cannot be friends without also becoming lovers." I know that to be incorrect because I have experienced it. I would imagine some of you have, as well. (If not, pick your friends better.)

Wherever this page leads, my foremost hope is that it will leave those of us who are "talking" a bit wiser (I know reading you has taught me) and with feelings of affection toward and concern about each other.

Anything beyond that will be a bonus.

Sometimes coincidence is beyond belief ....

One day I make these statements: "Most were high school teachers looking for credits to use to jump up their salaries. One or two were grad teaching assistants (probably career grad assistants). One among the group was the village idiot, me, who thought the class might be more beneficial to me than an evening bowling or sitting in a bar. It is entirely possible I was the only person there because I actually wanted to be there."

Barely a day later, this falls out of the sky: "As a former teacher who was required to take inane classes for earning a raise, I am sorry I missed your literature class. I surely would have disputed you boat interpretation favoring the notion of a allegorical stock market interpretation."

Required to take "inane classes for earning a raise"?

Never in my life have I encountered anyone, most particularly a retired, career school teacher such as "troutbirder," who would label a class in which the subject matter consists of novels, written by acknowledged masters of the form, to be an "inane" class. The particular novelist I referenced in my commentary, Lawrence Durrell, came within a whisker-width of winning the Nobel Prize for Literature.

There are good teachers and poor ones, with most probably somewhere between. I can understand providing teachers with monetary incentives to increase their knowledge base. What I have never been able to understand is why so many teachers seem to believe their own personal education ends the day the degree is slapped into their hands; why so many whine about being forced to take "inane classes for earning a raise."

The concept of teaching begins with the teacher learning through personal education and experience, not with an evening of bowling or sitting in a bar waiting for the school year to begin.

I repeat: "It is entirely possible I was the only person there because I actually wanted to be there." Very sad, but true. A few days ago, I wrote that ignorance is not bliss. Evidently, for some, it is.

More fun and games ....

The blogger named "troutbirder" seemed to think I am among the "pretentious, arrogant, pseudo-intellectual political Luddites."

Pretentious? No, I do not think so. How could "the" direct descendant of Fram the First, conqueror of the Mediterranean, ever be pretentious?

Arrogant? Oh, yes, guilty as charged. That began with high school sports and was greatly encouraged by the Marine Corps. (I think their motto should have been, "Second to None," since that is the cornerstone of their training.) I often have a hard time distinguishing the line between self-confidence and arrogance. At least, I recognize arrogance as a flaw within me, and generally try to keep a lid on it.

Pseudo-intellectual political Luddites? I am not certain how that might be associated with literature, teaching, liberals or conservatives in this context, and really do not care. I suppose that is because I am only a "pseudo." Whoops, here comes old arrogance creeping up on me again, so I will finish with it.

I do have a bachelor of arts degree with a double major in English and history, which I completed in three years instead of the usual four. Had I wanted to attend another summer session, my credits were so abundant that I could have had a bachelor of science degree thrown in, as well. I also do have a master of arts in literature, which I completed by taking classes here and there over a few years, and being a full-time student for the final semester.

I do not consider these degrees to be as important as the fact that I did it all on my own time with my own money, and with neither expectation nor promise of a salary raise. I did it for me as an attempt to become a better, more well-rounded person. Whether or not I am, so what? So, learning is fun.

Music Note: Still listening to classic rock on the radio ....
Getting my money's worth from this machine ....
Playing this instant: "Photograph" by Def Leppard ....

Wait! I'm not ready yet! I'm still thinking!

Real friends? Why not?

Let me put it this way. I have had friends, girlfriends, drinking buddies, best friends, Marine Corps buddies, casual friends and any other manner of friends describable.

It makes no difference what bar a guy walks into, or what job he takes, or what organization he belongs to, or what girl he meets, the chance of developing lasting friendships is sort of rare. Golf buddies? (Bad example, since I do not golf and shoot me if I ever want to.) Friends to go to Minnesota Twins or Vikings games together with? Easy to find, but usually pretty shallow types for anything beyond rah, rah. (Maybe it is different between women.)

I have casual friends coming out of my ears; no current girlfriends (do not want one in that simple sense) and I am beyond the bar buddy stage for more than two or three drinks after work. (He says as he stands and shouts, "Valhalla!" and is pushed back into the corner of the booth by his bar buddies.)

Among my best friends "ever," two out of three are dead, one cancer and one suicide. The cancer victim was a woman about 20 years older than me, not beautiful, but wise and intelligent beyond belief. (That means smarter than me.) The suicide was a man six months older than me. (My boss, but I was his crutch. He had the charm; I had the backbone.) That leaves me with a photographer, and you know how they are, sort of weird. Besides, he lives a bit from here.

Among Marine Corps friends, only one who was really close who is still alive. He lives a bit from here, too, mostly fishes and has his disability check, which keeps him happy. (I am not certain he even ever has read a book, but he sure can fish, and there is more to explain here than can be simply done.)

What I am saying is that there is magic in more ways than one. (And, you might not ever hear me say it again.) Possibly, the internet actually will be a road to friendships not otherwise achievable in the past. I have seen others write much the same sentiment here, people who are thinking the same thing. I am not saying, do not take care. Never completely trust until the eyes meet (and maybe not even then), but never fear to explore or to dance. Am I wrong here?

By the way, I really am cheating. I wrote this about 20 hours ago, but I am just now putting it on my page because I am not sure if I am finished or if I want to say more. Oh, well, there always is tomorrow ....

One more run at turning left instead of right ....

When I joined the Marine Corps, I already literally had been within minutes of joining the Air Force. Had not a holiday delayed a flight to "haul me away," I would have gone USAF instead of USMC. But, the delay happened and, during the intervening few days, I decided on the Marines. I could do only one. If possible, I would have liked to have had the experience of being an 18-year-old in both services. I would have liked to have done this not to find out if one experience would have been better than the other, but simply to gain knowledge from the experience of having done both. To know.

If it were possible to do both experiences, one almost certainly would have proven to be better or worse than (preferable to) the other, but that is not the object of my thought, and does not even matter at all. The only purpose would be to have had the experiences.

Of course, in reality, unless there is another me in a parallel universe doing exactly the opposite of what I am doing and we are able to meet up and to compare notes, the exercise is one of futility for anything other than stirring the imagination. Stir, mix, bubble, boil, toil and trouble ....

More things & more, more things ....

Have you ever looked down and noticed both your shoe laces were untied? I do not know about you, but that is when I went to cowboy boots pretty much full time.

At least twice a week, I do not want to sleep. It is not insomnia; it is not wanting to sleep. I am so anxious for summer that I want to be awake until it comes. I suppose it would be wiser to stay awake after it comes rather than now.

Someone asked me some time ago why I quit hunting, and I never answered. I do know why. I know when, almost to the minute. I just am not certain how I want to explain it or if I want to explain it. Sooner or later, I suppose it will come.

Someone recently said she was looking forward to watching my Plan A as it evolves. Actually, I think Part 2 might already be written, but I cannot be absolutely certain, so it is premature to publish it. And, Part 3 definitely remains a mystery because the future cannot be known -- or can it?

Did anyone who read yesterday's commentary about Lawrence Durrell notice that "the course of his career changed" when he moved to Corfu, Greece? Hint, hint. Maybe travel Greece, maybe settle (for a while) between there and Valencia. Follow the example of your elders should you wish to .... wish to what? Sure would have liked to have been able to interview Lawrence Durrell and his brethren.

Almost forgot. Beware the Ides of March ....

Music Note: Listening to classic rock on the radio ....
Heard me say that before?
Playing this instant: ZZ Top and "Legs"

Ladies, magic girls & learning to live

Lady when I'm with you I'm smiling
Give me all your love
Your hands build me up when I'm sinking
Touch me and my troubles all fade

Lady from the moment
I saw you standing all alone
You gave all the love that I needed
So shy like a child who had grown

You're my Lady of the morning
Love shines in your eyes
Sparkling, clear and lovely
You're my lady

Some lines from the song: "Lady"
written (and sung) by Dennis DeYoung,
of "Styx," about his wife, Suzanne

Live long and prosper, magic girls ....
I know that only yesterday I said, fair is fair, two photographs for London, two for Paris, two for Rome, but in every contest there must be a winner whether we wish it to be so or not. Therefore, tonight, we have a winner: No one other than a "magic girl" can represent the winner. Rather than say which city is the winner, please look up this young lady's current residency, if you do not already know. Learn, if you would, please, and appreciate.

My photo is dismal, as usual, in a technical sense, but it is mine, and to stand so close to this "magic girl/lady" requires nothing more than appreciation of the essence of female beauty and artistic talent. We might not have been alone together, but we were close together. Technology is not required, and I will leave that argument to the technocrats among us. No, I am not grouchy, simply questioning priorities, and am sort of sarcastic because it is required of me as a devotee of Ambrose "Bitter" Bierce.

May we all have mentors along the way ....
A few days ago, Etta, in her Depression Marathon blog, wrote about her mentoring experience with a teenage boy. I started following her blog not because I have problems with depression beyond the ordinary, but because I wanted to learn and to better understand how people live with depression and cope with it. I have known four people who were unable to cope. In this particular post about her teenage friend, Etta's words started me to thinking and remembering the differences between being young and being older, between naivety and experience, in my own life.

I was a Marine while I still was 18, and there were some younger than me. My immediate buddies were around the same age as I was, but I sought out men who were 15 or 20 years older than me to associate with as much as possible. Why? Because I knew that they not only had valuable knowledge about the Marine Corps, but also had significant experience about life that I did not. I wanted to learn.

When I went to college, the majority of my friends were in their late 20s and early 30s. Why? Because they were the people in my immediate world who had experience at things I did not. Many were, or had been, married. Some were parents. Many had worked construction or similar jobs before deciding a bachelor's degree could provide them with a better life. I wanted to learn.

When I entered newspaper work, it was the same. Most of the people I hung with were older than I was at that time. They could provide me with knowledge, both about the job and about life. I could learn from hearing about their triumphs and their failures and, through friendship with them, I could save myself from a few missteps and stumbles I otherwise most certainly would have made. I wanted to learn.

While I agree with the notion there is no substitute for experience, I also think there is no better way to get a head start on it than by having a few friends who already have been around the block, and by learning from them as well as from our own travails.

We all are learning every day, and we all have a great many choices about what we spend our time learning and, more importantly, many options whether or not we use what we learn to the benefit of ourselves and, maybe, to the benefit of a few others. Thus spake Fram, and here endith the sermon.

Sorry, I have already been down that road ....
So many times I have read or heard people say that if they could live their lives over, they would not change a thing. I would do exactly the opposite. Everywhere I turned left the first time, I would turn right the second time. Every time I said no before, I would say yes now. This does not imply regret; it suggests curiosity. There is not enough time to do everything, much less to do it twice. Except, maybe, some things, with a few very special people and for a few extraordinary events.

Music Note: Listening to and sort of watching "Styx" ....
Specifically, "Return to Paradise" ....
("Lady" & "Come Sail Away" .... what else?)

Who would guess their descendants would be cousins? & "the great battlefield tour"

Family details can be an absolute mess ....

I am fortunate in the sense that I have had relatives who devoted a considerable amount of time delving into genealogical records. One of my father's cousins traced the male lineage (young ladies, do not blame me for that) back to the 1500s. If you want the precise date and location, tell me, and I will pull out my copy of his papers and check.

On my father's side, I have a direct ancestor who fought in the Civil War. Meanwhile, moving on over to my mother's side, I have three non-direct ancestors who fought in the Civil War. Now then, who has the edge in that competition, indirect ma or direct pa? (All wild-eyed northern boys, by the way.)

Another absolutely, positively fascinating element (at least, to me) in this maze is on my mother's side of the coin. One of those ancestors who participated in the Civil War did so only briefly before becoming a volunteer in a militia unit riding against the Dakota in the wake of the 1862 uprising in Minnesota. At this time, I should like to mention that I have a relative married to an individual who carries Dakota blood, as well as another relative whose spouse has French-Canadian/Ojibwai ancestry. Beyond that, I have been a participant in an Assinaboi initiation ceremony, have sat in a few sweat lodge ceremonies and been among the honored guests at a wacipi. This simply is to say I have extended family members among the Native American community, and am aware of some of their customs and beliefs.

Back to the story before I forget it. This 1862 rider of vengeance later returned to the regular U.S. army cavalry. He did not last long. He was among troopers killed on a patrol in Kansas by a party of Sioux and Cheyenne in 1867. (The Seventh Cavalry on a search and destroy, with George Custer in the lead, discovered the bodies.)

The element which makes the events uniquely special to me is that I visited the exact site (no more than a few meters away, at the most) of his death during what I designated my "battlefield tour." Have you ever stood on the ground where an ancestor went down fighting nearly 150 years ago? Then, scarcely before you have taken another breath, wondered if the ancestor of a modern-day relative might have done the killing? Ain't life a mystery?

Maybe I should have signed on as a deckhand ....

Whether you know or not, it snowed in Minnesota on Thursday. I had about six inches of heavy, wet stuff to throw from my driveway into my neighbor's lawn. He does not care, since his boys build forts and caves in the heaps of snow. Here is a glimpse of my neighbors. Sorry, Diva. (I already told her this one.)

On one side, my neighbor is 97. She still shovels a path through the snow to her mailbox by the street. On the other side, my neighbors have two little boys (nine and four), who frequently are trying to sell me things, mostly stuff from their dad's garage. I usually buy it. Real bargains. A dime here, a quarter there. Is there more to these stories? Never mind. Write the endings yourselves.

Now, where was I? I certainly have a tendency to drift off topic.

Snow. And, cold. (Three degrees Fahrenheit above zero this minute.) Winter has returned to me again and, again, I have become immensely bored with it. The last time this happened was during the winter of 2000-2001. (Time flies when most of it has been spent in the same routine, as mine has, for a couple of years now.) In February 2001, I briefly toyed with the idea of flying to Florida for a week of sun and whatever. I was within the punch of a keyboard button to close the deal. But, I did not.

I decided, instead, to save the money and to spend it (and more) on a "decent trip" that summer. In May, I took an "unpaid sabbatical" from work, departed Sanctuary/Refuge and left on a driving tour (the aforementioned "battlefield tour") that ranged from Canada into Mexico and lasted until well into October.

Much camping with many nights under the stars, a few good motels, a few bad motels, much canoeing, much brandy, some days spent walking and some nights spent sleeping on old battlefields from the days of the "Indian wars." Too much tequila, dancing and a bar brawl across the Rio Bravo del Norte in Ciudad Juarez. (We won; locals, including me, against outsiders. Weird, hah? You fit in where you fit.) Too much money spent on gasoline and potato salad, many historic sites seen, kissed the Alamo, a great sun tan and uncut hair bleached blond once again by the sun -- well, you get the picture. Free Bird.

This is the most beat-up by winter I have felt since then, and I continue to wonder if this, again, will be the year of the traveler. (Do not panic; I think I may have passed beyond the bar brawl stage of life.) Greece and the "wine dark sea" of Mediterranean waters linger on in my mind.

I think if I could be age 18 again, I would skip the Marine Corps, skip college, skip newspapers and a few other distractions, and sign on as a deckhand on a Great Lakes ore carrier. Once upon a time, after an hour or so of drinking beer and mingling with a group of Great Lakes sailors in a Lake Superior waterfront bar, I was asked "what ship I was from." To me, that was an enormous compliment, and another occasion of fitting in where you fit.

Music Note: Listening to 38 Special ....
Specifically, "Live at Sturgis" ....
("Hold on Loosely" -- wanna dance?)

Law, order & I can't get no satisfaction ....

There are lawyers and there are lawyers. Some of my personal favorites have been the assistant district attorneys on the television series, "Law & Order." Clockwise from the upper left are, Alexandra Borgia, Connie Rubirosa, Jamie Ross, Claire Kincaid, Serena Southerlyn and Abbie Carmichael.

Legal beagles come in all shapes & sizes ....

We have here a possible culmination of days and weeks and months of serious thought. The only television program I watch with regularity is "Law & Order." The original series, I mean. Until I started watching "Law & Order," when I thought of lawyers, I thought of gray-haired, old men. (If they were full of themselves, they also wore their hair long and probably in a ponytail.) I did not picture attractive, young ladies as attorneys.

As I review the many episodes of "Law & Order," it becomes obvious that even deciding which young lady -- I mean, which attorney -- to interview as a candidate for a position on my "personal legal team" would be a very difficult task, for sure.

But, with the current atmosphere of sue here, sue there, sue anywhere, I have been thinking that it might be beneficial to have a beautiful, brainy, sophisticated, female attorney on retainer. Please understand, I am thinking in a purely practical sort of way. I'm trying to be intelligent about this which, as anyone who knows me will testify is extremely difficult for me. (Did that come out right?)

I know at least one person who occasionally stops by my blog has been inside a court room. Maybe others have, too. I know for sure that I have been. While the person who stops by here has worked in a court room, my presence was not by choice. I was among a group of people sued, collectively and individually, for $44 million. Yeh, really. Can you believe it? My reaction upon being served the papers was laughter, but the case actually went to trial.

Never fear. (Or should that be, no fear?) The day of my appearance on the stand, I donned my best suit, carried reading glasses and a copy of "War and Peace" in my left hand, and brushed my teeth twice. I practiced my smile in the mirror for 30 minutes, with an occasional wink or two. Consequently, thanks to my dignified, intellectual, good natured appearance, and to my eloquent, confident, forceful testimony, we won the war. Or, perhaps I should say the plaintiff 's lawyer struck out entirely, completely, with finality, when he interrogated me. (How many ways can I say that?) What I mean is this: Imagine how the case might have turned out had a stunning, gorgeous, vivacious young lady been the attorney for the plaintiff rather than a bald, grumpy-looking, chubby, old man who was vain enough to think he actually could rough me up on the stand? Please, be honest.

Another true tale, but now back to our discussion for today. If I were to choose from among the many assistant district attorneys who have appeared on "Law & Order" in recent times, which would be the wisest to pair up with, at least for an initial interview? They all are radiant, smart and not afraid to stand their ground. I suppose it just might come down to whichever one lists canoeing as her favorite recreational activity.

Rock & roll blues: Part I

I once ended up at a particular location on the map because a friend of mine from the Marine Corps lived there. He had grown up in this town, and we thought it might be good for us to hang out together for a while. He had been shot through his legs, and spent a few months in a body cast. He gets around all right now, unless he tries to run or to walk any real distance.

He still is living there, in the town where he grew up. I did not stay very long. A career beckoned to me, and also more than a little restlessness. You understand? We continue to exchange notes and photographs via email.

Neither one of us is satisfied with the way things are. How do you explain that? I am moving around and experiencing and learning. He is hunting and fishing and getting drunk on Saturday nights at the Veterans of Foreign Wars club. I really do not know which of us is better off. I really, really do not, in terms of personal contentment, satisfaction, achievement -- all those sort of things we grade on our personal score cards.

Other than that, Semper Fi, and keep your kids at home. No, I did not say those last few words. I did not mean that. To each, his own, but make certain each of your kids understands the possible consequences from earning the privilege to say the words, Semper Fi, and is prepared to pay the piper if he comes calling. The burden, for some, is heavy.

Music Note: Listening to Chicago ....
Specifically, "The Very Best of: Only the Beginning" ....
("Searchin' So Long," et al)

Liberalism run amok .... what's that, you say?

I am approaching my one-year anniversary since visiting San Francisco. Recently, I described my trip there in the following manner to a young lady who resides in the city by the bay.

-- I stayed at the Sir Francis Drake, and thought the bartenders were adequate.

-- I walked on the Golden Gate and cruised under it. I resisted temptation to jump off of it.

-- I stormed the Haight-Ashbury district and laughed a lot.

-- I inspected China Town, but stuck to bacon-cheeseburgers.

-- I prowled Alcatraz prison and island, and spotted three ghosts, as well as Clint Eastwood's shadow.

What else could I or should I have done in San Fran?

Officialdom in San Francisco appears to hate the Marine Corps. Makes a guy feel really welcome. Apparently, they who rule the city hate everyone associated with the military. Recruiters are virtually banned from San Francisco. The city school board does not want them in the schools; university officials do not want them appearing at the so-called institutions of higher learning, and protesters literally have attacked recruiters on campuses; city officials, elected and appointed, say, "go away, soldier boy."

Marines, soldiers, airmen and sailors put their lives on the line for every American citizen, yet are figuratively spit on for wearing a uniform in service of their country by the gentry of San Francisco. My viewpoint is that such crude, rude, hateful and contemptible behavior is the legacy of liberalism run amok, and that same radical left attitude seems to be taking over Minnesota. Just look at "what" probably is going to be the next senator to represent the once great state of Minnesota. Absolutely shameful ....

Music Note: Currently listening to Cheap Trick, a giant of rock ....
"Cheap Trick at Budokan" is the best ....
By the way, I studied for a few months at the Kodokan ....
Know the difference? Budokan & Kodokan? Probably not. Who does? Fascinating times, anyway ....

Semper Fi, to the end of time ....

.... Once upon a time .... Minnesota to Virginia to California to ....

Many and many a year ago, in a kingdom not even close to the sea,
I signed my name on the dotted line and, forevermore, a Marine came to be. (Recognize who I'm sort of paraphrasing/plagiarizing?)

It's been a few years since, on January 24, Capt. William "Hoppy" Boyd swore me in. It was in the evening, in a hotel room. I'll not bother with the details other than to say the event was witnessed by a Gunny whose name I've forgotten and by a high school friend who just happened to be driving through town on his way to boot camp with the U.S. Navy. He had knocked on my door, looking for a place to spend the night. That was the last night I ever saw him. He stayed in California after his discharge from the Navy, and he's dead now.

I'll place a few quotes regarding the Marine Corps after my own words, some well known, others more obscure, to mark this occasion. This date is as important to me as any other anniversary in my life. I mark it each and every year. In a sense, having been a Marine to the "core" while having retained my individuality is a "feel good," personal accomplishment.

Now, from Fram to all Marines, those dead, those living and those yet to be born: Semper Fi, to the end of time ....

Thus spake:

There are only two kinds of people that understand Marines: Marines and the enemy. Everyone else has a second-hand opinion.
Gen. William Thornson, U.S. Army

The safest place in Korea was right behind a platoon of Marines. Lord, how they could fight!
MajGen. Frank E. Lowe, U.S. Army

Why in hell can't the Army do it if the Marines can? They are the same kind of men; why can't they be like Marines.
Gen. John "Black Jack" Pershing, U.S. Army

The United States Marine Corps, with its fiercely proud tradition of excellence in combat, its hallowed rituals, and its unbending code of honor, is part of the fabric of American myth.
Thomas E. Ricks, "Making the Corps," 1997

We have two companies of Marines running rampant all over the northern half of this island (Grenada), and three Army regiments pinned down in the southwestern corner, doing nothing. What the hell is going on?
Gen. John W. Vessey Jr., U.S. Army

Some people spend an entire lifetime wondering if they made a difference in the world. But, the Marines don't have that problem.
Ronald Reagan, President of the United States

Marines I see as two breeds, Rottweilers or Dobermans, because Marines come in two varieties, big and mean, or skinny and mean. They're aggressive on the attack and tenacious on defense. They've got really short hair and they always go for the throat.
RAdm. "Jay" R. Stark, U.S. Navy

Don't you forget that you're First Marines! Not all the communists in Hell can overrun you!
Col. Lewis B. "Chesty" Puller, USMC

My only answer as to why the Marines get the toughest jobs is because the average Leatherneck is a much better fighter. He has far more guts, courage and better officers ... These boys out here have a pride in the Marine Corps and will fight to the end no matter what the cost.
Lt. Richard C. Kennard, USMC

You cannot exaggerate about the Marines. They are convinced to the point of arrogance that they are the most ferocious fighters on earth, and the amusing thing about it is that they are.
Father Kevin Keaney, 1st Marine Division Chaplain

Being ready is not what matters. What matters is winning after you get there.
LtGen. Victor H. Krulak, USMC

The deadliest weapon in the world is a Marine and his rifle.
Gen. John "Black Jack" Pershing, U.S. Army

The American Marines have it (pride), and benefit from it. They are tough, cocky, sure of themselves and their buddies. They can fight and they know it.
Gen. Mark Clark, U.S. Army

Every Marine is, first and foremost, a rifleman. All other conditions are secondary.
Gen. A.M. Gray, Commandant of the Marine Corps

Casualties many; percentage of dead not known; combat efficiency, we are winning.
Col. David Shoup, USMC, Medal of Honor, Tarawa, 1943
A battle of mythological proportions