In 1954 my dad enlisted in the Marine Corps. He received escort back to Minneapolis after two months because they found out he was 16. On the way, they stopped in Kansas City, MS. There the bartender saw three enlisted soldiers and sold them enough beer to keep them drunk on the trip back to Minneapolis. He saw their uniforms and had enough respect for what they were willing to do for the country. When he finally got home, he walked in the back door of his mothers house. Her only words to him after being gone for 2 months and wearing a military uniform were, “Take out the garbage.”
Later on, he joined up with the Air Force as a mechanic. Once there he joined up with the other soldiers in the boxing ring. Broke his nose 3 times all in all. He also saw a few things that blew his mind. On the airfield they kept 55gallon drums of fuel and it just so happened that one was kept open. He watched one airman finish his cigarette and flick it near the drum and this airman was nearly beaten before an officer stepped in. The officer, who also had a cigarette, told them to settle down and with one quick motion put his cigarette out in the fuel. Dad is the one who taught me that even if it is burning, it does not mean that its ignition temperature is low enough to be affected by certain things. Not to mention O2 mixtures and parts per million. Oddly enough, on that same tarmac, someone accidentally dropped a drum of fuel and it it washed down the drainage system underneath. Just so happens that such a wide spread volume was perfect for ignition when a nearby pilot started his engine… and panic ensued.
From the Air Force he was enlisted by some suited men to help Uncle Sam for an ABC company. His youthful excitement was his downfall and he joined. From there he trained in the Amazon with a group of men to go from north to south with limited supplies and no communication with the outside. Areas were hostile and they were told to avoid any and all population at all costs. At one point they were on a bluff around their small fire, drinking coffee and shooting the shit. One of the men went to relieve himself and came running back in a panic. He said a hostile guerrilla force was making way in a hurry to their camp. My dad, in all his glory, stood up and ran to the edge of the bluff and with a flying leap, sailed off. He said it was lucky for him that the trees were so tall and old, because he hit a branch that had to be 4ft in diameter with his belly, his arms and legs shot straight out as he slid off the branch… falling the 30ft down to the forest floor. Breath knocked out of him and heart like a jackhammer, the only thing he could hear for the next few minutes was the distinctive sound of laughter some feet above him. They had never seen anyone try so unsuccessfully to fly, or survive such a fall. After making it closer to the rendezvous point, only a few days out, they marched through the thicket hungry and thirsty. The thunder crashed above them as the storm raged. They marched single file as what they thought was a tree branch fall on top of their company. As it turns out, it was an anaconda… they ate “chicken” afterwards.
Somewhere near Bikini Atoll there is… or was… an island of nearly sheer cliffs, vegetation, and goats. It was up to my dad and his partner to row from a ship to this island with a rifle to kill the goats because of some sensitive experiments with the local plant life. So they rowed to the lowest of 8 steps to begin their operation. My dad climbed, like a goat himself, to the top and set his sights while his partner tied off. Dad sighted in a goat, checked the wind, and took a deep breath as he began to squeeze the trigger. Half way in to the trigger squeeze, everything went white and there was a roaring noise filling his ears. He leaped from step to step back to the rowboat and rowed for all he was worth as his partner just made it up the second step with what I am sure was a puzzled expression. My dad stood on the boat 50ft from the ship shouting obscenities that even those sailors had never heard. As it turns out, the Army had decided to drop a phosphorus bomb on the island for target practice.
To Vietnam. I do not know much, but I will piece together what I have been told. Some GI’s had crossed the border to Cambodia and robbed temples of their artifacts. It was my dads job to return them. He was assigned two VC guides and a map. The guides always chuckled and looked over their shoulders at him as they talked quite loudly, knowing he did not speak a word of the language. After a day, he was convinced that he did not have any chance after those two were done with him. He went to sleep in a tree one night, certain he would not awake… but he did. As it turns out, once they were out a certain distance, the guides decided that since they had been paid up front, would take every last scrap of gear and spirit away in to the night… but leaving the holy relics. He made it to a town on the map and was greeted with smiles and mistrust. He did his best to explain the situation and his destination. He was led to his destination which took a few days where he met a man who could speak fragmented English. He thanked my father and made mention of everyone calling him the “White Ghost.”
On making his way back to Vietnam, I believe this is when he was captured by the VC Red Army. This is where I only learned pieces from my mom since dad was tight lipped about it, and understandably. He spent some time in a tiger cage, tortured and starved with a hand full of other men. He managed to escape and save the other soldiers. That is sadly all that I know… but he spoke of a man who remembered him on a visit to the VA in the 70’s.The anger and fear that filled his eyes every time he mentioned anything about Vietnam spoke more volumes that any words could do justice.
After that he was assigned to Ramey Air Force Base in Puerto Rico.
I told myself to document it next time it happened, and it happened again. Woke up in the middle of the night. Perception skewed. Mind focused on a needle both normal and the size of a telephone pole. Porous and solid. Being broken and folded at perfectly inaccurate lengths and forced in to a box the size of an atom. It just happens over and over and over while it remains the same. It crunches while making no noise. It makes no sense, never has… but it’s almost like it means something important and I have no idea how or why. Words still cannot describe its terrible simplicity and all I can do is beg for it to stop so I can sleep… and it does stop after it keeps me from closing my eyes. Perhaps this is madness or terrible, terrible sanity.
It’s happened since I was about 6. Every few years it just… happens. No pain, just frustration. No fear, just exhaustion. It’s like an old friend now that only comes around when they need money… you dread their appearance and right after they leave are afraid they’ll make another appearance sooner than they should. I just wonder whether it is the unhatched twin in my brain or something I shouldn’t have eaten. The perfect storm come to roost for a terrible finite infinity. For that moment everything come to focus while remaining just out of reach. It nearly drops me to my knees as the earth sways around me as my feet find nothing but solid purchase. It will haunt me for the rest of the day, as it always does, but will leave me in peace for just long enough.
As of 12/18/13, my dad, my hero… is dead. His struggle with cancer and complications from depression and pneumonia finally took its toll. He was eating breakfast and grumbling like usual. He breathed a ragged breath, slumped over, and gave up the ghost. My family now consists of my wife, my cousin, and in-laws… along with a hand full of people I found because of Ancestry.com. I feel like an orphan.
I remember his stories. Being sent to Cambodia to return relics stolen in the Vietnam War and being called the “White Ghost.” Driving down a mountain pass in New Mexico to deliver an A-Bomb to the air force base. Breaking his bamboo cage and saving three other men, one too weak to walk and draped over his shoulder. Training in the Amazon with a score of soldiers and having a 15ft anaconda fall on them from the trees… which they ate. Entering the Marine Corps at age 16… he made it 2 months before they found out he lied about his age. He was escorted by armed guards back to Minneapolis but stopped in Kansas City where they all got drunk. He worked on a B-36 in the Air Force and watched a Colonel take his cigar and put it out in jet fuel. At the age of 60, he was accosted by two men in a parking lot… he planted his cowboy boot covered feet in their asses and sent them running. He met my mom and showed off his ability to put his foot behind his head, nearly falling off the barstool. Because of his Magic Act, he would always perform the “disappearing quarter trick” for every child he saw… and even for some adults.
If you want to help, please visit http://www.gofundme.com/Save-a-Heros-Home.
Thank you for reading my blog.
I have always had a problem with this whole 1 Corinthians crap. This is the truth of the sappy, drippy, wovey dovey crap that people lie about when they take their vows. You may disagree with me… but really… how is this flawed?
1 Corinthians 13:4-8
4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
Love is war, early off it is a battle for the attention from the other. It is an ongoing battle afterwards, when the war is won, to quell the envy of others who want what you have. It becomes your duty to ward off predators by showing off your victory to prevent alliances from being made.
5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Once finding Love, we find it becomes a constant battle with the other to seek compromise and sign treaties of cease fire. Though these parcels of victory are often practiced, occasionally they become lost in bureaucracy, thus creating new skirmishes.
6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
Often, when a skirmish arises, the parties in question must choose the lesser of two evils.
7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Once the treaties have been signed and agreed upon, it is up to the parties in question to prevent border wars from other nations who wish to usurp natural resources.
8 Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.
Don’t be a douche!
Let me begin by saying that I am both a reader and a film buff. Having read the wonderful book that Max Brooks produced has been a pleasure, and learning that it was being adapted to film blew my mind. Upon learning production was delayed piqued my curiosity all the more. I should have known better.
Let us begin with a synopsis of the book. Max is a reporter who interviews many of the heavy hitters in the post war on Zack. He learns of many people who had the will and courage to make difficult decisions when the chips were down and tells their story. The humor, logistics, and strategic foresight show that Mr. Brooks really did his homework. The book is a complete and undeniable triumph in the genre. Not only is it compelling, it also shows the ineffable spirit of the human condition to survive against all odds.
The movie follows a former military operative and his family, a whole new story in the WWZ universe. It begins in Philadelphia, the man and his family on a drive to the unreachable “grandmas house.” All hell breaks loose when our hero finds the 12 second count for the virus to spread from bite to complete infection. Later, his daughter has an asthma attack and the parents have no backup inhalers. They raid a grocery store, have a Mexican stand off with some dude behind the pharmacy counter. Once they leave, they find an apartment building where a nice latino family take them in. The latino family dies, save their little boy who is adopted by the hero and his family. Not a bad start, a little weak in the pathology department and the preparedness of a mindful father who is ex-military. Already we find holes in the compared plots. I was still hopeful.
The movie goes on, people die and dismembered fingers move. We then begin to see the Zack swarm move like a tidal wave… yes I know it is not literal… the imagery is striking. Then the emaciated Arab boy sits unharmed and unnoticed among the swarm. Foreshadowing!
Anyway, our hero then goes to a CDC or WHO or whatever building, where he is welcomed and finds the “cure” by injecting himself with Hepatitis. The whole idea is that Zack can tell if someone is “terminal” and is therefore uninterested and unable to turn the victim. Thus saving the human race by having a stronger viral infection than the Z virus.
What are the key differences? The the book, humanity made a mad dash toward survival by doing what we do best… surviving. We fight tooth and nail for survival and find ourselves nearly wiped out but in better shape than we began. It shows the human condition, it shows tenacity and strength. Nothing breaks us in the end and we go from being our own worst enemy to being our own strongest ally. Though altruistic, very well done and inspiring.
The movie shows us that though it takes a minute for blood to circulate the whole our bodies, the virus can replicate and destroy us in 12 seconds… 12 SECONDS?! The book made it about a day or so. It also shows us that humanity is doomed since the only way for us to fight Zack is by giving everyone in the world an STD… YAY! Who cares about the will to survive? Who cares about the hard fight in a world where only the terminal survive? Let’s not forget the wiggling finger on a charred corpse, yes it is for cinematic fun time, but it is not Return of the Living Dead… a finger cannot move it there is no tendon or sinew to attach itself to the bone.
All in all, the movie was fun to watch, but had little to nothing to do with the book and should have been a stand alone. Fun, exciting, and all around entertaining… but again… NOT WWZ! Not even close.
It’s mid-day, you’re taking a leisurely stroll down Nowhereville Lane when you pass a yard populated with some dude mowing his lawn… nothing strange there, he’s just shirtless. No matter. You continue down the road, listening to the crows sing about some sort or another of carrion they’ve managed to scavenge when you pass another homestead. Here there is another gentleman, he happens to be checking the timing on his vintage Camero, also shirtless… this seems a little stranger, but no bother. Again you take to ambulation, but now you are painfully aware of men in all varieties of age and fitness and ethnicities, all either working alone or in packs; fixing roofs, changing oil, drinking tea, offering little boys bags of sugar for a mere tuppence and a few strands of pubic hair… is Rod Sterling behind this? Leo and Satan?
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the rarely spoken of conspiracy known only as “Shirtless Male Syndrome.” You will notice men when they are around their significant other; slow, docile, and barely able to function beyond tying shoelaces. Their minds seem to be almost brought down to a base primal level of mere beasts of burden. There is only one known cure for an Alpha who, despite having a below level of intelligence anyway, is slowed to a snails pace when encumbered by either natural or unnatural fibers constricting vascular areas of the back and neck.
Where is the proof you may ask. Simple, it exists in the suburbs and the rural jungles, in schticks and cities, from Stuckies to HyVee. Men everywhere, in order to complete a job of any varying nature, require their shirts to be elsewhere. You may have never noticed this before, but soon, very soon, you sill see this in practice. It is almost as if society itself is attaching a yoke to men around the world in order to drop testosterone and thus turn men into drooling invalids. UberCrappie, Air-O-Poopster, these are the natural enemies of men everywhere. Be afraid, be very afraid.
My point being, they’re everywhere. From toddler to octogenarian, they’re all over the damned place. I laugh every time I see one of these guys, and more power to them for letting their beer bellies flap freely in the breeze… but let’s face it, if you’re going to do it the least you could do is work out a little.
We all heard of the recent events on Connecticut. We all now hear how both sides of the fence are creating a schism. But what is the real issue here? Many people blame violent video games, violent movies, and violent cartoons… but are these the real issues?
As A child, I was raised on Loony Tunes. I watched Elmer Fudd fire his shotgun at Daffy Duck with no consequences. Here were anthropormorphic people being shot, blasted into oblivion, and falling off of cliffs; yet no one was hurt in the long run. What did this teach me as a child? Cartoons are funny. My parents took the effort to show me that in life there are real life consequences.
In my childhood, I was also introduced to games like Corridor 7, Doom, and Rise of the Triad. In these games you shoot your way through monsters, nazis, and a plethora of other nasties and be labeled a hero. What did this teach me as a child? Games are fun. My parents took the effort to teach me that games were not real life.
One of my favorite movies growin up was The Shining. Here you get to watch Jack Nicholson go crazy… classic. What did this teach me as a child? Movies are fun. My parents taught me the difference between reality and fiction.
Way back when, I remember playing Cowboys and Indians. We would go around and fire cap, rubber band, and water pistols at each other. What did this make me think as a child? Playing with friends is a great time to be had. My parents taught be how to be careful with real weapons and how to protect myself.
Did I grow up to be a violent psychopath who went through Malls, Schools, and other public places with a few hundred rounds of ammunition? Those who know me know the answer to that… but the answer for the rest of you is NO. I am a relatively useful member of society, I pay my taxes, I am married, and I am a pacifist my choice. Furthermore, I own a firearm and so does my wife. For V-Day one year I bought my wife a fully functional crossbow. She herself was raised in many of the same ways I was, but without the video games. Is she a violent psychopath? Not as far as I know.
Simply put, a craftsman does not blame the tool for his mistakes as society should not blame the gun for a mentally ill person going on a killing spree. In China, on the same day as the Connecticut shooting, went through a primary school and slashed 22 children. The point being that if someone wants to hurt someone, they will find a medium to do so. Why don’t we try educating our children rather than placing them in front of the TV so we can play on our phones? Why don’t we nurture our children with social interaction?
Is any of this too much to ask? I don’t think so. Maybe we should start focusing in on the real issues by making mental health not such a stigma. Maybe we should start making education a priority. Let’s stop teaching our kids to be victims, let’s make this world better by making our children self sufficient and intelligent.