June 6th, 1944, is the greatest day in American military history, ever, as far as I’m concerned. Thousands of brave American, Canadian, and British men rushed the shores at Normandy… many never even making it to the actual shoreline because of the shelling, MG44 machine-gun crossfire, or drowning from abandoning their landing craft and sinking with all of their gear on. The men had been giving a huge breakfast that day, too, and had a seasickness rate of about 65%. Bad, bad seasickness.
The ones that did make it to the shoreline lost even more.
The shelling continued (big artillery shells/little bombs exploding on the beach, sending shrapnel out like a thousand bullets in every direction… some of those bullets as big as baseball gloves… some as small as grains of sand–some were grains of sand). Then, if the shrapnel didn’t get them, they had the concussion from the blast to worry about, which essentially shakes you to death.
If they survived those obstacles while watching their friends and fellow soldiers getting shredded and blown to pieces, they still had 800-1000 yards of beach to cross before getting to the bottom of the cliffs/hills where they could begin their assault on the bunkers that housed the enemies that were killing them by a factor of about 100 per minute.
That 800-1000 yards of beach is not only still being shot to Hell by the machine guns and artillery, but now there are land mines to step on, not to mention the machine guns are getting more accurate as you get closer. Moreover, those Hedgehogs you were able to hide behind initially (German chunks of tripodic metal meant to stop tanks and landing craft; one of four levels of barriers they had against landing craft) disappeared along that last 800 yards. Just bare, open beach, and running, charging men.
Estimates vary, but we lost about 6,000 men that morning of the Allied Forces (2,500 Americans), and that doesn’t include the pilots and paratroopers that were killed the night before on botched bombing runs and drop zones, due to cloud cover.
I have two tattoos, and almost got a third. I probably would have if I could have afforded it. The thing I asked myself and answered before I got my tattoos was, “What can I put on my body that I will not ever be ashamed of?,” and my answers were my daughter and my country, so I got tattoos honoring both. The third tattoo I almost got was going to be of the beaches on D-Day. I was thinking about adding an artistic element of making D-Day happen at night (maybe 4 hours before the actual landings). I still may get that tattoo.
Today is June 5th, 2011. I was at the local public beach with my girlfriend, her daughter Mallory, and her niece, Whitley. Whitley got cut. They were out on some rocks about twenty yards from the shoreline. I could see the blood coming from her foot. I rushed out to pick her up and bring her to shore, and the moment I picked her up and turned to walk back to shore, I stepped on a sharp rock and cut my own foot open.
We were both bleeding like broken dams. I kept telling Whitley that the water makes little drops of blood look like lots of blood. I kept my cool (matter of fact, I didn’t even notice my own cut until one of them pointed it out, although I sure felt it when it happened… adrenaline does strange things to the mind).
We rinsed hers off in the water, and mine, wrapped our cuts in towels, and applied pressure until the bleeding stopped. Whitley said, “I feel funny.” I asked what she meant and if she was dizzy. She said she was dizzy and a little sick. I told her to sit down but keep the pressure on the cut. What I didn’t tell her is I was getting dizzy and sick, too. Sweat was pouring out of my pores. The nausea was staggering.
For just a moment, there, on that free, American public beach, I felt a sample of what those men at Normandy felt. In an effort to save something or someone that mattered to me, I was injured, and bled the sand red just as Whitley did. But even with all that drama, I can swear on all things precious that this statement is true: I didn’t need to go through that to appreciate what those men did on D-Day. I really think about that day regularly and in high regard. But the panic, nausea, bleeding, cuts… it put me in the D-Day frame of mind, on a microscopic scale, for a few moments, and except for Whitley being cut, I actually am glad it happened, because it makes me feel closer to D-Day than I already was.
There is a reason they called them, “The Greatest Generation.”
Please take two minutes to think about those brave souls that died that day, and what they lost to give us what we won.
I keep thinkin’ there’s a fire in the fireplace that I didn’t light.
It’s always one of the cats, licking her shoulder, flickering.
I don’t ask why the one gets confused with the other in the front and back of my mind.
Cats are not like fire, nor fire like cats.
The absence of bondage to normal Earthly fears that I’ve killed are giving me nightmares.
I usually don’t remember them. I just wake up fearless, still, and exhausted.
When a bird flies into a window, now, I look at it, and in my mind, I only shrug.
I shrug in my mind.
The reason for that is that nagging question: why should I go through the physical act of shrugging?
I used to feel fear and shock and concern for the bird.
Now, I know he’s just another living creature on the assembly line toward death.
And, if he wants to spend some of that time unconscious in my front yard, who am I to intervene?
What if there is a really advanced civilization nearby, or God? Either shows up, and there’s only one thing you can know, and that is that you are stupid. That God, or that something greater, is what we follow, because we are so easily programmed by nature to follow leaders.
And some leaders are not leaders at all; they are simply entities or non-entities that we ascribe depth of meaning and power upon or into.
I have lead a few times and believe I do it well, yet my own hate for authority pushes me naturally out of leadership positions.
I’m anti-authority, and no authority cares until they try to exercise authority over me.
Egos. Testosterone. Estrogen. Spicy food.
Ron is anti-establishment. He knows that the whole thing is rigged, and he’s not letting anybody get away with a fucking thing, ever.
Love is sweet-tasting, pink lemonade, as long as it is served in a glass, with ice, on a warm day with perfect weather, when you’re thirsty.
My head aches, roughly. Everything below it is in a state of accelerated dying.
I wish when I died, I could keep my brain alive in a jar for a while until I was actually tired of thinking.
Have you noticed that all the fears you have, or almost all of them, never materialize? How many have killed you?
A baby will love you, then like and love you, then love and hate you, then hate you, then love you, then love you for the rest of your life.
We have five senses that we know of. Do you realize that, biologically, the number of potential senses is endless? What if an adjacent society has 22 or 545 senses? You cannot imagine that, can you? I could, because I’ll just start guessing and never stop. Until my brain is in the jar, and I’ve imagined them all.
Pork is not the other white meat.
How can somebody praise God emphatically for letting them live as they survive a tornado, while claiming that they are a christian who is promised a castle in the sky, where there is no pain or traffic jams or sprained ankles.
We’re so limited. So, so limited.
1. Lose and loose are different words with different meanings.
2. Barack Obama is not black, and is not our first African-American president. He’s bi-racial, being 50% white and 50% black.
3. The thing in the middle of the road is not a medium. It’s a median.
4. Using cliches when speaking to people and expecting them to act surprised at your originality or intelligence should be punishable by law.
5. Negative people suck (keep in mind, the rules listed here aim toward making a more positive world by lifting the moods of all of us).
6. Don’t bring your drama to work. Ever.
7. Stop trying to “teach” your kid by their early 20’s, and accept them for who they are. If it doesn’t pain you, too much, give them encouragement and praise. (Sarcasm was necessary).
8. When people ask how you’re doing, spill your guts sometime. They’ll probably never ask again.
9. Racists and sexists suck.
10. Just because Obama won doesn’t mean black people are “beating whitey.”
11. If Obama loses, it will not mean white people are “beating blackey.” Get past race, people; nobody gets to choose which color they will be, and none are “better” than another. If you must judge, judge people as individuals.
12. You can’t prove your religion is right and that another is wrong, so stop shoving it down other people’s throats and accept that all you really have is faith and hope that you are right.
13. Don’t preach about any religion that you can’t even follow the rules of.
14. Cheating on your other half is the most painful thing you can do. For most, that “act” is one of trust and intimacy, and if you break it, you have broken everything. Plus, if you have to cheat, are you with the right person?
15. The Washington Capitals will eventually win a Stanley Cup.
16. Just because somebody is family doesn’t mean they should necessarily own your acceptance and respect without earning it. Family or not, if they are negative, condescending, or judgmental, cast them out of your life (unless they are your child; that’s the only exception). If someone’s life is half wrecked already, they sure shouldn’t be criticizing the life choices of another family member.
17. Pot is not harmless.
18. Alcohol is as dangerous and deadly as any poison out there; stop down-playing it.
19. Men are biologically, by design, prone to “dominating the gene pool.” It is only the most civilized among us that can say “no” to this natural tug in order to respect our partner. Women also cheat way more often than the statistics will show.
20. Women are biologically, by design (or eventual biological progression) better able to multi-task (I’m a huge follower of evolutionary psychology even though I believe evolution itself is a farce): imagine the cavewoman for thousands of years that had to hear the baby, listen/smell for local food, and deal with the horny caveman on her rump all at the same time. It stuck.
21. Just because men aren’t as likely to be able to multi-task doesn’t make them “dumb.” Men can focus laser-sharp in areas where women typically cannot (the multi-tasking strength can become a curse, just as the focus can for men).
22. If you just FOLLOW the natural, legal order of traffic on the road, things will move more quickly than if you decide to stop and wave on another person. Those with solid green lights do not yield. Those turning right have priority over those turning left, all other things being equal. SLOWER TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT. Turn signals are as much a courtesy as a law. Take it easy on the brakes, gas, and turns.
23. Don’t close your mind on any subject, or you have killed any chance to gain further education on that subject. Leave a “working truth” in your mind, subject to change based on convincing evidence.
24. No invisible guy is better than any other invisible guy, and if your religion promotes killing or harming others, then your religion can kiss my hairy, white caboose. If your belief in your religion has no reasoning other than you were “brought up” that way, you should be ashamed. Know why you believe what you believe, and if you can’t disprove another religion, don’t dismiss it. You have a right to believe in your faith and practice it to perfection, but you do not have a right to punish others for not believing what you believe.
25. There are 7 billion people in the world; you are not THAT important, but you do matter, as does everybody else.
26. You are no better than any other human.
27. Legacies are created by deeds, not beliefs (making a note).
28. The world is not out to get you. Nor does the world revolve around you or exist to serve you. You are a part of it, and that’s that. You make do with what you have and what you can get, or you don’t make do at all.
29. Global warming is real. And if you say, “It was 10 degrees on a late spring day, and they say there’s global warming!” you really, really, really need to educate yourself on the issue before speaking again.
30. You can’t do it alone.
Your comments are welcome! Please add to my list; it will be a book, sooner rather than later.
Kev
Fast forward through my first twenty years.
I was 21. I was in the Air Force, in a little town called North Pole, Alaska (the base was Eielson AFB and was not in North Pole; I lived in North Pole). I was not only doing the Air Force thing, but I was also writing for the local paper, the North Pole Independent. Somehow, I even got an exclusive interview with Olympic gold and silver-medalist, Tommy Moe.
But those weren’t incredibly important to me. Sure, getting my first check ever for writing, for $85 which wasn’t shameful in 1993, was cause for celebration. Especially sweet was that I took over feature writing, and the paper let go of their 4-year college-grad. lead journalist. I didn’t need any patience; those things were almost a gift. An instant career with the Air Force. An instant, fulfilling hobby/side-job with writing for the paper.
What took the patience was the third thing I was doing. For the first and only time, I coached a little league football team. It was a first-year team, and I was a first-year coach.
Imagine having 30 kids buzzing about for 2 hours per day, from 8-11 years old. Now, organize them into defense, offense, special teams… separate line players from backfield players. Practice blocking, passing, dodging, hitting, tackling, handoffs, and other tactical processes while teaching them the discipline and focus needed to win, all the while making it FUN. Now, halfway through the season, take a cheerleader for the team and incorporate her into your offensive line as an offensive tackle, because, by golly, she wanted to play football. She hung up the pom-poms and bought some cleats.
Now, there’s patience.
And with patience, you get good things. We won that year; even though we lost twice (our only two losses of the season) to a team known as the Fairbanks Bulldogs, a good friend of mine and assistant coach Mike Dubowski who played college football helped me coach the North Pole Lions in how to stop the Bulldogs, so that when the season was at an end and it was time for the “Arctic Bowl,” our Superbowl, we won 26-0. The League president walked over, through the snow that had fallen and handed me a 5-foot tall trophy. I handed it to the kids and said, “I didn’t do it. They did.” (The man then said, “Ok but don’t let them break it…”).
Point of all this is that I’m living proof that although you may get some instant successes in your life, you can’t get rejected a couple of times and then give up on a thing. You can’t assume or believe that if something has beaten you before, it will again. You can’t snap when the stressors in your life pile up and just “go off” or quit. If your ultimate goal is success, all you need are three things and I’d bet my very life that you get your success, and those are: patience, confidence, and determination.
Go get ’em. Be a Lion.
Hans sat on the floor of his cell. He looked at the bleach-white, thick band that was wrapped around his left ankle. The rumor had only been part true. There wouldn’t be any shocks if they made it outside the perimeter of the prison, unless warden Denny “Dick” Jennings was just holding back that little fact for an extra surprise if somebody made a break for it. It would just set off every alarm known to man. Dick had bragged and raved, over and over… “Wave of the future…” “It will trip flood lights, silent alarms, loud alarms, and we can add whatever we want to it,” Dick had said, hands on his hips, chin tucked back into his three other chins.
“You guys gonna love the next thing,” he had said as they lined up in the cafeteria and started having the bracelets put around their ankles by two men in shirts and ties among six guards.
“Your hero is going to put trained K9 dogs—the ones that had a bit too much ‘aggression’ to be used by police—I’m gonna put those bad boys in cages that get automatically opened if the perimeter of this fine domicile is breached. But,” he had said, walking down the long, single-file line, pointing one finger in the air, “your hero is a fair hero. See, I’m gonna give you a chance. I personally have elected to only put the tracking range of the devices at four-hundred yards. If you can get over our impossible primary wall which, as most of you veterans know, is seventy-five feet high and smooth as shale, then get past our highly-trained, extremely observant guards, then over the twenty-five yards of razor wire, over the seventy-feet-tall secondary wall, where, upon your descent, my dogs will have already been turnt loose to offer you what your hero is going to call a ‘Welcome-to-Freedom Committee,’ if you can get past them and over the final, third wall which is a mere fifty-five feet high, with my highly trained marksmen shooting at your dumb, escape attempting asses, and you can get four-hundred yards away from the perimeter, still alive… well,” he said, his smiling face changing to a serious one—he believed he was an excellent actor … “Hell, you got a chance to escape your hero.”
He looked around to see who might make eye contact.
“Now,” he said, hands back on his hips, “I know how much you love this hero, so I have zero doubt that you would have no desire to leave these fine accommodations that I and your government are providing for you,” he said. “But, if you should,” he said, smiling again, catching as many eyes as he could before speaking again, “I’m going to ask my gentlemen marksmen to hold off, and we’re gonna let the dogs welcome you into freedom. And every dog has his day,” Denny “Dick” Jennings yelled, then, shouting quickly,” ain’t the right, Wacko Hansy Fonzie?”
Hans looked up, wanting to lay low but knowing that laying low would raise suspicions… he was, on the deepest threads, popular with the other men because he never cowered to warden Dick Jennings, and the fact that he did not befriend anyone made his allure even stronger… he was mysterious to them. He marched to his own drum… some said just a crazy loon, others said he must be the guy that they based the character of Michael Myers on in Halloween… even Biggie Smith, the giant black man serving life plus 20 that ruled everything Dick couldn’t get his paws on, had mentioned that he wouldn’t mess with Hans, saying, “It could make for unnecessary hostilities,” which was Biggie’s way of sounding smart while paying tribute to someone who may be, at least in some cases, worthy of his own feeling of fear.
But time was ticking, and all eyes were on Hans. And one area Hans was admittedly weak in was finding balance in-between two extremes.
“Yes, sir. Every dog does have his day. Even that wretched bitch you call your momma.”
Winding down a seven-year study focused on enhancing and promoting effective communications between individuals, the American Communication Association released preliminary results Friday, citing the most effective supplement to meaningful communications is the electronic power-horn, the latest form of the dated megaphone.
Spokesperson and study participant of the ACA, Mehki Vivu, claimed that this type of tool should and will be used more often. “Take a standard two-person conversation; you get lots of nods and head-shakes, but the people aren’t really hearing one another. They’re just waiting their own turn to speak.” Picking up a 10-watt power-horn with built-in siren and detachable mic, she demonstrated. “Can you hear me now? God##amn right you can.”
The study focused on two-person communication aids in three individual settings: home, work, and social. School was not chosen as a setting due to various laws regarding state-run schools and noise/interference policies.
To do the home environment, the ACA chose hundreds of families across the U.S. to participate in the study. One participant, Doug Baker of Nags Head, NC, reported dramatic changes in the way he and his wife communicated with one another. “First thing in the morning, I’d grab the horn and get right up next to her in bed. Then I’d say, ‘Honey, do you want eggs or pancakes?’ Up she’d come, swingin’ and spittin’.” Before that, claimed Baker, she would just mumble and continue sleeping.
In the work environment, results were mixed, but with overwhelming favor toward the power-horn.
Vivu personally tried the power-horn tactic at several retail outlets, including McDonald’s. “Normally, before this [power-horn study] I would order a double-cheeseburger without pickle, and invariably, it would either have pickle, or I would get like Chicken McNuggets instead of what I ordered. So in three of the McDonald’s that I went into, I said the very same thing; ‘I want a double-cheeseburger withOUT pickles,’ right into my 10-watt power-horn. Not once did my order come back incorrect.”
Although Vivu’s McDonald’s orders were correct each time, she did have other problems. On her second visit to the golden arches, a customer in front of her passed out after her announcement. He had been wearing a particularly sensitive hearing aid, according to witnesses. On her third visit, a frightened worker launched herself out of the drive-thru window into a customer’s vehicle, later claiming that she thought it was a robbery. “Small stuff,” claimed Vivu. “Those things happen everyday–the difference now is that we can get the correct order, every time. It’s worth a little confusion, isn’t it?”
In a social setting, the power-horn was rated top-notch for getting a message across. Study participant Andrew Behrmer of Ft. Lauderdale, FL, took his power-horn to the beach with his wife and children. “My target,” said Behrmer, “was the people who somehow manage to get sand on you. Happens every time. You have your little spot, away from everybody, but they throw a frisbee or whatever and next thing you know, your ham sandwich has crunch nuggets.”
The first person Behrmer used his power-horn on was a three year-old boy who was chasing his beach ball too close to Behrmer’s blanket. “Yo! Stop there. I’ll get your ball, kid,” Behrmer said through his more powerful 70-watt power-horn (necessary, according to him, because of the breeze on the beach). “The boy never stopped moving; he was coming at us quick, and when I hollered into the horn, he stayed quick, just in the opposite direction. His parents came to inquire but I held them at a distance with, ‘Stand back, or I will increase the volume.'”
In another social setting, Behrmer targeted people who’s car stereos were too loud. “At one stop light, this guy had some kind of techno-rap song playing so loud that my rear-view mirror was rattling. I came up with the power-horn and cranked her full power–said, ‘Turn that sh$$ off before I throw my wife at you.’ Zip. Silence. That felt good–I did it for the rest of the day at different traffic lights.”
As the news was released about power-horns, manufacturers are scurrying to up production to meet the expected demand. Vivu is optimistic about the change, claiming that if people could only communicate more accurately with one another, half of the problems in our daily lives would disappear. “And don’t forget the pure entertainment value of the power-horn,” said Vivu. “Ever walked up behind somebody in a bathroom and barked out a Howdy-Doody with one of these? It’s priceless.”
–The Unbitten Onion, Issue #31, Study Reveals Boost in Communications Through Power-horns
Alt’s name came from a cat I used to have. His name was Alton. I couldn’t resist; I was at the SPCA one day, checking out dogs and cats when this Air Force couple walked up and asked if I was looking for a cat. I said no. They said that they couldn’t bring him on their change of station, so they would be giving him back to the SPCA where they got him. So I took him.
What is unique about Alton is that he had been hit in the head with a hammer by their two-year-old son (he was just playing) and as a result, Alton could often be seen staring off into space. The choice was clear.
“Here you go,” I said. “How about if we put the popular thoughts up and lace them together. Bill Cosby said, ‘The problem with women is that they are always ‘c’mere, c’mere, c’mere, get away, get away, get away!’ Then the Venus/Mars dude said just that; we’re from two different planets. He also said men favor their ‘caves’ for retreating to during arguments, in order to figure things out, while women want to solve it right then and there. He said women are vocal creatures… wanna talk about any issue, all the time, right away when it happens. Men, he suggested, needed time and space to figure out anything related to the relationship and other issues, really. He basically said that men do not do dialogue to solve problems. And to be honest, we don’t.”
“The dude was right,” he said.
“He must not have included guy-on-guy dialogue though because as far as I can tell, you and I are solving the problems of the universe, right here at table 18, are we not?”
“No, not really. He was right. Guys aren’t constructive with dialogue; we have merely found ways to entertain ourselves with it.”
“Deep, bro. Seriously.”
“That guy did pin down some truths, though. Especially the cave and the dialogue,” he said.
“Yeah, but that was only a couple of ornaments on the real tree of man v. woman. Plus I think he ended up getting divorced. How about the old saying that if you put a nickel in a jar every time you have sex in your first year of marriage, or, in more modern realities, the first year of your relationship, then you take one nickel out every time you have sex after your first year of the relationship, you’ll never empty the jar?”
“You paid for sex?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not directly.”
–The Lost Dialogues of Table 18, Ch. 5, “Men and Women”
If you’ve read The Lost Dialogues of Table 18, you are familiar with the good pirate. He is based on a real-life character that I was friends with. His name was chosen carefully, because he was really the Devil’s Advocate. 🙂
The first conversation I had with Khan was when I was 121-years and was about ten minutes after I left a planet in your galaxy, actually, and went like this (we literally used a common language in the universe that is based strictly on the frequency of tones, but this is, of course, the English equivalent):
“What are you, and why are you on my ship?”
“Off to Hell with you,” he said, smirking.
“I’m sorry, I must be misunderstanding you,” I said.
“No. Off to Hell. Begone with yourself and your ridiculous thumbs, especially,” he said, giving a dismissive wave with one of his wings.
“In which direction would I move if I wanted to march off to Hell, accompanied by my ridiculous thumbs, especially, and the rest of my body, in the interest of progressive exploration, and after I’ve marched off to Hell, what would you then say? Can we move along with…”
Interrupting, “RathoKhan. Here because I want to be.”
I looked at him for some time. He was fixated on my feet as he struggled to stand from the G-force which was about 1.8G and moving from the floor toward the port side of the craft as a turn began. I couldn’t tell if he found my feet interesting or he was just trying to think about balance or maybe not focused on anything.
“Won’t your family miss you? You do understand…”
Interrupting again, “Yeah, yeah. You’re on your way out of my galaxy soon and you’re not coming back… blah, blah, blah. This ain’t my first ro day oh, partner. What the Hell is wrong with your feet?”
I looked at my feet for a moment before looking at his. “My feet are fine. Your feet should not be the standard by which feet are determined to be ‘right,’ or ‘wrong.’”
“Bug off, slim. Feed me already. Could this even possibly be how you treat all of your guests? How rude!”
“I did not invite you,” I said.
“Plants do not invite the rains,” was his retort.
“Granted, nor are the rains the plants’ guests,” I said.
“Granted back, but do the plants not take in the rain when it shows up? And could the plants take in the rain if the plants hadn’t shown up in a place where there was rain?” he asked.
I paused, looking at his ridiculous feet. “Plants did not show up because of rain, nor vice versa; it just so happens that they work well together on most plant-bearing planets.”
“Did they start out working well together?” he asked.
“Depends. Some plants need no rain, and if rain shows up, the plant will ignore it. The plant won’t even acknowledge the rain.”
“Nor does the plant interrogate the rain,” he retorted.
“I’m going to object to the last statement because it appears to me that you are attempting to vacate the problem of you being on my ship and me not understanding why while replacing the topic/problem with the question of why I would interrogate you. Any creature of logic would understand why I interrogate you. I’m not a plant, nor are you the rain.”
“Exactly wrong,” he said, still looking at my feet. After a few moments, he finally looked up into my eyes. “My statement arguing against this interrogation was not to change focus or to use misdirection as you would tender—one should think he can safely assume that the pilot of this craft will not let go easily of the question of the source and meaning of my presence on the ship—the question of interrogation was to ask why you must necessarily question a thing that has never hurt you and may help you.”
I had heard similar methods used in previous discussions among some of the brightest Douzians—the old “It isn’t what you said because it’s a list,” front, which told me two things that I had already suspected but now had confirmed—he was intelligent and he was versatile in dialogue. I would have to continue to fence if I wanted to get to any real information, and I was heavily outmatched. And although I sensed he didn’t want to be interrogated or really even to communicate at all—he just wanted to pretend to have been together forever—I could tell his logic machine was really just going through the initial phases of warm-up. As I said earlier, Douzians don’t argue. We solve or let it go. I pushed, somewhat hopelessly, to solve…
— Name of Alt, Chapter 15, “A Pet.”
kevwrotewhat 