Its funny the way we first begin to notice the passage of childhood. Its never obvious to us the day we walk out of the house. Its always something abstract, something normal, but not normal for us. Our first paycheck, perhaps, or the first time we rent a car or get a hotel room on our own. For me, it came in the Navy, in the third week of boot camp.
I'd always considered myself independent and emancipated from my parents. I hadn't really missed my family the first three weeks of boot camp. There was just too many other things to worry about - saluting correctly, our first inspection, our first physical fitness test, our laughable swimming test. I probably didn't even have time to realize how much I was changing, or had already changed. My hair was gone, sure, but it was growing back. My sense of humor was sincerely dulled, but it was just waiting for a chance to get out and express itself. Many of the same needs and desires I'd had before I'd joined the Navy were still there, so I didn't feel any different. But like a forgotten toy, when we put our childish ways behind us, we tend to forget that they were even there. We just become adults. And we don't notice the transition until something jars us back to where we used to be.
I received a letter from my Mom. I could tell she was having a hard time writing the letter. It was heart felt and aching in its text. She was trying to capture a feeling in words, and while the words didn't make sense, the feeling came through loud and clear. She missed me and she wasn't dealing very well with my departure from her side. In fact, she ended the letter by hinting that the pain was too much to bear and that she'd have a hard time going on living.
My Mom had spent many years in mental hospitals dealing with depression. By the time I was in the Navy, I'd grown used to her moods and such threats. Needless to say, I wasn't shocked. But I was concerned. I was in boot camp and I had no way of just calling her and finding out if she was okay. Suddenly the huge gulf between me and my home opened up before me and I saw how far I'd come in just three short weeks.
I went to the CPO Hill and showed him the letter and he let me make a phone call. It took me a few times to get through to someone - my Dad and he said that he hadn't discovered any problems at all. When I finally got my Mom on the phone, she didn't even remember writing the letter. I didn't remind her of it. To this day, I don't think she ever remembers the letter, but I keep it all the same.
Ironically, two days later, a kid from the unit next to ours jumped to his death from the third story of the Education building. His suicide rocked our brother unit hard. But for us, being young and invincible, the mandatory stand down time was used to relax, take a breathe, and get ready for more boot camp.
The following week, I was given a new job as assistant education petty officer because I'd scored second highest on the first exam (basic Navy exams like how to dog a door, and what Condition Zebra means). My job as runner up education PO was to help teach the unit during test cramming. As it turned out, two days later, the Education PO was busted and held back a week and I was promoted to full time Education PO. After four weeks, I shrugged it off. What could happen?
The next day, our education continued with Fire Fighting training. As Education PO it was my job to lead the unit during educational excercises. That meant that when it came time to fight the fire, I went it first. Now, if you've never had fire fighting training, I need to explain to you that we're not talking about a little dinky kitchen fire. No sirree Bob, this hear was a Class A jet fuel fire. They had a special facility set up in a giant warehouse and in the middle of this warehouse was basically a gas main that shot flames fifty feet into the air. If you were to stand next to the flame when it went off, you would probably catch fire yourself - no matter what sort of flame retardent suit you wore. As Education PO my job was to lead the first hose into the room, ease in close to the fire, and direct the nozzle at the base of the flame. The second team's job was to move in behind us with a giant sprinkler hose and spray us down so that we remained relatively cool. We had bulky fire retardent fire suits. It was already a blistering hot day. We were carrying a heavy fire hose under high pressure, and we were fighting flames that could melt us if we were unprotected.
No problem.
After all, I was an adult now.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
What A Strange Long Month Its Been...
Dear Readers;
I am sorry for a lack of content. This month has been the strangest month in my professional career. At the end of December, I only had orders for seven loaves and two fishes. But all of a sudden, I've been feeding 5000 every single day. Metaphors aside, just this week I've been handling orders for $200K from Brazil, $60K from two different companies in the U.S., and I've had a complete product meltdown. Our biggest trade show is on Monday of next week and I've been trying to place orders for huge orders coming down the pipeline in April and May. Hectic doesn't begin to describe it and I feel at times like a quadraplegic juggler.
Anyway, I just stopped in here to say something. SOMETHING. And now I must get back to work.
See you in February... I hope!
I am sorry for a lack of content. This month has been the strangest month in my professional career. At the end of December, I only had orders for seven loaves and two fishes. But all of a sudden, I've been feeding 5000 every single day. Metaphors aside, just this week I've been handling orders for $200K from Brazil, $60K from two different companies in the U.S., and I've had a complete product meltdown. Our biggest trade show is on Monday of next week and I've been trying to place orders for huge orders coming down the pipeline in April and May. Hectic doesn't begin to describe it and I feel at times like a quadraplegic juggler.
Anyway, I just stopped in here to say something. SOMETHING. And now I must get back to work.
See you in February... I hope!
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
An Ordinary Love - Chapter Four
The thing I most remember about Boot Camp is the fact that just when you started thinking you had it down, someone pulled the rug out from under you.
To march properly in Boot Camp you need all the necessary parts. To start, there is the Recruit Chief Petty Officer or RCPO and his assistant, the LCPO. Our first RCPO was a guy by the name of King. He was a New Jersey kid who we later discovered had been sent to boot camp as an alternative to prison. He was one of those natural born leaders of people - if you were looking to get into trouble. For LCPO, we had a kid from the south by the name of Latrell. Latrell was intelligent and quiet. He took orders as well as he gave them. He knew when to keep his mouth shut and when to tell someone off. We all liked Latrell, but I'm not sure he liked any of us. He was classic officer material. After that was the rotating list of squad leaders. Each one lead a column of the unit, but other than that, their role was pretty much ceremonial. These guys came and went so often, I don't remember any of their names. We also needed a guidon - the person who held our unit flag and consequently led the unit. There were two rear guardons as well who rotated. Their job was to rush ahead and block roads or passes while the unit marched along. And finally, the most important job, there was the caller. It was the caller job to call the cadence. Callers always started out lame, "Left, right, left," and always ended up extremely colorful, "I want your left, ow... Its mighty, mighty, to let it all hang out." Without these basic elements, we couldn't go anywhere.
To march, we would line up in six columns to start. The Chief would tell the RCPO to move out. At which point, the RCPO would call the company to attention and give the order, "Ready, march!" The caller would immediately start the cadence and we'd start shuffling our feet and then the RCPO would issue the marching orders, "By twos, column march," or some such. The columns would form into ranks of twos and proceed, or threes or fours or sixes. It didn't really matter. We'd start marching and it was up to the RCPO to change directions, "To the left... march!" And one by one, we'd turn left. We were told to never change directions without an order. At each intersection, the RCPO would call out, "Guardons, POST!" And the two guardons would run ahead into the intersection, and immediately stand in the way of oncoming traffic at Parade Rest until the columns had passed, and then allegedly await for the RCPO to recall them to the unit - this actually seldom happened since the RCPO was at the front of the column - and the guardons would usually just run back to the unit.
This all sounds simple. How hard can it be to walk, right? Wrong! The first two weeks of boot camp, in addition to losing your hair, losing your identity, learning to fold clothes and make beds and getting shots, was all about marching. March here and march there. After a few days of marching, though, we were starting to feel like we could do this thing - like maybe we had this boot camp thing figured out and it wasn't so bad after all.
As it turned out, King was not a very good RCPO. We discovered this during the second day of the King era when he marched us into a wall because he got flustered. This started a feud between him and a black kid from the Philly area by the name of Bubbles. Bubbles and King didn't like each other and Bubbles was sure that he could run the unit better. The day after King ran us into the wall, Bubbles and King had words and Bubbles took a swing at King. Unfortunately, he did it right in front of Chief Hill.
All heck broke loose. Chief Hill immediately stepped in like a East German referee in a Soviet Wrestling match. He parted the two men, took statements from the witnesses and then had Bubbles sent before Captain's Mast. Captain's Mast, we all knew, was where the serious punishments were meted out. We were certain it was the last we would see of Bubbles. The fracas had only lasted a split second. It was nothing more than what you'd see in a typical day in high school. But, suddenly, we were starting to understand the seriousness of our situation. One mistake could ruin your life.
As it turned out, Bubbles did return to the unit that night. He'd been given the ultimate punishment. He was allowed to stay with the unit until graduation, but he had to report to Marching Party every single night until then - which was nearly seven weeks away (let me tell you, Bubbles lost a lot of weight under the kind tutelage of the Navy Seals for 7 weeks).
A week later, distracted by a beautiful girl visiting the barracks of a graduating recruit, King marched us into another wall. This time, it was in front of a real life training officer. The officer demanded King's ceremonial RCPO sword and King was so flustered that he handed it to the officer - which was the symbolic equivalent of saying, "Sir, I surrender my entire unit to you." The officer was so stunned, that he told King to march us back to our barracks and report to Chief Hill. Less than five minutes after we reported to Chief Hill, King was fired as RCPO and was replaced by our new and final RCPO, Miller - who was a good old boy from West Virginia. He was also quiet and efficient, but there was the sort of fire in him that you knew he'd never surrender his sword under pain of death.
I didn't see a lot of Ron in those first two weeks. Once, at a large training session, Chief Hill asked if anyone had any questions and Ron asked why he hadn't seen me in nearly two weeks even though we'd signed up on the Buddy Program together. Chief Hill explained that we were in the same unit and that had to be good enough. After that, for a short time, Ron was given the nickname, "The Stupid Question Petty Officer."
At the end of the second week, I was just starting to get the hang of the daily program. I was starting to get normal sleep and to make some new friends. And then everything changed forever.
We were called in to the barracks and told to quietly sit on the floor. As this was not on our schedule, we all wondered what was going on. The Chief looked nervous and agitated. He called the company to order and then introduced a Lieutenant from the Division Headquarters who had something to tell us. The doors were shut and guards were posted.
"Gentleman, as of an hour ago, The United States is at war with Iran."
The air sucked out of the room. I could feel this cloud of oppression fall over me. Iran? War? Oh my God!
"Early yesterday morning, the Iranian Navy launched an unprovoked attack from one of their missile boats and an Exocet missile hit the USS Kitty Hawk (an aircraft carrier based out of San Diego at the time). There were over four hundred casualties and, unfortunately, the carrier was sunk. Last night, in retaliation, we launched an airstrike that hit several military targets and also destroyed many of their oil platforms in the Persian Gulf."
It was real! We were really at war! A shooting war! We all looked around at each other in shock and sadness.
"As a result of the declaration of war, this recruit training center is being ramped up to a war footing. As of now, all recruiting classes will be shortened to four weeks. From there, you will be sent out to the fleet to join a ship at sea. Also, any infractions of the UCMJ will now be taken before a full Captain's Mast and punishments meted out accordingly."
Slowly, imperceptibly, it happened. The shocked eyes turned into the eyes of the determined. I was going to live. I was going to get through this.
"Men, I know this is not what you were planning. But its time to grow up. The tiniest mistake could cost the lives of you or your shipment. You need to pay attention to details. You don't want to be the one that causes your entire ship to sink."
Everyone nodded. We were pumped up. We were ready to fight a war, if fight we must. We were ready to charge out of that room and storm the beaches of Bandar Abbas and kick some ass for all the Iranians that had messed with the U.S..
"Are there any questions?"
There were several practical questions about graduation ceremonies, making sure loved ones were taken care of, etc... For thirty minutes, we sat there contemplating the beginning of a war and our ability to fight it.
"There's just one more thing before I go," the Lieutenant said. "I'm lying. We're not at war with Iran. But had we been, this is all the warning you might have received. You have to ask yourself. Will you be prepared for it?"
The shocked looks returned and then our units Caller said, "Oh Thank God! I nearly crapped my pants!" And we all laughed and the tension left the room. But ever after that point, we took boot camp very seriously.
To march properly in Boot Camp you need all the necessary parts. To start, there is the Recruit Chief Petty Officer or RCPO and his assistant, the LCPO. Our first RCPO was a guy by the name of King. He was a New Jersey kid who we later discovered had been sent to boot camp as an alternative to prison. He was one of those natural born leaders of people - if you were looking to get into trouble. For LCPO, we had a kid from the south by the name of Latrell. Latrell was intelligent and quiet. He took orders as well as he gave them. He knew when to keep his mouth shut and when to tell someone off. We all liked Latrell, but I'm not sure he liked any of us. He was classic officer material. After that was the rotating list of squad leaders. Each one lead a column of the unit, but other than that, their role was pretty much ceremonial. These guys came and went so often, I don't remember any of their names. We also needed a guidon - the person who held our unit flag and consequently led the unit. There were two rear guardons as well who rotated. Their job was to rush ahead and block roads or passes while the unit marched along. And finally, the most important job, there was the caller. It was the caller job to call the cadence. Callers always started out lame, "Left, right, left," and always ended up extremely colorful, "I want your left, ow... Its mighty, mighty, to let it all hang out." Without these basic elements, we couldn't go anywhere.
To march, we would line up in six columns to start. The Chief would tell the RCPO to move out. At which point, the RCPO would call the company to attention and give the order, "Ready, march!" The caller would immediately start the cadence and we'd start shuffling our feet and then the RCPO would issue the marching orders, "By twos, column march," or some such. The columns would form into ranks of twos and proceed, or threes or fours or sixes. It didn't really matter. We'd start marching and it was up to the RCPO to change directions, "To the left... march!" And one by one, we'd turn left. We were told to never change directions without an order. At each intersection, the RCPO would call out, "Guardons, POST!" And the two guardons would run ahead into the intersection, and immediately stand in the way of oncoming traffic at Parade Rest until the columns had passed, and then allegedly await for the RCPO to recall them to the unit - this actually seldom happened since the RCPO was at the front of the column - and the guardons would usually just run back to the unit.
This all sounds simple. How hard can it be to walk, right? Wrong! The first two weeks of boot camp, in addition to losing your hair, losing your identity, learning to fold clothes and make beds and getting shots, was all about marching. March here and march there. After a few days of marching, though, we were starting to feel like we could do this thing - like maybe we had this boot camp thing figured out and it wasn't so bad after all.
As it turned out, King was not a very good RCPO. We discovered this during the second day of the King era when he marched us into a wall because he got flustered. This started a feud between him and a black kid from the Philly area by the name of Bubbles. Bubbles and King didn't like each other and Bubbles was sure that he could run the unit better. The day after King ran us into the wall, Bubbles and King had words and Bubbles took a swing at King. Unfortunately, he did it right in front of Chief Hill.
All heck broke loose. Chief Hill immediately stepped in like a East German referee in a Soviet Wrestling match. He parted the two men, took statements from the witnesses and then had Bubbles sent before Captain's Mast. Captain's Mast, we all knew, was where the serious punishments were meted out. We were certain it was the last we would see of Bubbles. The fracas had only lasted a split second. It was nothing more than what you'd see in a typical day in high school. But, suddenly, we were starting to understand the seriousness of our situation. One mistake could ruin your life.
As it turned out, Bubbles did return to the unit that night. He'd been given the ultimate punishment. He was allowed to stay with the unit until graduation, but he had to report to Marching Party every single night until then - which was nearly seven weeks away (let me tell you, Bubbles lost a lot of weight under the kind tutelage of the Navy Seals for 7 weeks).
A week later, distracted by a beautiful girl visiting the barracks of a graduating recruit, King marched us into another wall. This time, it was in front of a real life training officer. The officer demanded King's ceremonial RCPO sword and King was so flustered that he handed it to the officer - which was the symbolic equivalent of saying, "Sir, I surrender my entire unit to you." The officer was so stunned, that he told King to march us back to our barracks and report to Chief Hill. Less than five minutes after we reported to Chief Hill, King was fired as RCPO and was replaced by our new and final RCPO, Miller - who was a good old boy from West Virginia. He was also quiet and efficient, but there was the sort of fire in him that you knew he'd never surrender his sword under pain of death.
I didn't see a lot of Ron in those first two weeks. Once, at a large training session, Chief Hill asked if anyone had any questions and Ron asked why he hadn't seen me in nearly two weeks even though we'd signed up on the Buddy Program together. Chief Hill explained that we were in the same unit and that had to be good enough. After that, for a short time, Ron was given the nickname, "The Stupid Question Petty Officer."
At the end of the second week, I was just starting to get the hang of the daily program. I was starting to get normal sleep and to make some new friends. And then everything changed forever.
We were called in to the barracks and told to quietly sit on the floor. As this was not on our schedule, we all wondered what was going on. The Chief looked nervous and agitated. He called the company to order and then introduced a Lieutenant from the Division Headquarters who had something to tell us. The doors were shut and guards were posted.
"Gentleman, as of an hour ago, The United States is at war with Iran."
The air sucked out of the room. I could feel this cloud of oppression fall over me. Iran? War? Oh my God!
"Early yesterday morning, the Iranian Navy launched an unprovoked attack from one of their missile boats and an Exocet missile hit the USS Kitty Hawk (an aircraft carrier based out of San Diego at the time). There were over four hundred casualties and, unfortunately, the carrier was sunk. Last night, in retaliation, we launched an airstrike that hit several military targets and also destroyed many of their oil platforms in the Persian Gulf."
It was real! We were really at war! A shooting war! We all looked around at each other in shock and sadness.
"As a result of the declaration of war, this recruit training center is being ramped up to a war footing. As of now, all recruiting classes will be shortened to four weeks. From there, you will be sent out to the fleet to join a ship at sea. Also, any infractions of the UCMJ will now be taken before a full Captain's Mast and punishments meted out accordingly."
Slowly, imperceptibly, it happened. The shocked eyes turned into the eyes of the determined. I was going to live. I was going to get through this.
"Men, I know this is not what you were planning. But its time to grow up. The tiniest mistake could cost the lives of you or your shipment. You need to pay attention to details. You don't want to be the one that causes your entire ship to sink."
Everyone nodded. We were pumped up. We were ready to fight a war, if fight we must. We were ready to charge out of that room and storm the beaches of Bandar Abbas and kick some ass for all the Iranians that had messed with the U.S..
"Are there any questions?"
There were several practical questions about graduation ceremonies, making sure loved ones were taken care of, etc... For thirty minutes, we sat there contemplating the beginning of a war and our ability to fight it.
"There's just one more thing before I go," the Lieutenant said. "I'm lying. We're not at war with Iran. But had we been, this is all the warning you might have received. You have to ask yourself. Will you be prepared for it?"
The shocked looks returned and then our units Caller said, "Oh Thank God! I nearly crapped my pants!" And we all laughed and the tension left the room. But ever after that point, we took boot camp very seriously.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Faith Like A Child - A New Thought
Ariel over at Bittersweet Life was asking about the phrase, "Faith Like A Child," that Jesus used in one of his many lessons. Specifically He mentioned the fact that we should all have faith like a child if we wanted to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Ariel was wondering what we all felt that that meant. At the time, if I gave an answer, it was probably pretty lame. But the question didn't leave me. It was something I thought I understood intuitively, but that I couldn't quite place into words - and now I understand why.
I've often admired the way a really good pastor can speak to the littlest of children about God. They often have to take the most complex theological sayings and expressions and boil them down to their bare essence for the littlest ones to understand. Our Pastoral Intern started out this year, well to be generous, as a disaster. Conveying these thoughts is not easy and I've seen the attempt fail spectacularly. Little children have a tendency to see things about God that we don't expect - with often hilarious or unintentional results. They ask embarassing questions and we just smile because we know their questions are often the first ones we asked as well - "Where did Mrs. Cain come from?" And yet, we think its sweet when they sing songs like, "Yes, Jesus Loves Me," because we know that soon they'll be able to sing more adult songs like Handel's Messiah. We know that as they grow older and understand more they will come to appreciate God more fully, to know Him more completely. But for now, well... we just have to spoon feed it to them in tiny amounts that they can grasp.
On Sunday it suddenly occurred to me what Jesus was trying to say. It wasn't the full blown theology with the five hundred encyclopedic volumes of information that He wanted us to embrace and grasp. It was these kernels of spoon fed religious faith. He was saying that to get into the Kingdom of Heaven we have to believe that Yes, Jesus Loves Me Because The Bible Tells Me So. Its that simple. We, being skeptical adults and sinners, find that hard to grasp. Wait? Isn't there more to it than that? There's got to be more. What about...
There is no more. There is no what about... There is simply the truth and its core. The disciples didn't get it. And truly, as adults, we don't get it either. But kids grasp it, understand it at a fundamental level. They understand the concept that people can love them for just being themselves and that they will be sheltered and fed and clothed and taken care of by those who love them. They don't need to know any more. And really, we don't either.
Our Faith needs to be that simple - and man, is that a hard concept to grasp.
P.S. The continuing saga of "Phil and Ron in the Navy" will return as soon as I remember... I mean, as soon as I completely fabricate from scratch more stuff. ;)
I've often admired the way a really good pastor can speak to the littlest of children about God. They often have to take the most complex theological sayings and expressions and boil them down to their bare essence for the littlest ones to understand. Our Pastoral Intern started out this year, well to be generous, as a disaster. Conveying these thoughts is not easy and I've seen the attempt fail spectacularly. Little children have a tendency to see things about God that we don't expect - with often hilarious or unintentional results. They ask embarassing questions and we just smile because we know their questions are often the first ones we asked as well - "Where did Mrs. Cain come from?" And yet, we think its sweet when they sing songs like, "Yes, Jesus Loves Me," because we know that soon they'll be able to sing more adult songs like Handel's Messiah. We know that as they grow older and understand more they will come to appreciate God more fully, to know Him more completely. But for now, well... we just have to spoon feed it to them in tiny amounts that they can grasp.
On Sunday it suddenly occurred to me what Jesus was trying to say. It wasn't the full blown theology with the five hundred encyclopedic volumes of information that He wanted us to embrace and grasp. It was these kernels of spoon fed religious faith. He was saying that to get into the Kingdom of Heaven we have to believe that Yes, Jesus Loves Me Because The Bible Tells Me So. Its that simple. We, being skeptical adults and sinners, find that hard to grasp. Wait? Isn't there more to it than that? There's got to be more. What about...
There is no more. There is no what about... There is simply the truth and its core. The disciples didn't get it. And truly, as adults, we don't get it either. But kids grasp it, understand it at a fundamental level. They understand the concept that people can love them for just being themselves and that they will be sheltered and fed and clothed and taken care of by those who love them. They don't need to know any more. And really, we don't either.
Our Faith needs to be that simple - and man, is that a hard concept to grasp.
P.S. The continuing saga of "Phil and Ron in the Navy" will return as soon as I remember... I mean, as soon as I completely fabricate from scratch more stuff. ;)
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
An Ordinary Love - Chapter Three
They called them gigs. They were like demerits. If you got gigged for something, well, you were screwed. There was no such thing as a small gig. A first offense - a first gig - would earn you a trip to the Marching Party. This was a lounge filled with 80's music, beer, and hot women - NOT! It was a giant macadam filled with other offenders doing incredibly harsh aerobic exercise under the watchful eyes of disgruntled Navy SEALS. It was designed to make you feel pain for about two hours. To add insult to injury, you were not allowed to shower afterwards. By the time you received your third gig, however, you went straight to the Short Tour. The short tour was two hours of intense drilling with a 30lb drill rifle. If that doesn't sound tough, imagine doing 800 jumping jacks while holding the 30 pound rifle over your head. After that, the only remaining remedial punishment was called Vietnam. This was the Short Tour in full gear (Jacket, Belt, Combat Boots, etc...) in a stuffy room with all the windows and doors closed - in San Diego - in the summer. These were the remedial punishments. After that there was the social punishment - washing out. If you washed out, you didn't get to go home. Instead, you were sent backwards to another unit to repeat the same week of boot camp that you'd just finished. Not only would you add a week of time to your boot camp stay, but you'd also lose all of your friends, and furthermore be classified as a screw up by your new shipmates. Of all the punishments, it was the one everyone wanted to avoid the most. Beyond that, there were things known as administrative dismissals - you get out of the Navy, but you can never get back in - EVER! And the whole slew of UCMJ punishments (Universal Code of Military Justice) like prison time and Bad Conduct Discharges that would basically screw up your life. We learned all of this stuff early on because fear was the number one deterrent in the first couple of weeks of boot camp and considering what we were about to go through, it was good to be scared of the alternatives.
That first morning we stood in front of the temporary barracks for about half an hour as we tried to line up by height at 3:30 in the morning. Its dark out at 3:30am and its not really the best time to make social introductions. I stood next to a nameless face to the left and right of me judging them only by their so called height. I was on the relatively tall end of the spectrum. Once we were lined up, they formed us into ranks - four abreast - and then they posted sailors on all sides of us and told us to march.
If you've never seen a group of 80 guys march on their first day of boot camp, its kind of a funny site. As a group you look like a drunken centipede with a nervous tick. We marched down the road and across a bridge. Up ahead was a giant open space - like the parking lot at a football stadium. We could see that other groups of boot campers were lining up in similar fashion. We marched up near the front and then stopped. The sailors started yelling at us, "Tighten up there, Nuttobutt, nuttobutt!" It was the first Navy word I would learn. Nut to Butt, as it so colorfully describes, was a admonition to stand so close to the person in front of you that it was almost pornographic. But that was okay, because the guy behind you did the same. It wasn't a very comfortable way to stand, but it was warm. As there were no trees and as it was almost four in the morning, it was rather cool in San Diego. What I didn't realize as I squeezed close enough to my neighbor that I could have felt him break wind, was that we were going to be standing there for a long time. How long?
The Boot Camp system for serving chow is rather unique. It basically works by inverse logic. Those who are still relatively new to boot camp arrive first. Those who have been at boot camp arrive last. The last unit to arrive eats first - unless there is some special requirement that requires units to eat earlier. Though we arrived at the parade ground at 4:00am, we didn't get in line for breakfast until 6:00am. We were at the back of the line.
As we finally made our way into the chow hall, many recruits looked up at us - some with shock, some with humor, but most with compassion. "Don't worry, man. If I made it, you can make it." We just stared ahead in shock. When we finally reached the food line, we grabbed trays and were pushed through quickly. I don't normally eat breakfast. And, after standing in line for three hours, I wasn't really feeling all that hungry at that moment. I grabbed a piece of toast and some bacon. Which was just as well because almost as soon as I sat down, I was being told that it was time to leave. I think I must have given them a look of disbelief because they reitterated the importance of my moving. Three hours in line to sit down for approximately 45 seconds. I stood up, crammed the toast in my mouth, and hurried to catch up to the rest of my unit.
We marched back to the temporary barracks and stood out front in the courtyard again. Our names were called and we were told to do something - I couldn't hear what they said. You see, I hadn't noticed this during the darkness, but now that the light was coming up and I was beginning to see around the place I had come to realize that we were quite close to the San Diego International Airport. Every couple of minutes a plane would go roaring overhead. I did hear my name called and when something else was said and I saw everyone scrambling, I went scrambling too. We went back inside the temporary barracks and got our things and then we ran back outside and got back in line.
When I came back, there was a new man at the front of the large group. All those whose names hadn't been called were gone - I don't know where. The man introduced himself, but again I couldn't hear. He was a normal sized man - not incredibly buff or tough looking. He looked cunning, like a basketball coach or something, not dangerous like a linebacker coach. He introduced another man - Philipino, for sure - who looked at us like he was the head guard at a maximum security prison. Together the two men formed us into lines again and off we marched.
As it turned out, we headed to our barracks - the first barracks in the first division of boot camp. We were Company 101 and our Chief Instructor was CPO Hill and his assistant was CPO Perez. We were sent into the barracks in some sort of order and told to select our racks (bunk beds). I chose one in the corner farthest from the door. My bunk mate was a kid named Dietz. He was from Ohio. Though I knew I'd heard Ron's name called, I hadn't seen him. In five minutes, we reported back outside with our seabags and marched back the way we'd just come.
It hadn't even reached 7am yet. By the time lunch rolled around, we had been shorn, clothed, and ID'd. We had even started stenciling our name and last four digits into all of our clothes - yes, even socks and underwear. Our seabags were left behind as we formed into a slightly less discombobulated column and headed to lunch.
Again, we waited nuttobutt. Again we slammed something edible into our mouths before we were rushed out the door. We continued stenciling our names into everything we owned after lunch. And then, we went back to our barracks for a little siesta, some margaritas and... Nah, just kidding.
We were each given notebooks. But these notebooks were not meant for doodling. They were a first line defense in the war. We were to use them to carry communications, passes, and our orders wherever we went. We sat down in the barracks on the main floor and Chief Hill started reciting the 10 Standing Orders. We were told to write them down and to not deviate from the spelling or grammar. We were encouraged to memorize them as we might be asked at any time by any one to recite any of the standing orders. If we did not know the orders, we would be gigged.
He then went on to explain the entire method of indoctrination into the military. In the first two weeks, you need to break down the recruit into nothing - absolutely nothing. It was done by sleep deprivation, lack of food, heavy physical and mental stress, and fear. Lots and lots of fear. Anything we did wrong could not only get us gigged, but one day, in the real world, it could get our shipmates killed. Even as I sat there that first day, I had no thought - no memory even - of the real world. My entire existence was in that little room.
Eventually, the day came to an end. I don't remember getting much more done other than learning to fold and put away our clothes, make our beds, and clean the entire barracks top to bottom in the space of about twenty minutes (80 people a day, every day, for forty years - there wasn't a whole lot of dirt to clean anyway). We got about a minute for a shower at night crowded twenty naked guys deep in a small shower room with luke warm water. Then finally, we crawled into our racks and turned off the lights. It was 7:30pm. I never slept deeper.
At 3:40am, the sentries turned on the lights and ordered us out of bed - and the whole process started all over again.
That first morning we stood in front of the temporary barracks for about half an hour as we tried to line up by height at 3:30 in the morning. Its dark out at 3:30am and its not really the best time to make social introductions. I stood next to a nameless face to the left and right of me judging them only by their so called height. I was on the relatively tall end of the spectrum. Once we were lined up, they formed us into ranks - four abreast - and then they posted sailors on all sides of us and told us to march.
If you've never seen a group of 80 guys march on their first day of boot camp, its kind of a funny site. As a group you look like a drunken centipede with a nervous tick. We marched down the road and across a bridge. Up ahead was a giant open space - like the parking lot at a football stadium. We could see that other groups of boot campers were lining up in similar fashion. We marched up near the front and then stopped. The sailors started yelling at us, "Tighten up there, Nuttobutt, nuttobutt!" It was the first Navy word I would learn. Nut to Butt, as it so colorfully describes, was a admonition to stand so close to the person in front of you that it was almost pornographic. But that was okay, because the guy behind you did the same. It wasn't a very comfortable way to stand, but it was warm. As there were no trees and as it was almost four in the morning, it was rather cool in San Diego. What I didn't realize as I squeezed close enough to my neighbor that I could have felt him break wind, was that we were going to be standing there for a long time. How long?
The Boot Camp system for serving chow is rather unique. It basically works by inverse logic. Those who are still relatively new to boot camp arrive first. Those who have been at boot camp arrive last. The last unit to arrive eats first - unless there is some special requirement that requires units to eat earlier. Though we arrived at the parade ground at 4:00am, we didn't get in line for breakfast until 6:00am. We were at the back of the line.
As we finally made our way into the chow hall, many recruits looked up at us - some with shock, some with humor, but most with compassion. "Don't worry, man. If I made it, you can make it." We just stared ahead in shock. When we finally reached the food line, we grabbed trays and were pushed through quickly. I don't normally eat breakfast. And, after standing in line for three hours, I wasn't really feeling all that hungry at that moment. I grabbed a piece of toast and some bacon. Which was just as well because almost as soon as I sat down, I was being told that it was time to leave. I think I must have given them a look of disbelief because they reitterated the importance of my moving. Three hours in line to sit down for approximately 45 seconds. I stood up, crammed the toast in my mouth, and hurried to catch up to the rest of my unit.
We marched back to the temporary barracks and stood out front in the courtyard again. Our names were called and we were told to do something - I couldn't hear what they said. You see, I hadn't noticed this during the darkness, but now that the light was coming up and I was beginning to see around the place I had come to realize that we were quite close to the San Diego International Airport. Every couple of minutes a plane would go roaring overhead. I did hear my name called and when something else was said and I saw everyone scrambling, I went scrambling too. We went back inside the temporary barracks and got our things and then we ran back outside and got back in line.
When I came back, there was a new man at the front of the large group. All those whose names hadn't been called were gone - I don't know where. The man introduced himself, but again I couldn't hear. He was a normal sized man - not incredibly buff or tough looking. He looked cunning, like a basketball coach or something, not dangerous like a linebacker coach. He introduced another man - Philipino, for sure - who looked at us like he was the head guard at a maximum security prison. Together the two men formed us into lines again and off we marched.
As it turned out, we headed to our barracks - the first barracks in the first division of boot camp. We were Company 101 and our Chief Instructor was CPO Hill and his assistant was CPO Perez. We were sent into the barracks in some sort of order and told to select our racks (bunk beds). I chose one in the corner farthest from the door. My bunk mate was a kid named Dietz. He was from Ohio. Though I knew I'd heard Ron's name called, I hadn't seen him. In five minutes, we reported back outside with our seabags and marched back the way we'd just come.
It hadn't even reached 7am yet. By the time lunch rolled around, we had been shorn, clothed, and ID'd. We had even started stenciling our name and last four digits into all of our clothes - yes, even socks and underwear. Our seabags were left behind as we formed into a slightly less discombobulated column and headed to lunch.
Again, we waited nuttobutt. Again we slammed something edible into our mouths before we were rushed out the door. We continued stenciling our names into everything we owned after lunch. And then, we went back to our barracks for a little siesta, some margaritas and... Nah, just kidding.
We were each given notebooks. But these notebooks were not meant for doodling. They were a first line defense in the war. We were to use them to carry communications, passes, and our orders wherever we went. We sat down in the barracks on the main floor and Chief Hill started reciting the 10 Standing Orders. We were told to write them down and to not deviate from the spelling or grammar. We were encouraged to memorize them as we might be asked at any time by any one to recite any of the standing orders. If we did not know the orders, we would be gigged.
He then went on to explain the entire method of indoctrination into the military. In the first two weeks, you need to break down the recruit into nothing - absolutely nothing. It was done by sleep deprivation, lack of food, heavy physical and mental stress, and fear. Lots and lots of fear. Anything we did wrong could not only get us gigged, but one day, in the real world, it could get our shipmates killed. Even as I sat there that first day, I had no thought - no memory even - of the real world. My entire existence was in that little room.
Eventually, the day came to an end. I don't remember getting much more done other than learning to fold and put away our clothes, make our beds, and clean the entire barracks top to bottom in the space of about twenty minutes (80 people a day, every day, for forty years - there wasn't a whole lot of dirt to clean anyway). We got about a minute for a shower at night crowded twenty naked guys deep in a small shower room with luke warm water. Then finally, we crawled into our racks and turned off the lights. It was 7:30pm. I never slept deeper.
At 3:40am, the sentries turned on the lights and ordered us out of bed - and the whole process started all over again.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
An Ordinary Love - Chapter Two
Every year Americans remember June 6th as the anniversary of D-Day - the Day we stormed the beaches in France near the end of World War II. For nearly the past 20 years, I've commemorated the day for a different reason. It was the day Ron and I went off to boot camp.
Before the sun had even risen, I had gathered my things and said my goodbyes to my parents. It was a short walk from my house to Ron's house. His parents were up as well - his stepfather would be giving us a ride downtown. His mom made us pancakes. The nourishment was welcome, but my nerves kept me from eating more than a couple. Like two condemned men heading to our sentencing hearing, Ron and I left his house behind and climbed into his stepfather's car. It was a short ride.
The recruiting station was downtown on Market Street near the Civic Center Plaza. It was a little hole in the wall place, no bigger than the ethnic video rental place next door. Several recruiters were crammed inside the place trying to remain professional while they conned unsuspecting people into joining the military. I don't blame them for their job. Nobody knows whether they'll like the military until they join. A recruiter, in this case, is more like a waiter - trying to entice us to have the Chef's Special. He wants us to be happy with our choice, but he's not going to lose any sleep over it if we don't. We were the first to arrive at the recruiting station and we had to wait in a bad neighborhood for our recruiter to arrive.
Our recruiter seemed annoyed at having to take us over to Oakland to be processed. I was a little confused at this attitude, but then I realized that as far as he was concerned, his job was done. He'd got us to sign on the dotted line. It was up to us what we did from here on out. If we hadn't shown that morning, nobody would have come looking for us. By showing up, I had reaffirmed my decision to join. As soon as our recruiter arrived, he poured himself a cup of coffee and then walked us over to the government lot and signed out a government sedan. As dawn broke over the city, we joined the traffic crossing the Bay Bridge for the first leg of our journey.
A month before we had gone across the bay to the Oakland Processing Center for a physical. The doctor had scrutinized us, poked us, prodded us, made us cough, and then gave us a lecture on our health with express warnings that a failure to stay healthy would make us ineligible for military service.
As we arrived in Oakland, off 12th Street, we walked into the same building and proceeded into the giant medical queue. First came the paperwork. You can't do anything in the military without paperwork. We sat and gave our name, address, social security number (last four digits), etc... again and again and again as the bored and tired secretaries typed our information over and over again on different forms. The line was a lot longer than you would imagine. There had to be close to 200 young people there being processed through on that day. They were from all races, all backgrounds, all walks of life - male and female. There was no talking. It was like a giant hospital waiting room. After the paperwork came the same battery of tests that the doctors had performed before, but suddenly I could see behind the facade. They did the tests, noted the results, and moved us on as if on a conveyor belt. Had I suddenly sprouted a second head, they would have written it on the form and sent me on to the next station. The medical warnings I had received had merely been another test of my resolve. I had passed yet again.
I somehow managed to stay close to Ron, but at some point we were separated and he had gone on ahead of me. After the medical exam, then, we waited to have our paperwork processed and then, all too quickly, we were called into a small theater shaped room. There was a pulpit at the front and an American flag behind it. An official petty officer stood as witness. The doors of the room were closed and the officer in charge welcomed us and then told us to repeat after him. In the space of five minutes, I had been sworn into the military and had vowed to protect and defend the constitution of the United States of America.
This was only the halfway point of my day. After the ceremony, we continued the processing. I found Ron in the next waiting room. We talked tersely - the fatigue and stress of the day making us look like deer caught in the headlights. Finally, I was called over to the personnel woman who had me sign a gazillion forms and then she handed me plane tickets and a stack of paperwork that I was to carry with me to my recruit training center in San Diego, CA. She told me that I was all done now and that I only had to wait to get a ride to the airport.
Ron and I were processed together, but we didn't say much as we waited for the van. The ride to the Oakland Airport was short and quiet and we boarded a nearly empty flight from Oakland to San Diego. We sat in the back with two other recruits and, as it turned out, a sailor who had just returned from sea duty. He had been aboard the U.S.S. Stark - the ship that had been hit with the French Exocet missile in the Persian Gulf by an Iraqi missile boat by mistake. He had described in glowing detail the battle to save the ship. It was both fascinating and nerve wracking - like someone giving you a first hand account of the shipwreck they had just escaped while standing in line for your Hawaiian cruise.
It was night by the time we arrived in San Diego. We exited the aircraft into the terminal and found our way through its emptiness towards the place where we were to board the bus to boot camp. There was nobody there and the place looked deserted. But we were already in military mode and we just stood there and waited. Soon other flights arrived and other people joined us. Nobody spoke. Ron and I remained tightlipped. A bus arrived and we filed aboard. There was no fanfare, no screaming drill sergeant. We rode down a dizzying set of streets and highways until we entered Recruit Training Center - San Diego. We pulled up to a small squat one story square building with a large courtyard in front and the doors to the bus opened.
A sailor stepped on to the bus and told us to follow him. He was pleasant and we flowed out of the bus and crossed the courtyard to the building. We were told to enter the room, find a number and step on it, and to drop our paperwork on the ground in front of us. We did as we were told, feeling at last that this boot camp stuff wasn't so hard.
An officer appeared and welcomed us to RTC - San Diego. He had us repeat the oath again (we did) and then several sailors scrambled in front of us and collected our paperwork. While the officer explained the procedure to us for the rest of our evening, the sailors arranged the paperwork, copied the names onto some sort of roster, and then handed the roster to the officer.
He called us out in groups of ten. First, the piss test. Ron went with the first group. He disappeared out of the room and the room became quiet. Five minutes passed and another group of ten went. I was still in the room. In the fourth group of ten, I headed to the bathroom.
Wouldn't you know it? Performance anxiety. As I stood there, parched, tired, nervous, strung out - I just couldn't piss. I had nothing in me. They got tired of waiting for me and told me to come back later. I ran out with the others, suddenly realizing that I didn't remember where it was we were going.
I'm not sure I would have gone had I known what was coming next. We crossed the courtyard and entered the bowels of a much larger building. We went along wooden floors in a warehouse type area and ended up in a room with long communal wooden tables that looked like some sort of woodshop. We were the last group of ten to make it into this room (and this company as it turned out). Standing in front of the room was a short Puerto Rican sailor with a chip on his shoulder as wide and deep as the Grand Canyon. In broken and thickly accented English he said something that amounted to, "This is where you get your stuff. As I call off each item, take it from the table and put it into the sea bag on the floor next to you."
Nobody had understood a word he said, but we quickly got the gist of it. The room was hot, stuffy, and we were all tired and jet lagged from a long day of it. That combined with the man's nearly indecipherable accent, and we looked like an assembly line of dunces.
"Psst... what did he say?"
"I think he said sewing kit."
Everyone who put the wrong object in the bag got yelled at and sent out of the room. I saw Ron get kicked out about halfway through the process. Somehow my entire table made it through, mostly as a result of guess work. After another hour, we had managed to fill our seabags, complete the necessary paperwork, and head out of the room.
We were escorted out of the room by a sailor and taken across the courtyard to a barracks building (temporary). We were told to grab a rack, and then shit, shower and shave before lights out in ten minutes. I was so nervous I cut my face shaving about fifteen times. Just as I was standing looking in the mirror at my bloody stump of a face, the officer informed me that I had to report back to the first building to take my piss test.
I ran back to the first building, reported for the test, and stopped the officer cold.
"What the hell happened to your face?"
"I cut it shaving." I was already thinking that boot camp was designed to make you look like a dumbass.
I finished the test and returned to the barracks. It was past lights out and I had to find my rack in the dark, climb over someone to the top bunk, and pull myself under the covers. By that point, I had been virtually awake for 36 straight hours. My head hit the pillow and I was out.
A second later, or so it seemed, someone threw a trashcan down the center aisle of the barracks and I heard screaming.
"REVILLE! REVILLE! GET OUT OF YOUR BEDS AND MUSTER ON THE QUAD! COME ON, PEOPLE! MOVE IT!"
I threw myself out of bed and dressed as quickly as possible, thinking, "Oh my God! I have totally made a mistake!" I shuffled out of the room with everyone else, and discovered to my horror that it was 3:30 in the morning. We walked out into the moonlit morning on the quad and lined up and stood. In the darkness, I could see Ron in front of me and I suddenly had a vision of strangling him with my bare hands for having one of the most stupid and totally insane ideas and for dragging me into it. I was in Boot Camp now and there was no turning back.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
An Ordinary Love - Chapter One
The Golden Gate Bridge was far above us - criss crossing girders that sounded like a strange musical instrument when heavy trucks went across it. Directly in front of us was the mouth of the San Francisco Bay and beyond, the Pacific Ocean. Waves crashed occassionally against the shore, like one of those peaceful meditation tapes. Somewhere off in the darkness, Ron and his date - some girl he'd known in High School - were off doing who knew what. I didn't care. Tonight was the last night on Earth and I couldn't see the darkness, or hear the waves, or smell the sea, or feel the fog. My world was in front of me - a short, beautiful, sweet angel sent to Earth to make me happy. Her name was Chelsea and the sound of her drowned out the rest of the world.
"Why are you leaving? I still don't understand." She had tears in her eyes now. The clock showed us that we were running out of time. Her traditional mother would only let her stay out so late - even if she knew it was because I would be leaving tomorrow for the Navy.
"I can't explain. I just have to." It was a lame excuse then. Its a lame excuse now. I'm still not sure I have a better answer.
There were a hundred reasons I had joined the Navy, but the shortest explanation is that I had to. I was floundering, really, and I had panicked. Unable to deal with the new found freedom of college, I had let my grades plunge and had effectively washed out of film school. It wasn't that the subjects hadn't been interesting - it was more that a case of lethargy had seized me and wouldn't let go. My brain just didn't want to function any more. I had enjoyed three very productive writing years in High School, had written nearly ten full length stories, and had thought myself ready to transition to film. I was going to be the next great movie mogul. But when I finally achieved film school, finally sat down in the class, finally opened a notebook - I became soul wearily bored. I wanted the fantasy of film school. I wanted the fantasy of freedom. Reality was a drag.
There was more, really. Ron had passed a note to me in Script Writing Class - "I'm joining the Navy." The bombshell had nearly shaken me out of my seat. For the next thirty minutes I scribbled madly notes back to him telling him why he was an idiot. I continued after class for another hour and then left him for work at my Dad's shop - but I didn't leave the argument. It raced in my head, exploded in insane rants that I couldn't keep locked up in my head. Talking to myself, I addressed all the hundreds of reasons why joining the Navy was a monumentally bad idea. But somewhere along the line, I convinced myself to join with him.
It wasn't a dramatic schizophrenic moment, but more of a subtle shift in logic. As I named off all the reasons he shouldn't join, I realized that the arguments for joining the Navy overcame a lot of the obstacles I currently faced. It was a job - a paying job. It was an adventure - a real adventure. I would have time to write and things to write about. And, perhaps, I could get into a real college at some point and become a real film maker. The Navy could pave my way into UCLA or USC. I was a patriot. My Dad and Grandfather had both served. And it wasn't like there was going to be a war any time soon.
I informed my family that night - then I called Ron and told him I would join him. He seemed relieved. The next day we went down to the recruiting station and I watched as the recruiter's eyes got about three sizes too big when he saw my ASVAB test scores. He knew he'd just landed a big fish. We tried to get into the Navy's film program, but they couldn't gurantee anything until after Boot Camp. Without hesitition in my heart, we signed on the dotted line and our fates were sealed.
I saw Chelsea that night and as we sat on a bench waiting for her bus, I broke the news to her. She took it really well. She was confused, sad, shocked, but she said she understood.
Our remaining days together - about three months - before Boot Camp were unusually tense. We had been seeing each other for nearly three years at this point and I didn't think we could possibly get any closer to each other. There was nothing we hadn't done together as boyfriend and girlfriend. Though we both knew we were too young to get married, have kids, and start a life together, I was under the assumption that it wasn't age that was keeping us apart so much as a lack of will. When we were ready to take that next step, I knew we would. I had no doubt about it. I loved Chelsea with all my heart - our lives together were inevitable.
On my final night in the real world, Ron and his date and Chelsea and I had gone out together. We went to see Crocodile Dundee 2. I was too nervous to enjoy the broad comedy. Sitting in the dark with Chelsea at my side, I couldn't help but contemplate the immediate future. After the movie, we went to dinner at Mel's Diner. It was forgettable - even if it was cliche for someone heading off to the military the next day. We ate without joy only to stave off the inevitable parting. We drove away from Mel's and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin, taking the first exit on the other side and heading down to the base of the bridge. It was dark and almost private.
Chelsea and I made our way to the end of the path, under the bridge, and sat with other couples watching San Francisco twinkle across the bay. We snuggled tight for warmth and kissed gently. But the anticipation was too great. It was a dark cloud on the very near horizon. We walked slowly back to the car - tried to create some sort of lasting memories to tide us over through the time to come - but, all too quickly, we were back at the car.
Chelsea dried her tears before we got to the car. Ron and his date were waiting for us. The dread spread from that moment, spread like a disease. I tried to be cheerful, tried to sound normal, but my heart was beating in my chest and tears were just underneath my heavy eyelids. We reached Chelsea's house and for what could have been the last time, I got out and walked her to the door. We kissed quickly. I wanted more, something more. But her mother was there, mad that we were out so late, and Chelsea had to go. She gave me a limp, "Goodbye," and went inside.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Ron and I stayed up til late in the morning and then I headed home. I climbed into bed with my dog. Said my silent goodbyes to my brother and sister. And when the early morning alarm woke me not a half hour later, I grabbed my bag and said goodbye to my parents and headed off to seek my fortune.
For the next three years, I regreted ever leaving that house.
The Following Preview is Rated R
Ariel over at Bittersweet Life wrote yesterday about rekindling his relationship with his novel. He wanted some advice and offered some quotes from various different authors about their relationship with the written word. One of the quotes listed was; "Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it. Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life, and you will save it." - C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity. This quote obviously stuck with me last night as I tossed and turned and tried to sleep.
Insomnia has been gnawing at me lately. It is a productive time as the cares of the world wash away in half dreams and half baked ideas that have been unusually productive. In the past so many weeks I've had three really good ideas either during my "sleep" or directly upon opening my eyes. I've tossed and turned and sounded like a hard drive laboring to render a movie, play You Tube, and run Itunes at the same time. But DING! - and I get the answer I've been trying to discover without realizing it. Last night, that quote had a productive ring to it.
As I'm trying to consummate my relationship with one book, I'm about to start an affair with another. This story has been floating in my head for years - lost, without a rudder, on a wide expanse of story ideas. A couple of weeks ago (again, while asleep) I found a rudder and have been steering the story idea to shallower waters so that I could hop aboard. But last night, with C.S. Lewis in my head, I realized that I wasn't quite ready to set sail with a fictional story until I truly explored the factual story that might as well serve as a prequel.
All of this is a long, convoluted, and round about way of saying that starting tomorrow I will be writing a long, long, story here in the ICON blog. This story will take a while to reach a conclusion. It will likely be uneven and sometimes vague - bad writing will no doubt abound. I will be using the story to flesh out ideas for my second novel. Although it will likely be something close to 90% autobiographical, names and incidents will be changed as it suits me to either enhance the story, protect national interests, or to keep from being sued. (oh, also because I really care that some people might not want their names in my blog... really... ;)
The reason for the warning is that it will be R rated. I will not be pulling any punches. You may like some things and hate others. Be that as it may, I'm sure you'll discover that I like some things and hate others too - but I have to live with both of them.
So, starting tomorrow, a new story and a new adventure here at ICON...
Insomnia has been gnawing at me lately. It is a productive time as the cares of the world wash away in half dreams and half baked ideas that have been unusually productive. In the past so many weeks I've had three really good ideas either during my "sleep" or directly upon opening my eyes. I've tossed and turned and sounded like a hard drive laboring to render a movie, play You Tube, and run Itunes at the same time. But DING! - and I get the answer I've been trying to discover without realizing it. Last night, that quote had a productive ring to it.
As I'm trying to consummate my relationship with one book, I'm about to start an affair with another. This story has been floating in my head for years - lost, without a rudder, on a wide expanse of story ideas. A couple of weeks ago (again, while asleep) I found a rudder and have been steering the story idea to shallower waters so that I could hop aboard. But last night, with C.S. Lewis in my head, I realized that I wasn't quite ready to set sail with a fictional story until I truly explored the factual story that might as well serve as a prequel.
All of this is a long, convoluted, and round about way of saying that starting tomorrow I will be writing a long, long, story here in the ICON blog. This story will take a while to reach a conclusion. It will likely be uneven and sometimes vague - bad writing will no doubt abound. I will be using the story to flesh out ideas for my second novel. Although it will likely be something close to 90% autobiographical, names and incidents will be changed as it suits me to either enhance the story, protect national interests, or to keep from being sued. (oh, also because I really care that some people might not want their names in my blog... really... ;)
The reason for the warning is that it will be R rated. I will not be pulling any punches. You may like some things and hate others. Be that as it may, I'm sure you'll discover that I like some things and hate others too - but I have to live with both of them.
So, starting tomorrow, a new story and a new adventure here at ICON...
Monday, January 01, 2007
Someone Explain This To Me...
I'm going to make this simple and let you do the math.
The price of a barrel of oil ended 2006, the same as the end of 2005. So, to recap, oil is exactly the same price now that it was a year ago. YET... January 1st, 2006 - Price of Gasoline was $2.08. January 1st, 2007 - Price of Gasoline is $2.71.
Anyone got any answers?
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