Marine Moment

As Project Valor IT rolls on, here's the USMC 1st Force Recon laser painting targets in Iraq.

h/t: TotenkopfSturmbann

My friend Kurt was in Marine Recon during Vietnam, operating in Laos along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. He learned to be very quiet.

Walk

And that's what I did yesterday - 1.6 miles on a soft dirt bridal trail at Griffith Park. A crew erected a large Christmas tree for the park's annual light show as I strolled past. I'm adding a little distance each week. When I can walk 3 miles without soreness, I'll try running a quarter mile or so.

Five years of t'ai chi really build up my quads and glutes. No wonder I wasn't injured on my first marathon. Now I'm practicing it again so as to build up my quads and glutes. There's a temptation to quit the whole rehabilitation thing and just eat. But then I'd start getting caught in doorways again. Forward, slowly, until my knee positively proves I can't run again. I believe I can.

Until then, I'm thinking of cancelling my subscription to Runner's World. The only section I read is food and diet.

Mmmmmm

A little shark-on-shark action from Oz as a ten-foot Great White gets munched by a 20-foot Great White.

h/t: ElectronicProphecy

USMC Moment

As part of my commitment to the Marine team of Project Valor IT, I'm asked to post something Marine-related for the duration of the contest. Here's a recent recruiting video:

h/t: maxwalsh92

Back in the fall of 1971, I prepared to join the Army. A high school pal was supposed to go along but his parents offered him a new car if he stayed home. (It worked.) Studying bored me, so I prepared to sign up solo. But one October day, I heard a couple of guys from the neighborhood were joining the Marines. I figured I'd go with them.

At the time, Vietnam was winding down. And while there were still weekly casualties, they were low and dropping lower as ground units were withdrawn. Still, the bloody years from 1965 to 1970 had left a bad taste in every one's psyche. (As I've mentioned, from Feb. 1968 to Oct. 1969, 500 Americans died every month.) My parents' hated the idea, especially my mother who pressured me to join the Navy or Air Force like my cousins. (Forgetting my cousin Danny joined the Navy to avoid the Army, got married after being told he wouldn't be sent to Vietnam, then found himself in bullet-riddled Saigon on the second day of the Tet Offensive.)

One day I came home from work and my sister said Chuck stopped by to talk me out of joining the Marines. Two years older than I, Chuck had amazing hand-eye coordination. My friends and I used to act as beaters for him, flushing rabbits out of the brush on a golf course in suburban Chicago. Chuck waited on the fairway and picked off fleeing rabbits with a bow and arrow. Amazing shot. Later a Marine, Chuck served in 'Nam as a door gunner on a helicopter, shooting other things. Whatever he'd seen and done over there, he hadn't cared for.

At eighteen, joining the Marines was the first major decision of my life. And here were my parents and an older guy from the neighborhood, whom I respected, trying to talk me out of it.

I was hot to go.

Run Around

A most active November 1st. Emil Cheng finished the New York City Marathon ("sore Achilles tendon and all") in 4 hours and thirty-nine minutes. This year's race was the largest in the world with 42k participants. My friend Rouman ran in 2008. He said you didn't want to be on the lower level of the Verrazano Bridge coming out of Staten Island. (People on the upper level piss down on you - accidentally, I'm sure.)

Out in Arizona, Kate Freeman ran her first 100 mile race at the Coyote Javelina, beginning yesterday and finishing this morning. A sterling effort by a real competitor.

Speaking of efforts, Meb Keflezighi became the first American since 1982 to win the New York City Marathon. He wouldn't let the Kenyans drop him, stayed up with the leader, then broke away, increasing his lead for the last few miles and speeding to victory. Movies released in 1982 included: Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan, The Twilight Zone, Rocky III, The Thing, and Road Warrior. I know this by heart since I worked midnights as a guard at a jewelry manufacturing plant, lived in a hot apartment, and went to the movies in the afternoon, more for the air conditioning than anything else. Afternoon movies in Hollywood during the early 80s will be the subject of another post once I think of something wholesome to say.

Happy Halloween!

h/t: riotactivities

Ryan Emotes

An acting choice.


h/t: TubbsTattsyrup

Project Valor IT

So what's the new widget in the upper right of the page? For the last few years, the military services have competed in a fundraiser called Project Valor IT. The money raised buys voice-activated laptops for wounded veterans. Not surprisingly, I'm on the Marine Team. Donate if you can and help out the vets. It's a way to say 'thanks' for their sacrifice - the highest form of patriotism.

Running, Walking and the Astounding Bob Petrella

Friend Emil continues to run like a man afire, having completed more marathons in four months than I did in four years. This Sunday he'll be dashing off from Staten Island with 40K other runners in the New York City Marathon. I'm sure he'll overcome sundry running dings to finish strong.

I now walk a mile 3x a week, on an all-weather track or grass. So far no pain. I do more warming up and stretching out than actually movement. It's like a barbecue where you have a plate with Cold Slaw, chips, and a hamburger bun covered in ketsup, but no meat. Not for awhile.

From Nightline to a soon-to-be-filmed 60 Minutes, Bob Petrella's amazing memory continues to attract media interest. I'm off to see Bob for lunch today to learn more about my past.

Dreams

Here's how they went:

I'm in an apartment, holding a high-tech nuclear bomb the size of a coffee thermos. I activate the bomb, set a timer, but then forget about it. Later, I pick up the bomb and wonder whether it even turned on. Then I hear a low-pitched hum. The bomb is indeed armed and an LED suddenly flashes to let me know I have a little over a minute until detonation. In a mad scramble, I look around for the directions that came with the bomb, hoping to stop the countdown. But I've thrown them out. In a panic, I consider running, but know I can't outrace the fireball. Then I feel ashamed, because my negligence has cost my neighbors, and most of Los Angeles, their lives. Leaving the bomb on a sofa, I walk into another room and wonder about the afterlife. I never hear the explosion, but there is a brilliant flash and what-seems-like filmy strips of brown material tearing and peeling away on either side of my eyes, revealing darkness surrounded by a corona of white light. I sense movement forward, toward judgement and rapidly consider my life, feeling inadequate as if I hadn't done enough good things and had wasted a great deal of time.

Suddenly, I'm inside a large mansion or office in England. I work here. I don't really fit in. Even though everyone speaks English, there are vague cultural differences that separate us. The place is bustling, people moving quickly here and there. I'm not really sure what my job is supposed to be, so I compensate by moving rapidly through hallways and open spaces converted into work spaces, nodding to those I pass, lost but striding confidently as if sure of my destination - a trick I picked up working for the government over the years.

Then I awoke. My wife stuck her head in the bedroom and said she was leaving for work and could I pick up the dry cleaning?

I think the message is clear: Don't blow up a major city or you'll die and go to work in England and be snubbed.
(Photo: eso-garden.com)

Sights and Sounds of Hollywood

With an armful of old eyeglasses, I visited my optometrist. He straightened out nose pads and arms before we settled on a new pair for close-up reading. Technically, this doctor is not my old optometrist, but a mentee who took over when my old guy retired - now filling his days with tennis and working in stained glass. However the office remains on Sunset in Hollywood, close to where I lived for many years. Hollywood was a dangerous dump when I moved there in 1979. I don't care how many multiplexes, Olympic clean-ups, hot night clubs, or tourist shops the place gets - it's still seedy. It seems metal fences and razor wire have multiplied over the years. There are streets so dystopian, they look like images from a first-person shooter video game. And it continues to attract the different.

As I was driving north toward Franklin, I stopped at a light. A young girl, early twenties, headed toward the crosswalk, all unisexed up in a man's dress shirt and tie, ball cap on sideways, tight jeans. Stepping off the curb, she passed a middle-aged Mexican guy with a shaved head, digging through a garbage bin and plucking out aluminum cans.

"You're recycling, recycling, recycling, that's so cool," she called. "I love you."

The Mexican guy lifted his head out of the garbage and called, "Yeah? Then kiss me."

But Unisex flounced across the street, head full of love, environmental purity, and cluelessness.

Ah, Hollywood: where the show never ends. Almost enough to make me nostalgic. Almost.