From Nashville...

New e-friend and "Kaboom" reader Tony Laiolo sent along a link to his song "Hey Jody," which was inspired by the Gravediggers. It's a great song, and definitely captures the dark ambiguity of the situation it discusses. His other stuff is solid, too - I particularly enjoy "Beer & Champagne."

Here's the link to Tony's music: http://www.myspace.com/tonylaiolo#

A Long Overdue Update

Salutations-

Well, we're nearing the one year anniversary of my blog's untimely extinction, so I figured now was as good a time as any to write a short update. My friend Nick, who created this archive, was kind enough to turn over operational control of the site to me. 

Upon our unit's redeployment, the Gravediggers all went their separate ways, many of them staying in the Army and continuing to do great things for Uncle Sam. I separated from active duty earlier this month, and will be moving to New York City in the fall. After the Washington Post article ran about Kaboom, I signed with Wm Clark Associates, a literary agency based out of New York. A few months after that, I signed a book deal with Da Capo Press, and the print version of Kaboom should be out in late 2009 or early 2010.  

Beyond all of that, I really want to thank everyone who supported me and my soldiers during the deployment. It was often very difficult to say so over there, but keeping those small connections with reality was vital for all of us. Thanks again and God bless.

Matt Gallagher 

A Tactical Pause

Due to a rash posting on my part, and decisions made above my pay-grade, I have been ordered to stop posting on Kaboom, effective immediately. Though I committed no OPSEC violations, due to a series of extenuating circumstances – the least of which was me being on leave – my “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage” post on May 28 did not go through the normal vetting channels. It’s totally on me, as it was too much unfiltered truth. I’m a soldier first, and orders are orders. So it is.

If you think, please think of us. If you pray, please pray for us. The second half of our deployment will be just as challenging and dangerous as the first half.

Thank you for caring. Agree or disagree with the war, if you’re reading this, you are engaged and aware. As long as that is still occurring in a free society, there is something worth the fighting for.

European Interlude III

Fleeing the rain and coked-out models of Milan, LT Demolition and I venture north, intent on conquering the Alps en route to Zurich to join the soccer madness of Euro 2008. What Hannibal crossed with war-elephants, and Napoleon trekked through on a white steed, we stake our historical claim in a …

Grey Opel?

Oh irony, with your bitter face-spit. Did the rent-a-car place really have to give us the most popular vehicle of Iraqis, the nigh-daily VB-IED threat as reported by the intel geeks of Fortuna?

Fine. Pop in Queen’s Greatest Hits and let’s roll.

A postcard’s rugged beauty. Everywhere. Mountains crashing up out of the valleys like god-towers, rivers falling off the hills like feral waterslides. Where am I? A Green Party political ad? Switzerland is like Lake Tahoe on steroids, without the testicle shrinkage. And sans baseball career.

Hit the summit, and try not to be killed by all the speeding Formula 1 Darios on the winding spiral down.

Civilization. Stick with the SOP. Lodging. Food. Booze. Not necessarily in that order.

What time is it? Who cares? We’ve shed our watches, embracing the time-free existence. The only thing scheduled is nothing. We’ll meet that timehack.

Join the Italian rioters in the streets. Jubilation. A continent too tired for war and too haughty for idealism, instead bonging soccer jingoism in levels that would make Rupert Murdoch blush.

Party on. Sing sing sing, sway sway sway. And sure, why the hell not? Let’s do another round.

Why yes, even the Polizia are joining in the madness. They may not have guns, but they’re sporting some awesome reflective vests. Very authorityish. And no, I did not notice that Swiss girl with doe-eyes. Why do you ask, are you in need of a utility knife? I’m engaged, and in love! But I’m still the world’s greatest wingman – lead the way Maverick, Goose follows. Viva Italia!

Bright lights, white noise and puzzle-piece memories.

Wake up, overhung, unsure what country we’re in now. Gah. Damn it. I forgot to take my shoes off again.

Sniff the shirt. Ehh. It’ll do for another day. Laundry can wait.

Coffee. NOW.

How many days now until … ?

Uhh. Don’t think about it. Spare yourself the depression, and bask in the break. Everyone says you need it.

It lingers though. Like the feel of spider-legs creeping against skin, long after the insect has been smashed.

Back to the Opel.

When we stop for snackage, let’s try and not speak Arabic this time. The overly-friendly Euros start to freak out. Arabic to the Italians, Italian to the French, German to the Swiss… wait … what do the Swiss speak again?

Everything. If everything sounded like Hoefulingburginghamdensteg. Onto Germania!

Lazy days in a University town, reading books, sipping on beers on a river that is too smart to flow. Reminds you of more innocent times, times you know now you’ll never be able to reclaim. Can’t keep up with the kids anymore, be it intellectually, obsequiously, or spontaneously.

I need naps.

My back throbs under the pressure of invisible weights.

And somehow I lost all the answers to a world I swore would never break me.

God I miss her.

Here though, in a coincidence that rivals the return of the faux-hawk hairstyle in terms of happenstance, is an American Studies course that reads blogs, one of which being mine, to help foreign students learn English.

Blanket apology to anyone who reads this thing in an attempt to study a language. I’m beyond certain that I’ve had a negative impact on your language development. I. Hate. Grammar. Rules (so(I WILL Br8ke dem for no goode reezen!!!!!!!!!!!!(*)&^!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Too much e.e. cummings as a child, not enough Miss Manners.

LOLerSKATES!!!!!!!!!

Ahem. So being a minor internet celebrity is kind of cool.

One Euro beers in a college dormitory basement is cooler. I still got that foosball touch, you dig? Fratstars don’t die, we just go into hibernation.

More scattered puzzle-pieces swallowed by the metaphorical howling dog of randomness. More late nights. Even later mornings. Turn in the Opel, train rides across Germany, finding old friends and new adventures, wandering castles and biergartens alike. Not necessarily in that order. And then one sun, it was over. Just like The Hollow Men predicted, not with a bang but a whimper.

Maybe it was a throat-clearing cough. Anyways.

Ready or not, back to the Suck.

European Interlude II

In this post-modern world of war and famine, 24-hour news coverage, and emo music, it’s easy to forget that something as ancient as romance can be true and pure and overwhelming and original and … right.

Big ups to Italia for the assist on that one.

Cue whirlwind week of possibility.

Greet LT Demolition in the airport with a fist-pound.

This place is weird he says.

I think we’re the weird ones now.

Yeah. I guess you’re right.

Scouts out. To the hostel we go where we find City Girl and The-Artist-Formerly-Known-As-She-Devil (inside joke, we’re friends, I swear) watching soccer. Awkward hug.

Umm. Hi.

Hi. How was war?

Umm. Different. How was life?

Difficult.

Right.

Yeah.

Let’s eat!

Then the tourist carnival; animal crackers of pandemonium all around. With pasta. I am Maximus Decimus Meridius at the Colosseum. I won’t shave for my girlfriend, but I’ll shave for the Pope, because you know, he’s the freaking Pope. The real Pantheon, the one that doesn’t include Captain Jack Sparrow.

And some creeks of flowing red wine. And an accordion dude. And singing hippies on the Spanish Steps.

And you know what? All things considered, this is pretty awesomely normal. Or is it normally awesome?

They both work.

Ahh, Italy. Onto Sienna. Romantic strolls through Tuscan plazas, under a flashlight moon that beams new hopes and old dreams alike.

For fuck’s sake, I’m a sapstar.

And then, after a rainy day spent bantering underneath umbrellas, I say to hell with it. I love her and I love her now and I know that will not change so what am I waiting for? No sane woman would ever put up with you or a deployment or a mixture of both.

Good thing I’m not attracted to the sane.

Today is so much better than yesterday. And tomorrow is no guarantee. We both know that now. So yeah. Umm. I’m taking a walk. I need … nail clippers. Yes. Nail clippers. Gah woman, I know it’s hailing water-bullets! I’ll be right back. Tell Demolition to mind the house, I’m hunting and gathering here.

Alright. Swiped an example from her jewelry bag to get the right size. Now I need to find a ring shop that takes me seriously, despite my terrorist mutton-chops, baggy plaid shorts, and plain white tee. And no, I don’t speak a lick of Italian. This should be interesting.

It was.

Wake up the next morning and check to make sure it’s still in the hiding place. Safe as a hibernating bear. Okay. You sure about this? I’m pretty sure matters like this are pondered over. Let’s ponder.

I always said I’d wait until I was 35. Well, after half-a-year in Iraq, I feel like I’m 35. Commitment issues with love don’t really seem like such a big deal after you deal with commitment issues with life.

Okay. Fair enough. It’s a little spontaneous, don’t you think?

Yes. But the best decisions in your existence have been spontaneous. Writing for the school paper. Going to Wake. Becoming a fratdawg.

This is a slightly bigger deal. And by slightly, I mean massively.

Okay. How about being born? Ten weeks early, that was pretty spontaneous, and all things considered, it worked out for you. Same with getting baptized. You could over-think anything if you allowed yourself, too. Spontaneous action is the only reason you've ever accomplished anything. Ever.

Touché.

For two weeks, you danced on the blackest edge, and because you don’t listen, made her do it, too. That will not happen again. It’s okay, though. You survived the test, and grew up. It happens to the best of us, even those of us with hero complexes.

Now you know. For sure. For surest’s sure.

Now we wait. For the right moment. The right place. The rightest right.

And try not to look like too nervous in the mean time. Stuttering like an idiot savant every time she asks you a simple question like please pass the salt isn’t helping matters.

Frago. Venice is drenched in a hurricane, and we’re not talking the metaphorical kind here. Good. Let’s avoid that cliché. Let’s stay on this coast. Onto the Cinque Terre! Lead the way Demolition and The-Artist-Formerly-Known-As-She-Devil. Me and City Girl, we’re too busy being disgustingly stellar back here.

Don’t let the haters hate. Appreciate.

Strolls along the beachfront. A long, winding lunch, and the barest of emotions shared overlooking the sprawling sea in colors too vivid for this world. And a sun just as fleeting as this holiday escape, teasing we mortals with forever rays.

The sapstar striketh anew.

And then it was. The next morning brings the verbal leaves, the crunchy summer-red ones that mean we must go our separate ways. Time. It waits. For no. One. Now or never. Never or now.

Night. A crescent moon, loaned to Italia by way of my Arab friends down yonder in the Cradle of Civilization. One last walk on the beach, letting the crashing waves speak for us in languages we don’t need to understand. Deep breath. You can’t mess this up, you Irish bastard. Back in the day, during all those basketball games with the boys, you prided yourself on being the clutchest of the clutch, the little point guard with a champion’s swagger and a first step to the left that could shake anyone.

Yeah, but this ain’t basketball.

I’m still fucking clutch, though. Smoother than ice.

Pause at a bench. One last deep breath. Soak in the ivory skin and refined grace and fiery auburn hair and jade ovals and brimming idealism and natural intellect and unrelenting sass that initiated this domino rally of classical romance way back when.

What follows is a word-valentine that I won’t share, out of deference to all things personal. Even in the internet age, privacy can and should exist. All you need to know is her response:

I absolutely will.

Revoke my man-card. I could care less. Hearts explode in millennial fireworks that know no limitations of time. Viva. This.

All’s fair. In love and … what’s that last part, again?

European Interlude I

“Dude, for the love of God, if you remember anything while you’re in Poland, remember this – don’t drink the Windex.”

Those were MadBeard’s first words to me as I stepped off the plane; express shipment sent straight from Iraq. What two kids from the American West were doing in Warsaw was as much a mystery to us as anyone else, yet there we were. Him, the wandering freelancing computer programmer, too brilliant for traditional pathways, me, a very confused soldier in need of a break.

What better place for a break than passing out on top of the Iron Curtain. I think Churchill said that once.

Maybe not.

Warsaw is a kind of Eastern European steel city, forever stamped with a “Stalin Was Here!” harshness. Western Europe parties to celebrate, here, they party to forget. I wanted to keep a low profile, but between my clothes, basic mannerisms, and perpetual state of perplexity, I might as well be sporting a Captain America cape. It’s okay, though. The Poles’ perma-crush on all things Reagan have made the transition to the non-combat culture a little easier. And even the seriousness of this land can’t help but smile at my clowning antics.

So yeah. The Windex. Apparently, some of his local friends have been known to come up from Krakow with jugs of vodka mixed with blue sugar, arriving like a roving band of gypsies, striking at the most inopportune moments with their lethal brand of Polish moonshine. My old friend, aware that my immune system hasn’t sniffed beer for six months, let alone been steeled for homemade Slavic concoctions, wanted to save me from going blind. A kind gesture, to be sure.

That’s the difference between old friends and new friends.

If and when people find out I’m away from Iraq on holiday, I sort of become an instant celebrity. At first it was cool, until I realized it was the bearded woman type of celebrity, not the Hollywood brand. It’s no one’s fault, of course; normal people just don’t know how to react to things like that. Like that – being – as in – as in being – “Uhh. Yeah. I’m in Iraq. No. I don’t want to talk about it. Does the techno music ever stop here?”

And then. North. Where the sun sleeps less than soldiers.

Punch-drunk peace. The Baltic Sea propositions with prepositions. In. On. Along. By. The way.

By. The way. What in the name of Frederic Chopin’s piano am I doing here? Drinking on the beach watching the sunrise with a group of truly insane neo-Vikings?

Or did I By. The way. when I stumbled into a random public park, surrounded by thousands of rowdy Polska soccer jerseys, lost in a sea of red and white and diehard religious-like zeal?

Things that make you go.

WTF.

The sausage really is excellent, though. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Even if I’ve temporarily left the Desert, I still feel it with me. Backfiring motorcycles always hurt my soul, and according to one understanding Slavic female, “made your eyes look like a rabbit.” I tend to instinctually search the back of those ridiculous mini Euro cars for loose wires and hidden compartments. And yesterday, I walked halfway across a Polish town before realizing I was holding a loaf of bread like an M4 Carbine, poised at the low ready.

Big ups to the old village woman who started clucking at me as a result. It’s the only reason I stopped.

I’ve gone from a stranger in a strange land to a strange in a stranger land. Which, you know, is nice. You generally don’t think about things that way.

I haven’t heard from the Gravediggers, other than an occasional MySpace message, so I know they are doing fine. At least ten times a day, though, I stare off, and worry. They’re fine, of course. The NCO’s have it under control. They always do.

Knowing that doesn’t stop the staring off, though.

There’s more to write, there’s always more to write. But the madmen with the Windex have arrived. MadBeard escaped here to find, and it’s been comforting to share that with him, no matter how temporal the experience.

Time to get gone.

And I’m not talking about the Windex.

Biggie's Lifetime Ban, or: Leave

I’m running the FOB-gauntlet, complete with stops in Molasses Swamp and Gum Drop Mountain from the Candy Land board game. It certainly would appear that these super-fobbits graze in Candy Cane Forest more than three times a day, too. I didn’t know they made uniforms that big, you dig? My battle buddy, LT Demolition’s driver who’s going home to North Carolina for leave with his well-deserved Purple Heart in hand, and I are trying our best to play nice and hide our contempt for this land of excess. Like SSG Bulldog always says, “it ain’t their fault, LT. They just don’t know no bettah.’” I’m sporting the cleanest of my uniforms, which is still trulymadlydeeply filthy for these parts – dirt, grime, and lacquered gallons of man-sweat permanently stain the ACUs, apparently. This revelation and accidentally shocking a too earnest Brigade staff lieutenant with tales from the front over breakfast have been the highlights of the trip, thus far.

Anyhow, getting from Anu al-Verona to Europe may not be easy, but at least I’ll be able to do so, legally. (Yes Mom, I remembered my passport.) As I hide in the lodging tent to avoid the judgmental eyes, waiting for the next Bird out of here, I can’t help but remember one of Biggie Smalls’ classic life anecdotes; one he retells to the Gravediggers at least once a week before mission for entertainment’s sake. In short, our interpreter is banned permanently from the nations of Italy and France – something that still doesn’t sit well with him some twenty-five years later.

It’s so much more than that, though.

And it always starts out exactly the same.

“You know LT,” he begins, with his characteristic British-taught English peppering his words. “I have not always been a man of family. In my youth, I was very wild.” (My soldiers usually cheer and applaud at this point, which causes Biggie to giggle. With a professional comic’s touch, he waits them out before continuing.) “I thief, I fight, I drink the whiskey-”

“You don’t drink alcohol anymore, Biggie?”

He shakes his head morbidly at this point. “My wives, they make me stop three years ago. They say that we have kids to spend money on instead. I have to sneak it now.” (Note: This has not stopped him from repeatedly stating he could acquire Guinness for me, if I ever change my mind about following General Order No. 1.) “So, in my youth, I journey to Europe in search of women and whiskey. I tell my father I look for better work.”

(More cheers and nods of knowing understanding from the Gravediggers.)

“I first go to Greece, then to the Hun-gary, and then to Italy. Ahh, Italy!” His eyes tend to look skyward at this point, and the wonder that seizes his speech when he talks of the free world returns. “Whiskey, tequila, beer … it was the excellent time for me. You know how everyone love Biggie.” It’s true. If you can’t picture my terp as a local bar champion, wheeling and dealing and laughing and celebrating life with new friends and old buddies alike, you haven’t read this blog closely enough. He’s like a big, black Jerry Lewis, and could probably put more than few brews down back in his prime. “And best part is, even if you fail to find woman for the night, you go spend money on prostitute. Many beautiful prostitutes, in Italy.”

“Biggie!”

“What?”

Nevermind. Disregard my American, puritanical sensibilities. Continue.

“In eight months in Italy, I spend all my money that I save for five years work in Africa! Too many whiskey and women. Worst part, my papers (work visa) terminated during those six months. I could not find the work even now that I actually look for it.” He shakes his head again, and bites his lip, recalling lost opportunities. “A friend of mine write from the Portugal. Come to the Portugal he say! Good work and you don’t need papers! So I hop on next train to the Portugal.”

A dark cloud comes over the horizon of Biggie’s face, as the dreaded F word comes into play – France. “But they stop me in France!” His voice changes tones here, as he mocks the French accent. “They say, no African man, you cannot go to the Portugal, you have bad papers! It’s … it’s…”

“Profilin’!” offers SSG Bulldog. “Dose mutha fuckas even gettin’ us in France. That’s some bullshit.”

Biggie is clearly unfamiliar with the problem of racial profiling on the American continent, but that doesn’t stop him from agreeing with SSG Bulldog’s point. “Yes! Yes! So they say, you cannot go to the Portugal. You go to jail instead. I stay there for three months and then they put me on boat and tell me I can never come back to France or Italy. Not ever.”

I told Biggie I’d see if some of his old haunts are still open while I’m in Italy, although it isn’t my first stop. Until then, I’m killing time like it’s an IED-emplacing terrorist, daydreaming about a smiley face with a bloodstain shot through its’ yellow skull, and wondering why Dos Passos isn’t more of a household name. Keeping my mind off those damn midair Black Hawk drops, flyboys fucking with their ground-pounding cargo.

I guess I deserve such for all the disdain I had for those chAir Force guys a while back.

Shrug.

Onto the Interludes.

The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage

I’d brushed aside the informal inquiries for months now. No, not me. Not interested. Keep me on the line. I want nothing to do with a lateral promotion to XO (Executive Officer) that involves becoming a logistical whipping boy and terminal scapegoat for all things NOTGOODENOUGH. I’ve been out here in the wilds too long, dealing with matters of life and death, to go back to Little America for PowerPoint pissing matches. Not me. I’m that too skinny, crazy-eyed mustang who drives a hippie van with a McGovern bumper sticker and keeps his hair long and actually read the counterinsurgency manual rather than pretending he did, even quoting it during meetings and out in sector in this era of recentralized warfare, remember? You aren't gonna break me, no matter how enticing the fires of the FOB are.

Semper Gumby.

I guess they forgot, and instead focused on matters of competency. Cue outright offer.

Cue LT G “thanks but no thanks” response.

Cue illogical backlash from higher, acting like a spurned teenage blonde whose dreamboat crush tells her point-blank that he prefers brunettes.

Q finding myself on the literal and metaphorical carpet of multiple field-grades, sometimes explaining, sometimes listening.

Mostly listening.

Yes, Sir. I’m getting out. No, I’m sure. Definitely sure. Surer than sure. What am I going to do? Don’t tell him Option A, he’ll scoff at Option A. He believes dreams are only for children. Option B will suffice. Well Sir, I’m going to go back to school, somewhere on the East Coast. Haven’t decided if I’ll focus on the Spanish Civil War or Irish History yet, though. I think I’d be a pretty good wacky professor. I already like to ramble and I look good in banana yellow clip-on ties. Sir.

No, Sir. I’m not saying that at all. I would absolutely bust my ass as an XO, and perform the job to the best of my ability. I’m just saying I’d be screwing a peer of mine, who is staying in, and could use this professional development, benefiting both him and the big Army in the long run. Uncle Sam agrees with me.

No Sir, I don’t think I’m selling myself short. Recognizing one’s own weaknesses isn’t a weakness in and of itself. Crushing balls is only my thing with people who aren’t wearing an American uniform.

If I throw enough clutter in the way, something will stick.

This is the Army, son. Your opinion doesn't matter.

Roger. Acknowledged. I'd figure I'd proffer it, just in case.

You need to start thinking big picture, Lieutenant. That’s what officers do.

I roll out of the wire everyday to bask in a third-world cesspool craving my attention for nothing more than the most basic human need - hope. Is there a bigger picture than that, or just different vantage points from safer distances?

Yes Sir, I will remember to think things out more rationally next time. (Pause long enough to make the point that this was already a well-thought out decision.) Of course. Sir.

No Sir, this isn’t just because I want to stay with my platoon. (Maintain eye contact so he doesn’t think you’re lying, for the love of God, maintain eye contact!) I won’t lie though, Sir – it was a factor. Just not my motivation.

Nice work, liar.

Another reason? Well, Sir, two of my best friends in the world are LT Virginia Slim and LT Demolition. If I were to become their XO, I would be extremely uncomfortable with possibly having to order them and their men to their deaths. As their peer, I should be right there next to them. Hell, I probably would insist on it.

Yes, I know that was a good point. Don’t say that out loud. Don’t say that out loud. Phew. That was a close one. I almost out-louded rather than in-loaded.

Yes Sir, I have full confidence in my platoon to be able to succeed without me. SFC Big Country would be more than capable of performing the job of a platoon leader. But he’s an NCO. He shouldn’t have to deal with lieutenant bullshit. That’s my bullshit to deal with. I’m the soldier’s buffer. (Cough. From you. Cough.) If a butterbar were here, I’d understand. That’s the natural order of things. But since an opening occurred without a backlog, I really strongly really definitely really definitively believe that it should go to a LT who wants it. Hell, there are some of them out there who NEED it. Aren’t I being a team player here?

The ballad of a thin man walking a thin rope. Moonwalking a thinly-veiled rejection of his superiors’ life decisions. Wondering why they are taking it personally. People are different. They want different things out of existence. Let’s not act like I’m a ring of Saturn stating the case that Pluto’s planethood should be reconfirmed.

Don’t fall on your sword, Lieutenant. No one likes a martyr.

Can’t help it, I’m Irish. And. Yes. They do.

Fine, I’m not going to make you do it. (Even though I spent three days trying to do so.) But you are now on my shit-list, and I want to fuck you over for daring to defy and defying to dare. A bullshit tasking will eventually come down the pipeline, and I got a rubber stamp with your name on it. And yes, I know your performance has been outstanding, and we have consistently rated you above your peers, at the top echelon. Doesn’t matter now.

You’re right. It doesn’t. Doesn’t matter at all. Even if I’ve only haggled a few more months with the Gravediggers, it was worth it; I came here to fight a war, not to build a resume. My men need me. And. I need them. It would have been worth it for a few more days.

Victory.

Mustangs don’t blink.

You know where we learned how not to?

It wasn’t behind a desk.

Every day of free-roaming makes it worth it.

The Bon Jovi IED

O Dark Thirty. Memorial Day weekend, not that any of us were really aware of that at the time. Patrolling up and down Route Daytona, the highway stretch that serves as the logistical spinal column for the massive American body draped across this part of Iraq.

“Gravedigger 1, this is X-Ray.” My entire vehicle groaned along with me. Radio calls at this time of night rarely bring good news.

I responded and waited for the details for the latest goat symphony we needed to conduct. “Roger … move south, to Checkpoint AL5. There’s a convoy that has come to a halt on the far side of that checkpoint … claims they see a box with some wires coming out of it. They need someone to check it out.”

The obvious question followed on my end. “They can’t check it out themselves? If it's bad enough for them to totally stop, why haven't they called EOD?”

The TOC-roach on the other end of the radio just snickered. “It’s a super convoy of fobbits, making their once-a-year run between FOBs. So no, no they can’t check it out themselves.”

I just shook my head and relayed the Frago to my platoon. SSG Boondock began chuckling from the back of the Stryker. “Good Christ, it has gotta be bad when the dude in the TOC is busting their chops.”

Prophetic words. The Gravediggers rolled up to the checkpoint, and SSG Bulldog slurred in disgust. “’Dose mutha fuckas, they on the other side of the checkpoint. They keep beaming us and shit, but none of ‘em are on the ground. How the fuck can they even see anything from where they at? They too far away!”

“That’s why we’re here,” I said. “See you on the ground. We’ll check it out for them.”

Now, we don’t make it a habit of clearing possible IEDs on foot, but as we moved up dismounted to the location in question, we couldn’t help ourselves. We’ve seen IEDs of various sorts, up-close-and-personal. They don’t usually resemble broken banana crates.

While SFC Big Country took a fire team to go inform the super convoy that all was clear, SSG Boondock picked up the pieces of the crate and started pelting SPC Tunnel Rat, while using every colorful epithet for “pogue” imaginable. We still hadn’t found the reported wires though, and I knew that question would inevitably be asked, whether anyone blew up or not. I retraced our steps to the north, bent over, and picked up a long, dangling chord connected to a small squarish piece of plastic.

Cassette tape spool. Spool connected to a cassette tape. A cassette tape that contained the immortal, profound words of … Bon Jovi?

Things that make you go. What. The. Fuck.

Why won't the Eighties die?

Kaboom.

After asking the soldiers if any of them wanted a vintage copy of Slippery When Wet, I tossed New Jersey’s finest to the side of the road. I told everyone to mount back up, and found my platoon sergeant returning from the south side of the checkpoint.

“They have anything to say?” I asked.

SFC Big Country laughed. “Yeah. They said ‘thanks.’”

“What, those mutha fuckas’ don’t own no flashlights?” SSG Bulldog was talking to himself again. “What the fuck?”

“It could be worse,” SSG Boondock offered, as we traipsed back to our vehicles. “We could’ve called EOD for a banana crate and a cassette tape.”

PV2 Hot Wheels started busting out the chorus to Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive,” something that the rest of the soldiers either joined in on or started booing. We got back on our respective Strykers, and I called for Redcon statuses.

“This, uhh, Gravedigger 2,” SSG Bulldog drawled. “We Redcon 1.”

“Gravedigger 1, this is Gravedigger 3, we're Redcon 1!” SSG Boondock burst.

“This is 4,” SFC Big Country thundered. “Let's roll.”

“On your move 2,” I said, watching the wheels of my senior scout's vehicle begin to churn forward.

The patrol continued.

AngerSadnessHope: Two Half

There was a boy who went to war, like many other boys before him. Maybe it made him a man, maybe it didn’t. Maybe he already was a man, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe none of it does, maybe it all does. Maybe. Maybe amongst many other sentimentalist pseudo-intellectual theories, this boy had a theory that the only emotions that matter are anger, sadness, and hope, and that everything else branches off from those in convoluted absurdity. He liked oversimplifications. The Green was first. Now the Orange.

Well before LT G was IrishSlim, and before he devolved into Awkward the Red, lived Kid Wonder – a child whose existence vacillated between idyllic and galvanizing, a truth that would eventually survive for far too many years than any child, of any country or station or class, has a right to. That might be why his transition to Awkward to Red, and successive devolutions after that, were so difficult: I was always joining a group of whYkids that suffered far longer and far more than I had. Much of Kid Wonder’s development hinged on his search for identity. In suburbia, where everyone has been designed to be exactly the same, a child seizes upon any kind of asymmetrical variance in an attempt to establish himself/herself as an individual. And so, as was to become a recurring theme in my youth, I went east.

Two years after the G brothers discovered America’s Midwestern backbone in Cleveland, we tapped into the country’s soul with a cross-country voyage to Boston. Momma G made it happen, despite financial realities which suggested otherwise; ever the Virginian, she was hellbent on showing her sons that a broader – and much more elegant – world existed beyond the suburbs of the West Coast. And ever brimming with Scottish resolve, she was to ensure that this glimpse wasn’t going to be an isolated snapshot.

Certainly, the seeds of seeking out history rather than waiting around for it idly were planted over the duration of this trip. We tossed tea bricks into Boston Harbor. We retraced the path of Paul Revere’s ride. We made the trek to Bunker’s Hill – and then to Breed’s Hill, for historical accuracy’s sake. Two constants pervaded our experience: One, Luke G the Rascal King never grew tired of terrorizing the flocks of pigeons found throughout the city (certainly a fascinating discovery for an eight-year old boy from the desert), and two, our nation became alive for us. And not in that corny, Fourth of July parade kind of way, either – although, coincidentally, we were there over that exact holiday. I instead refer to that transcendental jump a country’s resident can make to become a citizen. Just like Momma G planned, Luke G and I learned to care – both with our minds and with our hearts. The Revolutionary patriotism that seized the Bostonian people some two-hundred years prior instilled itself into two young brothers in 1994, although we were barely aware of such at the time.

There never was the mystery to my mother that there has been with my father. Obviously, a lot of that stemmed from growing up in her house with her rules, but in retrospect, their respective personalities also played a role in that. In contrast to Poppa G, who wards off the world with a perpetual poker-face and that famous Celtic fatalism, my mother chooses to fight reality more fashionably, somehow blending a hippie’s ideals with classic Southern charm. The result is an American caveman’s worst nightmare: a thought-provoking and educated woman who can out-smart him and then out-cook and out-class said caveman’s wife, all the while maintaining an air of refined femininity. Just like her parents - from whom she inherited an iron will, a clear sense of right and wrong, and unashamed self-sufficiency – Momma G was as stable as gravity itself. When you’re 11, stability isn’t too exciting. You think it’s stifling.

So in Boston, being 11, I didn’t appreciate Momma G’s grace and subtleties; all too often, they embarrassed me because they were different than everything else I had ever seen or experienced. I was more interested in comic books, basketball, and discovering what it took to be cool. I didn’t know why she insisted on smiling at strangers, or worse yet, talking to them and hearing their story. I didn’t know why she shook her head in sadness at men who didn’t hold doors open for women, and insisted that the Rascal King and I always do so. And I didn’t know why, even while we were on vacation, we watched the world news together every evening and then discussed these current events over dinner.

I certainly know why now.

The centerpiece of our family excursion through history was the Boston Pops’ Fourth of July Concert at the Esplanade, a pleasant public park set along the Charles River. As the concert began, we took our seats on the rolling green of the park along with thousands of others – with the exception of one very large man directly to our front, who refused to sit down for fear of dirtying his recently pressed khakis, thus blocking everyone else’s view of the Pops like a lunar eclipse. While the families around us all grumbled in discontent, no one dared to raise their objections too loudly, due to the man’s size and obvious combativeness. No one, of course, except my mother. Although horrified that she was participating in such a public display, and directly disobeying her order to stay put, I followed her as she stalked up to the lunar eclipse. I felt it was the least I could do, being the man of the house, and all.

Momma G’s ability to logic and debate, though cultivated in law school, were born during late-night discussions in the Sixties with her parents. As you might guess, joining the Vietnam antiwar movement while being an Admiral’s daughter was not an easy thing to explain at home, but that never stopped her from trying. (My grandfather is now chuckling in tired accord as he reads these words.) The same relentlessness that allowed him as an immigrant to become the walking American Dream poured through the veins of his daughter, and continues to do so. I certainly was viewing such in 1994, as she chipped away first at the large man’s logic, then questioned his sense of decorum, before polishing him off with a verbal stab only a Southern woman could unleash successfully.

“Well Sir, thank you for your time. I’m sure your masculinity will remain intact, as you block the view of women and children so you don’t get your pants dirty. Enjoy your evening. And Happy Fourth of July!”

Steeled sweetness, at its finest. Most women would’ve come across as bitchy, or even worse, shrewish, with such a statement – thus pushing the large man into the caveman corner of having to remain standing to salvage his pride. Not a Virginian, though. As we returned to our seats, the eclipse set itself down on the ground with the rest of us mortals, and a loud cheer and a round of applause rang out for my mother. My brother and I grinned at each other for the rest of the night, even as the fireworks exploded over our heads. Then we wished America a Happy Birthday with that specific sense of sincerity only children are capable of achieving.

It was my first lesson that being different was rarely cool, yet there were far more important matters in this world to be dealt with. And in the end, ironically, not giving a damn about what cool is can be the coolest thing.

We returned home, eager to save money and plan for another trip to discover the grander American nation. Reno fucking Nevada never deserved a woman of the caliber of my mother, yet she eventually grew to appreciate its’ rustic authenticity and rugged landscape – even if it still doesn’t understand why she insists on having supper ready ever night at six o’clock on the minute. And over the years, such a reverse manifest destiny played itself out for me and my brother over and over again – after all, you can’t know where you’re going if you don’t know where you came from in the first place. Momma G always advised us to put out into deep waters, for great abundance would reward those brave enough to do so. I know I haven’t always felt rewarded, but both of her sons still seek out deeper and deeper waters. That’s something. That’s definitely something.

With both the Orange and the Green in my blood, I was born to be different.

There was a boy who went to war, like many other boys before him. He doesn’t think who he was would recognize who he is anymore. He doesn’t feel things the way he used to, so he’s wondering if that makes him a man now. Maybe it’s always like that. He doesn’t know.