the crotch story...

          I guess you could say that I've come to the blogoshpere reluctantly, not to mention 5 years behind anyone else with an opinion. I've read that most blogs average a single hit each day. Probably by the lonely little guy writing it. I imagine that sad state could only be made worse if a lot of people actually read what was written. Because those people turn out to be jerks and they write things about the author and don't take into consideration the fact that his mom might be reading it as well. And with the courage inherent to anonymity folks will say anything. And while most people are terrible at all sorts of things, it seems every human being is an expert in hurting feelings. So with that in mind, I've created this little forum for my thoughts, and hopefully everything I ever write will be universally regarded as accurate, insightful and hilarious. I just don't think that it's too much to ask. 

          The incident I refer to occurred on the Yahoo sports NFL blogging site. If you check it out and sift through the comments you'll understand that I was probably asking for it. I attacked the Pittsburgh Steelers, beer and the United States military in less than 300 words. Not sure what I was thinking. And I'm not sure the author did much to help me out. He posted my thoughts directly out of an email, ignored a major typo and got rid of a well-timed reference to the Pittsburgh Steelers as jerk-offs.  Check it out here:  http://sports.yahoo.com/nfl/blog/shutdown_corner/post/A-report-from-Iraq-Watching-the-Super-Bowl-vs-?urn=nfl,138435#remaining-content

          So here we are, blogging on my own terms.  I'd like to stick to a common theme, and that's a peeling back of the veil of misperceptions concerning the United States military.  My buddy Ashton gets mad at me for talking about this kind of stuff.  He enjoys the "Myth of the Army" and points to its utility in helping guys with crew cuts get laid since WWI.  I understand the risks, and I move forward with caution. 

          My first

 entry needs what we in the military call a "vignette".  Because what better way to solve a problem or answer a question than by telling a little story?

           ...  

           There I was, standing waist deep in a Florida swamp with my M4 tucked into my shoulder, when it occurred to me that I must look like a serious badass.  My patrol cap was pulled low to shade my eyes.  My sleeves were rolled just below my elbows and black operator gloves cradled my weapon ever so gently.  My face was smeared with dirt and what was left of my sweat-streaked woodland camouflage facepaint… no, lets call it WAR PAINT.  Paint made just for war, for killing, for being a badass, and for being sneaky. 

          I was probably working on less than 25 minutes of sleep over the last 48 or 72 hours. The brain starts to really mess with a person at that point.  You don’t have to be a soldier to understand this concept, that is, assuming you’ve ever been really tired. So the notion of how cool I looked entered my mind and flitted away the same way half a dozen other images might have.  This was 2005 and I remember that those days were marked by the fact that I got a Kelly Clarkson song stuck in my head for, literally, two or three months.  No joke.  “Since You’ve Been Gone”:  I couldn’t stop singing it to myself.  I was absolutely nuts. Either way, the image of me wading through this water with all my accoutrement was cool and I thought it would make a nice recruiting poster, but then I considered the reality of my situation: 

          Here I was in Ranger school, a thing I had volunteered for.  The Army’s most “elite” leadership assessment.  A place where soldiers come from across the Army to spend

 62 days in the woods sleeping little and eating less.  The instructors say, “We can’t shoot real bullets at you so we make it stressful in other ways.”  Yeah, well there comes a point where you’re so tired and/or hungry that a real bullet would taste great, and feel even better.  And I’ve been to war, and the least controversial thing I can say about today’s combat is: “there’s plenty of food”. 

           But I’ll try to stay focused on Ranger school: where there is no food and even less fun.   For those unfamiliar, it's a school where young leaders are tested on basic infantry skills under harsh, stressful, and hungry conditions over three phases in Ft. Benning, Dahlonega, GA, and Eglin Air Force Base, FL.  It's a place built on "no excuse" type leadership and everyone there gets a real kick out of the high failure rate.  It's a lot of walking around with heavy things, shooting blank ammunition in the woods, and being generally cold and miserable.  there's a lot of grunting as well if I remember correctly.  Most people who go are concerned with only one thing: finishing.  So its 62 days of “suck” with a few hundred of your closest Alpha male, Neanderthal, brainwashed, smelly, dirty, hungry, whiny, asshole friends. 

          My point is this: here I was looking like the Army’s poster child, a warrior, a hero, captain f-ing America.  But I felt like a bag of crap and I was hallucinating from all the being awake.  What’s more, this particular stroll through the river is memorable for me because of what had happened an hour earlier.  We had begun our evening’s mission with a zodiac raft movement down this nice broad lazy river they have for us down there to paddle around on.  The boat movements are terrible just like everything else at that school.  The Army can always suck the fun out of a perfectly good recreational activity like boating (or camping, hiking, sky-diving, whatever).  The instructors force you to sit in the boat in the world’s most uncomfortable position: One foot tucked into the rope that runs alongside the raft, and the other one sandwiched in between the pontoon and everyone’s rucksack lined along the center section of the boat.  It’s miserable on your legs and feet. Ironic that the one time in Ranger school when you don’t have to walk somewhere, they still figure out how to make your feet hurt.   

          As we were boarding the raft, I ripped my pants.   

          And that’s how misery sets in; it only takes one simple inconvenience to send you down a long spiral towards absolute, uncontrollable suffering.  Often it’s hard to pinpoint the event.  This one was easy, because my pants really ripped. 

          Army pants are notorious for crotch failure.  They’re made (like most federal clothing) by blind people or criminals.  Either way, the stitching is decidedly imperfect.  I was already sporting the small hole below the fly that occurs with regularity.  Such rips can be a nuisance if you need to sit on a bar stool, but in the woods it actually adds some welcomed breathability.  As we boarded the rafts, I had to throw my leg over the side of the pontoon and because my leg was soaked in this nasty cold water, the hole became a rip, then became a tear and finally turned into a shredded mess from the crotch down to my mid calf.  Underwear was an unnecessary luxury to most of us so to say the least: I was exposed. 

          It's funny how a man's priorities can change.  A minute before I tried to get into that doggone raft, I would have given away all the pants I owned in exchange for a cheeseburger.  Once the reality of a near pantsless boat ride in my immediate future set in, I rethought the intelligence of this theoretical swap and actually wished for a moment that I had the aforementioned burger simply because I could then trade it to one of my buddies for a new pair of pants. 

          Not like I had any time to change even if I had a new pair available.  So I just pulled myself onto the raft and got as comfortable as I could.   

          The boat ride was no picnic.  My efforts at nonchalance failed as soon as the first Ranger instructor got an eyeful of what I had decided to lay on the pontoon for everyone’s viewing pleasure.  I wish I could recount exactly what was said but I think I blocked it out of my memory.  I’m pretty sure there was some shouting from boat to boat and I think there was a megaphone involved.  I already said that the water was cold, so there were no doubt some references to size and whathaveyou, but I’m not going to embarrass myself anymore with the details. 

          I guess I was glad when we finally stopped paddling and I could spend the rest of the night in waist deep muck.  The embarrassment disappeared but it was replaced by the concerns of what might be in that river and what it could do to me.  I didn’t catch anything permanent, just the occasional waste high branch to the nether-region. 

          Although I run the risk of wearing out my metaphor, I feel it’s important to emphasize the symbolism of my predicament.  No organization is perfect, that’s a given.  More specifically, no organization is what it seems.  Just like people, groups like the military have hidden misgivings and vulnerabilities beneath a polished exterior.  The Army is no exception.  As a physically exhausted and mentally drained young ranger, I appeared to an objective pair of eyes to be the epitome of toughness, stoicism and focus.  But my mind was filled with the most basic selfish thoughts that centered on my own discomfort and need for sleep, food, attention, and unripped pants. In addition to these thoughts, my physical vulnerabilities lay beneath the literal surface of my environment where the source of my manhood lay exposed, cold, and no doubt unhappy and terrified himself. 

          Four years later and the symbolism of this memorable predicament couldn’t be more appropriate.  I feel like my entire military experience has followed a similar track.  There’s always a hardcore outer shell of badassness surrounding the gooey center of absurdity.  I’ve looked for bombs along desert streets, but mostly just wanted to see the farm animals.  I’ve negotiated with Iraqi military officials about combined-arms operations and “Christmas versus Ramadan” in the same conversation.  I’ve given briefings to Colonels, only to be critiqued on my choice of font.  I’ve expedited my time on an IED site by intentionally detonating an artillery round with an unlucky robot, because my driver needed to get back and pick up his laundry.  And my Improved Outer Tactical Vest has a pouch in it where I keep my Skittles. 

          It’s not the movies.  There are no true badasses (maybe Chuck Norris).  But everyone gets cold, scared, tired, slow, cranky, etc.  Coincidentally, those types of stories are always the funniest, and the most human.  They’re the only ones I’ll ever tell.