In a moment of annoyance, I called Liam Badpenny. I had just began directing through a workshop style theatre company ran by two close friends of mine. It was my first project and I was excited. The message I left for Liam went something like: “I just wanted to know when you thought we might get together and talk. I was planning a rehearsal schedule and I wanted to know when you might be free.”

I have to admit it came out a little angrier than I had expected because I knew that he was out of town. I know he knew that I knew he was out of town and I didn’t understand why he just wouldn’t fucking tell me. This was in the days before I knew that Liam Badpenny liked to play little games. I was an unwitting participant.

After not hearing from him for a couple of more days (he’d been gone a week), I sent him an e-mail talking about meditating and a little about my yoga practice. Again going for that old really getting to know each other thing. Also, nothing runs a guy off like a little talk about spirituality. And since I had already figured out that there was going to be no face to face discussion about the night he publicly declared he was desperate for sex and had drunkenly hurt me in bed, but I had stayed because I was worried for his well-being, I mentioned it in the e-mail as well. I also told him that I had not regretted our time together and if he thought it was best to let go, I understood.

He responded with an e-mail telling me that he thought I was two different people – one open and willing to explore and the other bitter. He went on to say that he never meditated and it was through enjoying his friends that he enjoyed his life. That last part was fine with me. I was looking for understanding, not out to convert.

I answered that I was not bitter – which I wasn’t at that point. I had no idea how he got that. This was in the days before I knew how manipulative he was. I went on to say that I was not two different people, he just considered me open and willing to explore when I was doing what he wanted me to do i.e. having sex and, to him I was bitter and closed off when I wasn’t what he wanted me to be. I went on to say that I felt like I was dealing with two different people – one exciting and warm like he was with his friends and one cold and condescending like he often was with me.

Liam Badpenny did not respond.

In the next week, I made arrangements to visit my parents in Illinois for ten days around the 4th of July. A trip back home to the Midwest would be good for clearing my head and reminding me of who I was. I would’ve like to have asked Liam if he knew when he was going to be traveling so I could schedule the trip around him, but since he had previously left town without telling me, I figured he would have been unwilling to discuss travel plans that were a whole five weeks away. Odds are he would be traveling.

In that time, I also decided to do a Yogi Cleanse that I would begin on the following Monday. It was a ten day regimen that involved a very restrictive diet designed by Yogi Bhajan himself. There were also early morning yoga classes taught by one of my least favorite gurus. Guru Dahn was a bit too much of a Yogi Bhajan disciple for my taste. Ah well, it was about learning and I could also work on my patience and tolerance.

An entire week past before I heard from Liam Badpenny again. I received an e-mail saying, “Shall we make up?”

I responded, “Yes. Yes. Yes.” By that time I was feeling lonely and, let‘s not forget hungry being that I was at the start of Day 2 of my cleanse. Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.

He called me the next day. It was a Wednesday. He was back in town. He invited me to meet him after soccer. He and Puck and  another man from their seniors’ soccer league were going to Bubba Gump’s on the Santa Monica Pier.

Heading that way around 8:30 in my Toyota, I wore a tight black T-shirt with a golden glitter pattern on the front and tight blue jeans. My long red hair hung loose and I wore my glasses. I looked all right but didn’t make too much of an effort. They were all going to be sweaty and dirty from playing and I wasn’t about to show up overdressed.

The cleanse was giving me some serious gas. That heavy, thick, lingering kind made of fruit, broccoli and other greens. I kept my windows rolled down as I drove. Despite the disgusting odor of an endless series of freshly released flatulence, like anyone else, I got used to the smell. I no longer noticed it by the time I arrived at the Pier fifteen minutes later.

Most of the time, I rode my bike to the Pier, so I wasn’t terribly familiar with parking. I ended up in the lower main lot, about 100 feet from Bubba Gump’s. There was another, small lot, on the Pier level, but I assumed it would be more expensive, plus I had driven by it. I was young, I could stand a little exercise.

Inside Bubba Gump’s, I discovered Puck and Liam flirting with a pretty blonde woman who was sitting at the bar. No surprises there. I sat down next to Liam. He put his arm on my shoulder, but continued speaking with and focusing on the blonde. She was saying how she would love to learn to scuba dive. Puck was telling her that he could teach her, though Liam was the ex-Navy Seal and more of the expert. She giggled and cooed and eventually wound around to mentioning her boyfriend, actually I believe he was her fiance.

In addition to Puck, there was a third man – bald, slightly scruffy with a long face and round, metal rimmed glasses that gave him a retro-intellectual look. Although naturally balding, I could tell from the stubble of scalp hair encircling his head that he shaved the rest. He wasn’t as in good of shape as Liam, thinner arms, more of a pooch around the mid section. Though he wasn’t fat, he had a little bit of an extra chin. Still, there was something about his eyes – kind and genuine – that made him quite attractive. He was probably around the same age as Puck and Liam, though he looked to be a bit younger.

Suddenly, I realized I knew his face. He was one of the five men in the picture that included Liam and Puck on the mantle of Liam Badpenny’s bedroom fireplace.

After the young blonde left, Liam introduced me to the new guy.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” he was sincere and spoke gently. I was taken aback because I believed he was telling the truth and not just spouting the cliché. I wondered what Liam Badpenny had said about me. I probably drove him nuts. Or, it was probably about the sex. Great.

I smiled politely and tried not to assume. I said “Thank you,” though I hadn’t actually received a compliment. Or, perhaps I had. Who the fuck knew?

Liam Badpenny turned to me, “Now we are going to speak in Hebrew. When we’re with your friends, we’ll speak English.”

“Sure.” That was fine with me. They always spoke Hebrew in front of me anyway and, usually, Liam Badpenny didn’t bother to pardon the somewhat rude practice that barred my participating in the conversation. I was only a woman. I didn’t need to speak. Tonight, however, he acknowledged what had become a custom. He’d just got back in town. He wanted to get laid. He was feeling magnanimous.

Before embarking onto a foreign linguistic sea, Liam Badpenny asked if I had heard of a certain popular Jewish dating site to which I replied that I had. “The Nice One. He helped create this site.”

I had heard of the site because my dear friend, Gaby, had used it to try to meet someone. It didn’t work out for her. To be fair, she tried other dating sites and those didn’t work out for her either. I had never been on The Nice One’s site as I had lacked the proper pedigree, but dating sites had been disastrous for me as well. No surprises there.

They laughed and talked in Hebrew for a bit. Liam asked me if I wanted anything to eat or drink. I told him I had just started a cleanse. He looked at me as if I grew a second head. I explained a bit about the cleanse. He rolled his eyes and glanced at me with some contempt before returning to the Hebrew conversation. From the way he gestured behind himself toward me with his thumb and continued to roll his eyes, I surmised, he was telling his friends what I had just told him, adding a bit of his own commentary.

This interpretation was confirmed when Puck said to me, “What can you eat on this cleanse?”

“Well, it varies from day to day. You have to do the Master Cleanse – you know with lemon juice, molasses and cayenne pepper?”

He nodded. A lot of folks in LA had heard of the Master Cleanse.

“So you drink that throughout the day. There’s lots of juicing. And I can have some fruit and veggies. Some grains on certain days and nuts. But only certain ones. And some days there are less options than others.”

“I was thinking I might try something like that,” he popped some bar nuts in his mouth.

Liam Badpenny had been staring at me as if perhaps I wasn’t a total embarrassment to him after all. The conversation continued in English as a basket of French fries and three draft beers arrived. Puck asked Liam about his son. Liam said he was doing well and would be seeing him in Israel soon. He continued that he was also planning to go to South Africa on the same trip.

“When is this trip?” I asked not really expecting him to tell me.

“Beginning of July.” Liam Badpenny curled the corners of his mouth down, tossed his head to one side and let loose a single, high pitched staccato grunt to let me know it was an estimate. God forbid he ever be specific about his top secret travel plans.

Then Puck piped in, “Have you ever wanted to go to Africa?”

“Sure. I would love to travel more.” It was true. I often considered joining the Peacecorp just so I could see some of the world before I died.

Puck went on, “Maybe you could travel with Liam…”

Even I knew that was ridiculous. My little trip to the Santa Ynez Airport was probably as much traveling as I was going to do with Liam Badpenny. Still, it didn’t make me feel any better to watch Liam utterly frozen in a blind panic when Puck made the suggestion. Liam stared straight forward and didn’t move for some several seconds.

When that little bit of awkwardness was over, the conversation continued. Puck, who had been doing most of the talking, went on doing just that. He was outraged that the HBO movie Recount had been shown recently in his 13 year old daughter’s junior high history class.

“All these fucking liberals in LA. Why do they show this? And they show nothing, Liam, to…uh…to balance it out.” Which may have been a fair point.

But again, I did not want to get into politics where I was outnumbered. Definitely did NOT want to talk about how I knew the night of the 2000 election that something weird was going on in Florida. As soon as the networks started giving it to Gore and Bush said, almost sinisterly that it wasn’t right. Florida was going to him. And, sure enough, Florida went to him.

Fucking Gore shouldn’t have allowed it to be that close, though. Terrible campaign. We were coming off a prosperous time for the country. The economy was good. And, he can’t fucking win the election as the current, much beloved, albeit controversial president’s VP?

A former African American lobbyist I once worked for observed, “He distanced himself too much from Clinton.” And she was right. Gore should’ve just said, “Hey folks, I’m going to keep the country running smooth and I’m only going to fuck my wife.”

The entirety of the above opinions, I kept to myself. Did one of those gentle repeated bob nods so Puck would know I was listening. Other than acknowledgment, I offered no response. He began repeating himself in various forms. I kept nodding all the while wondering about him as a father. If his kid was only 13, then he must’ve had a wife. Sure, he might’ve been divorced, but that didn’t seem right. He wasn’t the single parent type. Hm. Sweet Brazil was definitely not his spouse. Was Liam Badpenny married? The thought made me a little nauseous.

After two beers a piece for the boys and emptying the basket of fries, it was time for us to go. Liam asked if I could give him a ride home. He had ridden with Puck to soccer. I said sure. We said our goodbyes to his buddies and exited opposite directions from Bubba Gump’s – Puck and the Nice One toward their autos which were parked quite close on the upper lot, Liam and I to my car some 100 or so feet away.

Liam limped across the parking lot, having stiffened on the bar stool after an overly vigorous workout for a man of his age. Soccer was too hard on his knees.  He should be finding some other way of keeping in shape, but it wasn‘t for me to say. “Why are you parked all the way down here?” He complained. You think like a poor person.”

“I am a poor person.” Guess that fact had temporarily escaped him.

“Don’t walk so fast,” Liam put his hand on my shoulder to reduce my pace. After a few more steps, he pulled out his wallet and asked how much I needed for parking. I politely refused his offer.

We slowly strolled the last 50 feet to my car. I opened the door and was hit in the face by my trapped, rancid flatulence. Before I unlocked all the doors, I quickly rolled down the windows. It was so disgusting that I still didn’t let Liam Badpenny in. I started the car and turned the air conditioner on full blast, then finally unlocked his door. I know he thought it was strange. I did it so quickly he didn’t have time to comment, though he would soon ask me to turn off the air and roll up the windows because it was cold. At that point, I had either again gotten used to my own stink or it was blown out of the car.

We arrived at his place where I found a parking space pretty nearby as to minimize the distance Liam would have to limp to his building. In the elevator, Liam Badpenny pulled out his keys. One of the attached key chains was a kind of metal, bluish gray set of elongated Batman wings. Liam saw me staring and said, “Navy Seals. I keep it on here because it’s good for getting girls.”

Oh my God. What a fucking moron I was. Here I had been wondering and worrying nearly from the beginning of our relationship about Liam Badpenny’s soldier past. He probably had told me he fought in a war because he knew it created a certain mystique.

I would either do what I had done and sympathize with his ordeal, thus being emotionally drawn in. Or, I would think it was hot that he had killed people as I’m sure some more fun girls might’ve believed. He had created a highly successful business. The guy presumably knew something about marketing. How much did he put into marketing himself? And, in the end, would the product live up to the hype? Ok, maybe my reaction was a bit too cynical…

Once inside his condo, we went straight to the bedroom and made love. Liam laid on top of me. I held onto his arms, kissing his chest while he thrust in and out for a few minutes until he came. I was comfortable…it was the best for which I could ask. This I understood.

After that, we lay naked and watched television. Liam Badpenny stopped flipping channels on The Daily Show shortly after commenting that Fox was the only network that could be trusted. It was an ironic juxtaposition. Though Jon Stewart took good and well deserved shots at all sides, he was liberal and unequivocally anti-Fox.

I placed my head near the right edge of Liam Badpenny’s chest. I stretched my right arm over his upper belly, leaving my hand to dangle off his left side near the waist. My fingertips gently stroked back and forth as if blown by a light wind.

A commercial came on. Drained, a sudden shiver rode over my naked skin. I snuggled against him. Liam Badpenny turned off the television and pulled me closer. I rolled my fingers over his chest and stomach -  lightly with only the very tip, the kind of touch that raises sweet, tingling gooseflesh.

His hand wandered over my body. Not as light as my touch, but exceedingly tender for a man like him. I rolled on my back, his other arm still underneath me. He continued stroking my skin.

Then, he did for the first time what would become one of my favorite things, a frequent sensual gesture unique to him. He gently and methodically pressed his palm into my hip, then thigh and tummy. I thought it strange his exploring my body this way, like a giant kitten’s paw kneading flesh. I concentrated on the size and texture of Liam Badpenny’s hand as if I were a sculpture and he were an artist putting the final touches on a nearly finished masterpiece.

We kissed. And groped. I swung my leg over his hip as he turned on his side to face me. More kissing. He rolled on top of me, in between my legs. He was inside me. Easily, effortlessly before I barely realized. Not moving. Pulsing. My legs were spread wide, knees pulled back toward my chest. His cheek touching my cheek, we nuzzled like baby black bears. Lips brushing. Noses sliding over each other in tiny Eskimo kisses. The stubble on his chin lightly scratching my forehead.

He moved. Slowly. My breath moved with him. The soles of our feet found each other, mine gliding over his like a fine layer of desert sand displaced by a warm breeze. I had heard, according to a certain Eastern philosophy that the hands were what connected us to the earth while the feet grounded us in the heavens. Strange, backward logic, I had thought at the time. Now I understood….

The nuzzling, the thrusting, the dancing of feet all happening simultaneously. In my arms, now it was my turn to sculpt Liam Badpenny’s back from the soft flesh protecting the kidneys to the wide strong shoulders under which I was buried.

I didn’t want to come. I didn’t want him to come. I wanted to stay like this forever. Two soft, animated sculptures molding into each other like clay until they were nothing but breath. Nothing but air. Invisible. Good invisible. Shared invisible. Perfect invisible.

When we finished making love for the second time – a surprisingly sensual and deeply pleasurable time – Liam Badpenny held me very close under the covers. He didn’t like sheets, so covers meant a single duvet. After bit of silence, I told him that I had started on Shantaram. He asked me how I liked it. I told him that I had never been to India but I could see it. I could even smell the food and the streets…

“That’s when you know the writing is good,” Liam Badpenny smiled. He was glad I was reading the book. “What about the other one?”

“Oh, I read about half of it.” I did not like that one as much and had lost interest, but I didn’t say that. “It was fascinating when the author was talking about how the cod fish trade helped revive slavery, because you could suddenly feed a lot of people sustainable meals for cheap and get better value out of your captive labor force.”

He didn’t respond to that. It was quiet for a few more moments and he started talking about books again. He said that sometimes he liked to read the same book in English and in Hebrew. He said sometimes the original would be better and sometimes he would like the translation better. We both agreed we hated it when we knew we were reading a bad translation.

He was trying to remember the name of an ancient Greek story about the Trojan War and I said it was either The Iliad or The Odyssey. He asked me what was the difference?

“The Iliad is about the Trojan War itself that goes on for ten years. And The Odyssey is where Odysseus is trying to get home and he pisses off Poseidon and it ends up taking him ten years to get there. It’s got the Cyclops and the Sirens…”

“Have you ever read The Art of War?” Liam asked me.

“No, but I‘ve heard of it.” My head was still lying against his chest.

“This is one of my favorite books. There is a very good part where this guy who has come to convince the king that he should train the army…he’s showing the king and he asks for all the concubines to be brought out. And this guy he gives them orders to march and turn together. The concubines they all giggle and they turn this way and that way. So, he asks for the king’s favorite concubine and he chops off her head. After that, all the other concubines, they all march perfect. And the guy, he trains the army.”

Liam Badpenny found the beheading of the favorite concubine quite amusing. There was a kind of gigantic red siren flashing in my head that somehow I managed to ignore though it was blinding and deafening. My success may have had something to do with the fact we had just had truly intimate and fulfilling sex for the first time in our relationship.

Still I was bothered by his laughter at the poor woman’s undeserved fate. But then, the concubine was only a woman, furthermore a woman whose purpose was to provide sex. Her death, being that she wasn’t a full human being, was comical. It was one of many moments in my relationship with Liam Badpenny where I had to fight an impulse to run for my life.

Lightly, I said, “That’s terrible. The king wasn’t mad that the guy killed his favorite concubine?”

“No. He saw the guy would do what he needed to do.”

It was getting late and I started to drift off. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, though it wouldn’t last long. I tossed and turned most of the night as usual. As I had almost fallen back to sleep, Liam Badpenny woke up yelling. I popped up and asked him what was wrong. He had a bad cramp in his calf probably from soccer. He moved around the room trying to walk it off. When he came back to bed, I messaged it for him.

In the kitchen, the next morning, Liam Bapenny stood in front of his espresso machine already dressed for work when I came out of the bathroom. I was going to miss my yoga class, but it was all right. I could make it up later. He asked me if I wanted any coffee, which I refused because of the cleanse.

I asked him about his flight back to LA since I had presumed he had brought his airplane. As it turned out, he had left his plane in New York.
“I am the partner in a charter air line and I’m taking flying lessons so I can fly commercial planes.”

“Like 747’s?”

“No. Just charter planes. I want to fly some rich family across the ocean or somewhere and then at the end, get a tip.”

“You mean like money?”

“Yes. What other kind of tip would I mean?”

Now that was funny. Liam Badpenny was a millionaire several times over and his next big goal in life was to attain what servers and cab driver’s did on a daily basis.

Ok, so I was fascinated by the guy. And the second time we had made love the night before had touched me. I felt connected to him for the first time in our relationship. My affections were growing in spite of my better judgment. Still, I knew he probably wasn’t good for me. But, maybe, just maybe things were going to get better.  Ah, a girl can always dream…even a girl without a head…

Trust Him

   It is challenging at times when God seems slow to answer our pleas for either help, healing or provision.  I find myself setting deadlines for Him to follow.  Usually He does not follow them at all.  He wants us to grow in our faith and trust in Him.  This takes time through a variety of events where He demonstrates with certainty to you that He is there.  Jesus said “I will never leave you or forsake you…”  He really meant that.  Maybe you have doubt, or impatience. You have not heard back from God on a pressing concern.  Just stop for a moment.  Pray.  Ask Him to help you in your uncertainty.  His Word says that His strength is perfected in our weaknesses. God will be there for you when you can’t even understand how things can possibly work out.  Trusting in Him is a continuous growth process.  It is painful for me at times to accept this.  Ask Him today to see you through this trial you face.  He will.  Trust Him today and everyday.  He loves you so much.  He does not want your heart to be filled with fear and uncertainty.  His desire for you is that your heart be filled with His peace, love and joy.

By Carl J. Humphrey

Master Sergeant

U.S. Marine Corps (Retired)

Daily D’s

Navy SEALs Face Assault Charges for Capturing Most-Wanted Terrorist
Oh, great. The idiots-in-charge are gonna prosecute Navy SEALS for getting a bad guy. Why do they continue to treat war criminals like cat burglars? They don’t get Miranda and they don’t get lawyers. They are NOT protected under OUR Constitution. They are not citizens of this country. And, before anyone starts spouting Geneva Convention rhetoric, tell that to the families of the Blackwater security guards. Where is THEIR justice?

I am wondering what shoes these are? If someone knows please let me know.

It seems like so many people this past 3 months have come to me with questions on nutrition and telling me, “I have been exercising more and eating less, but I’m not losing weight, in fact, I’m gaining! I think I need to exercise less.”

Ok, WRONG. You defiantly don’t need to work out less, you need to EAT MORE.

The whole thought process of eating more to lose weight is backwards to so many people, but that’s the truth, eat more often, lose more weight.

While the Battle of the Bulge Weight Loss Competition was going on, I remember specifically one instance where this was happening. It was about the 4th week of the contest and we had had 3 of the 4 weigh-ins. A young lady came up to me  and said, “I have been staying the exact same since the second weigh-in, I don’t get it and i’m frustrated.” I asked her to break down her average day of nutrition for me. This is what it looked like.

Breakfast – Bagel or Oatmeal

Lunch – Sandwhich or salad

Snack – Popcorn

Dinner – Chicken and veggies

Not too bad really, but could be better. I told her that I wanted to see her add a high protein snack between breakfast and lunch and between lunch and dinner. That’s all she had to do for right now. This was a Thursday we spoke, she came in the next Monday and she was already down 4 pounds, she was in shock!

What happens when you increase you activity and decrease your calories is that you are not allowing your body to take in the needed amount of calories (energy) so your body has to hang on to your fat to make certain that it has energy to survive from. So, when you limit your intake you are basically shutting down your metabolism and saying, “I need fat to survive because there is no food”. I know that is not what you are literally saying, but that’s the message your body hears and acts on.

Make sure you are listening to your body, if it tells you that you are hungry, then you need to eat. That’s your bodies way of telling you what it needs.

Here are my Top 4 Nutrition Suggestions to make sure that you get the energy you need to feel and look your best this Holiday season.

4. False Hunger. When you feel that you are hungry, drink a glass or bottle of water before you grab a snack. This will be a tester to find out if you are actually craving food, or just craving water. Often our hunger is actually our body telling us we are dehydrated and that we need water. Make sure you test which it is first.

3. Eat the majority of your calories before noon. Food is fuel, that’s all it is meant to be. Everything that is found in nature is meant to be an aspect of perfect nutrition and perfect health. We have changed the way its used. However, the underling issues stays the same, Food is fuel. To that end, we need to eat the majority of our food before noon fueling our bodies for the rest of the day. Most people eat their biggest meal at night and tell me that in the morning they don’t want breakfast. Well, that’s because you are still full from dinner! If flip it, and make sure that we get a good breakfast, and a large early morning snack, you will notice that you will be less hungry for lunch, your evening snack, and your evening meal. Then when you wake up, you will be hungry and you will be able to keep the cycle going!

2. Eat protein and fiber after lunch. Protein after noon will help your body begin to repair and recover early, making your sleep better and more sound. Protein and fiber are also the two most complex food types to breakdown, making your metabolism raise and your stomach work harder and longer (burning more energy). This will also keep you from eating too many grainy carbohydrates in the evening, which will keep you from storing those carbohydrates you do not use.

1. Eat a snack between breakfast and lunch, lunch and dinner and make them both high in protein. Eating often, or grazing is a great way to keep your metabolism from slowing throughout the day, allowing your body to burn off fat, and keeping your system fueled an high energy.

Give this a try and you will be seeing a sleaker, slimmer you just in time for the holidays.

Ian McGriff

You know what I’m talking about Guys! You lay off of the gym for a while, take a road trip, get injured or just flat out let yourself go. Now, when you feel your arms, chest, legs and abs they’re no longer nice and firm…they’ve become soft and perhaps taken on some body fat…perhaps more than just some. It happens to the best of us and it doesn’t take long for your body to do a 180 degree turn from putting on lean muscle to muscle atrophy and fat storage.

Even I have to admit that I’ll sneak a feel of myself when I’m well conditioned and firmed up. It’s a matter of appreciation for the results I’ve earned from strength training and conditioning – so why not cop a feel of those guns I made! After feeling yourself with a nice tone muscular physique however, it’s hard to allow yourself to lose that and become unconditioned.

The message here is don’t allow yourself to get out of shape long enough to start reversing the positive effects of exercise. Disuse and living a sedentary lifestyle is a sure way to see the softer side of you…it’s just a matter of time. To combat this, exercise regularly…simple, right? Well, what if you travel a lot, don’t have time for the gym or don’t know what you’re doing? The answer lies within the TRX, a lightweight and portable fitness tool conceived in the Navy SEAL teams and now a popular new way to train that’s been adopted worldwide.

With the TRX, your able to get in a full-body workout within a single station. There are over 300 functional exercises possible and routine options like core training, sport-specific, weight loss or strength building are endless. Every TRX comes with an instructional DVD and there are several videos on how to use TRX, including some from my website www.VirtualWorkoutPartner.com.

So fellas, there are no more excuses to not managing your firmness. Get a TRX and armour yourself againt that not so firm version of yourself.

Men's Health Votes TRX as the Best

I received some new items in today:
2x Crye Precision Combat Pants – Size 38R
1x Crye Precision Field Shirt Navy Custom – Size XL/Reg
1x Crye Precision Combat Shirt Navy Custom – Size XL/Reg
1x Set (Top and Bottom) Beyond Level 9 PCU BDU – Size XL
1x Set (Top and Bottom) Wind Half-Zip Shirt + Pant Epic Fabric – Size XL
1x Arcteryx Goretex Rain Jacket – Size XL – AOR1

See the full album: HERE

Contact for Pricing

Just as fitness is all about results, giving a gift is about results too…and in the case of holiday gifts that means having a satisfied customer. So, below is some sample dialogue that’s likely to take place in a post-gift-opening conversation where you (the Gifter) present a TRX to a friend, workout partner, employee or family member (the Giftee).  

Gifter: “So, I got you something (hands a geometricaly-funky shaped giftwraped box to Giftee)”

Giftee: “(Giftee rips open the package, then flashes a curious look at Gifter) Oh, my gosh what is this thing?”

Gifter: “That’s a TRX, it’s a fitness tool with origins in the Navy SEAL teams and I’m addicted to it…and now it’s your new workout partner and gym, all in one”

Giftee: “Okaaaay, what does that mean exactly”

Gifter: “It means with the TRX at your disposal you can workout just about anywhere, anytime because TRX leverages your own bodyweight against gravity as resistance – so it’s safe to do and there are no excuses for missing workouts anymore.”

Giftee: “That’s great and all but I don’t want to have a workout routine that’s limited”

Gifter: “Limited?!? (Gifter laughs a bit, then composes him/herself) TRX is empowering; not a 3-exercise wonder…there are over 300 exercises you can do with the TRX, including movements through all three planes of motion for training that’s truly functional and can help with sports performance too. All of this within a single workout station. Plus, whether your feeling weak or strong on any given day you can make simple self-adjustments to make your workout as easy or hard as you want.”

Giftee: “Sounds like I can pretty much train when and however I like with the TRX”

Gifter: “Pop the champagne! I think you’ve got it!!!”

Giftee: “Thanks for the gift – truly appreciated. Now let’s try this out together…maybe you can show me your favorite 5 exercises?!?”

Gifter: “Sounds good, I need to work off some holiday treats anyway! Let’s do this!”

Gifter (alternate ending#1): “I actually have to run but the TRX comes with an instructional DVD to get you going plus you can check out videos from either www.VirtualWorkoutPartner.com or at Fitness Anywhere, where I bought your TRX – enjoy!”

Is that the perfect gift giving scenario or what?

Seriously speaking, I want those I care about to live long and healthy lives and firmly believe in the TRX as one of the most effective and efficient ways to ensure that. Regular exercise can go a long long way. I can’t make anyone workout or follow a program but if they have the tools to be successful and I’m able to help the cause, then I’m all for it. That’s why I created some workout videos to guide people through my favorite exercises and workout routines.

If you decide to invest in a TRX for yourself or someone you care about this holiday season, using the affiliate code “GIFT” at checkout will give you a thank you gift of your own. I recommend putting it towards a door anchor accesory so you can train at home, the office or on the road in your hotel room. Thanks for reading…and feel free to leave a comment to let me know what kind of workouts you’d like to see me do in my next videos.

Happy and Healthy Holidays to You and Yours this Season!

via Huffington Post

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FORT PIERCE, Fla. (Nov. 7, 2009) Navy SEALs demonstrate a special patrol insertion/extraction from an MH-60S Sea Hawk helicopter during a capabilities demonstration as part of the 2009 Veterans Day Ceremony and Muster XXIV at the National Navy UDT-SEAL Museum in Fort Pierce, Florida. The annual muster is held at the museum, which is located on the original training grounds of the Scouts and Raiders. (U.S. Navy photo by Chief Mass Communications Specialist Robert J. Fluegel/Released)

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FORT PIERCE, Fla. (Nov. 7, 2009) A Navy SEAL shows a child an M4 carbine during the 2009 Veterans Day Ceremony and Muster XXIV at the National Navy UDT-SEAL Museum in Fort Pierce, Fla. The annual muster is held at the museum, which is located on the original training grounds of the Scouts and Raiders. (U.S. Navy photo by Chief Mass Communications Specialist Robert J. Fluegel/Released)

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FORT PIERCE, Fla. (Nov. 7, 2009) A Navy SEAL shows a child an M240 machine gun during the 2009 Veterans Day Ceremony and Muster XXIV at the National Navy UDT-SEAL Museum in Fort Pierce, Fla. The annual muster is held at the museum, which is located on the original training grounds of the Scouts and Raiders. (U.S. Navy photo by Chief Mass Communications Specialist Robert J. Fluegel/Released)

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FORT PIERCE, Fla. (Nov. 7, 2009) A Navy SEAL points to members of the crowd during a capabilities demonstration as part of the 2009 Veteran’s Day Ceremony and Muster XXIV at the National Navy UDT-SEAL Museum in Fort Pierce, Fla. The annual muster is held at the museum, which is located on the original training grounds of the Scouts and Raiders. (U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 2nd Class Joseph M. Clark/Released)

Michael Monsoor bravely guarding the streets of Ramadi.

Was Michael Monsoor a Muslim? Well that’s the impression a person might get after reading the November 9, 2009 New York Times article “Complications Grow for Muslims Serving in U.S. Military”, by Andrea Elliott.

For those unfamiliar with Michael Monsoor.  He was the Navy Seal who unselfishly gave his life, in order to save his fellow Seals, when he jumped on a live grenade on September 29, 2006. He was the only one, in a roof top overlook, who could have escaped unharmed that day, yet he chose to give his life instead. In doing so he not only overcame his own instinct of self preservation but he actually went against what SEALS are trained to do in such circumstances.

Those who survived described him as “never taking his eyes off the grenade” and always moving down and toward the explosive. The most moving tribute to Monsoor came from one of the SEALS who survived. “Mikey looked death in the face that day,” he recounted, “and said, ‘you cannot take my brothers, I will go in their stead.’”

Let all tongues be mute.

Now we have the opposite thing take place on the largest Army base in the world when another soldier, Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan, turned his weapons on fellow soldiers at Fort Hood; thirteen were left dead in his wake of destruction. As he was carrying out this massacre, Hasan was reported to be continually yelling “Allah Akbar”, the same thing Muslim extremist scream as they cut off the heads of their American victims.

There are those who refuse to see the religious motivations for the actions of Hasan, but what writer Andrea Elliott  does in her November 9^th article simply goes beyond the pale.

She tells of the woes Muslims face in the military but then ends the article by showing the great contribution, by people of the Muslim religion, that are often overlooked. Among those she cites is a soldier who received the Bronze Star. This soldier pointed out how “many Americans overlook the heroic efforts of Muslims in uniform.” The prime example he gave was that of Michael Monsoor.

George and Sally Monsoor look at the Medal of Honor presented to them in honor of their Catholic son by President George W. Bush Tuesday, April 8, 2008.

Michael Monsoor was of Lebanese descent and he was a practicing Roman Catholic. His godmother personally told me, in an interview for my article No Greater Love, that he frequented the sacraments. His attendance at Sunday mass left such an impression on those who served with him, that they sometimes joined him. Besides attending mass he also frequented the sacrament of confession. He was an exemplary individual in many ways but most especially by his practice of his Catholic faith. To insinuate in any way the he was Muslim is a gross ignorance of the facts and misleading for the reader.

A two minute search on Google is all that is needed to find out the facts I have narrated in this article. Why did Mrs. Elliott not take the time to research who Michael Monsoor was before allowing such a gross misrepresentation of the man in our nation’s most prominent newspaper.

What is so insulting about all of this is the contrast between the actions of the two men. Maj. Hasan was, from what every report indicates, full of hatred, whereas Michael Monsoor was motivated by the purest of love, a love which was said to have no equal by our Savior Himself: “No Greater Love.”

Andrea Elliott owes an apology to the Monsoor parents and to the American people. Heroes of the caliber of Michael Monsoor are extremely rare in the world we live in. He was young, handsome, strong and had his whole life ahead of him when he stepped onto the Ramadi rooftop that day in 2006. He had everything life can offer and in the blinking of an eye he gave all of it up. He was given a choice to save himself or his friends. He chose, in a split second, to save his friends. He is an example for us all and he deserves better than this.

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Note:  Since the original posting of this article, the New York Times published a correction on November 11, 2009.

]]> http://accidentalgeisha.wordpress.com/2009/11/07/everyday-immortality/ Sun, 08 Nov 2009 01:26:16 +0000 accidental geisha http://accidentalgeisha.wordpress.com/2009/11/07/everyday-immortality/

In the month before I met Liam Badpenny, I requested my spiritual name from RamDassSingh in Espanola, New Mexico. My spiritual name is Shabad Simran Kaur. The meaning was a bit obscure to me, but I understood it to be the word married to the higher self or a meditation on the primal hymn of God. In the six months before I met Liam Badpenny, I was spiritually disciplined. I did yoga and meditated every morning. I chanted silently while working out at Bally’s and meditated again in the steam room. I talked to God while walking along the beach or hiking.

A part of me looks back and wonders if I wasn’t in fact on the precipice of a great transformation. Although I had not received the worldly direction for my life for which I had hoped, I was at peace with myself and that was in spite of the fact I didn‘t really know who I was. If only I wouldn’t have been smoking pot, those months before I met Liam Badpenny might be clearer to me. I know they were for the most part, blissful, I just can’t quite remember them very well. They are rather like a dream – a hazy, smoky dream.

After Liam Badpenny took off in his plane to New York or wherever the hell he went, I decided to get back into my daily yoga practice. I started taking classes again. I went to GuruMeher’s Happy Hour Yoga on Tuesday evening. Like most of the Gurus, GuruMeher was thin. He had the trademark Sikh, long white beard and wore the classic, loose fitting white cotton pants with mid thigh length, white cotton shirt and white turban.

There was a time when I had a mad crush on GuruMeher. That’s when I knew I must have grown up. Nowhere in American culture are we socialized that a skinny, 50 year old man with a chest length beard, sporting a white dress and a funny hat is attractive. But, whenever GuruMeher walked in the room, every molecule in my body split like pool balls hit on the break.

The set was one of his tougher ones. We had to do stretch pose with breath of fire for three minutes. I hate stretch pose. You lie on your back with your body lengthened, hold your feet three inches off the ground, arms straight in front, toes pointed and staring at your feet, while holding your head up and breathing rapidly. Great for chakras 1 through 3. We got into rocking bow and all kinds of other kriyas that I hate while I am doing them and feel great when I’m done. Afterwards, I lay in Savasana while Guru Meher’s sweet gong playing vibrated to the core of my bones, dissolving them like honey in hot, spicy tea.

After bringing us out of rest with the standard overhead and cat stretches, followed by the rubbing together of the palms and bottom of the feet and topped off with a few spinal rolls, he instructed us to sit in easy pose (basically cross legged) and turned on his placid, sotto voice.

“Close your eyes, focusing them on the third eye. Breathe. Relax and breathe.” Ok, simple enough. “Now, with as little effort as possible, gently flap your arms at your sides as if you’re flying effortlessly on a warm breeze.” That was lovely. “Keep your eyes closed. Find a nice, easy rhythm. We‘re going to be doing this for a little while so set your own pace.”

It was soothing, like being a bird. It felt great for about two minutes. At three minutes, my arms were burning. At four minutes, sweat trickled down my spine and the pain was excruciating. The dulcet yoga music he selected as background utterly failed to ameliorate my exponentially growing discomfort. At five minutes, I was sure my arms were about to seize in fervent protest.  Snatam Kaur’s singing often brought me to tears (the good cathartic kind), but as she chanted a familiar mantra over and over through the studio speakers, I found myself hating her nearly as much as him. At six minutes all I could think was go fuck yourself and die you fucking GuruMeher bastard! Nice and spiritual there.

“We’re just over halfway there,” his anodyne speech would have been assuaging under other circumstances. At six minutes, we were just over halfway there? You got to be fucking kidding me!! He had a penchant for withholding information regarding the duration of particularly long, arduous exercises until we were nearly finished and the information was moot.

“We’re nearing the point where some of you may need to stop and some of you will find a second wind. You may feel kind of euphoria.” Fuck off! I was unequivocally in the former faction. I was so angry, I wanted to kick him in the face. I started to drop my arms in defeat when I realized they no longer hurt. I couldn’t feel them at all. The endorphins had kicked in. Mother fucker. Talk about a fantastic high.

The floor beneath me disappeared or rather, my body had lifted from it. In my minds eye, I swam in sky. Sinuous clouds twined around my glistening, illuminated body. Baby blue dissolved to deep indigo until the totality of my surroundings waned into perfect nothing. No longer matter, my mind drifted to the center of the Universe where divinity within met divinity beyond and all was one. For a few ephemeral moments, I existed in a state of perfect abeyance from the physical world.

“Take a deep breath and lower your arms,” a voice that sent a thousand tremors of electricity through my body brought me safely back to earth, whispering through the silence of transcendence. This was how we were meant to feel. For me, it was the epitome of the human experience.

I went home, ate a quiet dinner and slept soundly through the night as I nearly always did after yoga class. I barely thought about Liam Badpenny for the next few days.

The following afternoon, I made arrangements to keep a promise. My dear friend and Goddess Sister, Polly Amore, had moved to Paris about eight months before. Her eighteen year old daughter was supposed to go with her, but as the time drew near, Young Sage decided she wanted to remain in the United States. It was difficult for the near inseparable pair, but an important rite of passage for Sage to be on her own and figure out who she was apart from her mother. I gave her a call and we decided to get together that upcoming Saturday.

Sage had a small frame, thin with wispy, dark brown hair, tiny breasts and large, pensive brown eyes – a beautiful, half-Philippine pixie who was wise beyond her years.

She struggled in her mother’s absence. They had always been together and were best friends as well as mother and daughter. They told each other everything. As any eighteen year old might feel on her own, she was frightened, overwhelmed and uncertain about her future as well as the future of the planet. As an acutely sensitive soul, she suffered frequent nightmares and daily anxiety.

I took Sage to the Venice Canals which is basically a large House Park with a grid of man-made canals in lieu of streets inspired, naturally, by the original Venice. The vast majority of homes were gorgeous, multi-story structures with well-maintained flower gardens spilling onto the sidewalks. The fragrance of Bougainvillea and jasmine lightly perfumed the sometimes stinky water that divided the neighborhood into squares.

Most impressive, a plethora of rose bushes comprising a visual feast in the front yards of many of the residents of this upscale Venice Beach Hood. Every color of rose you could imagine – lilac, yellow, red, white, peach, pink, hybrids sharing multiple hues – twisted and danced in an early summer breeze. Some homeowners focused on one or two colors for the sake of simplicity. Others allowed all colors to coincide together like a wild rainbow gathering of be-petalled beings.

As we maundered through, randomly turning down this canal or that, tiny, barely discernible waves lapped against the concrete barrier. Sage shared with me fears about her upcoming visit to Paris where she would be traveling alone. Most of her trepidation centered around flying and the terror of the plane dropping out of the sky with hundreds of passengers forever laid to rest in an colossal watery grave, Sage along with them. As Sage spoke, I realized she had developed a semi-consuming fear of death.

When I was nineteen, that same fear had overwhelmed me. There is a moment in young adulthood when we realize that we are mortal. Mine came, strangely, when the LA riots erupted in the early 90s after the acquittal of the police officers who had beaten Rodney King. Within hours, entire neighborhoods were consumed by violence and fire. Raging mobs ruled the day.

Though I was nearly 2000 miles away, tucked safely in the Heartland, watching it on TV was horrifying. After viewing footage of Reginald Denny being ripped from his truck and pummeled with a brick, I took a break to sit on the porch swing. A robust breeze kicked up under the trees, exposing the lighter hue of green on the underbelly of recently fully formed leaves. The leaves were thrown and tossed, clinging like hapless passengers to a sinking vessel. Only, in this case, the solid, rooted vessel would not betray them. They were safe to dance and flip and spiral to their heart’s content. In this chaos, there was beauty.

Irreconcilable to me was how I could be sitting on my front porch on a warm, sunny day at the same time so much anguish and turmoil played out in my own country. For some inexplicable reason, at that moment, I knew that someday, I would die.

The feeling was exacerbated some weeks later when the I-70 serial killer murdered a male florist in Terre Haute, Indiana, just miles from where I went to University. That event was shortly followed by a murder in my hometown, a highly atypical event in Clinton, Indiana.

I was lying on the couch with my boyfriend at the time (previously mentioned crazy guy) when we heard at least four sirens converge less than half a block away. City folks quickly become accustomed to the daily sound of emergency service vehicles tackling various misfortunes and misdeeds throughout the day. This is not true of a small town. If I heard one police car or ambulance a month growing up, I’d be surprised.

Wide awake from the flock of sirens, I decided I might as well make my way home to where I lived with my grandparents. As I passed a local mini mart, bombarded by flashing blue and red light, I determined it to be ground zero for whatever had happened. Turning on the news upon arriving home, I learned that an ex-Vietnam vet with a history of mental illness had confused a clerk as some kind of life threatening enemy. He and Mable exchanged some heated words and she had ran him from the store. A few hours later, he returned with a shot gun and blasted it in her face. She died instantly.

Death was closing in. That’s all I knew. And with the realization, I could imagine nothingness. When I came home at night after my last college class of the day, I would run from the garage through the bit of night separating it from back door, certain someone was chasing me.

I was afraid to be alone. I was afraid of the dark. I was afraid of open spaces. The body I inhabited seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. I was certain I would be dead by the end of the summer. Two years later, I hadn’t overcome that fear. I merely learned to live with it. Like any constant, pleasant or unpleasant, I got used to it.

Ironically, what finally released me was the death of my grandfather of lung cancer at the beginning of my senior year. He had been raised Catholic, but hadn’t practiced in years, since his mother had died when he was only twelve. Still, his sisters insisted he have a Catholic funeral despite the fact none of his children or grandchildren were Catholic. We didn’t care (except perhaps my grandmother). But, we had to participate in some Catholic funeral ritual to which were unaccustomed.

At the burial in early September, my grandmother was handed the aspergillum to sprinkle holy water on the casket. With some reluctance she dipped the heavy, perforated ball on a stick into the aspersorium and flung it in the direction of the newly made grave. My father, aunt and I followed suit. The aspergillum was then passed off to my 15 year old brother who executed the ritual with such awkwardness and bewilderment, we all burst out laughing.

It was then I felt it. I looked up at the cloudless, blue sky hanging over us on the kind of perfect, late summer day on which my grandfather would have been sitting in the backyard in a lawn chair, under a maple tree, enjoying an ice cold PBR. At that moment, I knew he wasn’t dead. Sure his body was finished, but what was eternal about him, I could feel. I knew. What swirled inside me, I didn’t understand, limited by yet inhabiting a mortal vessel, unlike Grandpa Joe who was free. Through my mortal confusion, peace took hold and I never feared death again.

I shared this entire story with Sage who listened quietly. I couldn’t tell if I was getting through to her or I was boring her to death. “That part about knowing you’re going to die. I get that. Lately, I just feel like I’m scared of everything. I think I’m getting sick all the time. And not just sick, like I have some disease like cancer or something. And, I don’t know what I’m going to do about money or a job. I keep going over my budget in my head and I can’t figure out how it’s going to work out. I think about it all the time.”

“Ah, honey. All you can do is the best you can. Make your plans, do everything you can to make your life work and at the end of the day, let it go. There’s always going to be things out of your control and that’s not always terrible. Good things just like bad things can happen when you least expect. Usually what you need is there when you need it, but not a second before. All the worrying in the world isn’t going to change that.” I leaned into her and nudged her shoulder with mine. “Of course, I say that to you knowing tonight, I won’t sleep cause I’m worrying about something.”

She laughed. It wasn’t much, but she was just a tad lighter. “I get scared at night when I’m alone. I never was like that before. It’s good to know it’s normal. I thought I was going crazy.”

“When we think we’re alone, it’s easy to think we’re nuts because we don’t realize that everyone goes through the same shit. I had a good friend say to me once, ‘Don’t it beat all, when you wake up one day and realize you’re a normal human being and you have to go through normal human being stuff like everyone else on the planet? Don’t that just beat all?’”

We walked a little further down one of the canals. There was a small, one story cottage probably built when the man made waterways were first put in. The cozy, modest dwelling was dwarfed by two three story homes surrounding it. I’m sure developers had knocked on that door many, many times. Inside, I imagined there lived a sweet old couple, holding on to their property and heritage for dear life.

“Mom said that you were seeing some guy from Israel,” Sage suddenly changed the subject.

“Yeah,” and I went on to fill her in on all the details without sparing much in the bedroom department. Sage’s mother was a spiritually sensual woman who enjoyed both sexes. Though I knew Polly was very private and protected her children from direct contact with her sexual exploits, once Sage came of age, the two talked like old girlfriends. I was sure nothing I said could shock Sage and would seem mild in comparison. Also, Sage herself had been sexually active for a couple years now, experimenting as her mother did, though not to the same degree. It may not have been exactly right, but in so many ways she seemed a grown up.  I and the rest of Polly’s friends had always treated her as such.

“He sounds like kind of a jerk,” she said matter of factly once I finished my Liam Badpenny rambling.

“I think he is,” I laughed, “I really should end it. I tried to, but he didn’t let me.”

“You seem like the kind of woman who could get under a guy’s skin.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re probably growing on him. You’re like that,” she offered her axiomatic observation.

We spent the rest of the day in the Canals, followed by a short stroll along the overcrowded beach before coming back to my place for a chick feast – brie and cheddar on bread and crackers, wine, strawberries, grapes, hummus and pita and raspberry sorbet. After that, Sage went home. I think she felt better. I know I did.

Alone in my tiny studio guest house, I thought about Liam Badpenny. I imagined him as a 20 year old boy with hardly any life experience fighting in a war (albeit a short one), going on special ops as the elite Navy SEALs were required to do, witnessing other young men die horrific deaths, himself killing in order to survive. Talk about realizing you’re mortal. Talk about being face to face with your fear of death. If you keep moving, maybe you’ll survive. Or, in contrast, stillness meant life, but a forced stillness, an anxious stillness, an unbearable stillness…waiting, listening, anticipating…

I was stabbing. I was reaching. Guessing at what something had been like for him. Justifying my staying in the relationship. Searching for some common ground, some kind of common life experience to connect our very different lives. My itinerant Israeli…Would I ever understand him? Would we ever understand each other? Did I want to hang around long enough to try?

Got a nearly full DG-MLCS kit today from a former operator. Just a small sampling below. Feel free to send me an offer if you are interested in purchasing anything. Use the contact page!

See the full album HERE

US Navy Seal Diver by Dragon.

MP5A and Force Fin

TAC-100 navigation board with compass, depth guage and chronometer

Draeger LAR/V closed circuit rebreather

Just came across a large lot of items from a DevGru SEAL. PT Body Armor with soft armor, PACA Low-Vis with Soft Armor, Safariland Carrier, Maritime PTT, Old School Pouches and more. Take a look at the pictures, full set is HERE

The next morning, Liam Badpenny had to get ready for soccer.  He popped out of bed promptly at a quarter after seven. He had slept in a T-shirt the night before and that’s how I found him in front of his espresso machine in the kitchen when I came out of the bathroom: Naked from the waist down with all that God gave him dangling before him. It was nice that he was shameless in that way. I, of course, was already fully dressed. As usual, I hadn’t slept well and wanted to get home.

“Is Puck still here?” He and Sweet Brazil looked to be long gone.

“No.”

“Sweet Brazil was nice. Have they been together a long time?” I inched my way into the kitchen, trying to get closer to Liam.

“Puck is in love. Too much. Stupid in love.” Liam Badpenny chastised, emphasizing his disapproval with a small grunt. That sure made me feel great. Pretty clear that no one was ever going to be “stupid in love” with me. “Do you want something to eat?”  He continued without looking up.

“No. I think I’ll head home.” I slipped my feet into my sandals that were near the kitchen door. Liam Badpenny poured some strange tea concoction into a used 20 oz Aquafina water bottle. I was about to say that he shouldn’t reuse water bottles, especially for hot liquid. The plastic from bottled water can become toxic, but I kept that to myself. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who could be educated by a woman like me. I lingered by the door a few more seconds, hoping for a goodbye hug, some kind of affection, but nothing. I said goodbye and showed myself out.

Later that day, it was another hell writing session with Little Miss Africa. The entire plot had become even more absurd with jeep chases in the remote desert where, in reality, feet and airplanes were the only means of transportation for long distances. Also, didn’t want to break it to my friend that the lead character of this little drama was a saint and saints are not generally the kind of folks to whom other folks relate. Given the main character was based on Little Miss Africa herself and knowing what kind of argument would most likely ensue, I typed fast and tried not to think about what it means to a screenplay to have a central character with no character arc whatsoever.

Why was I working on this piece of crap? Why did I stay in such an awful relationship? Why the fuck was I on the planet?

After a couple of hours, it was time for a break. Little Miss Africa made us tea. Break time also meant personal talk time, which meant moan fest. Little Miss Africa was seeing a guy who she had just found out had an ex-girlfriend back East. The not so ex-girlfriend was coming out here to spend some time with him and Little Miss Africa had been asked to make herself scarce while he “figured things out.” It was yet another bad relationship in which she found herself.

The one previous was with a charming and handsome actor she met while doing a small role on a soap opera. I could tell from her description of him that he was a total player and wasn’t out for anything serious. She, on the other hand, was looking for a relationship – one like “Brad and Angelina” she said. And therein lay the problem. I’m all for setting lofty goals, but to want success, extreme wealth, the handsomer than God spouse, along with a large brood of children AND fame beyond measure – ok, maybe we should set our sights on something just a tad more realistic.

She went from her man troubles to career troubles, “I’m telling you, I don’t know how much more I can take. If I don’t get a break soon, I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t keep living like this,” a tear of frustration ran down her smooth dark skin. She wiped it away. “You see this pimple?” She pointed out a medium sized blemish just below the corner of her mouth. “I was talking to one of my model friends who is also struggling. In the old days, we could just go to the doctor and get a little shot and it would be gone. Now I just have to wait til it goes away on its own.” Ok, if that was what she meant by not being able to “live like this” she needed to be reminded where she came from.

Still, a part of me felt bad for her. She did work hard. She did everything she was supposed to do. She networked, she had a manager and a commercial agent. She did self submissions and mailings. She followed up. She hounded. She was relentless. A little too relentless. That had led to impatience and burned bridges.

Back in Chicago, I had burned bridges. Too many disappointments, too many people who lied, too vulnerable in the wrong situations and I lost my patience. Former Polly Anna on speed who got bitter. I didn’t want to see Little Miss Africa get bitter, though the seeds were there and starting to sprout. It took watching my grandmother die a hard, terrible death to finally let go of my bitterness about the past. I don’t know what it would take for Little Miss Africa.

After regaining her composure, she asked me about the man I was seeing. I tried to be vague. He was Israeli, a former Navy Seal, he had his own airplane…

“Oh, so he has a lot of money?” She scooted her chair in closer. “What does he do?”

“He’s some kind of inventor,” which was true and not true, but I didn’t want to say anymore.

“Did you go up in his plane?” It was too late, her interest was peaked.

“Yeah. It was neat,” I didnt’ want to get into details.

“How old is he?” She was determined to flesh out specifics.

“I think he’s about 55 or so.”

“Oh, so he’s old.” Little Miss Africa’s cut off age for men was 45 and that was only if they were really super fit and looked young for their age.

“He’s in good shape,” I tried to play into her standards.

“Of course, he was a Navy Seal,” Little Miss Africa rose from her chair. The hot water was ready for our tea. “Do you like him a lot?”

“I like him. He’s kind of difficult, but I do like him.” Describing him as difficult was a mistake.

“How is he difficult?” She came back with the hot water and poured it into a mug. She should have been a journalist.

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s not very sensitive. But he’s honest. That’s refreshing. I’m used to men who lie.” My answer precluded the days before I knew that blunt and honest were not synonyms.

“Are you in love with him?” She grinned and sipped her tea.

“I don’t think so,” I considered the idea. “No. And that’s probably a good thing.” It was true. I wasn’t in love with Liam Badpenny. Not yet, anyway.

“Have you…?” Her raised eyebrows punctuated a half cocked grin, so I could finish the question for myself.

“Have I what?” I knew what she was getting at, but was hoping I was wrong.

“Have you gone to bed with him?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“It was all right. He’s very masculine.” I was not going to get into all of Liam Badpenny’s shortcomings as a lover. Truth was, for my age I was inexperienced and I’d also end up getting into my own.

“Oh girl, you and me both have the same taste in men.” She waved her hand a few times and fanned the air, a gesture to convey solidarity in our mutually hopeless situations.

Did we have the same taste in men? Having nursed her through three abysmal relationships, I did not want her to be right.

“I have a rug burn on my back from the last time we did it.” I don’t know why I said that. Think I just wanted to shock her and make a point that she and I were not the same.

She was almost disgusted when she asked, “How did that happen?”

“We were on the floor and…well…”

“You were in pleasure land and didn’t notice.” She set her tea down. “Do you want something to eat?” She was like a grandmother in the way she always tried to feed me. Though she was a good cook, I usually found it annoying. Before I could answer, my cell phone rang. I reached into my purse and instantly recognized the number.

“Is that him?” Little Miss Africa’s eyes lit up with curiosity.

“Yeah, but I’ll get it later,” I started to put my phone away.

“Go ahead and get it now,” she smiled sweetly. I didn’t really want to talk to him in front of her…

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Liam.”

“Hey,” I stepped into the hallway for privacy.

“What are you doing?”

“Working on a writing project.” I wanted to add, “IN HELL,” but I know Little Miss Africa had her ears peeled in my direction.

“How is it going?” This was strange. It was as if Liam Badpenny had called me to chat. Just to chat. Have a phone conversation like a normal couple. What was going on?

“Fine, but I’m here with a writing partner, so I can’t talk too much right now.” I couldn’t wait to tell him about it later. My other Little Miss Africa story made him laugh. I liked making Liam Badpenny laugh.

“Oh, well, maybe you call me when you can talk,” brusque as if he was suddenly pissed off. Jesus Christ, he called me.

“Ok…”

“Bye,” he hung up. I went back into the living room where Little Miss Africa was waiting. She was holding my purse in her lap.

“What did he want?”

“I don’t know.” I sat in front of the computer. “Let’s get back to work.”

She rose from her chair and set my purse on the table. “You left this on the floor. That’s very bad. It means you’ll lose all your money.”

“What money?”

“You leave your purse on the floor all the time. That’s why you don’t have any.” It was nothing but superstition, but she believed it. She was looking out for me. She could be very sweet when she wanted to be.

We finished our writing session about an hour later. I called Liam Badpenny when I got to my car. I was hoping he would ask me to come over.

“Hello,” Liam Badpenny’s voice gave me a little tingle.

“Hey. Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier. What are you doing?” Dead silence on the other end. I continued, “I can talk now, so I thought I would call you back.”

“I only called to say hello. There was no need to call me back,” he returned final and flat.

“Oh, then I guess I’ll go.”  I hung up. What a moron I was. I thought for half a second I was in an actual relationship. Why the fuck had he called me? And I’m not allowed to initiate contact? It was so weird.

A couple of days later, I had not heard from Liam Badpenny. I drove past the Santa Monica Airport on my way to Bally’s and noticed his plane was gone. Then I realized that it was almost the 20th. He was going to New York on the 20th and had said that maybe I could go with him. He left without me. I tried not to be hurt. Maybe he was just flying in the morning. He mentioned he sometimes did that.

I sent him a text, “Hey. Noticed your plane was gone. Hope you‘re having fun.” By the next day, he still had not responded. On my way to the 10 Freeway, I again passed the airport. No Cirrus.

That son of a bitch took off without even telling me. Now the phone call made sense. It was one last booty call before he had gone. By the time I called him back, he had probably already made other arrangements. Thus, why he had to get off the phone so quickly. That last part may or may not have been true, but he thought so little of me, he couldn’t even tell me goodbye? I busted my ass to make myself available to him at his every whim and he couldn’t let me know I could relax for a couple of weeks?

I dialed his number. “Hello?” He answered. I hung up. All right. Get your nerve up. End it with this man. Get out before you really fall for him. About an hour later, I tried again. This time, I got voice mail. Nothing like not actually having to speak directly to a person to keep your courage up.

“Hey, it’s me. I can’t do this anymore. I don‘t think I‘m what you want. This is not me. I feel like I’m losing my self-respect. I just can’t do this. Take care.”

Within an hour, he called back. I didn’t answer but listened to his message, “I don’t know what it is that you think I don’t respect you. I like you and respect you. Call me.”

I had a craving for sushi. Yeah, I know it’s not vegetarian, but I fell off the wagon from time to time. Headed to a Ballona Sushi on Lincoln and Maxella in Marina del Rey.

Truth was, I had bigger problems in my life than Liam Badpenny. And they were problems made bigger by having him in my life. I had no job, was a couple thousand miles away from my family back in the Midwest, my unemployment was going to run out in less than a month and I was facing huge credit card debt that was only going to keep growing. The last thing I needed was to be in a relationship that ate away at my faith and confidence. I had done the right thing by ending it. Now, what was I going to do about everything else? Go out and spend some money I didn’t have on food I didn’t need and that, spiritually, I didn’t believe in eating in the first place.

Sitting at a booth staring out the window into the mini mall parking lot across the street, I had just ordered scallops, fatty tuna, salmon  and a glass of wine when I realized that I had left my wallet in my backpack. This meant I had no debit card, no credit cards, no cash. Quickly, I dashed past the hostess and told her I would be back in a moment. I had to run to my car.

My billfold was back at my apartment, but it was only a few blocks away. It took me about ten minutes to drive there and back.  I returned, out of breath, to the restaurant to find a glass of wine sitting at the booth I had temporarily abandoned. The sushi arrived very soon after with the server commenting, “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

Sipping wine and thinking about my life, I realized I was facing going back to work in an office. Something I promised I would never do again, but it was the only real trade I had. Oh, that and acting. We all know how easy it is to get that last one going. I’d only been at it for over fifteen years. I also liked writing, but I wasn’t going to be making any money at that any time soon.

All my adult life, I made my living in an office, first as a receptionist, then as a legal secretary than an executive secretary. It was never anything I planned, something I fell into, something to do until my acting career, that I was absolutely sure would take off, took off.

On further contemplation, I had to ask myself if office work was really an option. Sure, I hated being stuck inside all day, staring like a zombie into a computer screen, but there was another issue. To keep my unemployment, I had to submit proof that I was a committed job seeker. The last permanent position I held was as the Operations Assistant and Digital Media Associate for a couple of young celebrities’ brand management company. That, with the rest of my work history, meant applying for admin jobs was what I had to do to keep those checks from the State of California coming.

Admittedly, though I sent my resume out on a daily basis, I was not seriously looking for an office job. My intention was to ride out my unemployment for as long as possible so I could figure out some real direction to take my life. In nearly a year, that direction had not come to me.

My concern was that, in the past, whenever I wanted an office job, all I had to do was snap my fingers and I was in an office making twenty bucks an hour. Even though my job searches were half-hearted, they were still searches. I was shocked at how few interview requests came back from my submissions. Job prospects were becoming slim and there were a lot of highly qualified folks saturating the market. My old standby may not be that anymore. Yet there I was spending almost $40 on sushi. AND I WAS A VEGETARIAN!!!!

Ok, so I would call Apple One, a temp agency that I promised myself I would never call again. Very nice folks, but they always sent me to a Human Resources Management firm in Downtown LA that was so corporate, so structured, so full of procedures and forms, and so “secure” that my chest tightened the moment I stepped off the elevator. Given my good old fashioned Midwestern work ethic, they loved me and often requested me as a temp by name.

As I finished the wine and my mind loosened, another little financial truth rose to the surface. I was going to have to declare bankruptcy. My credit card debt had gone from $20,000 to nearly $45,000 in three years. When I arrived in LA it was over $14,000, my moving expenses figuring in there somewhere along with my debt from trying to get an acting career going (including straightening my teeth) and stupid young adult shit as well. Made no money that first year in the City of Angels and it rose to almost $20,000.

Took off home to help the family out with my dying grandmother. Back home for three months with no job and moving back to LA added another five grand. In the past couple of years, it had been a combination of reduced hours at work then no job at all that caused the rapid increase.

Unemployment had been great, but it didn’t cover all my expenses, my minimum payment being the main hole in my monthly budget. I had been playing musical balances with Chase, Bank of America, Citibank and Capital One for over a year. The funny thing was, all my balances had low fixed rates and my credit score was still 792. Just six months prior, before debt to income ratio factored in more significantly to your credit score, that number was 823. I had never missed a payment on anything in my life.

I shouldn’t have been at a restaurant. I should’ve been home, praying, meditating, doing yoga, clearing my head, asking the Universe for guidance. But, I had done all that – for years. Years of of praying at the lake during sunrise in Chicago. Years of hanging on to a dead end life path because faith told me it was going to work out. The world was pounding on my door and not with my hopes and dreams in tow, rather with a bill for the price of all those hopes and dreams that had now failed. That bill was enormous and I had nothing to show for my life. Well, that’s how I felt at that moment…

But, at least I wasn’t hungry. I had a roof over my head. My family was alive and healthy and no bombs were going off outside my door.

Sitting in the car in front of my apartment, I called Liam Badpenny. Might as well get this conversation over. He answered the phone. There was chatter and clanging in the background as if he were at a bar or restaurant. His voice was warm and slightly raised. He sounded as if he might’ve been a little bit tipsy. He immediately went to talking me out of the breakup. I immediately went to wanting to be talked out of it.

He really got me when he said, “Sometimes, I don’t show things very well.” If I am honest with myself, it reminded me of my father. It was always friends and other family members who would tell me how proud the Old Man was of my good grades and the way I stuck to my dreams. Never the Old Man directly. He had a hard shell and he was very seldom vulnerable or demonstrative – unless he was pissed off.

My father and I grew somewhat estranged when I was a teenager and stopped playing sports. We didn’t have much in common after that. We grew further estranged when I started dating a semi-sociopath my senior year of high school, a nightmare of a relationship that I would stick with for nearly six years until studying acting in London would shake me out of my numb girl cocoon.

With Crazy Boyfriend finally gone, me and the Old Man became friends. We talked history, religion and politics. We bonded over Grandma and my brother and what the hell we were going to do with them. I gave him advice about my mother on everything from Christmas presents to coping with her menopause.

Maybe, like my relationship with my father, I wanted to get beyond Liam Badpenny’s tough outer shell to what was underneath. But what the hell was underneath? Putting aside my dad, aren’t we good little girls socialized by the Bronte’s and fairy tales and Hollywood to go for the bad boys, the dark brooding guys, the guys with the tragic pasts, to get them to open up so that we can experience great love after great pain and sacrifice? You know what that is really called? Fucking bullshit.

At the time, Liam Badpenny was mysterious and exotic. He was challenging. But mysterious and exotic can simply be a smoke screen for empty and superficial. Challenging can mean impossible. When it’s all new, there is so much we can’t see. Possibility, even slim, was still possibility.

I didn’t end things with Liam Badpenny. I told him that we should talk in person. I was going to save it for face to face, but I needed to talk to him about that night he hurt me in bed, about how I needed him to keep his word, how I needed to make actual plans to see each other and feel like my time mattered.

He said we would talk soon without mentioning he had left town. He didn’t bother to tell me that he was going to be gone for over two weeks and that to him “We’ll talk later” really meant, “I’ll put this off and maybe the silly little woman will forget about her silly little emotions and I won’t ever have to deal with this.” I didn’t know yet that this was his M.O.  It’s amazing how long I let him get by with it. Swallow and bury. Swallow and bury. Swallow and bury. Until you explode.

Volcanoes build up pressure for hundreds of years before they erupt. It wouldn’t be years, but my tolerance for eating my own pain and frustration would turn out to be quite remarkable. It would work well to Liam Badpenny’s advantage until one day, it simply wouldn’t…

http://www.snopes.com/politics/military/monsoor.asp

I got an email forward today from my father in law.  I checked it out on Snopes and its true.  The man in the email and the video above is truly a hero.

Saturday night. Date night. Liam Badpenny called. “I hope you are not still unhappy with me. Tonight, Puck and his girlfriend are going out. I thought we would go with them. Call me.”

I called to remind him that I had to run the show. But, it was Saturday night and we could meet after. In LA, 11pm is not even considered late on a Saturday night. Most folks are just getting started.

I wore the same chocolate, spaghetti strap sun dress I had worn to the beach. The fabric had a loose linen feel and a crinkled texture. The style was reminiscent of the types of dresses worn by Native American baby dolls – made by non-Native Americans of course. Underneath, I had on a black, lace, backless bra that fastened at my waste and black lace panties. I knew it would make no difference to Liam Badpenny what I had on under my dress, but it made me feel sexy, too sexy for stage managing, but that wasn’t the point.

When I arrived at Liam Badpenny’s apartment near eleven o’clock, Puck was already there. He greeted me with open arms, a brief bear hug and a kiss on the cheek, “So nice to see you again,” Puck smiled, “ you are looking well.” Liam Badpenny, in contrast, hung back hardly acknowledging my existence.

“I’m so sorry about last time we were supposed to get together. I didn’t have my cell phone. I didn‘t know Liam‘s phone number by heart so I couldn‘t even borrow someone‘s phone to let him know,” I apologized.

“Not to worry. You leave your cell phone somewhere it’s like you leave your whole life,” and he threw his hands up and forward as if to throw the whole thing decidedly into the past.

Noted Aretha Franklin’s version of The Weight playing in the background as we made our way through living room. There was a mess of about ten CDs on the floor and the CD player was going strong.  Now absolute proof that he knew how to operate his stereo, unless of course Puck had got it going.

We stepped out onto Liam Badpenny’s veranda where two lit cigars were dribbling smoke in a round amber ashtray.  I glanced back to see Liam give Puck a look as if to say, “I guess everything is ok now.”

Liam and I sat next to one another on two black steel chairs with black and white striped cushions. Puck sat across from us at a round granite table with two high steel chairs in the same style. Each man picked up their respective cigars and started puffing. Liam stared forward, his cheeks sinking under a spider web of crows feet when he drew in the smoke. He savored the flavor of the tobacco, holding it in for a few seconds, rolling his eyes up slightly, then releasing a fast moving cloud into the night air.

Liam put his hand on my bare knee, “Do you like cigars?”

“Not really, but I don‘t mind it.”

“You know I used to smoke cigarettes?”  Now that he mentioned it, he did have smokers’ skin. Probably why I thought he was older than fifty-five when I first met him.

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“I notice when I run, that my lungs, they feel tight and I can’t breathe like I used to. So I quit.” And again, that was that, as if it had been the easiest thing in the world once he made up his mind to do it. “Did you ever smoke?”

“Once I smoked cigarettes for a play, but I didn’t like it.” Which was true, though I found myself smoking a single cigarette in the morning before I went to work. The role was Louka in Shaw’s Arms and the Man. I told myself it was to keep in character throughout the week, but I was really becoming addicted. Fortunately, my morning ritual ended along with the role.

“You like to smoke other things,” Liam Badpenny said as if it were a top government secret, then looked to Puck and said a few sentences in Hebrew, presumably filling him in on my recent pot smoking past.

“So you still run?” I wanted to keep the conversation going. I was still a runner – well, not like I used to be – but it was something, maybe one of the only things we had in common.

“Me and Puck and another friend, we run every Friday afternoon on the beach. I also run up and down the stairs. You know the stairs in Santa Monica going down to the beach?” I nodded.  I was sure he was talking about the steps leading from Santa Monica Park, down the cliffs, into an overpass extending above the PCH, leading to more steps that finally made it down to the sand near the famous Santa Monica Pier. “I run the stairs by myself because he doesn’t.”

“Liam, there is a difference between does not and cannot,” Puck scolded the man who bruised his ego and turned to me, “I have pain in my knees and it is not possible for me to run up and down the stairs.” I wasn’t judging, but it was important to Puck that I understood.

I nodded and leaned back into Liam Badpenny. He put his arm around me. “I like this,” he observed and pointed to a butterfly necklace hanging against the bare skin of my freckled upper chest. The body of the butterfly was sterling with four ceramic wings each painted different – one black with white polka dots, one white with black polka dots and the other two solid white and black. “This one we keep.” I hadn’t remembered wearing other jewelry around him so I’m not sure what he meant by “this one,” but the implication was that Liam Badpenny didn’t care for my fashion sense.

“So how many languages do you speak?” Puck inserted himself into the conversation.

“Uh…I speak English…”

“When are you going to learn to speak Hebrew?” His tone was that of the Grand Inquisitor interrogating the unsophisticated woman who was not good enough for his Man of World best friend. Not sure where this shift had come from, but ah well…

“I don’t know,” but the real answer was probably “never” as I had no intention of staying in a relationship with Liam Badpenny long enough to pick up a second language. When was Liam going to learn what the clitoris was? That’s what I should’ve asked in retort.

Again, Liam and Puck were off on a Hebrew conversation. Instead of trying to put me on the spot, perhaps Puck was a little paranoid and wanted to make sure I couldn’t understand what they were saying. He didn’t have to worry. There wasn’t a word that I could comprehend.

“I can probably guess, but who do you think will win the elections?” Puck inquired. Wow! I had no idea where these guys stood politically. Being ultra rich business men from Israel, I should have known they were on the Conservative side, but I didn’t make any assumptions.

“I think Obama will probably win. It looks like he is going to get the nomination.” We were fast approaching the last two Democratic primaries.

“And you think he will beat McCain?” Again, I was feeling on the hot seat as I sensed, politically, I was outnumbered in my beliefs. Still, this brief exchange entailed more questions asked about me than Liam had put forth in the entire duration of our relationship.

“Be careful,” Liam warned, “Puck is a terrible racist.” This started off another exchange in Hebrew where I presumed from their gestures, facial expression and pitch that Puck said something like, “Why do you say this to her?” and Liam replied with something like “It’s true.”

“You want Obama to win?” Puck continued.

“Yes,” I answered reluctantly not wanting to argue politics or talk about how I thought George Bush was the Anti-Christ, “but I think whichever Democrat gets the nomination will beat McCain.”

“Why is that?” Puck continued.

“The economy is bad and -”

“Who is the economy bad for?” What the hell was he talking about? Didn’t he watch the news?

“Well, I notice food prices are going up and a lot of people are starting to lose their homes.”

“One man’s loss means another can come in an buy the real estate for cheap and make a profit.” Puck sat back, chest raised and forward, puffing on his cigar like a fat cat.

Liam didn’t say anything, but gave a stoic nod. I couldn’t believe how callous these guys were, especially Puck. Unfortunately at that time, we were but in the nascent stages of our impending economic troubles. The bank collapse and the stock market crash and the AIG mess and the Madoff scam were yet on the horizon. Once the crisis would come to fruition some months later and effect the folks in his elite economic sector, Puck would change his tune from dispassionate to droning, plaintive self-pity.

As for his current entitled, arrogant attitude, I bit my lip. It was a discussion that could end nowhere pleasant and the evening had just begun. I thought it was a rule that one did not bring up politics or religion in mixed company.

The house phone rang and saved me from looking like a moron with no opinion on a very serious matter. It turned out to be Puck’s girlfriend. A few minutes later, a lovely, frail built, Brazilian gal walked through Liam’s condo door. She had long black, feathery hair and walnut skin. Her brown eyes, slightly sunken, rested atop pointy cheek bones.

Puck’s eyes lit up like firecrackers. He wrapped himself around her the second she came through the door and introduced the object of his enthusiastic affection. She greeted me with a warm, but slightly uneven smile through thin, pale lips.

As I had with Puck, I apologized to his girlfriend about missing our double date some weeks before.

“That is ok,” Sweet Brazil smiled suggestively with a sideways glance at Puck, “We still had a good time.” From the tone of her voice, I knew exactly what the nature of that good time had been. Then, she turned to Liam and handed him a small present.

“What is this?” he asked.

“This is for the nice dinner you made us the other night,” she smiled, squeezing Liam Badpenny’s hand, “it was so good.”

Liam gave a high pitched grunt, throwing his head to the side as if to say, “It was nothing,” but I could tell he was touched. Puck stared at Sweet Brazil, the proud boyfriend, tossing an arm across her back and with a hand across the shoulder, giving her a tender squeeze.

She beamed, molding her body into his. He may have been a bit of an arrogant little fuck, but of the two men, Puck was definitely the one who knew how to make a woman feel wanted, truly wanted from the inside out.

We didn’t linger at the apartment. It was already late, so we made our way downstairs to the garage. After some debate about the most economical route to Culver City, we ended up at Your Father’s Office in the Helms Bakery building. Liam parked his big navy blue Chrysler at the lot across the street and we walked together toward the establishment, Puck and Sweet Brazil hand in hand, Liam Badpenny and me some feet apart.

We had nearly reached the door, when Liam Badpenny lurched forward in excitement, “I think this may be one of mine.” I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about as he pulled a business card from his wallet. We reached the door man and the mystery was solved.

There were two crowd control stanchions connected by a single ribbon. Liam showed his business card to the door man, “I make these.” And sure enough, there were two of his babies, dutifully directing people to the entrance, blocking anyone from slipping onto the open air porch without first checking in with the doorman.

I don’t think the doorman was impressed to be face to face with the man who had provided this particular brand of public guidance, though Liam was so inflated you think he was supposed to be. He smiled politely and motioned us in. Mr. Badpenny was proud of his product. Nothing wrong with that. That pride in his work was probably why he had earned so much fucking money.

Your Father’s Office was one of the new hot places in this part of town. With a a deliberately clean, unpretentious, neighborhood feel, it specialized in microbrews and did not serve Vodka to the disappointment of both Puck and Liam. Because it was housed in the Helm’s Bakery complex, along with a furniture store, a French bakery and a Jazz themed coffee house, it was kind of like Walt Disney had made a neighborhood bar.

The place was packed, but we found a spot at a wide, dark veneered wooden table on the veranda. I was grateful as I hated noisy bars and, at least the open air dissipated the cacophony. We all ordered different draft beers. Puck and Liam got hamburgers and Sweet Brazil and I nibbled on appetizers of mushrooms and French fries.

“So, what do you do?” Sweet Brazil inquired from across the table after feeding Puck a french fry.

“Well, I’m kind of in between things. Lately I’ve been trying to be a writer. Before that I was trying to be an actor.” I casually summed up my failed life. “What about you?”

Before she could answer, proud Puck announced, “She is a nurse.”

“Wow. That is amazing. Do you like it?” I truly was impressed.

“Right now, it is tough. I am in school for my masters degree so I can become an Administrative Nurse.”

“She is amazing. She is a nurse, she goes to school and she takes care of her niece.” Puck heaped accolades on his lover.

I stared at Liam Badpenny who gnawed hamburger without any kind of expression. He was not excited about me, though he had been at the very beginning. The sad thing was, we were still at the beginning. We had only been seeing each for 2 months and for almost half that time, he had been out of town. What the hell was I doing with him?

I lay my head against his shoulder and put my hand on his thigh of steel. Just wanted a tidbit of romance, one tiny nibble of closeness. I suddenly noticed Puck staring at us, giving me a knowing look. I’m not sure what it was exactly he knew, but he knew something. I smiled.

“Has Liam ever told you that you have a beautiful smile?” Puck had enough enthusiasm for the fairer sex, he could afford to spread it around.

“No.”

I looked back at Liam. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t offer up the compliment for which Puck had so generously fished on my behalf.

Following a momentary pause, the conversation continued where I learned more about what it meant to be an administrative nurse; Sweet Brazil teased Liam and Puck about their accents; and, the subject of the Holocaust came up. You know, your typical Saturday date night chat.

Liam Badpenny was speaking of his mother, explaining how in Israel, you could go to the University for free and learn Hebrew. Many Jews who relocated there and, did not already speak the language, enrolled to acquire their ancient tongue. His mother was one of them, though she never did quite master the language in writing, a fact that was underscored after she died and Liam and the rest of the family had gone through her recipe cards.

“They were almost illegible,” he half laughed, “her writing was terrible.” Then he grew quiet for a moment. “My mother, she died of breast cancer, may she rest in peace.” Following another momentary silence, he continued speaking of the small Eastern European village from which his mother had hailed.

“She was from a big family. And her father, he was the one all the village came to when there were disputes. He never made any money, but he was respected by everyone.” Another brief retreat inside himself, then he said, “She was the only one of her family that survived the Holocaust. The whole village, gone.” He looked at Puck, “She was at Auschwitz. Mengele…” he turned to me, “you know who this is?” I nodded. My father was a history teacher. Of course, I had heard of Dr. Mengele. “He had her in a line and was choosing them for his experiments, but he passed her up.”

We all fell silent as if a reservoir of heaviness had broken above our heads and crashed down upon us. I could hardly breathe. I wanted to put my arm around Liam to comfort him, but it seemed a hollow, futile gesture against  an unfathomable atrocity.

“Let us talk about other things,” Puck said and we quickly moved on.  The rest of the evening, the conversation remained fixed on lighter topics.

On the way back to the car, Puck held hands with Sweet Brazil while they cooed softly to each other. Liam Badpenny walked quickly some several feet ahead of me as if we were mere acquaintances or in a culture where women were required in public to maintain a distance behind the men.

Puck opened the car door for Sweet Brazil as Liam Badpenny let himself into the driver’s side. Observing the slight, Puck opened the front passenger’s side door for me. Liam started the car without noticing. Wow, I really was nothing to him. It was almost like he was trying to throw that fact in my face.

On the way home, Liam  Badpenny threw on some blues and mentioned how he liked to visit Memphis sometimes when he was flying on that side of the country.  He perused the tracks and stopped on one, laughing, “You know this song?”

“No,” I said as the unfamiliar intro kicked in. My parents liked blues so I had a familiarity with many blues artists, this song was not on of them.

“Jailbait,” he tittered and went on to sing along with the track of the same title. It was all about men getting in trouble with underage girls. I couldn’t help myself  laughing at Liam Badpenny’s attempt to sing the blues, horribly off key with a thick Hebrew accent. Fortunately, he thought I found the as lyrics amusing as he did and his ego wasn’t effected – not that anything could effect it anyway. “I like this song, but I like women,” he said as it ended.

“What?” I never once suspected he was gay.

“I don’t like girls. I like women.” Ah, of course. A father of two daughters had better like grown women.

Back at the condo, I joined Liam Badpenny in the kitchen where he made mint tea for his guests. Except for Liam instructing on where the mugs were in an overhead cupboard, we said nothing to each other. When we entered the living room Sweet Brazil was sitting on Puck’s lap, his hand under her shirt.

As we sipped our tea Puck and Liam discussed Liam’s lack of a flat screen TV. “I told you, the one you said for me to get was back ordered. That’s why I didn’t get one,” Liam defended himself.

“But the picture is so much better. I don’t know how you can even watch on this TV you have now,” Puck had one of Sweet Brazil’s tits in his hand.

The conversation continued much with the same trivialities until it was decided it was time for the couples to split off. Puck and Sweet Brazil wondered into the downstairs bedroom across from the kitchen while Liam led me into the bathroom.

It was a little strange. If they were going to have sex, why didn’t they go to one of their own places? Sweet Brazil lived all the way in Pasadena and that was a pretty long drive. Plus, I think she mentioned she lived with family. But Puck was just a couple miles north in Beverly Hills. It was no big deal, but I had a feeling that something was a little off about the situation.

“Do you want to watch me take a shower?” Liam Badpenny asked, removing his clothes.

“Sure.” Taking a shower with him would’ve been more fun, but I guess I could watch. I sat on the toilet. Liam hopped into his red plum, granite tiled, standing shower and shut the clear glass door. He stuck his head under the hot water.  His body reminded me of Renaissance paintings of ancient Greek or Roman warriors with their bare, well-defined thighs and calves, strong biceps, wide hips and soft, fit bellies.

Warm steam saturated the bathroom. Soon, I could only make out a blurry silhouette with soapy hands cleansing himself. I relaxed with my back against the wall, breathing in the muggy air. The spaghetti straps of the dress fell off my shoulders. Liam finished and stepped out of the shower. As he toweled off he said, “I feel self conscious being naked by myself.”

After giving his spiky silver white hair a vigorous once over, he dropped the towel on the floor and lifted me off the toilet seat. His skin as damp and warm. He pressed against me, melting into my body. He kissed me. “You are so sexy,” he whispered. Enfolding me in his arms, I ran my hands from his wrists to shoulders. His skin was hot. I kissed his flexed biceps. He tugged at my dress.

After I removed my clothes, he led me out of the bathroom and lay me down on my back. He opened my legs and entered me from a standing position next to the bed. “Oh girl, you feel so good.” At least I was wet. And I was relaxed. After a few minutes of thrusting, he pushed me back further onto the bed and lay on top of me, supporting his weight on his elbows.

Bare hot chest rubbing against cool bare breasts, I kissed his arms over and over again. My legs wrapped around the small of his back where I locked them into each other at the ankles. My fingers pressed into the muscles in his back. Again, his skin. His warm, clean skin, softened by hot water. He smelled so good. I closed my eyes. My body sank into the bed and surrendered.

A voice far, far back in my head warned me. If I didn’t get out soon, the surrender of my body would soon be followed by my heart, then my soul. Liam Badpenny was not a man with whom to give your soul. I knew that. But, he was so warm and he was pushing himself inside me and pulling out and pushing in and his skin and our breath and the little kisses on strong arms like a flock of wild butterflies landing on cool, wet rock for a much needed drink…I didn’t think…I shoved the voice out of my head and forgot who I was…

Esta primera es una historia de valor, una historia de un hombre que arriesgó su vida por salvar la de su superior dado ya por muerto.
Podría tratarse de historia mas de la Guerra de Vietnam, pero esta es diferente. La protagonizan dos Navy SEAL y lo que mas llama la atención, los dos fueron condecorados con la Medalla de Honor durante el conflicto asiático.

En esta aterradora imagen podemos ver a Michael Thornton, un hombretón nacido en Carolina del Sur y que en 1967 tras terminar sus estudios de secundaria ingresó en los SEAL, el cuerpo de operaciones especiales de la Armada Estadounidense.

Fotografía tomada durante en entrenamiento básico. San Diego

A medida de que las fuerzas convencionales norteamericanas eran retiradas progresivamente de Vietnam (primeros años de los ´70), aumentó el número de operaciones no convencionales.

Team SEAL a bordo de una “Light Seal Support Craft” (LSSC)

El 13 de Octubre de 1972 al “Petty Officer” Thornton se le asignó a una misión en la que al mando estaría el Teniente Thomas Norris, un hombre nacido en el estado de Florida y que tras graduarse en la Universidad de Maryland con la intención de trabajar en el Dpto. De Criminología del FBI, se alistó a los SEAL (también en 1967).

Thornton (segundo por la izquierda de la fila de atrás) y Norris (primero de la derecha de la fila de delante) junto a otros compañeros en Da Nang.

La suya sería una misión de inteligencia dentro de territorio enemigo, y los dos americanos estarían acompañados por tres miembros de la Armada de Vietnam del Sur.

Depositados en el mar desde un sampan, dirigieron su bote neumático hacía tierra, comprobando que se encontraban bastante mas atrás de las lineas enemigas de lo previsto inicialmente.
Continuando por tanto a pie hacía su objetivo, se inició de súbito un fuerte intercambio de fuego proveniente de un contingente de hombres mucho mayor que el suyo, corriendo por tanto serio peligro de ser rodeados.

Había que huir, y mientras se causaban fuertes bajas al enemigo, y la situación se volvía caótica, los hombres iniciaron el repliegue hacía la costa con la intención de poder escapar por el mar.

De pronto Thornton comprobó que Norris no estaba con ellos. Los survietnamitas le dijeron que había sido alcanzado en la cabeza y que seguramente estaría muerto. El SEAL no dudó, dio media vuelta y en medio de una lluvia de fuego se dirigió a la última posición en la que había visto a su Teniente.
En efecto, allí estaba, inconsciente, gravemente herido, pero aún vivo.

No había tiempo que perder, Thornton eliminó a dos enemigos que se acercaban y cargó con Norris sobre sus hombros, dirigiéndose a toda velocidad hacía la playa, devolviendo el fuego enemigo mientras corría.

Tras recorrer 400m llegó por fin al mar, allí tomó también a otro compañero herido y llevó a ambos mas allá del alcance del fuego enemigo.
Tras permanecer en el mar durante aproximadamente dos horas, fueron rescatados por la Armada Survietnamita.

Una vez a salvo, los médicos dieron a Norris pocas posibilidades de recuperación, pero gracias a su lucha y al aliento constante de su familia, amigos y compañeros, se recuperó.

El 15 de Octubre de 1973, y por esta acción Michael Thornton fue galardonado con la Medalla de Honor del Congreso.

Obviamente, el Teniente Norris acudió a la ceremonia.

Seis meses antes a Norris le había tocado ejercer el papel de héroe. Gracias a su valentía en esa acción también fue merecedor de tan alta distinción:

El 2 de Abril de 1972, un EB-66, un avión de vigilancia electrónica estadounidense fue derribado sobre Vietnam del Norte. Únicamente el Tte. Coronel Hambleton, que saltó en paracaidas consiguió sobrevivir al accidente, logrando in extremis no ser capturado en tierra.

La Fuerza Aérea puso en marcha una operación de rescate sin precedentes. En cinco días de intentos murieron catorce militares americanos, ocho aeronaves se perdieron, dos miembros de los equipos de rescate fueron capturados y otros dos quedaron atrapados tras las líneas enemigas.

El 10 de Abril se ordenó a Norris dirigir una patrulla de cinco hombres en territorio enemigo (provincia de Quang Tri) con el fin de rescatar a los aviadores derribados.
Separado temporalmente de sus hombres, y a través de la jungla, fue capaz de localizar antes del amanecer a uno de ellos, se trataba del Teniente Mark Clark artillero del OV-10 Bronco caído, logrando regresar con él y con su equipo hasta su base de operaciones.

Ese mismo día un ataque norvietnamita con cohetes a esta pequeña base ocasionó graves daños, obligando a la evacuación médica del otro SEAL norteamericano.
Norris intentaría no obstante completar la misión, pero ahora sólo con otros tres hombres, tres survietnamitas.

Pero aún las cosas podían ir peor, y así fue. Tras un intento de rescate fallido, dos de sus tres hombres no mostraron su disposición de acompañarle en otras misiones. Ahora por tanto sólo podría contar con un compañero, un hombre llamado Nguyen Van Kiet.

Norris junto con el comando vietnamita.

En la tarde del día 12 de Abril un controlador aéreo localizó la posición de Hambleton, notificándosela al Teniente Norris.
Vestidos como pescadores remontaron en un sampan el río Cua Viet en busca de su objetivo, localizando a Hambleton ya de madrugada, y ocultándolo con cañas de bambú y vegetación en el fondo de su embarcación.

Dirigiéndose de nuevo a su base debieron esquivar una patrulla norvietnamita y soportar el fuego de ametralladora que llegaba desde un bunker situado a lo largo del río. Gracias al apoyo aéreo que además de hostigar al enemigo proporcionó una cortina de humo, el sampan llegó a lugar seguro sin tener que lamentar daños mayores.
Este rescate extraordinario ha sido relatado en numerosos libros y en una película, BAT-21, nombre otorgado por la Fuerza Aérea a la misión de reconocimiento original.

Además de la Medalla de Honor concedida a Norris, Kiet fue galardonado con la Cruz Naval (Navy Cross), la condecoración mas alta que la Armada puede conceder a un miembro no nacional.

Michael Thornton permaneció en los SEAL hasta 1992. Durante estos años coordinó el despliegue de respuesta rápida en apoyo de las operaciones “Escudo del Desierto” y “Tormenta del Desierto” (Guerra del Golfo). También permaneció dos años de servicio especial de intercambio con el “Royal Marine British Special Boat Squadron” y ayudó al establecimiento y operaratividad del SEAL Team Six.

Tom Norris perdió un ojo y parte de su cráneo durante la operación en la que fue rescatado por Michael Thornton, y en 1979 tras pasar las pruebas pertinentes cumplió el deseo de su juventud ingresando en el FBI. En esta organización fue uno de los miembros fundadores del Equipo de Rescate de Rehenes.
Tras 20 años de servicio en operaciones de rescate, goza ahora también de un merecido descanso.

Hoy en día ambos son amigos, y se reúnen de forma habitual en eventos militares, celebraciones de veteranos y demás actos castrenses. En esta fotografía tomada el 8 de Abril del 2008 están presentes en la entrega a título póstumo de la Medalla de Honora al SEAL Michael A. Monsoor, muerto en combate en Irak.

Seguro que allí alguien también mostró a estos valientes su admiración por los actos heroicos que ambos protagonizaron en Vietnam.

Aunque la fecha oficial de la formación de los Navy SEAL ( United States Navy Sea, Air and Land Forces) se estableció el 25 de Mayo de 1961, sus precursores fueron los equipos de demolición submarina (UDT) que jugaron un importante papel en la Guerra de Corea. Allí sus misiones fundamentales fueron reconocer las playas donde estaba previsto desembarcaran los Marines, destruir obstáculos que bajo el agua pudieran dificultarlo, y servir de ayuda en la orientación de las tropas para el asalto.

De forma temprana llegó el conflicto en Vietnam, el Presidente Kennedy quería una Unidad capaz de desarrollar una guerra no convencional, y por tanto la Marina reorganizó las UDT (Underwater Demolition Teams) y otras fuerzas similares como los “Naval Combat Demolition Units “ (NCDUs) que ya actuaban desde la Segunda Guerra Mundial, para crear los Navy SEAL y por extensión los “Special Boat Teams” (precursores del US Navy’s Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen o SWCC) como unidades de apoyo y complemento en la guerra naval y fluvial.

Los Navy SEAL desarrollaron un duro trabajo durante la Guerra de Vietnam, acumulando un impresionante historial y logrando tres de sus miembros la Medalla de Honor del Congreso
En 1962 un puñado de estos hombres ya ejercía como consejeros militares para sus contrapartes survietnamitas. En 1966 en plena escalada bélica se produjo su primer despliegue como fuerzas de combate, pasando de nuevo a ejercer como consejeros en 1971 (fecha de su último despliegue), regresando sus últimas unidades a los EEUU en 1972.

En total y durante periodos de servicio de 6 meses, fueron menos de 300 SEAL lo que tomaron parte en la Guerra de Vietnam, hombres que aún son recordados por los que sirvieron a su lado por su heroísmo y valentía.

Impresionante imagen del Teniente Michael E. Thornton del SEAL Team 1

Estos valientes tienen permitido hablar sobre su servicio en Vietnam (fecha de su despliegue, lugar donde sirvieron, y tiempo que pasaron allí), pero la mayoría no pueden dar detalles sobre sus misiones específicas.
Aún así estos veteranos raras veces hablan de la Guerra, bien por respeto a aquellos que perdieron sus vidas, o simplemente por que no desean hacerlo. Se dice que un hombre que haya servido como SEAL hablará poco de su trabajo, mientras que alguien que finge ser un SEAL hablará de ello sin parar.

A comienzos de 1963, la CIA marcó el lanzamiento de las operaciones encubiertas a cargo de los SEAL. Estas misiones consistían en realizar emboscadas con el fin de paralizar la red de suministros llegados del norte y en la localización y captura de oficiales del NVA (Ejército Norvietnamita).
La pobre infraestructura de inteligencia con que entonces se contaba hizo que en general estas primeras misiones no tuvieran éxito. Para paliar estos defectos, los SEAL, crearon su propia red de información, lo cual hizo que el porcentaje de éxito aumentara de forma espectacular.

Los SEAL, una unidad entrenada en las tácticas contra-guerrilla fueron destinados inicialmente alrededor de Da Nang, pero a medida que el conflicto aumentaba de intensidad y que se producía la adaptación a las operaciones conjuntas, fueron desplegados a la “Rung Sat Special Zone” (zona pantanosa y selvática de 400 millas cuadradas entre Saigon y el Mar de China) con la misión de interrumpir el movimiento de tropas enemigas y de llevar operaciones a lo largo del delta del río Mekong.

Significativo titular de prensa

El delta del Mekong fue la base de las operaciones fluviales de los SEAL, y fue en ese duro ambiente donde se demostró su dominio letal en este tipo de acciones. Rápidamente tanto sus equipos como las tripulaciones de las “Brown Water Navy Boats” se impusieron al enemigo, causando mucho daño en los movimientos de tropas.

Año 1967. Seal Team One a bordo de su “Seal team Assault Boat” (STAB) durante una de sus operaciones al sur de Saigon.

Aquí vemos el complicado embarque a una “Light Seal Support Craft” (LSSC) en el delta del Mekong.

Otro de sus medios empleado para patrullar y realizar escoltas en las operaciones fluviales fue la “Landing Craft Personnal Large” (LCPL ), que contaba con un mini-gun de 7,62mm, un mortero de 60mm y un lanzagranadas de 40mm.

Aquí el interior de un “Medium Seal Support Craft” (MSSC)

Y una visión exterior

En ese entorno operativo, los contactos se producían a corta distancia y el matar o morir eran cuestión de fracciones de segundo. El duro y completo entrenamiento de los SEAL les permitió convertirse en expertos en este tipo de guerra no convencional, estilo que no tenía nada que ver con el movimiento de tropas en el campo de batalla y el uso de artillería y fuerzas aéreas. La guerra de los SEAL en Vietnam se llevó a cabo “cara a cara” y con frecuencia cuerpo a cuerpo, convirtiéndose en la unidad de combate mas eficaz de ambos bandos en el campo de operaciones de guerrilla y contra-guerrilla.

Entrenamiento realizados en Vietnam

Los SEAL actuaron en secreto y bajo auspicio del “Studies and Observation Group” (SOG) en Laos y Camboya. También a modo de prueba no oficial, miembros del Seal Team 2 entrenaron a tropas survietnamitas creando el Destacamento Bravo. Muchos SEAL no tenían en alta consideración a sus contrapartes survietnamitas.
En 1970, el Presidente Richard Nixon inició un plan de vietnamización, el cual devolvería la responsabilidad de la defensa de Vietnam del Sur a los survietnamitas. Las fuerzas convencionales se fueron retirando, pero las operaciones de los SEAL continuaron.
Entonces con la creación de una base flotante en la península de Ca Mau disponían de un lugar seguro para lanzar sus operaciones ofensivas a la vez que se reabastecian por medio de helicópteros.

El 28 de Octubre de 1965 murió el primer SEAL en Vietnam, el fuego de mortero acabó con la vida del Comandante Robert J Fay. Desde esta fecha hasta 1972 perecieron otros 45 SEAL, siendo el primer muerto en combate el operador de radar Billy Machen (16 de Agosto de 1966). El cuerpo de Machen fue recuperado después de que tras sufrir una emboscada a plena luz del día, su patrulla solicitara fuego de apoyo de dos helicópteros.
El último SEAL caído fue el Tte. Melvin Spence Dry, a causa de un arriesgado salto nocturno desde un helicóptero llevado a cabo durante la Operación Thunderhead.
La guerra de Vietnam no fue favorable tanto para los EEUU como para sus aliados, pero aportaron muchas lecciones valiosas en la formación y madurez de los SEAL.

How often do women falsely cry rape? Since an 18-year-old high school student who admitted lying after telling police that five men had tricked her into a bathroom and then gang raped her two weeks ago, that question has been flying around in my head. From my experience the answers to that question fall into one of two camps. “Many feminists argue that the problem of false accusations is so minuscule that to discuss it extensively is a harmful distraction from the far more serious problem of rape. On the other side are men’s-rights activists, claiming that false accusations are as much of a scourge as rape itself.”

But isn’t the rate of false rape charges an empirical question, with a specific answer that isn’t vulnerable to ideological twisting? Yes and no. There has been a burst of research on this subject. Some of it is careful, but much of it is questionable. While most of the good studies converge at a rate of about 8 percent to 10 percent for false rape charges, the literature isn’t quite definitive enough to stamp out the far higher estimates. And even if we go by the lower numbers, there’s the question of interpretation. If one in 10 charges of rape is made up, is that a dangerously high rate or an acceptably low one? To put this in perspective, if we use the Bureau of Justice Statistics that show about 200,000 (when I saw that, I knew that was some “SVU” propaganda) rapes in 2008, we could be looking at as many as 20,000 false accusations.

When I was younger the police used to be routinely suspicious of rape victims. “Surely the simplest, and perhaps the most important, reason not to permit conviction for rape on the uncorroborated word of the prosecutrix is that the word is very often false,” a Yale Law Journal article opined in 1952, echoing a view voiced since at least the 17th century. These views remained mainstream into the 1970s, if not later. As Marcia Clark said yesterday recalling the 1977 rape charges against Roman Polanski, “Those were the days when folks still believed rape was ‘easy to charge and hard to disprove.’ ” And that old adage couldn’t have been further from the truth. Prosecutors well knew that unless the victim was Snow White, the case was toast.”

I remember when fem bot Susan Brownmiller Wrote her hypocrisy of a book : Against Our Will: Men, Women and Rape,

In her book, Brownmiller said that only 2 percent of rape allegations are false, citing findings by the female police in a New York City rape squad. The problem is that while this statistic has been widely repeated, with dutiful mentions of New York-based “research,” no one has ever tracked down its source. This we learned from a comprehensive review of the literature on false rape charges published in the Cambridge Law Journal in 2006. The author, Philip Rumney, finds a couple of small studies that back up the 2 percent claim but isn’t confident of their methodology.

Rumney’s survey of the terrain is the best we found. He also takes aim at the findings on the other end of the spectrum—the research that purports to show that the rate of false allegations of rape is in the range of 40 percent, as well as the flawed (but often cited) work that makes a crazy high jump to as high as 90 percent. The 40 percent figure is usually attributed to a 1994 article by E.J. Kanin in the Archives of Sexual Behavior. Kanin looked at 109 reports of rape to police in one small Midwestern metropolitan area over nine years. His pool was small. The police he studied always offered the victim a polygraph—perhaps signaling they doubted her veracity. And Kanin himself “warns against generalising from his findings” and points to reasons for questioning them, as Rumney explains.

The hugely high 90 percent false rate is several degrees more suspect. The citation for it is usually a study in Scotland by police surgeon N.M. MacLean of only 34 rape complaints made from 1969-74. Complaints were labeled false if they were made after a delay. Or if the victim didn’t look “disheveled” or upset or seriously injured. But those factors don’t necessarily indicate that a rape charge is trumped up. When police use stereotypes about rape to sort real allegations from false ones, they can do victims a real disservice, as this model paper from the Oregon Attorney General’s Sexual Assault Task Force explains. In a 1981 study of 16 reports that claimed the victim admitted to making it up in 14 of them, one case was disproved because the police decided the woman was too large for the alleged rapist to have taken off her “extremely tight undergarments” against her will. Need we say that this not the critical eye we want from the cops?

Rumney’s smart debunkings leave us with a group of American, British, Canadian, and New Zealand studies that converge around a rate of 8 percent to 10 percent for false reports of rape. Not all of these studies are flawless, but together they’re better than the rest of the lot. They include a massive 1997 report on sexual assault by the U.S. Department of Justice, which includes data from 16,000 local, county, and state law enforcement agencies. The DoJ found that “in 1995, 87% of recorded forcible rapes were completed crimes and the remainder were classified as attempts. Law enforcement agencies indicated that about 8% of forcible rapes reported to them were determined to be unfounded and were excluded from the count of crimes.”

If 8 percent to 10 percent is about right for false reporting of rape, based on what we know so far, how should we think about that number? Rumney says he’s not sure whether crying wolf is more or less likely over rape than over other crimes, because the comparative research is even less conclusive. So that’s a question that appears to have no answer at the moment. (A 2001 Department of Justice report says that the rate of false reports is similar for other crimes, but it also gives the 2 percent figure without a source, so we’re skeptical.)

What is clear, however, are two problems that are the flip side of the same coin. False charges of rape are an absolute nightmare for the men caught in their net. And the specter of made-up allegations is a real problem for law enforcement—which means they are also a problem for women who are telling the truth. Let’s take the men first. Ive heard from many of my own men tell me there own stories. The first one that comes to my mind is one a navy seal told me in Iraq, equal parts heartbreaking and thoughtful:

My girlfriend was raped several years ago. I had been falsely accused of rape less than a year ago. I called her (I had known her before her incident) because I was desperate for someone to talk to who would understand what I was going through. To my great relief, it turned out that we understood each other very well. From the initial stages of suicidal thoughts and not being able to function to the long-term fear, mistrust, and guilt that are facts of our lives, it turns out that her experience of being raped and mine of being falsely accused of rape were very similar. … One important difference, though, is that when she was violated, she received a great deal of help (medical, legal, psychological). Apart from family and friends, I was on my own. My legal and psychological problems had to be dealt with by me at a time when I couldn’t eat, sleep, or think (except, of course, about killing myself).

On the law enforcement end, we heard from Steve Cullen, an Army attorney who’s worked extensively as a prosecutor. He offered this cogent—and dire—explanation of the reverberations when women cry wolf about rape:

False reports have an incredibly corrosive impact on how sexual assault accusations are policed. Police treat sexual assault accusers badly—much worse than the lawyers do—much worse than the courtroom does. Forget what you see on “SVU,” the police end absolutely discourages victims from reporting. Why is this so? Because cops suspect just about every victim is another false accuser, because either he/she has personally dealt with such a problem, or has heard stories from his or her cop buddies to this effect (and yes, in my experience female cops can be even worse offenders). This police behavior is bad, and counterproductive—but it’s real. Putting a real stigma on false reports might combat this a bit—and make it a little easier for actual victims at the police station.
False reports also have a disproportionate impact on juries. How I’d hate to be prosecuting a sexual assault right now. Often in sexual assault prosecutions there’s no debate as to the sex, but everything falls on proving lack of consent—and can only be proven through a convincing and persuasive victim’s testimony. Often, that victim’s testimony has to overcome some less than ideal circumstances—she was drinking, people observed her flirting with the perpetrator etc. That’s something she can own up to, and overcome on her own. What she can’t do on her own is extinguish jury members’ memory of reading of some spectacular false accusation case in the newspaper last month. Every false accusation that makes it into the news makes it that much harder for the real victims to receive justice.

If police and juries are influenced by false reports, especially high-profile instances of false charges, like the Duke lacrosse case or the Hofstra case, why wouldn’t those reports influence victims, too? Up to 60 percent of rapes go unreported. The Hofstra story will only make more women wonder if the police will believe them.
This is sobering. As, of course, is the whole topic. We’re left to draw the following conclusion: False allegations of rape aren’t rampant. But they don’t have to be to cause terrible trouble. This is a problem that a men’s rights movement shouldn’t trump up. And also one that feminists can’t dismiss.

Wednesday was soccer night for Liam Badpenny. It was unlikely I would hear from him. Thursday, on the other hand, was a possibility. But who knew? He never called ahead of time. We never made plans. It was always last minute, likely when he exhausted all other possibilities.

I had to be honest. I had met him at a bar. I fucked him without really even knowing his name. This wasn’t me. I was the woman who was celibate for 9 of 10 years after breaking up with her high school sweetheart. I was the woman waiting for my true love. Sure, I was falling for Liam in the very beginning, but I was temporarily swept off my feet. I got impatient. I got lonely. I got horny.

No more kidding myself. The relationship was about sex. Ok, maybe I could just have sex. People did. If I was never going to experience a reciprocated love, then why not at least enjoy myself? Nothing wrong with that. Normal, adult behavior. I could be a normal adult, couldn’t I? Didn’t sound like me, but I could try. If I was going to be something I’m not, the sex needed to get a hell of a lot better. And fast.

I did some yoga late in the afternoon, a set called “Heart Connection”, that I followed with a healing meditation. Couple of the kryas were challenging – breath of fire for two minutes in bow pose always sucks – but for the most part, it wasn’t too hard.

“Ra Ma Da Sa Sa Se So Hung,” I chanted for eleven minutes as instructed by Yoga Bhajan. Opening my eyes, I felt lighter, clearer. The sun would be setting in an hour or so. I decided to head for the beach.

And, just in case Liam Badpenny called me, I put on a dark brown spaghetti strap sun dress and matching beaded sandals. Yeah, sure I knew it was to be a short spiritual journey to the ocean, but I also did my hair and makeup. God didn’t care how I looked, but Liam would.

With some time to kill before sundown, I thought about grabbing a quick drink somewhere I had never been. Remembered Old Sour Puss and Liam mentioned hanging out a place called James Beach, a restaurant in a one story, white building on the corner of North Venice Boulevard and Pacific Avenue. What the hell. I’d check it out.

The restaurant was divided into two areas – the fine dining part and a more casual room with open air ceilings and hard stone tile floors. The daily wine specials were written in chalk on a blackboard behind the bar. It was still early, so not much going on. I sat on one of the high wooden chairs at the bar and ordered a glass of Syrah.

Within seconds, I was overwhelmed with the feeling that I did not belong there. Even with a mere handful of people at the bar, the place had the energy of a pick up joint – but then, didn’t most bars? I stared into my wine, as to not invite any potential suitors, though I doubt it mattered. A sheltering circle of invisibility seemed to surround me. No one was going to notice.

Feeling securely unseen, I began to people watch. Observed typical bar types – the girl who laughed at the guy who was not funny to feed his ego because maybe, just maybe, he was the one. There was a sexy, overdressed woman in the corner who was not going home with anyone, but would enjoy the advances of inebriated males and the ego boost of doling out rejection for much of the evening. Lonely middle aged business man sitting next to me, tie thrown over his shoulder, enjoying his dinner and the beginning of the nightly show.

I downed the last third of my wine. I had to get out of there. Absolutely nothing wrong with however people come together, but I didn’t belong. I’d been feeling that way a lot lately. My bite sized studio was the only place I felt I belonged…and falling asleep in Liam Badpenny’s arms…

I stepped out of James Beach into a different world. The sun was setting. Ocean waves warbled an ancient hymn in soothing, desultory harmony. The sand beckoned bare feet. I walked the short distance on the last tiny fraction of Venice Boulevard before it dead ended into the Western edge of North American, crossed a parking lot, past the bike rental kiosk, skipped over the bike path, dropped out of my leather beaded flip flops and stuck my feet into the coarse sand. It was like stepping into home.

The wind had picked up. My dress billowed wildly, threatening to rise up and expose me from the waist down. My hair hung loose and flew out behind me. I sauntered to the shore where the sand was wet and cold. Gasping like a little girl finding a pony under the tree on Christmas morning as the ocean enveloped my feet, I stared at the sun, golden with azure highlights, the sky shifting to crimson as it descended like melting glitter toward the water.

I pulled out my cell phone to take a picture and noticed there was a message.  Liam Badpenny had called while I was in the bar. “Hi. It’s Liam. Call me.” When I called him back, I got voicemail.

“Sorry I didn’t hear my phone ring. I’m on the beach. I look forward to hearing from you.” I took a picture of the sunset and texted it to him. “Very romantic,” I typed.

A half hour past gawking at this illustrious mutation from day to night. The sun finally went; the sky vibrating pink, halcyon indigo. No word from Liam. I took in a deep breath. At that moment something in me knew that my heart had no place to go, nowhere to connect. It wasn’t going to find Liam’s heart. His wasn’t available. Though a trivial matter in the grand scheme of things, it was if God was whispering this realization in the back of my brain.

When I was in Liam Badpenny’s world, I missed a call from him. While I in my world, he missed a call from me. I didn’t belong with Liam Badpenny. Not because there was anything bad about him. Oh sure, he was brutally insensitive, but that didn’t make him evil. He was embedded in the world. And he loved it. I was barely on the planet. To be with him, I would have to give up something sacred. I would have to choose the world over God. Sounds pretty over the top, but for a few brief, spiritually lucid moments, that’s how I felt.

I came home, took off my dress and washed off the makeup. It was only 9:30, but I was tired and decided to go to bed. I threw on my favorite “pajamas”, an old blue work shirt that had belonged to my grandfather. The name “Joe” was embroidered over the left shirt pocket, a Pabst Blue Ribbon decal over the right. Lying in bed, I drifted away to the mollifying resonance of night outside my bedroom window.

I had been asleep a short time when my phone rang. Who else? Liam Badpenny stumbled into a story about not hearing his phone in the Chinese restaurant where he had eaten dinner and had wanted to take me. He added something about then leaving his phone in the car and not getting my message until he was almost home. I looked at my clock. It had been over three hours since I had called him.  Something wasn’t right about his story.

“I’m home now. If you want to come over.” No matter the actual circumstances behind the dilatory return of my call, Liam Badpenny wanted to get laid.

“I’m in bed. I was dressed to go out earlier, but I never heard from you.” I didn’t admit that I had dressed to go out before he called me the first time on the off chance that he might want to see me. But, the thought came to my head and it burned. I was tired of the guessing game.

“I forgot my phone in the car.” Ok, but was that before or after he couldn’t hear it in the restaurant? Why hadn’t he checked his messages, especially if he was expecting me to call him back?

“That was a long time ago. How long did it take you to eat dinner?”

“If you don’t want to come over, you don’t have to,” he was getting frustrated.

“I wouldn’t feel right…I…uh…I’m not a service,” and I hung up. Left his phone in the car my ass. He found someone with whom to flirt at whatever place he ended up. That’s why he didn’t return my call right away. I’m not a moron. I know bullshit when I hear it. It was only after he didn’t have any other options that he dialed up his sure thing. And he didn’t say a word about the text I sent him. I wasn’t worth any romance. I was flesh. That was it.

God was right. This was not meant to be. God’s always right. One of the inherent characteristics of the divine. If only I would have listened…But, in this day and age, who really listens to God?

My name is John Lamb and I am following Navy SEAL David Goggins as he participates in the Furnace Creek 508 in Death Valley, California.  David, a Navy SEAL, is an active-duly Sailor who has served overseas in Iraq and Somalia.  The special thing about David is earlier this year–while training for the 3,000 Race Across America Marathon–he found out he had a hole in his heart.  After having surgery, David is progressing in his training.  The Furnace Creek 508 is an ultramarathon bike race.  There is an allotted time of 48 hours, and the course record is around 27 hours.

Keep tuned in as I follow David throughout his 508-mile journey through Death Valley.  I will have updates throughout the day.  Enjoy!