sock monster usurped

i found my sock.
it was lost.
a nike ankle sock.

from ross.
and I'd been saving its lone counterpart for over three years in the rare instance I would find my lost sock.
three whole years.

36 months.

1095 days.
but I believed.
“yes we can,” i said, as my ex-girlfriend maligned me with insults.
"douche bag."
"asshole."
"jackass."
but i had the audacity to hope.
the audacity to say miracles can happen.
i said, “mandia, i’m asking you to believe. not in the same old sock monster, but a new beginning in which missing socks appear after several years.”
and it did.
despite friends and family espousing negativity at my choice to kept a single nike ankle sock.
“buy a new sock,” they said.
“throw it away,”
“you're an idiot.”
perhaps.
but i advanced confindently in the direction of my dreams.
and i succeded.
ohhh, they said I was strange.
a cheap bastard.
self-absorbed.
a borderline sociopath.
well whos the sociopath now???
i have two nike ankle socks!
nearly new.
and i enjoy them.
tomorrow when I go to the gym I'll wear my nike ankle socks; both of them, and I'll smile in the large gym mirror and play queen’s “we are the champions” on my iPod and run 3 miles on the elliptical machine.
then I will go home and drink a protein shake.
take off my nike ankle socks.
shove them back into my shoes.
shower.
rub some horse liniment on my chronic back ache.
take a few vicodins; wash them down with a coors light, and read david mamet’s “bambi vs. godzilla."
maybe i'll smoke, but i know this:
it will be a good day.
because i'm an american
America.
breakfast for dinner.

super sized fried potaters.

all you can eat shrimp.
five gallon jugs of mayonnaise.

65,000 people just died in china.
100,000 in burma.

But i found my sock.

on the eve of memorial day

dress blues.
fresh haircut.
scalp pale.
left hand holds a bottle of bud.
condensation beads large and circular on the bottle as the red/white/blue wraps around the distortion.
a folded flag.
tells me he's a sgt from new york.
slams down his bud. rips a burp.
buy him a shot of the cheapest shit in the bar.
jack.
tall.
shoots it. continues: a reservist, from a communications battalion (he dicked with radios),
on special assignment.
i look at his medals and ribbons.
maybe one row, i dont remember.
but no combat action ribbon.
a boot.
at least he ain't an officer.
so i buy him another shot.
gulp.
"this special assignment you're on, could you elaborate?" i say.
"dis flag," he says. "stood on da rooves of da twin towers."
"no fucking shit," i say.
"no fuggin' shit," he says.
we drink some more booze and i ask if i can touch the flag.
he lets me.
its a flag, alright.
folded tight. crisp edges. starched.
a funeral flag.
nothing profound really entered my head.
its a flag, alright.
i give him back the flag.
he passes it around the bar.
the dregs of society solemnly hand it to one another. set their drinks down.shut their mouths.
some half-assed bar song is playing but the bartender lowers the volume.
a neon coors light sign reflects on the flag as it passes from hand to hand.
the bar transforms.
was: shitty dive hole in san pedro, california.
is: contemporary place of worship.
a sacred relic of Americana has found its tabernacle.
so the sgt. bellies up to the bar, drunk as hell; oblivious to world around him and stares into the mirror.
one of those deep serious scary types of stares.
an intense summation of ones life; culled in the pit of a cheap gin joint.
walk up to him.
"you in the army, man?" i say.
he laughs, pulled back to reality.
fuck no, hes a marine. a badass motherfucking marine.
"what the difference between a soldier and a marine," i ask.
"about half a man," he says.
i laugh.
he laughs.
i buy another shot.
gulp.
proceeds to tell me how Jarheads were born in 1775.
tuns tavern.
honor, courage, commitment.
once a marine, always a marine.
the eagle, globe and anchor.
semper fi.
uncommon valor was common virtue.
etc, etc.
it was very funny.
i used to say those things. mostly at bars. or to broads. or old men.
but i leave the bar because the sgt. is getting a bit belligerent.
talking about ragheads and confirmed kills.
a life taker and heart breaker.
fucking tip of the spear, buddy.
i walk down the street, past the other bars; patrons stand outside and smoke.
a chunky mexican wears a pink mini-skirt, sucks at a cigarette.
blue smoke rise up, up into the darkness.
i walk more.
to the place where the ferry used to be.
years ago.
a big gun lays dormant there. filled with cement. a massive round sits adjacent to it.
an anti-aircraft gun. rusted. welded stiff. graffiti tagged on its base.
a cop drives by.
i wonder what he thinks.
but i keep walking.
fuck the cop.
to the water and its very quite.
fiddler crabs rest on rocks. their little mouth gyrating.
a coffee cup from 7/11 floats by.
a slight breeze wafts the ocean into my nose.
the moon is out.
i can see the longshoreman across the harbor unload a supertanker.
they move in slow motion.
silently.
bar people argue up the street.
the voices echo.
"fuck this..."
"fuck that..."
my hands hold tight the chain link fence.

the harbor is still.

the moon.

the men frozen on the docks.

the smell of the sea.

it is a beautiful night.

and i am still alive.

get over it

two months.
sixty days.
and i was home.
san pedro.
residing inside my parents house.
drinking beer and jack.
watching tv:
paris hiltons vagina.
britney spears new tattoo.
george micheal gives a blowjob inside a public restroom.
change the channel.
CNN.
report about Iraq. troop casualties. quagmire. bush; the 'decider.'
then a quick update on the sunni triangle; fallujah specifically.
two months.
60 days.
fallujah. my home.
i comment something about it to my dad. most probably negative and self righteous.
he doesn't say much. just lets me talk.
smart guy-im sure i sounded like a fool.
but then, as i was injecting my social commentary, someone screeches out, "get over it!" the "it" being the War, of course.

"get over it."
"get over it."
"get over it."

fuck, i just got back.
numerous vulgarities bloomed inside my head.
wanted to blurt something out. but i didn't.
had to leave. VA appointment.
got in the toyota tundra supplied by my gramps and headed towards long beach.
driving over the vincent thomas bridge. now dotted with blue lights.
down ocean blvd.
men in power suits. they stare at the ground. oblivious.
women in starched mini-skirts. daggered high heels. angry faces. consumed with their cell phones.
past the bars on pine street.
past the buddhist temple on redondo; an old lady walking her miniature yorkie on the corner.
she grimaces at some unknown hurt. yanks her miniature mutt on a diamond encrusted leash.
red light.
my toyota tundra idles.
i wear black sunglasses that obfuscate my face.
they reflect dull in the longbeach haze.
they hide my eyes from the women i oogle.
pathetic, i know.
but what straight man doesnt admire the female form?
mormons?
jehovah witnesses?
so i watch the old lady and her miniature mutt sniff the buddhist temples grass.
a pink bow on its head.
circles an area. hesitates. circles again. stops.
looks around, self-consciously.
then squats and takes a big ass dump on the buddhist temples front lawn.
the old broad just up and leaves.
the tiny turd steams on the sidewalk.
green light.
make a left.
past the steers and queers and odd looking women who hate men and then a right at the brazilian jiu jitsu dojo (i think thats what they call it).
continuing down 7th street.
the black neighbor hood.
the mexicans.
near the donut shop in which my cousin found a roach inside his jelly donut, i make a left.
large white building jutting into the gray sky.
VA longbeach.
go in.
bunch of geezers with moto hats and pins on.
the few the proud.
semper fi.
semper paratus.
go army.
go navy.
a few old farts with VFW covers.
they come up to me. strained smile. "donate?" they ask.
"im broke man," i say.
"no problem young man," they say.
good people.
and i go up to the alpha clinic and a large gay black man takes down my name and tells me to take a seat, it'll be ten minutes.
i do.
several of the old farts sit too, watching montel williams interview a woman who was kept as a sex slave for eight months inside her boyfriends garage. she escapes. the boyfriend subsequently blows his head off. good fucking riddens.
watching montel i fail to notice the oldster who takes a seat next to me.
a smell.
disturbing.
piss. urine. shit. feces.
and tobacco. not the aromatic type either, but those cheap fucking dime store basics.
i turn and look.
who is this foul creature?
just an old man. he strains smiles at me. i smile back, my lip quivering.
i do a double take.
holy fucking shit.
he doesnt have a nose.
he doesnt have a nose.
i try not to stare. but im a jackass, what else was i gonna do?
looks like a character from he-man; skeletor.
skeletor incarnate.
puss drains down the hole in his face. yellowish brown. gravy.
continuing down his stubbled chin.
collects in the crease.
what a sad fucking sight, i think.
poor old bastard probably stormed the beaches at normandy and now he's sitting in this waiting room, stinking of piss and shit and cheap cigarettes.
boogers continue to roll down the hole in his face to his mouth, where he tongues the goo.
i think he might be nuts.
a name is called.
higgins or hilton or some shit, and skeletor gets up and strains another smile at me.
theres a lot of strained smiles at the VA.
he heads down the white hall. disappears.
thirty minutes later another old guy sits near me.
his body shakes.
he too smells of cigs, but not piss.
i think i smell beer.
his face is peppered with liver spots and wrinkles.
eyes like cocktail onions left out over night.
suddenly he reaches into his pocket. goes through some shit. then turns to me.
"you in iraq?" he says.
"yes. yes i was," i say.
he tells me about how fucked up the war in Iraq is. how bush is a dumbass.
i agree.
his name is ed.
he signed up after the "japs" bombed pearl harbor.
ed shows me a picture. black and white. frayed at the edges.
a young kid in fatigues, holding an m-1 carbine.
"you see this punk?" he says.
"is that you?" i say.
"youre goddamn straight it is," he says.
i pray he's not one of these angry veterans, hoping to vent his misfortunes on a kid like myself.
but he doesnt. ed just talks. and talks.
"this here was one scared sonofabitch," he says, pointing at himself back in 43. "wasnt more than 18 years old, and i shipped out with patton."
then he tells me about going up through siciliy, and past the rubicon.
he met montgomery once.
"what was patton like," i say.
"an officer; a real asshole" he says.
we both laugh.
"things haven't changed," i say. "they're still assholes."
so ed goes on for about ten minutes.
french hookers.
dickhead sergeants.
m-1 carbines vs m-1 garands.
then some heavy shit.
the dead.
the wounded.
the women and kids.
the liver spots on his forehead wrinkle, doubling over.
sitting there, next to this fragile old man, i look at the picture again.
so young; almost a different person.
his hair is greased back.
his smile is honest and loose.
his eyes radiate confidence.
a firm grip on his carbine.
i glance up.
ed’s hands are shaking.
his hair is white and brittle.
i think he is trying to smile, but the strain of life wears heavy on his face.
“youre an integral part of American history ed,” i say.
“who me?” ed says. “i was just doing my job, just like you kid.”
i agree.
we signed up.
we enlisted.
it was our choice.
ed retrieves his photo.
i ask if I can shake his hand. it is feeble, no longer the handshake of the young man I saw in the photo.
"mandia!" yells a small phillipina in green scrubs.
my turn.
i bid him ado, and he says goodbye and “Hoo-ah”.
walking down the hall i glance back towards ed.
the television is still on. montel is over.
CNN:
the war in Iraq is raging. reports of insurgents bombarding a small town named fallujah with rockets and mortars.
i see a Marine Cpl being interviewed.
a young kid. 18-24. confidence exudes from his digital desert uniform. tan colored helmet rests atop his head and his eyes still look moist in the dessert sun.
although the sound from the tv is blaring across the large waiting room, ed chooses not to look at it.
instead he sits, clutching his wallet.
when i go home i cant stop thinking about the men i saw at the VA.
old and brittle.
falling apart.
and i sit in my parents house in san pedro in front of the tv, CNN on mute.
images of arabs and marines and the dead.
frozen.

"get over it."
"get over it."
"get over it."

land navigation

so it was several months into the war. we'd already tore into baghdad with a vengance, blowing and bombing shit up. the local yocals were all very friendly; smiling and waving whenever we passed by. the masterguns (mastergunnery sargeant), told me i needed to run the gunner (this old fat blowhard of a guy who now sells used Fords in San Clemente) to a position on the outskirts of the city. 7th marines, I believe. so i gathered a few fuckheads together, explained we were tasked on a vital mission; get ready for confirmed kills, got a 240 Golf with a shit load of ammo, and the coordinates of 7th. we use grid coordinates with a no-shit map and compass. its kinda complicated and i wondered why we didnt just have mapquest or some shit, but we didnt-we had grid squares and these old ass "pluggers"(picture a cinderblock sized apple 2 computer that doubled as a compass) and thats how we got place to place. anyways, i get a 4 digit grid; thinking i was a master of land navigation and an all around bad ass type marine grunt. 10 minutes later we pick up the fat ass gunner and he blows a bunch of smoke up my ass and i laugh, because i like the fat bastard a little, and we go up to 7th marines pos. apparently it wasn't a vital mission. in short, the fat ass gunner wanted to talk to his buddy-who was also a fat ass gunner. they drank some illegal hooch hustled from the local yocals and reminisced about who blew up the most shit on the march up. so, i had assembled three HUMMVE's full of trigger happy jarheads, pumped them up that they may get some action, and we ended up driving that fat ass to his buddy's place to get blotto. it gets late. dark. and he decides he wants to stay. fine. great. i wouldn’t mind a night somewhere different. maybe they had better chow, i dunno. but as things happen, a fuck head pog major wanted to go to our position. "motherfucker," i say. so i get the guys back in the vehicles, tell them the situation and roll out. the fuck head pog major is in the back of the Hummer, fiddling with his iPod or palm pilot or electronic fuck stick, and we-young dumb leathernecks are up in front ready for battle. literally itching for a fire fight. being dark and all, the terrain looked oddly unfamiliar-my bad ass nav skills were slowly evaporating into oh-shit-we're-lost skills. i tried to keep this a secret from my marines. but guys get smart. they know. they know when their leader is a fucktard, and thats what seemed to be tattooed across my forehead that night. "CPL MANDIA IS A FUCKTARD." eventually the fuck face pog major got wind of this hairy situation and called me into the back of the truck. i go. he says, "cpl mandia, what the fuck is going on?" I say, "i think we're fucking lost, sir." he shakes his head and calls me a piece of shit NCO and i had to agree with him. see, a 4 digit grid gets you within a 1000 meters of your target position-in the raucous insanity of baghdad, 1000 meters was like a 1000 miles. now add in darkness. triply screwed. gunfire sporadically shot over our heads. fires burned on every street corner. explosions. random hadji's darting in and out of alleyways-it was down right scary. sweat poured into my eyes. the men began asking questions. my throat raw. my pores filled with grease. my feet and crotch crackling with fungi. this was all compounded by the situation. and i started to think: oh shit mandia, you could be responsible for the deaths of these men. no more jokes. no more laughing. no more shitty chow. no more breasts jiggling in your face or the smell of a woman's hair as she lays next to you on rainy summer night. NOTHING. this is real, dumbass. and you really fucked up. i wanted to cry. I just wanted to stop the goddamn trucks and get out and huddle in some corner and wait for morning and call my mom and dad up and ask them to pick me up. then something big exploded very close. dust flooded my Hummer. i gagged. i almost prayed to god or something like that. but he hadn’t done anything for me in a while, so I counted him out. although i sure as hell crossed my fingers we would accidentally run into our base camp. one hour later, we did. turns out the fuck faced pog major wasnt so fuck faced after all. that electronic fuck stick he was dicking with in the back was in fact a GPS and he; with all his college learning, triangulated our position. so we get back to base. im figuring a big time ass reaming. possible demotion. we get out-the guys are smoking and joking about their almost ill-fated mission, and the major walks up to me. "dumbfuck," he says. and walks off. disappears into the dark with his electronic fuckstick. never saw him again. later that night the masterguns asked how it went; any problems? waste anybody? throw any grenades? they have better chow than us? i sat down and lit up a marlboro light. "no," i said. "their chow fucking sucked too."

iraq

it's been awhile since i've written something about iraq.
i just watched "operation homecoming."
it put a wild hair up my ass.
the whole film seemed very contrived.
the soldiers and marines were extremely polished.
composed and articulate.
handsome and neat.
a bit on the melodramatic side.
but it made me think.
a strange little creature inside my head (that resembles an asian hobbit with progeria) whispered in my ear that these kids joined the military with an agenda. i know it sounds horrible, but their stories were too straight.
hell, it's been about four years since i dug sand fleas outa my pores and reclined inside a 100 degree porta-shitter while gagging down a luke warm o'douls.
but in those four years, i've yet to understand my experience.
i've yet to figure it out.
i've yet to deduce anything from it; war is bad, withstanding.
i don't have this resolute comprehension, as many of these interviewee's/writers had.
the film makers attempted to connect iraq and vietnam.
it was well-meaning, i guess.
i'll share a story:
i was in washington d.c. a few years ago.
a kennedy center thing.
i made it a point to visit the vietnam memorial.
planned it,
mapped it,
and @ 3am i walked past the great white statue frozen in place, the rectangular pool, and headed towards the long strip of black marble we've all seen on tv and in the movies.
it was dramatically lit.
it was big.
it had flowers and letters.
i was all alone.
i expected some sort of pathos or sadness to sweep over me.
i mean it was 3AM, i was ALL ALONE, the black stone and names and flowers and letters should've had some effect on me, right?
it didn't.
in fact, i only thought about how pointless it all was.
some 60,000 men and women died in vietnam.
we've got this striking memorial to these dead americans.
not to mention the korean memorial and the new WWII memorial.
what's it all mean?
these memorials?
these statues?
not a thing.
so i stood there, in front of all those names; it was getting very cold out, and i walked back to my room near the watergate hotel.
i had a letter in my hand that i took from the memorial.
some kid in new york writing that she thought wars were wrong and bad and a bunch of other silly horseshit that's peddled on oprah and dr. phil.
she was probably right, but i didn't want to hear it.
not from some kid in new york.
not from some hippie retread.
not from robert redford or anybody else.
when i got back to my room it was warm and i laid down on the bed naked and folded up the kid from new york's letter and tossed it in the trash.

blogging

so, im starting a blog. i know, very original. apologies for the misspelled words, syntax errors, vulgarities and the lack of punctuation. its my ode to neil labute. but its late. im tired. more to come.