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Friday, April 23, 2004
Half-Mast
Pat Tillman was my all-time favorite Sun Devil.
Even before Pat went on to the NFL, and eventually made his fateful decision to join the Army and serve his nation, I had a deep and abiding love and respect for how he played football and how he played life. He was the kind of person that, in your weaker moments, you wished you could be. Honest. Dependable. Someone who put 100% of himself in everything he did. And yet somehow, he managed to stay humble.
The announcement this morning that Pat had been killed in action in Afghanistan was a blow, not only to people like myself who were fans, but to the campus where I graduated from and still work at. The Governor ordered flags flown at half-mast here at ASU, and things are unusually still and quiet today. It's like the wind was knocked out of 45,000 people.
Most of you have seen or heard the stories about what Pat did. Looking at free-agency and a healthy $3.6 million payday from the Arizona Cardinals, Pat instead came home from his honeymoon in May 2002 and decided that his life needed something else, and that he had a purpose elsewhere. He declined to sign, and instead he and his brother Kevin joined the Army and went for Ranger training. Pat declined every interview request made of him at that point, preferring to be just another guy who was going to serve his nation's armed forces. He promised that after his three year commitment to the Army he would return to the NFL, and you never doubted him for a second. He was just that kind of man.
How many of us could have done that? I like to believe that I am a relatively principled person, and someone who sticks to his beliefs, but if accepting $3.6 million meant keeping myself out of mortal harm, I'm not sure there's a guiding ideal on Earth that would stop me from cashing those checks. I don't know anyone else who feels differently, either.
As the casualties have mounted in Iraq and Afghanistan over the last few months, there has been a quiet anonymity to the fallen. We're no longer being fed bullshit stories like Jessica Lynch's rescue, and heroes like Lori Piestewa have dropped off the radar. In fact, since the official "war" ended, we aren't really seeing any names at all. Today that changed.
The death of Pat Tillman might well turn out to be a pivotal event in the Middle Eastern conflicts. He wasn't just a young kid from North Dakota; he was a public figure, someone that people had seen on television and known of before he went into the service. What worries me is that the politicos on each side will find a way to get propaganda value out of Pat's sacrifice, and what will happen to his family, who don't deserve that pain. His brother Kevin serves in the same unit with Pat. How frightened must they be right now?
Wars are generally fought by, and compile the deaths of, forgotten heroes. That's the very nature of conflict. The generals, those with stars on their uniforms, are the ones who write books. Pat Tillman, had he lived and returned to play football again would have never written a book. But his story is one in which we will all be forever able to share. Rest in peace, PT. You did the Sun Devils, the Nation, and your family, proud. God bless.
Marc@MarcMason.com
1:48 PM
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Friday, April 16, 2004
Kill Marc
Marc worked. Marc lunched. Marc saw the excellent Kill Bill V2. Marc stuck around. Marc went to dinner with friends. Marc got home very late.
Marc will be back next week.
Marc@MarcMason.com
10:39 PM
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Friday, April 09, 2004
Throwing Feces
All stories are better when they include a monkey. This was concluded tonight at happy hour, and there were no dissenting voices. So mote it be.
Yesterday, national security advisor Condy Rice finally lied testified in front of the 9/11 commission. Her remarks were widely interpreted by various pundits, and the meanings were never clear. But the highlight of the day's testimony came when the senior monkey on the commission reacted to Rice's denials by shitting in his hand and flinging it at Miss Rice's brifecase, where it settled in between some OPEC price reports and a small bag of lipsticks.
Much better.
This week at work I received one of my two annual evaluations. I kick total ass at my job, so there really wasn't anything of substantial interest in it, except for when I was praised for my quick thinking and the lives saved when I stopped a rampaging monkey from re-programming our computer network to make it endlessly re-type the complete works of Shakespeare.
That works for me.
But the problem with that second one is that the monkey didn't throw any excrement. Stories where monkeys throw excrement are better than the ones that don't. It's a rule.
Maybe what that really means is that our human stories would be much better if humans took the time to throw their own feces at other people and objects. I have a wonderful picture in my head of John Kerry, mid-debate, tiring of W's incessant blather and whipping a nice, steaming fresh, pile of turds at him. That would give a new definition to what makes someone Presidential material; we'd vote for the guy who eats the most fiber.
I should be in charge of the world. Me, and my pet monkey, who shall be called "Fatdick." (Don't ask.) I wonder how to get on the ballot for that? Who do I have to shit on to make that happen?. Oh yeah- if I were a Republican, that answer would be "the electorate."
Marc@MarcMason.com
9:26 PM
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Friday, April 02, 2004
Lone And Level Sands
My depression began to shift and evolve into other outlets this week. It wasn't that I felt better or anything like that- I don't. But I did begin to acquire a sensation and feeling of rage that flickered and flamed inside of me at various times this week.
In certain ways, the rage was beneficial: I was working out one evening while completely in its grip, and the 24 minutes was almost literally over before I realized I had started. I wish it were always that easy to do Tae Bo. Of course, that would also mean I might be ready for the next level tape.
On the flip side, there are few things that hurt more than rage unexpressed. It's one of those feelings that moves around your gut and begins to eat away at you from within. Unexpressed rage is a soul-eating virus for which there is not an antibiotic treatment. It blows.
It may sound funny or even stupid, but I did manage at one point to find a creative and useful way of working through it. It may be only because I love science fiction, but I'll take what I can get. I sat and closed my eyes, and I tried to filter out the noise in the vicinity. Then (don't laugh) I pictured myself sitting on a pile of stones, holding a broken bone in my hand, and began to just beat the holy living fuck out of everything in sight. I swear to you, I thought I felt the wind from my rapid arm movements cascading across my face. There was no monolith in my visualization, and I didn't finish by throwing the bone straight up in the air, but it was all good nonetheless.
See? Being a semi-geek does have its usefulness.
Marc@MarcMason.com
9:17 PM
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