theNoosphere.com

It was early May, 1987 and the 747 I’d hitched a ride home on from Okinawa, Japan skidded to a stop on the scorching tarmac at Washington National Airport. No longer attached to a Marine unit, I’d had to beg, plead, and threaten my way home. But I’d finally made it back.

A month prior, my plans had been well-laid and seemingly perfect. Gracefully exit the USMC, apply for veterinary school, talk the girl of my dreams into marrying me, and commence happily-ever-after. But a near-death experience and 60 days of surgeries, recovery, and drug-induced haze had blurred the lines of that roadmap considerably. Somewhere in the fog of those months, I’d apparently agreed to continue my Marine Corps career as an officer. I’d get a brief 30 day hiatus at home before having to head to San Diego for the summer to attend a Marine preparatory program, designed to ensure as one of the USMC’s prime investments, I didn’t flunk out of school when I got there.

I was to return...

Boone

How the hell did I get HERE?

We’ve all probably asked ourselves that question as we lived through the myriad twists and turns of our unpredictable lives.

It was 1987. I was a Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps and had decided I’d had enough of sleeping in the mud, and the misery, loneliness, and isolation inherent in the life of an infantryman. My plan was simple – serve out the last few months of my 5 year Marine Corps obligation, move back to my hometown of Alexandria Virginia, go to veterinary school, and marry my girlfriend. I had a roadmap ready for the rest of my life.

Fate, on the other hand, had other ideas.

I was serving out my last days of service as my unit prepared to wrap up a 6 month deployment to Okinawa Japan. I loved Okinawa. It was a recreational paradise with some of the best scuba diving anywhere in the world. And getting the chance to train at the foot of Mount Fuji, one of the most beautiful spots...

Boone

It’s a miracle I lived through the 60’s and 70’s.

As if Richard Nixon, Vietnam, mutually assured destruction, and really really bad fashion weren’t risky enough, I faced the daily threat of mass-marketed toys that could maim, wound, and disfigure. Mattel? Kenner? Hasbro? Whamo? Endless fun with just a hint of mutilation thrown in for good measure. The children’s playthings of my youth would never make the cut nowadays – but how dear they were to my heart way back when.

Toy’s of my childhood – how do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

The Poisonous:
In the 20 years spanning 1960-1979, nothing said FUN like toxic chemicals and vapors. The Bubble Jet, a fancy water gun you shoved bubble-producing cyanide tablets into, was great recreation. Whether squirting the solution into a friend's eyes or mouth, or your own, chemicals meant good clean fun. When you bored of the toxic bubble fun, you could relax with a couple of puffs...

Boone

I want to eat grubs.

No. Not grub.

Grubs.

It’s an odd component of my personality. But I find the thought of doing things, enduring conditions, that most human beings would find unacceptable, thrilling. Nothing appeals to me more than the thought of shedding the conveniences and comforts of modern life, and just living in a primitive setting.

As a young kid, I spent huge chunks of daylight in the woods. Our suburban Northern Virginia home backed up against a vast, overgrown section of woods. Sweet paradise it was. I would trek down the barely visible path to the creek and follow it’s meandering mysterious path until I was so far from the sights and sounds of suburbia, my imagination could really flex its muscles. The woods were full of mystical mile-markers: ‘The Cussword Tree’, a massive elm tree upon which countless other fellow travelers had, with expletive creativity, gouged their final words; ‘Frankenstein’s Tomb’, an above...

Boone

Come in....Welcome...

The old white plastic AM clock radio flipped to 11:07 pm. Huddled under the covers in the corner of my darkened childhood bedroom, I braced myself for the sounds of evil. The creaking door, that harbinger of impending doom, was reinforced with bass, oboe, and muted high-pitched trumpet, shrill as a woman’s shriek. It was time for E.G. Marshall and the CBS Mystery Theater. It was time to be frightened, maybe even scared ****less, and there wasn’t an adult on Earth who could save you from it. Did it get any better than that? Me thinks not.

I’ve always been a night owl. Whether through some imperfection in my circadian rhythms, or the result of aberrant genetic code, adenine where there should have been guanine, I feel most alive from 9pm until the wee hours. This tendency nearly drove my parents to distraction in my youth. My bedroom was directly across from theirs in our Northern Virginia suburban home, so nighttime activities required...

Boone

It's the only credo of the home brewer.

Relax.
Stop Worrying.
Have a Homebrew

Ahhh. Words to live by.

Even as a wee lad, I was already a practicing home brewer. I liked mixing up assorted (and generally horrible) concoctions like some maniacal mad scientist. 'Here - Mom - try it! Come on! Pleeeease!!!' My early efforts weren't very successful. But as an adult I’ve gotten much much better.

I've always loved a good beer. But why do we love the things we love? The taste for beer, as one can confirm by watching the face of anyone taking their first secret sip, is an acquired one. I acquired mine during the countless treks from backyard grill to fridge and back again, providing my Dad with desperately needed and vital fluids during his pitched Summer battles with the burgers, dogs, and steaks of my youth. My hard work was rewarded by the greatest gift of all, a swig from Dad’s Schlitz, Pabst Blue Ribbon, or...

Boone

Childhood memories - those seminal, bittersweet moments of our youth burned indelibly into our consciousness. Few things in the running timeline that is our 'life' burn with the intensity of our early memories. I grew up in the 1960's and 70's in a typical Northern Virginia suburb on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. In those days, you got your entertainment wherever you could find it. For the grown-ups, there was Redskins football (if you were lucky enough to be a season ticket holder or, pre-Ebay, know enough of the right people to get tickets). There were a wealth of bars and restaurants, and a handful of museums and cultural tourist attractions. Born in a fiscally conservative household, we settled for Washington Diplomats season tickets. The Diplomats were an NASL (North American Soccer League) soccer franchise who played at RFK Stadium, whenever the Redskins weren't using it that is, and when no major swap meets needed the space. It was a poor substitute for Sonny, Billy, and...

Boone