Thick moisture dripped off my chin. The dense, impenetrable jungles of Honduras weren't exactly pleasant. The heat was so thick you could smell it, accompanied by swarms of ungodly gnats that got in your nose, ears, and eyes.
It was always hard, always...
I couldn't figure out where the guerrillas were going. Maybe the American was leading, but why would he head into the jungle. More than that, the sups wouldn't tell me who the American was.
Finally.. caught them filling their canteens.
We'll hit 'em at dawn. They are on the horn begging for resupply. Their higherups are writtin' 'em off.
Morning.
Move forward, 3 50 meters left. I'll take right. Move.
Base of the mountain, 250 meters. My mark...
Fire.
We let all fucking hell loose.
Suppressive fire. Watch the left side! GO!
The first team smashed forward. My team gave them cover fire. Now it was our turn to move.
The American didn't look like your average "Gentleman leftist" idiot revolutionary.
I've got eyes on the American.
A satisfying red mist exploded from his throat. He went down, clawing. I went ahead and put his radioman down too.
More grenades, another few minutes of withering fire.
We lit the whole fucking area up. Everything was dead.
A little tingle crept up my spine as I walked up on the American and his radioman.
The green beret on his head struck me first. Then his face, familiar... Nicky...
Someone had betrayed him. The CIA director was a real shithead. He tried to tell me I did a good job. I knocked him out.
Never saw that guy again.
Eric Haney was a Delta Force operative. He told his story to Maxim. This is what he must have been thinking during one of his particularly intruiging operations.Call it artistic interpretation. By the way, this is a true story.
http://www.maximonline.com/grit/articles/article_5730.html
OOoOOo! I'm being oppressed! Damn The Man, Save The Empire!
In 1934, through the unstinting efforts of co-founder Bennett Cerf and his legal counsel, Morris Ernst, RANDOM HOUSE succeeded in bringing out the first American Edition of Ulysses
Green Eggs and Ham. GEH was inspired by a bet Geisel made with Random House publisher Bennett Cerf that he could write a book using just fifty words. Geisel won the bet, and the book became the biggest seller of his career.
11am today I saw American Splendour with Harvey Pekar Q&A, and part of him and his wife and his cute (gawky cute, geeky cute, the kind of girl gets written about lots here) adopted daughter (and i feel scared saying that, like Harvey's going to find this and hunt me down and beat me up, Archie Bunker style, though he seems like a nice guy
and my eyes are burning again, and i've had a ton of intellectual experiances and all, and two hours ago i was going to stay up one more hour to write an Ask the American (sure, ya'll don't like it, but my editor wants one every week, no questions ask, and I gotta oblige 'cause writing for the paper is still a gig, and when you've got no job a gig is the best you can hope for... and three days of writing festivals and being the token American and the token Joycean (all of them cooing over me 'cause i'm reading Ulysses for a class, like i'm some kinda rare specimen, though i haven't finished the bit i've got reading for class tommorow-- Eumeneus, cabman's shelter, late at night, and have i told you yet how Luna Park shines at night as yer rounding the curve of Circular Quay? its a bit like living it, only with more beauty and less legends
and when you see that the writers who get invited to festivals are just YOU only with a little less luck so they had to write a bit more, you want to spend your 20 bucks on a salad and throw away all your cash so you're FORCED to submit, FORCED to be what what you're supposed to be
and i met "adults" (36 years old) who had no idea, just artists/writers/actors living free in part time jobs and Sydney lofts, and i wonder if its a good thing or a bad thing that the music (Moloko, Massive Attack, Beck) and the movies (Micheal Moore) seemed so perfectly familiar
i can type so fast my hands would be on fire, so this is coming out as i think it-- speed of second, speed of thought. in my own head, its genius, a combination of all the millions of inputs during the day. you'll disagree, but can ya delete daylogs, dad? Dylan dances to Stipe's strings sometimes, ya figure, in his room when he dosen't need to be professionally old ("that ain't a 10 gallon hat, i say, re his new apperance-- more of a 20 gallon") by way of explanation to a lady at a hip store playing the Wonder Boys soundtrack, my fave, and can i trade on nice hats and energy long enough to convince people i can write long enough to convince them to give me enough to eat?
(a joke, of course-- parents will provide. but i hide a bit from reality, and all i must do is extend the image long enough to make something of it. pretend not to be the starving singer with muttonchop meatcap and instead record the fourworded wavespeech of a Bronte Beach afternoon where yer too busy dancing in the waves to write about them
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