that
they would learn that Casey got the address wrong and they actually
attacked the house of Pamela Boardman, an innocent girl in the
class below them. The Boardmans had a long talk with their daughter
about who would want to do something like this to them. They were
very concerned about her associating with such disgusting kids. No
one considered any connection to the actual assailants, and the
attack went unsolved.
Perhaps some good did come from the event,
however. Much to his own surprise, Larry felt extremely guilty
about what happened. A few days later he walked over to the
Boardmans with the intention of confessing and offering to help
clean up, but he chickened out at the last minute. While he never
accepted responsibility, he did learn an important lesson about the
value of good intelligence.
Years later, Larry was part of another group,
this one flying F-17s over Iraq. His job was to guide five-hundred
pound bombs to their targets, regardless of what they may be. Larry
didn’t mind killing people. Actually, he felt pretty darned good
about it when he did his job well. But he cared passionately about
the quality of his work and he understood the costs of error. One
fall day in 2004, Larry disobeyed an order to bomb a small camp of
tents outside of Basra because he felt the intelligence was suspect
and something seemed wrong. He probably would have been severely
punished had it not turned out in debriefing that the target in
question was part of a British field hospital.
Chapter Thirteen
Porn + Games Part II
6:38 p.m.
“ Truckin', like the do-dah man.
Once told me, “You've got to play your
hand”
Sometimes the cards ain’t worth a damn, if
you don't lay ’em down,
Sometimes the light’s all shinin’ on me;
Other times I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me, what a long, strange
trip it’s been”
– Truckin’, The Greatful Dead
Ten miles beyond the official Barstow city
limit, Alex, Mike and Gary outvoted Roger three to one and switched
off the Stanford game, promising to put it back on for the second
half. Gary cycled through the iPod in the front seat and announced
he would start things off with a vintage beat. Moments later, Skid
Row’s I Remember You began to play.
Alex and Gary sang along in the front seat,
“We spent the summer with the top rolled down,” while Mike turned
toward Roger in the back and simulated shooting himself in the
head. A lack of enthusiasm for the vocals emanating from the front
wasn’t the only thing contributing to Mike’s lack of appreciation
for life at the moment. His stomach was churning in a way that had
morphed from annoying to painful. He now regretted the Kodiak.
Mike rolled the window down. At the current
speed of eighty-four miles per hour, the noise from the wind mostly
drowned out Sebastian Bach and his newfound chorus. He firmly
pinched the chew with his left hand, reached out the window and
flipped it into the nothingness on the side of Interstate 15. Alex
tried to look in rearview mirror to make sure Mike wasn’t making a
mess in the car, but the sun was now directly behind them, a
fireball resting on the horizon rendering the mirror useless.
“That better not be all over the car out
there,” Alex said sternly.
“Don’t worry, there is none on the outside of
the car,” Mike said, smiling to himself.
Roger had been trying to go back to sleep for
the past few minutes, but the burst of air from Mike’s window left
him completely awake, and bored. “Can we pull over and get some
beers and maybe play a drinking game or something? Even better,
let’s play something where I can take some of you bitches’
money.”
Alex did not want to stop for beers. His
vision involved getting to Vegas as soon as possible, perhaps
allowing for time to relax with a few drinks in the room before
going out. Also, he knew if the other guys started drinking now it
would have the following negative effects on him:
At least three
they would learn that Casey got the address wrong and they actually
attacked the house of Pamela Boardman, an innocent girl in the
class below them. The Boardmans had a long talk with their daughter
about who would want to do something like this to them. They were
very concerned about her associating with such disgusting kids. No
one considered any connection to the actual assailants, and the
attack went unsolved.
Perhaps some good did come from the event,
however. Much to his own surprise, Larry felt extremely guilty
about what happened. A few days later he walked over to the
Boardmans with the intention of confessing and offering to help
clean up, but he chickened out at the last minute. While he never
accepted responsibility, he did learn an important lesson about the
value of good intelligence.
Years later, Larry was part of another group,
this one flying F-17s over Iraq. His job was to guide five-hundred
pound bombs to their targets, regardless of what they may be. Larry
didn’t mind killing people. Actually, he felt pretty darned good
about it when he did his job well. But he cared passionately about
the quality of his work and he understood the costs of error. One
fall day in 2004, Larry disobeyed an order to bomb a small camp of
tents outside of Basra because he felt the intelligence was suspect
and something seemed wrong. He probably would have been severely
punished had it not turned out in debriefing that the target in
question was part of a British field hospital.
Chapter Thirteen
Porn + Games Part II
6:38 p.m.
“ Truckin', like the do-dah man.
Once told me, “You've got to play your
hand”
Sometimes the cards ain’t worth a damn, if
you don't lay ’em down,
Sometimes the light’s all shinin’ on me;
Other times I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me, what a long, strange
trip it’s been”
– Truckin’, The Greatful Dead
Ten miles beyond the official Barstow city
limit, Alex, Mike and Gary outvoted Roger three to one and switched
off the Stanford game, promising to put it back on for the second
half. Gary cycled through the iPod in the front seat and announced
he would start things off with a vintage beat. Moments later, Skid
Row’s I Remember You began to play.
Alex and Gary sang along in the front seat,
“We spent the summer with the top rolled down,” while Mike turned
toward Roger in the back and simulated shooting himself in the
head. A lack of enthusiasm for the vocals emanating from the front
wasn’t the only thing contributing to Mike’s lack of appreciation
for life at the moment. His stomach was churning in a way that had
morphed from annoying to painful. He now regretted the Kodiak.
Mike rolled the window down. At the current
speed of eighty-four miles per hour, the noise from the wind mostly
drowned out Sebastian Bach and his newfound chorus. He firmly
pinched the chew with his left hand, reached out the window and
flipped it into the nothingness on the side of Interstate 15. Alex
tried to look in rearview mirror to make sure Mike wasn’t making a
mess in the car, but the sun was now directly behind them, a
fireball resting on the horizon rendering the mirror useless.
“That better not be all over the car out
there,” Alex said sternly.
“Don’t worry, there is none on the outside of
the car,” Mike said, smiling to himself.
Roger had been trying to go back to sleep for
the past few minutes, but the burst of air from Mike’s window left
him completely awake, and bored. “Can we pull over and get some
beers and maybe play a drinking game or something? Even better,
let’s play something where I can take some of you bitches’
money.”
Alex did not want to stop for beers. His
vision involved getting to Vegas as soon as possible, perhaps
allowing for time to relax with a few drinks in the room before
going out. Also, he knew if the other guys started drinking now it
would have the following negative effects on him:
At least three
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