tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28882016633586950312024-03-13T15:08:13.701-04:00the echo of the burst of a shellWhat happens when a combat veteran Marine evolves into a writer? The burst of a shell echoes as story.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-23814719053028428432012-12-05T20:27:00.000-05:002012-12-05T20:30:49.006-05:00773. We Did Not Get Wet<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In a rainstorm at 3 in the morning,
we stood on the splintery, worn deck. The sound of rain drops falling,
pattering through planes of branches and leaves on their way to the ground, was
omnipresent. Thousands of white flecks of misty and fat rain glistened in the
lone porch light, but we did not get wet.<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I walked the perimeter of the
deck and then out onto the yard. Still, I did not get wet. We wiped the plastic
arms of patio furniture and thin pools layered over them again, immediately,
after our hands glided along them and then away and then were returned. We
smoked quickly and tried to disavow ourselves of this miracle. On previous
nights, under similar circumstances in this very same spot, we had discussed
religion and physics—creation, quantum mechanics, and the Theory of Everything.
It was odd that we would be the ones to experience something unexplained.<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Patter of drops still
continuing, field-stripped cigarette cherries kicked out in the grass, dulled,
and we went inside and finished our whiskeys and then dreamed. </span></div>
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All content ©Dario DiBattista 2012. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.
Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-20008082708938086662012-11-16T11:31:00.001-05:002012-11-16T12:01:48.677-05:00772. On Atheism's Popularity on the Internet Disclaimer: this is another <i>I wanted to put this on Facebook but didn't want to get in big arguments all day long</i> blog post. You took the time to follow this here -- I didn't "force myself" into your news feed. I'm open to discussion, of course. But let's be civil. :-)<br />
<br />
<b>Never posted status update:</b> <br />
<br />
On www.reddit.com, the "front page" of the Internet, one of the major topic categories (meaning, most popular amongst its millions of users) is "atheism." Seriously, out of all the topics on the planet, why do some atheists spend so much time talking about something they don't believe in? If I were an atheist, this would seem illogical to me, and a waste of time. Unless I thought I was doing the world a service by trying to "enlighten" people and get rid of religion. But, again, I guess I'm just not the kind of asshole who tries to force people into what they should believe.<br />
<br />Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-6494864837557975572012-10-12T16:00:00.004-04:002012-10-12T16:02:05.320-04:00771. Heavy Metal in Trenton (New Publication!)<b>This is just a snippet. Re-posted from <i>Outside In Travel Magazine</i> who just published this piece! Woot! <a href="http://outsideinmagazine.com/issue-seven/wordstories/heavy-metal-in-trenton-dario-dibattista/" target="_blank">Click here to read the entire story! </a>:-)</b><br />
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"In the summer of 2001, my best friend and I exchanged our rock and
roll dreams for military service. Dispassionate barbers trimmed curly
mop-tops into sandpaper buzz-cuts. Piercings and prickly beards were
replaced with the poster boy regulations of the image-obsessed Marines.
And rifles replaced our sticks and picks.<br />
<br />
September 11<sup>th</sup> occurred just a few months after we had
shipped to boot camp. We knew then that our rock star fantasies would be
forever replaced by the dark reality of unending global war. Our
commander-in-chief told everyone this during his state of the union
address after the towers fell. In addition to Afghanistan, Iran was
coming. Iraq was coming. North Korea was coming. One of those damned
countries was going to be destroyed; and we knew we’d be there, quietly
wishing to return to the music that meant everything to us. In our
lives, there’s never been a stronger love or a more fervent connection.<br />
<br />
At 13, Ryan (a man I call my heterosexual life mate) was a guitar
virtuoso, even subbing in at Baltimore biker bars for bands that his
parents knew. In his free time, he set about learning every single
Metallica guitar solo by ear just because he could. A radio tower near
his one-story home in Perry Hall, Maryland used to project classic rock
through his half-stack Marshall amp. He’d just raise the volume knob and
lick along with Hendrix, Clapton, Frampton, Page, and other greats.<br />
<br />
I never was so good back then. But I played the drums, and drummers
were always needed, so I became functional since so many bands sought me
out. I never turned down any requests for my services. I played in
indie bands, punk bands, alternative bands, jam bands, blues bands,
acoustic bands, hardcore bands, and experimental bands.<br />
<br />
The highlight of my career still is the Perry Hall High School
Showcase of the Bands in the Spring of 2000. My group at the time,
Pubescent Weasel, intentionally created a wild, grating sound that was
meant to offend everyone present in the auditorium. Beautiful people
cringed when our singer leaped off the stage to scream into tiny blonde
girls faces. I hit every drum and cymbal I could underneath his banshee
yelling, not too concerned with any rhythm or beat. Over the wall of
sound we created, our guitar player riffed out a hulking anthem of low
frequency distortion. Inexplicably, everyone seemed to love us.<br />
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Despite our deep musical passion, like all graduates of high school
facing the rest of their lives, we made our decisions about what to do
next and suffered the consequences. In the following eight years after
signing up to serve and shipping off, we’d live in eight states and
seven different countries. Between us, we’d serve four combat tours,
which would equal almost an entire year of each of our lives. And there
would be no way to tabulate the number of rockets, mortars, IEDs, and
bullets we’d see.<br />
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I can tell you how many of our friends died and how many memorial services I’ve attended, but I’d rather not.<br />
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It didn’t matter because we survived, and in the summer of 2009, in
Trenton, New Jersey, the Gods of Rock would finally smile down and
reward us with one night as rock stars..."<br />
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Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-41223557192034762682012-07-27T00:01:00.002-04:002012-07-27T00:01:07.441-04:00770. Yet Another Deleted and Never Published Facebook StatusSome of you people are so self-righteous on here. Usually when you're lambasting somebody else for acting the same way. From time to time, I disagree with at least one thing all of my friends say or post on here. But I don't pretend like my opinion is the right one or more valid. We all think we're so freaking smart, don't we? This is the American delusion. We shouldn't need social media to validate our beliefs.<br /><br />#IftheshoefitswearitDario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-38247058583706502422012-07-04T14:04:00.001-04:002012-07-04T14:22:17.064-04:00769. America. F*** Yeah.Happy birthday, U.S.A.! There is a lot of conversation on my newsfeed today about is America great? Is it not? Yada yada yada. I think we're most critical of the ones we love the most. So, I'll say it first: I think you're the BEST, you crazy, freedom-loving, bomb-dropping, world police, isolationist, poor, rich, lower middle class, upper middle class, obese, fit, diverse, racist, tolerant, xenophobic, religious, atheistic, agnostic, monogamous, polygamous, conservative, liberal, reactionary, radical, nation! You're the BEST because we can decide to be any of these things, truly any of these things. And even if I disagree (vehemently disagree) with someone for being any of these ways, they still have the freedom to make that choice. YES! FTW!<br />
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Anything else, to me, is a soft tyranny and not freedom. More often than not, ideas win in the U.S.A -- not government mandates, or ancient cultures and traditions, a police state, or mobs and groupthink. And we're always evolving.<br />
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Are we perfect? No, sir, we have a lot of flaws. Are we really the best? Haha, I don't know. I've not lived in every other country on the planet to make a definitive opinion. Who has? But I like it here. I love it here.<br />
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Dario out.<br />
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~ Semper Fidelis ~ <br />
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Photo by Jason Hueser -- <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/sharpwriter" target="_blank">Purchase this or another from his presidential collection</a>!<br />
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(Sorry about two posts in a row about Ah-mur-i-ca!)Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-72410225994005174612012-06-06T10:40:00.000-04:002012-06-06T10:40:23.894-04:00768. American IdolatryThey sell us a dream our whole lives, and then when we're poor and dejected after struggling for so many years and buying into those dreams, there's a man in a question mark suit on TV (get rich quick!), a bullshit online college degree program, an InventHelp, or a credit card debt consolidation company to continue to rape us of our dreams. This is where American Idol contestants come from: the tens of thousands of people each year who are delusional enough about their talent to embarrass themselves in front of millions. No one ever told them no.<br />
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No photo credit.<br />
No typical copyright statement by author.<br />
Have a nice day.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-10764449315644419202012-05-14T13:48:00.004-04:002012-05-14T13:50:35.967-04:00767. Check Out Dario's Profile in Urbanite Magazine!Full article <a href="http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/baltimore/writing-about-iraq/Content?oid=1472430">here</a>! :-)<br />
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"Like the inuit using every trace of the beastly Leviathan to survive—wasting not, wanting not—Dario DiBattista has been slicing off big, fatty chunks of his six-year war memoir and selling it.<br />
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To the Washington Post and Connecticut Review; to Washingtonian magazine and the Three Quarter Review. To whoever will read it, because he "believes in the power that words have in this world."<br />
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His story is called Go Now, You Are Forgiven.<br />
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You wouldn't think a 28-year-old would have that much to say, especially in an age when, according to author and F. Scott Fitzgerald intimate Frances Kroll Ring, "our young people grow up faster and stay children longer." But DiBattista is the exception. A Marine lance corporal who finished boot camp just before 9/11, he served two tours of duty, used his VA benefits to go to school, became a writer, and now is adjunct professor at the Community College of Baltimore County-Catonsville. He makes an extra buck waiting tables at an Outback Steakhouse.<br />
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And he is decades wiser than the 17-year-old who graduated from Perry Hall High School in 2001..."<br />
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Read the rest <a href="http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/baltimore/writing-about-iraq/Content?oid=1472430">here</a>!<br />
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Photo by J.M. GiordanoDario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-19914991727070913662012-03-13T14:17:00.007-04:002012-03-13T22:48:05.663-04:00766. The Rockstar Method to Becoming a WriterI shared this with our students at the most recent <a href="http://www.veteranswriting.org/WordPress/">Veterans Writing Project</a> seminar at George Washington University. Just curious what you, dear reader, think :-)<br /><br />P.S. We, the Veterans Writing Project, were on D.C. Public Radio -- <a href="http://wamu.org/programs/metro_connection/12/03/02/veterans_write_to_cope_with_battlefield_memories">check it out</a>!<br /><br />---<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">THE ROCKSTAR METHOD TO BECOMING A WRITER</span><br />Dario DiBattista<br /><br />In 2006, after not sleeping or eating much for two weeks, a couple cases of Red Bull down, I finished the first draft of my memoir.<span style="font-style:italic;"> Awesome</span>, I thought.<span style="font-style:italic;"> Ready for literary glory. But what to do next?</span><br /><br />How did many pages of writing (I learned these were called manuscripts) get edited and made into books? I checked out from my local library a book called Writer’s Marketplace and learned about agents, and the publishing biz, and why I needed an agent. I pitched about twenty agents forthwith. Nothing. I received a lot of form letters (<span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Author, Thanks for submitting… The industry is subjective… Maybe somewhere else will like your work</span>…) which I mistakenly overanalyzed. There was nothing really to take away from them.<br /><br />Dejected, I took to the internet to meet and talk with other writers, share with them my writing, and I very shortly kept feeling more and more of the same. <span style="font-style:italic;">You’re twenty-three, why are you writing a memoir? I don’t think this scene works at all; you should start over. You need to get to the action quicker. Sorry, Devil Dog, you’re story is about as interesting as a subprime mortgage</span>. The last comment came from a very successful Marine author, whom I will leave unnamed. <br /><br />My heart hurt. I stopped. The industry sucked and no one appreciated my brilliance – no one ever would.<br /><br />Maybe my case sounds familiar to you. It’s probably something we all went through at some point. After a lifetime of writing shitty poetry and reading prolifically, for some reason we decided to take writing seriously for the first time, only to realize how hard of a pursuit it really is. <br /><br />And then I had it – I had the epiphany. I decided to become a rock star.<br /><br />To explain, let me take one of my favorite bands growing up, Phish. I’ll use Phish, because like many of my favorite artists, directors, painters, etc., Phish, like me, never were or would be concerned with creating a commercial quality of art; instead, they’ve only ever been concerned about the evolution of sound and pushing the boundaries of their artistic medium. To compare them to writers, they’ve been more like Cormac McCarthy than that chick who wrote Twilight.<br /><br />The band members of Phish all had, what most will objectively agree, a significant amount of talent and skill. Trey Anastasio’s solos are often included in the 100 Best Lists of All Time. Jon Fishman created a new standard for jam and jazz drumming, which influenced a whole new generation of percussionists. And the bass player and pianist, Mike Gordon and Page McConnell, are definitely 99th percentile musicians. They could easily be candidates for advanced degrees in performance at the best music university programs in America. They’ve sold millions of albums and played in front audiences of 100,000 or more (made especially more notable, because this was at music festivals performed at by them alone). <br /><br />But of course that wasn’t where they started. Their first show was in a college cafeteria in front of a bunch of disinterested college kids at the University of Vermont. Then, they played somewhat regularly at a local club in front of twenty people or less for the first year or so that they played together. Nothing great seemed on the horizon for them.<br /><br />But they had the passion. They had the drive. They found that, more than anything, they just couldn’t live without music, and that passion became a commitment to each other. They moved in with each other and practiced hours and hours a day. They learned to be musicians, for real.<br /><br />I could go on, but I think you’re beginning to understand my point. Although we would all love for it to happen, nothing great happens for any artist right away. We all struggle. Look up the history of your favorite writer, band, or director. They’ve all paid their dues, and worked to very hard to get where they wanted to be.<br /><br />So, what does this mean for you? Well, I would say, first, commit. You are a writer. You just spent 16 hours on a beautiful freaking weekend to learn about story and telling stories. What’re you, nuts? Yes, to some extent, all of us writers are. Go with it. Say you want to be the next Hemingway, and don’t shy from that goal. Seriously. Do you think Phish said they want to play college dorms and shitty bars? No, they wanted to be rock stars. And they were. <br /><br />Your possible path:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Start a blog</span>. Think of this as your practice pad. Make a goal to write one post a week about anything on your mind. Think about stories that have been bouncing around in your sleep, current events, daily annoyances, a beautiful sunset you saw, your ex-girlfriend, anything. Write about that. Once a week. Great musicians play their scales and other warm-ups before they perform or compose their great works. You’ll find, the more you write, the more confident you become with your craft. Continually push yourself and challenge yourself. Remember technique.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Join a writer’s group</span>. Pick a group of your favorite friends, maybe some of your new friends here. Keep in touch. Work on something very seriously and consistently for a month, and then submit them to each other. A good friend will tell you what you don’t want to hear. It’s important that you’re honest with each other. Phish’s drummer and bass player often argued about whether the kick drum should be full or half-swung on a song they performed a hundred times before. They were always striving to help each other improve.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Read your writing</span>. Once your writing is good to go, there are, no doubt, plenty of open mics in your area where you can share your work with the world. Think of these as your cafeteria shows. These are necessary before you can sellout college amphitheaters like David Sedaris. Pay your dues. Be proud to do it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Submit</span>. Start small. I published first with a small online travel website, and then used that clip to pitch a Washington Post blog, who later, because they were thrilled with my work, invited me to write an op-ed which probably was read by a million people or more. But none of that happened without 700 blogs that I wrote for practice, several writers groups and classroom workshops, etc. The clip that most attracted my literary agent, by the way – that first one. Sometimes writing just needs a home. It doesn’t have to be a mansion. Just a place where it can be seen.<br /><br />Remember, Phish played tiny bars, which became clubs, which became regional theaters, and finally festivals of thousands of adoring fans. It took a very long time. I’m pretty sure, if you were to ask them, if none if it worked out, would they still play music, they’d still say yes. This is a writer’s life :-)<br /><br /><br />All content ©Dario DiBattista 2012. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-55537795324511553792012-01-29T01:49:00.004-05:002012-04-30T10:37:42.280-04:00765. Body Bags<strong>Body Bags</strong><br /><br />How am I to decide whose parts are whose?<br />The mortuary Marines will need <br />to piece together the remains,<br />and what's never recovered <br />will be shaded black on their paperwork.<br />But there are so many parts,<br />and I can’t tell who's Taliban,<br />or civilian,<br />or a brother I loved.<br />I pick up the blackened fingers<br />in the gasoline mud,<br />and the pieces of the charbroiled carcass <br />that don’t crumble when I lift them;<br />I grab the thigh-less legs,<br />boots still attached,<br />and the jawbone.<br />I hold the body bag over my shoulder,<br />unimpressed by the weight<br />of what remains <br />of mighty men.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/nukeit1/10601940/" title="Spent 7.62 Brass by nukeit1, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm1.staticflickr.com/8/10601940_01c17ffc0d.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Spent 7.62 Brass"></a><br /><br /><br />Photo attribution: http://www.flickr.com/people/nukeit1/<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />All written content ©Dario DiBattista 2012. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-47728347647713223582012-01-28T16:24:00.003-05:002012-01-28T16:28:08.916-05:00764. Cycle of Operations<strong>Cycle of Operations</strong><br /><br />Cocking clean adolescence,<br />Feeding murder machine,<br />Chambering tri-colored rage,<br />Locking sights on the scene.<br /><br />Firing closed system,<br />Unlocking oiled hate,<br />I, extract stories of spine;<br />Eject soul, at a cyclical rate.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcI-Q02IIBxmsNRaGlRvR1DXklqMPmdJ4pJp8Fb2cpWMNpP4RdhlhRa-nM0pJyR9PJsnN9sC5ouBFf5l8w6H5bxaI2Tco9yQUYnHiKCfgVvV4s7sILtVzsa2Dw-VI4ZhTHHEDY_Qt6AA0H/s1600/Weapons+cache.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcI-Q02IIBxmsNRaGlRvR1DXklqMPmdJ4pJp8Fb2cpWMNpP4RdhlhRa-nM0pJyR9PJsnN9sC5ouBFf5l8w6H5bxaI2Tco9yQUYnHiKCfgVvV4s7sILtVzsa2Dw-VI4ZhTHHEDY_Qt6AA0H/s320/Weapons+cache.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702797404016117442" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />All content ©Dario DiBattista 2012. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-84120002693862849302012-01-24T05:44:00.003-05:002012-01-24T05:51:33.357-05:00763. Facebook and the Political Process<strong>These are the thoughts in my head when I scroll over my "newsfeed" these days:</strong><br /><br />Almost any political graphic to me is just pure propaganda. And I'm a tad annoyed how some people think a single image, a few "facts," or a quote out of context is going to change my vote on anything. <br /><br />I know how to read books and do research. I've taken the time to contemplate political thought and theory and see firsthand how government works. I consider the main issues that are important to our nation and their possible solutions. If your argument is so simple it can be articulated in the ways above, it's probably not the best argument you can make. <br /><br />I think we need to get back to having real political conversations and real political discourse instead of always trying to shock or gimmick each other into believing what our side wants the other side to believe. Democracy shouldn't be about bullying and manipulation and cherry-picking facts -- it should be about stimulating reason and promoting realistic progress. <br /><br />I'm not saying don't participate in the political process in the ways above if you so choose and it makes you feel like you have a voice. I'm just saying, maybe there are better and more effective ways to communicate your beliefs. Maybe, if you challenge yourself enough to be able to articulate your beliefs as well as you can, you'll find your ideas will change and your understanding will grow and evolve :-) <br /><br />This blog post is not directed at any one of my friends in particular. I'm just sharing my beliefs like many of you are, too. I won't get offended if you won't ;-)Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-46864283670888613632011-12-03T13:02:00.002-05:002011-12-03T13:06:09.738-05:00762. Finally Moving OnIf you've ever wondered why my blogs are numbered, it's because I've literally written this many blogs since I first started in 2005 (and many more for other sites). This blog, my blogger blog, starts at 701. The previous ones were on my myspace.<br /><br />Anyway, here's your last chance to read all the embarrassing stuff I wrote when I was crazy after coming home from war. January 1, 2012, I will finally delete my myspace. You laugh, but blogging changed my life. I needed writing. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.myspace.com/theechooftheburstofashell">www.myspace.com/theechooftheburstofashell</a>Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-50507260863610462902011-11-20T09:52:00.006-05:002011-11-20T10:03:34.014-05:00761. Dario's Guest Blog for the USMC!You can see the post on <a href="http://marines.dodlive.mil/2011/11/10/why-do-we-celebrate-today/">the Marines official blog here</a>!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Why Do We Celebrate Today? (The Marine Corps Birthday)</span><br /><br />It’s likely been happening all day that some of my friends on Facebook have looked at my page and become confused. <span style="font-style:italic;">It’s not his birthday, is it? Dario’s born in December right? Christmas isn’t it? How could I forget that?<br /></span><br />This is a scene that has been happening all morning and will continue happening all day as we Marines take over the web, the airwaves, and a significant portion of all telephone communications to wish our brothers and sisters a “Happy birthday.”<br /><br />Yes, this is a scene that is playing out all over America, and all over the world. Two old salty gunnys from Brooklyn are probably sitting in a park today, wearing scarlet and gold jackets, their Marine tattoos wrinkled underneath, and reminiscing on celebrating the Marine Corps’ Birthday in the chilled landscape of Korea.<br /><br />A World War II Marine is in D.C. today with his wife, shrinking in stature underneath the epic Iwo Jima Memorial, the giant statue commemorating the flag-raising on Mount Suribachi during that famous battle, our national colors flapping in the November breeze. Hand in hand, she’ll kiss him on the cheek and say, “Happy birthday, love.”<br /><br />Vietnam Marines are at their local VFW hall, motorcycles parked outside, mugs raised, trying not to spill too much beer on their beards as their birthday celebrations continue on.<br /><br />Younger Marines, veterans of the recent wars, are tweeting their love for their Corps and texting their buddies, “Hey, bro. Thanks for watching my back.”<br /><br />And a lieutenant in Helmand province, Afghanistan, today is concluding his patrol brief by saying to his platoon, “Let’s make this happen. Happy birthday, Marines.” They’ll lock and load and continue the fight. They’ll carry our honor on this day.<br /><br />So why do we do this? Why do we celebrate with such fervency the day the Corps was born by an act of the Second Continental Congress? Why does this date linger in our minds?<br /><br />It’s because of our camaraderie. It’s because of the forged bonds of hardship. It’s because we are not as lean and not as mean, but still Marines. It’s because of that lieutenant and his platoon. We do it for those of us who are no longer here to raise their glasses in celebration, and our friends who will die tomorrow. Maybe we do it because, even at 236-years-old, we’re happy to report that our Corps still lives on, as powerful, professional, and determined to protect freedom as ever.<br /><br />And we’ll be here until there is no enemy anymore. Just peace.<br /><br />Semper Fidelis,<br /><br />Dario “D-Boh” DiBattista<br /><br />Iraq War Veteran<br />Corporal, USMCR 2001 – 2007<br />www.dariodibattista.com<br /><br /><br /><br />All photos below courtesy of LCpl Michael McMaugh, 1st Marine Division Combat Camera<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifVJemrZ1r-acK9rspgwnrjUdBnqB0dFilU3lOMsm6TJly7O-GQvLJJHHiNKw8oda9bNLrtL257OO0wR-7Uc-jm4r28SDGkg2aC2Xm5XzJ7KufgVTJvW8lOBAnvRRuHdLvO81Mma43bVf/s1600/pic3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifVJemrZ1r-acK9rspgwnrjUdBnqB0dFilU3lOMsm6TJly7O-GQvLJJHHiNKw8oda9bNLrtL257OO0wR-7Uc-jm4r28SDGkg2aC2Xm5XzJ7KufgVTJvW8lOBAnvRRuHdLvO81Mma43bVf/s320/pic3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677091938278964082" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ra_Gn872RDNdCLyZz3rkLWEnYKx54VHCWOcKsB5AWFOwyvbNROHBtjEcLDqVTAB9tZBv8XwkvDP7KGEtH3kndLb0VxqYqUHwB14dW5blMfgm0IflITlTW6FXdSn0SVrg5BJncI0hzpDL/s1600/pic5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ra_Gn872RDNdCLyZz3rkLWEnYKx54VHCWOcKsB5AWFOwyvbNROHBtjEcLDqVTAB9tZBv8XwkvDP7KGEtH3kndLb0VxqYqUHwB14dW5blMfgm0IflITlTW6FXdSn0SVrg5BJncI0hzpDL/s320/pic5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677092148578215890" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5y3iSw3qOLKAySrvHIu8AxYbLKf0meDrGsCP6VoGD1mk07xahE3jTOez6InB-NY-uqQOvn5uzcLl5mbyVUK7eIbNchqAc5-vtwO8A6CLjiiNND6AhiE4LNssVQgItmtWlRxmbMoIMumgM/s1600/pic9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5y3iSw3qOLKAySrvHIu8AxYbLKf0meDrGsCP6VoGD1mk07xahE3jTOez6InB-NY-uqQOvn5uzcLl5mbyVUK7eIbNchqAc5-vtwO8A6CLjiiNND6AhiE4LNssVQgItmtWlRxmbMoIMumgM/s320/pic9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677092322262423490" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/epfontecchio.htm">RIP Gunnery Sergeant Fontecchio</a> (above image)Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-54380330853843723562011-11-19T23:16:00.003-05:002011-11-19T23:44:15.177-05:00760. That Kind of BlogWell, years later from first getting into this whole writing thing, I would hope I'd be past these self-aggrandizing and self-absorbed kind of blog posts; but I do think it's important for a writer to bare their soul from time to time. And there's some things I just need to share tonight. It's not for you as much as it is for myself; but maybe you can relate to my problems, too? Maybe you'll be comforted by me talking about my failures and sadness? (Yes, dear reader, it's that kind of post.) Either way, you've been warned about this blogs' content.<br /><br />Here we go:<br /><br />It's a Saturday night, 11:18 pm, I'm all alone. And for the first time in half a decade that really bothers me. I've felt the tinge of a possible depression building up for quite a while now. I feel like it's being exacerbated by the fact I'm 27, almost 28, and no one I want wants to be with me. Rejection's an old hat I wear with comfort, unfortunately. But every now and then -- like every half a decade -- someone new comes along and makes me feel like I'm possibly worth a damn. The kind of woman whose smile becomes my purpose for living. And when she gives it to me, well, shit, it all suddenly makes sense. <span style="font-style:italic;">Damn, Dario. If you can make this angel smile, then you're doing something right, man!</span><br /><br />And around these rare women, I feel like all the struggles, all the mistakes, all of my faith in something better, have been paid for and rewarded. But then she pulls away from me -- disinterested, tenuous, afraid of getting too close, and maybe with some other boy. And I feel like the fist of karma has punched me again. How long will I pay for my past actions?<br /><br />How long until my penance has been paid and I can be happy? <br /><br />I've struggled forever it seems. Maybe I'm a masochist. Maybe I'm not fated for a positive life. Maybe everything I've built my life around has been a big fucking farce, because I thought my dreams would lead me to a different place.<br /><br />Sometimes I just wish it was always black. At least then, I'd always know what to expect.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-73628101545537262132011-10-29T12:40:00.005-04:002011-10-29T12:57:14.144-04:00759. End Radio SilenceSomewhere in spring 2010, for the first time, writing wasn't fun for me anymore. I had just invested much of my soul in telling the <a href="http://www.dariodibattista.com/A%20Beautiful%20Passing%20%28Essay%29.pdf">macabre story of a dedicated female mortician</a>, and suddenly, I didn't have anything left. My friend and mentor <a href="http://www.cathyalter.com/">Cathy Alter</a> told me the obvious then: "Dario, just take a break if you need it."<br /><br />So that's where I've been. I've done that twice before. This is my third time. If you're reading this at all, I'm going to guess that you actually do care about my writing career, so I'll keep going...<br /><br />It's been a tough couple months for me, despite my successes. I've got a couple small pieces coming out in various journals soon, etc., but my goal has always been book publication. Unfortunately, nothing less will ever satisfy me. And it seems -- for reasons I'll never understand -- the more I publish, the more I get exposure in the media, the more I make a name for myself and build up my CV, the farther away that dream becomes, which is mystifying. <br /><br />I suppose I could blame a million different factors -- the economy, the rapidly changing writer's marketplace, my agent, etc. -- but I do need to absorb most of the blame for not meeting my goal yet. Sometimes that's a spiritual process more than anything. I've got the degree and I've got the tools, but how much longer can I keep doing this? How much longer can I seek success in an industry that by all practical accounts is rapidly shrinking and failing horribly? Am I masochist? Do I really believe in what I have to say?<br /><br />These are the questions I've been asking myself the past few months. And I guess, in reality, all that matters is the last question.<br /><br />And I'm happy to answer it with, yes, I do.<br /><br />Thanks again for reading.<br /><br />Much love,<br /><br />Dario<br /><a href="http://www.dariodibattista.com">www.dariodibattista.com</a>Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-76152826021751655322011-10-29T12:30:00.002-04:002011-10-29T12:32:54.504-04:00758. Monotony<span style="font-weight:bold;">Monotony</span><br /><br />Through my headphones, the sticks are clacking <br />against a metal rim. Above,<br />the black and white clock tries to measure<br />a thing which cannot be measured;<br />and the pull-cords of a fan, tap together <br />under the apathetic blade spin.<br />Through the window,<br />the smoking man’s dog’s tail <br />wags like a retarded metronome;<br />patio blinds sway as a perturbed pendulum;<br />eyes cast glances but nothing gets seen. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3BT-gEN1jS3wQM0jyf1Sld6Ljd2ZDtckARHVOygbKzPOHnqko3Gk0ELrZEHeQyMjLCgaw6ffpYRgQT7mp7iWiw6ae6dhtNlqWVsoo8Z8w0wK4jGQhRymq7UAbN7U5q048A2E9u30P7bK/s1600/Hansen+time+warp2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3BT-gEN1jS3wQM0jyf1Sld6Ljd2ZDtckARHVOygbKzPOHnqko3Gk0ELrZEHeQyMjLCgaw6ffpYRgQT7mp7iWiw6ae6dhtNlqWVsoo8Z8w0wK4jGQhRymq7UAbN7U5q048A2E9u30P7bK/s320/Hansen+time+warp2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668952593494880658" /></a><br /><br /><br />All content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-43650143758228707122011-08-14T16:16:00.007-04:002011-08-14T17:31:25.264-04:00757. Hey, Kid, Welcome Back from Fallujah -- Here's 70% of Your Education for Free Recent landmark legislation and proposed policy directives such a President Obama’s “jobs initiatives for veterans” and the yearly overhauls to the Post 9/11 G.I. Bill, have certainly gone a long way in helping our millions of returning war veterans. No doubt, though, in the current political climate of debt crisis talks and reduced national credit scores, a certain segment of the population will bemoan all the attention on veterans. Maybe rightfully so.
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<br />Or is it?
<br />
<br />When I tell random people of the educational benefits I’m receiving from serving as a Reservist during wartime, I almost always get the same response: “Gee, that must be nice.”
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<br />I kindly remind them of donning a gas mask and hiding underground from Saddam’s surface-to-surface missiles in Kuwait in 2003, or about dodging mortars and snipers in Fallujah a year later for a second tour, or racing through IEDs on the Syrian border of Iraq, and that tends to silence them or change their minds.
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<br />But whether the overall benefit is fair or not isn’t the point, though. Imagine, as a civilian, you took a full-time job that promised you two weeks of vacation a year, and then despite your diligent work ethic or your numerous instances of recognition and personal awards, they reduced those 14 days by 70%. I bet you’d be pretty upset, yes?
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<br />Everyone who joins the military is promised money for college as a condition of their honorable service. It’s a benefit – again, whether fair or not – that we as a nation have decided is necessary to entice an all-volunteer force. And I think anyone can appreciate and understand this comparison about benefits between the military and civilian workplaces.
<br />
<br />It’s what was promised, and promises are supposed to be upheld. And our leaders have made the new promise as a result of these new wars, these unconventional wars that have dragged on for almost a decade and caused Reservists to deploy at unprecedented rates, that “no soldier should be left behind.”
<br />
<br />But is this really the case as far as Reservists go? Let me take you to a conversation I overheard in my current higher education classroom.
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<br />Air Force veteran to another student: “I was supposed to deploy once, but I got pregnant and didn’t have to go.”
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<br />Student: “Oh, that probably would’ve been very scary.”
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<br />Air Force Veteran: “Yeah, but I didn’t have to go any other time because of that, and now I’m here getting my education for free.”
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<br />I didn’t say anything; just sat in my seat and shook my head. Here is this other veteran bragging about how she didn’t have to deploy, but at all state institutions of higher learning she gets 100% tuition and fees covered under the Post 9/11 G.I. Bill – and I only get 70%, no matter if I’m attending just a community college.
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<br />Overseas, as a Reservist, I was attached to the 3rd Battalion Seventh Marine Regiment, which is recognized as one of the baddest, roughest, and most elite units in the Marine Corps. My civil affairs team even acted as a security detachment for their battalion commander. One of the Marines from that deployment, Corporal Dunham, was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor after jumping on a grenade to save his brethren – the first time for a Marine since Vietnam. 70% college tuition reimbursement is what I get for my Combat Action Ribbon and Certificate of Commendation from that time.
<br />
<br />And if you were to suppose that my experiences as a Reservist weren’t typical of our “weekend warriors,” you would be wrong. Many Reservists fulfill critical jobs – civil affairs, military police, infantry forces – that are often almost continuously deployed and put in just as much harm as the full-time warriors, with whom, they work alongside. At times during these wars, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/14/opinion/14sun1.html">Reservists have made up almost 50% of the entire forces</a> deployed into a combat zone.
<br />
<br />Why wouldn’t we give these combat veterans (that’s the key distinction I’m making here – “Combat”) the same benefit we’ve given the active forces? Historically, it’s been quantifiable that for every one dollar our nation invests in educating our veterans, <a href="http://www.democraticleader.gov/floor?id=0203">seven dollars are returned to national economy</a>. And no one’s taken the time yet to measure the other unintended benefits that can be granted by giving our traumatized and mentally unhealthy veterans a chance to attend college as – among many other reasons – a temporary buffer to reintegrating into the civilian work world too quickly. My college experiences after war have certainly helped me get mentally well again, and given me the time recoup, even now as I prepare for the workforce one day.
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<br />No doubt, the times are lean, the wars are unpopular, and the average American is rubbing their foreheads raw with anxiety and worry for the future. But we owe our vets, including all Reservists who’ve seen combat, regardless. It’s the commitment we’ve made to them. It’s the promise we’ve made to them.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpglL7z8bBUGAic2ApDD8mVJXjpfHL7nD9Eo_0KtUY_mFcTijtTouLLPks-cSOYYyKE2S0QJPzHER2NVYuGpBVJeCmEbjGKrbb8qU1-mMx9dsvpo6RHMr9dBfVCAqpLXMqDmAQSDgSf8DZ/s1600/dario7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpglL7z8bBUGAic2ApDD8mVJXjpfHL7nD9Eo_0KtUY_mFcTijtTouLLPks-cSOYYyKE2S0QJPzHER2NVYuGpBVJeCmEbjGKrbb8qU1-mMx9dsvpo6RHMr9dBfVCAqpLXMqDmAQSDgSf8DZ/s320/dario7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640811211496913122" /></a>
<br />
<br />Me, waiting on more equitable education incentives for Reservists.
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<br />All written content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published. Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-65394525511413257712011-07-18T01:25:00.011-04:002011-07-18T09:43:55.085-04:00756. Things I didn't Think I Would Ever Need Ten Years Ago That I Need A Lot of NowIt's no secret that my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/profile.php?id=100002541267798&sk=info">ten year reunion is coming up fast</a> (fall 2011 -- class of '01, baby!). And well, that's pretty gnarly I guess, but, like anyone else, I can't help myself from assessing my overall life ten years later as compared to when I was a wee chap of just 17-years-old.<br /><br />So, anyway, here's my list of things I didn't think I would ever need a lot of, that I need a lot of now. Maybe you'd like to add some items, too? <br /><br />1. Dollars. Yep, like most of us twenty-somethings, I'm discovering that college costs continue to rise and the opportunities for making as much or more money as our parents, aren't really there anymore. Add onto that a bleak economic outlook and reality, and well, damn -- I really miss those cheap school meals (yum... cafeteria cheese). I'm staying in college so I never have to pay back my loans. That's a good idea, right? <br /><br />Flashback: anyone else remember when premium gas cost a buck fifty? Gee-bus. Now we get excited about $3.68 regular gas.<br /><br />2. 15. As in 15 hours of exercise a week -- and that's not even enough to actually lose weight. I just ran a half marathon and I'm still about 20 pounds above my ideal weight(which is 45 pounds over my high school weight!). I miss not doing anything physical for several weeks and only having to do a sit up or two in the morning for a few days to get back in shape. I also miss eating an entire pot of macaroni a day.<br /><br />Flashback: Gym class. I wish an hour of activity was still mandatory in my day.<br /><br />3. 23.04 gigabytes of music on my I-tunes. I remember when I used to get high and just go to the Double T Diner and listen to the same three songs over and over again. Not that I ever used drugs much or do at all now, I'm just saying. Moreover, I used to have one mix cassette tape -- the Best of Allman Bros, Skynyrd, and ol' Led Zeppelin -- that I listened to in my '73 Ford Maverick all summer long. Some of you used to make fun of me I bet. I still have the Mav :-) (And no, it doesn't work. Weren't you listening? I'm broke, san. Need an engine. <a href="http://www.dariodibattista.com/free.html">Donations</a>?)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFf1WhsUiqrpzV4h6vbXB3RcFPPBV5CYfsOb5jcPRmgTfvmoMVv-RKZUv9XVlhJsoxUvq146iSu5d35L406csgqCmBBLit9JJH1Sa3_dZSJUf05sxr9vAXk0vrohTqNdHyYcOzPQZ4aNQL/s1600/Maverick.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFf1WhsUiqrpzV4h6vbXB3RcFPPBV5CYfsOb5jcPRmgTfvmoMVv-RKZUv9XVlhJsoxUvq146iSu5d35L406csgqCmBBLit9JJH1Sa3_dZSJUf05sxr9vAXk0vrohTqNdHyYcOzPQZ4aNQL/s200/Maverick.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630572912681531650" /></a><br /><br />Flashback: Remember finally being able to park in the senior lot instead of Ebenezer?<br /><br /><br /><br />4. 21, or the average number of gifts I have to buy a year for weddings, house-warming parties, nieces and nephews, other people's kids, master's graduations, etc. I like helping people out and being generous when I can, but my part-time adjunct position that I was rewarded with in exchange for my 60,000 dollars worth of college education, only pays about 14K a year (not complaining, simply stating facts). I don't know how many more crappy poems I can write, frame, and disguise as gifts. <br /><br />Examples: <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Roses are red. Please stop having kids. <br />Violets are blue. Divorce is expensive; don't get married. <br /></span><br />Flashback: When buying your friend some cookies or an ice cream bar from the vending machines meant more than a gift card to Home Depot or a toaster oven.<br /><br />5. 1,000,000 seconds. The number of seconds thus far I've been doubled-over in laughter when remembering that I graduated from high school with a 1.88 GPA, but now I teach college. Ha ha, suckers. Well, maybe I'm the sucker. I bet you all had fun vacations while I was sitting in summer school.<br /><br />And here's a photo of my going away party for the Marines in May 2001!!! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3IGUaoBsQkwpOUwjkF6NNQO3POFdT9YhF-yFi9qaQK7s794DonzlpyTc28CZn8KImq78x70R-wW51HEQoZ-aLbrzzOpqm_i8tmmT2zNQRU8EoOY3IaiyaJbT1DqfqOuzkSfRpq5O83Av_/s1600/Going+Away+Party%252C+May+2001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3IGUaoBsQkwpOUwjkF6NNQO3POFdT9YhF-yFi9qaQK7s794DonzlpyTc28CZn8KImq78x70R-wW51HEQoZ-aLbrzzOpqm_i8tmmT2zNQRU8EoOY3IaiyaJbT1DqfqOuzkSfRpq5O83Av_/s320/Going+Away+Party%252C+May+2001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630568583674651986" /></a><br /><br />(Perry Hall High School Alumni, all.)Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-7426592930441612772011-06-13T23:24:00.002-04:002011-06-13T23:29:54.159-04:00755. Best Letter EverOn May 26th, I talked to high-schoolers. This is some of the feedback I got.<br /><br />6/2/11<br /><br />Dear Mr. Dario,<br /><br />My name is "John Doe" and I'm an alcoholic. Psych, I'm kidding. I was forced to type you a thank you letter by my mean English teacher. Not that I didn't want to because you were funny and informing. By the way, my English teacher picks on me.<br /><br />You presenting was very informing because you're very inspiring plus I like your beard. And also, my teacher is mean and she beats up on me and makes me cry -- this is all mentally, never physically. Also, you should add me on X-Box live if you play Call of Duty. My name is ... and I'm going into the big leagues.<br /><br />P.S. You got balls, my friend, for going into the Marines :-)<br /><br />Love your random audience member,<br /><br />"John Doe"Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-45606073380444464092011-06-01T23:54:00.003-04:002011-06-01T23:58:24.902-04:00754. My Personal Essay for The Washingtonian<span style="font-weight:bold;">This is just a snippet. To read the entire article please click the blog headline! And please consider donating to the Anderson-Snyder memorial which is linked to at the end of the story. Semper Fi.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />...On a Wednesday night, I finished my shift at the restaurant a little early. That was good—it meant more time for drinking. I stopped at a coworker’s apartment to toss back shots of Jack Daniel’s. Sufficiently buzzed, I drove to the Treehouse, a bar near where I was living in the Baltimore suburbs.<br /><br />The bartender stood in an opposite corner of the bar chatting with a pretty girl. On the TV above him, a story flashed about a Marine who had died. I tried to read the captions, but my mind was hazy and my eyes were tired. About a year had passed since I’d come home from Iraq in 2004.<br /><br />The bartender came over without a newly poured beer. He stared at me, rubbing his palms. “Hey, Dario,” he said. “This woman over here just had her husband killed in Iraq. Could you . . . .” He didn’t need to finish.<br /><br />“What’s her name?” I asked.<br /><br />“I don’t know.”<br /><br />I took the long path toward her, curving around the length of the bar. I stepped beside her and she looked at me, confused. A few of her friends were with her; they watched me, too.<br /><br />“Hey,” I said. “I’m a lance corporal in the Marines. I heard about your loss. I’m here for you.” She closed her eyes. Then she dropped her head into my chest and hugged me. I had no idea what I should do.<br /><br />“What’s your name?” I asked.<br /><br />The Marine Corps is small. There are only a few degrees of separation between any two people who wear the olive-drab green. There was a chance I knew her husband.<br /><br />“Victoria Anderson,” she said. “My husband was Lance Corporal Norm Anderson...”<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPhkC60JRc014mzI9v_eGwr5eiyMspfqAvrre0LBFM1FXBTSc84hiwkbtSyUAQAAB4nLIfy97oq7M_n0d9lIyr4PHatXFCQP9Ca1wsIovRNUWBBo_PYWCtqQ1gFdmoG6Eegzy9I8JKg78/s1600/norm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPhkC60JRc014mzI9v_eGwr5eiyMspfqAvrre0LBFM1FXBTSc84hiwkbtSyUAQAAB4nLIfy97oq7M_n0d9lIyr4PHatXFCQP9Ca1wsIovRNUWBBo_PYWCtqQ1gFdmoG6Eegzy9I8JKg78/s320/norm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613466410240732834" /></a>Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-68980157441868450732011-05-23T14:44:00.004-04:002011-05-23T14:49:29.301-04:00753. Ode to the Education Connection Girl<span style="font-weight:bold;">Ode to the Education Connection Girl</span><br /><br />You make me want to better myself – <br />go online, take a test,<br />sit in PJs in my closed-door room,<br />trace triangles with Pythagoras,<br />measure meter and homecoming with Homer.<br /><br />I’d go to your restaurant with my AA degree<br />and a million dollars more<br />*over a lifetime<br />and tip you well.<br /><br />Would you sing to me then?<br />Could we get connected?<br /><br />I’d use my degree in audio engineering<br />to turn your siren’s voice into platinum.<br /><br /><br /><iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WYS5NtRXlZQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><br />All written content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-16017834860377645472011-05-18T22:58:00.003-04:002011-05-18T23:03:33.662-04:00752. Answering Hater MailI'm not really this petty. But, given that the dude who wrote this comment is a former Gunnery Sergeant, and I don't have to take his crap anymore (now that I'm not in the service anymore), I just had to post this open letter.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">From: Anonymous, a comment left on the link to my <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/on-bin-ladens-death-a-marine-says-lets-cheer-for-our-troops/2011/05/05/AFAiT2AG_story.html">Washington Post op-ed</a> on the "<a href="http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/marines">Marines</a>" official facebook page.</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />"This story is really disapointing. Did anyone read this before sharing the link? I really expected better from a major publication, let alone someone trained in writing. The story starts with teasers that are not referenced anywhere else... in the story and then rambles on and on. I sure agree with supporting and celebrating the military victory but am disapointed to see a Marine join the ranks of the mainstream media with misdirecting headlines and marginal writing."</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />RE: Your comments about my article on the "Marines" facebook page.</span><br /><br />Hey Gunny, I'm not a member of the mainstream media -- I'm a freelance writer. It's like a being a contractor for the military; you're not in the service you just provide a skill they need. They called me and asked me to write this piece.<br /><br />Also, for the record, I didn't get to pick the headline. <br /><br />As far as your "teasers" that you mention not being carried over, you'll notice if you will, that my story begins with big news related to bin Laden (and me listening to it on the AM radio and reacting) and ends with other big news about bin Laden (and me listening to it on the AM radio and reacting). It's called a narrative arc with a circular structure. <br /><br />But thank you for your feedback. Next article I write, I'll be sure to beat the audience over the head and write more simply so it's easier to understand. <br /><br />Sorry to disappoint you.<br /><br />Semper Fi,<br /><br />Dario "D-Boh" DiBattista<br />USMCR Corporal 2001 - 2007Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-76719038852764342852011-05-10T15:28:00.015-04:002011-05-10T19:25:35.037-04:00751. Check Out My Op-Ed for The Washington Post!(Click the blog headline to read the entire story!)<br /><br />...When the news came of bin Laden’s death, I felt numb at first. Rather than exult, I could only mourn my friends and the other Americans who lost their lives. My roommate — my best friend and another Marine veteran — suggested we do a shot to celebrate bin Laden’s killing.<br /><br />We had only imported alcohol on hand, so we chose a couple of ounces of rum from Puerto Rico instead of French liqueurs or vodkas. We continued watching the news: the slips in verbiage that confused “Obama” and “Osama”; the bold, galvanizing speech of the commander in chief; the crowds gathering on the streets of New York and at the gates of the White House. I knew, despite living in Towson, that I had to be at the president’s home, too.<br /><br />I raced down I-295 in my Lincoln and scanned the different AM stations. Yes, he is dead. Shot in the head. SEAL Team 6. A good and historic day.<br /><br />I parked several blocks from the White House and could hear the cheers reverberating. I saw cars zipping through the cross streets, honking their horns, sometimes a passenger’s hand holding the American flag out the window.<br /><br />The scene outside the White House felt like a big hug. It didn’t matter that I had come alone; I was here with a thousand of my fellow Americans. And we were wild with patriotism, even cheering the cops who were trying to corral us away from the fence...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">PHOTO BLOG OF THE SCENE OUTSIDE THE WHITE HOUSE</span> (all photos by me):<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLcEXuiF0EfLHcethpqxGs4YGIQdFs8QW9Elk8Gq5S5ay8gg-FO9FjwSxxNEq78D9mfkXNMEiZWlu2oUE5L6zsRqgOQCIuFWTwOnLiFs8wSz8KnUIoED3QkEdt_g8nujKQ-NLocEEFhVz/s1600/USA12.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLcEXuiF0EfLHcethpqxGs4YGIQdFs8QW9Elk8Gq5S5ay8gg-FO9FjwSxxNEq78D9mfkXNMEiZWlu2oUE5L6zsRqgOQCIuFWTwOnLiFs8wSz8KnUIoED3QkEdt_g8nujKQ-NLocEEFhVz/s320/USA12.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605175089554600946" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgeMa5cSe7M4NdBoXH_vNeFvH_uLKeKJ-bOM3EQbO5bMeSJYH_6ETbg4XagD94TPjRkUVhyphenhyphena7IwVn6Jy5HJaq8NkbI_EEkuHqlj57bKC1hMvlNK25LfG7gFiZ3GuJlu0_1YXLpHQTHjjT1/s1600/USA3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgeMa5cSe7M4NdBoXH_vNeFvH_uLKeKJ-bOM3EQbO5bMeSJYH_6ETbg4XagD94TPjRkUVhyphenhyphena7IwVn6Jy5HJaq8NkbI_EEkuHqlj57bKC1hMvlNK25LfG7gFiZ3GuJlu0_1YXLpHQTHjjT1/s320/USA3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605175592052972866" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzVKqnB-FsGab2rZPlUV3XaDPFE-v4qJHPcPxtnrPaNEIbBJc5fnLs4BHsPtLxrAu7aB5zOTnEKoIYSJ20fLM6IUy-fwQ866LBrAzsoscK_tPgbA6efK8SXanlm9npajJNr3Bw8fGYIzF/s1600/USA9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzVKqnB-FsGab2rZPlUV3XaDPFE-v4qJHPcPxtnrPaNEIbBJc5fnLs4BHsPtLxrAu7aB5zOTnEKoIYSJ20fLM6IUy-fwQ866LBrAzsoscK_tPgbA6efK8SXanlm9npajJNr3Bw8fGYIzF/s320/USA9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605175989990863826" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpVN2lpV6keEZeDeyOEDO-exJjmyRfc0J_mZs02quqvhnlNlqweilLbVOBCwsDI3tAH6sFxZLB7mRc00B8qTzjA_kSrAa9VZSLa-UcAsDPp9NO44HikHaEV3uFQVkXziI7EGsW_E4Uo9M/s1600/USA7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpVN2lpV6keEZeDeyOEDO-exJjmyRfc0J_mZs02quqvhnlNlqweilLbVOBCwsDI3tAH6sFxZLB7mRc00B8qTzjA_kSrAa9VZSLa-UcAsDPp9NO44HikHaEV3uFQVkXziI7EGsW_E4Uo9M/s320/USA7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605176406414150722" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoedx-4D-tQHIYYhMeVRGIAnocFPEhP4Y7R0b7_cXMNdqg7xgsdqAi9ZBtDwzDJuGN3pj1gy09kUKUx9OD3iOo4vdg6gNmywOe2Ct1-vt_h_SNIYpGsrEIktTy1-adsmoFqQRih4XRPS-N/s1600/USA1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoedx-4D-tQHIYYhMeVRGIAnocFPEhP4Y7R0b7_cXMNdqg7xgsdqAi9ZBtDwzDJuGN3pj1gy09kUKUx9OD3iOo4vdg6gNmywOe2Ct1-vt_h_SNIYpGsrEIktTy1-adsmoFqQRih4XRPS-N/s320/USA1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605176728361923074" /></a><br /><br /><br />All content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-47846814449713644122011-04-13T15:46:00.004-04:002011-04-21T12:46:15.465-04:00750. Watching AMC after Coming Home from Helmand Province, Afghanistan<span style="font-weight:bold;">Watching AMC after Coming Home from Helmand Province, Afghanistan</span><br /><br />Travis Bickle, I feel you: deadbeat Marine <br />just returned from ‘Nam,<br />can’t sleep because of the dreams,<br />but you still need a job.<br /><br />Like you, my parents don’t know my career <br />is a falsification of time;<br />37 rejections so far, I’ve sold <br />not one word of my rhyme.<br /><br />We policed the third world but scum <br />lives on our own welcome mats:<br />pimps and publishers,<br />drug-dealers and Democrats.<br /><br />I will pull up and push up,<br />calligraph and fist pump;<br />until, like you,<br />I’m ready, too.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMcuHQ0XyPKT2sznhOgpngsIkd13GRVejMObn1l-O1wiOsFC9XYNIiS5OVACiKSD7Ars7IbYUHAV17oNJr40bfopQ4h4NdbVqqN_Tj6MHK2oQKgca75hBD6MnIs2wShfAR-fnch8BQI8D5/s1600/taxi10.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMcuHQ0XyPKT2sznhOgpngsIkd13GRVejMObn1l-O1wiOsFC9XYNIiS5OVACiKSD7Ars7IbYUHAV17oNJr40bfopQ4h4NdbVqqN_Tj6MHK2oQKgca75hBD6MnIs2wShfAR-fnch8BQI8D5/s200/taxi10.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595157520770958802" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />All content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2888201663358695031.post-7530644769440904532011-04-01T03:34:00.003-04:002011-04-01T03:44:12.235-04:00749. Even When You're Not HereI can feel your hand woven into mine,<br />I can see your regal face so fine,<br />I can stare into your wide-eyed gaze,<br />I can smell your scent that stays,<br /><br />Even when you’re not here, on my pillow,<br />Even when you’re not here, on my chest,<br />Even when you’re not here, right beside me,<br />Even when you’re not here, though it's best.<br /><br />I can feel your chest rise and fall,<br />I can see your cryptic smile,<br />I can watch your peaceful closed eyes,<br />I can smell tomorrow morning’s lies,<br /><br />Even when you’re not here, on my pillow,<br />Even when you’re not here, on my chest,<br />Even when you’re not here, right beside me,<br />Even when you’re not here, though it’s best.<br /><br /><br /><br />All content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.Dario DiBattistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519001632706973971noreply@blogger.com0