Dear Mark,

Nice to meet you for the first time, and proper that it occur on the page.

Portland, Ore., where I live, is still in the middle of a long and gray winter, no hints of spring either in the trees or the streets—no blooming wonders, the women and men are still wrapped for rain and cold weather. Yesterday my cab driver, who was at least a little drunk, said, as we entered the downtown, "I hope the freaking protesters don't jam up the bridges. The little pricks, that's their plan." I use the cab company that employs veterans: If my cabbie is this guy's age and a bit drunk, I assume he saw some crazy shit in Vietnam. I'm polite, I use the word sir, and I tip well.

My college freshman students will be among the little pricks jamming up the downtown. Word is that the day of the first bombing, students should skip classes and prep all day for a 4 p.m. "SHOCK AND AWE" peace protest. The plan is to disrupt businesses, traffic, and the normal calm of downtown Portland. Today the homeless and street punks, our daily troublemakers, will be joined by young and old radicals, grandmothers, high-school kids, college kids, retail workers, professors and lawyers and doctors and laborers. The city recently passed a "no sitting" ordinance in order to keep the street punks moving and help the city put its best face forward. That "best face" might just be the protesters, who will sit and walk and chant and scream, and protest, and probably unfortunately tear some shit up—reminding us that the men and women fighting and dying in Kuwait are fighting and dying for, among other things, the freedom and sovereignty of the dissenters and their message.

Last night I was sitting in a tavern reading the local free weekly—its cover story, BOOBS NOT BOMBS—when the TV went from "The Blazers down by 10" to the president of the United States letting us know that the war had begun. My fellow tavern-goers weren't impressed. Most continued with their post-work conversations, their laughter dancing through the room. The woman sitting next to me asked me if I was the guy who "wrote that war book" and what did I think of "this new shit." I lied and told her I wasn't the guy, and that I wasn't sure what I thought of "this new shit." I told her I did think I was going to take a cab home so I could watch the war on TV. As I left, she said, "I know you're the guy."

During this war, I'm the guy on the couch. I watched the last desert war from a front row seat, a sniper hide. I can still feel the weight of my rucksack on my back, I feel my rifle in my hands, the thirst in my throat, the sand in my mouth and ears and nose and crotch. I still feel my gas mask tied to my hip, and I even feel the possibility of shitting myself when things begin, and now things have begun. Sphincter Factor. The higher the SF, the crazier the thing you are about to do. War is damn crazy. Current SF in Kuwait and Iraq: 1,000. Current SF on my couch:10.

Sorry for all the shit talk. But the sand and the stink and the shit are on my mind. Those poor kids, those poor fuckers. Oh, America, you break my heart. You beast, you nurse, you lover. Great conflicted bloody mess.

The 1^st Marine Division has crossed into Iraq. I'm listening for the name of my former battalion, the 2^nd of the 7^th Marines. Occasionally, I wish I were there. I would feel safe and brave and American and scared to death. I would be off of my couch and alive again, marching, waiting for the calls to don and clear my gas mask, waiting for sleep and hot chow and fresh ammunition. I would make up for all of the failures of my past and my future, I would save lives friendly and enemy, I would march and kill and march and kill. And I'd return home and ask what I'd done.

But I've had my desert and now I like my couch. And today, past noon in Portland, the sun shows for a brief time. It's 11:44 p.m. in Baghdad. The microphone chewers are hard at work, trying to find the story. The sad brave gorgeous American boys and girls are making the story, boot step by boot step, sortie by sortie, bomb by bomb. The story will be borne from their victories and tragedies.

Best,
Tony