Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Driving Lesson

I was driving on a side street today. Did the traffic laws change while I was away in -- hmmm, they haven't really let me go anywhere since I got lost in Canada. So, that can't be the reason. But I always thought that if cars were parked on the side of the two lane blacktop upon which I was driving that I had to yield to on-coming traffic. I drew a diagram to illustrate the situation:

In the last decade or so, however, when I am the car in the lane in which no other vehicles are parked, the car, which I thought was supposed to yield the right-of-way to me, just swings way, way out onto my side of the roadway and tries to run me off the road. I drew a diagram to illustrate that situation:

I have concluded that it's me. I must have some kind of beacon that other drivers can pick up either on their GPS equipment or the receivers that have been implanted into their heads by the government. They hear, "Beep, beep, bee-eeep ... that's Bill. He's a pussy. He'll yield."

Can there be any other logical explanation?

Psychology of the Fill-Up

The new car is officially broken in. A power sunroof was installed last weekend, but that has nothing to do with the car being broken in. I'll take the blame, even though someone else was kind of like behind the wheel. The sunroof worked to perfection and looks great, but when the car was started after the demonstration, it stalled. It wouldn't start.

The sunroof-installing guy thought he hooked the sunroof up to the wrong circuit and blew a fuse.

I knew better. I tapped my wellspring of experience; I have more experience than anyone on the planet, you see. "Out of gas," I said, matter-of-factly.

Penalty: Remote door locks.

While the sunroof-installing guy was installing the remote door locks this afternoon, one of Stacey's friends picked us up; and we had dinner together, wherein the conversation turned to my new world record. In addition, apparently, I have, besides having reached double figures in the running-out-of-gas records, another psychological foible related to internal combustion engines, which may be the source of my running-out-of-gas habit.

I never fill the tank when I get gas. Stacey's friend, a world traveler, retired consultant to the petroleum and auto industry, said that she had never heard of that before ... she realizes that sometimes people don't have the cash to fill the tank, but to have never filled the tank was very strange and unknown to her, an obvious defect of the mind.

So, I got to thinking, doing that critical self-examination of defects in character my therapist talks about. For some unknown reason, in therapy, the gasoline fill-up thing has never come up.

The exploding Ford Pinto may have influenced me in some way, but I recall that I was not filling up the '68 Chevy Nova when I was given the opportunity to drive that car back and forth to college; and I think that was before it became common knowledge that Pintos blew up when rear-ended if there was enough gas to spray out the hole a protruding bolt punched in the tank after the car was rear-ended and igniting from the heat of the exhaust pipe.

No, it wasn't the Pinto engineering problem that was the source of my gasoline neurosis -- and I classify it as a neurosis because it affects only a portion of my personality as opposed to the whole, according to the old way of classifying stuff like that, because I cannot find the disorder in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition (DSM-IV).

It was Miss Hawn. And don't think there's anything Freudian about that. She was my fifth grade teacher. We were studying the Future Downfall of Man -- the Internal Combustion Engine. We were dismantling a single-cylinder, three-stroke, gasoline-fueled lawnmower engine to identify all of the the parts. This was an after-school project.

After taking the engine apart and putting it back together, I washed my hands and left. I noticed wadded up wet paper towels or toilet tissue sticking to the ceiling in the boys' bathroom. There was a short list of usual suspects who could have done that, but it wasn't my problem. I needed to get home. I figured that it was not my business, but Bob Munson thought it was his business.

He came into the boys' bathroom as I was leaving. I was running home and had reached Shady Oak, the street where I lived, named after the big, old, shady oak trees lining the street; and I heard good, old-for-the-fifth-grade, four-eyed, bean-pole Bob Munson (I always picked him for my basketball team because he was tall and could rebound, but never for football because he fumbled a lot after he was hit.) yelling something. He was way back, probably by Darlington Avenue; so, I couldn't really understand what he was screaming about "Hawn" and "wants you" and "come back to school." It made no sense to me on that breezy early-October afternoon because I might get to see part of the Yankees-Cardinals World Series game if I ran and didn't stop.

The next day, Miss Hawn wanted to see me, the 6th-grade hall monitor claimed. So, I found myself standing in front of the diminutive Miss Hawn. Someone saw me wad up wet paper towels or toilet tissue and throw them at the ceiling, according to Miss Hawn. My denials fell on her little, tiny, apparently-deaf ears. I had done it, according to Miss Hawn. She would have believed me had I returned to school when Bob Munson called me, but I ran home when I heard him. That meant I was guilty, according to Miss Hawn. World Series? What? She was obviously not a baseball fan ... or, perhaps, she was a Yankees fan.

Penalty: Stay after school the following week and take apart and put together the gasoline-fueled lawn mower engine every single day. Unfair? Hah, she had already called my mother. Mothers and teachers stuck together back then. And that meant I was (I would learn this word used by jurists everywhere later in life) fucked.

I encountered the snitch later that morning. Good, old-for-the-fifth-grade, four-eyed, bean-pole Bob Munson was grinning. But he countered that he told Miss Hawn that he saw me leaving the boys' bathroom. He didn't tell her he actually saw me wadding up the paper and whipping it at the acoustic-tiled ceiling. Why would he tell her he saw me when he didn't. He was nervous, though. Only he knew if he was lying or whether he was worried about the pick-up football game the next morning, the one in which I wouldn't pick him and then cover him when he was on offense, waiting for him to touch the ball and lay him out flat. I thought it more likely that it might be the latter.

Miss Hawn was the real culprit here, assuming that I knew something about the wadded up wet paper towels or toilet tissue sticking to the ceiling or that I threw the wadded up wet paper towels or toilet tissue sticking to the ceiling at the ceiling. She didn't believe me. She falsely accused and then convicted me, sentencing me to the after-school study of the gasoline-powered engine.

Miss Hawn. Look what you've done.

Cheerleaders Will Be Angry

I posted about the mail carrier who did not want to pick up mail. I received a bloggy visit from someone with the U.S. Postal Service.

I posted about the U.S. Patent & Trademark Office. I received a bloggy visit from someone with the USPTO.

Now, I'm going to invite others to join the nothingbutlove.net party by going off the deep end. I have a peace symbol on the car, along with The Who sticker; and turning back the clock, I was ready to head on up to the Great White North when I became military draft age back in the day.

The Democratic Congress was supposed to save us: Stop the War! Bring home the troops! Cut the funding!

Yeah, right. "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss," as one modern philosopher has written.

It's time to institute involuntary conscription. I didn't say "military draft." It's time to delay higher education for those high schoolers so inclined. High school graduation time is here, and so is compulsory military service. Fuck the birthday lottery, the winners of which learned to kill effectively and efficiently, according to the body counts back when statistics mattered. Let's teach every high school graduate in the country and all high school drop-outs to kill effectively and efficiently. If Bush wants to escalate, then fucking escalate. Give them all uniforms and M-16's.

Take the gloves off, George, and finally take that fucking silver spoon out of your mouth -- you have a vast pool of conscripts, willing, unwilling, who gives a shit what they think. Turn them into hordes of little green army men with which you can play your war games. There will be more than enough to take on Al Qaeda in Iraq, Al Qaeda in Afghanistan, and Al Qaeda in Lichtenstein. And do it all effectively. Just like you promised.

And you will have more than enough little green army men to quell the violence in the streets, suppress the peaceful protests, and beat the living hell out of those who dare say that the military is undermanned and under-equipped.

Whip out Big Dick to help you. He's one of the coalition of the willing, if I'm not mistaken.

Mission accomplished? You fucked it up, George. You had slightly more than 28% of the people behind you after the Twin Towers were toppled by conspirators. But you fucked it up. FDR took advantage of the "surprise" attack on Pearl Harbor. But you, George ... you fucked up. You dropped the ball. You learned that cheerleaders can't help on the field, but then you should have known that. Just like you knew Al Qaeda was coming to America.

Then you went and fucked it up ... fucked it up bad.

Tempo of the Elongated Member

As my two long-time readers are aware (unfortunately, they say), this side of the blog, that is, the left side, if you are in here looking out, like I am, or the right side, as you are sitting there, unless, of course, you are turned around now, yelling at whomever might be bugging you, who, by the way, is not me because I’m in here looking out at you, but that’s neither here nor there inasmuch as I can’t really say I’m on the right side for the reason that I have never been right, as far as the left side of the blog is concerned, is sometimes about golf. In reality, it’s always about golf; but this isn't reality. This is the blogosphere.

In real life, I’m a lawyer. “What do lawyers do in their spare time?” you may ask yourself. And I wouldn’t answer you because you are asking yourself. And, as I tell my clients, “Answer only the question that is asked.” But since this isn’t reality, I will tell you that some lawyers play golf in their spare time. Some lawyers think they play golf in their spare time. And still others say that they play golf, but don’t. And a few lawyers read patent applications in their spare time.

As one of those very few lawyers who is multi-talented, I was perusing the USPTO website – that’s the United States Patent & Trademark Office to those in the know – and I came across a very interesting patent application that is called a “Golf Swing Tempo Measurement System.”

I certainly don't pretewnd to know what you're thinking out there, but I opine that a system that “comprises a plurality of acceleration measuring devices adapted to measure accelerations at a plurality of locations along an elongated member” does not sound like something to be used in the game of golf.

It is described as “a biofeedback system including an elongated member.” It feeds back sounds so that the “tempo of an elongated member” can be gauged. It uses “sensors to capture motion characteristics of an elongated member,” so that the “tempo” of the member can be reproduced because, get this, “controlled speed and tempo are crucial to successful, reproducible performance.”

There are times, far and few between, when I am proud to claim I am a lawyer – more so a golfer – and this, my faithful readers, is one of those rare times.

Mail Call

I'm sure that you've seen the television ads claiming that the U.S. Postal Service will pick up your packages. The mail carrier stops by to deliver stuff and picks up the packages at the office. There's no calling to schedule a pick-up and no added fees. What could be better than that?

I was under the impression that the U.S. Postal Service always did that.

I handed the mail carrier who services our building two letters when she was making her deliveries. She said, "I'm not supposed to take those."

What? I don't get it. Why not? The mail was metered with the ZIP+4 address, properly bar-coded.

What the hell was that all about? Do I look like Ted Kaczynski? Has the World gone totally mad?

ATTN: All Lawyers

MEMORANDUM

To: All Lawyers

Date: May 18, 2007

Re: Required Dietary Supplements

Please be advised that NBTY, Inc., has recalled, as a precautionary measure, three lots of capsules that were manufactured in 2004.

Review the attached link and, if necessary, please look to alternative sources for your Shark supplements. Failure to take these supplements may result in your license to practice law being suspended, if this is just your first offense. Please be advised that a second offense carries the penalty of disbarment.

Clerk, Supreme Court

Scones

My lovely wife bought herself a couple cinnamon scones yesterday afternoon.

I don't like scones. I don't buy scones. In the scheme of all things food, the scone is a mistake. I discovered the secret held close by scone lovers about scones.

They got fucked up. Scones were actually supposed to turn out as something else, but they got fucked up. The "inventor" of the scone, the person who fucked them up, didn't have enough time to re-make the actual recipe or cook something else; so, the people at the party were stuck with -- hmmmm, what do we call them -- aaaah, scones.

Any etymologist will tell you that the origin of the word is Dutch; however, the etymologists are part of the scone conspiracy. The word "scones" is derived from the Spanish pejorative slang "cojones" because that is what the cook had when he served them.

And any entomologist will tell you that ants avoid scones. Even when given the choice between scones and liver, ants go for the liver. There is a simple explanation for that. Scones are not food.

And, just so you know, cinnamon is not magic dust.

20/20

Ken and I sat at the middle table in the back row of ninth grade biology class. I don't remember planning to do that. It just turned out that way on the seating chart that the teacher made up, which was, simply put, from Mr. Gutman's perspective, a mistake. Of course, all of the secrets of the universe -- such as those that caused the confluence of events seating Ken and me together at that old wooden table, blackened by age, with holes for ink bottles -- couldn't be known by a ninth-grade biology teacher, even if he was chosen to teach the honors biology class.

Ken and I had a great time in biology class. Neither of us could see the chalk board from where we were sitting. We cut up all kinds of things, living and dead; and we were the ones who added the phenolphthalein to the fish tank, turning the water red. We didn't have the guts to add a little to Mr. Gutman's water glass, not knowing how much would be enough to create the desired effect and how much would kill him. We were, after all, in the honors biology class and not permitted to kill teachers.

In early October, we were the conduit for the Red Sox -- Cardinals World Series games, since for a time, before recorded history, anyway, the games were played in the middle of the afternoon and in early October (starting Wednesday, October 4, that year), when it was relatively warm, and could be heard on a thing called a transistor radio. We relayed the score to the others in the class as the action occurred. Mr. Gutman caught on -- teachers weren't as dumb back in those days, I guess, and I think the ear plug gave us away -- and told us to let him know how his boy, Carl Yastrzemski, was doing each at-bat.

In May, however, Mr. Gutman ordered Ken and me to report to the dreaded school nurse for eye exams. He said he was tired of writing big so that we could read what he was writing on the chalk board. We never knew he was writing bigger. We couldn't even see the writing. It turns out that we, both Ken and I, needed eyeglasses.

So, late into my fourth decade of wearing glasses, moving on to hard contact lenses that I cleaned by popping them into my mouth, and graduating to soft lenses when they were on the market, on Friday morning, just as pizza was brought into the main waiting room, I was led into a dimly-lit room with four other people who couldn't see very well, waiting to be called to have our eyes laid open and lasered so we could see the world again without corrective lenses, and paying for that pleasure, waiting for the two Benadryl and the Valium to drain away any doubts and inhibitions we might have about walking through the door with the bearded guy into the unknown, but having heard that this was a good thing.

I don't remember much ... except for the smell I described below and my right eye being held by some kind of mechanical contraption from outer space, being told by a disembodied voice to stare at the pulsating red light that was all blurry and hazy, all kinds of liquid being poured on my eye, and then the red light starting to come into focus the longer I smelled my eyeball burning. Then the other eye, a lot of liquids being squirted at my eye, some kind of white paddle smoothing out my eye at the end. Then he said, "You did great. Get the fuck outta here." Or maybe that was the drugs. In the dream I had the night before, he told me I needed two root canals, too. It turns out that I didn't. At least, I don't remember those.

I have a picture of me and the purported eye surgeon, which I don't recollect having been taken. I wasn't acquainted with reality on Friday. I was sleeping, I think, a drug-induced sleep.

Saturday afternoon, though, at my follow-up, I could see better than I have since before the ninth grade.

I am truly amazed.

Yeah, Right ...

"You may smell something, but that is simply a chemical reaction. There is no burning."

Maybe it's a boy thing or maybe not, but what I smelled took me back in time to hot sunny, summer days, magnifying glass in hand, kneeling on the sidewalk, bending down to make sure the focus was just right, point of light sharp and tiny, frying ants, bodies curling, smoke drifting up, distinctive burning smell. Chemical reaction. Yeah, right ...

In the scheme of things, I'm thinking that was okay. Now, my cousin, the one who spent considerable time behind bars, he tore the legs off grass hoppers, put the live bodies in a jar, and shook the glass jar to see what would happen.

Paying for the Pleasure

Many people think the higher the price of an item or a service, the better it is. The federal government is preying on those unsuspecting people.

Husband: Hey, look at this, dear!
Wife: What? Tell me before I go insane, honey!
Husband: The admission fee to Glacier National Park in Montana was doubled to $50.
Wife: Wow, dear! It must be twice as good now! Let's go there!!
Husband: It must be quite an experience. Why else would they raise the price so high?
Wife: We're guaranteed to have a great time! I'm feeling faint from the excitement!
Husband: Don't swoon now, my lovely! I can't wait for that exhilarating feeling driving in the wilderness on the Going-to-the-Sun Road!

Restaurant Behavior

I am not so old that I don't remember carrying one or the other of the kids out of a restaurant under one arm because of a braech in etiquette. We taught the two rambunctious, cross-checking boys about "restaurant voice." They learned that they were not having conversations with people at the next table, so there was no need to talk in tones that could be heard by those at the next table. And most of the stuff we talked about wasn't their business anyway.

And they were taught that they didn't need to run in a restaurant. I suppose there could be a time when running in a restaurant is appropriate. When the Boston Marathon is routed through Cheers, then it will be appropriate to run in there.

The three kids were loud when they were sitting. And then they must have finished eating whatever they had ordered because they started to roam around, a boy about 8, a girl about 11, and another girl, maybe 9. I must say that they were not running around; they were skating around. They had tennis shoes with wheels built into the heels, and they were rolling around corners and down straightaways. I complained to the waitress. The boy stopped when I gave him the evil eye ... or maybe it was the fist.

I figured if skating was okay in the restaurant, so was checking. I would have planted him into the next booth. They stopped.

Full of Hot Air

I played golf yesterday morning. My cousin's husband called and asked me to fill in his foursome. What could I say? I had some excuses: I hadn't picked up a golf club since last year; I'm wearing eyeglasses that make the world look all weird; I don't like the golf course; 6:45 is pretty early in the morning. And I could use the same excuses for my poor score, but I won't. I'm not writing about golf. This is background.

The course is on two levels with the clubhouse and five holes in a valley cut by a large creek about 80 feet below the upper part of the course with 13 holes; so, I was expecting that it would be several degrees cooler in the valley than up on top, even with the sun bright and shining; and it was 46 degrees on the thermometer hung on the clubhouse wall and 52 degrees on the time and temperature sign on the way to the golf course.

I understand that temperature difference, the colder, denser air settling into the valley. Here's the question I have. As a preface, let me say that I was riding in a golf car yesterday; but when I ride, I usually walk more than I ride, especially if I'm not scoring and want to -- contemplate the meaning of life and enjoy the beauty of nature. I was walking down the second fairway. And as I was walking on fairly level ground, no trees, no shadows, bright sunshine, on the upper level of the course, I walked through columns of warmer air. Why is that?

It was like Moses and the burning bush thing in the movie, Ten Commandments, with the column of fire. These weren't exactly columns of fire, but they were definitely columns of warmer air. I pointed this out to my cousin's husband. And this is one reason his name's on the terrorist watch list -- he looked at me like I was fucking crazy. Imagine that. He didn't understand what I was telling him. So I showed him. I walked about five feet back toward the second tee and told him it was colder here than where I was standing before, "right over there," I said, pointing to the place in the dew-y grass where the trail of my foot prints ended. He cocked his head and squinted one eye. He said, "Well, you're talking, for one thing." Not funny. "Never mind," I said. I noticed the same phenomenon in several other spots -- I was walking a lot, as it turned out -- in many different places on the course. I kept my mouth shut, though -- no contamination.

And that's the question. Why were there columns of air that were warmer than the surrounding air?

NOW WE WAIT

the old white beetle with the who sticker and peace symbol was a regular character in some of bill's post, thus the following post to those who might care...

we bought a new car today. i last mentioned that we were looking at used minis and used beetles. we weren't happy with what we were seeing. somehow (cough: matt and mel), we've become somewhat frugal in the past couple years. the prices for these models in a used car come at a premium, and we didn't like what we saw. changed direction and decided that if were going to pay those prices, we'd pay for a new car. so we looked at a lot of different models and decided on the toyota yaris. never heard of it? here's what we bought.

i wanted the sedan. bill wanted the hatchback. i wanted white. bill wanted black. so we got a white hatchback.

then... we came home and looked for the all-important sticker. here's what i ordered. there were 2,000 to choose from!

THEN... the obligatory who sticker. bill wanted this one:

i wanted this one:

we ordered both.

Two Lawyers

Two women alighted from a cab. 6-feet tall, skinny, blond hair combed down over his forehead like his mother cut his hair, print shirt that reminded me of Steve Martin's wild and crazy guy, he yelled from across the street, not to me, but to the women, "We're going to Tremont! Come with us!"

They didn't answer. He was persistent, prancing across the street, nearly getting hit by another taxi, "Come with us! Please! There are four of us! Tremont! Four of us. Two are lawyers."

I laughed. After all, what kind of selling point is that? One of the women turned, hearing the guy with three dogs laugh.

"Not one, but two lawyers," I pointed out.

She laughed. The other woman said something to the dorky-looking guy; he retreated in disgrace.

Metallurgy 101

I'm wearing my eyeglasses instead of contacts for a few days. I'm skeptical about reality. The eyeglasses are a window to a new and different world, one in which actual objects are farther away than they appear to be. It's the opposite of the message on the passenger side view mirrors on newer model cars, only the message is not printed on the eyeglasses anywhere.

I made a thorough check of the eyeglasses, including the case, for such a message. Nothing. Oh, I suspect that the frames (not frames, really, because they are rimless) are made of red uranium because they are red and the word "uranium" is printed in teeny letters on the thin wire that goes from the lens to my right ear. There are letters and numbers, probably some kind of model number, on the other wire that goes to my left ear, U238.

Anyway, there is at least one practical problem to things being farther away than they appear. The ground is not as close as it looks; so, if one reaches for some, let's say, organic matter in order to pick it up, one might start losing one's balance because the pile isn't located in this reality where it is supposed to be, and one must really reach down to steady oneself or fall over and smash the pile of organic matter. Could just as well have had to steady oneself with the other hand instead of the one with the plastic bag on it.

But I did figure out why I'm getting a headache. It's obviously a radiation headache.

And this could be an unreported side effect, the way things are farther away than they appear to be. From the radiation. From the uranium.

Oh, hold on. Titanium. Not uranium. Hard to see real well without eyeglasses.

Never mind.

Our Curved Universe

I'm wearing my eyeglasses instead of contacts for a few days. I didn't realize how curved the world is. The computer screen is curving away from me at the edges and the keyboard is kind of weird-looking.

This morning, I ventured out into this curved, new world with the three dogs. Normally, the leashes, when the dogs pull on them, appear to be straight lines, the shortest-distance-between-two-points straight; but then again, in this shapely world, the shortest distance rule doesn't seem to hold true. The leashes were slightly curved, but not uniformly curved.

One would think, if this were a mental exercise, the kind that mathematicians and physicists do when they are thinking of things quantum, that they would all curve to the left or curve to the right, if only ever so slightly; but reality is quite different. One of them curved slightly to the left, and the other two curved slightly to the right; but just as I was going to try to get the ones curving to the right to curve to the left, the Beagle stopped dead in her tracks to smell an invisible, yet irresistible, fragrance on the down-sloping sidewalk.

I'm not adverse, unlike those old-age Europeans, to adjusting my thinking about the Earth being curved instead of flat, which goes with ideas that the whole universe has curves, if we are to believe geniuses like Einstein, who just thought that one up on the spur of the moment; but maybe, just maybe, I've been wrong all these years in thinking that lines are really "straight" -- by my definition, that is. I look at those pictures, allegedly from space, which show a curved Earth; and I'm not one of those Flat Earth Society people, who think that's a bunch of hocus-pocus, who-shot-John stuff purveyed by those who are in control, whoever "they" may be. No, I can dig that the good, getting-less-green Earth revolves around the Sun and spins on its axis of evil at about 1,000,000 miles an hour, or whatever the speed of that might be, and that gravity keeps me firmly planted, except if I jump really, really, really high, then I might just land the next block over -- but the plain powers of observation in my 163-square-block micro-world give me the skinny on what's straight and what's not -- and so, this morning, I was somewhat disconcerted by the curviness of the world.

And I wondered if maybe Twiggy, the angular, two-dimensional, Brit model of the late 1960's, was really not so much awkwardly angular, but that my view of her was somewhat askew; and then I calculated that I wasn't wearing eyeglasses back then, and the gauze-y remembrance of her was not so much the result of the passage of a relatively huge bulk of time, but blurry, uncorrected near-sightedness.

April: 104

Pfc. Miguel A. Marcial III
Staff Sgt. Jason R. Arnette
Staff Sgt. David A. Mejias
Staff Sgt. Eric R. Vick
Sgt. Robert M. McDowell
Spc. William G. Bowling
Spc. Brian E. Ritzberg
Lance Cpl. Daniel R. Olsen
Staff Sgt. Bradley D. King
Spc. Curtis R. Spivey
Pfc. Gabriel J. Figueroa
Staff Sgt. Shane R. Becker
Spc. Walter Freeman Jr.
Pfc. Derek A. Gibson
Staff Sgt. Jerry C. Burge
Cpl. Joseph H. Cantrell IV
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 4 when a patrol was attacked with small arms fire in an eastern section of Baghdad)
Spc. James J. Coon
Sgt. Jason A. Shaffer
Sgt. Forrest D. Cauthorn
Pfc. Daniel A. Fuentes
Spc. Jay S. Cajimat
Petty Officer 2nd Class Joseph C. Schwedler
Chief Petty Officer Gregory J. Billiter
Petty Officer 2nd Class Curtis R. Hall
Petty Officer 1st Class Joseph A. McSween
Capt. Anthony Palermo
Spc. Ryan S. Dallam
Pvt. Damian Lopez Rodriguez
Capt. Jonathan D. Grassbaugh
Spc. Ebe F. Emolo
Spc. Levi K. Hoover
Pfc. Rodney L. McCandless
Cmdr. Philip A. Murphy-Sweet
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 8 while conducting combat operations in Salah Ad Din Province)
1st Lt. Phillip I. Neel
Sgt. Adam P. Kennedy
Staff Sgt. Harrison Brown
Pfc. David N. Simmons
Sgt. Todd A. Singleton
Staff Sgt. Jesse L. Williams
Spc. Ismael G. Solorio :: Pfc. Brian L. Holden :: Pvt. Brett A. Walton
Spc. Clifford A. Spohn III
Pfc. Kyle G. Bohrnsen
Sgt. Raymond S. Sevaaetasi
Cpl. Jason J. Beadles
Spc. James T. Lindsey
Cpl. Cody A. Putnam
Pfc. John G. Borbonus
1st Lt. Gwilym J. Newman
Spc. Ryan A. Bishop
Sgt. Larry R. Bowman
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 13 while conducting combat operations in Al Anbar Province)
Lance Cpl. Daniel J. Santee
Sgt. Joshua A. Schmit
Sgt. Brandon L. Wallace
Staff Sgt. Robert J. Basham
Pfc. Steven J. Walberg
Pfc. Lucas V. Starcevich
Sgt. Mario K. De Leon
Pfc. Aaron M. Genevie
1st Lt. Shaun M. Blue
Lance Cpl. Jesse D. Delatorre
Lance Cpl. Daniel R. Scherry
Pfc. Richard P. Langenbrunner
Cpl. Wade J. Oglesby
Cpl. Michael M. Rojas
Pfc. Jason M. Morales
Chief Warrant Officer Dwayne L. Moore
Lance Cpl. Jeffery A. Bishop
Cpl. Ray M. Bevel
Pfc. Christopher M. North
Sgt. William W. Bushnell
Staff Sgt. Steven R. Tudor
Pvt. Michael J. Slater
Staff Sgt. Marlon B. Harper
Pfc. Jeffrey A. Avery
1st Lt. Kevin J. Gaspers
Staff Sgt. Kenneth E. Locker Jr.
Staff Sgt. William C. Moore
Sgt. Randell T. Marshall
Sgt. Brice A. Pearson
Sgt. Michael L. Vaughan
Spc. Jerry R. King
Spc. Michael J. Rodriguez
Pfc. Garrett C. Knoll
Lance Cpl. Dale G. Peterson
Spc. Jeremy E. Maresh
Cpl. Willie P. Celestine Jr.
Lance Cpl. Adam E. Loggins
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 26 while conducting combat operations in Al Anbar Province)
Pfc. Nicholas E. Riehl
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 27 while conducting combat operations in Al Anbar Province)
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 27 in combat in Al Anbar Province)
Sgt. Peter Woodall
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 27 while conducting combat operations in Al Anbar Province)
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 28 when his patrol was struck by a roadside bomb southeast of Baghdad)
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 28 when his patrol was struck by a roadside bomb southeast of Baghdad)
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 28 when his patrol was struck by a roadside bomb southeast of Baghdad)
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 28 when his patrol was struck by a roadside bomb south of Baghdad)
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 28 when a combat patrol was attacked with small arms fire in an eastern section of Baghdad)
Not identified pending notification of next-of-kin (Killed April 29 while conducting combat operations in Al Anbar Province)