ATOMIC DOG
The Great Santini
by TC

The Atomic Dog is a weekly feature that isn't necessarily about weight training or bodybuilding. Sometimes it's about sports in general, sex, women, or male issues of some kind. At times it's inspirational, but it can also be informative, funny, and even a little weird, but hopefully, always interesting and a little controversial. We hope it reflects the nature of Testosterone magazine in that, just as no man is completely one-dimensional and only interested in one subject, neither are we. If it makes you think or laugh — or even get angry — it's served its purpose.

It's 1962 and Lieutenant Colonel "Bull" Meechum, otherwise known as "The Great Santini," is slamming back the drinks because drinkin' and flyin' and flyin' and drinkin' is what Marine fighter pilots do. Only this is a special occasion—being that it's a going away party for Bull—and the drinks are going down at speeds approaching Mach two instead of Mach one.

Bull's landed a transfer stateside, to Buford, South Carolina to be exact, and he's going to have his own squadron of dog fighters to whip into shape. But first there's the matter of the going away party. Bull and the rest of the officers are gathered together in the party room of a restaurant in Spain and the noise generated by a bunch of inebriated Marines is just about on par with the thrusters of an F-6F Hellcat.

Only trouble is, there's a hoity-toity restaurant in the adjoining room, a restaurant occupied by a mixed group of civilians and Navy officers enjoying what was supposed to be a quiet meal with their wives. The only things they want to hear are the gentle sound of wineglasses being filled and the subdued dinner music being played by the band on stage.

One of the Navy officers, a Commander no less, gussied up in his dress whites and looking as if he's had a marching baton permanently impacted up his kazoo, marches indignantly into the party room to demand that Bull and his comrades, all "disgraces to the Corps," finish their drinks and be on their way.

Bull, blustery, ornery, hell-raising Bull, is, much to the surprise of his fellow dog fighters, polite, even cordial, and agrees to leave the premises after just one more drink. The Navy Commander is convinced that he's taken control of the situation and marches back to resume his dinner.

But Bull's not going anywhere. He staggers into the restaurant, careening off tables and causing the high-toned bitches to gape in indignation and horror. And then he pulls the aforementioned Navy Commander's fussy, overweight wife out of her chair and starts dancing with her! He's even nuzzling and kissing her neck while she shouts out for her husband to help her!

But Bull's too drunk to keep dancing. He lets go of the Commander's wife, staggers towards the band, and grabs his stomach. He leans over. His eyes widen and he starts to convulse. He's going to be sick! Oh my God, he's going to hurl! And hurl he does. He ralphs all over the floor of the stage, causing the cello player to lurch to his left and fall out of his chair.

The sound of a hundred forks dropping onto fine china fills the air…the women are aghast, nauseated, and it's all they can do to keep from hurling themselves…but then, then, Bull stands up, looks towards his fellow Marines who've been watching the whole disgusting thing and shouts out, in that deep baritone Marine voice, "Chow down on me, hogs!"

And horror of horrors, the Marines rush forward towards the milky white vomit and start eating it with spoons! And not with nose-wrinkled-in-disgust hesitation like Fear Factor contestants either, these guys are spooning the stuff up with great gusto! Has there ever been such a disgusting display? The women scream and knock over their chairs as they rush toward the exits.

But it's just another practical joke. Bull hasn't vomited at all. He merely spilled an open can of Cream of Mushroom soup that he had secreted away in his dress coat.

Maybe you haven't seen the 1980 movie, The Great Santini, with Robert Duvall as Bull Meechum, but it's one of the truest depictions of the dual nature, the dichotomy, evident in high Testosterone males.

Very few individuals are "all male" or "all female." Usually, we're a blend of female characteristics and male characteristics, the feminine and the masculine. However, there are some individuals that skew heavily towards one side of the spectrum or the other and unless these individuals manage to develop some perspective, they tend to suffer mightily. Why? Because the poor bastards don't fit in. People don't understand them. Their actions, opinions, and emotions are so strong that they either alienate or feel alienated.

Bull Meechum is one of these individuals. Here's a man who was probably born to do combat. It's easy to imagine that soon after taking his first steps, he stretched out his arms to emulate aircraft wings and began zooming down on kitties, squirrels, birds, and other children, all who made serviceable substitutes for enemy bogeys. So where else would Bull go after high school but the Marines?

And Bull's okay as long as there's a war to fight, but things get a little sticky when he doesn’t have anyone to strafe with his anti-aircraft guns. The drinking takes the edge off, as do the constant practical jokes and horseplay, but put him stateside, with a wife, kids, and a home, and the pressure and frustration start…to…build…up.

That's exactly the scenario faced by Bull when he's transferred to Buford. He's got a wife, Lilly, and four kids, the oldest of which, Ben, is just about to turn 18. But this isn't really a family to Bull; it's a small squadron and he runs it like one.

He's about to go another round in the sack when the alarm clock goes off. Sure, it's 0300 hours and it's time to get up. Much to the frustration of his wife, he jumps out of bed, does his push-ups, and calls his "squadron" for inspection.

"MOVE IT, MOVE IT, MOVE IT, SPORTS FANS!"

He opens up the bedroom door of the youngest and shouts out to his wife, "HEY LILLY, THE LITTLE HOMO'S SLEEPING NAKED!"

And if the troops bellyache?

"ALL BELLYACHING WILL END AT 0330 HOURS!"

And they're reminded that Meechum kids can chew nails; Meechum kids excel in sports; a Meechum never gives up!

It's sheer hell being a Meechum kid. And when Bull wants his breakfast?

"THE MINISTER OF DEATH WANTS HIS BREAKFAST! EAT! EEEEATTTT!!!"

Even when he's happy he's mad. This man can't conceive of relaxing. He reads the paper and it's like someone's rubbing coarse sandpaper on a raw and oozing wound:

"GOD! GOD! WHY DID YOU PUT SO MANY JERKS IN THE WORLD AT THE SAME TIME?!?!?!"

While Bull is often comedic, often jovial, and fiercely protective of God, country, and his family, he can be downright brutal when that unbridled, one-sided Testosterone gets the better of him. His son beats him in a game of one-on-one but Bull won’t accept defeat. Why, he's never lost anything, so this can't be happening. Rather than taking the loss with grace, he gets ugly, suddenly changing the rules and insisting that the winner must win by two. His son resists. After all he won fair and square. So Bull, much to the distress of the rest of his family, starts bouncing the basketball off his son's head, trying to make him cry, calling him his little girl.

And then Bull spends all night shooting hoops by himself in the rain, practicing, cursing and swearing and arguing against time and biology that he's not getting older; that his skills aren't deteriorating.

Later, after another particularly ugly scene where his dark side bubbles over and causes him to again humiliate his family, Bull is sitting in the Officer's Club on the base chasing down drink after drink with another officer. In a rare moment of introspection, Bull realizes something about himself:

"I've recently observed that for certain throwbacks of the species, for certain gung ho dinosaurs, of which I proudly number myself as one, being a warrior without a war has its problems."

He knows he's brutal, knows that, in many ways, he's a lousy father and a lousy husband, but he's powerless to articulate it to his family and worse yet, powerless to do anything about it.

Unfortunately, this rare moment of introspection is drowned and pickled by a pint of scotch until there's nothing left but the hostility and frustration, emotions that target his wife when he gets home. While he hasn't hit her, he's coming close. His son Ben, roused by the ruckus downstairs, rushes in to help his mother. Soon the whole family, including the youngest, are hanging on to Bull, crying and screaming and crazed out of their minds with fear because they're fighting the raw essence of Bull Meechum, the part of him that is ordinarily bundled away in some strong box in the middle of his brain.

The sight of his youngest, hanging onto his legs, eyes red from crying, eyes crazed with fear, staring up at him, sparks a flicker of sanity. Bull retreats to the woods where he can scream at the trees without being judged.

Later on that night, Ben's mother demands that he go out and find his father. Reluctantly, he does so and finds Bull under a tree, drunk out of his mind and muttering to himself:

"Yes sir, yes sir…terror of the skies…father…daddy…got to be fast or the bogeys will get you…defense, defense…got to watch that defense…."

Bull starts sobbing. The incongruity of it all is too much. He's a trained killer, but he's also a father. He's supposed to protect and you protect by violence, don't you? He's supposed to hate yet he's expected to love and he can't handle it. It doesn't make sense. He should be able to control and shape the world but he can't. Others don't understand him. The world doesn't make any sense.

His son hears these mutterings and he has an epiphany to what his father's all about. He picks Bull up and tells him that he thinks he understands him now, and then tells him that he loves him. "Yes! I love you, dad!" Bull, sober enough to hear what his son is saying, actually starts to run but he stumbles and falls. Bull gets up again and lunges, but he can't get anywhere near his son because he's playfully dancing in and out, tapping Bull on the head, slapping his butt, tormenting him by repeatedly telling him that he loves him.

And running away is the only way Bull can respond to that type of honest emotion.

Soon after, just when the family has settled in to an apparent understanding of Bull, he goes on a routine night flight. His aircraft malfunctions and rather than eject and send the plane crashing into the city below, he flies it out over the ocean. Taking the chance of augering in doesn't matter to him because a man like Bull would rather be killed in action: "It's better than dying of piles."

The weird thing is that I think I understand Bull. There are elements of him in me. I often feel the same rage, the same frustration over not being able to control things, the same ire when I read the damn newspaper or lose a game.

I think a lot of men, particularly T-men, are like that, but thankfully, most of us have the innate understanding of our condition or at least are able to work our frustrations out at the gym.

It doesn't always work, though. I—and you, too, I'm sure—often find myself in a situation where I plain freak out friends or family. They can't figure me out.

Why don't you relax?

Why do you take things so personally?

Why don't you accept things you can't change?

Stop fighting…well, everything.

Too bad it's not that easy. Don't get me wrong, I think Testosterone is responsible for most of the progress we've made as a species, responsible for ambition, drive, and creativity. Unfortunately, it's also responsible for war.

The trick is to make both facets, the noble and the ignoble, live peacefully side by side.