Sitting down with the infamous Don Iler can sometimes be tense and even painful, but not today. No, today Don Iler was on top of the world for he had just spent the afternoon at The Broadside South, the Editor-In-Chiefs’ unofficial second office located quaintly inside of The Abbey Pub.
Diving right into serious topics of discussion, Don Iler immediately began speaking about what truly grinds his gears.
“I’m really just feeling over the whole college thing, writing worthless papers about gender roles in today’s society. I don’t give a shit about gender roles honestly,” Iler admits.
In attempt to veer Don Iler away from hulking out over whether he or his future wife should bring home the bacon every day, the topic was quickly adverted to dragon slaying. When asked whether or not he would be willing to slay a dragon if the opportunity arose, Don Iler responded quickly with assurance in his voice.
“ Yes. Absolutely, because there would be proof that there really are dragons in our existence. I would slay it and bring it to the Smithsonian where it could be preserved forever,” Iler presents.
Don Iler is seemingly ruthless when it comes to dragon humanity.
“ Even if it was pink! In fact, if it were a pink dragon I would definitely slay it. Plus, then I could make pink dragon scale boots and sell them to dragon enthusiasts,” Iler explains.
Don Iler then, in the flash of an eye, drifted off into a far away land where you could only barely see it in the glint of his glossy eyes. He began talking about flying, first on a dragon and through his twisted train of thought then on an Osprey, which is a military tiltrotor aircraft. He began telling story after story about his experiences and memories of his journeys through a war many of us have never seen the true face of. All this he did without being asked a single question. Unlike most young vets, Don Iler is proud of what he did and no one could’ve explained a soldier’s point of view better than he did.
“ It was like a very long, extended, and fucked up camping trip,” he again drifts off into some far away place where his eyes seem to do nothing but replay whatever he saw over and over again, “I remember best the days with laughter. The days when we’d go out back behind the mess hall and steal a bunch of pallets for a fire. And we’d go out and find some old Israeli guy with a cheap, disgusting bottle of whiskey and pay him way to much money for it. We’d go take our pallets and our over priced, foul tasting scotch and go build a bonfire and just relax, try to forget all the fucked up shit around us. It sounds dumb, like a bunch of dude-bros hanging out in the desert getting shit-faced, but there was just something special and sacred about that camaraderie and fun dispersed in between so much violence,” he finishes, only glancing over solemnly at his conclusion.
There is pain and wisdom in Don Iler’s eyes. He has witnessed life and death first hand and along the way learned that the most precious things in life may just be those simple joys that keep us all sane.
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