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Declassifying The "Secret Squirrel" Files
By Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
Like any good Marine who’s been forcibly ejected from the land of palm trees and bad decisions, I limped my way back across 3,000 miles of America to Pennsylvania, only to discover my hometown was still stuck in 1978 and my old friends had all turned into strangers or accountants. One minute you’re wrangling million-dollar flying bricks with your squad of misfits, the next you’re unemployed, friendless, and the only thing booming in town is the unemployment rate. If not for my parents running a 24-hour rescue operation, I’d probably still be living in my old cammies under the bridge.

So I hit the mean streets of Pennsylvania, resume in hand and haircut still high and tight, ready to trade my flight line swagger for a real job. Tried to join the State Police, but apparently my tan wasn’t the right shade for the eighties. Next stop: Harrisburg International Airport, hoping to keep my aviation cred alive. While waiting for the call, I grabbed a construction gig, figuring I’d bail as soon as the airport realized they needed a recce pig wrangler. Joke’s on me, the airport said I was too qualified, and that "temporary" construction job turned into a 30-year tour.
Semper Gumby, right?

The company was in Hershey, which meant the air always smelled like chocolate and cow manure, depending on the wind. I started out mopping floors and worked my way up to Project Manager, which is basically a Plane Captain with a fancier clipboard and less jet fuel. My job: wrangle tradesmen, herd inspectors, and make sure the doctors and lawyers got their McMansions on time. Turns out, if you can keep a squadron of Marines from burning down the barracks, you can handle a construction site full of high-testosterone hammer pounders. Made some lifelong friends, scored a couple of houses, and even got a shiny award from the Mayor for not letting my place turn into a junkyard. Not bad for a guy who used to sleep in open squad bays .

The high-water mark of my career? That’d be when I went full PDS, sold everything that wasn’t nailed down, and set course for Myrtle Beach, SC. It was like boot camp all over again, except this time, instead of a DI, I had a start-up boss and a beach full of tourists. Just me and the owner at first, building an empire out of duct tape and caffeine. Before long, we had a squad of 20, cranking out projects that made the locals think we were some kind of construction SEAL team. Then 2008 hit, the economy cratered, and I got the boot right back to the frozen tundra, tail tucked and all. Still, I got to work on a couple of big-league jobs, which you’ll find below. Go ahead, take a look, just don’t ask me for a kitchen remodel.

Hard Rock Park
The worlds first Rock n Roll theme park.

Myrtle Beach, AFB.
Redeveloping an abandoned AFB.

The Final Chapter
I managed to dodge unemployment for 30 years, which in construction is about as rare as a Marine with clean boots. Then 2008 hit, and suddenly I was out of work and burning through my savings faster than a liberty run in Olongapo. Had to make the call: leave Myrtle Beach and head back to my hometown. My brother, a fellow bachelor, let me crash at his place, and my old boss welcomed me back as if I’d never left. Then life threw a sucker punch: my brother passed away suddenly, leaving me with a German Shepherd who thought he was a lapdog. Renting with a horse-sized mutt was a no-go, so I lawyered up and stayed put. Fast forward: the dog’s gone, the company’s changed hands, and I’m still standing, financially squared away. My parents stuck it out for 50 years until they both checked out, and the Corps taught me to improvise, adapt, and overcome, hoo-rah. Most of my blood family is gone, but the Marine Corps family is forever.

As I taxi down the runway for my final hop, I can honestly say I’ve logged a hell of a flight hours. Did it solo, too, no co-pilot, no navigator, just me and a stubborn refusal to quit. Managed to buy and gut two houses, which is basically the civilian version of field day, minus the screaming staff sergeant. Rolled out of the rack every morning for half a century, punched the clock, and only called in sick when I was actually dying. Still swinging a hammer at 70, because apparently retirement is for people who like pickleball and early bird specials. If I’ve got a few more years in the tank, great. If not, I’ll punch out with a grin.

The Secret Squirrel
Alright, for all you VMFP-3 veterans scratching your heads and wondering why the guy you remember as Ralph Iseli is now answering to Marc, let me clear the fog. Back in the day, I was saddled with the name Ralph, a name that, let’s be honest, is mostly famous for being shouted into a toilet after too many beers or attached to a Muppet dog. My mom had a thing for the letter R, so my siblings got Ronald, Rainelle, and Raymond. Then she ran out of ideas and, while watching The Honeymooners, decided to slap Ralph on me, after Ralph Kramden. Could’ve been worse. When we got a dog, she named it Rooney, so at least I dodged that bullet. Family tradition gets weirder: my brother-in-law is Ralph, but everyone calls him George, because why not? Anyway, by 1990, I’d had enough of being the punchline at every party, so I marched into court and upgraded to Marc, with Mom’s blessing, naturally. These days, I go by "The Marc Of Ecellence" at work, because if you can’t have dignity, you might as well have a pun. So now you know the rest of the story.

Alright, you glorious Rat Phixers and Phlyers, if we ever survived a TAD, a Det, or a BOHICA, who haven't, and you didn’t think I was the biggest gaff off in the squadron. Got a sea story, or some grainy photos your ex didn’t set on fire, and they’re only slightly illegal? Send ‘em by email, snail mail, or safety wire it to a carrier pigeon. I collect ‘em all, just nothing that would incriminate me.
80svmfp3@gmail.com

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