Profiles in Poker

This week I wrote a tribute to one of my fellow Texas Hold'em tournament players. He had what was, to my way of thinking, a monumental birthday...his 95th.  I sent the tribute to some of my pals as I knew they would all get off on any story that includes the word, "donuts."

They all seemed impressed with my description of my poker pal's character and intellectual vitality.  One of them even suggested (you know who you are) I write my next book and fill it with descriptions of this gentleman and others perhaps like him...suggested title; "Profiles in Poker."

Well, I have been thinking about another book but don't think I have enough gumption to find and fill it with descriptions as interesting as the one I have written. Nonetheless, here is an edited version of the first, and probably last one I have written:

December 3, 2015 - This morning I stopped at a donut shop on the way in to the Capital Casino poker tournament.  It was my second time, having been sent originally by someone who rightfully claimed they make the best in Sacramento.  I bought two glazed and a small coffee to work on while I waited for the lady to box a couple of dozen to take with me.

It was just the lady working the counter and me inside.  The shop is located near Interstate 80 on Watt Avenue here.  This can be a pretty nasty location as not so many years ago some robbers executed a guy and girl working at a pizza joint in the same strip mall.  As I sat there I thought, “Damn, what if someone just walked in here and started spraying the place with bullets just because of a bad donut or maybe a “too hot” cup of coffee? I mean hey…look what happened in San Bernardino just yesterday right?  Plus there have been more mass shootings in the US than days in the year so far. 

Then I thought, “Good  location for it but bad bang for the buck as with just two of us there wouldn’t be much “spraying” necessary. Nah, they would probably go for a bigger location with a lot more potential victims so then I relaxed and turned to better thoughts.

I was buying the donuts for one of my poker pals, "Ritz" to celebrate the occasion of his birthday today.  He is 95 and still sharp enough to play competitive poker and play it well.  He is big man, with a large frame and stands tall at around six feet even at his age.  His son, who is about my age, accompanies him 3-4 times a week to play the tournaments. This gentleman is a fine character who immigrated from Italy when he was little.  He was orphaned and lived alone, surviving in a Sacramento basement for more than a year before he was a teenager. Later, he married (lasted almost 70 years before she passed) and served a “duration of the war” hitch in the Navy.  To make extra dough to send home, he ironed clothes for his shipmates.

L-R Ritz Naygrow and Alphonso Ford
(Alphonso is a former silicon valley exec who 
played football at UCLA, but that's another story...) 

With the money he saved, he later bought a water bottling firm, and went to work.  He was successful and as time passed he bought other water companies that eventually included several states. His forte’ was integrating the new companies and making them profitable.  In 1979, a company in France paid Ritz over $60 million for his companies.

I know this because I have a copy of Ritz’s biography right here on my desk.

Ritz is 95 today and here is why I think so highly of him.  He is every bit the consummate gentleman our pal and former Air Force Colonel Bill Grinstaff (RIP) was.  An example…we were on a tournament break a couple of years ago and I noticed a bathroom habit of Ritz'…yup, a bathroom. I was waiting behind him for a sink and saw him turn after washing his hands to pull a paper towel from the dispenser. There are two dispensers side-by-side and he took one towel, dried his hands then advanced both machines so there would be towels handy for the next person.  I have since copied that move and once told his son Tom that I call it the "Ritz Naygrow Memorial Towel Move.” Yes there could be a better title and there are likely many more and better examples but you get my drift I think.  This was before I read his bio so I already had a hunch about the man I would find in his book.

A few weeks ago on impulse I gave Ritz a copy of “Badass” in return for the copy of his biography he had graciously sent.  He later told me my book was full of “Goddamn vivid descriptions” and it should be in “Every Harley shop in the United States.” (I didn’t tell him that most Harley riders can’t read and those few who can won’t....just kidding.) This proves Ritz is an expert bullshitter too, just like all of us.  

I got the donuts safely to the Casino without eating more and the pit boss helped me set them up for crew and players who were so inclined.  I used a big Sharpie and wrote on the boxes; ‘Happy Birthday Ritz!" We gave him the pick of the first one and I got a big hug from a good friend.  I am a happy camper.

(I recall old friend Paul Murrell telling me he spent some time working in a donut shop in his youth. I think it was his father’s. Years later, Paul and I equipped a contract proposal War Room in Baton Rouge with 2 dozen Crispy Kreme donuts a day to help team members wrestle with their writing anxiety. So here we have yet another good donut story or two eh Paul?!)

Fifteen Groups - Who May Not Enter or Have To Go

Today, Saint John's Abbey in Minnesota released an internal report on 19 monks abusing dozens of children over the years.

Okay, that ices it for me.  I need to build a list...retroactive and otherwise of people and groups I am going to keep out of this country.  I mean, I've had it.  So let's begin:

1. Syrians - This is a no-brainer right?!  Give me a minute and I will come up with a plausible reason.
2. Muslims - Of course they are all guilty by association and I will supply the name of those associations forthwith.  The majority of our nation's Governors assure me they will provide that information soon. Also, since 29% of Americans and 43% of Republicans believe our President is a Muslim, I am going to have to ask him to leave.
3. Catholics - All of them...don't immigrate here and if you are here, leave.  Their priests and monks are pedophiles so they all have to go. Clean out those churches folks completely! Except me. I get to stay because I am casting the first stone.
4. Japanese - They're outta here. I mean, they bombed Pearl Harbor right?
5. Latinos - every last one. C'mon folks...Remember the Alamo!!!
6. Germans - None come in and all who are here must leave. Need a reason?  WWII and attempted extermination of Jews. (Unless of course the Holocaust was not real - I gotta' check on that.) 
7. Protestants - are you keeping up here?!  Hello Crusades!
8. Italians - Hey....Il Duce?  And the crucifixions? Nuff said.
9. All blacks - After all, is there a single African country that doesn't have an historical person or group who has attempted some form of genocide or something related? Wait, I guess that includes all white countries too...
10. Pilgrims - That's right...they launched one of the most successful genocide campaigns in history against Native Americans. Think of it, those weird hats and knickers - you had to know they were up to no good.
11. All Middle Easterners - Hey...if they look like terrorists it must be so right?!
12. Koreans - Yup, all of them. Just because you live in South Korea doesn't mean you aren't in cahoots with those in the North.
13. Vietnamese - Look, North Vietnam won the war. Then they mingled with South Vietnam.  Now they must all be North Vietnamese even if they live in the South - it's only logical.
14. Chinese - There's just too damn many of them and they can't all be innocent right?!
15. Everybody else - Let's just wipe the slate clean then set up an immigration process that takes 85 years to complete...followed by a compulsory 25 year cooling off period.

Now, one might argue that compliance with this list means the United States will end up looking much like the landscape of the Moon or Mars. To that I say; "That's okay because at least the eventual last person standing who will by the way, be a Native American, will feel safe."  

Feeble...Infirm? Yes or no?!

In California, as a person all too rapidly approaches 70 (we're not talking speed limit here either Bubette) the state likes to double check to see that you have not become feeble and infirm.  They do this by testing your vision, your knowledge and your ability to stand in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

It sure as hell isn't THIS sunny.

If you have first secured an appointment online, you will only have to wait 30 minutes or so to check in at the "I have an appointment" desk.  Then you quickly get a number and stare at screens in the waiting area until your number comes up.  If you don't have an appointment the process is the same except you will likely celebrate a birthday, anniversary and a couple other life events. Yup, all that while you wait among the "huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of the teeming" highways.

Today, I found myself among those rapidly approaching 70...damnit.  I had an appointment so I got the 30 minute treatment. Once in, we moved pretty fast through a couple of stations.  The DMV folks quickly numbered me among the infirm as I informed them I could not hear but I passed their vision test so they had to let me slip by.

Next I was directed to the exam and photo room.  There I demonstrated my feebleness as I passed the written driving exam but was instructed to return to the computer to take my motorcycle safety exam...must have missed that part of the instructions. I had not prepared to take the latter but my guesses were lucky as hell so I made it through.  The photo lady didn't like my first picture (Did I hear her mutter "too ugly?") but threw up her arms and gave up after the second attempt.

All in all, it was a humbling experience being packed in with those teeming masses, then herded and examined by some expert herders and examiners.  But... once finished I left all that humility crap behind and am now once again free to terrorize the highways in my Red Sled and loot and pillage villages on my Harley.

Look out... here I come.
 

Books in. Books out. Hell yes!

I was so desperate for something to read.  So desperate I was actually more than half way through Zinsser's book; "On Writing Well."  According to some, this book is second only to Strunk's "The Elements of Style" which is on most lists of the top 100 non-fiction books of all time.  "Elements" is another book I have begun and may finish one day when I am again desperate.

Then I noticed an article in the Sacramento Bee announcing an SPCA benefit book sale at a mall nearby.  I thought, well I have never been to one of these so maybe I will stumble across something.

I came up with a couple of reasons to explore this a little; first, to round up and donate books around home that would never make to our keeper shelf.  The keeper shelf holds a few special books that I hope someone in our family discovers to read, or read again or loans to someone one day.  Books that don't make the shelf are generally donated to Goodwill or, if particularly crappy, are sent directly to the recycle can out back.

My second mission would be to cruise the Internet for another look at all-time best non-fiction book lists and note any titles I might want to look for at the sale.

I wasn't expecting much but when I arrived early this morning on the first day of the sale I noticed the parking lot was surprisingly full.  I grabbed my "yes sir, yes sir two bags full" of books and headed in. There was a line outside waiting to drop off donations but it moved pretty quick. She said; "Do you want to fill out a form for tax purposes?"  Nah, I want to leave a few residual tax dollars in the Fed coffers to fill in a pothole on one of our nations's decrepit highways.  I said; "No thanks" and handed them over.

I headed in and was surprised to see what appeared to be thousands of books neatly laid out spine up on tables and somewhat categorized.  This was in an area maybe a quarter the size of a typical grocery store?  Even more surprising, there was a crowd of well over a hundred crammed into the area, all closely checking out the titles. I waded in and and spent most of my time ducking browsers who were seriously examining areas I wanted to get at.  I finally made it through two sections that caught most of my interest; History and Biographies.  Suddenly I had five books picked and was headed for check out...yup, more lines.  My five picks were;

• "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings", Maya Angelou
• "The Autobiography of Malcolm X", as told by Alex Haley
• "Kitchen Confidential", Anthony Bourdain
• "The Gangs of New York", Herbert Asbury
• "Clapton", Eric Clapton

Five books. Ten bucks.  Can't miss.

All right, all right...brief explanations are in order I reckon.  The first two are on most lists of all time best non-fiction books so I have to check them out.  "Kitchen" is written by one of my favorite characters...he has a couple of world travel/food television shows I really enjoy. "The Gangs of New York" was a great movie so I am naturally curious about the book and finally "Clapton" seems interesting right?

The only distressing thing about the whole experience was the number of old people who were there. But then, I look in the mirror and see...well, you know what I see.

America's Loneliest Highway - Gotta' get back there...

Al and I picked up US Highway 50 not too far south of Provo, Utah.  We knew it had a reputation for being a desolate stretch of road between Provo and Carson City, Nevada and we thought it would make a good ride on the home stretch of our great Milwaukee adventure.

This mentality is in keeping with the old adage “it is not the destination, but the journey” in reference to motorcycle trips.  If you don’t understand this, just try it.  Once. Beware though because it is like trying to eat just one potato chip, only better, much better.

(Click on this photo for a better view.)

Around The Clouds

Our run to Carson City would take us around 600 miles from the eastern edge of Utah to the western edge of Nevada.  It was our first afternoon of travel on 50 and it looked like we were going to get some heavy rain somewhere along the way.  There were dark cloud formations in the west and we figured they were heading our way.

Somehow we went whipping past them.  It was almost like the highway zigged and zagged on purpose, around the clouds, just to get us through the area dry.  Once, while dropping down off a mountain pass I felt a splash of water and that was it.  It had to be the briefest rainfall I have ever been in. It was like a cloud just burped or something.

A little later, while coming off another pass, we actually got into a shower for a couple minutes.  We didn’t pull off to put on rain gear because we had leather jackets on and our jeans got wet right away.  We were thinking we would just head for shelter when we got off the pass if the rain persisted.  Well it didn’t and by the time we got to the valley below we were dry.  Blessed again by the gods above!  This is just another bit of evidence to suggest He has a Harley Himself.

Highway 50 goes through several mountain ranges, so you find yourself generally in one of three situations:  You are either heading uphill toward a pass, downhill out of one, or on a 30- or 40-mile run across a flat valley floor with great views of the mountain ranges all around you.  I am sure we hit at least a half dozen passes of 6,000 feet or more on the old venerable highway.

Another feature is there is very little traffic. There is simply no one out there.  It’s like everyone is on the interstate or in a city somewhere and no one is on Highway 50.  If you tour on a motorcycle you know what I mean when I say, “this is perfect riding.”

The Gump Group

In that 600-mile stretch we did see a few small towns and what I call the four Forrests. Not trees mind you, but the Gump type– you know, like in “Gump. Forrest Gump.”  The first one we saw was a biker, as in bicycle, who was out in the middle of a 50-mile stretch of nowhere.  Next we saw a solitary jogger in a similar situation.

Then we were heading through some foothills into a valley and along the side of the road was another solitary figure.  He had two large garbage bags full of something lying next to him and he was sitting cross-legged staring out into the valley below.  Finally we were a few miles out of a little town and there was a guy clad in shorts and shoes only, heading for what looked like nowhere.

Now as I recollect, these guys all had some things in common.  They all looked fairly old.  They all had gray hair and beards and they all were thin.  So what the hell does that mean?  Maybe it is this:  If you want to get old, turn gray and get thin, head for the "loneliest highway in America."

That night we settled in at an old mining town named Austin, Nevada. Austin had a handful of stores and three tiny motels.  The rooms were cheap at $35 and clean to boot.  We moseyed (That is what you do in an old mining town, right? You mosey!) up the street to the restaurant and bar and had a couple hamburger steaks with fries backed up by a couple of damn fine tall neck brews. We then turned in early in preparation for the last leg home.

Just Stop… And Tip Over

While the Coyote and I were on our glorious run along the highway I had an attack.  It was rapture of the outdoors (a total surprise to anyone who knows me).  As a result, I began keeping an eye out for photo opportunities.  Somewhere on the lonely highway we passed a very scenic outcropping of rock.  I noticed it had an area right in front where the bikes would look great posed for a photo.   I happened to be in the lead at the time so I slowed down and gave Al a couple of hundred million signals to indicate we were turning back.  As we approached I left the highway to take a short gravel entrance to the site.

About the time I got the bike on the gravel I noticed a small, almost dry creek was crossing the road.  It also had what looked like a pretty large muddy area I would have to cross.  I only had a split second to assess the situation and came up with zip… nada.  I mean, I could not tell how deep the mud was and I was not going to put almost a thousand pounds of bike, gear and person on it to find out.  So I grabbed a handful of brake, put my foot down to steady the bike, got no purchase in the gravel and gently laid the bike down.  What I mean is… I fell over.

If you remember the television show, "Laugh In" you may recall Arte Johnson used to do that all the time.  Picture a full grown man riding around on a little tricycle, coming abruptly to a halt and falling over.  That is what Arte did and that is just what I did.  Thanks for the idea Arte!  So Al came up, laughed at me for a bit and then began trying to help me get the bike out of there.

We couldn’t get the puppy up so we finally decided to unload my packs first(duh!!) then try.  That worked and we were soon underway none the worse for the wear.  So much for the badass biker concept right?!

Falling over... it has happened to me several times, typically while motionless. If it has to happen, sitting still is the best time as the worst development is usually a slightly bruised ego.  Conversely, if it happens while you are moving, there are an infinite number of very bad things that can happen. 

“So what” you say, “I have ridden for ten months or ten years or longer and it has never happened to me.”  Don’t worry it will.  As the old Brook Benton standard says, "It’s Just a Matter of Time."

Theres more.  It's here:  "Badass: The Harley Davidson Experience"

The Dick..."Tater"

I was on the everlovin' elliptical machine at the gym this morning.
I thought about the players in the Senior US Open.
They are at Del Paso golf course just a mile or so from me.
It will hit 110 degrees Fahrenheit today.
That will surely cook some of them right off the course.
Maybe they will have volunteer cool mist applicators at every tee.
My pal, Don Brunelle is one of them out there...
One of the volunteers that is.
I will ask.
If he survives the day.

I also noticed a little girl in the pool area outside the gym.
She was wearing a one piece suit.
She had a diaper on underneath.
I was thinking...is it permissible to put a little kid in diapers in a public pool?

But then, I looked up and one of the flat screen TV's was on.
Full of outcries about today's SCOTUS decision.
You know, the one upholding the Affordable Care Act.
After five years the fight continues.
Instead of offering viable alternatives,
or focusing on fixing the pieces of the 20,000 page behemoth
that are broken, those opposed vow to fight on.

I am getting tired of trying to keep up with the endless bickering,
with the threatened and actual government shutdowns.
I am tired of the spin doctors trying to sell me hasty generalizations instead of arguments biased in favor of the people.
I am really tired of our Congress; incapable of constructive legislation, refusing to represent the people, uncompromising, suited dandies pandering to anyone who will show them the money.

So, I have decided to shelf democracy for a few years.
I have decided to be the United States dictator.
My approach to running this country will reflect this quote from a now retired Air Force Medical Service Corps Colonel, Bob Mills.  "Gentlemen, you have (this much) time to make a collective decision.  If you haven't by then, I will make it for you."

(He was addressing a joint group of military health care facility leaders; participants in a test program of capitation budgeting in the Northwest US. His threat inspired us to act.)

I will give Congress a certain amount of time to act on an issue and if they can't I will show them the door and act for them.

I think you pretty much know the types of decisions I will make.
They won't all be right either but they will certainly be biased toward the Common Man.  Some of my decision drivers will include:

• To protect and preserve dignity, for all races, colors and creeds
• The opportunity to seek and hold gainful employment 
• A fair shot at a decent health care system
• To uphold the Constitution with as fair and contemporary an interpretation as possible 

One of the first things I will do is remove the parasites from our busted health care system, you know...like the one that costs your cancer-stricken family member more than $100,000 a year just for medications.

The list goes on and on but this I will be clear about...we will leave this country a better place for our children and grandchildren. We owe them that much and we haven't been producing....have we?

So I'm gonna' be the Dick....for you "Tater" and all you other folks who don't have that cute nickname. Get ready for a hellofa ride.

Eppies Great Race - "Another One (Almost) Bites The Dust"

Eppies Great Race (now known as "The Great American Race) is a Triathlon held each July.  The route covers Sacramento's scenic American River - the heart of gold country. Eppie's is billed as the “original” Triathlon.  

This is an account of my fourth and likely last time running in the "Ironman" division, meaning a person who competes in all three legs of the event, running, biking and kayaking.  The run is about 6.5 miles, the biking is 12.5 miles and the kayak portion returns you to the original start, another 6 miles.  In my case, you can more appropriately substitute the "compete" part with "participate" as I typically dwell in the very back of the pack.

Yours truly during the 'sedate downriver Kayak portion.

That year I had marginal training as I was busy consulting on a project in Atlanta for months immediately prior to to the race (yeah, yeah no excuse I know).

Race day on the 25th anniversary of the Great Race.  Got a good night’s sleep.  I am ready.  Get up early.  Already have bike and kayak loaded in and on the Jeep.  Head out to drop off Kayak.  To Sunrise Bridge near Negro Bar on American River.  Beautiful day!  Put kayak on rocky north bank of river along with many (a thousand?) others.  Place my life jacket and water bottle in it and it’s ready.  Everyone is in great spirits anticipating a lot of fun.  

I head west for about 12 miles to the Guy West Bridge near Sacramento State College – It’s a copy of the famous Golden Gate, designed for foot and bicycle traffic – neat bridge and the day is still beautiful.  I position my bike, helmet and gloves on a rack in the over-50 Ironman Division (A hell of a good sounding name don't you think?!). I then secure my jugs on the bike…one is water and one is Gatorade. I have been sippin’ on a big stainless steel mug of coffee all the way through this – delicious!

Return home and Julieann, my wonderful “Pit Boss” is prepared to drive me to the race start point near Arden Pond, a couple of miles away.  I fool around the house and waste time so Julie gets me there as the race is about to start.  I head for the bathroom anyway, along with several hundred entrants with the same mission.  I am a clever, seasoned veteran though so avoid the plastic outhouses and head a couple of hundred yards up the trail to the permanent facilities.  They are not crowded but I still don't get back to the start line until after the race has started.  No problem, I just turn around and fall into a jog with the lead runners.  I am accustomed to being in this position, the lead pack that is, for the first few hundred yards of most races because I like to find my way to the front before the start.

Then, several hundred, or several thousand, people proceed to pass me on the way to our destination.  I like to do this because people feel good when they are passing me – whatever I can do to advance mankind you know.

I am with the Ironman contestants.  The wheelchair entrants, who are faster than anyone, began two minutes before us and the relay teams will begin two minutes after us.  After I get a mile or so down the trail, the lead runners from the relays usually catch me.  These are the guys who are 5’6” tall, weigh 145 pounds and do 5-minute miles. As they approach from behind, the sound of air whooshing in and out of their lungs is very powerful and they look like they can run forever.  I believe these are the people who will tell you a runner’s high is indescribable.

We run (I shuffle) 6.5 miles west on the levee that adjoins the trail.  Along the way, around the three-mile point, we are fortunate to find a couple of folks who have run water hoses from their homes backing up against it.  If you want, they will spray you from head to toe.  It’s a great feeling because it is usually in the 90’s by the time you hit this point.  The first year I did this race, one of the “hose” guys noticed me struggling and said, “don’t worry buddy, there are millions of people out there today who aren’t doing a damn thing!”

We continue on to the Guy West Bridge.  I am somewhere around 70 minutes along.  My pace is something over 10 minute miles but ahead of last year!  This is great!  At the bridge I get on the bike for the return trip 12.5 miles up river. 

Over 90% of the contestants are gone by this time. Nonetheless, I head out with a great WHOOP!!! (I am so fired up at this point) to celebrate the end of the run.  The bike and kayaking are a piece of cake in comparison.   I am heading east along the river.  It is still a beautiful day, I've got plenty of beverages and I'm making good time…drafting some guys for a while.  It’s a lot of fun and most of them go faster than I can.  They pull ahead so I go solo until I catch up to two women who are switching drafts on each other.  I fall in third and they are moving at a good clip for me, 18.5 miles an hour. 

We are within a half-mile of finishing the 12.5 bike portion when a squirrel suddenly runs across the path in front of the second woman, the one I am following. I am within a couple feet of her rear tire; she swerves to avoid the squirrel and goes down immediately.  I know I am going too, my front tire is a couple of feet if that much from her body and bike lying across the trail.  I let go of the handlebars as my bike collides with hers and I do a flying “W” or somersault over the front, landing on my back on the trail.  

I am expecting the worst but she gets up immediately.  She and her friend start asking me if I am OK.  I am laying there taking inventory to see if everything still moves and I say, “yeah” when I don’t have a clue.  But I stand up and start looking over the damage and they take off as an emergency medicine technician comes running up from a station a couple of hundred feet ahead.  

He congratulates me on a “spectacular crash" and begins watching me pick up my bike to check it out.  He stands back like he is not supposed to assist me for fear of complicating my position among the entrants.  (Yeah right buddy. I'm in a race here to see who finishes last...)  I ask him to hold the bike while I attempt to get the rear tire to turn.  Failing, I then decide to carry it in manly fashion to the finish.  

First, I have him apply a Band-Aid to my finger because it is bleeding all over the place.  Then I pick up the bike and head down the trail.  An old man (as if I am not) comes by and asks me if I need some help.  My "manliness" diminished I say, “why not?” and set the bike down to check it out again.  I finally notice the rear wheel isn’t turning because the adjustable brake has been jammed into the tire rim.  It only takes a second to reach down and adjust it and I am back on the bike!  

I come whipping into the finish, in a little shock but damn happy that everything seems to function.  Julieann the Pit Boss is there to catch the bike and point me across the bridge to the kayak.  I quickly tell her my pitiful story, hopefully without too much embellishment, and head off to finish in the kayak.  I still can’t feel anything hurting too bad – musta' been some kind of miracle.

Then, I am heading down the river in the kayak, taking it pretty easy knowing I am now so far behind my normal pace it doesn’t matter.  I am chatting with a few other entrants along the way.  I even help a female (rookie) get out of a swirl she is caught in.  Now I am feeling manly and heroic again.  Doesn’t take much…

I approach the San Juan rapids, which is normally nothing more than a rough chop but due to "unseasonably high run off” is a little higher chop this year.  Of course, I am a seasoned veteran and know to paddle like hell to get through without losing balance and tipping over.  As I am about half way through, my “paddle like hell” technique suddenly fails and I tip over.  Since I am way behind, it’s ok.  I am floating down river clutching my upturned kayak, paddle and water jug.  The water is moving fast so I am wondering if I am going to be able to tip it over and climb back in as I have been taught…but haven’t practiced in a couple of years.  

A river volunteer paddles over and asks me if I want some help.  I look over and recognize him as the guy who taught me how to kayak through rapids in a beginner class a few years before.  Of course “I want a refund!”  but all I get is a laugh and a tow to shore with my gear.  So I proceed to empty the water out of my kayak, put my gear back in and head down stream. 

Finally, the true finish!  I am feeling pretty good, having worked out a little with weights to strengthen the upper body. I notice Julieann, my trusty Pit Boss, is standing there to cheer me on.  I go to roll out of the kayak while the attendants grab it so I can waddle to the finish line.  Getting out of a kayak into a foot or so of water is ordinarily a very awkward maneuver and this time my left leg has fallen asleep and won’t work!  So I look pretty pitiful as I collapse a couple times into the river before the leg starts responding again.  All the time I am thinking Julie is going to be worried this has something to do with the earlier bike accident. 

Finally, I stumble a hundred feet to the finish much to the relief of my Pit Boss who is patiently waiting for my 'Don Quixote' like mission to be complete.

With luck, I’ll be back next year, maybe wearing leathers (heh…heh…) to minimize the road rash I picked up all over the right side of my back.  

Life is an amazing thing.  If I was to do it over, I wouldn’t have smoked cigarettes so many years(or at all), I would have had more kids, started running sooner and I would have been a better husband to Julieann.  I am extremely grateful for what there is though...definitely. 

Post Script:  This year will mark the 42nd Race.  I have threatened to do another off and on now for seventeen years, a great feat of procrastination. Still, I did four of 'them there puppies' and I am damn happy I did.  In my next life, I will not put it off.  I will run at least twice as many and hopefully, skip the flying W's. 

Combat Consultant Badge

- My Combat Consultant Badge -
A red cross signifying specialization in health care.
A quill signifying further specialization in writing about health care.
(Formerly the logo of Campbell Health Management, Inc. - a company
that helped win billions of dollars of health care contracts over a span
of some 20 years and left it's founder, as his wife fondly referred to
him just today; "A babbling idiot."

Well it was just time is all. After more than 20 years of serving as a consultant to absolutely anyone who asks*, yes...it was time to award myself the Combat Consultant's Badge.

Those who know me and my deep, abiding sense of modesty will be surprised to learn I have decided to accept the Badge on behalf of all the pitiful consultants who came before me and those who will drag themselves along after.

I promise to dutifully work on my acceptance speech and plan to deliver it on a date, time and location known only to me and its presenter...also me.

Reflect, if you will, back for a moment to the great Northridge, California earthquake of January 17, 1994.  It was a Sunday. We had a small team of consultants working on a billion dollar plus government contract proposal for Blue Cross of California (then Wellpoint, now Anthem). We were at their headquarters in nearby Woodland Hills...the only ones other than some security folks in the large building there.

It is noteworthy to learn that consultants are often the only ones working in client offices on Sundays because regular company employees like to bail...as would anyone in their right mind. Consultants, who are not in their right mind, tend things on Saturdays and Sundays and late on weeknights.  With them, it's the billable hours...sometimes 90 hours a week, sometimes 0 hours a week.  You gotta' get'em while you can Vern.

We were parked in cubicles on one of the building's upper floors. Suddenly, the entire building began to shake...big time.  I, being a natural born leader (at least I was once recognized as such by one person...I think) and a quick decision maker and all simply shouted; "Get under your desks!" We all did. Fortunately, that was a pretty decent guess.  The shaking was so intense that immediately thereafter, my still hot morning cup of coffee fell off the desk and soaked me while I was in an extremely undignified hands and knees position. After a few moments, the shaking stopped and we were all thinking about what sort of effect the quake would have on our billable hours. Quickly, we decided "none." That was it for the day and we headed out for our hotel.

There was a long covered walkway at the building exit and we noticed much of the ceiling had fallen, leaving the walkway underneath a mess.  Someone mentioned they had just re-stuccoed the structure. The hotel was only a few blocks away and we gratefully camped out there for what was to be no further danger.

This is just one of many combat related incidents that have happened to me and others of my ilk over the years.  Their stories, like mine, are painful to recall but recall we must...for it is only through these valuable life hacks that we learn to set our coffee out of harm's way before diving under a desk during an earthquake.

*The reference to "anyone who asks" is part of the "damned if you do" dogma of a consultant's life. That is, if someone asks you do something and you have absolutely no idea what they are even talking about you say "yes" anyway.  Then, you find someone who knows how to do it, or you fake it, or both... 

“Cairo – Practica” Redux – A Treatise on Ass Pain

Def: A practice derived from ancient Egyptian customs. As often observed when erecting pyramids. The pharaohs would direct slaves to prostrate themselves over large logs and serve as buffers for the stones that were rolled to the top. While the squashing effect was unsettling to a few observers, it continued to evolve and remains today in various forms.  Hence the classic expression “Cairo--practica” or, as its more commonly known, “chiropractic”.

Being raised as a medic from the pitiful age of 17, I had always been somewhat skeptical of chiropractic medicine, even though I had worked for a couple of Doctors of Osteopathy.  They were good practitioners, or so I thought, even though they embraced the school of back-cracking. However, in spite of my skepticism a course of painful events led me to check out the techniques on my own decrepit body.   

In the early two-triple-aughts, I had developed the habit of screaming while riding my Harley-Davidson; not from joy but from sciatic pain or something similar.  As my trips got shorter and shorter and my complaints got longer and longer, folks around me found themselves wanting to be somewhere else. I could take off from our home and just a few blocks later find myself anxious to return home and get off the bike so the toothache in my ass would go away. 

Then, I found out my main Harley riding buddy, Al “Coyote” Munguia (who was much, much older than me) was having similar problems but getting chiropractic treatment and having some success with it.  I also found out Al’s wife, Norma (who, unlike Al is young and beautiful) was receiving similar treatments.  Norma is an ICU nurse and most of us understand that their backs have a very short shelf life.

A Diabolical Cairo-Practica Table

So I made my first visit… to Coyote’s chiropractor.  His staff worked me over real quick after I recited my heart-rending condition.  They put me on this table (more like a rack) with a face-hole so my rather large nose would have a place to rest. Then they put an ice pack on my mid-back and attached an electrocution device to my lower back.  If they would have hooked it to my temples they would have fried me like a mass murderer but on my back it felt pretty good.  After about 15 minutes of this they led me to the executioner’s I mean, chiropractor’s office and he stood me on his upright rack.  Then he hit a button which made the rack and I assume a face down, prone position, my nose dangling precariously toward the floor. 

After he decided to let me live, he and the table did this simultaneous ‘whack him from above and below’ maneuver a few times around my lower back and voila’(!) I was cured…for a few minutes.  I went out the next day and made a test ride on the Harley and it took a lot longer for the sciatica induced screaming to set in so I thought I might be on the right track or was it…right ‘rack?

That was it.  This old medic decided to keep going in for electrocutions and rack whacks for a while. 

Cairo Practica II 

So...we were working on my back in an effort to allow me to return to riding the Harley somewhat pain free.  We made regular visits to the Chiropractor to practice pretzel back maneuvers.  That helped my back but did nothing for my hot hip.  My back, ass and I met, and fired an acupuncturist who dared suggest that I quit riding.  Then, a couple of months later the three of us returned to visits with my personal trainer, a gorgeous French woman who charmed me into following her torturous instructions to stretch my pitiful body into something that borders on normal. 

I then let it be it known to all interested parties (no one was) I was happy to report that I might be making progress.  The more I stretched, the more my gait changed from shuffling to normal and the more I seemed to be able to sit in the saddle of the Hog.  It was too early to say “we have a cure” but I reverted to my usual overly optimistic self.  It wasn’t bad for my golf game either.  I seemed to be getting more of my lower body into the swing and that was bringing some of my distance back. 

Cairo Practica III

In ensuing months, it became clearer that my travels in the chiropractic, acupuncture and personal trainer worlds would not fully do the job.  Of the three, the trainer and exercises helped the most but still, my beloved iron steed rested in the garage, waiting for that long-haul trip so she could stretch her legs to their full potential.

We (my guidance counselor/wife of some 40 years, Julieann and I) tossed the old "sciatica" idea around and finally agreed I should consult with a physician.  Our family doc, a terrific internist named "Li" moved my legs around a little and declared "arthritis" in my left hip, described the stages, "exercise, shots, replacement" and sent me off for an x-ray to be followed by a consult with an orthopedist.

I hauled the x-ray around in between appointments and Julieann (the world's best Radiology Tech) got to take a quick look at it. Her declaration, "Your hip looks like that of an eighty-year old woman.”  (Why she couldn't have said "eighty-year old MAN" is beyond me...)

Duly chastened, I headed off to Doc #2, an Orthopod’ who immediately verified Julie and Dr. Li's diagnoses and threatened me with hip replacement unless I checked out the shot approach...

Hipshot!

Nah, I wasn't slappin' leather, I was following a tech to a dressing room where I was firmly instructed to "Take off all your clothes.”  I looked for a hint of lechery in her eye and was disappointed to see none but complied anyway.  I wrestled on the 'robe' and headed out for more of whatever.  I quickly found myself lying prone on a radiology table (hard as a rock and designed specifically to induce visions of torture... far beyond that prescribed in the official Army Field Manual).  

The technician explained the process and we waited for the doc. A few minutes later, as my hip was telling me in no uncertain terms it didn't like being in that position... on that hard surface, the doc showed and we got started.  He lined the machine up, gave me a numbing dose (slight discomfort), injected dye so he could see where his needle was going (no problem), and began probing with the needle for the cortisone injection ("Ow!!!"...but only for an instant). He finished quickly after that.  I thanked him, told him he did a good job and then advised him he should have offered me a shot of whiskey before he started (When did they stop doing that?!).

On the way out, my non-lecherous tech made sure I could walk okay and explained that the effect of the procedure could last from "one day to eleven or twelve months".

I was feeling pretty good when I got home.  I had no idea quite when the numbing effect of the lidocaine would go away and the cortisone would kick in but I felt pretty good at that point.  So, I cranked up the Harley and did a 20 mile round trip to test the effect.  It was pretty good!  I must have been running on lidocaine, the temporary local agent, because that night my hip decided to remind me who was boss.  The next day though it seemed that the cortisone kicked in because I was feeling damn good.

And so it went... I kept testing the bike to see if I could get my range back.  By "range" I was gauging how far I could travel without serious discomfort. I was looking for something like 6,000 miles so I could do the "Rolling Thunder" run across country and back in honor of our vets. 

Cortisone:  Don't leave home without it.  It's good for a gimp hip.

Epilogue: These stories originally appeared on my Harley Davidson blog and have been edited slightly just for the hell of it. The cortisone shot routine was pretty short lived. A year or two later I headed in for “minimally invasive” hip replacement.  It was, and remains to this day a mighty fine success – If you like reading about pain…click on this...“Minimally Invasive – The Sordid Details”

Dawn

Dawn went deep and broke late
Well yea, after all it WAS daylight savings time.
And Dawn?  Well...Dawn was not a wide receiver.

Gimme' That Last Cigarette

One night, Julieann and I settled back for another look at what is perhaps the greatest televised series of all time, "The Wire."  The opening of the show includes a kick-ass theme song, "Way Down In The Hole." Different artists recorded versions of this song for each of the five seasons of the show including; The Blind Boys of Alabama, Waits, The Neville Brothers, DoMaJe and Steve Earle. It's a classic piece of music that makes you want to close your eyes and do some smooth moves on the dance floor.

One other thing; there is also a close up of a man taking a deep drag off a freshly lit cigarette.  I quit smoking over 30 years ago when the Great Biker in the Sky (Yes Toto, He rides a Harley) sent me a strong message to "Stop or else." Nonetheless, after all that time I could light one up right now and, in my mind's eye believe I was in Heaven.  Somehow though, I still am able to understand that such an act would literally bring me closer to that day...even though Saint Pete would likely look on me like Republicans look on Obama and tell me to "move on Bubba."

Pretty remarkable how some addictions never completely leave you.  Yet, I still flirt with danger by having a stogie every month or two, typically on the golf course with pal Don Brunelle.  It's kinda' like dancing with the Devil near the pearly gates "knowwhatimean' Vern?!"

Back to "The Wire."  The dialogue, realism and acting are spectacular. Really.  I could binge watch that sucker from beginning to end...again.  It would be kinda like taking that deep drag off just one cigarette, or maybe a pack, or maybe a carton.

Smoking...nicotine...it happens when you pay the tobacco companies to let them try to kill you.  Can you taste that irony as it hits your lungs and enters your bloodstream?!

The Last Resume'

                 RESUME (THE LAST)

TOM CAMPBELL, MHA

OBJECTIVE: A good cup of coffee in the morning, a fine glass of red at night - poker, reading, writing (no 'rithmetic please) in between...Julieann Marie by my side.

PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE:

Campbell Health Management, Inc., Sacramento, California, 1998 – 2017. 

Its been a great ride thanks to the help of
a lot of wonderful people especially
Julieann Marie Campbell

Founder/Principal – Talk about boom and bust!  "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times." - Thank you Mr. Dickens - 

Man, there were some damn lean years and then again…along the way I met some really great people and some world class jerks too.  I even got canned from a couple of jobs because I couldn't figure what in the hell my clients wanted from me (probably my fault).  I will tell you this; there are people out there who naturally hate consultants.  For those, all I did was borrow their watches so I could tell them what the hell time it was.  Along the way, I spent almost four years of my life sleeping in Marriott's and got to make some life long friends among many clients and other consultants.

Chairman and Board Director – River Oak Center for Children, 1997-2009.  I had a great time with a lot of people who were doing their best to provide decent mental health services for kids.  It sucked to be constantly searching for handouts so we could provide services but we got it done and grew nicely.

Schubert Associates, Inc., Sacramento, California, 1991 - 1998

President and Chief Operating Officer – Working with Doctor Jim Schubert (RIP) was a seriously great adventure.  He originally hired me for $0 dollars.  That’s right - zero.  The company was brand new and that is where we were financially.  Schubert suffered from the lack of patience you might expect from a former practicing orthopedic surgeon but he loved innovation.  In fact, he was the brains behind one of the nation’s first handful of HMOs shortly after the Act was passed in 1972. He was also one of a couple of pivotal figures in the nation's first TRICARE contract for military families.  Our biggest engagement brought in over $2.5 million in six months after I presented our TRICARE consultant case to representatives from US Healthcare and Unisys courtesy of Big John Hammack – the world’s most accomplished drive-through VP.  After seven years, in a fit of wanton hubris, I left our company and started my own but the good Doc and I remained friends.

Consultant, Sacramento California, 1990 - 1991

This was a damn ugly time.  I bought a business with a partner who turned out to be bi-polar or something and ended up selling out to him after he didn't turn up at the office for over three months.  I also worked for a pitiful little headhunter firm for a little while but my heart was never in it.  I left after recruiting a nurse practitioner and getting stiffed for payment by the company owner.  They were world class shysters.  I worked with the former CEO of Foundation Health  for a while too, trying to drum up some consulting business. I had no idea what I was doing and was a total failure. In the end so was he but he had millions to fall back on. This is all because I really wanted to stay in Sacramento and raise our kids and as it turned out, my wife ended up doing that (raising our kids I mean) not me.  I just went on the consultant road and regretfully became a part-time dad.

Yours truly in 
consultant mufti.

Foundation Health, Sacramento, California, 1987 - 1990

Chief Operating Officer – This turned out to be almost the greatest and in the end, the most traumatic experience of my working life.  We won the first TRICARE contract, I hired over 120 people to cover Northern California operations supporting almost 400,000 military families and we began a triple option health care plan (HMO, PPO, FFS)…all in six months.  There was a devastating failure in our claims system (outside my responsibility thank God) that caused a lot of good people to run over each other and ended with the firing of the Board Chairman and Corporate Medical Director, Dr. Jim Schubert (yes, the same Schubert mentioned earlier).  

Rand Corporation did an independent study though and loved the work my gang was doing.  A year and a half later we had a new CEO who arbitrarily integrated the commercial side of the company with the government side and eliminated most of the 120 great people I had hired. I was shoved to the side with a job that had no description to speak of.  After considering all the great work my folks had done, and the fact that they were being tossed aside I said, “f___ it” and left. 

This was my transition from the military health system with quality patient care as a primary focus to a civilian for-profit system with the bottom line as the sole focus. In the HMO world, big bucks superseded quality patient care and customer service.  It was not about patients.  It was about widgets, it was abrupt and I was totally unprepared for it.  I still have open wounds to this day. 

Air Force Medical Service Headquarters, 1984 - 1987

Corporate Director - Managed career development and placement for over 1,240 health care administrators in corporate, hospital and clinic positions.  What a great job this was.  My boss, Paul Murrell and I had the structure and support we needed to do the best we could to fulfill the mission and advance the careers of everyone.  Of the 1200+ pencil pushers (like us) we supported, 1,000 or so were on their way up and around 100 were burned out or assholes or both and on their way down. We managed them all and spread them among assignments pretty damn good.  The sum of it all turned out to be the best job I ever had.

Air Force Hospital, Great Falls, Montana, 1980 - 1983

Administrator and CEO – I loved this work.  I was really into “management by walking around” and would get up from my desk, head for the wards, peek into patient rooms and ask them how lunch was.  I loved everyone working in the hospital and they knew it.  This job got me promoted to Major three years below the primary zone – the biggest bonus (and shock) I  had in my 50+ years of being a working stiff. (Sure there was a ton of luck involved but you gotta be in the game to get lucky right?!)  My biggest career regret?...taking a job at an HMO instead of a hospital when I left the Air Force.  Years later a former Corps Chief, General Pete Bellisario would ask why I left.  I could only answer that my wife and I likely would have been very happy to stay, it was just that I was in the Air Force from the ages of 17 to 41 and, out of curiosity, wanted to start a new life to see what it was about.  As it turned out, the "new life", daughter Samantha Marie Campbell was born about a year later.  Guess I got confused about the objective there.  

EDUCATION:

MHA, Health Care Administration - Medical College of Virginia, Richmond, Virginia, 1979. 

MCV was a true ball buster. The program is currently ranked third in the nation (How'd they pull that off?!)  I worked like a dog to get through and was never so worried that I might fail at something. Yes, I had imposter syndrome big time. Julieann paid an even greater price trying to get me through it all. (For more on this see, "Grad School Kicked His Ass") 

BA, Cum Laude, Economics - Chapman College, Orange, California, 1973. This was a 3.5 year whirlwind of CLEP testing, night school and an Air Force sponsored Bootstrap program. Julieann did absolutely everything for us while I focussed on my Air Force day job and the degree.

Faculty - Adjunct professor; Chapman College healthcare administration graduate program: Teaching…I loved it. For new classes, it took me an average 3 hours prep time to teach one hour of class time and I have no doubt I learned a lot more than my students.  Preceptor; Air Force Education with Industry in management of health maintenance organizations.  The only “student” I had was Don "Aught" Palen.  The job rightfully moved from me to the CEO after a short while which was good since I was fresh in the HMO business and had no idea what the hell I was doing anyway.

BOARDS:

Chairman - River Oak Center for Children: Past Chairman and Member, Board of Directors 1997-2009; Chair, Strategic Planning and Personnel Committees, 1997-1999, 2001-2009. Arden Little League: Member, Board of Directors, 1991-1994

THE END (?)

Hell no this is not the end.
And references are NOT available so forget it. On the other hand, you could check with my bride, Julieann who has always made me look good, even when I was very bad. Now, it’s the beginning of a new adventure, another chapter for a memoir.

For those of you who haven’t read that literary tour de force it goes like this:

1.      Hayseed

2.      Saint

3.      Sinner

4.      Soldier Boy

5.      Road Warrior

6.      Boomer

7.      Badass… (Yeah there's a book on this too...)

8.      ?

I’d write more but I have already exceeded the recommended two page (Forgiveness not requested) resume limit.  Besides, I am tired and still need to trim the palm trees in Molly’s Grotto at the famous Campbell Family Nor-Cal Ranch.

How to Operate a Floor Buffer - Dad

Among other things, my father was a runaway, Navy veteran, mayor and lumber yard manager.  But mostly, he was a janitor in Ohio and in Washington state. When I was a young boy I would help him so I learned how to clean bathrooms, move furniture, sweep floors and operate a big, heavy floor buffer.

Running the buffer was a blast.  Typically, we would first sweep, then use a mop to clean, then another mop to put a thin layer of wax on a hall or classroom floor. When it dried we would cruise it with a buffer. We could lay a perfect pattern if we used the linoleum tiles as guides and used three basic motions. Tilt up and the buffer would go right, pull back to move to the next line of tiles, push down to go left and repeat. We would move back and forth in rhythmic motions until the job was done.  We worked backwards so we could see our even patterns and not track up the fresh work. When finished, it was pretty satisfying to step back and admire the job. It was also a technique I would use many times later as an Air Force airman living in a barracks.

But this story isn't entirely about a buffer, its more about my father. He seemed pretty happy being a janitor. I could tell because I got to spend time with him at work and at home. He had the job figured out and it wasn't complicated by politics as so many other jobs seem to be.  In fact, his M.O. in the early days was to get really pissed at some political development at work, quit and move on with Mom, my brother David and I in tow.

At home, he and Mom laughed a lot, he messed around with hobbies, spent time with my brother and I and made music. He could sing too. I mean he could really sing and Mom could harmonize perfectly with him.  They had home made sheet music written in Mom's beautiful hand. They have both been gone for quite a while now but I can still, in my mind, hear them harmonizing on songs like "Whispering Hope, Do Lord" and others.

Somewhere...somewhere in my brother's garage I believe that sheet music is at rest. Next time I visit him, I plan to drag him out there and help him locate it so we can get it scanned and preserve it properly for family archives.

Dive Bombing

On a visit to the coast
To watch Speedy do her first half-marathon
We happened to walk to the flights of stairs
Descending to Solana Beach, California

As the sun set
We focused on the cresting waves
And their visitors

First the surfers
Patiently waiting for the final sets of the day
Second the pelicans
Dive bombing dinner

The graceful birds would fly
Parallel to the wave crests
Often tucking their wings
Banking sharply into the ocean

Their trajectory would often take them
Just a few feet from the surfers
Where they would splash in
Mostly ignored by their neighbors
Who were more intent on
Catching the next decent wave

Each to their own tasks at hand
Allowing space for one another
Could be a formula for a decent world
Could it not?

"Square Wheels"

Fairchild Air Force Base, Spokane Washington, late '70s. We were a crew of Air Force health care administrators working at a Strategic Air Command hospital there.

Our Administrator, Colonel Paul McNally had been selected for a senior officer course, Air War College, and was leaving for a few months. He appointed me as his temporary replacement. I was fairly fresh out of grad school and a pretty new Captain so I was damn happy and flattered to get the job.  His last words of advice (Or was it an order?!), "Don't change anything."

A few weeks later we received a "Staff assistance" visit from our major air command counterparts at SAC. Among them, Colonel Harold Gottlieb (RIP), Command Administrator and Captain Tim Morgan, his medical logistics guru or as we called those of his specialty, a "Box Kicker." Colonel Gottlieb was preceded with a reputation as the sort who would chew you out for an improperly hung picture in your hospital hallway and he would do so spontaneously in front of God and everybody. Plus, at any hospital you could get fired on the spot if you were found lacking.  Thus, we had all done our best to get things in order and just in case, had prepared for just such an act.

Surprisingly, the visit went very well and I was impressed with the Colonel's obvious love for what he was doing...hospitals and health care. His whole team was upbeat and truly there to assist.

One evening Julieann and I had the two over for dinner. We were joined by our hospital "box kicker" Captain Matt Pisut (RIP) and his wife Judy. After dinner, we went out on our back deck and played a few games of darts. Toward the end, we made a wager. If Matt and I won two out of three games our hospital would be funded with $50,000 worth of additional medical equipment from our wish list. If the Colonel and Tim won, they wouldn't owe us anything. This was important to us because in those days' peace had broken out and in the military that meant funds were pretty difficult to come by. Matt and I lost and to this day, I am not entirely certain we were not motivated by fear, awe, lack of skill or any combination of the three.

Not long after, I received a call from Major Steve Coleman at SAC. He worked for Colonel Gottlieb and was our medical staffing guy there.  Steve offered me the Administrator job at the SAC hospital at Kincheloe in Northern Michigan. (Hmmmm...was that a reward or punishment for doing a good job at Fairchild? We'll never know.) Anyway, it was a great opportunity and I took that news home to my wife straight away. We had a brand-new son, Tyler. He was just a few months old and we had had been at Fairchild less then a year. When I gave Julie the news, I could see a tear immediately in her eye and I knew what our answer was. Next day I told Steve I was eternally grateful but we had to let our family settle a little more.

A couple months later, Steve called again and offered the same job at Malmstrom Air Force Base in Montana. I again took the news to Julieann and this time she was prepared so we soon left for Great Falls.

I loved the job and soon became aware that some of our docs had legitimate concerns about the medical equipment we had available. I knew money was tight and the gang Colonel Gottlieb had assembled at SAC (Geiger and Edenfield on the finance side were a couple of others) were really terrific with their support. Yet no one seemed to be making progress...we were just getting by. So, I wrote a letter titled "Square Wheels" to the guys at SAC. I pointed out that I believed our docs and nurses were doing a terrific job considering the resources available. Then I asked if there was anything further we could do to help improve the situation, otherwise we would have to continue down the road hobbled by "square wheels."

Well, I wasn't fired and the medical equipment situation didn't change much, through no fault of the SAC guys. I learned more about the budget process in Washington though and how difficult it could be in times of peace.

Today, more then 40 years later, Morgan still calls me "Square Wheels" and I am left wondering if I don't have a copy of that letter around somewhere.

In the end, I remain grateful for  the best Strategic Air Command support people an operations guy could have ever hoped for; Colonel Harold Gottlieb, Major Steve Coleman, Captain Tim Morgan, Captain Jim Geiger, TSgt Bill Edenfield and others.

"Those were the days my friend.
We thought they'd never end.
Those were the days!
Oh yes those were the days."
(Thanks Mary Hopkin)

The Need

I feel the need,
The need to read.

A favorite pen
A Tul roller ball
Favorite because
For lefties, it drags
Across the page smoothly

I feel the right,
The right to write.

To what end? Who knows?
Curiosity. I suppose.

For how does the story end?
And where will my mind take me?
Will we capture a moment from the past?
Or will we stir an adventure not yet begun?

I'll just take another sip of this damn fine coffee,
And it will come to me sooner or later.

As Long As You're There

Lift your world a little higher today:

As Long As You're There

Write Your Wrongs

"And I could be a better man,
I could be a better son,
Give back to everyone."