The "Sand Pit" - Cam Ranh Bay

Cam Ranh Bay, "The Sand Pit" was a major US naval base and airfield during the war in Vietnam.  It is regarded as the finest deepwater shelter in Southeast Asia.  Over the years, it has been occupied by the French, the United States, North Viet Nam, Russia and then again Viet Nam.  Currently it supposedly serves as a ship repair facility available to foreign warships and is supported by Russian consultants.

Cam Ranh Base - 1970

During the war, one of the base's major functions was to serve as an Army convalescent center where wounded US soldiers could be treated, recuperate, then returned to duty.  It was also a drug abuse treatment center. Heroin addiction was an epidemic and many addicts were evacuated to the United States for more intense treatment. The preferred method for transportation was Aeromedical Air Evacuation "air evac", a function performed by the Unites States Air Force. 

The base was known for sand; lots of shifting sand that required boardwalks to help troops move among buildings.  The area also featured large rats, snakes, palm and banana trees, Vietnamese thatched huts and, the occasional sapper. 

In 1971, my former Air Force Medical Service Corps colleague and pal, Tom McDougall was a First Lieutenant stationed at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines.  While there Tom pulled a six week assignment at the Sand Pit to set up an air evac detachment. The purpose, to ship heroin addicts home as patients.  This is Tom's story:

"Drugs were a huge problem in Viet Nam.  We didn't even mess around with those smoking pot, just the ones who were hooked on heroin. This situation set the stage for my arrival at Cam Ranh Bay, which was a large sand dune in the South China Sea abutting the mainland. The base was the size of a small city and handled a lot of cargo and supplies. 

When I got there, I met up with 2 enlisted guys and we comprised the air evac detachment. The motor pool gave us a crappy old pickup truck we had to push start to get going each morning. I negotiated with the transportation guy and had a quart of brandy and two cases of San Miguel bottles delivered on one of my incoming air evac planes (you could only get canned beer in country). I traded this for a relatively new 6 passenger pick up. We were in the process of "Vietnamization" at the time which meant the Vietnamese received all the new trucks arriving, so the transportation guy broke some major rules to imbibe of the "supplies" I offered. 

Patients would be rehabilitated for about 2 weeks at an Army hospital and then delivered to our Aeromedical Staging Facility located at the Air Force hospital.  It was a large quonset hut surrounded by barbed wire fences and staffed with security police as well as medical personnel.  We would receive about 70 patients a day (do the math for a year and you can see we had a serious heroin problem) and they would immediately be strip searched and finger waved.  The med techs drew straws every day to see who had the honor of serving as "Goldfinger." 

Heroin caps

We also drug tested them about 2 hours after arrival. One or two always failed and were shipped back. They were kept in locked wards at the Army hospital, but would obtain caps of heroin from the Vietnamese hospital workers who would trade them for money or a watch. We could not figure out how they were smuggling the heroin into our Aeromedical Staging Facility until one enterprising med tech noticed most of the smugglers were black.  When we started combing out their hair we found out that was where they were hiding it.

There was an auxiliary Army Officer's Club about 5 miles away that was run by an Army Sergeant who wanted to be a restaurateur when he got home so the place looked like an Italian restaurant.  My two guys and I would change into civilian clothes so they could get in (they were enlisted) and go there for dinner every night.  We would skip lunch and order 2 dinners apiece.  You could get a filet mignon, salad, and a baked potato for $2.50, or a lobster tail instead of the filet.  We usually drank about 4 or more bottles of Rose Mateus or other Portuguese wine that the club manager managed to keep in stock.  I think the wine was $2 a bottle.  I may be the only guy sent to Viet Nam who gained weight while he was there.  

One night coming home from dinner we stopped and picked up 3 filthy grunts who had just come out of the bush.  They wanted to go to the NCO club on base, but we were stopped at the main gate by the security police.  They informed me that the base commander did not allow any Army enlisted guys on base after dark because they had torn up the club a few times.  I made him tell our passengers.  I could not believe that the base CO was such an asshole.  No wonder a lot of those grunts turned to dope.  

Another time returning from dinner (maybe 6 bottles that night) we were taking a short cut to an AF barracks where there was a party when I hit a bunch of 50 gallon drums full of sand that blocked the road. Luckily there was not too much damage to the truck although the collision sounded like a bomb going off.  We took another road to the party and found everyone outside worrying that an attack was coming because of the loud noise.  They had closed the road earlier in the day because of supposed enemy activity.  We had a pretty good laugh over that one.

We worked 7 days a week (flight every day), but we had a little time to go to the beach and catch some sun.  You had to be careful when swimming because the crazy Army helicopter pilots would skim the deck at about 2 feet.  The first time one went over that close it scared the crap out me.  

The base was saturated with outside speakers, a system that was called "Giant Voice."  It would come on 2 or 3 times a day and announce the weather (hotter than hell) and the current security condition.  This was giving in military terms, like DEFCON 3 (safe), DEFCON 2 (suspected enemy activity), and DEFCON 1 (haul ass to the weapons storage area because we were about to be overrun). They didn't allow AF guys to carry weapons...this was another bright rule. 

The guys who spoke on Giant Voice all had great radio or possibly singing voices and sounded really smooth in their daily deliveries. One afternoon the guy said we were on DEFCON 2 and further stated they expected enemy activity that night.  The Vietnamese all left the base before 3 PM which made us even more convinced we were going to be hit. 

Each day, we needed to report to work very early because our flights usually arrived at 7 AM.  I was sitting there hung over at 6 AM, pleased that we had not been attacked the night before, when there was a huge explosion that blew out the 2 doors on the building and raised the metal shutters on all the widows. The lights went out and I found myself fighting for space under my desk with a nurse (equal opportunity in war).  

The first explosion was followed by another about a minute later. The lights were out and all the drug patients were under their beds where one asshole was doing a whistle imitating an incoming missile.  Several of his bunk mates threatened to kill him, but were too scared to move. After a couple of more explosions, good old Giant Voice came on, but he sounded like he was scared to death. He was stuttering and stammering and saying "DEFCON, uh DEFCON uh 2."  Well that was helpful since we had already figured we were under attack.  We kept waiting for the big one, but it didn't come.  

Giant Voice finally explained that an enemy sapper had blown up a good part of the ammo dump up on the hill.  After that explanation there were a lot of idiots out on roofs taking pictures of the bombs and missiles exploding.  When the missiles went they took off into the air so it was not real safe outside for a few hours.  

About 3 hours after the last of the explosions went off they opened the runway and the first plane in was a contract carrier full of newbies.  When the pilot was in final approach a missile went off from the ammo dump and came close to the airplane. The pilot pulled the stick like he was driving an F-16 and hauled the hell out of there. I am sure he exceeded all the tolerances for that airplane, but he was not waiting around.  They diverted to Saigon and came back about 3 hours later.  Everyone went down to the tarmac to greet the newbies and see if any of them had brown stains on their butts.

Later, I got on the phone to my boss in the Philippines and told him I thought I should leave on the plane coming in that day.  He said I had to wait until my permanent replacement came in about 2 weeks.  

I was a little nervous around loud noises after that and was not real pleased with our security.  We expected them to come and we couldn't stop one guy from getting to the ammo dump (gee, you think that might be a target?)

I left 2 weeks later when a beaming 2nd Lt stepped off an airplane carrying a golf bag.  That idiot's name was John Oleson and he probably has better war stories than I do.  He was famous for sitting in high stakes poker games in Saigon and cleaning out a bunch of senior officers. 

Anyway that is my short war experience.  The 20 minutes while the bombs were going off  (we did not know what it was) were terrifying.  It greatly increased my appreciation for the grunts who lived with that shit daily.

About ten years ago I ran into a guy who had been assigned to Cam Ranh when I had been there.  We were telling war stories when he mentioned it was a good thing the enemy sapper didn't get at the 15,000 pound bombs.  I was not aware there had been any at the base and he informed me that if they had blown we would not be there talking. Ignorance is bliss."

(Thanks for the story Tom.  Tom served a full career with the Air Force Medical Service Corps is now recently retired from a senior position with the University of Texas health system.  He resides somewhere on the gulf coast.  He remains busy sipping fine wine or scotch or both and smokes mighty fine stogies. If you find any mistakes in his story here or any blame to place, I made them and blame me.)

A Social Virus

Son Tyler's band, Arden Park Roots has had an unpaid manager, Josh Dickel, for around four years.  That is how it goes in this business...bands struggle for bookings and once in a while an avid, tenacious fan pops up and asks to take point.  Josh is that way.  He is perhaps the band's greatest fan, maybe only next to a certain really senior groupie.  

Josh is also tenacious. He has booked the gang all over the United States and now actually manages several bands the same way.....for free, for zip, for nada.  

A few months ago he started posting inspirational notes like the one you see here. He would get a couple hundred likes and figured it was working well.  I, in my infinite wisdom, was thinking he was driving away just as many fans as he was bringing in. I mean, if you are following a band for their music and they drop one of these things on you every few days it can be downright annoying right?  Well, maybe not.

Consider the sociology and social media implications of a post Josh put up just ten days ago. Over 4 million people reached...over 32 thousand shares and it has caused over 1,000 fans to sign up for more stuff. The first few days it was hitting almost a million reaches a day and it has finally leveled off. 

Arden Park Roots fires a introspective note and strikes a chord.

Here is what I am thinking on the sociology angle: the widespread reaction to the message to free yourself from wifi for a while (This is my interpretation but it can't be far off right Vern?). These folks are mostly in their 30's and they seem to be concerned about that right?! I, for one am damn glad they are recognizing it.

As far as social media goes there are a ton of considerations. First, the "viral" thing; it's crazy isn't it?!  This is hundreds of thousands of times more reaction than any of Josh's posts have ever got. All those shares too...people have to be impressed to share something and every time it happens all their friends see the post too right? As for the 1,000+ "likes", the band has been stuck at around 25,000 for well over a year and all of a sudden this jump. It all says something about persistence and, of course luck...the Lady's got to visit you once in a while if you keep rolling the dice right?  Yes Vern, it's the old marketing law of large numbers that goes something like this; make a thousand calls, if one says "Yes"... bingo!

Well done Josh.  Well done.

PS - Took another  look in mid March and this is how it stacks up:
Almost 5 million reached, 12 thousands likes and over 37 thousand shares.  Pretty cool.

Captain HRS___, MD

I want to tell you a story about an Air Force Doctor. His name was HRS. (Name withheld to protect the not so innocent.)

In the early 60's, I was a brand-new, naive 18-year-,old at my first military assignment, Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico. I was a public health specialist, a one-striper airman.

HRS was a fresh MD and a Captain. He was assigned to the Flight Surgeon's office. His prime duty was to see to the health care needs of the pilots stationed at Cannon. His secondary duty was to serve as Public Health officer or as we called it at the time; "Military Public Health" and later, "Environmental Medicine."

That made HRS my boss...not directly though. My primary boss was a fine Technical Sergeant named J. A. Clark. JA was not around for any of the interactions between Harvey and I.  He was out doing environmental health inspections or goofing off, or both.

TSgt J.A. Clark and Yours Truly
TAC Mobility Hosp exercise
Cannon AFB, NM - 1964

HRS was what was known at the time as a "Berry Planner." These were physicians who had been drafted but received a deferment to complete medical training. They were then required to serve two years on active duty. Many of them were a problem as they had bad attitudes about having to serve. Many also believed (correctly) they could carry their bad attitudes openly because physicians were in extremely short supply, thus making their superiors reluctant to take disciplinary action when indicated.

HRS caught on to me being naive and vulnerable right away. I saw his as unpredictable, and maybe unstable plus I was afraid he would get me in trouble based on a whim if he wanted.  I was still learning how survive in a military environment.

One day he asked me to wash his car and offered to pay.  I thought nothing of it and was actually happy to do it as it was a Corvette and I had never driven one.  That worked well.  Sometime after that I did something, or failed to do something I don't recall which...but I do recall that I was wrong. HRS was not happy and decided to punish me by ordering me to go to the Base Exchange and buy him a roll of toilet paper.  My thought was that it was preferable to other forms of formal punishment so I agreed and did just that.

One day he wrote a prescription for me and told me to fill it, then give the results to him.  It was for what were then called "go pills" at the time or what is formally known as Dexedrine.* They had just recently became controlled substances. I did it and then wrestled with what in the hell to do.  Finally, I just guessed.  Somehow, I had enough presence of mind to figure it wouldn't stop at that. The next day I went to our Squadron Commander and reported the incident.

*Some may recall back then flight surgeons would give pilots tongue depressors with pill bottles taped to them.  One end would be colored red and labelled "Go."  These would contain dexedrine.  The other end would be colored blue and labelled "Stop." I forgot what medication was in there but the meaning was obvious. They were intended to help pilots stay alert and conversely decompress on and after long haul flights.

The solution was to have me work in the Hospital Eye Clinic a few months, out of HRS's chain of command, until my time came to leave for my next assignment to the Azores.

Nothing happened to HRS as a result of the incident. He didn't ask me to "fill" any more prescriptions either.

At first, I was totally intimidated by HRS but he taught me how to deal with it so I owe him for that.

A while back, out of curiosity I tried to track HRS down.  I found him or at least I am pretty sure I found him, middle initial and all. A Tulane grad, about 79 years old...it all fit.  Turns out in the late 80's he was convicted for filing fraudulent tax returns and in the late 90's the DEA revoked his license because he was not authorized to handle controlled substances in California.  I found that out in two formal documents on Google.  Google knows everything right?!  Poetic justice for that quirky sonofabitch.

Someone asked me to point out the "see something, say something" lesson here but you probably hear that all the time. Instead, I will add, just as in any experience with an emergency or crisis of conscience, you really don't know how you will react until you actually experience it. You can talk about it all day but you really don't know.  When it happens to you, and I am pretty certain it will if it hasn't already, I wish you luck in doing whatever lets you sleep well at night.

Sincerely,

Airman Third Class Thomas R. Campbell

AF19773665

Addendum - Note To Younger Self*

Contributions from Tyler, Sam, Amber and Cody on Christmas Eve, 2015

• Don't do drugs - curiosity and peer pressure will take you there. Don't stay.
• Don't play stereo on the Watt bridge - try to stay in the moment - you will get so excited about something you will find it hard to focus on things that require immediate attention so...you will make mistakes. It happens to most everyone so don't beat yourself up too much about it.
• Fear of missing out  - you will worry about other things you could do or want to be doing. This is a feeling you share with your father, especially in his early teen years. It will pass but it will cause extreme frustration at first. Later, you will channel it into activities that will be productive.
• Don't worry so much about getting every thing done you should be doing...spend more time with things you enjoy, seek balance. Remember though, there are basic structural things in society and within yourself you must give due attention too.  
• Trust your instincts - there will be times when you don't (Jamaica). It's okay as you can learn from the experience.
• Never make friends in second grade then keep them for 20 years...them puppies may come back to haunt you.
• Be nicer to your Mother - you will look back on this and wish you had. She will understand though. She always does.
• Narrow your focus on your interests so you can excel - don't try to be good with everything. There is a time-worn adage by author Malcolm Gladwell that sheds  little light on this...it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master something. If you are lucky, you will stumble across something that you love enough to do this.
• Don't be afraid of change. It attacks every generation. It will attack yours. Count on it.  
• Further your education and don't focus too much on music. Maybe, if you are lucky you will find something that combines the two. Or...you can find ways to do both.
• Enjoy the simple things in life...you don't have to be constantly connected.
• Pursue your passion...if it excites you when you are ten it will likely excite you when you are old enough to seriously pursue it.
• Expand your comfort zone by getting outside your peer group.
• Give everyone at least a first chance.

*Embellishment provided by The Meddler

Note To (Younger) Self

"I am he, as you are he, as you are me, and we are all together..." I Am The Walrus - The Beatles.  This line of lyrics occurred to me as I began to think about a letter from my elder self to my much younger self...

Dear "Thomas T. Tatamous."

Yes, that is the name our Mother will confer on us in our pre-teen years before our despicable brother David Claud William was born and stole a huge chunk of our home turf.  Yeah he even got four names to our three and what the hell was that about?!

Thomas T. Tatamous

You and I will receive many gifts at birth. A silver spoon will not be one of them. Later in life you will come to regard this as perhaps your greatest blessing for it will inspire you to work hard, to not take things for granted and to really appreciate a damn good bologna sandwich - preferably fried and always "with ketchup please."

Tatamous, you will not appreciate your gifts as you should and this will slow your progress - but you will crank up the gears a few times and in the process, to your great delight and surprise, witness your potential. You will find some comfort in coming close and in some critical instances, you will nail it.

As a child raised mostly in North Dakota, you will cultivate a naiveté you will carry throughout your life. As a poor child, you will also cultivate a sense of imposter syndrome. Don't let either worry you too much though as neither is necessarily a bad thing.  The first will give you an extra measure of happiness and the second will keep you humble.

At the foot of the Black Hills of South Dakota, you will find your bride.  She will show you the meaning of beauty in body, mind and spirit. She will teach you about tenacity and loyalty. She will love and inspire you for more than 50 years.

In western Washington, she will give you a son.  He will teach us about stature; in his remarkable athleticism at baseball and soccer, in his intelligence, and in his courage to face performance anxiety through hundreds of stage performances.  He will write poetic lyrics to songs that will touch the hearts of young and old alike. His fine character will include attributes of loyalty, thoughtfulness and generosity. He will struggle to find his place in an increasingly complex world.

In northern California, your wife will give you a daughter of striking beauty and intelligence.  She too will be blessed with athleticism. She will also demonstrate extraordinary mechanical ability.  She will discover a sense of composure in stressful, emergent conditions.  She will show fine artistic and organizational skills. Her character will shine with humor, loyalty and compassion for others.  Her spirit will prove a contemporary match for her Mother's.  She too will struggle in dealing with the cultural extremes that are at every young person's fingertips today.

As fate would have it, both your son and daughter will also be lefties like you. That will make them squirrelly, unpredictable, and easily distracted daydreamers... just like you.

Along the way you and I will learn many things... as do others.  You will stack them up in your mind as you go, until you reach age 70. Then, you will be filled with wonder at the serendipitous way you got where you are. As your bride will testify on more than one occasion, you will live "a charmed life."

Now, after that lengthy freakin' preliminary let's get to it.  In keeping with the precedent set by others for this type of note to self, what have we learned along the way and what can you use to become a better person than you are at 70?

1. Beware of peer pressure - While it can be good, it will get you in trouble more than often than not.
2. Be careful who you hang out with -  See #1.
3. Indulge your curiosity - It will take you where you love to be and if you stay with it long enough it will sustain you.
4. "Write like a Motherfucker" - Cheryl Strayed.  In other words learn from lessons shared by others and, of course write... just write.
5. Be true to those who love you - This is not easy.  Repeat.  This is not easy.
6. Inanimate things will break too - Don't let your leftie disposition get the best of you when this happens.
7. You will witness remarkable advances in technology and remarkable declines in civilization. Try not to take either too seriously; it won't help anything.
8. Being judgmental is not a good thing - try to do a better job of avoiding it than your much older self. In the end, you will make much better decisions.
9. Cultivate those endorphins - You will do good, you can do better.

On the other hand... you will end up who you are at 70 won't you?! So there's no sense in regrets about the past.  Just take comfort in the knowledge that people generally tend to remember the good things and if you can, spend more time with that thought.

Life will be nothing more than your best guess and you are going to be lucky kid... you are going to be really lucky.  

(I was recently inspired to write this by a post from Amy Jo Martin: Her's was a terrific letter to her younger self and I shared it with my son and daughter in hopes they too would reflect on their journey thus far.  I thought it would be fun to do the same...)

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.