I have never set a woman on fire - 10/14/09

I went golfing last week with a dear friend of nearly 30 years, Mike Sova. It was one of the most enjoyable golf days I can remember. I think I enjoy golf more now that I don’t play as often. The weather was spectacular. I played well (for me) though Mike is a much better player (younger) than I am. When he hits 3-wood and I totally nut a driver, we hit it about the same. We played with two other geezers, which assured I would not be last on the tee all day. I also saw my first baby blue heron. Amazing! But that is not what this post is about. It is about relationships.

As I chronicled in an earlier blog, (click here) I once set Mike on fire. I contend that cremation will test a relationship. The fact that we remained friends is a testament to the difference between men and women. I have never set a woman on fire, but in spite of that virtue, I have never maintained a relationship with one anywhere near as long as my friendship with Mike. Oh, there were small transgressions and isolated incidents of inconsideration, but nothing compared with setting someone on fire. I know that in India it is permissible to set one’s wife ablaze if she pisses you off. I just leave, or she does. Seems like an easier solution to a squabble and it doesn’t waste valuable gasoline.

Maybe I will log onto Eharmony.com and in my FREE personality profile state: Straight, overweight, nonsmoking male, 50s, with a poverty level income and no prospects, that has never incinerated a woman, seeks soul mate. That should create some buzz.

It is possible that Mike has maintained our friendship, looking for the right moment to ignite me or is just waiting for me to spontaneously combust. As they say: “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Or in this case, hot. Or it could be that his reprisal is just to humiliate me on the golf course for the rest of my life. Anybody got a match?

Writer's Island - Spellbound - 3/15/08

In the early eighties I was a missile maintenance crew chief stationed at RAF Bentwaters in England. My crew was also responsible for maintaining missiles at a detachment at Ahlhorn AB, Germany. This was a German Air Base with a very small contingent of Americans stationed there. As a result, we were basically without adult supervision. I was the ranking member of our group, though only in my late twenties. I was supposed to be the stabilizing element, but often was not. My theory was work hard and play harder. Germany was a great field to play on. Great food, fantastic beer and wine, and a people always ready to party.

One of my subordinates was a teen-aged airman named Mike Sova. We were not only coworkers but also best friends. We are still good friends, nearly 30 years later. That is a wonder as a recount the following episode.

We were in a night club, or discotec, in the town of Ahlhorn, near Oldenberg, outside of the airbase. I can even remember the music that was playing when the event happened. It was Radar Love by Golden Earring. I think this song led to the incident, as I was unable to control my motor skills when it played over the club’s massive sound system. I still love the song, though it conjures up the following memory.

We were drinking a German liqueur called Escorial Grun. It has a very strong alcohol content and it is normally served set on fire, burning in a beautiful blue flame.

We had consumed several rounds and I had reached that embarrassing point of the evening when I thought I could dance. A waitress was delivering a tray of these to our table. She came up behind me as I was flopping around uncontrollably to the music in a kind of Joe Cocker movement. I bumped the tray and the flaming drinks splashed directly on my friend Mike. This was in the polyester years and his clothing immediately burst into flame. The club was fairly crowded and everyone kind of backed away to watch the show. They were totally spellbound. It is not every day they saw a flaming American (this was way before Will and Grace).

Not one of the onlookers moved to his aid. Suddenly, I was stone cold sober and dove over the table, throwing him to the floor and rolling him like a carpet with a mafia hit inside. I did not think. It was totally a reaction.

The flames immediately died, but not before they melted his polyester pants and removed all his excess body hair. Remarkably, he was not burned. I don't think you get credit as a hero if you, in fact, caused the situation. He sobered up as quickly as I did and we both went into a kind of shock, realizing what could have resulted. Both of us had lost our urge to party and left the club into the cold northern German night, crying and hugging each other. Everyone else went back to their partying as the show was over. I have never since lit any drinks on fire and I am relatively certain Mike has not either.