Headaches - 5/14/2010

It is well-documented that I am a huge Seinfeld fan. Huge being the operative word here. My fellow Seinfeld aficionados will know that Jerry went without throwing up for 14 years, from 1980 to 1994. His streak ended, as all streaks eventually do, when he ate a black and white cookie that turned into David Duke and Fahrikan in his stomach.

Why am I telling you this is a post about headaches? Well, I had a similar streak end yesterday. When I was in the Air Force I had terrible migraine headaches. They varied in frequency and severity, but the worst ones caused me to remove my gun from the nightstand and put it in my safe. There is no way I could open the lockbox in the throes of a grand mal migraine. Anyone who has suffered severe migraine headaches knows that eating a bullet is a viable option. My migraines contained the following symptoms (fellow sufferers can relate):

I could not tolerate any sound. A whisper sounded like an air raid siren.

I could not tolerate any light. I had to have absolute darkness. The light under the door was as bright as the sun.

Any movement made me dizzy and nauseous. I had to be absolutely still.

I had to be as cold as I could tolerate. I was constantly rotating my pillows to find a cool spot.

If I was with someone, I would have them put as much pressure on my head as they could muster. That pressure offered a small bit of temporary relief. If I was alone, I would take an ice cold rag and push it as hard against my head as I could.

The hospital personnel at Mildenhall AB, my last assignment, would take one look at me staggering in the door and prepare a cold, dark, room and a hypodermic needle filled with some kind of narcotic. This was long before self-treatment was available. My kids can verify how severe both the illness and the treatment were. Once my son, Josh, called me soon after I arrived home from a visit to the hospital and the conversation went something like this:
“Hi dad.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Josh.”
“Josh who?”
“Your son.”
“I don’t have a son.”
“Dad, are you ok,”
“Nope, I have a headache.”
“Oh, ok, talk to you later.”
“Who is this?”
Click.

I retired from the Air Force in late 1992 and had not had a headache of any kind for 17 years. It is pretty obvious that mine were caused by stress. I pretty much lead a stress-free existence now, except for self-induced tension that I will always seem to conjure up. Yesterday, I had a headache. By anyone’s standards that have never experienced a migraine it was a very bad headache. I think it was a sinus headache, definitely not a migraine, but it still broke my streak. It had been so long since I had a headache that it took some time for me to realize that is what was causing me to feel so poorly. When I awoke this morning, it was gone. I did not even have to take anything. Well, my gun is still in my nightstand and my days without a headache are now at one. I should twitter Jerry and find out how his current vomitless streak is progressing.

Why I should not be on a party planning committee - 3/10/10

I have intended to tell this story for quite some time but was afraid of outraging my readers. Since I have apparently alienated the majority of my readership with far less offensive postings, I have elected to proceed. The handful of people who regularly peruse my blog know me well enough to realize I totally lack decorum. This article will contain full-frontal female nudity which is germane in the telling of this account. It could be argued that the photos are not crucial to the narrative, but it is my tale. So, at this point I will warn anyone who has stumbled on this blog that is offended by female nudity to stop reading now (if you haven’t already).

I was the superintendent of the manpower office at RAF Mildenhall, England. Superintendent essentially means I was the highest ranking enlisted member in the office. In that capacity, I was entrusted to be a role model and set a professional example for the more junior staff. I believe I performed that function admirably while in uniform. Off-duty, I was not necessarily a paragon of propriety (and for the past 18 years I have been off-duty). It has been said that the difference between the Boy Scouts and the Military is that the Scouts have adult supervision. After 20 years of service, I have no evidence to the contrary.

In 1991, one of my subordinates, Mark Davenport, was transferring to a CONUS assignment. Military units traditionally honor a departing coworker with a going away party. Often this soiree is tailored to the personality of the guest of honor. For instance, a party animal would rate a real Bacchanalia. It is also important to embarrass the honoree if at all possible. Mark was a very shy computer geek back when PCs were not advanced enough to support geekdom. He was not a drinker. Planning a party for him that would not suck for the rest of us was a challenge. The party committee, which consisted of me and a young Second Lieutenant, recently commissioned from Purdue (who shall remain nameless in case he is now a General), determined that it might be funny to get Mark a stripper gram. This was all the rage in England in 1991 and very benign. A frat guy and a debauchee should probably not have been entrusted to plan this shindig, but it seemed innocent enough. The other office weenies agreed and chipped in. We reserved a room in a local pub and it was on like Donkey Kong (though it was still just an arcade game then).

The party was going well and we were all having a few beers and giving Mark his going away gifts, plaques, certificates, etc. As well as the usual suspects from my office, my two teenage sons were also in attendance. As the drinking age in England is highly negotiable, they were enjoying some warm beer as well. Then, it happened. The young lady who the agency sent us showed up, right on time. She had with her a small boom box, which she turned on and began to dance, gyrate, and remove her clothes. But something went terribly wrong. She, with Mark’s assistance, removed ALL of her clothes and began to mount and ride Mark like Red Pollard on Seabiscuit. Our innocuous lingerie show turned X-rated right before our saucer-eyes.

It seemed that the agency had sent us the girl that was scheduled for a private bachelor party, the organizers of which had requested a much more personal service than we had chartered. Those groomsmen were probably a lot more disappointed than we were. We noticed the error quite early in her performance, but no one brought it to her attention.

If you look at the very first photo in the array, you will see that Mark had removed his outer shirt and was drenched in sweat. This photo was taken after the artist had departed and the guests that were revolted had bolted.

The only downside to the evening was that just outside of our room (which was less private than you would think) was a meeting of a ladies group dining after Bible study at the base chapel. The only person they recognized and acknowledged was, you guessed it, the Lieutenant. Come to think of it, he is probably not a General now. One of the ladies’ group happened to be the Wing Commander’s wife. He may still be a Lieutenant.