Writer's Island "Embarrassing Predicament" & Sunday Scribblings "Stranger" - 11/16/08

This weeks prompt of “Embarrassing Predicament” from Writer’s Island and “Stranger” from Sunday Scribblings lend themselves to this story. My kids have been encouraging me to write about this event, not one of my finest moments. First, a bit of background.

I retired from the Air Force in 1992 and for some reason, still unknown to me, moved to Cheyenne, Wyoming. I went to work for the American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers (ASCAP) as the sole Wyoming field rep. My job in a nutshell was to sit in bars and listen to music, writing down what I heard. You see, to play music in public you are required to have a license which pays the creators of that music royalties. My job was to build a case against those that refused to purchase a license. Some called me the music police.

I received a pretty good salary and a company car. Pretty good gig. Except for one thing, Wyoming is freaking huge and traversing it winter is nearly impossible. For those not familiar, Cheyenne is almost not even in Wyoming. It is on the extreme southeastern border. The drives to Mammoth, which is almost not even in Wyoming on the extreme Northwestern border or Evanston, which is almost not even in Wyoming to the Southwest, are grueling. So I decided to move to the exact center of the state. It didn’t exactly take Euclid to find the center, since Wyoming is almost a perfect rectangle. This task would have been much more difficult had I been somewhere like Michigan.

The exact center of Wyoming is in the middle of nowhere (as most of Wyoming is) on Highway 20, near the town of Powder River, with a population of 51. So I selected the closest town with streetlights and a gas station. I moved to Riverton, Wyoming in 1994. Riverton is a nice town of a little under 10,000, with a great golf course (very important to me).

As Wyoming cities go, it is a virtual megalopolis, 9th largest in the state. Some of you who live in more populous areas are now gasping at this amazing fact. You are also wondering where this embarrassing predicament with a stranger occurs. OK, here it is.

Riverton sets smack dab inside the Wind River Reservation. This huge piece of wasteland is shared by two tribes, the Arapaho and the Shoshoni. I knew nothing of Native Americans (though I have some blood) other than what I had seen in old westerns. I have since found out that those accounts were somewhat slanted. I had heard about a lot of crime on the reservation, but most of it is between the two competing tribes. A bit like the Crips and the Bloods or the Hatfields and McCoys. They don’t necessarily love each other. But, though I am a white eye, I was still a bit wary of being a stranger.

Late one night, I was leaving the IGA grocery store, walking to my Ford Taurus POS company car. Two young Native American men cut me off from my car. That part of the parking lot was nearly empty. They were saying something to me, but Native American’s are very soft-spoken and speak almost under their breath. They also have a strong accent and dialect that I became familiar with later. I could not understand them but I knew one thing for sure. I had only been in town for a week or so and I was being robbed. I had a bag of groceries cradled in one arm and a gallon of milk hanging from the other. My survival instincts took over. I was not going to be a victim. In a surprise attack, I swung the gallon of milk upward as hard as I could against the jaw of one of my assailants. He went airborne over the hood of my car. The plastic jug exploded, showering the crime scene and me with milk. The other thug ran away before I could select something in my grocery bag to hit him with.

Almost immediately a police car arrived with blue lights blazing. The city cop asked me what happened and I proudly told him my heroic story. He started laughing, which I thought odd. He said, "You ain't from around here are ya? They weren't robbers, they were beggars. They wanted your change." I tried to explain and he waved me off. He said, "I will take care of them, just don't be clobbering our citizens with 2%." Luckily, the unconscious Arapaho draped across my car was not seriously injured. I was really sorry about what happened. I could have just said no. I am sure those two guys were not expecting my reaction to "spare change?" Put yourself in their moccasins. You ask a stranger for some change and WHAM, he initiates a homogenized attack on you. I left some money with the cop to give them. Not really, but, in hindsight, I wish I would have. It would just make me sound like less of a jerk.

I went back into the store to get a fresh jug of milk and a paper towel. The night manager met me with one of each. He said it was on the house because watching that episode was worth it. He had called the police to get rid of the beggars, who were bothering customers. He hadn't expected a vigilante would show up. For the rest of my six years in Riverton, every time I saw that particular police officer or any of the IGA night crew, I was referred to as the milkman. Coincidentally, I was never approached by panhandlers again.

People that know me know that I am a charitable person and not prone to attacks on Shriners, the homeless, or Habitat for Humanity volunteers.

Sunday Scribblings - "My Nights" Writer's Island - "Unexpected"

I had originally written a piece for this week about what I do in the summer evenings. But it was very boring and read like a Myrtle Beach Chamber of Commerce ad. So I decided to write about one single night at Myrtle Beach, Saturday night. That is why my post is going up late.

I went to see a band called Third Eye Blind. It was a free outdoor concert in conjunction with the annual Sun Fun Festival. I had heard a few of their songs but knew very little about this group other than in my opinion they had one of the best, most original, names ever for a band.

I got up very close to the stage as I have often done over many years of concert attendance. I was easily the oldest person in the area I was standing in by 25 years. There were enough blunts burning to give me a contact high and add to my enjoyment of the music. It was fun to see the twenty-somethings singing along with every song, as I did when I went to see The Stones "final" concert, in London, so many years ago.

Unexpectedly, I thoroughly enjoyed the concert. I was so impressed by their musical abilities that I came back home and read up on them. The lead guitar player, Tony Fredianelli, was as good as I have ever heard. His guitar solos were amazing. The lead singer and wordsmith, Stephan Jenkins, has penned some incredible lyrics. He has great stage presence and an ability to bond with his energetic audience. He projects an honesty that seems to be missing in many performers. They ended their show with a shortened cover of Stairway to Heaven. Jenkins’ voice sounded very much like Robert Plant used to sound. He nailed it. So many bands sound great in the studio, where their shortcomings can be enhanced by technology, but sound terrible live. Third Eye Blind is actually better live than on CD. Their energy cannot be felt from a studio recording. It was a very memorable night. You are listening to one of their songs right now. Enjoy!

The night before I had stopped to see another concert at the same outside venue from a band that should have been more age appropriate for me, the Catalinas. I managed to listen to about four songs before I decided to go find something fun to do. I think I was much too young to enjoy their music.

To me, they sounded like a very bad karaoke. If I ever have trouble sleeping I will purchase one of their recordings. It will be much cheaper than sleeping pills. They had begun performing in the late fifties and I think their voices deserted them sometime during the seventies. In their defense, they are probably one of the many groups for which the name has endured through the years with a revolving door of personnel. The Catalinas I heard probably had few, if any, original members. They are one of the many “beach music” bands that exist pretty much only in the Carolinas. Luckily most people that enjoy this music will be dead soon. Hey, I am joking here. Remember, “Writing With a Smirk?”

Sunday Scribblings - "Curve" Writer's Island - "Extravaganza" 6/1/08

The initial response I get when I tell people I am originally from Idaho is invariably “oh, potatoes.” (That is if I am speaking to someone geographically savvy enough not to confuse Idaho with Iowa and start discussing corn) I guess identifying with potatoes is better than the other things Idaho is infamous for, Aryan Nations, the Ruby Ridge massacre, and a Senator Larry Craig's men's room reacharound. I will pause for a moment while the unfamiliar google these entries. Idaho is perhaps the most joked about state north of the Mason Dixon Line (I hope you don’t have to google that line of demarcation). Here are a few of my favorite Idaho jokes, though old:

This is the reining Miss Idaho
Why do most college football fields in Idaho use Astroturf? To keep the cheerleaders from grazing
What do you call a beautiful woman in Idaho? A tourist
Idaho is the only state with two capitals: Spokane and Salt Lake City. This is funny because neither is actually in Idaho but Spokane is the center of commerce for the northern part of the state and Salt Lake City is the location of the Mormon Church headquarters, which governs southern Idaho. That is a really funny joke if you can find Idaho on the map.

Anyway, you get the idea that Idaho is not the cultural center of the Universe. Well, that is not what my blog is about. The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is “curve” and the Writer's Island prompt is "extravaganza". This is what I came up with:

Idaho is that weird shaped state that resembles an intoxicated person attempting the letter “L”. The north and south have very little in common, not even a time zone. I think it is important at this time to say that I am from northern Idaho. Potatoes do not grow in northern Idaho. It is all mountains and rivers and lakes and beauty, while the south is, well……potatoes. Northern Idaho is called the "panhandle". That is not because we hit up Washington and Montana for loose change, it is because of its narrowness.


It is nearly 500 miles from a very defendable border 50 mile border with Canada to the desolation that is Nevada and Utah. But you can't get there from here. Amazingly, due to terrain, there is only one highway that links the north and south without venturing deeply into Montana. It is US Highway 95. I did not say Interstate. No way. It is a mostly 2-lane highway that we motorists share with wildlife and stray domestic animals. Or at least it was when I lived there. It weaves its way over and around mountains. Real mountains. Not the hills passed off as mountains in the Appalachians. As you can see by the map, that 500 miles is not as the crow flies. Unless he is a crow with a very poor GPS.

The most hazardous stretch of Highway 95 was the 10-mile stretch dropping into the town of Lewiston driving south from Moscow. And dropping is the operative word here. It dropped 2,000 feet and included 64 turns. Many of these turns were hairpin curves with a surely fatal drop should a driver fail to negotiate one. Dale Earnhardt wouldn’t have exceeded 30 mph for much of the ride. Couple the dangerous road with the fact that snow and ice add an infinite degree of difficulty through the winter months as well as the probability of meeting an out-of-control logging truck on a narrow switchback.

There was a weekly extravaganza witnessed by the citizens below as headlights disappeared only to reappear in places there was no pavement. There were unrecoverable vehicle carcasses of failed attempts littering the valley below as well as sections of guardrail missing or severely disfigured marking departure points of those “getting air.” Though there were many other curvaceous stretches of US Highway 95, none could match the Lewiston Hill. I do not have numbers to support this claim but I am fairly certain there were more fatalities on this stretch of highway than the rest of Idaho’s portion of US Highway 95 combined.


I have been down that grade as a passenger of many school busses piloted by white-knuckled drivers and cars driven by chemically enhanced college students.

And your reward for making it to Lewiston was to be greeted by the foulest stench you can imagine from the pulp mill that was located there. I am fairly certain the EPA has probably curtailed that operation due to the pollutants.

The Lewiston Hill road was replaced with a straighter, much more user friendly highway in 1979. An extravagant gesture by a state that spends so little on highways that the only time potholes are filled is by ice in the winter months. I have only been down it a few times since then, but it is not nearly as exciting. Last I heard, the old road was still open for bicyclists and brain-dead tourists coming to Idaho to see potatoes.

Sunday Scribblings/Writer's Island - "Soar/Impulsive" - 5/18/08

This weeks prompts for Sunday Scribblings and Writer's Island were soar and impulsive, respectively. I am much too lazy to write two posts. This is my response to both.


















I DON'T WANT AN ANGEL
WHO'S NEVER MADE MISTAKES
NEVER SUFFERED HUMAN FAILINGS
ALWAYS LIVED FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE

I DON'T WANT AN ANGEL
ADORNED IN BRILLIANT WHITE
WITH VIRGIN HEART UNBROKEN
HAVING ALWAYS DONE WHAT'S RIGHT

I DON'T WANT AN ANGEL
WHO'S NEVER SUCCUMBED TO DESIRES
NEVER HEEDED TO IMPULSIVE CRAVINGS
OR BEEN CONSUMED BY FERVENT FIRES

I DON'T WANT AN ANGEL
AFRAID TO GIVE HERSELF TO ME
NOT KNOWING HOW TO MAKE ME FEEL
LIKE THE MAN I LONG TO BE

I DON'T WANT AN ANGEL
SHE MIGHT FLUTTER WHEN I HOLD HER TIGHT
AND SPREAD HER WINGS AND SOAR AWAY
WHEN I NEED HER IN THE NIGHT

I DON'T WANT AN ANGEL
THAT HUNGER HAS NEVER POSSESSED
THAT'S NEVER KNOWN THE SALACIOUS PLEASURE
OF FORBIDDEN LOVE'S CARESS

I DON'T WANT AN ANGEL
JUST THE IMPERFECT SOUL THAT'S YOU
FOR WITH NOTHING TO COMPARE MY LOVE
YOU CAN'T KNOW THAT IT'S TRUE

I KNOW YOU'RE NOT AN ANGEL
AND A SAINT I’LL NEVER BE
I'LL REMOVE YOUR RING OF LIGHT
TAKE THE CROWN OF THORNS FROM ME

Writer's Island - Flight - 4/12/08

The Writer's Island prompt this week was flight. This is what came to my disheveled mind:

Having spent 20 years in the Air Force it is obvious that I have done my share of flying. Though I was never a pilot or on a flight crew I have logged countless hours on both military transports and commercial planes. I used to enjoy flying until the douche bags of 9/11 ruined it forever for me (and many others). Gone are the days of arriving at the airport 20 minutes before boarding. Now we must arrive two hours prior to the scheduled departure (which is never actual) and endure a screening process as if we were attempting to enter the Lincoln bedroom. I am not complaining. I want my flight to be safe and have an absolute minimum of terrorists on board with me. So, I endorse the inconvenience.


When I was young, married, and broke, living in Denver in the early 70s, Stapleton International Airport was a source of entertainment for my wife and me. We would go sit in the arrival/departure lounge and watch people come and go. We would make up stories about people we observed. The airport was the best place to people watch. Sometimes we would play spy at the airport and try to pick out which of the travelers were CIA or KGB. We would even bring our own refreshments because airport prices were not much different then than they are now. A hotdog and a coke required a cosigner. Again, the assholes of 9/11 have made that activity impossible, as you can’t even enter the gate area without a ticket.



One of the benefits of military service is that you could fly anywhere in the world that the Air Force does for free. This program was called Space-A. We took advantage of that privilege many times. Sometimes we would just go to the terminal and fly to whatever destination was readily available. That was an adventure sometimes, as you could not always get back from that country in a timely manner. For instance, I have flown from England to Greece and had to fly from there to Germany in order to get back to England. It was also possible that the plane would not bring you back to the same base you departed from so you might have to arrange ground transportation from one base in England to another. But that only added to the adventure. So traveling space available required patience and plenty of time. Though I still have that perk, I have not tried to fly this way since the shitheads of 9/11 have probably screwed that up too. I am certain that a lot of flights are now destined for locations I have no interest in visiting.

One anecdote that came to mind while I was writing this post was a military Space-A flight my kids and I took from Germany to the states. The only other passengers on the plane were federal prisoners being transported to the maximum penitentiary at Leavenworth Kansas. The prisoners were held in stockades in Europe until they get enough to full a C-141 transport. The terminal staff informed me that this was the only flight available for the rest of the week and we could take it as long as I knew the situation. There were several armed guards accompanying the hundred or so prisoners and many of them were so after conferring with my kids I accepted the risk involved. We were given specific instructions and assurances of our safety with regards to the inmates. We were not to talk to them, accept or give anything to them, and other common sense warnings. It was very much like the movie Con Air except that flight had no families on it. Oh yeah, and ours did not crash. What I didn’t realize though was that FAA regulations in those days required all prisoners be unshackled and the guards could not have access to firearms during the flight. Military personnel are armed in the cockpit, but those were the only weapons allowed. So we were flying with a hundred or so prisoners who could at any time attempt to take control of the aircraft. Well, they never did, though I kept a watchful eye (not sure why) until we arrived safely without incident.

Another time we were flying in a KC-10 tanker plane. A couple of hours into the flight, a crewmember came up to my son, Josh, and asked him if he wanted to see something cool. He, of course, wanted to see something cool. Doesn’t everyone? He was escorted back to the rear of the plane where he got to witness the refueling of a flight of F-16 fighters. He was close enough to be nearly face-to-face with the pilots. They showed him in detail how to link up with the fighter and start the flow of fuel. Not every kid gets to see that.


We have also been on a plane that’s engine caught fire, flew through a spectacular but terrifying lightening storm, and have diverted to locations that were not on the flight plan.


Yes, flying was an adventure before the whoresons of 9/11 ruined it for me (and others).

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.

Writer's Island - Rising - 3/8/08

Dining at my favorite restaurant
Appetite rising
I saw her across the room
Interest rising

She was beautiful
Libido rising
She was dining alone
Curiosity rising
She smiled at me
Temperature rising

She waved in my direction
My hand rising
She got up and walked toward my table
Blood pressure rising
She passed my table
Questions rising
Her perfume lingered
Sensorium rising
She sat down with the man at the next table
Disappointment rising
I realized she was not smiling and waving at me
Embarrassment rising
She was not my type
Defense Mechanism rising
I found myself alone
Reality rising

Like she was going to be interested in me?
Self-criticism rising
That night she was in my fantasy
Imagination rising

The scenario was totally different
Auto eroticism rising
We were entwined
tumultuous uprising

Empowered - Writer's Island - 3/5/08

Who do you think is the most empowered person in America? The President, Bill Gates, Oprah, Tiger Woods, any of the Presidential Candidates? Not even close. For about 20 years it was a man named Alan Greenspan, who served as the Chairman of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve. Simply put, that title means he was responsible for the nation's economy, and in turn, the world's. He was appointed by President Reagan in 1987 and by every subsequent president. He answered to no one. The checks and balances system did not include him. He could make champions of industry wet their pants by a simple remark over dinner. The entire financial world hung on his every word. Investors were so confident in him that any comment he made would immediately affect the stock market. He retired in 2006, but is still used as a consultant, even though he is in his 80s.

O.K., Greenspan is gone. Who is the most empowered person in the U.S. now? His successor? I couldn't even name him and you probably can't either. Though he holds the same position, he does not command the same respect as Greenspan. That may take years, if ever.

My nomination for the most empowered person in America is not even an American. He is a Brit named Simon Cowell. In case you have been living underground for the last seven years, he is the co-creator and judge of the number one television show in America, American Idol. He is the primary reason that this juggernaut attracts nearly 30 million viewers each episode. There are lots of talent shows on today's "reality" based television, but none attract that kind of attention.

Simon is acerbic and caustic, but in our politically correct world, where we don't keep score and everyone gets a trophy, he is a refreshing change. He is actually a voice of reason. If someone is bad he lets them know in no uncertain terms. He does not coddle. These people have been coddled for long enough. He gives no false hope. Friends and family have pumped the contestants with enough false hope. He goes by the premise that you have to be cruel to be kind. But he also gives just as enthusiastic positive evaluations if they are warranted. I think after seven years, hopefuls should expect they are going to receive an honest, though sarcastic critique from Simon. If you are thin-skinned, it might save some pain to get an impartial person to evaluate your vocal skills before showing up for auditions. Mom is not the person to provide that. She also probably thinks you are pretty.


Simon is a great contrast to the other two judges who tend to think everyone is wonderful, particularly Paula Abdul. She could give positive comments to someone burping the alphabet. "I love your shoes". As a result, most contestants don't even really hear the opinions of Randy and Paula, waiting with bated breath to see what Simon says (pun intended). The audience boos him and competitors make futile attempt to argue with his judgment, all the time knowing in their hearts that 90 percent of the time he is right on the money. It is no coincidence that the people eliminated each week are those that he said, "I liked the ending, when it was finally over." He revels in the role of villain, though I would wager his approval rating is much higher than any politically correct politician on CSPAN. Who else reaches 30 million people each week? Certainly not the President, the Pope, or Joel Osteen.

Writer's Island and Sunday Scribblings - 2/23/08

Feeling lazy and not very creative. I decided to combine the Sunday Scribblings prompt of "Passion" and the Writer's Island of "Second Chance".

One of the most impressive events I have ever experienced is the Passion Play in the Bavarian town of Oberammergau in Southern Germany. It is a re-enactment of the trial, crucifixion, and resurrection of Christ, performed every 10 years.

It began in 1634 during the Thirty Years War. The bubonic plague was devastating the town and legend has it that a promise was made to God, that if they were spared, they would honor Christ with the performance of the “Greatest Story Ever Told.” They were spared and have honored that promise ever since. The entire village participates in this event, with a cast and crew of over 2,000. They spend years preparing, working countless hours rehearsing and designing elaborate sets and costumes. There are families that have participated since the beginning, 40 productions and nearly 350 years ago. It has become a huge tourist attraction and an economic cash cow for the community.

The Passion Play represents, for Christians, the second chance for mankind. This 6 hour production is an amazing spectacle and well worth seeing, for Christians and non-believers alike.

Though Passion Plays are performed all over the world, this is by far the most famous and most extravagant. The next memorable performance is in 2010.

Writer's Island, Sunday Scribblings - Time Travel - 2/18/08 - 2/29/08

I thought a lot about this prompt and there were so many possibilities as to boggle my already cluttered mind. I could go forward and find out where we are going and come back and scare the crap out of everyone and probably win some Nobel Prizes. I could go back and change history. I could tell Lincoln, the Kennedys, and Martin Luther King to duck. I could push Yoko Ono in front of John Lennon and let her take some for mankind. I could create a diversion to cause air traffic in the northeast to be suspended on the morning of September 11, 2001. I could be selfish and go back and bet sporting events, pick lottery numbers, or buy worthless, desert land that later becomes Las Vegas. I could bankroll Bill Gates.

Then I considered the Prime Directive. If any of you were Star Trek fans, the crew of the Enterprise was were never supposed to interfere with cultures or alter history. It is more complicated than that, but that is it in a nutshell.

That was also a no-no according to Doc Brown in Back to the Future.

The premise is that by affecting one outcome, you affect many, many more. For example, if I prevented Pearl Harbor from happening, somebody important to mankind may not have been born after VJ day festivities.

Then there are those that believe that history is inevitable. For instance, if I went back killed an infant Hitler, someone else would have ascended to power in a 1939 Germany that was ripe for a dictator.

And if I went back and slapped the apple out of Eve’s hand, the human race would have found other ways to sin and defy God. We are good like that.

With all those things in mind, I elected to limit myself to one visit back in time. One single place and time in which to beam myself within all of history. After careful consideration, I came to one conclusion. I would journey back to northern Idaho in the late 1960’s. I would be in a little boat on Rose Lake fishing for crappie and bass with my dad. I didn’t do nearly enough of that as a teenager. I enjoyed that more than anything as a child,

but as I grew up I became busy with other things and forgot what was most important to me. Maybe we would catch fish and maybe not. But I would get to know him and he would get to know me. And there is no better place to do that than a little boat on a tiny lake in Kootenai County.

So the Titanic is going to hit the berg, Chernobyl is going to melt down, and Chicago is going to burn to the ground. Dictators are going to oppress, assassins are going to murder, and governments are going to continue to make mistakes. I am going to attend to my little part of the world and let someone else drive the DeLorean.