Pour Me

Pour Me

Let’s go for a stroll, a jungle jaunt, 1966 style. My, but we were all in tremendous physical shape back then. Superb conditioning was a prerequisite for the arduous tasks we would be called on to perform. Never did we need it more than one fine day in May. We were treated to an early–morning, scenic helicopter ride that deposited us at the edge of a tangled mass of tropical vegetation forming an impenetrable thicket through which we were supposed to make our way. This was the jungle. It stretched as far as we could see, and since our vantage point was from a few hundred feet above the ground, that was, indeed, quite a stretch.
Waiting for us at the entrance to this morass were dozens of tanks and APC’s (armored personnel carriers). The APC’s were also called “half–tracks”, so designated because they had an endless chain–track drive system like that of a tank used to propel the vehicle which was supported in front by a pair of wheels. The presence of all this armored might was baffling at first. We were used to being driven or choppered to a starting point and then turned loose with orders to cover (“sweep”) a specified area in search of “the enemy”. Since the enemy was indistinguishable from villagers we would encounter along the way, this was often an exercise in futility. It was simple enough to transpose oneself from foe to friend and vice–versa by exchanging a rifle for a scythe. Unless an entire village was overly cooperative and gave us reliable information regarding the presence of VC in the area (and this could only be confirmed afterwards), we could never be completely sure where their allegiance lay. Nationalism was common to virtually all Vietnamese; it was merely a question of whether these feelings of loyalty and devotion favored the interests of Chairman Mao or those of the South Vietnamese government. That the SVN government was rife with corruption while being sanctioned and supported by American interests only increased the difficulty of the average Vietnamese citizen when faced with choosing where his sympathies lay.
But let us get back to all that armor, for that is what is integral to today’s tale. Our initial confusion was abated when it was explained that these vehicles would be “leading the way”. The particular stretch of jungle that was our mission for the next few days was such a tangle that not even Tarzan could negotiate it swiftly or easily. An aerial reconnaissance showed numerous clearings of varying size and even the remnants of an old trail or two. It also revealed growth as thick as a hedge that went on forever. The only way to cross this terrain was to follow behind the tanks and half–tracks. They would precede us and mow down the vegetation, thereby enabling us to advance a couple of “clicks” (kilometers) per hour. It would be slow going, but there was just no other way to make any progress and thoroughly explore the area. It was suspected that there were VC strongholds somewhere in the quagmire, and we were called upon to do our best to ferret them out.
I do not recall hearing a cry, “Gentlemen, start your engines”, but it would have been appropriate. We were not that far from Memorial Day and the brickyard at Indianapolis dwarfed all other racing events back in that era. There were twice the number of tanks and half–tracks as there would be racing cars at Indy. This operation eclipsed any I had previously been involved in, in both size and strength. To further justify the metaphor, these exercises often wound up with us literally going in circles.
Off we went, in a straight line at first, and it quickly became known just what a test of our mettle this little sortie would be. The vehicles flattened the growth all right, but it was no mean feat. Relentlessly they advanced, and it sounded as if even these mighty behemoths were straining for every foot of purchase. Bringing up the rear were the columns of foot–soldiers. Tanks and half–tracks were spaced about 20 meters apart in a horizontal line, and roughly 35 men followed each vehicle. Add it all up and this was an undertaking with considerable strength: over a thousand men on foot and a few hundred men in the support vehicles. Someone certainly thought this expanse of jungle that lay before us held something significant. We would cut a wide swath and find out if the information that sponsored this roadshow had credence.
No sooner had we begun than we met with almost overwhelming resistance. We were heavily outnumbered, literally overrun, and our opponents took us by surprise. We should have expected it, but short–sightedness ruled and I really cannot say that we could have done much different had we forecast this eventuality. The jungle’s most populous inhabitants, the infrastructure that outnumbers all of us everywhere (make that everywhere inhabitable without going to great lengths to survive), came a–swarming and a–buzzing and they were none too happy at what we had just done to the neighborhood.
Their displeasure was apparent by the way they immediately singled us out as the usurpers and focused their entire wrath upon us. They did not aimlessly fly off in all directions; they directed their solitary energy into a combined force that increased their individual might exponentially. We were ambushed from all sides, above and below. Our mission now had an additional objective: to continue our trek while repelling this damnable diversion. The forces of nature would test us mightily that day. To make progress through the trampled thickets we walked as one would through mid–thigh–high water. Each step consisted of lifting the leg up and out of the tangle below and placing it forward and down into the now–doubled quagmire. Both meanings of the word were satisfied in this one encounter. To lessen the area of vulnerability our insect friends could seek revenge we rolled our shirtsleeves down to our wrists and buttoned them fast. Shirts were buttoned tightly to the neck. Now only our hands, faces, wrists, and necks were targets. Imagine if you will, walking as I described while simultaneously slapping one hand with the other, fore and aft, and all the while smacking the face, neck, and brow with these busy hands. Try it. It must be done speedily, and you are not allowed to stop and rest. Soon you will develop a rhythm. It will seem to you, as it did to me, that all of those who have taken up this percussive call (you will need friends to act in concert) have found a similar rhythm. To the symphony of jungle noises has been added a new sound. It is quickly absorbed, and what started out as cacophonous soon becomes placating. The grumbling and curses soon cease as all attention is devoted to the task at hand. When the noise ceases it will be prominent by its absence. For now it will continue, for how long we dare not guess. Only an occasional clearing will grant respite, then the call will be taken up once more.
The offshoot of this added expenditure of energy was that it increased our thirst. We had learned well to conserve out water ration. A pair of quart canteens hung from our belts. These were filled each morning and were often unable to be refilled until we were re–supplied in the evening. By early afternoon everyone had bone–dry canteens hanging from their waists. Fortunately, the tanks and half–tracks were fortified with five–gallon cans and this satisfied the need for a time. At each clearing the queue of weary men ambled to the back of the vehicles with canteen cups held out beseechingly, watched clear liquid life poured into these vessels, then greedily quaffed until drained. Finally the time came when there was simply no more water. All the five–gallon cans had been emptied. It was only mid–afternoon, fully two hours or more before we reached our destination for today. Destination being a bit of a misnomer; some anonymous point on a map that was indistinguishable from any other within miles. A long, thirsty walk was what we had to look forward to.
I have always been thankful for my Irish ancestry. My constant companion, a leprechaun who dwells in my pocket, rises to the occasion time and again. This time would be no different. The “hidden hands” that guide the course of human events are sometimes deceptively small. At a stop slightly more than an hour later the half–track that my merry band was following announced they had discovered another can back in a corner (I have often wondered just how many places there are inside one of those things for a container that size to lay undetected). It was old, doubtless a leftover from a previous mission, long–ago previous, and rusted on the top and sides. When it was at last prized open the contents were unlike anything in my human experience. The rust had found its way under the cap and started to invade the innards. What came out was a dark substance that was alive with specks of iron. They swam and settled as we watched. I was at the front of the line and it was decision time. I was the medic. The men’s health was in my hands. I diagnosed the situation and pronounced the patient fit to drink. “Just a little extra iron to make us stronger,” I announced. I quickly downed my cupful and held the empty cup out for a refill. It took not a second: jostling for a place in line began anew. That extra drink was just the succor necessary to carry us fresh to the end of what we laughingly always referred to as “just another day in paradise”.
I could not begin to count the number of different thirst–quenchers I have sampled over six decades. Were I a fancier of alcohol the number would be much greater, but those I could count. Never developed a got–to–have habit for anything but Coca–Cola and cigarettes. (Okay, one other, but even when I had to have it I didn’t always get it. But I did all right.) Regardless of the number, there is that one that will never be dislodged from the number–one perch. The best drink I ever had, the best drink any of us present that day ever had, was brown, warm, and alive with iron filings. In the kingdom of the blind, the one–eyed man is king; in the land of the parched, we felt royal once more and made it to the end of the day thankful that can had somehow escaped detection until we came along. Now, if I could only figure out just where it was hidden. Bet my leprechaun knows.

How wry is a dowry?

Three things caught my attention today, one prompted by a phone conversation with Patrick yesterday, and all were mentioned in newspapers and they are, for those readers who grew up in the television age and that is most of you, an archaic means of conveying information to the masses in a thorough, well–researched, unbiased manner. But you get your news in ten–second sound bites and do not know what you are missing and ignorance is bliss and happiness is a warm gun and my cup runneth over with love, from me, to you. The other two are: (1) This from the L.A. Times, the “flaming dowry” situation in India; (2) From a movie review in the L.A. Daily News I extrapolated: What we don’t know; what we don’t want to know; what we can’t figure out in time are the demons that will spell extinction for this inhuman race because we are on a Hellbound train that only stops at Inhabitableville and with less Arctic Ice than ever before the song “People Get Ready” takes on a whole new meaning. Oh, it will be hundreds of years from now (providing the lunatics are prevented from turning everything radioactive) so why should we worry? We will not, and that is the scariest part of all. Stupidity is alive and well and besides living in Las Vegas, oasis for the mathematically–challenged, it is in every other city, village, and hamlet except for ones where people still live the simple life and care about Mother Earth. They do not even publish the Whole Earth Catalog any longer, people are too busy polluting to take the time out to read it. (3) Sticking with the Daily News, a below–the–fold front–pager about a rally to support those six black kids in a town run by whites who are getting treated like black kids have always been treated in towns run by whites. A big rally, big people, hopefully some justice. Look this one up while I email it to Patrick. And now we will take up the first–mentioned item of this triumverate: “How to Roast Your Wife” or, “The Only Good Indian Who Does Not Have a Large Dowry Is a Well–Done Indian”. The deal here is that India’s top ten includes the hits “I Enjoy Being Ablaze” and “There Is Nothing Like a Flame” Check out the story on India
http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-dowry22sep22,1,6075672.story?ctrack=4&cset=true

Concert Day. USC. Long bus ride. Assignment for “Music in the Contemporary World”. We shall see what we shall see and we shall hear… But first let us return to those thrilling days of yesterday and talk about the wonders of kerosene. That oil derivative, and did John D. Rockefeller ever envision such a wide variety of uses for his products?, is the disposal medium of choice for husbands in India who just cannot get enough money and worldly goods from that woman he married and her accursed family and now needs to marry again to increase his net worth. What? You think they are going to hire a lawyer when a quart of stuff that began life as ground–bubbly will do the job? I don’t think so. Neither do they. India. Subcontinent of Asia. Home to subhumans. Place where girl fetuses are aborted in astronomically large numbers to save them from a fate that gets worse and worse until death at an early age. Demanding dowries has been illegal for forty years in that land where, if you are a wife, you do not want your husband to affectionately refer to you as “my marshmallow”. Heck, no sense in my rehashing an in–depth story, go read it in today’s L.A. Times and I think that maybe, just maybe, the land where they wanted to hang Richard Gere over a public kiss, has some far more serious social issues that need to be addressed. From what I surmise after reading this article, the best way to put an end to the barbarism would be to wipe out the present population, plant lots of trees and flowers, and play the percentages: the group that migrates into the now–uninhabited realm may be bloody savages like the rest of us but they will probably treat their women better. So the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world, is it? Not in Turbanville. I only knew of their mass mental imbalance from the favor they bestow upon their daughters, with momma blessing the practice, that barbarism called clitoroidectomy. Criminy. Gives me shivers. You got it Metallica, “Kill ‘Em All”. Finally we have a case where a little ethnic cleansing sounds like the way to go. Not only that, but it will be good for the U.S. economy. The unemployment figure will drop dramatically as all those outsourced jobs return to our shores. Until they find enough Taiwanese, Chinese, Burmese, and Disease to fill the vacancies. Hey, a temporary fix is better than no fix at all, just ask your friendly neighborhood heroin addict.
So why can’t we all just get along? Evolution. Two million years worth. Old habits die hard. We are species–specific only we have refined it a degree further. We are mistrustful of those who do not look like us or act like us. We are clannish. Nothing wrong with being clannish if your heart is in the right place. Just study those who study the “Torah”. They believe in bien adam v’adam. Between man and man. That is where goodness, even divinity resides. Not in the heavens, but right here on earth. In our relations with each other. It also means we have to be careful we have to treat everyone we meet with great respect because, for all we know, this man driving a cab or tottering home drunk or bothering passerby for spare change, he might be one of the righteous. Egalitarian, yes. The equal value of every human life, that is the preoccupation of the “Torah”.
So the sign says $1.75 for the lemon cake at Star*uck’s. I order it and get 15¢ change from two ones. I point out that the sign says $1.75 and he says, “I’m sorry, sir, that’s a mistake. It is $1.85.” I now have to say, “So who pays for your mistakes?” I then get my dime. Sheesh. The customer gets treated rather shabbily nowadays. Once upon a time…

blogging and jogging

Hey, I blogged. Patrick told me it is easy, and it is. He sent me the website address and bingo, I’m a blogger. I recommend blogging for those who want to start an exercise program but are just too lazy to do so. Besides doing absolutely nothing for your physical well–being, blogging is far less tiring than jogging, a like–sounding activity often confused with blogging. It is easy to tell the difference: (1) blogging requires a computer; jogging a Blackbery; (2) blogging can be done indoors in any dwelling with an Internet connection; jogging can only be done in-doors in very large buildings spread out over at least an acre of ground; (3) blog-ging is weatherproof; jogging in inclement weather is for masochists; (4) you can eat, drink, and be merry while blogging; if you eat or drink anything but the occa-sional sip of water while jogging you will stain your clothes, are apt to suffer indi-gestion, and as for being merry: you probably are because we have already es-tablished you are a masochist; (5) you can fall asleep while blogging and pick up right where you left off upon awakening and no one will laugh at you; if you fall asleep while jogging you will fall on your face and suffer severe trauma unless you fall asleep while trying to beat the traffic at a busy intersection in which case the trauma will not be limited to your face and you will definitely provide some-thing for others to laugh about while they post your “in remembrance” blogs; (6) you can have sex while blogging, either alone or with up to ten people (over ten tends to be too distracting and the blogging gets forgotten); if you have sex alone while jogging you will be branded a pervert unless you jog in very remote areas but there is always the remote chance of discovery and in remote areas the in-habitants shoot perverts on sight and if you have sex with up to ten people while jogging you will, providing you do not get arrested, soon die because you are severly addicted to methamphetamines; (7) your children can recommend blog-ging to you and you will still love them and know they love you; if your children recommend jogging it means they are tired of waiting for you to die and want the inevitable cardiovascular event to happen soon and you will harbor questions about their true intentions just past the 100–yard mark of your first jogging expe-rience; (8) you can read a book while blogging by simply shifting your gaze from the computer screen to the tome that currently has you spellbound; if you read a book while jogging your eyeballs will have to rapidly track up and down and this vertical maneuver, without proper warm–up exercises, has been known to result in “pupil–poofing” which is the term that describes the phenomenon whereby the pupils traverse too far too fast (Poof! They’re gone) and become permanently lodged 180º from where they were born and all that is visible until surgery cor-rects this situation is the whites of your eyes and that is not good because people with guns look for that and then they unleash a barrage of lead projectiles in your direction that can affect more than your vision and you cannot even see them coming and you may never see anything again because the overwhelming major-ity of dead people lack optic nerve brain function; (9) you can talk to yourself while blogging; talk to yourself without a cell phone in your hand while jogging and you will almost certainly get accused of harassment, lewd behavior, or hav-ing had one tee many martoonies; (10) and we saved the best for last: blogging is fun; jogging is only labeled fun by pathological liars.

and so it begins

thanks to my #1 son, my favorite son, my only son patrick i am now blogging. first thing to post is an essay just completed for a creative writing class. time trip coming up:

DREAMWRECK

Favorite essays of mine are read again and again. George Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” is one of those. Just one time, I thought, I would like to write a first sentence so marvelous (“In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people—the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me.”). During my latest reading it dawned on me: George and I have something in common.
Philadelphia is a long way from Moulmein in Lower Burma. Philadelphia is where I was once important enough to be hated by large numbers of people. Six months after my Vietnam tour ended I went back to college: Temple University—smack–dab in the innards of The City of Brotherly Love.
Those three years in uniform afforded me little time or opportunity to observe the civilian milieu, where cataclysmic change contrasted with the stability and stasis of military life. Upon my return I quickly adjusted to and absorbed these modifications: guys had hair longer than girls; pants were wider at the cuffs than at the waist; female attire was far more revealing. I cheered.
Those were mere fads. How fleeting and facile they seem now, even though vestiges remain. Add to them one with meaning—a rejection of prior perception. Skin color mattered only to those stodgy, staid curmudgeons that deservedly belonged to another era. My generation ignored race. This was a period where blacks and whites all called each other “brother.” One day we were fighting and dying together 10,000 miles away, the next we were back home gathering on street corners, laughing and back–slapping (or was it hand–slapping?). Prejudice had somehow evaporated. The songs symbolized the era. The Youngbloods sang sweetly, “Get Together.” Canned Heat growled, “Let’s Get Together.” And we did. For a time. I can only think that the man most responsible for this sea change was the Man with a Dream.
I knew nothing of the civil rights struggle. A major topic of the day, larger than life, it blossomed during my enlistment. I grew up in West Hartford, CT, then a town of 50,000 white people. I was as attuned to the plight of Blacks at 18 (1962) as I was to the dalliances of Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly when I was nine. I knew of black culture via Amos 'n' Andy and doo–wop. Just in case television had not been invented, our mailman was black so I had concrete proof of their existence.
My first encounters with "real” blacks came when I enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1964. They turned out to be people that were just like me. Sure, some of them had chips; some even carried a damned redwood on their shoulders. But maybe, just maybe, some of that resentment was justified. I wasn't worldly enough to speculate on that, but the question intrigued.
Yet, even this teen tyro knew of The Good Doctor. His marches, rallies, and calls for non–violent action were bringing a nation together. His "I Have a Dream" speech set a whole country to thinking, "Dreams can come true." Even old hearts were young. Like most of the greatest utterances, it took time to realize that this was one for the ages. Did anyone walk away from Gettysburg thinking?, "Wow! They'll be quoting that one until the end of time."
I saw excerpts of Dr. King’s "Dream” speech on the news shortly after it was delivered. His message was so full of hope and unity that, in a span of a few years, he had begun to make sense to a multitude that was quietly pro–segregation even if publicly disdainful of unfair practices. The man J. Edgar Hoover denigrated and deemed a rabble–rouser morphed into destiny’s darling. His memorable speeches have the elements necessary to ensure their durability. The eyes and ears of a nation did not and could not ignore him.
Dr. King’s “I Have A Dream” speech inspired Curtis Mayfield to write “People Get Ready.” NPR’s Juan Williams said, “The train that is coming in the song speaks to a chance for redemption—the long–sought chance to rise above racism, to stand apart from despair and any desire for retaliation—an end to the cycle of pain.”
In the Public Speakers Hall of Fame, a select few have their own room. Think Abraham, Martin, and John. As Dion said, “All of them, gone too soon.” Dr. King’s power of persuasion combined with passionate belief and the intangible ability to "connect" with others is what set him apart. All the orators there are stars; he is the Northern Lights.
Then he was gone. The Peace Train got derailed. I became important. Black enclaves surround Temple University and I drove through them daily with the top down, 8–tracks of Smokey/Temptations/Supremes blaring. I always passed smiling faces; little ones often waved. For nearly five years Dr. King’s message of hope continued to reverberate from the Lincoln Memorial to every village and hamlet. We all saw clearly then. April 4, 1968 was a bright (Bright), bright (Bright), sunshiny day. I drove home that afternoon and young kids threw rocks at me. I struggled to put the top up, not daring to slow while I wrestled with it. Children yelled things I couldn't understand, but I knew they were words of hate. Rubbish cans were overturned on the sidewalks, their vile contents slithering into the streets. Hearts and minds went topsy–turvy.
What happened? I got home and found out Dr. King had been assassinated. A white man pulled the trigger. I understood the stones; the words of wrath; and I somehow knew that it was the end of an era. It was. (Ironically, an old Dylan song often played during this time said, “They’ll stone ya when you’re trying to go home… They’ll stone ya when you’re riding in your car.”) The world became a poorer place that day. Once again, they’d shot the messenger. That pestilent prejudice, on its way to extinction, returned to pervade society anew. Factions formed along race lines, fractious and ugly. Brother sounded like a mockery.
I’ve been saying, “People get ready, there’s a train a–comin’” for almost four decades now. Still, racial tensions thrive, racial tranquility tenuous. I haven't given up hope, but I may not have four more decades to wait. Hurry up, prove to me that period of harmony wasn't just a mug’s game. Send another to show us the stuff that dreams are made of. Please, a reprise.