FMT 4 --Chappie James at the Gate (I know, it's March; so sue me)

I had a tough week so I am posting the last February Mystery Tour a little late.  This last mystery is about history; Black History to be precise.  February is Black History Month, and, like the Equal Opportunity Program, is a source of controversy and more-than-a-little-shame, mostly because it became necessary to legislate it.  During February we see newspaper articles, TV messages, school emphasis and special events that hi-lite achievements by African-Americans that were often overlooked by history texts.  These things sometimes have a forced feel to them, probably because they are an afterthought to centuries of deliberate absence from mainstream culture.

People of my generation all heard of George Washington Carver in school, but that's about it for black notables.  Perhaps his agricultural contributions were too monumental to omit; but it seems just as likely that text authors felt they had "filled that square" by including him.  The mystery to me is why our culture hasn't caught up to the reality.  When, if ever, will it not be necessary to isolate and commemorate the contributions of any specific real or imagined division of humanity?

Well, enough intro--the real reason I wrote this entry was to tell one of my absolute favorite "war" stories, (and it's a timely one, too!) about General Daniel "Chappie" James Jr.  Gen James was the first African-American Four-Star General.  A Tuskegee Airman, a veteran fighter pilot of WWII, Korea and Viet Nam, his intelligence, wit and charm were accompanied by singular dedication to duty.  He was an inspiring public speaker, and it would surprise most that he spoke eloquently about Americanism and patriotism--particularly considering the obstacles he had to overcome.  If you want to know what his experience must have been like, look at Gen Colin Powell's book "My American Journey."  Powell came along years later than Gen James, and the racism he experienced in a much more modern world is still heartbreaking and maddening.

Ok, the story.  During WWII, the U.S. took over a Nazi air base in Libya near Tripoli.  Named Wheelus AB, it held many different air units over the years, and in August 1969, the Wing Commander was Chappie James.   Just one month after Gen James took command of the base, Libya's King Idris I was overthrown in a military coup led by, you got it, Col Moammar Qaddafi. Since Idris was a friend of the U.S., you can imagine that the coup gathered steam by vilifying America.  In short order, Qaddafi decided to flex his new muscles by personally parading vehicles through Wheelus Base Housing.  What follows is, I believe, the story of what happened in Gen James' own words:

“One day Khadafy ran a column of half tracks through my base—right through the housing area at full speed. I shut the barrier down at the gate and met Khadafy a few yards outside it. He had a fancy gun and a holster and kept his hand on it. I had my .45 in my belt. I told him to move his hand away. If he had pulled that gun, he never would have cleared his holster. They never sent any more half tracks.”

Apparently Qaddafi demanded the U.S. turn over all the facilities (and probably all aircraft and equipment) to him immediately.  Gen James stared him down, and Qaddafi blinked.  The U.S later abandoned the base in its own time, and in orderly fashion, in June 1970.

Years later, we returned to the former Wheelus AB and bombed the daylights out of it during Operation Eldorado Canyon.  For years Qadaffi's regime had been a vocal supporter of every terrorist group from the Red Army Faction to the Irish Republican Army, calling their attacks on all targets, including civilian, "heroic acts." Our operation was in retaliation for a terrorist attack on a German discotheque frequented by American servicemen, linked directly to Libyan agents.

Gen Daniel "Chappie" James suffered a heart attack and died 3 weeks after he retired from Air Force, at the age of 58.  An American original.

February Mystery Tour 3

A small mystery next--more introspective in nature.  I am wondering about the relationship of this blog to the web.

My very first blog entry in 2008 mentions how my oldest daughter, Katherine put me up to it.  The title is a little play on X-Files' "The Truth is Out There."  At the time I was curious about what stuff I might put into it over the months and, surprisingly, over the years.  Since then I have complained often about some aspect of daily life, written two poems, one (very) short story, and shamefully, embedded you tube videos of music I have enjoyed.  In some I try to be funny; in others, serious; in a couple, introspective.

Though I started this for my kids, I left the blog "public," meaning it is searchable on the web.  I figured over time some stranger might come across it and offer a comment or two.  In fact, this has happened only once, and the anonymous comment was about the blog entry "Put on your big boy pants and deal with it," from all the way back in 2008.  All other comments have been from friend or family.

I recently figured out how to monitor page visits, and said visits are few indeed.  However, I was shocked to find that, almost weekly, people are still visiting "big boy;" almost to the exclusion of all others, even the recent entries!  What, exactly, is the draw of "big boy pants," particularly amongst all the frangible, friable and/or thoroughly forgettable drivel I have posted?

Backing up for a moment, I want to comment on how hard it is to actually find my blog.  Unless you use very specific terms in Google, it is all but impossible.  Even when you type in the exact title of my blog, it is invisible to Yahoo, Ask, and Dogpile.  Likewise, if you search those 3  for "put on your big boy pants and deal with it," you will not find my blog.  You will, however, find Maureen McGowan's blog with an entry entitled "Put on your big girl pants."  What up with that?  (Kath, you might want to check out her site, she is a budding author). This is confusing-- both Maureen and I use blogspot.com for our platform--so how did I get missed?  For those who don't know, Blogger is a Google publishing tool--but why did those others find her and not me?

OK, back to big boy pants.  This is a very old cliche, seems to me it goes back to at least my childhood.  My titled entry was about coping with, and persevering through adversity.  First, it is about recognizing that almost nothing is so bad as it first seems; and second, if something really is that bad, well, buttercup, you'll just have to deal with it.  So the exact wording, if searched in Google, gets me the VERY FIRST ENTRY!!!  How cool is that?  Apparently when people use the old cliche they find themselves at my door.  Sadly, the entry must not be that engaging since no one ever comments; but I'm thinking of doing an update and see if that gets more attention.

There are other, similar euphemisms I can try for titles:
"Don't be a crybaby."
"Cry me a river."
"Are those violins I hear?"
"Suck it up/in."
"Grow a set/pair."
"Man-up, for crying out loud."
"It's better than a stick/poke in the eye."
"Get your head out your butt/a**/rectum."
"You appear to have suffered a cranial-anal inversion."
"Think much?"
"Hello, McFly, Hello?"
"Bueller?  Bueller?"

Um, well, losing the bead there... definitely want to stay away from copyrighted stuff.  Ok, which of these do you think might actually get some hits?  Ah, time will tell...

February Mystery Tour 2

Rhyming riddles are lots of fun,
though it is rare when I solve one.
Below are two on which I thought,
I got one right; the other, naught.

After that I give two more,
so simple, you can raise your score!
I could not make the last two rhyme,
I frankly didn't have the time.

Answers, tomorrow.

1. From Lewis Carroll:

John gave his brother James a box,
About it there were many locks.
James woke and said it gave him pain,
So he gave it back to John again.
The box was not with lid supplied,
Yet caused two lids to open wide.
And all these locks had never a key,
What kind of box, then, could it be?

2. Compliments to Riddles.com:

Four men sat down to play.
They played all night till break of day.
They played for gold and not for fun,
With separate scores for everyone.
When they had come to square accounts,
They all had made quite fair amounts.
Can you the paradox explain,
If no one lost, how all could gain?

Two for the road:

3. Why does the barber in Oatmeal, Nebraska, say he'd rather shave ten skinny men than one fat one?

4. One of the fastest runners alive once claimed he was so fast he could turn off the light in his bedroom and get into his bed before the room went dark.  On one occasion, he proved it.  How?

February Mystery Tour 1

I've decided I will write at least one blog entry a week in February and dedicate each to some small mystery.  Warning: I make no promise that I will solve the mystery for the curious reader; maybe yes, maybe no.  Have you ever noticed that part of the wonder lies in wondering?

My children routinely amaze me with their dynamically eclectic taste in music.  All three have journeyed all over the musical map, no destination too remote.  This one is for them...

I have two music pieces in mind. Kids, here is proof that I have found and listened to some Indie music all on my own.  What follows is a piece by The Twang.  I love it when people transmit their joy through their music, and these guys just seem to be having a great time, and the crowd too. 

"F*** it all Manchester, I think this is one of the best nights of me life."




Here is a special treat, one you can crank up and float away on.  Let the video mesmerize you, or do something else while you listen, either way it's tough not to be travelling somehow when you hear this song.  Sometimes the You Tube comments tell a neat little story about the vids:

"I went to see Rocky Votolato at a festival on the other side of Washington. Me and my friend found these guys outside of a motel room. We smoked with them and played hacky sack for a while then they gave us a cd and we saw them the next day at the show. I was really surprised whenever I find a band and they give me a cd they usually suck but this band is incredible. "


Just nice.  Here is Mimicking Birds.

"...dark matter and toxic fumes...it's just a dusty interstellar saloon..."



So what's the mystery?  Each of these songs has a particular, special meaning to me; one has very deep, even painful meaning; the other just served to be a pleasant little surprise.  Which is which and why?  Sorry, not telling... 

The Past Speaks in Present Tense

Thursday, January 20, 7:05 AM.

I pull myself out of bed and reach for my cell phone, which is my alarm clock.  Fumble, and turn off the alarm.  I really, really don't want to get up.  Recently I added five minutes to 7AM; what's five more minutes I thought.  Slip on slippers, pull on a shirt and walk, slowly, to the laundry room.  I washed his colors last night, there are clean jeans and and a long-sleeve shirt in the dryer.  As I reach in a thought strikes me, I close the door and start a cycle.  I'll heat them up for him, the house is chilly.  It will only take a couple minutes, but to save time while it heats up I begin the lunch ritual.

I try to keep my reusable grocery bag with me for the odd shopping trip, but failing that, I save and re-use the plastic bags for Jake's lunch.  I take one from the pile on the dryer, and mentally check off the stops as I walk into the kitchen.  Fridge: take the baby carrots, a juice box, and the grape jelly.  Deposit them on the stove, where I will construct the finished product.  To the pantry: for the peanut butter, Pringles and a snack--a cupcake or an oatmeal cookie.  Back to the stove, all now in place.  I turn and wash my hands at the sink, dry off, and take a paper towel to the stove.  The towel is my clean workbench.

Construction order is always: easy first, hard last.  The juice and snack go straight into the bag, already packaged.  A short stack of Pringles goes into a sandwich baggie, then the baby carrots, also into their own little bag.  I vary the number of carrots between 4, 5 and 6, then ask him at the end of the day how many there were as proof that he ate them.  He usually gets it right.  Now I'm down to the sandwich, always PB&J.  Deep sigh.  No, first I'll do the clothes.

I wake him by tossing the shirt and pants on his blanket and say, like always, "Put these on and you can put your head back down for a while."  Not yet old enough to care much about his appearance--I won't let him leave looking shabby, so I orchestrate this.  Back to the kitchen for the toughest task, the PB&J.

So far my actions are mechanical; now I have to wake up completely.  The PB&J requires careful thought, more than the rest combined.  Spread the PB so as to get the corners; spread the jelly the same way, but thinly (he once complained I put it on too thick!--I didn't think that was possible).  Don't rip the soft bread, and cut it carefully to get it into the baggie cleanly, or else there'll be a mess when he takes it out. Yes, I could do all this the night before, but there is something lacking in an "old" PB&J from the fridge.

As I do this for my stepson, I think back to the same actions I took for my own children.  I wonder if they knew I took the same care when I made their sandwiches, many years ago.  Then as now, I felt love when I made their lunches, and wonder if they knew that.  I wonder if they thought "my dad made this" and "he must love me" as they tore into it.  Probably not; school lunch for me was all about where you sat, and with whom.  Not saying it didn't happen, but I can't recall ever being thanked for filling those little lunch boxes.  Did I ever thank my mom?  Are thanks called for for even the mundane, repetitive tasks?

It is at this point I remember something long forgotten, and completely out of the blue.  Grandma once told me I was severely pigeon-toed as a toddler; doctors said my legs would have to be surgically broken to fix this, but mom and dad didn't buy it.  They kept looking until they found one who said braces could gradually turn my feet outward.  I told my grandma I didn't recall any braces--she said they were so painful, and I fussed so much, that my parents waited until I slept each night to put them on, then took them off in the morning--and this went on for many months.  Suddenly one of my earliest memories came back, constantly being told to point my feet outward, not inward!  I remembered it was a big deal to everybody, but I didn't know why.

As I reflect on this at the stove, I know that love is shown through actions, especially the tough ones, even more especially, the little ones.  And I realize, I never thanked my parents for the patience, the determination, and the love that went into those braces.  Maybe they just thought of it as a burden of parenting, but I know what it really was.  "You'll understand when you have your own children."  That's all that need be said. 

On this day, Thursday the 20th of January, I understand.  Love is a chain of understanding that links the generations forwards and backwards.   My love for my parents and my children are both give and take; both reverent service and grateful thanks.  Part of a chain that, I am certain, will one day link my children with theirs, and with their mom and me.  The love with which a task is performed is its own thanks. Knowing this, and having what I have, I am such a lucky man.

Saxophone Memories

About 7 weeks ago the eleven year-old started sax lessons.  The first 2 weeks he couldn't even get a pure note out, and I was, like, WTH are they teaching him in that class?  At the end of his first week, I had to retrieve him from school because he had been suspended for the day by his music teacher for misbehaving.  That's not like him at all, and I'm thinking that this music class is a bust. Well, 7 weeks later and somehow we have a 180--I don't know what happened; he is actually quite good.  His music teacher says he has improved tremendously--he is in the first seat most of the time.  And he seems motivated--last night he took his sax out and practiced before AND AFTER he did his regular homework.

At this point, I'm actually getting excited.  He's not particularly athletic, and I told him if he kept at it and became really good he could maybe get a scholarship to a good college.  I thought, hey, let's look online for some examples of musicians who make a living at this, and listen to how some of their work sounds.  Among other things, I found a blog from a guy who did a rating of various sax solos from the 80's.  He included some applet that allowed you to play the sax solo from each song he "rated."  Here's the link if you're interested; you might be surprised and pleased at the gems you find:
http://imacomputa.org/sax/

But the online excursion was good news and bad.  Bad news, I couldn't get the kid interested in the music we found--I'm not sure what his niche will be if he does in fact become a sax aficionado.  On the good side though, it reacquainted me with some great tunes from the 80's that, as it turns out, had at least one thing in common: sax solos.  I never realized how many great songs had a sax interlude.  They ranged from a basic, moody bridge, like in Tear Us Apart by INXS; to the manic, integral instrumentation of one of my favs, Trouble in Paradise by Huey Lewis and the News.

Below is another fav, Icehouse's Electric Blue. The talented lead singer and song writer Iva Davies sports the absolute last word in mullets.  He co-wrote this song with John Oates of Hall and Oates, another mullet pioneer.



Every list of top sax players I found has Charlie Parker, now deceased, as number one.  I plan to find some of his stuff and try it out on Jake.  One guy I've listened to a lot is David Sanborn--he does jazz-fusion stuff and he's pretty amazing.  However, I really must embed Trouble in Paradise.  As an example of popular work, the sax in this is absolutely nuts, and is integral to the song overall.  For one thing, it's too much for one guy--there are two different soloists, and two more players on harmony!  God I love this song--and I love the 80s!



 Ah, it seems nobody does this stuff anymore...

I Really Like Peggy. But Shame On You! Me!

I just finished Bob Newhart's memoir "I Shouldn't Even Be Doing This," a quick and fun read.  Newhart is one of the pantheon of "original" comedians, meaning his style was unique and refreshing when he came along. Over the years my family has enjoyed telling me how much I look like him, or he looks like me, or whatever. It would be a compliment to say I was funny like him; but looking like him--not so much.

But I do love to laugh, and I chuckled out loud a couple times reading his book.  Bob said he didn't feel humor should be analyzed too much, parsed and dissected so as to become un-funny.  His public humor is of the gentle sort, but privately he is capable of some perversity, as he claims are all comedians--such is the nature of the comedic mind.  Still, it would be a stretch to say any of Bob's humor has ever offended anybody.

There have always been comedians who reap laughs using shocking statements, often leaving the audience with some guilt feelings about their response.  Ethnic humor has haunted the shadows for many years but still sneaks into the daylight from time to time and may even be making a comeback (SNL actually used a Polish joke last week, I have to say I didn't see it coming).  And some TV commercials also brush with the ethnic taboo; enter Peggy.

Peggy is a foreign-outsourced phone service operator for a bank card.  Reinforcing  the obvious extreme cultural disconnect, Peggy is not a woman, but instead a misnamed Caucasian teddy-bear of a man with a voice that should be reading children's stories on Public Radio.  His English is broken and he omits some verbs, articles, and the odd participle.  He seems to be based in some frozen East European country, working from a slap-dash shack with a support staff right out of the Beverly Hillbillies.  My guilt confession: Peggy is hilarious.

There are 4 or 5 ad spots of consumers dealing with Peggy.  After briefly digesting the name/voice disconnect, the earnest customer attempts to conduct business over the phone but is met with obfuscation, misdirection and inevitable disappointment.  Peggy is willing to do something, but that something will assuredly fail to meet the need.  Peggy is alternately simple, confused, and/or downright devious, and the message is clear: outsourcing is inherently evil and substandard service will ensue. It is also (gasp), funny.

Should I really be laughing at this?  Maybe if I break it down, I'll find I'm not laughing at ethnicity.  Let's see, the name--yeah, that could happen to anybody, lots of things are lost in translation.  How about the English?  Well, I can only imagine how I'd sound in Paris after 4 years of C+ high school French, but I'm not trying to resolve someone's over limit fee, either. Maybe the real villain is greedy corporate America, for sending jobs overseas and making a mess of it.  Come to think of it, they are real life villains. 


Ok, lets cut to the chase.  I, too, have dealt with outsourced call service centers, it wasn't funny.  None of them were evil, per se.  Any problems I had stemmed from language pronunciation, which tended to drag out the conversation.  What these commercials do is make fun of a situation, and they want you to use their product.  In this regard Peggy and company are guilty of an unforgivable sin--the commercial is so funny you forget to  associate it with the product.  After seeing these ads for months I had to look up the product for this blog--it's the Discover Card. Apparently those guys keep it real, and keep it in the States.  Too bad, I still won't be applying for the card.

Well, I better close, NBC is running episodes of "Outsourced" back to back, and I don't want to miss one minute of those crazy Indians.  Oh that Manmeet!  Where do they get those names?