Dear Dr. Trump...

I was fascinated by your advice yesterday. After your informative press conference, I tried your bleach suggestion, I mixed Clorox with a packet of instant lemonade in a beer glass. I couldn't get it down. 

Knowing it would protect me, I came up with a solution, multiple small doses. I put 10 packets of lemonade mix into a one-gallon jug of Clorox, then put the jug in my freezer, it was a tight fit, so I ate the gallon of strawberry ice cream I had to remove to get the bleach mixture in the freezer. 

Two hours later, I poured the chilled mixture into a shot glass. Using the shot glass method the chilled bleach was easy to get down, I didn't know the exact dosage you'd recommend. I figured 10 shots would be a good initial dosage.

When my wife came home from work, she's an ER nurse, she said, "What the hell are you doing with that bleach and look at the mess you've made in the kitchen!" 

At that point, I couldn't talk and my eyes were watering, I was so weak, I couldn't get off the floor. My wife said, "You're a disgusting bastard, spending your day drinking and watching Fox news, I'm going to bed and this mess better be cleaned up before I go back to work tomorrow." 
Sir, I was unable to respond. 

Dr. Trump, by this point, my stomach felt like it was on fire, every time I belched the lining of my throat feels like it's going to fly out of my mouth, my head is pounding, my ears are ringing, I have chest pains and I'm having trouble breathing. 

Luckily, several hours later, my wife got up to pee and when she finished, she checked on me, I was curled in a ball on the kitchen floor. She assessed the situation, cut a ten-inch section out of my new garden hose. jammed it on the turkey baster and pumped my stomach right there on the kitchen floor. When she finished, she said, "It's a damned good thing you ate a gallon of ice cream before you drank that shit, otherwise I'd be calling the coroner." With that, she stomped off to bed and locked the door.

Dr. Trump, I'm still shaky and the headache won't go away, I can breathe somewhat better. I am concerned about the continuing chest pain, I asked my wife about it, she said, "You're an idiot, don't talk to me."

Since she left for work, I've been thinking, what do you think about using powdered bleach in time-release capsules? Could you have Jared look into that? Maybe bleach in suppository form? Although after my morning sit-down I did notice some blood, so maybe that isn't a good idea.

My neighbor Larry and I are working on mercury battery-powered UV lights. Larry thinks if we use those small disc-shaped mercury hearing aid batteries attached to a UV bulb we'll be able to get the powerful disinfecting light inside our bodies.  Larry and I know the batteries will be easy to swallow (we both swallowed two yesterday after your press conference) they go down nicely with a good gulp of beer. Larry wants to know if you have a source for small UV light bulbs so we can further our research. 

I've attached my contact information, so it will be easy for Jared to get back to me. 

Thank you and God Bless you, sir, I'm a big man (my wife says that's what saved my fat ass from bleach poisoning) and I have tears in my eyes. 

Make America Great Again!

Not Stupid, Evil...

How hard is this to understand?

The government is giving small businesses money during the crisis, they are passing it out with no strings. The money is called a loan, but it will be forgiven if you follow the "rules". 

Right.

The most important thing right now is to get the money to people who need it, you know the workers. These "loans" kinda, sorta, require that but they don't.

In simple terms, if it costs you $1,000 a month to run your business and your operating costs (rent, payroll, etc) are $900. The first requirement to get your loan should be, PAY YOUR EMPLOYEES! Send them home, send them their paychecks. If you do that, you'll be ready to open up when things return to normal. The bonus is this, your employees will continue to pay the rent or mortgage, they'll pay taxes, social security, medicare and that helps everybody and of course the money you pay them will circulate back into the economy. 

You get a nice bonus too. 

1. The people who work for you will be appreciative and think you're a decent human being and they will come back to work happy and healthy the day you open the doors.
2. Your day to day operating costs will drop while the doors are locked, like gas, electricity. You won't have to buy as much shit as you normally do.
3. If you're smart you can put some of this money back into your business, maybe even set up a rainy day fund. Update your clunky ass computer system, hire somebody to wash your dirty windows.
4. You get to pay yourself.

Of course, this is hard to do when we have a Treasury Secretary who thinks a $1200 check with the president's signature on it will last the average person 10 fucking weeks.

Lydia, Mammy Frances and my mother...

To be close to dad in his last phase of Army Air Corps training, before he left for war, Mom rented a room in an antebellum mansion in Laurinburg-Maxton, North Carolina from Mrs. Lydia Tyson. In North Carolina, mom was on her own. Two women, who became her life-long friends Bea and Moly's pilot husbands were sent to other bases. Mom was frightened and lonely when she got off the train in Laurinburg-Maxton.

Mrs. Lydia Tyson's, the widow of a prominent local banker, contribution to the war effort was to rent one bedroom out of 5 to my mother. My mother was 19 years old.

Mrs. Tyson had her "help". Fred and his wife "Mammy". Fred and Mammy lived in a small house behind the big house. Fred took care of the yard, the garden and the outside of the house, Mammy cooked, did laundry and cleaned. 

Fred in addition to his other duties was Mrs. Tyson's chauffeur. 
Some of Fred's days were taken up driving Mrs. Tyson to the bank (she was still the majority partner) dropping her off at the country club for lunch, taking her to local events, bond rallies, and church. On Wednesday evenings and Sunday, he drove her to church, If Fred was mowing the grass or trimming the hedges and Mrs. Tyson needed to go somewhere, Fred would run back to the little house, slip on a jacket and a tie, put his hat on his head, back the black Packard out of the garage. Fred would drive up next to the house, open the big car's door for Mrs. Tyson and off they'd go.

Fred's wife Mammy was in charge of the house. Mammy's given name was Frances, the same as my mother's Uncle Jim's wife. As mom told me many times, "I liked Mammy Frances much better than my own Aunt Frances."

Mom could only see dad one day a week leaving her 6 days with Mrs. Tyson and Frances. They treated my mother like a daughter, this lonely girl far from home was sheltered by their wings. 

Mrs. Tyson and mom would read books and discuss them, they followed the war news together on a big console radio. They loved poetry, drama, plays and of course, movies. They went to a movie together every week.

When mom was bored she would offer to help Mammy Frances with her housework, getting a stern, "I got this child, you just sit there and talk to me."  One day, by request, mom read to Mammy while she worked. Mammy gave her Langston Huges, W.E.B. Dubois and Zora Hurston to read. Mom read Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Faulkner to Frances in return. 

Mammy Frances and mom listened to music together, it was the first time mom heard the blues, gospel music and the black big bands. Mom liked it. 

Mom would get dressed, white gloves and all, to go shopping with Mrs. Tyson, they rode in the back seat of the Packard, Fred drove. 

Mom would get dressed up to go to the market with Mammy, Mom rode in the backseat, Mammy Frances rode upfront with Fred. When they shopped together Mammy Frances insisted Mom walk a few feet in front of her. "Cuz that's the way it is, Miss Janice."

Mom and Mammy Frances were Roosevelt Democrats, Mrs. Tyson was a Democrat too, but like most Southern Democrats in the 40s, she had her qualms about Mr. Roosevelt. Politics in the Tyson household stayed on the back burner, turned down low.

Both women gave my mother love and companionship when she needed all the support she could get. They knew mom was worried, she only had a few months left with my dad. They became mom's family when she was so far from her own. 

Mrs. Tyson, the genteel Southern lady, prim and proper, the daughter of slave owners and confederates. Mammy Frances, the daughter of slaves. They both treated my mother like she was their own. They held her when she was lonely, they dried her tears and listened to her fears. Mom was their Miss Janice. She belonged to these two childless women. Their daughter.

Mrs. Tyson taught my mother, with Mammy Frances help, how to make Pecan pie, made with pecans Fred shook off the big tree in the yard. 

Mom learned to cook Mrs. Tyson's favorite fried chicken, fried skinless and to cook Mammy's fried chicken with the skin still on. Cream gravy at our house was done Mammy Frances style served at a table set Mrs. Tyson style. We ate Southern buttery breakfasts with potato patties, basted eggs, and thick-cut bacon, our green beans were always cooked with a bit of ham, bacon or pork. 

Best of all, Mammy Frances taught mom the intricacies of cooking North Carolina Wet BBQ. Smokey, sweet, tart, tangy and oh so good. I can close my eyes and taste it. I remember mom fishing around in the bottom of the big, black roasting pan with a fork and finding a piece of pork and saying,  "this is the best part." It was, thanks to Mammy Frances

When Mom came home to North Dakota after dad left for England. She returned with the love of those two Southern ladies in her heart and her eyes. 

Mammy Frances and Mrs. Tyson sent their Miss Janice letters. Cards at Christmas and her birthday for years. My mom answered of course. She sent them my birth announcement. My mother told me later, "If we lived closer, you'd have two more grandmothers."

Mrs. Tyson wrote my grandparents a letter, "Mrs. Franklin If I had a daughter of my own.." it began.

I can't forget Fred, he'd bag up pecans from the big tree every year and send them north to Miss Janice. 

An all too short love affair...

A gorgeous Saturday afternoon in late April 1963. 

I'm a 17-year-old high school senior, sitting on the front steps waiting for one of buddy's to pick me. 

My dad's and mom's friends, Ed, and his wife pull into our driveway in a red, 1963 Jaguar XKE. 

My jaw drops, I've never seen an E Type except in car magazines. Ed hops out, tosses me the keys and says "Take it for a ride." Ed heads for the backyard to see my dad, Nomi, his wife joins my mom in the kitchen.

I'm stunned and amazed or dazed and confused in my 501 Levis, gray t-shirt and Converse All-Stars standing in the driveway with the Jag key fob in my hand.

Some background on the Jaguar XKE: 

The E Type was as good as automobiles could be in 63, it was sleek, fast with a racing heritage going back to the Jaguar D Type racing cars of the 50s. 
The E Type was a scarce commodity worldwide and they were expensive for the time. They are even more expensive today. 
The E Type is still considered to be one of the most beautiful cars ever built and is the only car in the collection of the New York Museum of Modern Art. 

I slip into the tan, the Brits call it Bisquit, leather bucket seat, Ed is short so I slide the seat back and adjust the backrest. My arms are extended with a slight bend at the elbows, hands at 10 and two on the wood-rimmed steering wheel.

My right hand naturally falls to the shift lever, into neutral, start the Jag's overhead cam straight-six. It comes to life. Parking brake off and I back onto the street. Minutes later I'm heading south on US 81. 

A few miles out of town, I shift the Jag down into 2nd gear, run the tach to redline, shift to 3rd and on into 4th. A moment later the speedometer reads a tick over 120. I'm in teenage gear head heaven. 

I'm frustrated all the roads are too damn straight, I want curves, sweeping curves, banked curves, tight curves. I know where a few are, they're west of Thompson. I put the E Type through its paces. The Jag is fast in a straight line and fast on the twisties too. The car sounds magnificent especially when its wound up.

Back in town, I drive by my girlfriend's house, not home. Her mother gives me the evil eye. I drive to the Kegs Drive-in and tool slowly by. Kids are breaking their necks to see the Jag. 

I see my friends, 

"We came by to get you and your dad said you out driving around in a Jag, we didn't believe him."

Three car rides later I see my girlfriend, she leaps out of her friend's car and joins me. 

"Is this better than your Prom night in the Corvette?"

"Are you kidding?" She says and kisses me on the cheek.

"Be tough to park in this wouldn't it?" She gives me a punch on the arm, but she knows its true. 

We drove around and show the Jag off, downtown, the tennis courts, the campus and Riverside park. The Jag puts smiles on most people's faces. 

A local leather-jacketed hood flipped me the bird as we drove by. I slowed down and said, "Remember when I kicked your ass in junior High, pull over and I'll do it again." He didn't ake me up on my offer. 

A local cop, the nemesis of every teenage driver glared at me, I said nothing and stared straight ahead and purred away from the light.
It was over too soon, I drove home thanked, Ed. My girl and I had a coke with the adults and left in my 57 Chevy Belair which I held in total disdain other than the fact it was good for parking.

DJB and Me...

San Diego around 9 at night, DJB and I are in Old Town. We're eating at a little place, the kind of Mexican restaurant with a tiny, old Latina making fresh tortillas in the front window. Damn, they're good. We're drinking cold beer, we've had fish tacos, carnitas, ceviche, we're eating our way through the menu. At 10:30  we decide to drive to Ensenada. I don't even remember why. It was a good idea at the time. What the hell, it's only 89 miles away, a short ride down the coast.

We climb in DJB's Silverado, silver and red Silverado, a single cab with a toolbox bolted in the bed. We cross the border and get lost in Tijuana.

"Hey there Hor-hey, how the hell do we get to En-sen-nay-da?" A Mexican guy and his wife, look at DJB like he's crazy, never the less he points us in the right direction.

It's a beautiful drive down the coast. A full moon, the Pacific Ocean is on the right, beautiful beaches and a smooth 2 lane asphalt road, no traffic.  

I get thirsty, open a couple of cold Tecates and hand DJB a bottle, he takes a massive pull and slips the bottle between his legs. We've got the windows down and the radio is blasting a million watt Tijuana oldies station. DJB is driving a nice steady 80. 

Time flies, a couple more Tecates and we're at the harbor. It's 1 in the morning. Nothing is open. We see a local strolling down the street, DJB stops. The guy looks at us like we're crazy.  The Mexican, in perfect English, tells us, "There's only one place open, a late-night place. Alfredo's Sea Boy Bar."

We find Alfredo's, park the Silverado. The Sea Boy has no door, just a greasy curtain.  We pull back the curtain when we do everyone in the bar turns and stares at the two gringos in the doorway. Even the music stopped. It's a scene from a movie and we're in it.

Dennis and I make our way to the bar. At the end of the bar, there is a big guy, his back to the wall, it's Alfredo himself. We order tequila shots and a couple of Tecates from the bartender, a hawk-faced woman with a scar that runs from her hairline, down her left cheek and curves off under her chin. Alfredo later tells us that her boyfriend's wife carved her up one night in a fit of temper. 

We've become friends with Alfredo because his brother lives in Chicago. He likes us so much he gets up, goes behind the bar and pours us samples of tequila. The consensus, Sauva Commemorative. Alfredo joins us in shot knocking. God only knows how many we have as the hours' pass. We've become Alfredo's mejores amigos, 

Dennis and I are now part of the late-night gang at the Sea Boy. 

Making my 3rd or 4th trip to the hellish restroom, as I'm standing at the open trough, I can see the sun coming up through the slit window above me. I wash my hands in the rusty water and head back to the bar. 

"Dennis, the sun is coming up, we need to get back. Dennis and I get into an argument. He claims, "It's not sunrise, it's the false dawn." 
I have to show him my watch 6 times to convince him we have to go. We are embraced by Alfredo, the scar-faced woman gives us a sneer. 

Out on the street, Dennis spots a stray dog, he takes off after it. He's yelling, "Com ere, don't you want to move to the United States like every other Mexican?" He can't catch the dog, he stumbles back, out of breath. "You see that dog? Damn, he was nice, I really wanted that dog."

Back on the road, Dennis lasts about ten miles, "You gotta drive, I can't do it." 

I get behind the wheel, Dennis gets his sleeping bag out of the toolbox, rolls it out in the bed of the Silverado, climbs in and passes out. 

I'm driving my ass off to get back to San Diego, my plane to Boston is at noon, I have to be at the airport at 11 and I haven't packed yet.

At the border, the agent asks me, "Country of birth?"
"USA."
"How about your buddy in the back?"
Dennis sticks his out of the sleeping and says "Fort Knox, Kentucky, goddammit." We make it through and I didn't have to declare the quart of Sauza Commemorative Alfredo sold me at cost.

I made it home, I'm still alive, but sometimes I wonder how I made it this far. Dennis is too and wonders the same damn thing. 

Johnny and June's granddaughter...

One night I was working late, almost 8. I locked up my office and was about to head home, I noticed Scotty was still at his desk, We decided to cross Boylston Street and have a beer at the Boylston Brewery, we sat at the bar ordered from the bartender, somehow during our 2nd beer Scott brought up Johnny Cash. The bartender said, "You like Johnny Cash?"

'Who doesn't like Johnny Cash?"
The bartender smiled, "I love Johnny Cash, he's my grandpa." she turned and moved down the bar to wait on another customer.
Scott looked at me and said, "What the hell did she say?"
"She said she's Johnny's granddaughter."
"No way."
"We'll see when she comes back." We drank our beers and waited.

The pretty bartender comes back, we get her story. 

Anastasia is Carlene Carter's daughter, her stepfather is Nick Lowe, her grandmother is June Carter Cash and her great grandmother is Mother Maybelle Carter, she adds, "Mother Maybelle taught me to play the guitar." Johnny Cash is her step-grandfather, "He loves me like I'm his own."

Anastasia was a student at Berkeley School of Music, it's just down the street from Boylston Brewery. Anastasia is off again, down the bar to serve a few more beer drinkers. We wait.

Anastasia split time between her parents, she went to school in London and lived with her father, holidays and summers in Nashville. She said it was fun but schizoid. 

She said Christmas with her grandparents was the best, "You'd never know who would show up and of course they'd all go down to the music and play songs, laugh and sing."
"Are there tapes?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Will, we ever hear them?"
"That's up to John Carter."
"Who is on the tapes?"
"Everybody."

Tiffany ( her first name) Anastasia Lowe graduated from Berkeley, she is now writing songs, wrote a hit for Selena Gomez, doing some acting. Of course, her grandmother wrote a song about her.

It was nice to meet the grandchild of two American Legends.

Pretty little Sheila, you'll know...

George, Eric and I always laughed about the winter we spent in Florida, me cooking a good meal, heavy drinking and watching "Cops" and other lousy TV with the dog sitting on George's lap...

Here's my side of the story.

One night I was at a charity event in West Palm, I was wandering around after the event, mingling with the crowd enjoying a fine Cuban cigar, I think it was a Fuentas. I heard a woman's voice with an English accent. "Do you have a light?"
I  lit her English Oval and we chatted, we had a drink, another. Her name was Sheila, she was blonde, blue-eyed and her face was almost too perfect. More on that later.

I gave her a ride home, we started to date. 

Sheila had a lovely house on a lake in West Palm, she had a poodle. Her poodle and my dog got along just like Sheila and I got along. Our dogs played, so did Sheila and I. 

Sheila looked like the English actress Diana Dors, maybe better. When you looked closely at her face, it was almost too perfect, it was symmetrical. 

Have you ever taken a mirror and held it in the middle of your face? The reflection shows your entire face, but only one side reflected as one. It's disconcerting.

When Sheila was 13, she was riding with her parents, she was in the backseat. Her father's car ran into the back of a lorry. Sheila was thrown between the seats and smashed her face into the dashboard of her father's Jaguar. Broken nose, broken cheekbones, lost teeth, and a skull fracture. Her face was destroyed. As she said, "I went from a pretty, happy girl to an unhappy monster in a split second." 

Sheila's father was a doctor, after much consultation with his peers, he sent her to a hospital in Switzerland, 18 months later, Sheila had her face back. (Sheila built a consulting business working with Doctors and psychologists, along with beauty experts to help people like her adjust to their new reality after injuries.)

When people first met Sheila she could be intimidating, but she was warm and funny in a typical understated English way. One evening we were in line, waiting for a table at a restaurant in Palm Beach. Guys kept staring at Sheila, a lot of them were focusing on her boobs. A middle-aged guy was especially enamored, Sheila said, "Look at them all you want, I've had them since I was 13 and it doesn't bother me in the least."

Orly Knutson and his wife the lovely Judy, came to Flordia to stay with me for a week.  When Judy met Sheila, she told me later. "She was so intimidating, her face, her hair, that body and her sense of overwhelming confidence, I was ready to hate her. She won me over in 10 minutes." 

I knew that feeling.

Through January, February, and into March, Sheila and I were inseparable. If I wasn't at her house, she was at mine. I had a small swimming pool. (it took up my entire tiny backyard) Shelia would sunbathe and swim topless. My elderly neighbor would stand, peering through the tall hedge on his side of the fence and water the same flowers for hours. Of course, it wasn't long before his wife put a stop to that. 

Things between us were going "swimmingly" or so it seemed. Towards the end of March, I took Sheila to the Palm Beach Film Festival. The festival was a celebration of Alfred Hitchcock. Tippie Hedren and Janet Leigh were the speakers. The festival was a black-tie event. Sheila looked like a movie star in an understated white silk gown. She charmed everyone she met. I was more than happy to stand in her glow.

After the festival, we drove to her house on the lake. I parked in her driveway, Sheila put her hand on my arm, "Robert, we're going to have to take a break for 3 weeks."

"Why?"

"My husband will be here, he's finished his project in Spain and he has some time before the next begins."

"Your husband?"

"Yes, we have an agreement."

I looked Sheila in the eyes and said, "Get the fuck out of my car!"
She did, I jammed my black BMW into reverse, burned rubber in her driveway and did the same on the street in front of her house.

I was mad and heart-broken. I had tickets for Sheila and me to fly to North Dakota for my father's Memorial service. I wanted my family to meet her.

Sheila called me off and on for a few months, one night she told me I "Should grow up". I told her to fuck off for the 2nd time. that was the end. 

It was the beginning of my weekends with George and Eric and my 7 months of monkish exile.  I emerged from the monastery for George's birthday dinner in October. I hadn't been out since March.

That night I met Cakes. 

trump's EPA wants to turn back the clock

Get rid of mileage and emission standards, great idea from the administration. Great for the oil companies, do you understand why? Because you'll burn more gasoline, that's why. That and you'll dirty the air more than it already is, that's just the bonus.

Since the original emission standards were issued a million years ago in the 60s, the cars we drive have gotten more efficient. How have they gotten so much more efficient, engineering that's how?

Out here on the left coast, there are a lot of well preserved old cars on the road, you see them everywhere on the weekend. When you stop behind one, let's say its a beautiful 57 Chevy Belair two-door hardtop, maybe a sharp black with a white top or better yet a red example. As you admire the perfect 63-year-old car in front of you, you begin to notice a smell, it's nasty, a bad smell. What you're smelling is unburned gasoline and the by-product of inefficient combustion. When the old Chevy pulls away from the light, you'll see a trail of transparent black smoke, unburned gasoline, and other bad stuff. If you're like me, you roll up the windows and turn on the AC, it's that bad.

American automakers fought the new rules, they kept adding air pumps and filters to knock the emission levels back. At the same time, they were trying to get the EPAs rules relaxed. The Japanese said, "Okay we'll just design some clean and highly efficient engines and play by the new rules."  Guess what? they sold millions of cars.

In the bad old days, gasoline engines used around 40% of the energy in a gallon of gasoline, today's engines use over 60 percent. Racing engines utilize close to 90%, that's why small-displacement Formula 1 engines can produce 875 to 1,000 horsepower from 1.6 liters.

Gas was cheap in the old days (not really, but that's another discussion) even though our 57 Chevy V8 was sucking gas to the tune of 13.1 MPG at a nice steady 60 miles an hour, only 16% of 57 Chevy owners complained about mileage. If you stepped that shiny Chevy up to today's Freeway speed the MPG dropped to the low 12 range. Was the Chevy quick? Nope, it did do 0-60 in 9.7 seconds, making it very sluggish by today's standards, and it clocked the quarter-mile in 17.5 seconds at 77mph. A base model 2020 Honda Civic sedan, 4 cylinders with an automatic can lay waste to the Belair Power Pack and it gets 37 MPG on the highway. The Turbo Charged 4 banger Civic is faster than all the vaunted 60s muscle cars and gets almost 3 times the gas mileage.

If you review all the muscle car road tests, you'll find that the plain jane, everyday family car Toyota Camry sedan with a V6 and automatic transmission is faster than any of the muscle cars of the 60s and early 70s. Even my V8 powered 4900 pound, 4 wheel drive Grand Cherokee is faster than a Camaro Z28. and my Jeep gets better mileage. I can pull and Airstream Sport trailer with the Jeep -and get better mileage than the Z28 or any of its sister ships.

A BMW 330 will kill the much toted "Factory Experimental" cars of the era and do it with the air conditioning on.

Things are much, much better today than in the good old days. I had a 57 Chevy with a Powerpack 283, not only was it a slug by today's standards, it needed a tuneup every 4,000 miles and the brakes were worthless.

Why are things better today, simple, efficiency forced on the manufacturers by emission regulations by the EPA. The smart people at the carmakers went to work gave us better mileage, cleaner air and one hell of a lot more performance.

It is not a time to go backward at the behest of the fossil fuel industry.

One last note, my 57 Chevy couldn't do a 200 mile round trip on one tank of gas. The oil companies loved cars like that, they wish we all drove them again.

Doctor Jim's Story...

Our old pal, family friend Doctor Jim (RIP) related his story one night in Mystic Connecticut after a day of sailing. 

We were staying in his guest room and I noticed a picture of him in uniform, I knew he'd been an Army doc, but in the picture, I noticed he had Airborne wings on his class A uniform. I asked him about the wings.

"Funny story about those, the Army paid for my medical school and I owed them 2 years for each year I was in school. I went on active duty for 2 years in 1960, then I was transferred to the reserve, one weekend a month and a summer camp that I spent in an Army Hospital for 2 weeks. 

In the summer of 67, I was called to active duty for an indefinite period of time. I didn't even know that was in my agreement, but it was. They needed orthopedic surgeons and I fit the bill. 

I went to a refresher course at Fort Sam and the next thing I knew I was on a plane to Vietnam. I was assigned to an Evacuation Hospital and went to work. 

Depending on what was going on, were either lounging around or working 18-20 hours a day. 

During the Tet Offensive, I was working three cases at a time. I had one anesthetist, one OR Nurse, and three OR techs all of us working on three patients at a time. Fast and furious work. I was trying to save legs and arm, hands, anything, and everything. I did more amputations during that week than I'd done in 5 years of private practice. It was brutal. 

When my tour was up, I was sent to Walter Reed. 

Every day I ran across some poor bastard that I had cut a leg off of and now my job was to try to make things better. It was so depressing, I started to go to a counselor at the hospital. I was burned out.

I finally went to my boss and asked him if I could get a transfer, I told him I'd do induction physicals if I had to. You know the "bend over and spread your cheeks" physicals. 

He said, he'd see what he could do.

6 weeks went by, he called me in. He said I have one slot for you, a Special Fores Group needs a medical officer. "I said I'll take it!"

He smiled and said, there's one problem Major, you have to be Airborne qualified. I told him, "I'll do it!"

Off I went to Fort Benning's Jump School, I was 39, pushing 40. I was fat, I drank too much, I hadn't been in shape since I played high school football and I had plenty of gray in my hair. My fellow students in Jump School were around 19 years old and all privates. They couldn't figure out what my story was. 

There's no rank in Jump School, enforced equality. For three weeks I got my ass kicked, I ran, I did push-ups. I sang the Airborne songs and I lost 14 pounds. At graduation, I took my wings the hard way.

I had a week of leave, then I climbed on a jet and flew to Incirlik Air Force Base in Turkey. Our Special Forces detachment was tucked off in a far corner of the base. I spent the next year, fixing the occasional broken finger, taping sore knees and ankles. I kept the Medics up to date. I filled in at the base hospital. 

I gained back the 14 pounds and more and developed my taste in scotch and did a hell of a lot of traveling in that part of the world. One of the best years of my life."

We all miss Dr. Jim. 

A Story from my Doc...

Talking with my cardiologist a couple of years ago, out of nowhere he asked me, "Ever gotten a DUI?"

"I haven't."

"I have."

"What happened?"

"I'd just gotten back from Vietnam, did all the family things for a couple of days, I even called a few old girlfriends, no luck there. A buddy of mine from my residency at UCLA Medical Center called and said, we should get the gang together and have a few laughs. I said, "Great." 

We met at a bar close to the beach in Venice, I put on shorts and a t-shirt and borrowed my younger brother's Manx Dune Buggy and off I went. I got there about 8 and by midnight I was shit faced, I mean knee walking drunk on my ass. Time to go. I ordered a long neck, slipped it in my pocket and left. I found the Dune buggy in a parking lot a few blocks away, fired it up, the damn thing had a stinger exhaust, the kind with the long chrome pipe sticking straight up in the air."

"I remember those, really loud." 

"It would shatter your ears. I got in the buggy, put the log neck between my legs and pulled out on the street, I drove a few blocks and stopped at a light, took a drink of beer. I looked to my left and sure as hell, I'd had stopped next to a cop. I was staring at him with a beer in my hand. The cop had a big smile on his face. The light changed, he followed me across the intersection, wrote me up for open container, illegal exhaust, and driving under the influence. That god damn night followed me around for years."

"How so?"

"I'd decided to specialize in cardiology, I applied at UCLA, it came up in the interview, it came up in the board certification process, it came up when I joined Kaiser. It's classified as a moral deficiency or some shit like that."

"Did you ever drink and drive again?"

"Only when I had no other choice."

"Doesn't bother me, doc."

"I didn't think it would."

Seventy-Five years ago today...

Here I am sitting in my cozy little retirement home, typing this on a computer, we have a Pandemic raging across the world. I'm thinking about my father.


Seventy-five years ago, my father was a US Army Air Corps pilot, he was flying a Waco Glider hooked via a long nylon tow line to C 47 tow plane. The glider carried my dad, his co-pilot a squad of Infantryman from the 17th Airborne division, a jeep and a trailer load of ammunition. The Waco was made of plywood and fabric, there was no armor. Dad and his co-pilot were dressed in combat gear. You couldn't tell them from the Airborne troopers, they both had carbines, they would put their carbines to good use once they were on the ground,

They took off from France, the flight to Germany took well over three hours. They were part of the Greatest Combined Airborne operation in history, Operation Varsity. The force consisted of America, British and Canadian forces. 16,000 Airborne troops would cross the Rhine in one fell swoop and land behind the German lines. The "Sky Train" of planes, took 2 and a half hours to pass any given point.

My dad was flying one of 900 Waco CG4A gliders, dad was the 2nd to cross the Rhine. He landed in a field outside of Wesel. He made a good landing, no damage except for the holes ripped in the fabric from the heavy flak. Dad's pants were ripped from the flak and he had a slight wound on his left leg. He didn't worry about it. The Germans knew they were coming and were ready. dad and his co-pilot popped the front of the glider open, the jeep and trailer drove out and the squad of Airborne troopers took off to their rallying points.

Dad and his fellow pilots formed up as an Infantry Company, they rallied to Captain Gordon and marched to their objective, a village on the outskirts of Wesel, their orders "Hold the Crossroads".It was 11 in the morning when they arrived at the village. There were no German troops in the village, just women, children and old men. The German Army was close, they could hear the German tanks coming. They took their positions, they were untested, they waited. They were scared, as dad said, "Shitless".

A Tiger tank appeared on the narrow paved road, as it approached the junction of the two main roads, the pilots opened up with, rifles and machine guns. Nothi9ng stopped the Tiger. One of the pilots was trained as a bazooka man. He blew the track off the Tiger, it stopped dead. The tank continued to fire it's machine guns, the main gun on the turret was swiveling around and the big gun was being leveled, it fired, missed the men and destroyed a house, A pilot, jumped up, ran to the tank, climbed on top, lifted the hatch and tossed two grenades inside. The tank was a smoking ruin and it was a massive iron and steel roadblock. It had been stopped in the exact spot it needed to stopped. Jelinek was awarded the Siver Star for his actions that morning.

The Germans brought up a motorized gun and a tank retriever, the pilots fought them off, the Germans tried a flanking maneuver, the pilots fought them off. The Battle of Burp Gun Corner lasted until dark. The German column was severed by 17th Airborne troops and they surrendered when the sun went down. The pilots dug in where they were for the night. The Germans shelled them and made a few sporadic and senseless attacks, but it was over.

The next day my dad and three of his fellow pilots were sent to find missing American and British troops. The found 2 wounded pilots, accepted the surrender of a few wounded Germans, they took them all to an American field hospital. They spent the 2nd night in the basement of the house the Tiger tank blew down.

On the morning of the third day, they were told to walk back to the Rhine and they'd get transportation back to their base. Dad and his co-pilot stole two bicycles and rode to the river, at the Rhine they traded the bikes for a bottle of liberated German brandy and headed back to France.

4 days later, Dad was in dress uniform with 4 of his fellow pilots celebrating in Paris. Johnson, his co-pilot walked into the glass door of a Paris bistro and broke his nose. One of the pilots got a paper and pen from the bartender, drew a Purple Heart on it, Johnson wore it with great pride the rest of the evening.

Dad was awarded the Bronze Star and an Air Medal. His unit was awarded the Presidental Unit Citation

He came back to the States in May, had a two-week leave and left for Santa Ana Army Air Corps base to prepare for the invasion of Japan, an invasion that wasn't needed. He was home in October of 45 alive and well with a few scratches.

Thanks dad.

A Most Boston St. Patrick's Day

My last St. Patrick's day in Boston as a single man was a multi-parter.

It began at noon, I had lunch at a Japanese restaurant in East Cambridge. My "date", a long-time friend stuck in an unhappy marriage. Lunch was a 90-minute session of complaints, big and small and her brilliant new plan to move her husband into the garage once the conversion to a "guest cottage" was completed.

"Why don't you get divorced, you're the unhappiest person I know."
This good catholic girl answered, "Nobody in my family has ever gotten divorced, I can't be the first, my mother would die." I ate the last tuna sushi and said, "You're the one dying, not your mom. Did she die when you were 4 months pregnant when you married him at the Arboretum instead of in the Holy Catholic Church? No, she didn't, did she?"

She was mute. This woman and I have known each other for a long time. We'd met when were both dating other people, we used to double date. We'd had an unrequited love affair for years.

I'd take her to lunch when she was pregnant. After her daughter was born, I'd carry the baby to lunch and push her in her stroller down Commonwealth Avenue. I'm sure people thought we were married, a happy couple, with a beautiful baby and big German Shepherd living the good life in Boston's Back Bay.

We sure as hell weren't that.

When I was promoted to the corporate office and moved to Florida, she'd call and cry on the phone, daily. I finally gave her an ultimatum. "Pack your bags, put the baby in the car and move down here."

She hung up. I didn't talk to her again for two years. She now lives in New York, the baby has graduated from BC and her husband lives in an apartment in Quincy. They are still "married". 

As the Irish say, "a fooking tragedy is what it was."

Teary-eyed, a kiss on the cheek and she dropped me off at my office.

The radio station was empty except for the people on the air. I did a few things in my office and left to met Tommy and Kevin across Boylston at the Pour House. A Guinness and a shot of Bushmills later. I left to take my dog for a walk, an hour later we met at Daisy Buchanan's at the end of my block. Tommy and good old Kev were in the first stage of St. Patrick's Day shit face.

My girlfriend at the time had gone with me to the New England Broadcaster's Annual St. Patrick's Day Party the year before, she wisely turned down my invitation to this year's event. After a couple of pops at Daisey's, we were off to the NEBA gathering. For unknown reasons, it was being held at Dick's Last Resort, a blues and BBQ place in the basement of the Prudential Tower parking garage. Perfect for St. Patrick's Day, right?

Dick's was in full shit show mode when we arrived, we dragged a table over to join some of our associates creating a table for 8. We ordered, Dick's had no Irish beer, we had to make do with Corona. This prompted Kevy to switch to Stoly Vodka, a well known red flag with that laddie. Kev drank his vodka on the rocks. "Tommy" spotted a TV reporter he knew and dragged her back to the table and they proceeded to fall in love.

With the full approval of my then-girlfriend, I had a date for St. Patrick's Day. A blonde, green-eyed.Lipstick Lesbian in a stylish St. John suit and matching heels. She was stunning.

I had from time to time acted as her beard and functioned as her "boyfriend" to ward off all the assholes who hit on her. Ms. H found me, gave me a hug and a kiss, prompting Kev to say, "You always have the best looking dates, you dick." Ms. H smiled and told Kevin, "Don't be an asshole, I know it's hard but, please try sweetie." She patted him on the head and gave him a peck on the cheek. Kevin was momentarily cheered by the attention of a gorgeous woman.

Ms. H and I danced to a few tunes, while we were slow dancing, she said, "I'm going to find Kevin a date."

We went back to the table, Kevvy was well into his sad Irishman mood. Now Kevvy is a brilliant guy, he's shy as hell and has real trouble dealing with women. He's loaded with catholic guilt, as in he's a good boy with nasty thoughts and impulses he never acts on, in short, he's a complicated man who drinks way the hell too much.

Ms. H is back in a flash, with two women in tow. They're sisters, one a news producer at Channel 7, the other a senior at Syracuse in town to see what a Boston's St. Patrick's Day is all about. Ms. H orders them drinks on my tab and introduces them to Kevin. He perks up, smiles, tugs on his red, curly forelock and mumbles something. The older sister throws down a shot of something clear, takes a drink of my beer and drags Kevin onto the dance floor. Ms. H is beaming. A couple of songs go by and the Syracuse sister joins them. Neither of them notices Kevin can't dance worth a shit and is a least a beat and half behind the band. Kevin is in Heaven.

Meanwhile, Tommy and his TV reporter are so in love, they are giving each other wet kisses at the table.

We're saved by old Billy W, who announces, "Enough of this shit we're going to the Black Rose!"
There's 7 of us, we need two cabs, Billy steps out into the middle of Huntington Avenue and with the luck of the Irish, he gets two Town cabs to stop and off we go.

When I first visited the Black Rose on occasion in the 70s, they were passing the hat for the IRA. Now the Black Rose is an upscale Irish bar in the Fanuel Hall Market, it's on the edge of the financial district, so it's filled with bankers, stockbrokers, and venture (vulture) capitalists and tourists. We last one drink, after fending off a couple of stockbrokers from hitting on Ms. H with bullshit pick up lines, we head to Cambridge for a real Irish bar. Billy does his magic trick and two more cabs appear and we head for The Druid. It's Tommy's favorite.

Ms. H and I order fish and chips and a couple of Guinness Stouts, Kevvy and his girls stick with vodka as does Billy. Time goes by, we join in and sing a few old Irish favorites with the band, the ones I recall, Black Velvet Band and some ditty that starts, "in the year of our lord 18 hundred and six". More Clancy Brothers than Clannad or the Chieftains for my taste.

I notice that Tommy and his "new wife" have disappeared. I ask Ms. H. if she knows where they are. Billy jumps in and says, "my guess is they are making love on top of the dumpster in the alley, it's their wedding night, yah know." We never see them again.

Meanwhile, the grinning Kevin is getting kisses from both the sisters. I notice he is copping a feel or two. They don't seem to mind.

After an hour or so at the Druid, we're tired of the music and the drunken Harvard students. We head for the Cantab on Mass Ave.

The Cantab is a classic working-class bar with a varied clientele. Retired guys and their tired wives, blue-collar workers, students, waiters and waitresses, the occasional drug dealer and other Cambridge hoodlums. It's a fun slice of life in The People's Republic of Cambridge.

We lose Billy, he decides it's time to go home. Ms. H, Kevvy and his dates and I squeeze into seats at the bar. The Cantab is smokey, it's hot and the punky-Irish band is doing their best on the tiny stage. They're playing the Clash's 'London Calling" when we slip in the door. Sitting next to me is an old Irish guy named Jimmy, he's a retired T conductor, we meet only because he tells me I'm sitting in his buddy Duke's seat. He adds with a grin, 'it's okay because the old fuckah went home early, he couldn't stand the god damned band". He makes his point by yelling, "turn that shit down!"

We have a few pints, Ms. H and I dance to a few tunes. We sit down when the pogoing starts. Jimmy pokes me and says, "You tappin' that good lookin' broad?" Ms. H hears him and says, "Of course he is, he makes me scream like a banshee, don't you honey?" She adds an exclamation point by licking my cheek. Jimmy's eyes bug out and he grins like a Cheshire cat, "He does, does he?" Ms. H leans over and says, "Yes he does, but your heart couldn't take the details."

 Kevvy buys me a shot of Old Bushmills, I'd had with drinking it at this point of the evening, I slide the shot in front of Jimmy. he downs it and I've made a friend for life. It's time to go home, as we're leaving, old Jimmy says, "Lad, it must be grand to wake up in the mornin' and see that beauty lyin' beside yah."

"I'll tell you, Jimmy, she usually wakes me up and believe me most mornings she's pretty damn frisky." I get a slap on the back and a "That's my boy." Ms. H gives old Jimmy a peck on the cheek and we're gone.

On the sidewalk, Kevin and the girls are arguing about where to go. Long story short, Kevin got nowhere with either one.

Ms. H is in no condition to drive, I took her home with me. I handed her a t-shirt to sleep in, she stripped down in front of me, pulled the black Bruins T-shirt over her head, tossed her long blonde hair and said, "We can snuggle, but keep your hands to yourself." She crawled into my bed and passed out.

I took my German Shepherd for a long walk.

All said and done, a great St. Patrick's Day, I wish I could have given you a more erotic ending, but sometimes you can only do what you can do.

Carrie 2

Carrie and I buy a car...

Carrie Fisher and I are walking down the street, We're holding hands, we've been walking for a long time.

"Jesus, I'm tired of walking, we need to buy a car to get around," Carrie says. "Walking is good for us, but this is insanity."

"What do you want to get?"

"My Mom had a Thunderbird when I was a little girl, I loved that car."

"Maybe we can find one, keep walking."

In an hour or so, including a stop for coffee and a donut, we realize we're in North Hollywood. Strip Malls, body shops, recycling centers, manicure shops, and tacky bars line the streets. Finally, we see a used car lot and damned if they don't have a white 55 Thunderbird up on a display lift. Carrie is so excited she wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a movie star kiss. Carrie is sweaty from all our walking, so am I, but it doesn't matter. A guy with a neck tattoo sticks his head out of the window of his 4x4 Tacoma, honks his horn at us and yells "Take it to a fucking motel you assholes!" We were kissing in the crosswalk and he had the green. Carrie says, "Good idea." I nod my approval and we jaywalk to a drive up to the door motel called The Loveland and check-in.

3 hours later, moony eyed but refreshed we step onto "Nick the Greek's Only the Finest Pre-Owned Automobiles" lot. Out of nowhere, Nick appears, he's short, wrinkled, he's wearing a polo shirt that's is at least 2 sizes too small. White chest hair is sticking out of the neck of the shirt. He has garlic breath because he just finished a lamb Gyro, his handshake is greasy. Carrie is repulsed by his greasy shake, she sticks her hand into the open window of a customer's tan Camry and wipes her hand on the headrest. I maneuver around so I can put my hand on Nick's shoulder in a gesture of confidence and friendship. I wipe my hand on the shoulder of his maroon polo.

"We'd like to take a look at the 55 T-Bird."

Nick doesn't respond, he's checking out Carrie's boobs.

"Excuse me, I said we'd like to look at the T-Bird."

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" Nick says. His eyes still on Carrie's boobs.

"No," Carrie says.

"You look familiar to me I swear to god I know you."

"Not a chance,"

Nick shrugs and says, "Okay. Let me get it down off the lift. Hey, Alonzo, get that fucking Bird off the lift, we got a couple of hot ones, they want to look at it." An old Mexican guy in a worn, white stained mechanic's jumpsuit comes out of a two-stall shop, The name tag on the suit says Alberto. Alonzo is wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He's wearing knee-high black rubber boots. It took a while, but he got the T-Bird on the ground. It won't start. He heads back to the shop for a jumper cart. Nick looks nervous.

"It's a shit box, Carrie, let's go."

"No, no, it looks like the one my Mom used to have."

Nick turns to me, "She likes the car, you say her name is Carrie?"

"Connie, dammit," Carrie says. "My name is Connie, you fat Greek shit!"

Carrie likes to move around town incognito, can you blame her?

An hour later we drive off Nick's lot in the T-Bird. Carrie is driving. I notice we leave a faint trail of blue smoke every time she steps on the gas, the same thing when she lets off. The valve train is noisy and it has a slight rod knock. It pulls to the left when she hits the brakes. All that matters to me is Carrie is really happy.

"I'm so fucking happy honey, we have a car and we don't have to walk everywhere. LA sucks when you have to walk all the time."

"You hungry?"

"Starved." Carrie whips into In 'N Out. We order to go. We get two Animal style, we share fries and a large strawberry shake On the way out, Carrie drives over the curb, I hear a clunk.

"Stop the car baby, I need to see what that sound was." She pulls to the curb. I look at the car and get back in. I have to slam the door twice to get it to close.

"What happened?"

"A chunk of Bondo fell off the right rear quarter panel. You know this car used to be red?"

"What?"

"Never mind, just drive."

"Let's show our new car to my Mom, she'll be so excited, she'll pee her pants."

"How would you know, she wears those new Depends, doesn't she? Are you going to eat all the fries or are you going to share them?"

Carrie is driving with her knee as we get on the 101, she hands me the shake and the fries. A napkin blows out of the car as she does, we get passed by an asshole driving a silver Audi in 3rd gear, the napkin is stuck in his wiper, he gives Carrie the finger, she flips him back. Carrie turns to me and says with a smile, "Don't you be a pig baby and eat them all." She turns on the radio, LA Woman by the Doors is on, Carrie turns it up, the right hand, aftermarket speaker goes to hell when she does, she starts banging on the dash.

"Get your hands back on the wheel, I'll feed you fries sweetheart and stay in your damn lane." The Doors sound like shit on one channel.

I feed Carrie fries and hold the strawberry shake so she can suck on the straw while she drives, we get off 101 at Desoto and take a right on Roscoe. We stop in front of an old two-story apartment building, it's a fake Spanish with tiny decks in front of the sliding glass doors of each apartment. The decks are so small, two little chairs take up all the space and the wrought iron railings are rusty and peeling. The door buzzer doesn't work. Carrie suggests I toss the rest of the shake at her Mom's window to get her attention. My arm isn't as good as it used to be, but I hit the slider dead center. The strawberry shake looks like modern art as it slides down the glass. Carrie's mom sticks her head out, looks around, she wearing a multi-colored, flowing caftan and has a scarf around her head, The music from her apartment is really loud.

"Carrie, what's that music your Mom is playing?"

"Some bullshit from the "The Unsinkable Molly Brown" last month it was the soundtrack from "Tammy", God I hated that shit when I was a kid. Come to think about it, I still hate it!"

Debbie finally notices us standing on the sidewalk and says she'll buzz us in. We have to wait at the door until someone comes out so we can get into the building. We waited around 10 minutes until an old man with a shirt, tie, coat, and no pants comes out."Carrie, remind your Mom the door buzzer doesn't work" I said as we went through the door. "At least the guy had fresh boxers on."

"I've been telling her that for months." We got in the elevator for the short trip to the 2nd floor. It doesn't take long, seems longer though because the elevator smells like cat pee. Carrie and I take a right out of the elevator, walk to the end of the hall. Carrie says, "Fuck! Mom's place is in the other direction!" We turn around and head back. One of the apartments has yellow police tape crisscrossed over the door.

"Is that where Durst lived?"

"Uh-huh, Mom says he was one weird bastard."

We get to Carrie's mother's door, we both beat on it so Debbie can hear us over the music, Carrie kicks the door and hurts her foot, she's hopping around when Debbie opens the door and says, "Where the hell have you two kids been? I've been waiting forever."

More to come, maybe...