This ain't Hell, but you can see it from here

Category: Who knows

  • A word about the ALS #IceBucketChallenge

    A word about the ALS #IceBucketChallenge

    Ice bucket challenge

    You may or may not be aware of the Ice Bucket Challenge that is currently sweeping the social media sites sponsored by the the ALS Association. I don’t recommend that you dump ice water on your head, but apparently, the thing is raising awareness of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), so I appreciate that. Very little is known about the disease, there is no real diagnosis for it – the only way doctors know how to find the disease is to eliminate everything else that could be causing the symptoms – let alone a treatment for ALS.

    I’ve known people who lasted only six months after the symptoms began to appear and then there’s Stephen Hawking who has been in a wheelchair and unable to dress or feed himself since 1974. So, that death clock that Daniel A. Bernath has posted on his website predicting my demise next year is purely subjective bullshit. In fact, I’m thinking that it’s a death threat.

    Only about 30,000 Americans have the disease at a given time, so it’s not a really well-known disease. But, it seems that Gulf War veterans get the disease at a higher rate than veterans who never went to the Gulf, so it is becoming a veterans’ issue. Traditionally, it’s hereditary, but, as in my own case, it’s beginning to appear in veterans who have no family history of ALS. So much so that, like Agent Orange exposure, ALS is now a “presumptive condition” which gets priority at the VA.

    But, to the bucket of ice thing – pouring a bucket of ice over your head has nothing to do with ALS, but the act made by some visible people has drawn some attention to the disease and I guess the ALS Association is realizing a surge in donations. So this is me challenging you to fore go the bucket of ice water and throw a few bucks at the ALSA…or to the Paralyzed Veterans of America which has been instrumental in helping me to navigate the VA system. We, at TAH, have a quarter-million unique visitors every month – so if each of you sent a dollar, we could have a real impact.

    And thanks to folks like Maria Molina (the cutest weather girl in the world) for helping to get the word out;

  • This Has to Be The Luckiest Man In China

    Provided without comment.

    Well, OK – one comment.  Holy sh . . . !

     

  • “Eat ‘Em, G**damn It – They’re Better That Way”

    People talk about Army cooks all the time. But truth be told, it’s a fairly rough job – and an essential one.

    Yes, the conditions are fairly easy compared to some specialties.  But based on what I’ve observed as a non-cook over the years, the hours are damned long, the work doesn’t seem to be that much fun, and it’s pretty thankless.

    And having a decent chow hall can be make-or-break for a unit, morale-wise. The old saying, “An Army marches on its stomach,” is in the final analysis true. If the troops don’t eat, pretty soon they won’t be marching – or fighting.

    Still, as a group cooks tend to be . . . well, let’s just say that many of them seem a bit “ASVAB-challenged”. And some of them seem to be flat-out freaking crazy as well. I remember one unit mess sergeant telling me that he went out for a night of partying once, got into his car with a couple of ladies and a buddy or two, gave someone else the keys, and passed out in the back seat after talking about going somewhere in New York – then woke up some hours later somewhere on US15 in Pennsylvania, headed north.

    He had to be at work later that day. Somehow they made it back in time. I didn’t ask how fast they drove to get there. (smile)

    We also had a cook come to the unit one day on his off-duty time, point a pistol at the CQ (or maybe it was the CQ runner), and “dry fire” said pistol. That guy ended up PCSing to the crossbar hotel for a couple of years.

    Still, the most outrageous cook story I ever heard or saw wasn’t either of those – or even this story. Rather, it was one related to me by another mess sergeant around the time of the two incidents above.

    Disclaimer:  I wasn’t there to see what follows personally, so the story could be bogus.  Dunno.

    But it’s still IMO worth telling.  And since Jonn lets me post stuff here, well, you’re stuck with hearing it.  (smile)

    . . .

    Seems the second mess sergeant I spoke of above had run a mess hall in Germany before coming back to CONUS. His mess hall in Germany had supported one of the GOs there.

    At the time, the GO was senior enough to be authorized a personal cook; the guy was tapped to provide that cook from his mess hall. So he detailed one of his cooks – who was indeed a damn good cook – to be that General’s personal cook.

    The General in question was reportedly a very decent fellow. But like everyone else he did have his idiosyncrasies. One of this General’s quirks was that he only ate fried or poached eggs.

    The first day, the new cook made breakfast for the General. He took it to the General, and served the General’s his breakfast – a nice, big American-style breakfast, well presented on the plate, complete with a big serving of hot, fresh cooked eggs.

    Scrambled eggs.

    The General frowned. He turned to the cook and said, “I guess nobody told you.I only like my eggs fried, or poached.”

    The cook answered back. His alleged reply is the title of this article.

    Afterwards, the guy was no longer cooking for the General.

    It also seems that the guy wasn’t merely “ate up with the dumb@ss”, or trying to get out of the assignment (or the Army).  As the story was told to me, the cook was sent for mental evaluation after the incident – after all, he’d have to be freaking crazy to talk to a GO that way, right?

    Well, it turned out the shrinks found the guy really did have mental issues that he’d been hiding (or that his buddies had helped him hide).  The guy was sent back to CONUS posthaste. I think he was discharged from the Army not long afterwards.

    Still, I’d have loved to have been a fly on the wall when that cook told the General that scrambled eggs were better. The look on the GO’s face on hearing that had to have been priceless.

  • He’s Baaaack!!

    Apparently the current Administration’s goings on have had an . . . unusual side effect. They’ve apparently caused at least one former political figure long thought dead to return from the grave.

    No? Well, how else do you explain the return of “Tricky Dick” on Twitter?

    Hell, I may have to break down and actually follow this guy.  He’s got Nixon down to a “T” – and many of the tweets are freaking hilarious.  (smile)

    Oh, and in case anyone is wondering about what “goings on” of the current Administration I’m talking about:  I’m talking about this obvious pattern of “stonewalling”.

    “Most transparent administration in history” my ass.  Even the Nixon and LBJ administrations were more open and transparent.

     

    (Hat tip to a TAH regular who forwarded me this article on the matter.)

  • By Request. Baptizing Cats, A Sunday Funny

    A week or so ago I mentioned a story I wrote about shoving a  cat in a mailbox. Several comments were made about it so here ya go. It’s a true story.  I hope you enjoy.

    There are things that kids learn. These things don’t come from a teacher or parents, these things are the little life lessons that become fundamental truths.  They can’t be taught, they have to be experienced.  I believe they differ from region to region but all of them build the foundation for a basic wisdom that all kids must acquire, or be thought of as a fool forever.

    Baptizing cats.

    Almost everyone I know has tried it. It’s one of those things that only get tried once.  I don’t know what it is that makes kids decide to save cats’ souls but inevitably on every lazy Sunday afternoon kids all over the country decide to try and baptize a cat.  I’m sure that at some time in the long and torrid history of kids and cats a successful baptism was performed.  I am equally sure that with many skin grafts and a skilled plastic surgeon the Cat Baptist recovered limited use of his or her arms.

    The type of Baptism attempted on a cat depends of the religion of the child.   Catholic kids generally sprinkle, Baptist kids go for full emersion.  They all end up with a half-crazed wet cat climbing their arm while making a sound that most of the time is only heard in the deepest pits of hell.  I have a theory that cats are demons that did something merciful in hell and got sent to earth as punishment for that transgression.

    Cat Baptist recognize one another, as kids it’s by the fading scars on arms and faces. As adults just saying “Baptizing cats” will cause a laugh or big smile.  I often wonder if Jewish kids have a similar experience. If they do a part of me hopes it more along the lines of a Bar Mitzvah and not a brisk.

    The Cat Baptism made me think of another truth I learned as a kid that also involved a cat.

    A standard size Post Master General approved mailbox is the perfect size to hold a demon cat

    I have a sister that is ten years older than me. When I was about 8 years old she decided that she was an adult and my mom and dad’s rules were not to her liking.  She moved out on her own. About two months later my mom and dad’s rules were not as bad as she remembered and she moved back home. She brought a cat. Now I had grown up with cats and having recently failed as a Cat Baptist I really didn’t want much to do with them.  This particular cat is the one that made me come up with the idea that cats are demons.

    We had always had cats that were indoor/outdoor. The idea of an animal not being allowed outside was completely foreign in my house.  But this demon/cat was not allowed outside.  The only place it wanted to be was outside and it spent a great deal of time plotting its jail break.  This was the type of cat that only one person could get close to. It spat and clawed anyone else.  I was its target of choice and the cat and I had on ongoing battle. My sister would say I was being mean to the cat, I would say that cat is being mean to me.  It had attacked me from every possible direction and would change its tactics all the time.  It did things to annoy me intentionally. One of its favorites was walking across the piano in the middle of the night. I would get up to shut the lid over the keyboard and it would attack me.

    As much as a disliked that cat I was afraid of my sister. She was 6 feet tall and was the kind of sister who would beat you within an inch of your life and then tell you that if you told your parents she would beat you again. Now in all fairness to her, I had my own brand of evil and for every beating I got there were 10 things I did to bring my own brand of justice to the house that there was never enough evidence to convict me on.

    So one fine summer day I was heading out into the world to find my own way,  as I opened the door the cat made its escape attempt. It had made a good plan and instead of trying to dodge around me it charged right across my feet and legs. It being summer in the south shoes were not an article of clothing I wore often so it drew first blood that day and escaped.  As I watched it tear off across the yard and disappear down the street I knew I had to catch it.  I knew if I didn’t my sister may well kill me.  As a debated the merits of running away vs catching the cat I saw it taunting me from the neighbor’s yard. As god as my witness it flipped me the bird, and turned its back to me and marched away. The hunt was afoot and my prey was cat.

    The cat and I fought an epic battle that day.  I saw myself as Gunther Gabel Williams, the famed animal trainer from Ringling Bros circus and the cat was a beast that had to be captured for the good of all mankind. As I made it to the neighbor’s yard I again caught a glimpse of the cat. It was stalking a squirrel. Its back was turned to me and I charged it, it ran across the street and took refuge in the one place I feared.  A solid hedge row holly bushes, these things were 8 feet tall and six feet wide.  They were a thing of legend in my neighborhood.  Many balls and toys had been lost forever to that hedge row.  It was impossible to retrieve anything from them without getting scratched to death. I had once wrecked on my bike and went into them headfirst.  I will admit I almost gave up at the hedgerow.

    I could hear the cat moving around in the hedges. I went up and opened the branches, suffering the pokes and prods of the holly leaves and caught sight of the cat.  It was cornered and I knew I had won. I lunged and got the cat.

    This is where another one of the truths of life comes in. When you think you have caught a cat you haven’t. It has actually caught you.

    That cat proceeded to howl and scratch me in every possible way. It was clawing my arm and climbing my chest at the same time.  It was biting at my face and I swear at one point it was on top of my head. I had made it across the street somehow and realized that I had to let the cat go. That when I saw the mailbox.

    I shoved the cat into the mailbox and slammed it shut. My plan was to go home and get a pillow case to transport the cat in, but I confess I did take the time to throw a few rocks at the mail box as well as toss a few of my best curse words around just because I felt the need. I was covered from head to toe in holly bush scratches as well as bore the wounds from the cats counter attack.  I staggered home, bandaged my wounds, and got a pillow case.

    As I was going back to resume the good fight the mail jeep was coming down the street. I will admit that I had used the mailbox as a holding place in the past.  I had put frogs, beetles and other boyhood treasures in my mailbox from time to time and the mail man and I had an ongoing battle. He had spoken to my parents about my actions so in my mind he was even more of an enemy than the cat. He had developed the habit of opening our mailbox a little and making sure it contained nothing evil. The thing was I had shoved the cat into a mailbox a few houses down the street.

    I watched him think he had cleared the minefield that was our mailbox and he saw me as he passed. I just waved. A part of me thought about warning him about the cat but I didn’t.  Now I am convinced that cats work under a whole set of physics laws that have yet to be discovered.  That cat had gotten turned around in that mailbox. I was expecting the mailman to open the mailbox  to the south end of a northbound cat. What he got was a full frontal attack.

    As he opened the mailbox the cat launched itself. I swear it was just a blur. That poor mail man had no idea that was in the jeep with him. It passed through his window making a sound I had never heard from any animal and have never heard again. It crossed his lap and hit the tray that held all the sorted mail, I swear I saw a mushroom cloud of letters mixed with shreds of Postman uniform and fur form in that jeep.

    This is where another of life little truths come in.

    Properly motivated, a full grown man can scream better than a teen aged girl.

    The Postman screamed a long loud scream that seemed to vary in pitch and tome with the position of the cat in the jeep, Later in life when I learned about a banshee’s moans I realized that was the sound the Postman Made . His scream mixed with the unnatural sounds coming from the cat made this weird harmony.  They hit a resonant frequency together that was both terrifying and beautiful.  We were only a second or two into what became known as the Cat-Mailman Incident and already I had seen things that defied nature. It was about this time that the cat started doing laps in the jeep. It was heading from front to back about 60 times a second. The cat-mailman duet took on the sound of an air raid siren except that there was no an occasional sob from the mailman.   The mailman was in a state of shell shock and the neighborhood kids had taken notice. They were looking at each other and the mailman and then, all at once they realized that someone was going to get blamed. It took less time for those kids to scatter than it had for the cat to clear the launchpad-mailbox.  The mailman drove the jeep forward enough to get the door open and he bailed out like he was escaping from a B-17 on fire. It was a full face first dive. I guess he failed to set the brake because the jeep and cat rolled on down the street. I saw the cat leap out just as soon as the jeep hit the curb and came to a full stop.

    I made my way home and took refuge the rest of the day.   Now I was suspected of putting the cat in the mailbox but no one had actually seen me do it. I was questioned at length because I  was the usual suspect in crimes of this nature.  From prior experience I had learned to keep my mouth shut, that no matter what the adults said they would not find out anyway, this was where I learned about what I later came to know as the 5th amendment.  The cat came home on its own. We had a truce of sorts. The mailman took up heavy drinking and was later the victim of the largest snowball in the history of my neighborhood. But that’s another story. I need to talk to a lawyer before I tell that one. The statute of limitations may not have expired.

  • À Madam Ducornet . . . .

    Longtime readers know that Jonn tolerates my occasional random walk ramblings here at TAH.  And yeah, that means this article is another such ramble.  Consider yourself forewarned. (smile)

    . . .

    I’m not a big believer in ESP. Those who claim to be able to “remote view” objects or tell the future are IMO almost always as shameless a group of liars as the fools and tools we often feature here at TAH.

    But I’m not willing to completely dismiss the possibility, either. There is indeed strong evidence that time appears to be one-way and irreversible, and that the connection between past and future is the same.  However, mankind’s knowledge of the physical world is woefully incomplete. And even our best current theories of how the world works don’t categorically rule out the possibility.

    In short:  it’s obvious that the past affects the future.  But it’s IMO a bit too early to say, categorically, that the future cannot possibly echo into the past.

    Besides, I’ve had a few experiences that make me wonder. A number of them have to do with music.

    As a youngster, a number of tunes over the years made an impression on me. For some reason, I knew that these few were different – and damned important.

    How I knew, or why they were important . . . I didn’t know. I just somehow knew they were.

    Eventually, I found out why – usually years or decades later.  The experience usually wasn’t much fun.

    I’m about to talk briefly about one of those tunes.

    . . .

    Walter Becker and Donald Fagan. You might not recognize those names immediately unless you’re a fan. But if you listened to popular music since 1971, I will guarantee you’ve heard their music.

    They’re the duo that formed the creative core of Steely Dan.

    In 1974, Steely Dan released perhaps their finest work – an album called Pretzel Logic. The song in question is found there.

    Steely Dan songs are often filled with obscure literary references and metaphors. They are typically lyrically indirect, and elliptical – even more so than those songs by Michael Stipe of REM. They frequently have not-immediately-obvious messages, sometimes darkish; the lyrics are often cutting, cynical, and satirical. Often they have borderline disturbing or taboo subjects.

    And they’re invariably exquisitely crafted, as is the music. Steely Dan’s pursuit of perfection in the studio is legendary.

    But except for the craftsmanship, this particular tune is none of those. Donald Fagan, the song’s principal author, has said that this song should be taken at face value.

    The song is a relatively simple song about a young man who became infatuated with a lady. It was reportedly written about a woman Donald Fagan met while a student a Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, NY.   She was married to a member of Bard’s faculty.

    The lady’s married name was purportedly Ducornet; she was American, but had married a Frenchman teaching at Bard in the late 1960s. She and her husband left for France in 1972, when Steely Dan was on the brink of commercial success. And while a student at Bard, Donald Fagan had indeed given her his number at a party – and suggested she call him.

    A relationship between the two never happened. Fagan has never confirmed the story above, or indicated who the song is about.  The lady in question has, and believes the tune is about her.  But she’s obviously not in a position to know with certainty Fagan’s thoughts while writing the song.

    So:  listen to the tune and judge for yourself. Personally, I’m convinced the song should be taken literally – and that the lady is correct.  The pieces simply fit together too well.

    Here’s the tune. IMO, it’s possibly the best song Steely Dan ever did.  And that’s saying one helluva lot.


    >
     

    For what it’s worth:  Mme. Ducornet’s first name . . . is indeed “Rikki”.

    . . .

    Author’s notes:  Some other interesting bits of trivia about Steely Dan and the tune above.

    1. Jim Gordon played drums on the tune. Yes, that Jim Gordon:  the same guy who played drums with Eric Clapton in Derek and the Dominos, wrote the second half of Layla – and later went off-the-rails insane, killed his own mother, and is still incarcerated today.

    2. Timothy B. Schmit –  of Poco and the Eagles – sang backup on the tune. 

    3. The musical intro for the song – the odd-sounding percussion solo that takes up about the first 20 seconds or so – is not a marimba.  It’s a similar instrument called a flapamba.  They’re fairly rare.  

    4.  If you think the song’s opening piano/bass line sounds similar to something you’ve heard before – if you’re a fan of jazz, you’re probably right.  It was taken from Horace Silver’s “Song for My Father”, released about a decade previously.

    5. Jeff “Skunk” Baxter, the original guitarist for Steely Dan, did the guitar solo on the tune.  Baxter left the band shortly afterwards and joined the Doobie Brothers.

    During the Reagan administration, Baxter – an absolute genius as well as a talented guitarist – took an interest in technology related to defense. He became enough of an expert eventually to become a sought-after consultant to the US DoD and Intelligence Communities on various matters – including missile defense. Watch this video clip (about 1 hr 3 min) if you’d like to get a flavor of the guy’s personality and intellect.  Fascinating guy.

    And yeah – Baxter often gets asked, “How in the world did a rock and roll guitarist end up working as a consultant for DoD and the Intel community?”

    6.  Finally, and for what it’s worth:  that story you’ve heard about the band being named after an . . . “adult novelty item”? It’s true. But the item in question was made of rubber, not stainless steel as one variant of the story often claims.

    Growing up, Becker and Fagan were huge jazz fans; that is apparent in their music. “Beat generation” literature was hugely popular among jazz fans of the day, and Becker and Fagan were no exceptions. 

    The band’s name was a shortened form of “Steely Dan III from Yokohama”.  That phrase was taken from William Burroughs’ 1959 novel Naked Lunch.  In the book, “Steely Dan III from Yokohama” was the name of what is today perhaps the most famous “adult novelty item” in history. (smile)

     

    Various Wikipedia articles were also used in preparing this rambling. I’m not going to list them all here.

  • Yer Friday Afternoon Funny: CED

    Might want to use caution around prudes and small children.  Otherwise, enjoy.



    (Disclaimer:  TAH is not responsible for any sore sides or cramping due to laughter.)

  • Master Gunnery Sergeant James Wesley Bolden

    Master Gunnery Sergeant James Wesley Bolden

    phony Marine2

    You probably remember the picture from a few weekends ago when DeAngelo Williams paid for this fellow’s plane ticket and the picture went viral. We wrote about it here.

    Our friends at Guardian of Valor got his records and it seems that James Wesley Bolden did serve and he was the rank that he said he was. His records don’t show a Bronze Star Medal with a Valor device or Purple Heart, though it does show service in Vietnam, a Combat Action Ribbon and a Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal with a Valor device. He served from November 1955 to his retirement in November 1985. Here is his FOIA;

    Bolden

    There is more about his records at GoV. Yes, we doubted his service, but he certainly gave us reason to doubt it the way he was presenting himself and from eye witness accounts. We have been harder on phonies for less than a BSM and a PH, but the dude has mental problems, so I’ll just leave it here. maybe his family needs to straighten up his stuff if they’re going to let him fly like that alone.