New Memories

By the time I pulled into the parking lot at the Holiday Inn Express in Cocoa, Florida, the Marines were up to their armpits in the battle of Peleliu. Traveling the two hundred miles alone from Port Charlotte to the TAC Missileer mini-reunion in Cocoa allowed me to indulge myself in music I normally do not crank up at home, and I relished the opportunity to play all of Richard Rodger's Victory at Sea on my iPod from start to to finish without interruption. Through the car's stereo, of course. And as loud as I wanted! Peleliu, by the way, is the 3^rd cut on the “B” side of volume 2 in the set, or about 150 miles or so into the whole playlist. I won’t listen to Victory at Sea on the return trip, but it was a blast listening to it once again after all these years!

Just like the tour of old memories at the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. I was in Cocoa, Florida, to attend a TAC Missileer mini-reunion conceived and planned by Max Butler, Membership Director/Treasurer of the TAC Missileers Association. It was all put together in about six weeks.  

Dave Cooper, Max Butler, Len Calkins, George Mindling

Max did another one of his bang-up jobs putting the mini-reunion together. Having a get-together for dinner is something many of us missileers who live in Florida, especially during the winter months, have talked about off and on for several years. Max finally said “Let's do it,” so we did. Originally planned as an informal get-together for those who would make a day trip for the meeting, it soon became clear most wanted more than just dinner, and soon the mini-reunion was open to all TAC missileers.

Max arranged a very special tour of the Air Force Space and Missile Museum located at the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station to be held on Friday, March 21st. Max also arranged an air-conditioned tour bus to pick up our 35 or so members and guests at the Holiday Inn Express in Cocoa at nine am. Collecting names and license numbers, and some other info required ahead of time, made access to the normally restricted facility easy.

An informal dinner was held Thursday evening at a local Barbeque restaurant for those out-of-towners who arrived a day early. The restaurant cordially handled the unexpected twenty guests with aplomb. Most of Thursday's arrivals stayed at the Holiday Inn Express in Cocoa, also arranged by Max. Jim and Susan Cagle from Atlanta may have traveled the furthest of the attendees, while many missileers lived in the surrounding area and drove to the hotel on Friday morning. Several missileers brought wives and their grown children, and even grandkids for the tour. Everyone met at the hotel Friday morning to board the big, white bus for a tour of the area, where for some of us TAC Missileers, it all started.

We were soon craning our necks trying to remember where Camp Happiness was located as we drove into the area many of us had only seen from blue Air Force school buses when we toured the facility back in the late 50's and early 60's. Port Canaveral has altered beyond any recognition, and will continue to do so as it grows to its planned facility as the largest cruise ship port in the United States. The old days are long gone.

Inside the Blockhouse at Pad 26

We stopped by the entrance to the Space and Missile Museum to pick up our tour guide, Jim Hale. Jim, a retired Air Force veteran, had a clear, resonant voice and an in-depth knowledge of the museum that captured everyone’s attention. Our first stop at the Blockhouse on pad 26, launch place of Explorer, the US's first satellite, displayed Jim's astonishing knowledge and familiarity with the Cape and its history. The Blockhouse was the first stop on our four and half hour tour, and gave Roger St. Germain the honor of “launching” a missile. From there we toured the open display area known as the “Missile Garden” and the adjacent Exhibit Hall. Again, Jim's fascinating explanations and descriptions brought special meaning to the displays.

Jim Hale explains a rocket motor on display in the Exhibit Hall

The bus tour eventually led to an area many of us have seen in the past, the old maintenance area, and just a few yards beyond, Pads 21 and 22, the Mace B launch pads that have recently been restored. While we didn't get to walk the area, it was still impressive to see the old launch pads. They looked like they had just been vacated.

The Exhibit Hall

The next stop at Complex 14 on  ICBM Road allowed us a look at the pad where not only the first American ICBM was launched, but where John Glenn hurtled into space aboard an Atlas LV-3B carrying a Mercury capsule known as Friendship 7, putting an American astronaut in orbit for the first time. 

Pads 21 & 22 - Mace "B" launch pads

The next stop was Complex 34, site of the accident that killed astronauts Virgil Grissom, Edward White II, and Roger Chaffee. The massive complex remains as a silent monument to all those who served and gave their lives in service to our country. We dismounted the bus for an extensive walking tour of the pad.

Hangar “R” was our last stop of the day, and for many of us, was a nostalgic moment. Hangar R has a unique collection of early missiles and rockets, including the original Matador named “Florida Ranger” that graced the entrance to Orlando Air Force Base. Orlando Air Force Base is where almost everyone who served in the Matador or Mace missile programs was trained. Also in the Hangar “R” collection is a Mace sitting on a beautifully restored translauncher. 

John Gibbs, 1st PBS, Bitburg

One of the amazing, delightful, memories of this tour was meeting John Gibbs, a former member of the 1st Pilotless Bomber Squadron. The 1^st PBS, the very first operational, combat ready missile squadron in the United States Air Force, trained at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station before its deployment to Bitburg, Germany, in March of 1954. John contributed many details and stories used in Bob Bolton's and my book, U.S. Air Force Tactical Missiles 1949 -1969 The Pioneers, including the incident when a Matador dumped nose-first over its launcher in an aborted launch. John was in the detail sent into the palmetto scrub to find the missing hold-back bolt. John is also one of the few people we have a photograph of while on duty with a tactical missile. In the section on Wheelus, figure 18, page 138, John is the airman on the far left with his elbow up. It was a very special moment meeting John and his beautiful wife of 51 years, Dianne. They are tentatively planning on attending the reunion in Boston next year.While every missile in the collection has been painstakingly restored, both the Matador and the Mace missiles have been restored to astonishing condition. A group photo was taken in front of the Mace, and of course I had to get a photo of John Gibbs in front of the Matador.

George Mindling with Jim Hale, tour guide extraodinaire.

I had another highlight of the trip that I hadn't expected: Jim Hale asked me to sign his copy of our book! That was an honor for me. I certainly appreciate the time and patience Jim took with our diverse group, answering every question and handling every comment with professionalism and charm. Anyone who gets Jim as a guide of the Space and Missile Museum will have a special insight to the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station and its history.

Bobby Williams shows a Kadena memento

The Space and Missile Museum web page at http://afspacemuseum.org/ has details on tours and visiting the museum, as well as a virtual tour that can be taken from your PC. They also maintain a Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/afspacemuseum. Visit both pages, and be sure to like the Facebook page.

Revelations: George 71.4

Revelations come at the oddest times. My latest one came while I was preparing a photo album for our five year old granddaughter, Claire. I needed a name for the book, a simple title such as “Happy Birthday, Claire” just didn't appeal to me. I played around with names and fonts, spacing and colors, then, out of the blue, my muse typed “Clair 5.0” in a red, none serif font. I studied the unexpected title, then realized it was perfect for an active, fast growing young girl.

Being a computer nerd, I have been familiar with software release numbers for years. Every base number of a program release denotes a major version or year, such as Microsoft Windows which made the second release of Windows 3.0 famous. It was windows 3.1 and set the standard not only for personal computing software, but for program numbering as well.

Since our granddaughter would be five, I picked Claire 5.0 as the perfect title for her photo book. Only two months after her fifth birthday she would be smarter, faster, taller, a slightly different young girl. By June, using my logic, she would be Claire 5.2.

Using that same standard, I'm 71.4, and that changes my outlook on everything. Next month I'll be 71.5 and my unstoppable progress toward my eventual demise becomes even more definable. Telling people only your age gives you a whole year of wiggle room. No one knows if you just turned your age, or if you are about to roll over to your next one. Saying I'm 71 is a whole lot different than saying I'm 71.4. But, on the other hand, it is kind of cool to say exactly how old I am, although I'm not sure 71.4 is any better or smarter than 71.3, - I'm sure there is a point of diminishing improvement - but experience must count for something, right?

Five dot oh, was exactly what I wanted, but, unfortunately my wife wasn't impressed with my wry sense of humor. Well, I think it's wry. So, anyway, the name of the book will be “Claire.” That works for everybody. Even George 71.4.   

Crab Trap

 My heart sank as my outboard motor pivoted up out of the dark, tannin colored water, the propeller my new 70 horsepower Yamaha cloaked in a mangled, dripping wet, wire mesh crab trap. Our German friends from Berlin stood up, looking over the stern railing of our equally new pontoon boat to see what the problem was. We were being blown about by the incessant wind as I raised the motor to see the damage, still in shock from the sudden, unexpected tooth-jarring stop. The outboard motor had died immediately, something that always gets a boater's attention.

We wallowed at the mercy of mother nature in the wide, shallow mangrove creek while I knelt on the transom, leaning over the motor to see how badly damaged the motor was. The prop was completely wrapped in black, chicken-wire mesh and thick, bent re-bar. Re-bar is the steel reinforcing rod used in cement construction. Commercial crabbers make the frames of their traps out of re-bar. It is cheap, strong, heavy, and takes a long time to rust out. You don't bend re-bar with your bare hands. The crab trap had a dead bait fish in it, but no crabs. It had probably been set just before I ran over its buoy, wrapping the line around my propeller and pulling the trap off the bottom. I had been watching my wife, Ilse, while she asked me a question and didn't see the white, Styrofoam marker and our new Bennington 20 foot pontoon boat came to an abrupt halt. Rather silently, I may add. The mangrove creek was empty except for a few crab traps haphazardly strung down the center.

How I got here in the first place would give most boaters gray hair. I had taken the weather forecast for granted earlier in the day and gotten into deep, deep trouble. No, not the TV forecast many recreational boaters rely on, but the official NOAA, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, forecast. In fact, I listened to it on my hand-held VHF marine radio just before I throttled up into Charlotte Harbor, headed south toward Cape Haze from our home port up-river just off the scenic Myakka River. Five to ten knots out of the south, decreasing to five knots by afternoon. Great! If I can handle the out-bound waves, we'll be in great shape for the return trip.

Trust me, a pontoon boat is not meant for open water and three-foot seas. Normal boats have a pointy end, called the bow, which usually goes through the water first, and some kind of front cover to keep water out of the boat. The end is pointy so water will flow smoothly around it. The back end of a boat, called the stern, is flat and rarely is called upon to go first. To the casual observer, a pontoon boat looks the same at each end. It really does have pointy ends that go first, but there is no fore-deck to divert water that may come over the bow. In that case, all your passengers get wet feet and soggy bags if they left them on the floor. Pontoon boats are not blue-water boats.

I had taken our guests up-stream two days earlier to show them the many alligators found sunning themselves in the fresh water along the river banks between Rambler's Rest campground and Snook Haven, just a few miles north. That trip was perfect for our pontoon boat, and now we wanted to fulfill our guest's wishes of seeing porpoises, or dolphins, in the wild. So, for this trip we headed south into the salt water of Charlotte Harbor. Our visitors from Berlin had a narrow window before heading back to winter in Germany, so if we didn't get out today, we probably wouldn't have the opportunity to show them Bull Bay or Turtle Bay, and quite possibly miss seeing the dolphins we are accustomed to in the area.

An hour and twenty minutes after we started out, we slowed and pulled into protected Cape Haze Bay, bumping the sandy bottom only once as I turned toward the protect anchorage twenty feet or so too early. The wind was a solid ten knots out of the south, but our little Bennington had fared well. We hadn't even come close to taking any waves over the front deck, so everything was perfect. According to the weather report, everything from here on was going to be a piece of cake.

We took photos of an obliging dolphin that circled the boat several times and gave us plenty of photo opportunities. It was as if I had scheduled its appearance just for our visitors. We slowly motored around the point and soon found out weather was going to be a major player after all. The building winds out of the south prevented us from landing on one of our favorite beaches, ripping my stern anchor loose and causing us to cut our stay short.

We toodled along for a few minutes in the strengthening winds headed west toward Bull Bay, then decided to turn around and head for home instead. The winds were increasing, not decreasing. Too late. As we headed back into the open water of Charlotte Harbor, the following seas were too heavy for a straight heading back toward the Myakka River. Afraid of burying the bow and the following sea rushing behind, I took a northeasterly course across Charlotte Harbor toward Punta Gorda which allowed me to at least control the boat in the building seas without taking water over the bow or being swamped from behind. We were soon in three foot seas and fifteen mile per hour winds from my right rear quarter. Disney World has nothing in its ride inventory to compare with the trip. The nine-mile trip across open water in a pontoon boat was a thrill to say the least, but I only drenched my passengers once. I couldn't go faster than nine or ten miles and hour and still control the boat, so it was a simple grit your teeth and hang-on type trip. I couldn't prevent one huge breaker from sloshing water over the port bow, but at least our guests were in good, if not soaked, humor. It was a real test for our ten year old Golden Retriever who squeezed himself between our guests for most of the bone-jarring trip. He gave me more desperate stares than my wife did.

We finally pulled into the Ponce Inlet canal at Ponce De Leon Park and sighed with relief to get out of the heavy wind and rolling seas. We throttled back to idle and found the wind still pushing us through the canyon of big boats nestled safely up on their dry lifts. The twenty minute respite from the incessant see-sawing across wave crests and troughs was enough to give everyone a chance to see if their sense of adventure, if not their sense of humor, had survived.

Cutting through Punta Gorda Isles brought me out into the Peace River in the lee of the winds from the south. I took a direct course across the Peace River, then aimed westward toward the entrance to the shallow Hog Island Cutoff which would once again get us out of the fifteen knot wind. The last few minutes across the Peace River once again found me fighting the steering as I minimized our exposure to the moderate seas as much as possible.

I entered the Cutoff on the western side, avoiding the sand bar that catch many boaters unaware, and throttled back to a comfortable cruise through the shallow mangrove creek that always reminds me of the Florida Keys. Several dedicated fishermen watched as we glided past, once again enjoying the relative quiet. We were almost through the two mile long creek, enjoying the twisty parts and joking about taking a “short cut” when we slammed to a sloshing halt.

Our German friends immediately set the front anchor when they realized we were drifting toward the mangroves. Luckily they are as at home on the water as we are, and knew exactly what to do as I was preoccupied with the other end of the boat.

I propped myself against the stern and after the required expletives, began prying the wire chicken-mesh from around the prop. If I had to use heavy leverage, I would have to get off the boat and in the three feet of root-beer colored water just to use my ever-present tools, but I was lucky, the re-bar lifted up and off the propeller after only a few minutes of prying and twisting. The trap splashed back into the water and we were free. We were once again ready to finish our trip and not only was I still dry, I hadn't even opened the tool bag.

We sat at idle for a few minutes after starting the motor, making sure it didn't make strange noises or leak from any seals. I pushed the boat back up to cruising speed and we finished the creek without any further drama. Entering the Myakka River well past the Hog Island Point kept us out of the wind and waves so the remainder of the trip home was almost dull by comparison. An hour later, after washing the salt water off the boat, and checking the prop for nicks, we all sat down to a glass of wine.

The German clinked our glasses and said “Thank you for showing us the Dolphins!”

“No problem, any time! It was our pleasure.”

I'll know the next time I try to get our dog back on the boat. He might not want to come.

Pharmaphobe

Phobe: indicating a person or thing that fears or hates the subject of the precedent root word. If the root word has anything to do with pharmaceuticals, then, yep, that's me. I'm a pharmaphobe. Without a doubt I am pharmapobic!

I know there are many absolutely wonderful discoveries in the war on sickness and disease, and many drugs are indispensable in our daily lives, but I also know I'm being bombarded with an unending marketing assault that dominates television and print media for drugs that have side effects that scare the daylights out of me. I know about chronic conditions that mandate a life-long demand for pharmaceuticals: I am hypertensive.

Why the massive ad campaigns for pharmaceuticals? Profit, of course. It isn't philanthropy, believe me. The big pharma companies wouldn't give away drugs for humanities sake, unless they knew it would create a never-ending demand from the drug, sort of a mandated addiction. Return On Investment, so to speak. Drugs prescribed by your doctor for chronic conditions like high blood pressure or high cholesterol create a cash flow, like an annuity, as long as the consumer, er, patient, stays alive. What a great business model!

What really worries me is a hypertensive doctor friend of ours won't take drugs other than ones for hypertension. She avoids other drugs as much as possible. Most of the people we know in the medical or peripheral businesses avoid flu shots like the plague. If that doesn't send up a red flag, I don't know what will. What bothers me most though, is the massive marketing attack on the average consumer. Seriously, I'm worried about the pharmaceuticals being sold on television today as if they were candy. “Tell your doctor you want this drug!”

Wow! If I have asthma, I can now go fishing with my grandson -- obviously I couldn't go fishing with him before – all I have to do is take a specific drug that I won't mention here. [My lawyer would be impotent against these guys.] If the side effects of this asthma drug don't kill me first, that is. The popular asthma drug lists thirteen symptoms as common side effects and two of them really caught my attention. This constantly advertised drug lists uncommon symptoms that runs another page and a half on their information sheet, and the overdose symptoms listed are outright scary, but side effects number 4, “difficulty with breathing” and number 11, “shortness of breath or troubled breathing” really are eye opening. If I have asthma, why am I taking this drug? Because the advertising said so! Look how happy they all are! Doing things they normally wouldn't do.

Really? I'm supposed to go to my doctor and tell her I want to take a certain drug because I think I may have a certain illness and I am now convinced I have a solution she may not be aware of? Isn't my doctor supposed to know what to prescribe for me when I have a medical condition that warrants that pharmaceutical concoction to be administered to me? Apparently doctors now respond to their patients demands and prescribe whatever feel-good drug now has the biggest marketing and advertising budget.

Listen to the possible side effects that accompany each Hollywood style production shown at exactly the time of day when old fogies like me are most likely to be watching the tube, er, flat screen I mean, and see if chills don't run down your spine.

Don't misunderstand what I'm writing here. Without penicillin, I wouldn't be alive today. Other new generation antibiotics administered when I blew out my appendix recently kept my septic condition from spoiling my life, much less my vacation. But the drugs weren't advertised on TV as imperative, life enhancing products I need to add to my daily regimen just to feel better. Take notes the next time you watch the evening news [only old people watch the evening news!] and see what I mean. I defy you to write down the side effects of any of the many drugs you will see advertised. Some of them even have the side effect of possible death! Wow, I can hardly wait to take some of those!

I have alleviated my reliance on blood pressure medicines by a simple action, weight loss. By losing twenty five pounds I have been able to reduce the drugs I take to keep my blood pressure “normal.'” Diet and physical activities are helping reduce my reliance on the remainder, all I have to do now is quit drinking alcohol. [Now, there's a rub!] With a little self control, I should be able to drop off or drastically reduce the regimen of the other prescription drugs. The first one I dropped off recently had a side effect that wasn't listed in the information sheet: bad breath! I realize many conditions aren't that easily remedied, but, many are.

Why did I pick the asthma drug as my example of pharma mass-marketing? Because they pander to unconscious consumers who think every fisherman has to wear a silly hat and a two hundred dollar fishing vest, carry a state of the art fly rod, then use a 79 cent red and white plastic bobber probably with a worm on the end of a hook! If this multi-million dollar corporation doesn't know anything about fishing, what do they know about anything else? Obviously they know how to market to American television viewers.

How about the million dollar marketing shtick that has two naked people sitting in the middle of field somewhere in old-fashioned cast-iron bathtubs? Aah, nothing like a dose of ridiculous fantasy to make the consumer feel like popping a pill is the answer to life's problems. Marketing chemicals in such a way that the gullible public demands the required prescribers give them what they want is downright scary. They'll probably drive up the market in old-fashioned cast iron bathtubs as well.

Want more information? Go to the FDA website at:

http://www.fda.gov/Drugs/ResourcesForYou/Consumers/PrescriptionDrugAdvertising/UCM076768.htm#approve_advertisements

Muse

When transferal of thought occurs through a mechanical process known as "writing," regardless of the medium, a permanent record is made of that thought. No longer ethereal or undefinable, it becomes an entity that can be debated or argued, praised or denounced. Often that thought is subliminal or subconscious, not by design or deduction. Whether the thought appears on paper through primitive muscular contraction and expansion, pushing and pulling a stick or ink-stained quill, or on a computer-controlled glass panel illuminated by electricity directed by human manipulation, that thought distinguishes human intelligence from all other forms on our planet. I often look back at my typing and read what I wrote in absolute awe. I have no idea how it got there. I never know what will appear on my computer screen. Well, maybe you do when you sit down to write, but I certainly don't. I often open my word processor and start typing and don't know why. 

The inspiration to transfer thought to a permanent memorial often emerges from an undefined state. Some call it the work of a muse, like “my muse wanted to say...” But my muse just sits there, probably on Facebook and not paying any attention to the fact I'm trying to write! The result is I'm constantly surprised by what pops up. So are you, probably, if you bother to read my nonsense. I'm sure if I had a muse, it would be surprised, too. You might think I don't recognize when the muse is typing for me, but I know better. I've read what muses write for other people, and it's nothing like what pops up on my screen. Muses write beautiful poetry, or involved, mysterious stories with incredibly interesting characters, not the mundane nonsense that shows up on my computer screen. No, no self respecting muse would own up to this stuff. 

Rarely do I have what is called “writers block,” the condition muses are supposed to lead writers through. More often than not, I have something to write and don't have any paper, or a computer to key into, as the case may be. Frustrated, I scribble on napkins, invoices, bills, and envelopes that I invariably, and unconsciously, throw away. Yes, they usually get thrown out well before I go looking for them, trying to piece together the great idea that I had two or three days ago. Or, two or three hours ago. Some days are like that.

Petey - Prime suspect

Writer's block only happens when I have to write something I don't want to write about. You know, something distasteful, or even worse, boring. Boring is the worst. I would rather read something really stupid I wrote as long as it isn't boring. Do I argue with myself? Constantly. Especially when I go back and reread something I wrote then put away for some reason or other. Where was my muse then? I really do put stuff away after I write it. Stephen King taught me that in his mandatory reading for any aspiring writer, “On Writing.”

How writers summon their muses baffles me. I have a hunch where mine might be. It's sitting in front of a PC somewhere checking Facebook. I know once I'm on Facebook, I'm done for the night. Tuck me in when you unplug my PC, I'll be sitting there glassy-eyed in a catatonic state waiting to see how many people like my last posting describing the amount of ear wax I successfully removed by using ear-candles.

My muse is undoubtedly just addicted as I am, I can't seem to get its attention. Wait! Is that laughing I hear? Why did I write this? Where did all this nonsense come from? Oh, Facebook is down. Aah! No wonder!

Disappointment

During a discussion of aging and the accomplishments of life with my daughter, Monica, and her husband, Troy, in one of those rare moments of introspection, I made an off-hand remark that actually brought tears to my daughter’s eyes. No, not of sorrow or pity. No, I made her laugh so hard she almost wet her pants. It wasn't on purpose, just one of those deep revelations that your kids simply don't expect. Somehow they just can't imagine us when we were young.

We were talking over a glass of wine about what we've done and seen and where we've been and still want to go, among other things that floated light-heartedly through and around the conversation. I mentioned that perhaps the biggest disappointment I had growing up was when I found out penguins weren't as big as I thought. Monica doubled over in laughter at my profound announcement. Really, I was terribly disappointed when I found out penguins are actually quite small. After the laughter subsided and Monica finally caught her breath, we all refreshed our wine and the discussion moved on to other things, all in all a fun evening.

Penguins fascinated me. They were so brave and devoted to the families they protected between their webbed feet in those horrible Antarctic storms. I thought they were huge birds standing there in those incredibly strong winds. They were always shown standing in unison, looking regal in their black and white colors that everyone said looked like formal wear. Of course, I had no idea what formal wear was, but they looked so massive and strong. And big.

When I was growing up, in the pre-information age, visual data was transferred or delivered primarily by books and magazines. Movies were black and white, at least on our television, anyway, and the world's mysteries were still cloaked in misinformation. The Everglades was a foreboding, terrifying place, and bobcats and wolves ate people. All snakes were dangerous – some of them could even swallow you whole in one gulp or kill you by spitting in your eye– and monsters still roamed the earth in undiscovered places.

We were in the National Zoo in Washington, DC, in the early fifties with my great aunt, Emma Cornes, when I was eight or nine years old. She specifically took us to the penguin house to see the penguins. I was stunned at the little black and white birds zipping around the dirty water tank, no way could those be my penguins! Where are the big ones? Like the ones in the books, and on television?

This Christmas, my present from Monica was a huge, cardboard box. Yep! I got a penguin. As big as any I could have imagined when I was eight years old. I call him Petey, and he now wears a t-shirt that says “Stay Cool.” The T-shirt is now adorned with all the cap-pins I've accumulated from our camping trips, It's a good thing he isn't a little bird, I wouldn't have room for all the pins.

The End of Football

So much for the college football bowl games for this season; they aren't being televised locally by the big three: CBS, NBC, or ABC. I need cable or satellite service to watch the major bowl games or I get to watch Mash reruns instead. I really had my heart set on wrapping up the college football season this New Year's weekend, but, alas, big-bucks subscription marketing has taken over the public airwaves for the traditional climax to the college football season. If I want to watch the traditional football bowl games on television, I have to pay.

I canceled my Direct TV service earlier this year as creeping costs continually eroded our entertainment budget, and installed an High Definition, HD, antenna in the attic to receive broadcast HD signals that are actually sharper than what we received by satellite. But I really did it to replace the insidious money-sucking billing system that just wouldn't quit.

We reduced our monthly costs late last year by threatening to shut off the Direct TV service, and they immediately reduced our bill by over twenty dollars a month! Amazing how they do that. But, true to form, each passing month slowly added a dollar or two until we were pushing ninety dollars a month for almost basic service. So this year we pulled the plug, and to get even, they won't let me see the Rose Bowl.

We use the Internet as well as the HD antenna to see just about all the shows and specials we want. Often we get to watch live-streaming of events and shows, and have found many TV shows available for download. I use a desktop PC upgraded with two big hard drives, a USB-connected television antenna, an HD video driver card plugged into our wide-screen TV, and a wireless Internet adapter, running Windows 7 which includes Microsoft Media Player. Windows Media Player has a recording feature exactly like a digital recorder, so we get to “tape” shows captured from the antenna we might otherwise miss.

We watch German television via the Internet as well as Netflix – which we pay less than ten bucks a month for – and have access to quite a bit of television that would not normally see. We get no less than four local PBS stations, three of which are not on satellite television, in addition to two stations for every local network station. We get just about anything we want, except ESPN. Guess who carries the football bowl games.  ESPN will only stream via the Internet if the broadband Internet service provider I use is on their approved list. My Internet DSL service provider is CenturyLink, and of course they are not on the list. 

So, I hope Hawkeye and Radar have something up their sleeves I haven't seen before. I was getting tired of football anyway.

Signs of the Times

“Hey Merry Christmas to I and ur family :)”

“Thank you the same to you but I don't know who you are.”

“Merry Christmas to u both! Enjoy fam. & friends. All the best for 2014. See u next year.”

“Who might you be?”

These text messages were taken directly from the screen of my wife's smart phone and are quite real. These are both outgoing and incoming texts. I'm sure they aren't the only examples of confused, wire-crossed, season's greetings bouncing around the expanding world of text messaging this joyous holiday season as traditional Christmas Cards go the way of horse-drawn carriages and gas lanterns. It's the modern way of sending Christmas cards and then forgetting to sign them.

Somebody knows our cellphone number and wants to send a Christmas greeting, but obviously their number isn't in our address book as our cellphone can't assign it to anyone we know. By not telling us their names, we are left in the ethereal dark. Why caller ID doesn't show the incoming name is curious, but it seems to be the case. If it isn't in our address book, caller's name doesn't show up. None of the messages we received were identified by caller ID, so we have no idea who called, or rather who texted. Going on-line and using reverse look-up is a waste of time unless you want to pay for every number you search as all the old free, look-up services have evaporated in our new corporate climate of pay, pay, pay.

At least we have an electronic trail, the calling telephone number, to follow back to the sender. Not quite as easy as recognizing a return address, but it is a way to contact and identify the mystery well-wisher. Unless, of course, it was a wrong number.

Rocky Mountain High - Humor

H. Ross Perot's famous sucking sound has come to pass, but it isn't what he envisioned. The neighborhood's almost empty! They started moving out yesterday and the place is just about cleaned out. There are a few of the old timers around who can't move, and a few who simply don't smoke pot, but most of our former neighbors are headed west, heading out at the break of day. Colorado will be so crowded you won't be able the buy a house with a front yard because, apparently, you can now sit there and smoke a joint legally.

Will it happen in Florida? Not as long as the liquor industry or their strange bedfellows, the religious right, or their highly paid lobbyists at any rate, have a strangle hold of the Florida legislature. Or maybe it's their relationship with the massive retirement communities that dominate God's waiting room, which, if you think about it, is really just as effective. The liquor industry having God on their side is a real oxymoron if you consider the war on alcohol that brought us the thirteen-year ban on alcohol in this country by way of the 18^th Amendment way back when, because the war on alcohol was supported mainly by the religiously driven anti-saloon league.

Will recreational pot ever be legal in Florida? Not likely! Unless, of course, they figure out a way to make selling pot legal, and add the sales tax revenues to Florida's tax rolls, at the para-mutual venues. You know, the horse tracks, Jai-Lai Frontons, and the Greyhound dog racing tracks, and maybe even the ever popular Native-American gambling casinos. 

They won't come up with a painting of pot being passed around at the last supper, but they'll figure out a way to mollify the religious opponents, and lo and behold, the angels will sing.  And when they do, I bet they'll sell munchies, too! 

Maybe someday, after the earth stops spinning, my neighbors will eventually move back to the land of fun and sun. 

But, don't hold your breath. Figuratively, of course.

Real Women - Humor

Real women clean their own fish. You know, the ones they catch themselves. Real women can pluck a chicken. And, they don't complain if they break a fingernail in the process. They can make soup, or soap, depending on how much chicken fat is left when they get done plucking the chicken, and they can shoot a chicken hawk out of the hen-house with a .22 rifle. Ah, let's see, how many other, selfish, self-serving traits can I use to create a barrier between myself and reality?

Let's see, perfect women don't cheat, lie, steal or flatulate – blow a raspberry – in bed. They don't ask to go out to dinner just because they have a need to be seen with new clothes or jewelry. In fact, they don't even want new clothes or jewelry. They would rather lounge around the bedroom, scantily dressed, with personal lubricant at hand, waiting to be tied to the bed.

Real women should be able to code HTML and update their own web site, and mine, too, while she's at it. Real women can change oil and tires on the car if needed, and be able to load the boat on the trailer single-handedly. Never should I have to interrupt watching a football game to tell her where the toilet plunger is.

Real women should be caring, sweet, rational, even-tempered, calm, and never say a foul or nasty word to anyone, especially not me. They understand the fundamentals of credit financing. Of course real women will always smell like summer fields of lavender, even after they finish mowing the lawn. No, make that charcoal smoke, you, know like what comes off the barbeque grill when you're cooking a really juicy T-bone steak. Cooking will of course be an art form real women follow in their spare time so I can entertain any of my friends, well, most of my friends, well, even just one of my friends! They aren't allowed in now, so let's see how can I change this ethereal dream-list into something that actually resembles reality.

It seems every time I log onto the Internet, I'm bombarded with lists of attributes American males must have to be considered as even semi-qualified to even associate with any American woman. I can only sit and wonder about the incredibly lucky, tanned, muscular, hairless-bodied, independently wealthy, doctorate-level college-educated men, all with marvelous heads of hair and smiles that looks like inlaid pearl, who will never be inattentive, interrupt, be late, get lost, and will never, never, talk out of turn. They will never lie, ever! They will never be aggravated, hungry or horny, always be cuddly romantic, ready to watch whatever video or movie his soul mate happens to pick, regardless of any NFL championship playoffs. He absolutely loves kittens and will never have an independent, uninvited thought. Tofu? Loves it! He will also have the uncanny ability to remember every conversation ever held in his presence verbatim, and even those he wasn't present to hear in the first place.

I realize that lacking any single one of these traits immediately casts me into the vast, bottomless cesspool of common, useless men, the ones that no American woman in her right man would associate with. Unless, of course, he rides a motorcycle and has a ponytail. In that case, American women don't need no stinkin' list.

Go figure!