Requiem



In 1978 I was working in a Los Angeles office when my mother called from New Mexico to say my father was dying. “You better come now. He’s going,” she said. The man was 83 years old and in poor health. I had been expecting my mother’s call. I muttered my assent, closed the office door, put my head down on a desk and wept. An elderly secretary brought me half of her lunchtime sandwich, her consoling kindness only provoking more tears.

That night I was in a half empty Boeing 727 which seemed to whisper thorough the desert sky en route to Albuquerque as passengers dozed in the dimly lit cabin. I was thinking of other flights, the ones of my childhood in Alaska when I rode with my dad when he flew mail, freight and people to villages along the Kuskokwim and Yukon Rivers down to the Bering Sea. His airplanes didn’t whisper. They roared and rumbled like angry gods.

My ears would ring for hours after a flight in dad’s Bellanca, Waco and Stinson powered by thundering Pratt & Whitney engines. Sometimes I sat in the still warm pilot’s seat after a flight, listening to the metallic click and tink of heat stresses working out of the engine while an unseen gyroscope in the instrument panel whirred to an eventual stop, the ringing in my ears adding a musical note to a cadenza of cooling machinery.

That was in the late 1940s and dad was not a young man.  He was 54 when he married my mother and later adopted me after my mother was confident the marriage would last.

He’d had quite an airborne career by that time. The number on his airman’s certificate was #712.  Orville Wright had been issued #1.  Dad dropped out of dental school at Baylor University in 1918 to join the Aviation Section of Army Signal Corps, then the nation’s air arm. The war ended before dad could fight the Hun, but he did manage to keep Oklahoma and Texas safe from the Kaiser’s army.

After the war he bought a surplus Army trainer known as a Jenny, the nickname of Curtiss Aircraft’s JN-4 trainer, and sold rides at county fairs all over the south and midwest. By 1925 he had accumulated enough experience to qualify as a test pilot for Swallow Aircraft, which was building an early version of the flying wing, an ahead of its time airplane the German Luftwaffe copied when designing a rocket powered fighter late in WW2.

Swallow sold its assets to Clyde Cessna, William T. Piper and Olive Ann Beech 1927.  Dad went to work for Ford Airways in Dearborn, Michigan, where he flew Ford Tri-motors between the midwest and New York. Then Ford got out of the airline business and sold its airplanes to other carriers, but by that time dad was off to other adventures, which eventually led him to South America and later Alaska -- after a failed attempt to make a solo flight from Seattle to Tokyo in 1932.

Please forgive a digression. During dad’s stint with Ford Airways, Henry Ford himself took New York office supply manufacturer Jim Rand of Remington Rand for an airplane ride with dad as the pilot. Rand was in the market for an airplane as a present to his wife, the equivalent of giving a spouse her own jumbo jet today. Rand bought a Tri-motor and hired dad to fly it, but Rand’s wife, who was not well, died the very day dad delivered the airplane to New York’s Roosevelt Field on Long Island.

About that time a man named Ralph O’Neill, and his friend and former Harvard roommate Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney, approached Rand to invest in an international airline they were starting. The proposed company would fly a route from New York to South America and be named NYRBA Lines, an acronym for New York-Rio-Buenos Aires Lines. Rand became a backer. Dad was sent to Buenos Aires as NYRBA’s chief pilot for its South American operations.

Prior to going to South America, dad was sent on a tour of the U.S. in a Tri-motor to publicize the safety of air travel by giving elected officials, reporters and famous people who attracted reporters along for a ride, Will Rogers and Amelia Earhart among them. The publicity paid off. NYRBA got its charter, a mail contract, and flourished until 1930. That year, in a series of political machinations with the postmaster general -- in short, bribes -- competing Pan American World Airways nabbed the mail contract and forced NYRBA into a shotgun marriage, offering dad a job as lowly copilot where he had once been the boss.  The postmaster general was later indicted for accepting payoffs, but the damage had been done to NYRBA Lines.

Dad declined the Pan Am offer and took flying jobs here and there until 1932. That year he attempted to fly non-stop from Seattle to Tokyo for $25,000 put up by the city of Seattle and Japan’s Asahi Shimbun newspaper as a prize. He was even given a gold watch to present to Emperor Hirohito.

Fate had other plans. His airplane crashed during an attempt at air-to-air fueling over Puget Sound, as Boeing Field was not long enough to permit a takeoff with the amount of fuel his airplane needed for the transpacific flight.  The plan was to take off with his tanks half full with the rest being supplied by another airplane in flight. 

He carried a helper named Edward Muldowney in the back of the cockpit to handle the weighted hose from the fueling airplane flying above.  Once the transfer was completed, Muldowney was to bail out, as the flight was supposed to be a solo effort. 

Both planes made two successful practice flights, but the third ended in disaster when the fueling hose snagged the tail of dad's airplane and yanked it off, causing the overloaded aircraft to roll over and fall apart in midair. Dad and Muldowney parachuted out. They were picked up by a boat as the wreckage sank to the bottom of Elliot Bay, along with Hirohito’s gold watch.

After a brief hospitization, Dad recovered and bought a one of a kind all metal airplane called a Thaden T-1 and sought his fortune in Alaska. Fate again intervened in the winter of 1933. The Thaden was wrecked when its skis struck a snow covered log on landing in Chitina, Alaska, bending the airframe beyond repair. The fuselage was recovered in the 1980s by retired Eastern Airlines captain William Thaden, the son of the manufacturer, and is now on display at the Hiller Aviation Museum in San Carlos, California.

Dad found the wherewithal to buy a Waco (pronounced walk-oh) YKS and flew bush routes out of Valdez, Fairbanks, Anchorage and Bethel during the late 30s and early 40s, which is where he was based when he married my mother.

It was his fourth marriage. “I am the fourth and final Mrs. Nat Browne,” my mother announced. “Please, honey,” dad responded. “You make the future sound so dull.”

The marriage lasted 35 years through thick and thin economic times, mostly thin. There was a government contract to map potential radar sites in Alaska for the Air Force during the height of the Cold War in the 1950s, a mining venture that bankrupted him, a heart attack, and his final employment in a foundry owned by his son-in-law in the Los Angeles area. He’d had a daughter and a son by a previous marriage. The boy was killed during the 1920s when a car struck the bicycle has riding. My step-sister was my mother’s age and had two kids of her own. This made me an uncle by default the moment I was adopted. Some uncle. My neice was two years older than me.  My nephew was my age and could beat me up, and did.

Dad made his final flight in 1958 when selling the last of his airplanes, a Piper Super Cub, an aircraft light enough to glide a considerable distance in the hands of skilled pilot if the engine quit. His engine did quit three times during that flight, forcing dad to land on sand bars each time. Dad traced the cause to particles of dirt that had clogged the vented caps of the two gas tanks in the wings, creating a vacuum that stopped the flow of fuel.

“See there? I learned something new on my very last flight,” he cautioned me when I was learning to fly and had more confidence than sense.  He also gave me the most valuable counsel I’d ever received about flying when I was complaining about an airplane that was difficult to control: “The worse the airplane, the better the pilot.”

The 727 began a gradual descent approaching Albuquerque. The whoosh of air over the fuselage diminished.  The fasten seat belt sign blinked on.  Flight attendants turned up the cabin lights and patrolled the aisle making sure passengers were buckled in. 
Sleeping passengers awoke and stirred as the jet bounced on landing.

I was met at the airport by a neighbor of my parents who drove me to their mobile home in Santa Fé, sixty miles away. Mom was in no shape for the drive.

“Your father died,” the neighbor said the moment he met me.

Gee, thanks.

“He likes spreading bad news,” mom later explained.  So I noticed. Glad I could I could make someone’s day. Anyway, I was emotionally a zero by that time. Numb.

Sometimes I believe in an afterlife, sometimes I don’t.  If there is one, I hope there are airplanes in it, and fathers to fly them.

-o-

Comments?

Thanks for sharing with me.  Made me cry.  -- Uma

I have to tell you-that is not only factually fascinating but brilliantly written.
Beautiful.  -- Pat

You sweet soul.  You always grab my heart. --  Canids

Mike:  Tab A Insert B forwarded me your wonderful essay about your late father. I read it with particular interest because I'm a lifelong aviation buff,  Your dad truly was a brave and important aviation pioneer. I particularly liked the parts about the Ford Trimotor, because at the age of 14 I was allowed by two American Airlines pilots to actually pilot their beautifully restored Tin Goose from Palmdale to LAX. The thing was so draggy and underpowered that we had to hunt for thermal updrafts to make it over low mountains.  It was so cool flying that beast, right elbow slung out into the slipstream. We were kind of all over the sky because as flying machines go it was extremely sloppy to handle, but at 14, who knew?

The reason I was so fortunate to get that and several other wonderful opportunities was due to my late uncle, Ed Rees. Like your dad, he was an extraordinary and bigger than life character. He went from college dropout/copy boy for Time magazine to flying 25 missions on a B-17 as a radioman/gunner, returning to Time after the war to become the Aviation/Aerospace Editor at age 27. -- Ronald

Very nice Mike.  Your mother and father would be very proud.  You have a wonderful way with words. -- Carol

Mike, that was really great. I, too, had a stepdad who I aquired my brother and me at age 7.   My stepfather and I had our ups and downs.  He liked to tell people we were like oil and water.  Not a great endorsement, but in truth we were a lot alike.  He came to depend on me to help him and my mom after he had a stroke. He asked the night nurse for me while in the hospital the last and final time. She said he had called her by my name all night.  Mom died 6 years later.  We sold the house which I pass by everyday going to work. He adored my two daughters and treated them even better than his own "blood" grandchildren. I like to think it was his way of loving me in a way he couldn't quite do directly.   I just wanted to share with you, since you also had a stepdad. Our memories are wonderful and I know you cherish them. --  Bonnie

That's quite a back story, and one I knew nothing about. I couldn't read it fast enough. I think I'll print this one out and settle in when I'm more awake and peruse this incredible story.  -- THAB

Wow. What an amazing life behind all those tomatoes. Thank you Mike. And I'm sure wherever your father is, he's flying. -- Linda B

Of course there are airplanes in the afterlife. I believe Mr. Young wrote the following after a quick peek into the afterlife. Okay, I made that up,  but it is a nice thought. -- Tammy

Well, I dreamed I saw the silver
Space ships flying
In the yellow haze of the sun,
There were children crying
And colors flying
All around the chosen ones.
All in a dream, all in a dream
The loading had begun.
They were flying Mother Nature's
Silver seed to a new home in the sun.

-- Neil Young, "After The Gold Rush."

Thank you Mike. You are write on! -- Gambatay

As you know from reading the piece I sent to you about my Dad, and since my mother was no help at all in my physical or emotional growing up, my father meant everything to me. This piece of yours is a most lovely tribute to yours.  Mike, for all the humor you often put in your writing, and all of the wry comments and thoughts that make me smile. -- Zoey

Beautilful tribute! -- Lynda

What a tribute, Mike! When I think of you, I first think of tomatoes and next think of the stories you relayed to me about your Dad & his flying career in Alaska. Our daddies both flew - mine for sport, yours for a more serious and important purpose. Regardless, I believe they have their hand on the throttle - wherever they may be. You make me smile. Thank you. -- Bachlennon

He would have been very proud and very pleased to see what you remembered and how much of an impression his life made on you. Your admiration and affection for him comes across quite clearly. -- Tab

Good story, Tomatomike!.  I lost my dad a few weeks, ago and I still have that numb feeling ..Even though my concentration level is not the best at the moment, sounds as if you had quite an interesting upbringing with smart and loving parents. Love your stories! -- Pirate.

I’m sorry for your loss. -- MB

I knew most of this story, but it's always good to hear it again. Good story-telling, 'Materman.-- Shannon.

Yeah, I had written a similar one several years ago, but wanted to do something for Father’s Day. -- MB

Mike, thanks very much for sharing your Father's Day tribute. I've passed it on as I'm sure others have as well. I always enjoy a quick break for your "The Tomatoman Times".  -- E. R. Murphy

Mr. Murphy was a Navy lieutenant.  Among his other duties, he was the education officer assigned to the same base in the Philippines where I was stationed as a sailor who had dropped out of high school. Lieutenant Murphy was an absolute tyrant who confined me to the base until I passed a high school GED test.  Oh, the agony!   I later graduated from the same college he had attended.  He went on to become the executive officer of the USS Pueblo, which was captured by North Korea in 1968 and its crew imprisoned for 11 months. Prior to his assignment to the Pueblo, Mr. Murphy and another naval officer received the Navy Marine Corps medal for lifesaving. They had swum through cold and dangerous surf on California’s north coast to rescue some endangered fishermen. He wrote a book about the Pueblo capture entitled  Second In Command - The Uncensored Account Of The Spy Ship Pueblo,  published in 1971. -- MB

Thanks for making me cry at work, Hot Shot. -- Sandy

Why aren’t you playing computer Solitaire like everyone else in the office? -- MB

Wonderful requiem for your dad. What a great adventure his life was. -- Mike C.

Thanks Mike. As always, well done. -- BG

I knew most of this story, and it still rings fresh and true and a wonderful read. -- Tim

My luck. I beat you by about 15 minutes! I was sending a link for Tomatoman Times to a friend in Sacramento and happened across this earlier. I loved it. Don't lose touch, Mikie. -- Barb

Call me Mikie one more time and I’ll dispatch a horde of accordion players to your next social event. MB

It is always fine to read your work, Mike. -- PLH

I haven't spoken to my father for a whole year. Not even on Father's Day yesterday. His fault, not mine. I swear. I might give him a call soon.  Just give me a little time. -- Gerard.

Oh well, I wasn’t the poster child of a dutiful son myself.  MB

I loved the piece; it's something I am working on now. Inspiring. Thanks for sharing. -- Peggy

Really really nice, Mike. A great tribute to your dad! -- Karen

Thanks. Nice reminiscence. -- ML

As the 4th and final Mrs T., I feel a special kinship with your mother. If there's an afterlife, I’ll be looking for her. What a gift she gave to you in this man as a stepfather. This was easily one of your best My Tomato. -- Tracy

Ninety Seconds Of Hell

As a former limousine chauffeur for 10 years, news coverage of the burning limousine on the San Mateo Bridge over San Francisco Bay last Saturday got my attention. Nine women in a bridal party, including the bride-to-be and her mother, were in the car when the rear section caught fire. The cause of the fire has not been determined.

The chauffeur and four women escaped. Five others did not. Authorities found their bodies clustered around a three foot wide opening in the partition between the passenger and driver compartments.

That three foot space has a panel that can be raised or lowered by the chauffeur or the passengers. It’s called a privacy panel. Initial reports state that four survivors escaped through the open privacy panel and out the front doors along with the chauffeur.

The limo had two doors at the back of the passenger section. Some limos also have a hinged plexiglass window in the roof, called a moon roof. In recent years fewer and fewer limousine companies have had the moon roof installed.  Too risky.  Inebriated male passengers have been known to climb through an open moon roof for a fresh air ride on top of the car. Sometimes inebriated female passengers use an open moon roof to flash their assets. This can dangerously distract other motorists into causing insurance headaches.

Whether or not this limo had a moon roof was not cited in the reports I read. It might not have made any difference if it had. The moon roof is usually placed over the rear of the passenger compartment. That’s where the fire was.

Stretch limos have extended windows on each side of the passenger compartment. Those windows are made of shatterproof glass and composite plastics. They can only be opened by a strong person with a sledge hammer.

Then we have the trunk, which is directly over a 35 to 55 gallon gas tank.  Some limo companies stash an empty one gallon gasoline can in the trunk.  Empty gasoline cans have fumes if they’ve ever contained gasoline. Fumes are explosive. Some limos still have road flares in the trunk instead of, or in addition to, collapsible plastic triangles with reflectors. Flares are made with chemicals that are nearly impossible to extinguish.

Another thing. The faux wood fixtures in limousine interiors, such as the lids for the ice compartments, are made of plastics that give off toxic fumes when ignited. So does upholstery and carpeting. 

Given all the combustibles in the interior of a stretch limousine, I was not surprised when the chauffeur told authorities that the limo went up in flames in 90 seconds.

Those 90 seconds may have seemed like eternity for everyone involved.

For five of the women in the limo that night, it was.

Comments:

I have never seen the point of limousines. Never rode in one, never had the urge to. (No offense, just me being me.) I always enjoy your limousine stories though, and your analysis on this sad accident was very illuminating. It seems as if limos need some kind of escape route better than what they have now! -- Eve

A horrible accident. -- Lynda

Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. Next time I'll ride a scooter.  -- Pre

Scooters are hard to spot in traffic.  You might get smacked by a limo.

Thought of you immediately when this story broke!  It was helpful reading what you wrote; sobering and informative. So glad you are okay, and very sad about those women. -- Miriam

What a nightmare for all, and on the darned bridge too. -- Diane

I'll never look at a limousine the same again. -- Linda B.

It gets sadder and sadder. Seems like a lack of communication between the woman and the driver. So sad.  -- Uma

They did communicate. According to news accounts, one of the women alerted the driver about smoke in the back.  The driver came to a stop and bailed out along with four of the women.  The other five, well...

Helluva a post -- very informative and as usual, really well written. -- Tim

All I know is that people are dead who should not be, and families are grieving and will for the rest of their lives. Maybe some changes in the next limo that rolls off the production line will happen because of that incident. Maybe some people who didn't think something awful could happen to anybody in that car that night -- and anyone who sees people they love roll away for a night of fun -- will think a little harder about how much they love someone and tell him so. People will bury their loved ones this week, and the rest of us will go on living. It's what we do. Terribly sad, and resiliently good that we have to and can. What a sad, awful story, Mike. -- Zoey

I won't ride in a limo now. Very sad. -- Meemir

This was a very freakish event that has safety investigators all over it. My view is that you’re safer in a stretch limo in Saturday night traffic than you are in a car.

Mike...I thought about you when I heard the news, particularly since the driver's last name was Brown. SO GLAD it wasn't you!  I was up in SF last week for a couple of days, viewing the Dutch Masters' exhibit at the DeYoung.  Creepy, awful accident! -- Cyn

My last name is spelled Browne, and I gave up being a chauffeur over a year ago.

I, too, was afraid that you were driving that limo; didn't know you have given up the driving gig.  Still, I know you must feel badly, as a fellow driver. -- Shannon.

Aw hell. Literally. -- Tracy

Keith and I were so sad to hear that story. Those poor women and their families. -- Sandy

I also was saddened by news of the limo disaster on the San Mateo Bridge. 90 seconds for that many people to escape, unbelievable. Words can not describe how awful it must have been, but you told the story that may make companies reexamine evacuation procedures. -- Karen

Unbelievable tragedy. I too thought of you. Even though you are not doing that anymore, I still thought of you. The limo driver must be feeling really awful right now. Thank you for all of the information that most people would never know or even think about. Sad. -- Carol

It is very sad that these five women died at a young age. Perhaps investigators will discover what caused the fire, and perhaps this information will make limousines safer in the future. -- Ken

　

The Leaf Blower Blues

Of course I don’t have to remind you that the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in 1848 ceded California, Texas, Nevada. Arizona, New Mexico, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming to the U.S. from Mexico, do I? I thought not.

You’ll recall that in addition to paying the Mexican government $15 million in 1848 dollars, the U.S. conceded the use of leaf blowers within the continental United States and its territories.

That’s right, leaf blowers.

See, even though leaf blowers would not be invented until the next century, those wily Mexicans consulted their Azteck and Mayan calendars, which are also dandy little oracles, and forecast a time when Mexico could get even for the headaches caused by Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and the rest of that Alamo riffraff in 1836.

Oh sure, the Mexicans won that one, but latter day hotheads in the Mexican government were still pissed about the Great Yanqui Land Grab of 1848. While they were pleased about giving the bowel splitting symptoms of Montezuma’s Revenge to Yanqui invaders, something more was needed to take the fight to the enemy camp, the U.S. itself.

Hence, leaf blowers. It took awhile, but eventually, in 150 years, California was swarmed with legions of lawn care workers armed with howling leaf blowers causing sleep deprived mayhem from the Oregon border to San Ysidro. Traffic accidents caused by drowsy drivers doubled overnight. Domestic tranquility among formerly happy couples degenerated into sleepless and sometimes fatal squabbles over such trifles as custody of the TV remote. A whole social fabric was being torn asunder by the barking blasts of backpacked engines.

Things came to a head in 1973 when the U.S. was leaf blown to the negotiating table. No less than Henry Kissinger himself worked out the Tijuana Accords that year, but the Mexicans hung tough with Article IX, Section VII, Paragraph 3, subparagrph ( c ) which states that "Expatriate Mexican lawn care workers employed by Yanqui Gringos may use gasoline powered leaf blowers when tending the lawns, gardens and yards of said Yanqui Gringos between the hours of 7:00 and 7:30 a.m. forever world without end amen. Viva Mejico."

So that’s why four presumably documented Mexican workers, who are probably working for minimum wage or less, and without ear and eye protection, make Monday mornings around here worse than Monday mornings usually are by leaf blowing their way into every brain pan within earshot.

I could buy an AK-47 and end this leaf blowing nonsense myself, but that has more consequences than I am willing to bear. Folsom Prison is not far away. Neither is San Quentin. Besides, the sight of blood makes me sick.

So, I just try to remember that the Treaty Of Guadalupe Hidalgo was very one sided, that the leaf blowers only blow leaves around here less than an hour each week, and that I can buy a set of earplugs for sixty five cents.

Besides, if you can’t beat ‘em, hire ‘em. Maybe I can pay the leaf blowing crew to blast the crows that crap on my car from the tree over my parking spot.

I know that "into each life some rain must fall," but this?

* * *

Comments?

This reminds me of the morning I had a migraine and the workers at the childcare center next door would not stop using the damned things when asked. I still cringe when I hear them.  -- Shannon

Contrary to your eloquent and well-thought-out analysis of the leaf blowing disturbance, I am just going to say this:

Why in the hell do my thoughtless, uncaring, brainless neighbors, in this otherwise well-kept, neat, quiet complex that I live in, have to turn on their water every freakin' night right at the precise moment that I shut my eyes to finally go to sleep?  Do they save up their body washing, desperately-needing underpants laundry jobs, dishwasher duties, extended hand-washing and quenching of thirsts for that exact moment for some reason I have failed to research and therefore comprehend?  How do they know?

Is this travesty related to some historical issue I have yet to discover in my neck vein popping fits, and you are the only one studious enough to figure this stuff out?  Please, tell me it has to do with some drought that happened in dinosaur times that somehow wormed its way into the long lost ancestors of these freakishly ignorant people I live next to.  Please tell me that so I can blame it on something that makes sense. Tell me I will one day sleep again. -- Zoey

We're both doomed. MB

Don't get me started on snowblowers, something you are blessed not to have to deal with. Wonderful reading as always. -- Julisari

I enjoyed reading this column. -- Ken

At our complex, yard workers are allowed to start at 7:30 AM. They are even allowed to try and blow wet leaves after a heavy rain. I mean really! I empathize. -- Beaty

What a coinkydink. I was just lookin for a Guadalupe medal -- Uma

Uma provided a balanced perspective well worth reading:
http://www.beinglatino.us/uncategorized/invisible-men/

That was hysterical and yet so very poignant. Excellent. -- Mary Pat　

A Suspicious Character

Two beefcake security guards yanked the plastic cooler out of my hands, slapped some handcuffs on my wrists, hustled me off to a small room and plunked me down on a folding chair.

“Did you call the bomb squad?” one of them asked his partner.

“Not yet. Should we?”

“Let’s have a look first. Check his ID.”

One of them pulled me upright by my collar and fished my wallet out of my hip pocket.

“Best fake ID I’ve ever seen.  Got the state seal hologram and everything.  Even looks like him.”

I asked what this was all about.

“Shaddap!  If we want any crap out of you we’ll tighten your shoelaces!”

So I shaddap while they carefully set my plastic cooler on the floor and slowwwwwly removed the cover.

“Hmmm. Looks like a tuna sandwich, a bottle of Gatorade, a bag of Cheetos and a box of Junior Mints.”

“Well, that’s better than that gawdawful smelly curry that dark guy was packing yesterday.  Think this stuff could be bomb components?  I don’t see no wires.”

“Ya never know.  Don’t forget the Potroast Bomber Of Poughkeepsie that was all over the news last week.  He had one of them printed circuits under the sliced potatoes and carrots. Turned out to be an old hearing aid that somehow fell in the stew, but you can’t be too careful.”

Again I asked what this was all about. This time I got an almost civil answer.

“Listen, bub. You match the profile of the Angry Old White Male, right down to your bifocals, bald head, black socks and Birkenstocks.”

“Well, he’s clean,” the other guard said, sounding disappointed.

His partner removed the cuffs and jabbed a finger in my chest.  “Be more careful next time. What were you doing at a Little League game anyway?  You got a grandkid here or something?”

No, I just happened by and needed a place to sit down for awhile.

“Well, you’re lucky we got to you first. Them Little League moms woulda torn you to pieces.”

Since then I've been trying to remember who said "Those who give up civil liberties for security lose both." 

I don't like pot roast either.

* * *

...And so you said:

I wouldn't trust a person that doesn't like pot roast.  -- Ldy

Well, it's okay if I can put teriyaki sauce on it.  MB

Keep writing Mikeee. You are awesome -- Canids

Aww, you say that to all the produce.

Mike I always enjoy your mind and the pictures you paint in my mind with your words. maybe we can have a little feminine nudity and a few snickers in the near future?

Loved the relationship/comparison to the police profiling that happens in this world today and how it does not work. Used to when one was pulled over we were asked politely for a registration, proof of insurance and a valid drivers license. You may have a ticket coming but it was done with politeness unless you became a asshole, and then the cops revenge was to be nicer and write you more tickets.

Now a Command Voice is used on you and a command to place your hands on the steering wheel while your approached With Hand on Weapon to intimidate you.  Yes I know it's a different world today and society as a whole is under attack, but still  the police are not our representatives/protectors and servants, they are our keepers and have joined Washington in the attitude that they are above us as a class and do not have to live by the same rules and laws we do.

Not Sure whats really happening, but Amy, myself and our children are striving to find the America we used to know.  We are seeking a small town atmosphere on a lake, and we think we have success in Oklahoma in a Cherokee environment.

Mike, Ole Bud, thanks for the grins and giggles on the 2nd story and have a great day.  On June 1 we are floating from Quad Cities to New Orleans on the Mighty Miss in canoes and Kayaks , 96 miles a day 11 days .. Dont just grow old , have fun doing it The Boomers arent dead yet we just arent noticed any more! -- Nick and Misses Nick "aka My Amy"

”Those Who Sacrifice Liberty For Security Deserve Neither.” -- Benjamin Franklin

Above quote provided by CDB. Thank you.

“If a nation values anything more than freedom, it will lose its freedom; and the irony of it is, if it is comfort or money it values more, it will lose that, too.“ W. Somerset Maugham

I have this framed on my office wall at home. Good work, as usual, my friend. Thanks. -- Tom

Thanks for the good stuff to read. About every few weeks I get to thinking I ought to find a good book to read, maybe even some short stories - which I write a lot of and like when I find one, too. Sometimes a Reader's Digest falls into my hands at the dentist's office, but since I don't go to the dentist but once a year or so, that really doesn't work all that well. So, every so often I get a piece of mail from Mike. Ah, there it is. A little humor, some wry comments, something thoughtful about life or people or something ordinary that is written in just such a way as to hold my interest, make me smile, make me think, make me enjoy. Thanks again, Mike. It's always good. Stay well. - Zoey

You are a bright spot in my day.  Keep going.  And quit deleting the luv ya. -- Carol

Hysterical. -- Mary Pat

Do they really think a man in black socks and Birkenstocks would do something even remotely evil?  I find that hard to believe. But keep writing. I'll believe anything you write (cough) -- Linda B

Yes, I do.  Committing a fashion felony, for openers. MB

Mike, thank you for sending the T Times. Wonderful as always -- Liv.

This is a sad statement about our society. Too many police are acting like every citizen they deal with is a terrorist or at least criminal. Every city has a SWAT team, usually financed by the feds and this is designed so that the cities will do the their bidding.

The people who founded this country were explicit about just this eventuality and tried to write our Constitution to prevent it. It appears our duly elected officials in Washington are doing everything in their power to circumvent these safeguards.

It's a sad state of affairs and one day maybe the human race will learn to deal with our shortcomings without resorting to force. -- Wht

Ok, now that we've read the script, we want to see the film, or the cartoon, rather! -- Gerard

I like the humor in this story. -- Ken

LOL Tomatomike. a BIG THANKS ONCE AGAIN!!.. for letting my imagination run free and wild! Hearts and Thoughts -- Pirate

Was this true???? -- Lynda

No. I like pot roast.

Rugs

The other night I was startled by the televised appearance of a local businessman I had known 20 years ago. He owns a piece of the National Basketball Association franchise here, the Sacramento Kings. That’s what the TV interview was about.

He also owns a piece of hair.  Or what might pass as hair in a dim light.  What I remembered as his thinning blond hair had been replaced with something that looked like a road kill skunk, minus the white stripe. In short, this guy was wearing the most obvious rug in captivity.  That’s what startled me.

See, this guy is not a pauper who can't afford to accessorize.  He’s a developer who’s built vast suburbs and a Hyatt Regency hotel in addition to owning a percentage of the Kings.   You’d think he would buy a hairpiece that didn’t look like a failed experiment swept from the floor of a barber college.  He could easily afford a head ornament from the Sean Connery Collection of Cranial Canvas, but no, he’s taken the badly paved road to a false economy and looks it.

I can sympathize.  My own hairline has not just receded. It’s gone into wild retreat.  I toyed with the idea of buying a rug in order to be attractive to a woman, then the voice of sweet reason whispered in my inner ear,  “She’s gonna find out sometime, Ace.  Better make it sooner than later.  Later and she just might burst out laughing if the damn thing flops over on your face at a crucial time and ruins The Moment.”

Besides, as a woman told me, “If it falls off in a restaurant, the other diners will try to kill it.”

A barber who hated to lose any business counseled me to let the hair on the side of my head grow long enough to cover the nekkid part on top.  Bad idea. That looks goofier than a cheap hairpiece and is even more obvious.  Another barber suggested that a couple of combover strands might be a comforting illusion for me, but that would just make me look like a skinny Homer Simpson.  Forget it.

I thought Bald Pride might be the way to go.  I had barbers give me the quick Buzzed To Fuzz Special.  Eventually I bought an electric clipper to do the job myself instead of spending ten bucks a pop to be shorn like a sheep.  On cold days I wear a stylish beret or a woolen Navy watch cap at a jaunty angle and strut around like a grand boulevardier and the most vain of peacocks.

I even bought a license plate frame that read “The More Hair I Lose The More Head I Get” but a miffed Christian neighbor took offense and removed it.

Yet I am sometimes humbled when remembering the words of a tired cocktail waitress when a bald drinking buddy of mine told her,  “Bald headed men are more virile.”

She sighed and said, “No, they aren’t. They just talk more.”

Some of us even write about it.

As for that developer, I know him to be a nice fella.  I wish he would ditch the toup and let his head shine like a beacon of good will. 

Besides, if it falls off in a restaurant, well......

* * *

Comments?

Funny.  The day before I left, a neighbor suggested that I dye my hair and the very next day (the day I left!) a woman in the airport told me how much fun I'd have with "the bottles."   I like your jauntiness, your highness.  --  Thea

LOL Tomato. No lie! As I clicked to read this story, my husband opened the door and shouted out, "I brought you home a  rug to use your ab exerciser on."  Another cute write, you!  -- Pirate

Wonderful, and more wonderfuller. Love your timing. Lust for your sentences. Plus the hair thing is funny. -- Galen

Aw shucks. I thank you and my surviving hairs thank you.

I dated a man a long time ago who was going bald and went for the shave-his-head-with-a-razor technique. I thought it was pretty spiffy, and I thought it equally spiffy that he made up for his lack of hair on top with a grand mustache and a fancy goatee that looked like a work of art. He was a striking looking guy. Now, if only his looks had compensated for the fact that he turned out to be a prick. Oh well. Sometimes there's just no way to make a dumbass fine, no matter how handsome a package it comes in. Great writing as always. -- Zoey

What a terrific story, Mike! -- Amanda

To the point: What is hard for our generation is we once were longhairs, unlike our fathers.The guy's codpiece only tells me god has a sense of humor. There are many forms of self annhilation. Your writing , always good, is seeming even more fluid, perhaps the natural outcome of hearing ones own voice, and haven given up on defense mechanisms to ball up perceptions. Keep going, and know I always enjoy your sketches, scenes and scenarios. They have that feel of substance. -- Peter Kidd aka Ig Bear

Thank you, Peter. Took me a long time to hear that voice and commit it to print. Up to that point I tried to commit literature. The result would have gotten me a membership in Pompous Anonymous. Then I learned to write for the readers’s ear and not the term paper eye, sentence fragments and all. Took lots of practice. Stll does.

Bravo.  Nobody I know who sets out to make literature actually succeeds. Sometimes even poets don't get it often. Be a humble writer and let the rest take care of itself. -- Ig

Thanks again. Humility is harder for me to learn than committing literature.

You never cease to amaze and amuse me. Please, never stop. I agree with one of the other posts, you should write a book. -- Carol

Now I'll know what my Australian cowboy hat will be good for, when my hair gets so thin you can see my brain through it -- Gerard

Thanks, this is utterly charming.  Just thought you should know! -- Kate.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! -- Karen

Even though a hairpiece is something quite atrocious?

I enjoyed your essay on hair. I am glad that I still have my hair. When I weighed 225, my stomach stood out ahead of my chest. I lost 30 pounds but still have a thick waist. I suppose that if I exercised more, I might have a thinner waist. On the positive side, you and I are still alive and good things may happen to us. -- Ken

Donald Trump says he has a double comb over. Well, someone who analyzed his head in a picture said that's what it was. You could go for that, but I'd choose another color than orangutan. It's not even becoming on men with money. Keep writing. I'll keep reading and laughing. -- Linda B

David Letterman refers to Trump’s hair as “that thing on your head.”

Really enjoyed this one, Mike--and I wish you could get the Donald to read it! -- DA

This is one of my absolute favs, Mike.  Very funny. This guy must have a relative named Donald, right? -- Sandy

Right!

You're going to think this odd but I'm on a Greyhound bus headed for Las Vegas as I write this. Lol, this ain't the 1950's Pomidoro man! -- QBman

Good luck in Vegas. Hope you don't get, uh, clipped, and have to hitch hike home.

Oh, Mike, how I love your stories.  I really, really do! -- Tia

This was a good one.  We were just talking about combovers at work last night. -- Julisari

You're hilarious!  Why don't you send this to the New Yorker? -- Pamela

Flatterer.

.I liked 'the most obvious rug in captivity.' Thanks. -- Lady W

LOL.  That was entertaining. -- Mary Pat

You should have seen the pilot I flew with when I was a co-pilot in B-52s. He wore an unmistakable rug, and was so vain that he would not take it off even when he flew. So, for 8 hours or so during flight he had his helmet on (and we usually sweat a lot under those helmets). At the end of the flight he kept his helmet on until he could finally get out of the plane and get to the men's room at base ops, where he would comb and rearrange his hair piece, and emerge with perfect hair and helmet under his arm. -- Mickey C.

Well, as long as he didn’t also touch up his eyebrows and lipstick while shooting an instrument approach, I guess he was harmless.

Some hair turns grey, some hair turns loose. That's all I have to say on the subject. -- Wht

In my case, both.

A Birthday Of Books

Last Monday I became one year shy of my allotted three-score-and-ten by having another birthday. My birthday loot included an armload of books. I love books. Always have. I even went to book college and got two commercially useless degrees in the reading of books. Now that’s real love.

Sometimes I prefer books to people. There are reasons for this. Books never borrow money, break promises, give unwanted advice or get jealous of other books on your shelves. Another plus: once you’ve enjoyed them, you can nod off without having to sleep on a wet spot.

Books can transport you to any point in the universe without making you take off your shoes and get petted by a TSA person prior to departure. I mean, you can still take off your shoes and get petted before reading a book if that’s your thing, but it’s a personal choice and not a government regulation enforced by people who are paid to pet other people in socks.

You don’t even have to leave home to enjoy a book, unless it’s to go to the library to get more books. I treasure my library card more than my credit card.

Unlike credit card companies, public libraries don’t charge interest and send huffy letters when books are overdue. Instead libraries politely inquire with “Have you forgotten?” notices written with motherly concern.

Libraries do have fines for overdue books of course, but it’s chump change compared to the extortion demanded by credit card companies for overdue payments. You get the impression that if you don’t cough up the overdue amount plus interest and fees, the credit card company will have people with names like Guido and No Neck kneecap your credit rating with Louisville Sluggers.

Local governments can be a threat to books. Public libraries are the most vulnerable of services when budget time rears its snarling head. The result is often reduced staff, limited  hours and fewer purchases of new books.

The electronic medium is also eating away at the printed word. Television has already chewed a big chunk out of the newspaper industry, even though the script for a 30 minute newscast would not fill a single column of the newspaper you used to read.

Personal computers with Internet capability are also nibbling their way into the print medium, but in some cases, marriages of convenience are arranged between books and computers. Libraries that can afford computers have digitalized their card catalogues, although those big varnished cabinets with their drawers of Dewey Decimaled cards still have a prominent spot in libraries. They're usually near a reference desk or a counter with a real human being behind it, a kindly person who can patiently direct you to the book with the answer to your goofiest question. Such people are saints.

You can order books on-line, and even read them on your computer with some services, but reading them on a glowing screen lacks the comforting feel of a hefty hardback in your hands.

Books can also decorate a room and make their owner seem scholarly and wise. A room full of computer screens will brand their owner as a nerd. Plus books don’t go dark during power failures and are not subject to having their contents erased by a computer virus or an electronic bug. The only bugs books get are silverfish and maybe a stray spider, but both are easily dispatched without having to call someone in Bangalore or Manila for customer service.

I agree with a 19^th Century writer named Edward George Bulwer-Lytton who wrote “Master books but do not let them master you. Read to live, not live to read.”

But then, he was also the author of the line “It was a dark and stormy night,” so I wouldn’t make too much book on his counsel.

* * *

Some pals write:

Oh, Mike, how I love your stories .... I really, really do! -- Tia

Thanks for these.  Always great to read them. -- Angel

I enjoyed reading the essay and love having time to read books now that I am retired. Happy birthday. Some of my cartoons will be published in my college class's 50th reunion book. -- Ken

They'll make a nice permanent memory.

Wonderful stuff.  You make me want to grab a book and find a well-lit comfortable spot.  Too much time on the computer these days. --  Mike C.

As always Mike thanks. Some write some do. I had to quit writing before I became so huge as to be house bound. The next adventure is from St Paul to New Orleans By Canoe and Kayak. You are invited to come along -- Nick

No thanks. For me, a trip to the mailbox is all I can manage.

Such a well-woven together essay; you never cease to impress me. -- Galen

Thank you. I know you are not easily impressed.

As much as I fancy computers and keyboards, I still find great comfort in writing out longhand all kinds of things I think about in my journal from time to time, and on my shelves are past ones, full now, next to poems and favorite books. A line of computer-generated stuff just isn't the same kind of comfort, is it? -- Zoey

Nope.

So?  When can we see all this in a nice bound volume? -- Larry

That’s a good question.

Another priceless gem, Mike! Thanks for sending another great piece my way. -- Amanda

I enjoyed this, Mike. Happy birthday, Buddy. Nice to see you're still doing this. Say hi to Jerry [Brown] next time you're downtown and tell him Scotty Miller's keeping the faith in Seattle. I hope he can fix some of what's broken. -- Rusty

Knowing the good governor, he’ll make things worse with good intentions.

Zounds!  Many happy returns of the day. Good TT! -- Albert

Love the kind words about books and libraries -- Karen

Excellent. -- CDB

In my eyes, you are like a good book! Thanks, for another good read -- P&P

Thanks for sending! -- Eve

Thank you for the break -- Carol

Always a treat, Mike. I have arthritis in my hands that makes holding a book and turning pages very difficult. I read almost exclusively on the computer now, and I miss the feel of books in my hot little hands! -- Linda

So nice to have a new Tomatoman Times! -- Diane

Happy Birthday, fellow Aries! I've come to love my Kindle more than actual books. Hope all is well with you -- Babe/Cyn

Happy Birthday, Mike! -- Pamela

Sooo good. I lol'd, literally, and I really needed to do that today. Thanks.

P.S. I'm sharing to Facebook, with or without your permission. -- Sum

Wonderful article about the value of books, those actual items of written word that nestle in your hands and your eyes can feast on the words. I love books. My life would not be complete without them. I am not into the electronic reading things, myself. I prefer to hold a real book in my hands. Thanks Mike for another terrific essay. -- Peggy

Always enjoy the arrival of Tomatoman Times in my emai box. -- Ldy
Always a treat, Mike. I have arthritis in my hands that makes holding a book and turning pages very difficult. I read almost exclusively on the computer now, and I miss the feel of books in my hot little hands! -- Linda

So nice to have a new Tomatoman Times! -- Diane

Happy Birthday, fellow Aries! I've come to love my Kindle more than actual books. Hope all is well with you -- Babe/Cyn

Thank alla yas for the kind words. Hell, thanks for reading this stuff in the first place. MB

Goldie, Buddha & Me

Goldie Hawn doesn’t know it, but she jumpstarted my freelance writing career when the production company for her movie Protocol came to Sacramento in 1984. The plot was centered in Washington D.C. The producer, Anthea Sylbert (Chinatown, Rosemary’s Baby, Day Of The Dophin), wanted a location that looked enough like Washington D.C. to spare the expense of moving cast, crew, and equipment to the nation's capital for a single scene requiring a backdrop of Greek Revival government buildings. There are two of them in Sacramento, facing each other on the Capitol Mall traffic circle across the street from the capitol itself. Just the setting the producer wanted.

At the time I was in a period of creative repose, a polite way of saying unemployed, when a buddy called saying a movie company was coming to town and hiring locals as extras. "They want people who look like anonymous bureaucrats," she said. "I thought of you right away. I mean, you were an anonymous bureaucrat for eleven years, so you don’t even need an acting coach. Just be yourself."

Gee thanks.

"You get $50 and a catered lunch."

That clinched it. I asked if I should have my people call their people.

"Very funny. Look, one of the associate producers is screening people at the state employment office tomorrow. Wear your sincere suit, the blue pinstriped one."

I showed up at the employment office five minutes after it opened. A handwritten sign had been taped to the door stating all the movie extra positions had been filled -- probably by employment office staff plus their friends and relatives -- but I saw this as a karmic test. Buddha dwells everywhere, even in adversity. So, if I couldn’t be immortalized on the silver screen and get $50 and a free lunch, I could at least write about the local people chosen as extras and peddle the story to a regional magazine.

But Buddha wasn’t done with me yet. The scene was being filmed in a small park within sight of the state capitol, and I was persona non grata. "This is a closed set," the unit publicist told me when I showed up in my sincere suit with an expired press pass on my lapel and a 35 mm camera slung from my neck. "No media allowed," she said. Some publicist.  A uniformed cop moved closer in case I made a fuss.

I later learned the film had drawn the ire of Muammar Khaddafy’s Libyan government for its portrayal of a Muslim diplomat’s attraction to an American cocktail waitress, a blasphemous American temptress who serves forbidden liquor played by Ms. Hawn.  Worse yet, Ms. Hawn is Jewish.  Not only that, but Ms. Hawn is a practicing Buddhist. That made her a triple infidel in the eyes of the Prophet Mohammed's nutcase disciple in Libya.

So what did that have to do with me, a publicist and a cop on the other side of the world? Well, since the movie was also being filmed in Libya, Khaddafy’s displeasure had real traction with the U.S. Department of State -- and with the cast and crew who needed Libyan visas stamped on their passports. The last thing the producer wanted was publicity at this stage of the game, any publicity, even the kind generated by a bush league freelancer in a pinstriped suit.

I was blissfully ignorant of all this fuss, but it would not have made a bit of difference if I had known. Opportunity was not just knocking on my door, it was hammering with an iron fist. I made a big show out of looking around at the assembled crowd. "Doesn’t look very closed to me," I said. "Anyway, I just want to talk to some local extras and be on my way."

In other words, leave me alone and I won’t make waves. Not that I could, but this Hollywood gofer didn’t know that. Besides, I had Buddha in my corner. No way I was giving up this contest of wills, especially after being aced of $50 and a free lunch.

The publicist decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. She shrugged and walked away. Since she wasn’t making a fuss, the cop didn't make one either. He swaggered away, probably thinking all reporters should be required to wear shrouds, like medieval lepers, and clang hand bells while shouting "Unclean! Unclean!" when venturing out among decent people. Most cops feel that way about reporters. Hell, I sometimes feel that way about reporters myself.

The production company was quite a production in itself. Big windowless buses were parked up and down Ninth Street across from the capitol, along with 40’ trailers that served as dressing and conference rooms. One of the trailers contained a kennel housing two Afghan hounds that were needed for the scene. Extras, grips and technicians with earbud radios milled around, looking important. A man later identified as the director, Herbert Ross (Funny Girl, The Sunshine Boys), was stripped to the waist and doing pushups on the Capitol Mall lawn.

One guy wearing a baseball cap and who needed a shave was sitting on a plastic cooler reading a newspaper. The unshaven dude was not an actor, but I recognized him anyway. He was the screenwriter.

"So, this is what writers do when they’re not writing," I said.

"We read," Buck Henry said in an annoyed tone. Bad enough that he was stuck in this goddamn boring government town, but he had to put up with chatty locals in sincere suits as well. There oughta be a law.

No matter. While I was duly impressed with seeing the screenwriter who scripted The Graduate, I was here to interview the Sacramento based talent, not yak it up with the Grand Panjandrums.

I singled out three of the locals. One was an attractive middle-aged woman in a peasant dress who sat in the shade reading a hardbound book, her long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. I imagined she was a retired teacher who volunteered at a public library and organized coffee klatches for Walter Mondale supporters.  I asked her about that. She looked up from her book. "No," she said, amused. "I’m involved with Little Theater. That’s how I heard about this." She returned to her book. The other two extras were an off duty deputy sheriff and another man in a period of creative repose, like me. Neither was very talkative. I guess they were getting in touch with their Inner Extras before the cameras rolled.

Then the star emerged from her trailer. The cast and crew jumped into action. The publicist hustled over to Ms. Hawn and pointed me out. Ms. Hawn gave me a look of critical appraisal, perhaps thinking I was a State Department snitch in that stupid blue suit.  I imagine she mentally gave me the finger.

The scene required the use of three huge cameras and an array of arc lights despite the cloudless sunny day. A string of locally owned late model cars had been corralled and fitted with fake Virginia, Maryland and D.C. license plates to circle the mall during filming. Extras in their sincere suits accessorized with briefcases walked purposefully to and fro.

Finished with his push-ups, Mr. Ross took control and called for action. The cars circled, the extras extraed, the Afghan hounds hounded. The dogs were released to run across the lawn with Ms. Hawn in pursuit. Her character was supposed to be taking care of them. Then she tripped and landed butt first on the grass, laughing. Cut and print. That was it. All that prep, all those cars, all those those extras, and all those free lunches for less than 10 seconds on the screen.

I went home and wrote up the story, which was accepted by a local magazine. Not only was the story accepted, but I was accepted too. The publisher hired me to be the managing editor. Unfortunately, the magazine went bankrupt the month I was hired. Even so, a credit is a credit and it opened the doors to other publications.

So, thank you, Ms. Hawn.

Still, I wish I could’ve gotten $50 and a free lunch.

-o-

Comments, critiques, threats: 

No matter which stories you tell, your lovely, easy going voice shines. -- Mimi

Thank you, Mimi.  It took me a long time to learn to write for the reader's inner ear instead of trying to commit literature in deathess prose. Or deadening prose.  MB

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....you never fail to make me smile, make me think, entertain me - Zoey

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I really enjoyed that.  -- Trog

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You can reprise this one any time you like. Eventually Goldie will hear it and probably ask you on a date. -- Shag

Or actually give me the finger this time. -- MB

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Thanks for sending, Mike, I enjoyed it! -- Bob

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I landed a major book deal with film interest. Man got mugged in Washington State 10 years ago-- became a savant from the brain injury. You can't make it up :) -- Maureen

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I enjoyed your article on movie extras. My daughter, 29, and her husband recently moved to L.A. to seek their fortune in the entertainment industry. She managed to get a job as a waitress and a temporary, part-time job acting as a wife in distress on the radio. I would like her to succeed as a writer or actress, but at this point would be very relieved if she and her husband had health insurance. -- Ken

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I loved it, Mike. I wish you'd write more.  -- Linda

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Oh hell.  You're back.  Why don't you get a day job, you hack?  -- ZipLePrune

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Another wonderful read! -- Juli
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I greatly enjoyed your recollections about Goldie, but I must correct one fact: Buck Henry did not direct The Graduate, Mike Nichols did. Buck, however, was the official screenwriter on the movie -- Condor

Correction made.  Thanks!   -- MB