BSA (Burbs)

After we move to the suburbs I find that my new best friend is in the Scouts, so I consider signing up. He is Catholic and the troop meets at Saint Charles Church so as a semi-protestant I’m not sure I will be allowed in. No problem, I join. Mom takes me to a downtown department store that carries official Boy Scout uniforms and such and gives me ten dollars to spend on getting suited up while she piddles about the store. Ye gads and little fishes! The garments must be made of golden threads to command such prices. My request to the saleslady for an extra large box to carry my purchase is met with a quizzical look but granted with a shrug. Mom wants to know what I got but I tell her wait until we get home and I will model it for her. The moment of truth arrives and I enter the living room sporting my new BSA neckerchief. “Where’s the rest of it?!” “Mom, that stuff was so expensive I thought I should get something I can really use.” – As I whipped out my OFFICIAL BSA POCKETKNIFE for display Momma began to pray “Oh, Jesus…”
The troop met once a week at the church where I quickly learned the perverted version of the scouts pledge “On my honor I will do my best to help the girl scouts get undressed.” Oh, we were some bad boys. Needless to say, I never won the “best-dressed” award, but I did get a few “ooohs” when I opened the BIG blade on my fancy knife.
Summertime meant a two week trip to the area BSA camp, Deep Creek Lake, where you could hone your outdoor skills and learn to tie various knots that may come in handy later in life. There WAS a lake so swimming and canoeing are on the menu. Sleeping quarters were a definite step up from the pup tent, wood shacks which held 4 folding cots. The leaders were always bugging you to learn some sort of outdoorsy skill or another so you could rise in rank or earn a “merit badge.” If you earned enough merit badges you would become an “Eagle Scout.” I don’t think I ever got above “hummingbird,” if there is such a rank. I think there is a touch of pyromania in my genes but I don’t think there’s a merit badge for that. However, I was able to pass the fire-starting test due to years of experience. You had to be able to start a campfire using only ONE match. The trick was to gather some really tiny dry twigs and arrange them in a pile and then put some of a little bit bigger size on top of them, and have some more of increasingly bigger sizes at the ready for when the fire began. Piece of cake for a firebug like me.
At the end of the two weeks all the various troops at the camp gathered for a big campfire where skits where performed and sing-a-longs broke out. We were told we would join a sacred tribe if we learned the magic phrase. It was difficult so we had to practice it one word at a time before saying it all together. Repeat after me said the leader “O” “O” said the chorus, “wha” “wha”, “dah” “dah”, “goo” “goo”, “siam” “siam” Altogether now! Ha ha ha ha I still don’t think it’s funny. I believe we all became members of the “Ancient Order of Asses.”
Welcome to the club.

BSA (City)

The Boy Scouts of America (est. 1910). Being an “Airman Basic” reminded me of the time I spent as a “tenderfoot” in the BSA. Some time after my big brother came home from helping the Navy win the war (WWII) he became a Scoutmaster and although I wasn’t quite old enough to join, I was allowed to tag along since he was the boss. They had weekly meetings at the local Baptist church. One of the parishioners owned some land out in the woods and we were allowed to use it to set up camp and try to conquer (actually, survive) the elements. Getting there was half the battle as we had to drive over some pretty rugged roads and mow down some high grasses with the pickup trucks. Finding a hospitable spot, we would set up camp. We had “pup” tents, an “A” shaped canvas that two people could crawl into and escape the weather. After finding or making a flat spot on the ground we first laid down our “ground cover,” an old shower curtain that would keep the dampness of the earth from reaching us. Then the upright poles and ropes and stakes held the tent in place. We dug a little trench around the perimeter to guide any rainwater away from the inside of the tent. After the camp was complete, we would hike through the woods, identifying various flora and fauna, taking note of which side of the trees the moss was growing on. I learned that handling poison ivy and then touching other more sensitive parts of the body can end up being a painful experience. After a hard trek through the woods, the campfire is the highlight of the day. We try to cook hot dogs on a stick and keep the stick from burning through before the weenie is done. Marshmallows are singed for desert and the ghost stories begin. Sleep comes easy to the tired bodies surrounded by the sounds of crickets and assorted noises of the night.
Before I was old enough to become a Scout we moved to the suburbs and shortly after that big brother got married and resigned his Scoutmastership to follow other pursuits.

Wake Up Call

After a fitful night I am finally drifting off to sleep with thoughts of the morning to come with a bugler in the distance playing reveille at sunrise to signal the start of a new day when – CRASH! BANG! Metal objects are being tortured and a little corporal screams incomprehensibly at the top of his lungs. I catch a word or two here and there “scum, maggots, bastards” and realize this is in lieu of the bugles more sensitive tones. But – good God! It’s still the middle of the night! It’s DARK outside. Finally, words we can understand “SHIT, SHOWER AND SHAVE!” (SHINE will be added after we are issued our Gucci booties) “You got 15 minutes to finish and assemble outside.”
Training begins. The Drill Instructor (D.I.) takes over from the corporal. (Later, I find the Air Force does not have “corporals” and he was an Airman First Class.) First, we must learn to walk as a group (march) in semi-parallel lines. I get some idea of the level of training the Air Force finds necessary when the first half hour is devoted to identifying the “left” foot and making it move upon command. As we straggle to the chow hall we pass veteran trainees (they came last week) who heap verbal abuse on us “long hairs.” I’m not sure if I can eat before sunrise so I pay particular attention to the famous world-wide warning at chow halls “Take all you want – but eat all you take.” Guards at the exit make sure that everything you scrape from your tray is inedible garbage, bones, empty cartons, etc. Otherwise, as they are fond of saying, “your ass is grass and I’m the lawn mower.” As the last little piggy exits the D.I. shouts “FALL IN!” a command we learned earlier.
Next stop – the barber shop, where one cut fits all. The barbers have their little joke with the first recruits in the chair with “How would you like it cut, son?” Then rapidly proceed with the billiard ball special. The rest of us get the idea.
Next, we trudge to the fatigue boutique and after some quick measurements we take our order slips to each stop and are issued: undies, socks, fatigues, Class “A” uniforms, shoes and boots. We dress in our new fatigues and pack our civvies in a box which we address to our home address. Our last vestiges of individuality are gone and we are ready to become valuable cogs in the giant industrial military wheel known as the United States Armed Forces.
Hut – two – three - four

Don Who?

As a boy growing up I often imagined myself being one of my heros, Superman, the Lone Ranger, Batman; having super powers to use for the good of mankind. A little bit older and I realized these were just fantasies - but still I might become a fireman or a policeman and do SOME good. As I was finishing my formal education in 1956 reality kicked in and I gave in to capitalism and took that (almost) a buck an hour job with Ma Bell. I did get to be a semi-policeman in the Air Force Reserves for 8 years.
A half a century passes and today I realized what I have become – DON QUIXOITEMAN! Fighting battles that cannot be won! I have taken on various motel chains, Continental Airlines, SBC, Verizon, MBNA (Mastercard), Chase Manhattan Bank (or whatever they call themselves today), Tastykake, Aunt Jemima (Quaker Oats in drag) and the American Contract Bridge League. My lance is a stub and I have yet to put a noticeable dent in any of these gargantuans. They are impenetrable, impervious to my attacks. Yet, on I go, a thrust here, a jab there, only to be thwarted at every turn.
What we need is an army! Recruits for Quixotemen International! I have my beloved Dulcinea and my bulldog Deuce by my side. Now all we need are a few million others who believe in truth, honor, and fairness. We already have a motto: “Illigitimi Non Carbarundum”
(don’t let the bastards wear you down).
If you know of some organization that is using unfair practices, such as the ACBL, why not take a minute and drop them a line or E Mail at http://www.acbl.org/ and express your concerns.

Donnyboy is exhausted.

ACBLSCORE (bridge players only)

To whom it may concern:

I have expressed my displeasure with ACBLSCORE in the past, but perhaps my arguments were over the head of the average bridge player. So let me present you with a simple scenario:

Barry Crane and partner are playing in the finals of a matchpoint event. In another section are Charles Goren and partner. As the caddies are picking up the score slips Barry and Charlie find to their amazement that their every score is identical on every board. After a brief wait (computers are scoring) the announcement comes “ In first place with 68.22% , Charles Goren and X; second with 68.22%... Oh wait a minute, let’s do matchpoints… with 222.18 is Goren and second with 222 is Barry Crane and Y.” Do you hear “nice game Challie” from Barry? I think not. And how can this happen? If a board in Goren’s section was not played, say due to a late play where no one showed, the director inserts “No play” on that board for the missing pairs. Goren’s below average score on the board is rewarded by .18 and amazingly, if he had had an above average score on that board he would have points deducted and would therefore be SECOND! PLEASE! SOMEONE DO SOMETHING!

I have suggested a return to the ½ matchpoint difference, but for some reason the ACBL seems to abhor ties.

To whom it may not concern:

Recently I E-mailed you a simplified explanation of ONE of the problems with ACBLSCORE. In my fictitious event I used two of the most prominent players of all time, Charles Goren and Barry Crane, to try to imply a point. That is, if the abomination that I pointed out had happened to someone of their stature, someone with clout, I guarantee it would not happen again. Unfortunately for we pairs players, no one of clout is left – they have all left for the greener pastures of knockouts where the masters of the ACBL have decreed that masterpoints shall rain down like manna from heaven.
Am I the only person in ACBLdom that thinks this is a problem, or cares? Wake up people!

THE ACBL RESPONDS:

Hi Ron,
Since this policy has been in effect for many years I am sure that such a scenario has occurred involving some top ranked players. To the best of my knowledge they have not registered a complaint.
Regards,
ACBL Computer Help Desk/ACBLscore

I RETORT:

Dear Desk,

Thank you for your response.

A system that perpetuates an inherent injustice should not require a minimum number of complaints to be righted.

The ACBL has responded and I replied in turn. Apparently the fact that the system is unfair is not the criteria for fixing it, but the number of complaints received. I would be delighted if the ACBL would begin keeping a record of complaints and put me down as #1.

I have sent the following two letters to all ACBL District Directors:

Dear Madam or Sir;

For your consideration:

In a matchpoint game, the players at tables A3 N/S and B3 N/S compare scores at the end of the game and amazingly, they are identical. In section A, there is a late play on board 13 but no one shows so the result is entered as NP (no play). According to the ACBL we no longer have a tie, which will be determined by as little difference in matchpoint score of .01 (one onehundreth). Who wins? I love this part, IF our player at A3 was below average on board 13, he will be factored “up” by at least .10 and therefore be the clear winner. However, as you can guess, if he was above average on board 13 he will be factored “down” and plummet to second place in the event.
If you think this is fair or don’t care, do nothing, as so many have done in the past.
If you think this wrong should be righted, please speak to someone who may be able to help. The “desk” at ACBLSCOREs answer is we don’t have any complaints. I believe a return to the ½ matchpoint rule for breaking ties would ameliorate this situation, but evidently someone at ACBL has a fetish about ties.

To whom it should concern:

Following are excerpts from an actual matchpoint game at the Houston Bridge and Games Studio. Out of 27 boards, there were 2 adjusted by the director. One for a “no play” and one where an average plus/minus was decreed. Look closely and you will see that there is NO difference in the calculated percent and (yes, believe it or not)only one onehundreth of a matchpoint difference in the two scores. If you believe that this is fair and the wisdom of the creators of ACBLSCORE in selecting the precise percentage adjustments under all circumstances is infallible, then my hat’s off to them. Otherwise, the answer for the return to sanity is simply to return to the ½ matchpoint difference is required for a difference in placement. So simple, so right, why do you resist?

Open Pairs Saturday Aft Session March 4, 2006 Sect B N-S
Pair ---Pct--- Score--- Overall Rank
5----- 61.46- 132.76 -----4

Open Pairs Saturday Aft Session March 4, 2006 Sect B E-W
Pair ---Pct--- Score--- Overall Rank
6----- 61.46- 132.75----- 5

I Have Arrived

Bumpity – bumpity – bump, the eagle has landed, deep in the heart of Texas. The first thing I noticed as I walked out the plane door and down the movable stairs to the tarmac was that it was about 40 degrees warmer here than Baltimore. There was no snow – wow! On the advice of my recruiting Sergeant, my luggage was limited to a few personal items, toothbrush and shaving supplies. He assured me I would be provided with the latest in fashion for today’s military personnel. I waited in the terminal while other recruits were arriving from across the country. When all were present and accounted for, we were herded into an old school bus for transport to our new home. Not much chit-chat on the way, mostly “where y’all from?” “Pittsburg,” “Wheeling,” “Milwaukee,” “Balmor.” – that was me, “Where?” they persisted. Scuse me: “Ball-tee-more” “Oh.” Geez.
We finally arrive at the base and are waved in through the gate by the Air Policemen (my future job) who I think look pretty snazzy in their white hats. Even as we “de-bus” our guides have begun to explain to us that as newbies we are at a rank that is somewhere beneath the scum of the earth. As if that wasn’t bad enough, during the assignments to our barracks it is discovered (by virtue of my serial number beginning with “AH” rather than “AF”) that I am a RESERVIST (God forbid).
The barracks were two-story wooden structures that looked like they were built just after the siege of the Alamo. Inside were the latrine, a small private room for our drill instructor and two rows of bunk beds with an aisle down the middle. I grabbed a top bunk because I was afraid if I was on the bottom, the top one would come crashing down on me in the middle of the night. Turned out, my downstairs neighbor was also a reservist, one Richard Rackowitz from Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. We had arrived late (7 or 8 o’clock) in the evening so we were advised to get some sleep because morning came early. Sleep? I spent the whole night re-running in my mind all the depictions of “basic training” I had read about or seen in the movies. How would I survive such humiliating autrocities?
Dum de dum dum…

I'm Off!

During the 6 or 7 months I was slaving away at “1801”, prior to shipping out for Military duty, I had accumulated enough cash (remember now, I was raking in almost a buck an hour) to move up from my ’35 Plymouth Coupe to a more dignified ’52 Chevy 4-door, better suited to my status as a young businessman. But then, my orders were “cut” (as we say in the service) and I was to report for “basic training” at Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas, early February, 1957.
D-Day (departure) and I was escorted to Friendship Airport (now Baltimore-Washington International) by an entourage that included my Dad and Mom, who I’m sure were worried to death about how I would cope in the real world; my twin sisters, who were overjoyed, not just because I wouldn’t be there to torture them – but now each would have her own bedroom. Don’t know why this was important to them since they were carbon copies of each other so whatever secrets they had to hide from one another were the same secrets that the other one had to hide from the other one. My girlfriend was there, too, because, well, we were in love.
I had never flown before and this was in the stone age when Barney Flintstone was still piloting propeller propelled air craft. Somehow I wangled a seat by a window facing the assembled crowd in the building. As I was nervously waving to my “people” I heard the first ca-chunka-chunka-roooaaarrr! that was made by an engine on the other side of the plane starting up. Then I saw the propeller on the engine on my side slowly start to move and the ca-chunka-chunka and HOLY SHIT! A 10 foot flame shot out the rear of the engine – I’m too young to die! I looked to my people and Mom had drooped into my Dad’s arms, the twins were probably thinking about how they were going to divvy up my stuff, my girlfriend had turned her head away to avoid seeing the imminent explosion. Of course, the flame petered out and ca-chunka-chunka-roooaaarrr! Engine #2 was up and running. Big grins all around from everyone. We knew it was nothing to worry about. Finally, the chocks are removed and we taxi to the runway. Up, up, and away, as I furiously chew gum, barf bag at the ready, clutching the armrests with a death grip. By the time we reach cruising altitude, I have decided that the intelligent designer has future plans for me and today is not the day I die, so I begin to relax. “First time flying, son” says my seat mate, “Yes sir.” (lucky guess, you old fart.) Without further incident, the silver bird delivers me to San Antonio where the U.S. Air force will transform me from a 175 pound weakling into a lean mean fighting machine. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!