Going Steady

If someone in the congregation understands why all the pictures and videos of the crook Ken Lay show him holding hands with his mate, I would like to know why?
How many of you know a 60 year old couple who are not on their honeymoon that go around holding hands in public? Since it is not natural, whose idea is it?
Him? His lawyers? Or his wife? And to what purpose? To make this egomaniacal poltroon somehow transform into a sympathetic character in this charade of a trial? Give it up, Kenny boy. Donate your zillions that you have rooked your empoyees and stockholders out of to charity and start playing third ladle at the soup kitchen to atone for your sins.

Laff Riot

Chronicle Comedy

I would like to applaud the Houston Chronicle for their sense of humor. Today, Saturday, April 15, 2006, a day which already strikes fear and loathing into the hearts of taxpayers, I plop my paper down on my breakfast table and see a headline, on the left, just above the “fold” which reads “Gas jumps 14 cents in one week.” I want to cry as we edge toward $3 a gallon. I finish perusing the top half of page one and flip over to the bottom half and there on the left hand side, just beneath the “fold” is the headline “Exxon’s ex-CEO paid like a Rockefeller” being paid since 1993 $144,573 a DAY! No, not a year, not a week, a DAY! Now I want to puke.
Thank you, Chronicle editors, this juxtaposition of headlines is no coincidence and should be a wake-up call to the gasoline consumers everywhere.
Sadly, this exorbitant overcompensation for top executives of big companies runs rampant. Have they no conscience? Truckers and cab drivers seek other employment since their lives blood is being squeezed out of them while Lee Raymond is salting away a million dollars a week. Limits for maximum compensation for management should be made law. Let’s have a national referendum where voters select the maximum by ballot.
I think the maximum management payment should be no more than the minimum wage times:

10X
100X
1000X

That ought to cover it. Even I could get by on a quarter of a million dollars a week.

Epilogue

The Honorable Reverend Snodgrass would like to thank the congregation for their support over these past months but has reached a point in the biographical tales that a hiatus is in order. His attention will turn to trying to organize the present blog mish-mash with thoughts of producing a blook. Rants will continue as situations demanding them occur. Once again, thank you for your support.

Reverend Snodgrass

Home Again

It’s a hot day in the middle of August 1957 when I make my last 200 mile drive from New York to Baltimore and return to civilian life. My uniforms are crammed into my duffel bag and I am flying high in my Orioles tee shirt and blue jeans. The fact that I survived the sinful lures of New York City with such places as Coney Island, the Bowery, and Times Square made everyone happy at home. Momma prepares my favorite meal, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn and peas. To this day, I have never had the equal to her fried chicken. I should have asked for the recipe, but foolishly didn’t. The drink du jour and every jour was iced tea. Even though I was 18 and a VETERAN, beer was not yet on the menu.

Officially, I am still an employee of the telephone company, on military leave, so there is no vacation. I report to the personnel office and they fumble around and then decide they should send me back to my old mail clerk job at “1801” (E. Fayette Street.) Whoa, I whine that I am now 18 and eligible for street duty. More fumbling and I am directed to the Pikesville Central Office (C.O.) and promoted to “frame attendant.” Pikesville is a suburb at the northwest corner of Baltimore AND the C.O. is only about two miles from where we live! Not only that, but I am given a raise in salary and am now making the princely sum of $48 a week.

The C.O. is where dial tone comes from and all your calls come and go through there. It is where your telephone number is established and connected to the line that goes to your home. When we first moved to the suburbs we were a long distance call from Baltimore and were reached from there by operator at Pikesville 5335. Then came Direct Distant Dialing (DDD) and we were now HUnter 6-5335, Then the telephone company did away with names and we were just 486-5335. Of course with more long distance capabilities we also had an “area code” 301 to go with it. Today, in many parts of the country, you must dial the area code even on local calls due to the high demand for telephone numbers for cell phones, etc.

The “Frame-hops” as the frame attendants were known were responsible for connecting and disconnecting a variety of wires to make it all work. I was issued a tool pouch with specialized pliers and cutters for the job. This was worn with a belt like a holster. Some of the connections required soldering and, of course, safety glasses. There were about 4 or 5 of us working there at the time. Naturally, business for us would fluctuate, and we usually had a supply of magazines to peruse surreptitiously. We could actually listen in on peoples private conversations if we wanted to, but as our 37^th President said “that would be wrong.”

Frame-hop, even though a step above mail clerk, was still considered an entry level job. Minimum skills were required. Usually, within a year or two, they would be promoted to “Central Office Repairman” or sent outside to be an “Installer.”

Unfortunately, the job market slowed down and I lingered on the vine at the same job for another 7 years before getting the coveted C.O. repairman title. That does not appear to have slowed me down since during those seven years I married, had two children and bought a house.

Ah, yes, my upcoming nuptials, only a few months away, April, 1958. Mom has to sign approval since I am not 21, as she does for my 1^st mortgage 2 years later. Most of my high school classmates are off to some college getting their heads crammed with more and more knowledge, while I am on my way to marital bliss and to live the American dream. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Manhattan Beach

My orders to report to Manhattan Beach AFS allowed for a few days leave that I could spend in Baltimore before going to New York. My family and friends were amazed that I had survived, let alone become a fully functional policeman. The Air Force didn’t care how I got to my next assignment so I drove my ’52 Chevy to New York, a little over 200 miles. I was not allowed to bring my car on base since I was temporary, but I could park on the street nearby. This allowed me to drive back to Baltimore for visits every few weeks.

The “Station” was small but there was an actual beach. Although, it was not in Manhattan, but Brooklyn. The primary function of the Station was processing transient personnel coming from and going overseas. This worked to the advantage of the permanent people since the transients got to pull all the “shit” details, like KP.

Living quarters improved. I shared a second floor room divided in half to make two bedrooms behind a locked door with a motor pool mechanic. Real beds, a closet, and chest of drawers. The toilet facilities were still common to the barracks and on the first floor. There was a “day room” on the first floor with a TV and ping pong table for our off duty pleasure. Also some comfy chairs and assorted magazines.

I was assigned to one of the three shifts of about six or seven APs, checked out my 45 and was ready to go to work. My sergeant was a black man who, lucky for me, was as “laid back” an individual as I have ever met. No chicken-shit from him. He rotated the jobs fairly among the men, gate duty, patrol, or desk sergeant. The main (only) gate used two APs, one for incoming traffic and one for outgoing. This was pretty boring, so we would amuse ourselves occasionally by harassing some passing pedestrian about their passes and uniform infractions. Only one of the two patrol cars roamed the station, the other stayed at HQ in case a call came in and was needed to attend to an emergency. The desk sergeant answered the phone and kept a log of police activities during the shift. Answering the phone gave us “airmen” a chance to add fake importance to ourselves by pausing at the right moment when answering the phone “Air Police headquarters desk…sergeant Snodgrass here."

The most fun I ever had in my AP career was when one night Sarg said “Come on Snodgrass, lets go on town patrol.” I drove and he directed as we went to one (black) bar after another, looking for Air Force personnel who might be misbehaving. He had done this many times before, I’m sure, since we were greeted like long lost brothers returning from the war. We were offered drinks and smokes and some stuff I can’t recall, but of course being on duty, we had to turn them down. (All believers raise your hands) We did not see a single airman, what a waste of time.

On the other hand, the worst time of my career was going to the “Airman’s Club,” a place on base where you could sit and relax, watch TV and buy cheap beer. After a few beers, I got hungry and they sold “Stewart’s ‘infra-red’ hot dogs.” Each one tasted better than the last. I lost count. Later that same night….Let us say that I had never been so sick in my short life – but I did learn a lesson. I could not stand the smell of beer for over a week, but, not to worry, I got over it.

Two months at MBAFS flew by and I was honorably released to another seven and a half years of monthly weekend meetings and two weeks of active duty every summer. Back to Baltimore to continue my businessman career with the telephone company. One ringy dingy.

Cop

After arduous training for a month we are promoted from Airman Basic to Airman 3rd class. There’s nothing like that first stripe to send a chill down you spine. We were quite spiffy as we all had our baggy fatigues “tailored” to form fit our manly shapes and were now experts on “spit-shining” our footwear. The last order of business was the assignments for further training in the field selected for you. Mine (Air Police) was pre-assigned, but groans could be heard from my comrades, with an occasional “yes!” from ones getting cushy jobs like clerk.
Air Police school happens to be at the same location as basic training, Lackland AFB, San Antonio, so I only need to move across campus. The barracks are about the same but we do get an extra hours sleep in the morning. The voice of reveille is a tad milder and the nit-picking about bedding is reduced. One of the finer arts we learned in Basic training was how to “short-sheet” someone’s bed. This involves refolding the top sheet so that when the victim gets in his feet are stopped at the end of the folded sheet about half way down the bed. To us, this was a laugh riot.
Marching remained as a steady diet with a side dish of “close order drill.” As we marched along streets where there was automobile traffic, one of our troop would carry a flag and be the designated “road guard.” When we approached a cross street the command was given “road guard out!” whereupon the flag bearer would leave ranks and go to the intersection to stop traffic so we could pass safely. To relieve the boredom of marching we learned dirty ditties to chant as we went. This being a family publication I will not repeat any of them.
My disdain for authority reaches an apex when one of the new AP trainees who is there because he failed at his last effort, is put “in charge” of our floor in the barracks due to his having the ever powerful more TIG (time in grade). There are none who enjoy the abuse of power more than those who have achieved it through ill-gotten means. His main objective was to be sure everyone kept their personal area ready for inspections but unfortunately he was also allowed to select (punish) individuals to clean the common areas, such as the latrine. My poker face was still in the development stage so the idiot detected my low opinion of him as a leader and therefore I was “selected” more often than my fair share for extra duties.
We were trained in Jujitsu or judo, where supposedly a hundred and seventy pound weakling could overpower a three hundred pound thug thru the proper use of angles and leverage. My size, larger than most, worked to my disadvantage in this class as I was used as the “big guy” who could be thrown to the floor with little effort. I was mat meat.
As future officers of the law we had to become intimately acquainted with our designated handgun, the 45 caliber automatic pistol. Take it apart, clean it and put it back together. That was easy compared to trying to hit a stationary target so close I could have thrown a rock and hit it. I was reminded of the old cowboy movies I enjoyed as a kid where there was a running gunfight on horseback with the riders bouncing around like bull riders. In real life, that would have been the biggest waste of ammunition imaginable.
In three months we are ready to conquer the world. We have all the police paraphernalia, big black belt with shoulder strap, holster, night stick, whistle and white hats with a forty mission crush. For the first time in my life I will have some authority. Look out miscreants !
Once again, the list of assignments is read and this time I don’t know where I’m headed, but it’s only for the last two months of my six month tour of duty. About half the class is assigned overseas (groans) and half stateside (sighs of relief). I am sent to Manhattan Beach Air Force Station. Yes, New York City, and yes, it is so small it doesn’t rate the name “Base.” Off I go into the wild blue yonder!

Sunday Morning

“Basic” training is over in a month and my antipathy for authority is solidified. First your parents boss you around, then teachers, higher ranking goof balls in the military, bosses at work, the police, your spouse, your homeowners association, various City, State, and Federal governments, the IRS, your priest and the Intelligent Designer herself. ( although I think she’s disowned me and I am now under the watchful eye of Satan) Seems like everybody is the boss of me. My life would have been a lot more enjoyable had I been born rich. Who gets the blame for that? My parents or the ID?
Beyond that enigma, it seems that one must take responsibility for one’s life and choices. I wasn’t born rich, but by standard measurements, I was born smart. My friends are fond of posing the conundrum “If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?” This puzzle has a very simple answer: my DNA is rife with sloth genes. My answer to every task put before me is “how can I do this with the least amount of effort.” I have no reason to be proud of or ashamed of this fact. It is part of my “Pessoptimist creed” “Hope for the best, expect the worst, accept what is.”
My religious, political and social ideals are the same, “laissez-faire.” One of my heros, Henry David Thoreau said “That government is best which governs least.” I say “Keep your goddamn nose outta my bidness.” “Big Brother” does not abide.
OK, so I’m ranting. Seemed like a good thing to do on a Sunday morning before I dress for Church. (cue the “laughter”) I leave you with one final pleasantry “Laissez le bon temps roulez!”

Yes SIR

The rude awakenings in the morning continue for the next month, only “SHINE” was now added to the “S”s in the litany of expletives designed to get our attention and blood boiling. This was in the days when “smokers” were not second class citizens and “butt cans” were attached to columns in the barracks for those addicted. Breaks in our outdoor activities would always be accompanied by “smokem if you gottem.”
All of our belongings were now stored in our personal “foot locker” or 12 inches of hanger space against the wall. Our socks had to be rolled in a specific way and underwear folded just so and placed in designated spots in the locker. The beds had to be made up with “hospital corners” and the top blanket so tight that the inspector could toss a quarter on it and it would bounce. Inspections were made often and about once a week we had the dreaded “white glove” inspection. Wearing a white glove the DI would reach into strange and unusual places and if it came out with dust or dirt of any kind we were severely reprimanded for our filthy ways.
Physical exercises designed to change our puny bodies into human dynamos capable of performing amazing feats were demanded of us throughout the day. Extra “pushups” would be used as punishment for minor infractions “Gimme 20!”
Although I didn’t think some of my comrades should be trusted with weapons, nevertheless we were introduced to the M1 carbine (rifle). We learned how to take it apart and clean it and how to drill with it and ultimately went to the firing range where they allowed us to use real bullets and test our skill at trying to hit targets WAY far away. We got ratings for accuracy; the best were “marksmen,” mine was “barn doors are safe at any distance.”
Making formations and marching was another fun activity. At first I thought the DI had a speech impediment when the words “forward march” came out sounding “foow…haa!” but later learned that most marching commands were severely shortened. My favorite moves were “left or right oblique” (you can look it up).
We learned to show respect and who to say “Sir” to (everyone at any rank above us). How and who to salute (officers). We were introduced to the Uniform Code of Military Justice with particular attention to the things we might do that would cause us to end up in jail, or worse. Also, we had to memorize and be able to quote the list of ten or eleven “General Orders.” The DI would quiz us “Snodgrass! – General Order number seven?” “Sir, ‘To talk to no one except in the line of duty,’ sir.” “Gimme 10 Snodgrass!” “Ain’t that the right answer, Sir?” “Yeah, so, what’s your point?” Such is the way of the world. Are you “paranoid” if “they” are really out to get you?