Night Train
I got a very thoughtful response to my brief appreciation of Bum Wine yesterday, after I got back from Willow. My vast array of correspondents demonstrate a variety of interests and passions that is humbling. I spent much of Black Friday not rioting down at the WalMart, but chasing rabbits of thought down into the warren of American life.
So long as we were on the topic of wine, I provide a picture from an organized aficionado:
(An organized collection. Photo Corliss Archives.)
You will note that each bottle is tagged with instructions on how and when they are at their peak. I could see that reds are of particular interest, and some of the instructions remind the Cellar-keeper to wait until 2022/2024 before opening, or shortly before the Health.Gov website is up and running.
I counted- this wine cabinet holds 110 bottles, and they’re all filled. There followed in a very thoughtful and evocative note with a detailed description of great wineries in the region around Refuge Farm.
I will follow directions and expand that guide for travel and entertainment for the Spring, when the temperatures and roads are more salubrious.
But the key is that there is passion here, and it is something worth a follow up. Specific destination vineyards my pal recommends include:
Barboursville Vineyard (a Tuscan-style vineyard/winery) and their Palladio’s Restaurant.
Pollack and King Family Vineyards
Blenheim Vineyards (owned by local rocker Dave Matthews)
And of course, my default winery is the one right up the road, The
Old House Vineyard, which does some exceptional whites and reds, and today is serving up Honey Baked Ham and Bean soup with fresh baguettes of bread to fend off the early winter chill.
I have made a resolution to visit all of these places and write them up. But not today, unless I go for soup and a glass of white at Old House.
Recognizing that some people have passion for the finer things in life, I thought I might finish off some vintages on the other end of the spectrum. Now, purists might hold that my list of Top Five Bum wines is not exclusive. Where, they might ask, is the famed Ripple? Or the vile Boone’s Farm?
Sorry. The list is as arbitrary as it is capricious. Without further ado, we will account for the rest of the worst of the wines of the street, none of which are worth providing the URL.
Night Train
Don’t let the 0.5% less alcohol by volume fool you, the Night Train is all business when it pulls into the station. All aboard to nowhere – woo wooo! The night train runs only one route: sober to stupid with no round-trip tickets available, and a strong likelihood of a train wreck along the way. This train-yard favorite is vinted and bottled by the legendary Gallo Brothers in Modesto, CA.
Don’t bother looking on their web page, because they dare not mention it there. As a clever disguise, the label says that it is made by “Night Train Limited.” Some suspect that Night Train is really just Thunderbird with some Kool-Aid-like substance added to try to mask the Clorox flavor.
Some of the researchers at BumWine.com indicated that it gave them a NyQuil-like drowsiness, and perhaps this is why they put “night” in the name. Guaranteed to tickle your innards.
Thunderbird
17.5% alc. by vol.
As pictured to the left, look for the pigeon feces and you’ll find this old bird. As soon as you taste this swill, it will be obvious that its makers cut every corner possible in its production to make it cheap. Self-proclaimed as “The American Classic,” Thuderbird is vinted and bottled by Earnest and Julio Gallo, in in Modesto, CA. Disguised like Night Train, the label says that it is made by “Thunderbird, Ltd.” If your taste buds are shot, and you need to get trashed with a quickness, then “T-bird” is the drink for you. Or, if you like to smell your hand after pumping gas, look no further than Thunderbird.
As you drink on, the bird soars higher while you sink lower. The undisputed leader of the five in foulness of flavor, we highly discourage drinking this ghastly mixture of unknown chemicals unless you really are a bum. Available in 750 mL and a devastating 50 oz jug.
The history of Thunderbird is as interesting as the drunken effects the one experiences from the wine. When Prohibition ended, Ernest Gallo and his brothers Julio and Joe wanted to corner the young wine market. Earnest wanted the company to become “the Campbell Soup company of the wine industry” so he started selling Thunderbird in the ghettos around the country. Their radio adds featured a song that sang, “What’s the word? / Thunderbird / How’s it sold? / Good and cold / What’s the jive? / Bird’s alive / What’s the price? / Thirty twice.”
WARNING: This light yellow liquid turns your lips and mouth black! A mysterious chemical reaction similar to disappearing-reappearing ink makes you look like you’ve been chewing on hearty clumps of charcoal.
Wild Irish Rose
18% alc. by vol.
The thorn in your hangover is a wild rose from Ireland. Bottled by the same company as lowest-ranked Cisco, “Wild I” definitely has some secret additives that go straight to the cranium. Another web page claims that this foul beverage is a conspiracy by the Republicans to kill the homeless. Bums ask a liquor store clerk for Wild Irish rose by saying, “gimme a pint of rosie with a skirt,” a skirt being a paper bag. Some don’t want it cold either. It’s called “wild” for a good reason, and bystanders should beware. Wild Irish Rose is sure to light a fire of drunken rage in your soul.
The “White Label” variety of this beverage is definitely a hard wine to come to terms with. “White Label” smells like rubbing alcohol, and has no added flavoring to mask its pungent taste and noxious odors. Available in 375 mL, 750 mL, and a 50 oz jug.
MD 20/20
18% or 13% alc. by vol.
As majestic as the cascading waters of a drainpipe, MD 20/20 is bottled by the 20/20 wine company in Westfield, New York. This is a good place to start for the street wine rookie, but beware; this dog has a bite to back up its bark. MD Stands for Mogen David, and is affectionately called “Mad Dog 20/20”. You’ll find this beverage as often in a bum’s nest as in the rock quarry where the high school kids sneak off to drink. This beverage is likely the most consumed by non-bums, but that doesn’t stop any bums from drinking it! Our research indicates that MD 20/20 is the best of the bum wines at making you feel warm inside. Some test subjects report a slight numbing agent in MD 20/20, similar to the banana paste that the dentist puts in your mouth before injecting it with novocain. Anyone that can afford a dentist should steer clear of this disaster. Available in various nauseating tropical flavors that coat your whole system like bathtub scum, but only the full “Red Grape Wine” flavor packs the 18% wallop.
_____________
The Daily Socotra wishes to extend its great thanks to the research labs and chemists at BumWine.com. I bought a shirt. It really was the least I could do.
Where to buy:
Stop N Go
1600 Mechanicsville Pike
Richmond, VA 23223
(615) 256-6000
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
The Whine Review
(Tex the sommelier enjoys a Henry the VIII moment as the crowd thins out at Willlow’s Thanksgiving. Photo Chanteuse Mary.)
“Our Vision is To Elevate Life With Every Glass Raised.”
– Constellation Brands corporate mission statement
“ARRRRGH.”
– That guy with the cardboard sign on the traffic island with the long light at Fairfax Drive and North Glebe in Arlington.
I pulled out of the private observation of the holiday, and went to Willow for dinner. Seemed a decent compromise between cooking and having some fellowship. It turned out to be a splendid choice, given the distance between the elements of the Socotra Clan.
I had some minor trepidation about being the lone loser, dining at the end of the bar but it turned out just dandy.
The Usual Crew at the restaurant was a little slap-happy from serving up nearly 300 dinners by the time I got there, football was playing on the television screens and it felt a lot like being in my living room only with someone to bring me wine when I wanted it.
Tracey O’Grady herself brought out the relish plate (two hummus cups, celery, gruyere cheese puffs, deviled eggs) and that was followed by the traditional entree of turkey roasted with orange, cornbread stuffing, yams, mashed potatoes, roasted Brussels sprouts and finished off with pecan pie and vanilla ice cream.
I ate about half of the feast and took the rest home for further transport to the farm later. I enjoyed drinking with the staff at the bar, and Chanteuse Mary and Old Jim came in for a few pops after dining with friends across town, and as the kitchen shut down, the staff joined all for holiday decompression on our side of the bar.
Not bad. And the Lions surprised me by beating the Packers. It must have something to do with the ISON, the comet of the century, impacting the Sun.
We luxuriated in some excellent wine as the gang oozed fellowship. Before Tex got the taps installed for the draft craft beer, Willow was a wine bar. It had not started out that way- the old keg system at the prior incarnation of the restaurant- Gaffney’s was simply too big for Tracey’s needs and the stock went bad, so she pulled it.
Anyway, Willow is known for its superb wine list, not that I know much about those sorts of things. I drink anything they will bring me at the loss-leader happy hour price. But I have to go along with the façade that I know something about it.
A pal wrote about plans for the holiday dinner, making a recommendation for a real fine: a lovely French wine from the Pyrenees… A 2009 Cuvee de Pena Vin de Pays Pyrenees Orientales. “It goes beautifully with everything! The best part is that I paid only $9.99/bottle for it! So good, in fact that I went back to buy a case. I truly do not understand how the wine can be grown, harvested, aged, bottled and shipped to the U.S. and still cost only $9.99/bottle. It’s amazing!”
I served it to wine drinking friends who think nothing of spending $100/bottle of wine… they kept sipping and pouring more, sipping and pouring more, truly savoring the wine. Finally, they declared that this tasted as good or better than the California wine that he paid $75/bottle for, and he asked for details on the wine because he knows I don’t pay a lot for wine… I didn’t have the heart to tell him how little it cost. But it’s a wonderful, soft, and very food-friendly wine. “
I made a note of it, in case the Class Six store ever shows up with a stray bottle, though I confess that it is much easier for Willow to maintain my wine cellar and let Traey and Tex do the heavy lifting.
But in the run-up to the holidays, another pal brought up the topic of the other end of the wine list- maybe better put, the dead end of the road.
We are all pretty fancy-dancy about our oenological skills in these decadent days at the end of the Republic, and can spout that “oaky fruit notes with a dry finish” like we mean it. There was a time when we would just say “that isn’t too bad.”
You may or may not remember the days when wine was not the mainstream of American drinking. Think back, if you can, to college days. The good stuff that we knew about was limited to Mateus and Blue Nun, or the Chianti that the spaghetti restaurants used to sell with Italian dinners and pizza.
The attempt to popularize wine with younger (and underage) drinkers involved bizarre fruity concoctions like Boone’s Farm and Annie Greensprings, the thought of which to this day makes me feel a little bilious.
In trying to bring back those memories and brands, I came across a list of the five worst commercial wines in America, and on a morning when we are collectively resolving never to eat again, I thought I would share a review of the worst one, with great appreciation to my friends at Bumwine.com:
Cisco
18% alc. by vol- 38 proof
Cisco is bottled by the nation’s second largest wine company, Constellation Brands, at Canandaigua, NY and Naples, NY, second only to the Robert Gallo Jug Wine concern. It is the same company that produces the exceptional Wild Irish Rose vintages.
Known as “liquid crack,” for its reputation for wreaking more mental havoc than the cheapest tequila. Something in this syrupy hooch seems to have a synapse-blasting effect not unlike low-grade cocaine. The label insists that the ingredients are merely “citrus wine & grape wine with artificial flavor & artificial color,” but anyone who has tried it knows better.
Tales of Cisco-induced semi-psychotic fits are common.
Often, people on a Cisco binge end up curled into a fetal ball, shuddering and muttering paranoid rants. Nudity and violence may well be involved too. Everyone who drinks this feels great at first, and claims, “It’s not bad at all, I like it.”
But, you really do not want to mess around with this one, because they all sing a different tune a few minutes later. And by tune, I mean the psychotic ramblings of a raging naked bum.
In 1991, Cisco’s tendency to cause a temporary form of inebriated insanity led the Federal Trade Commission to require its bottlers to print a warning on the label.
The FTC also forced them to drop their marketing slogan, “Takes You by Surprise,” even though it was entirely accurate. Since those days, Cisco is harder to find outside the slums, although the FTC’s demonizing of the drink only bolstered its reputation for getting people trashed.
Anyone who overlooks the warning and confuses this with a casual wine cooler is going to get more than they bargained for.
Cisco will make a new man out of you. And he will want some too.
Our research shows that Cisco is actually the second best tasting of the five great bum wines, especially if you’re having one of those hankerings for cheap Vodka, Jello and Robitussin.
Cisco also is the best of all 5 bum wines at putting the darkest and puffiest bags under your eyes.
The nuclear-tinted color of “Cisco RED” is reminiscent of the delicate color of diesel fuel.
Most Cisco flavors are named by the fruit flavor that they are trying to emulate, but the one picture is simply called “RED.” This chemical disaster will get your head spinning in no time.
A test subject reports, “Strawberry Cisco has a bouquet similar to that of Frankenberry cereal fermented in wine cooler with added sprinkle of brandy for presentation.” The sticky, sickeningly sweet taste with a hint of antifreeze really comes through in the repellant taste of Cisco.
Available in various flavors, 375 mL and 750mL sizes. Down a whole 750 ml and you had better be ready to clear your calendar as you suffer through Cisco’s legendary two-day hangover.
Bon appetite!
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Giving Thanks
(This is an old pal, captured in another place and time. Friends are the very essence of what it is to be human- and alive. Can you guess who it might be?)
It is way to early for a retrospective on this astonishing year. We have covered many of the events that are, by turns, alarming and saddening. There is plenty of time to work them over as we advance to a bold new year. I mean, the Lions have not even lost the traditional Thanksgiving Day game yet.
Here in Arlington, the wintry mix that swept through the streets has passed, leaving us with a day of thanks bright with promise, and chill as a scalpel.
I was working on a piece- completed it, actually- that is not about what this day means. I then worked on a bit of fluff you will see, presently, very much in my snarkiest mode about wines and those of us who drink them.
There will be some wine-drinking later, all over this great land. But neither the alarmist clap-trap nor gentle joshing at our foibles seem appropriate to the day.
(Thanksgiving turkey, Japan-style.)
I was talking to my son in Japan this morning- he having completed his Thanksgiving on the far side of the world and me just starting mine. I realized how blessed I am to have two sons who have their heads screwed on properly. The JG’s brother completed his first marathon a couple weeks ago, beating my best time, and is a new and confident home-owner.
(Completing the first marathon with his coach!)
I am a very lucky (and proud) father.
I am also blessed with the best crew of eccentric, reprobate and unrepentant pals in the whole blinking universe.
The small crew of dedicated correspondents know who they are. The farther flung components of the Socotra network fly through my consciousness with regular though elliptical frequency: from Oz under the Southern Cross, to Dai Nippon and the lovely Islands of the mid-Pacific, and the Left Coast, from Baja Dulce north to Seattle; through the inter-mountain West and the Front Range, east to the mouth of the mighty Mississippi and north to its origins; the famous crew from Up North who are never far from my thoughts; and our nest of East Coasters and Beltway Bandits, from Key West to the foam-tipped rocks of coastal Maine; and across the slate-gray Atlantic to unsinkable and indomitable England, and on to where my day often begins with ruminations from the in Eastern Mediterranean.
You know who you are. You are who make this a day of thanks. Big Time
Talk to you soon.
Vic
(I wondered if you guessed correctly! Happy Thanksgiving!)
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Turkey Tetrazzini
(My mouth started watering last night, thinking of left-overs.)
I got home from Willow, a contemplative evening with the staff, Old Jim, and Rebekka-with-two-Cs who was sitting in my accustomed place when I arrived a little late. The early night had been so dark, and the pedestrians clad in dark clothes almost completely invisible. I drove gingerly, counting on the fact they would be safe in their expensive little apartments when I was heading home.
A demure young woman named Rebekka was grading papers and drinking a cocktail- it looked like a Seven and Seven- and Jim was expansive and flirting with her. She had lovely dark hair and the assertive manner of someone who is used to presiding over an unruly classroom.
I slowly peeled off layers of clothing- the Columbia waterproof shell and then the snuggly Tannery Creek Market promotional hoodie from the Little Village By the Bay as my core body temperature warmed, and discovered by turns that she taught English to middle school kids out in the wilds of Manassas, and braved the I-66 corridor everyday to be in front of the little monsters each day.
“That commute would kill me,” I said.
She looked askance. “Well, you are of an age where something like that could happen…”
Ouch. Tex the bartender described his visit to the Dulles Expo Center with Jon-without over the weekend, who is looked for a compact carry capability, but could not make up his mind to pull the trigger on the decision. We agreed about the odd mood that seemed to hang over the crowd, and I responded with my current problem.
(Shooting party. Brian on the left is holding the 9mm Beretta Storm CX4, while Clark J is holding the .40 S&W version.)
At the shooting party over the weekend I had a chance to shoot the Beretta CX4 Storm carbine in two calibers, the 9mm and the .40 Smith & Wesson. Both of them are wickedly accurate, and since they come in three common pistol calibers it reduces the traditional problem of having to maintain two different streams of ammunition either in the closet or on the back.
“Which do you recommend for utility?” I asked. “I can’t make up my mind about which one matches up with the right pistol.”
Tex shrugged. Double C shrugged, too. She is not anti-gun, per se, though finds the fascination that some people have with them to be curious, and the description of the mood at the show to be a little unsettling.
I shrugged. “Last Spring it was panic, and a lot of panic buying. This show was a lot more earnest. Almost determined.” I had been meaning to talk to Jim about the Chinese establishment of an Air Defense Identification Zone over the disputed Senkaku islands in the East China Sea, because I had been fascinated by the day’s military developments.
“The Administration sent two B-52 bombers on what we used to call “Busy Observer” flights right through the middle of the ADIZ. No notification to the Chinese or anything. Way cool. I thought it was a way of Sticking It to The Man. I was sort of stunned when I heard the news.”
Double C had little interest, and Jim glowered at me. “You saying the President did something right for a change?”
“I doubt if he knew, but you never know. He apparently gets his news the same way I do, in the New York Times.”
Jim laughed, and we wound up talking about education instead in deference to Double C’s profession and interests, and covered the No Child Left Behind Program, which did, and the new Common Core, which isn’t.
Fun evening- comfortable as an old shoe, but when I got home I found the wind had been gusting to gale force and had snapped the mount that secured the staff that supports the US flag I fly from the trunk of the tree on the patio. When I retrieved a flashlight, I did the preliminary accident investigation. It must have been a hell of a gust, or repeated battering by the swirling, scouring wind that pummels my corner unit of Big Pink.
Old Glory was soaked and the wind had twisted it in a knot around one of the bare lower branches.
Thankfully it had not touched the ground, so no dishonor was involved, but in the process of gently unwrapping the branches while staining in the shrubs, I felt the moist chill penetrate my jeans and shirt. I was hoping this was not some kind of metaphor for the roads, and got wet getting the flag down.
I brought it inside and draped it over the couch to dry. I turned on the Christmas lights I strung in one of the front windows and began to think about the Holidays. The kids are way gone, and I had intended to ignore the whole thing, and may yet.
I am still conflicted about what to do for Thanksgiving. Willow has graciously said that I can have a turkey dinner at my usual place at the bar, and though everyone else will be gone, that has a mild attraction.
The Russians have one of Andrew’s turkeys staged up from Croftburn Farms, and that too would be fun, though I have some things to do up here on Friday that makes it a bit complicated, particularly if the roads are crappy. One way or another, I am not cooking and will not have to deal with the left-overs, as the bird goes through the evolutionary process from turkey to turkey sandwiches, then turkey tetrazzini, then…well you know.
That got me thinking about left-over recipes I will not be needing this year. My mouth began to water over the idea of a real hearty pot pie brimming with gravy and savory vegetables with the crust rolled from scratch.
Then I thought about turkey tetrazzini, the All-American dish often made with diced left-over turkey, mushrooms and almonds in a nice tasty Parmesan béchamel sauce with onions, celery, peas and carrots, served hot over noodles or some thin pasta and garnished with lemon or fresh parsley and topped with additional almonds and/or Parmesan cheese.
As I’m sure you will recall, the dish is named after the famed Italian opera star, Luisa Tetrazzini, the “Florentine Nightingale,” who knocked out the audiences of San Francisco a hundred years ago.
The Palace Hotel’s Chef Ernest Arbogast. created his dish in 1910 after Tetrazzini gave her famous outdoor Christmas Eve concert in before an estimated quarter of a million people at Lotta’s Fountain. She was in Baghdad By The Bay due to a legal dispute between two Broadway producers back in New York, and she fled the city to carry out her promise to sing in the streets, if she had to.
And she did. Arbogast was inspired.
(Luisa Tetrazzini in costume for her role in Rossini’s Barber of Seville.)
As a holiday function of our full-service Socotra Industries, I provide the following holiday recipe for your convenience (when it seems the turkey will never go away).
Turkey Tetrazzini
2 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons flour
1 cup cream
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon celery salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1 cup cold turkey cut in thin strips
1/2 cup cooked spaghetti, cut in 1/2 inch pieces
1/2 cup sautéed sliced mushroom caps
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
3/4 cup buttered cracker crumbs
Make a béchamel sauce of butter, flour, cream, salt, celery salt and pepper and Parmesan. When boiling point is reached, add turkey, spaghetti and mushrooms. Fill buttered ramekin dishes with mixture, sprinkle with cheese and crumbs and bake until crumbs are brown. So have a very happy Thanksgiving, and travel safely if you must.
And enjoy the turkey!
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Overkill
(Liz-S looks over at a temporarily benevolent Old Jim. All photos Socotra).
Maybe slick streets this morning, inches of rain or wintry mix to come as we approach Turkey Day. I don’t have particular place to be, and will let the commute and commuters sort themselves out before I venture anywhere.
We were talking about that, and a bunch of other stuff, at Willow last night. The coming storm and the Holiday had everyone agog, but we edged around to the topic de jour on our way to something else. It was a Blue Ribbon cast at the Amen Corner. Jon-without and John-with were there, along with Old Jim, Chanteuse Mary, and both Jerrys- the senior executive and barrister versions.
Queen of the apex of the bar was Elizibeth-with-an-S, back from government travels as she continues to attempt to burrow into the government by leaping the great divide from “intern” to full-time public service.
Tracey O’Grady stopped by to say that things were nuts- they are expecting 310 people for Turkey dinner, up over a quarter reservations from last year’s record. John-with is in the counter-proliferation business, and he was in fine fettle:
“This is surreal,” he declared, “the whole thing, soup to nuts. Iran beating the hapless Kerry at the bargaining table, the shaming disaster of every policy attempted by the government, all based on frankly loony ideology that was- at least to my perception- discredited years ago both in theory and in practice in the places where it was imposed by force.”
“Well, here is what I think is nuts. If you read the story this morning I think we are in terra incognita. I was thinking about why Culpeper County needs night vision devices, grenade launchers and armored vehicles.”
“Yeah, real tongue in cheek,” growled old Jim, threatening to tell the story about how he met and wooed the lovely Chanteuse Mary.
“Yeah, it is faintly ridiculous that a country Sheriff would need an up-armor assault vehicle, but there are reasons, and I get them.” I took a deep and refreshing sip of the Happy Hour White. “There are meth labs out there on the peaceful lanes under the trees, and there are people who are mentally unstable and some of them armed. I get the whole thing, from the perspective of law enforcement. But like just about everything these days, there is something that is fundamentally lawless about our law-and-order society.”
Then we talked about the seasonal pace of the Choral Arts Society where SE Jerry sings, and the astonishing number of things that are happening at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Then, Jerry the Barrister ordered a filet mignon, devoured it in a couple deft attacks with knife and fork and swept out into the night, bound on some urgent personal business.
We hung out for a while, soaking in the companionship, and talking about the logistics of getting where we all needed to be for Turkey Day. One by one we slipped out into the chill dark, and we all made it home safely. I think. On return to the computer, I saw there was a note from a correspondent in Utah.
My pal is thoughtful, and a retired government official with decades of honorable service. “Here is Ogden this is a huge issue. The Ogden police department has royally screwed this up, with fatal consequences in the past 2 years. They are fully armed to the nth degree with SWAT weaponry and capability. But they lack common sense. They lack foresight. They have discarded past, cautious police practices and gone heavy with their sexy new capabilities. Examples… and you can verify by checking Google, or whatever:”
My eyes bugged out. I lived in Utah a long time ago, and remember the people of that little city are noted mostly for their industry and hard working nature.
“Police invade the wrong address in the dark of night (I’ve forgotten the reason for the raid). No door bell ringing or phone call… just an entry into the home. This woke up the husband/father (in his 30s), who creeps downstairs armed with a golf club. The police see him and shoot him dead, on the spot. And then later discover they had the wrong house. Innocent man. Family permanently robbed of father and husband. Wife and children witness the shooting. And we all know what a frightening weapon a golf club is.”
“Active duty Army member – in his 30s – takes leave from Ft Carson to return to Ogden to be with dying father. His father lingers – but is still terminal – and the enlisted member man did not want to return to Ft Carson until his father had exited this world, couldn’t get leave extended, so went AWOL … staying right here in Ogden, attending to his dying father. In the middle of the night, police SWAT team, looking to capture the AWOL Army grunt – armed with helmets, night goggles, full body amour and weapons to dazzle the gun-addicted person’s soul – invades a home in Ogden. Busts down the door. Terrorizes the family, consisting of husband, wife and young children, knocks the husband around and refuses to listen to man’s protestations of innocence. Causes all kinds of damage to home’s interior. Photos corroborated family’s story… along with photos of husband.”
“Turns out, police had wrong address. Again. The address, including the mortgage documents relating to this address, clearly showed that this family wasn’t the AWOL member’s family nor even remotely connected. Last names weren’t remotely similar. Granted, the abused family had just closed a month earlier on the house that they purchased from a distant relative of the AWOL member, but they were totally innocent. Police Department took a long time to apologize for that f— up, and it was a weak apology, at best. The family’s young children (all younger than 10 years old) were severely traumatized to witness all of this.”
“And, by the way, later, when the police did a much better job of coordinating with Ft Carson to get the details on the grunt’s Ogden location, they easily found him tending to his dying father, hanging out in the hospital/hospice (I can’t remember which). And the grunt never put up any resistance, difficulties, etc. at being “captured.”
“Matthew Stewart, a single, introspective man in his late 20s (we all learned this later when his journals were revealed) worked the night shift at Wal-Mart. From 11 p.m. – 7 a.m. He owned his own home. And, he liked pot, so he grew his own weed in his basement. He never sold it; it was not for profit. He gardened the pot for personal satisfaction and his own use. His journals were not subversive, terrorist, or anything alarming…. He was a young man pondering the meaning of life, his role in life… the kinds of things that many of us have wondered about. From the excerpts I read, I was very impressed with his ability to articulate deep thoughts. He was working on a BA a course-at-a-time.”
“In January, police storm his home at 8 p.m. The purpose of this storming was to shut down his “pot factory” which consisted of a total of 13 plants in the basement. That is it. Nothing more. Neighbors have all testified there was never a knock. Neighbors never saw “normal” police come to his house to question him prior to the home invasion. The storm troopers showed up – 12 of them – armed to the teeth, and they knocked down the door to his house and piled in. The house is dark. It’s 8 p.m. in January, when it’s dark outside. Matthew Stewart works the night shift, so he doesn’t get up until a little before 11 p.m. He’s asleep and is awakened by the commotion inside his home. No lights are on, and so he assumed he’s being robbed. Dressed in his underwear only, he grabs his gun and asks who’s there. Police admit they didn’t respond. So Matthew Stewart moves from his bedroom down the hall towards the living room and begins firing. All police fire back. It is a hailstorm of bullets flying everywhere. Blood is everywhere. Matthew is shot. Several police are shot. One policeman dies that night.”
“Matthew Stewart is arrested, and growing pot in his basement is now the least of his worries. His neighbors come to his defense, detailing what they observed in terms of police tactics that night, along with the lack of “normal” police visitation and questioning”.
“Matthew Stewart is kept in jail while the police mount a publicity campaign to malign this man. I’ve never seen anything like it. In the end, long before a trial could be held (that Matthew’s family was very optimistic about winning), Matthew Stewart hung himself in the Ogden City Jail”.
“I am appalled at the increasing militarization of our local police forces. I am appalled at their acquisition of such high tech, war-capable equipment and weapons. And I’m truly appalled at the failure to use normal, careful police investigation legwork, and hard detective work before resorting to this sexy new equipment. Here in Ogden, it’s clear to many of us that the local police force believes it is far better to shoot first and ask questions later.”
I wondered about the concentration of mistakes all happening in one relatively peaceful town in a placid state. I searched around to see how common the phenomenon might be. I think you will find this interactive map from the Cato Institute extracted from a larger report entitled “Overkill: The Rise of Paramilitary Police Raids in America.”
40,000 raids a year and dozens of deaths- many of them, like Ogden- on civilians who had nothing to do with the ostensible reason for the raids.
My irascible buddy Marlow has got the last word on this one. He wrote early, long before his first drink of the day, but maybe with his first fine Cuban cigar:
“These raid eff-ups are due in large part to a toxic mix of intel failure, poor ROE, lack of patience, pelt/arrest hunting PDs, dumbass conviction hungry & name making prosecutors, boys-n-their-toys issues and confiscation of assets by the cops. The post-911 drive to be safe sacrificed our freedom with easily predictable consequences like these.”
I nodded in agreement, looking at the words on the screen.
“I wonder when/if the people will rise up in revolt. Naaaah, we are looking for the next Miley Cyrus twerking scandal to get incensed over.”
“Perhaps AQ has spiked our water supply?”
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Active Shooter
(Culpeper Sheriff Scott Jenkins, a long time local law enforcement veteran, affable leader, and advocate of Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT) capabilities. Photo Culpeper Country Sheriff’s Department).
We had a blast this weekend- literally. Some pals in the extended Socotra Affinity Group wanted to come down to the farm for some firearms proficiency at the instrumented test range at the Dacha next door, and a thoroughly good time was had by all. Safety is paramount for us, no beverages permitted on the range and proper equipment and hearing protection the order of the day.
Now, bleary on a Monday, it is time to look at the storm clouds that will bring inches of rain our way in time for Thanksgiving. The temperatures are hovering in the twenties as the light comes up, so we are all keeping our fingers crossed that the magic confluence of moist Gulf air, the proximity of the Chesapeake and some errant high altitude cold thread of the Jet Stream doesn’t convert the rain into a foot or more of the dread white stuff.
Anyway, once the guests were gone and the Farm returned to a more silent demeanor, I lit a cheery fire in the fireplace and picked up the Clarion Bugle to see what might be happening in town: the tree lighting, holiday open houses, that sort of thing.
The Bugle comes out on Thursday, the optimal day for the ads to stimulate shopping, and times being what they are, the paper is mostly just advertising now. Local coverage has diminished as costs rise to maintain publication on actual paper, and there was never much of an attempt to catch up with what is happening in Richmond, much less the National Capital which sprawls across the Potomac to the north.
I was interested in the coverage of Sheriff Scott Jenkins address to the public on his first two years as the County’s top law enforcement official.
Sheriffs are an interesting breed. Their office has a history in English Common Law that goes back a millennium. They are the only elected law enforcement officials in America. All the rest of them are appointed, or creatures of the bloated Federal and State bureaucracies. Scott is the last line of defense for the citizens of his county, which is why his predecessor got in trouble over allegations of cozy relations with some of the local meth cookers. Scott is a reform Sheriff, and reportedly an affable keeper of the peace.
Under his young administration, DUI and drug busts are up by a third. Patrols are up 25% from the level maintained by the last Sheriff. There are now four K-9 units, up from zero in 2011, and they have seized $55,000 in contraband. and presumably the public is that much safer.
I am not sure I am a huge fan of increased traffic check points, but I am certainly opposed to highway carnage, which is why when I am down at the farm, I normally stay there.
The coverage of the remarks over at the local Community College reported them to be “cheerful, positive and celebratory,” which is the way I like my law enforcement.
What got my attention was the praise heaped on LT Bryant Arrington, who is head of the Culpeper Special Operations Division. That is apparently where our local Special Weapons and Tactics Team (SWAT) capability is resident.
Everyone is concerned with the “active shooter” scenario these days, and the last few horrors have encouraged ordinary citizens to be prepared as well in those jurisdictions that have not imposed severe restrictions.
So, I guess I am pleased about how organized Lt. Arrington is. Well trained and organized is a good thing, I think. But I was very surprised to see exactly what is coming into the Lieutenant’s inventory. In addition to the usual stuff the Feds are handing out for free (grenade launchers, helicopters, military robots, M-16 assault rifles, riverboats, Battle Dress Uniforms and information technology equipment.
Culpeper County is getting a Caiman MRAP (for “Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected”) manufactured by my friends at BAE Systems, the American arm of the British defense giant. Lt. Arrington got a moment in the Sheriff’s update to explain that the vehicle will be used chiefly for “SWAT response to “active shooter” and barricade situations” and as a bonus will be available to neighboring law enforcement agencies.
Just to refresh your memory, the Caiman has some cool features:
18 ton overall combat weight
10-man crew capacity
Tensylon composite armor
Armor enhancement capable
Manned and remote weapons stations
Full-time all wheel drive
Fully automatic transmission
Electronic Central Tire Inflation System (CTIS)
Anti-lock braking system (ABS)
Class V Interactive Electronic Technical Manuals
V-Shaped hull to deflect blast effects.
The Bugle quoted the Sheriff as saying that “If your officers are under fire, you’ve got to get to the threat.” High-power rifles will shoot bullets that can defeat conventional body armor, so the MRAP is ideal for getting close to deranged deer hunters. There are a few downsides to the Caiman, which the Sheriff did not mention. The heavy weight and large size of the MRAP imposes limitations, including:
· Poor maneuverability makes it difficult and sometimes impossible to use in an urban environment
· Poor off-road performance
· Prone to tipping over
· 70% of world’s bridges can’t hold MRAPs- I do not know if the Sheriff has examined the bridges on the back-country Culpeper roads
· Too wide for many roads- and hopefully the one in front of Refuge Farm
· High fuel consumption—approximately 3 mpg, which is painfully close to gallons per mile as calculated for the M1A1 Abrams main battle tank
Now that we have declared the wars overseas to be over, and the jihadi terrorists on the run, there is a lot of surplus property available from the Federal Government to augment local law enforcement through the “1033 program.” The subsidy program long predates 9/11, and grew up in the War on Drugs. But the availability of materiel and the level of hysteria imposed by the new DHS has poured gas on the fire.
The Culpeper sheriff’s office obtained 20 NVDs through the program, so thankfully the local law enforcement will have a capability roughly equivalent to that of a Marine Force Recon team. According to the Bugle, next year, orders through the overall 1033 program for equipment will be at least 400 percent greater than the DoD request for 2012, so there might be more freebies for the Sheriff’s Department.
I guess the question is: is the heavy armor capability what Sheriff Jenkins really needs to police quaint and picturesque Culpeper? Or, at 18 tons, is the vehicle just a very, very heavy truck the county acquired to protect its SWAT operators?
Or should this be the kind of vehicle we just park on the lawn in front of the Culpeper VFW with the other armor intended for overseas service?
It is a useful thing that Sheriff Scott Jenkins is a good guy- and I do believe that he is “cheerful, positive and celebratory” in the way he carries out his necessary and sometimes very difficult (and dangerous) job.
Still, I am a little uneasy about twenty night-vision-equipped deputies with grenade
in BDUs and armor following that MRAP up the lane with the blue lights flashing, though.
I hope they have the correct address for where they are going, you know?
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: #jayare303
The Omnivore’s Dilemma
Editor’s note: Yes, We are aware that JFK’s daughter, now US Ambassador to Japan, is named Caroline, and that the Honor Guard unit that Mike Grove commanded during the ceremonies surrounding the funeral of President Kennedy was the Headquarters Company of the First Brigade of the Third US Infantry (“The Old Guard”) and of the Caisson Detachment during the funeral itself. He is buried in Section 30, Site 897-H at Arlington National Cemetery, just down the slope from the eternal flame that honors the President. I presume this means we will be neighbors again, sooner or later. The Staff of the Daily deeply regrets the crappy editing, but I had to get on the road to greet the Shooting Party who was to arrive at Refuge Farm, early bright.)
OK, so Heckle the Cat is not a huge fan of Vienna Sausage. My bad- I did not have any cat-food in the locker, and went for the smallest can of protein in the long-term bulk reserve stock I keep in readiness for the Zombie Apocalypse or whatever is going to happen next.
I may have known it already, but it is only now creeping past thirty degrees out in the thin winter light. Nice morning, but the chores are beckoning. The Shooting Party made swift work of some of them, after a Festival of All Calibers on the instrumented range over at the Russian Dacha. I think we put a total of about a thousand rounds down-range from a dozen distinct firearms.
Good, clean, safe fun, and many tales in between hot range periods. I don’t know what the neighbors thought about the commotion. Maybe not a great deal, since we could hear the distant echo of gunshots from both sides of the farm lane.
Mattski has constructed a marvelous tree-house for Sasha, the Russian Princess. She is cuter than ever, and her English is becoming so proficient that they are going to throw her into fourth grade next year. She had been held back a year, to Second Grade, when she arrived. She has mastered the language so well that they are going to let her skip part of the third grade and get back to parity with her age group.
Remarkable little girl, Sasha is. She considers the tree house to be exactly that; a place to climb and dream. Mattski only uses it a couple times a year, come deer season.
He got his deer on the second day of the season. He was up there in his plastic chair, waiting patiently as the light came up and the sun began to flood his lower fields. The doe emerged from the woods on my side on the property, and spotted him immediately and froze. So did Mattski. Then she went on to patrol the long grass in the adjacent field, and Mattski was able to unship his rifle and take a nice clean shot.
He got her in the neck, severing the spinal cord in a swift, clean and humane kill.
We applauded his marksmanship from the firing line. He said he field-dressed the carcass and had our pal at the Croftburn Farms Market process the meat into venison steaks and chops. I am invited to try some tonight, and I am looking forward to it, though I am confronted with the Omnivore’s Dilemma.
See, I know that doe, or better said, I knew her. I last saw her in my garden last Sunday. I remember meeting her the first time two years ago, part of a family unit that included another fawn a buck and the momma doe.
They were a regular feature, crossing right to left in the morning and left to right again onto the state forest acreage in the late afternoon.
I don’t know if the buck and the other doe were harvested already, but I haven’t seen them since. I never had any particular beef with them, so to speak. Nor do I have any particular aversion to trying the venison of a living being that coexisted peacefully with me up until a week ago.
I mean, it is the height of hypocrisy to think that the meat aisle at the local Food Lion is any more or less moral than killing a deer on your own land for food. Probably a great deal less, I would think, since it comes with the intrinsic cruelty of the feed-lot and the abattoir.
That is a mark of how effete my life has been. This marks only the second time I will have partaken in dining on something I knew in life.
The first was Dollar The Cow, a venerable survivor of some 20 Norwegian winters. She was getting too old for milking, and the Thorenson family (on whose farm I was living for the summer as an “exchange” laborer in Europe) decided to convert her to entrees for meals for a few weeks.
That is pretty thin experience for a life as an omnivore, I will grant you, and not a great deal of experience in what exactly constitutes the food chain on which we presume to sit at the apex.
The deer did not have an English name, nor for that matter, a Russian one. Now it is just dinner.
I think this is intellectually as honest as it gets. I have some very good friends who are resolute in their belief that eating meat is wrong on several levels. I find them to be admirable people, and unquestionably consistent in their belief system.
I am more like Heckle the Cat, I would think, happy to get something with protein even if Vienna Sausage is not first preference. I saw Heckle do in one of the voles from the warren in the front yard two summers ago, and the swift and efficient manner of the dispatch was something that struck me as remarkable, since we are so separated in urban life from anything like real nature, red in tooth and claw.
I recall taking a picture of the doe last week.
Interesting, I guess. Something to think about, certainly.
(The doe to the right is dinner now. Photo Socotra.)
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Conspiracies
(Our neighbor Captain Mike Grove, USA, is leading the funeral cortege up Pennsylvania Ave. in Washington, bringing President Kennedy’s remains to lie in state under the Capitol Dome. Photo AP).
Dawn is just coming up. I have to be at the farm, but I was not going to try to get there in the deep dark after Willow. The usual crowd was there, plus a few, and it was a grand time, once we got over the coverage of the anniversary, which naturally included dredging up the politics of that long-ago time. The reporting seemed to take a the line that that Dallas was somehow responsible for the actions of the Lone Deranged Gunman, if that is what it was and not something else even more monstrous.
I mentioned the other day that I don’t trust anything or anyone much since that day fifty years ago unless I have personal knowledge of the event, and even then I remain skeptical.
You see, there was more to it. The family who lived next to us on Chester Street were named The Groves- Don and Gladys. They had two kids- a daughter who was old enough to baby sit for us sometimes, and a son who had gone off to serve in the Army after graduating from high school and had an ROTC scholarship in college. Nice people- the families on the street all had kids and we played wherever we wanted.
It was with considerable pride that Don told Raven that his son Mike was serving with The Old Guard, the Third Infantry, the soldiers who manage the affairs of honor at Arlington National Cemetery. As the Captain commanding the
This is what is publicly known of Michael and his young family, largely culled from obituaries and now floating around on the Internet:
Michael D. Groves was born 19 August 1936 in Grabbingham (but some say Ann Arbor), Michigan. He went to Grabbingham High School and then Eastern Michigan University (1959) as an ROTC honor graduate, entering the service immediately upon graduation. He was said to be a close friend of JFK and occasionally babysat for John Jr.
As company commander of the Honor Guard Company, Groves directed military honors at JFK’s funeral on 25 November 1963. A week later, he died of a sudden heart attack (or some say poison) at the dinner table at his home in Arlington, Virginia.
I have no idea whether a young company-grade officer could actually have been a friend of the President, but it is possible that the Old Guard soldiers might be drafted to care for John-John and Catherine. But it certainly meant that our block in Michigan had a particular position of interest in the solemn ceremonies that attended the funeral of the slain president. One of us was actually part of it.
When the news came that Mike had succumbed to a heart attack shortly after the funeral, they chalked it up to stress, and that was the end of the matter, except for the grieving of the Groves clan.
So, imagine my surprise years later to run across this:
“JFK: The Dead Witnesses” by Craig Roberts and John Armstrong (1995), p. 3—“Captain Groves, who commanded the JFK Honor Guard for Kennedy’s funeral, died under mysterious circumstances seven days after the funeral. While eating dinner, he took a bite of food, paused briefly as a pained look came over his face, then passed out and fell face down into his plate. He died instantly. On December 12th, his possessions and mementos—which had been sent home to Michigan—were destroyed in a fire of mysterious origin. The Honor Guard, for some mysterious reason, had been practicing for a presidential funeral for three days before the assassination. Captain Groves was 27 years old at the time of this death. Cause of death: Unknown. Possibly poison.”
Possibly poison? Jesus, I thought. What complete horseshit. Maybe we all ought to just let the dead rest in peace.
John-with-an-H said he had had enough of all this conspiracy stuff for another fifty years last night.
I think I agree with him for once.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twiteer: @jayare303
Forever ‘63
(A woman named Moorman took this Polaroid image at the precise moment between the shots that killed the President. The Grassy Knoll is in the background. Photo Bettman Archive).
It is snowing some places in this great country. It is not here, a small consideration as the beginning of the Holidays is upon us. But for this day, it is always going to be 1963, and it will run in the back of our national memory forever. I described the moment I heard the news yesterday. It is frozen in amber, sepia-toned now.
Strangely, the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches that Mom was serving at the instant that Jack Ruby advanced on the Deranged Lone Gunman and blew holes in him are just as vivid, fused together in real life color and pure black and white.
(This color image shows the Polaroid shot being taken by Ms Moorman in the blue raincoat. I can’t even look at this without thinking of the Umbrella Man under his deployed rain protection on that sunny day. Photo Sixth Floor Museum).
The radio is replaying the events of this day, fifty years ago, and it is tempting to jump through the wormhole of time. I had a mild brush with it this morning- I was trying to confirm a small but significant fact about some aspect of the horrific event as claimed by a character named Josiah “Tink” Thompson. Interesting guy- he graduated from Yale in 1957, did a hitch as a UDT swimmer for the Navy and after that returned to Yale to get his Doctorate in Kierkegaardian Philosophy.
Then he dropped out to become a private gumshoe and worked on more than a hundred homicides.
The thing I like about his approach is that there are no space aliens, or complex tampering with the Zapruder film or crap like that. He says there is plenty of other imagery of the Plaza that day to connect the dots, and that it is a pretty comprehensive record of what happened. It is worth a listen, and I think it sums up just about what I think and no more.
(New Orleans DA Big Jim Garrison. Photo Wikipedia).
The endless repetition of the horror doesn’t seem to deter the morbid curiosity, since things continue to trickle out. My pal Boats wrote from the Crescent City to remind me of the circus that attended the Jim Garrison investigation and trial of Clay Shaw.
No, I thought. I can’t do that. No more conspiracy theories- and that one was so over-the-top that it seemed like a freak show at the time. It had everything, if you go back and review it; homosexuals, CIA anti-Castro freaks and the mob.
Then, attempting to recall some of the wilder elements of the Oliver Stone hallucination film JFK, I got sucked down another wormhole with the revelation that the tapes of the radio communications from Air Force One that day were just transcribed and released.
Between reality and hallucination, the morning has passed. The third iteration of NPR is rolling over me again- the priest called in to give Last Rites to the president, the ambulance attendants, all of the madness creeping out of the background with those larger than life old timers: LBJ, McGeorge Bundy, the White House Sit Room…
(Open session of the HSCA. Photo AP).
Nope. I can’t do it. I can’t even make a coherent narrative out of it. Congress tried to make sense out of all the theories when it established the House Select Committee on Assassinations in 1976- but the proceedings were held mostly in closed session, and did little to quell dissatisfaction with the results of the Warren Commission.
In 1992, Congress passed legislation to collect and open up all the evidence relating to Kennedy’s death, and created the Assassination Records Review Board to put out what information it deemed appropriate. There is still classified material. Why there would be at this late date is beyond me.
As Tink Thompson observes, this has gone into the history books not only as a tragic moment, but a complete mess. I am going to go back to thinking about other things. There are enough disasters in progress to occupy our limited attention span, I think.
But as I contended yesterday, this single event is the central mystery of American history, with Jack and Jackie and the kids and Marylin and Bobbie and Lyndon and Lee and Ruby and Curtis LeMay all now playing their roles, explicit and ambiguous, forever, endless loop.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
The Central Mystery
(This portion of the central entrance is all that is left of the building in which we heard the news: Barnum Junior High School, in Grabbingham, Michigan.)
“I was in Dallas yesterday to manage a contract shut-down and spent the day in Dealey plaza. I will send you some videos and photos if that is ok with you.”
So wrote a pal, a retired FBI Special Agent and a good guy. We share a certain grim fascination with the central mystery of our time, the murder of a sitting President.
I will not go down the rabbit hole of who and why. That is the subject for others who have long ago moved from grim fascination to total commitment of life and treasure in an effort to prove one theory or another.
I am absolutely convinced the truth is out there some place- one of the stories with something deep and impossible planted within is probably the real deal, a legend spiked with a lie that actually is quite accurate. Holding some part of it up as “the truth” now will just get you in trouble, or labeled as a “conspiracy theorist,” which apparently is the new code word for irresponsible loon.
Mr. Cass Sunstein served as the administrator of the Office of Information and Regulatory Affairs throughout most of Mr. Obama’s first term. He is the guy who re-coined the phrase in a 2008 academic paper. It was an interesting theory: he advocated government infiltration of conspiracy theorist groups by joining “chat rooms, online social networks and real space groups.”
(Mr. Cass Sunstein. Photo AP).
Our home-town Washington Post quoted the paper as saying “…those who subscribe to conspiracy theories may create serious risks, including risks of violence, and the existence of such theories raises significant challenges for policy and law.”
I do not know what the truth might be, nor will I guess here. I certainly do not wish to get crosswise with Mr. Sunstein or other officials who might take umbrage with questions about the Warren Commission.
Here is what I think. A look at what is purported to be an accurate restoration of the event itself, the film taken by Mr. Abraham Zapruder, appears to show Mr. Kennedy hit twice in rapid succession, once from the rear and then by another blow from the right front.
Shots from two directions mean….well, you know.
I have no confidence in anything else. Nothing. And to a larger degree, I am not sure I have any confidence in any public utterance for the last fifty years. For those events in which I had an actual role, passive or speaking, I have some assurance that I actually understand what happened.
But beyond that? Nothing.
The world changed in last period of the school day. All the events had already occurred in Dallas. Whatever and whoever had done what they did was resolved. The motorcade has sped on to the hospital, the President was attended to as best the Parkland physicians could, and Mr. Johnson was already occupying the Presidential Cabin on Air Force One when the principal came up on the loudspeaker to announce that President Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas.
I was in Mr. Collins Industrial Arts Class. A kid named Sandy spoke up, blurting out the word: “Yes!”
Mr. Collins erupted in wrath at the outburst. He uncoiled his lanky six-foot-something frame and the hairs on his crew-cut head stuck out straight and military: “Son, the President of the United States has been shot. Do you not understand that?”
The class- all boys in those days- turned silent as the grave. If you could have told me that I would still be wondering about it as I approach old age, I would never have believed you.
If my pal’s images from Dealey Plaza reveal anything new, I am going to keep my mouth shut.
Fifty years ago tomorrow.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303