Election Day

“It is Election Day tomorrow,” said Mac as he climbed up on the stool next to me at Willow. “So I did some electing myself.”

“What do you mean, Sir?”

“I went to my oncologist loaded for bear. I told him that damned medication he had me on wasn’t worth it. I want a glass of wine or beer once in a while, and I said I either wanted medicine that would let me do it or I wouldn’t take any.”

“Wow,” I said. “That is a huge decision.”

Not really,” smiled Mac, looking over at our buddy Holly who was holding down our end of the bar with her infectious smile and rave-dark hair. “What is your Happy Hour Red?” he asked her. “It turns out those who don’t smoke and drink don’t actually live longer. It just seems that way.”

Holly held out a bottle of pinot. “It is Spinnelli Montepulcinao D’Abruzzo tonight,” she said.

“That is easy for you to say,” I remarked, swirling my glass of Pinot Grigio. “But I have to say this is a real treat to be with you as you fall off the wagon, Sir.”

“There is a lot to catch up on, and I am determined to do it,’ said Mac firmly. “And I would like to see the Nosh menu, if you would be so kind.” Holly obliged and slid the menus over in their Willow jackets. Tracy O’Grady does a new menu every day, depending on what she can get.

“Is Old Jim still boycotting the place?”

“He is in West Virginia teaching his last seminar. And it is not a boycott. It is a principled statement that this is not the only bar in town. Plus, Tracy teased him with the Chinese duck tacos. He is not coming back until they are on the menu.”

“How could you know if you didn’t come in to see?”

“He was talking about having a neon sign installed outside that Tracey could turn on when the duck is ready. Sort of like the sign at TasteyCream stores when the donuts are fresh out of the fryer.”

Mac snorted and then took a sip of the red. “This is nice,” he said. “It has been a long time.”

“It certainly has. We were last talking about Bronson Tweedy, Dick Helm’s right hand guy at CIA who recruited you to come and work on the Intelligence Community Staff with General Jack Thomas.”

“That’s right. We met at a men’s club downtown.”

“The Cosmos?” I asked.

“No,” frowned Mac, looking up. “It was the City Tavern Club, on M Street in Georgetown. Anonymous place, no signs. Supposed to be one of the last Federalist buildings in town. I had a hell of a time finding it. Bronson was one of the original Ivy League types who joined the Agency when it was founded.”

“I looked him up. He was in things up to his elbows, including the assassination of Patrice Lumumba in the Congo.”

Mac smiled thinly. “Yes, Bronson was an interesting guy.”

“Ok,” I said. “The ground rules were that we could talk about anything in your Navy career, the five and a half years at DIA, and your transition to the IC Staff. What comes after that is off limits, right?”

“Yes. There are still some things that may be sensitive.” He told me one of them, and glared at me when I started to write it down. “That is why Bronson looked favorably on me. I made some friends helping the Agency on that one. That is why they contacted me.”

“OK, the Agency time is off the table. You were there for 13 years, right?”

Mac took a sip and scanned the menu, settling eventually on the pommes frites with Truffle. “It has been a long time since I had a French fry,” he said.

“You have never had a fry like these,” I said. “They are to die for, which I imagine you could if you ate them all the time.”

“I have decided to elect for quality of life,” said Mac, flipped the menu closed and gestured at Tinkerbelle, who was getting Jake a beer from the cooler in back of the bar. “I believe we will have an order of the frites,” he said.

“Coming up, Admiral,” said Tink, sliding the Racer 5 bottle in front of Jake.

“Harold Brown interviewed me to be Deputy Director at DIA,” he said. “It was a three star job at the time. I went in and there was Dr. Brown and another guy, who didn’t say anything, I knew him from the neighborhood in North Arlington. We got to the question, Harold didn’t like my answer and the interview was over.”

“What was the question?” I asked. My phone went off, and some lady in Colorado wanted to ask me some questions about the woman who runs my web site. Renee is dynamite, and we have been at this almost seven days a week for a decade.

I stepped into the vestibule and completed the call with fulsome praise. “Who else would have put up with this crap for so long?” I finished with a flourish. “She is magnificent.”

The lady thanked me and I walked back to the bar, where several attractive women from Corporate were fawning over Mac.

“So what was the question?” I asked, when I could get his attention again. He smiled.

“Harold asked me what would happen if there was a disagreement between the Chairman and the Secretary, who would I support? Where would my loyalty be?”

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I asked if it was a disagreement over a military matter. He said it was, and I said I would have to support the Chairman’s military judgment rather than a political appointee.”

“And the interview was over?”

Mac nodded. I picked up my pen and made a note as a basket of luscious pomme frites appeared in front of Mac. He took one of the fries out of the pile and popped it into his mouth. “That is delicious,” he said.

“Best I have tasted,” I said. “Just not on my diet any more. At least if I want to keep drinking wine.” I waved at Holly for more.

“We all make the elections we do,” said Mac firmly. “I am doing it now, and I don’t imagine a glass of red and a couple fires will hurt.”

“So, what prompted the retirement from CIA?” I asked.

“When my wife Billie was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s,” he said. “I was retired two years before the Iran Contra affair broke. I new Poindexter and Secord and all those guys. I was pretty lucky on the timing.”

“Yeah,” I said dully, thinking of my own Raven and Big Mama. “But what a time.”

Mac sipped on his wine. I will have to tell you tomorrow what he said about that.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com <http://www.vicsocotra.com>

VOTE!

Outsourcing

It was a nice Sunday, weather wise, and the squirrels took advantage of it. They are constructing a nest in the lower branches of the maple that blocks the sun from my balcony high above the pool at Big Pink.

One of the little bastards was actually on the balcony this morning, bold as brass and near the open door. If they furry rodents got in here there would be hell to pay. I remember one of them got trapped in the stairwell, and it took some real thought on how to drive the little guy back out through a strategically opened fire-door out to the deck as other humans circled around to come down the stairs from above.

The squirrels have had a busy summer. They ate Jigg’s tomatoes, shredded Peter’s cushions to make the nests in the trees more comfy, and are doubtless plotting now to gnaw through the 220-volt circuit in the transformer on the pole at the corner of Pershing and the service drive that parallels Route 50.

When they succeed, there is a spectacular “pop” and the power to the building is knocked out for hours.

If we are lucky, that is. Sometimes it is much longer.

Anyway, I shooed the little bandit off the balustrade and the squirrel took a leap for the nearest sturdy branch and disappeared into the remaining fall foliage with his confederates.

I wondered if these were Government squirrels, or independent contractors?

That is a big deal and an important distinction. My pal in Colorado tells me to avoid long screeds on “how the government works,” since first, it doesn’t, and second, no one cares unless something directly affects them.

So, we are going to avoid “how a bill becomes law” this morning. I thought about that as I read the Times. Motoko Rich had an interesting piece on what is happening in Michigan. As you know, government there works even less efficiently than in places like Greece or Italy.

Ms Rich zeroed in on a scheme by which state-run nursing homes were easing out government workers and hiring contractors to provide care while whacking the salaries by a quarter.

The story hit so many issues that are gnawing at me like that squirrel out there working on the 220-volt line, and with the same sort of inevitable end result.

“Pop!”

With Raven now ensconced at the Bluffs, I am naturally concerned with the level of his care. Ms Rich reported on the state Veteran’s Home in Grand Rapids, a fine old brick Victorian-brick town on the Grand River where we lived for a decade.

The central question in the article is this: how expensive public workers are. The new Republican Governor thinks he can squeeze some efficiency out of the state work force, and one of the targets is the nursing home with the aging vets.

Being one, and at least temporarily remaining in an un-assisted living capacity, I am aware that the about-to-be-slashed DoD budget is going to have a direct cost in veteran health care, Commissaries and the all-import Class Six Store where the vodka and the gasoline are sold.

It is not going to be pretty, and I am steeling myself for the storm to come.

This is just the thin edge of the wedge, of course.

The whole who-is-more-expensive argument has been around for a while. Al Gore led the charge to outsource public jobs to the private sector in the second act of the Clinton Administration. We used to worry about OMB Circular A-76 provisions that public workers should have the opportunity to propose creative solutions to changing requirements and stay on the job.

Here is the deal: the Feds have had a longstanding policy of reliance on the private sector for “needed commercial services.” To get the “best value” for the government, the A-76 process results in dozens of exciting meetings by gray-faced officials, by which:

a. All activities performed by government personnel are identified as either commercial or inherently governmental.

b. That the task of the “inherently governmental activities” are preformed by government personnel, so contractors like me cannot construct self-licking ice cream cones.

c. Then, contract everything out that doesn’t require a government body.

The process was deliberate and ponderous back in the post-Cold War era. Then, with the War on Terror, there were battalions of contractors hired for whatever seemed like a good idea at the time.

It seemed out of control, like the squirrels at Big Pink. There was a move afoot a couple years ago to bring the outsourced work back into the government workforce. We lost dozens of our company employees as the Agency started to convert private to public. With the budget crisis, that abruptly came to an end.

The argument is that a government employee is cheaper in current-year dollars than a contractor. However, when you factor in the inability of the government to actually fire anyone, and the cost of the pension, healthcare and other fringes, the contractor comes out ahead every time as a better value.

But of course, that does nothing at all for the human who has to take the pay cut to do the same job.

A group of government squirrels at the Federal Salary Council announced last week that the pay gap between government employees and private-sector workers grew 2.25% in favor of the contractors. The average pay gap in 2011 was about 26.3%, largely due to the two-year pay freeze the Administration imposed of the Feds last January.

Washington (and Miami, for whatever reason) were the only areas that experienced a decrease in the pay gap between government employees and private-sector workers. Go figure.

I am convinced that I could help that balance. I believe that I could bring in squirrels from other more depressed areas and undercut the Arlington County rodents, providing “best value” for shredding things and blowing up transformers.

Granted, there are challenges to this approach, and there are sunk costs in the squirrel force that we have now. But if we are going to get control of rodent pensions and emoluments we have to start somewhere.

I intend to start in West Virginia.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Last Home Game

Got up early and am about halfway through resetting the clocks. I hate this- I think they ought to just let the sun alone.

In the snail-mail there were a couple clippings from my 84-year-old girlfriend out in San Diego about dementia, commenting on the saga I have been trying to document on the decline of my parents.

I wish life were not like this, at the end, and note with mild concern the genetic link between dementia and the generations. That suggests that I will be one of the one-in-two that will have this a awful affliction, should I live long enough, and I am intensely interested in how to avoid what seems to be inevitable.

I will be thinking about that. I have a little over twenty years, if Mom and Dad are any example, and I want to plan for it. I have thought about a new medical appliance. Something you could implant in the body, perhaps in the buttocks, which every few months would prompt you to enter a code phrase into a remote control.

Something really simple and profound- the name of your partner, perhaps, or your birthdate. The remote control would offer plenty of chances to try to get it right, like the trusty Blackberry on my belt that offers twenty times. That should be sufficient to prevent unintended activation of the implant.

I figure if you can’t enter your own birthday correctly, it means the time to hang around has passed. The chip would release a dose of something that would take you out of the picture.

I dunno. You certainly can’t ask someone to do it for you.

It was too nice to spend a lot of time on my invention yesterday, though.

Jake rolled up right on time, and we were off for the Maryland-UVA game.

This has been a rocky season for the Terps. The team has not done that well, and the new coach is still gaining his sea-legs. What is more, the weather has been brutal. We have cooked out in the rain, and on two occasions, actually counted the tail-gate as being good enough to qualify as attending the game and went home.

Today was the last home game, and a magnificent confluence of weather, company and food.

The Man Up crew was in place and firing up the grill as we arrived. It was an old-school kick-off, at noon or thereabouts, and thus the bar opened well before lunch. You have to do what you have to do. The daughter of one of my pals was coming, with a couple friends.

We figured they would take off on their own rather than hang with The Fogies, but it turned out to be a rollicking good time. As it turns out, they stuck around: sassy and fun, they made me wish I was just forty years younger.

Man Up’s specialty is dispensing shots of liquor to any likely-looking passers by. Not malicious, mind you, but as an enhancement to the general mood of merrymaking. I would recount the experience, but it was the same as it always is, progressive inebriation prior to making the trek to the stadium, increasingly sobriety through the five quarters (the half has to count as the bonus) and then a plunge back into the open bar, waiting for the lot to empty and traffic to die down.

The Terps lost, though that did not seem to diminish the general entertainment level. There is nothing, I thought, looking at Jake, that I like better than hanging around a parking lot filled with kids, with a big stadium not far away, great food, great friends and plenty of alcohol.

Life is pretty goddamn good.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicscocotra.com

The Gunpowder Plot

I am way behind this morning- normally not a big deal on a Saturday, but I had to cook this morning for the 0915 pick-up in the Alternate Lifestyle Jakemobile.

Jake was a good sport when we started to disparage his old car, a 1998 Subaru Outback as being rated number one in the nation by America’s Lesbians. He bought another one, on the grounds that a segment of the market so discerning was a telling argument in favor of the brand.

I agree- I would have bought the old one off him. It is close to the perfect ride for a variety of tasks, even hauling barrels of gunpowder around, if that is what is required. It is the 5th of November, after all.

Anyway, I did an artichoke dip and hollowed out a large round of rosemary-tinged Italian bread, with cheese and wraps to devour at the parking lot in College Park.

This is a normal (if emotional) game at College Park- old school, with the kick-off around noon, and thus the imperative to be in our tailgate slots by 1015.

So, with this day dawning clear and crisp, I am looking forward to an iconic game, not driving, and being back, probably inebriated, while the sun still hangs in the west.

But that does not leave a lot of time for rumination this morning. Andy Rooney is dead, according to the media, and only a month after his last broadcast. He is about the last of the breed, and was 92. My pal Mac is the same age as Andy was, and is still going strong. He and I are going to get together on Monday and have a glass of wine in tribute to his Greatest Generation.

The game today is a nice way to partition off the polygraph inquisition this week. I still feel soiled by it, and the back-to-back combination of that and the dental chair left me quivering at the various indignities we inflict on ourselves. Save the last, which Mom and Dad are doing.

But it is the 5th, and with the Occupy crowd still out in the streets, it is worth a second to consider other times and other protests.

After Queen Elizabeth I died in 1603, English Catholics who had been persecuted under her rule had hoped that her successor, James I, would be more tolerant of their religion. James I had, after all, had a Catholic mother. Unfortunately, James did not turn out to be more tolerant than Elizabeth and a number of young men, 13 to be exact, decided that violent action was the answer.

A small group took shape, under the leadership of Robert Catesby. Catesby felt that violent action was warranted. Indeed, the thing to do was to blow up the Houses of Parliament. In doing so, they would kill the King, maybe even the Prince of Wales, and the Members of Parliament who were making life difficult for the Catholics. Today these conspirators would be known as extremists, or terrorists.

To carry out their plan, the conspirators got hold of 36 barrels of gunpowder – and stored them in a cellar, just under the House of Lords.

But as the group worked on the plot, it became clear that innocent people would be hurt or killed in the attack, including some people who even fought for more rights for Catholics. Some of the plotters started having second thoughts. One of the group members even sent an anonymous letter warning his friend, Lord Monteagle, to stay away from the Parliament on November 5th.

The warning letter reached the King, and the King’s forces made plans to stop the conspirators.

Guido, who was in the cellar of the parliament with the 36 barrels of gunpowder when the authorities stormed it in the early hours of November 5th, was caught, tortured and executed.

It’s unclear if the conspirators would ever have been able to pull off their plan to blow up the Parliament even if they had not been betrayed. Some have suggested that the gunpowder itself was so old as to be useless. Since Guy Fawkes and the other conspirators got caught before trying to ignite the powder, we’ll never know for certain.

Even for the period (which was notoriously unstable) the Gunpowder Plot struck a very profound chord for the people of England, a sort of violent corollary to the Tea Party civil disturbance in Boston Harbor.

In fact, even today, the reigning Monarch only enters the Parliament once a year, as part what is called “the State Opening of Parliament.”.Prior to the Opening, and according to custom, the Yeomen of the Guard search the cellars of the Palace of Westminster.

I wonder if the Department of Bonehead Security has this as a cautionary tale in the playbook. The way people feel about Congress these days, you never know.

I have the ice and the vodka and the food neatly packed by the door. I need to shower and dress appropriately- layers, natch- and be ready for America’s Number One Alternate Lifestyle Vehicle to drive up west of the pool at Big Pink.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

(It’s a) Natural Gas

Uncomfortable chairs have been the signature for the week. I was one for the second consecutive day yesterday, getting my quarterly teeth cleaning yesterday, and so grateful that they didn’t ask me to answer any questions while they worked.

I hate the polygraph- it is the closest that non-Catholics get to the confessional. Of course, to my knowledge, the Church does not record the proceedings within for possible criminal prosecution.

My pals were having fun with that this week.  This one was going around:

“An Irishman goes into the confessional box after years of being away from the Church. He is amazed to find a fully equipped bar with Guinness on tap. On the other wall is a dazzling array of the finest cigars and chocolates.

Then the priest comes in.

Excitedly, the Irishman begins…”Father, forgive me, for it’s been a very long time since I’ve been to confession, but I must first admit that the confessional box is much more inviting than it used to be.”

The priest replies, “Get out. You’re on my side.”

And of course, things could always be worse. I got a note from a retired USAF Colonel I used to work with- she said during her last poly she was going through menopause and was getting hot and cold flashes, which caused all kinds of apparently “deceptive behavior.”

Like the situation with the folks, things can always get worse. I just need to remember it. I made reservations to go back Up North for the next holiday, and talked to Mom before lunch. She was bright and she said that she missed me, which wrenched my heart.

It is likely to be a surreal couple months coming up to see if the situation stabilizes. David Brooks had a nice piece on natural gas in the Times this morning.

As you are probably aware, with the fracture drilling technology, there could be 100 years worth of natural gas right here in America, which would make us bigger than Russia in reserves, and literally the Saudi Arabia of natural gas. There may be hope there, and I was trying to lift my eyes away from my little problems and see what is going on elsewhere. I got a note from my pal in Rotterdam is attempting to prop up the whole EuroZone by herself- I get all giddy.

They may have fixed things over there, but everything is connected one way or another. One good thing creates other less good things. I look at Europe with skepticism, and saw this item this morning, commenting on the grand deal to save the Eurozone. With the rescue, the scene is apparently set for some modest growth, which has the direct consequence of pressing crude oil prices up. I saw this about that in my morning reading:

“Meanwhile, even as crude oil surges, natural-gas prices remain in a funk as U.S. output surges ever higher. The broadening price differential between crude oil and natural gas could be a boon for several companies, and is bringing real attention to the exploration side of the business. But another group of companies is positioned to benefit if natural gas takes off as an energy source in the transportation sector.

Investors are figuring it out. Green technology is problematic, and burdened with a government determined to pick winners and losers. Westport Innovations (Nasdaq: WPRT <http://www.streetauthority.com/stocks/WPRT> ) has seen its stock nearly double since February as a rising number of truck fleet operators line up to use Westport’s natural gas retrofit technology. Considering the high price of diesel fuel, a switch to natural gas makes ample sense. Reducing oil imports (from sometimes hostile trading partners) and boosting usage of U.S.-produced gas also holds appeal in terms of national security and persistent trade imbalances.”

I went to the corporate site to check it out. My technical expert in Colorado is cautious about vehicular applications. He told me that:

“Natural gas-propelled vehicles have their limitations. They are not as power-efficient as the best large diesel engines and the tanks are too bulky to be really good for cars. However, for buses and the like, Compressed Natural Gas (CNG) works well. Liquefied Natural Gas (LNG) has an explode-on-impact problem.  Overall, I think natural gas works better for static applications, particularly power plants.  There will be a lot of natural gas plants built in the next few years to replace nuclear and coal power generation (and backup wind farms).”

My Trotskyite pals are death on Fracking, and have it all linked into the 1% guys, so I don’t know what to think. I figure that the only person whose future I can impact is mine.

Like my Colorado pal says: “Any commodity is a pretty good bet for investment as the governments of the world monetize their debts and the global population grows from 7 billion to its peak of 9 billion.”

I sighed. If only I knew someone who would loan me $564 million in guaranteed loans to invest in Westport, which is partnered with venerable Cummins, the diesel guys. They are clearly hedging their bets, and I may want to go along with them.

North America’s future lies with natural gas- we will be the number one exporter soon, and the retrofit technology gets us off Middle East oil and stimulates a new infrastructure on clean(er) energy.

We may have to level several states to get at it, but what the hell. It is either one thing, or another thing. At least we would not be handing ammunition to the jihadis who want to shoot us.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Going on The Box

“I don’t know anything about polygraphs, and I don’t know how accurate they are, but I know they’ll scare the hell out of people.”  – President Richard M. Nixon, whose paranoia helped establish the US Government polygraph program

Kristi looked up at me with surprise as I hit the door to the suite on the 8th floor of the anonymous office tower where we work.

It was late- nearly three PM, and my office was still dark. I had worked email from home in the morning, and did the staff meeting on the cell phone on the drive to the anonymous contractor-run facility. “Polygraph,” I growled. “It sucked.”

“Why did you come in?” she asked, the ringlets of her chestnut-brown hair swaying in wonder.

“I have some stuff to finish up, and then I am going to Willow and try to get the taste of anxiety out of my mouth,” I said.

“Did you pass?” she asked. It is a common enough question, and not insulting in the least at the notion that I was an undercover terrorist. A lot of people have problems with the voodoo science contained in the pressure cuff, sweat sensor and chest bands that measure respiration. That is why everyone I know hates the experience.

“It was the counter-intelligence version,” I said grimly, “So they didn’t ask about my boyfriends or drug abuse. Apparently I am not a spy. At least, not their spy.”

“Whoever they are,” said Kristi, and tossed her hair to one side.

“Yeah, hard to tell these days.” I walked on past the wall that separates her reception desk and the security log from the long corridor and into the cluttered space where I spend most of my day looking down at the intersection of Fairfax Drive and North Glebe and the thrusting spire of the proud white tower of Corporate HQ up the road.

I was drained. The brief feeling of relief at having passed the test- Bob kindly informed me that after he returned from The Place Polygraphers Go during break between sessions with the arm cuff puffed up tight and sweat sensor on the right hand and the tight bands around the chest.

I don’t now what they do while they are gone, or what the point of their departure might be. There is a fish-eye camera located in the ceiling of the anonymous white room. The sessions are always recorded, video and audio, of course, and there is nothing to look at in the painfully stark white room with plain gray carpet.

It is like North Korea, I reminded myself. They are watching, and listening. Don’t scratch your balls, keep your hands above your waist. Don’t get out of the square metal-framed chair. Do no whistle, or say anything out loud about how offensive and demeaning it is.

The career- what is left of it- is on the line and completely up to Bob. I tried to oxygenate my blood as best I could in the break, and avoid the temptation to get up, go over to Bob’s side of the desk and see what was on the screen of his computer. Everyone in the business has heard of classic melt-downs in the examination room. An examiner determined to unnerve a subject can use the machine as a sort of mental rubber hose, and induce panic and confession.

It is driven by the fear that the Polygrapher can use the evidence of the subjects own body to somehow peer into the soul and find something dark and shriveled and foul.

That is the theory, anyway, and it works. There are hundreds of people who came into the plain white rooms as patriotic citizens, and left the building Under Suspicion, stripped of their clearances and abruptly out of a job.

I glanced at my watch. It had been two-and-a-half hours of trying to remain utterly motionless as all the air was sucked out of my body. Sometimes they make you come back, so that you stew in your juices for a while.

I started in the chair as the door suddenly sprung open. I had been thinking about adjusting my underwear, but Bob was suddenly back into the stark white room from The Other Place. I suspect they may go out for a smoke break, or a quick drink from the office bottle. “You passed,” he said.

I sighed with relief as he unhooked me from The Box. “Thanks for the professionalism,” I said. “My last exam was conducted by the people from Langley, and the examiner was a lady who was a dead-ringer for my ex-wife’s attorney.”

“I don’t imagine it went well,” said Bob. “The kids- and by that I mean anyone under fifty- don’t understand how to read us Old Farts.”

“That is no shit,” I said, sliding my wallet into the back pocket of my Dockers and slipping the lanyard with my badges around my neck and shrugging into my sport coat. “Again, thanks for your time.”

“Just a job,” said Bob. Then his face hardened. “Now, you can’t talk about the portions of the device that have changed, since your last exam,” he gestured at the three external sensors on the black metal chair. “And do not discuss the control questions or the security ones. All tests are different and we don’t want people all ramped up for something when they come in to sit down.”

“Perfectly understandable,” I said. “Mum’s the word.”

Bob said there was an optional form I could fill out to provide my impression of the examination. I filled in the form on a clip-board at the front desk on the way out, praising Bob’s expertise. I refrained from saying what I thought about the process. The polygraph is more art than science, as is widely known, and actually used as a tool to get an admission of wrong-doing on the constantly-running tape.

It is a sort of rubber hose, used to extract confessions, and like the way Winston Smith felt Big Brother at the end of Orwell’s “1984,” the three hours in the white room left me filled with gratitude to Bob. I could keep my clearance. I had a job to go to tomorrow. There was a future.

That is such bullshit, I thought, as I walked out of the elevator and into the lovely light of the most perfect Fall Day. The only thing I really felt was that I wanted to go not to the office, but direct to Willow and start drinking Happy Hour White.

And the only thing I knew for sure was that this was the last goddamn time I am going on The Box.

(Supergirl uses her Superpowers to detect lies. Same general principle as the Ful-scope or Counterintelligence polygraph. Image courtesy DC Comics.)

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocora.com

Delusions

I am in Virginia- I think. A pal caught me up short when I was first looking at the computer screen this morning and the Dazbog Russian-roasted caffeine had not kicked in yet.

I had some vivid dreams in the second installment of sleep last night which convinced me I was in Michigan. The whole thing is perfectly understandable, since I am a little delusional still from the effort to shovel out from the drive Up North.

I was at the desk yesterday, looking out a chilly but glorious Virginia afternoon when Michigan came to me, right in the comfort and safety of my own desk. .

The cascade of calls began round two. First was the desk lady at Potemkin Village, who said some woman named Marion was bugging them to find out what had happened to Raven. Apparently, she had called Mom and then turned around to the front desk looking for answers. I told the Village  I would call her, Marion, that is, and did so.

Marion is a piece of work. She was Mom’s best pal in the days when we were small, and is quite mad but still lucid. Her litany of woes surpasses anything we are working through- husband and two kids are dead, and both her remaining sons are either sick or under psychiatric care or both.

Marion is convinced that Mom needs a hearing aid, and that was her first point, once she realized who I was.

“Marion, increasingly I am confident this is not an audio but a cognitive issue, as it was for Raven.”

“I still think she needs a hearing aid.”

“Fine,” I said. “I will put it on the list.” I confirmed my contention a few calls later, but let me stay in general chronological order.

I walked Marion through the state of play, and that Raven is in Bay Bluffs, not because he is so much worse, but because Mom has declined to the point that she can’t keep track of him, and he was wandering into other people’s apartments and scaring the crap out of people. “Hence,” I said, “Potemkin Village was giving him the boot, and we had no choice but to get him a more intensive level of care. Bay Bluffs was the nicest place available, I said, and closest to Mom and the house. So we moved him.”

She seemed dubious about everything- stop me if that is starting to become a theme in all this- but I think I managed to get her calmed down enough to stay out of our business. Annook thinks she is a meddler, and that is the last thing we need at the moment. Although she can’t drive, she can telephone and that is all I need now is someone with great ideas.

She seemed to appreciate the truth, and said that she would try to visit Mom, not this week but perhaps next.

“Fine,” I said. “I am sure she would like to see you.”

Then I called Mom, and sure enough, she was very agitated. She said that she had stuck around the Challenged Lunch Room (CLR) waiting for “the big announcement,” but that everyone left. She was very concerned about missing it.

“Mom,” I said. “There was no announcement today.” Firmly.

“Not about the babies?”

“No Mom. Are you talking about Halloween? That was last night.”

“No,” she said. “That wasn’t it. It was about the big thing….”

I thought hard. There might have been some sort of holiday program at the Village, and since she has become unstuck in time, that might account for the confusion.

She also has a recurring delusion that features a group of twenty individuals, ten of whom are known, ten are unknown, some apparently are infants, and manifests appearances by Ernie Hemingway and her Dad, Irish Mike.

She asks if one of the older gentlemen across the CLR, and we explored that idea. At one lunch last week, she indicated that sometimes it was one and sometimes the other. She was perfectly content with the inconsistency, and I like the elasticity of a good delusion. She has always been very good at figuring things out, and she is still at it.

She thinks that part of this is about the planning for the International Hemingway Society having their meeting there in Petoskey next summer. It is quite real, and since she was the foremost local expert on Ernie’s time in Petoskey and Walloon Lake’s Horton Bay, it is not surprising that she is fixated on that as part of a unifying narrative.

That narrative is a little confusing, but consistent. It includes whatever movie she is watching on the Turner Classic Channel on the cable, and Potemkin Village staff not as workers, but actors. It sometimes it is Ernie, or his brother (there still is Hemingway kin periodically at Walloon) and sometimes her Dad that is seated across the room.

“I was sure there was going to be a big deal today.”

“Not today, Mom, for sure. Maybe Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, well that might be possible.”

“I am sure of it, Mom.” Then, she started pressing buttons on the phone, cutting out her voice and making me cringe at the sound emanating from the speakerphone on my desk. We talked for a while longer, I am not completely sure about what, but I seemed to be able to get her calmed down and watching Robert Montgomery on the Turner Classic Movie Channel. After a while she, was relaxed enough to let me go.

I turned back to some business crap and got about fifteen minutes into it when the phone went off again. This time it was Bay Bluffs. The hairs went up on the back of my neck- but it was a thoroughly banal call. “Where is Raven’s electric razor?” said the nice lady.

“It is on the end-table next to the couch at Potemkin Village,” I said. “I guess I forgot to bring it over.”

“Do you have anyone who can deliver it?”

“No,” I said. “I will be back up at Thanksgiving and can get it over to you. He is going to look pretty rocky by then, though.”

“Oh, it is OK. The girls are shaving him with disposable razors, but they thought it would be safer and more comfortable with an electric.”

“I completely agree,” I said. The nice lady said she might be able to find someone to pick it up, and I offered that if that didn’t work I would take care of it myself. “Remember,” I said. “Sherry from Potemkin Village is there at the Bluffs every Wednesday to cut hair, and she knows Bill.”

The nice lady sounded dubious, and a lot of my communications these days features that aspect. It occurred to me that perhaps I am the one with the delusion.

In the minutes between calls, I booked the ticket to go back up for Thanksgiving, In’shallah. It is winter now, and God only knows what the elements will throw our way.

It occurs to me I can have an electric razor FedExed to Raven. I assume he can get mail. That task will go along with the fucking polygraph my customer has required me to take at noon.

I hate those things. It is nothing except a recurring requirement- I think- and with all the money they have spent on the machines and the examiners they have to use them- but I am getting powerfully tired of national security bullshit.

It all seems a little delusional, you know?

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

The Dan

You do not get to The Dan without The Vince. It is a measure of how much those two men were regarded by their co-workers. But first things first.

Our world changed the day that Dan and Vince- the men- perished along with 123 other Pentagon workers. Five other Naval Intelligence people died in the attack, along with 64 passengers on Flight 77, and of course the scumbag murderers.

America went to war- or at least its military went to war, first in Afghanistan and then in Iraq. The events of the next decade shaped all of us, but had unique impact on those who wear the uniform or directly support them.

The Regional Combatant Command in charge of the operations halfway around the world is US Central Command, headquartered at McDill AFB in Tampa, Florida. Otis Vincent Tolbert- Vince- served there until 2000, when he and Sheri and the kids moved to Virginia.

As my pal J.Todd said at the time, “Vince was a hero long before the 11th of September. Vince was a hero every single day. He was a hero to his family, his friends and his professional peers.”

After the attack, the rapid increase in the tempo of operations revealed that the facilities were inadequate to the task, and a new Joint Intelligence Facility was programmed.

Sheri Tolbert maintained roots in Tampa, though, and Vince’s comrades in Florida viewed his service at CENTCOM with a loving and proprietary interest. Along the way to completion of the new building, his pals lobbied successfully for Building 565 to be known as something more personal.

That is a mouthful, and of course a shorter and fonder nickname was found. Building 565 is now known simply as “The Vince.”

It is a fitting name, and one that keeps Vince alive in the memories of those who knew him, and those who have come after.

CDR Bob Poor thought that CDR Dan Shanower, the chief of IP on that awful day, ought to be remembered, too.

As part of the refurbishment of the Navy Space and Warfare Systems Command in San Diego, the main conference room was to be upgraded to accommodate sophisticated videoteleconfercencing and information sharing capabilities.

Now a civilian program executive in the SPAWAR’s Office of Command, Control, Communications, Computers and Intelligence, Bob had known Dan since 1985, and later when we all served together across the bay in USS Coronado (AGF-11). He saw his opportunity. He suggested that the conference room be dedicated to Dan’s memory, and it is completely appropriate, since the room is used for a variety of meetings and briefings, including our briefings to visiting senior Naval Intelligence Officers.

While the conference room has a formal name, like Building 565 at McDill, it also has one that like The Vince conveys the intimacy we shared with an passionate, patriotic, articulate and infectiously funny man.

Bob’s plan came to fruition last week, with the dedication of The Dan. The plan had been months in the making.

SPAWARSYSCOM is located in Old Town San Diego, on the pacific Highway north of Lindbergh Field, and the old Ryan Aircraft plant where the Lone Eagle’s Spirit of St. Louis had been manufactured over a three-month period prior to the flight that changed the world.

The ceremony on 14 October was elegant, short and sweet. Dan’s parents Pat and Don were in attendance, along with
his brother Jon, several cousins and a dozen retired Naval Intelligence Officers who served with him.

The program featured an invocation, a little discussion of the artifacts/decorations in the room, an informal “roundtable” where Dan’s shipmates shared a sea stories. At the conclusion there was a moment of silence, and a benediction.

The Commander Daniel F. Shanower Conference Room will honor his memory, and be part of the shared recollection that will keep his memory fresh.

It will, of course, be known more simply as The Dan.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com