Mac’s Shack
(The entrance to The Jefferson Assisted Living Facility, 900 N. Taylor Street, Arlington, VA 22203).
Nope. You can’t make me do it. I am not going to throw a grenade at the fiasco that is the roll-out of the Patient Protection- Affordable Care Act this morning. The President is going to reassure everyone later this morning from the Rose Garden. It is getting chilly here as we approach Election Day, and they will wait until things warm up a little.
Mr. Obama will be surrounded by the five healthy people who have actually- well, they actually think they might have been enrolled- in the program. I love the human props that the White House uses with such effect. It gives me confidence that everything is just fine.
I also take the talking points about the massive new law at face value: The PP-ACA was passed by both houses of Congress, signed by the President, and reviewed for constitutionality by the Supreme Court. It is the law of the land.
And so was the Volstead Act, as I recall.
(The view from Mac’s balcony. The fountain in the middle is a great place to sit out in the sun, three seasons a year. The Mall is just across the street and Grand Cru, a wonderful wine bar, is just to the upper right of the picture. Photo Sunrise.)
But I digress. There is something much more important to talk about this delightful, if chilly, morning. Mac’s Shack is still for sale, nearly a year after his passing. His family is in town to try to formulate a strategy to move the place. Apparently the assisted-living market is not keeping pace with the mild resurgence in real estate here in Blue Arlington, and we are going to brainstorm later on ways to sell the place to someone who needs a little help.
A lot of us have parents who are in that boat, just as the Socotras were a few years back. It is a tough time in life. We were lucky to find Potemkin Village, actually “Independence Village,” in the Little City by the Bay. (Hi, Jackie!) The people were great, and it was a welcome refuge from panicking every time Big Mama forgot to hang the phone up, eight hundred miles away.
My pal Marlow still has the parents at home, as they confront the Great Mystery.
Every situation is different, which is what makes this time of life such a challenge. It is a crap-shoot on whether to bring in re-enforcement help to keep them in their home, or physically re-locate them to a place where the meals are hot, the laundry gets done and there is some companionship with other folks who are in the same boat.
(The Common Rooms at The Jefferson are places Mac used to hold court, or listen to speakers brought in to make presentations on topics of interest. Photo Sunrise).
Mac picked his place out himself. It was time to leave the home, and his beloved bridge Billie had been in a full care facility for years. He liked the two-bedroom, unit at The Jefferson, located at 900 N. Taylor Street, in the wonderful Ballston neighborhood of Arlington. It is right across from the Willow Bar and Restaurant, by the way, and that is one of the reasons Mac liked it.
In the stories, I called Mac’s building “the Madison,” a thinly disguised attempt to protect a little of his privacy, but I think we can let that go now.
The Sunrise Corporation manages the Jefferson, and they sum up their philosophy like this: “we believe where you live should be the home of endless possibilities, growth, style and comfort. With our convenient location in Arlington, VA, you will be surrounded by the best that the Nation’s Capital has to offer…and you won’t even need a car to have access to it all! Reimagine what you expect from retirement homes and get to know our approach to individualized care and support at The Jefferson.”
(The Jefferson’s menu is great. Eat in your room, as Mac did sometimes, or share some elegant company and even entertain in the Dining Room. Photo Sunrise).
I liked visiting Mac there. It was cozy, convenient, and the food was great. We used to see former Drug Czar and retired four-star General Barry McCaffery there visiting his mom, and John-with-an-H is at Willow many times as he visits his mother, who has a home at the Jefferson.
The place is small enough to be a real community, and they have the ability to care for residents who have advanced to the next level and need more comprehensive care.
Mac’s place is- I think- the “Lee Model.”
Nice kitchen, spacious and airy. Mac didn’t use the balcony much, but it is generous in size and has a spectacular view, and the amenities are wonderful.
I heard someone say that The Jefferson is “ideal for active seniors who won’t settle for a retirement home.”
If you find yourself in a position where you need a place for loved ones who need a little extra help, and a break from attempting to maintain a single-family house out in the Burbs, this could be a solution.
Mac enjoyed it- the place didn’t bog him down, and allowed him to get out and about in his champagne Jaguar with reserved garage parking. He liked the convenience so much that he would drive across the street and more than once got me where I needed to go.
Great place. If you need information drop me a line and I will hook you up with the family. I think I am still a couple years out from needing the amenities- but you never can tell.
Get it while it is hot. Mac would thoroughly approve.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Private Air Show
(The foliage is turning at the farm. I got the tractor out and did a last cut in preparation for the end of the growing season. Life is exceptionally good here. Photo Socotra.)
I am at the farm this brilliant Fall morning. There is a rich crispness to the air; it is dense with the morning chill burning off and the sky reverberated with the roar of rotary-engined Warbirds. Four of the 1943-vintage AT-6 Texans from last week’s cancelled Airfest buzzed the farm in an impromptu air show to break the morning calm. There is something profound in the sound of old engines, proud and strong and deep-throated with energy.
I have already been back and forth with several associates this mornings on matters of great import. I won’t bother you with that, since there is nothing we can do about it. I mean, we tried and it didn’t work. As the President said in his radio address yesterday, “the clouds of crisis and uncertainty have lifted.”
The clouds have indeed lifted, at least until January. Then we will do this again. That at least appears certain, though I am not sure if that is what the President was referring to. Then, he ignored the $658 million dollar elephant in the room, if I may be permitted the allusion, which is part of what the fight was all about. It is incomprehensible to me that the IT disaster was engineered the way it was. The contract to develop it went to CGI Federal, whose executives visited the White House at least six times before they snagged the award. They projected a world-class experience for on-line users, and the project is currently slightly less than Third World, ten times over budget and counting. The rollout of the Affordable Care Act cannot be taken as anything but what it is: a demonstration of the Government’s inability to get out of its own way.
And we all know that, right or left.
Anyway, I agree with Mr. Obama that we ought to get back to what a majority of our citizens thought they were doing when they elected these astonishingly dysfunctional branches of government. What was that? “Growing the economy, creating good jobs, strengthening the middle class, and laying the foundation for broad-based prosperity, and getting our fiscal house in order for the long haul.”
I will be interested to hear how he plans to do it. So far, none of those things have happened over the last five years of governance, any more than it did in the eight years before that. But maybe next week we can get on it after all the “glitches” in the system are solved. hahaha.
Anyway, the emotion has pretty much leached out of my fingertips and I have been following the four trusty war-birds as they arc around the perimeter of the farm.
They are all in this image, though the trusty iPad camera could not pick them out of the footless halls of air. Swear to God, it is as if the farmhouse was a pylon for their formation, doing a racetrack from here near Mount Pony and back to T.I. Martin Field.
(Who said they weren’t tech savvy back in the day? All four Texans are in this image. They must be stealth fighters!)
Trying to pick the aircraft out of the trackless blue was much better than thinking about the stupid Tigers. I made the mistake of watching the game and adding that late evening to the lunches and dinners of last week finished me off by midnight. Consequently, I only had enough spleen left for one tirade this morning, which I will mercifully spare you.
Instead, lacking the technical ability to share the magic- wait, the roar of Pratt & Whitney R-1340 Wasp engines is swelling- here they come again! Let me try the other camera…
(#4 is trying to join the echelon formation. On the eight passes over the farm, they managed the “finger four” formation and a diamond or two. You could almost smell the AvGas from the front porch. Private shows are good. Photo Socotra.)
Seventy years old those planes are, and not a problem on the roll-out. The government that commissioned their construction worked, had goals, and everyone agreed about where we were going. Doesn’t have much in common with today, does it?
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
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Lunch, Drinks and Dinner
(Piper Norm Weaver prepares to lead the head table to their places at the 47th Annual Naval Intelligence Dining In at Fort Meyer. Photo Socotra).
I have 177 pictures from the NIP Luncheon yesterday and the 47th Dining In last night and not a lot of energy to edit and enhance them, but I am going to do it anyway. And do at least a rough account of what went on.
I cannot go on Liberty the way I used to- that is for sure. The beer tasting Thursday night left me a little ragged, and I had completely forgotten that the two big events of my former professional life would sandwich all of Friday.
The NIP Fall Meeting and Luncheon: The guard has changed. Jake is out as Chairman, after seven years at the helm. Terry likewise is turning over the Presidency. The morning featured the annual business meeting in which the results of the voting were announced for the new Board and leadership, and there was a stimulating panel discussion by some Commanders with recent Fleet experience to talk about the effects of the reorganization that produced the Navy Corps of Information Dominance.
Then the social hour- I arrived late due to other commitments, and only had time for one glass of pre-happy hour white- before the luncheon proper. VADM Ted “Twig” Branch was to speak about his views for the way ahead. He has his hands full as an Aviation Officer being handed the keys to the Intel, Cryppie, Meteorology and Communications communities as a unified enterprise, and continue the implementation of a uniform set of policies to stop the internecine conflicts between the disparate that drove the operators crazy.
I was interested to hear his thoughts. I knew him out in the Fleet, long ago when we were both Lieutenant Commanders, and sincerely wish him the best. Jake explained from the podium, once we were all seated, that a sudden NAVCOMPT meeting in the Pentagon had required Twig’s personal presence, and times being what they are, not being at the meeting would probably result in being de-funded. Sam was tapped to fill in as guest speaker. It was very much a Washington Luncheon in that regard: incoming Chairman Bob had to leave early, and his opening remarks were limited to a wave from the head table.
I am no longer doing the Quarterly, or rather, we have killed the hard-copy and moved on to digital dissemination of articles such as this. Terry is moving on to other projects, and will be relieved by Dick Perra. The leadership at the top has thus turned over, though Dave will continue to manage the Foundation, and the Committee Chairs have been shuffled with Lynn heading back to government (and a potential conflict of interest) in the Outreach, so things have completely changed. I will continue to chunk in articles and photos as the NIP’s own cub reporter, Jimmy Olsen.
Jake’s involvement with the Navy Information Day partnership with AFCEA has left the treasury sound and solvent, and he can be proud that the organization will be able to honor the commitments to scholarships and good works that makes us all proud to be part of it.
(Outgoing NIP Chair Jake and departing President Terry).
Other changes are in the wind. Terry mentioned that she was recommending a change to the traditional venue for these things- the Tysons Corner Crowne Plaza- was just too inconvenient for the active duty folks and others who are tied to ONI at Suitland or DIA in Anacostia or the Pentagon down by the River. That would be big. We have been trudging out to the wilds of Fairfax since I can remember, and it would be nice to not have to do that. I am sure Sid could remind us why we were there- I assume some earlier generations of the leadership had jobs at B-A-H or SAIC, which are just up the road.
(Not-quite-retired Sam and incoming NIP Chairman Bob).
(Liz, COMONI, and recently retired Norm.)
Sam was at his best during his remarks as Guest Speaker. He talked about his perspective on the role of the 1830 designator in the New World Order of the Information Dominance Corps. Unfortunately, his remarks are “not for attribution,” which is why we get some remarkable candor from speakers like former big DNIs Mike McConnell and Denny Blair. Suffice it to say that Sam may be the last and best of us old OPINTEL guys and thinks that the future might just bring us back around to our birthright.
The food was good- I was sitting with the Daves- and enjoyed the salmon. Whether we leave the Crowne Plaza or not, they do a good luncheon.
All of us had things to do after the lunch, and this was actually in the nature of a strategic pause, since the Dining In was that evening at what might be the last operating Officer’s Club at Fort Myer.
I had optimistically thought might be a regenerative nap time, but by the time I was attempting to wire up the tuxedo shirt with studs and cufflinks, I knew there was no time for that. Time to power through.
I motored over to Fort Myer and started taking pictures. The Piper was out front, warming up, and in his full kit had mesmerized a little boy and girl, who clutched their mother’s legs and looked on in wonder. I parked the Panzer and steeled myself for duty with the Canon EOS 50D camera.
(Halloween display at what might be the last O Club in the Army system).
(Piper).
(Paul and Emily).
(Looper).
(L-R, rumored nominee to head NSA VADM Mike Rogers, Chaplain, RADM Sam, and VADM “Twig” Branch).
Sam was president of the mess, and Mr. Vice was up to the task, once we got past the social hour and the Piper led us all up to the glittering Koran Room. Tradition has mellowed a bit, but this is Naval Intelligence at its best. Good comradeship, and the most diverse crowd I have ever seen of one of these dinners.
If this is what the future looks like for the Fleet, things are going to turn out just fine.
(COMONI and her gang. A good time was had by all.)
(Complete photos at https://www.facebook.com/jayare303)
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Flying Dog and Foodies
I did not know if I was going to get through the day, but I am here, sort of, so I must have. The Tigers got in a hole early, and there was another squeaker on which they came out on the wrong side. One game away from elimination, and they have to take two straight to advance to the World Series.
I am not holding my breath, which is what I was doing last night at Willow. I was sitting next to Old Jim, waiting for Tommy Hunter of the Flying Dog Brewery in Maryland to kick off the Dogtoberbest beer tasting. Chef Brian, Tracy’s husband, was doing some special dishes to accompany five beer courses.
I have no idea what I was thinking when I signed up for the event. I don’t drink beer any more, a carb thing, but I got so excited when Tex added the six-position draft tap to the bar that it just seemed like a great idea.
I do that, and then when it comes around to it, start to panic. There had been too much in the day already, so I went a little early to talk to Jim about the craziness in town. I won’t get into it any more than I did yesterday- there has already been so much noise flying around this morning that it makes me tired.
And I was tired already. The Fish and Wildlife Service was having one of their happy hours in the cocktail nook, celebrating their return to work. It was pretty raucous, and there was an air of relief among Deborah, the Willow Ops Boss and the staff- business and tips were back. The only people that really got hurt by all the political posturing were the small businesses that make a living off the Federal workforce- the luncheon counters and carts, the wait staff and all that.
When I discovered the connection between Flying Dog and Dr. Hunter S. Thompson made the beer tasting seem inevitable. The founder of the brewery- a Dr. George Stranahan- owned a property just down the mountain from Owl Farm, Thompson’s fortified compound in Woody Creek, CO. Proximity and shared interests made them fast friends. I mean, if you like explosives, high-powered weapons, politics, football, whiskey, and beer, what is not to like?
The good Doctor had made an immense impression on me with the release (in paperback) of “Hell’s Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs,” which I thought was about the coolest thing I had ever read.
He continued to captivate me in his Fear and Loathing books until he appeared to have run out of new things to say, and spent his life full time being a Literary Legend. It wasn’t until much later that I realized he was actually pretty much of an asshole, but I shrugged and realized I was, too.
The “Flying Dog” name dates to a moment Stranahan had at the Hotel Flashman in Rawalpindi. Flashman is the anti-hero of the fine series of novels set in the age of High Empire by George MacDonald Frazier, and serves alcohol, a seriously regulated product in Muslim Pakistan.
Stranahan was committed to consuming his full quota permitted under the “alcohol list” at the hotel after adventures on the glaciers and vertical footage of K2, and found himself looking at a remnant of the Raj: “A beautiful oil painting, big, nice. And the dog was like…well, he had left the ground.”
The Flying Dog brand was born at that moment, and the weirdness was enhanced by the logo designed by none other than Ralf Stedman, the artist who illustrated the finest literary work in the English language, Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.”
Well, maybe not the greatest, but certainly a candidate for fevered and delusional.
Anyway, Stranahan’s local agent Tommy Hunter was doing the promo, and I had it in my head that the deceased Dr. Thompson and his artist would sort of be present at Willow, which advertised the Dogtoberfest as “a fall harvest beer dinner with locally-sourced ingredients and beer.”
Now that I am spending more time in Culpeper, I have become a believer in the whole Local Food thing. It is sustainable and all that green horseshit. I asked Deborah to put me on the list for the dinner without thinking things through: I don’t drink beer any more, try to avoid big dinners, and was going to be surrounded by Foodies. I like to cook, and don’t mind eating, but enough is enough, you know?
I dolefully stood up from the stool at the bar as we approached the 1830 minute for the kick off. “I guess I will go back to the Tasting,” I told Jim. “Maybe I will be seated with some interesting people.” He scowled.
I walked back and got in a line of people waiting to be seated and realized this would be like going to church, only with beer and food. “Enough,” I said, and turned around. I walked back out to the maître d’ station and told Deborah I could not do it, not even if Dr. Thompson came back. “I committed, though, and I will pay.”
“No, no, you don’t have to do that, Vic.”
“Yes, I do” I said resolutely. “I am a man of my word.”
Heather bustled by, not in her cocktail dress but in a server’s uniform and told me she could just bring the food and drink to the bar. I sighed in relief. “You are a wonderful woman, Heather. I hate to be a problem, but I just can’t sit back there with those folks.”
She smiled and went on back to where the Foodies were salivating.
Jim was still on his stool when I slid in next to him. “Couldn’t do it, Jim,” I said. “but there has been a strategic solution. They are just going to bring the stuff here.”
“Perfect,” he growled, and took a pull on his Bud long-neck.
Here is what came out from the tasting:
Pigs in a Blanket, with local sausage king Jamie Stachowski’s French garlic sausage mustard aioli. Paired with Raging Bitch Belgian-Style IPA. A classic beer, my favorite of the night.
Autumn Salad. Local apples, endive, sweet & spicy walnuts, buttermilk blue cheese & cider gastrique. Paired with Under Dog Atlantic Lager. Rich. Very hoppy.
Oyster’s “Rockefeller” Rappahannock River’s finest, lightly dusted with seasoned cornmeal, fried golden brown & served with a bed of creamed spinach topped with Béarnaise sauce. Paired with Pearl Necklace Oyster Stout. Dark and nutty and rich.
Smoked & Braised Local Short Ribs. Roseda Farms short ribs marinated in Gonzo Imperial Porter and finished with a coffee & cumin rub, served over Anson Mill grits with smoked Sharp Cheddar cheese, crispy parsnips & a dark mole sauce
Paired with Snake Dog IPA
House made miniature doughnuts prepared with The Fear Imperial Pumpkin Ale, served with house-made salted caramel & Moorenko’s Pumpkin Ice Cream. Paired with The Fear Imperial Pumpkin Ale.
I did not get a picture of Kate’s Apple Cider Doughnuts. Jim and I just ate them. We are no foodies, but I think we were, at least by that time, certainly berries.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Not With a Bang
I was not going to go to Willow last night. I was going to spend a quiet evening and catch up on some reading and maybe an episode of “Breaking Bad,” which was highly recommended by people in a position to know such things. Frankly, though, the idea of starting five linear seasons of a show, regardless of the quality, is a bit daunting.
Then came the news that the air was coming out of the GOP revolt in the House, and Mr. Reid and Mr. McConnell had exchanged pleasantries and the awful drama about shutting down the government and destroying the global economy….was over.
“Well, it’s not over,” I said to Old Jim. “Not until they vote, and then the House has to vote, and then the intern at the Spite House has to run the autopen on the Bill to make it law.”
Jim harrumphed, and said the Senate vote would happen just about the time we normally rise from our stools and let age and entropy carry us home. “There is still time for something stupid to happen,” he said. “But I think this did not end with a bang.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I could hear the Republican whimpering out there as I drove over in the Bluesmobile. Thank God this is over. ” Brett topped up my happy Hour white with a splash from the bottle kept on ice in the bucket next to the one that held Jim’s ready-locker of Budweiser long necks. “Thanks, Brett. This is a great system.”
He gave me one of his thousand-dollar smiles and said: “It ain’t over. They just kicked it past New Year’s Day. This is stupid.” Then he pulled a couple drafts for the die-hards sitting out on the patio, enjoying the slightly cool pre-Halloween air as the shadows deepened to night. Not much sitting out left in this year, though Tracy has got all the gourds and pumpkins arrayed on the brick steps in a festive manner to get us through the big Halloween party.
I looked over at Jim “They say a 37-year-old dude named David Pfeiffer is the intellectual giant who convinced Mr. Obama to do nothing, and accuse Mr. Boehner of being a terrorist hostage-taker with a gun to someone’s head.”
“Politics in Washington? I am sure you must be mistaken. The President has to use the people he has, and if he is a B-team guy, that is the way it is.”
“ I am glad the all-stars Like Axelrod and Gibbs left town after the first term. I’m OK with letting 30-something idiots lead the nation. What could go wrong?”
“Hah,” scowled Jim. “You got your iPad with you?” I told him I never went anywhere without it and reached down and slid it out of my backpack. “I want to show you something on Facebook.”
We wrestled with the technology for a while, two geezers trying to navigate social media that is about as challenging for us as the Affordable Care Act is for everyone else.
John-with-an-H was not contributing his usual acerbic commentary on the various machinations of the Administration, and was concentrating his full attention on a lovely woman to his right, away from the IT challenge with which we were confronted. I didn’t know how well he was doing, but admired his energy.
We managed to open Facebook and get to Jim’s page, but he could not find what he was looking for. He put down the tablet on the bar and scowled. “Goddamn thing. I can’t find the pictures.”
“What were they?” I asked, taking a sip of wine. “I hope they were not prurient. You should see what I found on Tumblr the other day.”
“What’s Tumblr?” he asked.
“It is a photo-sharing thing. There is more weird stuff than I have ever seen in one place. Nothing short of amazing.”
“My pictures were just of the grand kids carving pumpkins. Sorry.”
“I bet they were cute,” I said, reaching for the tulip glass and the golden wine. “Oh, wait, so long as I have this open, let me show you something.” I pressed the button on the bottom to back up a layer and pressed the compass icon on the screen to go to Safari. “I got a health-care calculator- it is from Kaiser, not the government, since that one works. It is very cool. Check it out.” I pushed the iPad over and Jim clicked on the link.
The page opened- it wasn’t a government project- and displayed a simple menu to enter parameters for income, coverage, and location. “Fascinating,” he said, scrolling through the options and reading the small print aloud. “I like the tobacco surcharge. Serves you right, you irresponsible asshole.”
“I can always quit,” I said in a huff. “In fact, I think I will have to. Thankfully smoking cessation is covered under my TriCare Prime.”
“What would it do to if you military retirees get pushed over to the Affordable Care Act? Secretary Hagel has been making noises that you ungrateful retirees are looting the treasury and hindering the acquisition of important new systems that don’t work.”
“I calculated the part of my pension I don’t give to the ex, added the VA disability and social security to get to my projected income. Pathetic, but when I entered it and calculated the tobacco surcharge at “up to 50%,” I would be paying $900 a month for the “Silver” plan. You can pay less for Bronze, which only includes witchdoctors, or you can pay more for Gold, which is actually electroplated, not solid.”
“That is a lot. What do you pay now?”
“A little under three hundred.”
“Jesus- that is quite an increase.”
“No, Jim, that is three hundred a year.”
“Man, it is no wonder they didn’t want the web site to work.”
“Duh. I think we ought to drink now, while we can still afford it.”
John-with eventually struck out with the lady, paid up and went home. I glanced over. She was an attractive gal, but I decided that it was too late in the day for fool’s errands. I waved at Tex for the check, handed him the credit card. “I want to go home and see if anyone had hurled us off the cliff while we were drinking.”
Jim agreed. I wound up walking with him to the police cruiser and drove him the rest of the fifty feet to the front door to his condo building.
I got out to limp around the back of the car and see if he needed help getting out. Jim threatened to whack me with his cane.
“See you tomorrow,” he growled.
“God willing and the creek don’t rise,” I said and got back in the Bluesmobile for the ride home. But I did sense that the waters might in fact be rising, you know?
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Opting Out
I saw Old Jim at Willow last night. In front of him at the apex of the Amen Corner was a brown Bud long-neck, a bucket with ice holding two more as reinforcement, and a triangle of a flat, foil-wrapped object.
“Is it that pizza you were talking about last night?”
He nodded. “Yep. It has the magic ingredient in the dough. The pinch of baking powder.”
“I would never have thought about it. Is that why Joe’s Café in Northampton, Mass, gets it right and I have gotten it wrong all these years?”
“You bet. They have been dishing out excellent pies on Market Street since 1938. This is my version with pepperoni and hamburger.”
“I am looking forward to tasting it,” I said. “And I will stop at Joes the next time I am up there. I only get my tattoos at Lucky’s on Main Street. The next one is going to be the letters D-N-R across my sternum. I don’t want to wind up in the health care system.”
I picked up the wedge and slid it into my backpack next to the pistol and the iPad, hoping the toppings would not leak out and gum up either one. Then we made a point of not talking about what is, or is not, happening downtown.
Jim’s phone went off when we were dancing around one of the topics of the day- we had managed not to talk about the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act right up until the moment that his dumb-phone went off on the bar. He nodded as he talked, and I heard him say “Free, white and 21,” and clicked off.
“Was that your lovely bride?” I asked.
“No, her sister.”
“OMG,” I said. “Did she move into the place in your building?”
“Just about. She has to learn to not call and ask about coming.”
“I am sure she just wanted to make sure that there was someone here, and that she wouldn’t be sitting by herself getting hit on at the bar.” I took a sip of Happy Hour White, a modest but satisfying Australian Sauvignon Blanc that Tex the bartender produced with a flourish. “Wonder why that never happens to us?”
“Because the only place 60+ year old guys get hit on is in the fiction section of the Public Library,” said Tex with a grin. Then he launched into a recitation of his weekend trip to New York, and the marvels of the Big City. He drove, of all things, and it worked out, though he left the car parked at the first place he could find. “The ticket was worth it,” he said. “And the women in that town are stunning.”
Co-owner and Executive Chef Tracy O’Grady came in from the patio and worked the crowd for a while. Tracy is one of my heroes for what she does in managing the Willow’s many affairs. She was in a pensive mood about the impact of the shut-down on business.
“No one can plan anything, and the holiday season is already screwed. No one is going to make plans to go out and celebrate if they don’t know if they are going to be working.”
“That applies to retail, too,” said Jim.
“The Recession comes to Arlington,” I said. “Some would say it is about time.”
Tracy looked at me askance. “You are not in the restaurant business. I always had impeccable credit before I opened this place. Never missed a bill of any kind. After we opened in 2006 I thought we were going to make it pretty well. Then the melt-down in 2008 and my credit was destroyed. I was behind on every bill, and I mortgaged the house to keep the place afloat and nearly lost that.”
“Holy cow,” I said, abashed. “I had no idea. You represent everything these idiots are supposed to care about: small business, providing decent jobs for thirty or forty people, and they are crushing you. Maybe you could establish a special membership for the regulars and we could chip in?”
“You are out of work, too, Vic. How would that work?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they will start another war,” I said hopefully.
Smart Pat, Chanteuse Mary’s sister, arrived in mid-anecdote and ordered a glass of the red. She does something exotic involved with legal interpretations of something complex.
“I can’t have too much,” she said, “since I have to drive back for Silver Spring for the last time tonight.” Jim tried to get her to commit to staying with them for the night to avoid the late commute traffic, but she was adamant that she needed to get back to the Free State for the final preparations for the move the next day.
“I had to come down today to get my car re-registered in Virginia,” she said. “It took four hours. I have no idea why the system works the way it does.” Chanteuse Mary arrived, still in her work clothes and opted for a glass of red, like her sister. I marveled at the family resemblance in the two women.
I ribbed Pat about Maryland, imaging a requirement to have a visa to travel between the states, and the antics of the legislature in Annapolis. “And then it looks like we are going to elect that corrupt jerk Terry McAuliffe to start doing the same thing here.”
(Mr. Terry McAuliffe.)
“You are not going to vote for that troglodyte idiot Cuccinelli, are you? He wants to put women in burkhas.”
(Mr. Ken Cuccinelli)
“I don’t know what the alternative might be. McAuliffe is a carpet-bagging DNC bag-man. Idiot or moron, I guess. I normally vote for the ones out of power on the theory that they can do less damage.”
Jim and Pat both frowned. It all depends on what your definition of the least damage is, I guess. I determined that politics of any kind had gotten so toxic that it was smarter to just avoid the whole topic in polite society. “I wonder why there is no real choice anymore.”
“Oh, there is choice, all right,” growled Jim. “It is just so breathtakingly stark.”
“I have been thinking about starting my own party,” I said. “The Opt Out Party. We would just not participate in stupid things. No health care exchanges, no carbon dioxide cap and trade, that sort of stuff.”
“You may as well include elections in that,” said Mary. “And if you do that, you essentially opt out of society.”
I was thinking of a witty retort, like “Who IS John Galt,” or another glass of wine, when a lovely woman approached from the end of the bar and said, “Hi, Vic!”
I blinked in amazement. It was Kathleen, from the Phone Company. We worked in the same office down on New York Avenue in the District a few years ago. “OMG, You look fantastic, Kathleen!” and I made the introductions around the Amen Corner. Before I got to Jim, Kathleen stuck out her hand and said “Hi, Old Jim!”
Crap, I thought. This gets complex when we are living inside a story. It got more surreal as we caught up on the events of the last six years. Sure enough, our old office was in the process of melting down, again, and she had moved on.
Kathleen explained to her associate Leslie the curious intersection of reality and fantasy that was contained atop these few stools at an un-imaginary bar. I gathered that she actually thought the Willow might be a literary device of some sort, intended to convey something subtler than simple companionship and the sale of alcohol, which it emphatically is not.
It is actually a learning laboratory, since I learn something new every day. Today’s lesson was: Don’t talk about politics.
Too freaking crazy these days.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Dillonvale
“Dillonvale is a village in Jefferson County, Ohio, United States. The population was 665 at the 2010 census. It is part of the Weirton–Steubenville , WV -OH Metropolitan Statistical Area .”
– Wikipedia
I have been up too long this morning. I have no idea why- I managed to stay up almost to 2200, but my eyes popped open at 0200, then closed as I entered a REM dream which featured a very strange interlude as a young military aide to the current Commander-in-Chief that was so un-nerving that I gave up on sleep.
I made the coffee and cruised right to the end of the internet and back hours ago.
I am full up with the various issues of the day, and will not trouble you with them here. What a time to be alive!
Which brought me to the matter that had been nagging at me for days now. One of my pals was as pissed off, generally, about just about everything. There is a lot of that going around, as you know, and he took refuge in going back over some Depression-era family stories.
You can imagine where that all came from; the up side of it was that we are survivors, and will probably survive what is coming. The down side is that it is going to suck.
Anyway, I was typing a response when I realized that I could not recall the specifics of several stories that Big Mama told me in the year preceding her death at the age of 87.
I had thought she was born and raised in Bellaire, a little river town so bedraggled that it was selected as the hometown of the sadistic transvestite murderer Buffalo Bill in the Jodie Foster film “Silence of the Lambs.”
(The State of Ohio re-routed the course of its Rt. 7, and tore out the on-ramp to the bridge, the second longest cantilever structure on the Ohio River. Built in 1925, the bridge was the route for Buckeye commuters to the steel mills in Wheeling. No one is doing that any more).
We have a long history with Bellaire, all of it sad, since the only reason to be there is to bury people on the Catholic or Protestant cemeteries. The most famous landmark, now that the Glass Factory is shuttered, is the Bellaire Toll Bridge, which closed to traffic in 1991 and is no longer connected to the Ohio side of the river.
Anyway, during the period of Dad’s long decline, I often sat with them in the assisted living complex of Potemkin Village and watched television and talked with her. Raven, at that point was not capable of speaking about anything in particular, but Big Mama was waxing lyrical about another Ohio town in which she had lived.
Writing back to my pal the other day, I realized I might have just hit the beginning of my own long decline.
I could not for the life of me recall the name of the place Big Mama talked about. I must have written it down somewhere, right? I mean, for Christ’s sake, that is what I do. But I realized there is no Google search for Mother’s memories, and if I lost the notes or mis-filed them in the digital attic, it could be gone forever.
In the moments of wakening this morning, I found it. Dillonvale.
(Bird’s Eye view of Dillonvale, around the time my Grandfather Mike worked on the Silver Plate RR.)
I had successfully gone most of my life without a single thought about Dillonvale, Ohio.
I knew that Great-Great-Grandfather James enlisted in the Union Army in 1861 at Steubenville, and Mom grew up in Bellaire, and I thought that was about the extent of it. But these stories were from the time after the Crash in 1929.
Grandpa must have lost his job; the young family of the Doughboy had to move in with the Grandparents, and that was in the little village of Dillonvale.
(Dillonvale also produced coal. I am just glad Grandpa Mike worked on the railroad shoveling it.)
Mom had the thoughts of her girlhood very much on her mind, and really enjoyed recounting things. Maybe it was because the present was burning away for her, leaving the deep memory exposed. Maybe it was because there was no future, or so little of it left that it was worth troubling with. Her thoughts circled around her grandfather, the son of the Civil War veteran. That is Pop, who I have only seen in one dim and ancient copy of an old photo.
He was married twice, I understand, his first wife having died of consumption or something. His second wife was a certain Mrs. McDermott, who everyone hated- I am not certain about who “they” were, but that is how Mom’s story went.
Mom firmly believed that Pop was Santa Clause, because she heard him laughing downstairs on Christmas Eve, and got a peek of him with the few gifts that the little family could afford.
Mom went to school there through the third grade, I think, and where she suffered that awful burn that resulted from an accident that happened while she and her sister Hazel were playing with matches.
Mom fell off the porch in pain and surprise, which put out the fire, which was good, and she recalled that the house was near the church.
I have not been able to track down the church or the house, thought it may be one near St. Adalbert’s Catholic Church at 39 Smithfield Street.
Grandfather Mike could walk to work at the Depot on Railroad Street, and he worked there to work as an engineer, presumably until he could get on his feet and move his family out into their own place in Bellaire.
(Dillonvale is momentarily disturbed as a coal train blasts thru the central business district. The engine is a powerful S-1 Van Swerigen Berkshire-class steam locomotive, built by the American Locomotive Company (ALCO). This engine weighed in at 461,000 pounds and could easily pull a freight train over the road averaging 60 mph. Original art by Robert West.)
Google Street View tells me the village is typical of the small working-class towns located in this part of the Ohio Valley. The house to the left in the picture is typical of the architecture of the region. A look at the Realtor pages for the village this morning suggests this one might go for $57,000.
I do not think I will be moving there. But along with the recollections of a village whose name I almost forgot, I found the notes about Great Aunt Bernice, who was married to famed Pittsburgh football star Miller Munjes. According to Mom, he drew a lot of water back in the day, though Bernice wound up divorcing him, which raised some eyebrows at the time.
I also have a scrap of a note about Aunt Barbara- I assume this is the charming Great Aunt Barbara I met in Wheeling years ago, a woman with sparkling blue eyes and the memory of Grandpa Mike as fresh as if he had just stepped out for a beer. Mom said with a little wonder that they sometimes went to visit Barbara in the Big City of Wheeling.
The name “Eddie Schwab” written down, too, but I have no idea who he was. I imagine I will drive up that way sometime and check it out, since it is half-way to Detroit, where I occasionally have business. Or maybe I will forget again and the whole story will flow down the brown water of the Ohio, and eventually out to the endless sea.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Les Deluge
(The Old Buckland Mill in historic Buckland on the Broad River.)
It has been raining for four days now. Maybe it is breaking, though the skies are still leaden. The air show was rained out, and the Taste of Culpeper was a trial to all concerned, though still fun.
I was lucky that the weather was so crappy- we have had all the rain we need to climb out of moisture deficit, with nearly three inches recorded at Reagan National over the last three weeks. We are sodden.
Coming down yesterday morning I drove into another band of persistent rain as I approached Culpeper, and the big bend in the road crossing the Rappahannock River.
Rain was coming down so hard that even the formidable wipers of the Panzer barely swept enough of it off to see the still-green fields rolling gently toward the low horizon.
These fields were the site of the sprawling battle of Bristoe Station, fwhich began 150 years ago this very morning. Action between Yankee and Rebel cavalry swirled from the outskirts of Culpeper all the way up to the fortifications around Haymarket, and contained epic encounter that J.E.B. Stuart termed “The Buckland Races.”
In that clash, Federal cavalry under Brigadier General Judson Kirkpatrick were bushwhacked by Stuart, Wade Hampton and Fiitzhugh Lee’s formations. The panicked Union forces, including the dashing George Armstrong Custer, broke into individuals fleeing on foot or horseback for Broad Run and the safety of the main body of the Army of the Potomac at Haymarket.
I always note the spot where Custer was nearly killed by a confederate cannon ball at Buckland Mills, but the yellow-haired solider did not die that day. He would save that for the Little Big Horn. The Buckland Races were just about the last Confederate cavalry victory of the war.
I did not know for sure, but assumed the 34 AT-6/SNJ WW II training aircraft did not perform the air show as planned on Saturday due to weather, and I thought that (if they had actually made it to Culpeper) I might see some of them on the ground at T. I. Martin Field just north of the battlefield at Brandy Station.
I was in luck. The weather was so putrid that many of the aircraft were still in parade parking with their canopies buttoned up against the persistent drizzle. I peered through the fence at the long line of vintage warbirds, and took a couple pictures before getting back in the Panzer to investigate if I could get closer. To my amazement, the ramp was open, once through a wire gate, and I was free to wander along 21 Texans, a P-51 Mustang, two T-28 Trojans and a venerable Yak-9 from Soviet times.
(P-51 Charlotte’s Chariot II on the flight line at T.I. Martin Field.)
I got soaked, of course, but it was nice to be that close to the old warbirds, whose owners are celebrating 70 years of flight this year. I doubt if I will see that many in one place again. The Commemorative Air Force (formerly the Confederate Air Force in less PC times) has a hangar there on the flight line, and it struck me that it might be a volunteer activity that appeals to me.
I wandered past one of the Texans that had been pulled under cover for voyage repairs, and looked at the people who have this aspect of modern life as a passion. They were mostly white guys of a certain age, sort of like bikers with more expensive habits.
I did not volunteer for anything, and left as anonymously as I had arrived.
The rain continued as I cleared off the email and did laundry at Refuge Farm in preparation for attending A Taste of Culpeper.
The rain made things a disaster, as you might imagine, though the amount of wine available for purchase and tasting seemed to have the crowd in a fine mood. There were thirty or forty tents with locally raised foods and crafts, and the cognoscenti had their folding chairs set up under the gabled roof of the Depot to listen to Magick Kat, the band that played beneath an awning to an audience of perhaps a half dozen people under an opposing tent.
I stayed wet, took some pictures and got a look at all the vendors before returning to the farm for a football jolt, and then the only baseball game I have watched this year- Game Two of the Tigers-Red Sox at fabled Fenway. The Tigers did well and looked like they had put the BoSox away in the top of the sixth inning, but faltered and lost, 6-5 in the bottom of the 9th.
(Tiger Miguel Cabrera tags one over the Green Monster in left field at Fenway Park. For naught, as it turned out. Photo AP).
Freaking idiots.
I yawned and looked at the clock in disbelief. I managed to stay semi-alert right to the end, and then slept (unbelievable!) until five thirty. In honor of Mr. Columbus, and of the heroes of Bristoe Station, I turned over and slept for another hour.
Still looks crappy out there, but it feels a great deal like home here.
Oh, I heard that Senator Reid actually talked to Senator McConnell. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Governor O’Mally and Me
(Governor Martin O’Mally, (D-MD), in one of his hotter moments. Photo ShowBiz Ireland.)
I have not met the Governor, not personally, anyway, but I did have an encounter with his shock troops yesterday, and that is one of the reasons I am headed south into Red Virginia this morning, early bright.
Well hell, it is not bright. It is gun-metal gray outside and still spritzing rain. Were it not for A Taste of Culpeper today, I might just curl up in a ball and let the week just roll over me. There was so much that was distasteful in the book I opened electronically yesterday in the parking lot at College Park, Maryland.
I was in Maryland to attend the UVA v. Terrapins football game. There was another one going on that afternoon that I actually cared about, but watching the Terps is a annual event and the company is fantastic. The tailgating, it goes without saying, is likewise superb.
So it may occur to you to ask why I was reading Mark Leibovich’s book “This Town” instead of watching the second half of a pretty exciting football game.
I have an ambivalent relationship with the Free State- actually, it is one that many of the western counties of the long panhandle share, since they think Annapolis is crazy, non-representative and authoritarian. Maybe “rural” versus “urban” is a better way to sum it up.
My differences are more practical: Maryland drivers specialize in the unexpected; they do not, as a rule, consider the use of turn signals to be optional, and will not get out of the passing lane unless they can think of a way to be more inconvenient to the motoring public.
That and I have to think about what is in my car when I traverse Governor O’Mally’s jurisdiction. What size magazines do I have in the Go Bag? What useful social legislation has been passed in Annapolis since I was last there? A new tax structure?
Anyway, those are just a couple reasons I try to avoid Maryland when I can. But when there is a great opportunity to attend a rousing tailgate and drink shots of whiskey with the Man Up gang in the parking lot, well, exceptions have to be made.
But that is how I came to have an encounter with a couple foot soldiers of Governor O’Mally’s shock troops at half time.
Now, the reason I was in the parking lot and not watching the second half of the Maryland-UVA game was that the game was close and everyone had their blood pumping pretty hard. I ducked up at the half to smoke a cigarette and perhaps purchase a soft drink. I went to the penalty box where the smokers are exiled and lit up, looking at the gray skies outside that periodically spritzed moisture.
I was about two puffs into my nicotine replacement when two earnest young men came up to me and informed me that smoking was prohibited in the stadium.
“Since when?” I asked.
“This year, new policy.”
“Where does it say that?”
“There are signs.”
“I don’t see any. I have been smoking in this place for a decade.”
“New policy.”
“OK- so we can go outside and smoke?”
“Well, no, there are only four places that are designated for smoking on campus.”
“The whole campus? That is more than 1,200 acres. That is absurd.”
“Well, that is the way it is, and we have a no re-admittance policy. If you leave, you cannot come back in.”
“Does it say that on the ticket?” I said, producing the fancy strip of cardboard. I peered at the fine print on the back and did not see any words that said that.
“Well, no, but that is the Governor’s policy.”
“So, what is the alternative to your arbitrary restriction on a legal activity? Are you going to call out DHS? Are you going to produce some uniformed thugs with guns and shoot me like that woman down at the White House?”
They looked a little perplexed, but I could see clearly where this was going. I stomped on the cigarette and walked away, knowing that tangling even with amateur authority would lead to real trouble with the cops.
I walked back to the Section 7 ramp and down to where my pals were sitting. I told them I had just gotten into it with Governor O’Malley and asked for the key to the Outback so I could get one of the folding chairs out of the back and wait out the second half and read and smoke in peace.
Before you cluck and say, “Well, you shouldn’t smoke anyway,” I agree. I don’t smoke in the apartment, and have cut down considerably with the use of the new eCigs, and do not consider that to be the point of the encounter. The point, as I saw it, was the unilateral imposition of rules for social conduct that I had no ability to debate, comment upon, or otherwise influence.
It seems to me that there is a lot of that going around these days.
So that is how I came to be reading Mark Leibovich’s illuminating account of How Washington Works, and saw myself in the electronic pages. Not quite so naked in ambition and hypocracy, perhaps, but “This Town” is written by an insider who casts a spotlight on the pundits and sycophants who form the nation’s collective opinion, and cheer-lead for idiotic policies.
Like journalist Andrea Mitchell and her delusional husband Alan Greenspan, which cherry-picks just one of dozens of conflict of interest cases in point.
The chaos of the government shut-down had diverted my reading program, and sitting in the growing twilight, listening to the muted roar of the crowd from the stadium, I was grateful I had purchased the book and had it on the smart phone.
(The late Tim Russert, Mayor of Washington’s power-brokers. Photo AP).
Two funerals frame the account: Tim Russert’s funeral, the “Mayor of Washington” who hosted Meet The Press, and former Ambassador Richard Holbrooke a device by which he skewers what passes for representative government in this nation.
(Ambassador Richard Holbrooke on one of his better days. US Government photo).
I toggled periodically over to the Michigan-Penn State score at Beaver Stadium, which was teetering back and forth, and checked out the reviews of the book.
The New York Times put it this way: “if you already hate Washington, you’re going to hate it a whole lot more after reading Mark Leibovich’s takedown of the creatures who infest our nation’s capital and rule our destinies. And in case you are deluded enough as to think they care, you’ll learn that they already hate you. He quotes his former Washington Post colleague Henry Allen: “Washington feels like a conspiracy we’re all in together, and nobody else in America quite understands, even though they pay for it.”
So, with a muted roar the second half came to an end, and I did not miss much, since the tent next to us had a generator and a big-screen television and some people who partied right through without the inconvenience of actually going to the stadium. The gang returned and we partied on for a while and motored back to Virginia without issue.
The Terps won, by a point, over Virginia. According to the polls, that corrupt idiot Terry McAuliff will win the gubernatorial election in a few weeks and move into the Governor’s mansion in Richmond. His campaign is all about starting the same crap that his pal Martin O’Malley has done to Maryland right here in Virginia.
I wonder if the turn-signals will be the first things to go?
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Good Beer for Good People
(L-R, Barrister Jerry, CAPT Erika and the Master Chief drinking craft beer at the Willow on Friday night. Jon-without is leaning back. John-with has already gone to take a little lie-down. Photo Socotra).
It had been raining for two solid days when I rolled into Willow yesterday. “What is the point?” I asked the Master Chief. “The Corrupt versus the Stupid are still on the barricades arguing, and whatever solution they cobble together will doubtless kick the famous can down the road to be done- again and again- until the whole mess collapses of its own ponderous weight.”
“Whoa,” he said, taking a sip of Longboard craft ale. “Slow down shipmate. Take some wine onboard and stabilize the ship.”
The ISCM likes to come out to Willow on a Friday, and the ceaseless rain of the last two days made the welcoming lights at the Amen Corner that much warmer. I shrugged off my rain jacket and slung it over the back of the stool and sat down. Wiry little Jasper slid a modest Happy Hour white in front of me and vanished, Ninja-like in his black bartender’s uniform.
I surveyed the crowd. Old Jim was in his customary place to my left, and beyond him was John-with, who had a greater head of steam on the afternoon than usual. He was incensed by the politics of the moment. As a former GOP appointee who had burrowed into the Foggy Bottom Bureaucracy, he has been dyspeptic for nearly five years.
I felt vaguely sympathetic. I served under Jimmy Carter, Ronnie Reagan, Both Bushes and the Clintons. It was always a jolt when things change and we were directed to embrace impossible things by the new Smart Things who arrived in town to re-make it in their own image only to find the exact opposite is what happens.
The Government is populated by stolid careerists and sedimentary layers of former appointees who came to Washington infused with fervent belief, and exchange ideology for a General Schedule paycheck when the Administration changes. Parts of the Executive Branch are thus is nearly open mutiny at any given time, as the remnants of the Old Regimes are marginalized while still on the job. The shut-down has given John-with more time to contemplate the folly, and while alcohol is not the answer, it certainly is one of them.
The usual Friday suspects were strewn down the bar: Barrister Jerry, Jon-without, a woman I did not know who turned out to be a Navy Captain, still on active duty, and who had served with the Master Chief in the Bosnia adventure. He thought she might enjoy Willow’s merry band of itinerant blowhards and mountebanks, and she was a good enough sport to come out.
“It is my first tour in Washington,” she said. “It was a long run, but all good things come to an end.”
The Master Chief nodded, and got up to hit the head. “You guys got the scrambled eggs,” he said, “But I got two stars.” He hiked up his trousers and strolled off with a sailor’s rolling gait down the bar towards the men’s room, which is not in the same zip code as the rest of the restaurant.
“Yeah,” I said to his retreating back, “But they are small ones.” The joke was lost on the civilians- a Master Chief’s anchor of rank includes two small gold stars- but it was OK.
“Would you guys knock off the Service chit-chat?” growled Jim. “It is irritating.” Jasper appeared out of nowhere with two Bud long-necks to replenish the depleted stock in the bucket in front of him and he gave a grudging smile. The new system is working out well, except that it means more trips to the distant head, which is problematic.
Deborah was behind the bar, checking the kegs attached to the new draft beer taps, looking quite official since Tex is in New York for a wedding or something. “Can I still make a reservation for the Flying Dog Dinner next Thursday?” called out. She peered over the top of her dark-framed glasses and pursed her lips. “Sorry, we just filled all the reservations.”
“Crap, I was on the fence about it, since I don’t drink much beer these days. But the food sounded fabulous.”
“Flying Dog is good beer for good people,” said Deborah primly. “And I will make sure that we make a place for you.”
“Thanks, Deborah,” I said with relief.
“She doesn’t mean you are a good person,” said Jim gruffly.
“Point taken. If she can add two, would you consider doing it?”
“I hate oysters, and I won’t tell you what I think they look like.”
I screwed up my face trying to remember what had been on the flyer and saw one on the bar next to the thick leather binder with the wine list. I snagged it and read it aloud:
“Oysters Rockefeller: Rappahannock River’s Finest, lightly dusted with Seasoned Cornmeal, Fried Golden Brown & Served with a Bed of Creamed Spinach topped with Béarnaise Sauce and paired with an eight oz. glass of Pearl Necklace Stout.”
Jim frowned. “I still think they look like snot or something worse.”
“Jim, they are breaded, for God’s sake. They aren’t runny at all.”
“I say they are snot, and I say the hell with them.”
The naval service section of the bar went back to comparing and contrasting duty stations and the wars of the last thirty years, focusing on the ones that had the best liberty. CAPT Erika had one of the better stories, about losing her passport or something and being declared a German national because of the “k” in her name.
“If you come back,” declared the Master Chief, “You may find out you have been assigned the call-sign ‘Erica-with-a-K.”
“I have my own call sign,” she said, enigmatically, and ordered another craft beer.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303