monkeyplus1

My son, aka “the boy”, turned nine years old. His party invitations went out during the last day of school, which was a bad sign to begin with. He gave out 9 invitations, only to boys this time. Of those, about half called to say they couldn’t make it, out of town on summer trips, one had hurt his leg the day of the party and was going to the hospital to get it checked out, one was confirmed, and the rest were no-show. My guess is the invitations were lost by the invited.

So, the day of the party, everything is set up. One kid from school shows up, and one neighbor kid shows up. The neighbors two sisters weren’t invited on the virtue of being girls, but they’re hanging out in the front yard.

Two boys from across the street are also hanging out on the front yard, one 13, the other about 7 or 8 years old, of stereotypically Irish looks - pale white skin, blue eyes, freckles, red hair. They were deliberately not invited because the younger brother, supposedly diagnosed with attention-deficit/hyperactive disorder, can be a little shit. Kind of like an evil Dennis the Menace. The other kids unanimously disapprove of him; when they’re riding bikes or skateboards, “Dennis” is just ramming them repeatedly. When his older brother is soaking his feet in our kiddie-pool, Dennis fills a bucket of ice-cold water and dumps it on his brother’s head. If someone says, “I don’t want to get wet”, that’s practically asking for Dennis to wet them.

Dennis has a one-track mind, too. I’m standing out in the street, where the gaggle of six or so kids is riding around. I see a car coming up the street, and all the kids except Dennis sensibly move away to the side. Dennis is busy talking. I clap to get his attention and say loudly right to him, “THERE IS A CAR COMING BEHIND YOU”, and Dennis swerves right TOWARD the car that is actually speeding up to get around!!

INCHES. The little red-headed fucker came INCHES from being road-kill, right before my eyes. And it didn’t even phase him, he was talking the whole time and barely noticed the car driving off, kept right on talking. Was he wearing a helmet? Nope. I wanted to yell at him, or give him a whoopin’ for almost getting himself killed - but he’s not my kid.

Dennis might or might not have ADHD. I think the source of his problems is his abusive mom. She sounds fucked up, and neighbors have told me she’s a notorious drunk, but I think she also has a cleft palate, or some kind of speech impediment that makes it sound like there is an ice-cube in her mouth when she talks. I can hear her yell at her kids, inside their house, with their windows closed, from inside my house, across the street, with my windows closed!

Their father shows up once every few months, maybe not even that often. I had the opportunity to meet him, at the insistence of Dennis’ older brother who believes that I taught him how to skate. The father is drinking a beer on the porch with his ex, is covered in dirt and grime, is wearing sunglasses and a filthy ballcap, is unshaven and missing a few front teeth. Says he is a sand-blaster, and has to work 7 days a week to pay child-support (yeah, right), which is his excuse for never coming around to see his kids.

So, I do have sympathy for these boys. I’m nice to them, answer their questions when I can, and when I have yard-work to do, employ them. When Dennis learned I was paying neighborhood kids to dig and move dirt, he put his hyperactivity to use, and was like a crazy little machine, easily doing as much work as any two other kids combined! The two boys are always very respectful to me, say I’m the coolest, smartest Dad. Dennis will usually try to hug me when he shows up. Eww…that’s nice, kid, now back off.

Meanwhile, my son and his two friends are inside playing video games, while four other kids are outside the front door asking if they can come to the party. I go inside, and my son shakes his head NO. I mention that out of nine kids, only two are going to show up, the more the merrier. He says he doesn’t want Dennis ruining his party. I agree to keep an eye on Dennis, and send him home to his mom should he act up.

Finally, he agrees. They all go outside, I get the slip-and-slide going, and they gorge themselves with candy beat out of a stubborn pinata. Except for nearly getting run over, Dennis was reasonably well-behaved as well, though I did have to take him aside a couple times to warn him to settle down. While the slip-and-slide was going, I was deliberately squirting him with water from the hose as he slid down, subtly getting revenge for the times were he was dousing everyone else with water.

Speaking of revenge… My parents are in town for the summer, and they brought two “Westies”, little white terrier type of dogs. They have free-roam of my back yard while they’re around.

These Westies can be irritating little shits, yapping at my neighbors, and constantly brushing up against me outside with their dog-stink while we eat on the patio, and trying to get in the house.

They’re not always a bother, though. They’re just fine by me while they’re sleeping, but these dogs have nothing going for them - they’re ugly, they stink, they’re yappy, and they are completely fucking stupid. It’s canine ADHD.

One of them, Edgar, was mistreated as a puppy before my parents adopted it, so he’s a grumpy little bastard. When I try to go in my house from the back patio, he tries to edge in by my feet. I grabbed his collar once to lead him back out, and he threatens me with a growl. Why I oughta…. ok.. not my dog, not my place to discipline it. Now I’m more careful, and avoid the problem by firmly saying GET BACK, before I open the door, and he slinks away, no harm, no foul.

I have some nice plants near a fence, some rosemary, sage, wormwood and some ground cover. Well, apparently these were blocking Edgar’s view of potential passers-by to harass. The fucker started breaking all the limbs and ripping the plants apart with his teeth! These are things that I planted and care for, and this stinky little tard rips them apart with super-mutt strength!

The next day, my step-dad and I put up a protective fence. Now he only destroys anything that sticks out of the fence, and the plants have started to recover.

Well, karma’s a bitch. The little fucker stepped on some foxtail, a plant with tiny one-way burrs that get caught up in the hair of animals.

This kind of stuff, we used to call it “spear grass” as kids, and throw it at each other.

The foxtail went in between his toes, swelled his paw up painfully. They had to take him to a vet to get it surgically removed. Can’t say I felt any sympathy for the bastard.

It’s like the yard itself exacted it’s revenge on the dog, got some payback on its own behalf.

My side-project, ProphetPlus1, continues to grow, and grows weirder every day.

I have completely destroyed my front yard. I rented a tiller last weekend, and tore up all of the grass there, about 2,500 square feet.  After returning the tiller, I used a garden rake to gather all of the grass - well, surprise surprise: I didn’t get all of it, there were huge clumps stubbornly stuck to the earth.

I went back to rent the tiller again, for another 4 hour session. This time, I asked the guy at the counter how to set the depth. Turns out, I had it set at the most shallow setting, so it just hopped over the grass instead of digging into the dirt.

The second time around last night was much more fruitful. I could immediately see and feel the difference, and saw plenty of dirt churning as I wanted.

Neighbors continue to walk by asking what the heck I’m planning to do. I mumble a few things about not liking grass, but really, I’m making it up as I go along.  I have a general idea, but more than anything, I want the grass gone, and whatever spaces I don’t know what to do with can be filled in with bark dust or wood chips.

Of course, I know that it is always better to have a well-thought out plan - a landscape design - before undertaking such a labor-intensive and monumental task. I know that landscapes are supposed to have some kind of theme, that balances elements around a focal point.

I don’t have such a plan, at least not on paper. Instead, I’ve noted things I’ve liked about other landscaped yards in the area that caught my eye as I bicycle around the ‘hood.

I have a significant work-detail to help with this, namely, my two kids, and now six neighborhood kids.

Originally, I had two helpers, a pair of twin 10-year-olds. They were looking for stuff to do one day, and I suggested that I’d pay them 20 cents for every weed they pulled up.

After a few weeks, all the weeds were gone.

I started finding other things for them. Their younger brother heard that they were getting paid for working, so he wanted in.  I pay them based on how hard I see them working. Last weekend, the girls each made $3 in one afternoon, and I gave their brother $1, because he spent most of his time standing around talking. Not real focused.

Next, a 13 year-old boy across the street was asking me if I still had a particular Playstation2 game. I said I did, and knowing that it never gets played, offered to give it to him in exchange for some hard work. Since he’s a bit bigger than the rest, I have plenty of shoveling for him to do.  He’s got a little brother, too, who I had moving some bricks yesterday.

Last night, just as I was putting tools away, the twins introduced me to another neighborhood kid, who had heard of the deal and also wants in.  This girl is about 11 or so, and claims to be fairly good at yard work. I’ve talked to her mom’s domestic-partner, Marty, a few times because she has a terrific garden all over her property. I don’t think they have hardly any grass (”you can’t eat grass,” she says), there’s lots of wildflowers and lots more edible vegetables.   She welcomed me to come by and get some seeds that she’s saved up.

I didn’t think of it last night, but the next time I see Marty I’m going to ask her for some suggestions.

Before I go home today, I need to break a $20 into as many $1 bills as I can get, so I can pay the kids who will be eagerly awaiting me. I actually taped a list of things they could do while I’m at work that don’t require my supervision, in case they want to get a head start.  They’re on summer break, anyway.

They get some spending money and free lemonade, I get some inexpensive labor. It’s a classic win-win.

I’m as anti-war as the next Portlander. Nevertheless, it does happen, and usually, some intense stories come from it.

I was born in the year the war in Vietnam ended, and for reasons unknown, I’d always been deeply curious about this war nobody talked about.

I grew up wanting to be a pilot. In fact, I still plan on taking lessons at some point. I started reading memoirs of former pilots. While most flying is getting from point A to point B, I came across some books written by combat aviators. I was hooked.

In modern times, a ground commander can call in an airstrike with a set of GPS coordinates. Within 20 minutes, an unseen aircraft at 20,000 feet altitude can drop a bomb from miles away that will “fly” itself to the target.

Not that long ago, the pilot would have had to dive in towards the target, align his sight, estimating the wind-drift, pickle the bombs and pull up before smashing into the ground. Shit hot.

I’ve just finished reading up a handful of books that are memoirs of combat pilots from the Vietnam era. I’d be hard-pressed to pick a favorite.

I’ve listed the books and their authors along with the type of aircraft and missions they flew, so anybody interested could get right to what they’re after. A little background:

Vietnam was divided in two. I’ll spare you the history lessons, but to give a general context, the fighting on the ground was done in South Vietnam. This is where the helicopter war was fought. Fighter-bombers also supported troops in the area, with the assistance of FACs (forward air controllers) who flew small planes low and slow, kept in contact with the ground troops and directed the fast-moving jets to the targets. The FACs also patrolled their areas, looking for targets of opportunity, such as trucks moving supplies from North Vietnam down the network of the Ho Chi Minh trail, bunkers, enemy encampments, etc.

The US built many large airfields in South Vietnam to support this effort. Da Nang, Chu Lai, Tan Son Nuit, to name a few. Helicopters were based in camps far too numerous to list.

An entirely different kind of war was being fought in North Vietnam. With permission from the King of Thailand, the US built several air bases through Thailand. Takhli, Korat, Udorn, Ubon, Nakhom Phanom, etc.

These were launching points for bombing raids into North Vietnam for the Air Force, while the US Navy launched attacks against the North from aircraft carriers in the Gulf of Tonkin.

Amazing stories, all of them. None of these authors say that what the US did in Vietnam was right, in fact, most are outspokenly critical of the war, and the handicapped way Washington made them fight it. They were there, and surviving a year-long tour and keeping one another alive was all that mattered.In no particular order:

War for the Hell of it by Ed Cobleigh. F-4 Phantom II - Bombing / Mig CAP. A mature, deeply introspective look at his tour in Vietnam, Cobleigh was one of the first pilots to test the Paveway laser-guided bombs in actual combat. After the Air Force, he went on to work for the giant defense contractor Raytheon. Digging around on Google, I discovered Cobleigh holds a recent patent on a system where a missile or bomb will self-destruct in the air if it is going to miss its target.

Palace Cobra by Ed Rasimus. F-4 Phantom II - Bombing / Mig CAP. After 100 missions to North Vietnam in an F-105 Thunderchief, Rasimus stayed in the Air Force. He volunteered to go back six years later, for another tour flying the Phantom, during which he witnessed the draw-down of forces from Vietnam. He also describes the Linebacker II raids, where the US finally stopped pulling punches and mercilessly bombed the shit out of the North, bringing the Vietnamese delegates back to the table, ultimately ending the war.

Bury us Upside Down by Rick Newman & Ron Shepperd. F-100 Super Sabre - Fast Forward Air Control.  The title refers to a common saying among troops in Vietnam, “when I die, bury me upside down so the world can kiss my ass”. Where most FACs flew low and slow prop-planes, the men of the “Misty” unit flew F-100 jets, becoming known as Fast-FACs. This book makes no attempt to conceal the disgust most American pilots had with the war, and the way lives on both sides were pointlessly wasted. Coincidentally, one of the men in his Misty unit was Dick Rutan, who in later years flew the first non-stop flight around the world in an experimental aircraft, “Voyager”, designed by his brother Burt Rutan. Most recently, their company, Scaled Composites, won the Ansari X-prize, with the first non-government aircraft to reach outer space.

The next four books I’ve already written about in a prior blog. The F-105 Thunderchief bombing missions into North Vietnam are some of the most riveting accounts I’ve ever read of combat aviation. I’ve read each of these books at least twice. Gripping stuff.

Thud Ridge by Jack Broughton. F-105 Thunderchief - Bombing.
When Thunder Rolled by Ed Rasimus. F-105 Thunderchief - Bombing.
100 Missions North by Ken Bell. F-105 Thunderchief - Bombing.
Pak Six by G.I. Basel. F-105 Thunderchief - Bombing.

Forward Air Controllers, or FACs, had interesting jobs. Many flew military versions of civilian Cessnas, slow-flying propeller planes with no armor, and no real weapons. They flew in support of units on the ground, and also looking for signs of the enemy. When the found something, or were called in to help ground forces, they juggled radio frequencies, determining where the friendlies and the enemy were, all while jinking the plane to make themselves a hard target. Then, they called for help from above, the fast-flying fighter jets. They’d describe the details to the fighters, which way they wanted them to roll in and out, while the fighters orbited in an overhead wagon-wheel. The FAC would then shoot marking rockets, whose white phosphorus smoke would be easy to see for the fighters, and clear the fighters in to hit the area around his smoke. All fighters had tremendous respect for these FACs, who really hung it out on the line. As one put it, the FACs must have needed wheelbarrows to carry their balls around.

Cleared Hot! by Bob Stoffey. OV-10 Bronco - Forward Air Control.
Danang Diary by Tom Yarborough. O-2 Skymaster - Forward Air Control.
Naked in Da Nang by Mike Jackson. O-2 Skymaster - Forward Air Control.

Zero Dark Thirty by Samuel Brantley. A-4 Skyhawk & Ground Forward Air Control. This one is a little different. Although he flew an A-4, his second tour was a ground-based FAC. The Marines at the time decided that it was best to have an experienced aviator, on the ground with the troops in contact with the enemy, to direct air support. Not the kind of job a pilot envies. Zero Dark Thirty goes into more detail of the difficulties Brantley had in adjusting to civilian life.

Flying Through Midnight by John T. Halliday. C-123 Provider - Transport. This book centers around one particular, harrowing event, that happened to Halliday, where he was forced by engine trouble to land in a secret base in Laos - and get out.

Cheating Death by George Marrett. A-1 Skyraider - Search And Recovery. Really cool read. These guys flew WWII/Korean-era prop planes, ugly beasts, to find downed airmen. Marrett also had an extremely long career as both a military and civilian test-pilot.

It would seem the stress of being a combat helicopter pilot made them all a little (or a LOT) crazy, so often their stories are a little less buttoned-down than the books above. Another difference is that while the Air Force pilots had nice, comfy bases to return to, and strict rules of engagement, many helicopter pilots out in the field were often far away from the military bureaucracy, so not all of their actions were rigidly by-the-book, especially the Air Cavalry, and the crazy tales that came from the famous 1/9th - 1st Air Cavalry Division/9th Brigade. It wouldn’t seem the Air Cav scene in Apocalypse now is too far of a stretch from the real thing.

They also took incredible losses (5,444 pilots killed, 28,000+ wounded), especially the scout pilots who had a 1 in 3 chance of surviving their year in Vietnam.

Many of the ground troops in Vietnam owe their lives to the actions of helicopter pilots, who put themselves in harm’s way to get them in, out, drop supplies, carry wounded to hospitals within the critical “golden hour”, or rain hell with 50 cal and rockets down on the enemies.

Firebirds by Chuck Carlock. UH-1 Huey - Gunship.
Chickenhawk by Robert Mason. UH-1 Huey - Slick.
Headhunters by Matthew Brennan. UH-1 Huey - Gunship.
Taking Fire by Ron Alexander. UH-1 Huey - Slick.
Snake Pilot by Randy R. Zahn. AH-1 Cobra - Gunship.
The Price of Exit by Tom Marshall. OH-58 Kiowa - Observation & Command And Control.
Easy Target by Tom Smith. OH-6 Cayuse - Scout.

Ah, the weird things you find laying around a local area network…

I’m Betty Sue McGraw, and I sure do love me some bunnies! Why, lookie at this lil’ sugar puss! Ain’t he jus darlin? Ooowee! I could eat em up right now, I sure could! MmmHmm!

Look at them ribs!

so… hungry…watermelon…so…good…globglobglob

A strapping young lass

Landscaping my yard in all the beautiful weather last weekend ate just about all of my free time, but I did manage to start working on some new, original MonkeyPlus1 stuff, now that I’ve temporarily had my fill of making DJ mixes and fighting with my DJ software Traktor. GAWD I hate that program sometimes!!

Last Friday I was hanging out with Des, when he got a call from a guy I’ll call “Rider”. Rider’s a bicycle messenger we’ve both known forever; in fact, he’s got a daughter that is my son’s age that also goes to his school. We decide to go pay him a visit.

So, Des and I grab a couple skateboards and roll down to Rider’s digs. Now, I’ve seen the last few places Rider’s lived, so I was prepared. Cleanliness, tidiness - these things are of no importance. Grime and clutter rule here.

In the ten or so years I’ve known Rider, he’s been steadily acquiring music-making gear. And I think in all that time, he is still striving for the same sound which is called “drum and bass”. Predictably, we’re treated to a loud bombing. As far as I can tell, or care to differentiate, the same song played for the two miserable hours we were soon to spend there.

Drum-and-bass is like the violently angry, retarded step-child of dance music. It’s music to crank to, for those that like to twitch-out to bass-y, super-fast, tweaky shit. After about 15 minutes, all drum-and-bass music sounds exactly the same.

Rider gets a call, says he’s got to go, and will be right back. We sat there with Rider’s recently-ex-girlfriend, I’ll call “Drunky Red”. I’m sure she’s not always drunk, or just drunk every time I see her. Or maybe, her speech is always just incredibly slurred. Drunky Red is kind of cute in the dim lights, in a 70s kind of way somehow. She’s got the looks that suggest a former stripper. Long, dyed-red hair, a bit of mascara. Tonight, she’s changed into a very short skirt and fishnet hose.

Drunky Red’s friend, “Risky Business” is there, hanging out too. Risky works at a porn store on 82nd avenue, and is as messed up tonight as Drunky Red. Sloppy drunk. They’re hanging out on the porch with the front door open, while Des and I are sitting inside. Des, at this point, is extremely drunk, or just completely ignorning my pleas to just come back tomorrow so we can get out of there. His eyes are just glazed over and he’s plastered to his spot on the couch.

Suddenly, there’s a splash of water that comes through the open front door, yelling, and Drunky laughing. I get up to see what’s going on, and Risky looks like some kind of terrier who is bristled at people walking by his fence. Some neighborhood kids water-balooned Risky! I can only assume after Risky was out there making an ass of himself, and got what was coming.

Drunky escorts Risky inside, where he continues ranting about those damn kids. His talk soon escalates into a potential turf-war, and how he’s going to get revenge. He’s totally joking of course, but he won’t shut up either.

Risky goes back outside, looking for trouble. Meanwhile, Drunky Red tells us that her and Rider are “done”, and that she’s moved her bed into another room. I swear that I see her trying to decide if either me or Des are up for seduction. (As Hill later says, “She’s Rider’s ex? I don’t know if I’d wanna cross streams with that guy”).

She is petting a little dog, and comes and sits on the couch next to me where there really isn’t space, so we’re sitting thigh-to-thigh. Her dog starts trying to get on my lap. I can be nice to dogs, but I’m really not into them - they have no concept of personal space, and this little mutt is invading mine.

I say to the dog, “I’m nice, but I’m not that nice,” and push him off. Drunky takes offense to this, and gets up.

Risky Business comes back inside, and standing before us, triumphantly declares that he has discovered his sole purpose in life, which is to stand on that street corner and harass people until he gets himself killed.

Rider finally comes back after being gone nearly two hours, exhausted and pissed off. He hadn’t expected us to stick around, but I’d been unable to pry Des off his drunk ass and leave sooner. Rider’s mad at some people he was doing business with, and Risky isn’t helping matters. He keeps telling Risky to shut up. Drunky Red has gone to her room to do some lines, and finally succeeds in getting Risky to leave the living room.

Des and I finally roll out, having wasted an entire night in drum-and-bass hell.

At least it was somewhat more entertaining that what we’ve been doing at Des’ apartment lately, which amounts to standing in the kitchen.  There is a living room next to the kitchen, complete with couches and chairs next to the kitchen, but no, they seem to prefer standing in the kitchen drinking beer until they can’t stand any more.