I don’t know how many of you CCB faithful (at last count there’s now ten of you, which includes the three haters who send menacing emails…we’re growing!) ever watched the late 1970’s sitcom “Soap”…frankly, if you’re old enough to remember the show, I’m sorry for you because you’re at least as old as me.
For those of you too young remember what was probably one of the all-time funniest and most cleverly written TV shows, I’ll get to the point (sorry I don’t think there’s a “Soap” app for your iPhone, iPad, iPod, or iWhatever). There was a character on the show named Burt Campbell (played by the actor, Richard Mulligan). Burt was a construction contractor who accidentally killed the husband (a mobster) of his future wife, Mary Campbell. At some point in the show’s run, Burt learns to deal with the stress of having accidentally murdered a mobster, the mob coming after him, keeping his involvement a secret from his then wife, and dealing with the death of his son by snapping his fingers and making himself invisible. Here’s a short YouTube video about invisible Burt. My point in sharing ancient TV history with you is that I sometimes feel I’m invisible. I’ve always thought of myself as being able to blend into a crowd somewhere…disappear, as it were. Last Friday, I figured out that my invisibility mojo doesn’t always work for me. I spent the better part of the weekend trying to figure out why by consulting with Chickasaw and Cheyenne-Arapaho gaming experts and driving recklessly all over the state while listening to Sarah Palin’s keen “analysis” (uh huh) of Republican presidential hopefuls (she could do that once a week from now until the election in 2016 and never have to discuss the same candidate twice). But, I digress… Friday I was in Walmart generally hating life. I really hate that store. Okay, sure it’s a necessary evil, particularly since there are no longer any T.G. & Y. stores (sorry, I’m letting my age show again). It’s just that Walmart (particularly the one here in Cosmic City) is run by interplanetary aliens bent on destroying humanity one biological at a time. For instance, the wife and I are standing in line behind someone who was trying to purchase one of those snakey garden hoses that virtually coils itself after you shut off the water (ain’t modern life grand?). The problem was the electronic cash register crashed (again, ain’t modern life grand?) and the cashier was becoming increasingly frustrated. Now, at this point, the wife had started putting her purchases on the belt in anticipation of actually being able to purchase them (silly, silly woman). Finally, a floor manager comes over and begins typing her secret code into the machine to resurrect it from what appeared to be sudden electronic death (SED is an affliction recognized by Radio Shack, though they can’t do much about it unless you agree to give up your ZIP code). Unable to resuscitate the machine, she muttered something in the cashier’s ear and both of them walked away. Literally…without a word to any of us in line, including the poor fellow who was simply trying to buy a snakey hose…whoosh, they’re gone. The wife began semi-throwing her purchases that she was unable to purchase back into the basket and then went off in search of another cashier. She didn’t say a word to me, or even look at me. That’s when I realized that my own Burt invisibility mode was engaged. Stealthily, I made my way over to one of those benches they have at the front of store for pissed-off husbands who get tired of standing in line waiting for one of the interplanetary aliens to ring up their purchases. I sat myself on the bench as the wife found another line to begin her terminal wait for service. I was kind of zoning out, contemplating my next scene in the screenplay I’m writing on spec for entry into the Twister Alley Film Festival when suddenly my reverie was broken by a voice. I looked up to see a young woman with purple hair (seems to be really popular here in Cosmic City) who asked if I was waiting for her to give me a haircut. I realized two things at that moment: 1) my Burt invisibility mode was apparently disengaged…but, I didn’t want to snap my fingers to re-engage in front of the woman lest she learn my secret; and, 2) I was sitting just outside the Walmart hair place where she apparently worked. Immediately after asking the question, she started laughing and said she was only kidding. I told her I would happily come in if she could make me look like a young John Wayne. She got a serious look on her face and then asked me, “Who’s John Wayne?” At the same time, she pointed out that there were hair clippings on the floor in her shop and that she could probably glue some back on top of my head. She started laughing again (hint, if you’re folliclely challenged may I suggest you not sit outside hair fixery places…you’re bad for business and the employees taunt you). She did offer to dye my beard to give it some color. Fearing that she was thinking of dying it purple, I asked how she thought I would look as a blond. She laughed again and walked back inside her shop. I looked over at the wife who was engaging some nefarious looking dude in conversation (she’ll talk to anyone). I began to zone out again when I felt someone kick my knee. I looked up to see my attacker was none other than CCB’s favorite news reporter, Rachael Van Horn of Woodward News fame. She had managed to get her purchases purchased and was making her way out of the living hell that is Walmart on a Friday afternoon. As she engaged me in a brief conversation, I looked up and down the front of Walmart to see if there was an orthopedic surgeon store there. The closest I could come was an optician in the Walmart Eye Center…they’re sort of real doctors, right? So, what I learned from all of this is: 1) my own Burt invisibility mode needs work; 2) if Sarah Palin is so smart why isn’t she running with the rest of them; 3) Chickasaw and Cheyenne-Arapaho gaming experts don’t have many answers to deep philosophy-of-life questions unless of course you manage to hit a Super Jackpot special on Senior Day Sunday; 4) the interplanetary aliens at Walmart are there to suck the soul right out of you; 5) while at Walmart, be sure to wear a Mexican wrestling mask that covers your entire head and keep your orthopedist on speed-dial. It’s a damned scary world out there…you know? Ahem…I will now address myself to Her Royal Highness Mary of Fallin and, as long as I’m at it, the gang of idiots who “work” at the crumbling state facilities on North Lincoln Blvd in Oklahoma City.
Having moved here recently from the east coast and HAVING BEEN BORN IN THE GREAT STATE OF OKLAHOMA (I’m yelling for a reason, you’ll see below), I wish to point out how inefficient and unwieldy your attempts to keep “danged foreigners” out of Oklahoma have made doing any business with the state. To wit: I’m a rule follower. I can’t help it. Twenty-one years in the UNITED STATES Navy made me that way. I cringed last year when I realized that my daughter’s car in Virginia was three months overdue for a state safety inspection. Her response, “That’s how I roll, Dad. I’m an outlaw.” That nearly caused me a stroke. So it was that I dutifully reported to the Oklahoma Driver’s License Division on Tuesday of this week to turn in my Virginia license and obtain an Oklahoma driver’s license. Before I could even get the Virginia license out of my wallet, the person waiting on me informed me that Oklahoma requires persons applying for a driver’s license to show proof of citizenship. I would have to present a valid U.S. passport or a valid birth certificate with a raised seal if I wanted a driver’s license. I pointed out that I had a U.S. NAVY issued military ID card (retired), but no…had to show a valid passport or valid birth certificate with a raised seal. Having recently moved here, I was confident there was a passport in a box somewhere at the compound. Finding it would be another matter. So, I left there…drove back to the compound…searched a few boxes and found my passport. Thank goodness I could prove I was born here! The NEXT day, I drove back to the Driver’s License Division feeling rather smug that they wouldn’t turn me away again. The person waiting on me took all of the information, took my picture, took my fingerprints (no, I’m not kidding) and then handed me a form to take to the Woodward County Tag Office to get my license. HUH? Completely bewildered I was as I drove across town (granted, it’s only two miles) to the Tag Office where, as near as I can tell, they filled out duplicate paperwork…TOOK ANOTHER PICTURE (still looked like a photo of a young John Wayne), TOOK ANOTHER SET OF FINGERPRINTS (again, I’m not kidding) and then finally gave me the license. No explanation as why it’s a two-part event. HEY, STATE OF OKLAHOMA, IF YOU’RE GOING SEND PEOPLE TO TWO DIFFERENT PLACES TO OBTAIN A LICENSE WHY NOT LOCATE THE TWO OFFICES TOGETHER?! Just sayin’… Curiously, in all of this the woman at the Tag Office who waited on me told me she really likes the Virginia Driver’s Licenses because they have the hologram built in. At first it struck as odd that there are that many people from Virginia moving here, but then something else popped into my head. I recall reading an article a few months ago that because the State of Oklahoma refuses to comply with Federal guidelines on how a proper driver’s license should look, after a certain date (and that may be December 31st this year) if you plan to fly anywhere, domestic or overseas, you’ll have to show a passport if you’re an Oklahoman because the TSA will no longer recognize Oklahoma driver’s licenses as valid identification documents. HEY, STATE OF OKLAHOMA…you can butt heads with the Feds all you want, but they make the rules. Is it really worth it to inconvenience your taxpaying citizens and possibly strand them someplace because they left Oklahoma on December 24th and are trying to return to Oklahoma on January 2nd because you’re having a d**k-measuring contest with Obama? Seriously? And, they wonder why I drink. p.s., I will say that the employees who waited on me in both locations were very pleasant…I get it, they’re just following rules made by the idiots in OKC who obviously don’t have to wait in line for anything. Welcome to the compound, where apparently nothing is as it necessarily seems to initially be (now, how’s that for a concrete opening…haha).
Case in point, Cousin Fred. The other day when I said that I found Cousin Fred in the old storage shed at the edge of the compound, I indicated that he was curled in a fetal position and then mistakenly stated that he was reciting an ancient Hindu chant. Shows how much I know. According to Cousin Fred, I mistook ancient Aramaic for ancient Hindi. Cousin Fred further informed me that he began speaking Aramaic following an epiphany while flying back from Des Moines more than a week ago. His so-called epiphany was centered on his latest calling…to be a televangelist. He informed me that he had been researching starting his own televangelist organization which he is tentatively calling “Rock of the Perpetual HDTV”…aptly named, I suppose. He went on to tell me about the filing fees and effort required to obtain a 501c3 tax-exempt designation from the IRS. He also informed me how easy it is to set-up a church here in Oklahoma. He then asked me to loan him $10,000 so he can get things rolling. I pointed out that I’ll bet it’s cheaper to do that sort of thing in Arkansas. Something tells me this isn’t the last I’ll hear of this. All of that talk of an epiphany led me to epiphany of my own. I’m actually beginning to believe the Trump can actually pull this off. That is to say, I think he may actually be able to win the GOP nomination…becoming president may be another matter entirely. I tried telling myself that this is just some sort of early campaign fluke and that he’ll fade into the background, but now I’m not so sure. Not a week goes by that he doesn’t commit some gaffe that would signal the end of a mere mortal pol’s campaign. To his credit, he not only accepts the gaffe, he steps up and defends it. The Trump has an ego the size of Texas, which is an important attribute for a president. Why the hell else would want the job? Does this mean that I’m a “Trumper” now? Nooooo…not in the least. I still think he’s a rich, dangerous idiot, BUT I do think he may actually be able to pull this off. Even the mainstream GOP elite are starting to back down a bit. Well, they’ve toned down the anti-Trump rhetoric anyway. I guess, like me, they’re in a state of shock and are waiting to see what happens. The guy doesn’t seem to care who he pisses off. He even has Fox News turning on him, though they’ll keep reporting his every move because he is probably the one stand-out in the Republican field right now. And what I mean by that is that the vast majority of conservatives in the country seem more interested in an action hero than they do a smart guy. On the other side, the Democrats don’t have much of a hand to play right now. Hillary Clinton is becoming bogged down in a seemingly messy variety of Clintonesque shenanigans. Bernie Sanders is probably the smartest of the bunch, but he’ll never be able to shed the “socialist” label from his back. Who’s left? Well, I guess there’s Martin O’Malley, former governor of Maryland. Smart guy, reasonably moderate Dem. Almost zero name recognition outside of the Mid-Atlantic region. O’Malley could still be the dark horse in all of this. The way I see it (and, remember kids, you heard it here first) there are maybe three likely scenarios when it comes to the Trump: Number 1: He’s just been stringing everyone along to make a point. He has no real interest in being president and only wants to push his own agenda forward (whatever the hell that is…he never answers a policy question directly, always seems to fend it off). In this scenario, he continues to campaign until sometime in the spring when he hands off his endorsement to whatever GOP candidate grovels enough to earn it. The Trump then goes back to swimming in his lake-o-cash. Number 2: At some point in the spring of 2016, he announces that the Republican Party has lost its edge and the Trump jumps ship to run as a third-party candidate. This would certainly be the most entertaining scenario. It’s going to piss off most of the Republican faithful, many of whom will regardless follow the Trump over to third-party town. He’ll never get the Hispanic vote (burned that bridge a few months ago). Most of the Hispanic voters will likely split between the Democrats and possibly the Republicans depending on who gets the convention nod. Jeb Bush is the best bet in this case, me thinks. The biggest downside to this scenario (if you’re Republican and a Trump fan) is that the Trump is unlikely to drag enough voters over to the third-party to actually win the presidency. The Republicans likely lose in the polls because too many voters defect to the Trump for the GOP to win. Number 3: The Trump hangs in, wins the nomination, and makes the run at the White House. Can he win? Very possibly, but the GOP would have to mobilize voters as they’ve never done before. This truly turns things into a head-to-head shoot-out. In the end, I think, the Dems would win out in this scenario because they were able to mobilize the Hispanic vote and take in some number of defecting Republicans who think the Trump is crazy. Still…we’re more than a year out, so who knows what will happen? One thing is for certain though. This campaign will likely be very entertaining to watch (from a distance). No more rides in the Trumpcopter please! Cousin Fred just informed me that he has been reading the IRS’s publication on starting a non-profit church in this country. Says he’ll have to put the word “church” somewhere in the name of his church. Amazing that the IRS is the sole entity in the government that defines what makes a church…tax exempt. Weird weekend here at the compound. Cousin Fred has been a bit moody since our flight to Iowa last week. Course, I suppose I would be moody too after spending time in Iowa, but it was just an up and back trip. The wife tells me that he intimated to her that it was a life-changing experience for him. Hmmmm…which part, I asked? The flight, Iowa, or the Trump? She couldn’t answer that.
On Saturday, we commenced the annual Hohweiler Sandbur Harvest here at the compound. Although turnout was low (okay, I was the only slob out there digging sandburs), I got lots of encouragement from blood/marriage relatives via Facebook. The brother-in-law for instance asked that I call him when it was over to let him know how things went. The nephew was so freaked out, he drove a truck in an easterly direction and hasn’t stopped yet that I know of (come back Nephew…all is forgotten). Of course, he also asked me to harvest his sandburs when I was done with my own. Cousin Fred who, as I mentioned, has been acting rather moody since the Iowa trip was nowhere to be found. The wife finally informed me that she saw him going into an old storage shed on the edge of the compound. I found him inside curled in a fetal position and reciting a sacred Hindu chant that I’d not heard outside of India. I closed the door and walked away…didn’t want to know what was going on there (suspect it will reappear in a future post though – hint, hint). After all, there were sandburs to be harvested and I had no time for slackers. I got about half of the sandburs harvested and thought about waiting a couple of days before doing anything with them. The burs seemed a bit too moist and I hoped the extra time would dry them out. I was afraid the grain elevator people wouldn’t take them. But, in the end, once I had three five-gallon buckets full of burs, I drove into Fargo to the Johnston Grain Company to drop off my load and hopefully pick up a check (if the prices were right). It’s been something of a depressed market lately. The Chinese are making great strides in sandbur agriculture, developing strains of hybrid plants that bear more burs per stem. The fellow on duty at Johnston Grain that day didn’t seem to understand the nature of my inquiry. He kept looking in the buckets and then looking back up at me like I was deranged or something. Finally, he suggested I take my sandburs elsewhere and stop wasting his time. Unable to find a market for my sandburs, I contacted my friend in OKC who makes beer and asked if he would be interested in buying them for a beer recipe. He was not interested, but suggested I contact an arch nemesis of his in Enid who had started a winery called Buffalo Crap Vineyards. He thought the vintner might be interested in starting a line of sandbur-based Malbec wines…though my friend asked me to keep his “fingerprints” off of it. He said to tell the guy that the robust tannins in the sandburs would make the flavors pop on the backend with hints of raspberry, Wrigley spearmint, and ouch. I keep calling Buffalo Crap Vineyards, but they never seem to return calls. In the meantime, I’ll store the sandburs until I can get someone to talk to me. If all else fails, I guess I can enter my sandburs in competition at the upcoming Woodward County Fair. Saturday afternoon was spent at the Plains Indians and Pioneers Museum in Woodward for the reading of the proclamation making August 12th Temple Houston Day in Oklahoma. The turnout for that was good. Guess that’s why I couldn’t get any help with the sandburs. The museum is a great local resource for the natural and cultural history of this region. Plan a visit soon! Late Saturday afternoon into late Saturday evening, yours truly Chief Blogger Hohweiler became Diamond Jim Hohweiler at the casino in Canton where I was conducting a personal experiment in how long a non-smoking degenerate gambler can tolerate the smoke of smoking degenerate gamblers. I set a new personal best with 3.5 hours (I’m the non-smoking degenerate gambler in case you’re playing along at home). <cough, gasp, wheeze> The best part of the evening was the very cold 16 oz. Coors Light beer in an aluminum jug (served at 31 degrees) for a mere $2.50. I know, I know, it’s not Stella Artois…but the alternative was Budweiser for a dollar more. Sunday was spent trying to get Hellkat One to come out of her trailer and give me some hint as to when she is departing…or, at least let me know she’s actually still among the living here at the compound. Between the wife constantly on my back about how long Hellkat One will be here and the calls from the Palace in OKC asking for proof of life, I’m beginning to regret my decision offering her a spot to park. When I couldn’t get her to come out of her VERY humble abode, I came back in to read the news and guess what????? The Trump is back on the funny pages! I knew he wouldn’t let me down. According to an article published on the Blaze’s web site, he made a speech in Alabama in which he announced that he will no longer eat Oreo cookies. Seems he’s pissed that Nabisco, who owns the brand, shut their cookie factory in Chicago and moved the operation to Mexico. The Trump was very upset about the move and said he just couldn’t understand why Nabisco would do that. Psssst…Mr. Trump…I’m betting it has to do with much lower labor and operating costs…just a guess on my part. The thing that really struck me is that a billionaire would even eat Oreos. Me thinks someone in the media should have asked to see his dental records…just sayin’. So, yes, I agree with the Trump (for once), we should all boycott Oreo cookies. We’ll show the rat bastards at Nabisco a thing or two! Oh, wait a second. If we all boycott Nabisco products that will mean the company will be forced to close its remaining factories in the United States and result in the loss of even more American jobs. Guess the Trump didn’t think this through to the BIG PICTURE. I’ll sure be glad when this campaign is over in another what…14 months??!! I’m going back to bed. There are two things that really don’t mix in this world. And no, I’m not talking about sauerkraut soaked in milk (will save that for another posting). Nor, do I speak of the upcoming album of Ray Wylie Hubbard and Nicki Minaj duets (hahaha…just kidding…though that might be kind of fun).
No, friends, the things I speak of that have no business being mixed together are guns and booze. Unless, of course, you’re Hunter S. Thompson and/or Conan O’Brien (if you have four minutes, watch the video…it’s really funny). Back in May, I railed against a proposal by the morons on North Lincoln Blvd in Oklahoma City who wanted to put guns in the hands of Oklahoma teachers at school. I suggested then that it was most likely a diversionary scheme so that teachers wouldn’t notice that their long-awaited pay increase was being funded out the of the teachers’ pension fund. Sigh… I kept my mouth shut when a gun range with an attached cocktail lounge opened in Oklahoma City back in September 2014 (okay, I wasn’t actually doing this blog then, but I would have had something to say about it if I had been!). Then, the owners of Wilshire Gun Range went to great lengths to stress that no one that visited the booze side of the business would be allowed on the shooting side of the business. They even got HRH Mary of Fallin to drive a tank (yes, that’s right) over someone’s car at the opening. Hell, I can’t get HRH to send someone to come fetch her daughter and her travel trailer from the compound (the wife is getting testy about that). Yesterday, I spotted an article on the Huffington Post web site about a gun range with a restaurant/bar on premises in Florida that is soon to open. There was a lot of controversy surrounding the proposal, but in the end only one commissioner voted no on approving the measure. While the owners of the establishment went to great pains to lay out their plans for keeping boozed up shooters from entering the shooting side of the location, current Florida laws create problems. For instance, in Florida, people with conceal carry permits are allowed in establishments serving alcohol. So even though the establishment won’t allow weapons in the restaurant/bar, those patrons with conceal carry permits would be allowed to carry inside the bar…state law trumps local laws in Florida I guess. And consider this. Let’s say a convicted felon who isn’t supposed to have access to a gun wants to visit your bar/shooting range. Are you going to keep them out of your shoot ‘em up saloon? How are you going to know if said patron is a convicted felon? You’re going to run background checks on all of your customers? Most gun ranges will rent weapons to people who purchase ammo from the gun range. What sort of checks do they run on renters? The story in Florida follows an AP article that appeared earlier this month about a proposal in Texas to allow the sale of alcohol at gun shows. That really seems like a bad idea for pretty much the same reason that allowing booze-filled gun ranges is a bad idea (one man’s opinion). Even if you can get past the idea of gun-toters fortified with a double or two of Jack Daniel’s…said gun-toters still have to get back home…and now they’re armed as well as under the influence! Now, lest you think I’m some sort of rabid anti-gun person…eh, not so much. I enjoy shooting. I’m really good at it…have been doing it since I was 12 or so. I find something rather Zen in shooting. I don’t hunt anymore, but will giddily punch holes into a sand hill near the compound when given the time and opportunity. I also enjoy having a drink or two. We have happy hour every evening here at the compound. BUT, drinking and shooting are two things that just don’t fit together in my brain. It flies in the face of everything I was ever taught about gun safety by the NRA (as a kid) or the military (come to think of it, I was a kid then too). It just wouldn’t occur to me under any circumstances…well, unless my drinking leads to me seeing hundreds of imaginary giant rabid tick-infested jackrabbits invading my lawn. Jackrabbits must die! Ummmm, okay, I’ll save that for another post too. I get it. The people who invest in these gun taverns think of it as entertainment, I guess. But, I’ll go on record as saying I think it’s a bad idea. And speaking of boozy gun toters, if you’re looking for something to do this weekend, there is a special reception at the Plains Indians and Pioneers Museum this Saturday (8/22, 2PM to 4PM) where they will unveil the state proclamation proclaiming (hahaha…proclamation proclaiming…I need to learn to edit better) Temple Houston Day. He may not have been perfect, but he is ours! Please visit the museum and learn more about a gifted orator, attorney, and local historical figure. When we left off yesterday, I was about to board the Trump’s luxuriously outfitted Sikorsky helicopter in Des Moines, Iowa for a trip back to somewhere in Northwest Oklahoma so the Trump could make another of his appearances. The Trump barely acknowledged my presence as I boarded the helicopter. To say the inside is plush would be an understatement. It was like a flying executive office. The thing that struck me though was how quiet it was inside. In my years of helo flights in the military (and believe me, it was far too many) I could barely hear myself think, there was always a high pitched whine in the background while in-flight. But this was much different. A person could speak in a normal voice and be heard across the cabin.
As we lifted off, the Trump sat at a table that folded out from one of the bulkheads. His ready assistant, Hector (the guy who had called me at 4AM that morning), sat next to him feeding folders that contained documents for the Trump’s signature. After he signed the last document, he handed the folder back to Hector who then disappeared into the back. “Sorry, I can’t let a presidential campaign interrupt my usual business dealings. Thanks for making the effort to get up to Iowa so quickly,” he said. “Now, what is it you want from me?” I must have had a completely stunned look on my face, because he gave me a wry smile and continued. “I’ve read the stuff you write about me in your blog. For the most part you have it all wrong. I’m just a very rich working guy pursuing the all-American dream of becoming president.” I blinked a few times and then said, “Well, you have to admit Mr. Trump, your approach to campaigning has been unusual and barely a day goes by that you don’t offend someone somewhere. Is that purposeful on your part…?” I didn’t finish the rest of the sentence which would have gone something like, “…or are you just that stupid?” He looked at me, squinting his eyes slightly and responded, “Let me tell you something there, blogger boy. I’ve spent my entire life doing things the unconventional way. It’s what made me a rich success. I know what’s best for America and plan to give it to the American people when I’m elected.” He paused and then raised his hand above his head, “I mean, look at this helicopter. With this, I can get into the small towns where no presidential candidate goes. The media finds out I was there, it pisses them off that no one notified them, but so what? They report it, I get some attention, and the little people in the little towns love me even more. It’s win-win.” I asked a series of policy questions, hoping to find some evidence of substance, but he always responded the same way… “I’m not going to answer that now. Next question.” Finally, I asked him exactly where he was planning to set down in Northwest Oklahoma, he responded, “Shattuck”…though he pronounced it sha-took. That led to me teaching him how to properly pronounce the name of the place he had chosen to invade. I mentioned that I didn’t realize there was an airport in Shattuck and that the nearest I knew of was outside of Gage some eight miles away. He told me then that they were planning to set down in the parking lot of the Venture Foods store on the south end of Main. He said they planned to buzz the town right down Main Street before landing so he could attract the biggest crowd. When I asked why he had chosen Shattuck, he informed me that there was almost no media around for miles to ask tough, stupid questions. At that point, he handed me a Bluetooth headset and told me that we would be able to communicate with one another and the pilot through the headsets. With headsets on, he said, “We plan to come in low from the north with the sun at our back and about a mile out, we’ll put on the music.” Idiot that I am, I asked, “Music?” “Yeah, I use Wagner. Scares the hell out of the little people and gets them out of their homes and businesses to see what’s going on. I love it!” He spoke into the microphone of his headset, “Put on psy-war op. Make it loud. It’s romeo foxtrot, shall we dance?” As strains of Ride of Valkyries began to boom from somewhere outside the aircraft, he leaned over the table toward me and said, “When we get down, my boys will set up a horseshoe pit. These people love that stuff!” I looked out the window next to me and saw that we were, in fact, low over Main Street Shattuck. As we approached the supermarket parking lot, the helo slowed and pitched up slightly for descent. I could see people standing in the parking lot, their bags of groceries blowing across the pavement from the rotor wash. People were turning away and cowering to protect their eyes from the flying dirt and debris. The helicopter no sooner landed than the Trump was out of his seat and descending the steps onto the parking lot (with me right behind him). He glanced around at the smallish crowd and the throng of vehicles now coming down Main Street to see the spectacle. He gestured to Hector and pointed to a small patch of grass on the north end of the lot. Hector and one other individual whom I hadn’t met began hammering in stakes for the horseshoe pit. The Trump next picked up a bullhorn and announced, “I am Trump! I am your next president. Thank you for coming out here today to meet with me. Please remain calm. There will be plenty of time for you meet me. No questions please. I’m not here to do that today.” The next sound we heard was that of three police cars (figure it was the entire force of Shattuck) and a few fire engines. The police got out with their weapons drawn, telling the crowd to get back. The Trump, unimpressed with a sudden small town show of force, hollered into the bullhorn, “Attention, little people. We have set up a horseshoe pit right over there.” He gestured toward the area where Hector and the other guy were working to get things set. People whose groceries had been blown away on landing or their skirts blown up around their necks were shouting at us and shaking their fists. I tugged at the Trump’s flight suit and said, “Mr. Trump, don’t you think it’s a bit risky to be playing horseshoes? Those police look as though they mean business.” He whirled on me and screamed, “If I say it’s safe to pitch horseshoes, blogger boy, it’s safe to pitch horseshoes! Now you either pitch horseshoes or start passing out brochures!” He sniffed at the air and then said, “Smell that? Do you smell that? I love the smell of angry voters in the afternoon! The smell, that smell of a mix of anger and fear. Smells like…victory!” He paused, much calmer and said, “Someday this campaign is gonna be over. Someday.” With that he walked off into the throng of people. “Now, who wants a helicopter ride with Uncle Trump?” Atrumpalypse Now...On the Stump With Trump 2015 (with sincere apologies to Francis Ford Coppola)8/19/2015
I’ve made no secret of my admiration of Batman. Of all the superheroes, I think he is the coolest. There is a deep, dark psychosexual element to the brooding character (and NO, I’m not talking about paunchy Adam West Batman).
That said, I guess it is inevitable that one of the horde of lunatics running for president in 2016 would step forward to make the claim, “I am Batman!” But, why o’ why did it have to be Trump? While everyone else was reading the article on the CNN web site earlier this week, in which the author described the scene at the Iowa State Fair when Trump flew in on his customized Sikorsky helicopter. I had the great fortune to ride along on another of his helicopter assaults (or, as he prefers to call the visits, ‘Schmooze from Above’). Imagine my surprise when Trump’s people contacted me at about 0400 on Monday morning to ask if I could get to Des Moines before noon. “Ach mein Gott,” I responded! “I only went to bed at 1AM!” The caller who identified himself as Hector told me, “Mr. Trump is making another of his helicopter visits, this time to Northwest Oklahoma. He reads your blog and wants you to ride along as he visits your home state.” I rubbed my aching head…frankly, I had a hangover that would kill a horse. I thought someone must be playing a joke on me. I asked for proof that the call was on the level. I could tell that Hector was becoming frustrated with me. His voice took on a surly edge as he growled, “You’ll have your proof once you land in Des Moines. Can you get there?” I indicated that I would do my best and rolled out of bed and dressed, not bothering to shower or brush my teeth. If the Trump wants me in Des Moines before noon, he would have to take me as I am! Fortunately, the wife was already up and making biscuits at that hour. I told her I had to get to the airport in Oklahoma City pronto. I told her that I needed to fly to Des Moines and get there before noon. I was being summoned by the Trump himself. I pointed out this could be big for the blog. I imagined myself being interviewed on CNN before sundown. The wife told me to sit and have a cup of coffee…after I brushed my teeth. When I came out of the bathroom, I saw Cousin Fred sitting at the table looking even more bleary-eyed than me. The wife pointed out that Cousin Fred has a pilot’s license and a friend with a plane over at West Woodward Airport. She suggested that Cousin Fred fly me to Des Moines. I squinted my eyes looking at the two of them wondering if she wasn’t purposely sending me to an inevitable early demise at the hands of my maniac cousin. I figured death at the hands of Cousin Fred would look like an “accident” to the insurance company. I began doing the time calculations in my head. Two-plus hours to OKC…find an airline headed to Des Moines…get a ticket…get through security (they always detain me for secondary inspection following the “incident” in Trinidad & Tobago)…fly there…try to find Trump’s helo on the commercial side of the airport and board without being pummeled or shot by one of his atavistic overachiever bodyguards. I didn’t have a prayer in hell of getting there before noon by conventional means. That left unconventional means. Looking across the table at Cousin Fred (who was now drooling out one side of his mouth), it occurred to me that the very definition of unconventional is Cousin Fred. By my thinking, Des Moines is just over a two hour flight by private aircraft…this could actually work. “Hey,” I said, kicking him under the table! “Get yourself together and get your friend on the phone. We’re going flying!” We made it to West Woodward by 0800. The plane was already on the tarmac and the engine was turning. Cousin Fred was looking a lot better though I had no idea why. I still felt like a bag of dog crap that someone was continuously hammering. The flight to Des Moines was relatively uneventful and gave me pause to wonder why the Trump would ask me to come along. I kept thinking about that scene in “Scarface” where the head of the drug cartel throws an informant from inside an airborne helicopter, dangling him on a rope by the neck. Surely, I hadn’t pissed the Trump off that much! Before I knew it, we were landing in Des Moines. Cousin Fred was directed by the tower to the ramp where the Trump’s Sikorsky was parked. As we taxied closer, I could see the Trump getting out of a long black limo and begin making his way to the waiting helicopter. He was dressed in a camo flight suit under which I could see a dress shirt and tie. He disappeared inside. Cousin Fred brought our plane to a stop about 20 yards from the helo. He looked over at me and said, “Good luck.” I knew I would need it. To be continued... Rough night here at the compound. That storm came rolling through here at a little before 2AM and packed a wallop. We lost power for about three hours. I was up stumbling around in the dark trying to find the phone number to notify Northwestern Electric Cooperative of the outage. I figured they would send someone out immediately to fix our power. Eh…not so much. It did come back on about 5 o’clock though.
Don’t they know I have a blog to write?! Actually, the thing that made me nuts is that I could see most of our neighbors’ yard lights on. I imagined them sneering at a darkened compound on this hill…”Compound, shompound, can’t do anything in the dark can you?” I need to get a generator (making note to self). Years ago, I was reading an interview in (I think) “Rolling Stone” magazine with Paul McCartney. The interviewer made a comment in his notes regarding the interview about Paul being a master of shameless self-promotion. When another interviewer brought that up to him at some later time, McCartney responded with something like (and this is not a direct quote), “Well, who else better to promote your work than you?” One of the great things about having a blog is I can write about anything I want to write about. I don’t have to answer to sponsors or follow the “guidance” of an editor. So it is that today that I’ll focus on a little shameless self-promotion though I’ll admit I’m a neophyte when it comes to this sort of thing. I’ve been writing my whole life. It’s the only thing I ever excelled at in high school and college. I sucked at math…genuinely, truly sucked. But I always managed to bring A’s home when it came to writing my way out of something. In all those years of traveling in the military, I always carried a lot of materials with me. Scraps of research that I had done in one place or another or dozens of pages of writing that may or may not have turned into anything. I just never seemed to find the time to sit and devote to writing a book of my own. I’ve helped others finish books contributing to their effort, but that was about it. Over the past couple of years I worked hard on a manuscript when I could find the time and finally finished it this past winter. It’s the first in a series of books that I hope to keep working on now that I’ve stepped into the land of “too much time on my hands”…aka, Northwest Oklahoma. Once I finished the novel, the next task came to find a publisher. That’s never been an easy thing to do, but has become increasingly difficult over the past 15 years or so. I submitted the book to two publishers who actually wanted to see it. I queried another. And never heard a peep. From any of them. Rejection, I can handle. If the book sucks and you aren’t interested, drop me a line and tell me so. The waiting is excruciating. Finally, my woefully underpaid and brilliant marketing diva and friend, Sandra Benton, yelled at me and told me to get on with pushing it out in a “new” sort of way. So, I moved to publish through Amazon’s Kindle Publishing. The link to the book on Amazon is here. Not sure you want to pay for a book written by a maniac such as me? No problemo. If you’re an Amazon Prime member and subscribe to Kindle Unlimited, they offer it to you for free…there’s even some sort of Kindle lending thing (and to think I’ve been paying for Kindle content for years). Or, on the Amazon site, they’ll forward to your Kindle the first few chapters as a sample. The link for having the sample pushed to your Kindle-type reader is on the right side of the page. I guess the point here is that good or bad, I’m in this for the long haul so if you want me to stop the shameless self-promotion, I suggest you start buying my book. More to follow! Oh, almost forgot. Yesterday, I also published the most narcissistic site possible at www.robinhohweiler.com wherein you can read about my new book, “A Matter of Time” and view other projects I’m currently at work on. Sir Paul, if you see this, call me…we’ll compare notes! Wow…it was an action-packed weekend here at the compound. In fact, a bit too action-packed perhaps. I managed to sustain an injury to my leg (thankfully, they don’t shoot Robins who sustain leg injuries around here). More on that later.
First, there was Friday night. I decided to convene a round-table discussion here at the compound late Friday afternoon to discuss ideas for the screenplay I’m currently at work on in preparation for the 2016 Twister Alley Film Festival in Woodward. I’m thinking of my work as a Mel Brooks style of comedy and was looking for some feedback, but all eight of my round-table participants indicated that from what they could read it was “maybe” somewhere between Hal Roach and Ed Wood, with a dash of the Koch Brothers thrown in. That wasn’t helpful. It was about that time that someone suggested that I needed to throw out the script in progress and start with something new. Several unsolicited ideas were thrown around including one that sounded like the Northwest Oklahoma version of “Casablanca” (though the suggested title was “Tangier”). Here’s the scenario as discussed at the round-table: Our protagonist, a ne’er-do-well oilfield refugee has opened a local hotspot (which, in Tangier means it doesn’t have a covering overhead) among the ruins of the old Tangier school. He has a small wooden stand from which he sells watermelon and a small variety of other produce including onions (gotta watch for the sandburs in those), cucumbers, squash (for those of you who live outside this Paradise, the local dialect pronounces that ‘squarsh’), and potatoes. Ah, but behind the wooden stand he is selling quart jars of watermelon flavored moonshine. He has a couple of thugs who stand out at the road to vet any potential customers who stop by for produce. When someone pulls up, they look back at our protagonist (we were calling him Mick for purposes of the round-table discussion) who nods if it’s okay to let the person get out of the car. If the customer is unable to get Mick’s approval, the thugs hand a free cantaloupe through the window and tell the person to keep moving. So much for scene setting…the story centers around a beastly hot Oklahoma summer in which not a day passes that the temp doesn’t reach 120 degrees. People are seeking to escape NW Oklahoma in search of cooler climes, like the Mojave Desert. Mick himself longs for the frozen tundra of Alaska’s North Slope where he harbors dreams of opening his own igloo-housed craft brewery. But Mick, like everyone else, faces the same problem in that with the downturn in Oklahoma’s budget, the roads have become so impassable with potholes and endless “construction” that no one can escape without ruining tires, throwing their front-end alignment irretrievably out of whack, or becoming hopelessly lost following detours. Tis a troubling time indeed for Oklahomans who long to escape the ravages of heat and the impotent grasp of the morons on North Lincoln Blvd who steer the good ship Oklahoma like an overloaded runaway oilfield transport with a stuck throttle and no brakes. That’s where our hero Mick comes in. Mick has found a series of connecting county roads running deep into the Texas panhandle that are little traveled and in very good shape. He has a map that he provides only to his closest friends who seek to escape the hellish landscape that our make-believe-movie-Oklahoma has become (cough). Then, one day it happens. A jet-black Mercedes pulls up in front of the old Tangier school building. The driver exits the front cursing at having just crossed the rickety old bridge that spans the railroad tracks. He falls to the ground swearing that he left a piece of his exhaust system at the top of the bridge. Such a bold move catches Mick’s thugs off guard. They step forward to insist that the driver remove his fine German automobile from the premises when, from the passenger side, emerges “the woman.” She’s a long lost flame of Mick, someone lost to him after he left for college following the war. He recognizes her in an instant and murmurs her name, “Helsie.” She introduces the still-cursing driver as her husband, Hector Badtoe. Mick immediately recognizes both the name and the face of the husband. He was well known in Oklahoma City and environs for his efforts at reforming Oklahoma politics to bring a sense of common decency, ethics, and a modicum of intelligence to the state legislature. Alas, for his efforts, he was banished…exiled to Kingfisher to serve out his solitude running a roadside motel at which no one ever stopped to rent a room. He and Helsie were making their way to Texas where an underground resistance was forming made up of moderate conservatives, ethics professors, and generally anyone with an IQ of more than 85. Blah, blah, blah…in the end she gets a copy of the map, but only after making love to Mick on an asbestos-laden pile of rubble at the old Tangier school (probably the only original part of the whole scenario). I listened patiently, told the person that it wasn’t a bad idea, but I was pretty certain it had already been done. Soon thereafter we commenced drinking…heavily. The wine flowed and the liquor poured. I’ll have to be more careful about picking my round-table participants next time. At some point around eleven o’clock, one of the women in our group and her husband decided it would be a good idea to strip naked and go drive into Fargo. They drove off in the darkness, various pieces of clothing flying out the windows. Not finding anything in Fargo at that hour, they soon returned, but had lost their clothes along the road. Robes were provided. The next morning, I had to drive into Fargo to get the mail. The Oklahoma Highway Patrol had set-up a roadblock on State Route 15 that prevented anyone from going into or out of Fargo without stopping. It seems that our nude drivers had decided to take a midnight swim in the stock tank near the school’s FFA barn and their images had been caught on a security camera. The Troopers on the roadblock were comparing drivers’ faces with those of our round-table participants. Maybe they should have been comparing parts…just sayin’. I suspect we’ll be hearing more about this in the near future. Saturday afternoon, the wife and I headed into Woodward for a reception in honor of photographer Jim Ybarra’s exhibit (runs through the end of the month) at the museum. Nice artistic effort and definitely worth seeing. Mr. Ybarra has that rare, innate ability for combining light and composition that turns a photo into art. Upon returning to the compound that afternoon we discovered that the umbrella that is normally in the middle of the table we have on the front porch had taken flight. I know, I know…this isn’t Virginia anymore. Can’t leave anything out that can become a windborne missile. Apparently, a gust of wind had lifted the darned thing straight up into the air from the table and it was caught on a lightning rod on the peak of the roof. And me, scared of heights. Fortunately (I think), at that moment the brother-in-law pulled into the driveway. He said he had come by to check the residual pressure on our well system water tank or some such nonsense. Truth be told, I suspect he was able to see that big-assed umbrella on our roof from his house and couldn’t resist a good yuck at my expense. As we stood there looking at the umbrella, I casually mentioned my fear of heights. He suggested taking a couple of shots of whiskey before I attempted anything so daring. It seemed like a good idea at the time. After a couple of shots of rare Tennessee sipping whiskey, I was ready (amazing how brave a little alcohol can make a person). I climbed up a step ladder that only barely reached the bottom of the eaves and then vaulted myself onto the roof. Freeing the umbrella from the pesky lightning rod was easily achieved. I was just beginning to collapse the umbrella’s canopy when the brother-in-law called up suggesting that it might be fun to see if I could descend from the roof using the umbrella as a parachute. That seemed a fun and entertaining way to end an afternoon. The brother-in-law told me to wait while he computed whether the canopy was big enough to lower my big behind without injury from the top of the roof. His calculation revealed that the descent velocity would be something on the order of 4.5 to 6.0 meters per second. Looking over the edge of the roof, that didn’t seem too bad. I wasn’t looking for sustained flight or anything. What I FAILED to take into consideration is that the peak of the roof of a one story house is only about 6 meters anyway. This was going to be a fast trip. I also failed to take into account that I was planning to go off the south side of the house with a steady south wind blowing in my face at roughly 12 mph. I can say that I did feel some resistance to gravity for a nanosecond until my weight combined with the force of the wind blowing against me cause the canopy to rip loose in the wink of an eye. I plummeted to earth with all the aerodynamics of a box of bolts. The emergency room doctor, when he learned how I came to injure my leg, suggested to the wife that she could probably get an emergency committing order. He said he knew a judge in Grant County that would only be too happy to sign such an order. Fortunately (I think), the brother-in-law stepped forward and said he would take responsibility for ensuring I was no longer a danger to myself or others. So, that was my weekend. Learn nothing from me, except how to stay alive! |
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