Nothing Like a Last Minute Problem to Tie My Stomach Into Knots

Today before work, I rode Hester to the Harley dealer for a quick look over and servicing before I leave. On the way, she went into "limp home mode" wherein the motor won't rev above 2000RPM and the bike won't exceed 20MPH.  The motor kept running, but my heart stopped.

After pissing off all the morning rush hour cagers behind me, I limped into the dealership with emergency flashers blinking and explained what happened.  Modern Harleys have many sensors, one of which monitors the engine and triggers codes when faults occur.  A severe enough fault will trigger a code that forces the bike into limp home mode so as to do as little damage as possible.  The service technicians can read the code history, determine what caused them, and take corrective action.  The good news is Hester is under warranty and there's pretty much nothing they can't accomplish before I depart this Saturday at 5:00am.


The problem fixed now.  Still, as I was writing this, I was sitting in the dealer lounge like an expectant father.

The tech said I had a faulty voltage regulator and the fault codes it generated caused an avalanche of other codes.  They exchanged the regulator, cleared the codes, rode and re-tested Hester and gave her a clean bill of health.


I'm back to being stoked for my trip.  I got the relief the expectant dad gets without the 18 years of turmoil that typically follows!


Counting down the hours...

Under The Wire?

I made a comment in a previous post about my work suddenly realizing that I was going to be gone for three weeks and then subsequently getting piled-on by the various projects on which I am working.  One project manager's comment was along the lines of "what; you thought you were just going to sneak out under the wire on us?"  I chuckled because I've made my intentions clear every week since October, 2010 when I submitted my 2011 vacation forecast.  This situation reminds me of when I got out of the Air Force back in 1989.  That was one time where I really did sneak out.

Allow me to preface this with a quick comment.  While the following description of my final months in the Air Force is somewhat less than complimentary, I don't want my patriotism or pride called into question.  I am proud of the role I served and I have the utmost respect for those serving today.  I'm the son of a proud Air Force vet, a proud Air Force vet myself, and the proud father of an Air Force vet.

I spent my last few years of active duty stationed in Austin, Texas at Bergstrom Air Force Base.  The 67th Tactical Reconnaissance Wing (TRW) was headquartered there and I was assigned to the Electronic Warfare Systems repair shop in the 67th Component Repair Squadron (CRS). The 12th Air Force Headquarters was also at Bergstrom and while I was assigned to the 67th TRW/CRS, my assignment there was really a personnel placeholder for a covert joint service operation that was managed on the Air Force end by the brass at the 12th AF HQ.  A few details on the many operations we performed were described in a previous entry.  There are plenty of other stories to tell, but I've worked hard to put that world behind me. The reality is I got to a point where I had just had enough.  My outlook had faded from a mindset of a patriotic kid who felt like he was quietly serving the greater good, to one of a man who realized that he was but one in a handful of pawns tossed into the covert Central American theater at the whim of distant bureaucrats who never saw the implications of their decisions, or of our actions.  I had been at that work for three years.  I was older and wiser. I was done.

Better Attitude, Before I "Failed the Test" - 1987

As part of Uncle Sam's security protocol, operatives like myself were required to submit to random drug tests and quarterly psychological profile screenings.  The only thing random about the drug tests was the dates. The selected participants were always constant.  I never feared a drug test because I was squeaky clean.  The psych profiles were another story.  The questions were seemingly random and appeared to have no bearing on the state of my emotional health or mission readiness. Questions such as "do you like flowers?" and "what's your favorite color?" were sprinkled in with other inquiries, many of which often included details from events which took place during recent field activities. I figured they asked those to let us know they knew what we were up to.  Whenever a psych profile was scheduled, I would get a call in the morning ordering me to report to the Office of Special Investigations (OSI) building that afternoon.  I knew then to drink lots of water.  Anyone who knows the Air Force knows that regular calls from the OSI do not equate to the recipient having many friends.  The OSI were like the secret police who investigated everything from bounced checks to espionage.  As such, the general Air Force population steered clear of them.  Before each evaluation, the proctor would read a statement; the same statement every time. Like the pre-flight safety announcement performed by airline flight attendants, I could recite the pre-psych statement verbatim.  After this statement was read aloud, I was always asked if I had any questions before we proceeded.  I always responded with a "no", we proceeded with the evaluation, after which I would leave the OSI building wondering what the hell they could have possibly gathered about me from that crap.

Last Flight - 1988

On this particular day, when I was asked if I had any questions, I responded that I had just one; "How do I fail this test?" "Do you want to fail this test?" was the reply. "I think I've had enough." I paused and added "No; I'm done."  I remember that like it was yesterday. The proctor just closed the book and said we were finished.  I headed back to my shop with a knot in my gut and the phone there was buzzing before I arrived.  As I entered the foyer, a guy in my shop named JP looked at me and said "who the hell did you piss off?"  JP was a career E4 buck sergeant with almost twenty years of service, who wore Air Force issue birth control glasses and sported a Joe Friday haircut.  By comparison, I had been in less than seven years and held a line number to be promoted to E7 Tech Sergeant. I wasn't a genius, but I was good at my job and particularly adept at taking tests.  I actually studied for promotion exams.  Back then in the Air Force, points accrued for promotion included scores from tests over general Air Force knowledge as well as specific job knowledge. The overall promotion scores were also heavily weighted on time in service and time in rank.  Given that fact, if guys like JP ever bothered to spell their name right on the test form, they should have been promoted long before I ever was.  JP was a ROAD (Retired On Active Duty) burnout who was just biding his time to retire at twenty years of service.  His job in CRS was to answer the phones, monitor the supply locker, and keep the snack bar stocked.  I ignored his comment and and he repeated it "who the hell did you piss off?" and added "your secret squirrel snitch friends have already left three messages for  the Captain."  Captain Pacheco was a piece of work too and the stories I could tell about him alone could fill an entire blog. I just shrugged and continued to ignore JP as I made my way to the snack bar.

Before the end of the day, I was informed that I was out.  Not out of the Air Force, but out of the organization that reported up through the 12th Air Force to the NSA. It took me over a year of qualification exams and profiling to get in and with one simple response to the test proctor, I was out.  I would be fully assigned to the 67TRS/CRS Electronic Warfare Systems Repair team.  No longer could I disappear when I felt like it without accountability to my superiors.  Before this day, they knew only that I was into something that they were not allowed to ask about because despite their lofty security clearances, they didn't have the need to know.  "Need to know" was a powerful phrase in the Air Force and I used it to cover my ass many times.

I successfully dodged JP's cynical comments, but I couldn't ignore Captain Pacheco when he summoned me into his office.  He had a vague idea of what I had been up to and was always playing the cool pal kinda guy trying to get me to talk about it.  It drove him crazy that one of his resources could simply disappear without accountability.  I never told him anything.  I never told anyone in my shop.  I never even told my wife. I only told my father in an attempt to earn his respect knowing that he once had lived in a similar world and I thought it might build a bridge of commonality between us.  My previous need for confidentiality no longer mattered to Pacheco. He knew for sure that I was fully one of "his guys" now.  Even though my clandestine horse was never very high, I was clearly knocked off of it.  Everyone in my shop knew something was different, but I couldn't explain it because to do so would lend credibility to the rumors and divulge details that at that time, were not to be discussed.  When I was debriefed by the brass at the 12th AF, it was made clear to me that although I was now on the outside, I was still accountable for confidential information.

"Regular" Air Force Rotten Attitude - 1989

I found myself back in the "regular Air Force" and I found that it was unbearable.  With the exception of some older guys with Vietnam combat experience, most of these people had no clue just how big and how busy the world really was. The things that the leadership considered important enough to use to burn their underlings boggled my mind.  Their "big picture" was like Blackberry screen compared to the reality they never saw.  The general attitude from the people in my shop towards me was similar to that received by the burgeois from the proletariat class in Ayn Rand's description of post-revolutionary Petrograd, Russia.  Nevertheless, I sucked it up.  I only had one year left in my re-enlistment, I had skills valuable to the civilian world, I had college, and I had my drive.  No one shooting at me? No more pin cushion treatment from pre-deployment inoculations designed to prevent indescribable third world diseases? I could do a year with these people standing on my head.

It was around this time that my father had begun to succumb to the effects Parkinson's Disease, which were exacerbated by a lifetime of heavy drinking and from smoking unfiltered Camel cigarettes.  I attended his retirement ceremony at a defense contractor for whom he had worked as a design engineer for almost 25 years.  He was only 53 and was being medically retired.  For all his fatherly shortcomings, he was a brilliant engineer who held numerous patents and had a citation of accomplishment which mentioned him by name and was personally signed by President Lyndon Johnson. It was at this retirement ceremony that I was exposed to the employment potential that my training, background, security clearances, and perhaps most importantly - my last name - offered me.  I was already out of the covert Air Force.  I knew when I returned to Austin that I wanted out of the game altogether.

By 1988, Ronald Reagan had successfully bankrupted the Soviet Union and peace was breaking out all over the world.  The Berlin Wall, an icon of Soviet imperialism, would fall shortly.  As such, the Air Force found itself overstaffed and was seeking to shed personnel from its bloated ranks.  A program called Palace Chase was enacted and was designed to allow qualified Airmen to separate the service early with an honorable discharge.  Members selected to participate would be required to serve twice their remaining enlistment time in a Guard or Reserve unit.  The trick was finding a unit near my home that had an open slot in my rank.  As luck would have it, I found an Air National Guard unit in my home town that was understaffed.  In fact, I had toured this very unit as a Cub Scout when I was a kid.  It was still operational and their equipment was probably no more advanced then than it was when I was there with the Scouts.  I quietly completed all the paperwork, submitted my package to the Air Force, and waited. This was in January, 1989.  By mid February, I learned that I had been approved and that my separation date was April 3rd.  I wasn't just happy; I was giddy.  In less than two months I would be a free man.

You've read all these paragraphs and might be wondering what the hell this has to do with the title "Sneaking Out".  Maybe it will all start to come together here.

After doing the things I did and seeing the things I saw, the regular Air Force no longer held my interest.  It was a job.  Our shop and the mission of the entire 67th TRW had pretty much been rendered obsolete.  Pilots were boring holes through the sky in early 1960's RF-4C Phantom jets that were older than many of the aircrews inside them.  At the end of the fiscal year, the Wing Commander actually had all the jets taxi day and night up and down the three mile long runway in what we referred to as an elephant walk to burn up the unused fuel reserves so they would get the same funds next year.  Although we weren't aware of it at the time, in a matter of years, the entire base would be torn down and converted into a commercial airport.  The majestic, elevated, circle-shaped 12th AF HQ building with all its secrets and underground operations centers was turned into a Hilton hotel. When a base has no operational mission, the focus shifts to beautification and Bergstrom was no exception to this rule.  If it didn't move, they painted it.  They literally painted the grass green one winter to impress some visiting General.  What rational person ascends to the rank of General and doesn't understand that grass might not be green in the winter?  But I digress. My role in the Air Force had gone from one that was highly complex and mission critical to one that was little more than what the TSA is today - a return of the Works Progress Administration.

Despite all this, there was a light at the end of my tunnel.  I had taken refuge in the best place a guy could go when there's no real mission; mid-shift. Mid shift was great.  The midnight to 8:00am hours sucked, but I got used to them.  The beauty of mid-shift was that nobody of any importance was ever around.  Any officers on mid-shift were usually fuck-ups, who were sent there to keep them out of site of the important people.  They shared the same micro give-a-shit attitude the rest of us did, so we got a long well.  On day shift, the guys in the shop sand blasted and repainted the curbs around the building and the bumper blocks in the parking lot.  On mid shift, we played laser tag and used the hoists in the equipment bay to fly us around, adding a third dimension to our fun.  On day shift, there were morning formations with roll calls and uniform inspections.  On mid shift, I gave all my guys a four day work week and we rotated the Mondays and Fridays so everyone (except me) got a three day weekend now and then.  The only drawback to mid shift was that any official Air Force business such as medical appointments, finance issues, training, etc. had to be conducted during day shift hours.  That was a small price to pay for the freedoms we enjoyed on mid shift. I made it clear to my guys that if word got out, they would all work the same five-day week that I did.  My guys weren't stupid. They kept their mouths shut.

One evening, I arrived at my shop at 11:55pm and found a large, overstuffed envelope in my in-box.  I peeked inside, saw that it was my separation packet, clutched it tightly, and ran to the latrine to check it out closer.  In it was a stack of papers to be filled out, signed, stamped, and processed before I could carry them with me to my out-processing session on April 3rd.  I hadn't told anyone that my Palace Chase request was approved. When I mentioned that I was considering applying to the few people I ever talked with, they all dismissed it because I had been paid a hefty re-enlistment bonus a few years before.  That bonus notwithstanding, my freedom was granted and following the instructions in this packet would seal the deal.

When most people either separate from the Service or transfer to a new base, they usually announce it to the world and take their last two weeks off to tie up loose strings, get their packet filled out, signed, stamped, and processed, go see all their friends in other base shops, and generally goof off.  These last two weeks usually culminate in a going away party/cookout with an appearance by the squadron Commander, a plaque, and a photo of an RF-4C, the border of which is signed by the guys from the shop.  Everyone was always glad to see them go because for the previous month, well we ever heard from them was that they were short timers and how great their next base was going to be.  There was an old saying that went "there's no base better than the one you just left or the one you're going to". I chose a different path.  Rather than blab to the world about how short I was, over my last two weeks, I would get off shift in the morning and quietly visit the various offices to get their sections of the separation forms stamped and signed. I scheduled all my appointments for 8:00am, so I had an excuse to be gone when the day shift zombies showed up to pressure wash the bricks or begin whatever other menial babysitting task was at hand that day.

Eventually, April 3rd rolled around.  It was the first Monday I looked forward to in years. I needed one more document signed and that space on the form was for my Squadron Commander.  The Lieutenant Colonel who was in command at the time was never in her office on Monday mornings.  I knew who got in when because I was there overnight to see them arrive in the morning.  The person who was there that morning was a butter bar second lieutenant who held the lofty title of "Section Commander", whatever the hell that meant.  He was a VMI graduate who spent four years in an abusive, heavily disciplined collegiate military officer training environment.  Now, only a few months into his commission, he was completely disillusioned by the "real" Air Force, its relaxed discipline, and by the apparent lack of a clear mission at his first "real" assignment.  Despite all that, his hair was razor short and his creased uniform was textbook perfect with his rank, name badge, and his only service ribbon perfectly placed. I saw him sitting at his desk through the blinds in his window and knew this was my chance. I popped into the nearby latrine to check my uniform and buff my boots.  I wore a camouflaged battle dress with the trousers bloused over the boots.  Every latrine had a full length mirror and a shoe shine kit; especially in the Commanders' section of the building. I popped out looking just a little spiffier and knocked on his door.  I know I took him by surprise, not for knocking, but for knocking once; just one single knock, which was the formal military custom.  I knew that being fresh out of VMI, he would appreciate the military discipline. Look, I spent the last six months avoiding command asses at almost any cost.  If kissing up to one now would get my paperwork signed, I was more than willing to pucker up big time.  On his response, I entered, closed the door behind me while maintaining eye contact with him, took two steps towards his desk and stood at attention. "Sir, Sergeant Wilson reports".  His face lit up like a Christmas tree. I didn't salute him because we were indoors.  If I had, he probably would have stained his pants.  I stood at ease when he said so, extended the sheet of paper to him and said that I needed a commander's signature to complete my out-processing.  He looked over the form and said he wasn't sure if he had the authority to sign it.  My heart was sinking, but my brain was rushing.  I mentioned that it was my understanding that in the Commander's absence, the Section Commander has oversight over administrative matters. Yeah, I pulled that one out of my ass.  I added that the Commander signature and stamp were all I needed to be able to wrap up my departure.  When I said the word stamp, his eyes lit up again.  He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a brand new, still in-the-box rubber stamp and ink pad. He was like a kid finally getting to handle a new pocket knife under dad's supervision. "I think I can handle this".  He scribbled his name and proudly slammed his stamp on the form below his signature.   It read:

DeAndre Jackson, 2Lt, USAF

67CRS Section Commander

Now it was my pants that were in danger of being stained. I shook the Lieutenant's hand, executed a perfect about face, stepped out of his office, and then exhaled deeply.  I sat in my car afterward, repeatedly examining the stack of paperwork to ensure I didn't overlook something.  It was all there. I was done.  I showed up for my out-processing appointment and watched patiently as the young admin Airman went through my stack of papers saying to himself "yep, check, yep, yep" as he sifted through each of them.  This was the pre-PC era and I'm pretty sure I could have forged the signatures and no one would have been the wiser.  There's no way I could have duplicated those stamps though and seeing Lt. Jackson get to use his new toy was almost worth the brown rings I had around my ankles after burrowing my head so far up his ass.

When the admin Airman was finished with me, I joyfully handed over my military ID card to him.  He said to keep it because after all, I was still "in" until midnight.  He gave me a stamped/addressed envelope and told me to cut my ID in half the next day and mail it in.  I shook his hand, grabbed the "Surviving in the Civilian World" pamphlet he gave me, left the building, and drove off the base.  I returned to Austin the next week to handle the sale of my house.  The phone line was cut, but the answering machine was flashing rapidly.  The messages were all from my old Air Force shop.  "Sgt. Wilson, this is Sgt. XXX, the guys on the mid shift said you weren't there last night. Is everything ok?  We'll mark a day of leave down for you unless you have a medical waiver."  That was the nicest of the messages.  Several messages later, the message tone from Capt. Pacheco was quite different. "Sgt. Wilson, In accordance with AF regulation blah blah blah you will be listed as AWOL if we don't hear from you today."  Management really didn't get it.  My direct reports knew where I was.  I told everyone I cared about on my last night.  Their jaws all hit the floor and they seemed genuinely bummed.  I thought it might have been because I was a cool supervisor, but then figured it was probably because they all realized the would have to start working a full week.  Interestingly enough, no one with any authority in the shop (or in the squadron for that matter) believed my guys when they told them I was out.  In their mind, there was no way that I could just sneak under the wire like they said I did.  But in fact, I did.

I stopped at a neighbor's house to say goodbye and used his phone to call the shop.  I spoke briefly with one of the few people there who I considered a friend and told him where to find the Airman Performance Reports (APRs) I had written on my guys.  I didn't want them to get screwed by a poorly penned APR written in haste by someone who didn't know them or their accomplishments.  Before he hung up, I heard him say "Uh oh..." and then I heard "Sgt Wilson, this is Capt. Pacheco. Do you care to explain yourself?"  I replied "Hello Angel."  I was a civilian now, I figured I had the right to address him accordingly, and I wasn't about to say "Mister".  I added "On April 3rd, my ID card was destroyed and the Air Force issued me a DD Form 214.  I must be OUT."

I hung up the phone and left for Dallas.  It was exhilarating driving past the base for the last time.  I had two sons and a wife to support, no insurance, no job, a house to sell, and a car payment to make. Despite all of that, I felt totally free and completely unburdened.  Only eight months before, I had set my sights on a goal that nobody believed I would really even pursue, much less realize.  I was fully aware that despite all my planning and forethought, there would still be numerous unknowns that I would just have to deal with as they came along.  I believed that was fully prepared to handle whatever the road threw at me.  Sound familiar?

I didn't get a party, I didn't get a cookout, a plaque, or even an autographed RF-4C photo.  Most importantly, I didn't care.  I got OUT!  I headed up to Dallas to join my family, to find a job, and to find a home.  I had plenty of employment prospects and with almost two full months of leave accrued, had a steady paycheck to see me through. The job I ultimately took was with NEC as an Associate Engineer in a new but emerging technology called cellular telephones.  I loved the work and was especially proud of the fact that I got the job despite the fact that nobody at NEC knew my last name.  The rest as they say, is history.

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Alaskapade Updates From the Road (Repeat post)

This is a repeat post of an entry from early April.  I've had several people inquire about getting on the update list and rather than continuing to cut and paste this repeatedly, I thought I'd just post it again.

One of the (many) electronic devices I will have on board with me on the Alaskapade is a GPS transponder unit which will uplink my location live via satellite and will allow me to send short updates from the road during the trip.  A great portion of this trip will be ridden through remote areas beyond the range of cellular service and this device will allow me to keep friends and family abreast of my location and my status via short messages. The messages will include a GPS latitude/longitude link to a map than can be scrolled, panned, and zoomed.  This map will illustrate my current location and will include a track line of my trip from its inception.  Viewers can move their cursor over the track line to see when I was at that location.  This device will also provide the source data for a similar map with the same features which will be placed above the movie poster atop my Alaskapade.com page.  Readers not receiving the messages from the road can still see my progress with this map. The Alaskapade blog homepage will be edited to include the map on Friday, June 17th as part of my final departure preparations.  Be aware that there will be no tracking data until I depart on the 18th.

The transponder unit does not receive messages and any attempts to reply to the messages sent from it will fail.  I will only receive text messages on my phone when I'm under cellular coverage or stopped at a location with internet services.  The transponder messages may come from an email account that includes "NoReply" in its address.  If have asked to be included and you find that you aren't receiving any messages, check to see that that were not dumped into your spam folder and if they were, allow that specific address.

These routine status messages can be sent to predetermined groups of recipients who can receive the information via text to their phones or via email. If you want to receive these updates, I need you to send me an email with the following information.

Name

Your preference for contact - Text or Email (or both)

Email Address (if email  is your preference)

Cell Phone Number & Wireless Carrier (if text is your preference)

Email this information to me at ktm_scott@yahoo.com.

Please do so sooner than later because updating the network is a bit cumbersome and I expect to be really busy in the next few days.  If you already sent me your info and preference, there is no need to re-send.

 

Neither I nor the service provider will distribute or otherwise compromise your personal information.  I will send a test message a few days before I leave.  The location link for this message will be wherever I happen to be when I send it.  Routine messages will commence on June 18th and will cease when I return to Dallas, after which I will delete the recipient group and your information. I don't expect more than one or two messages per day unless something extraordinary happens.  Recipients can opt out at any time by sending me an email to the same address as you did to subscribe.  Understand that I will have to be in a location with internet access to receive your opt out message and edit the list, so you may receive a few messages after you opt out.

The transponder device also provides 911/SOS monitoring and emergency dispatch through the dedicated International Emergency Rescue Coordination Center (IERCC) based in Houston, Texas. If I happen to find myself in serious trouble, (assuming I'm physically capable) I can press a button that is behind a protective shield on the device and initiate the rescue process. While the safety/rescue feature is this device's primary purpose, I prefer to concentrate on the messaging capabilities and think of it as a means of keeping in touch with my friends and family back in the lower 48.

Finally, if you're into the geek speak for this stuff, you can find details on this device here.

One week and a wake-up to go!




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Less Than Two Weeks

It seems that everyone I work with has figured out that I'll be gone for three weeks.  The work is really piling on and I have little time to update anything here. I get so much work email every I receive daily warnings that my in-box is beyond its space allocation and will be cut off.  I can't imagine what it will look like when I return.  I'm trying hard to care.

Nevertheless, the trip is almost here and it's getting down to the wire for Hester and I.  I'm pretty sure I'm all set with gear, routes, cash, and physical conditioning.  I continue to second guess myself nonetheless.  I've spent hours at night perusing maps and programming routes into my GPS and then changing them because I received a cool "must see" route from friends on line.  Honestly, the only firm plans I have are for the first two days' riding.  Denver on day one and Great Falls the next day are just slab rides over major highways with nothing to look forward to other than catching up on a few audio books and not being at work.  I'm sure I'll feel like I'm really away once I hit Canada.

I believe the rehab therapy on my back is helping. I go three times a week and get adjusted, ultrasound, stretched out on a mechanical traction table, electrical stimulation (essentially shock therapy) on my neck, and I do an hour of various core exercises on a big ball and using giant rubber bands.  I feel like a tool in a room where I'm easily twenty years younger than the other patients.  I do all of this after ninety minutes or cardio and weights at the gym, which begins at 5am.  I feel like I'm accomplishing more and getting back to my home office before most of my neighbors are even awake.  It sucks, but it's helping.  I pay way too much for my health insurance to simply accept the aches.  Furthermore, I've worked too damn hard to plan, coordinate, and afford this trip to let the experience be marred by arthritis pain. I just wish I had listened to others and started sooner.

It's Hell Getting Old

I've been dealing with annoying back pain for a few years.  The pain has really spiked to mind-numbing levels over the last twelve months.  I rode 650 miles one day last week and was ready to sign up for a spinectomy by the time I got home.  With a 10,000 mile journey commencing in less than a month, I realized I had to do something fast. I just hope it's not too late.

I pay good money into insurance every month, so I finally got off my ass and saw a back specialist.  I was expecting a diagnosis of flattened or excessively bulging disks.  I wasn't expecting arthritis.  I'm only 48 years old.  The doctor pointed out several previously broken bones, which were apparently still visible on my x-rays.  He added that it was a wonder I can stand up straight at all.  Looking back, I suppose he's right.  Between martial arts, motorcycle racing, and a lifetime of general stupidity, I've broken both collarbones, multiple bones in both wrists, my left ulna, my right radius, cracked a vertebra in my neck, fractured my right tibia, broke my nose three times, crushed the tarsals in my left foot, broken all ten toes, and had my broken jaw wired shut.

The doctor prescribed some anti-inflammatory meds along with some core training rehab at a local physical therapy clinic.  Hey, I'll try anything.  I'm in the gym at least five days each week anyway, so if these exercise techniques yield improvement, I'll incorporate them to my daily workout regimen.  I admit however, that I'm uncertain what improvements might be realized with so little time before I depart on the Alaskapade.

I've always felt age is irrelevant and I believe I live a younger lifestyle than many guys half my age.  After all, it's not how old you are, it's how you are old that counts.

Arthritis.  Who would have thought?  It's hell getting old.

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Please Take a Moment…

If you’re off work today, please take a moment to reflect on why.  There are many who don’t view Memorial Day as just a day off from work.  If you have a few minutes, watch this video.  It's funny and profound.

MadStad Engineering Wind Screen

This is a total geek entry.  If you're seeking entertainment, This one might not be for you.

Klock Works Screen (Useless)

I've been toying with the idea of getting a new wind screen for Hester before leaving on the Alaskapade in June.  The 2010 stock Road Glide screen is about as useless as Ruben Studdard's body guard.  Upon a recommendation from my dealer, I tried a screen from Klock Works.  It looked really cool, but was actually no more functional than the stock screen, which sits on a shelf in my garage. Its designer, Brian Klock is a land speed record tuner and says his screen adds stability and front end down force at speeds over 160mph. Great. Next time I'm shooting for a land speed record, I'll look him up.

ClearView Drive-In Movie Screen

I traded that screen for a really tall ClearView model.  This one was so tall that I looked through it as I rode as opposed to looking over it, which is the preferred method.  The ClearView blocked wind alright. It was so large that all the wind was blocked and I was sweating bigtime while riding across the Utah flatlands last year in late July.  It blocked so much wind that I could actually smell my farts at 70 mph.  The ClearView was also awful in the rain.  I rode through a torrential flood and despite applying RainX, the screen beaded,  fogged, and sent droplets up and over the screen and onto my dash.  It was so bad that I was looking around the screen to see where I was going.

WindVest Ferry Crossing

I bought the WindVest screen I have now for a steal on Ebay and it looks good, but its short height is only moderately functional in terms of wind blockage.  Granted, part of the riding experience is the wind in your face and I love it for a while.  But on this journey, I'm looking at ten to fifteen hour days in the saddle and even the most hardcore of truck dogs would seek cover after a while.

Up to this point, finances kept me from purchasing a new screen and I was pretty much resigned to reinstalling the drive-in movie sized ClearView for the Alaskapade.  I also briefly considered a taller version of the WindVest, and then learned about a new twist on the old windscreen concept.

MADSTAD Engineering in Dade City Florida specializes in motorcycle windscreens and has a new model designed specifically for the Harley Davidson Road Glide.  MadStad's founder Mark Stadnyk takes a unique approach to solving an age old problem for bikers. The MadStad system is essentially two screens in parallel, separated at precise distances and angles using specially-designed RoboBrackets. The separation between the parallel surfaces allows for an equalization of air pressure behind the main shield resulting in the airflow being directed up and over the rider and eliminating the vacuum that causes turbulence.  This turbulence results in watery eyes, visors flipping up on their own, neck fatigue, and an enormous sound of thunder in a rider's helmet that becomes headache-inducing on long rides.  These are all elements that I have always just accepted as a part of riding. 

I installed the MadStad system on Hester and immediately liked the look.  It is a very different appearance from a Road Glide screen, or any other bike screen for that matter.  I know many riders who ride with the tiniest windscreen available because it looks cool and their solution to the helmet thunder is to ride without a helmet. I won't attempt to debate the helmet issue here; I choose to wear one.  As for looking cool, I gave up cool when I moved up to a touring bike and placed a priority on riding comfort.  Call me an old fart, but I've placed seeing over being seen when I ride.

Star Wars' Boba Fett

The comfort versus cool debate not withstanding, one reason I chose the Road Glide is its modern look.  I've never been into the classic Harley styling with leather, fringe, and conchos.  I admire those bikes, but they're not for me.  The MadStad wind screen system definitely looks modern and compliments the Road Glide. It sorta has a fighter jet profile crossed with cleaner version of Boba Fett's mask.  Still, appearance only carries so much weight with me. With a 10,000 mile journey through a wide range of temperatures ahead, performance will be key, so I installed the MadStad system and hit the road.

The MadStad system installation is a bit more complex than your average windscreen install.  This stands to reason as the system is more complex.  Trust me, this is a system, not just a tinted piece of curved plastic.  The instructions are thorough, but I recommend reading through them completely before beginning the install.  The system arrived professionally packaged with each piece well-protected in multiple layers of bubble wrap.  The kit includes tools needed to assemble the system and thorough, professionally-printed instructions with illustrations. 

Robo Brackets on the Base

The short gloss black aluminum base replaced my stock screen and mounted directly to my fairing.  The RoboBrackets attached to this screen provide an adjustable base for the windshield.  The brackets are installed onto the aluminum base before the base itself is mounted to the fairing.  The biggest pitfall with most windscreen installs is losing well nuts inside the fairing.  I employed a method recommended by Chain on RoadGlide.org wherein the well nuts are partially threaded onto the windscreen screws before the screen is mounted to the fairing.  Only the center hole is a complete hole, the other four attach points are slotted, making the base installation much easier for one person.

Base & Brackets Installed on Hester

Once the base is installed, the RoboBrackets can be adjusted to support the windscreen in a wide range of positions to meet the rider's preferences.  The instructions offer setting suggestions specifically for the Road Glide.  For instance, the RoboBrackets can be installed two ways, one of which will allow the screen to be adjusted much higher.  Thinking traditionally, I thought taller would be better.  MadStad recommends the lower setting for the Road Glide.  My gut told me to do the opposite for more height, but I figured the designer knew what he was talking about and took his advice.  The eight RoboBracket bolts are adjusted with a small, flat 10mm open end wrench and an allen wrench,each of which are included in the installation package.  These are small enough to conveniently pack away on the bike should quick adjustments on the road become necessary.  The windscreen is secured to the RoboBrackets with four T screws included with the kit.  These screws make removal quick and tool-free.

The installed system has a unique appearance that quite honestly, some might not like. I do for the reasons stated above and I think the look would grow on most people who gave it a chance.  The bottom line for me is performance.  I'm not a motorcycle enthusiast; I'm a rider.  As such, I'm open to seriously explore any part that can make my rides more enjoyable and safer.

So how does it perform?   In two words: It rocks!  Granted, it took a few runs and adjustments to dial-in the perfect placement.  But once I did, I was very happy with the result.  When I looked at the instructions to write this review, I realized the settings were exactly as MadStad recommended in the first place.

I had hoped for some improvement at highway speed.  The MadStad system certainly delivered that, but I was surprised at the noticeable improvement at slower speeds too.  The area between myself and the dash is as calm as being in the eye of a hurricane. In fact, it's so calm it's almost odd.  I hit the highway and crossed a few lakes where the wind is always shifting and turbulent.  The difference in the amount of wind noise was startling.  Granted, I have fairing lowers, which cut a great deal of turbulence, but the decrease - even with them installed is impressive.  My stereo came through loud and clear, even while playing audiobooks.  The most noticeable improvement is felt while wearing my modular helmet.  Half helmets don't encapsulate and resonate the sound from the wind beating on them like enclosed helmets do.  This encapsulated resonance creates a thunder-like sound inside the helmet because the ears are covered. When this occurs, even the modular helmet's internal stereo speakers are rendered almost useless.  I used to crouch down to eliminate the thunder when it got to me on long rides.  I'm sure I looked like Quasimodo when I did that.  Even though the MadStad system is shorter, the wind is still directed up and over my helmet for a quieter ride.

Final Thoughts

MadStad is on to something here.  I predict others will produce similar solutions as this system gains popularity.  I hope buyers remember who the originator was.  Road Glide riders are known for buying multiple windscreens in search of the quietest ride. The MadStad is my fourth, including the original. Roadie owners who are considering a new windscreen can save themselves considerable time, money, and effort if they give the MadStad a serious look first.  I doubt I'll ever get to compare the MadStad system to the Klock Works at 160mph, but the fart test is almost certain.

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I Have the Coolest Friends

This rendering of the Alaskapade logo was hand cut with a plasma cutter from 1/8" mild steel by my friends at Steel Images in Waxahachie, Texas.  I thought it was just too cool to not show it off here.

CB Part III - The Final Act

If you're wondering what this entry is about, check out part one here.  If the lack of direct Alaskapade relevance bothers you, skip this and check back here in a few days.

After weighing our options and reviewing our set list, we decided to just do the Denton biker bar gig as a foursome.  Ken and Stu were good singers and we could adjust the key of any tune to meet their vocal range.  We could always add more guitar and keyboard solos to fill in time if needed.  We rehearsed almost every night before the gig and hammered out three good sets.  The show went off without a hitch; or at least none that our audience noticed.

Deb - Get the Reviewer's Point?

I ran another Craigslist ad, only this time we decided to look for a female singer.  A good-looking woman up front with a wider vocal range would add a whole new dynamic to our show.  It would also prove to add a whole new level of drama.  We ran through a dozen prospective singers and settled in on one named Debbie.  Deb had a great voice, a strong stage presence, and she could belt out the Janis Joplin tunes like Pearl herself.  Best of all, she showed up knowing every tune we sent her before the audition.  I never found Deb attractive, but apparently the guys in our audiences did.  She was once described in a performance review as having "just the right mix of femininity mixed with slutty skankitude". She was actually proud of that description.  The rest of us were just happy to get press.

Deb's voice and Ken's were dynamite together.  With those two singing most of the lead vocals and Stu's harmonies, there wasn't much we couldn't do in terms of tunes that were live performance worthy.  We started working as the house band at a little dive called The Boxcar south of Dallas.  This was a great gig because we played Friday and Saturday nights and could leave our gear on the stage between shows.  We started playing local town festivals and events, weddings, and private parties and our reputation around town was growing.  The private parties paid well, but the crowds were pretty cold until they got liquored up.  We had to play enough popular tunes to keep the crowd engaged until they warmed (boozed) up, but save some for the later sets when they actually paid attention to us.  On the other hand, bar gigs didn't pay too well, but all our friends could come and they dug us from the very first note to the last tune of the night.  We could pull friends up on stage to sing with us, play the cowbell, maracas, whatever.  Our bar gigs were more like parties.

As time went by, we had become friendly with many other bands and would often refer them to booking agents or others seeking to book a band for a gig we couldn’t fill.  That courtesy was often extended back to us and we always appreciated it.  One of those bands was called Mosaic Minds.  The Minds had a very talented lineup of multi-instrument capable players, which yielded a very diverse sound.  The leader of the band was a guitarist/drummer who was basically a hippie throwback from the 60’s. All of his tunes had a "save the planet" and "love your brother" feel, but the riffs were infectious and the lyrics were catchy.  The Minds were fun to hang out with and we always enjoyed playing with them. If they weren't playing a gig and we were, we would see them in our audience.  Their singer was a twiggy thin Asian girl named Julie who was a trained vocalist and was seriously looking to “make it” in the music business.  Julie was so skinny that one of our fans once commented that somebody should put a cheeseburger in their tip jar.  The consummate professional, Julie would hide out backstage and warm her throat by singing through the scales before every gig.  This was in stark contrast to all of us, who basically just showed up and played.

In a show of support for the hippie mindset that the Mosaic Minds perpetuated, we were asked to play a gig with them that benefited the North Dallas Food Bank.  This was an all day event that would wrap up that evening with the headline act closing the show.  If I remember correctly, we flipped a coin to see who would close and Code Blue won the toss.  The closing band was considered the ‘headline act’ and there were some acts around Dallas that refused to play any other slot.  We just wanted to play and were happy with not going on stage at 3:00pm.  The members of the Minds shared a common feeling that music could cure the ills of the planet and that all we needed to do was reach out to others and let the healing begin.  This was real Kum Bay Ya stuff that usually made my skin crawl.  Still, they were such nice people; I always just smiled and held my tongue around them.  At the Food Bank benefit, Julie had the brainchild idea to launch helium filled balloons with the Mosaic Minds email address written on a piece of paper inside them along with a message of hope and compassion for whomever might find them.  Excuse me while I stick my finger down my throat.

After their set on stage, they all went outside and ceremoniously released the balloons.  It was a calm summer day and all the balloons rose quickly and drifted out of sight.  Everyone looked at me as if they expected me to make a mockery of it.  I remember looking around at everyone with my hands out and a facial expression that said "what?"  I was very respectful of their intentions and just smiled and nodded as the scene played out.  A few days later, I was reading a review of the gig in a local Dallas entertainment paper and the balloon incident was mentioned.  I had done my part and was respectful.  Now it was time to have some fun with it.

I Googled marine sanctuaries in Europe and found one in Finland that specialized in rehabilitating whales and other endangered sea mammals.  The sanctuary web site listed names of the prominent research PhDs on its staff.  I picked a name, went to the Finnish Yahoo site and created an email address for it, and then added his photo from the sanctuary web site to the email address profile.  Then, I wrote a short letter saying that the sanctuary was attempting to rehabilitate a female dolphin named Gracie who had been previously tagged and was being tracked by the Institute.  I wrote that Gracie had been pregnant with a near full-term calf before ingesting a Mosaic Minds balloon in her blow hole and I added that although the calf was stillborn from a lack of oxygen in the womb, Gracie still held on to a 50/50 chance of survival.  I ended the letter saying that all of Finland was holding its breath (pun intended) and that if time permitted, I would keep them informed of Gracie’s progress.  I copied and pasted the text of the letter into a Google language translation site to render it in Finnish and then after a couple of weeks, emailed it to the address in the balloon using the PhD’s account I had created.

It was a few weeks before we saw any of the Mosaic Minds again and I had pretty much forgotten about the letter.  One of the Minds' members named Ruben worked in the library at the University of Texas at Dallas.  He and Julie had been a couple in the past and she confided in him that she received an email that she couldn’t read, but that clearly had the words “Mosaic Minds” in the text.  She was ecstatic at the possibility that one of their balloons actually made it overseas.  Julie forwarded the email to Ruben and he being a research tool expert in the library, quickly found a way to translate it back to English.  Imagine her horror when she learned what the email said after translation.  The UTD library also afforded Ruben a means researching the “facts” and he verified not only the existence of he Institute sanctuary, but also that of the PhD whose name I used on the email.  My practical joke had grown legs of credibility.

A couple of months passed and nobody from the Minds ever mentioned a word of the email.  The next time we saw them; I prodded a bit and while talking to Stu in Julie’s presence, asked him if he had heard about "that bunch of tree huggers that were throwing a tantrum in Finland because some dolphin died".  He knew what I had done and like most of the bullshit pranks I concocted, just went along with it.  I thought Julie was going to burst.  Ruben was no longer in their band and Julie had no one else to confide in.  Seeing her obvious distress and knowing how seriously she took her performances, I decided to let her off the hook and tell her what I had done.  I could barely contain my laughter as I spilled my guts and I honestly thought she would be relieved and grateful to me.  Not so much.  She wouldn’t even look at me the rest of the night and she never spoke to me again.  Ruben sat in with us at a later gig and told me that she was seriously distraught over poor Gracie's calf and was terrified that the band would somehow be held responsible for her death.

We once played an event for the City of Dallas as part of their Friday afternoon Out to Lunch Concert Series. They paid us $1,500 for a one-hour show, and offered an extra $500 if we brought our own PA so they wouldn't have to hire someone.  I agreed to bring the PA and spent the extra $500 on a new amp to drive my sub woofers.  I arrived early and did all the PA setup and then set up my drums.  Stu was right behind me. By the time the rest of the band showed, Stu and I were pretty much ready, so we started goofing off.  Each drum in my kit had a microphone, I mic'd all the stage amps as well.  My sub woofers were powered by a 4,000 watt amp and Stu and I had a blast playing around.  I would hit my kick drum as Stu would hit a deep bass note and the resulting thump would rumble and echo off the downtown buildings like an explosion.  Apparently, it was too much like an explosion because after a few minutes, the Dallas Police showed up and ordered us to stop.  Turns out, people were calling 911 fearing the noise was a result of terrorist actions.

We knew this could be a great exposure gig that would lead us to other opportunities and we were stoked.  We made it a point to dress a little nicer since most of the crowd would be professionals out on their lunch.  Everyone got the memo except Deb who showed up looking like some sort of homeless biker gypsy chick.  Deb's appearance notwithstanding, we played a great set and held a large crowd for the entire hour.  We actually spent less time playing than we did setting up and tearing down.  The quality of venues and the pay improved sharply after that gig.  That performance landed us a private show at the new Dallas World Aquarium, we played for the Dallas Margarita Society, the Dallas International Blues Festival, and a few other local town festivals.  Still, we loved the clubs and we were starting to feel the urge to record a new CD.  Maintaining our family life, jobs, and the band became a delicate balancing act.

The CD was going to be Entitled "Too Far From Home" after a tune Stu wrote.  It was jazzy, upbeat swing kinda tune with a solid hook and an infectious groove.  People couldn't stop themselves from dancing or singing along, which was humorous because it was about someone addicted beyond control and it described how their life was spiraling beyond help and hope - too far from home.  We had several really good tunes, some of which we recorded live, but had yet to get  into a studio to record them properly.  We wanted the second CD to have a full studio sound. the quality of the tunes demanded it.  Any band's sophomore release is a tough one because it's so difficult to measure up to their first release.  The members of a band have a lifetime of experiences and emotions to encapsulate into their first release.  The second release calls upon the experiences and emotions occurring after the first release.  In our case, those included Jim being a dick and Deb falling apart at the seams.

In time, the new CD title would prove to be more than just a cool song as Deb was becoming the personification of its subject matter.  We all drank a little, but she was always getting hammered and doing God knows what out in the parking lot between sets.  We usually loaded up our third set with tunes Ken and Stu could sing because Deb was too blotto.  The crowds were never as particular as we were; as I was.  I was harder on us than our worst critic and Deb's behavior made me want to shove my drum sticks up her ass and shake her straight.  The rest of the guys saw it, but didn't let it get to them like I let it get to me.  At a really nice gig in a Dallas venue we had been trying to get into for months, Deb was belting it out onstage at 110% and we were killing.  We opened up for a Tom Petty cover band called Petty Theft.  Petty Theft's founder was a local Dallas radio station DJ and they had a huge following.  We were stoked to expose our music to such a large crowd.  One of the guys up front at the stage was rocking out in right front of Deb, dancing, fist pumps, the whole nine yards. We were accustomed to this stuff because guys seemed to always dig her, so none of us thought much about it.  During a guitar solo, this guy extended a beer out to Deb and when she went to take it, he yelled something into her ear.  She nodded and yelled "Yeah!" and he handed her some folded papers and then turned and walked away.  I watched all this go down from my drum perch and realized she was just served by a Constable - while on stage - at a gig.  She opened the papers and glanced briefly, then rolled her eyes, tossed them onto the stage, and started belting out the next verse, never missing a note.  We decided to just live and let live.  After all, we were all having a great time and it was supposed to be fun.  Our mindset was as long as her personal life didn't interfere with our working, we would stay out of it.  Then one day the phone rang.  The caller asked if this was the number to reach Code Blue.  Only this call wasn't for a gig.  It was Dallas County Child Protective Services and they had questions about Deb.  In the big picture, a sloppy tune or two was easy to overlook.  But none of us could have lived with ourselves if something tragic happened to one of her kids while she was with us.  She needed to get straight and we needed a singer...again.

Looking back, I think we were at a crossroads.  Did we really want to go through the aggravation and hassle of finding another singer?  Did we want another female?  When we were auditioning singers for what would ultimately be Deb’s spot, we were told that a female front will lead the rest of the band to heaven or to hell.  I’m pretty sure that at this point, we were in Purgatory. We had momentum, we had loyal fans, we still had a desire to play, and most importantly, we had gigs booked.  There’s something about making music that makes a person tolerate a great deal more than he might in other pursuits.  When a group of musicians gets together and it works, the musical synergy is more addictive than any fan adulation or even the money (at least at our level).  We wanted to carry on.

We decided to just play and had several of our female singer friends sit in with us.  We figured if one particular singer clicked and it felt right, we would just make that person a band member an press on.  There was a great deal of talent in the Dallas area and we had no shortage of people to front the band.  We played several shows with Angie who we had met in our earliest days at the Swiss Avenue gig.  Angie had a great voice and I thought she was hot.  I would just stare at her when we played and picture her singing naked.  She and the band had an understanding that she wanted to do more pop material and that if something came along, she would take it and work with us when possible.  Angie did professional voice over work and had parts in animated movies, theatrical productions in Dallas, and was even the voice of a few children’s toys.  She eventually landed a gig with a well-known party band in Dallas and took her exit.  We were happy for her and still wish her well.  I never did see her sing naked.

Big Mike on Sax

We had added a sax player to our lineup, which expanded our set list greatly.  Everything is better with a sax.  Mike was a tall, bald guy who could wail on a saxophone and sometimes played two saxes at once. He would step to the edge of the stage for his solos and then captivate our audiences as he belted them out.  He projected a cool image and made a great sound.

Frances on Vocals

Eventually, we came upon a talented singer named Frances who was raised in a musical family and had photos of herself as a child sitting in the laps of Willie Nelson, Steve Miller, and many others.  Frances also had a terrific look and could command the stage as well as Deb, only without leaving behind the skanky residue.  Frances ran off to meet some guy on the Internet and we never heard from her again.

The revolving door was growing tiresome.  We were always teaching new singers our stuff and working out the performance dynamics with them.  Because of that, we had little time to write and produce new material or even to learn new cover tunes.  The band was becoming job-like and speaking of jobs, I took the one I have now with IBM and hit the road five days a week.  I was generally available to play gigs, but practically never around to rehearse for them.  Without rehearsals, dynamics grow stale and the stage presence suffers.  Any musician will tell you that there’s little worse than playing a bad gig.

Code Blue at the end (L to R): Jeff, Ken, Stu, Francis, Scott, & Mike

We added another new singer named Lisa, who was really talented and came from a band with a sizable following.  I stuck it out as long as I could, but quickly realized my travel for work was holding the guys back.  I told them they should seek a new drummer and carry on with the band.  They agreed (almost too easily) and had a new guy in place a few weeks later.  I saw them play and honestly, I kind of felt like I was betrayed.  It wasn’t their fault and the feeling of betrayal on my part wasn’t even deserved.  It's just that Code Blue was Stu's and my baby and I was kinda  bummed to see them play without me.  The new drummer was good, he just wasn’t the right guy.  It's a feel thing and the right feel generates a groove that forms the foundation for the band's attitude on stage, and that attitude translates directly to the audience.  After a few months, the guys contacted me and asked me to come back with the understanding that we would rehearse when we didn’t have a gig and that they would assume the booking and management duties.  I reluctantly agreed, but was secretly very happy.  The other drummer wanted to get back to his previous band, so it was all good.  Being allowed to just show up and play without all the management and logistical homework was great…at first.  I noticed that we had plenty of time to rehearse because we never had any gigs.  I wasn’t doing the booking, so we weren’t working.  I wasn't spending hours a week on our website and writing newsletters, so our name wasn't out there.  MySpace.com had arrived (remember them?) and if you didn't have a place there, you didn't exist as a band.  We finally called it quits a few years ago and parted ways as friends.  Code Blue was over.

Recently, Stu, Ken, and Lisa found a drummer and put together a band they call "508 Park" and they play many of the venues Code Blue used to play.  My only involvement is in the fact that they use my PA gear, but I'm really happy for them.

I miss playing terribly and I still have two drumkits in my office where we used to rehearse.  I’m most disappointed by the fact that “Too Far From Home” was never released. We recorded a few tracks, but never put them together to create a product we felt was worthy of producing.  It's not like we planned on making millions, thousands, or really anything from our CDs.  We just wanted something to show for our efforts and our talents; something to keep.  I want something to hand my granddaughter someday and say, "once upon a time, your PopPop was cool".

Looking back as I write this, when I consider all the band members who came and went, all the gigs, all the broken drumsticks, torn drum heads, empty venues, and arguments on and offstage, I wouldn't trade it for anything.  If I ever get off the road in a job that offers some home life stability, you can bet your ass that my ass will be sitting behind a drum kit.  And when that happens, I hope my friend Stu is in the mix somewhere.

 

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Left Behind

I know I promised to check on yesterday, but I was preoccupied trying to look busy.

At any rate, I’m still here.  In fact, everyone I know is still here, which tells one of two things:  Either Reverend Camping was wrong or everyone I know is so devoid of grace that we all get left behind.  I suspect the former over the latter, but at the same time, pretty much know that the latter was just as likely.

From a completely selfish perspective, I consider it a good thing. I would have taken the Alaska trip regardless, but at least now the roads might be in better shape and gas stations will be open.  I’m sweating the finances enough as it is with today’s gas prices.  I can’t imagine what the post-apocalyptic price per gallon would be.

Crack Kills

 Of all the places to find myself for the end of the world, I have to work the weekend in Washington DC.  That in and of itself could serve as fodder for a pretty interesting article, but I digress. As I sat in the Dallas airport, I couldn’t help but notice the other heavenly rejects around me when I came upon this person in the departure gate. 

  Where is my white robe when I need it?

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Happy Rapture, Everybody!

It's may 20th and Reverend Harold Camping, founder of Family Radio Worldwide, has a number of followers who believe his prediction that the Rapture will happen tomorrow.  Between 2005 and 2009, this dickwad received over $80 million in contributions form his whackjob followers.  Camping also predicted the end in 1994.  Apparently people forgot.  P.T. Barnum was right.  Hell, I couldn't even get Google to pay me the $218 they owed me and this tool got $80 million?  If it is indeed the end of the world, I hope Google is left behind to suffer with the rest of us.

 

Circle Grill Rapture Painting - Bon Appetit! (click to enlarge)

When I was a kid, we used to to go to the Circle Grill near my house for good old country comfort food. On an easel in the foyer was a painting depicting the Rapture taking place right in Dallas. As a little kid, the painting scared the shit out of me. But it also fascinated me and I thought the images of the crashes were pretty cool.  I particularly like the image of Jesus in a linebacker position at the center top.  I remember wondering how everyone knew to wear white robes that day.  Now, I suppose they knew Reverend Camping and had some inside information.

Who's brain trust idea was it to end the world on a Saturday?  I mean, why not on a Monday?  Monday already sucks so bad that most of us probably wouldn't even notice.  Apparently, that doesn't matter because Camping who is 89 years old, crunched the cryptic numbers from the Old and New Testaments and decided that tomorrow is it.  I wonder if he figured out what time zone God is on.

 

According to Reverend Camping, the Rapture itself will happen tomorrow and will then usher in a five month period of catastrophes before the world comes to a complete end in October.  Whew!  At least Alaska will still be there so I can make my trip.  Imagine the Halloween parties people can throw knowing it's the end of the world.  In case you're wondering if you're mistaking my lack of reverence for a lack of faith, you're not.  Nevertheless, if you believe all this, time is short.  Better be sure you're outside when you hear the trumpets or that you have one of these cool hatches.

I'll check back in tomorrow to report on the status of the world.  It's pretty much a given that if the Rapture takes place, I'll still be here. Besides, my white robe is at the cleaners.

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