Bad Boys

Bad boys rape our young girls, but Violet gives willingly.

In 1961, the U.S. Navy's electronics technician training used that sentence as a mnemonic device. I was being taught to recognize the ohmic value of a resistor. "Bad" starts with B, stands for Black, and it is zero. "Boys" starts with B, stands for Brown, and it's one. "Rape" starts with R, stands for Red, and it's two. And so on, through Orange (3), Yellow (4), Green (5), Blue (6), Violet (7), Gray (8), and White (9).

Resistors were used in all electronic equipment in those days. Not as much these days, but if you take your smart TV apart, you will still find some resistors in there. 

Resistors are made with colored bands painted on them. If you wanted to know how many ohms resistance (impedance to current flow) the thing had, you would look at the color bands. Maybe the bands were Red, Violet, Yellow in that order. Red would be 2, violet 7, yellow was 4. That 4 told you to multiply the 27 (first 2 bands) by 10 to the 4th power. So the resistance was 270,000 ohms, usually written as 270 K ohms or just 270 K.

Clear as mud, right? It didn't take long, though, for the memorization and mental conversion to be second nature. And I still remember it today, largely due to the first sentence above.

But my point is this: The use of that sentence as a mnemonic device in United States military training is incomprehensibile in today's world. It either points to how far we've come, or points to how Neanderthal we were 60 years ago. Or both.

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Update: It also has occurred to me that there was another mnemonic device from my electronics training. To remember the vector relationships of motion, flux, and current (how a generator works, by the way), you would use the right-hand rule* and the phrase "Mary's fuzzy cunt" to remember motion-flux current. 

*See https://www.khanacademy.org/test-prep/mcat/physical-processes/magnetism-mcat/a/using-the-right-hand-rule 

Tha Shiznit

Popping, stopping, hopping like a rabbit
When I take the Nina Ross ya know I gotta ta have it
I lay back in the cut retain myself
Think about the shit, and I'm thinking wealth
How can I makes my grip
And how should I make that nigga straight slip
Set trip, gotta get him for his grip
As I dip around the corner, now I'm on a-nother
Mission, wishing, upon a star
Snoop Doggy Dogg with the caviar
In the back of the limo no demo, this is the real
Breaking niggas down like Evander Holyfield, chill
To the next Episode
I make money, and I really don't love hoes
Tell ya the truth, I swoop in the Coupe
I used to sell loot, I used to shoot hoops
But now I, make, hits, every single day
With, that nigga, the diggy Dr. Dre
So lay back in the cut, motherfucker 'fore you get shot
It's 1-8-7 on a motherfucking cop

Boy it's getting hot, yes indeed it is
Snoop Dogg on the mic I'm about as crazy as Biz
Markie, spark the, chronic bud real quick
And let me get into some fly gangsta shit
Yeah, I lay back, stay back in the cut
Niggas try to play the D-O-G like a mutt
I got a little message, don't try to see Snoop
I'm fin to fuck a bitch, what's her name it's Luke
You tried to see me, on the TV, you'se a B.G.
D-O-double-G, yes I'ma O.G.
You can't see my homey Dr. Dre
So what the fuck a nigga like you gotta say
Gotta take a trip to the MIA
And serve your ass with a motherfucking AK
You, can't, see, the D-O-double-G, 'cause that be me
I'm serving um, swerving in the Coupe
The Lexus, flexes, from Long Beach to Texas
Sexist, hoes, they want to get with his
'Cause Snoop Dogg is the shit, bitch!

I'm somewhat brain boggled
So I look to the microphone and slowly start to wobble
Grab it, have it, stick it to the plug
It's Snoop, Doggy, I got a got a fat dub
Sack of the chronic in my back pocket loc
Need myself a lighter so I can't take a smoke
I toke everyday, I loc everyday
With the P-O-you-N-D and my nigga Dr. Dre
Lay back in the cut, like I told your ass
Gimme the microphone and let me hit you with a blast
I got a little cousin by the name of Daz
And bitches who fuck him, gimme the ass
'Cause they know about the shit that we be going through
And they know about the shit that I be putting up
And they be knowing bout the shit I do when I'm on the mic
'Cause Snoop Dogg is Trump tight like a virgin, the surgeon
Is Dr. Drizzay, so lizzay, and plizzay
With D-O-double-Gizzay the fly human being seeing
No I'm not European being all I can
When I put the motherfucking mic in my hand, and
You don't understand when I'm kicking
'Cause Snoop is on the mic and I gets wicked, follow me
Listen to me, 'cause I do you like you want to be done
Snoop Doggy Dogg on this three two one, umm
Dumb, diddy-dumb here I come
With the gat and the guitar was strung, I'm
Not that lunatic nigga who you thought I was
When I caught you slipping, I'm gon catch you then I peel your cap
Snapped back, relax
Ya better not be slipping with them deez on the '83 Cadillac
So we gonna smoke a ounce to this
G's up hoes down while you motherfuckers bounce to this

Tha Shiznit is Track 4 on Snoop Doggy Dogg's 1993 Album Doggystyle. It flooded into my ears this morning while I had my iPhone Music set to play random songs. After I got home I found the lyrics online. 

The "song" about a lot of things I don't understand, but I do understand that a 1-8-7 on a cop means killing a cop. Snoop calls women hoes and he calls black people niggas.

It's hip-hop? It's gangsta rap?

It's not Elvis' Are You Lonesome Tonight? and it's not Billy Joel's Only the Good Die Young and it's not I'm Dreaming of a White ChristmasI.

It's really good stuff? It's garbage? It's been called both.

Spondylolisthesis

I learned a new 6-syllable word: spondylolisthesis. It means the vertebrae in my spine do not behave themselves, do not stay in formation. They apparently did not go through the same boot camp as I did. Or, more likely, they just don't give a shit anymore.

Vertebrae being what they are and where they are, when one of them slips out of alignment, a nearby nerve snitches on it. Then I get the pain. I glare at the offending bone. It looks back at me as if to say, "Okay, big shot, what are you going to do about it?"

An orthopedic surgeon, answering that question, offered me two Options:
1. Surgery to fuse a couple (or maybe 3) vertebrae together in my lower back, or 
(b) inject some goop around that nerve to get it so drunk that it no longer sees the vertebrae slipping around.

Today Terry, P.A., injected 2 cc's of the goop between L4 and L5 while Stephanie employed a continuous X-ray to show Terry where his needle was going. The discomfort was, for me, somewhere between having a tooth pulled and stubbing my toe on an erupting volcano.

It really wasn't that bad, but I have had more fun.

My expectation is a substantial reduction in lower back pain for some number of months, after which I will be faced with Options 1 and b again. Meanwhile, I will look for Option X, whatever that is.

By the way, if you've read this far, I'll assume you're up for just a bit more of this drivel...my bones are quite old and the MRI showed a substantial amount of arthritis -- the osteo kind, not the rheumatoid kind -- which would complicate Option 1, while reducing the effectiveness of Option b.

When I was much younger, it seemed as though I always had some good options. Now, not so much.

Still, it's better than stubbing my toe on an erupting volcano.

"Last Night"

Mobile Riverine Force Association (MRFA) is comprised of Viet Nam veterans who were assigned to take control of the Mekong and its associated rivers in South Vietnam. It’s mostly Army and Navy vets.

I joined MRFA when I discovered its existence a few years ago. I get the quarterly newsletter. Each issue contains stories – mostly battle stories – contributed by members. I am always impressed by the details guys recall after nearly 50 years. And the pain the guys still feel. Many of the stories will just rip your heart and your guts out.

In a recent story, the guy said that whenever someone asks when he was “in country,” he always replies, “last night.” Because he relives the experiences every night.

Several years ago, I attended an MRFA annual reunion in Indianapolis. I didn’t stay long. I felt no kinship for the mostly motley crew who seemed to be stuck in life, never able to put Viet Nam behind them. After a couple hours, I got in my car and drove home fast.

Maybe I was being selfish.

There is no way to predict who will and who won’t be able to leave Viet Nam in the past. It’s a sliding scale, of course, like most things in life. Viet Nam is behind me 97%, and that’s a stroke of luck. The guys that are 20% back aren’t there because they want to be, or because they are too weak to move on; what they did, what they saw, got blended with the chemicals in their brains and out of that slurry came what is being called “post traumatic stress” (well, they had to call it something other than being fucked up).

Nobody recovers 100% from war. War changes people permanently. 

“What did you do in Viet Nam?” It is a pretty common question. Implicit in that question are others: 

How many times were you in mortal danger? 

Did you kill anybody? 

Did you see your buddy KIA’d? 

The answers to those questions can then be used by the asker to assess (a) your worth as a soldier, and (b) the mental state that you are entitled to.

I have come to believe that Viet Nam’s lingering effects on a guy are entirely unpredictable. The guy charging up the hill with bullets coming at him from several angles may have the same degree of lingering stress as the guy back at base camp monitoring the radio. Just a theory, but I’m pretty sure of it.

Yeah, maybe I was being selfish. Maybe I could – and should – mingle with those guys and give ‘em some moral support. Or sympathy. Or a cold beer. Or something. It’s not the kind of thing I have any skill at, and all I really want to do is run, but maybe it’s my duty to give it a try.

Duty? That’s what got me to Viet Nam in the first place.

The Red Dot

Kitchen things all tell me what time it is. Microwave oven. Wall oven. My coffeemaker. Her coffeemaker.

Sometimes they agree on the time of day, sometimes not. When they don’t, I have to wonder which is right. Is a microwave smarter than a coffee pot? Does it matter which is newer?

If the two coffeemakers don’t agree, and one is a minute ahead of the other, I wonder which one got there first. And why.

When I was a kid, there was one clock in the kitchen. Digital wasn’t a thing yet, so it had 3 hands and said General Electric. If you can’t trust a GE clock, there is something wrong with you.

Unless there was a red dot just under the 12. The red dot was not visible unless the clock had a power outage. When the power went out, the red dot dropped down into its little space behind the hole in the clockface. When the power came back on, the red dot stayed put, so the educated observer would know the clock had stopped – and, by inference, the time displayed was wrong.

Clocks in those days didn’t flash 12:00.........12:00.........12:00.

See, not every change is progress.

Vive la Différence

Men are becoming more like women.

Women are becoming more like men.

Gender differences, which were many and wide a hundred years ago, are melting like the polar ice caps.

Men change diapers, hug each other, and (ugh!) talk about their feelings.  Women get tattoos, take up kick-boxing, join the army, and haven’t worn a dress since Christ was a corporal.

Change is good, right?  Not in this case.

Charlie Daniels Band

Back in July, I saw an announcement for Charlie Daniels Band concert in November. The venue would be River City Casino, a place I was not familiar with. OK, I thought, could be interesting.

I totally despise Ticketmaster, but I signed up for 2 tickets online. Ticketmaster charged me $150 for two $57.50 tickets. Do the math. That in itself is enough reason to hate Ticketmaster.

Got the tix in the mail. Time passed, and it was November 4, date of concert. Left home plenty early for the 7:30 concert, even though we all know a 7:30 concert doesn't start at 7:30.

Turns out that River City Casino is a big deal. The casino, hotel, etc, occupy a huge chunk of real estate on the Mississippi River bank just south of St. Louis. It's a monster place, quite new. We parked and walked in, not having a clue where the music would be played.

Down a wide hallway, past a large cocktail bar, we see the entrance to the concert. Beyond that, the casino. It's still early, so we go to the bar for a drink. Then, with a few more minutes to kill, we walk into the casino.

Judy puts 10 bucks in a slot machine and loses a quarter at a time for 15 minutes, at which time we are 10 bucks poorer. Goddam smokers are everywhere in the casino, and they air purification systems are sadly lacking. We gotta get out of there.

Off to the concert hall. Charlie is busy sawing his fiddle in half. It's only 7:40, and the 7:30 concert is already underway!

We find our seats, which are halfway back on the floor, on the aisle. The venue is small, so we are close enough to see Charlie's big belt buckle and even-bigger gut, and we have an easy in/out. Great.

But the sound is very loud. Judy gets out her phone and fires up an app to measure the dB level. I see 110 on her screen. She puts fingertips in her ears. I turn my hearing aids off, which reduces the sound, and also attenuates the higher frequencies, making the music very bassy -- not at all the way you would want to listen to music.

No way she can hear me, so I text her: "We can leave anytime you want." I know we invested $150, but I am prepared to call that water under the bridge -- or is it over the dam? She reads the text and nods.

We have been in our seats less than half a song, but we get up and walk back to the entrance. Once through the doors, Judy suggests we ask for our money back. I tell her it's a long shot, but what the hell.

She finds the guy in charge and tells him we can't stay because it's too loud in there. He offers ear plugs. Judy declines the plugs and asks for our money back. While we are standing at the ticket counter having this conversation, another couple arrives asking to buy tickets to see Charlie. The agent sees an opportunity. He gets on the phone with Ticketmaster, secures a promise that our money will be refunded, and sells our barely warmed seats to the new arrivals.

I was, at that point, extremely skeptical that the cocksuckers at Ticketmaster would honor that commitment, but hey, I had been ready to walk away with no effort toward a refund anyway. I got the agent's name, Wes Randle, figuring that it could help in the argument that was sure to take place with the aforementioned cocksuckers later.

We drove home. I put a "Check for refund" reminder on the calendar.

So a week later, the Visa card website showed me a $150 refund from Ticketmaster had been posted the day after the concert. I am stunned.

Now I am going to ask the slot machine for our $10 back.