5. Conspiracy Was On My Mind ©2011

Conspiracy was on my mind, that afternoon in late November 1963, as I crouched down behind the grassy knoll across from Dealey Plaza in Dallas.

I was headed for the Texas Book Depository to meet a young fellow with whom I had recently made an acquaintance. I peeked over the bushes to see if I could make a run to the buiding, when the sound of police sirens forced me to keep my head down. I looked up to the sixth floor window and thought I saw him looking for me. I was about to wave to show him that I was there, but quickly changed my mind: I didn't want to attract attention. I guess he felt the same way, because he put his head down low on the window sill.

As the sound of the sirens grew louder, I started to get a little nervous and began to recount the events that had led up to this day. After weeks of planning, only a few seconds and a few feet separated me from achieving a goal that seemed improbable just a month earlier. If my Eastern Air Lines flight from New York City, which had begun the day before as a direct flight to Dallas, hadn't developed engine problems and, consequently, forced to land in Atlanta, everything would have worked out perfectly.

The four-engine Electra turboprop had a spotty flight maintenance history. It was a temperamental aircraft and it decided early Thursday afternoon over Georgia, to have one of its fits of pique. "Relax," I remember the Eastern representative saying to me, "we'll have you on the next plane to Dallas," The next plane to Dallas, it turned out, wasn't until 08:30, the following morning. I tried, desperately, to call the book warehouse where he worked, but I had waited too long and, by the time I had decided to call, it was already late in the day and they must have been closed. I didn't try calling him in the morning because the plane started boarding at 07:30, and I figured that he wouldn't be there at that hour.

By the time I arrived in Dallas, it was shortly after 10 AM. I didn't bother to call him; at that point, I was too much in a hurry. The taxi ride to Dealey Plaza seemed interminable. Traffic was stopped all around the area and my driver had to drop me off five blocks from Dealey. When I finally got there, there was a police line blocking anyone from crossing the street. I saw the Depository right in front of me and looked around to see if I could skirt around the police. I saw a grassy knoll and figured if I could get around to the back of it, I would be just a hop, skip and a jump from my meeting with Lee. But as I maneuvered toward a spot in which I reasoned, I could still go over the police barricade and get to the other side of the street; I nearly knocked down a man holding up a black umbrella which I thought to be a little odd because it was sunny and there were only a few clouds in the sky. I apologized to him and made sure he was alright, but that incident cost me almost 30 critical seconds, although, I did manage to make it to the other side!

The sounds of sirens and the approach of a motorcade stopped me from sprinting the few yards to the building. I rued my luck, but reasoned that they would soon pass. I sat down, nearly collapsing on my back from exhaustion. I had my eyes closed because the sun was directly over me, but immediately reopened them when I heard a car or police motorcycle backfire two or three times: maybe it was four or five. I can't be clear about that because I was startled. Then, all hell broke loose. People were screaming. Instantly, there were many more sirens wailing creating an incredible cacophony. I looked up but couldn’t see Lee.

I saw what looked like a wave of police heading in my direction; I rolled over, got up, ducked down and ran for cover. I was going to wait to see what was going on so that I could finish my business but a crush of people and police carried me away from the grassy knoll. I stopped running a few blocks away and was instantly knocked down by a man who was running in back of me. At first, he didn't stop, then, when he did, he must have noticed that I was bleeding (I landed squarely on my nose) he came back and helped me stand up. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's all very exciting."

"What's so exciting? "I asked, looking at my bloody handkerchief.

"You know, you know," he repeated, excitedly.

I looked around at the throng of people still running in every direction. Everywhere police cars with sirens screaming were racing up and down the street. I nodded my head, believing that the surrounding chaos was what he meant.

"Look," he said, "I feel really bad about knocking you down. Why don't you come over to my place and we can fix you up?"

I didn't like the sound of the invitation. I hesitated. He must have read my mind or seen the unease in my eyes because he immediately followed up with, "Hey it's okay. It's a public place. I own a club, the Carousel...”

He hesitated for a few seconds, then, stood back to give me some distance.

"Look," he said, "You can call me Jack; you can come to my place, clean up, have a drink and watch the news. It's on me. I feel really bad for what I did." Then, turning aside, he said, There's my ride," indicating a black Cadillac which was pulling up alongside of us. The driver rolled down his window and, in a gruff Spanish accented voice, asked, "Who's he?" I could tell that he was clearly displeased to see me.

"He's all right," said Jack. "I knocked him down and I'm taking him to the club to clean up."

"Aren't you supposed to go to the movies?” Replied the driver.

"Yeah, I know, I know" said Jack, "But, it'll be good for him to sit and cool his heals there for a while."

"Oh, by the way, this is my colleague, Macho," said Jack pointing to the driver. "We go way back to Cu…” Jack never finished his sentence, because Macho quickly interrupted him and said, "You remember what the Empress said?" Jack paused to think about what Macho had just told him and said, "Yeah, yeah you're right." Then, quickly turned to me and said, "I never got your name."

"Quelle, Sir." Somehow, by the tenor of his voice, I felt compelled to say, "Sir."

The Carousel was a small one story establishment with pictures of half clothed strippers, posted in front. A small awning in front did nothing to enhance its appearance. My first impression was that it was the type of tacky place that I normally avoided. Inside the lounge, the bar was crowded with patrons watching the TV. I saw Walter Cronkite and an image of the Book Depository. Walter was pointing to a window on the sixth floor. A sense of gloom suddenly overwhelmed me. I got the unmistakable feeling that, after all I had gone through and all the expectation, I was never going to see Lee or complete my business with him. I was devastated.

I was overpowered by disgust and exasperation, and lay my head down on the bar. My host came over to me putting his hand on my shoulder. "If the news is hurting you that badly, I'll turn off the TV." He asked me where I came from. I told him, New York City. At which point, he said that he was, originally from up north,” My brothers and I are originally from Chicago," he said as he offered me a beer. "It's on the house." I was about to tell him what I was doing in Dallas, when I noticed a picture above the bar. Jack was standing in the middle of a group of men. I recognized Macho. "You and Macho go back a long time?", I asked.

Jack stopped for a minute, looked up at the picture and seemed to be thinking, when I interrupted "Is the Sans Souci a hotel in Miami?", I asked pointing to the picture. "Naw," he said, "it's in Havana. It used to belong to the guy who has his arm around me, Meyer, err, Enrique Chacon", he corrected himself. "That's Macho, the guy standing next to him is Chuck, and the guy next to him is Raoul. On the other side of Enrique is Rafael. We all go way back down there in Havana, before that bastard Castro came in and messed up our business."

I was about to ask him if they were friends or business partners when the phone rang. Jack went down to the other end of the bar and carried on a very animated conversation in a hushed voice. He came back and stood across the bar from me. "Listen kid, that was a business partner of mine, the Empress Wu, I have to go downtown. You need a lift?" I was a little relieved because I was about to confess my woes. I thanked him for the beer and decided to walk around, maybe take in a movie. I said that I had heard him mention to Macho that he was going to take in a movie and I wondered what was playing, maybe I would join him.

"Naw, kid," he stuttered, "I'm just going to meet someone about some business. Anyway," he added, "You wouldn't like the movie that's playing at the Texas Theater."

"How do you know," I replied, already resigned to finding another movie but a little curious to know what film was showing. "Anyhow what's playing?"

Jack looked at me as if he were having difficulty remembering the name of the movie, "Our American Cousin." he finally blurted out, "it's a comedy about this guy's cousin who's American. He must have realized that I was still a little confused because he immediately followed up by offering to give me a lift downtown.

Outside, the wail of police sirens hadn't abated and they only became louder as we approached the movie house. To my absolute astonishment, the entire area was sealed off by police cars and ambulances. Jack looked upset and told me that I had to get out of the car. I thanked him, again. He made a U turn and sped off without uttering another word, not even a "Good-bye," leaving me alone on the sidewalk.

I turned around and began to rue the entire experience, walking to nowhere in particular: in frustration, kicking an empty beer can in front of me. Several times a police cruiser passed by me slowly. I could tell that they were checking me out. Frankly, I didn't care what they thought as I continued kicking the can. No one had ever had a worse day in their lives than I had that day. At 20-years-old, I knew that I had suffered what would be the worst day of my entire life.

II.
So, you can fully understand what I had gone through. I should tell you what I was doing in Dallas on that mournful day. First, however, I should tell you a little about myself.

For several years, I had been a member of a college fraternity founded in 1754, as the "Regis Nervo Aptare Sagittas." In 1783, the name was formally changed to the "Societas Nervi," or, as it is known to the Fellows, "The Bow String Society." Unlike similar college associations, we didn't stand over a poor slave's disinterred bones muttering meaningless and arcane Latin chants or wile away our meals in elite dining rooms. Au contraire, we had a mission, call it a "Duty" under the Law of History: to solving ancient conspiracies. To that end, we dedicated our college years -- and, often a great portion of our entire adult life, to the exclusive purpose of solving metahistoric conspiracies.

Fellows of the Bow String are nominated in secret and are asked if they would wish to be members. To my knowledge, no one nominated has ever refused. Since our founding, we have been the very antithesis of the Free Mandelbaums, whom we believe have been around, in many incarnations, as far back as 330 BC. Our original mission, sometimes successful, other times not, has been to expose Mandelbaum conspiracies that have disrupted and derailed the normal course of human history and civilization since the death of Alexander Magnus to the present.

Each new member is assigned an unsolved conspiracy, which one is expected to devote much of their free time, to the nearly total exclusion of any form of collegiate social life, investigating. Meetings of the Bow String resemble academic seminars where members report the problems and progress they are having with their individual file. No one ever expects to solve their assigned cases within their lifetime. However, one is expected to pass on the body of their work in a timely fashion to the Society's Curia, so it can be passed on to a new generation.

My project was to investigate the conspiracy surrounding the murder of Alexander Magnus and to determine what had been the depth of involvement of his one-time tutor, Aristotle, in the plot.

That's the backdrop in which my misadventure began. I was in my room translating Cicero's "Pro M. Caelio," and had just gotten to the part where Cicero was describing, Clodia as the reigning demimonde of contemporary Roman society. I was chuckling to myself saying, "Go Tulli," when, I was distracted by the sound of laughter coming from the apartment's Common Room, dubbed the "Chaos Room."

When I asked Niebuhr, one of my roommates, what all the commotion was about, he told me that a letter addressed to one of our roommates, Vico, had arrived from New Orleans. It had come from a person that none of us knew, nor had ever heard of, inquiring about the organization, Fair Play For Cuba, of which Vico was the sole administrative entity. I remember him walking through the seven-bedroom apartment we shared on West 105th Street and Broadway, laughing and saying, "Look at this letter," speculating that it had to have come from the CIA or the FBI, "he is asking for our entire membership list for New Orleans." General laughter greeted his remarks. Vico mentioned that he was going to write back and tell him that, for five dollars, he could get a membership card for Fair Play that would entitle him to absolutely nothing but continual harassment from the authorities.

Precisely at that moment, our neighbor just below our apartment, Madam Rozali, knocked on our door. She asked us to lower our voices because she was conducting a very important séance. Rather than quell the uproar, her appearance only helped to further the contagious hilarity.

The incident was almost forgotten. Then, one day in late October, the phone rang. It was the same fellow who had written the strange letter. He was upset because he had sent his five dollars from New Orleans, but in the interim had gone to Mexico and had never received his membership card. He wanted me to give Vico his new address in Dallas. Well, one thing led to another and he told me a little about himself. I was impressed with his knowledge of the Russian language, but, I became a little troubled when he told me that he had lived in Minsk, for a few years. I mean we were right then smack dead in the middle of the Cold War.

Vico's words rushed back to me and I started thinking, "Uh, oh.... agent." I was about to hang up, when he changed the topic by saying that he worked at a book warehouse in Dallas. "Really," I thought, and just for a lark, I asked him if he had ever come across the work "Aristotle, and the Plot Against Alexander Magnus," written by Avicenna with a preface by Rhazes translated and published in Toledo, Spain, in 1456, by Alphonso Colon de Matamoros. I had been searching for it as part of my investigation; however, I was beginning to believe it had been lost to research historians. I cautioned the voice at the other end of the line, whose name I learned was Lee, not to kill himself looking for it. "The people who told me about it," I said, "also told me that all copies of that work had probably been destroyed centuries earlier or, if they existed at all, were squirreled away in private libraries."

He told me that he would look around anyway, and if I could, would I please give Vico his new address in Dallas. I assured him that I would and hung up the phone thinking that I would never hear from him again. However, I did pass on his address to Vico.

III.
So, knowing all this, you can imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, sometime in the middle of November, the phone rang and, when I picked it up, it was Lee: "Hi Quelle, this is Lee, do you remember me?" I assured him that I did.

"Did you get your membership card?" I asked, wondering for a moment if I had forgotten to tell Vico.

"Yes, I did, thanks a lot." he said, "But that's not why I'm calling you." Then, in a rather excited voice, he went on. "I found your book!" To say that I was struck dumb is to put it mildly.

"Not the original edition?" I asked, trying to conceal my own surprise and excitement.

"The original, 1456 edition," he said, nearly blurting out the words. I was struck speechless; I was in such a state of amazement, that I almost didn't hear the rest of what he was trying to tell me.

"It's not in the best condition, however, it is written on parchment but it's readable," he drawled. "It was wrapped in a portfolio containing papers that belonged to Allan Pinkerton." He paused to see if I knew who Allan Pinkerton was, but went on without waiting for me to respond, "You know, the famous cop? I found it at the bottom of a box, along with another book: Aaron Burr's, 'The Secret Military Diaries of Major (later, Col.) George Washington, 1754-1763, published in January 1805, by the Essex Junto Press, in Albany, NY. I thought that maybe you would be interested in that one, too," he said.

Then, pausing for a moment so that I understood the full weight of what he had just said to me, he continued. "Since I began working at the Depository, I have been told almost every day to be on the lookout for papers belonging to Pinkerton. Several people call regularly, inquiring about them. My boss thinks that they were lost at auction sometime back."

"So how did you get your hands on them?" I asked, feigning curiosity, in reality I didn't care how he had gotten hold of them, I was just interested in getting my hands on Avicenna's tome, myself.

"Look Lee," I began to say that I didn't have the money for them right then anticipating that he was going to give me a figure that was going to be well out of my reach, but he cut me off. "Naw, don't worry about money, I can give them to you for free. I found them under a pile of books that were covered with dust. Nobody at the Depository knows that they were ever here."

I wanted to say, "I could hug you, Lee." However, my mind was now racing ahead trying to calculate when I could come up with the round-trip airplane fare to Dallas.

'Well," he said, "You had better get up here before the 22nd, because I will have a new assignment after that."

I was a little confused, "Assignment?" I asked.

"No, I didn't mean to say assignment," he corrected himself, "I meant that I will be going on to another job. My friend Jake bought a nightclub in Buenos Aires and has asked me to run it."

He may have said something else, but I was near desperation. "Okay, Lee," making a quick calculation after checking the calendar and my checkbook, "It will take me a few days to get things together, but I can get down there by the 21st, it’s a Thursday.”

There was a short pause, "Fine," he said, "but no later."

Then my worries turned towards insuring the books, themselves, would still be available. "Can you take care of them for me until I get there?" I realized that I was nearly pleading with him.

"Don't worry Q; I'll guard them with my life. In fact, I will carry them with me at all times," he said with a flamboyant sense of self confidence. I remember asking him if he thought that they would be safe with him. "Hey Q," he responded, with that insouciance one always associates with ex Marines, "Don't worry your little head off, I'll guard them with my life."

Immediately, I canvassed my roommates for the $500 I needed for my round trip air fare and miscellaneous expenses. A few days, later, I was on my way to Dallas.

Well, who killed Alexander Magnus? The "Who" part is actually a pretty simple question to answer, although without some historical documentation, can never be really proven. The plot, as far as I can put it together, was hatched in the warrens of the Lyceum in 324 BC. The main conspirators included Aristotle, Demosthenes the Athenian orator and its most outspoken citizen and Antipater, Alexander's Regent, without whose support no plot against Alexander would have been thinkable let alone, possible.

The Why(s) are just as evident. For Aristotle, it was a long seething revenge: first, for the action taken by Philip, Alexander's father, to coerce the unwilling Aristotle to train young Alexander into becoming the "Philosopher King." Aristotle had been exposed to that Platonic concept during his years at the Academy and the theories about the way forms of government characteristically succeed each other in the state, however, he despised the concept of kings in any avatar. When Aristotle refused Philip's offer, the latter ordered the destruction of Aristotle's home village, Stagira, in Thrace and the dispersal of its population to the four corners of the Macedonian Kingdom. Aristotle got the message and agreed.

The second cause, which only added salt to the wound and increased his ire for revenge, was the execution of, Aristotle's nephew, Callisthenes, on Alexander's orders, on the charge that he was plotting to kill him. Alexander made it clear by this action that he, also, suspected Aristotle was in on it, too.

For Demosthenes, the why is historically evident: he, alone among the Athenians, publicly called for opposition against Alexander. (Diogenes, also, spoke out against Alex, but he was from Corinth.) Demosthenes saw the Macedonians as Barbarians and Macedonia's hegemony over the Greek states as a bizarre hallucination in the extreme.

Unrivaled political power was Antipater's motive. With Alexander gone, Antipater saw himself as the boss. It didn't work out that way, but hey, he tried. After Alexander's death in 323, Aristotle beat it out of town saying, that he didn't want the "Athenians to sin twice against philosophy." That was a not-too-veiled allusion to the execution of Socrates, by the Athenians, in 399. Both Aristotle and Demosthenes died, or may have been murdered, a year later, in 322.

The followers of Aristotle quickly went underground taking all his works and cult symbols with them where they stayed hidden for more than 167 year. (The eye on top of a pyramid that you can find on a dollar bill was and still is a Free Mandelbaums symbol, but was originally designed by Callisthenes.)

Since their reemergence under a variety of names, the Aristotelians have gone to great lengths to refute the allegation against Aristotle, including the destruction of evidence and documentation that implicated Aristotle with involvement in Alexander's death: even, as they continue their malefactions against the World Spirit. To understand them (call them Casuists, Scholasticists or Free Mandelbaums), you have to understand that their basic premises are founded on expediency, but especially the Lie. Aristotle was often accused of atheism and preaching evil beliefs during his own life time justifying his perversities and prevarications by saying, "One can only come to a conclusion if an act is good or evil after having examined the cause." Here is one example of the double talk which he was fond of using in his Posterior Analytics, "We have (scientific) knowledge when we know the cause."

I'm afraid that I have to split Platonic hairs, here, and say that "Reason" and not "Cause" leads us to the Truth or Goodness in all instances. Often times, what we believe to be Knowledge has been purposely and falsely manipulated.

The Avicenna and Rhazes treatise would, I believe -- philosophy be damned -- have painted a truer picture of the demonic figure whose influence has been responsible for much of the havoc in the world over the last two thousand years.

Since November 22, 1963, I have continued my investigation; however, with the disappearance of Lee, I have not been able to add anything new to the material that I originally inherited. I have heard rumors that placed him in a Cadillac showroom in Memphis, Tenn., where he bought a Cadillac for a stranger who was merely window shopping and obviously in no financial position to buy one. I traveled to Buenos Aires in the early 70's and was told that, "Yes," he had been there, but had mysteriously disappeared after attending a political meeting. One rumor even had Lee altering his appearance with the aid of plastic surgery, becoming a rock star, and dying of a drug overdose in Paris where he was buried in the Cimetière Père Lachaise. However, when forensic specialists opened the casket, in 1984, it was empty. Recently, someone told me that they heard that he was back in Texas, and had been the leader of a religious cult somewhere around Waco, in the middle 80's; others say they had spotted him, just a few years, ago, as a hired hand on a ranch in Crawford, Texas.

In any case, I haven't given up the search, nor can I become too demoralized. Long ago, I dedicated my life to the sole purpose of uncovering the truth no matter how long it takes me--even if it were to take my whole life. You see, I know that I was not the only person who lost out that day in November. All the American people were the losers: and, in a larger sense, all of Western Civilization lost, too. Ultimately, Truth was the biggest loser of all, and, for the time being, Conspiracy, the big winner.
-END IT-

6. The Red Lentil Soup I Stole From Mario

hursday, December 04, 2008
6. The Red Lentil Soup I Stole From Mario
The Red Lentil Soup I Stole From Mario
I met Mario while he was working as a chef in a rustic Italian restaurant in upstate New York. He wasn't one of those chefs who had graduated from an elegant culinary school. Actually, I never asked him where he had learned to cook. He was Italian, so I assumed he had learned to cook in Italy.

The restaurant was in a dechristened church in a picture-postcard hamlet in New York's Mid-Hudson Valley region. What attracted me to it was that they made excellent pizza in a brick oven and they stocked several VSOP cognacs. I used to go there in the middle of the afternoon when business was slow. After a few visits, Mario and I began to enter into polite conversation. He would sit down and we'd talk about almost anything. Not unexpectedly, the conversations would always turn to food.

Mario was always trying to push his lentil soup on me. It was his specialty and he was proud of it. It was always on the menu, and people came there at lunch time just to have his soup. He would often offer it to me, too, but I would refuse. We almost made a game of it. I'm not an adventurer when it comes to eating Green Things. When I was a kid, I was forced to eat split pea soup. I hated it until one day, somewhere outside of L.A., maybe it was San Bernardino or just a little bit north, I had split pea soup in a restaurant that had the name, fittingly enough, "Anderson's Split Pea Restaurant." I had the pot roast and the soup. It was great. I think that I may still have the recipe in my head, but I never had the incentive to try and make it.

Mario used to keep teasing me. Once, when I insisted that I didn't like green looking foods, he pointed out that it was made out of red lentils. I could tell, instantly, from his eyes that he hadn't wanted to tell me that. He knew, by now, that I was a recipe thief. Finally, I broke down and tried his soup. It was everything he had said it was, and then some. I began returning to the restaurant, more frequently, to have my regular Quatro Stagioni Margueritta pizza and his soup, all the time pestering him for the recipe.

"If I give you the recipe," he would say, "you'll never come back." I think that after the tenth or 15th attempt, at home, I had almost gotten it right, when one day, I walked into the usually empty restaurant and saw Mario sitting very quietly and contemplative at a corner table next to the kitchen. The restaurant was empty, which didn't seem unusual at the time, since I had become used to seeing it that way. I had convinced myself that the restaurant must do very well for dinner. He didn't even notice my coming in. "What's up Mario?" I asked, "I quit," he said.

Startled by the realization that one of my life's routines was abruptly coming to an end, I began to ask him all kinds of questions friends ask each other when there has been a sea change in one of their lives. "The owners, you know, are from the City; and they have decided to change the menu." Still surprised, but curious to see how much the change would impact on my life, I asked, "How are they changing it?" Mario looked at me and spurted out the words I hate to the core. "Nouvelle Cuisine, and that eliminates me." He said unable to disguise his scorn. "It eliminates me, too," I said. "You know," continued Mario," that I don't cook that way."

Before I said my final farewell to my friend and the restaurant, we talked about the soup. Apparently, I had gotten real close. I had been a bit wrong about how to start it and the amount of cumin to use... but, I was getting there. One or two more tries, I would have gotten it.

"Do you know what nouvelle cuisine is?" He asked, rhetorically, adding."It's nothing more than expensive **** with a French name created by cynical entrepreneurs for the nouveaux riches." He paused for a minute to reflect, then, finished his thought, "That's just my personal opinion, of course."

Nouvelle for the Nouveaux:
Jeffrey went to culinary school for four years. For the sake of argument it's in Poughkeepsie, One of the things he learned and remembers is that people prefer presentation to substance. Jeff, after four years, learned to be an interior decorator of porcelain plates. "Tres joli. N'est-pas?"

The last year in culinary school, Jeff began going down to the City on Saturday's for French lessons. By the time he graduated, he not only knew how to make barely cooked pigeon breast in a butter and wine sauce, with a sprig of parsley and a slice of tomate (sic) for which he could charge $90 and up. but had completely metamorphosed himself into "Geoffrey." He had, originally, planned to go with "Roland." (He had heard, somewhere, that there had been a romantic character in French history with that name). However, he knew there were already too many "Rolands," working on Columbus Avenue, where, coincidentally, he got his first job, in a very small but trendy chic bistro, "Chez Book Y Worm," known to the trendees, as the "Worm."

Someone, early on, had suggested to the proprietor, that "Y" was the Spanish form for the conjunction "and," and the proper form in French was "et." "Too late," said the proprietor, "Anyway, the "Y' gives it a cute double 'entente' however inscrutable, and who will ever know?' Good Point! I was about to ask him if he meant "entendre," but thought better of it.

The Worm has 8 small tables; a bar and walls lined with books-once-read purchased by the yard. Now, one step from the garbage bin, they are a chic substitute for wallpaper, lending the cave-sized eatery a much needed ambiance. What is missing in the patrons' skull can be conveniently borrowed from the decor. One can simply absorb knowledge through osmosis. Nice trick, n'est-e pas? .

The clientele are the variety that has more cash than class. Missing are born 'n bred Manhattanittes who would never be caught dead in one of those establishments that caters to 20-somethings from Deluth or its environs and who make bushels of bucks in advertising or design.

She and He:
She and He are sitting at a table with a lighted candle in a nook by the bar. They have already made the rounds of several Second Avenue bars before deciding to come over to Columbus to see what everybody else was doing. This week, they have decided to celebrate her raise from the women's garment company where she is employed as a blouse designer. The company has decided to go with her "BraBlouse" creation. "It' a blouse. It's a bra." Actually, it's a bra with a little material sewn around it, adding a little more cloth so as to make it "Barely legal," as she proudly states.

"It's Shocking," said the boss.
"It's Shocking," said her co-designers."
"But," said the boss, "It has that certain je ne sais quoi."
"But," said her co-designers, "It has that certain je ne sais quoi."
"It's the BraBlouse," said the boss, foregoing Her suggestion of "BraChem(ise)."
"It's the BraBlouse," said her co-designers foregoing her suggestion of ... Oh, well, you get the picture.

The BraBlouse brought her a raise in salary to nearly $100,000, almost the same as her beau who received a raise from his company, the American Generic Tobacco Company, where he is a copywriter. He was the one who came up with the new product idea, and AGT's new motto, for their Asian tobacco markets. "Tiny Cigs for Tiny Kids." Very catchy. She is from Cheyenne, but She tells everyone that She is from San Francisco where She went to design school. He is from Buffalo but tells everyone that he is actually from Rochester.

Their waiter is actually named Roland, but, because of the aforementioned reason, calls himself, Pierre. He wears tight black pants with a black silk shirt tucked in but open to the navel. Around his neck, he sports a thick gold chain on a hairless chest. When he makes broad arm movements, a tattoo of Eros about to shoot an arrow is exposed over his left nipple. Tonight, Pierre is recommending, of all things, "Breast of Dove, au Suisse," and, "from the wine cellar "(They have no wine cellar. They don't even have a cellar. The trendy cheese shop, next door has the cellar), intones Pierre, with the insouciance of someone who writes for wine magazines on the side, "we have a delicious '93 Chablis, imported to the States, just for the Worm." Did I mention that Pierre is from Brooklyn and, in his entire life, has never tasted a Chablis. He wouldn't know what it tasted like. He prefers Rum and Coke with a twist of lemon.

She has the pigeon: He opts for the more manly, New York Sirloin, "Very rare, please."
Finally, "Would Madame like to try the house Mousse au Chocolat?" The only madams that Pierre had known before working on Columbus Ave. were madams, that he had met plying their trade in the same Eastside bars in which he had earlier been employed. "Oh," says She, "Is that the same thing as the Moussy thing you have here, on the menu? "Oui, Madame," says Pierre. As tip time gets nearer, Pierre's French begins to blossom. "I'll pass on the pudding," says He. "May I recommend an aperitif?" inquires Pierre.

"What would you suggest, Pierre?" says She, ululating her Rs. (Between Geoffrey's and Pierre's instruction, her French had gotten pretty good). "We have an excellent VSOP," says Pierre. "Oh," says She, "I was really thinking of having a cognac." Pierre can not stop his eyes from rolling. She settles, however, on Pierre's suggestion of a 25-year-old Extra Special Old Pale.
"None of that sweet girlie stuff for me," says He, "I'll have a double Remy on the rocks."

The bill: $525. Neither flinch, they fight to pay the bill. "Sweetie, I think that you paid last time," says She. "Okay, I guess you're right," says He, finally giving in..

So, what became of Mario? I don't know, but I have his recipe for Red Lentil Soup.
*********************************************************************
All the ingredients and utensils you'll need for Mario's Red Lentil Soup:
- 1 large cooking pot, with lid, capable of holding three quarts of water, (preferably iron, but absolutely not aluminum)
- 1 small frying pan, or skillet
- 1 wooden stirring spoon
Ingredients:
- 1 cup of Red Lentils
- 1 Red Bell Pepper
- 1 Carrot, thinly sliced, (My addition)
- 1 Onion
- Two or Three cloves of smashed Garlic (The more, the merrier)
- 1/2 Teaspoon of freshly ground Black Pepper
- 1 Teaspoon Cumin (It is the éminance grise behind the soup)
- 1 Teaspoon of salt (More or less according to taste and tasting)
- 1 Bay Leaf
- OPTIONAL, 1 minced Hot Pepper, only if you have a taste for things very spicy.
- 3 Teaspoons of Spanish Olive Oil (I Will find out if you use any other)
- Two-and-a-half Quarts of Water
La Préparation (Don't worry, it's spelled correctly in French) Yiiiiiii, this job is getting difficult.
Okay, let's make a deal. From now on, consider every word I spell as being correct even if you are sure that it's not. Continue (Spelt the same in English as in French, but here, please pronounce it with a French accent to humor me. Merci.).
-Wash the Red Lentils, thoroughly. Rinse them in cold water three or four times. Set aside.
-Slice and chop up the onions and Red Bell Pepper. Smash the Garlic
-Start boiling the water.
-In the skillet, sauté (faire sauter) the onions, Red Pepper, Sliced Carrots and Garlic in the (Spanish) Olive Oil.
-As the Onions begin to become translucent, add the Salt, Black Pepper and Cumin, and continue stirring on a low flame. When the Onions appear as if that they would start to burn, remove and set aside.
-When the water begins to boil, throw in the Red Lentils, and stir. Lower the flame and continue to stir. If you haven't washed off the excess starch, the water may start to froth. Too late, just lower the flame a little more and continue to stir. If the froth begins to become a nuisance, skim off some of it.
-Continue stirring the Red Lentils (approximately 20 to 30 minutes) until they pop (split) and they turn Green (actually a Yellowish Green; they will get Greener later).
-Then, throw in the stuff that you sautéed and put aside (Onions, Pepper , etc.) and STIR.
-Throw in the Bay Leaf and STIR-STIR, STIr, STir, Stir, stir, Lower the flame, Cover and Simmer over a low flame.
-Stir every 20 minutes, until the soup becomes thick and you've lost almost half of your water. (About Two-and-a-half hours). If the soup is still thin, uncover and bring to a low boil and stir as if you know that the bottom will burn if you don't.

On the side, you can have some fresh corn, (stripped off the cob) served in a small bowl.
Serve with sliced French or Italian bread (with a ripe Brie or Camembert, if that's your pleasure).
A fine Margaux would be perfect unless that's problematic, otherwise, a Coke with a slice of lemon would be my choice. Water is good, too.
Bon Appetit!
From Budapest
Posted by Imperfect Messenger at 10:42 PM
Labels: Food, Social Commentary, Social Satire
0 comments:

7. Sabotage Began Wih A Wooden Shoe: About Rockets, Not Rocket Science.

Sabotage Began With A Wooden Shoe: About Rockets, Not Rocket Science.

In preface, I must first assure you in no uncertain terms:: to wit, I am not now, nor have I ever been a follower of King Ludd or a member of his merry band. Further, I may have taken country walks among the Thistlewood, but I have never lived or loitered on Cato Street.

Everything that I'm about to tell you can be fact checked, and would have landed me in a federal military prison for 30 years had I spoken of it before 1987. Maybe, I should have said "could" instead of "would" for accuracy's sake. (The conditional in English being a very curious mechanism, indeed).

I signed an oath before being discharged from the army in the early 60's that I would never utter a word about what I am about to say on the pain of imprisonment. Fort Leavenworth was actually cited as my possible home for the next 30 years should I breathe a word of what had been discussed. I signed a DD 638 (or 368, if you are interested look it up it's been 40 years since I looked at that piece of paper) which bound me to secrecy by oath..

What has haunted me all these years and which I had been forced to keep secret for four decades, was my admission that I had committed the worst case of peace or wartime sabotage in the history of the United States.

I was Young. I was stupid. I was scared. I knew, even at my age, that what I was being accused of, perceptually, might be construed as destruction of a very high order. The sabotage I was accused of committing, if sabotage is the operative word, here, was from total incompetence. It was the Peter's Principle run amok.

I was accused of destroying over 250 nuclear attack missiles (They were called rockets in those days). To be specific, 250 tactical Honest John rockets minus their nuclear tips. And, yes, in reflection, je suis responsable-- to an extent. Those who were supposed to have been supervising my work: sergeants, Lieutenants, Captains, Majors, and Colonels-- all the way to the top-- were equally responsible. However, on that hot summer's afternoon as I stood at attention in front of my commanding officer, and one unidentified colonel, those thoughts never entered my head. Even if they had, I would have been too intimidated to utter them.

They brought up the fact that while in high school they knew that I had been a member of SANE (Founded, I believe, by Dr. Spock of "Your Baby and You," fame), an anti-nuclear organization which advocated civil disobedience when it came to participating in Nuclear Attack drills. Yiiiiii, we wore blue arm bands and refused to duck under our desks for protection when the bell announced a possible nuclear attack. I was amazed that they knew that piece of information. "They must have done a very thorough investigation in a short period of time," I thought. Later, I remembered that I had told several people in my unit, including the company clerk, the story of my activities with SANE.

If it sounds unbelievable to you, imagine how I feel. I have had to carry this burden alone all these years. About ten years ago, I wrote a short essay about it, but then had second thoughts about trying to publish it. I was still scared. Ask yourself how could a kid from the Bronx who could barely communicate in four languages suddenly emerge as the nation's worst case saboteur? I am fortunate that no one then was using the word "Terrorist," (except maybe my mother's neighbors), or they may have tried to fry me. But, after much time looking through the retroscope, I think that you will agree with me that other people were more afraid than I about the consequences. I had a friend named Leo, who was the first and only person for decades with whom I had confided. It was he who first pointed out that my actions reverberated so far up the chain of command that the pressure to silence me probably wore three or more stars.

I remember returning from Germany on the U.S.N.S, pleasure craft, Gen. Maurice Rose and musing for those 8 days on how such a wonderful military career had gone so awry. Where was my Honor? Where was my Glory?

"Grass WILL grow here, by order of the Commanding Officer":

It had all begun wonderfully enough: Basic at Ft. Hood, AIT at Ft. Leonardwood and a permanent assignment with Headquarters and Headquarters Troop, 2nd Reconnaissance Squadron, 8th Cavalry, 4th Infantry Division, Ft. Lewis, Washington. It was part of what was then called the "Strategic Army Corp" along with the 82d and 101st Airborne Divisions. Orders were never given: "Do this!" but, "You WILL do this!" Even the "Keep off the Grass" signs were not spared this STRAC mental outlook.

However, for me, it was a dream assignment, the details of which are not really germane to this story, but if any of you are old enough to remember the "Phil Silvers' Show" where he portrayed an army supply sergeant, then you have an inkling of what my life was like. I never saw my NCO supply sergeant or my commanding officer very often. I drove around the base in my C.O's jeep which had two small cavalry flags fluttering from the rear antennae. The S4, a Lieutenant, must have had some money in civilian life because he drove around the base in a gray gull-wing Mercedes. I was usually alone; responsible for supplies of every description-- from coffee to ammunition-- at a battalion level. I was untouchable. I could do no wrong. I was as close to be divinely touched as one can get in the military.

A year later the bubble burst. A levy, that's military jargon for a draft of troops from a particular command, had come down for South Korea. Well, Korean wasn't one of the cultures I was too keenly interested in studying: so, I asked my commanding officer if there was any chance of going somewhere else. "There is a small levy for Germany," he said. I didn't ask what or where to, just, "can you fix it?" When he said, "Yes," I bought a German dictionary. I had had some German in high school; perfecting it, I knew, was going to be a snap.

Soon after, however, upon reading my traveling orders, the little voices in my head started to ask nervous questions: for starters, what the heck (self edit) was the 64th Ord. Co. SpWpnsMsl? I could figure out that "Ord" stood for Ordnance as in munitions (I didn't like that idea too much) and "Co." was, of course, the abbreviation for Company. In the army, you don't ask anyone else to decipher armyglese, you are supposed to figure it out yourself: eventually, I did... "Special Weapons Missile." I did not like that..... no, no, no, not one little bit. As young and stupid as I confess to have been, I knew that meant that I was going to be living and working in a first strike target area. Korea began to sound very good to me, but it was too late to do anything-- save rue.

"X" means Exclusion:

Situated near a burg called Fishbach on the Franco-German border the 64th, although part of the 84th Ord Bn was also attached to NATO. Charles DeGaulle, (remember him?) had ejected all American nuclear forces out of France in retaliation for U.S. refusal to share nuclear technology-- as we did with our other ally, the Brits. So, the army just moved everything right across the border. It was great: you could get drunk in France one night, and in Germany the next. German beer was better, but the French women slam-dunked the German jungfraus (frauleins). As a consequence, our pay was spent evenly in both countries.

I'm assuming that the T.O. 'n. E. (Table of Organization and Equipment) of this type of unit has been declassified by now. Therefore, let me give you a brief description of how it was structured. The unit was divided into two distinct operational groups with separate missions spread out over 1,000 acres. The nuclear warheads were housed in a special compound and protected with specially trained M.P.s. That sector was called the "X" (for Exclusion) Area. The buildings were air conditioned in summer and heated in the winter. The work in there was very clean, therefore attractive.

By contrast, the rockets were housed in large bunkers with grass and trees growing on top (Beginning of the environmental movement? I don't think so!) in order to confuse the Russians (right). The bunkers lacked heating in the winter and cool air in the summer. Free Polish guards in U.S. Army fatigues and weapons provided the bunkers with security. No one wanted to work in the bunkers where the work was hard, nerve-wracking and dangerous; not even one coffee machine.

As soon as I got to the 64th, I went straight (without being told) to the supply sergeant where I was unceremoniously turned away with a sneer ("we have too many supply specialists") he told me to report to the company clerk for a work assignment. I remember the company clerk. His name was Mike. He was a cheerful sort and we became and remained friends throughout. He was the first one to give me the heads up. Everybody, he told me, wants to work in the "X" area, but because it was also a NATO unit, one had to get a special NATO clearance before working in that zone. Since it took 60 to 90 days for the clearance to come through, all new arrivals had to work in the bunkers. That was it. I was going to the bunkers. "Doing what," I asked. "Rocket maintenance!" he said.

Nobody who has ever been in the army would raise an eyebrow to the logic involved. It is army legend that they train you for one M.O.S. (military occupational specialty) and assign you to a different "working" M.O.S. I was decidedly unhappy with the state of affairs but I was willing to tough it out. Hey, 90 days, after all, was not too long to wait.

Toiling in the Bays:

The Bunkers or Bays as they were more often called, were these huge cavernous warehouses in which approximately eight Honest John Rockets, in coffin-like crates about eight meters in length, were housed. The rockets were in the back half while the front half was used for "pulling" the maintenance on the rockets.

The Johns were tactical rockets which were meant to be used by our troops against opposing enemy troops who might be in a position to overwhelm American forces...somewhere(?). The rockets had a flying range of about 26 miles and the warheads, so-called "250s", had enough explosive power to take out a small area, say the size of Manhattan. (I'm not about to begin to second guess military logic at this point in my life.) The reliability of the John, its solid fuel grain, was also its greatest weakness. Hence, they had to be continuously lifted out and removed from their crates and placed on a special bed. All the work was done by hand with block and tackle "A" frames that you often see in a garage for lifting engines out of cars…Not one tiny little computer!

Once the rocket had been nestled securely on a specially designed dolly, the motor had to be detached. In itself, the motor did not seem to be anything spectacular. It had a cone shaped exhaust that any one who had seen a Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck cartoon would have instantly recognized. The only significant part that I can recall was a large heavy silver bar that ran across the diameter of the motor to insure “reliable electrical conduction" when the moment for ignition came. The motor was attached to the rocket body by 100 bolts that had to be removed by hand. Then, one by one, the four pieces of fuel had to be removed and checked for cracks.

You see, the fuels grains (they looked like large recessed cigarette filters) could, and did on occasion, develop cracks. That was the danger: If a rocket with a crack was fired, it would burn faster on the side where the crack was and fly off its programmed trajectory. Do you get the picture? They could veer off and hit our own troops, or, come right back from where they were sent resulting, in either scenario, into a military catastrophe.

The first two pieces of fuel were easy to remove. The second two were secured to the front of the rocket with an "O" ring. Remember those? (Some years ago, I read how, in Germany, a U.S. Pershing Rocket, the evolutionary successor of the Honest John, accidentally misfired because of a problem with its O ring). Somebody had to crawl inside, into a space no larger than a sewer pipe, and remove approximately 80 bolts by hand using nothing more technologically advanced than a ratchet wrench. Which of the "expert technicians" got to crawl inside? First of all, you have to understand that no one in any of the crews had been trained for this job. All of us, myself included, learned from the men who had worked in the bays before us while waiting for their clearances to work in the "X" areas.

The individual who was there the longest was the boss. Nominally, we had sergeants and officers in charge of us but we rarely saw them. Why would they be in the bays when they could be hanging out in comfort somewhere else? N'est-ce pas? The individual with the least time on the work crews was the one who crawled inside the rocket. The very first day I showed up, it was my turn.

Before going into the rocket, the standard procedure was to put on coveralls, take off our boots, and remove all watches and rings (One spark from a watch hitting the skin of the rocket could, easily, have ignited the two remaining pieces of fuel). A grounding wire was clipped on the back of the rocket to catch any static electrical charge (very reassuring). If the rocket had ignited, the people standing outside were not going to survive long either, but everyone knew that the one inside would be vaporized first. That's the thought that I took inside with me the first --and every subsequent-- time I crawled inside one of those rockets.

There is no keeping a Fool from his Folly:

It was during one of those plumbing episodes that I had my first epiphany as an adult. I was going about my work removing the bolts and placing them in a special soft bag, when the wrench slipped out of my hand and, while I hysterically tried to grab it, fell to the bottom of the rocket skin. It was a very long nanosecond. I waited for the world to end and when it didn't, I asked myself-- and these were my exact words-- "What’s a guy from the Bronx (I was born there, you know), doing inside a rocket in Fishbach, Germany?" It was a question that I could not readily answer. However, like Sartre's hero, Roquentin, in "Nausea" who, after spending his whole life bouncing off of walls and not knowing why, suddenly picks up a rock while sitting on a park bench and experiences his own existence. That day-- that nano-instant- I transcended myself, and I saw a fool. It was a painful revelation. I didn't know it then, but I had become a philosopher although I hadn't received my tin cup, yet.

After each piece of fuel was removed, it was placed on a curved dolly with rollers. I was shown how to inspect the fuel grains on the first day. With a flashlight in hand (Sorry, no computers, yet), the grain was turned slowly during which the "expert" shot a beam of light down the side of the grain. I'm assuming that there have been some technological improvements since then.

If a crack was to be found, and one or two were found in the first month I worked in the bays, no chances could be taken. The standing orders were that the rocket was placed back in its box, sealed and the characters "CR6" written in large letters on the outside (I never learned what they meant. I assume "CR" meant cracked, but the "6"?). The rocket was then taken back to Ft. Meade in the States where it was destroyed --can't take any chances. I always wondered what happened to that silver bar, though?

Within a few months, I was the senior man on the crews and, within a week or so, I found my first crack. I showed it to everybody else (especially to any new guys. I've always been a teacher). It was a long black line running down the outside of the fuel grain.

I repacked the rocket, "CR sixed" it and felt very proud of myself. That sense of pride was re-enforced by the warm words spoken to me by my direct commanding officer, a certain Lt. Murphy and my company commander, Captain Brown. I was so pumped up after that, that I was resolved to continue doing professional and detailed inspections. Within a week, I had found another, several days later another. Soon, I realized that I was being passed over for the "X" areas. When I asked to speak to the company commander to inquire why I had been passed over, the company clerk, Mike, intercepted me and told me that the way things now stood, the C.O. believed that he had finally found someone in the bays who knew what he was doing. To further prove his point, he showed me a letter of commendation that was going into my 201 file (personnel file) signed by Capt. Brown..

Hey, I had my own jeep. I could drive into the base and hang out with my friends at the snack bar drink coffee listen to the country music on the juke box. With less than a year to go, I reasoned, I could tough it out. My inspections became more thorough. I was beginning to find two or three cracked rockets a week. Cracked ones would go out, new ones would come in. I began to receive frequent words of praise from Capt. Brown whenever I would pass by him. When I pulled the mandatory CQ (Charge of Quarters) duty at night, I would sit in company headquarters and read my 201 file. It had gotten a lot thicker. My battalion commander and his executive had each written a letter of commendation. I was treated by the company NCOs with respect. I was proud of the job that I was doing.

We were at war, I was constantly reminded, albeit a Cold War, but a war just the same. I was extremely conscious of security and made sure that I didn't get so drunk that I might blab in front of a spy posing as a beautiful girl interested in moi. (We were constantly being shown security films in which a beautiful damsel dupes a poor GI and pumps him for secret information.) That wasn't going to happen to me. I was a soldier's soldier.

Then, it rained on my parade:

Before very long, I was averaging one crack a day. If you figure that each rocket had a price tag of several million dollars (early 1960's dollars), and each had to be replaced, a lot of business was going on somewhere, but I never gave a thought to it. I was just doing my duty. Two hundred and fifty rockets later, a new man was assigned to our crew. He was a nice enough guy from, if I remember correctly, New Mexico or Arizona. What made him different was that he was the first person to come into my unit who had been trained for the job. I was happy to have him on my crew and just as happy to show him what I had learned from experience.

I wasted no time putting him to work. I found a crack on the first rocket I opened. "Let me see it," said the new guy in a "gee whiz" manner. I turned the grain around, expertly, and lined the flashlight along the crack. And, just as humbly and gee-whizzy he said, "That's not a crack, that's a seal. The fuel is rolled and that's where it's cut and heat-sealed."

There were too many witnesses for me to get away with his murder and I knew that there was no way that I could explain a massacre in the bay to anybody's satisfaction. That's when I had my second epiphany: my military career was over.

It didn't take long for the news to get around. The very next day I was called out of the bays to see the Company Commander. I wasn't sure what to expect. The first hint that things were going to go bad was when I walked into the Company Commander's office and Mike kept his head down avoiding any eye contact. "Go in, they are waiting for you," he said. I wanted to ask him who the "they" were, but I understood that he had been warned against speaking to me.

Two loud requisite knocks on the door: "Specialist Perez reporting as ordered, sir!" I barked as I had been trained to do.

A Swoon at Noon:

"Come in Private," was Capt. Brown's response. I was a Specialist 4th Class and I was about to correct him on my rank, but reason flashed across my mind and I realized that the C.O. was way ahead of me on this. I stood at attention until he told me to stand "At ease!" Capt. Brown was sitting down behind his desk and a full bird Colonel who I didn't recognize, was standing stiffly next to him. The colonel never spoke a word. He just stared at me and the papers on the desk in front of me. I don't think that I had ever been that close to a Bird Colonel, before. This was strange.

The Captain began by stating that I could assume that this was also an "Article 15" hearing (usually lenient unit level punishment that often leads to reduction in rank.) But, "There were more serious matters to attend to," he said, "very serious matters." This time stressing "very serious." I lowered my head and looked down on the papers on the desk. On one side was my 201 file. Missing, were the Letters of Commendation. A sense of dread began to ascend my spine. Directly in front of me, there was a form with my name typed on it below a line where my signature would go. I couldn't make out what it said, but I could read the DD 638 in the very bottom right. My supply clerk training had gotten me used to looking at the numbers on forms. I knew that Mike had probably just typed it up. He knew everything.

I like the word swoon. It's not often used any more unless it applies to a woman falling into a faint. But the Romantic poets, especially Coleridge used it a lot, sometime he would make a participle out of it, "Swound." He uses it in "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," (lines 391, 392), "It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound."

I make this point because that is exactly how I felt. I was in a swoon (the manly kind, of course), with all sorts of words and images rushing past. (What was a kid from the Bronx doing here?). It was during this swound that I heard the words "30 years in military prison!"......"Ft. Leavenworth!".......(I expect that "Running Amok'" was in there too, but I don't remember hearing it)........"Sabotage?" "Sabotage?" I interrupted with more hurt than query.

It is one of the verities of military life that one does not interrupt an officer when he or she is speaking to you. "Yes, Sabotage!" shrieked Captain Brown, "Probably the worst case in the history of these United States." I was dumbfounded. I looked up at the Colonel, his eyes echoed Capt. Brown's statement. I could find some relief in the words "30 years," that meant I was to be spared the firing squad.

I can't recall how long I was in the C.O.'s office: 30 minutes? An hour? More? I lost all sense of time. How it ended up was a surprise and a relief to me: a reduction in rank by one grade, required to sign an oath of secrecy that bound me for 25 years, I would receive an Honorable Discharge with all my veterans benefits and a chunk of cash upon my E.T.S. (End Term of Service). The only real negative stipulation was that I could not re-enlist in the Army. Accepting that clause never caused me any real difficulty.

In the two weeks it took to process my discharge, a Major was made Commanding Officer and Captain Brown was reduced to Executive Officer. We never made eye contact again during that period.

As I was wiling away my time on the U.S.N.S. Rose,-- not as in "wilding" the word the NYT incorrectly coined during the case of the assault on the Central Park Jogger a decade or so back The NYT reporter misquoted the teenage suspects, saying that they had said that they were "Wilding" "They actually said, that they were doing the "Wild thing." If you put a thick Jimmy Hendrick's twang to it, it comes out, "Wilthang." I have waited a long time to explain that to someone, so you will forgive me for taking this opportunity-- I reckoned to myself that I had in fact dodged a bullet and began to relax for the first time in what seemed to have been an eternity which, in reality, had been no more than a month.

I waited almost 20 years before I dared to tell any one this story and then, it was to my oldest friend, Leo. Leo had been a decorated Marine and had served in Vietnam. He was, at that time a Columbia trained economist. His views, he would often protest, were slightly left of Keynes, but in truth, he was a passionate conservative. Leo was the kind of friend with whom one could argue on any subject for hours. We often did just that --locking out anybody else who could not keep up. We could begin a typical conversation with an off hand comment about the weather and end up challenging each other on their knowledge of quantum mechanics and quantum theory in general. He was the guy to whom I first told my story... swearing him to secrecy, of course. I respected his opinion.

Leo's Wisdom:

After hearing the whole story, he said,

"Louie, you can look at this several ways. Every time one rocket had to be destroyed, another one had to be ordered. Ultimately, it meant that a procurement officer, a general of some rank, was sitting behind a desk or, more likely, at a business lunch with a representative of the manufacturer who, probably had been the general's senior officer the year before, and had sat in the same chair in which the general was now sitting. The conversation might have gone like this

...... 'How are you doing Bill?" said the man in civilian cloths to the general, 'How are Mary and the kids? You know that we are looking forward to your coming to work for us when you retire next year. We are opening a new liaison office in Southern Cal., this year. It would be perfect for you, knowing how much you like to play golf.

'So, what can we do for you today?' said the man in the suit. 'Business has been really good recently. I think you gave us an order for 50 new Johns to replace some older models that suffered in those cold bunkers in Germany. The Army really has to do something to bring those bunkers up to snuff.' he said with a chuckle.

'What did you say, 40 more?” repeated the immaculately coiffured man. Well that's great! You know, since these are replacements, they don't figure into the budget but are paid for by a contingency account set aside for this purpose?'

'At least, it keeps the G.A.O. off the field,' chimed in the man in uniform, smiling broadly as he sipped on his bourbon on the rocks.

'Exactly,' said the man in the suit as he raised his Jack Daniel's to toast. 'To Business.'...' To Business.' said the other.'"

I remember after finishing his scenario, Leo looked up and said, "You know, Louie, they only had two options. The first was to try and buy your silence off with the benefits. You got V.A. money for school. Hospital care, if you need it. You can buy a home with a V.A. guaranteed loan. You can work for the government."

"What's the other option?" I asked with a sense that I already knew the answer. Leo looked up and smiled broadly.

Szia,
From Budapest

10. Screaming From The Pyre, Capter VI. Running Amok

Running Amok

Egads and Little Fishes1 Recently, I was accused of "Running Amok." Okay, perhaps I was acting a little bit odd. I was under a lot of pressure to complete something in my personal life: however, I didn't think I was running amok: "Berserk," maybe?

The Berserks were a late Viking group whose tribal customs included a tradition of working themselves up into a frenzy before going into battle, throwing down their weapons and ripping off their shirts ("Ber"= without, and "serk" = shirt) when they charged the enemy. That scared the hell out of their foes. So, when someone tells you that so and so went berserk, the operative question should be: "Did he rip off his shirt?").

However, to be absolutely sure, I ran over to my Websters. It defined "Running Amok," as flying about in a murderous rage. Nope, that wasn't the case at all. Satisfied that I had been socially misdiagnosed, I was ready to close the dictionary when, as is my wont, I continued to read the etymology.

Yiiiiii, it happened again.

The dictionary was absolutely, and unapologetically, wrong. It attributed the phrase to Malay: Any dummy who has read the "Travels of Marco Polo," knows that the term is from India. In fact it is a Sanskrit word with, generally, the same meaning, but, as M. Polo pointed out, with a completely different and interesting twist, which I intend to get into, later. To make this as painless as possible, let me point out that the Malays acquired the term from the Indians with whom they were, from a very early period, involved in commercial trade: and, we got it from the Portuguese who traded with both of them.

I'm accustomed to accepting from those very erudite scholarly-boards, which lend expertise to smart and sundry lexicons, sometimes misleading clues to word origins, albeit, from ignorance or arrogance. They sit back on their scholarly laurels in similarly well-appointed research rooms with comfortable chairs, long tables, antique lamps, no telephones, maybe a computer terminal in some discreet corner but best of all, they have, at their disposal, tons and tons of old MSS. and lexicons (Do I sound jealous? Well, yes I am.). So why can't they do a better job?

Something, my friends, stinks in those well-appointed reading rooms. (I can hear the ghost of the venerable, however unhygienic, Dr. Johnson, protesting the misuse of an intransitive verb by a woman with whom he was sharing a carriage and who had criticized his strong odor by saying that he "smelled.": "'Smell' Madam? I STINK! You smell.")

In the "CompleteYule-Cordier's Edition of 'The Travels of Marco Polo'" Vol. II, p. 347 and footnote #5, M. Polo and Y & C. talk about the Amuki of Malabar, India, who, "were bound not only to defend the king's life with their own, but, if he fell, to sacrifice themselves by dashing among the enemy and slaying until slain." Compare that with the Sanskrit, "Amokhya; Indissoluble" or "Amukta: not free bound." Satisfied, at least about the origins of the term?

Speaking of Running Amok, I saw my first American film the other day on video. I was so unnerved by the amount of nonsense that passes for historical accuracy that I vowed not to see another Classic for the next five years.

However, did someone say "trash?" I understand that the film "Troy," is out on tape. When I have the stomach for it, I'll hook up the VCR and take a peak. There's no hurry. The longer it sits in the Video stores, the cheaper it gets,. Anyway, I know the story and I know how it ends. Timeo Danaos et donas gerentis.

Unlike the Amuki, Alexander the Great's personal bodyguards, the Companions, were not expected to die with him. They were called the "Companions" because they were with Alex 24/7. They ate (cum + pan = 'with bread") with him, partied with him, slept (errr) with him and stayed next to him in battle, but, as I said, were not expected to follow him into Paradise

I read a review of "Troy" as I was spreading out some old newspaper to do a little bit of painting. It said that Scholars (who ever they are) were in agreement that the film fulfills the Poet's vision. I would say anything for money, too. Wherefore not? Alas and Alack, no one made me an offer like that..

"Sing Goddess the wrath of Peleus' son Achilleus and its devastation...."

Frankly, with product placement becoming increasingly more important to the movie business because of the anemic return in ticket sales, I wouldn't be surprised to see the Nike swoosh (is that how it is spelt?) on Achilleus' headband, or the Gucci label on his sandals.As far as kids are concerned (kids of all ages), Nike and Gucci may have been around in 1225 B.C. Now, wouldn't that have been nice?

I really meant "nice" in its original meaning. "Nice," of course, means "stupid" as I have noted, before. We still use it when someone drops a cup of coffee on our brand new clothes at a party: "Nice going!" I have two editions of "Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary," printed a decade apart. In the oldest Edition, it carries that meaning. In the more recent, it does not. Sigh, who makes these decisions?

Speaking of Troy: It was reported a few years, back, that the fabled and nearly forgotten Treasure of Troy, did not get melted down for gold during World War II as many art historians had feared, but ended up in St. Petersburg's, Hermitage, for "safekeeping." That fact doesn't surprise me one twit. Most of the art, books and historical treasures of eastern Europe ended up in Russia for the same reason, "safekeeping."

You can't tell me that history is not entertaining by itself. Think of recent history. What if Hollyweed decided to make a movie of former President Clinton, would it be more entertaining if the Pizza delivery girl, (whatshername?), was really a pizza delivery rent-boy named Mike and instead of a black dress it was a pair of torn black Levis? Would that make the movie more entertaining than the real thing?

We are used to movies running amok with the truth because, from an early age, we are fed that kind of stew. George Washington was a great man for many reasons. The Constitution, after all was his idea, not Madison's or Jefferson's. But did he really chop down his father's cherry tree and then say, "Father, I can not tell a lie, I chopped down your cherry tree"?

Well, let's investigate: how old was George when this incident took place? Cherry is hard wood. So, he didn't do it (at least not alone) when he was a toddler. Maybe, he did it when he was a teenager and was testing out his brand new birthday present, a dropped-forge ax not-made in China, on his father's cherry sapling and he was caught red-handed with the ax in his hand. That, I believe. "Yo' Dad, I'm sorry you busted me, but this new ax is so neat, I really couldn't wait to try it out and Mama has been complaining, for a long time, over dinner, how this tree would one day block her view of the Potomac and the White House which will, one day, be the home of the President of the United States when there is a United States and whose first occupant will be that sniveling corrupt neo-renaissance teenage delinquent who lives nearby. What's his name, Tommy Jefferson?"

In journalism, is "Piping," the same as running amok with the truth? Within the profession, are editors more responsible than reporters for maintaining a moral balance; that is, being truthful? Something else for me to think about.

I understand that Alexander Stone has made a new movie, "Oliver The Great." I can't wait. Really. No Really
Szia From Budapest