I'm older now, but still PI$$ING against the wind ♫

Where to begin? I’m still married, two kids, two dogs and still locked in the same dead end job. I’ve enclosed a pic of my house for your amusement. Normally, it looks a little more inviting, but my pet gator ran off during the storm. As for the reunion… To be honest, there is a high probability that I won’t be able to make it. (I keep asking the ‘Majik 8 Ball’ everyday, and almost always the same responses: “It is doubtful,” “Don’t count on it,” and the occasional “Signs point to yes!”) With that knowledge, I have decided to get off of MIA status, and keep the ‘spirit of intent’ of the Duchesne Class of ’88 Blog. Below are a few extracts from my memoirs (Yep! I did the typical officer thing); chalked full of hard lessons, and experiences I would like to share with you for entertainment purposes only. So, if you have nothing better to do with your time… Read & Enjoy! (READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!)

The madness all began after graduation… Yep! Life was simple being a bum in Duchesne back then, with the only major life decision: go to school, or join the Army with Tim. (Even though I was close to signing, I didn’t because I wanted to keep the good times rolling with Tim while being in the same unit. However, he went Infantry and I wanted to go Armour. Sorry brother, I now know that those things can become a giant steel coffin. But hey, I figured back then from what I saw in Germany, that the M1-A1 tank was the ultimate ATV against the ‘Red Menace!’ If I was going to fight, I might as well be doing it sitting down.) So, off to Utah State I went. My freshman year there was a big eye opener. It was challenging to balance no adult supervision, fraternity parties and dealing with professors who were stiffs. (I mean these guys made Mr. DeMille and Mr. Seamons look like Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Guy… Needless to say, they were serious, and when they set a deadline, they meant it!) As for my sophomore year, I finally got my $hit together and found that proverbial ‘balance.’ (Yep! I was that close of being put on double-secret probation.) Probably a big part for me calming down was Anne. I met her in the summer of ‘89, cruising State Street, in that jalopy ‘Duster’ of mine with Jeff Herrera, his cousin, and a friend I worked with. (Δamn! What a crazy night that turned out to be. Jeff my brother, who’d ever had guessed back then that I would even get that serious? At first, she didn’t like any of us. But I guess I started to grow on her, like the plague!) Anyway, we got married right after I came home from Officer Basic Training in the summer of ’90. Now BELIEVE me, our marriage didn’t start off like those fairy tales you hear about, because the first month we lived right where the bachelor party had ended – the ПKA house. (Ah good times… the joy of driving Taynen’s hung-over A$$ all the way to Springville; puking the whole way!!! Yep! ПKA-AXΩ relations were strained for years due to his actions, and regurgitation from that night!) For my junior year, I started to play with all the toys aviation had to offer. I completed my Private Pilot’s License (I did have a couple of hitches – but my aviation stories are reserved over coffee and/or beers), and I did the unthinkable… I put my ‘inner voice of reason’ on snooze and went off to Airborne at Ft. Benning, Ga. (An old mil proverb: There is something fundamentally wrong with jumping out of a perfectly good aircraft. However, the military doesn’t have any of these.) During my senior year, I made a big push to graduate on time. Prior to that blessed date, I had the option of being released from my AFROTC (Air Force Reserve Officer Training Corps) commitment. However, I noticed that civilian and Air Guard jobs were not exactly knocking down the door. (Maybe it was the recession, maybe employers valued ‘mail order’ degrees over USU ones… I dunno.) So, I decided to entertain the AFROTC recruiter’s pitch…

AAAHHH RECRUITERS! I just love ‘em! (No offense Tim.) I couldn’t believe my ears; I can actually get a job flying jets as an Air Battle Manager (ABM) onboard the AWACS! Sure, sounded great, the pay isn’t much - but at least I’m flying. So I signed. (I didn’t quite fully realize yet, that I gave my heart to Jesus, but my A$$ now belongs to Uncle Sam.) For two months straight, I Δamn near mugged the mail man for my orders. When they finally arrived (four months later), you could have knocked me over with a feather!!! AFSC: 1821K – “Wait a minute, THAT ISN’T AWACS! THAT’S A FUDGEING MISSILEER!” (But I didn’t say FUDGE, I said the Queen Mother of all dirty words. The F--- word!) The next day, I went off to the AFROTC recruiter, threw down my orders, and demanded WTFO?!?! “It appears that there is a missileer back-log in officer accessions, so MPC (Military Personnel Center) assigned that particular AFSC based on my ‘dream sheet’ preferences.” (Doesn’t that sound goofy? Yep! That’s the answer I got almost word for word! True, I did put that stupid job down on my ‘dream sheet,’ based on the recruiter’s advice. However, I never would have guessed that my dead last job of choice (#25) would become #1!) So, I left the AFROTC recruiter’s office – a little wiser. Then, I began to realize the positives: some of my college buds are slotted as missileers for the same wing that I’m going to, (and it would have been beautiful too – just an hour away from Kansas City), almost my entire Masters Degree will be paid for, and not to many people get to claim they have control over the world’s greatest firework display – THE BOMB!!!

In early winter ’93, I began UMT (Undergraduate Missile Training) in California – where everybody seemed to be a fruit, a nut, or a flake! As for me, I went absolutely certifiably nuts with the beaches, Monterey, San Diego, and the free wine from the vineyard tours. Anne would occasionally fly out and visit. (Her trips could not exceed 30 days. In that way, we could make more money if she was listed as a Utah resident instead of a Californian – gotta love the goofy rules of the military pay system.) One of her visits was perfect timing… She and I opted to go to Monterey instead of my classes’ second ‘TJ expedition.’ (Good thing too, because I don’t think my liver could have handled another one!)
A month prior to graduation I was ‘living the dream,’ had my ‘fun-o-meter’ pegged at “fat, dumb and happy,” and paid little attention to the RUMINT (RUMor INTelligence) that some poor saps may be going to the Northern Tier bases. After all, the instructors and school cadre kept singing the same BS tune, titled: MPC would never re-assign UMT students. I think the lyrics went like this, “It has never happened before, due to the differences between the various weapon systems.” (Over the course of time, I wish I had a nickel every time someone tried to prove reliable RUMINT false!!! I would be a very rich man!) Well, MPC did indeed raise its ugly head, making UMT history by tightening ‘the blue screw’ on those poor saps. And one of them was me!!!

In late spring ’93, Anne and I found ourselves driving on Montana I-94 en-route to North Dakota. (Wow! Really pretty country, I recommend everyone should drive it at least once!) Somewhere near Miles City, the Rockies disappeared and gave way to the Badlands. (I liked the Badlands, it almost looked like Duchesne with the exception of multi-colored soils. Never did see all those buffalo, like that full-of-crap-Costner made it appear in his movies!) Continuing east, we passed Dickinson on North Dakota I-94, and everything just went flat! (Mark Twain once wrote, “Up here, a fellow could go AWOL, and you can still see him down the road three days later.”) Along the way, the wildlife became intimidating too, evoking me to say, “Look at all those FUDGEING GEESE!” The fields were full of ‘em! (I found out later, that the goose to people ration in North Dakota is 13:1! It was really cool - up until a formation flew by. Mental note: definitely roll-up your car’s windows when geese are overhead, since these creatures tend to bomb cars, toys, houses, and anything that moves!) Anne and I eventually reached our destination. Still flat, even more geese, and the locals talk just like those folks in the movie “FARGO.” On the plus, these guys are light years ahead in the ‘Green Movement,’ because the parking lots are dotted with electrical outlets to plug your electric car into. “Oh jeepers no, there’s no electric cars here,” said my faithful NODAK guide, “Those are used in winter, to keep your engine block warm.” (WHAT?!?! Now we all survived countless winters in the Uintah Basin, and it can’t get any colder than that… can it? Well, it can! No wonder Teddy Roosevelt became the 26th President of the United States! Those winters up there, can definitely transform any eastern tenderfoot into a ‘whisky-bent, hell-bound cowboy!’) Winter came late that year, and I realized this during a blizzard shortly after Labor Day.
Sometime in the spring of ’97, my parole (Oops, I meant Active Duty Service Commitment) was coming up. I was determined to ‘punch out,’ because I was at the end of my fuse with pulling more than my share of ‘hole time,’ blizzards, Charlie Sierra commanders, and the Air Force in general. But then, a grizzly, old, hunting-buddy Master Sergeant parted these famous last words; “Don’t judge the Air Force solely on your first assignment. Give it one more, and then make your decision.” (WHAT in the world was I thinking? Can you imagine, an officer breaking protocol, and actually listening to the advice of a sergeant? Silly me!) So, I decided to give the Air Force one more shot. But how do I get out of this outfit and get a better job? Oh! I know, and as a bonus, I can get even with AFPC (MPC - new name, same game) at the same time… I swamped ‘em with multiple re-assignment requests until they eventually FIGMOed (F--- It I Got My Orders) me out of there.

Question: What do you do with a disgruntled pyromaniac, with the only job skill of putting on the greatest 4th of July show the world would ever see? Answer (in true AFPC fashion): Give him another huge responsibility, to do even more damage - make him a teacher! My ‘golden ticket’ out of North Dakota came in late spring ’97, teaching ROTC cadets in New Mexico. At first, I really didn’t want it, since my job description required me to tighten the ‘blue screw’ on those poor student saps of mine. (I didn’t have the heart, since I felt they were no different than me way back when. But then, I changed my mind thanks to the “Croc Hunter.” Because he made me realize that it’s one of those important, yet vicious, ‘cycle of life’ things – no different than crocodiles eating their young.) As for New Mexico, it’s a fine state if you are in to:
1) Mud buildings that are older than dirt (thought I’d through that oxymoron in)
2) Chili rellenos (New Mexico’s alleged contribution to world cuisine)
3) Illegal aliens from outer space (sounds like a bad ‘50s sci-fi flick)
4) Big, hairy, monstrous looking tarantulas (with huge FUDGEING FANGS!!)
5) Old West history (On occasion, I got to do a drive-by visit where Pat Garrett was ambushed while ‘draining his lizard,’ back in 1908… Well, that’s the local’s unofficial account of Lincoln County folklore.)
Yep! I loved it all, and my fun-o-meter was pegged at “fat, dumb and happy” again. But all good things must come to an end. By mid winter ’98, my past sin against AFPC has now caught-up. Those jokers bounced me out of that gig so fast, and stuck me in the Navy! (Even now, I’m still trying to figure out how they did it.)

YYYEEEAAAHH! The Sunshine State… Abundant with beaches, sunshine, and friendly drivers. AAUUUGGHH! Travel brochures always exaggerate! There’s nothing but swamps, the afternoon ‘thunder bumpers,’ and the ten second delay after the green light. (Just in case those morons in the perpendicular traffic want the intersection more than you!) So, this is the Navy?!?! Now, where do I report? NAVAVSCOLSCOM?!?! (Boy, the Navy sure talks different – I suppose progress will never infringe on +200 years of tradition.) I spent over an hour wandering aimlessly through that Δamn building, just to find the room I needed to report-in to. Frustrated, I ditched my male ego, and asked the nearest sailor for directions. “Come-about to the Quarterdeck, pass the main bulkhead, pass the head, upon the second scuttlebutt, turn to your port, ahead compartment 121.” (Now, if you need an interpreter, ask Travis or Kirk. Because I still haven’t the foggiest idea as to what he said.) Well, that was helpful, so I kept wandering.
In my opinion, the only thing that comes close to a midget and a monkey with a rocket on the ‘funny $hit-o-meter,’ is ‘Disney Week.’ Basically, it’s a fun-filled week of rides like the dunkers (as seen in “An Officer and a Gentleman”), a ‘brown water’ helo retrieval, several spin-and-puke centrifuges, and the altitude chamber. This phase was considered ‘low threat,’ since the instructors were Petty Officers and Chiefs. (These guys were always good for a laugh, and boy could they dish it out). During the course of that week, a particular Chief rose to the #1 spot of the class’ ‘get even list.’ Our plan was absolutely brilliant! A retaliatory strike in the altitude chamber; we’ll have a trusted instructor give him a larger oxygen mask, and the class will have a chili party the night before. After the class disbanded, one of the Danes confided in me his confusion of the chili party’s importance in the plan. (He didn’t get it? It’s the frosting on the cake!) So, I told him, “The chili beans will add to the volume of gas within.” Still confused, he started to go technical on me by saying, “Under Boyle’s Law, one liter of gas at sea level will expand to three liters at 30,000 feet.” “Correct!” I chimed in, hoping to spare my ears from yet another physics lecture. Quickly, I said, “That gas expansion has to exit somewhere.” He paused and thought. Suddenly, he discarded his Northern Euro-politeness with this horrible “Eeeeewww! That’s disgusting… OK! I’m in!”
An important lesson I have learned in life, execution rarely goes according to plan. (This incident is also testimony!) As the chamber doors closed, the poor unsuspecting Chief never noticed the ‘slight leak’ in his over-sized mask. (Planned.) As we ascended up (depressurized), we all heard the Chief complain about the noxious fumes over the intercom. Then, yelling in agony, “This is the nastiest, most rotten class I have ever had in this chamber!” Mission Accomplished! A little later, we entered RAPID-D! (Rapid decompression is the portion of the ‘chamber ride,’ where the pressure rapidly goes from 5K ft in altitude to 25K ft in altitude.) The nasty side effect to this sudden difference in pressure caused those still experiencing ‘gas expansion,’ to blow out their ‘O-ring.’ (Not planned!) Yep! We had an extra long lunch that day, so we could change our flight suits and do some laundry.
In late spring ‘99, it was time to get ‘winged,’ and finish my penitence to AFPC by leaving the Navy. (Only to “Cross into the Blue Screw” yet again!) I really had my hopes up for the B-ONE. After all, it’s the largest fighter jet in inventory. When the drops came, I ended up with an RC-135. Never heard of it! Perplexed as all can be, I went up to one of my Air Force instructors to inquire about this thing that I’m about to fly. “Oh that!” In an impatient tone, since he was running late for his T-Time, “That’s one of those big-uglies… You’ll learn more about it when you get to your wing.”

Nebraska?!!? It costs $8,000 a year! (Quick, what movie is that line from?) Interesting, Nebraska means “flat water” in Chiwere. Funny, where is this water? The only things that I have seen so far are ‘Angry Red Houses’ (oh the Husker fans… I though no one can get more obnoxious than those from Notre Dame), IOWA Drivers (Idiots Out Wandering Around), and cornfields that surround little towns populated by children… Oh-oh! Not one adult can be found – put the pedal to the metal man!!! Flying the big-ugly wasn’t all that bad, and I learned two very important lessons… The cure for the common hang-over, and never pi$$ off your crew chief! Both were coincidental during the same trip.
It started on a crazy ‘down’ night, when my crew allowed an Air Force nurse to tag-along to one of our favorite ‘watering holes.’ Needless to say, she was not pleasant company; always ‘talking shop’ and her voice squeaked like a mouse. Several drinks later, she started to lecture one of my buds about the effects of alcohol, and how to overcome it in the morning. “Blah, blah… IV solution and oxygen.’ My ears quickly perked-up, then I interrupted, “IV solution? Where in the world am I going to get that? Even if I did, how am I going to stick myself with a needle?” (After all, I’m horrible with needles. I first found this out is Mrs. Hayes sewing class!) She retorted callously, “Then drink water or any fluid… blah, blah, blah.” Oh-boy! She’s getting technical, time to slip back into my drunken stupor! The next day, I awoke to find my VOQ room (Visiting Officers’ Quarters) looking like the bedroom scene in the “Exorcist” – I think I heard the theme song too! (Needless to say, I was in no condition to go to work - but your tax dollars made me!) Later, while conducting my inspections, a little voice kept telling me to ‘procure’ one of the POKs (Personal Oxygen Kits) for future alcoholic endeavors with the crew. After all, it’s just one little bottle… What can be the consequences?
After another night of drunken debauchery, I laid in my bed feeling like the living dead. I started to pound the water, grabbed the POK’s ‘little green apple’… POP! Here comes the oxygen! About an hour later, WOW! That squirrelly girl was right! Later, I grabbed another one while conducting my inspections. Then to CYOA (Cover Your Own A$$), I called down to the crew chief to inform him of a depleted POK. The next thing I saw disturbed me… My crew chief was throwing and bouncing stuff all over the flight line. (Oh, did I mention he was B³? Big, Black, and Built like a brick $hit house! A member of the Air Force Power Lifting Team!! Definitely a dude you don’t want to tangle with!!!”) Oops! But I still need my precious oxygen. And so this spectacle continued for a couple of weeks… I kept reporting depleted POKs; he kept going into an enraged fit. Funny thing about ‘muscle heads,’ they are not as stupid as they appear. (After all, he did make crew chief!) Then came payback, he’d finally figured out my little scheme. While deplaning from a flight, I almost pi$$ed my pants from his stare! I tried to get on the crew bus ASAFP, but I never made it due to this monstrous hand dragging me back to the big-ugly! “Hey Captain,” he shouted, while I was looking eye level at his shin, “I know you have a POK mixed in with your gear!” I paused, knowing my answer could mean life or death. Reluctantly, I opted for the truth, “Uuuh, yyeees I have one!” Out of frustration, he hurled a 50 lb engine wrench (I think it landed in the chow hall), then shouting, “ΔAMN IT! Do you know how much trouble that causes while prepping you guys for flight!?!” I kept quiet, it was my only defense. “Here take these! Let me know when you need more!” I looked up into the sky, and saw five POKs dangling from his fist. To show my gratitude, I offered to cover his rounds for the rest of the trip. He being a non-drinker but an awesome crew chief, opted to have me cover his boys – the whole ground crew! (Man! What an expensive lesson that turned out to be!)
By spring ’04, I again became disgruntled with my job. I truly believe that the Air Force enjoys keeping the guys out of the skies, and make them all ‘staff pukes.’ For a little over a year, I was ‘grounded’ only to shine an office seat with my A$$. The future also looked bleak – another staff job at a bigger HQ. Again, I did the unthinkable; a junior Field Grade Officer bailing out for another aircraft, and declining an HQ staff job. Now that I’m marked, to the “Land of the Misfit Toys” I go!

Question: What does a Floridiot Hurricane and a Floridiot Divorce have in common? Answer: When it’s all over, someone is going to lose a trailer home! I have discovered about myself, that on occasion, I must repeat the same mistake twice before I’ll ever learn. Truth be known, I really missed the boiled peanuts, fried gator tail and the accordion. (In the past, I used to tolerate the accordion at “Oktoberfests.” But when you increase your exposure to Zydeco, it begins to grow on you like cancer!) Although the Gunpig is not a jet, flying on it has been rather interesting and fun. Over the course of my travels to the ‘less civilized parts of the world,’ I have concluded that monkeys are hilarious – but boy do they hate me! After a few incidents with these creatures, I was forced to come up with my own ORM (Operational Risk Management). Below is my equation, to help me determine if I’ll get through the night due to those creatures. (I know its not Noble Prize material, but I’d like to think that Coach Young and Mr. Gogarty would be impressed. After all, a good part of it was concocted by this ‘non-math genius.’)

((Mk)² + Bz) / (1+ Bd + Bl) = BAD JUJU

Variables:
Mk = Quantity of Monkeys seen within 50 meters
² - Because if you see one, there’s always another one hidden
Bz = Quantity of 12fl oz/shots of BooZe consumed by 1 and Bd
1 = Me
Bd = Quantity of BuDs (friend and foe) within 15 meters
Bl = Quantity of Steel and/or Cement BuiLdings within 25 meters

Yes, it’s crude, and still needs refining. However, field test results have proven that when ‘BAD JUJU’ is less than 10 = minor scratches, bite marks, and parasites. On the flip, when ‘BAD JUJU’ is greater than 18.5 = Barrel of Monkeys! (Stagger run for your life!)

What’s Next?

Currently, I am grounded, shining an office chair yet again, and have become a 'Power Point Ranger.' An important lesson I have learned here: The grass does look greener on the other side… When you get there, you will discover that it is still coated with wet paint. In a few years, I’ll eventually need to grow-up and get a real job. (I think that is why I like “Dirty Jobs” with Mike Rowe, and I definitely do not desire to be employed in the #2 Industry!) Where will I end up? I dunno, probably a place where I have amassed the most “Get Out Of Jail Free” Cards. "Life’s like a box of Choocoo- " Ah Shuud up Forrest! I told you to bring salt water taffy and a 24 pack to life’s little party!!!