The Emergency Broadcast System: A Dollop of Dopamine

After reading Orwell’s, 1984 in 1975, I developed a fear of the Emergency Broadcasting System similar to the horror some people experience at seeing clowns or midgets:  Such trepidation may be unfounded, and yet, I get the willies.  To be clear, I don’t fear the system itself (I’m not certain there is a system; after all, there’s no border), but the test, the sound with which we are all familiar, the obnoxious, alien audible, and that pattern: EEE!  EEE!  EEE!  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!  Since the ‘70s, upon hearing the first syllable of that twisted scream, I’ve jumped to turn off the radio or television.  Remote controls made it easier, but if in a position where I can’t reach the set or remote, I cover my ears and sing John Prine’s, Dear Abby, in double time with gusto.  I have similar although lesser consternation for repetitious announcements given in baggage claim areas at airports or subliminal messages in Hollywood movies.  I have the feeling something is up, things are not as they appear, but rather, a devious and sinister plot is upon us, a method of behavior control practiced by our government, not unlike but clearly more surreptitious than campaigns to end smoking, obesity, use of fossil fuels, and to not only accept but wax obsequious and fawning before people and practices once abhorred.  Sometimes, especially being Americans, we balk at instruction, despite all studies, lectures, counseling, PSAs, mandates, regulations and finger wagging of our own children, even if it’s for our own good.  That’s when the government steps in to provide a little nudge, and if the nudge has no effect, then it’s a push, a shove and then….well:  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!  I don’t know exactly how it works, when it’s used or for what specific purpose, but I have a theory.  This is not science fiction.  This is possible.  After all, the government doesn’t give away free cell phones, or give anything without ulterior motives.   I believe, at birth, our brains are implanted with a chip, about the size of a Viagra pill, and oddly, with the same shape and color, but that’s only the veneer.  It’s electronic, like a transponder, and whenever they “test” the emergency broadcasting system, give a canned airport announcement, or flash subtle patterns on a Hollywood movie screen, it activates, but just long enough to release a microscopic dollop of dopamine or whatever chemical makes us calm, happy with our lot and as content as California cows—I’ll have to check with my son on this as he studied psychology with some intent; it could be a variety of chemicals…I don’t know.  But, clearly, it’s not working as designed; indeed, it appears to be having the opposite effect, typical of government programs.  Our country is a mess; if it were an airplane, all gauges would be red-lined with stick shakers rattling our teeth, annunciators flashing, horns and bells going off, and the dreaded, “TERRAIN!  TERRAIN!  PULL UP!  PULL UP!”  But that’s only my opinion; we could be doing fine.  I’m sure some would say I need to uncover my ears and hear the siren’s call, remove the scales from my eyes and see.  I don’t know, pal.  If this is the reality I am to accept, I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to see it.  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Skin

It has all the strength and elasticity
of a Japanese lantern.
I'm afraid it may not be able
to contain my muscles
much longer, my skin,
like a braut busting open on the grill.
I should stop working out.
Why press my luck?
My father and uncle warned of this
thirty years ago,
bleeding from a scratch,
bruising at a bump,
to say nothing of appearance.
I gave their complaints a shrug,
my IOU now come due.
Yeah, Mick, what a drag,
and Keith Richards,
unless mummified
by cigarettes and booze, knows.
I should start smoking again.
I have the booze down.
What would it matter?


(SKJ, 07/2010)

Frozen Underwear and Bottle Rockets

                Following Marilyn Monroe’s lead, I put my underwear in the freezer, but added socks and

T-shirt.  Prior to dressing for work as a mechanic at an aircraft repair station, I donned the frozen under-things, and was cool, at least for one brief moment.  Temperatures in Little Rock and most of the south had been above 100 for two weeks, hitting 110 a few times.  I worked the night shift, which began at 4 PM and concluded at midnight. Our only relief in the hangar came from floor fans that stood as tall as a man, but in such heat, blew only hot air. On this day, with the hangar full, High Speed Haxby and I had to work on the ramp.  He drew a single engine Beechcraft Bonanza, the owner demanding more cooling from the air conditioner.  (Look, Fella, in this weather, the AC can only do so much.)  Like the aircraft I drew, a West Wind business jet, affectionately known as a “Jew Canoe” since the Israel Aircraft Corporation held the type certificate, the Bonanza sat cooking on the ramp all day.  High Speed crawled down into the fuselage to bleed the system, but soon came crawling back out, his face pale and sweating.  He stood, leaned over, grabbed his knees and puked.  We all got a laugh out of that.  My West Wind was a simple tire change, but when I attempted to jack the right main gear, the jack sank into hot asphalt; I went back in and cut plywood to augment the jack pads.  With the job finished, I opened the cabin door to retrieve the logbook and was pushed back by a horrendous smell.  Apparently, the last passengers dined on lobster, but the flight crew failed to remove the leftovers or dump the potty.   Man, did it reek.

                 Our normal after-work ritual was to pool our money and send someone for beer, the cheapest beer they could find, the desire being quantity, not quality.  But on this night, and with the beer already in coolers, we headed for the Arkansas River to cool off and go for a ride in Tom’s boat.  Consequently, around 3 AM from the darkness of the Arkansas River, a boatload of us laid siege to downtown Little Rock that began with a barrage of bottle rockets and no doubt awoke businessmen and visitors in their high hotels.  Soon a police cruiser showed up at River Front Park and made the mistake of finding us with a spotlight to which we replied with a landing light designed for a Boeing 727 that we had mounted in a cutout gallon milk jug and wired to a 24 volt aircraft battery—you couldn’t leave it on too long or the jug melted.  Our spotlight being much brighter than the cops, theirs went dead, but we heard much yelling and saw them running toward the bank.  After flashing hotels with the landing light, we chose discretion and withdrew in darkness down the Arkansas River, two of us being pulled behind the boat on inner tubes; drunk, of course, and free of life jackets.  By the time we loaded the boat and headed our separate ways, dawn was breaking.  I could tell by the sky, it was going to be another hot one.

(Photograph of the author by Mitch "Sluggo" Easily, 1987, R.I.P., Sluggo)

Playing Bass at the Ernie Pyle Theatre, 1947

This bass man learned to play on an instrument provided by the Red Cross while in a POW camp at Stalag 2B in Germany. After the war, he played and sang jazz and blues in combos from Hot Springs, Arkansas, to Houston, Texas. In 1946, he went back into the service with the Army Air Corps and was sent to Okinawa where his musical talents were discovered by Special Services. He played in a jazz combo that entertained the troops from Tokyo to the Philippines. He also played, sang and acted in shows performed at the Ernie Pyle Theatre in Tokyo, including "Tico-Tico" and "On the Midway."

(Photographs of Steve Ketzer, Sr., Okinawa and Tokyo, Japan, circa 1947, photographers unknown)

Sun's "Good Advice" (Not Taken)

  

Spending too much time in Bill’s Pool Hall and not enough in class, I flunked the 8^th grade.  That failure, along with an early school-year birthday, placed me in draft status while still in high school.  The draft board informed my school that if I didn’t maintain at least a D average, I was theirs.  I graduated with a D+.  It was nip and tuck.  Two weeks after graduation, though, I received the greetings.  I took the induction notice to my father and moaned, “Gee, Dad, what do you think I should do?”  During WWII, my father was one of Darby’s original 500 Rangers, selected in Carrickfergus, North Ireland, and trained by British Commandos in Achnacarry, Scotland.  In 1942 at a place called Dieppe, the Rangers were the first American soldiers to experience combat against the Germans in Europe—the first to kill and be killed—and during every invasion that followed, they, along with paratroopers, led the way, were the tip of the spear.  While on a scouting patrol, my father was wounded and captured by Rommel’s troops at Faid Pass in Tunisia on Valentine’s Day in 1943, just prior to the German rout of the American forces at Kasserine Pass.  Except for three escapes, during one of which he remained free for a month, he spent over two years as a prisoner of war.  He was flown from Tunisia to Italy where he and other POWs were marched through Naples while the Italians lined up to spit and throw garbage.  Eventually, he ended up in Germany and bounced from camp to camp, but spent most of his time at Stalag 2B.  He was liberated by British troops in April of 1945.

Dad read my draft notice and, laughing, threw up his arms and said, “Join the Air Force!  They get coffee and doughnuts every morning!”  I did.  Six months later, following basic training and tech school, I found myself in Vietnam, but in the relative security of Phan Rang Air Base.  I worked in Life Support for a fighter squadron; that is, supporting the life of the fighter jock.  Anything that touched the pilot’s body was my responsibility: helmet, oxygen mask, survival vest, parachute, G-suit, survival seat pack with life raft, &c.  I trained on the equipment’s use, as well as escape and evasion applications. Jocks flying the day’s first sorties showed up all bleary eyed at squadron headquarters around 5 AM where I met them with coffee and doughnuts, suited them up, and sent them on their way to roar into the dawn in camouflaged F-100s.  Mostly due to the equipment, the headquarters building was air conditioned.   I was also responsible for mowing lawns around the building (as I was frequently in trouble), a task I performed wearing a shoulder-length, blond wig—a gift from a jock.  The wig originally belonged to a blow-up doll, the life of the party at the officer’s hooch until, alas, punctured beyond repair.

The job was gravy; the assignment was gravy; no war stories here.  Oh, Charlie lobbed in a few rockets from time to time just to let us know he was out there, but little damage was done, nothing of consequence that I recall.  Phan Rang was a world away from the combat Army grunts and Marines experienced out on the rice paddies or in the jungle.  In fact, we were so secure, those ground pounders came to Phan Rang for in-country R&R.  No doubt about it, we flyboys had it dicked: coffee and doughnuts every morning.  Well, except for the fighter jocks who got shot down, but that happened yet another world away.  I returned to the States physically unscathed.  The worst thing I experienced was the welcome a few college students provided when I passed through San Francisco on my way home to Arkansas.  At that time, troops were required to travel in uniform.  As the harassment increased, the mandate changed to travel in civilian clothes: My America.  After leave, I spent a year on a SAC base outside Columbus, Ohio, then back to a fighter squadron at Keflavik, Iceland, for a year, and then I was out.  I was discharged in New Jersey, having paid my dues for the natural facts, as John Lee Hooker would say.

A decade or so later and free of military obligation, I began to question the old man’s advice.  Killing time at my parent’s house one day, my Dad and I watched television; I stretched out on the sofa and he on his recliner and in charge of the remote as always and flipping channels.  We shot the shit, discussed politics and the war de jour.

“You know, Dad,” I said, “as a man, I feel like I missed something in life by not experiencing combat.”

“Stevie,” he replied, not looking away from the screen and still flipping channels, “you didn’t miss a thing.”




(Photograph of the author by "The Choker"; Phan Rang, Vietnam, 1970)

Taking Five

DELTA OSCAR...SIERRA VICTOR INDIA DELTA ALPHA NOVEMBER INDIA
YANKEE ALPHA...ALPHA UNIFORM FOX...WHISKY INDIA ECHO
DELTA ECHO ROMEO SIERRA ECHO HOTEL ECHO
NOVEMBER...ALPHA DELTA INDIA OSCAR
SIERRA...GOLF OSCAR OSCAR DELTA
BRAVO YANKEE ECHO.