In looking back, it seems that many of the important decisions we made were made while we were traveling across the country. When traveling long distances, there are few distractions and time to give serious discussion to the issue at hand. There used to be portions of our country where you couldn’t even find a decent radio station. I’m afraid XM Radio may have ruined our decision-making process.
In the Spring of 1965, Carole and I took a vacation down into Mexico. We were stationed at Fort Hood, Texas and Carole’s dad lived in Rosenberg, Texas, just south of Houston. We dropped Becky (age 3) and Missy (three months) off at her dad’s and headed South. It was during that trip that we decided that I would become a career Army JAG.
With that decision behind us, we enjoyed a beautiful little resort, south of Monterey. I think it was our third and last day there when we figured out that this quaint little resort had a bit of a flea problem. Adios Mexico! We left Mexico, but Mexico refused to leave me. Three months later, I was twenty pounds lighter and wondering if I would ever be free from the curse. Then, as suddenly as it came, it went away.
Shortly after I returned from Mexico, I received a phone call from the JAG Career Management Office in the Pentagon. “Paul?” Paul is my first name, but only telemarketers call me Paul. I responded with “Yes?” He was a JAG major whom I don’t remember, but he told me that The Judge Advocate General had asked him to call and let me know that he was aware of the good work I was doing at Fort Hood. There were some many funny responses I thought about saying, but I played it straight.
He asked me if I had given any thought to a career in the Army. I told him I had. I mentioned that a friend of mine was able to attend the language school to study German and then be assigned to Germany. I told him that I thought that sounded exciting. He told me that he thought that could be arranged. I told him to put the offer in writing and I would accept it. He then said something strange. He said he could make it happen, but he couldn’t put it in writing. I figured he must have been speaking Pentagonese, because I had never heard anything like that before. But, I wanted what he said he was going to “make happen.” I said, “OK,” and, in fact, it all worked out as promised.
The last thing I needed to do was pass a simple language aptitude test. They sent me over to the Fort Hood test center. I sat down with an NCO and he explained the test. I would be dealing with a made-up language and I was to answer a number of multiple choice questions. I needed a score of 18 to pass. In order to discourage people from guessing, each wrong answer subtracted one-half point.
I was the only one taking the test and we were alone in the room. He took out a large test clock and wound it. He said I had twenty minutes, set the clock down right in front of me and left the room. I started in on the test and the first few questions seemed easy. Then, I looked at the clock. It was like an oversize old-time alarm clock, but I couldn’t read it. It looked like it ran backwards, but I just couldn’t figure out how it worked, what it meant or how much time I had left. I began to panic. I had a wristwatch on, but I hadn’t bothered to look at it when I started the test. I went out into the hall and looked for the NCO. The building seemed empty. I went back to my desk and tried to answer more questions, but the ticking seemed to be getting louder. It was maddening. I spent more time trying to compose myself than answering questions. Somehow, I needed to answer 18 questions and get them all right. Tick, tick, tick.
I had just finished my 21st question when the alarm went off and the NCO reappeared. I tried to explain to him about the clock, but “concern” was not in his job description. He just said, “Let’s see how you did.” It turned out I missed only one, which gave me a score of 19 and one half. I was embarrassed, but I had passed and I just wanted to escape from the clock and the building. I determined that my aptitude for languages was a lot better than for time keeping.
All posts by pajarice
Those Terrible Traffic Enforcement Cameras
I don’t know if you are familiar with the Beltway (I-495) that encircles Washington, DC, but it is the fastest way to get around DC. It is at least four lanes in each direction and the speed limit is 55 miles per hour. Except during rush hour, when it resembles a parking lot, the average speed in somewhere between 65 and 70 mph. The dangerous speeders are going over 80 mph. If you drove at 55 mph in one of the center lanes, you would probably cause an accident.
There are certain drivers who treat the beltway like a racetrack (it is an oval). If you see these nuts racing up behind you, you become very cautious and hope that their accident doesn’t include you (or delay you). I prefer they run off the road rather than have their accident in the lanes of traffic. That can really slow things down.
The law enforcement authorities have come up with traffic enforcement cameras that take pictures of these speeders, show the vehicle, the license plate and how fast the vehicle was traveling. A big old fine arrives in the mail to the speeder. Now, I am told that this is bad. It violates our hot shot’s rights. I get lost just about here. What rights? The right to privacy? Driving a vehicle on an interstate highway seems fairly public to me. What about the right to see the police car which will give the speeder an opportunity to slow down? This is not a game. If there is any due process involved, it is covered by posting the speed limit.
Those who object say it is just a way for the police to make money. Well, it cost money to operate a police force and the cameras and personally, I would rather it would come from traffic violators than from my taxes.
In downtown areas, the city has posted red light cameras, which catch drivers who run the red lights. Now who could object to that? You would be surprised. Again, you have the arguments about the city making money, privacy, and no opportunity for a violator to confront the accuser. The inability of the red light runner to confront a police officer may keep him or her from going to jail. No one will know about the drunk driving and the driver will not have an opportunity to resist arrest. Can’t beat that.
Running red lights has caused a large number of accidents and injuries. Statistics show that the red light cameras have reduced the number of accidents. That’s good news. However, it is argued that when someone who was going to run a red light sees the camera, he may slam on his brakes and this will cause the car behind him to rear end him. If that is the case, I guess the car behind him was also going to run the red light. Now, please remind me, who is it that I am supposed to feel sorry for?
People complain that a red-light-camera ticket can be issued without any police supervision. I guess that is right and I think there should be police involvement in the process. But as long as the cameras are calibrated and someone is overseeing the fairness of the system, I think that’s about all we can hope for. No system is perfect. Look at the O.J. trial
Where’s Private Westmoreland?
In the early days of my career, I was a defense counsel. The worst cases were AWOL and desertion cases. An AWOL could be proved by submitting a couple of morning reports – one showing the soldier wasn’t present and one showing when he came back. Talk about exciting – I went to law school for this! If a soldier was gone for over 28 days, the morning report would show that he was dropped from the rolls as a deserter. Almost all of these exciting cases ended up with a guilty plea and a conviction for AWOL.
Then one day at Fort Hood, Texas, everything changed. I was advised that Private Clarence Westmoreland was down at the Fort Hood Stockade and that he had deserted from the Army five years ago. I went down to see him. He was a soft spoken guy who told me he didn’t know that he was in the Army. He told me that he tried to enlist, but the Army wouldn’t take him. I didn’t know if he was telling me the truth, but if he was lying, he had a great imagination. A few days later, his wife showed up and told me the same story. I decided to check it out.
Neither Clarence nor his wife was a spring chicken. I suspected they were both about forty, but they had been rough years. His wife had moved into transient billets awaiting Clarence’s trial. She told me not to worry about her safety, because while down in the billets, she was taking her teeth out, so she would not excite some young soldier. She told me when she was a much younger girl, she had been married to a TV western star (I can’t remember his name). But, believe me, she had traveled many dusty trails since then.
So here is the Private Clarence Westmoreland story, most of which I was able to verify. Clarence was drafted and served two years in the Army during the Korean War. He then got out and enlisted in the Air Force for three years. Then, he reenlisted for three more years. With less than a year left on his Air Force obligation, he received orders to Greenland. He was advised that he would have to extend his enlistment to cover the two year tour. Failure to extend would result in immediate discharge. Clarence decided not to extend and was subsequently honorably discharged from the Air Force. His discharge papers stated that he could not enlist for 90 days. He was a sergeant and by staying out for 90 days, he lost all his rank.
Clarance and his wife and son went back to their home town in Arkansas (I no longer have a clue as to the town’s name) and he looked around for a job. He also bumped into the Army recruiter. He told the recruiter that he wouldn’t mind enlisting in the Army, but his discharge papers stated he couldn’t enlist for 90 days. The recruiter looked at the discharge and explained to Clarence that the 90 days only applied to the Air Force. So Clarence enlisted in the Army They took him up to Little Rock where he had his physical and was sworn in. He was given orders to report to Fort Polk, Louisiana and sent back home.
He didn’t have any money to drive to Fort Polk, so he took his wife’s silver service to the bank and using it as collateral, borrowed enough money to get down to Fort Polk and survive until the Army paid him. With his wife, his son and all their worldly possessions, they piled into their VW bus and drove to Fort Polk. It was about 9:00 in the evening when they arrived. He took his records and orders and reported to the headquarters. We never determined who he talked to, but an NCO in charge insisted that Westmoreland could not enlist for 90 days and consequently his enlistment was illegal and he was not in the Army. They looked around for a place to spend the night, but anyone who remembers Fort Polk in the late 50’s will verify there wasn’t much, if anything. The Westmorelands ended up driving back to their home in Arkansas.
Clarence went to see the recruiter and told him what happened. According to Clarence, the Army recruiter said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to wait until the 90 days are up to enlist you.” Clarence told him that if he wasn’t in the Army, then he wasn’t going through the drill again. Clarence found a job as the handy man at a local motel and stayed there for the next five years. His son enlisted in the Navy.
After about five years, Clarence’s aunt started looking for him. She wrote to her congressman and said she knew he was in the Army, but didn’t know where he was assigned. The congressman asked the Army. The Army determined that Clarence had enlisted in Little Rock and was assigned to Fort Polk. Fort Polk advised that he never reported and prepared the necessary paperwork showing Clarence was AWOL and a deserter. After that, the FBI picked him up. The sheriff told the FBI that Clarence wasn’t hiding. In fact, Clarence cleaned up the jail every Saturday morning.
I explained everything I had discovered to the powers that be in the JAG office. I didn’t think that this case needed to go to trial. I was officially designated as gullible and a bleeding heart. Me? The case was going to trial for desertion.
We were scheduled for trial right before Christmas (not a bad time to try such a case) and I brought his son in from Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida. We were ready to go and then, we couldn’t find Mrs. Westmoreland. Had she slipped her teeth back in and run off with some young soldier? It appears that Mrs. W. had been living off of money she was receiving from the Army Emergency Relief (a wonderful organization that provides money to soldiers and families who are in trouble). They told her that they couldn’t give her any more money, but they would provide her with a bus ticket to anywhere she wanted to go. She decided to go to Pensacola and spend Christmas with her son (who now was at Fort Hood).
Well, Clarence got to have Christmas dinner at the Fort Hood Stockade. We started the trial the third week in January and Clarence, his wife (with teeth) and their Navy son all testified consistently as to what had happened. I even brought in to testify the owner and manager of the motel where Clarence worked. He was right out of Mayberry RFD. Based upon his testimony, Clarence could have been elevated to Eagle Scout.
The court didn’t waste much time in finding Clarence not guilty. That entitled him to back pay for the three months he spent in the stockade. I was also able to get him time in service for the years he was found not guilty of being AWOL. So I figured Clarence needed about seven more years to retire.
I never found out what happened to my 40-year-old private. His Navy son flew back to NAS Pensacola and I guess Clarence and his bride headed off for their next Army station. I hope they didn’t send him to Fort Polk. The cycle might start all over again.
Ode to a Cracked Seven Wood
Golf is my passion. And, for the first 55 years of my life, I was a miserable golfer. What made it even more frustrating was that I played almost everything else fairly well. I played baseball, basketball, football, soccer, tennis, and even ping-pong at a fairly high amateur level. But, at golf, I stunk! Finally about ten years ago, I started going to three-day golf schools down in Florida (I have now been to four) and have learned how to play the game – not great – but, I no longer feel like a jerk.
I played poorly the last time out and decided to write a poem about the agony of poor play. But I waited too long and my spirits improved (all I got down was “It’s just a game, or so they say, then why can it take my manhood away?). So the spilling out of my emotions will have to wait for another really bad round. I hope it is not too soon.
I decided to write about my seven wood with the cracked shaft. As I wrote the poem, I actually decided what to do about replacing it. Enjoy.
Ode to a Cracked Seven Wood
Why do they call them woods, when they’re really made of metal,
You hit the ball on the screws, now that’s another fine kettle.
But it brings back memories of long past days,
A game of tradition and an earlier phase.
My seven wood’s broke, there’s a crack in the shaft,
And grass sticking out, when I saw it I laughed.
For without the grass, I wouldn’t have seen,
That fine little crack on the Fujikura sheen.
Do I put on a new shaft, or get a new club?
The technology is better, that is the rub.
A seven wood or a hybrid, I’ll just have to see,
I can purchase a hybrid with the same degree.
I think I’ll stay with the seven, I have memories fond,
There were times on par threes, when I cleared a pond.
The Pings are now weighted to draw or to fade,
Who thought up that stunt, never saw how I played.
What if you fade a slice or draw a hook?
You’d be in the wrong fairway and feel like a schnook.
So I asked for my Ping to be weighted for straight,
Then if it curves left or right, it’ll just be my fate.
Hillary Dillary Dock – The Clock Struck 13
I’m always amazed and in somewhat dismay,
When some high official pads a resume.
A masters from Harvard, a doctorate from Tech,
Why lie of those things, they’re so easy to check.
Doctors with no license, lawyers who fail the bar,
Some just keep on practicing, some really get quite far.
So Hillary wants to look tough, it may come down to the wire,
So she mentions while in Bosnia, she came under sniper fire.
When questioned, she embellished, “We ran while I ducked my head,”
Poor Chelsea then was questioned and supported what her mother said.
Those of us from the military, knew her cover was blown,
You don’t land the First Lady’s plane into a sniper zone.
Just like with the dress and the DNA,
When the facts were clear, she had something to say.
She was “sleep deprived,” and she just “misspoke,”
If you’ve ever been shot at, you know that’s a joke.
But, I’m not ruling Hillary out, there are problems to be resolved,
The economy is in the tank, and, of misspeaking, she can be absolved.
She knows how to make money, she’s done it I’m told,
She’ll put tax dollars in cattle futures and rake in a hundred fold!
John Pavlick – Still Young at Sixty
John Pavlick and I served together in the military at Fort Riley in the late Seventies and early Eighties. He was a Flepper (one who was selected by the Army to go to law school – Funded Legal Education Program – FLEP). The officers who were selected were very special and made my job as the boss so much easier. George Peirce was also a Flepper and assigned to the Big Red One at Ft. Riley at the same time (He is now the General Counsel for the Defense Intelligence Agency).
I have mentioned before that for physical training, we played soccer. Well, some of the combat battalions challenged us to soccer games. We never lost. The officers of the 1st Squadron of the 4th Cavalry, know as the Quarter Horse, were destroyed when they lost to a bunch of noncombat lawyers. Just because we didn’t eat snakes didn’t mean we weren’t good athletes.
Below is the poem I read to John on his sixtieth birthday.
John – Still Young at Sixty
John’s celebrating his birthday on this special day,
He was born in Wurzburg, far, far away.
As an Army brat, they would surely anoint,
This fine young lad, to study at West Point.
And study he did and learn how to brace,
And walk a few tours, it’s a hectic pace.
But there was a bright spot, he found his elixir,
He ran into Olga at a social mixer.
He graduated, got married and started off to school,
First armor, then airborne, those patches look so cool.
Then off to Fulda, Germany, no time to get bored,
He was saving all of Europe from the Russian hoard.
John decided to become a lawyer, he certainly had the pep,
He applied for the Army program and soon became a FLEP.
Schooling at Pennsylvania, not much use for a gun,
Graduated a JAG, assigned to the Big Red One.
At Fort Riley, he prosecuted and was Chief of Criminal Law,
Discipline got better, regarding things he oversaw.
John was great at playing soccer, he truly was a force,
When the JAG officers took the field and whipped the Quarter Horse.
John was always bright, but from where I stood,
Having him in the trenches, just made me look good.
When we left Fort Riley, it was time for more knowledge,
They sent John to the Grad School and me to the War College.
With Olga, Keith and Mark, he headed for a perk,
To the general counsel’s office, to do government contract work.
He honed his skills while still young and spry,
Then retired from the Army to give private practice a try.
A partner at Venable, the horizon is wide,
There’s a lot more money on the other side.
But it’s talent and skill that set John apart,
Both the Army and clients recognized his art.
Now, John is sixty, and his friends are here,
Along with his family, bringing love and good cheer.
We celebrate your birthday and wish you the best,
Here’s to good friends, good health and all the rest.
Bad Vilbel’s Spooky House
My last blog was about General Colin Powell and the number of similar experiences we had (I forgot to mention that we both had our retirement parades at the Fort Myer Parade Field). I mentioned that we both lived in senior government housing in Bad Vilbel, Germany (near Frankfurt). Well, before General Powell arrived, we had to put one of the general officer quarters under a microscope.
There were four or five units designated as general officer quarters. It housed the V Corps generals and generals from other units in our area. We had one general and his wife and child move in, and immediately move back out. They said there was something strange and unhealthy about the house. It was “contaminated.”
The wife explained that both she and her child had been sick since they moved in. Some of the wives from her husband’s command had brought some flowers by and as soon as they left, the flowers started dying. There was more. She saw a fly come in an open window, fly around and then, drop dead. A very large painting that was to be placed in the living room had been damaged in the shipment and needed to be touched up. A German artist came out to the house to work on it. But, he got sick and could not complete the work.
Not only did they move out, but they no longer wanted any of their furniture, because they now believed that it too was contaminated. I was now monitoring the situation, because I was seeing down the road a pretty big claim against Uncle Sam. I wasn’t disappointed. We sent out our resident specialists to test the air, drapes and rugs. We found nothing. I suggested getting an exorcist. No one saw the humor.
It was decided between the V Corps leadership and the general that V Corps would hire the best company in Germany at investigating contaminations. It cost quite a bit, but it would be worth it to put this mess behind us. The German company came in and took scrapings from the fabrics, paint chips and gathered up the dust balls. They had contraptions for capturing the air in every room. They went at it with German efficiency and attention to detail. No turn was left unstoned.
As we expected, nothing was found. But, it is hard to prove a negative and the general’s wife came back and said that no one had checked the crawl space under the house. We checked it and found nothing. We were at loggerheads.
One of my dearest friends in the Army is Ron Holdaway. When I was assigned to Vietnam as the Deputy Staff Judge Advocate (SJA) for the 1st Air Cavalry Division, Ron was my boss. And as it turned out, now that I was the V Corps SJA, Brigadier General Ron Holdaway was the Judge Advocate for US Army Europe and again, my boss. He called me about the “contaminated” house. It was getting some attention through the “old boy net” in Heidelberg. I briefed him on what we had found so far. Finally, Ron said, “Jack, we are dealing here with a general officer.” I paused. Then, I said, “Sir, Major General Curry (our Deputy CG) told me yesterday that he would be delighted if someone could find that the house was contaminated. Then, we could level it and move on. But, since we have done all the superb testing and found nothing, what are we supposed to do?” I think Ron understood our dilemma.
About six months later, our general was promoted to his second star and reassigned out of the Frankfurt area. We assigned another general to the “contaminated” house and guess what? No dead flies, no problem. We were not surprised.
Our newly promoted two-star general was reassigned to Heidelberg and assigned to quarters right behind General Holdaway. The family didn’t last a month. It turned out that Bad Vilbel wasn’t the only place with contaminated general office housing. The general took his family to the Black Forest and commuted from there. The next time I had the flimsiest excuse to call Ron Holdaway, I was all over it. He said, “Jack, I know why you are calling.” I said, “Sir, we are dealing here with a two-star general.”
General Colin Powell and Me
I am a little over half way through reading Colin Powell’s book, “My American Journey.” I am loving it. I’m embarrassed to say that I bought the book when it first came out. It’s been on my shelf for over ten years and I just got around to it. It’s nice to finally be retired.
Even though he had a meteoric career and I just sort of chunked along, we still had a lot in common. I guess that is natural when we both spent a large portion of our lives wearing the green uniform. Each time something popped up in the book, I would think, “Yeah, that happened to me too.” Like buying a home in the Springfield/Burke area while working in the Pentagon. Isn’t it a small world.
As his going away gift from Fort Carson, they gave him a Michael Garman statue. When I left Fort Riley, I got the same. I think his was a cowboy and mine was the old trooper, but let’s not quibble. He didn’t mention whether he paid for his. I paid for mine. Our command decided that it wasn’t fair to have subordinates pay for a senior officer’s going away gift. So, I selected my “gift” from a large number of options and paid for it. Then, at the going away party, the general would present the “gift.” It was hard to be surprised since everyone in the room knew I had purchased it. I still display it proudly on my shelf.
Both Colin Powell and I received killer OERs (Officer Efficiency Reports) and survived them! That is not easy to do and I am sure we realize how lucky we were. His bad OER came when he was a brigadier general and an assistant division commander at Fort Carson. He ran into a situation where the division was run by intimidation and both the general and his wife had a hand in it (Carole and I ran into one of those situation, but we survived). Major General Hudachek, the division commander, rated Powell to be “promoted with contemporaries,” and was totally silent about his future potential. For my military friends, I don’t need to explain, but promoting with contemporaries was the kiss of death. One time, I checked with the Department of the Army and found that 80% of majors were rated “promote ahead of contemporaries.” That means that if you are rated to promote with contemporaries, you are in the bottom 20% (math was always one of my strengths).
Lieutenant General Ross, the deputy commander of Forces Command, was Powell’s senior rater and he just repeated what General Hudachek had said and placed him in the third block, where blocks one and two were reserved for officers on the move. My one experience with General Ross wasn’t any better, but he wasn’t rating me.
I always wondered if I could make it in the military, because trying to be funny can sometimes be inappropriate in the Army and I couldn’t seem to pass up an opportunity. I am also short in height and on one occasion at the Fort Riley Officers Club, I mentioned to the chief of staff and other officers present that putting the tall soldiers in the front of the formation wasn’t fair to the short soldiers in the rear. First, they couldn’t see over the tall soldiers and second, when marching the guys in the back had to really stretch out. The chief mentioned the need for uniformity and I said put the short soldiers up front. It will make the formation look more aerodynamic. Everyone thought it was funny.
About two weeks later at a social event, here comes the chief and Lieutenant General Ross (who is about 6′ 5″). the chief introduced us and told Ross that I was the guy that wanted to put the short soldiers in the front. Ross got right on top of me, leaned over and asked what I had against tall people. It was an amusing scene. He then lectured me on uniformity and appearance and that it was important. I then mentioned that out in front of the formation we had the division G1, G2, G3 and G4 and that the G3 was really tall and that the G2 was short. I suggested we needed a taller G2 or a shorter G3. We were all having a good time and my comments were meant (almost) in jest. However, at the next parade, the division staff lined up G1, G3, G4 and then the G2. I guess I am glad no one got reassigned.
Getting back to General Powell’s OER, it appears that along with the formal rating system, general officers have an informal system. In Powell’s case, General Cavazos, the FORSCOM Commander, was looking out for him and recognized that things were not as they appeared in the formal rating system. General Powell ended up assigned to a two-star billet.
In my case, I was a brand new major working for a more senior major who couldn’t understand why I had been promoted so quickly. The reason was we were in the middle of the Vietnam War ramp up and people were getting promoted more quickly. He was forever competing with me. You really don’t want to compete with your rater. What made matters worse was that after he would insist on competing, he would lose. It was my worst experience in the Army He came into my office one day to talk about ratings. He said he would never give anyone lower than a 92, because he wouldn’t want to kill them. At that particular time, ratings were so inflated that anything but a 99 or 100 would be devastating. He gave me a 92. I am convinced that our earlier conversation was so that I would know that he was giving me his lowest rating.
At that time, the system consisted of a rater and an endorser. What saved me was the staff judge advocate was my endorser and he gave me 100 and noted that I was the best major in his office. Fortunately, I was not to be considered for lieutenant colonel for seven years. The Vietnam War was winding down and few were getting promoted. I had plenty of time to build up my file.
General Powell and I were both assigned to V Corps in Frankfurt, Germany and both lived in a senior housing area in the town of Bad Vilbel. Not at the same time. And, we both had our tours cut short. I was selected to be the Commandant at The Army Judge Advocate General’s School and he was asked by President Reagan to be his Deputy Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs. If I hadn’t come back early, I would have been his SJA. As it turned out, he came down to The JAG School for legal orientation before he went to V Corps. Along with the instructors bringing him up to date, I had a chance to brief him on what to expect when he arrived at V Corps.
I’m going to get back to the book. I can’t wait to see how it ends. I hope he gets his fourth star.
Rush-Hour Driving – It’s Not a Job, It’s an Adventure
“Just get in a lane and stay there. It may take you a couple of extra minutes, but you will arrive more relaxed.” Whoever said that has no concept of what it is like to be a Type A personality. A Type A person who “just gets in a lane and stays there,” will probably not be able to compose a sentence when he climbs out of the car.
I don’t recall choosing to be a Type A nut. Maybe it was because I was a middle child and had to fight for attention. Anyway, be on notice, we are not going to stay in one lane.
Driving in rush hour to DC and back everyday was a real challenge. In the morning I picked up my carpool at 7:00 AM. The carpool permitted me to use the HOV (high occupancy vehicle) lanes. We could zip right into the city. Then, some well-meaning individual decided that if you drove a hybrid vehicle, you could use the HOV lanes. So, then we had all those hybrid vehicles (one person in each) jamming up the HOV lanes. Sometimes, we would look over and the regular lanes would be moving faster. Because it was early, we still navigated through the city fairly well. Arent Fox is located on the corner of Connecticut and L Street.
The real problem was trying to get home. Our parking garage was on 18th Street, which is one-way heading North. That meant I had to drive North for a couple of blocks before I could make it over to 19th Street and head South toward Virginia. 19th Street was a battleground and not for the faint of heart. Nobody stayed in one lane.
I picked up a few tips from other Type A rush-hour warriors that proved very helpful. First, never leave any space between you and the car in front of you. If you do, someone will cut you off. Second, never use your turn signals until you are already in the lane you are entering. If you turn on your blinker too soon, there will be no space to move into. Better yet, never use them.
Never drop your guard. You must remain alert every moment. If you try to change the radio station, you may not make it home. I became rather stoic about having an accident. I used to say, “Everyday, I am fighting the odds.” Now that I am retired, I am surprised that I stepped away without hitting anything or being hit.
I do not return gestures (other than smiling at them). That usually causes wild infuriation. When someone blasts their horn, I assume its at me. If I haven’t done anything, I become confused. I quickly run over the last 30 seconds to see if there isn’t something I can take credit for.
If you are going to navigate downtown rush-hour traffic, you need a particular type of car. You don’t want a boat, like the Town Car. You have to be powerfully quick, but without unnecessary bulk. I drive a Lincoln LS (a V-8 on a Jaguar chassis).
I just couldn’t own a small car. When I was at the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) certain members of Congress were trying to pass a law requiring cars to get 40 miles per gallon (MPG). Can manufacturers do that? Sure. I think the Geo Metro got 50 MPG. You just have to take steel out of the car and it will get better gas mileage. Of course, the cars won’t be as safe. Any number of advocacy groups (mostly controlled be Nader) insisted that small cars were just as safe as large cars.
We, at NHTSA, conducted some tests to disprove that. We took a 4,000 pound 1991 Ford Fairlane and crashed it into a 2,000 pound Suzuki Swift. Both vehicles were traveling at 36 mph and they crashed with a 60% frontal offset. That means that 60% of each cars front end made contact with the other car. We sent the resulting video to members of Congress and that was the end of the proposed legislation. Why? Well, the big car literally ate the little car. It was so devastating that no one would ever again say small cars are just as safe as large cars (I still have the video). Put some steel around you. You will feel better in the morning.
Congress, in order to save fuel, recently raised the Corporate Average Fuel Economy mileage standard to 35 MPG by the year 2020. We’ll see what those cars look like at that time. I’ll tell you for sure, they won’t want to run into a Ford Fairlane.
A John Grisham Disappointment
A John Grisham Disappointment
His new book is out, it’s called “The Appeal,”
He’s such a great writer, let the bells peal.
The book’s full of emotion, intrigue and power,
Why did the ending have to be so sour?
The book was well written, the villain’s a devil,
He buys elections and judges, nothing is level.
The book spins a great tale, of corruption and sins,
But, when the smoke settles, it’s the bad guy that wins.
There’s a widow who suffered, child and husband dead,
He makes her sympathetic, that’s what I read.
So we pull for the widow, let the villain be smashed,
But, after reading to the end, our hopes are all dashed.
I’d expect it from McMurtry, his books never end,
The main character just wanders around the next bend.
He also writes well, he’s ever so sly,
But, he’ll never be forgiven, letting Gus McCrea die.
Grisham may be critically acclaimed for his hard hitting story,
But for leaving readers disappointed, there is no glory.
He wanted more reality in this little caper,
But, if I wanted more reality, I’ll just read the paper.