The Bootleg Boys

BACK IN THE 70S MY PARTNER AND I WROTE THE BOOK ON BOOTLEG RECORDS. I DECIDED TO WRITE THE BOOK TO SHARE THOSE FUN-FILLED TIMES. I’LL POST IT CHAPTER BY CHAPTER OVER THE NEXT LITTLE WHILE. HERE WE GO WITH

ELVIS VS. THE BOOTLEG BOYS

ELVIS BOOTLEGS

The Vic Colonna Story

(How I made records for fun, profit, and one–to–five)

 

© 2009

William Samuel Theaker

Prologue

I slammed the car into reverse, lunged back down the alley, jammed it into drive, and sped away. Travis’ words were roaring in my ears: “Two guys in dark suits were here looking for you.”

TWO guys? I was almost flattered. I guess it was either get me or fight organized crime.

Traffic lights and intersections were a blur. Green lights, yellow lights, just–turned–red lights all looked the same; I was on the lam!

Two guys in dark suits? I almost wished I’d been there. Would they have yelled, “Take the needle off the record and step away from the machine with your hands in the air”?

Criminy, I wasn’t a drug lord; I ran a little record store. Oh, and I made Elvis Presley bootleg records for a few years before that. Okay, I grant you, legally I had no right whatsoever. But morally? Damn right! RCA, Elvis’ record company, had made it their policy to treat Elvis fans like petulant adolescents! (When’s the last time you listened to “Elvis Sings For Children and Grownups Too”? Ever waste your money on an RCA “Electronically Re–Processed” record? Ever buy an Elvis 8–LP set, discover four were warped, and be told the ONLY way to have them replaced was to mail them to RCA at YOUR OWN expense?)

I created QUALITY Elvis records! Full color covers, banded cuts, liner notes, true mono or stereo—and sold them at a very reasonable price. Conversely, while I was doing this, the best RCA could come up with was a previously unreleased version of “Beyond the Reef”—THREE YEARS after Elvis died!

RCA should be indicted; I should be knighted!

Keep in mind, this was the very same company that, in 1959, THREW AWAY a warehouse full of their recording artists’ outtakes, including almost all of Elvis’ priceless ‘50s material! (Some fool RCA VP had decided they needed more shelf space!) All I did was take similar outtakes and create 23 classic Elvis albums! (I once read that when Elvis saw some he was quite amused.)

But, I bit Nipper and now he was biting back.

I checked the rear–view mirror for the hundredth time and changed lanes. Oh, the irony: I made records, I sold records, and suddenly the FBI wants to GIVE me a record.

It was December 9, 1982, my son Patrick’s eighth birthday, and I was in full getaway mode, tearing down the freeway in a beat–up station wagon filled with used records. All because “two guys in dark suits” had just changed everything forever.

 

Chapter One

And so it begins…

I picked through my parent’s attic back in West Hartford, Connecticut when we visited in the fall of 1974, Vicki and I. We were newly–wed; Vicki was seven months pregnant. My mother happened to notice; I headed upstairs and left them alone in the kitchen to sort that one out. I entered my room, went into the walk–in closet, opened the attic door, and climbed the steps.

Up there were things I had not visited since I left for college a dozen years before. There was my collection of baseball cards, remnants of my once–massive collection of 45’s, and the one thing I had judiciously guarded and that was 99% intact: my collection of Elvis Presley 45’s and EP’s. Elvis has been my favorite male singer since he burst onto the national scene in 1956.

I bundled the baseball cards and the Elvis records into my suitcase. When we got back to Los Angeles I decided the baseball cards had to go; we needed the money. I took them to a Santa Monica Boulevard sports memorabilia shop and walked out with $100. One of them was the 1951 Topps Mickey Mantle rookie card that sold for $225,000 years later. I have no regrets; that deal dramatically changed my life. The money was tucked away; it would be used only when desperately needed.

The Elvis records were filled with memories and I decided to keep them. Nostalgia was beginning to play a role in my life. I planned to reconstitute my Elvis collection, get all those that I mysteriously never purchased. This decided, I wondered just where to start my quest? I began scouring record stores. Try as I might, I found but a scant few of the Elvis records I wanted; most were in unsuitable condition.

In a bookstore on Melrose Avenue, in the heart of the Antique District of Los Angeles, there were boxes of records under every table. A fellow named Brian Burney rented space from the bookstore owner so he could display his wares. Where else to put them? Thanks to Brian, I acquired a dozen 45s I needed. Brian will be back soon, in a starring role. About this time I realized there were many other Elvis collectors out there; not much later I was trying to add to everyone else’s collection.

Next, I discovered The Recycler. The paper was distributed every Thursday morning, starting promptly at nine; in 1975 it was in its infancy. The Recycler let individual sellers list items for free (commercial businesses were charged); many Thursday mornings I was waiting outside their offices for that week’s offerings.

One week’s paper listed an Elvis collection; I called and made an appointment to go look at it that night. We drove to Pomona, some thirty miles distant, and found a complete collection of 45’s, all with picture sleeves; all the EP’s; many duplicates, and the elusive Sun 78’s. The asking price was $400. I left a $100 deposit (that desperation money) and promised to be back tomorrow.

One small problem remained, just where the heck was I going to get the other $300? A trip to Household Finance solved that problem; I went from Elvis collector to one with an Elvis collection overnight. I did not think there was much more I needed; I was almost done. I suddenly had a surfeit of Elvis records, since my purchase included duplicates of many of the 45s. This was trading fodder; I could haggle with other collectors for the items I did not have. It was not as easy as I thought, for I soon found out there were variations, promo–only items, reissues, and even a few bootlegs.

All that I really knew about bootlegs was that years before I had purchased an album titled “Last Live Show” that boasted the Beatles at Shea Stadium. It had an 8½ x 11 Xeroxed sheet under the shrink–wrap, a plain white cover, and the label was blank. All I heard was screaming, hysterical fans and way, way back in the distance something resembling a Beatles tune. Such was my experience with bootlegs; I never purchased another.

Not until I heard about, from another collector, an LP called “TV Guide Presents Elvis” and a man named Paul Dowling. I called Paul, not quite sure how to proceed, but wanting to pump him for information about collecting and about this record he had made. Not in the least aloof or pretentious, he came across as genuine and sincere; he answered my questions about Elvis collecting, offered invaluable information, and suggested other collectors to contact. When it came to the TV Guide record, something I found quite intriguing, Paul mentioned he was hoping to make another bootleg—this one a document encompassing Elvis’ first six television appearances on The Dorsey Brothers Show in early 1956. Huh? Never knew that. My first recollection of Elvis on TV was the famed Ed Sullivan appearances. It turned out the first Sullivan show was Elvis’ tenth bit of national TV exposure. I sure had lots to learn. Paul and I quickly became good telephone pals. At that point, Paul had only managed to acquire three of the six Dorsey appearances; I set about to find the others.

Chapter Two

Brian’s song

During that search, fate intervened; I chanced upon some unreleased Elvis material from the 1968 TV Special. This was a bootlegger’s dream: fans knew of it, thanks to Jerry Hopkins biography, “Elvis,” but RCA never released a note. A phone call to Brian Burney, wondering if he had anything new, revealed he had purchased some “test pressings” and was holding them for me. Test pressings are routinely made before the actual LP goes into production to verify accuracy; I expected to find something akin to white–label promos. What I was actually presented with was nothing like that.

Brian now had a record store in the exclusive Larchmont section of Los Angeles. I walked in, saw Brian was with a customer, and started to flip through the records in the bins. “Hi Sam.” and “Hi Brian” passed between us as another customer stepped up to the counter with his purchase. I continued looking at film and Broadway soundtracks that were of no interest to me; the mating dance continued. Finally, some twenty minutes later, Brian looked over and said, “I have those records in the back. Let me get them for you.” He returned a moment later and handed me three “acetates” that not only did not have labels, two of them were one–sided (Acetates, much thicker than vinyl, are records cut in the studio directly from tapes. They deteriorate rapidly after a few plays and are generally intended as a quick means to get a sample of material on record for a producer or bigwig to assess). In the dead wax area, where the label goes, written with white china marker, was: “Elvis I,” Elvis II,” on the one–sided exemplars, “Guitar Man/Elvis I” on the double–sided acetate. “These are interesting. What’s on them?” Brian replied, “I’m not sure, I haven’t played them.” He said something about the “Guitar Man” album. I nodded, knowingly, knowing one thing for sure: there was not any Elvis album titled “Guitar Man” (there would be, years later, one of those posthumous compilations). Brian actually had multiple copies of these acetates; where they came from did not occur to me at that time, but the answer would later astound. It should have been a simple matter to play these discs and see what they contained. However, Brian did not have a record player in the store. This, coupled with Brian’s complete lack of knowledge about rock—he specialized in soundtracks, show tunes, and classical—made “A–1 Record Finders” unique. I hemmed, hawed, yawed, and yawned, and tried to appear as uninterested as possible; I did my best to downplay their worth. “If only they had test pressing labels.” I moaned. I finally asked Brian to put a price tag on them. He thought for a moment, came back with ten dollars each, and I hesitantly agreed. I would like to think I took my time leaving; there was probably a dust cloud where I once stood. I bolted for the car, headed home to Glendale—the longest forty–five–minute drive of my life—and rushed into the house

I arrived shortly before eight o’clock, just in time to call Vicki, ask how she was doing, and say good night—it was August of 1975, a scant two years after we arrived in California; Vicki was back in Philadelphia showing off Patrick, then eight months old, to all her friends and relatives. That done, I went into the living room, turned on the stereo, and settled back to hear what I had found. I was listening to parts of the recording issued after Elvis’ triumphant return 1968 television special. This was a part studio (live before an audience of 300), part soundstage production that heralded Elvis’ return to center stage. For years he had been visible only in the movies; as they became staler, so did his image. The British Invasion relegated him to a rock ‘n’ roll footnote. Four years on, it was time to see if he still had drawing power. I also imagine it was time to make some money; his record sales were at an all–time low.

As I listened, I retrieved my copy of the RCA album. I remembered a medley from the show as: “Nothingville/Big Boss Man/Guitar Man” but this went straight from “Nothingville” to “Guitar Man.” I wondered if I was correct about the ordering of the songs; I would have bet the house that “Big Boss Man” was the middle part of this trio. Still, I opted to check. I found the album, headed back into the living room reading the track listing, and “Guitar Man” ended with a sudden switch to some calliope–like racket. Before I could begin to wonder what was going on, a sultry female voice began signing the opening verse of “Let Yourself Go” with a deliberately brazen, sexual innuendo. A couple lines later, Elvis came in. The arrangement was incredible, nothing like the lame version of this song heard in the movie, “Speedway.” I could not believe my luck; I was privy to the infamous “bordello scene” that had been planned as part of the TV Special but later snipped. (All because Col. Parker’s insisted his boy couldn’t be portrayed behaving in such an outlandish manner.)

I had an unreleased Elvis song! Well, almost, there was that movie version. This was nothing like that; this was raw, vintage Elvis, the one that had set teenage boys’ lips curling and teen girls’ hearts thumping a dozen years before. This was it! I did just what you might have expected: first I sat down in the middle of the living–room floor, then I lay flat on my back holding the TV Special record straight above me, and I roared. And I laughed. And I cried out, “Yes, Yes, Yes!” I spent the next few hours calling all the Elvis fans and collectors I knew, playing for them what I had found. None complained. More than a few were already in bed, a few sounded a bit irksome when they answered the phone in the middle of the night; none were anything but ecstatic by the conclusion of the call. So goes the wacky world of Elvis devotees.

I had chanced upon the ultimate find and now I wondered if there could be more; more than that, I wondered just where this stuff came from? How did Brian ever get hold of these things? I asked Brian; he told me that a television executive who lived in Beverly Hills was transferring to New York and unloaded, rather than cart with him, his collection of classical records, eight thousand of them. Brian skimmed through the batch, determined they were worthy of purchase, and trucked them to his warehouse. Over the next few weeks while sorting and pricing he discovered, tucked in amongst Brahms, Beethoven, and Bach, these acetates. “Who was this guy?” I inquired. Brian told me his name was Bob Finkel. That name rang a bell. I pulled out the RCA album, looked on the back, and saw why the name sounded familiar. Robert Finkel was the executive producer of the ’68 TV Special. It all made sense: the original taping would be edited into the finished version of the show. Robert Finkel could not be present every minute, so acetates were made for him to critique at home. He must have stored them in his record racks, and that was that. Placed there years before, and then forgotten, was the only conclusion. Had he remembered, they would have been removed before he called Brian. Thanks for the memory lapse, Mr. Finkel. Thanks for thinking of me, Brian. Time to work out a deal with Paul Dowling.

Chapter Three

Working for a living

Since I first spoke to Paul about the “TV Guide Presents Elvis” LP I had fancied what it would be like to be a bootlegger. I could do it; I was sure of it. Of course, I needed something to bootleg, and did I not just acquire it? But then what? I was looking at this as a long–term project, not just a minor flirtation. So I sat down to think about things; I put a plan in motion. First, to make some money from this unexpected find, I contacted a few diehard collectors: Andy Kern from Texas and Anna Labbate from New York were sure things; a few others took some convincing. I wound up selling six of the extra seven sets for two hundred dollars each.

A handsome profit it was; big money, for a kid making just over four bucks an hour at Kaiser Hospital. While trying to unload the extras, I also contacted Paul. I shipped him a set for $30; all I asked was that he wait about nine months before releasing the material on a bootleg. This would let enough time pass for the obvious explanation—he acquired it from someone else. When those chosen few who thought they had a near–exclusive on their hands found out the material was being offered for general sale, they would not get upset. Plus, they had the “originals.” I thought the world should hear this stuff, not just a few people. I was glad to make some money; not yet ready to propose Paul and I work together on a bootleg. Paul is a man of his word, all went according to plan, and when “The ’68 Comeback” appeared, nary a word was raised in protest. My friendship with Paul was cemented; next time we would work together.

That television special beamed in 1968 was back in the days when one sponsor, in this case Singer (the sewing machine company), could afford to foot the bill for an entire show. The actual title of the show was, as I recalled, “Singer Presents Elvis.” That was confirmed when we later acquired a 16mm color print of the show. Paul bought it shortly after we started making bootlegs; that began our entry into the film business. “Singer Presents Elvis” was not a snappy title for a record. Years later, it was generally acknowledged that this show was what put Elvis not just back on the map, but back on top. The British invasion was in full swing; heavy metal just around the corner (thanks to the Kinks, Steppenwolf, and the prescient tones of Black Sabbath), psychedelic rock flourished, and amidst all this was the once and former king. Elvis had nary a hit for three years, an eroding fan base, and the movies had gone stale. In an NBC minute he was back where he always was. Brash, bold, bedecked in black leather, and strutting his stuff, he faced the invited crowd, 300 for each of four shows filmed in NBC’s largest studio, and they went gaga. The girls, carefully chosen to surround the stage (more like a boxing ring without ropes and corner girls squeezed into every available inch), swooned. The mood was infectious. It was a comeback of the first order and Paul noted this with the title of his LP. From that day forward fans have always referred to the show as “The ’68 Comeback,” and that is exactly what it was.

About that night: I have always referred to it as the greatest back–to–back opening lines in TV history. At eight o’clock, the NBC peacock (with the off–screen announcement, “The following program is brought to you in living color…”) faded, and Elvis’ face filled the screen. A split second later the half smile turned to the trademark sneer and he greeted those tuned in with, “If you’re looking for trouble, you came to the right place.” One for the girls, and just how you top that remains a mystery. Talk about setting a mood, what a way to let the audience know they were in for a treat. The camera pulled back to reveal “ELVIS” in giant letters; platforms just behind the letters were filled with guitar–wielding rockers dressed like Elvis, shown in silhouette. The boys certainly cheered too, but at nine o’clock they would really have something that would make them sit up and take notice. Elvis ended with “If I Can Dream” and that was the song, written especially for the show, which put him back on the charts to stay. It was merely a short break in those days, and no previews for what was to follow. The eight o’clock process repeated itself, the same peacock preened, the same announcement intoned, the same fade–away, and a different picture filled the screen: There, in gentle repose, was Brigitte Bardot, sex–kitten supreme, lying across a velvet loveseat, propped up on her left elbow, and she purred, “How would you like to spend the next hour with me?” They will never top those two opening lines, ever. And no two bootleggers will ever again rise to the dizzying heights Paul and I enjoyed.

I had made the first step in establishing a solid relationship with Paul. He was as knowledgeable as they come in everything Elvis. He was easy to get along with, and eager to make more bootlegs. What he lacked was material. I had ideas; it was just a matter of time. Those three Dorsey shows proved elusive for a bit. However, my job at Kaiser had a fringe benefit: I could call anywhere. I was a lab technician and roamed all over the hospital collecting blood samples. That gave me free run of the phones on every floor. My fingers walked the world.

I called everywhere and everyone. One call led to another and another. After a couple months I was getting discouraged; then a call to some obscure collector in Canada produced results. He had the Dorsey shows, all of them. We hammered out a trade, I sent what he requested, and I received the tapes a few days later. Within a few months I had quit my job at Kaiser and was wishing there were more hours in the day. I was finding out what it meant to work for a living.

 

 

Dreamwreck

Dreamwreck

                        While I can stand, while I can walk,

                        While I can think, while I can talk,

                        Please let my dream come true right now.

                        ——Elvis Presley, If I Can Dream

I have read George Orwell’s Shooting the Elephant before. This time around, reading that marvelous first sentence—In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people—the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me—is when it dawned on me: George and I have something in common.

Philadelphia is a long way from Moulmein. Philadelphia is where I was once important enough to be hated by large numbers of people. Six months after my Vietnam tour ended I went back to college: Temple University—smack–dab in the innards of The City of Brotherly Love.

I knew little of the civil rights struggle. A major topic of the day, larger than life, it blossomed during my enlistment. I grew up in West Hartford, CT, then a town of 50,000 white people. I was as attuned to the plight of Blacks at eighteen as I was to the dalliances of Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly when I was nine. I knew of black culture via Amos ‘n’ Andy and doo–wop. Just in case television had not been invented, our mailman was black, so I had concrete proof of their existence.

Those three years in uniform afforded me little time or opportunity to observe the civilian milieu, where cataclysmic change contrasted with the stability and stasis of military life. Yes, even in Vietnam, a certain amount of ‘spit and polish’ crept in amongst the chaos. Upon my return, I noticed some curious cultural changes: guys had hair longer than gals; pants were wider at the cuffs than at the waist; female attire was far more revealing. I cheered.

Those were mere fads—youth asserting its right to be different. The change that counted was that skin color mattered only to those stodgy, staid curmudgeons who deservedly belonged to another era. The people you could trust, and that was everyone thirty and under, ignored race. We wanted to and we did. This was a period where blacks and whites all called each other ‘brother’ and ‘sister’. We were fighting and dying together 10,000 miles away; when I got back home we gathered on street corners, laughing and high–fiving. All this prejudice that I had heard about, but never experienced, was nowhere to be found. The songs symbolized the era. The Youngbloods sang sweetly, Get Together. Canned Heat growled, Let’s Get Together. And we did. For a time. That many of us had been comrades–in–arms was just part of the equation. The man most responsible for this sea change was the Man with a Dream.

My first encounters with real blacks came when I enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1964. They turned out to be people just like me. Sure, some of them had chips; some even carried a damned redwood on their shoulders. But maybe, just maybe, some of that resentment was justified. I was not worldly enough to speculate on that, but the question intrigued me.

Yet, even this naïve suburbanite knew of The Good Doctor. His marches, rallies, and calls for non–violent action were bringing a nation together. His I Have a Dream speech set a whole country to thinking, “Dreams can come true.” Even old hearts were young. Like most of the greatest utterances, it took time to realize that this was one for the ages. Did anyone walk away from Gettysburg thinking, “Wow! They’ll be quoting that one until the end of time”?

I saw excerpts of Dr. King’s Dream speech on the news shortly after it was delivered. His message was so full of hope and unity that, in a span of a few years, he had begun to make sense to a multitude that was quietly pro–segregation even if publicly disdainful of unfair practices. The man J. Edgar Hoover denigrated and deemed a rabble–rouser morphed into destiny’s darling. The eyes and ears of a nation did not and could not ignore him.

Dr. King’s I Have A Dream speech inspired Curtis Mayfield to write People Get Ready. NPR’s Juan Williams said, “The train that is coming in the song speaks to a chance for redemption—the long–sought chance to rise above racism, to stand apart from despair and any desire for retaliation—an end to the cycle of pain.” Dr. King’s influence was contagious; the epidemic of racial harmony he inspired infected a nation.

Then he was gone. The Peace Train got derailed. I became important. Black enclaves surround Temple University and I drove through them daily, top down. I always passed smiling faces; little ones often waved. The hazy shades of winter were gone now; just mere harbingers that yielded to earth’s annual rite of passage, its renewal. I swallowed the sweet smell of spring, the season of rebirth, the annual awakening, time to start all over again. My calculus class had ended at eight that evening, and as I headed home thoughts of equations were shunted aside, replaced by Motown lyrics. Eight‑track tapes wound round and round; my speakers sent the sounds of Smokey Robinson, Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye, Martha Reeves, Stevie Wonder, and Mary Wells pulsating through the neighborhood.

While war raged half a world away, portents of peace blossomed throughout this land, your land, my land. For nearly five years Dr. King’s message of hope continued to reverberate from the Lincoln Memorial to every village and hamlet. We all saw clearly then. April 4, 1968 was a bright (Bright), bright (Bright), sunshiny day. It was almost half past eight now, and my attention was jolted away from the stereo by reverberations coming from the outside of my car. Young kids were throwing rocks at me. I struggled to put the top up, not daring to slow while I wrestled with it. Children yelled things I couldn’t understand, but I knew they were words of hate. Mothers and fathers standing watch over their charges scowled. Rubbish cans were overturned on the sidewalks, their vile contents spilling into the streets.

What happened? I got home and found out Dr. King had been assassinated. A white man pulled the trigger. A day that started out so right went horribly wrong in an instant. The instant that a bullet from a high‑powered rifle entered Dr. King’s body. An instant that left us stunned. An instant that destroyed years of progress and robbed us of so much more that he could have and would have done.. An instant that opened old wounds. An instant that haunts us still. I understood the stones; the words of wrath; and I somehow knew that it was the end of an era. It was. Ironically, a Dylan song from a couple years before that still commanded airplay said, They’ll stone ya when you’re trying to go home… They’ll stone ya when you’re riding in your car. The world became a poorer place that day. Once again, they had shot the messenger. Prejudice, nicely moving toward extinction, quickly returned. Factions formed along race lines, fractious and ugly. Brother sounded like a mockery.

It’s been almost four decades now, and during that time I’ve only caught glimpses of the togetherness that once prevailed. Racial tensions thrive, racial tranquility tenuous. I haven’t given up hope, but I may not have four more decades to wait. Hurry up, prove to me that period of harmony was not just a mug’s game. Show me the stuff that dreams are made of. Please, a reprise.

 

Who Are These Guys?

Who Are These Guys?

                        We hope you will enjoy the show.

                        ——The Beatles, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

I was back home in CT; the Vietnam War was now part of my past. How did I feel about the year and the war I’d left behind? I didn’t think about it, didn’t talk about it, and no one asked me about it. I landed a good job within a couple weeks, spent lots of time with my loving girlfriend, and come fall I would be back in college at Temple University in Philadelphia. To sum it up, life looked to be just the way Timbuk 3 would describe it years later in song: The future’s so bright, I’ve gotta wear shades.

I will admit to finding everything a bit surreal. Or was it the year I’d just lived through that was surreal? Who could tell? The rumblings about the Vietnam War being unjust were just beginning. A year from now I would find myself in a classroom on the Temple campus attending a meeting of Vietnam Veterans Against the War. I went out of curiosity; I wasn’t opposed to the war, nor was I supportive. It was over for me; I didn’t have any strong feelings either way. I still felt we were doing the right thing, but I wondered what this newly–arisen hullabaloo was about. I found myself in a room full of guys with long hair, many with scraggly beards, most wore Army field jackets, and they seemed to typify the new ‘hippie’ culture, American youths’ latest makeover intended to distance themselves from the preceding generation. They would have been ‘beatniks’ just a few years prior; whatever the label they had the rhetoric down pat but failed to impress me. I left that meeting as soon as I could without seeming rude. I never involved myself with any anti–war group again. The closest I ever came to protesters was when the Beach Boys headlined a rally at the Washington Monument in 1970. I started to drive down to listen to the music; I turned around ten miles after I crossed the MD state line, I–95 was a parking lot. It took me over half an hour to travel two miles to the next exit. At that rate of progress, the Beach Boys would be back surfing in Santa Monica before I got to D.C.

My new job was at the Institute for Living in Hartford, CT. This private psychiatric hospital is world famous; many celebrities go there to ‘dry out’ and their clientele reads like a Who’s Who of the moneyed set. More like a college campus than hospital grounds, there are a number of ‘cottages’ scattered around this picturesque property, stately two–story brick edifices that each houses four patients. These are staffed with three nurses around the clock. The price tag for this exclusive care was $10,000 a month in 1967, and that was just for room and board. It certainly adhered to the adage: If you need to inquire about the price, you’re in the wrong place.

The Institute had a small medical laboratory staffed with just three technicians. The morning pickups were generally light; most of our work involved processing specimens sent to the lab or collecting ones doctors ordered during their daily rounds. Most of the patients enjoyed excellent physical health; some elderly, long–term patients in the cottages needed constant monitoring, and the nurses often collected those specimens. I was quite fortunate they had an opening; this was one of those ‘dream jobs’ that would be given up only if some major change in one’s life took place. For me, I was headed back to college, I would only be here six months, something I didn’t mention when I was interviewed. The ‘returning veteran’ certainly worked in my favor, plus the Army was known for its quality training and I had taught myself, while putting together the lab in Vietnam, more than I ever learned at Womack Army Hospital.

I settled in quickly; Charlotte, the lab supervisor, and Pam, her co–worker, were glad to be up to full–strength again. Each week one of the techs was ‘on call’ nights and weekends. Seldom were we summoned, it only happened to me twice in six months, but now the girls could make plans two out of three weekends, not just every other one. The head of the laboratory/research department was Dr. Malcolm Gordon, the smartest man I ever met. He had the uncanny ability to describe his research projects in layman’s terms that would leave me felling as if I fully understood the complexities. But later, attempting to iterate his exposition, I was quickly lost and confused. Malcolm could speak intelligently about virtually any given subject. Be it baseball, 1930s history, or pop culture, he knew his stuff. 

I had been getting caught up on the music I had missed while in Vietnam. For the last couple of weeks the radio stations bombarded listeners with a new album by a new group with a very unusual name. The first song on the album was crafted to give the feeling of a live concert; it even had the same title as the name of the group. Two to four times every hour I heard a DJ say, “Here’s _________,” and then proceed to play one of the thirteen songs on the album. “Who are these guys?” I said. “They’re good. Really good.” New groups came along every week, but this one, I could tell, had staying power.

Malcolm’s son arrived home from college in early June and stopped by the lab to visit his dad. He placed a pile of schoolbooks on one of the counters in the lab and I noticed an album at the bottom of the pile. I got up from my microscope and went over to take a look. It was an LP by that new group that was dominating the airwaves. They sure looked and dressed funny. Just before I reached to turn the album over to check the song listings I saw what was written in the flowers—The Beatles! There had been no need for any DJ to mention whom the artists were when they played the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band LP, they were better known than Jesus Christ!

AFRS omitted The Beatles and many other groups from their playlist. The Liverpool lads had crafted a whole new sound, one that was as new to me as that summer’s other giant hit, Light My Fire by The Doors. I had been a walking encyclopedia of rock music from the early 50s until the day I entered the service. I was embarrassed; I had some catching up to do. Not even John, Paul, George, and Ringo could penetrate the mighty jungle. We may have all been on the same planet, but Vietnam was another world.

 

Vietnam Redux

I continue to work on my ‘memoirs’, if that is what they are, for they deal not just with the past; they extend to the present. Here are two; one is a necessary corollary to the other.

Pot Luck 

                        War is like love, it always finds a way.

——Bertolt Brecht, Mother Courage and Her Children

It’s called a potshot: a shot taken at random at an unknown target. Not anything to fret over, the odds that a tiny bit of metal would impact your body in a critical area were quite small. Base camps were quite large. Viet Cong, way out beyond the perimeter to avoid detection, sent a number of them our way nightly. Sometimes, one of our reconnaissance patrols, moving stealthily, would be close enough to estimate the shooter’s position. Never did they succeed in actually finding him. It’s not easy to find a lone, black–clad figure in a black jungle, not without giving yourself away. If you make any noise while closing in you’ll find him quickly—just after a bullet finds you.

Another starry, warry night; just past midnight. Most were asleep in base camp of the First Battalion, 26^th Infantry, First Division—commonly known as the Big Red One. These guys needed a medic for their long–range recon team. I was it. Legendary director Samuel Fuller made a movie about this storied division’s history, and it’s a good one. Lee Marvin is well–cast as the cigar–chomping, Sgt. Rock–type warrior of comic–book fame. A real sergeant dozed peacefully just a few beds away from me. With four or five hundred yards between him and the muzzle of an AK-47 that had just discharged out there in the jungle I’ll bet he never dreamed that tiny projectile would find its final resting place right next to his navel.

The sarge groaned loudly and sat up for a second before collapsing back on his cot. “I’m hit.” he moaned. “MEDIC,” came the cry, and I was instantly awake, reflexively grabbing the aid kit by my side, making another, all–too–familiar, mad dash. I ripped open the fatigue shirt, took one look, and screamed, “DOCTOR’S TENT! NOW!” as I plunged a needle into the sergeant’s arm to start an IV. The medical tent, a small dispensary that housed all our drugs[1] and other paraphernalia, was used for sick call and minor surgical procedures. Our M.D. slept there, and since the medics slept in the tent closest to it, it was just a scant twenty yards away.

Four men grabbed the cot, I ran alongside holding the IV bag, and we burst in less than half a minute later. The captain looked at the tiny hole, felt under the back and determined there was no exit wound, told me to start another IV, and barked out an order for an emergency evac chopper. NOW!

The chopper was there in less than ten minutes. Ten agonizing minutes spent watching the abdomen dilate as the sergeant slipped into shock. Such a tiny, harmless–looking little hole; such a helpless feeling. We had him aboard so quickly the chopper’s skids just bounced once before it took off.

In the Civil War the death rate among Union troops who survived long enough to reach a hospital was 14%; in World War II it was down to 5%; by Vietnam, with medical miracles occurring every day, it was down to just 1%. The odds were 99 to 1 that the sarge would make it. That chopper would have him in an OR in fifteen minutes. They started two more IVs in the chopper, but that bullet didn’t care about the laws of probability. It nicked the aorta. The chopper changed course and veered away from the hospital halfway through the flight.

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[1] This was 1966, and it is worth noting that the safe, where thousands of morphine syrettes and other narcotics were kept, was never locked; nothing was ever stolen. The ‘drug problem’ was still in its infancy, 10,000 miles away.

Just a Nick…

                        War is politics with bloodshed.

                        ——Mao Tse Tung.

When I saw that little puncture wound I breathed a sigh of relief; I had been taught that an abdominal wound was never fatal if the patient could be transported to a hospital setting within the first day after being wounded. All I had to do was control the bleeding, surround the wound with a sterile bandage, and keep a close watch on the patient’s vital signs until the Medevac chopper came. That assurance quickly morphed into a mere parlor trick; within minutes an adumbration of death surrounded us like a cocoon. Within it were the sergeant, Doctor Hutchens, and myself. The two of us were working feverishly over a man who, just moments before, was sound asleep and seemingly out of harm’s way.

That was the anomaly about Vietnam: unlike other wars, there was no rear echelon where one could be completely insulated, out of reach of the enemy. There was Vung Tau, the much‑ballyhooed in‑country R & R resort where one could supposedly bask on the sand, enjoy a cooling ocean breeze, and pack up all your cares and woes for three whole days. I can’t attest to that; I never took my in‑country R & R, I never gave it a thought when I was in the field, and when I took over the lab I was just too darned busy. (I did take my seven‑day out‑of‑country R & R; I marveled at the beauty of Hong Kong and, like a typical American consumer, I spent all my money on things I didn’t need.) I don’t know if there were ever any incidences at Vung Tau where the VC or NVA harmed our troops. I don’t want to know.

As we labored, feverishly starting two more IVs and helplessly watching the sergeant go into shock, the abdomen began to swell slightly. I was now long past any wide‑eyed wonder about the sanctity of life; I had seen how war could transform a pastoral setting into a slaughterhouse. The carnage that man inflicted on his own kind every single day stripped me of any simplistic thoughts about good and evil, right or wrong; the acrid taste of anguish, a damnable despondency, burned my mouth and throat. This business of dying was no longer an abstract concept; it was my new reality. The closer it came, the blacker the cave that would swallow those who entered became. The air grew cold; the chasm between existence and oblivion lessened. All those never‑to‑be‑answered questions clogged my thoughts; questions that would remain only that, for no one ever came back from the void with the answers. We were at that place where faith replaces life.

Doctor Hutchens gently probed the wound site; the swelling was more pronounced than it had been just a couple of minutes earlier. “Internal bleeding.” I heard him whisper. He picked up a scalpel from the opened sterile wound pack on the cart next to the litter on which the sergeant lay. Just then the sound of the chopper could be heard; faint at first, but quickly becoming an intense ‘whup‑whup’. The scalpel went back on the tray and he grabbed two litter posts at one end while I took hold of the other. We scurried outside, two more pairs of hands relieved us each of one post, and the four of us moved carefully yet at top speed to where the chopper was coming down. We handed the litter over to four arms beckoning from the open chopper just as it settled down, then instantly reversed itself and lifted off into the stars and blackness. “They know what to do. He’s in good hands.” Doctor Hutchins said softly. I was probably the only one who heard.

We trudged back to the combination infirmary/doctor’s quarters and I began to straighten things up while Doctor Hutchens leafed through some forms, selected a few, and moved back to a desk next to his cot where he began to write. I finished quickly, everything was tidy once more, and I leaned in toward the Doc and asked, “He’ll make it, won’t he?” “It’s in God’s hands now; those men on the evac team are doing everything that can possibly be done. I would have made an incision and tried to find the bleeder if they hadn’t shown up when they did.”

We muttered something to each other that amounted to, “See you in the morning.” I walked back to my tent and over to my cot. It seemed as if it took a long time. What had just taken place was on a continuous loop, replaying itself in my mind. I kept coming back to that moment of decision. Or was it indecision? That second where the scalpel went back on the tray and we lifted the litter and headed outside. Did I want to grab that scalpel and cut, or was I losing my mind? What would have happened if I did? I thought about that; I figured the only thing that could have taken place was for the Doc to take a quick look. Maybe a fast clamp and then we go? And after that what would happen? To me? I didn’t much care; if I was to be punished, so be it. That was a silly and meaningless detail.

How was the sarge doing? That was all that mattered. That was all I could think about—that, and the ‘what if’ scenario that left me wondering if I was imagining that which could never have happened. And then I would say to myself, “Why not?” And the cycle would repeat.

I don’t remember getting much sleep; suddenly it was morning. Did I fall asleep and my mind kept fighting the same battle as when I was awake? Did it matter? Then we found out the sarge died en route. He never made it to the hospital. Later on, Doctor Hutchens called me over and told me, “The bullet took a chunk out of the aorta. There was nothing we could have done.” Was that true? Was he just trying to keep me from blaming myself, him, or us? Was it possible to somehow, just briefly, mend an aortal leak? Could we have done it?

I’ll never know the answer to those questions; they will haunt me forever. No matter how precisely I described the situation to another doctor, there would be no definitive answer. Not without being there at that time, seeing that wound. And how much skill and training was required to attempt a bold move like that? Could we have done more harm than good? Knowing the outcome, the answer is easy. At that moment, there was no answer.

And here I am, four‑plus decades later, still batting that ball around. Countless innings are on the scoreboard. The action never changes: I watch it squirt from one wall to another, or reflect off the ceiling, or simply bounce off the ground, with always the same ending. That ball winds up squarely in my mitt, right back where it started from. Ready to do it again. Ready for another journey, destination known. Like so many things in life, you get but one try and do the best you can. Like dying.

Trying for the right note: another of my ever-increasing musings/reflections on the Vietnam Era

Chords, Choruses, & Chaos

                        Can’t you hear then singing?

                        ——Sam Cooke, Chain Gang

The music of the Vietnam Era was profound, and while the messages chanted were similar to prior and future times, there was a genuine uniqueness to it primarily due to a confluence of events: the Protest Movement and the lyrical content of Rock Music reached maturity together and merged, each fueling the other to heights that neither could have attained singly. During the Vietnam War songwriters were able to develop an artistic reaction to war that gathered momentum during the decade, paralleling the increase in numbers of Americans opposed to a war labeled immoral, unjust, and unwinnable. The last, coming from Walter Cronkite, was unthinkable; so much so that it could be argued to be the one statement most influential to, and most responsible for, the growth of Anti‑Vietnam‑War sentiment. America’s might rendered ineffective by little men in black pajamas? Preposterous! But if the ‘most believable man in America’ said that was the case, then what were we doing there?

The Vietnam War was essentially the first war with its own live soundtrack. Just stop for a moment and think about the great films chronicling WWI, WWII, The American Civil War, or any war you choose. Now imagine Apocalypse Now with a lush sound track by John Williams or the strident strings of Bernard Herrmann. Vietnam was the certainly not the beginning of music being germane as a protest tool. However, in terms of relevance and effectiveness, it outranks all others. Anti-war feelings have been expressed through song as long as people have been singing. Music is a basic, fundamental conduit of communication; a marvelous vehicle for imparting expression and fomenting unity. Through music we can communicate ideas and express both agreement and dissatisfaction. In addition to all the commonalities, the music inspired by and in reaction to the Vietnam War differed in quantity and quality. The sheer number of songs expressing opposition to the war and dissatisfaction with government policy was staggering. But it was the content that elevated this period of rhythmic recrimination; it lent a unique significance that not only eloquently expressed the sixties sentiment. The lyrics fueled the fire and shaped the charge of civilians clamoring for change to assure maximum penetration; whether cacophonous or sussurant, the songwriting of the Vietnam Era supported, steered, and often supplanted the tempo of the times.

In addition to the expected output of sing‑along ditties, baleful ballads, lilting lullabies, and tear‑stained threnodies, there was a crush of songs that penetrated the hearts and minds of a nation clouded by discontent. A phalanx of performers enjoyed unprecedented exposure via radio—doubly powerful now that FM had a wide audience—, television and film; their message so pervasive it stormed across ethnic barriers and generation gaps. The sincerity of so much of the writing was coupled with the verve to versify actual events. Songs recounted both tales of strife and contentment and kept moments alive in the public consciousness, moments that might have otherwise faded or been eclipsed. That, combined with the ‘message’ songs, let the music of the Vietnam War become a force in itself. The Steve Miller Band’s seminal album, Number 5, featured both elements with the songs, Industrial Military Complex Hex, Jackson‑Kent Blues, and Never Kill Another Man. Pete Seeger expressed his view with Waist Deep in the Big Muddy. The song, based on an actual event when a training platoon risked death crossing a swollen stream in Louisiana in 1943, became a metaphor for U.S. foreign policy in the 1960s.

Now every time I read the papers

That old feeling comes on

We’re waist deep in the Big Muddy

And the big fool says to push on.

The powerhouse called rock hit its prime at a perfect time to stride step by step with the marchers, lending power to the people in prime time. Sadly, I was not one of the 500,000 who attended Woodstock; nor am I one of the ten million who claim they were there. Half a million strong go the lines to the song about that event, and it is a safe bet that not half a hundred were in favor of the Vietnam War that weekend. I did attend a three‑day festival outside of Toronto the following year that drew nearly as many; on that same weekend another festival in the states boasted having a quarter‑million attendees. The combined total surpassed Woodstock, and I am sure the mood was the same at both. I saw youth united, all wanting peace, all willing to defy U.S. government policy and create peaceful chaos to demonstrate just how serious and determined they were. Music brought us together; music fueled the fire that extinguished the flames of war.

The baby called ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll’ entered adolescence in fine fettle. From a popularized melding of R&B, gospel, and varied blues and country styles it had taken on a life of its own, survived in spite of the best efforts of the establishment to make it go away, and began to define itself thanks to pioneering minds such as Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Buddy Holly, Little Richard, and a handful of others that leapt across thresholds while others tiptoed to the edge and hesitated. Cover songs did not go away, and never will, but as the era lengthened we saw rockers covering and sometimes even improving on what their predecessors had done (Pattie LaBelle and the Bluebells, I Sold My Heart to the Junkman; The Olympics Dance By the Light of the Moon; The Marcels Blue Moon; Elvis Presley I Feel So Bad; The Animals House of the Rising Sun). The new music was still infested with syrupy renderings by imposters whose time had gone, but creative, young minds set to work and an outpouring of novelty songs, silly love songs (what’s wrong with that?), and tunes that set toes a–tappin’ and bodies whirling filled the airwaves. Elvis assumed the mantle of leadership thanks to a voice with the power to enthrall; he too relied on covers to jump–start his career, continued to lend his magic touch to songs of others even during the years when songwriters would have killed to get him to record their work, and in his final years, spent touring extensively, his act consisted of covering his own early hits interspersed with singular interpretations of what had become standards. Those first years of rock ‘n’ roll had commonality in three ways: strong beat, simple words, and an infectiously happy mood. Regional TV shows cashed in on the teen dancing craze (nothing new in itself, teens have always flocked to dance halls) associated with the new style and quickly went national with American Bandstand (which, in turn, spawned a legion of local imitators such as Jerry Blavatt and paved the way for Soul Train, the undisputed hasn’t–lost–a–step longevity leader [started locally in ‘Chicago and went national in 1971 with Gladys Knight and the Pips their first guest {Midnight Train to Georgia}]). A period of economic prosperity and freedom followed years of World War and deprivation; teenagers gained status and represented a new demographic with their purchasing power. New technologies accompanied this change, notably the unbreakable 45rpm record and portable players that enabled teenagers and their music to congregate, with their music, at times and places of their choosing. That, combined with an age–old longing to separate themselves from previous generations was instrumental in rock ‘n’ roll’s continued popularity. Imaginative and daring minds—the best–known represented by Dylan, The Beach Boys, The Beatles, and The Rolling Stones—were poised and prepared to steer the child into maturity.

Partly fueled by Dylan’s transition to ‘rock’ but primarily a response to the times, those that had changed so drastically from the somnolent 50s, rock lyrics grew up between 1965 and 1970. No longer were protest songs solely the province of folk tunes and folk singers like Joan Baez—words with a bite began to be backed by music with drive. These were no longer songs the masses could chorus together—they could, of course, but they would be hard–pressed to match the energy of the instruments; the vocals of the Fogerty brothers (Fortunate Son & Bad Moon Rising); the harmony of CSN&Y (Ohio); the raw blues of Canned Heat (Let’s Work Together); the intensity of Donovan (Buffy St. Marie’s The Universal Soldier); the lush arrangements that fleshed out the feelings of the words (Jefferson Airplane Up Against the Wall); the passion–filled entreaty of Janis Joplin (Try, Down on Me and even Me and Bobby McGee spoke to the era); or even the rich melodies of Jesse Colin Young (but we all sang Get Together and didn’t sound half–bad). Even Elvis, still ‘king’ after all these years, joined the fray (In the Ghetto & If I Can Dream). The music change in lyric content was an outgrowth of innovation and experimentation, with The Beach Boys and The Beatles leading the charge, that transformed rock ‘n’ roll into rock and birthed songs and albums that were studio creations meant for listening rather than dancing and often incapable of being performed live. The Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, and a general establishment backlash provided the perfect backdrop for songs that no longer chanted about self–assertion, self–pity, and love gone right or wrong. Those who had experienced the beginnings of rock ‘n’ roll were now the writers and performers and they had grown alongside the phenomenon, matured just as it did, and were now ready to lend their own voice rather than depend on pap churned out by a generation that could not wholly understand the times or assimilate the pathos and ethos of the music makers (Not that it was all pap or all bad: Leiber & Stoller, Pomus & Schuman, and young writers like Paul Anka and Bobby Darin contributed mightily to the pantheon of early rock ‘n’ roll songs that have everlasting appeal.) They spoke mightily. From the folk–rock of the Buffalo Springfield (For What It’s Worth); the pounding plea of Edwin Starr (War); every soldier’s lover’s lament echoed by Peter, Paul & Mary (Leaving on a Jet Plane); the in–your–face anthem of Country Joe & The Fish (I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag); the plea of larger–than–life icon John Lennon with his Plastic Ono Band (Give Peace a Chance); and the painful phrasing of futility from The Doors (The Unknown Soldier), rock was no longer just feel–good music but acerbic condemnations of War, Police Brutality, and the Selective Service; commentary on Social Reform and conformity; criticism of the Justice System; and treatises on the inhumanity of mankind and hypocrisy. Phew. Quite a bit to swallow; let alone digest. Rock masterfully and majestically echoed the sentiments of the times and the new complexity of the genre dovetailed perfectly with and mimicked the uncertainty of the era.

Rock matured into a mighty, mighty man that not even ‘soft rock’ could harness. Be it hard rock or metal, punk or alternative, glam or slam, the music has spoken to the world like nothing this powerful ever did. Globally appealing, globally–influenced, and with a message that is now global in scope, rock has become a voice that often rivals the press, pushes past the pulpit, and penetrates the mind of every little crook and nanny. The factors that combined were age–old with a new twist: youth mattered more than ever before; technology was in lockstep with the new attitude (the changes in recording technology made virtually anything possible—experimentation produced remarkable works); the new breed of future leaders and followers refused to let go when they melded into the mainstream (previous phases and crazes were just that—the 20s jump and jive; the crooning of the 30s and 40s; swing and big band had seen better days; jazz retreated to a niche position, unable to sustain its initial thrust); and all of this because Rock ‘n’ Roll was not really anything new but simply a fusion of the best of the best that liberally borrowed what it needed from every genre that preceded it and sprinkled in new elements to give it a distinctive flavor and appeal.

Once those raised on rock became the leaders, creators, and guiding force the locomotive that had us doing The Locomotion and The Twist (regular or Peppermint) became a bullet–train that traveled at light–speed from Katmandu to Kingston to Knoxville to The Klondike in a matter of days if the music/message had enough appeal, and often it did. The singer–songwriter, once a rarity, interloper, and non–conformist, was now the undisputed chairman–of–the–board and conquered the world like Alexander and the Ottomans could never have imagined. Sophistication came about naturally as singers and writers became aware of the noise, violence, and excitement of city–life and put their feelings on record. By the close of the 60s pop and rock had done a compete 180º; the performers and their contemporaries had gone to elementary school with Bill Haley and Buddy Holly; passed into Junior High with Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley; grew through High School while the new music organized itself and experimented; then went to college with Bob Dylan. Just as Blackboard Jungle heralded the beginnings of rock ‘n’ roll, Easy Rider symbolized the new generation gap along with a soundtrack to emphasize the point. The trend has continued and rock knows no bounds: David Bowie and Elton John gave us their take on NASA (Space Oddity & Rocket Man); Joni Mitchell a bleak commentary on civilization’s charge toward extinction (Big Yellow Taxi); Don Henley on the failure of society and a satire on the mass–media (Johnny Can’t Read & Nightly News); U2 on the struggles of a nation to win independence (Sunday, Bloody Sunday); Good Charlotte’s youth anthem asserting independence (I Don’t Want to Be Like You); and the anti–war songs of today by Sleater-Kinney (Combat Rock & Entertain); the Decemberists’ (Sixteen Military Wives); Metric (Monster Hospital & Succexxy); Le Tigre (New Kicks [didactic but not without charm]); Neil Young’s album (Living with War), a biting commentary on all that is wrong with Washington (Let’s Impeach the President is, sadly, what did not happen); and a list that would fill hundreds of pages without a silly love song. There is nothing wrong with that.

The music of the Vietnam Era played a huge role: a fundamental means of communication that lent expression and fomented unity, it brought disparate groups of protestors from every wavelength of the socioeconomic spectrum together and provided harmony that overpowered petty differences. Billy Bragg succinctly stated, “Music has a role to play in spreading the word of peace. It is a case of using music to articulate something that you don’t find articulated in the mainstream media.” That is demonstrably true regarding the current conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Manipulation and control of the media, especially by the Bush Administration, was a tour de force rivaled only by the curbing of criticism found in dictatorships. That is no idle claim; one reading of the play, What I Heard about Iraq will convince any skeptics. Such deceit did more than hoodwink a nation; it accelerated apathy and lessened the impact of criticism. A good deal of the music of today portrays the complex political masks that are waiting to be deciphered and dispelled with witticisms that are in ironic counterpoint with the absurdity of the action. Still, the masses remain silent; the impact of the songs does not approach that of the 1960s. The power wielded by music is a force that can inspire, unite, and bring about change. Changes certainly will come, changes for the better, and the music you hear, sweet, sweet music, will change with it. When that time comes, you can be sure of one thing—we’ll all sing about it.

The Cold

Here’s proof that Vic doesn’t like the cold.

I Say Wot?

I Say Wot?

                                                            Reality is for people who can’t handle drugs.

                                                            ——Steve Martin (et al)

Those were the days, my friends. The sixties—sexy, seductive, sanguine, overflowing with hope and despair. Elvis dethroned by four lads from Liverpool as rock ‘n’ roll matures into rock; massive, multi–day music festivals birth soon–to–be superstars; Altman’s M*A*S*H, Kubrik’s A Clockwork Orange, and Anderson’s If… signal a cinematic revolution; James Bond and Matt Helm repeatedly save the world; teenage factionalism gives us flower children and hippies; a young president’s image adorns walls nationwide; a young president shot down, his brother shot down, a prince among men, aptly named King, shot down (everything happens in threes); America finally gets it right with Civil Rights legislation; the ‘space race’ builds National Pride; collegiate cognoscenti leverage students leftward; a hand–picked, Promethean powerhouse called the ‘best and the brightest’ create a boondoggle known as Vietnam. It certainly wasn’t boring. What did I forget? Oh yeah, the drugs.

A late–sixties ditty by Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band is referenced in the title above. Rock musicians and drugs were inextricably linked in that era, but the Good Captain was a Frank Zappa protégé, and Zappa, being a genius, musical and otherwise, was smart enough to know why they call it ‘dope’. I don’t know much about the Captain; I’d bet he followed his mentor’s beliefs. Enough, it’s not rock musicians I want to talk about, it’s Vietnam and drugs.

Vietnam’s ‘drug problem’ is well documented. Easy availability is commonly blamed as a chief reason for our soldiers getting ‘hooked’ during their tour overseas. While it is true, from my experience, that marijuana was not difficult to obtain, I never saw, nor heard of, any of our troops using other, ‘harder’ substances. From what I observed, drug use was not exacerbated by facilitation. And, I was a trained observer, thanks to the Special Forces Medical School.

I only saw marijuana twice during my tour, which began February 22, 1966, and lasted exactly one year, until February 21, 1967. Most of us served a full year in Vietnam; unless you arrived with less than a year left on your enlistment or volunteered for another tour, the countdown sent from three hundred sixty-five to one. Everyone, every last one of us, knew exactly how many days he had left. When you got to the magic number thirty, you were officially a ‘short–timer’. In between, whether it was three hundred and one, or one hundred and three, you knew the number; you thought about it many times during each day. Only a few did slightly more than a year, without volunteering. The policy was: if you had more than one hundred and twenty days left on your enlistment when your year in Vietnam ended, you were sent stateside for reassignment. If you had between ninety and one hundred and twenty days left, your Vietnam tour was extended for the number of days that would bring you down to ninety. You were then granted an ‘early out’. I got lucky; when my year was up I had eighty-eight days to serve; I got, virtually, the maximum ‘early out’ without having to spend an extra day in Vietnam.

Nicky Leone got lucky too, he got hepatitis after he was ‘in country’ just a couple of months. As incongruous as that is, that sums up how we felt. We were there; we would do our darndest to honor our oath of enlistment and serve our country. Yet, anything was preferable to Vietnam, including serious illness (non–lethal, thank you) with a long recuperative period. Especially one with a long recuperative period. Nicky spent three months in the hospital; the hospital was in Tokyo, Japan. Nicky was a fellow medic; any in our virile group would gladly have kissed him goodbye if it meant we’d soon share the same visiting hours.

A couple weeks before he became ill, when we were back in base camp getting ready for our next ‘operation’, Nicky asked me, “Want to try something ‘cool’?” He had a white paper envelope on his cot, and from it he poured a bunch of dried up grass or weeds onto a sheet of paper. That’s what it looked like to me, I had never seen marijuana before, and I was completely unaware of the double–pun my thought created when describing whatever this was. Nicky was busily separating sticks and seeds from hi stash; when he finished he told me to take out a cigarette (Camel® unfiltered, the only kind of Camel® back then, was my brand. Camel® was the last of the major brands to offer a filtered variety.) He then instructed me to ‘empty out’ about one–third of the tobacco. I squeezed the end of the cigarette, rolled it back and forth between my thumb and forefinger, and dribbled tobacco crumbs onto the cement slab that was the floor of the forty–man tent we called home. Nicky took my cigarette, held it over the paper, pinched some of his pile between his fingers, and filled the space I’d created. He then tamped that down gently with the eraser end of a pencil, repeated this a couple more times, twisted shut the little bit of cigarette paper still empty, handed me what was now a ‘joint’, and, as he lit a match, told me to take a deep pull and hold it in as long as I could. I was a little hesitant; my knowledge of drugs was extensive from a pharmacological standpoint, nonexistent as far as ‘street drugs’ or getting ‘high’. I said, “What the heck.” and took a drag.

Good Afternoon Vietnam!. Spacy, dizzy, giggly, and quite relaxed, that’s how I felt. I took another ‘hit’ a few minutes later, and that was that. Half an hour later things stopped spinning and I took a nap. I didn’t try any more; when, on other occasions, Nicky offered, I declined. I didn’t have anything against it; I just didn’t see the point. It was ‘interesting’, but nothing I craved. When Nicky returned from Tokyo, hale and hearty, he went to town to get more. I tried it again, mainly to be sociable and to celebrate Nicky’s return. I still don’t know if I saluted that lieutenant who strolled by as I took a walk outside; I do know that I commented to him that it was an exceptionally fine day. That was the second and last time for me. The exorbitant propaganda we has listened to before heading to Vietnam, all that talk about saving the world from Communism, had become a chaotic reality. Still, I didn’t need to make my brain go ‘blooey’ to get by. I counted the days like everyone else.

Nicky was the only soldier I knew of or saw use marijuana during the year I was there. I’m not saying he was the only one; just that it certainly wasn’t widespread, or I would have noticed. Also, marijuana has a singular smell; I never noticed it the entire year I was there except when Nicky lit a joint. What about other drugs? Heroin use was a problem in Vietnam in the late sixties and the years that followed. In 1966, I doubt anyone in our regiment used it. I say that, because, as a medic I carried morphine syrettes in may Aid Kit. Morphine is pharmaceutical heroin. The real McCoy. Pure, unadulterated magic, if those are the tricks you enjoy. Pleasure plus, if that’s your idea of fun. Medics were supposed to have five morphine syrettes in their inventory; I always had close to fifty. I knew I wouldn’t run out, no matter how bad things got. My medical bag was not always right by my side; the contents would have been irresistible to anyone with a heroin addiction, and lots of other addictions. Neither I, nor any other medic, ever had any morphine syrettes disappear. We counted them daily, as we were supposed to do. There was plenty of opportunity for someone to rifle through our bags; it never happened. Also, no one ever asked me for any.

Other drugs I had learned about that had a high potential for abuse were amphetamines, barbiturates, and tranquilizers. I had all three in my mobile pharmacy, and, like the morphine, I didn’t skimp on the amount. Thinking back, I carried enough potent pills and liquids to keep a baseball team zonked for the season. (Sorry Roger, Barry, Manny, A–Rod, et al, I didn’t have steroids.) I had Phenobarbital, Nembutal, Benzedrine, Dexedrine, Biphetamine, Dexamyl, Ritalin, Thorazine, Placidyl, Tincture of Opium, and Coedine, both in pill and cough syrup form. Toss in the antibiotics, anti–fungals, antiseptics, creams and powders, cold remedies, anti–allergenics, anti–helminthics, milder, but still potent, analgesics such as Fiorinal and Darvon, dressings, bandages, IV equipment, sutures, and more, and I was a walking Walgreens®. I even had injectable, five–milliliter ampoules of some of these drugs. Except for the Saline IV bags and a couple bottles of liquids, nothing weighed much. A good thing, for I also carried everything an infantryman did. Plus a .45 (When asked, the first day in Vietnam as I was getting my ‘equipment’, if I wanted an M–16 or a .45, I said, “Both.” And that’s what I got.) I would estimate I lugged thirty to forty pounds of medical paraphernalia with me; I had something for everything, I wasn’t going to tell a soldier I was lacking what he needed for treatment. Thanks to my intense, thorough, and high–quality year of training, I knew how to use all these items. The average medic only had an eight–week course; I got the deluxe version, studied hard, and was confident I could do everything I was trained to do, and do it well. My training paralleled that of today’s top Emergency Medical Technicians; there were many things I learned that are only done by doctors in civilian life. As a recon medic, not knowing when or if I could get a patient to a hospital, I had to be able to perform a host of procedures that ER doctors handle when that option is available.

When on patrol at night, it was essential that we be alert. No one could afford to fall asleep; we needed to be highly attuned to our surroundings. Amphetamines are central nervous system stimulants. The analogy I remember is: amphetamines are to caffeine in terms of stimulation, as morphine is to aspirin in terms of analgesia. Talk about a jump–start! You were wide–awake and focused with this stuff coursing through your veins. I had lots of amphetamines, lots. These things were lifesavers; they literally spelled the difference between life and death. I always offered them to troops I was with on night patrol, and to other night patrol that I didn’t go on. I explained what they were, what they do, how long they would last, and what feeling to expect. Not everyone wanted one; one was all I offered. Many guys could stay alert the whole night on their own adrenaline–high. On average, a little more than a third of the men would take a pill. No one, not a one, not a single G.I., ever asked me for another one of those pills when they got back in the morning. No one ever asked me for any pills except what they obviously needed, such as aspirin or something for diarrhea. More often, they told me their symptoms and I dispensed accordingly. I wouldn’t have given them anything had they asked; I would have told them that I had learned these pills could be ‘habit–forming’ (that was the term in those days) and they needed to be careful. I never gave that lecture; I never had reason to. Amphetamines are ‘speed’. Extremely addictive and very dangerous. If there were any ‘speed freaks’ in Vietnam when I was there, there were very, very few. Opportunity and supply existed; the safe that contained the narcotics and other restricted drugs was in the doctor’s tent, and it was always open. No one ever counted or questioned what the medics took from the safe. The safe was always fully stocked. There was no reason to keep close tabs; here was no drug problem in Vietnam in 1966.

I’m not trying to whitewash things, or make it sound as if we were better than the men who arrived after us. The drug problem in Vietnam began in the States and was shipped overseas. My generation, I graduated high school in 1961, knew next–to–nothing about drugs. Belting down a six–pack in the woods on a Friday night was our altered–state adventure. Kids deep in the bowels of big cities may have had exposure to drugs, but not your average teen that grew up in the fifties. As drug use increased among our youth in the United States, it did the same among our fighting men. Ease of procurement in Vietnam was a factor, but not the significant one. The desire for drugs was already present in some of our troops before they set foot on Vietnamese soil. It was a generational aberration; those men fought, and some of those men died, just like we did; it is at their expense that the life we enjoy, the safety we feel when we are in our homes, and the cherished freedoms we exercise every day, continue to exist. And that is the stone, unstoned, truth.

Changes—A Delicate Dozen

Changes—A Delicate Dozen

            I’d love to change the world, but I don’t know what to do.

                            ——Ten Years After, I’d Love to Change the World

There are now women in combat roles in the U.S. military. I can’t understand how this change came to be. For centuries, yea millennia, women, Amazons excepted, have only been part of the supporting cast. The reasons for this are numerous. Just a few:

1. DSM IV (The Diagnostic & Statistical Manual for Psychiatric Disorders) would have to be amended and a new subset of psychiatric disorder, BHDS, would take its place alongside PTSD. The initials designating Bad Hair Day Syndrome.
2. Fighting in high heels would require weeks of additional training that few would master.
3. The cost of supplying cosmetics to the troops would exceed the cost of munitions.
4. Teams of scientists, now engaged in research involving experiments that could benefit mankind, would have to be delegated to create snag–free and run–free nylons, simply as a cost–cutting measure.
5. Frequent truces that would disrupt the flow of battle would be called so that smeared and disheveled makeup could be reapplied.
6. The glint from compact mirrors used in the above–mentioned practice would give snipers that ignored the truce an easy target to home in on.
7. Combat boots would have to be restyled and made available in a variety of colors and materials.
8. Gucci duffle bags for senior female officers and enlisted women would face an uphill battle for approval in Congress.
9. The cold logic of battle plans would now have an added air of emotionalism that could thwart predicted outcomes.

10. Maternal leave could leave some components of the fighting corps understaffed at critical times.

11. Necessary nurseries and pre–schools close to battlegrounds would endanger non–combatants.

12. Guns do not come in pink.

Fifteen for Free

Fifteen for Free

Unlike Moses, I didn’t drop the third tablet on my way down from the mount; here are a few tips to help you get through the game of life on your terms. Bear in mind, I’m not being cynical; I am trying to save you disappointment.

 

1.      “If you can’t beat ‘em, and they won’t let you join ‘em, take the next train out of town.” (James Garner, Poker According to Maverick, Dell, 1959.)

2.     Never, ever, make an enemy, unless you have an awful lot to gain by it.

3.     Most people that incur your wrath or enmity are not worth spending any time fretting over. That they have to be themselves until they die is a far worse punishment than anything you can do to them.

4.     When you are not sure what is the right thing to do, do what you think is right.

5.     The face you are born with is the one given to you by God; the one you die with is the sum total of what you have accomplished in your lifetime. Make that face one others will respect, admire, and emulate.

6.     Mistakes are a blessing; paying them careful attention will save you misery in the future. Learn from them; don’t ignore them. As for me, I thought I made a mistake once, but I was wrong.

7.     Teach your children well. This isn’t your planet; you’re only borrowing it from them.

8.     You will become acquainted with many people in your lifetime. You will make but a couple of friends. How to tell the difference? A friend is someone whom, if you suddenly need a ride to San Francisco at 2 AM, will be there to pick you up in ten minutes or less. When you get there, the debt is paid in full with a simple, “Thank you.” And they’ll do it again the next week, without complaining or asking why.

9.     Most people fit this mold: do something for them once and they’ll thank you; the second time they’ll expect it, the third time, if you don’t do it, you’re a son–of–a–bitch.

10. Unconditional love comes only from good parents or your children (until they become teenagers); everyone else that ‘loves’ you puts their own best interests into the mix. Be aware of this; but never tell the other party. There is no need to always treat others’ intentions as suspect, but blind acceptance can leave you with a black eye.

11. Unless your last name is Rockefeller, Kennedy, Astor, Vanderbilt, Carnegie, or Mellon, and you’re a close relative of those tycoons, you are going to have to work for what you want. Those families once started with nothing and made their money the old–fashioned way—they stole it.

12. Integrity. The mark of a man or woman. It harks back to the maxim, “My word is my bond.” Integrity is like good art—you can’t define it, but you know it when you see it.

13. Anyone can swear. A class act avoids profanity. It is cheap, trite, and demeaning. Have fun with words, be creative. Let the socktuckers and futher–muckers sound crass, strive for class in word and deed.

14. To get from this week to the next you need to eat, drink water, and sleep. Everything else is a bonus.

15. You never realize how good you feel when you are well until you get sick. Good health is the most precious of all commodities.

Bonus Tablet

16. Youth and skill will always be overcome by old age and treachery.

17. Hard work should never interrupt happiness. Never do anything that makes you unhappy.

18. Education is the one thing that no one can ever take away from you.

19. If you work for someone, the best you can hope for is overtime and a raise. If you work for yourself, you are limited only by your own ingenuity and industriousness.

20. An unhappy person will not live long. If you are happy, then you are already rich beyond compare.

Books, Buses, & Bozos

Books, Buses, & Bozos

It makes me wonder when I run across, not typos, but errors in a book. One recently, can’t recall exactly which, had the hero pecking away on a typewriter on the left–hand page and saving the file on his computer on the right hand page. A reference to a wooden ATLAS in the corner of the office, a holdover from the previous occupant’s days, had me scratching my head. Gee, do you think he meant GLOBE?

Today’s book has the intruder CLAMOR through the window. He then gets shot. Seems pretty harsh for someone just making a din outside the window. Perhaps the word should be CLAMBER? Later in the same book it is “like summer LIGHTING igniting a fire.” Okay, that could be a typo, but how could it slip by the editors or proofreaders and not be replaced with LIGHTNING?

Craftsmanship is certainly a lost art in many areas; that it has come to book publishing is sad. I understand the language is dynamic; that where I was taught that a FLOUNDER is a fish, and that people FOUNDER is no longer the case. Constant misuse, even by skilled writers, has resulted in ‘flounder’ getting another definition, the same as that of ‘founder’. Do something wrong enough times, pile up hundreds of citations, and it becomes right. It is now acceptable in our language. I can live with that. One of my favorites is NAUSEOUS vs. NAUSEATED. ‘Nauseous’ is that substance which makes you feel ‘nauseated’. The simple way to remember it was to think of ‘poisonous’ and ‘poisoned’. You would not ask someone, “Do you feel poisonous?” when what you are attempting to convey is, “Have you been poisoned?” But, with nurses countrywide asking patients if they felt ‘nauseous’ the distinction was erased and ‘nauseous’ is redefined. I would still query, “Do you feel nauseated?” But that is simply because I am old school. Which is not a bad thing. School was much easier when I was young. We had one less subject to worry about since there was no history.

The biggest decline I see is in the service sector. “The customer is always right.” no longer applies. The horrendous treatment of customers, and I suffered it once, at Target^® when trying to return something, is appalling. I bought an air mattress, took it home, blew it up, settled down, and the air leaked out in a couple hours. So I brought it back the next morning. I was told they couldn’t accept it because it wasn’t in new condition. There were marks on the bottom. Of course there were; I tried it out. What was I supposed to do? Inflate it, lean it against a wall making sure the floor was spotless, and come back hours later? I succeeded, managed to make them see my point, but it was a struggle. When I was in high school I worked at G. Fox & Co., a huge department store in Hartford, CT during the summer. ‘Training day’ had us hearing the story of the customer who entered the shoe department and wanted her money back for shoes that did not fit. They had been purchased two years earlier, had holes in the soles, and the heels were worn down to nothing. She got a full refund. The goodwill generated from that transaction could never be purchased for the cost of hundreds of pairs of shoes. Management knew that; they also knew that one in ten thousand would have the unmitigated gall to attempt such a stunt, while hundreds, perhaps thousands, would hear the story—one like this just had to get told and retold—and where would they then shop for shoes? A win–win situation; the best kind. ‘Customer Service’ is too often a disservice.

Common courtesy has vanished. Today I got the Deluxe Breakfast at McDonald’s. After sitting down and placing the eggs on the top half of the Styrofoam container (which they should not use because it takes forever to decompose) to separate them from the pancakes (never did like pepper on my pancakes or syrup on my eggs) I noticed I didn’t have the potato patty. I took the tray back up, pointed this out, and the girl went over, got the potato thingy (it has some special name) and dropped it on my tray. She then walked away. Without a word! No, “I’m sorry.” No, “Here you are.” Absolutely nothing. At least I didn’t get hassled about it. I was not accused of already eating it and trying to get another. That would not have surprised me. A couple days earlier, same McDonald’s, same breakfast, I went back to refill my ‘senior coke’. This is one of the few fast–food places that still have the soda dispensers behind the serving counter. You can still get all the refills you want, you just have to wait for someone to come over, take your cup, ask what you want, and they do it for you. No big deal, they’re very attentive to people seeking refills; no danger of standing there and being ignored for some length of time. I handed over my cup, which still had a little coke in the bottom, and the fellow told me, “This is a water cup. I can’t put soda in it.” Sure enough, the darn thing said WATER in big letters on both sides (Well, a round cup doesn’t have ‘sides’, but it said WATER twice, 180º apart.). Still, there was coke in the bottom, it could only have come from behind the counter (unless I was accused of bringing in my own, running out, etc.), and when I insisted that was the cup I received with my order it was refilled. It was refilled again, I told the girl I knew it was a water cup, etc., and there was no problem. Only thing was, I had a couple inches of soda and melted ice in the bottom. Did she dump that before refilling? Probably never occurred to her. Mama never taught her, or she wasn’t paying attention, and it sure isn’t part of the training. Or she didn’t pay attention there either. I’ll vote for ignorance. The fourth refill (I got talking with a friend who showed up just as I was going to leave and wound up chatting for hours) the counter–person called the manager over. I explained, and she tossed the water cup and gave me a soda cup. Same look, same size, just one says WATER. Used to be the water cup was much smaller, actually tiny, but no longer. Must have been too many people who looked at the amount of water they were handed and asked for a couple more. I always did. At any rate, I went back up with my breakfast receipt to the manager and said, “See. I ordered and paid for a soda. Just don’t want you to think I’m trying to put one over on you.” She looked, nodded, and walked away without a word. If this was a diner, or some local restaurant, I’d never go there again. But how do you penalize McDonald’s?

It’s a couple days later now and I took the bus into Glendale center, poked, and then decided to go to Burbank to sell some CDs. On the way there, as the bus traversed a short block from Brand Blvd. to Central Ave., a woman walked across the road, causing the driver to slow a bit. He honked at her, and then when she was clear he leaned on the horn as he stepped on the gas to go another fifty feet before he had to stop. Those horns are loud. And annoying. I’ve concluded that if drivers were surveyed and given a choice between a horn and brakes, the horn vote would total 98% or more. If they gave an intelligence test as part of the driver’s exam the roads would be empty. By the way, if you drive a bus, and your best friend’s name is Beavis, you can find a job with L.A. Metro. On the way back from Burbank, waiting for the Route 92, a Route 183 bus pulled up. I’ve noticed them turning the corner from Pacific Ave. onto Glenoaks Blvd. lately, a departure from the route they’ve traveled for years, and I asked the driver if he stopped near Pacific and Glenoaks. He pointed ahead, and then at me, as he said, “Glenoaks is up there and Pacific is down that way. Take the 92.” He then shut the door in my face and pulled away. I hope the bus drivers where you live are at least civil; out here they all flunked out of Charm School. That’s today’s tirade and, as always, this is all off–the–record, on the Q.T., and very hush–hush. Kindly stay tuned.