Ben E. King - 1962 - Stand By Me [originally posted on 4/19/2010]

One of my best friends and future pallbearer is a crusty old Marine Sgt., former police officer, Annishinabe, poet, birch bark basket maker, and famous writer Jim Northrup. He resides on the Fond Du Lac Ojibwe Reservation, Sawyer, Minnesota. Although older than I, his claim is he will be the oldest surviving Vietnam Veteran.

In the fall he gathers Mahnomen (rice) and in the spring maple sap, using the old traditional way, he boils sap into syrup. A cool dude, his ”Rez Ride” is a beautiful hot rod, 1964 Corvette Stingray, powered by a 350 cu i L-88 with overdrive transmission, which at last count, 2 motors and 3 trannies had been replaced. Jim's wife Pat won the Corvette at their casino “The Black Bear”. It has a custom intake called a “BIG MOUTH” Headers! A fast motor indeed!

Anyhoo we decided to visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall in D.C. along with Walter -a nother Marine Nam vet- and two of my sons, Zac and Tom. Jim had helped raise Zac, teaching him traditional ways. Off we went in Jim’s Pow-Wow Highway Chevy van, AKA the fuck van. 

Along the way we were to stop at this college in Ohio where famous writer Jim Northrup would do a reading. This gig was on a Sunday at 'Bandersnatch' Hall, which we could not find. Riding around the hilly campus with windows rolled down, Zac was gonna ask this black chick where 'Bandersnatch' was? We all yelled “Gawheen” (No!!)...ask that white dude.

Anyhoo, Jim and I had been practicing in Ojibwe his opening lines. I was to interpret his Ojibwe to English. We had it all down and everything was cool. As the 85 or so audience members settled in, Jim passed around his birch bark basket, which was made the traditional way, by hand, used to separate the Hulls of Mahnomen (rice). I watched people putting money in the basket, “it's Sunday” just like in church! Hey Jim! They're fillin' your basket with “JINGWAH”. Jim announced what the Ojibwe used the basket for and that he didn't want to collect money! The count at that time was $28.00! I was all for it, but Jim said Gawheen! 

As the time came for his reading , famous writer Jim Northrup announced that his friend Ray Earley would interpret what his Ojibwe words meant. As Jim started his introduction, I noticed a girl in a mini skirt sit down in front. She had one of the nicest sets of legs I had seen in awhile. She knew it. I knew it! As I stared at her legs, she uncrossed them. Smiling, she recrossed them, giving me a great “Beaver Shot”. My mind went blank. The next thing I knew the audience and Jim “famous writer” Northrup were all looking at me. My response was

“what”? Jim announced I had gone somewhere. 

From then on, he has done his own interpretation! Here is what was said: Boozhoo niijii-bimadiziig...hello myfellow human beings. Bangii etago ninintaa-Ojibwem....I only know a little Ojibwe. Ninga-gagwejitoon ji Ojiwemoyaa....I'll try speaking Ojibwe. Jim Northrup niin indizinikaaz zhaaganaashimong....My name in the Ojiwemoyaa....I'll try speaking Ojibwe. Jim Northrup niin indizinikaaz zhaaganaashimong....My name in the English language is Jim NorthrupChi-benesi indigoo Ojibwemong...I am called Chi-benesi in OjibweNaagachiwaanang niin indoonjibaaa....I am from the Fond du Lac ReservationGwabaa'iganing indaa....I live in the village of SawyerIngii-ojibiiyaan izhiwebak ishkoniganing miinawaa Anishinaabe akiing....I write how it is on the Reservation and in Indian Country.giinitam

The next morning our adventure would continue. It was off to DC. That's another story.Thanks to MY FRIEND Jim Northrup for helping me with this story. He did the Ojibwe. Jim can be visited at http://www.jimnorthrup.org/. 

Sammy Kershaw - 1993 - Queen of My Double Wide Trailer [originally posted on 5/10/2010]

It's been a couple of weeks since I’ve sent any ”drivel”, so here's my excuse: The dog pissed on it!

I know you been missin' my “Cow Wow” selections, as the claim is, this is America's original Lack of Skin Color Music! We had to move out of the cornfields. The fresh air and mold were getting to us, so I said if there be mold, we will go. There was, they proved it to me. It was especially affecting my mate. I should have known. She quit doin' what she did best, what kept me at home!!! She can cook real good, yes she can! Cheryl would lose her chain of thought or completely forget what she was saying. I hadn't been listening most of the time anyhow. I quit years ago. I couldn't follow...they (WOMEN) WILL SUDDENLY SWITCH, and start talking 3 or 4 different lines... “My niece is in the hospital again, I lost the book I bought for class, and did you know your cousin wouldn't confirm me as a friend on Facebook! Oh I wish you would put the fan on when you're in the bathroom, the smell curls my eyelashes.” 

See how it's affected me? I now write like she talks!

But the mold didn’t seem to affect me as much as the others.... That old burnt out brain cell I have left, it's a hearty one. I been tryin' to off it with drugs and alcohol for 50 years! Remember Norm (CHEERS)? His theory: Only the strong ones survive. 

Anyhoo, we found a 4-bedroom manufactured home- what my mate calls it! Took Obama's 5% cash back for down payment, cashed in my casino winnings, and stayed out of them, finding enough to buy this $49,000.00 vehicle. It's Home Sweet Home. I say we is now official ”trailer trash”.  The dwelling is 28x 64, but the wheels it came on are stored under it, hence we is “TT”.

Getting hooked back to the net took a week. I had already been offline for a week before at the old place. I’m happy to say, I now have my www.Life back. Pitiful it may be, but it's all I got!!! 

After selling the big freezer, the riding lawn mower, the 71 Chevy 3/4 ton 4×4 gasoline guzzler, the furniture, we burnt the moldy shit and packed our remaining stuff in boxes. Son Joe and his family moved us after we rented a 24' diesel, and waited for a rainy day, took our cat and dog, moved 60 miles to the north, just a little East of a large urban area where fellow Nam Vets, Tom and Chuck helped us offload. A big thanks to these “Brothers” who I can always count on!!

Cheryl's four sisters and their numerous offspring reside within minutes of our new hovel. Cheryl and our adult offspring - that I cannot get rid of - all smiled and said ”we approve”. I took the money from the sale of my treasures and paid a visit to ”Best Bought” where I purchased a 50” Spasma TV. Paid a cable co. to hook it all up, so I now live in a compound in the country, with 500 other souls near the poverty line. Been fortunate to be on the outer ring with a large yard. Mgmt. put in central air, a new paved driveway, will resod the large lawn and I will put on a deck and ramp where I can sit and slop beer and watch old ladies my age waddle by. Chris can now stop by to visit- we are near that freeway that takes him to St. Ain’t. Life is great! Now ya got some “Cow-Wow” music to listen to! TWANG! Rat

Billy Ray Cyrus - 1992 - Some Gave All [originally posted on 5/17/2010]

Before I moved to my new vehicle (it's got wheels), I was writing about our foray into Washington D.C.  I'd been there in the early 70s with Vietnam Veterans Against the War. We scared Nixon. He was worried about us taking over the town- they were a paranoid bunch.

In its time, D.C. was a decadent party town, anything you wanted. I loved it. Hung out at a bar called the “Hawk and Dove”. I met a lot of crazy women. Along with 50 Vietnam Veterans we lobbied Congress to set up a discharge review board. The DOD had been passing out thousands of less than honorable Discharge Papers to ‘Nam Vets who had admitted to smoking dope. They were quizzed on their way out of 'Nam with questions like: Do you want out now? Have you ever smoked marijuana?

We prevailed and a committee was set up. We knew then we were gonna get screwed, starting with the Dept of Defense!! I came to understand why we were in that war. I hated it. We thought we could change it. We were wrong. We didn't have the money. Who gets it done is who has the money...it was then as it is now. A democracy it ain't! 'Nuff Said…

Anyhoo in 2000, Jim “Famous Writer” Northrup (whose middle initials shall be 'FW' from now on), Walter, myself and sons Zac and Tom made our way to D.C. to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. At that black granite wall we took rubbings of friends who were casualties of the War. We would meet a Gold Star Mother from Wisconsin. She had suffered the ultimate loss, and would attach herself to Jim “FW” Northrup after seeing his Fond du Lac, Minnesota veterans jacket- she was from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. She spent her time comforting saddened veterans. I think of her often.

On to Arlington where we paid our respects and took pictures at the Marine Memorial of the 2nd Flag raising on Mount Suribachi Iwo Jima. That picture shot by Joe Rosenthal would become the most famous photograph in the world. Its sale would help fund America's effort in WWII.  

Being tribal, we went to see the Pima, who was made infamous by “The Ballad of Ira Hayes” written by Peter LaFarge (Johnny Cash covered it).

Anyhoo after this we needed to party, and being it was November 10th- the Marine Corps birthday- we found an old VFW in Virginia that was giving away the most gawd awful tasting beer we ever drank. IT WAS FREE! You gotta drink the first three down real fast then who gives a shit. Kinda like the way Love Stinks- hold your nose, after your first three, who gives a shit.

Seems wherever we go, Jim “FW” Northrup and myself attract the strange and insane. At this VFW, it was no different. As soon as we were seated at a long table, a vet with no face sat down across from us, exclaiming, “I suppose you wanna know what happened to my face?”

“Okay,” I responded, “I will play. What happened to make you so ugly?”

“I was shot in a live fire training exercise! Do you wanna feel it?”

“Okay,” said Jim “FW” Northrup, sticking his finger in the hole in his face.

Met a big biker with a Santa Claus beard, this 5th Regt. Marine who had a scar on his forehead. Said he was struck by lightning! Met a Hawaiian- a Vet from the 1st Cav- along with an Australian. We formed a fire team. Drank and told war stories throughout the day. As the afternoon became evening, and the free spaghetti feed was over, we watched as the most famous day of the Marine Corps was set up. It's a much -beloved ceremony celebrated by Marines all over the world! 

10 Nov 1775, the Marine Corps was founded in Tun Tavern Philadelphia. One of its founders was a Quaker, Maj. Samuel Nicholas, who was booted out of the Quakers after they heard he was hangin' out in taverns. Anyhoo, back to the year 2000... A large cake was brought in and set on a table, the tradition being that the youngest and oldest Marines present. They would cut the cake with a Marine sword. OOPS some ”shitbird” FORGOT THE SWORD!!!  

”Any one of you Marines here have a sword?”

“I do” responded Jim ”FW” Northrup! “Zac get my sword out of the van!”

A little Marine History,In 1805 Marine Lt.Presley O'Bannan marched his Plt. 600 miles across Africa to Tripoli, where he defeated pirates who are doin' the same thing today! A Mamaluke Chieftain presented LT. O'Banna with this sword, making it the oldest weapon in the U.S. armed forces. Enough history, let's have another round!! 

Hearing this my brain suddenly awoke. Hey, the last time I saw that sword, Jim”FW'Northrup's grandson Aaron was cutting up dogshit in the yard with His NCO sword, back at Fond du Lac. I better do something- that dogshit won't taste so good!! Meeting Zac, who was returning with the sword, I saw the cook standing at the door. 

“Hey man, can you sterilize this thing?”

“Sure thing- I got boiling water.”

 The sword was cleaned, the cake cut, we all ate, and drank more beer. It was then I let the secret out! 

Happy Birthday Jarheads! “Eat The Apple! Fuck the C--ps” Still A PFC, RAT!

Johnny Cash - 1971 - Man in Black [originally posted on 5/24/2010]

Sitting here after reading Tha5ftAzzazzin's well thought out scribe, thinking about the sad state of affairs we are in! Corporate-run America, a government run by politicos whose main objective is to get re-elected. We told you this was gonna happen, back in the 70s, and then we joined forces to make sure it did, working for the last 30 years... Here are the fruits of our labor. 

Lemme see what we have here: A war without end. Corporate oil killing the Gulf, defying the American people, secure in their knowledge they own Congress. Our continued use of fossil fuels until every last drop is consumed. The Catholic church, run by a former Hitler Youth working to protect its pedophiles from prosecution, claiming its persecution. I'm tired of seeing these evangelist Congressmen come on TV crying about their infidelities after being elected by a “dummed” down populace, having learned to spout the Christian right buzzwords “family values”. Getting to DC, “Party Town USA”... more pussy than his evangelical ass ever dreamed!!!

There's a bike club in Minnesota- the BPMs (Booze, Pussy and Motorcycle”) Change “motorcycle” to MONEY an dit fits Congress.....We never learn. All that needs to be done is to look at our past. Being a Vietnam Veteran, I can remember how quick this country was to wash its bloody hands of the whole fiasco, never wanting to look at what was wrong with our policy. Well, here it is! 

Countries do not like to be told by the USA how to run their affairs. It's simple. If you try telling someone how to live their lives, or steal their resources, invade their country...they will fight you, kill you, or die trying. What did the first illegal immigrants do in this country? They told their masters that “We will not bow to the King anymore!” Seems after WWII, the USA became what President Eisenhower warned us about in his farewell speech: A Military Industrial Complex. The warning was corporate industry saw the military as where to sell its wares by influencing Congress. Continuous wars, uprisings, or threats to our freedoms scared the American populace into backing their ploy. Incidentally, Eisenhower's speech was penned by Malcom Moos, former President of the University of Minnesota.

I'm gonna get off my soapbox now. Thanks 5ft! I know you're bigger than that! I will read it again, feeling there's hope, knowing there has got to be more like him out there in good OLD OPRYLAND!

Trace Adkins - 2005 - Arlington [originally posted on 5/31/2010]

I wish it weren’t so, this day shouldn’t be.  Memorial Day is, for many, a day of sadness, for others a day of pride, to remember our loved ones who died while serving this country. We will visit cemeteries, listen to old men and

women speak and pray for the dead, listen to the bagpipers, the bugler will play Taps… Most of you have not had, nor will you have that experience. I’m happy for you! Never having to, as Jack Nicholson’s character in A Few Good Men exclaimed “Stand on that wall!” You may have buried a loved one. It was sterile. After a short illness in a hospital. With words like “passed away” or “gone on”.  So have your picnics, visit your cabin. Fish. Get drunk. Your life has been a joy so far. That could change. 

The explosion, followed by gunfire, screams of the wounded, fear so hard it drives away everything else. There’s no pain, thirst, hunger. The only feeling is confusion. The only thought is they are trying to kill me! Anger replaces it all as you return fire. You empty five magazines of ammo. Just as suddenly as it began it’s over. Rifle empty, as you are, replaced by I’m alive! I’m still here! Happy to have survived your first firefight!! It’s then you get hit with a reality you will never forget. 

Nothing will ever be the same anymore. Picking up your best friend from Staging Bn., you yell for the corpsman, holding him in your arms as he dies. His last word was “Mama!” You promised him you would visit her. Poncho laid over his body, never to be seen by you again, only in your dreams. You are assured of a lifetime of memories of this day. They will become nightmares. With guilt thrown in.. Why am I alive?

I have lived a long life, I have honored your memory daily! Today I will remember you as I always have. I will put on my uniform, visit the Memorial Wall, read your name, hoping I won’t break down in tears! I kept the promise. Took me ten years, but finally made that visit to your Mama. She said she understood. She was so happy!

You finished up your long Memorial weekend. You got your boat in the water. Been to your cabin. In Minnesota, it's called “Up north”. With your son, daughter, grandchildren. The youngest is gonna graduate from high school, and the oldest from college. You have been planning the open house. The soon-to-be college grad wants to talk about plans, says he has something to tell us. Will have to make time as soon as we get home. It’s a four hour drive, I hope I can stay awake.

Dad, Mom, I joined The Army!  YOU DID WHAT? I joined ROTC while I was in college, I will be getting my commission as A 2nd Lt. when I graduate and I will be leaving for training in a week!!!  WHY? I want to defend our country!  ARE YOU CRAZY? THERE’S A WAR GOING ON!  Where in hell did that idea come from? Hey, you been talkin' to that crazy uncle of yours? Look what Vietnam did to him! Yeah he told me to become a officer! I get to tell other people what to do!

Your world has suddenly been changed with those words. Now its your turn to feel the aprehension, the fears, waking up in the middle of the night, fearing when the phone rings! Watchin' the news, your political views don’t mean diddley anymore! Finally, you will feel the pride, seeing how proud he has become. Looking for ways to support him. Hey, I met some good people at the Armory. They all have loved ones in the service, supporting each other, a real friendly bunch. I was asked to join them. They are gathering together to raise money for phone cards, or for whatever else our troops will need. Hey did you put up the Flag yet?

James Taylor - 2009 - Knock On Wood [originally posted on 6/7/2010]

Ok Slim, for a fan of your stature, here goes. Crank it up!!! 

The way I saw it! Old saying: “Ride A Bike, Go To Prison”. Hanging around, or “prospecting”, to get into a “1%Club” can become a quick way to prison. [Note: I've never been a convict, like it is rumored in my hometown. I worked for the Dept. of Corrections, ran the Indian Ed. Program. I would go to prison daily, came out everyday... back to the tale.] Individual members in the club are sometimes dealin' drugs. They will use “prospects” to do their dirty work. Once the club is busted, prosecutors use what's called the Rico Act- the old Nixon Organized Crime Bill - where they put up that this club or group has been organized to perform criminal acts. Once they decide to use “Rico” they will seize everything you own- your house, car, motorcycle, pickup, tools. The feds like this law! They are as good as any divorce lawyer, yes they is, and this is before you are convicted. Now that youare destitute, you will qualify for a public defender (AKA pretender)- a first year lawyer working to pay off student loans. 

You are now known as the defendant who is going to get a new number! Unless you are “patched”, you won't get much help from the club In fact, if they think you made a deal, your ass is grass. Once convicted, the government sells everything you own and splits the proceeds between state and fed. Once in prison, you find out real soon that you need to join another gang for protection. And to keep your lily-white ass virginal, guess what you're expected to do? Prospect!

Anyhoo... it was back in the early 70s and these newly organized MC clubs were laying out their territory sellin' a little grass. The partying was good and the livin' was easy. Then along came “crank”.  This was a biker drug. Drinkin' a little beer, snortin' a little crank, would keep you ridin'. Cocaine would become the no.1 selling drug in the USA. Yuppies loved it- I knew doctors, lawyers, and cops who snorted coke. There was a big difference in these two drugs. Cocaine was coming out of Central America. It's expensive and the high IS OVER QUICKLY! This here “Bathtub Crank” I can make at home from chemicals I can buy. It's cheaper and I can make it last longer. We are in business, an' bidness is good! 

The black communities would be taken over by crack made from cocaine.  Stretching the expensive powder drug into cheap fast-acting rock - its effect would devastate black neighborhoods. Gangs’ territorial domains would become killing grounds, prisons would be overfilled.

Meanwhile crystal meth would become a favorite among the white youth of this country. Bigger bike clubs wanted more territory. They would move in on the smaller clubs, pull their patches, patch the dealers or kill them. These tactics would start wars between the big clubs which would make the wild west seem tame. The meth craze has been devastating to small town America, including reservations. 

I was lucky. Coming home from Vietnam, I would not prospect. I had been telling Marines what to do. I wasn't about to take orders from a “Non Qual”. Later, I worked with drug-dependent male veterans. Been lucky so far. A little alcohol. Quit crank years ago. Most of my offspring just use alcohol... until it kicks their ass. Knock, knock on wood!

Ok, one story after the history lesson. This is for Slim- a real honest to goodness bedtime story. Back in the early 70s, this old patched member of the club I knew was gonna be gone, so he says, “I'll get you a case of beer if you sit here and watch my house.” I shoulda known better. He was a tightwad. 

“Ok. When will ya be back?”

“A couple hours! Sit in my recliner.” 

New color tv and cold Grain Belt- what a life. About an hour after they left, a UPS truck pulled up. I signed for the huge box- which was light- and put it on the table, sat back with another beer. The phone rang.

”Hello,” I said, “Fuck ain't here!”

“Hey Ray, it's me Fuck. Anything happen?”

“Naw, it's quiet.”

“Anybody come by?”

“Naw... Wait a minute. UPS delivered a big box.”

“Ok, good. Take it in my back room and look outside...are there any strange cars out there?”

“No, just your neighbors” I said.

”Ok, see you later!”

I sat back down. My brain said 'I wonder whats in the box? And why would Fuck call?' I cut open the box to find that three large black lawnbags were filled with “white crosses”. “Holy Fuck”. I filled a bag with 1500 crosses outof the 300,000. I taped the box back up and stashed my cut in the alley. Leaving on my bike, I would come back later when it got dark to retrieve my stash. Fuck never knew. I made some money. 

I hate speed, it kills!

Eddie Cochran - 1958 - Summertime Blues [originally posted on 6/14/2010]

My favorite minstrel of all time is Eddie Cochran. “Summertme Blues” is the best song ever sung! You don't have to agree, it's just the way it is with me. Hmm, where have I heard this before? Maybe I can get it past them!

Back in 1960-61 in the early days of rock and roll, to hear Eddie Cochran's lamentation, I knew then I wasn't alone. At 14 and living on a farm, I worked from dawn to dusk. To go out meant getting this older friend of mine with a car to let me ride along- fat chance of that happening. Picking up his big tittie girlfriend, he would drop me off at the A&W Drive-in, a local cruise spot, where I would wait for my friends.

It sucked being 14 and without wheels. I hung with my hoodlum friends, following each other around in their cars. That way, if one of them junkers broke down, they left it and rode in the working car. It was pretty boring, unless we found something new, like a couple of party girls. We did the same thing every Friday night. Met in the gravel pit, pooled our money and had Bobby's older brother buy us a couple of cases of Grain Belt Beer, after which he took his cut. 

We had a key and could lock and unlock the gate to the pit. We stood around a bonfire bullshitin' each other, same ol shit. What we smoked then was Marlboro or Pall Mall. At the time we were known as hoodlums or juvies, and the good girls stayed away from us. 

At 15, I got a drivers license and my own car, and graduated from that bunch. That car gave me all the freedom I ever wanted. My life became wrapped around cars, Harley's, hot rods, 4x4 pickups, and they all had to be fast. I learned how to make them go faster, which required a lot of money and gasoline, which brings me to my point.

By the time of my last move I sold them all: a '67 Cutlass that preceded a '38 chevy Hot Rod and my unfinished project- a '71 chevy 3/4 ton 4x4 gas hog. I now drive a 6-cylinder Dodge Dakota and I am letting people pass me in their little underpowered pieces of shit that they have removed the muffler from, which makes them sound ill. I'm using far less gas, and I use synthetic oil. There is no Mullah getting any money from synthetic!

Anyhoo, seems BP can't cap that well in the gulf. So I also joined a group that wants to use “DRILL BABY DRILL” Sarah Palin to plug up that well. Doin' all I can!

This August is the class of 1965's 45th reunion,and they have invited me. I shouldn't go, but my 409 bud

e-mailed me and said he- along with the rest of my hoodlum buds - will be waiting for me. Rat...

Lena Horne - 1943 - Stormy Weather [originally posted on 6/28/2010]

I have been in this new house long enough now that I know all its sounds. A different sound will wake me. The walls are thin enough that I easily hear traffic and can tell my neighbors aerobics. Canucks sneakin' across the border.

As a Marine in Vietnam your life depended on how fast you moved from the “Hootch'' you slept in, to the bunker outside your door. A mortar round leaving the tube makes a real distinctive “whuumph”. Hearing that sound usually gives you 7-10 seconds to reach the bunker, where unless its a direct hit, your chances of surviving a mortar round penetrating the sides of your bunker are good.

Anyhoo, this “whuumph” is also made during firework displays on or near the 4th of July, and I've been known to jump up and scream “incoming” when this sound occurs. I don't mind the little explosions when the fireworks reaches its altitude, it's only the “whuump” sound that precedes it. Fireworks are sent skyward out of mortar like tubes and that's why they make that distinctive sound. 

I read where a lot of municipalities are too broke to afford a display of fireworks, which just breaks my phuckin heart.

Back to new sounds.  A few nights ago, Minnesota got some “bad weather”- in fact real bad!  Thirty-six tornadoes were reported over the entire state.  A half-mile wide twister flattened villages. Three people were killed. That new sound I heard was “warning sirens” which means find shelter. Wife and kids were scared. She called the grandkids to tell them to take shelter in their basement. Hey, wait a sec!  We don't have a basement. There's wheels where the basement should be. This is a flimsy “manufactured vehicle”- bet I could knock it over with one of my chili farts! 

”I know where to go Dad!” announced my autistic son John. “Down the street about a block or so is an earthen covered bunker, open entrances on each end, it stinks inside, but I think we're supposed to go there when the sirens go off.”

Meet my old and new bunker.

The Hit Co. - 2009 - Mister Ed [originally posted on 7/5/2010]

The 4th Of July was always a big celebration, so big I'm gonna write about it on the 5th.

My Dad, who was born in 1898, partied on the 4th in Delano for beaucoup years. I went to school there. Coming from a long line of hard workers, we make hard partiers. Dad was an old horse trader. We had saddle horses and two old matriarchs.  A pair of “standard bred” work horses, retired from the plow, they would be used only to pull a float for parades. Used to the noise and firecrackers, they were old performers. They wore their show harness with the chrome studs, their coats oiled, their hooves shod and painted. Hearing the oohs and ahhs, they loved to show off!

Of all the celebrations, the 4th of July one was the biggest and the best! It began with a huge parade- marching bands, floats with beauty queens, saddle clubs, motorcycle precision riders, hot rods and clowns. From the floats, people threw candy to the kids who'd scramble into the street to retrieve the pogey bait. Some claimed it was better than Halloween. The parade started at the ballpark, ran south up to the railroad tracks then west to the Crow River, and back north to the ballpark where the head met the tail end of this 3 hour parade.

At the municipal park, rides and carnival stands were set up. Thousands of people brought their lawn chairs, coolers, babies and kids from miles around to watch this parade followed by rides in the park and a fireworks display. Hundreds of gallons of beer along with thousands of hot dogs, pronto pups, and the latest cheese curds were consumed. A dance followed featuring polka music for the old folks, rock bands for the kids. If you were a teenager and interested in a girl, or guy, this was the time to make your play.

Anyhoo, when I was in the 8th grade, my last year to ride a horse in the parade, I rode my horse along with the members of the Saddle Club. That year I was on Buddy, a large buckskin (mother was a saddlebred mare, sired by a Quarter Horse). The buckskin Kevin Costner rode in Dances with Wolves was a spittin image of Buddy.  A tall, good-lookin', well-trained three-year-old gelding, I was taking care of him until his owner - my friend - gotout of the Navy. With a dark brown roping saddle and matching hackamore, we cut a fine figure of a horse an rider. 

Besides Buddy and his mother Pearl, I had a bay mare! A little secret I will share with you- “girls love

horses”.  ”Oh, I love your horse, can I ride with you?” Buddy lined em up. I had fun that summer. It was my last year on horseback! I would get in cars and off the horse, and live to regret this! Buddy was sold to a girl in South Dakota. They would compete in barrel racing and cutting contests and Buddy was a frequent winner!... I'm going to Delano.  They got the 5th off for the 4th!

Blood, Sweat and Tears - 1969 - And When I Die [originally posted on 7/12/2010]

I spent the last few days at my friend Jim (FW*) Northrup's house on the Fond Du Lac Reservation. The occasion was the annual Veterans Pow Wow where the Fond du Lac Tribe honors their own and all other veterans who attend, no matter what tribe, race, religion, or ethnic background.

The tribe gives out gifts of mahnomin (rice), t-shirts, hats, jackets, travel bags, wall clocks. The t-shirts, hats and jackets are embroidered, inked or silk-screened with the tribal member's name and branch of service and the word OGICHIDAA (Warrior) Fond du Lac.

Jim Northrup's family also sets up a sheltered lounge with free coffee. It is here where we greet old friends from years gone by and meet new ones. Two Marines we had met late last year in Winona drove six hours, camped overnight to be there. One of these Marines had the same job Jim had in 3rd Bn 9th Marines, India Co. In 1966, Jim had the job; in 1969 Lee had Jim's old job in Nam. Jim told Lee, “we were winning when I left”.

Another story Jim liked telling was, “Ray Earley was a rigger. His job was to rig cargo to get dropped from the plane, which meant he had to go to jump school. Each time he was going to jump from the plane, he would get scared, backing away from the door, saying 'I can't JUMP!' The Jumpmaster had enough, whispering in his ear, he said, 'I'm a homo, and you better jump the next time we cross the drop zone, or I will screw you!' Well did you jump?”

“A little at first!”

Actually, 30% of my disability is from breaking both my ankles at different times landing hard on frozen ground. I made 19 military jumps all under 1000 feet, and 40 jumps over 5000 feet and above. The Marines would disband Marine air delivery because of the helicopter. Realizing they made a wrong decision, Marine Air Delivery is back in business! Hurrah!!

A lot of stories, reminiscence, and laughter were heard in this shelter....

*(Famous Writer)

The Doors - 1971 - Riders on the Storm [originally posted on 7/19/2010]

 After years of riding a rigid frame chopper, my ass, back and legs had had enough. I bought a '75 “Shovelhead” -an old funeral escort bike that had been ridden into the ground. I rebuilt everything, with S+S flywheels, pistons, rods and carburetor. New and fast, it was now a small (86”) stroker motor. I did the 4 speed tranny the same, all Andrews close ratio gears, heavy duty clutch with belt drive. I stuck it all in a Harley Davidson Swing arm frame from a 1958 Duo-Glide. This was Harley's first frame with rear shocks. It had their lowest struts, built only in '58. I replaced them with air shocks which enabled me to raise and lower the ride height that I usually kept “KneeHigh”. I built a 2” over wide glide with offset brake on a 21” front wheel. This was all before Harley started building bikes with some of these same mods!! 

John Kosmoski House of Color painted it Wet Black. Dave Bell, hotrod illustrator, pin-striped the tank with orange flames. I found a patent leather covered TRACTOR STYLE seat- it matched the paint. A single seat, I had a small pillion pad on the fender...for looks only- I rode solo! I would name it “the THE LAST RIDE” from its funeral escort days. 

This was the best bike I would ever own. Then I married the woman I was living with and bought the house we were renting, put in a new furnace with central air. Besides my bike, I had a '57 Chevy with a glass tilt front fender hood, a 327 hotrod motor, 68 c-10 1/2 ton. Times were good.

Me and a friend had started a recycling business, reloading toner cartridges and re-inking copier ribbons. We had a million dollar a year business. We were one of the first. Wanting to expand, he started selling to investors. Things were looking good. We were also growing at home, with 3 sons.

Early one Sunday morning, I got a call from my partner's wife, “Have you seen the paper?”

“No.”

“Well, you're not gonna believe it! There are pictures and a story of my husband getting married in a hot air balloon over the Minnesota River!”

“When did he do this?” I said.

”Yesterday!!”, she screamed.

We would find out my partner had five wives! 

Well, our investors and the state of Minnesota frowned on this and moved in taking over our business, blocking me out. They took everything, selling it off to get their investment back. Times got tougher- lawsuits, restraining orders. I would end up selling my toys to pay for the house- I had been four months behind. The Last Ride was sold, then the 57...it didn't matter, they would foreclose on us anyhow. 

We were now homeless. We would move into a “burnout” after spending the summer camping in State Parks. I showed my sons the joy of dumpster diving and siphoning gas without swallowing it. We went through a lot of mouthwash. Anyhoo, as a family we became tight, learning how to depend on each other. We knew we would make it. Next week I will tell you how becoming successful would tear us apart.

The J. Geils Band - 1980 - Love Stinks [originally posted on 7/26/2010]

When Chris [shlepcar] moved into my house in 1988, he had a roommate named Willard. HE WAS A BIG WHITE RAT! Willard cured my wife of snooping. She was snooping in Christopher's room when Willard decided to say hello. Anyhoo, her SCREAM was heard for blocks. It also scared the hell out of Willard, who responded by tearing newspapers in strips, covering the whole room so He could hide.

Getting home from work, she said to me, “I'm not coming downstairs until that “thing” is gone!”

“That ain't gonna happen,” I said. “You been snoopin again!” The rat stayed and she didn't snoop for a while!

After losing the re-inking business, we experienced some hard times. 

Chris soon got his own place, before he decided to move to California. I don't think he asked, but I opined that I hoped he wouldn't settle in Southern California. My second opinion was he should try and find a place in the Sierra-Nevadas, although there ain't much work to be found. Then the earthquake came and they were gone, with the hope they would be able to get jobs. There would be a big cleanup, rebuilding.

Meanwhile, we would start to get back to living like everyone else. I would get a job and wife would find a job. I won't ask for help. I sold all my toys, my bike and 57 Chevy, to which I kick my dumb ass to this day. I couldn't see what was comin' at me- I would be stabbed in the back and “gut shot” by who I thought would never do me wrong. To this day I won't use the words TRUST OR LOVE! These words are MYTHS used for dummies like I was!!I took care of my kids. We survived! She took up with a sleazeball. She waited for a weekend I would be gone. But that's another story.

The Doobie Brothers - 1989 - Need a Little Taste of Love [originally posted on 8/2/2010]

I lived and worked for this farmer, who at the time was single. Along with his aging Irish mother, he farmed the old family homestead. She cooked and cleaned the huge white clapboard house that we three lived in. I remember that white house was always cool- it sat on a hill with huge elm and oak trees providing shade for it. I had a bedroom upstairs next to the bathroom. 

Being a large Irish Catholic family, there were plenty of kids around on weekends. They would come out from the cities- Minneapolis and St.Paul, an hours drive- and the kids usually stayed at one of the three farms that their uncles owned. Sometimes they helped, but mostly they played. Their Uncle Jim, my boss, preferred to have them out of the way. Remember, these are city kids. They wouldn't know which end of the pitch fork to use, and he'd instruct me that under no circumstances, were they to be let on or near the tractors, which made me feel kinda superior to the boys, especially to those who had their driver's licenses and drove their own cars.

Anyhoo, the kids were mostly his nieces who were my age. They would stay around the house and help their Gramma. Of these girls, there was one who was a little large, the only one who paid me any mind (she will be back later). I kinda ignored her. I was more interested in her nice lookin' cousin, who could not remember my name, the snooty little girl. That is, until that afternoon when I saddled up a beautiful buckskin

saddlebred quarter horse named Buddy. I left him tied up where she could see him from the house and then I went back into the barn. 

It wasn't long before I heard “Excuse me, is that your horse?”

“He is,” I responded.

”Oh, I'd sure love to ride him.”

“Well, he is kinda a handful, especially if he doesn't know you,” I said. “But I have another mare who is a good rider. She's in the back pasture with Molly an' Dolly. She likes girls!”

“Oh, could I please ride with you?”

“Well, ask your Gram if it's ok.”

Remember the large girl, dear reader. She had been asking for weeks. I had put her off. In those days I was more particular (she will be back later). And stupid me, when it came to girls in those days, my 14 year old testosterone filled male body was of the thinking that If I was nice to the girls it would stand to reason that THEY WOULD RETURN THE FAVOR! Oh, I was Dum de Dum-Dum.

Anyhoo, I was now riding with this beautiful girl, yeehaw. Once we caught the mare she would ride next to me instead of behind me. Getting back to the yard, my boss Jim was standing next to his new '62 Ford dressed in slacks and a sporty looking shirt. He said, “Do you want to go to a baseball game? There's a new team in town called the Twins. It's their first game!”

It was then that my heart skipped a beat, when I heard his niece say “Oh Uncle Jim, I want to keep him for the day. Roy and I have been having so much fun riding.”

“Well, his name is Ray, not Roy, and it's up to him if he wants to go to the ball game.”

I was torn- GIRL, GAME, GAME, GIRL.

“I guess I'll stay here and ride with her for the afternoon.”

“Suit yourself. This is gonna be a historic game. They're giving away hats, bats and balls,” he said.

We rode all afternoon. I heard all about her steady boyfriend. I shoulda went to the ball game! Later, that ol' mare would dump her and head for home at a gallop. 

“Oh, I forgot to mention, she can get cantankerous when she is tired.” 

That day I learned to say, ”GET YOUR OWN HORSE.”

Remember the big girl? I said she would be back. It was years later I was invited to this swank party- I was the token biker. It was on a rooftop of a place on the West Bank near the U of M. The party was getting to be a drag. This was a yuppie bunch, they liked disco, and so I thought “Phuck This Sheet.”

I was getting ready to leave when the dude who invited me came up and said, “Ray don't leave.”

He had a tall, attractive woman who was smiling at me. 

“Hello Ray,” she said. 

I stood there, brow wrinkled, trying to recall this woman when the host said “This is Dr. Darlene Mattson.” Picking up my jaw, all I could say was “You wanna go for that ride? My bike's downstairs.”

She laughed and said “You had your chance, Ray.”

She will not be at the 45th class reunion that I am taking Chris (shlepcar) to in a few weeks.

Live To Ride-Ride To Live!

Rat

Toby Keith - 2005 - As Good As I Once Was [originally posted on 8/16/2010]

If I had stayed in high school, I would have graduated in June of 1965. But I went into the Marines in 1963 and had already been to Vietnam by that time. 

Anyhoo, my oldest son Chris is coming to see me and is going to take me to Delano, Minnesota, to my 45th class reunion, to see a bunch of old farts who more than likely will be wearing stick on name tags. There will be a lot of “DO YOU REMEMBER?” When Mr.Traen (biology teacher now deceased) did this or that. 

And speaking of the deceased, most of my good friends: Two were killed in Nam, 3 died since- motorcycle accident, heart attack and cancer. My other three friends- who live in Alaska, Montana or Northern Minnesota-are not coming. The average age will be 63, with the early onset of Alzheimers, and I really don't give a shit how many bipasses you had. Or your Grandkids. I didn't like you back then, and that blow job you offered the nite before your wedding wouldn't have made a difference. I'm glad you're no longer married to my friend. I figuredhe knew you were a slut- it was why he married you... 

Anyhoo, Chris (shlepcar) picked me up and we drove west to Delano USA. I introduced Chris. My twin Cordy showed up with Bob. We drank, ate, drank, and listened to a lot of stories I had forgotten! Remember when Ray stole that keg of beer off the truck, brought it down to the river...we had to smash the bung out with a rock, we were all wet from beer, stunk real bad in school that afternoon.

I'm glad someone bought the name tags. Most of the “OL HOTTIES” hadn't aged well- sadly, the best lookin' was my twin sister Cordie. Later the MC introduced Chris and asked for a round of applause thanking him for bringing his Dad, Ray Earley!

Thanks Chris, I had a real good day!...

Jamey Johnson - 2008 - Women [originally posted on 8/23/2010]

On Saturday morning I moved Corrina, my 18-year-old daughter, 95 miles south to Rochester, Minnesota where she will start college on Monday. No furniture, but her belongings filled my Dakota. She will live with three other girls in a 2 bath, 2 bedroom apartment. This is gonna be interesting! I bet within a month they won't talk to each other. That's just the way girls/women are. I say this from experience.

I worked for a homeless program out of the Minneapolis VA. It had 8 houses that the VA had foreclosed on, in and around South Minneapolis, filled with 2 to 6 houseless male veterans. 

We had two unbreakable rules: 1) keep and maintain sobriety (most were former crack addicts) and, 2) keep and maintain that $15.00 a hour housekeeping job the VA Hospital trained and gave you. 

We took 25% for rent which was used to pay the utilities. I had a '68 Chevy pick up that I had dragged out of the woods. I had a built 355 Edelbrock motor, with a 400 tranny, 4;10 gears and dual exhaust. All the S. Mpls cops knew me and this nasty lookin', loud-ass pickup, which I used to haul donated furniture and residents to their new house. 

More than once the Mpls Hwy Patrol had escorted me down the freeway- tedlights and siren at 110mph- to Hennepin County Hospital with a suicide bleeder in the back. 110 mph was my top end with those 4;10 gears and the cops would tease me- their computer hot Mustangs would easily do 140 mph.

Anyhoo, me and the '68 were well known. From 3-11 pm I drove it to all these houses daily, checking on residents for contraband. If I found drugs, the Mpls Police had a special squad. We had worked out an agreement. They could enter these “safe houses” without a warrant and remove people when called.

Everything was going great until the VA decided we should open some houses for women. I have been

married three times, so I had a little inkling. I thought I knew what women were all about. Was I wrong. The VA shoulda hired a woman instead! At the time Bill Clinton was in office and was gonna balance the budget, which he did using veterans and the military. He cut veterans programs and “RIFFED” (Reduction in Force), this was after the first Gulf War. 

A whole shitload of women were “Riffed”. They were lifers for the most part- 10-12-16 years they had been in-and they were pissed. One of these women walked into the VA and fired a 9 mm into the ceiling. She held off a bunch of Fed S.W.A.T. who were gonna kill her. After she was subdued and disarmed, the Fed wanted her locked up. One of the better men I have known in my life- the builder and director of the hospital- said NO! She needs her meds adjusted. They sent her to the VA psychiatric hospital. She was back in 3 months. She said her issue was She Was A Lesbian! When I told her so was I, we got along great. 

I had to witness her taking her meds daily. The issue was that this veteran had been gang raped...while in the Army! I would find out 3 things about former military women: 1) They won't listen to a man, 2) they don't like other women, 3) THEY DIDN'T LISTEN TO ME!

After about three months, I had been run ragged by these women. I'd hear complaints like “she leaves hair in the sink”. I would say, “Fuck, throw it out” and then they usually would complain to a social worker (scourge of the earth) at the VA.  One of the tricks they'd use to try to get me fired would be to answer the door naked (I had to knock at the women's house) to try to entice me. By this time I had learned to have a ridealong witness. 

One day, I got a call from the VA housekeeping where I had previously applied for a job. At first, I was hired to work weekends, so I kept my homeless job.  So for a year I worked seven days a week until the housekeeping job became full time. Within another year I would become too disabled to work. By then, my old bud- a Vietnam combat veteran- who was the director of the homeless program, and who had hired me 5 years before, had been set up and fired by members of his non-profit Board. The transitional housing program was now getting the BIG MONEY from the Feds and these BUTTHOLES WANTED IT!! 

I remember Dick Gregory saying “There's money in poverty.”

Creedence Clearwater Revival - 1969 - Fortunate Son [originally posted on 9/6/2010]

Being a member of the INTERNATIONAL BROTHERHOOD of TEAMSTERS! And being this is LABOR DAY, here is a little history, the way I see it, and I don't want to hear any back-talk!

In the early 1900s, this country was run by industrialists. They owned it all. They ran sweatshops. The mines, which were dangerous, dirty, and your life expectancy wasn't for long. Villages in Pennsylvania were completely covered in asbestos dust from the shingles they made! You worked 14 hour days, with no time off, no health care, piss poor wages. If you were disabled on the job, sinh loi, you would be fired and your ass was dragged out the door. That was it.

Along about that time, our neighbors north of us- that's right, Canadians- organized. They had the first labor day.

Anyhoo, the United States would follow suit. The AFL began by organizing workers. San Francisco iron workers who built the Golden Gate unionized. They had the strength in numbers. They demanded safe working conditions, higher wages, health care for injuries received on the job. People would be killed and injured fighting for workers rights! 

Now I realize this country has been brainwashed into thinking that unions are Communist, that present day industry needs to go to Mexico and other third world countries where there are no unions. They are doing what they know best: fucking the worker. Setting up sweatshops by paying off the government in power. This, they say, so they can compete with the Japanese and Korean car companies who build their plants in the USA. 

Most don't remember when Jimmy Hoffa ran the Teamsters. Anyhoo, he brought in Organized Crime, which would lead to the U.S. government taking over the IBT (International Brotherhood of Teamsters). If you were awake during the last 40 years, you saw old hypocrite Reagan, who was a union leader (President of the Screen Actors Guild). Once he figured out who was runnin' this world, he became a Repubican, got elected president, then started taking apart Unions. 

Remember the air traffic controllers? He was the Supreme Hypocrite! Teamster crooks? They weren't diddly compared to the Wall Street crooks who bankrupted this country and they only put Madoff in Prison, and we the taxpayer bailed them out!!! They are giving our money to their CEOs as a BONUS instead of a prison cell!!!

Now I see where they are starting to blame veterans for this country’s dilemma!! I knew them fuckin' HYPOCRITES would fuck veterans again!!! They are soon to be done with them!!! I knew that “I Support Our Troops” thing was Bullshit Propaganda. 

Anyhoo, that shit you're about to take, along with your livable wages, 8 hour 5-day work week, and annual vacation are because Workers organized Unions!

Have a good one!

Larry Verne - 1960 - Mr. Custer [originally posted on 9/13/2010]

In 1974, I met this Cheyenne elder, “Two Moons”, in the Minneapolis VA hospital. We were both recovering from surgery. When he mentioned he was from Lame Deer, Montana, I jokingly asked if he had fought Custer?

No, he said, I was in WWII. My Grampa fought Ol George A. Custer. Most people mistakenly believe it was the Dakota (Sioux)- they got the glory- while the Cheyenne did the fighting as the saying goes. 

Anyhoo, Ol' Two Moons invited me to the Victory Dance in June '76. It was the 100 year anniversary since they had defeated George Armstrong Custer and his 7th Cavalry at the “Greasy Grass”, or as it's commonly called, Custer's Last Stand at the Little Big Horn. They knew that reinforcements that Custer was supposed to wait for were near, so this huge gathering of Cheyenne and Dakota broke camp and scattered. They knew the ol “Long Knives'' were gonna be pissed off!  The Victory Dance would have to wait.

So, 100 years later, we loaded the Ol' Dodge Maxi Van, tied our 20 foot TIPI poles to the roof, offered asima

(tobacco) for our journey, and drove off to the Little Big Horn. There were 12 of us- mostly Dakota and a couple of Ojibway. 16 hours and 800 miles later, we arrived at the Little Big Horn. The hill and road to the top were packed with tourists - school buses full of “Blue Eyes”, some dressed in 1860s Cavalry uniforms (they were called “Reenactors”).

We humped up the hill to listen to the Cheyenne and Crow- they had joined forces to defeat the energy companies who had planned to build a dozen coal-fired generators around Coalstrip. They planned to sell electricity downline, only one generator had been completed. The Cheyenne and Crow- once enemies- had successfully “Siouxed” to stop this ripoff of their land, water and air. They had also gotten the U.S. Government to issue a class-A environmental certificate, which means these Co.s cannot use Montana's mining laws to steal the minerals. The mining Co.s put this law in back before Montana became a state. Any property that is found to have minerals underground belong to the mining co. The law is the Mineral Rights Law- minerals found on your property are the mining co.s and they do not have to pay you any more than what the land is worth. Now Git.

After the blah-blah (all politicians sound alike), we followed “Two-Moons” to his ranch where we sang, danced, and ate buffalo. It was June 1976, the bi-centennial year. I saw the First Vietnam Veterans Honob Guard of Cheyenne Warriors. They were Airborne Veterans of the 82nd AA, 101st Airborne Division, and the 173d Airborne Brigade. Seeing these troopers in their Class A uniforms, jump boots and their hair in braids, they carried AR-15s and the Cheyenne “war bundle” leading the veterans and dancers in the “Victory Dance” around the drum and joining them- all Veterans were invited to dance- I remember the PRIDE I felt. Proud of being a Anishinaabe Ogichidaa, Marine Vietnam combat veteran. I thought of all my relatives- grandfather, uncles, cousins, friends- who had fought in this country's wars. That was the day I got my pride back! It was the anniversary of Custer's defeat!!

ZZ Top - 2003 - Buck Nekkid [originally posted on 9/20/2010]

Stop me if you've heard this one before! Oh, I guess you can't. Most of the stories I tell have been heard numerous times by friends, wives and kids. My friends let me tell it, but my wife and kids hold up their fingers indicating how many times I told it. Disrespectful!!

Anyhoo, it's football season, and the team of mostly millionaires here is owned by billionaires, and today I found myself being sucked into that maniac fan vortex again! I say AGAIN, because back in the 70s, the Vikings lost four Super Bowls! The reason I jumped back on that bandwagon was good Ol' Boy Brett Favre (pronounced farv). It was that pass he threw in the last few seconds of that San Francisco game... that's all it took- I was in. 

Hooked on a game that's corporate football, played by these fuckin' jocks who have never done anything in their lives but play football. Remember, they were pampered in high school. Two of my buds played college ball. They had all kinda shit given them. No one paid attention then, it was the 60s. So what if they took that Heisman back [from Reggie Bush]! He is paid 1,000,000s. 

Anyhoo, they sell us video games, BEER, trucks, jeans- we elevate them to HERO status. Paint team colors on our cars, trucks, buy t-shirts $30.00 and up, build billion dollar stadiums with retractable roofs...you get my point.

Back in the 70s, I rode a “Hog”, partied a lot and generally had a good time, until it snowed. Sometimes I left Minnesota for warmer climes. I had a union card, so I pretty much got a job wherever I went. 

Anyhow back to the winter of 76-77- the Vikes played Oakland in the Super Bowl. Super Sundays always mean “party hearty”. I stayed at my partner Little Woodie's house. So Sunday we walked over the ice to this bar that morning. After a few and shooting some pool, Woodie's wife Sue called the bar. She told him to get home, they were starting to party. Sue sent a snowmobile after Woodie. He said I'll send him back for you. 

About then, the barmaid started whining “Oh, please stay with me”- free beer, I'll pull the recliner out... about 4 hours later I was shitfaced. The VIKEQUEENS HAD LOST AGAIN!!!.

In the morning, I woke up in the bedroom in Woodie's basement where I usually slept alone, but I wasn't alone. Me and the barmaid were naked. She had gained 100 lbs and she was singing. I told her to shut up and to get dressed while I showered. As I was trying to sneak her out of the house, I heard surprise!! There were about 15 people laughing and yelling that I had won the “PIG CONTEST”. I had the biggest one there. I tried to hurry her out the door. She wanted to stay, so I left her there. I drove back to St.Paul, swore off drinkin', and fat girls... that lasted about a week!

That was then, this is now! So anyhoo I'm a “fairweather fan” AND WILL BE GETTING OFF THE VIKINGS BANDWAGON!! after their first two losses!! I'm too old! Go TWINS!!...

Ten Years After - 1968 - I'm Goin' Home [originally posted on 9/27/2010]

This week's lesson is a tribute to funerals! The first 3 letters spell Fun, and that's how I like to keep it. The only funerals that I find hard to attend: Veterans killed in war, babies, and mine- which I will not have, I'm GONNA GET BURN'T UP. I told her not to tell anyone when this happens. If I owe you any money, tools, or bike parts... tough!

Anyhoo, back to funerals I've enjoyed! Most bikers have seen The Wild Angels.  THAT funeral scene was phukin great! Most will agree Peter Fonda makes great movies, it’s his acting in them that sucks! A biker I knew was called “Crazy” John. He was killed by a truck. Anyhoo, his wake and funeral were a pretty tame affair, having been run by a priest and mortician. That is until his casket was brought to the cemetery, which is when the bikers took over. 

Crazy's coffin was opened and items he liked were placed around his “Carcass”. Bottles of whiskey, beer, panties, a few motorcycle parts...anyhoo, I was helpin' to shut the lid, I managed to slip a bottle of tequila from the coffin into my sleeve before we screwed the lid down! I knew Crazy would want me to have and drink that Cuervo Gold!

As the ceremony was winding down, this biker chick (she would become my old lady) started screamin' and wailin' over Crazy's casket. I thought Far Fuckin' Out! I would later give her a $20.00 bill. When she asked me

“What's this for?”, I said I want you to be at my funeral (have since changed plans). Most biker funerals, and a few veterans ones, are party hearty affairs!

Another of my favorites was a clubber and wife who were killed by a drunk. After his funeral and at his “goin away partay”, his girlfriend showed up in her conversion van and proceeded to have sex with his best friends, which I later heard was all the men- and a few women- that were there!!! FFO!

A veteran friend of mine, a Special Forces E-6 had the family jewels blown off in Vietnam. We were roommates at the VA hospital. He wore a colostomy bag and a few more. We often talked about if he thought of “doin' himself”. Everyday, he said. Anyway, ten years later he offed himself. His twin brother invited me to his memorial which was held on the farm he owned in Wisconsin. A lot of Veterans, bikers, a few Green Bay Packers-who he loved- came by. His casket sat on saw horses next to his Hemi Road Runner in the two-car garage. On easels, there were a bunch of pictures of him from better days. With an endless supply of beer and booze, his memorial lasted a week. I had pitched my tent under a tree. There were port-a-potties, and the old milk house had sinks and showers. On the last day, an Honor Guard of Green Berets showed up in Class A's and AR-15s and fired a 21 gun salute and planted his casket across the road in the family cemetery!

Bruce Springsteen - 1984 - Born in the U.S.A. [originally posted 10/4/2010]

I had a nice little birthday party. Old Marine combat veterans came by with gifts of an eagle feather, books, a new desert camo blouse, money, beer, and food. The ones I call “YOU PEOPLE” grilled hamburgers and brats. My wife made her special potato salad. It got kinda cool outside so we moved inside- it froze last night and it was 30 degrees this morning- turned on the furnace.

This 64th year got me to think of things I've seen in my lifetime. We (twin sister) and I were born to an Ojibway woman in a TB sanitorium. She would hire a lawyer by the name of Miles Lord- he would later become a federal judge- who proved TB could and was being cured, and got the TB sanatoriums opened. By that time we had been adopted. 

Being an Indian with TB, she was considered a ward of the state, with no rights. It would be 25 years before I would see her again. Raised a Catholic, I am now a “born again Pagan”! 

4.4 years as a two-tour Vietnam Marine, I got attitude. When I got out, I married Christopher's (shlepcar) mother till she went to prison. I tracked down my mother. She lived in Glendale, California. I took Chris with me, and to the obligatory trip to Disneyland. 

Anyhoo, coming within a “hair's breadth” of prison myself, I turned my life around and have worked as a corrections and homeless counselor, became a father to 4 MORE SONS, and a daughter. My folks died in the 70s, along with my wife's mother, so the only grandparent my kids had was my real mother. 

She would come to MN to visit, but was really uncomfortable around us. She would drink a little, and then apologize for not raising us, which would make me really uncomfortable. I would tell her “Ah fuck it, ain't no sweat.” Anyhoo, she would live with her granddaughter on the Yakima Reservation in Washington, where her granddaughter was a tribal attorney. In 1995, she became deathly ill, put on life support for 44 days when it was decided she would be unhooked, though none of her West Coast family would do it. Along with her brother- my uncle- we drove to Washington where I said, “See ya later” and unhooked her from life support. She had brought me into this life, I helped her leave “Singh Loi Mamasahn”.

Anyhoo, my point being is that this life we live is all we got and we oughta “live and let live”. We have been so manipulated by the powers that be, that off to war we go. Having been indoctrinated on John Wayne war movies (he never went), my war was VIETNAM! What the fuck was that??? Nobody has ever been able to tell me. My son Zac and his girlfriend came to my party. She is Vietnamese and Ojibway. They said you will be a Grampa soon! All I could say was FFO!!!!!!!!!B

Bob Seger - 1975 - Beautiful Loser [originally posted on 10/11/2010]

 

In the movie Good Morning Vietnam (1987), a Sgt. asks the character played by Robin Williams “Do you know what three up and three down are?” 

”End of an inning?”

Or as reported on the front page of the St. Paul Sunday Pioneer Press, “Yankees Sweep Twins Out of AL Playoffs”. WTF!

Another story is about the Minnesota savior Brett Favre, from the (look in your garbage) press who claim ol' Brett sent a New York “Hootchi” some nasty proposal over the internet. What bugs the livin' hell outta me is these bottom feeders waited on this story for a couple years now. I don't like shit like this. 

A couple of dorks stuck some panties under the front seat of my pickup. I got them both back. I found a couple sets of Ol' Lady Bloomers and waited and waited. I had to find their vehicles in the church parking lot, and I left love letters penned by a girly expressing true love and the bloomers for them to keep as a reminder of that special night!

My son Tom watched Randy Moss's press conference after the Patriots lost a game recently. He said Randy will be a Viking!! Anyhoo, as I called him at the time, Ol' Cash For Clunkers Brett Favre is gonna be playin' the New York Jerks Monday Night, and he is bringin' “the Freak” Randy Moss with him! Did you see what Randy did to Big Mouth “Darnell Revis when the Pats played the Jets? They pulled him after Randy showed him up! As a younger Man I usta say “Win, Lose, or Draw, this Fight don't matter, I love to hurt!” And get hurt a lot of times they would Di-Di !! HURRAH Oakland Raiders!!!

C.W. McCall - 1975 - Convoy [originally posted on 10/18/2010]

Back in 1973, I was still kinda “fresh”. They was tryin' to put me in prison. I was in way over my head. I had gone back to drivin' over the road. Mostly it kept me outta bars. From the time I was 16, I had what was called a Minnesota Chauffeur's license. It was license to drive any size vehicle on the road. I bought A “COE” CAB OVER ENGINE with sleeper made by Freightliner. I had been pushin' a Peterbilt but had spun a main bearing, got the “Liner” for the price of a motor rebuild, always on the road, operating costs up, freight prices down.

Anyhoo, after welding up a headache rack (it keeps the freight from coming into the cab in an accident), the tractor and I hooked to an outfit that was pullin' pipe outta the Gulf, Louisiana and Mississippi. I was drop loadin hook onto a loaded trailer, usually a hour turn around. I was also crankin' about an “8-ball” every 5 days. It got me home.

Once back in Mpls, I would pick up another load of pipe- actually the pipe was re-skinned and ready to be sent back to the oil platforms. Salt water will deteriorate the pipe in a few months, so they are 'reskinned' in Plymouth MN. After crashin' for two days, a shit, shower and shave, I would make my truck payment, pay the fuel bill, and visit my dope man. Throw my “old whore” some scratch- she was a retired hooker, now she said that pussy was free to me!! Rode her own 'Shovelhead”. She did what she had to. I would be back on the road and my two trips a week to the Gulf. 

A little about my home. I took over payments on a 1972 Freightliner, custom powered by a 425 Cat,14 speed

“splitter” tranny (COE) Cab over engine. She was a hillclimber with all them gears. Cabovers are “Rough Riders” because of their short wheelbase. A bud spray painted flames on her. I named her “Sweet Baby'. She had a sleeper, which I had pulled the bed to make room for my Harley XLCH 900cc Sportster. I built a hydraulic hoist to off and upload the bike, and an oversized sleeper door took me less than 5 minutes to go from 18 wheels to two wheels. Everything else I owned was tools, jeans, tees and leathers. I had put in a kickass 8-track and radio with a dozen speakers, a CB (citizens band) with PA (public address) system. The PA was illegal unless you're a cop.  I had a radar detector.

I also rigged a “pisser”. You ever get splattered when you're next to a truck? It's an operator dumpin' his piss bucket, which was made from a funnel, plastic hose and gallon container. It takes a while, but eventually you learn to piss while driving. You lose money and time stoppin', so you only stop to refuel, but that isn't often since you installed those 150 gallon fuel tanks on each side of your rig.

One of my peeves about the South... You got to refuel in their state, where you get a fuel stamp that you put in your log book so that Roadmaster will see you're payin' his wages and he won't drag you off to jail. In those days that's how it was.

After a couple years of this insanity, I broke down. I needed off the crank, and along with my Nam PTSD, I ended up on the psych ward in the old VA. I was lucky to find out I wasn't completely insane. This was about the time thousands of “Independents” went under. The cost of fuel, tires, insurance had all gone up. It would take a nationwide shutdown and Congress to get freight costs to match the high cost of truckin'.

Most of my old buds that cranked on are now dead and gone. One of these days I will write about them when I get done at being pissed off at 'em! I take pills to slow my heart down. I still drink a little.

These days new technology, computers, radar reads your weight as you're driving by the weigh station. New tractors with auto-transmissions, radar screens with satellite transmission that show you whats beside, behind over, under, any lights out, tires going low, engine problems, when to refuel, where you are at. They got walkin sleepers with a toilet and shower, microwave, fridge, TV, stereo and, of course, a PC, mostly laptops. 

Truck stops are equipped to handle downloads, uploads, automatic refueling, provide heat, or air, so you can shut your rig down. Willie Nelson owns a truck stop in Texas. He sells only the diesel fuel alternative 'Veggie Oil' . 

In 1985, I got my last DWI, and lost all my licenses! Now I only have a class C. 

Anyhoo, I got this real old irritating song. It is a historical account of bein' over the road back in the 70s! It's called “Convoy”, written and sung by a twanger named CW McCall, which ain't his real name, it's Johnson which ain't a real twangers name! It was a toss-up between “6 days on the road” and this un!

Twang me! Twang me! Oughta take a rope and Twang Me! Great to see Slim Friday is back and “fresh”. Seems he is the only one of us havin' any fun in his Life!!! FFO Slim!!! Rat

James McMurtry - 2005 - We Can't Make It Here [originally posted on 10/25/2010]

TV, the great American propaganda machine, has this new biker show called Sons of Anarchy. Actually, it's a show about a “bike club”. Like a lot of the Vietnam films I've seen, the only thing they got right is the motorcycles. They ride Harleys, maybe an Indian thrown in. The costume “colors” they wear are out of the sixties. 

Back then patch holders wore Forever patches, FTW, I3, and Wings. Clubs today wear a backpatch, maybe a Nomad patch, that's about it. Anyhoo, I noticed one of the stills showed a 'flic' of three wings, all identical, except for the color. Depicted were wings that were White, Brown and Red. I laughed when I saw them. 99% of you 3 or 4 who read this drivel have no idea, nor probably give a shit what they represent, but I'm gonna tell you anyhoo.

This was pre-AIDS days. Some of the clubs had a ritual that to earn these wings, it was required that the prospect go down on a woman. You know what white is, red is that she was on the”rag”, and the brown wings were earned by what Andrew Dice Clay used in his gig. Old Rectum Breath was the only comic I've heard who talks of the “backdoor”. 

The prospects mostly were drunk, which was their saving grace! Anyhoo, there was also a term of derision to describe “tight ass”, selfish, for-themselves types. It was “Whitewinger”.  It fits Republicans perfectly.

I know that them sex ed classes didn't teach you this shit. Only from ol' Rat!

One other thing: next Tuesday these “WHITEWINGERS” are gonna try and take over. They want to deny me Social Security and my VA pension, which I earned fighting their PHUCKIN War. They're done with me and other Veterans. This 2% OF THE POPULATION WANT IT ALL! DON'T LET THEM HAVE IT! VOTE them Out!!! We own them! Our money rescued them! Their CEOs should be in prison!!!Reply Reply to all Forward

Billy Edd Wheeler - 1965 - Ode to the Little Brown Shack Out Back [originally posted on 11/1/2010]

Halloween was a fun night out for me as a kid. All the neighboring farmers knew who we were under our mostly-homemade costumes. I took the sheet off my bed and cut holes in it so I could be a ghost. Later, I caught hell when my Ma washed it.

Anyhoo, most of these farm women made the treats they passed out: caramel apples, fudge, a white vandy called divinity, pulled taffy... stuff you only hear about from your elders. As we grew older, trick or treating was replaced by us teenagers performing acts of vandalism and other nonsense. If we were caught, we would get our asses whipped, and we had to pay for all damages. This was not a police or court matter- it was decided by whomever had been vandalized and your folks.

It was the 50s, and most country people had not yet put in electricity or indoor plumbing. They had “outhouses” at the country school I attended. Someone in the hoodlum crowd I ran with decided it would be a fun idea to tip over the Muchko Brothers outhouse, a wooden “two holer”. The Muchko Brothers were bachelor farmers whose farm was immaculate and had been in their family for generations. The Bros, as they were called, still farmed the “old way”, with horses, although they drove a new GMC 3/4 ton pickup and a 1950 Black Buick Roadmaster.

All four were in their 40s and had fought in WWII. It was rumored they buried their money in coffee cans around their farm. Their farm was a good 1/2 mile off the road, and we would have to walk in to keep the element of surprise. 

That evening started off with us meeting at the gravel pit- we had a key to the chain that hung across the road (nowadays they block the entrance with boulders). Anyhoo, after the 5 of us got shitfaced on beer, it was decided that we'd take one car, remember, the element of surprise. This particular Halloween night was a dark one. You couldn't see your hand in front of your face.  After getting lost a few times, a flashlight was procured from the parked car. By this time it was nearly midnight and was starting to get cool.

”Gonna be frost on the pumpkin tonight.” someone said.

”Shhh, we're almost there. One more barb wire fence and we will be in the tree line where the “shitter” is, now shhh, be quiet. Ah hell all the lights are out in the house, them old boys are in bed!”

It was about then we heard a shluup! and Dicky screaming, “Help me outta here. I'm in shit up to my neck!”

By that time we had all run back to the woods and right into the electric fence that had been turned on since we came. It was then we heard this wild laughter, “We gotcha boys! We pulled that old Ford you drove up in- it's in the yard.”

About then, the yard light came on and all four of the Muchko Boys were laughing and teasing. One had turned the garden hose on Dick. He was standing there shivering as the old man washed the shit offa him.

”Well boys, did ya learn anything tonight?”

We all kinda looked at the ground.

”Listen boys, we knew this would happen again as it did when we were kids. Sit down and have a beer. We ain't gonna tell your folks cause there was no damage. Every Halloween we dig a new hole and move the outhouse. We put a little tarpaper and dirt over the hole, sit in the treeline and wait and see what we catch.. There is no harm done and we had a good time! Hope you learned your lesson. Don't be messin' with OLD Veterans!!”

Billy Craig - 2010 - Pretty Good at Hunting Deer [originally posted on 11/8/2010]

Monday morning the tally will be in. We will see how many people were killed. In most cases, it will be by family or friend, they will have shot each other with a high powered rifle. A father killed his son, a friend killed his partner in a tree... most, if not all, will never be prosecuted, that is unless they failed to purchase a license

or weren't wearing the required bright orange clothing.

This weekend, the Minnesota deer hunting season opened. It will be the most dangerous weekend of the season. Besides a license requirement in the more populated parts of the state, only a shotgun with slugs are allowed. A slug is one piece of lead, and its accuracy can be described as less than a musket. Shotgun slugs are short-range. It's why they are used in populated areas. Rifles, on the other hand, are very powerful. Most have been fitted with a scope for the quarter-mile cornfield shots. Lookout! These rifles are 308s or 30-06. Most hunters feel that a 30-30 old, lever-action, cowboy gun lacks the power. Not true. 

I used to hunt with my Dad. That “Old Timer'' only allowed one round in your rifle: If you shoot where I taught you to, that deer will drop. Nowadays, the urban hunter is armed with a high-powered, semi-auto, scope-sighted rifle and believes he can drop a 250-lb deer a quarter mile away. If he misses with the first shot, he has 4 more. He will not be able to use his scope because the deer is running, so he usually fires the last four rounds in the deer's direction, and woe to any hunters on the other side of this cornfield- that's how they get killed.

This action is called “BUCK FEVER”, which means loss of all reasoning or sense. I have witnessed this phenomenon among deer hunters, but also green troops or FNGs, new guys in their first firefight. It's why the Marines hate automatic weapons.

I have also lived on two reservations in northern MN and have hunted with both Indian and non-Indian. There is a big difference. The first one is, I never heard an Indian call hunting a sport. Most call it a need, I need to get a deer this weekend to feed my family. I've known some to kill an extra to sell to that “Whiteman” who had sat in that bar all weekend. Choice of firearms... Most of the “Shinobs” I've hunted with use that old family heirloom, an open sighted 30-30 lever action. I hunted with this Marine Vietnam veteran, who had fired Expert year after year in the Corps. He used what most people would never consider- an open-sighted long rifle 22 calibur. He said if you wait for the right shot...I saw him bring down three deer, along with a moose, which he used a 60-year-old 30-30. He could make the head shots. It was why they called him Hawk!

Anyhoo, these are just a few hunting stories. Stay tuned, you will hear more. Rat

Johnny Cash - 1969 - A Boy Named Sue [originally posted on 11/15/10]

Twelve inches.... of snow. Minnesota is back. I don't go out after the first snow. The riff-raff that showed up over the summer will be playing bumper tag with each other. Then there are the damn fools who forget that ice and snow are slippery.

Anyhoo, it's Sunday. The Pacman won. I have a special place for the Philippines. My uncle was an Alamo Scout. They helped liberate 500 allied POWs from the Japanese POW camp at Cabanatuan. The Filipino natives assured their success in this endeavor. I trained there in 1964 and did alot of partyin'. Ol' San Miguel was some of the best beer I ever drank.

Anyhoo, Saturday was Christopher's (shlepcar) birthday. His name was my second choice. November 10th is the Marine Corps birthday. That was the day Chris was supposed to be born.  A hero of mine is Marine SMEDLEY DARLINGTON BUTLER. He had two Medals of Honor- the highest of all military awards. I also like his attitude about the wars that were going on at the time that are kinda like now. 

He wrote that he was “Wall Street's Gangster” and he titled a book he wrote as War is a Racket!  He once said Al Capone runs Cook County, I run a couple continents.

Chris waited until the 13th to be born. Years later I told him my first choice for his name was Smedley Butler Earley. He looked at me as if I were “Dinky Dau”(crazy). Damn Dad!

Anyhoo the Vikings season is over. “Chilli” will probably be leaving. He shoulda been following Randy Moss out of Minnesnowda. Happy Birthday Chris!

James McMurtry - 2005 - Holiday [originally posted on 11/22/2010]

Predictor. I like that word. Not unless you've been reading my posts, will you know why I'm a predictor. In 2009, I put up two songs by near unknowns, one called “Women” by Jamey Johnson and another called ”Toes” by the Zac Brown Band. Unless you have been partyin' with Slim, ya probably noticed by now, they have become Big Time.

Anyhoo, after too many beers and a few pills, and a lotta crank, this is how that one last brain cell I haven't been able to snuff works. I've wondered how Slim became “Slim”. Do you remember Slim Pickens? Was he named after him? Slim Pickens was a real cowboy He played cowboys in beaucoup Westerns. I think his most famous scene was when he appeared in Dr. Stangelove as Major “King” Kong, a B-52 pilot who rode a nuclear bomb like a bronc rider, waving his hat and hollerin', while being dropped into Russia.

In Mel Brooks's Blazin' Saddles, ol' Slim sat around the campfire eating beans with the rest of the

cowboys. Suddenly, they all started farting. My old potty brain thought this was one of the funniest scenes in the movie- I laughed my ass off! My SongOtheDay name, Rat, came about while typing a story in the dark. I signed “Rat” by missing the Y, which is next to the T, and not checking before I sent it off to “Shlepcar”- now where did that name come from?

If you read my last post, you know I think it oughta be “Smedley Butler”. I also was given a Ojibwe name by a now deceased Uncle. He was a member of the Grand Medicine Lodge. They are called “Midewiwin”. He gave me my Grandfathers name, “NAYGWONABE”. Its meaning is 'Ruffled Feather'.

Anyhoo, it's gonna be Turkey Day this week. That's what we call it. If ya haven't heard, the other name is just pure bullshit. If ya want the truth, this here machine you're on has what really happened!

Here is another crooner I predict will soon make it Bigtime! James McMurtry's “We Can't Make It Here Anymore”- a song he wrote during the Bush Era- I put up previously. This one is called “Holiday”.  It's an old man's song- I can understand the words. It's nice and slow. Larry McMurtry, the author of Lonesome Dove, is his Dad.Rat-a-tat-tat!

Paul Revere and the Raiders - 1971 - Indian Reservation [originally posted on 11/29/2010]

Winter in Minnesota is in black and white. Most days are cloudy, the trees are leafless, the ground is white from the snow, as are the Germans and Swedes- the predominant population in Minnesota. There are more blondes in this state than there are automobiles!

Memories from my childhood are in black and white. That's how everything looked. Trees were black, the snow was white. In the 1940s an 50s, all farm houses were white. Holstein cows are black and white. Most cars were black.

Going into the Marines in 1963, I was sent to San Diego for boot camp. I was amazed by how bright and colorful everything had become. The people I would come in contact with all sounded strange. It was at this time I learned to read “accents” by listening. As Marines came from every state, and most free countries, I already knew the Minnesota/Wisconsin Swede dialect, “yah fer sure”.  Then there is the “New Yalk”, the Southern “Yoall”, the New Orleans Cajun, Texans have their own, ya gotta know one.

Anyhoo, the point being, after learning to understand and imitate these accents, I would find it useful in Vietnam. Every combat unit carried a communication radio. It was used to call in “Sit Reps”- situation reports. It was a lifeline that was used to call for help, artillery, flares, med evacs, if you had wounded. Most nights we would be out on a road ambush or Bridge Guard. We were hooked to our unit by these radios which, were called prc 10.

Prick 10s had been around since the 50s. They were tube radios, old and unreliable. By 1967 they were being replaced by Prick 25s, transistorized, lighter, and reliable. Ambushes required no verbal communication. Two clicks from the “mic” meant your “Shit was tight”, everything A OK. Other times when it wasn't necessary to maintain silence, calling in a “sit rep” was an undertaking to say the least. Usually the Marine Commo people would leave a “snuffie” in the “comm shack”. While it was still light. They usually went to chow, or whatever they had to do.

Every radio operator must first learn the Comm lingo, like what's called Military phonetics. A-alpha -Z-Zebra10-4s and all that. Also being able to read a map on both ends in order to tell that artillery battery what your co-ordinance is, where on the grid square you are located. As the saying goes, “The most dangerous person, is a 2nd Lt with a map.”

Anyhoo, back to the “Snuffie” the Comm people left manning the radio. Most likely he sounds like Forrest Gump and has never paid attention to radio procedure. Whenever a “Gump” was on radio watch, I would enunciate to him,”Go git yorn Gunny”. He usually understood. When the Gunny came up, I would tell him in no uncertain terms, that I was out here guarding his in the rear ass, and he better put someone online who understood Radio Procedure, because I was the only thing between him and certain death. Then I would announce he was speaking to “Capt. America”. That was usually all it took, until this “Gunny” one-upped me and announced he was Major Domo. If you're a reader, you know who “Major Domo” is.

Anyhoo, the movie I was in is out now. Older Than America. I'm thinkin of learnin' my language.

Brenda Lee - 1958 - Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree [originally posted on 12/6/2010]

Winter is here in Minnesota. Chrisklaus is coming. Snow is pilling up. “Ikwe's” (woman's) car that is called KIA (which to me means “KILLED IN ACTION”) died on the day I made its 70th and last payement. The two year old washer quit. Vietnam taught me two things: “It ain't no biggie” and, my favorite,”I don't give a fuck”. Or as my old Grunt Bud (FW) Jim Northrup says “The ammo's free”.

Anyhoo, I sat down to read my email and kept getting these irritating pop-ups from some ripoff “sons o beaches” who want $79 to stop it. After making some calls, and being informed they were crooks, I tried working around these irritating pop-ups. Finally, I opened my e-mail, one from Song O’the Day. My favorite, “Slim Friday,” arrives on Saturday. Reading his posts always brings back memories of my younger years, along with a little envy, of the fun Slim has with his life.

My memories of that Harley Shovelhead-ridin', silicon-injected retired hooker that wanted to be Chris

(Shlepcar's) first, or my old 5'11” sportin' 44s Dump Truck Operator, who could drink me under. Chris met her at my class reunion in August. I've known her since the first grade. And then there was the chick who would have seizures. What a ride!

My 11-year-old granddaughter Caprice- my son Joe named her after his car- was here visiting last night. Caprice asked to use my computer. Sure Sweetie. As she was leaving, she stopped to hug me and said “Grampa I fixed it.” And damn if she didn't. Caprice has all the latest electronic gadgets and helps me.

Anyhoo, having to get a new washer I am able to give my woman two gifts: a new washer and a red and silver non-slip grip snow shovel. I know she will be happy. Wait till she sees that used 4x4 I will get her, an early B-day gift. It's time to go watch corporate football. Millionaires playing for billionaires. It's that or bowling!!!

Oldhands - 2010 - Stuck in the Smoke Hole of Our Tipi [originally posted on 12/13/2010]

When I was five years old, my twin sister and I were left in the house at this time of year. It was winter and the weather in Minnesota is cold and snowy, in case you ain't heard. In fact, only Alaska gets colder. 

My Dad was a dairy farmer and he would be in the barn. Minnesota winters are too cold for dairy cattle to be outside, so they would be in the nice cozy barn for the winter, which meant the barn needed to be kept clean. Having 35 cows in their stalls, hay and grain went in the front, milk came out the bottom two times a day,and shit out the back, which needed to be removed from the gutters behind these bovines.

Not yet being in school, we were left in the house to do whatever. There were the usual rules: wash up, get dressed,wait for your Dad to come in from the barn. He was usually done with the morning milking by 8 am. Our mother was a registered nurse at the local hospital and usually worked the 7-3 shift in the winter and the 3 -11 shift in the summer, so she had been long gone.

They got up at 5 am, and after they had breakfast, she drove five miles to the hospital. He went to the barn. After my dad cooked us oatmeal, he would fry a half dozen strips of bacon he cut from a slab, in a big black skillet, then the potatoes and eggs would be cooked in the bacon grease. Along with two large pieces of toast, he would wash it down with a pot of coffee, along with 3 -4 non filtered or home rolled cigarettes. This was his breakfast for 60 years- he would die at 82 while getting ready to go to his weekly poker game.

The old house was built after the Civil War. It was heated by wood which was stacked on the porch, usually a week's worth. He would stoke the fire and tell us to play quiet while he took his morning nap. Up at noon, he would make us lunch, get the mail, play a few hands of cribbage with the neighbor lady who came after her mail. He would prepare the evening meal and place it in the oven after he had baked ten loaves of bread. My Dad could cook and bake anything having cooked in the lumber camps around International Falls, where those cooking had to be good or were quickly replaced.

Usually in the mid-afternoon, we would take our naps. On this particular day neither one of us were sleepy, so we explored the walk-in attic. This attic held wonders: old clothes, antiques, a Civil War musket, old pictures oflong deceased uncles and auntys, and the wonder of all, Santa Clause's suit along with boots, hat and beard. What did this mean? Our Dad was Santa? We couldn't ask him as we were forbidden to enter this

room. We made the decision to be quiet, figuring Xmas was coming and having been told to be good or Santa Claus wouldn't stop at our house.

Back in the day, Minnesota seemed to have blizzards that would leave 4-5 feet of snow, stranding the rural population. The township had a cab-covered D-8 Cat with a huge plow with wings. This Cat was used to plow all township roads and farmers driveways. Usually it got to our farm about midnight while we were fast asleep in our beds. Anyhoo, a Cat D8 is a huge tractor that, when pushing snow, snorts, rattles our house windows and shakes the ground. Looking out the plastic covered windows from our upstairs windows we watched this monster stop below and Santa Clause jumped from this monster and entered our house. Scared, we both jumped back in our beds. We listened to our parents. They had made ol' Santa coffee, and then we heard him yell over the phone, “I'm at The George Earley Farm! This is halfway, I'm turning around, will be back in

three hours. Having plowed out every driveway, I can make good time now.” With that, Santa left in the yellow monster with the box on top. Looking in the attic, there hung the red suit.

Bob Dylan - 1963 - Blowin' in the Wind [originally posted on 12/20/2010]

I've decided to bitch about a few things that have pissed me off lately.

I'm getting to the age of old. Look at the obits- a whole bunch of old farts in their 60s been kickin'.

Anyhoo, most Fun-erals I been to, the big complaint is how much it cost. I found a place that will take all your organs- you will be a donor- and burn the garbage, I mean dearly departed remains. I could die at anytime. I've seen a lot of dyin' in my time: old age, accidents, and the big nasty Mother Humper called War, where old ASSH--ES decide to send their young ones off to fight for some vague notion that usually goes out of style, leavin' us who fought this war to wonder why?

Anyhoo, what war does to most of its participants is they are forever skeptical of everything, especially politicians, preachers, and pimps. I'm talkin' about the “Pimps” on talk radio. Look at them. Ain't a one who could make a canker sore on a PFC in the Corps!

Anyhoo, I'm gettin' carried away, I was talkin about dyin'. I don't want to leave no mess behind for anyone to clean up. So, I decided the best way is to get these ol' bones burnt, cremated! So I look it up on my favorite toy-all my kids got laptops, whenever they ask me anything, I say, you are in possession of all the knowledge in the world, LOOK IT UP!  

Anyhoo, back to cremation. I found this outfit online that will come and get your dead carcass, fly it out to this med school (I think it's the one House works at), take out whatever they can use, burn your ass up and send the remains home, to my wife, whose new boyfriend will want to get rid of my ashes, ”Mo Skosh, ricky tic, pronto”, hoping she will quit calling out “OH RAT” or Ray or Roy!

Anyhoo, from pick up to ashes, it's FREE!!! unless ya want to buy a, (this word has always made me laugh) an URN. So I decided I want to be put in a urinal, just like the one I used for years in the V.A. I've got a bud who is going to engrave it. In this urinal are the remains of Rat or Ray or Roy, FFO, a Marine Viet Nam Vet! This urinal must be sold at the next yard sale in order to pay for itself. That and a notice in the obits: Ray Earley died, No wake, No funeral, If I owed you any money, just mumble, THAT SOB GOT AWAY WITH IT!

So I contact this outfit, happy as a Camp Pendleton hooker on payday, and I wait and wait...nothing. So I call them. Whats wrong I say?

”Sir, Minnesota has a law against sending bodies out of state.” 

Well, Fu-- Me!!! So, anyhoo, if ya live in a state that lets you decide what you want to do when you're dead, here is the web address... Semper Fi!!! Oh yeah my other bitch??

Jimi Hendrix - 1969 - The Star-Spangled Banner (live) [originally posted on 12/27/2010]

Best Christmas ever!!! Quang Tri S.Vietnam, 24- 25 Dec 1967. Climbing the old rickety ladder, some crossbars were missing. The cement had been blown off exposing the rusted rerod. I had made this climb numerous times to perform maintenance on a sandbagged 50 where its emplacement had been built with overhead. It was called “the Bunker”. It was atop a shot up water tower. On its roof was where a 50 caliber machine gun, the baddest of the badass machine guns, was “set in”.

This gun, manufactured by John Browning, had been around since the end of WWI. A few changes had been made: its water jacket had been discarded in exchange for a Quick Change Heavy Barrel, putting its weight at 84 Lbs, the lightweight version weighed 60 lbs. Along with this QC Barrell was a set of gauges used to put a

“headset” on the gun. If the barrel was screwed in tightly to the receiver, the gun could not be fired, so this two piece gauge with 4 settings was used to set the firing head. It seemed to me that I was the only one in our platoon who knew how to put on a headset, using the key that should have been provided with each gun.

A little side story here. During the battle for Hue, a shot-up gun truck pulled up to the MACV compound, where it “died”. Grunts ran out to the truck to get the 50 and ammo off it before it fell into NVA hands. The grunts who were on the truck when it got hit had bailed off to return fire, fighting their way to the MACV compound, which was surrounded by NVA. The grunts informed me that when they were ambushed, the “Gunner” on the 50 fired one round, blowing the Butterfly trigger mechanism into his groin, disabling him and the gun. UH-OH! No headset! He hadn't listened during the “Headset” class! His not knowing had endangered everyone on that

“Deuce ina Half”.

Anyhoo, back to the “tower' where I would spend Christmas Eve and day up on it. I prepared for it meticulously. Anyone who has read any of my stories knows that I'm not a teetotaler. Sent “Boozer” off to the US Army compound for a case of Budweiser, along with some “dinky dou” cigarettes- it wouldn't be Christmas without them!

We had kept the gun clean and dry (another maintenance tip for the M2: Do not oil the barrel,when fired it will send up smoke signals that say HERE I AM! OVER HERE!!) While the rest of our platoon partied at the mess tent, we stood guard. The 50 had been cleaned, headset, fam fired. Our field of fire was north. We were able to see the Quang Tri Airstrip 2 “klics” (kilometers) north. We were to observe the river valley, radio in any movement, and the biggie: “Sir! GUN TOWER NORTH, Request Permission to Fire.” Then wait for response, which was usually a question, WHO? WHAT? WHERE? Usually the “Who” were long gone by the time permission to fire was granted

Anyhoo, I finally let Boozer in on the plan, after a joint and a few Buds to relax. While over at the airstrip, I had run into an old grunt, Bud. He said to watch the sky on Christmas Eve, we're gonna light it up! So I said Boozer, at 11:59 tonight I'm gonna put this 50 on rock an roll, firin' off to the west where we saw a buncha “Gooks”. I'll say the radio was dead! If ya stay up here with me, you're gonna be in trouble. Old “Horse Face” is the Officer of the Day, and he wants to hang my ass. Well fuck it, I'm short, been in this Corps over 4, going out with a bang!

“I'm stayin',” replied Boozer. “What can they do? Cut my hair and send me to Nam? Eat the apple, fuck the Corps.” [NOTE: Only Marines are allowed to say this! If you ain't a Marine and say it, most likely you will get your civilian ass kicked! Yah been warned.]

Anyhoo, after a few more Buds, the rain quit, the sky became dark. At 11:59, looking north, I saw the sky lit up with tracers. Damn! It was the biggest fireworks I had ever seen!! Fire when ready, Boozer! That nasty ass 50 litup the sky, which caused the siren to go off below us! All the cooks, truck drivers, office pogues, and supplymen went running for their bunkers. It was pandemonium below us!

“Merry Fuckin' Christmas,” I yelled!! 

”I'm Short! Eat the apple,” Boozer Yelled!

No response from below. After a few more beers, Boozer and I cleaned the 50, stowed the gear, and dropped our empties into the empty water bin below us. In the morning, dismounting the tower, Old Horse Face was waiting below. After reading the UCMJs Article 32, I was recommended to be court-martialed, where I was fined and reduced in rank to PVT. I signed papers that I wouldn't re-enlist. Counting my days to my discharge, what would be called “the Tet Offensive” started. Fighting my last battle, I was promoted to PFC. I went home and was discharged Honorably from the UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS!

EAT THE APPLE! BLESS THE CORPS!!!Rat -tat-tat

Billy Currington - 2008 - People Are Crazy [originally posted on 1/3/2011]

1979. Livin' on the White Earth “Rez”.

Had married the former tribal chairman's daughter. We got a house after living in his basement, which was good. My mother-in-law hated me, so we (Numbah two wife, her four kids and I) moved a half mile, which by no means was far enough.

Anyhoo, I had been tryin' my best to stay straight, but that hasn't worked out. I would never come home until I was cleaned up. Rubbed and scrubbed but still couldn't get rid of that cod fish smell. You see, I got this here problem, it's about rules. I have had a hell of a time- my whole life- followin' the rules. I like havin' a good time!

Anyhoo, she was a decent lookin' woman, who had never yet learned to have a “good fuckin time”, as most women I have met. After educating her on the finer points of a “good fuckin time”, she went out to show her soon to be fourth husband how that ol “snapper” was revived. [Note: her fourth, and my third wife would work in the same Indian program years later]. After, I moved off the Rez back to the Twin Cities. 

Anyhoo, my way of having a good time is “Party Hearty”, have always, since I was 14. As a farm hand, my employers - farmers - love to party when the work is done! Saturday night dance halls. In those days, cops liked to see you sleepin' it off in the parking lot of the dance hall, feet out the window. Leave your boots on, some of them “Jacks” like to give you a hot foot.

Joining the Marines was the same, ”Party Hearty” when you can. When I got out of Vietnam, I had bought a Harley Davidson. Milwaukee is also known for beer. I had a ridin' bud who had his Harley painted like an Old Milwaukee. What I'm sayin' here is me and the brew have been hand in hand most of my life.

My Party Hearty has been rough on marriages. For some reason, they always figured I was out there teachin' some Ol' Chick the finer points of a “good fuckin time”. Now I ain't gonna lie about that, but I'm here to tell ya, it don't mean nothin', but that never worked.

So after numbah Two and I split, I was enjoyin' the single life when along comes one of the nastiest ol' whores I would ever know. She had her own custom Harley Shovelhead, stroked motor, custom paint, 80 inch stroker. She sold her ass to build her Harley- worked in a sauna. She rode more than most men I knew. Had some huge Silicone tits, a little tiny waist, great ass, and she loved to fuck. We hooked up one nite, neither of us would ever be sane, or the same again. I had a good payin' job runnin' a gravel pit, ready mix operation, made over $23.00 a hour back in the 80s. We had it made!!!

She tried tattooin' until she figured she could deal coke and make beaucoup bucks. Hey, did I tell ya we lived in an underground house? They are humid as a sauna. Do yah know what happens to coke in humidity? It evaporates! 

Anyhoo, I come home from work wantin' to relax. I walk into my hovel, and here is three cokeheads sittin' in my pad doin' lines. My arms measured 22” from workin' out and bustin' boulders down to rocks to fit into a rock crusher. As usual, when I say “Git” most listen and they “git”. These three walked up and outside , but once outside they turned on me. I might have mentioned as a kid I boxed Golden Gloves, and while in Okinawa, my dojo was EIZO SHIMABUKURO, so I know a little about self defense.

Anyhoo, when we were finished, I helped them get in their pick-up and they left. I shoulda known that was the beginning of the end. She LIKED TO BE SOCIAL. That meant lotta people around Oohin' and Aahin' her big tits and custom Harley. EasyRiders biker rag had done a piece on her April 1974. She had been narcissistic enough!

Something else I've noticed: cokeheads shouldn't deal. She was a social head case.I'm just the opposite. I neither care for, or like, anyone, unless they are an M-14 Marine Vietnam Veteran, Native American, Birch Bark basket maker, Manoomin Gather'er, Corvette Owner, Famous Writer, my OFFSPRING an' theirs, horse, dog, mule. My Christmas Card list is only two and one's my twin!

I knew things were gonna get fucked up. Me and her started fightin' over the coke that evaporated. Hell, I like crank. It all started to come undone one nite. I did something I usually don't. Someone called me and said they wanted to pay up and for me to stop at this bar. The place was packed, mostly bikers, as I entered I got a few nods. The bouncer waved me in. I heard someone yell “over here!” As I got to the table, I recognized the three cokeheads. They figured they could fuck me up. Well they figured wrong. I learned through experience how to keep myself from getting beat on. There was no way I was gonna sit down with this bunch. As I turned to leave, I was hit from the rear with a sap. Down I went. They put the boots to me. I was on the sidewalk with a gash over my eye, one of the cokeheads screamin' he was gonna fuck me up!! Putting him down on the sidewalk hard, I bled into his face. I kept askin' him how he was gonna do that. I stomped his face, which shut him up.

I was pissed off at myself for breakin' my own rules of survival, the first one was going in the joint, the second one was I was alone, no backup. Now I didn't give a fuck, and I was gonna get even. I was crazy mad!!! It was stupid what I did next. That night my “Jiibay” Spirit Helpers all must have been there. I opened the door of the topper on my pick-up and pulled out a can of gasoline. Walking towards the door, the bouncer said I'm OUTA HERE! 

Entering the bar, I yelled Happy Hour is over! I splashed gasoline around. They knew instantly what I was gonna do and emptied the joint in about 3 seconds flat! Fuck, no Zippo! I left driving slowly, I met a squad and firetruck. I expected to go to jail, but either no one knew me, no charges were ever filed…

We moved to St.Paul when the layoffs came in December. She got hired at one of the big defense plants and started fuckin' this Harley motor builder. They didn't last long. Did I mention, women I been with have a rough time in their future relationships!

One morning she called me and said she wanted to cook me breakfast. After breakfast, she said “I hear you're with a fuckin' Indian”. She smashed a platter over my head. I left. We were done!

Twenty years later I ran into her at an old biker's funeral. She apologized. After awhile she asked if I ever thought of her. I said no! You beat that out of me, I was now married... Told me how she had good medical insurance and had gone to Mayo [Clinic] where all the silicone was removed from her breasts, butt and face, leaving two large scars on her face. She claimed that now that that shit was gone she had become sane!!! She sold that custom Harley and bought a new Evolution! Good for you!!! Live to Ride, Ride to Live…