Monthly Archives: August 2009

Bruce Springsteen Rides the Rails

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It was late August 1991, and the Turks were still celebrating Ramadan. Giles, a French chef and mountain climber, was traveling with me westward on a multi-day train ride through Turkey. We had just aborted a climbing/archaeological expedition on Mt. Ararat to look for Noah’s Ark. Yes, that Noah’s ark.

Former astronaut James Irwin, of Apollo 15, had put this expedition together, as he had done several other times. He invited me to join the search since I had mountain guiding experience, and had been part of the 1989 Huston Explorers Club group. It was in 1989 that I had met Jim in Houston.

Giles and I were riding first class at the back of the train. Being explorers, we began to wander around the train on day 2. Giles said, “Let’s see how far we can go to the front of the train before they stop us.” It seemed like a good thing to do at the time. So we walked forward in the train wearing tank tops, shorts, flip flops, and only carrying our cameras around our necks.

One of the first cars we came to was the dining car. Turks stared at a Frenchman, and an American in a World Gym tank top, as they wandered through the car. Giles kept pointing to me saying “Bruce Springsteen!” in a thick French accent. I kept on telling them, “I’m not Bruce Springsteen!” The Turks were not impressed.

It is interesting to note, that in Turkey, you can get away with murder as long as you have a camera around your neck, and are taking pictures. Turks are egomaniacs, and will stop and pose for you, as if they are some wannabe politician or young movie star. So we moved forward through the train, smiling, and taking pictures. Point a camera at a Turk, and they are your friend for life. Additionally, they will scribble down their name and address in some ancient cuneiform, expecting a photo in the mail.

My companion and I kept moving forward through the train, smiling and taking photos. Finally, we opened a door to see the two conductors in a box car, with bunk beds and a table. One conductor was standing, looking over the shoulder of a sitting conductor. They glared at us. Quickly, Giles said, “Photos. Photos!” The frowns turned to smiles, and the conductors stood at attention while we snapped away. They beckoned me over to them, put a conductor’s hat on me and stood by me like we had gone to school together for 12 years.

The train was coming to a stop, and Giles pointed to the door at the front of the car. “Can we go through this one?” He asked. The conductors didn’t speak English, but instead, opened the big boxcar door, jumped out, and gave us a stool to get down.

“Let’s take a picture of the front of the train,” Giles said. So we walked to the front of the train, turned around, and got ready to take a picture of the Locomotives. As I’m looking through the camera lens, I yelled, “Giles! The train is moving!” Sure enough, they took off without us.

Have you ever been in central Turkey with no passport, money, or luggage? I have. However, being the survivor that I am, I wasn’t going to let it last for long. I started running beside the train engine, ready to grab the ladder. Giles, being a smart Frenchman, did the same. I climbed the front ladder on the second locomotive, Giles climbed the rear ladder on the first locomotive. Then Giles jumped from the first locomotive to the second, where I was. We were on the train! Woo Hoo!

The engineer opened the front door on the locomotive that we were on, and started screaming to us in Turkish. He was waving his hand wildly, beckoning us to come into the cab. We complied. I guess we went as far to the front as we could.

When we got into the locomotive, the two engineers were yelling at us like Marine Drill Sergeants. Then Giles calmly said “Photos. Photos.” The yelling stopped abruptly, and we began taking photos. I have photos of the men. I have photos of the engine cab. I have a photo of Giles driving the train with his hand on the throttle.

We were in that cab for what must have been an hour. We passed over several bridges, drove through rough canyons, and past mountains, plains, and sheepherders. The engineers wanted Giles camera, and tried bartering cigarettes for it. “No” was Giles only reply.

“We’d better get out of here,” I said, “They could take your camera, throw us off of the train on a high bridge, and everybody would know that those two stupid tourists climbed onto the train while it was taking off, and fell off of the engines into a deep canyon." We could become victims of the perfect crime.

So when the train finally came to a stop at a station, we smiled, said “Thank you!” and ran for the back of the train. The conductor met us as we boarded. He was pulling his hair out. Giles looked at him, smiled, and said, “Photos! Photos!” The conductor glowered at us, pointed to the back car of the train where we were supposed to be riding, and shouted, "NO PHOTOS!”

Your Tax Money at Work

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Today it hit me like a Texas Tornado, or a metric ton of bricks. There are 3 kinds of people in this world:

 

  1. Tax Protesters.

  2. Tax Embracers.

  3. Tax Sufferers-in-Silence.

More and more I’m running into Tax Protesters. They aren’t the kind that absolutely refuse to pay income tax, but they are becoming more vocal about what they see as our different levels of government generally smothering Americans. Some of them talk of “Taking America back”. Some tell me that they are contacting their representatives on a regular basis. Whatever the action, these people used to be part of the Tax Sufferers-in-Silence. They are good, hardworking, moral, usually Christian, citizens.

Our leaders would do well to remember what happened when Christians in the early colonies were overtaxed, and subject to “…a long train of abuses…”. We Americans will put up with a lot of shenanigans, but there comes a point where responsible citizens will rein it in.

The Tax Embracers are of the category where it is generally assumed that your government is the best entity at taking care of the public. After all, look at our beautiful city parks, paved sidewalks, and public schools. (OK, so don’t look at our public schools.) Police, fire, and the Tidal Basin in Washington are testimony to the government’s care for us. (OK, so forget the Tidal Basin. The last time I was there, trash was floating all over in the water. On the other hand, there were chain link fences everywhere because of Homeland Security, and you couldn’t go into the Capitol to use the restroom, which probably is why the Tidal Basin was trashed.) Tax embraces will literally kill you during the process of “taking care” of you. Don’t get me going on this.

Tax-Sufferers-in-Silence are the absolute largest group. Our friends, relatives, coworkers, and neighbors fall into this group. They usually work real hard to make a living, and don’t have time for tax protesting, or other nonsense. Not only that, they aren’t sure what to do, or where to start. They are the person who you always hear saying, “You can’t fight City Hall.” Baloney. For an example of how one simple letter can LOWER your taxes, check out my blog, “Copy of a Tax Protest Letter”. That one letter lowered my property taxes, and you can do it too! Suffering in silence isn’t necessary, anymore. If ever there was hope in America, it is in the fact that you can now hold the government’s feet to the fire.

 

Barack Obama Wants You to Buy Toenail Clippers

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Anyone who has been on the Internet lately (I assume you’re not reading this on a bulletin board at work) has noticed the “stimulus” ads. I’m talking about the ones using Barack Obama’s name.

“Barack Obama wants you to lose weight!”

“Barack Obama wants you to buy a new car!”

“Barack Obama wants you to buy organic toenail clippers!”

Who are these people, and why don’t they fire their ad agencies? Do they really think that Americans want the President telling them what to do on EVERYTHING?

“Barack Obama wants you to invest in yo-yos!”

“Barack Obama wants you to sell your children to slave traders and go back to school!”

“Earn your B.A. (Barack of America) degree while sitting at home collecting unemployment!”

To have so many ads on the Internet using Barack Obama’s stimulus plan as the impetus, shows what a nation of charlatans and con men we’ve become. Either that, or we are all now taking marching orders from our new Commander in Chief. Or maybe we all are greedy and just want “the other guy” to pay for our life’s choices.

“Barack Obama wants you to plant wildflowers!”

“Barack Obama wants you to give blood to the needy government!”

“Barack Obama wants you to lick his boots! Only $29.95. Don’t delay!”

The chickens will come home to roost when Americans start calling the White House switchboard and begin asking questions like, “Mr. President, where should I send my kid to college?… Or camp?”

“Mr. Obama, which peanut butter should I buy?”

“Mr. President of the Century, where did I put my car keys?”

“Hey Barry, can I borrow the car tonight?

“What’s up with last week’s NASCAR satellite feed?

“Why are there so many questions about cars on Jerry Begly’s blog site?”

I don’t know. Maybe it’s OK for Barack Obama to be invoked about everything. After all, he asked for it.

“Hello Whitehouse? My organic toenail clippers broke. Where do I send them for repair?"

The Mad Ripper of Marble

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He struck again. This time his rage was directed toward a poster from another town. It was torn off, stepped on, crumpled up, and (gasp!) REPINNED to the plywood door on the Fed Ex box using only ONE PIN! What could it mean? What message is he trying to send us?

For the last several months, someone, or someTHING has been taking down posters, banners, fliers, and notices that people staple at the multi mailbox area at the bottom of our road. Ironically, there seems to be some type of pattern, so we hired a private detective from England. He came up with several interesting clues:

  1. Fliers containing missing animals are “safe”.

  2. Multiple fliers will always be attacked, unless they contain the words “private”, “campfires”, or “neighborhood”.

  3. The word “Woody” scores bonus points, and assures immunity from the Mad Ripper (we ALL love Woody and his wife. They brought food to our town.).

     

    In order to be allowed placement on the “open to the public” flier area, potential pieces of paper must be submitted for review to an unknown entity at an unknown address, and meet unknown criteria. This is easy enough.

Some suggestions have been bandied about how we can have fun at the expense of the Mad Ripper. We could put up a note like this one:

Dear Fellow Neighbors,

I’m tearing down every piece of paper that I don’t want to see on this space. You people don’t understand the unwritten rules for posting things here.

Signed,

The Mad Ripper

When the Mad Ripper tears down the “note” that we put up, we can replace it with another one like this:

Dear Fellow Control Freaks,

Some impostor is pretending to be me. I am the original Mad Ripper. Notice how I rip down the posters, and fliers around here. There is no one as good at it as me. Just because some poser smart Alec doesn’t like what I do gives them no right to imitate me.

Sincerely,

The REAL Mad Ripper

Then we will rip down most of the above letter, leaving the phrase “mart Alec” and “ad Ripper” on it.

After a few days, we will tear that note off, and replace it with 50 fliers stapled up which read,

Lost Woody

Somewhere in our neighborhood, there is a private animal.

If found, please build a campfire.

Then we will tear off all of those fliers, and staple them upside down. After a week, we will take all of them down. Then we will take a plain 8 ½ x 11 sheet of paper with no writing on it. We will staple it to the Fed Ex box with 500 staples, and no comment.

This is going to be fun.

It’s Been a Flat Year

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First I tried “Old McDonald Had a Farm”. It was OK. Then I tried “The 1812 Overture”. That didn’t go so well. As my son, Caleb was threading the rubber plug material into the tire repair tool, I was playing songs on the tire with the air leaking out of the hole. It was his second repair in the last 10 minutes. And it’s only 7:30 am. We need to leave for work in a few minutes.

Yesterday, we had a flat out in front of Walmart on the main road. I mean, where you couldn’t pull off unless you parked on the sidewalk like they do in Ankara, Turkey. I changed out the tire to the spare while the kids were in the store buying birthday presents and other necessities. ( Did you know that at Walmart a pair of pliers costs less than a box of Cheese Crackers?) It was 99 degrees out. Why did we come down out of the cool mountains, anyway?

I’ve had so many flat tires this summer, that my wife and I can’t recount them all..

One memorable flat involved Big-O tires. To be fair, they have repaired about 10 of the flats- 9 of them for free. Nonetheless, I had a leak on the Suburban tire. The manager at Big-O said “It’s too big of a hole. We can’t fix it.”

“Can’t you put a patch or boot on the inside?” I asked.

“No good. Eez too small,” I was assured by the repairman, as he held up a tiny round rubber disc.

“Put it on, anyway,” I demanded.

While the guy was starting the process, I ran next door to the auto parts store, grabbed a Tire Patch Kit with larger patches in it, waited patiently/impatiently/patiently/impatiently in line, “Thanks for your patience” said the cashier, (also, see “Egyptian Jazz” to see how patient I really can be), ran back to Big-O, and handed the largest patch to the tire repair guy. Heez eyes got real big, and he said “Where you git deeze?”

“Next door, at the auto parts store” I replied.

He ripped the small patch off, and put the bigger one on.

Flat tires wouldn’t be such a problem if I didn’t live in such a remote area. 30 miles to town can be a problem, and why is it that you notice 50 percent of your flat tires in the evening, just as the repair places are shutting down for the night?

My son and I can change a flat tire on a Subaru in under 3 minutes. I wish we were on an Indy pit crew, or racing in Dakar, or Baja. I’d also like to meet Iron Man Stewart. He’s cool.

So, I’m back at the 1812 Overture, and it’s sounding more like a party balloon in a Fraternity House member’s armpit. I think it would sound better if we pumped the tire up to about 50 lbs. pressure.

Now we’ve got something going! Hey what’s that sound? Are those the cannons going off in the “1812”, or my other 3 tires exploding?…