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Blue Collar Politics Blog.
Why "Blue Collar Politics?"
Well, I'd like to be able to point to "public demand", but that would be quite a stretch. Actually, a friend suggested that I supplement a fairly popular service (in which I send full articles from various media sources to a group of like-minded people) with a cocombination of commentcommentary and links.
And, as I respected her intellect and her passion , (i.e.,: my ego began jumping up and down while screaming "you finally have an excuse!"), I took her advice.So, that's one "Why" behind this endeavor.
The other: Unmitigated gall combined with a run away ego combine to force me to share my views with you!
Who?
I'm a poor husband to Barbara (aka: Barbie) who, 42 years ago, was (and still is) the most beautiful and kind creature anyone in our neighborhood had ever met.
(The first time I spoke to her I was embarrassing her by mocking a fashion layout in the magazine section of the Sunday Daily News in which she was the sole model. In front of all the other 15-16 year-olds, I pointed out that this girl who had moved into "our" neighborhood but a couple of weeks ago "dyes her hair!" She still hasn't forgiven me!)In brief, I'm over 58 years old, over 200 pounds, over married (34 years), over-bearing male. I attended a parochial grammar school and my 3 high school years were shared between Catholic and Public schools. I was in the first "gifted" class at Monsignor McClancy high school, and over the years have tested at IQ levels between 147 and 183. (If you party the night before an IQ test, it appears to have a negative effect. Now there's a genius observation!)
I'm also the idiot who still sported the electric blue tuxedo that I had worn on my last night of freedom to the next morning's induction at Ft. Hamilton, Brooklyn.
There was no changing of clothes during the next week of "holding area" and none again during the first couple of days of Basic Training. As any veteran might understand, I was severely harassed for having the temerity to wear "Officer's pants" (a black satin stripe down the side of a trainee's pants was NOT a fashion statement taken lightly by Army Officers!)The tux had been rented, and had not the rental owner been inclined to "support our troops", he could have had me arrested for sending back a tux that had been worn constantly, through almost 2 weeks of KP, PT, physical torment and a sweaty South Carolina hot spell. My girlfriend (still, and always, Barbie) has had sinus problems since the day she received that tux in my first mail from Basic. The odor could have been bottled and sold as a toxic gas.
In late 1968, at 22 years of age, I decided to drop a rock-solid deferment and "volunteer" for the draft and insure that my ass would be shipped to some exotic vacation spot called Vietnam. (Or was that between 47 and 83 on those IQ tests?) My rationalization at the time was partially brought about by my now deceased father-in-law, Earl. He was an ex-marine (as was my father. But you'll note that this will be the final mention of either parent. Why? Some mystery can be an important part of a story.)
Back then; I was less than ambivalent about the Vietnam War. If pressed, I'd come down against it and I'd parrot whatever anti-war jargon I'd overheard while passing by a TV or radio that had been tuned to the news, but I couldn't have spelled Vietnam and I certainly knew less about it than I did about our possible future of space travel and robotics. (Isaac Asimov was a hero to me and truly helped lay my "Foundation". I read everything he wrote. Had he written about Vietnam, my life might have been drastically changed.)
Earl would often tell war stories about WWII (the Big One!). Invariably, the stories would end with him saying two things: 1) If you haven't been in combat, you don't have the right to criticize and 2) Killing another man in a war is the greatest thrill you can experience! (As I later learned, many respond to the trauma of combat by refusing to admit that they responded to the trauma of combat. Earl's bombast, I firmly believe, was his crutch to get him through some very dark memories of Iwo Jima.)
Now Earl had a good mind and he taught me a lot. But for some reason, I chose to then focus on the two dumbest things that man ever said and, along with a few psychological relics from a severely dysfunctional family, I made up my mind that I just had to have a war under my belt if I were ever to respect myself. (Or were those IQ test results really a 7 and a 3?)
So, I wound up in Infantry training. I was selected for Officer Candidate School in Artillery, but after about 6 weeks (and knocking out an upper classman), I chose to leave and return to Infantry. (As they knew the upper-classman was a sadist, and the fight was over his harassing another classmate, the Commanding Officer offered to forget the incident and place me in the next class. But, I was determined to follow Earl's crazy logic. So I refused to stay in Artillery, as they wouldn't be on the "front lines" in Vietnam.)
But the Army had other tricks up their sleeve. I was sent to training in something "new". Electronic warfare! I became proficient in using electronic detectors of various stripes (seismic, acoustic, magnetic and others).
I was sent to Vietnam as part of a classified program called "Project Duffelbag". Basically, we LEFT our front-lines (Landing Zones – LZ's – were our front-line equivalent) and went, in small groups, in search of the enemy's front-lines in Vietnam and surrounding environs. Then we'd place devices that, we hoped, would let us know where the enemy was and where he was going.
About half were ground sensors that you carried to a location where you expected enemy activity. You then dug holes, buried the sensors and got out of there as quickly as possible.
The other sensors were air dropped. You'd get a chopper (usually a LOH, two seater.) You'd stand out on the skids and drop the sensors onto trails that intelligence designated as heavily trafficked by the enemy. Then, as with the ground sensors, you'd get out of there rather quickly.
It was a fun job when you were young and knew you were immortal. I earned 2 Air Medals by hanging off those skids over enemy territory, and being shot at by ground troops was just part of a day's work. In the beginning, I found the work "fun" and I was jealous when my being a FNG precluded me from some missions. After a few months, when mortality became contagious, it lost some of it's luster.
We didn't get much sleep on missions, and we took "go pills" long before the Air Force thought of them. In fact, I had been up so long prior to leaving for an R&R with my fiance in Hawaii that, contrary to the testosterone-laden GI stories, I slept almost the whole first 72 hours. Barbie was a bit miffed (wanted to kill me!), but she woke me to eat a couple of times a day.
After I had been there about 6 months, and due to the kind of military stumbling best seen on MASH re-runs, I was placed in command of the Army's entire sensor project for the II Corp area. (That's more than 25% of South Vietnam.) I had over a dozen other Project Duffelbag personnel under me, and they were often in a dozen different fire bases. Much of the time, I had a chopper to use in air drops, an Armored Personnel Carrier for ground emplacement, a jeep and driver. We wore no rank, only brass "US" symbols on our lapels instead of the usual rank symbols, as our rank was now classified (that was needed in order to deal with the various officers whose men we'd have to "appropriate" to provide security for emplacements.)
During "down time", I got to work with others from NSA, IPW, II, CI and other initial-happy units..
I began briefing Generals, including Westmoreland and Abrams. I ordered a fortune's worth of these sophisticated devices directly through Washington, from J3-04 (Joint Chief's staff). I received numerous highly classified communications from high-ranking officials, up to a personal directive from Richard Nixon regarding the handling of any sensor contacts during agreed cease-fires.
I was then a Private First Class!
I left ‘Nam as a sergeant, got married and returned to Ft. Huachuca as an instructor in the U.S. Army Counter Surveillance and Electronic Warfare School. It was a very interesting assignment.
(It was at Huachuca that I met someone who became a life-long friend. His name was Chris Hanger, and he was one of the most decent people I've contacted in my 55 years. Chris was a 1st Lieutenant who also taught electronic warfare. As he was a well-spoken, intelligent young officer, he sometimes received special duties to perform. Once, he was assigned to be the escort for a high-ranking personage from Great Britain. When the schedule left an hour free before an official reception for the VIP, Chris called and asked if Barbie and I could host an impromptu little cocktail hour. We agreed.
That was how I had the British Under-Secretary of Defense get drunk in my on-post quarters at Ft. Huachuca in December of 1971 while the Commanding General awaited this VIP's much belated arrival at the official reception at the Officer's Club. All because the VIP had been assigned an Escort Officer, who thought bringing him to our home would be fun. And, boy, it was!)
(Chris passed away recently. His wife, Patty, while surely grieving, feels that just knowing Chris made a great difference in her life. I certainly agree!)
The CIA then recruited me and had an assignment chosen that I couldn't have bettered with a Genie's wish. (My Vietnam activities had placed me in a peer group unknown to most Privates, so I received recommendations from some heavy hitters, including the Deputy Chief of Staff, Intelligence, for the Joint Chiefs.
I was going to be a field agent, and after some special and unusual training, I was going to begin working overseas. My wife and I passed the initial security checks and had more than enough recommendations. However, my wife Barbara was now pregnant, and she suggested (fought tooth and nail!) for me to return to the big money I was lined up to begin making. A friend had a job for me working on the construction of these two mammoth buildings called the World Trade Center.When I left the service, I was interviewed and accepted to Columbia, but I used my head and chose to earn the big-bucks as a construction worker instead. (Genius again, huh?)
I spent 30 years as a construction worker/union member (steamfitter), but I proudly wear the title of flaming Liberal! I will fight to defend the disgusting practice of burning flags, as hard as I did in earning a Combat Infantryman's Badge (CIB), Bronze Star, 2 Air Medals, Army Commendation, and other pretty ribbons in Vietnam.
After a few years on the Trade Center and other high-rise NYC buildings, a recession hit. I spent some time working on Long Island, then went up to Canada. (I remember well illegally riding in a cage suspended from a 300-foot high crane to place an American flag above a Canadian oil refinery on July 4th.)
A group of us then spent time working in the construction of paper mills in Maine, a rocket fuel plant in Maryland, a steel mill in Cleveland, a Miller beer plant in Syracuse, the Indian Point Nuclear plant, and various other jobs, mostly throughout the cold spots of the northern United States and lower Canada. When the construction of the Shoreham Nuclear plant began, most of us returned to New York again.
After I returned to New York, I became active in the Mensa society. I Chaired a series of presentations on Gifted Children at a Mensa Annual Gathering and my wife and I wound up having dinner with my childhood hero, Isaac Asimov and his wife. During this period, Barbara and I also served as Governor Cuomo's representatives on a BOCES committee on Gifted Education in Long Island schools. All this while lacking anything better than a GED! (What these personal memories are doing in a bio is a good question. I guess not having an editor isn't always a good idea.)8 years later, I was still working in construction, as a steamfitter, when an elevator accident caused me to severely rupture a disc (L4-L5). I had a Laminectomy and Spinal Fusion. I was accepted as fully disabled by Social Security. My back became progressively worse with each passing year, so I could no longer carry heavy pipes and/or machinery.
But then I found a friend . . . called a computer. Most of the time, I could sit in a comfortable back-friendly chair and be educated, entertained and fascinated by traveling around the world from my desk. Even at times when my back was acting up, I could lie in bed and, with some work on a Rube Goldberg type setup, I could use the computer even while resting.
In late 1994, I was offered a very easy desk job at the NYC Housing Authority. Against my doctor's advice, I dropped the SS disability and took the job.
I soon discovered millions of dollars
worth of hidden contracts.I reported it to the NYCHA Inspector General Within a short time, I'd realize my life had actually been relatively boring until then!
Despite my sophomoric attempt at humor every word written here is true.
The rest of the story of bribery, corruption and my idiotic turn as whistle-blower is contained in the very long, very detailed pages found by clicking here.Before I leave this mini-novel, let me share a proud moment with any of you with enough time, and so little to do, that you've reached this point.
On February 15, 2003, after much reading and thought, my wife and I marched in our first anti-war demonstration.
For the first time in many years, I wore my medals and was proud to display them.
My wife, Barbie, is second from the left on this shot, our friend Ellen S. is to the right of Barb and I'm the fat guy with the furry collar (Hey, it was damn cold!) next to Ellen.
(Click Here to return to Main Index.)Blue Collar Pundit Essays as published on the Dissident Voice web site:
- Searching for the Breach in
Alice’s Looking Glass World
- My America
- Oh Say, Can You See?
- FREEDOM!
- War isn't Hell! Hell is for Those Who
Send Their Children to Fight Unnecessary Wars
- It's All Part of the Plan!
- Turning the World Wide Web Into
a Tower of Politically Sanitized Babel
- God is Starting to Scare Me!
Click Here to return to Main Index.
