Farewell To "Old Faithful", Hello To "Mr. Versatile"!

I suppose it's a "guy thing", but I felt a few pangs of sorrow when I traded in my old shotgun for a new one this afternoon.
I bought my old shotgun, a Winchester Model 1200 with a long-ass barrel, in 1968 for $75, which was pretty much my entire two-week paycheck from my weekend job at trap and skeet club. It was a rental gun which hadn't been used much, and when the owner got in a bunch of brand new Winchester shotguns, he let us high school employees get first crack at buying the old ones. I won more than a few matches with that gun, and came THAT close to qualifying for the 1972 US Olympic trapshooting team. It was a good pheasant gun as well, as that long 32" barrel gave it longer range with a tighter pattern.
After I joined the Army and was stationed in Germany, I went out a few times to the Rod and Gun Club in Mannheim and shot trap with some of the other officers, but eventually I lost interest in that sport. Plus, I'd left my shotgun back home with the folks, and loaners just aren't quite the same.

When I came back Stateside after three years overseas, I retrieved my shotgun from the back closet at the folks' new house. To my dismay I found that it had rusted, and the nice walnut stock was covered in mildew, even though I had oiled it all down before leaving. I removed all the rust, re-blued the metal, and tried to refinish the wood, but it looked pretty sad, like a once-favorite shirt with a now frayed collar, and a big ink spot on the pocket. I went trapshooting a couple of times, but never regained that old thrill.  After becoming a cop, I bought what was supposed to be the right model short barrel with rifle sights, so I could carry it in my patrol car. (My department issued 9mm carbines, and got rid of most of the shotguns, but sometimes only a shotgun will do, you know?) Well, the barrel fit, but it wouldn't allow me to chamber a shell, so that was a failed experiment!  "Old Faithful" went back in the gun safe, only emerging to receive a fresh wipe-down of lubricant and preservative, and a nostalgic shouldering while I softly yelled, "Pull!" Even though replacing it with a more suitable tactical model entered my mind on a regular basis, the timing was never right. And despite increasing worries about a so-called "Zombie Apocalypse" or the desire to have a shotgun useable for deer hunting, skeet shooting, or home defense against non-zombies, I just never seriously considered parting with that unwieldy 12-gauge anti-aircraft cannon.

Fast forwarding to the beginning of this month: Our SAC (Special Agent in Charge) asked me if I'd be willing to put together a team to compete in the post's "Three-Gun Match", a tactical shooting competition which draws law enforcement officers from around the region to use pistols, rifles, and shotguns (hence the name "Three Gun") for engaging various targets while moving and using cover. While we all planned to use our Army-issued pistols and rifles (because if you do, the Army provides the ammo for the match), none of us owned a tactical shotgun. Our unit doesn't even have them in the inventory. Well, one thing led to another, and when our local Cabela's Outfitters store advertised a big sale this week on, among other things, TACTICAL SHOTGUNS!!!,  the die was cast. And even though my beloved Spousal Unit didn't mention it, I wanted to honor our informal agreement concerning firearms, to wit: "One Gun In, One Gun Out." This meant trading in "Old Faithful", which ended up cutting the already great sale price of the tactical shotgun I had picked out by more than half.

Still, as I pulled my long-time scattergun companion from the gun safe, wiped it down one last time, and gently peeled the red "Dymo" label with my name which had been stuck on the fore-end the day I bought it 45 years ago, I felt a twinge of guilt and sadness. Which lasted until I got my new light-weight tactical gun home, pulled it from the box, cleaned, lubed and assembled it, threw it up to my shoulder, and softly yelled, "Pull!" 'Cause like they say, "Honey Badger and old shotguns don't care!"

(IMPORTANT NOTE: This story is in NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM, an allegory about any kind of relationship other than with that one inanimate firearm; no one, especially any Spousal Units who might happen to read this, should draw any inferences of any kind. Thank You.)

Confessions Of A Fantasy Baseball Failure

I had a short and unsuccessful career as a baseball player in junior high school. In the one game I started, I missed two out of four fly balls hit to me in right field, struck out once, flied out once, walked, and was picked off by the pitcher when I tried to emulate one of my favorite Dodgers, Maury Wills, by taking a big lead in order to steal second base. Needless to say, I didn't try out for my high school baseball team.
Despite being a crummy player, I was a big fan of major league baseball, ever since my dad took me to my first game at Dodger Stadium, where some guy named Sandy Koufax pitched for the home team that day. Growing up in Southern California in the 60s and 70s, I rooted for the veterans who had moved from Brooklyn, as well as the upstart LA Angels, who played in "the other Wrigley Field" until Anaheim Stadium was built. When I joined the Army and left Southern California for good, I kind of lost interest in baseball, until my new home team, the Seattle Mariners, drafted some guy named Ken Griffey, Jr. So now I'm a Mariners fan, with all of the perennial hope and ultimately disappointment that comes with it.

Fast forward to Baghdad, 2010. I was invited to join in a fantasy baseball league by one of my fellow agents. I had always thought fantasy sports stuff was for geeky dudes who spent most of their lives in their parent's basement playing "World of Warcraft". I soon learned that my preconception was invalid; normal folks, including women (!), really got into fantasy sports competition in a really big way.  I had really no idea of what I was doing, but managed to "Forrest Gump" my way into the playoffs that year.

I've been doing fantasy baseball ever since, and added football a couple of years ago. One of my best friends from high school invited me to join the leagues he runs, and so I was in two baseball and two football leagues every season. Through all this fantasy sports  activity, I learned a couple of things about myself:

1. Playing in fantasy leagues has added to my knowledge and enjoyment of both baseball and football, leading me to follow other teams outside of my region, and keep my interest going even when my home teams get bounced out of post-season contention on a regular basis. (Especially those damn Mariners!)

2. I absolutely suck at fantasy sports.

I'm sure a big reason for #2 is that I don't spend a lot of time tweaking my daily/weekly line-ups. I usually draft pretty good, even great players, but I hang on to them way too long after they go from "hero to zero", or I make the mistake of dumping someone who has underperformed, just in time for them to get picked up by another team at the start of the player's MVP comeback. Also, I'm really don't get too bummed out if my team loses. Don't get me wrong, I prefer to win as much as the next guy, but if I do my best, but my players stink at the wrong time, oh well, I did my best. There are undoubtedly lots of strategies I could study to improve my team's performance (that's why some guys usually win every year, even without a roster full of superstars), but I've got other things which interest me more.

This year's fantasy baseball season is drawing to a close, and once again my team isn't going to make the playoffs. I'm cool with that. Unfortunately, my "fantasy slacker" attitude led me to commit an apparent faux pas the other day. After realizing I was eliminated from playoff contention by my third straight loss, I figured I would help out the other teams still in contention by dumping most of the players I wasn't planning on keeping for next season, and replacing them with up-and-comers who may be the rookie sensations of 2014. Turns out that this approach is frowned upon in fantasy sports circles,
which my good friend was kind enough to let me know. So I guess there is even an etiquette to sucking at fantasy sports. (Which makes it more like golf than I previously realized!)

Oh, well...Lesson learned. Now it's time to get ready for fantasy football. Which, by the way, I've already set the tone for a dismal season by trading for an all-star receiver, who was arrested for murder the week after the trade went through. At least you can be assured I won't be dumping my players after we're eliminated from the post-season!

If A "Poor Workman Blames His Tools", Should A Good Workman Praise Them?

I am playing better golf these days, partly because I am getting out more often, but also because I am using equipment which maximizes my strengths, and minimizes my weaknesses. While I have pretty much resisted buying gimmicky stuff (like Rene Russo's character in "Tin Cup"), I realized earlier this year that I needed certain new "tools" if I was to significantly improve my game, and consequently my enjoyment.

Here's a brief inventory of what "stuff" has lowered my scores, and made golf a lot more fun:

1. Clubs:
a. Irons/hybrids: When I transitioned from 35 year old Ping Eye 2 irons to Adams AOS12 hybrid/irons, I was able to reach a lot more Greens In Regulation than I ever had before. It has taken me some time and practice to start striking the ball with anything like mid-handicap consistency, but better than 60% of my shots are either on the green, or very close. I used to dread having to hit my irons...now I get excited! In fact, one of my most reliable clubs is the sand wedge I picked up for $22 on E-Bay; it's the women's version of my irons, and maybe channels Annika Sorenstam considering how accurate it is. Adding 30-50 yards to my iron shots hasn't hurt either.

b. Fairway Woods: I have named my only fairway wood "Kristen" in honor of one of my golfing gurus, "The Golf Chick". (Check out her excellent golf blog: www.thegolfchick.com ) Even on bad days, the one club which always comes through in the clutch is my Ping G-15 5-wood. I can reliably hit a draw shot off the tee, and have launched a ball over 200 yards from the fairway at least half the time I've used it. While the G-15 model is several years old, I predict it will stay in my bag for the rest of my golfing days...it makes me appear to be a much better golfer than I really am. (That quality comes in handy during tournaments, especially in "best ball scramble" events.

c. Balls: All testicle puns aside, balls are really important to consistent play. One of my golf coaches, Molly Miller, strongly urges her students to find a single brand/model of ball that works for them, and use it exclusively. I hadn't really considered that bit of wisdom before, and had stocked my bag with a mixed lot of whatever was on sale or I had found on the course when looking for my own lost ball. Again, Molly's wisdom made perfect sense, because how else was I going to develop consistency if the ball characteristics were not? Now I only play Wilson "50 Elite" balls, in high-visibility orange color. Yeah, a lot of my playing partners and my brother give me a bit of crap about playing an orange ball, but who cares? I can find my ball in the rough or undergrowth, and also track its flight and roll so much easier than with traditional white or optic yellow varieties. I can knock it just as far as any other ball out there, and with my military discount at Puetz golf stores, I pay just about $10/doz., so what's not to like? (I add a black shamrock mark using a "Tin Cup" stencil, making it 99% certain no other golfer will successfully claim my ball as theirs.)
As an addendum to this category, I recently discovered a product called "Flex-Head Tees". These are miniature marvels of engineering, allowing me to consistently tee up my ball at the same height for whatever club I'm using. They come in different lengths, but all feature a solid, fluted pointy end and a flange, plus wide prongs to hold the ball solidly. They are guaranteed to be unbreakable, and are easy to find after I've hit my drive. You can find these awesome tees at www.flex-head.com and they are reasonable priced.

d. Cart and Bag: I prefer to walk whenever possible, but carrying my bag over a hilly 18 holes on a hot day saps my strength. I acquired a Clic Gear folding 3-wheel cart and matching bag last year, and couldn't be more satisfied. It's a great combo; keeps my clubs from bunching up, there's plenty of storage pockets in the bag, and the cart rolls like a dune buggy, handling all terrain with ease.

e. Other Accessories: I just got a super deal on a Bushnell "Neo-X" GPS watch, which has some 3,000 courses pre-loaded on it. I've used it twice, and both times I've shot lower scores as a result. Now that I have a really good idea of how far I hit every club in my bag, knowing exactly how far the front, middle, and back of the green is from wherever I'm standing has simplified my club selection. Again, more Greens-In-Regulation means more pars, and fewer bogies.

By the way, I haven't received any compensation from any manufacturer or retailer for shilling any item mentioned here, and although I've gotten most of my gear on sale, none of it was free. I just enjoy sharing some of the good quality equipment out there which has led to making golf a lot more fun. The one downside to that fact is that I am seriously looking forward to retirement (and playing several times a week on a regular basis) more than ever!

Like A Dyslexic Elvis...

...my unit is singing the "I. G. Blues". That dazed look on SGT Elvis Presley's mug is very similar to what most folks in my unit were sporting yesterday, as we completed the final preparations for our Inspector General's (IG) inspection this week. 

For those of you who have never experienced one of these events, you can get an idea of what an IG inspection is like by watching an episode of that reality show, "Hell's Kitchen", where British chef (and hypercritical "Adam Henry") Gordon Ramsay descends upon a troubled restaurant and figuratively blows it up.

I went through a number of these traumatic incidents in my early Army life. Back then, they were called "Annual General Inspections", or AGI for short. A team from Division HQ showed up, usually with several month's warning, and inspected every aspect of our battalion's operations and administration. In the motor pool, vehicle logbook entries were checked against deficiencies found by the maintenance team, and all those excess repair parts a good motor sergeant had accumulated to keep our elderly tanks and trucks running had to be carefully hidden in a neighboring unit's area, or in some cases buried out in the local training area. All the clerk's filing cabinets were checked to ensure every folder was numbered in strict accordance with the file numbering regulation. (Seriously...it was no coincidence that "Army" and "Anal-Retentive" both start with the letter "A".)

All the staff officers and NCOs spent long hours making pretty charts (this was before Powerpoint existed, so everything was hand-drawn by the battalion draftsman), which were compiled into briefing binders. Company Commanders, XOs, and Platoon Leaders micromanaged their First Sergeants and Platoon Sergeants who were busy supervising troops cleaning the barracks, cutting grass, painting rocks, and starching their fatigues/spit-shining combat boots for the in-ranks inspections. Pretty much nobody slept for the 36 hours before the inspection.

While I was fortunate never to be in a unit which failed an AGI, that sort of epic disaster used to occur on a pretty regular basis. If your unit blew an aspect of the AGI, such as vehicle maintenance, then you'd get 30 days to make corrections before the IG team returned to re-inspect that area only. Failing the re-inspection usually resulted in the commanders being relieved, which essentially ended their career.

 So with that historical perspective, I watched with mild amusement as selected case files were "scrubbed" and collected for the inspectors' review, desks were polished, empty computer cartons were jammed into storage closets, the grass and shrubbery surrounding our building was weeded and trimmed, and any cubicle decorations which might be found "inappropriate" were hastily removed. One big change from the "Old Army" is that we no longer have to starch our uniforms, or shine our combat boots. (I can't believe I just wrote that, but just like the WWII and Korean War veterans who still populated the Army when I came in observed, there have been a lot of changes over the past 30 years!) Since only one of my case files was identified for inspection, and I am not assigned any additional duties, nor do I have any leadership responsibilities this time around, I'm definitely getting over. (I did vacuum the office bay where my cubicle is located, so don't think I'm a total slacker, okay?)

While I probably won't report any specifics after the inspection concludes this Friday, there may be an anecdote or two of epic magnitude which I'll be compelled to share with y'all...after "the names have been changed to protect the innocent", of course! 

TURDUCKEN: The Culinary Equivalent to "ManBearPig"?

Anyone who has read through the Cabela's Holiday Catalog is familiar with the unique amalgamation of poultry called Turducken, which combines Turkey, Duck, and Chicken. When I first spotted this  culinary Frankenstein monster several years ago, I immediately thought of the South Park episodes featuring a supposed Al Gore nemesis named "ManBearPig". The difference between these two is that one can be deadly to humans, and the other is a cartoon character. (Oh, I just cracked myself up there with fifth grade wit!)

Seriously, I like pretty much every kind of cooked bird that I've tasted...even the roasted pheasant that I shot with my Dad and Uncles back in the early 70s which was seasoned liberally with lead pellets. (I had made the cardinal sin of blasting that bird just a few feet in front of my shotgun's muzzle due to my excitement at flushing it only seconds after stepping into the beet field.) Thanksgiving dinner, with turkey and stuffing, is my favorite meal of the entire year. So when I learned about the tryptophan-laden combo, which by the way usually contains STUFFING (!), I added that to my gustatory bucket list.

Now while my Spousal Unit rightly accuses me of being prone to making occasional impulse purchases off the internet, the high cost of the Cabela's Turducken...over a hundred bucks...kept me from indulging this particular whim. But as the saying goes, "Good things come to those who wait", and so it was last weekend. While cruising the frozen food cabinets at our local Fred Meyer Superstore, (I was looking for frozen Maryland-style crabcakes, as the last time we dined on the ones from the seafood counter I found a big old deceased housefly embedded in mine.), I spotted a half-shoebox sized package emblazoned with "TURDUCKEN". I checked it out with a cynical eye, because finding such a gourmet treasure at a Western Washington Fred Meyer was surely too good to be true. Examining the box's bona-fides, this definitely looked to be the real thing. The next challenge was convincing my Spousal Unit to make room in our shopping cart for this grocery outlier. She is more skeptical of new, untried products than I am, and I think she even muttered something about being suspicious of any product whose first syllable is "Turd". That concern hadn't occurred to me, but she did have a valid point. On the other hand, she tends to be supportive of my adventurous approach to cooking and eating, so once the Spousal Unit realized there weren't any weird ingredients, she assented.

Once committed to a course of action, my Spousal Unit goes all in, so within a couple of nights she had roasted our bowling ball of bird goodness for Saturday Night dinner. While it had been cooked perfectly, and was clearly comprised of good quality poultry, our first Turducken experience was a bit underwhelming. The meat was a bit dry, and very salty. It was more than edible, but not what I had dreamed of. The remaining couple of pounds of Turducken went into a Tupperware container, awaiting its fate. I admit to a lack of enthusiasm for polishing off the leftovers, but then it occurred to me what this Turducken was missing...the STUFFING! This version featured pork sausage in place of traditional bread-based stuffing, which was good for our low-carb diet, but left us wanting.

Tonight, we rectified this omission with a vengeance. We picked up a box of "savory herb" Stovetop Stuffing and a jar of low-sodium turkey gravy at the market, and after dicing up the slabs o'Turducken we had a savory casserole simmering on the stove. This concoction was definitely "much mo' bettah", though just before she dished it up, my Spousal Unit noted we should have included a small side dish of cranberry sauce to make it perfect. She was right again, but despite that minor quibble, we dined happily, knowing the whole Turducken experience had been nicely salvaged.

I'm not sure whether we will ever buy another Turducken, but it doesn't matter. I've crossed that off my bucket list, and will be able to resist the urge to drop a couple of C-Notes with Cabela's...at least for another Turducken.

Adventures of the "Distracted Detective"

Working out of an Army CID Office has advantages and disadvantages. Most of the cases I'm working require lots of telephone interviews, and that's not how CID usually does things. The open cubicle bays are generally chaotic, filled with jocular insults, loud complaining, and discussions about ongoing investigations or administrative requirements. A couple of times each month, we are tasked with completing internet-based training covering such gripping topics as "Equal Opportunity/Prevention of Sexual Harassment", "Information Security Awareness", and my personal favorite, "Accident Awareness and Prevention"...because the script is a close parallel to that Driver's Ed movie they used to show in high school..."Blood On The Asphalt!!!"

On the plus side, interaction with fellow agents makes the day go by faster, I can get advice on CID procedures quickly and easily, and I really enjoy the seriously funny stuff that comes out of peoples' mouths in the active duty Army environment. My case files, which weigh about 5 pounds each, are within easy reach.  And all the documents saved to my office hard-drive which I haven't found time to upload to the shared-drive or download to a CD (because we can't use thumb-drives or external hard drives) aren't available on my remote laptop. But mostly, I just like the camaraderie.

This morning I was faced with a choice: try to conduct a whole bunch of telephonic interviews from the office, or grab a case file and head back home. I decided on the latter course of action, and I'm glad I did. Not only did I make more progress in one day with this investigation than I've accomplished over the past month, I was able to space my calls out to encompass the post-dinner-hour, reaching more of my contacts than usual. My Spousal Unit was supportive, as usual, and we had zero conflicts over telephone or computer usage, since I was issued an Army computer for home use.

I think this will be an option more frequently...

Remembering Major Glenn G. Jacks, USMC

I grew up in Southern California during the Vietnam War, just a few miles from Marine Corps Air Station El Toro. On our quiet street in Tustin, the majority of our neighbors were Marine officers, and the majority of those were Marine Aviators. Our family always liked our Marine neighbors; the kids had interesting stories of faraway, exotic places like Japan or South Carolina, their moms generally spoke with cool Southern accents and used expressions we native Californians had never heard before, like, "Y'all are some cute lil' boogers!" And of course the fathers exuded the (usually) quiet bravura common to most Marines, and especially the aviators. (Early on, I learned NEVER to call them "Marine pilots"...They were Marine AVIATORS!) To this junior high school guy, these warriors were the essence of awesome. My dad, a World War Two Army Air Force veteran and former National Guard infantry officer, seemed to gravitate to the Marines, and treated them with great respect.

Of all of those Marine officers who were neighbors, the one who made the greatest impression on my entire family was Glenn Jacks. Captain Jacks was one of those people who everyone in the neighborhood instantly liked. The same was true of his wife and two children. This was a family that just seemed to brighten up Chirping Sparrow Way by their presence. They'd always show up to the barbecues, curbside fireworks displays, and block parties, and Captain Jacks would draw folks in with his infectious grin and slow drawl.

When Captain Jacks got orders for Vietnam, it didn't seem that momentous to the non-Marine families; we'd never had anyone go over there and not come back. The war was on TV most nights, presented by Walter Cronkite, but it wasn't REAL. Until October, 1967, anyway. Not too long before, the neighborhood celebrated the news of Captain Jacks' promotion. (I'll never forget his young daughter announcing proudly, "My daddy's a MAJOR!" to everyone she encountered for almost an entire week.) One afternoon, I came home from school to find my mother sitting on the couch, sobbing. She looked up and said quietly, "Glenn Jacks' airplane crashed in Vietnam, and he's dead." I was stunned. How could a man who was so full of energy and confidence, who had only just left about a month ago be dead? 

Soon, we all got to see what a Marine Corps Family is made of. Mrs. Jacks didn't hide; she met with her neighbors and friends one by one, and told us how her husband and his crewman had taken off to fly a mission. When the jet engines failed, Major Jacks stayed with the aircraft to fly it away from the village where it would have crashed had he ejected. He and his crewman crashed into a mountain, killing them both. They didn't make a big deal about his heroism, as if this sort of act was to be expected of a Marine Aviator.

October, 1967 is when my concept of war changed from words and photos in history books, and grainy black and white television pictures, to an actual human face. Every Memorial Day since then, I have taken a moment to remember the bravery, sacrifice, and personality of Major Glenn Jacks, USMC, and that of his family. I shall not forget them, and their service to our nation.