Posse Chants

The Posse has been in the dumps lately. As Fall approaches, and the weather crisps up, the outdoor population of Rodentia, both the Munk and Sq varieties, have become even more active, obviously packing away winter provisions.

This depresses the Posse, they think an increase in opportunity should result in an increase in capture. As much as I explain that there's no more chance of catching two squirrels atop an 8 foot fence than there is of catching one squirrel atop the fence, they continue to mope. That kind of higher math exceeds the educational attainment of beagles.

It being a Saturday in Fall, I'm watching a couple of games of Barclay's Premier League Soccer from the UK; the Posse in their usual position on my lap. (They don't really care a whit about soccer, but they are mightily interested in my soccer watching snacks. They focus on popcorn like a Fox reporter on a Palin quote.)

The broadcast for some reason turns up the crowd mike for a bit, and the roaring, rhythmic soccer chant catches the attention of the entire Posse. Their eyes snap to the screen. Then snap back to me.

They jump off my lap and race out the back door to hold a high-level conference and peeathon in the back yard. When they come back in, Tuppence takes the “listen up” position in front of my chair.

“Write us a chant,” she yipped.

“A chant?”

“You're the word and typing guy, get to work.”

“And why would I write a chant for you?”

Beagle sigh. “Because we need encouragement to help catch the evil red Bush Tails. While you're at it, write two; one for offense, one for defense.”

“Defense?”

“None of your business.”

I changed tack, “And who will sing these chants?”

“Our fans.” A smug beagle is really unattractive.

“Fans?” You mean me?

“And here we thought you were dumb. Tommy said you couldn't win a spelling bee if all the other contestants were Tea Party members.” A sarcastic beagle is even more unattractive.

It's easier for me to write than to argue or reason with beagles, so I went to work. After all, soccer chants are just simple repetition set to familiar tunes.

So, first I did the obvious:

Oh, when the dogs,

Go barkin' in.
Oh when the dogs

Go barkin' in.
Oh, oh, I want to be in that number,
When the dogs go barkin' in.

Then a bit of a stretch:

Glory, glory Squirrels and Chipmunks,
Glory, glory Squirrels and Chipmunks.
Glory, glory, Squirrels and Chipmunks,
We'll chomp on you some day.

I woke the Posse from its nap, and read the offerings to them.

They did a slow take to each other, then just turned and walked from the room. I've seen that response from clients before. It usually comes just before they ask for a new Creative Team on their account.

Later, I heard a huge chorus of barking under the squirrel tree in the back corner of the yard.

I stepped out and commanded, “Quiet! Hush up, dogs! Get in here.”

Tommy looks over his shoulder and says, “We're chanting to the squirrels,” and went back to it.

I said, “Sounds like the usual mindless barking.”

Tuppence said, “Just like you wrote.”

I'm remembering why I don't write for clients any more.

Charlie Called Tails.

We'd put in a long, hard day of Winnin' the Hearts and Minds at Long Binh, and now, at dusk, we were lounging around the phone cable spool tables in the Outdoor Cafe section of the NCO Club. We were adjusting our own hearts and minds with cans of Blatz 3.2 beer, at 15c a can.

One of the troops at the table was a guy from Barre, Vermont. A real New Englander, with a Down East drawl, who only said anything about once every two weeks. When he spoke, it was worth listening to. A Newbie once asked him, “Vermont, huh? Lived there all your life?” After a pause our Green Mountain boy drawled out, “Nope. Not yet.”

Before you conclude that were were warring in luxury, let me describe a couple of things. The “club” was a tin roofed pavilion with rusty screen wire walls and a concrete floor. The outdoor section where we sat was across a path from a rank of 55 gallon drums, buried on end to the rim, filled with gravel, and covered with wire mesh, for the purpose of returning used beer to mother earth.

The club did have some slot machines. Which turned out later that year to be totally crooked, and part of the scam of a gang of “senior NCOs”, who went to jail for stealing from the club and the troops.

That Blatz beer was supplied by someone who had obviously paid a lot of money for some Congressman's campaign. It was the only brand we got, and in those days before aluminum pop tops, the tin and steel cans had set in pallets on the Saigon docks for many days in the 105 degree heat. The can tops were rusty. You can only imagine what this jungle pasteurizing did for the brew inside.

Weekend nights, the club would present bands. These were Filipino, Viet, and Korean “cover” bands playing US rock hits—badly and with such bad accents you could never pick out a recognizable lyric. The bands traveled in beat up VW vans with the tiny, crappy amplifiers they used. They always featured two things. One, scantily clad dancer girls—or some were even girl bands—and, two, every band ended every show with what was the GI anthem for Vietnam—The Animals', “We Gotta Get Outa This Place.” Even if they sounded as bad as Roseanne singing the National Anthem, that one brought the house down. Always. The bands were bad. But as the evening wore on, and the beer goggles and beer 'phones began to kick in, they got to looking and sounding better.

We did have it better than the troops in the smaller camps, the fire bases and such. But “better” doesn't always mean “good.”

As we sipped our sundowners, some 100 yards up a jeep was parked at the side of the dirt road in front of a latrine. The jeep was in “tactical configuration.” That meant there was no top, and the windshield was folded flat down on the hood. It looked like an Olive Drab slab on wheels.

Just as the sun got down enough we could barely see the jeep, Charlie, as part of his adrenaline replenishment program, sent us an evening rocket.

This evening's offering happened to come in just right, and hit directly under the gas tank of that jeep. Between the warhead and the gas, there was enough of a bang and whoosh to send the jeep flipping up into the air.

As the rest of us were diving for the ground, the Pride of Vermont calmly takes his beer down from his lips, looks at the tumbling jeep, and says, “Heads.”

The Receptionist's Novel

Mad Men may be fun, but not nearly the fun the real thing was.

At a major Houston agency back about 1980. The offices were in a slick, modern building in the Galleria area, it was 19 stories of glass and stainless steel. The 14^th floor agency offices were just as modern, wanting to project an aura of slick expertise.

The elevator opened right into our reception lobby. Our receptionist, Lily, was evidently chosen for impression rather than efficiency. Though she was fine at the few things she was asked to do. She was a 21 year old out of small town Louisiana, with an accent thicker than gumbo. Her “FIE-nance”, whose wonders and virtues she bragged about to every other secretary/clerical in the shop, was named Finn—pronounced FEEE-un. She would be best described as a small town Cajun high school cheerleader.

There was an IBM Selectric at the reception desk, (the days before computers) but she was extremely deficient in spelling and typing. So, she was never assigned even overflow typing. That didn't mean she didn't type. She was constantly pounding on the keys. When asked what she was working on, she'd say, “Mah noVEL.” But she slipped the pages right into a hidden manila folder, and never let anyone see a word.

Management didn't mind. Phones got answered. Messages got taken. Guests got greeted. And Lily was always happy and smiling, and always looked great. Still, there was a lot of curiosity about this novel.

One day, a young hard-charging brand manager from Gulf Oil came in for a meeting. Clients were mostly conservative corporate types. While waiting at the front, he happened to pick up a couple of pages she had left on the desk. Something she never did. Mouth agape, he was reading them when the Account Executive he was meeting came out. He just shoved the pages at the AE with a strained, “look.”

There beneath layers of fractured grammar, and truly original spelling techniques, were two pages of a highly descriptive, highly colorful, and extremely athletic sounding porn novel.

The AE rushed the client to the conference room, and started the business at hand, afraid to even mention the now crumpled pages he had stuffed in his coat pocket. He sweated through the meeting. Neither man mentioning the pages.

The meeting ended just before lunch, so the AE and client rode down together on the elevator. The client was quiet until they got to the bottom. As the door opened, he asked, “Is she seeing anyone?”

The AE stammered out something about “engaged”, and went to get a bowl of Scotch for lunch.

Lily was asked not to work on her novel anymore. All she said was, “'K. Can I have my pages back?”

Then, only about three weeks later, as another AE was getting off the elevator with a banker client, they ran into Lily on the phone to her Mama in Louisiana, explaining that she had broken off with Finn.

Lot's of tears. And it sounded like Mama was trying to sell Finn to daughter.

“Mama.....Mama......No, Mama, I won't. No. Not ever. Mama.......Mama.......Mama..........because, Mama, Fee-un's a PRICK.” And slams the phone down.

Word flew through the office like news of a new client.

The Gulf AE, always the suck up—after all, that's what they're paid for—immediately called the young Gulf exec to tell him Lily was on the market.

Other crises, other days, other ads. Time went on.

A while later, waiting with his client for a downtown shuttle, the Gulf AE asked the client, “Say, did you ever go out with Lily?”

A terse, “Once.”

“Only once?”

“I'd never have survived a second date.”

For 30 years, I've wished I knew more.

Posse HR policies.

As soon as the Beagle Posse went out for its first morning recon, it was obvious, SOMETHING had been in the yard last night.

They began scurried about, each on his or her own scent trail--noses to the ground, the inscribed patterns more complex than Tibetan Prayer Labyrinths. Crossing and recrossing in looping patterns they snuffled every inch for traces of the Werebunny, or Wussel, or Blackbeard's Ghost, or whatever had been there. Ticked off that they had missed the chance to bark frantically at something in the night, beagle diligence required that it be identified, and if possible, brought to ground—or tree.

After a while of them looping, circling, backtracking, and fence following, I made the mistake of speaking up. “Missed that one, huh, guys?” I laughed.

Big mistake. The Posse looked up, rushed in past me in full snarling tumble as they worked out their response to the insult. The committee meeting went on for several laps up and down the hall. Beagles do not abide slurs on their hunting prowess.

I sat down for some coffee, and Tuppence plopped in front, giving me her most serious expression. Of course, beagles have a limited expression vocabulary. There's Serious; there's FedEX man ferocious frenzy; there's Treat expectation joy; and there's Tummy scratch bliss. That's about it.

“Hey, Girl, what's up?”

She yipped to make sure she had my attention, then told me they had decided it was past time for my Annual Review.

“My what?”

“Review. Every good company does them.”

I said, “OK, but what do you know about American corporate practice?”

She came close to showing me the FedEx man teeth, and then asked, “What's a beagle's strongest sense?”

“Smell?”

“Right, and do you think that we don't know all about something that stinks as much as Human Resources policies?”

I accepted defeat in that realm and tried another tack. “OK, but you're not corporate management. You're not even MBAs.”

Tuppence looked at me like I was three trips to the vet and a bath all wrapped up in a package. But it was Tommy who answered, “People call us MBA all of the time.”

“How's that?”

“Mindlessly Barking Arses.”

“Look,” I said, “that's not what MBA stands for. It stands for..........You know what? You may have a point.”

Tuppence pushes back in. “Let's get this done. Squirrels to chase; naps to take. In some order.

“We've decided that your rating is: You're doing the best that can possibly be done with the tools we give you, and you'll have to do a whole lot better in the future.”

I said, “That's about the essence of every review I ever got. OK.”

“And no raise this year.”

“I'm retired.”

“That's another discussion.”

I think the posse was about to say something else, but they'd been paying attention to one thing for nearly 30 seconds, and a chipmunk ran by on the patio. They ran over me like a Green Bay running back through the Colt's defense and went to their rodent duties.

I am pleased to learn that it was modern HR practices that I smelled on the bottom of my shoe. I thought it was something else entirely.

The Uninvited Guest

A quiet night in the perimeter bunkers at Long Binh, Vietnam. Headly had wandered out 50 feet down the blast wall to practice his Tennessee boy heritage of peeing on the barb wire. Easy to do, as the wall was only a couple of feet high at that point, and the wire just on the other side.

He was sort of humming a Buck Owens tune, gazing at the stars, and blissfully finding relief. Then he looked down three feet to his right, and came face to face with the Viet Cong. Well, not exactly face to face, Charlie was on his hands and knees crawling through the concertina wire. But there he was, resplendent in his black pajamas, and obviously filled with evil intent.

Headly had no weapon with him, thinking that one was not needed for the mission at hand. So his only choice was to take off running for the bunker, trying to return “the general” to his fly, and screaming, “Sappers, Goldamn Sappers....Oh, God, help.”

Sappers were specialized VC whose skill was breaking through the perimeter of US camps, usually secretly. These uninvited guests then generally acted very rudely, delivering gift packages of high explosives tossed into the backs of bunkers, or onboard parked helicopters, or into hooches filled with sleeping men.

Headly's cries set in motion a series of planned, if not well-choreographed, actions. As he tumbled back into the bunker, others were coming out with a couple of flares in hand, while someone else was cranking the field phone to alert the Officer of the Day, and to request illumination flares from II Field Force Artillery. The fourth man grabs the rudimentary Starscope from the bunker and begins scanning the wire. The bunker now redolent with adrenaline and testosterone.

The man with the flares pops the first one, a red star shell that indicates an attack at the wire. Then the second which is a smaller version of the magnesium flares the arty would soon be sending. Brightly burning magnesium drifted back to earth under a parachute, casting white light on all below.

In quick order, the Starscope and then the flare confirmed Headly's report. Out there in the wire was the black pj enemy crawling into the camp. “Where's his team?! Find his team!” But it seemed the rising alarms had sent the rest of his crew scurrying back into the rice paddies.

The artillery flares arrived with two loud bangs a couple of hundred feet up, and turned the whole scene into stark daylight. Then four M-16s spoke to the sapper. Then everyone hunkered down to wait and watch.

As the flares died out, the reinforcement reaction force comes roaring up, and the captain waves a sergeant with a strong flashlight toward the point of the infiltration. People still shouting, “His team's still out there. Keep low.”

Dropping to the ground at the blast wall, then carefully peering over with his light, the sergeant examined the attacker, then waved the officer forward.

The sarge, and the captain, and a whole bunch of other people, were really pissed off to discover a very shot up black pot-bellied pig.

Bonus: Cilantro Yogurt Potato Salad

Weekend bonus recipe. Cilantro Yogurt Potato Salad.

The quantities and measurements here are to give you ratios. This basic recipe will make 2 to 4 servings, depending on the size of the potatoes. And depending on how much you like it.

2 Russet or similar potatoes.  I do not recommend red for this, too gummy.
1/2 purple onion.
1/2 cup mayonnaise.
1/4 cup plain Greek Yogurt.  (I like the Greek for it's consistency, and it's extra punch. Use regular if you like, but you'll need to cut back a bit on the amount so your dressing is not too runny.)
1/2 cup loosely packed cilantro leaves.
Salt.

Quarter the potatoes and boil until a fork enters them easily. About 10-12 min. Do not overcook.  Drain potato and let cool. Meanwhile, chop onion in a medium fine chop, and coarsely chop the cilantro. Also, it will help in the mixing if you premix the mayo and yogurt.

When the potato is cool, dice into 1/4 inch cubes.

Toss all ingredients into a good size mixing bowl and stir with spatula or wooden spoon to thoroughly mix. (Don't use a metal spoon.  The edge will cut in to the potato and mush it up too much.)  Salt to taste. Chill before serving.

Using these ratios, you can make as much or as little as you like. Also, if you like your salad dryer or moister, you may adjust the amount of mayo and yogurt as you go.

The first time I served this to my wife after I developed it, she said, "I don't want to ever eat potatoes any other way."  Hope you like it.

Beagle Zen

Tuppence on the Beagle Zen of Schrodinger's Cat:

"It's a cat.
It's sealed in a box.
Leave it be."