My mother was a 4 foot 10 and a half inch German immigrant that barely spoke English. A really good job for her was working the cafeteria line for the Mineral County school system. During the late 1960s and early 1970s, she would spoon out the Salmon cake delight with a smile on her face. For the students, salmon cake day was simply heinous. The line of students seemed more like a food line at Andersonville. Of course, she would be a rock star when she divvied out the fish sticks or pizza.
I remember how my mother struggled with writing English or even writing down a phone number. She had suffered from malnutrition at a young age when Adolf Hitler’s NAZI party took the family farm. Opa Zeppie would not take the oath to Hitler and be sent to Dachau while the rest of the family was scattered across Germany.
I remember when we attended my mother’s US citizenship event. She had studied for the test for months and raised her hand willingly.
In Catherine Cortez Masto’s world, an illegal immigrant has more right to life on US soil than the beating hearts of the innocent unborn that are born to American citizens. In her world, it is ok for an illegal in her last trimester to camp out in the parking lot of a US hospital. It is ok for illegals that cannot speak English to undermine the wage opportunity for legal Hispanic citizens. People who stood in line, work hard, raise wonderful families, and seek better lives for their children.
Legal immigration and the “rule of law” is vital to the American dream for legal citizens. It is vital to the countless Hispanic workers that keep Las Vegas and the rest of Nevada’s economy alive.
To date, Brian Sandoval’s English learning initiatives and lead by example demeanor have resulted in an 11% increase in high school graduations in Nevada. Then again, we cannot ask the sons and daughters of legal Hispanics to compete for wages against illegals that hang out at Home Depot. When given a chance, the Nevada school system churns out well adjusted and educated Hispanic children that can compete for any job in Nevada. Well adjusted and educated children that will be employed by the numerous businesses that are leaving California and flocking to the Battle Born State.
Catherine Cortez Masto believes in the old way of doing business. She does not see the difference between legal Hispanic citizens that have paid their dues and illegals that lower the overall wage structure for Nevadans. This is an insult. She does not see the difference between the offspring of legal immigrants that work hard in school and will be the fuel that power’s Nevada’s economic engine in the future. Instead of precious tax base going to appropriate skill training, she wants to turn Nevada into a sanctuary state where all illegals get a free ride?
Catherine Cortez Masto fancies herself a modern-day Hernan Cortes and the leader of the Reconquista in Nevada. She does not stand with legal immigrants. She stands with illegals. She probably waves the Mexican flag at her office in Washington DC.
Catherine Cortez Masto’s illegal immigrant friendly positions are counter to the rule of law and lower wage structure and opportunity for the Hispanics that are here legally. Instead of livable wages for Nevada’s legal Hispanic population, she wants all Hispanics to enjoy the shared misery of a large labor force and stagnate wages. Instead of tax revenue, she wants more freebies for illegals. Instead of tax revenue going to job training for legal Hispanics, she wants revenue for illegal families, that shun English and wear the Mexican flag on Fremont street.
Unless the flow of illegals is turned off, Nevada’s legal population will have to compete for low wages. It is called supply and demand.
The Nevada school system is already under a tremendous strain to assimilate and educate the children of illegals. Shouldnt the legal Hispanics that pay the taxes have first consideration when it comes to job opprotunity and the edcuation of their children?
Legal Hispanic citizens deserve the utmost in respect and all the good things that the American dream has to offer. Masto simply lumps them all together. She then uses the tactics of alienation and the world’s greatest legislative body as a vehicle for fundraising. She is not a Stateswoman in the model of paul laxalt or Brian Sandoval. She is a grandstanding partisan hack that cultivates division and exploits ignornace.
Some Nevada statesmen seem to get things done, while others, well, they grandstand on nonvalue-adding media issues and engage in partisan hackery. Catherine Cortez Masto seems to be the latter.
As Nevadans recall, Nevada Governor Brian Sandoval has worked like a Tesla energizer bunny to get things done and create jobs in Nevada. We have grown used to a man that logically assesses every situation before making an appropriate stand. He then acts in the best interest of Nevadans. In 6 years as governor, he has stayed out of trouble while managing the Bush economic collapse. Sunny, as he is called, has never gone negative on a single issue and always presents things in a positive light. To date, Brian Sandoval has done countless things for the Nevada economy. Here are just a few: Tesla battery plant, electric car manufacturing plant in Las Vegas, Las Vegas Raider stadium, Las vegas War memorial, Drone manufacturing, information corporations, education reform, medical school, Project Neon, English first programs, and the list seems to get longer and longer each day. Even though Nevada’s first Hispanic governor would not endorse Donald Trump for his irritating verbal attacks on Mexicans and a Mexican judge, he does have President Trump’s ear. In fact, Donald Trump reacted to Governor Sandoval’s plea for disaster relief funds within days. This suggests that president Trump has respect for Sandoval and is open to helping Nevadans unless of course, Senator Masto’s alienating diatribe and actions get in the way.
The first thing that Catherine Cortez Masto does after winning Harry Reid’s senate seat is submit a meaningless partisan hack bill that will not make it out of committee. She wants to become the Immigrant friendly Queen of Las Vegas. Instead of representing Nevadans that live north of the Las Vegas race track, she focuses on endearing Las Vegas’s immigrant population. Instead of reaching across the aisle like Sandoval has done for 6 years, Catherine Cortez Masto feels that attacking Donald Trump over illegal immigrants, and casting blame, will create jobs in Nevada. Instead of forging a working relation that could result in Federal funds being appropriated for Interstate 11, Masto is a negative oriented partisan hack job.
Nevada Governor Brian Sandoval and the Nevada State legislation are extremely immigrant friendly and have passed copious legislation that backs up this reality.
Nevadans must now take pause given Catherine Cortez Masto’s inept priority structure. Unlike Brian Sandoval, Catherine seems to like political alienation and partisan hackery. Sandoval represents all of Nevada. Masto only represents the transient immigration population and plays identity politics. Her political machinations are not a good fit for Nevada, Nevada’s economic growth, or the future of Nevada’s children. In fact, her political strategy is simply laughable and stinks of a boobish college intern. I think that Nevadans are feeling a little buyer’s remorse.
At this juncture, all that Catherine has going for her is a middle name of “Cortez” and a penchant for identity politics. This suggests that it is all about her and not the people of Nevada. Sorry Catherine, but my last name is Brodhead. We brought English speaking rule, Independence, Guadalupe Hidalgo, Emancipation, The Territories, and the transcontinental railroad to Nevada. You on the other hand, like to submit artsy fartsy partisan hack feel good bills that create senate stagnation and seek to profit from identity politics. You are weak and pathetic and waste the senate’s time and tax payers money. At best, your first bill is an attempt at harvesting and exploiting misguided division and alienation. Your stupid bill seeks names and email addresses for fundraising. Thanks for using the world’s greatest legislative body for bullshit theatrics and exploiting the politics of identity and division. Your fundraiser sucks.
During Obama’s first 100 days, the media kissed Obama’s ass. Hollywood would drop to it’s knees and wave Barack in for some fellatio on a regular basis. He could do no wrong. The Hollywood elites turned a blind eye when Obama ran up $10 trillion in national debt. They said nothing when he encouraged revolution in Egypt or bombed Libya. They seemed not to care when the once anti-war candidate became a sleeper cell for the military industrial complex and Sharia law. They cheered when he ruined private sector healthcare and tripled policy costs for the working class. All the while, Obama dangled division and LGBT rights like we were babies in a cradle. Social issues would replace real legislation while Obama took more land for the Federal government. He would also double down on al things Bush and barter America’s sovereignty for the illegal vote. Illegals had more right to life in the USA then the beating heart of the innocent unborn. Illegals could walk across the borders while Obama continued the Bush surveillance state and police state.
Today, the media and Hollywood started giving Donald Trump grief from day one. The media would conjure up every manner of negative scenario when Flynn got the boot. Even Ivy league phycologists that never made a penny in the private sector are now claiming that Trump is mentally ill. They did not say a word about Barack’s pathological narcism, “Munchhausen Syndrome by proxy foreign policy, lack of remorse, or dried up serotonin levels. They cared less about the lies and deceit or the importation of sleeper cell jihadist terrorists. All Barack did was dangle social issues to run interference for his big government policies and LBJ-style “Guns and butter program!’ He also sent David Geffen love letters while elevating sodomy to that of marriage between a man and a woman. They said nothing when Obama and the Democratic Socialists would not allow “Other people’s tragedies to go to waste” and harvested other people’s tragedies for political gain. To run interference for Benghazi, he would attack gun rights and exploit the Sandy Hook tragedy. The list of exploitation is long.
His solution to Syria was importing weapons to ISIS or poddy training the education system.
Today, all the Hollywood elites, liberal university mental health professionals, neo-moral relativist, and LGBT fuhrers are venting at the ass like fat cows in a Colorado feedlot because Trump is in office.
Trump needs to devise a propaganda campaign like Obama did. But instead of campaigning so men with wigs can use the little girl’s bathroom in a primary school, he should start on releasing BLM land along the West and East Walker Rivers in Nevada to the state of Nevada. In fact, all of the BLM lands that are part of the Carson District should be released to the State of Nevada.
Barack Obama was a wealth redistributing Democratic Socialist that ran up $10 trillion in debt, collapsed the Middle east, bombed countries that were not a threat to our National Security, sucked off the neo-con agenda, and left private sector healthcare in ruin. It should be easy for Donald trump to enact legislation that eclipses the poddy training of the school system. But instead of dangling division and the politics of internet generated morality, he might start divvying out BLM land and giving the Department of education the boot.
I lieu of attempting to introduce gender confusion into our primary schools, Trump might want to be a real leader. Screw the liberals in Hollywood and so-called menatl health experts. They are trying to make money and preserve their media piece of the pie in the face of the internet.
Mr. President, pick up the pencil and generate a bill that releases all land in the Carson District BLM to the State of Nevada. You will be a rockstar.
When Brodhead’s help pass legislation that funded the building of the Capitol building dome, the West wing, the East wing and the Congressional library, Washington DC was a small town on the Potomac. During the Civil War or “War of Northern Oppression” as the Southern Democrats called it, Washington DC would grow and grow. The Federal government would expand it’s control over the territories taken during the Mexican-American war. They would also accelerate the slaughter of the American Indian.
The Great Depression and World War II would see the rise of Social Security and the Military Industrial complex and thousands of lobbyists. To counter the total downturn in military spending after WWII, the Federal government fixated on Korea, the Cold War, Vietnam, Iraq and so on. While nuclear security and a viable defense force is justified, people like LBJ, GW Bush, and Barack Hussein Obama used our military for nation building 10,000 miles away. Peace is our profession, has become Perpetual war is our profession.
Today, Washington DC is basically a parasite that feeds off the country like a parasitic character in “Dune!” The once small town of the 1850s has turned into a leviathan of spending, surveillance, and control. They even tax us so they can perform bulk data collection. They read Washington’s farewell address while actively looking for foreign entanglements. They shit on our Bill of Rights.
Barack Obama went so far as to blackmail State education systems with cutbacks in funding if they did not allow the LGBT crowd to pick and choose bathrooms. He was poddy training our school system. Obama felt that men with wigs should be able to use your daughter’s elementary school bathroom. Anyways, The Federal government has become an oppressive leviathan that must be reduced. They are a duplication of effort and can be replaced with State control and block grants.
We must start by eliminating the Federal Department of Education and replacing it with block grants to the States. The Federal workforce associated with the federal education and mind control department must be disbanded and sent to other departments. Only a small cadre of workers should be retained. Their only job would be analyzing and distributing block grants. Each block grant would be predicated on students and the economies of scale in each sate.
Let the States and inner cities decide how they want to spend the precious little funding. Let the states decide how they want to educate their children. the occupation of Japan and Germany are obsolete. So too is the occupation of our nation’s schools districts. It is time to wrestle control away from Washington DC and restore the promise of America. Washington DC is simply a parasite.
The Republicans have control of the House, Senate, and Executive. Carter’s Department of education has become simply another vehicle for federal oppression, mind control, gender identity bullshit, inept educational reforms and poddy training. The Federal government has proven once again that absolute power corrupts absolutely. We will not trust our children’s futures to the machinations of a corrupt Federal education department that engages in social engineering and experimentation at the primary school level. We will not have an oppressive Federal Leviathan dictating neo-moral relevitsim and how we raise our children. . It is time to kill it off.
During the Iraq war, I had the opportunity to fly the “Hanoi Taxi” to and from Iraq. I was a member of the 730th Airlift Squadron and the 452nd Airlift Wing. We were among the last two C-141C wings in the Air Force Inventory as the C-17 replaced the Starlifter. The 32 remaining C-141C aircraft would perform the dedicated air evacuation mission out of Iraq.
John McCain would get a ride on the “Hanoi Taxi” when the Vietnam war ended and he was released from the “Hanoi Hilton.” Nobody trashes a POW that spent 6 years in hell while defending our freedoms. Then again, Vietnam was not a defense of our freedoms. It was more of a proxy war that allowed LBJ and the Military Industrial Complex to maximize “Guns and butter”! It was the beginning of the Welfare-Warfare state.
John McCain would speak out against having Marines in Beruit, Lebanon. Then his anti-Middle East war positions would become “cheerleading for perpetual war!” John McCain simply loves every war that he can imagine. He loved Iraq. he loves Afghanistan. He loved the idea of going to the aid of Georgia during an election year. John Supported the bombing of Libya. He would love to see troops on the ground in Syria and Iraq again. McCain has never met a war that he did not like. Hell, he would love to start a war over the Crimea or the Ukraine.
After Reagan and “Tear down this wall,” Americans have enjoyed good relations with the Russians. The Soviet boogieman became the fixation with Iraq. Obama would dangle the poddy training of schools and LGBT bathroom rights as he bombed Libya and encouraged Egypt to revolt. To prove a 2008 political position that the surge would not work, he turned his back on Iraq and then allowed the rise of ISIS. Of course, he wanted to destroy Syria’s legitimate government and allow ISIS to take all of the Levant as well.
Of course, McCain and the Democratic Socialists want to destroy Gorby’s and Ronnie’s work and plunge us back into a Cold war. Once the ISIS boogieman has been rendered obsolete, the Military Industrial Complex will seek to reignite the Cold War boogie man to justify inept spending and wars of choice.
Today, under Donald Trump renewed relations with Russia could be at hand. Solid relations with the Russians is a must in the face of radical Islam. The Russians are more worried about maintaining the control of a large land mass in the face of a billion Chinese that are polluting their home country. Instead, the media is playing up bullshit and John McCain’s mental processes follow illogical trends.It seems that John McCain always seeks to interject fear and war mongering positions that adapt to and serenade the Military Industrial Complex.
In the final analysis, Senator McCain should simply throttle his gibberish because he offers a non-value adding belief systems with no basis, in contemporary foreign relations reality, or logic and critical thinking skills. In fact, he should resign because he only represents himself and his delusional machinations related to a compromised world view. He is the neocon’s neocon and he has run his course.
Nevada and California had been hit with a massive drought. For 6 years, water from the Walker river in Nevada never reached Walker lake. As a result, the lake continues to lose several inches a year. The PH level has risen so high that the native Cutthroat trout population is now extinct. In addition, the farmers in both the Smith and Mason valleys use antiquated watering techniques and flood irrigation instead of modern sprinkler systems or drip irrigation.
The winter of 2016/2017 has been a record breaking year for snow in the Sierra Nevada mountains. A combination of super heavy snowfalls, high-temperature spikes, and rainfall have caused Nevada’s Truckee river to overflow causing massive damage along it’s banks. In addition, the Bridgeport reservoir is quite full and releasing water to the Walker rivers. Water is now reaching Walker lake at a sustained 400 CFS.
In response to Nevada Governor Brian Sandoval request for relief funds, Donald Trump’s administration reacted within days.
In the past, Donald Trump made a few rude comments about a Mexican judge. Today he has responded to the requests of a Nevada Governor of Hispanic descent. Another caveat is that Brian Sandoval was a federal judge at one time.
Trump’s disaster relief funds will go to rebuilding roads and helping several Piute Indian tribes along the river who have sustained heavy damage to their reservations.
President Trump should consider releasing BLM land along the West Walker river to the state of Nevada for a State Park. It only takes a Presidential bill submitted to the Congress and Senate. This action along with Interstate 11 highway funds would serve Nevadan’s well.
I also need you to look into Groom Mine and how the Air Force took land from Nevadans
As it is, Donald Trump will be given “Strong medicine” for his punctual help for Nevada’s Piute tribes.
At KI Sawyer AFB, the bomber Chocks, as the B-52 crew chiefs were called, never went anywhere TDY. One was stuck on the base and the flight line. The drive into town was 30 miles. In the winter time, the temperature would plunge well below zero and the gusts off of Lake Superior would create an intolerable wind chill factor. On one occasion, the ambient hit over 40 below zero. Then the winds started and blew ice particles over the base. The wind chill factor put the temperature at 85 below zero. Even then, the single first termer guys had to work the flight line while the married folks stayed home. The Commander of maintenance did not shut the flight line down until the wind chill hit 85 below zero.
One could have a fresh cup of hot coffee, but by the time one walked between the hangers, the coffee would be cold. A few moments later and ice would start forming.
The flight line expediter rode around in a blue bread van. In the winter time, they would put a piece of cardboard across the front of the radiator to stifle cooling. When one would be allowed in the van, one had to open the sliding door quickly and shut it quickly or reap the wrath. When a lander was to arrive, the flight line expediter would round up a crew to catch it. During those times, the lander crew got to sit in the van and warm up. The time was also spent telling stories, and telling jokes. Most of the guys were pretty cool. If one pulled their weight, one was accepted. Of course, there was always the higher ranking NCO that would attempt to smoke up the truck with a stinking cigarette. Some of the expediters would not allow smoking unless it was a senior ranking NCO. They would light up and stink up the van.
We had one fella that had been transferred from McChord AFB, Washington. He had been transferred from MAC or the Military Airlift Command to the Strategic Air Command. He had been a crew chief on the C-141 and now was assigned to the B-52H. he went from one of the best assignments in MAC to one of the worst assignments in SAC.
This new guy had a really good attitude and could tell the best stories. He would tell us about the C-141 and it’s mission. He would tell us about TDYs to Germany, Japan, the Philipines, and Australia. He said the best job in the Air Force was the C-141 flight engineer. He had gone from an area with moderate Pacific temps to one of the coldest places in the United States. He had gone from the laid back MAC work environment to a cold “SAC Sucks shit hole!” Even then, he maintained a solid attitude and his presence was infectious. We would get lost in his stories. Every time he would enter the Air Force blue flight line van, we would demand more stories.
At Sawyer, the KC-135A crew chiefs were gone all the time. They went everywhere. They would come back from TDY with cheap stereos, brass elephants, and all manner of goodies from the far reaches of Asia. The Tanker Weenies, as they were called, had nice big stereos from Japan. The Bomber Chocks had crappy little stereos from the BX. The Tanker Weenies went to the Philippines and had all the $5 dollar women they could handle. The Bomber Chocks stayed in their lead painted 14 by 14 barracks cells with the windows painted shut and passed around used Hustler mags. The Tanker Weenies got to hang out with the pilots for a week in Germany. The Bomber Chocks had to work with PTSD ridden cigarette smoking alky Vietnam veterans with little formal management training. NCOs that maintained a hostile work environment and led via intimidation and threats of counseling letters. At least the Tanker Weenies could leave the KI Sawyer SAC shithole for Sangria, San Miguel, and a hot Filipina babes. The Tanker Weenies got per Diem and a joyride to every corner of the earth. The Bomber Chocks got their $350 a month DOD allowance and had to drive 30 miles into town in order to meet women.
For the most part, the selection of Marquette women was substandard. Most Northern Michigan University girls stayed away from GIs. The Bomber Chocks were left with the dregs of Upper peninsula society. Of course, there were the untouchable whores that made their march through all the Barracks. Only the most desperate of Sky Cops would let them into their 14 by 14 lead painted barracks cell. That is when nobody else was looking.
The worst job on the base was POL or petroleum, oil, and lubricants. All they did was haul out the fuel Pit cart, ground it and manually unroll the double length fuel hose. The fuel pit cart sat at the end of the B-52 wing, so the hose had to be a little longer than the wing. With just a little gas in it, the hose was incredibly heavy. It took 2 guys to unroll a double pit cart. Two to throw the hose over the cart and 1 or 2 people to drag the head of the hose to the aircraft’s refueling receptacle. After the refueling was done, they would suck the hose down. Then, we would have to roll it back up again. During the refuel, the POL guy stood on the ramp with a checklist and the emergency shutoff line in his hand. If it was an alert load de-fuel, he would have to stand out in the 30 below weather for 3 hours straight. That is all that POL did.
During swing shift, the crew chief’s were treated to ‘bag nasties” or paper bag lunches. The sandwiches were made of “wonder meat,” stale bread and hard cheddar cheese. Instead of a half hour lunch, one was supposed to eat their swing shift lunch on the run. If one waited to eat their lunch and left it in the aircraft, the lunch would be completely frozen within an hour.
When we would catch a lander, and the ramp was covered with snow, it would take 5 guys to move a maintenance stand from engine to an engine for oil servicing. Everything was heavy and everything was cold. If one hurt their back, the NCOs would simply say that you have a bad attitude. Plenty of airmen worked with herniated discs because they were afraid to say their back was sore. That is until they could barely walk and had to go to the hospital.
Of course, many could handle everything that SAC threw at them. They bided their time until they could be transferred. Others stayed and became part of the management structure. Others could not deal with SAC. Some refused to work and got kicked out, while others went to remote parts of a SAC base and killed themselves. For some, SAC was a great experience, but for others, it was simply hell and nothing one would wish on an 18-year-old. In order for the DOD to fill positions, it must portray the military in a good light. In reality, many are convinced by advertising to join, only to find that many organizations in the DOD really suck. That is why they call it “The Suck!” All of the GIs during Vietnam understood this. Then again, every generation can be brainwashed into believing the unbelievable. It happened during the Civil war when poverty stricken southern men marched barefoot to maintain slavery. It happened in Iraq and Afghanistan. However, if one states the obvious, one is labeled with a bad attitude and an affront to the military industrial complex propaganda ministry.
Every sovereign nation needs men and women that will serve honorably in every situation. Our country needs people that are willing to fight for our freedoms. We just have to make it much more palatable by teaching management skills and providing positive work. Today, the Air Force has evolved from the management behavior of the past.
Every sovereign nation needs men and women that will serve honorably in every situation. Our country needs people that are willing to fight for our freedoms. We just have to make it much more palatable by teaching management skills and providing positive work environments. But in war time a positive work environment is a hard thing to provide.
It was war. Don’t make any bones about it. At the time, the Strategic Air Command had 20 heavy bomber wings dedicated to the nuclear destruction of the Soviet Union. Hundreds of B-52s Bombers were loaded with nukes, cocked and ready to go. It was the Cold war and it was cold as hell at KI Sawyer AFB. But then again, I was a weak and spoiled brat with a non-existent EQ. I made my bed and I slept in it.
It was a good thing when KI Sawyer AFB was closed. It was the shittiest assignment in the Air Force.
At Sawyer, once I turned myself in for smoking marijuana, I was assigned to cleaning the barracks full time. That meant that I had to clean all the toilettes for several weeks. I would do my best to clean all the toilettes and shower areas, and then a few airmen would come in and vandalize the bathroom just before inspection. They would fill the urinals with toilette paper, throw wet TP balls onto the mirror and litter the floor with TP and napkins. They even threw shit on the walls etc. One of the Tanker weenie tough guys would pound on my barracks room door and yell threats and insults. His favorite saying was, ” why don’t you come out you “Spineless jellyfish narc bitch” He would also threaten to employ the blanket party or beat me up if he ever caught me. What was I supposed to do? The guy was probably 6 foot 3 and every bit of 270 pounds. His fists were huge. He considered himself the toughest guy in the Barracks and gave everyone shit. Even the heavy freaks on the third floor avoided him.
I watched this guy develop from an Airman First-class into an Airman First- ass. He evolved from a nice guy that got along to extremely dominant and unbalanced. He used his size to intimidate everyone in the barracks. Everyone hated him, so he fixated on me as terms of endearment for the others. I was his pivot boy for his road to redemption. In reality, this guy was on his way to anger issues that were going to spell trouble. He was the type of guy that would beat a woman or engage in a road rage event. If anyone needed anger management classes, this was the guy.
After I had completed SAC drug rehab, and half the squadron was turned in by “Donny Wonny,” the threats and intimidation became unbearable. Even though I told the Squadron Commander that I would never ever tell on my coworkers and for him to shove it up his ass, the entire squadron blamed me. The word got around to all the dorms, and they would point me out at the chow hall etc.
I was a marked man. A marked man for turning myself in for smoking the chronic and going to SAC drug rehab. What was weird is that the 1st Sergeant in the Commander’s office smoked weed and told everyone who the narc really was and it wasn’t me. Even the Commander’s son came to the barracks looking to smoke weed.
When I returned from SAC drug rehab, I had to go to sessions with the base psychiatrist. The sessions were group sessions. There were 3 of us. One fella had tried to kill himself. Another guy had a complete nervous breakdown from being in SAC or he was a full blown paranoid schizophrenic in la la land. Either way, they had him doped up and strutting around in a medical gown.
The psychiatrist was a nerd and a control freak. He would get all wound up during the sessions and start to freak out into a bastardization of inept psychiatry and military rank structure. He was like Lt. Steve in “Good morning Vietnam.” I wasn’t nuts, I just smoked a little yesca.
This so-called mental health professional had zero listening skills or sound boarding abilities. The sessions were a joke and an annoyance. As an ADHD psycho brat, I would interrupt his unending delivery of gibberish on a regular basis. It did not take long to unhinge the fellow. The sessions would devolve into a competition for air time between he and I. Meanwhile, the heavily sedated guy would leak at the mouth and be off in a completely different realm. When asked a question, he would simply repeat the question or launch into a diatribe conditioned by the guy who tried to kill himself. They both shared a room at the hospital.
I was still in the Barracks and working the flight line. As punishment for my SAC sins, they sent me to mental health.
The guy that tried to kill himself worked administration and was a friend. In high school, he was a good student and an athlete. Becuase he was a short guy, he missed out on a football scholarship and joined the Air Force instead. he could not adapt from a high school varsity jock to the SAC shithole. He tried to commit suicide by going out in his underwear into the snow and cold of the Upper Pennisnusla in February or March. He would end up coming to my room with frost bitten feet. I would put his cold feet under my arm pits and send my roommate to call for medical help. They took him to the hospital and there he stayed until he was discharged. When I visited him in the hospital, his toes were black.
During the sessions, my friend would just look at the mental health dude with contempt and say absolutely nothing. It was our one flew over the KI Sawyer Coocoos nest in all its glory.
I was sent back to the flight line and put back on personal reliability. I was accepted by the NCOs, but a hated person at the barracks. Nobody hung out with me except Buzz. He was getting kicked out for his attitude. He saw through all of the BS and believed me when I said that I had not narced. He had a Triumph Bonneville and we would ride together countless times. he did not smoke weed. He was biding his time until he could get out. Once he got out, he would move to Dallas, Texas and become part of a megachurch.
Even then, one of the big tough guy alfa males kept beating on my door when he got off swing shift and threatened to beat me unconscious. I was working day shift. Every single morning about 1 AM, the asshole would pound on my door and scream “Come out, come out, come out, where ever you are, you spineless jellyfish narc bitch.” This would go on for weeks and weeks. I was already labeled a narc, so I could not tell on this guy for his threats etc. Otherwise, the act would have solidified the rumors. So, not only did I not narc on anyone for weed, I did not say a word about this guy threatening to kill me if he had the chance. I saw it as an opportunity.
I went to the Commander and told him that I had done everything he had asked related to SAC drug rehab. I would not tell him who I had smoked with, but everyone on the base thought I was a narc.
I asked the Commander to simply discharge me because I had had enough of the bullshit. He said know. The Commander then performed a threatened airman reassignment and I was off the base in 24 hours. I really wasn’t scared of the big idiot in the barracks. All I needed to keep it even was a crowbar or a baseball bat. Once I was ready to go ballistic, I would have simply opened the door and gave him a good whack. I used the scenario to extricate my person from the KI Siberia SAC shithole.
Nobody else fucked with me or threatened to beat me up. Anybody who tried to whoop up on me got put face down in the snow. We had one guy in the unit that everybody fucked with. They would go so far as to tackle him and put snow on his face. On one occasion, I took the guy who was harassing this fella, and put him on the ground and shoveled snow in his face. Word got around that I was a good wrestler and could take on anyone out on the flight line. I never gave anyone shit and preferred not to fight. If I had to fight, I could physically hold my own in a wrestling match.
I would play up the threatening environment to get away from pushing maintenance stands through 2 feet of snow at 40 below zero and all the mental and social BS that went along with it the SAC shithole. I did not look forward to two more UP winters on the flight line. It was May 1980 and still winter in the UP. In Shreveport, Louisiana it was 80 degrees. There were beautiful Louisana babes everywhere.
I would head for Colorado to a week of leave to see my folks before driving to Barksdale AFB, Louisiana for my new assignment. I then broke the news to my father. He did not know about the SAC drug rehab, the several weeks cleaning the barrack’s toilettes or the coo coos nest.
At the time, I had a 1970 VW bus. I loaded up my Honda 750, clothes and stereo equipment and got the hell out of there.
I would be leaving one of the worst assignments the Air Force had to offer to a base that hosted the Eighth Air Force headquarters and the 2nd Bomb Wing headquarters. It was the most “ate up” SAC base of them all. The ghost of Curtis Lemay is said to live underneath the Officer’s club latrine.
The base was full of “ate up” zeros that would stop you if your hair was out of regulations or your shoes weren’t spit shined. If you failed to solute, many times a SAC zero would correct you on the spot and ask you for your name etc. It wasn’t long before I started getting short haircuts and staying completely within 35-10. My new Flight Chief was one of the best supervisors I had ever had. He took care of me, pumped me up and rewarded me for good performance and behavior. Above all, he was a positive communicator with patience for his subordinates. He sculpted the individual with feedback and goal setting guidance. He maintained a positive regard for the human equity of the individual. He took his job seriously and led by example. Management to him was a science and an art. He did not outwardly play favorites and tempered every aspect of his nonverbal clues.
It was a new start until a B-52 from KI Sawyer showed up. The 410 OMS Crew Chiefs would see my name on the manning board and spread the lies about me. I then became the narc from another base and ostracized once again. Even then, my supervisor continued to help me overcome and assimilate.
The weather in Louisiana was beautiful. The flight line could get really hot, though. I pity the billions of June bugs that would land on the ramp. They would walk to and fro. They would also coalesce in the thousands at the hangar. I was once tasked with sweeping the hangar floor of June bugs. It was surreal to see thousands of little legs waving around as I swept them into a big dustpan and threw them into the garbage.
One fella used to freeze homemade lemonade in a gallon jug. He would put it on a tire and drink it every so often. By the end of the shift, it was melted and gone. They would name his aircraft “The lemonade Express,” and paint it on the nose.
I did have several good friends. We chased women in downtown Shreveport and had a good time. It was the 1980s before patient zero, and the free love society of the 1970s was still in full swing.
I did not give a shit about the drama in the barracks. When I wanted to get away, I would jump on the Triumph motorcycle with a sleeping bag and head to Dallas. I did not smoke weed, but I did start drinking. I drank beer and chased women. I would hook up with Buzz after his discharge. We would ride to Lake Grapevine, go swimming, lust after women, and drink beer. The beaches around the lake would be full of bikini clad Texas babes. At night, we would head to Lover’s Lane or downtown Dallas to chase women.
Riding the 200 miles back to Shreveport was always a drag.
If I wasn’t headed to Dallas, I would party at the Shreveport Square next to the Red river, or in Bossier city. Unlike, the UP, Louisiana was full of babes that were scantly clad with delicious asses and a wonderful southern draw.
I could have toughed out the KI Sawyer SAC shithole, but it sucked way to bad. I would leave that job up to the very tuff and dedicated folks that came from there. The folks from Upper State-Michigan are a very hardy lot of people. I was a pussy Colorado stoner that found the UP as simply heinous. It was the worst experince in my entire life.
My father loved Germany. He loved skiing in the Bavarian and Austrian Alps. He loved the people, the food, and his newly acquired relatives. My parents would be married in an old German Catholic Church in Bavaria in 1957. My sister would be born on Amarillo Air Force Base, Texas in1958. I would be Born May 4th ,1960 at Westover, Air Force Base three days after Francis Gary Powers was shot down over the Soviet Union. I would get my middle name Andrew from my Grandfather. He was named Andrew Jackson Brodhead. He was named after president Andrew Jackson. My Gret Grandfather on the American side would be named Andrew Douglas Brodhead after Andrew Jackson and Senator Stephen Douglas. My Great Great Grandfather would be born in 1824 and be named Andrew Jackson Brodhead as well. Brodheads had been Democrats since the rise of Jacksonian Democracy. Today, the great Democratic party does not exist. It has become the Democratic Socialist party. The party of wealth redistribution, intolerance, a corrupt and worthless higher education system, the government takeover of health care, neo-moral relativism, gender confusion, celebrating sodomy, division, anti-cop, elevating racism, and a plethora of downright liberal stupidity. They are anti-Christianity here in America while supporting Islamic immigration. Islam, the religion of intolerance, sodomy with little boys, 8-year-old virgin weddings to old men, beheadings, stoning, zero women’s rights, amputation for low-level crimes, death for homosexuals, and terrorism. The utter lack of cohesive logical thought application is simply staggering.
My father taught me to respect the pillars of society like police officers, and teachers. I never judged my parents for their positions on morality. Today, liberals have adopted neo-moral relativism positions on everything. They challenge folkways and morays of 10,000 years. Then they are intolerant of other people’s belief systems. Some even feel sorry for their parent’s morality and belief system. They feel that they are enlightened while the 1970s free love baby boomer generation is obsolete. Aided by social media, many in our society have become thought police. They expect others to fall for the stupidity that they have fallen for. American exceptionalism has been replaced by $700 Chines made smartphones, a bus ticket, and THX-1138 lemming-like mind control.
The marriage to a German Catholic woman would not go over too well with Milton’s family. They were New Hampshire Methodists that had live in New Hampshire since 1800. Congressman John Brodhead would be accredited for bringing Methodism to New Hampshire in 1800. He would hold the same congressional seat as Franklin Pierce. The Brodhead and the Pierce family would be close friends and inter- marry. Thorton Flemming Brodhead would be Franklin Pierce’s cousin and they would serve in Mexico together.
Laconia, New Hampshire was the place that the book and TV series Peyton Place was based on.
The Brodheads were from British Imperialist stock dating back to 1664. The progenitor of the family Captain Daniel Brodhead I was from Yorkshire England. He would come to America as part of the Nichols Expedition.He would be “second in command” and led the 400 British troops that disembarked Man-O-Wars and took control of New Amsterdam away from the Dutch. New Amsterdam would then be called New York and English speaking rule established.
By the time, I had reached my senior year in high school, I was completely burned out on school. My GPA had shit the bed, and I barely graduated.
I was raised on a steady diet of extreme Air Force patriotism by my father. It was Air Force this and Air Force that. In fact, we had never ever talked about my going to college. It was either the Air Force Academy or enlistment. In November of 1977, I took all the Air Force tests and passed the physical. I then entered delayed enlistment when I was 17 years old. I would score in the 90 percentile on the ASVAB tests. On August 8th, 1978, I would enter the Air Force and be shipped off to Lackland Air Force Base for basic training.
While at basic training, I avoided harassment by the cigarette smoking alcoholic drill instructor by painting an Air Force mural on the wall of his office. Given that I was a solid artist, doing a Tigers head with a TI hat on was a piece of cake. I would milk that job for two weeks. Basic training was a piece of cake.
Because of my mechanical aptitude, they would make me a B-52 crew chief and ship me off to Sheppard AFB for training.
Some Hawaiians that I went to Basic with would also go to Sheppard for aircraft maintenance school. The first order of business at tech school was going to a strip club with them. In addition, they had sewn a few Maui wowee joints into their luggage. The excellent doob had been seasoning in their luggage through Basic Training. It had been several months since I had smoked the Yesca. We would smoke the doob in a field with tall grass. We sat down together and passed the chronic around. I had been involved with running and physical conditioning for months. It only took two or three hits off a joint and we were extremely fried. We were also paranoid. Walking back on base was a terrifying event. Never been that high in my life.
While at Tech school, I would find out that I would be stationed at KI Sawyer. Others got Germany, the Philippines, England or a bad-ass southern base next to a party town. I would get the KI Siberia SAC shit hole. Others would cruise the Autobahn and date hot German women. Some would go to the Philippines and get $5 dollar blowjobs. I would get a remote assignment 30 miles from the base. The winters would be unbearable and the summers would be like a winter in San Francisco. Others would get the relatively light work on fighters, I would get a back breaking job in the Upper Peninsula on B-52s. Instead of beautiful woman everywhere, the selection of NMU women was the dregs of UP society.
Within a year, I would be a 5 level aircraft technician and could work competently on any task related to repairing a B-52. The technical orders were written at an 8th-grade level, so all jobs could be competently done by a checklist. One would get written up if one did not have technical data at one’s side when performing maintenance. The mechanical related aspects of an Airforce aircraft technician is easy. Everything is done by checklist. The social bureaucracy of the military is the hard part. In fact, the social and power lust aspect of any military organization becomes stifling. The competition for promotion and power within the Strategic Air Command was like Curtis Lemay on LSD. Some folks naturally belonged and played the game, while others are relegated to the bottom of the pecking order. In the military, they document one’s regressions, and they never forget. “To err is human, to forgive is not SAC policy!”
In order for the Air Force to maintain safe aircraft, there must be standardization, however, the ate-up maggots would take the job to extraordinary lengths. They knew how to cover their asses and rule by intimidation. Once promoted, they abused their power and handed out letters of counseling like they were handing out candy. If one was not liked, one received the brunt of the abuse. If one was a blonde with big tits, then one was treated nicely and promoted quickly.
At Sawyer, there was a nice looking blonde that worked Jet Phase in the hangar where our maintenance office was located. Every day, she would have the top of her coveralls strung around her waste. Her bra was thin and sheer and could be seen through her tee shirt. Her breasts were small, shapely and savory, and the thinness of the material showed her robust nipples and areolas. Her arms would always be raised by her sides as she worked on the TF33-P3 engines. Depending on what hangar door one entered dictated the profile shot. I simply loved the side profile shot with arms raised. Her beautifully upturned defined nipples were invigorating. She was actually cool, always said high, and gave us a spectacular view of her tits. It was a thing of beauty. The social and professional chasm of a nice set of 18-year-old tits in a thin tee shirt. versus the stifling SAC office environment was like night and day.
In the military, if you are a good looking gal, all the 18 years olds want in your pants. If the supervisor wants to fuck you, then you get promoted below the zone.
The Air Force offers CDCs or career development courses. These professional courses are simply little pamphlets that are supposed to take the place of a formal college class etc. Instead, they are quickly finished and discarded. So the fella with the GED has one more meaningless military course in their portfolio. Many pay more credence to an ineptly written military course than a college management course. In fact, many in the Air Force shun and repress those with college degrees while elevating their GED status. Many times, the most aggressive assholes are the one’s that rise to management.
At the barracks, there was also a Lord of the flies construct of who is who. When the snow was 4 feet deep and the boys could not make it into town, they were subject to the social regime of the barracks. Some were tough guys while others were followers. Each barracks had a pool table on the second floor. It was a very stiff competition to stay on the table. On weekends, if we had spent the Air Force allowance, we were stuck at the barracks smoking weed. listening to Rock and Roll, and playing pool.
The Air Force had a huge problem with marijuana before urine tests. Once the pee test was invented, SAC units would employ the technology. One SAC base pee tested everyone and found that 40% of the police force and aircraft mechanic squadrons smoked the doobie. So, they could either kick half the workforce out or send them to drug rehab. So, SAC came up with SAC drug rehab. It was a two-week basic training style course. If one got busted during a pee test, they had to go to SAC drug rehab or get out. The squadron commander had the authority to simply kick those that got caught out for the betterment of the service. If two airmen made signed a statement that an individual smoked pot, that individual would be sent to SAC drug rehab or kicked out.
One day, the Squadron Commander asked me to report to his office. He told me that I could either turn myself in and go to SAC drug rehab or get dishonorably discharged. I had no choice but to go to SAC drug rehab. However, by telling the Squadron Commander that I smoked weed, I broke the social protocol of the Barracks. I was now siding with the lifer maggots and became subject to intimidation, threats, and isolation.
SAC drug rehab was a real eye opening experience. As soon as we arrived at McConnel Air Force base in Kansas, they took us to the barber shop for haircuts. Then we were sent to a massive dormitory with zero privacy and shared open showers. Then we would attend sociology classes while being forced to run a mile and a half a day. The abuse was at the level of basic training. The humiliation was at a whole new level. When we arrived at the open dormitory, they had us all strip down, bend over and spread our cheeks to expose our assholes. They were actually looking up our asses to see if we had stuffed a joint there. It’s like SAC recruited the biggest antidrug “your in a heap of trouble boy” rednecks faggots in the country to run SAC drug rehab. I felt like Easy Rider just before getting blown away by a Southern redneck. The abuse by the crewcut ridden LBJ/ Nixon clone bureaucrats was heinous, offensive and bordered on institutional retardation. I mean who would smoke a doob after they had stuck it up their ass?
I would make it through the two weeks of crap. SAC drug rehab was a combination of classroom instruction on transactional analysis, ego states, Maslow’s theory and running a mile and a half a day. The instructors and NCOs in charge were the most egotistical SAC ass kissers on the government payroll. Their concepts of personal power base and Federally ordained power base, upon reflection, was sickening. They entertained the ultimate in Federal DOD belonging and the students were unamerican idiots that smoked a bowl or two. The Catch 22 was teaching all these interaction concepts only to be released back into the SAC workforce that was ruled by negative communication, threats, and intimidation.
When I returned to my unit, I was put back on full status to include nuclear alert etc. The NCOS were more accepting of me, but the friends I had at the barracks ostracized me. The Squadron commander then asked me to narc on everyone I had smoked with. About that time, I told him that he could “kiss my ass,” because I would never snitch on my coworkers. However, another Airman did narc and they all thought it was me. I started getting threats of violence from the tough guys.
The guy who narced on the entire squadron was named “Donny Wonny!” He considered himself the top doobie smoking alfa male on the third floor. He was a senior Airman over 30 years old. He was actually a very quiet person and perceived as the strong and quiet type. It blew everyone away when he married much younger heavy set women. He would trade the 3rd floor of the barracks for an uninsulated single wide mobile home next to base housing. On a three stripers salary, it must have been hard to pay the bills. His new young mentally unbalanced wife had bounced a dozen checks at the BX. They threatened to kick him out for the checks unless he narced on everyone. So, the tough guy alfa male kowtowed and snitched on everyone in the squadron. He figured it was more important to support his new family and he would maintain affiliation by turning in all his friends.
Because of the level of threats, the Squadron Commander shipped me off to another unit. Of course, when a KI sawyer B-52 came to Barksdale AFB, the crew chief told my new squadron that I was a narc. Hence, I was isolated socially for the remainder of my first term. Anyways, for those that thought I narced, you can kiss my ass, because I didn’t and you treated me like shit. So, Fuck you!!!!
I became a change agent and pivot man for the squadron. The funny thing is that the First sergeant smoked weed, and the squadron commander’s son would come to the barracks and smoke weed with us. He was the son of an officer, so he always had money and weed. So, while the squadron commander’s son was doing a huge bong hit of the UPs finest, the SQ was trying to purge the squadron of doobie smokers?