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Someone stole my radio antenna perhaps to smoke drugs but the issue isn’t black and white

My truck radio antenna was stolen about a week ago. I was riding along, expecting to hear some noise on the radio and sure enough, noise is all I heard. A static-like hissing noise. I happened to look out the windshield and said: “Holy s**t, my antenna’s gone.”

Looking at where my antenna once stood I noticed that the base of the structure was gone. I looked closer and could see the little grooves where it appears the mast could be screwed in, or perhaps in this case, out.

I originally thought: “WTF?” I have an 11-year-old Toyota Tacoma. It’s not in the best of shape. Toyotas — This is the fifth Toyota I’ve owned over the past 37 years — have a habit of its engines outliving by years its interiors. The plastic on my steering wheel is all sun-rippled and has a crack I am patching with duct tape until I buy a cover for the wheel. I’m waiting for it to get cooler before I tackle a couple of maintenance issues. I don’t drive the truck very far these days as I have a car furnished for my part-time job. Money and heat are the two things holding me back with my vehicle issues. Like Pa Kettle used to say: “Yeah, I’m gonna fix that one of these days.”

The point is, what kind of low-life would steal a car antenna off a weathered automobile produced during the last century with more than 160,000 miles? Well, one answer that was suggested to me was meth heads.

I pulled up in the complex parking lot Monday and saw a black gentleman cooking on a little barbecue pit behind his behemoth pickup truck. We are not supposed to cook on outside grills, I suppose George Foreman’s grills inside are okay, where I live along with hundreds of other rules. And yes, it does matter in this case the race of the fellow who was surreptitiously barbecuing.

We exchanged greetings as I took another look at where my antenna once stood so proudly on the front fender of my sunfire red pearl Tacoma and exclaimed to no one in particular: “I don’t understand why someone would steal my damn antenna.”

The covert cook asked a couple of questions and then proclaimed: “Meth heads.”

He didn’t know so much about down here in Southeast Texas but back in Missouri, the secret chef said, “People steal car antennas to smoke meth or that stuff you can buy in the convenience stores.” I couldn’t imagine how exactly someone would use a car antenna to smoke drugs. I do remember in the 70s how, let’s just say people I knew, would find all kinds of inventive ways to smoke pot. A pipe from a beer can, for example. Or perhaps using a tennis ball can for a bong. Then there was Old Faithful — so I am told now! — using aluminum foil to fashion a pipe. But a car antenna to smoke meth? Well, I knew people who free-based cocaine and smoked various drugs from a pipe. This was years ago and if they could afford some of these drugs, cocaine for instance, they usually could afford a pipe.

People nowadays have all kinds of different ways of smoking different drugs. Some of these substances seem to warrant quite a bit of caution compared to the days of old, sitting around listening to Led Zepplin while puffing a peace pipe. Take this forum on “fent for example,” which actually exhorts its meth-addled readers to find an “old school” car radio antenna and “snatch that mother****** right off … ” Scumbag! Fent, short for Fentanyl, is a powerful pain killer supposedly “100 times stronger than morphine.”

I have no idea what, if anything, the person who stole my antenna was smoking. I was at the front desk here last week when our manager told a young guy he had to leave because he’d been seen smoking bath salts. “I didn’t know it was illegal,” was the guy’s answer. Yeah, well I kind of doubt he doubted it was against the law too.

Back to the black man who told me about what stolen antennas were used for, he had indicated that is what folks back in Missouri did with the antennas they stole. Here in Beaumont, Texas, he wasn’t for sure.

“Especially the black folks down here,” he said, twirling his index finger around next to his temple to indicate the well-known sign for the crazies. “Those people are strange.”

I found that a very odd statement although many of the rednecks who comment on the local newspaper’s Web site would agree. They would agree that all blacks are strange. And worse. Right now, we are on the verge of some serious racial problems in Beaumont. It’s a long story. Much of it has to do with the city having become majority black due to white flight to the suburbs. The most recent ignition point has been the local school superintendent, a black man who just recently retired who was the highest paid such school official in Texas. Instances of financial mismanagement was uncovered and the former superintendent and some of his supporters have been very arrogant, almost as if they were untouchable especially when the district’s electrician was given a lenient plea-bargain after his first trial for bilking the district out of more than $4 million ended in a hung jury.

The angriest whites spew their hate in the comment section of the local paper’s stories and a blog that seems to delight stirring the pot in true Hearst — the paper’s owners — fashion.

So I don’t believe I was just whistlin’ Dixie when I told the black covert cook that, if indeed some of the black folks down in these parts seem a little crazy, he must have not seen many of the white folks.

In the meantime, looks like I am going to fashion a clothes hanger into an antenna if I want to hear my truck radio again. I hope no one, black or white, steals it.

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No Eddie Munster today. We are still pre-empted by Isaac.

What? Is he talking about that damned storm again?

Why yes. What else is there to talk about except the weather? I mean, I sure as hell don’t see a future in talking about the Republican National Convention. The giant infomercial. And just to be totally fair, the Democratic convention will be the same only with people wearing less expensive clothes. That is except for the movie stars and entertainers.

So yes, Big Boy, the weather is making my joints hurt. A hurricane as nearby as Isaac certainly does cause my arthritis to -itis. Or is it to arth? See the doctored GOES satellite picture below which showed now Hurricane Isaac about 30 minutes ago. Obviously, one can see the hurricane. At the left, bottom is a little triangle I made to, sort of, represent “The Golden Triangle.” Why didn’t I make it golden? I didn’t think about it. Beside, golden might be difficult to spot with the surrounding color. It’s called The Golden Triangle because the location of the cities Beaumont, Port Arthur and Orange, Texas, all make a triangle when viewed geographically. The golden part had to do with the prosperity from the “oil bidness,” much of which started in this area upon the gushing of Spindletop in January 1901. Either that or it was from what color the skies were from smog until it was eventually cleaned up somewhat.

 

One of the cloud bands, whatever it might be called, from the storm passed over earlier when I was at work. The wind whipped up and whistled like a 50-foot tea kettle. Guessing from what the local wind readings were, I’d say maybe the sustained winds were maybe 20 mph, whipping up to almost 30 mph. Perhaps the winds weren’t that strong.

Even with those winds blowing by it is hot ‘n humid. Perhaps I need a trademark “Hot ‘N Humid ™ :” It will make you sweat, and how!”

I have been watching The Weather Channel, at least when the sound is off, and when the sound is off and a torso shot is visible of meteorologist Stephanie Abrams. Seriously, I have come to respect Stephanie as a broadcaster. She yaps a lot but she is multi-talented and seems to pretty much know here stuff. The Weather Channel has pulled out all the stops for Isaac. That is, unless it hits somewhere other than Florida, Alabama or Louisiana, and as I have mentioned before, especially New Orleans. If it hits far western Louisiana or far southeastern Texas, no biggie. Nobody lives there. I mean, I do, as does several hundred thousand people.

The storm coming on almost the anniversary of Katrina in 2005 has made-for-TV-drama written all over it. Plus, isn’t it always about New Orleans? Oh well, I’ve gone down that road before. My neighbors, thankfully, didn’t experience the many deaths of Katrina. In some way, though, people often feel a little of themselves die when they suffer losses as they did with their lives uprooted by first Hurricane Rita and later Ike.

Issac will probably bring more suffering to the north when the storm makes its way inland, however far it goes. And such systems can travel a long ways. I hope the wind we have seen today here in Southeast Texas is about the gist of Hurricane Isaac. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was not the case. I wouldn’t mind if it clouded up or even rained a bit. But a bit is something that one only sees a bit of when it comes to tropical cyclones.

So maybe tomorrow I can talk about Mitt Romney’s stretch blue jeans or his cloned-looking kids, or how Veep candidate Paul Ryan bears an eerie resemblance to Eddie Munster. But once again today, this space has been hijacked by Isaac.

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Is reason behind “Suicide by Bridge” similar to that of climbing Mt. Everest?

The old retort as to why does one climb a mountain — “Because it’s there” — may answer a few questions as to human behavior such as that of suicide.

George Mallory was among the climbers during the first three British explorations of Mt. Everest. He was found 75 years after his last and fatal try. Some might ask if one who attempts such a feat has a death wish. Who knows what lurks way down in the recesses of thought. Those who have made the trek to Everett successfully may often appear, at least, to have a zest for living.

Such a dark subject often surfaces in certain communities when someone takes a suicidal leap nearby or if the leaper was a prominent person. The last describes the death ruled by authorities as suicide of Tony Scott. The director who was known for such movies as “Top Gun” and “Beverly Hills Cop II” died after jumping off the Vincent Thomas Bridge. The structure, which spans Los Angeles Harbor, is the fourth longest California bridge. Oddly enough a witness saw Scott ascending the cables in a “determined” fashion, which indeed raises some added mystery in the 68-year-old’s death since he was a known rock climber.

This “suicide by bridge” method of killing oneself  fascinated me for a number of years. Part of the reason is that I have a strange attraction to bridges, that after suffering in my younger years with a fear of heights. I suppose I also have somewhat of  a morbid curiosity. My familiarity with the Vincent Thomas Bridge also piqued my interest in this particular case although I was familiar only with one or two of the director’s films.

I traversed the Thomas, an aqua green suspension bridge, almost daily for the first two months of my life as a sailor on board a Navy ship. My ship was like a fish out of water, pardon the pun, as it was dry-docked in Todd Shipyards on the western end of the bridge in San Pedro, Calif. Nearby and quite visible was a terminal for boats headed for Santa Catalina Island as well as cruise ships such as the Pacific Princess, a.k.a., TV’s “Love Boat” during the time.

The Veterans Memorial Bridge, completed in 1990, runs parallel to the historic Rainbow Bridge over the Neches River and Sabine-Neches waterway. With a 143-foot vertical height — almost 35 feet shorter than its neighbor — it was the first cable stay bridge built in Texas. Photos by Aren Cambre courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

While in the yards we worked four 10-hour days each week and enjoyed a 3-day weekend off to explore LA, Hollywood and beyond provided we didn’t have duty. And duty was the only day we slept on the ship. We drove, those of us with cars like myself, after knocking off to what was back then Naval Station Long Beach on the eastern side of the bridge.

It was an interesting experience driving across the Vincent Thomas, as one could see the bustling industrial economy of Southern California from a birds-eye view. One morning I drove across it going to work and found one of the lanes blocked off. At the top, I discovered the closure was because of filming the 70s TV show “Barnaby Jones,” which starred Buddy Ebsen. Over many years I have recognized the bridge in numbers of film and TV episodes.

Here in Southeast Texas are found a pair of twin bridges that seems to attract suicidal people from time to time. Such structures even have a rather unflattering nickname as “Suicide Bridges.” I have no idea and have not found any data to show how many people have met their deaths from jumping off the almost 75-year-old Rainbow Bridge and its younger adjacent Veterans Memorial Bridge. Needless to say, it is not totally uncommon to hear of those who will just stop their cars on top of the bridge and leap to their deaths.

I am sure I would get an argument from folks debating the reasons and justifications or unjustification of taking one’s own life. And while interesting wondering the reason why one chooses a so-called “landmark bridge” to take a final Swan dive off, certain studies explain  the reason for jumping off those bridge could be as simple as why a mountaineer climbs a mountain. Yes, friends, because it is there.

Studies examining the effectiveness of barriers on bridges to prevent jumpers have failed to find a correlation between preventing suicide on a particular bridge and lowering a community’s suicide rate altogether. These studies looked at such possibilities as the therapeutic qualities such a structure holds to a belief that diving off into water from a high bridge wouldn’t hurt. Obviously, such attempts are not always well thought out and are thus spur-of-the-moment acts.

As social science many times finds, the answer to the most puzzling questions are often the most simple or trite answers lying around for the rest of us lazy researchers to uncover.

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Phyllis passes. Todd Akin and the ‘Immaculate Misconception.’ And the ‘P-words’ in media use.

A few odds and ends to think about today.

Phyllis Diller died last night in her sleep at the age of 95. Diller used to make all of us, my parents and me, laugh. It wasn’t just that this queen of comedy looked funny with her wild hair and sometimes witch-like appearance. She knew she possessed just the right mix of funny and bizarre.

Diller seemed to grow funnier as she aged. Rest in peace, funny lady.

Perhaps today’s Tea Party politician feels as if they can totally ignore history. For instance, Congressman Todd Akin who is running as a Republican for the U.S. Senate seat in Missouri must not have ever heard of failed Texas GOP gubernatorial candidate Clayton Williams.

Williams wasn’t doing so badly against Ann Richards in the Texas race for governor until he told a joke in public that likened weather to rape. “If it’s inevitable, just relax and enjoy it,” Williams said.

Now Akins is in a national s**tstorm after he made remarks about what has to be labeled “the immaculate misconception.” Akins seemed to pooh-pooh the subject of rape and pregnancy resulting from it.

Hotter than a cat on a hot tin roof. That is how one might react to the saga of the Russian punk band Pussy Riot. Three members of the feminist punk band were sentenced to prison after performing a song protesting Russian leader Vladimir Putin in Moscow’s main Russian Orthodox Church cathedral.

As Huffington Post correctly points out the American media, mostly TV, have been somewhat short of the proverbial “one-eyed cat peepin’ in a seafood store.” Speaking frankly, some get a little timid when it comes to “pussy.” At least to certain uses of the word do some news folks find themselves in a fit of timidness. I heard CNN’s Erin Burnett use the name, Pussy Riot, tonight. Good for her. Err, I think I’ll stop there. I remember writing a story for a newspaper once where I probably held a personal best for using the word “penis” multiple times. But for some reason, it is more acceptable to use “penis” than “pussy” in some some media venue. Wonder why that is? Meow and good night.

 

 

 

 

 

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From Mexia to nowhere and back

Browsing small-town Central Texas I found truth in headlines from The Mexia Daily News:

“Gas prices soaring for no apparent reason”

Editors always want a story when gas prices get really high. They want you to ask the local gas distributor, convenience store chain owner or Joe Blow Chamber President why gas prices are high. Hell, they don’t know. If they knew what was going on they would be somewhere else, smoking a big ol’ cigar and fishing the Gulf for reds. Mexia is an interesting small town just east of Waco. It is the hometown of the late great Anna Nicole Smith. It is also home of the following joke:

“Outtatowner asks the guy at the counter “How do you pronounce the name of this place? Is it Mex-e-uh? Or Me-x-ia? Or Mex-ya?”

“It’s pronounced “Day-re-queen,” retorts the counter help.

I once rode a train from Longview, Texas, to Pittsfield, Mass., changing trains in Chicago. Man, that was a great trip. I got to Western Massachusetts to see my friend Sally on my 40th birthday. I spent a good time on the train in the club car when I wasn’t asleep. I saw this guy in the club car on the way up and on the way back who wore a “Mexia — it’s pronounced ‘Muh-hay-a’ — Blackcats” cap. He seemed to appreciate that I could pronounce the name of his hometown. He suffered through my telling the Dairy Queen joke. But being an ex-DQ Dick, I feel required to tell that story. By DQ Dick, I mean that I once was a mystery shopper that would visit a number of Dairy Queens throughout East Texas. I’d eat the store’s Belt Busters or a Dude. I felt I got the good end of the deal, no matter what one might think of DQ. After all, the mystery shopping company also evaluated Super Cuts, and really now, how many bad haircuts can you suffer?

In a day where people seem to freak out over writers stealing other writers’ work, some even think it a crime for one to plagiarize oneself. Imagine that. Well, I admit, I am probably stealing from myself. I am probably even stealing from my own blog. That’s what happens sometimes when you get old and tell the same story over and over. What I have on other writers is that I say, is that I say. What I have on other writers is … that I say.  Over and over. And over. What are you going to do, fire me?

“Blogger fires himself”

“I was trying for unemployment. Ooops.”

You see why I am stealing from myself. Long day, Main.