M Y O B

. . .  FUCKS ME AGAIN!

A week later, a new trauma!

5 March 1968

Hello—

Well, the IRS has done it again. The enclosed are more or less self-explanatory. With 10,000 miles between us, they’re lucky, because if they’d pulled this with me there I’d have blown 450 Golden Gate’s roof off as soon as I could get over there. As it is, I think my letters may convey some dissatisfaction with these events—and who knows? may even get some results!

What really tees me off is that I struggled to get that paid off before I left just so it wouldn’t be hanging over my head—and here it is right back on me again. Further, I have obligations to the bank (the loan) which will of course be more than fully covered as soon as my first paycheck comes through, which should be in a few days.

The typed copy is a copy of the hand[written]-job I actually sent, typed tonight on a Remington I borrowed from the hotel—but it has a VN keyboard that’s really weird, hence all the goofs! As they say here, “Sin Loi” (essentially, sorry about that!).

If I never earn another taxable cent in the U. S., it will be too G– D—– soon!!!

Agitatedly!!
Bruce

Here are the enclosures:

Can you tell I was pissed-off?

Even after 41 years, I feel obliged to redact these: I don’t trust the IRS not to come after me once again! But the supreme irony here is that, moments after I mailed the letters irretrievably, I remembered who Mr. S. E. XXXX was: he was handicapped, with a withered hand. My remark about his “left hand not knowing what his right hand was doing” must have struck him as intentional, although in fact it was not. Whatever: the matter lay buried in his in-basket as long as he could safely leave it there before my money was refunded.

The fact is, I was royally pissed by this event! But, other than write letters, I could do nothing. It turned out the very last payment I gave the IRS just before leaving for VN was posted to someone else’s account, so my account turned up unpaid. This was proved by the various numbers on the cancelled check, and eventually I got my money.

Note my reference to getting my first paycheck: we were paid in arrears, that is, after each month’s “work” had been completed. There was an additional couple of weeks while time-sheets were recorded and so forth, then the checks were sent to our designated banks and a memo came to us in VN. Our per-diem came in the form of MPCs and some Dong. Oddly enough, we could—and did—write checks on our accounts states-side and use them in country (to pay rent, for example). But we could not cash them for US Green.

I’ll be back with more about these fascinating times in a few days.

NEXT

July 5th, 2009 Mail to: [email protected] (if you’re so inclined).

FOURTH OF JULY

As anyone who has read this blog knows, I wanted to be a locomotive engineer when I was a youngster, but it never happened. So, I spend time around steam whenever I get the chance. This past weekend on the Niles Canyon Railway was terrific fun because there were two locomotives to be admired:

Double-Heading With Two 2-6-2T Locomotives

Except for getting my face rather sun-burned, it was a fine day and will keep me  satisfied for a while.

PREPARATIONS FOR VIETNAM

This photo was taken in the lab, of which I had just become the Director. It was 1966, just before the end of my brief affair with Cornell. I was 30 years old.

Bruce at 30

Within two years, having survived a year of therapy to get over Cornell and nearly a year of harangue from the IRS, I was ready to move on.

It turned out that all applications for employment with PA&E were sent to the Contract Management Office in Vietnam, where the decision was taken to hire me; paperwork was then returned to Lost Angeles for further processing. All this took several months, and I had forgotten I’d even applied. So, when the phone call came, “Do you still want to go to Vietnam”? I thought it over briefly and said “Yes”.

PA&E stood then (and I believe still does) for Pacific Architects and Engineers. They were neither Pacific, nor Architects, nor Engineers, but never mind: they had a contract to provide bodies (which they called personnel, of course) to go to VN “in support of the military”, which is to say, “do things the military did not want to bother with”.

A few days after agreeing to be a candidate for the job over there, I resigned my job, and began to “lighten up”. I ran an ad in the paper, “ECCENTRIC LEAVING THE COUNTRY: EVERYTHING GOES”, which drew more folks than I thought possible to pick over the few oddments I had accumulated up to this time. I sold enough stuff to put together the final payment to the IRS.

One of the items I sold

I really loved this beauty: it was in perfect condition. Also, hopelessly inefficient!

I also sold my beloved Packard 12, similar to this one

Except mine was a limousine: this is a standard sedan.

The Company sent me to a local physician for a physical exam. This consisted of the doctor looking at me as I stood before him fully clothed: “You look healthy,” was all he said, then, “I’ll be right back.” When he returned, he carried a small metal tray with a white cloth on it: on the tray were six hypodermic needles, a sugar-cube of polio vaccine and a small-pox scratcher, and in the next few minutes all eight items had been administered. Three shots in each arm, a small-pox inoculation on one, and a cube-full of polio vaccine on my tongue. It was about 3 in the afternoon.

The record of shots for VN

Record of shots for VN

Holy Jeezus! By evening I could scarcely move either arm. I remember going to Zim’s for a hamburger, and could barely lift it to my mouth. By the time I got home from that, I was running a fever. I called  a friend I knew and told him to being over a “gallon of red”, which he did, and together we got smashed.

A few days later, arms still barely functional, I tossed a few clothes and what little else I still possessed into my Dad’s former car, a nice ‘53 Chrysler, and headed South. I would stay a couple of days with my brother and then be off to Vietnam. It was late January, 1968.

However, thing took a slightly different turn. There were delays. More papers to be filled out. Eventually, my brother dropped me off at LAX early one morning where we were to have an “orientation session”, before departing for for Vietnam. There were about 15 of us at the meeting, where we got “filled in” on almost nothing of any real importance. About ten we walked out to a Pan Am plane and headed out across the Pacific Ocean.

Now, whenever I fly, I watch the waiting crowd and try to guess who my seat-mate will be.  It wouldn’t have mattered if there HAD been a handsome dude there: he would not have wound up seated next to me in any case. Instead, I picked out my seat-mate alright, and, typically, he was old and ugly—and the nicest fellow! He saved my life, in a sense, because he was going back to VN for his third tour with PA&E and his girlfriend there. He went by the name “CA”, had a slow texas drawl and a dry sense of humor. Most importantly, as it turned out, knowing the ropes as he did after three tours gave him an edge on the rest of us who were neophytes.

I saw my first tropical sunrise ever from the airport at Guam, our first stop (for re-fueling). One minute it was dark, and the next it was full sunshine! We had an hour or so on Guam, which was essentially an hour too many. It’s a god-forsaken place, and the passenger terminal was run down and messy. Not soon enough, we were airborne again; next stop Ton-son Nhut airport, Saigon.

Now, I knew there was a war going on and I knew it was going on in Vietnam: but exactly where Vietnam was, I would have been hard-pressed to say. “Somewhere in Indo-China,” if you had asked…

COMING UP:

I learned a whole lot in a short time over the next few weeks: some of what I experienced and what I learned will be in the next page of this blog.

Until next time!

NEXT

March 6, 2009

BEFORE I BEGIN THIS EPISODE

Even I was out of my seat several times as President Obama spoke to Congress–and to us–last week. It is so very refreshing to hear someone who can put thoughts into words and words into sentences! Listening (which I admit I was rarely able to do) to Ex-President Bush the last eight years was painful! Watching him I simply could not manage.

The republican response from Bobby Jindal was excruciating. Choosing him, presumably because his background vaguely resembles Mr. Obama’s, was tacky: that Bobby felt obliged to capitalize on it was even tackier. That his speech had been prepared without having heard the President is inexcusable. If Bobby Jindal is the best the repugnants can put forth to articulate their message, there’s little to fear from them. As usual, Rachel Madow summed it up best here.  To top it off, now we find he lied!  Sheeesh!

ONE MORE THING:

The router for my LAN gave up the ghost last weekend, necessitating purchase and installation of a new one. I have to say this for LinkSys: they’ve finally gotten their gadgets together with their installation disc and made the configuration far easier than it used to be. I actually managed to get the new router up and working without calling the Geek Squad or other assistants. Of course, there’s a down-side to that: some of those Geeks are really, really cute! But, on with my narrative.

SAN JOSE STATE

Although the summer job I took was located in Santa Clara, I elected to live in San Jose, not far from the State College campus. I had been so uncomfortable at UR, with all its rich kids, that I quickly decided SJS was a better fit for me. Additionally, it became apparent I could work part time at my new job and attend SJS in the fall. The job was far from onerous, in a small shop that specialized in repairing furniture and other “stuff” that had been damaged in transit. The boss had  contracts with several trucking companies and railroads, so a never-ending stream of broken, crushed and battered items came in. What could be repaired satisfactorily usually went to the customer who had ordered it. Some items were beyond repair (we were the deciders) and went to the dump. Some items that could be repaired but which the customers did not want went to various outlets. The work was varied and sometimes challenging and it fit well with the “fixit” mentality I had developed early on, which went back to my days in Carmichael and which found their way into Heartbreak Motel, one of my stories available at Nifty.

Come fall, I enrolled it SJS (now SJU) and discovered they had something called a “General Major” which led to a BA in “General Studies” (I think the program has long since been abandoned). Essentially, I could take courses in any department I wanted! I went back to Chemistry (my first love), but filled out the days with all sorts of other subjects: law, religion, music, physics, social studies, philosophy: I read the catalogue, and if a subject looked interesting I enrolled! It was a very interesting year-and-a-half: the extra semester was necessary to amass the necessary units and to pass, finally, the American History course I’d blown back in Junior College.

CONFUSION SETS IN

Soon after I entered San Jose State, Dad got married for the third and last time. My new stepmother and I did not get along all that well, but it was clear she loved my Dad and he loved her likewise: seeing him happy at last, I began to feel the usual family pressure to marry and settle down, despite my near-certainty a different life-style was preferable. So I began seeing the only girl who had ever paid much attention to me way back in High School: we had gone on a few trips with the Horseless Carriage Club together back when I was “into” old cars. No sooner than we got together on a couple of dates did I decide to propose marriage! I’ve really never figured out why I did this. I had absolutely NO interest in her physically: in fact, her body was quite repulsive to me when I saw more of it than I cared to when we went swimming.

Unfortunately, not long after this “affair” began, I recalled some of the descriptions of cruising I’d heard from my friend back at Redlands. One Saturday night I went to a local theater and sat in the very back row of the nearly empty place. A chap came in and sat right next to me and began a game of “kneesies”. When he departed, I followed him to the john, but invited him to follow me back to my little room. He was somewhat older than I, and no beauty, but it was he who first shoved a cock in my mouth: right there and then I knew I was born to be a cocksucker! I knew instinctively this was the kind of sexual activity I wanted, as often as possible!

My poor betrothed! She no longer had a chance! I maintained the charade for a while. Driving to visit her in Hayward, I would pick up hitch-hikers in the hope one would proposition me: none did. It slowly dawned on me that if I was ever going to have any guy-sex, I would have to initiate the action. It would be a while before I got comfortable with that idea.

Meanwhile, after about 6 months of living the lie, I called off our engagement. Darley was devastated, saying my being queer would not make any difference, and so forth and so on. But I was NOT going to put her through all that, so we parted, never to see each other again. When I announced to my folks what I’d done, my  new Stepmother’s reaction was, “Oh, thank goodness: for a while there, I thought you were really going through with it!”  She knew far more than she let on, but I continued to dissemble to my family out of worry they could not handle my being queer. In reality it was I who was having the trouble dealing with my sexuality.

MORGAN

During my first Semester at SJS, I met Morgan, a musician, and one of the most beautiful guys I ever met. He was a preacher’s son, and we got along famously, except for one thing: I wanted to get into his pants in the worst way, but was afraid of rejection, so I never could bring myself try it. We took some trips into the hills and did some camping together, but the subject of sex never came up, dammit! At the end of that year, he went off to Juilliard. We corresponded, and his letters came back filled with “hairpins”! It seems he had had the hots for me, but could never bring himself to say so. Bummer! However, when summer vacation time rolled around, he returned to San Francisco, stayed with his parents, and took a temporary job in a local church while their regular organist was on vacation.

After a joyous meeting at my place, where “all was revealed”, we fell into a routine where I would drive up to San Francisco in time to appear at the door of the church as if I had attended the service. When Morgan’s Postlude was finished, we would repair to a twinkie-bar for a couple of drinks (the speciality of the house was a “Thunder Collins”: Thunderbird wine watered with Collins-mix. Just the thought of it now makes me gag!) Then we would return to the church: the sunday-school room had a carpet on the floor, and we would have an afternoon of wild sex! Fortunately, no one ever came back for something they forgot: we were never interrupted.

But at the end of that summer, Morgan went back to Juilliard, and eventually settled in Chicago. I rarely ever saw him again. Our “relationship” had been entirely one of wild, crazy sex: there had been no thought of love, permanence, or anything except getting together and getting off!

To be continued: Finally, I come out!

[email protected]

NEXT

July 27, 2009
Before I continue my saga, there’s a couple of things to mention:

NATURE BOY

The response to this latest of my stories has been quite phenomenal: many have written to me about it, and all have urged me to continue it. So, I am doing so. It will be a while before it is ready to put up on Nifty, so keep your eyes open there.

BACK TO MY LETTERS FROM VIETNAM

Saturday, 10 February 68

Dear Folks,

Things are slowly (very slowly) getting back to normal. The general feeling is that another VC attack may come at any time, but so far it’s fairly quiet, and normal routines are being re-established. I’ve managed to get out to Long Binh twice this week, and tomorrow I and several others are moving out of this flea-bag flop-house to the Loc Building, where we were originally billeted and from which we were so summarily “evacuated” because of the stupidity of a minority of our group. Now that the group has been dispersed somewhat on assignments, we’re free to go where we choose. The Loc Building is as secure as any place in town—more-so in some ways. Until the curfews are entirely lifted and a normal way of life results, I expect I’ll stay at the Loc Building. My address, of course, for mailing purposes remains the same and will for some while.

I’ve even driven out to Long Binh twice in the vehicle assigned to me. I had the foresight before I left to pay $3.00 for an international drivers’ license, which many people do not have here. Driving is pretty hectic, what with the incredible traffic load, which is still not back to its usual levels because of curfews. Then, too, there are numerous ARVN & white mice check-points. Of course, if one is courteous and uses the usual hand signals, there’s no problem. The guys who drive here and get into trouble are inevitably the ones who drive as if they owned the place, which (naturally enough) displeases the Vietnamese. I’ve had no difficulty so far. The most important rule, of course, is to abandon any hope of getting anywhere by a specific time—one has to move at the traffic’s pace, whether that be dead stand-still (as it frequently is) or a snail’s-pace crawl, as is more usual. In town, it’s rare to get the truck into third gear!

I’ve only spent a couple of days at Long Binh, so haven’t been fully able to psych out  the situation. Everything has been so discombobulated by the VC attacks that normal routines (which are nearly always chaotic anyhow) still haven’t been pieced back together. Communication is a great problem, and there are still people unaccounted for. Because of the curfews, very few Vietnamese are available to work, so the lower echelon assistants just aren’t there. Curfews are being extended & ended & lifted in various precincts from time to time, but as there are still parts of town (notably Cho-lon & the Phu Tho rare-track) that are hot-beds of VC activity, the populace has to be restricted in its mobility The clippings enclosed will give you some idea of present situations here.

So—that’s the way it is. I hope all my letters have gotten through OK. The PT&T cable office is still not yet open to the public, & by now you should have had word from me, so I won’t cable.

Incidentally, the emergency connection to get through to me is through the LA office of PA&E. The telephone is [expunged] collect. Ask for [expunged]; he can radio messages; explain my location is Long Binh Post, and you could reach me within 12 hours, I suspect. Alas, under current circumstances I can’t work it the other way ’round!!

Love to all–
Bruce

Letters down to every-other-day now, signifying things were calming down.

Monday, 12 February 68

Dear folks –

By now I hope you’ve had all my letters, and know I am OK. I was on the “missing” list for 3 days as it turned out, simply because no one had checked me in at the CMO—I’d transferred by then to LB. But that’s how it is here—utter chaos—and I’m not sure but what that’s how it will be all the time.

Got your February 4th letter today—it went to Saigon first, then to Long Binh, so took a little extra time. [Family trivia deleted. The letter included a $10 bill, illegal in Vietnam].

Already got a swell birthday present as previously mentioned. It may be a while before I find anything costing $10 that I’d want to buy here; but I’ve had so little chance to see shops and so forth open, I don’t have too clear an idea of what’s available.

A new group of PA&E recruits arrived today, and a few are billeted here at the Loc Building. From what they tell me, the radio/press/TV coverage of the Saigon situation was greatly exaggerated. Make no mistake: there was a lot of bitter fighting here, a great many people killed & wounded, and some areas largely destroyed. But don’t believe 600,000 homeless and that sort of bilge. This morning I saw a group of about 50 AP news photos, mostly taken in Cho-lon. where the worst of the fighting took place. Not very pretty. But a realistic figure on the people displaced in Saigon would be no more than 5-8000; the refugees into the city from much harder hit (but smaller) cities stands around 30,000. Not that these figures aren’t bad enough, but nothing like the reports apparently circulating in the U.S.

Then too, most of the “homeless”, by any human standard, were “homeless” to begin with. The standard of living for at least 2.5 million people here is such as to make the worst of Harlem or Watts seem palatial. It is a wonder that any of the people in these areas survive—and of course, many don’t, even in “normal” times.

The American presence here is creating a fairly large upper class—land owners who lease various properties (such as this hotel) & buildings to the U.S. This situation accentuates the lack of any sizable middle class: Vietnamese tend to be either wealthy or very poor. The leading businesses, for the most part, are owned by Chinese, who have managed to move into the vacuum left by the French. Where the French moved in, created an economy and skimmed the cream off the top, we move in and simply destroy whatever economy is in place and substitute inflation—which makes the poor poorer.

(Later) Three of us just went next door to the Korean Officers Club & had a Korean dinner. Surprisingly good, which is quite a compliment, coming from a steak and potatoes fan like myself. Also, at Long BInh today I got the first decent meal I’ve had out there: it even included an unlimited supply of “filled milk”—reconstituted milk—which is the first I’ve had since leaving LA, and the only thing I’ve really missed since I left.

I’ve sort of become the unofficial chauffeur for the group of us who live more-or-less down town & work at Long Binh. This means driving the “turnpike” (the only 4-lane road in all Vietnam {except possibly the Ho Chi Minh Trail, which is mostly in Laos anyhow}), a distance of 20 miles or so. During these times when traffic is relatively light, it takes a half-hour; but when things get really moving again it will be more like an hour or more. But by then the buses (which are leased from Vietnamese firms and hence aren’t operating because of the curfews) will be running, & I can sleep the whole time as I understand most people do! The road is relatively safe—you can’t plant mines in a paved highway—and is only occasionally (and very temporally) cut by the VC.

It passes the outskirts of Bien Hoa (pronounced Bin Wa) where there was some bitter fighting over control of the highway, and a good many buildings were destroyed.

You can’t afford to go on Xeroxing my letters forever – but as soon as I get my first pay-check I’ll get a typewriter, which will enable me to carbon-copy everything to the family. I appreciate your doing it as long as necessary.

That’s about all for now. Unless the VC kick up more ruckus (some feel they are going to, some don’t), we should soon be settling down to a steady routine—about all that will mean is fewer letters, since there won’t be so much to wrote about!!

Love to all-
Bruce

The driving mentioned in the letter above was all done on my International Drivers License. Later on, I got the local license shown above. Wonderfully impressive, with all those stamps and chops. Yet, no one ever asked to see it during the entire time I was in Vietnam!

Valentine’s Day. 14 February 68

Dear Folks –

Managed to get some larger paper—makes for shorter letters and more economical use of your Xerox facilities!  I’m wondering a bit about whether you ever got the long letter No. 2 that I finally managed to send out unexpectedly when we were confined here. The envelope was poorly sealed; I hope you didn’t get it empty! If you did, a carbon copy went to friends in SF and I expect I could get them to Xerox it & send it on if necessary. [It wasn’t necessary—BB]

Life is slowly returning to normal. The Vietnamese are still, for the most part, under curfew from 7:00 am to 2:00 pm daily—5:30 in a couple of precincts only, so that not too many are able to work, especially those who ride out to Long Binh or other spots outside Saigon proper. Each day, though, sees new streets opened to traffic and other signs of a semblance of normalcy.

U.S. civilians are also under strict curfew from 7 pm to 8:00 am. This means we don’t get to long Binh until 9 (instead of 7:30), and when we leave at 5, we don’t get to Saigon until 6 pm, which leaves no time for eating. Here at the Loc building we’re lucky, inasmuch as there’s a restaurant of sorts on the premises, and the Korean Club next door which serves good food (we ate there again tonight) How soon the curfew is lifted is anybody’s guess, but barring another siege by the VC, my own guess is Monday.

I’ve sort of become the unofficial chauffeur (it’s official now—I got a military license today!) for the group of us who live near or in Saigon.

The buses leave only from Tan Son Nhut, and there’s no very practical way to get out there by the time appointed for it to leave. So every day I drive this bucking bronco of a Dodge 2-seater pickup out the Bien Hoa “Hiway” to Long Binh. It’s quite an experience, for traffic rules (if any) are only rarely observed by anyone, never enforced, apparently, and there are long convoys of heavy trucks, tanks and all that to thread one’s self in and out of! We picked up assorted people after working at LBI today en-route, and ended up with 15! Needless to say, many rode in the back—not a pleasant place to ride I guess; but it beats walking!

I used to have an occasional twinge of conscience when I worked only 7 hours per day at [former employer] but got paid for 8; I accomplished all the tasks I set for myself in that length of time, and everyone prospered, so nothing was ever said about it. But over here, the scale is something else again!! (Of course, nothing has been really “normal” since I got here.) I’ve put in, (exclusive of driving time which is some benefit I suppose) perhaps 20 actual hours of useful work since I arrived—and of that 20, about 18 has been filling out forms. If we never win this war, we ought to be able to bury the whole country in paper and start over! I even had an attack of “Federal Form-itis” last night: I was dreaming I was typing out a form justifying a personal visit to the loo!—and about the time I ripped it out of the typewriter as being just too ridiculous for words, I woke up! [and went to the bathroom—BB]

The army procurement system, after which PA&E is patterned of course, is too incredible; to imagine spending a lifetime in the system as a supply officer or some such would seem unbearable. And I’ve only just started. Compounded by the general ineptitude of the people using & running the procurement system, it is a marvel that anyone ever gets anything. Some way to run a war! And side-by-side with the shortage of staple items, like food, one has a glut of useless items, like staples!! The lab is equipped, for example, with literally hundreds of petri dishes (of an obsolete style) but lacks an analytical balance, the cornerstone of any quantitative lab operation. Oddly enough, two balances (not very clearly identified, but apparently good ones) are in the original “Schedule B” of items issued to PA&E under the contract, but no one has actually ever requisitioned either of them. That’s how it goes. I figure it’s optimistic to shoot for making the lab operational (for chemical analyses) by June 30. Through normal state-side channels, I could be in gear and going in two weeks!

Elsewise there’s not much to report. Haven’t had any chance, of course, to look for quarters—or much else. Having mailed myself a big box of sundry items (soap, etc.) which I finally picked up at Long Binh, and having a good supply of clothes along, I’m better off than many who got caught up in this mess. Will have to order a pair of shoes soon to be mailed down, but for the moment there’s no great rush.

Love to all—and please don’t worry about me. I’m pretty safe (as much as anyone here) and not given to looking for trouble, as I see many idiots doing. They find it. The self-appointed “protector” of our group (described in earlier letters) was sent home (thank goodness)!!

Love to all~
Bruce

I was beginning to get my feet on the ground and learn my way around Saigon. I learned so much from CA, and remember particularly one event. He said he’d take me as his guest to the Five-Os BOQ for a nice dinner: he still had his SOOM [Saigon Open Officers Mess] card that would get us in. By this time there was a fair amount of traffic on Phan-thanh-Gian street, and we decided to take a taxi. At the street, there were several other “round-eyes” (as we were often) called seeking a cyclo or taxi: they stood, waving their thumbs in the air as traffic ignored them. CA simply extended his arm out from his body and gave a little  motion with his hand: six taxis immediately screeched to a halt! We stepped into one of them and were off, leaving the other guys wondering how we’d managed. The secret, of course, was to keep my eyes open and observe how CA had indicated he wanted a taxi (which was, of course, the way the Vietnamese did it as well) and thereafter use the correct action. It worked every time.

In 1968, Saigon Taxis were little Renaults left by the French, and they were usually pretty well worn out. They dated from the 1950s, and were painted in blue and yellow. It was not unusual to look through holes in the floor-boards at the street passing below, but they usually got where they were going.  Maintaining these relics was a local industry: the French refused to provide spare parts, so if one wandered a bit off the beaten track in Saigon, one could find tiny machine-shops manufacturing parts for those taxis.

Similarly, Saigon (and I suppose the whole country) was  a gold-mine of old motorcycles:

I snapped this venerable BMW single parked at a curb one day, and saw it driven around town often. Early Indians could be found, and I even saw an Ariel Square-4 once!

However, the ubiquitous cycle by 1968 was the Honda 55, of which there were an estimated 3 million in Saigon at the time. I’ll have more to say about these later.

NEXT

FIFTH BIRTHDAY:

I hate cooked carrots: I love ‘em raw, or in carrot & raisin salad, but they (and most root-veggies) take on a bad flavor when cooked. Now, my folks generally would put up with my tantrum when Mom served carrots, asking me to “just eat a few”, but I was a stubborn tyke and they usually gave up. So, I thought it was a particularly bad choice to serve carrots on my BIRTHDAY, and I absolutely refused to eat any of them. My Dad must have had a bad day, because he was determined; so, as never before (or ever again), he took me out into the kitchen and forced those damn carrots down my throat! I suspect you know what’s coming: as soon as Dad turned his back, I launched those friggin carrots (and everything else in my stomach) all over the floor. My Mom (who I am sure was aghast at Dad’s behavior) made him clean up the mess. I never had to eat carrots again!

Carrots!

ALMONDS:

Our little spread of five acres had mostly almond trees, which — by golly — produced almonds! The problem was, we could not afford to have them harvested by others: we did it ourselves. Mostly, I was too young to get involved with the heavy work, but I could be pressed into service removing the hulls. (We sold the nuts to a co-op: they fetched a better price if they had no hulls, and money was tight in those days). Gad, how I hated that work! It was dirty, the fuzz got into your eyes, nose, and elsewhere causing severe itching. It should come as no surprise that I still do not like almonds!

OLIVES:

Across the road from our place was a group of olive trees. No one ever harvested them: they were just there. But, although olives eventually turn black while still on the tree, they taste HORRIBLE: olives must be “cured” before they become edible. But one of our favorite little tricks was to put a couple of the UNcured olives in the dish of olives Mom like to have if we had guests. We boys knew which ones were uncured, but the guests didn’t. With much giggling we’d watch a guest try to get one of the bad olives down without revealing they tasted awful. Mom, of course got on to us soon enough and would carefully inspect the dishes of olives she put out, thus ending that little prank.

CREAM:

But we had lots of other pranks! One was to put a table-spoon of vinegar into the coffee urn at church socials. It does nothing to the flavor of the coffee, but it makes any added cream curdle. Here we were in the middle of farm country, where fresh cream was the very finest, but it curdled. We three really were hellions, and  soon became suspect whenever anything “went wrong”.

ENTRAILS:

All of us loathed beef-kidneys and beef-liver. I still do! But Dad loved them, so Mom would buy them from time to time. She always left them out prominently, so the three of us would be absolutely beastly all day, and would be punished by being put to bed without any dinner. Mom always relented, and allowed us to come down later to eat bread and milk with sugar and cinnamon on top, which we all loved. Only many years later did I realize the whole thing with entrails was a charade: when Mom & Dad wanted a quiet dinner alone, serving something we hated was their way of getting it!

TONGUE:

On the other hand, we all loved tongue, and in a farm community, they were plentiful and cheap.

The only problem was, we kids got the back part, where there were all those veins and things that were kinda “icky”. It took me many years to appreciate the fact Mom saved the front—the good part—to put in Dad’s sandwiches which he always took to work.It was the same thing with chicken: we had one in some form every Sunday. But there were three of us boys and only two drumsticks. So we fought over who got what part and who had the take the back (”yuck”). The second-joint (thigh) we never saw! These were set aside for Dad to take to work. Once I got away from home and discovered chicken thighs, I couldn’t get enough of them. I still can’t…

Mom took very good care of my Dad: he got the goodies while we got the scraps. Not that we were not well fed: all through the war we had beef on the table because we raised and slaughtered our own cows.

Beef Tongue

WORLD’S FAIR:

Shortly after we moved to Carmichael, I tripped while running and happened to fall on a board that had a rusty nail sticking up: that nail went right into my left knee. Ouch! The local Doctor fixed me up, and as I was young, things healed quickly enough. Nevertheless, I malingered long after I was able to walk without a limp, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom on all-four. So, one day,  Mom casually remarked, “If that knee of yours doesn’t heal, you won’t be able to go with us to the Fair.”

World’s Fair Treasure Island 1940

“The Fair” was the World’s Fair on Treasure Island, held over into most of 1940. Needless to say, my “wounded knee” healed right up, and our little family of five spent a day at the Fair. I still have the 16mm films Dad took there, which form the real basis for my memories of the event.

FARM BOY

My upbringing on the farm led to my writing Animal Crackers, (1993) (it’s on Nifty), and a neighbor’s old Fordson tractor, like this one

Old Fordson Tractor 1942

is mentioned in Heartbreak Motel (2002), except that Ted’s Fordson, once new like this, had long since become a massive pile of rust. Still, the first harbinger of Spring for me was always finding Ted grinding the valves, getting it ready for spring discing, as I dropped in to beg for cookies from his wife.

BULLS:

A neighbor had a bull that he kept for breeding purposes. When there was a cow in heat around, he acted as all bulls do, but the rest of the time he was as docile as a lamb.

Dad used to have students from the city out to the farm now and then: city-slickers, we called them, and we had a series of tricks to pull, besides the raw olives mentioned earlier. One of these was to visit the American River that flowed not far from us. There were any number of ways to get there, but our favorite was through our neighbor’s paddock. As we walked along the fence to a stile, we would explain that the bull was ferocious, and if he moved towards us, we had to run as fast as we could back to the stile.

The bull was curious, of course, about anyone who came into his territory, so inevitably he’d start moving toward our little group: “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES” we’d shout and watch our friends run helter-skelter back to and over the fence. When they stopped and looked back, we’d be hanging all over that bull; I was usually up on his back.

ANIMALS:

We didn’t have any horses ourselves, but many people in the community did, so learning about horses came naturally. One of the girls I’ll call Betty at our school lived on a spread with quite a few horses, and she was as “horsey” a person as I’ve ever known. Her “doodling” in the margins of papers and so forth was always sketches of horses. She was a tall, lanky blond, and with my interest already turning away from females, I was not much interested in her. But I was interested in the horses, particularly in the huge dongs the stallions had.

I never knew  why, but whenever I visited Betty’s place and she showed me her horses, the stallions always dropped for her. It was probably a matter of pheromones, but of course she might have been diddling those beasts herself, something I really wanted to try but was too ashamed to admit and afraid to ask.

That pleasure – jerking off a real horse –  was provided by a guy in my 5th-grade class I’ll call Carl. He had this ancient old beast, near dead, that could still “get it up” when Carl went to work under his belly, and once or twice he let me “get a grip”. These events found their way into two of my stories. Likewise, the old black dog that we called “Bouncer” and several others through the years provided a bit of kinky entertainment for me, as well as “entertainment value” in some of my stories.

VACATIONS:

While Dad was teaching, he had summers free. He loved to drive, but during the war, with gasoline rationed, our excursions were somewhat curtailed. Nevertheless, most summers we managed to get to Bliss Park at the south-west end of Lake Tahoe, where we spent the entire season. In those war years, we might see one or two other families camping there in the course of a whole summer! Nowadays, you have to make reservations in advance! As a closely knit family, the lack of other folks around didn’t bother us a bit!

SAN FRANCISCO:

From time to time, we would drive to San Francisco, mostly I think to let Mom do a bit of shopping. I don’t recall what my brothers did, but Dad would give me a pocket-full of nickels and I would ride cable-cars and iron monsters all morning, all by my self. I had to be at Compton’s Cafeteria for lunch, then I could get a few more hours of riding before we set off for home. Those old streetcars were fabulous machines, very basic but built to last. Hurtling through the dark tunnels was exciting, but the cable-cars on the hills were great fun as well. In those days a little kid like me could ride the running-board just like the “big folks” and no one said boo about it!

We occasionally went out to Ocean Beach, since the ocean was something we did not see every day:

That’s little me at Ocean Beach, oblivious to the rip-tides.

Although the Oakland Bay Bridge was in place, Dad loved the ferries, and we usually got to San Francisco on the Vallejo or Benicia auto ferry. Once the car was secured, the rest of my folks would go topside to enjoy the views and freshets. Not me! I made a bee-line for the nearest opening through which I could watch the huge steam engines at work down in the hold. Even then I was already a size-queen! I never saw the San Francisco sky-line: when the whole ferry shuddered as the engines reversed, I knew the folks would soon be by to collect me to continue the trip.

SCHOOL PAGEANT:

I no longer know what the pageant was about, but it seems I was “Uncle Sam”, and I could very well have “wanted” George, there on my left: he was very handsome and liked to toss me over his shoulders for rides around the house.

Me and George

George was one of Dad’s students who had been to our home often, and who was home on leave from the US Army: this was 1942. My folks were absolutely color-blind: we had all sorts of students out to the farm as the years rolled by, which probably accounts for my own eclectic preferences later on. About those, much more will be said in due time.

UNDERWEAR:

Toward the end of my sixth year in Elementary School, Dad began dickering on a pair of cabins near Lake Tahoe: there were two cabins on a single lot, one just for sleeping. The owner let us use the cabins one weekend, hoping to seal the deal no doubt, but for other reasons that did not happen. I remember the occasion well, however for ONE event that remains seared in my memory, and which likewise explains some of my later, and current, preferences.

A college classmate of my Dad was passing through the weekend we spent in that cabin, so they went along with us. These folks had several kids, including one fellow they had adopted while working in India. He was about 16 at the time, quite tall and very brown. As I lay half-awake one morning on my cot in the sleeping room of the cabin, Presad walked through the room on his way to the toilet, clad only in a pair of bright white Y-fronts pushed out to their limit by his morning piss-hard. What a splendid sight!

A lovely sight!

I thought it one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, even though I did not fully understand what was going on beneath that sparkling fabric. I’ve since learned, of course, and I thank the internet daily for the thousands of similar images of hunky guys clad in shorts that I have on my hard-drive. I actually have more pictures of guys dressed (well, more or less) than of them nude.

SUMMER OF ‘46:

Dad taught at UC Berkeley that summer: we exchanged homes with a Cal Prof, so we lived in El Cerrito. I quickly found the “F” end-of-the-line station for the Key-System trains that ran to San Francisco, and spent whole days riding back and forth: if I did not de-train at either end, I could ride paying only once. Usually I was right up front, and now and then the motorman would put up the shade that covered the window into his cab, so I could watch his operation. I was in hog-heaven! Naturally, I wanted to be a Motorman  ”when I grew up”.

The key-System trains were massive affairs, built like the proverbial brick latrines, and they ran for years and years. Just three sets remain: two at the Railway Museum in Rio Vista, CA, and one badly deteriorated one in the Orange County Railway Museum, Perris, CA:

The Key-System Train, Orange County Railway Museum, California

Key-Systems Train Detail

Superficially, these resembled the Boeing-Vertol train-sets now used by MUNI, but they were more massively built. Most were scrapped when the system was shut down in 1958. In its place we have BART, train-sets of which are now being replaced after less than 20 years of use. We once knew how to build things to last, but not any more!

The summer of 46 was also noteworthy, because while living in El Cerrito, we learned Mom had cancer, which proved fatal five years later.

To be continued …

PeeYes: I’ll try to add to this blog most Fridays, that being a day off for me.

NEXT

CHEMISTRY

Among some old textbooks in my Dad’s library I found a few about chemistry, and quickly developed an interest in that subject. Something about it “spoke to me”, and I found it very easy to comprehend. I converted an old potting-shed behind our garage into a “laboratory” using various “found” items. It was leaky and cold, so Dad helped me build something a bit more substantial: perhaps he realized I would soon be needing a place where I could be alone! I ransacked various middens around town for chemicals and containers and eventually got a chemistry set. I cannot imagine these are still available in anything like the form they were then: there were real chemicals in sufficient amounts for numerous experiments—or for committing suicide! But leaving this earth was far from my mind in those days, so I did the experiments, and learned. I begged a friend for his high-school chemistry workbook and did as many of those experiments as I could, as well.

The friend who supplied that book was “Gerry”, a chap four years ahead of me in school and far ahead of me physically. For some reason, he was willing to pal around with me. He had a scientific bent similar to my own, and we spent a lot of time together in the “Bramson Laboratory” (so the sign on the door stated). I was fascinated by Gerry’s prominent basket, and got up the nerve to push myself against it as often as I could, but never had the “balls” to grope him forthrightly. Damn! Mind you, I was still not getting my own erections yet, so my interest in Gerry was fairly innocent.  Whatever his interest in me, it appears now to have been entirely above reproach. If he had only allowed me to explore I’d have been in seventh heaven: but, he never touched me.  Damn!

HIGH SCHOOL

Again, having begun grammer-school at 5, I was just 14 when I entered Modesto’s only (then) High School. Not surprisingly, it was called Modesto High School, MHS from here on. My freshman year did not go well. For one thing, there was the same old problem with PE, which I could not get out of. My peers, with few exceptions, were ahead of me physically, and I still had the problem of surreptitiously enjoying the views in the locker-room and showers. One of the coaches did take my problems into consideration, allowing me to play hand-ball in one of the two courts out on the playing field: but I had to find someone willing to play against me, and since hand-ball was considered a “sissy” sport, I usually played with my (tennis) balls by myself. Coach also assigned me as towel-boy for the PE period I had, which cut my playtime a bit short, and put me behind a counter where I could watch the boys toweling themselves, but they could not see me below the middle, giving them less excuse to badger me about my lack of equipment “down there”.

My favorite class was General Science; my favorite teacher taught it. Mr. Bosch (not his real name) was a tall, lanky blond in his thirties. He had a rather Germanic appearance and bearing, with a butch haircut and a melifluous voice. But he was a good instructor, got us a lot of interesting movies, and took us on several field-trips around town. I developed a crush (my first) on Mr. Bosch, and did some terrific learning for him and from him. But what I would have liked most to have gotten from him—a pat on the head, or elsewhere—I never got. Apparently, some DID! A couple of years on he was discovered to be diddling some of the boys, and was summarily fired and run out of town. Like everyone else, he never touched ME! Damn!

My freshman year was also distorted by the death of my mother. It was not unexpected: she died a horrible death, from the cancer we had discovered 5 years earlier. This put us all in a funk for a while, and that summer we took a long trip around the US to recover.

But the major event of my freshman year occurred as that school-year was winding down. I had gone to watch our basket-ball players practice for a game to take place that night. I would not actually attend the game itself: I was supposed to be home, studying. But I tended to hang around that hated gym when the guys were playing basketball because I was rapidly becoming a “leg man” (which I still am). In those days (unlike today) most sports were played in very brief shorts: between where these ended and knee-socks began was a gorgeous display of healthy young thighs, and now and then in a particularly  vigorous run-up or jump, one got a glimpse right up to the jewels within. Indeed, many of the guys wore shorts they split up each side, to be as revealing as possible! Believe me, there is NO fun watching a basketball game any more, what with those stupid bloomers the guys wear now!

Anyway, there I was getting my fill of eye-candy, when I happened to overhear two chaps nearby comparing their ability to shoot their jizz. All at once, a whole lot of things fell into place! The scene from years before, when my cousin had shown me the ropes, sprang instantly to mind: I knew at once what the boys were discussing and describing, and it occurred to me I was probably missing out on something.

That very night, alone in my little room at the top of the stairs, I determined to find out just exactly what those boys (and my cousin) were experiencing. Dad was downstairs showing slides to friends, so I figured I’d have some time to myself. [He’d invited me to watch with them, but I told him I had to study: he must have known “something was up”, ’cause I NEVER studied!]

I laid my bod across my bed, pushed my pants down, and went to work with my fist: I can remember it as if it were yesterday! By this time almost 15, my body was ready, even if my mind wasn’t. Once I “got the feeling” (which didn’t take long) I could NOT stop, and before long I shot my first wad all over the place, just as I heard my Dad’s foot-fall on the steps to my room! Jesus!

By the time he opened the door I had hiked up my pants and was seated at my little desk with a book open, but the tiny room reeked of semen and I’m sure Dad knew what I’d just done. Nevertheless, satisfied I was studying, he departed. No sooner was he gone, I dropped trous’ again and whacked off a second time, then set about cleaning up the mess. It was the first of an untold number of joyous jack-offs.

Some of these early experiences, hugely embellished, can be found in my story, Central Valley High, at Nifty.

To be continued …

NEXT

There came a time in my stay at Alexandria when for some reason we had several days off. A group of us arranged to tour what’s known as “Upper Egypt”, although on the map it seems like lower Egypt, since it is far south of Cairo. Remember, unlike most of the world’s rivers, the Nile flows northward.

We flew first to Abu Simbel, the site of the monuments to himself Ramses II built in the 13th Century BC. These huge monuments had to be moved to higher ground before the Aswan Dam was constructed. There’s much more about this World Heritage site here and elsewhere on the net, with many photos. (I don’t seem to have had a camera with me on this trip, as no photos survive that I took).

The red arrow points to Aswan

This part of the tour occupied a half day, and we returned to the town of Aswan, located some distance below the High Dam. We stayed at the new Winter Palace, and after dinner, I walked the short distance into town, which stretches along the banks of the Nile river. It was a typical balmy night. Returning to the hotel, I found a nice walkway that hugged the river bank, then went up the slight wooded hill above town. Here I noticed a number of men sitting around on convenient benches, and realized I had found the local cruising spot! It was certainly one of the nicest ones I’ve found anywhere in the world, with lovely views of the Nile passing by. I helped myself to a couple of cocks that were offered, but unfortunately, just as I was finding some younger chaps, I realized I was being attacked by a case of Pharoah’s Revenge, also known as “Mummy Tummy”, and I had to make a bee-line for the hotel. There, I discovered to my dismay that the Lomotil tablets I was sure I had packed were nowhere to be found. I spent a miserable night “pissing through my asshole” (as it were). Emptied and shaky, I went down for breakfast and the first of our group to show up was our Thai draftsman. I explained my predicament and he went back to his room and brought me a small packet of something he’d brought from Thailand. It looked like the little green pellets we used to feed our rabbits, but he assured me it worked. Boy! Did it! I didn’t “move” again for over a week!

Later that day we flew again, this time to Luxor, where we stayed a couple of days. From there, we returned to Alexandria and work.

However, I had fallen in love with Aswan, and determined to return. As luck would have it, however, I did not get back there until 1981, and then I had a fine time. But much transpired before 1981, so my tales of Aswan will have to wait.

Meanwhile, here are some miscellaneous items related to my stay in Egypt:

Many stamps in Arabic

More visas and so forth

I don’t recall what this was for

I was asked one day by one of the International team who was passing through Alex if I had any interest in going to Ecuador. I replied in the affirmative, but heard nothing for several months. The next time the same dude showed up, I enquired about Ecuador: “Oh, do you really wanna go there?” he asked. I said, in essence, “anything to get out of Alexandria”, and he said, “Fine: I’ll set it up!”

In the fullness of time, I was transferred to Quito, where there was a study going on to get more drinking water for the city. The notion was to tap streams high in the Andes: these streams ordinarily flowed east into the Amazon basin, but could be tapped and moved through bore-holes to the west slope, where they would flow into the Boca Toma river, which could be dammed to make a lake, from which water would be pumped up a short distance to existing treatment plants for Quito. My job was to take teams up into the Andes to sample these streams and to assess the quality of the water they might produce. This meant taking long trips by 4-wheel-drive vehicles into the sparsely inhabited lands above Quito, where we found haciendas with horses to rent and guides, which we used to get the samples.

Here is the only known photo of ME on a horse!

We reached altitudes well above 14,000 feet

A month or two into the work, we got the local holiday, Carnival. By this time we had learned we could take a railbus from Quito down to Guayaquil, and we obtained the necessary tickets. I still have my long-hand letter describing that adventure, and in my next page I’ll transcribe that, and illustrate it with photos taken on that very trip. After that I can regale you with many photos taken on subsequent rides on the G&Q, the narrow-gauge railway that climbed the Andes mountains, and was still somewhat operational in 1979. Here’s just one photo to whet your appetite!

Locomotives are fascinating!

I rode the tender behind this little steamer many times: it could make it to the town of Bukay, where  consolidations took over for the main climb up to Alausi. Stay with me for MORE about the Ferrocarriles Ecuatoreanos G&Q!

NEXT

August 12, 2009

Letters are coming about once a week now.

Sat. 7 April 1968

Dear Everybody~

Pardon my using up this ti ti paper—I seem to have run out of the larger stuff I had around.

The week began well enough, with receipt of a letter from the IRS acknowledging their error and promising to refund all my money plus interest. Indeed, I have received one check already. It only took them two months, along with five letters from me to get it straightened out!

Early in the week I busied myself with more refrigerator work and similar stuff. Midweek, however, I was called to see the Inst. Mgr. (Dan Smythe), and it seems that when the Army inspected us on March 14, they didn’t find the Lab situation too pleasing, and so rapped (or “gigged”, as the Army puts it) him pretty hard. Naturally, he produced reams of “CYA” material (CYA = Cover Your A–) through which he laid all the blame on CMO, and after we’d gone over that thoroughly, he laid the monkey squarely in my lap—just what I’ve been waiting for. He hasn’t yet any idea of the pandora’s box he’s opened, but since he is soon to be relieved as near as anyone can tell, it won’t really matter. Today I finally got to see the right people at USARV, and received a most sympathetic and even enthusiastic response there. All sorts of possibilities are opening up, though the implementation will take boocoo time, no doubt. Eventually, there’s even the possibility I may go to Japan to buy equipment (I’d have to think that over very carefully!); the presently projected staff to comply with Dan’s ideas is about 14, and to comply with what the Army seems to have in mind will be even more! Naturally, I’ve elevated my self to Chief of Water Lab (actually, Dan so addresses me)! Among other things that I hope will become involved here is transfer of the Lab to new quarters as near as possible to Tan Son Nhut (to facilitate transportation of samples and field support teams), and to get away from that infernal dust at LB. It’s all at a very nebulous stage now, and will stay that way for awhile through the technical discussion period. The plan is to start tunneling from two ends—USARV and CMO—and hope we meet somewhere along the line.

The news from home this week has certainly been fast breaking—and heart breaking. I was only mildly surprised at Johnson’s decision not to run, because several commentators had suggested the possibility, and because Johnson is, above all else, a politician: politically, he has taken the surest road to coming out of it all smelling like a rose no matter what happens. If he allows himself to be drafted, and loses, he can always say, “Well, I wanted out back in April”; if he wins, no one will even bring the matter up. And of course, if he actually refuses a draft, he will have served notice far enough in advance. Above it all is his “lofty purpose”, to which he can always pridefully point: to be President uninterrupted right through his full term. And BEHIND it all, is the fact that his “new” policy on VN may becalm the Kennedy and McCarthy sloops. This sudden and dramatic about-face on VN may well take a lot of wind out of all his opponents’ sails, and if he actually gets any concrete response from Hanoi, he’s assured, I think, of a popular-acclaim draft for another term (in spite of the fact I still don’t think he deserves it).

The saddest aspect of it that I can see is what I interpret as pretty solid evidence that his TIMING in the matter was almost solely timed for political expediency, rather than for the good of the country. And as subsequent events have shown, he has sold America down the river as a result. His lukewarm response to his own commission’s riot report (which as I write this is probably being reappraised by him and will be the major topic in his address to Congress Monday) certainly did not help matters a bit.

As to the prospects for his halt-the-bombing step resulting in any real progress, the feeling here runs from a high of exceedingly cautious optimism down to total rejection. I would place my own feelings in the former group. I think the most significant thing in Johnson’s speech may have been his pointed omission of anything related to what he may do if Hanoi does not respond positively, or if Hanoi takes the opportunity (as most everyone here expects they will) to re-trench.

The news of Dr. King’s assassination was received here with considerable unofficial jubilation. Racism is more rampant here among the americans than at home—if that be possible. The ignorance revealed by most peoples’ notion that Dr. King’s demise will calm things down in america is, of course, made apparent by reports of renewed violence, which is bound to become worse before any relief is gained. America seems bound for a revolution at last, and perhaps the only thing that can be said for it is that the sooner it runs its course the sooner some sort of normalcy—hopefully with some important improvements—can be resumed. That revolution has been in the works for some time, and that it probably could not have been prevented by anyone seems evident to me: but I believe wiser leadership by the President might have made it a less destructive and more constructive sort of revolution. It remains to be seen, of course, but I have the feeling that little constructive progress in the field of human relations is going to appear in the US for some years. I have no reason to think that Kennedy or Nixon—should either get elected, will (or can) do much about this, and I fear that McCarthy lacks the drive to back up  his determination.

The weather here has grown steadily hotter, though by no means unbearable as far as I am concerned. We logged 108° F a few days ago, but had an hour of rain at LB one night (though none in Saigon!).

Schools reopened in Saigon April lst, and in the AM & PM both, the streets are awash with youngsters, for the most part dolled up in blue pants or shorts and white shirt (boys) and black pajamas with white ao dai’s (girls). Where all these kids have been keeping themselves the past weeks I don’t know, but with all of them out on the streets now, traffic is hampered considerably. All schools are on double session—8-12 and 2-6. They run the full year ’round, with a break only at Tet and numerous one-day holidays throughout the year. The week is six days long.

I had letters on Wednesday from all branches of the family. For everybody’s information, a water point is simply a well, creek, etc. where water is produced for consumption, either potable for drinking purposes or non potable for industrial use. Over here, it is usually a well-pump-generator set up, with a chlorinator. Nothing to it really, and I haven’t yet had to run one.

Guess that’s 30. Oh: I continue to enjoy the radio, and we’ve been having some power outages here lately that drop out all the fluorescent-light static, and reception is very good! I suspect I may have my tapes shipped over, though: machines are very cheap,here, and I miss a lot of my music.

Love to all
Bruce

At this point in my narrative, I had been in Vietnam for about 9 weeks. Suddenly, I became “legal”—my USARV “pass” was issued. I wore this on a chain, along with several other items, but usually tucked them all into my shirt pocket.

Saigon USARV Pass

I don’t recall any occasion when someone actually asked to see it, but there must have been a few times when it got me into some place I might not otherwise have been allowed.

I also got to carry the document shown below: I no longer recall what is was supposed to be for, as it is all in Vietnamese. Perhaps it was a local drivers license?

Saigon Document

Virtually all documents we were required to carry got encapsulated in plastic one way or another: otherwise, humidity and mildew were likely to cause them to disintegrate quite rapidly.

Here is another letter, written a week later: note at ten weeks, the first mention of leaving Vietnam!

Easter Sunday,14 April (here)

Dear Everyone~

Just a week ago I sat here writing of the fairly eventful week that preceded last Sunday. The week I now write about has been less eventful here, but (predictably) fairly eventful at home. Until Teusday night, AFVN suspended normal programming in deference to Dr. King’s demise, and all flags (including the Vietnamese ones) flew at half-mast. The news from all corners of the world was of the intense and bloody reaction that followed the assassination. Though I never heard San Francisco specifically mentioned, word from friends there indicates that there was some disorderliness there, which, of course, I would have found surprising had none occurred. All this is only a presage of things to come; revolutions generally follow pretty predictable courses, so there is bound to be much more activity, much more bloodshed, and much more hard feeling.

Throughout the week, these events at home came up in conversation often. The general concensus was always to the general effect that “we” were going to have to kill off a whole lot more of “those n—–s”, in order to straighten out this thing. Quite predictably, when I suggested the simple alternative of just treating the black people like people, which they are, instead of like animals, which they are not, these conversations came to a quick halt (precisely what I desired). Actually, moving into these circles here is like stepping backwards in time about twenty years. Where, in the US, one can usually count on generating a little sympathy for the black mans’ cause in just about any group, here, among the professional expatriates who make up the bulk of the american population, one is considered wildly radical if he departs from the hard-line racism in the slightest degree. Hence, I am considered a dangerous liberal: if most of my acquaintances here (I consider none of them friends!) were to know just how far my liberalism goes, I would probably be totally ostracised. Fortunately, I was not unprepared to be trapped in this mire of ignorance: my internal idealism and seemingly perpetual optimism are both bearing up well. My faith in the fortuitous process of dieing-out of the current generation with the slow but inexorable consequence of change in attitudes is not diminished; this, coupled with the determination of many people of many colors to erase the color line will, I am sure, combine to bring about a better time for everyone: the tragedy lies in the fact that what should be so simple a task turns out to be so difficult.

As far as work goes, I can’t report much progress, but at least I have managed to generate some sympathy for my predicament both in fairly high eschelons of the Army and at CMO. Taking Dan Smythe’s mandate as a starting point, and interpreting both it and our contract with the Army as broadly as possibly, I am developing a program of magnitude that will, I am sure, set Dan back on his heels! Briefly, the essence of it includes three basic concepts: 1) that responsibility for the laboratory be returned to the Installations Department of CMO; 2) an entirely new laboratory be constructed from the ground up; and 3) supplies and equipment for at least a year’s operation be procured under my direction through direct US purchase and flown over by the AF; meanwhile going through the normal Fed Stock System in the hopes that future re-supply can be so obtained.

A program of this magnitude is about equivalent to setting up a central water laboratory facility for the state of California, and will involve in its first year the expenditure of about half a million dollars. The staff will grow rapidly to some twenty persons; the lab will occupy about 10,000 sq ft (as compared with about 1000 in the present structure). New applicable Army Regulations deal heavily with “CBR” agents (Chemical, Biological, and Radiological), which require vast quantities of expensive equipment and very sophisticated personnel to run it.

Assuming the program is adopted and implemented (and several people at USARV are most enthusiastic), there is a distinct possibility I might have to go TDY to the states to supervise the initial procurement. When this will be is impossible to foretell now. Almost certainly, one or more trips to Japan would also be required, since that is the logical place to procure the more bulky lab furnishings, as well as some items of instrumentation. I contemplate definitely getting an AA unit like we had at [previous employer].

All the vagueries of this entire situation here, however, combine to make all this very tenuous at best, and quite possibly no action at all will be taken towards implementing this program. In that event, I won’t stay here in Vietnam past June 30th, when the company must perforce give everyone a “completed contract” in order to close out its FY contract with the Army. At such time there is always a shake-up in personnel for all sorts of reasons. If I see no future in my position by then, I shall, in local parlance, di di mau—though not to the states you can be sure—most probably my next stop would be Indonesia, where a number of more or less international oil firms are quite busy, and where I think I might have a good possibility of getting on. Time will tell!

The weather is beginning to change subtly. It remains hot, of course, which, as I have repeatedly mentioned, is a delight for me. The humidity is beginning to rise above its usual 80%, or so, which results is surprisingly little discomfort if one can dress properly for it. Already it has rained occasionally, twice in Saigon and three times in LB so far. So far it has been light by tropical standards. These are the first rains since 10 December, and it will continue sporadically now, becoming more frequent through May and June, with almost daily showers through July and August, and almost continuous rains through September.

I haven’t yet found an issue of the Geographic with the Saigon article. Todd is correct when he says that one goes out Le Van Duyet to get to Hiway 1; I have been incorrect in referring to the Hiway I ride daily to Long Binh as Hiway 1: 1 think it is 1A, but the local name is simply Xa Lo Bien Hoa (X VN = S Eng) or Bien Hoa Hiway. (Bien Hoa is pronounced “been wah”). Hence, one goes North-East on Phan-thanh-Gian, which becomes the hiway to Bien Hoa, which is adjacent to Long Binh. I’ll draw a little map to enclose which may make all this a little clearer.

That about does it, except for whatever personal notes I may add to individual letters. I expect there will be letters awaiting me at LB tomorrow AM, as there have been none this week: as Todd says, we’ve been crossing in the mails, aided by the fact it takes longer for letters to get from there to here than from here to there. Cest la Post!

Love to all~
Bruce

Here is the map I drew:

My Hand Drawn Map

The map is deceiving, because there’s no scale. Where it says “much of Saigon not shown” is an understatement. From that point to Long Binh was about 20 miles or so.

More letters in a few days!

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THERE WILL ALWAYS BE AN AD MAN DEPARTMENT

I was amused a while back when UPS ran it’s “WHAT CAN BROWN DO FOR YOU?” adverts. Because, when I was coming out in my early twenties, a popular euphemism for fucking was “browning”. It was used as a verb, “to brown”, as in “I’d like to brown him”. Somewhere in the east there was a school called the Browning School: gay guys in my generation loved to have a picture taken of themselves under the sign “Browning School for Boys”. The term seems to have died out, along with “corn-holing”.

More recently, there was the flap about the Repugnant Party expropriating the term “tea-bagging” for some silly protest march. Reporting on that gave Olbermann many opportunities for delicious puns.

So yesterday I opened The Nation and found this ad:

The answer of course is C U M ! Or is “pearl necklace” another term we used to use that’s gone by the wayside?

THE CURRENT PORN SCENE

I do wonder if one reason guys don’t want to be in the showers together any more is because so many of them are shaving off their pubic hair. According to some bloggers, close to a quarter of today’s young men are doing this. As for the porn stars, they shave all over! But all the signals are mixed: why festoon your lovely body with tattoos, if you’re afraid to strip down and show them off? How long before the gym showers are segregated into straight and gay? It is all very confusing.

ON WITH MY NARRATIVE: MY OLDER BROTHER

Towards the end of my time with Johnny, there came a weekend when I simply HAD to get away. I asked my older brother to wire me a plane ticket to Southern California, where I spent time with him, his wife and kids, and several boxer dogs. On my last night there, my brother said, “I sense there’s some problems you are working on: if you wanna talk about them, we gotta do it tonight cuz I gotta go to work in the morning.”

It was now or never! I steeled myself for his reaction, up to and possibly including throwing me out of the house, and said, “Well, for the last several years, I’ve been married to this guy, and it hasn’t been going well at all.”

Bro said, “Yeah: we know all about that. I was in the Navy, we had some gay guys on board, and as Captain I had to deal with it. You see how Leena and I get into it now and then: it seems to come with the territory. But, if the situation isn’t what you want, get out of it.”

No histrionics. No hysterics. Matter of fact. My brother already knew I was gay. He had never mentioned it.

What a relief!

MY OLDEST BROTHER

Motivated by yet another flare-up with Johnny, one night I sat down and wrote a long letter to my oldest brother, revealing all. His reaction, when it came, startled me. He reminded me of an occasion years before when he had arrived at the family home in Modesto: I remembered it well. He had driven in with a lot of noise and honking, and when he came into the house, Butch and I (we’d been carrying on in my bedroom) were dressed and composed. It turned out, my brother had driven by the house and seen a strange car in the driveway, and a light on in my bedroom. He parked a few doors away, walked back and and peeped into my bedroom, observed Butch and me for a while, then made is his noisy entrance. He never said a word to me about it until years later! Whether I was gay, straight or otherwise, he could care less!

MY FOLKS

I soon discovered that both of my brothers had discussed my being gay with my father. Of course, he discussed it with my stepmother. So, when at last I broached the subject with my Dad, he finally asked me if I identified my self as a homosexual, and I had to reply that I did. He took it in stride, and we rarely ever spoke of it again. Eventually, he gave me the same advice with respect to Johnny as my brother had, and helped me cope with some of the fallout when the “divorce” finally eventuated.

My stepmother, who had connections in education circles in Modesto, finally admitted she had heard on the “grapevine” that the administrators of my high school were all convinced I was gay! I wish they had told me, dammit! It seems they all thought I was sucking dick at a great rate, when in fact I was so sure I was some sort of misfit I wasn’t doing diddly-squat. (Except whacking-off every chance I got). Sheeeeesh!

EPILOGUE

Many years later, when Dad had retired for the third time, I was home one weekend. He explained he had been going through all the books in the house, disposing of out-dated texts and so forth. I asked him if he had gotten rid of my favorite of his books.

“What book was that?”

“ The Sexual Life of the Child, by Alfred Moll.”

He consulted his card-file. “No, I still have it. Why were you interested in it?”

“‘Cause I usta steal it from your office and read it! It had a lot of case-histories ‘n stuff. And, Moll  advanced the theory that because the penis is a muscle, masturbation favored development.”

Dad chuckled, and (punning unintentionally) said, “You know, we’ve come full circle on that topic in my lifetime: why, I can remember going to the Denver YMCA when I was about 14 to hear some guy tell us all about the ‘evils of masturbation.’ In fact, that’s where I learned about it!”

Well, old Moll was something of a nitwit, but the book had been written in the twenties. I still have it. His theory about masturbation favoring development has long since been disproved. But I love the picture my Dad conjured of some old fart going around the country talking about the “evils of masturbation” and thereby introducing hundreds of horny boys to it.

We used to say, “Join the YMCA and do it the Christian way!”

MOVING ON WITH MY LIFE

At this point I was approaching 30. Out, when it mattered. Out to my family, to whom it did NOT matter. I had a decent job, my Dad’s old ‘53 Chrysler V-8 to drive. The next major event in my life would occur in 1966.

Stay tuned!

[email protected]

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May 29, 2009

NUCLEAR NON-PROLIFERATION

Before I begin the next phase of my narrative, a word about non-proliferation. It seems to me the notion is flawed, as it maintains some who have the bomb, and some who do not. Inevitably, those who do not have the bomb want it, hence Iran, and other countries  trying to make one, or buy one from North Korea (who needs the money and will sell anything to anyone).

My answer would be to scrap the non-proliferation treaty and offer a bomb (or several) to  any country that wanted one and was willing to take on the expense of maintaining, protecting and accounting for it. It seems  to me that everyone who does not have one would take one (or a few – the number does not matter). What matters is that when everyone had “the bomb” anyone tempted to use one would know they would be subjected to instant annihilation if they did so. The plan is Mutual Assured Destruction (MAD) carried to its ultimate extreme. While it could lead to the end of the earth as we know it, my feeling is that would not happen. MAD did a good job of staving off nuclear war for many years, until Dubya substituted his “Preemptive Strike” (PS) doctrine, and see what that got us! The problem with preemptive strike is that anyone can strike preemptively: there is nothing to prevent Iran or North Korea or any other country from adopting that policy, and there is really no rational protection against it. MAD would be a far more potent dis-incentive to “strike first and ask questions later”, which is how George implemented PS. The total destruction of a sovereign nation (Iraq) was the result: there is a lot of blood on George’s hands, and I wish to see him pay the appropriate price for it.

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

The two years between 1964 (divorce from Johnny) and 1966 (next love) were relatively uneventful. At work I was moving up the ladder slowly; away from work I was foot-loose and fancy-free. I played the field, often spending Friday and Saturday nights at a mixed bar called Bligh’s Bounty. At the time, it was a pretty laid-back place where guys who liked black men could hang out, and where black men who likes whites could do the same. I got to know some very nice fellows: most of the time the juke-box was low enough so a decent (and occasionally indecent) conversation could be had. That came to an end with the installation of live go-go boys, who danced to a much louder juke-box.

The guys were pretty enough, though they rarely were allowed to “let it all hang out” in those days: they wore skimpy speedos or posing-straps. But the notion they were up there being looked at by all the guys in the place resulted in awesome attitude problems: they were untouchable, whereas the more ordinary folk in the bar were at least open to the notion of a toss in the hay. I managed to trick from Bligh’s now and then, but most of my sex was occurring in the tubs, specifically the Turk Street Baths.

The TSB was, in those days, a fairly classy and reasonably safe place. It generally filled to over-flowing on weekends, but my favorite night was Thursday. The Thursday night crowd was mainly made up of guys who couldn’t wait for Friday and who were “hot to trot”. In the feverish weekend crowd, too many guys were waiting for “Mr. Right”, so a less-than-perfect guy like me went without. But on Thursdays? Whooooopee! I could usually score, and had some really wonderful nights there.

Just once in those days, I contracted a case of anal clap. I knew I was taking a chance on a fellow I’d not seen before and who was a bit more drunk than I’d have liked: but he was cute, and hung poorly-enough that I could manage. Later, at the City Health Clinic, a nurse gave me two shots of penicillin, one in each hip.

She said, “A few deep squats will help relieve the sting”.

I replied, “Lady, how do you think I got into this condition?”

She fell out, laughing: I’d made her day.

I resolved to be more careful.

FATEFUL MEETING

One night I stayed at Bligh’s later than usual, and joined some fellows who invited me to ride with them over to the Jumping Frog on Polk Street. I’d heard of it, but had never gone: it stayed open “after hours”. But when we got there, it was packed beyond managing, and was filled with fumes from smokers, and everyone there was more drunk than I, and more drunk than I cared for, so I departed, planning to catch an “owl” bus that took me within a block of where I was then living. I missed a bus by minutes, and had to wait an hour on the street for another. When it arrived, now around 3 in the morning, there was only one person (beside the driver) on it, a black dude seated at the back of the bus. I dropped down beside him, and we struck up a desultory conversation that soon lapsed, until it devolved that we both got off at the same stop. I suggested he could stop in for coffee, and he agreed.

I was not immediately drawn to Cornell: I got the impression he was straight, but we were engaged in somewhat similar work and there were topics we could discuss meaningfully. We drank coffee and chatted amiably until nearly 5 A M, when he decided he should be getting home. For whatever reason, as he stood, I simply said, “I’d really like to hug you before you go”.

THE STORM

That was all it took! Pretty soon we were rolling around on my bed, kissing and carrying on. We were in no hurry to get undressed, and in fact never did. He got my manhood out of my pants, but for the most part, we engaged in frottage, something with which I was not very familiar. We went at this for at least an hour, and I found him very exciting: he was gentle and caring: what of him I could feel was smooth and silky, and I wanted more, more, MORE!

All of a sudden, he leapt out of bed and ran to the bathroom. I got there soon after to find him mopping up: he’d had an orgasm in his pants! The familiar smell of cum (not to mention hours of exciting fore-play) led me to jack off and add my seed to his, a process that took only a few moments, but which was explosive on my part. Then I helped him clean up, gave him a clean pair of my own tighty-whities, and sent him on his way after exchanging phone numbers.

The upshot of all this is we saw a good deal of each other for a few months. I discovered that Cornell was an expert fucker: he fucked me often, and made me enjoy it every time. To do so, he had to get nude, and I reveled in his superb body, very black, glabrous, and without any adipose tissue at all. He was not particularly muscular, but just perfectly constructed and sexy. I was very soon wrapped up in Cornell, and it seemed like he liked me and appreciated my sense of humor and my horniness whenever he came around.

In late March that year I took a short job in Albuquerque, New Mexico, then took a train to Chicago, thence to Montreal and St. Hyacinthe, PQ, home of the famous pipe organ builders Casavant Freres Ltee. The notion at the time was I should go to work there. Cornell looked after my place while I was gone.

But the weather sucked! Winter was over, but Spring hadn’t sprung: it was miserably cold, and I quickly decided it was no place for a native Californian. Also, I spoke no French, and it was clear that to work there I would have had to do so. I shortened my stay and took a train to New York: Easter was fast approaching, but I really wanted to get back home to Cornell. I phoned him my ETA and headed west by plane on Easter Sunday.

When I entered my house, it was empty. Until I reached the bedroom, where Cornell was waiting to surprise me. Man, oh man! Coming home to a beautiful guy I was hoping before long to call my lover: what more could a 30 year old gay boy want?

What, indeed!

A few days later, the roof fell in on my life. Cornell announced he was already married (to a guy) and that his dalliance with me was over. It had just been a ”lark”, a conquest, and it was done.

Jesus H. Christelberger! I went into a deep funk. I managed to keep working, but going home every night, alone again, no prospects, no nuthin’, sent me into a tail-spin. I stalked his house, hoping for glimpses of him, but he eluded me. I was, to put it mildly, heart-broken.

How I got out of this depression will be reported in my next episode, so stay tuned!

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