more hitchhiking

I hitchhiked a number of times after that trip to Asia, courtesy of the US Air Force.

On leave, wanting to visit New York, I check with the dispatcher to see if there is room on some aircraft flying in that direction and score a ride on a mostly empty Air National Guard training flight. Shortly after takeoff the pilot summons me to the cockpit. 'You know electronics ... this radar isn't coming up, can you take a look?' I don't know nothing about no airplane electronics ... crawl down into the belly where I see a likely power supply, turned on and indicating all's well. I crawl back up through the hatch ... Copilot: 'Never mind. I forgot to throw this switch. We're ok.' Shortly thereafter the cabin fills with smoke, a fellow hitchhiker thought he had thoroughly stubbed out his cigarette before throwing it into a trash can. A fire extinguisher takes care of that.

Most memorable is hitchhiking to Germany on a KC-135, the plane used to refuel jets in midair. A Captain, Military Attaché to some embassy in Europe, has an opening for an armed guard to protect two shrouded palettes. I report as ordered, he hands me a belt with holster, then a Colt 45. Now I did do very well in basic training shooting a rifle but had never been near a sidearm. I had no idea Colt 45s were that heavy. The palettes are loaded on an otherwise empty plane, no fuel tanks on board, with me standing by for any ... I don't know what. This was in Norfolk VA as I recall but I guess they trusted the people on the plane, I didn't have to be armed on board during the flight.

Back in the air after refueling in Nova Scotia the pilot calls us to the cockpit for a treat ... we're flying right into a shimmering curtain, the aurora borealis fills the sky in front of our plane. Awesome. Unforgettable. I spend much of the rest of the flight lying on my stomach down under the aircraft in the bubble where the operator would be piloting the refueling boom, drifting in and out of clouds with the ocean way below.

Heavy fog shrouds Rhein-Main Airbase where the palettes are loaded into a van with black windows, me watching in the drizzle, armed. Just then a package slips out of one of the shrouds and splashes down in front of me, producing a black liquid oozing my way. 'Don't worry.' says the Captain, 'It's just ink.' Seems it wasn't even disappearing ink!

I make out a familiar Oldsmobile idling at a safe distance on the end of the flight apron. Dad has pulled strings again. 'Ummm.' How to say this ... 'Sir ... that's my parents over there?' He's most understanding, collects the Colt 45, belt and holster and I'm off. Home again.

Carnival Chalkware

A collector I heard of had his study lined with racks of just Lone Rangers like these, not sure I would want to have those masks staring at me all the time. The one on the left I bought and sold some time back when there was a fad for them. He's in perfect shape, no face lifts from the looks of it, which is pretty good considering his age.

I looked for the better ones, like the dolls below, but these women were too expensive for me at the time, so I handed them over to someone who could afford them ... and Sheeba does look extravagant, doesn't she?

What we're looking at are carnival chalkware prizes, made in the '30s, '40s, and '50s, before plastic and stuffed toys took over ... if you were around then, you should remember. I don't ... t'was before my time ... ahem ... Got any in your attic? There were movie stars, comix characters, ships, dogs, ... some uglier than others. They were mass-produced in molds, then spray painted, and often dusted with glitter. Some show evidence of a tired spray painter doing his 467th snow white of the day and not really caring if her lipstick is in the right place, and certainly not worried about getting it straight.

mmm ... the skull is just for size comparison ...

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Mary Ann's

Where to begin. Well, first, the place hasn't changed in ten, fifteen years since it opened in Chelsea and later here in the East Village and elsewhere in town. It's still the same tex/mex taste from way back, filling, heavy cheesy dishes, refried refried beans, with a hint of inoffensive ethnicity. But there is a table by the window which is a plus.

Mary Ann's is a place for tequila and beer; we order Cabernet, no doubt causing the waiter to drop the unfamiliar carafe while fumbling back in a dark corner of the bar and, as these things happen, he clumsily slits his wrist in the process ... well not actually cutting the artery. There is much noise dealing with broken glass, spilled wine and blood. There is a call for the emergency first aid kit. 

After some time, a busboy with limited knowledge of English delivers cooling nachos but no libation. Three tries later with three different waiters gets us a full carafe of a pleasing Cabernet, at a very reasonable price yet. We enjoy East Village traffic passing our window during the rest of the meal, only slightly interrupted by a gawking street person until we realize he is staring at a tv screen up above behind, not at us.

Now the problem is the tip for the waiter. My position is that bad service should receive a sharply curtailed tip while Roomie thinks the poor guy deserves extra for wounds incurred in combat. He did come within a quarter of an inch of hitting the artery. We settle for a normal tip. At the door our waiter offers thanks, proffering his bandaged wrist, as we make our way out the door and waddle home through a darkening East Village.

dang, forgot to put my pudding in the freezer ... got to run ...

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The one of an apparent male walking the possibly aroused horse and carriage, carrying an bucket for feed grain, I may get. The other appears to have a narrow cloth hanging out of the trunk of an unlicensed car with at least the rear window removed (shot/broken out) with a waiting chauffeur bears flowers.  That these together represent 'NY, NY' commons is believable given the few real NY-ers whom I have known. 

Look closely under the horse near the left hind leg -- there is a sore or something less than really horny.