War Letters: Part 7

January 24, 1991

In the middle of the desert near Kabrit, Saudi Arabia

Dear Lynda:

Hello again and greetings from the combat zone!

How’s things back in Hoosierland?

We’re all still fine…nothing bad to report. The weather has cleared and allowed the planes to continue the bombing missions. We are told that the Iraqis are really getting their asses thumped.

The last two days have been pretty good. It didn’t rain yesterday, and today was a beautiful sunny day. I took a shower yesterday and felt like a new man. I may take one tomorrow.

A few days ago there was a black haze in the air from the oil wells and pipe lines that the Iraqis set afire. I guess the fires are out now because the smoke’s gone and so is the smell of burning crude oil.

I received Mom and Dad’s package two days ago and got yours and three letters today. The pictures were nice. Cowan and I commented that we’d love to have the chow pictured in our Christmas Feast photo. Yes… the food is still sucking here!

We’ve all got a year’s supply of instant coffee now, and a good supply of smokes. We really appreciate the packages! Did I tell you that I’d like to have a portable short-wave radio? See what you can do. Is my money getting to our account OK? Let me know.

A funny thing happened yesterday. The chow here has been giving us all (except me) gas and the runs. Anyway…we were all sitting around and bullshitting. Cowan was telling a good story…and farting a lot. Right in the middle of his story, he stops mid-sentence and a look of complete horror comes over his face. I figured he saw a SCUD (or “STUD” as Keith Colyer puts it) missile coming right at us.

He stands up and bitches, and announces to us all that he has just shit his trousers! Of course, we all damn near Hersheyed our knickers from laughing so hard!

Pretty soon, the entire camp was aware of Jim’s predicament. He waddled over to the shitter to cut off his soiled grundies…to the hoots and hollers of our guys! Just prior to Jim’s trouser chili experience, he had taken a shower. We all got a good laugh.

Another funny thing happened today. You remember Scott Lautner…my roommate at Camp Lejeune? Well…he came over to our camp to use our shower facilities. As he was in the stall merrily scrubbing his “nasty ass,” the SCUD missile siren sounded. We all dropped what we were doing and headed asshole over belly button into the holes. Scott was just a-bitchin’ as he grabbed his trash and headed for the hole. When the all-clear was sounded, there he was…all soapy and wet, a towel around his waist, flack jacket, boots, and helmet on, with his rifle!

It was the funniest god damned thing I’d seen in a while!

Somebody took pictures of him. It should be great!

Well, baby…as you can see, we can have good days around here. Decent weather, not much to do, and nobody fucking with us! War’s not always hell, I guess.

I think I’ll go kick around in the sand and hit the rack now. I’ve been trying to call you and my folks, but I can’t get a line. I’ll try again later. Jim says “Hi.”

Write you later.

I love you.

Semper Fi!

Paul

War Letters: Part 6

January 20, 1991

In the middle of the desert near Kabrit, Saudi Arabia

Dear Lynda:

Hello baby, and greetings from “Saudee Raybee” and the war zone! I and everyone else are doing fine.

Since the last time I wrote, a lot has happened.

Remember how I said it didn’t rain much? Well…the day after I wrote that, it started raining and rained steadily for 36 hours. We were all drenched, cold, and all our gear was soaked. It really sucked.

Then we got the word to pack up and move north. We did that, and set up camp a lot closer to Kuwait…where we are now.

We’ve got a small radio, and we heard that Iraq declared war on us. That really got our attention because we are close enough for the SCUD missile and long-range Iraqi artillery!

We all had a new sense of purpose to our jobs, as you can imagine. We dug a bunch of shoulder-high holes to jump into in case of an attack.

Two days ago we got the alarm for incoming fire and we hauled ass into the holes. It turned out to be nothing, but it makes you nervous and scared.

We’ve had two air raid warnings since then, and nothing happened then either, but we’re all on our toes!

Day and night, British fighter-bombers fly over our position on their way to bomb Iraqi targets. I guess we’ve really hit them hard.

When we got the word that some SCUDS hit Israel, we figured we’d probably get hit also. But, it hasn’t happened yet. I guess we’ve been too far back, or, they don’t know where we are.

We will be moving again…VERY close to the Kuwait border. We may stay here another week so that the Air Force can kick the shit out of Iraq. They haven’t been able to bomb them as much as they wanted because of the weather. We won’t move north until the bombing’s all done.

It was nice to talk to you again, baby. I talked to you from a phone outside our tent that we installed, and it didn’t cost us nuthin’! It was 6 or 7am here, and pretty late there, but I didn’t think you’d mind.

I received some of your mail yesterday, and got some from Dad and Tess (my sister) also. It took two weeks to get it, but it sure is nice when it gets here.

Did you send any care packages? Send food! You know what I like. If you send a ton of it, I’ll share it with the fellas! Junk food! Yeah!

The food’s really been sucking lately. We didn’t even get food one night! The MREs are getting real old. When it gets slow around here, all there is to do is eat, smoke, clean weapons and gear, or sleep.

And you wanna talk about a cluster-fuck? Some of these people are real assholes! I don’t mean in Wire Platoon…I mean some of the other platoons and the people in charge.

They don’t want to cooperate or pass any word that will make anyone’s job easier. The politicking going on is crazy. It seems they don’t realize there’s a war going on.

Somebody’s always wanting a phone put in or a line checked, and it’s usually at 2am or something stupid. But, I guess that’s the way it goes on active duty.

Baby…I really miss you a lot. I think about you all the time. Home seems so far away, and sometimes it feels like I’ll never get to see you again. I think about how easy, simple, safe, warm, and nice it is at home, and I can hardly believe I’m here. I don’t know. I guess I’m feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t realize how easy and good I had it with you at home. This will make me appreciate home more than anything ever could. And, I’ll tell you what…once I get back, I’m NEVER leaving again!

I’ve pretty much decided that I’ll get out of the Corps. I’m not bitching about being here, but I figure I’ve done all I’m supposed to do. I’ll have done my duty, and then it will be time to get on with my life with you. I don’t want to put you through this again, or go through it again myself.

It’s looking like it’s gonna piss and pour again tonight. If it does, I’m gonna have a real bad attitude. Then, I’ll get over it!

Well baby, I guess I’ve chewed your ear long enough. Hot evening chow has arrived! So, I must go force some of it down and then get ready to hit the rack.

Write back soon!

I’ll see you when I see you.

I love you, and be careful when you’re out and about.

Semper Fi.

Paul

Washing my ass in the middle of the desert.

War Letters: Part 5

January 9, 1991

Somewhere in the desert, Saudi Arabia

Dear Lynda:

Hello babe from the great desert of “Saudee Raybee.” I’m writing this in the dark with a red flashlight, so my writing will look a lot worse than it usually does.

We’re on our third day in the field. We’ll probably stay here one more day and then move up even further north. It hasn’t been too bad yet. We’ve been working hard, and the food really sucks. For breakfast this morning, I had a spoonful of rice, three pieces of bread, a little carton of milk, and apple juice. Luckily, I had parts of an MRE leftover to make me feel full. The chow’s really the only thing I’ve had to bitch about…so far!

The weather has been fairly warm during the day, and pretty cold at night. It even frosts a little.

Right now I’m sleeping on a cot outside the tent because it’s too crowded inside.



It’s supposed to be the rainy season here. It rains for about a minute in the morning and evening…not much to bother with.

I think of you often, and wonder what you’re doing.

My watch has two clocks on it. I keep the digital clock on Indiana time so I can look at it and think about when you are working, sleeping, or whatever. It kind of keeps me sane. I have to check my watch calendar every now and then so I can find out what day it is. All the days run together, so they all seem the same. We don’t get any days off.

Jim Cowan said he talked to Stacy the other day. I hope you don’t think I’m gaffing you off by not calling or writing you much. Since Jim got promoted, he’s got just a little more time to do such things. I’m pretty busy baby-sitting the troops. Sometimes it’s like they can’t even take a shit without being told how to do it!

I hope my first letter from Saudi didn’t upset you or worry you too much. I wanted to tell you what’s been going on. You may not want to tell the people at the support group some of the things I told you. I don’t know. If you think it’s better not to worry them more, don’t tell ‘em nuthin’!

But, here’s another bummer story. It doesn’t involve me, or anyone from Indy…

On the day we left the main camp for the north, they issued us all ammunition. A Marine from another unit shot himself in the head with his pistol…right down the road from our barracks. As far as was reported, he didn’t die. I guess he had a family too. It was a depressing thing to hear about. The poor dumb bastard couldn’t handle the stress, and his leadership didn’t see the signs of someone about the break.

Please wish my dad and my brother a happy birthday. I’m afraid I can’t find a card to send out here!

I hope I’m home soon, babe. I love you with all my heart and my big toe too!

Beat up Boo Vomitus for me and tell all hello and that I’m doing fine. I haven’t received any mail yet, but it takes 14-20 days to get here sometimes, so keep them coming. I love you very much. See you soon!

Semper Fi!

Love,

Paul

P.S. – Tell Dad that I’m carrying over 200 rounds of real ammo, so I’m not a sitting duck! We weren’t supposed to get that much, but Cowan took it when their backs were turned! What a guy!

Later!

War Letters: Part 4

January 3, 1991

Al Jubail, Saudi Arabia

Dear Lynda:

Hi baby! How are you? I’m finally here in “Saudee Raybee.”

The flight here was the absolute worst.

We left Cherry Point, North Carolina at about 10am New Year’s Day on a Boeing 747. We flew over the ocean to Nova Scotia, over London, England and France, and finally landed in Brussels, Belgium.

I couldn’t see anything from the plane because I had an aisle seat, and because it was dark or cloudy. We never even got off the plane in Brussels while they refueled. The takeoff from Brussels was pretty scary. It was rainy and very windy…pretty much a thunderstorm. The plane was getting thrown around like a rag doll.

We eventually landed in Saudi Arabia at 10am yesterday (local time).

This country is a real armpit. There’s nothing here, and it’s windy and cold. The chow sucks, and there’s long lines for everything. But, it could be worse.

Right now we’re sleeping in real beds in real buildings with running water. The water from the sinks and showers is not drinkable, but from the water fountains it is.

They’re saying that we’re going to move closer to the front pretty soon, but right now we’re about 150 miles from it. We’re supposed to hook up with the French Foreign Legion, the British Royal Marines, and the Saudi Army when we move up. I’m kinda looking forward to that because it should be interesting to work with soldiers from other countries.

I hope you had a Happy New Year. I heard you’ve been having some flooding back home. I hope all is well.

The place we’re staying now is OK. It’s a camp that was built for the oil field workers. There are pipelines and refineries all over.

The highways here are a lot like home, but all of the sudden, they just end and turn into one-lane dirt roads!

The security around the camp is very good. They’ve got Marines patrolling and in sandbagged bunkers with real bullets! I guess Beirut taught us something after all! They said that they found some rag head going through the trash looking for return addresses on envelopes…supposedly so terrorists could write back to “Mommy” and tell her lies and try to freak people out.

So…don’t put return addresses on the mail you send to me. Also, don’t put anything about the 2nd Marine Division on letters or other mail either.

They also told us they nabbed another rag head running around on a bike with a pistol. They called him a terrorist, but I don’t know…

You gotta love the rumors floating around here now. They say we’ll be out of here by April because that’s when a bunch of Islamic holidays are. I really don’t believe it. The Saudis may want us out of here for their holidays, but not if there’s a war going on.

I really glad you were able to come down for Christmas. I wish it could have been better for us, but for me it was almost like a second honeymoon. I was also glad when you went back home, because I felt that with you in town I could not concentrate on the job at hand. I think that I have to try to keep from worrying about you too much. I hope you understand.

Our first Christmas and our feast at Lejeune. All the restaurants were closed or awash in Jarheads. Bologna, M&Ms, chips, beer, and soda...but we were together!

If you can, send me some smokes, Folgers Coffee Singles, and chow and candy of any kind. Don’t send a ton of the stuff. Whatever…

Let me know if you’re getting my Direct Deposit money.

You can pass this letter on to who ever you want. I don’t know how much time I’ll have to write.

I love you very much, Lynda. I pledge my love to you forever.

When I get home we’ll take a vacation, buy a truck, and start a family…not necessarily in that order!

See you later!

Love,

Paul

War Letters: Part 3

December 13, 1990

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

Dear Lynda:

Yes…it’s me again! How are you?

I’m a little bent, but not broken.

We’ve been playing volleyball quite a bit at the end of each day. Last Saturday, we were playing and I was going for the ball. I was hit by a teammate and I fell and landed back-first on to a truck wheel that supports the net pole.

I quit playing after that and lay down for a while. An hour later, I tried to get up and just about passed out. I was taken to the base hospital and X-rayed many times. The doctors said nothing was broken and that my spine was OK. They said I had a very deep bruise in my lower left back muscle. They gave me a bunch of drugs and ordered me to three days bed rest.

I am now on “light duty,” which means I can’t run, hump, or lift heavy things. I hate being on “light duty.” I feel worthless. The pain really sucks, but it’s slowly getting better. I’m still in good spirits.

The training as yet has not been very busy. We’ve had quite a bit of free time. I’m confident that when we get to the Persian Gulf we can do our jobs well.

It was nice to hear your voice again. You sounded like you were happy and doing well. I’m glad your sister was able to spend some time with you. I want you to do whatever it takes so that you feel happy and safe.

We’ll probably be here for Christmas, but I can’t say for sure. Many of the guys are having their wives come down. I would love to see you again, but I really don’t want to go through all the “good-byes” again. The scene at the Reserve Center really tore me up. But if you want to come down, let me know. I’ll try to arrange it that I can see you.

I love you very much! Take care of yourself and be careful. Beat up Boo for me. See you!

Semper Fi.

Love,

Paul

War Letters: Part 2

December 1990

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

Dear Lynda:

I think I’ve said just about everything I wanted to say to you about how I feel about you and our coming separation. I just wanted to write a few words to you. This will not be easy for either of us, but we’ll come through it OK. You must know how much I love you. You are my only reason for living.

I know you don’t really understand why we Marines feel the way we do. We see it as our duty to do as we’re ordered. This country is like no other. As Marines, we’ll do anything to get the job done. We fight. We like to fight. It’s our job.

In many ways, I’m glad I’m going. I feel I’ll be a part of history, at the same time helping others who have been abused very badly.

I’d feel even more gung-ho if it wasn’t for you. If I didn’t have you waiting for me back home, I’d probably go all out and do crazy things. But don’t worry. I’m not volunteering for anything.

My sense of honor and duty for the Corps is almost as strong as my love, respect, and faith for you. At least I hope I can perform that way in all my duties.

I’m sorry I made you cry with all my talk about possibly not coming back, but I feel we must discuss all possibilities. Try not to worry about me while I’m gone. There’s not a whole lot you can do for me. The Corps will take care of me. You do what’s best for you and take care of yourself and the house…and don’t forget to beat up Boo Vomitus (our cat) every now and then.

Boo Vomitus kitty...stupid-assed cat

Remember…you’re tough and strong. You’re a Marine wife. It’s one of the toughest jobs in the world, so be proud.

Don’t forget that you have many friends and family that are willing to help you. Please don’t hesitate to call them. I’d be disappointed if you got into a bind and didn’t ask for some help.

Keep the flag flying and keep your spirits up, baby. I love you very much, and I’ll be coming home to you before too long.

Semper Fi!

Love always,

Paul

War Letters: Part 1

Sometimes, my thoughts and memories of events build up in my head, and I feel that if I don’t write them down I will go fucking nuts.

The following is an unfinished narrative I wrote and enclosed with a personal letter to my wife. Copies of this narrative were distributed to family members.

My younger sister, Teresa (Tess), a grade school teacher, read it to her class. Later, I would receive many humorous pieces of mail from the school kids voicing their support and well wishes for my comrades and me.

paj

___

December 1990

Indianapolis, Indiana

I always imagined the scene…the soldier going off to war and saying his goodbyes to his wife and loved ones. I thought it was a romantic scene. I imagined myself as that soldier…bravely leaving behind everything he cared about. It was a part that I thought I wanted to play, with everyone saying how brave and tough I was.

Well…one very cold and snowy December morning, the romantic scene became a reality. Lee Greenwood singing “Proud To Be An American…” My wife of only seven months, and my mother and father…sitting in the crowd.

Up to that point, I had already dealt with Lynda’s frequent tears, but the look on Dad’s face was something I’ll never forget. I knew Mom would be a wreck. Dad, though, was another story. He was crying as we were ordered on to the busses. I rushed over to them and said some last quick farewells. I couldn’t look at Mom and Dad for more than a few seconds for fear that I too would tear up.

I was one of the last Marines on the bus. I was able to kiss Lynda once more, and I then boarded the bus. We got an escort from the Indianapolis Police Department to the airport. We all commented that we only get treated decently when something really bad is on the horizon.

We had to load the plane ourselves. Packs were falling apart all over the tarmac. Half of these guys can’t even pack their trash securely. How in the hell are they going to perform in a combat situation? Someone’s bolt from their weapon fell out of their sea bag and on to the ground. Oh boy! (This was a commercial aircraft. We had to remove the bolts from our weapons and stash them in our sea bags in the luggage/cargo area of the plane so that we would not have access to them in flight.)

The plane was finally loaded, and we boarded. As the plane taxied away from the area, the Inspector/Instructor staff was all doing flutter kicks in our honor. These Marines are our active duty counterparts…sort of like our teachers. Most of them had tried many times to go with us. Such is the mind of a good Marine. If there’s a fight, Marines want to be in on it.


Our craft was given clearance for takeoff. It lurched forward and became airborne. My adventure had started. As I watched Indiana disappear into a snowy bank of clouds, I began to think…

“Goodbye, Hoosierland. I hope this isn’t the last time I get to see you”

Marines like to think about the first and last times they do or did things.

“This is the last time I’ll get a home cooked meal.”
“This is the last look at Mom and Dad.”
“This is the last time I’ll make love to my wife.”
“I won’t need my car keys anymore…at least not until I get back.”

Everything hasn’t been all doom and gloom, however. The gallows humor abounds. One guy is constantly reminded of the fact that he was due to be discharged from the Marine Reserves. He was rather bitter at first, but he has gotten over it.

I keep reminding anybody that will listen that I’m “non-ob” also. “Non-ob” means, “not obligated,” which is a status that a Marine gets when he fulfills his initial enlistment.

Well…I had done that and extended for a year. I was due to get out in April of 1991. I could have checked out and become a civilian at anytime before that date. Uncle Sam has a way of changing your plans sometimes…

“Wait a minute! I don’t have to do this! I’m non-ob!”

Not any more you ain’t!

_____

December 1990

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

We finally arrived at Camp Lejeune and got settled in. We’ve been going to classes that are designed as refresher courses in various subjects. The classrooms aren’t typical…usually outside…rain or shine. It’s been cold and rainy lately. There are a hundred or more Marines in attendance…Marines with many different jobs:

Engineers—they go out and find and defuse mines.
Communications—our unit.
Recon—bad asses who snoop and poop.
Cannon cockers—artillery.
MPs—military police.

We all have the best unit, and there’s a lot of good-natured rivalry.

Somebody’s always falling asleep or not paying attention during the classes.

Will their lack of discipline get them or someone else killed? Maybe…and it really makes me mad. Some of these guys don’t seem to realize what the hell is going on here. It seems to me that they can’t grasp the fact that this isn’t summer camp. This isn’t a game. There isn’t time to train in-depth.

Listen. Pay attention. Do the right thing.

In a month, we’ll be in a potential combat zone. By the time the bullets start flying, it’ll be too late to worry.

I want to slap some of these kids who are screwing around.

Kids…that’s how some of these guys are acting.

Christmas is approaching fast. Lynda is coming down from Indiana to see me. I’m very happy about that. I don’t have much Christmas spirit though. I’ve never spent a Christmas away from home. I received a letter from Mom telling me about their Christmas tree and everything. She doesn’t have the Christmas spirit either. She’s taking this very hard.

I hope she’ll be OK.

War Letters: Introduction

The following are personal letters I wrote to my wife and family while serving as an activated U.S. Marine Corps reservist during Operation Desert Shield/Storm from December of 1990 until April of 1991.

The opinions expressed here are mine, and I have reasons for them. My opinions are based on my experiences and observations. If you don’t like those opinions, tough shit.

Names were not changed to protect the innocent or guilty. If you don’t like it, tough shit.

Events are as I remember them, and I can’t be arsed to research for accuracy. If you don’t like it, tough shit.

_____

I was a member of Detachment Communications Company, Headquarters Battalion, 4th Marine Division, Indianapolis, Indiana, (DetCommCoHQBN4thMarDiv), from 1984 until 1992.

Roughly half of my Indianapolis unit was activated, and we were folded into our active duty counterparts with Communications Company, Headquarters Battalion, 2nd Marine Division (CommCoHQBN2ndMarDiv), out of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

It may help to understand and remember a few things about those times…seemingly long, long ago.

I had been married only seven months when my reserve unit got activated.

As interested possible participants to war, we closely followed the news of the day and Saddam Hussein’s adventure into Kuwait. We were warned repeatedly by our higher-ups to be prepared for the “balloon to go up,” so it was no real surprise when I received a phone call at work stating my narrow ass was being activated. Nevertheless, it was a sobering realization that I was now going to be expected to do what I’d been paid and somewhat trained to do!

US military digital and satellite communications were just getting off the ground at that point. In my experience, the technology didn’t work real well. As wireman in the field, occasionally we could hook up our “state-of-the-art” TA-838 field telephones, scam on to some kind of satellite uplink known to us as AUTOVON, and make infrequent and poor quality phone calls home. It was down more than it was up, and we learned on the fly how to install its technology. Before our deployment, few communications reservists had ever worked with it before.

Ta-838 Field Telephone

These were the days before the internet and email, and at the time nobody had heard of personal computers, laptops, mP3 players, digital cameras, or cell phones. Compact discs were all the rage for listening to music, but cassette tapes were still very much in use.

During the run up to the war, nobody really knew how it would play out. There were serious fears that Saddam Hussein would use his vast arsenal of chemical weapons, and that if he did, we would resort to nuclear retaliation.

There were reports of tens of thousands of body bags being deployed and staged to accommodate the casualties anticipated on all sides. The “Mother of All Battles” was most likely coming, and we faced it with grim determination.

I want to state up front that I did not participate in combat. I was not a grunt infantryman or a war hero. I never fired my M-16 in anger. I spent three months in god-forsaken foreign lands, sleeping in holes, and trying to keep communications functioning. I just did my job the best I could. That is all.

What I did many years ago pales in comparison to what the current generation of Marines is doing.

I dedicate these intimate stories to my comrades in arms who have made the ultimate sacrifice, to my brothers in arms who fight the good fight today, and to my wife Lynda, who remains the love of my life.

Semper Fidelis.

Paul A. Johnson

Part 28- My Fantastic Supreme 2009 Indy 500 Photo Diary Blog Type Thang: Race Day And The End

My day at the Indy 500 was cool and spine tingling, but it started with a bit of unpleasantness.

A long time ago, I distributed a memo about proper conduct and behavior at the Indy 500 in general, and the world-famous J Stand in particular.

Hell…I even wear a T-shirt proclaiming those hallowed values!


Apparently, some folks did not get the memo.

There was an incident that you should know about.

Sitting next to my son and I in J Stand were a couple of older white guys…I’d say middle 50s or older…graying beards and both wearing Milwaukee Brewers hats.


During Taps, the flyover, the Invocation Prayer by the Most Right Reverend Archbishop of Canterbury O’Mara, and the military parade of heroes thing, the guy sitting next to Willie wouldn’t shut up.

I overheard parts of it, but Willie heard all of it, and I could tell Willie was shocked and hurt by what he was hearing.

The guy kept talking, and I paid closer attention.

He was saying things like, “This is all bullshit. Screw these military assholes, etc...”

They were also saying all kinds of racist bullshit about Mexicans, etc…and shaking their heads in disgust and contempt with the entire proceedings…Memorial Day Weekend…at the Indy 500!

I would have none of it!

I leaned over behind Willie and gave the guy a sharp poke on the shoulder and said loudly so that everyone around us could hear, “Look, pal. I’m not gonna sit here listen to your shit!”

He shut up, and, a few moments later, he offered his hand and stated he meant no offense. (a little late for that)

Then, I said, “Look…you have every right to voice your opinion, but there’s a time and a place for everything. This is neither the time nor the place.”

He then said, “Let’s just have a good race, OK?”

I agreed, and nothing else was said the remainder of our time in the stands.

I really wanted to knock this asshole’s teeth out, but I didn’t because of my inner-peace, love-of-my-fellow-man thing I got going on now.

I’m kinda like Gandhi, or Mandela, or something.

Sorta.

Plus, I was stone cold sober, and didn’t have a drink all day.

I suppose if I’d been liquored up, things would have been different.

Maybe.

This incident almost ruined my Race Day. Almost…

Anyhoo…thought you should know.


The race was fun and exciting.

Helio won his third Indy 500!

He cried a lot and climbed the fence again!

Congratulations Helio!


As a part-time sub-contract labor person for the Penske Organization, I bet this means I’ll get a bonus.

Or something.

Sorta.

I will not rehash the race for you. You can get that information from many sources.

Post-Race pit stop competition

Anyhoo….This concludes my blog type mess for the 2009 version of the Indy 500.

I hope you all have enjoyed it, but I have to go back to work now and make money for my needful family.

I’d like to thank some people and things for making my vacation possible and so enjoyable.

My thanks are not in order of importance, and if I forget somebody or something it’s not because I hate you or anything…it’s because I’m getting old and forgetful.

Thanks to my wife and family for your understanding and generosity.

Thanks also to TrackForum, Curt, Marc, Tommy, Glenn, Barb, Brie, RacingPortaJohn, Ziggy and his crew, Plymouth, Chrysler, Paul Tracy, Grover, Roach, New Castle Ale, Coors, Coca-Cola, Camp ‘N’ Brew, Kodak, Olympus, Indianapolis Motor Speedway and the Bronze Badge Program, Tony George, The Alley Cats, BlogSpot.com, ImageShack, Hewlitt Packard, Dell, Microsoft, Motorola, Ray-Bans, Pepsi-Cola, the Yellow Shirts, T13, Rev-ed, CuC, Reebok, Avia, Bayer Aspirin, Smith & Wesson, Coppertone Sports Sunscreen 50SPF, Rubbermaid, my beloved USMC and all other members of the US armed forces, members of Indiana law enforcement, gass, pdalbey, plec, lotuspoweredbyford, zenman, my boss Mike and all the guys at work for understanding and leaving the vacation schedule open, the convenient stores of Speedway, the kind soul who gave me his pit pass (Indy 500 karma is real), Trevor, Shane, Canon, Epson, Linksys, FaceBookPlant, Twatter, AOL, Yahoo!, Zazzle, INGO, all the folks at those private websites (you know who you are), the drivers and crews for Indy Lites and IndyCar for giving us a great show…your hard work and dedication is appreciated, anyone who has clicked and read my foolishness and gets it and knows what Indy means.

No thanks to the two commie jerkoffs in J Stand.

Dedicated to my dad, Rick Johnson.
Also to Uncle Dave, Lloyd Ruby, Larry Rice, Mack, RailBird, Eddie Bussing, and Sandy.

See you next year.

Maybe.

Part 27- My Fantastic Supreme 2009 Indy 500 Photo Diary Blog Type Thang: The Night Before The Indy 500

My last couple of days have been fun and exciting.

I will describe for you now why I think so.

Night-Before-The-Race festivities were a hoot.

My youngest son Willie and I arrived at my mom’s house in Speedway Saturday evening and set up our base of operations there.

Mom took care of us and fed us and did all those great things Moms do to make their children/grandchildren feel warm and welcomed.

Thanks, Mom!

Then, I took Willie on a little walkabout down Georgetown Road to witness all the debauchery because he’s old enough now, and I thought he should see the greatest collection of drunken fools in one place in the entire world.

I explained to Willie many of life’s mysteries and lessons during this time.

Here are a few selected tidbits of knowledge I shared with my young son:

1—If one is cool is these types of situations, one will not visit the county jail.
2—If one’s buddies act like fools, and you don’t stop the shenanigans or excuse yourself FROM them, you will go to jail WITH them.
3—Don’t mess with police officers. They are on our side.
4—If you don’t start nuthin,’ there won’t be nuthin.’
5—Jail is neither fun nor cool.
6—Do not pee out in public.
7—Be courteous to everyone until such time as it is required to stand your ground.
8—Trips to the hospital/emergency room are below average and should be avoided.
9—Over-consumption of alcohol can lead one to doing things one would not normally do.
10—It’s a big world, and one must know how to get along with different types of people.

Yes…it was a teaching opportunity, and Willie is a good student.

We stopped at Ziggy’s house and watched the idiots pee in his yard.


Willie played with Ziggy’s puppy, and then we took a thrilling joyride in Ziggy’s hotrod Plymouth Barracuda… which is just about the coolest car ever created by human hands!

It was hot and noisy and violent and it made Willie and I have feces-consuming grins!

When we were done thrashing the classic American muscle car, I told Ziggy that he had just used up all of his Carbon Credits for the next year or so.

Our beloved President would be sad and disappointed.

Maybe.

Then, Willie and I went to Camp 'N' Brew, and we watched more besotted individuals.

I explained the proper procedures and customs for the handing out of Mardi Gras beads, and Willie got his first glance ever at mature female breast assemblies!

I am a bad dad.

Willie and I spoke at length with Shane Rogers, who is a young and legendary racing insider from Australia.

Shane was amazed with the scope of all things Indy, and was eagerly anticipating the race the next day.

Shane is a cool dude, and he now knows what Indy means.

Cheers, mate!

Then, Willie and I stumbled back to Mom’s house, got a good night’s sleep, and prepared for the next day…my Christmas…the Indy 500 baby!