SEPTEMBER 4 - SEPTEMBER 10, 1999
SEPTEMBER 10, 1999
Gizmo for Mayor!
Good morning. The lights went out last night about 7:45. They winked off and on several
times. It was about that time when it was still barely day light Sharyn suggested we round
up flashlights and candles, just in case. Just in case proved to be a good idea. The power
went off and stayed off.
9999?
No, not hardly, but just as disruptive. The candles and the flash lights came in handy.
Fortunately the temperature was in the sixties and we didn't need to heat the house.
Imagine if it was February! Wood stove or not, you still need the fan to circulate the
air.
We were both tired and went to bed early. All of the clocks were off so I had no idea
of the time when there was some knocking at my front door. Using my flash light I found
Cornplanter and Red Jacket. They wanted to talk.
"Do you know what time it is?' I asked.
"You aren't going to start that with us, are you?" Cornplanter said in an
irritated tone of voice.
"No, no," I said. "The electricity is off and I was wondering what the
time was."
Red Jacket spoke up. "It's two fifty-five," he said, sporting a Rolex on his
wrist.
"God!" I said. "The power has been off over six hours. I wonder when it
will come back on?"
"It will be back on when the electric company feels like putting it on,"
Cornplanter said. "Isn't that the way it always works?"
"I suppose so," I said agreeing with him.
"I loved yesterday's column," Cornplanter said. "That's why we are here.
We went to the Bradford Hotel and met this guy Gizmo. He is a pretty sharp fellow. He has
time on his hands and understands the inner workings of the system."
"So?" I asked.
"We were just wondering."
"Wondering what?" I asked.
"In your opinion, what is the difference in being a Mayor of Bradford or County
Commissioner of McKean County? I mean, who would be better for the people; you as a
County Commissioner, or Bradford's Mayor?"
"What kind of question is that?" I asked. "They are two separate jobs
with different responsibilities. You can't ask a question like that and expect and
objective answer from me. I am prejudiced."
"No," Cornplanter insisted. "You have to answer. How about
it?"
"I can't," I insisted.
"Hey," he said. "Either way, in my opinion, you would still represent
the people like the way they want to be represented. Who represents the people more?"
"No one represents the people more or less," I said. Then I qualified it.
"If they are doing their job. I've always been proactive. I see something, make it
public, and then try to solve it. Sometimes that is the wrong way to go about things, but
I think people have the right to know what is going on. Most of the people I have come to
know in local politics around here, don't want the people to know. They are afraid of
having something bad said, or worse, written about them. That is not serving the people.
That is serving yourself."
"So which job is more important?" he asked.
"They both are important. Every job is important as long as it is done in the
spirit of representing people and not being used for personal gain. The farming in your
time was as important as fighting to protect your lands. To say the farmer was less
important than the warrior would have been wrong. Everyone had to do their job so things
would work right. The problems arise when one area doesn't pull its own weight."
"Exactly!" Red Jacket said. "That's why we came to ask you the question.
That's why we went to see Gizmo."
"Really?" I asked.
"Yes. This Tom Shay guy is more of the same. Arvid Nelson was a good mayor.
You blew it on that one."
"I sure as hell did," I admitted. "It was all about Ray McMahon.
That's what this year was all about. Everyone is kidding themselves if they think anything
is going to change. It won't. Arvid knew it couldn't. Arvid knew up close and personal
that McMahon had a lifetime contract. He couldn't get rid of the guy. Cavallaro didn't
want to because if she did, or even tried, it would have taken effort on her part, and she
is too lazy to do anything like that. Besides, even Arvid said that he could never get her
to make a decision on anything, ever. He knew we were kidding ourselves. I think we are
kidding ourselves again."
"That's why we need this guy, Gizmo," Cornplanter said.
"A Y2K'er?" I asked.
"Sure, why not? he asked back.
Really, I couldn't give him an answer. It was just hard for me to imagine anyone on
welfare running for anything, let alone Mayor of Bradford. But, the more I thought about
it, the more the idea made sense to me. He would be representing his own people. What an
idea! Those two Indians never ceased to amaze me.
About that time the electricity came back on. The TV came on and the lights in the
house lit everything. I excused myself and ran around turning everything off so Sharyn and
Aunt Rose wouldn't be disturbed. By the time I completed what I was doing and came back
they were gone. I sat down and thought about what they said. It was a whole lot to swallow
all at once. Oh well. Connie won on a write-in, evidently Tom Shay thinks he can, so why
not Gizmo? It did have a ring to it. Gizmo for Mayor. I laughed.
Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.
P.S. Answer your question, Linda?
SEPTEMBER 9, 1999
So what's the big deal?
I walked into the Bradford Hotel following the Airport Authority meeting hoping to
find a few moments of peace. Everything was racing through my head and I was tired. You
would think that when you spend nearly $600,000 on a new hanger and everything that goes
with it you would get a job that you could accept. Not the case! We voted not to accept
the job Dick Kessel did. It is beginning to seem that the Sea Plane Port could become a
reality instead of a joke.
But to assume you will get peace and quiet, or even a few moments of solitude at the
Bradford Hotel in the middle of the afternoon, appears to be more than you should expect.
I wasn't even at the bar when it started.
"Hey!" one of the new Y2K transplants hollered across the room at me.
"So why is there such concern over another vacancy on Main Street?"
I just looked at the person talking to me. My eyes hadn't adjusted from coming in out
of the sunlight.
"Do you mean that affable, if not laughable, artery of commerce in the sleepy
hills of northwest Penn's Woods?" one of the other Y2K er's said.
I still didn't get a chance to answer. The conversation, all one sided to this point,
took on a life of its own.
" Dontcha know?" the first speaker said. "There's a new sheriff on
Main Street! I dunno if it has yet to be determined if he is an accomplished baritone or
tenor yet. But just the same, Mr. Yale is here to save the day!"
There was a roar of laughter. 'Twill be interesting to see what he can do,"
another person said.
"Nothing!" another added. "Not a damn thing. But you've got to give it
to the guy. He always looks good. Never a hair out of place. Neat, man. This guy is
neat."
At that point Billy Peckham, the great Irish Tenor and the finest Chief of Police in
the history of Bradford, PA, if not all of Northwestern Pennsylvania, called to me.
"Bud! Over here."
My eyes adjusted to the change in the light. I saw the empty bar stool next to him and
made my way over. While I was, another comment shot across the room.
"At least no one will be able to accuse him of being a Lesbian," they said.
That was followed by more laughter and another comment about married women. I didn't
catch the full sentence because the laughter grew louder.
"What's this about?" I asked Billy.
"It's been like this since the MutantBeach Fest Parade the other day. All these
people showed up and they've stayed. A bunch of them have been on the pay phone using
calling cards the Welfare Office gave them calling their relatives. From what I've been
able to gather they are calling telling them how much they like the place and inviting
them up. It looks like this bunch is going to stay."
"That's scary," I said. "This is like a scene out of the movie Gremlins."
Peckham laughed. "Now that you mention it, it kind of is. It's like when they were
in the movie theater watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs."
I shook my head. It was more than I was prepared to deal with at that moment. It was
all like a bad dream; or a bad movie. Either way, it wasn't good for any of us.
I was irritated at the irreverence they had shown to the town. I was irritated that
these newcomers would make fun of the empty store fronts on Main Street. I thought that
was the height of ignorance. Then I considered how it must look to someone who has just
arrived on the scene. It was a joke! These people were right. I decided to pick their
brains and see what they had to offer on the subject.
"So what's the answer?" I asked. "You of all people have more time
than most on your hands. You don't have the burden of having to earn a living. Everything
is given to you. You above anyone else have the time to contemplate such matters. What is
the answer?"
The one they called Gizmo was the unofficial spokesman for the newcomers. He picked
up my question and my sarcasm without hesitation.
"The problem here is the people who are attempting to solve the problem,"
he said. "It's that simple."
I was disappointed at first. I expected more. I expected him to give a great
oration and explain supply side economics and how the prosperity we have had in the
Commonwealth under the Tom Ridge Administration needed time to trickle down to the
outlying and remote areas like Bradford, PA. I didn't get that. No. Instead he gave me two
simple sentences that summed things up the way he saw them in less than a week.
Peckham nudged me. "He has a point."
I looked over my shoulder to him and agreed. "A darn good point," I said.
I looked back at Gizmo. I nodded my head in approval. "So what do we do?"
I asked him."What's the answer?"
He laughed. "Get rid of them all," he said. "Start with you City Council.
They're the biggest joke going. They rubber stamp everything this McMahon guy wants.
Changing mayors is just as big a joke. So you get rid of the grandmother. Big deal. You
get a younger grandmother who has more to lose. She has never voted against anything the
rest of council wanted. Why would she change now and suddenly become a leader? Doesn't she
work for that guy who is the big cheese in the Bradford Area Alliance?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Don't you think she will dance when he pulls her strings?"
I didn't answer. I didn't want to.
"Of course she will," he said.
"Now I hear this Tom Shay guy is going to run a write-in against her. Big deal! He
isn't any different. Just a different face who will do exactly the same thing. You need a
whole new group of people with new ideas. That will never happen. The best you can hope
for is a big grant to turn the Main Street stores into low income housing for all my
friends and relatives who are moving here to help you keep your Third Class City status.
That my friend is a hard cold fact of life."
As much as I hated what he was saying, I knew there was a real shred of truth to it
all. I knew he was right about City Council, and even though I had supported the new
candidate for mayor, he was probably right about her, too. It wasn't the first time I had
heard it.
But, at the same time, it was easy for him to sit back and live off the taxpayers
and have opinions. He had all the time in the world. The rest of us had to work. We had to
work to pay our outrageous school taxes so their kids could go to school in Cheri's
monument to herself. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.
I didn't have any of the answers. Gizmo was sure that he did. Maybe he should run for
Mayor of Bradford. Maybe that's what I should get behind. I wondered. I really did. Did it
matter who the Mayor of Bradford was as long as we were saddled with the Ray McMahons and
the Bradford Area Alliance? I doubted it. And as I did, I wondered what it was really all
about? I wondered what the big deal was in the first place?
Bradford was just one of the many peas in the same pod that is rotting on the vine. No
Alliance could ever save it. All the Alliance could do is pick off the plums for itself
before everything was gone. That is exactly what it seems they are doing. Oh well.
Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.
SEPTEMBER 8, 1999
Being a day late
Good morning. It's raining outside at 4 A.M. And, it's happening already. The
Bradford Era is a day late.
I would like to take credit for finding it, but I can't. An hour ago my two Iroquois
Indian pals came by wanting to show me their newest acquisition. When you have gone
through red pickup trucks and skunk liver, you realize that anything is possible. I was
pleasantly surprised to find out that they have entered the cyber generation and have
purchased a notebook computer.
"Look at this," Red Jacket proudly showed me. "Now we are linked to the
internet."
"You need a phone line to be linked to the net," I told them.
Cornplanter quickly corrected me. "We use my cell phone," he said.
That blew me away. I had no idea the chief had one. First cell phones, now notebook
computers. For as old as they are, they have and are keeping up with the rest of us. I
wondered if that was all that good, too.
They were quick to show me how they had mastered its use.
"Watch this," Red Jacket said. "I'm going to hook up to Penn Com and
then go on to the world wide web."
Sure enough, they were in to the internet in no time. He hit his favorites and came up
with a list that he had already accumulated. Of course he had THE MOUNTAIN LAUREL
REVIEW, and, he had some other interesting ones. There was Quinn in the Morning out
of Pittsburgh, a site to buy cigars on line, and the official Ocean City, Maryland web
site.
"Here's a new one I added today," Red Jacket said. "It's one about
McKean County. This guy Brad does it."
While he was talking http://pennsylvania.Route-6.com/mckean.
came up on the screen.
"Look at this," Cornplanter said. "It's a great site. It tells us all
about our entire area, not just Bradford and the Alliance."
I laughed. I couldn't help myself.
"What do you have against the Alliance?" I asked Cornplanter. "What have
they ever done to you?"
Cornplanter, always careful to chose his words; and, always careful to say exactly what
he means, put it this way.
"Personally, to me, nothing," he said. "Those men who think they are all
so important because of the money they have inherited from their daddies and their rich
relatives, I've known them. I've known them for hundreds of years. They haven't changed.
I've changed more than they have and you know how much I hate anything new. I'm still
wondering about this gadget here," he said referring to the computer.
"What bothers me is how they all seem to know what is best for us. They don't
know us. They don't want to know us. But somehow, they always know what we need. I have
found something out about how they know what we need. For some reason, what is best for
us, always is what is best for them. For some reason there is some deal that makes it
imperative that a certain thing is done a certain way and we need to get in line and
follow them. That's wrong. That's what's wrong with the Alliance. They are serving
themselves, not us."
I knew what he was saying. I understood him. I listened as he continued.
"It doesn't make any difference if they wear powdered Whigs and fancy britches,
and call themselves Lords and the such; or, if they hang out at the Bradford Club and come
up on the hill and shoot clay pigeons every weekend. They are the same. They are in their
own clubs and we are out there waiting for them to decide whatever it is that they thing
we need or don't need. It would be different if they came out and told us that this
is what the Alliance thinks. It would be different real different if that ever
happened," Cornplanter said.
"But they have never done it that way. No. Historically, they have the people who
work for them carry out their dirty work. They use the people they have put in key
positions to do the dirty deeds. They use their bought and paid for politicians and their
newspapers to tell the rest of us what is good for us and what to think. That's how they
do it and that's what the Alliance is trying to do to us now. That's what they have been
doing," he said.
"You know that. You stand in the way and tell everyone what is going on. That's
why they have to get you out of office. You are dangerous."
Red Jacket agreed with Cornplanter. "He's right. You are dangerous. You tell
people what is going on like when they wanted to get rid of Candy Bush. On the surface it
didn't seem like much to most people. It did to you. You thought so. You made them look
bad. They looked real bad."
"It was a principle," I said. "They had already gotten rid of Charley
Dach to hire Linda Devlin. What has she done? Have we seen a surge of tourism now that the
Alliance has taken over tourism in the county? Of course not! What we have is the highest
paid flag raiser in the nation."
"What?" Cornplanter asked. "What are you talking about?"
"From what I can tell," I said. "The sum total of her accomplishments
are that she raises the flag and then she lowers the flag over Bryner's Oil Museum every
day."
Cornplanter laughed and was laughing when Red Jacket interrupted us.
"Look at this!" he said. "It's starting already. What day is
today?" he asked.
"Wednesday, September 8th," I said. "Why?"
"Look at this. The Era hasn't posted today's paper. They have yesterday's
paper on line. How am I supposed to find out the latest news?"
Cornplanter took the computer from Red Jacket to see for himself. Sure enough, he found
out that his fellow war chief was correct.
"That's a darn shame," he said. "That's a darn shame."
He looked at me. "Do you know what this means?"
"No," I answered. "What does it mean?"
Gesturing toward Red Jacket he said: "He'll start stealing the newspaper again. I
talked him out of it. I told him that getting it on line was like stealing it without
participating in the actual act. He bought that. Now, if they aren't going to be reliable
on the internet, then he will go back to stealing it every day. He doesn't think The
Bradford Era is worth what they charge for it."
I was forced to agree.
"A day late!" Red Jacket said. "Look at them! A day late just like their
news reporting."
That statement threw me.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked. "Explain that one to me."
He smirked. I knew that he knew something. I knew that he knew something that no one
else did and he knew that they needed to know it, too. The smirk got larger.
"Well?" I asked. "What do you know that I need to know?"
"Main Street is about to get the biggest vacancy that it has ever had in a
very long time."
"What?" I asked. "What are you talking about?"
"National City Bank is closing up and leaving Bradford. They are moving out of
their Main Street Building and all of it or any part of it is up for lease beginning very
soon."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"People talk in bars," he said.
"You can't believe everything you hear in the Bradford Hotel," I said.
"Not the Bradford Hotel," he said. "I heard it at the County Club and I
took the effort to verify that it is true. I found out by calling the Corporate
Headquarters. Bradford is one of many that they acquired and have decided to close."
I was in a state of shock. I didn't know what to say. What would that do to Main
Street? Where would we get a new tenants to take their place. There were already nearly
twenty vacancies on Main Street. What were we going to do?
I didn't know about that and I am sure he didn't either. But, like the Internet, The
Era was a day late again.
Comment on this article at editor@mlrmag.com.
SEPTEMBER 7, 1999
Labor Day at the Bradford Hotel
Most people have no idea. Even though I do, sometimes it even astounds me.
Yesterday was one of those days.
Labor Day is the end of the summer more or less. This year it seems to me less than
more. Even with the rains falling this morning, the temperature hasn't cooled that much.
In fact it is still muggy, left over from a weekend of high humidity and temperatures
warmer than we are used to. Keep in mind that in years past we have seen thirty degree
temps with even a first frost.
Anyway while most people were having Labor Day picnics, I was finishing up a weekend of
work and stopped into the Bradford Hotel in an attempt to try and quench my thirst. I was
surprised to find that I wasn't the only one with the same idea.
Billy Peckham, the great Irish tenor and finest Police Chief in the history of
Bradford, if not this entire part of the state, was at the bar talking to Dave Sheffer.
They had two seats at the bar and every other one was taken, too. Many of the regulars,
Welfare Wes, Toothless Tim, Mattress Margie, Slick, and even Yellow Dog, were standing
because there wasn't a seat in the house. The place was packed and Sheffer had a smile on
his face that just wouldn't quit. He recognized me immediately.
"Bud! How the heck are you?" he said.
"Thirsty," I answered. "Real thirsty."
"Want a cold beer?" he asked.
"Ice water," I said. "That would taste real good about now," I
answered.
That drew an immediate response from Peckham.
"Water!" he roared. "Are you crazy? You should know better than to drink
the water! Look around you! How do you think these people got to be the way they are? They
drink the water. Have a cold beer. Have a Michelob. It's better for you than the
water."
I did look around. There were a lot of familiar faces. I knew those people. I knew all
about those people. Peckham's point was well taken. They didn't just get like that. They
couldn't have. Something had to play an important role in that degeneration. Why not the
water?
"Mick light," I said to the bartender. I didn't need a skyscraper to fall on
me! Peckham had to be right. What else could it be?
Sheffer was still smiling.
"You've made this into the hottest spot in town," he said to me. "It's
like Mike Royko immortalizing Billy Goat's Saloon. You've done this. Thanks," he
said. "Thanks a million. I've got Bud's beer," he said to the bartender.
"You've really put me on the map," he said. "People call from out of town
now trying to make reservations so they can stay at the hotel. Imagine that! I never
realized the power of the internet. You have really done it."
"Where did all these people come from?" I asked him.
"A bunch of them came up from Pittsburgh and Philadelphia for the MutantBeach
Fest," he said.
"They did?" I asked. "Did they have a good time?"
"They sure did. They are already planning for next year and some of them have
decided to relocate here."
"They have?" I asked.
I was afraid to ask the next question. I thought the Beach Fest was a joke. I thought
Tom Clark dreamed it up and was just poking fun at the local population. Now I find out
that there really was one. I wondered if Tom knew?
"The parade was great," Welfare Wes said. "It did my heart good to see
all those people with disabilities like me doing their best to march down Main Street.
Many of us with bad backs could only make it a block or so, but it is the thought that we
put into the effort that really mattered. Not the end result. Fortunately for me the
parade started east of here and one block was exactly at the Riddle House. I ended there.
When I recovered I came back here. But others made it the whole way. They went all the way
to the Star Bar. That's where they put out the free spread. I heard it was packed."
"I can imagine," I said, still not believing what I was seeing or hearing.
Two new guys joined in our conversation. They referred to one another by letters,
not names. They wore identical T-shirts that said: "M&F Roofing. We only roof in
the rain!" And you guessed it. One was named M; the other was named F. Oh well, I
thought. The strange world of the Bradford Hotel.
"A bunch of these people are here for the Y2K thing," F said.
"I thought they had that fixed," I said. "Besides, I thought most of it
was a hoax designed to make computer companies millions in upgrades and new
equipment."
"Oh, it is all of that," M said. "But there's a different aspect to Y2K
that most people don't understand. It is particularly significant to Bradford."
"It is?" Peckham asked.
"Yes," F said. "The year 2000 is a census year. Bradford stayed a Third
Class City barely in 1990 by using the population of Federal Correctional
Institution-McKean, the last time. Now, with all the deterioration and the unusually high
school taxes, even with the 1200 or so housed up there in Lafayette Township, Bradford
still doesn't make it. That's why they seized on the MutantBeach Fest idea."
"They?" I asked. "Who's they?"
"DPW," M said. "The Department of Public Welfare. Ray McMahon and the
Alliance is in on it, too. They are offering all kinds of promotions to get these people
to relocate from the cities and come up here. They are throwing the book of rules handed
down by the Federal Government away. They are playing a game to compensate for the dismal
showing they had in the Welfare to Work program. They are making it look like they are
taking people off welfare in the inner cities and claiming that a new generation of
reliefers are coming of age up here."
"They are?" I asked.
"Yes," F said. "We're part of that exodus. Our company is scheduled to
go into Ray McMahon's new incubator. They are giving us a loan from some revolving fund
and we are even getting grants from the state.We are some of the new job creations. We are
part of the economic future of Bradford," he said proudly. "We are also helping
get the population count up over the 10,000 mark so they can stay a city, too."
I was trying to remember who told me that. I had heard about welfare people from
the cities being relocated here to keep the population above the Third Class City
requirement. I had heard that the mayor was rubber stamping the idea for Ray McMahon and
the Bradford Area Alliance. I just couldn't remember who.
As much as I wanted to believe that it wasn't true, I was forced to believe that it
was. It made sense. It made all too good of sense. It fit in the economic picture and the
plan that was put in place back in the seventies when the Republicans tried to break the
strangle hold the Democrats had on the state.
They attempted to dilute the working northwestern part of the state with a
non-working welfare population in hopes that they would register as Republicans. They
carefully bucked the pattern and managed to pull it off. What was going on, if it was
true, was a Phase Three or Four in the grand plan. What was about to happen would impact
every person in the immediate area and the school district. It was the property owners who
shouldered the burden of educating the children of the non-workers.
The thought of it all, the divisiveness of it, depressed me. But that's the nice
thing about the Bradford Hotel. When conversations like that depress you, walk away and
join in another conversation. The absurdity is certain to cheer you up. I walked in on a
conversation with Mattress Margie and Toothless Tim.
"It is not," he said in an insistent tone of voice.
"It is, too," she said back. "Why would Leslie the Leech give me false
information on something like that. Remember school. Leslie always was good in History
Class. Leslie would know something like that," she insisted.
Tim looked at me in frustration.
"Margie says that she has it on good authority that Labor Day is held to honor
women who give birth. Is that true?" he asked me.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I shook my head trying to get the buzzing out of
it. I just couldn't believe it. First a MutantBeach Fest that started out as a joke and
became reality. Now Labor Day declared a Feminist Holiday. What next?
Needless to say, thirst or not, I was not staying around any longer than I had to.
This certainly was a Labor Day I would never forget. How could I? Of course most days are
like any other at the Bradford Hotel. Why wouldn't they?
Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.
SEPTEMBER 6, 1999
There is no article.
SEPTEMBER 4 & 5, 1999
Space Droppings BY TOM CLARK
For those who are looking for information of the Mutant BeachFest '99, I apologize for the
nonexistence of the official web site, www.mutantbeach.com.
It seems that a small city in the foothills of Arkansas has a recreational area by
the same name and has secured domain rights to the URL.
A few weeks ago, I wrote of the Y2K paranoia and our
impending doom. It's rather silly to think that civilization will end at the stroke of
midnight on New Year's Eve. However, a small part of the world, say, the size of Bradford,
may be on the barrel end of a new form of Russian Roulette.
After 13 years and 75,900 orbits around our planet, Mir is coming back to Earth and I
have a feeling that the Russians aren't quite sure of where it's going to land. Last
Friday,
Commander Viktor Afanasyev and two fellow cosmonauts left Mir, the Russian equivalent to a
1963 Dodge Dart, unmanned for the first time since 1987.
Afanasyev ended his stay in this high-tech tuna can at 389
days.
In January, 2000, the last two cosmonauts to board Mir will
gradually lower its orbit. Their departure from the galactic Comfort Inn will close the
onboard guestbook signed by 64 people from 24 countries. Once unmanned, ground controllers
will bring the 140-ton spacebarge to Earth, mostly burning up in the atmosphere. The parts
that survive the plummet will probably hit the Pacific Ocean.
"Probably". This is what the Russians are telling us.
I'm not familiar with Russian terminology, but I heard that Mir translates to
"duct tape" in English. I searched the Internet and, according to The Duct Tape
Guys @www.octane.com/ducttape., American astronaut Jerry Linenger spent 132 days on Mir
and made numerous repairs to system failures with duct tape, also known as West Virginia
chrome.
Remember when one of our Space Shuttles slammed into the Mir's docking area? Linenger
fixed the damage with duct tape. It probably looks like a typical car in a Wal-Mart
parking lot on a Saturday morning.
Let's move past the duct tape and flaming re-entry for a moment and focus on the
Russian space program itself. In simple terms, the once powerful agency enjoyed status as
the frontrunner in the Space Race. Today, the Russian space program is in disarray and,
frankly, I'm rather skeptical of their endeavors. They have hindered NASA's efforts since
joining forces to construct the International Space Station. Three Space Shuttle missions
have been delayed due to Soviet ineptness in workmanship and the lack of funding on their
end.
When the Iron Curtain fell and the USSR broke up, the space program was suddenly
scattered across five different countries. The launch site is now property of Kazakhistan,
ground control is now in Ukraine, and so on. One cosmonaut was stranded on Mir for months
until they figured out how to get him down.
According to a few news sources, the finest of the Russian space scientists are bailing
out on their homeland and taking jobs with the space programs in China and India. The
Russian space program lacks the money needed to keep their top echelon of scientists. So,
who does this leave to do the brainwork necessary for space technology? I think this is
where the word "probably" comes into play.
I am a space enthusiast and a strong supporter of NASA and space science. My feeling is
cut welfare completely, the strong will survive, and pump the money into the space
program. Space technology is an exacting science, which is why I've
never heard NASA using the word "probably" pertaining to a space flight.
I sincerely hope that our boys at Cape Canaveral take a blue pencil to the Russian math
results concerning Mir's ceremonious return. If not, I would "probably" keep the
roofer's phone number handy, just in case.
Russian Roulette, anyone?
And we did get mail on the mutant beach fest.
Dear MLR Editor,
I was unable to attend this year's Mutant Beach Fest. Will Tom Clark publish the results
of all the contests?
I have a sister who entered the Spandex (the bigger the better) Butt contest. Since I
got a job, she doesn't talk to me any longer so I don't know how she finished. If you see
her at the Laundromat (every 3rd Thursday), tell her I miss her and say hi to our son,
Tony.
Faithful Reader,
Larry Scott
Maybe Tom will publish the results next week. Thanks for this week's article, Tom. It
is appreciated.
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