Posted by Lex, on August 10, 2006
Tom hiked back to the barracks, and stopped at the houseboy shack for his things. His uniforms were ready, pressed, even his skivvies were pressed. His steel-toed flight boots sat gleaming, spit shined. He wondered how you spit shined an oil impregnated boot, and knew he would strip the polish off the first time he wore them. But he appreciated the effort, and paid up through the following payday. Three dollars cash, to do his laundry, make the rack, take care of his share of the barracks cleaning duties, perversely called “field day,” and put a useless shine on a worn pair of boots.
Browder was laying on a bottom rack, staring up at the springs, when Tom went by. The heat of midday could be felt as he came out into the sun, having written two letters, and updated his journal. The PX was the next stop, to get some stamps, and buy some sunglasses. Tom walked back down the hill. It was part of life at Cubi, up the hill and down again.
Posted by Lex, on August 17, 2006
The whine of the turbines spooling up was followed by the rumble of the engines as they ignited. The exhaust poured from the tail on the F-4 as the final preflight rituals were being completed. With the aircraft on internal power, the launch crew removed the huffer hose and power cable, while the plane captain proceeded though the pre-taxi checklists. The pilot and RIO finished their checks, and closed the canopy. The plane captain stepped out to the port side and with a flourish, signaled the aircraft to taxi forward, then turn. As the bird lumbered past, the plane captain came to attention and saluted.
By Lex, on Thu – August 11, 2005
And an equally improbable night. Cheerleaders, it is. Which is a gerundive with an entirely different psychic evocation than it ever had before, when it’s your youngest daughter who’s becoming the noun. For the love of God and it’s sure to be the death of me.
So I’ll keep this short. Sweet I can’t promise.
But short, yes. One soldiers on when one must.
Posted by Lex, on January 17, 2011
On an appropriate day:
My friends, I must say to you that we have not made a single gain civil rights without determined legal and nonviolent pressure. Lamentably, it is an historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. Individuals may see the moral light and voluntarily give up their unjust posture; but, as Reinhold Niebuhr has reminded us, groups tend to be more immoral than individuals.
We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct-action campaign that was “well timed” in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word “Wait!” It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This “Wait” has almost always meant “Never.” We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.”
Well, my brother pointed me to one we didn’t have. We lusted after it, but somehow never added it to our stable of cool weapons.
Apparently this one didn’t last long on the market, as the sound levels were reputed to cause hearing loss…and ya might shoot yer eye out. Oh yeah, the kid with the Sonic Blaster? That’s who it says it is alright, when he was a youngin’.
How many of you remember back that far? 🙂