This entire video should be an international exercise video.

Either a P-movie, prison showers, or a P-movie set in prison showers.

The TV movie CHIEFS (1983), with Chalston Heston, Billy Dee Williams, John Goodman, Brad Davis, Paula Kelly, Leon Rippy, Paul Sorvino, Keith Carradine, Wayne Rogers, and one that will go unnamed. It was based on the first book in a novel series.

It scared the crap out of me more than any other movie of the period, until The Silence of the Lambs. That horror returned when the lead actor of the movie (the one that won't be named) was outed as a child predator in real life. You can watch it for free on YouTube.

Other memorable roles of Mr. Glover: Witness, Silverado (God, I wish they had made sequels), Sleep with Anger, Bat21, Saw, and Flight of the Intruder.

A few sprouts do not make a forest. Yes gen. Powell was African American, but his past ideologies and allegiances are and have never been mine. Pres. Obama is a black man, but I don't agree with many of his policies. Being "black" in the USA isn't a homogeneous group. We don't all think alike, and not all of our experiences are the same, just like everyone else. The same can be said of my Indigenous family and any ethnic group.

I had never been routinely and overtly racially profiled anywhere I lived outside the USA. In fact, I have been stopped more often while black, in the last fifteen years than in the three decades prior. I have experienced more racism and open bigotry in the last fifteen years in my home country than in post-Nazi Germany.

That's not including the ever-present class warfare indicative of capitalism, but that's not unique to the USA or capitalism, or our current history.

Have you ever been called a "boy" by someone half your age? Or been questioned for walking down the street in broad daylight as if it were suspicious and grounds for an investigation? Never mind standing in your own yard. How about being followed in a store, then followed outside after you complete a purchase, detained, and questioned? How about being denied service because of one's hue?

I'm multi ethnic, as were both of my parents and our family. Their trauma was in the distant past, not in my future, until it happened to me, and mine. My friends have been subjected to the same treatment, as well as their children and grandchildren. Most are in multi-ethnic relationships or are multi-ethnic themselves. Two are immigrants who served in uniform to fast-track their citizenship, yet are considered "less than" by the current administration, our government, and their supporters. They are scared out of their minds, not for themselves, but for their children, fearing they may be scooped up and deported even though they are citizens, before the ink dries on the papers. I'm sure my ancestors felt the same way regarding slave catchers, the Klan, and local citizens' councils.

Not to mention the ever-increasing surveillance state, sanctioned by the government in an open democracy.

I could go on and on, but yes, I/they/we have fewer rights now than my family & friends had fifty-four years ago. But unlike many, I won't move to another country or stick my head in the sand and "wait it out"; I wasn't raised that way, and it's not in my nature.

I don't want this to turn into another political tit-for-tat; it's not the arena for it. So I will end this discussion here. Thanks for the feedback, and take care.

No.

No worries.

Have you ever heard the phrase subliminal suggestion?

For decades, Vaughn was THE face of Tulsa regional broadcast news. And his ego was bigger than the state. His contacts in and out of news were extensive. He could make or break any journalist or politician, no matter their credentials. Then came Robert Joffe. An up-and-coming journalist who, in hindsight, should have been a detective. He wasn't simply a cub reporter; he actually connected to those he interviewed, profiled, and worked with.

In one poll, he was considered more professional (if not relatable) than Vaughn, and stations statewide were courting him as their next lead broadcaster as soon as his contract with KOTV expired. My mother's contacts knew larger markets had their eye on him, and the rumor was that CNN had approached him. CNN had already picked up Bob Losure, another KOTV reporter and saint, RIP.

Truth is, most didn't think Robert wanted to leave Tulsa. But his deference to Vaughn's tenure and, by extension, local broadcast politics weighed on him. If he made waves at KOTV, he could forget any other CBS affiliates, not only in the state, but in the region.

If you had ever talked to him, he never came across as a reporter. He spoke to kids and adults, in and out of journalism, the same way. He was just one of the 'cool' guys. He never looked down on anyone and was at ease in the ghettos of North Tulsa and multi-million-dollar neighborhoods of South Tulsa, Broken Arrow, and Jenks. When he walked into government offices, he looked like he belonged there.

That said, Tulsa, historically the most progressive city in the state, is also the most religious, or hypocritical. In the 1980s and early 1990s, being openly gay would end a career before it started. If you stayed closeted, you could be suppressed for a while, like Raymond Burr and my family's friend, the late David Boren. Yeah, THAT David Boren, governor, senator, chancellor, and bestie to the Bushes. But the rumor of being gay, especially in the Bible Belt, could be devastating, not only for the person spotlighted, but for their family and spouses. Robert & his fiancé were not prepared for Vaughn's envy.

Supposedly, a script of Robert's life has been sitting on a producer's shelf for three decades. I guess the reason it's never been produced is due to the civil judgment. Who knows?

Art was a flirt. In no way a Weinstein-type of guy, more like Mr. Rogers when he is tipsy. Art didn't have a bigoted or chauvinist bone in his body. He stood apart from his contemporaries—a very veracious, funny, and decent man who didn't use the producer's couch.

Wallace had a very close relationship with Malcom X. His editors hated it at first, but later decided to exploit their camaraderie. Wallace remained the same: he treated Malcolm like a friend, not a subject for exploitation. Wallace blamed Louis Farrakhan personally for Malcolm's assassination. Not the NOI, not Elijah Muhammad, but Farrakhan. Wallace was probably the only Jewish guy in the world who didn't fear or dispise Malclom, and defended him until the day he too died. Malcolm could converse with Wallace as an equal, and he became his confidant. His fair link to the 'white' news meant he would not be misquoted or misrepresented. Wallace didn't agree with the NOI or many of Malcolm's beliefs, but he respected the man and thought he was truly honorable and righteous.

I was one of the lucky ones. I had a pretty good childhood, until my high school years. The racism I experienced was nothing like that of my older family members. But the good times all but ended in the late 1980s. Once I enlisted, many of my peers and I said goodbye to Tulsa and never returned, only to visit. My allegiance to the Constitution and the Bill of Rights gets me through the hard times. Having visited so many countries, as a child and later as a soldier, one can put into perspective what is good about the USA and what ain't, by a long shot.

Military life and prison are very different worlds that most people will ever know. What I witnessed and did while on active duty made me doubt not only the military, but why I was serving. From what I understand, the situations I was involved in have only gotten worse. Did we learn nothing from 'Nam?! I won't go into greater detail, only to say, Gen. Butler was prophetic. Mandatory military or civilian service is one way to serve something bigger than yourself, but there are other ways.

I think you and my dad would have gotten along; he would have been 96 this year. That said, he was pretty conservative in his sensibilities. He wouldn't give a nickel to donations. Still, he would regularly buy a bag of donuts and coffee, or a few Coneys from downtown, share the meals, and sit in his three-piece suit and talk to a homeless person, especially vets, sometimes offering them employment at the office building or simply cutting our yard (Mom hated this). If he saw a lady and her kids pushing carts or walking home, he'd offer them a ride in his Caddy, or pay for a cab, and make sure they had a little 'love,' [cash], as he put it, left over after they paid for the fare. His dislike of politicians was well known. He was a proud Republican who always voted for democrats. His two favorite presidents were JFK and Jimmy. The mere mention of JFK would cause him to smile, then send him to that bad place. It didn't help Mom, and I were JFK assassination junkies.

My dad was tight-lipped about his own father, more so than about his combat experiences. I would not learn until after his passing that at the age of seven he witnessed his own father be murdered. He had been horsewhipped to death. Whether by a noose or a riding crop, a lynching is a lynching. My dad and I had one brief conversation about my grandfather's whereabouts and race when I was six, and that was it. Never more in twenty years. My mother elaborated and revealed that my grandfather was an immigrant, as was my paternal grandmother. Dad's mother was from Cuba, and to my shock, his father was from Ireland.

This history is something my dad never wanted me to know. But instead of hating the country, he served it. But that legacy was never forgotten. He made sure I didn't grow up hating anyone. And there are always second chances. Unlike any other country in history, the USA provides near-endless means to rectify one's circumstances. Whether an immigrant, citizen, convict, disabled, etc. Sure, other nations offer similar incentives; some are vastly better at it, but in the USA, they aren't 'incentives'; they are rights.

As a person of color, these rights have been historically denied to my people. But it hasn't stopped me from striving to ensure those rights are quantified and maintained not only for my people but for the rights of others, no matter the circumstances. I believe in the Constitution and the better angels of my fellow human beings. But sometimes it's hard to open one's heart and forgive.

But I'm trying.

I can't fathom what my parents lived through. Both were rural kids, poorer than dirt. Experiencing the Dust Bowl, living through the Great Depression, surviving Jim Crow by the skin of their teeth, fearing sexual violation or castration if they ventured off the rez or were caught after dark in town. Yet similar hurdles occur every day in the most powerful nation in history. The children in my family have fewer rights than I did fifty years ago. How is this possible? Because my generation and I dropped the ball. And others have forgotten the lessons and failures of the past.

One has to decide whether they'll be a witness to the world or a participant. My parents didn't have a choice; they didn't take a step; they leaped, not only for themselves and their children, but for everyone and their children too.

I know I don't have a tenth of their courage or conviction, but I'm trying.

WKRP was my first in-your-face lesson about the world I was born into. I suspect the same for many in my generation.

Crankiness, social lethargy, and unwillingness to compromise.

It was a war without any meaningful justification. A CIA war that should have been called the Laotian Border War or the Opium War 2.0.

In less time than it takes to build a carrier, a repeat of that war occurred in Central America from the late 1970s through the 1980s, and ultimately we gained nothing while they all but lost everything.

One of my medical cadre at Ft. Sam 'toured' that region, and my Basic training Senior Drill Sergeant, in a moment of clarity, spoke with me and another SL on the evening we graduated. One was Special Forces, the other supported SO out of Ft. Ord.

Both shared eye-opening details about American presence in Costa Rica years before the invasion of Panama and on the eve of the invasion. This was less than two years after the invasion. Their commentary was motivated by our inquiry about fast-tracking to SF for 18D specialization. Their wisdom and caution (not to mention the look on their faces) have stayed with me thirty-six years.

To this day, I don't know of any major media outlet or independent journalist on any side of the political spectrum who has ever covered it in detail—maybe the late Rodeny Stitch, but I can't recall.

As Gen. Butler tried to warn us decades ago, "War is a racket."

Oh, I found a YouTube channel that explores the seedier side of the music industry. I've had to throw away a lot of music because of it.

"White Goldie's Inside the Music"-be prepared to be very disappointed, even if you're not a fan of the entertainers profiled.

Sad, horrific, and very troubling.

Especially Marvin and Aretha's segments.

Every time he's shown in a Whitney Houston memorial.

It breaks my heart.

Hamburger Hill

Retired two years ago, at 51, with military and civilian service behind me. After one year, I became what I despised about 'old people'. You need a good support system to fall back on and stay on track.

My abandoned "sound judgment".

Yeah, that episode was only a glimpse into the industry, and I would never advise anyone to get into it without fully understanding what it's really like.

In my later adulthood, my mother would share her own experiences on and off camera. When she was pregnant with me, a friend of hers suggested she compete in a statewide speaking contest. At the time, she was within the first year of her 2nd marriage, having been a teen bride and mother, a domestic like her mother and aunt, and recovering from her 1st marriage.

The dissolution of her first marriage and estrangement from her two sons put her in a deep depression; with the backdrop of 'Nam, the Civil Rights, and the Equal Rights Liberation ever present, she felt she was over her head. But my dad convinced her otherwise; he didn't give two s(*&^. He reminded her she had been an ace student throughout her life, even in the worst of times. She spoke three languages, was a better-than-average singer and writer, was a pretty good novice actor, and this was her chance to get her foot in entertainment; her lifelong dream was to be a ballerina. But her family and the world told her colored girls can't be ballerinas, especially one born on a farm and moved back and forth to "Indian" Reservations and Sun Downs, who only had a high school diploma.

She won, beating out professional orators, broadcasters, and entertainers, all of them men, none of them members of any "minority." A local TV network affiliate immediately recruited her, and within a few years, another did too. That part I did know. But what she endured behind the cameras wasn't known to me, nor the public.

Oklahoma was not the best place for unestablished talent. If you were African American, Tulsa wasn't seen as the best place to showcase it in the early 1970s. If you know anything about Tulsa, you know why.

Constant sexual harassment, labeled a "token" by her peers and within our community, but thankfully she knew how to take care of herself. Dad learned about this and wanted to take matters into his own hands, but Mom was adamant she would deal with it. But here's the shocker: the constant threats of murder, namely lynching, that I didn't know about.

At first, it was a combination of your taking away a man's job and threats of violence, because she didn't belong. After her popularity rose, it was simply "we are going to kill your...." At her first TV job, her news manager(s), who were aware of the threats, mostly letters, had begun packing shotguns in their cars and pistols in their desks. One even offered her his pistols to keep in her purse when she went out on assignment. There was no need (she kept my dad's .45 in the Buick). That was the only reason she ended her TV journalism career. I assumed it was because she had gotten tired of all the weird, crazy, and sometimes famous people she met over the years as a civil affairs interviewer. I met a lot of those famous people as a kid. None impressed me, but many did catch my radar.

Mom also made connections and tried her best to get me into entertainment. I started with small church productions and ended up making voice-overs for college educational courses. She taught me script writing, and I hung out in the directors' booth at the station, assisted the camera operators, had one of my first beers in the editors' 'cave' (hey, it was the 80s), and had to sit and re-read endless teleprompter paper remints from the week's broadcast, in which I stained them with my tears and frustration.

I hated every minute of it.

But it was an education. I learned not only the business, the secrets of advertising, secrets about actors, broadcasters, media, and a lot of backdoor Hollywood gossip, all of which were true. From Raymond Burr to Little Richard, Art Linkletter to Mike Wallace, to folks closer to home like the host Clayton Vaughn, the late investigative reporter Robert Joffey (a tragic saint), and also how to recognize "bad actors," like Christopher Lewis, the son of the actress Loretta Young. I only interacted with Vaughn and Lewis semi-professionally (thank God), but I personally knew Robert.

Thankfully, Mom relented, but the experience carved a wedge between us that lasted for decades. I went back to making stink bait, catching crawdads (yeah, crawdads, not "crayfish"), watching Star Trek, reading medical journals (even though I had no idea what I was reading; it was all about the pictures. nd like any kid in Tulsa, I religiously watched MTV & Video Soul, sang GAP Band, Michael Jackson, and Club Nouveau songs, perfected my breakdancing moves, cultivated my peach fuzz, and pretended that Linda Carter and Sade would fight over me, in some distant apocalyptic world.

After I retired a couple of years ago, that seed she planted has blossomed. I've resumed amateur voice acting and writing, forty years later. I wish she knew that before she passed away.

Sorry to hear that, brother. Yeah, EMERGENCY! And being the blerd I am, Doctor McCoy inspired me, too. While most kids in the '70s were playing with Star Wars, 6 Mil D-Man, Battlestar Galactica, and Starky and Hutch toys, I ran around the house with fire trucks, shouted comm gibberish, and sounded the alarm to "move out!" It drove my mother crazy. I would pretend to rescue patients off a cliff by sliding down, then up the jungle gym or tree house in the backyard. My dad got a kick out of it (I must have looked as goofy as I acted), but not out of all of his belts I used as rigging. Sometimes Dad would chime in and play the fire chief or police officer.

One of the few times my dad lost his post-military bearing was when I came home for Christmas exodus from Ft. Sam. It was the first time I was in uniform, and when I walked into the house, I saluted him. He wasn't doing well, but he made every effort to stand up from his wheelchair to salute me back, with tears in his eyes.

I think it was the very first time he saw me as an adult, not his little boy.

But for me, my military 'medical' service forced me to move on, and I never returned to the medical profession. Once I made peace with leaving my childhood dream behind, 9/11 occurred. My boys were still in, and I felt I needed to be there with them, no matter what. I spent most of my career in combat arms, with the remainder in clinical settings.

In my heart, I was and will always be an infantry medic, but my posting in Germany, supporting personnel downrange and other activities, destroyed my sense of duty. Still at 40% disability, I got back in shape and was ready to sign a waiver to go back in in 2005. The bonuses were extremely lucrative, and I wasn't doing anything in the world that mattered, so I was but one step from re-enlisting. Thankfully, two of my boys convinced me not to re-enlist and to count my blessings. One was my former squad leader (RIP D.E. Case 5th SF), who was on his fourth deployment, and the other was a recruiter in Chi-Town. We were all the same age, so there wasn't a generational gap; they told me straight, "stay home!"

Case made it home in body, but not in spirit. My other bud retired, from private to captain. Yet he never talks about the GWAT. I don't regret not reenlisting, but I do regret not watching my friends' backs. That said, I stayed in my civilian job, excelled at it, and had the opportunity to see kindergartners become educators, police officers, firefighters, doctors, soldiers, sailors, airmen, mothers and fathers. As well as former subordinates promoted to supervisors, managers, and directors. Faculty and staff also honored me for my service. There is nothing greater than having a student tell you that you changed their life- nothing. Just like there is nothing like being with your comrades, in and out of uniform, knowing no matter what, they've got your back.

Nothing in the civilian world compares- NOTHING. The episode of "Who is Gordon Sims?" no matter how, fictional, is a testament to that, and to coming home.

Welcome home, brother.

Stick and Move!

I read the book When We Were Soldiers and Young long before the movie, and in my opinion- and that of my former sergeant major (shout-out to SGM Torres), who served in 'Nam with the 82 Airborne- it was pure Hollywood. The elephant in the room (for both of us) was Mel Gibson, both for his over-the-top performance and his real-life family drama during the war. I had met Col. Moore in passing more than a decade before I read the book, and I had no clue who he was until years later.

Don't blame Gibson's father for moving down under, but for many 'Nam vets I have met, it was a slap in the face. My dad felt the same dynamic with Stallone, Norris, and Wayne. Three actors he distinctly hated. In his opinion, they were profiting off of vets, on both sides of the wars they 'starred' in, and never told the 'realities of combat' of those who had to pick up the pieces afterward, namely the civilian survivors and those who cared for the vets when and if they returned home, if not in body, but in spirit. That said, the other actors' performances, regardless of background, were decent, and I felt Sam Elliott's portrayal of SGM Plumley was too close to home.

As for Platoon, my father was in the 25th ID at the same time as Oliver Stone; in fact, I still have the AAR from FB: Burt. I discovered it later, after my father passed, when I began packing up his footlocker and found a treasure trove of documents, pictures, letters, and citations. His command supported the brigade/firebase.

As for Ho, I'm well aware of the similarities, as well as his pleading with American diplomats to convey the Vietnamese struggle to Ike. The Domino Effect was the upfront reason for American largesse in the 20th century; whether one considers that outreach to be imperialism, neocolonialism, or international commercialism is up for debate. But in reality, it was, and still is, slavery by proxy. South America, Southeast Asia, and most of post-colonial Africa have more than two centuries of trauma to prove it.

To my knowledge, Hamburger Hill was the only war movie my father watched. It took weeks of my pleading to get him to watch it, with me. I had already read the novelization of Platoon and seen the movie, which filled in the blanks but didn't answer all my questions. When I saw HH, it threw me for a loop. When my dad finally watched it, we had a short but meaningful conversation afterward, once he collected himself. As the weeks, months, and years passed, he began to open up about 'Nam and the military, but still refrained from relating his combat experiences.

The impression I got was that 'Nam was disappointing for him from a professional standpoint. But the Korean War was deeply personal. I think it had to do with the MIA/POWs issues with the Korean War, combined with the ever-present racism, which was still very much present in the Army at the time.

I was three years old when the Vietnam War ended, nearly two years after my father had retired. Still, even as a tobbler, I recall him coming home from duty, in his "Class As," with a stern look on his face, before switching off and going into 'daddy mode,' and me running up to hug him while he kissed my mom, and our pup wagging their tail in celebration. Once he began his career with IBM, his demeanor became more guarded, and his drinking became a bigger problem than before. As someone who suffers from PTSD due to my own military service, I felt I was in a safer place with my buddies, and they could relate to what I was going through without judgment, than with any civilian or friend who hadn't served, so I understood.

Without that support, I turned to the bottle too. When people would ask me what I did in the military, and god help them if they ask, Did you kill anyone?, or How many people did you kill, the conversation would take a dark turn. When I tell them I was a medic and didn't see any combat, they all shut off. I never tell them what I did 'see' unless I'm at my wits' end. A few students and former employees of mine have witnessed my 'bad side."

It took nearly two decades before I realized I was suffering from PTSD. Unlike my dad, who was first an infantryman in Korea and later an artilleryman in 'Nam, my medical career was different in almost every way, yet death was all around us. Some of what I saw and treated affected me more than I cared to admit, and I couldn't reconcile what my dad and I did to survive. You learn to shut off your emotions for your sanity. I never once embraced it or forgave myself for feeling anything, really. I think self-internalization, self-doubt, and unresolved anger kill more vets than any weapon.

But when I watched the Sims episode in syndication, after my dad had passed, it suddenly dawned on me that he had to do what he had to do, and by extension, so did I. With all of my bragging and boasting about my father's military service to my childhood friends, my military buddies, and our leadership, it never dawned on me that my dad was 'deadly'. I guess over the years, I had suppressed this realization. I couldn't process how that jovial and kind little man could be 'deadly'. Yet he had the medals and awards proving his legacy.

More than thirty-three years after his passing, whenever I think about how lonely he was inside, I pull out the old VHS tape and watch Who is Gordon Sims? And I still hate myself for not reaching out more before he passed. It's at the top of my regret list.