Morning Thoughts: March 2, 2018

Believe it or not, I was once interviewed by the FBI. I had only peripheral knowledge of the matter, but it scared me sh …, pretty bad. So naturally I sought the advice of my dear friend and legal consultant Argumento de Minimus, the Harvard-Bred Lawyer. We often jogged together and had time available to jabber.

I love attorneys ‘cause they pay you well if you testify as an “expert” for them and they see that you get paid. They’ve also kept me from saying a lot of stupid things over the years—not all, but a lot.  If you haven’t noticed, though, attorneys aren’t exactly generous about giving away secrets of their profession. My friend’s advice, therefore was limited.

“Don’t lie,” he said. “It’s five years in prison if you lie to them.”

He elaborated a bit more on lies in general and the Feds’ lack of gradation, moderation, or humor concerning them. The thing I remember is that the only time he used the word “white” was when he assured me they would prosecute men of my race as quickly as they would those of others. "Don't fib, ad lib, or mess in your crib," he said, using one of the bedrock legal principles he had learned at Cambridge.

Of course I followed his advice. Argumento wasn’t only an attorney, he was a reserve Major in Military Intelligence. He even drew summer duty at the Pentagon. If he said “Don’t lie,” as numb as it may have made my tongue to comply, I told the truth.

Turned out, the agent was a super-nice chap. I told the truth. He thanked me and confirmed that I only reinforced what they already knew. We gossiped a bit, and he was about to leave without learning much.

Except for one little thing, and he perked up when I “dropped a dime” with that tidbit. Oh dear, was he happy. And, I found that Pierre Choderlos de Laclos was correct when he wrote, "La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froide." In fact, I served mine with a frigid glass of Chardonnay and some chilled wedges of “Bite-me Brie.” I still smile at the memory.

But that was a long time ago, in a paradigm far away.

I have to assume that Argumento was correct, and the five-year standard still applies.

If it does, the term “March Madness,” is going to take on a whole new meaning. My fellow Americans, what say, let’s put the wine in the fridge?

It just says, "From H."
Quick, before it gets warm.

Growing Up Southern: March 1, 2018

This ain’t exactly my area of expertise, but when has that ever stopped me? There’s been a lot of talk lately about top secret security clearances. No wonder. Some guy who didn’t rate one had access to all kinds of sensitive, potentially world-changing, info. It was a case of nepotism run amok. Oh well. Putin and “Nutty-Yahoo” both had bad days this week because of it. Tough noogies.

Anyway, here’s what I know, and it goes back a few years. Seems back when I actually knew people in military security, it worked this way: the easiest people to clear for a top-secret rating were young, straight, middle-class kids from “Andy Hardy America.”

They had likely never been in more trouble than getting caught sneaking cigarettes.

They didn’t allow kids to disrupt school classes back in those days, so classroom violence in one's past.

BB guns and single-shot 22s didn’t exactly invite mass shootings.

Temptations were limited, for boys, to girls like Beatrice Lundsford who wore her blouses a little low and showed too much of “Bouncin’ Betty” and “Jigglin’ Jenny.”

Temptations were limited, for girls, to “Elvis the Pelvis,” shakin’ that thang like ringing a bell.

Kids had no money, so there were no financial under-dealings to uncover.

You had to work if you weren’t in school, so truancy was unheard of, plus … there was always Beatrice Lundsford.

Imaginations were limited to mundane dreams like being able to whip Milton Walker or take a girl away from the captain of the football team.

There were no homosexuals—at least that’s what Franklin Graham says (because of all the thoughts and prayers being offered up in school)—so no likelihood of blackmail.

Aspirations were limited to a good job with the Highway Department.

“Bogartin’ a joint” meant being able to hold an unfiltered Lucky in your mouth with no hands and not slobber all over it.

“Hookin’ up” meant getting ready to go fishing.

“Coppin’ a joint,” was when the police officers drove through the “Wagon-Wheel” to make sure the kids were okay and not gathering around outside their cars planning mischief of some sort.

“Tonight’s the night” meant that there was a revival in town and Lennie Anne Colclasure was going to get “saved” again, a free show that was worth much more than a 50-cent movie. As they say these days, “If it gets the kids in church, nothing is off-limits.” There is a longstanding rumor that her “Faint and Fall” was nominated for an Academy Award once, but I don’t think that is true. It was true that every traveling evangelist in America knew her mailing address and sent her personal invitations to their services. It may also be true about that being the origination of “the backstage pass.” I don’t know.

Anyway. “Gimme your lunch money,” meant that it wasn’t your day to walk to “The Little Chef” to get the hamburgers.

“Drive-by shooting was what you and your buddies did back of O.T. Bennett’s daddy’s place with your BB-guns and bicycles.

It was a less tempting place. So those kids made the “top-secret” cut while their more sophisticated cousins, who benefitted from many more opportunities for nefarious behavior, didn’t.

It was said that Great Britain often suffered from internal espionage because of primogenitor. That’s where the eldest son inherited everything in the family. Second sons, and beyond, faced the military or civil service. Since the Brits naturally assume that the higher classes inherently possess a higher-level moral structure, they don’t bother the rich or elite with any sort of thorough examination for security clearances, or anything else.

We all know, now, how well that works out.

Back when juvenile crime was
tormenting the farmer's piglets.