Outlaws, Outrages and Outright Lies

Balcom

Some men are forged from iron, others hammered steel,

Some men ride the easy path, others by fire anneal.

And God has granted each of us two of everything,

Two eyes, two ears, two arms, so each can do his thing.

For those who are not perfect, he helps to make them whole,

So each of us can find our purpose and our role.

John Bascom had but one leg and he used it well,

So listen to the story that I’m about to tell.

Now anyone can ride a cycle on the street,

To sit and shift and lean isn’t such a feat.

But John craved competition and the thrill of speed,

And motocross would give him all that he would need.

Bought a Husqvarna, to race the Open Class,

It didn’t have shifter and it was awful fast.

The only automatic ‘crosser in the world,

John got pretty good as ‘round the track he whirled.

At Sayers Motocross, the TV cameras rolled,

The whoopers and the jumps were there to test the bold.

At the startin’ gate he couldn’t rev it very much,

Cuz a Husky automatic doesn’t have clutch.

The starter’s flag left him last and eatin’ dust,

But soon that automatic was makin’ lotsa’ thrust.

He stood up on one peg,

with his only leg.

And when he caught the pack,

He was burnin’ up the track.

John had come to race,

And he set a torrid pace.

He hit a berm so hard,

He pushed it back a yard.

Passin’ everyone,

He was havin’ fun.

Made a double jump or two,

Proved he was a real hot shoe.

The final lap, it came up quick,

Passed the leader, made it stick.

He took the checkered flag,

Won the trophy, got to brag.

So if your life seems a bit tough,

Don’t be gittin’ in no huff.

Be the best that you can be,

And show ‘em all, like John B.

LDT February 24, ‘24

I raced against John Balcom in the late 70’s. Once, a San Antonio TV station showed up to do a story on him. They aired a clip of him passing me.

**Husky’s** automatic gearbox took up no more room than a traditional wet clutch and transmission. Note that there is no shifter.

More on the Husqvarna Automatic here: LONG & WINDING ROAD: HISTORY OF THE HUSQVARNA AUTOMATIC – Motocross Action Magazine

Lines for My Mother

PVT. Frederick Buckmaster

Poem written to his mother, Mary Ann, on May 9, 1864

Clifton, Tenn.

It is a calm still night Mother, the winds are lulled and still…

The moon’s soft light is beaming bright on yonder sleeping hill…

But this soft dreamy hour, Mother, no magic may impart…

To check the teardrops from mine eyes, the shadow from my heart…

I’m thinking of the hour, Mother, I bade you all, “Farewell.”…

How like that shadow on my heart, those parting accents fell…

And tho’ full many a weary month since that sad hour has passed…

Yet with its awakening memory, the tears fall thick and fast…

Then I took the parting hand, Mother, I sought to wear a smile…

Tho’ my heart was full to bursting with its weary load, the while…

It came but dim and darkly, thru the mist of blinding tears…

So do you miss me there, Mother, at morn, at noon, at eve…

Do you often fondly breathe my name and for my absence grieve…

And when thine eyes rest that fully, upon one vacant chair…

That do you think of me, Mother, say do you miss me there…

Buckmaster joined the 15^th Iowa Infantry on November 12, 1861. He re-enlisted on January 1, 1864. He was wounded and captured by the Confederates during the Battle of Atlanta on July 22, 1864. He was imprisoned at the notorious Andersonville Prison and died there on September 9, 1864 at age 20. His mother was the Grandmother of my Great Grandmother, Nellie De Lay. The poem was preserved by my cousin Jackie Tobin.

**Buckmaster’s Memorial. Andersonville, Georgia**

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Bull Connor’s Dog

May 2, 1963. Bull Connor used police dogs and
fire hoses to attack young civil rights protesters.

As a pup, I licked your face,

Because I loved the human race.

I could have learned most any trick,

Instead, you beat me with a stick.

I wanted to be always sweet,

But when I was mean I got a treat.

I could have fetched a rubber ball,

But I attacked at your call.

I wanted to just wag my tail,

Not send folks to your jail.

You trained me up through and through,

‘til I became just like you.

But there is just one small glitch,

I’m not the only Son-of-a-Bitch!

LDT February 11, ‘24

As Commissioner for Public Safety for Birmingham, Alabama, Bull Connor used fire hoses and dogs to attack civil rights protesters in the 1960’s.

The Children’s Crusade. Birmingham, Alabama. 1963- The Children’s Crusade | National Museum of African American History and Culture (si.edu)

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Cabin Fever

The fire’s brightly glowin.,

but the damned old wind is blowin’,

The snow is comin’ down,

Coverin’ up the ground.

The Flivver won’t turn over,

I’m stuck in here with Rover.

The window’s frosted up,

Durn near froze my cup.

The highway ain’t been plowed,

The sun’s behind a cloud.

The river’s done been froze,

I need some warmer clothes.

The TV’s on the fritz,

Sometimes it up and quits.

The big game got snowed out,

Could-a been a rout.

The temperature’s so low,

That I got no place to go.

There’s chores that must be done,

But they won’t be much fun.

I’m gonna stay inside,

Couldn’t leave here if I tried.

A chinook is far away,

So I gonna’ hafta’ stay.

And dream of tropic sand,

In some far-off warmer land.

LDT February 10, ‘24

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Buffalo Chips

Out here on the prairie, the ain’t no wood to burn,

at least there is a trick that everyone can learn.

Everything that’s needed is lying on the ground,

and it’s the damnedest stuff that I have ever found.

From Abeline to old Cheyenne, it makes the grasses grow,

and if you like to pitch, it sure is fun to throw.

It simply is the best fuel that this place can offer,

and when it warms us up, you won’t be no scoffer.

It might take a while, to gather up a pile,

back at camp you’ll smile, it really ain’t that vile.

Find some old gray rocks and make a fire ring,

just so you know, I ain’t cookin’ for no king.

Throw in a chip or two, a little bit will do,

whatever you might do, don’t think of it as poo.

Crumble off a bit, and try to get it lit,

don’t you go and quit, pull up a stool and sit.

That smoke it smells real fine,

just like hickory and wine.

The skeeters won’t come near,

and the coyotes hide in fear.

The taters and the bacon simmer in the pan,

we can eat our beans directly from the can.

The aroma and the flavor,

yer gonna wanna savor.

Add some pepper and some salt,

I swear those ashes ain’t my fault.

Now don’t you make a fuss,

I don’t wanna have to cuss.

Don’t you put on no airs,

cuz out here no one cares.

And yer money and yer pedigree,

don’t mean buffalo chips to me!

LDT February 3, ‘24

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Buffalo chip fire demonstration: https://youtu.be/fx_JXW4QwxE

Disloyal (Book Review)

I wrote this review back in 2020. Amazon said it violated its Community Standards. I presume that was because I mentioned the infamous Pee Tape.

Disloyal

Michael Cohen

Used, Abused and Cast Aside

President Donald Trump is an enigma to outsiders. In fact, he is a puzzle to his friends and close associates. He is a man of action, but his actions are based on impulse. He never prepares or plans. He acts and reacts only on impulse. Sometimes his instincts serve him well. Sometimes they lead him over the abys, taking others along for the ride.

Michael Cohen worked closely with Trump for over a decade. He saw him in action, his successes and his failures. Drawn into Trump’s orbit he served as Trump’s fixer. When Trump or his brand was threatened, Cohen stepped in wielding a club of intimidation and tricky dealing. Cohen relished the role until it ultimately destroyed him.

Cohen is now a “reformed” man with an obvious axe to grind. So bitter is the animosity between Trump and his former lawyer/fixer that Cohen served part of a 3 year prison sentence for protecting Donald Trump. Released early due to COVID, Cohen soon found himself headed back to prison for writing this book. Why would Trump have our American government’s Department of Justice imprison someone for writing a damn book? That is why Disloyal is a must read.

The Trump real estate and branding empire was built on bluster and deceit with a ton of inheritance thrown in. Cohen was Trump’s first and last call of the day. He knew stuff. He massaged Trump’s ego while enduring a full measure of Trump’s abuse. He bullied people for Trump. He stuck his neck out for Trump. He told a reporter he would take a bullet for Trump. He relished the chaos of Trump’s world. In the end, he lost everything and went to jail for an unindicted co-conspirator referred to as Individual 1. If you don’t know who Individual 1 is, you haven’t been paying attention.

The book begins with a deeply self-searing confession of the author’s own failings. Cohen sees himself transformed from an attack dog lackey for Trump into someone who cares about truth, integrity and redemption. You don’t have to like Cohen or believe in his reformation to gain insights from his book. He was there through most of the events that created our 45^th president. If you have been reading the tweets or watching the news, you will recognize much truth in what Cohen has to say.

The picture painted of Donald Trump is both simple and straight-forward. He is a man who takes advantage of opportunities, loopholes and people. He is devoid of conscience and integrity. His actions and rhetoric only serve himself. If you cross Trump or get in trouble for doing his bidding, he hardly knew you. Countless business associates, employees, venders and cabinet officials have found this out the hard way. Cohen relates several episodes from first-hand experience. In one example, Trump ordered inferior paint for the rehabilitation of his Doral resort. When it didn’t hold up, he blamed others. The manufacturer was threatened with a lawsuit and bad publicity. They coughed up 30,000 gallons of premium paint. The painting contractor never got paid and the supplier had to sue. Several similar tales are covered in the book.

There are some great insights into the people of Trump’s world. His view of his own kids is explored. The failings of his first Campaign manager, Cory Lewandowsky are illuminated. Cohen does a fairly good job of explaining how Trump could capture the support of ordinary working Americans. He capitalized on their fears, religious fervor, economic woes and need to blame others for their lack of success. In the end he became their messiah, the all-powerful leader who would address all of their woes. Like the Messiah, he would be perfect, decisive and bold.

Though Cohen appears rehabilitated, there are some parts of the book that seem a trifle self-serving. He presents the Trump Tower Moscow project which he initially lied to Congress about as a half-baked deal that never got off the ground. He dismisses the Steele Dossier as poorly researched and full of unverified rumors. At the same time, he gives credibility to the salacious “Pee Tape” by relating a similar account he witnessed with Trump in Las Vegas. He is appalled by the dossier’s frequent mentions of his own involvement with Russians. Apart from the now debunked assertion that he met Russians in Prague, he fails to mention which other parts of the dossier are not true. (To be fair, he included excerpts from Steele’s dossier in an appendix.)

Cohen is also highly critical of the SDNY’s methods in bringing him to justice. He claims the tax evasion charges related to his side business in Taxi medallions was due to a crooked partner. He rightly asserts that he had little or nothing to do with the “catch and kill” payoff scheme for Playboy model Karen McDougal. This would leave the Stormy Daniels payoff to protect Trump his only real crime.

Lastly, Cohen describes how William Barr’s Justice Department did everything possible, to include sending him back to prison, to keep him from telling his story. Whether you like Cohen or not, his victory in court was a big win for our First Amendment rights.

I would recommend you buy and read this book. Many of Cohen’s assets have been seized, and he could lose the proceeds from the book as well. His only remaining asset could be the truth. That is a precious commodity in the Trump Era.

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High Desert Blues

I love the high desert with all of its sights,

But everything here sticks, stings or bites.

A Spanish Bayonet will run you on through,

Don’t grab a Cholla whatever you do.

A Mesquite thorn will flatten your tire,

An Ocotillo fence is tough as barb wire.

A Scorpion’s tail can cause you to wail,

And without fail, one’s ‘neath your pail.

A Mojave Rattler is as mean as can be,

And he’s not afraid of you or of me.

A Killer Bee’s sting can bring you to tears,

The rest of the swarm will heighten your fears.

The Black Widow Spider hides in the shed,

She’ll sting her mate until he is dead.

The Sand Burrs look like luscious green grass,

But even Old Dobbin must take a pass.

Tie up your dog when the Porky’s about,

Or you’ll be pickin’ quills from his snout.

A Gila Monster is sluggish and slow,

But don’t let one chew on your big toe.

The Vultures and Coyotes really don’t care,

If you were left dead by an ol’ mama Bear.

Yes, everything here sticks, stings or bites,

And all of us have taken some frights.

There’s just one exception to this general rule,

And if I didn’t tell you, I’d be a durn fool.

At the Santa Cruz River the fish never bite,

To tell you the truth, there ain’t none in sight!

LDT January 20, ‘24

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The Lass in the Glass

I loaded my troubles in a Sixty-Three Ford,

If truth could be told, I think I was bored.

At thirty below, there ain’t much to do,

‘cept git in a fight with a Great Northern crew.

The cowboys and hookers and Chippewa-Cree,

Won’t hang around with someone like me.

Drove toward Chinook, but I couldn’t pass through,

I decided to see if the legend was true.

Now the Lorelei that beckons to folks on the Rhine,

Ain’t got nuthin’ on Chinook’s famous sign.

She’s bold and she’s brassy and purdy damn sassy,

She’s fancy and classy, and one helluva lassie.

She sizzles in neon above the Elk Bar,

When I looked up, I near wrecked my car.

I stood there in awe and looked at that lass,

Kickin’ her boot heels out from the glass.

Loftin’ her cocktail and wavin’ her hat,

She’s a real beaut’ and I’m sure of that.

It’s hard to imagine a purdier sight,

Than a goddess of joy in the Montana night.

I forgot all my troubles and sauntered on in,

To one of the best places I’ve ever been.

LDT January 16, ‘24

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Peace

I went up to the mountain so lofty and so high,

Where the bombs have never fallen and the children do not cry.

I saw the devastation, wrought by foolish men,

And all I had to offer was some paper and a pen.

I scribbled off a note, don’t know what I wrote,

Oh, what did it emote, and what did it connote?

Just a silent scream at what was once serene,

Was it just a dream, all the horrors that I’ve seen?

I folded up the paper, two wings and a tail,

I threw it to the wind and then I watched it sail.

If only it would land in a place of peace and love,

And people would rejoice at what came from up above.

LDT January 13, ‘24

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Mister Big

There’s no one else like Mister Big,

Not even Jesus in a wig.

You won’t get shot on Fifth Avenue,

If you say His lies are true.

Mister Big, He has the answer,

To save us all from Windmill Cancer.

Only He can stem the tide,

Until the waters do subside.

He will gladly lend an ear,

To every hate and every fear.

He is wise beyond all doubt,

All His rivals He will rout.

You must be loyal to the Man,

Or He will smash you if he can.

So wave His banner way up high,

And never, ever question why.

There’s no one else like Mister Big,

Here’s His Kool-Aid, take a swig.

LDT January 11, ‘24

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