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Tattoo You

A news item in the biz section of the local fish-wrapper caused The Mule to smile and wax mournful for days gone by. Seems like the folks licensed by Chevron to sell gas and oil under the old Gulf Oil logo are expanding out of the Northeast and into fair North Carolina.

Well, folks � Gulf Oil, back before it got gobbled up by Chevron, was my dead daddy’s employer. Before he got dead, of course. A North Carolina hillbilly, World War II vet and industrial migrant, Dad ran what was called a “cat cracking unit� at Gulf’s Philadelphia refinery. Lots of practical and way dangerous chemistry under very high pressure was involved, but it boiled down to this � Daddy ran a huge still designed to break down crude oil into lighter fuels and lubricants.

He was a child of the Great Depression and, like most of his generation, damn grateful about having a good-paying job. He lost his Gulf gig in the Kennedy recession of the early 60s and we had to flee our little brick duplex and go live with grandpa in the old Nesbitt family manse in Fairview, N.C., just a holler or two away from Asheville. Quite a change in scenery for a five-year-old mulester � an outhouse instead of indoor plumbing, an old wood stove for cooking and heat, chickens pecking away in the yard, wild-ass country cousins and lots of dogs. Including a game-legged German shepherd mix named � wait for it � Shep.

Ol� Shep’s right hind leg was bum. Soon after our arrival, I bumped that leg and Shep nipped me. For some reason, I didn’t cry, but knew not to touch that leg. He knew I knew and would be on my flank the moment I stepped out of the house. My toddler sister? Another matter. Shep would routinely slink away and eye her with deep mistrust. One time, he made the mistake of growling at her. Bad dog � Dad whipped him hard, as was the practice of country boys in these pre-PETA years before animal worship became a national religion.

We had a neighbor with one of those drop-top Olds Rocket 88s. Every afternoon ’round quittin� time, he’d roar down the gravel road in front of the house, dust boiling up like a grey mist. One day, Ol� Shep figured I was too damn close to that road and that Rocket 88.

Next thing I knew, Shep clamped down on the seat of my britches and started pulling me back from the road. I fell backwards, not sure of what the hell just happened or why. My dad was standing nearby, caught the scene and doubled over laughing. Good dog.

Daddy got work as an apprentice electrician and it looked like we’d be in North Carolina for the long haul. A late-night phone call changed all that. Seems that one of daddy’s Gulf buddies, a rail-thin ex-Merchant Marine named Dave Bowness, spotted a returned recall letter that had been sent to our old Philly address. Ol� Dave told dad he had 12 hours to call up Frank Roan, the hiring boss, to get his old job back.

Dave was a talking fool; once he rode South with daddy to pick me up from the Harvard on the Tennessee River � a nine-hour haul. On the return trip, the man never stopped talking, chattering seamlessly about the proper way to cook tender short ribs, thc clear superiority of a flathead engine versus a V-8 and the wonder of Havana whores.

So, thanks to Dave’s phone call, we wound up back in Philly � working-class suburban Philly, to be precise. And that’s why The Mule is a hybrid redneck who chews tobacco but has a blood lust for Philly cheesesteaks and soft pretzels. This cross-sectional upbringing explains his curious mixture of Northern rudeness and Southern sense of place and family. It’s also why The Mule has hated the Cowboys for decades � not because of bumptious dumbass Jerry Jones, but because they used to drub The Mule’s woeful Philly Iggles like red-headed stepchildren. Come to think of it, they still whip the Iggles � did it twice this year. The Mule’s hatred burns bright. Finally, moving back to Philly meant The Mule didn’t wind up graduating from A.C. Reynolds High School near Fairview � and didn’t wind up pumping gas at the local filling station.

Gulf Oil put me and Toddler Sis through college � for me, VolNation, baby, and may Lane Kiffin die a very slow and painful death; Western Carolina Catamounts for sis. I spent a summer at Gulf working in a warehouse not far from my old man’s cat cracking unit. On occasion, he’d fire up one of those motorized trikes with the tool bed tacked to the back and check up on me. Did the same thing for Sis when she pulled a summer tour of duty down there.

Dad commanded respect � from his co-workers and superiors. He once clambered more than 50 feet up the icy rungs of a caged ladder on the side of a cooling tower to coax a fear-frozen younger man to safety. He knew how to keep that rickety petroleum still humming along � his way. Which is why he preferred working the graveyard shift. No shavetail chemical engineering grads from Penn State flitting around during the small hours past midnight, bothering him about specs and pressure levels that old still could no longer hit.

He grinned when the fellas at Gulf nicknamed him “Tennessee� even though he was a hillbilly Tar Heel. What the hell did they know about North Carolina? They were from Jersey. But he was also a company man. Younger workers would accuse him of having Gulf’s orange disc tattooed on his ass. He’d smile and tell them “If it didn’t hurt so bad, I would.�

Yup. Good Gulf. Believe it. Daddy did. And The Mule sure does.

Just had that delightful medical proceedure all middle-aged dudes like The Mule loathe more than an alimony payment, dodge like a mother-in-law’s dinner invitation, but should love like a winning Powerball ticket.

Yup, we’re talking about a colonoscopy here, a veritable garden of medieval delights, starting with that wonderfully salty concoction you have to guzzle for a pre-game cleansing. Then you get the Roto-Rooter Special that conjures up the Death Scene from Braveheart � with The Mule as Mel. The Mule doubled down with an endoscopy chaser, a two-fer in Broadway terms, a perfecta at the track, stem to stern in biologically nautical terms.

Yo! Get Your Plumbing Checked!

Nothing worse than an aging Mule kvetching about his maladies, so we’ll cut to the bottom line. Result � top-side pretty clear. Different story downstairs. Four polyps. None of them looked cancerous to the dry-witted guy peering into my innards, a droll cat named Morris “Mickey� Pollock. Of course, jury’s still out on the pathology report, but the Mickster said he didn’t think them worrisome.

One thing he did say is worth passing along: “You’re the poster child for guys getting this done now instead of later.� As it was, The Mule was two years past the recommended start-date for such tests: his 50th birthday. No matter, as Mick delivered his wisdom, for some reason, a campaign bumper sticker

The Crook -- Before Club Graybar

from a long-ago Louisiana gubernatorial contest shot straight to The Mule’s forebrain. Notoriously corrupt Gov. Edwin “The Silver Zipper� Edwards, now doing serious graybar time, but then making one more run for Huey Long’s job, was matched up against former Ku Klux Klansman David Duke � ol� Hate Gets A Haircut himself.

Edwards and his Cajun accent versus a carefully-cloaked hate monger in khaki slacks and a button-down shirt in one of those

Duke, Before The Haircut

Banana Republic runoffs that helps make Bayou State politics so much fun. A truly hellish choice between bad and far worse � a manifestly and oft-indicted crook or a race-mongering huckster. The Mule covered this race and remembers a press conference line Edwards delivered in his comic book Cajun accent: “Tha� swa-stick-ka will nev-vah fly ovah tha Pell-i-can State.�

The bumper sticker from that runoff campaign: Vote For The Crook. It’s Important. Flat out pierced The Mule’s post-op, joy juice fog. Don’t know why, but it seemed fitting to just change a word or two to fit the moment.

Vote For The Scope, Stupid. It’s Important.

A foolishly typical and predictable story about the swine flu crisis caught The Mule’s eye late last week and caused his blood to boil.

Three reasons for the temperature rise. The story was knee-jerk journalism at its very worst, centered on whether there’d be a citizen backlash over public health officials ‘crying wolf� about the threat posed by the H1N1 flu virus, a genetically exotic mutant that outflanks the human immune system and renders the current flu vaccines impotent. There was this lethally premature subtext � the latest health crisis is over, folks, and officials alarmed us for nothing.

The piece also lumped together the warp-speed hype of the 24/7 blogosphere and TV news cycle with the measured warnings about the very real dangers of pandemic flu from public officials. Calm but stern and serious was the demeanor of most everyone in officialdom The Mule eyeballed, from Smooth Barry, the World Health Organization and CDC officials to state public health chieftains.

During every press conference The Mule monitored, public officials have stated the risks and given sound reasons for making moves such as shutting down a school � turns out kids are natural incubators, promiscuous socializers and shed flu virus far longer than adults, so it’s smart to close a potential flu factory once the virus is detected.

Unlike the yammering idiots on the furniture what talks, officials haven’t hammered the panic button or poured Jet A fuel on the fear factor. And unlike their counterparts in Egypt, they haven’t ordered up the mass slaughter of pigs. Instead, they’ve been very frank about the worst that could happen � another 1918 Spanish flu nightmare, killing millions � and the potential that this threat could fizzle out, making all this public health ramp-up unnecessary. The Mule was mightily impressed with Smooth Barry’s grasp and clear, calm outlining of these very parameters during one C-SPAN broadcast of a Cabinet meeting presser.

As The Mule has preached in a previous post, we’ve caught a lucky break � so far. Because the genetic dice just happened to roll our way, this potential killer has turned out to be as mild or milder than the seasonal flu viruses we all know and love. Wally Cox instead of Hannibal Lecter. However, Wally may well mutate into something far deadlier and come roaring back this fall, as Smooth Barry and others have calmly noted. And we will still be as wide open to such an attack as we are right now � no natural immunity to an exotic hellspawn, no vaccine for six months after it first emerges, no guarantees that anti-viral drugs will work as well on a future mutation as they have on the current version.

Given those stark realities, public health officials have very little in the weapons locker other than vigilant monitoring, using the fastest electronic connections to pick up signs of an outbreak from far-flung hospitals, clinics and doctors� offices, and old-time social controls such as quarantine and a shut down of public places where the flu might be easily spread. There’s also the time-honored campaign of raising public awareness � wash your hands, don’t sneeze on your friends and other common sense bromides. That’s all they’ve got, folks.

Social controls are blunt instruments with a limited utility. It’s the old horse and barn door dilemma. You sure as hell don’t want to wait too long before slamming that door � otherwise, what’s the point? The virus is galloping toward greener pastures. But you must also weigh the chaos to commerce if you act too early and start shutting down malls, airports, border crossings and hotels before you have firm evidence of the virus� presence. A key point in the middle of the worst economic crisis this side of the Great Depression.

Still, health officials know full well they have to run that risk in order to use those blunt instruments. And public panic is a byproduct of raising public awareness. Unfortunately, so is getting slammed for ‘crying wolf.� Of course, the same folks � citizens and gerbilists alike � who point the wolf finger at public health officials now will be damning them for not doing enough if Wally turns into Hannibal and starts killing thousands or millions.

Saith The Mule: Play that wolf music as loud as you can, folks. And Joe Citizen better listen long and hard. Better that than letting people die or getting yourself dead.