I’m posting this because I’ve placed classified advertisements at several web sites in an attempt to sell our beloved Spitfire.

Here’s a couple of photos. 

If you’re visiting this page seeking information about the car, please leave a comment or contact me at jan@messersmith.name.

I will send to you a Word document with a complete description of the restoration.

Yesterday, I referred to my service in the Army National Guard as ‘draft dodging’. Now, it occurs to me that I need to make it clear that the circumstances in the world of today are entirely different. Joining the Guard or Reserves today is akin to booking a ticket on the Misery Express. Your seat is reserved – you’re just waiting for the train to pull into the station.

My wife and I, both resolutely opposed to the war in Vietnam, had limited options to maintain that position. The alternative that many were selecting was to relocate to Canada or Sweden. This did not seem to us to be honourable. Another choice was to either enlist or wait for the draft to catch up to us. This was intolerable, since it would not only end up with me fighting a war which we loathed, but also presented the distinct possibility of leaving newly married Eunice as a widow. I can’t fail to mention that I did not at all relish the concept of being shot at. So, when the opportunity fortuitously arose to join the Army National Guard, we jumped at it. I spent about nine years serving in that manner.

The history the National Guard pre-dates the establishment of the United States Army. At its very heart is the concept of the citizen soldier – the trained protector who is standing by to drop everything to defend his country. Guardsmen have fought in every war. However, during the Vietnam era, about the only way you’d end up trading lead with the enemy was if your entire unit was activated. Many Guard units were. Mine was not.

This is the shoulder patch of the 38th Infantry Division – “The Cyclone Division” My dad wore it fighting the Japanese in New Guinea. I wore it flying Hueys in the relative safety of the Midwest. My son wore it during his service in the Guard as an Officer in the Military Police. 

Here’s my dad with his trusty Thompson in New Guinea. 

Three generations of Guardsmen. One was called to fight; two were not.

Today’s circumstances are utterly different. The Guard and other reservists are carrying a huge burden of the fighting. I scorn the war in Iraq and can’t think of a single argument in favor of it. It stank at its roots and its harvest, I believe, will stink for decades. That’s just one man’s opinion – though I have heard many other Americans articulate a similar attitude.

I sincerely apologize if my remarks in my post of yesterday seemed to denigrate the Army or Air Force National Guards or any of the reserve components of the US military. It was not my intention to do so.

I do ‘support our troops’. I think my son expressed it well, when we discussed it several years ago. He said, “Of course I support our troops – I support bringing them safely home.”

I’m certain that many, if not most, of the men and women who are called upon to serve in Iraq today most sincerely wish to be just about anywhere else. They are caught up in the machinations of nations, as was my brother in Vietnam. He never recovered his well being. Though four years younger, he has long ago died troubled and short of the potential he might have achieved.

My prayers are with those in peril. Though I despise the war, I cannot despise the souls engaged in the seemingly interminable combat.

Bring them home.

My ever thoughtful son sent to me for Christmas a very retro-covered copy of Ian Fleming’s first James Bond novel (1953), Casino Royal.

My first reading of the Bond series was in 1965, when I was in Advanced Infantry Training at some sleepy Army Fort in North Carolina. Vietnam was bleeding. I was safe from the draft because I had wisely joined the National Guard. (Yes, as if you care, I freely admit that I was a draft dodger. I could probably never be President. Or could I . . . ?)

I worked in an office with two other enlisted men and a lethally bored Second Lieutenant. One of the other guys was an extremely perturbed Austrian citizen who had, by stupendous effort and patience, obtained residency in the USA and was thus – to his everlasting bewilderment – eligible for the draft. He was probably the least lucky person I’ve ever met.

Our single task was to determine the devastation to Army equipment and personnel in case the Ruskies lobbed one in on us that particular day. The calculations took about a half-hour. That left ample time for reading and snoozing. I also learned to touch-type – just about the only useful skill I acquired in the Army.

There I go – getting off-point again. Anyway, I was amused to re-read Casino Royal after 43 years. I had firmly in mind, from watching countless Bond movies, a certain persona that, while unquestionally capable of cold-blooded murder of bad guys, was nevertheless admirable from a certain twisted and depraved viewpoint. (i. e. blind patriotism)

Forget all that. Fleming’s Bond is about the most despicable character you can imagine. Only the bad guys are worse. There is nothing admirable about him. He is a misogynist of the first order. He experiences women as annoying nuisances fit only for his temporary amusement. Even as he seduces, he is icily planning the kiss-off. He is also, contrary to the movie portrayals, often inept and falls far short of the manly fortress of strength, integrity, and courage of the movie mockery.

I could go on and on, but one has only so much time at work to read this drivel.

I’ll bring the book back to Madang. If you want to borrow it, let me know. If you’re a Bond movie fan, you’re in for a surprise.

ABOUT THE PHOTO: The pistol is a Walther PPK – I won’t get into the details. Most people who care think of this as “The James Bond Gun.” Surprisingly (to me, at least), it makes no appearance in Casino Royal. My son tells me that it appeared in a later volume (five years later in Dr. No). When I get to Canada, my son and I are going to do a little research and collaborate on a few posts revealing “The Guns of James Bond.” It will be fun for us, if not for you.

I should mention that the PPK has a sentimental appeal to me aside from the Bond thing. For years, when I was doing business in an unsavory atmosphere (not saying where or why), I carried a PPK very similar to the one in the photo tucked into a ‘snuggie’ holster between my belt and my bum. Happily, I never shot anybody, including myself.

Thanks to the very nice, but otherwise scary folks at Don’s Guns in Indianapolis for allowing me to take the photo in a WARNING – NO CAMERAS area. You may speculate for a moment concerning the reason cameras might not be welcome in a place where the motto has been for years, “I don’t want to make any money. I just love to sell guns.”

TO THE OWNERS AND EMPLOYEES OF DON’S GUNS: I mean absolutely no disrespect by any comment in this post. I am a writer of humor and a professional fool. Practically everything is funny to me. If it weren’t, I’d probably blow my own brains out. You treated me with a bemused kindness that went far beyond your duty to the public to supply the necessary tools to allow them to exercise their rights under the Constitution of the United States of America. God bless the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.

As part of my continuing effort to bring you important dining information should you ever find yourself stranded in the vast prairie wilderness of America, I’ll take you to a (to me) delightful establishment called Hooters. Yes, the name is an anatomical allusion, as you may have expected. Many consider Hooters a less than ideal concept. It does feature lovely, vivacious young ladies frolicking around in hot pants and tight tops. I’m sure that the occasional dirty old man lurks about (not ME, of course!). But he’s going to be wasting his time. Neither the company nor the young ladies tolerate any misdemeanors. Certainly they are cute and playful, but they are most definitely NOT flirtatious nor, in any way, accessible.

Here’s our waitress-of-the-day, Amy, with Eunie in the Hooters Boutique picking out t-shirts for a few of our friends in Madang:

Illustrating my point above concerning improper behaviour, when I asked Amy to turn around so I could get a ‘cute’ shot of her, she did so, but stuck out her tongue – a message to me that I was treading on thin ice. There are some husky looking guys with bulging biceps on the crew. I’m not sure what the full extent of their duties includes, but I’m not going to investigate the matter by misbehaving.

Oh, I nearly forgot the fare. Well, first off, there’s cold beer in abundance. Imports are a little thin, but there’s always Heineken. Of the variety of goodies on the menu Eunie and I always get the Gourmet Hot Dog with cheese, relish, and chili sauce. It comes with curly fries, smokey baked beans, and a nice big Kosher dill pickle. To me, it’s the Prince of Hot Dogs. It tastes just as it should. There are many other selections on the menu. I’ve tried several and none disappointed.

Eunie and I dine at Hooters at least once a week. They are all over America except next to churches. You can’t sell booze within a certain distance of a church in America. Now just why is that so? Is it a matter of sensibility or temptation? One wonders . . .

I’ll leave you with a hula-hooping young lady:

Hopefully you can decipher the back of her shirt. In case you can’t, I’ll help. It reads, “Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined” – an appropriate redundancy for a very amusing establishment.

It wouldn’t be proper to let this go without mentioning that the objections to the atmosphere and working conditions bear scrutiny. Yes, it’s a fun place, but one has to ask if what is happening here is an implicit objectification of women. Many have made that argument. Please check the link above to a Wikipedia article about Hooters. It explains these arguments and counter-arguments.

We’re running around like headless chickens today, so I don’t have much time for a post.

I did want to show you a small example of how the trees go crazy here in the spring. I’ll take some more shots later and combine several into one post.

Seeing this tree you might think it’s covered with red flowers:

It’s not. It is the young leaves bursting out of the little covers that protect them from frost (don’t know what they’re called). Anyway, the place is a circus of colours now. Spring is coming in with gusto. I actually walked around outside in a t-shirt today! (yes, I had pants on too)

More tomorrow. Don’t miss tomorrow’s post. I’m going to take you on a visit to Hooters!

Yep, that’s me looking a little fuzzy and grumpy. There’s a Starbucks a couple of miles from the house we’re living in. They have a hot spot. I hate coffee. What to do?

Well, I get a sparkling grapefruit juice and a fruit salad (Doc says the ol’ cholesterol is getting a little high . . . how can that BE? I hardly eat anything!). The crew graciously allows me to sit and do my thing having paid only a pittance. Ah, America, you are feeling better aren’t you?

Here was the scene on the drive to Starbucks this morning:

Perversely, I hate coffee, but love the aroma. I suppose I had too much of it standing in the frozen mud in mess lines at National Guard meetings. I’ve always associated it with the Army. Having drunk too much, then having to stand in formation for a couple of hours while some clown inspects the barracks to see if your shoes are shiny enough and your underwear is properly folded is just too absurd. Freezing, with my bladder screaming for relief, I vowed never again to suffer any man to tell me when I could or could not have a pee. I’ve stuck to that.

Anyway, I still love the smell of Starbucks. My thanks goes to the nice folks at the Brownsburg, Indiana Starbucks for letting a strange old dude use their valuable seating space for a handful of pennies a day.

Dougie, you’ve won both of my recent challenges. Never mind that you were the only one to respond to either.

I owe you a K20 Digicell card for your response to the “What Does This Sign Mean” contest. I should have inspected the sign more closely. The key to the puzzle was right in front of my eyes.

The slogan “Always There” should, of course, prompt any PNG resident to come back with the sassy response, “Always There, Never Here!!!” How very astute of you.

Next time I see you, remind me to hand over K20 to you. I don’t imagine a Digicell card would be very useful to you, except possibly as a trophy. You won it fair and square.

Concerning the second prize-winning answer – Of COURSE it’s a Tiger beer – brewed in Singapore. It was just too easy. Sorry there’s no cash prize for that one, but you do have my undying esteem for presenting yourself to the world as a cultured person.

You have a lot of mates back in old Madang who long to see you. Come back to our little family whenever you can, Dougie. Eunie’s waiting patiently for a big hug and a juicy kiss from her Teddy bear.

And thanks for being a loyal reader. My little daily ego stroking exercises cleverly disguised as a weblog are important to my well being, no matter if anybody reads them. It’s nice to know that someone does – and actually enjoys doing so.

Cheers, mate!