Second Banana

As eager as you may be to tap into my superior knowledge of nutritional health, this post is not about fruit.  It is, instead, about that most important of Western Movie lore fixtures, the Sidekick.  I am not going to take up space and time (see, they really are inseparable, just like a hero and sidekick) here to explain the role and history of the sidekick.  If you do not understand the concept, you can read the entry in Wikipedia which will artfully sate your need for edification.

Suffice it to say, the side kick in Western Movies is a partner/aide to the hero.  He may provide comic relief or be the foil for the hero’s comedic effusions.  While their skills are generally subordinate to those of the leading man, their presence is essential for the hero’s success in achieving his grail.  As the hero is dedicated to completion of his quest, the side kick is equally devout in his support of his hero; sometimes to the point of fatal sacrifice to ensure the hero’s survival and ultimate success.

But the point of this missive is not intellectual embellishment.  Rather, I wish to introduce to my reading audience yet one more reason to explore the library of films from yesteryear, The Golden Age of Hollywood.  To that end, I offer you an abbreviated list of my favorite sidekicks and recommendations of films by which to experience their unique contributions.

Walter Brennan is the dean of Western (and probably every other film genre) sidekicks.  He co-starred with every movie giant of two eras (pre-WW II and post-WW II); including John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart and Gary Cooper.  He was awarded three Oscars for his supporting roles (1936, 1938, 1940) and nominated for a fourth (1941).  His acting brought life to such characters as Featherhead, Stumpy and Pop.  His film career ran from 1925 to 1975 and includes over 240 acting credits (including film and TV)  Movies I recommend:

The Cowboy and the Lady (1938-Samuel Goldwyn Co.) “Sugar” sidekick to Gary Cooper.

The Far Country (1954-Universal International Pictures) “Ben Tatum” sidekick to Jimmy Stewart.

Rio Bravo (1959-Warner Bros.) “Stumpy” sidekick to John Wayne.

Ira Gabby Hayes was the prototypical sidekick if Walter Brennan was the dean.  He began his career as “Windy Halliday”, companion to “B” movie idol Hopalong Cassidy (William Boyd) working for Paramount Pictures.  Lucky for us, a salary dispute ended his tenure and moving to Republic Pictures was able to expand his career breadth, sharing the screen with many of the eras leading men.  His grizzled appearance and use of cowboy jargon (e.g. “cansarn it” and “young whippersnapper”) became iconic of the Western side kick. Ira “Gabby” Hayes career lasted from 1929 to 1950 and included 192 acting credits. Movies I recommend:

Hopalong Cassidy Returns (1936-Paramount Pictures) “Windy Halliday” sidekick to William Boyd (Hopalong Cassidy).

Dark Command (1940-Republic Pictures) “Doc Grunch” sidekick to John Wayne.

My Pal Trigger (1946-Republic Pictures) “Gabby Kendrick” sidekick to Roy Rogers.

Jack Elam actually began his career as a bad guy, his unusual look facilitating the feeling of unease in his presence.  He is a late comer compared to the other actors I have identified here not beginning his career until 1946.  As he aged, his familiar visage took on a more disarming, eccentric aura and his career as a villain transmogrified into one as side kick/comic foil.  He was a staple in 1950s and 60s television Westerns but he really hit his stride with his later portrayals as the good-natured dupe. In his fifty-year career, he collected 207 acting credits.  Movies I recommend:

Support Your Local Sheriff (1969-United Artists) “Jake” sidekick to James Garner.

Support Your Local Gunfighter (1971-United Artists) “Jug May” sidekick to James Garner.

Andy Divine was probably as recognizable for his raspy, stilting voice as his familiar rotund visage.  He is best known for his comic relief in otherwise suspenseful Westerns.  His roles were less the trail-riding saddle partner and more the hapless lawman or stage driver easily sliding out of the authority position to let the true hero take the action lead.  His fame is such that the good people of Kingman, Arizona, his childhood home, have named a major boulevard for him.  His career began in the silent era, but despite his unusual voice, he was able to transition to talkies.  His career spanned fifty years and during which he amassed 190 acting credits.  Movies I recommend:

Stagecoach (1939-United Artists) “Buck” Driver on the Stage to Lordsburg (John Wayne’s first “A” picture).

Bells of San Angelo (1940-Republic Pictures) “Sheriff Cookie Bullfincher” sidekick to Roy Rogers.

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962-Paramount Pictures) “Marshal Link Appleyard” shrinking violet sheriff caught between Jimmy Stewart and Lee Marvin.

Space of course limits the number of actors I can include in this post.  I acknowledge that this list is not close to being exhaustive.  There are many other side kicks that you may know and feel should appropriately be here:  Smiley Burnett, Pat Buttram, Fuzzy St. John, Slim Pickins, Chill Wills.  If you are fan of Western movies, these names will be familiar to you.  This post is really for the uninitiated in hopes it will stir up some curiosity and draw them in.

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Tao vs. Zen

Okay, I know you hate the philosophy stuff, but bear with me for a few sentences as I am trying to give you an avenue towards spiritual ease.

Have you ever thought to yourself, “Ah, this feels good!”  Of course you have; we all have.  Our perception of the world is just a series of sensory reactions to the here and now.  Our memory is the recollection of past experiences and the feelings we assign them.  This is Zen.

Have you ever gone to your spiritual rule book (Bible, Torah, Koran, Atheist’s Guide to Disruptive Activism, i.e. Mao’s Little Red Book) to assure yourself your behavior was consistent with the community ethos?  Of course you have; we all have.  Every now and then we are faced with a question of right or wrong and must refer to the moral authority. This is Tao.

“So Dale,” you ask, “what is the point of this inane drivel?”  It is to let you know there is always an escape from those niggling anxieties you carry around with you.  I know you do; we all do.

The secret to achieving peace of mind is to know which, Zen or Tao, to apply to the problem at hand.  Let me offer an example:  You’re feeling just a little overweight, but it is hot out.  Baskin Robbins is right there at the corner of “Should I” or “Shouldn’t I”.  What will you do?  Well, you could take the Zen approach; “I am going to pursue peace with my internal cravings and really enjoy every last lick of that Fudge Brownie ice cream.”  Or, you could do the Tao thing and let reason rule the day; “My personal improvement will be better served if I skip this egregious assault on my diet plan.”  Either choice is correct. Either path will result in gratification.  And the path you take will give no insight into the kind of person you are, except at that moment.  No one can judge you badly for taking the path that sets you right with your own sense of self.

We all suffer anxiety from time to time.  Those of us who have taken the time to know ourselves (introspection) can usually, and quite easily, identify the source of our unease and then formulate a plan to eliminate the irritant from our subconscious.  However, some people never master the technique of self-knowledge.  These people keep the big pharmaceutical companies and/or distilleries in business.

“So Dale,” you ask “what is the key to knowing one’s self?”  I don’t know; it has always come pretty naturally to me.  For those of faith, it might be the belief that no matter what happens in this world, an all forgiving God will take you onto his bosom at the end of life on earth.  Or, if you are a heathen, peace may come from the realization that the whole thing is a crap shoot and you and your life is just a product of the odds, i.e. “It wasn’t my fault; I was just on the wrong side of the numbers.”

Does it really matter?  I am a strict adherent to the philosophy of American theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.

And this sums up my approach to the challenges of life:  If I can change it, I will; if I can’t, I will walk away; unless it’s a flat tire, then I’ll call the Auto Club!

If you chuckled at the punch line, you are Zen.  If you groaned, you are Tao.  Either way I got a reaction; and for a writer, that is Nirvana.

Ask Somebody!

I am a shooter.  A simple statement chock full of innuendo.  But quite simply it means that I go to the range frequently (almost weekly, since retiring) and throw rounds down range in an attempt to improve my skill set.  With over forty year’s experience, my performance is adequate.  One of the painful realities of my experience is that most shooters I observe at the range I patronize are woefully inadequate.  If one cannot consistently place their shots in the “X” ring on a man sized target at seven yards (the standard for combat handgun training) something is awry.

Now the process is simple.  The shooter should, using two hands (fancy one hand stuff will come after a minimum performance level is consistently achieved) point the gun at the center of the target. Their focus should be on the front sight.  The front sight should be centered in the notch of the rear sight at the same height, forming an image of three rectangles lined up in a row across the shooter’s plane of vision.  Once this had been achieved: Front sight in focus, front and back sights aligned to form three level boxes, front sight silhouetted against the center of the target; the shooter operates the trigger without disturbing said alignment until the gun fires and voila, the bullet will impact the target at exactly the point of aim.

At the simplest level, that is all there is to it.  The trick is consistency and that comes only with practice.  Shooting is like any other athletic pursuit; the more one puts into it, the higher the level of proficiency.  HOWEVER, if the tyro shooter does not know the mechanics of sight alignment, they can shoot thousands of rounds and never achieve any level of proficiency.

If you are a gear head, did you pop the hood on your first car and innately understand how to improve engine performance?  No, some mentor had to walk you through the mechanicals.  If you are a master carpenter, did you grab a measuring tape and saw and build a custom bookcase on your first attempt?  Again, you probably had the help of an experienced hand teach you the proper technique for ripping a straight line with a table saw.  It just makes sense that the mastery of new skills is greatly benefited by tutelage from a master.

Yet every week I see newbie shooters fling round after round downrange with no apparent appreciation for marksmanship.  Their targets look like Swiss cheese; while there I am, in full view of everyone placing every shot through the same hole in the middle of the target.  But does anybody ask, “How do you do that?”  In a word, no!

I pay close attention to what is happening around me while on the range.  Gun handling is an activity fraught with peril and I like to make sure the people near me are adhering to safe shooting practices.  And if I see someone whose demeanor raises a concern, I will gently but firmly, and always politely offer them my critique on their actions and offer a safer alternative.  New shooters are generally welcoming of this input because they are nervous about the environment to begin with.

If I see a woman struggling with shooting mechanics, I will offer advice.  Never so to men, their egos are just too fragile.  But women appreciate the help and just a few minutes of demonstration of technique will yield vast improvement.  If a man asks, I'll help them; but I never make a cold offer.  They all think if you put a gun in their hands their John McClain (Die Hard).

I will close with this invaluable bit of advice.  If you are a new shooter, or just believe your performance could be fine tuned, look around the range.  When you have identified a good shooter politely ask them, “How do you do that?”  In my experience shooters love to pass on their knowledge and will be happy to show you what you need to know to improve your shooting.

A True (mostly) Story

Being either a loaner or social outcast, depending on one’s point of view, offers myriad opportunity for vicariously experiencing unnamed others’ life adventures.  Keen observation has taught me that conversations in public, conducted by the unaccompanied, are generally considered bad form and should be avoided if one hopes to side step confinement by those whose professional duties are directed at keeping the general population safe and numb.  So, I have learned that the more prudent course of action when spending time alone in a public establishment dedicated to the purveyance of tasty comestibles is to chew silently and listen intently.

Following this course allows the practitioner ample opportunity to surreptitiously gain insight into the lives of complete strangers; oft times the emphasis falling on the root, strange.  To wit, I was recently afforded the opportunity of giving audience to a rather surreal conversation.

Looking up from the menu she announced, “I’ve never been to a Denny’s before.”

  

His eyes fixed on hers.  A momentary silence while he processed this incomprehensible piece of data, “You’ve never been to a Denny’s?  How old are you?”

She responded with an icy stare.  Then, with her attention refocused on the menu, “Do you like camping?  I want to go camping at Slab City.”

“Slab City?  I never heard of it.”

She pounded on her ever present smart phone.  “Here’s a picture.”

He immediately recognized something, “Yeah, I know where that is.  That’s over on the east side of the Salton Sea.  That whole area is a dump!  Why would you want to camp there?”

“It’s where this guy stayed in this movie, Into the Wild.  It’s sooo good!  It’s the story of a guy who gives up everything and goes to live in Alaska.”

“What does that have to do with Slab City?  Where does that say Slab City is?”

A lull in the conversation while she reads; I couldn’t see to tell if her lips were moving, “It’s in the Colorado Desert.”

“Well, the Colorado Desert is a big place.  That could be the Salton Sea.  But what does that have to do with Alaska?”

“He just travels around.  He lives off the land.  Then he ends up in Alaska and dies.”

“He dies In Alaska?  I think I know this story.  He gets eaten by a grizzly bear!”

“Yeah!  Wait.  No, berries!”

“He gets attacked by berries?”

“Nooo!  He eats poison berries.”

“Well where’s the bear?”

“Ha, ha, ha!  There is no bear.  He gets cut off by a flood and runs out of food.  So he eats berries and they’re poison!”

“I don’t think there are any bears around Slab City.  It’s in the middle of the desert.  Do you know where the Salton Sea is?  Do you know what the Salton Sea is?”

“No.  But he doesn’t get killed by a bear in Slab City.  Ha, ha, ha!  He dies from eating poison berries in Alaska.”

“I’m pretty sure the movie I heard of, he goes to Alaska to live with the bears and he gets eaten.”

“Ha, ha, ha!  There are no bears…”

About this time, the waitress delivered my Moons-Over-My-Hammy sandwich and my attention was diverted.  I missed the resolution of the attacking berries conundrum.  As I sat there, trying to make some sense of what I had heard, I reflected on the advantages of the solitary life, and noted what a dangerous place Alaska, or Slab City, must be.

I May Not Like It, but I Guess Things Happen that Way

Among my pet peeves, perhaps my strongest aversion is to the concept of fairness.  The notion that fairness exists in our universe is contrary to all available evidence.  If one subscribes to the theory of evolution and natural selection, then the hope of fairness must be immediately abandoned.  Fair is a human construct to excuse inferior performance.  I challenge any reader to provide one example where all parties to a particular circumstance come out even in the natural world.  Consider these questions:

Does the ant consider it fair that the aardvark has a twelve inch tongue?

Does the aardvark consider it fair that the lion can run thirty miles per hour?

Does the lion consider it fair that the Cape buffalo has developed a herd mentality that offers protection for their young?

Does the Cape buffalo consider it fair that the Bushmen have the intelligence to develop tactics and weapons allowing them to hunt prey much larger and stronger than themselves?

The most troubling feature of fairness is that of relativity.  No, this missive is not going to present yet another treatise on the nature of the physical universe.  I know how much you love them; however you’ll just have to wait.  But I digress.

How fair the outcome of any event is judged to be depends solely on the perspective of the observer.  An outcome one party considers quite to their benefit may be held completely unsatisfactory by their competitor.  In any circumstance, where two entities are vying for the same scarce resource (yeah, I know it sounds familiar… you should have been paying more attention to “Economics for Drunkards” posted 3/26/14) one will enjoy some natural advantage over the other.  And that advantage is not a constant!

Consider your high-school years.  If you were paying attention to what was going on around you instead of picking at your pimples, you probably noticed that those girls you were attracted to were being dated by others.  But not all of your successful class mates were cast from the same mold.  Some of the girls you lusted after were hanging on the sculpted arms of the athletes.  Still others were hanging on the words of the grungy, dope-smoking poets.  It made no sense.  The only constant was; you weren’t getting any.  Well take solace brothers, either was I. Now does that seem fair?

A Short (very) Story

Lately, I have been having a spot of trouble with the starter in my Land Cruiser.  It has been rather hit and miss whether the motor spins.  Now those of you who have been following along know that some years ago I swapped out the original Toyota power plant with a lighter, more powerful and easier to maintain Chevy 350 V-8.  When I say “I”, what I mean is I wrote the checks to the highly qualified professional who actually did the work.  I don’t know if he had any kids that went to college, but I certainly contributed generously to their education funds.

If you are a gear head, you know that changing out a Chevy starter motor is a relatively easy task.  I won’t bore you with the details, but easy as it is, it still requires getting on ones knees, slithering under the vehicle on ones back, and getting ones hands dirty.  I am old enough and wealthy enough that I have people for that.  But being of an economic mind set I was trying to milk it until I hit the next service milestone so I could kill multiple avian raptors with one geological missile.  All of this is inconsequential to you but has regenerated a humorous memory from my youth.

From my earliest memories, I have been enamored of motor vehicles and the operation thereof.  As soon as I was able to sit up, I began play driving.  You’ve done it.  You sit in the driver’s position and operate the controls in a manner that replicates what you have seen your parents do.  What with locking steering wheels, electronic controls and societal wrath aimed at those who leave children unattended in a parked vehicle, it’s no wonder children are addicted to video games.  But back in the days of my youth, parents would (perhaps somewhat naively) leave their children sitting in the car while they attended some brief errand.  Whenever I found myself the beneficiary of such circumstances, as soon as my parents were out of sight, I would climb into the front seat and begin my stationary road trip across the country.  Timing when exactly to return to the rear of the cabin was dicey stuff and on one or two occasions my powers of estimation were lacking.  This prompted the lecture regarding the dangers of manipulating the controls of a parked car, which I somehow failed to internalize.

In a previous story, I shared the experience of my paternal Grandmother’s regular visits (see “Size Matters” – posted 7/18/13).  On such occasions, she would drive her Dodge (I was too young to recognize model or year minutia at that age), leaving it parked in front of our house on the street.  Now Grandma loved her only grandchild very much which I interpolated into, “I can get away with anything.”

One day, relying quite heavily on the aforementioned supposition, I climbed into her parked (nobody locked their cars in a residential neighborhood in those days) vehicle and began an imaginary spin around the local streets.  My pseudo driving experience was deep enough to recognize the difference between my Dad’s Buick with an automatic transmission (two pedals) and his beater GMC truck with a manual transmission (three pedals).  But Grandma’s Dodge had a fourth, purpose unidentified, pedal.  “Well,’ I thought, “it must make the car that much faster!”

So taking the only reasonable course of action, I stomped on it.  I immediately regretted my action as the car began to shake and shimmy, seeming to want to lurch forward.  When I removed my foot from the pedal, the universe returned to its tranquil state.  I double checked the ignition switch to assure myself no keys were present.  Nothing.  Cowardice being the very foundation of survival, I opted to end my motoring activity for the day, sneak cravenly back into the house and cast a minimal shadow.

The more aged and sage readers of this missive have already solved the mystery.  But it took me quite a few years of experience before I exorcised the demon of the self-actuating Dodge.

Today, we don’t even use keys to start a car.  The vehicle knows its owner by the proximity of an electronic RF fob.  The door locks click to great us and we activate the vehicle’s power plant with the push of a button.  For those of us who have been driving a bit longer, we actually had to use the key to start the car.  We would insert the key into the ignition lock, turn the key past “on” to “start” to engage the starter motor, then let the key rotate back to “on” once the engine was running.

In Grandma’s Dodge’s day however, automobiles were not equipped with automatic starter switches.  To start the car, one would insert the key into the ignition switch; turn the switch to “on”, then depress the starter pedal on the floor to engage the starter motor.  Once the engine began to run, the operator would release the pedal and the starter motor would return to sleep until once again called upon to perform its most important duty.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, the starter motor was always live, meaning the car’s electrical system did not have to be on to power the starter motor.  Upon depression, the starter would spin.  If activated while the car was in gear, as my Grandma’s Dodge was, the starter motor generated enough horsepower to actually move the car forward.  If the hand brake (that’s what they called the parking brake back in the olden days, kiddies) was applied, the car would lurch and bound as the opposing forces of torque and friction fought it out.

Figuring all of this out as I gained insight and wisdom chased away the notion that the Dodge Brothers’ evil spirits haunted my Grandma’s car.  But to this day, I have never desired to own a Dodge.

Oh, the Land Cruiser?  Well, I don’t know if the starter solenoid has one remaining crank left, but then that’s why I’m a proud member of the Auto Club.

"How Many Guns Do You Have?"

This is a question I am often asked by persons not fully inculcated into the gun culture.  I don’t mind the question but generally refuse to give a direct answer.  I commonly respond with some inane quip that draws an uneasy laugh, “More than I need; less than I want.” or “Not nearly enough!”  Why?  Because the information is essentially meaningless in most contexts.  People don’t really want to know the answer; it will mean nothing to them.  They have no point of comparison and comparison is the only reason to apply a numeric value to anything (my college major was Accounting, in case you were curious).

My standing as an amateur socio-psychologist with absolutely no formal training permits me to assign motives where they may not exist.  And thus I offer that people will search for ways to keep a conversation going because the social contract requires it.  If they are speaking to a subject of which they have no relevant knowledge, they will ask questions that seem appropriate but aren’t.  I know this from firsthand experience as I have done it many times, occasionally prompting a behavior modification slap.  But I digress.

“Beware the man who only has one gun.  He probably knows how to use it!”  I have run across this adage frequently in my years as a shooter.  Google search results offer the Buckeye Firearms Association newsletter which attributes it to Clint Smith of Thunder Ranch.  I do not know the Buckeye Firearms Association.  I do not know Mr. Smith (but what a great name for a shooter, huh?).  But I have heard of Thunder Ranch so it suggests some credibility.  I will not aver to the site’s accuracy. Whether true or not, the number of guns owned by any individual is an indication of nothing else but the wealth one has which can be earmarked for the acquisition of firearms.

So once again, we stand upon the precipice of a discussion of economic theory.  You can relax.  I am not going to lead you into the abyss… this week.

People own guns for a variety of reasons.  You can probably guess most of them; self-defense, professional need (e.g., Peace Officers), sporting purposes, collecting, resisting tyranny, etc.  Many gun owners I have known fit into more than one category.  The motivation, as long as it is legal, is unimportant.  The mere fact that there are many reasons explains why there is such a large per-capita firearm ownership rate in this country.

The key to understanding the true relationship between a man (or woman) and their gun(s) in not how many they possess but how well they shoot.

   

I was not brought up in the gun culture.  My first experience with firearms was as an eighteen-year-old college student enrolled in Criminology classes.  My first purchase had to be straw-manned by my father as California requires a handgun purchaser be twenty-one.  Back in those days, most department stores that offered a sporting goods department sold guns.  That’s how I took ownership of my first gun, a Smith & Wesson Model 28 revolver.  I will not bore those among you uninterested in firearms with esoterica; those who know guns already have all the information they need.

My entrance into law enforcement prompted the need for a supplemental purchase.  My revolver was too large for carry as an off-duty concealed weapon (a requirement for peace officers).  I learned, from my exposure to the testosterone fueled world of the San Diego County Sheriff’s Deputy, that the only tool suitable was Colt’s .45 ACP automatic pistol.  I purchased one; nickel plated of course.  I had achieved the age of majority by this time and didn’t need my daddy’s help.  I had launched my career as a gun collector.

Over the years I have grown my arsenal to a respectable number.  Some of my acquisitions have been to fill a tactical niche.  Still others were guns of historical significance.  I added rifles and shotguns to my inventory over the years.  I have guns I don’t need and guns I couldn’t live without.  I have been fortunate enough in my personal finances that the limiting factor in number is related more to the size of my gun safe than my bank balance.

The pride of ownership, of course, is balanced with the joy of shooting.  There is a great deal of satisfaction in mastering any tool.  And basically firearms are just tools. Any craftsman will tell you that an artisan is only as good as his mastery of the tools of trade.  Proficiency is undeniably a function of the time one spends in plying his trade.  Henny Youngman (look it up, youngsters) got it right: “I asked the cab driver, ‘Do you know how to get to Carnegie Hall?’ He said, ‘Practice, practice, practice!’”  

And that highlights the point of this post.  The number of hours I practice is far more important than the number of guns I own.  If I shoot my Winchester 1886 .45-70 rifle once in two years, I am not going to achieve the level of proficiency I have with my Colt's Combat Commander pistol, which I shoot several times per month.  But then I am far more likely to have to defend myself against an urban miscreant than I am to shoot a buffalo.

The answer; I shoot a lot!