A few things about me

1. I was born and raised in Glendale, CA a city among the foothills of Los Angeles. I was born the Year of the Rat.

2. I am the child of immigrants. My parents Ron and Jeanette were born in the Dutch East Indies on the island of Java. They are Indo, a little bit of Dutch, and a little bit of Indonesian. After WWII and the Indonesians won their independence my parents who were still children at the time immigrated with their families to the Netherlands. My parents met and fell in love in Amsterdam while working for an insurance company. In the mid 50’s they settled in Southern California.

3. I was your typical kid of that era, weaned on “Leave It To Beaver” and “The Brady Bunch” – Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Little League and having a Paper Route. I loved to stop in for ice cold RC Cola or Vernor’s Ginger Ale at Chris and Tom’s - the corner liquor store, whenever I was delivering the evening paper - The Herald-Examiner.

4. My parents came to America with a hundred dollars and a dream. In my house they spoke Dutch and English. We ate hot dogs and hamburgers, but we also ate spicy Indonesian food and Dutch delicacies. I had the best, of two worlds. I was an American with a Dutch-Indonesian heritage.

5. During a little league baseball game I hit 11 RBI’s while playing for the Northwest Lions. My name was entered into the city’s baseball record books.

6. During a 1971 Boy Scout camping trip to the bottom of the Grand Canyon a pack of hippies high on grass and possibly LSD, snuck into camp in the middle of the night. They startled me awake, as they stood above me with high-powered lights and a movie camera filming me as I slept. Enveloped by fear I instinctively screamed at the top of my lungs, which sent the hippies and my fellow scouts into a high state of panic as we chased them off into the dark. I wonder about that film now. Where is it? Is it in somebody’s attic? Does it hold any answers to who I am?

7. In 1972 we moved to the house on Winchester Ave. where my parents still live. My best friend was John Pitkin. We rooted for the Dodgers, played catch in the front yard, tossed the Frisbee and played endless games of ping-pong on hot summer nights. Several years later during the summer between 10th grade and 11th, John and I rode our bikes over a hundred miles from Glendale to Laguna Beach to spend several days at the beach with our friends Nick Karavidas, Bo Bickerstaff and Bill Gillis. It was the first summer that I rode a Boogie Board.

8. In 1978 I graduated after three contentious years from Herbert Hoover High School. For my graduation present my parents and my Dad’s mother – my Oma Corrie paid for mine, and my brother Eric’s visit to Holland. My dad came along to visit with his mother. During that trip I was able to meet and stay with my great, extended Indo family. On my mother’s side there was my Mom's mother - Baba, who was a very fun lady and a very big personality. She loved to gamble and be the center of attention. There were also my cousins Babs Kemperman and her family – husband Theo and their two boys Marnix and Tim, Peggy Loen and her Dad Dolph, who I nick named “The Indo Bing Crosby”, we spent time with my mom’s sisters Tante Poppy and her daughter Patte Peirera, we got together with Tante Elly, and her daughters - Sandra and her husband Ron, Joice and Grace, My uncle Jan Harting and his wife Daisy and their boys Gilbert, Jerry, Mark and Robin, along with my Mom’s youngest sister Sylvia’s children - Jennifer and Anton Krayfanger. It was a splendid summer drinking warm Heineken, eating Fritje Troup in Bergen Op Zoom and gagging on pickled Herring. Peggy zipped us in and out of Amsterdam in her “Ugly Duckling” Citroen. Theo took us to where the Battle of the Bulge was fought in Bastogne, Belgium and then to Cologne, Germany, even though he didn’t care for Germany. In Brussels we drank Stella Artois and saw a fountain of a little boy pissing. In Paris we toured the Notre Dame and found out that most “Frogs” are jerks. In London Peggy showed us the way as we sped around Picadilly Circus in a black Austin Princess taxi. On my dad's side I was able to spend time with my cousins Andy and Laura. Their Mom was my Dad's only sister, who had passed away years earlier. I was impressed with how they all seemed to roll their own cigarettes with tobacco they called Shek. I had not seen them since their visit to America in 1968.

9. When I returned from Europe I didn’t want to continue with school so I worked with my cousins Roy Harting, Dennis Eland, Christina Harting and my mom’s sister Tante Chris Eland and my mom’s brother Oom“Boy” – Al Harting, at their company HARTEL making deliveries and doing menial labor. It was a great time. I had no hopes or ambition but I basked in the delight of working with family. I was a slacker before there was a definition. I worked by day and partied all night.

10. My cousin Margie Loen helped out at Hartel now and again, but things got really fun when her husband Kami Javid joined us. He wasn’t like us Indos. He was quiet and refined with his Persian background and British education. He taught us to shoot skeet and he played a wicked game of ping-pong with the most amazing top-spin. He and I, along with Dennis and Roy spent many a weekend going hunting and fishing. I don’t think he ever fished again after a fishing trip to Morro Bay, with 20-foot swells that had everybody, but me getting sick.

11. After four years of wasted youth and ambition I quit Hartel to go to Glendale College with my brother Eric. I wanted to be a Theater Arts Major. It was good to be back in school with a fresh perspective and new outlook. Being a slacker for so many years caught up with and I eventually headed in another direction.

12. While at Glendale College I met Steve Allamillo and Dave Amarante who I spent many an adventure and party with, especially the summer of 1984. They are to this day very close friends and very important to me. Steve and I attended class and worked together at a nightclub, I’m forever grateful to Steve who managed to get me home safely after I refused medical attention after suffering a concussion at “The Wedge” in Newport Beach. Dave was Steve’s buddy who was the first “Yuppie” I ever knew. He was always so upbeat and brought class to the bunch, with his Nordstrom’s wardrobe and red Baby Benz. The three of us will always remember our 48-hour endurance ski trip to Mammoth – a twisted knee, waist deep powder, a bent spoon, no accommodations and hwy 395.

13. At the time I wanted to be an actor, I didn’t do anything significant, but find it amusing that I was an extra in “This is Spinal Tap,” having no idea that it would be a movie of lasting cultural significance. I was also an extra as a Mexican gang member in a dog of a movie called “Deadly Force” starring Wings Hauser. The production was so low budget that during a scene with me in the background I mugged so much for the camera I took away the action from the actors, but because it was a one take shot I didn’t get cut. Years later when I was in the Navy my buddy Mark Wright called to say he was watching a bad cop movie and I was in the background as a fat Mexican gang member – My path to stardom – LOL.

14. I wanted to do so much, but seemed to go in a million directions. I wanted an education, party, sleep off my hangovers, make new friends, not pay my parking fines, miss school, blah, blah, blah… For a while I worked part time, while going to school as a bellboy. The tips were great, the job was fun and easy, and everybody at the Burbank Holiday Inn was, an aspiring actor, songwriter, comedian, scriptwriter, etc., as was my friend Ron Preston – fellow Bell Boy, aspiring actor - direct from Ohio. We became fast friends, staying up late nights discussing the merits of the Godfather, arguing what band was better - Led Zeppelin or the Stones and passing out Holiday Inn room keys to our friends.

15. Since school wasn’t as successful as I had hoped it to be I set my sights on what I do best and get paid for it, which is the gift to gab, so I became a salesman for Gallo Wine. It was a step up in the world. I got to be like my buddy Dave - wearing a Nordstrom wardrobe. They provided me with a company car and best of all I was getting paid to talk. Things were going good until the day an un-insured driver cut in front of me and I tee-boned the fool. Unfortunately my Dad Ron who was in the car with me at the time wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, long story, short. Ron lost his eyebrow, needed plastic surgery, my new Pontiac was a complete wreck, and though I wasn’t fired, I was no longer in good graces with Gallo.

16. It was over a weekend that my buddy Ron Peston and I were making a student film with some friends who were getting their Masters at USC’s Film School that I saw that the Navy had a Film Program at USC, a light bulb went off in my head. Several weeks later still working for Gallo, in traffic, fed up, and seeing my dreams of conquering the world, visiting foreign lands and having a stake in my future fading away I headed to the nearest Navy recruiter. Their ads had reached me – “It’s Not Just a Job, It’s an Adventure.” When I told my Dad I had signed up, he was surprised and asked me if I was in trouble with the law. My cousin Roy responded to the news by saying, “But you don’t like authority.”

17. It was the best thing to happen to me. The Navy trained me to do what I enjoyed and I got to see the world as a paid tourist from behind the lens of a camera. I have made lifetime friendships and have hopefully been a positive influence on their lives - I met Alex "il Duce" Casadonte when he was a fresh face Sailor right out of boot camp. I was some old weathered salty dog. He was less than impressed with my snarling cynicism our first meeting. Some how he was able to get past my pesky nature and we've been fast friends since. The Navy lost a good man when he decided to get out.

18. But even better, was that shortly after reporting to my first command I met my one and only true love – Dayle Davidson in a Spaghetti Factory parking lot in Oakland, California – Early Summer 1989. I don't think she was too impressed by my 1972 Bonneville Pontiac that I had dubbed "The Primordial Soup Dragon" or the fact that a week prior I had almost killed my shipmates John Gorenflo and John Thornton in it. Dayle and I were not immediately together, but after several years of separation and continued friendship I proposed on New Years 1992.

19. We married on Leap Year 1992 in Van Nuys, California. My brother Eric was my Best Man. At the time Dayle was a nanny for the actress Jo Beth Williams of “Poltergiest” and “The Big Chill”. Dayle didn’t want to be a nanny her entire life and was more than willing to become my bride and be a Navy wife. When I married Dayle I knew she was my soul mate and we would be together forever. I wouldn’t be the happy man that I am or have had the successful career without her by my side.

20. Sawyer followed 10 months later as our Christmas Eve baby. He is named after Tom Sawyer, even though it was a Sawyer Brown music video that was playing on TV that reminded me that I had bought the book Tom Sawyer 10 years earlier to give to my son if I were to have one.

21. Kennedy came on July 5th, 1995. As I tell her she was born a day late from being called Liberty, much to her horror.

22. Almost eight years from when the light bulb went off in my head at USC’S Film School I was accepted into the Dept of Defense Film School that was now being taught at Syracuse University. While there, I met some wonderful people that I hold a special place for personally and professionally – Jerre Thomas, Pete Watson, Darren Crone, Manny Trejo, Pam Hendrickson and Nancy Austin. They helped to make my experience at SU something to cherish. I learned so much and found out that I enjoyed school and could get good grades. Plus I could use my odd, zany and absurd outlook on life and showcase it in my short film Atomic Trout A Go-Go.

23. After Syracuse I rejoined Pacific Fleet Combat Camera and made the trip of a life time documenting a science expedition to the North Pole and then made a deployment to Japan with my Combat Camera Crew and had very good times exploring the orient with Joe Lynch and Bob Wilcox. The Buddah at Kamakura still inspires me, and darn if I didn’t spend one heckuva good Christmas with Bob in Guam fishing for Mahi Mahi and Wahoo, and making shashimi from a freshly caught tuna, using an old K-Bar knife and some borrowed wasabi and soy.

24. Much has been said about my tours with the Blue Angels and Pentagon. It wasn’t all glamour. There were bills to be paid, children to raise, a new home to buy, many days and hours away from my family, Dayle finishing up her degree. I was at times emotionally distant, selfish and full of myself. Dayle and the kids put up with my crap. 911 changed me forever. I am forever grateful for their unconditional love and the faith they had in me to become the man I am today.

25. Years ago my friend Steve Alamillo made an observation to my friends about me that at the time hurt my feelings. Now as I reflect on my life, what he said was true. At the time in the mid 80’s I had a lot of anger. Sometimes bordering on rage. On this particular day I was especially angry with this guy that we were both acquainted with. I was venting to Steve at full strength about this acquaintance of ours and of a physical confrontation that had occurred between us. Without hesitation Steve looked away from me and said to those in the car, “Vanderwerff gets angry when he’s frightened.” Man did that hurt, but as the years have passed and I am more mature and wiser I realize that I’m no longer angry because I’m no longer afraid. Steve you are, and have always been wise.

26. I’m approaching 50. My Navy career is winding down. It has been one heckuva a fast ride. I’m getting set for more new adventures out of uniform. I can’t wait to make them happen. I am confident that Sawyer and Kennedy as they rapidly ascend toward adulthood are happy individuals, who have been prepared to think for themselves, set realistic goals, problem-solve, and to always be kind to others. I think that with a few more years with Dayle and I they'll be well prepared to hop on the ride called life.

No Jim, No

Back around 1968 my next door neighbor Jim Sweeney and I went to summer school together. During the regular school year he went to Catholic School. Any ways, Jim was a real snotty kid. Not a brat, but literally a dude that always had a runny nose and a guy that could hawk the meanest, greenest biggest loogeys you can imagine. He was my friend, but I thought him to be sorta dirty and gross. At the time I didn't know how to hawk a loogey, so between classes Jim tried to show me by bringing the biggest loogeys from the deep recesses of his lungs and then launch them across the school yard. When I tried, all I could get was little bit of spit to leave my mouth. On my last attempt before the bell rang, a liitle bit of my spit got on to Jim's arm. Jim instinctively went in to battle stations and began to snort, pulling every thing he had from the deepest corners of his putrid soul. As if in a movie, in slow motion I yelled "no Jim no...," my body paralyzed. It refused to move, as a giant green glob of goo launched from Jim's mouth. Time suspended as its trajectory headed straight toward me. I opened my mouth to beg once more, "no Jim....no..," And then the ooey gooey glob entered my mouth. Filling it completey, like some vile stew from hell. Time sped up as I immediately started power puking all over the ground. I ran to the boy's room to purge myself. Jim followed close behind, grinning like a gunslinger proud of his kill. I heaved till I could heave no more. Sweat pouring out of me from head to toe. I didn't say a word as I left, some how feeling violated and ashamed.

Come September Morning

My decision to join the Navy was solely based on my sense of adventure. The Navy’s ad from my childhood, “It’s not just a job it’s an adventure,” truly struck home. I envisioned myself a bell-bottomed, Dixie-cup wearing sailor right out of the movie “Mr. Roberts.” Ah the sweet pleasure of sailing the seven seas doing the hula-hula, late night pub crawls in Hong Kong, collecting an armful of tattoos and chasing after Thai girls and beer while being paid. So I enlisted. It was 1988. All has come true except for the tattoos.

The years flew by, a tour on USS Carl Vinson – the Navy’s Golden Eagle, two tours with Pacific Fleet Combat Camera, surviving SERE School, graduating from Syracuse University’s DoD film school, a science expedition to the North Pole; and a tour with the Blue Angels as their backseat aerial photographer pulling a lot of G’s. I was operating on maximum overdrive, high on adrenaline. The ad had come true. It wasn’t just a job it was indeed an adventure. Little did I know that I had yet to experience the adventure of a lifetime, one that was life altering, made me grow-up and come to fully realize what it means to serve my country in the United States Navy.

After my tour with the Blue Angels shaming the Air Force team, we smugly referred to as “Thunder Chicken”, by being the best military aerial demonstration team in the world I was detailed to the Pentagon. I had heatedly disagreed with my detailer’s decision. Taking a Secretary of Defense staff assignment at the Joint Combat Camera Center (JCCC) didn’t exactly register very high on my fun meter. Driving a desk, supporting Com Cam policy and supervising the reception of imagery from forward deployed combat camera teams isn’t exactly how I had ever envisioned myself. Damn it, I was an operator! The likelihood or remote possibility of me running into something fun and adventurous like arm-wrestling Bolivian Blow Dart Peddlers or fire walking with Tahitian Mai Tai Jugglers while stationed in DC was slim-to-none. Didn’t he have something for me, like pulling G’s in a fast-mover (I could fill volumes about how to prevent power puking inside the cockpit)? Or what about breaking through the Arctic’s polar cap in a nuclear powered fast attack submarine and standing guard against polar bear attack as I had in the past? I’m not exactly sure if a polar bear attack on a US Submariner constitutes an act of war, if so who owns the polar cap? If he wouldn’t send me to any of the above, how about something a bit more cerebral like me hitting a foreign beach armed to the teeth with Kevlar wearing Marines or maybe photographing Navy SEAL’s in revved up low-altitude fast moving helos moving in and out of hostile territory? I had always been a big fan of that sort of action. He said no to all. It was time for me to take a seat at a desk and help others do what I wanted to do.

And so on a hot muggy day I checked in. It was August 2001. The Pentagon buzzed like a beehive. I was impressed by all of military’s, “Heavy Hitters” that walked the halls. There was a lot to learn, especially working with the other service branches. I wouldn’t however be sharing my thoughts about the Air Force’s flight demonstration squadron with my Air Force boss. What was there not to like? The world appeared to be at peace. I was stationed in our nation’s capitol. I had a large cubicle, and my own computer with super fast T-line connections. A Starbucks was conveniently located one floor below. Best of all, I would be home every night for the next three years to annoy my wife and kids. My first month flew by moving JCCC into the Pentagon’s newly renovated wing.

On a sunny, Tuesday morning I arrived at work. It was September 11, 2001. It was a little after nine A. M. when I got to work. My wife Dayle, was flying back home that day from attending a funeral in the mid-west. I was getting in late because I had to drop my kids off at school; playing the role of soccer mom somewhat new to me. My OIC was attending a conference in Norfolk, VA and my Operations Chief was at a meeting down the road in Alexandria. When I got to the office everybody was huddled around the TV. The news was reporting that a plane had crashed into one of New York’s Twin Towers. I stood flabbergasted as the tragedy unfolded. To my disbelief a second jet slammed into the Twin Towers. My memory is a bit fuzzy of what happened next, but as I recall, soon afterwards the Pentagon shuddered and shook. My co-workers and I looked at each other not sure of what had just happened. That sure seemed like one helluva sonic-boom I thought to myself. Having come from the “Blues” my mind still operated in the aviation world of thinking. The phone rang. I answered it. It was one of my guys who, was off for the day at home just across the Anacostia River at Bolling Air Force Base. He asked me if we had just been attacked. I said “is that what that was?” I said I wasn’t sure, there were no alarms going off. He said he thought so because looking from his back yard black smoke was pouring out of the Pentagon. Someone went out to investigate. They quickly came back. All they said was, “We gotta go.”

Smoke filled halls were filled with people making their way towards exits. The murmur of voices and shuffling feet was all that could be heard. No one had a clue to what had just happened. The idea of a passenger plane hijacked by terrorists and crashing into the Pentagon was as remote a possibility as Arnold Schwarzenegger becoming the governor of California. Not exactly knowing what to think I made my way outside. Once outside I saw thick black smoke rising from the building. I thought that maybe construction workers working on the renovation might have hit a gas main. All sorts of thoughts ran through my head as hordes of dazed and confused people continued to pour into the daylight. Wanting information I went to my car and turned on the radio to listen to the news. I sat stunned not believing what I was hearing. Holy crap I thought. We’ve been attacked by terrorists, same as the Twin Towers. My God there are people in the wreckage. I spend my entire career trying to get into the action and when I think that I’m away in the rear the action comes looking for me.

I heard approaching sirens in the distance. Then it dawned on me. My wife was flying home that day. My mind raced with morbid fear. Is she safe? Has she got on the plane yet? In a fog I made my way to the pre-determined rally point. Once there I set my personal emotions aside. I had people to muster and account for. The rest of JCCC showed up. All were accounted for. Then security officers were yelling for everybody to leave the area because another attack was imminent. Mass hysteria hit the crowd. What the heck was going on? Like cockroaches scattering when the lights come on, civilians, military personnel, politicians and bungling bureaucrats ran for cover.

Somehow we all ended up on the other side of Highway 395. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing my car for a long time. More worries filled my mind, thinking of how would I get home and who would pick-up and care for my kids? The second attack turned out to be a false alarm. I set aside my worries, I focused on the positive. My wife would be OK and I would figure out how to get home and take care of my children, but first I had my duty to fulfill. Once again I accounted for my personnel. Fortunately several members had grabbed their cell phones. The airways were jammed, but after repeated attempts we were able to get a hold of my boss. He instructed us to get to the American Forces Information Services (AFIS) in Alexandria, where he currently was and where we would set up shop. There was imagery to get out to the world. The story needed to be told. Because none of us had access to our cars we made our way to the nearest metro station. I tried repeatedly, but couldn’t reach my wife. I was scared. Fortunately I was able to contact a neighbor who would pick my kids up from school. Once at AFIS we went into action setting up a temporary JCCC - still and video imagery started to come in. Sec Def wanted his imagery.

Hours later after repeated attempts I finally was able to get a hold of my wife. She was safe. Her plane had been delayed because of the tragedy. She had spent her time desperately trying to get a hold of me, fearing for the worst – widow hood. I assured that her I was un-harmed and that the kids were safe with a neighbor. We cried for our good fortune and the mis-fortune of others. I thanked God for watching over me and my family. I had been less than a hundred yards around the corner from the crash site.

Late that night in the safety of my home with my kids snug in bed I realized that a week earlier before moving into the newly renovated wing, JCCC had been located in the area of impact and that a few of my office mates and I would have been in the old office that morning to make sure we had moved everything, but had not because we had been watching the Twin Towers tragedy on TV. I sighed with relief. It had been a close call.

Years later, thinking about that bleak morning in September when all of America held its breath and our enemies cheered I give pause to reflect. Understanding, that on that day something awoke in me that had been missing in me, if not many others - service and sacrifice. I had spent my time in the Navy up until then thinking of what I could take or get out of the deal. My training, my many deployments, my wanting fun and adventure had always been about me. Sure, I had always been a good Sailor, but I had been driven by hubris and selfish desire. Not giving much thought to what it meant to serve my country. I was happy as long as I was able to collect a paycheck.

It didn’t happen overnight, but over the course of my tour at the Pentagon and supporting the “Global War on Terror” I found a new sense of purpose and energy. I worked long hours, determined to support the cause and give meaning to my duty. Gone were my days of thinking that being a Sailor meant being a sea going pirate, swashbuckling across the globe, with tales to spin and tell. People had died and would continue to do so without mine and every American’s full support to stop our enemies.

So when it was time for me to talk to my detailer about orders, I didn’t hesitate to ask for USS Boxer because that was where I was needed. My days of asking for fun and adventurous jobs seeking personal reward and glamour were over. And so whenever I find myself on long arduous extended deployments while sailing in harms way wondering why I have to be here and for what purpose I think of all those who have gone before me and of their sacrifice and dedication to service. When my time in the Navy comes to a close I want to be able to say as President Kennedy so eloquently said,

"I can imagine no more rewarding a career. And any man who may be asked in this century what he did to make his life worthwhile, I think can respond with a good deal of pride and satisfaction:

"I served in the United States Navy”

THAI GIRLS AND BEER

After way too many days out on the Indian Ocean aboard the USS Carl Vinson the ship pulled into Singapore for some well-deserved liberty. It was 1990 and I was on my first six-month deployment. I had a dire need for some R&R. Myself and two other shipmates decided to hit port together. We decided that we wouldn’t do ourselves justice if we didn’t make a pilgrimage to Raffles Hotel, home to the original “Singapore Sling.” We felt it our duty to down a few.

I was with Stevo and “The Ghoul.” We made a colorful trio. Stevo, I’m quite sure, suffered a brain embolism after being dropped on his head at birth and “ The Ghoul” functioned, considerably well for having been raised on the dark side of the moon. We hailed a taxi. Our driver spoke broken English. His name was Ho.

“To the Raffles,” I hollered. “I’ve a terrible thirst and would hate to disrupt your morning by having a cow on your front seat if you don’t deliver us quick.”

He replied, “Raffles no good.”

“What do you mean no good?”

“No good, you see.”

“All right, but get us there before I put you in a paralyzer grip. The Ghoul may start gnawing on your dashboard. He’s a very sick boy.”

He burned rubber.

As we pulled alongside this monument to British colonialism we discovered that the hotel founded by Sir Raffles, founder of Singapore, protector of the crown and keeper of the right to keep third world countries British, was closed for two years for restoration.

“Now what,” We jabbered excitedly about where we should go. I asked Ho for suggestions. He answered with “Ju Gardens.” We hadn’t heard of the place. I asked for more information.

“Can we eat and drink?”

He nodded, explaining that there were Thai girls and beer. Upon hearing this the Ghoul honed in like high-frequency radar. His beaming eyes displayed the glassy look of carnal knowledge. Enthusiastically repeating, “that’s it, Thai girls and beer, we gotta go.”

I gave him a shot to the jaw to refrain him from foaming any further on my sleeve.
Beads of sweat had formed on Ho’s head, in anticipation of Ghoul’s howling at the moon. Our dance hall Romeo had been placed in an advanced state of heat.

I had anticipated the plush environs of a world-class hotel, existing off a steady diet of iced Slings; not swilling watered down beer in some juke joint filled with a detachment of bare third world beauties. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of socializing with every outcast society had to offer, from Indonesian Pirates to arm pit braiding Mongolian Yak Handlers. The Ghoul hungered with anticipation. His eyes pleaded mercifully. His tongue hung out in a twisted pretzel knot. Ho waited for a decision.

“Is this place a run down dive? I asked.

“No, no, Ju Gardens nice… eat, drink, Thai girls, beer,” he swore.

“All right then,” I agreed.

We drove through the city. We were soon out of the city, heading toward jungle.

“Hey, I think our little buddy is taking us out for a hundred smacks cab fare,” said The Ghoul.

I interrogated our enterprising friend.

“Hey Ho; my frisky friend thinks you’re out to dust a couple of unsuspecting
squids for a magic carpet ride. I kind of suspect the same. What’s the story, Jack?”

“I bring Ju Gardens, I take, much money, no.”

“All right Ho, keep your panties on, “I said.
We passed a sign encouraging a visit to the zoo. No, it couldn’t be.

“I think this pop tart is taking us to the zoo, said Stevo.”

Like a hot-blistered chili pepper, I hurled a barrage of investigative questions, especially when we exited off the ramp to the zoo. We reacted like a kennel of man eating Dingo’s with ants crawling down our spines, wailing that the no good son of a gun had brought us to the zoo, and what fools we had been to have taken his word. Ho’s eyes bulged with fear. The hairs on his neck bristled. Never before had he witnessed the freakish sight of Sailors in the full grips of an all out hissy.

Stevo had shoved a full pack of Marlboro cigarettes into his mouth and was attempting to smoke them. The Ghoul had an American flag draped around himself and was dousing himself with lighter fluid. I gnawed away on the Armor-All laden dashboard savoring its tranquil affect.

Ho shrieked, “I say Ju Garden, you say yes. I bring.”

“Yeah, but what about the Thai girls and beer?” whined the Ghoul.

“Yes, and monkeys and elephants,” replied Ho.

“We don’t want monkeys and elephants,” groaned Stevo.

Then it dawned on me that he had not been saying Thai girls and beer, but “tigers and bears.” We had been acting like “Americas Most Wanted” sending U.S.-Singapore relations into the dark ages. I couldn’t believe what stooges we were. I screamed. They looked at me not sure of what to make of my mad display.

I shouted, “Tigers and bears, you demented pack of rat-poisoned feebes. Quit your crying. We’ve been acting worse than a convention of Shriners in the grips of an ether binge.”

“Huh?” answered Stevo and the Ghoul.

“Tigers and bears you dim wits; not Thai girls and beer,” Their faces showed that they still didn’t comprehend.

Ho’s face, however, was one big smile. The sweat on his brow evaporated quickly. He spoke fast and furious.

“Good, good. You see, you see. You like, eat, drink, fun, fun.”

“Aw, shut your pie hole and bring us to the zoo before I body slam you through a windshield,” I sighed.

Ho dumped us and peeled rubber, speeding off into our collective memory.

After our visit to the zoo we brought back a wealth of knowledge about Komodo Dragons and that looking up while in the bird aviary isn’t a good idea.

Word has it that The Ghoul was last seen in an episode of MTV’s Wild Boys and Stevo is currently a cigarette tester for Marlboro.