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While working for a nationally known package delivery company, I was required to wear an identification card showing I was employed by the company, therefore authorized to be on the loading dock at the time. However, one morning I made the mistake of not having the badge on as I walked through the buildings doors.

That’s where I was grabbed by the companies dock supervisor – literally. He latched on to my left arm and swung me around, yelling “You can’t be in here!”

I don’t like to be touched by anyone I don’t know – it freaks me out.

My reaction was to cock my fist, throw a punch at him and shout, “Don’t you ever effing touch me!”  Another of the other supervisors grabbed me by the waist and dragged me out of the building.

Meanwhile, the plant manager stepped in front of the dock supervisor, directing him into a neutral corner so to speak. Their actions calmed the situation down immediately.

The next day I found myself apologizing to the dock supervisor for having threatened him as I did. He in turn apologized for having grabbed me.

Where this is leading and why it’s relevant is that recently a candidate for Nevada’s Congressional District 2 seat, vacated by now Senator Dean Heller, threatened a Las Vegas Review-Journal reporter with arrest for touching him. It’s a situation I can fully empathize with.

According to an online blog report from the same news paper, reporter Ed Vogel approached Former Navy Commander and current CD-2 candidate Kirk Lippold to ask him a question or two about some statements he made during the debate. The blog reads, “Vogel touched him on his suit coat with two fingers and asked for a more complete answer.”

“Two fingers,” –really?

When someone goes to the extreme of pointing out how many fingers touched the other person, instead of simply saying “touched,” I get more than a little suspicious.

But what the blog’s author fails to include in the article is what is in the back of everyone’s mind: Did Vogel introduce himself as a reporter or did he simply walk up to the Skipper and ask him a question point-blank?

If he did introduce himself – did Lippold hear him? This is still an unknown. What is known is that Vogel made inappropriate contact with the former Commander.

This is known as assault – or rather – the threat of violence. It occurs when a person feels his or her space has been violated in a manner that leaves them feeling unsafe.

Now — a little background on Carson City native  Lippold — he was the Commanding Officer of the USS Cole (DDG-67) on October 12, 2000 when the ship was attacked and bombed by Al-Qaeda terrorists during a refueling stop in the Yemeni port of Aden, killing 17 sailors.

Hypersensitive to personal safety? You bet!

As for Vogel, according to the blog article, he has been a newspaper reporter for more than forty-years, including 34 with the Review-Journal. The same story adds, “… this was the first time anyone has threatened Vogel with arrest.”

In speaking with others who know reporter Vogel, they say he has been known to assume everyone knows who he is – therefore he may have expected Lippold to recognize him without question. This is a case of ego, poor judgment or bad manners, take your pick.

Then there are the few who say Vogel sometimes practices “gotcha-journalism.” It was explained to me by three people, that he often fails to introduce himself and acts rather like “jus’ another interested person,” instead of a professional journalist.

The online posting states: “One of the debate coordinators who knew Vogel told Lippold he was a veteran reporter, and only then did the candidate answer his questions.”

This doesn’t square up with what else is reported in the same piece. The article claims Vogel spoke to Lippold, asking him questions, where upon Lippold “briefly answered, turned and started to move away.”

If he briefly answered – then one can conclude the Skipper knew Vogel was a reporter and felt he had answered the question. Why then would Vogel need to be pointed out as a “veteran reporter?”

I’d love to hear the entire tape, Vogel is said to have had with him at the time, so we could know exactly what went down.

We sat there in the newsroom a few minutes before midnight, mesmerized by the drama unfolding over the scanner. The male-voice called calmly to the dispatcher, “I’m rolling code-3 with an unconscious man in my backseat.”

It was obviously an officer — we couldn’t tell whether he was a “County Mounty,” a “Super Trooper,” or perhaps a “Toy Cop.” But we knew he was en route towards Sparks from USA Parkway on Interstate 80 jus’ west of Fernley.

I have driven that stretch of road, having worked for a now defunct ambulance service — and it can be very challenging after dark.

All radio traffic had come to an abrupt halt — save for the dispatcher, who was sending an ambulance to meet the officer. Silence like that can be terribly deafening.

“I have to pull over — I can’t tell if he’s breathing or not,” the officer stated in near-monotone voice.

“Is he responsive?” the dispatcher asked.

Pause — we waited — hanging, suspended by the wait. Then he answered, “Barely.”

“10-4,” the woman behind the dispatch mic returned, adding, “Meet the ambulance at the Mustang exit.”

“Roger,” the officer answered, calmly including, “I’m code-3, westbound.”

We never found out what happened as all radio traffic ceased between the officer traveling at a high-rate of speed, with lights and siren announcing the urgency of his mission. I can only assume he met the ambulance and made the transfer, turning what was a victim into a patient.

In the end, it didn’t matter whether he was a sheriff’s deputy, a state trooper or a security patrol officer — he was there when needed.  And though I don’t know him and probably never will — thank you — whoever you are.

On 17 June 1898, the Hospital Corps came into being. Since then help has been but a shout away: “Corpsman!”

The Corpsman has had the back of the Leatherneck in every conflict since. The number of Corpsmen killed in action is 2,012, with 22 Medal of Honor recipients, 174 Navy Crosses awarded, 31 US Army Distinguished Service Medals given, 946 Silver Stars earned and 1,582 Bronze Stars issued.

Previously, the Corpsman was commonly referred to as a Loblolly boy, a term borrowed from the British Royal Navy, and a reference to the daily ration of porridge fed to the sick. The nickname was in common use for so many years that it was finally officially recognized by the Navy Regulations of 1814.

Often sand was used to keep the surgeon from slipping on the bloody ship deck. Their primary duties were to keep the irons hot and buckets of sand at the ready for the operating area as it was commonplace during battle for the surgeons to conduct amputations and irons were used to close lacerations and wounds.

In coming years, the title of the enlisted medical assistant would change several times—from Loblolly Boy, to Nurse, and finally to Bayman. A senior enlisted medical rate, Surgeon’s Steward, was introduced in 1841 and remained through the Civil War.

Following the war, the title Surgeon’s Steward was abolished in favor of Apothecary, a position requiring completion of a course in pharmacy. With the Spanish-American War looming, Congress passed a bill authorizing establishment of the U.S. Navy Hospital Corps, signed into law by President William McKinley.

During World War I, Hospital Corpsmen served throughout the fleet, earning particular distinction on the Western Front with the Marine Corps. 20 Corpsmen gave their lives in the “war to end all wars.”

In World War II, Hospital Corpsmen hit the beach with Marines in every battle in the Pacific. Between 1941 and 1945, 1,170 Corpsman lost their lives serving this nation and the US Marine Corps.

Hospital Corpsmen continued accompanying Marines into battle during the Korean Conflict and Vietnam wars. Between 1950 and 1953, 109 Corpsmen died in the field of fire and from 1962 to 1975, 639 Corpsmen answered the final call of duty.

Fifteen Hospital Corpsmen were counted among the dead following the bombing of the Marine barracks in Beirut in 1983. Many were crushed in the debris of the destroyed building along with the 220 Marines they were serving side-by-side with.

Corpsmen have hit the beaches and humped the boonies in defense of liberty and democracy in places like Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic, and Granada and throughout Central America. They’ve also served in clandestine operations that are still classified.

Today, hospital corpsmen continue to serve in both the Iraq and Afghanistan theaters. Since March 20, 2003, 42 Corpsmen have laid down their lives in combat.

Semper Fi!

Fortunately I’m not the only person in the station to have seen the strange sight of the pale white, skinny, bony figure. But I am the only person to openly write about my sighting.

It’s one of the reasons I don’t like to go into the Claire Wilson Conference Room without having the lights on. I used it one late evening as a short-cut between the kitchen, where my locker is and the newsroom.

This particular night the room was dark as I strolled through it with a cup of coffee, my brief case and my headphones. Jus’ as I reached the other side of the room I noticed someone standing near the end of the table by the door.

At first it didn’t fully register that I had seen a person standing there and I continued walking. Then, like a light flicked on in my brain, it dawned on me was I had seen — so I took a couple of steps back.

There was nothing there. But I know I had seen someone — or should I say something.

The figure was between 5′ 10″ and six-feet tall, extremely skinny and bone and very pale, almost translucent. It was the only time I have seen this thing.

A co-worker, R. Boogie, told me that he also saw the figure, though we couldn’t agree exactly on a description. Yet it had some striking similarities including the skinny, bony features I had seen.

Boogie was walking down the hallway after take transmitter readings when he spotted someone out of the corner of his right eye. The person, as he calls it, was standing in a production studio, looking out the window as he passed by.

And like me, it didn’t register right away that he had seen something. And jus’ like I did, he had to stop, step back and look.

Once again, whatever had been there — disappeared. Boogie even opened the studio door to look behind it in order to make certain.

Still another person, who works in the building during the day, claims she saw the same thing out of the corner of her eye.  She says that whatever it was, she was unable to focus on it when she’d turn her head to look at whatever was moving jus’ outside her vision.

Perhaps this is the energy that has been reported to make noise walking up and down the hallways, opening and closing doors and rattling desk drawers. Half-of-me wants to know, while the other-half says, “Leave well enough alone.”

It was supposed to be a practical joke, but it certainly didn’t turn out to be very funny at the time. And Kyle’s reaction left me feeling terrible.

There were several mannequin faces needing to be washed after the CPR class I had jus’ taught a couple of hours before. So I filled up the bathtub, added some bleach, prepared the latex faces to soak.

To understand how this all started I have to explain that when I sneeze – I sneeze very hard.  I used to tell Kyle that one day my face would fall off after sneezing so hard.

Anyway, I had one of the mannequin faces in my hand as Kyle stood behind me, curious as to what I was doing. That’s when I decided to fake a sneeze.

As I did, I half-tossed, half-dropped the latex face on the floor. I had my hands covering my face and I cried out, “I sneezed my face-off!”

Kyle’s eyes popped open wide and he screamed. As he did this, he also turned and took off running for the front room.

It took me at least 15-minutes to convince him that it was jus’ a rubber face from a CPR dummy and not really my face. He told me he didn’t want to see me without my skin, so he kept his eyes covered during that time.

Later, he would scold me, “Bad Daddy!”

While traveling towards Muskogee, I decided to stop along the highway in Arizona to stretch my legs and take care of other business. I had been driving all day and living off one cup of coffee after another from various gas stations and truck stops along the way.

It was very dark as I placed my truck in park and walked up the slight embankment to find a private spot that I could be certain that a passing big rig couldn’t illuminate as I emptied my bladder. The embankment eventually gave way to a flat surface and then another slope that took me down behind the embankment.

I felt well enough hidden as not to be concerned about being seen.

As I stood there relieving myself, I noticed shining headlights from a long haul truck as it headed eastbound.  I looked around to make sure I had selected a secluded place as I had hoped.

I was well out of the sight line of any passing motorist — however the headlights showed me I was not alone.

It took me a few minutes to slow my heart rate down after I had looked up and saw a mouth full of teeth only a few feet from my face. Then the big rig zoomed by and I found myself in the dark again.

I didn’t wait to finish peeing as I raced back over the berm to my truck.

Once there I pulled out the large spot light I had stored in my vehicle and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. Then I shined the light towards the area I had jus’ been and saw what had put the scare in me.

At that moment I wanted to kick the crud out of the person who put those stupid dinosaur statues out in the middle of that field without proper lighting. It took about an hour before the front of my pants finally dried out.

Dirty bastard!

With the Internet, Facebook, MySpace, texting and cellphones, it’s been a very long time since I had actually received a handwritten letter. It’s a nice surprise to find one in the mailbox along with the assorted bills and ads.

Lyn is a friend, who knows I collect postcards, especially older cards dealing with Nevada — so she sent me two that she found at her Grandpa’s home in San Jose’ shortly after he passed away.

Her grandpa Angelo Casti was born December 17, 1919 and passed away May 18, 2011 at the age of 91. He was preceded in death by his wife, Lois and is survived by his children, Rosalind Santora, Gene Casti, Debra Fodge, Andrea Casti; 6 grandchildren and 11 great-grandchildren.

As for the postcards, Lyn included in her letter:

Milton Prell’s Aladdin Hotel, 1961. On the back it reads, “The alluring new Aladdin Hotel, rich in luster of the Arabian Nights, now casts its magnificent glow over the Las Vegas Strip. Spread like a jeweled cluster over 35 acres of desert oasis, the Aladdin unveils its magic carpet to a multitude of luxurious rooms, sparking entertainment in the Bagdad room and dancing and gourmet dining-pleasures in the elegant Sabre Room. Complete convention facilities, four swimming pools and the finest par-3 golf course in the West complete this myriad of unmatched Las Vegas splendor.

The Aladdin Hotel was the first major casino to open on the Las Vegas Strip in the 1960s, eight years after the area’s 1950s boom period ended with the Stardust’s debut in 1958. The original site of the Aladdin, between the Flamingo  and Tropicana hotels on the Strip’s eastern side, had been undeveloped desert land until 1963.

By 2003, the Aladdin was in bankruptcy and eventually was purchased by a group with plans to remove the hotel’s Aladdin theme and replace it with one based on Hollywood films. The hotel officially became Planet Hollywood Resort and Casino in April 2007, with a grand opening later that year.

From the back of the Dunes Hotel and Country Club postcard, also dated 1961, it reads:  “The new 24-story ‘Diamond of the Dunes’ dominates the Las Vegas sky line. This magnificant resort features 1,000 deluxe rooms and suites (all with TV.)

The Dunes is renowned for the 18-hole “Emerald Green Championship Golf Course and Country Club; The Sultan’s Table, Dome of the Sea and Top O’ the Strip; two giant pools, acres of free parking plus the direct-from-Paris spectacular Casino De Paris and Fredric Apcar’s Vive Les Girls. Incomparable convention facilities. Alice in Wonderland Nursery.”

The Dunes opened May 23, 1955 as a low-rise resort. When the North Tower was added in 1961 it was one of the finest and largest hotels on the strip, with the South Tower being added in 1979.

On January 26, 1993, the Dunes closed its doors for good and was imploded on October 27, 1993 starting with the North Tower. The South Tower was obliterated in July 1994 and the Bellagio now stands in its place.

As for Frederic Apcar, he first made his mark on the Strip in late 1961 with “Vive Les Girls,” which continued into the 1970s. “Casino de Paris” opened in 1963 and ran until 1982. He also continued produce shows in Reno and Tahoe until 1992.

Apcar was born Stember 16, 1914 in Parisand passed away August 2, 2008 from a heart attack. He was 93.

I hold the letter, the postcards and Lyn’s friendship in high-regard.

Kay arrived home from the store with a couple of bags of groceries and a few personal items for the bathroom. After putting the food away, she went into the bathroom, where I heard the shower come on.

She was in there for around 20 minutes, which is unlike her, especially since the water had been off for nearly a quarter-hour. When she came out, I discovered why.

“So what do you think?” she asked as she held her arm out for me.

It was obvious she wanted me to smell her skin. So I took in a deep breath.

“Very nice,” I told her.

Then she showed me a bottle filled with a whitish lotion. It was a skin creme.

What I found most interesting about the bottle was its label. It had a large marijuana leaf on it.

I asked to read the ingredient on the back of the bottle, where I found it contained cannabis sativa seed oil.

Laughing, I commented, “You know that stuff will give you the munchies.”

“No it won’t!” Kay shot back.

A few minutes later she came out of her room and sat down on the couch to watch whatever I had on the television. She had yet to get completely comfortable when she jumped back up and headed across the room.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m hungry,” she answered, “and I’m getting some potato chips. Want some?”

I couldn’t answer her because I was laughing to hard.

Jus’ across Pyramid Highway from our home is a very well-known Nevada landmark — or at least it should be. At one time it was ranch owned by one of the most powerful men in state during the early years of the 20th century.

The ranch is now subdivided and filled with single-family homes, an 18-hole golf course with sand-traps and water hazards and miles and miles of asphalt. Today, it’s known as Wingfield Springs.

When George Wingfield came to Northern Nevada in the late 1896 no one knew what kind of impact he would have on the state. Eventually with the 1906 formation of Goldfield Consolidated Mines Company, he became a multi-millionaire,  owned at least 12 banks and was a political powerhouse.

But as Nevada legend has it — George Wingfield also had a dark side. The way the story goes Wingfield took a liking to prostitute named Elizabeth, and was furious when he found out that she was carrying another mans child.

In his anger he allegedly chained Elizabeth to the radiator-heater inside room 109 of the Goldfield Hotel, which he built. There she is supposed to have stayed until she gave birth in the 30’s.

Old timers claim Wingfield took the baby and threw the it down an abandoned mine located under the hotel. As for Elizabeth, she vanished, never to be seen or heard from again.

There is no evidence supporting these allegations however. And what few facts remain, they do not support the story. 

First, while Wingfield owned the hotel from 1908 to 1923, he kept his distance. It was Casey McDannell that actually ran the hotel. 

Next, the hotel remained open until 1946 and I can’t imagine a woman being held hostage in a room without someone knowing this and reporting it. Either an employee or a guest would have heard her cries for help. 

Third, the mine beneath the hotel was built by Newton Crumley, who purchased the hotel from Wingfield in 1923. That mine wasn’t constructed until about ten years later.

Lastly, Wingfield no longer owned the hotel by the time this incident is alleged to have happened. If it did happen, perhaps the culprit would be Crumley — not Wingfield.

Then again the legend does make for some pretty good fodder around the card table and bar room.

As I prepared to shave my face I suddenly realized I was no longer part of the age group Schick is marketing their products towards. I say Schick because at this moment I’m using Edge™ Sensitive Skin.

I am surprised — but I don’t know why.

As I held the can — I took a few seconds to look at what was printed on it. The can has a menacing image from the PlayStation® game KZ3 — something that my teenage son might play and which I have no idea about.

It had to happen sooner or later. That’s the nature of product marketing.

But it leaves me wondering — did Dad or Grandpa ever have the same realization?