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It was towards the middle of my 7th grade year when I was asked to leave Margaret Keating School because of my bad behavior. So my folks enrolled me in classes at St. Joseph’s Catholic School.

I knew I was in trouble the moment Dad greeted Sister Angela, the school’s Mother Superior, as they hugged each other,  laughed and recalled their time in school together in Fort Dodge, Iowa.

Then much to my astonishment, they talked about their last date before Dad left for the Korean War and how Sister Angela came to decide on a life within the Catholic Church. And though I had heard it with my own juvenile delinquent ears I couldn’t believe it – Dad had dated a Nun!

After leaving radio broadcasting for what I thought was for good, I accepted a job as a Security Officer with the Reno Hilton. It turned out to be a job fraught with both personal and professional pitfalls.

One personal pitfall I encountered was the verbal abuse of co-workers, whose self-confidence appeared to be lacking in many ways. Looking back I realize I let their lack of confidence affect my confidence in completing my duties.

Along with the job came a couple of other duties. Since I was still a state registered EMT at the time, I was given the position of medical officer when on duty. I also applied and was hired as a relief-dispatcher.

After having relieved a fellow officer in dispatch, I was walking back to my regularly assigned post at the employees entrance, through what was called the gray area, when I walked past another security officer. Without warning she verbally lashed out at me.

“You better stay the hell away from me!” she shouted.

My response was less than pleasant and less than professional. I told her to “eff-off,” and not necessarily in those words.

It was the first time all shift that I had personal contact with this officer. Earlier as I was dispatching I asked for a follow-up from her as she had been sent to meet another employee for a “key service,” which is to say she had to unlock a door to a restricted area and observe that employees activities.

She had been sent to on the “key service,” by the other officer I had jus’ relieved in the dispatch office. It was protocol to follow-up on officers when they had been out of radio contact for any length of time.

And after half-an-hour, I radioed her to check up on her and to remind her she needed to collect the employees badge number for her report. It was common for officers to forget to gather this information and they constantly had to call the employee-in-question to get their number.

I thought I was doing a nice thing by reminding her as she ended up having two numbers to gather.

Unfortunately, my supervisor, a sergeant, didn’t see it that way. I was written-up for being verbally abusive to my co-worker and this would be another nail in my coffin towards being fired from the job.

Upon learning that actor Sylvester Stallone had been inducted into the boxing hall of fame, I had to laugh. Doesn’t the sporting world understand that “Rocky Balboa,” is simply a character in a series of films?

Yes, I’ve heard all the rhetoric that Stallone has done much for the sport of boxing, but that’s like saying Stallone has done much for the Vietnam vet because he portrayed “John Rambo,” in “First Blood.” I hope that doesn’t mean he’ll get his name carved into the Vietnam Memorial Wall when he dies.

Stallone is a nice guy, the one time I met him.  He was filming an arm-wrestling movie called, “Over the Top,” at the Sparks Nugget, while I was working in the casino as a keno writer.

In “Over the Top,” Stallone portrays Lincoln Hawk, a widowed trucker trying to make amends with his son. As I recall, the son doesn’t think too much of him until he enters a wrestling competition in Las Vegas.

Yeah, Vegas — it’s not the first time Reno has doubled for Sin City, nor has it been the last. I must admit though, Stallone is shorter than I had expected, but I think that’s because of his on-screen persona and my own lack of height.

Now that the door has been opened to include actors in the boxing hall of fame, I’d like to nominate some of my own. The first would have to be Robert DeNiro as Jake LaMotta in “Raging Bull,” a film about an emotionally self-destructive boxer, whose temper takes him to the top in the ring, but destroys his life outside it.

Another film worthy of nomination would be, “The Hurricane.” This movie stars Denzel Washington portraying fighter Rubin “Hurricane” Carter, who was wrongfully convicted of murder and imprisoned for several years until he was cleared of the crime.

Then there is the performance of Will Smith as Muhammad Ali in the film, “Ali.” So far Smith is the only actor who has been able to capture the essence of arguably the greatest boxer in the late 20th century.

Lastly, I toss the movie, “Million Dollar Baby,” into the ring. Clint Eastwood and Hilary Swank should both get a nomination nod for his portrayal of hardened trainer working a determined woman in her attempt to establish herself as a boxer, even though the movies ending is a bit hard to believe.

Maybe the whole idea should be TKO’d.

It was long weekend, meaning three days off from the rigors of continuous study. Michael Gorsline and I were invited to go spend some time at the Kelly Recreation Area north of San Antonio.

It was Tech-Sergeant Frank Joseph who had offered to take us out to the lake and he was also bringing a married couple along. Frank was the supervisor of Environmental Health Education at the School of Aerospace Medicine. 

We piled into his van and arrived at the lake’s edge around mid-morning. It was a typical central Texas summer day, hot and humid and we were all looking forward to getting into the water. 

After a day spent swimming and lounging in the sun, we had hamburgers and hotdogs, cooked over the campfire. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. 

While everyone slept in the van, I decided to take advantage of being outdoors and sleep under the stars. I chose a picnic table located near the van as my rack. 

The next day, Mike and I took a couple inner tubes we’d brought along for the occasion and made our way our way to the middle of the lake. There we got to talking about the regular stuff guy’s talk about. 

“I really think Becky’s cute,” I told Mike about the wife of the guy Frank had also invited. 

“Keep it down,” he scolded me, “Sound travels really well over water, you know.”

I poo-poo’d his notion as I believed we were too far out to be heard in camp.

It turns out Mike was right, and I’d find this out that night as I fell asleep on the table once again. Becky woke me up wanting to know if I really believed she was cute.

I told her that I did and I wouldn’t have said so, had I not meant it.

She then kissed me very gently on the lips, said goodnight and returned to the van. Neither of us spoke of it again for the remainder of the weekend.

I never saw Becky or her husband again after that weekend.

Both her question and her kiss left me puzzled for years after. I have since come to understand that there are something’s better not understood.

While searching through a stack of old pictures of an antique store in the coastal Oregon town of Brookings, I found a photo I thought was rather curious.  I asked the owner of the store if she knew where the small, creased and aging black and white picture came from.

She told me that it was of a Japanese airplane and that it had played a historical role by being the only foreign aircraft to ever bomb the U.S. mainland.  She also told me, being a life-long Brookings native, that the bomb-site still existed and she gave me directions to the spot.

Furthermore, she told me her brother had taken the picture and that he still had the negative stored away in his home. I bought the picture, plus another of her brother leaning on a Duece-and-a-half, for a dollar each.

The 1942 Lookout Air Raids, as it was later dubbed by U.S. Intelligence, was not the last attack on the civilian population of the U.S. Between November 1944 and April 1945, the Japanese Navy launched over 9,000 fire balloons toward North America.

Five children and a woman became the only deaths due to enemy action to occur in mainland America during World War II when one of the children touched a bomb from a balloon near Bly, Oregon and it exploded. The site is marked by a stone monument at the Mitchell Recreation Area in the Fremont-Winema National Forest.

Perhaps as retribution for the Doolittle Raid over Tokyo, on September 9, 1942, a Japanese plane, a Yokosuka Glen, dropped a bomb just north of the Brookings Harbor area. The crew included Chief Warrant Officer Nobuo Fujita and Petty Officer Shoji Okuda and their plane was launched from an offshore submarine.

Okuda would die in action later in the war while Fujita would return to civilian life. The bombing was commemorated in 1994 with an on-site historical marker, three years before Fujita passed away in his native Japan.

Imagine my disappointment to learn that the aircraft that attacked the town returned to the submarine, not once, but twice and didn’t crash somewhere north of Brookings, as the photo suggests.  Still, it wasn’t a bad sales pitch or a bad story for a couple of bucks.

It had been a long and miserable day as I drove from Las Vegas to Reno. I had heard that there were to be snow flurries along U.S. 95, but I had no idea how bad those flurries would be after night fell.

Then my VW’s heater died. This was followed quickly by my windshield wipers.

I was about ready to give up, when I decided to turn on my radio and see what sort of country music stations I could find. It gave me something to do beyond worrying whether I’d be able to see the road ahead of me in the next couple of minutes.

Much to my surprise I heard a radio station that I had become familiar with over the number of times I traveled through and or had stayed in Nevada. At the time I was focusing my interests on returning to radio full-time and working at a country music station in particular.

I used that radio station’s signal to help bolster my flagging courage and survive my trek through the Silver State.

The following year I would get an opportunity — albeit short-lived — to work for that same station, known as KNSS or Nevada’s Super Station. I say short-lived because I was one of the airstaff members fired to make way for the new staff of KBUL.

Eventually, I’d get to work on air at KBUL as well. Such is the life of a radio broadcaster.

Periodically, I would hear Dad and my Uncle Ron Benedict laughing about how the cement bears that graced the new Klamath Bridge were painted gold and how the state would soon have to strip them of their unnatural color. I always had a suspicion that those two men were the one’s who were doing the deed so to speak.

However, I was trolling the Internet and found an article, written by an unnamed author that has cleared up much of what I believed of Uncle Ron and Dad. The tale told, lets them off the hook in this case.

It reads in part:  “…one evening in old Klamath, the town was starting to look awful tired.  A group of local businessmen (Herb Fehley, John Menary, Ray Thompson, Pat Murphy, Ward Berg, Johnny Rycraft and Bud Harper to name a few) were having a cocktail at one of the local pubs discussing things, when someone announced it was time for Klamath’s main street to have a face lift. 

So with brooms, mops, trash containers and general cleaning apparatus the group set out that night to rejuvenate the downtown area. The streets were swept, the litter removed, the windows washed and all the dust and cob webs were swept away.

One voice in the group muttered there needs to be one final touch. 

One voice said, “I’ve got some gold paint in the shed at home.” 

And another said, “I’ve got some brushes. Let’s paint those Bears Gold.” 

And so they did.”

It’s hard to believe isn’t it?  After all what man in his right mind voluntarily picks up a broom and starts sweeping.

Every athlete from Margaret Keating School was given an invitation to dinner at 7th Grade Teacher and Coach Jeff Neyenhouse’s home. The house used to belong to a fellow named Jack, who owned a fishing camp on the south side of the Klamath River.

The home, now owned by the Neyenhouse’s, was located north of DeMartins Beach and jus’ below Robin Kohse’s parents home along Highway 101. The house had a fantastic view of the Pacific Ocean.

Shortly before we were to sitdown to dinner, we kid’s got to playing around with a few of the Neyenhouse’s decorative objects. One in particular held a fascination for many of us: a dark, wooden figure of a half-naked woman.

I was looking at it when Pat Patapoff took it away from me

He tucked the figure between his legs and was pumping his hips into the girls as if  he were having sexual intercourse with them. Everyone was laughing at his antics.

Seeing what Pat was doing, Mr. Neyenhouse told him that the figure he was playing with was a “fertility goddess.” Pat had no idea what the teacher was talking about, so Mr. Neyenhouse continued, “It’s supposed to help couples get pregnant.”

The look on Pat’s face said everything as the figure dropped from between his legs and to the carpet. He then walked into the kitchen and Mr. Neyenhouse picked the figure up and placed back on the shelf where it had been.

Editors Note:  Shortly after publishing this, I received several terse phone calls from Wendy Mazaros insisting I remove this article from my website under threat of a lawsuit as I dared mention what she did to Dick Stoddard. After consulting my attorney and learning I am within my First Amendment rights, I decided to re-post it despite her demand.

Nevada Governor Jim Gibbons spent several hours being questioned about an incident involving Las Vegas cocktail waitress Chrissy Mazzeo, who is accusing him of sexually assault during his campaign for governor in October 2006. The questioning also focused on rumors about his extramarital affairs.

In the end, he denied having romantic relationships with the two Reno women. But all of that is being refuted by a woman, notoriously known for her shady Las Vegas underworld life.

Wendy Mazaros said she was reluctant to become a witness in Jim And Dawn Gibbons’ divorce because, as she claims, she was warned to keep her mouth shut, but then she insisted on placing herself in the middle of it anyway. Her deposition took eight hours and focused on Gibbons and Leslie Durant.

Learning who Wendy Mazaros is depends on what period of her life you’re talking about. And once you know, it becomes hard to give her testimony legitimacy, especially since she’s also pedaling a new book.

She started out as Wendy Watson, then Wendy Hadley after marrying Tom Hanley who was suspected of 20 killings but was eventually convicted the 1977 mob murder of Culinary Union boss Al Bramlet.

She then moved on to Robert Peoples, another lifelong criminal, who had been convicted of crimes from bad checks to murder. She and Peoples raised the child she had with Hanley.

She moved to Reno in the late 80s, had a long-term relationship and a daughter local weatherman Dick Stoddard, taking his last name. In 1994 she accused Stoddard of molesting their daughter, which cost him his job at TV station.

Those charges were eventually dropped when it was found that there was no merit to her accusation.

Now going by the name Wendy Stoddard, she moved into a small house in Reno with Leslie Durant. There, she claims, she learned Durant supposedly involved in a secret relationship with Gibbons.

She says Leslie visited Gibbons at least two or three times a week at a condo he owned. She even claims she and Leslie chased down Kathy Karasch, another woman whose been linked by the media as being involved with Gibbons.

Gibbons filed for divorce May 2, 2008 from his wife of 22 years, former Assemblywoman Dawn Gibbons, citing “incompatibility.” The two have a son, whose serving in the Merchant Marines.

The house was entirely dark when the three of us entered through the front door and had been since the bride’s father, Don had passed away. It had been a lousy day, full of distractions, designed to take our minds of the death of her father.

First we had gone to see the vampire movie, “Van Helsing.” It wasn’t normally something we would have seen but Kyle’s cousins insisted. It turned out to be a good choice as it was more humorous than it was scary.

Then there was the food shopping for the barbecue and the motorcycle rides in the field next door to occupy the time. By the end of the evening everyone was exhausted and ready to relax a while before turning into sleep.

The three of  us quietly moved through our routine of preparing for bed. Kyle had to shower since he was covered with a fine layer of dust from riding motorcycles.

That meant he had to wonder down the length of hallway without a light and back again, leaving him vulnerable for a practical joke. I listened intently for the sound of the water as it passed through the fifty year old pipes and once I heard it, I grinned at the bride, picked up the small flashlight resting on the wooden nightstand by the bed and rushed to the bend in the hallway.

It was there that I lowered myself to my knees. I knew the bend was a blind elbow in which Kyle couldn’t see around.

I waited for the  sound of the shower knobs turning and then the silence.

A few minutes later I heard the bathroom door open and Kyle step out into hallway. I could hear the eleven year old walking towards me.

Within seconds Kyle was at the corner and I flicked on the flash light. I held it beneath my chin, shining it upwards giving my face a frightful appearance.

As I did this, I hissed violently.  I expected Kyle to jump or maybe run in place.

He did neither.

Without warning Kyle stepped back, yelled “hi-ya!,” and kicked for all he was worth.  Then he ran down the hallway towards the bedroom.

Instantly, I dropped the flashlight and grabbed my crotch. I tried to scream but found I couldn’t even breathe. Instead I was seeing stars and other bright lights as I fell over.

It took a while until I was able to roll over on my back and set up. I felt dizzy as I sat there.

Slowly I got to my knees and then feet. My legs were wobbly.

That’s when I realized I had messed my britches and I thought, “I’ve never had that happen before.”

I walked down the hallway and to the bedroom to find Kyle sitting on the end of the bed.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he said, “Honest! I thought you were a vampire.”

“That’s okay,” I replied.

I forced a smile and turned back towards the bathroom.

The idea of being mistaken for a vampire was the  least of my worries at that moment. It had occurred to me that my son had literally kicked the crap out of me.