Compelling Interest

Airman Gets an Idea

Sitting in the galley enjoying his chow time, the Navy Airman is alone at his big table next to the window. The dining area, served by a Taco Bell and Subway, is filled with officers, enlisted, and civilian workers. Looking across his empty table, the Airman regards the next table over, crowded with petty officers in their fatigues. They look so tough and confident as they share their meal and their manly camaraderie.

The Airman looks forward to the day when the three green, diagonal stripes on the left shoulder of his summer whites will be replaced by his first chevron and the coveted "crow." Then he'll be a tough, confident petty officer, too, with lots of friends. It's really a perched eagle, he reminds himself, but I guess they call it a crow 'cause it's just made with black thread. I think sailors like to nickname things for fun. The Airman is a little slow; he is avoided.

Regarding his Subway sandwich, he notices a little, round strip of dough on the end of the small wheat loaf that was used to put his sandwich together. The strip had obviously been dangling off the end of the loaf when it was put into the oven and baked; it couldn't have been more than a half-inch long. The now hard strip of dangling dough had a certain phallic aspect to it, and this was not lost on the Airman (though, if asked to define "phallic," would state, "A type of cat?"). He found the image amusing. Turning the sandwich over in his hand, he amused himself further by murmuring to himself, "Excited!" Turning the sandwich back over, he said, "Not excited." He did this a number of times before realizing he was on to something that might make him some friends.

Jutting the sandwich toward the table of petty officers, the Airman blurted out in the overexcited tones of the slow and lonely, "Hey, I have a little dick!"

The table across from him fell instantly silent, and in the next instant exploded into hysterics. Hardly anyone looked toward the Airman, and no one bothered to contemplate the significance of the sandwich thrust forward. They were laughing at him, but the Airman was too slow to catch that subtlety.

He laughed right along, certain he'd scored some points with the big guys. As he finished his lunch, he thought, Maybe I can sit at their table tomorrow!

Airman Advances to Petty Officer

Let's go into the mind the Airman and follow him through portions of his Advancement Exam to see just how he pulled off this thrilling, inspiring feat:

Okay, here we go. Question number one. Something about aircraft...okay...so A, B, C, or D? Hmm, I think I'll start off with...B; that sounds good.

Number fourteen. Let's see...Oh! I guess some have wheels. That's cool. Uh...D?

Wow, already on 25! This one has something to do with math. Skip it.

Forty-four...ha! ha! That's funny - an airplane has a nose!

Let's see, I've been guessing a lot of C's lately. Better switch to something else for awhile. Seventy-three, A!

Eighty-two. Hmm, that's an odd question, but it has a familiar ring to it. Let's see what my options are:
A. a whole lot.
B. only as much as Navy Regulations (NAVREGS) will allow.
C. you'd be surprised.
D. as much wood as a woodchuck could if a woodchuck could chuck wood.

That's it! I know this one - it's D! Finally, no more guessing. Stand by, everyone! Petty Officer on deck!

Critical Information

The sailors were gathered together in the conference room – junior enlisted, chiefs, and officers. Most were seated; a handful were standing in the back. All were listening intently to the squared-away petty officer in his Government Issue coveralls. He was one of those no nonsense, “tell it like it is” sailors – all business.

The petty officer was laying down the law regarding the new spaces the other sailors were taking over for their drill weekends – the do’s and don’t’s, the off-limits areas, and the like. He was setting boundaries.

This is the United States Navy. Information will be disseminated in a timely fashion; all personnel will be properly and fully informed. We are a team. We work together. The petty officer was speaking as I entered the room:

“There are pop machines at the end of the hall, but they are off-limits to you. They are for the A school students. Any questions?”

A hand goes up. A sailor needs more information. “Is there a snack machine?”

“There is a snack machine downstairs that you can use, but don’t go near the pop machines up here.”

These are the pressing issues. The U.S. Navy will address these issues head-on. We will meet the challenge; we will overcome. We will leave those pop machines alone.

Roger that.

Three Laughs at Boot Camp

Laugh No. 1:

I was the AROC (pronounced "A-ROCK") for our recruit division. This meant two things: I was second in command among the recruits, and I called cadence while we marched around the base. First in command (among the recruits) was called the RPOC ("R-POCK"). She called the marching commands while we marched ("Column right, march! Division, halt!").

Of course, everything has a routine in the military, and pulling up to the galley (cafeteria) was no exception. After halting the division (which numbered just over sixty) at the galley entrance, the RPOC is supposed to do an "About, Face" and shout into my face, "AROC, take charge!" I then respond, with equal volume, "Aye, aye, RPOC!" She then turns and goes into the galley while I give a couple of orders to the division to get us ready to enter.

Well, one day, the RPOC was busted for screwing up a couple of commands while we were marching to the galley, and the RDC (Recruit Division Commander, in this case Petty Officer Doby - think: Will Smith) sent her to the back of the division. As we halt at the entrance, Doby walks through the doors a little miffed and says over his shoulder, "AROC, you know what to do." "Aye, aye, Petty Officer!" I respond. Before the doors closed I decided we needed to keep "the routine" to maintain proper military order and avoid confusion. So, I called out, loud and proud: "AROC, take charge! Aye, aye, AROC!" Doby turned in surprise in the middle of my commands, and as the division busted out laughing he said, trying to suppress a smile, "I'm not even going to say anything," and walked away. (By the way, laughing out loud while standing in ranks is a big No, No.)

Laugh No. 2:

The entire division is sitting on the floor of the female compartment one evening as our Chief Petty Officer (Chief Greenidge) gives us information on the Employer Support of the Guard and Reserve program. She is explaining that we can nominate our employers for an award that recognizes their patriotism, etc. I raise my hand.

"Chief," I say, straight-faced, "if we are self-employed, can we nominate ourselves for an award?"

As the division cracks up, the Chief allows herself to relax and laughs, too. Then Doby, seated nearby, rolls his eyes and says, "That doesn't surprise me, coming from you." He then has me recount to the Chief the galley story.

Laugh No. 3 (my favorite one, and unintentional!):

Though military training is quite detailed, some of the things you are expected to learn are picked up by observation. For instance, it was expected that the RPOC and AROC will call out a greeting to any petty officers, chiefs, or officers we happen to pass by as we march through the base. No one actually told us this (whether or not they were supposed to), but we observed the custom as we passed other divisions. The RPOC took the custom up quite readily. I was a bit reluctant for two reasons: fear of messing up the cadence, and pride, which said, "Why should I be expected to greet passersby? I'm doing a job for my division, after all, and I can't take the chance of messing up the cadence and forcing my division to skip a beat!"

Cadence calling is pretty flexible, and one can make it as sparse or as busy as one wants. I figured that if I made my cadence really busy as we approached any seniors, I could get away with not calling out a greeting to them. It seemed to work. The RPOC would call out "Good morning, Petty Officer!" and I'd just get busy on the cadence and pass by.

It worked like a charm...until the last day. Our division had just finished Battle Stations, a day-long event which tested all of our skills and knowledge in a very hands-on way. Dirty and exhausted, we were marching to the galley for a well deserved dinner when we approached another division standing at attention. Two petty officers were standing at the head of the division, chatting.

I heard the RPOC: "Good afternoon, Petty Officers!"

"Good afternoon, RPOC!" they returned politely.

True to form, I started revving up my cadence when I heard one of the petty officers say, just as I was passing them, "Can't you say 'Hello,' AROC?" In a split second I had to wrestle with Is it "Good afternoon" or "Good evening"? It's that tricky time of day where it could be either. What did the RPOC say? Say something! Say it quick!

I stopped my cadence and marched along, turning my head toward my seniors. "Hello, Petty Officer," I said, lamely. As I turned my head forward I heard the one petty officer say to the other, "'Hello, Petty Officer'?" Their division suddenly burst into laughter as I quickly resumed my busy cadence. I heard one of the petty officers bark something to silence them. We marched on toward the galley, the only sound being my bellowing voice ringing off the building walls as if nothing had happened.

Dinner was good.

It Could Happen to You

So, I have friends who live near the Navy base where I have my drill weekends, and they let me stay at their house overnight on Saturdays when I am drilling. Of course, the Navy would offer me such accommodations if I lived 1.5 miles further from the base, but I don't.

My friends are very hospitable and fun to be with; I always look forward to going to their house after Saturday's drill. I have known this couple for six years; we met when she was cast in a show I was conducting.

Now, to fully set up this story (which no longer has anything to do with the Navy), you'll need a little insight regarding my thoughts on using the potty, especially in someone else's home.

I believe that no one actually wants to hear me relieving myself, whether it be a splashy Number One or a thundering Number Two. (Am I wrong to think this?) So, it has become my custom to sit for either occasion - this allows Number One to be silent and not sprinkley. However, Number Two is a little more tricky. Number Two has many ways to make sounds which can filter out of the bathroom and into the ears of the person or persons who are trying to ignore what it is I am doing. And when people can hear what's going on, people will create an image in their mind of what I am doing - whether they want to or not. That's what this is really all about. Once I close that bathroom door, I want to cease to exist in the minds of my friends or family until I come back out - I think it's less disruptive to conversation and...train of thought. Because of the trickiness of Number Two, I will often wait for the opportune moment when I cannot be heard - when the TV or stereo might be on, when I'm on another floor, when I'm close to a busy airport, etc.

I believe I have been quite successful in sparing these particular friends any unsavory sounds or mental images of myself for the last six years. And then there was last night.

Last night after dinner, I was sitting with my friends in their living room - talking, getting gassy, and noticing that my bowels were on the move. But, as the conversation wore on, no good opportunity presented itself for my relief. I couldn't run upstairs, use the bathroom, and then run back down - not when there was a bathroom just 15 feet from where we were sitting. There was no music or extraneous, masking sounds that allowed me to feel comfortable to interrupt our conversation and go have at it.

Well, it became time to go to bed, and I really had to go Number Two. I could tell that this was going to be a noisy affair, but there was nothing for it as we all turned off the lights and climbed the stairs to our respective chambers. There is a bathroom right next to their bedroom, and they have their own bathroom within the confines of their master bedroom suite. Everything in me wanted to go downstairs, but it would have been the opposite problem from before. With facilities at my disposal right there on the second floor, it would look odd for me to turn, descend the stairs, use the first floor bathroom, and come back up.

In a few moments, I found myself sitting in the bathroom right next to their bedroom, wishing their dogs would start barking, or that a hail storm would descend upon the house from out of nowhere, or that they would suddenly get into a raucous fist fight. There was nothing but stillness beyond the bathroom door. From where I was sitting, there was no stillness - only a silent, desperate struggle to let go of things slowly and carefully - slowly and carefully. The problem was my semi-constipated state which required a certain amount of force to get anything to move. And waiting in between these things which needed moving were my nightmare - what coal miners would call "pockets of gas."

For the longest time I was quite successful in my efforts to dominate my inner workings. It took a relentless mental policing of both small and large muscle groups, and timing was everything as I alternated between pushing and relaxing. I had to constantly be thinking ahead.

In a flash, the struggle was lost - it was hopelessly lost - it was hopelessly and irretrievably lost. There was a sudden burst of sound which managed to simultaneously cover the three basic overtone groups in its brief but powerful life: the lower group which shakes things, the middle group which honks, and the upper group which rings. It was an all-encompassing whack of sound bouncing out of a porcelain bowl which, in such circumstances, takes on the properties of a megaphone. Folks, it was loud.

The next struggle was the one to stifle my belly laughter, a struggle which took the form of tears rolling down my cheeks and which lasted until well after I reached my bed.

I can't be 100% certain that my friends heard it, but I really have to suspend my belief to think they had somehow missed it. I don't think I'll venture to ask. My only hope for my dignity is that they may have thought I dropped a large hammer.

But You'd Be Wrong

I just did my Navy weekend, and on Sunday I got my heart torn out.

I was part of a work party on Sunday morning that was to go clean up some spaces for a cargo handling unit. When I pulled up to the building it became clear that the unit was getting ready to ship out on a deployment. A big bus idled in front of the building while families stood around and hugged their loved ones who would be leaving shortly.

The work party I was with comprised of only six sailors, and we stood in two groups of three chatting and waiting for our chief to show up and give us our orders. When he arrived he said we would simply stand by until the unit and their families had gone.

So, I stood there with a couple of my shipmates and made small talk, all the while observing the people around me. There were tears everywhere, and if I looked at these people for too long, especially at the children, I would start tearing up, too. I finally had to turn and take a few steps away from it all.

An announcement was made, and people began to board the bus. The tears began flowing anew. One man had his two boys with him and his parents. The older boy, who was probably seven, was crying softly. The younger boy was dry-eyed and just observing everything. A couple years younger than his older brother, he apparently wasn’t able to comprehend what was going on – just a little too young.

I was standing about 20 feet from the door of the bus, and a little forward of it. A few feet in front of me, a line of senior enlisted and an officer had formed a line to shake the hands of their departing shipmates and to wish them luck. Soon after the last couple of sailors had boarded, I saw one master chief lean over to another master chief standing next to him.

“It doesn’t get any easier, does it?” he said.

The other master chief replied simply, “No.”

The chiefs and the officers stepped back a little, and I got a view of a small family that had gathered at the side of the bus, about ten feet away, near the center: a mother with her two boys. I couldn’t really see the younger boy who was huddled up next to his mom; from his height I figured him to be about four. The taller boy stood a little closer to the bus and looked up into the dark windows. He looked to be 10 or 11.

The boy was crying some, staring up into the windows. Suddenly the idling engine roared a little to get the bus to move, and the wheels began to turn and the engine grew even louder. If you had seen a picture of the boy’s face at this exact moment from where I stood, and you didn’t know the context of what was going on, you might be fooled into thinking that he was grinning, but you’d be wrong. The boy was weeping.

Goddamn wars.

The Art of Self-Deprecation

Today's Guest Author is my brother, Karl Henning. No, seriously. You've got Mark Twain, Susan B. Anthony, and my brother, Karl. A logical progression, don't you think?

As we were growing up and soaking in the comedy of Dick Van Dyke, Tim Conway, Lucille Ball, Bob Newhart, etc., Karl discovered that strain of humor wherein one makes oneself the butt of the joke: self-deprecating humor. We practiced this technique all through school and, sure enough, it gets the laugh.

Shortly after I had joined the Navy Reserve four or five years ago, Karl sent me this e-mail. He artfully combines my military and piano tuning experience, and sets that against his FAA and musical endeavors. Ostensibly, according to Karl's narrative, we are both using everything we've got to help out in these uncertain times. Enjoy.

_______________________________

Two paths, a common goal.

Thousands of miles out on the rolling green swells of the Indian Ocean, the Aviation Structural Mechanic walks into the ship's galley for refreshment. At the end of a 12-hour shift, he wants nothing more than to get a quick bite and hit the sack. Four hours from now the treadmill begins afresh.

This is a world of nicknames - short, meaningful monikers given by your shipmates that tell, in a word, your story. The religious might be called, "Rev;" the blasphemous, "Satan." There's Knuckle and Scourge; Ripper and Hairball; Hammer and Dulcimer. And Gonorrhea. Lots of Gonorrhea.

The Aviation Structural Mechanic takes his tray of hash and makes for a table, any table. It doesn't matter - everyone makes room for him at their table. They all want to be near him - no - to be him.

Above the din, a new crewmember, a "swab," asks of no one in particular, "What gives? Who's the Messiah?" "Cookie" reaches a meaty fist across the table and grabs the swab's lapel. "That," he snarls, "is 'Maestro.' A musical theatre conductor back in 'the world.' Best mechanic on this tub - hell, probably the best in GW Bush's Navy." He lets go of the newbie who crashes back onto his bench. "It's unbelievable what that guy can do with an F100," Cookie says, reverentially.

"F100?"

"Engine on an F-15. Some guys'll take all week trying to get those things to light up properly. Not Maestro. Uses a wimpy looking socket wrench and some electronic piano tuning gizmo. Maestro says he only uses the gizmo to tune the fundamental pitch."

"Pitch?"

"Yeah," Cookie continues. "He says each engine has its own frequency. He tunes the fundamental electronically but does the harmonics by ear. Has it done in a couple of hours. Never looks at a manual. Word is that a couple o' fighter jocks turned in their wings after flying an F-15 worked on by the Maestro. It scared 'em." He looks around, then whispers, "Guy in the laundry told me they filled their flight suits with shit."

"You're kidding!"

"Honest engine! Pilots say it's like strapping a rocket to their ass! Not for the weak. Takes a real pro to fly one of Maestro's jets. Takes a fuckin' hero to use the damper pedal on one of those things. And don't even look for an una corda pedal. If any new F-15 comes in from the mainland with an una corda pedal, Maestro rips it out and calmly tucks it into the breast pocket of the pilot's flight suit. A real character, he is..."

Thousands of miles inland, in the rolling green hills of central Iowa, the Air Traffic Controller walks into the break room, sorting his change to see if he has enough money for his third package of Donettes. Four hours into his shift, he's been on position a total of 45 minutes. "When will it end?" he asks of no one in particular.

This is also a world of nicknames - witty and often insulting names that stick to you because of some infamous event or an embarrassing personal trait that you've spent your 40-plus years trying to overcome with varying levels of success and why can't people just leave me alone?! There's Crash and Mid-Air; Cupcake and Curly (the bald guys - and girls, for that matter - are always called "Curly." Get it?); Duck and Cap'n. And Halitosis. Lots of Halitosis.

The Air Traffic Controller is pleased to see the machine's been recently stocked. Nothing but Donettes. On this side, powdered sugar-flavored-powder Donettes; on this, Chocolate Donettes in all their waxen goodsomeness. "Wouldn't it be great if they just mixed the two and called it a 'Donette Swirl'?" he asks of no one in particular.

He asks a lot of questions of no one in particular because, when he enters a room, it empties. People suddenly remember that they have something really important to attend to - elsewhere. Against the current stream of evacuees, the supervisor walks in with a new controller. The new guy is getting his facility orientation. "Who's that?" he asks the supervisor, pointing to the lone Air Traffic Controller who appears to be writing music, of all things.

"Him?" replies the supervisor. "That's 'Faggot.' A couple of years ago he started going to college to learn how to write music - choral music, if you can believe it." The supervisor punctuates the word "choral" with his middle finger. "Wanders up and down the halls during his breaks babbling on about the effect of preceding a five-chord with a Neapolitan six chord versus an Italian augmented sixth chord."

The new guy shrugs. "Really? Why wouldn't he just use a two- or a four-chord like everyone else?"

"Cause he's a pedantic little puss, that's why! For crying out loud, he could precede it with a one-chord and save everyone the trouble! But no! He wants to be different. Says he really wants to 'give it to the Hun.'"

"'Give it to the Hun?'" the new guy repeats slowly.

"Yeah. He feels that writing choral music somehow contributes to the war effort. He feels this enemy can't be touched by traditional harmonies - thinks that chromaticism is the only effective way to topple an oligarchic regime."

"What a nance. Let's get out of here. He gives me the creeps. 'Faggot...' is that what you call him?"

For Liberty

[This post is intended for the widest possible dissemination. Please forward to local and national politicians, newspapers, other websites, friends and family. Unedited copies are authorized as well as excerpts for the purposes of a news story. If you wish to comment, please do. If you wish to discuss, please e-mail me at bassman349@juno.com. Thank you. Also, I do not want it thought that this endeavor is to define the rest of my life's work. No, once this is in the bag, I will be working on overhauling our family law system, and I'm also going to see to it that Congress restores the good names of Admiral Kimmel and General Short by naming a couple of the Navy's big, shiny new ships after them. There is much more to be done than what immediately follows. Thank you for reading.]

January 11, 2009

To All Americans:

I am Kurt Henning, United States citizen, currently residing in the great State of Illinois.

I am writing this primarily as a private citizen, but also as a serviceman, but only as it relates to an oath I took when I entered the service. (Be it known that neither the Navy in general nor my chain of command have endorsed this message nor anything contained herein. For everything contained in this letter, I take full responsibility.)

I joined the Navy on November 20, 2003. On that day I took an oath to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States.” Ostensibly, the role I was to play in support of the Constitution was in the repairing of our Navy’s aircraft. But deep down, I knew there was some deeper reason that I had found myself in the service of our nation. I didn’t know what that deeper reason was – maybe one day I would help pull a shipmate out a of a burning fighter jet and save his life, or maybe I would give first aid to a wounded comrade on the field of battle. I didn’t know, but I was open to anything – anything that I considered honorable, significant, and worthy of our American heritage.

Before I took the oath in 2003, I had become something of a student of the very Constitution I vowed to protect. My studies did not cease on the day I was sworn into service; if anything, my studies have increased.

“We, the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

That’s a tall order, and frankly, based on their excellent knowledge of history, the framers of the Constitution didn’t expect the United States to last much more than 150 years before they figured the whole thing would collapse under diverse pressures, both foreign and domestic. I took an oath to ensure that, as far as it is up to me, it will last. Many men and women have served over the years, in both civilian and military capacities, to ensure the same thing. Many have given their lives.

The framers of our Constitution were very aware that the greatest dangers to our personal liberties come not from outside of our country, but from within – in fact, they recognized that the very government they were establishing posed the greatest of all potential threats to personal liberty.

Should we be surprised then to learn that such threats actually exist and are currently at work over two hundred years after the establishment of our government? Should we be shocked and retreat into a state of denial?

In fact, we can be surprised and we can be shocked, but we who have taken the oath to support and defend our Constitution cannot retreat – we cannot recognize a threat to our Constitution, from whatever source derived, and then deny its existence and allow that threat to proceed unchallenged. This is surrender without a fight, which is against our nation’s military Code of Conduct.

It is understood that mankind has come into this world with certain “unalienable rights,” rights he has either enjoyed freely (if he’s been lucky) or has had taken away by force (which has often been the case throughout his colorful history).

Before governments were instituted among men, it was understood that men and women would have to spend their days working to provide for life’s basic necessities and common comforts – foraging, growing crops, hunting, fishing; making clothes, furniture, tools, shelter. This principal was put very succinctly in the Christian Bible where it says: “If a man will not work, he will not eat.” This principal existed long before established government – it was not introduced or created by governments. The right to provide for one’s needs through labor is, therefore, not a privilege bestowed upon people by their government, but a natural, or fundamental right. It always has been, and always will be. Tear down any existing government, and the people who were under that former government will still find it necessary to labor for their basic needs, no matter how that former government suppressed, supplanted, or honored the peoples’ natural right to work in order to provide for themselves.

Governments come and governments go, but man’s basic need, and therefore natural right, to provide for himself remains.

What a man gets for his labor, or work, is called the “fruit” of his labor. We refer to it (the fruit) more commonly as “compensation.” This usually comes in the form of money, but can also be an exchange of goods or services. Whatever the form of compensation, the compensation becomes the laborer’s private property, to be disposed of according to the wishes of that laborer – the “fruit” (most likely some form of money) can be exchanged for food, a shirt, a chair, and these in turn are understood to be the private property of the individual who purchased them.

Theoretically, an established government could lay a tax on the fruits of a man’s labor; it could demand a percentage of the compensation a man receives for his work. Theoretically, such a government could confiscate a man’s private property or even his rights to property for failure to pay such a tax. Such a government could even imprison the man who failed to pay such a tax or failed to even fill out the paperwork which would show the government the total amount of that man’s compensation for a year’s work (something a government has no need of knowing, unless it’s purpose is to calculate a percentage of the man’s total compensation and collect that percentage as a tax).

Governments cannot, that is, should not lay a tax on the exercise of a natural right, as a natural right does not originate from government. Governments do not grant natural rights as natural rights are antecedent to government. Our government was established to protect our natural rights; it can grant privileges, and can lay a tax on those privileges appropriately. Who will ever argue that the necessity to labor to provide for one’s needs is a privilege? If we should choose not to enjoy this privilege, who would then provide for us? The government? If a man should choose not to pay a tax on his right to work in order to provide for himself, would the government then prefer to imprison him and provide for that man at the government’s expense? What kind of government would prefer that?

Obviously, this “theoretical government” is not theoretical at all. It is the very one under which we live. And what other natural or fundamental rights are taxed when we choose to exercise them? Do we owe taxes to our government when we worship our God according to our faith? Is not our chosen form of worship a privilege we pay for? Do we fill out paperwork which tells the government with whom we peaceably assemble, and then send in the taxes due? Do we express our opinions on diverse subjects on government forms and then pay a tax on the privilege of free speech? Do we fill out paperwork and send in the tax due every time we plead the Fifth? How much does it cost nowadays to plead the Fifth? If I go to jail and am not punished in cruel or unusual ways, do I send a check to the United States Treasury? For what amount? When my person, home, papers, and effects are not unreasonably searched and seized, how much tax am I liable for every time that doesn’t happen?

The Bill of Rights, Article IX: The enumeration in the Constitution of certain rights shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Where exactly in the Constitution has our natural right to work to provide for ourselves been reduced to a privilege, bestowed upon us by our benevolent Uncle Sam for a fee?

The income tax has been debated hotly since before I ever arrived on the scene. The Supreme Court has chimed in; lawyers, doctors, professors, pundits, politicians, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers have had their say. Some blame the bankers, others the Congress. Irwin Schiff, Tommy Cryer, Larry Becraft, Christopher Hansen, Aaron Russo, the We the People Foundation, the FairTax people, the IRS, the lower courts, the Federal Reserve, the 16th Amendment – many voices, much clamoring, much debate. But nothing has changed in almost one hundred years where the income tax is concerned, except that it continues to oppress more and more.

We have a basic need and a natural right to work in order to provide for ourselves and our loved ones. This natural right to work is being taxed by the government. If we do not pay the taxes due upon exercising this right, our private property can be seized and sold at the government’s discretion; if we fail to file yearly returns or if we even make a mistake on those returns concerning our right to work, we can be fined and imprisoned. We are required by the government to provide information regarding our yearly income (the fruits of our labor) that the government can potentially use against us in criminal court, yet the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution says we cannot be compelled to incriminate ourselves. What kind of government does that sounds like?

To me, it doesn’t sound like a government our Founders strove to establish; it doesn’t sound like a government so many thousands of our ancestors and loved ones gave their lives for; it doesn’t sound like a government I would want to support or defend.

Thankfully, my oath was to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States,” not the government that currently operates under it. The difference is crucial, and must be appreciated.

I, Kurt Henning, understand every person’s basic need and natural right to work so they can provide for themselves – it is one of the essential ingredients in our pursuit of life, liberty, property, and happiness. Therefore, I look at all that has been said and written and argued on the subject of the individual income tax over the course of almost a full century, by both high and low, and I am able to say: I don’t care.

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

I don’t care who said what and when. I don’t care if the Supreme Court ruled in favor or not in favor. I don’t care what the 16th Amendment says or doesn’t say; if it was properly ratified or not (and frankly, considering all the controversy it seems to perpetuate, I would have to say that those who drafted and ratified the thing did a piss-poor job – a high school civics class could have done better). I don’t care what Schiff, Cryer, Becraft, Hansen, Russo, or the candlestick makers have said. I don’t care what the lower courts have ruled. I don’t care if the IRS is good, bad, ugly, or evil, and I don’t care what the Internal Revenue Code says. I don’t care if the judges who have ruled on individual income tax cases are angels or demons. I don’t care if there have been, are, or ever will be conspiracies between the bankers, Congress, the Federal Reserve, the IRS, the Department of the Treasury, Department of Justice, the judges and the lawyers. I don’t care who has gone to court and if they won or lost. I don’t care what the government is or isn’t doing with income tax revenue. And I don’t give a damn how ANYONE defines or fails to define “income.”

If, by legal or illegal means, the governments of the United States and the individual States themselves are laying a tax on any one of our fundamental rights and have thereby reduced that right to a privilege, and it has been allowed to go on for even a month, we’re all wrong – Supreme Court, 16th Amendment, Congress, the Presidents, We the People, and all definitions of “income” included.

“But, Kurt, this is just the way our system works! To change it would cause a tremendous upheaval!” Who wants to die for a broken, oppressive system? Isn’t that the pitiful plight of communist and fascist armies? “Don’t rock the boat” should prevail over my fundamental rights? If my rights have been usurped and trampled on, the boat has already been rocked.

“But your right to work and provide for yourself is not a natural right after all because this or that mishmash, or because someone who lived a few hundred years ago said it wasn’t, and we still read his books,” says the person with the law degree or who sits on a bench and wears a black robe. Bullshit.

“It’s not patriotic to criticize your government, especially if you’re in the military.” General George Washington would have your head on a platter for saying such a thing. He’d probably cut it off himself.

“We’ll never change this. The government will never give up such a vast source of revenue.” That, at least, is true – if you have given up the notion that we live in a republic. If that’s the case, the Pledge of Allegiance will have to be altered.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the ____________ for which it stands.” Does our flag not still stand for a republic? Did that change and no one told me? So then, what have you pledged your allegiance to? If it’s not a republic, then what is it? And it’s not a republic if the people don’t retain and exercise their power over their government.

“But how will the government pay for all the stuff it’s supposed to do?” That has already been provided for in the Constitution, and nowhere in the Constitution has a provision been made for Uncle Sam to directly tax my fundamental right to work and provide for myself, reducing that right to a privilege for which I must pay. And if that’s what the 16th Amendment actually accomplished, then it is inherently unconstitutional and has no force of law. It must be repealed.

The arguments will go on and on until we remember, and take seriously, the fact that WE are the government. OUR government derives its power from the governed – WE are the governed, therefore WE have the power to tell government what it will and will not do. That’s our job.

The debates, interpretations, court battles, rulings and challenges can continue forever, but I finally realized that nothing will change the current state of things where income taxes are concerned until I reach the point where I can say:

“I, Kurt Henning of the United States, hold this truth to be self-evident: that all citizens of the United States who have reached the age of majority and who are physically able have the natural right, the responsibility, and the duty to provide materially for their own well-being and for their family, that this right must be exercised freely in forms of work or labor of their own choosing, and that with the fruits of their labor (compensation, usually in the form of money, which automatically becomes their private property) they can acquire other forms of private property such as food, clothing, and shelter in order to sustain themselves and their family, and that after the necessities of life have been provided for, they are at liberty to use whatever remains of the fruits of their labor for whatever they deem appropriate. The federal, state, and local governments cannot claim ownership of any portion of the fruits of their labor unless it is freely and voluntarily given to any or all of those governments. No government – federal, state, or local – can punish any citizen in any way, shape, or form who chooses not to donate any portion of the fruits of their labor to any or all of those governments.”

I now know why I joined the Navy – so I would take that oath and contemplate it as I continued my private study of the Constitution. The Constitution was debated, drafted, and revised numerous times in the summer of 1787, and finally ratified in 1789. It was ordained and established by the People of the United States to secure the blessings of our liberty. Since then, it has faced numerous enemies, both foreign and domestic. Thousands upon thousands have sacrificed their lives for its preservation. I have looked around and have come face to face with a direct attack on several of our liberties in the form of the income tax. Any governmental attack on personal liberty, mine or yours, is an attack on the Constitution, which was carefully crafted to protect our liberty. We protect the Constitution so it can protect us. If we leave the Constitution vulnerable to government encroachment, it is at our own peril.

Though I grew up with this form of government oppression and did not recognize it for most of my working life, I have come to recognize it finally and am simply repulsed at its very existence. And, as a citizen whose duty it is to help govern this republic (not because I’m in the military, but because I am a citizen), I am compelled not to roll over and just let it continue. I am compelled to stand and say, “Stop! We took a wrong turn, and regardless how long we’ve been on this course, no matter how we got here, we will change to a better, to a just course. Now.”

I have reached the point where I can and must say this, and things will change. Our right to work and enjoy all of the fruits of our labor must be fully restored and protected. It must be wrenched from Uncle Sam’s hands. Our government has made a killing by charging us for something we have a natural right to do – earn a living and provide for ourselves. The Constitution already enumerates how Uncle Sam will be provided for; he has nothing to worry about. We must stop believing that working in this country is a privilege from the government for which we pay a fee or go to prison. The joke is on us.

If I am alone in saying this, change will be slow. But if I am among a throng who say this, if my flag truly stands for a republic, change will be swift and sure. I am not waiting anymore. I took an oath, and I mean to act on it. Come with me.

Navy Beats Army!

It was May of 2009, and I flew home from Chicago to Denver to witness the Change of Command ceremony in which my oldest brother, Ralph, would be assuming his first post as a battalion commander in the Army Reserve. He had just made Lieutenant Colonel about a year prior. Ralph put his advancement to me in Navy terms: “It’s like becoming the captain of a Navy ship.” That’s huge; I didn’t want to miss it.

I brought along my dress blues (the “Cracker Jack” uniform) to wear at the ceremony as an expression of armed forces solidarity and as a show of support for my literal “brother-in-arms.”

It turns out that there is a formal dinner thrown for the outgoing commander the night before the Change of Command. My brother and his wife were going, and Ralph thought it would be great to have me come along. Dress uniforms were in order, so on went the Cracker Jack.

The dinner was held in a nice hotel ballroom on the outskirts of downtown Denver. My sister-in-law, Marianne, looked lovely in her formal black dress. Ralph looked dashing in his Army dress uniform: light green shirt with black tie, dark green jacket (in military parlance, a “blouse”) replete with a large array of ribbons and shiny brass, light blue trousers with a dark blue stripe running down each leg, and shiny black shoes. I looked, well, like a damn fine sailor (in Army parlance, a faggot).

The three of us arrived at the hotel and found the ballroom, and I walked into a sea of Army officers and enlisted personnel, most of whom had brought their significant other. No other branches of the service were represented – no Air Force, no Marines, no Coast Guard – it was all Army, and the Lone Sailor. I stuck out like a sore thumb.

The evening opened with everyone mingling just outside of the ballroom enjoying drinks from two cash bars. Ralph and Marianne walked about shaking hands with various people and introducing me to them. It soon occurred to us that I had no seat reserved in the ballroom. Ralph and I went in and looked the situation over.

The seating consisted of about a dozen large, round tables for all of the guests complete with little name tags at each place setting. Then there was the head table, like at a wedding: a long, rectangular table with six settings all the way across. The outgoing commander and his wife were to have the place of honor in the middle. To his right would sit Ralph and Marianne, and to his left would sit the Sergeant Major of the battalion, with his girlfriend seated next to him on the very end. There seemed to be a few spaces available among the round tables, and Ralph said that when people came in to sit down, I could pretty much choose whatever empty seat I wanted.

We went back out to mixing and mingling, and Ralph led me to the table where they were taking ticket money. Being only an E-4 (that’s the fourth rung out of nine on the enlisted ladder – the Sergeant Major was an E-9), my fee for the dinner was less than most people there had to pay. Being almost a nobody has its advantages.

Ralph introduced me to the major who was collecting the money, and she asked where I’d be sitting. Ralph told her the situation, and she came up with a better idea.

“You know, Sergeant Major’s girlfriend couldn’t make it tonight, so why don’t we have him sit at the head table?” She knew I had flown in from Chicago, so I guess she wanted to honor my show of support for my brother. Ralph thought that would be a great idea, and we found the Sergeant Major and he agreed. Sergeant Major was just the kind of guy you might imagine him to be: an Army bull dog who neither gave nor took bull from anyone, but very cordial and with a good sense of humor. So, the issue of seating was settled.

About this time, the outgoing commander and his wife formed a greeting line with my brother, his wife, and the Sergeant Major. So, everyone who had been mingling formed a line (a long line) and pressed the flesh with those in the greeting line. The idea was that those who had gone through the greeting line would then enter the ballroom and take their seats in preparation for dinner.

Feeling deferential to my Army comrades, I went all the way to the back of the line. The people running late to the event took their place in line behind me. I made a little small talk with those near me as the line progressed. Finally, I made my way through the greeting line. Of course, my brother and I made nothing but silly comments as I shook his hand. After shaking Sergeant Major’s hand, I entered the ballroom only to see that no one had taken their seats. Everyone was still milling about and chatting it up out by the cash bars.

To show that at least someone in this crowd knew how to follow orders, I walked up to the head table and stood next to my chair. I looked out at all the empty tables and realized how dumb I’d look sitting down in the ballroom all by myself. I already stood out enough – no need to put a spotlight on me. I walked back out to mill.

There were still quite a few people going through the greeting line, so hanging out with Ralph and Marianne was out of the question; I was on my own. I looked about the room, and my eye caught a color guard forming up. They were easy to spot with their shiny, silver helmets, white mesh belts, flags and rifles. This was good as I knew that these guys would most likely be E-3’s, 4’s and 5’s – my peers. I decided I’d feel most at ease striking up conversation with them. Making my way through the crowd, I approached the color guard. My opening salvo was:

“So, you guys gonna be up for an Army-Navy brawl later on tonight?”

They laughed a sort of laugh that said, “That was funny. Who the hell does this guy think he is?”

One of them smiled and said, “I think you’re a little outnumbered.”

“Well, maybe,” I replied. “You guys a part of this battalion, or are you just coming in to parade the colors?”

“This is our battalion,” they offered.

“Cool,” I said.

We weren’t two minutes into the small talk when references were being made to the Village People as they examined my outfit.

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Well, you guys look a lot like the construction worker with those helmets.”

We laughed. Just some good-natured inter-service rivalry.

“And, by the way,” I continued, indicating their name tags (I don’t wear one on my dress uniform), “I am memorizing all your names. The incoming commander, your new boss, happens to be my brother, so feel free to say anything you want about me. He will hear everything!”

That got me some wide-eyed looks, and some more good-natured laughs. It was a well placed zinger. Suddenly, they were noting the resemblance (everyone in the battalion already knew my brother as he’d been acting as the executive officer for some time). A call went out for people to begin taking their seats for dinner, so I exchanged friendly handshakes with the color guard and told them to do a great job.

We were all standing next to our chairs as those in the greeting line were announced to the room, and they filed in to the head table and took their places next to their chairs. The color guard marched in and took their place in front of the head table as everyone in uniform held a salute. The national anthem was played through the sound system, the colors were posted, the salute was concluded, the color guard exited (having done a very honorable job), and everyone took their seats.

No sooner had we sat down than Ralph leaned forward and looked down to my end of the table.

“Nice date, Sergeant Major!” he gushed. “He’s really cute!”

Everyone within earshot gave a hearty laugh. I just smiled and nodded. I was, indeed, outnumbered. What else could I do?

To my left and a little behind me was a podium with a cordless microphone. Directly in front of me was the round table reserved for the “full bird” colonels, the highest ranking officers in the room (just one step below brigadier general). And there I sat in full view of the entire room – nowhere to hide.

Dinner opened with a prayer by the battalion chaplain, and out came the food. It was quite good. Soon after the meal began, the outgoing commander had a crown placed on his head, everyone was instructed on the exact protocol should anyone in the room wish to address him, and anyone who screwed up the protocol was sentenced to the “chair of shame” which was placed in front of the head table. I soon discovered that there was an entire script prepared for the evening. Suddenly, the night transformed from what might have been a stuffy, formal affair, to what felt like a medieval feast complete with court jesters and ribald humor. The Sergeant Major saw my bewildered face and explained the tradition. Dinner was served with lots of laughs.

Things settled down after awhile and it became time for the outgoing commander to make a farewell speech. He approached the podium and turned on the mic. A little way into his opening remarks, the commander said:

“And I also want to mention that I think it’s really great to have one of our sister services represented here tonight.” A few chuckles were heard sprinkled throughout the room, and the commander reiterated, with emphasis, “Sister services.” A few chuckles became general laughter. I smiled and nodded, outnumbered.

Toward the close of the evening, the cordless mic was going from table to table, and one person from each table was given the opportunity to make remarks to the outgoing commander, usually in the form of a funny story from times past, and then some sort of farewell gift was presented from that table. I leaned over to the Sergeant Major and asked if I might make a few remarks. He initially didn’t think it would be a good idea, but after I reminded him I had flown in from Chicago to support my brother and promised to be brief, he changed his mind. After all the tables had had their turn, the Sergeant Major called for the mic to be brought to me. I took hold of the mic and stood up. I first addressed the commander, who was standing at the podium.

“Sir, on behalf of the United States Navy [which got a few laughs], I just want to say that, from what I have heard here tonight, it sounds like you were a great officer to work for. Thank you for your service. And it is truly an honor for me to be here among all you fine Army officers and enlisted personnel, and I never imagined I’d be sitting at the head table, which is also an honor. I flew in from Chicago this morning to be here because, as you know, my brother will be taking over command of this battalion, and I am [a slight pause, and then, with playful emphasis] heterosexual. Thank you very much.”

Eyes in the room lit up as I handed the mic to the commander, and the room exploded in laughter and even some applause. As I sat down, I looked over at my brother who was enjoying a hearty laugh, and Sergeant Major shook my hand with a big grin and said, “That was perfect!”

The Lone Sailor becomes the “Army of One.” Who’s outnumbered now?

* * * *

Epilogue

The following morning, the battalion and attending audience had all taken their places for the Change of Command ceremony. The audience had a side view, and I was standing up in the back row at a point that put me easily within the peripheral vision of the soldiers standing in formation. In fact, I kept catching many of them looking over at me. Again, in my Navy dress blues, I stood out like a sore thumb. And having so recently learned how the Army tends to view Navy personnel, I knew exactly what they were thinking.

The space we were in looked like an airplane hangar, and there must have been four or five times the number of soldiers that had attended last night’s dinner. The outgoing commander and the general he served took to the podium, made their respective speeches, and then partook of the ceremony along with my brother and the Sergeant Major. The ceremony went without a hitch, and then my brother, the new battalion commander, stepped to the podium and took the cordless mic from its stand to give his speech.

It was a fine speech, but Ralph was holding the mic a little too far away and it was difficult to hear him in such a large space. I was just about to do my brother a favor, but in a split-second I calculated that my conspicuous uniform, coupled with an unexpected and very particular motion of my closed hand, would cause more than a few eyes to turn my way, and I knew that many of those who would look over had heard my speech last night. I couldn’t chance having a bunch of soldiers giggling in ranks during their new commander’s inaugural address. The “favor” I had come so close to performing was to flash my brother the international sign for: “Hold the Microphone Closer to Your Mouth.”

Sometimes it’s just better to stand down.