Jules and I shimmied down to old New Orleans for a Halloween weekend in the French Quarter. Oh, the sounds, the smells, the tastes, the history and architecture, the glorious gumbo of people arms open wide to life's pleasures and absurdities. How you hold my heart in your hands, New Orleans.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Saturday, October 1, 2011
My Serial-Killer Barber
"A girl in every port", so goes the old sailor's adage. For John Eric Armstrong, this saying held deadly connotations.
In 1996, I re-enlisted in the military, this time for a stint with the U.S. Navy. I was assigned to the crew of the U.S.S. Nimitz aircraft carrier, based at the time in Bremerton, Washington. From '97 to 2000, I worked as an Information Systems Technician aboard the Nimitz and circumnavigated the globe with, among many others, this man: John Eric Armstrong.
I knew Petty Officer Armstrong from the ship's barber shop where he periodically took clippers to my head and, on a single occasion, a razor to my throat.
I did not know Armstrong personally, did not run in the same social circles as him. We worked on opposite ends of an enormous war ship. Our exchanges in the barber chair were brief and lively. I liked Armstrong, particularly his penchant for making light of serious subjects - often himself - which suited me just fine. His shipmates called him "Opie" after the Andy Griffith Show character, for his red hair, freckled complexion and country demeanor.
I doubt Armstrong would remember me, seeing as I was but one of hundreds of customers, nor do I expect he would recall the occasion I asked him to shave a few stray hairs from my throat. Armstrong obliged, accidentally nicking me above the collar. We joked about a hardship discharge as he wiped away the blood.
In the Spring of '98, Nimitz reached the port of Newport News, Virginia, and Armstrong, completing his enlistment, was honorably discharged. I never saw him again.
That is how it goes with most military relationships. One is thrown in with a motley assortment of characters from all corners of the United States. One lives with them, works with them, breaks bread with them, experiences adventures with them, then each go their separate ways, often never to be heard from again (Facebook has altered this dynamic somewhat). Occasionally, these figures resurface in one's life.
Twelve months after the Nimitz reached Virginia, twenty-six-year-old John Eric "Opie" Armstrong appeared in the national headlines. The papers reported that he had settled in Dearborn Heights, Michigan with his wife and daughter. The Detroit police were holding him on three counts of murder and three attempted counts.
Armstrong ultimately was charged with killing five prostitutes in the greater Detroit area. Upon arrest, he confided to police that he was responsible for numerous murders stretching back to before his Navy enlistment. Armstrong confessed to killing women in Washington, Virginia, Hawaii, Singapore, Hong Kong, Japan, South Korea, Israel and Thailand. It seemed with many Nimitz ports of call Armstrong would find a hooker, have sex with her, then try to kill her, often by strangulation.
I doubt Armstrong would remember me, seeing as I was but one of hundreds of customers, nor do I expect he would recall the occasion I asked him to shave a few stray hairs from my throat. Armstrong obliged, accidentally nicking me above the collar. We joked about a hardship discharge as he wiped away the blood.
In the Spring of '98, Nimitz reached the port of Newport News, Virginia, and Armstrong, completing his enlistment, was honorably discharged. I never saw him again.
That is how it goes with most military relationships. One is thrown in with a motley assortment of characters from all corners of the United States. One lives with them, works with them, breaks bread with them, experiences adventures with them, then each go their separate ways, often never to be heard from again (Facebook has altered this dynamic somewhat). Occasionally, these figures resurface in one's life.
Twelve months after the Nimitz reached Virginia, twenty-six-year-old John Eric "Opie" Armstrong appeared in the national headlines. The papers reported that he had settled in Dearborn Heights, Michigan with his wife and daughter. The Detroit police were holding him on three counts of murder and three attempted counts.
Armstrong ultimately was charged with killing five prostitutes in the greater Detroit area. Upon arrest, he confided to police that he was responsible for numerous murders stretching back to before his Navy enlistment. Armstrong confessed to killing women in Washington, Virginia, Hawaii, Singapore, Hong Kong, Japan, South Korea, Israel and Thailand. It seemed with many Nimitz ports of call Armstrong would find a hooker, have sex with her, then try to kill her, often by strangulation.
In March 2001, Armstrong was put on trial for the Detroit murders. His lawyers attempted an insanity defense, yet the jury did not buy the argument and found Armstrong guilty. He was sentenced to life in state prison.
I recall interviews with Armstrong's Detroit neighbors who regarded him as a solid citizen and devoted family man. He even ran errands for the blind woman across the street. You have seen these post-tragedy interviews with acquaintances of a serial killer: "He seemed like such a nice man?". Armstrong was a nice man, to most people. He was also a deeply troubled individual.
Trial reports revealed Armstrong's biological father had sexually abused him, yet parental abuse alone does not construct a serial killer. The current scientific analysis finds no direct sociological or psychological causation for such behavior. Many contributing factors are in play. By all accounts, Jeffrey Dahmer experienced a perfectly uneventful early childhood and he went on to commit acts of psychopathic cannibalism.
The human mind is a puzzle. We are in the stone age with respect to understanding its complexities. I hope that John grasps the full consequence of his actions and endures genuine remorse for the families he irreparably harmed. I wish him peace in his remaining time with us mortals.
Trial reports revealed Armstrong's biological father had sexually abused him, yet parental abuse alone does not construct a serial killer. The current scientific analysis finds no direct sociological or psychological causation for such behavior. Many contributing factors are in play. By all accounts, Jeffrey Dahmer experienced a perfectly uneventful early childhood and he went on to commit acts of psychopathic cannibalism.
The human mind is a puzzle. We are in the stone age with respect to understanding its complexities. I hope that John grasps the full consequence of his actions and endures genuine remorse for the families he irreparably harmed. I wish him peace in his remaining time with us mortals.
"Look down at me, you see a fool. Look up at me, you see a god. Look straight at me, you will see yourself." ~ Charles Manson
Sunday, September 11, 2011
9-11 Diary
While I deliberate
between scrambled eggs
and breakfast cereal,
they are leaping from the towers
to elude the flames.
They are burning alive
under the concrete rubble.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Glued to the television for hours.
Tragedy sucks the life
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Glued to the television for hours.
Tragedy sucks the life
from daily routine.
Here, no work is done.
We are at a halt.
A friend arrives for consolation.
A friend arrives for consolation.
"I can't take anymore," she cries,
switching the channel
to Cartoon Network.
We get high and watch
animated characters
gleefully bludgeon each other,
gleefully bludgeon each other,
but only for a moment
before returning
to the day's events.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Rumors of an oil-price spike.
At the station, a line of cars
coils around the block.
Neighbors honk and shriek
at one another.
I wait nearly an hour to fill up.
The man at pump three
lights a cigarette.
The woman at pump four
demands he put it out.
"Lady, haven't you heard?"
the man responds.
"It's the end of the world!"
She looks to me for support.
I say nothing.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Fanatics have seized the day,
religious zealots drunk
with vanity
and self-righteous rage.
One of ours has raises his ugly head.
One of ours has raises his ugly head.
He is on the radio
blaming abortionists, pagans,
liberals and feminists,
gays and lesbians,
the ACLU.
"I point a finger in their face!"
he howls.
"YOU HELPED THIS HAPPEN!"
Thus, madness begets madness.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
A dinner party assembles.
"I'm inclined to show mercy,"
Philip declares.
"We must respond with dignity,"
says Katherine.
My thoughts journey back
to the Kuwait desert
where Marines sift through
charred bodies
and shattered, starving
Iraqi soldiers
ordered to fight the infidels
or face a bullet to the head.
"Drop a nuke on the bastards,"
James says.
James says.
I reach for another
bottle of wine.
In Manhattan,
they're still pulling the dead
from the wreckage.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
New York City
Julene and I took a break from historic Texas heat to vacation in the Big Apple. Little did we know an earthquake and Hurricane Irene awaited. We rode out the storm in our hotel room and wished for rain back home in Austin. Seven days of leisure in our favorite American city left us feeling tip-top . . . Cheers, New York.
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