Credit:

"Good Morning Vietnam," you remember, was a movie about an airman/disc-jockey named Adrian Cronauer. Adrian Cronauer is a real person who is an acquaintance and occassional lunch-date of mine. He does not look like Robin Williams. He looks, by his own description, like Robert Bork.

Adrian is a lawyer with the Department of Defense whose specialty is working with the governments of North Korea and the Vietnam trying to locate the remains of military personnel who are still listed as "Missing in Action." This is a very worthy effort, and Adrian is a very worthy guy.

I've never asked Cronauer if he really started his radio show with "Goooooood Morning, Vietnam" as Robin Williams does in the movie, but we will stipulate - for the next four months or so - that he did.

A former Member of Congress from Minnesota (a Democratic Member of Congress) and current friend and colleague named Gerry Sikorsky suggested the title of these Travelogues in an e-mail.

Both Cronauer and Sikorsky get full credit for the title. The content - for better or worse - is my responsibility.

Everyone here drives in an SUV. I don't know one kind of SUV from another except for Landrover Discoveries because that's what the Mullmobile is.

All the other SUVs look identical to each other especially because they all have a layer of dust on them and they are all dented in the same place on either the right rear or left rear bumper.

You sign out for one of them by putting your name, destination, and the time you will need it on a white board, take a set of keys and head for the parking lot.

The way you actually find the car is the basis of this little adventure.

The Strategic Communications unit has five SUVs at its disposal. We used to have six but one of them was fatally dented when a mortar round hit about six inches behind it last week.

By the way, because this are very, very many military people here, these are not called SUVs they are called vehicles, pronounced VEE-hickles. As in "Um onna take one of them VEE-hickels at 1330. And that's just the way the civilians talk.

When I was in Kuwait, they give me a flak jacket size extra large. As I am not an extra large person, this has been something I've been meaning to fix. I finally figured out the location of the depot where I could exchange it, but it was just a little outside of walking range so I asked for, and was given, the keys to one of the Vee-hickles.

Because these are shared, you can never be certain where the last person who drove the car (three keystrokes wins over 11) parked it.

The procedure is to walk to the parking lot, hold the keys over your head and press the "horn" button in the key fob and listen for your car to honk its horn like your pet dog barking and wagging its tale when it thinks it's going bye-bye in the car.

I believe we have spoken before about my utter lack of any directional sense. If a sense of direction were one of the five senses, I'd be receiving some sort of government assistance. Or be in a home.

Anyway, I walked to the parking lot with some fear and trepidation. Not because I thought some bad guy might try to drop a mortar on my head, but because I am not good at the button thing.

As instruct, I held the keys over my head the pressed the horn button.

Nothing.

I walked to the second row, then the third, then the forth and finally � HONK � HONK � HONK � HONK.

Excellent. I had found it.

I walked up to the honking big car (now, THAT's humor) and realized I didn't have any idea how to turn the horn off.

I pressed all the buttons and the horn, mercifully, stopped.

You have to understand there were other people in the parking lot. A lot of very manly-looking people - mainly women - with guns, so I wanted to look self-assured and in control.

In a self-assured and in-control manner I walked up to the SUV and pulled on the door.

Locked.

I pressed a button.

It started honking again: HONK � HONK � HONK � HONK.

I pressed more buttons.

It stopped.

I pressed the unlock button and the doors opened.

I opened the back door and put my extra-large flak jacket in the back seat and closed the door.

The doors locked again.

I pressed the unlock button.

The alarm went off: HONK �. HONK � HONK � HONK.

Manly women with guns were doubled over with laughter.

I pressed more buttons.

The doors unlocked and before anything else could happen I climbed into the driver's seat and closed the door.

I put the key in the ignition but it wouldn't turn.

I thought, "There must be some automatic lock-out device. If the alarm goes off too many times in a row it won't start."

The alarm started again: HONK �. HONK � HONK � HONK.

Drat!

I got out of the car and the doors locked themselves.

Then I realized what was going on: It � was � not � my � car.

Behind me two goofballs from my Strategic Communications division, Chris Harvin and Tom Basile had been walking behind me while they looked for their car.

When their car began honking and they saw me heading toward it, they decided to have a little fun at my expense.

It was like being in an "I Love Lucy" episode as filmed by Alan Funt.

Here's a recreation of the scene:

Mullfoto by Brian McCormack

Note Harvin and Basile in the background with their key in the air.

Here's a honey-shot of the four of us:

From left to right: McCormack, Basile, Harvin, Mullmeister.

I put this in to demonstrate that while most members of the military wear exactly the same outfit; they dress uniformly thus the name of their clothes: Uniforms.

Civilians, on the other hand, can wear just about anything they want. Look at the wide variations in our clothing. Inneresting, huh?

A couple of other things.

On my way to trade flak jackets, I found this tragic scene:

A plastic chair. Shot trying to escape.

And then there is this:

Note the flag someone painted over Saddam's face. They's some Texas boys here and I'll find 'em.

Be Safe.

More next week.

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