Hail to the Chin

by Bruce Campbell

  On official studio backlots, bicycles are everywhere, driven by maintenance folks, delivery people and even security guards. They are emission-free, make no noise and don’t clog tight roadways. I decided to get bicycles for the cast, so I bought four single-gear beach cruisers, each with old-school backpedal brakes.

  At first, the crew chuckled derisively whenever the thespians rode to set. They stopped laughing after a couple weeks of sixteen-hour days as we pedaled past, breeze in our hair, while they trudged along on concrete-impacted feet.

  Gabrielle and I played our own version of Marco Polo with our bike bells. Whenever the mood hit me, I’d flick the bell with my thumb: shing-shing. If Gabrielle was within earshot, she’d return the call with a dink-donk.

  For years, riding back and forth to various sets and locations, we played this silly game:

  Shing-shing.

  Dink-donk.

  Shing-shing.

  Dink-donk.

  And that silly game made us laugh every time.

  Overall, I bought something like fourteen different bikes during the run of Burn Notice. Most of them were part of my ever-growing home fleet for visiting dignitaries, but a few got stolen and had to be replaced. Donovan’s bike didn’t even last a year before it went missing in a daring daylight raid. Some schmo strolled right through our base camp, spotted the bike propped up against his trailer and simply rode off with it.

  Over the course of the show, two of my own bikes were also stolen, so it was a bit of a revolving door at the Coral Gables Bike Shop. They smiled each time I came in – not because of the TV show, but because they knew I was going to buy another bike. Some random advice: Ditch the cable lock. U-shaped locks are the only way to go. I haven’t had any bikes stolen since.

  Cycling started out as an on-set utility, but it was really a pleasant reintroduction to something I loved as a child. Even though Oregon is an incredible place for outdoor recreation, I never really did much cycling back home. Living in the foothills of the Siskiyou Mountains, I was always going up a hill or down a hill, pedaling too hard or not at all.

  How we “rolled” in Miami.

  Florida, however, was f-l-a-t. While you’re riding leisurely, the man-made breeze was a great way to inadvertently mitigate the humidity. Cycling became a rekindled hobby. To my delight, I discovered extensive, car-free bike paths nearby, so epic, Zen-like rides were planned often with the likes of Ida, Coby, guest stars or random writers and directors. Producers got to join in, too, but only if they paid for lunch.

  It was amazing how many of these participants hadn’t been on a bicycle in years because they still considered them toys, associated strictly with childhood. I guess I was one of those people, but thanks to Burn Notice and the wonderful flatness of Florida, I still jump on my bike to explore new sections of my expanding universe whenever I can.

  ODE TO FOX’S

  I love dive bars. I always have. Fancy bars are all well and cool, but I’m not an attitude guy or a hipster, so I tend to avoid anything with too much chrome or too little atmosphere.

  I’m not sure how I first stumbled across Fox’s. Likely it was during a local bicycle outing. The exterior was very nondescript, as the best places are, except for the outline of a fox and martini glass. I immediately knew it would be my kind of place because it was almost pitch-black inside. For the first ten minutes after entering, you have to let your eyes adjust from the bright Florida sun.

  Fox’s Sharron Inn, right on the edge of Dixie Highway, had been around since 1946 and sported a well-worn, S-curved bar. The bar stools were raised captain’s chairs that swiveled and I’m sure all the old nautical types who frequented the place felt at home. Fox’s was a prime rib kind of place with decent grub and a larger-than-you-would-imagine menu.

  But Fox’s was all about the atmosphere and the hooch. My favorite libation was/is a Patrón silver tequila martini. My favorite bartender in the world, Margo, served the martinis with a “sidecar” – a minicarafe of extra pourings, kept cold in its own miniature bucket. After a long day shooting bad guys, nothing was more enjoyable than to ride the two-wheeler to Fox’s and listen to the regulars bullshit. Fox’s was all about regulars – Larry and Terry and Ken and about half a dozen others who would make their way over at 4:00, the beginning of happy hour. Sociologically speaking, it was interesting to see the same group of guys sit in the same chairs at the same time, for years on end. I learned quickly about the territory of old-time bars and their patrons. I made the mistake of invading their space one day – albeit unwittingly – and got the stink eye from Margo.

  “Better not sit there, hon.”

  “Oh?” I said innocently.

  “That’s where Larry sits. He likes his seat.”

  “Got it. Where’s safe?”

  Margo directed me a few stools down, outside of the “regular zone.”

  I got to know the regulars fairly quick and they were nice enough, but they didn’t really open up or fully acknowledge my existence until I had been going there for about six months.

  “You’re not a tourist, are you?” Larry asked one day, squinting at me in the dark.

  “No, sir. I’m here working on a TV show.”

  “Oh.”

  That’s all Larry had to say about it. He wasn’t impressed with Hollywood or anything else. Larry and the gang pretty much made fun of everything all the time. Everyone was an idiot. The world was going to hell. The difference was that these guys always had a smile on their faces. They never got too grim. I never knew what half of them did or what their personal lives were like, but I also didn’t care. That’s what I like about local dive joints. Nobody cares about any of that – all they care about is getting away from whatever it is they do, sitting with like-minded folks and forgetting about life for a while.

  Margo was the captain of Fox’s ship. She was the day bartender and she looked the part. A longtime Florida resident, she had shaggy blondish hair, “a little too much sun” complexion and the rasp of a smoker. She had a great sense of humor, which helped modulate the sometime mercurial moods of the regulars. Margo also poured a mean drink. Her trick was never to measure. These days, the second I see a bartender fish out the one-ounce stainless cup to measure my drink I already know it’ll be a crappy pour. Margo was also the type who would slip you a little extra if you and the boys were having an extra fun afternoon. Some would call that pushing the envelope, but I call it customer service.

  Over the years, with some degree of practice, I have broken down the various types of “pours” one gets at various establishments.

  A generally crappy pour is called a Piss Pour or Pauper’s Pour. Bowling alleys pour a lot of these.

  A pour that you would get at, say, Applebee’s would be a Corporate Pour.

  A substantial pour is a Presidential Pour.

  A Dictatorial Pour is where the bartender is serving a dictator – with a gun to his head – so he just keeps pouring.

  I caught Fox’s at the ass-end of a long run. The standards-only jukebox gave up about a year after I started going there and management changed hands a couple times. When the Southern Florida college crowd started seeping in for the “kitsch” factor, I knew the end was near.

  Fox’s is officially closed now. I don’t miss it because I was part of it and – as Margo knows – I certainly had my fill.

  15

  TO IRAQ AND BAQ

  Not to be dismissive, but I didn’t know Iraq from a hole in the ground. As a young adult, I remember the long gasoline lines and something about an oil embargo and Iran, but that’s as close as Iraq got to my consciousness. It was a vague, distant land. We’ve all heard the “cradle of civilization” thing, but what does that mean?

  About a quarter century later, my brother Don got a little closer to that neck of the woods. He served in the first Gulf War of ‘91 and, because of his military police background, guarded Iraqi prisoners in Kuwait. This was just after Saddam’s troops were pushed out and all the oil wells were
torched. A new soldier to the environmentally disastrous area asked Don when the sun was going to “come up.” Don reminded him that it was one o’clock in the afternoon.

  I knocked on the back door of Iraq in 2004. The location for my undisputed American classic Man with the Screaming Brain was Bulgaria, just two countries away. But it wasn’t like after shooting I could hop a puddle jumper to Baghdad and see what was going on. You didn’t just “go” there.

  Five years later, as I was sitting on the Burn Notice set with star Jeffrey Donovan, the subject of Iraq came up again. Two active-duty servicemen had visited that day and informed us that the show was very popular with the armed forces. “Mr. Donovan” (I called him that on set to keep him calm) and I began to engage in slightly more than idle chitchat. We talked about “the wars” all the time and were both up on current events, but the conversation was now more like: “Okay, so what can we actually do to help? We’re just actors. Should we go over there and visit the troops? You think? That would be crazy!”

  We agreed that we would go if they would have us and put the feelers out through Brad, the PR guy at USA studios. Life moved on; Donovan and I went back to work. It’s easy to forget about things when your brain is boiling in its own tropical stew.

  About a week later, word came down from Armed Forces Entertainment that they would be delighted to have us. Donovan and I shared the same immediate reaction: “Shit!”

  “We really have to go now, don’t we –” I said, half-asking.

  “Yeah. We do.” Jeffrey nodded, with an inexplicable look on his face.

  Channeling one of my heroes: Bob Hope.

  This isn’t to imply that we dreaded the idea of actually going to Iraq. It was just a lot to take in: traveling across the country, then the Atlantic Ocean, then into a war zone via Black Hawk helicopters, going to outer bases around Baghdad, et cetera, et cetera. It was all enough to give us whiplash, but we were in – we were actually going to go. This was an opportunity to finally put a face on the endless news cycles about Iraq and put it all in proper context.

  UNCLE SAM

  It was fun spreading the news. It’s not every day you tell people that you’re going into a war zone. A lot of friends and relatives were taken aback. Reactions starting with “Oh my God” were common. But, ultimately, regardless of their views on any given war, they were mostly happy to see the troops get a little sunshine.

  My mother was pretty casual about the whole thing. I asked if it concerned her that her little “Booey” was going to a war zone.

  “Not really.”

  That’s Mom. She’ll suffer quietly after I hang up. She wouldn’t want to concern me with her concern.

  My brother Don never really gets excited. He’s a mostly closeto-the-vest kind of guy, but when I told him Donovan and I were going to visit the troops his glee was unabashed.

  “That is so cool!” he practically shouted over the phone.

  In some way, I had just become legit in Don’s eyes. He always felt that as an actor I never experienced the reality of the world and that being a soldier (now active thirty years) gave him a leg up in that department. Perhaps now, I was becoming a person of substance.

  “Hey, see if you can get me some orders,” Don asked out of the blue. “I’m military police; I have security clearance. I could be your escort over there.”

  “Really? C’mon, Don, it’s the military. Wouldn’t it cause a ‘disturbance in the force’?”

  “Hey, try it. I’ll get you my info.”

  The idea was too absurd not to pursue, so I passed the request through my agent, Barry, along with Don’s “official” info: SFC class. Seventy-fifth Division, Third Brigade. Stationed in Southfield, MI. Been “downrange” three times. Currently intel with a Top Secret clearance but also spent over twenty years as an MP.

  Life rolled along and I engaged in the usual post–Burn Notice season ritual back in Oregon: fix the place back up, reconnect with local friends, hike, swim, take cool road trips, hang out and generally do as little as possible!

  That worked pretty well for a couple weeks; then Don shot me an e-mail. His orders came through.

  “Holy crap, Don – you’re in!” I exclaimed.

  “Yep. I haven’t told anyone until I actually got my orders. Now I’m good to go!”

  Don made for the third stooge on this bizarre entertainment tour of duty.

  My orders arrived via e-mail as well – official ones – from the Department of the Air Force Headquarters. The funniest part was that it was technically an invite from the secretary of defense.

  Technically, we were Distinguished Visitors (DV Code 6). We therefore ranked up there with a two-star general with regard to travel, accommodation and security. That translated into being very safe and well looked after. It wouldn’t be good military publicity to lose half the cast of the number-one-rated show on cable.

  I joked with Jeffrey that if we didn’t show up now we’d be AWOL (Absent Without Leave) and they would send Don to pick us up! There was no turning back now.

  The general elation of getting our orders faded a bit when it came time to slog through a sea of military paperwork. Lest we forget, Uncle Sam is the biggest bureaucracy in the world. Along with orders, we had to either sign or fill out a U.S. Air Force contract, bank transfer forms, provide a copy of our passport, bank routing numbers, federal ID numbers – and I’m sure they needed my mother’s maiden name for some reason. Thankfully, the military is part of the twenty-first century and almost all of it could be done electronically.

  It was time to gear up. There is a travel store in my local town of Ashland, Oregon, and I love to poke around in there, searching for some new innovation that would make my life easier while trapped in a giant aluminum tube.

  Appropriate gear is nothing new to those of us in the film business. We work under any and all weather conditions when making films in different climates. This trip was cake in comparison. In Iraq, the weather was a downright chilly eighty-five degrees during the day – positively L.A.

  It was enjoyable to engage in a semi-political discussion at a local outfitter store. I was in search of new wool socks for the journey and I found myself explaining the upcoming trip. People become acutely interested in every minor detail of actors they recognize. But this fellow was more than curious. He was a bit put off that I would visit the troops if I was against the war.

  “It ain’t about the war, pal – it’s about the flesh,” I argued.

  “You want to support that mentality?” he shot back.

  “I want to support the schmoes who risk their lives.”

  “Needlessly.”

  “Whatever. Look, how much are the socks?”

  Did I mention that Ashland, Oregon, is a very liberal place? Neighboring Medford, a mere fourteen miles away, is very conservative and I find my world straddling the two. The reaction to my trip in Medford was completely different. Universally, I’d get a big smile and an immediate, bone-crushing handshake. Vive la difference.

  In bidding adieu, Ida and I chatted about safety issues. She wasn’t worried about my physical safety; she was worried I might see something that would break my heart.

  Fair enough, I thought. But it’s not enough of a reason to stay home.

  MIDWESTERNER MEETS MIDDLE EAST

  I try not to be a political guy, but what bugs me bugs me and wars are pretty high up on the list of infuriating human activities. War represents a failure of every other policy – a tragic loss of civility, a coup for barbarism. War is way too primal for me, too savage of a concept to wrap my head around.

  It’s safe to say that I disagreed with the invasion of Iraq (as opposed to Gulf War I) from the get-go. I’ll spare the world another actor’s dissertation on achieving peace, but I do support the amazing idea that citizens are willing to take up arms and defend their country – it strikes me as a bizarre and mythical ritual.

  So, aside from plain old curiosity, I wanted to give thanks to the young men and women w
ho were willing to fight – not necessarily the old men who sent them there.

  From my small town of Medford, Oregon, Iraq wasn’t exactly around the corner. The journey was as follows:

  • Nov. 9, 2009, 10:05, Medford to San Francisco

  • San Fran to Washington Dulles airport

  • D.C. to Kuwait

  • Kuwait to outlying U.S. military Forward Operating Bases (FOBs – the beginning of an endless stream of military anachronisms) – destination: unknown

  Jeffrey Donovan and I were going to travel on our own dime regardless, but we contacted the studio higher-ups to see if they felt like “kicking in” – in a “support the troops” kind of way. It was interesting to watch the various reactions of the USA Network (who aired Burn Notice) and Fox (who produced it). Given the fact that two of the three leading actors of their show were going into a war zone, the reaction wasn’t great. In fact, we were asked not to go.

  There was technically nothing in our contract that prohibited us from visiting so-and-so country or doing such-and-such – we were on hiatus and could ultimately do what we wanted. That’s why so many actors get in trouble during the hiatus of a given TV show. If they just kept working all the time they wouldn’t have time to do foolish things!

  It turned into a fingers-in-the-ears sort of thing, so Jeffrey and I made our own plans directly with the military. This tour was different anyway. Unlike a press junket, where everyone kisses your ass up one side and down the other, this time around we couldn’t be picky. There was to be no “Oh, I don’t eat that” or “Sorry, my bed isn’t comfortable” crap. The word “no” would not be welcome. We were there to offer our thanks. This trip wasn’t about us and it was actually kind of liberating – not to mention humbling.

  I was oddly at peace as I boarded the plane for the first leg of the trip. The decades of international travel may have influenced my mood, as I have certainly flown farther to “work.” A twelve-hour commute from Los Angeles and Auckland, New Zealand, during my Hercules and Xena days set the bar.