Rock-tober 06, 2017

I went to highschool with a girl whose last name had an impossible lack of vowels - Skrmetta. We reconnected recently on Facebook, and I noticed her married name had the same ratio of consonants. I quipped, "I see you're still averse to having vowels in your last name."

Another high school friend of mine had to deal with the surname Klusendorf. Shortly after our recent class reunion, I told her she's still the only Klusendorf I'd ever met. She laughingly said, "Well, if you ever meet another one, you'll know we're related."

I've read humorous accounts where the scenario was flipped. An American lady, married to a Russian, traveled with her husband to his home country. At a checkpoint an immigration official asked for her information. "Name?"
"Marianne Yeshevsky"
"Spell it."
"Y-E-S-H-E..." The annoyed official stopped her.
"I know how to spell 'Yeshevsky'! How do you spell 'Marianne'?"

With my own last name, it's a given people are going to butcher the pronunciation. Whenever I'm asked for it, I'll say it slowly and spell it since, interestingly, people tend to stick an "L" in it (Ku-Pool'-Yun). Every now and then, someone will also ask for my first name because they want to make sure they've got the "right 'Capuyan.'" I'll oblige, but I'm wondering just how many Capuyans they know.

Andrea didn't have this problem with her maiden name. "Wilt" is a simple, single syllable, Anglo Saxon derivative no one's tongue ever tripped over. She jokingly admitted if she'd married a man named "de Flowers," she would have definitely hyphenated. Of course, that's not to say she's not had any fun being Mrs. Capuyan. One year, she was checking into a conference.

"Last name, please."
"It's 'Capuyan'".
"Spell that, please."
"C-A-P-U-Y-A-N"
"Huh. That's an interesting name. Is it Bohemian?"
My blue-eyed, red-haired, freckle faced wife gave a mischievous smile. "Nope. It's Filipino."
The receptionist paused and just stared at her with a very confused look.

Dad figured out how to sidestep the whole mispronunciation issue. His nickname at every duty station in the Navy was simply "Cap." Brilliant. When the Navy gave me orders to a new ship, I decided, "Well, it worked for Dad..." The minute someone showed the slightest difficulty, I asked them to, "Just call me 'Cap'," and for a little while the family Naval tradition continued for a second generation.

It's been said that your last name is one of the first gifts your father ever gives you. As such, it's something you should cherish and make every attempt to keep unblemished. Jim Croce understood this. In his soulful rendition of "I've Got a Name," he sings, "I got a name. I got a name. And I carry it with me like my daddy did."  The song would likely have been his biggest hit. Tragically, he only performed it publicly a few times, and it was literally the last song he played before a plane crash took his life in 1973. It was released posthumously and peaked at #10 on Billboard's Hot 100.

Rock-tober 05, 2017

Dad taught me a lot of things, but he never taught me how to drive a stick shift. Mom disliked manual transmissions, and as a result, every car we owned over the years, the Mustang included, was an automatic. This wasn't a big deal - until it was.

In the summer of 1990, I was a Midshipman on a training cruise with the Navy. When the ship docked in Norfolk, I met up with two buddies, Mike and Terry, also Midshipmen posted to Norfolk, and we drove to Busch Gardens in Mike's truck. We were celebrating Mike's birthday - his twenty-first birthday. Did I mention we were going to Busch Gardens? While we hit all the roller coasters and seemingly all the food vendors, Mike and Terry also sampled the available beers repeatedly. I, the only underaged person in the trio, became the designated driver. After successfully achieving a day of frivolity, Mike tossed me his keys, and we all clambered back into his truck for the drive back to base.

There was one slight problem. Mike's truck was a standard. The base was 50 miles away and I'm looking at an unfamiliar third pedal and a stick shift. Well crap. I was now getting dual verbal downloads of  manual transmission theory from two tipsy guys. The better part of an hour was spent in the Busch Gardens parking lot working out the kinks in my hastily acquired skill set. With darkness coming on, they declared my training sufficient, and we started out. It was smooth sailing on the open highway, but as we got back into Norfolk, we were all more than a little anxious as I kept stalling at stop lights and stop signs. We approached the guard shack, and I was hoping we could flash ID's and do a rolling stop through the gate. No such luck. The guard held up his hand and brought us to a full stop. He gave each of our IDs a careful once over and then shone his flashlight in our faces. Three Midshipmen, one sweating bullets and two of them ever so slightly inebriated, were imagining all the worst scenarios.

Finally satisfied, the guard stepped back, waved us through, and waited for us to pass. Mike began a whispered mantra, "Don't stall. Don't stall. Don't stall." Terry was a little more succinct, "Crap. Crap. Crap." I ran through my mental checklist. Clutch in. Off the brake. Give it a little gas, watch the tach, and listen to the pitch of the revving engine. Time it properly, and ease off the clutch while giving it more gas. The truck shuddered ever so slightly and then rolled forward in the smoothest start I'd achieved all day. I'm pretty sure we were getting eyeballed by the guard as Mike and Terry whooped and hollered while clapping me on the shoulder.

Back in Auburn, after Andrea and I started dating, I borrowed her stick shift truck once and spent the entire day driving back and forth between Auburn and Opelika practicing stops on all the hills I could find to make sure stalling would never be a problem again. (By the way, did you catch that? Andrea drove a truck and a stick. Hotness.) The ability to drive a stick is becoming a lost art, particularly with the millennial crowd. But all is not lost. A young lady in Andrea's office was in the market for new car this past year. Her two criteria: it had to have a sunroof and it had to be a stick. There's still hope.

Back in 1961, the Duals released "Stick Shift". Typifying the "surf rock" of the era, it became their one and only hit, peaking at  #25 on Billboard's Hot 100. It's also a rare instrumental featured in Rock-tober. Words sometimes become superfluous when you're cruising down the highway listening to a droning engine while slamming through some gears.

Rock-tober 04, 2017

MTV launched on 01 August 1981, and changed how we experienced music forever. No longer just an aural medium, bands now used video to add a visual dimension to their music and lyrics. As goofy and cornball as those first generation videos were, you could still sit mesmerized for hours watching rather than just listening to your favorite groups.

However, Mom and Dad didn't add the channel to our cable subscription so if I wanted to catch the latest hot videos everyone was talking about in school, I had to trudge over to friends' houses or stay up really late on Fridays to watch TBS's "Night Tracks", Ted Turner's poor caricature of MTV. First world problems, right?

For as groundbreaking a concept as music videos were, they still shared a common annoyance with their old fashioned radio counterparts. If you wanted to see a specific one, you still had to wait for the veejay to play it. Today's kids with access to the Internet and YouTube will never know the struggle of waiting for what seemed like an eternity with fingers at the ready on the record button of a tape deck or VCR hoping our phoned in request would get air time.

One of the videos that proved particularly elusive for me was "Centerfold" by the J. Geils Band. The closest I came to seeing it was after my buddy Mike and I came in from horsing around out in the backyard. We turned on the TV and the very tail end of the video was playing. Well before the days of Tivo, there was no rewinding to catch it from the beginning. I never saw "Centerfold" back in the day. Amusingly, as I write this, I've got the video playing on a loop on YouTube.

In Junior and Senior High School, I was a band geek, and "Centerfold" was perennially part of the band's repertoire at Friday night football games and hometown parades. Usually, after parades down Jeff Davis Avenue, Long Beach's main drag, a group of my friends and I would just walk home. On the way we'd treat the residents in the neighborhoods we walked through to our little quartet rendition of the song. It was an odd sight, a small troupe of band geeks in full uniform - a trio of trumpets and a tuba - walking down the street blaring a song about a photo spread in a "girlie magazine."

The man who gave his name to the band that released our favorite neighborhood serenade was born John Warren Geils Jr. on 20 February 1946 in New York City. His namesake band was originally called Snoopy and the Sopwith Camels. After a few changes in their lineup, the group gelled as the J. Geils Blues Band. "Blues" was eventually dropped, and the J. Geils Band released their self titled debut album in 1970. Ten more studio albums followed along with 19 released singles of which "Centerfold" was their biggest hit. Nominated twice for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, they have yet to clinch that honor. On April 11th of this year, police were called out to Geils's home in Groton, Massachusetts, to do a "wellness check." Unfortunately, when they found him, he was unresponsive and was pronounced dead at the age of 71.

I'll always be thankful to the man and his band for providing a litany of songs that were part of the soundtrack of my youth, and giving me and some rapscallion friends the means of literally playing part of that soundtrack.

Rock-tober 03, 2017

Earlier this year, Andrea and I were tooling around town and Ozzy's "Crazy Train" comes on the radio. She listens for a few bars and asked if Ozzy ever made an appearance in Rock-tober.

"Nope."

"Really? Are you sure?" I give her one of my "You're kidding, right?" looks.

"Yeah, pretty sure. Dude kinda stands out." Right about then, the chorus kicked in.

"Here's an idea. Add this song to this year's list! You can spend the rest of the year watching people to see who's crazy enough to write about them and this song." I chuckled and the conversation meandered on. Somehow we started talking about the latest incident that grossed me out.

Yes, I'm a bit of a germaphobe. How bad? Long ago, my buddy, Mike, observed, doubtless when I was doing something irrationally fastidious for a teenager, "You don't like being dirty, do you?" Well, no, of course not. Some of my wiseguy friends saddled me with the nickname, "Monk", after Tony Shalhoub's obsessive compulsive TV character. I'm pretty sure I'm not that bad, but there's certain things I just don't do - like use the seat area in grocery carts for my groceries. Why? Because those seats are used by toddlers. Toddlers wear diapers. Diapers leak. I won't be exposing my carefully chosen mangoes to fecal contamination, thank you very much.

We have some friends who posted pictures of their toddler daughter playing on their living room floor. The little munchkin was garnering all the requisite "Awwww!" and "She's adorable!" comments. Leave it to me to notice in the background was a little kid's porta potty with a green cup sitting in the bowl. To this day, I won't touch green cups in their household.

More recently, Andrea and I were in a restaurant when she saw my "that is some kind of nasty" face take hold mid sentence. "What just happened?" she asked. A kid a couple of booths back grabbed hold of the catsup dispenser, upended it, and started sucking on it like it was his bottle. I've not used any of those dispensers since.

Those candy dishes you see on the way out of restaurants? Pass. Some folks say, "Hey! Free candy!" I'm more like, "Hey! Free candy that's been manhandled by everyone who failed to wash their hands in the bathroom!"

Hot tubs? Don't get me started. Where people tend to see a hot, muscle-relaxing soak, I see an oversized petri dish. Blech.

Back in the car, Ozzy was screaming his last refrain, and I was ending the latest germaphobe diatribe. The song ends, and Andrea gets a mischievous glint in her eye and says, "Hmm. Hon, maybe you should write the "Crazy Train" post about you."

Pfft. Yeah. Right. Whatever.

Rock-tober 02, 2017

I used to work with a Ukrainian firebrand named Olga. She was...an unfiltered individual, and a lot of fun to work with. I enjoyed her stories about growing up in Ukraine, meeting her husband, and raising her daughter in a foreign culture. She also had great taste in music and is the same Olga who gifted me the "Brothers in Arms" CD mentioned in the now classic missive Rocktober 30, 2013.

Once she told us about a night she and her husband were at a gala. Her husband held up his end of the stereotypical hard-drinking Russian male and got sloshed at the event. At the end of the evening, Olga took his keys and proceeded to drive them home, taking the George Washington Memorial Parkway (GW Parkway if you want to sound like a local). Very picturesque and wooded during the day, the Parkway was particularly dark and isolated at night. On the way, she ran over road debris that shredded one of their tires. Luckily, they'd just come up to an exit, so Olga pulled off the road and up to a gate. I think she started berating her hubby for either being too drunk to change the tire or not keeping a proper spare when a couple of security guards  opened the gate and approached.

They surveyed the situation, asked them to state their business, and then escorted them into the complex beyond the gate. Once inside, they were separated and questioned. Incessantly. Olga relayed her and her husband's evening itinerary and just asked to use a phone to call a cab and tow truck. She was met with poker face stares and more questions. Now, Olga being Olga, became very annoyed and asked to speak to a supervisor. I can just imagine the Russian epithets she was muttering under her breath about her detainers. Only more repetitive questions followed.

After the better part of an hour, she stopped the questioning and flatly declared she had to use the restroom. Her interrogators looked at each other, then nodded. One of them got up when Olga stood and followed her out of the interview room.

Her escort gave her directions and then followed her. Olga thought this was odd as he maintained position just a step behind and off to her left as she both quickened and slowed her pace. When she got to the ladies room she opened the door, and her escort stepped in just behind her.

She wheeled on him. "Excuse me?! I'm perfectly capable of doing this without supervision!"

Her shadow sighed. "Lady, you really have no idea where you are, do you?"

"I've told you 'No' repeatedly! We just happened to  pull over in front of your gate because of a flat tire. Tell me, what is this place that thinks I can't go to the bathroom alone?"

"You're at CIA Headquarters."

Imagine the scene for the security guards. Cameras showed an unfamiliar vehicle parked just outside their gate. When they investigate, they find a couple dressed to the nines arguing in Russian. The world's premier spy agency does not readily believe in coincidences as Olga and her husband ruefully discovered.

This slight chill in East-West relations likely didn't move the hands of the Doomsday clock, nor did it stoke the ashes of the Cold War into a full blaze. However, it's the perfect showcase for Survivor's "Burning Heart", used in the Rocky vs. Drago matchup in the 4th iteration of the Rocky Balboa franchise. "Two worlds collide, rival nations," indeed. Give 'em hell, Olga.

Rock-tober 01, 2017

As a kid, before Mom and Dad conceded to my relentless cajoling and acquired the mystical Atari 2600, we had other means of indoor entertainment. In my family, that meant card games with Spades the familial favorite. Some of my most memorable recollections was my absolute terror and surprise at how cutthroat Mom could be. I remember shedding tears when she gleefully trumped my high ranking face cards. All those lost hands left a lasting mark because even as I hit my teen years I deemed it unwise to cross Mom.

Board games were another source of diversion, and we had a sizeable collection. Playing "Operation" with Dad was always nerve wracking. If your hand wasn't steady enough, you'd set off the buzzer and patient dude's nose would flash red. I knew this. I'd heard the buzzer countless times. Yet, I still jumped every time my hand slipped and set it off, much to Dad's amusement.

I was simply mesmerized by "Mouse Trap". Many times I bypassed the game play and just set it up to watch it in action. Rube Goldberg devices still hold a fascination for me.

Playing Tic-Tac-Toe with paper and pencil? Boring. However, using checkers pieces in a vertical plane, winning with 4 in a row instead of 3, and rebranding the game "Connect 4?" Genius.

Playing as a general in "Stratego" was strangely gratifying. I took on all comers and wracked up an enviable win record. In fact, I never lost until my cousin Winston handed me my first defeat. To this day I believe I know how Hannibal felt after the Battle of Zama.

One of the unknown gems was "Gilligan's Island". The kids next door, Noel and Roel, and I got a lot of mileage out of that goofy game. We rolled dice to see who played what character and laughed like little boys do when one of us had to play MaryAnne,  Ginger, or (gasp) Mrs. Howell because not only was she a girl, she was really, really old.

However, Numero Uno, the Big Kahuna, the Mac Daddy of them all was "Battleship." It's "seek and destroy" premise was deceptively simple. Yet, I can't think of any other game that caused more arguments and fights than this one. My friends and I took it way more seriously than Milton Bradley intended. The Naval theme, and being Navy brats, elevated every match to a defense of family pride and personal honor.

In 2012, Universal released the movie, "Battleship," based on my beloved childhood board game. Stuffed shirt critics gave it less than stellar reviews, and it failed to earn blockbuster status. I don't care about the naysayers, and I'll still watch it every time it comes on.

The cast included Liam Neeson,  Taylor Kitsch,  and Rihanna, but the headliner for me was BB-63, "Mighty MO" herself, the USS Missouri. For the movie, this storied veteran of 3 wars and winner of 16 battle stars was shown slicing through the water and maneuvering at flank speed, was actually manned by some of her WWII combat veterans, and (spoiler alert) kicked alien ass with her shock and awe inspiring 16" guns.

Oh, yeah, the battle sequences featured a healthy dose of AC/DC, including this year's first installment, "Hard as a Rock." You didn't think I'd gotten lost walking down nostalgia lane, did you? Pfft. Welcome to Rock-tober.

In Memoriam

Gerald Robert Wilt died last Monday, December 26, 2016, at 0135. He was 83. Gerald Wilt was my father in law. Andrea and I are currently in Auburn to meet with family and pay our respects.

The first time I met Andrea's dad I was of course nervous. He was a highly respected member of the Auburn University faculty and I was still a student. I sat across from him in the family living room and it seemed like he grilled me on everything from my future plans, to my knowledge of basic life sciences (he was a microbiology professor), to the ramification of the Huns' sweep across Asia and into Europe (I'm not kidding). At the end of the "interview", he looked at me over the brim of his glasses, gave the slightest imperceptible nod, and went back to reading his paper.

Over the years, while Andrea and I were dating and after we got married, her dad and I would continue this banter. Somewhere along the way, the questioning gave way to conversations. He'd tell me stories of growing up in Indiana, where he was in high school when the true story of "Hoosiers" was happening in real life.

He told me about his time in the Air Force as a mechanic for our strategic bombers. Some of those tales dropped my jaw, and I found myself looking out the window for "men in black" who just had to be surveilling a guy who knew what he knew.

He loved being a Yankee transplanted into the deep south. He'd talk about fly fishing in the cold mountain streams of North Georgia. He tied his own flies and used to drive out to the mountains every weekend. He gave me some of his hand tied flies a few years back. They're magnificent works of art.

He had a lot of stories about his time as a professor. He loved teaching. Auburn University has a first rate veterinary school, and for a generation, all veterinary students had to pass through his class.  Every now and then, I'll still meet a veterinarian who had him as an instructor. Universally, they all loved him. I always regretted not being able to take one of his classes.

On one visit to Auburn, we drove the '67 Mustang. He was as excited about the car as I was. This brought on another flood gate of stories from his time as an Air Force mechanic. We popped the hood and poked around the engine bay, kicked the tires, and were crawling around under the frame in no time. Whenever he called or emailed, he'd ask about the car. This led to another story swap.

I'm going to miss the conversations and his stories.