Rock-tober 18, 2019

I've been listening to the gritty soulfulness of Bob Seger now for over 40 years. My introduction to the Detroit legend was listening to a 45 in my friend's bedroom when we were kids. As soon as I heard "Against the Wind", I knew I was hooked. At the time, I  perceived rockers to be guys who had to scream unintelligible lyrics to be heard over drums and amped guitars, but Seger just came across as a dude with a 6 string telling me stories about his life. Over the intervening decades, his music and the lyrics of his songs seemed to punctuate and even narrate periods or episodes in my own life.

In high school, as my buddies and I would cue up songs to cruise Jeff Davis, "Hollywood Nights" was a favorite. "Old Time Rock and Roll" was the song I heard when a lot of those same buddies and I crashed a club on our senior trip somewhere on the Florida panhandle. Years later, the words of "Turn the Page" were running through my head when I found myself encircled by a pack of bigoted knuckleheads in Birmingham.

Seger's first entry in Rock-tober was October 3, 2013, with "Like a Rock". More than any other song I've mentioned, this one, in particular, continues to resonate with me, especially these days when I've racked up enough mileage to take serious stock of my life. As I wrote then, I have regrets, but none have taken me down. Some dreams have come to pass while others have not, or at least, not yet. And now, more than ever, I have no time for "these hucksters and their schemes".

Bob Seger has been on the road for 57 years. In November 2018, he kicked off what will be his final tour. I've been to surprisingly few live concerts, but this was one tour I just could not miss so Andrea got us tickets to his show at a local venue this past May. The day was cold, wet, and rainy, and neither of us had our foul weather gear. Andrea made do with a tiny umbrella, and I managed with a trash bag I transformed into a slicker. We were soaked and chilled by the time we got to our seats, but it warmed up soon enough when the band took the stage.

The palpable energy coming off the crowd was infectious and I knew I was with my people. Over the course of the show, I vacillated between being misty-eyed and smiling from ear to ear. As Seger strode through his playlist he was essentially playing the soundtrack of my life. When I heard the opening chords of "Like a Rock" I caught myself screaming like a Scotsman charging the field at Bannockburn.

In the audience, we knew we were bearing witness to the passing of an era. We knew a rare commonality of this diverse crowd - the love of this man's music and the privilege of catching him live - was coming to an end, but we just didn't want it to end this night. We called him back for two encores. Seger graciously obliged and ended fittingly with "Rock and Roll Never Forgets". While it had a sad finality, the memories and the music remain.

Rock-tober 17, 2019

One of the things I loved about my family's road trips was collecting all the maps and atlases Dad picked up to navigate us across the country to the opposite coast. Usually acquired from gas stations or rest areas, stacks of these would be jammed in the glove box, between the seats, and whatever cubby was available. After we'd stopped for the night at a hotel, cigarette in hand, he'd study the next day's route with the intensity of Eisenhower planning D-Day. He'd trace out our course, making note of critical exits, large towns where we could stop for meals, and even points of interest to break up the monotony of the drive.

When I got older, he promoted me to navigator. I took my place in the front passenger seat and carefully unfolded the requisite paper accordion that covered our route that day. Dutifully I called out alerts for upcoming course changes and miles remaining to our next waypoint. At days end, we'd chart our progress to see if we covered the necessary miles to stay on our schedule.

Every now and then, despite our best intentions, we'd get lost. Either someone missed an exit, took a right turn at Albuquerque, or maybe the map was just wrong. Once we realized our predicament, remediation was easy. First, we'd get our bearings. This usually consisted of asking a local where we were, and if possible, show us on our map. Next, we'd chart our corrective course. Again, this was usually asking a local how to get back to the Interstate. We never viewed getting lost as a mistake. It was merely a side trip, an extra little adventure that allowed us to explore more highway than we'd intended.

Navigating with a map is a basic skill that I'm glad I acquired from Dad. When I moved to Birmingham years ago, I bought a spiral-bound map book with hyper-accurate, large-scale street maps of Jefferson County. With those pages, I had no problems laying in a course from my apartment to destinations across town in a city where I was a complete stranger. Before we were married, I flew from Birmingham to DC to visit Andrea. One morning, Andrea hitched a ride to work with her roommate and left me her truck. After some sightseeing, I used a small road atlas she had in her glove box to successfully navigate across the DC metro area in rush hour traffic to her office. This impressed her greatly, and it's always a cool thing to impress the redhead.

Sometime after Dad died, I was going through the van that we'd taken on so many road trips. A lot of the maps were still there, packed into all the pockets and consoles, in easy reach for the next highway adventure. I chose one and carefully unfolded it. Now yellow and brittle with age, the paper accordion protested being opened. Protected from the South Mississippi sun, the colors of the inner map were still vibrant. Blue interstates stood out in bold contrast to the shades of green for land and the lighter blues for rivers and bodies of water. It made me a little sad, but I couldn't help but smile as I remembered past roads we'd traveled, and the awe inspired by the beauty of wide-open vistas we saw through the front windshield.

Andrea and I have taken to the habit of highlighting roads we've traveled together in a road atlas. It's an interesting and offbeat way to remember our past adventures. Hopefully, years and years down the road, all the highlighting in that atlas will attest to a long life of shared adventure and exploration of this country's highways and byways.

Rock-tober 16, 2019

My Nepalese coworker, Naresh, is a constant source of one-line zingers. He and I were making our way across campus one spring day and he commented on the number of signs announcing the latest government-mandated diversity campaign.

He swept his arm, encompassing the breadth of the campus. "This place is not diverse." His simple declaration surprised me.

"Dude. How can you say that? You're here...I'm here..."

"You? You are not diverse! You're just a brown redneck!"

I wasn't even mad. I stopped dead in my tracks as I doubled over in laughter.

Growing up in South Mississippi, the term "redneck" was bantered about with great regularity, and, for the most part, it was delivered in good-natured jest. In my mind's eye, when I thought of rednecks, Bo and Luke Duke and Uncle Jessie came to mind. There was nothing wrong with being like the good ol' boys of Hazzard County. The first time I remember hearing the term in a negative connotation was in Coach Snow's 9th-grade Civics class. He was recounting how someone called him a redneck at a job site. He let them know he really didn't appreciate it.

When I replayed the discussion with Naresh for another coworker, I didn't even finish when he blurted out, "But you are a redneck!" Now, this colleague was Ethiopian, so I was very curious about his frame of reference. What did he see from my behavior that warranted that descriptor?

"I've seen you roll into work in blue jeans and Hawaiian shirts instead of slacks and long-sleeve button-downs. You'd rather drive an old Mustang instead of the latest Tesla we're all drooling over. You're analog everything, from the gauges in your car to the pen and paper you use instead of our tablets." I think it confirms I'm old school beachy rather than a redneck.

Regardless, of all the different epithets lobbed my way, "redneck" is probably the least annoying. However, some people have gone further and embraced it. Sammy Kershaw released "Queen of My Double Wide Trailer" back in 1993, and it's a playful romp through all things redneck: farm life, trailer parks, NASCAR, and even a shout out to Charlie Daniels. Andrea and I regularly two-stepped to this at country-western bars back in the day - a fact that I will fastidiously keep from my coworkers because that would cement my title as a Filipino Redneck.

Rock-tober 15, 2019

I give you fair warning, although it should be evident by reading these pages. If you interact with me, there's a chance you might end up in this blog.

I have lunch once a week with my buddy, Trevor. It amazes our wives that two taciturn, selectively social introverts actually make time to get together. They've both stated they wished they could listen in on our conversations, although I don't think we've ever discussed anything earthshattering. Topics have included the works of Neil Gaiman of which he's an avid reader and selective collector. He'll also recount his and his wife's adventures in parenting. It was Trevor's son who purchased the Switch after hours of slinging chicken sandwiches. Sometimes we exchange titles of the shows we're currently binging. He's contemplating doing yet another run through Battlestar Galactica. Admittedly, we'll occasionally wind up in the fringe territory. Once, for a few weeks, we were actively making plans to attend the services of a congregation of Zoroastrian Fire Worshipers at their local temple. While those plans fell through, the idea is still on the table.

My childhood friends are another obvious source of inspiration. My defacto brothers, Noel and Roel, and close friend Mike make regular appearances. These days, people are aware that every interaction is subject to being uploaded to the cloud for public display, discussion, and/or ridicule. Folks in my generation generally breathe a sigh of relief that our youthful shenanigans predate the Internet.  However, decades before the juggernaut of social media and smartphones, Mike and I somehow managed to build libraries of photographic evidence of some of our antics. He's said I make him nervous every time I crack open my archive of hard copy photographs to post pics from back in the day. We're in a weird state of photographic detente. 

Then there are my coworkers past and present. I spend at least 40 waking hours a week with these people and their idiosyncratic personalities. Unfortunately, thumping them on the head when they aggravate me is frowned upon by HR so I satisfy myself by narrating their tales.

To keep track of all these storylines and ideas for this blog, I've taken to using a journaling app on my phone. When noteworthy situations, ideas, or songs are encountered, I jot them down for future use. Often when Andrea and I are talking, she'll say something either profound or hilarious, and I'll reach for my phone. "Wait. What are you doing?" she'll ask. I just smile as I make a quick notation.

"That right there is Rock-tober material." She'll sigh and shake her head.

"Hmmph. You really need to start paying me." I then remind her all conversations are fair game.

"You've got to remember to be careful. To paraphrase Ol' Jimmy, 'Don't ever forget that you just may wind up in my blog.'"

Rock-tober 14, 2019

I count myself fortunate to work alongside a group of people in my office. They're consummate professionals who know their job and who I can rely on to have my back. However - Lord have mercy - there are times they find my last nerve and strum it like Slash working a six-string.

One day I was in the middle of juggling multiple tasks and responding to half a dozen emails all with a phone to my ear. For some inane reason, Naresh picked that time open my closed door, plop down in my office, and show me the latest targets of his house hunt. "Yo, Wayne! Check your email!" I tried to shush him to no avail. "I sent you 3 houses I'm going to see this weekend!" I shot him what I thought was an obvious "Get out of my office" look and nodded towards the door. It, of course, went over his head. As he launched into verbose property descriptions, I was finally able to hang up the phone and faced him.

"Dude. Can't you see I'm up to my eyeballs here?!"

"Pfft. Just take a look! It'll be quick. The second listing has a great deck, but I'm not too sure about the school system. What do you think about the basement in the third house? I can put an awesome theater system down there!" Elbows on my desk, I was now rubbing my temples as he continued. "But the first house has the best yard!"

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get. Out."

"Man, why are you always grumpy?"

The Internet has been a surprising source of comebacks and clap backs I've used for some of these incursions.

"Man, Wayne, you seem so unapproachable these days."

"But yet, here you are."

Sometimes, I'm just hungry. Sometimes, I just want to be left alone. Sometimes, bloody hell, it's both.

"Hey, Wayne! What's for lunch?"

"Food."

"No, Grumpy, what are you having?"

"An unwanted conversation."

A few of my closer cohorts learned one way to assuage me. At a previous job, I flew halfway across the country to reactivate a site. I was in a foul mood because it had been left in disarray. Unbeknownst to me, the station chief called HQ. "Umm...Wayne's getting really grouchy here. Any advice?"

"Ah. Just give him a Snickers bar. He'll be fine."

I was on a tirade about a mountain of papers left behind by the previous admin that had to be processed. I turned around and the chief was right there, hands up in a defensive position and dangling a Snickers bar from one of them. We had a good laugh and eventually the mission was completed.

Zack, at my current shop, figured this out. I suspect Andrea clued him in. He told me he's got Snickers bars stashed in strategic places. "So...what else can I do for you?" That was easy.

"Just keep Naresh out of my hair." Right on cue, Naresh came around the corner, plopped down in one of my chairs, looked at me, and smirks.

"Hey, Grumpy! What's happening!"

Zack recognized the look I gave Naresh and ushered him quickly out of the room. All the while, Naresh was protesting, "What? Wait! Hey! Where are we going!?"

Zacks's voice trailed away as he tried to get the two of them to a safe distance, "To find a Snickers bar."

Meanwhile, elbows on my desk, my face in my hands, I heard Slash strumming my last nerve again.

Rock-tober 13, 2019

When I was a kid of 6 or 7, we lived in a little pink bungalow on Broad Avenue just outside the main gate of the CB base. One late fall afternoon I was with Dad in the backyard when he was doing some yard work. Suddenly I heard the sound of a lone bugler wafting over the trees between us and the base. Dad stopped what he was doing, leaned on his rake, and faced the direction of the music.

"What's happening, Dad?"

"Evening colors, son. When you hear it, pause what you're doing out of respect because they're lowering the flag on base."

Because of our proximity to the base, I spent a lot of time inside its fenceline. It was my Mayberry - a very secure version - but it was a literal town within a town. When I was old enough to get my own ID card I constantly rode my bike to base housing to hang out with friends. The base had its own pool, and in the heat of South Mississippi summers, we gathered there to cool down during the hottest parts of the day. Close by base housing was a quad that had the exchange, movie theater, and bowling alley. The exchange had a snack bar with an ice cream shop where my friends and I were always stymied about which flavor to choose. The movie theater always played a Saturday matinee, and when that finished, we'd all congregate at the bowling alley with its mini arcade.

With Mom and Dad, all our grocery shopping was done at the base commissary along with every other Navy family after payday. Most retail shopping happened at the base exchange. I remember the bulk of my clothes at this time came from either the Sears Roebuck catalog or the exchange.

Large party gatherings would happen at one of the covered pavilions in the base's park. Brilliantly, these were built right across from the pool. Some of my best summer memories of this period are of going back and forth between partying in the park and playing in the pool.

The base always felt safe. Mom and Dad thought nothing of letting their grade school kid bike to and fro from all these locations. I've also written before of how we took physical shelter from many hurricanes in the base's thick-walled warehouses. The base chapel became another refuge. I remember attending protestant services with Mom and Dad when we'd just moved to town. Mid service, the chaplain called all the kids down to the front. I was too shy, so I stayed beside Dad. The chaplain had a hammer and he placed a coffee cup on the ground. He passed the hammer to one of the kids and told him to take a whack at the cup. Of course, the cup broke, and the chaplain proceeded to explain some Biblical truth. I don't remember what was said, but I do remember thinking, "Wow, they let kids break stuff here."

At the end of the liturgy, we sang the Navy Hymn - the first time I remember hearing it. Week after week this ritual played out with the Navy Hymn closing each service. Its origins are English. In 1860 William Whiting penned its verses after contemplating Psalm 107 which describes hazards mariners faced on the open ocean. Readily adopted by both the Royal Navy and the US Navy in the late 1800s, the Hymn was a simple prayer imploring God to protect those in peril on the sea. This became very real to a 7-year-old kid whose father was about to be deployed overseas for an 8-month stretch.

To this day, it never fails. I hear this hymn and I'm automatically emotional. Whether it's memories of a 7-year-old kid having to say goodbye to his Dad for the better part of a year or my first-hand knowledge of how scary a storm at sea can be, I find its words simplistically profound.

Eternal Father, strong to save,

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep

Its own appointed limits keep;

Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,

For those in peril on the sea!

Rock-tober 12, 2019

Andrea was already fairly well traveled when we met, having done stints in Germany, Brazil, and Ecuador. In this, we're a great match because she complements my own wanderlust. Together, we've crisscrossed the US and touched down on three different continents. I love exploring with her and prefer destinations neither of us has seen so we both experience the locale with new eyes.

There are exceptions, and one is in the Carribean. In the summer of '89, I found myself on shore leave on the island of St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands. The boat I was attached to was ordered out on a short shakedown cruise and I either didn't have the clearance or the crew thought a greenhorn midshipman would just get in the way. Regardless, putting me ashore was the easiest solution.

So, at 19, I found myself on a tropical island paradise of sun drenched beaches and gently rustling palms surrounded by aquamarine water.

All Navy vessels docked on the island's west end in Frederiksted. One of the local bars was the preferred Navy hangout judging by the massive collection of ship's plaques that covered every available inch of its walls. During my and my shipmates' stay at this establishment, I teamed up with the boat's quartermaster for a dart tournament. We took on all comers and won the day. An impromptu trophy of a child's wooden play block became one of my most prized possessions.

Something else of note about the local bars - local ordinances stipulated they lock their doors at some point in the early morning hours. However, there was no requirement for the bar to actually close. If a party was going full swing at 0200, you didn't have to go home, but you'd be locked in with the rest of the revelers until the doors opened again later in the day.

On that length of beach, I learned pina coladas with their frou-frou paper umbrella garnishes were for sissy tourists. The real tropical beach drink of choice for USS Seahorse sailors ashore was a painkiller made with Pusser's Rum. It was with one of these libations in our hands that the boat's cook and I struck up a conversation. At a whisker over 6 feet, he was almost too tall for the submarine service. In true mariner fashion, he picked up the nickname, "Stump". Stump's retirement dream was to come back to St. Croix and open a burger joint on the beach. We heartily toasted to the success of this future endeavor.

On the opposite end of the island was the tourist town of Christiansted. I hitched a ride with some sightseers heading that way and spent the day wandering the streets. It was at Christiansted where I first tried snorkeling and also where I had my first experience on a kayak.

While Andrea will tell you she's not a beach person, I still want to take her here. I think she'd appreciate the stunning scenery and sailing. I wouldn't mind chartering a catamaran to do some island hopping. For all its beauty in my memory, St. Croix is not the most common tourist destination. This would mean minimal crowds - another win for me. She and I could also explore a small rainforest preserve that was marked out of bounds for the crew on my first visit. And I'd also like to look up Stump to see if he made good on starting his beachside burger joint.

All we need to do is pull the trigger and get "two tickets to paradise". The late Eddie Money's 1978 hit will, of course, be locked and loaded on our playlists.