Rock-tober 25, 2019

I don't remember when I started shaving. I do remember Dad was standing over my shoulder explaining the process. "If you can, shave after a shower. Let the hot water and steam soften your whiskers. Use good shaving cream and work it into the stubble. You're trying to lift the hair off your skin so the blade can get in a good cut. Speaking of blades..."

For this exercise, he loaded a fresh blade into his razor, handed it to me, and continued his instruction. "You don't need to use a lot of pressure. Let the razor do the work. Keeping a sharp blade loaded will help you maintain a light touch." I took my first tentative passes. "Always start your shave with the grain, never against. That'll help avoid ingrown hairs." I paused, nodded my understanding and continued.

Slowly and surely, Dad's razor erased the scented foam from my face. All that was left was a remnant over my upper lip. I looked at my reflection, brought up my hand, paused, and slowly put the razor down. "What's the matter, son? Aren't you gonna take care of that last bit of fuzz?"

In my mind's eye, I erringly thought that "fuzz" was in the same class as Thomas Magnum's. "I dunno, Dad. I kinda like it. I think I'll keep it for a while." I rinsed off my face and handed Dad's razor back to him, all the while smiling with an honest, goofy teen-age grin. "Thanks, Dad! Appreciate the lesson!" I walked out of the bathroom pleased as punch at having completed this rite of passage. I passed Mom in the hallway. She looked at me and shot Dad a glance.

"Why on earth did you let him keep that thing on his upper lip!?"

Dad just smiled. "Pfft. Don't worry. It's just a phase. It won't last long."

For the next several decades, I used disposable razors. One day I came to a decision. I'd gotten a really crappy set of disposables that were cleaving off more skin than hair, and I knew there had to be a better way. It was an epiphany moment - I decided to go old school and invested in a boar's hair shaving brush, a block of shaving soap, and a safety razor.

One thing became readily apparent. Utilizing all this new kit drastically reduced the tempo of my morning ablutions, and I realized I was OK with this. For most of my shaving life, this procedure was just an absent-minded process, like brushing my teeth. Now, periodically changing out my blade was more exacting and required more dexterity than tossing away a disposable and reaching for another. The procedure of loading my shaving brush, developing a lather, and painting my face really couldn't be rushed. It forced me to slow down and consider each action. Without realizing it, a morning chore was transformed into a ritual. The slowed pace allowed for many contemplative moments when it was just me, my razor, and the dude staring back from the mirror.

After a while, I got ballsy enough to pick up a straight razor. This was an entirely different animal. As I held that open blade against my lathered throat, I kept switching hands and positions to get a less lethal attack angle on my stubble. I suddenly realized why beards were popular back in the day. After what seemed a tense eternity, I finished the job. Andrea looked in on me. "Well?"

I chuckled. "I managed to not draw blood. I'll call it a win."

This was, of course, a discussion meant to be had with two of the most famous beards in rockdom.

"You know, Lil' Bro, you can avoid all that nonsense if you just had a beard. Haven't you ever tried growing one?"

"Yeah. Just after Andrea and I got married. It was nowhere near as epic as yours, Dusty. And Andrea was not impressed."

Billy sat across from me, eyeing me over his shades. "But you've always sported the 'stache?"

"Yep. I shaved it once for senior portraits at Mom's request." The trio started snickering. "Ah, shut up! I grew it right back! A girl in one of my classes said I was cuter with the mustache. So, heck. That's all it took. I've had it ever since"

"Hold up." Beardless Frank chimed in. "Andrea's never seen you without that caterpillar?"

"She's seen pictures, but yeah. She's never known me without a mustache. I asked her what she'd think if I shaved it off. She crinkled her nose and said I'd look too much like a kid."

"So...basically another girl just told you that you're cuter with it so it stays."

"Yep."

"That's all it took?"

"Yep."

"Hah. Sounds about right."

As much as these yahoos would have you think they were born with wizard class facial hair, it wasn't always the case. Billy revealed in an interview that their trademark beards didn't even start to reach their final form until their 6th album - 10 years after they first got together. Deguello was the album that kicked off the "great bearded ones" era and the track, "I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide", set the tone.

Gillette once offered Billy and Dusty a million dollars each to shave their beards. It was a hard "no" from both of them. Billy said, "The prospect of seeing oneself in the mirror clean-shaven is too close to a Vincent Price film…a prospect not to be contemplated, no matter the compensation."

Gillette should have had a blue-eyed, freckle-faced redhead tell them they were cuter without the beards. Apparently, that's all it takes.

Rock-tober 24, 2019

Andrea and I were recently talking about my process for generating Rock-tober posts. Sometimes it starts with a song. There have been specific tunes throughout my life that affected me deeply the first time I heard them, and they've not always been rock songs. I heard one particular melody as a teenager and it captivated me instantly, but before the days of the Internet and song identifying apps like Shazam, I had no way to run it down. Eventually, I learned its name: Pachelbel's "Canon in D". When I purchased it on CD it played on endless loops in my dorm, apartment, and eventually at Andrea's and my wedding. Starting with a song and telling the story of its impact on my life is fairly straightforward.

More often, the process starts with a story of a specific event or a period of my life. This tends to be the more plentiful source material because the people around me provide endless fodder for these missives. In the vast entirety of rock and roll, there's usually a song that dovetails into these stories perfectly.

Marty Ray

There are times, though, when it's not so easy. I'll have a great story, but the accompanying song is not immediately obvious. An expedition through the musical library of YouTube then ensues. Times like these have become one of the fascinating side journeys of Rock-tober for me as I've discovered some great artists who aren't mainstream but have a devoted fanbase on their YouTube channels. Rock-tober alumnus, Marty Ray, found his way into this blog on one of these exploratory jaunts.

Puddles the Clown

There are times when I just have to make way for the bizarre. The channel, Puddles Pity Party, features a guy dressed as a clown. Once you get past the makeup and the outfit and focus on this dude's voice, you'll be amazed. He did a stint on America's Got Talent back in 2017 and wowed all the judges, even imperious Simon. The first number I heard from him, his mash-up of "Come Sail Away" and "Let It Go", was simply on point. If you hit his channel, you should also check out his excellent stripped-down, mellowed-out cover of "Crazy Train" with an actual freight train providing impromptu sound effects.

Morgan James

Another time, I was trolling through a listing of Aerosmith songs and found a cover of "Dream On" done by Postmodern Jukebox. This channel will take a modern hit and recast it with a vintage big band sound. For this particular rendition, they collaborated with Morgan James, someone whose name and voice I hadn't known previously. I was in for a treat. While "Dream On" is a core Aerosmith standard that will forever be an identifier for the band, Morgan utterly owns this cover. At 2:25 and again at 3:14 you'll wonder just like I did how this lady can only have two lungs. Andrea told me there's a specific vocal technique used to push a note this long and hard. It sounds painful and Andrea agreed that it wasn't easy, but the end result is a phenomenal first-rate cover of a rock and roll standard.

By the way, her funky blues cover of Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer" isn't bad either.

Rock-tober 23, 2019

While I was at Auburn, I took classes on nautical navigation. I thoroughly enjoyed them as they were unlike any class I'd had before. The instructor was a Chief Quartermaster, making him eminently qualified on the subject. The Chief had us run an exercise in class that simulated the transit from the dock and into a main channel in some east coast harbor. On the day of the drill, we had our charts unrolled on the classroom's large, waist-high plotting tables. Our intended courses were marked out and all navigational aids were highlighted. We were ready - or so we thought.

The chief started the drill by hitting "play" on a tape deck with a bridge recording of the actual transit. Bearings to various navigational aids were called out with surprisingly brisk alacrity. I was still trying to plot our position when the next series was called out. Insidiously, the tempo increased, and a whispered, "Oh, shit", came from one of my classmates. By the end of the drill, we were literally all over the map. I was scratching my head looking at my chart, and Chief sauntered over with his coffee mug. He looked at my work and says, "Well, Mr. Capuyan, that final Lat and Long will put you just south of Bismark, North Dakota. 'A' for effort, though."

At least this instance of being somewhere unintended was a drill. There are the other times.

When I first came on board a previous contract of mine, they were in the middle of a nationwide equipment refresh. This involved assembling a drop shipment of gear, sending it to field locations, flying out to assemble everything, and bringing the site back online. The operational tempo was intense, and I found myself in a different city every week. Many times, waking up in my hotel, I found I'd lost track of where I was. I had to draw the curtains back or turn on the local news to get my bearings. As the weeks ran together, it all became a blur.

One evening back in Maryland, I prepped my travel bag like I had every week. The next morning I had Andrea drive me to the airport where I kissed her goodbye and told her I'd call when I landed. The flight was uneventful. We landed, I picked up my luggage and started making my way to the car rental counter. Just then my phone rang. It was my boss. "Hey, Wayne, are you coming in today?"

"What? I'm here already. I just landed, and I'll head to the work site after I pick up my rental."

"Hold up. You landed? Where are you?"

"Um. I'm looking at the Rockies as we speak."

"Dude. What the hell? That trip was canceled."

A whispered "Oh. Shit." crossed my lips. "Weellll. I guess I got a little lost on the way to the office." I could hear the facepalm through the phone and him yelling out to the rest of the guys in the shop.

"Hey! You guys won't believe this! Guess where Wayne is." The hooting and hollering I heard next told me they now knew about my navigational misstep.

One of my buddies yelled into the phone, "Hey, Wayne! I guess I'm covering your shift here at the shop! You now owe me 5 lunches, bro!"

I hopped the next flight back home and eventually cleared my lunch debt.

Rock-tober 22, 2019

Since I'm not a coffee guy, my colleague Zack and I usually start the day over cups of brewed Earl Grey tea. We'll check our workload and meeting schedule, and ways we can keep Naresh out of each other's hair. Recently, there was a period of crushing workloads with near-impossible deadlines that was coming to a head. That particular morning, Zack left me alone because I was clearly in the "Do not Disturb" zone.

Shortly before lunch I submitted the final report and walked over to Zack's area to decompress. He was surprised to see me. "What!? You actually managed to finish that project?"

I did my best superhero pose. "Yeah. Because I'm the effin' shiznit!"

This immediately drew some guffaws from two guys working in Zack's area. I had to wonder if they were amused because the old guy was laying down legit smack talk or if the old guy was trying to be legit with worn-out catchphrases. Whatever. Punks.

Regardless, I've found I've had to shift my perspective in recent years. For most of my working life, I've assumed the role of the junior guy. There was always someone on the team "older and wiser" from whom I could learn and naturally take direction. In every shop, there was always a "Wes Manning" on staff.

I find that now, I'm that guy. At least the older part if not the wiser.

One of the technicians was talking about an incident from his childhood and I noticed his cultural references were exponentially different from my own. I had to ask. "Wait a minute. Just how old are you?" When he told me his age, I just shook my head. "Wow, Dude. I've got concert T-shirts older than you."

Some of them have taken to addressing me as "Mr. Wayne", for crying out loud.

Meetings have seen the most pronounced change. While not a fan of them, I recognize the necessity of having all stakeholders in one place to hash out problems with a project or process. Normally, as problems were delineated, heads turned to the senior staffer responsible for those systems for some insight into remediating the issue. Somewhere along the way, those heads started turning to me.

These days, meetings, presentations, and teleconferences have become the bane of my existence. I find myself spending more time running analyses and reporting on projects than I do actually getting my hands dirty actually working the projects. Unfortunately, it seems all that fun stuff gets parsed out to more junior associates.

The Highwaymen was probably the greatest country-western supergroup since Alabama. Cash, Nelson, Jennings, and Kristofferson. If this group was a poker hand you'd be holding a near unbeatable four kings. Their song, "Desperados Waiting for a Train" details the friendship between a kid and an older, old school rapscallion. When I first heard it, I fully identified with the kid. I now more fully identify with the older gentleman looking on with bemused amusement at the gangly awkwardness of youth exhibited by some of the kids who've come through my shops.

I'll take on the role of mentor and an elder statesman. Hopefully, I'll be able to instill some old school values to these Millenials and Post-Millenials. I think I'll start with what constitutes a real muscle car and music.

Rock-tober 21, 2019

In late December of '79, an epic event was soon to take place. I was about to hit double digits in age. As my birthday approached, I began to wonder what the next 10 years would bring. In the upcoming decade, it was mind boggling to realize I'd get my driver's license, graduate high school, and start college. Heck, somewhere in there I might actually kiss a girl. The magnitude of these events rocked the world of this 9-year-old in Mrs. Carol's 5th-grade class.

Over the next ten years, my prognostications came to pass, and I conducted a similar exercise on the eve of my 20th birthday. I assumed by the time I was an old man of 30, college would be behind me and I'd be settled in a career. Beyond that, my ten-year forecasting crystal ball was cloudy. Imagine my surprise when, by decade's end, I found myself married, living in Maryland, and paying a mortgage. Holy cow! That former 9-year-old kid was adulting!

Oddly, the next two decades didn't seem to carry any milestones. Weeks and months melted into each other, and the years just seemed to flow past like a slow-moving stream. I watched multiple cycles of seasons parade past at work. Light summer attire and fully foliaged trees slowly gave way to windbreakers and explosions of fall color. Sweaters and later heavy coats came out as snow covered the ground. Eventually, winter's bleakness was interrupted with swaths of yellow as the forsythia around campus bloomed as harbingers of spring. The same cycle repeated itself and just that quickly, two decades passed.

As I approach the half-century mark, I find myself reviving the practice started with my 9-year-old self. However, instead of ticking off milestones, it's time to concentrate on the quality of life. I imagine I'll still be working in my field, but I find myself being more strategic. I'm making industry contacts, doing some self-study, and planning for a possible career shift. I've still got a travel bug and a personal goal visiting all 50 states and touching all seven continents. With four states and two continents to go, it's entirely doable, although I suspect getting to Antarctica will be a challenge.

There are hobbies to revisit. The backyard has enough acreage for carving out garden beds that I hope will be half as successful as Dad's. A plethora of woodworking tools in the garage acquired in decades 3 and 4 haven't been utilized to their full potential. Building a kayak is still on the list. The garage is also home to a stockpile of car parts needed to get 2 Mustangs and a Blazer back in fighting trim. Speaking of fighting trim, I'd love for once in my life to be able to sport a 6-pack.

In short, there's stuff to do and a whole lot of living left on the backside of 50. Instead of winding down, it's time to gear up.  How about you?  Are you ready for what's to come?

Rock-tober 20, 2019

My coworker, Naresh, and I were talking about haircuts one day when he sits back and regards my coiffure. He then declares, "Your haircut looks easy." It really isn't. Between mom and dad, I inherited a full head of exceedingly thick, extremely straight hair. For some reason, this combination stymies a lot of barbers. One of the annoyances I've found when moving to a new area is finding a barber that doesn't do a butcher job on my hair.

Unfortunately, I've had my fair share of butcher jobs. One place outside the Charleston Navy Yard gouged out entire patches. It was so bad, when I got back to my regular barber, he just stared and let out a slow "Daaaammmmnnn." There was another place in Birmingham that touted itself as a bargain because all the barbers and stylists were students who cut your hair for tips only. It was not a bargain.

My most notorious haircut was given to me during my time in Auburn by none other than Andrea who was my girlfriend by this time. We were in her family's living room one evening when I offhandedly mentioned I needed a haircut before inspection the next day. She takes one look at my buzzcut and announces, "Why go to a barber? I can do that." This was after the equally notorious vaseline incident, so I honestly should have known better.

I actually did try to dissuade Andrea, but she wasn't hearing me. She turned to her dad who was sitting in his lounge chair going back and forth between watching a ball game and reading his paper. "Daddy, where are your clippers? I'm giving Wayne a haircut." Her dad mutes the TV, turns, and looks at Andrea. He inclined his head at an angle and his eyes widened quizzically. "You wanna do what, now?"

"It'll be fine. Wayne's hair will be easy to cut." Andrea's dad's brow furrowed. He peered over his glasses at me and gave me a very sympathetic look.

"Hmph. Is that right?" I didn't know what to say. I just had to eke out a simple, "Sir, no sir." and spare myself this ordeal, but Andrea must have sprinkled some of that crazy redhead voodoo on me. All I could manage was a grin and a shrug. My fate was sealed. Andrea's dad left the room and returned with a box of clippers and handed them to Andrea. He shot me a "This is your last chance to run" look, but I couldn't move.

Andrea gleefully cleared an area and set up a chair in their kitchen, and then called me in. My stomach sank. Each plodding step towards the chair was heavier and heavier until I resigned myself to my fate and plopped down. Andrea plugged in the clippers, turned them on and off, and started to approach me. "Wait!" I eyeballed the clippers getting closer and closer to my head. "Aren't you going to use a guard on that?"

"Guard?" She rummages through the kit and finds a plastic guard. "You mean this thing?" She clamps the guard onto the clippers and resumes her approach. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest and I'm thinking this was not going to end well.

She made her first pass and an insane amount of hair fell to the floor. I tried to hide my panic as she uttered a fateful, "Hmm. That was a lot of hair." She continued to make pass after pass seeming to gain more confidence with each stroke. I felt large clumps of hair fall away, and my scalp got cooler and cooler as it was shorn of its protective cover. By now I'd just squinched my eyes shut and waited for it all to be over.

From experience, I knew a normal session in a barber's chair could last 20 minutes. When Andrea declared "All done!" after 5 minutes, I braced myself for the worst. She handed me a mirror. "What do you think?" I shuddered when I saw my reflection. I didn't recognize the face staring back at me. The facial features were familiar, but where I used to have an orderly mop of black hair that I was able to comb and part to the side, there was just an uneven patchwork thatch of stubble. At that moment, I had less hair than a USMC Parris Island recruit. I managed to hide my shock.

"Huh. Well. Wow. That works. Thanks, babe."

"You really think so?" She brushed me off and pulled me towards the living room. I looked back on the kitchen floor and was astounded by the crap ton of hair I was leaving behind.  In the living room, she presented me to her dad. The old Air Force staff sergeant looked at me, then at her, then back to me. He simply pursed his lips, nodded, and then disappeared back behind his newspaper. I just caught a glint in his eye that was basically an unspoken, "Wow, son. You must really like my daughter." Well. I guess I did.

If only I'd decided to join a rock and roll hairband instead of the Navy. I can't imagine the boys in Bon Jovi ever having this problem.

Rock-tober 19, 2019

In late 1976, Dad deployed to Subic Bay Naval Base in the Philippines. Mom and Dad decided to take advantage of this and at some point, Mom and I would fly over for an extended visit since neither she nor I had been back since shortly after I was born. To minimize the amount of school I missed, it was decided we'd fly over mid-December and spend Christmas and New Year's in the Philippines.

As our departure date neared, the ramifications of not spending Christmas in our home dawned on me. We didn't have a fireplace because, well, South Mississippi, so I always placed my Christmas list for Santa next to our tree. This year, we wouldn't even be putting up a tree. How in the world would Santa get my list? My six-year-old self devoted a lot of mental energy wrestling with this dilemma and came up with a brilliant solution - multiple copies placed in strategic locations. I placed a copy where our tree normally stood, another copy by the back door, one by the front door, and one in my room as a failsafe. I can only imagine what Mom was thinking as I made these preparations. "Well, I guess you must really want Santa to bring you something special this year."

"Yeah! I want a ukelele!"

"Ummm. A what?"

"A ukelele! Santa will know to bring it to the Philippines, right? Because we won't be here?"

I didn't understand the look of utter trepidation and bewilderment on Mom's face. Even as a six-year-old, I knew the North Pole's logistics department was second to none. I nodded confidently, "Yeah. Santa won't let me down." For some reason, Mom was rubbing her temples and shaking her head.

Santa came through. On Christmas Day, halfway around the world, in a place that had likely never before seen such a thing, I had my ukelele.

While I was pretty jazzed, I didn't know how to play it. Over the next few days and weeks, Dad taught me some fundamental scales and cords to get me started. When I realized mastery wouldn't happen overnight, I got discouraged and set it aside. I tried off and on over the years to get into it, but could never do it justice. Periodically, Dad would pick it up and seemingly without effort, strummed out some ditty more melodious than my ham fingered plucking ever produced.

When my musical interest sparked again in college, I decided a regular 6-string was a better chick magnet than a ukelele. For the rest of my collegiate career, the guitar was my musical release rather than that hard-won uke gifted to me over a decade before. One visit home after Andrea and I were already in Maryland, I looked for it in the back of my closet. Unfortunately, it was lost in one of Mom's infamous purges.

What drew me to the ukelele in the first place? I can't even tell you. It's likely just one of my idiosyncrasies - I've been known to fall asleep to bagpipe music. However, in the hands of someone who knows what they're doing, ukes can be soothingly melodic.

This cover of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is from Israel Kamakawiwoʻole, or "Iz" for short, who was regarded as a treasure of the Hawaiian people. I first heard this on the closing credits of Fifty First Dates, and it's been on my "Chill" playlist ever since.