Rock-tober 31, 2024

 

As a young man, Dad was a college student studying mining engineering. Facing the perennial issue of college students everywhere, cash flow was a concern. Therefore, one summer between semesters, he took on work as a laborer for a road crew building one of the highways through the mountain passes of northern Luzon in the Philippines. There was no existing infrastructure, just mountain trails connecting scattered villages. For one section of the road, Dad was quartered with a family in a local village.

At the end of a day working highway construction, Dad was famished. He hurriedly cleaned himself up and sat down with his host family, his mouth watering at the sight of fresh fish laid out in front of him. He tucked into the meal with great enthusiasm, downing fish after fish.

Dad suddenly picked up on something odd. The kids were just staring at him, mouths agape, while their parents' heads were bowed with downcast eyes. The uncomfortable feeling in the room was palpable and Dad was desperately trying to discern his situation. Then his heart skipped a beat. A quick headcount around the table and a glance at serving dishes in front of him confirmed his fear. There was precisely enough for each person to have a single fish. Dad was utterly mortified. In his own hunger, he'd denied some of his hosts their own dinner.

Food insecurity in the hinterlands of the Philippines was a concern. Recovery from wartime atrocities inflicted by the occupying Japanese Imperial Army was a slow process. Of course. I'd never encounter this in the sleepy bedroom community of Long Beach.

The summer after 6th grade, one of the neighborhood kids and I were exploring the local woods. Armed with our trusty Daisy BB guns, we took random shots at any viable targets we came across - discarded aluminum cans, pinecones dangling from a branch, even shiny rocks or interesting clumps of dirt in the distance.

Towards evening, we were making our way back to the neighborhood and had to cross one final stream. The only way to ford it was a six-inch cast iron pipe crossing from one bank to the other five feet above running water. After he crossed, I started making my way over. It took all my concentration to keep my balance and avoid an unnecessary dunking. I jumped off triumphantly on the other side and let loose a loud "Yee-haw!" Dude's back was to me, but he held up his hand. I took this as the international symbol for "Good going, dude! Here's a high five to commemorate your achievement." and I dutifully clapped his hand with mine.

That apparently was not his intent because he then turned and gave me the internationally recognized look that loosely translated to, "No, you knucklehead! Quit your yapping!" He then silently touched his ear and pointed up. Dude then crouched down, and I followed suit. I then heard the chirping he was so focused on. "Yeah," I whispered, "It's a bird. C'mon, let's go."

But he silently started pumping his BB gun. Now the neighborhood had a lot of toughs with pretty wide mean streaks who wouldn't think twice about taking potshots at any stray animal they came across. This wasn't the same. This guy was in active stalking mode. He repositioned himself, lined up his shot, and squeezed the trigger. The chirping suddenly stopped, and we heard the bird drop into the brush below.

He spent the next few minutes trying to find his quarry, but by this time we'd lost the light. A bit dejected, he said, "It's too dark. I'll come back in the morning and try again."

I didn’t see Dude again for another week or so. When we finally caught up, I asked the obvious question. “Hey, did you find that bird you dropped?”

He answered while kicking at the dirt, “Yeah, but he was rotten. So, I couldn’t eat him.”

I blinked rapidly, trying to understand what I’d just heard. We weren’t in the swamplands of the Louisiana bayou or the rough back country forests up north where subsistence hunting was a thing. We were in the peacefully pastoral town of Long Beach. This shouldn't happen here. If 10-year-old me had been more on his game, he would have grabbed Dude by the collar and brought him home where we would have feasted on PB&J’s.

I still think about that a lot, and it's informed many of my personal views such as the fallacy of blanket privilege. I can't help but think if we provided assistance to anyone in our sphere regardless of nationality, race, or religion, all the other self inflicted barriers we've erected may start to come down. I hope Dude is doing well these days. At the beginning of the month I'd mentioned, "If you're able to do some good, then do some good." It was mission failure in this instance. I can only learn from it and strive to do better at the next opportunity.

Rock-tober out.

Lynyrd Skynyrd - All I Can Do Is Write About It

P.S.: Thanks, all y'all, for walking with me through an interesting and particularly challenging Rock-tober. Spending the last month and a half between my hometown and Auburn, places deeply steeped in experiences for both Andrea and me, has been both arduous and strangely cathartic. I especially want to thank my blue-eyed, freckle faced wife who was very patient with me, while in the midst of her own loss, when my agitation rose as daily posting deadlines loomed.

I also want to give a shoutout to you readers in Ireland and Sweden who were consistently among the first to hit each post as it dropped. I'm glad you found these vignettes of small town American life interesting, or at least you and I have similar tastes in music. The next time I cross the pond, I'd love to share a draft and hear your views on Irish whiskey and Abba (respectively, of course).

Rock-tober 30, 2024

Growing up on the Mississippi coast, my buddy Mike and I spent a lot of time on the beach. Because neither of us had a boat, we were constrained to splashing around in the shallow waters just offshore. When we got older and bolder, we’d occasionally commandeer a boat that had been tied up on the sand. The one I remember was the Sea Urchin, a small, 8-foot skiff.

Making sure the beach was clear, we carried her to the water. Floating her was a bit of an effort because the Mississippi Sound is super shallow.  We succeeded when we got far enough out, and we hopped in for an illegal, nautical joy ride. The Sea Urchin could be rigged for oars or sail. We had neither. Mike and I would use makeshift paddles or use our hands to scoot around.

Mischief managed; the ‘Urchin was returned to her spot on the beach. Making sure all water was drained and sand expunged, we always ensured she was properly staked, keel side up, above the tide line.

Fast forwarding a bit, one night Mike and I, along with a whole passel of other Island View hoodlums, piled into a neighborhood hooptie and made our way to a favorite hangout - the beach. There, someone talked the group into taking a Hobie parked on the beach for a spin. My Spidey sense went off. Two knuckleheads taking a skiff out for a misdemeanor jaunt in the middle of the day would not likely draw attention. However, half a dozen guys piled on to a catamaran at night with no sail and no lights was going to raise eyebrows.

I stayed ashore while the gang launched the Hobie. Sound carries over the water, and I could see and hear them splashing around even when they were several hundred yards out. They seemed to be having a grand old time and I was second guessing my abstention when the night was unexpectedly and forcefully illuminated by flashing blue lights.

I was suddenly face to face with two of Long Beach’s finest shining flashlights in my face. They conferred with each other, and one of them started making his way towards the water, locking his flashlight on the hijacked Hobie while yelling something indiscernible. His partner flicked his light momentarily to the cat, now being walked back to shore, “Are you a part of that group!?” 

I drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. There was a code of honor among the Hoodlums: If one of us goes down, we all go down. “Yes, sir.” His flashlight again in my face, I was commanded, “Don’t move!” With that, he walked down to the water to help his partner.

For the next thirty minutes, the errant hoodlums were in turn interrogated and castigated by the patrol officers. Meanwhile, I had thirty minutes to contemplate my own fate. Mom was going to go ballistic if she had to pick me up at county lockup. But that was not to be my destiny this night. One of the officers came over and scanned the hooptie with his flashlight, “Is this vehicle yours?”

“No sir. It belongs to one of the guys in the back of that patrol car.”

After a moment’s consideration, “Do you have your license?” I nodded, and dutifully dug it out of my wallet and presented it him. After examining my credentials, he again used his flashlight as a pointer, indicating two other neighborhood kids who also decided to stay dry that night. “Take these two and get your butts home! Do not deviate! Are you hearing me?!”

“Yes, sir!” I piled into the car with my two passengers and made my way back to home turf, ending my brief part in the Great Hobie Cat Incident.

It wasn’t until the next day that I got Mike’s side of the story. When the patrol officer lit them up out on the water, one of the guys tried to bail and swim for it. Mike, enforcing the Hoodlum Honor Code, yelled for him to get his punk posterior back on board. The kid was now busted and wet for his breach of conduct.

They all wound up in lockup, and Mike described the experience as scenes from Scared Straight. The guy who attempted to bail was given an orange jumpsuit in exchange for his wet clothes. This made him stand out as the group was marched down the jail’s corridors. The gen pop crowd was giving them a rousing welcome, and that brief exposure nearly broke jump suit guy.

Mike’s dad was the one who got the unwelcome call. I don’t know all the conversations that took place on the way home, but Mike and his dad had a true father-son moment when his dad eventually declared, “Yeah, son, let’s not tell your mom about this.”

Warren Zevon - Lawyers, Guns and Money

Rock-tober 29, 2024

Back in January of this year, Spotify gave me a belated Christmas/Birthday present. Either the song slinger's elves or AI was busy cranking the numbers over the holiday and determined my most played artist of 2023 was JJ Grey. Along with that revelation was a recorded message from Grey himself with a "thank you" for the honor. This garnered a rare nod of acknowledgement from this closet luddite, “Huh. That’s pretty cool!”

I’m not sure if Spotify also named my most played song from Gray, but if I were to hazard a guess, it would have been “Lochloosa”. My very first exposure to this song was the closing scene on an episode of House back in 2010. The opening strains got my attention, and when the lyrics kicked in, it was like finding my long lost musical broheim.

Through verse, he painted a picture of his idyllic hometown that had come under siege by unconstrained development catering to rampant tourism. This sounded, then and now, uncannily like the slow simmering clash developing around Long Beach between the pro- and anti-casino camps.

I understand the need for the town to grow its revenue base; Long Beach taxes ain’t no joke. But to exchange the picturesque and scenic beauty of the coastal drive down Highway 90 for a glitzy, shimmering casino and swapping the hypnotic sound of wind and waves crashing on a sandy shore for the cacophonous din of a slot machine den seems like a bad trade.

Up the main drag and north of the tracks stands abundant derelict acreage that was already zoned for industrial use. The site of the old Oreck factory has been largely unused since Hurricane Katrina. Why could it not be repurposed as a supplier for the needs of nearby tech and industrial hubs? The old industrial park is in very close proximity to Stennis Space Center and a short, 50-mile drive on I-10 to Ingalls Shipyard in Pascagoula. Alternatively, any product already has railroad transport available on site to Gulfport as well as the nearby ports of New Orleans and Mobile.

I feel there are other more strategic options other than dropping a casino in downtown Long Beach. I think people may overestimate the revenue these behemoths will bring into the local economy when they have their own restaurants and hotels already on the premises. If looking at Atlantic City and Vegas are any indication, the locally adjacent areas don’t always fare well.

I’d much rather have oak-lined streets draped in Spanish moss, the smell of brine in the air, an occasional train whistle receding into the distance, and the brightest thing around being the sun setting over the water.

JJ Grey - Lochloosa

Rock-tober 28, 2024

Andrea sometimes gets annoyed with me when I lock doors, “Why’d you lock me out? I wasn’t gone that long!” She may roll her eyes when I ask her to secure belongings, “Ugh! No one’s going to walk off with that.” She’s amused with my idiosyncrasies, “I’ll take this seat since I know you don’t like to sit with your back to the door.” 

I don’t think I was always like this. Maybe I was just having flashbacks.

A prior contract required that I have a top-secret clearance. Once this was acquired, I was read onto a project, and the details of the operation were spelled out. I thought, “Oh. That’s cool.” As I sat there, the briefing continued and the need for operational security (OpSec) was hammered home. The possible ramifications started to sink in, and I found myself thinking, “Oh. Crap, this could get dicey.”

After onboarding and more security training and briefings, I was on a team that rotated out into the field on a regular basis. During one of these junkets there was a lull in the process, and I wound up in a conversation with one of the local Feds. He was relaying a recent security incident they’d had. With a shake of his head and a grim smile, he mentioned they’d managed the issue. Dude went on with a pretty passionate monologue about his take on OpSec.

“I went through FLETC. I’ve been trained in counter-surveillance, small arms, and hand-to-hand combat. I’m the hard target. If I was a bad guy trying to compromise this operation, I wouldn’t come after me. Pfft. I’d be gunning for you.”

It was a sobering conversation, and it was my turn to smile grimly.

That was the only job, apart from my brief stint with the Navy, where someone could die if mistakes were made. This gave me a certain clarity on every post I’ve had since that time. There have been multiple occasions when my boss would be stressing because of a deliverable, technical hurdle, or a time constraint.

“Look, Boss, if we royally screw this up, is anyone going to die?”

“Umm. No.”

“We’ve already avoided worst case scenario. Oh, by the way, we’re not going to screw this up.”

That tended to reframe the panicked perspective and rechanneled any nervous energy into more productive outlets. However, the toll of that clarifying perspective is I lock my doors, secure my stuff, and sit facing the door.

Kenny Loggins - Danger Zone

Rock-tober 27, 2024

Near the end of the last century, my job at the time would often fly me to an airport of a city I’d never been to before. From there, I’d pick up a rental car and navigate to the designated jobsite. This was well before the days of Waze and Google Maps, and at that time the best navigational aid I had was MapQuest. Much like today’s mapping tools, I’d key in a starting and ending point. However, since smart phones for the masses were the better part of a decade away, the best I could do was print the resulting instructions and take them with me.

Most of the time, this worked well. However, if I had to deviate from the printed route for any reason such as construction detours or accidents, all bets were off. During one assignment, my designated exit, at least according to my directions in hand, no longer physically existed. MapQuest’s database had not been updated to account for that city’s infrastructure changes. At that point I had to rely on the small-scale map I had of the local area. But plotting out a new course at highway speeds surrounded by local drivers intent on getting to their destination despite any hapless out of towner was not easy.

After that episode, I got myself the latest Garmin satnav device. Gamechanger. Beyond getting me from point A to B and rerouting as necessary, it could pinpoint needed services such as gas stations. It once saved my butt by giving directions to an accessible ATM at 2 AM. It's still sitting in my pile of superseded tech, but I need to fire it up again because it still holds critical data.

On those remote jobsites, I got along well with the local Feds. I’d like to think it’s because I was a pretty cool cat and not the typical dweeby IT type. Regardless, during my time with these men and women, they disclosed some closely guarded intel – the locations of the best below-the-radar eateries in their respective cities. That information is still tucked away securely on that old Garmin.

With the advent of GPS phone applications, many people lost the ability to navigate with actual maps, or worse, never developed it. Full disclosure, when I'm behind the wheel, apart from Spotify, the most used mobile app on my phone is Google Maps. The telemetry it provides like speed, direction, and real time location is excellent. They’ve turned road trips into real life video games. ETA back to Maryland is 18 hours and 36 minutes? Pfft. Hold my Red Bull. That ETA just became my "Time to Beat".

Even with the continuing evolvement of technology, being able to go OG is still a valuable skillset and possibly a lifesaver. Years ago, I was having dinner with Henry, an old high school classmate who’d flown into DC for a meeting. I asked if he had trouble finding the restaurant because unless you break the DC code, navigating the city can be a beast. This led to a surprising diatribe from him where he bemoaned our dependence on GPS. He sounded like "Viper" addressing the Top Gun class, chiding pilots' over-reliance on tech and losing dogfighting skills. As dinner continued, I took comfort in the fact that in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I could pull out my trusty road atlas, compass, and sextant and at least be able to navigate to a safe zone.

The Edgar Winter Group - Free Ride

Rock-tober 26, 2024

It’s weird the things that stick with you. I was sitting in fourth grade music class at West Elementary and the music teacher was explaining that the difference between a band and an orchestra was the presence of a string section. Orchestras had them; bands did not. A few years later I was in one of my first ever band classes at Long Beach Junior High. I looked around and saw the different sections of brass, woodwinds, and percussion. Sure enough, no strings – I guess we are a band.

The vague memories I have for seventh grade band tryouts are of us all lining up and taking our turns at every instrument fielded by the school’s band program. Apart from perhaps the saxophone, I found the woodwinds incredibly shrill and annoying, and I don’t think I had the rhythmic dexterity to wield drumsticks. They were out.

The brass section held more promise. I think I laughed when looking at French horn and trumpet mouthpieces more closely. They just seemed impossibly small to play. The bass section of brass instruments seemed more promising. However, hitting the proper positions of a trombone slide seemed like a perennial guessing game to me, so I preferred the definitive fingering positions of the baritone.

I soon learned there were some disadvantages of playing baritone. It is not a small instrument. Unlike a piccolo case that could fit into a backpack, manhandling that baritone shell and my bookbag on the bus and hauling them across campus every day was a pain in my ass.

At the end of the year, our band director asked if I wouldn’t mind transitioning to tuba and sousaphone. Mr. Hamilton was “car salesman” level persuasive, and I agreed. An immediate benefit was, because of its size, I was given permission to keep a tuba at home for practice. I no longer had to deal with schlepping one around every day.

For the next five years, I played tuba or sousaphone in every game, competition, concert, and hometown parade. Wikipedia lists “Special Effects” that can be done with the sousaphone. One of these was using a “sock” – tight fitting fabric fastened over the instrument’s bell. Larger bands would spell out the school’s name on these socks. We only did it once. One football game after hurricane Elena, the entire section converged at my house and we jerry rigged socks emblazoned with the hurricane logo. They were a hit, as Long Beach, along with the entire Mississippi coast, was still digging out and recovering from the recent storm.

Another effect was affixing flash paper inside the bell. Igniting it would look like the player was breathing fire. Now that would have been cool to pull off, and Mr. Hamilton is fortunate I was never aware this was possible. 

A couple of the guys from band are still my closest friends, and a half dozen of us have our own group where we check in with current with band memes or videos and rehash old shenanigans. One that comes up often is a group of us walking down Magnolia Street after a parade, still in uniform, still with instruments. The (un)fortunate residents in that neighborhood were subjected to an impromptu concert with our rendition of J. Geils Band’s “Centerfold”. 

The J. Geils Band - Centerfold

Rock-tober 25, 2024

Being a fan of sci-fi in movies and series, I’ve of course watched Battlestar Galactica. The late ‘70s iteration was an eye popper for eight-year-old me, but apart from the iconic theme song, it didn’t age well. The 2004 run was different. Following the standard trope of a small contingent of humanity pushed to the edge of extinction, it was the drama of the personal interactions and the well scored soundtrack that made it one of my favorites.

There were two characters, Admiral William Adama and Captain Lee “Apollo” Adama, who depicted a father and son within the same military chain of command. In one episode, the Admiral was forced to send the captain on a mission that was both highly critical to mission success, yet extremely hazardous. Before his son’s departure, despite a rocky history between the two, father and son shared a moment, recognizing this may be the last time they would ever speak. At the end of this interlude, the Admiral gifted his lighter, once belonging to his own father, to his son. It was a family heirloom, serving as both a lucky talisman and an unambiguous declaration of a father’s faith in his son. Against the backdrop of Bear McCreary’s poignant soundtrack, it was a stunningly eloquent scene.

I’ve heard it said our father’s first gift to us is our name, and it’s a lifelong point of honor to keep it unblemished. I literally carry Dad’s name within my own, and the debt I owe him is unpayable. When I was a foolish, know-it-all teenager, we weren’t always on the best of terms. While the life lessons he imparted to me are immeasurably treasured, I can’t help but rebuke myself for this period of my life when I could have spent time with him but didn’t.

That teenage lunkhead eventually found his bearings and I realized, once again, the quiet, dignified wisdom and strength of Dad’s character. A few years later, I asked Dad to be my Best Man when Andrea and I were married. For the portion of the reception reserved for the Best Man’s speech, unbeknownst to him, I had my own.

In a rare, unscripted moment for me, I publicly recognized him for being the finest role model for manhood I would spend the rest of my life aspiring to emulate. Dad was never overly demonstrative with his emotions, but Mom later said he wept openly. She was smiling as she told me, “I’m proud of you, son. You gave him his place.”

Regrettably, there just weren’t enough conversations between the two of us before his death. While I’m thankful for the many things of himself that were imparted to me, there are still times when I’ve desperately wanted his advice or perspective. During these moments, I’ll reach into my pocket and take out his lighter. Turning it over in my hands, I’m reminded, regardless of the task or trial ahead of me, of the unambiguous faith Dad had in me. And I smile.

 

A Good Lighter - Battlestar Galactica Soundtrack