Rock-tober 31, 2016

An event of some import takes place in a week when US citizens will exercise their right to vote. Hard won and secured by citizen soldiers past and present at the cost of their own lives or futures, voting is indeed a right and a privilege, but should it be mandatory? I don't think so. Mike Rowe expounds eloquently on this subject, laying out an excellent argument for why not everyone should vote.

I can’t encourage millions of people whom I’ve never met to just run out and cast a ballot, simply because they have the right to vote. That would be like encouraging everyone to buy an AR-15, simply because they have the right to bear arms. I would need to know a few things about them before offering that kind of encouragement. For instance, do they know how to care for a weapon? Can they afford the cost of the weapon? Do they have a history of violence? Are they mentally stable? In short, are they responsible citizens?

Civic ineptitude is not a new problem. While I find it pitiable when millennials can rattle off the name of every Kardashian but not the name of our sitting Vice President, they don't have a monopoly on this issue. A high school teacher of mine told our class a lot of her girlfriends voted for JFK back in the day strictly because he was cute.

Bottom line: if you vote, inform yourself. And remember this, the election is the easy part. It comprises a few hours of a single day of a single month from the entire year. We then have to live with the results. This is when real life starts.

Political rancor isn't new either and it's another area where no group holds a monopoly. It's human nature. If you didn't get what you wanted, you're going to be upset. So how does the country build bridges when half the population feels disenfranchised?

As a midshipman I was assigned to the USS Seahorse (SSN 669). A valuable lesson learned on that short tour came from the guys on the torpedo team. It seemed like they never conversed; rather, they yelled, screamed, and cursed at each other. Every time I passed through their space it looked like a scene from Fight Club was about to go down, and I thought this was the most dysfunctional team I'd ever seen. Until I saw them on shore leave. Our paths crossed several times one night and that dysfunctional team I saw earlier closed ranks. They all boarded the same bus, walked down the street almost in formation, and made sure no man was left behind at the last bar. If you messed with one of them, you'd find yourself tangling with the entire complement of the 'Horse's torpedo crew.

This is the lesson America needs to relearn. While bickering is natural, have the moral courage to close ranks and present a united front when the country requires it. I say moral courage because it seems people have forgotten where loyalties should lie.

I looked up the Naturalization Oath of Allegiance to the United States, the Uniformed Services Oath of Office for all branches of the military, and the Oaths of Office for Congress, the Supreme Court and the President of the United States. Every single one requires the bearer to uphold and defend or discharge duties according to the Constitution - the supreme law of the land. That's it.

There's not a single mention of bearing true faith to a state or damned political party. Neither is there a call to defend an ideology, or a religion, or even a flag. Let that sink in for a while.

In the meantime, because I am patriotic and southern, I have no problem with a little background music and flag waving in the form of a good closing tune from Skynrd.

I am cautiously optimistic and believe the Republic is more resilient than what most people give her credit for. God bless Her.

Rock-tober out.

Rock-tober 30, 2016

I attended a grand uncle's funeral recently. He led a long, storied life and died peacefully, and my one regret was I didn't spend more time with him. Unfortunately these days it takes major events like weddings and funerals to incite a gathering of the clan from our far flung corners of the country. As all the relatives converged in one place, I noticed something. We were all markedly older than I realized.

To me, it really seems like yesterday all the cousins were sitting at the kids' table at holiday meals and laughing if one of us got gifts of clothes rather than toys under the Christmas tree. This funeral shattered that lens of perception. The reality was most of my aunts and uncles are in their 60's and are retired or very soon will be. Meanwhile, the bulk of my cousins are professionals in their mid 30's, some with kids of their own. That realization was bracing.

Although my high school graduation was nearly 30 years ago, the inescapable presence of social media allows my classmates easy access into each others' lives. We can readily rehash the old days, and the fetters of time and distance fall away. It really does feel like yesterday when we were all 15 years old, prepping for Friday night games and trying to earn our drivers' licenses.

Prince's death on April 21st this year likewise shattered this lens of perception. More than most artists, he was of our generation and his passing struck closer to home than most. Starting in the 80's his star started its meteoric rise and coincided with our high school years. Always a prolific artist, he released an album every year I was in high school, and the singles spawned by his body of work during these years became part of the soundtrack of our school years for my classmates and me.

"Little Red Corvette" and "Delirious" were constantly on the air my freshman year and heralded the Prince juggernaut. The whole world may have partied to "1999" at the turn of the last century, but Prince first played it for our generation back in the fall of '83. His musicianship was superb and I remember spending countless hours trying to emulate the keyboard in "When Doves Cry". Meanwhile, "Raspberry Beret" was just a fun song and actually became my favorite. In 1987 he gave me a great graduation present when he released "U Got the Look" because, well, Sheena Easton.

A consummate songwriter and performer with immense vocal and stylistic range, he always pushed the boundaries of his craft.  His loss leaves rock-dom less innovative, less funky, and a damn sight less colorful.

Rock-tober 29, 2016

Do you like a good scare? Most of us do, and will occasionally seek out "situations" to get that adrenaline rush. This is how back in high school I found myself in an old graveyard, in the middle of the night, with two buddies, Mike and Noel. The creep factor was off the charts. On queue, a mist rolls through and cloaked the tombstones. Gnarly old oak trees looked like crazy spectres. Their branches, draped in Spanish moss, resembled raised arms that were slowly leaning towards you, hemming you in.

Local lore talked about a haunted caretaker's shack and a history of cars stalling and refusing to crank while on the grounds. The shack was just visible in the distance, with a pale light shining through the shade of the lone window. While I'm looking, a figure casts a profile on the window shade as it paced back and forth. OK. Somebody's home. No big deal. I'm still watching when the figure stops in the middle of the window and turns. No longer in profile, the shadow on the shade now appeared to be facing the window. I felt like we were being watched. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up, and I officially moved from DEFCON 4 to DEFCON 3.

I'm not sure if my buddies saw what I did, but there were no arguments when it was suggested we get out of Dodge. I looked back at the shack. The light was still on, but the shadow was gone. OK. Where'd he go? I'm looking out all the car windows while at the same time trying to stay away from all the windows. My mind imagined us finding a large hook plunged into the trunk or a series of 5 long scratches on the side of the car the next day. Welcome to DEFCON 2.

At this point, Mike and I are yelling for Noel key the ignition. He turns the key, but the car doesn't crank. Nothing. Hello, DEFCON 1. To this day, Mike, Noel, and I argue about who screamed first and loudest.

Charlie Daniels's "The Legend of Wooley Swamp", released back in 1980, is, in my opinion, the greatest ghost story in all of Rock-dom. While the song didn't chart very high, it had amazing staying power and has become a set piece in the band's concert playlist. Add this to your own Halloween party playlist this weekend to boost your Rock-tober street cred.

Rock-tober 28, 2016

Back in the old neighborhood, an actual fist fight over a disagreement was rare. More often than not, the two belligerents would face each other with their supporters arrayed behind them. Eyes would narrow, brows would furrow, and fists would clench. Then battle commenced.

"You're goofy looking. You look like a frog." A soft "Ohhh" came from the crowd. Slamming your opponent's physical appearance was the typical opening move.

"Oh, yeah? Well at least I don't throw like a girl." This incited a louder "Ohhhhh" from the gallery. Bringing your adversary's physical prowess into question was the classic escalation. This back and forth dance would continue, usually resolving itself with both parties walking away, each side claiming victory. Unless, of course, someone used the nuclear option.

"Your momma." You'd hear a collective gasp from the crowd as soon as the words were uttered. If ever a standoff came to blows, this was the catalyst. There was no way to unring that bell.

The volley and return routine of insults and comebacks didn't go away just because we grew up. The verbal jabs just got wondrously more creative. "If you're going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty."

"Ohhh."

Lady Nancy Astor had a couple of run ins with Winston Churchill, telling him once, "If you were my husband, I'd poison your tea." Churchill's response, "Madam, if you were my wife, I'd drink it." 

"Ooohhhh!"

What about the adult version of the nuclear option? This award has to go to Benjamin Disraeli, who had a long running feud with William Gladstone. Gladstone summarily dismissed Disraeli saying he'd either die at the gallows or from syphilis. Disraeli's retort? "That depends on whether I embrace your morals or your wife."

"OOOOHHHHHH!!"

Don't go away mad, William. Just go away.

Rock-tober 27, 2016

Mrs. Rouse was my third grade teacher at Gaston Point Elementary. Probably in her mid to late fifties by the time I landed in her class back in the late 70's, she was part of the generation that lived through WWII. Thirty rambunctious kids were in her classroom, but order and discipline was never a problem. This woman who had lived through a World War rarely raised her voice. A look or a raised eyebrow was usually enough to get us to simmer down.

Now and then she'd stop the ongoing lesson plan and just talk to the class. She'd tell us some of the close calls her husband had when he was deployed overseas. During one assault he felt an impact to his side. It spun him around, and he dropped to the ground frantically trying to assess his injuries. Luckily he'd been zig zagging just right. A bullet passed directly between his canteen and utility belt. A few inches over would have been a nasty wound.

One night he was in a foxhole making a meal of whatever C-rats were available to him. It came with a candy bar that he didn't want so he offered it to his buddy in another foxhole several yards over. His buddy crawled over and just flopped in when they came under fire. When the smoke cleared, they both crawled out to check the damage. That's when they saw his buddy's old foxhole had taken a direct hit from a mortar shell. Saved by a candy bar.

Nearly ten years later I was in high school and having a conversation with a teacher. She was telling a story about a trunk they'd found in her father's attic after his death. When the trunk was opened, it was filled with mementos from his life as a soldier during WWII - photographs, uniforms, field equipment, and, surprising everybody, live ammunition.

An ordinance disposal team from nearby Keesler Air Force Base was called out to render the munitions safe. They inspected the rest of the chest's contents to ensure nothing was missed and came across some navigational charts. Curious, the team spread them out on a table and froze. I can imagine the chills that went down their spines as they saw place names on the charts: Utah, Omaha, Juno, Gold, Sword.

"Ma'am, this belongs in a museum," whispered the disposal technician. Unfortunately the story of those charts and the role her father played on that day died with him.

Looking back I wonder what other stories were never told or couldn't be told. I likely walked among WWII combat veterans without realizing it. The somber old guys who always huddled together during Seabee base picnics, the crotchety old guy who lived next door, even my junior high principal were all part of this revered fraternity. They answered the call when the world went crazy. Starting out as a bunch of scared kids, forging bonds unique to the battlefield, and coming out the other side as the Greatest Generation. It certainly wasn't the life they would have chosen, but the results of their actions still echo today. I hope people continue to tell their stories.

Rock-tober 26, 2016

Back in the mid to late 70's, my days of rocking out to the likes of AC/DC and Motley Crue were still years away. Back then, my 8-track collection was strictly country and included the likes of Red Sovine, Johnny Horton, and the previously mentioned Roger Whittaker and Marty Robbins. I was absolutely clueless about rock and roll. I remember being over at this kid's house while he was going through his album collection.

"Hey, do you like Kiss?"

"Kiss? Kiss what? You mean girls? I don't know, man. Girls are weird." Totally. Clueless.

Country music was at a crossroads in the waning years of disco and the dawning of 80's pop. It had its share of superstars like Kenny Rogers and Barbara Mandrell who raised its cachet, but it just didn't seem to have a national stage.

Then along comes Alabama. Formed in 1969, they hit their stride in the 80's and became the bridge between the old guard of country to the new generation of stars - Garth Brooks, Clint Black, and Shania Twain.

Alabama is the most awarded group in country music. The boys from Fort Payne, Alabama have scored over 200 awards and honors from over 20 organizations including the Academy of Country Music, the Country Music Association, Billboard, and the Grammys. They've got multiple wins for "Top Vocal Group", "Top Single", "Top Album", and "Top Entertainer." This culminated in 1989 when the Academy of Country Music declared them "Artist of the Decade." As icing on the cake, the university of Alabama, Auburn University, even bestowed on them the "International Quality of Life Award."

Of all Alabama's singles, picking a favorite was easy - "Dixieland Delight." The lyrics could be narrating a Saturday evening for Andrea and me back when we first started dating. I'd pick her up in the 'Stang and we'd spend time cruising the highways and byways of Lee County Alabama. Other times we'd just park and stroll through Chewacla State Park. Simpler times and simple pleasures. With the moon above and her holding my hand, I absolutely did feel "lucky as a seven."

Rock-tober 25, 2016

Back in 1987, Pepsi aired a commercial where a mad scientist played by David Bowie was trying to construct what he considered his ideal woman. With "Modern Love" playing in the background, he assembled scans, printouts, and pictures of women and fed their most becoming features into a souped up transmogrifier. Curvaceous figure, sultry eyes, full lips, and long legs that went on forever all went into his magical machine. He even tossed in sexy leather high heels for good measure. It all goes sideways until the secret ingredient, Pepsi is thrown into the mix. Voila! Tina Turner steps out of the box sporting those magnificent legs of hers.

Born David Robert Jones on January 8, 1947, he grew up in South London and developed an early interest in the arts. At age 18, he was performing regularly and wanted to avoid being confused with The Monkees frontman Davy Jones. His interest in American culture and historical figures, particularly Jim Bowie, of renown for the Alamo, gave him his new stage name.

More than just a singer, David Bowie was an artist in every sense of the word. He was a gifted instrumentalist, proficient on guitar, sax, keyboard, and drums. He was also an accomplished painter, songwriter, and actor. IMDB lists 42 acting credits for Bowie. To my knowledge, the only rock and roller with more is Meat Loaf (73 at last count). While Bowie's portrayal of Jareth, the anti-hero Goblin King from Labyrinth was his most iconic role, I also found his performance in The Prestige as Nikola Tesla impressively compelling.

Over his career, Bowie released 26 studio albums that are in various stages of Silver, Gold, and Platinum certification. He amassed 30 awards including an Emmy and two Grammys. Interestingly, one honor he declined was a knighthood offered by Queen Elizabeth II.

With the holidays approaching as Rock-tober 2016 nears its completion, it should be noted that one of Bowie's most successful singles was a duet with Bing Crosby. In 1977, Crosby was taping a Christmas Special and planned on performing "Little Drummer Boy." Unfortunately, Bowie abhorred the song and asked if he could sing something else. Anything else. As a result, "Peace on Earth" was written for Bowie as a counterpoint to Crosby's "Drummer Boy." The arrangement, dubbed "Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy" has become a Christmas tradition at Casa Capuyan.

On January 8, 2016, David Bowie turned 69 and also released Blackstar, his final album. Two days later, he lost his 18 month battle with cancer. We mourn the loss of a rock and roll great, but also celebrate the GQ style and artistry of his life. Thank you, Mr. Bowie, for your impassioned performances on stage and on screen. All hail the Goblin King!

Rock-tober 24, 2016

A coworker recently took his son to Vegas to celebrate his birthday. "Vegas?!" I was surprised. "Odd place to celebrate a young teen's birthday." "Well, it's not just Vegas. Since we've never been, we're taking day trips to the Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam." OK, that made a little more sense. When he returned the following week, I asked him what he and his son thought about their first trip to the Canyon. "Meh. It was OK. But Vegas was great!"

I had no response to that. I had to walk away. Every single time I've been to the Grand Canyon it's been a spiritual experience. One of the seven natural wonders of the world, the Grand Canyon typically inspires a reverent, wordless awe from people. Yet, this guy summed it up succinctly with, "Meh."

On the other hand, he had nothing but praise for Vegas. He and his son were spellbound by the bright lights, boundless food variety, glamour of endless shows, and the nonstop press of tourists. I didn't get it. If you really think about it, the city of Las Vegas shouldn't even exist. Why would you plunk a metropolis down in a place where average July temps exceed 104°F with practically no rainfall?

The boys from ZZ Top may mellow my stance on Sin City. Their Greatest Hits album from 1992 has a previously unreleased cover of Elvis's "Viva Las Vegas." Their version went to #16.

"Hey, li'l bro, why're you knockin' Vegas?"

"Jeez, Billy, we've been through this before. It's one of the cheesiest places on earth. Fake pyramids and Eiffel Towers, drive through wedding chapels, and then you've got the tourists. Man, some of those folks make Wal-mart look like a country club."

"Come on, now. She ain't that bad a joint. Look, meet us there and we'll cruise the strip in the Eliminator."

"Yeeeaahh. I don't know."

"We'll even make a high speed run up to Red Rock Canyon."

"Hmm."

"I'll let you drive."

"I'm packing my bags now."

"Hah! Get's you every time, li'l bro."

"Shut up. And it's your turn to buy the next round."

Rock-tober 23, 2016

U2 was doing a gig in Glasgow and in between songs Bono calls for quiet. The audience settles down, and the stage goes dark except for a single spotlight on Bono. It's no secret that old boy has a humanitarian bent, and I applaud him for using his celebrity for pleading his case.

With all eyes in the stadium on him, Bono begins a slow clap. "People!" clap "There are children in Africa at this very moment clap who need your help. Every time I clap my hands, clap a child dies of hunger!" From near the front row, in a heavy Scottish brogue, someone yelled back, "Well, fookin' stop clappin', ya eevil basteerd!"

Honestly, the story is apocryphal. I just like to get his goat. We've been in a good natured feud ever since I brought attention to his pale complexion way back in Rock-tober 15, 2013. Yeah, that's right, Bono, I went there again.

Bono and the boys released The Joshua Tree in March, 1987. Four singles were released in the US, and two of those, "With or Without You" and "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," both claimed the #1 spot on the US Hot 100. They remain the only U2 singles to do so.

The album stemmed from the band's interest in American music and culture and their fascination with the American dichotomy. A coworker of mine who grew up in India explained the concept. He said that the perception overseas was that American culture was more evolved or progressive than other nations. It was the shining city on top of the hill that everyone wanted to enter. However, once you arrived, you found the real America had a bit of a harder edge. Bono, while celebrating the unprecedented personal freedoms afforded by America, railed against social injustices still borne by her citizens.

"I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" was described by Bono to RollingStone as "an anthem of doubt more than faith," and the title itself reveals some quest for spiritual clarity. The somberness of the studio release has an unmistakeable hymnal feel to it while the lyrics read like a gospel song. The group magnified this in a version recorded with a Harlem church choir. Interestingly enough, the group Disturbed recorded a cover. Remember them from earlier this month? Their fifth album, Asylum, has a hidden track labeled "Ishfwilf."

Meanwhile, it's the original studio release that has a perpetual spot on my playlist.

Rock-tober 22, 2016

There are railroad tracks that span the coastal counties of South Mississippi running parallel to and just north of Highway 90. Mostly, they're an innocuous part of the landscape, a common enough sight that you soon forgot they're there. From time to time, they're a nuisance when the trains that plied them brought all north - south traffic to a halt. On rare occasions, they were dangerous. I know people who almost died because they tangled with a locomotive at the crossings.

The tracks were set on a berm that raised them above the surrounding area. Taking a crossing at speed in a '70 Mustang gave you a little bit of air time Dukes of Hazzard style, or so I've heard. When the periodic wayward hurricane came knocking, this berm became an unintentional levee, defying the storm surge, "This far and no further will you come." Indeed, destruction wrought by Katrina tended to be more apocalyptic on the tracks' south side.

For most of my growing up years on the coast, I lived within earshot of the tracks. Some nights I'd sleep with my window open, and I'd hear the diesel engine's horn off in the distance. What followed were several minutes of freight cars clacking along. It was a soothing sound that lulled me to sleep and something I found I've missed in recent years. When we lived in Columbia, Maryland, we were in the flight path of BWI airport. The racket of passing jetliners was not nearly as relaxing.

I was told, "Don't walk on the tracks, it's dangerous." So of course I walked on the tracks. I figured it was easier to dodge an intermittent train than the busy car traffic on the nearby road. If a train did happen to roll through, my undiagnosed OCD would kick in, and I always found myself counting the freightcars. As the last car clattered past, I'd watch it recede into the distance. Where it was going was always a big mystery and likely fueled my budding wanderlust. It's not diminished with time; I still have a thing for unknown horizons.

The puzzle of the railroad's destination was eventually solved. In its collection, the Library of Congress has a "Railroad Commissioner's Map of Mississippi." Dating from 1888, it traces the route of the rail line from New Orleans, through coastal Mississippi, and on to Mobile, Alabama. So now I knew. If I'd thought about it seriously, the terminal points would have been logical. Of course you'd want to connect major port cities. But that new found knowledge felt odd, like discovering the real story behind Santa Claus. It was like returning to your childhood home or elementary school after an extended time away. Things seem smaller than how you remembered them. That mysterious, distant shore just got a little closer.

Maybe this is what fueled explorers and adventurers back in the day. That horizon isn't a fixed destination; it's a moving target. Realizing this shifts the goal from the destination to the journey itself. For some reason, I find great comfort in that.

Rock-tober 21, 2016

"Glycerine" was Bush's fourth single off Sixteen Stone. Released in 1995 it peaked at #16 in the US.

Petrolatum was originally a byproduct of the oil drilling process. Robert Chesebrough, a chemist by trade, noticed oil workers in Pennsylvania used this goop to heal and protect damaged skin. After some experimentation, he found a way to purify and refine the substance and patented it in 1865 as Vaseline.

Vaseline has worked its way into the fabric of Americana as thoroughly as Coca Cola and Crayola Crayons. Found in nearly everybody's medicine cabinet, mythic properties have been attributed to this congealed petroleum product. Want to keep slugs away from your potted plants? Rub Vaseline along the rims of your pots. Scuff marks on your shoes? Vaseline to the rescue. Are your car battery's terminals corroding? This magic balm will fix that, too.

Ladies, for your beauty regimen, this stuff will help apply and/or remove makeup, make your lashes longer and lusher, and keep lipstick off your teeth. But wait, there's more! It will prevent streaking from tan-in-a-can, keep hair dye from highlighting your hairline, and ward off chafing in, um, vulnerable areas. OMG - this stuff will even cure split ends!

Maybe this is why, when contemplating this laundry list of wonders of Mr. Chesebrough's magical elixir, Andrea thought it would be a great styling gel for my hair.

I thought she was joking. But no, she thought I'd look reeaaalllly cool sporting a slicked back coiffure. There was an entire cathedral of warning bells going off in my head, and I just did not see this ending well. She scoops a palm full of gunk out of the jar and works it into my hair. Then she frowns. "Hmm," she says as she takes another scoop. And another. "Huh, your hair isn't wanting to lay flat."

This is what I know about my hair. It's super thick, super straight, and super stiff. Perfect for a flat top, but nowhere near compliant enough for this doofus windswept look she was trying to give me. The stuff would have to have more holding power than duct tape. In the end, I looked like an angry, spiky haired anime character.

Fine. Haha. Now excuse me while I wash away this foolishness. But wait, there's more! Remember when I said Vaseline was a petroleum based product? A chemist like Mr. Chesebrough would describe the viscous goop as hydrophobic and not water soluble. It took scalding hot water and several rounds of automotive degreaser to expunge all evidence, and I smelled like a Jiffy Lube for the next few days.

It's a shame Mr. Chesebrough didn't patent glycerol as well. Also translucent and viscous, it, too, has uses in the beauty industry and hair care products. It's saving grace for me is it's water soluble. It's also sometimes referred to as glycerine.

Rock-tober 20, 2016

I love history, but I sometimes have to tone it down around Andrea. While a student of history, she won't geek out nearly as much as I will. I'll rattle off some inane historical factoid during a conversation, and she'll either be really impressed or just roll her eyes. "Wayne, no normal person would know the name of Alexander the Great's horse."

The summer I was 11, my family took a roadtrip through the southwest. We lingered in Texas because it was just huge and you couldn't help it. As we cruised I-10, the Alamo in San Antonio was one of the places we stopped. I was excited. Back at home I had a set of Marty Robbins eight tracks and his "Ballad of the Alamo" was a favorite. It recounted the tale of the small Spanish mission's 185 defenders and what their bravery cost.

Now, here I was, treading on the same ground as Colonel Travis and Davy Crockett. On the very spot I was standing, a desperate struggle was waged 150 years prior. I was in awe, speaking in hushed tones to Mom and Dad as we meandered through the edifice. To mark the occasion of my pilgrimage, I bought a souvenir T-shirt and pennant. I still have the pennant; wish I had the T-shirt.

A few years ago, Andrea was in San Antonio for a conference. Of course, I assumed she'd tour the Alamo while she was there. She is, after all, related to Colonel William Travis. I called and asked her for her thoughts upon visiting the place her ancestor made a legendary last stand.

Me: "So. What'd you think?"
Her: "The shopping center is great. I found this cute purse."
Me: "Wait. What? The Alamo has a shopping center!? And what the heck kind of purse would you get at the Alamo!?"
Her: "Wait. What? The Alamo?"

Ah, well. The alluring sights and sounds of the Riverwalk were the greater siren call to her than the Shrine of Texas Independence. She was sooo close. According to Google Maps the Alamo was at most a 15 minute walk across the San Antonio River. Too bad the river wasn't as big a deterrent to Santa Anna a century and a half ago.

Rock-tober 19, 2016

Yogi Berra, the great sage of the baseball diamond, was known for his astute life observations.

• "When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
• "Why buy good luggage? You only use it when you travel."
• Most famous of them all was likely, "It's deja vu all over again."

In past missives it's been shown that there's a familiarity with many of my favorite rock songs and much older pieces. In the now classic Rock-tober 03, 2014, we saw the resemblance between Procul Harum's "Whiter Shade of Pale" and Bach's "Air on the G String." Additionally, in the critically acclaimed Rock-tober 06 posted that same year, Blues Traveler's "Hook" basically had the same DNA as Pachelbel's "Canon in D."

Last year's Pulitzer disputed dispatch, Rock-tober 12th's, "While We Cry," from Kenny Wayne Shepherd also has a doppelganger. "While We Cry" is a bluesy instrumental that had been a part of my "Chill" playlist for years. So when I first heard Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter," my first reaction was, when did they add lyrics to Shepherd's "Cry"?

"Yellow Ledbetter" was the B-side to "Jeremy," a single off Pearl Jam's first album, Ten. An outtake, this flip side song was not on the full album. In fact, "Yellow" has never been released on any Pearl Jam studio album. Regardless, it eventually became a signature piece for the band and a fan favorite, with the group typically using it to close their concerts.

The similarities between "Yellow" and "Cry" are so pronounced, fanboys on both sides chide the other artist for "heavily sampling" their favored tune. According to their discographies, Ten predates Shepherd's Ledbetter Heights by four years so that would seem to make "Yellow" the original, right?

Not so fast, sport. Both artists concede they were undoubtedly influenced, but not by each other. Rather, both pay homage to "Little Wing" by the late, great Jimmy Hendrix. The awesomeness of this Inception-like nesting of deva vu surely has the Yogi-meister smiling and begs to be explored further, but that's another post.

Rock-tober 18, 2016

Has a movie ever given you nightmares? For me, it was the huge monster release from 1975, Jaws. My folks and I lived in Port Hueneme, California, at the time, and a large group of teens went to catch the show at the local drive-in.

"Hey, bring the kid."
"Really? He's only 5."
"Pfft. Yeah. He'll be fine."

I saw Jaws as a 5 year old, up close and personal, as that magnificent great white chomped its way through beach goers on a 100 foot screen. Every nuanced scream was piped into the car through the speaker box, along with that incessantly ominous soundtrack. I hid my eyes behind my hands as the blur of teeth, blood, and severed limbs was paraded in front of me.

For weeks, possibly months, afterward, I slept in the absolute, very center of my bed fully buried under the covers. If I woke up and a limb had strayed over the edge, there'd be a moment of utter panic as I quickly retreated to the perceived safety in the center of the mattress. Floor made of lava? That was nothing compared to being stalked by an unseen great white.

Vampires and ghosts. Mummies and ogres. Frankenstein's Monster. And sharks. Creature features are great entertainment, but they're easy. You know who the bad guy is. He's the one wrapped in bandages or the one with all the teeth. It's when their dark side is hidden, when they're more than what they appear, that's a recipe for major creep factor.

Warren Zevon, a Rock-tober alumnus, pays tribute to one of the greatest stealth monsters of the big screen. An ordinary joe rocking a 9 to 5 gig during the day, he becomes a brutally efficient, throat slashing, disemboweling, predator on full moon nights.

You're already singing the chorus, aren't you?

Rock-tober 17, 2016

When's the last time you were utterly drained physically? A few years ago, some friends asked if we wanted to join them in the Civil War Century, a 100 mile bike ride through Gettysburg National Park and the surrounding towns. Not a trivial undertaking, the website for the Civil War Century stated plainly this should not be your first century ride and you'd better train for it. We decided with the training time available, the Half-Century ride (51 miles) would be more manageable. We rode all summer, hitting most of the trails between Annapolis and DC, building up our endurance and trying to find our natural cadence.

The morning of the event, we drove into Thurmont, PA, the ride's start and finish point. Bikers had invaded the small town. A large field was converted into a parking lot and 1600 riders were all unloading their bikes and prepping their kit. At the designated time, we started out. Conditions were perfect. The sun was shining, it was cool, and there was almost no humidity. It didn't last.

First came the hills. These climbs were longer and steeper than what we'd ridden back home. Next, the wind picked up and the skies darkened. Shortly after leaving the rest stop at the halfway point, the sky opened up, soaking us immediately. The wind was so strong, it blew the rain sideways (we learned later that several tornados were sighted along the route). Fortunately, we made it to one of the covered bridges along the course and took shelter waiting for the storm to pass.

We eventually rode into the battlefield. Everything was quiet and peaceful then, and it was a hard realization that 149 years ago, some of the greatest carnage of the war was taking place a stone's throw from us.

Finally we were approaching Thurmont and the end of the ride, dodging storm debris and downed power lines on the road. Looking at our cue sheets that gave us turn by turn instructions, we expected the finish line to be right around the corner, but the course kept going. And going.

By this time, fatigue had really set in and Andrea was pissed. "Where's the @%$#^ finish line!? There's supposed to be a %$#@&%* finish line and it's supposed to be right here!! Don't tell me the @#^$^* finish line is going to be here and then move it!!"

Her tirade was a sight to behold. Shocked townies who were standing along the racecourse quickly covered their children's ears and scurried away. Doors and shutters were closed, curtains were hastily drawn, and lights turned out. I made the mistake of laughing. "Why are you @^$%#* laughing?! This is not ^@#%*% funny, Wayne!!" Luckily she was too tired to hurl her water bottle at me.

We eventually did find the finish line. It turns out the missing directions were on the back of our cue sheets. By this time, endorphins had kicked in and we were both able to laugh about it. Utterly drained, we showered and found the nearest buffet to refuel. While we've not done that ride since, I'm looking to complete a century at some point. But that's another post.

Rock-tober 16, 2016

Recently, Andrea and I picked up on particular behaviors we'd started. Waiting for our eyes to come into focus on documents, holding menus at different arm lengths at restaurants until we found the sweet spot, and squinting at our phones were a few. The kicker for me was during a visit to an archery range this past spring. After sending a few shafts down range, I noticed that I couldn't see my arrows. I knew they hit the target; I just couldn't see them. When I first started shooting 30 years ago, I wondered why all the old guys were using binoculars at the firing line to check their shots. At the time, I was thinking, "Jeez, they're right there." Now I understand. Bloody hell. We both went to the optometrist earlier this summer and got outfitted with glasses.

When the specs arrived we donned them and went off to work. It was kind of a hot look for Andrea, and all the women in her office were very complimentary of her new frames. Meanwhile, at my office, the guys were snickering and laying on all the old man jokes. Punks. Whatever.

Andrea was asked if it was cumbersome to be wearing glasses for the first time. She eloquently stated, "No. In the nearly five decades I've walked this earth, I've seen much. I view these glasses as a badge of honor and a testament to all that I have witnessed, both good and bad."

It turns out twenty some odd miles away at my office, I was having the exact same conversation with my coworkers. I was not nearly as elegant in my summation: "Y'all, I done seen some sh*t..."

There's still a lot more world out there to see. Hopefully, I ain't seen nothing yet.

Rock-tober 15, 2016

Something interesting happened on the way to the Nobel Prize awards ceremony in Stockholm. Bob Dylan has won this year's Nobel Prize for Literature, the first American to receive the honor since Tony Morrison in 1993. He joins the pantheon of American Nobel Laureates and now includes Faulkner, Hemingway, and Steinbeck among his peers. But there's a swirl of controversy around this particular award. Back in 2012, Joseph Epstein writing for the Wall Street Journal, said,

Would the literary world be better off without the Nobel Prize in Literature? Certainly it would be no worse off without the Nobel, for as currently awarded the prize neither sets a true standard for literary production nor raises the prestige of literature itself.

Ouch. Is it a valid point? Personally, I find it hard to believe all of Dylan's manuscripts have been elevated above the works of Mark Twain. I'll be the first to admit that Dylan isn't my cup of tea, but it may just be that I can't separate Dylan, the voice, from Dylan, the lyricist. Granted, the profundity of some of Dylan's lyrics make him sound like a zen master sitting on top of a mountain. But what does it all mean? What's it all about? Does Dylan even know. He told Playboy in a 1966 interview, "I do know what my songs are about."

Well?

"Oh, some are about four minutes; some are about five, and some, believe it or not, are about eleven or twelve."

Hipster Dylan - trolling the media before it was cool.

Regardless, I never would have guessed I would be writing about the Nobel Prize within the confines of this blog, so congratulations and thanks, Bob Dylan, for 57 years of profound, if not obtuse lyrics.

Rock-tober 14, 2016

Andrea and I waltzed to Travis Tritt's "Drift Off to Dream" at our wedding reception. "Big deal, Wayne. Everybody dances at their own wedding." Here's the significance. I've never considered myself among the most coordinated of individuals - there's a reason I'm not part of the Riverdance cast. Besides, apart from senior prom, I never attended a single high school dance.

Fast forward to college where I found myself trying to impress this blue-eyed redhead. The "in thing" at that time was country line dancing, and a group of our friends frequently made trips to this out of the way country-western bar for dance lessons. I'd join in occasionally. The place was dark and a little seedy looking, but it had a large dance floor and competent instructors. After a few group sessions, my stock with her rose when I managed to negotiate the dance floor with her in a two-step and not cause a major pile up.

When we started dating (after the events in Rock-tober 23, 2013), we upped our dance game. We took lessons from an Arthur Murray trained couple who led us through the basics in the waltz, swing, rumba, and cha-cha. We found we really enjoyed dancing with each other and continued to frequent country-western bars to practice and get our groove on.

We enjoyed the waltz, but we had fun with the swing. One of the songs we practiced to was "T-r-o-u-b-l-e." First released by Elvis back in 1975, the King took it to # 11 on the Billboard Hot Country chart. Travis Tritt released his cover of the song nearly 18 years later to the day, and it went to #13 on the same chart.

While "Drift Off to Dream" got the nod for our wedding dance, it was in large part the times we spent dancing to "T-r-o-u-b-l-e" when we decided we really "liked" each other. The lessons in communication both non-verbal and otherwise was something that would be much more difficult to hammer out if we'd restricted ourselves to a series of "dinner and a movie" type dates. Dancing is still an activity we enjoy today and the reason "T-r-o-u-b-l-e" is a permanent part of my playlist rotations.

Rock-tober 13, 2016

There's a dark, unfortunate side effect of touring with a rock and roll band. Being constantly exposed to the massive wattage discharge of concert grade speakers and monitors can wreak havoc with your hearing. A roll call of Rock-tober alumni with hearing loss includes the following:

• Brian Johnson was highly encouraged by doctors to suspend touring or risk total hearing loss.
• Phil Collins retired from touring in 2011 citing health concerns including hearing loss.
• Eric Clapton suffers from tinnitus attributed to his career long high decibel exposure.

Dr. Carol Rousseau was interviewed by "Ultimate Classic Rock" earlier this year and said, “At 105 dB, damage can occur after only about 15 minutes of exposure. And damage to the inner ear can occur instantaneous [sic] at 120 dBs." She went on to state decibel measurements for AC/DC concerts ranged from 105 to 130 dBs.

Technology stepped in to provide some relief. In the same article cited above, Van Halen's soundman, Jerry Harvey, crafted a custom earpiece at Alex Van Halen's request that allowed Alex to replace his wedge monitor. This allowed him to hear his specific mix at a much lower volume. The technology caught on and was eventually acquired by Logitech which facilitated access to the device.

I don't attend many hard charging, amped up, "vibrate your innards with bass" concerts. I always wear hearing protectors around loud tools and machinery, and I don't usually have the stereo cranked to 11. These days, the only aural assault I sustain is the rumble of a well tuned engine. Sometimes, though, tearing down the road forces me to goose up the volume on the stereo if the tune is right.

Rock-tober 12, 2016

A founding member of the Eagles, Glenn Frey first teamed up with Don Henley in 1970 to tour with Linda Ronstadt. As the tour drew to a close, this two-man nucleus expanded to include Bernie Leadon and Randy Meisner and coalesced into the band's original lineup in 1971. The story goes that the band was christened while the four were on a team building peyote binge in the Southwest. Frey pointed to a flock of birds overhead and yelled, "Eagles!"

Over the course of the decade, Frey and the Eagles released six albums and claimed six Grammys. 1998 saw their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and in 1999, Their Greatest Hits (1971-1975) was recognized as the best selling album of the century. During the band's legendary "14-year vacation", Frey launched into a solo career and had success with "The Heat Is On", "You Belong to the City", and my favorite, "Smuggler's Blues". He expanded his CV to include stints on Miami Vice and Wiseguy and on the big screen he played opposite Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire.

With Glenn Frey's death on January 18th of this year, the curtain fell in more ways than one. The fraternity of the Eagles, one of the most storied bands in rockdom, was broken. It was also the end of one of rock's greatest and most creative songwriting collaborations with his band mate, Don Henley.

In 2007, the Eagles's final studio album, Long Road Out of Eden, was released. It hit #1 on the US Billboard 200 and added two more Grammys to the band's collection. This past June, Henley interviewed with Rolling Stone and shared these thoughts on Long Road:

"It's almost as if we knew that record would be our last. But our fans have been wonderful. They've been loyal to the end, and sadly, this is the end. But what a ride... what a crazy, wonderful ride."

Thanks, Glenn, for letting us tag along for that ride.

Rock-tober 11, 2016

The Navy transferred Dad to Gulfport, Mississippi, sometime in 1975, and the house we first rented was just outside his duty station at the Seabee base. Two kids, Noel and Roel, lived next door, and their dad, being a Seabee also, gave us an immediate bond. Age wise, I was in the middle of the trio, and it seems we were always at each other's houses. We became like brothers.

Back then, Mom worked nights as a nurse at Memorial Hospital just down the street. When Dad was deployed, she'd drop me off next door before her shift so I wouldn't be alone at night. The next morning before school, their mom would serve up bowls of grits for breakfast (grits is still a comfort food for me today).

Noel is the closest I've got to a big brother, and he was always looking out for me. He backed me up when my mouth got me in trouble with the neighborhood toughs, tried to show me how to strike up non-awkward conversations with the fairer sex, and attempted to broaden my musical tastes.

At that time, I was firmly entrenched in this odd Country-Western | Roger Whittaker | Classical Music combination as seen in past Rock-tober entries. One day, back in the summer between 6th and 7th grade, he called me up. "Hey, Wayne, come over and check out this record. I think you'll like it. It sounds country."

The "country sounding" song he was referring to was "Against the Wind."

That summer day was my introduction to Bob Seger, who, as readers of these Rock-tober missives know, became one of my favorite artists. It was also a foray into a non-Country genre that eventually went on to include everyone from AC/DC to ZZ Top. This was a good thing in Noel's eyes. He was always worried that I'd dork out and cruise Jeff Davis Avenue in the 'Stang blaring Beethoven's 5th.

In a roundabout way that afternoon was also one of the origins for Rock-tober.

Thanks, Big Brother.

Rock-tober 10, 2016

Key West's anti-establishment attitude is alive and well. April 23rd is proudly celebrated every year in the Conch Republic as the anniversary of its tongue in cheek secession from the mainland US. If there were a Troubadour of State, it could be none other than Jimmy Buffett. There is a Conch Republic National Anthem, but surprisingly, it's not "Margaritaville." Personally, I'd propose, "A Pirate Looks at Forty," because you can't get much more anti-establishment than a pirate.

We made a pilgrimage down this past winter. As refugees fleeing 4 foot snow drifts back home, we were graciously granted asylum within the Conch Republic's borders of sun drenched beaches. With the car radio pegged to Margaritaville, Jimmy's brand of Caribbean rock and roll became the soundtrack to our adventures. The drive down Route 1 and A-1-A, one of the most hallowed road trips you can take, was a constant display of tropical scenery. Portions of the Overland Highway span open stretches of water, and on either side from horizon to horizon you have the expanse of endless skies and water that vacillated between green and aqua before adamantly deciding on the deepest cobalt blue. We lost 15 degrees of latitude between Laurel, MD and Key West, and yes, it had a profound effect on our attitudes. How could it not. This was the land of Hemingway, free range chickens, free flowing rum, and hauntingly beautiful sunsets that'll break your heart.

One evening, after sampling the rum d'jour and a cigar, "A Pirate Looks at Forty" was playing somewhere in the background. Elsewhere on this blog I've quoted Buffett's lament from "A Pirate" that, "My occupational hazard is my occupation's just not around." For me, this was a rueful look to the past, regretting the demise of the age of adventure and exploration. There are times I feel like a walking anachronism, and wonder if I really was born too late.

And yet, the song still looks forward hopefully.

Mother, mother ocean, I have heard your call. Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall.

Some of my happiest moments have been on the water. The fantail of a frigate or the cockpit of a little daysailer, it didn't matter. I was reminded that the open ocean was vast and while there may be no undiscovered horizons, they would be new to me.

Key West reveries are surprisingly profound. Maybe it was the local rum.

Rock-tober 09, 2016

Mom always talks fondly about growing up in her hometown of Baguio City in the Philippines. This big small town nestled high up in the mountains on the island of Luzon was blessed with its location. Unlike the capital city of Manila three hours to the south that baked in sweltering summer heat, Baguio enjoyed a perpetual spring of moderate temperatures and low humidity. The defining characteristic was the dense forest of old growth conifers that covered the mountainsides. Every breeze carried an invigorating woodsy pine scent. It sounded like heaven on earth, and I glimpsed it briefly the last time we visited during Christmas back in 1976. Unfortunately during the intervening decades, rampant development kicked in. Now, traffic snarls, water shortages, and rolling blackouts are the norm. Most tragically, the evergreen cloak of pine forests has been stripped away and the only thing wafting on the breeze is traffic noise and the smell of diesel. I'm told it's still a beautiful place, but after a visit she had a few years back, Mom said it's just not the same.

Although I was born in Baguio City, I've adopted Long Beach, Mississippi, as my hometown. The ever present breeze carried the bracing scent of brine off the water. This proximity to the water lead to countless memories of fishing with Dad on the old USM pier or the rocks in the harbor. When I was older, the beach was a place to hang out with friends or source of mischief depending on our mood. All in all, this little small town on the waterfront afforded an idyllic childhood and youth.

There's been talk recently of bringing casinos to Long Beach. A common sight in the neighboring towns of Gulfport and Biloxi for decades, there's a growing movement to bring these "cash cows" to my hometown. I hope it stays just "talk". I hope the defining, pristine feature of my hometown's namesake won't be spoiled with a gaudy edifice from an over saturated industry.

JJ Grey and his band, Mofro, hail from Jacksonville, Florida. He penned a song about the blight of overdevelopment, and with a laid back, bluesy sound, they bemoan the influx of developers dropping in yet another golf course, gated community, or structure in tribute to "the mouse".

Another entry on my "Chill" playlist, Mofro's "Lochloosa" reminds me of my adopted hometown. I hope when I go home it's still the place of my childhood not the misfortune that befell Baguio City.

Rock-tober 08, 2016

In the spring of 1983, Men at Work released Cargo, the Rock-tober alumnus's sophomore offering, and "It's a Mistake" debuted as a single off the album later that summer. While the song lampooned players in the Cold War, the simple chorus, "It's a mistake," reminds me of situations where the only viable reaction is, "Oops."

Glen Beckwith was one of my closest friends from my time at Auburn University. His quiet and unassuming manner hid the spirit of a master storyteller, and on many occasions, he held us spellbound with stories from his growing up years in Kissimmee, Florida.

One account was about a country doctor calling on some friends. As he stepped through their front door, the two young daughters of the house ran up to him. Their flushed cheeks and red, swollen eyes showed they'd been crying recently. When he asked what was the matter, one held up their pet hamster, lying limply in her cupped hand. "He's really sick. Can you help him, please?"

"Now, darlin', I'm a 'people' doctor. I'm not sure what I could do for your little friend."

"Pleeaassee?" Their eyes started to well up with tears again, and he realized he was beaten.

"Okay," he sighed. "Let me take a look." Gingerly, he took the hamster from her and started an exam, gently turning the inert form over in his hands. He noticed a portion of its abdomen was very distended, and, curious, poked at the protrusion. That got a reaction. The previously listless form let loose a loud squeak and latched on to the doctor's finger with its teeth.

Startled by the sharp, sudden pain, the doctor let loose a few loud expletives of his own and tried to shake off the little attacker. He succeeded, and the hamster went flying across the room in a graceful, sailing arc towards the other family pet, a large German Shepherd. The tiny furry projectile, being mistaken for a toy or treat, disappeared in a single canine gulp.

Both girls, front row witnesses to this, lost their minds. Sobs became howling screeches as they jumped up and down, flailing their arms manically. The German Shepherd, thinking this was a new game, was pleased as punch and started barking enthusiastically while bounding about the room.

The good doctor, taking in the scene, came to the dawning realization that he'd made a terrible mistake. All he could do was nod an apology to his hosts and slink out the door.

Oops.

Rocktober 07, 2016

What's a Dopp kit? If you know the answer, chances are you were either in or had some association with the military. Dopp kits, sometimes called toiletry kits, are small bags, usually leather or canvas, that you use to store your toiletry supplies. First produced by leather craftsman Charles Doppelt in the early 1900's, he won a contract to supply them to the US Army during WWII. They became ubiquitous among GI's and other members of the armed forces. Dad had one, acquired sometime during his Naval career, and he always used it to stow his gear as far back as I can remember.

One birthday during my teen years, Dad gave me my own Dopp kit. Mom later told me Dad wanted to give me something that would remind me of him as I ventured further and further from home. I still have it. It's well worn, and I will always travel with it. It's been with me on every road trip, every business trip, and anytime I've left home since college. It's carried my razor, toothbrush, and deodorant to every state I've visited as well as 8 countries and 4 continents.

Peter Gabriel wrote "Solsbury Hill" after his departure from Genesis. There's a tense trepidation in the song, mirroring his real life as he stepped out on his own, but this seems to melt away in the comforting line, "Son, grab your things I've come to take you home." He found strength in something remembered, some touchstone to the past.

After three decades of packing my kit, the actions have become almost a ritual. My toothbrush is always in the outside pocket, bristle side up. Razor is in the center, blade side down, next to my deodorant. Both are flanked by shaving cream on one side and toothpaste on the other. With everything stowed properly as I walk out my front door on another adventure, Dad's deliberate gift all those years ago fulfills its intent as a reminder, a remembrance, and a touchstone.

Rock-tober 06, 2016

Raise your hand out there if you have an extensive collection of Simon and Garfunkel.

Yeah. I didn't think so. Don't get me wrong. This musical duo from Queens was a mainstay in the 60's beatnik, folk music scene. They released 5 albums whose songs garnered them 9 Grammys, immortalization as part of the soundtrack of The Graduate, and induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel are legit rock and rollers; they're just not my style. I've said before, though, that good music transcends time and genres, constantly reinventing itself. We've seen it on these pages most recently with the now classic Rock-tober 02 2015, and we're about to see it again.

"Sounds of Silence" was tortuously penned by Simon over an arduous 6 month period. When it was finally released in October, 1964, it was a commercial failure. Dismayed and disheartened, the duo went their separate ways. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to them, the song was remixed with more "folksy" instrumentation as backup. It was released again a year later in September, 1965, and this time it went to number 1 and brought Simon and Garfunkel back together.

In stark contrast to our crooning duo, Disturbed is a 5 man heavy metal band out of Chicago. Active since 1994, Disturbed has released 6 studio albums to date. Of particular interest to us is track 11 of Immortalized, their 6th album. Released over 50 years after the original, David Draiman's vocals takes this cover of "The Sounds of Silence" and starts it from the lilting, folksy, original campfire sound and crescendos to a series of bold, growling, imperative statements. Sung at a lower register, the transformation is startling.

This song has been very pervasive on social media. Yet it was brought to my attention not by one of my peers, but through Nic, the high school senior son of some friends. The fact that he gravitated towards a song that had its beginnings with the 2nd generation of rock and roll rather than Minaj or Bieber is very encouraging and gives me some hope for this millennial generation.

Rock-tober 05, 2016

Merle Haggard was born on 06 April 1937 into a very hard life during the Great Depression. In Grapes of Wrath fashion, his family left their home in Oklahoma and followed the sun west, settling in Bakersfield, California. His father found work with the railroad, but died when Merle was just 8. By his own account, Merle was incorrigible as a boy. His mother tried to rein him in, but he ran afoul of the law with a laundry list of petty crimes that landed him in and out of correctional centers. His song, "Mama Tried", is an autobiographical account of his mother's failed attempt to instill in him the conservative values of her faith.

In spite of his Outlaw persona and to his credit, he claimed full responsibility for the actions that landed him in jail. It turns out incarceration actually had a reformative effect on Merle. He earned his GED and started playing in the prison's Country Western band. Inspiration for the latter turned out to be none other than the Man in Black himself, Johnny Cash. Merle was an inmate in the audience during one of Cash's prison concerts, and the experience was a lifelong inspiration to him.

After his release, he steered clear of trouble, working a steady job and performing where and when he could. His unique sound grew his fame and eventually won him nearly 40 number 1 country hits, 19 ACA awards, 6 CMA awards, 4 Grammys, induction into the Country Music Hall of Fame and the Kennedy Center Honors. Not bad at all for a former juvenile delinquent.

Still, his Outlaw mystique stuck, and he liked to play the contrarian card. During the Vietnam War, he fervently protested the war protesters. In interviews he shared how prison taught him what it was like to have your freedom taken away. The young boys going off to fight in a foreign land to defend freedom deserved nothing but respect and support. Decades later, when the Dixie Chicks encountered considerable backlash from fans and the Country Music community in their spat with the George W. Bush White House, he came to their defense.

Merle Haggard was one of the Four Kings of Outlaw Country that I listened to as a kid. Dad's collection of 8-tracks in the car were an assortment of cassettes from Waylon, Willie, Johnny, and Merle. My favorite Haggard album, co-released with Willie Nelson, Pancho and Lefty, dropped in 1983. The title track launched later that same year, and hit number 1 on the Billboard Country chart, jumped genres, and climbed to 21 on the Billboard Adult Contemporary chart.

Continuing to ride the inspiration and influence of that Johnny Cash prison concert so long ago, Merle was still writing music when he was seriously ill early this year. His final recording session was on 09 February with "Kern River Blues" as the result. The song was released posthumously with 10 percent of all proceeds directed to homeless charities.

Merle Haggard died on his birthday, 06 April 2016. Thank you, sir, for your music and your principled stances. For a self affirmed Outlaw, you were a hell of a class act.

Rock-tober 04, 2016

In the fall of '87, my freshman year at South Alabama, there was a bevy of international students assigned to my dorm. The first time away from home and their home country for most of them, fitting in was a high priority. They were looking for guides and mentors to help them navigate the assimilation process in both the American collegiate setting as well as American culture in general. Unfortunately for them, what they got were pranksters and the pothead troubadours of Alpha South dorm who themselves were away from home for the first time. Regardless, for the most part, we managed to keep their missteps just this side of jail-able offenses.

At one party, Kengo, from Japan, couldn't quite grasp that just because a screwdriver contained orange juice, it didn't nullify the effects of the vodka. Kengo's only prior experience with alcohol was just before he left Japan. His dad took him out on the town and introduced him to Saki. Now, after tossing back an unknown number of screwdrivers, this normally sedate guy became very loud and animated, extolling what in his highly marinated mind was Japan's greatest contribution to world culture.

"Godzilla! Godzilla #1! Japan #1!"

"Hey, Kengo, get off the counter, man. You're gonna hurt yourself."

"GODDDZIIILLLLLAAA #1!!!"

More productively, one guy from Lebanon quickly discovered rock and roll along with his roommate's record collection and stereo system. He gravitated towards Def Lepard's Hysteria album, just released that September, and utterly fixated on track 1: "Pour Some Sugar On Me." Day and night the the entire floor could hear this album looped over and over cranked to 11. Suddenly it would get quiet as Danny, his roommate, had had enough and killed power to the system. A few seconds later, in a heavy Lebanese accent, we'd hear in protest, "Dammit, Danny! I want to hear 'Pour Some Sugar on Me'!" This little vignette played out over and over all bloody year. "Dammit, Danny!" became the unofficial greeting on the floor and was duly recorded in the Alpha South newsletter as one of the top dorm quotes of the year.

I transferred to Auburn University the next fall, and while I missed a lot of the connections I'd made the year before, I did not miss Danny's roommate's glucose fetish. I liked Def Leppard well enough, but come on, dude. Seriously? Pick another album from time to time.

No matter. I was now 4 hours away from Mobile in Auburn - a fresh college, a fresh town, and a fresh start - until the Auburn Tigers went 10-2 in the regular season. Their reward for this grand accomplishment? A trip to the Sugar Bowl. Guess what had become the unofficial theme song for the event?

Rock-tober 03, 2016

I once heard this spiel from a Defense Intelligence Agency recruiter looking for field operatives.

You've got to be at least bilingual. Your interview will begin when I drop you off in the middle of a country that speaks your second language. I'll then confiscate your phone, ID, credit cards, and cash. You'll then have to meet me at 7PM at the Caledonia Bar in the Upper East Side in 2 weeks time.

Although I did take a year of Spanish with Mrs. Alexander back at good old Long Beach High School, I'm not sure it would've helped me navigate passage from downtown Buenos Aires back to NYC for brewskis at the Caledonia. I've discovered, however, that I must look Latino, at least from a distance.

I was walking down the street one typical hot, humid summer wearing shorts, T-shirt, and shades to fend of the sun and heat when I heard someone addressing me in Spanish.

"Que tal, ese. Donde esta..."
*Hey, man. Where's the... I think he was asking for directions to a hair salon...or maybe where he could get a horse.

I replied, "Ingles, por favor."
*Yo, dude, I may be sporting a year round tan and look Hispanic, but I actually only had a year of high school Spanish. Could you please repeat your query in English?

This kind of set him off.

"Ingles?! Por que Ingles?!"
*Dude! What's up with that?!  He launched into what I think was a diatribe about how Spanish was a beautiful language and no Latino should be afraid to take pride in the mother tongue, Latino culture, and empanadas...or maybe it was something about a bathroom.

Me: *sigh*
Me: *takes off shades*
Him: "Ay! Lo siento, senor!"
*Bruh.... With the shades on and from your year round tan, I didn't realize you were Filipino and not Latino. My bad.

"Put Your Lights On" is a single off Santana's Supernatural. Everlast penned and voiced the lyrics so no translation is needed. And Santana's soulful fretwork never needs translation.