Rock-tober 31, 2018

This past summer, a particularly contentious issue permeated daily life in Long Beach where I grew up. Residents voted on a bond that, if approved, would fully renovate the high school campus. No one denied that a rehab was in order. Originally constructed in the 50's, many of the buildings were showing their age when I attended in the 80's nearly forty years ago. A modernizing renovation would provide new spaces for the band, choir, and theater groups, address security concerns, and provide ample meeting and dining space for the burgeoning student population. These are all good things, so what's the problem? The price tag was $20 million.

Opponents of the bond cited that taxes in Long Beach were already some of the highest on the coast, and this was only going to exacerbate that condition. Additionally, the school district was already in the midst of repaying $4.5 million on existing bonds. Moreover, while extensive, the renovation did not address all problems such as periodic flooding. Yet another concern was that maintenance and upkeep were not properly accounted for in the pricing scheme.

Many took to social media to express their views and debate the matter. From all the commentary I saw, everything remained cordial. Until it didn't. On a public forum, a classmate posted her opposing views on the bond, and the forum administrator summarily deleted her post. That kicked off a firestorm as other classmates, some on the opposite side of the debate, rallied to her defense. A common narrative was, "I don't agree with your views, but your voice still needs to be heard and your post should not have been deleted."

At that moment I was proud to call Long Beach my hometown. Respect for and a spirited defense of an opposing view - how did my former classmates get it right while a lot of the country is getting it wrong?

Maybe we paid attention in Civics class where we learned an informed electorate was critical to a functioning society. A number of my classmates with legitimate questions made concerted efforts to educate themselves. They did the research and attended public hearings and panel discussions.

Possibly we're just old school. We've determined that southern hospitality and cordiality are not myths, and sitting in anonymity behind a computer screen spewing vitriol at any perceived offense is a sad existence and false courage.

Perhaps we just did a better job of remembering the simple lessons of respect and kindness towards others learned at our mothers' knee.

You have my thanks for allowing me to intrude briefly into your lives these past 31 days with these daily dispatches. Composing them has been sometimes cathartic, sometimes comical, but always rewarding. Remember, simple lessons are always the best.

Rock-tober out.

Rock-tober 30, 2018

The first camera I remember being able to call my own was a little black and silver plastic cased Kodak I got when I was six or seven. It had two levers - one I pushed down to take a picture and the other I slid to the side to advance the 110 film cartridge. No batteries, no focus button, no light meter - and no instant gratification. After clicking off all 12 shots on the roll, Mom or Dad drove me to the CB Base Exchange where I dropped it off. In ten to fourteen days, developed pictures came back and I was finally able to see the scene composed in the camera's tiny viewfinder.

When we got a Polaroid SX-70 Land Camera, I thought we were as futuristic as the Jetsons. Beautifully designed, it could collapse down to a tiny slim box, making it less unwieldy when scouting out the next photo op. The focus button and rudimentary exposure dial gave a new but basic level of control over my shots. The greatest thing about this camera, of course, was the instant gratification. Load a film cartridge, focus on your subject, and push the little red button. Like magic, and with a soft mechanical whir, a white bordered square was ejected that slowly revealed the shot I'd just taken seconds earlier.

Dad eventually gifted me his Pentax SLR he acquired when he was still in the Navy. This beauty was full manual everything. I could finally control speed, focus, and exposure and really craft some great shots. The only downside was the expense. Film and processing were not cheap, especially for a high school kid trying to keep gas in his V8 Mustang.

Today's youth with smartphones will never realize this struggle. The ease and speed with which one can whip out a phone, take a dozen snapshots of their lunch, and share them literally with the world is astounding. The result is today's young people have their entire high school lives extensively documented pictorially on countless phones and online repositories.

For my generation, we have to be satisfied with a few, intentional pictures of key moments. The rarity of these physical mementos makes them more precious. The nostalgia of handling an actual photo of a long-ago event is more visceral than swiping through a collection on a phone.

Nickelback released "Photograph" in 2005 and it hit #1 on multiple charts. Lead singer, Chad Kroeger, recounted how the song was a walk down memory lane in an interview.

"It's just nostalgia, growing up in a small town, and you can't go back to your childhood. Saying goodbye to friends that you've drifted away from, where you grew up, where you went to school, who you hung out with and the dumb stuff you used to do as a kid, the first love — all of those things."

While the expense of the hobby made me very judicious with every shot, the end result was a lot of these shots were "keepers". Today, they're all tucked safely away in albums or in storage boxes, and I'll periodically go through them just as Kroeger does in the song and let the nostalgia wash over me.

As a postscript, Hurricane Katrina swept away more than just the family homes of many of my classmates. Rising waters also carried off memories as albums and yearbooks were lost to the storm. I'd encourage my fellow Bearcats to post high school pictures to the multiple online forums available to help heal this collective memory loss. I'll get the ball rolling and post these pics of some freshly minted graduates of the Class of '87 somewhere on the Florida panhandle. I'm pretty sure we've passed the statute of limitations on underage drinking by now.

Rock-tober 29, 2018

 

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,

This earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise;

This fortress built by Nature for herself,

Against infection and the hand of war,

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands;

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

This is an excerpt from Shakespeare's Richard II, Act 2, and my classmates and I had to memorize it for Senior English with Mr. Ladner back at Long Beach High School. I've never read the full play, but I was always moved by this particular passage. Surprisingly, I was still able to recall a bulk of it from memory, considering I sometimes forget to put on a belt before leaving the house.

I've always been an Anglophile. As stodgy as it may seem, some evenings Andrea and I will sit and listen to The British History Podcast while we're having dinner. I'm fascinated by the sweeping breadth of English history which spans over a millennium from the time of Alfred the Great. By comparison, US history barely exceeds a mere two centuries.

Apart from a few dust-ups in the 1770's and again in the 1810's, England remains one of our staunchest allies. Ironically, England is the last and only country to successfully invade and occupy territory on the US mainland.

Another British invasion came over a century later in the form of guitars and drumsticks rather than rifles and bayonets. Starting in the 1960's, an influx of musical acts from across the pond began to rocket up American charts. Groups such as The Animals, The Troggs, and The Hullaballoos formed the vanguard for many others to follow. Numbered among the successive waves is one of my favorites, Dire Straits.

Brothers in Arms was released in 1985 and became the band's magnum opus. It went on to win two Grammy awards and was certified platinum nine times over in the US. The title track is set during the Falkland Islands War and narrates the story of a dying soldier surrounded by his brothers in arms in his final moments.

Now the sun's gone to hell and

The moon's riding high

Let me bid you farewell

Every man has to die

But it's written in the starlight

And every line in your palm

We are fools to make war

On our brothers in arms.

Mark Knopfler may not be Shakespeare, but he still managed to pen some profound and weighty lyrics.

Rock-tober 28, 2018

A former colleague of mine was a guy from Jamaica named Kevin. We had a lot of shared interests like superhero movies, spicy food, and keeping old cars on the road. We constantly passed a bottle of either Tabasco or some Jamaican equivalent between us because the cafeteria food was inevitably a little too bland for our tastes. One day he sees me dousing my fries with Tabasco and asked, "Hey, does Andrea like spicy food, too?" I laughed. Apart from Andrea's mom, everyone else in her family has a low heat index. Andrea told me when she and I started dating, her mom enjoyed cooking for me because she could actually use pepper. "Nope. She's got a pretty low tolerance. We have to specify 'mild' chicken from Popeye's because the 'spicy' is too much for her."

"Hold up. Popeye's chicken is too spicy for her?"
"Yup."
"Wow. She sure is white."

Another shared interest of ours is keeping old cars on the road. His ten-year-old Nissan Maxima is approaching 200,000 miles on the odometer. It's in fantastic condition because he's fastidious about routine maintenance and keeps it immaculate with a weekly car wash. One shortcoming was the inoperable stock stereo. He was wanting to replace it but was concerned about putting money into a noncritical system in a car as old as his. I shrugged my shoulders. "So you want to cruise in the hooptie and be able to blast Peter Tosh. Nothing wrong with that." He stood and gave me a hug that caught me off guard. "Yo, dude! What the..." He stood back and made a show of wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye.

"I'm so proud of you, Wayne!" Knowing my penchant for classic rock, he was duly impressed that I laid down a legit reggae reference.

I thought about it and realized there weren't a lot of mainstream reggae artists back in the day. Apart from Peter Tosh or the Marleys, I'd be hard pressed to name another. Then I remembered Eddy Grant. Born in British Guiana and raised in England from the age of 10, he decided that his life trajectory would be in music after seeing Chuck Berry in concert. Grant's biggest stateside success was 1983's  "Electric Avenue" which peaked at #2 on the Hot 100. A year later, Grant released "Romancing the Stone" which was supposed to be heavily featured in the Douglas-Turner movie of the same name. Disagreements with producers, however, winnowed the song's role in the movie to a single brief scene. "Romancing the Stone" didn't rise to the level of "Electric Avenue", but it's my favorite of the two.

If Kevin ever gets a new stereo, I'll get him this album to play alongside Peter Tosh while he cruises in his hooptie.

Rock-tober 27, 2018

One of my previous positions had me crisscrossing the lower forty-eight doing IT work at regional government installations. While the most rewarding aspect of these junkets was the camaraderie of interacting with the folks posted to these far flung parts of the country, these excursions also allowed me to sate my appetite for exploration.

During down time, I logged serious mileage on rental cars and was able to take in sweeping coastal panoramas, the solitude of the desert, and the stunning silence from mountain vistas. Often solitary, on rare occasions, I'd insert myself into a large horde of people.

One job landed me in a city during a major music festival. The press of humanity was mitigated by first rate musical acts, food tents, and my introduction to Leinenkugel beer when it was still a regional brand. It was a perfect summer day with full sun, mild temps, and just a bit of a breeze. As an odd counterpoint to the mass of humanity, there was an abundance of butterflies flittering around. I followed one's wonky flight pattern and watched it pause on the sidewalk. Suddenly, some guy takes a running jump, stomped on it, and ran off laughing with his buddies. 

I nearly dropped my beer. In this world there's never going to be too much beauty, and this punk just took out one of its greatest envoys. Years later, I can't remember the name of single band I heard, but I still remember that incident. It marred what was otherwise a pretty stellar day.

"The World I Know" is Collective Soul's sophomore Rock-tober appearance and comes off their actual sophomore, self titled album. The song struck a chord, breaking into the top 40 in numerous global markets and hitting number one in both the US and Canada. The video expounds on the weighty lyrics and follows a man struggling with his depressing quest to find the meaning of his life in this world.  He finds redemption with a change in perception, finally recognizing the natural beauty that's always existed around him. Seek beauty rather than bleakness - it's a worthy mantra for anyone.

Rock-tober 26, 2018

This past summer I got a text from my buddy, Mike. "Wayne, this song is phenomenal. I figured you would appreciate the bluesy guitar and heart wrenching lyrics. Happy Monday old friend." The song Mike was referring to was "Keep the Wolves Away" by Uncle Lucius, and he was right. Having close friends who know what resonates with me is a special kind of awesome. I  played and replayed the track several dozen times the rest of that afternoon. All the while I vacillated between getting misty eyed and pumping my fist with a, "Hell, yeah!"

The song was autobiographical as lead singer Kevin Galloway said in an interview:

"It's about my father who was hurt in a chemical accident when I was a teenager... It changed things around the house, he was the only breadwinner. The song talks about how he worked to keep the wolves away in the midst of that."

My dad was a working man through and through, and this song reminded me of him. He started college studying to be an engineer, but when the money ran out he joined the Navy. Not long after, he married Mom and soon after, they had me. A Navy paycheck for a young sailor doesn't go far when you're trying to support a wife and kid. When the family was stationed in Annapolis, Dad stood his duty watches and when he finished, went to his second job at a local 7-11. It must have been a strain on Dad, but he made it work. We never went hungry and Dad still found time to take me fishing. To this day, as a personal remembrance, my convenience store of choice is 7-11.

Years later, after Dad retired from the Navy, he went to work for a manufacturing plant in Long Beach. I'm not sure "retiring" ever crossed his mind. Besides, with his kid looking to attend college, he couldn't rely solely on his Navy pension. Dad never shied away from hard work and willingly did what he had to do to help support his family.

Regardless of this really strong work ethic, I learned there were some things still more important to him. I was graduating from high school, and with the date set, Dad requested the day off so he could attend the ceremony with Mom. His leave request was denied. When he found out, Dad went to his supervisor and tendered his resignation, effective immediately. He was walking out when management rethought their decision and granted Dad's leave request.

I'm grateful Dad lived long enough to see me finish college, get my first real job, and be the best man at my wedding. We weren't always the most verbose when expressing our feelings, but I hope he knows I'm truly thankful for all his sacrifices to keep the wolves away.

Rock-tober 25, 2018

Decades before the glut of superhero movies, there were superhero comic books. As an unabashed once and future collector, and much to Andrea's chagrin, I admit to having a crap ton of of comics stashed around Casa Capuyan. The bulk of the books are from House DC, but a few characters from House Marvel are included. The most numerous of these titles feature Wolverine.

I can easily relate to the ill tempered, taciturn dude with a perennial scowl and a penchant for cigars and bourbon. Apart from a near indestructible skeleton and retractable razor sharp claws, Wolverine's one defining superpower is his unrelenting healing factor. I'd find this eminently more useful than the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Normally, my comic book collector persona is kept under wraps and the world is presented with the facade of an ill tempered, taciturn IT analyst dude with a penchant for bourbon and cigars. However, on rare occasions, this secret comic book collector guy identity is exposed.

Years ago I had to have surgery that required me to be put under. I woke up in recovery, bandaged and still groggy from anesthesia and was told I would be kept overnight if I was still under the effects of sedation. Since my latent superpower is 10th degree germaphobe, I didn't want to stick around. Not trusting myself to utter a lucid, "Nah, I'm going home," I managed a smile and a thumbs up, and won my freedom.

Weeks later, during my follow up exam, the doctor checked the incision. "Huh. When was your surgery, Mr. Capuyan?"

"It's been exactly two weeks, Doc."  She crinkled her brow.

"Are you sure? If so, your healing rate is incredible! I wouldn't expect to see this progress for another full month."

The dorkiest geek grin crossed my face, and I whispered, "I am Wolverine." The doctor looked up, "Hmm? What was that?"

I quickly regained my composure and transformed back into taciturn analyst dude. "Uh. Nothing, Doc."

Rock-tober 24, 2018

In the late '70's, there was a near perfect trio of TV shows on Tuesday evenings. The refrain, "Sunday, Monday, Happy Days" kicked off the set with the adventures of the too cool, leather jacket clad Fonz and his geeky high school bud, Richie. Immediately after we were greeted by two ladies singing about schlemiels, schlimazels, and hasenpfeffer. I had to wait several decades for Google's arrival to decipher their theme song. The 8 o'clock hour left 50's Milwaukee and dropped us in 80's Southern California where Jack, Janet, and Chrissy invited you to "Come and knock on our door."

Watching TV with Dad was a whole different lineup. "Boy the way Glenn Miller played," sung in accompaniment with a tinny piano signaled the start of the humorously bigoted rantings of Archie Bunker. Many of the jokes were over my head back then, but I truly appreciate them now. MASH was another favorite. Originally a full length movie of the same name (and some of the same actors), it's TV incarnation's theme song was swapped for an instrumental version. I can't imagine 70's era censors allowing "Suicide is painless," to be sung on broadcast television. Another show Dad and I tuned in to was Hawaii 5-0. It's bold, immediately recognizable theme was a true instrumental overlaid onto a photo montage of iconic Hawaiian scenes.

The Ventures recorded "Hawaii Five-O" specifically for the series originally starring Jack Lord and James MacArthur. I was expecting the group to be backed up by a full horn section, but the robust sound came from a four man band - two guitars, a drummer, and keyboard. Not many theme songs find success on the charts, but "Five-O" made it to the #4 spot on the Hot 100. It's tempo is great for dancing, leading to its popularity on 70's dance floors. Back in college when Andrea and I were learning to dance, we practiced the swing to this.

Hailing from Tacoma, Washington, the Ventures pioneered the use of 12-string guitars and several guitar effects. An earlier single, "Walk Don't Run", was deemed "one of the top songs ever recorded for guitar" and was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame. The group itself was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame with the class of 2008.

I've previously stated that I'm still miffed I wasn't contacted to play the role of either Chin Ho or Kono in the 2010 relaunch of the franchise. I could totally have rocked an ill tempered, heavy set islander with a perennial scowl.

Rock-tober 23, 2018

In the summer of '81, lacking access to an Xbox, smartphone, and the Internet, one form of  evening entertainment for us kids was calling the local radio station during their request hour to try and have them play a song of our choice. This was no easy task since every other kid on the Coast trying to make the exact same call. More often than not you got a busy signal, so you'd quickly redial the number and try again. Heaven help you if your family squawk box still had a rotary dial.

One evening, a group of us were huddled around the kitchen phone - the old school one still attached to the wall with a 3-foot cord radius - and we managed to get through to 94QID. "Hey, it's ringing! What do you guys want to hear?"

I piped in with "Ask for 'Celebration'!" My buddy, Noel, who was holding the receiver, looked at me like I'd just asked for milk and sugar for my grits. He just shook his head. "C'mon, Wayne! That song is waaay old!"

It probably was. I grew up in a home with Eddy Arnold albums and Marty Robbins and Roger Whittaker 8-tracks. While most of my friends split their time between rock and country, my radio was usually pegged on a country station around 580 - on the AM band. A disadvantage of growing up in a country music household was that your pop music frames of reference were way out of whack compared to your peers.

I don't remember what we wound up requesting that night, but it wasn't "Celebration". By that summer, the song probably was dated as far as singles go. "Celebration" was released in 1980 and finally hit the #1 spot on the Hot 100 in February of 1981. That means it would have seen significant airplay on its climb up the chart over Christmas and New Years holiday celebrations. It would have been one of those songs that was everywhere, all the time. It reigned at the top spot for 2 weeks before it was dethroned, ironically, by a country song - Dolly Parton's "9 to 5". Even though the song remained on the air for nearly a year, I was spared the profuse airplay and the ensuing burnout - it was still fresh to me.

"Celebration" was Kool & the Gang's only number 1 hit, but it's still culturally relevant today. From weddings to sporting events to retro parties, this song can still pop anywhere there's a celebration - like a little old rock and roll music blog.

Rock-tober 22, 2018

I work with a guy from Nepal who's a constant source of entertainment.

He recently picked up a promotion that meant more face time with senior management. I was giving him advice on stepping up his wardrobe and giving him a list of men's shops where he could get a good deal on dress jackets. "If you catch these places at the right time, you can score a 'buy one get one free' offer or even a 'buy one get two'. You can flesh out your wardrobe without breaking the bank." I had to toss in a classic rock reference, "Bonus - you'll impress your wife. The 'ladies are crazy for a sharp dressed man.'" He dismissed this with a wave of his hand, "She married me. She's already impressed."

I was exceedingly annoyed on so many levels. First, my ZZ Top allusion went completely over his head. Second..."What did you say?" He started laughing, and I couldn't tell if he was serious. I just shook my head, "Dude....if your wife hears you say that, you're in a world of hurt...most likely in the form of a cast iron skillet. And if you keep thinking that way, then 'you ain't seen nothing yet.'"

Another time I was giving him directions to an off site meeting. "Go north on Rockville Pike until you get to..."
"Is that left or right?"
"What?"
"Which way is north?"
"What!? How can you not know north from south? You just walk out any building and look for Wisconsin Avenue. South takes you into DC and north goes into Rockville. How are you not able to navigate that?" Another dismissive wave of his hand.

"Pfft. You and your roads. Back in my country, you walk out of any building in any city and look for the Himalayas. That's north." I had to concede that one. The "roof of the world" definitely trumps a traffic infested highway riddled with stop lights as a navigational aid.

Bachman-Turner Overdrive was tasked by Ford Motor Company to come up with a jingle for a planned ad campaign. The thought of a vintage Mustang cruising down a highway with BTO playing in the background sounds like a fantastic idea. Unfortunately, none of BTO's offerings was picked up by Ford. Undeterred, the Bachman brothers reworked one of the tunes and it became the massively successful "Roll On Down the Highway" that rose to the 14 spot on the Hot 100 in 1975.

Sadly, my Nepali coworker doesn't know who BTO is. While I may not be able to convince him of the merits of my fashion advice or even my driving directions, I'm definitely going to educate him on old school rock and especially picking up on classic rock references.

Rock-tober 21, 2018

I know a guy who's a brilliant administrator, and he's risen high in the echelons of the World Bank with his superlative skill sets. He once told a group of us about a time early in his career when he was posted in East Africa. Among other responsibilities, my friend was caretaker of a small tract of land. He felt it important to make the plot productive and set an example as an industrious steward. Gathering farm implements, he went out to the field and tried to work the soil, but it was backbreaking work. During the dry season, the incessant sun baked the soil into a brick like consistency, and working with hand tools was arduous.

The entire time, he noticed the local population sitting in front of their homes just watching him. At this point, he told us, "I won't lie to you. I was getting a little bit judgemental. Why am I the only one in this village attempting to make this land fruitful?" Day after day this continued, him working the field with little progress to show and the locals sitting in the shade just watching.

One day, the first rains of the season came. The effect on the locals was dramatic as every able bodied villager swarmed to the fields. The rains soaked into the ground, softening the soil enough to be worked, and all arable land was now being industriously farmed.

In the Navy there's an unspoken rule when you start a watch on the bridge: Unless the ship is in imminent danger, make no change to course or speed for the first hour. The premise behind this is situational awareness. You have to know where you are before you can determine where you're going. Andrea and I compared notes and we have similar rules in our respective organizations. If you're new on the scene, spend the first few weeks if not months getting to know the environment before implementing change.

For my friend at the World Bank, it was a humbling and informative lesson. It's imperative to spend time getting to know and understand local ways and customs. He's gone on to be a great advocate of western aid organizations working within the framework of native cultures rather than trying to overlay western ideas and methodologies onto every situation.

Part of the legendary roster of Woodstock, CCR released "Who'll Stop the Rain?" in January 1970, just four months after the celebrated music festival. John Fogerty said the inspiration behind the song was the Woodstock crowd itself. During one of CCR's sets, it started to rain. Fogerty noted that rather than scattering and seeking shelter, the throngs of people in the audience danced in the rain. They welcomed rather than bemoaned its arrival. I imagine my friend was witness to a similar celebratory mood during his first East African rainy season.

Rock-tober 20, 2018

I'm not sure when I first heard today's feature. What drew me in was the catchy, melodic tune, but what hooked me was the chorus. "Whoa. What is going on?" I'm no singer, but if I'm alone in the car and this song comes up, I crank it up and scream right along with the ladies.

4 Non Blondes formed in the San Francisco Bay area in 1989. At a time when being openly gay carried a weightier stigma, the primarily lesbian group made further inroads into mainstream music than anyone before them. By comparison, The Indigo Girls top hit, "Closer to Fine", only managed to peak at 52 on the Hot 100 chart.

Lead vocalist and songwriter, Linda Perry, was the last to be signed, joining Christa Hillhouse (bass), Shauna Hall (guitar), and Wanda Day (drums) to form the original lineup. Their newly formed quartet's first rehearsal was scheduled for 17 October 1989, but was delayed - it was the day of the San Francisco earthquake. Not an auspicious start, but they regrouped and became a staple on the Bay Area music scene.

Their one and only major hit, "What's Up?", came off their only studio album, Bigger, Better, Faster, More! The album went platinum while the song topped multiple charts and was certified gold on stateside charts. The lyrics speak to universal themes of trying to find your way in the world and the struggle of dealing with a society that's not always very welcoming.

Interestingly, the track's title doesn't make an appearance in the lyrics. The song's refrain, "What's going on?" was also the name of a Marvin Gaye classic from 1971. In order to avoid confusion, the band simply called their tune "What's Up?".

Diverging pursuits among the band members led to its dissolution during the creation of their second album. Linda Perry went on to become a very much in demand songwriter, penning hits for Alicia Keys, Gwen Stefani, and most notably, Rock-tober alumna, Pink.

Rock-tober 19, 2018

Glen Beckwith, a close friend from my time at Auburn, hails from Kissimmee, just a few miles south of Orlando. I'm convinced there must have been something in the town's air or water, or maybe he just got a sprinkling of fairy dust from living in the shadow of the Kingdom of the Mouse, because the stories he told defied belief or just made us howl with laughter.

He once recounted the tale of a family friend who found himself out on the backroads of rural central Florida at the tail end of an arduous day. Behind the wheel since just after breakfast, it was now dark, his headlights and the waning moon providing the only light on the country road. Hoping to come across a motel for the past few hours, the only thing he'd encountered were cornfields and more cornfields.

It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and he was starting to weave across the lane. Suddenly a figure darted in front of his car, and he had to swerve hard to avoid impact. The car left the road and came to a stop when he spun out into a corn field.

He quickly turned in his seat and looked out his rear window but didn't see anything. All other views were obstructed as it was late in the season, and the corn had grown in full and tall. "That looked like...," he scratched his head. "But that's ridiculous." He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to erase what he'd just seen. "That's enough driving for you, Old Boy." Motel or no motel, he decided to sleep where he was. Late night hallucinations while driving were not a good thing.

He woke to someone tapping on his window. Opening his eyes, he saw a farmer peering at him through the glass. "Hey, fella, you all right?" Shaking off the grogginess, he stepped out and stretched in the morning air. "Yeah, Mister, I'm fine. Sorry about parking in your field. I figured I better stay off the road after I started seeing things last night." This piqued the farmer's interest. "Oh, yeah? What'd you see?"

He scratched his head replaying what he saw. Did it actually happen or was it just a weird dream brought on exhaustion? "I could have sworn I saw a rooster run across the road - but he was wearing boxers."

"Oh. So you've met Henry."
"Wait. What? Henry?"
"Yep. Henry. He's my rooster."
"You have a rooster named Henry?"
"Yep."
"And Henry wears boxers?"
"Yep. He tangled with a fox that got into the chicken coop. Henry fought him off, but that fox tore out all his tail feathers."
"So now Henry wears boxers?"
"Yep. The wife sewed him up a pair so he wouldn't get sunburned."

Tom Petty released "Running Down a Dream" in 1989. It did well, peaking at number 23. Like Glen, Tom grew up in the Sunshine State. One summer during his childhood, Tom spent time in Ocala where he met Elvis during one of his film shoots. That was a seminal moment for 10 year old Tom, inspiring him on to his future career. While criss crossing country roads in the shadow of Kingdom of the Mouse, I wonder if Tom ever met Henry.

Rock-tober 18, 2018

One of the original rules of Rock-tober was an emphatic "no music created past 1989 shall impinge upon these pages". This was a severe (over)reaction on my part to my distaste of a music scene awash with prepubescent boy bands and diva wannabees so prevalent in the 90's. It seemed a travesty that the heir apparent of songs like "Carry on Wayward Son", whose profound lyrics were a trove of symbolism waiting to be unpacked, was an inane "Mbop, ba duba dop".

This statute has been relaxed, if not rescinded, for a couple of reasons. For one, the music scene itself underwent its own self correction as boy bands grew up and aged out and divas in training imploded.

For another, over five years of Rock-tober posts equate to more than 155 songs. This far outstripped the content of my typical playlist. If this project was to continue, I'd need to find new material. This has been a surprisingly satisfying burden and launched me on a continuing 5 year quest of musical discovery. Along the way I encountered old classics that were new to me as well as new tunes that were worthy successors to the tracks of GWC's Most Awesome Mix Tape, Volume I.

Besides, I don't want to be the caricatured old guy cloistered in his home and caught in a musical time capsule listening to nothing but Lawrence Welk and Mantovani records while everyone moved on to the grooviness of Woodstock's alumni. I'd still like to be flicking my Bic and flashing the "rock on" sign well into my 90's.

Blackberry Smoke is part of the new generation donning the Southern Rock mantle as the torch is passed from such giants as the Allman Brothers and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Their southern pedigree started with their formation in Atlanta in 2000 and they proved the veracity of this lineage by headlining for none other than Skynrd themselves as well as my watering hole buds, ZZ Top.

To date they've released six studio albums. Four, including their most recent released this year, cracked the top 10 list, and two of these peaked at number 1 on the Billboard Country chart. "Ain't Much Left of Me" is off 2012's Whippoorwill. It takes the familiar country music trope of being friendless and penniless and turns it into, by the group's own description, a musical opus. From its opening line, "Well my fall from grace was a sight to see," I was hooked. Its refrain, "Well I've been rained on, rode hard, and put up wet," was a succinct summation of past episodes in my own life. The total relatability of "Ain't Much Left of Me" earned it a spot and constant playtime on GWC's Most Awesome Mix Tape, Volume II.

Rock-tober 17, 2018

Growing up an only child and a military brat who moved every few years will either make you gregarious and comfortable in any crowd or it will turn you into a loner. I fall into the latter category. Being the perennial new kid, I always felt like the outsider. In fact, it wasn't until Long Beach Junior High that I spent more than two years at any one school. I kept a small but close circle of friends and tended to leave everybody alone, expecting the same courtesy in return.

This is not the recipe for a typical street brawler. Imagine my surprise in junior high when after "aggressively" horsing around with an upperclassman before the first bell, Coach Snow grabbed us both by the collar and hauled us to see the principal for fighting. I don't remember what I was thinking on the long walk to Mr. Whelan's office, but I'm pretty sure the adult translation was, "What the hell?" I don't remember either of us throwing a punch.

A few years later I was in high school. It was a Saturday night, and in Long Beach, the evening hang out was Jeff Davis Avenue - "the Strip" to us townies. This one particular evening I noticed a raucous crowd forming and in the absolute epicenter of the commotion was Roel, one of my oldest friends. His fists were up and he looked like he was expecting to get jumped from any direction. I pushed my way through to get to him, and the crowd immediately closed in on the two of us. Not sixty seconds prior I was minding my own business and enjoying a cheeseburger. Now, he and I were surrounded by at least a dozen guys who for some reason appeared to be in foul mood. I just looked at Roel, "Dude...seriously...what the hell?" Fists were clenched and words were spoken, but not a single punch was thrown. To this day, I have no idea what went down.

Years and years later I was packing up my apartment in Birmingham for the move to Maryland. All my gear was in a U-Haul and the Blazer was in tow. I missed a turn on my way out of town and pulled into an apartment complex to try and turn around. Unfortunately, the parking lot was smaller than I expected and I was having trouble negotiating a turn with the car trailer. I step out of the cab to survey the situation, and one of the apartment doors opens. Out comes a busybody little lady, "Hey, you! You cain't be livin' here!" I'm annoyed, but I brushed her off. "Relax, lady. I'm just trying to figure out how to turn around." She runs back into her apartment mumbling, "This cain't be! This cain't be!" When she returns, she's on a phone jabbering in a panic to someone on the line. Within a minute some old dude walks out of another unit. Little Miss Busybody points in my direction, and old dude strides straight over to me. "Boy, you cain't be here."

What the hell? Never before or since have I been so exquisitely close to committing felony assault. I just smiled at him. Not the friendly, "Howdy, neighbor," kind, but the kind that was a very dangerous precursor to decisive action. "You. Moronic. Gonad. Can't you see I'm just trying to turn this rig around!" By this time, all the apartment doors were open and a nice little crowd had gathered.

In "Turn the Page", Bob Seger eloquently conveys his annoyance at always being the outnumbered outsider. At that very moment, with piercing clarity, I understood his frustration and anger. Unfortunately, it seems we're always going to be encountering moronic gonads. Brushing them off and "turning the page" was good advice. I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath. I got back in the cab, managed to reverse out of the lot, and left that whacked out enclave in the rear view mirror.

Rock-tober 16, 2018

A coworker in my old shop loved slasher flicks, the campier and gorier the better. He'd show up every Monday morning and regale us with the latest B-movie horror vid he found deep in the bowels of the Netflix hinterland. This facet of the genre never did float my boat and Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th sailed without me. Even though I love Jamie Lee Curtis, I've never seen a single installment from the Halloween franchise.

I've previously posted about watching Jaws at a drive-in as a 5-year old. While the short term result was a kid who slept in the very center of his mattress for the next few weeks, the experience apparently didn't scar me permanently because I still enjoy a good thriller. Maybe my tolerance was built up watching Godzilla terrorizing Tokyo on a regular basis right after the old Saturday morning cartoons. Besides, growing up, the monsters that freaked me out most weren't rampaging lizards, vampires, werewolves, or even man eating sharks. What really wigged me out were mummies. I'm not sure why, but it may have had something to do with all the unsanitary looking bandages. I had a large book of Egyptian history and a major section was devoted to the cache found in Tutankhamun's tomb. I always flipped through those pages quickly because of the detailed pictures of Tut's mummy. While any mummy film gave 7-year old me the heebie jeebies, forty-something year old me enjoyed the Brendan Fraser Mummy series - the Tom Cruise relaunch, not so much.

Sometimes, move monsters don't require fangs, fur, or bandages, sanitary or otherwise. In The Ring,  all it took was a waifish little girl to peg the creepy meter. Another time, while at Auburn, I went with a group to catch Dead Again. One of the gems of this psychological thriller was Robin Williams in a stellar supporting role. Every character had a bit of a shady past and a history that they hid or was hidden from them. No one was what they appeared. It was a slow build up and in one of the climatic scenes, I think every girl in the theater jumped. The girl next to me pretty much wound up in my lap. Years later, some guys in the shop were discussing the best thrillers we've seen. I told them my Dead Again story and a coworker asked, “Whoa, Wayne, what’d you do?” I just shrugged, "Pfft. I married her."

While Halloween parties in the coming weeks will be inundated with a macabre cast of deranged dolls, sadistic clowns, and cutlery wielding hockey fans, I still prefer the roll call of old school monsters from Bobby Pickett's 1962 single - just no mummies, please, thank you very much.

Rock-tober 15, 2018

I spent the summer of '85 visiting with my Aunt who lived in London. While there, we took a trip to Scotland, and on the way up, we encountered an elderly gentleman and his wife also heading for the Scottish highlands. He said although they currently lived in Argentina, his last name was MacDougall, and he was on a pilgrimage to visit his ancestral home. I found that fascinating enough, but then Mr. MacDougall told me the story of how Clan Dougall came into their historical lands.

The area where the Dougalls settled was also claimed by two other clans, and close quarters lead to constant skirmishes. The chieftains convened to try and negotiate how they would decide ownership. They resolved to settle the issue with a boat race from one side of the loch to the other. The chieftain whose hand first touched the distant shore would claim the disputed territory.

The day of the race arrived, and the boat crews readied themselves. When they launched, they would be able to look to the near shore and see the faces of their families and the hopefulness in their eyes. Seeking more than just green, craggy patches of land for farms and pastures, these men were vying for the right to call this land "home". Whether a grand estate or a humble crofter's cottage, the desire for a place to call home was a very insistent one. A warm hearth meant your children might survive the biting winter winds and live to see another spring. A full pantry meant your family wouldn't go hungry in lean years. In the midst of all the uncertainty of the time, home provided a small measure of safety and security.

The magnitude of the waiting prize energized the men. The crews began to strain at the oars with all their might, and the race was on. The three chieftains stood at the bow of their boats, urging their men onward. Spray kicked up by their efforts doused the men with frigid water off the loch. The distance was grueling, and midway across, the Dougall boat began to falter and trail the other two crews. The Dougall chieftain stood and clapped the nearest oarsman on the shoulder. He both cursed and implored his men to rally, pointing to their families behind them to underscore what was at stake. Galvanized, his men responded and surged forward. But by now they were well behind the lead boat, and the old chieftain saw his rival closing on the far shore.  He glanced back once more at the families now receding from view on the other side of the loch and roared in defiance. Drawing and raising his sword, he laid his left arm on the boat deck and cleaved off his own left hand. Not pausing, he cast down his sword, picked up the severed appendage, and hurled it towards the beach where it landed on the sand.

By terms of the agreement, the hand of Clan Dougall's chieftain was the first to touch the shore, and the disputed territory was now rightfully his and his descendants in perpetuity. I was enthralled by Mr. MacDougall's story and hung on every word. Years later I found that the motto of Clan Dougall was "Buaidh no Bàs" - "Victory or Death". On that day, ages ago, the old chieftain of Clan Dougall rendered full honors to that credo.

In previous posts I've recounted my fondness of bagpipes. Andrea will even attest to the fact I've fallen asleep to its sonorous tones. Depending on your ear, bagpipes can be shrill or soothing. While they've been literal instruments of war, preceding Highland units into battle and freaking the bejeezus out of the waiting foe, they're also capable of some of the most melodious tunes I've ever heard. As the sun set on that long ago race day, it's the latter that I imagine provided the backdrop to Mr. MacDougall's ancient chieftain standing atop a Highland peak, surveying what he and his men had secured for their families.

Rock-tober 14, 2018

Andrea says I have a keen sense of smell, and it definitely comes in handy. If I'm doing some automotive troubleshooting, scorched brake pads, engine coolant, and gear oil each have distinctive odors and if I detect them, they bear some investigation. With food, I can generally determine the level of seasoning from the aroma. At times I've leaned over to Andrea across the dinner table when we're out and whispered a prediction, "Too much soy. This is going to be a little salty."

The drawbacks can be more acute. At Auburn, I spent a day at a paper mill as part of a class. Anyone who's been downwind of one of these facilities never forgets the smell. It took me a week of showers to fully eliminate the stench, and I wound up tossing the clothes I wore. I couldn't imagine that place being my job site, but the father of a college classmate was in that position. Her dad, an engineer at a paper mill, totally ruined his sense of smell because of the job. She quipped that her mom buys perfume for her own enjoyment since her dad is now oblivious to whatever she fragrance she wears.

I tend to associate a lady with her perfume. I once had a corner cube in a cube farm, and I could identify most of the women walking past the other side of my partition just by their chosen scent. "Oh. Hey, Olga." Her head would pop over the partition. "How did you know it was me?" I just smiled, "It's my super power." For me, a woman's perfume becomes my identifier for her. It's fine, until it isn't. Once when we were back in Long Beach, Andrea was using Mom's bathroom to get ready for an event (other guests were using the main bathroom). Andrea noticed Mom's perfume and took a whiff. She apparently liked it, and asked my opinion about starting to use it as well. I think my retort was an emphatic, "Umm. Hell no."

For the record, this super power works on guys, too. I was sitting in my office when I catch an unmistakable scent wafting in. "Oh, hey, Eric." Eric popped his head through my door. "How did you know it was me?" I sat back and looked at him. "Dude, I just know. Chris next door bathes in Polo, Milind always has a mug of coffee, and you...you overuse hand sanitizer."

Rock-tober 13, 2018

Wes Manning was the IT Operations Manager during my time in the IT department at Books-A-Million headquarters in Birmingham. Wes was a quiet, unassuming guy who, in an industry full of egos, never sought the spotlight. He was a wealth of knowledge in IBM AS/400 mini mainframes and excelled in his role as ops manager. Most critically for me, he took the time, sometimes working double shifts, to train and impart some of that knowledge to me. This was crucial because prior to arriving in that shop, I'd never worked with that platform.

The biggest project the department undertook while I was there was upgrading the AS/400 to IBM's latest model. The daunting task involved transferring the total summation of the company's digital repository to the new system. This was everything from warehouse inventory and market research to sales reports and personnel records. It was, in essence, a company brain transplant.

After months of planning, testing, and consultation with IBM engineers, D-Day arrived. Wes issued the required commands to initiate the transfer from his console, and the team settled in to monitor the process. Although we worked in shifts, I remember being on station for at least one 24 hour period.

When the system finally reported the data migration was complete we had developers and department heads validate their data. Everyone reported green across the board, and the IT team breathed a collective sigh and started high fiving each other. I noticed Wes standing by himself, hands in his pockets, and just staring at the floor. I walked over. "Hey, Wes, what's up? The party's back there. What are doing over here?" He just gave a wry smile. "Oh, I'm fine. I'm just contemplating my good fortune."

In all my years in the industry, I've never seen a smoother transition before or since. Despite major IT infrastructure surgery taking place, Books-A-Million corporate never ceased operations and all 180+ stores across the southeast carried on business as usual. In the maelstrom of activity that encompassed this project, Wes was a model of silent reverie.

JJ Grey and Mofro released Country Ghetto in 2007. One of the tracks, "The Sun Is Shining Down" has become a favorite of mine. The lyrics are deceptively simple, but Grey's introductory story behind the song gives them a much deeper meaning - "It's the little things, not expectation, that make life worth living." If you're able to mute the noise that is everyday life and spend some time in quiet contemplation, you'll likely come to the conclusion that "I'm alive and I'm feeling fine."

These days when my stress level starts to rise from high profile projects, looming deadlines, or difficult personalities, I try to emulate Wes's example. I'll go for a short walk. If it's been a particular trying day, this song will be playing as I try to refocus on the positives. Whether it's the camaraderie shared with the guys in the shop, being part of the mission of the NIH, or just the simple satisfaction of getting a difficult job done, this quiet reflection brings a smile to my face. If anyone were to ask me what's going on, I'd simply say, "Oh, I'm fine. I'm just contemplating my good fortune."

Rock-tober 12, 2018

One of the shows Andrea and I follow is "Supernatural". For those unfamiliar with the long running series (13 seasons and counting), it follows the adventures of two brothers crisscrossing the country hunting down ghosts, goblins, and ghouls that are wreaking havoc with non-supernatural civilians. One of the things that drew my attention to the show was the other main character, a black, 1967 Impala. It's featured heavily in the bulk of episodes as the brothers' primary ride and rolling arsenal. Of the horde of classic Detroit muscle cars to choose from, I was curious how the Chevy was selected. Originally, the Impala's role was supposed to be played by a '65 Mustang. Given the nature of the events encountered by the brothers, however, producers determined they needed something much bigger, more menacing, and "with enough trunk room for you to hide a body." As a Ford fanatic, I'd argue you could get the same results with a blacked out '73 Mach 1, but I'll concede the point. The Impala is unquestionably effective.

The other draw is the series soundtrack. Eric Kripke, the show runner, is an avowed classic rock fan, and the soundtrack for the series is interlaced with songs from my own playlists. Periodically, tunes I haven't heard in a while or, more rarely, have never heard before pop up. That was the case one particular evening when I heard a familiar voice, but I just couldn't name the tune.

Andrea reached for her phone, launched Google, and pointed the mic to the TV. Like a charm, it returned the name of the artist and track. The familiar voice was Steve Winwood, who had an incredible run of hits and two Grammy awards during the 80's. I didn't recognize the song because it was from his time with Traffic.

Traffic's heydey was from '67 to '74, and today's feature, "Dear Mr. Fantasy", is from their 1967 album, Mr. Fantasy. Wikipedia classifies Traffic's genre as psychedelic rock. It fits because in this vintage video Winwood looks like he is absolutely tripping balls. Forty years later, Winwood was joined by former Blind Faith bandmate, Old Slowhand himself, Eric Clapton, and they performed the rendition below at the 2007 Crossroads Guitar Festival.

While I thoroughly enjoy Kripke's use of classic rock to add fullness and depth to his show, I'm still a little miffed at a Mustang being passed over for such an iconic role.

Rock-tober 11, 2018

I grew up watching Thomas Magnum tooling around Hawaii's Big Island in a Ferrari, solving cases, and always getting the girl. When he wasn't bumming a chopper ride off T.C. or dodging his tab at the King Kamehameha Club, he'd be cutting through the waves in his surf ski off the private beach behind Robin's Nest. What a life.

Fast forward 10 years and I'm on shore leave in St. Croix. Some shipmates and I discovered an outfit renting sit on top kayaks - shorter versions of Magnum's preferred watercraft. This was my chance to be T.M. but with a better tan. The siren call of those weathered kayaks was undeniable. I turned to a buddy, "Hey, watch my stuff. I'm heading in."

"You ever kayaked before?"
"Nope."
"I dunno, Cap. Surf looks kind of gnarly, and there's a lot of boat traffic out there."

I brushed aside his concerns and after some rudimentary instruction from the rental outfit, I pushed off. Being seated just off the surface gave me fantastic views. I had twenty feet of water below me, but I felt I could reach out and touch the seabed. Schools of iridescent fish darted in and out among rock formations, coral, and undulating beds of seagrass. I smiled realizing that at that moment, I was the skipper. I plotted my course and pointed my little craft toward open water, paddling for all I was worth. She sliced through the surf building up speed, seemingly sensing my urgency. Slowly, the sound of calypso music from the beach bars and Buffett tunes from boats in the anchorage died away and I found myself alone. Only sea birds, calling and wheeling in flight above me, intruded on my solitude. The gentle lap of the surf against the kayak and the scent of ocean brine induced a profound sense of solace and serenity. I was definitely hooked.

After Andrea and I were married, she humored my obsession as countless vacations, long weekends, and anniversaries involved a pair of rented kayaks. We've paddled the coastal areas of Maryland, Bar Harbor, Puget Sound, La Jolla, and Martha's Vineyard. "Rental" was the key word.

For years, I've been dropping hints to Andrea that I'd like to build my own. In my mind's eye, it's the natural progression. I've done the research - Pygmy Boats puts out great kits that are highly regarded in the paddling community. We have space - our current house has a large two car garage with only one bay occupied. It now comes down to time and money. Unfortunately, I find disposable amounts of either don't tend to appear at the same time. Nevertheless, it's still a goal and one that will help me one up Thomas Magnum. He may have lived and worked in paradise, but he never built a kayak.

Rock-tober 10, 2018

Andrea is a fashionista. Multiple seasons of shows like Project Runway and its ilk reside on the DVR, and fashion magazines strewn around our house almost outnumber my automotive and woodworking rags. Her shoe collection would make Imelda Marcos proud, and I am utterly flabbergasted by the number of purses and handbags she has stuffed in her closet. Her rule of fashion says a woman's outfit can be short, tight, or shiny. Choose only one, however. With more than one, an outfit can go from classy to trashy very quickly.

With that frame of reference, she's just a little disappointed my wardrobe doesn't come from Ralph Lauren.

"Wayne, I've accepted that 'preppy' isn't your style."
"Wow. That sounds like resignation rather than affirmation..."
"Noo! Not what I meant. You're just more...beachy."

That's not to say I dress like a slob. I've been successfully putting together my own outfits for well over 4 decades, and I know how to make an impression if I have to. For one of our dates early in our relationship, I wore my service dress blues and took her to a symphony concert in Atlanta. Don't tell me I don't have game.

But I've learned from her over the years. On my build, pleated pants aren't flattering, but cuffed legs are OK. You can take dark wash jeans and long sleeve shirts from dressed down to business casual by donning a blazer. Probably most importantly, match your socks to your pants, not your shoes. I've become self-aware enough to allow her to safeguard my fashion sense. Once, when we were out and about people watching, this guy's outfit made me cringe. I realized I didn't want to be "that guy".

"Hey, Andrea?"
"Yeah?"
"Please don't ever let me leave the house wearing shorts, black socks, and sandals."
"Sure thing, babe."

When the boys from ZZ Top came to town to play a gig, I relayed this conversation. They showed no mercy.

"Hey, l'il bro. Please tell me you weren't 'that guy' wearing Birkenstocks and sandals."
"Dude. No! Like I said, I'm trying to not be that guy."
"Hmph. It's a good thing she dresses you."
"Shut up, Frank! She does not dress me. She just makes sure I didn't forget to put on a belt before I walk out the door."
"Ha! Hey, Frank, sounds to me like she dresses him."
"Aw for crying out...SHUT UP, Dusty! Go spin your fuzzy guitar."

Rock-tober 09, 2018

I sat in on a briefing where several directors of NIH's Office of the Director had to present the state of their various organizations. One deputy had to stand in for his boss who was called out of town, and he wound up telling this story.

I've never addressed this body so I sought some advice on how I should frame my talk. I was told by more than one individual to leave out musical references, because that's Dr. Collins's purview. (Dr. Francis Collins, director of NIH, is well regarded as a guitarist and has been known to be seen jamming on the grounds of NIH with his electric guitar.) I was also warned off being too humorous, because that's Dr. Tabak's (Deputy Director, NIH) domain. So if I can't reference music and I can't be funny, what should I be? I was told, "Brief".

That garnered him uproarious laughter from the auditorium attendees. When the chuckles died down, he continued, "Annnnd, I'm done." That earned him thunderous applause.

I'm normally a fan of brevity. Sadly, though, brevity encapsulates everything about guitarist Nick Drake. Born in Rangoon, Burma in 1948, he grew up in Warwickshire, England. Although accepted into Cambridge to study English Lit, he was indifferent towards his studies, preferring to spend his time listening to and playing music. He eventually made connections within the industry and recorded his first album, Five Leaves Left, in 1969. The discology of his brief seven-year career only contains two more albums, Bryter Layter in 1971 and Pink Moon in 1972. He died shortly after in 1974 of a drug overdose. He was only twenty-six.

Drake was by no means verbose. Perhaps fueled by depression and drug use, he was known to put on entire concerts without speaking a word outside of his song's lyrics.  The eleven tracks of Pink Moon had a playtime of only twenty-eight minutes. The title track itself is a scant two minutes long.

He never achieved commercial success during his lifetime, due in no small part to his aversion to public interviews. Posthumously, however, Five Leaves Left was ranked by Rolling Stone at number 283 of the "500 Greatest Albums of All Time". More strikingly, it ranked at number 78 in a Mojo article detailing the "1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die". In 1999, Volkswagen used Pink Moon's title track to great success in an ad for their Cabriolet. Prior to the commercial, the album sold 6,000 copies in the US. Post exposure in the Cabrio commercial, record sales jumped to 74,000 copies.

No one knows the meaning behind the lyrics of "Pink Moon". Some theorized it's symbolic of death and Drake was predicting his own demise. Reading the lyrics, they're actually are very ponderous, and in their sparseness, they sound ominous. But when sung by Drake accompanied by a piano and acoustic guitar they become airy and introspective, almost calming. Indeed, they may be the most calming brief two minutes of your day.

Rock-tober 08, 2018

Right after our marriage, Andrea and I were looking forward to the reception to blow off the stress from the days and weeks leading up to the ceremony. We had guests from half a dozen states and three different continents. It was an epic celebration with loads of mini-reunions, dancing, and true to Filipino custom, food that was off the hook.

Towards the end of the evening when guests started to make their departures, a member of the Washington DC contingent, a mountain of a man, walked up to me and gave a bear hug. "Ow! Hey, we really appreciate you guys making the drive for us. Thanks, for coming, man." He shrugged it off. "Wayne, there was no way I was going to miss this party! It's been a long time coming!" He then extended his hand. When I shook it, he turned my wrist, facing my palm up. I felt something odd. When he withdrew his hand, I looked down. Dude had just palmed me a joint.

I looked at him and back at my hand. "Jeez, man, is this what I think it is?" He just smiled a Cheshire cat grin.
"Yep. You and Andrea have fun now, ya hear?" My head whipped around to see if anybody else noticed.
"Are you kidding me!?" He gave me a wink, a final wave goodbye, and sauntered off.

I did a quick mental run through of the guest list - no LEOs. I jammed the contraband into my pants pocket and continued to make rounds with the remaining guests.

Later that night, I told Andrea about our "present" and we both had a good laugh. Neither of us was interested in lighting up, and I didn't know what to do with it so I stuck it in my Dopp kit's pocket.

After our honeymoon, Andrea and I made our way back to Maryland and settled into married life. She continued with her work and I started a new job. We wound up taking a lot of road trips, exploring the state I hadn't called home for over two decades. There were longer excursions to visit relatives in New Jersey, day cruises down Virginia's Skyline Drive, and even a one year anniversary trek up to Martha's Vineyard.

We eventually had a gathering of the DC friends who were at our wedding. Among them, was Dude who'd given me the joint. "Hey, did you and Andrea ever use my present?"

I realized I'd lost track of it. Then I remembered. Holy crap - the Dopp kit. Returning readers will realize it's the very same kit I always carry with me when I leave home. I ran to the bathroom and hastily unzipped the front pocket. At first, I didn't see it, but then, buried deep in a crease, I extracted our wayward contraband wedding gift. For the past year and a half, I'd unknowingly been packing a joint across a dozen state lines.

I held it up for him to see, and his Cheshire cat grin returned. "Hey! Cool! Ummm..are you gonna smoke that?" I shook my head.
"Uh, probably not."
"Oh....well...can I have it?"
"Knock yourself out, big guy."

For the previous eighteen months, I was basically this guy's mule. My man, Glenn Frey, knows the struggle.

Rock-tober 07, 2018

Few things are as frustrating for me as being right but being unable to convince others of this fact. Before writing me off as an arrogant prig, let me share a few stories. When Dad was stationed in Annapolis in the early 70's, I attended the base's kindergarten class. One day in the line coming back from the playground, a kid in front of me said, "It's time for a kidnap." He was referring to the class nap time that immediately followed recess. I just looked at him and crinkled my brow. "That's not what that means." He and his pals glared at me.

"Oh, yeah, smarty pants? What's it mean then?" I honestly didn't know, but I did know he was wrong. Unable to defend my position, I became the target of their ridicule the rest of the day. That afternoon I raced home, busted open the front door, and slammed it closed.

"HEY, MOM! WHAT DOES 'KIDNAP' MEAN!?" Mom came out of the kitchen in a panic. Her only son had just burst into the house, out of breath from running, and was asking the definition of a felony act. I've got to hand it to her; she kept her cool.

"Wayne....where did you hear that and why do you ask?"
"This kid at school says it means kids taking a nap. Is he right? Is that what it means?"
"No, son. No, it does not."
"I knew it! Then what does it mean?"
"Well..." I picked up on her hesitation.
"Ohhh. Is it a bad word?"
"No...but it's not a good thing. Oh, look, it's a beautiful outside. Why don't you go play in the yard until dinner is ready"

I felt vindicated so I was more than happy to oblige. Meanwhile, Mom was left wondering where in the world her 5-year-old was picking up his vocabulary - probably too much Adam 12 and Dragnet on TV.

In college, Andrea's roommate had to design a book jacket as a project for art school, and the title was giving her trouble. "Hey, Andrea, do you spell 'arachnophobia' with i or an o?" She responded, "I believe it's with an i."

I happened to be there so I chimed in. "Nope. I'm pretty sure it's with an o." I should have kept my mouth shut because what ensued was a thirty-minute quarrel over a vowel. This was a few decades before we could simply ask Alexa and even a few years before we could query Google. The only dinky mickey mouse dictionary in the house wasn't any help since it had no entry for arachnophobia. She continued flipping through its pages. "See this! Arachnid is spelled with an i." I countered by showing her arachnoid was spelled with an o. There was no goodnight kiss when I left for the evening.

The next day, after a sleepless night, I stormed into a local video store, yanked a copy of the movie Arachnophobia off the shelf, and slammed it on the counter. I looked at the clerk and sighed. "Hey, buddy, look, my girlfriend refuses to believe this is the correct spelling of this word. Can you help me out?" After laughing at the absurdity of my request, he proceeded to scribble off a note attesting to the fact that, indeed, arachnophobia was spelled with an o.

Our relationship survived that skirmish, and somewhere in this house we still have the note from that video store clerk.

Years later, Andrea and I were both in Mobile at another couple's house when an argument broke out. The dude was convinced that Elton John the singer and Bernie Taupin the songwriter were the same individual, and the two were just alter egos for the same guy. Nothing the lady said could convince him otherwise. When it escalated, Andrea and I surreptitiously took our leave. We closed the front door to the sound of him yelling, "Oh yeah!? Well, have you ever seen both of them at the same time!?"

For the record, Elton and Bernie are two separate individuals who've shared a very successful 50-year collaboration. Elton released Too Low for Zero in 1983 and marked the first album since 1976's Blue Moon that featured songs all penned by Bernie. Eventually certified platinum in multiple markets, it marked a comeback for Elton John after his previous four albums failed to achieve commercial success. Elton John and Bernie Taupin are still making music together, but I'm not sure I can say the same for that other couple down in Mobile.

Rock-tober 06, 2018

With the advent of CD players, I thought music technology had reached its apex. Kids today will never know the struggle of trying to fast forward or rewind to find a specific song on a cassette. Neither will they know the disappointment of finding a favorite mixed tape totally unspooled and chewed up by the tape deck. For me, having the ability to play specific tracks, in order, shuffled or on repeat was the equivalent of Marty Mcfly getting his hands on a hoverboard.

Apparently that was just the beginning because eventually MP3 players, satellite radio, and YouTube arrived on the scene. Today, even these have been supplanted as streaming services are now the norm and apps like Pandora and Spotify allowed me to explore new bands in old genres that I might not have discovered on my own. I was browsing through Amazon Prime's online stations one day and came across a radio channel titled "Southern Rock". BOOYAH! It became my go to source for workouts, commutes, and my de facto workday soundtrack to keep daily stresses to a manageable level.

The streaming station included the usual suspects like Skynyrd, Allman Brothers, and Marshall Tucker. But it introduced me to some new names, also. One of these was Black Stone Cherry.

Formed in 2001 in Edmonton, Kentucky, the same land that spawned The Kentucky Headhunters, the four man lineup of Black Stone Cherry started by playing to local clubs in the area. In 2006, they released their self titled album, Black Stone Cherry and followed up in 2008 with Folklore and Superstition. They continued to pay their dues as their popularity grew and opened concerts for Def Leppard, Whitesnake, and Nickelback.

In 2014, they released Magic Mountain, and it claimed the #1 spot on the US Hard Rock Album chart. Two years later, they dropped Kentucky, and it, too, went to #1 on the Hard Rock list. The group is popular in, of all places, the UK, having done several tours there as well as on the continent. It brings a smile to my face to think of Brits grooving on the tunes of this quartet from south central Kentucky.

A number of their tracks reveal the influence of their bluegrass state, and they successfully meld this sound with a harder rock and roll edge. This is the case with "Fade Away" off 2011's Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. The first time I heard this track, I knew it would make Rock-tober. This taught me two things. First, music technology keeps evolving and I look forward to continuing developments. Second, maybe, just maybe, music formed after 1989 isn't so bad after all.

Rock-tober 05, 2018

When we were young kids, my friend, Noel, and I were sitting around and talking about what we wanted to do when we grew up. Noel was pretty succinct: "I wanna to find a cure for cancer." I was blown away, "Whoa. That's awesome." Even though we were still preteens, we nevertheless realized what a bastard this disease was. Apart from Dad's father, a man I'd unfortunately never met, I'm not aware of anyone in either his family or mine that had succumbed to cancer, yet the two of us agreed this was a dragon that needed slaying.

Sadly, our lives have not remained unsullied by this affliction, and we all know someone whose life has been thrown into turmoil because of this disease. Two years ago, Andrea lost a dear friend to long undiagnosed metastatic breast cancer. Just recently, a woman she was very close to and has known since college lost her struggle with the exact same malady. Even now we have friends and classmates currently embroiled in their own ongoing battles with surgery, chemo, and radiation. Joyously, some emerged as survivors bearing the scars, both physical and psychological, as badges of honor.

In its initial 1984 debut, Dee Snider and Twisted Sister presented "We're Not Gonna Take It" as an anti establishment, anti authority hard rock rallying cry. Reinforced by heavy war paint and frizzed out hair, the band and the original release epitomized everything your parents feared from rock, rockers, and their seedy influence. You can check out the original release here in all its flamboyant 80's glory. It even made the list of Tipper Gore's most offensive songs in her Senate hearing testimony requesting warning labels be attached to albums with explicit lyrics.

The song continued to intertwine itself in American politics. Snider nixed the idea of Paul Ryan using it during the 2012 election.

"I emphatically denounce Paul Ryan's use of my band Twisted Sister's song 'We're Not Gonna Take It' in any capacity. There is almost nothing he stands for that I agree with except the use of the [workout program] P90X."

In the 2016 election, Snider briefly gave his blessing to the Trump campaign.

"The song 'We're Not Gonna Take It' is a song about rebellion, and there's nothing more rebellious than what Donald Trump is doing right now. Although Bernie Sanders can use it as well; he's turning things upside down, too."

While he considered Trump a personal friend, he eventually rescinded his permission citing disagreement with many of Trump's political tenets.

The nature of the song changed in 2016. That year, Snider allowed his friend, Chris Angel, to use it as the anthem for his charity, HELP (Heal Every Life Possible), dedicated to promoting pediatric cancer research. Snider released an acoustic version of "We're Not Gonna Take It" featuring just a piano and his own powerful voice. In its stripped down form, the song became one of ardent defiance and refusal to concede even one more life to cancer. We all continue to support friends and family still in the fight and look forward to the day that they, too, emerge as survivors.

If you'd like to play a part in slaying this dragon and support patients and researchers on the front line of this crusade, I encourage you to consider supporting the following organizations along with HELP:

• The Pink Fund
• METAvivor