Rock-tober 31, 2019

Architecturally, the Seabee memorial chapel sticks out on the base. Typically, government structures tend to be stark and utilitarian, strictly function over form. The chapel, however, has several perimeter walls with floor to ceiling windows that give unobstructed views of the chapel grounds. The main sanctuary's signature design element is a soaring, peaked back wall featuring an immense stained glass window. When viewed from within the main chapel, the backlit image of Christ is stunning.

It also houses a central courtyard. Several of its sides were made of those same floor to ceiling glass panels as the exterior walls so it could be seen from multiple vantage points within the chapel. Its only entry point was through a single door. Most times it was locked, but when I found it open I'd burst through excitedly. Its normally restricted access made it a compelling place for me to be. An elevated walkway carried you halfway over a koi pond to a fountain set in its middle. Looking down you could see koi swimming placidly among the lily pads along with frogs and, on rare occasions, waterfowl. It was intentionally built to invoke idyllic peacefulness.


One of the kids from the chapel that I started hanging out with during this time was a boy named Wesley. He was younger and smaller than me so I took on the role of big brother. I remember him hanging out at our house a lot and at times I'd be over at his. We'd pass the time watching TV, playing with Hot Wheels, or an Evel Knievel motorcycle and action figure. I remember I had to be careful when we were roughhousing because, again, he was much smaller than I was. Apart from that, I didn't think there was anything unusual about him. He was just another goofy kid I enjoyed spending time with.

At some point, they must have moved away, because we stopped hanging out. Years later, Mom shared something that threw me for a loop. Wesley's mom confessed that it took all her strength to allow Wesley and me to hang out together. I, of course, was shocked. Wesley's father was a SeaBee, just like Dad. During his father's battalion's last deployment to the Philippines, something went tragically wrong. A group of Seabees was ambushed and killed by radical Filipino separatists and Wesley's father was one of the casualties.

It explained a lot. The door to the chapel's central courtyard was locked more often than not. When it was open, grownups would enter and shush us kids when we got too rambunctious, infringing on its solemn tranquility. After all, it was, in fact, a memorial garden dedicated to Wesley's father and his brother Seabees, not a playground.

It would have been understandable for Wesley's mom to harbor a deep-seated grudge against the entire Filipino community. I can't imagine what she thought about her young son roughhousing with a Filipino kid whose deeply misguided countrymen murdered her husband half a world away. As Mom unfolded more of the story, she told me Wesley's mom made a concerted effort to reach out to the Filipino community. She refused the fear and anger with which she could have easily cloaked herself. In doing so, she utterly rejected the hate that would have sprung from them.

Today, there's no shortage of voices lamenting our divisiveness. There's usually a subtle intimation that it's the other group that's being intractable, and it annoys me to no end. Actions speak infinitely louder than mere words.

Wesley's mom displayed phenomenal courage by taking willful steps toward healing. She turned her back on fear and anger and hate by welcoming me into her home. In doing so, she healed a jagged rift for herself, her son, and an entire community. I've witnessed what the real deal looks like, so the talking heads can spare me the fake, insincere platitudes crying for unity. If there's no deliberate action behind the words, it just a veneer covering hypocrisy.

"Will they open their eyes, and realize we are one

Lost the faith, Lost the love

But when the day is done

Will they open their eyes, and realize we are one"

I sincerely thank you, the reader, for your time, support, and kind words these past 31 days. It truly is a privilege to be able to share these brief meanderings and musings of my life with you. Rock-tober out.

Rock-tober 30, 2019

If you read this blog, you know a thing or two about music. Specifically, you know the effect it can have on your moods. The proper tune can lift your spirits when you're down in the doldrums. The right music can get you jazzed or chill you out. A relaxing melody can take the rough edges off a bad day while a riffing bass and drums can Hulk you up before your next reps on the bench press.

I have a habit of looking at my calendar on my walk into the office. If my day is clear with no meetings or deadlines I'll listen to my "Chill" playlist with guys like Percy Sledge or JJ Grey. On the other hand, if it looks like I'll be stepping into a combat zone I tend to queue up something more aggressive.

As I was going through my emails one morning, I muttered under my breath that I'm glad I'd gotten my dose of Poison earlier. A younger colleague overheard me. "Whoa!" His head popped back and his eyes widened with concern. "Hey, man, that doesn't sound like a good thing."

"What? No, dude, no. Not poison...Poison." His look of concern did not dissipate and my annoyance was on the rise. "Poison! '80's era rock band? 'Nothing but a Good Time'!?" There was no spark of recognition on his face. Seeing my attempts to mentor and educate the younger team members still had a ways to go, I let out a heavy sigh. I should be used to this by now since it was another member of this same crew who once asked during happy hour downtown, "Hey, what band was David Lee Roth in? Yeah, wasn't he in Guns N Roses?"

Yes, I know. I have a lot of work ahead of me.

Recently, a perfect storm has been brewing. Two key personnel transferred off our contract, and I've been trying to cover their workload and maintain my own operations. A few weeks ago one of our leads tendered his resignation. During his separation process, he dropped by my office. "Hey, Wayne, I know I should have consulted with you earlier, but I asked that you be named 'acting' until my position can be backfilled." Bloody hell. My calendar suddenly started dinging with invites as his task and meeting load was transferred to me.

Realizing my tolerance for shenanigans had now dropped to zero, my close colleagues have given me an exceedingly wide berth, but they've been doing all they can to help shoulder the burden as I take on three roles in addition to my own. That's been the one ray of sunshine in this gathering storm - I've got a superlative team backing me up. Even so, I don't think I'll be listening to my "Chill" playlist on my morning walks into the office anytime soon.

*sigh*

Gear up and mount up, Buttercup. The only easy day was yesterday.

Rock-tober 29, 2019

The summer day my family moved into our house on North Island View, I was walking a box down the truck ramp and I heard a familiar voice. "Wayne!" I turned and saw my buddy, Mike, in the street sitting on his bike.  "You guys are moving in? That's freakin' great!" Mike and I met our 7th-grade year and had become fast friends. When the move-in was finished, Mike introduced me around to the neighborhood crew: McSwain, the Leary brothers - Tim, Pat, and Gannon, Wayne Smith, and the Wynn brothers - Scott and Sean. Eventually, when my oldest friends, Noel and Roel moved into the neighborhood, the crew was complete.

An interesting origin story I was told about the neighborhood was it used to be a pecan orchard owned by the Reinike family. Kim Reinike, our neighbor across the street, was one of the descendants. Many of the streets had women's names, and it was said they were named for his female relatives.

There were other characters in the neighborhood. These included the principal of our Junior High, Mr. Whalen. His presence likely kept our errant behavior below misdemeanor thresholds. Not that he was a ball buster - we all liked him. Our paths crossed frequently when he was on one of his strolls and we were cruising on our bikes. We'd always give him a wave and shout a greeting.

We also had a claim to Stan "the Man" Hogue, the star trumpet player in our high school band. The band geeks in the neighborhood recounted every Stan sighting like they had a brush with royalty.

There was Ricky, a kid with development issues, who constantly plied our streets on his bike. He had the peculiar habit of letting the air out of his tires and asking to borrow a bike pump. We all knew he was different, but it didn't really matter. We just accepted him as another neighborhood kid.

Nicknames didn't seem to be a thing. The only guy I remember who had one was "Catfish". I never knew how he picked it up and it seemed a little rude to ask. Besides, he didn't seem to care for it much, so I always called him by his given name, Steve.

As kids, we saw the neighborhood as our personal playground and we utilized every square foot of it. We were constantly at each other's houses reading the latest comic to drop or checking out the latest Atari cartridge one of us had acquired. One of my favorites was Mike's place. As soon as I walked through the door, Mrs. Thurman would pour me a glass of sweet tea. She always greeted me like she hadn't seen me in months. "Why, hello, Wayne! Have you eaten? Would you like some pizza?" I never got a chance to respond. She'd just shrug her shoulders, smiled her radiant smile, and declared, "I'll make you some pizza!"

One of my first days in the 'hood, we started a game of stickball in the middle of Island View. I was not a gifted athlete and struck out my first at-bat - not a great first impression. Another popular sporting venue was Wayne Smith's backyard. His Dad hosted countless touch football games and was a natural at keeping us boys in line. If your smack talk got unruly, he'd give you a brief admonishment and send you packing.

Caty-corner from our house and across the street was an old abandoned church. With a badly faded roofline and equally faded gray wood facade, the place gave off a creepy vibe. What it had going for it was a large open field out front that I mowed a few times in the 80's version of  "Go Fund Me". Mike and I once stood in the middle of that field, attached lit smoke bombs to arrows, and shot them into the air. It was pretty cringe-worthy looking back, but we survived.

Around the corner from us was an old gravel pit that had filled with water. While some of the guys fished it, I never heard of anyone gutsy enough to swim its black murk. Besides, if you wanted to go swimming, the beach was five minutes away on a bike.

The best of the best was a large wooded area in the middle of the 'hood. This was our own Hundred Acre Wood. Criss-crossed with bike trails and ramps, we'd ride them full tilt, sometimes crashing into the tall grass just off the path. We'd get up laughing, dust ourselves off, and have another go. Remnants of old forts and hideouts cobbled together with scavenged materials were everywhere. Some epic rounds of night time hide and seek went down underneath its canopy. It served as our place of refuge, concealing us from patrolling cops after a night of neighborhood mischief. It was also the eternally contested no man's land for bb gun wars and bottle rocket fights.

I wouldn't trade growing up in that neighborhood for anything. Those memories are some of my fondest. However, the inevitable eventually happened. At some point, we biked those trails and jumped those ramps, played football at the Smith's, fired off an entire gross of bottle rockets, and had a legendary game of nighttime hide and seek all for the last time, and none of us knew it was happening.

A different crew is biking up and down Island View these days. Mike's and Noel's families moved away years ago. Even Kim, who'd lived in the house across from us since Hurricane Camille, moved on at some point. The creepy old church was finally torn down after Katrina had her way with it. Even our Hundred Acre Wood is gone - razed to make way for new houses. As much as I'd want to, I can't find that old neighborhood anymore. In that sense, I can't find my way home.

Rock-tober 28, 2019

Andrea and I were tooling around town when a commercial came on the radio hawking some new brand of blue jeans. They were described as straight cut and made from slightly stretchable fabric so they moved with you and "were great for your active lifestyle". The commercial continued in a "but wait, there's more" fashion. They culminated with, "and best of all, they're half the cost of designer jeans". I'm thinking, "Cool, I can shell out $20 for a new pair of jeans." When I went to their website and looked up pricing, I lost it. Andrea, who was driving, was a little surprised at my outburst and asked what just happened. "Holy Hannah! Since when does half off designer jeans equate to $80!?" Andrea had a good chuckle and enjoyed my fashion naivete a little too immensely.

"Well, Hon, pull yourself out of your '80's era fashion sense and join us in the new millennium."

Great. Another commentary on my propensity for beachy, Magnum and Crockett couture. I'm thinking, "Alright, I'm not going to be that older guy wearing plaid golf shorts halfway up to my chest. I can adjust to the times. Let me educate myself on the complexities of modern men's high fashion." With that, I turned to that great tutor of the masses, YouTube. A quick search immediately returned pages and pages of men's fashion faux pas and how to avoid them. I clicked on one link and prepared to empower my inner fashionista.

Right out of the gate, I was in trouble. "Men should never wear cargo shorts." What?! I love cargo shorts! Their glut of oversized pockets gives me the space to stash all my EDC items like wallet, keys, and phone. I guess I could stash it all in a fanny pack, but these were designated fashion anathema number 6.

"Wearing sandals makes you look like a rube." Are you kidding me?! Some places and situations just call for sandals. Beaches, woodland trails, and hot, humid summer days with temps in the upper 90's all are better enjoyed or endured with sandals. My irksome tutor continued with further sandal no-nos. While public wear of sandals was bad, wearing them with socks put you on a whole other level of style ineptitude, and wearing flip flops in public was just beyond the pale. OK. Fair points. I personally think flip flops in public are kind of gross.

"Only school boys use backpacks." At this point, I hung my head in doleful resignation. I use a backpack every day to pack lunch, a laptop, or even a change of clothes. According to my now vexing tutor, the proper alternative is a leather satchel or briefcase. My backpack happens to be all leather, so maybe I'm not too far gone on this.

I didn't finish my first tutoring session. When Dude started slamming themed neckties, I abruptly stopped the video. Nobody puts down my Snoopy print neckties. Besides, I realized I already had my own in house fashion guru. Andrea will occasionally crinkle her nose and let slip a plaintive, "Oh. Is that what you're wearing?" Early on, I obtusely assumed it was a rhetorical question, so I nodded and continued out the door. I've since learned she's conceding to my beachy fashion sense but keeping me from going off the rails.

Traffic released the album Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys in 1971. The title track was never released as a single, likely because of its twelve-minute plus playtime.  According to the group's drummer, Jim Capaldi, the song was a celebration of the spirited, multi-faceted rebellion of his generation. For our current discussion, I take it to mean you don't have to constrain yourself to the guidelines of some self-avowed Internet authority. Wear those Hawaiian prints and cargo shorts and go forth boldly.

Rock-tober 27, 2019

A music professor I had at South Alabama once lectured on soundtracks and their roles in movies. He believed they were indispensable for setting a scene's tone and mood. At that time, one of the big movie releases in recent years was 1985's Out of Africa. In class, the guys just looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. "Never seen it, Doctor Wermuth," one guy ventured. The professor laughed and conceded the point but stated that he had and thoroughly enjoyed it. He continued on by saying he was at a screening with the soundtrack stripped away and it was almost unwatchable.

If the good doctor wanted resonance with a bunch of guys in their late teens and early twenties, he should have referenced Top Gun, the Naval Aviation recruitment video from 1986. It had enough of an impact on me that "Highway to the Danger Zone" was previously featured on these pages. The other hot ticket off that album was "Top Gun Anthem". A buddy in college loved blasting these two tunes from his tapedeck as he cruised around, and in a rare case of cassette serendipity, as one song finished, you could just flip the tape and the other song was automatically queued up.

Great soundtracks are more than mood lighting; they have a symbiotic relationship with its movie. Whatever emotions are evoked on-screen are transferred to the musical score. Take the Rocky franchise. Survivor's contributions to Rocky III and Rocky IV have made this blog because the images of Rocky Balboa training for his next big fight on screen made a visceral connection with teenage me. These songs continue to be in rotation in this old school gym rat's training montage for when I absolutely need to crank out that last rep or cycle to the top of that next hill.

If you're OG enough you'll remember seeing Jaws in the theater and the iconic, manacing ba-dub from its soundtrack. This guy saw it as a 5-year-old and memories of those two ominous cords repeating, getting louder and faster wigged me out for weeks. Evidently, there's a scientific reason why horror soundtracks can evoke such an emotional response. The non-linear dissonant chords popular in the genre trigger a deep ingrained threat response in us. The cited study compares the resonance to the panic squeals of yellow-bellied marmots. The next time you find yourself in a pitch-black room with the hairs on your neck standing straight up, just quote the results of this study to the darkness. You'll be fine. Maybe.

The 2006 film, The Da Vinci Code, earned blockbuster status as it raked in $224 million. It was an entertaining movie, but I loved its soundtrack. In particular, I found "Chevaliers de Sangreal", Knights of Royal Blood very compelling. While its use in the movie was profoundly effective for Tom Hanks's character's moment of discovery, I found it to be a beautifully orchestrated piece that's always queued up when I find myself in a pensive mood.

Rock-tober 26, 2019

We loved fireworks in the old neighborhood. Whenever a fireworks holiday rolled around, fireworks stands would pop up everywhere, and for a few weeks, revenue from allowances, odd jobs, and even collecting bottles was dedicated to purchasing as large an arsenal as possible. Bottle rockets, firecrackers, smoke bombs, and jumping jacks were standard armaments, but novelty items also came in handy.

One summer day, the doorbell kept going off and every time I answered, no one was there. I suspected Mike and his shenanigans. After I rigged up some pull pops as trip wires across our entry gate, I climbed into the branches of an oak tree in our front yard and waited. Sure enough, not 5 minutes later Mike cruised his bike up our driveway and through our gate. When his bike set off the pop charges he yelled a few choice expletives, quickly reversed, and sped away. I was laughing so hard I nearly fell out of the tree.

For Mike and me, bottle rockets were our ordnance of choice, and every fireworks season we compared our latest iteration of bottle rocket launchers. Various models had pistol grips duct-taped to PVC tubes, some had sights, and others had multiple barrels. Properly kitted with launchers and bottle rockets, we roamed the neighborhood looking for mischief. A favorite target was other wandering bands of neighborhood kids looking for a confrontation. These chance encounters are what sparked off the perennial neighborhood bottle rocket wars. It was all good fun - until it wasn't.

Armed with a stash of bottle rockets, Mike and I were prowling a wooded area behind some houses in the neighborhood. We decided to see if Wayne Smith was home by launching a couple of rockets at his backyard. Fuses were lit, rockets were aimed, and off they went with a fwoooosh. They found their mark and exploded loudly. Unfortunately, Wayne wasn't home, but his Mom was. The woods didn't conceal us as much as we'd hoped because a very loud and angry, unseen woman's voice boomed at us from an open window. "Wayne!! Mike!!" Uh-oh. Mike and I looked at each other with terror in our eyes. As we crouched down and tried to scamper away, we heard Wayne's mom's voice foretelling our pending doom. "I see you two! I'm calling your mothers!!" Mrs. Smith was true to her word. When Mike and I got back to our respective houses, our Moms gave us a pretty savage dressing down.

When our neighborhood was first built, its developers installed curved, chest-high brick walls flanking the entrance on North Island View. After the repercussions from the Smith incident died down, Mike and I were hanging out at "the wall" on the street's east side with the other neighborhood kids. We all had our fireworks stash and were contemplating what to do that evening. I happened to look down and one kid's entire arsenal was being toted in an open red gym bag. Mike saw the same thing I did and our next movements were synchronized like the seasoned veterans of multiple bottle rocket campaigns that we were. We both reached into our own kits for jumping jacks, lit them off, and tossed them into the open bag. We expected a few firecrackers to pop off. What we weren't expecting and what actually happened was the entire cache lit up.

Someone screamed "Fire in the hole!" and we all clambered over or scampered around to the protected side of the wall. Smoke bombs blinded us, and bottle rockets were whistling off in every direction before ending their flight with a loud bang. Machine gun-like reports of entire packages of firecrackers choked the air from our lungs with acrid powder smoke while jumping jacks whizzed off in random directions into the night sky.

For several minutes after the last explosion, none of us moved. A pall of thick smoke blanketed the immediate vicinity, and aside from every neighborhood dog barking up a storm, it was eerily quiet. Some porch lights came on and window shades were drawn back as the curious civilians wondered what "those pesky kids" had gotten into now.

When we finally gathered on the other side of the wall, we saw powder burns on the masonry and some of the grass around ground zero was on fire. As we dutifully stomped out the flames, the kid whose stash we obliterated looked forlornly at his now empty, melted gym bag. Understandably, he was not in a good place, but he was mollified as we all cheered him and clapped him on the shoulder. He'd delivered North Island View its most exciting evening in a very long time.

A year or so ago, Andrea and I were heading back to Maryland from Mississippi and we stopped at a roadside store in the Carolinas to pick up some peaches. This southern peach emporium also doubled as a year-round fireworks stand. As I entered the room with fireworks, row after row of miniature explosives filled my field of vision. I was a 12-year-old kid again running up and down aisles of my old childhood munitions.

Unfortunately, I now live in a state that bans personal fireworks. Come on. Really? We're keeping explosives out of the hands of kids? Pfft. What could possibly happen? In an act of open rebellion, I picked up a package of smoke bombs and black snakes. A smile crossed my face. The insurrection had begun.

Rock-tober 25, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yep."

"That's all it took?"

"Yep."

"Hah. Sounds about right."

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

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

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

Rock-tober 24, 2019

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

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

Marty Ray

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

Puddles the Clown

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

Morgan James

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

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

Rock-tober 23, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock-tober 22, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock-tober 21, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock-tober 20, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock-tober 19, 2019

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

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

"Yeah! I want a ukelele!"

"Ummm. A what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock-tober 18, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock-tober 17, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock-tober 16, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock-tober 15, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock-tober 14, 2019

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

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

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

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

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get. Out."

"Man, why are you always grumpy?"

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

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

"But yet, here you are."

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

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

"Food."

"No, Grumpy, what are you having?"

"An unwanted conversation."

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Grumpy! What's happening!"

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

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

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

Rock-tober 13, 2019

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

"What's happening, Dad?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eternal Father, strong to save,

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep

Its own appointed limits keep;

Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,

For those in peril on the sea!

Rock-tober 12, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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