Rock-tober 31, 2020

When you reach my age, you've walked a lot of dark paths. Among the darkest is the death of a loved one.

I was 29 when I got the call that Dad was gone. I then found myself onboard a plane with Andrea on a flight to New Orleans. Riding in an aluminum tube for 3 hours with nothing to do but sit with my thoughts was not pleasant. I didn't say a single word to Andrea, but I held her hand the whole time - squeezing harder every now and then in an attempt to fight back tears. I tried to force my mind to wander, to dwell on anything else but the obvious.

Nearby, a group of ladies was talking excitedly about their girls-only trip to Avery Island, Louisiana. I tried to listen in on details, hoping for any distraction. But it was too hard a juxtaposition - their giddiness and expectation of a good time and happy memories was the absolute antithesis of the somber task waiting for me.

When we got to Long Beach, I plunged myself into making arrangements. Mom was obviously a wreck, and I wanted to spare her as much as possible. Besides, if I kept busy enough, I wouldn't be able to slow down and think, and my mind wouldn't be able to focus on who I'd lost.

An unholy horde of decisions had to be made in fairly short order.

What Dad would wear was an easy one. I wanted him buried in his Navy dress blues. That kicked off a frantic and unusual scavenger hunt for his citations. I'd need them to assemble the ribbons he'd been awarded onto his uniform. Over the intervening decades since his service, he'd also lost track of his cover, the hat portion of his uniform, so he was buried with mine.

At the funeral home, Mom asked me to select Dad's casket. Throughout this entire ordeal, Andrea was always at my side. She was with me now, as the funeral director opened a set of double doors revealing an entire display room of caskets and coffins. I could feel the despair rising in me. I'm supposed to choose!? From all this? By what bloody criteria do I make that decision!?

I held her hand tighter as we stepped into the room. The selection was grossly and unnecessarily large, but as I walked among the grim inventory, I kept gravitating towards one. An unadorned, ocean blue, steel casket with chrome handles. What would Dad think? Was it too flashy and ostentatious? Andrea seemed to sense my struggle and squeezed my hand, "I think your Dad would like it. It just looks like him." Decision made. I let out a slow sigh and called the director over. 

Mom asked if I wanted to deliver the eulogy. I unhesitatingly said yes. But the day of the ceremony was approaching and I just couldn't formulate my thoughts. How does a son summarize his father's life? It's an incredibly weighty task that I wouldn't wish on anyone. The only thing I remember about the address was just a snippet that pertained to our relationship: "In the 29 years I knew him, Dad never, ever broke a promise to me."

The graveside service was held at Biloxi National Cemetery, and Dad received full military honors. A rifle squad rendered a gun salute and Mom was presented with the flag that draped his casket. After the ceremony, everyone eventually slipped away until I was the last one present. It was now just the two of us. Father and son.

The swirl of emotions I felt was like being adrift on a stormy ocean, and the sense of loss was crushing. My mind gravitated towards things we'd never do again - work on the Mustang, barbecue out in the backyard, or pack out the van for a cross country trip.

Then came the guilt. Had I done enough? What did we say the last time we spoke? I remembered all the things I wanted to do for him but never followed through. All the times he asked me to go fishing with him and I declined...All those times I'd screwed up or fallen short...All the things that went unsaid...Was he disappointed? Did I make him proud?

ENOUGH!

I let out a slow breath and noticed my hands hurt. My knuckles were white from my fists being so tightly clenched. As I slowly opened them, I reminded myself of who I was. My name is Gregory Wayne C. Capuyan. He was Gregory B. Capuyan. I was his son. He was my dad. And we're good. For the first time in days, I smiled.

I got to my feet and snapped to attention. Still smiling, I rendered my last military salute. Then, approaching his casket, I placed my right hand on the cold steel. "I guess this is goodbye, Dad. Don't worry, I'll stop by as often as I can." With that, I was once more at attention. I executed a brisk about-face and strode purposely out of the pavilion and into the sun.

A young lady who has become special to both Andrea and me suffered the loss of a very close friend recently. I wish we could meet face to face. I'd tell her the story I just told you and hope she could find solace in the fact that I have an inkling of what she's going through.

A more eloquent man than me once said, "Remember all that is good, all that is true, and all that is beautiful about those we have lost."

Treasure the memories. Jettison the guilt.

Rock-tober out.

"Tears in Heaven" - Eric Clapton

Rock-tober 30, 2020

While I've been into it for a while, this year I've really delved into an unusual hobby - I collect and restore cast iron pans. It started a few years ago as a curiosity. We had a few modern era skillets that we used occasionally, and I appreciated their ability to soak up and hold on to a crap ton of heat to give a steak a good sear. They're nearly indestructible and were also highly flexible, easily pivoting from oven to stove to grill and even a campfire if we were so inclined. One negative about cast iron, and it's a big one, is the weight. Our largest skillet at the time was manufactured in the late '90s and weighed in at nearly 8 lbs. That kind of mass makes it hard to air flip a pancake or fried egg.

One day I happened to catch a YouTube video that extolled the virtues of vintage cast iron. While modern cast iron manufacturing is now highly automated, back in the day it was a more manual process, allowing a great deal of refinement that's hard to match with today's assembly lines. The finish on vintage cast iron is noticeably smoother because of the finer sand that was used in their molds. These pieces were also hand-milled, further improving the surface texture. However, what caught my attention was the weight. The more manual approach used by the old foundries allowed them to use thinner castings, which dropped the heft. The first time I picked up a vintage skillet in an antique store, my jaw dropped. Comparable in size to the largest piece at home, it was just a smidgen over 4 lbs.

I think what drew me most to the hobby was the silent history of each piece. Wood stoves were ubiquitous in homes throughout the first half of the 1900s. Major stove manufacturers of the time would often offer full sets of cast iron cookware as an incentive to purchase their prestige line of products - kind of like a car dealership offering potential customers heated leather seats or upgraded sound systems to sweeten a sales deal.

Ironically, most of those stoves wound up rusting away to nothing or eventually being sold as scrap. Meanwhile, those modest, utilitarian skillets, if cared for, continue to serve their purpose to this day. Most stories of these individual pieces are lost to time. Sometimes though, we're lucky and know the full history of a pan. I came across a story of a particular skillet that's been lovingly passed through 5 generations in a single family. Can you imagine having a family heirloom that's been central to every meal, every holiday, every celebratory feast going back at least 100 years?

My collection of cast iron has over 50 different pieces with some of the oldest dating to at least the mid-1800s. As I painstakingly remove a century's worth of rust and carbon build-up from these flea market finds, I find they're trying to impart a few lessons.

For one, I don't really own them. Cared for properly, these will last indefinitely. Therefore, I just happen to be their current steward, holding them in safekeeping for another generation.

Also, they're constant reminders not to focus on the wrong thing. Through the mid-1950s, people took great pride in their purchase of a chromed-out, enamel-coated wood or gas stove that graced the covers of that era's home journal magazines. Yet, few of those massively dear purchases survive into the modern era. What has survived en masse are the sensibly functional skillets that were originally offered as a throwaway item.

So whether they're objects we choose to surround ourselves with, or people we hold in high esteem, or even causes we support, make sure they're not the fad du jour like those pricey, shiny stoves from the Eisenhower administration. Make sure they're worthy of your effort. Make sure they'll stand the test of time.

There's a deeper lesson here that can be applied to many areas in life. Presidential elections, news cycles, and, believe it or not, even pandemics come and go. While these issues may be divisive, they don't have to be. There are bigger truths than who sits in the White House - an old friend who's seen you through most of the highs and lows in your life, maybe your grandma's secret recipe for apple pie, or even a cast iron skillet that's never failed to deliver a perfectly seared steak.

Like the sun rising tomorrow, simple truths always transcend.

"For What It's Worth" - Buffalo Springfield

Rock-tober 29, 2020

Historically, whenever two cultures clashed, victory tended to favor the more technologically advanced society. World history is replete with examples, particularly during the European period of colonialism. From various African kingdoms to the indigenous peoples of Australia, superior technology carried the day.

In the Americas, the Spanish subjugated three major civilizations in the Maya, Inca, and Aztecs. Although more numerous and defended by capable warrior castes, the native peoples of Central and South America were laid low by modern weaponry and zero resistance to Old World pathogens.

Ferdinand Magellan landed in the Philippines in 1521 and claimed the entire archipelago as a colony for Spain, beginning a 350-year occupation of the islands. Spanish forces were able to subjugate large swaths of the southern archipelago. In time, the Conquistadors looked to the northern island of Luzon and the storied gold mines hidden high in its mountains. Expecting the same success in bringing the northern tribes under control, they'd not reckoned on meeting the Igorots.

The Igorots (ē-gə-ˈrōts) are the collective tribal cultures in Luzon's mountainous north. In fact, "igorot" comes from the Tagalog word for "mountaineer". It's this highland area that most of my family hails from.

Armed only with wooden shields, steel axes, and bamboo lances, the Igorots successfully thwarted full Spanish incursions into their territories. Their superb knowledge of the mountain terrain made them a formidable adversary. They were also very intimidating. The large axes they carried into battle were meant for taking heads. Yes, the Igorots of northern Luzon were headhunters. This unnerved the Spanish enough for them to restrict most activity to their garrison towns.

Headhunting aside, the highlanders harried Spanish forces by fighting constant guerilla actions. To prevent the introduction of smallpox and other Old World diseases into their communities, they fiercely controlled access to their mountain passes. They were also cagey enough to restrict information like the locations of their primary settlements and their ore producing mines. For the entirety of the occupation, the northern tribes successfully fended off what was, at that time, the most powerful nation on earth. They ensured that the Igorot languages and culture remained intact.

October happens to be Filipino American History Month. There's a lot of my family's history intertwined with American history. I believe my great grandfather was a scout with General Arthur MacArthur, father to General Douglas MacArthur. One of my grandfathers was in the Battle of Baguio City during WWII. I've seen his name carved into a memorial commemorating the action. There's also Dad's service in the US Navy during the Vietnam era.

"Filipino American History Month" is a good reminder for me to start collecting the stories from my own family before they're lost to time. If not for a memoir, the stories might make an interesting post. 

"Run to the Hills" - Iron Maiden

Rock-tober 28, 2020

As I write this, Mike, one of my oldest friends, and I have been watching the progression of Hurricane Zeta. I've got a New Orleans station and the live feed from the Biloxi lighthouse streaming in the background.

In sections of our texts over the past few days, I asked him about his car restoration projects. I told him I'd had a weird dream where he restored a car and I wanted to make sure I hadn't developed some later life mutant cognitive powers.

In the dream, I found myself in a venue for a small gathering. It felt like a college library or a vintage book store. Old volumes filled rows of bookshelves, some waist high and some were floor to ceiling. In an open area were couches and love seats arranged to face a central point. Lights were dimmed and I became aware of multiple conversations.

I blinked and all the seating was now occupied with couples. From all the smiles and laughs, I assumed most know each other. My eyes started to focus in that dreamlike way, and I realized I knew some of these people. They were high school classmates, but we weren't kids anymore.

A class reunion!

I was slowly piecing the scenarios together, trying to get my bearings when a lady stepped into the center of the group and welcomed everyone. She started going through a list of accomplishments our classmates had achieved. It all sounded like "adult-speak" on Peanuts cartoons.

She suddenly became crystal clear and caught my attention, "...and lastly, we want to congratulate Mike Thurman for his most recent automotive restoration being featured in Hot Rod magazine!"

Holy crap! That's fantastic! Apparently, Mike landed on the cover of several car rags for his work in restoring classic automobiles. I was scanning the crowd for Mike, but the room went dark and a film started playing before I found him. It was a highlight reel of interviews he'd given about his latest project - a...umm..pistachio green...uh...Volkswagen.

I was more than a little shocked. You have to understand that back in high school, Mike prowled the streets in a '65 Malibu Supersport. He and his Dad dropped in a 350 Chevy small block along with a donor 3-speed tranny from a Corvette. The body was a faded yellow and primer gray, and it just had the most intense rat-rod vibe. He was a die-hard Chevy Bow-Tie Boy and so a Volkswagon seemed a little outside his wheelhouse. "Okay," I thought, "people's tastes change. But I'm definitely gonna give him crap about this."

Suddenly, a random dude's voice shouted over the audio, "That car sucks!" A murmur started within the crowd. That's just great. One of our female classmates brought their lightweight hubby who couldn't hold his liquor. The punk continued, "Man, that car is a piece of crap!" 

I finally got a bead on Mike and his eyes were shooting daggers at loser Dude.

First rule for car guys: Do not insult someone's ride. Now, I could bust Mike's balls all the livelong day for cruising the mean streets of Ocean Springs in a fully restored pistachio green VW bug, but I sure as hell wasn't letting this interloper get away with it.

I'm trying to stride over to loser Dude, but my legs wouldn't move. In real life, I was probably thrashing up a storm in bed. I caught loser Dude's eye and he just sneered and gave me the one-finger salute.

Did he just-? No. He DID! Now I'm freaking ballistic. I'm cracking my knuckles and trying to get to him. WHY. CAN'T. I. MOVE?!?

And then I woke up. In an instant, I was situationally aware. Blankets were strewn all over and pillows were on the floor. My reaction was visceral. No! WAIT!

Ever try to go back to sleep to try and finish a dream? It never works for me, and I truly wanted to thump loser Dude. I was pissed for the rest of the day.

Mike's favorite Bob Seger song is "Fire Lake". So here's a long-distance dedication to one of my oldest friends as we watch the tail end of Hurricane Zeta cruise through Landmassia. I've got your back, brother, whether it's in real life or one of my whacked out dreams.

"Fire Lake" - Bob Seger

Rock-tober 27, 2020

Nearly all the companies I've worked for have at some point put the entire contract staff through team-building exercises, and these usually involve taking personality profile tests.

Several personality types pop up:

"Get It Done"

These folks like to get tasks off their plate as quickly as possible and move on to the next issue. It's typically a good trait to have, but sometimes this alacrity causes problems down the road when they execute a project plan without considering all possibilities. The team then spends a lot of man-hours retooling a deliverable to accommodate previously unaccounted for parameters. A number of my former bosses fell into this category.

"Get It Done Right"

This is me. When I work for a "Get It Done" boss, I spend a lot of my time pumping the brakes on a project. I find having to circle back to fix something rushed into production particularly annoying so I'm usually the roadblock for immediate executions. The need to do a job right the first time has caused friction in the past with team members pushing to just get it done. And while inherent accuracy on initial execution is desired, it has its own drawback - these folks can get bogged down in minutiae. I've known myself to spend 15 minutes drafting a throwaway email. 

"Get Along"

These individuals enjoy being an influencer and spend much of their energy building up the team. A requisite for that seems to be the need to be liked. An individual on a previous contract attempted to fill that niche by being a purveyor of information. You could ask this person for the scuttlebutt on any aspect of the project and they'd spill the beans. Often they'd do this without any prompting from me. 

At one point I found I needed to quickly disseminate information through "unofficial" channels. On a whim, I pull this "Get Along" person aside and casually talk through my agenda. Sure enough, after a few days marinating on the backchannel telegraph, it became a topic of discussion at a high-level meeting.

When I relayed this to Andrea, she chastised me. "Wayne, that's supposed to be a tool for team building, not manipulation."

Perhaps, but my mission was accomplished and Sun Tzu would be proud.

"Master of Puppets" - Metallica

Rock-tober 26, 2020

There are three cuisines where I'm leery of the spice level: Thai, Indian, and Cajun. I routinely disregard the "caution: spicy" notation on the menu of any other restaurant.

While Filipino dishes can be really well seasoned, they're not known for blistering the roof of your mouth. Even so, I wasn't born with an asbestos palette, and like everyone else in the Scoville Brotherhood, I had to be eased into the lifestyle.

Mom has always used peppercorns liberally in her cooking. As a preschooler, I bit into one for the first time and the sharp peppery bitterness caused me to contort my face. Mom noticed I was suddenly having a bad day and asked, "What just happened?"

"I bit into something hard." After chugging down my drink, I emphatically declared between hyperventilated breaths, "I didn't like it!" Mom realized the cause of my distress.

"Easy there. Drink this." She refilled my glass and was now curious. "Can you describe the taste?" Unable to verbalize that I didn't (yet) like spicy food, and not able to think straight because of the weird, lingering burn in my mouth, I delivered a simple verdict.

"Ugly."

Like many who grew up just outside bayou country, my first exposure to a real-life Cajun was Justin Wilson. Along with Mr. Rogers and Mr. Ross, Chef Wilson was another favorite in my PBS lineup (Bob Villa was in the mix, too, but that's another post.) Besides, we only had 6 broadcast channels and my other options were daytime soaps.

In his trademark red tie and suspenders, Justin Wilson came across as a kindly, down to earth guy. He was like a favorite uncle who always had a story ready for any occasion. Along with spinning a yarn, Chef liked his glass of wine and his spices. As he prepared a dish, a common scene would be him adding the requisite amount of seasoning. He then paused, looked straight at the camera, gave a sly wink and smile, and continued dosing out the pepper.

When we moved to Island View in Long Beach, our next-door neighbors, the Mayos, were Cajuns who were great salt of the earth people. One day, Dad was tending to his garden, where he grew among other things, Filipino peppers. Mr. Mayo sauntered over to the fence between our properties, "Hey, Greg, whatcha got there?"

Dad thought he'd have a little fun. "Just picking some of these peppers. Want to try some?" He handed the bowl over to Mr. Mayo. "These shouldn't be a problem for you - they're pretty mild." The peppers dad handed over were not mild. While not crazy, scorching hot, they packed a punch. Mr. Mayo took a few and popped them into his mouth like they were Tic Tacs. Dad waited a moment, trying to suppress a smile, but he was soon disappointed and impressed.

"Yeah. You're right, Greg. These are mild."

"Leaving Louisiana in the Broad Daylight" - The Oak Ridge Boys

Rock-tober 25, 2020

One of the pastimes Andrea and I enjoy when we visit a town for the first time is dropping in on local antique stores. These places are the unofficial museums of their respective area and give glimpses into the lives of a town's former inhabitants. Therein lies a creep factor. As one rifles through a bin of old vinyl albums or vintage turn of the last century clothing, it's likely the previous owner is deceased. Andrea and I discussed this, and we've affectionately taken to calling these establishments "Dead People Depots". Whether or not you're a member of our tribe depends on whether you're shocked or smiling at this moment.

Regardless, these places can be walks down nostalgia lane. I've seen board games that got heavy usage from me and my childhood playmates. There were Peanuts lunchboxes I've come across that were identical to the one I carried for years in early primary school. One place in Havre de Grace had a sizeable collection of Lionel train cars that made me want to break out the old train set that I got one Christmas in the '70s.

Some of the items we found gave rise to questions. I-81 in Virginia runs along the state's western spine. An antique mall just off the Interstate had an extensive collection of wood carvings that I recognized immediately as being Filipino in provenance. The closest Filipino community was over 400 miles away on the coast. How had these carvings come to be here, deep in the backwoods of Virginia?

The proprietors of these establishments are not only the defacto curators of local miscellany, they also serve as historians for the area. In Columbia, Pennsylvania, one of the owners of Rivertowne Antique Center told us about an episode of the town's history.

In the spring of 1863, components of Robert E. Lee's army were looking for ways to ford the Susquehanna River to continue Lee's invasion of the north, and the mill town of Columbia had a bridge that would allow them to do just that. Aware of this, the Union garrison commander had his troops dig in on the north shore. The orders he was given were to hold the bridge or, if he felt he would be overrun, to destroy it. His decision was a hard one. While it could serve as an incursion point for the Confederates, the bridge was also a critical artery for the flow of badly needed supplies across the river.

By June, York fell to the Confederates and southern forces were advancing to capture the Pennsylvania capital of Harrisburg and even Philadelphia. As Confederates approached Columbia, Federal troops laid charges to blow just a section of the bridge, hoping to save as much of the structure as possible. In the ensuing battle, it became apparent the Union position was untenable and the order was given to detonate the explosives. However, the charges failed to destroy the targeted section. With no other options to stop the Confederate push, the order came to burn the entire bridge. This action succeeded, halting the southern advance. 

Denied a way forward, Confederate troops pulled back, retraced their route through York, and linked up with other southern units at a sleepy farming town named Gettysburg. The actions of the Union commander at the Columbia crossing of the Susquehanna saved several Pennsylvania towns from capture and moved pieces on the battle board to a convergence that, less than a week later, saw the costliest battle ever fought on American soil.

One has to wonder what would have happened if the Confederates successfully crossed the river. It's not likely Gettysburg would have been the turning point it became as Federal forces would have been reallocated to protect Philadelphia. As the shop owner was telling me this tale, we both got goosebumps at the possible changes to history.

If you go to Columbia today, the town is quiet and idyllic, full of restaurants and the previously mentioned antique shops. A new bridge spans the river. But next to this modern artery,  you can still see the pylons of the original bridge, standing like silent witnesses to history.

"The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" - The Band

Rock-tober 24, 2020

Earlier this year, Andrea and I were watching one of the morning news shows when the style segment came on. The correspondent was doing a piece on the return of Swatch to vogue prominence. Back in high school, sporting a Swatch was one of the ultimate fashion statements you could make. I later asked Andrea if she wanted a Swatch back in the day. She laughed, "Hon, I wanted all the stylish things." We both laughed at my rhetorical question. She then asked, "Did you want a Swatch?"

I smirked, "Nope. Back then they weren't vintage enough." I laughingly added, "But they're vintage now." I actually checked out the Swatch website. I'm not gonna lie, I liked some of what I saw. There's a chance I may actually start wearing a Swatch - thirty-five years after the initial trend.

That's not to say I was a total fashion Luddite in high school. I was astute enough to recognize trends - I just didn't always follow them. Blue jeans, for example, came into style with the Boomer generation and never left. However, my class of Gen X'ers put its stamp on them by having them come from the factory with holes and rips. Just a plain, non-trendy pair for me, please. I'll put my own signature spin on the distressed look. It may take a couple of years, but I'll eventually get there.

T-shirts were a thing. Again, my generation kicked it up a notch from the plain white tees showcased by the Boomer crowd like Marlon Brando in The Wild One. The ones I favored had a beachy theme. My drawer was full of Panama Jack shirts and Jack's coastal cousin, Jamaica Joe.

In the south Mississippi heat, shorts weren't just trendy, they were a requirement. To fill that niche, just about everyone was sporting Hobie and Ocean Pacific (OP if you were particularly hip). These shorts worked great as casual shorts for cruising the strip or the mall and transitioned instantly to swim trunks for spur of the moment beach or poolside visits.

Cooler weather actually did make an appearance, eventually, even in Long Beach. For a while, everyone was doing the jean jacket - hooded sweatshirt combo. I actually liked this look. It was a good melding of form and fashion. Another way we staved of the chill was Members Only jackets of which I proudly still have one.

Following Swatch's example, I'm calling for a resurgence of the old brands. Hobie, OP, and Members Only survived the grunge '90s and emo 2000s and stand at the ready to transform you into your '80s self. However, as I see names like Jamaica Joe and Panama Jack continue to be viable brands today, I'm thinking there may be room for another beach centric fashion house. 

Rather than a dude in a coat and tie wearing a monocle or sitting in a rattan chair, this new iconic logo would be a guy in his 50s sporting a 'stache, wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, Miami Vice Ray-Bans, holding a scotch in one hand, and a cigar in the other. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the next, great American brand: Waikiki Wayne.

While my classmates may have taken fashion cues from the Brat Pack back in the day, Crockett and Tubbs were who I aspired to. A soundtrack that's been heavily featured in this blog is from Miami Vice, a fact that shouldn't surprise people who know my proclivity for casual beachwear. While both appearances to date, once in Rock-tober 2013 and again in Rock-tober 2014, featured Phil Collins, there's still so much to unpack in that masterpiece of '80's Americana both musically and fashion-wise. One track in particular still gets heavy playtime from me. "Crockett's Theme" is perfect for those pensive moments with a cigar and bourbon, or cruising the streets at 2 AM to clear your head, or standing in front of your closet trying to decide which linen jacket you're wearing for the day.

"Crockett's Theme" - Jan Hammer

Rock-tober 23, 2020

In his younger days, my former coworker, Mike, was in the Army. This was back when we were still embroiled in the Cold War, and he spent several tours near potential ground zero in West Germany. Considering their mission of halting a mechanized Soviet incursion, the artillery pieces his unit had in its arsenal were massive. He told me some of the rounds they could send downrange had restrictions on how many could be fired in a given time frame. Apparently, the backblast from them could cause concussions. Luckily, the only long term damage Mike incurred was a bit of hearing loss. I always seemed to be able to surprise him if I approached from his bad hearing side.

As big as Mike's field pieces were, they paled in comparison to naval artillery. Naval architects were free from the Army's restrictions of "How the bloody deuce am I going to move this thing?" Given some admiral's wish list for gun size, shipbuilders just had to design a big enough ship around it.

The first live-fire from a Naval gun I experienced was on board a frigate, the USS Truett. During an exercise, several salvos were fired from her 5" deck gun. I was watching from the bridge less than 50 yards away and I could feel every one of them in my chest.

Those were pea shooters compared to the 16" guns of the battleship, USS Alabama. On one tour, I broke away from the crowd and wound up deep in the bowels of the hull where I ran into one of the curators, a retired Navy guy. I saw him eyeball the "Old Ironsides" patch on my jacket, and he took me for a kindred spirit rather than typical tourist flotsam. I followed him on a private tour to areas normally not accessible to the public. We wound up in fire control where he stood me in front of a panel. "Guess what these are." I looked down and saw a series of levers, each topped with a squeeze handle. 

"Are those triggers?"

"Yep. Those are what makes the big guns go 'boom'." I had no idea how far I was from Alabama's turrets, but I can imagine the noise in fire control would be deafening, and you'd definitely feel the concussion deep in your bones.

The biggest guns the Navy ever installed were on the Iowa-class battleships. The last of these to fire her batteries in support of US ground forces was the USS Wisconsin. She was capable of sending 2600 pound shells a distance of 23 miles. That's like hurling a Volkswagen over the visible horizon. How's that for fahrvergnügen?

Last fall, after the last day of Rock-tober, Andrea and I attended a downrigging festival up the road in Chestertown, MD. Before the rigging on the regional fleet of sailing ships was secured, or downrigged, for the winter, they took the public on one last daysail of the season. We were fortunate to be aboard the Lynx as her skipper was a bit of a rogue. As we approached the rest of the sailing fleet tied up at the dock, he ordered the ship's cannon to be primed for action. When he asked for volunteers for this mission of mischief, you can bet your belaying pin I was front and center.

The little deck cannon could probably only accommodate a 3-inch cannonball, but it was a beast to move using only block and tackle rigging. After a few minutes of grunting, we managed to run the barrel out the open gun port. Slowly and silently, the skipper maneuvered the Lynx until we were abreast of the anchored fleet. On his command, a deckhand touched off the powder charge. Seconds later came the thunderous report.

Holy cow! I felt that one. For a tiny little thing, that cannon packed a heck of a shockwave, and I had to brace myself against its push. The gun carriage recoiled backward and strained against its lines. Black powder smoke filled the air and our lungs, and onshore, the pollywog tourists not fortunate to be onboard the Lynx were scurrying for cover. I was gleefully taking in all the commotion like the Dread Pirate Roberts incarnate when I saw Andrea trying to get my attention. I couldn't hear what she was asking over the ringing in my ears, but the big, goofy grin plastered on my face told her what she needed to know.

"Cum On Feel the Noize" - Quiet Riot

Rock-tober 22, 2020

In 1974, the federal government dropped the maximum speed on all interstate highways to 55 MPH. Called the "Double Nickel", it was meant to curtail oil consumption after the Middle East oil embargo. The trickle-down effect was notable in the automotive industry's car designs. Post embargo and double nickel, the 1974 Mustang II shed 500 pounds and 20 inches from its previous model year.

However, the Mustang that my family had was of 1970 vintage. It was definitely on the upswing in size and horsepower. And I used every bit of it. Looking back, some stunts (a lot, actually) are very cringe-worthy. But I can't bring myself to chastize younger me. What else was a 15 year old going to do with 220 horsepower?

The beaches of Florida were a traditional spring break/weekend destination back in high school. They were at known distances with well-established travel times, if you went the speed limit. When our group showed up earlier than expected on one outing, my buddy asked what time we left. When he realized I'd shaved nearly an hour off the drive, he just shook his head, "Y'all were flying."

Yes. Yes, we were.

I was once told, for all the times we actually do speed, we have no reason to grouse when we're finally tagged.

Decades later, I once filed travel plans that put me through 3 airports, 4 states, and 1 rental car in 12 hours. It was on this junket when I ran afoul of an Alabama State Trooper. It was late afternoon, I hadn't eaten, and I was just ready to call it a day. I didn't realize how fast I was going until I saw the flashing lights in my rearview.

On the shoulder off Alabama I-85, I rolled down my window. "Afternoon, Trooper." The guy was all business.

"License and registration, if you would, sir."

I gave him my driver's license and rental car agreement. "You're out of Maryland?"

"Yes, sir." He scanned my rental agreement.

"You flew into Atlanta?"

"Yes, sir."

"And now you're passing through Alabama?"

"Yes, sir." This was not looking good.

"What brings you down our way?"

"Business trip."

"And what business would that be?"

"I'm in IT." I realize I'm being vague. That, coupled with my unusual travel pattern was setting off all kinds of flags with this guy.

"What's your final destination?" Well, crap.

"I can't say."

"Come again?"

"Trooper, it's classified." He calmly regarded me and cocked an eyebrow. I know that look. I use that look. Raising one eyebrow in a conversation is my non-verbal "Bullshit."

"Well, I suppose you can back that statement up?" I pulled out my credentials and handed them over.

"I'll be right back." He strode back to his cruiser, and I saw him get on his radio. A slow 10 minutes pass. I'm thinking I'm going to have to fly back down for traffic court, my security officer will be giving me hell, and someone back at the office is going to charge me a lunch offense for having to cover several more of my shifts.

The trooper eventually sauntered back, returned my creds, and hooked his thumbs into his uniform belt. Still regarding me with a slightly raised eyebrow, he slowly grinned and extended his right hand. I was more than a little shocked but reciprocated. "Slow this rig down, Hoss. Y'all have a good day."

"Yes, sir, trooper." I never found out who was on the other end of the phone call he made.

These days, my daily driver calculates MPG and I find myself trying to goose that number as high as I can like I'm playing a geriatric version of Grand Theft Auto. However, on long road trips, my GPS gives me an ETA to the next waypoint, and like most every one of you, I still view that as a "time to beat".

"I Can't Drive 55" - Sammy Hagar

Rock-tober 21, 2020

 

Andrea has a knack for giving me pretty cool gifts.

After our engagement, we made the rounds of several parties held for us by mutual friends. As was typical at these events, everyone asked to see her ring. She politely obliged, but told me afterward she was rather sad she was the only one to have a physical memento of the engagement. I shrugged it off, "Pfft. Don't worry about it." But she got it in her head she wanted to reciprocate. A week or so after I returned to my apartment in Birmingham, a shipment arrived at my door. I smiled when I saw the sender's name. Andrea had just given me a brand new stereo system!

Receiver, dual tape deck, surround sound speakers, remote control, and, very spiffy for the time, a twenty-five CD caddy. I'm not even sure I had 25 CDs then - a lot of my music was still on cassettes. I called her up to thank her and she laughed at my giddiness.

Back in those days, I was a gym rat and would be a regular fixture at either the base gym or the YMCA. After we got married, we got commercial memberships, but because of where we were then living, the nearest gym was 30 minutes out. Working out started to become a time suck. She stepped in and got me a Bowflex. Again, I was ecstatic.

Her gifts haven't always been strictly practical. On one occasion of either an anniversary or birthday, I found a large package waiting on a table for me. Like an excited kid, I tore through the wrapping paper to expose an unusually shaped wooden box. My brow crinkled, not sure what to make of it. I slowly undid the latches and lifted its lid to reveal a functional, vintage brass sextant. Andrea knows what resonates with me, and the symbolism of this gift was profound. Sextants were critical for mariners in determining their location because you can't tell where you're going if you first don't know where you are.

Perhaps her most interesting gift was one I received when we were still dating. We'd been seeing each other for a while, and exchanging cutesy, coupley presents was not too unusual for us. At one relationship milestone we were celebrating, she gave me a thin, wrapped package. When I picked it up, I found it was flexible in my hands. Intently curious, I tore off the paper to reveal an issue of Sports Illustrated.

HaHa. Okay. So we're doing gag gifts now. She of all people knows I'm not a sports buff. But she kept looking at me expectantly, and I wasn't sure what she was waiting for. I took another look at the issue in my hand and my eyes popped. This wasn't any Sports Illustrated, it was that year's swimsuit edition.

OK, so this is a joke, right. Where's the camera? Is that Allen Funt behind that desk? Andrea snickered, still waiting for me to catch on. So I looked closer at her oddball gift. Slowly, the realization sank in. I started flipping pages, and my smile got wider and wider. My girl had gone to the trouble of making multiple color photocopies of her face, cut them out, and affixed them to every model's picture in the magazine from cover to cover.

It was the brassiest most gnarly gift she'd given me, and it was yet another tick mark in the "she's the one" column.

"Venus" - Bananarama

Rock-tober 20, 2020

Growing up, my family only camped occasionally. I suspect the limiting factor was Mom's annoyance with the heat and humidity that are some of South Mississippi's summer charms. And the mosquitos - we can't forget the bloody state bird. There was one particular trip we made that stands out for me. It happened one summer up at Flint Creek in Wiggins, Mississippi. There were two other families apart from Dad, Mom, and me. My defacto brothers, Noel and Roel, were there, along with our dogs, Mickey and Brown Shoe. The parental units put the three of us and the dogs in our own tent to keep us out of their hair. This was fine with us. It was like an extended sleepover.  Our tent was a stone's throw from the reservoir, and we had our dogs, fishing rods, and access to a skiff. The whole week played out like chapters from Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer.

For Andrea, while her family had a tow behind camper, she tended to decline hanging out with the family on their little excursions. It's not like she's a prima donna about roughing it. In college, she spent time out in the literal jungles of Brazil. Bathing was done at the local river, and armed guards were posted in the event a wayward anaconda or crocodile came along. I just assume that somewhere along the way she decided she liked puffy queen-sized mattresses and hot showers instead of bedrolls and sharing a bathroom with the flora and fauna.

Imagine my surprise as we found ourselves perusing YouTube videos of tents, towable teardrops, and truck bed campers. She then starts detailing features she likes and doesn't like about every model we viewed. "Oh, look, this outfit gets their cabinetry from an Amish community in Ohio."

Offhandedly I mentioned, "You know, we've got a tent in the garage that we've never used. We could take it for a spin at some point." She seemed surprised by this revelation.

"What!? When did we get a tent? Why do we have a tent? How do I not know about this!?" I assured her I wasn't keeping it from her. She was actually with me when we bought it the first year we were married. It was then her turn to surprise me.

"We should go camping this weekend." I just stared at her. She could just as well have been strapping on a helmet and said, "Let's go to Mars." However, she appeared to be serious.

OK. Let's run with this. I started making a mental list of things to dig up out of deep storage. There's Dad's old sleeping bag he used on maneuvers, a kerosene lantern, a cast-iron skillet, and a fire ring. We'll have to call ahead to the campground. I wonder if I've got wicks for the lantern. Then Andrea snapped me out of my internal dialogue.

In the midst of me trying to determine how rough we'll be "roughing it", she says, "We need to get a new queen-size air mattress. I think the one we have has a leak."

*sigh*

Here's something else that surprised me. One Google search turned up this song as the number 1 camping song of all time. I thought they were joking. They may just as well have said, "Bye Bye Bye" by NSync, but they were, in fact serious.

OK. Let's run with this, too.

"House of the Rising Sun" - The Animals

Rock-tober 19, 2020

When Andrea and I were planning our wedding, the logistics, at times, got pretty challenging. She was in D.C., I was in Birmingham, and the actual wedding was taking place on the Mississippi coast. 

Slowly but surely, that seemingly insurmountable mountain of To-Do items fell into the "Done" column. At a time when phones still carried long-distance charges, we coordinated a number of things remotely. Church and reception hall? Check. Caterers and flowers? Done. Announcements, invites, formal and everyday china, and silverware. All the devilish details were falling into line. Then, as the day started to loom large, we were stymied by another hurdle.

Mississippi required blood tests before issuing a marriage license. Because Andrea and I were both out of state, it meant that by the time we delivered blood samples and waited the appropriate processing time, we would have missed our wedding date.

A slew of anxious phone calls with health department officials didn't end in any resolution. Then, after more phone calls, we became aware that the grand state of Alabama did not require blood tests to issue a marriage license. With a conspiratorial sigh, we got the required paperwork in order.

One more impediment remained. At the time we applied for an Alabama marriage license, there was a state law on the books that made interracial marriages illegal. After the wedding festivities, Andrea and I went to the Lee County courthouse in Opelika, Alabama, to turn in our signed marriage license. We arrived at the courthouse, and as hand in hand we approached, an odd thing happened. 

Nothing.

No state troopers or sheriff's deputies barred our entry to the building. The county clerk who received our paperwork didn't make any snide remarks. Back outside, there were no throngs of protestors forming a gauntlet for the two of us to navigate.

One thing Andrea and I never had to consider was the consequences of running afoul of miscegenation laws, or laws prohibiting interracial marriages. These state laws were basically defanged in 1967 when the United States Supreme Court ruled laws banning interracial marriage violate the Equal Protection and Due Process Clauses of the Fourteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

In this, Andrea and I owe a great debt to Mildred and Richard Loving. Their story has been told in several movies, one of which we watched this past summer. The two of them were the ones who lived through the ignominy of being arrested for marrying outside their respective race, dealt with an establishment that refused to recognize their relationship, and constantly contended with crowds threatening violence. 

While Alabama was the last state to officially repeal its miscegenation laws by drafting a new constitution in 2000, it wasn't just an Alabama thing. My home state of Mississippi's version of the law, repealed with the state's 1987 constitution, explicitly listed Asians as a race whites were forbidden to marry.

Before you get dismissive and think, "Pfft. What would you expect of Mississippi and Alabama?", it's not even just a deep south thing. The Old Line State of Maryland, where Andrea and I currently reside, once had miscegenation laws pointedly forbidding whites to marry Filipinos. That actually made me smile. When an entire state once thought you were such a threat to the established order that they made a law just for you, I think it speaks well of one's badassery.

At our wedding reception, the first song Andrea and I danced to was Travis Tritt's "Drift Off to Dream". However, this modern era release by Journey and Filipino frontman, Arnel Pineda, would also have been on the set list.

"She's a Mystery" - Journey

Rock-tober 18, 2020

Along with Mr. Rodgers' Neighborhood and Sesame Street, a surprising chunk of my PBS viewing time as a kid was taken up by Bob Ross and The Joy of Painting. Everyone knows his famous catchphrase, "There are no mistakes, just happy accidents." He would then proceed to blanket entire canvases with "happy clouds", "happy trees", and "happy flowers". The man was so perennially cheerful, I thought he and Mr. Fred Rogers must have drunk the same well water.

What fascinated me as I watched him paint was not his brushwork. Instead, he would use palette knives and spatulas to fashion a recognizable landscape on a previously blank canvas in a matter of seconds. During one episode as he rapidly laid down elements of a sky and mountainscape, he mentioned he was challenged about the validity of this manner of painting. While he had nothing but respect for traditional artists who brushed in every leaf on every branch of every tree in their compositions, he saw nothing wrong with expediency. Realizing that an artist's successful livelihood depended on quality and  quantity, Ross summed up his opinion, "Do you want to be a traditional artist or one that eats regularly?"

In the fall of '80, my 6th-grade math and spelling teacher, Mrs. Sprinkle, gave our class the assignment to craft an original story using as many words as possible from that week's spelling list.

That evening, I got a call from one of my buds down the street saying that a massive neighborhood game of hide and seek was going down as soon as it got dark. Well, crap. The only thing standing between me and that tournament of mayhem was this piece of homework.

I stared down at a blank sheet of ruled paper and my textbook open to the spelling list. How could I rapidly craft a coherent story based on a random list of words? I looked out my window - the sun was setting. Crap! Focus, Wayne!

Looking to my usual PBS line up for inspiration, I found none from neither Bert and Ernie nor Mr. Rogers. My mind then drifted to Mr. Ross's happy trees. I shook my head thinking it would suck to have to paint every single leaf - kind of like having to use all these words. I wish I had one of his shortcuts to use all....these....words.....at.....once.

Like a blinding, white stab of light, I had an "A-Ha!" moment. Kind of like Archimedes yelling, "Eureka" after discovering buoyancy, but not nearly that profound. I started scribbling out my story, congratulating myself on my yet unknowingly ill-conceived flash of 6th-grade genius.

Paraphrased here, for the privileged reader, some 40 years after they were first penned, is that story.

"Hey, Bob?"

"Yeah, Joe?"

"Do you have this week's list of spelling words?"

"Why, yes, Joe. I sure do. They are, <insert random string of that weeks' spelling words>."

I was very proud of myself and beaming like a Cheshire cat when I turned in that masterful manuscript. Mrs. Sprinkle was not nearly as enthused. She was, however, very charitable and did not fail my sparse composition. Further, she took great pains to explain I'd effectively short-circuited the intent of the exercise which was to foster creativity and command of the English language. I was wise enough to read the room and decided to not say that I thought it was actually very creative.

Mrs. Sprinkle repeated the assignment several times. For those instances, I actually did put in the work, and lo and behold, actually enjoyed it. With all due respect to Bob Ross, sometimes you do have to brush in all the leaves on all the branches of all the trees. Sometimes, the hard work is necessary. Sometimes, there's no easy way out.

"There's No Easy Way Out" - Robert Tepper

Rock-tober 17, 2020

'Tis the season of ghosts and goblins. 

When his two kids were still in elementary school, my old coworker, Mike, took them out Trick or Treating one Halloween night. At a house that sat at the top of a hill, he sent them up to the door by themselves. As soon as they turned their backs, he ducked into the bushes at the base of the driveway. In the dark and hidden from view, he donned a full head mask and waited. His kids eventually returned and started looking for him. That's when he bounded out of the bushes just behind them and gave the loudest roar he could muster.

Both kids gave a satisfying scream, but Mike's mask restricted his view, and they disappeared from his field of vision. Ripping it off, he could just make out his daughter a good fifty yards away, sprinting knees to elbow, but his son was nowhere to be seen. Then he looked down. There he was, right where he dropped, curled up in a fetal position.

Mike nudged him with his foot. No response other than a whimper. "Dude. C'mon, man." With a sigh, he hoisted his boy up by his jacket and dusted him off. "Look. You're fine. Now let's go. We've got to track down your sister. She's probably in the next county by now."

When I was still in elementary school, Dad and I went to a haunted house that sprang up in downtown Gulfport one October. I'm not sure whose idea it was. Haunted houses didn't seem like Dad's scene. As for me, of all the activities Dad and I could have done, I can't imagine myself saying, "Let's go get scared." Not knowing what to expect, we waited in line for our turn to enter. All I remember after stepping through the doors was a continuous scratching sound, a couple of intermittent shrieks, and a lot of billowing smoke. As we wandered through the maze, I kept pressing closer and closer to Dad.

Because we were bringing up the rear in our group, I was constantly looking back behind us. My eyes were like saucer plates and my head was on a swivel, looking for the next threat in this crazy arena. Then, as I turned to check our back trail once more, I saw a clawed, bony hand emerging from behind a curtain, reaching out for me.

I lost it.

I let out a deafening scream. Scrambling backward, I crashed into Dad, clutching his arm. Obviously startled himself, he yelled something unintelligible.

At the end, I can't imagine us not enjoying the experience, because I remember us laughing. A lot. But for some reason, we never went to another haunted house.

Maybe I've gotten jaded as I enter my second half-century, but I don't scare easily like I did when I was a kid. After all, after five decades, I've done seen some sh*t. I'm just as likely to be the one to say, "Boo!" to any ghost or goblin that strays into my path.

This is not necessarily a good thing. What about other emotional aspects? I would hope that whatever dampened my fright mechanism didn't also retard my ability to be awed by a mountain vista or be moved by a favorite music passage. For what it's worth, I think the anger components are working just fine as my coworkers like to tune that apparatus on a daily basis.

Around the time Dad and I visited that haunted house, I remember having a Red Sovine 8-track at home. I enjoyed his style of telling a story set to music, and in a lot of those stories, truck drivers figured prominently. This particular one just happens to also be a ghost story.

"Phantom 309" - Red Sovine

Rock-tober 16, 2020

Of all the myriad genres of rock and roll, I think it's safe to say my happy place is firmly ensconced within Southern Rock. And of all the purveyors of twanging guitars and red hot fiddles, you're hard-pressed to find any better than the Charlie Daniels Band. Already a big man at 6' 2", Charlie Daniels was a commanding presence when he strode onto a stage. Throw in boots and trademark beard and massive stetson, he was downright imposing. With his iconic fiddle in hand, he easily passed for any headliner in the hallowed halls of the Grand Ole Opry, but something different happened when he drew his bow across his fiddle.

Charlie Daniels was the perfect gateway act for a youngster like me transitioning from the country-western scene. He could easily start a set with traditional country standards like "Tennessee Waltz" and "Rocky Top". With that warm-up complete, he'd give you a hint at what's to come with masterful execution of the technically complex "Orange Blossom Special".

Suddenly he'd lead you down a dark wood path.

The next thing you know, you've got front row seats to the most epic fiddle face-off between a good ol' boy from Georgia and Old Scratch himself.  In "The Devil Went Down to Georgia", Charlie Daniels plays both parts, the traditional melodic style from our hero, Johnny, as well as the cacophonous bedlam from the Devil.

Charlie told Taste of Country, "The Devil's just blowing smoke. If you listen to that, there's just a bunch of noise. There's no melody to it, there's no nothing. It's just a bunch of noise. Just confusion and stuff."

I found that to be very profound. Whatever situation is arrayed against you, don't be cowered by a bunch of noise and confusion. It's all just smoke.

The song became the seminal single from CDB. It hit #1 on the country charts in the US and Canada and #3 on the Billboard Hot 100. Its inclusion in the soundtrack for Urban Cowboy ensured it would continue to be a part of '80s pop culture. 

With his death this past July, I looked back on previous posts to see how he shaped this blog.

CDB's first Rock-tober appearance was back in 2014 with "In America". It's still a testament to the irresistible force that a united USA can be.

In 2016, I shared one of my favorite ghost stories with "Legend of Wooley Swamp" and dumb, teenage shenanigans in a graveyard.

In an interview with Southern Living, Charle Daniels said, "My legacy should be no more or no less than what I am. I'm different things to different people. To some people, I'm just a redneck fiddle player, which is fine with me. I don't mind being remembered that way."

I like to imagine he turned down St. Peter's offer of a harp and opted instead for a golden fiddle.

"Devil Went Down to Georgia" - Charlie Daniels Band

Rock-tober 15, 2020

My late father in law was an Air Force flight mechanic before he eventually became a professor at Auburn University. Even when he was a respected professor and decades downrange of his time in the service, in many ways, his Air Force days informed much of his outlook. It was even a deciding factor in why he chose a Mac over a PC.

"It's the mouse."

I was utterly confused. "The mouse?"

"Yeah. On a PC, you have to double click everything."

"OK." I still had no idea where he was going with this.

"Macs only take a single click."

I started to argue a case for increased functionality and contextual menus, but he held up his hand. "It's too much noise."

"Wait. What?! What do you mean it's too much noise?"

"You'll agree that clicking a mouse produces an audible noise?"

"Of course."

"Well. Noise means there's friction somewhere. Friction means wear and tear. Wear and tear inevitably leads to a breakdown. And breakdowns are trouble for Air Force mechanics. PC mice make too much noise."

I had no response. As unfounded and unlikely as his concerns might have been, I couldn't refute his iron-clad logical progression.

Normally he didn't talk about his time in the service. However, sometimes, something on the news would trigger him. If I happened to be there, the stories would come pouring out, since, unlike his family, I was a fresh set of ears.

During the long nuclear detente with Russia, the United States relied on a triune defense strategy comprised of a fleet of ballistic missile submarines, hardened missile silos, and airborne strategic bombers. Being an Air Force flight mechanic at the height of the Cold War, my father in law found himself around the bombers on a regular basis.

The operational protocol dictated bombers had to be in the air at all times. That's 24x7x365. Eventually, these bomber squadrons had to land for maintenance. Ground control coordinated a handoff to another flight and the active squadron would come in for a landing.

One of these birds wound up at the nondescript midwestern airbase where my father in law was posted. During the maintenance cycle, he was assisting a grizzled Senior Master Chief when a restraint securing the "payload" failed. A nuclear warhead was now in danger of clattering to the ground. The maintenance crew leaped as a unit, trying to regain control of the wayward device.

Two aircrew members standing a hundred feet away saw what just happened and sprinted for the hangar door. Spotted by the Master Chief, he yelled after them, "Hey! If this goes, you won't be able to run far enough or fast enough! Get over here and lend a hand!" Properly reprimanded, they sheepishly double-timed it to the scene.

My father in law and his crewmates obviously contained the situation because he and I were having a conversation. It's still pretty sobering to think of all the close calls we've had. My concern is that the powers that be have become too dogmatic to enact any real change to the geopolitical landscape that requires nation-states to take these risks. You Millenials and Gen-Zers want an actual legit challenge? Here's one: Do better than us.

"A Hard Rains A Gonna Fall" - Bob Dylan

Rock-tober 14, 2020

I've been shooting a bow off and on since I was 12. Through all those decades, it's been the same bow. Like everything else around me that I treasure, I like vintage, and I refuse to upgrade.

There's something primal about archery. We seem to carry an ancient remembrance, some residual genetic memory of the bow. Place a bow and an arrow into most anyone's hands, and they will instinctively hold, draw, and release the arrow, more or less correctly.

While I'm no Robin Hood, I can hold my own. I know a Dude who constantly got requests from bow hunters to go deer hunting on his wooded acreage. He told me he always tested them by having them shoot 3 arrows at a paper plate from 30 yards. "If they can't put an arrow in that target", he explained, "they've got no business shooting a bow on my property." To my knowledge, he's never given anyone clearance to shoot on his land. One day I brought my bow over and asked him where this infamous target was. He pointed it out, and I stepped off 30 yards. With an arrow nocked, I raised the bow, drew back the bowstring, and took aim.

The archer who sold me my bow also taught me how to shoot. As I said, the mechanics are fairly straightforward, almost instinctive, and you can pick them up in minutes. But you can spend a lifetime mastering the multitude of details. It had been a few years since I'd drawn my bow, and decades since I'd gone shooting with the man, but his instruction was still crystal clear.

I became conscious of my left hand's grip on the bow, and made micro-adjustments to my wrist, searching for that sensation of muscle memory that told me I was locked in properly. The three middle fingers of my right hand held the bowstring taut with one finger above and two fingers below the nocked arrow. Through my sights, I saw my targeting pin and beyond it, the target itself. Aiming slightly above my mark, I slowly brought the pin down to an imaginary bulls-eye. At the same time, my breathing slowed. As the targeting pin found the center of the plate, I was at the end of a long, controlled exhale.

That's the golden moment. Everything felt right. Zen archery practioners would say, "You don't take the shot. The arrow takes the shot." When I first heard this as a youngster, I dismissed it as so much eccentric Eastern hokum. Nearly four decades later, I've had to reconsider. When you're in that "golden moment", your awareness is of yourself, the bow, and the target. Everything else fades into the background as a sort of tunnel vision kicks in. When you're at full draw and on target, you're in a perfect state of tension. To make the shot, there's no flipping a lever or pulling a trigger. You simply have to - relax.

Just as the Zen guys said, and seemingly of its own accord, my arrow flew from the bow, and with a hissing fwip, closed the distance instantly, striking with a resoundingly satisfying thunk. Dead center. My next two shots landed in close proximity to the first. I took a long, slow breath and surveyed the results. Looking over at Dude, I asked, "Well, do I pass the test?"

"Umm. Yeah. Good shooting."

"Dream of the Archer" - Heart

Rock-tober 13, 2020

One morning this summer, Andrea and I were in the middle of our AM hustle and bustle while one of the morning news shows played in the background. During one segment, a bunch of young, Asian males walked onto an outdoor stage. As I heard the opening notes of their performance, I looked up. "Is that GOT7?" Andrea checked the screen.

"Yep. That's them." Then she turned on me, hands on her hips, and a big smile on her face. "How about you! Recognizing modern pop culture - from Korea, no less! I'm proud of you, Hon!"

I, on the other hand, dejectedly hung my head. How had it come to this? I take pride in my willful ignorance of Millenial and Post-Millenial culture, satisfied to wrap myself in the well worn familiar blanket folds from my generation's touchstones of pet rocks, mood rings, entertainers with hair jacked to Jesus, and "Where's the beef!?" Now, I was in danger of becoming conversant in K-Pop.

The last great musical invasion to reach our shores was from across the Pond. Dozens of English groups established beachheads in our record stores and entrenched themselves in American radio airplay. The vanguard of The Beatles, Yardbirds, and The Zombies paved the way for successive waves like The Police and U2. 

Today, the invasion is coming from the far side of the Pacific. Its vanguard is Psy, riding a pretend horse and extolling the Seoul party scene in "Gangnam Style". And he's flanked by boy bands. So many freaking boy bands - you can't swing a dead cat without hitting one.

What's an old curmudgeon to do? Continue to bask in the old ways and face inevitable relegation to the forgotten, old guy music bin along with Montovani and Doris Day? Or do I embrace the new and start sporting a K-Pop haircut? Fear not, this is not a Kobyashi Maru. There's another Asian invasion underway spearheaded by The Hu. 

The Hu is a Mongolian metal band sporting traditional Mongolian instruments and utilizing traditional Mongolian "throat singing". Far from being a fringe curiosity, these guys are legit and were in the middle of a world tour when COVID hit.

Their track, "Wolf Totem", apart from being a kick-ass title, is the furthest thing from the sugary sweet, teen-angst ridden themes warbled out by GOT7 and their ilk. Nor are they prancing around on goofy pretend horses. Astride horses of both flesh and steel, the Hu's fist pumps, vocalizations, and scowls add a "Get the hell out of my way" fervor to their (translated) lyrics.

If you come with evil intentions, we'll give you a fight!

Ten of us will strike you as thunder

Hundred of us will shatter your hearts

Thousand of us will destroy and obliterate

Ten thousand of us will hand you the wrath of heaven!

Damn. Old Ghenghis would be proud.

Some of the reviews I read of this song were solid gold. Among them was, "I looked out my window after this video and my shed was on fire, horses were trampling my garden, and my Chinese neighbor was building a wall."

"Wolf Totem" -The Hu

Rock-tober 12, 2020

I've previously posted about the ability Millenials and post Millenials had growing up to completely chronicle their lives with pictures taken from smartphones. Meanwhile, my generation has to be content with the few very intentional snapshots taken with actual film-based cameras. It's easy for us to look ruefully at the dearth of pictures chronicling our school and early adult years, knowing that so many storied moments exist only in our memories. As the years continue their incessant march, even these are fading from existence. 

There is a flip side. Quietly and in hushed tones, a lot of us are actually breathing a collective sigh of relief that our generation didn't usher in the advent of the daily selfie. The younger generations who grew up with this amazing technology seem to have fewer qualms about a permanent record of (mis)deeds available in an online forever archive. Meanwhile, us older folks who lived through the cold war have a sketchier view of the benevolence of government and corporate entities. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a lack of pictures should have the opposite effect. In the modern vernacular, "Pics, or it didn't happen."

And if it actually didn't happen, sometimes that's even better. It's no small consolation to find comfort in not having to kick oneself for legendary embarrassing acts and events that didn't occur. Case in point - a talent show where I was slated to portray the Native American from The Village People wearing only buckskins never came to pass.

On another occasion, a year or so after Andrea and I were married, we were visiting relatives in New Jersey. Every year the sizeable Filipino contingent in the area hosts a gathering of folks from the Mountain Province of the Philippines. It's a huge celebration of culture, family, and phenomenal food. The multi-day celebration culminates with a celebratory tribal dance with traditional instruments and costumes, and I was invited by my relatives to participate. Did I mention it was tribal dress? The traditional costume for the men was a mere G-string. I was fervently attempting to decline, but Andrea was gleefully thwarting my efforts, "Hon, you can finally use the G-string presented by your family as a wedding present!"

Perhaps the greatest reprieve from a nonevent took place in high school. One of my buddies got a boneheaded idea to lip-sync Aerosmith's "Dude Looks Like a Lady". During a pep rally. In front of the entire student body. While wearing cheerleader outfits. It was initially approved and we got so far as scheduling rehearsals with the cheerleading squad. Holy, Hannah, how do I get out of this? I was dreading the impending date. Then, like a last minute death row grant of amnesty, the whole endeavor fell through. Not gonna lie - I was not upset. No one wants to see me in a mini skirt.

While these days, there's no longer a threat of having to perform at a pep rally in a miniskirt, I still face the looming danger of being peer pressured into donning a G-string as a display of Tribal Pinoy Pride.

As I think about it - comparatively speaking, that miniskirt now doesn't sound so bad. Regardless, you have been warned.

"Dude Looks Like a Lady" - Aerosmith

Rock-tober 11, 2020

I had a conversation with Mom a while back when she told me about her and I first arriving stateside in the early '70s. At that time, she said she had no frame of reference to know what comprised beauty in American facial features. She shrugged her shoulders saying that quite frankly, all non-Asian folks looked the same to her.

One day over this past summer, Andrea and I were binging shows and came across an import from Netflix Asia. I remembered the conversation with Mom, and I asked Andrea, "Do you think those Asian actors are good looking?"

Immediately suspicious, she gave me a side-eye glance, "What are you getting on about?" After relaying the conversation with Mom, I continued to explain. Typically, studios want a pretty face on either the big screen or on TV. Since these shows are a product of Asian production shops, you would assume they'd choose actors that fulfilled the Asian concept of beauty. Alternatively, if these Asian studios were ultimately targeting a western audience, did they default to what they perceived were western ideals of beauty in their cast selection?

Are there universal standards of beauty? Some sources say it can be distilled down to a mathematical ratio of facial symmetry. Based on this, public figures were run through the algorithm and it was determined Michelle Pfeiffer's features were the most symmetric. I'm certainly not going to disagree that she's very pretty.

The discussion inevitably turned to individual perceptions of beauty. She then fatefully asked, "So, what qualifies as pretty to you?"

Suddenly, Captain Picard was on his feet, yelling in my left ear, "RED ALERT! BATTLE STATIONS!", while Admiral Ackbar was in my other, "IT'S A TRAP!" My tactical brain kicked in, simultaneously evaluating multiple scenarios and gauging the extent of damage likely to be sustained. Keenly aware of the lengthening silence, I called upon my inner Sun Tzu, turning a pending scene of carnage into an innocuous draw if not a precarious victory.

With all the suaveness I could muster, I calmly replied, "Well. She'd be about 5 feet 10. Red hair. Blue eyes. Freckles. Answers to Andi."

"Pfft. Whatever!" The eye-roll she gave me was seismically epic, setting off earthquake alarms up and down the Atlantic seaboard.

"You Are So Beautiful" - Joe Cocker

Rock-tober 10, 2020

A question was posed in an online forum, "What do you call a 'Karen' in Europe?" The unfortunately dominant answer was "American". I get it. The same independent streak that allowed 13 backwater colonies to take on the most powerful nation on earth is still a core American trait today. Sometimes the outlets we give this pent up fervor can be rather dubious, and we Americans can become combatively argumentative over trivial issues. Case in point: The Great Chicken Sandwich War of 2019.

Last summer, Popeyes Louisiana Chicken released its iteration of the fried chicken sandwich, putting them on a collision course with the much beloved Chick-fil-A. The media hype leading to the release was thunderous, and, when D-Day arrived, not a single Popeyes worker knew what hit them. On the morning of 12 August, roving reporters for local news outlets captured a common scene that played out at all Popeyes locations. Cars were stacked in parking lots as they formed an eager parade leading to the drive-through. Throngs of people swarmed the dining rooms to get in queues winding like a hungry congo line through the restaurant and back out the doors. Popeyes planners thought they'd laid in enough supplies to get them through the initial launch and well into September. They didn't make it 10 days.

The new sandwich was a colossal hit. Many people, smitten with the new offering, took to social media, making their feelings known in some of the most fabulously salty food reviews:

"Chick-fil-A's sandwich tastes like it was cooked by a white woman named Sarah who grew up around black people. The flavor is definitely there, but Sara cares about your cholesterol so she's careful about the breading and grease content.

Popeyes's sandwich tastes like it was cooked by an older black lady named Lucille that serves on the usher board and has 12 grandkids that call her 'Madea'. Madea don't give a sh*t about your cholesterol because God's in control."

Unfortunately, what started out as good natured competition and banter devolved into vocal and sometimes physical confrontations. Defenders and detractors of both chicken houses fractured towns and cities along economic, racial, and even political factions. Over a chicken sandwich.

This annoyed Andrea to no end:

"It's utterly ridiculous that a chicken sandwich is presented as the symbol of all that is holy and  patriotic. I get it. Chick-fil-A service is stellar and the food is fantastic. But people are making it more than it is. Sometimes, I'm just not in the mood for blank smiles and rote, vapid platitudes. Sometimes I just want a good, down to earth, unaccoutered meal. That's why Popeye's is my jam."

Sometimes the cause is just. Sometimes a chicken sandwich is just a chicken sandwich.

"Chicken Fried" - Zac Brown Band