Rock-tober 31, 2021

Some years ago a Marine Corps colonel was at an overseas airbase waiting for a MAC flight back to the States. Also waiting for a flight was a young Naval aviator. The colonel, a pilot as well, struck up a conversation during which the younger aviator revealed he was on his way to a court-martial. The colonel had to ask the obvious question, "What did you do, son?" In the quiet of that waiting room, the young aviator told his story.

He was part of a 2-man crew on an A-6 Intruder, an attack aircraft designed as a precision bomber. For training purposes, these crews made practice runs on various ships in their task force while they were underway. During one of these runs, this A-6 crew had an accidental ordinance release. Fortunately, no one was injured and there was no damage to the task force.

Unfortunately, the 2 crewmen went into CYA mode, discussing how they were going to cover up this very serious blunder. They didn't realize they were discussing this over an open channel, and the entire scheme was heard by the carrier's control room. Upon landing, they were ordered to report to the ship's air boss, XO, and captain. Their flight status was immediately revoked, and they were charged with a multitude of offenses.

The colonel in this story was my executive officer (XO) while I was a midshipman at Auburn University, and he shared this incident during an address to the entire regiment. Before ending his presentation, the XO paused, looking around the auditorium at the future officer corps of the US Navy and Marine Corps. He then delivered this stern admonishment, "Courage. Integrity. Honor. These aren't character traits you develop when you get to the fleet - you bring them with you."

Thirty years later his words still resonate and are easily in the top 10 most profound statements spoken in my presence.

Are good leaders made, or are they born? Are some people blessed with a congenital quality that inspires others to perform above and beyond? I actually called this the "John Wayne Effect" in a Naval leadership class and received multiple nods of agreement from my classmates. Considering my chosen career path, one of my overriding concerns was that I'd missed the line when they were handing out the "Duke" leadership gene. The XO's words were encouraging. Leadership traits could indeed be fostered if the work is put in, regardless of an innate "John Wayne Effect". 

In the intervening decades, I've tried to live this by standing in the gap for my teams, being an active advocate for them as much as I'm able. The words from my old XO have served me well as an internal creed. It's not always been easy, and sometimes it takes a toll. But it's the job. And the job takes courage, integrity, and honor.

Rock-tober out.

James Horner - "Braveheart End Credits"

Rock-tober 30, 2021

One of the first questions Andrea and I get apart from "How did we meet?" is "Was it love at first sight?" While the former will have to wait for another post, the answer to the latter is most definitively, "Nope."

Although Andrea was born and raised in Auburn, she attended and graduated from a much smaller, picturesque college in Toccoa Falls, Georgia. After graduation, she returned home and took up residence with two other ladies in what we all called the "Hoover House", our local hangout named for the family name of one of Andrea's housemates.

Being very southern, she and her housemates threw frequent dinners and lunches at their place. At one particular gathering, she found herself fielding questions about college life at Toccoa and inevitably was asked for the 411 on significant others.

She'd only dated one guy at Toccoa. They'd met her freshman year when he was an upperclassman. The relationship was serious enough their friends assumed they'd eventually tie the knot. However, it did not work out, and they'd broken up by her sophomore year. She was sharing the details of how and why the relationship went south and was getting a lot of supporting nods from the ladies in the group.

I happened to be in attendance at this particular party, and Andrea, to whom I'd only recently been introduced, was being very candid with us. In a fantastically misinformed reading on my part of the "Bro Code", I penned a defense for her in absentia ex, I guy I'd never met, and slid it under her bedroom door after she retired for the night. She did not take it well. For the first of many times to come, I incurred the wrath of the redhead.

I was shocked at the verbal pummeling she gave me the next time I was over. We broke off the discussion and retreated to opposite corners, with her being convinced I was a controlling, mansplaining, egoist. For my part, while I'd encountered personalities as prickly as cacti before, I considered her a man-hating yucca. We were both wrong but didn't know it.  It was not a promising start.

At the time I had been crushing on Andrea's roommate, so I still found my way to the Hoover House. Plus her other roommate, also an engineering student, had a PC set up in the spare room. We all borrowed cycles on it from time to time as the house had become our defacto computer lab. It became impossible to avoid Andrea. Over the intervening weeks, she and I somehow managed to have civil discourse, and somewhere along the way, I found I started to enjoy chatting with her. Those who know me well know I'm not the most verbose conversationalist. Yet I found Andrea very easy to talk to and I was shocked at the ease with which she was able to draw me out of my taciturn shell.

She made me laugh and wasn't afraid to laugh at herself. If you get the chance, ask her to regale you with her story about the "Wide Mouthed Frog". Somewhere along the way, the incident in Rock-tober: Day 23 occurred. We started hanging out, just the two of us, rather than with our full gathering of friends. We had 2 AM rendezvous at all-night diners, afternoons at state parks, and long drives through the country byways of Lee County, Alabama. We hadn't had "the talk" and weren't overt or officially a couple, but we'd become the topic of heated discussions among our friends.

"Hey, what's the deal with those two? Are they or aren't they?"

"Pfft. Are you kidding? No way that'll ever happen. He's Navy and she's going to Brazil. Besides, you remember that bone-headed stunt he pulled with the note at that party, right?"

"I dunno. They seem to be enjoying each other's company a lot recently."

For our part, Andrea and I swore up and down we were just friends. Then, one evening, with a lit fireplace as a backdrop, she and I were chatting away about life in general. This morphed into a deeper level discussion about our plans and fears and goals and dreams. Before we knew it we'd had "the Talk".

The next day, I stopped by to see her and borrow time on her roommate's PC. Andrea was the only one home and she was getting ready to leave for work. As I was clacking away at the keyboard, she came in to kiss me goodbye before she left. My eyes followed her as she walked out of the room, and it took me a moment to snap back to reality. Meanwhile, she'd queued up a CD on the house stereo and as the screen door closed behind her, Bonnie Raitt's "Something to Talk About" started playing.

I leaned back in my seat and smiled. "Damn. My girl was smooth."

Bonnie Raitt - "Something To Talk About"

Rock-tober 29, 2021

Earlier this year, Andrea was invited to a conference in Orlando. Flying was still a bit of a bear, so when I agreed to go with her, we decided to rent a car and make it a road trip. In a display of modern connectedness, I pulled up the Enterprise app on my phone and requested a small SUV. Knowing my wife, unconstrained by the baggage limitations imposed by airlines, she would pack for a 3-month safari rather than a 1-week trip.

When I got to the rental agency, the associate was very apologetic. "Mr. Capuyan, I know you reserved an SUV, but there's simply none available." Picturing all of Andrea's bags stuffed into all nooks and crannies in a smaller sedan, my level of excitement for the trip was waning. The rental associate continued, "I'm really sorry, but the only thing I have ready at this moment is a new Mustang."

Wait. What? My internal frown became a very visible grin. My new best friend wasn't finished. "Let me verify something. Umm. Yeah, OK. It looks like it's a convertible. Is that acceptable?" Pfft. Man, who does this dude think he's talking to? My slight grin just took on Cheshire cat proportions. I'm partial to vintage Stangs, and I'd likely never purchase a new model. However, renting one for a week down in Florida was a different matter. Faster than a cat's flicking tail in a room full of rocking chairs, I yelled, "I'll take it!"

When I giddily relayed the news to Andrea, she wasn't nearly as enthused. "But it's a convertible!" This was met with pursed lips and a nod. I've known Andrea for over half my life and I didn't realize until that moment that she just wasn't a fan of that body style.

With the trunk jammed full and the back seat packed to the gills, we set out. I was enjoying the modern amenities available in this ride that weren't in ours like its blue tooth stereo and backup camera. The seats were definitely more comfortable than those in the '67 and '70, but they held another surprise. I knew heated seats have been around for decades, but cooled seats were new to me. As a guy, I can say cold air coming up your backside in the tropical Florida heat and humidity was a-ma-zing.

While Andrea was in her conference, I had to figure out how to fill my days. Hitting the amusement parks would seem obvious, but with their large press of humanity, it's just not my scene. One thing overrode my reticence. Andrea and I had been listening to the entire Harry Potter audiobook series on our recent road trips, including this one, and so I had Hogwarts on the brain. I bit the bullet and bought a one-day pass to Universal Studios.

Disaster. It took 2 hours in traffic just to get from the road around the park to the parking deck and a 3/4 mile hike from the deck to the park entrance. Also, I'd unknowingly picked the first day the parks were reopened post-COVID, and the throngs of cabin fevered parents who'd homeschooled their brood for the past year were out in force. The park was definitely caught off guard and was not ready for the deluge of people. Waiting times for all major rides were measured in hours, park restaurants had to shut down early because they ran out of food, and street vendors were even running out of bottled water. To punctuate my ill-advised decision, the sky opened up in a drenching downpour. Kids were hot, wet, hungry, and unhappy, and their frazzled parents looked like they'd just as soon cut you than look at you. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But I got my steps in - so there's that.

The next day, I took a very different road for my solo adventure. After yesterday's throngs of people, I needed solitude and proximity to the ocean. Daytona Beach was just over an hour from Orlando, but I suspected it was another crowd magnet. Instead, I charted a course for New Smyrna Beach. After following the Interstate north, I split off onto a quiet state road heading due east towards the water. The sun was out so I popped on my shades, dropped the top, and cranked up the Buffett playlist. Keeping an eagle eye out for Smokey, I spurred the Stang and we tore up that asphalt. Running that stretch of lonesome highway at speed nearly made up for the prior day's debacle.

I made my way to Smyrna Dunes Park and spent the morning hiking its perimeter, taking a break on the inland side under some mangroves. Sitting at the water's edge, the gentle breeze and the rhythmic sound of waves coming ashore made for a very Zen experience, and I imagined my blood pressure dropped a few points. 

After a quick lunch in town, the journey continued down South Atlantic Avenue. Here, the oceanside waves were larger and louder, and the stiff ocean breeze, carrying the strong scent of brine, canceled out the heat of the afternoon sun. Thus, the top stayed down, allowing me to continue working on my tan. I cruised the Stang to the literal end of the road and parked a stone's throw from the water.

The end of the road

Leaning against the hood with crossed arms, I looked out to sea. The distant horizon, vast emptiness of that ocean, and the deserted beach had the desired effect and were palliatives for the soul, tamping down the inner G.O.M. awakened a scant 24 hours prior. Taking another road, disappearing from society, and running this pony to the shore made for a very good day.

Jimmy Buffett - "Take Another Road"

Rock-tober 28, 2021

 

From a post in September 2013 the original rules of Rock-tober were these:

1. This is my list. If you disagree, make your own bloody list. If I wanted universal appeal, I'd post pictures of kittens.
2. If it was released past 1989, stop looking. It ain't on this list - we're going old school here.
3. An artist or group can only make the list once per year. No repeats. No exceptions.

After a few years, #2 got blown out of the water because, frankly, I'd burned through the bulk of my "period-correct" playlist unless I started posting about Bach, Vivaldi, and Marty Robbins. Andrea constantly campaigns for Air Supply to make an appearance, and I keep referring her to #1. 

Currently, #3 still holds. Because I'm a geek, I ran an analysis of all the songs and artists for all 9 years of Rock-tober. As of today, that's 276 posts. In the charts and pivot tables that I generated,  my favorites became apparent. ZZ Top has graced these pages 7 times, surpassed only by AC/DC, Rock-tober's traditional vanguard.

Formed in 1969, los tres hombres have likely set a record for the longest continuous lineup for any musical act. Someone once asked the group their secret to success, and Billy Gibbons summed it up nicely, "Same three guys, same three chords." This seemingly simplistic formula of a three-piece band and a trio of chords managed to generate one of the most complexly unique sounds of rock and roll - a mix of outlaw country, southern rock, and blues.

I'm exceedingly glad that I was able to catch them live back in 2018 when they rolled through Wolftrap amphitheater on their Blues and Bayou tour. I can confirm that up close and personal, Dusty's and Billy's beards were truly epic. During their entire set, I had the biggest grin on my face, as I was enjoying myself immensely. Usually, Billy sang lead, but there were notable exceptions. In "Tush", their first top 20 single, Dusty's higher register takes center stage, a marked difference from Billy's growling bass.

Of all the groups who've come through Rock-tober, Billy, Frank, and Dusty seemed like they'd be the most enjoyable to hang with. My imagined conversations with these guys started in 2014 when we split a couple of pitchers at my favorite watering hole. In the ensuing years, as car guys, they chilled me out after a perceived insult to the Stang, convinced me to give Vegas another shot as a vacation destination, and mocked my wardrobe and even my lack of facial hair. I thoroughly enjoyed scripting these exchanges, and I always looked forward to crafting each and every ZZ Top post I've written, until this one.

The guys were on tour this past July when the band's website posted that Dusty would be leaving the tour early to convalesce at home with a hip injury. Just 5 days later, Dusty passed away in his sleep at the age of 72. A consummate professional, Dusty left a directive, "The show must go on! Give Elwood the bottom end and take it to the 'Top'." Billy and Frank would honor this request, continuing the tour with Elwood Francis, the group's 30-year guitar tech, handling the group's "bottom end".

Billy and Frank's final tribute to their compadre was poignant and fitting, “We will miss your steadfast presence, your good nature, and enduring commitment to providing that monumental bottom to the ‘Top’. We will forever be connected to that ‘Blues Shuffle in C.’ You will be missed greatly, amigo.”

ZZ Top - "Tush"

Rock-tober 27, 2021

One day way back at good ol' LBHS, Mike flagged me down as I was cruising the hallways. He was pretty jazzed about something. "Hey, Wayne!" Then nodding towards another buddy beside him, he held up a piece of paper. "G.W. and I are starting this killer arm workout! You gotta join us!"

While my gym rat street cred has waxed and waned over the decades, Mike has been a consistently faithful member of the brotherhood of the iron plate. He was always finding and tweaking workouts, and this time he'd roped in G.W. on this particular quest to achieve well-defined, "cut" arm muscles.

I looked at Mike's hand-scribbled transcription. The circuit it laid out was no joke. It listed half a dozen stations with no preset reps - you did each exercise to exhaustion. The kicker was your last rep was a slow negative. For example, in a standing barbell curl, you lift the weight from your waist to your chest. A slow negative of this entails you lowering the bar in a slow, controlled manner from your chest to your waist. My eyes widened. "Holy crap!"

Mike and G.W. were high-fiving each other. Apparently, they took my outburst as excitement rather than apprehension. Ah, well. Fortune favors the bold, so the three of us met at the CB base gym that evening. One by one we went through each station in that hellacious circuit

• bicep curl
• tricep curl
• dips
• dumbbell flys
• flexed arm hang
• lat pulldown

Again, each exercise was done to exhaustion and terminated in a slow negative rep. After we each completed 3 circuits, we were utterly wiped and could barely move. G.W. summed up our mood, "Man, what's wrong with us? Are we really this weak?" With true teenage male piss and vinegar, it only steeled our resolve to master this workout. Our commitment was solidified and with a grim determination, we soldiered on, 3 times a week, 3 circuits each. In turn, we both cheered and goaded each other on - "C'mon, punk! One more rep! Quit your bellyaching and slow it down on that negative!" 

Eventually, we realized we weren't dragging ass by the end of that dreaded 3rd circuit, and we were starting to see results. The training never got "easy", but the common goal and shared difficulty transformed these routines from kvetching sessions to a workshop of camaraderie. Whenever we hit a wall, we took a moment to find our inner beast and then turned up the boombox with the workout tunes.

About a month and a half in, Mike is over at my place. "Hey, Wayne, I think I made a mistake." He'd recently reread the original magazine article detailing our thrice-weekly gauntlet. The original directions as outlined in Mike's workout rag stipulated only a single run through the entire circuit. Training to exhaustion had to be done carefully or else you risked injury. Doing it 3 times in a row was apparently ill-advised despite the results.

Years later, I was at Auburn answering my new red head of a girlfriend's questions about what happens during a Navy PRT (Physical Readiness Test). I explained that apart from a timed run, "You've got 2 minutes each to crank out as many situps and pushups as you can." I continued, "There's also proctors standing over you to make sure you maintained proper form throughout the tests." She smirked and got a glint in her eye.

"So what's proper form for a pushup look like?" Doofus that I was, I started demonstrating and explaining the proper mechanics. She looked on, "Hmm. Can you do one-handed pushups?" I stopped and sat up.

"Those aren't part of the PRT..."

"Yeah, but can you?" Her tone and raised eyebrow suggested a challenge. I shrugged and started cranking out one-handed pushups and alternating between hands with relative ease. She grinned, "Wow. I think I'm dating a hunk."

It took about 6 years, but it seems that Mike's jacked-up training circuit helped me get the girl.

Vince Dicola - "Training Montage" (Rocky IV)

Rock-tober 26, 2021

 

One of the bright spots in the post-COVID, mandatory telework landscape was the upsurge of collaboration clients like Skype, Teams, and Zoom. While the mechanics of these virtual meetings had annoying learning curves as attendees figured out the microphone function, being able to mute people is oddly satisfying. What warmed my heart about the Zoom client, in particular, was that the free version forced a hard stop for all meetings at the 40-minute mark. Before we implemented the enterprise version of Zoom, it was a lovely feeling knowing any meeting attended had a definitive end.

While my uber introvert nature is totally OK and grateful for the privilege of being able to telework far away from people, there are drawbacks to not being in close proximity to the team. For example, it took a week to filter to me through the electronic grapevine that one of my newer colleagues got engaged during his recent vacation. I wasn't able to shake his hand in person, so an email had to suffice to congratulate him on turning in his amateur card and going pro.

One of the sometimes annoying but always entertaining in-person interactions I miss is with Naresh. Emails and Skype sessions lose a lot of nuances, and he sometimes buries the lead. Earlier this year, we'd been Skyping back and forth for 10 minutes before he let slip he was shopping for a baby carriage. "Wait. Hold up. Are you guys pregnant?" He confirmed the news and as hearty as possible congrats were sent across the wire.

Several weeks ago he called to invite me to his baby shower. "Umm. A shower? Aren't showers attended by women only?" He was adamant that both Andrea and I were requested to attend. I immediately IM'd my partner in crime, Zack, whose presence was likewise expected. "Hey, Zack, back in Ethiopia, are baby showers commonly attended by men?" His response was emphatic - "No! Women only." We both concluded Naresh just wanted a party.

The day of the shower was strikingly familiar to me. All shoes were removed at the front door, ethnic food was in abundance, and scores of brown-skinned people were talking to me in a language I didn't understand. It took folks a few seconds, but after being met with my sheepish smile and an apologetic shrug of my shoulders, most folks switched to English along with the "Oh, you've forsaken your culture" raised eyebrow.

Unbeknownst to Zack and me, these shindigs apparently have a standard playlist of games that included the use of diapers and baby bottles as props. I successfully sidestepped these activities but was then handed a piece of paper. Apparently, soliciting guests for baby names is also par for the course. At least I didn't have to think about it too hard as I printed out "GREGORY" on my slip and deposited it in the waiting bowl.

Through it all, Naresh was weaving in and around all the cliques, playing all the games, and being very attentive to his bride. Zack and I were watching all this and nodded at each other. Zack flashed a grin, "Maybe there's hope for him after all."

Creed - "With Arms Wide Open"

Rock-tober 25, 2021

A meme came across my feeds recently that had me laughing and remembering an incident. It was a picture of a voodoo doll with the caption:

"Do you ever get the feeling someone is sticking pins in you?"

"No....?"

"How about now?"

A lifetime ago, when I was attached to USS Seahorse, I was on shore leave on an island in the Caribbean. A buddy of mine from the boat and I were chilling on the beach with painkillers from the waterside pub in our hands, trying to absorb as much real sunlight and suck in as much non mechanically filtered air as we could. I suddenly felt a shadow blocking my communion with Sol Invictus. When I opened my eyes, I was looking up at a scowling, elderly local. Wrapped in rags and with a gnarled hand clutching a staff, he was sporting matted, grey dreadlocks that hung down to the middle of his back. On his face and chest, mystic symbols were painted on with ash. He had my attention.

With his free hand, he reached into a pouch tied around his waist and produced what looked like a chicken claw. Still scowling at the both of us, he began a low murmuring chant, all the while gesticulating with the chicken claw. Our local neighborhood shaman was definitely beginning to harsh my mellow. "Dude. What's this guy doing?" This was not my buddy's first port of call on the island, and he quickly deduced the situation.

"I think he's trying to hex us."

We'd bottomed out our painkillers, so we ceded our spot in the sun to the dude with the chicken claw. We didn't think anything else of the encounter until later that night. Unknown to us, in our wandering, we'd wound up in a restricted area of town. Looking to our rear, we realized we'd pick up a tail of several locals. My buddy starts rolling up his sleeves and looks at me. "Hey, Cap, how are you in a fight?"

I've never considered myself superstitious. The closest was as a 9-year old during the Orioles' run for the World Series pennant. My trio of talismans - hat, ball, and shirt - were always worn on game day. All in all, in spite of beach bum shaman, I consider I've lived a bit of a charmed life. I've written previously about surviving minefields, faulty aircraft navigation systems, and a photographic misadventure on the Grand Canyon's south rim. There's also camping on the side of a live volcano and surviving a drag racing crash, but those are posts for another day.

Part of that charmed life stems from the fact that I don't (usually) take unnecessary chances. I wear a seatbelt behind the wheel, eye protection in the shop, and I've even been known to use sunscreen. Even so, there are times to throw caution to the wind. A recent movie I saw had a character talking about the pivotal points in your life and that they are not times to be timid. On the contrary, at those times, "All you need is 20 seconds of insane courage." This is about the amount of time it took me to ask Andrea out on our first date. I guess the correlation holds.

I don't think that 24 years with a redhead was the juju that beach bum shaman had in mind, but I'll take it. Maybe the coat of arms of Casa Capuyan should include a chicken claw.

Annie Lennox - "I Put A Spell On You"

Rock-tober 24, 2021

It's been said that a bad day on the water is better than a good day at the office. I'm fortunate that I live within striking distance of so many lakes, rivers, and even the ocean. While my preferred method of water travel is a sailboat, on lakes and rivers, it's a kayak.

For scooting around hidden inlets and exploring estuaries, nothing beats these vessels for maneuverability and ease of beaching. I've written previously how I'm fortunate Andrea shares this draw. We've spent a couple of wedding anniversaries on paddling trips, and used to go on monthly excursions with friends on full moon nights on the Chesapeake.

While we prefer ocean kayaks to the white water variety as they're more stable and allow you to carry gear, none of our excursions have been beyond sight of the coastline. I'm amazed by stories of people transiting the English Channel, the Gulf of Mexico, and even the Atlantic on a kayak. One guy, Aleksander Doba crossed the Atlantic 3 times, the last passage was when he was 70. His achievements are both an inspiration and a bit of a reproach for my reticence to venture further.

For my part, it hinges on my skillset. One November, I was paddling alone on the Severn River just outside Annapolis harbor. I was just bobbing on the water attempting to get my zen on when some jackhole in a speedboat came ripping out of nowhere. He kicked up a big enough wake to swamp me and I rolled over. While I was wearing a wetsuit, it was also November, and the water was frigid. Submerged upside down I was thinking, "You know, Wayne, if you'd bothered to master an Eskimo roll you could probably extricate yourself from this situation." But I didn't and as I was running out of air, my options were limited. I popped the skirt and bailed out of the cockpit. Did I mention the water was freezing? I was able to right the vessel, but without a paddle float, I wasn't having much luck getting back into the cockpit.

Luckily a Good Samaritan boater came along to render assistance. I hung out with him and his wife long enough to shake off the chill. As he passed me a cup of coffee he asked the obvious, "Son, don't you know how cold that water is?" Through chattering teeth, I stammered, "I do now."

One summer, Andrea and I were in a tandem kayak in Puget Sound. We were gliding over a grove of kelp, and in the crystal clear water, you could see the green fronds undulating gracefully in the current. I paused paddling to reach out to one of the stalks and was stung by the chill of the water. Just then, Andrea, in the front cockpit, was looking rapidly over both sides of the kayak, having spotted a seal weaving through the kelp. In her gleeful excitement, she started rocking the boat and I was having flashbacks to my dunking in the Severn.

While we didn't get dunked in the Sound, it's just more impetus to take that R&W class to learn an Eskimo roll and other self-rescue techniques. Until then, groove on this Peter Gabriel track. Back in 2016, Paddling Life released their ultimate album side of songs to take on a kayak run. Their description of this cut is apt in that it describes the healing power of being on the water.

Peter Gabriel - "Washing Of The Water"

Rock-tober 23, 2021

I've learned initial appearances and perceptions can be deceiving.

Bill, a former coworker of mine hailed from Massachusetts, and he checked off all the stereotypes. His New England accent was a great source of amusement to the rest of the team, and we constantly annoyed him with requests to repeat phrases to hear him drop his "r's". He's also a consummate sailor who used to race log canoes, a sailboat specific to the Chesapeake Bay area, and once captained a newly launched sailboat from its Florida boatyard to its owner's berth near Boston. I don't know where he stood on lobster boils, but this New England Yankee was the one who taught me how to deep fry a turkey. Not one of my good ol' boy buds from south of the Mason Dixon, but this guy who's likely never heard of RC Cola and Moonpies.

A college buddy of mine did some work for a manufacturer of jungle gyms. He told me when they ran the calculations for the cable system, based on the tensile strength of steel, they could use a really small gauge (thinner) cable. However, it was determined that visually, the cable looked too thin, and consumers would assume it was a flimsy, inferior product. A business decision was then made to use a thicker, more expensive cable not to satisfy a mechanical constraint, but to satisfy customers' perceptions of "safe" design.

While sitting in one of my college classes, a professor laid out a problem. Given a projectile with a known mass and initial velocity, at what angle would it need to be fired to hit a target at a known distance? A basic physics scenario, the math was pretty straightforward and was calculated to be 37°. One of my ROTC classmates pointed out there was another solution. The professor paused to check the math. He agreed the calculations would allow another value and started to run the numbers. Nearly every Navy guy in the room called out, "53°!" The professor paused in surprise, and when he completed the calculations, it was indeed 53°.

Among classes taken for Navy ROTC was naval gunnery. We weren't firing off live rounds, but we were learning the theory. In ship-to-ship encounters, firing at a shallow angle (such as 37°)  gave you a more direct flight path of the projectile. This was fine unless your target was a large capital ship that tended to have heavily armored hulls, particularly below the waterline. The complementary angle (53°) would send the projectile on a high, lobbing arc that would target the thinner deck plating.

The professor was both surprised and impressed.

There are a lot of songs out there that belie their deeper meaning because listeners cue in on its hook or chorus. "Born in the USA", the title track of the Boss's '84 album, sounds like a patriotic song worthy of a presidential rally. However, initial appearances aside, it's a condemnation of this country's treatment of returning Vietnam vets.

First impressions can be misleading.

Bruce Springsteen - "Born in the U.S.A."

Rock-tober 22, 2021

Most modern movies adhere to a designated runtime sweet spot of between 90 and 120 minutes. Hollywood, the defacto movie factory of the world, seems intent on churning out cookie-cutter products that are just long enough to tell a basic story but still get multiple screening times in theaters. It's a valid business strategy to hopefully recoup their investment but unfortunately sacrifices artistic vision on the altar of ROI.

There are exceptions, such as Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings epics. But even these were mercilessly pruned by the studio. To get Jackson's full vision, fans still had to wait for various "director's cut" releases.

It wasn't always this way. Gone With the Wind ran for 3 hours, 58 minutes. Lawrence of Arabia was 3 hours, 36 minutes. Cleopatra broke the 4-hour barrier by 8 minutes. But in recent years, how many times have various directors bemoaned the project they submitted was not the same product distributed by the studio? Unless it's a really simple tale, a director just can't get all the back story and character development done in a 100-minute window.

You know who doesn't give a damn about bean counter imposed runtimes? Bollywood.

These guys don't let a clock get in the way of a good tale. For example, Lagaan, set in the 1890s, is your classic David vs Goliath plot with a love story thrown in for good measure. Woven into the drama and pageantry of its 3 hours and 45-minute runtime, is a backdrop of baseball's international cousin, cricket. By the movie's end, I was now able to wear my Australian Cricket team shirt and speak somewhat intelligently about the sport.

Did I mention the singing? It seems everything coming out of Bollywood has the characters break out in song and dance at seemingly random times. It was like a cross between Ben Hur and West Side Story. So, epic adventure for me and epic musical numbers for Andrea.

Andrea's favorite Bollywood tale is Jodhaa Akbar. Set during the 1500s, the Mughal Emperor who wed a princess in an arranged marriage must now win her heart. There are Beauty and the Beast overtones, complete, of course, with musical numbers. One of the most fascinating to me was "Khwaja Mere Khwaja", a musical prayer extolled by Sufi practitioners. It's incredibly chill and uplifting both tonally and visually with the dervish dance.

A.R.Rehman - "Khwaja Mere Khwaja"

Rock-tober 21, 2021

One of the biggest hurdles for non-native English speakers is the concept of slang. There just aren't any concrete grammatical rules governing its usage. What rules do exist can vary from region to region in the country and even within the borders of a given state.

Within the confines of slang, there's a subset that pertains to profanity, and there's definitely a skill to its usage. You could just string a series of four-letter words together, but it would lack intended impact. Perhaps the most important skill is differentiating what constitutes profanity in your general locale from its innocuous counterparts.

Mom told me that in her hometown back in the Philippines, English was a required course in primary school and was taught alongside Tagalog, the country's official language. As a result, she and her siblings had an exceptional command of the language, with the exception of slang - and by extension, profanity.

In the early '70s, when we were in Annapolis, Mom worked the night shift as a nurse at the base hospital. At that time, her responsibilities included dictating patient status notes into a handheld recorder as she made her rounds. One night, a patient of hers had....difficulties, and Mom dutifully documented the incident in her recorder. At the end of her shift, she labeled the tapes and left them for attending doctors to review the next day.

She arrived for her tour of duty that evening, and when she entered the staff lounge, all eyes cut to her. And then the laughter started. Taken aback, she asked what happened. A day shift supervisor attempted to stifle her guffaws, "Brenda! You've really surprised us!" Mom was still puzzled, but she learned very quickly not to use slang unless you understand its proper usage and ramifications.

They were all listening to Mom's recorded notes from the previous night, and one in particular, in today's vernacular, was going viral. Mom was describing her patient with gastrointestinal issues. "Mr. Smith had an accident during the night and there was shit everywhere. The linens and mattress were soiled in shit, and Mr. Smith himself was covered in shit. Several orderlies had to be dispatched because there was even shit on the floor and the walls."

Mom, of course, wasn't intending to be vulgar. She was just not aware of the full etymology of shit and its incarnations. However, Gary Abbot dropped a barely audible F-bomb in this recording to accurately characterize his frustration after he dropped his drum sticks. I'll leave it as an exercise for the reader to find it.

The Kingsmen - "Louie Louie"

Rock-tober 20, 2021

In my observation, there's a natural progression of musical influences. As a kid, this was Mom and Dad as I had no choice but to listen to their music. Because of them, my playlists have some really, really deep tracks. We're talking "Harbor Lights" by The Platters and "You Belong to Me" by OG crooner, Bing Crosby. Mom and Dad's tastes eventually diverged with Mom favoring Loretta Lynn, Barbara Mandrell, and other classic country stars, while Dad started following outlaw country with the likes of Willie, Waylon, and Cash. Both styles found their way to my growing playlists.

In junior and senior high, the bulk of my classmates comprised two circles of a Venn diagram represented by country and rock music. Some fell into the either-or camp and a smaller group formed the union of the two. Other circles formed around metal and punk, and I seemingly found myself alone in my own little classical music circle as I was already a fan of Bach and Vivaldi.

When Andrea and I got married, we merged more than our individual households. We definitely influenced each other musically which is why I have P!nk in my playlists and she has Metallica in hers. I'll admit it has been a bit one-sided. She's willingly gone with me to see Buffett, Seger, and ZZ Top, but I really dragged my feet when she wanted to catch Manhattan Transfer. That story is another post.

Kids didn't grow up in our house, so we missed that musical influence vector. But I got the benefit by proxy. A former coworker of mine regularly shared musical groups his teenage daughter introduced to him. One of these was the band Ingram Hill. They formed in 2000 down in Memphis and performed their first gig in Oxford, MS. Because of my former coworker's daughter, their second album, June's Picture Show, is in my CD collection. The song "Chicago" off this album rotates regularly through my playlists.

Ingram Hill - "Chicago"

Rock-tober 19, 2021

It's been well established that I'm a collector - Andrea would say pack-rat. I chalk it up to my undiagnosed OCD. If I have a partial set of something, I'm agitated until the set is complete. As a comic book collector, this is particularly vexing. For example, I'm only missing a dozen issues of the 137 issue Green Arrow run from 1987, but those missing books will bother me until I have them in hand. 

Sometimes, this fixation settles on the exceedingly mundane. A previous job required extensive travel, and I tended to stay at Hampton Inns when on the road. At the time, the Hampton hotel chain printed room key cards with the Hampton logo and the state the hotel was in. When I noticed this pattern, I, of course, started keeping them in an attempt to collect as many as possible. I wound up with nearly 2 dozen state cards before Hampton changed their key card design, doing away with state designations. I'm still miffed about that one.

Social media feeds added a new facet to this compunction to collect. I've found myself compiling those succinct, snarky commentaries about our modern culture we know as memes. Recently, I started going through folders on my PC where I've categorized them. There were folders for Rock-tober, books, and movies. I then came across one simply labeled G.O.M. My brow crinkled as I didn't remember what the acronym meant. When I opened it, I was greeted by this gem:

And this one:

At some point over the past year, I updated the collection with COVID-related pieces.

With these, I picked up on the theme and remembered what G.O.M stood for:

G.O.M. apparently stands for "Grumpy Old Man"...

Mick Keogh - "Grumpy Old Man"

Rock-tober 18, 2021

Recently at work, the morale committee hosted a virtual happy hour in an attempt to foster the camaraderie that's not been the same since telework was mandated a year and a half ago. One of the ice breakers on the agenda was "Two Truths and a Lie". Each participant made three statements about themselves. In that trio of factoids, only two would be true and one would be a lie. The rest of the group would have to suss out the lie based on what they knew already knew about the person in the hot seat. Although I wasn't able to attend, these would have been my submissions:

1. I wandered into a minefield by accident.
2. I almost fell into the Grand Canyon.
3. I missed making the Olympic Archery Team by 3 points.

In August of 1990, I was a Midshipman attached to a guided missile frigate. The highlight of this cruise was a port visit to the tourist hotspot of  Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, also known as GITMO. Sun, surf, sand, and a crap ton of Castro's boys eyeballing us across a field of barbed wire. After training evolutions, including a brief stint in the base's gas chamber that left my shipmates and me choking and yakking up our breakfasts, a couple of my buddies and I scored the use of the ship's van. GITMO is no joke and is the tensest DMZ second only to the 39th parallel on the Korean peninsula. So of course this group of 20 somethings decides to go for a joy ride. When we inevitably got lost, the guy driving spies a line of signposts a hundred yards from the road. In an attempt to get our bearings, he drives off the pavement and makes a beeline for the nearest signpost. Conversations slowly stopped in the van as the sign's verbiage became readable. With large, bold, and insistent red letters, the gist was "DANGER - ACTIVE MINEFIELD". With exceedingly deliberate slowness, we reversed back over our tire tracks to the main road. Eventually, and almost overdue, we made it back to the ship.

Over winter break one year in college, Mom, Dad and I road tripped it out to California to spend time with some relatives. On our I-10 route between Mississippi and California was the Grand Canyon. Although it meant a 3-hour detour just to get there, taking in the splendor of the Canyon's South Rim was a family tradition whenever we came west. We stayed overnight in the park, and the next morning before Mom and Dad were up I went off on my own. I'd gotten a new camera and was busy putting it through its paces when I spied a particularly picturesque vista. I was trying to frame it properly but couldn't get the shot I wanted from the trail. So of course I jumped the fence. I was trying to dig my feet in on a steep slope to get my shot, and I'd just clicked the shutter when I started sliding. Slowly at first, but then I hit some really loose gravel and started to pick up speed. During my accelerated descent, I reached out and luckily grabbed hold of a small tree jutting out of the cliff face. I spent a moment contemplating my good fortune and spent the next 10 minutes laboriously clambering up to safety. Back at the top, I leaned against the rail, took a look back down, and shuddered. I chalked it up to another youthful misadventure that I wouldn't relay to Mom and Dad.

In the winter of '84, the guy who sold me my bow invited me to join an archery league being hosted at an archery pro shop in town. He advised me that constant exposure to seasoned shooters was the best way to learn proper technique and form. A total newbie, taking in all the info my first night at the range was like drinking from a fire hose. At a range of 20 yards, your target was a series of 5 concentric circles. The center bullseye was worth 5 points and each larger ring dropped a point until the outer ring which was worth a single point. We shot 12 rounds of 5 arrows each for a possible perfect score of 300. I shared the shooting line with about a dozen other archers who took me under their wings, scrutinizing my process and offering masters level tutelage on the sport. My early scores barely broke 100 but after weeks of guidance from guys who'd been shooting twice as long as I'd been alive, they started to climb. I was now consistently in the 280s. My final round broke 290, earning me the league's "Most Improved" trophy. With the Olympics coming to L.A. that summer, I contemplated pursuing a spot on the archery team for about 5 minutes. I quickly realized it wasn't for me. I wasn't part of any farm system for the team, Olympic distances were different, and I wouldn't have been able to use my current bow. Besides, knocking about with a bunch of strangers in L.A. wouldn't have been anywhere near as fun as hanging with the good old boys at The Bear's Den.

While I didn't make an appearance at the '84 Olympics, John Williams did. Williams scored the soundtracks for some of the biggest hits of my childhood including Jaws, Star Wars, and Raiders of the Lost Ark. His original composition for the L.A. games, "Olympic Fanfare and Theme", won him a Grammy for Best Instrumental Composition the following year.

John Williams - "Olympic Fanfare and Theme"

Rock-tober 17, 2021

A worthy mantra for any life is, "If you are able to do good, then do good." A hopeful progression would be that repeated acts of kindness will become habit, and repeated enforcement of a habit becomes character. We're not always privy to the results of these "random acts of kindness" or how far reaching a simple act for us can immensely and deeply affect another. However, every now and then the universe pulls back the curtains to give us a glimpse of how profound some of our actions can be.

During the summer of 2007, Andrea and I were part of a church team sent to Tanzania to explore a partnership with the Anglican Diocese of Tanganyika. A week or so before departure, another member of the congregation dropped by the house with a handful of Ugandan shillings. Although she knew we were going to Tanzania and not Uganda, she thought they might possibly come in handy. I thanked her and I went back to finishing my packing.

On board the plane, coach had 3 sections separated by aisles. The entire team was seated together on the port side (that's left for you delinquent landlubbers) behind a bulkhead that separated us from the galley in front of us. After an hour in the air, flight attendants approached the people sitting in the center section against the bulkhead, asking if they'd like to move to business class to which they readily agreed. It seems there was a mother with a newborn in the aft section who was having a little trouble handling a newborn as well as her toddler daughter. The flight crew could assemble a small bassinet to assist her, but it had to be attached to a bulkhead - thus the reason for the unexpected seat upgrade for our neighbors.

After the bassinet was assembled, the young mother came forward with her infant and toddler in tow. All the mothers on the team immediately swooped in to help her. In conversations with our new neighbor, we learned she and her husband were from Uganda. They were flown over to train folks in Florida who were going to Africa on short term projects like ours. She went into labor during that time and delivered a healthy baby girl. However, when it was time for them to fly back home, doctors would not clear her or her infant to fly so soon after birth. Unfortunately, her husband was forced to fly ahead without her. She was now taking this trans-Atlantic flight alone. Or so she thought. Over the course of the 12 hour flight, these ladies on our team took turns holding and playing with the infant so her mother could take a nap, eat, or just relax. 

Somewhere over North Africa, Andrea sat upright and gasped, catching me by surprise. I just looked at her, "What's wrong?"

"Where are those Ugandan shillings?" I had to think through my packing process to remember. Back in Laurel, my assumption was there would be no need for those shillings before our arrival in Tanzania, so it would have been logical to tuck them deep inside my checked bags. For whatever reason, I stuck them in my carry on gear. 

I unbuckled and stood in the aisle rummaging through all the luggage in the overhead bin. When I found my bag I went from pocket to pocket and found the multicolored denominations. After a brief powwow with other team members, the bills were presented to our new friend. She immediately declined, but we persuaded her that we'd likely have little use of Ugandan currency in Tanzania.

With that, she graciously accepted the gift and told us another part of her story. The timing of her return trip was unfortunate as her husband was called in on a field assignment just prior to her scheduled arrival. He would not be able to meet her at the airport in Entebbe, and she had been unable to make other arrangements before the flight.  She boarded the plane not knowing exactly how she was going to get home from the airport. Apparently, the sum we'd given her would be sufficient to get her the rest of the way home safely.

Were we the unwitting answers to her prayer that allowed this young mother the audacity to commence a journey whose end was uncertain, or was she the beneficiary of a series of random events starting with a congregant giving me a handful of foreign currency? For her, the prime motivator for our good deed was irrelevant. Throughout our time together, she was unflappably calm with a deep assurance that although she didn't know how, everything would be alright, and we were privileged to be spectators.

Bob Marley - "Three Little Birds"

Rock-tober 16, 2021

One summer evening back in junior high, Dad was deployed and Mom was away, and my buddy Mike was over at my house. We were up to our elbows fighting low-res, 8-bit dragons on my venerable OG Atari 2600 gaming console. The entire house was empty and dark except for us, lit by the glow of the TV screen. But I kept getting this prickly sensation on the back of my neck and a creepy feeling that we weren't alone.

I chalked it up to the game until I noticed Mike started looking over his shoulder at my open bedroom door. I elbowed him. Hard. "C'mon, man! You've gotta help keep a lookout for those dragons!"

Ignoring my irritated tone and elbow in his ribs, he kept looking over his shoulder. "Hey, Wayne, who else is here?"

My hand froze on the joystick and my on-screen player was summarily killed by Rhindle. Annoyed and unnerved at the same time, I asked, "Whadda ya mean?"

"I dunno, man. I just get this feeling we're not alone or someone is watching us."

I got hit by a massive wave of goosebumps. Trying to shrug off my growing feeling of unease and salvage some manliness, I took a derisive tone, "Pfft. Yeah, right. Whatever, loser." Then Mike, still staring at the open door, turned to look at me. I saw it in his eyes. He was really spooked.

"I think we need to get out of here." Another cascading wave of goosebumps.

"Yeah. Let's go." We both were instantly on our feet. I grabbed my yellow recurve bow off the wall and Mike snagged the nunchucks from my dresser. The house was still dark so we ran for the front door, flung it open, and dashed out the front gate. He and I sprinted the entire quarter-mile to his house, all the while muttering "Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap." in between ragged breaths.

We must have been a sight - two kids running full tilt, knees to chest. One was carrying an unstrung target bow (with no arrows) and another was flailing himself with an illegal weapon. We either had the most chill neighborhood or everyone was just so inured by our shenanigans, it was chalked up to, "Hmmph. Martha, the little punks are at it again."

We got to Mike's house, out of breath and visibly shaken, making Mike's mom a little panicked, "What happened?" She casually glanced out the window to see if our sudden arrival would be followed up with a visit from the Long Beach police department.

Mike and I both launched into spirited and simultaneous explanations that got louder and faster as we went on. Mike's mom stood with arms crossed and looked from one to the other of us, trying to suss out if this was legit or another practical joke at her expense. After eyeballing us for a bit, she made her decision and grabbed her car keys off the counter. "OK, boys. Let's go."

Mike's mom was cool. Rather than dismiss our story as the product of overactive juvenile imaginations, she bundled us into the car and drove us back to my house. When we arrived, she pushed the front door open. We'd apparently left it ajar during our abrupt evacuation. With us in tow, she walked the entire house, rosary in hand. All other doors were locked and windows were closed. Satisfied there was no physical danger, she sat both of us down on my bed.

"Wayne, do you want to stay with us until your mom gets home?" By this time, I'd shaken the willies and was starting to feel pretty sheepish about all the ruckus.

"No thanks, Mrs. Thurman. I think I'm OK now. Sorry about the fuss."

She just smiled and said she'd make me some pizza next time I was over. With that, she and Mike were gone. I still don't know what went down earlier, but I slept with all my bedroom lights on that night for the first time since I was a (much younger) kid.

Rockwell - "Somebody's Watching Me"

Rock-tober 15, 2021

Main Street is a narrow, one-way road that runs through historic downtown Annapolis. At the top of this brick-paved thoroughfare sits St. Anne's Episcopal Church. While the current structure dates to the 1850s, a church of that name has stood here since 1704. Along with specialty shops purveying all manner of Navy-themed kitsch, bars and eateries line both sides of the road. 

One of these is Red Red Wine Bar, and it's usually one of our first stops. We'll order one of their frequently rotated wine flights and contemplate the afternoon in front of us. Unless you're a politician going to the State House a few blocks over, you don't come to Annapolis with a hard-set agenda. When we roll into "'Nap' Town", we have a very Zen, "We'll see what we see," attitude.  

Several art galleries intersperse themselves on Main, and Main Street Gallery, near the head of the street, periodically features the works of Kevin Fitzgerald, a local artist. Known for the subdued color palette of his massive landscapes, he's become one of Andrea's favorites. However, the artist's rising popularity in recent years pretty much ensures his work is out of our price range. This hasn't fully deterred Andrea and me. We've unofficially annexed this gallery and now consider it an extension of our living room. We'll drop in every so often and visit his latest works in the Annapolis wing of Casa Capuyan.

With St. Anne's behind you, Main Street is a gentle downhill grade, terminating in a roundabout with spokes that will fling you off in half a dozen directions. Here, you're within a stone's throw of the harbor. You can always find sailboats berthed in the various slips, gently rocking in the water and tugging at their lines. 

Recently we were strolling by the waterfront when a street performer was belting out a decent rendition of "Brick House" by the Commodores. Andrea was on my arm and as we approached, he smiled at me and seamlessly worked "You've got yourself a brick house" into the song lyrics. I gave an acknowledging wink and nod and flashed the "rock-on" sign.

There's a small park at the water's edge and every trip into town will usually bring us to this point. Andrea and I have shivered out here in the cold viewing the "Parade of Boats" over the Christmas holidays, oohed and ahhed at fireworks displays over the water, and people watched as charter boats carried tourists on water tours of the Academy and other sights on the Severn River.

For me, this town is rife with nostalgia. Dad was stationed in Annapolis in the early '70s, and one of our apartments overlooked the Academy. Mom pointed out the building on one of her visits up. It was a curious sensation as Andrea and I walked through town with her to realize Mom took similar strolls with 3-year-old me. There's also a palpable connection here with Dad, and I find comfort being in close proximity to the same waters he and I fished together some 50 years ago. 

Annapolis is where I go for solitude. Every March 12th will usually find me as close as I can get to the water's edge. The smell of brine on the breeze and the calls of gulls as they turn aerial cartwheels are perfect backdrops for personal reveries. In my mind, today's song plays out on an internal soundtrack. I'll watch as a beautiful daysailer enters the channel and raises sails. As if on queue, the wind picks up and her canvas pops loudly as they're filled with the stiff breeze. She takes a gentle leeward lean, and I watch as she slowly makes her way upriver. I can't help but smile.

Van Morrison - "Into The Mystic"

Rock-tober 14, 2021

It was the summer of '81, the last summer of grade school right before I started junior high. On this particular day, I was over at my buddy Noel's house, where we were trying to find some mischief to occupy our time. He clapped his hands, "I know what we can do. Follow me." With that, he grabbed a handful of dimes from the kitchen counter, stuffed them in his pocket, and headed for the front door.

We cut through a park and strolled over to a nearby convenience store just across from the railroad tracks. Buying a couple of Cokes, we loitered outside, sipped our drinks, and watched traffic ply the road in front of us. A train happened by and we counted freight cars as they lumbered past. Throwing back the last of his Coke, Noel headed for the phone outside the store and started flipping through the tethered phonebook.

"Who you callin'?"

"A girl." He had my attention. I stood there and had to think about it. Nope. I don't think I'd ever called a girl before, but here I was, getting a primer on how to execute this ambitious maneuver. Scanning the alphabetized listings, Noel found the young lady of interest. He flicked a dime into the coin slot and dialed her number with a deftness that belied his years.

What followed was, to me, an unfathomably laid-back, easy-going conversation. From the one side I was privy to, topics ranged from her family's plans for the weekend, what she thought of the new #1 song from Casey Kasem's countdown, and if she was in to the drama coming out of Southfork on Dallas reruns. Finally, 20 minutes later, he hung up the phone with a parting "goodbye" and a goofy smile on his face.

"How'd you do that? How do you talk to a girl for that long without gettin' squirly?  

"Pfft. You just call her and talk. How hard is that?"

*sigh

I love Noel like a brother, but at that moment I really wanted to punch him. He may as well have said, "Pfft. You just strap into an F-16 and take it for a spin. How hard is that?" I guess he saw my exasperation so he tried to expound on his tutelage.

"OK. Look. Do you have your eye on anyone?"

"Umm..." There was that one girl living over at the housing on the CB base. "Yeah."

"Well, alright!" He clapped me on the shoulder. "Do you know her number?"

"Umm. No."

"Well, what do you know about her?" He was thinking favorite group or song, so my answer completely flummoxed him.

"I know the license plate number off of her family car," I said, hopefully. But it was his turn to sigh as he rubbed his eyes while shaking his head.

"Jeez, Wayne. I don't... Let me get this straight. You don't know her phone number."

"Nope."

"But you know her license plate number."

"Well...yeah. I see it when I ride by her house all the time. It's easy."

"Wayne, man, that's not easy. That's just....weird." I raised my hands and shrugged my shoulders in full agreement. With a resigned shake of his head, he turned to walk back into the store. Girls 101 would have to wait for a while. "C'mon. Let's go for the high score on Defender."

"Cool. That's definitely easier."

Sadly, my dorkiness ran deeper. Around this same time, I actually memorized the lyrics to today's song in the event a chance to serenade that cute girl ever popped up. Not only was it "not Top 40", but the album I had was from Engelbert Humperdinck. Ladies have been breathing a collective sigh of relief since 1997 when I went off the market.

It did not bode well for Andrea, though.

Frankie Valli - "Can't Take My Eyes Off You"

Rock-tober 13, 2021

I've got a list of guys from history I'd love to spend time with. You met Sun Tzu on day 1 of Rock-tober. It's been 2500 years since his death, yet modern military strategists are still poring over his manuscripts.

Charlemagne, whose military conquests united most of Europe, almost single-handedly kick-started the Renaissance half a millennia early.

And then there's Hannibal.

No. Not the mad genius cannibal, Hannibal Lecter, the mad genius Carthaginian general, Hannibal Barca. Hannibal kept the Roman expansion in check during the second Punic war and nearly changed the course of history for Western Europe.

I suspect Hannibal and Sun Tzu would have gotten along famously. Although born 250 years and 2 continents apart, Hannibal mastered Sun Tzu's tenet of, "He who knows both himself and his enemy need not fear the result of a hundred battles."

Hannibal twice found himself boxed into a canyon at night with a herd of cattle. Both times a Roman contingent controlled a hill near the only exit. The first time, he knew the Roman commander to be fairly aggressive, so he ordered his men to tie straw to the horns of the cattle, set the bundles alight, and drive them across the base of the hill. The aggressive commander chased after the noise and lights around the cattle while Hannibal and his men quietly slipped away on the other side of the hill.

The second incident was identical, but the Roman commander was much less assertive. Hannibal employed the exact same strategy, but realizing this commander was more inclined to sit tight, he drove the cattle between his men and the Roman garrison and once again escaped.

On the eve before the Battle of Cannae, Hannibal, and his senior staff were on a hillside overlooking the Roman garrison. The Carthaginians held a slight cavalry advantage but their infantry units were vastly outnumbered - by 35,000 men in some accounts. It was the largest army fielded by Rome.

Predictably, there was a palpable unease in the Carthaginian camp. A conversation between Hannibal and a member of his senior staff, Gersakkun, was recorded.

Gersakkun: "That's a lot of men."

Hannibal: "True. But there's something we have that they don't."

Gersakkun: Raising an eyebrow, "Really? What's that?"

Hannibal: "In that immense army," pointing to the Roman camp, "they don't have a single man named Gersakkun."

The ensuing laughter was boldly raucous and loud, and it carried in the still night air. Seeing their leaders' calm nonchalance in the face of the immense Roman host energized  Hannibal's army, and their nervousness dissipated. The following day, the two forces clashed in an epic battle that lasted until darkness forced a halt. By day's end, Hannibal visited on the Romans one of the most crushing defeats in military history with Rome suffering an 80% casualty rate. Cannae is still studied in military circles as an example of perfect tactical and strategic execution of battle.

There aren't a lot of Carthaginian-themed rock songs in my playlist, but the Hu came through with something that might have been played before one of Genghis's battles. Genghis's story, though, is another post.

The Hu - "Fallen Order"

Rock-tober 12, 2021

In a prior missive, I talked about my collection of cast iron cooking implements. It's gotten out of hand with over 200 pieces from at least 8 countries and 3 continents. Most of America's major foundries are represented plus a few pieces that predate them. I've even got an order in with a new outfit for their take on a waffle iron.

Andrea is a collector as well, but the subject of her flea market and antique store quests are decidedly more delicate. While the preponderance of her finds is ceramics from Wedgwood, local artisan guilds are also represented. One of my favorites is a deep cobalt blue vase with an interesting glaze technique that gives the appearance of blooming flowers.

Cast iron is admittedly kludgy and heavy, but it can handle a fair amount of abuse. Not so for Andrea's ceramics. The blue vase I mentioned was accidentally knocked over and it fractured into three major pieces. Now, Andrea was doing "Marie Kondo" before Marie Kondo, so I was surprised when she kept the broken fragments. Apparently, she had a plan.

In ancient Japan, there was a master of the tea ceremony, Yusai Hosokawa, who was in service to a local warlord. One day Hosokawa's apprentice fumbled the serving tray and a priceless teapot, the warlord's favorite, fell and broke into five pieces. The warlord stood and was about to go postal on the apprentice, but Hosokawa stepped in and talked him down, sparing his young assistant. Hosokawa collected the teapot fragments, had them reassembled with resin, and filled in the cracks with gold. He presented this to the warlord who was moved beyond measure at this restoration. This became the basis for Kintsugi, a Japanese art form from the Japanese kin (gold) and tsugi (to reconnect).

The idea is to create beauty from brokenness, and as I contemplated this art form, I've noticed a few things.

From a materials point of view, fracture patterns are the result of internal weaknesses distinctive to each and every piece and the nature of the fracturing blow. No two pieces will react the exact same way to a given external impact.

The repairs aren't hidden - they're accentuated. More than just mended fractures, these slender lines of gold have become unmistakenly pronounced and impossible to miss. Rather than detracting from an object's beauty as a remnant of some past trauma, these repairs enhance its uniqueness.

Although they were once broken, kintsugi pieces are held in higher regard than the original piece. They denote a sophistication absent in the original.

If you replace all references to ceramics and pottery with "I" or "me" and all mentions of fractures with any and all storms life has thrown at you, you now have a few reasons to hold your head high. Regardless of past maelstroms you've endured or are currently weathering, you're still standing.

Bon Jovi - "It's My Life"