Rock-tober 31, 2022

One of the mandatory training sessions we have at my job involves being actively inclusive of dissenting views. Several studies were cited where working groups with homogeneous backgrounds, outlooks, and frames of reference were outperformed by those with more diverse memberships. It was found in diverse groups that decisions were made more quickly and with more clarity. Additionally, difficult problems were overcome with unique out-of-the-box thinking due mainly to participants tackling the problem with a different mindset.

This has ramifications beyond staff checking the box for mandatory staff training.

During World War II, fighter planes returning from combat patrols displayed predictable patterns of bullet holes. Warfighters made the logical leap to reinforce these sections with armor to increase the aircraft's survivability. However, it was an outsider, a mathematician, who postulated that the reason certain areas were not covered in bullet holes was that planes taking damage to those critical areas did not return. This dissenting opinion led to the reinforcement of those specific areas of returning aircraft that had no battle damage. Online sources say this paradigm carried over to combat aircraft that saw service in Korea.

Most of my Gen-X cohort would have been in school when the Challenger shuttle disaster unfolded. The root cause for the mid-flight explosion was attributed to O-ring failure. This failure, in turn,  stemmed from the freezing cold conditions the morning of the launch. Those temperatures severely impacted the elasticity of the O-rings, prohibiting them from making a proper seal. As a result, flames blew past the O-rings and eventually ignited the external fuel tank.

For months prior to the launch, a core of engineers led by Roger Boisjoly was aware of the O-ring vulnerability and flooded management with memos detailing this weakness. On the morning of the launch, a series of go/no-go flight meetings took place, and based on data from Boisjoly's team, the launch was initially scrubbed. However, senior NASA officials questioned this decision and in a subsequent meeting, Boisjoly and his team were purposely excluded. As a result, the launch continued and ended in the first in-flight deaths of US astronauts.

Collaborating with those of dissenting views isn't always easy. Sometimes it's excruciatingly hard. But it has to be done, and failure to do so can have dire consequences. A good first step is finding common ground. From yesterday's post, it can likely be gleaned that I doubt I'll ever agree that taking down the live oak at the end of Island View was a good idea. However, I'll bet 2 sons could come together and regale each other with great stories of their dads.

Rock-tober out.

"Brickyard Road" - Johnny Van Zant

Rock-tober 30, 2022

One of the most read entries of this blog isn't part of Rock-tober. It's a stand-alone post I did about a particular oak tree way back in 2013. That post detailed the importance of that tree to my family and specific remembrances it held for me and my dad. It survived centuries of hurricanes and man's incursions, and to me, it was as immutable as the seasons. I fully expected it to far outlast my tenure on this sod.

Imagine my sorrow and dismay when a classmate of mine pinged me that it had been taken down. I refused to believe it and asked Mom to confirm the news. It was true. The tree was gone. My shock gave way to anger. I made the trip down that year to see for myself, and I'd be lying if there weren't tears in my eyes when I saw the massive trunk on the ground, completely shorn of branches. Cords of wood from those branches were stacked as firewood in the driveway of the house closest to the beach. I made multiple trips at all hours of the day to knock on the door of that house to ask "Why?" and "What happened?", but I was never able to speak with the owners and had to leave town without answers.

I wanted to cut a slab from what was left of the trunk to craft some memento from it. Andrea, along with my lifelong buddy, Mike, did their best to find someone on the property who could allow it. Unfortunately, I just couldn't find a crew with a portable mill that I could afford.

Several stories eventually filtered back to me. One was that the tree was taken down because it was diseased. I summarily called bullshit on that. The other involved a traffic fatality blamed on poor visibility because of the tree. Someone lost their father in that accident. Now you have two starkly different narratives, both involving fathers, sons, and this tree. To me, this oak was a fond remembrance of times and specific conversations with Dad. For the other son, memories evoked by the tree take on an entirely different mood.

I'm always going to miss this tree. I believe these massive oaks add a rich uniqueness and unmistakable charm to the Mississippi Gulf Coast that cannot easily be replaced or duplicated. But, if I ever meet this other son, I know the first thing I'd say is, "Hey, my name is Wayne. What are your favorite stories about your dad?"

One addendum: Andrea and I scoured the area for acorns and found quite a few. Eventually, I'll try and germinate them. For now, I'm enjoying the hope and promise they have in their current form.

"Lochloosa" - JJ Grey

Rock-tober 29, 2022

Growing up, I had a captain's bed. This was a mattress only, on a raised platform with drawer storage underneath. These beds were based on actual shipboard models where space was a premium. As a result, the overall dimensions are even smaller than a twin mattress.

During my college years and immediately after, all the dorms and apartments I lived in came with twin-size beds. Technically it was an upgrade, but not by much. The coolest of these was in an efficiency I had in Birmingham. The apartment itself was built into one of the hills overlooking the city. I loved electrical storms that rolled through at night. Sitting in the doorway and enjoying the light show arcing above the cityscape made it seem like I had a really big theater room. Which was cool, because the place was tiny - no more than 10' by 20'.

Everything was scaled down - a small kitchenette, a single cafe table and chair, a single low dresser, and the murphy bed. I wasn't hurting for space as these were my minimalist years. I could pack most of my belongings into a single seabag. But still, I really appreciated the ability to tilt an entire mattress and boxsprings into the wall.

After Andrea and I were engaged, I realized a twin wasn't going to cut it. My next apartment included my very first grownup purchase using credit - a queen mattress and boxsprings. The first night I slept in it, I thought, "Holy crap! There's enough space to host an Olympic decathlon!" There was so much more real estate than I'd ever had, I didn't know what to do with it.  Do I sleep on one side or the other? The middle? Maybe even diagonally?

Silly me. I needn't have bothered. After marriage, this was decided for me. You could be forgiven for thinking the line of demarcation of the marital bed ran down the middle. I assure you it does not.

I can't tell you how many times I've woken up with cramped toes and fingers. They were subconsciously gripping the sheets as I was precariously balanced on the edge of the mattress - kinda like a curious rock formation teetering at the edge of a cliff.

Recently, Andrea introduced something new to the mix - a weighted blanket. The first time I saw ads for these I kinda chortled, "Who would buy such a thing?" The redhead, that's who. The Amazon driver must have been cussing us as she toted this particular package up our driveway as the thing weighs 20 freakin' pounds! As Andrea thrashes the blanket around in the middle of the night, I'm continuously getting pummeled. The next day gives me a curious look and scrunches her nose. "Did you hit yourself recently?"

"What? No! Why?"

"Hmph. You've got a bruise on the bridge of your nose."

Hmph, indeed. I imagine getting smacked in the face with a 20-pound weight would leave a mark. Now, even more so, I find myself constrained to the narrow, continuously contested strip of "Wayneland" lest I get walloped by a bloody blanket.

Maybe I'll pull the trigger on a king-size mattress. I may actually be able to lie flat on my back again without getting a black eye.

"Livin' On the Edge" - Aerosmith

Rock-tober 28, 2022

There's a long line of military service in my family. Dad was in college studying to be a mining engineer, but when the money ran out, he joined the Navy. He saw action in Vietnam and spent the rest of his fleet career in the 7th Fleet cruising around the western Pacific. After he and Mom got married, he transitioned to the Seabees. He loved the Navy. Retiring and leaving it behind was one of the hardest times of his life.

When the Japanese Imperial Army invaded the Philippines in WWII, Mom's father, much like a number of Ukrainians when Russia crossed the border, declared, "Aww, hell no." He joined the Philippine Army's irregulars unit and apparently got into a few scrapes. Mom told me he'd be gone for weeks at a time fighting skirmishes and fading back into the mountains. Somewhere in the middle of Baguio City, where I was born, a war memorial was erected. It's a simple granite column etched with the names of the participants of the Battle of Baguio. My grandpa is among those listed.

My maternal grandmother's dad was an Army scout under General Arthur McCarthur (father to Douglas, the other general who would be making a return trip to the Islands). This was during the American occupation after the Spanish-American War. I've seen the pictures, Great Grandpa cut an impressive figure in uniform. Near the end of his life, he was bedridden. As the family gathered and tried to make him as comfortable as possible, he started asking for food.

However, no one could understand what he was asking for. They prepared and served up all his known favorites and all the regional delicacies, but he turned all of it away. Eventually, the family deciphered his cryptic requests. 

He was asking for Army field rations. Towards the end, what was bringing him comfort were memories of the bread he broke with his brothers in arms. I find that so poignantly and extremely badass.

In my family line, there are no generals, no admirals, but yet there is a long, proud military tradition. I consider myself a military son and count myself fortunate indeed to share a lineage with these men.

"Fortunate Son" - Creedence Clearwater Revival

Rock-tober 27, 2022

I've written before about my former coworker, Mike. Back in the day, we were thick as thieves, continuously pranking colleagues, exasperating our boss, and regularly terrorizing the buffets in town. After hours we'd meet up and chill. Our tastes in entertainment were the same - Band of Brothers, LotR, George R.R. Martin when he used to write, and the History Channel back when it was about history and not aliens or Bigfoot.

We were both detail-oriented, and our matching "get it done right" instead of just "get it done" temperaments assured we'd get along famously. He was also a bit quirky. Mike once bought a bottle of cognac since he'd never tried the stuff before. After uncorking the bottle and pouring himself a shot, he took a sip - and was not impressed. Looking around his kitchen Mike spied a 2-liter of creme soda, and his eyes lit up. After mixing the two into the most ghastly cocktail I can imagine, he declared his creation "pretty damned tasty". When I heard this story I declared him an honorary redneck on the spot.

Another interest we shared was woodworking. We'd visit woodworking expos that came to town, talk smack about Norm Abrams, and regularly just cruise through the woodworking hobby shops in the area. His level of meticulous precision exceeded my own, and he channeled it into projects like crafting his own guitar.

It was while working on a project, he was making use of his table saw. Mike's concentration lapsed for a moment, but unfortunately, that's all it took, and he injured himself badly. His Army training kicked in, and he applied a pressure bandage to staunch the bleeding while making a hectic call to his wife. That day, she had the only car and was at the library working on a paper for her degree.

Mike met his wife when he was stationed in Germany. She was of German and Italian extraction, and I believe he once described her as someone who could very efficiently become very angry.

The minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. After half an hour, Mike rang his wife again. "Where are you?! The bleeding stopped, but I need to get to a hospital!"

"Jeez! Can you give me a few minutes - I'm still in line to check out these books!"

"Wait? What?"

*sigh* "Mike! You know I've got a paper due!"

I'd like to think that if I'd injured myself badly, I could call Andrea and she'd drop whatever she was doing to come to help me. And as a matter of fact, I did, and she did, but that's a different post.

It was at that moment, with the phone receiver in his bloody hand, that Mike realized he and his wife weren't exactly in sync with each other. They eventually separated but remained on polite terms. By the time I knew him, years had passed since the "incident", and he was able to joke about it. "Man, Wayne, the first time, I married for love. The next time I'm marrying for money."

Ironically, a guy Mike knew reached out to him a little while later. Dude wanted to introduce Mike to his cousin. Who lived overseas. Who he was trying to hook up with a green card. "Look, Mike, she's a great gal, and after I told her about you, she's really eager to meet. Besides, her family will make it worth your while."

When Mike told me, I just laughed. "C'mon, man. You can't seriously be considering this."

He didn't say no. What he did do was start listening to Rosetta Stone language CDs and planning a couple of overseas trips. I looked on with bemused concern.

After a few months of back and forth with Dude over the particulars, something must have set off Mike's BS radar, because he summarily dropped the entire arrangement.

The last time he and I met up, he was doing just fine living his best single life in a condo. Band of Brothers was playing on the home theater system as we fried up some burgers. Thankfully, there was no cognac or creme soda on hand.

Incidentally, he sold me that table saw.

"American Woman" - Lenny Kravitz

Rock-tober 26, 2022

What made the songs from Rock-tober Year 1 really special was they were easy, low-hanging fruit. With zero effort I could rattle off 31 songs that were perennially on my playlist and why. As the years went on, I had to constantly dig deeper and deeper into my collection and sometimes (Whoa!) venture outside my comfort zone. Yeah, I'm looking at you, P!nk.

I thought this year would have been easier seeing as I've given myself latitude to bring back some of my very personal favorites, but the opposite problem surfaced. I had to winnow down a set list of 279 songs to just 31. While I wasn't sure what the final album side would look like, today's song was definitely making the cut. Of all of Bob Seger's singles, this one is the most meaningful to me. I just had to figure out how to work it in.

On a recent road trip, when we were cruising the backroads of northeast Georgia, I was telling Andrea I've been having trouble figuring out how to intro this song into this rotation of Rock-tober. She thought about it as we continued down the country lane flanked by fall-foliaged trees. Knowing what the song invoked in me she said, "You should write about important moments and people in your life."

It made sense. In the music video, Seger appears to be looking at scenes of his younger self. Memories of moments in time, along with the people in his life who made them special. The look of wistful contemplation on his face as these vignettes played out before him is highly relatable. If you're reading these words, there's a good chance you're in some of the memories periodically replaying in my mind. It's my good fortune that I have innumerable ones to choose from.

An impassable barrier separates the older Seger and his younger self, so they never interact and never exchange words. That's as it should be. For as much as we may yearn for it, the past is unattainable. Besides, it's still a fact that older me still can't stand movie spoilers, so I'm fairly certain that younger me wouldn't want spoilers about his life. Regardless, I've said before I have utterly no interest in changing the past.

But I was curious about younger me's outlook, so I went back and read what he wrote 10 years ago about what's become my personal anthem.

The older I get, the more I relate to this song. Seger was in his 40's when he wrote it, and the lyrics describe an older guy looking back on his life thus far, mirroring my own internal dialog. Do I have regrets? Sure, but none of them are incapacitating. Have I accomplished all the dreams from my youth? Nope. Some died while others have been changed or tempered and refined by life, and I still believe in them. Oh, and I still have no time for "these hucksters and their schemes".

Damn. Younger me just laid it out there. Maybe he wasn't such a lunkhead after all.

"Like a Rock" - Bob Seger

Rock-tober 25, 2022

On a former contract, I had to present a briefing to senior federal staff. This was my first time updating the brass so I wanted to make sure it went off without a hitch. My undiagnosed OCD kicked in and I did several hours of prep work for a 20-minute presentation. I made sure all data was accurate, slides were in order, and tried to anticipate any questions that might come my way. At the end of the meeting, our federal lead came up to me. "Wow, Wayne. You just dove right in and weren't nervous at all."

Pfft. Why would I be nervous? I just nodded my head, smiled, and thanked him. He didn't know that in a prior life, I'd received a couple of thorough dressing-downs by Marine Corps gunnery sergeants and Navy captains. After those experiences, I assure you, there are very few things that can make me flinch - a certain redhead being a notable exception.

Sometimes, though, stress does build up and I've found music to be an excellent salve. I once had a CD single of Pachebel's Cannon in D that I'd queue up before heading into college finals. Dobie Gray's "Drift Away" is another song that's earned a permanent spot on my "Chill" playlist.

However, it was years before I even knew the song's name. This was of course way back in the last century before YouTube, Google, and apps on smartphones that could identify a song by sampling snippets of a tune. Elusively, I'd catch it mid-chorus on the radio but I never heard the DJ announcing the song or artist. The most infuriating instance was me walking into a record store and the song was being piped over the store's PA system. I ran to the only store employee I saw and asked if he knew what was currently playing. "Naw, man, sorry. It sounds like an oldie, though."

Thanks for nothing, uninformed record store dude.

Somewhere along the way, I eventually overcame the trickster gods of music and discovered Dobie Gray. When this tune was first featured way back on Day 7 of this blog's first year, I cited "noise" in our lives from everyone and everything demanding your attention. In the last 10 years, the noise has been aggravated by us being constantly tethered to our smartphones. We're always connected and the noise never abates.

I'm thankful I have the wherewithal to be able to step away when needed. I'm hoping you do too. Perhaps with a good bourbon and maybe a cigar, just as I suggested in the original post.

"Drift Away" - Dobie Gray

Rock-tober 24, 2022

Until a month ago, for anyone born after 6 February 1952, HRH Elizabeth II was the only British monarch they'd known. Because of the reach of the former British Empire and the duration of her reign, it's been argued that Elizabeth was the most recognized person in the world. As Andrea and I watched the pomp and ceremony surrounding her state funeral, I was amazed at the sweep of history book-ended by her coronation and death.

The late queen was the British monarch for the terms of 15 English prime ministers and met 13 sitting US presidents (Johnson was the lone exception). Elizabeth was the UK's queen from post-WWII reconstruction, to "the Troubles" in Northern Ireland, through the economic doldrums of the '70s, to a post 9-11 world order.

For all the trappings of her office, by my observation, she was a very grounded individual. This character trait was perhaps instilled in her while she was a wartime princess. There's a tradition in the US military that the most accurate and actionable intel will come from Chiefs and Sergeants, your petty officer corps, and the truest measure of a person would come from former subordinates. I found this excerpt online from a former British staff officer.  

I never met HM The Queen, but when I was a staff officer in 2009 was tasked with reviewing and rewriting the Operation OVERSTUDY plans, which detail how we would repatriate her body if she died overseas.

The existing plan was for her to be transported back in a BAe 146, a smart business jet operated by 32 The Royal Squadron. However, the repatriation of Princess Diana in 1997 had not gone smoothly due to difficulties in loading the coffin into the freight bay. Subsequent modifications to the aircraft had made access to the freight bay almost impossible.

With a requirement for the aircraft to be able to land at RAF Northolt, the only 2 options were to use a C130 or C17. The C130 was noisy and would impact the ceremonial aspects of her arrival at RAF Northolt, whereas the C17 was quieter and was, sadly, very familiar with the repatriation role from undertaking the repatriation of Service personnel who had died in Afghanistan.

A dress rehearsal at RAF Northolt proved that it would work, but the impact of changing from a smart-looking business jet to a more utilitarian C17 was fairly significant and so approval from the Palace for the change to our plans was sought.

The response that came back from HM The Queen was: 'If it's good enough for my boys, then it's good enough for me!'.

An incredible person who I am proud to have served. RIP Ma'am.

I'd like to think after preening over her Corgis and horses, Elizabeth sounds like she wouldn't have minded slumming it with regular folks. She'd step into her favorite speakeasy south of the river, order her favorite drink (gin and tonic), and maybe catch the evening's act with "horns blowin' that sound".

"Sultans of Swing" - Dire Straits

 

Rock-tober 23, 2022

 

While my list of attended concerts is pretty light, one guy whose show I've seen multiple times is Jimmy Buffett. The first song of his that I remember hearing on the radio was "Margaritaville", no surprise there. That was pretty much where the affiliation ended. In the mid-'80s, still a neophyte to the Top 40 scene, listening to the deluge of new (to me) artists from AC/DC to ZZ Top was like drinking from a fire hose. When I eventually clued into Buffett's mystique of a glorified beach bum, I made a pretty big commitment - I actually bought one of his records.

Songs You Know By Heart, released in 1985, containing some of his most iconic singles, became my first Buffett album. Apart from "Margaritaville",  the side one songs, "A Pirate Looks at Forty" and "Son of a Son of a Sailor", quickly percolated to the top of my playlist.

This CD got a lot of playtime in college. I found it very relaxing after calculus and differential equations frazzled my brain. Once when studying with a buddy, this CD was playing on repeat in the background. I mentioned it was currently my favorite "chill" album and was told, "Dude, some of his best songs aren't even on there."

This led to a search for other previously released Buffett tunes. In a time when record stores still existed and allowed customers to play album tracks while they shopped, I did find some gems. Among them, a Buffett deep track, "La Vie Dansante", still brings a smile to my face whenever it plays.

Through my post-college years, I continued to find myself vibing with the chill "island escapism" Buffett portrayed, and my collection of his albums grew. It surprises me that the largest segment of my CD collection isn't Bob Seger, Skynyrd, or even ZZ Top. It's Buffett.

Any of the 5 Buffett entries on this little rock and roll blog could earn a spot on an Ultimate Album Side. As this year's edition of Rock-tober appears to be taking a "road less traveled" theme, "Take Another Road" earns the slot.

"Take Another Road" - Jimmy Buffett

Rock-tober 22, 2022

A while back, Andrea was telling me about a Twitter feed she'd found. Its premise was that the original poster had never seen Star Wars. To rectify this, her partner sat her down to binge Episodes IV, V, and VI while she live-tweeted her reactions.

When Darth Vader first appeared the original poster's partner gave her the quick 411. The way she framed her response smacked of a post-millenial, "Oh, so he's Space Voldemort." She was intrigued by the man in black, particularly his fashion sense. Taking in his choice of flowing shoulder  accessories, she may have coined the hashtag, #teamcapes.

Her view of young Master Skywalker was not as flattering, calling him a crybaby, and even blaming him for the death of Obi Wan. The last time I did a rewatch of both trilogies, I had to agree. Luke came off as a whiny brat. Leaia was always the better leader - Luke just seemed to get lucky.

It annoyed me that Anakin was always given short shrift because he turned to the dark side, even though this fulfilled his destiny. An online pundit noted that after Anakin betrayed the Jedi Council and dispatched the younglings, the ratio of Jedi to Sith achieved greater parity. It seems he did, indeed, bring balance to the Force.

I have to confess to a certain simpatico with Space Voldermort. In 6th grade we did a production of Babes in Toyland, and I was tapped to be the villain, Uncle Barnaby. Costume issued me a cape and I used it with devastatingly dramatic effect on the two simpering leads, Alan and Jane. It was at that point I also understood the allure for Batman, another member of #teamcapes. There's something empowering about being able to grab a handful of fabric and flourishing it about for theatrical flair to cower weaker minded individuals. I absolutely relished the role.

When the cast was given curtain calls, everyone received hearty, heartfelt applause. I, on the other hand, was met with a thunderous chorus of boos and hisses. But I didn't care - I had my cape. I performed a final flourish, bowed, and strode off the stage like a dark side boss.

"On the Dark Side" - John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band

Rock-tober 21, 2022

Near the end of the last century, I was a student matriculating in the hallowed halls of Long Beach High School. The school colors were maroon and white, our mascot was a "Bearcat", and the "make your own" taco salad in the cafeteria was the absolute shiznit. The principal, Mr. Jones, would walk the halls and halt countless acts of teenage shenanigans with nothing more than a stern look and a raised eyebrow.

A pair of highlights each day were the 2 10-minute breaks that broke up the tedium of class. When the bell rang for each break, the previously empty landscape of the campus was swarmed with students. We lived for those few moments free from the confines of the four cinder block walls of the classroom. You'd be surprised at the social agendas that could get set in those scant few moments: who was cruising with who down Jeff Davis, which Waffle House to hit after the game on Friday, what new movie to catch down at the Silver Screen Theatre in Biloxi. You could be productive and cram for one of Mr. Ladner's nightmare exams or just chill with a Coke from the vending machine in the main lobby. Or - this will blow the mind of anyone born this side of the Millenium - you could grab a smoke in the designated smoking area behind one of the buildings.

Since cell phones were still a good quarter century away, we all made use of the communal pay phone, also in the main lobby. The entire student body having to make do with the lone device wasn't considered a hardship - we didn't know any better. To us, the simple fact that you could reach out to anyone in possession of a similar antique for a single dime was a pretty cool deal for us. The most epic call I remember being made on that phone was a couple of upperclassmen ringing the offices of Life magazine. The publication had done an article featuring the cruising scene on Jeff Davis and these guys were calling to see if they'd made the issue  - they did.

We had our cliques. Jocks were at the top of the social order. Choir members were anathema to the band geeks. The "preppy" rednecks didn't usually associate with the "country" rednecks, and everyone stayed clear of the "hippy" rednecks.

The parking lot was a sea of trucks and muscle cars, and on any given day looked like a present-day auto show. These days, those same cars are highly desirable, vintage collectibles, but back then, they were family sedans and everyday grocery-getters.

The cool factor of the school being less than a mile from the beach was tempered by the misfortune of being across the road from a water treatment plant. The facility made its presence known after heavy rains and unfavorable winds. Band members and football players tried to blot from their minds what they were stirring up underfoot as they trod up and down the length of the practice field. "It's just mud. It's just mud..."

For the student body, certain things were sacrosanct. Impromptu drag races happened on the road behind the school, Mr. Burger would have a pillow mysteriously fall on him from the ceiling (if you know, you know), and the yearbook was always a combination of maroon and white with our school mascot on the cover.

Until it wasn't. During my senior year, members of the intrepid yearbook staff decided to dump this tradition. The yearbook is officially named The Seagull so why would you put a bearcat on the cover? And what the hell is a bearcat anyway? With that, the staff artist rendered the seagull that graced the yearbook that year.

The most drastic departure from tradition was nixing the traditional school colors of maroon and white and instead cloaking the yearbook in blue and silver, the colors of the senior class. Somehow the staff managed to keep this under wraps for the whole year in a clandestine operation that would make senior CIA officials proud.

When unveiled on Senior Day, the 1987 Seagull caused gasps of disbelief from the bulk of the student body. But these were eclipsed by the thunderous roar of the senior class. Twenty-five years later, it's still true.

"We're the best from earth to heaven! Senior Class of '87!"

"Forever Young" - Rod Stewart

Rock-tober 20, 2022

A few weeks ago, when Andrea was subjected to me taking a YouTube cruise down some of my favorite music videos from the '80s, "In the Air Tonight" came on. Eventually, the part plays. As Andrea looks up, she sees Collins seated and banging out the riff and she remarks, "Hmph. I know everybody makes a big deal about that section, but I didn't realize it was Phil Collins on drums."

"Wait. What?!" My mind was blown. I had sudden flashbacks to her making a similarly inherently obvious statement about the Eagles.

Interestingly, Collins didn't set out to record one of the most epic drum fills in rock and roll. The first time he laid down the track, he said he could have gone in one of two directions and "I just happened to choose the one I did."

As I write this, we're on another road trip and another one of Collins's tunes comes to mind. Released in 1985, "Take Me Home" features a wandering Phil Collins in a number of world capitals. It also happens to be Andrea's favorite of his entire discology.

When this song was first featured in Rock-tober, I noted how it incited my own wanderlust. Ten years later I've visited 46 of 50 US states and 5 of 7 continents. I'm looking forward to completing the quest and hitting those last four (Alaska, Wyoming, Montana, and North Dakota). A friend of ours noted that the Fargo Visitors Center will actually issue you a certificate if North Dakota is the 50th state you visit on your tour.

As for the continents, only South America and Antarctica remain. I'm thinking one of them will be markedly more difficult than the other. I'll have to ping McMurdo station to see if they need an IT guy.

 

"Take Me Home" - Phil Collins

As a post script I recently found out about the group, Bone Thugs-N-Harmony releasing a single, "Home", in 2003 that heavily sampled "Take Me Home". They'd asked Collins to join them in the video, but he initially refused. According to an interview with Rolling Stone, 

 "Bone Thugs-N-Harmony called me up and said, 'We've done a version of your song 'Take Me Home' and we'd like you to be in the video.' I said, 'No, I'm not in America.' They said, 'They can come wherever you are.' I said, 'Don't make me say, 'No, f--k off.'' But then I heard the song, and I quite liked it, and they agreed to come to Geneva. How could I disappoint these guys? They were nice lads."

When I heard the song, I liked it as well.

 "Home" - Bone Thugs-N-Harmony

Rock-tober 19, 2022

When I became a Navy midshipman at Auburn, I experienced some semblance of Navy life from the other side of the uniform. Prior to raising my hand to heaven and swearing an oath to support and defend, my relation to the Navy was as a civilian dependent. All of a sudden, I was now subject to the UCMJ.

I was well aware that my cloistered experience in Auburn's regiment of Midshipmen couldn't possibly compare to what I'd experience as a line officer, but it still imparted useful skills. One that I use regularly was an easier way to convert from military to civilian time. While you technically subtract 12 from everything after 12 noon, that doesn't come naturally, at least to me, in our base 10 numbering system. Another sailor told me the secret - just subtract 2. Take for example, 1700 hours. Seventeen minus 2 is 15. From here you can discount the leading 1 or carry out the much easier calculation of subtracting 10 to arrive at 5 PM. 

Another cool but dubious life skill for my resume was military drill. I was responsible for training and drilling my platoon to move in formation. I'm usually pretty quiet, so a number of folks were shocked when I started booming commands. If I had to, I think I could still drill a bunch of plebes on the parade ground.

Many of my experiences were memorable, but one event stands out - the tradition of Dining In. "Dining In" is a formal naval tradition during port calls. A ship's cadre of officers would entertain a group of foreign officers or dignitaries of the host country in the ship's ward room. For us midshipmen, it was basically Navy prom.

The evening of the event, we were all resplendent in our formal uniforms - dress whites for the Navy and dress blues for Marines. Toasts and speeches were given, and I remember dancing, so there must have been a band. Of note, alcohol was present since all instructors were far above the drinking age as well as a good number of the midshipmen who were former enlisted sailors. As we worked through the multi-course dinner, guards were relaxed and a lot of smack talk began to emanate from tables with liquor.

The scene continued to get rowdier until the conclusion of the evening. We all stood at attention as senior officers departed - some staggering and one Lieutenant leaning very heavily on a colleague's shoulder.

With the skipper and XO out of the room, one of the staggering lieutenants managed to yell, "Weapons free!!" before collapsing and being carried out.

Following what was perceived to be a lawful order,  a Porky's level food fight instantly commenced. Cheese cake, dinner rolls, and chunks of tomatoes created multiple fields of culinary suppressing fire. I grabbed my companion for the evening and we ducked under the table. We could hear the din of conflict all around us. Maniacal laughter from a couple of Marines in their element, cries from those straffed by volleys of potatoes, and the clatter of china as a groups of combatants tipped their tables over in an attempt to mount a defense.

When the "all clear" was finally sounded, we emerged from our cloth draped bunker and were greeted by a scene of mass gastronomic destruction. Toppled tables, gravy stained curtains, and bits of the main course hanging from the chandeliers utterly destroyed the venue.

Needles to say, the Skipper was not amused. NROTC Auburn was presented with a staggering bill for cleanup and repairs. This in turn was divided among the entire regiment. Those who were seated at drinking tables were levied a higher fine.

We didn't have another Dining In during my time at Auburn, but the event gave me my first war story.

"Highway to the Danger Zone" - Kenny Loggins

Rock-tober 18, 2022

I came of age attending a fairly conservative Southern Baptist Church. It wasn't crazy conservative with book burnings and snake dances. These were honest, salt-of-the-earth folks for whom I had and still have tremendous respect. However, wearing jeans in the sanctuary was discouraged, profanity was verboten, and listening to "that rock and roll music" would earn you a sideways glance from Sister Patty and her fervent prayers for your beleaguered soul.

For most of my time there I flew under the radar listening to country and classical music because everybody knows there are absolutely no eyebrow-raising double entendres in country music lyrics. Obviously, somewhere along the way, a switch got flipped because here I am 35 years later cranking out a little rock and roll blog.

One day after services, I was cruising around in the 'Stang with other teens from the church and one of them starts looking through my collection of cassettes. The cover art of one caught his attention and he took a closer look. His jaw dropped and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. "No way!", and he handed it to the girl in the back seat. There was an audible gasp from the rear.

"Wayne! You listen to Whitesnake?"

"Yeah. It's a really cool album! Wanna hear it?"

They looked at me in shock and awe, like they'd just discovered my identity as a leader in the secretive Teens for Rock rebellion.

The cassette that sparked such wonderment and reverence from them was Whitsnake's 1987 self-titled album, Whitesnake. Then (and now) my favorite track was track #4, "Here I Go Again". Then (and now) my favorite passage was, "I don't know where I'm going, but I sure know where I've been." The statement is prosaically simple, but it's also lyrically profound.

Then (as 17-year-old me), it meant I might not have it all figured out, but I knew Mom and Dad raised me right. Plus I had enough naivety to think I could handle anything life chucked at me. Now (as 52-year-old me), it means I still don't have it all figured out. Plus I've "done seen some shit". But I now have the advantage of 5 decades of life experience to draw on if I decide it's time for a course correction.

And the video is still cool 35 years later.

"Here I Go Again" - Whitesnake

Rock-tober 17, 2022

I've had to conduct a crap ton of interviews for IT personnel during my tenure at NIH. Typically, these can last for an hour, so if we're in a hiring phase, that's a lot of man-hours taken away from daily operations. In an effort to streamline the process, I developed a list of 20 questions of which I'd pick 10 to quiz prospective candidates.

These questions were my litmus test to gauge the core competency of interviewees. If they knew their stuff, they'd be able to clear my technical inquisition in 10 minutes or less. For a season this was not the case as candidate after candidate failed to meet this standard. As a reality check, I gathered some of our field engineers around and went through the list. My apprehension drained away as our crew confidently and with well-seasoned ease, tossed the correct responses back. OK. My line of questioning was legit, we just had to wait on the proper applicants to walk through the door.

And they eventually did. Those same 20 questions I developed were circulated to others involved in technical interview panels. As of now, everyone on staff has had to face some subset of them to join the team.

If a candidate makes it through the technical barrage, the rest of the interview is us sussing out whether they have the temperament for what can be a high-stress environment. "How would you handle a problem you've never encountered before?" The most memorable response was, "I'd Google it. Ain't no excuse for being dumb when you're walking around with a smartphone." They made the cut.

At the end of each session, we give the interviewee an opportunity to question us. I was once asked, "How long have you been at NIH?"

"Ten years this time around. Previously, I was here for five years."

"Wow. Why are you still here?"

I had to ponder that. It comes down to the mission statement. Years ago, an old boss of mine was recounting an interview he'd read on a former CEO of Coca-Cola. The Atlanta-based firm is a hallmark brand that's been woven into the fabric of American life. Yet, after years in the grind, this CEO came to a self-actualized epiphany that at its core his mission statement was, "We make carbonated sugar water."

To be clear, I am not a spokesperson for NIH. But, if I were to formulate its mission statement, it would be "Safeguard and assure the health and well-being of the citizens of the United States." Upon hearing where I worked, I actually had one individual shake my hand. Apparently, they needed a critical life-changing treatment, but their insurance company denied the claim, citing it was not considered a properly vetted, standard procedure. The individual refiled the claim and backed it up with documented NIH research studies and clinical trials showing it was, in fact, medically vetted. The insurance company relented and the treatment was approved.

I'm now one of the old-timers on this project. Periodically, new staff asks my reasons for staying, particularly when they find out my last post required a top-secret clearance. While being privy to the secrets of a nation was a privilege and honor, I missed offices with windows. And I really like the mission statement.

And I'm still waiting for someone to respond to the "How would you handle this problem?" with "Check out the hook and let my DJ revolve it."

"Ice Ice Baby" - Marty Ray

Rock-tober 16, 2022

 

When "Paradise City" first showed up on this blog, it was the frame of reference of a college teenager who associated it with Panama City. What would I consider "Paradise City" today? I now tend to avoid places highly trafficked by drunk tourists. That sort of eliminates similar locales like Key West or Daytona.

And New Orleans. Don't send hate mail. I love the Big Easy as much as any true blue southerner. With Mardi Gras, the French Quarter, and the slap-yo-momma silly cuisine on its CV, it's definitely a destination city.  I just wouldn't want to live there. The same goes for its sister city Mobile. Their Mardi Gras and restaurants can stand toe to toe with the Crescent City, and I've got more of a bond with the place having lived there a while. It just doesn't have that "Paradise City" vibe.

I did a brief stint in Birmingham and enjoyed it. The city is laid out in a logical grid so navigating it is easy. It's also surrounded by a number of neighborhoods that each have their unique flair and character. But, similar to other southern metropolitan centers like Atlanta, Nashville, and Charlotte, they're too far from the water.

That kind of makes Annapolis a front-runner. It's got a small-town feel that I prefer and sits literally right on the water - I'd have no excuse to not be out kayaking or sailing. 'Nap town and I definitely have a long history, with memories and ghosts in abundance. It's a shame that house prices are in the stratosphere. 

Andrea has mentioned Savannah. On the plus side, it's coastal and southern. But I've never been there. That's actually a fantastic reason to add it to our travel itinerary.

If we're talking "Paradise City - the Ex-Pat Edition", the list would include Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia; Victoria, British Columbia, or Inverness, Scotland. I could easily see myself getting into the local pub scene and regaling regulars with tales of sunnier and more humid climes. "You blokes stood around and begged for chintzy plastic beads?!"

In the early '80's I happened to be at the high school shortly after a graduation ceremony. I saw one of the former seniors from the neighborhood stride to his car, rip off his tie, and yell, "Later, Long Beach!" as he spun out of the parking lot. I never saw him again. There was a lot of this sentiment when it came time for my class to pick up our diplomas. Whether it was college, a job, or the military, there was a huge diaspora from the class of '87. Even one of my former teachers mentioned it at one of our reunions.

I've noted something in recent years. Whether it's to be closer to family or it's a feeling of nostalgia driving them, quite a few from my class are returning to the coast. It seems for a lot of former Bearcats, Long Beach has become the once and future "Paradise City".

"Paradise City" - Guns-n-Roses

Rock-tober 15, 2022

Back in the day, buying a new car from the dealership was an intricate duel between the buyer and the salesman. Opening feints, thrusts, and parries took the form of offers, counteroffers, and threats to walk away. Eventually, a detente was reached with, "Let me take this to my manager." Upon the emissary's return, either a deal was struck or hostilities were resumed. Eventually, if the car gods looked favorably on your quest, you rolled off the lot with the spoils of your hard-fought campaign.

A few decades ago, a couple we knew were looking to purchase a new car. Keenly aware of the upcoming conflict before them, they prepared themselves thoroughly. Armed with their research of market values, safety ratings, and a litany of well-rehearsed counter-arguments to common dealership scripts, they entered the fray.

"We see your sticker price, but according to local sales in this market, this would be a more reasonable offer." With an unspoken "En garde!" a piece of paper they slid across the table became the opening gambit. Their opponent attempted a masterful feint to draw them in.

"OK. I think we can work with that." He deftly turned the conversation to the various fees. Wary of the easily conceded sticker price, our heroes carefully examined the laundry list and discovered they were way out of line with those of other dealerships in the area. They parried with their well-prepared documents and were able to mitigate some and eliminate others.

The dance continued until fed up with their foe's intractable stance, they levied the nuclear option. "Look. We're sincerely trying to purchase a car from this dealership and hoping to make a deal today. Why are you being a hindrance? Should we take our business elsewhere?"

Defeated, their foe finally yielded. "Umm. Let me take all this to my manager."

This year, we found ourselves in the market for a new car. The weeks of lead time required by our friends to compile their market research was done in a fraction of the time thanks to the reach of the Internet. I wanted a blue Ford Bronco Sport (the color was critical). The realization that this vehicle would spend 95% of its service life on paved roads determined other factors such as trim package and power plant. These were all plugged into an online search and I had several dealerships lined up and ready to talk terms.

Much of the buying experience still relies on the dealership. In this odd era of supply chain woes and critically high demand, some bad actors are gouging buyers on sticker prices. The folks we chose to go with have a publicly stated stance, "We have not, nor will we ever do that." I happened to see the paperwork on the dealer invoice. We were getting a pretty good deal.

This car must have been fated for us because I've heard stories of 12 to 18-month wait times for delivery. I was fully expecting to cool my heels for a bit before its arrival. We were shocked to get the call to come in 24 hours after confirming our order. Even the dealership was surprised. "This never happened with this particular vehicle."

We drove off the lot the next day with a 2022 metallic alto blue Bronco Sport. As I said, the "blue" was critical. The '67 is red, the '70 is yellow, and with the addition of the blue Bronco, we now have all the primary colors. Achievement unlocked. We may have to rename our house "The Paddock".

We took it on its first major road trip this past week to Chicago and have several others lined up in quick succession. Andrea appreciates the extra cargo space - she can bring more shoes. And I have to concede that modern electronics definitely add to the ease of a long-haul drive.

I'm already looking at getting it trimmed out with bike racks, a 270° canopy, and a rooftop tent. We may not be doing any hardcore rock crawling, but I'm hoping it extends our reach to explore more out-of-the-way locales. Time to ride the wind.

"Ride the Wind" - Poison

Rock-tober 14, 2022

My brain is constantly being an ass of a gatekeeper for minutiae -  "The admin password for your router? Pfft. You won't need that. But here's the formula for Boyle's Law." 

At a recent convention with some of Andrea's colleagues, she pulled me over to a small group with whom she'd been working closely. She went around the circle of people and introduced me, and I greeted each of them by name. I then reached for my drink and discovered as I turned back around, "poof", every single name was forgotten.

Later that evening I had Andrea quiz me. "The second guy to the right was Danny?"

"Daryl."

"Next to him was Kelly?"

"Kerry."

"Dammit!"

Tomorrow I'm heading over to an old boss of mine's annual fall barbecue cook-off. Andrea and I attended last year and he introduced me to his wife, Lucille. See what I did there? I'd never met her before, and I haven't seen her since. But I remembered her name. Maybe it's because she shares it with BB King's famous guitar.

In sixth grade for Mississippi History, Mrs. Dunlap warned us we'd soon be tested on the names of the state's counties. Being a studious geek, I memorized all of them. One day shortly thereafter, "Class, clear your desks, take a sheet of paper, and list 20 counties." There are 82 in the Magnolia State, and I was able to scribble down 81 of them. To this day, apart from the three coastal ones where I grew up, one of the few other Mississippi counties I remember is the one I missed - Neshoba.

I couldn't tell you Mom's cell phone number if my life depended on it. I just know it's "Mom" in my contacts list. When Andrea picked up some gear at the REI mothership store in Seattle, the cashier asked for my membership card, which I didn't have on me. "No problem, what's the phone number associated with it?" I was able to rattle off a phone number Andrea and I hadn't had in over 10 years.

Here's the takeaway. If you're being introduced to me for the first time, do us both a favor and repeat it again a few minutes later. Your name is competing for preeminence against paramount factoids such as 302 cubic inches is equivalent to 5 liters.

"Who Are You" - The Who

Rock-tober 13, 2022

 

I've previously written about the misadventures of Andrea dorking around with my hair. There was the savagely unpleasant episode with Vaseline and the regrettably disheartening encounter with hair clippers. In spite of these incidents, Andrea came to me one day holding a pair of hair scissors.

Given our past history, I naturally recoiled. She held out the scissors, "Hey, Hon, would you do me a really big favor and trim my hair?" I must not have heard right.

"Do what, now?"

"Could you cut my hair?" I started protesting nine ways to Sunday, but she persisted. "Look. It's a simple, straight cut across the back. I just need to take an inch or so off. Then I'll guide you on the sides." This was a lot of pressure. Screw this up, and I'd be the direct cause of "bad hair days" for the next two months. But it also showed an awful lot of trust on her part, so I had no choice but to cowboy up. I started stretching out my arms and shaking them out, did a few deep knee bends, and took a few clearing breaths. You'd thought I was about to tangle with Ric Flair himself.

"Alright. Gimme those shears." Here's what I didn't realize. Andrea knew me. She knew I was fastidious to a fault and my undiagnosed OCD would have made me exercise every ounce of precision I could muster. If nothing else, it wouldn't be sloppy. She calmly stepped me through combing out a length of her wet hair, gauging an inch, and making the first cut. I then used that as a template for the next section as I slowly worked across the hair cascading down her back.

When I got to the sides, she explained how to partition her hair into discrete sections and secure them with hair clips. Then, releasing each section one by one, I'd make a cut and blend it into the completed back section.

As patient as she was, she paid a price. A stylist could have completed the task in 30 to 40 minutes, but I took well over an hour. I eventually finished, but my relief swiftly turned to trepidation as she checked my work in the mirror. "Well? How'd I do?" Her smile was a source of great satisfaction.

"Wow! You did a really good job!" I quipped that I could now add "hairstylist" to my resume. Be careful of what you wish for. She was out with a friend the next day who took notice of Andrea's fresh coiffure.

"I really like your hair!" Her shock when she found out she was viewing my work quickly gave way to incredulity that Andrea would let me near her flowing tresses with scissors. Incredulity soon transitioned to curiosity. "Umm. Do you think he could cut my hair?"

The episode was repeated with a coworker. I now had several ladies lining up asking for haircuts. Dumbfounded, I just looked at Andrea. "How the bloody hell did this happen?!" As the trend continued, I quipped that I should hang out a shingle and name the shop "Gregorio's" - you know, for that chic European flair. That didn't happen. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere on the road to becoming a hairdresser extraordinaire. But if I ever tire of the IT field, it's good to know I've got a fallback option.

"Must of Got Lost" - J. Geils Band

Rock-tober 12, 2022

Back in junior high, Mrs. Marti, my 7th-grade English teacher gave the class a choice between two poems. We'd all have to choose one, memorize it, and then recite it in front of the class. Seventh-grade me wasn't the overtly friendly, gregarious, extroverted social butterfly you all know and love today, and the thought of public speaking immediately put knots in my stomach. Well, maybe we'll at least get to choose a cool poem about hot rods, sailing ships, or even that lady from Nantucket.

Choice number one was William Wordsworth's, "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud". With all due respect to Mr. Wordsworth, I couldn't see myself talking about daffodils fluttering and dancing in the breeze with a straight face. What's showcase number two, Bob?

Mrs. Marti's second option was Robert Frost's, "The Road Not Taken".

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth...

OK. I think I can work with this. Graduation was still half a decade away, but I was still aware that choices were coming my way. Never again in my life would the array of possibilities be so large. While each and every decision made will eliminate certain options, hopefully, they will also open other opportunities. It's a good thing I was still pretty much a clueless kid. If I'd thought about it too much, the fear of a misstep or just the indecision in the face of the array of possibilities could have given way to paralyzing fear.

Fast forward about 20 years and countless decision points later. I was on a work crew and just shooting the breeze with some other guys. One of them takes a departure from the standard sports and work talk and decided to go deep. "Hey, Wayne, if you could roll back the years and have a chance to do it all over again, would you?" I didn't even hesitate.

"Absolutely not."

I must have been extremely loud and/or forceful in my reply because the all sawing and hammering stopped in my vicinity. My interrogator pressed on. "You mean to tell me if you had a chance at a do-over you wouldn't take it?" I could tell from his facial expression he was throwing the bullshit flag.

Here's the thing. It was a very specific series of choices that landed me where I was at that time. Just after high school graduation I almost went to LSU. I could have stayed at South Alabama after my freshman year. One of my professors suggested I would have been happier at Tulane. A college buddy was pushing hard to get me to transfer to Alabama with him. And adding to the din, Navy recruiters were still pinging me to enlist. Against this swirling counter current, I made the decision to transfer to Auburn.

It was in Auburn that I met and eventually fell hard for Andrea. Going back in time meant I might make a decision that altered my present reality. Even if I did wind up in Auburn, I might not have gone to that dinner. If there was a chance that I didn't wind up with Andrea, I wasn't risking it. So f* your do-over.

After I finished my diatribe, there were a few nods, and eventually, we all got back to the tasks at hand. Unbeknownst to me, someone in that assembly relayed my little soliloquy to Andrea. It earned me some points with the redhead.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

"Born to Be My Baby" - Bon Jovi

Rock-tober 11, 2022

 

A few years ago, a social media quiz asked everyone to share a link and list their 5 favorite concerts of all time. I was amused at how my own list would have changed depending on when I answered. I didn't make it to many shows in my younger days. In high school, that number was exactly "0". It wasn't until college that I'd finally chalked up some musical acts: Marshall Tucker, Bocephus, and Jimmy Buffett. But I'd still have to pad the list with some very non-standard musical groups such as the Atlanta and New Orleans Philharmonic Symphonies in order to make the full five.

Ironically, it wasn't until after I married Andrea, who had an even more musically isolated youth than I did, that I started racking up the concert stats. Eric Clapton, Bob Seger, and ZZ Top among others were added to my catalog of attended shows. We also hit Manhattan Transfer, though, so that might count as a -1.

One of my oldest buds and defacto big brother, Noel, reached out and offered some special seats to me a while back. Knowing my affinity for the great bearded ones, he had tickets to ZZ Top when they were playing out his way in San Diego. Unfortunately, because we were all in the middle of COVID protocols, any unnecessary traveling, let alone mass gatherings, was highly discouraged.

This was not the first time I'd missed a kick-ass show with Noel. Back in high school, he gifted me a ticket to Motley Crue when they played Biloxi. I was actually holding the ticket in my hand and about to walk out the door when Mom asked where I was going. You know that scene from Platoon where the guy is running for cover? He's almost to safety but gets fragged at the last moment, and he drops to his knees with his hands in the air. That was me.

So close, but yet, so far. Here's the thing about Mom. I love her to death, but her musical speed was more along the lines of Barbara Mandrell and Jim Reeves. The hardest thing she'd probably ever heard was Elvis Presley's "American Trilogy". When I told her about seeing the Crue in concert, she had no idea who I was talking about. "Tell me about their music. Do I know any of their songs?" 

When some of the band's biggest hits are "Girls, Girls, Girls", "Shout at the Devil", and "Smoking in the Boys Room", I sensed my plans for the evening had just changed. Sure enough, after Mom recovered from the shock of the brief discography, my concert attendance was summarily vetoed.

Fast forward a few decades, and Noel tags me in a post a couple of months ago basically saying, "Wish you were here." He's at a concert with an incredible lineup.

This time, I had no excuse. Missing out on a great show was annoying enough, but it was really just a secondary concern. What was really eating at me was I'd now missed 3 opportunities to just hang with one of my oldest friends.

I told Andrea, "I really need to get out to San Diego." I knew our 2022 travel budget was already allocated - and even blown after our recent romp through bourbon country. But before Labor Day 2023, I'm hoping to be breaking bread and raising toasts to the old days with my big brother. A wise man once said, "Don't need nothing but a good time." He's not entirely wrong, but good times are immensely better in the company of old friends.

"Don't Need Nothing But a Good Time" - Poison

Rock-tober 10, 2022

 

Earlier this year, my buddy, Naresh, grilled me about all things archery. He'd gone shooting with some of his friends who owned bows and found it piqued his interest enough to get kitted out with his own gear. We started on the basic mechanics and technical minutiae of peak weight, holding weight, draw length, and arrow stiffness. I also gave him the locations of several public archery ranges that I'd used in the past and gave him stern instructions to zero in his bow at one of these places rather than endanger his neighbors and their pets by taking his first shots in his back yard.

A few weeks passed and I got another call from Naresh asking to go shooting. I hadn't picked up my bow in years, but his sudden zeal sparked my latent fervor for the sport. We met at my favorite range and started sending shafts downrange. My time away from my trusty old bow showed, and my first few shots were fairly erratic. As the day went on, muscle memory returned and my shots started to converge.  As for Naresh, I discovered he was a pretty good archer. He'd been putting in the work and practicing on his own for weeks and had diligently soaked up all the technical training that YouTube could give him on the subject.

After a few rounds we discussed the results at the target. His arrows were clustered around the bullseye, but they weren't necessarily a tight grouping (lower left in below image). I had a different issue - my arrows were tightly clustered in a single spot, but they were to the left of the center ring (upper right target in below image). In other words, he was highly accurate while I was highly precise. Neither of us had both.

According to my 7th grade English teacher, Mrs. Marti, in this context, accurate and precise are adjectives describing our shots. Although they sound similar, they are not synonyms. As it relates to archery, accuracy is how close you are to your designated target and precision is how close consecutive shots are to each other.

From the diagram above, the obvious goal is high accuracy and high precision. Naresh is well on his way. He just needs to lock down his technique and consistency with each shot. I'd rather work from my position of high precision and low accuracy. If I can continue to unvaryingly place my shots in tight groupings, all I have to do to find the bullseye is adjust my sight pins. I'll be shooting arrows off Naresh's head in no time.

"Adjectives" - Schoolhouse Rock

Rock-tober 09, 2022

Apart from the incredibly deep and wide Atlantic and Pacific Oceans that serve as very defensible moats, one of the tactical assets of the US's geography is our good relations with our neighbors. The 49th parallel, the primary boundary between the US and Canada, was established as such well after the hostilities of the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812. It's now become the world's longest undefended border. To our south, despite multiple invasions by the US and that 19th-century land grab, we're on remarkably friendly terms with the former Spanish colony of Mexico.

Not all neighbors are as cordial. Case in point - Scotland and England. Wikipedia lists at least 70 skirmishes fought between the two going back to the year 596. As recently as 2014 Scotland had a referendum on independence from the UK and just narrowly missed the most epic "It's not me, it's you" breakup. So even now, things are a little salty between the two.

Alton Brown recounted how an English aristocrat denigrated the Scottish affinity for oats, "Oats?! Pah. We English feed it to our horses while Scotland feeds it to its citizenry." A Scotsman's retort was beautiful. "Aye. That's why ye've got great horses and we've got great people."

The best story I've heard that showcased this simmering low level hostility involved two neighbors - an Englishman and Macgreggor, a Scot. Macgreggor had a laying chicken that happened to lay an egg in the Englishman's yard. As the Englishman went to retrieve it, he was accosted by the Scot, "Watt are ye doin'?! Ye cannae be takin' me egg ye bloody sassenach!"

"Ye're daft, Macgreggor! It was laid on my land and is clearly mine by rights!" It escalated, but before it came to blows, Macgreggor threw down the gauntlet.

"If'en ye're thinkin' to be man enough, we'll settle this the Highland way." Confident in superior breeding, the Englishman agreed without actually hearing the challenge.

Macgreggor then laid out the terms. "We'll be takin' turns kickin' each other in the bawsack. The man who comes to his feet the quickest we'll ken te be the winner. I'll go first." He then dons his heaviest hiking boots, takes a running start, and delivers centuries of pent up Scottish anger squarely on his nemesis's crotch. Predictably, the Englishman man goes down in a heap, with plenty of howling, interspersed with denigrations about Macgreggor's lineage. Keeping a keen eye on a stopwatch, the Englishman is able to stand after 23 minutes.

After a few heaving breaths, he straigtens up with murder in his eyes. "Right. Now my turn!"

Macgregger gives a noncommital shrug, "Och. Dinna fash ye bloody sassenach. Ye kin keep the egg."

"Hair of the Dog" - Nazareth

Rock-tober 08, 2022

One of the professional associations of which Andrea is a member held a conference in Chicago. She asked me to come along to make it a road trip for the two of us, but I suspect she also wanted to split up the 11-hour drive with someone.

Chicago? I had to consider this carefully. Growing up deep in the southern heartland, it was infused into my bones that there are absolutely no metropolitan areas worth visiting anywhere north of Atlanta.

Maybe I wasn't being fair. One of my previous jobs included frequent trips to the west coast. When making flight plans I learned to always avoid Chicago because more often than not I hit weather delays when passing through the Windy City. Adding to my bias were numerous tales of municipal graft and an entire genre of movies like The Untouchables.

Regardless, I joined Andrea and we arrived a day early so she and I could take in some of the sights before her conference itinerary pinned her down. We asked our shuttle driver for the best way to get into the heart of the city. "You two are my only passengers on this run so I'll take you straight to the train station."

He then proceeded to give us a data dump. "I'm taking you to Rosemont station. Catch the eastbound train and get off at Jackson. When the train is above ground you'll pass through a lot of neighborhoods. Take a look around you. That's the real Chicago."

Dude was about to school me on the local scene. 

"You're gonna be on the train for a while, so make sure you look around you. Check out the neighborhoods and buildings on the way in. Now that's Chicago. You see, there's downtown Chicago and then there's the real Chicago. You'll only find tourists and business types downtown. We locals don't go there unless we have to. It's old, dirty, and the tall buildings funnel a lot of wind coming off the lake turning the whole city into a wind tunnel." He then looked at what we were wearing. I thought I was ready in a moderately heavy raincoat. "Hmph. You guys are probably gonna feel it when you get there."

When we surfaced from the metro, we indeed ran headlong into a stiff breeze. Coupled with the drizzling rain, the temperature was much chillier than back at the hotel. Also, like any inner city, there were a lot of dingy areas. Dude was looking pretty damn clairvoyant at this stage. 

But as Andrea and I strolled in the rain for a good half hour, we also found a lot that caught our interest. Much to our amazement and gastronomic enjoyment, the iconic, vaunted Chicago pan pizza lived up to the hype. Both the Art Institute of Chicago and the Field Museum are world-class curators of their respective fields. As we continued our stroll, I was stunningly reminded that Chicago is a terminus for the mother of all roadways - Route 66.

When Andrea or I order something new at a restaurant, we ask each other afterward, "Would you order it again?" In this case, Andrea and I concluded we would "order it again". Even though "Jesus may have just left", we both found sufficient points of interest to make a return trip to Chicago.

"Jesus Just Left Chicago" - ZZ Top