Rock-tober 31, 2023

My first Jimmy Buffett concert was at the Mississippi Coast Coliseum in April of '95 during his Fruitcakes tour. I could only afford nosebleed, but even from the cheap seats it was a fantastic show. He definitely knew his audience because he ended with encores of "Biloxi" and "Pascagoula Run". I can guarantee I was whoopin' and hollerin' just as loud as any of the cats in the front row.

My second Buffett concert was in August of '97 at Merriweather Post Pavilion just a few miles up the road from where I'm typing this. I was with Andrea for this one, and at the time we'd barely been married three months. As I saw it, this was almost like Buffett was serenading us during an extension of our wedding reception. By this time, I could tell I was a bit older because I found myself annoyed with the youngsters traipsing through our space who were unable to hold their liquor.

I could swear I've also seen Buffett a 3rd time, but Andrea assures me that if I did, she wasn't with me. Maybe the blanks in my memory showed I finally got Parrot-Heading at a concert right.

Buffett was born in Pascagoula, so as a Mississippi Coastie, I take pride in being able to call him one of our native sons. His family then moved on to Mobile, Alabama, and after he struck out on his own, he eventually wound up in Key West. In the most tangential of ways, my migration mirrored his as I, too, started out on the Mississippi coast and eventually wound up in Mobile. Andrea and I finally touched down in Key West for the first time in 2017, but according to Mom, we almost moved there as a family because Dad was given the option of doing a tour of duty at NAS Key West.

Heck, Buffett even spent a year at my Alma Mater, the University of Alabama - Auburn. 

If I inventoried my now antiquated CD collection, I suspect the largest sector is occupied by Buffett. My first Buffett CD was Songs You Know by Heart, kind of a "Best Of" album, that I got in one of those Columbia House "10 albums for a penny" promotions. It's a good thing I bought this on CD. If it was a cassette, I know with certainty I'd have worn it out.

With that one album, I was hooked. While I had friends who praised U2 for their charity work and as spokespersons for the human condition, Nirvana for being the voice of youth disenfranchisement, and Metallica for just being hardcore and loud, I was grooving on the professional beach bum vibe exuded by Buffett.

My collection of Buffett albums grew. Off to See the Lizard, Barometer Soup, his massive compendium, Boats, Beaches, Bars & Ballads, and his one and only number 1 album, License to Chill, were picked up at different times and each had songs that resonated with me at those points in my life.

"A Pirate Looks at 40" and "Take Another Road" had me taking stock of my life to date. The obvious connection is to Frost's The Road Not Taken. Past choices and paths taken define our current situation. Despite regrets that everyone has, I'm good with where I've found myself.  

"Bama Breeze" is pure, wistful nostalgia for places I've been, things I've seen, and people I've known, some of which and some of whom are no longer with us.

"Son of a Son of a Sailor" and "Boats to Build" remind me I still have dreams and goals to achieve, and distant shores to see.

"Southern Cross" on the surface is a breakup song. But the references to the Southern Cross give it a deeper meaning. This particular constellation can only be seen from the southern hemisphere. Like its counterpart in the northern hemisphere, Polaris, it's a navigational beacon, a guide. It's a reminder if you're seeking clarity and direction, it may be achieved by viewing your position from a different perspective.

Of all Buffett tunes in continuous rotation on my playlists, "La Vie Dansante" just makes me happy. Despite disappointments and setbacks,

They can come take it all away

Break your heart by the light of day

Drown your love in a distant bay so lonely

The song remains hopeful.

There's a light shatters all the locks and saves me

And it reminds us,

Every stop is a place to start

If you know how to play the part with feeling

Losing Jimmy Buffett was a hard loss for me, but I can't view his death with sorrow. Rather than his absence, I'll focus on what we still have. Jimmy may no longer be with us, but his music remains and continues to speak. Every stop can be a place to start; every end is a chance at a new beginning if you can clarify and change your perspective.

Find your Southern Cross, your Polaris.

Rock-tober out.

Jimmy Buffett - "La Vie Dansante"

Rock-tober 30, 2023

When Andrea and I were first married, one of the earliest and biggest cultural divides we had to contend with was the starch that would be served with a meal.

For one of our first major holidays as husband and wife, Andrea prepared a legit feast. I surveyed the spread, taking in the sight and smell of the roast, casseroles, and various sides, and asked nonchalantly, "Where's the rice?"

She stepped back and regarded me with the now well-known raised eyebrow side glance. With a gloriously sarcastic flourish of her hands, one by one, she pointed out the garlic mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and yeast rolls like one of Bob Barker's ladies presenting a showcase. Knowing the effort she put into the meal, I deemed it unwise to mention, "Yeah, but there's no rice."

In Filipino culture, the staple starch is, of course, rice. It's what makes the meal. It doesn't matter if you belly up to a 3X super-sized combo with dessert and bottomless drink refills. If it doesn't come with rice, it's not a meal, it's a snack.

This disconnect surprised me since Southern cuisine is replete with rice-based dishes: gumbo, jambalaya, Cajun dirty rice, and the OG southern rice dish, red beans and rice. Part of the problem, apparently, was the difficulty in getting a good, consistent pot of rice. Over the years, I've talked with many a southern cook who likened crafting a batch of tender fluffy rice to invoking a swamp land voodoo incantation. To me, that was a headscratcher, because cooking rice for family meals became part of my chores when I was barely out of kindergarten. The not-so-closely-held secret in the Filipino community was an automatic rice cooker.

A standard stovetop recipe for rice involves waiting for water to boil, adding the rice, taking it off the heat, letting it steam undisturbed, and finally fluffing with a fork. By contrast, with a rice cooker, you toss rice and water into the cooker, turn it on, and wait for it to ding, signaling your rice is ready. This implement is so basic in the Filipino kitchen, that when I left home for college, Mom and Dad kitted me out with a phone card, a credit card, and a rice cooker.

"But, Wayne, the Alton Brown school of thought says uni-taskers in the kitchen are bad."

But they're not just for rice. I've seen them turn out soups and light stews as well. Listen, if at least one weekly meal involves rice, do yourself a favor and get an automatic rice cooker. While a high-end Zojirushi can set you back over $500 dollars, a basic model will cost less than a tenth of that.

With the method of cooking now addressed, another problem is the kind of rice. Admittedly, this can be overwhelming. The two types you'll come across are brown and white. However, within both of those, you'll find short, medium, and long grain. A rule of thumb is, the shorter the grain, the stickier the rice. Any medium-grain rice, white or brown, will cover 90% of all recipes. The one type of rice to stay away from would have the portrait of a kindly, black gentleman on the box.

In the days after Dad's funeral, Andrea and I stopped by my old church to thank the pastor for officiating and the staff for the flowers they'd sent. As we were leaving, I mentioned to Andrea our next stop was the grocery store because, with family in town, we were short on supplies, including rice. Someone in that church office had their ears perked up because a few hours later, they dropped by the house with a box of Uncle Ben's.

I was touched. They heard we had a need and stepped in. It was a gracious act, and kind of adorable. I told Andrea it was like a little kid walking into a jewelry store with a bag of pennies expecting it would be enough to buy a gold necklace for his mom.

These days, I have no issues with meals without rice - especially if the starch du jour is Andrea's garlic mashed potatoes. For her part, Andrea can kick off a batch of fluffy goodness in the rice cooker like a native of Baguio City.

Not surprisingly, there's a huge scarcity of classic rock songs that focus on the most consumed staple in the world. There's this gem, but I prefer CCR and their cover of this pre-first-generation rock classic with a fantastic rice-centric menu.

Creedence Clearwater Revival - "Jambalaya"

Rock-tober 29, 2023

In June of '87, I was with a passel of friends somewhere in the Florida panhandle where we were celebrating our recent graduation from Long Beach High. A parting of the ways was fast approaching for the group, and we were looking for a few more final hurrahs.

The crew had been basking in the surf and sand for a week, and with funds running low, this was going to be one of our last nights in town. All of us piled into rides and started cruising the local strip looking for anything exciting to pop up.

Someone signaled to pull into one of the Alvin's Island tourist emporiums that dotted the boardwalk and strip, and we all converged in the parking lot. I took advantage of the stop and picked up a souvenir T-shirt and some guava jelly.

Taking my kitsch to the lone register, I saw the guys had all gathered around the only employee in the place. She had long, dark hair, surprisingly fair skin for living in the sun belt, and wore jeans, a polo, and a linen jacket rolled up to her elbows. She was actually kind of cute, and all the guys swarming around her made it look like she was holding court.

Obviously accustomed to the attention of the male tourists of the species, she was at ease verbally sparring with members of our crew. It took a turn when one of them asked if she wanted to join us at a club down the road.

"Depends. What are you driving?" Most responded they were in jeeps and trucks. Learning this, she smiled. "Ah! You're a bunch of 'boggy boys'". We had no idea what she meant so she decided to school us in the vernacular. "You know, those guys that never grew up and keep playing in the mud." Her derisive laugh left no room for misinterpretation. We'd all just been insulted.

Dissing a guy's ride, in particular his first one, is almost guaranteed to tweak him off. Wanting to be rid of her continuing barbs and vacate the scene quickly, Mike and Chris, who were riding shotgun and passenger with me, were paying for their stuff. As she rang Chris up, she tried to get in one last dig. "I suppose you've got a big ol' truck, too?" Chris nodded.

"I do. But he's our ride," and he nodded towards me.

"Yeah. I'm the yellow Mustang out in the lot." This seemed to stifle her jabs momentarily, once again showing the 'Stang had more game than me.

We were all headed for the exit and almost out the door when one of us realized we hadn't asked the obvious question. Turning back towards her, he asked, "So...what do you drive?" She was immediately evasive and hedged.

"Well, it's just temporary for now." That stopped us in our tracks. Sensing a counteroffensive in the "Dis My Ride" conflict we all paused and turned. Under more direct questioning, she relented. "It's a Yugo, OK? I drive a Yugo."

Everyone was immediately doubled over in laughter. Recovering, we waved goodbye to our one-time antagonizer, piled into our convoy of jeeps, trucks, and a lone 1970 Mustang, and headed for a nightclub down the road. Again, as funds were low, gaining entry was a problem. Mike solved this with a stroke of genius, detailed in the now classic missive, Rock-tober 07, 2015.

Once through the club doors, the rock and roll stars aligned themselves perfectly for me as I heard staccato piano chords announcing the start of a favorite Bob Seger tune. As the song played over the din of the crowd, I was smiling ear to ear, letting the moment wash over me. We all joined some of the ladies from our class already on the dance floor and kicked off a memorable last hurrah.

Bob Seger - "Old Time Rock & Roll"

Rock-tober 28, 2023

It was the summer of '76, and Dad and I were at the cafeteria at the Navy Base Exchange talking over a couple of Cokes. With his deployment schedule, Dad was gone for half the year, and these moments alone with him were a rare treat. We were talking about the Bicentennial and the celebratory atmosphere that was sweeping over the entire country. Six-year-old me didn't understand the concept.

"Well, in a few weeks, the country is having a birthday party." Dad had my attention. I liked birthday parties. "And this is a special one because America will be 200 years old." His face scrunched up to accentuate the age bit.

"Whoa. That's really old." He laughed at that.

"Yeah, son, I guess for people it is."

It was late May in South Mississippi. School was almost out. Dad was home from deployment. And I was living my best life as he and I went fishing every weekend.

Our favorite places were "The Rocks" in Long Beach and the concrete breakwater in Pass Christian Harbor. Once, after we were done for the day out in Pass Christian, we made our way off the structure. I was looking forward to the cold can of Nestle Iced Tea that we both always got at the convenience store up the lane when I looked down and saw my shoelace untied.

Dad was hauling the bucket with our catch, and I was responsible for our tackle box and my own rod. I set these down on the walkway to deal with my shoe, but as I finished, I nudged my rod the wrong way. I wasn't fast enough, and I watched it fall in slow motion into the water 11 feet below.

I must have yelled out because Dad turned and saw me lying on the concrete grasping over the edge towards the water. He took in the scene and ran to me. I was bawling. "Wayne, it's OK. It's just a fishing rod."

But I was inconsolable. Six-year-old me couldn't articulate what was going through my head. Yes, it was just a rod, but it was my fishing rod. Dad bought it for me, and in every memory I had of going fishing with him, I was using it. And when you don't see your dad for half the year, anything associated with a memory of him becomes inordinately more precious.

Dad looked down at his kid holding his head in his hands. Maybe, even though I didn't say a word, he sensed what I was thinking. He stood and told me to stay put in that exact spot. With that, he walked to the head of the breakwater, picked his way through the boulders down to the water, and jumped in.

I was not expecting that. He swam to the point where I was on the structure, looked up at me, smiled, and dove down. When he came up, though, the smile was gone. He dove down several more times but ultimately couldn't retrieve my rod.

When we got home, Mom saw Dad and almost shrieked. That snapped me out of my own fog, and I turned and saw what Dad's efforts cost him. Because of wave action or the wakes of boats leaving the marina, Dad was repeatedly pushed against the barnacle-encrusted concrete pilings of the breakwater. He had deep gashes all over his torso. The immense sadness I'd felt prior was now coupled with immense guilt. And I started sobbing again.

The next day was one of the last days of first grade. What should have been a happy carefree time was anything but because of yesterday's events. I got home and walked through the front door. "Hey, Wayne!" I turned and saw Dad sitting on the couch, wiping down a fishing rod. 

Not a new one, but my rod. The same one he'd bought me when we were stationed in Maryland. The one we'd taken on all our outings. The one I'd associated with many of my fondest memories to that point.

"What? How?"

Smiling, he said he'd picked up a small grappling hook and a length of line at the Exchange and headed back to the breakwater. He'd spent the morning tossing the hook attempting to snag my fishing rod. He succeeded and was just now reassembling my reel after he'd cleaned and oiled it.

I just looked at him. Right then, I decided my dad could do absolutely anything in the world.

Cat Stevens - "Father & Son"

Rock-tober 27, 2023

I've previously written about how pure logic can be stymied by the real world because the real world isn't binary, black and white. There are countless shades of gray, and it's in the "gray" where the magic of imagination pops up.

In a rare bit of self-introspection, I believe DiSC type C personalities like myself don't like to color outside the lines. Because of this, there's difficulty bridging the gap between a known quantity and the next great thing. This is a leap that absolutely demands imaginative ways to push past obvious or existing boundaries, and perhaps my type C cohorts and I are too logical.

If Steve Jobs had been a type C, we might have wound up with incremental improvements on a first-generation Nokia, but we never would have wound up with the iPhone and its many iterations.

A professor once challenged his class to present a logical argument to prove there is life after death. Someone submitted the following.

After death there is mourning.

After morning comes the dawn.

After dawn comes the night.

Beyond the knight is the bishop.

Past the bishop is the Pope.

The Pope has grave convictions.

After a grave conviction, you get life.

Taken as a whole, they're a series of non-sequiturs, but each statement is logically correct on its own. It wouldn't stand up in a religion or philosophy class, but it imaginatively fulfilled the requirements of the assignment.  

My high school English teacher, Mr. Ladner, spent a lot of time on classic English literature. One of his exam questions was, "What is a sark?" The answer was a long, flowing shirt worn in Chaucer's England. However, one of his former students didn't know this snippet of information. But it didn't stop him from answering.

"A sark is a fis that eats sips." This was accompanied by a drawing of a "shark" eating a "ship". Appreciating the ability to think outside the box, Mr. Ladner granted full credit.

As a hard-core Type C, I doubt these particular responses to these questions would have occurred to me. They're not obvious or logical.

People who are able to think on this non-conformist plane can annoy me as I picture them to be touchy-feely extroverts. Additionally, they make me envious of their ability to see the unobvious and make leaps of artistry or logic. But they also have my respect. Without them, the world wouldn't have all the glorious nuances between the starkness of black and white.

They've managed to retain some of the childhood spark of imagination we're all born with but most of us have allowed to be educated or conformed out of us. 

Images fill my newsfeed with the creativity of friends who refused to surrender this spark. Capturing visions of the mind's eye in a photograph or swath of canvas, the lyrical beauty of the human voice, maybe the more primal media of wood and steel, the ability to create something from nothing is a great gift - for us as well as the wielder. 

I'm reminded of a meme that stated "Tetris is a great life lesson. When you fit in, you disappear." Stay illogical, my friends.

Supertramp - "The Logical Song"

Rock-tober 26, 2023

I've found that in their absence, we really miss certain restaurants. We have a good friend, Julie, who's a big fan of Sonic. In our travels, it was a thing for both of us to report Sonic sightings and post a selfie with a large Slush on social media. A classmate of mine who watched this exchange didn't understand the fixation.

"But...it's just a Sonic."

"Yeah, but you have them all around you. I'd have to drive 100 miles to get a Blue Coconut Slush!"

"Ah. I guess it's the same way I feel about Popeye's" I felt genuinely bad for her. The Lonestar State may have many things, but it ain't got a Popeye's in West Texas.

On a side note, Julie is also a fan of Waffle House, similarly posting sitings and visits on her news feed. Because of her embracing of this exemplar of Southern fare, I requested honorary Southern citizenship be bestowed on this native New Yorker. She'll be pleased with the privileges the office affords which includes the license to use, "Awww, bless your heart."

Whenever Andrea and I roll through Auburn, there are two must-hit restaurants. One is  Niffer's, the site of our first date. The other is a chicken finger house named Guthrie's. I can't explain the obsession because Guthrie's basic offering is simply battered and fried chicken tenders, a slice of Texas toast, and coleslaw. Maybe they lace the dipping sauce with addictive mojo seasoning. Whatever the case, Guthrie's chicken fingers rank high on our list of comfort foods.

There are 49 locations with the largest cluster around Auburn, Alabama. One of the furthest outposts from Tiger Town ground zero is tucked away in the far northwest corner of Georgia. When Andrea and I discovered this, we detoured just to hit the secret sauce one more time before returning to the barrenness of the Mid-Atlantic.

I've had in-depth conversations with two classmates, Ken and Brad, about the virtue of Guthrie's and the woeful absence of the chicken finger house this far north. Brad spent years in Mobile and we went back and forth as he championed the local favorite, Foosackly's. Ken then gave me actionable intel.

"Have you checked out Royal Farms? You know they've got chicken fingers, right?" 

Holy Hannah. I did not.

Royal Farms is a Baltimore headquartered version of 7-11, and they are everywhere in these parts. I was very hopeful as I got my first batch, but they were just OK. It was like having etouffee made from a recipe from the New York Times - passable, but not the genuine article.

I'd resigned myself to not getting the real deal unless we were way south of the Mason-Dixon.

One day my news feed, usually stocked with dire tidings of wars, rising interest rates, and government shutdowns, delivered some unexpectedly delectable news. A Raising Cane's franchise was opening 20 minutes away.

Raising Cane's is far and away not Guthrie's. However, beggars can't be choosers, and Cane's did base itself on the original Guthrie's in Haleyville, Alabama. More importantly, in our chicken house meanderings, Andrea and I rated Cane's above Zaxby's (too salty) and Foosackley's (sorry, Brad).

I watched the calendar, gleefully ticking off days until the opening like a crazy Southern Advent calendar.

When the glorious day arrived, we giddily drove over. But as we pulled up, we were utterly flabbergasted. The parking lot was overflowing. A solid line of cars wrapped around the restaurant twice and overflowed onto the street. A cop was present to direct traffic because the serpentine line of cars full of people jonesing for the good stuff continued to spill out onto the main highway.

As a southern ex-pat living far from the southland, I assumed this low-brow cuisine would fly under people's radar this far north. But as I beheld this unexpected throng of people queueing for some southern goodness, I experienced a weird mixture of pride and annoyance - kinda like seeing a bunch of northern license plates down at Gulf Shores.

Now if only a Krispy Kreme would open nearby.

Nazareth - "Kentucky Fried Blues"

Rock-tober 25, 2023

Once on a prior job, I walked into the facility's break room. The TV was tuned to a random news channel and the entire room was empty save for one guy. We were on friendly terms, so I approached his table and noticed he was spooning Metamucil into a glass of water. I was feeling snarky this particular day and was putting a lot of trust in our cordiality. As he acknowledged me with a nod, I pointed to the congealing mixture in the glass and asked this gun-toting Fed, "Problems?"

He laughed it off, "Nope. Doctor's orders. This stuff's supposed to be good at lowering cholesterol."

I was intrigued. With enough relatives and in-laws involved in the medical field, I was curious about the mechanism. The corporate website outlined the benefits of their product, citing various government studies and private papers.

As I started rabbit-holing down all the links of the supporting sites, I noticed something. If I delved deep enough, they all started citing each other, like a crazy self-supporting Escher latticework. Where was the one primal source of truth? It was as if all a premise needed was enough hyperlinks to other sites making the same statement to be deemed true.

I once saw a blurb about a college journalism professor who admonished his class.

"If one source tells you it's raining and another source tells you it's sunny, your job isn't to print them both. Your job is to open the f*ckin' window to see who's lying."

The Internet makes the retrieval of information from mankind's repository of knowledge jaw-droppingly easy, but it's also a potent vector of half-truths and full obfuscations. Finding the truth isn't always as easy as "opening the f*ckin' window".

My five decades of trodding this sod have taught me two things about searching for truth. Don't give up and don't be dogmatic. Mulder was always right, "The truth is out there." And when you find it, you may be surprised if it doesn't align with your worldview. Allow yourself the courtesy of growing into this discovery. Hardcore dogmatism can be truth's bitter enemy.

I think C.S. Lewis's dwarves were more cantankerous than Tolkien's. In Lewis's The Last Battle, a feast was laid out before a group of dwarves. Unfortunately, their jaded worldview prevented them from seeing the obvious truth literally in front of their faces. While the rest of the party beheld a scrumptious feast, all the dwarves allowed themselves to see was pig slop.

A wise doctor once offered an apt description. "They don't alter their views to fit the facts. They alter the facts to fit their views."

Richard Ashcroft - Are You Ready?

Rock-tober 24, 2023

A question that's come up in dinner conversations with some of our crew is whether Andrea and I would have been friends if we'd known each other in high school. Andrea thinks we would have gotten on each other's nerves, but I wonder, though. What would have happened if we rewound a few more years, back to grade school - before we'd both become jaded after years of living the hard scrabble life in small-town America. 

I can sort of infer the outcome from a story she's told me about a young Dude, a school dance, and a super groovy shirt.

A boy once asked Andrea to a school dance. She agreed, but in the days leading up to the event, it became more apparent he was way more excited than she was.

"It's gonna be a great night, Andrea! I even have a special shirt for the occasion."

I can see her giving him the "raised eyebrow side glance" I've now seen countless times. Expecting he would dress to match her outfit, Andrea was a little taken aback but rolled with it.

Apparently, this mystical shirt was a super fly, satin-looking, multi-colored polyester ensemble that imbued its wearer with +5 charisma and style. I imagine it looked like it came off the set of Staying Alive, and it was funny as she told me. But I then remembered, "Hey, I had those same shirts."

It was the tail end of the '70s and disco, while not quite dead, still held massive sway. A number of my dress shirts at this time were that same pseudo-silk polyester blend. If the occasion was best served by wearing a coat and tie, I figured my shiny, dark green number with the weird geometric patterns in contrasting browns and tans was a cut above. Clothes absolutely do make the man. The proof is in all my grade school pictures where I proudly sported duds that made me look like a mini-me extra in a Bee Gees video. I can now empathize with Dude thinking he was the shiznit.

Back at the grade school dance young Dude was absolutely strutting his stuff as he popped his collar. "What do you think of the shirt?! It's cool, right?!" Knowing Andrea's innate preppy style, I imagine she was cringing.

When the inevitable slow song comes on, Andrea and Dude are awkwardly swaying at arm's length on the dance floor because this deep in the Bible belt, "You've got to leave room for Jesus". But Dude took his shot.

"You know, it's OK if you want to put your head on my shoulder." I can hear Andrea's stifled sigh across the time-space continuum. She haltingly started to lean in, but suddenly pushed him away.

"Yeah, I can't"

"Sure, you can. I won't mind!"

"No. I really can't."

"Well, why not?"

"Umm. You're too short."

That made for an awkward ride home.

Young Dude was a product of the times. In his shoes, I likely would have donned a similar outfit because, sadly, from what I remember of my wardrobe, my sole reference for "hip" must have been Travolta in Staying Alive. I doubt at that age I'd have had enough game to ask Andrea to lean in during a slow dance, likely sparing me the epic burn. Also, while I'm not 6' tall like she has in her handwritten bullet list of the ideal man she penned in college, I'm not Cruise-Kidman short. So maybe, if she was able to look past the goofy, discotheque wardrobe, we just might have been friends back then.

This past year, Andrea and I were down in DC at an outdoor restaurant, and the place was piping music through outdoor speakers. Suddenly "Staying Alive" came on. I perked up and looked up and down the street, expecting someone to start doing the Travolta strut down the sidewalk in Northwest DC. Sadly, no one stepped up. For the briefest microsecond, I considered it since it was such a wasted opportunity. But then our food arrived, and, well... priorities.

 

Bee Gees - "Staying Alive"

Rock-tober 23, 2023

Looking back on the years growing up on Island View in Long Beach, it's a wonder there weren't more casualties and hospital visits. The neighborhood kids didn't need jarts, we found a myriad of other ways to tempt fate. Apart from drinking straight from a rubber hose on hot summer days and taking woodland trails at breakneck speeds without helmets, we had bottle rocket fights involving every able-bodied kid in the 'hood. I don't recall any serious injuries, but property damage was another matter. That may be another post as soon as I verify Mississippi's statutes of limitations.

There are also the forts whose construction involved a dozen teen and pre-teen boys in close proximity to each other swinging axes and hammers. Mind you, these weren't made from salvaged and/or liberated construction supplies. We picked a spot in the woods and started chopping down trees for materials.

Nunchucks and throwing stars were prevalent, with some friends testing their aim and ninja skills on rodents around dumpsters, if not each other. In his long-suffering attempts to elevate my street cred, Noel gifted me a pair of nunchucks, and it's a wonder I didn't give myself a concussion, at least I don't remember one. I do know my old bedroom furniture still sports divots from where I "momentarily lost control" of my swings.

That fact that Mike and I escaped serious maiming must have kept our guardian angels on their toes. After I got a recurve bow, we spent hours sending arrows downrange to a target my dad set up in the backyard. After a while, that got pretty dull so we decided it would be cool to mimic Hiawatha and started shooting arrows straight up into the air. Our addled brains at least had the wherewithal to find an empty field. We found we had trouble seeing the arrows as they came back down so we duct-taped lit smoke bombs to the arrow tips, adding an uncalculated pyrotechnic risk to the activity. I think jarts would have been statistically safer.

Once, Ken, another band geek buddy of ours came over to the 'hood. We all had BB guns so I think the intended activity was plinking away at target cans Mike had in his backyard. It devolved quickly when Mike took a potshot at Ken. Suddenly it was "weapons free" and we all dove for cover.

It was a bad idea. We knew it was a bad idea; our parents didn't raise blithering idiots. However, whatever hormonal cocktail was bathing our brains back then allowed us to consciously disregard all common sense. Pellets were flying and yowls were heard as hits were scored. Mike and I settled into a detente and double-teamed Ken (sorry Ken). From my position, I could see Mike pumping continuously on his gun.

"Mike! What are you doing?!"

One pump on his air rifle was enough to hit your target at the given range. Two pumps would definitely be felt. Three would sting, badly. Mike was on pump five. With a goofy Scooby-Doo laugh, he took aim at Ken's posterior just visible behind a tree, and squeezed off a shot.

The resulting tirade of expletives from Ken ended the Battle of Latil Street.

Ken, if it somehow evens the score, I still have scars from one of your well-placed shots. Good shooting, sir.

Ken, like Mike, is a frequent reader of these posts. Over the years he's sent me multiple notifications of Rock-Tober alums who had concert dates in our area, and even put together a Spotify playlist of Rock-Tober Year One.

A few years back, I got a link from him of an artist doing a cover of  "Sweet Dreams" along with the question, "What do you think?". Unfortunately, the link has disappeared from my feed, so I can't refresh my memory, but I know I have an inherent bias against covers - especially if you're covering as iconic a voice as Annie Lennox.

Eurythmics - "Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)"

Rock-tober 22, 2023

My buddy Noel and his brother are anomalies in my life. Being Navy brats going from duty station to duty station as our dads received transfer orders from the Navy, our families moved on average, every four years. It was unusual to maintain friendships beyond a single tour, but Noel, his brother, Roel, and I have managed to maintain contact for over four decades.

These days, we're on opposite coasts. But back in the mid-'80s, we were all plying the mean streets of Long Beach, Mississippi. Countless times, Noel would be riding shotgun in the 'Stang, and we'd head out for the evening to see what shenanigans we could find.

Actually, I followed his lead on the shenanigans since I was way more straight-laced in those days. He was my role model for "cool".

We always packed a boombox because, at the time, the 'Stang was still sporting its stock AM radio. He also carried a collection of his own cassettes because he didn't trust mine would exude the proper boss vibe. Noel confided in me on several occasions he was worried I'd start a cruise down Jeff Davis blasting Beethoven's 5th. I think more than likely it would have been Vivaldi, but point taken. In his ongoing efforts to raise my street cred, he made sure to pack some tunes more appropriate to our ride and the century we were actually living in.

One Saturday evening, as we started our slow roll at the top of Jeff Davis, he started rifling through his collection. Suddenly, he paused at one cassette, gave me a Cheshire cat grin, and locked and loaded it into the boombox. With all dials cranked to max, he hit play.

My unacclimated ears were assaulted by heavy guitar riffs and the lead singer screaming the lyrics. It shocked me into slamming on the brakes, and that garnered a few honks and expletives from the car behind us. I waved apologetically in the rearview and started rolling again.

"What?! Dude! Who is this?! What is this!? What are they even saying!?" Noel was laughing and air drumming like a maniac. Then he joined in on what I could only assume was the chorus.

"BAT-TER-RY!!! BAT-TER-RY!!!"

Fast forward a few decades, and my childhood friend who was my role model for "cool" continued this position and became Senior Chief Silva, USN (RET). Along the way, he married an awesome lady and raised a daughter.

A few years back, we were texting back and forth and he mentioned he'd recently taken his daughter to a concert for one of the boy bands that was popular at the time. Remembering all our cruises down Jeff Davis together, I suggested he then broaden her musical horizons.

"Man, that's pretty cool. For her next concert, maybe take her to Skynyrd?"

"Yeah, I dunno about that. They might be a little too rough."

After I stopped laughing, which took a minute, I sat and thought about it. I imagine raising a daughter would have a mellowing effect on anyone. I believe Noel did eventually take his girl to Motley Crue and Poison, so "parenting win" there.

However, while the last music video he sent my way was an incredible example of musical proficiency on a 6 string, it was a long way from Metallica blasting from the shotgun seat of the 'Stang.

 

Luca Stricagnoli - The Last of the Mohicans

Rock-tober 21, 2023

Earlier this year, a classmate of mine asked for some travel recommendations in the Boston area. Pfft. Anyone who knows me will know my #1 must-see on any visit to Beantown - "Old Ironsides". I've made a few trips to Boston, and every single time I rolled through, I always made it a point to stop in and visit her at her berth.

Constitution and her 5 sister ships were launched by the fledgling United States as the need to protect its maritime interests and project power at a distance became evident. In the late 1700s, US merchant ships were being harassed by the  French Navy and Barbary Coast pirates. Also, to supplement its own naval forces, Britain began forcibly conscripting US merchant sailors for service in the Royal Navy.

One of the first frigates built for the U.S. Navy, Constitution was launched in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1797, and is the world's oldest commissioned warship still afloat. While HMS Victory maintains her commission from two decades earlier in 1778, today she's dry-docked in Greenwich, England, and will likely never sail again.

Built of live oak timbers, known for their incredible density and resistance to rot, Constitution's design by Joshua Humphreys was inspired. Her keel was unusually long for a vessel designated a frigate, and her beam (width) was narrower than other ships her size. This hull configuration gave her superb efficiency at slicing through the water. With an acre of canvas hanging from her masts under full sail, she could achieve 13 knots (15 mph) - astonishing for a vessel this size.

The arrangement of timbers forming her ribs was a radical new design that more efficiently carried and transferred the weight of her upper decks to the keel. As a result, Constitution could carry more and heavier guns than other ships of her class. Officially designated a 44-gun frigate, she often exceeded this. Typically, this armament included thirty-two 24-pounder guns and twenty 32-pounder guns, both of which could fire once every two minutes.

Her speed and firepower made Constitution an anomaly. She could easily outgun any ship her size and outrun everything else. After she destroyed HMS Guerriere and HMS Java in two separate battles, the British admiralty issued a directive that the American frigates were not to be engaged in one-on-one skirmishes.

How do you know you're a badass? When the most powerful navy in the world orders its fleet not to tangle with you.

It's hard to describe the first time I saw "Old Ironsides" in person. I imagine it was very similar to a Swifty coming face-to-face with Taylor Swift herself but with slightly less squeeing. I spent untold minutes just looking up at her. Many people may be unmoved by being in such close proximity to such a storied, first-hand witness and participant in US Naval history, but I was definitely not one of them.

As I crossed the gangplank and boarded her, my mind's eye saw the long line of sailors that had crossed that same threshold, seabag slung onto their shoulders, an adventure waiting over the horizon. A slight tremor passed through my hand as I touched the gunwale. I'd just made physical contact with over 200 years of living history, and I smiled.

No, that wasn't a tear I was wiping away, just sea spray from the stiff breeze.

Today, 21 October, is the anniversary of her launch, and effectively her 226th birthday. Happy birthday to a grand old lady. Huzzah!

United States Navy Band - "Haul Away Joe"

Rock-tober 20, 2023

Back when I was just on the cusp of being a teenager, Mom gave me some advice. "Wayne, you really need to learn how to cook. You may wind up marrying a woman who doesn't know how."

To short-circuit the cancel crowd, Andrea is a great cook of all things Southern with a touch of international. As I sit here typing this, I'm thinking about her specialties and will be putting in a request for a batch of her yeast rolls.

But Mom's advice was well taken. I'd already been dishing up my own scrambled eggs since I was tall enough to see into the skillet on the stove. By the time I walked into college, I had a few recipes down pat in my back pocket.

Once, at Auburn, I cooked for a dinner party at my group's hangout house. The pepper steak I served up that evening was a hit, and as a bonus, Andrea was in attendance. It was an early win with the redhead.

Over the years, I've become very aware of our different methodologies in the kitchen. Andrea cooks like a head chef in a professionally staffed kitchen. By the time everything is roasting in the oven or maintaining a slow simmer on the stove, she will have utilized every bowl, spoon, pot, and pan that we have. Dishes will be piled in the sink, leftover ingredients will be out and about on the counter, and a thin coat of flour will cover the stand mixer and everything else within a 2-foot circumference. The meal will be fantastic, but cleanup falls to her support staff of one.

On the other hand, as a result of my undiagnosed OCD, I tend to clean as I go. One of my proudest culinary moments was a time I served up a 3-course meal. I have absolutely no remembrance of what I actually prepared, but I can say with a certain amount of pride that by the time the appetizers hit the table, the kitchen was spotless.

I'm thankful Mom pushed me into the kitchen all those years ago. Being self-sufficient in that arena should be as much a part of a guy's basic skill set as doing an oil change. Once when Andrea was heading out of town for a conference, she told me some of her coworkers asked if they needed to drop off meals to me during the week.

I'm certain the neighbors heard me as I burst out laughing. I asked her to pass along my thanks as I eagerly planned out the next week's menu. Cooking for myself was an opportunity to cut loose and crank up the spice level to 11.

Despite 25+ years of marriage, Andrea's palette is still mired by her Scots-Irish sensitivity to anything hotter than black pepper. It's a shame because as we head into fall, I'm picturing large batches of chili and Brunswick stew whose spice load will need to be moderated.

I take that as an excuse to start working on some ice cream recipes to pair with my spicy dishes.

David Lee Roth (Van Halen) "Ice Cream Man"

Rock-tober 19, 2023

I really dislike reality shows. Putting people into an artificially contrived situation, subjecting participants to stressful conditions, playing up personality conflicts, and all the while rolling cameras in the hopes of capturing something juicy is banal broadcasting at its worst.

Andrea, however, apparently loves them. These shows take zero mental effort so for her, they're a perfect way to unwind after a day of fighting dragons. Sadly, they're just not my way to unwind, and for me, just being in the same room as the TV when they're playing has some unfortunate side effects. I'm constantly annoyed at the inane cattiness pouring out of the Housewives franchise, the self-absorbed rudeness of the Sharks on Shark Tank pisses me off, and DO. NOT. GET. ME. STARTED. on Sister Wives. Kody, my dude, you are a first-rate, government-inspected, Grade-A dumbass.

I walked into the room recently and Andrea was tuned in to yet another reality series. The premise of this one was basically a dating show with a mix of couples who've never met and don't actually see each other over the course of the episodes. All couples are separated by a screen during their "dates". The end goal, of course, is to walk out engaged. If this is what the dating scene has come to, I'm glad I'm not in it. Attempting to form a lifelong bond with a stranger over a half dozen "blind" dates does not seem to be a valid success vector.

And some of these guys were just trying too damn hard.

Guy: "I wrote you a poem."

Girl: "Awwww." 

Me: "Pffft. Lame."

After that episode, I remembered something. Andrea has a box with some of her most cherished keepsakes. Among the contents were some childhood mementos, some of our early correspondence, her handwritten list of qualities she wanted in a man (I don't think I made half of them), and a book of poetry. Specifically a book of love poems. By Keats.

I have a memory from early in our dating life of my head in her lap as she read me passages from that book.

Dammit.

"Ummm. Hey, Andrea, does it bother you that I don't write you poetry?"

"What?! No. You've written a lot of things to me." My memory was a little hazy.

"Was any of it poetry?"

"Umm. No. *snicker* I don't believe any of it rhymed."

"Oh. Did you want rhymes?"

"Nope. Not necessary."

"Because I can dust off the old quill and make an attempt."

"No. It's REALLY not necessary..."

"THERE ONCE WAS A LADY FROM NANTUCKET...."

I've made several attempts at learning this on the piano. Maybe it'll be a good substitute for a heartwarming limerick.

Journey - Open Arms

Rock-tober 18, 2023

Years ago, during a team-building exercise at a prior job, a personality profile test was administered. It pegged me as a very solid "C" in the DiSC personality types, and I've found this knowledge useful in the past. A primary characteristic of Type Cs can be summed up with "Get it done right". This can cause friction if a number of your team members are more aligned with "Get it done". The difference in verbiage is subtle, but the ramifications in team dynamics can be huge.

Because of their cautious nature, Type Cs can often be viewed as roadblocks to a project on a team full of Type D "Get it done" individuals. There have been many times I've had to point out that our current course of action will certainly "fix" the issue and get it quickly out the door, but we're going to circle back to it in about 6 months because the stopgap measures didn't address the root cause of a problem.

I'm unsure how this personality profile comes into play in Type Cs receiving uninvited recommendations. I think I would be OK if the proposition clarified an ambiguity or improved our process allowing us to avoid potential (expensive) trouble down the road. There have been times, however, when I did not take a suggestion well because it was just a really bad idea.

The "badness" can stem from technical issues like spec'ing out underpowered hardware to save on upfront costs. Sometimes, though, it's more personal.

There's a story I love about an architect who comes across as a solid Type C. Tasked with designing a new building, he incorporated a massive, full cantilever feature that created a bold statement for the building's front facade. When mock-ups and models were presented, whoever had ultimate decision-making authority didn't like the cantilever structure. He didn't trust its structural integrity and unilaterally added support columns to the design.

Predictably, this unsolicited edit annoyed the architect as the columns destroyed the aesthetic he was trying to capture. Even when presented with the calculations and analyses validating the construction, the higher-ups were unmoved.

Resigned, the architect executed the modified design incorporating the support columns.

That was seemingly the end of the story. Revealed much later, however, was a masterful act of malicious compliance. While compelled to include support columns, it wasn't mandated that they be functional. When measured, they were found to be several millimeters too short. The architect successfully produced his desired vision.

"Stick to Your Guns" - Stormbringer

Rock-tober 17, 2023

In high school, Mr. Burger, our World History teacher once had an impromptu Trivial Pursuit session in the middle of class. "What organization, formed during WWII, was the forerunner to the CIA."  As I raised my hand, he pointed at me. "Wayne?"

"Was it the OSS?" He double-checked the answer and smiled.

"It is! How'd you happen to know that?" Before I could censor myself, I replied.

"I read it in a comic book."

Rather than raise an eyebrow in a "You know you're in high school now, right?" manner, he paused, nodded, and said, "Knowledge is knowledge."

As a kid, I'd pick up comics at the Navy Exchange or from the convenience store down from the house. One day, in Biloxi, across from Edgewater Mall, a comic book store run by a Brit and his American wife set up shop. I'd never seen such a wonder. Here, rather than the scant half dozen titles carried by the Exchange, were hundreds of titles. Separated by House DC or House Marvel, back issues vs current, all in easily browsed cardboard boxes purpose-built for storing comics.

One month I was stuck at college in Mobile and wouldn't be able to make the trip over to pick up my titles. I was a little stressed because the very first Green Arrow annual was out, and it was a crossover with Batman. My fear was it would sell out before I could get my hands on one, so I asked my buddy Noel to pick up a few copies for me.

As he was checking out, Noel asked the guy, "Hey, do you think this title will sell out?"

"Well, yeah, if everyone buys multiple copies like your buddy did."

Wiseguys. 

I still have the book and the receipt. A quick search online shows a near-mint copy of Green Arrow Annual #1 can go for $34.00. A 35-year investment of $2.00 can now buy a tank of gas.

One of the reasons I liked the Green Arrow title was (1) the guy's an archer and (2) this title was unfettered by the Comic Code Authority. The CCA was the comic industry's self-imposed regulation used as an alternative to being regulated by the Feds, and it kept comic book content at the PG level. By stepping outside the CCA circle, this title was free to explore subject matter Archie and Jughead wouldn't encounter at Riverdale High.

One of the more profound realizations to come out of this book's storylines was the expectation that  "justice" and "the law" were synonyms. They are not. While justice says an individual must be held accountable for crimes committed, the law can vacate a judgment for any number of reasons.

I get it. The law is supposed to be an unbiased shield for everyone. But we all know that the law and justice aren't always in perfect lockstep.

Of note, on the other side of the equation, there's a red line beyond which justice becomes vengeance. Scanning some of the headlines of today, I imagine the inner strength required to not step over that line must be enormous.  When wronged, escalation is easy. But if we're going to make it as a society, it will require all sides to take a step back and take measured, very considered steps forward. Together.

Metallica - ...And Justice For All

Rock-tober 16, 2023

I once worked with a guy who said I drove like his grandma. Here's some background for context. He drove a sports car fairly aggressively, and unsurprisingly to the rest of the crew, totaled it one day. A buddy of his stepped in and loaned him his family's secondary vehicle, and within a week he managed to wreck that, too. Dude wound up having to tool around on his motorcycle in the dead of winter, and, unbelievably, he totaled his bike and put himself in the hospital. By comparison, I probably do drive like his grandma.

Over the time we worked together, we enjoyed smack-talking with each other. Although a decade or so younger than me, he had the annoying habit of calling me "Kid". I responded by calling him "Junior", and that tended to blunt that habit.

Another way I'd get his goat was to purposely stare at his forehead when we talked. I figured out early on that Junior was very self-conscious about his receding hairline. Periodically I'd hear him over the partition separating our workstations when he was on the phone with his doctor trying to renew his prescription for Rogaine.

As we talked about shop operations, I'd casually glance at the top of his head, let my gaze linger for half a second too long, and quickly avert my eyes. In a Pavlovian response, his hand involuntarily brushed his hairline as if to verify it was still there.

The frequency with which I did this in a conversation was directly proportional to how annoying he'd most recently been.

Some guys will go to more extremes when faced with male pattern baldness. At a prior company, my coworker, Mike, and I decided to grab lunch at the diner in the building next door. As we're heading over, he's telling me not to stare at the owner/cook's forehead. My next question was obvious.

"Why not?"

"Man, Wayne, the guy just went through a hair transplant session, and it's...uhhh...not good." Pressed for details, he continued. "You can see these little tufts of hair in perfect rows across his head. It looks like a miniature cornfield."

I laughed, and Mike admonished me again to not stare. He didn't want to piss the guy off and get banned from the closest eatery to our office.

We get in, and I step up to the front register. I'm leaning on the countertop, looking down at a paper menu, and after deciding on a burger instead of a wrap, I looked up. There, a scant 6 inches away was the shiny top of the cook's head. He was leaning on the countertop, also, pencil in hand, ready to write down my order. As my eyes focused in, I saw exactly what Mike was talking about.

Row after symmetric row of tiny hair tufts were visible on his pate. As he moved, they appeared more pronounced and cast tiny dots of shadows on his head because of the harsh overhead light. As my brain was trying to establish pattern recognition, I decided Mike was right. They did, in fact, look like tiny rows of corn. I snorted involuntarily, and he looked up. "Eh? What was that?"

OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. Don't look, Wayne, don't look.

I cut my eyes back to the menu and coughed to cover my chortle. "A, umm, a cheeseburger and fries, please." I'm trying to drive images of the gloriously bad hair job from my head and my hand goes to my mouth to stifle a laugh. When he turned to cook my food, I got a pop on my shoulder and a reprimand from Mike.

"Wayne, man, be cool!" 

We rehashed the scene walking back to our building. "You weren't lying. That was pretty gnarly." We both decided it was a hard "no" on any type of hair transplant if our coiffures began to thin. We absolutely wanted to avoid the "young corn crop" look.

But the genome shuffle doesn't have that in the cards for me since I still manage to sport a full head of hair. Although that hasn't stopped Andrea from offering to shave my head multiple times, just to "see what I look like."

Yeah...I'm good. I'd rather not force it one way or the other. It will be what it will be.

The Beatles - Let It Be

Rock-tober 15, 2023

While the recently concluded writer's strike was still in full swing, Andrea and I reverted to rewatching old favorites and documentaries. As the credits rolled on at the end of one particular show, it kicked off a conversation.

She turned to me and said, "You know, we really should talk about our plans and what we want for our own funerals..." She didn't realize what she'd stepped into as I'd given this some thought.

"I want an organist!"

Andrea, suspiciously, "...OK..."

"On a real organ!"

"A..'real'...?"

"Yeah! You know, with pipes. And a crap ton of pedals. I mean it doesn't have to be as big as the rig at National Cathedral, but it can't be some dude with a plug-in Wurlitzer and portable speakers."

"So that's a 'No' on the National Cathedral, right?" I was spun up with the scene playing out in my head, and brushing aside the sarcasm, I continued.

"The processional needs to be 'You Can't Always Get What You Want'..."

"What!? Wait. Isn't that the opening scene for The Big Chill?"

"And it's gotta be cranked to 11!" 

Andrea lets out a long, slow exhale. "Fine. OK. The Rolling Stones are on the playlist. What else?"

"I'd want 'Amazing Grace'."

"Awww. That'd be lovely."

"On bagpipes."

"Bag...pipes?! As in more than one?!"

"Hmmm. Is that too excessive? OK. Just the one, then."

"Go on..." She sighed because she knew me so well.

"It'll be just like the Enterprise crew did for Spock at the end of Wrath of Khan." 

She stopped listening at that point. It's OK, though. I've got it all typed up somewhere, including the part about spreading my ashes near a particular volcano.

The Rolling Stones - You Can't Always Get What You Want

Rock-tober 14, 2023

It's 1975 and the phone rings in the late afternoon. Anyone who was around in the days before the breakup of Ma Bell knows that sound - it was the exact same in every house in America. As the trilling continues, there's a bit of a dilemma. You had no idea who it could be. Was it your best bud telling you to come over and watch the Junkyard Dog take on the Iron Sheik in WWF action? Maybe it's old Mrs. Gruber calling to scold you about your dog chasing her cat up the tree again. It wasn't even outside the realm of possibility that the cute redhead was calling to invite you to a party.

In a weird variation of Schrodinger's cat, you just didn't know who was on the other end of the line until you actually picked up the receiver and said, "Hello".

In the late '90s, along with the rise in popularity of cell phones, third-party vendors provided a means to customize some ringtones. At first, these produced pretty cludgy MIDI sequences that sounded like bits of video games. But the bottom line was we were able to associate specific ringtones with specific people.

Over time, refinements kicked in and anything that could be recorded could become a ringtone.

For a while, my standard was one of the battle themes from the anime, Bleach. When my phone went off, most people just looked at me like I had 2 heads. On rare occasions,  someone recognized the tune. Suddenly it was head nods and fist bumps as my newfound friend and I went simpatico, geeking out about our favorite episodes.

As phones and the underlying software improved, one could easily go through their entire contacts list and assign unique ringtones to everyone. I once had a boss who assigned tones to key team personnel, giving his own boss "The Imperial March" (Vader's Theme).

Over time, though, this proved to be too tedious as people transferred from phone to phone and even to different carriers on a regular basis. Ringtones were replaced as the must-have, shiny geegaw by the glut of apps that could be downloaded. The dilemma became, "Do I get a tractor or more cows for Farmville?", rather than, "What ringtone does my podiatrist get?".

However, up until my latest phone, I did retain one special ringtone. Sampled from the opening lines of a Nickelback song, I'd assigned it to Andrea. Before I'm swarmed by the cancel crowd, here's full disclosure. Andrea was fully aware of "her" ringtone. While not as big a fan of Nickelback as me, this particular tune is on a number of her playlists, and it's become one of our "unofficial" songs.

And it's gotten me into trouble.

One year I was "voluntold" to assist in a couple of sessions for "Bring Your Child to Work Day". We'd just finished a robotics demo and the kids were filing out of the room when my phone started ringing. Of course, it was Andrea. Normally, I silence my ringer going into meetings, but thanks to fate's sense of humor, I neglected to do so this time.

Unfortunately, it appeared fate was just getting started with me and I happened to be standing next to a stern, matriarchal woman when Andrea called. Because fate was going for the trifecta, my ringer volume was nearly maxed as Kruger started belting out those lines. Immediately, our stern matriarch's shoulders squared up and her arms immediately crossed over her chest. She tilted her head, pursed her lips, and glowered at me over the rim of her glasses. I gave her a sheepish smile and a one-shoulder shrug as I fumbled for the volume.

"Sorry. It's OK. It's actually my wife calling me."

This absolutely did not have the intended ameliorating effect. At least the kids were out of the room.

Nickelback - Figured You Out

Rock-tober 13, 2023

Recently, a coworker was checking out just how viable AI was at generating complex computer code. He laid out parameters and constraints and asked "HAL" to kick something out. While I wasn't there, I was told a blast of expletives exploded from his mouth as he scanned the results. Apparently, it took mere seconds for AI to produce a program it took him days to debug.

Ostensibly, AI is supposed to be the next technological leap for humanity. I get it. Given the right data sets, AI could produce highly effective, life-saving medical treatments tailor-made for your specific genome. Or it could predict possible failure points in the operation of a nuclear power plant to prevent another Fukushima or Three Mile Island. And, full disclosure, I have found some utility in using AI to generate simple scripts that I use infrequently.

But let's face it. Gen-Xers have seen enough dystopian movies to know this may not end well for us. Just because we can do something doesn't mean we should do something.

On another front, I find myself arguing with a different AI on a regular basis. Originally put into play to help me spell-check these missives, it's devolved into a love-hate relationship.

"That structure seems a little unwieldy."

"Don't worry about it, HAL. I'm circling back to that."

"Remember, it's I before E...."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it!"

"This verb tense is incorrect."

"....."

"Are you intending to sound this formal?"

"FFS. I intend to write a little rock and roll blog entry if you'd stop interrupting! And fix your bloody spell-checker, because it's never, EVER been 'duck'!"

We've settled into a bit of a detente where I ignore most of the suggestions but will attempt to allay this algorithm's weird hyphenation fetish. If you see a hyphenated word, more often than not, thank HAL.

As I was contemplating AI's reach into my own circle of influence, I got a call from Mom. During the conversation, she mentioned termites were swarming in Long Beach and she was a little concerned because of past run-ins with the wood munchers. Her next statement blew my mind.

"I wasn't sure what I should do to protect the house, so I asked ChatGPT." I started blinking rapidly as if that would rewind the universe about 10 seconds.

 "Umm. Mom, you mean you Googled it, right?"

"Oh. No, I have the ChatGPT client on my phone so I asked it what I should do about termites."

Like most Gen-X'ers with Boomer parents, I grew up in a house where the VCR constantly flashed "12:00". Now my mom is interfacing directly with a T-800's little brother.

After getting off the phone I took a deep breath, poured myself a drink, and contemplated how long it would take before Linda Hamilton started banging on my door.

Meanwhile, I sh*t you not (Yes, I know that's not an actual word, HAL, just ignore it), shortly after that conversation, another AI, the YouTube algorithm, kept floating AIVA to the top of my viewing queue. This, folks, is how it all begins.

I am AI - AI Composed Music by AIVA

Rock-Tober 12, 2023

Back in the fall of 2015, I unlocked a top-tier achievement in one of my "wanderlust" quests. By crossing the state lines of New Hampshire and Maine, I'd set foot in every state east of the Mississippi River.

Most southern states were crisscrossed over and over again in my youth as Dad was transferred around with the Navy. A number of northern states were visited on job-related junkets. Others, Andrea and I targeted just because neither of us had ever gone there.

Most Southern Point Visited: Key West, FL

It's the most southern point in the continental US and the literal end of the road for US Route 1. Known for epic sunsets, free-range chickens, and the legendary pub crawl of December 2022. 

Most Easterly Point Visited: Lubec, ME

If there's a lighthouse in the vicinity, we'll likely stop in. Especially if it can lay claim to being the easternmost point in the lower 48. The West Quoddy Head Light in Lubec holds this distinction.

Highest Point Visited: Mount Washington, NH

While it was possible to hike up its 6,000+ feet, we opted for the more leisurely drive to the summit. This place also has the highest recorded wind speed outside of a hurricane or tornado at 231 miles per hour. For reference, Hurricane Katrina's max sustained winds were 175 miles per hour.

An honorable mention is Cheaha Mountain. At 2400 feet, it's not nearly as tall as Mount Washington, but it is the highest point in the state of Alabama.

Best food: Pfft. The South

I have a folder in Google Maps labeled "Good Eats" that chronicles notable restaurants we've come across. While Chicago deep dish and New England lobster rolls were off the hook delish, most of the pins are down south thanks to stellar barbecue and southern cooks who don't give a rat's ass about your cholesterol level.

Cheapest Souvenir: State Highway Maps

Andrea can confirm I'm a collector of oddball things (ask her about my stack of hotel card keys). I like to collect state highway maps, probably as a holdover from when I was a kid traveling around with Mom and Dad. But they're getting harder to acquire. With the advent of onboard navigation systems, these paper accordions are no longer carried at all state rest areas.

Priciest Souvenir: Bourbon

Texas and California may have more distilleries, but Kentucky is the heart and soul of crafting this elixir. When we were in Kentucky in the spring of 2022, we followed portions of the bourbon trail that took us to some of the most recognized labels and also a few artisanal outfits. Picking up a bottle here and a bottle there, by the end of the trip I was sure we'd run afoul of revenue agents.

Most Common Souvenir: Cast Iron

If you told 20-year-old me that 50-year-old me enjoyed browsing antique shops and collecting cast iron, 20-year-old me would laugh his ass off. Yet here we are. Also in Google Maps, I have a folder named "Dead People Depots" - our pet name for antique stores.

Every dot and pin is an antique store or flea market. Thanks to perusing all those locations, there are well over 200 pieces of cast iron in this house in various states of display, use, or restoration. 

Most Awkward Souvenier: Madison, WI

After finishing a job, I spent the next morning driving around to see what I could see. That afternoon, I dropped off the rental and made my way through airport security. Unexpectedly, my carry-on duffel raised some flags, and I was called to a side inspection area. After the TSA agent carefully unzipped my bag to check the contents, he stepped back and looked at me.

"Dude. Wow. That's..."

"Yeah. I know." I was feeling a little sheepish.

"Man, that's a crap ton of..." He was shaking his head.

"Cheese. Yeah. I couldn't leave the state without that famous Wisconsin cheddar, right?"

That morning, in my meanderings, I'd found a dairy farm that sold cheddar cheese in really large blocks. As I held the block of cheesy goodness in my hand, feeling its heft, I had a decision to make: How many of these could I cram in my carry-on? 

Pro tip: Four large bricks of cheddar cheese will look suspiciously like nefarious objects on airport X-ray machines.

Four states remain before I can clear the "Visit All 50 States" quest.

• A trip to Alaska is a major side quest all on its own.
• Wyoming contains the bulk of Yellowstone National Park, a bucket list locale of mine for years. 
• Montana isn't too shabby either with its own world class vistas. 
• Then there's North Dakota.

The Fargo, North Dakota visitor's center noticed that people attempting to visit all 50 states would tend to save North Dakota for last. They turned this potential negative into a positive and created the "Best for Last" Club. Make North Dakota the last tick mark on your "states to visit" list and the visitor's center will give you a T-shirt, a certificate, and heartfelt applause from the staff.

Nothing is certain about tomorrow, but me eventually winding up in Fargo, North Dakota, sporting a "Best for Last" T-shirt and certificate is about as close as I can get.

The Allman Brothers Band - Ramblin' Man

Rock-tober 11, 2023

I previously wrote about three cities in striking distance of Auburn, Alabama, for those wanting to alleviate small-town tedium. There was another. About an hour outside Auburn down State Road 280 on the way to Birmingham, you'll come across the town of Dadeville.

Dadeville is one of those towns you'll miss if you blink twice. While Auburn was small, Dadeville was a 10th its size. But that was OK. College students weren't there to take in the sights of the former Native American trading post and the current seat of Tallapoosa County. They were there to get their countrified groove on at the Rodeo Club.

The Rodeo Club was a classic honky tonk. While the place wasn't Gilley's, it was several notches above the Road House from the Patrick Swayze movie of the same name. A beloved institution for several generations, one of their catchphrases was, "Haven't heard of us? Ask your grandma - she's probably got stories."

One of the Club's biggest draws was country line-dancing nights on Thursdays. Instructors were on hand to teach the latest dance steps early in the evening, and later, the massive dance floor was opened to all. One Thursday, someone in my circle invited me to join a group heading out that afternoon. I wasn't sure what I'd be doing since I was underaged, didn't play pool, and definitely couldn't dance, but I reluctantly tagged along.

I'm glad I did, because as fate would have it, the redhead was there, too.

It was still early days in our acquaintance. After some missteps in the beginning and my initial misread of her being far left of Gloria Steinem, I found I looked forward to her presence in these group outings.

When the lessons ended, our group took to the dance floor to practice our new skills along with the slew of regulars. I held my own, but I was still ill at ease beyond anything more technical than "Cotton Eyed Joe". I did eventually ask Andrea for a turn at the two-step, and being kind, she smiled afterward and thanked me.

The. Very. Next. Day.  I bought a Garth Brooks CD. While my roommates were out I had that sucker blasting on repeat as I practiced the two-step continuously around the house. For the next week, any solitary time that I had, old Garth crooned away and I flipped through my Thermo notes. All the while I scooted around the house keeping time in my head, "Quick, quick, slow, slow, quick quick...turn...quick, quick...."

After a few days, a wear pattern developed on the carpet from my lone practice sessions.

A week later, I was once again asked if I wanted to head over to Dadeville. "Oh, hell, yeah!"

That night, after the dance lessons, I strode over to Andrea with a little more confidence, smiled, and held out my hand. The music kicked in, and keeping my eyes on hers instead of my feet, we started down the line of dance. After a few steps, her eyes widened and sparkled, and she smiled. "You've been practicing!" I gave as nonchalant a reply as I could muster.

"Pfft. Just a bit."  

Around the floor, we went. Along the way, I put us into the promenade, and I managed to successfully execute a few turns. By the end of the tune, she was beaming. It was at that singular moment I locked in on the fact that I enjoyed seeing that look on her face. Being able to impress the redhead was a very cool thing.

We both continued to live south of the Mason-Dixon for a few more years, and we frequently found ourselves at the local country-western dance bar getting our steps in. Unfortunately, it's now been a while because these aren't really a thing in the Old Line state of Maryland.

More unfortunately, a few years back as we passed through Alabama, we decided to take a side trip and detoured to our old two-stepping grounds in Dadeville. When we pulled into the Rodeo Club parking lot, we found the place shuttered. The owners had just retired and they sold off the building to a local church. I can't imagine it will wind up being the same kind of social club.

It's another touchstone of our shared past we won't be able to enjoy anymore. But the memories remain. And so does the music. In the mid-'90s, even though Garth was still king of the country scene, this tune from Brooks and Dunn was a regular at all the honky tonks. While a little too slow for the two-step, it was just right for holding your best girl close.

Brooks & Dunn - Neon Moon

Rock-tober 10, 2023

I may exist in a multi-quantum state. I'm either everywhere or I'm nowhere. Hear me out. The number of times people claimed to have seen me seems abnormally high. I walked into my barbershop this week and one of the dudes waiting on his two kids getting a trim looked my way. The guy started to stand as if to greet me but caught himself at the last moment. He looked a little shaken, "Oh, man, I thought you were this guy I know. You're a dead ringer for him."

*sigh

I'm thinking to myself, "Great. It's happening again."

My turn was up and as I took the chair, I could see him scrolling furiously through his phone. He saw the quizzical look on my face and said he was trying to find a picture of my supposed twin, but curiously none were on his phone.

This phenomenon isn't just local, either. I was overseas in Nairobi, walking down a street when a guy stopped me and shook my hand. Gregarious and smiling, he continued pumping my arm, "Hey, it's good to see you again!" 

I'd just gotten into town that day, but this dude swore up and down we'd met the week before. I just looked at him. Stateside is one thing. But just how many stern-faced, middle-aged Filipinos are walking around Nairobi?

On the other end of the spectrum, I'm apparently good at playing a ghost.

I previously worked on a cloak-and-dagger project where I had to train subcontractors on maintaining network hardware. This crew was then flown around the country to perform maintenance tasks at our secure sites. Prior to flying out, they were supposed to contact the remote site and announce their arrival so there were no unpleasant surprises as our field personnel were masters of OpSec (Operational Security).

However, on one trip, one of these dudes flew out and cold-called the site after he landed.

"Who is this?"

"Hey! I'm <the Noob>. I'm here to work on your gear."

"I think you've got the wrong number."

"No, really, HQ sent me out. I work for you guys. Wayne briefed me on this."

"Oh. You know Wayne?"

"Heck, yeah! I know him really well."

"Describe him."

It was at this moment, Noob realized he'd actually never met me. During the entire time we used this service, I never met a single one of these guys. I disseminated all training materials and documentation via email. Any and all conversations were by phone. To Noob, I was a name without a face - a ghost.

Sometimes this cut a little deep.

I was living in Mobile, Alabama, for a while, and I ran into a lady who recognized the Mustang. Apparently, she also went to Long Beach High School.

"Wait. You drive that car? I remember seeing that yellow Mustang all the time in high school. Hmph. But I don't remember you." Many years on, this lady could give the make, model, and color of a car from high school, but she wouldn't have been able to describe the driver if her life depended on it.

But, man, I realized the 'Stang had a bigger rep than me. That's fair.

A current colleague of mine recently described me to a new staffer. "Dude. Wayne's got game when it comes to flying below the radar."

Maybe this ability to be everyone and no one, everywhere and nowhere is my mutant superpower. It's not nearly as cool as Wolverine's healing factor, but we play the hand we're dealt. Not to worry, mere mortals - I'm not looking for the notoriety, and know the spiel: "With great power comes great responsibility." Also, the late, great Tina Turner said we just don't need another hero. Besides, I'm not convinced a pair of tights and a cape is a good look on me.

Tina Turner - We Don't Need Another Hero