Rock-tober 31, 2025

A major milestone occurred at the tail end of 1979 - my tenth birthday. This trip around the sun carried special significance as I simultaneously closed out my first decade of treading this sod and graduated into double digits. One of the benefits of this landmark achievement was my eligibility for my own Department of Defense dependent ID card.

In my mind's eye, having my own ID card was a telltale sign I was growing up. This wasn't like the Junior Superhero badge I got from sending in coupons from the backs of comic books. This was an official DoD credential that carried real weight and afforded a measure of independence.

Prior to getting my own, I had to be escorted by a current ID holder, usually Mom or Dad, to gain access to facilities on base. Now with my own ID, I could get onto the base by myself and enter the Exchange, Commissary, bowling alley, and movie theater without an escort. For ten-year-old me, a whole world to explore opened up. If anyone questioned my presence at any of these places, I merely flashed my ID. Membership had its privileges.

A scant 6 years later, I passed another milestone. Fulfilling the requirement of holding a learner's permit and not royally screwing up for a year, at 16 I was eligible for my driver's license. The privilege of lawful, unfettered access to any drivable destination was a game-changer.

In the intervening decades, I took full advantage of the freedom of mobility afforded me as a holder of a valid driver's license and explored many highways and byways that crisscross this country. That ID had a secondary purpose. It proved I was who I said I was. Whether at a bank, a bar, or boarding gate, my driver's license backed me up when I announced my identity.

Early in my teenage years, a more profound milestone quietly occurred. Mom went before a judge of the Federal Southern District of Mississippi's main courthouse in Jackson. There, she took the oath of allegiance and became a naturalized US citizen. 

Dad, through his service in the US Navy, was previously granted citizenship. This meant that I, a minor child born abroad to two naturalized parents, through a derivative process also became a US citizen.

The rights and privileges afforded me because of my citizenship are incalculable, and I love the freedom and opportunity this country granted me. I saw this as a debt of honor, and to repay it, I unhesitatingly raised my right hand to heaven and took a solemn vow to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

Recent changes in policy, however, have brought new challenges.

Shockingly, one of the first actions the current administration took was sign an executive order ending birthright citizenship. I didn't think it applied to my case, but I had to read the verbiage several times to know for certain. Citizenship can be revoked, but this generally requires the commission of high crimes such as treason. Revocation of citizenship for anything less is onerous and repugnant.

By definition, Immigration and Customs Enforcement has no authority over US citizens. But there are reports of ICE agents detaining and, according to some sources, deporting US citizens. If these reports are verified, it's a serious deterioration of rule of law, a core tenet of the founding of this country.

As a precaution, I now carry my US Passport card on me in the event I have to prove my citizenship. That I feel compelled to do this both saddens and angers me. Three generations of my family served during wartime as part of US forces, and the current actions of this administration and the actions allowed of Federal agents feels like a betrayal.

Regardless, each milestone, from my first ID card to my license and citizenship, has been a chapter in the story of my life. Each brought its own lessons of independence, weight of responsibility, and power of opportunity. All three shaped my identity and my perspective on the world. Moving forward, I intend to continue to honor the responsibilities I hold, to make the most of the freedoms I've been given, and to defend them as I'm bound by an oath sworn long ago.

Rock-tober out.

Jimi Hendrix - Star Spangled Banner

Rock-tober 30, 2025

The very earliest Halloween I remember was the fall of '74 when we were stationed in Annapolis. I was 4 years old and very enamored with all things Peanuts. Most kids had a teddy bear, but I went to bed hugging a Snoopy. That year when October rolled around, spurred on by the annual rerun of It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!, my first costume was of course, Charlie Brown.

Halloween that year fell on a school day, and my kindergarten allowed us to wear our costumes to class. I thought this was a cool idea, but the resilience of youth likely suppressed the unpleasantness. All Gen-Xers remember these costumes - slack drawstring tops and bottoms made of thin, scant, single-ply nylon that didn't breathe and itched. The mask was equally ill fitting, its eye holes weren't well placed, and it smelled funny.

A year later, we moved to the Mississippi Coast, and my Halloween costumes varied over the next few years. I once was a Founding Father, complete with vest, shirt ruffles, and buckled shoes. This was actually a reused costume Mom made for my first grade's class presentation celebrating the '76 Bicentennial. The following year I was a circus ringmaster, again, reusing the outfit from my school's play.

At some point, every boy with a dad in the Seabees went through a phase where he borrowed his dad's field fatigues. My attempts to don Dad's gear lead to a very frumpy looking Sad Sack of a soldier along with a constant threat of tripping from those oversized boots.

I'd dispensed with costumes by the time I'd become part of the Island View Hoodlums, opting instead for causing mischief and mayhem on those nights rather than chasing Mars Bars and Moon Pies.

These days, All Hallows' Eve has lost its luster for me. I'll still go through the annual ritual of picking up bags of full-size Snickers and KitKats because breaking the vicious cycle of candy corn is one of my life's side quests. However, since we don't typically get any ghost or goblin visitors, I become the sole beneficiary of my candy choice largesse.

I wish I could reclaim the wide-eyed, childhood infatuation with the holiday. Donning an alter ego and leveraging free snacks from strangers under the threat of roguish shenanigans was a pleasant way to pass an evening. Perhaps all it takes to regain that old Halloween magic is rewatching the Peanuts gang special. Recapturing that childhood wonder would be delightful—minus the janky costumes, of course.

Vince Guaraldi - Linus and Lucy

Rock-tober 29, 2025

Sneaking out of the house as a teenager had its challenges, but some factors worked in my favor. Mom and Dad's room, luckily, was on the opposite corner from our driveway, and they usually turned in early. Also, our house was on a slab, not a basement, and most of our flooring was carpeted - no squeaky floor boards to give me away. Getting out of the house was fairly trivial, but now the difficulties arose.

The first problem with Operation Breakout was the 'Stang sported a 302 V8 with after-market dual exhausts. Today's cars, with their little 4-banger engines or smaller, need you to be either in them or in very close proximity to hear them running.

In stark contrast, when I cranked the 'Stang, 302 cubic inches roared with a low, resonating rumble you felt in your bones. When the engine revved, windows rattled, neighborhood dogs commenced a howling chorus, and for a quarter mile around, startled birds flew away from tree-borne roosts.

There's no way I could start up the 'Stang in the driveway without waking the whole house. My genius solution was to push her back out the driveway and roll her down the street before firing her up. This led to the second problem with Operation Breakout.

A 1970 Mustang coupe was over 3,100 pounds of Pittsburgh steel and Detroit attitude and overcoming her rolling resistance became an exercise in applied physics. After shifting into neutral, I had to put all my weight onto the hood to start her moving backwards out of the driveway.

Once in motion, I quickly ran to the open driver's side window to grab the wheel, maintain traction with the pavement, and keep a grip on the car.

Turning the steering wheel was another challenge. The 'Stang had power steering, but only when the engine was running. So now, Breakout's mission parameters were: don't slip on the pavement, keep a grip on the car, and strong-arm the wheel into a turn so I didn't wind up running over the mailbox across the street.

Once on the street, it was just a matter of getting far enough down the road before turning the ignition key. Nosy neighbors, roused from their slumber, peered curiously from behind curtains at the source of the chest rumbling noise. But snitches get stitches, so back to bed they went.

Operation Breakout was successful, and now all roadways in the bustling metropolis of Long Beach were fair game. The possibilities arrayed before me put a smile on my face.

Perhaps I'd head down to the strip and hang out with some friends. Maybe I was in the mood for a solo speed run on I-10 so the 'Stang could stretch her legs. A more sedate cruise down Highway 90 with the boombox in the passenger seat cranked to 11 was another option. Or I might just park down at the harbor and enjoy the expanse of the night sky above and the brine scented breeze coming off the water.

The hours ticked away, and with my need for mischief sated, I cruised on back home, simply running Operation Breakout in reverse.

Years later, I can't help but chuckle at the lengths I went to on those late-night escapades. Operation Breakout might not have been the most sophisticated mission, but those sorties were rites of passage rewarded by the thrill of the getaway as much as the freedom of the open road. Sometimes, as I think about those nights, I imagine I can hear that rumbling V8 echoing through the quiet streets of Long Beach, a mechanical lullaby to my misspent youth.

Bruce Springsteen - Born to Run

Rock-tober 28, 2025

A few decades  ago, when Andrea was still a sign language interpreter, I tagged along to a party hosted by one of her coworkers. As usual at these events, English wasn't the lingua franca of the evening; it was American Sign Language (ASL). While I may be fluent in hand gestured expletives of several different countries, I was not conversant in ASL.

The situation didn't throw me for a loop. Growing up not speaking either Ilokano or Tagalog, the primary native languages in the Philippines, as a kid I was constantly surrounded by conversations I didn't understand. That evening, I just smiled and nodded my way past clusters of signers, fixed a plate, and made a drink as I went.

I landed on the back deck where the only other person was our host's husband, also a non-signer. We struck up a conversation based on the common ground that neither of us really knew what to do at these shindigs.

It turns out he also grew up down south, and that led to comparisons of our formative years below the Mason-Dixon.

Since we were surrounded by language centric folks, our discussion turned to the uniqueness of southernisms. We laughed as we tried to outdo each other with tongue-twisting place names and surnames that defied obvious attempts at pronunciation.

I brought out my standards: Tchoupitoulas, a street in New Orleans, and Tchoutacabouffa, a river in south Mississippi. To complete the alliteration trifecta, I tossed in the north Mississippi county of Tishomingo.

We agreed that the last name, Hebert, always threw northerners for a loop. I've only known one guy, who  happens to be from Mississippi, who pronounces his name HEE-burt.

Southern colloquialisms also came up. I once worked with a northern transplant who got very agitated when one of us mentioned we "were fixin' to" do some random thing.

"But wait! You're not 'fixin' anything, dammit!"

"Weeelllll, would ya lookit that. By the way that vein's a-throbbing in your temple, it looks like you're fixin' to have a stroke. Aww. Bless your heart."

My conversation partner that evening did manage to introduce me to a southernism I'd never heard before: "moonlight and magnolias". From his explanation, it meant a state of serene, tranquil, bliss, and everything was right with the world.

"But, Wayne," you ask, "how would one use such a lovely, southern turn of phrase?"

Hold your horses, Boudreaux. Ain't no need to get your britches all cattywampus cuz I'm fixin' to tell ya.

Lets' say after a day that was hotter'n blue blazes, runnin' over hell's half acre and bein' busier than a cat on a hot tin roof, you're feelin' all tore up, rode hard, and put away wet. But then your best girl meets you at the door with a hug and a smile, some sugar, and a tall, cool glass of sweet tea.

Well, damn, son, that there's moonlight and magnolias.

Alabama - Song of the South

Rock-tober 27, 2025

High school teachers have a unique power to shape our lives, often in ways we don't fully appreciate until years later. Long Beach High School was fortunate to have a number of excellent educators during my time there, and our school consistently ranked highly in state and national standards tests. 

I had several favorites. One of them was Coach Robert Cave. An accomplished grower of camellias and a skilled artisan of carved wild fowl, he'd won national awards in both. To us, he was "Coach" and he taught Biology II and Marine Biology. While I was able to take his Bio II class, I've always regretted being unable to fit his Marine Bio class into my schedule.

Since Bio II was a science class, I already found it enjoyable, but Coach's passion for the subject made the class that much more memorable. A number of things I learned in his classroom I can still rattle off today, including the seven levels of taxonomy - Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Genus, Species. Not exactly useful in my tech job, but retained knowledge is always a win.

During the winter months, he lit off the Bunsen burner on his table and boiled water in a beaker. He explained it was to throw humidity into the air to counter the dryness from the season. This was new information to me, and I still have a designated cast-iron kettle that I use during the much colder and drier Maryland winters.

His tests usually had an extra credit question. Sometimes it was at least obliquely related to the material, "What type of sea turtle never returns to land?" Other times, it was strangely random, "Why are daytime programs called 'soaps'?"

I sat in the back table of the class between Thomas and Ronnie. Over the course of the year, inspired by Coach's penchant for trivia, our table initiated our own trivia challenges. At first, we tried to keep questions class related. "What's the body's largest gland?" and "What's the body's largest organ?" were typical. 

We eventually went off the rails. "Who's the patron saint of both sailors and children?"

While Coach Cave's trivia challenges tested our knowledge of biology and even pop culture, he had a more hands-on examination in store for us.

In a serious escalation from Bio I's dissection of a large earthworm, in Coach's class we were faced with the dissection of a fetal pig. Being at the same table, Ronnie, Thomas, and I shared the same specimen which Ronnie duly christened "Seymour D. Pig". We took turns wielding the scalpel and managed to not lose our lunch in the process, but tellingly, none of us became a surgeon.

It was whispered among us that a friend of ours received a challenge in another class: eat a portion of their "Seymour's" liver for $20.00. While I didn't witness the deed, others did and our friend claimed his prize. For context, $20 in 1986 is worth almost $60. Not an insignificant sum for a high school kid, but one I'd still pass on.

Coach's class made for a memorable year. He was a rare instructor who was able to instill his passion for the subject in his students. There's a plethora of biology factoids still taking residence in my grey matter that I learned while in his class. While I don't get to pull them out very often, on occasion they serve me well in trivia challenges and rock and roll blog posts.

Schoolhouse Rock - The Body Machine

Rock-tober 26, 2025

At a recent class reunion, we clustered into small groups of conversation. As I passed within earshot of several, they predictably turned to shenanigans we pulled back when we were in school. Amusingly, there was also universal agreement that they wouldn't tell their kids about any of these misdeeds.

As a natural rule follower, my school record is, embarrassingly, squeaky clean. But still, 6 years in junior and senior high school is a long stretch without some issues.

I was busted for one fight. In 7th grade, horseplaying with a 9th grader got out of hand and I wound up dragging him across the ground by his leg. A strong hand then clapped me on the shoulder and a loud, stern voice boomed, "Let's go!"

I looked around and was very surprised a crowd had gathered. The voice came from Coach Snow and he hauled us two former combatants to the principal's office. There, we got a stern talking to by Dr. Whalen, but I think he actually cut us loose.

In a possible affront to millennial sensibilities, corporal punishment was a very real thing at Long Beach Junior High. Some of our male teachers walked the halls brandishing large wooden paddles during breaks between classes as a deterrent to teen tomfoolery. I managed to dodge this punitive action until 9th grade.

One of my favorite classes was Industrial Arts or "shop". To this day, I still have and use some of the projects I made during that class. A picnic table I made during the year was still in use until it literally fell apart a year or two ago. Near the end of our freshman year, Mr. Nations, our shop teacher, wanted to send us off to high school with a parting gift from him.

He lined up the entire class in the middle of the shop and "gifted" each of us with a single swing from his paddle. Technically I got one paddling in school, but there was no street cred attached to the act.

In high school, I got one Saturday detention. If you had your license, you could drive to school and park in the stadium parking lot a block away. There was limited parking at the school's main entrance for staff and teachers. If there were available slots, these were issued to students via a lottery.

I was running late one day and as I drove past the front entrance. I noticed a student slot was open, and, noting the time, I gambled that whoever was given that slot wasn't coming in that day.

I lost that bet and was called to the office later that morning. The owner of that space did show up later and found a yellow miscreant Mustang squatting in her assigned spot. The penalty for that offense was my only Saturday detention. There's really not much street cred there either.

The summer between my junior and senior year I had to attend summer school because I didn't have enough class slots during the year for all my required classes. That was a drag, but it had a silver lining. The class was American History with one of my favorite teachers, Mr. Burger. The classes were going OK until the morning I overslept.

For some reason I didn't respond to my alarm that particular morning, but I managed to answer the phone next to my bed when it rang. I groggily said, "Hello?" The voice on the other end was deep and gravelly.

"This is Dr. Jones. Son, isn't there somewhere you need to be?" I'd just gotten a wake up call from the high school principal. I very literally jumped out of bed.

"Yes, sir! Sorry, sir! On my way, sir!" I was dressed, teeth brushed, and out the door in three minutes flat.

That's the extent of my school disciplinary record. There's wasn't a lot of substance behind the penalties, and it didn't really foster the image of a "bad boy" that the girls found appealing....in the official record. For every documented infraction, there were other escapades that managed to fly under the radar. I was never busted for drag racing  down the street behind the school, or bringing a hunting bow onto school property, or sabotaging a teacher's car, or handcuffing myself to a girl in the middle of the day. But those are stories for different posts.

Brownsville Station - Smokin' in the Boy's Room

Rock-tober 25, 2025

My collection of prior passports has a number of entry stamps. Some were expected, like the Philippines. Some were easier to get than others. The Canadian stamp comes to mind. Stamps for the UK and Tanzania were just cool. There's one entry stamp I wish I could have gotten, but it wasn't allowed.

As a Midshipman, I was temporarily attached to the USS Truett (FF-1095), a guided missile frigate, in the summer of '91. I met the ship at Norfolk Naval Station, and after reporting in and stowing my gear, I set out to make myself useful.

In port, this was easier said than done since Midshipmen were basically unqualified in all the ship's systems, and a lot of crew viewed them as necessary annoyances. I wound up running errands and writing reports for the junior officers. This would change when we left port.

It was a relief when we finally got underway. Summer training was a bit of a lottery. There's a chance you'd be assigned a ship that never left its berth. One of my classmates did go to sea, but was put ashore in Italy because his vessel had been ordered into a combat zone. I found out my ship was not only setting sail, but we were bound for Naval Station Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. I was sailing for Gitmo.

I took as many watches as I could on the bridge. The Officer of the Deck, while ultimately responsible for the ship's safety and navigation, delegated the conn to me.  Therefore, I controlled the ship's speed and course. Commanding the movement of a 3,200 ton, 440 foot warship as a 21-year-old was simultaneously exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Outwardly smiling, in my head I was repeating to myself, "Don't f* up, Wayne. Don't f* up."

We successfully made the transit to Cuba and docked at Guantanamo Bay without incident. We were parked next to a Coast Guard cutter that drew our attention because of one of her officers. Periodically, a female voice came over the cutter's speakers, and it was absolutely captivating. Whenever she spoke, anyone in earshot aboard the Truett momentarily stopped whatever task they had and looked towards the sound of her voice.

It was like that scene from Shawshank Redemption when the opera being piped over the prison loudspeakers caused everyone to pause in their routine and look up to the sound. None of us ever saw her, so our crew ascribed all manner of attributes to this lilting, extremely feminine, yet authoritative voice. I was still a few months away from my first meeting with the red head so I imagined this mystery woman to be a cross between Kirstie Alley and Michelle Pfeiffer.

Our purpose in Guantanamo was to receive nuclear, biological, and chemical (NBC) defense training. Lectures ensued on how to defend the ship against these particular attacks and how to triage and treat affected sailors. To cap off completion of the classroom work, instructors initiated us into an exclusive club: a visit to the Guantanamo Bay gas chamber.

We were issued gas masks and transported to an outlying concrete building. Once there we were shuffled inside and given instructions on properly donning our masks. After checking one another's fitment we all gave the instructors a thumbs up, their signal to release the gas. The reactants loudly hissed and overflowed the containment barrel, slowly filling the room and obscuring everyone's vision. A loud verbal command from somewhere in the mist then ordered us to remove our masks.

We complied, and the effect was immediate. First came the burning sensation in our eyes, nose, and throat. Tears welled up, effectively blinding us. As our mucous membranes railed against the contagion, the coughs, gagging, and choked out expletives followed and echoed loudly in the chamber. After interminable moments, the instructors, still masked, of course, satisfied we'd been properly inducted into their club, opened the doors.

We all fumbled our way to the exit lit by daylight, some slipping on "biological expectorant" left behind by our more affected shipmates.

Outside we all gasped for clean, unadulterated air, trying to purge our lungs of the foulness. A round of cheers and high fives ensued after we'd recovered. 

Still holding my gas mask, it was all smiles after we'd recovered from the gas chamber.

Because of current US policy and the naval base is technically a US territory, I couldn't have gotten a passport stamp to show I'd been to Cuba. Regardless, Guantanamo Bay was a personal crucible for me. From the heady highs of the Truett's bridge, to the lows of coughing up a lung in the gas chamber, even the unexpected diversion of the mystery woman on the Coast Guard cutter, all left an indelible mark on my naval officer training that was more profound than an ink stamp in a booklet.

Jimmy Buffett - Havana Daydreaming

Rock-tober 24, 2025

After several decades of home improvement projects, I've learned one hard, indelible truth. No matter what the enclosed instructions say about "easy installation", something will always rear its head to take the project from a difficulty of 2 or 3 to a painful 7 or 8.

The first time this rule came into play, I was installing a ceiling fan for Andrea's parents in their dining room. The fan assembly and wiring was straightforward, and hanging the fan went without a hitch. I was almost home free, but as I was walking the joists in the attic, my foot slipped and my leg wound up knee deep through the hallway ceiling.

Withdrawing my leg, I peered down through the hole to see Andrea's family looking up at me, curious looks on their faces, through their new, unintended skylight.

I hastily called in a buddy to help with the patch job before Andrea's dad got home. We got the repair done, but being my first drywall patch, it wasn't perfect. Even when I walk that hallway today, it still bugs me when I see it.

On a recent trip home to Long Beach, I installed a fan in my childhood bedroom at Mom's. Learning from past experiences, I brought up plywood into the attic to use as a work platform and was exquisitely careful of any limb placement.

I'm not sure how solid the electrical codes were during construction in the late '60s, but I was only expecting to find three wires in the ceiling fixture - the standard black, white, and green. Instead, a dozen cables terminated in that junction box. 

I tried to keep them straight, but a quick test after one attempt had every outlet in the room controlled by the single light switch. It took several trips back into the attic to square things up. Did I mention this was in the middle of summer?

From the heat and humidity of southern attics to the depths of bathroom plumbing, at least my DIY journey also took me to cooler climes.

Back during the pandemic, social media was awash in folks showing off their home improvement projects. There was a plethora of home-built pizza ovens, new home offices and gyms, and refreshed landscaping. I, on the other hand, installed a bidet.

After watching all the moronic nonsense of muttonheads hoarding toilet paper, I was determined to not get caught up in that flying monkey circus. The chosen unit was ordered, shipped, and delivered via "contactless" protocols, and I was ready for the install.

Again, following the instructions for the "easy, painless install", everything looked good and connections were made. When I turned the water on, a nice steady drip ensued from one of the connections. Great. I turned off the water, reversed my install, ensured my Teflon tape wasn't janky, and buttoned everything up again. Still leaking. Rinse and repeat. Still leaking.

When I looked at the hose end, I discovered the internal washer wasn't seating properly. With that finally squared away, I attempted my fourth assembly. 

It didn't help that the bathroom sink cabinet was impossibly close to the commode and I couldn't get a good angle on these connections. After contorting myself yet again into a pose that would make a master yogi cringe, connections were made, water was turned on, and finally, no leaks.

From unintended skylights to unexpected plumbing adventures, I squint sideways at 'easy installation' claims. Yet, homeownership is just another kind of adventure. So I'll approach with caution, tools in hand, and a wry smile – ready for whatever curveball awaits behind that deceptively straightforward instruction manual.

Steely Dan - "Dirty Work"

Rock-tober 23, 2025

 

I first toured the Pentagon years ago, and when I entered the Navy's administrative area, I felt very much at home. Each service "dressed" their space according to their branch's aesthetic. The Army section was predictably a forest of brown and green hues.

The Air Force's sector was more airy and reminded me of puffy white clouds against a light sky blue. I was honestly surprised by the lack of green representative of all their golf courses.

When I entered the Navy quarter, the mood instantly became more somber. The whole area was encased in dark stained wood with brass accents. Rather than shrinking the space, making it more closed in, it became more comfortable, like an old leather chair in a corner of a study.

Navy blue provided the bulk of the color palette, and ships' wheels and brass bells were tastefully interspersed to round out the decor. I wanted to linger, but our tour guide shuffled us through. 

This year marks the US Navy's 250th birthday. That's two and a half centuries of being the US Army's hero. Of all the armed forces, the Navy is the most steeped in tradition. From protocols when launching a new ship, to the way dignitaries are piped aboard, to the ceremonies conducted when her sailors first cross the equator, these traditions are numerous and time-honored.

A physical embodiment of Naval customs and traditions is the USS Constitution. Launched on 21 October 1797, she holds the distinction of being the oldest commissioned warship afloat. Undefeated in 33 battles, she's also the only remaining US Navy vessel to have sunk an enemy combatant during wartime.

Time, tide, and naval battles weren't always kind to Constitution, and even her stout, live oak timbers from coastal Georgia eventually deteriorated. She underwent several overhauls and refits. The most recent was completed in 2010 and restored her to her War of 1812 trim. 

These cycles of renewal for the USS Constitution echo a classic philosophical puzzle: If an object has all its components replaced over time, does it remain the same object? This mirrored a question posed by a classmate. "If so much of the original lumber from Old Ironsides has been repaired or replaced, is she still the same ship?"

My knee jerk response was, "Of course she's the same bloody ship!" I suspect any sailor who's served aboard her would give the same response, just saltier. Consider this, the human body undergoes constant regeneration. Skin cells are replaced every 2 weeks, red blood cells every 4 months, and bones every 10 years or so. After 15 years, are you still you?

Older? Yes. And hopefully wiser. But your core self, shaped by life experiences, remains intact. Oliver Wendell Holmes, in his poem, "Old Ironsides", captured a small fraction Constitution's storied existence.

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,

And waves were white below

As we celebrate this milestone birthday of the US Army's hero, we're reminded that it's not the planks and sails that make a ship, nor the cells and atoms that make a person, but the enduring spirit that flows through them.

USNA Glee Club - "Eternal Father"

Rock-tober 22, 2025

Earlier this year, Andrea and I were watching a video listing the most underwhelming tourist attractions in the United States. I was nodding my agreement with the list as the video scrolled through them.

The Hollywood Walk of Fame? Meh. It's dirty, broken pavement surrounded by hucksters looking for photo ops and sketchy souvenir shops.

Four Corners? It's out in the middle of nowhere, and the only boss thing you can claim is you were big enough to lie down and span 4 US states. Cool if that's your idea of a flex, but I've stood astride two hemispheres in Greenwich, so I think I'm good.

Times Square? It's in New York. 'Nuff said.

Then, like a dagger to the chest, they dropped - The Alamo. What?! Andrea was howling with laughter as the video's narrator droned on about the diminutive scale of the structure and the fact that it was just, well, boring. I could feel my jaw clench at the thought of the Alamo classified as boring while Andrea continued stifling her laughter.

She and I have a long-standing disagreement on the absolute must see attraction in San Antonio, TX. I, as a history buff, of course advocate for the Alamo, the Shrine of Texas Freedom, and site of the famous last stand for Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie. It's practically hallowed ground - is hallowed ground for a lot of native Texans.

Meanwhile, Andrea is all about The Riverwalk, two and a half miles of carefully manicured riverfront full of high end shops. I honestly don't see the draw. As the video continued to play, the narrator twisted the dagger home, saying, "A better alternative to standing in line at the Alamo is a leisurely stroll down the banks of the Riverwalk and enjoying its array of shopping and dining venues."

Andrea let out one last, badly disguised guffaw and left the room snorting in amusement.

After angrily giving the video a rare punitive thumbs down, I had to sit with myself. Was I the wrong one here? What was my fascination with this "diminutive little structure"?

The Alamo wasn't typical subject matter in Mississippi elementary school history classes. My knowledge of the events of February 23 to March 6, 1836, came from my own reading in various encyclopedias, a Disney LP album about the life of Davy Crockett, and an old Marty Robbins song, "Ballad of the Alamo" on 8-track that got continuous play time on my bedroom's tape deck.

I've only been to the Alamo once as a kid and I found it exceedingly cool to be treading the same ground as Crockett and Travis. It was one of the few places during that vacation that I dipped into my very limited souvenir funds and bought myself a T-shirt and pennant to commemorate my visit.

Maybe my enduring fascination with the Alamo isn't about the historical structure itself, but what it represented personally to me. It captured my imagination as a child and continues to resonate with me today. Maybe I'm a sucker for epic last stands. While others may find it underwhelming, for me, it's a tangible connection to the stories and heroes that shaped my understanding of history.

Next time we're in San Antonio, Andrea and I will have to compromise. She can wander her Riverwalk shops and I'll once again tread where my childhood heroes walked. Also, I've been trying to figure out for 12 years how to get Marty Robbins some Rock-tober airtime, and I've finally done it.

Marty Robbins - Ballad Of The Alamo

Rock-tober 21, 2025

It's been said you need three kinds of friends:

• Friends who own a bar.
• Friends who own a boat.
• Friends who own a beach house.

Our good friends, Marti and Brian, graciously became the third kind when they slipped the surly bonds of their stifling HOA governed townhome community in the suburbs for a beach view in Ocean City, Maryland. You've met these two before; they're the same folks from way back on the very first Rock-tober post twelve years ago.

Marti holds a special place for Andrea and me as she's one of the first friends we met as a couple. Before her, Andrea and I both had our own circle of friends we brought to the relationship. These circles didn't always mesh neatly, but Marti gave us a fresh start together. Since our first introduction in the early '90s, we've maintained contact through several job relocations and cross-country moves.

When Marti introduced us to Brian, the tale of their meeting was epic.

Marti was hanging with a girlfriend at a club when Brian spotted her from across the way. Knowing a good thing when he saw it, he made his way towards her. Here's the thing about Marti. She's adeptly fluent and skilled as a sign language interpreter, and this evening, she was conversing with her friend in American Sign Language (ASL). 

Brian took this scene in, and, not knowing if Marti was deaf and not knowing a lick of sign language, he boldly strolled up to Marti and asked if he could buy her a drink. When Marti then spoke to him, he was probably relieved, but it didn't go his way.

"No thanks, Dude."

"No drink? How about a Coke?"

"Go away."

"Water?"

"Go! Away!"

Brian went away. While fate can be fickle, she occasionally smiles. Nearly 6 months later at the same club, Marti and Brian crossed paths again. She was more amenable this evening and struck up a conversation with him, even remembering his name.

That encounter led to an all night conversation that lasted the rest of the night and into the next day. On day 2, Brian had not left and the conversation was still going strong. Somewhere in that time frame was a trip to DC to catch the cherry blossoms and a trip to CVS where Marti bought Brian a toothbrush.

By day 3, Brian hit the pause button, "Marti, I've got to go home and grab a shower and a change of clothes. But I'll be back, and we're having dinner tonight."

They've been together ever since, and they continue to keep a literal tally of their days together. They eventually tied the knot on day 1,206. If you ask either of them, they'll give you the current day's count. As I write this, it's day 8,233.

We last met them for virtual cocktails over Zoom a few weeks ago as they were just settling into their new home. I joked that they'd have to have Jimmy Buffett on a continuous loop somewhere in their home if they're truly going to embrace the seaside lifestyle.

While not die-hard Parrot Heads, they did mention an affinity for Buffett's last song. Released posthumously, "Bubbles Up", was considered Buffett's parting gift to his fans.

In Navy survival training, escaping an enclosed, submerged space can be disorienting. Trainers admonish their students, "Bubbles Up!" The directive was simple. Follow those bubbles; they'll lead you home.

Marti and Brian featured in my first Rock-tober post. Now, twelve years later, I continue to share their story and am excited for this new chapter in their lives. They've unknowingly followed the Buffett mantra of "changes in latitude = changes in attitude", and they've been able to lean into Buffett's last request and followed their bubbles home.

Jimmy Buffett - Bubbles Up

Rock-tober 20, 2025

In the neon-lit heart of Las Vegas, I found myself face-to-face with an unfortunate truth about my favorite classic rock groups. Sometimes, the best way to preserve the past is to recreate it.

Andrea and I were in Vegas earlier this spring visiting my old friend, Noel, and his wife. They were hard core regulars of "The Neon City", and so we followed their lead when it came to entertainment.

One evening, we wound up in a hotbed of activity that is the Fremont Street Experience, a 24-hour mall covered by an LED embedded canopy. The continuous light show successfully brought out the tourist in me as I was continuously gawking upward. We made our way deep into the complex to one of the stages where, teed up for entertainment, was Spandex Nation.

Spandex Nation is a tribute group to all the great '80s hair bands, replete with '80s hair jacked-to-Jesus and skin-tight spandex unitards. Their repertoire was a roll call of hair band greatest hits from 1980 to 1989.

I'm not gonna lie, when they first came on stage, their teased out hair was obviously wigs and, unless you're Jason Momoa, spandex is rarely flattering. But as soon as they let rip with the first opening chord and their lead singer cut loose on the vocals, my jaw dropped. Holy cow! These guys rocked it. They flowed seamlessly from the genre's calls to action like Poison's, "Nothin' But A Good Time", and Quiet Riot's "Come on Feel the Noise" to the Crüe's soulful ballad, "Home Sweet Home".

I was all smiles, standing near the foot of the stage, as they progressed through their setlist. It was like catching up on every concert I'd missed in high school.

I realized we were witnessing more than just a performance – we were experiencing a living, breathing time capsule of rock and roll. It hit me hard afterwards that, unfortunately, we're approaching the time when tribute bands may be the only way to hear these songs live. As our favorite groups retire or strut off to that sold out gig in the sky, live performances will become rarer and rarer. Even if the original acts are still touring, the decades will still have taken their toll.

Noel was telling me he took his daughter to catch Mötley Crüe live (a parenting win). It became apparent, however, Vince Neil hadn't been keeping up his cardio and was getting winded on stage. Noel's daughter, a rare Gen-Z'er who's caught both original and tribute bands in concert, leaned over to her dad and pronounced, "Yeah, Spandex Nation did it better."

If Keith Richards's boundless vitality is any indication, we're still years away from my ultimate playlist's D-Day. Meanwhile, Spandex Nation and other tribute acts keep the live experience authentic, and the studio world is pushing boundaries with fresh interpretations of classic songs. This blend of preservation and innovation is evident in recent covers and collaborations.

One collaboration that caught me off guard was Bone Thugs-n-Harmony sampling Phil Collins's "Take Me Home" into their 2003 release, "Home". The transition from rapping storyline to Collins on the chorus made a flowing point - counterpoint that worked for me.

Johnny Cash's cover of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" won him a posthumous Single of the Year and Video of the Year at the 2003 CMAs. Trent Reznor, who wrote the song when he was going through his own dark period, after hearing Cash's version, famously said the song "wasn't mine anymore."

Bruce Springsteen covered the Commodores classic 1985 release, "Night Shift", on his 2022 album, Only the Strong Survive. I remember the original, and it still stands out as one of my favorites from the Commodores, but Springsteen's soulful rendition absolutely did it justice.

As we navigate this transition period in live music, where tribute bands might soon become our primary connection to the classic performances of yesteryear, I'm reminded of the cyclical nature of art. The '80s rockers were themselves inspired by earlier generations, and now they inspire both new artists and faithful imitators. In this way, music doesn't just survive. It evolves, reinvents itself, and continues to bring joy to new audiences, whether through original artists, unexpected collaborations, or dedicated tribute acts like Spandex Nation. The beat, as they say, goes on.

Spandex Nation - Thunderstruck

Rock-tober 19, 2025

 

Last night, Long Beach High School's Class of '87 had an impromptu 38th Class Reunion. Granted, it was an out of cycle year, but some of the class officers just didn't want to wait until the 40th rolled around.

The gathering was small and, as Mike, my close friend put it, comfortable. The conversations were easy going and we all picked up from where we may have left off years before. We all caught up on where we were geographically, kids-wise, and as we continue to level up, retirement-wise and health-wise.

It was a great evening, and the hope is to continue to have these impromptu gatherings as well as the mile-marker 10-year reunions in the future.

Andrea accompanied me for the evening and found her way into conversations with strangers with an ease I could never muster. She made me look good and not at all like my high school dweeb self.

While Andrea and I didn't meet until high school was in our rear view mirrors by several years, we've often been asked by friends and family if we thought our high school selves would have hit it off.

For Andrea's part, some insight was gained at a dinner one evening with her sisters and brother. The conversation rolled around to high school crushes and romances and Andrea's brother told us a tale. Back in school, one of his buddies had a major crush on Andrea. This friend pulled her brother aside one day, his face flushed with nervousness. "Hey, man," he asked with trepidation, "do you think I have a chance with her?"

Andrea's brother, a very kind soul, paused, contemplating how to respond diplomatically. In the end, he decided honesty was the best policy. He looked his friend in the eye and said, "Look here, dude. I'm not sure you wanna go and kick that hornets' nest."

As for me, my lack of patience and shorter fuse likely wouldn't have meshed well with Andrea's predilections for sarcasm. Besides, for some reason, blue-eyed, freckle-faced redheads weren't on my radar at that time.

As we left the reunion, hand in hand, we couldn't help but smile at the irony. Two people who might not have given each other a second glance in high school are now partners for life. Sometimes, the best stories don't start in high school; they're just beginning when those final bells ring.

Simple Minds - Don't You (Forget About Me)

Rock-tober 18, 2025

 

When I was growing up, Mom and Dad were homebodies. While a lot of other parents were active in social organizations and made the rounds at the weekend parties, Mom and Dad preferred the solitude of family time at home. This didn't bother me as a kid, but looking back it did have ramifications.

Since Mom and Dad weren't big movie-goers, this effectively meant I wasn’t a big movie-goer. I think the reasoning was, “There’s TV at the house.” Consequently, I missed seeing the biggest blockbusters of my generation including Star Wars, The Goonies, and Raiders of the Lost Ark when they played in theaters.

Eating out was also out of the norm. Intentionally leaving the house with its well stocked pantry to go to Burger King or Pizza Hut, sit at a booth, and have a meal there was considered a special treat. And that's just for fast food. If we were at a fancier restaurant that had cloth napkins rather than paper ones, it must have been somebody's birthday.

This led to disappointments as a kid. As Mom and I were out and about running errands, my face would press against the inside of the passenger window of the 'Stang. Hands on the window sill, my eyes would follow one of my favorites, a Burger King, as we drove past it. "Mom, could we..." Mom always had her canned response ready.

"There's food at the house."

Time skipping forward a decade and change and I was now in Auburn. Andrea and I were dating, and I was running errands one day with Andrea, her sister, Marie, and her mom. It was a hot, summer day, and as we finished at the grocery store, Andrea was grabbing drinks out of the coolers by the registers.

Andrea's mom stopped her with, "There's drinks at the house."

Andrea simply returned the drinks, but I glitched. Was this deja vu? I'd heard that line all my years growing up. Mind you, it was with a different accent and desired objects, but it was the same line. I thought this experience was unique to my parents. Was this a line from the "Boomer Handbook" that spanned geography and cultures?

Time skipping forward a few more decades, Andrea and I laugh at the shared experience. 

One thing we've rediscovered in recent years, especially post COVID, is, "There's TV at the house." Aided by the rise of streaming services, Andrea and I have found we forego the full on cinematic event unless the small screen would severely impact the experience. The last movie that put us in theater seats was Dune II.

In this sense, we've become our parents. We'd rather watch from the comfort of home with our own snacks and the ability to pause for bathroom breaks.

As for the echoes of, "There's food at the house," we consider ourselves fairly competent cooks, and our pantry can usually supply ingredients for multiple meals across several cuisines. That doesn't stop us from availing ourselves of the broad range of dining options in our area whenever we want. Besides, sometimes the food at the house is leftover takeout from the night before.

The Clash - Should I Stay or Should I Go

Rock-tober 17, 2025

After we started dating, I was continuously looking for cool and romantic dating ideas to impress the redhead. One day, I thought a concert would be a great excursion. At this time, in the early '90s, a number of Tier 1 groups crisscrossed the region, hitting concert venues between Atlanta and Birmingham. These included Charlie Daniels, Marshall Tucker, Hank Junior, and regional stars like Drivin N Cryin.

With this array of available artists, who to choose?

I scored tickets to the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. At first I was pretty jazzed - it was an evening performance of Vivaldi's The Four Seasons, one of my favorite pieces. Soon, though, the doubts started creeping in. Would the redhead be impressed, or would she consider an evening of listening to the Top 40 from the 18th century the ultimate in lameness.

Fortunately, her smile and the way her eyes lit up told me I had nothing to worry about. 

We made the evening of the concert into a major date event, with a road trip to the hip, cultural hotbed of Atlanta. For dinner, we dined at the legendary and iconic landmark, The Varsity, for a Michelin-star-worthy repast of burgers and fries. Later, arriving at the venue, ushers escorted us to our seats. Seeing they were just off-center in the orchestra section, I silently thanked the fickle gods of fortune. These were perfect. 

For our evening regalia, I was wearing my service dress blues and Andrea was decked out in a low cut, green velvet gown. For the record, "green" is a great color on a redhead. The regular seat holders started to stream in and fill in the surrounding seats. Most were sporting an array of turtlenecks, khakis, and business casual blouses. We drew some curious looks as it became more and more obvious we were overdressed.

The performance was first-rate. Vivaldi's masterpiece is a superlative example of the Baroque, and is easily in my top 3 in the classical genre. Andrea was captivated. She gripped my arm during several moving passages, bringing a smile to my face. As corny as it may be, we were both moved to tears.

That Atlanta evening was a very memorable one, but we'd not attended a performance of that piece since. Then, last month, Andrea got us tickets to a concert by a quartet from the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. The small, intimate ensemble would do their rendition of The Four Seasons on stage while surrounded by a swath of lit candles. 

The venue was the auditorium of the Baltimore Museum of Art. Our usher got us to our row, and we were again just off center in the middle of the orchestra section. This evening we now looked like the season ticket holders, me in a button down and slacks and Andrea in a dress. I glanced half expectantly around the auditorium before taking my seat. Noticing the odd symmetry between the two nights, I wanted to see if some kid in a Navy uniform was in the audience.

Thirty years later, as the quartets' instruments' voices melded together and washed over us, we found ourselves once again lost in Vivaldi's genius. This time, we weren't overdressed, and The Varsity wasn't on our pre-show menu. But, Andrea once again gripped my arm, I smiled, and we were both moved to tears.

Vivaldi - The Four Seasons: Spring (1st movement)

Rock-tober 16, 2025

 

When the US Navy's top brass decides to sit across a boardroom table from Hollywood mogul types to collaborate on a project, the results have been pretty noteworthy. 

For 1988's  Top Gun, Hollywood was given unprecedented access to Naval assets including carrier groups, air bases, and, of course, aircraft. Pertinent actors also received extensive training in multiple aspects of Naval aviation, including envious amounts of flight time in the cockpits of F-14 fighters.

Hollywood bankrolled the costs of certain filming sequences. Mainly, these were aerial combat scenes, but there was one exception. This shot had an F-14 on deck and backlit by the sun. When the captain ordered a change in course, it ruined the spectacular lighting the director was trying to capture. When he requested that the captain resume his original heading, the skipper, predictably, laughed. He explained a course change for the massive vessel would cost the taxpayers $25,000. The story was the director paid out of pocket in order to get the iconic shot.

In the end, Hollywood had a blockbuster, earning $357 million on a $15 million budget. For its part, Naval Aviation got a 500% jump in recruitment.

To see if lightning would strike twice, the Navy threw its support behind 1990's The Hunt for Red October. Once again, tight collaboration produced a thoroughly engrossing thriller that reaped dividends.

It was another Hollywood blockbuster, earning $200 million on a $30 million dollar budget. Apart from the recruitment boost similar to Top Gun, the Navy was able to showcase the capabilities and technical prowess of the crews of the secretive submarine service.

2012's Battleship was different. Rather than taking on Soviet era adversaries, this movie took on alien invaders. The hero vessel was none other than the storied battleship, USS Missouri (BB63). While it didn't bomb at the box office, it barely broke even, making back $303 million from a budget of $220 million. In spite of the less than stellar box office performance, this holds a special place for me because who doesn't want to see the battleship Missouri cutting through the water at flank speed and firing a full broadside in anger? And did I mention AC/DC provides the soundtrack?

If this movie wasn't enough to sate your need for a "Mighty Mo" fix, to quote Master Yoda, "There is another." In this instance, Missouri has a role on the "small" screen.

Cher released the single, "If I Could Turn Back Time", in 1989. It went to number 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and finished the year in the number 21 spot. Lyrically, the song is an apology to an ex-lover for unfortunate words and actions during their relationship. For reasons known only to artistic types, it was decided that the best showcase for this plot line in the accompanying video was the deck of none other than the Missouri.

Unfortunately, no broadsides were fired during the video. What it did have was a very large complement of sailors and their very real reactions to Cher and her bombshell wardrobe. Collaboration with the Navy brass was not as tight on this production as Cher's costume choice caught Navy officials off guard. Apparently, the expectation was her attire was going to be along the lines of Navy-type coveralls. I mean, have you met Cher?

For her part, Cher enjoyed the interactions with the sailors during the shoot. Her only reported quibble with the experience was they all kept calling her "Ma'am."

Cher - If I Could Turn Back Time

Rock-tober 15, 2025

There's a POV video floating around the Interwebz that made me laugh a little too loud. This guy is with his wife at what appears to be a Home Depot when he comes up behind her and plucks a hair from her head. Surprised and visibly annoyed, his wife turns and glares at him. But the guy is undeterred. He's on a mission.

With his hair sample in hand, he slowly walks the flooring aisle. Methodically and systematically, he compares that strand of hair to various floor tile samples. One by one, options are eliminated until he finds one that perfectly matches the color of his wife's hair.

He then declares to his wife that he's found their new flooring. Meanwhile his wife is giving him dagger eyes.

I felt this one soooo much.

When I sweep our tile and hardwood floors, they seem clean(ish). But as soon as I make one pass with a broom, I've somehow gathered enough of Andrea's hair for a bird to make a nest. Apparently, our floors are tinted perfectly to camouflage her shed hair's presence.

These days I just roll with it. But getting used to her shedding hair took years of desensitization. When we first started dating in Auburn, her hair wound up all over the interior of the 'Stang. I was pretty fastidious about the car's upkeep which involved regular cleaning. What used to take a quick 15 minutes now dragged on interminably as I could never seem to get all her hair out of the carpeting.

For the most part, in those early days, Andrea's stray hair was just a hit on my undiagnosed OCD - no harm, no foul, and my new normal. However, there was at least one occasion when it could have had some repercussions.

During one quarter, it was our drill day within NROTC. Since it was winter, the prescribed uniform was winter blues. Guess what stands out like a neon light against a dark uniform? This day, as I was hanging out in the unit wardroom waiting for the inspection, an upper classman passed behind me. When he happened to look down at my blouse, something caught his eye.

"Hey, Capuyan! Do you realize you've got a long strand of hair on your blouse?!" I immediately stood, and, still behind me, he removed the offending hair,  examining it and holding it up to the light. "You'd have been gigged for this for sure." I tried to lighten the mood.

"Well, is it red?" There was a short pause.

"Actually, this one looks blonde."

It was undoubtedly Andrea's hair. Apparently red and blonde strands look similar to the uninitiated. Regardless, my off-the-cuff reply made me a legend.

"Pfft. As long as the redhead doesn't find out."

A chorus of "Daayumm, Cap!" rose from my classmates in the wardroom.

All these years later, I'm more reflective. Andrea's shed hair has been leaving its mark on my life for decades now. While it once triggered my neat freak tendencies, I now see these stray strands as gentle reminders of her presence. At least that's what I tell myself when I clean our floors.

Bruce Springsteen - Red Headed Woman

Rock-tober 14, 2025

Earlier this year, the wife of one of my closest friends contacted me and asked if Andrea and I could meet them in Las Vegas. She wanted my presence to be a surprise for her husband, Noel.

I was an only child, but I've known Noel for over 50 years, and there were countless times growing up when he stepped in and basically became my older brother. We spent the weekend in Vegas rehashing some of those stories and when this one came up we were both howling. When we stopped laughing, I told him this tale was definitely Rock-tober fodder.

As a kid, I wasn't the most gifted athlete. I felt more at home in a library reading a book rather than on an athletic field. But I managed to have enough fun playing pickup baseball games that I decided to try out for Little League when I was 9 years old.

Since I didn't have any of my own gear, Dad and I went to the CB Base Exchange to pick up a bat, ball, and glove. Standing in front of the glove bin, he asked if I needed a right- or left-handed glove. Not being that hip to the basic nuances of the game's vernacular, I told him a needed a "lefty" glove. I still remember the puzzled look he gave me, "'Lefty?' Are you left handed?" 

I nodded my assent and was equally confused at his puzzlement. It seemed straightforward to me since I threw with my right hand, I needed a "lefty" glove.

When we got home we started a game of catch in the back yard. I donned my brand new glove, pounding the leather palm with my fist, and ignored the oddness of it on my right hand. Since my right hand was now encumbered by a glove, I was forced to throw with my left, and my first throw was...magnificently awkward.

The ball took a high, lobbing arc and probably made it no more than 10 feet. If Dad was disappointed his son wasn't showing promise as major league player, he didn't show it. Patiently, he went over the mechanics of  my stance and follow through. This led to some improvement, but not much.

A few minutes later, Noel, who was living next door at that time, came over. We started a 3-way game of catch and he took note of my struggle to get distance and accuracy with my throws. He held up his hand to pause the action and strode over to where I was standing.

Noel: "Wayne, man, why aren't you throwing right-handed?" I shrugged and in all seriousness replied.

Me: "Cuz I've got a glove on it?"

Noel: deep sigh

Noel: "OK, you doofus. Why are you using a left handed glove?"

I tried to explain my logic, but as I stepped through my thought process it slowly became apparent to me I may have made an error. After another deep sigh, Noel held up his hand to stop my rambling. He took off his own glove and handed it to me. "Here. Try this instead." Removing mine, I slipped his onto my proper hand and not surprisingly, the odd, awkward feeling suddenly disappeared.

"Oh, yeah! That's way better!" 

Noel just shook his head. Punching me in the arm, he walked back to his spot. "Doofus." 

My next throw to Dad flew straight and true, and he started smiling and laughing. I'm not sure if he was amused at his oddball son not knowing his basic equipment needs or if he was just relieved his son actually could throw a baseball.

John Fogerty - Centerfield

Rock-tober 13, 2025

 

How do you flush a toilet on a nuclear fast attack submarine?

One of the critical briefings I was given when I boarded USS Seahorse (SSN 669) was the proper procedure for flushing the stainless-steel toilets in the heads (bathrooms). Unlike terrestrial toilets that could rely on gravity and atmospheric pressure to do the deed, a submarine's toilets had to contend with atmospheric as well as variable water pressure depending on your current depth.

This marvel of sanitary engineering had 2 manual controls. One was a pull lever that opened and closed a ball valve at the bottom of the toilet bowl. The other was a flush valve that introduced pressurized sea water into the bowl to perform the flush.

Surprisingly, the step-by-step procedures found online are spot on. I guess flushing commodes at sea isn't a national security secret.

Step 1: Open the drain valve. Pull the lever to open the ball valve at the bottom of the toilet to empty the bowl.

Step 2: Flush the bowl. Open the flush valve. This allows high-pressure seawater to force the waste through the drain line. Keep the valve open to ensure both the bowl and the drain line are thoroughly flushed.

Step 3: Close the drain valve. Once the flush is complete, close the drain valve. This creates a water seal in the bowl to prevent odors from coming up the pipe.

Step 4: Close the flush valve. After closing the drain valve, close the flush valve to stop the flow of water. 

All wastewater aboard was collected in pressurized sanitation tanks or "Sans" for short. Depending on the length of the patrol, with a crew complement of around 115, the Sans might fill up when the boat was still underway. The process for emptying the tanks while at sea involved pressurizing them above ambient water pressure, opening a valve to the outer hull, and blowing their contents into the ocean. The procedure is literally called "Blowing Sans".

Certain safeguards needed to be put in place during this evolution. First and foremost, all heads had to be secured. While there was no physical lockout, big red placards would be prominently displayed on the door to each stall announcing "Secured Blowing Sanitaries".

I wouldn't be telling a story about flushing toilets, even if it's on a submarine, unless it got really, really good. In case it hadn't sunk in, the reason for securing the heads was to keep the contents of the pressurized Sans tanks blowing into the ocean instead of back out the toilet bowl. 

We were underway in our patrol grid when I got a nature call at 0230. Groggily, I stumbled off my rack, out my berthing quarters, and across the hall to the head. Running lights kept everything dimly lit, but I'd made the trip countless times before and could navigate the path in the dark.

Pushing the stall door open, I did my business and reached for the lever controlling the ball valve. The usual hsssss sound as water flowed out the bowl was markedly different. I'm looking into the bowl trying to discern what's happening when I was roused from my stupor with an exciting moment of clarity.

"Ah, shi..." My apropos expletive was cutoff by a torrent of incredible foulness proceeding from the bowl with immense force and velocity.

Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to close the valve quickly before I flooded the compartment. Unfortunately I was drenched in some pretty profane filth. I've heard this experience described as the world's worst bidet. I can assure you it's worse by several orders of magnitude.

To verify the biohazard incident I'd just experienced, I opened the stall door and there, mocking me as much as an inanimate object could, was the big, red placard announcing, "Secured Blowing Sanitaries".

By this time, some sailors popped their heads in to see what the ruckus was. Their eyes went from the ceiling, to the bulkheads, to the deck, and finally to the very sullen, dripping Midshipman with an almost catatonic look on his face. Most shook their head with an unspoken, "Man, sorry dude," before slipping away. One of the guys I'd gotten close with wanted to make it a teachable moment for his shipmate in distress. "Damn, Cap! Hey, you know that's shit, right?"

I spent the rest of the night cleaning and disinfecting the head to make sure it was usable before the next watch turnover.

The most annoying thing about this incident was remembering when I first came aboard. The crew was telling me about a Midshipman on a previous cruise who was standing on the non-skid, the top surface of the hull, when he managed to lose his footing and went overboard. Not even knowing the guy, I denounced him, "Pfft. What a swab!" My shipmates agreed at the time.

"Yeah, Cap's different. He wouldn't pull something that stupid." Post incident, at least one petty officer took to calling me "Shithead."

Ah, well, at least that experience wasn't wasted. It taught me humility goes a long way, and I really needed to work on my situational awareness. Most importantly, I learned it's a really good idea to pay attention to big, red, obnoxious warning placards.

Queen - Under Pressure

Rock-tober 12, 2025

One evening, back in the '90s, Andrea and I were watching the sitcom, Tool Time. During this particular episode, Tim Allen's character breaks out into a rendition of Johnny Horton's "The Battle of New Orleans." I started laughing because I knew the verse he was singing, and, more dramatically, I  started singing along. It was as funny to me then as it was to10-year-old me when he first heard it back in 1980.

We fired our cannon 'til the barrel melted down

So we grabbed an alligator and we fought another round

We filled his head with cannonballs 'n' powdered his behind

And when we touched the powder off, the gator lost his mind

Andrea just looked at me in confusion, "What?! What song was he singing? And why do you know it?!" 

The episode ended and the credits rolled, but I continued laughing at the hilarity, because, really, when's the last time Johnny Horton got air time on broadcast TV? This song was recorded and released in 1959, a full 10 years before I was born. Yet, in 1980, 10-year old me strode into a record store and blew past the hottest albums that year by Blondie, Pink Floyd, and Queen. Contrarian me, instead, plunked down my hard earned allowance for an album released by an artist who passed away 20 years earlier.

I think, even after all these years, Andrea still underestimates how varied and far back my musical tastes go. As a kid, I'd worn out 8-tracks of Roger Whittaker and Marty Robbins. Now, looking at the continuum of release dates for music in my playlists, the top end rarely goes later than the mid-'90s. The bottom end, however, predates '70s mainstream and the '60s British invasion. Currently, in this house, I have recordings from the '50s by Nat King Cole, Eddy Arnold, and The Platters.

My younger coworkers would describe these tracks as "oldies from the 'mid-1900s'". I squared up on one of them, preparing to issue an "old guy diatribe", but I had to stop myself when I realized, "Well, he's not wrong."

I suppose I should be grateful that my younger colleagues at least recognize these tunes as 20th-century creations. I'm half-expecting the day when one of them asks if Johnny Horton was one of the founding fathers. Until then, I'll keep surprising Andrea with my repertoire of vintage lyrics – gator cannons and all.

Johnny Horton - Battle Of New Orleans