Rock-tober 07, 2024

One fall day in the early '90s, I was hanging out with Andrea when she enrolled at Bishop State College in Mobile. The redhead was slated to attend one of the premier American Sign Language training programs in the country at the time. While she was off doing school girl stuff, I wandered the halls, checked out the campus library, managed to acquire a student ID (no, I was not enrolled), and crashed the school chancellor's address to the incoming freshman class.

It was a surprisingly rousing speech. One  aspect I still remember to this day was Madame Chancellor's likening the Bishop State mascot, the Wildcat, to the mascots of all Mobile high schools represented in the auditorium - in academic creeds and values if not physical characteristics. The graduates of each alma mater cheered uproariously as their mascot took its turn in the spotlight. Sitting in the bleachers, I was musing to myself that Long Beach High's mascot, the nebulous sounding "Bearcat", would fit right in with this gathering of the local anthropomorphisms.

Fast forward a decade and a half, and I'm talking with a coworker. Before the days of complex password requirements being taken seriously, Dude had an unusual proclivity in selecting his passwords. Every single one he ever used professionally was from a constantly recycled list of small, typically rodent-like mammals.

Thanks to Dude's weird rodent fetish, over the course of a few years of sitting across from him at the lunch table, I collected a crap ton of small mammalian factoids. For instance, the capybara is South America's largest, and by all accounts, the world's friendliest rodent.

Meanwhile the Asian palm civet single handedly created a market for the world's most expensive coffee. You're gonna want to sit down for this.

The palm civet's natural diet includes coffee cherries. Its digestive tract does a number on the berries, partially fermenting them. These are then excreted, collected by workers, and made into Kopi Luwak. This price of this "civet coffee" dwarfs any concoction your local man bun wearing hipster can contrive at Starbucks, reaching $100 a cup.

You may be thinking, "Wayne, man, you're really drifting here." Relax. While the discussion of small mammals may seem like an odd non-sequitur, it'll all come together in the end.

My presumption throughout my time at both Long Beach Junior and Senior High was that our mascot, the Bearcat, was some large, fierce wild animal. Smaller than a lion but larger than a bobcat, it could take off one of your limbs with a single swipe of its paw. As a matter of fact, a school crest taken from a recent LBHS graduation tells me that perception remains.

However, withing the past month, my buddy Mike unearthed the truth. I present to you the binturong, also know as the bearcat.

The binturong/bearcat is neither a "bear" nor a "cat". Rather, it's a tree dwelling mammal that rarely exceeds three feet in length and no more than 70 pounds in weight. Amusingly, its closest relative is the coffee-bean-pooping civet. One factoid I could have shared with Dude was binturongs have an unusual trait. The scent chemical compounds they produce contain 2-acetyl-1-pyrroline, or 2-AP. This is the same compound that gives cooked corn kernels their ubiquitous aroma. Bearcats smell like buttery popcorn.

At least the founding fathers of the Long Beach School District didn't pick the nutria as a mascot. Yes, nutria was on Dude's password rotation. While I couldn't find the version of "Muskrat Ramble" that we played as our fight song, Ratt makes for a handy stand-in.

RATT - You Think You're Tough

Rock-tober 06, 2024

One of the sobering realities of my cadre of Gen-X reaching the half century mark is we've very likely seen death strike close to home. My core group has recently endured a long season of loss. One lifelong friend lost his father this past spring. He and his wife are in California and that his father passed in the Philippines unfortunately only added more stress to his grieving process. Another dear friend lost his stepmother around the same time. While I could only facetime my California bro, I was thankful to be able to share a few beers in person with the other.

This pair of losses dredged up memories for me since both were very close to the anniversary of Dad's death - a time when I'm already in a somber mood.

We've now been notified of my aunt's death - Dad's sister. Unfortunately, because of circumstance, distance, or fate, I never established a relationship with her, and her loss is another link to Dad that's been severed.

Currently, as I write this, Andrea and I are in Auburn after the recent death of her mother. Complicating this time of grief is the necessity of planning for the care of two adult sisters, both with mental limitations, still living at the homestead.

One of these sisters, Marie, is 51 years old, but she has the intellectual capacity of an 8- to 9-year-old. That aside, Marie also has a wicked sharp memory. She can recall the names of people she met only once twenty years prior. Most people I meet are lucky if I remember their names after a mere 20 minutes.

She can be child-like and silly, but Marie can demonstrate a mental acuity that's downright scary.

One conversation took place while running errands around Auburn, and Andrea asked Marie how long she thought the two of us had been together. Marie tilted her head, regarded both of us from the back seat, and declared in her sugary, old south, southern belle voice (think Blanche Dubois from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof) she said. "Y'all have been together thirty-two years."

Now, Andrea and I have been married for twenty-seven years, but the question was "how long we'd been together". That number is indeed thirty-two years. Like I said - scary.

What's fun about Marie is she can utterly roast Andrea, but because of her gentle demeanor, she still comes across as very polite. In that same conversation, after a moment of contemplation, she looked up and declared, "Why, that means Wayne has had to put up with you for a looooooong time! Oh, Wayne, I'm so very sorry! I feel so bad for you."

I unsuccessfully stifled a loud guffaw, and my eyes became saucer wide. I'd became my own "side-glance" meme as I tried to suss Andrea's reaction. Her hand was to her mouth, and she was in some in-between state of shock and rueful amusement, and it took all I had to not let loose a howl of laughter and keep the car in the lane.

Andrea and I being able to hang out with these two sisters of hers these past weeks has been unexpectedly refreshing. They've been a welcome distraction from the task of dealing with Andrea's mom's estate and managed to bring sunshine onto an otherwise dark time.

 

U2 - Beautiful Day

Rock-tober 05, 2024

My buddy Mike recently dropped a meme in my feed humorously highlighting the disconnect between how old we feel vs how old we are. It was uncannily accurate. While I can readily acknowledge the fact I was not a candidate for Seal Team 6, in my 20s I was a carb fueled, sweat cooled machine who could do three mile runs in combat boots after pulling an all-nighter. Even into my 30's, a couple of knucklehead coworkers and I go it into our heads we should start training to run the Marine Corps Marathon taking place in less than a month. Unknown to us, Fate was benevolent when we learned entry into the race was on a lottery basis, and we'd missed the deadline.

These days, I get out of bed carefully, making sure all systems are primed and in working order. Otherwise, some gears don't properly mesh or a critical system isn't properly warmed up and suddenly - boom. Klaxons start blaring and pain receptors light up like a car's dashboard full of flashing idiot lights.

For his part, Mike was always pretty buff and a lifelong gym rat. Back in school he was already in trainer mode and was annoyingly successful in cajoling others and myself into different training regimens he'd come across. Back in the day, he even became a professional gym rat who worked at Golds Gym, rubbing oversized shoulders with the likes of Rich Gaspari and telling guys our age now how to lose the "dad bod".

We were able to meet up earlier this summer to share a few beers at a Coastal watering hole. I paused as soon as I crossed the threshold to size up the joint since it was my first time there. It had a cool industrial theme going and an impressive list of beers on tap. Mike had already bellied up to the counter, scanning the available beers on the chalkboard above the bar.

Mike: "Dammit."

Me: "What's up, man?"

Mike: "It's too far away. I can't make out the menu."

After a bit of back and forth describing the available pours, we had the first round in hand. Heading to a nearby table, we were laughing at each other as we both let out audible groans as we lowered ourselves onto the bench seats. 

What proceeded was an incredibly easy conversation, seemingly picking up where we last left off. We talked of family, jobs, and, of course, hijinks and shenanigans both witnessed and perpetrated during school and growing up around the neighborhood.  Then we got around to comparing aches and pains. As we both unfurled our lists of infirmities, I couldn't help but shake my head and smile. "My god," I mused, "how did we get here?"

What we'd started to lay out three rounds in weren't complaints, rather just a recounting of facts, like soldiers detailing how we got the various scars on our bodies. The aches and pains we carried were the result of honest, purpose driven lives, and we regretted nothing.

And neither of us is through living la vida loca just yet. After a brief absence, Mike is reclaiming his gym rat creds, working on endurance and upping his cardio training. As for me, I've surprised myself by transitioning from regular walks to short runs and, very much to my amusement, starting yoga.

It may be a hot minute before either of us is benching 300 again, but I don't think we're doing too badly for a couple of guys with five decades of hijinks and shenanigans under our belts.

Jimmy Buffett - A Pirate Looks At Forty

Rock-tober 04, 2024

In East Africa there's a body of water named Lake Natron. Straddling the border between Tanzania and Kenya in the great East African Rift, the lake is a primary breeding ground for a species of flamingo. Many years back, Andrea and I walked its shores and were witness to a flock of thousands of these muted pink birds take flight as we approached. Lake Natron has a dark secret as it has the unofficial distinction of being the world's deadliest lake. High evaporation rates intensify the water's natural alkaline nature and create an extremely caustic environment with a pH north of 12. This can strip human skin and any living thing that dies in its waters is calcified, literally turned to stone.

Lake Natron sits in the shadow of an active volcano, Ol Doinyo Lengai, meaning "Mountain of God" in a local Maasai dialect. The vulcanism stoking the mountain also contributes to the chemical makeup of the lake as well as its 100°+F temps When we scaled this mountain during our stay, I was blissfully unaware it had most recently erupted mere weeks before our arrival.

On the plain between Lake Natron and Ol Doinyo Lengai is an outcropping of granite the locals call Pride Rock because of its resemblance to the promontory in Disney's The Lion King. When we hiked to its peak, the expanse of the rift valley opened up before us, and the opening Lion King song started playing in my head. Art imitated life as we saw flocks of flamingos land and cluster by the lake, giraffes walked with their stately gait at the edge of a tree line, and a small herd of elephants sauntered slowly along a path in the distance.

There was one critical difference. The Pride Rock we were standing on was not the territory of lions, but rather a large troop of baboons. During the day, they would scatter across the plain, but the entire troop converged on the rock at night for shelter.

It was getting towards evening and I noticed Abdullah, our guide, was visibly on edge. He looked over his shoulders and summarily decreed, "We need to go. Now."

My focus went from the valley below to our immediate vicinity. I was surprised to see a baboon was sitting on every sizeable boulder on the escarpment, and every pair of those orange eyes was keenly focused on us. We were effectively on their home turf, and never before or since had I had such an acute feeling of, "You done stumbled into the wrong neighborhood, Boudreaux." 

As we did a quick hike down to the base, I looked behind us several times. Their numbers had grown significantly, and a large host now sat where we were standing only moments before, intently watching our rapid departure.

We made it safely to the Land Rover, and as we closed the doors and drove away, I looked up at the cliff. Backlit by the light of the setting sun, the undisputed masters of this Pride Rock created an unbroken silhouette along the ridgeline. They continued to scope us as we drove away, emanating a final vibe of,  "Y'all be on your way, y'hear?"

Michael Jackson - Beat It

Rock-tober 03, 2024

Earlier this year, I spooled up St. Elmo's Fire on one of our streaming services. I didn't see this 1985 Brat Pack flick when it was originally released and only caught it on VHS many years later. I don't know why I was drawn to rewatch it because as all the storylines unfolded, from the perspective of someone who's trod this sod for 50 plus years, it was chock full of self-inflicted youthful angst and interpersonal dysfunction. But I really dug the soundtrack.

As for the interweaving storylines, one of the more cringe, at least for me, was Kirby's (Emilio Estevez) attempts to woo Dale (Andie MacDowell). The lengths and predicaments Kirby willingly put himself in to gain her attention were astounding. As his attempts escalated in absurdity, I was continuously face palming and yelling at the screen, "Kirby, my dude. Chill! She's just not in to you!"

One would think Kirby's actions were just typical Hollywood tropes to create drama for the character's arc. Why would anyone put themselves through that much trouble for a non-interested party? But then that damned introspection kicks in, and as I began to recall certain events, I realized why Kirby's story hit a nerve.

But I wasn't alone in my version of self-inflicted, youthful angst.

One spring day, in the lunch cafeteria at good ol' Long Beach Senior High, my buddy Mike and I were seated across the table from a guy who was seriously in the doldrums. Apparently, a young lady he was crushing on big time barely knew he existed. But this dude had a plan.

Over the course of that lunch period, Dude laid out a course of action that started with a respectable gift of flowers but escalated quickly to include a limo, hot air balloon ride, and, I kid you not, a sky writer to proclaim his love against the backdrop of an azure sky.

I cast a sideways glance at Mike with the stealthiest "WTF, man?" look I could muster. While not a close acquaintance, Dude was on the periphery of the tribe I ran with, and I didn't know him to be unhinged. I don't remember the feedback we gave him, but I'd like to think we upheld the Bro Code and talked him off the ledge. I never heard about any restraining orders on campus, nor do I remember an "I ♥ You" emblazoned in the sky, so perhaps we succeeded.

By comparison, my attempts to "shoot my shot" seemed tame. 

In 7th grade, I asked Mom to pick up a corsage as I wanted to give it to a specific girl at our band's upcoming spring recital. The night of the concert I realized the small bouquet was a pin-on rather than a wrist corsage. Twelve year old me didn't want to risk stabbing the cute French horn player, so I just sheepishly handed it to her, bulky plastic packaging and all. Now, Mom was under the impression that all the boys in band were giving corsages to the girls as part of the program. Imagine her surprise and amusement when only one girl walked into the auditorium wearing a corsage that night.

On another occasion, I handcuffed myself to another young lady I was crushing on. Fortunately, like Dude's crush, she didn't file a restraining order either, but that's another post.

I apparently, like Kirby, didn't know when to call it quits. By now, the cute French Horn player and I were in high school. I was indeed a glutton for punishment, because in my addled brain I thought it would be a good idea to serenade her. In public. In front of her friends. This actually was another post, documented in all its embarrassing glory in Rock-tober 22, 2015.

Apart from the realization that Kirby and I walked a similar path, my best take away from St. Elmo's Fire was the soundtrack. "Man In Motion" was a big hit, but what pulled me in was the instrumental version of "Love Theme". I got my hands on the sheet music for piano and managed to memorize the piece. Years later, at a student center I frequented in college, I found a piano in one of the rooms. Since it was the only song I knew by heart, I played it often as I found it to be a good stress reliever. My one song repertoire sparked many conversations, and, not surprisingly, I found it less traumatic than singing my heart out to a lady. It was damn sure easier than pulling in a hot air balloon and sky writer.

Love Theme from St. Elmo's Fire

Rock-tober 02, 2024

How many of you still remember you childhood phone number? Mine was (601) 863 - 6882. This was the phone number Ma Bell gave us when we first arrived on the Coast in the mid '70s. Like most parents of Gen Xers, Mom and Dad were insistent I commit this numeric string to memory. One would have thought it was a level 7 incantation against any misfortune that could befall me. "Did you get lost? Are you injured? Facing a raiding party of wights? Fight your way to some stranger's abode and request the use of their phone."

This phone number stayed with us for the next four decades, three house moves, and two different cities. We kept the number when, in 1997, AT&T split the state of Mississippi into two area codes, flipping us from the now northern 601 to the coastal 228.

Dad called this number every chance he could when he was on deployment. In those days, overseas calls from Navy Seabee bases were routed through radio operators. This necessitated ending each sentence with "Over", indicating to some unseen radio man when to flip the switch on a transceiver. While cumbersome to a conversation, it was pretty cool for a 7-year-old. It's like Dad and I were clandestine agents and me telling him about the latest plastic model I'd assembled was actually code speak for a high risk operation where we were going to save the world.

Not every call that came in was that cool. On rare occasions, other moms would call my mom to inform her of my shenanigans. One call that really set her off was a report I'd been caught launching bottle rockets at someone's backyard window. The CIA's network of international listening posts ain't got nothing on the Neighborhood Mom Telegraph. Mom listened silently as one of the neighborhood agents gave her the details. She then glanced my way with that furrow in her brow that did not bode well for me. Mom was understandably appalled and apologized profusely. Once she hung up the phone, it was a terrible sight to behold as her quiet embarrassment transformed into high decibel, Category 5 anger.

But on balance, calls received by that number were positive. When I eventually struck out on my own, it continued to be my link to home. I could pick up a phone anywhere I happened to be in the world, dial that numeric string burned into my memory so many years ago, and have a conversation with Mom or Dad as if they were right in front of me. In that sense, it did become a high level, magical talisman of sorts.

A little while back, Mom gave me some news that hit hard right in the feels. In an effort to shed unnecessary monthly expenses, she was ditching the old family landline. The phone number I'd known for over 45 years was being retired.

Like most of us, she was eschewing a landline in favor of using her mobile full time. Ironically, if my life depended on it, I couldn't tell you her cell number. She told me years ago, and it's entered in my contacts simply and succinctly as "Mom". But I'll bet if you ask me in a few decades, "Yo, Wayne! What was your phone number back in the summer of '75?"  I'll have absolutely no problem rattling it off, and I doubt I'll ever be able to lose it.

Phil Collins - Don't Lose My Number

Rock-tober 01, 2024

Andrea and I were on our way to an event hosted at a hotel recently. The day was stifling and the humidity, while not the thick morass you had to wade through during summer down in South Mississippi, was enough to drench my shirt as soon as I stepped out the front door. By the time we arrived at the venue, we were hot, soaked, and parched. Andrea wandered off to deal with event details, and I hit the hotel's canteen, pulled a can of soda for each us, and went to the front desk to pay for them.

The clerk looked at my purchases, and with the nonchalance of a 19th-century robber baron, said, "That'll be $6." I laughed. My internal dialogue was a string of expletives inquiring in what jacked-up reality do two 12-ounce cans of carbonated sugar water go for half a dozen Washingtons?

As a backdrop for my sticker shock, one of my favorite childhood memories was walking up to a Coke machine, dropping in two quarters, and getting back two Cokes - one for me and one for Dad. This modern day inflationary grift was an assault on my childhood.

I'm not gonna lie, I felt radicalized.

I contemplated leveling a tirade at the clerk, but my anger would have been misplaced. Since Hilton's CEO wasn't in close proximity, I let out a long cleansing breath and paid up. Running some quick calculations, I realized there was only a $0.02 difference between that Coke and some bottom shelf bourbons, so I tried my best to savor that pricey elixir. 

Most of the time we're at the whim of market forces. Getting less, paying more, or getting priced out of the market altogether (I'm looking at you, Ford, with your crazy $100,000 Raptor-badged pickup trucks). Once in a while, though, the fickle financial gods turn a kindly eye upon us mere mortals.

Some years back, I was posted to the headquarters of a company where we serviced a number of Federal contracts. This building had a break room with a standard vending machine. One day, after I fed it three quarters in exchange for a slug of caffeine laced carbonation, I took a look at the can. Something about it looked suspect. It may have been the slightly faded colors or its overall dingy appearance, but it prompted me to take a look at the expiration date. It turns out the can dated from the prior administration.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. Water cooler talk was rife with jokes about the need to decant vending machine wares and let them breathe like a long cellared port. This prompted me to send off an email to HR requesting a restocking of vendibles, and, surprisingly, a few days later I was given keys to the device along with a note basically telling me to, "Handle it as you see fit." 

*sigh

At that point I was not only the division's systems and network administrator and tier I - III desktop support, I was also able to add "Head Honcho of Corporate Vending" to my resume.

I proceeded to crack open the device, pulled the bills and coins, and ditched all expired product. With the proceeds in hand, I cruised to the nearest bulk buy store and loaded up on stock. Being the one in charge had its privileges, and I was able to ensure that Barqs root beer was a significant portion of the purchase.

As I was restocking the vending machine, I made sure the dispensing labels were correct. Another annoying shortcoming during the tenure of the previous "Boss of Fizz" was pressing "Coke" but getting dispensed some no name generic cola.

With my hands elbow deep in the innards of the machine, it dawned on me. My mandate from the penthouse was not to ensure its profitability; it was to make sure it was sufficiently stocked with product not old enough for back to school shopping.

Running the numbers on what it would cost to break even and maintain the current level of inventory, I found I could drop the purchase price down to a single quarter. I made a last check of the labels, set the new price, and closed her up.

Almost immediately there was a steady commotion around the machine as staffers discovered the fresh merchandise and rolled back pricing. For the rest of my tenure at that company, that device was fully stocked and reflected pricing likely not seen since the summer of '75. That's how, for the briefest of moments, I brought the slimmest sliver of light to my coworkers seeking a brief respite from coding and spreadsheets by making the supply chain work fully in their favor.

There's an admonishment in the Bible that basically says, "If you're able to do good, then do good." Mission accomplished.

Welcome to Rock-tober.

AC/DC - Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap