Rock-tober 14, 2024

Every college town has a favorite dive bar. The mission statement of these establishments was to provide a plethora of cheap beer and bottom shelf liquor to help you forget the results of your midterm exams and a revolving door of musical acts to drown out the squee of sorority chicks. In Auburn, this was the legendary War Eagle Supper Club.

Opening its doors a mere four years after the repeal of prohibition, it faithfully inebriated the Auburn student population for generations. A low slung, single-story, cinder block building, its core jankiness all but guaranteed patrons would spawn bad decisions like pop-up ads on your favorite Internet site.

The Club was a good corporate citizen, however. In the mid ‘80s, the owners wanted a way to get students home safely after last call other than an involuntary ride along with Auburn PD. This led to the pre-Uber purchase of a ‘70s vintage school bus that was immediately nicknamed the “slush bus” and, perhaps more aptly, the “vomit comet”.

Unfortunately, I never set foot in the establishment. I was initially underage, but even after crossing the threshold for being legally lit, any imbibing was done in smaller, private settings.

One of these was the Turner household. Chris Turner was a fellow Midshipman, and he, along with his wife, Trish, made sure my first exposure to alcohol was under their watchful eyes. But they weren’t above letting me learn some hard lessons on my own. Chris watched as I mixed my very first cocktail, a rum and Coke, and said absolutely nothing as I poured a 50/50 mix.

All my other “bad decisions” were under similarly controlled circumstances, so I completely bypassed the Club during my tenure at Auburn.

I’ve since unfortunately missed my chance to partake in this hallowed rite of passage. The last call at the Club was on New Year’s Eve on 2015.

Imagine my surprise when, on this current visit to Auburn, I’m seeing ads for a revived War Eagle Supper Club. However, this iteration of the establishment has been majorly gentrified. Rather than a ramshackle building, this one sits on the top floor of a brand new, upscale hotel. The sticky, stale-beer-stained floor was replaced with blue and orange tiles, and wall to wall picture windows overlook the main campus.

While this modern interpretation is the Club in name only, it hasn’t stopped me from telling Andrea it has to go on our “To Do” list if only for “research” purposes for a future post. One question to be answered on our pending probe is the entertainment they’ll be hosting. A core function of the original Club was the showcasing of regional musical groups. A regular was Drivin’ N Cryin’, one of my favorite college bands. They’re still touring, so there’s a chance I may yet check that box of catching a band while overly imbibing at the iconic War Eagle Supper Club.

 

Drivin' N' Cryin' - Honeysuckle Blue

Rock-tober 13, 2024

Spending time in Auburn these past few weeks, several old stories have resurfaced.

A few nights ago, Andrea and I were having dinner with her sisters. As we sat around the table, the conversation turned to a weekly dinner hosted by their church. We had the idea of incorporating the event into the house schedule as a regular social outing for the sisters. Andrea mentioned the weekly dinner had been a standard, recurring event at that church for decades. With a glint in her eye, she outed me. "You know, when Wayne was a student here, before he met me, he had a crush on the young lady who ran that program."

Demure chuckles were heard. "What?! He did!? Tell us more!"

"Yes, he was there every week." Andrea was enjoying this a little too much. "He’d go from table to table greeting people, lend a hand as a server, and wash dishes afterward hoping to spend time with her."

Andrea’s sisters were picking up on her vibe and piled on. In a Scarlett O’Hara accent, Marie asked, “Why, Wayne, did you ask her on a date?”

I shook my head. “It didn’t work out,” was my taciturn reply.

With the faintest hint of a smile, Andrea went for the kill shot, “Why didn’t it work out, Wayne?”

With a resigned sigh, I set both hands on the table, sat back in my seat, and waited for the inevitable. “She was already…attached.”

“Oh, she had a boyfriend?”

“Not quite,” I continued. The sisters looked at me expectantly while Andrea now sat back in her chair enjoying me squirming in the hotseat. “Somehow, unbeknownst to me, she was already engaged.”

This brought on a chorus of “Aww,” from the sisters and, “Wow, that must have been embarrassing,” from Andrea.

Andrea’s little sister attempted to ease my chagrin. Smiling adoringly at Andrea, she cajoled, “Well, that’s all right. Things turned out A.O.K. You’re with Andrea now.” The faintest glimmer of a plan to play an Uno reverse card came to mind.

“Yeah…I guess…. It’s just that…” hamming up the demoralized demeanor, I let my voice trail off.

Marie was now concerned. “Why? What’s wrong?” She was still looking at Andrea, but her eyes narrowed, and she was no longer smiling.

I leaned over and whispered like I was revealing a state secret. “It’s just that, well, you know, a wife,” nodding towards Andrea, “can be very expensive.” Shaking my head for dramatic effect, and with an Oscar worthy, pained look on my face, I added, “Very draining.”

Andrea’s mischievous smirk receded while mine began to show. She protested, “Hey, now, hold on!”

Marie’s arms were now crossed as she looked sternly at Andrea. “Andrea! What have you been doing? You better not have been mean to Wayne!”

While Andrea lodged her protestations, her other sister chimed in, “Yeah, Andi! What’d you do?!”

The sisterly squabble went on without me, and as the din over Andrea’s infractions faded into the background, I turned my attention back to my dinner.

 

Poison - Every Rose Has Its Thorn

Rock-tober 12, 2024

Years ago, I'd be hanging with a former coworker, Mike, after the pair of us dealt heavy damage to one of the local Indian lunch buffets. After each of these excursions, we'd always lethargically, but sincerely swear on a stack of tech manuals to be more judicious on the next buffet run, vowing to ensure the other practiced restraint. This pledge would be held sacrosanct until the next buffet run. 

Mike was prior military, having spent time in Germany with an artillery brigade. He and I recognized our conditioning was lacking and that we'd drifted from the nearly daily physical training in our 20s. In my 20s, I didn't mind running hills, in heat, or even in the rain. Somewhere along the way, I either got soft or extremely more judicious about running conditions. Too hot, too cold, or it's an odd numbered day? Pfft. I'm inclined to ignore the alarm and grab more time in the rack.

So, Mike and I, being avid gamers, let our imaginations run wild. We thought it would be brilliant and a great cardio workout if games could be more realistic in real life. Is your virtual avatar swinging a 12-pound war hammer on campaigns? In our immersive version, you weren't holding a dinky ten-ounce controller, you'd literally be swinging a 12-pound sledge. Did you underestimate that zombie horde and decide to beat feet? You better hope your speed on our hyper-realistic game's treadmill was faster than the hungry mob bearing down on you. We'd basically envisioned the Nintendo Wii and Oculus VR years before those devices came to market.

Fast forwarding nearly two decades, Andrea and I purchased a high-end treadmill. This behemoth was massive and required the vendor to deliver and haul the crates to an upstairs bedroom. Once assembled and online, this apparatus being a mere twelve vertical feet above where I slept, effectively negated any weather-related excuse I'd had to not clock some mileage.

Exploring the capabilities of this thing, I discovered an eye opening feature. There was an entertainment module that contained training regimens in various music genres. One of the workouts was tantalizingly labeled, "Mötley Crüe - 30 Minute Run".

"Awww yeeeaaahhh!"

Hitting the "Start" button launched a line contour landscape with hills and paths. When the soundtrack kicked in, you guided your avatar around the track by manipulating the speed and incline dials on the treadmill. The onscreen pacing guides, showing target speed and incline, varied based on the music, jumping during guitar riffs or a heavy chorus. You earned points by matching what was posted. Feeling particularly energetic? You could max out points by exceeding the guides. As the soundtrack unwound, the difficulty kept building. Soon, with Tommy Lee laying down a heavy beat and Vince screaming in your ear, you're running a 15-minute mile up a 5° incline. While child's play for some folks, to me it felt like a sadistic version of Guitar Hero.

In the end, I might not have been swinging a physical 12-pound mace or running at flank speed from a final boss, but Peloton came damn close to what Mike and I dreamed up. Now I just have to figure out how to do the "be judicious at the neighborhood Indian buffet" part.

Mötley Crüe - Wildside

Rock-tober 11 2024

When we first met, Andrea was a total noob with the classic rock scene. One of my favorite stories about our early relationship is us cruising around Auburn in the 'Stang when an Eagles song came on the classic rock channel out of Columbus, GA. "That's the Eagles, isn't it?" When I nodded, she was absolutely giddy with her achievement. "Hey! I recognized the Eagles!"

Looking back, I should have been more supportive, but instead I just laughed, "Andrea, everybody recognizes the Eagles."

Since those shaky early days, she's plunged wholeheartedly into the classic rock genre. Today, not only are the Eagles in permanent residence on her playlist, but you’ll also find a range of groups from Nickelback to Metallica.

When the two of us stepped into the world of ballroom dance, the best places to practice our footwork were the dance floors of country/western bars. This added country crooners such as Garth Brooks and George Strait to her music collection. 

While she followed me willingly into the hallowed halls of classic rock and has even completed side quests in the country genre, Outlaw Country was just a bridge too far. It's a shame because the likes of Waylon, Willie, and the Man in Black were a big part of my childhood soundtrack. The rasp and gravel in their voices from years of hard living could have paved the highways on the many road trips Mom and Dad and I took, crisscrossing the country with Dad's deployments.

Another member of the fringe country crew was Kris Kristofferson. Writing and performing hits like "Help Me Make It Through the Night" and "Me and Bobby McGee" gave him street cred as both a singer and composer. But he had yet another talent. There's a line in the Bocephus song, "All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down" that directly references Kristofferson, "And Kris, he is a movie star, and he's moved off to L.A." Kris Kristofferson had bona fide acting chops.

According to IMDB, Kristofferson had 118 acting credits. I am not aware of any other singer with more. The OG crooner, Bing Crosby, had 108, and even Elvis topped out at 31. The first movie of his I remember seeing was 1978's Convoy. I remember watching him in the main role of Rubber Duck with Dad and thinking, "Man, truckers are the coolest cats on the road."

Later, when I was in high school, he was in the miniseries, Amerika. The plot felt like Red Dawn, taking place in a dystopian scenario where the USSR managed to gain control over the US. The cold war was still raging in real life, and the series caused a lot of controversy with fears it would strain relations with Russia. I remember it made for some lively discussions with my classmates and me in Mrs. Ladner's senior  Government class.

Probably, his most iconic role was the crusty, old codger and tinkerer, Whistler, in the Blade movie franchise. I'd always hoped for a reboot casting Snipes and Kristofferson together. Currently, this may be the easiest to find for a rewatch on streaming services.

In 1985, the four great country outlaws, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, and Kris Kristofferson coalesced into the country supergroup, The Highwaymen. To me, this event was akin to the formation of the 1992 US Men's Basketball Olympic "Dream Team". The amount of soul and talent contained within the group was staggering.

With Kristofferson's passing, Willie Nelson is the last of the Highwaymen standing. In one of the group's titular songs, "Highwayman", in story form, each man in turn tells of how their character met their untimely demise. But each time, they say they're not really gone. As the years roll on, more of the artists I've known from my childhood are leaving this earthly stage, but their body of work remains. They're not really gone. With Kristofferson, we're fortunate that includes his contributions to film as well as music.

The Highwaymen - Highwayman

Rock-tober 10, 2024

On average, one could live up to two months without food (although some of us would last a tad bit longer), but only three days without water. A common perception is lack of safe potable water is only an overseas issue. I've witnessed this presumption played out first-hand. When Andrea and I were in Arusha, a large town in northern Tanzania, we were riding through one remote village. An unexpected summer squall had just passed through the area, creating a mini deluge. The roadway was shedding sheets of water which collected and flowed swiftly in an ad hoc stream by the roadside.

There was a school just off the road, and all the students, all looking to be elementary age kids, were swarming out of the classrooms. With old one gallon water or cooking oil jugs in hand, they lined the street, filling their containers with that roadside drainage.  I spun around in my seat as we passed them by, not sure I was seeing what I was seeing. "Surely that's not their drinking water," I hoped.

Even in areas with adequate rainfall, the water quality may still be suspect. I'd once attempted to join, unsuccessfully, a work crew going to the Philippines to build village water filters. The plan was to construct cinder block squares and fill them with successive layers of pebbles, sand, and charcoal. Water from the local source was then filtered as it percolated through the stratified layers.

The reality is, even stateside we're not immune to water insecurity. The entire southwestern region is at the mercy of a low snow fall season sending them into catastrophic drought conditions. Sometimes it's self-inflicted, like the Flint, MI, water authority failing in its primary purpose of properly treating the city's water supply.

It wasn't long after my arrival at Auburn that I discovered the city's own penchant for odiferous water and accompanying "tang". When running the tap in my efficiency caused me to wrinkle my nose, the first thing on my shopping list, even before my textbooks, was a water filtration system. A few years later, after Andrea and I started dating, one of the most intriguing tales of water woes came from my late father-in-law during one of our post-midnight, night owl conversations. 

As a professor of microbiology at Auburn University and a highly regarded expert in the field, he was contacted by Lee County authorities to track down an e-coli bloom in the local water supply in the mid-'70s.

An early suspect was a series of out houses overhanging Auburn's water supply, Chewacla Creek (yes, outhouses were still a thing in Alabama in the mid '70s). While a contributor, it wasn't root cause. He and his grad students spread out across the region taking samples from lakes and rivers trying to pinpoint the source. I've read the paper his team generated. It's an impressive example of the scientific method in action with multiple temperature plots across months of the year with correlating factors such as rainfall and O2 concentrations. 

The paper's conclusion of the multi-year study stated, "The presence of fecal coliforms and streptococci demonstrates the presence of animal wastes in Chewacla Creek." It turns out the activities of a local dairy farm were a primary cause of the bacterial bloom.

That early morning, in my future father-in-law's living room, the story wasn't over. As smoke swirled in the air from his multi-pack habit, he told me of an episode not in the official report. He had a team on one of the area waterways when one of his grad students called him over. "Hey, Professor, you need to see this." The student showed him the results of a water sample he'd just taken. The culture count of that specimen was off the charts. 

At that point, he looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "Wayne, readings that high don't happen naturally."

He had his team double, and triple check their samples, and the repetition bore out the same results. Puzzled, they walked the banks trying to discover the source. Suddenly, a pipe hidden by foliage discharged a slug of murky water, replete with what looked like toilet paper and a distinct fecal odor. On a hunch they sampled this water and realized they'd found a primary source.

Apparently, the local treatment plant would get overwhelmed during periods of heavy rain and either through willful negligence or incompetence, untreated effluence was discharged into the local water supply.

I'm writing this from the heart of Auburn, and my perception is it's gotten better in the intervening years. These days, I detect no odor, and I believe Auburn water tastes OK. Regardless, I've got a fridge stocked with hard cider, and bottles of bourbon just in case.

Willie Nelson - Whiskey River

Rock-tober 09, 2024

Readers of these missives already know I'm a big history buff. In college, I squeezed history classes in anywhere I could into my schedule, much to the chagrin of my academic advisors.

"So... Mr. Capuyan, your declared major is mechanical engineering?"

"Yes, sir."

"But you've signed up for "History of the Middle Ages?"

"And I'm really looking forward to it!"

"It's a 300-level class!"

"Oh, OK. Cool."

"But...you're a freshman!"

Fortunately, the department waived the underclassman restriction, because I found the class infinitely more interesting than "Differential Equations". It's not unusual for an engineering major to wind up with a minor in math. I bucked this trend and almost had enough for a minor in history. I could then be forgiven for being shocked and appalled when Andrea gleefully once exclaimed she never had to take a single history course for her degree.

I've wondered where this love for all things historical came from. It's not like we had the History Channel growing up. Apart from Mississippi or American history, I don't even remember any classes taught in elementary school.

The curriculum changed drastically when I arrived at Long Beach Junior High, landing in Mrs. Hood's 7th grade World History class. For a budding history geek, that classroom was mind blowing, and her class was responsible for a good portion of the frivolous (but interesting - at least to me) minutiae still rattling around my head.

• The discovery of the fossilized remains of Lucy, which occurred less than 10 years prior, proved the earliest hominids walked upright.
• The Code of Hammurabi is one of the earliest, most complete, and draconian (with literal eye for an eye penalties) law codes in existence.
• The Buddha's real name was Siddhartha Gautama.

Together, Mrs. Hood and our class stepped through all the major ancient civilizations surrounding the Nile, Mesopotamia, and the Indus Valley. And it wasn't all lectures. For one group assignment, Mike and I were teamed up and tasked with creating a clay sculpture of the Sphinx. Initially, we groaned at this project given neither of us had dorked around with clay since kindergarten. But we dove into the task - he worked on the body, and I had to craft the head.

I surprised myself, finding I'd produced a decent facsimile of the iconic sculpture (in my opinion), and I was very proud of my creation. However, our collaboration wasn't that great, and we failed to check in with each other on a regular basis. When Mike and I brought the two components together, laying them side by side, a glaring problem became evident.

"Wayne, man, you made that dumb head too small!" I'm, of course, thinking the opposite.

"What?! Pfft. No way, loser! That body is just waay too big." This back and forth went on like a vaudeville comedy skit as neither of us would relent. After a continued, escalating exchange, Mike summarily ended the argument.

"No! This dumb head of yours. IS. TOO. SMALL!" With that, he crushed my carefully and intricately crafted sculpture with his fist.

Fifty-year-old me would have strung together a string of ear-searing expletives, but eleven-year-old me was just shocked speechless and almost in tears. I was very proud of my Sphinx head.

It was the first time, and to my recollection, the last time Mike and I were at odds. We eventually patched things up and managed to turn in a successful joint project with properly proportioned body parts. Today, we'll occasionally ping each other with interesting historical factoids we come across. 

A life-long friendship and love for all things historical were forged in a classroom with a highly contested clay sculpture, along with Buddha, Hammurabi, and of course Lucy.

The Beatles - Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds

Rock-tober 08, 2024

In the mid-'70s, Mom and Dad were visiting with some friends they'd known for years. This couple and their two kids were also a Navy Seabee family and we'd followed each other around, going from one  base housing complex to another as our dads were posted around the country. I've actually known their son, Louie, longer than I've known Noel, my de facto big brother. These days, Louie and I are both well into our fifties and sporting just a touch of distinguished grey, but on this sunny summer afternoon in south Mississippi we were no more than six or seven.

Louie's parents had just helped another couple in the neighborhood pack for a move, and as a parting "thank you", the outbound couple bequeathed them the sizeable entirety of their home bar. The particular day Mom, Dad, and I were there, I walked into a mission given to Louie and me by his dad, "Hey, c'mere, you two. Go over to the Pike's old place and bring back the boxed bottles on their patio."

With the mission brief acknowledged, Louie and I trekked across the shallow drainage canal separating the back sides of properties. Half a dozen houses down, we arrived at the objective, the Pike's back porch stacked with at least half a dozen large boxes ready for transport.

We stooped down to pick up one of the containers and almost immediately set it down. Louie shook his head, "Man, this thing's heavy! What's in it?"

Due to operational compartmentalization, that bit of intel was not included in our briefing. We were not on the "need to know" list. Looking around to ascertain we weren't being surveilled, we opened the box to find it was filled with dark, fancy bottles with fancy labels full of frilly writing. I could read them, but they appeared to be in some nonsensical code. It was definitely a cool bottle - I understood why Louie's folks would want them. Not sure why they'd want so many, but I was just a grunt following orders. 

"What is this stuff?" Always the curious one, I opened a bottle and took a deep whiff. My head jerked back involuntarily, and I felt like I'd been punched in the nose. I shoved the bottle to Louie, who luckily grabbed it before I dropped it in the midst of my unexpected stupor. My eyes were watering, and I started an unrelenting cough. Seeing my reaction, Louie carefully placed the bottle some distance away, like an explosive ordinance tech handling live, touchy munitions.

I was still wiping away the tears induced by that close order chemical attack and shook my head gravely at Louie, "Whoa. I'm not sure what that stuff is, but I think it's spoiled!"

After I recovered, we sat down to consider our situation. At some point in their career, every field operative has questioned the wisdom of HQ, the value of an active mission, and how to circumvent unexpected roadblocks. It was going to take forever to transport these heavy boxes filled with noxious liquid back to base. Scanning our surroundings we saw a large garbage can in a corner left behind by the Pikes. 

"Yeah!!", we exclaimed in unison as the same idea hit us both.

Mission failure is not an option, and good operatives adapt and overcome. We dragged that can to the porch, opened those bottles, and dumped their foul slop into the can. Relieved of their noxious contents, those fancy bottles were much lighter. We reboxed them and rucked one box each back to Louie's.

We presented the packages to the adults and briefed them on our mission action, being sure to properly expound on the "adapting and overcoming" portion to engender if not a citation, at least tickets to the latest movie playing.

Louie and I were understandably confused by the looks on the faces of the parental units. The dads looked liked we'd sustained casualties, and both moms appeared to be stifling laughs. It was at this moment, Louie and I realized we may have misinterpreted certain mission parameters. All I know is we were sent on no further patrols that day.

Men At Work - It's a Mistake