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)