NAVY #10 Who's your Daddy?

Originally written in 1998

Not too long ago, my wife gave into my incessant demands for "quality time". For a woman, Quality Time means time spent in conversation. For men, "quality time" it means time spent naked. It's not like I get to spend a lot of real "quality time" with my wife, she usually screws it up by wanting to talk. I guess I caught her at a weak moment. Either she was asleep, or had just got done watching Highlander. She had this thing for Adrian Paul, we look a lot a lot. He is tall, dark, handsome, and has a sexy accent. I'm tall and it was dark.

My wife checked the calendar and decided that the timing was right and that it was unnecessary for us to use birth control. She even waved the normal 3 hours of begging and the customary shopping spree. I guess she wanted to get it over before the commercial was finished. Unbeknownst to her, My sperm cells are all Commando trained and excellent swimmers. One of those badass little swimmers waited until the time was right, no one was looking, and struck with malice and precision.

My wife was suddenly infected with child.

When she informed me of the blessed event (by throwing stuff at me and screaming at me,) I asked her if I was the father, after all I do spend a lot of time at sea. She looked at me and replied "I dunno." "What?" She then said, "I'm not even sure I'm the mother."

My wife is carrying an alien baby!

Now I might pick on my wife from time to time, but she deserves some credit. She's been putting up with my goofy ass for eight years. She's 34 and a redhead. And pregnant. Redheads are normally mean as hell, Living with a pregnant redhead (with the same birthday as my mama) made me consider joining the witless protection program.

It wasn't an easy pregnancy. The wife is getting a little long in the tooth to be spitting out kids. She was sore all the time, she couldn't get around very well. She ended up with gestational diabetes, which means she was on a very restrictive diet and had to check her blood sugar every five minutes. Checking your blood sugar involves stabbing yourself in the finger repeatedly so as to get a drop of blood to test. She's redheaded, pregnant, on a diet, and stabbing herself repeatedly. I took to sleepingin the yard. Due to the pregnancy complications, I was transferred from my Might Oiler to Temporary shore duty until after the baby was born.

Our baby was due Oct 16.

October 16 came and went.

The wife was pissed. She went digging in the cabinets for a corkscrew. She wanted this infestation out. The baby kept growing and rolling around kicking the crap out of her mama from the inside. Finally, on October 28th, they decided that the baby had cooked long enough and was probably done. I sent out the following announcement to all of our friends and family.....


"As you may know, or at least you should know, we are having a baby. Many of you have asked where is this baby? We have been asking the same question ourselves. Our baby, Rebecca Catherine Wall was supposed to be here on October 16, 1998. She wasn't. Just like her father, she shows signs of being perpetually late. She is currently barricaded in her mother's womb and refuses to surrender to authorities. All attempts at negotiation have failed. Tomorrow we are having the SWAT team remove her.

We have an appointment at the hospital at 7am tomorrow morning. The procedure as I understand it involves strapping my wife to a Sears paint mixer and turning it on until the baby is shaken out. As soon as she is forcibly expelled from her nice warm, safe, environment into the loving arms of her father, I will let you all know."

At the hospital the next morning they started the labor induction process. It started off easy enough. Contractions started at about 15-20 minutes apart. Once every 2 hours, we were allowed to go for a walk. This time was usually spent with me being pelted by berries and pinecones. "This is all your fault, You did this to me!" she yelled. When I replied, "No it ain't my fault, you could of swallowed", she then started throwing rocks. But it was okay. I could run faster than she could waddle.

At about 3am, they decided that she was dilated enough for the baby to come out and she could start pushing. She was dilated enough for a normal baby to come out, but not that big fat headed baby of mine. I felt like crap. I hadn't slept for more than 24 hours, and my wife is in more pain than I'd ever seen any one human being endure. When the Doc came in and offered her drugs, I tried to order a round for the house. I figured we all needed some relief. About 5 am, they discovered that the baby had taken a dump inside the womb. I'm not cleaning THAT up. They quickly wheeled us all into the Operating Room just in case an emergency C-Section was necessary.

At 5:30am, my daughter was born. Her head was too big to come out so they had to cut my wife in half with a chainsaw to make room. Now every picture of newborns I had ever seen, I thought the damn babies looked like little lizards. Ugly little alien bastards. All except my baby. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. When I held her in my arms, I cried like a little girl.

Well, were all home now. I never knew anything so little and cute could shit so much. That's all she does. Lay there looking cute and constantly shit. When she gets cranky, her mom sticks a breast in her mouth. When I get cranky, I'm told to shut up and go away. Where's my breast? Babies got it easy.

I e-mailed out the birth announcements.....


"Thursday Morning at approximately 7:30 officials began negotiations with a young female terrorist who had barricaded herself in her bedroom and refused to come out. After repeated pleas from the young girls mother to give herself up were ignored, Officials were forced to use chemical irritants. The young terrorist continued to struggle and resist efforts to remove her from the premises. At 5:30 am this morning Specialists were able to coax her into surrendering after a grueling 22 hour standoff. The young terrorist and her mother are in the hospital undergoing observation. Both are well, although the terrorist will break out in tears from time to time at the thought of having been cruelly ejected from the only home she has ever known.

Our daughter, Rebecca Catherine Wall was born at 5:30 am. 9lbs, 8oz - 21.5 inches - 10 fingers, 10 toes. All parts seem to be working well. Especially her ass."



I never thought I would feel this way, but a newborn daughter is a lot more fun to hold than a guitar. Hell, it's a lot more fun than just about anything I can think of.

NAVY #09 Equal but Special or What's My Navy Coming To?

originally posted in 1998

Here's how it all began. We received six people TAD from Great Lakes Naval Training Center. TAD stands for Temporary Attached Duty; aka (Traveling Around Drunk) that means they're on loan and we gotta send them back without breaking them. It's kind of like renting a car. These kids were straight out of Boot Camp waiting to go to their first Technical School. The reason they got sent to our mighty warship was twofold. The first was to let them experience the Fleet Navy and learn a little about the jobs they were being trained for. The second reason was that we were desperate for warm bodies. If it can hold a paint brush we need it.

These kids --- three males, three females --- were all 18 or 19 years old. Remember that age? When I was 18, I had a terminal hard-on and I knew everything. I was a walking, talking hormone. These kids weren't much different.

When they got to our Mighty Warship, they were treated to a warm reception: "Welcome aboard! Here is your chipping hammer. Here is your paint brush. Have fun!" And they went straight to work for Deck Department. After about two weeks of being yelled at, smashing their fingers with chipping hammers and generally getting more paint on themselves than on what they were supposed to be painting, the kids were sent to work for me. That's because Mr. Jesus hates me.

Okay, so they weren't all that bad. They got here eager to learn. Bright-eyed, chipper, young, cheerful, energetic, smiling. . . all the things I hate in a person. I was told that they were here to learn, not just to do the crappy work. "What the hell?" I thought. I am The FC1. That means I am a Firecontrolman First Class. That means I am also the Leading Petty Officer or LPO of two severely undermanned divisions. I have 17 years active duty under my belt. That means that all these kiddies work for me, along with the other five technicians I own. And as The FC1, I chip paint, I take out trash, I do all the crappy jobs just like my people do. If I can do it, they can do it, too.

When the kids reported into work for me, I laid out my Three Rules of High Quality Leadership.

* 1. Do your job.
* 2. Don't whine.
* 3. Don't cause me extra paperwork.

Pretty simple, right? Not a very difficult code of conduct. As it turned out, the kids did okay. Every once in a while one of them would do something stupid and I would get my butt chewed, but that is to be expected from young, new people, and that's what I get paid for. To take butt-chewings for my people. Me and my butt are pretty much immune to that sort of treatment. Hell, it's not like they're getting virgin butt meat.

At first I had them doing simple stuff, like driving a broom and a swab. (fancy Navy talk for mop.) Once they mastered the swab, I taught them how to use a chipping hammer and a paint brush. Most of them did okay, except one of them kept trying to suck the paint out of the bristles. But he just got married and he still ain't right because of it.

Once they proved they could follow directions and complete a task, I let them start helping us work on the Weapons Systems. They turned out to be a pretty good bunch of kids. Awfully damned young, but decent nonetheless.

All except for one.

SA (Seaman Apprentice) Pinhead (her name has been changed to protect me from her damned attorney) seemed to be having a great deal of trouble adapting to the massive chaos that makes up day-to-day life in the World's Greatest Navy. I knew she was going to be a pain in my butt from the first day.

For example, once, during a Department Personnel Inspection, the Department Head noticed that she was chewing gum while she was standing inspection.

* "What's that you are chewing on?"
* "Gum."
* "Why are you chewing gum during a personnel inspection?"
* "For relaxation, exercise, and enjoyment,"

I should have smacked her in the forehead with a hammer right there on the spot. That's what we used to do with troublesome livestock on the farm. Pop 'em right between the eyes and call the mobile butcher to wrap 'em up and stick 'em in the freezer. If I would have done that iIt would have saved me a lot of grief and paperwork. I hate paperwork.

Another day I and my new children were swabbing water up off the deck from the rains the night before. Ladybugs were everywhere. I guess it was ladybug mating season because there were easily 100,000 of them all over our ship. We must have looked like a cheap motel to them, one of those that rent rooms by the hour. (Don't act like you don't know what it is I'm talking about.) You couldn't take a step without stepping on copulating ladybugs. They would screw their little bug brains out, lay a bunch of tiny bug eggs and then die happy with smiles on their little bug faces.

While we were getting the water up off the deck, the horny little ladybugs were oblivious to us, and oblivious to the water. They just kept getting their ladybug freak on, listening to the ladybug equivalent of Barry White, little ecstatic bug smiles plastered across their little bug faces. Certainly I could understand how they felt. Neither rain, sleet, snow, ringing telephones, or dogs staring at my naked butt can make me stop once the wife has succumbed to my virile manly charms (and about two hours of begging).

So in the middle of this delicate procedure, SA Pinhead, who has driven her swab for perhaps a full second, maybe a second and a half, suddenly stops. As I watch dumbfounded, she begins to rescue the ladybugs as they backstroke through the puddles in the afterglow of their little blissful insect orgy.

* "Whatcha doing?" (I was trying sooo hard.)
* "I'm saving these ladybugs."
* "You are supposed to be helping us get this water up off the deck. Everyone else is busy working, and here you are playing with bugs. Leave the bugs alone and help us get this water up off the deck."
* "Well, excuse me for caring," she cried.
* "Well, excuse me for putting my boot up your ass." (I should of tied a rock to her ass and pushed her over the side.)

Later that day we were all sitting around the shop talking. The subject of loved ones came up. Ms. Pinhead tells me that she is engaged to a young man from Nashville, Tennessee (my hometown). It turns out that she is from New York City.

* "Have you ever been to Nashville? Have you had a chance to meet your fiancé's people yet?" I asked politely. (I was still trying.)
* "No. But I have talked to them on the phone."
* "Wow, Ms. Pinhead, are you ever going to be in for a culture shock."
* With contempt she said. "No, I already know what to expect. All of those Country People are the same."
* "All those Country People are the same? When have you ever been around Country Folks?"
* "My boyfriend took me line dancing, and all those people were two-faced. They would be nice to you to your face, but then they would talk nasty about you behind your back."
* "But what does that have to do with Nashville or Country People?"
* "Country People, Line Dancers, People from Nashville, they are all the same," she replied.
* "Ms. Pinhead," I said, shaking my head, "you are a wacko."

About a week later, she asked me what we had on the work schedule for the day. I told her that we had to finish putting the forward gun mount back together, and lubricate it after tearing it down for maintenance.

"You are going to have to find someone else to do that. I'm not going to do that," she announced. "Oh, you're not, are you?" I was about ready to do a Dr. Kevorkian on her ass. Instead, I had an inspiration, "Okay, then. I have to lag out (insulate) this space. And you can help me while everyone else is working on the gun mount."

Lagging. That's how you insulate a steel bulkhead. Another fancy Navy term. This task entailed pulling all the old waterlogged fiberglass panels off of the bulkheads of the main engine air intake, and putting up new fiberglass panels in their place. That morning I had been told that the engines would be shut down for maintenance so the job HAD to be done that day. All my other people were busy on the gun or standing watch or doing something else that also absolutely had to be done that day. When I looked around for a warm body to give the lagging job to, I discovered that mine was the only warm body left. It was the nastiest job on the work schedule. I was also the only person who had any experience doing it and could do it in about half the time as any of my people could.

So I figured that SA Pinhead could give me a hand. I figured that even she could step and fetch without screwing it up. I could also keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't do something stupid like sink the ship.

I was ripping down the old insulation and gluing up mounting studs for the new insulation. I had already chipped off all the rust and painted out the space. Every time I turned around, Ms. Pinhead was either messing with the damn ladybugs or had disappeared entirely. I was sweating like a pig. I had fiberglass all over me. I had worked through lunch, and I wasn't a happy camper. But the job had to be done that day. So I did it. I didn't like it, but I didn't have to like it, I just had to do it. The joys of responsibility.

After I got all the old insulation off, I had a mess around my feet. I found SA Pinhead sitting on her butt, smoking a cigarette and performing coitus interruptus with a lot of desperate ladybugs. I told her I needed her to bag up the trash and take it down to the dumpster at the head of the pier while I finished up the lagging.

* "I can't do it, it's too heavy," she whined. "I have a bad back."
* "It's not that heavy," I said encouragingly. (It weighed about 35 pounds.) "You can carry it down."
* "I can't doooo it," she insisted. "I'll go find someone to carry it down for me."

Before I could say anything else, she disappeared. About 20 minutes later she came back up and reported, "I couldn't find anyone else to take it out, so you are going to have to do it."

Oh, I am, am I?

Right about now, one of the ship's Bosun, a Warrant Officer, comes up to see how the job was going and offer some helpful advice. Actually he just wanted to stand around and make fun of me. That's what Bosun's do. (A Warrant Officer is an ex-enlisted who has made Chief Petty Officer and then been converted to Commissioned Officer. They are usually all old crusty bastards who first served on the Ark with Noah. A Bosun is the senior Bosun's Mate on board. Contrary to what Admirals think, Warrant Officers run the Navy,) Instead of telling the Bosun that if he really wanted to help, he could crawl his big ass in here and get dirty with me, I just said hello and kept doing what I was doing. (I figured it would take longer for me to finish teh job with his foot stuck up in my ass) While he was giving my work the critical once-over, I told SA Pinhead that if the bag was too heavy she could separate it into two bags and make two trips, but that she WAS going to take out the trash, and she was NOT going to get someone else to do it for her.

Her response was, "No."

You should have seen the Warrant Officer's face. He turned purple! I thought he was going to have a heart attack right there on the spot. He turned around, looked at her, and walked off muttering and shaking his head.

* "No? What do you mean, no?"

* "I'm not reaching into that bag of trash to pull it out and separate it. I joined the Navy to work with my brain, not to be a trash man."

* "Ms. Pinhead, I've been in the Navy 17 years and I still take out trash. My Chief takes out trash. The Executive Officer, the second-in-command, even he takes out trash on occasion. So you can take out trash, too. Put on a pair of gloves if you need to, and split that pile into two bags and take out that trash."

* "No."

* "Are you telling me that you are refusing an order to take out the trash?"

* "I think that you should respect the fact that I am a female and take out the trash yourself."

* "Seaman Apprentice Pinhead, I am ordering you to take out that trash. I don't care if you take it out in one trip or several, but you will take out this trash. You will take it out today. Or you will suffer the consequences."

* "Okay, I'll take out the trash, just so you can feel more like a man."

This time it was my face that turned purple. When I first joined that navy and I was a young Seaman, I once told my Leading Petty Officer that he was an idiot and that I wasn't going to do a damn thing he told me to do. He gently reminded me that he was senior to me, had more experience than me, and had much more responsibility than me. Then he gently suggested that I do as he asked. It took about two weeks for the swelling from that suggestion to go down enough so that my hat fit right again.

But this being the politically correct, kinder, gentler, respect your feelings, respect your individuality, respect your humanity Navy, I was powerless to offer her a similar suggestion.

I told her to put the bag down and come with me. We went to go see the Chief. Now, I had been complaining about SA Pinhead ever since she had reported aboard. It was a struggle to get her to do anything, nobody wanted to work with her, and she demanded special treatment. The other two females that were TAD with her were worth their weight in Gold. They were getting qualified in everything that they possibly could, they were volunteering for stuff just so that they could learn more, but not this one.

I had bent over backward to try and accommodate her. When what I really wanted to do was to kick her butt up between her shoulder blades. But in the New Navy I was required to respect her humanity.

The Chief asked what was going on. I told him. Then he asked Ms. Pinhead to give her side of the story. She told him the same thing I did, but she said that there were extenuating circumstances. She said that since I didn't respect her, she didn't have to respect me. That I should respect the fact that she is a female and not make her do stuff that gets her dirty, or make her lift heavy stuff. That I should respect the fact that she joined the Navy to use her brain and not her hands. And then she told him that I wasn't a nice person.

Oh my God! That hurt! My guys have, on occasion, referred to me as Mr. Warmth, due to my tact and diplomacy (I have none). And now she thinks I am not a nice person? How am I going to live with myself? How am I going to be able to sleep? Oh the pain. Oh the heartache.

I thought I had been a pretty nice guy. I hadn't hit her in the head with a wrench or anything.

So finally Chief told her she was going to take the trash out and she did it. I sat there and managed not to vocalize my disappointment that keelhauling had been outlawed in the Navy years ago.

Chief looked at me and laughed. "How in the hell did you keep from popping her between the running lights?" I just shrugged my shoulders. Chief said, "She's a wacko. She's outta here."

When a person violates an article of the Uniformed Code of Military Justice, there are several options, depending upon the seriousness of the offense. You can counsel them. You can assign them Extra Military Instruction after normal working hours to correct the deficiency. You can send them to Captain's Mast for non-judicial punishment. Or you can court-martial them, which is a judicial process, with lawyers, a jury and the whole works.

The decision was made to send her up to see the Captain. Now, the Commanding Officer of a ship has powers that that are unique in America. If a member of the Navy should elect to accept NJP (Non-Judicial Punishment), the Commanding Officer can deliver the following punishments:

* Reduction in Rate (loss of a pay grade),
* Forfeiture of 1/2 a month's pay for two months,
* 45 days restriction to the ship, or
* 45 days extra duty (two hours a day, six days a week, after normal working hours).

Over my career, I had become somewhat of an expert of NJP, usually being on the receiving end.

In certain circumstances the Commanding Officer can also award Brig Time, Three Days Bread and Water (no peanut butter, no kool-aid, no tootsie pops, just bread and water) or even Separation from the Naval Service.

What is so unique about this process is the Rules of Evidence. There are none. If the Commanding Officer feels you are guilty, then you are guilty. And you can appeal the punishment, but you cannot appeal the conviction. Once found guilty, you are always guilty. A Commanding Officers power at sea is absolute.

I was nervous about SA Pinhead going to Captain's Mast. I had to go, too, as a witness. Now, I have been to Captain's Mast five other times, but never as a witness. I was always the Guest of Honor. I was nervous because every other time I had been before the Captain, I had been awarded something myself. And it wasn't an Ed McMahon-type award either. It usually involved a stripe, the forfeiture of some money, and a short restriction of my mobility.

SA Pinhead went to Mast and emerged grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary. She got off rather light in her punishment. I was shocked. She was reduced in rate from E-2 to E-1 and sent back to Great Lakes. I had recommended that we hang her from the yardarm. Promotion from E-1 to E-2 is pretty much automatic if you can use a fork without accidentally stabbing a shipmate in the eye. By sending her back to Great Lakes, she would be sitting in an air-conditioned office somewhere, kicked back, doing nothing. We had just thrown Brer Rabbit right into the Briar Patch.

When It was all over, I felt like I had been screwed. There had been no justice. She hadn;t learned any lessons. She hadn't learned anything about teamwork or self-sacrifice, or the importance of doing whatever was necessary in order to complete the mission.

I felt as if I had failed. I was depressed for two days. All I had done was to pawn my problem child off on to someone else. I felt that as a leader and a supervisor, I should have either been able to get her straightened out, or kicked out of the Navy. Now she would probably go on to have a long career filled with a sense of entitlement.

She was a pinhead and a pain in the ass. I am glad to be rid of her. But I feel sorry for her, too. It must be sad to go through life without a clue. The way the Navy works these days, they will probably offer her a commission, and I will be working for her in a year's time.

Never forget the two rules of government service:

* Competency never goes unpunished.
* Stupidity never goes unrewarded.

NAVY #08 Doom Despair, and Agony on me

Originally written in 1997


I've been home for almost three straight weeks. I don't know what to do with myself! It feels almost like I'm on vacation although I do still have to go in to work everyday. But just when me and Mama are gettin' close, POOF!, I'll be gone again. Unless I do something stupid like die.

About a month ago we were uploading our aft (the one in the back) CIWS mount. CIWS stands for Close-In-Weapons-System. Some people say that it also stands for Captain, It Won't Shoot. We keep the rounds, or bullets in a magazine one deck down, Each box of bullets weighs about 100 pounds. And it takes 10 boxes to fill it up. Now, I'm 6'7" and weigh a little better than 250 pounds. Okay, a lot better. I'm also a lazy bastard and didn't feel like making a bunch of trips. so I grab a box in each hand and start up the stairs with them. That way I can make 5 trips up the ladder (stairs) instead of 10. No Problem.

Then comes the problem. While I am is directing the loading of this CIWS mount, I felt a MAJOR chest pain. It was so bad that it doubled me over it did. The guys asked me if I was dead yet. I told them "NO, GET YOUR ASSES BACK TO WORK!!!." "Good" they said, "Can you put off dying until after we have loaded the forward mount?" It is so nice to have the love and respect of the people who work for you.

I figured that since it was a one time pain, I was good to go. We all go up forward and start loading the other mount. While I'm tossing these 100 pound ammo boxes around and playing with bullets, I get another big pain, then a couple of more. "You fellers can finish this up. I'm going to see Doc."

With my family history, I can't afford to ignore chest pains, My grandpa and grandma died of throat cancer. My uncle Slick died of a brain tumor. Aunt Della Mae died of Lung Cancer, Aunt Mary Evelyn died of a massive heart attack. My father has already had three heart attacks and a couple of bypasses. One more heart attack and he wins a free vacation and some dinner ware. My Mama's Daddy, had him a stroke as well. Sixty is ancient in my family. Folks usually start kicking off around 50 or 55. Those of us that don't get shot all die of cancer or heart attacks.

So I go and see the Doc. "Whatcha want?" he asks. "Ready for that Lobotomy?"

" Nope Doc, I got some chest pains."

You'd have thought I said they were giving away free beer the way people started moving. Next thing I knew they had my shirt off, I was lying down, and had a machine hooked up to my chest . They were also making me suck down pure oxygen. The first thing that happens was Doc come in with a glass of water and an aspirin. Damn sure glad I didn't get myself cut in half. I might of gotten 2 aspirins and a band-aid for that! Doc told me to shut up and eat the damn aspirin. He said that Aspirin is a miracle drug for Heart Problems.

So they laid me out and poked and prodded and thumped and listened for most of three hours. They tried to give me an IV but after sticking me twice with the biggest damn needle I have ever seen in my life, I told em "If I wasn't dying when I came in here, I will be if you try to stick me with that fucking needle again" they decided that maybe I didn't need an IV.

Doc told me, "Your heart ain't blowed up on you yet. But you are going to bed, and as soon as we pull in tomorrow your ass is going to see the heart doctor." (And I thought that your ass went to the proctologist or the lawyer if you wanted to lose it!) and he also told me to quit carrying ammo boxes one handed, and two definately not be carrying them two at a time. They are marked two-man carry for a reason

The next day I went over to Portsmouth Naval Hospital (the oldest Naval Hospital in the World) and saw the Heart Doctor. He thumped and poked and listened and told me that Yes, I did have a heart. (Now if he could just write me a note for my wife testifying that I had a brain!) He had me wear a heart monitor for twenty four hours and he wanted me to come back and take a Stress Test.

If you've never had a Stress tests, you're missing out. I was led to this room full of equipment left over from the Spanish Inquisition. The Doctor takes me to this treadmill and hooks me up to another heart machine. He starts off the treadmill and I'm walking real slow. While I am walking, I am looking out the 3rd story window into the parking lot down below. Hell, the only stress here is if this treadmill stops and I walk out the window. Then he decides to put the thing into road gear. The damn treadmill starts moving at 70 miles an hour and I've got to keep up or I'm going to look like George Jetson in the Saturday Morning Cartoons. I'm running my ass off and then this sadistic bastard decides to elevate one end to about 60 degrees. And NOOOOO he didn't elevate it so I was running downhill. I've now got to climb a fucking mountain at 70 miles an hour. I started praying for a heart attack just so I could get some damn relief.

Finally, I beg him to turn the sumbitch off. He stops it and tells me I got the heart of a Moose. (yep, and the brain of a pissant) He tells me that I also have High Blood Pressure. And tells me to keep taking my medicine. When I get home, I find out that that my father has had him another heart attack.

The doctor calls me back later and tells me that they detected several events on the monitor. I ask him what an event is and he tells me that I have been having PVCs. Premature Ventricle Contractions. Just to be safe, he schedules me for a Cardiac Catheter. He explains that a Cardiac Cath is where a probe is inserted into my femoral artery and run all the way up into my heart. Then dye is injected and they can look at the inside of my heard on an x-ray machine.

I come in for the cardiac cath and am told to get naked and lie on the table. I am then wheeled into a freezer. An incision is made into my leg, uncomfortably close to my "bidness," and the Doc starts feeding the catheter in. Once he gets up to my heart, he starts wiggling the damned thing around like it's a coat hanger and he's trying to break into a car with the keys locked inside. Once he injects the dye into my heart, my heart stops beating. I, of course, am awake for all of this. "Uh, doc, isn't having a heartbeat considered kind of necessary?"

"Just Cough" he says.

I do, and my heart starts back up. This goes on for about an hour. I'm frozen to the table and he keeps fishing around inside my chest. Finally he quits and tells me that although I don't have any major rust clogging my veins, I am still a prime candidate for a heart attack. No shit. Especially if I keep hanging out anywhere near doctors.

Back to the Navy. It was now time to run our semi-annual Physical Readiness Test. An old fart like me has to be 22% or less body fat, do 23 pushups in two minutes, 32 sit-ups, sit down and touch my toes, and then run 1.5 miles in 15 minutes and 30 seconds. If you fail to do any of this, you fail the PRT. If you fail it 3 times in 4 years they kick your butt out of the Navy.

I have been in the Navy for 17 years now. I've only passed 3 PRT's in that time. My motto always was, If you ain't cheating, you ain't really trying". I got a kid that works for me who always scores outstanding on the PRT. He can run like a deer, but if you ask him to lift anything heavier than a Coke can, he can't do it. If I lay my hands on it, I can pick up or move it, I just can't run. Never have been able to run. That's why I joined the Navy. Why would I ever need to run for a mile and a half? The side of the ship is never more than a 100 feet or so away.

Well I passed the Body Fat portion. 22% right on the money. Same as it has been for the last ten years. Thankfully they didn't measure around my head. Then came the hard part. Touching my toes. Hell, I haven't even seen my toes in over four years! I'm not really sure they are still down there. Thankfully one of my guys spotted for me. Left......Left.......Right......down.......just another eight inches........ And I touched them!! Next then it was time for sit-ups. 32 is the minimum for my age group. 75 was the max. I did 32. I was saving myself for the run. They did get a little angry that I did them with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.. Next was the push-ups. 265 pounds is a lot of weight to lift off the ground. I did 23 of these so as not to embarrass the kiddies with my manliness. Once again, I had a lit cigarette in my mouth. The observer wanted me to do more. I asked him why? It didn't matter if I did 500 situps and 500 pushups, If I didn't pass the run, then I failed.

Next came the part I had been dreading. The run.

We had to run around a 3/4 mile track twice. Now that's not so bad. But the wind was blowing at 30 mph. I don't think it's fair that these little skinny, short anorexic people get as much time to run it as I do. I got more weight to carry than them. I also have a lot more sail area. (sail area in all that area that gets hit by the wind) To make it more fair I proposed that the 130 pound Olympic sprinter carry a 130 pound feed sack over his shoulder and THEN we could race!

Fifteen and a half minutes to run a mile and a half. Why in the hell would a person ever need to run a mile and a half anyway? If I have to go that far, I'll call a cab. One with air-conditioning. If I can't get a cab, I will walk. People are always rushing everywhere.

The run starts. I'm doing alright the first quarter mile. I need to go to the bathroom and I want another cigarette. I look up and I am all alone. Damn smartass kids, running off and leaving an old man like me all alone like that. I huff and puff my way around the track and cross at 7 minutes and 15 seconds. Right on my pace. I get halfway around the track the second time and my lungs are trying to reject my body. My legs are also wanting to detach themselves and find a skinnier torso. And I really need to use the bathroom bad. I contemplate stopping for a quick smoke. I come around the corner and I start running into the wind. I swear to God that I saw Dorothy and that little bastard dog ToTo come whizzing past. And some asshole has added another half mile to this track while I wasn't looking.

I cross the finish line at 18 minutes. SHIT. I took so long to run that everyone else had already gone back to the ship. The Chief Petty Officer who was timing it told me he was about ready to send out the Shore Patrol for me because he thought I had gone AWOL. If I hadn't of been dying I would of whipped his ass.

So this means I get to join the Chubb Club. I get to run a mile and a half 3 times a week with the rest of the fat boys. I'll run, but I'll be damned if I'm going to wear the Spandex tights and start eating them damned Granola Bars, at least not until they start making them in bacon flavor.

NAVY #07 Your Tax Dollars at Work

Originally written in 1997

I got home from the big waters on Friday. We headed down to Florida to play war games. I am riding around on a US Navy Oiler. The only lethal weapons we have are served up for lunch and dinner. What in the hell are we doing playing war games? If you want me to fight, you should have let me bring the wife along.

We were told that we didn't get to fight. Our job was to give both sides gas. That means fuel, not food. While we were out there, we were playing around Cape Hatteras and a storm came up. Let me tell you something my brothers and sisters, won't nothing get you close to Mr. Jesus like a storm off of Cape Hatteras. It wasn't that bad a storm, just 70 mph winds and 18 foot seas. However, it was bad enough to toss us around like a cork.

While we were out there playing, we came across this 40 foot sailboat. My ship is 777 feet long. We were getting tossed all over the damned place. This sailboat was really taking a beating. The poor fellow had already lost 3 sails. His diesel engine wouldn't diesel anymore, and he had no lights. It was starting to getting dark and this bonehead is stuck out in the shipping lanes where a boatload of Toyota's was going to end up running over his ass.

We called him up on the radio. (NAVY stands for NAVY WARSHIP)

* NAVY "This is Navy warship getting ready to run over your ass" (I'm paraphrasing) You appear to be in trouble. Do you have one of them there lifeboat thingees on board? "
* SAILBOAT "No, we came out here 50 miles from nearest land during a storm, in a tiny ass sailboat with a busted motor without a lifeboat"
* NAVY "Would ya'll like for us to rescue y'all or something?"
* SAILBOAT "No sir, Us being complete morons and all, we think we should try to ride this storm out"
* NAVY "Do y'all realize that this storm is supposed to get worse?"
* SAILBOAT "We still do not wish to abandon our vessel"
* NAVY "Have you considered the fact that your vessel might be getting ready to abandon you?"
* SAILBOAT "Thank you Navy, but we are going to stay out here in this crap as long as possible"
* NAVY "Where are you headed"
* SAILBOAT "Nearest Possible land"
* NAVY "Do you realize that with the way you are headed, the nearest possible land is South Africa all the way on the other side of the lake?"
* SAILBOAT "Really? Our navigation stuff kind of got wet and doesn't seem to work any more"
* NAVY "Lets see if I understand, you are 50 miles off shore, your sails are getting ripped to pieces, your motor doesn't want to run, you have no lights, no lifeboat and no clue. Is that correct?"
* SAILBOAT "That's about correct"
* NAVY "Are you sure we can't rescue you?"
* SAILBOAT "No Sir, we do not wish to abandon our vessel"
* NAVY "Is this a Congressional Junket? Are you people Senators?"

We had to follow this guy for 2 days until he got close enough to land for the Coast Guard to come pick him up. We couldn't just leave him. If we did, CNN would of been all over us, and it would have made all the papers. I recommended that we run over the guy. Just to improve the gene puddle somewhat.

While we were out we stopped in Mayport, Florida, just outside of Jacksonville. They finally agreed to let us off the ship. OH BOY, OH BOY, OH BOY! Then they told us that we all had to be back on board by Midnight, and we had to take a buddy with us. I'm 35 years old. And I have to be home by Midnight? And I have to have a buddy escort me? What are they afraid of? I might have a good time? I been cooped up on this ship with these people for 2 weeks. I don't really care to spend anymore time with them than I absolutely have to. I am a highly trained Electronics Technician, A skilled leader with 17 years of active service. I let my 12 year old son go outside without a babysitter, but I have to have one! Captain? Can I go pee by myself at least? Or do I need an escort for that too?

Unfortunately, I wasn't going to be going out on the beach. I had a down system to deal with.

While we were out there in the storm. my gun mount broke. Me and my compadre went and looked at it really good, studied over the manuals, put our heads together and collaboratively concluded, "Yep, it's broke." He looked me and said "Yep, we broke it good this time." It was fairly evident that it was broke. A gun that shoots 6000 rounds a minute, when it breaks, it usually breaks all the way. It's pretty easy to tell because it usually spits large chunks of itself all around the deck. We gathered up all of these mangled parts and went off to tell somebody important what had happened. I did the research, looked up the applicable part numbers, located the parts in the supply system, and figured out how much all of this was going to cost me. It was going to cost a lot, a whole lot. More than I had in my tiny budget. That meant somebody needed to make an Executive Decision, preferably somebody who was an Executive. Our Division officer was on the beach doing whatever it is that Division Officers do (playing hopscotch most likely) so Danny and I went up to his boss, our Department Head, and explained the situation and how much it was going to cost us.

His head almost exploded. (It was a lot of money) It was cool.

We showed him all of these mangled parts and told him that we needed to spend his Operating Budget for the next three years in order to fix it. He didn't seem to care for that information.

* BOSS: "How did this happen?"
* ME: "It broke"
* BOSS: "How?"
* ME: "This little screw sheared off inside of the gun"
* BOSS: "Isn't there some way to test these screws to make sure they are good?"
* ME: "sure, we could put them in a vise and smack 'em real good with a hammer seven or eight times. If the screw breaks, it was a bad one. if it only bends, it was a good screw"
* BOSS: "Did you break it on purpose?"
* ME: "Damn, I guess you caught us. We sure did. While it was spinning really fast and spitting out bullets, I made Danny here go up and stick a screwdriver through the top of the gun. It killed him, but the corpsman gave him a Motrin and he is felling better today"
* BOSS: "Well I want a Civilian Tech Rep to look at it"
* ME: "Really? What do you want him to tell you? That it's broke?"
* BOSS: "I want a Civilian Tech Rep to look at it"
* ME: "Ok, You're the Boss. That's why you make the big bucks."

The Tech Rep came out and I showed him the bucket full of mangled parts. He says, "DAMN! You broke it good didn't you? Go order the parts." We didn't tell the Boss that the Tech Rep was a a former student of mine from when I was an Instructor on that very Weapon System. The Navy is actually a pretty small organization. We go tell the Department Head what the Tech Rep says, and the Boss calls for another Tech Rep, a civilian this time. He comes onboard and I know him too. He looks at our bucket of parts and starts laughing. "DAMN, You broke it good this time, didn't you?" While the Tech Rep was looking at my bucket of mangled parts, our Boss left to go play golf. He's not going to like what the Tech rep has to say. Maybe he'll get someone else to come look at it. If this keeps up, I'll get to see every CIWS Technician on the East Coast. Danny and I are thinking that maybe we should about selling tickets so that random people can come by look at it and give their opinion as well.

Nothing more to see here people. I'm headed for the Beach.

NAVY #06 Wash the windows, check the oil, Dollar's worth of gas

Originally written in 1997


Being on an Oiler I discovered something. Oilers are never in port. They leave Monday morning and come back on Friday. They will be in for the weekend and then leave again Monday morning. They are also very minimally manned. There is a lot more work that has to get done than there are people to do the work. I hate that.

We just got back Saturday Morning from a nice pleasant Ocean Voyage. It was quite thrilling. The "Powers that Be" decided that my guys, (the people that work for me) would be standing watch up in Combat, also called Combat Information Center or CIC. This is supposed to be the nerve center for all Combat related activities onboard. But there is a problem. We are big, we are slow, and we are a floating bomb. We have one little surface search radar. We have two 20mm Close In Weapons Systems that sometimes work, and we have four .50 cal Machine guns that are usually kept locked away down below. Your average High School student is better armed than we are.

We had nine people up standing watch the other night. Nine people to watch a single radar scope. I am being trained to be in charge of all of this during my watch. Lucky Me. We stand Port and Report. That means 8 hours on watch, 8 hours off. So a kid stands watch from 12 midnight til 8 am, then is off til 4pm, then stands watch from 4 until Midnight. In addition to standing watch eight hours on and eight hours off, I have a buttload of work scheduled to get done and no one available to do it. It doesn't get any better than this.

Monday we got underway. It was fun. As usual we went East, then South, then West, then North, then East again. That's all we did all week long. We stayed in an imaginary box out on the ocean, making right turns. On Thursday we were supposed to hold an Unrep with the USS George Washington, a bigass Aircraft Carrier. An Unrep is an Underway Replenishment.

On an Oiler, we carry two things, Jet Fuel and Diesel Fuel. Our sole purpose in life is to act as a floating gas station (that doesn't sell beer). We refuel ships, but we do it while we are moving. That makes it much more fun. Imagine trying to fill up your pickup while driving along next to a Tanker Truck on the Interstate. It can be quite interesting.

On Thursday the seas were running 10-15 feet. That's 10-15 feet between the crest of a wave and the trough or bottom. It's really not that bad until you are doing it. It was foggy, and the winds were coming across the bow (the pointy end up front) at 55 knots. That's about 70mph. We were doing about 7 knots or 10 mph. So now imagine trying to fill up your pickup truck from a Tanker Truck while driving 50 mph down a gravel road in the dark, without headlights. If you try it, I guarantee that State Farm is going to raise your insurance rates.

I stood by my lifeboat and watched. I knew that somebody was gonna end up getting run over. The GW (George Washington) finally decided to call it off because they were being tossed all over the place. They are a LOT bigger than we are. So if they were being tossed around, you can imagine what was happening to us. If you have never been at sea in rough weather, let me see if I can come up with a comparison. Imagine trying to stand up on a waterbed, while two drunk, sweaty, extremely fat people are frantically trying to make love on the same waterbed. Like we all haven't tried that at least once in our lives.

We leave again on Monday. We will be gone three weeks this time. We are headed South toward North Carolina to participate in some Marine exercises. Some people there are gonna practice being Marines, that is storming a beach, shooting people, eating dogs, and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Thank God they are doing it in Eastern North Carolina. If they were to try to do that crap in Western North Carolina they would be in serious trouble. That area has the largest concentration of armed Four-Wheel-Drive Pickup Trucks east of the Mississippi. I don't think even the United States Marine Corps is a match for a herd of liquored up hillbillies with deer rifles.

After we finish gassing up the Marines and all those guys, we will head down to Florida! Not that we will get to leave the ship. We are pulling into Jacksonville on a Thursday morning and leaving on Friday Morning. I guess they are scared that If they give us too much time off they will have to retrain us.

I am taking a College Course at sea. History 1301. That's American History up to 1877. Otherwise known "How the Pope and White Folks fucked up the New World." We don't have an instructor on board, That's because all the Instructors have been to college and earned their Masters and Doctorate degrees. They are far too smart to want to spend three weeks driving around in circles on a floating gas tank. Instead the course is presented on Video Tape. I have been too busy to do any work on it. This underway period I am gonna have to get my fat butt out of bed at around 3am so I can learn something. I think I have already learned something. I have learned that I messed up really bad in getting assigned to an Oiler. Still, it beats Recruiting Duty all to hell and back again.

I haven't had any time to play my mandolin or guitar. This next week I have about 160 manhours of work scheduled with only about 60 manhours of time to get it done in. Now I didn't do real good in High School algebra, But I still have got to figure a way to make that happen. My Ensign (Naval Officer)is no help at all. He is in charge of three different Divisions. He's 23 years old and he's a pretty nice guy, But he is too busy going through puberty and learning how to shave to be able to make a decision. The other two Divisions that work for him are complaining that he won't let them do anything. That he won't give them permission to do this or do that.

My Division is not having that problem.

Mainly because I operate on a different premise than they do. I long ago got tired of asking permission. Now I ask for forgiveness instead. I just do what needs to be done and then tell him about it afterwards. What's the worst thing he can do to me? Make me a Navy Recruiter? Put me on an Oiler, and send me out to practice right hand turns for weeks on end?

As long as the work is done, and I don't hang his ass out to dry, then he is happy and all is as it should be. That's the key to effective leadership. If you train your leaders right from the get go, you won't have any problems with them later down the line.

NAVY #05 Dentists Suck

Another piece originally written back in 1996.

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Dentists Suck

One of the benefits of being in the Military is full Dental and Medical coverage. We even have our own Doctors and Dentists. This is not necessarily a good thing however. Any Doctor or Dentist worth his salt would have a private practice where they could buy a new BMW every month and play Golf every Wednesday. I hate going to the Dentist. In fact, I would rather get shot in the leg than go to the Dentist. I would rather piss on an electric fence... again, but sometimes, you just have to go.

I had a tooth ripped out today.

Goddamned Navy Dentist said "This won't hurt"

If I'd had a gun with me, I would have shot that fucker.

I had this wisdom tooth that was growing in sideways and the roots were connected somewhere near my ass. The Dentist shot me up full of Novocain and then pulled out a pair of Vise grips. He latched onto that tooth and started tugging. It felt like he was trying to turn me inside out.

Yanking on it wasn't working, so he decides to drill for awhile. He starts drilling and I start jerking in the chair and yelling.

"Is there something wrong?" he asks.

like I could tell him with half of the Hardware department from Sears sticking out of my mouth. I'm thinking "No you asshole. Just because you drilled a hole into my fucking brain, And I'm laying here screaming at the top of my lungs and doing the goddamned Macarena, what the fuck could possibly be wrong?"

After he cuts and drills for a couple of hours, he takes a hammer and breaks the damned tooth into little pieces. He then reaches in and starts pulling out the chunks along with most of my spine. I really wanted him to take that hammer and give me a couple of whacks in the forehead. I needed some relief. The damned Novocain wasn't doing it.

Once he got done, he looked at me and asked "Now that wasn't so bad was it?" No, I guess not. Not if you compare it to get your nuts caught in a wood chipper.

God, I hate Dentists.

NAVY #04 Underway again, I just can't wait to get underway again

originally written in 1996

I'm embarrassed by this, I mean, really I am. it's some of the most unfunny and amateurish crap I have ever written. It was the first thing I ever wrote, other than school work and notes on various bathroom walls. I wrote it 12 or so years ago, back in 1996 and posted it on a couple of music discussion boards that I frequented. I did it for my own enjoyment and because we were such a small and tight knit community that I actually thought that there were a few people who would be interested in my day to day life. I've always been self centered and self absorbed like that. I really want to go back through it and rewrite it but then I ask myself why? Wouldn't it just be better to go back through and erase the sumbitch?

If nothing else, I can look at this and see how my writing has improved (hopefully) over the years. For those of you who remember the original, here it is again. For those of you who think it sucks, you are not alone.

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When I got to Norfolk, I went and checked into my new ship. As soon as I walked aboard, I was told to go home and have a good weekend because we were getting underway on Monday.

Monday Morning I woke up, (Which is better than not waking up), And it was time for the ship to leave. We spent a long time trying to get moving when somebody finally got the idea that if you untie those big ropes holding us to the pier, we could probably move faster through the water. I wish I had thought of that! Once we got the ropes off and backed out of our parking space without running over anyone, we were headed East. This was pretty cool. I hadn't been out on the open ocean in quiet a while, I was enjoying myself. After going East for a while, we turned South. Then we turned West and did that for a little bit. Then we went North some. Then we went East again. we got pretty good at making right hand turns. We did this for the rest of the day just so we could become perfect at it.

About 1600 (4pm for you lubbers) we set Flight Quarters. Helicopters came out and practiced landing on us. They never stopped to visit. They just landed for a second or two then took off again. They did this for 5 hours. What in the hell is going on here? Is this some Helo Pilot version of counting coup? If it is, then why not do it on a submarine, or better yet, a submerged submarine? Then you would really have some thing to brag about to the chicks hanging out at the Officers Club. Instead it was like some lost tourist turning around in your driveway. You get up and turn on the light because you think folks are coming by to visit just to watch them leave again. So you sit back down and get comfortable and then there are headlights in the driveway again and you have to get up and, well you know how it goes. If I had been at the house I would of called the law.

Tuesday Morning I woke up again. (Which is usually a sign that it's gonna be a bad day.) After having mastered the right hand turn yesterday, we practiced it some more today. We went East for a while, then South, then West, then North, then East again. That afternoon the damnned helo's were turning around in the driveway again. Either park them, get out, come on in and visit for a while, or stay the hell away. I wish I had thought to bring my shotgun.

Wednesday Morning I woke up again. (There has to be a better way to start the day.) We were headed East. Then we did something really dangerous. We turned North!! Then we went West for a while before we headed South. It was so exciting we did this a bunch! The crew was ecstatic. Danger really heightens the senses. The helo's left us alone today. I don't know if it had anything to do with the 800 rounds of 20mm ammunition I fired off from the gatling guns yesterday or not. I really need to get that thing sighted in better. Without those damn helos bouncing off of us, I slept like a baby.

Thursday (Today) we decided to come home. All that excitement from those left turns had really drained us. We parked the ship and used those ropes to tie us to the pier so nobody would steal the ship when we weren't looking. I am waiting for somebody to invent one of those antitheft Club devices for ships. Then I wouldn't have to stand duty every 4 days. If we put one of them Clubs on the steering wheel, we could all go home and sleep better at night. But then again, we might come to work one morning and find the ship sitting up on blocks with the propeller gone and all the radios missing.

NAVY #03 California ain't necessarily the Promised Land

I got transferred to San Francisco California, Mare Island to be exact and checked into my command. Mare Island is located in the town of Vallejo, right ta the entrance to Napa Valley. I got in my truck, tried to run over some wildlife, then immediately went out looking for a new girlfriend. I found one that was a definite possibility. She was cute, we got along well, and she had severe mental and psychological problems. Just the kind of things I like in a woman. There was only one tiny catch. She liked me, but she wouldn't sleep with me. That's because she said that I was equipped wrong. It turns out that she was a lesbian, of course, that made her even more attractive to me. I can't believe that I didn't notice when we first met. Comfortable shoes, Flannel shirts, giant strap-on penis. I figured that if I tried hard enough, I could cure her of her homosexuality, so I threw my moves on her and she laughed at me. She then informed me that she was more woman than I could handle and more man than I would ever be, and if I didn't believe it, she had that giant strap-on penis to prove it. I decided to just take her word for it. We became good friends and would run around together a lot. It was cool, we both had the same taste in women...we liked them breathing.

I eventually met a woman who actually liked having sex with men. I fell for her like a ton of bricks. She fell for me as well. It was nothing but heat and hormones. She couldn't keep her hands off of me! The problem was... she had a husband. He was a pretty good guy too. This was a change. I liked this guy and considered him a friend, but I wa sin LOVE. I was stumbling around, walking into trees in love. Never mind that she used to be an expensive call girl and would describe various kinky sexual practices that she was expert at, things that I had never even heard of, much less tried before. Never mind that she kept promising me all types of orgasmic delights that most men can only read about in magazines. I never did sleep with her, but damn I wanted too. It took every bit of will power I possessed yo not end up in bed with her. Her husband was overseas doing something dangerous as an explosive expert. While he was gone, his wife and I were hot and heavy. No sex, but not because she didn't try. I would meet her for lunch and she would come to the door naked, things like that. We were always together. Like I said, we were in love. She told me she was going to leave her husband and that we would live together and be happy forever. He sent for her and she went overseas to tell him that she wanted a divorce. I wrote to her everyday, and she would write back faithfully. When they both got back, she sent a message that she needed to see me. We met and she told me what a scumbag I was, how I took advantage of her and ruined her life. She also told me that she had never had any intention of leaving her husband, she just had a high sex drive and wanted a fuckbuddy while he was gone. Once again, my heart was broken. But at least this time, my record collection was intact.

I ended up in therapy of this one. I remember that shortly afterwards, my D-18 was stolen. I really went off teh deep end then. I remember calling a friend on the payphone with a handful of quarters in one hand and my .45 in the other. Thankfully he answered the phone and talked me off that particular ledge. I ended up swapping that pistol for a guitar. I haven't owned a pistol since. Life can really suck sometimes. I still miss that guitar, even though I can't remember the girl's name.

Right about the same time she was telling everybody in the world what a loser I was, I picked up a ship that was headed out to sea. I had never done a Western Pacific cruise before. We visited Hawaii, the Philippines, Australia, and Singapore. There was lots of opportunity for me to sin, and I was quite good at sinning, but I had renounced pleasures of the flesh. I was mad at my dick for all the times it kept trying to get me killed. That wasn't all I was mad about, it was bad enough that my dick kept putting my life in jeopardy, but when the little sumbitch kept putting my record collection in jeopardy too, that was more than I could stand.

Australia is reported to be a paradise for men. The women there outnumber the guys something like 2000 - 1 (or so the rumor goes). I, however, behaved. No chicks and no drinking. Instead, I hooked up with a musician named Jim Fisher who put me up on his couch for a few days. He introduced me to his neighbor, former Asleep at the Wheel Steel Guitarist Lucky Oceans and I got to hang out and play a little music. In Singapore, I hung out with a bunch of Europeans, stayed in a Youth Hostel with them and toured the country. The Philippines were boring for a man who doesn't drink or whore around, and of course I was a pious and pure young man. That is until I hit Hong Kong. In Hong Kong, I met a beautiful young English girl who tried to kill me from a horizontal position. It seemed to be just the thing we both needed. No commitments, just living for the moment, enjoying each other and each others bodies. I spent eight days in Hong Kong and probably only wore clothing for two hours tops. She wasn't crazy, wasn't strung out, had never been a hooker, and had never been married. A long term relationship would have never worked with anyone that healthy and normal.

After my ship returned from the six month cruise of the Western Pacific, we headed up towards Seattle for a 2 year shipyard period. I was still without a relationship. At least without a relationship that lasted for more than two hours and involved anything more than getting naked with each other. This was all about to change. As I was walking around Bremerton, I saw THE ONE. She had long red hair and the cutest butt I had ever seen before in my life. I immediately began the pursuit. I remember the first time I saw her up close, I was awestruck. She remembers it differently. She said she felt like a piece of meat in the presence of a hungry lion. After lots of begging on my part, we went out on a date. All the way to Denny's for a cup of coffee. She was a high class girl. Eventually, we started hanging out and running around together. She liked being my friend, but that was about it. She told me that I wasn't her type. She was attracted to well built, muscular, good looking, dark haired guys, Not big goofy assed, tall fat, slovenly, blond guys who probably had a tiny penis. I told her that she was my type, and she said she already knew. She met my two qualifications, she had a heartbeat and tits.

We kind of dated. That is we did a lot of stuff together. We hung out. I quickly fell in love with her. Every time I would tell her that I loved her, she would look at me and tell me "I loath you too." This woman was somehow different than any of the other women I had ever fallen for. First off, she wasn't married. She showed me the Divorce decree in fact. She was flat broke but she didn't care. She had enough cash to feed herself and her son and keep the bills paid, what else did she really need? She wasn't after my record collection because she thought my taste in music sucked. She didn't need a man, except for maybe once every three or four months to do some heavy lifting. She enjoyed my company but didn't have to be with me every second. This was the weirdest relationship I had ever been in. We ended up being really good friends.

The next thing I knew, I had made E-6 and we were living together. in fact, we had been together for two years. I had never been with a woman for more than six months tops in my life. I decided that if she could put up with my sorry ass for that long, I had better marry her. I popped the question at the most romantic place I could think of, JC Penney's. How we did it was we went to J.C. Penney's and I picked out a cheap engagement ring. She said she didn't want a diamond, that they were overpriced, and a waste of money. Cubit Zirconium looked just as good and only a jeweler or a pawn shop could tell the difference between a CZ and a real diamond. When we went outside to smoke a cigarette, I got on my knees and asked her to marry me. She didn't reply immediately. She just stood there stared at me, smoked her cigarette and thought about it. Then she told me that she might as well, she didn't have anything else pressing right at the moment.

We got married in 1992 and are still married today. There have been good times and bad times. Some of both have been self generated. I have done everything in my power to sabotage things a time or two, but we have always worked things out. The weird thing is that each day we are together, I fall in love just a little bit more.

Shortly after we got married, I ended up as a Navy Recruiter in Missouri. Who's bright idea was this? I have a major problem with authority figures. I don't look pretty in a uniform, and I am not what you would call politically correct. The Navy couldn't have put a more unsuitable person in that particular position if they had used a computer and a team of experts to pick him. I did okay as a recruiter, but I hated the job. I was unwilling to lie to kids just to be able to make my numbers. The weird thing is, I didn't have to. I started getting awards for recruiting. I made goal consistently, was the top minority Nuclear Power recruiter in the District (you try recruiting young black kids in rural Missouri.) Eventually I was made Recruiter in Charge of the Station and the station made our yearly goal for the first time in years earning me more awards. Recruiting was killing me. It was having a horrible effect upon my marriage, the stress was getting to me, and I was ready to go back to sea.

I got caught up in a bullshit political struggle while on Recruiting Duty that almost ended my career. I had never been good at playing politics and had no desire to play this time either. I was advised to raise Holy Hell and get some Admirals involved in my case, but I had faith in the system. I hadn't done anything wrong, so I felt that I had nothing to worry about. Unfortunately, guilt or innocence was of no import. A statement needed to be made and someone needed to be a sacrificial lamb, and my head was the one on the chopping block. When I went to Captain's Mast, My CO told me that I was done as a Recruiter and that she was recommending that I go back out to sea. I'm still not sure if that was supposed to be a punishment or a reward. All I know is that it was a happy happy day when I got orders to a ship in Norfolk Virginia.

Sailors are made to be on ships, Ships are made to be at Sea, and Land is nothing but a Navigational Hazard.

NAVY #02 The road goes on forever and the party never ends

Time flies when you are having fun. Where did it all go? Somehow I had become a career Military man. I have a huge anti-authority complex. According to the psychologists and the psychiatrists there is absolutely no way on God's green earth that I should be successful in the military. Looking back at it all now, in hindsight, I don't know if I really was successful, but one thing I have always been good at was perseverance. I understand root hog or die really well. I'm not sure why it was that I made the Navy a career. I think it was because I was scared to have to go out and get a real job. All through my first hitch, I couldn't wait to get out of the Navy. I had come in an E-3 and had rapidly made E-4, I just as rapidly made E-3 again. This would be the start of a pattern for me. For some reason, the Navy frowns on you trying to beat the shit out of your boss, even when you are unsuccessful and your ass is the one that gets kicked.

Not too long after that incident, I started getting tired of getting DT's everytime the ship got underway, so I quit drinking and getting high. After I had been clean for about six months, the Navy decided in it's infinite wisdom that I needed to go to rehab. Not just rehab, but serious rehab. They wanted me to go to alcohol rehab first, then when I finished that, they wanted to send me to drug rehab out in California. In the meantime, while I was waiting for a bed to open up in the inpatient treatment center, they would run me through the outpatient program. I was considered an emergency case. I kept trying to tell people that I had already quit almost 6 months earlier and that I was heavily involved in a 12 step program, but no one would listen to me. I was told that if I didn't get rehab, then I would die and I didn't have a choice in the matter. So I went to rehab.

Outpatient wasn't bad. I learned a lot of stuff there about Anger management, stress reduction, coping skills and the like. Inpatient treatment sucked. I kept being told that I was doing it wrong, that I wasn't attending the right meetings, that I wasn't doing the right stuff, that I was on a path toward self destruction. I didn't understand. I was clean. I was doing what it was I was supposed to be doing. I was staying out of trouble. What exactly was it that they wanted me to do that I wasn't doing? I never found out. Three days before I was supposed to graduate from the course, they kicked me out of rehab. I was told that I was un-rehabilitate-able. They then started procedures to throw me out of the Navy. I was a belligerent little shit and had drunkenly demanded that they throw me out several times before and they had always refused. Now that I quit drinking and had cleaned up, they decided that NOW they were going to do it.

I didn't want to get kicked out of the Navy anymore. Sure, it still sucked, and I still hated it, but you see, I had met this woman. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together and live happily ever after. That is just as soon as she got rid of her husband who was currently out at sea, and just soon as she quit screwing my best friend, and quit screwing her other boyfriend. Yes, just as soon as she got rid of all of those other guys, we would live happily ever after.

For some reason, that relationship didn't really work out, but it did start a another pattern.

Somehow I ended up beating the discharge. I eventually made E-4 again and finally E-5. My life was going along pretty good. I was getting my shit together, I was highly respected at my command, I hadn't tried to choke anyone in longer than I recall. Then something terrible happened. I was in love again. This one was perfect. Oh she had a few minor issues, but then don't we all? She just happened to be a heroin junkie, kind of. She had recently kicked the heroin and had even been off of Methadone for almost a whole week. She had the cutest little ass, and an adorable one year old son. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together and live happily ever after for the rest of our lives. Just as soon as she got that divorce from her husband that was out to sea on a Merchant ship. My enlistment was soon up and I was planning on returning to Tennessee to do whatever it is that people in Tennessee do to make money. As I was making plans to return to civilian life, the Navy offered me $20,000 if I would re-enlist for 4 short years. My new sweetie really wanted to leave Norfolk, Virginia where I was stationed and head out to the West Coast where she had grown up. The Navy told me that I could go to California if I stopped off in Chicago for three years enroute. Chicago? I didn't like Great Lakes Naval Training Center when I was there the last time for schooling. Why in the hell would I want to go back? For three years? One look at the fine ass on my new sweetie reminded me that I could handle 3 years anywhere if I was accompanied by the possessor of an ass as fine as that one. So off we went.

Living with my sweetie up near Chicago wasn't quite the fairytale I thought it would be. I couldn't decide whether to marry her or kill her. I couldn't actually marry her because she had never gotten divorced from her husband. We went through that re-enlistment money like Grant went through Richmond. I was too damned immature to have that kind of money. I can't blame her. If I hadn't spent it on her, I would have spent it on some other chick somewhere. it just happened to be her turn at bat. Before long the money ran out and things got even uglier. I knew we could work this out if we could only sit down and talk and then get naked. All I wanted was to be loved... and to have the evil demons exorcised out of the hateful black-hearted bitches non-existent soul. We quit having sex, at least with each other. All my friends seemed to be hanging out around the house a lot when I was gone though, and they all looked very happy and relaxed. Well, no sense in letting an ass that fine go to waste. I'm glad somebody got some use out of it.

She soon kicked MY sorry ass out of MY house. She took MY furniture, she took MY records, she took MY money, and she took MY heart. I wanted my damned records back. She could have the rest of that crap, but not my records! I walked around for a couple of years with my head up my ass. I swore off relationships. I figured all my friends had gotten laid enough by now. If not, let them find their own damned crazy women. I proceeded to try and screw myself into a coma. I believe it was Dr Phil who once said that was the recommended way to heal a broken heart. I wasn't real choosy about who I ended up in bed with either. Of course, the women I was sleeping with probably said the same thing about me. It's a miracle I wasn't shot or that my pecker never fell off. Navy life was starting to seriously suck. I had just made E-4 for the third time. I was still obsessed with the woman who had broken my heart. All I could think about was that if I could only get her away from the seven or eight guys she was sleeping with, then we could be happy together forever. Never mind the fact that we hated each others guts.

Just as I was finishing up this hitch, my second, I made E-5 for the second time. It became time for me to make a decision. I realized that I had ten years invested with the Navy. I was halfway toward retirement. I then convinced myself that I liked my job and I liked being in the Navy. Actually, what I really liked was that $20,000 they were offering me to re-up once again. I bent over, grabbed my ankles and told them get busy. I didn't need any lubrication, no reach around, all I needed was that check in my hand. Armed with cash money, a Colt .45, a 1963 Martin D-18 guitar, and a new 4x4 truck, I was off to California...this time without a chick. I had a guitar, who needs chicks when you have a guitar?


More to come...

NAVY #01 - In the Beginning

Back around 1995 or so I got my first Internet capable computer. A bastard 486 clone machine with a huge 500 meg hard drive, 8 meg of ram and a 14.4 modem. I immediately discovered two things that would change my life: Internet porn and music discussion boards. I've pretty much grown bored of the porn, but the music has remained a major part of my life.

I've made many a friend who shared the same love for various styles of Hillbilly music that I possess. Back in those days, I was still active duty Navy. In order to stay in touch with people I would come home after being at sea and I would write up what had happened while I was out to sea, then I would e-mail it around to various people. Some of that stuff got forwarded around and around and around, and I ended up making even more friends in places that were far away and strange to me. Those various missives also ended up leading to a very poorly paying writing career.

This summer marks the 10 year anniversary since the last of the Navy missives. At several people's request, I have decided to revisit these essays. Some I will edit for basic grammatical errors. Some I will need to change a few names in order to prevent a future asswhipping if the wrong person should stumble across them, other than that, what you see here will be pretty much what I wrote back then. A lot of it is embarrassing. My story telling skills have improved vastly since that time, but oh well, It is what it is.

I hope you enjoy reading it half as much as I enjoyed living it.

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I grew up in Middle Tennessee. I have always been what my Grandma called a Rounder. From my earliest childhood, I just had to find out what was at the end of the road. When I was old enough to ride a bike without killing myself, my explorations grew. I knew every road and path withing several miles of my home. Then I finally got a drivers license. It wasn't long before I have been down every paved, gravel, and dirt road in Middle Tennessee. The joy in exploring is finding out what is at the end of the road, seeing what's around the next corner. It's in the journey, not the destination.

Most of my paycheck went to buy gasoline. Actually, gasoline and beer. After exploring most of middle Tennessee, I started buying less gasoline and more beer. Then I discovered ways to explore and travel without ever having to leave the house. My County Sheriff frowned on this type of behavior and started to encourage me to leave the county. Right about this time I quit my burger flipping job. It was really starting to interfere with my beer drinking. One morning my Daddy woke me up and asked me a question. He wanted to know where I wanted my mail forwarded to. I wasn't real smart, but I quickly figured out that this wasn't a good sign. He told me that if I wasn't going to work or go to college and if I thought that all I was going to do was drink beer, smoke dope, and chase women, that I could do it somewhere else. This was really not a good sign. Then he happened to mention that the Navy Recruiter has called earlier that day and that he and I had an appointment with him that afternoon.

Like I said earlier, I wasn't the smartest kid in the world and I was unable to put 2 and 2 together..

That afternoon my Dad and I are driving to downtown Nashville to go talk to the Navy Recruiter. I'm thinking that if we hurry, I can meet my friends down by the river later that evening. My Dad had other ideas. He looks over at me and says "You know, only one of us is coming back home tonight". Really? I asked him where it was that he was going. Young and stupid is no way to go through life.

We went in to see the Navy Recruiter and at first we heard the standard sales pitch. Money for college, job training, skills that would help me later in life, blah, blah, blah. I took the ASVAB test in High School and did real well on it. I bet I could have done better if I hadn't of taken it drunk. All the branches of the service have been chasing me since I first became a High School Senior. They had all promised me the world. I was going to be rich, I was going to be a high tech assassin jumping out of airplanes with a knife between my teeth killing commies for mommy and a bunch of similar bullshit.

My Recruiter must not of been in the recruiting business for very long. He took me into a back room and he showed me a movie about typical Navy life. It's basically your typical propaganda film showing a bunch of happy young guys drinking beer in various exotic locations with a lot of really good looking women in the background. I'm sitting there watching thinking to myself, "I can handle this!" Once the film was over I went back out front and sat down and talked to the recruiter. He asked me a bunch of questions such as "Are you a Drug Addict? Have you killed anyone this week? Do you like women more than men? etc, etc, etc. Then he asks me if I have any questions for him. Sure, I had questions. "Let me get this straight. You're going to feed me, give me a place to sleep, give me clothes to wear, teach me a job, Money for college, take me all over the World, and then pay me too?" This is starting to sound like summer camp with beer. "What's the catch?" I was told that the only catch was that I would have to cut my hair. Then I remembered my experiences with the Army, Air Force, and Marine recruiters. They had promised me everything under the sun if I would just sign up with them. So after listening to his sales pitch, I asked him what the Navy was gonna promise me. He got real quiet for a minute then he looked over at my Dad, then he looked over at me and said, "What's the Navy gonna promise you? A chance to catch the clap in 12 different countries".

Sign my ass up now!

A couple of months later, the day came for me to go off to Boot Camp. The recruiter gave me a plane ticket and pointed me toward the Airport. My Mama started crying and my Daddy looked like he was already making plans to rent my room out. I had never ridden on an airplane before, and I wasn't real comfortable with the idea at all. One of the guys I was headed to boot camp with, had a little weed on him, so we snuck down on the tarmac and set it on fire as we waited to board our flight. Up to this point in my life, I have never riden in anything that sooner or later didn't run over someone, need a push start, a set of jumper cables, run out of gas, or eventually require the services of a wrecker. I sat in the very back of the airplane so that when we ran into a mountain, I would get squashed last. at that time, beer was free on airplanes. I took advantage of that, as well as the cheap bourbon.

We eventually landed in Orlando, Florida. I was just about right. I had a really nice buzz going on when I got off that airplane. There were people from the Navy there to welcome us when we got off the flight. They were really nice too. They wanted to know if we had all of our stuff and if we were ready to be sailors. This is starting to sound like it's going to be fun. They walked us out to an old gray school bus and I got on board and joined 79 other guys from all around the United States. There were all kinds of people on that bus. Strange people. Puerto Ricans, Blacks, Mexicans, Asians, Yankees, you name it. I had been raised in a small semi-rural town that had very few minorities. This was a bit of a shock for me, especially the Yankees who I couldn't even understand, But we were all in this thing together. Everyone was real excited about becoming Sailors. We are all talking and looking out the window at all the tourist attractions that we wanted to go see. There was Disney Land and Sea World, and we were especially interested in the signs that advertised Exotic Dancers. We finally got to Boot Camp around midnight and everyone was still being really nice to us. They put us all up in a barracks and gave us our bunk assignments. It was about 2am when we all finally get settled and they turned the lights out. They told us to get some sleep as tomorrow was gonna be a very busy day for us. Cool. Tomorrow I would learn to be a sailor and tomorrow night......Exotic Dancers!!!!

At 4am the lights came on and I saw a large steel trash can go flying by my head. I am hoping I am still asleep and this this is just a dream. A very bad dream brought on by too much weed and too much alcohol. People start screaming and yelling at us. They are yanking people out of bed and telling us to line up on a red line. I'm still a little drunk and I am freaking out. "Where do you want me to stand? Is this okay? Am I in the right place?" "SHUT UP! EYES FORWARD!" I don't think I have ever been up at 4am in my life. Unless it was from the night before. Things quickly start to get worse. This very, very large man guy comes barging in and he is upset. This has to be the biggest, maddest, blackest man I had ever seen in my life. He is not very happy, and it seems that it was all our fault. He told us that it was his Birthday. He told us that his wife had fixed him his favorite meal. He told us that she had then put on something really tiny and sheer and sexy and that he was just getting ready to tear it off with his teeth when his telephone had rang. He told us It was the base Commander telling him that he had to return to base because we had just gotten there. He was screaming at the top of his lungs. His eyes were bulging out of his head. Little bits of spit were flying out of his mouth. I was waiting for his head to explode. He told us that he was just getting ready to get laid and that he was not happy. I'm thought about telling him that he should just go back home, get laid, and we would see him later in the morning. Thankfully most of my buzz had wore off enough for me to be able to keep my mouth shut. I decide that maybe for once in my life, I should just stand there and not say anything. It was a good decision. He then let us know that he is was still gonna do some screwing this night. And that we are gonna be the screwee's. I pray that if that's the case, we go in alphabetical order. I snuck a glance down at my plane ticket that for some reason I still had in my hand. Please let this thing be a round trip ticket, Please let this be a round trip ticket.

That was the start of a 20 year Navy career

I are a famous writer

Once upon a time I used to be a famous music journalist. My work appeared in such august publications as Cups magazine (the coffee one, not the porn one), Country Weekly, Country Music Magazine, CMT Magazine, Harp, Paste, American Songwriter, No Depression, and others. I would write amazingly insightful reviews about how someone's life's work sucked mighty morphing monkey ass and how they shouldn't give up their day job working at the Burger King. When I wasn't writing reviews, I was writing feature articles on only the most beautiful and talented people in the business. If I didn't write about you, then it must mean that you just ain't that beautiful or talented.

Now I ain't saying that I was the most talented writer who ever set out to destroy a career by putting pencil to paper, but I got to sit up there at the big table with the grownups, if you know what I mean. I never received a big-time literary award, primarily because most magazines I wrote for would cease publication shortly after I began to write for them. I can only assume it is because I raised the standard so high, that they knew it would be impossible to continue meeting it with all of those other hacks they had working for them.

I would like to be able to thank all the great editors in all the various publications, but since there is no such thing as a great editor, I can't. Editors exist for one purpose and one purpose only. To make your work look bad. Most editors are failed writers. Because they can't write, they get jealous when they run across anyone who can write. They should all burn in hell, roasted over a fire composed of their horrible editorial decisions. Fortunately, if you are an exceptionally gifted writer, like me perhaps, your brilliance can't be dimmed by even the most ham-fisted of editors.

One of the publications that I am the most proud of being able to write for was No Depression magazine. It was a niche publication primarily aimed at aging hipsters. It was targeted for the older white guys with glasses who didn't get laid a lot demographic. Kind of a Twang Music magazine for the hip replacement crowd. There were some good writers at that magazine. Not great writers, just good. Michael McCall, Barry Mazor, Grant Alden, David Cantwell, Bill Friskics-Warren, Brian Mansfield, Craig Havighurst, James "Slim" Kelly, Jon Weisberger, Peter Cooper, and Rick Cornell are just a few of the writers I let ride my coattail and whose careers I helped to nurture and guide. These people are all friends of mine, and not just because I would occasionally offer to lend them money or to pay their bail when they got locked up for public intoxication once again.

No Depression is another publication which has ceased printing, however, they do maintain a web presence. http://www.nodepression.com/ They've tried to create a web community with blogs and forums and stuff like that, but the best thing about that site, as well as the real reason for its existence, is teh Archives. They have gone through every issue of the magazine and archived my writings and placed them on the web http://archives.nodepression.com/author/jeff-wall/. After they did that, they were legally forced to archive all the other little whining assholes who had written for them as well in order to avoid some kind of Americans with Disabilities lawsuit or something. Even today, these people want to ride my coattails.

There is good stuff over there and you should definitely check it out.

http://www.nodepression.com/

Bellevue High School Class of 79 Reunion

I was recently informed that my High School Graduation Class was having their 30 yr High School reunion just outside of Nashville TN. I had mixed feelings about attending. I don’t know most of these people. I don’t even remember most of these people. I was drunk or high for the majority of High School. (It was a family tradition.) Every other time that there had been a High School Reunion, I had been out of the country or just out of touch. I had never had any great desire to attend anyway. It’s not like I was one of the “cool kids.” When the 30yr reunion came about, my schedule was free for the first time. I was unemployed. I had nowhere that I had to be. I had enough cash at hand that I could afford it. I had no excuse for why it was that I couldn’t attend.


I made my final decision to go to the reunion the day before the event, actually the morning I left to go. The decision was easier to make due in part to the actions of a few other people. Since being unemployed, my wife and I have been spending a LOT of time together, to the point where we occasionally get on each others nerves. She was ready for my ass to be gone for the weekend. A few of my former classmates had found me on Facebook, and they had turned out to be really warm and nice people. I finally decided what the hell, what did I have to lose? I’d drive over the mountains in my truck, take my time, and enjoy some scenery and solitude, enjoy a few cigars and just get away for a day or two. I'd take no musical instruments, no laptop computer, nopthing to hide behind. A friend of mine suggested that I take the new Interstate 29 bypass from Asheville to Johnson City due to the incredible scenery.

I did, and he was right.

Driving alone through the mountains, smoking a cigar is almost a meditative exercise. It clears the mind and allows for self-introspection. I highly recommend such activities for everyone. I believe it was Socrates who originally said that the non-examined life wasn’t worth living. I don’t know about all of that, but I find it necessary to clear my head and look at where I am in my life occasionally, to look at where I have come from and where it is that I wish to go. I’m not into a lot of navel gazing, well at least not my navel anyway, but a regular mental inventory can be a beneficial thing.


I got to thinking about this reunion and asking myself why in the hell I was going. I have always had difficulties establishing and maintaining close relationships. I want these relationships; I’m just not very good at maintaining them. Some of this might be due to my mental makeup Some might be due to environmental factors. My parents got divorced when I was young, and my mother remarried. My family then moved around a lot. I went to two different elementary schools, three different Junior High Schools, and two different High Schools. I didn’t really have a problem with it. Roots were always difficult for me. It never really mattered where I was or who I was with, for some reason I have always felt that I was some sort of an outsider, that I didn’t really belong, regardless of evidence to the contrary.

I transferred to the school I graduated from about halfway through my Junior year. I wasn’t on any of the sports teams and I didn’t participate in any extracurricular activities... including chicks. I didn’t have any high school girlfriends. I liked girls, but I was incredibly shy, too shy to ever ask one out. I didn’t go to my Junior prom and only got a date for the Senior prom a week prior to the event. I was never a good student. It wasn’t because I was stupid, that was just a disguise. I was smart and I loved to read, but I never bothered doing any homework. The only thing that saved me was the fact that I always aced my tests…when I bothered to show up to take them. Skipping school, or part of school, had become a regular occurrence. I was basically your average under achieving invisible drunk/stoned loser kid wasting whatever potential he had just as quickly as he possibly could. Back then there was no such thing as ADD or Advanced Placement for the academically gifted kids. (not that I was gifted or anything) I barely graduated High School and once I did, I was done and I never looked back. I didn’t really stay in touch with anyone. About the time that I graduated, my family moved to another town, and less than a year later, I had left to begin a 20yr Navy career. Once I left, I was gone for good.


Once I retired from the Navy, I settled in North Carolina to take a job. I still live there. I have lived in this same house for 9 years now. That’s far too long. It is the longest that I have ever lived in one place my entire life. It fills me with panic. I’m ready to go, but my wife and kids seem to like having roots…and friends, so we are still here.

We don’t have any relatives close by. My family of origin has dispersed around the country. I have a sister who lives in Knoxville that I am semi-close to (we both work at it.) I have a brother in Florida that I talk to maybe once or twice a year, and a brother who last I heard was living somewhere near Memphis. I’ll probably see him the next time somebody dies. My stepfather passed away a few years ago. My mother lives somewhere in West Tennessee as well and we aren’t very close. We are not a close family. We were never really a close family, but since my stepfather’s passing we have drifted even further apart. My biological father lives 30 miles east of Nashville. I have been trying to build a relationship with him, along with a brother and sister from that side of my family as well. We try to be close, to be honest, they have been putting forth most of the effort, but it’s been difficult, more my fault than theirs. I’m just a hard guy to get close to.


When I left North Carolina, I had no idea where it was I was going to spend the night, or any plans at all other than just heading west for Bellevue, TN and figuring it out as I went along. I’ve got a habit of doing stuff like that. Making it up as I go along. I figured worse case scenario, I could sleep in the truck. Yes I took the truck. My wife offered to let me drive her Honda Element with it’s nice air conditioning. I could have driven the minivan with it’s crappy air conditioning if I had wanted to, but when one is driving and contemplating, there is no better contemplating vehicle than an old un-air-conditioned pickup truck with all the windows down.


I was headed west on I-40. I had called the Old Man a couple of times so far and gotten no answer. I was okay with that as I usually find visiting to be a lot of work, but he’s the Old Man. I got to Lebanon TN at about 10pm and decided to give him one more shot. This time he answered and told me to come on by, he was excited to see me. We sat up and talked for awhile while we watched the last part of some movie about Angels and Demons and Keanu Reeves. He told me to stay there with him and offered me a bedroom if I wanted it. I prefer the couch. I’m more of a couch guy anyway If I’m sleeping in a bed, I want somebody in there with me, preferably my dog Bob because he doesn’t bitch about my snoring and he’s a good kisser.
My father is a good man. I wish we were closer, I just don’t know how to get closer. He loves me and he tries hard. I respect that and I try to do my part as best I can.


The next morning we got up and we went to breakfast together at his regular breakfast place. In Tennessee there is a law that at a certain age you have to have a regular breakfast place. At that breakfast place everybody knows you and you set at a big table with a bunch of other really old guys and you all tell each other lies about how badly life is treating you and try to figure out new ways to beat your buddy out of a little folding money. Most of the small diners in Tennessee should come with a cholesterol warning in bright neon. Breakfast was country ham and biscuits, home fries, and a sliced tomato. Not some nasty tomato slices, but an entire tomato sliced up thick. Where the waitress calls you honey and asks about your Mama and them. After breakfast I said my goodbyes and headed for Nashville to go meet an old friend at the NAMM show.


I had always wanted to attend NAMM. NAMM stands for the National Association of Music Marketing. Basically it’s a trade organization for Music Store owners and their suppliers. To a musician, it’s like being allowed to sneak into Santa’s workshop when Santa has his back turned. I had been calling everyone I knew to try and scam a pass to get in, but no one could help me. At the last minute, due to a fluke, a friend was given an extra pass and offered it up. As I am getting ready to walk into the Convention Center, I ran into the owners of my local music store. They told me that if they had known I was looking for one, they would have gladly gotten me an access pass, which should once again stress the importance of local brick and mortar - ma & pa guitar stores over that of huge national corporations and on-line super merchants. Sure, the big guys might be able to give you a better price, but they won’t loan you an amp when you really need one, front you a set of strings when you are broke, or score you an access badge for the big trade show. Talking to the store owners I asked them how much an impact the NAMM show had upon the store. They said that it had a huge impact. They found out what was new, they could talk to other retailers and learn new revenue generation ideas, they could meet new suppliers, and it made a huge impact one what they decided to carry.


Inside the NAMM show I ran into a small distributor who had a tiny booth set up on the outside ring of venders in the very back corner of the exhibition hall. You couldn’t have scored a worse location if you had tried. This distributor told me that he operated his business out of the basement of his home. His booth space had set him back about $600, On top of that he had to pay his travel expenses, lodging and meals. I asked him if coming to NAMM was costeffective. He told me that he already had enough orders to cover his expenses and it was only lunchtime Saturday. Walking around the exhibition hall and speaking with various venders, several things became apparent. Small ticket items were selling like gangbusters: picks, straps, gadgets, tuners, pedals, cables, strings, etc. High end guitar sales were down.

While looking around, I had an epiphany, something that I had never really given much though to. The vast majority of people who play musical instruments, play for their own enjoyment. These people will never play in a band. They will never play in front of an audience. They will never step foot on a stage, and have never been bitten by the performance bug. They don’t have that desire or need to perform. They don’t crave that a crowd response. These people are the primary market base for music retailers. I also quickly realized was that this was not my crowd or my kind of an event. The exhibitors were set up to SELL instruments, not have people like me come around and play them. These people weren’t musicians, at least not primarily. They were more concerned with sales figures. It didn’t take me long to realize that this place was no different than being the fat diabetic kid turned loose in the Willie Wonka Chocolate Factory. There was lots of cool stuff to look at, but nothing I could have. I decided to quit torturing myself and head out to see some country.


I graduated from Bellevue High School in 1979. Bellevue is a small western suburb of Nashville way out on the outskirts of town. When I was growing up, we had a grocery store, a hardware store, a couple of gas stations, a family pool hall, and a McDonalds. If you needed more than that, you had to go somewhere else to find it. When I lived here, I went to school, then as soon as I got out of school I would go to get drunk then head over to work. Sometimes I would get drunk before school. Sometimes I would get drunk at school. I worked at the Shoney’s Big Boy Restaurant and would often get drunk while cooking or busing tables and washing dishes. Then after work I would go out with my co-workers and get drunk. Eventually it just became easier to stay drunk rather than having to get drunk. I figured out that it was just more time efficient that way. When I wasn’t at school or at work, I was usually hanging out with a bunch of drunks and potheads at the park. Occasionally I could be found out in the country hanging out with my horses who were neither drunks nor potheads (that I knew of.) For some reason, I just don’t remember a lot about those years.


I decided to drive out through Belle Meade to the Hwy 70S/Hwy 100 split and check out the area I used to run around in. Bellevue is unrecognizable from 30 years ago. Since I left a mall sprang up and then shut down. What used to be a subdivision is now a Home Depot, My old High School is now a Jr High School and the Jr High School is now a park. I drove out to survey Edwin Warner Park and found there to be a big ass private High School next door, a High School so fancy that is bigger and more elaborate than any university or college I ever attended, a High School with a tuition higher than that of any college or university I ever attended as well. To be fair, I primarily only attended Tech Schools and Community Colleges, but it is one big ass fancy private High School. I guess that now when kids get thrown out of the Metro Nashville Public School system, they have another option other than just Father Ryan Catholic High School, which should be welcome news to the Baptists.

Hwy 100 has become commercialized, subdivided, developed and residentialized. When I was young, it was just country. There was nothing on that road except farmers, dead possums, and drunken high school kids (like me). It was the way to get to Fairview and why on earth would anybody want to go to Fairview that didn’t have to? It was also a back way to Franklin and then on over to Murfreesboro up Hwy 96. It was a pretty drive that cut cross country away from the Interstate (and the Highway Patrol.) I used to run that area a lot. I knew every rock there, every side road, every tree stump, and every country store that sold beer and wasn’t too particular about checking ID’s. Just like everything else, progress has done come in and messed it all up. The Natchez Trace cuts through there now, just past the Loveless Café.

For a few years now, folks have been telling me that I need to go eat at the Loveless Café. It’s been voted the best breakfast in all of Middle Tennessee. I had a hard time believing this as I remember the Loveless Café and Motel from when I was growing up. You could catch an STD just pulling into the parking lot. You would have been better off with a bottle of hot sauce and a spoon and a road kill squirrel than if you would have tried actually eating there. The Loveless was where you went with a 12 pack of beer and a girl of questionable integrity, when it was too cold, too rainy, or she was just too ugly to go out to the river or a nearby cow pasture to get drunk and naked. A good fire would have more than doubled the property values of the Loveless Café and Motel.

I was surprised when I came up on it. Somebody went in and bought the place and spent a bunch of money cleaning the place up. All the hotel rooms/cribs were gutted and replaced with boutique shops. They have a BBQ smoker outside that makes the entire area smell of hickory smoke and pork. Your mouth starts watering the minute you get out of your vehicle. I grabbed a quick sandwich to go, wishing I had more time to eat, but it was time to actually go attend the reunion.

When I was in High School, I don’t remember having very many friends. The one I do remember, Kenny, was going to be out of town and unable to attend the reunion. I honestly don’t remember a whole lot about High School. I remember showing up…occasionally. I remember my English Teacher Mrs DJ who treated me much better than I deserved. I remember drinking and smoking in the parking lot. That’s about it. I don’t remember any of the people I went to school with. I didn’t have a long history with them. We didn’t grow up together (except for Teresa Gibson who I have lost track of.)

I didn’t stay in touch with anyone from High School and to the best of knowledge none of them tried very hard to stay in touch with me either. So why in the hell was I there? Why did I drive almost 500 miles to meet people I hadn’t seen nor talked to in 30 years? I don’t know why. I just know I was there. I showed up early and met a bunch of people for what seemed like the very first time. It was strange, it was actually kind of neat. It turns out that we were all terribly shy and self aware in High School. I was surprised to discover that I wasn’t the only one. It also turns out that we were ALL drunk and high the majority of the time, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US, which scares the shit out of me since I am now a parent too. Is my kid going to follow in my footsteps? God, I hope not. I’m surprised I even lived through some of the shit I did. I don’t know if she has the lucky dumbass gene in her or not.

When we arrived, there was a questionnaire that we were asked to fill out.
“How far did you travel?”
”How many kids do you have?“
”How many times have you been divorced?”
“How many rehab centers have you been to?”
“How many DUI’s have you gotten?”
“How’s your blood pressure?”
“Have you had a Colonoscopy yet?”

…and a bunch of similar type questions. If you had the most of any of these things, you won a free drink coupon. I won for having lived in the most different cities with something like 20 and for having visited the most foreign countries with something like 28. There were people there who had never left the State of Tennessee. There were people there who had lived in that same little community since birth. I couldn’t believe it. Just as they found my travels amazing, I found their ability/choice to stay put equally amazing. God Bless ‘em, I have no idea how they do it without losing their minds.

I won a drink ticket for having traveled the greatest distance at 468 miles. I’m sure there were others who traveled equally as far or further. One came from Little Rock, another came from Mobile. I also won a drink ticket for being the person who had changed the most. I couldn’t see it. How had I changed? Sure, I had cleaned up and given up the dope and liquor almost 25 years ago. I have a bit more self confidence now and I have a beard. I also smoke cigars now instead of cigarettes, but in my head I am essentially the same person that I was 20-30 years ago.

In High School I was about 6’1” or 6’2” tall and weighed maybe 150 lbs. Today I am 6’7” tall and weigh somewhere around 315lbs. In my mind, physically, I’m still the same guy I was in my early twenties.
I’m still young, I’m as strong as an ox, I’m virile as a rutting buck, I’m skinny and good looking, I have a pecker you can bust concrete with, and the chicks all dig me and want to be with me. The reality is that I have somehow gotten old. I have a big gut and man boobs. I now have to take medication for high blood pressure, acid reflux, arthritis, depression, ADD, and for crankiness and bloating during that time of the month. I have spent tons of time and money laying on couches talking about my “issues” as well as all the psycho family history crap that I grew up with, that I think it’s pretty amazing that I am even able to uncurl from the fetal position each day, and stand upright, much less be a responsible, productive functioning member of society.


I’ve gotten old and fat, but in my head, I’m still young, skinny, and have an erection that you couldn’t scratch with a diamond. Chicks dig me, even if they aren’t immediately aware of it. Self deceit is something I am very skilled at. It is something that all guys are good at. It has to be the cruelest trick God ever played upon us.

The reunion was awesome and it filled me with amazement and joy. I found out that all the High School fuckups somehow got their shit together and had good lives. Meanwhile it was the super achiever “good kids” who ended up strung out, in prison, or dead. All the chicks were hot. The ones who were hot in High School stayed hot. (Yes, I am talking about you) The ones who were geeky and gawky grew into their hotness. Maybe it’s the self-confidence that a woman has once she has reached her late 40’s. There was no drama. There was no bullshit. There was no game playing. Just women with smiles, having real discussions with people. One of them even gave me a kiss on the cheek.



The guys, well, most of the guys all got old and fat and started losing their hair… except for me. I don’t know how they all got so old while I hardly aged at all. It must have something to do with my innate awesomeness. I had several wonderful conversations with the guys that I went to school with. I really didn’t know any of these people but they were all interested in me and exceptionally nice to me. Pat offered to try and help me find work. Webb introduced me around. Shannon and Edgar were awesome as was Dallas and Mike. I just felt a lot of love, respect, and acceptance from everyone.

I was sad to leave when it was all over. I drove back to Lebanon but the Old Man had actually locked me out of the house. I ran into my brother who is working as a Sheriff Deputy. The asshole lit me up in the yard as I was checking the doors and windows for an open one. At least he didn’t shoot me. We got the chance to visit for a while and to share the fact that neither one of us knew a damned thing when it comes to women. He went on to bed and I decided to drive back east toward the house through the night.

As I was driving I got to thinking. I was nervous when I went to the reunion for fear that I wouldn’t fit in, that I didn’t belong, that I somehow wasn’t good enough, and I found out that I was wrong. Then I began to look at this in a little more detail. Why was it that I felt this way? What made me feel like this? I could find nothing that supported these feelings. Then I had an epiphany (an epiphany I had experienced before to tell the truth) There could only be one explanation. The only person who thinks I don’t belong is me. The only person who doubts my ability is me. The only person who prevents me from fitting in is me. If you treated me the way that I treat myself, I’d have to whip your ass, if not shoot you. Why is it that I allow me to treat myself that way? Something new to be aware of. Something new to look at. I’m glad I went. I’ve made some new friends.

Thanks so much to the Bellevue High School Class of 1979 for your love and friendship. It really means a lot to me.