It Is What It Is or Making a Record for under $100

I recently went to Nashville and made me a record. I can now tell all of my friends that I am a Nashville Recording Artist. I'm a big deal. Y'all should all line up to kiss my ass.

Here is how it all happened.

I was going to be in Nashville and I wanted to do a little picking with my old friend Donnie Winters. The last time I talked to him he told me that he had a little pro tools rig at the house that he would use to cut demos. Nothing fancy, just about as basic a rig as you could possibly get. So I figured I could both play with Donnie AND make a record at the same time I called him up and approached him about the idea. He was hesitant at first, but once I explained my plans to him, he was all for it. 

I've been trying to play out more and everybody wants a CD so they can hear what it is that you sound like before they will book you. I always thought that this was bullshit, because if I wanted to spend the money, I could go into bigtime studio, hire a bunch of A List Session pickers, record for two weeks, Go in a booth record my vocalsm then have them pitch corrected and come out with one hell of a record in my hand, a hell of a record that I could never duplicate live in a million years,

Instead, what I wanted to do was just set up a couple of microphones in his music room (actually his son Ryan's bedroom) and just start playing. Record a whole album's worth of material from start to finish. No frills. That meant no headphones, no booths, no playbacks, no effects, no overdubs, no stopping, no tracking, no nothing. We would just sit down and start playing and whatever we got, would be what we ended up with. Live in the truest sense of the word.

It is what it is.

.
Now unlike me, Donnie has the skill to pull something like this off. He is a professional musician and has been most of his life. Unlike most professional musicians, he has even enjoyed a bit of success and fame. He is still an in-demand guitarist and back in the day he was a genuine Guitar God. He played in a Southern Rock band, The Winters Brothers Band (no relation to Edgar or Johnny), that kicked ass and developed a strong regional following. They toured with all the Southern Rock guys, They made a record with Paul Hornsby. They toured with  Lynyrd Skynyrd... before the plane crash (where Ronnie Van Zant nicknamed them The Crusty Nostril Boys (I think it had something to do with allergies)) and played on several of the big Volunteer Jam shows.

We have been friends now for about 25 years or more and I have always loved his playing. Lately he has been playing a round necked Dobro that I absolutely love the sound of and I wanted it on record.

So how we did it was just to set up in the bedroom, have Ryan hit play on the recorder and just started playing. There was no practicing. In fact, Donnie had no idea what it was that I was going to play until I started playing it. I had no idea what I was going to play until I started playing it either. We just hit the go button and we started playing. The few times we stopped were due to equipment malfunctions or because someone had to use the bathroom. If we flubbed a lick, Oh well people flub licks all the time on stage. It stays on the recording. If I forgot a lyric, oh well, it happens, people forget lyrics on stage all the time. It stays. Our motto was It Is What It Is. In two hours time we were able to record 10 songs. It then took us another hour to bounce it down on to a CD. I spent another hour cleaning it up, breaking the tracks up into individual songs and then converting it all into mp3's.

So I now have about 4 hours into this recording, and less than $100.

Doing it this way took off a whole lot of pressure. It didn't have to be perfect, it just had to be done as best as we could do it at the time. Once a song was done, it was done, and we would just move on to the next song. There are a lot of things on here that I am embarassed about, things that most people will never even notice. That happens a lot on stage as well. I will think I have just totally blown a performance and people will come up and tell me that it was teh best they have ever seen me do. I'm the last person who should ever judge my work.

So, It is what it is. Is it Live at Budakkan? No, but I'd bet it was just as much fun to make. Basically, I got to play music with a friend for 2 hours and I have it all on disc to remember. Screwups and all. To me, that's what makes it precious. I have been asked what it sounds like so I will link to it and you can decide for yourself. I hope you enjoy listening to it as much as I enjoyed making it.

Link to It Is What It Is:   http://bigdumbhick.fatcow.com/

Remembering Grandma, Daddy, and Jack Emerson

In just a few minutes, I will be loading up the minivan and heading to Nashville, TN for the 10th Annual Americana Music Association Conference and Festival. I live in North Carolina Now, but every time I go back to Tennessee, I am reminded of friends who have passed on.

I have been archiving a bunch of crap I wrote before (this keeps me from having to write any new crap) and this just recently came to light again. It felt appropriate to share with everyone once again


Nov. 26, 2003

I hope nobody else dies this year. It's to the point where I am scared to answer the damned telephone. First my dad, then my grandma, and most recently Jack.

Grandma died a couple of weeks ago. She was 89. She mowed her own grass, often with a push mower. She was fiercely independent. In September my mom had to put her in an assisted living apartment because she was getting forgetful and we were worrying that she would burn the damned house down. (she almost did a couple of times) No more than a week after they moved her, she fell and she broke her hip. It just plain gave out on her. My aunt went by to check on her and knocked on the door and no one answered, she then went around to the back and knocked there. Still no answer, by the time she got back around to the front Grandma had crawled to the door and answered it. She apologized for taking so long. That's the kind of a woman my Grandma was.

They took her to the hospital and put her into old folks rehab where they gave her physical therapy. She got into trouble for sneaking out of bed and hopping around the room to go to the bathroom and move about with a broken hip. Like I said earlier, she was fiercely independent and didn't like using a bedpan because it meant somebody would have to clean up after her.

Around 1 November 2003, she had a heart attack. As soon as I got the news, I started calling everyone so that we could be ready. My sister was the closest one to her location wise. She called me and told me that I didn't need to worry nor come down right then, Grandma was in ICU, sitting up eating a BBQ sandwich and drinking buttermilk through a straw a couple of hours after her heart attack. That was to be her last meal.

She held on for 6 days. Something about fluid building up around her heart and lungs. A couple of days before she passed, my aunt was sitting up with her. My uncle Ronnie came by with supper. Grandma was doped up somewhat on painkillers. When Ronnie got there, Grandma asked who it was, and my aunt told her it was Ronnie. Grandma looked up at Ronnie and asked him if had come to "Knock her in the head" Ronnie laughed and said , "No".

"Well somebody needs to" said Grandma.

Grandma was a member of the Highland Heights Church of Christ. The preacher came and did the funeral and did a wonderful job. Grandma was a character. There was no diplomacy, no hidden agenda, no subterfuge. What you saw was what you got. Be careful what questions you asked, because you were going to get an honest answer back. She wasn't the snuggling type of Grandma, and more than once, I was forced to go cut my own switch. But even though Grandma wasn't real physically affectionate, there was no doubt that she worshipped her grandkids. When you visited, you weren't leaving until you ate something, even if her cooking might damn near kill you.

Grandma just plain fucking rocked.

For some reason Jack Emerson just reminded me of my grandma. He was around my age, but he treated me with that same level of acceptance, except he wasn't as rough around the edges as Grandma, and I don't remember him ever making me go cut a switch.

I can't say that I knew him really well. Just well enough so that we knew each others name and were always glad when we ran into each other. We'd catch up for a couple of minutes and then maybe see each other 6 months to a year later.

The last time I saw him was at Folk Alliance in January. He didn't make it to the AMA in Sept and I asked about him. Every once in a while, I'd call out to the house and leave a message just saying hi. In fact, I last did that about a month ago.

Then just last week, I was thinking I needed to send him an email. But I never got around to it. Now It's too late.

So today, I spent some time on the phone and called some friends who, like me, are getting older. I don't want to be too late again.

My father's dying in September was a shock to my world. Grandma's death earlier this month was more of a blessing, as she had been in pain for a long time. Jack's death was different. I'm sad. He was a good guy. A friendly guy. A guy who took the time to sit and talk with me over a drink about inconsequential shit, just two human beings connecting. A guy who laughed with me once, and who smiled when he saw me. We weren't close, but I considered him a friend, and now I'm sad and missing him.

What I wouldn't give to be able to spend just 1 more hour with my Dad, my Grandma, or with Jack Emerson.

So, in memory of Jack, sit down and spend a few minutes with someone and talk about some inconsequential shit, share a laugh, and a smile. Accept someone unconditionally for a few minutes. Share the human existence with another human.

And then reach out to those people you think about but never get the time to write, call, or visit. Do it before it's too late. Then think of Jack and smile.

NAVY #12 Bari Italy

Originally written in 1999


Howdy friends,

If you're getting this e-mail, it means that you are a friend of mine, or at least I thought you were a friend of mine, or you're a friend of one of my friends and they forwarded to you.

Those assholes.

If you got it and didn't want it, or you just want to say hi, or remind me that I suck, you have several options; The easiest would be to just delete it. Another option would be to send me a nasty, hateful scathing letter. The final option would be to beat the hell out of your computer with a hammer, preferably a nine-pound hammer (obligatory musical reference). Your choice.

This is my report on Italy, specifically Bari, Italy and my recent visit.

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(5/27/99)

Bari, Italy is a very old city. That shouldn't be a surprise to anyone, since Italy is pretty old as well. Italy is located in Europe, which has been there for quite a long time too they tell me. The cool thing about old cities is that, by law, they have to have castles, cathedrals, and lots of statues of famous dead guys. Europe has the monopoly on famous old dead guys because it's been there for so long. Europeans take a lot of pride in their history and the quality of their dead folks.

Back in the early 1000's sometime, the citizens of Bari were getting picked on a lot because most of their famous dead guys were losers as far as dead guys go, and they had nothing cool to brag about. Rome had a bunch of dead Christians, Pisa had a tower that was about to fall down, Florence had a bunch of longhair hippie artist types, and Venice had a backed up sewer. All Bari had was some solid upright Catholics who also happened to be pirates when they weren't out fishing or visiting all the cool places in Italy. In order to grow into a for-real city, that sucks mucho dinero out of tourists' pockets, they needed an attraction to draw the rubes in. Being Catholics, they knew that people are more willing to spend money on religious attractions than secular. So they formed a committee to promote tourism. That committee decided they needed a new dead guy. Someone they could plan a celebration around. Someone who could also help raise some capital. They also decided that if you are going to do something, you might as well go all out.



First thing they did was to draw up a list of dead guys that were candidates, then keep weeding them out until they found the perfect guy. Jesus was the first choice, but seeing as how he refused to stay dead he was ruled out. Leonardo Da Vinci was pretty cool and a front runner, but he was a long hair and he wasn't really religious enough. Joan of Arc was considered because she was a virgin chick who heard voices and would draw in the women, the perverted men, and the crazies who also heard voices. But it was discovered that she was French and no one really likes the French, so she was rejected. That left the last candidate, Santa Claus. That's right, Santa Claus. When Santa Clause finally made the cut, A bunch of sailors loaded up their ship, went off to the Jersey shore and dug up Santa's bones, brought him back to Bari and built a big Cathedral around him. Back then he wasn't known as Santa, he was still going by his secret identity of Saint Nicoli. We non-Italians bastardized it to St Nicholas, then St Nick, then Santa Claus. So Bari is the place where they buried Santa Claus. Each year, they have a celebration for St Nicoli. More about that later.

Even though the early folks of Bari were kind of morbid, sailing around the Mediterranean digging up the bones of famous dead guys, it's a really nice city with lots of Italians. The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the ship was the traffic. Driving a motor vehicle in Italy is a serious event and they put everything they have into it. It's not any coincidence that Mario Andretti won all of those races, It's because he learned to drive in Italy.




One of the laws in Italy is that you must drive as fast as humanly possible at all times. Horns are connected to the clutch and turn signal indicators. If a motor vehicle's horn is not sounded every 5 seconds the vehicle will automatically shut down. Traffic markings, lights, and signs are just there as a suggestion for tourists and to get the pedestrians bunched up and make them easier to hit. Crossing the street is a lot like the running of the bulls. DO NOT LOOK BOTH WAYS. DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT. If you do either of these things, Italian drivers see it as a challenge and will do their best to clip you with a fender. To cross the street, you must blindly step off the curb and go, heedless of honking horns, screeching rubber, and curses in Italian. It's no wonder that Catholicism started in Italy. There's nothing like crossing a busy Italian street to get you right with Mr. Jesus and all the Saint's.



Parking here is nearly as amusing as the driving. If you can get your front bumper in, It's a parking space. The streets are narrow. There are no parking lots for each store. If you need something in the store, you just park in the street. Or double park in the street. Or triple park. Gas stations are just three pumps on the curb and an attendants' shack the size of a phone booth. I have a bigger garage at my house that most of the body shops and garages in Bari do. All the work is done at the curb. That's not really a problem as most Italian cars are about the same size as a shopping cart. A car is not a necessity here. The public transportation system is a good one and besides, God gave you two feet so get your ass out there and use them.

I noticed that Italian teenagers don't make out in cars, they make out in parks. Italians like parks. They also like fountains and statues of famous dead guys. Any chance they get, they combine the three. Space is at a premium in the towns and cities. The streets are narrow and the buildings tall, but you can't go more than a couple of blocks without coming to a park in Bari. The parks here are the community gathering places of the city. Most of the stores close in the afternoon to reopen in the early evening, a much more civilized way of doing business I believe. In the parks you find the older people, and when school lets out, a soccer game is guaranteed to break out between all of the 7-12 year olds. The teenagers are sitting on remote park benches doing whatever it is teenagers do. The little kids are on the playground equipment, and the adults are visiting and socializing. This is what life must have been like before cable television and Nintendo. These poor people, actually having to get out and interact with each other in the flesh.




Italy must be the world's number one consumer of Ice Cream. I swear, there are at least six ice cream stores on every block. Of course, the ice cream stores also sell beer and expresso. I wonder if Baskin Robbins has ever considered this marketing strategy? For all the ice cream that consumed here, there is a remarkable shortage of fat people. All the women look like Sophia Loren and all the men look like Fabio (with a haircut)(before he kissed the duck at 110 mph). It's probably due to the fact that Italians aren't as obsessed with being slugs like we Americans are. There is only one McDonalds in Bari and it doesn't even have a drive through window.




The restaurants here are wonderful. Sure, some of their food sucks. They serve soda without ice in it. Their idea of a steak looks and tastes like filet of roadkill. But if you want Italian food, the place to go is Italy. I'll never eat at Olive Garden again. The other night I had the best plate of spaghetti that I've ever eaten in my life. It was so good, I had a gastronomic orgasm. It was just a plate of noodles and tomato sauce, but the noodles were perfectly cooked and it was obvious that the sauce wasn't Ragu.

Processed foods don't seem to be that common here. I didn't see a single Krogers, Walmart, Food Lion, or Farm Fresh. The grocery stores I did visit seemed to specialize in wine, vegetables, and dry goods. No premixed dinners, no Spagettio's, no Mac and Cheese in a box. Lots of dry Pasta, cereals, and each had a butcher shop with fresh meats and sausages.



If you like pizza, wait until you have a real Italian pizza. Thin crust, thick crust, New York Style, St. Louis style, Chicago style, Dominos, Pizza Hut, Tombstone, its all crap when compared to Italian Pizza. Actually, St. Louis style pizza is crap when compared to just about anything. Italian Pizza is made with a hand tossed crust. Then it's covered with handmade sauce and covered with sliced cheese. Real cheese, not some fake pasteurized cheese flavored byproduct that comes pre-shredded in a bag. The secret lies in the baking of the pie. Good pizza is baked in a brick oven fired by wood, not on a conveyer. A brick oven is the only way to go. That cheese pizza will be the best thing you've had in your mouth since your mama's teat.

The shopping in Bari is good. It seems to me that most of the stores specialized in handbags and ugly shoes. I saw a Gucci, a Yves St Laurent, a United Colors of Bennigton and a Levi's store. The coolest shopping was the street vendors. You could buy Nike ballcaps, pottery, watches, pictures of Jesus, hamsters, and just about everything else from these people.

Sexuality in Italy is something that's neither flaunted nor repressed. It just is. Newsstands are everywhere. The nudie magazines are in plain view next to the glamour mags and newspapers of the world. Nudity, or various stages of nudity that are normally censored in the US are everywhere. On the topless beaches, (too cold right now), the billboards, magazine covers, to the product labels. The women here recognize and embrace their sexuality without using it as a weapon. Skintight pants are in (thank you Mr. Jesus) as is the color black. When I say skintight, I'm talking spraypaint tight. Sunglasses are also a necessity. I saw no baggy pants except on the American tourists. I also didn't see any bare navels, and only saw one body-piercing place.

The music scene here in Bari didn't seem to exist. I was unable to find a single live performance venue. I didn't see a single discotheque or honkytonk. If a fellow was to open himself up a genuine Texas style honky-tonk with live music, a jukebox, and sell 1" thick ribeye steaks, and baby back ribs, I think he could make more money than Garth. (obligatory Garth bashing). I was told that country music is getting very popular in Italy as well as the rest of Europe, but I didn't see it.




I took my guitar and mandolin with me and sat out in one of the parks and played for awhile and gave my buddy a guitar lesson. As I was playing Nine-Pound Hammer, an older gentleman who was walking by stopped and asked me if I was playing country music. I told him I was and we got into a conversation. He told me he was a jazz guitar player. It just so happened that I had just bought a Django Reinhardt disc earlier that afternoon and when I showed it to him his face lit up. I could see the thoughts going through his head: "maybe this goofy-ass American bastard isn't as stupid as he looks". We got into a discussion about Gypsy Music, Stephan Grapelli, and Django. I let him borrow my guitar and I played my mandolin as he jumped into a swinging version of Route 66. It was really, really cool. This guy was about 70. We jammed for about an hour. He didn't tell me I sucked even once. At least not in English. It was so cool to go to another country and be able to connect with someone on that level.

As I was limping back to the ship on our last night in port,(I tore my PCL, ACL, or AFL-CIO. One of those knee ligaments anyway) We stumbled upon a parade. I was raised Southern Baptist and Church of Christ. Not too far away from where they handle snakes to show their faith in Mr. Jesus. All of those people who talk in tongues and handle snakes are just amateurs when it comes to religious faith, celebration, and devotion when you start comparing them to the Italian Catholics. When a bunch of sailors will hop in a boat in the middle of the night and go steal the bones of a dead Saint, then build a cathedral and celebration around it, letting everyone know that they have the bones and you don't, that there is devotion.



What I stumbled upon was a parade celebrating St Nicola, the Patron Saint of the Sea. The same guy that the Santa Claus legend is based upon. It was the night before the traditional boat procession that takes the statue of St Nicoli out through the harbor. It was a parade complete with priests on stilts beating drums, A ship of some type on wheels that symbolizes a ship of some type without wheels. Renaissance Street dancers, fifer's, children dressed up in medieval costumes chasing grownups also dressed up, penitent's pulling a huge wagon of yellow roses that were being passed out to the crowd. There were Nun's, Priests, families, and everything else. This was a big deal.

Venders lined both sides of the parade route. The city and parade routes were packed. I wish I spoke Italian so I could have learned what the hell was going on. I bought something that looked like a goat testicle sandwich from one of the vendors. I don't know if there was some kind of special significance between goat testicle sandwiches and St Nicoli, I hope not. I noticed that there were a lot of vendors selling a large variety of nuts, which I believe, does have some type of historical significance.

If I get to come back to Bari, I plan on visiting all the monuments, cathedrals, and other memorials and learning more about the history of the place and all the famous dead guys. I spent most of my visit here trying not to get run over, eating, and just walking around looking at stuff. The architecture here is amazing. If you ever get the chance to go to Italy, do it. You'll love it. The people are friendly, the country is beautiful, and the food is good. Just be very careful crossing the street or driving. I love this place and I love these Italian-Italians. They aren't nearly as annoying as the Italian-Americans that we have back home. :)

Keep in touch, just don't touch me there.
Jeff Wall

NAVY #11 NATO Med Cruise 99

After the birth of my daughter I drew orders to the USS Peterson DD-969, a Spruance Class Destroyer homeported in Norfolk, VA. I was excited about these orders. I had started out my Naval career on a Spru-Can, the USS Arthur W Radford DD-969, and I would be finishing it on a Spru-Can.

We were scheduled to deploy soon as the flagship of a NATO Taskforce. This was to be primarily a Wine and Cheese cruise where we would spend the large majority off our time in various ports showing the flag. You can't do any better than this. I had just won the Navy lottery. I had landed a genuine pleasure crusie, except for a little war going on in Kosovo. Why did it seem that every time I had something fun planned a war or something equally annoying had to pop up and get int he way?

Before we left on cruise, we had to do all the normal pre-deployment workup and training like making sure that we knew how to blow stuff up and when we accidentally set the ship on fire that we could put it out again. (That's an important skill to have).

In 1999, Navy ships were just starting to get email access. We didn't have individual accounts, instead each ship had an email address and all emails came into a central account and from there would be printed up and passed out to the recipients. It was an amazing technical advance that 10 years later looks like Fred Flintstone technology,

Having access to email meant that I could stay in contact with friends. I started sending out a mass email chronicling our trip. It was never intended to be anymore than what it was, just a running travel-log sent to a couple of pals, Instead, it began to be posted around the internet and forwarded around to others. As a result, I got to meet some new people and make some new friends, many who are still friends to this day.

What you are getting ready to read are those emails.

This first one kind of sucks. It's a typical letter home.
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5/20/99

Hey everybody,

Not much going on here. I just finished annual performance evaluations on ten of my people, effectively destroying their chances of ever being promoted, with nothing more than a No 2 pencil. The hardest part was saying "You Suck" in ten different ways. That's one of the bonuses of being in charge, being able to indiscriminately destroy careers and ruin lives on nothing more than a whim. I love power.

We are still out here floating around in circles. My wife sent me a box almost a month ago with a new CD player (mine committed suicide) and four cartons of cigarettes. I still haven't received it. I'm down to four packs of smokes. I originally brought seven cartons with me. If I should run out of cigarettes before her box arrives, I would advise all of you to stock up on canned food, bottled water, and head for a cave somewhere. I WILL start blowing shit up. I'm already starting to get nervous and tense.

Packages are taking an average of ten days to get here so if you are sending one, make sure you include enough water and goatchow in the box to keep your kids alive that long. Letters are taking an average of five days to get here, not than any of you have bothered to mail one, but my sweet grandmother from Lebanon, Tennessee (culture capital of the universe and world headquarters of Cracker Barrel restaurants) wrote me. She just turned 85 years old. My folks took her to Uncle Bud's Catfish Restaurant for her birthday for all-you-can-eat catfish. Grandma doesn't get out much except to go to church. Uncle Buds is a big deal for her. Hell, it's a big deal for us too. Grandma is doing fine. She had one of her cataracts cut off and is having the other eye done next month. Her blood pressure is doing a lot better although her legs pain her some. She's old and frail, and about half crazy, but I bet she could still kick some serious ass. Grandma has spent most of her life on a farm. Farm life ain't for pussies.

My sister is still single. She's the smart one of the family. The contract for her software job in Knoxville is about up. She was starting to sweat not having anything else lined up because her major fear in life is growing up to be just like me. She just got word that Microsoft is interested in her. She has an interview with The Great Satan for a possible position as Junior Souless Demon in charge of Microsoft Customer Service coming up. Wish her luck.

Mama and Daddy are doing fine. Daddy is building houses and burying the bodies just as fast as he possibly can. Mama is just being Mama, taking care of the clan, making sure we are all saying our prayers, brushing our teeth, taking our Flintstones chewable vitamins and keeping daddies bidness all on the straight and narrow with the bank and IRS.

My brother Tim is working his ass off. He has about 15 jobs, His significant other, my fag-in-law, John is doing the same. All of you homophobes out there should hang around my brother and John for about a week. I've never met two people who are more loving. Not to each other, they fight like most married couples do, but the way they are loving towards other people is a sight to see. They take care of strays. Stray dogs, stray people, stray anything. They help the elderly, the sick, single moms, our parents, our grandparents, anyone they see who needs help, they help. They would literally give you the shirt off their back if they thought you needed it. The cool thing is that they do it because they think it's the right thing to do. They don't do it for any type of compensation, reward, or even praise. They do it because it needs to be done. I'm proud of them.

My wife Alesia is doing okay. It's really easy for her to get angry at me because shit's falling apart while I'm gone. The baby requires most of her time, the landlord is a semi-dick, the drapes need to be hung, the lawnmower won't start, our son needs help with his homework, the car needs tuning up, the water-heater's broke, and I should be there to help her do it. This is our first six month cruise since we've been together. She's actually being a real trooper about it. She's proving that she doesn't need me, she just want's me. I miss her. She's my bestest friend.

My son Marc is just about to turn 15. I remember when I was fifteen. I wonder if I can lock him in a closet until he turns 25? that was a very hard ten years for me. If he tries even half the shit I tried, I'm going to kick his ass. I miss him a lot. He's being a big help to his mama.

Baby Becca has learned how to roll over. Alesia says that you can put her down on one side of the room and before you can completely turn around, she's already at the other side. She's also started eating rice cereal. She's tried baby vegetables but think they all suck. Like father like daughter. It feels like she'll be starting college before I get back. She turns 7 months at the end of the month.

Speaking of birthday's, My mom and wife recently just had a birthday. In fact, they both have the same birthday. I'm not going to tell you how old either of them are because they would kick my ass and quit sending me boxes.

As for me, I've been teaching myself a bunch of Steve Young songs on guitar and mandolin, giving an occasional guitar lesson here and there, chipping paint, making sure we don't get shot in the ass by a cruise missile, playing babysitter to 22 kids, trying to make sure that they are all well fed, semi-content, and kept busy. I'm doing paperwork, waving a monkee's paw over an electronics cabinet hoping voodoo with fix the sumbitch because nothing else I've tried has, listening to some music, waiting for mail to arrive, writing letters, and doing damn near anything else I can do to stay busy and make the time go by quicker.

I have 376 days left until retirement. This is my last med cruise or deployment, my last war (hopefully), my last ship, and my last year in the Navy. I can't tell you how much I long to be surrounded by limestone, cedar trees, and red clay mud. Yes, if possible, and I can find a job, I'm going back to Tennessee. Which is kind of funny seeing as how I joined the Navy to get the hell out of Tennessee.

I don't know anything about the war other than seeing the occasional jet or cruise missile fly overhead. Those of you with CNN know far more than I do. I have heard that we are supposed to go back to Italy somewhere for four days. I just don't know where and I don't know when. Probably the same place we visited before. I have also heard rumor that the ship is supposed to visit Barcelona, Spain sometime this summer. If you have any twang contacts in Barcelona, let me know.

If I have your mailing address, I've sent you at least one lovely postcard from our little pleasure cruise. I might of also written you a genuine, hand written letter that gets delivered by a postman and everything (remember those?) If you want on the postcard mailing list to receive postcards,(offer no longer valid) email me with a snail mail address.

Sorry this letter ain't that funny. It's just a basic update on my life. There's big goings on here on the proud ship Peterson that I'll inform you about in a few days. Until then, God bless.

Jeff