Halloween

By: Garland Davis

My neighbors are putting up Halloween decorations and all the stores stocking great displays of tooth rotting candy to placate the little goblins bring back memories of a couple of Halloweens where I grew up in Western North Carolina. Halloween in the country in the fifties was a little different.

The road I lived on was dirt and gravel until 1958. It was about a mile and a half long and ran from NC 411 to NC 66. There was a total of eight occupied houses, one antebellum log house without a roof, various stock barns and two tobacco curing barns along its length. If a kid were of a mind to go Trick or Treating all he would get was an apple at the Vanhoy sister’s house. Everybody had apple trees. We were burned out on apples by the time Halloween came around.

Besides, being pre-television farm country, most people went to bed at sunset and were up and had the cows milked by sunrise. Just about everyone had a pack of free range dogs who would raise hell if one put a foot on their property. Most dogs would just raise a ruckus, but some folks had dogs that would bite. Which brings to mind my grandmother’s Blue Tick Hound, appropriately named Blue. Blue would bite anyone except my grandmother. She would baby talk to him, and he would wag his tail and act like a little puppy. My uncle used to say that Blue was “so God Damned mean that he was afraid to go to sleep. He feared he might wake up and bite himself.”

My grandmother lived in a three room house. One room was originally a log cabin (BTW it is still standing) built in 1825. Two other frame rooms had been added. The kitchen was on one end and the log cabin room on the other end. Each room had a front and back door. Blue was usually on the porch in front of the door of the room containing my grandmother. When she went to work at the hosiery mill, Blue would sleep in the driveway. My uncle Frank had just gotten his first car and came home one afternoon while Blue was napping in the drive. He blew the horn and yelled for Blue to move. Blue just looked at him and went back to sleep. He jumped out of the car and yelled, “Blue, you son of a bitch, I’m gonna kick the shit out of you.”

Blue had a different idea. He came up off the ground with a growl and grabbed a pants leg in his mouth and ripped it half off. Frank in fear for his life, scrambled for the car, dropping his keys as he did so. Blue went back to his bed and went back to sleep. Every time Frank tried to get out to get his keys, Blue would jump up and growl. He spent the entire afternoon in his car waiting for my grandmother to come home.

The only people on my street that didn’t have dogs were the Vanhoy sisters and Mr. McCandless. Mr. McCandless lived in the first house off 411. He farmed a little but primarily raised ducks which he sold to a butcher in town. He refused to keep any dogs because he was afraid they would kill the ducks or suck the eggs. Mr. McCandless was a crotchety old fellow who we used to torment. In the spring and fall, we would walk to school instead of take the bus. Mr. McCandless would be on his porch reading his paper. We would stop out of his sight and pass his house one at a time.

The first boy would say, “Good morning Mr. McCandless.”

He would look over his paper and reply, “Good morning boy.”

A couple of minutes later a second boy would pass, “Good morning Mr. McCandless.”

He would lower the paper a little more forcefully and say, “Good morning” In a gruff tone.

And so on with a third and fourth boy and each reply to the “Good morning” getting gruffer and louder. About the time the fifth boy offered him a good morning, he would jump up, stomp around, throw the newspaper and yell, “Good morning, God dammit, Good morning!”

It was the fall of fifty-five or fifty-six, a few days before Halloween. The four of us who usually ran together, Junior, Bobby, Joe, and I were walking home from school when Mr. McCandless accosted us in front of his house. He was carrying a double-barreled shotgun.

He said, “I knowed it’s you boys that turned my shithouse over last year’s Halloween. I’m letten’ you know that I’m spendin’ the night in the shithouse with this here twelve gauge loaded with number six shot. Jist letten’ you know afore you come messin’ around my shithouse.”

We assured him that it wasn’t us who turned his toilet over the previous year. But he had thrown down the gauntlet. Now we had to do something. We had a stock of cherry bombs, and M-80’s that we were saving for New Years, but decided now would be the appropriate time to use them.

We snuck through the woods and came up behind the shithouse. Junior threw a couple of rocks against the outhouse to ascertain if he was actually in there. He hollered, “I told you,” and stuck the shotgun out the door and fired it.

Joe had the deepest voice and yelled, “Come out of that shithouse with your hands in the air or we will shoot.”

We started lighting the bombs and throwing them around the toilet.

Mr. McCandless yelled, “Git away from my shithouse,” and discharged both barrels through the door.

Mrs. McCandless, thinking that the old man was involved in a gunfight, yelled out the back door, “Herman, I called the Sheriff, stay in the toilet till he gits here.”

Hearing that, we all ran off through the woods. By the time the deputy sheriff arrived we were safe in the old barn across the road from my house. The sheriff picked up a group of boys from across the railroad tracks. They were on their way to turn the McCandless outhouse over. It seems they had been the culprits the previous year.

The other Halloween that stands out in my mind was the year before my dad died. Four sisters lived about a quarter mile down the road from our house. Their last name was Rising. Most everyone referred to them as the Rising girls. I halfway had a crush on one and lusted after her, but that is a story for another time. They went to a different school than we did. The demarcation line between two school districts ran between our houses. Our school bus came in from 411 and turned around at our drive. Their school bus came in from 66 and turned around in their yard.

Their mother owned all the land across the road, including the old log barn across from my house. We had used it for our cows for a while when Hurricane Hazel flooded out our barn. Other than that it was vacant. To us, it became the Alamo surrounded by Mexicans or Fort Apache surrounded by Indians. To the Rising girls, it was a play house or a Sweet Shoppe for their girly games.

That Halloween they came up with the idea to turn it into a haunted barn. They enlisted our help. We thought it a good idea and fell enthusiastically into their plan. They were cutting bats and spiders from craft paper and wanted us to make ghosts. They had a bunch of old sheets and wanted us to stuff them with straw, paint eyes on them, tie a rope around them and hang them from the rafters. There were also four or five old pairs of overalls and shirts. They wanted headless bodies lying around.

We worked hard making ghosts and dead bodies. There was a bag of athletic tube socks included in the pile of clothing. I came up with the idea and the others, enthusiastically joined in.

We stuffed the socks and put penises on all the ghosts and dead bodies.

The girls discovered our additions to their creatures about the time my dad came home from work. As he was getting out of his car, the youngest girl ran across the road to him and, crying said, “Mr. Salmons, we were trying to make a haunted barn and them mean old boys put Peters on all the ghosts.

My dad gave me a halfhearted ass whipping, but I figure he thought it was funny. I heard him laughing about it when he told my uncles and cousins.

We had to make our fun at Halloween without the rewards of today’s tame trick or treating.

Paen of an Asia Sailor

By Garland Davis

I could carry, work, and tell stories with any man I ever saw.

I have been twenty-four years a Chief, and forty-one years an Asia Sailor;

No deployment was ever too long for me,

I have saved the lives of sailors and others.

I have had hundreds of girlfriends and a wife.

I spent l my money on drinks and pleasure of the girls.

Were I young again, I would spend my life the same way over.

There is no life so happy as an Asia Sailor’s life.

The Dinosaur

By Cort Willoughby

More than fair to say I’ve always enjoyed a good laugh. Often at my own expense . Never have I destroyed property or malicious intent toward anyone in my pursuit of a laugh or a good time.

One extra warm day in the AUTUMN a neighbor, John Bradley , lived up the road had brought his corn picking machine to the farm that parallels the one we lived in. Any Kid loves machinery, the noise and work being done , a pure magnet that drew me to observe . John a tall lanky man , pronounced ADAM’S apple and generally a shitty disposition.

Still , it was the only game in town that day and I was gonna record it to memory . Several passes and the wagon was full . John stopped near my viewing spot to swap out trailers . The old “POPPIN JOHN” JOHN DEERE had steam coming from the radiator . John asks , “ DO Y’ALL have water up there?”

Pissed me off instantly, also fair to say I’ll die with that chip on my shoulder . I SAID HELL YES , even as a kid I was ready to hook it up, what kinda asshole gonna ask that ? He says, “ll give you a dime if you go and bring a bucket of water for my tractor.” HELL YES, I’m a rocket blazing to get this dime in my pocket .

Get to the house , pick up the two gallon can . Now , this can was a Sinclair Dinosaur can , had two holes in it with bailing wire for a handle. THIS bucket , OUR NIGHT TIME PISS BUCKET my youngest brother was responsible for empty duty every morning . Rusty inside and yes, smells like piss.

I drop the water bucket into the well and fill two gallon of water into the Dinosaur. SINCLAIR actually looked cooler, chill water visible . I get back to John Bradley . HE grabs the bucket n pours into the radiator . HE too spots condensation on the outside . Still no effort to hand over my earnings . Says “This won’t kill a fellow if I drink from it ?”

“NO, I DON’T THINK SO!”

GLUG GLUG GLUG ADAMS APPLE BOUNCING LIKE A BASKET BALL . HE stops , hawks several times spitting . Says this smells like PISS!!! It should I say , that’s our piss bucket ! Then I really get in the wind.

To this day John Bradley owes me a dime.

Metal Roomby

By Garland Davis

I found a show on TV that fascinates me. It is titled Battlebots. They have these cool remote controlled things with hammers, saws, spinning drums, and arms as weapons. They release two of them into an arena and the try to dismantle each other. I was thinking, “I’m gonna build me one of these mothers.”

Then it occurred to me that this isn’t such a good idea. My past and recent experiences with electricity haven’t been so great. I can still change TV channels by twitching my eye. Suddenly I devised a method to build myself a Battlebot.

Three years ago, I bought a Roomba robot vacuum cleaner when my wife was in Japan visiting her family. I would activate it when I woke up and again before I went to bed. The floors were clean and I didn’t have to drag that vacuum around the house. The Roomba gave me time for more constructive tasks such as restocking the reefer with Bud Light. (I used to have an occasional beer in those days). I had most of them on the occasion of my wife being out of the country.

My wife didn’t like it! Especially after I left for Branson to attend the Asia Sailors reunion and preprogrammed it to start at 10 AM each day. It drove her nuts, which was my intent when I programmed it. I figured out why she doesn’t like it. She can’t control the damned thing. Also, she lost it. It started one morning and disappeared. It has a feature that when it gets stuck it will ask for help and then shut down. I came back from Branson and she told me it was gone. I searched the house for two days and finally found it under the recliner.

To get back to the story of Battlebots, I decided to convert the Roomba to a Bot. To beef it up, I built a framework of angle iron and sheet metal to protect it. This added considerably to the weight. In initial tests, the battery depleted very fast. So, I ordered three replacement batteries and rigged them into the power system. I had an old chop saw that I modified and attached as a weapon. I added three more batteries to the series to meet power requirements. The Roomba has a rudimentary guidance system but I needed a system I could control remotely.

A kid down the street has several remote controlled cars and planes. I asked for his help. He gave me a hand held remote and the “brain” that is installed in the vehicle. He also gave me a memory chip and motion sensors to increase reaction times. Unknowingly the chip had part of an “Artificial Intelligence” program he was trying to adapt to his remote controlled drones to give them more autonomy.

Finally, after weeks of preparation, the Bot was ready for testing. I set up an old metal trash can in my garage to test the Bot’s ferocity. I placed Metal Roomby (The name I gave it) on the floor and activated it. I pushed the control to move it toward the trash can. Roomby spun around and viciously attacked a broom standing in the corner. After reducing the broom to splinters, it attacked and dismembered the garage vacuum. It then crashed into the wall until a dustpan and foxtail fell from the hook on which they were hanging and reduced them to splinters. It looked as if Roomby was trying to eliminate the competition. It then spent the next twenty minutes sweeping up all the debris it had created and came to me and stopped. It was almost as it were begging to be emptied.

I pushed the button to turn it off. Not only did it not shut down, it growled at me! I threw a whisk broom into the center of the garage and while it was disposing of that, I unplugged the recharger unit and ran into the house.

Evidently the AI program had corrupted the brain of the Roomba.

It just sat there in the middle of the garage watching the back door. Every few days I threw a brush into the garage, hoping that it was discharged. I was afraid to let my wife vacuum. With that saw, Roomby could come right through the wall if it heard the vacuum cleaner.

I could not go into the garage for a few days. It was pissed at me for taking its charging pad. I think it is possessed. I don’t know how it is recharges itself.

A city street sweeper came by cleaning the street yesterday. Roomy went to the curb and sat almost as if it were in awe. The last time I saw Roomy it was following the street sweeper down the street sweeping the curb behind it. Roomy took with itself my desire to own a fighting robot.

On a positive note, I have the cleanest garage in town. Roomy swept up three time a day…

Down to Clown

By Daniel Joseph DeCampo

Today was a normal day in port at home in Yokosuka, a day after a duty night, nonetheless, which is one that drags on forever. Myself and the crew should be back out to sea soon and get our lives together once again…

Time in port, here in Yokosuka, is always great. The Sailors with families, get time with the family and the guys without, get time to clown.

“Clowning,” used as verb by myself and some of my closest Shipmates, quite a bit these days, is a term with a broad meaning in my opinion. Some examples of conversations I have had with other Sailors using this awesome term:

Sailor A: Would you like to run off base to get some Japanese curry for lunch?

Me: Curry isn’t my normally my thing but, I’m down to clown.

Sailor B: Hey, Bro, are you down with getting some chu-hi’s after work?

Me: For sure, the guys from Supply said they want to clown as well.

Sailor C: Oktoberfest is going is going on in Yokohama today, are you down to clown?

Me: Yes, Motherfucker, clowning is what I do best…

Oktoberfest in Yokohama is an experience like no other. It has been a fairly popular event for quite a while therefore, it brings out the “melting pot” aspect of this Tokyo area that I love so much. Folks from the entire area coming out to drink good beer, eat good food, just generally down to clown.

My first experience with this fabled Oktoberfest was this weekend. Myself and my slightly more salty Road Dawg, known as DV, trained it out to Yokohama and arrived there around 1pm on Sunday and the party was in full effect.

At the start we ran into a dance instructor, new to the area. She was originally from Baltimore but, has lived in Asia for the last few years, most recently Seoul, South Korea. She asked if she could join us, being unfamiliar with the dynamic that can be Yokohama. DV and I, naturally welcomed her along.

She and I had a connection, on some level. We went through the afternoon with copious amounts of beer, good conversations, and bullshitting with random people, as well as folks I know, along the way. DV was very busy running around, getting numbers, coordinating conga lines, exchanging political views, and making sure the band was going to start on time.

It seemed DV and I were officially separated around the time that darkness hit the drunk fest and I came to the decision it was time to take the dance instructor to dinner. A place called Dumbo’s Pizza near Yokohama Station has good pizza and good wings that are pricey but, they have some good wine that is fairly inexpensive. we ate the food, drank the wine. I asked, “Coming Back to Yokosuka with me?” she said yes, and that she wasn’t teaching a dance class until 3 the next afternoon. She came back with me, good things happened and the end of it all, she decided to start freaking out about her boyfriend that, she all the sudden is concerned about, after two hours in my bed.

If she mentioned a boyfriend earlier, I either didn’t hear it or chose to ignore it. She went home at that point and did text me when she got home.

The moral of the story is the Tokyo area, Oktoberfest being a tiny example, is truly a melting pot with people from all over. Since being here, I have drank with bankers from Singapore, businessmen from Lithuania, Russian Dancers, British musicians, Brazilian Factory Managers, and of course dance instructors from Baltimore…

This being a recent story, my mind continues to go crazy and that’s okay. The Navy continues to be good, as does life and I think that’s cool.

The work week will come to and it looks like DV and I will head to Oktoberfest for not all of the beer there, just the necessary amount for Round 2, I have no doubt that it will be something to write about..

“Homecoming Parade Float”

By Brion Boyles

OK. so…I was 18, new in the Navy and on my first port visit to Japan. The ship, USS MOTICELLO, had pulled into Yokosuka, and a shipmate asked me if I wanted to go to Tokyo with him and a couple of other guys in a rented car and visit an old friend they knew… maybe play some poker. “Sure!”, I said, and we all piled into the car and headed off.

We parked on a tiny street fronting a tall apartment building, and went up to the 4rth floor, where a party was in progress. I sat in on the poker game until I felt the need to unload, asked for the bathroom, and headed in. Locking the door, I turned and looked for the toilet. “Where the fuck is the TOILET!?!?”

There, obviously, is the sink, there’s a wastebasket…and recessed into the floor was what looked like a ceramic bedroom slipper, with a drain hole and some kind of tank above it. This, I figgered, was the mystical Japanese-style toilet I had heard a bit about. As I was already starting to “cap”, I thought no further…dropped trou, squatted over the narrow hole and let loose a perfect, foot-long log so dry and solid it made a “TINK!” noise when it hit the ceramic. I made use of a few sheets of ass-wipe from the roll, and then looked for the flush lever.

No flush lever. There was a stumpy thing poking out of the tank, so I pushed it, tried to twist it…no joy. My concrete turd still lay motionless at the bottom of the pure-white trough. Now someone is pounding at the door…”You OK, man?”…

“Yeah! Just a minute!”. Not knowing what else to do, I yanked about 20 feet of toilet paper and carefully picked up my still-warm work of art, rolling it in the toilet paper like an Egyptian artifact. Then, I quietly opened the tiny window over the tank and lobbed the shitlog-mummy out into the darkness of the Oriental night.

I returned to the poker game, whereupon the host said, “I hope that missing lever didn’t give you trouble. Most people figure out that’s what the bottle opener on the string by the sink is for…” “Sure, no sweat…figgered it out right away!” I said, not wanting to look like a “boot camp” in front of all these salty sailors.

Well, we played into the night and decided to head back to the ship, but as we approached the rental car, to my utter shame and horror….I noticed it looked like a badly done float in a High School Homecoming Parade….strewn with toilet paper and Milk Duds….

“WTF?!?!?” sez my shipmate, to which I muttered, “Just get the fuck in, and drive fast. I’ll explain later….”

The Missiles of October

By: Garland Davis

During a thirteen-day period fifty-eight years ago, the U.S. and the Soviet Union came within hours of going to war. The pilot of an American U-2 spy plane making a high-altitude pass over Cuba on October 14, 1962, photographed a Soviet SS-4 medium-range ballistic missile being assembled for installation.

The critical photographs snapped by U-2 reconnaissance planes over Cuba were shipped for analysis to a top-secret CIA facility in a most unlikely location: a building above the Steuart Ford car dealership in a rundown section of Washington, D.C. While used car salesmen were wheeling and dealing downstairs on October 15, 1962, upstairs CIA analysts in the state-of-the-art National Photographic Interpretation Center were working around the clock to scour hundreds of grainy photographs for evidence of a Soviet ballistic missile site under construction.

Two days after the U-2 flight, on the morning of October 16, 1962, National Security Advisor McGeorge Bundy informed President John F. Kennedy that U.S. surveillance aircraft had discovered the presence of Soviet missiles in Cuba, just 90 miles from American soil. It was the start of the Cuban Missile Crisis, which brought the world to the brink of nuclear war.

Just before noon, Kennedy convened the first meeting of fourteen administration officials and advisers. The group became as the Executive Committee of the National Security Council.

Time was of the essence. Executive Committee members received estimates that the Soviet missiles could be at full operation within fourteen days. Individual missiles could probably be readied within eighteen hours under a crash program. Most of the missiles were determined to be SS-4’s with a range of approximately 1,100 nautical miles. This placed major American cities, including Dallas and Washington, DC, within strike range. Later photos showed that SS-5’s with a range of 2,200 nautical miles were also included in the arms shipments from the USSR.

For seven days, the Executive Committee debated the merits of three approaches to the developing crisis, while keeping a tight public lid on the Cuban discovery. The first was a surgical air strike targeting as many of the missiles as possible. The second was an air strike followed by a U.S. military invasion of the island. The third was a blockade of Soviet ships thought to be carrying materials in support of the offensive missile systems.

The president opted for the blockade, calling it a termed quarantine so as to avoid warlike connotations. This was to allow diplomatic approaches to work whereas direct military action wouldn’t.

On October 22, in anticipation of a military reaction to the quarantine, the Joint Chiefs of Staff placed military forces worldwide on a DEFCON 3 alert. At five that afternoon Kennedy met with the bipartisan leaders of Congress. At six, the Secretary of state met with the Soviet ambassador and presented him with an advance copy of the President’s upcoming address to the American Public.

In a TV address at seven PM on October 22, 1962, President John Kennedy (1917-63) notified Americans about the presence of the missiles, explained his decision to enact a naval quarantine around Cuba and made it clear the U.S. was prepared to use military force if necessary to neutralize this perceived threat to national security.

By the evening of October 23, Kennedy and the Executive Committee had new worries. Earlier in the day, the Central Intelligence Agency began tracking several Soviet submarines unexpectedly moving toward Cuba. The submarines complicated the Navy’s task of conducting the quarantine, as it now had to track the submarines to ensure the safety of the naval units conducting the quarantine. Also, they were tracking nineteen Soviet cargo ships identified as on course for Cuba.

The quarantine, with the unanimous backing of the Organization of American States, went into effect at 10 AM on October 24.

Early intelligence on that day indicated that sixteen of the nineteen Soviet cargo ships bound for Cuba had reversed course. The remaining three were nearing the quarantine line, including the ships Gagarin and Komiles. Naval intelligence reported that a Soviet submarine had taken a position between the two ships. The president though wanting to avoid conflict authorized the USS Essex to take whatever defensive measures against the submarine. This was probably the most dangerous moment of the Cold War, as both nations were within mere moments of turning the war hot.

Khrushchev blinked! Just before armed hostilities, both Soviet ships stopped dead in the water and eventually reversed course.

During the next four days, the diplomats crafted an agreement that would remove Soviet missiles from Cuba in exchange for the United States removal of Jupiter missiles from Turkey and a pledge to not invade Cuba. The situation deteriorated somewhat when a U2 was shot down over Cuba. Sensing that he was losing control of the crisis, Kennedy decided not to retaliate against the anti-aircraft site, much to the consternation of military leaders.

On the morning of October 28, Radio Moscow broadcast a speech by Khrushchev wherein he stated that all Soviet missiles in Cuba would be dismantled and crated. The Cuban Missile crisis was over.

I arrived in North Carolina on October 14 on thirty days leave between NAS Lemoore California and USS Vesuvius. I think I spent a good part of that leave listening to the news waiting for a recall. There was a fear of nuclear war and the idea that it might happen. There was also the thought that I was going to miss the action while on leave. If the Navy had told me to report to Norfolk or Charleston, I would have been on the road immediately.

It was a good time to wear the uniform. The girls were more than willing to comfort a sailor who might have to go to war soon. Of course, I tried to refrain from taking any unfair advantage of the girls, but I just couldn’t bring myself to deny them the opportunity to serve their country in some small way during this time of peril.

Electrical Technology and Me

By Garland Davis

I was reading an article in an online publication yesterday that contends our dogs use facial expressions to communicate with us. After observing my dogs over the past few weeks, especially since my mishaps with electrical devices and the citronella collars, (You can find that story Here) I believe the authors are onto something. When I walk into a room where a dog is, I get that glance out of the side of its eyes that asks the question, “What is this crazy son-of-a-bitch going to do now?”

I’ll tell you the story. My wife went to her friend’s house for lunch. She came back telling me about the light switches the friend’s husband had installed. Instead of the normal up-down on-off switches, he had installed a rocker type switch. My wife asked me to call the electrician and get him to replace all our switches.

I told her that I could do it myself, nothing to it. She got that “Oh Shit” look on her face and said, “Okay, if you think so.”

I counted the switches in the house noting that some are two-way. (See I am not a total electrical idiot) and went off to Lowes for the parts. After returning home and getting ready to do the work, I went back to Lowes for faceplates for the new switches. I decided to start in the living room. I secured the breaker and used my voltage thingy to see if the circuit was energized. (Electricians say “Hot.” I now understand why.)

I changed the first two switches with no problem and reenergized the system to test them. Worked great! De-energized the system again. I was thinking, “This electrical shit ain’t that hard.” The third switch was one that was added when we had the electrician install a ceiling fan. Now, I don’t know where he connected for the power, but it wasn’t the same circuit I had secured.

I pulled the switch out and started to unscrew the hot wire when…I landed flat on my ass half way across the room. That splattered the turd I dropped while I was in the air all over my bottom. I lay there trying to piss boiling water while having an orgasm. My wife was laughing her ass off while the dogs were lying on the couch, probably laughing too. One looked at the other with an expression that said, “See, I told you.”

It is now two days later. The electrician just finished installing all the switches and I have finally stopped jumping when someone turns a light on or off. The twitch in my eye is a Godsend and a problem. I don’t have to watch Ducktales any longer. Every time my eye twitches the TV channel changes. Now every time I become interested in a program, my eye twitches and the fucking channel changes. Right now, the TV is stuck on the Housewives of New Jersey and I can’t get the eyes to twitch. I’m still afraid to touch that remote.

I have a 2003 Ford Escape that I was intending to trade or sell. Now I am stuck with it. I farted in the vehicle the other day and it reset the electronic odometer to zero. Now if I try to sell it they will bust me for fraudulently resetting the odometer. My wife won’t let me anywhere near her car. When I walk my dog down the street, the lights on all the Toyotas come on and the emergency blinkers on all the Nissans start.

I can crack my knuckles and set off my neighbor’s car alarm. Let’s see how much sleep that asshole gets tonight. Might as well. I can’t get any sleep. The lights turn on and stay on in whatever room I am in. Convenient except when you want to sleep.

I am having trouble writing this on the computer. Every time I type a word that begins with the letters P-O-R, the damn thing takes me to a site called pornhub.com and I get distracted. While I was distracted earlier this morning, I think I saw Victoria’s Secret.

I’ll write more about my adventures with electricity later.

Right now…Por…

A Sailors Traits

• A sailor will lie and cheat to get off the ship early and will have no idea where he wants to go.

• Sailors are territorial. They have their assigned spaces to clean and maintain. Woe betide the shipmate who tracks through a freshly swabbed deck.

• Sailors constantly complain about the food on the mess-decks while concurrently going back for second or third helpings.

• You can spend four years on a ship and never visit every nook and cranny or even every major space aboard. Yet, you can know all your shipmates.

• Starbucks Frappuccino and a sausage egg burrito taken in the morning is an excellent hangover remedy.

• E5 is the almost perfect military pay grade. Too senior to catch the crap details, too junior to be blamed if things go awry.

• Almost every port has a “gut.” An area teeming with cheap bars, easy women and partiers. Kind of like Bourbon St., but with foreign currency.

• Contrary to popular belief, Chief Petty Officers do not walk on water. They walk just above it.

• Sad but true, when visiting even the most exotic ports of call, some sailors only see the inside of the nearest pub.

• Also under the category of sad but true, that lithe, sultry Persian beauty you spent those wonderful three days with and have dreamed about ever since, is almost certainly a grandmother now and buying her clothes from Omar the Tent maker.

• A sailor can, and will, sleep anywhere, anytime.

• Yes, it’s true, it does flow downhill.

• In the traditional “crackerjack” uniform you were recognized as a member of United States Navy, no matter what port you were in. Damn all who want to eliminate or change that uniform.

• The Marine dress blue uniform is, by far, the sharpest of all the armed forces.

• Most sailors won’t disrespect a shipmate’s mother. On the other hand, it’s not entirely wise to tell them you have a good looking sister.

• Sailors and Marines will generally fight one another, and fight together against all comers.

• If you can at all help it, never tell anyone that you are seasick.

• Check the rear pockets of a sailor. Right pocket a wallet. Left pocket a book.

• The guys who seemed to get away with doing the least, always seemed to be first in the chow-line and liberty line.

• General Quarters drills and the need to evacuate one’s bowels often seem to coincide.

• Speaking of which, when the need arises, the nearest head is always the one which is secured for cleaning.

• Three people you never screw with: the doc, the cook and the ship’s barber.

• Do snipes ever get the grease and oil off their hands?

• Never play a drinking game which involves the loser paying for all the drinks.

• There is only one good ship the one you’re going to.

• Whites, coming from the cleaners, clean, pressed and starched, last that way about 30 microseconds after donning them. The Navy dress white uniform is a natural dirt magnet.

• Sweat pumps operate in direct proportion to the seniority of the official visiting.

• “Pride and professionalism” trumps “Fun and zest” any day.

• The shrill call of a bosun’s pipe still puts a chill down my spine.

• Three biggest lies in the Navy: We’re happy to be here; this is not an inspection; we’re here to help.

• Everything goes in the log.

• Rule 1: The Captain is always right. Rule 2: When in doubt refer to Rule 1.

• A wet napkin under your tray keeps the tray from sliding on the mess deck table in rough seas, keeping at least one hand free to hold on to your beverage.

• A guy who doesn’t share a care package from home is no shipmate.

• When transiting the ocean, the ship’s clocks are always advanced at 0200 which makes for a short night. When going in the opposite direction, the clocks are retarded at 1400 which extends the work day.