1975 Part II

When last we met...I had just entered the Navy Recruiting Station...

November 19

Navy Recruiting Station

Meriden, Connecticut

    Quickly darting past a lonely-looking Marine Staff Sergeant (Vietnam hadn’t been good for business), I slid into the chair opposite my radioman recruiter, who insisted I call him “Tom” (I would learn all too soon that Navy petty officers weren’t usually cuddly, first-name types).  Politely refusing his offer of coffee (I couldn’t imagine anyone drinking the nasty stuff), I firmly stated that I wanted to be an ‘AX.’

I wanted this

    Not ‘Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician,’ but ‘AX.’

    “Okay, then,” he said, “let’s get things rolling.  Do you use drugs?”

    “No.”

    “Are you a practicing homosexual?”

    “Practicing?”

    His stricken look told me that he didn’t think my joke was all that funny.

    “Oh, God, no,” I hurriedly said.

Or this.

    Letting out a long sigh of relief, he continued, “All right, then.  Oh, before we get started, I need to inform you of the pay rate you'll be enlisting for.”

    "Excuse me, the what?"

    "Your paygrade."

    "My pay?"

    He looked at me like I had a couple of horns.  "Uh...yeah.  Your starting pay will be $361.20 a month."

    "Wow.  You're going to pay me?"

    Horns again.  "Why sure.  What'd you think?"

    "Well, food, clothing, shelter are free.  I didn't know you guys were going to pay me, too."

    Probably thinking I had completely slipped off the rails, Tom didn't answer.  Instead, he just made a strange face and pushed a stack of paper towards me.

    "Well...yeah.  So, shall we get started?"

Hell, I would've even settled for this.

    Three hours later, I’d filled out a forest worth of papers, had my fingerprints taken, and learned that the Navy called the “bathroom” a “head.” 

    It’s like those guys had a different word for everything.

    I also learned they had a different acronym for everything, too.  For, when I got back to my car and reviewed the aforementioned colorful brochure, I saw that I hadn’t wanted to be an ‘AX,’ after all. 

    What I really wanted to be was an ‘Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Operator or ‘AW.’  Too embarrassed to admit I had fucked up (another common Navy colloquialism), I frantically flipped through the pamphlet to see if ‘AXs’ flew, as well.

    Luckily, the job description read, “AXs fly as crewmen aboard Navy patrol and other aircraft.”

    Whew!  So I could fly, after all.

    If I had only known then that one letter would have kept me on the ground for twelve years, I would have visited the head again.

Yeah.  I ended up with this.
NOTE:  Asian used for entertainment purposes only.
Besides, my rubber gloves were black.
And were missing half the fingers.

December 3

AFEES

Part I

New Haven, Connecticut

    It was my first experience with “hurry up and wait.”

    It wouldn’t be my last.

    Me and three other members of the high school soccer team were driven before the sun came up to the New Haven AFEES (Armed Forces Entrance and Examining Station).  Yet another example of the military’s love for acronyms, AFEES was replaced by MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) when it was decided that it would be cost-efficient to eliminate one letter.  Plus, they ran out of stationery with the AFEES letterhead. 

    As the gloom of night gave way to the gloom of dawn, we wondered why in the world we needed an entire day for just a physical.

    After all, it only took our family doctors less than an hour to thump our chests like cantaloupes, jam their fingers in our innards like an Aztec high priest, jiggle the “boys” like castanets, and ask us to cough.  How much more detailed could the military get?

    But, as we looked at a line which stretched around the lobby like the waiting list for Frampton tickets, we knew we were in for a long day.

    Greeted gruffly by a pot-bellied man in dirty scrubs, we were ordered to strip down to our underwear (also known as ‘skivvies.’ Another new word!).  Then, we needed to fill out the form attached to the clipboard being passed around the room. 

Kinda like this.
Note to Penwasser Place followers:  yep, you've seen this before.
That which is seen can never be unseen.

    For the life of me, I didn’t understand why we needed to get half-naked just to fill out a data card asking for our address, phone number, religious affiliation, tobacco/alcohol usage, and whether we were allergic to poultry, fish, animal dander, latex, ragweed, ragtime, Raggedy Ann, clowns, dust mites, dust busters, dust bunnies, shellfish, peanuts, horses, lions, tigers, bears, oh my, saltwater, coffee, Dudley Moore, eggs, black ink, black licorice, MSG, saccharine, hippies, and rice.

    Once we filled out the necessary paperwork and began to turn blue (it was December in New England), we formed a line for the removal of bodily fluids.  Both red and yellow.

    Although I thought Timmy Donnelly from North Haven was going to faint when Bill Metzler, captain of the soccer team, told him he was going to have to “provide a sample” in a Dixie cup.

    “You know there’s seamen in the Navy, right?” he said.

"OMIGOD, OMIGOD, OMIGOD! Did someone say seamen?"
NOTE:  Yep, this is a repeat picture, too.

    Somehow, I don’t think the guy in the dirty scrubs was amused when Timmy dropped his skivvies to his ankles.

    After Dracula got his fill of my precious A+ and I had to perform target practice into a test tube, six of us were shut into a soundproof booth for our hearing test.

    Seated on tiny black stools with headsets over our ears and little cords in our hands, we waited for instructions.

    “If everyone can hear me, give me a thumbs up,” squeaked a tinny, disembodied voice.

    Five of us jabbed our thumbs in the air.  Within seconds, the door flew open and the guy with the headset wrapped around his neck was whisked away.

    And sent to the Marines.

    “All right,” tinny voice man continued, “you’re going to hear a series of three beeps.  After the third beep, press down on the button.”

    I wondered.  Why did we need to wait until the third beep?  If we could hear the first beep, wouldn’t that mean our hearing was great?

    “If you press on the first beep, we won’t be able to build an accurate baseline for your hearing.”

    Oh.

    Luckily, I passed my hearing test.  While not nearly as good as the guy who could hear dog whistles, it was where it needed to be.  I felt confident that I’d be able to hear “Abandon ship!”, “Battle Stations!” or “Last Call!” plenty good enough.

Did not pass hearing test.

    The rest of the day featured a litany of physical gymnastics and bodily contortions that would either qualify us for service in the Navy or the circus.

    Although, I had to admit that I was a little spooked when I stood in line to see an actual doctor.  The back of the guy in front of me was covered in multiple rings of scar tissue.  He looked like he had a fleshy connect-the dots crawling from his shoulder blades to the small of his back.

    When I asked what they were, he casually said over his shoulder, “That’s where Charlie got me.”

    Not realizing he meant Vietnam, I steered well clear of anyone named ‘Charlie.’

Wrong Charlie.
But not a bad idea to steer clear of him while you're at it.

To be continued..... 

1975 Part I

1970’s

It was more than disco. 

There was Gerald Ford, too.

    The eighth decade of the 20^th century began with our nation in turmoil. American troops were embroiled in the quagmire of Vietnam, Richard Nixon was president, and the Jeffersons moved next door to the Bunkers.

    WACKY MATH FACT:  1971-1980 was actually the eighth decade, since 1901-1910 was the first decade.  Of the 20th Century.   Because 1-100 was the first century, that’s why.  No, there was no year “0,” wiseguy.  But, since this is called the 1970’s, I’ll save anything which happened in 1980 for the chapter on the “1980’s.” 

    Confused?  Oh, we’re just getting started.         

    Closer to home, cracks were starting to develop in the sheetrock of my parents’ marriage, great-grandma (financier of our Catholic school tuition) finally succumbed to her 30 year illness and departed for that great Bingo Night in the sky, and my body was sprouting hair in places where none had previously existed.

    As 1979 came to a close, my parents were divorced, Jimmy Carter was president, “Babu” was still dead, but I still couldn’t grow a beard.

    Oh, yeah, and I had been in the Navy for 3 years.

**********

1975

“In the Navy, we call it a ‘head.’”

-RM2 Thomas Paul

October 24

Home

Wallingford, Connecticut

 

Easter 1976
Yeah, we had it goin' on in the 70's.
I'll have you know that suit was 100% polyester

    I didn’t give much thought to my future until the middle of the decade because the first few years of the 1970s were pretty much a blur.  Family disasters, fashion dysfunction, teenage angst, an international oil crisis, and inconvenient boners combined to form a rich tapestry of polyester amnesia.

    I’m not going to count those years.  Although, it was 1971 when I first mastu.....oh, let’s not go there.

    Let’s just put it this way:  the Sears Roebuck catalogue can get mighty racy.

    So, it wasn’t until the fall of 1975 that the question of life after home first arose.

    Mom, newly divorced and newly remarried, was faced with the challenge of how to pay for her first-born’s college education.  Together, we carefully examined each school’s program of studies.  We evaluated every one’s strengths versus that of comparable out-of-state institutes of higher learning.    

    As a direct result of our exhaustive research and painstaking cost benefit analysis, my mother came to a solid conclusion.

    One night after a sumptuous meal of Salisbury Steak, Hungry Jack mashed potatoes, and chocolate chip Snackin’ Cake, she fixed me with a serious look.

    “So, have you given any more thought to that Navy thing?”

Yeah, that's right.
I wrote in my own yearbook.
You think I've only recently become a screwball?

**********

November 19

Navy Recruiting Station

Meriden, Connecticut

    Having successfully completed the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) during 9^th period Study Hall, I was assured by my recruiter that I qualified for any job the Navy had to offer.

    As long as I didn’t do drugs or was a homosexual.  Or could successfully lie about either.

    My verbal aptitude, math analysis skills, and ability to completely shade in ovals with a #2 pencil clearly demonstrated my unlimited potential.  Whether processing critical intelligence data, assisting in the development of innovative war fighting doctrine, or drawing moustaches and buck teeth on pictures of communists, I had what it took to be a sailor in the post-Vietnam American military.

    However, it was my uncanny knowledge of how many batteries go into a flashlight-and how to turn it on-that set me apart from the rest.  Apparently, I was born to be an electronics technician.

    That, combined with the fact that I wanted to “Fly Navy” (I had the bumper sticker) sold me on the job I wanted.  Armed with the confidence borne of reading a colorful brochure, I strode purposefully (as opposed to “ambled sheepishly”-aren’t adverbs fun?) into the Navy/Marine Corps recruiting station.

To be continued..... 

And So It Begins

Because black is so slimming.
Even though I'm wearing Dress Blues.
Yeah.
Get used to this kind of wild inconsistency.
(VP-11 NAS Brunswick, ME 1989)

Foreword

    According to The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, a “foreword” is a “preface or introductory note, especially at the beginning of a book.”

    Also, a “pochard” is “any of various ducks...having gray and black plumage and a reddish head.”

    Since I don’t think that’s terribly relevant here, I’ll stick with the definition of “foreword.”

    All great literary works from Moby Dick (surprisingly not about venereal disease on whaling ships) to Jokes for the John-A Compilation of Bathroom Humor contain something by way of an introduction.

    Some, like the aforementioned Dick book actually use the conventional “introduction.”  However, Nathaniel Hawthorne chose to open his tale of those whacky Puritans, The Scarlet Letter, with a “preface.”  The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, on the other hand, uses the good old “foreword” before describing youthful hijinks on the Mississippi.  Or Missouri.  One of those Midwest rivers.

    In many cases, these warm-ups were written by someone other than the person on the “byline.”  Primarily a way of honoring the novelist as a genius among lesser writers, they quite often were penned long after said novelist was dead.  Which means the “foreword” essayist could get away with claiming the most outrageous of intentions by the original author.

    For instance, I’m quite sure that Moby Dick was just a huge frikkin’ whale and not a symbol of Captain Ahab’s erectile dysfunction.

    Call me Ishmael, but I don’t think Herman Melville had that in mind.  If anything, I’ll bet it was Ahab’s wooden leg which had some sort of phallic meaning.

    Mostly as a means of ensuring that you, the reader, don’t ascribe any hidden agenda to the following story, I’ve decided to pen my own “foreword.”  Okay, it’s actually because I didn’t want to pay anyone to write something insincere about me.  Especially after I’m dead.

    This will be important if I can’t convince anyone to publish this book.  Then where would I get the money?

    It’s Not Just a Job is the story of close to thirty years of trying to figure out what-it-is-I-want-to-do-with-my-life-but-I-don’t-know-so-I-may-as-well-stay-Navy. 

    At times exciting, at other times dramatic, but in all cases so funny you’ll laugh your ass off (I borrowed that from the latest remake of Arthur.  Which was as funny as a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands), it takes you from frightened youngster at the train station to savvy veteran saying goodbye in front of a huge blow-up flamingo.

    If you bought this book expecting an exciting saga of maritime derring-do, the likes of which haven’t been seen since Kevin Costner in Waterworld, you’ll be sorely disappointed.  Likewise, if you’ve come looking for a nautical thriller of men tossed upon the briny sea, this isn’t for you, either.  Plus, you’re probably gay.

    No, It’s Not Just a Job is merely my take on what it is that compels a boy from Connecticut to seek his fortune in the service of his country.

    And it isn't just because there wasn’t any money to send him to college.

    Well, it is that.

    But, it’s also much more.

    So, whaddya say?  Why don’t you be the judge?  After all, it’s your money.

    Or the prison library is all out of Dave Barry.   

    

   PRETENTIOUS CREATIVE ARTIST DISCLAIMER:  While the following is based on bona fide events, names have been changed to protect the innocent, avoid any potential embarrassment, and minimize the chances of me having my ass sued off.  Where possible, I’ll use actual dates to describe actual events.  Where not possible, I’ll make them up.  What’s more, when real life gets as boring as an evening with Al Gore, I’ll exaggerate like anything you’ll see on MSNBC.  So, if you find yourself saying, “Hey, I don’t remember it that way!” let me first express my amazement that you actually bought this thing.  Second, it’s my book and I’ll write anything I want.  Especially if it makes me look better.  Further, be warned that this is a tale of sailors...in the Navy (as opposed the Village People).  Meaning that some of the language will be, shall we say, salty?  If you were to rate this story, you’d be safe giving it an ‘R’ rating for language, adult situations, and that time I woke up in a pillowcase.  Don’t worry, I’ll avoid most of the baser elements associated with a life as a Jolly Jack Tar (now that definitely sounds gay).  Because you don’t need to read that kind of lurid nonsense.  And because marriage doesn’t honor the statute of limitations.  This is why I leave off any mention of my first wife.  Except when our guests needed to pay admission to our wedding.  Finally, any resemblance to living, breathing people is purely coincidental.  As far as you know.  

What you are about to read is true...mostly...

To be continued...

It's Not Just a Job- An Introduction

    If your search engine directed you here in your quest for something which ends with "job," you've sadly come to the wrong place.  Incidentally, if you find a good site for that, let me know.  I  may want to check it out for some...scientific research.  Yeah, that's it.
    On the other hand, if you came here looking for some side-splitting hilarity, you're looking for Dave Barry.
    But, since Dave Barry wants to charge you and all you really want to do is read something cheap (actually, free) on the crapper (hey, where you read is your business), then....WELCOME!!

   

As many of you know, I've been shooting my mouth off about a book I'm writing called It's not Just a Job (which I will refer to as "INJAJ" from here on out-it'll save me typing).  INJAJ (see?  I did it right there) is an insufferable homage to my ego as I've convinced myself you want to actually want to read about my 27 years in the Navy (on the other hand, it is free).
    My intention was to seek publication (and still will), but since I could very easily be dead before I finish (I'm not a young man anymore), I decided to start this blog to give you snippets of it along the way.
    There are disadvantages to this approach.  By giving you what is

essentially a free (that will be my biggest selling point.  Whoa, did I just say "selling?"  Business was never my strong suit) look at my book, you may be less inclined to buy it when the time comes (whoa, do I actually think people will buy it?  Hahahahahahahahahahaha...I just peed myself right there).
    Another disadvantage is that these chapters will be the book in its rough form.  Ideally, I will go over it again and again to make sure it's in perfect form.  To languish on a bookshelf or in the oblivion which is "E-Bookdom" (a term I just made up).  So, you may not get something worthy of a Faulkner, Melville, or Hemingway.  
    Hahahahahahahahahahaha.....I just peed myself again.
    The advantage of course is that it's free and will probably have more pictures than the eventual book will.  And YOU'LL still be alive to read it.
    Be forewarned, though, that this is a tale of sailors.  No, there won't be any debauchery in it mainly because I'd be too embarrassed to write about it.  But, there will be loads of wildly inappropriate  language.  C'mon, do you actually think sailors said "sugar," "fudge," and "goshdarnit?"  Okay, maybe the dudes who worked for the chaplains.
    Also, if we have ever served together, you will recognize yourself, although I will NOT use your real name.  The only real names I use will be mine and my nephew's.  Even with that, I will never paint any of

you in an unfavorable light.  I'll paint ME in an unfavorable light or COMPLETELY fictional characters (this is about 95% factual, though). 
    My plan is to serialize this in weekly chapters which will be fairly short (much like me).  This will hopefully hold your attention.  


    Of course, it may never end (like American Idol), but it will give you a place to go on weekends.
    
    I hope you enjoy it...I really do.

    I start next Sunday.  You can wait until after the Super Bowl to read.  That's totally cool.    

Sign at an Endoscopy Center

Where they perform colonoscopies

Kinda ironic, dont'cha think?

Comedy Is Where You Find It

Oh, I don't know.

Wouldn't it be easier to just push the red button?

Especially since, when you do call the number, they tell you
 to just push the red button.

Now They Have Books About It

That's what she said