I'm wondering if Lee Hudson is coming to the NMA reunion. I can't decide whether I want to know or not.
If I knew he was coming, I'd be bummed. I've I knew he wasn't coming, I'd be happy. If I find out whether he's coming, it's a 50/50 either way--joy or misery.
So far, though, ignorance is bliss.
I hear we've got scads of MUs in the Orlando area. We'd love to have new faces, new stories, new piano players. I hope you'll join us--not, for a quick after-work fly-by, but for the jam sessions, the rehearsals, the concerts, ceremonies, dinner and dancing. We're coming from all over; you can come across town.
Question for the day: What is "Navy van" spelled backwards?
Frank Mullen's very unofficial source of poop, skinny and bitching for present and former U.S. Navy Musicians.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Friday, June 15, 2012
The Daily Poop - Fri., 15JUN12
Nine days until my plane leaves for Orlando. I need to think about packing. I like to travel light--carry-on luggage only. This always requires difficult decisions. Camera, yes, ukulele, no.
With the memory of melted shoes still etched in my mind from the 2010 San Antonio reunion, I'm wondering about late June in Orlando. San Antonio, at least was dry; today's humidity in Orlando is 85%. "It's not the heat, it's the humidity," is a sadly true assessment, as is known by anyone who's been forced to run with the Marines through the golf course at NAB Little Creek in July.
I've only been to Orlando once, and that was in the fall. The temperature was fine. Everything else was a disaster:
In the early 1970s, I worked with an improvisational comedy group in New York. There was no such thing as Saturday Night Live, and ensemble comedy was a new thing.
We'd been kicking around the city going broke for a while when we got an offer of a gig in Orlando at a college. Young, hip crowds were what we were looking for. Money was also what we were looking for. This gig payed a thousand bucks. We needed it, real bad. The gas shortage had driven up the price of gas, which would eat into our profits, but we were hungry.
We got in the van, the driver turned the key, two out of six cylinders fired and things went downhill from there. We spend the afternoon in a service station in Queens, getting the van fixed enough to head south. Before we crossed the state line into New Jersey we were running late. The van limped down the East Coast at the speed of a hippopotamus grazing on the savanna. Somewhere in the Carolinas we pulled into the Bates Motel at 3 a.m, and copped a few hours rest while waiting for the knife to fall and the violins to screech. The next day we got to the gig site in Orlando with seconds to spare before the performance.
After the show, while some of us packed up the gear, the driver took the van for a checkup at a Jiffy Quick-type service station we'd passed. An hour later he wasn't back. Three hours later he wasn't back. We stood outside the auditorium with our gear into the dark hours. The driver finally showed up. He'd seen signs for Orlando, and realized this might be his only opportunity to see Disney World. He'd spent the evening with Goofy and Cinderella.
Fistfights. Psychodrama. Character Assassination. The trip home was a hellish journey of cheap motels and flat tires and death threats. When we got home, we cashed the check and gathered around the table to split the thousand bucks. There were seven of us. We'd spent three nights in motels. Gas prices had equaled that of Jack Daniels on a gallon for gallon basis. The mechanical repairs had cost an arm, a leg and most of the torso. We'd eaten road food up and down the east coast.
Final net profit was $32 bucks each. Within weeks I was engaged in a budding relationship with a Navy recruiter.
This trip will definitely be better.
With the memory of melted shoes still etched in my mind from the 2010 San Antonio reunion, I'm wondering about late June in Orlando. San Antonio, at least was dry; today's humidity in Orlando is 85%. "It's not the heat, it's the humidity," is a sadly true assessment, as is known by anyone who's been forced to run with the Marines through the golf course at NAB Little Creek in July.
I've only been to Orlando once, and that was in the fall. The temperature was fine. Everything else was a disaster:
In the early 1970s, I worked with an improvisational comedy group in New York. There was no such thing as Saturday Night Live, and ensemble comedy was a new thing.
We'd been kicking around the city going broke for a while when we got an offer of a gig in Orlando at a college. Young, hip crowds were what we were looking for. Money was also what we were looking for. This gig payed a thousand bucks. We needed it, real bad. The gas shortage had driven up the price of gas, which would eat into our profits, but we were hungry.
We got in the van, the driver turned the key, two out of six cylinders fired and things went downhill from there. We spend the afternoon in a service station in Queens, getting the van fixed enough to head south. Before we crossed the state line into New Jersey we were running late. The van limped down the East Coast at the speed of a hippopotamus grazing on the savanna. Somewhere in the Carolinas we pulled into the Bates Motel at 3 a.m, and copped a few hours rest while waiting for the knife to fall and the violins to screech. The next day we got to the gig site in Orlando with seconds to spare before the performance.
After the show, while some of us packed up the gear, the driver took the van for a checkup at a Jiffy Quick-type service station we'd passed. An hour later he wasn't back. Three hours later he wasn't back. We stood outside the auditorium with our gear into the dark hours. The driver finally showed up. He'd seen signs for Orlando, and realized this might be his only opportunity to see Disney World. He'd spent the evening with Goofy and Cinderella.
Fistfights. Psychodrama. Character Assassination. The trip home was a hellish journey of cheap motels and flat tires and death threats. When we got home, we cashed the check and gathered around the table to split the thousand bucks. There were seven of us. We'd spent three nights in motels. Gas prices had equaled that of Jack Daniels on a gallon for gallon basis. The mechanical repairs had cost an arm, a leg and most of the torso. We'd eaten road food up and down the east coast.
Final net profit was $32 bucks each. Within weeks I was engaged in a budding relationship with a Navy recruiter.
This trip will definitely be better.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
The Daily Poop - Thurs., 14JUN12
Two weeks from today, the NMA reunion will be in full swing. We get into the routine pretty quickly--we have to, given that time is short and the year is long. Meanwhile, a little attention to those who have missed a year or two:
-- Glad to know that Jack Rodway will be attending the NMA reunion this year. He and his wife missed last year's get-together due to a delayed real estate closing. As I recall the story, he wound up sleeping on the bare floor in an empty house. I guess if you can sleep in a Navy rack, you can sleep anywhere.
-- John Vazquez, are you coming? It's been a few years. I just saw your name listed as "attending" on the Facebook reunion page, so I was wonder--Oh. I could just ask you on Facebook. That's what it's for, I guess.
-- Tex Waldron has been MIA for a while. I miss his melodious trombone-playing, particularly his subtle, golden-toned upper register. Come home, Tex we miss you.
-- Speaking of Tex, a few of you other Pacific Northwest guys have been slacking off, too. Get with the program, boys. It's later than you think.
-- Glad to know that Jack Rodway will be attending the NMA reunion this year. He and his wife missed last year's get-together due to a delayed real estate closing. As I recall the story, he wound up sleeping on the bare floor in an empty house. I guess if you can sleep in a Navy rack, you can sleep anywhere.
-- John Vazquez, are you coming? It's been a few years. I just saw your name listed as "attending" on the Facebook reunion page, so I was wonder--Oh. I could just ask you on Facebook. That's what it's for, I guess.
-- Tex Waldron has been MIA for a while. I miss his melodious trombone-playing, particularly his subtle, golden-toned upper register. Come home, Tex we miss you.
-- Speaking of Tex, a few of you other Pacific Northwest guys have been slacking off, too. Get with the program, boys. It's later than you think.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
The Daily Poop - Wed., 13JUN12
Fourteen days from today will be the kickoff of a few days of music, laughter and memories. So here it is, the first issue in your free, two-week subscription to The Daily Poop, the Navy Lyres guide to the NMA reunion.
A number of members always arrive before the reunion officially begins on Wednesday. I plan to get to Orlando late Sunday for a few days of deep mental preparation. An influx of early birds sometimes means impromptu jam sessions on Tuesday night. These advance get-togethers are not as wild as they get later in the week, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Once things start jumping ...
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A number of members always arrive before the reunion officially begins on Wednesday. I plan to get to Orlando late Sunday for a few days of deep mental preparation. An influx of early birds sometimes means impromptu jam sessions on Tuesday night. These advance get-togethers are not as wild as they get later in the week, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Once things start jumping ...
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