Reunion 2026: The NMA Is Underway.

 

I'm on the sixth floor of the Doubletree. It's boring up here. That's why I'm heading down below: the 2026 reunion of the Navy Musicians Association is not boring.

Yesterday, our Board of Directors and stalwart volunteers did most of the work that precedes a reunion. Gear must be moved to rehearsal areas, stands, and fronts set up. Computers and bling must be arranged in the Registration Room. It really is a lot of work, it's mostly done, and we can all be thankful for those who come early so we can all enjoy our time together.

Last night, we had a pre-reunion jam session in the lounge. The place was packed, and the band was hot. Such is the case when Jim Hayward picks up a tenor sax. But Jim wasn't the only one packing heat. Rick Jebavy pushed the band from the drum set, Don Junker sat at the piano, John Clemmer played a counterpoint on the alto flute, and, oh yeah, I sat in on bass. I almost lasted half an hour.

This year's reunion schedule is more varied than usual. Today, the dance band will play in the morning, the concert band in the afternoon. Tomorrow, we'll reverse that. This schedule balances the needs of both bands so we'll have time for a Friday tour of the Naval School of Music. I did three tours there as a student and spent three years on the staff; I'm looking forward to revisiting the scene of the crime. 

Enough. We've waited a year for this week, and it's time to get this ship underway.

 

NMA Reunion -- Tuesday Warmup

Here's a list of people who think nobody can recognize you when you cover your face:

1. Toddlers, when playing peekaboo.

2. Ostriches, while sticking their heads in the sand.

3. Mafiosi, while being perp walked from paddywagon to precinct house.

4. Jim Richards.

 

It's starting to happen

When you arrive at the Doubletree, you'll find plenty of signage to point you to your destination.

Old hands will know they've arrived when the NMA Rehearsal Board pops into view. Same old board, but updated every year, a new schedule for a new reunion.

In the Registration Room, you'll get a warm greeting from our registrar, Deb Holl, who treats each arrival with the warmth, courtesy, and efficiency that is the hallmark of the NMA. 

Deb made me say this.

The Daily Poop -- Monday evening, 22JUN26

FAST FOOD FRANCHISE FAILS FRANK MULLEN SECOND DAY IN A ROW

(Bottoms Bridge, Virg. -- June 22, 2026) For the second day in a row, former Navy musician Frank Mullen and his wife, Jo Knox, were victims of the recent wave of incompetence that has been plaguing Virginia and West Virginia lately.

Early this afternoon, the couple stopped for lunch at the McDonald's in Bottoms Bridge, Virginia. "It was a calculated risk," Mullen said. "We were royally screwed yesterday in Barboursville, West Virginia, by a pair of fast food restaurants that serially failed in meeting the basic requirement of fast food restaurants, which is, basically, the provision of fast food to people who want fast food. (For a detailed story on the failures of Barboursville, WV to provide fast food to people who want fast food, click here.)

"But we didn't figure lightning would strike twice," he added. "We were wrong."

Mullen and Knox ordered two cheeseburgers, two medium French fries, and two beverages. "I didn't see how we could go wrong," Mullen said. "We made it so easy, a poorly-trained seal could have fulfilled the order, if it had been trained to press touch-sensitive pictures of food with its flippers."

Mullen paid the bill, "Nineteen bucks and change," Mullen said. "Seemed steep, but I didn't think too much of it."

Until the order was delivered to his table, that is: Two beverages, two French fries, and four cheeseburgers.

"WTF," Mullen, using the full, non-abbreviated expression so common among veterans of naval service. "It takes a special level of incompetence to screw up and order that is, basically, two of something, two of something else, and two more somethings. Two burgers, two fries, two drinks? Badda-boom, badda-bing."

Mullen, who had previously announced that he would bring the problem of fast-food incompetence to the attention of Donald Trump, who has a way of wading full-force into problems many people believe to fall into the category of Picayune Nothing-burgers, said he was no longer angry.

"Some things just suck," he said. "You can drive yourself berserk expecting reality to bend itself to your will. And why? Oceans are deep, cows are bovine, and fast food joints are incapable of meeting the basic task of fast food restaurants, which is providing fast food to people who want fast food. I'm much happier accepting this."

Asked if he was really happy about accepting the inability of fast food establishments to meet the minimum requirement for fast food establishments, which is to provide fast food to people who want fast food, Mullen said, "Yes and no. Sure, I'm glad I don't have to get red in the face anymore when fast food restaurants fail miserably at a task whose difficulty level could be compared to that of playing Old Maid with a five-year-old. But I feel sorry for my shipmates.

"They didn't ask for this. Every year at this time, I blog about my preparations for the annual reunion of the Navy Musicians Association; what's happening, who's coming, when they're arriving, all that good stuff. But not this year. All they're getting is my childish tantrums about the inability of fast food joints to meet the basic task of fast food restaurants, which is to provide fast food to people who want fast food. Rants. Screeds. Infantile whining.

"They deserve better. And I'll give them better. I'm putting this all behind me. No more of this crap about fast food restaurants failing at the number-one, basic task of fast food restaurants, which is providing fast food to people who want fast food."

 

 

The Daily Poop - Sunday evening, 21JUN

Today's leg of the journey from Illinois to Norfolk took us through West Virginia. Say what you will about West Virginia ("Your brother is your father, but your father don't know"), I hold the state dear because my mother, the Blessed Virginia Petrie Mullen, Pearl of Wisdom and Mother of Greatness, was born there. 

However, West Virginia slipped a bit today. Upon entering the state around noon, we decided to make a quick stop in Barboursville. Our goal for this quick stop was merely to grab a quick bite in a fast food joint, so that when we reached our evening's destination a few hours later, we could enjoy a full meal.

To recap: a quick stop in a fast food joint for a quick meal.

At this point in the narrative, everything goes downhill. Quick and fast.

The kid at the cash register in McDonald's couldn't operate the cash register. If you've ever peeked behind the curtain at a McDonald's' cash register, you know that arithmetic is superfluous to the taking or orders. The only required skill is to be able to differentiate between, say, a picture of a Big Mac and a Chicken McNuggets. You press the pictures instead of keys with numbers on them.

But the kid couldn't manage it, so he called Cheryl. I don't know what Cheryl's job description requires, but apparently, it requires neither showing a new employee how to press pictures of meat nor pressing pictures of meat herself. At this point, Cheryl turned and hollered to a nearby supervisor, "We have a problem."

 Indeed we do. The problem is that we've forgotten the meaning of "fast food." Fast food used to be fast. You walked into McDonald's and the burgers were already waiting for you, lined up in slanted chutes under a heat lamp. You asked for a burger and somebody handed you a burger. It was fast. That's why they called it fast food.

They didn't call it "good food," because it wasn't; they called it "fast food," because it was. That's why you went there. You didn't want to make a reservation at La Maison Etoille, put on a jacket and tie, and have someone named Jacques take your order and watch him kiss his fingertips in approval. You wanted a burger. Fast. So you went to a fast food joint.

Now, McDonald's has gone into the slow-motion business. Even when they can accurately press the proper pictures, you take a number and wait while somebody cooks you a burger somewhere, gives it to someone who mixes up the order and brings you somebody else's lunch. 

Nothing's fast about fast food anymore. The only thing that remains the same is that the food tastes like fast food. The entire fast food experience is much like it was in its heyday, with the exception of the fact that it isn't fast.

But the Barboursville, WV McDonald's today had regressed at the speed of light, from fast food to slow food, and, finally, to no food.

This was supposed to be a quick stop for fast food. The food wasn't fast, the stop wasn't quick, so we left. Burger King was right next door.

We were second in line at Burger King. The woman working the register completed the transaction with the patron in front of us, and, just as I was about to say, "Two medium onion rings, a Coke and a Sprite," she disappeared. Five minutes later, she returned and said, "Excuse me, I'll be right with you."

And she was gone again. A few minutes later, I saw her working the driver-through window. Then she disappeared. A few minutes later, my wife said, "Look," so I looked. The woman was emptying the trash can in the parking lot.

Barboursville isn't in West Virginia. It's in the Twilight Zone. It's the town that time forgot. I was about to suggest to Jo that we leave, but where else could we go? In Barboursville, there isn't any food. There are only cash registers with pictures of food.

Finally, a man appeared behind the counter and asked if we'd been waited on. No, I said, and I was about to expound upon the experience of not being waited on, a way of life in Barboursville, but my wife has a sharp elbow that occasionally prevents me from expounding.

It took us 51 minutes to get fast food in Barboursville, West Virginia, but I was no longer upset. I was at peace, because I had found the solution.

I'm going to file a complaint. Not with McDonald's. Not with Burger King. I'm going to the top, to the real fixer, the righter of wrongs.

I know this will sound strange, but I've decided to complain to Donald Trump. This is right up his alley. Something is wrong with America. You can't get fast food in a fast food joint anymore. This is the sort of thing that Donald Trump loves to get involved in. JD Vance can handle the war while Donald Trump weighs in on the real problem 

If there's one thing Donald Trump knows how to do, it's how to weigh in on something. He weighs in on things you'd think would be beneath the concerns of a president. 

When Cracker Barrel decided to change its signs and modify its dining experience, Donald Trump weighed in. In fact, I seem to recall he took the credit for Cracke Barrel's backtracking. I don't know if it's true, but I recall tweets, or X's, or Truths lambasting the wokeness--whatever that it--of one of America's cultural institutions.

I can think of no cultural institution more central to the world's vision of America than fast food. America is fast food. Hurry, hustle, make a buck, grab a quick bite in a fast food joint.

Well, at least America used to be fast food. But, really, without fast food, what are we?

 

 

The Daily Poop -- Sat. evening, 20JUN

This morning, my wife and I departed for Norfolk, Virginia for the 2026 reunion of the Navy Musicians Association. It starts on Wednesday, June 24, but I want to get there early, and we've got a bit of driving ahead of us.

We'd been packing for a week, or, as some might call it, "seven days of hell." One of us brings a pair of shoes to travel in, another pair of shoes to wear around the hotel, a pair of shoes for the Friday-night concert, another for the Saturday-night dinner, and a few more pairs just in case.

The other just brings a pair of shoes.

That was the week in a nutshell. One of us has traveled the world with a seabag. The other never heard the saying, "You can't take it with you."

Yesterday afternoon, I said, "It's time to load the car.'

"Yes," Jo said, "we need to get started."

"When it's time to load up," I sad, "there is no 'we.'"

"What? We have to--"

"No, 'we' do not have to do anything. For a week, 'we' have been packing. 'We' have turned the dining room into a luggage showroom. 'We' can't walk to the bathroom without tripping over shoeboxes and stepping on bags of yarn and knitting needles. 'We' have survived a week of standing eighteen hours a day because the furniture is covered with suitcases. 'We' are done."

"But how will we--"

"Tut, tut, there's that 'we' word again."

"Well, the car isn't going to load itself."

"Bingo! The car won't load itself, and 'we' aren't going to load the car because--pay attention here--the 'We' team is officially disbanded. 'We' did our job successfully. Now, the 'We' team bids each other farewell and rides off into the sunset."

"Who loads the car?

"I load the car."

"I can help."

"No, you are not 'I.' I am 'I.' 'I' endured a week's worth of so-called 'teamwork,' a week during which progress was stymied at every turn, a week of expanding lists and bulging suitcases. You may now retire to the living room and watch through the window while 'I' load the car."

"But you might forget something. And some things, like toiletries, need to come into the motels along the way. Other things, like maps and snacks, need to be accessible while we're driving."

"Because 'we' make this trip once a year, 'we' have developed certain traditions. One is this: 'I' load the car. The other is the reminder that 'I' issue every year. It goes thusly:

"'I' spent years traveling with Navy bands. 'I' could pack everything for a four-week tour of seven states into a seabag and garment bag in twenty minutes and load it all into the van in six seconds. When 'I' became the Chief, 'I' could pack for a cruise through an ocean and three seas to ten ports in five countries without forgetting anything and make sure that fifteen other men did the same damn thing."

We had a quiet cross-country drive today, unhampered by "conversation," "chit-chat," or other such distractions.