Curmudgeon in Training

Of the benefits enjoyed while aging, perhaps none is as sweet as the status of being a curmudgeon.  While I don't aspire to be as curmudgeonly as Andy Rooney or Ed Asner (perhaps he's just bitter), I enjoy the freedom to rant and rail about things with the understanding that it's merely the musings of one who is moving beyond middle age.

In no particular order here a few of my least favorite things:

1. Anything made DeLonghi.  We buried our second 50-cup coffee maker in 20 months.  The espresso machine never worked...the overpowering flavor of metal is not condusive to Italian coffees.  So in my mind DeLognhi=shite.
2. To the arshehole who keeps leaving advertisements in the form of empty sports drinks in the locker at 24-Hour Fitness...stop already.  If I find out where you live I'll leave a DeLonghi espresso machine on your lawn.
3. While I am on 24-Hour Fitness...it must be incredibly difficult to figure out how to replace the paper towels and the cleaning solution at the same time.  Invariably one or other is out, usually in separate locations.  Who knew that you needed someone who gets mail from Mensa to replace these janitorial supplies?  And can the company make a decision on what system it will use for club entry? Biometrics with a security gate to a card and no security gate back to biometrics.  Frankly, I am little concerned about where everyone else's index finger has been.
4. Las Vegas...to paraphrase Disney, must be "The Seediest Place on Earth."  What happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas and it should be quarantined.  The Strip is a cesspool, filthy, littered with cards and leaflets, teasers for escort services.  OK, why be even remotely politically correct? These are cards and leaflets for prostitutes, or as my dad would say, "hoo-ers."  Walking the Strip means running a gauntlet of illegal aliens slapping the cards and shoving them in your face.  The city is an assualt on the senses.  Want to get Al-Qeada terrorists to talk?  Send them to Las Vegas for a weekend!
5. Anything NFL. I have watched maybe a half dozen games since that pissant Eli Manning threw a shit fit after being drafted by the San Diego Chargers.  (None watched in the last two years, including the Super Bowl.) I don't care for the game and the outsized gang of thugs and sexual predators that strut across the field pounding their chests or creating a recognizable celebratory dance that they bust out each time they do something significant, like break wind.  While trying to kill myself yesterday on the eliptical trainer at the aforementioned 24-Hour Fitness, ESPN was broadcasting the arrival of players prior to a game.  First of all, is this supposed to be significant?  Second, nearly everyone of these overpaid egoists was wearing an industrial set of earphones.  God forbid that they should have to recognize, wave, or shake hands with a commoner.  No, they escape to their own private world.  Want to win a Super Bowl, coach?  Ban earphones.

And no, I don't feel better.

...and a good time was had by all

It was at our 20th Reunion in 1995 that I began to see the faces of the old men we would become in the faces of the young boys who graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1975.

As a class we boast several interesting distinctions.  We are the most attrited class of the 20th century, graduating barely half of those who were sworn in on June 30, 1971.  A large number left after the draft lottery numbers were announced, a predictable number fell due to academics, conduct, and aptitude, and cynicism got the rest.  We also have a large number of our class who made flag rank, Marine Corps generals and Navy admirals. 

We stayed at the home of one my roommates, Gary Ingold.  Gary and his wife, Ginny, who have been married for 35 years, graciously opened their Annapolis home to several of us.  Gary, an Illinois state champion wrestler, was also a wild child during his days as a midshipman.  Yes, there were those among enough with enough pluck to turn USNA into a party school.  The irony is that now Gary is the Catholic deacon at the Academy, this coming as a shock to many who attended the memorial service to honor our fallen comrades.  Fortunately, none suffered heart attacks at the ceremony to add to that number.

We had the obligatory lunch at Middleton's Tavern, a walk through downtown Annapolis (where I visited my friends at Laurance Clothing on Main Street, and The Smoke Shop on Maryland Avenue), the class dinner, a tailgate party that offered the world's best crabcakes (a consensus view), a disappointing football game, and snatches of conversation.

I did wear my kilt on Friday night.  Predictably Pat Gottschalk, a former Secretary of Commerce for the Commonwealth of Virginia, attempted to turn me into a hand puppet, and other pals tried for the up-kilt look to ascertain is I was going as a "True Scot."  Nae with this crowd!  Lynn nearly passed out laughing when we hit the dance floor.  And the professional photographer wisely chose not to have me sit in the front row for photos.

Speaking of photos, Ken Hamerick, one of the Plebe basketball team members, brought along a black and white shot of the team from the 1971-2 season.  No, I wasn't a guard.  I was a team manager, a desperate and successful attempt to get a seat at the training table, where all the folderal of being a plebe was suspended and something like a real meal could be shared among the team.  We reprised the photo with the seven members of the team who were in attendance that evening.  It appears to be my lot in life to be in photographs with preternaturally large men.  Standing in front of the other six (Bob Burns nearly was voted out because he started!) I look like a kilted-version of a lawn jockey.  Shout outs to Bobby, Billy, Doug, and John, who in addition to the aforementioned graced this "instant classic" shot.

We were also joined by three classmates who left us early and did not graduate with the class.  Pepe Galito does contract work in Iraq, Bill Etsweiler still lives in PA, and Jim Hickey is a pathologist in Baltimore.

None of my 21st Company mates is still in uniform.  Those who retired from the Navy did so as Commanders or Captains, and we had a 20-year Marine Corps officer in our midst as well; Bobby Clark flew missions during Desert Storm and now flies for FedEx.  Most are on to second careers, airline pilots, school teachers, defense industry executives, health care, engineering.

But what we will mostly remember about the 35th Reunion is a single word.  During our stay in Scotland we connected a near-Pavlovian response to the word "Aberdeen."  Aberdeen is a city in Northern Scotland, nicknamed the Silver City.  It is also the hub of the Scottish oil industry, being the jumping off point for many of the North Sea oil platforms.  We heard this reaction first at The Stand, the comedy club in Glasgow's West End.  A young comedian said that he was from Aberdeen and the entire audience (sans the Yanks) shouted "Sheep-shaggers!"

Yes, that's the word..."Sheep-shaggers!"  We must have said it 40 or 50 times.  There are those among us who don't know what it means.  One Southern Belle had difficulty in pronouncing it, often booming out "Shagger-Sheep" or "Sheep-Shiggers", but she rose to the occasion when we filmed "Aberdeen: The Movie", a 21-second shout out to our friends in Glesga.

At our 30th reunion in 2005 a few of our number had moved into the ranks of grandparents.  That number increased mightily over the last five years. 

We also had a chance to reconnect with Admiral & Mrs. O'Connor.  Admiral O'Connor, class of 1949, is the father of my classmate Tommy O'Connor.  The Admiral is still laughing, and has more than a bit of Irish blarney going 61 years after his graduation.

There is always something bittersweet about these twice a decade gatherings.  Promises to stay in touch, to meet somewhere and sometime in between these five year gaps.  We do, however, have a rallying point.  Navy-Notre Dame, September 1, 2012, Dublin, Ireland.  As we said in the old days, "Be there or be square."