On This Day: 4/18/05

Somewhere in the Persian Gulf—

We arrived in the Gulf on 3/18/05, and I’m hearing rumors we’ll potentially be here until mid-June. Baseball season started earlier this month, and I’ve been trying to keep track of the Minnesota Twins, but it’s impossible with the lack of news—sports or otherwise—here^. 

I’m making some money now. Regular base pay, plus sea pay, plus while we’re in the Gulf (a “zone of combat” according to the IRS), our pay is exempt from taxes. Since I don’t have anything to spend my money on, I’ve got more cash in my account than I’ve ever had. I ordered a new guitar to be sent to Lara’s place in Norfolk. It’s a beautiful jet black Epiphone Casino. Can’t wait to see and play it. I also ordered a laptop, and a book on how to use ProTools [audio recording software], so I can finally get my home studio off the ground.

On April 12th, the USS Carl Vinson anchored off the coast of the Kingdom of Bahrain. I admit that I knew nothing of Bahrain before joining the Navy, and now that we were here, in the current climate of aggression towards Iraq and Afghanistan, Al Qaeda, the Taliban, etc. I didn’t feel super safe venturing off the ship. Nonetheless, with a handful of shipmates, I got on one of the liberty boats, destined for shore. As we motored towards the pier—a fifteen minute-long ride—I noticed that each liberty boat was flanked by a US Navy patrol boat with a 50-caliber gun mounted in the bow. 

Once we got to the pier, they shepherded us into large vans which drove us through the city of Al Manāmah towards the base. The ride was short, but we got to see an uninspiring portion of the island: many squat, angry-looking buildings with broken windows. The van lumbered along cracked pavement until we pulled into an alleyway, surrounded on both sides by tall brick walls topped with barbed-wire. In a moment, I imagined all manner of ridiculous things—masked men armed with AK-47s, forcing the ship’s company into a nondescript basement where we’d be held hostage for weeks, until our eventual execution by beheading in front of rolling video cameras. We’d make the front page of the New York Times: MAJOR ESCALATION IN WAR AS U.S. SAILORS EXECUTED. Instead, on the other side of the fence was our base, Naval Support Activity Bahrain. I walked around inside the base, absolutely safe, eating KFC, bowling, and drinking Budweiser. I bought a few items at the commissary, and generally had a pleasant, if boring time there.

Two weeks before we went to Bahrain, the band that I play bass in—Klickitat County—performed at a rare morale-boosting event called a “Steel Beach Picnic”. We had to prove our worth, however, by performing for the judges. Jack Brett, James Rascoe, and I hauled our instruments to a small classroom on the ship, where we played the blues standard “Key to the Highway,” “Two of Us” by the Beatles, and our medley of “Rocky Top/Under the Double Eagle/Take Me Home, Country Roads/Lookin’ Out My Back Door.” Chief Petty Officer Joseph, of the ship’s Safety Department, who was one of the judges, seemed to like our sound, proclaiming “You’ll need to rehearse once—maybe twice—before the picnic.”

A hangar bay, where our band rehearsed for hours, once

The next day, the three of us, along with our drummer Derrick Cribbs, practiced in a corner of the hangar bay for close to three hours. It was quite an experience! So many sailors passing by stopped to listen—smiling, tapping a foot, singing along when they knew the lyrics, applauding us when we finished rehearsing a song. It’s rare to see people enjoying themselves out here. The work is non-stop, the fear is non-stop, the loud launching of jets at all hours of the day and night. We’ve been out here for months and people look worn out: 

• The 18-year-old Aircraft Ordnanceman in his red shirt and helmet, responsible for loading lethal bombs onto F-16s

• The grizzled Senior Chief, who has been doing this work for twenty years and whose third marriage is on the rocks

• The 24-year old LTJG [Lieutenant, Junior-Grade], who due solely to the fact that she is a female on a ship that is 85% male, is leered at all day, every day, and only emerges from her berthing to stand watch or to dine in the Wardroom

The next day, we rehearsed again for the Picnic Magistrates, who, nodding gravely and agreeing that we were progressing well, assured us that with only a few more rehearsals, we would be ready for the big day. The whole routine was pretty laughable, as we’ve been playing together as a band for nearly three years at this point, including shows in Seattle, Tacoma, and open mic nights in Bremerton, etc. but I get it.

Klickitat County performing at the USS Carl Vinson Steel Beach Picnic, 2005. (l to r: Derrick Cribbs, Yours Truly, Jack Brett, and James Rascoe)

The day of the picnic was hot, with a hazy blue sky and calm waters. All the jets had been moved from the flight deck to the hangar bay and a small stage was built for the performers. Big charcoal grills were located across the flight deck and hamburgers, hot dogs, and cold soda-pops were freely available. They actually let us dress in our “civvies” if we wanted to, so sailors in t-shirts and shorts gathered in groups, or lined up for food. We were able to pack four full songs into our fifteen-minute allotment of stage time. I was thrilled to see many of our Reactor Department buddies out there, enjoying our set, though they were melting in the hot middle eastern sun. Many acts followed, from R&B groups, to singer-songwriter types, but the final song of the day was an old-school rap, performed by Chief Joseph, which had the crowd smiling and laughing.

Hearing rumors about liberty ports coming up in Greece and Italy, but who knows. For now, it’s back to our day job of navigating back and forth in the Gulf, launching F16s at Iraq. God help us (and the innocent Iraqis in our path).

———————————————

Elsewhere on 4/18/2005:

*Black smoke emerged from the Vatican, signaling that the papal conclave had yet to choose a successor to the recently deceased Pope John Paul II.

*In Pelican Rapids, Minnesota, a 24-year-old man was arrested in the stabbing death of his housemate, another 24-year-old man

*A US civilian aid worker and several Marines were killed in a car bomb in Baghdad

^The Twins lost 2-1 at Cleveland, in the most “Twins” way imaginable: after loading the bases in the bottom of the eighth, Twins reliever JC Romero hit Cleveland slugger Travis Hafner in the elbow with a pitch, thus walking in the winning run. (from The Fargo Forum, 4/18/2005, accessed online 4/13/2025)

On This Day: 2/16/16

Every so often, I’ll dip back into my Morning Pages to find an entry from this day in my history, and reproduce it here.

Dear god, another two weeks have elapsed since last I cracked open this journal. It’s been a month since I moved into my new apartment, and it is finally starting to feel like mine, yet I haven’t spent much time there, except to sleep. Two weeks ago, I taught four yoga classes, and last week I taught three—seven total from Wednesday to Wednesday, that on top of my 40+ hour per week day job. Add that to band practice and recordings and I’m feeling maxed out.

Yesterday, finally, I had a true day to my Self, and I got a lot accomplished. I did some freelance audio editing, fit in a good run at a fast 6’54/mile pace [holy shit, I actually cannot believe I ever ran that fast for any length of time], and played a show with As 40 Sleeps at fucking Phyllis’ Musical Inn. Lord, how I despise that place. But before our show, I walked down the street to eat a sandwich at Jerry’s. While I was sitting there, feeling pissed off that we were playing so late (midnight!), a gent sat down next to me at the bar. 

You are really pulling off that scarf, my man.

“Oh, thanks!” It was the one that Hailey (my 15-year-old niece) crocheted me for Christmas, and I told him so.

Yeah, he said, I tried that scarf thing once and I ended up looking like Helen Mirren. I laughed—hard—and we had a good, long conversation about Wicker Park in the 1990s, the gentrification of Chicago, Ron Carter, Michael Jackson, House music, day jobs, playing with soul goddammit, the devaluation of art and attention in the age of social media, etc. He was a really interesting and thought-provoking dude. We exchanged business cards before I excused myself to Phyllis’. His name was Jevon Jackson, apparently a really well-known House DJ in Chicago for decades. He told me to hit him up some time. What a cool dude.

Liz Phair in Wicker Park in the 90s. Photo by Marty Perez

That conversation with Jevon really made me love/hate our set at Phyllis’. 

I loved it, in that our conversation truly informed my musicality that night. I think I played with more soul (goddammit) and more awareness than I usually do, and especially with this band [compared with my performances with MIDWEST^]. And I hated it in that I was acutely aware of the people who were dancing to our music: snobby young sons and daughters of wealth, who were sneering through a night out, not at the fancy bars and restaurants they (no doubt) frequent, but making the extra trek to rip Schlitz at one of Chicago’s dwindling “dive” bars. I guess what I’m trying to say is I felt like a fraud, playing music for a bunch of bigger frauds. 

Milwaukee, North and Damen in 1988. Photo by Jeff Wassmann

I want to live as authentically as possible. I want to live authentically, if possible.

Be authentic. Be real. Single-task whenever possible. Keep an eye on the finish line, but don’t forget to watch the ground passing underfoot.

Alexis, myself, and Jack Brett. Photo by Crystal Lynn circa 2016

[^My former band MIDWEST’s music below:]