For those who are against profanity, beware…again. And i lied again (or simply forgot) because while writing this story, i remembered another classic “F” word story. So there is at least one more coming, and i’m no longer declaring anything the “last one.”

With the story about JD’s dad, i thought i had exhausted my supply of “F” word stories. Then this morning, i woke up with one of the best ones, untold here, in my head.

i think it was the first “F” word story i heard from JD, the legend in the Navy’s aviation community. It may have been the first funny story he ever told me but not the first hilarious thing in which he and i were involved.

JD was a petty officer in the aviation maintenance shop for F-14’s at Miramar when it was a Naval Air Station (remember “Top Gun”?). His work center was run by a crusty old chief petty officer who had his own office separate from the work centers’ spaces. Communication between the chief and his crew was often accomplished through the 24MC, one of the archaic voice communication boxes (they looked like a huge drive-in speaker; remember them?) with buttons to select for connecting to various other spaces via a loud speaker.

The maintenance guys, being sailors, decided to yank the chief’s chain. So they devised a plan. The speaker system was connected to a number of offices and work spaces and the receiver of the call could not be identified. So the gang gathered around their 24MC, punched the button to the chief’s office, and one petty officer said, “Hey Chief, do you know who this is?”

The chief responded, “No, who is this?”

The petty officer responded, “Well, fuck you!”

The chief called all of his work centers together, chewed them all out since he didn’t know who the culprit was, and declared he was going to find out the guilty and make them pay.

The maintenance shop would lay low for several weeks and then repeat the call.

The chief, livid and frustrated, would chew everyone out again, and swear he would get the perpetrators.

In JD’s work center, there was a new kid, an airman named Farber. Farber quickly established he was not too bright and had a penchant for screwing up almost everything he attempted. But he was fascinated with the joke the gang played on the chief, and asked continually to be the one to call the chief.

The leaders of the joke replied, “No, Farber, you would just screw it up and get us all in trouble.

But Farber continued to bug everyone, and finally tired of Farber’s insistence, the gang said he could do it but only after hours of practice and several dry runs done perfectly. Farber agreed and worked hard practicing, punching the imaginary button, running through the two sections of calling and cussing the chief. After several weeks, the crew agreed Farber was ready after going through the routine perfectly several times.

Everyone gathered around the 24 MC as Farber leaned into the speaker and punched the button to the chief’s office.

Farber: “Chief, do you know who this is?”

As usual the chief responded, “No, who is this.”

With success just a reply away, Farber came back: “This is Farber, Fuck you!”

The work center was immediately mustered before the chief.

JD didn’t tell me of what the chief’s revenge consisted, but he did acknowledge the joke was discontinued.

As with the other two “F…” stories, sensitive folks may want to  consider whether they read it or not because, as it was proven in a previous post, sometimes the “F” word is the only thing that can be used in a situation.

As i was writing my previous post on the use of the “F…” word — i kept thinking of one last story on the subject, recognizing i needed the originator of the story to okay my using it here.

Last week, i got his approval.

Maureen and i stayed with our close friends, JD and Mary Lou Waits, in their great home in the Tahitian Village development outside of Bastrop, Texas. They were wonderful hosts.

In 1982, JD and i moved from his apartment in the Oakwood complex in Coronado and his boat slip on Harbor Island and from my rather remarkable apartment on 8th and E in Coronado to 72 Antigua Court in the Coronado Cays (visiting ten-year old daughter Blythe approved of the move). The second floor condo patio looked down on our boat slip where JD’s 25-foot Cal sailboat was berthed.

It was the perfect bachelor pad for a single commander and a single CWO-4 aviation maintenance officer. It was September 1982. In December, JD became engaged to his former wife, Mary Lou, and in February 1983, i became engaged to Maureen. The Waits were married in the rotunda meeting room on a small peninsula across from our condo. i was the best man and Maureen was the maid of honor. The four of us were the complete wedding party. There were about fifty guests. Maureen and i married that summer. JD’s and my assessment: we really screwed up a great thing.

We all hit it off. JD and i were known by our wardroom on USS Okinawa (LHA-3) as the “Booze Brothers,” a takeoff on John Belushi’s and Dan Ackroyd’s “Blues Brothers.” JD made Maureen laugh nearly non-stop. Mary Lou was the perfect foil for JD’s and my play off each other into absurdity.

It was and still is a great relationship. This is JD’s story as close as i can remember:

JD was raised in Houston. His father, the original John David Waits and his mother, Wanda Pearl ran a diner known for some of the best barbecue in Houston. One of the frequent customers knew Mr. Waits was a huge fan of Spike Jones, the band leader of the absurd with a network television show. When the patron learned Spike was performing in Houston, he gave John David three tickets to the show.

JD’s father planned out the evening in detail. He left almost an hour earlier than necessary to get to the theater. When Wanda Pearl wondered why, her husband explained his plan was to get there early for good parking and ensuring they would be there long before the performance began. He wanted to see all of his admired Spike Jones.

As if from a scene (without snow) from “A Christmas Story,” after beginning their journey to downtown Houston, a tire blew. It took Mr. Waits a significant time to replace the tire with the spare, but when he got back in the driver’s seat, he assured Wanda Pearl they had plenty of time to get to the show. Then as they got to downtown, the barrier bars to the railroad crossing lowered, and a very long freight train took over a half-hour to clear the crossing.

It was getting a bit tight, but Mr. Waits was calm, sure they would make it in time.

When they arrived at the venue, the parking lot was now full, not empty as it would have been had they gotten there as early as Mr. Waits planned.

They had to park at the very back of the lot and walk a long walk to the entrance.

Hot and exasperated, they entered the theater with the show having started, and Spike Jones doing his crazy stuff. With his flashlight, the usher escorted the Waits trio to the third row and then hurriedly scrambled back to his post.

The threesome then began to stumble and quiety apologize to the other attendees as they made their way to their seats in the middle of the row.

Spike stopped his routine and snidely remarked to them through his microphone, “Glad you could make it.”

Wanda and JD quickly took their seats. But Mr. John David Waits, fed up to the gills with all that had happened, still standing, slowly turned to face the band leader and said loud enough for all to hear:

“Fuck you, Spike!”

The entire crowd gasped. A silence ensued for a few seconds before Spike turned and directed the band to start the next number.

The newspaper ink in my blood sometimes is a negative.

My process is to write a news story, current. My schedule, my procrastination, my obligations, and my golf often interfere with publishing something if it’s more than a day old…old news, you see. So i archive it, thinking i might someday use it.

This kind of behavior adds to my frustration and stress, adding it to my inability to address and complete my schedule, my obligations, my golf, and even my procrastination (i like to procrastinate; i think of it as goofing off).

So FMG (Friday morning golf) is one needed relief for me. i put my phone on “silent,”  unless i forget like i did yesterday; open up my golf GPS app, and play golf with my buddies. They are a super group of guys, nearly all retired military veterans (but the others are just as as much good guys) who pull no punches in making fun of each other, telling sea stories, and drinking just a bit more beer than we should (it produces wonderful and long afternoon naps for me). i can say what i like and catching crap for saying it is perfectly all right. We are fast friends, and golf, unless it’s a particularly bad round of which we’ve had a few) is an escape by itself.

Yet walking the Sea ‘n Air course on Naval Air Station, North Island is happiness in itself. The views are spectacular, particularly the thirteenth through fifteenth holes, which play into and the along the Coronado beach with the Hotel Del Coronado looming to the east and the majestic Point Loma to the west (the beach faces south). F18’s, helicopters, and many other types of military aircraft fly over our heads on their landing flight path, sort of a reminder of what we did once, and a feeling of pride for what military service was and remains. It is always a good walk of about five miles.

And there are always a reminder of this world’s relationship with nature. The obnoxious and pretty much useless coots have apparently left for the summer, i hope, and the fairways, greens, and even the rough will be much better because of their departure. Occasionally, we will see ospreys. This season’s batch of youngsters are now flying, hunting on their own. We watched one set of parents in their nest in an eucalyptus along the second fairway tend to two as they grew and learned to fly.

There are the ubiquitous ground squirrels, seagulls, and crows hovering about, waiting for someone to drop a snack or even snatching a goodie out of a golf cart — the four young men in front of us yesterday declared one crow had eaten about six dollars worth of M&M’s, chips, and pretzels from their carts while they were on the green putting out.

Yesterday, we approached the third green haphazardly. I think it’s the toughest hole on the course with a large water hazard running on the right side from the 150-yard marker almost to the green. At the green end, there was this sight, which was a calm, appreciative moment for me:

A drake and hen watching over their seven ducklings.

It is a nice reminder the world goes on in spite of us.

This post is a day late by my newspaper standards, but i’m fine with that.

Can’t beat my FMG.

Three thousand, one hundred, and four-tenths miles.

8:45 a.m. PDT Monday, May 16, to 3:00 p.m. CDT Tuesday, May 17: 29 hours.

8:00 a.m. CDT Monday, May 23, to 1:00 p.m. PDT Tuesday, May 24: 29 hours, 15 minutes

Stops: Monday night, May 16 – Day’s Inn, Van Horn, Texas. Monday night, May 23: Comfort Suites, Lordsburg, New Mexico.

Diet: Medium bag of Fritos, two one-egg omelets, one link sausage, two pieces of toast; one apple, chile relleno, beef taco, margarita, two beers, medium bag of Fritos, and four cups of coffee.

Final equation: 3100.4 miles + 73:15  hours + 72 years = not very bright old fart.

But, in spite of a few spells of fighting sleepiness, the solo trip was strangely rewarding, not including the rather incredible stay in Austin.

i was planning a long and probably boring accounting, but even with a nap, i’m not going to last very long. And tomorrow, i have a round of golf.

It has been a wonderful eight days, road trip included.

It is 8:30 by one of the time zones i’m living in.

i have traveled near eight hundred miles in just over eleven hours. It should not surprise you this old man is tired, and therefore, this will be short.

Other observations will follow. But as i curl up for a short sleep and early rise to complete the voyage, a couple of observations:

Dust devils intrigue me. So does this world i’m in.

i’ve stopped in Lordsburg, New Mexico. i’m pretty sure this is where my friends Henry and Beetle Harding have relatives. i was surprised it is as small as it is unless i’ve missed something. i thought i should contact the relatives, but not this time. Sleep is the driver.

i’m staying at the Comfort Inn right next to I-10. When i asked for a good place to eat with a bar — i think i deserved a martini — the clerk informed me the only place in town with a bar was El Charro, a Mexican restaurant, literally across the tracks from the main part of town.

It is a sprawling place, a bit run down, that reminded me of a VFW hall gone south. When i entered the restaurant, the waitress, serving all of one older couple in an area with seats for about seventy-five, pointed me to the bar, another cavernous area that apparently is a venue for parties.

i sat at the bar to order my meal and my much desired martini.

“Do you have Bombay Sapphire,” i inquired. The bartender, replied, “We only have well gin.”

i had her margarita. Good. i also had a chile relleno, my gauge for good Mexican fare ever since Virginia Harding made it for me and her sons back home in Lebanon, and a beef taco, of course with a beer.

But i kept wondering what George Harding would think of this.