I Yam What I Yam

 

Not this kind, though

    During a slow spell at work last week (mind you, even though I am retired, I have informed the good people at Ace Hardware that I'm willing to help out if necessary and perform the duties of a Helpful Hardware Man)

Or whatever it is that I do

I was goofing around on the internet.  After watching Two Girls and a Cup  a couple Bugs Bunny cartoons on You Tube, a how-to video to install a toilet seat, and fighting with various mouth-breathers on Twitter (X, whatever), I decided to visit Penwasser Place in some sort of masochistic desire to see if anyone else harbors a masochistic desire. 

    Well, when I clicked on my blog, I found this, specifically that indicated by the red arrow.

    Now, I've never seen that kind of symbol on any of my posts before.  Actually, I've never noticed that kind of symbol on any of my posts before.  I'm not terribly observant.

"No joke."

    At any rate, I thought it was some kind of AI thing.  So, casting caution to the wind and feeling safe in the knowledge that I'm always polite to Siri (please see last weekend's "Manners Matter."  If you're bored),  I clicked on it.  Wow, it contained more information about me, Al Penwasser, Facebook (where I'm Kenneth Charles), and Penwasser Place than I thought possible.

  

Apparently, I am not a public figure.

This makes me sad.

    As you can probably tell, there is a whole host of questions that can lead you into the craziness that is normally found here.  Each selection will open up another set of questions.  In fact, the more I read, the more things I realize I had actually forgotten for the most part.

    For instance, did you know (why would you?) that I was a writer for Navy Times for ten years?  What probably isn't surprising is that none of my columns were serious.  What I know for sure is surprising is that they actually paid me!

This is why I can refer to myself as a professional writer, yo.

    When I saw the question about which post was judged the funniest, I saw that it was the one I wrote last year called The Great Urinal Stalemate.

Signature mix of sarcasm and self-deprecating humor. 
Mixed in with a little potty snark. 

        Incidentally, if you're curious (why would you be?), about what was my most popular historical post, that would be the second part of Xerxes.

"Thank you, thank you very much.  Still can't find my arms, though."

    To sum up (thank God, you're probably thinking), if you see a symbol like that on your blog, go ahead and click on it.  You may find out things about yourself you've forgotten.

    And may find Xerxes arms.

By the way, I've decided to repost The Great Urinal Stalemate next week.  I guess if it was judged the funniest post, a second go-round may be in order.

Plus that means I won't have to write new material.

After all...

Update:  This feature apparently only occurs when you share your post to Facebook.  So, no, you won't be able to use it on Blogger.  Still, it's pretty cool.  Have I mentioned I wrote for Navy Times?

Lest We Forget...

    Just like that, twenty-five years have come and gone.  

    Normally, Penwasser Place is a safe place for comedy (or whatever I call what I inflict you with).  But, each year, I repost a serious little story about where I was on a day which changed things forever.  Over the past year, I started a new-more cerebral (hopefully)-blog called Common Sense Central.  Something like this should probably be there.  However, I felt it more appropriate that I take a little break from the silly.

            It was just before one o’clock in the afternoon on September 11th (a sad commentary: we don’t even need to identify the year anymore) when my maintenance supervisor stuck his head into my room to wake me (I was working nights).

            “Sir, someone just flew a plane into the World Trade Center.”

            Minutes later, I watched, horrified, as a second plane struck the South tower.  And then, as both of the monstrously huge structures tumbled to the ground as if kicked by a petulant child.

            My unit and I were participating in a multi-nation exercise at the Naval Air Station in Keflavik, Iceland (this explains why it was the afternoon).  A round-the-clock operation, the Keflavik Tactical Exchange gave us a unique chance to evaluate each other’s capabilities should we ever needed to flex our respective militaries.  Little did we know that we were preparing for a type of war which belonged to the past.

            Because the 21st Century came roaring into each of our lives on that late summer day.

            Naturally, the exercise was immediately cancelled.  Foreign aircrews (funny that I call them “foreign’” since we were actually foreigners, too) beat hasty returns to their home bases.  We were told that American airspace was closed indefinitely.

            Station security forces went into their highest readiness posture.  Watch teams at the main gate beefed up, rings of barbed wire cordoned off perceived sensitive areas, and armed patrols roamed the perimeter.

            My watch teams and I, on the other hand, remained at our billeting.  Only in Iceland for the exercise, we were considered non-essential personnel who’d only get in the way.

            And so we spent the next few days.

            I received a worried phone call from my wife during this time.  She fretted over my safety.  I assured her that I was fine but omitted the fact that I was more concerned for her and the kids.

            You see, my family lived only a couple hours from New York and only a few from Washington.

            The ensuing few days was a frantic search for whatever updates we could glean from the news and how in the world we’d get ourselves and thousands of pounds of equipment back home.

            Most importantly, we desperately wanted to know how we could get into the fight.  Whatever the fight was.

            Four days later, U.S. airspace was opened to military traffic.  As I glanced through the window of the Navy patrol plane which took us home, I was struck at how empty the sky was-with the exception of the one plane which approached us as we crossed into the United States.  It came no closer than a few miles before it disappeared.

            I think it was a fighter aircraft coming to check us out.

            What’s more, the radio circuits, normally full of the cacophony of countless air traffic controllers, were eerily silent.  The only ones “on the air” were the handful which guided us home.  All else were hushed into silence.

            Our route of flight took us just south of Manhattan, well out of sight of land.  At that distance, even at the altitude at which we were flying, it was impossible to see any of the city skyline.

            But, we did see a huge pall of gray-brown smoke lingering in the air like the death shroud that it was.

            As we touched ground at the Willow Grove naval air station, there was nobody to greet us.  There really wasn't much of anything by way of an acknowledgment that we were back.  Somehow, it seemed fitting.

            After all, we all had something much more important to do.

            Go home to our families.

In memory of my friends:

Commander Bill Donovan, USN

AW2 (NAC/AW) Joseph Pycior, USN

and the thousands whose only crime was going to work that day. 

 

Wordless Wednesday XVI

 Okay, it's two days late.  

But, I hope it was a happy one.

Manners Matter

 

    You see, I don't want my AI to kill me in my sleep.

"Isn't that Penwasser's house?  We should go there."
"No, I think we should leave him alone.  He was always so nice to Siri."

    That's right.

Wordless Wednesday XV

 

The Adventure Begins

 "When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy.

In the company of strangers, in the quiet of a railway station, running scared."*

-Simon and Gar, the Funkel Brothers.

    Fifty years ago...

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Except mine.
Because who cares?

    The summer of 1976 was glorious.  Having graduated from high school in late June, the potential of a carefree few months stretched before me with its comforting arms (clumsy metaphor, I know.  Sue me).  I quit my job at a seafood restaurant in late July, my bank account was full, and I was dating a girl who gave me all the love I deserved.  And I her.

    NOTE: Two and a half years later, she broke my heart.  But that's another story...

Available for the low, low price of...uh...huh.  Can't remember.
If you're looking for an answer as to whether she knew she broke my heart, you won't find it here.

"I think he's trying to sell books."

 

   My enlistment in the Navy was, to my hormone-fueled adolescent mind, a lifetime away.  I was having too much fun to worry about that, I told myself.

 

    Then, as the middle of August rolled around (and my savings account dwindled), I got a phone call from my recruiter.  He told me that I would be leaving for boot camp a day early, August 30th instead of the 31st.

    Well, if that didn't thrust me into a whirlwind of depression, nothing ever would, I thought.  I'd be leaving "my home and my family" 24 hours early than I had anticipated.  Oh, the humanity!

    NOTE:  Oh, how naive.  That whole "breaking heart" thing would be much worse.

    Of course, the fact that meant my enlistment would be over a day earlier than anticipated (August 29th, 1980 instead of the 30th) didn't occur to me.

    NOTE:  What happened in those four years is also regaled in the book above.  Teaser?  I totaled my car.  And slept in a pillowcase.

    In any event, I WASN'T READY TO GO!!!!!!

    But, go I did.  This was a actually a good thing because I only had $5.00 left in my savings.

    After I had retired (you read that right), I was asked to speak at various Career Days at local schools.  Although, I must admit, those invitations have pretty much dried up.  Because my uniform no longer fits.  Nobody wanted to hear some old geezer reminisce with tedious "back in my day" stories.  To them, I would be no different than John Paul Jones.

"Not gonna lie, more than a little hurtful."

    By far, the most common question I was asked was why I went into the Navy in the first place.  "That was easy," I said.  "I wanted to see the world."

    And so I did.

From Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia
(yes, it was still called that then)

to

To Memphis, Egypt (complete with a mummy of Elvis)

to

Notre Dame, Paris (the hunchback had the day off)

to

Whatever TF I was doing here in Rome.

     In the ensuing twenty-seven years, I had pretty much achieved what I wanted.  And remain happy that I did.  

    Fifty years after I left a day early.

  DISCLOSURE:  To be honest, military service isn't the yukfest it was in the 1970s.  A lot of things have happened since then.  And, even though I can intellectually understand the necessity of being at sea for an excruciatingly long period of time, my heart goes out to those whose only view of the world is largely water.

*This song has always appealed to me.  When I left for boot camp, I did leave my home as an 18 year old, who was little more than a boy.  And those of us who went to boot camp (mostly strangers; but three of my fellow "boots" were in my graduating class) did indeed take a train.   

Wordless Wednesday XIV

 

To Subtle or Not To Subtle

    Or, possibly, too subtle?

    Sandee, of the delightful Comedy Plus blog, sponsors a weekly "Wordless Wednesday" post.

    NOTE:  I would think "weekly" would be a needless redundancy.  But, then again, there may be some of you out there who are graduates of a Minnesota Learing Center and, thus, may not get it.

"You just aren't going to give it a rest, are you?"

    Since I always like having an excuse to post, I have posted a, for the most part, wordless picture every...Wednesday (please keep up).

    There have been occasions where, by not offering any sort of explanation, the joke may not be readily apparent.  More than once, people have commented that it took them a couple seconds to figure out what I was driving at.  Then?  The "haha" (hopefully) moment finally strikes them.

    As an example, Bohemian of the equally delightful Bohemian Valhalla wrote that it took her a little while to get my "Junk Removal" picture.

It still makes me giggle in a middle school kinda way.

    To be honest, subtle comedy is one of my favorite forms of comedy.  Rather than slapping you in the face with a banana cream pie (mind you, I'm not against doing that, either), I like to slip you something which catches you unawares.

"That sounds dirty, boyo.  Knuckles, if you please."

    Mostly because I hate to waste a perfectly good pie.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm...........pie..............."

    Believe it or not, I do my best to avoid posting a picture which would be impossible to understand without a caption, no matter how long you look at it.

"Take a picture.  It lasts longer."

     What may be easier to believe is that I have quite a collection of pictures from which to choose.

     Sometimes, I'll post a position of a sign.  While they probably would be pretty easy to understand, in my opinion, they don't technically satisfy the defintion of "wordless."

Some things don't need explanation.

    So, Sandee, I'll continue to do my best to submit pictures which will remain largely wordless.  While I can take a hint from other posts and provide images of scenic vistas or beautiful people, I doubt I will do so.

After all, that's not how I roll.

Wordless Wednesday XIII

 

Weekend in Norfolk

 

Barry Manilow-Brought To You by CVS!

    I had a topic in mind for today's post.  I'll probably use it for next week, though.  I thought it was more important to talk about a concert my wife and I went to last Saturday.

    As much as I like to poke fun of him, I decided that we should take in a Barry Manilow concert at the Chartway Arena in Norfolk, Virginia, last weekend.  Before he died.  I had originally bought tickets for his show that was scheduled in...March? (it's been so long I can't remember).  However, it was rescheduled due to a medical ailment Barry had.  Luckily, I had penned the rescheduled date on our calendar.  Otherwise, I could have very easily forgotten the revised date.

    My memory isn't what it used to be, you know.  I'm not getting any younger.  And that's the point of this post in the first place.

    As we left to go to the concert, my wife asked if I wanted to have dinner first.  I told her no.  We'd have plenty of time because I was sure the concert would be over before dark.

    Well, color me surprised.  Even though, like I said, I often poke fun of him, Barry Manilow put on a very entertaining show.  This was pretty amazing, considering that he's fifteen years older than I.

And his cheeks have a "PSI Warning' label

    Good grief, I need a nap after brushing my teeth and I throw my back out when I fart.  So, even though I'm convinced he lip-synced his way through (my wife is not equally convinced), he showed the energy of a man younger than I.

    NOTE:  Even so, as the concert started, my wife remarked that he walked like an "old Jewish man."  I looked at her and said, "That's because he is an old Jewish man."

    Just an observation:  I have never seen that many walkers, canes, and wheelchairs.

    I could have done without him pumping his hips in a creepy geriatric pantomime, though.  Yes, yes, I know.  Geezers do get it on occasionally.  And then take the rest of the summer off.  But, nobody needed to see that.

"Shall I pump my hips?"

    When he sang my personal favorite, Weekend in New England, I was transported back to 1976.  When, as a young Sailor, I missed my home.  In New England.  Ironically, I was in Norfolk.  Made me a little misty-eyed.

    And then he to had to go ahead and ruin it by pumping his hips again in some sort of sexual Tourettes.

    As the show ended with Copacabana (the hottest spot north of Havana, don'tcha know), Barry walked off the stage while the lights dimmed.  Happy that we had seen what, I think, is his farewell tour, I was also sad.  It looked as if my youth was also walking off the stage.

    On the bright side, the first 1,000 ticketholders were given a hemorrhoid pillow and Ben-Gay gift pak.

    So, we had that going for us.

"Which is nice."

    Next stop on our "Senior Citizen Tour '26":  Tom Jones in October.

"I'll make you a deal, right? 
Ladies, if you don't throw your panties on stage, I won't pump my hips."

Wordless Wednesday XII

    I'm sorry, but this isn't completely wordless.  It just tickled me so.

This gender reassignment stuff has gotten out of control

  

Call Me Al

     Thanks to the 2026 A-Z Challenge, several new people have decided to stick around and see for themselves if the silliness I displayed in April has continued...

    It has.

    That being the case, some of them may not know the origin of the "Al Penwasser" moniker.  The fact they also may not care won't stop me from going into the history of the whole Al Penwasser/Ken Lynch business.

    I actually explained Al's origins several years ago, so this could be considered a repost.  But, what the heck?  A repost is easier than having to actually write anything new, amirite?

    Several years ago, I was a “freelance stringer for Navy Times, a subsidiary publication of the Army Times Publishing Company” (if that sounds like a line from a resumé, it is).  

    My position was to write editorials, called "Back Talk," on the newspaper's last page.  Perhaps not unsurprisingly, they weren't serious commentaries on the military-industrial complex.  Rather, it was a silly bit of business that lasted for ten years which is amazing.

Even more amazing?  They paid me!

    What name did I use for my byline?  That's right...Al Penwasser.  It wasn't that I wanted to remain anonymous.  I didn't care if anyone actually knew it was me; it's just that I thought people with whom I served, and hadn't seen in years, would get a hoot out of seeing it.

    But, how did I come up with "Al Penwasser" in the first place, you might ask?  Okay, this is the part where "repost" comes in.  If you've read this before, feel free to skip and go look at an "Only Fans" page (I won't judge).  If you haven't read this before, feel free to stay.  Or go look at an "Only Fans" page.

The story you're about to read can be found in this book. 
Which also includes a tale of a cheesesteak mixed with a flight boot.

   

    Life was considerably different in the late 80’s than today.  We didn’t fret about Mayan prophecies, fume over gas prices, or wonder why Kim Kardashian was famous.  We had Bill Cosby instead of Chris Rock, Qaddafi instead of Osama, and Madonna instead of Lady Gaga.  And Dick Clark instead of...uh...Dick Clark. 

 (NOTE:  okay, so I wrote this several years ago.  We don’t have Osama anymore.  Would you prefer I said Ayatollah Khamenei Khamenei's son?  Plus, Cosby? Awkward.  And Dick Clark is dead).

"All of a sudden, there was an earth-shattering kaboom."
"DEATH TO AMERICA!"
"See?  Talk like that lead to the earth-shattering kaboom."

    

    The “Evil Empire” was still in business and few people did a better job of caging the bear than the U.S. military.  Our influence was felt throughout the world and it could be argued that, like the British Union Jack before it, the sun never set on the Stars and Stripes.

    Each of the services had their hand in winning the Cold War:  the Army held the line in places like Germany and Korea, the Marines scared people with their haircuts, the Navy ruled the waves, and the Air Force kept golf courses in business.  Together, they promoted truth, justice, the American way, and McDonalds. 

And Space Force didn't exist.

    The Lajes Naval Air Facility in the Portuguese Azores was just such a place.

    Perched nine hundred miles off the European coast, Lajes was a major stopping off point for forces crossing the Atlantic Ocean.  The roar of aircraft pausing to refuel there was as common as flag burnings in Tehran.

Relatively peaceful, we called it the "Betty Ford Clinic of the Mediterranean." 
Yes, yes, it's in the Atlantic Ocean, not the Med.  Sue me.

    In addition, Lajes was an ideal spot for launching aircraft to locate and track Soviet submarines going back and forth from the Mediterranean Sea.  Crucial to this effort were groups of fixed-wing P-3C Orion sub-hunting aircraft.

Nary a flushing toilet to be had

    It was also where Al Penwasser was born.

    Petty Officer Penwasser was an enlisted aircrewman attached to Patrol Squadron Eleven during its deployment to Lajes in the final days of the Cold War.   

    Not many people actually saw him, but I knew he existed from the day I reported to VP-11 in 1987.  Many folks warned me to be on the lookout for this cocky individual who always seemed to be on “assignment.”

    Even though I never laid eyes on him, I did see his service record, training folder, and the volumes of mail he received on a regular basis.

    I never questioned why his picture board photograph always came up missing or why “Classified-Secret” was pasted across his face when it wasn’t.

    It certainly drove the Commanding Officer nuts that Penwasser never checked in with him.

    He did have a checkered career, unfortunately.  Promoted to a senior rank, he was subsequently demoted for parachuting into Grenada armed with only a blow-up doll and a spork.  A week before the actual invasion.

Yeah, no kidding. 
The United States actually invaded the island of Grenada in 1983.
Oil not involved.

    After the Cold War, he realized his lifelong dream of becoming a member of the Special Forces.  Exactly WHOSE Special Forces we didn’t know; all we knew is he volunteered for only the most dangerous of missions.  Ya know, like hunting with Dick Cheney or designated driver for Charlie Sheen.

Trust me, when I wrote this, the Dick Cheney joke was funny. 
I hope.

    He stayed in touch, though.  We routinely got postcards from places as exotic as the Orient, the Gulf, Daytona Beach at Spring Break, or New Jersey.  A sentimental rake, he always signed them, “Love, Al.”

    Our last contact with him happened when an 18-wheeler pulled up in front of our squadron hangar.  Evidently, Mr. Penwasser had placed an order for a manure spreader (which we thought was pretty appropriate).  Luckily, we convinced the flustered driver that Farmer Al had transferred, to where we weren’t sure. 

    After that, he dropped out of sight.  We sometimes saw his name in guest registers at places like the Pantheon, the Dubai Seamen’s Center, assorted Mayan ruins, or bowling alley bathroom walls, but that was about it.

    Like Vanilla Ice’s career, Chastity Bono’s breasts, and Miley Cyrus’ innocence, Al Penwasser just disappeared.

There once was a time when Chastity Bono becoming Chas was considered shocking. 
Oh, that childishly innocent 20th Century!

    I never found out where he went or what he did, but his spirit lives on in this blog and elsewhere.  No matter whether the subject is Old Man Toe, Columbus Day, or Heel Piss Cream, I’m proud that Al has once more found a home for his wry take on life.  

    Oh, and as for that name.  Comes from Portuguese bottled water: 

    Alpen Wasser.

Creative Artist Note:  "Heel Piss Cream."  Maybe a future repost?