I've celebrated the arrival of many new years during my life on Earth, but it was the year 1968 that came in with a big bang – or with a mighty explosion, to be more exact. It also earned me an unenviable nickname.

I was wounded on New Year's Eve, Dec. 31, 1967, on Bach Ma Mountain in Vietnam. Today, the land on and around the mountain is Bach Ma National Park, but back then, I was on no walk in a park. My Marine Corps reconnaissance team was on a mission to reconnoiter a former French resort on Bach Ma Mountain. First Marine Division planners suspected the old, abandoned resort was being used by the bad guys – the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army.

As darkness fell upon us that last day of 1967, our first day on the mountain – about halfway up the 1,450-meter elevation, in montane rain forest – we stopped for the night. However, some of those bad guys decided to interrupt our New Year's Eve. They somehow had detected our presence and started to probe us in the dark.

We put on our gas masks, tossed a couple of CS gas grenades at the enemy soldiers, and then put on our best escape-and-evade act. After all, we were there to reconnoiter, not stage an infantry assault. Besides, we were a small recon team, and they might be an NVA rifle platoon or company or battalion.

As we pulled into a new position and set up a 360-degree perimeter, the earth erupted behind me. Suddenly, everything in my vision went silver; I couldn't hear; and I was losing consciousness. I'd been hit with shrapnel, compliments of the 106s of the 5th Marines in the valley below.

A 106 is a 106 mm recoilless rifle, but it's not a rifle in the normal sense. It's a small artillery piece, and a 106 high-explosive round had impacted in a loud explosion just a few feet behind me. I had been flat on the ground in the prone position; that means I was laying on my belly, with my legs spread apart, pointing my rifle where an enemy might approach from.

When a high-explosive artillery round impacts the ground, shrapnel blasts forward in the direction the round is headed when it impacts. So, yes, it blasted me between the legs, and there began the legend of Iron Balls.

Several minutes after the explosion, I was barely conscious, still couldn't see, and couldn't really hear. Then, as if I were in a bizarre dream, I faintly heard a distant voice. "Where's Griggs?" it said. I was in a bush, unable to function, unable to understand where I was or what was happening. Our Navy corpsman, Doc Gus Villanueva, finally found me.

A Navy corpsman is the same as an Army medic. But don't call a corpsman a medic. He's a corpsman, and he patches up U.S. Marines. Doc Villanueva is the best corpsman I've ever known. I was in good hands.

The enemy must have figured we couldn't possibly be holed up where we were holed up, because an American artillery round had just exploded there. That was the only good thing about that misplaced 106 mm high-explosive round.

Most importantly, at the moment, Doc Gus had to inspect my wound and my condition, in the dark, without his flashlight giving away our position. So, he quickly told me to get on my hands and knees and covered me with our two government-issue, rain-repellant, green ponchos. As I became a little more coherent, he joined me in the makeshift tent with his flashlight and began to examine my distressed derriere.

There I was, bringing in the new year with our corpsman's head up my butt. If I hadn't been in so much pain, the situation would have been hilarious.

Years later, in a 1992 letter to me, Doc Villanueva recalled the examination. His face and his flashlight were up close and personal, he recounted.

"The light shone on your lily-white, honky buttocks, but revealed no injuries," Doc wrote in the letter that I still keep in my Marine Corps footlocker. "I asked, 'Just where does it hurt?' You said, 'The balls! The balls, man!' I recall that you always ended your sentences with 'man' when excited. I remember you spreading your legs so that your testicles were clearly suspended, and seeing a trickle of blood at the 12-o'clock position of the left testicle."

So far, I'm sure, this is way too much information for many readers, but my fellow recon Marines will relish it. Allow me to quote just one more paragraph from Doc's letter.

"I remember leaning forward for a better look and asking 'Does this hurt?' as I gently touched the bleeding testicle. I heard you gasp in pain and collapse on the ground. 'Hmm, guess it does hurt,' was my response, to no one in particular."

Thanks, Gus. Your exam, the crazy pain, the added discomfort of the drenching rain – Bach Ma is one of the wettest places in Vietnam – combine for a lasting recollection of my most memorable New Year's Eve.

How could such a small wound cause so much pain? Doc couldn't answer that, but he could inject me with a dose of morphine, which helped me make it to New Year's Day with a little less discomfort.

The daylight on the morning of Jan. 1, 1968, showed that my wounded left sphere had swollen immensely. On the brighter side, the enemy soldiers had given up on finding us. But in my condition, our mission was scrubbed. Meanwhile, helicopters could not fly in the low, rainy clouds – especially in the Annamite Mountains – so a medivac was out of the question. We would have to make it back down the mountain on foot and get me medical aid.

We had to move slowly because of me, and it was a couple of days later when we reached the aid station at the 5th Marines command post. Remember I pointed out that the Bach Ma area is one of the wettest places in Vietnam? It's also notorious for leeches, and when the 5th Marines doctor examined me at the aid station, he discovered a bleeding leech wound on my penis! And he feared the leech could be inside me! Can this story get any crazier? Welcome to 1968, Griggs! By the way, don't plan on fathering any children,
Marine.

The choppers were still grounded, so the doctor and Doc Gus threw me into a U.S. Army M37 truck headed to Da Nang. After a long, bumpy, painful ride with an Army lieutenant and his driver, I made it to 1st Medical Battalion, where I spent a week, followed by three weeks in the urology ward aboard the Navy hospital ship USS Sanctuary.

Indeed, the beginning of 1968 was no celebration, and to rub salt into the wound, I didn't even receive a Purple Heart, because I was wounded by friendly fire. Why do they call it friendly fire? It's not at all friendly.

I could complain that all I got from New Year's Eve 1967 were many pangs of pain, some hospital time and the nickname Iron Balls. However, once again, I try looking on the bright side of it all. Dr. Blum, the urologist aboard the USS Sanctuary, fixed my parts – the leech had not hitched a ride with me, by the way – and I went on to help create two little human beings.

And, hey, I'm still here in 2012, but I'll be careful how I bring in 2013. Happy New Year!

The trees behind our house showed no signs of life this morning, after the first snow of the season finally fell here in southwest Illinois and over there across the Mississippi River in the Gateway City. Our trees' branches were covered with snow but were without the usual morning signs of life – sparrows, wrens, nuthatches, chickadees, cardinals and eastern gray squirrels. Not a creature was stirring, not a one in sight. The scene was almost eerie. Yet, there was inspiring beauty in this morning's wintertime frostiness, quiet stillness, and the fresh-fallen whiteness. I threw on a thermal undershirt, t-shirt, sweatshirt and a heavy hoodie­ – along with sweatpants, gloves and hiking boots – and I was off for a trek in the snow. Surprisingly, I slipped and fell not once. It was a fine walk in a wintry wonderland.

Many children woke up this Christmas morning to unwrap some great new toys that were collected by the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve Toys for Tots program.

Toys for Tots began as the holiday idea of Marine Reserve Maj. Bill Hendricks in 1947 in Los Angeles. Now, the program is carried on by Marine Corps Reserve centers throughout the country, and many other organizations pitch in to help. Marines gather donated, new, unwrapped toys and distribute them to community groups that get them to the kids who need them for a merrier Christmas. It's a wonderful tradition.

I took part in Toy for Tots a lot when I was stationed at the Marine Corps Public Affairs Office in Los Angeles for three years in the early 1980s. The program took up much of my time during the holiday season, because so many Marine Reserve centers were located in the Los Angeles area. There were centers in Pico Rivera, Pasadena, Encino, Long Beach, Los Alamitos, San Bernardino, Port Hueneme, and a large center was located next to Dodger Stadium. Not all still exist, but I'm sure the ones that do help bring joy to a lot of kids at Christmas.

Some of my favorite memories of my Los Angeles tour of duty are about Toy for Tots. The main mission of our LA office – four of us Marines served there – was to operate as a liaison to the motion picture and television industry, and people in the industry often helped our Toys for Tots efforts.

Take, for example, the classic Christmastime feature film "A Christmas Story." Just before it was released in 1983, I was told to meet with the film's creators and put together a Toys for Tots reception at the premiere of the movie. It seems my boss, Maj. Pat Coulter, and the film's director, Bob Clark, thought it would be beneficial and in great holiday spirit if everyone attending the premiere would bring a new, unwrapped toy for Toys for Tots.

After the meeting, I got together with the Marines at the Los Angeles Marine Corps Reserve Center at Chavez Ravine, next to Dodger Stadium. We decided to post several Marines in dress blues at the theater entrance, along with decorated Toys for Tots barrels and a Marine truck. The evening was full of spirit and a fantastic movie. I had no idea then that "A Christmas Story" would become such a holiday classic, rivaling such
Christmas standards as "It's a Wonderful Life" and the original "Miracle on 34th Street." 

Virginia Mayo, one of the most beautiful actresses of Hollywood's golden age, also helped our Toys for Tots drive during one of my holidays seasons in Los Angeles. She accepted an offer to be the guest of honor at the annual Warner Brothers employees Christmas dinner, where everyone was to bring a toy for Toys for Tots. I was the honored one, when I was told I would drive to her home and escort her to the dinner. Yow! I had a holiday dinner date with Hollywood royalty!

OK, folks, it wasn't a date. I was married, and Virginia Mayo was my mother's age. But what an experience, I thought. I arrived in my dress blues at her home in a north-of-LA community, and she looked drop-dead gorgeous for her age. Her son, about my age, was at the door and sent us off in a cordial manner. "I'll have her back by midnight," I said, as we bid adieu. At the time, I thought my comment was rather clever. Her son probably thought I was one dopey gyrene.

The drive down to Warner Brothers Studios was a interesting one. We shared some great conversation, until Ms. Mayo asked me where my wife was from, and I told her that she was from Norway. Oh, my, that's where those terrible Norwegians club to death those baby harp seals, she said, or something like that. I haven't used quotation marks, because I'm paraphrasing. I don't remember her exact words, but what I just wrote is
basically what she said, and I didn't know what to say in return. Yow! Our wonderful drive to the wonderful dinner just turned sour. I tried to turn on the charm, and I tried to change the subject with something stupid about Norwegian sardines and how healthful they are for us and our hearts. Yep, I blabbed away, until our talk was as for away from baby harp seals as we were far away from the North Pole. To my Christmastime relief, the rest of the evening went well, and a good time was had by all of the Warner Brothers attendees.

The most touching Toy for Tots experience came on my last Christmas Day in
Los Angeles. I received a letter in my office on the day before Christmas. It was from a young mother, who was down on her luck and had no toys for her two kids – a boy and a girl – for Christmas that year. She said she'd missed the cutoff for requesting some toys gathered by Toys for Tots. She was right about that, because the toys already had been distributed.

Her address was in the top left corner of the envelope, so I knew where she lived. That night, my wife and I put together some new, wrapped toys and some clothes that our two children had outgrown. And on Christmas morning, my 4-year-old daughter and I drove to the address that was on the young mother's letter.

It was not in the tidiest or safest neighborhood in LA. The structure was a rather rundown apartment building, and I was a little bit apprehensive as we entered and started our climb up the stark and dim stairway. When my daughter and I reached the apartment door – our arms full of presents – we heard what sounded like happy kids inside. I knocked, and the place went silent, as if one had to be quiet and careful when answering a knock on the door.

That door opened very slowly, and the mom peered out at us. I introduced myself and my little girl, and I told her I'd gotten her letter. The door swung all the way open, we were invited in, and the happy kids inside became even happier. All of a sudden they had presents to put under their Charlie Brown-looking Christmas tree.

After we left and got to our car, my 4-year-old said she felt wonderful about her Christmas morning experience. She was so happy those children were so happy. I
was happy, too.

'Twas the week before Christmas, and the big guy was in the house. That house was the Trenton Village independent and assisted-living home in Trenton, Ill., where Santa Claus showed up this past week for the annual Christmas party. One might think he would have been too busy helping the elves build toys or checking his giant list of who's been naughty and who's been nice – and checking it twice. He showed up, though, and his visit was enjoyed by the senior citizens living at Trenton Village and the youngsters who were visiting them. Similar scenes likely played out this past week at many places across the country and around the world, where Santa is known by such names as Kris Kringle, Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas, Julenisse, Sinterklaas and Hoteiosho, to name a few. By the way, it's impolite and not politically correct to address Santa as The Fat Man.

We're still here!

The Mayan calendar ended, but the Mayan apocalypse failed to materialize. I knew it wouldn't happen. The Mayan calendar maker probably died before he got to create the next calendar, and a lot of people have made a lot of fuss over nothing.

Winter, however, did arrive. Today is the first day of winter – Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. It showed up with freezing temperatures where I live. After we woke up to 55 degrees yesterday morning, temps dropped into the teens during the past night. It's freezin' this morning!

I wouldn't mind winter so much if my house were a little warmer.

Hang on, while I break the ice off my keyboard. There. That's better. Now, where was I?

Oh, yes, my house is cold. I live with a crazy Norwegian, who tries to control the thermostat as if she's Jackie Frost and needs our home temperatures to be cool, crisp and frosty. She says that the 70-degree temperature I want inside the house makes her flush and uncomfortable and that we need to save costs on our energy bills and that we can help save the earth this way and that a tough Marine shouldn't complain about it. She likes to tell me how she slept with her bedroom window cracked open during the wintertime when she was growing up in Norway. When I was growing up here in Illinois, I had to hear how my mother walked two miles through the snow to get to school. Now I have to listen to this story of the open bedroom window in the middle of the Norwegian winter.

Many folks probably thought winter was already here. We've been getting closer and closer to Christmas, after all, and Christmastime means wintertime here in North America. 

Christmas is next Tuesday, and the local meteorologists say we might get a little snow in the St. Louis area. A white Christmas would be nice. My mom will be here for Christmas dinner, and a little of the white stuff outside would go great with the warmth inside the house on Christmas Day. My lovely Norwegian will be sweltering inside our home on Tuesday, because we'll turn up the thermostat to be sure me mum is comfy. And the kitchen oven will be adding to the warmth, while it fills the house with the good smells of roasting Cornish hens, green-bean salad, pineapple upside-down cake, crescent rolls, and buttery butternut and acorn squashes.

Some years, we make a typical Norwegian Christmas dinner, which features three pork dishes – country pork ribs, Norwegian sausage, and a pork roast that comes out of the oven covered with crisscrossed pork cracklin'. The warmth of the oven and the aroma of roasting pork fill the house. I get warm and giddy just thinking about all that piggy goodness accompanied by the traditional red potatoes, Norwegian sauerkraut, and delicious lingonberries. Hark, my thoughts of chow are meandering, and I've drifted from the topic of winter.

So, today is just the beginning of winter. It's only the beginning! After the rest of December, we must make it through January and February, and even though spring arrives in March, it won't feel like it until the end of March. Maybe. If the winter lingers, it might be April before it feels like winter is behind us.

In the meantime, I'll have to convince myself of the joys of winter. Let me think about that a little while. Stand by.

I guess I should not complain. Today is also National Look on the Bright Side Day. I kid you not. There is such a day, and today is it. I'll try to look on the bright side. Let's see; at least the world did not come to an end today. Instead, the holiday season is here, many people are beginning their journeys home to spend the holidays with their families, and
life goes on.

There's one drawback to no Mayan apocalypse, though. If the world had come to an end
today, I wouldn't have to worry about another long, cold winter.

At the Lebanon Care Center in Lebanon, Ill., yesterday, center resident and military veteran Steve Barlowski, left, is greeted by Marvin Meddows during a visit to veterans at the care facility by members of the local American Legion post. Also seated are Lebanon Care Center residents Tom MacDonald, an Army veteran, sitting to Steve's left, and Air Force veteran Glen Brandt. Jon Suydam, far right, the Lebanon post commander, brought along several Legion members to deliver Christmas presents and greetings to six veterans residing at the center. Later in the day, the American Legion members visited about a dozen veterans being cared for at the Cedar Ridge Health and Rehab Center in Lebanon.

Twice this past week, America had to endure another massacre meted out by a ruthless gunman – last Tuesday in a shopping mall in Oregon and yesterday in an elementary school in Connecticut.

Can the terror and insanity get any worse than yesterday's atrocity, the killing of 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Conn.?

"The massacre of 26 children and adults at a Connecticut elementary school elicited horror and soul-searching around the world even as it raised more basic questions about why the gunman, a 20-year-old described as brilliant but remote, was driven to such a crime and how he chose his victims," The Associated Press reported in one of the hundreds of news stories coming out of this tragedy.

Why, indeed. Why would a human commit such an inhuman and evil act? The inhumanity and insanity of it all stabs at our hearts, baffles our brains and rips at our guts. How can there be an explanation for such an unspeakable act? It's beyond explaining. A believer in The Almighty understandably might question her or his own belief in a loving God. The slaughter was unbelievable.

Shortly after the massacre, in a statement to the press in the White House briefing room, President Obama vowed action, "regardless of the politics," to stop such violence.

Said the president: "As a country, we have been through this too many times. We're going to have to come together and take meaningful action to prevent more tragedies like this, regardless of the politics."

New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg wasted no time condemning not only the terrible slaughter, but also the availability of the guns used in such horrific crimes. He responded almost immediately yesterday.

Bloomberg issued this statement: “With all the carnage from gun violence in our country, it’s still almost impossible to believe that a mass shooting in a kindergarten class could happen. It has come to that. Not even kindergarteners learning their A,B,Cs are safe. We heard after Columbine that it was too soon to talk about gun laws. We heard it after Virginia Tech. After Tucson and Aurora and Oak Creek. And now we are hearing it again. For every day we wait, 34 more people are murdered with guns. Today, many of them were five-year-olds. President Obama rightly sent his heartfelt condolences to the families in Newtown. But the country needs him to send a bill to Congress to fix this problem. Calling for ‘meaningful action’ is not enough. We need immediate action. We have heard all the rhetoric before. What we have not seen is leadership - not from the White House and not from Congress. That must end today. This is a national tragedy and it demands a national response. My deepest sympathies are with the families of all those affected, and my determination to stop this madness is stronger than ever.”

Obama, when he spoke of "meaningful action" despite "politics," was talking about gun-control politics and the partisan inflexibility in dealing with such an important, vital issue in our country. Whether talking about the dreaded fiscal cliff or about the important issue of gun control, the partisanship involved in discussing such important matters these days is unsatisfactory and unacceptable.

On one end of the gun-control spectrum, many law makers would like to see all guns dumped into a giant cauldron in a steel mill and melted down into molten steel. Conservative lawmakers, the National Rifle Association and multitudes of gun owners on the other end of the spectrum all cite the Second Amendment and the right to bear arms.

It was on this very day 221 years ago that Virginia became the last state to ratify the Bill of Rights, enacting into law the first 10 amendments to our Constitution. While the Congress had drafted the Bill of Rights on Dec. 25, 1789, it was not until Virginia's ratification on Dec. 15, 1791, that the three-fourths majority was reached in order to make the amendments law.

Our Founding Fathers wrote in the Second Amendment that all Americans had the "right to bear arms for the purpose of a well-regulated militia."

The need for such a militia in 2012 has been eliminated by the existence of the most powerful military in the world.

I was a member of that military for 20 years of my adult life. I served in the U.S. Marine Corps, where every Marine is basically a rifleman. I used my rifle in combat, and I used my rifle during peacetime in military exercises and on the rifle range for annual requalification. I used an M14 rifle in boot camp, an M14 in infantry training, an M1 Garand rifle in Recon School, an M16 automatic rifle and an M-79 grenade launcher in combat in the Vietnam War, an M60 machine gun in training and in combat, a Smith and Wesson .38-caliber revolver on embassy duty, and I carried a .45-caliber Colt service pistol in Beirut during the Lebanese Civil War. Also during my career in the Corps, I fired the M1 carbine, .50-caliber machine gun, AK47 assault rifle, SKS semi-automatic rifle, the Heckler and Koch G3 automatic rifle, and the Marine Corps M40A1 sniper rifle, among others.

So, I know a lot about guns, and I know I don't really need any of the aforementioned firearms to protect myself in civilian life or to hunt deer or bag some ducks.

My grandfather, who was a farmer and a great outdoorsman, taught me how to hunt. Growing up, I had my .22-caliber, single-shot, bolt-action, Remington rifle for squirrel hunting. And my grandfather gave me a 12-gauge, semi-automatic shotgun for everything else – rabbits, quail, ducks, deer. Those firearms, I really do need.

Unfortunately, too many gun owners, the NRA and the law makers they influence think the Second Amendment means we have the right and deserve to own all kinds of firearms, all guns, leaving no room for negotiation, no reasonable regulations for controlling assault guns and similar firearms that are more inclined to kill people than to kill ducks.

I don't need an M-16 or a semi-automatic AR-15 – with a 20-round magazine – to down
a whitetail deer. I can do it with a three-round, 12-gauge shotgun. I, likewise, have no use for the multiple-round firepower of a Glock pistol or a Sig Sauer pistol or a Bushmaster .223-caliber assault-style rifle, all of which were carried by the murderer in Newton, Conn., yesterday.

The difference between the types of weapons people do not need and the types of recreational firearms that should be allowed for hunting is obvious. It is obvious, right? Yes, it is. So, why cannot those people at the two ends of that gun-control tolerance spectrum get together and hammer out some sensible gun control laws?

These senseless, bloody massacres must stop. We must make our schools and public places safe for our children and all our fellow Americans.

What did the president say? "As a country, we have been through this too many times."

Evening sunlight shines through prairie grasses along Illinois farmland east of my hometown of Lebanon earlier this week. We've experienced about 10 days of unseasonably warm temperatures, breaking the record on at least one of those days. Even though it's getting cooler now, it's still about 10 degrees above normal for this time of year, with the mercury climbing into the upper 50s during the afternoon. The forecast for Monday, however, has the temps dropping into the 30s, and we could be seeing some snow. I guess I shouldn't complain; it's the holiday season, and a lot of people probably hope we have a white Christmas. Let's see, how many days until spring?

The Grammy nominations concert show on CBS this week turned out to be a hit.

The hour was full of the reading of the nominations, a lot of good music, and there were a few surprises.

Those startling surprises included a snub of Justin Bieber, too few nominations for female artists, and the revelation that Taylor Swift can be a funny girl.

Not only does Bieber have a huge following – he sells millions of records – but the kid writes or co-writes most of his songs. He also plays multiple instruments and can actually sing. I can honestly say that I think the maturing Bieb should have gotten a nomination this year, and keep in mind that I'm an old fart.

The shortage of female nominees also was a shock – glaringly so. As Tina Fey's wonderful character, Liz Lemon, would say: What the what? Women could take heart, however, in the hosting performance by Swift, who clicked with LL Cool J and made me laugh. OK, that's no consolation, but I'm trying to make y'all feel better despite the egregious oversight by the powers that be.

Ironically, on the very same day, we all lost jazz great Dave Brubeck. I love Dave Brubeck's music. I own half a dozen albums by The Dave Brubeck Quartet and a solo album by Paul Desmond, the quartet's alto sax man. Another irony: Dave, who was 91, was on his way to an appointment with his cardiologist, when he died Wednesday.

I saw The Dave Brubeck Quartet play in concert at the Chase Park Plaza in St. Louis many years ago. I was still in high school and attended with classmate and fellow jazz fan Wes Knipe. If we were not Brubeck disciples before that performance, we were after. I've never witnessed a drummer with the skills of Joe Morello, who during that concert played the greatest drum solo I've ever seen or heard; I was swept up and away on the melodious notes that came from Desmond's saxophone; Eugene Wright held the tunes together with the sweet strings of his bass; and Brubeck played that piano to perfection.

Dave served in the U.S. Army in World War II, mostly as a musician, which was an important assignment during the war. Entertainment could be almost as vital to troop morale as were beans, bullets and bandages. And the Army was where he met Desmond, in 1943. We were lucky for that meeting, weren't we?  

Dave Brubeck was more than a jazz great. He was an honorable military veteran, a Civil Rights champion, an ambassador for America, and one of the greatest artists in American history. Fortunately, for us, his music will live on forever.

The Grammy nominations are to be announced this evening during a live, one-hour show on CBS, hosted by LL Cool J and Taylor Swift.

If you don't think music is important to people, think about this: Much of America is going to tune in to CBS tonight for an hourlong show that simply announces the nominations for the 2013 Grammy Awards. People love music.

And television network executives love advertising revenue. Tonight's program will draw plenty of advertising dollars, along with many viewers, for a primetime program that reveals the Grammy nominees and presents a concert that will feature The Who, Maroon 5, Luke Bryan, Ne-Yo, Fun and Hunter Hayes.

I, too, love music. I enjoy all kinds of music. I listen while working, while jogging, while driving – unless sports-talk radio wants to entertain me with a must-hear sports topic.

When I was about 10, I started buying 45 rpm recordings of early rock 'n' roll artists. My collection of singles included hits by Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, Sam Cooke, the Drifters and more.

By the time I got to high school, I bought mostly jazz on vinyl LPs by such artists as Oscar Peterson, Jerry Mulligan, Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Shorty Rodgers and others. My favorite albums were "Stan Getz at the Shrine," The Dave Brubeck Quartet's "Time Out," and Paul Desmond's "Desmond Blue."

Soul music out of Detroit and Memphis also pleased my eardrums and my very soul back then. Heck, it still does today. Play me some Etta James or Four Tops or the Temptations, and I'll be happy. The Beatles showed up during that time – and I dig the Beatles to this very day – but I most enjoyed the sounds coming from the Stax and Motown artists. 

Such soul singers as Otis Redding, Carla Thomas, Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye and Smoky Robinson became my favorites during the first part of my Marine Corps career. By the time I neared the end of my 20 years in the Corps, I also started listening to long-hair rock, especially when running. One Christmas, I gave my son Bon Jovi's "Slippery When Wet" album. However, that cassette ended up playing mostly in my Walkman, as I jogged along the shoreline of Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans on most evenings during my final tour in the Corps.

I've also listened to country, classical, folk, metal, rap, hip hop and pop along the way in my life of musical appreciation. I hate to admit this, but I loved this past summer's hit "Call Me Maybe" by Carly Rae Jepsen. Even PSY's "Gangnam Style" has had me dancing like a fool this year. Yes, I can listen to music and not act my age, for sure. Right now, in fact, I'm in front if the computer, rockin' in my office chair, listening to "Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen.

This evening, I'll be rockin' in my Lazy Boy in front of the television, watching the Grammy nominations on CBS. Whoo! The Who will be there! I definitely want to hear Maroon 5, too, who plays some of my favorite joggin' jams. And it should be interesting to see Taylor Swift work with LL Cool J, as they host the show. Don't forget to tune in.