John Passantino Memorial

By Thomas Thaddeus Hamill

I first met John Passantino at the U.S. Naval Base in Subic Bay, The Philippines. The installation, which has been closed since 1992, was the main naval supply and repair facility for the Vietnam War effort. John’s father, Phil, was a captain in the U.S. Navy, and my father, Tom, was a high-ranking civilian worker there. Phil and my father fast became friends, and so did John and I. Both our fathers led long, productive lives. But alas, Phil Passantino passed away in January of this year, and my father now suffers from Alzheimer’s disease and is no longer quite sure who I am.

The last crescendo of the American war effort occurred in 1972, and Subic Bay was crammed with ships of all sorts, and sometimes three aircraft carriers at once. Phil and Tom worked in excess of sixty hours a week. The only time they had for recreation was Sunday afternoons, and we always spent them at the beach at the Cubi Point Naval Air Station. The Philippines are well within the tropics, and the aqua-colored water is in the 80s, as is the somewhat humid air. There was no more perfect way to relax.

The steam of their labors escaped on that beach and blew off into the tropical breeze. Sometimes Phil and Tom engaged in abrasive political repartee, fueled by numerous bottles of San Miguel and other assorted beverages. In between dips in the spa-like water, John and I reveled in watching the jousts between our fathers. It was clear to us that what united them, more than hard work, was a friendly game of antagonism, basically the same sport as the “pub argument.”

So when 1973 came to pass, and President Nixon was really in trouble after it was revealed that a chronicle of dirty deeds was recorded on tape, Phil and Tom entered into the golden age of their harangues. My father was a working-class Democrat and Phil Passantino a Republican. I remember Phil Passantino getting temple-bulging incensed after my father asserted that “we should hang that son-of-a-bitch.” And yet, after a fight, everything would be forgotten, until the next Sunday when they would start another round. It was because of this that John, who sometimes was guilty of irrational exuberance, became obsessed with the term “Nixon Tape”. He kept repeating it, bugging me with it, until I wrote a song of the same title. (John was 12 at the time, and I was 13 -- ripe ages for mimicry and mockery). I would play it on the guitar, he would bang this large piece of bamboo (in ample supply in the Philippines) on the picnic table in the cabana, and we both would shout it out, like some kind of proto-punk lyric:

YEAH, NIXON HAD A TAPE!

The first time we did this, our Dads aborted their bickering, threw back some more suds, and started laughing. We had stopped an oral war for a few minutes. I believe that this was the start of John’s peace-making career. He really didn’t see the point in fighting, and he had enlisted me in this effort. Along our common path in Subic Bay, he kept cajoling me to write songs through the mindless repetition of other key phrases:

(From a game of Monopoly) : TAKE A RIDE ON THE READING!
(From his locker at school): BUY A YALE!
(Again, from Phil and Tom): HAVE A COLD ONE!

I wound up writing a song to every one of his suggestions.

Throughout my teenage years, I kept writing songs. I practiced seriously, and graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Music. Now I have my own band, and realize that inspiration, even from the most mundane of sources, is all around us. I have John, and his mantras, to thank for such a rich creative life.