O Uncle Larry

Same as the Old Boss

2008-12-09T18:57:00.002-06:00

I doubt anything I type here will add much to the national discussion that's currently taking place about Blago's arrest. However, while doing research on the previous governor's arrest I happened across this little gem of a website - www.congressionalbadboys.com. It's a witty compendium of our nation's history of Congressional malfeasance. I've just started exploring it so I'm not sure what all is in there. It appears they've divided it up into sections dedicated to classes of political corruption.

Some of the more interesting section titles are "Congressman and Teenagers", "Congressman Who Ended Up in Jail (The Prison Caucus)", and my favorite "Do They All Come from New Jersey?: BadBoys--state by state." There is even a "Partisan Scorecard" that, despite the Republicans' recent rash of scandals, shows they still trail Democrats 56 to 26 when it comes to the number of BadBoys from 1975 to the present. Which only makes sense considering Republicans have controlled congress for only 8 of those 33 years (6 really considering the Dems achieved a narrow majority in '06).

So, my fellow Illinois-ians take heart. Congress is still a way dirtier place than Springfield and maybe even Chicago. Maybe.

Wonder. Fear. Love.

2008-11-24T20:29:00.003-06:00

These emotions, from what I can tell after just two weeks, constitute the primary colors of parenthood. More often than not they are in various proportion to one another providing an endless array of feelings at any given moment I'm with my son. But there have been moments when I have experienced each in its purest form, absent from the others. Wonder is all I felt when I heard his first cough followed by the tiny wail announcing his arrival. Ice cold fear gripped me when I woke up in the middle of the night and thought I heard him choking over the baby monitor. And love? I'm sure it will come as no shock to learn that I find undiluted love to be the most potent and persistent of the three.

If you've yet to see any pictures of our boy, you'll find some here. And if you're wondering why we named him Eli, this post from August 2005 should offer some insight. More later. My boy is currently screaming his head off and its daddy's turn to give him the bottle.

Delay of Game

2008-11-11T20:55:00.004-06:00

Tonight we were to be admitted for an induction. Laurie called at the assigned time and was told to call back in 20 minutes. Twenty minutes later she called and was told to call back in another 20. The next time she called back she was told, "Don't call us again, we'll call you in 20." 45 minutes later I called, and after 10 minutes on hold, was told to call back tomorrow morning at 8. They were insufficiently staffed to admit us tonight.

We understand that inductions take a back seat to natural births, but it still makes for a bit of a let down. Its like being called to battle stations only to be told, "Stand down. This was only a drill." I know the disappointment is even greater for my wife. Still, we're fine, the baby is fine and he will get here eventually.

For now we're focusing on the silver lining of one more night in our own bed and the possibility that the delay might allow nature to take its course. As we marched around the mall in preparation for the night's festivities Laurie had three really good contractions.

I probably won't provide another update until we've actually been admitted. In the meantime we thank you all for your thoughts and prayers.

Any Minute Now

2008-11-02T18:04:00.003-06:00

We're just 4 days from the due date of our son. Laurie, God love her, is having a tough time staying comfortable in any position be it sitting, standing or laying down. The good news is that at the last checkup the doctor said that things might be progressing toward a conclusion here soon. We can't wait.

I think we're both past the point of anxiety about this. We're just impatient now. We want to see him. We want to get on with it. People ask me all the time, "Are you ready?" As I'll ever be. It's funny, but I was more anxious 5-minutes after she showed me the EPT stick than I am now.

I will confess I'm getting a little tired of hearing, "Your life is about to change forever." I don't doubt for a second that the people who say this say so out of affection and with the best intentions. But this won't have been the first time either of us have experienced change in our lives. Graduations, jobs, marriage, it's all changed my life forever. If there's anything I'm acutely aware of as I knock on 40's door, it's that my life will change.

For those of you whom I text on a fairly regular basis, you can expect a message when we're headed to the hospital. Consider that the starter pistol. As soon as our son arrives, I'll send another. If you call and I don't answer right away, well, I know you'll understand.

Here's hoping my next post has a picture of my son. Later.

I'm Counting on Your Vote

2008-10-13T22:38:00.003-05:00

So much happening at once. In just 21 days I will most likely have a son and we will have a new president. I'm ready for the former. As ready as I'll ever be. I can't wait to see what he looks like. I'm just wondering if we will get an Opie like I was or he'll favor his mama's side and pop out a toe headed, blue eyed Dutch boy. A coworker of mine, a relatively new mommy herself, guaranteed I wouldn't be disappointed. Somehow I believe her.

As for the election, I'm ready for that to be over. For almost two years we've had to listen to these prima donas tell us that our relationship with them is more important than our relationship to the people we live around and work with every day. That we are to get in the face of our neighbor if they don't share our views. That we're to get mad. Basically, that we're to argue their case for them so that they can have power.

I don't care who you vote for, Obama or McCain. The fact is neither one will be around when you're truly in need. When your car breaks down and you need a ride, Barry isn't going to come pick you up. Try calling John McCain at 2 a.m. when you can't sleep and need someone to talk to. These guys only want one thing from you. Your vote. Once they have it, as they've amply demonstrated throughout history, you'll be lucky if they keep their word. That is if they can even remember what their word is, they offer so many versions of it.

The only people that have consistently come through for me in any administration are my friends and my family. And even a few people that I don't even know that well. They've all done more to better my lot in life than any president.

As anyone who has read this blog knows, I've relished shooting my mouth off in pursuit of political points for someone who really has no clue who I am. But lately I've been asking myself, "Are my political views really worth a single relationship I have with any of the people who actually inhabit my life?" Please don't think I'm suggesting we cease reasoned political discourse all together for fear of disagreement. I think everyone reading this would agree that making well thought out decisions about who to vote for is important and that talking about it with one another is a great way to work it out.

All I'm trying to do is keep it in perspective. Because come November 5, whoever is headed to the White House isn't going to be thinking about me at all. They're not going to be the ones excited about the arrival of my son. They're not going to join me for a beer at Esquire to celebrate. They're not going to talk to me for at least another two or three years until they need my vote again.

So, if from now on you find me unusually silent on this blog about political matters, you will know why. I will never dispute that who we elect can have a profound effect on our lives. I just may not think it's important enough to dispute with you who we elect.

I am Uncle Lar and I approve this message.

"Burn" is Good. Great? Well . . .

2008-09-13T12:54:00.005-05:00

I saw Burn After Reading last night. I've been looking forward to this ever since I saw the first trailer. And while it was very funny I left a little unsatisfied. I know the Jordan simile has been used a ton, but it works so here goes. I've always viewed the Coen Bros. as the Michael Jordans of cinema. But even Jordan had an off night. Granted, an off night for him was the equivalent of a career high for many of his peers, but when you watched Jordan you expected magic every time his hands were on the ball.

This, I'm afraid, is the mindset I carried with me into the theater last night. I was expecting something on par with O' Brother Where Art Thou or The Big Lebowski. Instead I saw something that could have been called Intolerable Lebowski. Honestly, I think Intolerable Cruelty was funnier. To keep the Jordan analogy going here there were some telegraphed passes in this one. I began thinking, "I bet he accidentally shoots somebody in the face," after about the 3rd or 4th time Clooney's character mentioned he hadn't discharged his gun in 20 years. There were also a few bits that seemed more Farrely Bros. than Coen Bros. In particular Clooney's "secret project". I'll say no more.

Still, would I recommend you go see it? Absolutely. It's got some great performances (Malkovich's in particular) and despite being sub-par by Coen standards, is still way better than most everything else out there.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!

2008-09-13T00:43:00.008-05:00

I've been reading and hearing A LOT about Sarah Palin. It's impossible not to these days. In fact, if you'd just woken up from a 4-year nap in front of your TV in the middle of her ABC interview you'd swear she was the front runner for the top spot in this year's election based on the journalistic rectal exam she was given by Charlie Gibson.

I'll confess I've yet to see the entire interview, but he really went after her. And while some pundits on the right have been criticizing him for a double standard, I for one was glad he did go after her even if he wasn't even handed. From what I saw and heard she did about as well as any other candidate--some good answers, some not-so-good answers and some good ole' fashioned election-year non-answers. I think there will be plenty of ammo for both sides to come out of this.

But one thing I really, truly do not understand is the vilification of this woman and I'm used to the liberal hate machine. I mean she's yet to have a confidant commit suicide under mysterious circumstances or had to disown her pastor of 20 years for his racism, yet we are being told she is some she devil that has emerged-no wait-crawled from a swirling cesspool of "Babies, Lies and Scandals" in Alaska to steal reproductive rights, shoot wolves into extinction, persecute rape victims and probably eat our young. OK, I haven't heard that last one yet but it's only a matter of time. In the last three days I've seen more big media stories examining her conduct as a governor and mayor than I have investigative reports of Obama's voting record in the entire year+ he's been a candidate for President. And he has admitted ties to a convicted felon.

I can only conclude one of two things from the furor she's generated. Sarah Palin is pure evil OR the media and Democrats have lost their minds again. I'm not alone in suspecting the later. Camille Paglia, an atheist feminist, who also happens to be one of the most brilliant minds God has put on this earth, would say as much herself. At least that's what I gather from her essay that appeared in Salon a couple of days ago. I strongly encourage you to give it a read, especially if you want Obama to win.

Fresh Blood for the Vampire

On the Lam

2008-08-17T22:12:00.003-05:00

Friday night I looked at my wife and said, "We outta' get out of town." I just felt the need to scram. Thankfully, she was willing so Saturday morning we hopped in the plane and set out for Kentucky. The flight down was about as perfect as they come. We flew at 7,000 feet above a scattered layer of big cotton ball cumulus clouds that were drifting along about 1,000 feet below us.

As we made our way south, some of the clouds started to push their tops up to our altitude and by about the Indiana/Kentucky border we were punching in and out of the bases of some. We arrived in Jamestown at about noon where Grandma and Grandpa were waiting for us.

We didn't do much of anything except relax. That was the only agenda item. How we relaxed was entirely left to our whims. It was great. Saturday night we decided to drive into Somerset for dinner and to get a few groceries. We ate at the infamous Golden Corral buffet--an experience that I imagine could be likened to an ancient Roman food orgy. Only instead of good looking Italians in togas, we dined with a lot of tourists and locals in NASCAR T's and cutoff shorts. I have to admit, for a buffet, the food was really good. I know now why my father and brother speak of it with some reverence and awe. It will destroy your waistline.

Today we got up and had coffee and rolls on the screened-in porch while we listened to the woods come to life. That hour alone was worth the entire trip. In fact it was what prompted me to fly down in the first place. All my best memories in that house revolve around coffee on the porch in the morning.

I also spent some of the afternoon in K-Mart buying some fishing gear that I can keep down there. Next time I go down I'll be set. Just need to see if I can corner my cousin Crowley so he can show me where the monsters are. He's a championship bass and striper fisherman. Spending just an hour with him on the lake would be like getting and hour's worth of free investment counseling from Warren Buffet.

After dinner with Mom, Dad and the grandparents we took off and headed home. The flight back was punctuated with a really cool 10 minutes or so above a thin layer of clouds that were illuminated by the full moon. It looked (and felt) like something straight out of a dream. Or the opening credits of Highway to Heaven. I'm still not sure. We touched down in Champaign about 9.

All in all a successful escape. Here's to more.

Goodbye Oleg

2008-08-04T20:02:00.006-05:00

Yesterday a voice was silenced. But not by the people that sought to silence it before it could expose them. I learned this morning that Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn passed away in his Moscow home yesterday at the age of 89. He died a free man who had taken the worst that the Soviet regime could throw at him and lived to watch it die. He is one of my greatest heroes. And while I knew this day was coming, it’s hit me harder than I thought it would.

Like any favorite author, he was as much a friend as a literary figure to me. I became acquainted with Solzhenitsyn during a very lonely period in my life. I bought a copy of the Cancer Ward after reading excerpts that had been used in another book. The main character, Oleg Kostoglotov, is a former prisoner of the Gulag who, after serving a "tenner" (Soviet slang for a 10 yr. sentence), had been sent into "perpetual exile" from his friends and family to the Kazakh Republic. The novel opens with Oleg sitting in the waiting room of a cancer ward in the Uzbek Republic after having been diagnosed with stomach cancer.

I realize that to some that might not sound like the right novel for a lonely person to be reading, but I think I identified to a small degree with Oleg's isolation. I too was thousands of miles from family in a place where few people knew me. When not at work I was almost always alone. Yet, what drew me most to Oleg was the fact he didn't let any of the adversity that life handed him define who he was or dictate his happiness. He was the perfect picture of a truly free man. A man who had been stripped of everything by the State and, as a result, had nothing further to fear from it. The material world had become immaterial and he was free to dwell on the things that truly mattered.

After finishing the Cancer Ward I wanted to know more about Solzhenitsyn. In doing so I learned that the character Oleg was, for all intents and purposes, Solzhenitsyn. Solzhenitsyn had served a tenner for some disparging remarks he had made about Stalin in a letter to friend during WWII. After completing his sentence he had been sent into perpetual exile. While in exile he contracted stomach cancer. As with all fictionalizations some characters, times and places had been altered, but for the most part the Cancer Ward was a chronicle of his experiences.

After that I devoured anything by him that I could get my hands on. I read "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" and then "The First Circle". I discovered rare collections of short stories and speeches. Strangely, I didn't get around to his most famous work, "The Gulag Archipelago", until about eight years ago. I've yet to finish it. With the exception of C.S. Lewis, I would say no other author has shaped my current worldview more than Solzhenitsyn.

Tonight, my sadness at his passing is tempered by the knowledge that nothing in Aleksander Isaevich’s life happened by chance, even his death. He was sent to prison as a young man so he could use the powerful voice he was given to speak first hand about an evil that millions silently endured. He was exiled to the West in the 70’s so that he could warn us about our complacency in the face of such evil. And today, in one of the tragically few articles I was able to find about his life, I saw God’s hand even in the timing of his death:

In a bookstore in central Moscow, a selection of his most famous books was put on display beneath a large black-and-white portrait of the author.

Television channels and radio stations ran constant solemn reports on his life but some younger Russians confessed they knew little about his work.

"He is very famous. I'm just starting his works," said Viktoria Danilova, a 17-year-old in central Moscow. "Unfortunately I haven't read very much yet."

I can think of no better time for the young men and women of Russia to pick up Solzhenitsyn than now as Putin and his puppets seek a return to the Soviet glory days.

If you are interested in Solzhenitsyn, I suggest starting with “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich”. It's a quick read. If you like that, follow up with “The Cancer Ward” and then “The First Circle.” These novels are, in my opinion, his best works but they might be a bit long for someone who just wants to get a taste. Another good place to start is "The Solzhenitsyn Reader" that was just published a year or two ago. This is a collection of political essays, novel excerpts and even some poetry. And if you can find it, check out “Warning to the West” - a collection of speeches he made shortly after his exile to the United States.

D.C. Wings

2008-07-07T22:06:00.004-05:00

Since before she met me, Laurie has been an avid participant and promoter of the Center for Civic Education's "We the People" program. It's a great program that works with educators across the country to try and foster a greater sense of civic responsibility in elementary and secondary students. Recently she has deepened her involvement with this program by becoming the WTP representative for all the school's in Illinois's 15th Congressional District (basically Champaign Unit 4). While this is by and large a volunteer job, she does get one very nice perk--an all expenses paid trip to Washington D.C once a year for the annual WTP conference of district representatives. Since they allow spouses to come along (all I had to pay for was my own airfare and any meals I had on my own)I decided to tag along.

While Laurie was in her various sessions I explored the city. There are many things I saw which I could write about, but I'll mention just one. While taking in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum on the Mall, I spotted a brochure about the Steven F. Udvar-Hazay Center--a sister museum that is located about an hour's bus ride away in Chantilly, VA. I had heard some of my pilot friends talk about this museum and how it surpassed the facility on the Mall in both the size and quality of the collection of aircraft on display. I had to see it.

The next morning, after about an hour on D.C.'s Metro trains and buses, I was standing at the entrance of one of the largest aviation museums I have ever seen. Located just to the south of Dulles International, the sprawling facility consists of massive hangars that house, among other things, a Concord, the Enola Gay, a prototype 707, rare Luftwaffe secret weapons from WWII and the space shuttle Enterprise.

As I entered the largest of hangars I stopped awestruck in my tracks. I was standing on one of the many balconies in the facility. Just to my right, hanging almost within arms reach, was an F4U Corsair. To it's left, also seemingly within reach, was a P-40 Warhawk. On the floor directly in front of me was an SR-71 and beyond it in the adjacent hangar the space shuttle.

As I told Laurie later, I experienced a tingle up my spine that I hadn't felt since I first set foot in Six Flags when I was 10. I had our camera with us and took a bunch of pictures. I'll let them do the rest of the talking for this post. All, I'll say in closing is if you love aviation, this is a place you simply have to see before you die. Do whatever it takes, but get there. Even if you're not a pilot or fellow wingnut, but simply a student of history, it's well worth the trip.

Now, to the pics.

Is Anyone There?

2008-06-17T21:21:00.002-05:00

In my last post (November of '07) I put away my O Uncle Lar pen until I could find something interesting to write about. At least something that interested me which stood a better than average chance of interesting anyone who happened to read. I think I've found said inspiration with the impending arrival of my son.

I'll do my level best to keep things from getting too maudlin or cloying. Kind of like my flying blog, I really just want to be able to keep track of what's going on with these months leading up to the birth for my own edification. And if Blogger is still around when my son is old enough to read, for his edification too.

Tonight I went to the first of several pre-natal classes which will prepare us for the process of childbirth and the first few weeks following it. Those crucial weeks when I will be acclimating myself to an entirely new world. Of course so will Laurie and our kid so I'll be in good company. I anticipate more than a few moments where we'll all just be staring at each other with, "What the . . .?" looks on our faces. I fully expect my child to give me that one the first time I try to change his diaper. Or maybe he'll just giggle as he pees on my shirt. Who knows. But according to our First-Time-Daddy-Class instructor I can pretty much count on the latter. I guess the cool air on his undercarriage during a diaper change will make the little guy go. The instructor said they actually make "blast" cups specifically for those moments. I figured one of those small Dixie cups we keep by the sink would work just as well.

I think the most valuable thing I learned tonight was how important the first few minutes outside the womb are for the imprinting process. According to our instructor, animal babies only imprint with the mother. Only human babies can form an imprint for the mother and father. Shortly after birth they say I should let junior lay on my bare chest so he can taste, smell and touch me in addition to seeing and hearing me. This will form an indelible bond between he and I. She said he'll already recognize my voice as they can hear pretty well from the friendly confines of mom. Which means I guess I'll have to start watching my language already.

Perhaps the most comforting thing about the class was getting to meet a lot of guys who were in the same boat as I. I thought for sure I'd be among the older guys, but I 'd say about half the class or more were within 5 years of me. I think there was maybe one or two guys that were older than I.

We wrapped the class up with a video that included a natural birth. Not sure I needed to see that, but it didn't really bother me. I will cop to getting a little misty, though, when they laid the newborn on dad's chest. It was just a lingering shot of the kid laying there working his little mouth and hands and glancing up now and then to try and get a look at dad's face. Trying to get a grip on his new surroundings. I'm really looking forward to that part.

I promise not all posts from now on will be about the kid, but I'm sure it will be a major theme for a while. Like I said, I'm really writing all this down for me, but wanted to share these thoughts with family and friends that are interested. So if you read this far, thanks. I can't wait for us to meet my son.

Until Further Notice

2007-11-15T22:53:00.000-06:00

I'm taking a hiatus from this blog (as if you hadn't figured that out already). I need to re-evaluate what I use this space for. I suppose sticking with random stuff that's going on with me is fine, but maybe it's just because I don't find much of what's going on with me that interesting to anyone else that I'm wanting to rethink this.

Who knows, maybe this entry will shake something loose and I'll get back into it. In any case, I'm going to continue to update the flying blog, N218DF.blogspot.com. I've posted 3 or 4 flights since opening it. So, if you find flying stories interesting, check it out.

Have a Little Faith in People

2007-10-03T20:45:00.000-05:00

I just watched Manhattan again on TCM. What a great film. The things that always get me about it are the cinematography and music. In so many films NY is the backdrop for a plot. In this one it is actually the star and the story is the backdrop. In fact the story is really nothing remarkable in that it's about angst, vanity and lust. Naturally, it's a cut above similar stories because Woody wrote it.

I mean I love the scene where Woody's character Isaac is at a party arguing with a bunch of psuedo-intellectuals that physical violence surpasses "biting satire" when it comes to dealing with Nazis. After all, "...physical force is always better with Nazis. Cos it's hard to satirize a guy with shiny boots." Or when his best friend accuses him of thinking he's God. "I gotta' model myself after someone."

But no matter what's being said on screen your eye is usually drawn away from the actors and on to the City. And if you've been to the City and fell in love with it, it makes you a little homesick.

And if I was a brilliant filmmaker, this is exactly how I would've put it . . .

New Blog

2007-09-30T21:47:00.000-05:00

No, I'm not getting rid of this one. I'm starting another one. I know, I know. I hardly update this one. How could I possibly keep up with two? Well, the 2nd will be driven, not by personal whims, but whether I've flown or not.

I've decided to start journaling all my flights so I created Eight Delta Fox. It is primarily for my own benefit. I want to be able to learn from past flights, relive the really amazing ones and, if you're interested, maybe give a friend or two a glimpse into that part of my world.

I'll warn you ahead of time, though. I'm not really writing with the non-pilot audience in mind. Some of the terminology I use may seem a tad esoteric. That said, I'll be more than happy to explain anything you might be curious about. The FAA can talk to my lawyer.

RIP Sammy -- Long Live Lemmy

2007-09-06T17:25:00.000-05:00

Of late, the 5pm Car Tunes segment on our local rock station, Xtra 99.1 has become one of the high points of my day. They almost always play some kick butt rock and roll like classic Ozzy, Boston and even Pantera. Yesterday the DJ announced he'd be coming back from a commercial break with some Sammy Hagar. I'd had a tough day and the prospect of hearing One Way to Rock or I Can't Drive 55 was enough to keep me hanging on through the commercials.

Instead they played some "new" Sammy Hagar song. The opening was so awful I was sure the DJ had screwed up and was playing Winger or something. But when the vocals kicked in, it was obvious this was Sammy. Or at least his shell. With some crappy rock ballad riff going on in the background Sammy crooned about opening your heart and letting your guide whisper in your ear. This was not Sammy Hagar. This was Celine Hagar. This was Jack Nicholson after the lobotomy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It was like being promised a shot of Jack Daniels and being served a Zima instead. I wanted to cry.

So today as I drove home I tuned in to Xtra again. Once again my confidence in their rock prowess was shaken when they actually did lead off Car Tunes with Winger. As I glumly watched the road contemplating the death of rock I blanked the song out. How could this have happened? My favorite station and one of my favorite rockers had been neutered. What was next? Hillary winning the election?

Just when I thought all hope was lost I was snapped out of my melancholy by the staccato bass riff of The Ace of Spades. My hand instinctively grabbed the volume control and spun it to the right. My sorrow was instantly turned to rapture. My faith in the DJs at 99.1 instantly restored. Lemmy descended like a vengeful angel of the airwaves wielding the mighty sword of RAWK!

It was the same feeling of exhilaration I felt in that final battle scene in Saving Private Ryan where the mortally wounded Tom Hanks is vainly firing his pistol at the approaching German Panzer. All around him his comrades are being cut to ribbons. Matt Damon is curled in a ball in the corner, wailing like a little girl. Then, just when you think it's curtains for everyone, the tank explodes and a P-51 comes blasting through the smoke and destruction. Lemmy was my P-51.

Long Live Lemmy!

Project Reinstatement: Pt. 1

2007-08-19T16:04:00.000-05:00

A few of you may know that at one point in my life I was a flight instructor. I have since allowed my instructor ratings to expire. It was a stupid thing to do, really, considering how simple it is to stay current. But, I got caught up in the life of a "real job" and let them lapse. I've decided now is the time to remedy that situation, but in order to do so I will have to be "reinstated".

Reinstatement is the term that the FAA uses for re-certifying instructors who have let their ratings expire. Basically, it requires that I take a check ride and undergo an oral exam. It's not as simple as it sounds. Besides having to refamilarize myself with teaching flight maneuvers from the right seat of a small plane, I will need to brush up on my knowledge of the FARs (Federal Aviation Regulations)governing flight instruction. Needless to say they have changed some since I made the last instructor entry in my logbook over 10 years ago. Getting reacquainted with the current set of rules will take some time.

Some of you may be wondering, "Why? And in particular, why now?" There are a number of reasons, but the main one would simply be taking care of a gift I've been given. I have the great fortune to work with some of the most talented graphic designers in any industry, let alone the one I'm employed in. One of the things that always impresses me about them is how they continually nurture their gift. It doesn't matter what job they have, they are passionate about design. The thought of letting that talent go to waste would probably be tantamount to sin in their eyes. And they'd probably be right. Ever read Christ's parable of the talents? I believe I've been given an affinity for flying airplanes, as well as instructing others how to. Only I've committed the sin of neglect. That would be the "why".

The "why now" has a little to do with nearing 40 and taking stock in my life. The bigger reason is that for the last several years I've had this gnawing conviction that I was wasting this talent, but I've done nothing about it. The catalyst for finally responding to it came as a result of recently having two CFIs (Certified Flight Instructors), both of whom I admire, tell me in separate instances that I should consider being an instructor. I had said nothing to either about what was going on in my mind about this, and they had both apparently forgotten that I had been one. I know I'd told them both before. In any case, it felt like I was getting a little nudge that the time was right to do this.

So, last week I called one of the aforementioned CFIs and told him I was serious about making this happen. He told me to go pick up a current copy of the CFI PTS (Practical Test Standards) handbook. I've just returned from the Flightstar pilot shop with that and a copy of the CFI oral exam guide. Step one is complete. Now the real work begins.

If I can maintain momentum, I should be reinstated in a month or so. Any of you who read this can feel free to check up now and again and ask me how it's going. I could use a little accountability to keep me on track.

Ride

2007-07-26T23:48:00.000-05:00

One of the things I wanted to do while Laurie and I were out here was give her a taste of California from the back of a Harley. You can ride along a stretch of road in a car, and no matter how beautiful the view out the window, it will always be more memorable on the back of a motorcycle. The main reason being all your senses are engaged. Not only do you see the avocado orchard gracing the mountainside, you feel the coolness of the shadows in the valley you're riding through below it and smell the scent of the cedars along the roadside. Talk about an imprint.

We rented a Road King for the day from Gary Bang Harley Davidson in Atascadero. After filling out all the necessary "understand-you're-screwed-if-you-wreck-it" paperwork they gave us a couple of helmets and the keys and waved goodbye. Since there was no limit on mileage we rode all day on just about every road I could remember riding in my, eh, younger days. Every road I could remember (and cover in a day) came out to exactly 239.9 miles worth. The temperature ranged from 58 on the coast to a blistering 90+ inland. Sometimes it felt like we were riding behind a giant hair dryer.

The picture with this post was taken on Santa Rosa Creek Road near the crest of the coastal range above Cambria, CA. The road winds its way down the slope in a series of hairpin switchbacks. The road itself is half as wide as my driveway in parts. But the relative danger and crummy road condition is well worth the effort as this picture will attest.

When we got back to the room, we freshened up a little and hit the San Luis Obispo farmers market. It's every Thursday and is three solid blocks of fresh produce, mouthwatering barbecue and an odd assortment of other vendors (i.e. snow cones, Libertarians and vegan societies). No trip down memory lane would be complete without it.

Tomorrow morning I take the motorcycle back and we spend our last day on the central coast. I'll probably spend most of it in downtown San Luis reading, loafing and, maybe, indulging in a cigar. Saturday we head back down to L.A. and come home Monday. It'll be tough to leave this lifestyle behind, but we're ready. See you Tuesday.

Central Coast High

2007-07-20T23:40:00.001-05:00

We've arrived. Aside from battling rush hour on a Friday in L.A., the trip out here was a piece of cake. For those who don't know, Laurie and I are spending a week on the central coast of California. I wanted Laurie to see the California I remember, because it bears no resemblance whatsoever to the sprawl of southern California which, unfortunately, is the only California she's ever seen.

On the way up to our accommodations in Los Osos, we stopped for a bite at Pea Soup Anderson's in Buellton. All the split pea soup we could eat, plus a bottomless bread basket, for $9. Incidentally, Buellton, and the area around it, served as the backdrop for the movie Sideways. In fact, The Coach House where Miles (Paul Giamati) and Jack (Thomas Hayden Church) shared many a meal is right up the road from Anderson's.

And what would a trip to California with my girl be without a little text message ribbing from the guys back home. Somewhere around Santa Barbara McKee texts me that they're at a demolition derby. I reply that that's great, I'm looking at the Pacific. And without going into a whole lot of detail it devolved into text taunting. Only, I was driving, so I had to dictate all my retorts to Laurie who keyed them in and sent them. It was all very surreal.

For those interested in what our digs look like, go to www.baywoodinn.com and take the tour. Our room is the Appalachin. It's got a kind of Jed-Clampett-meets-80's California-chic thing going for it. Also, I'm sure Laurie will be posting pics eventually. She snapped quite a few on the drive up.

More later. Right now I'm going to take a stroll along the bay before bed. Just taking it easy for all you sinners out there.

Four to Go

2007-07-15T22:24:00.000-05:00

In four days Laurie and I will be heading out to California for 10 days. I want to show her around the old stomping grounds. We'll be staying at a bed and breakfast in Los Osos which is situated on the central coast, near San Luis Obispo, about 120 miles north of Santa Barbara.

The goal is to just relax and see the sights, but already I'm starting to feel the pressure of doing things while we're out there. Accepting the fact we're not going to have time to will be essential to enjoying this trip. One of the things I'm most definitely going to do is rent a motorcycle and cruise up Highway 1. Dad and I used to ride 1 all the time when the family was out there. I'm glad I got to do that as a young(er) man, but I just wish Laurie could've experienced it with me. Of course if she had, at six years my junior, she would've only been 14 or so. I guess now would be better.

But before we can begin this walk down memory lane, I have four days to work ahead on projects coming due in my absence. Can't say I look forward to it. But if I can get it done, it will make the subsequent respite that much sweeter.

Finally, congratulations to Katie and Mike on the birth of their daughter. I know they will make stellar parents. Haley is one blessed little girl. You can probably find pictures of her here.

Sod On

2007-07-10T07:28:00.000-05:00

About 20 minutes ago two flatbed semis loaded with sod showed up on Dropseed. They are busily offloading it with forklifts right now. I hope the neighbors aren't too peeved as one of the trucks has pretty much blocked the street. One driver said the "installers" will be here in about 45 minutes.

Laurie's blog will have pictures of the whole operation later today.

LD in the House

2007-07-09T18:50:00.000-05:00

We’ve actually been in the new digs since June 26. Laurie, who has this month off, has been going gangbusters getting everything unpacked and transforming this place from a storage unit into a home. I can’t thank her enough. It’s actually been kind of cool to come home from work and see another room take shape.

Today I came home to find a new desk in the office. I had to trash my old one because its particle board anatomy couldn’t survive my clumsy attempts to disassemble it when we were moving out of the condo. For the last couple of weeks I’ve been using the dining room table. Not an ideal situation for either Laurie or I. I’d been planning to go out desk shopping but lo and behold I came home today and this sleek, aluminum framed, glass-paneled number was sitting in my corner of the office. Thanks babe.

There’s probably more I could touch on, but I’m short on time. Company will be here any minute. Now that we’re back online, though, and I have a sweet new office, I’m guessing I’ll be more inclined to sit down and write. So, for all you readers (or maybe just you)—more later.

Hey Trent, Bite Me.

2007-06-15T14:59:00.000-05:00

“Talk radio is running America. We have to deal with that problem.”
Trent Lott

What is talk radio? Free speech. Yeah it may be dominated by one side commercially and another publicly, but it's still one channel for the free exchange of info and ideas. If it's a problem for you Trent, here's how you can deal with it. Stop pushing stupid legislation and we'll stop talking about it.

Now We're Really Homeless

2007-06-10T07:34:00.000-05:00

A while back I mentioned we'd sold the condo. Well, we closed on it Wednesday, but are still about two weeks or so out from moving in to the new place. Thus, we are now tenants at Casa Ma and Pa Stephens. They are rarely if ever home so we've had the run of the place for the last week. They also have cable, which Laurie and I did not have the entire time we lived in the condo, so I've been drinking deeply at the well of TCM and the Military Channel. Laurie's been feasting on HGTV which, in my book, qualifies as harmful television. When I watch the Military Channel I know I'll never be able to afford an F-18. HGTV, on the other hand, makes everything they do look entirely too possible. Do they make a V-chip for potentially costly TV programs? You know, nothing that blocks it entirely, but only when the cost for the work being shown gets above a certain dollar amount.

This weekend we're up at Laurie's folks for the baptism of our infant niece, Isabella (aka Ella). I only bring this up because everytime I stay here I have strange dreams. I don't know if it's the bed we sleep on or what, but they're always interesting. Last night, I dreamt that I was tapped for a role in an upcoming feature film because on my experience in community theater. I was invited to a first day rehearsal breakfast where I was to meet my costars. When I walk into the restaraunt I am introduced to Danny Devito and Clint Eastwood. I remember thinking to myself in the dream, "What kind of movie is this going to be? A comedy or another boxing drama?" I was also very concerned about who I approached first for fear of offending the other. I remember coming to the conclusion that the safe bet was to approach Eastwood first. For some reason in the dream I had a memory of sharing cigars and drinks with Devito and I reminded him of this. Then they handed out scripts and that's all I remember. I didn't even get to see what the movie was going to be about.

By the way, since we are homeless, about the only times I'll be able to check my home e-mail or post is when we have access to someone else's internet service. Mom and dad have glacially slow dial up and The Fist is preventing me from getting to my e-mail account at work. So, if you happen to reply to a post or try to reach me via e-mail and I don't respond right away, you'll know why.

The Machinist

2007-05-17T22:07:00.000-05:00

A while back Train Guy lent me a copy of The Machinist starring Christian Bale. I finally got around to watching it last night. I'd had this title in my hands many times at Family Video but would always end up renting something else. I think it was providential that it took this long, because the movie probably wouldn't have had the effect on me that it did if I hadn't read Crime and Punishment first.

Many reviews I've read about The Machinist make comparisons to Hitchcock, and rightly so. It's clear to me, though, that the writer and director had Dostoevsky in mind if only for the many intentional shots of the protagonist's reading material--Dostoevsky's "The Idiot". I own the book, but have yet to read it and am anxious to see what relevance it had to the plot. There are many elements of Crime and Punishment as well, namely the protagonist's isolation and mental anguish which Bale portrays brilliantly.

Without divulging too much, Bale plays Trevor Reznik; a Machinist who hasn't slept in a year. Discovering why is pretty much the point of the movie. I've never considered Bale a method actor but he disfigured his body horribly for this role. He is quite literally nothing but skin and bones. His appearance is so emaciated that at times I had to wonder if any of it was CGI. It just seemed impossible that he was actually that skinny and able to function. I think he's a good enough actor (probably the greatest of his generation) that he could have portrayed Reznik's spiritual condition without going to those lengths, but once the movie is over it makes total sense why he did.

I suppose I'm being pretty vague about the plot, but you really need to go into this one without too many preconceived notions. Do yourself a HUGE favor and check it out.

Vanity, Vanity . . .

2007-05-17T19:19:00.000-05:00

I've been reticent to blog lately mainly because I've succombed to a slight case of melancholy that renders every endeavor not tied to survival somewhat pointless. That's probably putting it a little more darkly than my actual mental/emotional state, but it's close.

I won't go into detail as to why. That kind of discourse I save for God and my wife. Besides the world needs another pissing and moaning blog post like it needs another Amadinejad. Yes, I see the irony of pissing and moaning about pissing and moaning.

Speaking of irony, I have gotten a snicker or two listening to all the people damning Jerry Falwell to hell for damning people to hell. "Yeah, but Larry he was preaching hatred." Maybe so. I never listened to him much. Wasn't a fan. But hate is hate whether its fueled by errant religious doctrine or secular indignation and I hear just as much hate from Jerry's detractors as he is alleged to have spewed.

Adding to the irony is the fact that Fred Phelps, whom Falwell was often lumped in with, has also damned him to hell. For a real laugh check out Phelps' statement on godhatesamerica.com. Personally, I think Phelps is a fake who doesn't believe a word of what he's saying for a second. He's more like a religious Morton Downey Jr. or quite possibly an unbeliever simply out to tarnish the image of all believers. But I digress.

Hey, on a sunnier note, the house is going great. Laurie's got the scoop. Check it out here.

On the Home Stretch

2007-04-24T20:00:00.000-05:00

For a quick update on the house project visit Laurie's blog. As you will see, we're probably just a month and half from being move-in ready. We've actually hit it off with our next door neighbors already. We've (or I've) passed that critical "You want a beer?" phase. They're a great couple with two adorable kids that look to be a lot of fun to live next to.

More later. Hopefully not a month later, but later.

We're Homeless

2007-04-07T14:57:00.000-05:00

Just sold the condo 20 minutes ago for $500 under asking. It's a good day.

That is all.

Chicago Comes to Champaign

2007-04-01T22:15:00.000-05:00

Laurie and I gave the new Rosati's on campus a whirl. Not bad. Not bad at all. I'd put it above most anything in the area except Filipo's. We got one mushroom/pepperoni and one S.O.B.--a sausage-onion-bacon house specialty slathered in BBQ sauce and loaded with cheese. We opted for thin crust for both. Very tasty.

Not since we had a Giordano's down here has there been something this good in Chambana. If you crave Chicago-style, check it out. Oh, and Thai lovers--there's a Basil Thai next door. I think I'll have to try that out for lunch some time this week. Anyone interested? All you single guys should be. The quad flowers are blooming.

Good men.

2007-03-31T09:37:00.000-05:00

I saw The Lives of Others (Leber der Anderen, Das) at The Art last night. Next to The Last King of Scotland, this is the best film I've seen in the last 12 months. The story is almost an opera of sorts that takes place against the backdrop of communist East Germany in the late 70's. And by opera I don't mean melodramatic, but that it speaks to and about the deepest human longings.

It's about an East German Stasi officer who is thoroughly committed to protecting the Party ideals. His commitment has left him almost entirely devoid of any humanity and, more significantly, very much alone. He is assigned the job of spying on a famous playwright by a Party bigwig who has designs on the playwright's girlfriend. His mission? "Find something." Anything that the Party official can use to denounce the author and get him out of the way. The author is respected throughout the DDR by the highest Party officials, and is recognized by everyone as a good man. A simple denunciation will not do. The bigwig would need something concrete to take this guy down, hence the 24 hour surveillance.

That's all I'll tell you about the movie, which is not much more than you'll find in an IMDB synopsis. My wish is that you all get to see the story unfold as I did, with few preconceptions. And if you can, see it at The Art or any local theater in your town that supports great cinema, but see it.

Claim to Fame

2007-03-28T21:32:00.000-05:00

Driven by boredom and/or a pathetic need for validation I decided to see which celebrities in IMDB shared my birthday. Oldest to youngest, here are the ones I thought were interesting:

Charles Baudelaire--French poet and consummate sour puss.

Efrem Zimbalist Sr.--Daddy to Efrem Zimbalist Jr. (Airport 75, Wait Until Dark, Hotel, The FBI) and grandad to Stephanie Zimbalist (Remington Steele).

Ward Bond--One of my favorite character actors and authentic badass (Rio Bravo, The Searchers, The Quiet Man, Hondo). A contemporary of The Duke.

King Faisal I of Saudi Arabia

Hugh Hefner

Cheeta--Chimp from 1930's Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller.

Marty Krofft--Produced Land of the Lost, HR Pufnstuff, Bugaloos, Donnie and Marie and more.

Hal Ketchum--Country music artist/troubadour.

Dennis Quaid--Not as cool as his brother Randy, but cool.

Joe Scarborough--Former Florida congressman, now news show host.

Lisa Guerrero--Tuff sidelines correspondent of Monday Night Football fame.

Mark "Where's the Money" Pellegrino--Prolific character actor who's appeared in numerous movies (Spartan, Capote, Big Lebowski) and TV shows (The Unit, NYPD Blue, CSI, Dexter). You'll recognize him when you see him.

Paulina Porizkova--Aside from being the 80's hottest supermodel, she's the reason Rick Ocaseck knows there is a God.

Cynthia Nixon--Miranda from Sex and the City.

Jay Chandrasekhar--Member of the Broken Lizard comedy team (Super Troopers, Beerfest).

Jenna Jameson--I have no idea who this is. Honest honey.

Keshia Knigt Pulliam--Of course, Rudy Huxtable's all growns up now.

What Would a Free Man Do?

2007-03-26T06:50:00.000-05:00

I finally caught up with the rest of the world and saw 300 last night. It was far better and more poignant than I expected. More on that later. I prepped myself by reading a review or two and watching the 1962 adaptation of the story, The 300 Spartans. The 1962 version was probably closer to historical accounts, from what little knowledge I have of the Battle of Thermopalye, but it was far less engaging than 300. Oddly enough, I think 300 actually did a better job of communicating the historical significance of that battle.

If Xerxes had not been slowed by the Spartans at Thermopalye we would be living in a very different world today. It is quite conceivable that democracy would have died right there on the island of Greece. Needless to say, I'm anxious to learn more about it, which means buying more books I will probably never read. At least not for another year or two.

On a more personal level, I found 300 to be a wake up call of sorts. I know what some of you are thinking, "Great. Here comes the political crap." No, I will spare you my views on this part. Frankly, I think 300 is more of a Rorschach test than any specific political statement. You'll see what you want to see in regards to that. What I'm referring to is my personal life.

For one, the Spartan ethic, as portrayed in the movie, of being willing to endure pain to gain something far greater was particularly challenging to me and my waistline. Hence, this morning I've reinstituted the 15 min workout. If I could just have Leonidas as my trainer, I'd be ripped before long. Or, killed. In either case, I wouldn't be whining about being out of shape any more.

The other thing that really stuck with me was the scene in which the horribly deformed Ephialtes comes before Xerxes seeking significance by giving up his countrymen. It's what Xerxes says to him that really got to me, "Cruel Leonidas demanded that you stand. I require only that you kneel." This was particualary challenging to me in my spiritual life. So many times I've knelt to temptations and self-destructive behavior that would have been easily defeated if I had only stood up to them a little bit longer. It might have hurt for a while, denying the self is always painful, but it wouldn't have killed me. The thing I so often forget is that as a Christian, the battle has already been won for me. I just need to claim the victory and stand.

Enough church. I'll be honest, I don't know how many of you read regularly, but I try to treat this blog as a conversation in public. I try not to talk about or say anything that I wouldn't say to people I think are reading unless I thought they really wanted to hear it. For the most part it remains a way for me to just keep in touch with friends and let you all know what's going on with me. Not that I won't ever touch on religion or politics, but I'll try to keep both to a modest amount. Maybe I'll start another blog devoted solely to those topics.

Time for work.

Domo Arigato If I Got To

2007-03-17T11:59:00.000-05:00

I harbored ambitions of flying somewhere today, but laziness and sketchy weather forecasts have kept me grounded. Still, it's kind of nice to veg. I'm currently listening to the late Brad Delp singing about peace of mind, while drinking Coors Light and wearing house slippers. It's all very comforting. Speaking of rock nirvana, I experienced a little last Wednesday night with my brother and Tolemite. We went and saw Clutch at the Metro in Chicago. This was Luke's first live Clutch experience and I was as excited about that as I was about seeing the band itself. The openers were Five Horse Johnson and Dub Trio.

Five Horse is a straight ahead blues-rock quintet that has clearly been influenced by R.L. Burnside. Their riffs carry more than a little of the heavy electric delta blues sound of which Burnside was the master. The lead singer played a harmonica and reminded me alot of Donal Logue (Tao of Steve) if he was a homeless guy. Alot of head bobbing went on during their numbers.

Dub Trio is, surprise, a trio from Brooklyn that blends punk/metal fury, reggae rhythyms and lots of echo effects in an instrumental mish mash that is fairly mesmerizing. I don't smoke pot, but if I did, I'd listen to Dub Trio every time I sparked up. Toler said the drummer looked like Sid Haig (Devil's Rejects). He had the bald head and full beard thing going on, but not the acne scarred face. Up close the resemblance was even more uncanny. When I looked Dub Trio up on iTunes I found just two albums. New Heavy was the most recent and from the samples I listed to, that's what they were pulling from for their show. I may pick up a copy for when I need to zone-out distractions at work.

About 11:30 or so Clutch hit the stage and delivered the knock out blow. Five Horse Johnson and Dub Trio had softened us up pretty good, so when they launched into Big News I the audience was ripe. As I'd hoped, Luke was as awestruck as I had been my first Clutch show. We were on the main floor in front of the stage just on the edge of the mosh pit. Close enough we could dive in when we wanted to, but far enough out we could escape easily when our mid-30's bodies needed a reprieve. One of the things that's great about a Clutch crowd is they love to rock but they're not violent. So even in the mosh pit you're among friends. I did have a couple of interesting encounters though.

During the Five Horse Johnson set this guy that reminded me an awful lot of Doug Jarvis with a soul patch grabbed my arm and said, "Hey, isn't it sad about Kurt?" I gave a confused look and said, "I'm sorry, I think you've mistaken me for someone else. I don't know a Kurt." He responded by jabbing his finger into the logo on the Split Lip Rayfield shirt I was wearing. "Oh, Kurt! The guitarist. What happened?" Turns out he succumbed to cancer about two weeks ago. The guy said he saw my shirt and thought I knew. Guess I don't pass as a die-hard Split Lip fan, still I really am bummed about Kurt. He was an immensely talented musician.

The other incident took place during the lull between Dub Trio and Clutch. A kid that looked like what I imagine a freshman Chicken looked like stumbled up to me, put his hand on my shoulder and slurred, "Heeey maaan. Are you the guy from the Days Inn?" When I said no he got this very confused look on his face. "Are yoou sure? You look just like this guy me and my friends saw at the Days Inn. He's following Clutch around on spring break." He pointed to his drunken crew across the room who were all looking at me and making "you rock" gestures. When I quit laughing, I told him if I was still in school I might have done something that cool, but I was from Champaign and had to go to work the next day. With a look of lingering doubt on his face, he said, "Sorry man. You look just like the guy." He then attempted to give me high five, failed miserably and stumbled to the bar. Up to that moment I was feeling slightly out of place among the predominantly college aged crowd. Knowing that I apparently could still pass for a slacker on spring break was strangely encouraging.

And finally, I am happy to report things seem to be progressing rapidly on the house. Not two weeks ago it seems they had just dug the hole. Now the foundation is poured and 2/3 of the structure is framed. I guess that shouldn't be terribly surprising since the framers are Amish and, if Witness is accurate, can build a barn in a day. For all the details see Laurie's blog, here.

Home Sweet Hole

2007-03-01T22:33:00.000-06:00

As Laurie has reported on her blog, construction of our future abode has begun with the digging of a hole. With ground broken, a chain of events has now been set in motion that, if all goes as planned, will end with us moving into a house on the corner of Dropseed and Tickseed sometime in June or July. That's not that far away.

The whole thing is exciting and sobering all at once. Exciting in that we'll finally be in a home that is truly ours. One that won't have any history that does not include us both. The prospect of more living space along with a private patch of earth is fun to think about, too. The sobering aspects almost exclusively revolve around finances. Not that we'll be house rich and cash poor, but we'll be shelling out a lot more than we've been accustomed to. And we'll be 100% responsible for anything that breaks. Owning a condo first was a nice way to transition from renting to full-blown homeownership. I gained valuable experience searching for and buying real estate, along with some tax benefits, but have been spared the rigors of lawn care and exterior maintenance.

Needless to say, this isn't the last you're going to hear about this. I expect we'll have pictures of the pouring of the foundation before long. And then the framing and so on. Speaking of the framing, our builder uses Amish carpenters for all his framing work. He cautioned us about taking pictures when they're at work. We need to make sure they're not in frame when we do, otherwise they'll ask us to erase the image. I think this has something to do with their interpretation of the 2nd commandment (You shall not make for yourself any graven image . . .) and nothing to do with a fear of having their souls stolen. When he told us, I kind of laughed because I immediately thought of Amish Harrison Ford in Witness, threatening to strangle some tourist with her bra if she snapped his picture. Alas, YouTube didn't have that clip but they had this one, which I'll leave you with. It's Amish Harry putting the smackdown on some white trash:

One Year Baby

2007-02-17T16:38:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow will be the first anniversary of my marriage to Laurie. We often comment to one another that it feels like we've been married longer. Not that it's been a long year. I just find it difficult to remember what life was like without her. In all honesty I haven't really spent any time dwelling on it at all. Sure, I had some good times as a single guy, but I don't miss any of them.

If I feel anything, I feel richer. More balanced. Instead of being a solitary object hurtling through space, I now enjoy the gravity of another body. We are our own small solar system traveling through space and time in orbit around one another. Maybe its a silly analogy, but its the only suitable description I can come up with without becoming horribly maudlin.

We marked the advent of our anniversary with a wonderful extended weekend in Chicago. It truly was one to remember. From the incredible 57th floor condo we had overlooking the city to the amazing dinner at La Scarola, we had a blast. Laurie has already detailed it all in her blog, so head over there if you want to learn more.

While we were up there I spent just about every free moment I had trying to finish Crime and Punishment. I succeeded on our last day there. It truly is a classic. The setting may have been 19th century St. Petersburg, but Dostoyevsky's description of the human condition is still relevant today. While many may dismiss his overtly Christian point of view, I think you'd be hard pressed to say he didn't know what makes man tick.

I've Netflixed a 1969 Russian adaptation of the story that, by many accounts, is considered to be the most faithful despite the Soviet atheism that taints some of the screenplay. Like the novel, it's supposed to be pretty slow in spots. Still I look forward to hearing the characters speak in Russian. One of the frustrating things about being an English-speaking fan of Russian literature is that everything available to you is a translation. It always leaves you wondering how far from the real sentiments of the author your translator has taken you. Maybe I just need to quit complaining and take Russian. Or run knitting needles through my nipples. I hear both are equally painful.

The Bitter End

2007-02-04T22:36:00.000-06:00

Do you think Rex has been taken to a secret location to protect his throat from Urlacher's ringless fingers? Then again, Tank Johnson might be the bigger threat. He's on his way to prison anyway. Might as well go a hero.

Though they'll never read this, I raise a glass to the Bears defense. They are warriors. They played more minutes than any other Super Bowl defensive squad since the '85 New England Patriots and kept the Bears within striking distance all the way into the 4th quarter. They have nothing to be ashamed of. Did you hear that Boomer!?! Nothing. Let's see you play almost four entire quarters of football and stay at the top your game, you frickin' has been.

Finally, thanks to Deadspin for cheering me up a little with this.

Ethanol: The SDI of Energy Policy?

2007-01-28T11:06:00.000-06:00

Cruising Free Republic today I came across a link to this NYT article detailing Saudi plans to "temper" the price of oil. This is hot on the heels of the President's State of the Union address which highlighted a renewed US resolve to find alternative fuel solutions, the most promising of which is ethanol. I've also noticed a lot more stories about the increased production of ethanol in the last two years. The problem is, ethanol, for all its promise, is still a long away from being a viable alternative. Some of the very real and potential problems are reviewed in this editorial that appeared in the WSJ this weekend.

The story about the Saudis interest in moderating prices combined with all the hoopla over ethanol got me thinking--could ethanol be the Star Wars Defense Initiative of energy policy? For decades the Soviets relied on their ballistic missiles to keep the US in check. Reagan said the US was going to make them obsolete with SDI. The fact that SDI had yet to be proven a viable defense system, was irrelevant. The Soviets knew if anyone could pull it off, the US could. They also knew if Reagan said he was going to do something, they had to take it seriously. I also bet we let enough intel "slip" into their hands that they had to believe we were working in earnest. We all know how the story ends. The Soviets bankrupted themselves in an effort to keep up.

For decades the Saudi's and other totalitarian regimes have relied on their oil reserves to influence US and European policy in their favor. And up until the last decade or so, the US hasn't shown a ton of resolve to find alternatives to oil. But with so much government money being thrown at ethanol, I can't help but see a parallel to SDI. We may not have perfercted the use of ethanol just yet, but we can grow enough corn to keep trying until we do. I think the Saudi's see this and might be hedging their bets a little.

I'm not saying we should abandon alternative fuel research even if they drop the price per barrel to $1.05. Just as we shouldn't abandon development of technology that will make ballistic missiles obsolete. Any technological advance (or bluff) is worth the price if in addition to making life better, it puts despotic regimes out of business.

Punishment

2007-01-27T17:35:00.000-06:00

Currently I'm plowing my way through Crime and Punishment. And I think 'plowing' is an appropriate description here. Dostoyevsky certainly took his sweet time setting up the plot. I'm not saying I'm growing bored with the book, but I did catch myself thinking as I read one passage today, "Get to the point!"

I am not proud of this. It's more of a confession. As someone who writes for a living, I probably tend to venerate literary giants more than most. When I think things like that, I get much the same sense of dread I used to get as a kid when I'd mutter something rebelious under my breath and thought mom and dad might have heard me. It was like Dostoyevsky was standing over my shoulder, asking, "What was that young man?"

Ironically, one of the reasons I've wanted to read the book is precisely because of the painstaking detail in which Dostoyevsky told his stories. Another is that Crime and Punishment is considered by some to be a brilliant indictment of elitism. And I'm more than a little interested in how Dostoyevsky's faith shaped his writing. I guess today just reminded me that, as with any worthwhile endeavor, a certain amount dicipline is going to be required on my part to see this through.

In other news, Laurie learned Wednesday that she got the social studies curriculum coordinator job she'd been interviewing for. It's a big step up for her and one that could help her reach some of her long term career goals. She's already blogged about it, so I won't steal any more of her thunder. You can read about it here.

One Born Every Minute--Result

2007-01-22T22:39:00.000-06:00

Just a quick followup to a post from about five months ago--

Back in June I related a story about an encounter I had with one of those door-to-door magazine salesman. Actually he was more of a saleskid, much like the Orlando Jones character in Office Space. You can read about it here. For those of you who recall, or prefer the Cliff notes version to reading the whole story, I was fairly certain I'd been scammed. I wasn't.

I've been receiving issues of Flying since October. I have no clue why it took so long but I hope the kid earned the trip to the Bahamas that he was gunning for.

Longitude

2007-01-18T20:58:00.000-06:00

"With God's help it might be possible. --I mean, why did He encourage me to build a perfect timepiece in the first place? So the blacksmith might start work 5 seconds earlier or later? Or was it to give us the ability to explore His creation in safety, to move without fear in the space He's given us to inhabit?"

So says John Harrison, as portrayed by Michael Gambon, in A&E's brilliant adaptation of the book Longitude by Dava Sobel.

A few summers ago while attending a wedding in Aspen I stumbled across a paperback copy of Longitude while killing time in a small bookstore. I think I'd seen a preview for the A&E movie and that's why I bought it. In any case, I remember walking out of the bookstore, sitting down on a park bench and being totally absorbed for about 2 hours straight.

The book is about one of the most significant scientific advances in human history--the ability to determine longitude at sea using specially designed clocks invented by John Harrison. Up until the 18th century, sailors of all nations were able to accurately determine latitude using celestial navigation. There was, however, no reliable way to determine longitude. This made sailing on the open seas, out of sight of land, an extremely risky venture. We're all familiar with stories of sailors perishing in storms or sea battles. According to Longitude the losses from such perils were rivaled by the numbers of mariners who, attempting to cross the open sea, simply got lost and never saw land again. Or if they did find land, it wasn't usually where they were headed, as in the case of Columbus.

Every monarch and parliament of the time that engaged in trade and exploration knew that the first nation to devise a way to accurately determine longitude would rule the seas. Their naval and merchant fleets would be able to move about the globe at will exploring, plundering and/or conquering it. This is why in 1714 British Parliament passed the Longitude Act that promised 20,000 Pounds to the first of Her Majesty's subjects who could solve the problem. That John Harrison, a common carpenter and not a noted scientist of the day, solved the problem makes this story even more engrossing for me.

Without going into a ton of detail, Harrison (and many others) knew that if sailors could accurately compare London time with a noon sighting of the sun at sea, they could figure out longitude. The problem was clocks of the time were not suited for life at sea and would not keep consistent time. Temperatures and moisture effected the metals and the ships motion effected the pendulums. When you consider a difference of 30 seconds could translate into hundreds of miles difference in location it's easy to see why this was a problem. Harrison's ingenius clocks were able to keep consistent time in all conditions.

If you get a chance, Netflix this one. I still haven't finished the book, but this movie has all but assured I will now.

Long Winter's Night

2006-12-27T22:18:00.000-06:00

About the only daylight I see these days is on the drive to work in the morning and at lunch. By 5 it looks and feels like 9 or 10. Makes for a slight malaise. Thankfully there's Netflix, Esquire and Sam Smith's Winter Welcome.

I'm watching Pump Up the Volume right now. It's about blogging basically, only with short wave radios. And there are a lot more people listening than there are talking. Can you tell I'm reaching for crap to write about?

On a final note, I saw Night at the Museum with my nieces last night. Not bad. Not bad at all. It was a great fairy tale that actually might get a kid or two a little more interested in history. See it on the big screen if you can. And for those who love her, NY City plays a great supporting role.

What the . . . Cheeseburger's Movie Kung Fu is Better Than Mine?!?

2006-12-02T17:25:00.000-06:00

While 74% sounds about right for me, I think this quiz is a little off because it gave Cheeseburger a higher movie buff score than McKee or I. She couldn't even sit through 20 minutes of Airport. If memory serves it was "too slow". Anyway, next time I'm up her way I'm challenging her to a movie trivia contest. We'll see who the real movie buff is. If you take the quiz let me know what your score is. It really is kind of fun, if not a little specious.

My Movie Buff Quotient: 74%

According to this, I am a total movie buff. Classics, blockbusters, indie favorites... I've seen most of them.
My friends know to come to me whenever they need a few good DVD rental suggestions.

Are You a Movie Buff?

Open to Interpretation

2006-11-18T09:54:00.000-06:00

I had a weird dream last night. I was watching a commercial with all these comedians pitching some product which I can't remember. Eugene Levy, Steve Martin and Richard Lewis were the only ones I distinctly remember. The commercial was like a Docker's commercial where everything is supposedly ad lib and the guys are all kind of riffing of each other and laughing like they're just hanging out.

Now for the weird stuff. They were all wearing Docker's-like apparel and Steve Martin had a 2 foot long mullet. Levy's hair seemed a little grayer than normal. Sometimes I was in the studio with them and sometimes I was on the other side of the TV screen watching them. Can anyone tell me what this means?

If it aids your analysis, I had just had a big meal of chicken cacciatore and 1/2 a caraffe of chianti at Dom's. I was still feeling a little bloated when I went to bed.

Happy Now?

2006-11-08T22:31:00.000-06:00

I’ll admit it. I’m disappointed, but I’m hardly despondent. Sure, as anyone who knows me will attest, I have fairly distinct political convictions, which I’ve been known to spout on occasion. But I’ve never really pinned my prospects for the future on who was in office. The way I see it, the federal government can certainly affect your life, but until things drastically change, America is still a place where life is yours to ruin.

Besides, not much is probably going to change in the next two years other than committee chairs. Democrats have a one or two seat margin in the Senate and a 20 something seat advantage in the House. Many, if not most, of the Republicans that lost their seats were moderates. It’s unlikely that a more conservative Republican minority, a sizable number of which think even Bush is too liberal, will be in a very bipartisan mood. I also doubt the incoming majority leadership possesses the requisite influence to ensure all Democrats vote the party line, let alone convince Republicans to join them.

About the only real prospect we have for change is impeachment. And as I've said here before, I sincerely hope the Democrats go for it, but they won't. And not because they don’t have the votes for it, although that will probably be the excuse given to the rabid left that seems to comprise their base now. I’m guessing Harry and Nancy will be too busy shoring up power for the ’08 election to do anything principled (i.e. politically risky). Much safer to snipe at a lame duck president from the safety of sound bites and "summits" than to have to testify under oath or meet any sort of real burden of proof.

No, it’s hardly 1994 all over again.

NOW FOR SOME GOOD NEWS FOR ALL OF US . . . .

The Daily Mail had a fairly exciting story (here) about a promising new treatment that uses a heart attack survivor's own stem cells to repair heart tissue. I know I’m dangerously close to another political hot button here, but I thought regardless of where you stood on the topic of stem cell research, this was good news for everybody.

Support the Art--See Last King

2006-10-24T06:52:00.000-05:00

The Art Theater has once again proven its worth by bringing the The Last King of Scotland to town. Laurie and I, along with the Burai (plural for Buras), took it in last Friday. I'm not entirely sure how much of the movie is factual. It is based on a novel about a young Scottish doctor who was working in Uganda at a mission hospital where he by chance encounters Idi Amin and becomes his personal physician.

While the vast majority of critics are raving about Forest Whitaker's portrayal of Amin, and rightly so, it is the relatively unknown (to me anyway) James McAvoy that deserves no less credit for his turn as the young, narcissistic Dr. Nicholas Garrigan. Whether Garrigan actually existed or not, I'm not sure. There's no mention of him in the epilogue at the end of the film. But it is through his character that you are transported into Amin's inner circle and experience the seduction of absolute power firsthand.

I won't go much more into the film, but I will say this. For me it was as much about the naive arrogance of bumper sticker activism as it was about Amin's cruelty. This theme is particularly underscored in one of the film's harrowing final moments. But I won't drop any more hints. Go see it and see it at the Art so they can keep bringing great movies to this town.

Simmer Down Dick

2006-10-15T22:38:00.000-05:00

In my last post I made mention of know-nothing politicians over reacting--wait, over acting about the Lidle accident in New York. This week's best actor award goes to Dick Daley--or Emporer Daley as those familiar with his Meigs Field land grab like to refer to him. In a fit of hyperbole he loosed this gem, "They should not jeopardize, through intentionally or by accident, a single- or two-engine plane flying over our city [sic]." "Remember: a single- or two-engine plane can kill as many people as possible if they want to."

AOPA President, Phil Boyer, responded to Daley's ridiculous assertion in an article which you can read in its entirety here. Below, however, are the portions of the response that really get to the heart of how irrational so much of the demagoguery we've been subjected to in the last several days really is.

OK, for all of those ranting about "threats" from GA aircraft, we'll believe that you're really serious about controlling "threats" when you call for:

Banning all vans within cities. A small panel van was used in the first World Trade Center attack. The bomb, which weighed 1,500 pounds, killed six and injured 1,042.
Banning all box trucks from cities. Timothy McVeigh's rented Ryder truck carried a 5,000-pound bomb that killed 168 in Oklahoma City.
Banning all semi-trailer trucks. They can carry bombs weighing more than 50,000 pounds.
Banning newspapers on subways. That's how the terrorists hid packages of sarin nerve gas in the Tokyo subway system. They killed 12.
Banning backpacks on all buses and subways. That's how the terrorists got the bombs into the London subway system. They killed 52.
Banning all cell phones on trains. That's how they detonated the bombs in backpacks placed on commuter trains in Madrid. They killed 191.
Banning all small pleasure boats on public waterways. That's how terrorists attacked the USS Cole, killing 17.
Banning all heavy or bulky clothing in all public places. That's how suicide bombers hide their murderous charges. Thousands killed.

Number of people killed by a terrorist attack using a GA aircraft? Zero.

Number of people injured by a terrorist attack using a GA aircraft? Zero.

Property damage from a terrorist attack using a GA aircraft? None.
So be consistent in your logic. If you are dead set on restricting a personal transportation system that carries more passengers than any single airline, reaches more American cities than all the airlines combined, provides employment for 1.3 million American citizens and $160 billion in business "to protect the public," then restrict or control every other transportation system that the terrorists have demonstrated they can use to kill.

Don't worry, Phil. They probably will.

(Yeah, I did that on purpose)

Much Ado About Lidle

2006-10-12T22:36:00.000-05:00

Ever since Eric Lidle earned his place in aviation history yesterday, I've had more than one person ask me what I thought happened. At first it sounded like a typical VFR into IFR scenario-- inexperienced pilot without an instrument rating suddenly finds himself in the clouds and gets disoriented. Also referred to as the JFK Jr. scenario. Tonight, however, I came across this story which sheds a little more light on what happened. It also happens to be the most balanced, unsensationalistic analysis of a high profile aviation accident I've ever seen in the mainstream media.

The aircraft that Mr. Lidle was piloting was a 2002 Cirrus SR-20. Except for some instrumentation differences, this is the exact same airplane I fly. The only really troubling aspect of this whole incident for me, besides the inevitable over reaction by know-nothing politicians, was the fact an instructor was in the cockpit with Lidle. It just makes the whole tragedy seem that much more needless than it already was.

I was going to write about the many inaccuracies being reported by the media regarding this incident, but they are so many it's pointless to even try. There is one widely reported, oft repeated fallacy, however, that I will address. Contrary to what many news stories are saying, light aircraft flying up and down the Hudson or East Rivers do talk to ATC if they are below 1,100 feet. The charts I have for the New York metro area clearly state "although arriving aircraft may be operating beneath the floor of class B airspace on initial contact, communications should be established with approach control" whether they've filed a flight plan or not. They also indicate VFR aircraft operating below 2000 feet in the vicinity of where Lidle crashed need to contact La Guardia or JFK control towers.

Still, I can understand how many non-pilots might wonder why the FAA has allowed small aircraft to continue to fly so close to Manhattan with relatively light supervision. The answer is simple. A light private aircraft does not pose a serious threat as a weapon of mass destruction. The payloads are too small to carry any amount of explosives that could do serious damage and their slight mass and relatively slow airspeeds make them poor projectiles. Also, private airplane operaters know their passengers and cargo making the probability of a hijacking slim to none. Plus, it's very difficult to "blend in" at a small airport. AOPA's Airport Watch program has gone a long way into helping the smaller out-of-the-way airports tighten security.

All that said, it still doesn't change the fact that the biggest challenge to the public's perception of private aviation is not an ignorant press corp, but the errant pilots who give them something to talk about now and then.

I'm Sorry Bernie

2006-10-08T22:55:00.000-05:00

Back in ’93 when I was working toward my private pilot license, I had a particularly difficult stage check instructor named Bernie. The school where I was receiving instruction was what was called a Part 141 school. Basically this meant the school was operated under Part 141 of the Federal Aviation Regulations.

Under Part 141 a school is to maintain a 3-stage, FAA approved syllabus. At the end of each stage the student is given, what is in essence, a mini check ride by a stage check instructor other than his regular instructor. If you don’t pass a stage exam, it is back to the previous stage for remedial instruction. Stage II was the flying school equivalent of a midterm.

My first stage exam had been a breeze and I was completely confident in my abilities to ace stage II. When it came time to set up the stage II my assigned instructor at the time (I ended up going through about 3 of them—that’s another story) told me in a somewhat somber tone I’d be flying with Bernie. He said, “Bernie has a reputation for being pretty tough, but I think he’s fair.” I think he’s fair? Some instructors didn’t? Still I wasn’t too worried. I knew my stuff and could demonstrate it at the controls. I was sure I’d be fine.

I’d never met Bernie before. I’d seen him around the airport, but I had no idea he was one of the instructors, let alone one of the all-powerful stage check instructors. He was in his late 60’s early 70’s and was often seen buzzing around the airport in an old Stearman. I’d never met an old pilot I didn’t like. Old pilots were generally pretty mellow and full of aeronautical wisdom from thousands of hours of flying through every kind of sky imaginable. I would liken them to Tolkien’s ents. I expected Bernie would be the same way.

The day of the stage II exam arrived and the two hour ordeal started in the basement classroom of the school with an oral exam. Bernie sat silently across from me hunched over my folder looking for weaknesses. The first question out of his mouth was less spoken than barked. I can’t remember what it was, but I remember being so surprised by the delivery I totally blanked. Bernie glowered at me from behind his glasses, “Well?!? Don’t you know this stuff?” Eventually I coaxed a reply from my frozen larynx.

The rest of the oral went OK as far as I can recall but any confidence I’d had going in was gone, or at least critically wounded. Every answer I gave, whether right or wrong, was greeted with the same disdainful glare. The idea I was going to have to spend an hour in a cramped 152 cockpit with this guy filled me with dread. For the first time in my instruction, I was afraid I wasn’t going to pass.

The flight portion was a near disaster. The same hostility I’d faced during the oral just seemed to be magnified by the tight space of the cockpit. A couple of times when he asked me to demonstrate a maneuver he would yank the controls away from me, practically screaming at me that I didn’t know what I was doing. My anxiety slowly morphed into anger. I’d always been raised to respect my elders, but this guy was being a grade A ass and I didn’t care how old he was or how much experience he had. He was making me uncomfortable and I was certain he was getting a charge out of doing so. By the end of the flight I hated him.

Despite that flight with Bernie I went on to finish my training and obtain my private pilot license. And with the passing of the final check ride, so passed most of my animus toward Bernie. Once I had the ticket there was nothing he could do about it. I’d see him now and then around the airport, but I still resented him enough that I wouldn’t ever talk to him unless I had to.

That was 13 years ago. A couple of days ago, I saw Bernie again while eating lunch. His wife, every bit the saint I imagined she had to be, gently led his emaciated frame to the table right next to ours and helped him into his chair. She spoke softly to him, “We’re going to have some soup and some nice hot tea, OK?” Bernie simply stared straight ahead, his mouth agape, in the frozen grimace of dementia. His wife caught me staring and smiled sweetly. I weakly returned her smile and looked away. But when I went to pay my bill, I looked at Bernie again and the improbable happened. I started to get choked up.

I felt ashamed for the terrible thoughts I’d had and things I’d said right after that exam over a decade ago. I remember bitterly complaining to my instructor about the “demented old man”. I remember wanting to strike him when he suddenly yanked the controls away from me during an approach, yelling at me as if I was some kind of idiot. Most of all, I was heartbroken at the prospect that a lifetime of flying memories were lost forever. I sincerely pray that wherever Bernie is behind that vacant stare, it’s in the cockpit of his Stearman flying over Central Illinois through a crystal blue autumn sky.

We were just another couple out of Boston . . .

2006-09-28T07:15:00.000-05:00

It’s been a while. Like many of you I’ve been busy living life while making other plans. Last weekend, though, Laurie and I were really living. We flew ourselves out to Boston for the wedding of one of her teaching pals from her Whitinsville, MA days. It gave me a chance to rack up some quality cross country hours at the controls of N218DF and gave Laurie a chance to reconnect with some very dear friends.
The plan was to leave Friday morning, but the rapid advance of a monster low pressure system bearing every conceivable hazard to a light airplane forced us to leave late Thursday night. Unfortunately, a parent teacher meeting obligated us to wait until 8 pm CST to leave. We were also going to be losing an hour shortly after crossing into Ohio, meaning there would be few fueling options open to us. We ended up holing up for the night in Youngstown, OH.
     After a 7 hour nap and a nice complimentary breakfast, we departed Youngstown around 10 with the storm we’d fled in Champaign now menacing us from just across the border of Indiana. Winds were favorable and we touched down in Worcester about 12:30 that afternoon under gorgeous late September skies. During the flight I noticed the rapidity and terseness with which air traffic controllers speak increases steadily the closer you get to the eastern seaboard. It’s hardly surprising when you consider the Philly/Boston/NY metroplex is probably the busiest patch of airspace in the country. You’d better know your stuff and be Johnny on the spot with an immediate readback or you could literally be told to go back from whence you came.
     Once we were on the ground it was Laurie’s turn to drive. “Massatushits”, as she fondly refers to it, is her stomping grounds so I deferred to her on where we went and what we did. Before we got to her friends’ house in Uxbridge, where we were to stay, she took me to Providence, RI and Apsara—home of the finest Thai food I’ve ever had. Laurie had often raved about the place during reminiscences of her wild days as a hot, single school teacher in rural Mass, so it was cool to see one of her old hang outs and stuff myself with Nime Chow in the process.
     From there we drove to Uxbridge and met up with her friends Bob and Linda who were gracious enough to give us a spare bedroom as a crash pad while we were in town. Laurie also taught with Linda. Bob was on the school board when she was hired. Both were at our wedding and both are a lot of fun to hang out with.
     The wedding was Saturday in the Park Street Church right on the Boston Common. Laurie and I got there a little late but before the ceremony started. The church, which dates back to 1809, is fascinating. It sits on the site of the Old Granary Building of 1728 in which the sails for the USS Constitution were sewn. Among the many 300 year old memorials planted in the cemetery next to the church are stones dedicated to John Hancock, Samuel Adams and Ben Franklin’s parents.
     The reception was in the Langham Hotel just a few blocks away from the church. Laurie and I walked to it as the rain Boston was supposed to get never materialized. It was kind of cool to walk through city all dressed up like we were. Naturally Laurie looked awesome and I found myself simultaneously amused and annoyed by the admiring glances she was getting from doormen and other guys on the sidewalk. I couldn’t really blame them, though. I notice many of the same glances anytime we’re gussied up for a night on the town in Chicago. She’s a city girl at heart and when she’s dressed to the nines in a town she loves, she’s hard to miss.
     Sunday we hooked up with my cousin Bob, his wife Liz and their girls for more Beantown fun. We had lunch with them then spent the afternoon exploring the city on our own while they went to a matinee of 1776. Boston really isn’t that big of a big city, so it doesn’t take long to explore it on foot. We roamed from the Back Bay to the South End and then back up to the Common and Beacon Hill. While we were in Beacon Hill we sojourned for an hour or two in Emmit’s Pub at a table with windows that opened out to the street. Later, we rendezvoused with Bob and Liz one more time for dinner at a place called Joe’s on the water next to Christopher Columbus Park.
     By the time we got back to Uxbridge it was only about 11:00, but we were both wiped out. The next morning we departed Worcester under the same gorgeous skies we arrived with. The storm that had been chasing us passed while we were on the ground in Boston. But as a parting shot, it left some nasty headwinds in its wake. The trip back took 7 hours total. The leisurely pace, though, allowed as to spend more time looking out the windows at the more scenic parts of rural New York and Pennsylvania where we could see trees starting to turn.
     I hope to get a pic or two from the flight back posted as soon I get a card reader. (we lost the transfer cord to our camera). We were so busy having fun in Boston we forgot to take pictures.

Chicago, Chicago . . .

2006-09-05T22:46:00.000-05:00

A link to some pics of Laurie and I on the town in high style at my cousin's wedding.

I Am "Subject 12": A Test Pilot's Tale

2006-08-26T19:07:00.000-05:00

About a week ago I got a call from someone at the U of I looking for test subjects for an interactive cognition study of pilots. The purpose was to see how pilots processed lengthy ATC (air traffic control) instructions and what aids were useful in remembering them. The kid--he couldn’t have been over 21--who conducted the tests was a psychology undergrad in his 2nd year. He reminded me a little of Data in the methodical, almost dispassionate way in which he administered the tests.

The tests were conducted over two, three hour sessions. The first was Thursday. Before the experimentation began I had to sign a waiver saying I understood the risks involved. About the only tangible risk was the slight possibility of damage to my retina from the infrared eye tracker they were going to be using to track my instrument scan in the simulator. This eye tracker was part of a larger piece of head gear that would also track my head movements as I looked around the cockpit. The whole contraption reminded me of something from a Terry Gilliam movie—sort of menacing looking but completely harmless.

The first portion of the experiment was kind of humiliating. It involved testing my vocabulary and memory. The vocabulary part I aced. The other part though made me feel like a senile old man. That part involved listening to a tape recording of a series of sentences. As soon as a sentence was spoken I had to indicate whether it was true or false. After that series of sentences was completed I had to say the last word of each sentence read to me. I did fine when there were no more than three sentences in series. But when they got up to four I couldn’t remember anything. At first I started making things up, but finally admitted I couldn’t remember. My examiner, as nice of a kid as he was, was almost entirely devoid of humor. Any time I tried to ease my embarrassment by joking around, he’d just silently stare at me as if I was a petri dish and continue the experiment.

Thankfully, that part of the experiment ended after about an hour and the fun stuff with the simulator started. The simulator was a Frasca 142 situated in this big room in the basement of the Beckman Institute. In front of it were three big 12’+ screens on which were projected the simulated world of Frasca. Unfortunately the simulated world of Frasca is stuck in early 1990’s VGA. My flying environment consisted of a flat green earth opposite blue sky with high cirrus clouds. You could probably achieve the same effects with the display on your cell phone.

In the sim, I was tested on my ability to hear and comply with ATC instructions under a variety of conditions. Basically the conditions were:

Copying ATC instructions using a kneeboard with paper and pad

Flying without any type of memory aid at all

Using an “MCP”—I don’t know what that was an acronym for, but it was a touch screen that let me tap in the heading, altitude and airspeed ATC instructed me to fly

I flew each of the three conditions in both smooth air and turbulent air. I had to readback all instructions as I would in real life and all my responses were recorded. While I was doing all this, the examiner would randomly introduce air traffic into the flying environment and I would have to say, “Traffic.” whenever I spotted it.

Every section of the test began with the examiner speaking into the voice recorder, “Subject 12, (condition).” I have to admit it gave me slight chill to be referred to as “Subject 12”. But that’s science I guess. I’m sure collating research data would be much more difficult if those listening to the recordings had to hear, “This is Larry. He’s an Aries who likes trees and enjoys autumn walks in the park. He’s recently been married and his favorite treat is peanut butter.”

On Thursday all we really did was a familiarization session with the simulator and the types of conditions I would be operating under. Today was the main part of the test in which I had to don the aforementioned eye/head movement tracker. Calibrating the eye tracker was exactly like the calibration sequence you usually encounter in video games like Halo. After he’d locked the infrared tracker onto my eye, he had me look at numbered locations on the instrument panel so he could “map” where I looked in the cockpit.

After about 2 ½ hours of "flying" with the tracker cinched down on my noggin, I was getting a sore neck and a slight headache. But I kept telling myself I was doing this for the good of aviators everywhere. I was the Chuck Yeager of interactive cognition and my contribution to science might very well save the lives of countless pilots in the future. The reality is, I’ve probably done nothing more than help put a slight dent in the incidence of air traffic controllers having to repeat themselves. Still, I had about a 1% chance of damaging my retina in the process. Hey, it’s not the same as strapping myself to an X-15, but I could very well have wound up needing a good squirt of Visine.

After I was done, Data paid me (a whopping $44 smackers) and I walked over to Murphy’s Pub and celebrated my exploits with my wife and a $7 pitcher of Leinie’s Sunset Wheat. Yeah, it feels good to be a gangsta'.

Finally, my wife surprised me with the news that we are now a family. Yes, she got me a fish. A spunky little Beta which I shall call Walter. Pictures forthcoming.

"Pee Wee Forgot to Pay"

2006-08-22T22:08:00.000-05:00

So said the back of the diner check taped above the register at the Royal Waffle King in Somerset, KY. The Waffle King is a wonder of culinary delights, economy and service. Sandwiched between a Golden Corral (think Ponderosa) and a Sign-O-Rama on Kentucky state route 27, it offers breakfast and lunch fare 24 hours a day. And apparently the management has an understanding with Pee Wee.

Laurie and I stopped there to grab a bite on our way down to Cumberland Falls State Park. Tony, the guy at the Jamestown airport who gave us directions, said, “It’s a long way to drive just to see some falls. They ain’t nothin’ spectacular but I guess the drive’s nice.” That’s really all we were after anyway—a nice drive in the SSR with the top down. Incidentally, Tony, when not running the airport and subverting the state’s tourism industry, was an avid RC pilot. He had a Great Planes Lancair in the hangar with all the full-scale planes. He said in between chores he’d fire it up and fly it around. I don’t see why he shouldn’t. Not much goes on at the Jamestown airport on a hot and sticky Saturday afternoon outside of grass growing.

The drive was gorgeous. If you’ve never been down to this part of the country you should get over your redneck phobias and check it out. Many of the roads meander through beautiful forests and hewn bluffs. Waterfalls and creeks abound. And the folks, while certainly down home, are more hillbilly than redneck. To me a hillbilly is not the same as a redneck. Most hillbillies can read music and play an instrument and about the closest thing I’ve ever heard to a racial epithet was the term “colored person”. This is usually only used by the older set because to them that’s politically correct. At least it was back when the NAACP was founded. In fact, this trip I saw more integration in Somerset between hillbillies, Mexicans and African Americans than I do up here. In the rural areas like Somerset, there isn’t a “that side of town”. The towns aren’t big enough to segregate and people seem to get along fine.

Sure you see the occasional Confederate flag, but not nearly as many as you can see up here on the pickups in Lava’s parking lot on “18 and Over” night. Most of the people displaying them down there are out to tweak the noses of the white urbanite Yankees that only come down between Memorial Day and Labor Day to tear around the lake on their 50-foot 100mph speed boats—a demographic my Uncle Bobby affectionately refers to as, “The Ohio Navy”.

In fact, if you do decide to venture down there, don’t go until after Labor Day. That’s the time of year when there’s still the best part of the summer left and you can meditate on the gorgeous surroundings without the constant din of twin 500 cu in Chevy big blocks. This is when southern Kentucky is best viewed in its natural state. I wish I could fly all of you down at least once to see it.

In lieu of actually transporting you there, however, you will have to settle for this photographic reminiscence from last summer. I would’ve took pictures this trip, but left the camera at home, as I usually do when I go somewhere interesting. I sometimes wonder why I even bought it.

Seeegars

2006-08-17T13:56:00.000-05:00

For my fellow cigar aficionados I've added a "FUMAR UNDER $5" section to the index--my survery of cigars under $5*. As with the FLICKS section, the list will be limited to six at a time with the most recently enjoyed smoke at the top. Where possible I will link to a picture of each smoke for easy reference the next time you visit your local tobaccanist.

*$5 before tax. Caution: Cigar smoking has been deemed a criminal activity by the People's Republic of California.

The Kobra

2006-08-15T23:13:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday, I had the privilege of taking Laurie's Uncle John for a flight. Uncle John is 89 years old, and over the course of his life has assumed many mantles. Among these are husband, father, farmer, machinist and Kobra. As a pilot, it is the later that has always fascinated me ever since I met him.

You see, from 1944-1945 2nd Lt. John H. De Jong served as the co-pilot of a B-24J belonging to the 494th Bombardment Group, otherwise known as Kelley's Kobras. The group was so named after its commanding officer, Col. Laurence B. Kelley. Although the 494th didn't see action until late in the war, they played a major role in helping Macarthur's army bring the Japanese occupation of the Philippines to an end.

When John returned from the war he went back to working the family farm, but never quit flying. Every chance he got, he would rent a Cessna 172 and fly low over rural Indiana, occasionally buzzing his farmhands while they worked in the fields. Unfortunately, he had to stop flying altogether after being diagnosed with diabetes. Saturday's flight with me was his first in a light airplane in 25 years.

I'm serious when I say taking him up was a privilege. So many guys like him have followed their exploits into history. So few remain to tell their story. Before long they will all be gone and only the books will be left.

Hi. My Name Is Uncle Larry.

2006-08-07T23:10:00.000-05:00

And I'm a popsicle addict. I don't know what's come over me, but in the last two weeks I've consumed no less that 50 of the frozen delicacies, the majority of them in three separate dozen+ binges. It all started when Laurie bought some Bomb Pops for the nieces and nephews on the 4th. They didn't eat any, so we took them home. They sat in the fridge for about two weeks until that fateful night that I was looking for a snack.

At first I thought they'd make a great way to enjoy something sweet without packing on a lot calories. The most fattening popsicle is a paltry 40 calories. What I didn't realize is that my appetite, which hasn't been denied much lately, apparently abhors a caloric vacuum and will drive me to consume as many popsicles as would be necessary to equal the same size snack it has become accustomed too. I'm beginning to understand Robert Downey Jr.

Tonight, was yet another episode. Schnuck's has their brand on sale 10 boxes for $10. Thankfully my wife is more frugal than I and she opted to use the special to get a single box for a buck. Had she taken full advantage of this offer, it is quite possible I would not be writing this now. In all likelihood I would suffering from a brain freeze lobotomy and grinning like Jack Nicholson right before the chief gives him the pillow.

In any case, consider this my plea for help. I've gone off the deep end and can't seem to reign in this unquenchable thirst for frozen sugar water and red #5. Then again, now that I think about it, I haven't really felt the same since that last teleportation experiment.

Cheeseburger B-Fest: Not for Sissies

2006-07-31T19:12:00.000-05:00

Now before all of you who didn’t make it due to some ailment or another get all bent out of shape, I’m not referring to you in the title of this post . . . as far as you know. No, I’m referring to the level of commitment that it takes to not only stay up late watching crap, but the kind of intestinal fortitude necessary to eat boat loads of crap while you’re doing it. As I told my fellow Cheeseburger B-Festers, I should’ve kept a journal of what I ate. Then, if by chance, some combination of food items proved poisonous the paramedics would know what happened. “Vodka, kosher dogs and twinkies? Is this man insane? Call the CDC. We’re going to need their top men on this one.”

Thankfully the journal proved unnecessary and I survived, albeit with a slight tummy ache. But just for fun, here’s a quick reminiscence of what I consumed and during which film I consumed it. Laurie and I got there late, so my movie list does not include Mark of the Gorilla.

Film: Future Hunters (starring Robert Patrick with a cameo by his gooch) Intake: Sam Adams Summer Ale, Vodka Tonic, and a Hostess Cupcake

Film: Trancers (starring some dude that looked like he could’ve been Kurt Russell’s father and Helen Hunt who seemed Mad About Punk) Intake: A bottle of water, a few Doritos, and a Twinkie I think.

Intermission: A cheeseburger, kosher dog, coleslaw, tater salad and a Miller Lite

Film: Breakin’ 2 Electric Boogaloo (starring Ozone, Turbo and Lucinda Dickie with her skimpy leotards) Intake: an ice cream sandwich, Cold Stone Birthday Cake ice cream, a smattering of Doritos and I think another Twinkie.

Film: Airport 75 (starring Boeing’s 747-200 with costars Kennedy and Heston) Intake: Nothing. Maybe a beer. It was a flying movie for Pete’s sake. I was too busy looking for technical errors. Surprisingly, it was about 92.3% true-to-life.

Film: Robot Monster (starring Rock Hudson’s boyfriend and some other actors I’ve never seen before) Intake: I don’t think I ate anything. I slept through most of it.

Film: Night of the Kickfighters (starring Adam West and some other guys) Intake: Nothing. Katie and Mike set me up on a blow up mattress right at the foot of the screen, but even with people getting kicked in the face and Adam West’s laser I was unable to fight the food coma that was kicking my butt. I fell asleep.

DAY 2

Film: Airport—or 30min of it anyway. It was “too slow”<said in a whiny voice> for Chicken and Cheeseburger. *sigh* Kids. (starring Boeing’s 707 with costars Heston, Martin, Kennedy, Bissett and her side boob which Chicken forced me to view twice—honest dear, he made me) Intake: Laurie’s scrumptious Cinnamon Cobble Stone Muffins, or as I like to refer to them—Monkey Bread in a Cup. I washed three of those bad boys down with some piping hot Folgers.

Film: War of the Gargantuas (starring The Gargantua Bros., Russ Tamlin and most of Japan) Intake: A few Doritos, more water and some of the leftover Cold Stone. I eyed the Twinkies and Cupcakes but doubted I could stomach anymore.

Intermission: A cheeseburger, kosher dog, pile of cole slaw and a Miller Lite

Last Film: So Close (starring the tuffest women on the Pacific Rim) Intake: More water (in a vain attempt to detox), more Doritos (in a rather successful attempt to retox), an ice cream sandwich and I think that was it.

Laurie drove home as I was on the verge of a serious, er, movement. We pulled off at Bourbonnais (or Burbonus as Laurie likes to call it) where I got some iced tea and took the anxiously anticipated potty break. And that, my friends, was that.

Thank you Mike and Katie for the wonderful time. Please don’t let the low turnout prevent another Cheeseburger B-Fest. We’ll have more folks next time even if it means FedEx’ing Panno out here. How much is it for triple oversize packages anyway?

Excellent Pilot

2006-07-21T23:30:00.000-05:00

I arrived at Cirrus about 9 a.m. Sunday to prepare for the flight home. Walking in the door I ran into Chris Huhn heading out for his second day of transition training. As he passed he asked if I’d seen the weather. I’d looked at it right before I checked out of the hotel and hadn’t seen anything unusual. “A big thunderstorm’s cropped up over Minneapolis. Looks like it stretches into Wisconsin a ways.”, he said. That put it right across the GPS direct routing I’d just filed.

I hopped back online and checked adds.aviationweather.gov—my go to site for aviation weather. Sure enough, where nothing had been on radar an hour ago sat this angry Nexrad blotch of color indicating a thunderstorm of significant strength and size. Back out came the charts and flight planning software. At least I had some time before I left. The service center was still working on the header replacement on the #5 cylinder. Maybe the storm would shoot its wad before I took off. It didn’t.

Instead of Duluth direct to Lansing, IL (my first stop) I decided to head east along the southern shore of Lake Superior toward Ashland, WI and then bend south on a route that took me over Rhinelander and Oshkosh into the Chicago area. Figuring I’d be vectored all over creation and back if I tried to file through O’Hare’s class B airspace I opted to skirt it to the west and then turn east toward Lansing over Joliet.

About 11, the service center released N218DF and I was finally able to take this incredible machine home. It was 90+ on the ramp as I did the pre-start checklist. Sweat seemed to be oozing from places I didn’t know sweat glands existed. It felt good to finally get the fan out front turning. I quickly programmed the flight plan into the GPS, did the run up and was cleared to taxi to rwy 27.

Shortly after takeoff tower handed me off to approach. As I checked in I said, “Duluth departure, Archer . . . “ caught myself and continued, “I mean Cirrus N218DF climbing through 2,000 for 6.” The controller kind of laughing came back, “That was your old plane wasn’t it?” He must hear gaffes like that all the time from guys leaving the factory. He vectored me out over Lake Superior a little before clearing me on course. Soaring out over the blue water dotted with freighters and tankers, It felt good to finally be heading home.

After settling into cruise I dialed up the moving map on the MFD (multifunction display) to see if I could see the Nexrad image of the storm in relation to my route. There, pretty as you please, was the big blotch of red shown to the south of me. The map showed my programmed route bending nicely around the end of the trouble and continuing into clear air to the south. You couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

While the autopilot took care of the navigation I took some time to play with the avionics. Around Rhinelander I tried to find Little St. Germain—the lake I fished a while back—on the GPS. Apparently Little St. is so little it doesn’t get a mention in the GNS430’s database. I spotted a shape that looked like it might be right, but the GPS referred to it simply as “water”. Most helpful.

Over Oshkosh Chicago Center told me to get ready to copy new routing. I’d been watching my fuel state and was trying to ensure I would have an hour’s worth remaining when I arrived in Lansing by tweaking the mixture. I was hoping the reroute wasn’t going to be longer. It turned out to be shorter—and right through the O’Hare space I was trying to avoid. I guessed they must be cooler about the little guys flying through there than I thought. They weren’t.

Just south of Milwaukee they vectored me off the new route and sent me out over Lake Michigan. And they kept pushing me out farther the closer I’d get to the Chicago skyline. Then they started pushing me lower. Before I knew it they had me about 20 miles offshore down to 4,000 feet. It was about then the uncomfortable realization I had no floatation gear on board began to cause a familiar puckering sensation in my seat cushion. Further exacerbating my anxiety was the wind vector on the PFD (primary flight display) indicating a strong wind blowing directly offshore. If I lost the engine, I was going to be treading water for a very long time.

It was about this time I began to see the occasional boat down below. I figured if worse came to worse I’d steer for one of those guys, pop the chute and hope they saw me. Obviously my fears were never realized, but I now know I’m probably not going to be trying that flight to the Bahamas anytime soon. Not without a raft for peace of mind anyway. That was easily the most uncomfortable 30 minutes I’ve ever spent in the cockpit.

Finally, a little southeast of the skyline, Chicago Approach started reeling me back into shore. Over the Gary shoreline I cancelled my flight plan and, using my fancy shmancy moving map display, squirted between O’Hare’s and Gary’s respective airspace boundaries then made a beeline for final on runway 18 at Lansing. Laurie was there with lunch, ice cold drinks and a seriously needed smooch.

After showing the bird off to her folks I hopped back into the plane for the last leg home. It took about 35 minutes. I was not sparing the horses. Climbing out of Lansing though I had another rather unnerving experience. I’d just switched from Lansing’s common traffic advisory frequency to Chicago Center to see if I could obtain flight following home and was futzing with one of the MFD’s checklists when I looked back up to see a Cessna 172 in, what appeared to be at first glance, a rather unfortunate reciprocal heading. I instinctively rolled left, not exactly sure what his trajectory was yet. He passed about a quarter of mile off my right side. I could almost make out the color shirt the passenger was wearing. Needless to say I’m going to be waiting a little longer to clear a departure airport’s airspace before I get too tied up in the new gizmos.

To bring this long story mercifully to an end, I arrived home without further incident and got the plane put in the hangar with the help of Luke and Laurie. I hope some of you who read this get to go up with me sometime. I know I’ve probably diminished the chances many of you will ask to with portions of this story, but I guarantee you I’ve had more close calls on the ground than I’ve ever had in the air. Hey, “If the government trusts me, so can you.”

C-Day +7

2006-07-20T23:06:00.000-05:00

OK. So I missed a few days. I'll get around to filling in the blanks this weekend. In the meantime here's a link to a few pics I took the last day of Cirrus Transition Training. The guy I'm referring to as JePanno in some of the pics is my instructor. I gave him the nickname after I realized how much he reminded me of Panno. He's a much better pilot than Panno, though.

C-Day +2

2006-07-14T20:23:00.000-05:00

Today was all about failure. Not mine, the aircraft systems. We practiced dealing with such emergencies as the failure of an alternator, the failure of a PFD, the failure of the MFD and the failure of the engine. In all cases Cirrus has come up with systems and methods that make most abnormal procedures no more troublesome than losing a headlight. Even the loss of the engine is somewhat ameliorated by the CAPS (Cirrus Aircraft Parachute System). No, we didn’t try the later out. I hope I never have to.

On the way back I noticed that my airspeed seemed a little slower than the day before. All I had to do was look out the windshield and at the leading edges of the wings to find the answer. Bugs. The laminar flow wing this aircraft uses is so aerodynamically clean that the accumulation of bugs created enough drag to slow it down by as much as 10 knots (11 mph). It’s getting a bath tomorrow. I want my knots back.

That’s all I have to talk about today. Sorry, still no pictures. The intensity of the training Cirrus puts you through leaves little time to think about anything else. Tomorrow’s the last day of training and I’ll be done early. I’ll get some pictures then. Now I’m going to get changed and trek to Tejas for 22 oz Dos Equis and a burrito. Adios.

C-Day +1

2006-07-13T22:42:00.000-05:00

Today started much too early. I went to bed at a decent hour last night, but couldn’t get to sleep no matter how many Good Times reruns I watched on TV Land. I don’t think I got into deep REM until about three hours before the alarm went off. DYNO-MITE!

I was at the factory by quarter to 7 this morning, going over normal and emergency procedures in the workbook I completed before I came up here. About 8:30 they had a coffee for all new Cirrus owners and the Cirrus execs. I didn’t get to meet the Klapmeir brothers who started the company, but I did get to spend a little time talking with the CEO, David Coleal. David came to Cirrus from Toyota in SoCal. He’s a very intense guy. In the course of our conversation I found out he’s really into RC monster trucks. He also has a Mini-T. We talked about having a few Horizon folks up to take a tour of Cirrus. He said to e-mail him and he’d see what he could do. I told him Cirrus service, marketing and its drive to innovate is something any company should observe.

Then I got to meet my instructor, Jeff. Jeff’s a young guy with a disposition not unlike our beloved Panno. I wondered if he listened to gangster rap as he drove his white Maxima home from work. I was to find out later because like an idiot I left the temporary registration for the airplane in my hotel room and he drove me back to pick it up. You see, federal regs say you can’t fly unless the airworthiness certificate, registration, operating handbook and weight and balance documentation are in the plane. So for want of a pink slip of paper, my first lesson in the left seat started about 30 minutes late. Oh, he’s more into classic rock.

All the lessons are scenario based. In other words I plan cross country trips as I would in regular operations and I learn the systems on the fly, if you’ll pardon the pun. Going from the “steam gauges” of the Archer to the flat screen PFD (Primary Flight Display) and MFD (Multifunction Flight Display) proved easier than I thought. All the practice with the avionics training software they sent me months ago has really paid off.

I saw some beautiful country. If you’ve seen Grizzly Man, the documentary about the hippie who thought he could talk to bears and then got eaten by one, the scenery was a lot like that only without the mountains. Lakes and forests dominate the landscape. Lose an engine and you’re either in the sticks or swimming with Walleye.

My first few landings as PIC (pilot-in-command) were utter and total crap. I didn’t break anything but did bounce a couple. This aircraft truly is technically advanced. The laminar flow, high aspect ratio wing does not abide ham fisted operators. Once I forced myself to not fly it like an Archer and fly “by the numbers” instead, I started greasing them on. We also tried a fully automated approach. I won’t go into a lot more detail, but 4.1 hours later I was ready for a beer.

So ready in fact I had two tall ones at the Tejas up the road when I got back to the hotel. Think I’ll go back tomorrow night too. They had a bunch of good stuff on tap and in bottles. Until tonight I thought I was in some beer-less village of the damned. There is no beer at the convenient store near the hotel and I’m far enough from downtown, it’s almost impossible to get a cab. Lucky for me I spotted the joint as the hotel shuttle passed it taking me back tonight. It’s about a 10 minute walk along the highway from the hotel. I felt like Carl from Slingblade walking along the shoulder to get to dinner.

Tomorrow training gets tougher. Jeff, or a JePanno as I now think of him, will take me up and we’ll do the same type of cross country scenarios we did today, only this time he’s going to start failing equipment and observing how I respond. So before I hit the hay here I’m going to peruse the emergency and abnormal operations checklist.

Sorry, no pictures. I was a little pre-occupied. Tomorrow I will do better.

C-Day

2006-07-12T18:15:00.000-05:00

The look I have in this picture is actually that of the “pinch-me-is-this-really-happening” variety. Seeing it now, I think I look mildly retarded. And in a way I was for a bit. Words completely failed me when I walked through the hangar door and laid eyes on N218DF for the first time. All I could think was, “I’m the luckiest little boy in the whole wide world!”

The day began at 8 a.m. I arrived at the Cirrus factory and was greeted by Judy—a perpetually smiling individual who made me feel right at home in a nanosecond. The only time she didn’t smile at me today was when I pulled out my digital camera to take it with me on the factory tour. Then, she looked at me like I’d just pulled out a 357. You see, under no circumstances are guests, even paying ones, allowed to take pictures in the factory. I told her I completely understood and put the camera back in my bag. Like flicking a light switch, the smile returned.

Judy then introduced me to Ken, who was to be my guide on the tour. Like everyone I’ve encountered from Cirrus, Ken was genuinely friendly and eager to answer any questions I had. The factory is a marvel of efficiency and technology. While every plane is assembled by hand, the process is honed to such a degree that they can build as many as four aircraft per day. All tools and framing jigs are machined on site. In fact, with the exception of a couple of components, the airplanes are almost 100% American made. Considering the Cirrus SR-22 is the best selling aircraft of any kind, including military aircraft and commercial airliners, I don’t think anyone can say America doesn’t do anything well but burgers anymore.

After the tour I was given a warranty briefing and instructed on the use of the software that I will need to update the avionics’ databases. After that came lunch where I got to spend a little time talking with a couple of other pilots that were picking up SR-20s. Then, finally, Debbie Backlund came into the pilot’s lounge with a Cirrus corporate pilot to take me down and show me the plane.

After a thorough walk around, the pilot got in the left seat and I in the right for the “delivery flight”. This is basically where they take you up to show that all the avionics work correctly and to see if there are any little details you’d like addressed. The only things I noticed were a sticky map light switch and a little squeal in the headphones that seemed to be linked to engine rpm. The pilot said he thought the door seal on the passenger side wasn’t right. Even though I told him it seemed fine to me, he wrote it up anyway. That's how dedicated to getting it right these people are.

Tomorrow begins my first day of transition training where I finally get to sit in the left seat. They’ll have to shoot me to keep me from getting pictures of that.

Oh, one more thing. While Ken and I were sitting in the front office I got to meet the Cirrus copywriter/marketing consultant. I think I freaked her out a little bit because I was almost as excited to meet her as I was to see my plane. Cirrus does the kind of advertising I wish Horizon would do more of. Their current ad plays up their parachute system. The headline is “Chute Happens . . . Live With It.” The other ad, which I have hanging in my cube shows a picture of the Cirrus from behind that really shows off its curves. The headline for that is “Finally. Something Else With Curves a Man Can Trust.”

Now, I’ve been convinced from the second I saw that ad that the copywriter intended for the headline to be “Finally. Something With Curves a Man Can Trust”, but that she was forced to change it because some nervous Nelly was afraid it would offend women. The fact that it was a woman who came up with the headline obviously didn’t matter one bit. Well folks, I was 100% correct. Debbie (the copywriter) told me that the ad originally went out sans “else” but that someone higher up saw it in a magazine and made them change it. It was both a kind of relief and sadness to know that aversion to taking risks in advertising existed even someplace as forward thinking as Cirrus.

C-Day, -1

2006-07-12T00:20:00.000-05:00

Greetings from Duluth, MN, home of . . . home of . . . well, home of Cirrus aircraft for sure but besides that I have no clue. Due to the enormous economic benefit Cirrus has brought to this community, people have been rolling out the red carpet for me ever since I arrived. The hotel I’m staying at is just 2 miles from the factory and they provide a shuttle to and from. The folks behind the counter at Country Inn and Suites, North Duluth couldn’t be nicer.

The trip up was uneventful. I rented a car to get to Midway because Laurie has been up in Chicago the last three days at a teachers’ seminar, so we would’ve had a car stuck up there if I drove mine. She did meet me though at the Budget drop off at the airport and spent a little time with me before I headed to my gate. It was nice to get a little sugar to help sustain me the next four days.

While we were sitting down by the baggage claim (the only place non-ticketed passengers can really hang out), I happened to glance over my shoulder and see a very familiar face. A face I’ve seen about a thousand times on TV, usually in March. MSU basketball coach, Tom Izzo was on his cell phone looking a little put out. Don’t know what the problem was, but it seemed serious enough that I decided to keep my distance even after he got off the phone. I really like Izzo. I think he’s an exemplary coach as evidenced by how disciplined his teams are.

After kissing my wife goodbye I headed for the gates. I flew Northwest for the trip up and let me tell you, I’m going to love flying myself back. No taking off my shoes and getting wanded. No ridiculously priced concourse food. No uncomfortable, forced conversations with someone you’d otherwise ignore if wasn’t for the fact they’ve packed everyone so tightly into coach you feel more awkward not saying something to the guy you’re going to be rubbing knees with for the next two hours.

From Midway to Minneapolis/St. Paul I was wedged into an A320—Europe’s answer to the 737. But because Airbus, a consortium of European aerospace companies, depends heavily on government funding from the various countries of the companies within it, it is slower in responding to competitive threats. I often hear Airbus trumpeted by the left here in the states as a shining example of what government can do for industry. And while Airbus did have a good few years where it was slightly outselling Boeing, Boeing, which is not encumbered by a bureaucracy and actually has to turn a profit to survive, responded quickly and has once again asserted dominance over Airbus.

Anyway the ride on the Airbus was nice but because it’s almost entirely flown by computer the control responses feel more digital and not as smooth to me. Granted Boeing and McDonnell Douglas (which was eventually bought by Boeing) also use flight computers but they are there to augment the pilots, not replace them. As such the control responses in a Boeing or other older airliner feel more analog because during many of the most critical phases of flight a human is at the controls that knows how to keep other humans comfortable. This is what came to mind as I rode the older DC-9 that flew me from St. Paul to Duluth. I love DC-9’s. They have such a solid feel to them.

But enough of my ruminations on commercial aircraft. Tomorrow Project Cirrus commences in earnest and I need some sack time. My tour of the factory begins at 8 a.m. followed by the paper signing, then lunch, then . . . drum roll please . . . delivery of N218DF. Expect a picture or two in the next post.

The Peace Corps with Guns

2006-07-09T19:05:00.000-05:00

Anyone that hungers for an analysis of American foreign policy that goes beyond sound bites, Sean Hannity and silly contrivances like Fahrenheit 911 needs to read this book. Robert Kaplan has spent most of his life traveling to the worst places on the planet to chronicle the efforts of modern-day empires. In the 80's he was in Afghanistan covering the Soviet exercise in imperialism there. In the 90's he was in the Balkans with NATO. In Imperial Grunts he returns to these places in addition to visiting many others as he travels with the American military to see up close how the only empire currently on earth conducts itself.

His analysis is refreshingly different in that he goes to great pains to place all of what is happening in the American military's various theaters of operation in historical context. And I'm not talking within a context of the last several administrations. He goes back centuries to show how what is happening today was basically inevitable. That by and large, empires have risen and expanded in response to what was going on around them. Not as a result of conscious will.

But I will spare you an amateurish attempt at a detailed review and stick to the basic points I came away with.

Imperialism is not necessarily a bad thing.

Imperialism is most powerful when it is least visible.

America's political leaders would be better served to study the lessons of the plains Indian wars and British colonialism of the late 19th century than those of WWII or Vietnam.

America's military, like any organization, works best when command is decentralized and the officers on the field are given freedom to adapt and improvise.

Special Forces spend more time training other militaries than fighting them.

America should not shrink from the role of police officer. It should, however, rethink how it executes that role.

The greatest obstacle to democracy in the Arab world is not Islam but tribalism.

The American military is not only the most potent in the world, its men and women are quite possibly the most educated, best trained and most motivated all-volunteer force in the history of the world.

I know eight is kind of a funny number to stop on, but that's about all that really sticks out to me. As you probably have surmised I highly recommend this book to anyone who is seriously interested in the future of America's role in the world. It is exhaustively notated and Kaplan is about as objective as I think was possible under the circumstances. I throw in that last caveat simply because his admiration and respect for the soldiers he traveled with is undeniable. Thankfully, though, he does not try to tie their dedication and heroism to any political affiliation. He simply reports what he sees and tries to put it in context for you. If only all journalism was this good.

Control Room

2006-07-08T23:05:00.000-05:00

The Netflix envelope, and nearly every other synopsis I've read, will tell you Control Room is about Al Jazeera's coverage of the war in Iraq. For me, however, it seemed to be more of a study of how moderate Arabs view the world, and specifically the U.S. I came away encouraged as well as sobered.

I think the only real criticism I have is that they left so much of the good stuff out of the theatrical release. Unlike the deleted scenes on many DVDs, the number and quality of those on the Control Room disk almost amount to a second movie. I can only assume they were left out because documentaries are hard enough to market to theater goers without making them 3 hours long. If you rent it, you must watch the deleted scenes. Otherwise, you simply will not have seen the entire movie.

On a side note, I just read the other day that Josh Rushing, the Marine public relations officer who is a focal point of the movie, was just hired by Al Jazeera. Now that I've seen him in the film, I'll have to admit I'm more than a little impressed they did.

Goodbye Charlie. Hello Delta Fox.

2006-07-06T23:19:00.000-05:00

In the past few posts you might have heard something about a new "family" airplane. I fly up to Duluth, MN next Tuesday to pick it up from the factory. I've been reticent to talk about it because 1.) I assume most of you do not share my passion for aviation and 2.) It has seemed almost too good to be true.

The airplane is a Cirrus SR20-G2 . Like my old Piper Archer (N6897C), the Cirrus (dubbed N218DF) is a 4-person, single-engine airplane with fixed landing gear. But that's where the similarities end--rather abruptly too. Whereas the aluminum-and-rivets Archer was a 30+ year old design that topped out at 128 kts (147 mph), the 95% composite airframe Cirrus is a 21st century design that cruises at 156 kts (180mph). And it does so with just 20 more horsepower than the Archer had.

The SR20's instrument panel consists primarily of two large, flat-screen displays that present attitude, GPS navigation and systems information to the pilot in a logical, easy-to-comprehend manner. Only someone who's had to piece together the separate indications of over a dozen WWII-style gauges to maintain situational awareness while flying through clouds will be able to fully grasp what a miracle this is. Instead of a yoke, the Cirrus is controlled in pitch and roll with a side stick controller reminiscent of the kind used in the F-16 and Airbus 320/330/340/380 airliners.

The pies de resistance, however, is the aircraft's ballistic recovery system. If the proverbial excrement every truly hits the fan (i.e. midair collision, engine failure over the Rockies), I can reach up above my head and pull a red T-handle that deploys a giant parachute which will lower the entire airframe safely down to earth. So far the system has been used eight times in real-world situations and each time it saved the lives of those on board. You can see video of the BRS in action here.

While all of these features certainly make flying the Cirrus easier and safer than the Archer, they will require me to undergo three days of transition training at the Cirrus factory just to familiarize myself with them. I plan on posting while I'm there, so watch for the daily debriefings. When you get a chance, check out the Cirrus website. Even if you're not a pilot, but someone who admires visionary technology, you'll find it interesting.

Whew

2006-07-02T23:32:00.000-05:00

UPI Headline:
"Large Asteroid Will Miss Earth Tomorrow"

Who says they only publish the bad news?

Of course, leave it to the French to take the negative slant.

AFP Headline:
"Asteroid Has Near-Collision With Earth"

Hackman and The Conversation

2006-07-02T20:55:00.000-05:00

Netflix continues to grow in my estimation as one of the greatest uses of cyberspace yet devised. On its recommendation (based on about 300+ movies I’ve rated) I checked out The Conversation (1974) starring Gene Hackman. Hackman plays Harry Caul—a brilliant recluse who is one of the “top men” in the field of surveillance. The supporting cast is full of up-and-comers that went on to make it big, including a very young Harrison Ford, Terri Garr and Cindy Williams. There's also a bit performance by a not-so-young, but still-on-the-rise Robert Duvall.

While I’m sure some who view the film today will probably find the eavesdropping aspect particularly prescient, I found it merely an instrument to tell one of the most poignant stories of loneliness I’ve ever seen since Taxi Driver. As such, it’s not a real feel-good movie, just a brilliant bit of cinema that satisfies in a way too many of today's vapid flicks won't.

Bye Bye Charlie, Bye Bye.

2006-06-29T22:33:00.000-05:00

It was with mixed emotions that I handed the keys to N6897C over to its new owner. On the one hand I was happy to have her out of the hangar so we could make room for the new plane. On the other, she was my first plane. I guess like any "first" anything, Niner Seven Charlie will lay permanent claim to a little real estate in my chest.

That said, the farewell flight to the buyer was a good one. I filed for 5000 which put me right at the same altitude as the puffy cumulus that had set sail over central Illinois and Indiana. Zipping along at a not-too-shabby ground speed of 140 kts, I had a ball punching in and out of the clouds. The sensation of speed was exhilihrating. I tried to capture some footage with my little digital camera, but it didn't turn out quite as well as I'd hoped. If you want to see these .mov files anyway, just drop me a line and I'll e-mail them to you.

One Born Every Minute

2006-06-26T19:59:00.000-05:00

"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in. I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me."

"Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?"

"I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me."

Such is the Judgement Day conversation that Jesus describes in the gospel of Matthew that will take place between God and those that were obedient to him. It is these words that I often have to struggle with when I'm face to face with someone looking for a handout that makes my "sucker meter" start to twitch. I hate being taken for a sucker as much as the next guy, but the unfortunate fact is lots of genuinely needy people end up going without because nobody likes being taken for a sucker.

Tonight I was once again presented with this dilemna in the form of skinny kid with gang tats and a big grin schlepping magazine subscriptions so he could win a trip. As most of these guys are, he was a fast talker. Before I knew it he'd shoved a plastic covered list of magazine subscriptions in my hands and was in full sales barrage. My initial reaction was to give a terse "No thanks.", toss the subscription list to him and close the door. But before I could, this very difficult passage of scripture popped into my head.

I know I don't talk about my faith a whole lot on here. For one I know I am often a terrible representative of it. But tonight I'm going to ask your indulgence because, as reprobate as I can be sometimes, Christ really is the pattern of who I desire to be. And when that desire collides with my more natural tendencies I have to try and sort it out. And from now on, you may see me sorting it out here. So without any further uncomfortable background, I continue the story.

As I'm standing there listening to Jay I start thinking about all the doors he's had slammed in his face. I think about all the other ways Jay could be making an easy buck tonight, but instead he's taking a stab at something remotely legit. I think about how hard it's got to be to have few other career options open to you at the age of 21 but this. I finally agree to a year's worth of Flying Magazine. This is where it gets even tougher.

Up till now this has all transpired with me standing in my doorway, hand on door with Jay standing in the hall. To get my checkbook I'll have to go back inside to get it. I'm faced with closing the door and making Jay sit on the steps in the hall or inviting him to wait inside. I think about my wife in the next room. About all the horror stories of guys charming their way into people's homes and then stabbing them for what they can steal from a costume jewelry box. Only problem is "I was a stranger and you invited me in" is reverberating in my cranium like a pipe organ in a cathedral. Do I be the "sucker" or do I do the "smart" thing and make him chill on the steps while I look for the check? Then I'm reminded that, technically, Christ was the biggest sucker of them all. He fed people, healed people and turned water into wine and mankind expressed its gratitude by nailing him to a cross.

That's what it comes down to I guess. If you're going to claim to be a follower of Christ, sometimes you have to be willing to play the patsy. Not that Christ ever intended us to be blindly trusting ("Be as shrewd as snakes and innocent as doves." Matt 10:16), just to give sacrificially. Especially if it means sacrificing your ego. I invited Jay in and he somewhat nervously asked if he could sit on our footstool. "Sure." I went and got the checkbook, paid him and sent him on his way. He thanked me profusely and took his show to the neighbors across the hall.

A few minutes later I decided to see what I could find online about the company indicated on the receipt--the Sunshine Subscription Agency. If you just Googled it, you know what I now know. There are all kinds of complaints against it. It's a legit company in the sense that they have an actual physical location and aren't selling drugs. It's just that, as Johnny Caspar in Miller's Crossing puts it, they're "a horse of a different color, ethics wise." Most of the bad things I read about involved how they take advantage of disadvantaged youth like Jay.

Did I get taken? In all likelihood, but it won't have been from Jay if what I read was correct. Then again enough people must get their subscriptions if SSA is still in business. We'll see. Now I have to decide if I should cancel the check or hope that, of the many tainted transactions SSA makes, this one actually goes through and Jay gets his commission.

Best Fortune Cookie Fortune Ever

2006-06-26T13:34:00.000-05:00

"Ignore previous cookie."
--received 6-26-06 from Super Wok

The Berries

2006-06-18T23:02:00.000-05:00

I mark the passage of time now by how long it's been between posts. Not much has really happened since the last one which is why it's taken this long. I only post now to break the dry spell. Speaking of dry, I went to pick strawberries Saturday and the earth was parched. Time's been flying by so fast, it really hasn't occured to me that it's been a while since we've had a really good rain. Despite the heat and dust however berry picking proved to be much more fun than I would've thought.

We went to Pontious Berry and Herb Farm in White Heath. As the name implies berries aren't the only thing going at Pontious. In addition to a great herb garden they offer tomatoes, onions and sweet corn in season. The vegetables, berries and herbs are grown without the aid of pesticides but, as their website says, they are not a certified organic farm. They just try to adhere to organic growning methods. It's all u-pick and payment is on the honor system. You weigh your harvest yourself, write down how much picked and the price, and then drop the money in a wooden lock box. If you have to make change, there's a box for that too. It's all very granola.

The strawberries we picked were pretty puny due to the lack of water. Apparently their irrigation system went down right about the time the drought started. None the less, these were some of the sweetest tasting strawberries I've ever had. They tasted exactly like you imagine the flavor when someone says the word "strawberry". The lady running the place said pickins were slim as this was the end of the season but between Laurie and I we managed to pick about 3 lbs. Enough for one incredible strawberry pie with some berries left over for eating with ice cream.

We also harvested some of their basil and cilantro. We made pesto out of the basil last night. I've never eaten it fresh like that. It's nothing but fresh for this paisan from now on. After we got back from produce picking I changed the oil and filter on the motorcycle. The bike really did need the oil change. I wasn't just trying to assert manhood after berry picking. Besides when a man berry picks or harvest herbs it's called "foraging".

After dinner last night, we watched Born Into Brothels. This is a very difficult film to watch. For one its an unflinching look at one of the worst possible existences this planet has to offer. It also makes you feel like a total ass for complaining about perceived injustices like someone taking your parking spot or cold Big Macs. That said, it also showed that even in the darkest corners of the world, no matter how bitter their circumstances, kids still dream. That the value of a child's life trancends its "quality".

Finally, if any of you know someone who is looking for a nice, used airplane with a slightly hightime engine, but that's excpetionally clean, send them here. So far I've only received a couple of nibbles. It will be going up on Ebay this week as well. Kool Mo P wanted some info on the new plane, which I will offer when I take delivery of it on July 12. That should be quite an adventure. I will be flying up to Duluth to pick it up and receive three days transition training. Expect a detailed account along with pics here.

Hoosier Air

2006-06-05T01:16:00.000-05:00

I am truly a blessed man. Not only do I have an airplane, but I have a wife that actually likes flying in it so much, that she is sometimes more eager to go for a flight than I am. Such was the case yesterday. As a few of you know we're selling the plane to make hangar space for a new one--a whole other story. She suggested we use the stellar weather to take 6897 Charlie on a tour of Indiana and post sales flyers at various airports. Believe it or not, I was actually a little reluctant because we'd just spent a couple of hours last weekend washing it should a couple of prospective buyers drop by for a closer look. But she REALLY wanted to go flying and a voice in my head finally piped up and yelled, "Hey moron! Do you know how many pilots would kill for a wife that begs them to fly?" So to honor my wife's wishes and out of respect for my fellow aviators in less ideal marital circumstances, I planned the flight.

Leg 1: KCMI (Champaign, IL) to KLAF (Lafeyette, IN)

KLAF's proper name is Purdue University Airport. It's right on the edge of campus. And I mean right on the edge. When you depart runway 5 you're just a few hundred feet above the quad. We departed Champaign about noon. Cleared on course, I elected to fly this leg at 3,500 feet. There was a little bit of an overcast plus I just like flying a little lower once in a while. You can see more details on the ground. As we bounced along in the light chop we scoped out cool little farm spreads, small town "rush hours", cow "ants" and all manner of springtime flora and fauna. Dialing in the ATIS (Air Terminal Information Service) for KLAF I caught a strange comment at the end of the weather recording "(something) activity around the airport, all quadrants." On the second time around the loop I made it out--"caution BIRD activity around the airport, all quadrants."

What kind of bird activity could possibly merit a mention in the weather recording? As we got closer I kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. It wasn't until I was on about 3 mile final for rwy 5 that I saw what they must have been talking about. Flying in the same direction, about 50 feet below and to the right of my flight path, was one of the biggest hawks I've ever seen. It reminded me of a time in California when I was flying along in an even smaller Cessna 150 and got an uncomfortably close look at a couple of vultures that happened to be circling at my altitude. I think it would've been a toss up in that case as to who would've still been flying if we'd hit. Considering the size of the tiny Cessna and the enormity of the birds, odds on the vultures wouldn't have been long. Thankfully, this encounter was nowhere near that close.

Things weren't very busy at KLAF either. When we landed only one plane was taxiing out to do a little pattern work. None the less, the fine folks at Lafeyette Aviation rolled out the red carpet for us. Two line guys came bounding out of the office to direct me to a parking spot right by the front door, chocked the wheels and asked us if we needed anything. Since we weren't buying any fuel, I had to pay a ramp fee of $8. Believe it or not, this really didn't bother me. Places like Lafeyette have limited ramp space and they have to pay the bills with fuel sales. It seems more than fair to me to pony up a little something if I'm going to be taking up space and not buying anything. Even if it's just for the 5 minutes it took us to use the john and hang up our flyer. What annoys me is when I hear some fat cat flying a half-a-million dollar twin that guzzles hundreds of gallons a flight bitching about ramp fees. As one of my old instructors used to say, "If the cost of flying bugs you, you probably shouldn't be flying."

After a quick potty break and posting our flyer on the lobby bulletin board we boarded the plane for our next sales call--KEYE: Eagle Creek Airport just north of Indianapolis International.

Leg 2: KLAF (Lafeyette, IN) to KEYE (Indianapolis, IN)

Indianapolis International is surrounded by about 4 or 5 sattelite airports that are all within about 20 nm of it. One of these, Eagle Creek, is right next to a dammed up lake on the NW side. The reason I decided to make it a part of the itenerary, despite the fact the local FBO also sold aircraft and probably wouldn't let me post my flyer, was because of a nearby restaraunt that received favorable pilot reviews on airnav.com. A little place called Rick's Boatyard. All the reviews talked about an outdoor patio with a fantastic view of the adjacent lake. I figured even if we didn't get anything to eat it would be worth checking out for future hundred-dollar hamburger trips.

As we approached KEYE from the northwest I caught sight of the lake about 15 miles out. The traffic pattern entry for the active runway took us right down the middle of the lake. Below us we saw all kinds of sailboats and pontoons plying the waters, and right there on the southeast corner of the lake Rick's Boathouse restaraunt that looked like it would be right at home in Miami. As we were to find out later, so did the owners. All the apparel they sold in their gift shop used the same font and colors as the Miami Vice logo. Cheesy? Supremely, but in a sort of tongue-in-cheek way. Then again, maybe Indy is like Baratslava--"Miami Vice. #1 new show!" Rick's was right across the road from the airport. Not even a 100 yard walk. It was just as reviewed. We found a spot on the lake side of the enormous patio overlooking the boat slips. In the middle of the patio was a good sized cabana bar that had all kinds of tasty looking libations on tap, but as pilot in command, I wouldn't be able to avail myself this visit. Needless to say I'll be back. Maybe on motorcycle. There were a lot of bike's in the parking lot (get those carbs cleaned Chicken).

After a brief respite of iced tea and live jazz we got up to head back to the airport. The waitress said the tea was on the house. Why, I have no idea. We dropped a generous tip and walked back across the road. Next stop was Bloomington, IN.

Leg 3: KEYE (Indianapolis, IN) to KBMG (Bloomington, IN)

Bloomington, Indiana--home of lily white basketball teams (under Knight anyway) and John Cougar. I don't care if he calls himself John Mellencamp now. He'll always be John Cougar to this American kid doin' the best that he can. Bloomington made the itenerary because it had a couple of FBOs that would be great places for posting flyers and one of the FBOs had Caddilac courtesy cars. I'll let you figure out which of those two factors weighed more heavily in my flight planning.

For this leg I filed an IFR flight plan which would provide us with positive radar coverage from takeoff to touchdown. Our course was going to take us right along the western edge of Indianapolis International. With all the traffic coming in and out of Indy, as well as the satellite airports, I simply don't have enough eyes in my head. I was going to need traffic reports. Plus, in today's day and age you really don't want to be operating around major urban areas without a constant link to ATC. That way if a Blackhawk appears off your wing you don't have to use hand gestures and can ask, "What seems to be the problem officer?" before the door gunner opens fire.

I filed for 6000 ft hoping it would put us up in the midst of the cool looking cumulus canyons that were sailing over us. Turns out they were up at about 7,000, but it was almost as cool to skim the bottoms. This leg, like the rest of them, took all of about 30 minutes. We were on the ground in Bloomington in no time. Which, by the way, has some fairly striking scenery for this part of the midwest. Lots of rolling, tree-covered hills. The airport is on a rise that kind of overlooks some of the smaller hills to the west. As the sun descended toward the horizon and the shadows got longer, it all looked very serene. Just like one of those daydreams of summer that I usually start experiencing about the 4th week in February.

We parked in front of Cook Aviation because they were the ones with the Caddie courtesy cars. Courtesy cars are free transportation that most FBOs lend transient pilots for an hour or two so they can run into town and get a bite to eat or something. That's right. Free. But as with most things that cost nothing, you usually get what you pay for. Courtesy cars are almost always an adventure. Some of the most memorable that I've driven have included a rusted out mid-60's pickup with a speedometer that didn't work, a giant white '70's station wagon that looked like it might have been a coroner's car in another life and I don't know how many retired police cars (probably the most common courtesy car at small municipal airports). You don't even have to leave your driver's license or cc number. I guess they figure no one would be dumb enough to steal a POS car and leave their airplane. But on very rare ocassions you'll be fortunate enough to land somewhere that offers some really nice wheels. Cook Aviation was just such a place.

While the line guy fueled the plane, Laurie and went into the office and asked if we could have the use of a courtesy car to grab a bite to eat. I'm not even sure if I was all that hungry, but I needed to have a plausible reason to ask for the car. As anticipated, the kindly office girl handed over the keys to a 2002 merlot De Ville. We're talking one of those big mamas you see dominating the parking lot at Hometown Buffet when there's an early-bird special. But because it was a DTS with alloy wheels and lower profile tires it looked more Tony Soprano than Lawerence Welk. Down the road a piece from the airport we found a great little Chinese take-out/dine-in place called Dragon. One of those places where your order's cooked fresh. I got the house special mein fun and Laurie opted for the Mu Shoo. Both entrees were fantastic and we had tons left over for lunch today.

I took my time cruising back to the airport. Partly because I was fighting a food coma and partly because I was really enjoying the Caddie. Back at the airport we hung our flyers and settled up with the office girl for the fuel. About the fuel, it was only $3/gal. I about fell over. Avgas is almost always a buck higher than auto gas, but I'd just managed to fill up for a mere .20 more than my fellow groundbound travelers. When you throw in the free use of the DTS I was probably coming out ahead. Man, was I having a great day. The only thing that could have made things more blissful was some guy handing me a suitcase full of cash for my plane. But ain't that America, you and me. Ain't that America, somethin' to see baby . . .

Leg 4: KBMG (Bloomington, IN) to KHUF (Terre Haute, IN)

We decided to stop at Hullman International Airport in Terre Haute because I thought it was a fairly busy general aviation airport and it wasn't entirely out of the way on our way back to Champaign. The airport is apparently named after the Hullman family that brought us all Clabber Girl Baking Powder. It boasts a sprawling terminal that, in it's postwar heyday, was probably every bit as busy as Champaign. At least that's what the photos on the wall seemed to indicate. On this particualar day, however, Hullman was dead. There were few signs of life. Even the Air Guard ramp looked deserted with a row of cold F-16s tied down and intakes covered, silently waiting for their next mission. I thought with all the gorgeous weather, the place would at least be hopping with student pilots in the pattern or something. The only activity was a couple line guys washing an airport police vehicle.

Inside the terminal it was similarly deserted, save for a couple of young ladies working the FBO counter. We located the "selling board", tacked up a flyer and, after another loo break, took off for home.

Leg 5: KHUF (Terra Haute, IN) to KCMI (Champaign, IL)

By now it was approaching 5:30 or 6 and we were headed NW right into the sun. With all possible eye protection deployed--sunglasses, check--tinted visors, check--I was still squintsville with a forward ground visibility of about 5 miles in haze. Time to call for a little radar coverage again. Terra Haute approach was kind enough to arrange for flight following all the way to Champaign. Oddly enough, despite the fabulous flying conditions, Laurie and I seemed to be part of only a handful of souls wandering the skies over east central Illinois. There was almost total silence on Terre Haute's frequency. It wasn't until we were handed off to Champaign approach that the radio calls seemed to pick up. Still, none of them seemed to be headed to Willard.

Winds were light so approach gave me my choice of runways. Our course was almost perfectly in line with runway 32, so picking was easy. As I exited the runway after landing I noticed Champaign's ramp was about as dead as Terre Haute's. Even the university planes were put away. I can only chalk it up to summer break. After shutting down, we wiped all the fresh bug kill off the leading edges of the cowl, wings and wheelpants. Just in case a prospective buyer, grasping one of our sales flyers, should come by for a look-see. After I put 9'er 7 Charlie away, I stood there in the still, sultry sunset air taking it all in. Laurie said, "This was the perfect day." No argument here, babe.

Everything In Moderation . . . Well, Not Everything

2006-06-02T21:57:00.000-05:00

Sorry guys. I was fooling around with the blog the other day and turned on the comment moderation. It is off now. Please forgive the momentary lapse into censorship.

In other news I'm thinking about changing the template, so things may look a little different on your next visit. Or not.

I'm Coining a New Word

2006-06-01T22:56:00.000-05:00

stereondipity (ster-ion-dip-it-ee): n. The chance synchronization of a person's driving actions with the music on the stereo. Most commonly occuring when a song ends at the precise moment the person comes to a stop in a parking space and just before they turn off the ignition. Also common when driving in the rain while listening to jazz or quickly accelerating away from an intersection precisely as a metal guitar solo begins. Usually accompanied by the sensation of being in a music video or movie montage. Most often occurs if the music on the stereo is particularly rockin' (i.e. Boston, Clutch, Bon Jovi).

Fire In the Hole

2006-05-23T22:25:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I took a fishing trip with some guys up to the Northwoods of Wisconsin. Until this trip, the farthest north I'd ever been in Wisconsin was Milwaukee. It truly is a wild and wonderful slice of country. Temps were a good 10 degrees or so less than they are here, but the cool weather gave the air a crisp, clean quality that was invigorating. This crisp air, combined with the scent of pine trees and the hard blue water of Little St. Germain, made you feel like you were in a Hamms commercial. All that was missing was that dancing, beer swilling, cartoon bear.

The seven hour drive north was actually pretty easy going. It's a straight shot up 39 and 51. And while the scenery is mostly "cheddar" as you go up, it really starts to get Northwoodsy around Tomahawk. Clear lakes start flashing at you from between the forests of Czech pine and deer crossing cautions are everywhere. St. Germain, where our cabin was, was about as backwater as they come in these parts. It wasn't dirty by any means. In fact from the looks of the well-built school, firehouse and community center, it was clear tourist dollars provided a big enough tax base so the locals could keep things pretty inviting. The only truly Mayberry thing about it was that they rolled the sidewalks up at 8. If you wanted anything to eat after then, besides a Little Debbie snack from the local quicky mart, your options were to stock up on groceries during the day or head into Woodruff, about 10 miles away.

There were six of us and we split up into fishing parties of two while we were there. Moto and I, the least accomplished anglers of the lot, were put together. What we lacked in fishing accumen we made up for in style with our little pontoon boat that we rented to cruise around the lake in. Compared to the boats our companions were using, we had a party barge. It had two comfy captains chairs forward and a wide bench seat aft. It was also equipped with a rather capacious live well that didn't see a lot of fish the first day and a half, but came in quite handy later. It was really stable too. You could walk around without having to be careful of tipping over. And it had a Bimini top that could be quickly deployed in the event of rain or a lack of sunscreen. About all it didn't have was any serious horsepower, but the lake wasn't that big that it took very long to get anywhere. Anything more than a 45 outboard was probably overkill.

Friday morning everyone was up at 5 ready to tear into the local pike population. Moto and I were the first to hit the lake because we were the only ones with a boat on the resort dock. Mike and Jim had to trailer their rigs to the nearest landing about a mile away to put in. It was in the high 30's or low 40's on the lake, but we were giddy with anticipation so the cold really didn't bother us that much. We dropped anchor in one of the bays closest to the resort dock to start out.

I've only fished for Northern one other time in my life on a Canadian fishing trip. At that time it was mid to late July and we were knocking them out with all manner of crank baits, but primarily in-line spinners. The fish there were really aggressive. So, I figured they would be here too. Three hours later, it was clear that what worked in Canada wasn't working here. Plus, Little St. Germain is really shallow in parts and we were constantly getting spinners hung up in the weeds below the surface. Somewhat discouraged but not defeated we decided to start fishing a nearby spot for Walleye using jigs. Another hour or so passed with nothing more than a couple of nibbles. So we weighed anchor and motored to other parts of the lake.

Still certain that a pike was in the cards for me I talked Moto into going to points hither and yon on the lake, all to no avail. I commend him for his infinite patience. Long story short, the first day was a total wash. We had nothing to show for 11 hours of fishing except a slight sunburn and draggin' butts. We didn't even drink much of the beer we'd brought along. We were so intent on catching Pike that I think I had maybe two beers the entire time we were out. Now that's a failure of fishing trip my friends when you can't even manage to drink more than a couple of beers, let alone catch any fish.The mini pontoon was still cool though. In fact I doubt I could've lasted as long as I did if it wasn't for the party barge.

The next day I didn't even hear the alarm. I slept right through it. Turns out I wasn't the only one that was less than enthused about the prospect of getting skunked yet again by Little Saint. A quick look out my window revealed that Kellner's boat was still on its trailer. He hadn't even bothered to try and make the "morning bite" even though he was one of the privelaged few among us to have caught a Northern the day before. Instead everyone in the party had a nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, taters and toast. We all just relaxed and hit the lake about 10 or so.

Of course this was well after the morning prime time and a good six hours or so before evening prime time. Undeterred however, Moto and I explored the rest of the lake employing what tactics we knew in our efforts to catch the elusive Northern Pike. Elusive to us anyhow. Besides Mike, Mike's dad and Jim had each caught one but that was it. It wasn't until the rainstorm rolled in later that day that we discovered another much more bountiful target of opportunity--crappie. Turns out this time of year the tasty little buggers come into shore around evening and during storms. Everyone was catching a bunch from off the resort dock so Moto and I boarded the party barge and decided to head up shore from the dock a short way and fish the underwater ledge. Before it was all said and done I'd dropped 20 or so Crappie into our live well. I was finally fishing, baby.

Also fishing off the dock with us was a fella named Stan. Stan was a quintecential Chi-cah-goan and had been coming to Little Saint Germain for about 23 years. Stan had what I'll call a vocal depth perception problem. He used the same volume of voice for people standing right next to him that he might use for someone a good 100 yards away. His advice for catching Northern, while noisy, was simple. Just stick a chub on a hook, throw it out and wait. All day if necessary. You see, apparently at this time of year Pike are spawning and the females are laden with eggs. So they're really not interested in chasing a spinner bait down. They 're looking for easy pickin's like bait on a hook.

So, the next day Jim, Patrick, Mike and his dad went into town and bought a bunch of chubs while Moto and I tried one more time to find a Pike using other baits. That's the thing about fishing, there are so many variables in what makes the critters twitch--water temp, barometric pressure, cloud cover--it's really a matter of being in the right place at the right time. We were to see this firsthand later that day.

When we left the dock that morning, Stan had a pole in the water with a chub on a hook just waiting. When we came back 8 hours later, he was still there, fishless. Our plan for the evening was to relax a little then fry up the crappie we caught the day before. While we were waiting for Mike and his dad to return we decided to kill time on the dock drinking beer and catching more crappie. While we were at it, Jim threw a line out with a chub on it and just let it sit while he jigged for crappie. About 45 minutes later Jim let out a holler. Something had grabbed his line and was heading out to the middle of the lake with it. He dropped is crappie rod, grabbed the other one and yanked. "I got it! Whatever it is, it's a big one." About a minute later he'd managed to reel "It" into the shallows. It was a monster 30 in Northern. Megaphone Man started yelling "Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!" Between his yelling and sight of this big, beautiful fish almost within net's reach, my heart was racing.

I scrambled for a net and so did Patrick. We positioned ourselves on either side of the dock in case it tried to go under. It ended up coming to my side. I slipped the net over it's head and scooped it up. It was heavy and pissed. It started thrashing around in the net like a trapped gator. Scared to death it was going to flip back into the water I dropped it unceremoniously into the bottom of Jim's boat. We all just stood there staring at this really angry fish glaring back at us. I finaly calmed down enough to try and get the hook out. I'd heard stories about pike latching on to people's hands when they tried to retrieve their hooks so I was a little nervous. I guess it had finally resigned itself to it's fate because it didn't struggle at all while I retrieved the hook.

I picked it up in the net and hauled it over to the live well on my rental boat as Jim's live well simply wasn't big enough. Stan, the poor guy who'd been sitting on the dock all day without a bite, and had actually given us the advice on using the chubs, looked on with an amicable yet scarcely concealed envy. On a brighter note, Stan had a 28 in pike on his line not 15 minutes later, followed by yet another 29 in on his son-in-law's which I'm sure more than made up for having to watch some Johnny Come Lately take what should have been your fish.

Inspired by the big catches we all decided to skip dinner and keep fishing. Moto and I took our boat up shore a little ways to catch more crappie. Anytime we'd throw one in the live well with the pike there'd be a short pause then you'd hear the new guy swimming madly around the live well when it figured out what it's cell mate was. Lucky for the crappie confinement had ruined the pike's appetite and none were eaten prematurely. About three hours later we had the live well literally packed to the gills with one ginormous pike and about 25 or so very nervous crappie.

The day we were to drive home Moto and I cleaned the rest of our catch and added it to the community crappie catch. Jim was even kind enough to share his pike with everyone else. We each went home with about 3 to 5 lbs of fish filets each. I fried my share of the crappie up the other night for Mr. and Mrs. Train Guy. It made for quite a feast. I can't wait to go back up there next spring. This time I'm skipping the pike and going for the crappie. If I'd been fishing for nothing else the entire three days I was there I might've easily landed 60 or more by myself.

I'll leave you with a link to some pics from the trip on flickr. Now, where to go next? Bone fishing in the Keys anyone?

Immigration Song

2006-05-17T10:36:00.000-05:00

I wanted to share a poem written by Ray Bradbury that appears in today's Wall Street Journal (see the link below). I've always admired Bradbury's clarity as a writer and it's good to see that at 85 he's still got it.

America: An Ode to Immigrants

Suddenly Sinatra

2006-05-14T19:54:00.000-05:00

If you happen to see it in the bargain rack at the grocery store or Wal Mart, do yourself a favor and buy “Suddenly”. It’ll probably put you out no more than $5 and it’s easily more entertaining than most of what Hollywood’s pooped out this year. This 1954 thriller stars Frank Sinatra and Sterling Hayden. Hayden is probably best known for the role of Colonel Ripper—the mad Air Force commander in Dr. Strangelove that plunges the world into WWIII to prevent the commies from “sapping our precious bodily fluids”.

Here Hayden plays Sheriff Tod Shaw, constable of the sleepy town of Suddenly, CA. Sinatra, normally the hero in most of his films, plays against type as a psychopathic hired assassin sent to dispatch the President of the United States who’s train is making a quick stop in Suddenly. To do so he has to take a family hostage so he and his gang can use their house that sits on a hill overlooking the train station.

While the acting is typical of anything you’d see in the early 50’s, the plot and storyline is surprisingly tight. And the characters are all written to be rather intelligent. Not that I expected them to be stupid, just maybe a little more Leave It To Beaver. The writing’s actually more on par with an episode of 24, only more plausible.

I won’t say much more about the movie. I’m going to see if I can talk Martin into screening it at a crappy movie night. I will say this, though; it made me wish Sinatra had been cast as a bad guy more often.

Peanut Butter Therapy

2006-05-13T23:22:00.000-05:00

For me one of life's greatest pleasures is peanut butter. On our way home from my bros, I announced to my wife I had a craving for ice cream. Turns out I was really craving peanut butter. We stopped at County Market where I sought out Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby which has peanut butter filled pretzels in it. Fortunately for my waistline, they were out. But spurred on by my love of peanut butter I decided to further explore the aisles and see what new and exciting things Big Snack (aren't all corporate cabals supposed to be "Big" now?) was doing with it.

First stop was the cereal aisle. Nothing new there. Same thing on the cookie aisle. On second thought, the Elves had created some kind of Tagalong knock off I'd never seen before, but that was probably just new to me. Despite the abundance of peanut butter flavored snacks, none of them caught my fancy. Mainly because I knew there was no real peanut butter in any of them. And most were too sweet for what I wanted tonight. Laurie, sensing my discontent, offered the novel suggestion that perhaps I should just have a peanut butter sandwich. We had a jar at home and I wouldn't have to spend a dime. Two butter-soaked, peanut butter-laden English muffins later and my Jones has been satisfied, which now frees me to think of other things. Or more accurately, my peanut butter preoccupation has been subdued enough to allow other things to pop into my head. Like Mel Gibson for instance.

Yesterday I read somewhere that Mel was using a press junket for his latest film, Apocalypto, to lay into Bush. He said Bush and his team were not unlike the corrupt Mayan rulers in his film, in that they used fear to retain power. What galled me about this statement was not that he was coming out against Bush, but that somehow Bush is the only one to have ever used fear as a lever. Don't get me wrong, I like Mel. A lot. But fear is to politicians what sex is to Madison Ave.

"If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to toss you out on the street without any food!" "If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to poison your water!" "If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to knock up your daughters and make them get back alley abortions!" Or the one that seems to evoke the greatest hysteria, "If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to make you go to church!"

No politician anywhere at anytime in history has won with the campaign slogan, "Everything's fine." That said, I might agree with Mel that Bush lied to us about WMDs. But if he did he was only trying to keep alive a lie that had been so very useful to the previous administration when it was looking to pitch a little fear in order to divert attention from trouble at home. Only Bush was apparently too dumb to realize that if you actually invaded Iraq, it would blow the whole con. Or was he?

I don't know. Frankly, and this will come as a source of great satisfaction to my Democrat friends, I don't know what to think of the guy anymore. He and the soon-t0-be minority Republican congress seem to have spent the last several years trying to out-Democrat Democrats. First there was the enormous prescription drug benefit that appears to be of little benefit. Then there was the knee jerk pledge of trillions of dollars to a sinking city. Say what you will about the "Bridge to Nowhere", at least it actually went to an island that will still be there in 50 years or so. Who can say the same for New Orleans? Between feckless leaders like Nagin and geology, I'm guessing it won't be long before we see another flooded bus yard. And finally, his most-recent suggestion that the National Guard patrol the border to make it look like he's doing something about illegal immigration. Not since Carter's rescue attempt of the hostages in Iran have I seen such a desperation move from the White House.

Clearly P J O'Rourke was right:

The Democrats are the party that says government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it.

Mmmm. Peanut butter.

Somewhere a Pike Just Shivered

2006-05-10T21:34:00.000-05:00

That's right my fine finned friends, enjoy what little time you have left. I just went lure shopping and come Friday of next week you're going to be on the end of my line. Or you'll just sit there and do nothing because I had no frickin' clue whether or not I got the right tackle.

Moto gave me a list of lures for pike with cryptic names like "husky jerk", "twitchbait", "Shallow Raider" and my personal fave, the "Rattlin Rouge". Sounds more like the selection you usually find in the men's room vending machine at the local truck stop, don't it? I was only able to find a few of these with the names given in the list. Obviously they're proprietary to certain manufacturers and the off brands used other names. So, I tried to go from my memory of what we used when we fished for pike up in Canada about 4 years ago.

Another problem encountered was the size of the baits sold around here. Most everyone here fishes for pan fish and bass so they don't need big lures. Just about everything I was able to find was on the low end of what was recommended on the list. And why not? There aren't any pike around here anyway. About the only thing I was able to find suitable sizes of were the spoons and that's because there must be enough people around here that trout and salmon fish up in Lake Michigan.

Still, I hold out hope that one or two of the lures I blew a sizable chunk of cash on tonight comes through and I'm able to post a great picture of me and a monster northern when I return from the trip.

Shooting Under Par

2006-05-03T23:13:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday I went to my first organized trap shoot. It was kind of like a putt-putt tournament played with .12 gauges. You go around to different stations and have to shoot clays that are released from different directions. One station releases them straight up, another rolls them across ground, another launches them from over your head and so on. It was for a good cause too. The proceeds from the tickets were for a 4-H chapter. Included in the ticket price was a tasty hog roast. It really doesn't get much more red state than guns and spit-roasted pork.

Participants were put into "squads" of 4 to 9 shooters. Our foursome consisted of Mike, Jeff, Joe and myself. This was fortunate for a couple of reasons, not the least of which was the fact Mike owned a Mule. For you non-ATV'ers out there a Mule looks like the result of a drunken liason between a Hummer and a golf cart. So instead of having to walk to each station, Joe and I got to ride. Which brings me to another thing--the sophistication of some of the equipment these guys were using.

Sure there was a lot of camouflage and orange hats, but many of these guys, including our shooting companions looked like they'd be right at home on an English hunt. They had fancy vests, nice shooting glasses and some of the most beautiful guns I've ever seen. And I mean aesthetically beautiful, not just beautiful to a gun enthusiast. A couple of guys even had hand carts like you'd use for golf bags only they were equipped with weatherproof gun cases.

There were 12 stations on this particular shoot. At each station you shot 8 to 10 clays. I mostly shot at mine. The clays were released in pairs so you had to take down two at a time. After about two stations it was crystal clear why pro trap shooters use over-under and semi-automatic shotguns. I think there was only one station where I was actually able to take down two clays at once. I'm not blaming it on the fact I was using a pump-action, but it did make acquiring the 2nd clay a little tougher. Still, even at that I was able to shoot 37 out of 100 which was way better than I expected to do. Ironically, Joe had the exact same score, but unfortunately it was not nearly as good as he expected to do. Having seen him shoot before, I know how good he can be.

What really got me though was the number of kids that were participating. I'm just glad none of them were in my group. Not because I was worried about safety, either. It's bad enough to shoot worse than any adult, but getting shown up by a junior Wyatt Earp would be too much to bear. Now I realize the idea of giving a kid a shotgun makes many people blanche, but there are few things on earth that engender self-confidence and discipline like learning to do something inherently dangerous in a safe and professional manner. Honestly. I would feel safer shooting side-by-side with a 12 year old who has been properly trained on how to handle a shotgun than riding shotgun with many adults I know.

More later . . .

Filler

2006-04-17T23:51:00.000-05:00

This is one of those posts where I feel compelled to write something simply to keep things fresh, but in truth have nothing to say. So, let the weekend travelogue commence.

Since last Easter was spent with my family in Kentucky, this Easter was with Laurie’s up in Dyer. Now I realize that what I’m about to say may sound a bit off, but I actually feel very relaxed when I visit her folks. We really don’t do much but sit around and eat Donna’s cooking/baking and hang out with the nieces and nephews if they come over. None the less, I’m never bored. I just feel really at home.

Against our better judgment (and the HobbyZone manual’s ample warnings) her dad and I took his Firebird Commander out on Saturday. That’s one of the ways he and I bond now. I’ll bring down a Stryker or something and we’ll head to the local park to do some flying. We haven’t done a lot lately because he’s had to work just about every Saturday I’ve been there. So, we decided to make the most of his day off, even if it was a tad breezy.

Long story short we quickly had the Commander blown about ½ mile downwind of us and couldn’t get it back. I finally gave up and simply let it come down in a field. We found it in perfect shape resting under one of those giant irrigation gantries. I had to walk a good 100 yards into the field to retrieve it, and the entire time I was listening for the sound of water flooding the pipes. Thankfully, the sprinklers had the day off too.

I told Larry not to say anything. That Laurie and her mother would never let us hear the end of it. We had the plane and it was in one piece. There was nothing to see here and nobody needed to know. He told them anyway. Now I can expect to get razzed every time we go flying. I can just hear it now, “So which one of you is going to fly and which is going to drive the retrieval truck?”

Sunday we went to church. It was my first time in the church since our wedding day. Larry, who is one of the elders there, told me they were thinking about moving to another location in a few years. It made me kinda sad to think about it. Not only is this the church where Laurie became my wife, but if I’m not mistaken it’s also the one in which she was baptized as a baby. Sure, God’s house is wherever He wants it, but that building is a landmark in my life. At the very least, I hope it never gets torn down should her family’s church find another home.

Sunday dinner was awesome. Since it was Larry’s birthday, I let him relax and I carved the ham. The electric knife they have is fantastic. Laurie says we have the exact same knife that we received as a wedding gift. I almost want to cook a turkey just so we can break it out. In addition to the delicious ham, there was corn, mashed taters, green been casserole with the Funyon-like crumbles on top and homemade beef and noodles. I washed it all down with Donna’s delectable iced tea then piled on with a nice sized piece of turtle cake with ice cream. I’m still feeling the effects tonight.

On the way home we drove through the backside of the super cell that blew threw yesterday. Didn’t see anything too scary, but the Saturn’s anti-skid was working overtime. Its tires are a tad worn so we were drifting a touch in some of the turns. I wasn’t driving real fast either. There was just a lot of standing water on the back roads we were on. We took a different route back than we usually do. It runs down 1 through Beecher and Grant Park, then heads west on 17 at Momence, paralleling the Kankakee River for a few miles. It’s actually sort of scenic and shortens the amount of time we have to spend I-57.

Oh man, I’m talking about travel routes. Clearly I’m becoming my father. I remember my father and his friends talking ad infinitum about the quickest way to Chicago or Louisville or Indy. As a child there are few worse things than having to sit at the table and listen to adults discuss the merits of the 465 bypass vs. taking 74 straight through to 65. I couldn’t fathom how boring adulthood was going to be if this was all there was going to be to talk about. Farts, girl cooties and King Kong were much more interesting. With the exception of girls having cooties, I maintain they still are.

Elia and Andy

2006-04-07T20:55:00.000-05:00

I've always suspected Andy Griffith was far more gifted than his television show ever allowed him to let on. Sheriff Andy Taylor was nothing more than a straight man for the likes of Barney, Gomer and Floyd. But before being consumed by Mayberry, Griffith did a movie in 1957 called "A Face In the Crowd". In that film you will see what has to be one of the most fascinating and disturbing portrayals of an addict ever filmed. Griffith's character, Lonesome Rhodes (whose first name is Larry by the way) becomes addicted to fame, and ultimately the power that accompanies it. The support Griffith's performance gets from the likes of Patricia Neal and Walter Mathau doesn't hurt him either.

I watched "A Face . . . " a couple of nights ago. I'd say it's every bit as powerful as Network, Citizen Kane or the Manchurian Candidate. I'm not going to go into a detailed review, however, because 1.) Many others already have, 2.) I waited too long to sit down and write about it, so most of the initial gut impressions I had have faded some and 3.) I'm lazy. That said, I do recall thinking during several scenes, “This could be the greatest film I’ve ever seen.” The acting, writing, editing, cinematography--it was all woven together with near perfection. Excuse the gushing, but I think you get my point. I can't recommend it enough.

Besides wanting to see Andy Griffith play a dark character, the other reason I Netflixed the film was due to my recently acquired interest in Elia Kazan. Despite being one of the most gifted directors in the history of film, Kazan was, and is still, reviled by many (mostly nostalgic left wingers--i.e. Harvard sociology profs and aging hippies) for his role in the HUAC (House Un-American Activities Committee—i.e. McCarthy) hearings. By a stroke of luck, the behind-the-scenes documentary on the DVD goes into quite a bit of detail about that very topic. Based on what I learned there, the Cliff Notes version of Kazan’s story goes something like this.

He joined the Communist Party in the early 30's because he felt it was the best hope for real social justice. Somewhere about the late 30's, early 40's he began to hear about authors and artists in the Soviet Union being "liquidated" by Stalin. Here in the states, he and others began to come under attack by fellow communists for not marching in lock step to party ideology. He became disillusioned. While he always remained, in essence, a left-wing socialist at heart, he was deeply suspicious of the American Communist Party. When first called to testify before HUAC he pleaded the 5th. When he was called to testify a second time, he gave the names of 8 other communists.

Now, according to the documentary, lots of other directors and actors testified and gave names, but they managed to stay in the left's good graces. And every person Kazan named had already been fingered by previous witnesses. So how did he get on the receiving end of the kind of hard left hatred usually reserved for the likes of Karl Rove or Tom Delay? Apparently the day after he testified he took out a full page ad in the New York Times basically saying he was glad he testified and that it was every good American's duty to do so if they were called. According to one of the experts interviewed in the documentary, this was simply Kazan's attempt to prove to the rest of the country that you could be a member of the left and still be loyal to America. Obviously it backfired.

This hatred was passed down to the next generation of limousine leftists, most of whom were in diapers during the HUAC hearings, who dogmatically towed the party line. I remember the 1999 Oscar ceremony in which Kazan received a Lifetime Achievement award. Several of these next gen limo lefties, like Sarandon and Nolte, vowed to protest his award by refusing to stand and/or applaud when he received it. And they stayed true to their word. As I recall, when Kazan came on stage to receive his award the camera panned to them sitting legs and arms crossed tightly with petulant looks on their faces. As if their blind hatred and pointless grand standing in the shadow of a truly great filmmaker hadn't made them look small enough already, they actually had to pout on live TV.

But back to the movie . . . if you fancy yourself a lover of great films, you have to see A Face In the Crowd. I just wish I'd seen it before I made such a big deal about The World's Fastest Indian. I feel like a guy who just screamed to everyone, "Hey, check out that cool strip mall!" right before he sees the Grand Canyon.

See it . . . World's Fastest Indian

2006-04-02T14:03:00.000-05:00

This movie is mostly for those who love turning wrench, the smell of gasoline and oil and that peculiar sensation of speed only experienced on the back of a motorcycle. There's no real drama or deep message other than maybe, "Follow your dreams." It's basically about the allure of unbridled speed and the lengths some of us are willing to go to achieve it.

I'd never heard of Burt Munro before I saw a trailer for this film, so I have no idea what he was really like. By most standards his story should have merited nothing more than a made-for-TV movie or a segment in a "History of Motorcycle Racing" special on the Speed Channel. But, as usual, Anthony Hopkins infuses this character with so much humanity and life that you can't help but love the guy by the end of the movie. Actually, it is Sir Anthony's performance plus the exhilarating camera work that elevates it to big screen material.

Even if you're not a motorcycle freak, you'll probably find it plenty exciting. I know during many of the scenes where Munro is pushing his machine to its limits, Laurie was gripping my arm like a vice. Such was the power of the cinematography. You really feel like you're on the back of this oil-streaked, fire-breathing antique with him.

I'm just glad (and Laurie more so) that we didn't ride the Suzuki to the movie. I would've wanted to really wring it out on the way home.

Take That Larry

2006-03-26T15:41:00.000-06:00

Once again Chicago has dictated politics for the entire state. For those who’ve ever wondered why we need an electoral college, this is why. If it wasn’t for the electoral college, or more precisely the additional value it gives flyover country, we would have presidents elected almost exclusively by the metroplexes and for the metroplexes. Of course on the brighter side it would spare us the agony of having to listen to ivy league blue bloods, fresh from a week at Martha’s Vineyard with their mistress, opining about “Midwestern values” at a Waffle House in Topeka.

But back to Illinois—I don’t know who I’m going to vote for now. I’m seriously considering voting for Blogojevich. At least he cops to being a Democrat. Dame Judy is a rino (Rebublican In Name Only—what’d you think I meant?). Plus, in all honesty, I can't complain about the job Rodney’s been doing. Sure he’s been implicated in pay-to-play political shenanigans, but who hasn’t? And he hasn’t raised taxes and fees nearly as much as I thought he would. I was also impressed when he stood up to state employee unions and instituted much needed cost reductions. And even if he does end up jacking my taxes sky high, it won’t make me nearly as mad as if Judy did. That’s what democrats do and they don’t pretend they won’t, except on very rare occasions when they think their base isn’t listening.

Enough about politics. Let’s talk home improvements. Our place is really shaping up nice. I took a small foray into electrical work this morning and installed some halogen lamps under the kitchen cabinets. Now we have some much needed light on the counter tops as well as a little warmer ambiance. Laurie batted clean up by neatly concealing and securing the exposed wiring. It looks really good. Expect to be shown this masterpiece of amateur craftsmanship should you visit in the next week or so.

Take That Judy

2006-03-22T08:21:00.000-06:00

Think you know everything you need to know about civic duty? Marry a social studies teacher. After some gentle coaxing by Mrs. Stephens I went and voted in my first primary election yesterday. She would've joined me, but she hasn't been able to register yet. Afterwards I was really glad I did. Turns out in addition to choosing which candidate I wanted to run for my party, there was a ballot initiative on the back. If you think ballot initiatives don't matter, buy a house. In any case I was able to give my vote against Judy "vote for me because I'm a professional politician" Barr-Topinka.

While I was there I ran into my condo association's president. She was one of the polling place volunteers. She said quite a few of the folks from our association turned out to vote. This wasn't a huge surprise since many of them are retired and could have easily made the time do so. By the same token, I suppose this is why many of the polling place volunteers were old enough to be my grandparents. Honestly though, it took all of 5 minutes to complete the ballot so really anyone could make the time to do it. On the way out I asked for three of the "I Voted" stickers as a joke (you know, "vote early, vote often"). About half way to the car I decided no one south of Cook County would get it, so I tossed them.

I haven't checked the results yet this morning, so I don't know if my vote might've made a difference or not. At the very least I won't be one of those people moaning about the choices on the ballot come election time. Even if my guy didn't get the nomination, I was able in some small way to let the guy or gal that did know I wasn't impressed.

Picture Pages

2006-03-12T16:25:00.000-06:00

As promised (or threatened, depending on your point of view) links to the rest of the honeymoon travel pics.

The Stay in Portland

The Stay in Rangely

On the Way to Portland

On the Way Home

Return to Normalcy

2006-03-11T12:41:00.000-06:00

Our 15 minutes is finally over. Actually I think we managed to milk another 30 or so with the little lunch everyone threw for us upon our return. Thanks again guys. We're still reeling from everyone's genorosity and good will. It's certainly helped soften the blow of having to resume reality. Getting to curl up with my wife every night hasn't hurt either. If that last little sentiment was too sweet for you, just keep reading. The espresso's next.

As successful as I've been at avoiding political discussions on here of late, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bring the streak to a crashing halt due to a couple of statements I heard this week that have really stuck in my craw. The first, while stated in jest, still compels me to comment. "Who needs freedom of speech when you have free healthcare?" Later someone responded, with more sincerity, "I'd be happy with at least one of those right now." Now I'm not going to address the assertion that we have no freedom of speech in this country. I don't think it's debateable. We have it. No, we don't have freedom to speak without the possibility of consequences. Nor do we have the right to be heard--except maybe when Unlce Kasim calls from Yemen on the NSA party line. Could it be better? I wouldn't know. We've got it as good or better than it's ever been in the course of human history, so please spare me the hysterical parallels of the Bush administered U.S. with fascist regimes. Ironically the only people I ever hear talking about fascism and tyranny are those who are free to. Those who actually live under oppression can't. Well crap. I went and addressed it anyway.

But back to healthcare vs. speech--let's say, for argument's sake, that we only had our choice between free healthcare and free speech. Which would people choose? I know I'd choose free speech, but then I'm healthy save for a slight paunch that seems to be growing about my midsection. But there is ample evidence to suggest that thousands, possibly millions of people besides myself would rather have free speech than free healthcare. I'm betting 100% of Cubans who braved shark infested waters in row boats to escape to Florida prefer free speech to free healthcare. Likewise I'd bet good money that 100% of the people who were shot or captured trying to get over the Berlin Wall prefered free speech to free healthcare. And the list goes on; Soviet defectors, Chinese immigrants (actually China is switching to a more market based healthcare system now), and North Korean peasants. Unfortunately nearly all of that last group can't be reached for comment at the moment, so I don't know for sure. Of course if anecdotal evidence from some who have escaped Kim Jong Il's healthcare utopia is true, seeking medical treatment in North Korea could land you in an observation chamber at a nearby chemical weapons testing facility.

The other burr in my saddle comes courtesy of Judy Barr Topinka. For those who may not know, Ms. Topinka (IL's Republican State Treasurer) is seeking her party's nomination for governor. In response to the charge that she's too much of an insider to have the people's good at heart she replied, "Who would you rather have inside the governor's mansion? You wouldn't take your car to be fixed by a plumber? Why wouldn't you hire someone who knows the ropes of government?" Admittedly this is paraphrased but the gist was that she was qualified precisely because she was an insider.

First of all, I'm sick of hearing the mechanic analogy. I've heard more than one politician besides Ms. Topinka use it whenever term limits are brought up. But, what really bugs me is the notion that somehow a politician's primary job is to be in touch with the machiavellian world of political process than it is to be in touch with the process of life out here. No Judy, I don't want someone who's been assimilated into the political machine. I would very much prefer to have a governor or congressman that has spent the last 10 years or more of their life trying to make ends meet like me and who still has a memory of what it's like to be subject to the laws and regulations that insiders foist on the rest of us. I would very much prefer all congress people to be neophytes that haven't figured out how to "work" the system and still suffer from the naive notion that the poeple who elected them are their primary business. You see Judy, nearly all mechanics still drive cars, that's why I trust them. You haven't been a citizen for decades.

And that's all I have to say about that. I will be posting links to more pics from the trip very soon. I just need to do some doctorin' on them and they'll be ready. Stand by.

No Sleep Till Niagra

2006-03-02T22:36:00.000-06:00

Before I begin, a note of gratitude (which he will never see) goes to Trooper Haskins of the New York State Police. For "being a man about it" and owning up to the fact I was in fact speeding, he reduced the charge on my citation to that of "disobeying a traffic sign" vs. an actual speeding ticket. His generosity is most appreciated. Of course I haven't seen what the fine for disobeying a traffic sign in NY is, so my gratitude may be premature. Still, Tropper Haskins seemed genuine so I'm going to trust he truly has cut me some slack.

We drove our asses off today. We left Rangeley, ME at 9 a.m. and just pulled into Niagra Falls, NY about 1 hour ago--10:30 p.m. Let me just say that going out Maine's backdoor, while affording us vistas of staggering beauty, was a royal pain in the ass. Especially if you're trying to get somewhere fast. Really, there is no way to get anywhere fast if you're coming down from the mountains of Maine headed west. There are few if any interstates running east to west until you descend into upstate New York.

We threaded our way through the Rangeley Lake region of Maine, across the White Mountains of New Hampshire, down the border of N.H. and Vermont on US 91 and across the extreme southern portion of syrup country into Albany, NY. And that was just to get to I-90. That alone took us until about 3:30 p.m. As I said, the drive was through the most amazing country I've seen this side of the Rockies, but it was at a speed that seemed covered wagon-esque.

The conditions of the roads along this route limit speeds to 40 or 45. And this has nothing to do with weather. The asphalt is buckled from the temperature extremes yielding a ride not unlike that of what I imagine a covered wagon might have felt like. Even with the stunning scenery the ride got really old after about three or four hours. I never thought I'd be so happy to see an interstate in my life.

New Hampshire was by far the worst. Considering they have no sales tax (or income tax?) it's little wonder why. As conservative as I'm often accused of being, I still believe in tapping the public for at least enough money to keep the roads from jarring your teeth out. Of course, N.H.'s motto is "Live Free or Die". It should be "Live Free or Die From Bleeding To Death After You've Bitten Your Tounge Off Driving to Grandma's."

Vermont, as evidenced by the comparitively smooth ride we enjoyed, does have some sort of public levy to care for the roads. And the state is every bit as quaint as the Newhart Show implied. We stopped at The Royal Diner in Brattleboro, VT for lunch. This culinary shangri la in the middle of maple land had an eclectic menu that included a garlic cheese black angus burger, homemade baked ziti, whole belly fried clams, lasagna and a wide variety of shakes, sundaes and malts crafted with ice cream made on site. I've never had a harder time deciding what to order.

Another reason our trip took a little longer than it might have was due to the detour we took to visit Oswego, NY--my birthplace. Mom had me there while dad was on a S.A.C. base in Thailand. She was staying with her parents at the time. Later she and I moved to Illinois when I was about 6 mos. old to stay with dad's folks until he got back, so I have no recollection of Oswego. Unfortunately it was dark by the time Laurie and I pulled into town and we were both wiped. All we had time to for was a quick recon of the spot where I entered the world--the aptly named Oswego Hospital. I really wish I could've seen the city in the daytime. Oswego sits on the southern shore of Lake Ontario and boasts a fairly good sized commercial port. It has to be beautiful. But since we needed to get to Niagra, we couldn't stick around. I have every intention of flying back soon and exploring it more thoroughly.

Sack time. We've got 10 more hours on the road to go. At least to get to Dyer, IN and the inlaws. We probably won't get home until Sunday. As wonderful as these two weeks have been, I can say without reservation, I can't wait.

Wedding Pics

2006-02-24T08:03:00.000-06:00

You may or may not have found your way to these from the link in my previous post, but just in case here's the direct route.

Today we head into Portland, ME for a couple of nights. Portland is practically home away from home for me and I'm excited to show Mrs. Stephens around.We'll be staying at the Eastland Park Hotel which has a rooftop bar with a commanding 360-degree view of the city, Casco Bay and the islands. Portland also happens to be the hometown of Bob and Liz. They're the ones who gave us the 4-days in their timeshare cabin up in Rangely. We'll probably hang with them some when we're not exploring the Old Port or Back Bay.

In other news I've been having trouble remembering what day of the week it is. This has been a great vacation.

Bye, Bye Beantown

2006-02-23T19:35:00.000-06:00

The trek continues. Tonight we're in Wells, Maine doing laundry. Really it's nicer than it sounds. Laurie booked us in a nice little condo with a view of the salt marshes and the sea beyond. It was snowing huge flakes just a second ago. I imagine we'll have a nice little dusting when we wake up tomorrow.

Boston was great. We became intimately familiar with the T--Boston's subway/trolley system. Among the highpoints was a visit to the North End, a visit to the North Church and a great time out with Laurie's old pal, Mark. This was the guy who's going to MIT. He and his girlfriend took us out to a hole-in-the-wall mexican place that made a killer magarita. Afterward we got some hot drinks and he showed us around MIT's campus, which incidentally is amazing. We hope to go back sometime in the spring or summer and check it out again.

Other than that, I really don't feel like writing much more. I'll let this link to a flickr set fill in some of the blanks.

What a Difference a Day Makes

2006-02-21T07:25:00.000-06:00

One morning you wake up CEO, the next morning you wake up VP of Operations. That was how my father succintly described the effect of marriage on guys. Truth is it's been more of a willing abdication instead of a violent coup. At least for me it has. It's been great.

Right now we're in Wilkes-Barre, PA. Laurie's getting ready so I thought I'd post quick while she finishes up. I know, what kind of geek blogs on his honeymoon? Welcome to the Newlywed Game 21st century style. Oh sure we're availing ourselves of the traditional honeymoon amusements (amusement, really), but because we're confessed nerds we have to check e-mail and blog now and then.

Since most of you that read Uncle Lar were at the wedding, I won't go into a huge recap about that. Besides, I'll have some pics up shortly and they'll tell the story better than I could. I will say that it was a far better day than I ever dreamed it would be. The sun was out, my friends were there, Frank was crooning and I had this best looking girl in the room sitting next to me . . . and I was taking her home afterward. Pretty cool.

Looks like Laurie's about ready to go. Today we drive to Boston. We're planning on making a stop in Whitinsville, Mass to check out her old stomping grounds. Tomorrow night one of her old teaching pals, who is now pursuing a doctorate at MIT, is taking us to dinner. I hope he likes to talk about crappy movies because I know nothing about marine biology.

More Gotham Tales

2006-02-11T01:34:00.000-06:00

I'm not going to make it a permanent link, but if you're interested in more stories about the city I love told from a steet-level perspective, may I suggest Mr. Beller's Neighborhood. There is also a printed compilation of city stories from this website that take place before 9/11 and after. In fact it's titled "Before and After: Stories from New York". I have a copy but will not lend it out, so don't ask. If you would like to support a bunch of starving writers and students earning minimum wage while pursuing their dreams in the Big Apple, then may I suggest you check the Strand. If you woud like to support Panno's Tupac habit, then you should pick up a copy for yourself from Amazon.

I submitted a slightly reworked version of Fool for the City: Part 2 to the 'Hood to see if it might get published on the website. We'll see.

BTW: Saw Firewall tonight. Despite the somewhat formulaic plot it's still pretty clever and has some excellent performances. And while Harrison Ford may be showing some of the side-effects of his longevity, I'm happy to report he's still got it.

Fool for the City, Part 3

2006-02-09T02:09:00.000-06:00

* About freakin’ time.

As were heading back into town after our airborne adventure the city seems even more alive to me now than before. The adrenaline is still flowing and my senses are on full alert. We are marching east on 44th. Destination Broadway and the Shubert Theatre. Bob seems to think it’s worth taking a chance in the cancellation line for tickets to Spamalot. As we get further from West Side Highway it starts to quiet down a little. This part of 44th is primarily brownstones so I’m not paying a whole lot of attention to my surroundings. We pass what I think is a church out of the corner of my eye, but Bob stops and says, “Didn’t you see that?” “See what?” He points behind me, “That’s the Actor’s Studio.”

I turn around and examine the building more closely. Sure enough, there’s the big “A” in a blue circle on the front. The gates in front are closed. It looks abandoned. There are no cars on the street in front, so I can only assume that James Lipton has the day off. As we near Broadway you can hear it.

About a block or two from the Shubert I can see the marquee. One of them anyway. Already there’s an enormous line of ticket holders waiting for the doors to open. We join the comparatively tiny knot of optimists in the cancellation line. Bob says Vlad is supposed to meet us here, so he’s going to look for him while I hold our place.

As I’m standing in line I observe the queue of ticket holders. It’s an eclectic mix of pie-eyed tourists and locals. A couple, who I assume to be locals, breaks out of the line of ticket holders and approaches the expectant crowd in the cancellation queue. “We’ve got a couple of spares for the balcony if anyone wants them.” A disjointed chorus of , “How much?” is the response. They want $50 a piece. Or maybe it’s more, I’m too far away to tell for sure.

It doesn’t matter, though. In a matter of seconds two people agree to buy them and step out of line to join the privileged masses. A couple of minutes later a lone scalper approaches us, obviously emboldened by the previous sale. Unfortunately for him a theatre district cop (yep they have cops just for the theatre district) appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and pulls him up short. His objections of “But, but they . . .” are met with a talk-to-the-hand gesture and a terse suggestion to move along.

I see Bob has located a very tired looking Vlad and is headed my way. It’s about this time a stage hand comes out to break the news that there are only two seats left in the entire house and neither is together. That’s all we need to hear. We leave the line and head for Broadway.

As we head south we pass a bakery that has piles of chocolate dipped croissants in the window. I begin to salivate. I haven’t had breakfast yet and the smell emanating from the doorway is positively captivating. It’s about this time Bob realizes he needs to go back to the Shubert to get a poster from the gift shop for one of his girls. I bravely volunteer to wait for him by the bakery. He disappears around the corner and I pass through the doorway of croissant heaven.

After ignoring me for a good two minutes or so, one of the guys behind the counter gives up pretending he can’t see me and asks what I want. I almost don’t need to point. He follows my hungry gaze to the blessed plethora of chocolate dipped pastry in the window. $2.50 later I’m back out on Broadway blissfully munching away. Tourists, necks craned skyward, pass by. Street hustlers (not that kind) pass out brochures for a wide variety of tourist attractions and guided tours. Cabs whoosh by. The sun is out and the sky is blue. It's a beautiful day in Gotham and I am at peace.

Not long after I finish the croissant, Bob and Vlad reappear and we grab a cab to head down to the Village. Destination—The White Horse Tavern. Founded in 1880 it is NYC’s 2nd oldest bar and the place where Dylan Thomas drank himself to death. The poet’s bloodshot visage adorns just about every wall. This was also one of the first places Bob took me on my first visit to the City. It looks very much as I imagine it did in 1880. Lots of oak paneling and a decorative tin ceiling. Bob ran into Giuliani here once. It was during Rudy’s run for the senate against the distinguished carpet bagger from Arkansas.

Rudy was strategizing with a rather fetching campaign manager. Or at least that’s what Bob thought at the time. Turns out he was really just lunching with his mistress. Bob was with his brother Joe, an avowed atheist/anarchist and certainly no fan of Rudy. When Joe got up to use the john, Bob happened to catch the mayor’s eye as he and his date got up to leave. The mayor smiled at him and said hi. Bob smiled back and said, “Kick her ass.” Bob said Rudy beamed and strode over to shake his hand. When his brother Joe returned from the loo and saw him hobnobbing with the evil arch-Republican, Bob said Joe adopted an icy indifference and pretended to not even notice Rudy. Bob said Rudy picked up on this immediately, thanked Bob for his support and left. I got this whole story via e-mail shortly after it happened. It ended with “Only in NY my cousin. Only in NY.”

No celebrities appear to be in attendance this day. We are seated at a table right in the middle of traffic. People bustle back and forth between the main bar and dining room and brush past my chair. It doesn’t bother me though. It’s a lazy spring-like day in the Village and the three of us are happy to just kick back with a beer and take it in. We each get a cheeseburger and fries. Afterwards we stroll west through the Village back toward the river.

At about 6 we make our way to Chumley’s. Buried deep in the West Village, Chumley’s was once a speakeasy during Prohibition. As such it has no sign marking either of its entrances. You simply walk down Bedford street among the brownstones and ancient apartments looking for a lone door with an air conditioning unit above it. There are no windows either.

Like the White Horse, Chumley’s is a time machine. It feels like a pre-WWII English pub. The smell from the wood burning fireplace mingled with that of beer only makes the illusion stronger. According to one online guide, this was one of Hemingway and Fitzgerald’s favorite haunts. It’s easy to imagine that it still is. Still full from lunch, we opt to have a couple of beers and rest our dogs. Bob’s had us walking like men possessed all day. The warmth of the fire and the fine ale are a welcome respite.

After Chumley’s Vlad takes his leave of us and departs for Queens. He’s been running on empty all day and I let him know how much I appreciate his steadfastness. It’ll probably be another 2 or 3 years before I see him again. I hope not, but reality bites.

Bob and I head back to the hotel and wait for Angel. We’re going to go throw darts again tonight. Angel arrives and we head to a place called Tempest that is supposed to have a pretty good dart board. As we near the place we can feel the ground thumping from the bass. A line of Abecrombie and Fitch disciples (the REALLY young ones) is waiting to get in. We opt to move along.

The next stop is a REAL bar somewhere in midtown. As we enter I’m immediately reminded of Esquire back home. It’s a little more crowded and narrow, but the same cool mix of people is here. And the jukebox is background music, not the main attraction. All the way in the back is the dartboard. As we negotiate our way through the crowd Angel spots an old dart throwing buddy. I gather his name is Jim or some such thing. Had there been more light I might have been able to verify his name on the numerous dart championship plaques that adorn the wall behind the bar.

This guy is good. As it turns out a bunch of guys Angel used to throw darts with are here and they’re all better than us. Oh well, it’s not whether you win or lose but how you play the game. Even so, Jim and company play to win. One of the guys is an Irish guy named Garrett. He’s about 6’ 3”, lanky and a fast talker. During a game with Garrett, Hannah, a girl that appears to be attached to one of Garrett’s fellow dart sharks, discovers I’m from Champaign. She’s from Crystal Lake. While waiting my turn, I chat with her and her boyfriend about all things Midwest. It’s not long though before Garrett’s Irish lilt is in my ear, “Hey country folk, ye can chat later. We’ve got darts to throw here.” These guys are serious.

While Angel and I don’t get totally skunked every game we’ve yet to win one. It isn’t until much later in the evening that we begin to hit them well and eventually take a game, much to my astonishment and that of our hosts. But it’s all in fun and there are no hard feelings. Before I know it it’s 2 a.m. and time to go. As we leave, we receive a hearty goodbye from our opponents and an invitation to come back and play anytime.

Weary, but in good spirits, we traipse back through an eerily deserted Times Square and part ways with Angel at 5th Ave. Bob and I grab a cab back down to 32nd and our hotel. We collapse in our beds as soon as we’re in the door. It has been a very, very full day.

Sunday morning comes and it’s time to go home. We have breakfast with Angel at a diner just up the street from his apartment building. After saying goodbye to him we decide to spend what little time we have left on a tram ride over to Roosevlet Island, followed by a visit to the recently remodeled Strand. One last coffee in a café overlooking Herald Square and it’s really time to go. Bob grabs a train back to Jersey and I a cab back to La Guardia.

At the airport I manage to finagle my way onto an earlier flight. This will allow me to get into Midway and down to Laurie’s folks’ place at a much more civil hour. As I sit at the gate waiting to board I can see the silhouette of Manhattan slowly melting into the darkness. I’ll be back. As sure as Gray’s makes the best hot dog on planet Earth, I will be back.

Fool for the City, Pt. 2

2006-01-29T16:20:00.000-06:00

My eyes open. A glance at the clock reveals it’s about 10:30 in the morning. Bob is already bustling around the room. He asks if I want a coffee and bagel from around the block. I hoarsely decline. With that he bounds out the door in disgustingly good humor. How he managed to avoid a hangover is beyond me. Of course evenings on the city like we had the night before are old hat to him. I’m still batting in the minors when it comes to living it up Gotham-style.

I gingerly peel myself from the mattress and sit on the edge of the bed waiting. Oddly enough the pounding headache never comes. Maybe it’s just waiting for me to stand up to pounce. Through the gap in the drapes I can see into the offices of the building across 32nd. Young Korean men and women are busily being busy at some kind of business. Then it dawns on me that if I can see them, they can no doubt see the unshaven, disheveled figure wearing nothing but boxers in the hotel across from them. I imagine I look like a relatively hairless sasquatch. None of them appear to take notice. If they have, I imagine they’re busily e-mailing each other, “Don’t stare, but there’s a hungover white guy in the window across the street. Park, do you still have that web cam pointed at the hotel?”

I slowly stand up and close the drapes. The headache never comes. Instead I feel like I’ve been shot by a tranq gun, like I’m walking through the bottom of a swimming pool. The 10 step journey to the bathroom is a forced march. I shave and get in the shower. I just stand there letting the hot water run over me. Slowly I can feel my joints loosen and my head start to clear. For 20 minutes I let the water and steam continue this healing work then I reluctantly get out and get dressed. Bob bounds back into the room, bagel and coffee in hand. I both loathe and envy his vigor.

“So, what do you want to do today?”, he asks. I suggest brunch at the White Horse, maybe a trip to the Strand and dinner at Chumbley’s. Other than that I didn’t have any major agenda items. “Well then let’s hit it,” he commands. And with that we hit the streets.

As we head towards 5th Ave. Bob asks if I need batteries for the camera. I do. I could use a Gatorade too. We round the corner and duck into a CVS. There is one on just about every corner in Manhattan. They probably own more NYC real estate than Trump. I get some super duper Lithium batteries and a Vitamin Water. The clever copy writing on the water’s label is what sells me. Go figure. I need to send an e-mail to Glaceau corporate and tell them, “Great copy!!!”. I still harbor fantasies that someday a similar dealer feedback will appear about E-flite or ParkZone. Did I mention I still believe in Santa Claus, too?

As we trek up 5th Bob is in full insane-New-Yorker-stride. Still suffering from a few lingering hangover effects I try to keep up but eventually give up and fall back to sip my beverage at a more leisurely pace. Bob stops occasionally to let me catch up a little then takes off again. I’m fatigued just watching him. As we near the main entrance to the Empire State Building, he stops and turns around with this kind of serious look on his face.

“You know I love you cous’, right?” Yeah, I know. “More than my brothers.” Yeah, I guess I knew that. “And since you and I share a lot of the same values, I knew the stripper-thing wouldn’t work for you. I really didn’t want that for my bachelor party either.” As slow as I am, I begin to realize this is a build up to something. And with Bob, something could literally be anything. I agree, the strippers wouldn’t have been a good idea for a number of reasons. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder and says, “That said, I still feel it's my duty as your cousin as well as the man in charge of your bachelor party festivities this weekend to make sure that you have as close to an orgasmic experience as possible while you’re here.” Rrrrriiight. I have no idea where this is headed, but my extensive history with Bob suggests something really out-of-the-ordinary is about to occur. “I’m going to introduce you to a woman that will change your life.” By now I’m speechless and Bob is grinning deviously. I feel like I’ve wandered into a trap.

Suddenly Bob halts and says, Larry meet Arianna. I am so focused on what Bob is saying I don’t even notice the person standing in front of us. Arianna is about 5’ 2” with brown hair, brown eyes and a welcoming smile. But it is what she is wearing that really gets my attention. It’s a yellow overcoat that says “Liberty Helicopter Tours, New York.” I look at Bob, “Are you serious?” Sure enough, my predictably unpredictable cousin is taking me on a helicopter tour of Manhattan. He laughs, “I figured buying you a lap dance would cost about as much and I knew you’d enjoy this a whole lot more.” Go Bob.

Arianna gets on her Nextel and pages our ride. About 10 minutes later a non-descript blue van appears to pick us up. It looks a little FBI and some of the people on the sidewalk stop to see who is getting in. Our driver is a 70-something year old Puerto Rican guy. He asks if this is my first time in New York. I explain I’ve been before and this is kind of a bachelor party of sorts. He admonishes us, “Whateva’ you do stay out of the subways. It’s not safe down there. Take a cab. It’s more expensive but at least you up here and not down there.” Having ridden the subways a lot, I wonder if my man has ridden them since 1980. That was the era of Bernie Goetz and movies like Escape from New York, The Warriors and Taxi Driver. They probably were dangerous then. But they aren’t now, unless you count panhandlers peddling $1 bootleg DVDs a menace.

The driver deposits us at the corner of 30th street and West Side Hwy. In front of us is the Hudson River and a heliport. We cross the highway and head for Liberty Helicopter’s terminal. As we cross the highway, one of Liberty’s EC120’s returns from a tour. It looks and sounds awesome. I can’t help but think of Blue Thunder. Inside the terminal we go through many of the same security procedures you would at an airport, including a few you don’t. For instance we have to leave our cell phones in a locker. We are also issued an inflatable life vest that goes around your waist like a fanny pack. In the unlikely event of a landing in the Hudson River, I will pull the top of the vest from the pouch, put it around my neck and inflate it. Drowning in the Hudson isn’t what worries me, though. Swallowing some of it does. I shudder at the thought of what a mouthful might taste like.

As I walk through the metal detector, the screener holds his palm up in anticipation of a high five, like Ive just completed astronaut training or something. I give him some skin and get in line with the rest of the passengers. The terminal waiting area is a metal building with an unusually low ceiling. Unusual that is until I see one of the helicopters land right outside the door. The low roof is clearly essential for rotor blade clearance should one of the helis stray to close on landing.

A crew member waits at the door and signals the six of us when it is time to head for the heli. As I step out onto the helipad the heli is still running, which is just a little intimidating. Visions of Vic Morrow pop into my head. The ground crew leads us to a painted line and signals for us to wait here while they unload the previous tour group. They have to signal because the whine of the turbine and sound of the rotors is deafening. Bob motions to one of our fellow tour group members to snap our pic in front of the heli. Little do we know a ground crew member will do the same thing right before we get on. We can buy a print after the flight if we want. I’m sure a free copy was sent to the FBI as well.

By now my senses are all at full alert. Between the smell of the jet fuel, the sound of the turbine and rotor blades, and the prospect of my first ever heli ride I am completely and totally amped. One of the ground crew points to the first two people in line and motions them forward. He guides them to a spot just in front of the heli. Another crew member takes their picture. This ritual is repeated until they finally get to Bob and I. My stomach is turning somersaults as the ground crew points at us and motions us toward the heli. The feeling is not unlike the one I had the first time my sophomore football coach motioned for me during a game. My instinct is to duck as we walk under the rotor blades, but there is still a good 6 feet or so between the top of my cranium and instant decapitation. Bob and I pose and smile. Our pic is taken and with expert efficiency we are loaded up and belted in.

Before closing us in they hand Bob and I headsets to wear, both to reduce the noise and allow us to hear the pilot. The pilot does a few last second systems checks and gives the ground crew a thumbs up. I turn on my video camera to record the takeoff. There is a slight increase in turbine RPM , the sound of the rotors taking a big bite of air and we leap off the helipad. As we clear the terminal roof, the pilot swings the nose around toward the Hudson and we depart the heli pad skimming low over the water.

As the helicopter gains forward airspeed the pilot starts a gentle climbing turn south down the Hudson. I’m sitting in a back seat right behind the pilot. The large fishbowl Plexiglas window allows me to look straight down at the brownish-green waters 1,400 feet below. I glance up through the bubble canopy at the blades whirring overhead. It’s right about now that it occurs to me the only thing keeping us aloft is thousands of moving parts, many of which were probably purchased from the lowest bidder, continuing to work together flawlessly. I glance over at Bob who has his camera in my face and records the somewhat pensive look this thought produces.

Off to my left the island of Manhattan slides by like a gigantic cruise ship. The view is simply incredible. As we fly along down the river (post 9/11 there are no more tours over the island) the pilot points out Ground Zero and Battery Park. As I look ahead out the front of the canopy I notice everything is vibrating. The canopy, the instrument panel, my fellow passengers—it’s all vibrating. “C’mon thousands of parts, don’t fail us now.” This anxiety is forgotten, however, when I see the Statue of Liberty getting larger in the front windscreen. Our pilot swings around the front the statue then reverses course and swings around the front again headed the other way so the folks on my side of the heli could get a clear shot of Lady Liberty and Ellis Island. All I can think is, “What a country. What an amazing country.”

As we cruise back up the Hudson it’s my turn to stare at New Jersey. This is actually cooler than it sounds because Bob used to live in Hoboken and we are busily searching out landmarks from previous adventures. We pass over the ferry terminal we used to take into the city and spot the block where he used to live. The pilot takes us as far as the top of Central Park then heads back for the heli pad. Once again I’ve got Manhattan on my side. As we approach the helipad it looks like a postage stamp. I fire up the video camera to record the landing . . . or provide exciting footage for the 6 o’clock news. I’m hoping for the former.

We touch down and seconds later the ground crew has the doors open and is unbuckling us from our seats. I spot the next six tourists anxiously waiting behind the painted line. I remove my inflatable fanny pack and hand it over, casting one last look over my shoulder at our ride. As it sits idling with heat shimmer coming from the turbine exhaust it looks awesome but I think I'll stick with the fixed wing crowd. If they ever make a helicopter that sprouts wings when the engine quits, instead of plummeting like a runaway elevator, I might give it a go.

Inside, the same screener that enthusiastically congratulated me for making it through the metal detector successfully is waiting to give me another high-five. Like every other first flight in my life the thrill of this one doesn’t fully hit me until I’m on the ground. When you’re in the middle of it, you’re mind is too engaged to fully step back and take it all in. You can’t wipe the grin off my face. Lap dance, shmapdance. Does my cousin know me or what? I go ahead and purchase the print even though we took a picture ourselves. I also pick up a couple of copies of the “Liberty Helicopters: An Aerial View of New York City” DVD.

As we walk back into the city I call Laurie and relate what just happened with all the restraint of a breathless 7-year old who has just seen his first shooting star. I can hear her giggling as I gush. She’s just as thrilled by my enthusiasm as I was by the flight. It’s so cool to be in love with a girl that gets you. While I’m talking to Laurie, Bob calls Vlad and tells him to meet us by the Shubert. We’re going to see if we can get tickets to Spamalot in the cancellation line.

One adventure down, who knows how many more to go.

To be continued . . .

Fool for the City, Pt. 1

2006-01-24T21:31:00.000-06:00

“Thirty second and fifth.” Shere turns his haggard face over his shoulder towards me and responds, “T’irty two and fife?” “Yeah.” He starts the meter, drops the cab in gear and blasts away from the terminal. So begins another adventure in The City. Trying to disguise my tourist status I decide to ask a question that I think only a local would ask, “So what looks good today? The bridge or tunnel?” Shere’s in his shirt sleeves with the window down. It’s 61 degrees in January. He glances in the rearview mirror. “Da’ bridge is nuts. Da’ tunnel’s shorta’. Besides, wit’ da’ tunnel it’s just ‘zip, bam’ you’re in midtown.” I nod knowingly, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

I have my window down taking in the June-like breeze. We’re alternately hurtling and screeching to a halt down 495 toward the midtown tunnel. To my right, the Bronx. Off in the distance to my left Queens or Brooklyn. I’m not exactly sure. But straight ahead, straight ahead is the unmistakable skyline of midtown Manhattan. My mind drifts back to the last time I was here. It was just about as warm, only it really was June not January. I was meeting Bob and the boys for a weekend of Yankees vs. Red Sox, Terra Blues and whatever else Gotham threw our way. The purpose of this visit was twofold: satisfy the NYC jones that both of us have and to celebrate a new chapter in my life.

As we emerge from the tunnel into the city my eyes immediately shoot up. I can’t help it. My tourist origins are betrayed. I check the rear view to see if Shere’s made me or not. He’s too busy honking at pedestrians and diving in front of MTA buses and other traffic to care. As we come up 33rd, we find our progress stymied by a barricade on 6th. Shere advises I hop out here and walk the rest of the way—about 2 to 3 blocks—as the detour will cost me. I pay him and hop out into the street.

It’s probably about 3 or 3:30 in the afternoon and the sun is low and lighting up the buildings to the east. I head south down 6th and hang a right at 32nd. With my shoulder bag, leather jacket and jeans I fit right in. I keep my head down fighting the urge to stare at the stunning glow reflecting off the buildings as the sun sets. I cross 5th realizing from the signs around me that I must be in Korea Town or something. I’m staying at the La Quinta. Eventually I spot the sign and am in the hotel.

Now, Bob had sent me pics of the hotel the week before. Among them was a rather enticing image of the rooftop bar. Considering the apocalyptically warm temperatures, I am sure the outdoor patio will be open. I skip the front desk and head straight for the elevator. The buttons only go up to 14. That must be the roof. I get to the 14th floor, the doors open and my intuition is rewarded by a sign that says “Rooftop Bar” and an arrow pointing right. Anticipating that first sip of a Ketel and tonic while enjoying a commanding view of the city I round the corner with the excitement of little Ralphie going for his BB gun, only to be greeted by a chalk board sign blocking my path with this disheartening news, “Rooftop bar closed. Do not open door. Alarm will sound.”

Choking back tears, I call Bob to see where he’s at. He said to meet at the bar. Turns out he’s downstairs in the lobby waiting for me. Has been the whole time. How we missed each other I have no idea. I get to the lobby and spot him in line at the check-in counter. We hug, giant grins on both our faces. We’re back baby!

As we check in Bob asks about the bar. The concierge assures us it will be open, but not till 5. We drop off our bags in the room, contact the rest of the NYC contingent that will be joining us and wait for the bar to open. At about 5 til, the owner spots us loitering in the hall and says come on in. We both head straight for the patio. As we head out the sliding door Bob’s ahead of me and turns around before I do. He’s eyes widen, “Don’t turn around yet! Keep coming, keep coming.” He directs me all the way to the other end of the patio. “OK, turn around.” Piercing the sky less than ½ a block in front of me is the Empire State Building. Even on the roof of this 14 story hotel I feel like I’m at ground level. The spotlights at the top are blazing, giving the top of the building a torch like effect. I look for a giant gorilla peering over the edge at me. No such luck.

Five minutes later Vlad joins us on the patio. We play catch up and then sit down to enjoy the view. Angel and Rob join us a short time later. After a couple of rounds we reluctantly leave our perch and head back to street level. We’ve got reservations at Da Andrea. A little ristorante in the Village that Angel and his wife Tracy discovered. Two bottles of Dolcetto and a pile of fantastic food later we waddle out to the street and start strategizing the evening’s battle plan.

It is decided we will head to the meat packing district and check out Hogs and Heifers. The four of us wedge into a cab and are off. We get dropped off a few blocks shy of our intended destination. Turns out it’s been a while since the boys have been in this part of town and things have changed. What was once a reassuringly scary part of NYC has become the equivalent of Rush Street in Chicago. Old landmarks no longer look like they once did to those of our party that frequented this area as yoots. A reorientation hike ensues. Eventually we find the place. This is the bar where they filmed Coyote Ugly. There really is a Coyote Ugly in Manhattan but for some reason the producers chose this bar to film it in. Maybe back then it was scary enough to keep the tourists away and they could film in peace. Who knows. Having been to Coyote Ugly myself (the place not the movie) I see few differences.

The abrasive-but-cute barmaids wear boots, tight jeans, cowboy hats and halter tops. The juke box is blaring Hank Williams Jr., Johnny Cash, Johnny Paycheck and any other honkytonk Johnny you can think of. Soon we’re moving on to see what else the city has to offer. One establishment leads to another and eventually we wind up at the Bleecker St. Bar. It’s got dart boards, pool tables and a tap with plenty to choose from. Angel, a deadly dart player, announces we will set up camp here.

We play darts till about 2:30 or 3 in the morning then head back to the hotel after seeing Angel off to his midtown apartment and indulgent wife. Vlad parts ways with us at his Queens bound subway stop. Rob was lost to us earlier in the evening, but he came all the way from Jersey and needed to stay on the train schedule. Bob and I aren’t quite ready to turn in yet, though. We both crave pizza. Not far from the hotel we find it at a stainless steel, all night pizzeria. We each get a couple of slices and sit down to recap the evening.

Since I’m facing the window I can see people walking by outside. It looks like some kind of party up the street is breaking up. What look to be 19 or 20 year old couples walk by the window and glance in at the two 30-somethings wolfing down pizza at almost 4 in the morning. A couple of girls walk by the window giggling. One of them blows me a kiss, giggles and keeps on walking. I’m feeling both flattered and p’wned at the same time.

Finally we get back to the room. Bob suggests we cap off the evening with a sojourn on the ledge outside our 3rd floor window. Actually it was more like a small balcony with a big flagpole attached to it, but the signs on the window made it clear that the La Quinta management took a dim view of anyone using it as a balcony. Duly warned, Bob and I elect to take our chances anyway and crawl out onto our new private terrace. I notice Old Glory is still wound up on the flag pole like it was when we got in the room. Filled with purpose, pilsner and patriotism I set to untangling the colors so they could fly freely.

After about 30 minutes of sitting in relative silence absorbing the sights and sounds of New York before dawn, Bob and I wedge ourselves back into the room and hit the sack. Sure, I’m not as wild and crazy as I was when I first came to The City but it still brings out a part of me that only it can. My head hits the pillow and I close my eyes with a vision of the Empire State Building blazing into the night sky.

To be continued . . .

Walked It

2006-01-14T12:21:00.000-06:00

Saw Walk the Line last night. Going in I had some serious reservations as to whether Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Whiterspoon could pull off their roles. I’ll confess most of this has to do with the fact both seemed too pretty to play the people they portray. I blame this preconception on the other musician biopic Ray. Jaime Foxx simply disappeared into Ray. But my fears proved unfounded. If anything their performances were even more of a feat, because they don’t look much like their characters, yet I had little trouble believing for a couple of hours that they really were Johnny and June.

As a Johnny Cash fan I was delighted at how much music was in the movie. Forgive the comparison again, but where Ray seemed to spend more time on tour buses and in bedrooms, Walk the Line seems to remember why you bought the movie ticket in the first place—the man’s music. And this is where Phoenix gets more kudos. From what I’ve read he did all the singing. He nailed just about every nuance right down to that little tremolo Cash had.

Like most good biopics, the filmmaker chose a recurring thread in Johnny’s life and stuck to it. In this case the thread is June. The way their lives were woven together was not pretty or perfect, but I think because of that it is one of the best love stories I’ve ever seen. Beyond the love story there are other themes. I think any guy will empathize with the struggles Cash apparently had with his father—any male that says he doesn’t have at least one or two “daddy issues” is a liar or a clone. There is also a strong message of redemption. Call me a sap, but dark stories without at least a hint of redemption are worthless to me. Nothing more than emotional or psychological snuff films.

If you haven’t seen it, do so, especially if you’re a fan of the Man’s music. Oh, and all you single guys (essentially Chicken), this is a great first date movie. You have the Uncle Lar guarantee.

*Uncle Lar guarantee good only in ANWR and the Marshall Islands. For guarantee details go to www.uronyourown.com.

Post P.S.: I almost forgot—Robert “Have You Seen This Boy?” Patrick plays Johnny’s dad and gives probably the best supporting performance in the film.

Deep Hurting

2006-01-12T09:38:00.000-06:00

Last night I saw Rollerblade--quite possibly the most painful movie I've ever seen. Granted it was a crappy movie night, but even by crappy movie standards it was horrid. The effect it had on me was akin to a dull hangover headache or a bout of nausea. In fact, when I would get the stomach flu as a child, while in the grips of the fever and nausea I would often have nightmares and dreams that were just like Rollerblade. I can't even begin to describe it's crapitude. I'm sure Marty would do a better job anyway, so I direct you to Marty's Marquee. I'm going to need to watch Big Lebowski tonight to cleanse my cinematic palette.

A Litte Story About Frank and Al

2006-01-08T20:25:00.000-06:00

Belated happy new year to you all. Laurie and I had a good time out west despite the rain. We rang in 2006 in style aboard the Queen Mary. My mom's cousin, who currently is the world's foremost collector of rare Marilyn Monroe images and artifacts, was having a show onboard and managed to wrangle us some tickets for the New Year's Eve party. That's the Marilyn impersonator that was hired for the show posing with Laurie and I. She was good. She stayed in character the entire time we talked with her. Kinda strange, but cool none the less.

The real reason we trekked to California, however, was to introduce Laurie to my Grandpa Al and Grandma Joyce. Grandpa's not in terrific health and will be unable to travel out here for the wedding, so we took the opportunity of Laurie's Christmas break to visit. While we were there, I asked Grandpa to tell Laurie one of his Sinatra stories. That's right, my grandad knew the Chairman. Back in the early to mid '60's Al had an upholstery business that catered to private aircraft owners. And since he lived in southern California, many of his customers happened to be celebrities. I guess he worked on Walt Disney's plane once as well, but I can't recall if he met the man or not.

Frank was his favorite though. Grandpa told us a story of when he and his brother Bud had traveled to Vegas to work on Frank's Lear. One day, right about lunch, Grandpa said this chauffer-driven black Lincoln rolled up to the plane and out hopped Frank. He asked how everything was going and wanted to know what Al and Bud were doing after work. Grandpa told him they were just going to head back to the motel, shower, eat some fudge and hit the road back to L.A. Apparently Grandpa was good friends with the motel proprietor and his wife had just made some fudge that he wanted to share with Al and Bud before they left.

As Grandpa tells it, Frank got this kind of quizzical look on his face and asked if the fudge had been made with German chocolate. Grandpa said yes. Frank told them not to leave without him, he'd be back at 5. He hopped back in the Lincoln and off he went. Grandpa said, "Bud and I continued working, assuming there was no way Frank would really come back just for fudge. But sure enough, right at quitting time, in rolled the Lincoln and there was Frank." Grandpa said Frank dismissed his driver and hopped in the '51 Ford pickup that served as my grandfather's work truck.

Since there were three of them in the cab and only two seats, Grandpa said Frank sat on a tool box in between he and Bud as they rode to the motel. When they got to the motel they walked into the office which was also attached to owner's living quarters. After the owner recovered from the shock, he invited them all back to his living room, which incidentally, could be seen from the front desk. As they were sitting there eating fudge a guy walked in looking for a room. When he looked up and saw Frank sitting on the couch munching on fudge and chatting with the owner's wife, Grandpa said he yelled, "Honey get the camera! You're not gonna' believe this."Apparently Frank was extremely gracious and even invited the starstruck guest's little girl behind the counter to have some fudge with them.

When it was time to go, Frank asked Grandpa if he could drive the pickup back. So, Grandpa rode the tool box and Frank drove them all back to the Sands where he was staying. As they pulled into the Sands, Grandpa said you could tell the valets were less than impressed by the looks of the truck. "But when they saw who was behind the wheel," he said, "their eyes got big as saucers. It totally messed with their heads to see Sinatra pulling up in a beat up pickup." As Frank got out Grandpa said he tossed a tip to the valet and said, "Take care. I don't want a scratch on it."

I guess this is but one of several Frank encounters my grandfather had over the course of their business relationship. If I ever get him to recount any more, you can bet I'll post them.

Iraq Confidential-Not Exciting Enough for Prime Time

2005-12-27T22:00:00.000-06:00

I have a real problem with 24-hour news networks for many reasons, the vast majority of which have nothing to do with their alleged politics and everything to do with the quality of the information you receive. Now you’d think that one of the benefits these networks offer is that because they are solely dedicated to news gathering, they’d be able to spend more time on stories and provide more in-depth analysis. Instead what we get is the exact opposite: a repetitious barrage of soundbites and glossed-over analysis so they can move on to the most recent piece of dramatic video footage.

A case in point would be the extremely simplistic view of the Shiite majority in Iraq given by the CNNFOXMSNBCABCCBS monolith. According to all the network analysis I’ve seen thus far, the Shiite clerics in Iraq are often portrayed as being no different in philosophy from the Shiites in Iran. A lot of this has to do with the media’s fascination with firebrand/publicity hound Muqtada Al Sadr who is an Iranian-style Shiite and the face the media often shows as representative of most Shiites. Al Sadr, however, does not speak for all Shiites. And if this 2003 Wall Street Journal article entitled Shiite Schism by Amir Taheri is correct, he never has. I’ve cited this article here before, but I’m citing it again because it needs to be considered when viewing the events surrounding the recent elections. It’s a great overview of the recent history of Shiites in Iraq and provides more than a little insight as to why a genuinely democratic Iraq is indeed possible. It also sheds light on the deeper reasons Iran has for subverting it.

One of the events which the Katrina/Wiretap/DeathToll obsessed media didn’t have the time to tell you today involves a twist in the ongoing investigation into the assassination of Shiite cleric Abdul Majid al-Kohei. If you’re wondering why you’ve never heard of Al Kohei before, the article I cited earlier will only make you wonder even more. In the eyes of Iraqi Shiites he, and primarily his father, were of greater significance than Al Sadr has ever been. But because Al Kohei was by and large a peaceful man who was supportive of American intervention he was probably not controversial or violent enough a subject in the mainstream media’s eyes to hold your attention.

Without digressing further, a story appeared on the Asharq Alawsat web site today (here) giving insight into the disappearance of a file crucial to the Al Kohei murder investigation. This file contained a sizeable amount of evidence that Al Sadr was responsible for the killing of Al Kohei. Also missing with the file were the arrest warrants for Al Sadr and those implicated in helping him. Further thickening the plot is who might have been responsible for the file’s disappearance—none other than current prime minister, Ibrahim al-Jaafa. National Accord Chairman Ahmad Chilabi is also implicated in the piece. It is alleged this was done in exchange for Al Sadr’s promise that he would not cause anymore trouble. Apparently Al Sadr got a bulletproof Mercedes out of the deal, too. Which begs the question, why would he need one if he didn’t plan on causing more trouble? But I’m digressing again.

The point I’m trying to make is when the news tells you there are only three socio-religious-political factions in Iraq and all their constituents march in lockstep, you’re only getting a tenth of the story as usual. Many more Shiites than has been reported want a democratic Iraq that DOES NOT mirror the Iranian style of government. Because, as Shiite Schism and the philosophy of the murdered Al Kohei will attest, for many Shiites Islam’s job is to change hearts first then society. Not the other way around as it is in Iran.

Where'd it go?

2005-12-27T08:35:00.000-06:00

If you've ever wondered where that sizeable portion missing from your paycheck went, the Census Bureau offers a handy site that lets you see. It breaks federal spending down by fiscal year, gov't programs and even by how much goes to each state. I'm including the link here, but will also make it a permanent link in the side bar. The site takes a little patience to figure out, but once you do it makes from some pretty interesting surfing. Thanks to Freeper xzins for digging it up.

Go Gert

2005-12-26T21:37:00.000-06:00

I just returned from celebrating Christmas with Laurie’s family. If I’m not mistaken, this was my first official large family function with her side and it went well. What I’m coming to love most about her family is just how comfortable everyone is with who they are. They live their lives out loud. And while they are acutely aware of one another’s warts, they are determined to stick together for the long haul—warts and all. Not that this kind of commitment-in-the-face-of-imperfection doesn’t exist in my family, it’s just nice to know that Laurie and I will be building on two very strong, very similar foundations.

While I was there I got to play cards with Gertrude—Laurie’s 91 year old grandmother. She is a live wire. She still drives herself around safely, loves to travel, frequently stays up past midnight and is a total card shark. We were playing Garbage; a game that requires you to come up with increasingly improbable combinations of cards in order to win. I think I managed to take one hand, but Gert invariably left the rest of us holding the bag. And she would always wink or act surprised whenever the cards went her way. As Laurie would say, “Go Gert.”

I think I remember one of the poker players at Horizon saying you should never play against old people because they’ll clean your clock. After this weekend I think I can safely say that little bit of advice applies to any card game or game of chance. Anyone who’s managed to live into their 90’s is obviously on better terms with chance than you are.