Shhhhhh. . .

"You're spending alot on tobacco these days. Are you feeling a little stressed out?" Most people have a bartender, shrink or psychic. I have a tobaccanist named Randy. Such was the question posed by Randy as I purchased a Padron 5000 today for lunch. My third Padron in about 2 weeks. Apparently my "All-is-Well" facade wasn't as convincing as I thought. Funny thing about facades, they only seem to fool the ones hiding behind them.

"Are you stressed out about the engagement?", he asked.If there is anything in this world I'm more at peace with, it's my engagement. I don't say this merely because I know Laurie is reading. I say it because it needs to be said. When you find someone that's as crazy about you as you are her AND that you know you can trust, excuse my french, but don't dick around gents--make it official. "No, it's more the cumulative effect of a lot of other stuff.", I replied.

The other stuff would partially consist of an unusually hectic work load but mostly of a sense of despair that this country will ever be able to develop a consensus about anything. For one thing consensus among ourselves would make pundits, politicians and the press less relevant. So they're never going to let that happen. They will make sure they do all they can to keep us at one another's throats. They'll keep us arguing.

Now don't get me wrong. I like a good argument. Ah, who am I kidding--I love a good argument. But argument is the last place anyone's mind will be changed about anything, very simply, because pride will not allow it to happen. It doesn't matter what facts you have to back your argument, intellectual pride makes it virtually impossible for anyone to admit they are wrong. The only times in my life that I have truly had a change in my point of view, or at the very least came to better understand another point of view, were in moments of quiet reflection.

But in a sound-bite nation of 24 hour news networks, Bill Maher, Rush Limbaugh, Al Franken and Bill O'Reilly quietly reflecting on anything is really hard to do. Or not. Quiet reflection is just a push of the "off" button away, I guess. I just need to do more of it. What little I've started doing seems to be helping.

Don't get me wrong. We should stay informed, but just as continuously eating without waiting for digestion would be bad for your body (not too mention messy), so I think continually taking in information without reflection is bad for the mind. At least I'm learning it's bad for mine.

CNNFOXNBCABCCBS: Purveyors of Panic

I know this is going to come as a huge shock, but the media blew yesterday's airline "disaster" out of all semblance of proportion. Lets start with the nature of the emergency. A landing gear malfunction. This malfunction effects only one phase of flight. It in no way prevents the plane from flying or even makes it unsafe to land. Does it result in damage to the aircraft? Of course, but the only way yesterday's network soap opera masquerading as news could've ended was exactly the way it did. As a non-event with a scraped up plane. Real pilots who fly big jets train for such eventualities to the point that when such eventualities occur they are routine. The only way it could've possibly placed the passengers in any danger was if, oh, I don't know, the dimwitted cabin crew left the in-flight TVs on so the passengers could watch the media speculate wildly about their impending doom and cause some of them to panic and/or have a heart attack.

As a pilot I nash my teeth everytime the media discusses anything aviation related. I can only imagine the same nails-on-a-chalkboard reaction is experienced by any other professional when the media attempts to "inform" the public on their area of expertise. Another brilliant case would be the recent expose by a prominent network, prime-time news show on the "risk" posed by general aviation. I can't recall what network or when because I'm too lazy to Google it right now. Sufficeth to say it found the bogeyman at just about every little airport it visited.

Never mind that none of the airplanes used in 9/11 was a GA plane from an "unsecured" airport. Never mind that most GA airplanes do not have the payload or capacity to carry enough explosives to blow your nose. And never mind that there are thousands of easier less costly methods to reek death and destruction than little airplanes. By the end of this show, you were convinced (if you were entirely devoid of the most basic logic skills and scared of shadows in your closet) that we were vulnerable to attack from thousands of jihadists in tiny single engine airplanes.

Of course the media is not entirely to blame. There have been some very high-profile screw ups from my winged brethren that have only added fuel to the fire. The most recent and famous case being the instructor and student that violated the DC no-fly zone on their way to an airshow. What the media failed to report was, that while one GA pilot screwed up, the other half a million that flew that day did not. Yes they caused a lot of havoc on the ground, but that was due more to government over reaction than any actual danger that a two seat, 100hp VW with wings posed to the nation's capitol. But since less than 1% of us fly, it's easy to spice up the 6 o'clock news with that hyperbole that seems so essential to any kind of public discourse these days.

I think I may take the occasional blog to explain facets of the ATC system or aircraft operation so the handful of you that read this can perhaps help dispel some of the fanciful notions that have been planted in your friends' heads. This subject also dovetails nicely with, what I believe is the greatest threat to our nation and civil society as a whole--lack of perspective. I believe many of the so-called controversies, political arguments and bad--no, make that terrible--policy making decisions are solely because no one has any point of view but their own anymore. Our children are not taught history (except at Illiana Christian School where they not only excel due to the professionalism of the instruction, but the tuffness of the instructor as well) and we, in the west anyway, have no objective morality.

But that's for later. Right now I have to go watch crap. I can think of no better way to ruminate on the decline of Western civilization.

30 Years of Shark Hunter

Today I'm coming to you from the field office in Dyer, IN. Last night Laurie and I celebrated Mike's (of Mike and Katie) 30th with some of his friends and a lot of his family. Yes, I have met Shark Hunter Sr. Katie, in typical fashion, organized a fantastic party with great food. She also set up some tables in the back yard/garden area complete with tiki torches. I'm sure she'd want me to make sure you all knew that she set up the tables by herself without any help from Mike. These and all her other efforts made for a great evening and Mike was ushered into his 30's in style.

The only real disappointment was the low turnout from the Champaign contingent. I understand everybody had stuff going on, but it was kind of a bummer that only Laurie and I were on hand to represent--south siiiieeeeed! If you haven't done so yet, get up there and see them (looking at you Mckee). I took numerous Cheeseburger blows to the arms and shoulders on your behalf. You owe me.

At any rate, be sure to watch Cheeseburger's condiments for any photos, many of which were taken by moi. I got roped into picture taking. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk into a room full of Shark Hunter's relatives and ask everyone to smile. They would, but initially they all had this, "And you would be . . . ?" expression on their faces.

Looks like it's time for soup, so that's it for now. Happy Birthday Mike. 30's just a number. From here on in you're only as young as you feel.

The Weekend that Almost Wasn't-Part Deux

First off, I just want to say Kool Mo P is a jag. Thank you.

I've decided that Part II of last weekend's travelog will be a pictorial. Besides, once the whole magilla that was described in part I was over, the weekend went pretty smoothly with a minimal amount of drama. And as anyone who's ever sat in a puddle of piss on the CTA will tell you, drama is essential to an interesting story.

Instead I bring you pretty pictures. Enjoy.



Getting ready to go. Mom called.



This cloud's sportin' a 'tude.


Level at 7,000, somewhere over Indiana.


Buzzing the Big Guy's Condo (on the right)



Over Lily Creek



Sunset cruise on Lake Cumberland


View of Lake Cumberland from the Lure Lodge patio.


LD and LV. Brt.


On short final to 14 left back in Champaign. Bummer.

The Weekend that Almost Wasn't--Part I

This is going to be a two part post, because I just got back and don't really feel like writing about the whole thing right now. I will explain the title, however.

I took 9'er-7 Charlie to Flightstar to have the little engine malady that sprung up on my trip down to Atlanta checked out. Turns out it was just a bum spark plug. The mechanic I talked to said they ran it up and everything worked fine after they put the new plug in. This was great news. I was going to get off with a very small repair bill and the plane would be good to go Friday night. I was starting to get excited about the weekend's prospects. Laurie and I decided to celebrate 97 Charlie's return to flight status with a trip down to Kentucky.

Everything seemed to be in our favor. The weather was shaping up to be fantastic and Laurie said she would hit town by 5, meaning we could conceivably be in Kentucky by 7:30 Friday night. After work Friday, I filed the flight plan, ran home and packed, Laurie showed up at 5 and we we're off to the airport. I was looking forward to a gorgeous twilight flight full of golden hues and smooth air.

I'd been out to the airport the night before to square up with Flightstar on the repair bill and fuel the plane up so all we'd have to do is load 'er up and fly. A little story detour here to give props to Matt the line guy at Flightstar. When I got into the hangar Thursday night I noticed the main latch chain was broke. This latch is located near the top of the hangar door and you need the chain to release it. With the chain broke and me unable to reach what little of it was left without a ladder (which I don't have), I had no way of opening the hangar. Matt, seeing my predicament, took it on himself to run back to the line shack, get a ladder and tie some new rope on for me. I tried to tip him, but he'd have nothing of it. Just happy to help I guess. Anyway, you'll never meet him, but next time you're out, raise a glass to Matt the line guy.

Back to our story--so, it's Friday, Laurie and I get to the hangar a little before 6. We load up the bags and beer, and I preflighted the plane. The beer, incidentally, was for the Big Guy who was stranded in a dry county down in Kentucky and called me Thursday night desperate for Rolling Rock Green Light. You could say we were on a humanitarian mission of sorts. After all, frosty mugs in the freezer and no beer in the fridge is one of life's crueler ironies.

To this point, we were running like a well oiled machine. Laurie has become very good at assisting me in loading the plane and helping me preflight, so we were belted in and ready to fly in about 15 minutes. My tail was waggin'. I got situated, arranged the charts, put on the headphones, primed the engine and reached for the master power switch, which to my horror was already on. The party bus came to a screeching halt. No, it went careening off the cliff. I could not believe it. The guys from Flightstar had forgot to turn off the master switch when they were done testing the plane Thursday. For you non-pilots out there, this is about as rookie a maneuver as they come. My battery was as dead as a door nail.

After a profanity-laced exclamation, Laurie and I got out of the plane and I called Flightstar. Saint Matt answered the call. We tried jumping it, and were able to get the engine started, but I had no electrical whatsoever. The alternator, which requires some battery power to start generating current, was doing nothing. I shut down the engine again, swore some more, then called Matt again. I explained the situation and he said he'd contact the on-call mechanic and see what they could do.

At this point I decided to scratch the flight. It was getting dark and the forecast down by mom and dad called for significantly reduced visibilities after dark. Even if it'd been forecast to be perfect, by now I was in no condition emotionally or psychologically to be operating an airplane. I don't think livid quite covers it. While I fumed and phoned mom and dad to break the bad news, Laurie, all too aware of how pissed I was, did what she could to ease my troubles by quietly unpacking the plane and putting everything back in the car. Man, I love her.

We drove back to the Flightstar offices where Matt was waiting for us. He had called the on-call mechanic who wanted to talk to me about the situation. I told him the situation was they had left my master switch on and that my battery was dead. I further "explained" that the alternator was dead and that I had no electrical even with the engine running. The mechanic said it was likely the battery had been completely depleted and that it didn't even have enough of a residual charge to power the alternator field. To his credit he offered to come in and check it out so we could still make it down to Kentucky that night. I told him I'd already decided to scratch the flight and that it'd by fine if he could look at it Saturday morning.

Laurie and I decided to head into town, get some dinner and then turn in. If they could sort out the battery problem Saturday morning before noon, we'd try to make it down to Kentucky again. About 9 or so Saturday morning I got a call from the mechanic saying he had "good news and bad news". "Give me the bad news," I sighed. He went on to say that my original battery was completely kaput. It wouldn't even take a charge. The good news was they had a spare that they could replace it with. What was conspicuously missing from the "good news" was that they would be picking up the tab for this little fiasco. There wasn't any admission of fault.

After waiting a few moments and realizing no mea culpa was forthcoming, I decided to get direct. "So, I'm not getting charged for this right?". Brief, but pregnant, silence then, "We'll make it right." Not really wishing to waste any more time to try and divine what "We'll make it right." meant I decided to get flying instead. Once again we loaded up and this time we really did fly.

I have a sick feeling that the mechanics are going to deny they left the master on. In which case they're going to not only get me for the spark plug repair, but a battery installation, too. I've been going round and round about how I'm going to fight this if they do. Or, if I'll even fight it. It won't be the first time a pilot was financially raped by an FBO. Maybe I'll just grab my ankles and join the ranks of silent victims.

Still, if they deny negligence on their part, I might just tell them, "Well, since I didn't leave the master on and you didn't leave the master on, I suggest you find out who did and send them the bill." Like Castanza rehearsing his comebacks, I've played this conversation out in my head more than once this weekend. We'll see.

The next post will be more sweetness and light--and maybe a picture or two. We did have a good time, once we got through the airplane travails. Later . . .

She's Bloggin'

My lady now has a blog. Guess which link is hers.

Up, Down, Turn Around

It's been a while since my last post. Actually, it's been a while since my last successful post. A few days ago I tried to post a letter from my friend, Christy, who just finished 2 years in the Peace Corps. For some reason when I cut and paste her e-mail contents into the template it was causing wierd things to happen to the right hand navigation. I'll try again soon, when I come up with an alternative method that won't mess up the template and doesn't require any HTML on my part. I feel like the sorcerer's apprentice when I attempt to use HTML. I know just enough of the "spells" to be dangerous.

Some of you may be wondering why I'm still here. For those who aren't, I was called by Life Line Pilots to see if I would go down to Atlanta and fly food and med supplies into Mississippi. And I would have, but circumstances dictated otherwise.

The whole thing started when I received a call Saturday night from Karen, Life Line's Coordinator. At that time they thought they might need me to go down to Atlanta to fly doctors to Lousiana. She didn't have all the details yet, but said she'd call me Sunday with more info if I was interested. As Laurie will attest this disaster has really gotten under my skin for several reasons, all of which I might relate in another post. Let me just say, for now, I think everyone's energies would be best directed at seeing the rescue phase through instead of trying to score political points. When it's all over let the finger pointing ensue. Fry whoever you want. Impeach Bush for all I care. Just wait till it's over for crap's sake.

The other thing that's been weighing heavily on my mind was the fact I am one of a handful (less than 1% last I heard) of Americans that owns a plane. It's hard not to feel more than a little obligated to step forward and help out even if you're not asked. But not having ever participated in something of this magnitude before, I was a little anxious. As Laurie will tell you, I'm a pretty cautious pilot. I like to have everything planned out in advance. I like to have as many variables defined as possible. I like to be able to make a plan and stick to it. This is how most regular Life Line flights are. About all are scheduled weeks in advance and you get complete information on your destination, passengers, cargo, etc. so you can plan ahead. Rescue and relief operations are nothing like this. You have to be open to changing your plan at the drop of a hat and coming up with a new one on the spot. Even if the "spot" is at 5,000 feet halfway to the place you thought you were going and you've already burned half your fuel.

On the mission I accepted, I didn't get the call until yesterday at 4 p.m. All I was told was that I needed to be in Atlanta at 11 this morning to assist Angel Flight of Georgia in the delivery of food and supplies to Mississippi. She couldn't tell me where exactly in Mississippi I'd be going but that Angel Flight coordinators would brief me when I arrived in Atlanta. She couldn't tell me how long they would need me, either. I was told I could return home when I had to, but what if that was after only one flight? Would one tiny Archer load of supplies even make a difference? Should I leave this kind of work to more experienced pilots? Can I afford to miss work right now? All these things were swirling in my head (and stomach). The only thing I knew for sure was, that if I didn't go, it would eat me up inside. I won't lie, there was a baser part of me that saw this as an adventure. But what would've bugged me most if I hadn't gone would've been knowing I had been blessed with a unique ability to do something about this and did nothing. So, Laurie packed my duffle, I filed a flight plan, we prayed together and then I headed to the airport.

Since I didn't get the call until 4 I wasn't airborne until about 7, meaning I had to spend some time over hilly terrain . . . at night . . . . with one engine. Don't get me wrong, I love night flying, but doing so over unfamiliar, inhospitable terrain does tend to attenuate the hearing to every single piston stroke of the engine. The slightest vibration or change in tenor, real or imagined, is enough to get the adrenal gland going. I forced myself to relax a little by engaging the autopilot and reclining the seat a little. The stars were amazing, but looking down at the glittering cities I felt like I was on the moon. Without company, long night flights can can make you feel rather lonesome.

I decided to stop in Chatanooga, TN because I'd flown in there before and it was only about 3 hours from Champaign--my comfort limit for long flights. After refueling I toyed around with the idea of continuing on to Atlanta, just about 45 minutes further south. But considering how hilly the surrounding terrain was, how dark it was and how tired I suddenly felt I decided to check into a motel for the night. I figured it'd be better to leave early this morning and fly into Atlanta with the benefit of illuminated terrain and a little rest.

The folk's at TAC Air (where I parked) were kind enough to shuttle me to the hotel and then back again early this morning. The driver that picked me up this morning told me they had two jet loads of hurricane refugees arrive yesterday. It took a second to process. Hearing fellow Americans referred to as refugees takes some getting used to.

After a quick pre-flight I fired up the plane and called for clearance. I rolled to the hold short line of the active runway and commenced the engine run-up. The "run-up" is when I check the magnetos that fire the spark plugs. Each cylinder of the engine has two spark plugs--each fired by a different magneto. This is to provide redundancy, but also to improve combustion and power production. You check these before take off to make sure each is working properly by isolating them while you run the engine up.

When I checked the right magneto the engine started sputtering. I swithced back to both mags and it ran smooth. Checked the left maganeto again--smooth. Tried the right magneto again--rough. Now what? I called ground and told them I had to go back and park while I sorted it out. Alot of times this kind of problem clears itself up. A "rough" mag is often just the result of some carbon build up on the spark plugs and you can usually burn it off in flight. And since the engine was running smoothly on both maybe that's all it was.

But if it wasn't I'd have to get it checked out in Atlanta and I'd be as useless there as I would be back home. The mission was supposed to launch at 11 and it was already 9. By the time I landed in Atlanta, found a mechanic on Labor Day, and got the plane in the shop, they'd be long gone before I could get it checked out. I decided to come home, get it checked out here this week and see if I could volunteer for a future mission. From what I've seen on TV there's going to be no shortage of opporunities.

For those of you who were thinking of me and/or praying for me while all this was going on , thank you. When I give it another go, I'll let you know.

Thank You Armando

La Scarola was one of the first dates Laurie and I had in Chicago. It's got a great vibe and the food is outstanding. Apparently a lot of celebs think so too, as evidenced by the hundreds of photos that adorn the walls, most of which were taken in the restaraunt. Part of its charm is the location--off the beaten path on Grand Ave., near Halstead, in a fairly quiet West Loop neighborhood. Last February, when it came time for our first Valentine's dinner I could think of no better place to celebrate, so I made reservations. I thought of it as "our Italian restaurant" (A bottle o' red, a bottle o' white . . . ).

On the night of our big date, they gave us a nice semi-secluded table in the corner near a window. We enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine, some outstanding food, dessert and coffee. I felt like the evening was going perfectly. But while we were enjoying our coffee one of the bussers came by and asked us in very broken English if we'd finish our coffee at the bar. Confused, I tried to divine from him why. It was about that time our waitress, apologizing profusely, came and explained. They had someone who wanted our table and the owner (turns out it was the maitre'D) was asking us to, in essence, leave so whatever bigshot they were trying to impress could have our table.

Kind of stunned, kind of pissed (they waited till I paid to ask), I refrained from making a scene and left. It threw a pall over what had been shaping up to be a very romantic evening. As the evening progressed, and the more we thought about it, the more annoyed we both got. The next day, Laurie shot a letter off to the owners expressing our disappointment, and embarrassment, at essentially being kicked out because we weren't famous or rich or influential enough to keep our table. On top of it all, we'd lost "our restaurant". I'd really looked forward to many more great meals and good times there, but no way would we be back now. We really didn't think they'd read the letter, we just wanted to get it off our chests.

About a week later, to our complete surprise, Laurie received a phone call from Armando--owner and, as I was to find out later, head chef. He said he was very sorry for the way we'd been treated and wanted to have us back for dinner for four on his dime. Due to schedules and life we weren't able to take him up on his offer until last night. We used the opportunity to have dinner with Katie and Mike who had just moved back up to Chicago.

I had a fantastic (as expected) Arabiata, a couple of glasses of Chianti and a coffee. Everybody else enjoyed their meals and we were able to relax and indulge in some pleasant conversation. During the dinner the maitre'D made a point to come by our table and make sure everything was OK. The place was hoppin' and he was really busy seating guests, so the fact he checked up on us was a nice touch. At the conclusion of our meal the waitress reminded us it was on the house. I got up to find Armando, so I could thank him personally. Neither Laurie nor I had actually met him, so we had no idea he was also the head chef. When I asked where Armando was, the maitre'D pointed me to one of the guys slaving over the stove. He stopped what he was doing and took a little time to thank us for coming back. Very classy. I let him know how grateful I was that he took the effort to make it right and that we'd be back for sure.

La Scarola is our restaurant once more. Here's the link to their site.

After dinner we were treated to a tour of the Cohen's new digs. I'd seen the pics that Katie had posted before, but they didn't really do the place justice. For starters you can't see the tree lined boulevard that goes down the middle of the street in front of the house. It's beautiful. Inside the house seems really big due to the 9' ceilings. I won't go into detail about the decor, because 1.) I'm a man and 2.) Katie was kind of self conscious about the fact it's not done yet. I can tell you it's shaping up nicely. It's got a great basement, too. That's all I'm sayin'. Katie has made Me UndeRstanD in no uncERtain terms she will kill me if I describe my initial impression of the BASEMENT. It's nice though. Really.

At any rate, it was just great to see the Cohens again. I look forward to seeing them again for the Shark Hunter's 30th. Oh, and if you get up there to see them, have them take you to the gelato (Italian ice cream) place. Goooood stuff.

Foul Temptress

We met when I was just a boy. You were always waiting for me at grandma's house. Through the years I grew to love you. In college you sustained me on those long study sessions that stretched into the night. You were my comfort when life was hard and I needed solace. But your charms soon became an addiction. An addiction that I couldn't shake. Then one day as I stared at the scale I knew you really didn't love me. That you wanted to ruin my life. I sent you packing.

I began to work out, to get in shape. Soon I forgot about you. Oh sure, I'd occasionally bump into you in the grocery store, but I was strong. I didn't need you anymore. I thought I was over you. Until last week when I saw you smiling sweetly at me from behind the glass in the vending machine. I was stressed out from work and hadn't had enough sleep. I haven't worked out in a while. I was weak and you knew it. And besides, it was just one package of Nutty Bars. How bad could that be? But you were ready. You, with your sweet innocent little smile behind which lies the path to perdition and ill fitting pants.

Now I am ensnared again in your web of chocolate lies and cream filled oatmeal deceit. I know you want to destroy me, but I love you just the same . . . you hussy.

Lookin' Good

I gotta' admit, he looks good here. The whole Omar Sharif thing is happenin'. I can't help but notice though, every time he wears the suit and shirt combo it's with an open collar. No tie. If I was in his shoes, anything around my neck would probably make me nervous too. Lucky for him everyone's still bickering about the constitution, 'cause once they get that sorted out (and they will) it'll be time to get down to business.

And in have-none-of-these-jags-seen-Jurrasic-Park news this little, gem. I mean really, how long is it before these guys get drunk one night and one of them says "You know what? Check it out. I stole this prehistoric mosquito stuck in amber from the specimen archives. Here, hold my beer." And then BAM-O! We're all living in trees hiding from velociraptors.

A Soldier's Story

A few days ago I mentioned being somewhat moved by images of the Gaza evacuation (see "Back in the Saddle"). Today's WSJ featured an eyewitness account from one of the IDF soldiers involved in that operation on its Op/Ed page. I've included the link here.

Sorry, but . . .

Due to a recent spamming incident in the comments of one of my posts, I'm activating the word verification. This will not require you to register or any other such nonesense. You'll simply have to type in the wierd looking little word in the verification field in order for you comment to post. Sorry for the marginal inconvenience, but until I have the wherewithal and know how to host my own blog, this will have to do.

Go See The Great Raid

Just finished unpacking from a weekend up north with Laurie and her family. It was nice flying both ways, although Friday night was a little hairy. I didn't really get into any severe weather, but I had to dodge a pop up thunderstorm that mushroomed in the darkness over Bloomington and then set sail to the east right across my flight path. The preflight briefer had warned me it was forming but I knew I had oodles of clear air further to the east that afforded plenty of wiggle room to skirt around it.

I took off around 8:45 with a bright full moon to the east, some lightning to the SW and some interesting little blips popping up on the strikefinder to the NW. The blips to the NW were the neophyte T-storm the briefer had told me about, but I'd yet to see any lightning. Still, to be on the safe side, I stayed down at 3,500 and angled toward the clearer air to the NE. About 5 miles north of Champaign I saw the first lightning strike from that storm. The bolt was HUGE! We're talking a pucker factor of 8 on a scale of 1 to 10. I keyed the mike and, in the calmest pilot voice I could muster, asked departure if they saw anything on radar. "Uh, yeah, it looks like a small cell about a mile or two in diameter at your 10 o'clock about 5 miles. But it's plenty clear north of it along the rest of your flightpath. Suggest you deviate a little to the NE to skirt around it." Ya, think? The moon was actually doing a really good job of lighting up the precipitation coming out of the cloud, so I had no problem maintaining visual speparation. It really was an incredible sight. A blazing full moon off the right wing and off the left, this ghostly veil of rain, occasionally sillouheted by million volt blasts of electricity. I'd say, 'You had to be there' but looking back I wonder if even I should've been.

Saturday afternoon Laurie and I met Chicken and friends at the Air and Water Show. It was a great day. Kind of toasty, but I had slathered on the SPF 15 well in advance so I was good to go. While there we saw all kinds of cool military aircraft, including the brand spankin' new F-22 Raptor. They didn't do much but a couple of fly bys though. No combat type maneuvers. Just two passes and then "Bye, bye". My guess is they're trying to keep its full capabilities out of the public eye for a little while longer. At about 4 the headliners, the USAF Thunderbirds, took to the skies but had to knock off about 15 minutes into their routine because a couple of the planes in the diamond formation "touched". This resulted in one of them shedding a small piece of its airframe. Thankfully, they were able to return to the airport without incident. I didn't see the collision, if that's what you could call it, happen, but I did notice the two solos suddenly break off their next run and climb away to join the diamond which had formed up well over the lake to figure out what happened. After about 5 minutes they announced over the loud speaker that one of the T-Bird aircraft had experienced a problem and they were cancelling the demo and returning to the airport. We found out what actually happened on the news that night.

Now, about The Great Raid. The main reason I like this movie is that it points to the eternal that resides in each one of us. It's a poignant reminder that we are more than just flesh and blood. For instance, in one scene Joseph Finnes' character 'Gibby' is questioned by the Japanese commander of the POW camp, "What do you have left to live for?" Gibby's answer "I want to live long enough to see you surrender." Not an incredibly memorable line in and of itself, but it is made more powerful by the fact it's uttered by an emaciated form that can barely remain standing due to 3-years of forced starvation and recurring bouts of malaria. He radiates strength not because of any physical prowess, but because of something deep inside of him. The film is replete with scenes like these. Gibby's love, Margaret, is a leader in the Phillipine resistance. She too is tested and must draw on inner strength to survive.

The other reason I liked the film is that it seemed to indicate this kind of inner resolve comes from a power bigger and more powerful than yourself. In Gibby's instance, it was his love for Margaret and his fellow prisoners that drives him on. In Margaret's case it wasn't just her love for Gibby but mostly her compassion for the Phillipine people and the American prisoners enduring unbelievable cruelty. There were also allusions to trust in God, but being a Miramax film, allusions are all you really get. Anyway, my point is, the film underscores that we are at our best when we look outward and serve each other rather than ourselves.

I was also struck at how ordinary the soldiers seemed. There were no wild charactres like you'd find in something like the Dirty Dozen or even Saving Private Ryan. In fact they're all incredibly soft spoken. The only time they become "emotional" is during the raid. They don't act like over the top professional super soldiers either. They were like me or you. Regular guys who had an extraordinary job to do. You can see the weight of it in their faces as they plan and train--equal parts determination and uncertainty. You also learn quite a bit about the role the Phillipine resistance played in aiding the Amercian forces. The most powerful part of the movie, however, is the credits. In fact I think the whole film is just preparation for them. Whatever you do, stay for the credits.

And speaking of looking out for your fellow man, I learned today my friend Christy is returning from a two year stint in Moldova where she served as a Peace Corps volunteer. I was on an email list of hers that she used to keep friends and family informed of what was going on with her while she was over there. The one I received today was what I assume was her last until she returns to the States. It was especially poignant, and more than a little uplifting. I'd like to share it with you in the next post or two if she gives me the OK.

Back in the Saddle

Looks like the electrical problems with 97 Charlie have been fixed and I'm flying again. Cause for celebration. Unfortunately this good news is counterbalanced by the fact my fiancee has had to head back up north and prepare for the coming school year which starts next week. She's only a couple hours away by car--45 minutes by aeroplane--but might as well be on the other side of the world. This summer was to be an experiment in our tolerance for one another. Some may say you need more than a summer, but I don't. We spent a lot of quality time together and really got to know each other well. I'm happy to say I've hit the jackpot. My condolences to all the suckers who blew their chances with her. You lose, jags.

All kidding aside, we really did want to see if we'd get sick of each other. Not that we were necessarily looking to, but we wanted to live like a regular dating couple for a while and see if anything changed. Lots did. I ended up proposing and fell deeper in love with her than I ever thought possible. No, we're not the perfect couple but we're perfect for each other. February won't get here soon enough for me.

Nuff bout that . . . for now.

I watched some of the Gaza strip evacuation on the news this morning. Simply heart rending. I don't think you have to take sides on the issue to simply be moved by the scene of young Israeli soldiers having to forcibly remove their countrymen from what had been their home. I know the soldiers had to be torn in two. You could see them earnestly pleading with the demonstrators to come along peacefully as they were being pelted by trash, water and fists. I watched one gently help an elderly protester re-tie his prayer box (I think that's what it's called) before removing him. You could see the respect in his face for the old man, who was pleading with him, but he had his orders. I saw other soldiers take blows to the arms and head but never lash back in anger. Some of them may have returned a shot, but I never saw it happen. In some cases you'd see them weeping with the demonstrators as the took them out. I sincerely hope this whole thing was worth the price and bears some fruit on the road to peace there.

Finally, do any of you know if The Great Raid is coming to Champaign? I'm anxious to see this movie after reading Ebert's take on it. I was pretty sure it would be good from what I saw in the trailers and I'm somewhat familiar with the story. Plus I like Joe Finnes. I think he's a fantastic actor. Most remember him from his portrayal as the Gwyneth Paltrow shagging Bard in Young Shakespeare in Love. His best performances, however, were in Enemy at the Gates and Luther. The later is a fairly condensed version of Martin Luther's life but it is extremely well done and will make you want to learn more about this monumental figure whether you're a Christian or not.

I leave you with a few pics from adventures with 97 Charlie in celebration of its return to flight.

Stripey Plane, Stripey Shirt, Real Pilot--Your New Wallpaper
Profile Shot
Short Final at Morris
Mighty Mississip'
Copilot Curt
Copilot Clay
Downtown St. Louie

I'm Sorry for Cindy

I truly am. I'm sorry Cindy Sheehan, like thousands of others, has lost someone in this war. I guess what I'm struggling with is the implication, by virtue of the media's incessant coverage of her vigil, that her grief is of greater significance than that of all the others who have lost loved ones. I also have a problem with the idea that because she's grieving any opinion that pours out of her mouth should go unchallenged. She seems willing to use the celebrity that her vigil has given her, I can only assume she's comfortable with the risks of using it as well.

From what little I can gather about Casey Sheehan in Google searches--aside from the fact he died and is now a cause celeb for the anti-war crowd--there seems to be some indication he wouldn't necessarily share his mom's opinion that the war is a waste. According to several sources he volunteered for a second tour in Iraq. Now, I can't really say why he did that and I can't ask him. You would think, though, that the media might be a little more interested in his motivations since he is, after all, the only reason you've heard of his mother.

I'm not writing any of this to argue for or against the war, but to say that I'm growing weary of both sides of this issue trying to add moral weight to their arguments by referring to dead American soldiers as "children". Let's be clear. These are not 10 year olds who've been abducted that we're talking about. These were men and women who, for various reasons of their own, voluntarily gave up their rights as individuals to serve as instruments of American foreign policy. They raised their right hands and took an oath to obey orders regardless of how they felt about them. They did not recite this oath under any duress other than that of personal pride and/or a sense of duty.

"Oh, easy for you to say LD. You're not Cindy Sheehan." No, it's easy for me to say because of Casey Sheehan. It's easy for me to say because the constitution he swore to protect grants me the right to express my opinions regardless of whether I've experienced personal loss in a war or not. I will always try to express my opinions with the utmost respect for those that fulfill this oath, and their families, whether they agree with me or not. But the argument that only those who have lost a loved one have a right to have an opinion about this war, or worse that their's is the only valid one, is maudlin at best and shamelessly opportunistic at worst.

And while I'm on the subject of soldiers' parents I thought I'd share this story from today's NYT. Apparently some military families in smaller communities are a little annoyed with the AP coverage of the war. Since few, if any, small town papers can afford to have national and international reporters on staff, they rely on AP to provide them with this coverage. By and large, according to many of these families, AP's coverage of Iraq has been extremely negative when compared to the stories of progress they are hearing from their sons and daughters returning from service over there. I've included a link to the story here.

The reason given by the AP is somewhat summed up in these excerpts,

" . . . as Mr. Silverman (AP Managing Editor) and Kathleen Carroll, The A.P.'s executive editor, responded to the concerns, the editors realized that some questions were impossible to answer. For example, she said, the editors understood that it was much easier to add up the number of dead than to determine how many hospitals received power on a particular day or how many schools were built."

"Mr. Silverman said the wire service was covering Iraq 'as accurately as we can' while 'also trying to keep our people out of harm's way'."

"The main obstacle we face,"(Silverman) said, "is the severe limitation on our movement and our ability to get out and report. It's very confining for our staff to go into Baghdad and have to spend most of their time on the fifth floor of the Palestine Hotel," which is home to most of the press corps. The hotel was struck by a tank shell in 2003, killing two journalists."

In short it's dangerous to try and give the big picture. This response reminded me of Eason Jordan's mea culpa for CNN's failure to report Sadaam's atrocities because it would have been "dangerous" to their ability to keep an Iraq bureau. When the "legitimate" media refuses to take the risks neccessary to give the full picture on something as important as the Iraq war, all we're left with is punditry. They've shown they can do it when they want to. As far back as Edward R. Murrow braving the flames of London during the Blitz to as recently as the imbedded reporters at the outset of this war, the media has shown it can get in the thick of it and give the whole story, when it wants to. Why don't they want to anymore?

Happy Birthday Eli

Eli and I at Marnie's Wedding

Tonight was my grandfather's 83'rd birthday. I wish you all could know him. The only problem is you won't see the man I've known for the vast majority of my 36 year old life. You'll see a very old man with a hillbilly accent and a bum right arm that's the result of a stroke during emergency heart surgery about 5 years ago. You won't see the man that could work nearly every other man I've ever met into the ground, including this one.

Fortunately you will see the man that has always had a twinkle of mischief in his eye. You will see the man that has never met a person he didn't like unless they really tried to be unlikable. You will see the man that has a colorful euphemism for just about everything that can happen in life. You will meet the man that, even if he does tell you you're a "bad egg" or a "mean rooster", loves every last one of his family members with a quiet, unconditional passion.

Tonight we met at Texas Roadhouse to celebrate. Unfortunately we couldn't all sit together at one table so I didn't really get to talk to him much. I'll make up for it with a visit this weekend. As he was leaving with his gifts he playfully gestured like he was going to smack Levi on the top of the head and said, "I should smack him on the noggin' good. It'll toughen him up." That's Eli for "I'm tickled pink Levi's here. He sure is cute." He's always kind of hid his passion for us behind this gruff sense of humor. Case in point . . .

One of my earliest recollections of my grandfather was him sitting on me and pinning my arms down on my side so I couldn't move. Then he'd play slap me on the forehead and say, "You're a bad egg, you know that? A mean rooster. We should send you back." Of course the whole time he's doing it he's got this Cheshire cat grin and a playful glint in his eyes. Even at 3 or 4, I knew he was just kidding around. The only time he ever really hit me was when I was about 7, and it was because I scared him.

When I was little we all lived in Monticello and I would often spend the night at grandma and grandpa's. One Saturday morning he needed to run some errands and brought me along. It was always a big deal to go anywhere by yourself with grandpa. For one, he was like a rock star in Monticello. He'd given so many guys their first jobs as foreman at the Viobin and he knew many more people from when he used to house paint and tenant farm. Couple this network with his irresistible charm and it was little wonder that you couldn't (still can't) go anywhere with Eli in Monticello or Champaign and not get stopped.

Anyhow, on this particular morning our mission was to run by the barber shop and then Buy-Rite to get a few things for grandma. For some reason we were in my parents beater Fiat that had a manual transmission. Before we pulled out of the driveway grandpa had been horsing around before starting the car by making race car noises and shifting the gears while we were just sitting there. It made me laugh but also just a little too curious. As we were leaving the barber shop, as usual, grandpa got stopped by some old friends. While they were catching up I waited in the car sipping a can of 7-Up grandpa had bought me. As the minutes dragged on I became incredibly bored until I remembered the little race car "game" grandpa had played in the driveway.

So, I grabbed the gear shift and pulled. Now had this been in grandpa's driveway nothing would have happened. It was level. The barber shop/Buy-Rite parking lot, however, was most definitely not. To my surprise and my grandfather's horror the little Fiat began to inexorably roll backwards down the parking lot, at a fairly alarming clip, towards the busy street behind it. I remember looking helplessly into his frightened eyes as he sprinted towards the car. He caught up to it and flung open the driver's side door nearly tearing it from its hinges. He dove into the driver's seat, yanked on the emergency brake and then smacked me over the top of the head causing me to spill 7-Up everywhere. "What's the matter with you!" he screamed. I couldn't answer because I was sobbing my eyes out. Not so much because he'd hit me, but because I'd never seen him that upset before. It scared the hell out of me.

We drove home in silence. Well, not complete silence. I was trying my best to stifle my sobs, but to no avail. I was a tear streaked, snotty mess by the time we got back to grandma and grandpa's. Of course grandma saw me crying and immediately wanted--no demanded--to know what happened. While grandpa told her I retreated to the inside of the house. Eventually grandma came in and hugged me back to "health".

That evening when I was returned home, I expected the worse. I thought for sure dad and mom were going to pound me for nearly wrecking the car. Instead they just gave me a big hug and told me they were glad I didn't get hurt. I think grandpa had explained to them I was only mimicking what I'd seen him do earlier. They did ask me, somewhat rhetorically, if I knew I shouldn't do that again. Later I cornered mom and asked in a trembling voice if grandpa was going to stay angry with me. After all, the thought of having one of the greatest men in the world angry with me was more than I could bear. Mom just smiled and said, "Honey, you really don't know why grandpa hit and yelled at you?" I shook my head. "You scared him baby. Scared him bad. He thought for sure you were headed into the street and was scared to death you were going to get hit." She then proceeded to tell me another time I "scared" him.

When I was two, I had to have a bi-lateral hernia operation. This was pre-laproscopic surgery so they basically had to cut me across the entire length of my tiny lower abdomen to open me up. After surgery I spent a few days in the hospital. I don't recall any of this, but apparently grandpa came to see me one day. As the story goes, when I saw him I pulled myself up on the edge of my crib but couldn't stand all the way up because of the stitches. She said I held my arms out and begged him to take me out of the crib. To take me home. No one was allowed to pick me up until the stitches healed. Mom said it was the first time she ever saw him cry. She said he just stood in the doorway and said, "Hon, I'd take you out of here in a heartbeat but they won't let me." and then he walked off and disappeared for few minutes.

It's funny, but just about all of the hard nosed, hard working, "tough" guys I've known in my life have almost always been some of the most sensitive men I've ever met. Eli is one of them. But that's just one facet of the man. There is so much more I could tell. Maybe I will. Not all of it would be as Hallmark movie as this, but I can guarantee it'll be interesting. Very little about my grandfather isn't. At least that's what I think anyway. Like Ernie K Gann says, you write about what you know. Well, most of what I know about greatness I learned from Eli. Stay tuned for more.

The Duke, Yard Sale Madness and Golf

Thursday the Big Guy had to go down to Kentucky for a meeting and decided to use the opportunity to leave a car down there so we'd have wheels handy when we fly down in the future. This necessitated Laurie and I driving down Saturday to bring him back(9'er 7 Charlie is still suffering from its mysterious electrical malady . . . don't get me started). We left Saturday morning and arrived in Russell Co. about 4:30. I told the BG I was bringing my clubs and that maybe we could get a round of twighlight 9 in. "As a dog returns to it's vomit so a fool returns to his folly."

While we golfed, my tuff fiancee put the top down on the SSR and went exploring the Endless Yard Sale along rte. 127. Not sure if any of you are familiar with this madness, but the Endless Yard Sale is an annual event wherein thousands of people set up shop along rte. 127, from northern Kentucky all the way down to southern Alabama, selling anything they could dig out of their shed, junk drawers, garages, basements, barns etc. It is a hundred mile long cornucopia of crap. Gordyville on a grand scale. In addition to all the junk, Laurie reported there was a disturbing amount of sweaty male shirtlessness accompanied by sweaty fat ladies in tank tops about 2 sizes too small for their rubenesque frames. I caught a glimpse of some of the clientele in a pickup sporting a bumper sticker with the confederate flag on it accompanied by the following: "Fighting terrorism since 1861." I'm betting they were shirtless too.

The golf game was actually OK, despite the fact I didn't golf all that well. I went back to using the original set of irons I purchased several years ago that have larger club faces. It helped alot. Most of my iron shots were pretty good. Unfortunately I'm still using the same driver. On the tee box is where the vast majority of profanity was uttered. Remember the Quiddich(sp?) match in that one Harry Potter movie? That's what my ball looked like coming off the tee most of the time. Still, I only lost one which is saying something on that course. Lilly Creek, despite its seemingly benign name, is anything but a walk in a park. It's hilly and the rough consists of packed red earth with sprigs of grass and rocks. And that's if you're lucky. Usually the rough is a forest or tall grass right on the edge of the fairway. The fact I finished nine holes using only two balls is a triumph in itself.

Sunday, on the way back up north, the Big Guy drove allowing me the opportunity to finally watch Island in the Sky on the DVD player in the back. What a great movie. One of the Duke's finest. Naturally it probably appeals to me more than others because of the subject matter--John Wayne plays a pilot in the Air Transport Command during WWII who's forced down in bad weather over the Northwest Territories and he and his crew must survive the 40 below conditions until his buddies can find them. Anybody who says Wayne couldn't act (I'll fight all of you!) needs to see this film. He does a fantastic job of playing a leader who's trying to keep his head so those depending on him don't lose their's.

Like Leonard Maltin's brief introduction indicates, the movie is devoid of any cynicism. There's no angst, no hidden agendas, no politics or tortured pasts. Just ordinary men with a lot of guts pitting themselves and their airplanes against the impersonal enemy of weather. I was amazed at how beautiful the cinematography was for a black and white film. You really got a sense of how vast the wilderness was and how small the protagonists were in comparison. The film also features some great performances by many old western actors, including a very young, pre-Matt Dillon James Arness. Even the guy who played Alfalfa from the Little Rascals is in it playing a young pilot who acts alot like Alfalfa. By all means check it out.

I leave you with a pic of Levi . . . finally.

Good Friday

Am I the only one that thinks Frank sounds better on a Friday? There's just something about Sinatra's swingin', devil-may-care style that just goes well with the day before Saturday. It's the perfect release from the cares and woes of the past week. Then again maybe hearing Frank come crooning through my headphones was simply the catalyst I needed to help me remember all the good things about this particualar Friday.

Last night I got to meet my new nephew, Levi. I know it sounds cynical, but I really didn't expect it to be that big of a deal. What I mean is, I thought I'd gotten through the totally-getting-sucked-in-by-a-newborn thing because I'd gone through it with all the girls. And I think I was, right until the second they put him in my arms. Then the same old thing happened. Everything and everybody else around you seems to fade into a kind of low background hum and you get totally lost in this tiny little face.

I must've just sat and stared for what seemed like an eternity. Ocassionally he'd open his eyes a tiny bit and they'd widen just a little when he seemed to notice my massive face in his. He did a lot of blinking. I think even the dimmed environs of the maternity ward were still probably as bright as the sun compared to where he'd been for the last 9 mos. But he still made an effort to try and get a look at me.

He'd just eaten and Mandy asked if I wanted to burp him. So I shifted him from the cradle postion to over my shoulder. They're so wobbly. The whole maneuver took what seemed like a long time. You just don't want to break anything, ya' know? When I finally got his tiny frame resting on my shoulder I started lightly patting him on the back. So light I didn't think I was really doing any good till he let out this huge belch. Granted it was a baby belch and sounded more like a little cough, but mommy and daddy were impressed and said it was his best one yet. Score one for ole' uncle Lar.

What really got me though was right after he burped his whole body just kind of melted into my shoulder. I guess it takes a lot of energy to burp when you're only a few hours old. But that feeling of complete relaxation was so peaceful. Soon he was snoozing. All in all not a bad first outing for Uncle Lar and Levi. The only thing that would've been better is if I hadn't completely brain farted and left my camera at home. I know, I'm an idiot. But now that I think about it, I'm kind of glad there were no pictures. It's always better in your memory anyway.

I'll have a pic soon. Hang tight.

He's arrived.

Let the record show that Levi Stephens was born at 2:48 am, August 4th in the year of our Lord 2005--29 years and one day after his mommy was. I guess I was right about the "screaming" thing in my previous post. Luke says he's pretty pissed. He also said the "procedure" was being performed on him this morning, so likely as not he's going to be pissed for a while.

I think I'll hang back and introduce myself this evening after work. Between the Grandmas, Pappas and other well wishers I'm sure it's going to be a madhouse over there most of this afternoon. Right now I'm waiting for his pic to show up on the Carle babies site (link here). When it does I'll post it.

Waiting for Levi

He's on his way. Mandy and Luke left for the hospital about two hours ago. Probably sometime this evening Levi Stephens will come screaming into the world. As active as he seemed in the womb, I'm betting this kid is going to be a handful. We'll see.