Sick Day Cinema

I'm holing up with my meds this weekend and trying to get better before my cousin's wedding/Thanksgiving get together down in Florida. Sick days are always good movie days. In the queue is Dead Man, Big Lebowski, Heat and, if I'm still awake, Taxi Driver.

I just finished watching Dead Man. This is a 1995 off-beat western starring Johnny Depp as William Blake--Cleveland accountant turned gun slinger through an unfortunate chain of events. It's kind of a western on quaaludes, which makes it such a good sick day movie. I've only seen it once and that was about 7 or 8 years ago. I'd forgotten how many great performances it has. The most memorable is that of an actor named Gary Farmer who plays an english speaking, indian warrior outcast who goes by the name Nobody. Nobody thinks Depp's William Blake is actually the English poet William Blake who he read about as a boy while in school in England. As a result he reveres Depp's character and treats him as a holy man. But before he figures out who Depp is, or who he thinks he is, he addresses him as "stupid f*cking white man".

Blake is pursued by a trio of odd-ball hired killers played by Lance Heinricksen, Michael Wincott and another guy who's name I don't know and am too lazy to go search for right now. It doesn't matter really since Heinricksen and Wincott pretty much own the screen any time they're on. Heinricksen's a cold-blooded killer with a taste for human flesh. Wincott provides some comic relief as an assassin that sleeps with a teddy bear and blathers incessantly much to the annoyance of his travelling companions. There are also great cameos by Crispin Glover, Billy Bob Thornton, Robert Mitchum, John Hurt and Iggy Pop as a cross-dressing psychopath. At least I'm pretty sure Iggy knew it was just a movie.

As weird as it all sounds, the slow pace, gorgeous black and white cinematography and haunting soundtrack by Neil Young keeps it all from getting too Mel Brooks. I believe it and Ong Bak will be my next DVD purchases.

Oh, and may I suggest BLT sandwiches as an awesome alternative to chicken soup. I strongly recommend you splurge and get the good, thick cut bacon from the butcher's case instead of the chemically smoked, vacuum packed kind. That, accompanied by a good strong cup of coffee, made for some killer comfort food.

Next up, the Dude, more meds and a little bourbon.

Stop the War

A hundred bucks in medicine and two weeks later I am no farther along in my fight against the insurgency in my lungs than when I started. If anything it's gotten worse. Perhaps if I'd only tried to understand why this virus hates me so much I could have averted this costly battle. It's also become increasingly obvious that the doctors who told me fighting disease is the right course of action lied to me. They are obviously in cahoots with big medicine and did not give me the full story. Had I known what I know now, I would've told my physician to take a hike. That I will not be party to his cynical plot to line the pockets of large pharmaceutical firms.

So, today I'm calling for an investigation into my doctor's practices and, if evidence warrants, a revocation of his license. I'm also calling for a complete cessation of all medical practice. It is clear that fighting these viruses and bacteria only makes things worse. We come up with a cure, diseases adapt and come back stronger. Humanity needs to simply stop fighting and let nature takes its course. Instead we need to come to grips with our role in creating the hell we currently live in.

Sure we gave the world art, civilization, horticulture, language, music, philosophy and democracy. But it was all for selfish gain. This world belonged to one-celled organisms, entropy and chaos before we got here and it's our conflict with these forces that is responsible for the mess we're in. Hey, look where it got the dinosaurs. Well, brothers and sisters I have seen the light.

It's pointless to fight. Nothing is worth fighting for. Not if it means war, stronger viral strains and environmental impact. Man is the virus. Man needs to be cured. So I'm calling on everyone right now to speed the healing and shuffle on to the next dimension. I, however, must not because this fight needs a voice. It needs to be shouted from the rooftops, so I must soldier on. Know that I will hold dear in my heart all those who heed the call of self sacrifice, but I cannot yet join you. Bill Maher just called and I must spread the word.

And the word is--POOP.
This message brought to you by 5 hours of sleep and an extra dose of myatussin with codiene.

Watch Your Back If You Fly American

A few nights ago I purchased some tickets for a trip in December on AA.com. After completing the booking, I printed the itinerary page which stated: "Status: Purchased" and went on to say "Note: This is not your receipt, which is needed for identification purposes at airport check-in. You will receive an itinerary confirmation with your receipt soon." Now in e-commerce speak, "you will receive confirmation soon" usually means "Check your in-box in a sec or two." I got zilch.

About the second day of my vigil I decided to call AA and see if I could figure out what went wrong. After a 30-minute duel with the automated call-routing system I gave up and decided to try the web site again later. So tonight--day 5 of the vigil--I went online and checked out my reservation. To my relief it was still in the system and looked just fine. Buoyed by that good fortune I thought I'd try my luck again at reaching a flesh and blood agent of AA. So I snooped around the site and found the AA.com Web Services number. I was greeted with the same disturbingly happy phone system voice that had cheerfully spurned my advances several nights earlier. Only this time the menu of options she presented actually held out hope of talking to someone. However, my enthusiasm was tempered by the admonition by Trixie (as in "tricksee happy phone voice that keeps our preciousss from usss") to have my AA Advantage number ready to expedite things. I have no such number and will not join their stupid little club to get one. I pushed 2.

Trixie gleefully requested that I enter my AA Advantage number without offering any other option such as "If you're not an AA Advantage member press "x", plebian." Instead she'd wait patiently and ask again, "AA Advantage number please." Apparently, only Advantage members merit answers to questions about their reservations. Finally Trixie suggested that if I forgot my Advantage number to say, "I don't know." Thinking Trixie might be smarter than I knew I said, "I don't have one." "AA Advantage number please," was the reply. Once again Trixie had the upper hand. I hung up in frustration. After a minute or two I decided to call back and play along, so I called Trix back, pushed 2, and answered, "I don't know." Voila! Seconds later a voice, not unlike Trixie's, but bearing the distinctive chill of a human being that hates her job only slightly less than you came on the line. The conversation went something like this:

Rita: (in the voice of someone straining under the burden of a fake smile) "Rita Something-or-Other, American Web Services. May I help you."

Me: (in a slightly relieved, yet tentative is-this-really-a-person voice) "Uh yes. Rita, I booked a flight several---"

Rita: (in a don't-dink-around-you-no-Advantage-number-loser voice) "Give me your record locator please."

Me: "Oh . . . sure it's, er, it's Y-O-M-A-M-A." (I didn't really, but I'm not putting my real record locater code in this blog)

Rita: "OK . . . Mr. Stephens?"

Me: (very relieved kind of happy-you-found-it voice) "Yes! See the itinerary results I printed out said I'd be receiving a confirmation soon. I assumed this would be via e-mail but it's been several days."

Rita: (in a thinly veiled you-lowlife voice) "That's because the card was declined."

Me: "Well that card has a low limit and I'd just sent the payment before I booked the flight, so maybe it simply hadn't had time to post yet. I just don't understand why the system didn't just tell me. It gave me a printout that says 'Status: Purchased'."

Rita: (in a try-to-stay-with-me-while-I-explain-retard voice) "Yes, well if the reservation is far enough out it will put it on hold and keep trying the card until it goes through."

Me: "It couldn't just tell me right away declined? I could have used another card. Can I just give you another card number?"

Rita: "If you want to use another card, you can give the number to me and we'll add a $10 reservation service surcharge to the ticket. Or you can go back to the Web site and enter it yourself."

Me: "So, my reservation is still in the system even though my card was declined?"

Rita: (barely concealed contempt) "Yes."

Afraid to carry the conversation further for fear of being too bold and asking some sort of question that would trigger a surcharge, I got off the phone with lovely Rita Meter Maid and went back to the cool apathy of AA.com. I pulled up my reservation and noticed this time the status had changed to "On Hold" with the following note. "If no action is taken by November 15, 2005 (that's tomorrow folks) the reservation will be cancelled." Presumably without a sound too, since they didn't deign to tell me it was on hold in the first place. If I hadn't have called I would have known none of this until too late. Luckily I was able to put the new card number in without losing the reservation. The only upside to all this is, when I put the new number in, the site informed me that the fare price had changed while my reservation was on hold. Expecting the worst I was pleasantly surprised to learn the new price was actually $10 less a ticket.

I know, I know. I should've cancelled the reservation, but every other fare I've seen for that time period (12/30 to 1/3) was at least $100 higher. They've got me by the short and curlies and they know it. That's fine, I'll endure their abuse at the counter when I check in and the baleful looks of the stewards when I ask for that extra bag of pretzel sticks. It'll all be easier because I'll have my girl by my side and she don't take shizzle from NO-BODY baby. She'll give them the stink eye back and it will be a tense few hours in the air. But let me leave you with this . . .

The next time you see American's CEO on CNN whimpering about rising fuel costs or costs related to 9/11 forcing his company into bankruptcy, know he did all he could to save it, including lowering the cost of customer service by simply eliminating it.

STUKAZ!

Constantine and the Cough

Still coughing and weezing. I can breathe better, but whatever crud I've been fighting the last week has staying power. Laurie bought me a vaporizer which is helping me sleep. I added Sudafed to the meds arsenal today. My bathroom counter is starting to look like the back wall at Walgreens. Still, despite all the medication I'm staying remarkably cogent. At least I think I am.

Watched Constantine tonight. As a Christian I'm always curious anytime Hollywood takes on the subject of God and Satan. Plus, another Christian friend, but not one I'd peg as into comic book-based films, said he kind of liked it. And, I'll admit, I'm more than a little intrigued by Keanu Reeve's apparent fascination with messianic roles.
On an artistic level, I think the movie is very well done. The visuals are compelling, the story is actually decent and there are some nuggets of truth, theologically speaking. Yes, there are extensive liberties taken with the Bible and theology, but I expected that. Hollywood can't even do a movie based on events it knows the vast majority of its audience witnessed with their own eyes without "adaptation". I entertained zero delusions that a film based on a comic book's adaptation of the "struggle" between God and the Devil would bear any resemblence to what scripture has to say about it. This is probably why I was surprised to find what little congruity that I did.
If I had to take issue with anything in the film it would be the implication that good and evil are equal, or somehow in balance. I think good is entirely capable of existing without evil. Good is. Evil is a parasite. It cannot create. It can only destroy or twist. When evil sets out to deceive, it has to use elements of truth to do so. The movie itself, though the plot says otherwise, actually kind of affirms this in parts. Without giving anything away, the biggest affirmation is actually the main plot point, but I'll spare you any more of my theological musings. It's a decent flick.

Had a great time Saturday. Laurie was down and we went to Skateland for MacKenna's 8th. Little did I know, but Laurie is actually a pretty accomplished roller skater. It was kind of cool watching her zip around the rink when she wasn't helping one of the little girls stay on their feet. I sat rinkside, chillin' with my nephew Levi who, when he wasn't pooping, sleeping or feeding, seemed fairly mesmerized by the lights and all the people going round and round. I haven't wore skates since 1985. And when I did, I had no business being in them. I always thought it would be cool to learn to roller boogie, but got tired of it. Actually my butt did. Laurie says I need to get back in that particular saddle. Guess I will, but it won't be pretty. Not at first, anyway.
That evening we did the dinner-and-a-movie thing at Mike and Traci's. Traci made a killer pot of Italian beef and some tasty cheesy potatoes. After getting bloated on LaBatt's Blue and beef, we adjourned to the sitting room for a screening of Tommy Boy. I had acquired the "Holy Schnike" special 2-disc version earlier that day. Laurie had never seen it. I told her it was a romantic comedy. Not only did she get a kick out of it, but she managed to stay awake through the whole thing, too. Since I'm already in trouble, let me go ahead and explain why that last part is significant. It's the only DVD we've watched together. Oh, we've watched the first 30 minutes of several together, but my self-described ADD girl is usually dozing off about the time the opening credits are through. That she found Tommy Boy funny enough to stay awake for is just another testament to the power of this classic. And I'm dead.
Time for bed.

Read the Book, Saw the Movie

"What's wrong with you?" "Nothing you couldn't fix." Thus ends the movie, "The Big Sleep". Not terribly memorable lines in and of themselves, but made so by the fact they're uttered by Bogie and Bacall at the height of their glory. I just finished watching the DVD--an unexpected gift from my fiance. She saw I was interested in it and rather than just show me where I could find it, she went ahead and ordered it for me. As Bogie would say, "Thanks Angel."

Now most of the reviews of the movie I've read say it was better than the book. I say baloney. The movie doesn't have any of the internal monologues that make Phillip Marlowe so interesting to me. That said, it's still a good movie. Although I'll admit, if I hadn't read the book the plot would've been a little harder to follow. Still it makes sense in the end, even if you haven't. One of the "behind the scenes" stills on the DVD said Hawks (the director) wanted the movie to unfold like that, through Marlowe's eyes. The entire film you know no more than he does. Great for someone into whodunits and crime noir, lousy for someone who has to be spoon fed a plot. If you're looking for tidy, look somewhere else.

Next for the collection: The Maltese Falcon. I was lucky enough to have seen that one at the Virginia, sometime last year I believe. Then L.A. Confidential and China Town and my noir collection should be looking pretty good.

Feel Like Crap

Home sick today. While it's nice to be able to rest and recoup, spending an entire day at home is weird. You feel like you're in a space capsule. You can look out the window at the world going by, listen to radio transmissions, check out the internet but have no direct interaction with what's going on at all. Add the effects of Nyquil and you are the Rocket Man. Truth is, I'll probably still be sick when I go back to work, I just hope not as sick. Nice of me, huh? Get the worst of the germs out and save the leftovers for my coworkers. Maybe I'll add more to the log later after a strong dose of Nyquil. I could be the next Coleridge. Not.

Mission Pics

Finally . . . I got around to uploading some of the pics from the flight I took last week. They really can't do justice to what I saw, but they come close.

Smallville Nice Spread Mountain View Valley View Hill Top Hwy Rift Level at 10,000 On top at 10K

Bloody Ironic

Saw this headline on spiked-online.com and had to laugh. I can't figure out if this was a case of sandpaper-dry British wit or they simply missed the irony.

How Divided Is America?
Two US commentators give opposing views.

Spiked is a British news/opinion site that I've taken a fancy to lately (just click the link in the sidebar and Bob's your uncle).

The Big Sleep

I'm having trouble with my broadband connection at home, hence the dearth of updates. I'll try to give a brief synopsis here before I head into a meeting.

Thursday I flew a Life Line Mission down to Knoxville, TN. I was to pick up a pancreatitis patient and her fiance and take them as far as Champaign, where another Life Line pilot would pick them up and take them on to Rochester, MN--home of the Mayo clinic. It was an interesting trip on several levels. For starters I got some fantastic shots of autumn from the air on the way down. They'll be posted soon. On the way back I flew into the teeth of a stiff headwind, had an uncomfortable encounter with icing and some minor passenger discomfort as a result of some turbulence in the clouds. It sounds worse than it was. The icing business did make for a little pucker factor though. Especially when my requests for an altitude out of it were met with indifference by ATC--specifically Louisville Approach. They knew what kind of plane I was flying and they should have known it didn't have deicing equipment, yet they dragged their feet in the cozy comfort of their TRACON room while the leading edges of my wings turned into Otter Pops--mmm, Otter Pops. It took a little extra insistence on my part to finally get them to appreciate the gravity of the situation. More than it should have. By the end of the day I was pooped. Six hours behind the yoke is fairly taxing.

Friday was much more pleasant. After work I zipped up to Lansing, picked up Laurie and zipped back with a nice tail wind, no clouds and silky smooth air. On the ground in Champaign we headed over to Train Guy's for nice evening by the brazier on his back patio. We made ourselves sick on smores. It was a great time though. Train Guy and Mrs. Train Guy are stellar hosts. Saturday we lazed around the folks' place reading and stuff. That evening we went to a shower in our honor at Uncle Rick's and Aunt Jeanene's. It was a great time with close friends and family and a fitting first official wedding event.

About The Big Sleep title. I just finished the book of the same name by Raymond Chandler. Its a great crime noir story by the guy who many credit with creating the genre. It's full of snappy dialogue, square gees, crooked cops, dangerous dames and lots of shooting. If you've seen LA Confidential or Millers Crossing, you get the idea. The book was made into a movie starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in 1946. I'm desperately searching for a VHS or DVD. If any of you know where I can find one, drop a dime and clue me in.

I love this guy.

Marine Gunnery Sgt. Michael Burghardt signals defiance at his Iraqi attackers after being injured by an improvised explosive device near Ramadi. Attending to the Marine were Nebraska 167th Cavalry members Spc. John Adams (far left, in front) of Hastings, Neb., and Pfc. Darin Nelson of Fremont, Neb.

Soldiers all the way up to the brigade's commander, Col. John Gronski, viewed a photo of Burghardt - on his feet, arm extended and middle finger raised - as the embodiment of the American warrior.

As for Burghardt, he said he wanted to send a message to the insurgents who failed to kill him.

"I knew there was somebody disappointed out there."

*Text taken from article by C. David Kotok-Omaha World-Herald (original story here)

Going Columbo

Before I start, I find it a little ironic that the Dictionary.com word for the day is 'lexicon'. Dontcha' think?

As shocking as I'm sure it is to you all, I am occasionally subject to brief fits of paranoia. When I was living in Fresno I had a few close calls with car thieves, armed robbers and car jackers. Maybe sometime I'll relate a few of these stories, but as a result of these brushes with criminality I have a tendency to take things, that on the surface seem just slightly amiss, and view them with a greater degree of suspicion than I probably should.

Right now the folks are in California and have been for about a week. When they're gone various family members take turns checking up on Casa de El Jefe (The Big Guy's House), get the mail, etc. Friday night, Laurie and I dropped by their house to pick up a few birthday gifts mom had left for Laurie. When we came in all the cleaning supplies were out on the counter, the vacuum was out and several of the lights were left on.

Now this in and of itself did not breed suspicion. Mom has a cleaning service that drops by every Friday. What was strange was that the cleaning service didn't clean up after themselves. Further inspection revealed they didn't even really clean. Laurie, who had stayed at my folks' while she was down this summer said that unless my mom was around they usually didn't do a very good job. It looked like this was the case here. We collected the gifts and left.

I didn't think anything about it again until Sunday when we were having dinner with my grandparents. Grandpa mentioned that he'd been over there Friday about noon mowing the lawn and had seen the cleaning people arrive. He'd never seen them before and thought they didn't look very professional, but they had the code to the garage and cleaning buckets so he didn't make a big deal out of it. He said the cleaning lady had two boys with her. One went inside with her while the other stayed outside and talked to him. He thought that was kind of strange because the two boys didn't really look like they were there to clean, just hang out. He also said the cleaning lady was only in the house for about 15 minutes and then she came back out and they left. This made me a little suspicious.

I called dad and related what Laurie and I had encountered as well as Grandpa's experience. He told mom, who wasn't real happy, and she called the cleaning service to release them from their obligations. Dad asked me to go back and change the garage code. I had to fly Laurie back that night so we didn't go back to ma and pa's but the aiport instead. It was about this time that my Columbo Syndrome started to act up. I began to think, What if the cleaning lady was up to no good? What if she had her eye on something? What if she got spooked by grandpa being there and that's why she left early? What if the owner of the cleaning company called her that night to tell her mom had "fired" them? What if she knew we were probably going to change the code and decided to return before I could and take what she was after?

By the time I flew back from up north and put the plane away it was 10 pm. I didn't feel like driving to Monticello to change the code and having to drive back. Besides, my CS had worn off and I was sure my previous suspicions were unfounded. Until today.

While at lunch with Grandpa and Grandma, he asked me whatever came of the cleaning people. I told him mom had let them go and I'd changed the code. He said, "That's good. They just didn't seem like the kind of people Karen would hire." This made the CS act up a little. I said, "Yeah, it is kind of wierd that the lady would've brought her kids along on the job. I mean what help would they be?" Grandpa said, "Oh those boys weren't kids." The CS was inflammed at this point. "How old do you think they were?", I asked. "Oh, about mid-twenties," was the reply. It had never occured to me that to my 80-something year old grandfather, 20-something year old males probably were "boys". Now I was REALLY in Columbo mode.

I asked what they were driving. A truck. I asked what she took in with her. Just a bucket and one of the "boys". I asked if grandpa thought the guys were there to help. He kind of laughed and said, no. He said one of them stayed outside with him and just talked. Said he was from Kentucky too. This sounded like a lookout to me. It was all I could do to sit still. My mind was going ape with all kinds of wild scenarios.

What if they'd gone in to take stuff, saw grandpa and decided to unlock a window and come back later? What if they really weren't the cleaning people? What if they were accomplices of someone inside the cleaning service who gave them the code? What if the bucket was just a cover to avoid suspicion if anyone, like my grandfather, saw them entering the house? What if they had come back through a basement window they'd unlocked and cleaned the folks out?

I said goodbye to the grandparents and drove over to mom and dad's to investigate. What if they were in there right now? What if while I was checking windows and doors they paid a visit? Where was the Big Guy's .357 again? Yeah. It was pretty bad. Of course I went over there and everything was fine. I did find a few ground floor windows that were unlocked, but this was because they couldn't close enough for the locks to engage. Probably due to the house settling or something. Who knows? It certainly wasn't because of the Cleaning Cartel.

I should probably relate some of the stories of actual criminals I encountered in Fresno to put this all in perspective. It really isn't without reason that I happen to suffer from CS.

This weekend I'm going up north to visit Laurie and get wood. I mean firewood--dirty birdies. While I'm up there, Brother Joe and I might do a little trap shooting. Also referred to as "shooting frisbees" by his little boys. Should be fun. Donna, my future mom-in-law, will probably load me up with goodies for the trip back. This is a blessing and a curse. I love whatever she gives me but she usually gives me a lot and it's gone in one or two sittings. I'd weigh 5,000 lbs if I lived in the same house with Donna. Maybe I'll save the largesse for a crappy movie night.

Oh, yeah. I took the rest of the day off. A big, "Haa, haaaaa!" to all you suckas still at work.

Turkey Run Respite

Here are some pics from the trip Laurie and I took last Saturday to Turkey Run State Park. Just a few of the trees had started to turn. I think another trip is in order in the next week or so to see autumn more fully revealed. Maybe by canoe this time.

Pop! Tuff Sunset Presence Precioussss Paparazzi Everywhere Bridge to #3 Reflections

Hey Look! Sugar Creek Change Skip Ripple Sugar Creek Silence Trail 6

Comin' Up Creepy Hollow Saint Laurie Convergence Trail 6 Start Rivendell

Kids These Days

As I guessed, they quickly apprehended the dopes who stole the business jet. Turns out it was a 22-year old with a Citation-I type rating and little if any sense. He apparently thought it would be fun to take a few of his friends for a ride. Which only goes to show, education is no substitute for wisdom. The fact he has a Cessna-I type rating at 22 indicates he must have had a good education. Learning to fly jets takes more than a few book smarts. It also takes a lot of money that, unless he was a drug dealer or a professional athlete, probably came from some very wealthy and clearly over-indulgent parents. Only someone who hasn't had to work for something as precious as a type rating would piss it away to impress his friends.

P of P: Episode 2

In a recent post (CNNFOXNBCABCCBS: Purveyors of Panic) I talked a little about the mountain of an ant hill that the media made out of the Jet Blue emergency landing at LAX. Once again they are preying on the general public's lack of familiarity with aviation, and short attention span, by making much ado out of the recent theft of a business jet. Where to start?

First of all let's consider this, and I won't even have to look up statistics to back it up. Anybody with a moment's reflection could surmise this on their own. More moving vans are stolen in this country everyday than business jets. The only reason this story got any traction at all is because the vehicle in question has wings. "But Larry, but Larry that means you cound fly it into any building anywhere and do horrendous damage!". True, but I could more easily steal a moving van, pack it full of diesel fuel and fertilizer, park it in front of an elementary school and walk away. All without popping up on radar, being chased by fighter jets and dying in the fiery crash. Read the news story yourself (here) and substitute "moving van" for "corporate jet" and "driven" for "flown". It won't take long to figure out why the media isn't going to a lot of trouble to report missing U-Hauls.

"But Larry, but Larry, didn't you hear what the FBI guy said? Jets are easy to steal if you know how to fly them! You don't even need keys!" Yes they are easy to steal, IF you know how to fly them. The jet in question here, a Citation VII, has very complicated start up and operating procedures that require extensive training. Training that costs thousands of dollars, requires extensive documentation including a type rating. A type rating means you are qualified to fly only that type of aircraft. And while you may certainly do it in an illegal manner, the FAA is going to have your name on file as one of the less than 1% of individuals in the country that is qualified to fly that plane. The group of suspects for this particular crime is extremely small. Keep in mind that many if not all the 9/11 hijackers were being tracked by the FBI prior to the attack because of all the documentation that is required to get something as simple as a Private Pilot's license. They will find this guy, too.

"But Larry, but Larry! Didn't the terrorists fly those complex airliners?" Yes, after they were already in the air. Once an airplane is flying, anyone with a basic knowledge of aircraft control can fly it, especially if you don't plan on landing in one piece. This is why Atta and co. were only concerned about learning the basics. The pilots who they murdered before taking the controls did all the complex stuff for them.

Now, I didn't see it in this news story, but several of the radio reports I heard (on one network) made a huge deal out of the fact the control tower was closed when he landed and the pilot could remotely control the runway lighting. First of all, many control towers, including Champaign's, have limited hours of operation. This is because they don't have enough traffic late at night to merit the expense of staffing them. They also are not equipped with missles, lasers, AA or anything else that could stop a stolen aircraft from landing even if they were open. As for PCC (pilot controlled lighting), that has been around for decades and is not anything new. It is controlled using the same radio frequency as the common traffic advisory frequency for that aiport. Just click the mic 7 times and "Voila!", you have lights. Everything from a Piper J-3 to a 777 can do it. The pilot did not, as seemed to be implicated by the ominous tone the newscaster used when describing how he "remotely controlled the runway lights", have some kind of Bond-ian gadget that is allowing him to manipulate airport facilities.

But the part that just really got to me, and it's not mentioned in the link I gave you, was when the reporter I heard on the radio, in even more ominous tones, went to great lengths to point out the airport the jet was found at was where two 9/11 hijackers had trained. Again, a moment's reflection and you say, so what? But since most of the folks listening this morning were probably already in a lather over the "remote controlled lights" that little dollop of hysteria inducing whip cream was the perfect topper for a media that's much more concerned about tittilating than telling.

Hellos and Goodbyes

What a weekend. Instead of reading on Saturday, Laurie and I made a quick trip back down here for a funeral. A friend of the family passed away Wednesday and we didn't find out about the Saturday afternoon graveside service till Saturday morning. The friend was only 29. He had struggled for some time with some personal demons and appeared to be turning a corner the last several months. The last time I'd seen him was about six months ago. The family has not told us why he died and I'm not going to speculate.

During the eulogy I learned many things about him that I'd never known. For one, I had no idea he'd been an artist, and a rather accomplished one at that. I also learned that while he had many struggles of his own to overcome, he still found many ways to help others and took some fairly significant risks to do so. In one instance he bought pizzas for some homeless people he knew on Thanksgiving. In another, he actually allowed a homeless stranger to live with him for a few months until the guy could either get back on his feet or move on. Having seen so much of the darker side of life at such an early age, I don't think there was much that really scared him. He was by no means a cruel or violent person. Just a little lost I think. Still, despite the cards life had dealt him, and maybe a few he'd picked, he did what he could to help those around him and managed to leave an indelible mark in the lives of many people.

After the service, Laurie and I flew back up to Lansing for dinner with her folks. It was clear when we left Champaign, but as we approached Kankakee there was a line of thin overcast at about 4000 feet. It had been a little while since I'd been in any actual instrument conditions so it was kind of fun. We started out above it and then right before we reached the line, ATC had me descend to 4,000 putting us right in the middle of it. It was pretty cool and I got to show Laurie what an excellent pilot I was on instruments. Of course the bottom was only a few hundred feet below that so we popped out in clear air again well before we got to Lansing.

While we were waiting for her folks to get us we waited in Shannon's Landing, the little Irish pub on the airport. It's got a real southside, blue collar Irish feel to it. They serve really good beer (Guiness, PBR, Coors Light, Leinie's and others), awesome bar food, it's really smoky and there's Sox stuff all over the walls. Grady would be in heaven. Actually, it's heaven for me too, because it's on the 2nd floor of one of the airport buildings and faces the runway. So while I sipped a Smithwicks (good stuff by the way) I was able to watch planes take off and land.

When her folks arrived, I slammed the remainder of my Smithwick's, we hopped in the car and off we went to White Fence Farm--home of what can only be described as the most amazing fried chicken dinner in the world. Turns out the place is owned by Dennis Hastert's family. I think this explains some of Denny's girth. Not only do they give you a giant plate of incredible fried chicken, but a choice of potato and all the corn fritters you can eat. I went mental on account of the fritters and bloated myself. It was a sleepy car ride back to Ma and Pa V's. Before I left though, I said goodbye to Speaker Hastert's 90 something year old mother, Doris, who still greets you when you come in the front door. She really is a sweet old lady . . . yes, Marty, despite being a Republican. Of course I didn't ask her, so I don't know that for sure. For all I know she might be a die-hard Dem that raps Denny on the knuckles to this day for giving that "nice young man from Little Rock" such a hard time. Who knows? All I know is she is the patron saint of delectable fried chicken from now on.

Today we went to my future brother-in-law's church for the baptism of his infant daughter--a stark contrast to yesterday's ceremony. She's a little cutie that was born about a month ago. Afterward there was a nice dinner for all the family members out in the lobby. I got to meet a bunch of my future in-laws and I can say, I'm in for a good time. They are a lively, big-hearted bunch. I'm not saying they're all perfect, but I don't forsee any problems sitting across the Thanksgiving table from any of them. It's also clear they love Laurie a lot, so getting the warm welcome that I did today can only be a good thing. If they didn't like me, I have a feeling it wouldn't have taken long to find out.

After the baptism festivities it was back to casa Vanderwall for a little nappy time. After that it was a cup of coffee with the folks and off to the airport. I said goodbye to Laurie and flew off into the sunset . . . literally. It was a gorgeous flight back. I decided to stay down around 2,500 and just enjoy the scenery. You can see so much detail at that altitude. It reminds me a lot of Sim City. Right before I got back to Champaign, the setting sun ducked behind some high cirrus leaving everything bathed in this kind of clear, blue twighlight. Most surreal, but very, very cool. Flying definitely doesn't suck.

Turn the Page

It's been bugging me for some time now. This gnawing hunger for intellectual meat. I fear I've not only allowed myself to grow soft around the middle lately, but soft around the ears as well. Listening to mo+o reminiscing about his days in Japan when he was able to devour books as he commuted back and forth to work has only made the feeling of lack more accute. It brought to mind those days before I had broadband, XBox and a DVD player. Back when I'd spend hours in front of the fireplace or on the porch or in a cafe reading Milton, CS Lewis, Tolkien, Chesterton, Saint Exupery, to drop a name or two. There's nothing stopping me for doing that now, other than a distinct lack of discipline. I think its time to pick up the weights again.

I can think of no better time to start than this weekend either. Autumn is always a contemplative time for me. Just something about the crisp air, ice blue skies and longer shadows that seems to make you stop and go, "Hmm." I'm going up to see Laurie this weekend. Thankfully I've got a lady that likes to read as much I do (or did). Maybe I can con her into holing up at the Muse or Starbucks so I can dive back into some partially read books on my shelves. But where to start? Maybe while I'm sorting it out, I can finally get past that giant zombie in Far Cry.

Flick-o-Meter

At Moto's urging I've added a Flick-o-Meter to the sidebar that gives my rating for films I've recently seen. I'm using the proven somethingburning.us x/5 rating system, which I assume is "open source" and free to use. I hope Tolemite doesn't mind. As you'll see, each film title is linked to it's corresponding IMDB page should you care to see what all the hub bub's about. I wanted to use rottentomatoes, but I don't think their database is as extensive. Plus, IMDB's about as objective as you can get.

For what it's worth . . .

Mamet Gets It

It's rare that I post twice in the same day, but I just finished watching David Mamet's Spartan again for the third or fourth time. It has always been one of my favorite films but it just got shot up the list even further. Actually it's my esteem for Mamet that is even greater. Why?

I've always liked the film because the writing and action scenes, like real life, don't wait around for you to catch up. It assumes you're as smart or smarter than it is and can keep up without back story or stupid dialogue where characters, that maybe are supposed to be elite soldiers, suddenly feel the need to ask if a regularly used acronym in their lexicon really means what it does so the "stupid" audience understands. It makes my teeth hurt.

So, as I'm watching one of the final scenes, that is supposed to be taking place in an aircraft hangar in Dubai, I noticed something--or the lack of something I should say. In every instance that an airplane appeared in the background, the tail registration is either blurred out of focus or hidden from view by the frame or a prop. That's because the hangar was really in L.A. and all the airplanes had American registration numbers. Mamet obviously holds his audience in high enough regard to assume they might be savvy enough to notice an American "N" number in a hangar that's supposed to be in Dubai.

Very cool.

Crichton, Climate Change and Congress

I just came across this rather interesting address delivered last week by Michael Crichton to the Senate Committee on Environment and Public Works. In it he makes a rather compelling case that much of the climate research today is dangerously biased in a purely scientific sense. In other words, much of the research that has formed the basis of public policy has not been conducted using the usual protections against contaminated data that is foundational to other research, like drug effectiveness studies. I've heard Crichton speak about this before when he was promoting his novel State of Fear. If memory serves, the book was about the use of "junk science" in climate change research to manipulate public policy--admittedly a more distinct point of view than Crichton communicates in this address. While we may have differing opinions about global warming, it's extent and it's causes, I don't think anyone could argue against some of the research improvements Crichton advocates here.

Here's the link.

First Solo Flight in the X485

I can drive his Escalade. I can drive his SSR. When he had Harleys I could ride those. I was even allowed to drive his 390hp '55 Chevy when he had it. But I have never, ever, even when I asked nicely, been allowed to drive one of the John Deere lawn mowers my father has owned--until this weekend.

The rig he has now is a John Deere X485--a designation that I'm sure has significance to anyone who's a John Deere mower fan, but is lost on me entirely. Much as, I'm sure, JRX-S is lost on everyone but the 5 guys who actually bought one. But I digress. This little hot rod has 4-wheel steering, a 50 - 60 inch mowing deck and cruise control. Yes, I said cruise control. Apparently it's so you can set it at the precise speed for the best cut. Of course it's got all the other bells and whistles like pedal-controlled hydrostatic drive, a hydraulic control for raising and lowering the mowing deck and hydraulic valves for any accessories he might want to add like a snow plow.

I really have no idea why he's waited this long to let me drive one of his Deeres. All I know is I felt a little like I did on my first solo flight. Chills ran up and down my spine as I merrily mowed row after row of the Big Guy's huge 2 acre lot with hydrostatic, cruise controlled, four-wheel steering precision. Now that I think about it. This whole thing was probably some bizarre 5-year setup to get me to actually want to mow his lawn for him. I wouldn't put it past my father. He's as patient as he is cunning. He may have actually hit upon a way to condition me into believing that mowing his lawn is a rare privalege. That mower really is cool, though (did I mention it has a cup holder?). I'll probably jump at the chance to mow again. What a sucker.

Oh, of course he couldn't let me drive it without letting Laurie drive it first. I'm not entirely sure she really wanted to. I think it was just more conditioning. I'm never allowed to drive the SSR unless she's with me. Just his way of making sure I bring her around more often, I guess. I have no idea. The man is capable of anything, I tell ya', but I love him (everyone together now, "Awwwww.").

Last night we met Train Guy and Mrs. Train Guy for a screening of History of Violence. Now before I say what I thought of the movie I'll give my Tolemite-inspired artistic freedom disclaimer. I Uncle Lar, realize all artists are allowed artistic freedom and that their exercise of this freedom in no way, shape or form is required to appeal to me. However, I do see this as a two-way street, especially when I'm a paying customer of said artist's work, and feel that I, despite my lack of artistic credentials, am as free to criticize as he/she/heshe is to create. Now, about the movie.

I liked it. It was tight, well written and really conveyed the sense of dread and anger it's main character struggled with. Maria Bello and Viggo worked well together. The son character was written a little too whiny I think, but portrayed well by the actor playing him. The knockout supporting cast, which included Ed Harris and William Hurt, was fantastic. It was just cool to see William Hurt in a movie again and he owns every second of his cameo in this one. The only other problem I had with the movie was, what I can only assume is, the director's apparent belief that I have no imagination of my own.

Example. In one scene the hero puts a bullet into the head of an attacker. You see the bullet blast through the top of the guy's head and then the camera cuts away. Good enough for me. I just saw a .45 discharged at the top of his cranium and the resultant bullet hole. I get it. He's dead. But Cronenberg apparently felt it necessary to return to the dead guy and linger on the grisly damage done to the rest of his visage as a result of his .45 caliber lobotomy. There were several other scenes like this where I kinda' felt like the violence and/or sex was just a bit more than the story really needed.

In fact, at a couple of points in the movie people left. It was kind of comical when the second couple left. I don't think the guy knew his wife was leaving. I just saw her get up and bolt for the exit. He sat there for a second or two watching the screen then turned to his wife who wasn't there. He was kind of bewildered until he spotted her halfway to the door, then he jumped up and tried to catch up with her. I'll admit I sympathized with them some. Despite the title of the film, I don't think the marketing for it really indicates the violence (or sex) would be as graphic as it is. I suspected it might be though, as I have seen bits of Cronenberg's Dead Ringers. A very disturbing film about twin gynecologists played by Jeremy Irons. It was a bit much for me.

Still, I don't want to give the impression this film is all sex and violence. What violence there is, while graphic, is clearly shown to have consequences beyond just the immediate carnage. Unlike some films where the hero can gun down twenty guys in one scene and there's no reflection on, or even mention of, what happened the rest of the movie. This is why I had an easier time with it, I think, even though I felt it was excessive. The sex, however, as in most movies, was still pretty pointless. I guess the argument could be made that one of the scenes underscored the rather similar natures of Viggo and his wife. But I'll leave it at that.

Time to hit "publish" and unpack.