flight cancelled... *sniff*

There it was... my hopes and dreams, smashed. My love, my hate, my one and only goal, cast aside like the Qur'an in Guantanamo Bay. I shall never be the same.

We had to cancel our flight last Sunday.

That's right... Mork and Mindy were shocked, dismayed, flabbergasted. But alas, the temperature would have peaked out at 97 degrees while we were taxiing out, 140 percent humidity, a 3000 ft. density altitude, and a tiny, fully loaded airplane with no air conditioning, resulting in three very, very sweaty in-laws. Mork (jarhead, for the Ex-Coastie) would have probably blown chunks halfway through it, anyway, and I didn't pack any sicksacs.

So it's just as well... I had made my third legitimate no-go decision by Saturday, and although it doesn't numb the overwhelming pain of defeat-by-nature, it was the right thing to do. 737GC, turns out, is a bit heavier than 9LK, albeit has a nice new paint job. That puts 3 people with 20lbs of baggage just a hair outside the moment envelope, and I hate taking out fuel.

So we have to reschedule. With 9LK. Damn you Global Warming!!! And curse those 10% of scientists out there who say it isn't happening, too. It ruined my joyride.

That's all I have to say about... that.

dfb

stick a fork in me

It's official... my wife and I have a new baby.

We're not talking spectacular here, but from a former TV salesman's perspective, it's a beast. I finally convinced the wife (she's always the banker in "Monopoly") to let me upgrade our 27" panel-decorated tube, where even the labels on the back were written in Cuneiform, and while it was whurring the room was "electric" by the enormous amount of static discharge (it did purify the air) emitted from the electronics. When Braun first envisioned the CRT, this was one of the mutant by-products. If it ever exploded, it would create a singularity and we would all be sucked in.

Needless to say, I was justified in getting a new TV.

It's a beauty. It gets no less than 4 stars in any online criticism. The only downside is that it has depth, but God Bless Panasonic for tapering it perfectly for a corner setting. It's angle viewing is (from experience) better than any Sony big screen out there, short of a plasma or LCD. 2-tuner split screen, widescreen, high-definition 47" diagonal (followed by a hefty Tim Taylor grunt-oh, oh, oh...).

It's a CRT projection--the new kind--so it'll last 15 years, whereas plasma's still up in the air (we saw some last a month before they'd fry), and LCD is too durn expensive. So, rather than wait for the OLEDs to come out, we decided to see what strings were left for the pullin' at good old Circuit City, and we found a freakin' suspension bridge.

God Bless you Dan, floor sales manager. We walked away with a TV that was worth $1500 by itself, and we got it with a 2-year protection plan (the most valuable thing is that it replaces the $200 remote... but the in-home servicing is nice), a new DVD player, and a couple of other components for a little over $1200. Beats the $5,000 for the Plasma that I wanted, that's for sure. God Bless you, Dan.

Final result: Nah-nah nah-nah boo-boo! I have a Big-Screen!

Okay okay okay, I get it. I'm just very happy for the new Baby, that's all. Hey, it would be worse if I took it for granted, right? I'm not gloating. I'm justified.

I don't want to hear anymore about it. So there.

Ahem.

dfb


(oh, sure, like you wouldn't get one if you could)

sunday afternoon comin' down

So, Sunday afternoon I'm taking two of my in-laws flying. More specifically: my wife's brother and his wife, who I'll call Mork and Mindy. My wife is staying behind (she's working), and I suspect it is so that one of us can continue the family in the event that my other brother (not Ben) has failed to do his duty of properly maintaining the avionics in 737GC--the Skyhawk at Tri-State Aero--resulting in the unfortunate but inevitable "flaming glider of death."

Now I'm faced with a predicament. Should I give them a cross-country to some golf-course runway in the middle of Kentucky, or should I just give them a sight-seeing tour of scenic Southern Indiana (if you consider flat squares to be scenic)? I'm thinking something in between, involving a short c/c with a potty break, and keeping in the flat-square scenery. Whatever the case, there aren't any parachutes, so no screwing around. *sniff*

My passengers?
Mork is a veteran Marine who I'm sure has parachuted from an F-18 (or large egg-shaped space capsule?) at Mock 4, as I hear they do in the Marines, but down-to-earth-Mindy seems scared witless about the entire idea. I think I'll have her sit right-seat while Mork rides in the back, first time around. Still gotta finish the weight & balance calculations, though. I plan to use the POH when we get there, but I want to have a rough idea about the moment envelope and whatnot. Is it true that you should always add 10 pounds to how much women tell you they weigh? Mork's 175, but Mindy claims to be 125. So 135? We shall see...

(This idea came about when I attempted to coerce Mindy into bungee-jumping with me, but when she was petrified at the thought, I opted for her more amiable sister. I then proceeded to play on sibling rivalry and convince Mindy that her sister had effectively "one-upped" her, hence the imminent wind beneath our wings...)

dfb

there is no such thing as a ‘mental health expert’

Anything that messes with your mind with a wrap-around story, makes you pity the weak while encouraging that you beat them to a pulp, and ends with "The Pixies" and makes sense deserves to have its own blog entry (or two).

How can anybody not relate to Tyler Durden? His personality is the most "colorful" that can ever be invented. His philosophy: pure anarchy and capitalistic breakdown leading to a perfect hunter-gatherer society is NOT a Utopia; we just have to suck it up and do it. Hmmm... but DVDs and sofas and Big Screen TVs are nice... what else is there in life?

"You are not the car you drive."
Crap, I have a nice car.
"You are not your job."
THAT'S a relief.
"We are the all-singing all-dancing crap of the world. We are all part of the same compost heap."
Poetic... we are all food for worms?
"The next time you feel like complaining to your chaplain or your lover about how miserable your life is, be thankful you are not cursed with the three terrible Karmas - Beauty, Riches, and Fame."
Rich man, camel, eye of the needle? Gotchya.
"This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time."
Seize the day!
"...I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let... lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may."
Sometimes I go without shaving.
"Its not until you've lost everything that you are free to do anything."
You are not the car you--wait, not my quote.
"Oxygen gets you high. In a catastrophic emergency, you're taking giant panicked breaths. Suddenly you become euphoric, docile. You accept your fate. It's all right here. Emergency water landing - 600 miles an hour. Blank faces, calm as Hindu cows."
And so I became a pilot!

I wonder if it would be inappropriate to hang a Fight Club poster in my office...

Thank you Tyler. Thank you for contributing to that part of my persona.

dfb

catch me if you can

Good morning all... welcome to another wild ride on the Dead Flyboy Express. Please check that all seat backs and tray tables are in their upright and locked positions and remain seated as we taxi to the runway...
I would make a great airline captain. And fun, too. My fantasy is flying a 737 past some landmark, then saying over the loudspeaker, "Passengers, on the left side of the plane you will see the national treasure of Mount Rushmore..." Then hesitate for a moment or two, then bank the plane hard left and say "Wait, not everybody at once!!!"

*sigh* Hey, if you work for the personnel department at Southwest--my resume's out there. :)

So my old friend "Jules" found me on Google. Apparently, you can type in my name and up comes my workplace's website with my email address and contact information as the first result. How nice, especially for all those people who have my name on their "list of people to kill." (I have a few of those lists myself.) It's like when you used to Google "Satan" and the first result was Microsoft. Initially I was worried about this new, convenient way to locate me, as I cannot seem to make it work for anyone I know except Meg, but further consideration led me to a new realization: Good Lord, there is a search engine where people can look up my name and find out where I live and my email address. That's almost as bad as publishing a large, yellow-covered document with names, addresses, and phone numbers! Oh the humanity!

So, needless to say, I stopped freaking that people would be able to find out where I am just by knowing my name. This isn't a new thing--the guys that want my head on a pike have had the white pages for years...

So why doesn't that comfort me?

dfb

aviation cure-all

As a commercial pilot without a job, I know first-hand how frightened people are of flying. Most of this is based on misinformation: people generally don't understand the physics involved, and are fed by propagating media reports about the occasional incident or accident, thus they fear "them wind-powered people-movers."

First off, let's decipher those. An incident is an unexpected occurrence that damages persons and/or property involving an airplane without the intention of flight. You guessed it, an accident is something that occurs with the intention of flight, with damage to persons or property. In flight school--and this is the truth--we were taught that a person can approach you to ask for a flight. As a commercial pilot, you agree. The person walks out to the airplane and hits his (stupid) head on the flap while boarding, then needs stitches, but the doctor decides to keep him for observation overnight to collect some insurance and rule out that he didn't get anthrax, herpes, flesh-eating bacteria, or testicular cancer from the white paint on his forehead. You have officially been involved in an aviation accident: Damage to persons or property, involving an airplane, with the intent to fly.

Same scenario, but the moron wasn't going with you and you weren't headed for the runway: an aviation incident. If you decided to taxi your airplane from a tie-down to the hangar, then inadvertently crashed into the hangar and sent explosions rocketing through the twelve Leer jets parked nearby, causing hundreds of millions in damage, you've officially been involved in an "incident," and the media is never the wiser. But good God they will report all over those stitches.

I illustrate this because the average frightened citizen can Google the number of airplane accidents in a given period of time, and come up with a really big number. They don't realize that aviation adheres to such strict guidelines that almost any stupid act can fall into that category.

I was watching the news a while back, and my local station (Evansville, Indiana) decided to report on an airplane in FLORIDA that took off, then smoke filled the cockpit from some engine/exhaust malfunction. The pilot made an emergency landing that shoved the nose gear up into the cowling, but everybody was fine. The idiot reporter was standing at the airport in the middle of Highway 41 traffic with drivers of cars and trucks wizzing by while talking on their cellphones, changing the radio station, and steering with their knee. He was saying things like "Well, that was a dangerous situation," and "What can we do to avoid these disastors in the future?" I prayed that someone would at least clip him with a sideview mirror.

And Joe Passenger, who was just about to buy a ticket to see his mother in California--the ticket that would tilt the scales and open up the industry just enough for me to get a freakin' job at Southwest--logs off Expedia with frantic mouse-clicks in sheer terror, and grabs the keys to his 10-mile-per-gallon Expedition instead.

Thanks again, Fox News.

This sort of thing happens on an almost weekly basis nationwide. Worst-case: the pilot and passengers die. Oooh... "Three people in Kentucky are now dead," the newscast would announce, while five of the people who stop to watch it are plowed over by drunk teenagers who jump the curb. "Flying is dangerous." "Why isn't the FAA stricter?" "Someone died somewhere when a shark bit them while they were dangling bloody fish bait... this just in, there was an airplane in the vicinity."

Did you know, that on a worldwide scale, you are more likely to be involved in a terrorist attack then in an airplane accident? Of course, that wasn't the case before Bush, but nonetheless it is now. He could be just what I need!

Here are my solutions to all of this, and the media would do well to pay attention when it happens:
Solution 1:
There is actually a type of construction that has been used with storage compartments, also known as the baggage compartments in the back of large aircraft, that is literally bomb-proof. Where the cheaper, slightly lighter construction used now is completely shattered when an explosive goes off, this newer option simply inflates and contains the blast without destroying the airplane. Weigh the cost of the extra weight (a few hundred pounds) and the price of the new construction against all the security measures in place now for preventing a bomb from boarding an aircraft. Hmmm... ride in a plane that blows into tiny bits at FL300 (that's 30,000 feet based on the standard altimeter setting) every time a terrorist gets his luggage past the fat security lady who's pawing through your bag of undies, but pay a penny less for your ticket; or ride in a plane in the same situation that only "shudders" when the bomb goes off, pay a penny more for your ticket, and pay 5 cents less because bags won't have to be scanned or inspected. Hmmm...

Solution 2:
Ballistic Recovery Systems. These are huge parachutes that are currently only available for small aircraft. Click here to read an article about how it saved a pilot from a flat spin, which is nigh unrecoverable in any situation. (it's what caused Maverick and Goose to eject in Top Gun, and, *sniff*, why Goose died that terrible death)
BRS is working with NASA to find a way to slow and save a 747 traveling at 600 knots. What's brilliant about the BRS is that you don't have to have a stalled or damaged airplane to use it. If you're plane is flying ball-to-the-walls full throttle, straight-and-level, in full control, and then some foreigner or idiot redneck comes bursting into the cockpit with a pair of tweezers and a nail file, you can reach down, yank the red lever, and sit back at ease. The airplane will fire out a high-tension parachute from a cannon-like mechanism, then will actually slow the full-throttle plane down to a crawl. Even if the terrorist tweezes you to death, they won't be able to do anything about the parachute. No matter what happens, the airplane with float to the ground. It is rendered "unflyable," and with good reason. Take that scenario, and add it to all the other instances that an airplane's engine can't be turned off or falls out of control, and you've got a lot of weight on the side of the BRS. It should be included on every airplane. The 747 shouldn't have been built without one, but geez, that would have added a couple hundred thousand dollars to the cost of these quarter-billion dollar aircraft... that would have taken... goodness, a whole two weeks to pay itself off!

Here's a challenge: start an airline that doesn't have airplanes with nice DVD players or snacks of any sort. Just stock it with 737's or even Canada Jets that have bomb-proof luggage compartments and ballistic recovery systems, then advertise it. Guarantee to passengers that it is the safest airline in the world, and back it up with a few demonstrations. I'd buy a few shares in that company. Dear God, I'd feel safe if a 14-year-old was flying the thing, knowing that all they had to do was pull the "panic" lever and everything would be alright.

But instead, a stupid doctor with a private pilot's license does a 180 on takeoff in Florida, and the people of Evansville, IN are terrified of these "death machines from above."

That's as ridiculous as scrambling F-18's when a $20,000 Cessna 150 stumbles into Washington, DC airspace. The thing was traveling about 90 miles per hour. The F-18's couldn't even slow down enough to signal to the pilot without stalling, but they were damn sure gonna start up a panic in DC and all over the headlines. One ultra-conservative idiot congressman even said that they should have been shot down to set an example.

The Moral:
Airlines are stupid for not using Ballistic Recovery devices. They are also stupid for not using blast-proof luggage compartments.
The Media is stupid because, well, God made it that way.
The people are stupid because they don't care enough to learn anything, but care enough to believe any propaganda when it's flashed in front of them. (see previous article "what, the media, conflicting? no!")

The Conclusion:
I hate everything that isn't ME.

dfb

short skirts and long jackets

Remember those days when Cake, Radiohead, Bjork and all sorts of punk rock dominated the airwaves? Remember? No, you don't remember, because they were never on the airwaves. Tough luck, too, because I listened to that music obsessively when I lived in Tennessee. I also partied harty and sat daily in the ornate chairs of a downtown coffeeshop called GreyFriars, spent day and night contemplating my own existence (mental masturbation), and running wild throughout Old Chattanooga. Of course, those were also the days that my padres were paying my rent, my insurance, and even providing me a monthly allowance for doing nothing. (somebody say, spoiled?)

This raises the question: Would I have such fond memories of my 22-month romp in the south, had I a job at the time? Would anyone else in similar circumstances? Consider this: I initially moved to Chattanooga for the purpose of attending Neuromuscular Massage Therapy School. The premise was that it comprised part of my education, so my parents agreed to fit the bill (spoiled). That meant everything, including a nice, upscale apartment, all of my utilities and phone bills, all of my furniture, my car, my insurance, EVERYTHING! This lasted for 12 months, from start to finish, for the entire time I was enrolled in the Tennessee Institute of Healing Arts.

After graduation, I started dating a girl and hence refused to leave her and my many friends in the South. Yet my parents, with all of the best intentions, insisted on paying my way through it all. So I moved downtown. I was less than a block from Coolidge Park. My apartment was really more of a duplex that was shared by my roommate, Scott, and it was located on top of a beautiful, sloping hill that overlooked the entire downtown waterfront. I still remember it as if it was almost paradise, and it almost was.
It should go without saying that every time I revisited my Indiana roots, they looked less and less appealing compared to the phenomenal lifestyle available in Tennessee. Meghan O'Hara (for you blog history buffs out there... yes, the Meghan O'Hara from the famous original Squirrel Bait blog-to-begin-all-blogs) would even cook for me with true culinary skill when I was juicing my colon with too many tasty-greasy Krystal burgers. In fact, she managed to take care of me any time I needed the lift, so I must attribute a significant amount of my "fun" to her tremendous hospitality. (luvya Meg!)

I would sit on the GreyFriars sidewalk with Meg and all of my friends (some whose names I never even learned or have since forgotten) for hours on end, while Scott, who happened to be employed at this fine establishment, would hook me up with the best coffee available (Celebes... order a half-pound of beans from RareCoffee.com... you will be amazed). By the way, Scott's employment here was no coincidence. When I decided to stay in the city, I literally stood up at the coffee shop and asked if there was anybody who needed a roommate. Scott was working, and answered immediately with a "yes, can you afford [this much]?" Of course I could, Scott, my parents were loaded!

So, the downtown life reached a new pinnacle with the new, perfect location. I would have all day to plan my evening. I would have no deadlines, no alarm clocks, no limitations whatsoever.

It was, literally, an all-expenses-paid vacation for two straight years.

Now, imagine if my parents hadn't spoiled me for two years straight:
Not so much free time, still, nothing to lose because of the distance from home, which is a true helping of freedom, I must admit. So 30+ hours a week I was working... that leaves at least 8 full hours a day that I could have spent screwing around with my downtown friends. Afford the car? Likely... it was completely paid off and all I needed was cheap insurance. Afford the apartment? Probably still, with the 50/50 cut of a roommate still applying. Afford the coffee? Um...

So, a few of the extracurricular activities would have been muted, big deal. It seems, from my perspective, that the time spent in Chatty was inevitably time well spent, give or take a little character that could have been gained from some added responsibility.

This means that the answer is a decisive yes. Scott, Meghan, Jason, Ardyce, Brian, Wade, Missy, Jenny and the whole rest of the gang in that town would have still been integral parts of the downtown lifestyle, and inevitably would have made (as they did) the entire experience a lifetime keeper. My Linux Guru brother should be mentioned as my first roommate in the first apartment, but, well, nah. Hehe...

So, if you're ever available for a year or two, I suggest investing the time in Downtown Chattanooga, TN. From my experience (and from my brother's--don't let him fool you), it can only result in gratification.

Oh, and how did the Neuromuscular Massage Therapy career end? I went to commercial flight school, graduated, and became a Seminar Representative at Trinity College of the Bible in Southern Indiana.

Go figure.

dfb

slackin'

Yeah I'm slackin'. I've decided that there must be some methodical way to slack my way through life. Any suggestions? The wife wants a baby... and it exhausts me just to think about it. Hence the slack. From Yoda's perspective: Marriage leads to baby, baby leads to diapers, diapers lead to suffering...

I mean, hey, we have a dog. The houseplants keep dying, so I think that before we bring forth another from the beyond, we'd better be able to keep the dachsund alive for at least a few months longer. That argument doesn't fly with the missuss, though. Where I think "let's have fun now, while we're young!"; she thinks "let's have babies now, and DIE before we ever have fun again! Mwahahahaha!!!"

Okay maybe not quite so dramatic, but to her, "baby" equals "fun" equals "happy family." To me, "baby" equals "disproportionate monster that poops without warning" equals "screams too much in public so family stays home and leads collective existence in misery until retirement."

Yes, I know that babies are cute. My beotch brother has a cute baby. He also had the right number of Wisdom Teeth, while I was graced with two or three "bonus" molars that were graciously ripped out at the oral surgeon's. Needless to say, while his kids are cute, I have a pretty good idea that my kid will be such a hideous radioactively-conceived Quasimodo bell-ringer that people won't even be able to fake a "coochie-coo" when they see it. My kid will be flatulent. Snotty. Rude. I expect it to pass gas instead of start crying when the doctor smacks it, then follow with a snicker reminiscent of a Chucky doll. (You reading this Flyboy Jr.? Remember the pain your father endured even BEFORE you were conceived! Remember when Daddy retires!!!) Yeah, like my kid'll ever claim me as a parent.

So I'm slackin'. Even the thought of children exhausts me. "Slack. Slack. Slack."

Next message: The inevitable spawn.

dfb