Howdy. I aborted a takeoff for the first time yesterday. I know. I’m still excited. The magneto check was good on run-up, but the Piper Arrow’s engine just didn’t sound right. Also, we weren’t getting the acceleration that I had expected on a cold day with two people and half tanks. The mechanic met us on the ramp. He had heard the burping engine and seen our aborted takeoff. Having just finished a 100 hour inspection on that plane, he prodded around the engine compartment wondering what he might have missed. He told me later that they had to replace multiple spark plugs. I still haven’t figured out how they got fouled between the inspection and our flight. It was a cold, dense, day; hardly a day where you would expect to foul plugs with the mixture too rich on the ground.
“Someone told me that you start flying with a bag full of luck and an empty bag for experience. The trick is to fill up the bag of experience before you run out of luck,” my student relayed as we walked away from the sick Arrow. He was glad to have experienced an actual aborted takeoff, he said. I was too.
I got some interesting news after working my penultimate desk shift today. It pertained to a newly purchased airplane that I ferried from Mobile, Alabama to Kansas City a couple days before Thanksgiving.
Prior to taking off on the ferry trip, the weather briefer informed me that large embedded thunderstorms made a direct route wildly inadvisable. However, if we proceeded north to St. Louis and then west to Kansas City, we could avoid the storms. The ceilings were in the 2000-3000 foot range over most of the route and the tops were super high (as judged by a bonanza pilot). The freezing level was up around 8000 though, so I figured the trip to be completely doable.
The vintage Bonanza had just come out of annual inspection and instrument certification. Before our departure, the mechanic who signed off on the annual inspection assured the new owner and me that he had no connection to the airplane’s previous owner and that everything looked very solid.
As we took off, I was reminded of why I (and so many others) put Bonanzas in a special category. This bird handled and performed like a dream as we picked our way through a line of precipitation north of Mobile. Once we were clear of the precip, we popped in and out of clouds until making a visual approach and landing near Columbus, Mississippi. At least this guy didn’t want to pee in a bottle.
Checking the weather in Columbus, our “north to St. Louis, then west to KC” plan was still the only option due to storms in Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and even southern Kansas. We might have been able to cut northwest through Missouri, but Saint Louis had an enticing bonus in that my sister lives there. If the storms in southern Kansas moved into KC, we could just camp out with her and still have a decent Thanksgiving dinner. Ceilings at Spirit of St. Louis airport were only 300 feet, but St. Louis Downtown was calling 1200 feet, so we blasted off again. As we tracked direct to St. Louis, watching the lightning off to our west, I noticed that I was having to reset the heading indicator pretty darn often. The vacuum gauge showed a slightly anemic 4.3 inches of Mercury (in. HG). Normally you want it in the 4.8-5.2 range. Everything was still working though.
As we neared St. Louis, we were in the clouds at 6000 feet. I checked the ATIS weather broadcasts for the area and SUS was still calling 300 feet. I leafed through the Missouri approach plates in search of an approach for the downtown airport. It was conspicuously missing. It occurred to me (way too late) that St. Louis is on the state line. The downtown airport fell on the wrong side and I didn’t have the Illinois approach charts. Lesson learned. I figured at that point that we would shoot the ILS at SUS and if we missed, we would ask for ATC to help us get into downtown.
I hand flew a beautiful ILS to minimums at SUS, if I may say so myself. Even the landing was a humdinger. I think my non-instrument-rated passenger thought I was some sort of voodoo doctor for finding the runway through those dark clouds. I really thought he was going to hug me. I was glad he didn’t.
After a lovely microwave dinner from the vending machine and a check of the radar which looked good, we hoisted ourselves back into the old V-Tail and headed west. The vacuum gauge still showed about 4.3 and the heading indicator still precessed at a rate which bore extra attention. The air across Missouri was smooth, though, and I hand flew the whole way, relishing the chance to practice.
Then, as soon as we received our initial descent from Kansas City approach control, the weather took a turn for the worse. It started raining and we experienced what I would call very heavy turbulence. It was all I could do to hold heading and altitude. The time between our handoff to airport advisory frequency and our reaching the final approach fix felt like an eternity. I wonder how being in the clouds in heavy turbulence compares to being on a boat at night in rough seas. About an hour after we landed, Kansas City experienced a strange phenomenon known as “Thunder Snow.”
So what did I find out about this airplane today? Well, for starters, the alternator belt on the airplane was not the right one. During the course of the flight it had flipped so that the flat side (instead of the curved side) was in the pulleys’ grooves. It bore signs of imminent failure. Also, as you have probably guessed, the vacuum system was completely screwed up; hoses attached incorrectly and others left off altogether. The mechanic explained to me that the regulator setting that he found on this plane would give a normal system something like 9 in. HG. It was working that hard to give me less than half of that. Individually, an electrical system or a vacuum system failure in the clouds presents a fairly dire emergency. The combination of the two would most likely be insurmountable.
The plane’s new owner has apparently sent letters to the previous owner, the incompetent, if allegedly unaffiliated mechanic, and the FAA. I’m sure a lawsuit will ensue. Yeehaw.
Thinking about the whole situation makes me extremely appreciative of the fact that I’ll soon be starting a position where I’ll be flying one airplane, the maintenance history of which I will be quite familiar. Flying a bunch of random airplanes all the time is exciting, but it requires more faith than I have anymore… I just made a big withdrawal from my bag o' luck.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Friday, December 17, 2004
12-15-04
Howdy. I know. I’ve missed you too. I flew up to Pella, Iowa this morning with one of my students and a couple of his colleagues. They’re setting up a giant sales meeting for the Pella Window people. Our first stop, after arriving in this contender for “America’s Most Perfect Little Town” was at the bed and breakfast where the two event planner ladies are staying. I’d had a premonition en-route that this was going to be the sort of town where home-baked pie could be considered an eventuality. My intuition was confirmed as soon as we opened the unlocked door to the B&B. The unmistakable aroma of fresh baked apple pie spilled out of the kitchen and filled the picturesque little house. I munched off of the cheese and sausage tray as the girls gave us a tour. Most homes aren’t as homey as this place was.
Ashley would have loved it.
I’m at the “Smokey Row” café listening to Dolly Parton singing “Jingle Bells” and looking out the big windows at a town square reminiscent of “Groundhog’s Day” with Bill Murray. Actually, this whole town is a perfect cross between that movie and “Gross Point Blank” with John Cusack. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and it will be today again except I’ll be an assassin who is back in town for my high school reunion. Looking out the window, it seems entirely possible. Pella is a hyperbole of the small, conservative, town in the Midwest.
“Last time I was here, they were playing church music at the tanning salon…on Saturday!” Tina said. She’s one of the event planner ladies. This comment echoed in my head as I checked out the magazine rack at the Downtown Bookshop. I couldn’t help but noticing the interesting juxtaposition of “Out” magazine just above “Home-Schooling Digest” on the rack. One stop shopping for the latently homosexual isolationist who wants to stay up to date on notable gays and how to “protect” their kids from them.
I walked here from the Royal Amsterdam Hotel, where Jeremy and I are staying. You might guess that calling it “The Royal Amsterdam” is a creative way for the owners to make a shitty hotel seem glamorous in travel brochures, but it really is as elegant as it sounds. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a room with pillars before. I’ll be staying in a lot of motels in the near future, but I’m guessing that none of them will have pillars in the room or marble window sills. How do I know? I got a new job!
I found out last Friday that I will be leaving in a few weeks to fly a Cessna 172 for an aerial imaging company. I’ll be making aerial maps of different counties; staying in one place for a couple of weeks and then moving on. I’m told that I’ll start in Florida or Texas. When I saw the ad on www.climbto350.com , I knew it was just the sort of nomadic adventure I’ve been longing for since, well, since I was about twelve. I can’t wait. The pay is decent and I’ll be receiving a per diem to cover the motel and rental car. The plan is to save up money while building total time so that by 1200 hours, I’ll be able to buy enough multi-engine time to get on with an airline or cargo operation.
On the down side, I’ll have no scheduled days off which means that I’ll not be able to come home at all. My days off will be brought to me by poor weather. This being the case, and taking into consideration the erratic schedules of pilots in general, Ashley and I have decided to go our separate ways. I’ll always have special memories of our ten and a half months together and hold her in the highest regard, but it became apparent that we weren’t going to make each other happy in the long term. So it goes.
I just had a long conversation with a stranger at the next table. He was on a soda date with his son. The Smokey Row actually has an old style soda fountain. I commented on how Norman Rockwell this town appears to be. I was literally weirded out by his response because it echoed so many of the things I had just written.
“One of the reasons we moved here is because it is such a religious community. Family is very important to us and we’re very close to Christ.”
“We home-school."
“ There is a Tulip Festival here every May where everyone dresses up in Dutch costumes and there are parades and music and…” and Phil the groundhog, I thought.
I told him I was a pilot and just in town for the night. He perked up and told me he was a pilot too.
“What do you fly?” I asked
“Oh, I don’t anymore,” he admitted. “I take pictures for online virtual home tours for real estate agents. I went to flight school but then there were no jobs and I was starting a family…”
Aside from the Jesus sales pitch and the home-schooling mumbo jumbo, I feel like I just met the version of me from an alternate universe where I didn’t take this job, got married, got a normal job, and manufactured a couple kids.
Ashley would have loved this place.
Ashley would have loved it.
I’m at the “Smokey Row” café listening to Dolly Parton singing “Jingle Bells” and looking out the big windows at a town square reminiscent of “Groundhog’s Day” with Bill Murray. Actually, this whole town is a perfect cross between that movie and “Gross Point Blank” with John Cusack. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and it will be today again except I’ll be an assassin who is back in town for my high school reunion. Looking out the window, it seems entirely possible. Pella is a hyperbole of the small, conservative, town in the Midwest.
“Last time I was here, they were playing church music at the tanning salon…on Saturday!” Tina said. She’s one of the event planner ladies. This comment echoed in my head as I checked out the magazine rack at the Downtown Bookshop. I couldn’t help but noticing the interesting juxtaposition of “Out” magazine just above “Home-Schooling Digest” on the rack. One stop shopping for the latently homosexual isolationist who wants to stay up to date on notable gays and how to “protect” their kids from them.
I walked here from the Royal Amsterdam Hotel, where Jeremy and I are staying. You might guess that calling it “The Royal Amsterdam” is a creative way for the owners to make a shitty hotel seem glamorous in travel brochures, but it really is as elegant as it sounds. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a room with pillars before. I’ll be staying in a lot of motels in the near future, but I’m guessing that none of them will have pillars in the room or marble window sills. How do I know? I got a new job!
I found out last Friday that I will be leaving in a few weeks to fly a Cessna 172 for an aerial imaging company. I’ll be making aerial maps of different counties; staying in one place for a couple of weeks and then moving on. I’m told that I’ll start in Florida or Texas. When I saw the ad on www.climbto350.com , I knew it was just the sort of nomadic adventure I’ve been longing for since, well, since I was about twelve. I can’t wait. The pay is decent and I’ll be receiving a per diem to cover the motel and rental car. The plan is to save up money while building total time so that by 1200 hours, I’ll be able to buy enough multi-engine time to get on with an airline or cargo operation.
On the down side, I’ll have no scheduled days off which means that I’ll not be able to come home at all. My days off will be brought to me by poor weather. This being the case, and taking into consideration the erratic schedules of pilots in general, Ashley and I have decided to go our separate ways. I’ll always have special memories of our ten and a half months together and hold her in the highest regard, but it became apparent that we weren’t going to make each other happy in the long term. So it goes.
I just had a long conversation with a stranger at the next table. He was on a soda date with his son. The Smokey Row actually has an old style soda fountain. I commented on how Norman Rockwell this town appears to be. I was literally weirded out by his response because it echoed so many of the things I had just written.
“One of the reasons we moved here is because it is such a religious community. Family is very important to us and we’re very close to Christ.”
“We home-school."
“ There is a Tulip Festival here every May where everyone dresses up in Dutch costumes and there are parades and music and…” and Phil the groundhog, I thought.
I told him I was a pilot and just in town for the night. He perked up and told me he was a pilot too.
“What do you fly?” I asked
“Oh, I don’t anymore,” he admitted. “I take pictures for online virtual home tours for real estate agents. I went to flight school but then there were no jobs and I was starting a family…”
Aside from the Jesus sales pitch and the home-schooling mumbo jumbo, I feel like I just met the version of me from an alternate universe where I didn’t take this job, got married, got a normal job, and manufactured a couple kids.
Ashley would have loved this place.
Friday, November 19, 2004
11-19-04
Howdy. It’s raining. Thought I could use a change of scenery today, so I went on a quest for a new coffee shop. I found “Coffee Girls” on the boulevard. Ultra-hip place. It’s in an area of town where there are a lot of art and design studios, but it manages not to be pretentious. I wish it wasn’t such a long drive from the corporate, suburban, hell that I call home. I’m all for capitalism and everything, but sometimes living in a cookie cutter world of restaurants and shops and radio stations just feels oppressive to me. I find myself yearning for an experience that is unique or authentic. This place satisfies that yearning as much as any coffee shop could.
It was recently brought to my attention that in bringing all of you up to speed a couple posts ago, I carelessly omitted one of my more memorable experiences of the last few months.
So there I was (all good stories sport this preamble) working at the flight school desk. The phone rang. The woman on the other end explained that she had a friend who had recently died. Her friend had spent a significant portion of his life working at the very airport out of which I operate my meager flight instructing business. He didn’t have any family to speak of, but had been somewhat a part of the bereft caller’s family.
As she laid out the circumstances, I had an inkling of where this was all going. People don’t usually call the flight school to chat about their dead friends. I was still sort of shocked to actually hear her request. He had requested upon his passing, to have his cremated remains dispersed over the airport.
“Would there be anyone there who would be willing to do that?” she inquired.
At that moment, the “Story Value” philosophy of life took over. This philosophy, owing its roots to the great philosophers, (Frost, Blackwell, Deneault) demands that if there are two possible courses of action, I take the one that will yield the better story later. Since it became a guiding principle of my life, I have realized its immense value and wisdom.
I assented and the funeral date was set. As word got out what I was to take part in, I was amazed to discover that practically no one else would have volunteered for the position of aerial undertaker.
“It’s going to get in the airplane, you know!” was a common response. I didn’t care.
When the day finally came, I worried greatly about my ability to keep a straight face, and wondered if it was my place to do the whole “well, should we say a few words…” shtick.
We departed with the dearly departed in a plastic bag. Attached with duct tape to the cellophane coffin was a length of plastic tubing meant to guide the ashes out of the airplane and to minimize blowback. It looked like it would work.
When we got to altitude, there was a pause as we all just looked around at each other. Before long, though, the patriarch of the family opened the window and commenced the dump without saying a word. Immediately, there was evidence that maybe the plastic tube should have been a bit longer. A cloud of thin dust filled the cabin; not so much as to obscure visibility, just enough to feel in your nostrils and make your teeth feel gritty. They also seemed to be having trouble getting the ashes to flow from the bag through the tube.
“This just isn’t working that well,” they complained at one point, but kept making steady progress. Finally, the bag was empty and we began our descent. The debacle of the dumping had overshadowed the somberness of the event to the extent that when the tower advised “Wind check, 270 at 14…” I let out an overly chipper “Oh Baby!” at the prospect of getting some crosswind landing practice. The landing was a non event, even though I was kicking myself all the way down final for the “Oh Baby!” comment.
The melancholy didn’t settle in until after the family had left and I made my way to the line shack to find the dust-buster. Human ashes are of a different consistency than I had previously assumed. I had figured them to be almost entirely dust. To my surprise, the bits that clicked through the handheld vacuum as I tidied up the plane evoked kitty litter more than powdered sugar. One of the most unique, authentic, and humbling experiences of my life was when, on my way back to the line shack, I emptied the contents of the dust-buster into a 55 gallon trash barrel in the hangar.
It was recently brought to my attention that in bringing all of you up to speed a couple posts ago, I carelessly omitted one of my more memorable experiences of the last few months.
So there I was (all good stories sport this preamble) working at the flight school desk. The phone rang. The woman on the other end explained that she had a friend who had recently died. Her friend had spent a significant portion of his life working at the very airport out of which I operate my meager flight instructing business. He didn’t have any family to speak of, but had been somewhat a part of the bereft caller’s family.
As she laid out the circumstances, I had an inkling of where this was all going. People don’t usually call the flight school to chat about their dead friends. I was still sort of shocked to actually hear her request. He had requested upon his passing, to have his cremated remains dispersed over the airport.
“Would there be anyone there who would be willing to do that?” she inquired.
At that moment, the “Story Value” philosophy of life took over. This philosophy, owing its roots to the great philosophers, (Frost, Blackwell, Deneault) demands that if there are two possible courses of action, I take the one that will yield the better story later. Since it became a guiding principle of my life, I have realized its immense value and wisdom.
I assented and the funeral date was set. As word got out what I was to take part in, I was amazed to discover that practically no one else would have volunteered for the position of aerial undertaker.
“It’s going to get in the airplane, you know!” was a common response. I didn’t care.
When the day finally came, I worried greatly about my ability to keep a straight face, and wondered if it was my place to do the whole “well, should we say a few words…” shtick.
We departed with the dearly departed in a plastic bag. Attached with duct tape to the cellophane coffin was a length of plastic tubing meant to guide the ashes out of the airplane and to minimize blowback. It looked like it would work.
When we got to altitude, there was a pause as we all just looked around at each other. Before long, though, the patriarch of the family opened the window and commenced the dump without saying a word. Immediately, there was evidence that maybe the plastic tube should have been a bit longer. A cloud of thin dust filled the cabin; not so much as to obscure visibility, just enough to feel in your nostrils and make your teeth feel gritty. They also seemed to be having trouble getting the ashes to flow from the bag through the tube.
“This just isn’t working that well,” they complained at one point, but kept making steady progress. Finally, the bag was empty and we began our descent. The debacle of the dumping had overshadowed the somberness of the event to the extent that when the tower advised “Wind check, 270 at 14…” I let out an overly chipper “Oh Baby!” at the prospect of getting some crosswind landing practice. The landing was a non event, even though I was kicking myself all the way down final for the “Oh Baby!” comment.
The melancholy didn’t settle in until after the family had left and I made my way to the line shack to find the dust-buster. Human ashes are of a different consistency than I had previously assumed. I had figured them to be almost entirely dust. To my surprise, the bits that clicked through the handheld vacuum as I tidied up the plane evoked kitty litter more than powdered sugar. One of the most unique, authentic, and humbling experiences of my life was when, on my way back to the line shack, I emptied the contents of the dust-buster into a 55 gallon trash barrel in the hangar.
Monday, November 15, 2004
11-11-04
Howdy. I’m sitting here at Pizza Shoppe. To answer the question some of you are undoubtedly asking by now, no, I don’t spend any time at home. The din of an end of season party for some sort of little league group filters through the Jeff Buckley in my headphones. “We’d like to recognize Johnny for…Wade in the Fire!!, and the winner is… Wade in the Fire!!” It is a beautiful day outside; perfect day for a check ride. I just left the airport where my first private pilot candidate is in the middle of his practical examination. He’s a really sharp guy. Meteorologist. He should do fine. I sure hope he does.
Yesterday was a good day. It was the first day in probably a month where I’ve flown more or less all day. Pretty average lessons for the most part. There was an intro flight though that was kind of interesting. I’d been sort of curious about it since the gal called and scheduled with me one day when I was working the desk. She said she wanted to get her friend a birthday gift. I don’t usually take birthday flights because I don’t get paid for them and they usually don’t turn out to be serious students…..
I hate to interrupt the intro flight story, but now I’m sitting at the coffee shop open mike night listening to some monotone little high school pipsqueak droning about wishing he had the answer. I really want to tell him that the answer is not a career in music. That’s probably not a very good-citizen-like thing to do, but Jesus Christ!!! If I sounded that much like Wesley Willis, I would want someone to fucking tell me. For those of you who are unacquainted with the genius of Wesley Willis, he was a semi-retarded guy with a toy keyboard who somehow got recorded. All of his songs were non-rhyming, monotone monstrosities with a prefab percussion background courtesy of his toy keyboard. They had titles like “I Whooped Batman’s Ass” and “Rock and Roll McDonalds.” The thing that really scares me about tonight is that this squirrelly little red head has a notebook of all of his songs. He’s taking this pretty seriously. I think he’s on his fourth song. I wish I could be that prolific as a song writer. Now envision a conspicuously older gentleman sitting at a table in the middle of the room. He’s reading a menu and nodding his head with the irregular beat. Perfect.
So…Back to the intro flight….The girl who called told me that she might get her friend more lessons if she liked it, so I thought, “What the hell!” My co-worker, Greg, saw the girls’ names on my schedule, and raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Most of our customers are men. I told him that I thought they were porn industry representatives. That fantasy was immediately shattered when the happy couple moseyed into the flight school. I saw more tattoos and piercings on these two girls than I’ve seen collectively in my year and a half as a CFI. There was some deliberation as to whether the gift giver would come along on the flight. I told her she should come. She worried that she might get sick. Greg whipped out some sick sacks. I gave her a headset with an inoperative microphone and she joined us. The flight went pretty well. The birthday girl seemed to enjoy herself, even if she didn’t pick up on things too quickly. We were on final for the last landing when I remembered our passenger was incommunicado. When I looked back, she held up a barf bag like a trophy. “How did I miss that?” I wondered.
“Maybe it was the Guinness I had this morning,” she reflected walking in from the ramp.
“At the garage sale?” birthday girl asked incredulously.
“Yeah, At the garage sale.”
I ended up leaving Pizza Shoppe to fly with a random guy who just wanted to take an instructor up on his recreational flight because he hadn’t flown in a while. I was happy to have the diversion from wondering how the check ride was going. It didn’t really work out that way, though. The oral portion of the exam had gone well, and my student took off with the examiner right after me. I was distracted during the whole flight. We flew to Lawrence, Ottawa, and back to Olathe. It was half way in between Lawrence and Ottawa when I looked down and noticed that there was still ten degrees of flaps out. I just pointed down at the flap lever and left the sheepishness to the guy I was flying with. I did sort of want to slap myself in the face and tell myself to snap out of it.
Finally, we were inbound to OJC and more importantly back on executive tower frequency. Just as we were about to call the tower, I heard my student call in and request touch and goes. I knew that the examiner he was with usually did the take offs and landings at the beginning of the ride (this is opposite of how I usually structure my lessons), so I wasn’t surprised when he called back a moment later to request a full stop. I knew it was a good sign that they were still up after an hour and a half. If something had gone wrong in the pattern they would have cut it much shorter. As I taxied in, I saw My student getting a hug and a pat on the back from his dad. Amen. Hallelujah. Two for Two Baby!
Yesterday was a good day. It was the first day in probably a month where I’ve flown more or less all day. Pretty average lessons for the most part. There was an intro flight though that was kind of interesting. I’d been sort of curious about it since the gal called and scheduled with me one day when I was working the desk. She said she wanted to get her friend a birthday gift. I don’t usually take birthday flights because I don’t get paid for them and they usually don’t turn out to be serious students…..
I hate to interrupt the intro flight story, but now I’m sitting at the coffee shop open mike night listening to some monotone little high school pipsqueak droning about wishing he had the answer. I really want to tell him that the answer is not a career in music. That’s probably not a very good-citizen-like thing to do, but Jesus Christ!!! If I sounded that much like Wesley Willis, I would want someone to fucking tell me. For those of you who are unacquainted with the genius of Wesley Willis, he was a semi-retarded guy with a toy keyboard who somehow got recorded. All of his songs were non-rhyming, monotone monstrosities with a prefab percussion background courtesy of his toy keyboard. They had titles like “I Whooped Batman’s Ass” and “Rock and Roll McDonalds.” The thing that really scares me about tonight is that this squirrelly little red head has a notebook of all of his songs. He’s taking this pretty seriously. I think he’s on his fourth song. I wish I could be that prolific as a song writer. Now envision a conspicuously older gentleman sitting at a table in the middle of the room. He’s reading a menu and nodding his head with the irregular beat. Perfect.
So…Back to the intro flight….The girl who called told me that she might get her friend more lessons if she liked it, so I thought, “What the hell!” My co-worker, Greg, saw the girls’ names on my schedule, and raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Most of our customers are men. I told him that I thought they were porn industry representatives. That fantasy was immediately shattered when the happy couple moseyed into the flight school. I saw more tattoos and piercings on these two girls than I’ve seen collectively in my year and a half as a CFI. There was some deliberation as to whether the gift giver would come along on the flight. I told her she should come. She worried that she might get sick. Greg whipped out some sick sacks. I gave her a headset with an inoperative microphone and she joined us. The flight went pretty well. The birthday girl seemed to enjoy herself, even if she didn’t pick up on things too quickly. We were on final for the last landing when I remembered our passenger was incommunicado. When I looked back, she held up a barf bag like a trophy. “How did I miss that?” I wondered.
“Maybe it was the Guinness I had this morning,” she reflected walking in from the ramp.
“At the garage sale?” birthday girl asked incredulously.
“Yeah, At the garage sale.”
I ended up leaving Pizza Shoppe to fly with a random guy who just wanted to take an instructor up on his recreational flight because he hadn’t flown in a while. I was happy to have the diversion from wondering how the check ride was going. It didn’t really work out that way, though. The oral portion of the exam had gone well, and my student took off with the examiner right after me. I was distracted during the whole flight. We flew to Lawrence, Ottawa, and back to Olathe. It was half way in between Lawrence and Ottawa when I looked down and noticed that there was still ten degrees of flaps out. I just pointed down at the flap lever and left the sheepishness to the guy I was flying with. I did sort of want to slap myself in the face and tell myself to snap out of it.
Finally, we were inbound to OJC and more importantly back on executive tower frequency. Just as we were about to call the tower, I heard my student call in and request touch and goes. I knew that the examiner he was with usually did the take offs and landings at the beginning of the ride (this is opposite of how I usually structure my lessons), so I wasn’t surprised when he called back a moment later to request a full stop. I knew it was a good sign that they were still up after an hour and a half. If something had gone wrong in the pattern they would have cut it much shorter. As I taxied in, I saw My student getting a hug and a pat on the back from his dad. Amen. Hallelujah. Two for Two Baby!
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Friday, November 05, 2004
11-5-04
Howdy. I hope all is well with everyone. I'm well into my third hour at the cozy coffee shop that has been doubling as my office lately. I've spent the last few hours totaling up my logbooks and updating my resume in the delusion that I might have enough experience to get a job doing something besides instructing. It’s not that I don't like instructing. It’s just that health insurance would be nice. So would moving out of mom's place. I just talked to a contact at Great Lakes Airlines, and he said to send in a resume even though I only have 750 total and 25 multi. Great Lakes has a bad rep as far as pay and schedule, but you build a lot of time. I just can't help but think that the sooner I start building twin turbine time, the better. I could wait around for a year or more trying to build enough time to get on with a "better " regional, or I could try to get on with lakes and have a year of airline experience under my belt. We'll see. I'm probably getting ahead of myself. Last Friday, as I sat at the flight school cursing the cloudy October weather, I overheard an older gentleman inquiring as to whether there might be an instrument instructor around who wouldn't mind going to Michigan that afternoon in his newly acquired Archer. I practically leapt out of the scheduling room with my hand in the air. The man, who had a certain Boris Karloff quality, wasn't current on instruments and didn't want to spend another night in Kansas waiting for the overcast to break. I checked the weather and agreed to take the trip. I guess he moved up there last winter. He had owned the very same Archer while he lived in Kansas. He sold it before the move, then happened upon it again when he got the itch to buy another plane. I planned the whole trip and filed a flight plan while he returned his rental car. Our departure was delayed by a bad battery in his intercom and a couple of pee breaks for Boris. It wasn't long after we were finally underway that we were being tossed around in some very wet cumulous clouds and receiving vectors out of the Kansas City class B airspace. I was impressed that despite the turbulence, my new friend was holding heading and altitude fairly well. I was still happy when we broke out of the clouds around 7,500 feet. Soon after, we were handed off to Kansas City center and cleared direct to Kankakee, Illinois (south of Chicago). As we passed south of Kirksville, Missouri, I thought of the multitude of airplane accidents in that vicinity lately. It was about that time when Boris asked if I could take the controls for a moment. "I need to take a leak!" he admitted. It was bound to happen sooner or later in my career. I should have expected it on this flight. He had, remember, taken more than one piss break during our pre-flight debacles. He pulled a red bottle, like the ones in the Sporty's catalogs, out of the back and I learned that the "find a spot on the wall" technique isn't just for urinals. Substitute cloud for spot and it also works in an airplane when an old guy whips it out in the seat next to you.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
10/26/04
Howdy. Slaughter something and throw a big party. The prodigal blogger returns. I think I should start with some highlights from the last few months. I flew an average of about 75 hours a month from July through September. So far the weather in October has sucked though, and the end of daylight savings time is just around the corner, which will cut out any daylight in the after-work hours. Alas, I may be blogging and playing silly songs at open mike nights full time soon. Right. I have been playing a few open mike gigs here and there just for fun. My folk/acoustic version of "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot usually gets a pretty good reception. I've also met some truly unique people at these events. The first night I played at a place called The Peanut, there were two large gypsiesque gals doing a vocal duet accompanied by an older guy who smoked little cigars through a thick silver beard and whose eyes slyly peeked out from under a full brimmed hat. Everybody called him "Doc." They were amazing. Truly stirring vocal harmony and Doc is a phenomenal guitarist. After their set, I started a conversation with one of the gypsie gals.
"Your group was great! Do you all play a lot of gigs?" I asked.
"Nah, we used to do some, but now we all sort of have other things going on..."
"Really, what do you do for a living?"
"I read cards and make jewelry," she said matter of factly, tilting her head back and running her fingers through her thinning hair. I thought she had said "I write cards."
"Like greeting cards?" I asked naively.
"No, Tarot cards. I'm a psychich. I have a booth!"
"Oh, right on," I said somewhat sheepishly. End of conversation. I didn't have any good psychic stories or questions. I felt like anything I might have said at that point would come off as pejorative or condescending. I excused myself and went over to the bar.
Doc walked up to me and complimented my arrangement of "Baby Got Back."
"Thanks a lot!" I said. "So, are you really a doctor?"
"I'm a VooDoo Doctor," he articulated with a firey twinkle in his eye. End of conversation. Normally, I would have assumed that it was a joke, but after my conversation with the psychic gypsie chick, I wasn't going to assume anything.
One of my students ran a plane off the side of the runway on his third supervised solo flight. Caused a little damage, but nothing too bad and he was all right. I have to admit to seeing my carreer flash before my eyes as I watched from the ramp, though. Luckily, I wasn't on board so my name wasn't even in the FAA incident report.
Let's see, there was also the time I was right seat on a charter trip in the Conquest (Cessna's twin turbo-prop). It was my first trip in that plane. As we climbed through 6,000 feet out of Jefferson City on our way to Chicago, I could just about smell the beer I was hoping to consume with my new friend Gerry that night. Gerry is the husband of one of Ashley's coworker friends (who happened to be instrumental in our getting together...). The four of us had gone on a couple of double dates before he took a job in Chicago. When I found out that our passenger needed to spend the night in Chicago, I called Gerry to see if he wouldn't mind rescuing me from the airport motel. To my delight, he happily obliged. I was revelling in the possibilities of exploring a new city with a new friend when I was brought to rigid attention by the illumination of a big red light on the instrument panel. Ominousley, it read "Left Engine Fire." Beer was suddenly the last thing on my mind. I instantly flashed back to the day in my Advanced Aircraft Systems class when we talked about in-flight fire survival. Two and a half minutes, the instructor had made a point to emphasize, was about how much time you have to get a plane down and evacuated. Longer than that and the odds of survival diminish markedly. I looked at the captain expecting him not to have noticed the warning (surely if he had noticed it, he would have sprung into action, right?) But I could tell that he also had noticed the unwelcome annunciator light. He looked mildly perturbed.
"That's not something we were wanting to see, is it?" I inquired half expecting him to begin cursing about "that pesky engine fire light! I thought those mechanics had fixed that!"
"No. No its not what we were wanting to see," I was disappointed to hear him reply instead. Eyeing the left engine (which bore no outwardly visible signs of conflageration), he rocked the wings back and forth in the manner of someone banging the top of a television set in attempt to get better reception. The light persisted. "Find the checklist," he finally conceded. I thumbed through the checklist book to the red tabbed portion and quickly found the checklist for engine fires. He called Center and declared an emergency even though he didn't "think it [was] actually on fire." They cleared us for a descent direct to Columbia, MO as we finished shutting down the affected engine. I heard the fear in my voice as I read back the clearance to the controller. All the checklists had been completed and we were just waiting to get there. I hadn't had time to notice the fear until then. I felt claustrophobic. It was a clear day and fate seemed to be thumbing its nose at me with all the beautiful terrain below me.
"Look at all these safe places you could be!" she seemed to taunt. "Too bad you're stuck up there in that lonely little death chamber!" I didn't really expect to die, but I couldn't help but wonder how the accident report would read if the little engine fire light became a big engine fire. I'd never been aware of my sense of my own future, but in those moments I noticed in that sense the tangible possibility of a dark, empty, void.
As we finally neared the airport, I heard tower dispatch the fire trucks. It hadn't occurred to me that we would obviously have a welcoming party. After the captain made an admirable single-engine landing, tower asked if we wanted to evacuate or taxi to the ramp. I was all for evacuation, but cap'n didn't ask for my opinion and was rightly convinced that there was no immediate danger. To say that it felt good to finally get out of that plane would be like saying that an orgasm feels "okay."
The mechanics discovered upon inspection of the engine compartment that there had indeed not been an actual fire. The problem turned out to be a short circuit in the fire detection loop encircling the engine. Our passenger, mildly spooked, caught another charter flight from Columbia to Chicago, and the captain and I waited for a ferry permit that would allow us to fly our disabled bird back to home base for repairs. It finally came a few hours later, and although disappointed to have missed the opportunity to drink beer with Gerry in Chicago, I couldn't bring myself to complain. Things could have ended up a lot worse; especially since I actually got to fly the airplane on the part 91 (non-charter) flight home which meant I got to log some twin engine, turbine time. On the way home, I wondered how many times we used up our two and a half minutes while dealing with the perceived emergency earlier that day. If we'd had further confirmation of a fire, we probably would have put it down sooner, but the experience definitely made me realize how quickly things can happen in an emergency. I'm very glad to have had the experience. I had always wondered how I would act in that sort of situation and now I know that I can stay calm and think clearly through heightened awareness and fear.
"Your group was great! Do you all play a lot of gigs?" I asked.
"Nah, we used to do some, but now we all sort of have other things going on..."
"Really, what do you do for a living?"
"I read cards and make jewelry," she said matter of factly, tilting her head back and running her fingers through her thinning hair. I thought she had said "I write cards."
"Like greeting cards?" I asked naively.
"No, Tarot cards. I'm a psychich. I have a booth!"
"Oh, right on," I said somewhat sheepishly. End of conversation. I didn't have any good psychic stories or questions. I felt like anything I might have said at that point would come off as pejorative or condescending. I excused myself and went over to the bar.
Doc walked up to me and complimented my arrangement of "Baby Got Back."
"Thanks a lot!" I said. "So, are you really a doctor?"
"I'm a VooDoo Doctor," he articulated with a firey twinkle in his eye. End of conversation. Normally, I would have assumed that it was a joke, but after my conversation with the psychic gypsie chick, I wasn't going to assume anything.
One of my students ran a plane off the side of the runway on his third supervised solo flight. Caused a little damage, but nothing too bad and he was all right. I have to admit to seeing my carreer flash before my eyes as I watched from the ramp, though. Luckily, I wasn't on board so my name wasn't even in the FAA incident report.
Let's see, there was also the time I was right seat on a charter trip in the Conquest (Cessna's twin turbo-prop). It was my first trip in that plane. As we climbed through 6,000 feet out of Jefferson City on our way to Chicago, I could just about smell the beer I was hoping to consume with my new friend Gerry that night. Gerry is the husband of one of Ashley's coworker friends (who happened to be instrumental in our getting together...). The four of us had gone on a couple of double dates before he took a job in Chicago. When I found out that our passenger needed to spend the night in Chicago, I called Gerry to see if he wouldn't mind rescuing me from the airport motel. To my delight, he happily obliged. I was revelling in the possibilities of exploring a new city with a new friend when I was brought to rigid attention by the illumination of a big red light on the instrument panel. Ominousley, it read "Left Engine Fire." Beer was suddenly the last thing on my mind. I instantly flashed back to the day in my Advanced Aircraft Systems class when we talked about in-flight fire survival. Two and a half minutes, the instructor had made a point to emphasize, was about how much time you have to get a plane down and evacuated. Longer than that and the odds of survival diminish markedly. I looked at the captain expecting him not to have noticed the warning (surely if he had noticed it, he would have sprung into action, right?) But I could tell that he also had noticed the unwelcome annunciator light. He looked mildly perturbed.
"That's not something we were wanting to see, is it?" I inquired half expecting him to begin cursing about "that pesky engine fire light! I thought those mechanics had fixed that!"
"No. No its not what we were wanting to see," I was disappointed to hear him reply instead. Eyeing the left engine (which bore no outwardly visible signs of conflageration), he rocked the wings back and forth in the manner of someone banging the top of a television set in attempt to get better reception. The light persisted. "Find the checklist," he finally conceded. I thumbed through the checklist book to the red tabbed portion and quickly found the checklist for engine fires. He called Center and declared an emergency even though he didn't "think it [was] actually on fire." They cleared us for a descent direct to Columbia, MO as we finished shutting down the affected engine. I heard the fear in my voice as I read back the clearance to the controller. All the checklists had been completed and we were just waiting to get there. I hadn't had time to notice the fear until then. I felt claustrophobic. It was a clear day and fate seemed to be thumbing its nose at me with all the beautiful terrain below me.
"Look at all these safe places you could be!" she seemed to taunt. "Too bad you're stuck up there in that lonely little death chamber!" I didn't really expect to die, but I couldn't help but wonder how the accident report would read if the little engine fire light became a big engine fire. I'd never been aware of my sense of my own future, but in those moments I noticed in that sense the tangible possibility of a dark, empty, void.
As we finally neared the airport, I heard tower dispatch the fire trucks. It hadn't occurred to me that we would obviously have a welcoming party. After the captain made an admirable single-engine landing, tower asked if we wanted to evacuate or taxi to the ramp. I was all for evacuation, but cap'n didn't ask for my opinion and was rightly convinced that there was no immediate danger. To say that it felt good to finally get out of that plane would be like saying that an orgasm feels "okay."
The mechanics discovered upon inspection of the engine compartment that there had indeed not been an actual fire. The problem turned out to be a short circuit in the fire detection loop encircling the engine. Our passenger, mildly spooked, caught another charter flight from Columbia to Chicago, and the captain and I waited for a ferry permit that would allow us to fly our disabled bird back to home base for repairs. It finally came a few hours later, and although disappointed to have missed the opportunity to drink beer with Gerry in Chicago, I couldn't bring myself to complain. Things could have ended up a lot worse; especially since I actually got to fly the airplane on the part 91 (non-charter) flight home which meant I got to log some twin engine, turbine time. On the way home, I wondered how many times we used up our two and a half minutes while dealing with the perceived emergency earlier that day. If we'd had further confirmation of a fire, we probably would have put it down sooner, but the experience definitely made me realize how quickly things can happen in an emergency. I'm very glad to have had the experience. I had always wondered how I would act in that sort of situation and now I know that I can stay calm and think clearly through heightened awareness and fear.
Monday, July 05, 2004
7/5/04
Howdy. Its been a while, huh. Good to see you. It seems that stormy Monday mornings were made for blogging. I'm just back to work following a fantastic July 4th weekend. On Friday I flew with Bert, who is one of my enthusiastic and talented students. We were doing touch-and-go's and he was flying the plane so well through the first few legs of the pattern that we kinda got to talking. Our conversation would reach a hiatus just before we were abeam the numbers on downwind and would start where it left off as we turned cross wind after takeoff. It was a natural and almost imperceptible transition, though; talking about fishing on downwind and about pitch, power, trim, and flare, on approach and landing. I'm not sure how the topic of fishing came up. He owns some land in southeastern Kansas on which lies a pond or two that are stocked with fish.
"My brother caught a hundred fish there the other day," he told me.
"That's awesome! First notch of flaps, trim for 85 knots," I replied
"Cessna 4 Papa Delta, you're number two to follow the Maule on about a one mile final," the tower called. He sounded really bored.
"Number two and looking for the traffic," we answered, but Bert looked confused.
"I see the plane on final, but where was the other one?"
"What other one?"
"Well, he's number one, but where's number two?"
"We're number two."
"Who's number three?"
"There is no number three."
"Why did he tell us to follow them all, then?"
"The Maule," I laughed. "Not them all! Maule is a type of airplane!"
He laughed. There was about a four knot right crosswind on runway 18. He was doing a great job on the slip right up to the flare, at which point he would level the wings and drift to the left during touchdown. Despite my demonstration and encouragement that, "It is OK to touch down on only the upwind main wheel first!" I could tell he still felt uncomfortable touching down in a bank. It got better and better, however, as the lesson progressed. That sensation must feel really unnatural to the uninitiated as I've had other students who have displayed apprehension at landing in the slip.
I'd planned on going to the airshow on saturday, but the weather was crummy; thousand foot ceilings and low visibility. Bert had told me that any time I wanted to go fishing on his land to give him a call, so I did just that. He gave me directions and asked me to keep track of how many fish we caught and which bait they were taking. He also asked me to check on his barn. So with that, Kevin came over, we packed up the car and headed south. We drove about an hour and turned off the highway and immediately the road turned to gravel. The road was narrow and winding and I was enjoying the slight negative G forces as we crested the small swells that pass for hills in Kansas. It reminded me of a Stephen King short story where a couple tries to take a short cut and the road gets too narrow and filled with ruts to turn around so they press forward and end up in rock and roll Hell. By outside appearances it was a happy little pastel American town out of the fifties, but it was inhabited by demonic versions of Joplin, Hendrix, Presley, etc. (I think the devil in that story was a sailboat salesman...) I wouldn't have been too surprised if we had met a similar fate, but instead we found Bert's barn and pond and it was perfectly picturesque. Big round bails of hay served as perches for songbirds in the adjacent field, and just to the east lived a forest that begged exploration. My spirit rejoiced to be in a place far enough from the city that all I could hear were the birds singing and the wind blowing through the trees. To beat it all, I caught a fish in the first five minutes or so and kept catching them here and there throughout the afternoon. I caught about ten fish in all, more than my previous lifetime total. About half of them were blue gill or crappie, and the others were small bass. What a hoot! I took a break for a little while and went back into the woods just to see what was there. To my pleasure, I found a gurgling little creek and quite a few wild blackberries. I couldn't resist trying a few of the ripe ones. God, they were good. There were only a few ripe ones though. In a couple weeks when the rest ripen up, a person could go down there and fill a bucket. Tempting. Kevin wasn't as lucky with the fish. He was setting his sights higher as far as the size of fish he wanted to catch, so his lures were a bit large for the little crappie and bass that seemed to be biting on my rooster tail spinners. Kevin finally caught a fish around 6:30 in the evening, so we thought we'd call it a day. We went to Fort Scott in search of a homestyle meal, and found it at the Cowboy Kitchen. The Cowboy Kitchen was a horrendousley tacky place with a big TV in the corner that played country music videos. The country fried steak hit the spot though.
I got home and it was time to clean the fish (I had only kept one). This was a momentous occasion since I'd never attempted to slaughter an animal before. I'm not all about the "gotta kill stuff and eat it to be a man" mentality, but there was something sort of fulfilling about the whole idea of eating this fish that I had caught. I was happy to see that no one else was home to witness the disembowelment of the innocent. I found a cutting board and a sharpish looking knife and tried my best to do as kevin had said.
"Cut from head to tail on top and on bottom and then cut around the head," he had instructed.
It sounded so surgical, but there was nothing surgical about what was about to happen. I felt like Rick Moranis chopping up Steve Marten in "Little Shop of Horrors." If there had been enough blood, it would have been spraying about. I did end up finding a few reasonable sized pieces of meat, but not enough to have it make sense to save it for a meal. So I resolved to cook it right then and there. I'd never cooked fresh fish either. I crumbled up Light Pringles in a bowl with onion salt and pepper and tossed in the few chunks of meat I'd managed to scrape off of Steve. The pringles didn't seem to want to stick to the fish, but a few crumbs did and I figured that qualified as breading. (I've since learned about the "coat the fish in egg" trick) Once the oil was heated up in the skillet, I tossed in the chunks and they made a delightful sizzle. I was very proud of that sizzle. It was the best sizzle I'd ever heard.
Once it was done, I ate it and it was actually not bad. I'm thinking of writing a cookbook full of recipes and other applications for pringles. I'm sure wonderful things could be done with the flavored varieties. I'm betting sour creme and onion would add a pleasing zip to fried bass or just think what fried chicken would taste like if breaded in pizza flavored pringles. I know, I know, I'm a genius.
Sunday cleared up and I found myself at the last day of the airshow with my good friends. Kevin and I were both eaten up with chiggers from our fishing trip. It was all Kevin could talk about. His ankles were practically covered in blistery bumps and mine were almost as bad (still are). Wes had the good sense to park in a parking garage overlooking the airport. We watched the whole show from that shaded vantage point. It was perfect. Highlights were the Thunderbirds and the Army skydiving team. Both were awe inspiring.
Last night, we went out to the mall for the local fireworks display, which rocked. Ashley had come to dinner with my mom and brother and I. Then we met up with Kevin after dinner and we caught up with Ashley's folks at the show. By happenstance, it was the first meeting of Ashley's parents and my mom. Mom saw this as good reason to break out the "Adam didn't like to wear underwear as a kid," and "I don't like children," and (my personal favorite) "I had a dead cat in my garage all winter one year," stories. ahhh. It actually seemed to go pretty well. It was one of those evenings that you savor as ideal for the weather and the atmosphere and all the people you care about and even mom's uninhibited story telling. I laughed harder than I have in quite some time. So what if the stories are a bit odd. I'm grateful for the Maule.
"My brother caught a hundred fish there the other day," he told me.
"That's awesome! First notch of flaps, trim for 85 knots," I replied
"Cessna 4 Papa Delta, you're number two to follow the Maule on about a one mile final," the tower called. He sounded really bored.
"Number two and looking for the traffic," we answered, but Bert looked confused.
"I see the plane on final, but where was the other one?"
"What other one?"
"Well, he's number one, but where's number two?"
"We're number two."
"Who's number three?"
"There is no number three."
"Why did he tell us to follow them all, then?"
"The Maule," I laughed. "Not them all! Maule is a type of airplane!"
He laughed. There was about a four knot right crosswind on runway 18. He was doing a great job on the slip right up to the flare, at which point he would level the wings and drift to the left during touchdown. Despite my demonstration and encouragement that, "It is OK to touch down on only the upwind main wheel first!" I could tell he still felt uncomfortable touching down in a bank. It got better and better, however, as the lesson progressed. That sensation must feel really unnatural to the uninitiated as I've had other students who have displayed apprehension at landing in the slip.
I'd planned on going to the airshow on saturday, but the weather was crummy; thousand foot ceilings and low visibility. Bert had told me that any time I wanted to go fishing on his land to give him a call, so I did just that. He gave me directions and asked me to keep track of how many fish we caught and which bait they were taking. He also asked me to check on his barn. So with that, Kevin came over, we packed up the car and headed south. We drove about an hour and turned off the highway and immediately the road turned to gravel. The road was narrow and winding and I was enjoying the slight negative G forces as we crested the small swells that pass for hills in Kansas. It reminded me of a Stephen King short story where a couple tries to take a short cut and the road gets too narrow and filled with ruts to turn around so they press forward and end up in rock and roll Hell. By outside appearances it was a happy little pastel American town out of the fifties, but it was inhabited by demonic versions of Joplin, Hendrix, Presley, etc. (I think the devil in that story was a sailboat salesman...) I wouldn't have been too surprised if we had met a similar fate, but instead we found Bert's barn and pond and it was perfectly picturesque. Big round bails of hay served as perches for songbirds in the adjacent field, and just to the east lived a forest that begged exploration. My spirit rejoiced to be in a place far enough from the city that all I could hear were the birds singing and the wind blowing through the trees. To beat it all, I caught a fish in the first five minutes or so and kept catching them here and there throughout the afternoon. I caught about ten fish in all, more than my previous lifetime total. About half of them were blue gill or crappie, and the others were small bass. What a hoot! I took a break for a little while and went back into the woods just to see what was there. To my pleasure, I found a gurgling little creek and quite a few wild blackberries. I couldn't resist trying a few of the ripe ones. God, they were good. There were only a few ripe ones though. In a couple weeks when the rest ripen up, a person could go down there and fill a bucket. Tempting. Kevin wasn't as lucky with the fish. He was setting his sights higher as far as the size of fish he wanted to catch, so his lures were a bit large for the little crappie and bass that seemed to be biting on my rooster tail spinners. Kevin finally caught a fish around 6:30 in the evening, so we thought we'd call it a day. We went to Fort Scott in search of a homestyle meal, and found it at the Cowboy Kitchen. The Cowboy Kitchen was a horrendousley tacky place with a big TV in the corner that played country music videos. The country fried steak hit the spot though.
I got home and it was time to clean the fish (I had only kept one). This was a momentous occasion since I'd never attempted to slaughter an animal before. I'm not all about the "gotta kill stuff and eat it to be a man" mentality, but there was something sort of fulfilling about the whole idea of eating this fish that I had caught. I was happy to see that no one else was home to witness the disembowelment of the innocent. I found a cutting board and a sharpish looking knife and tried my best to do as kevin had said.
"Cut from head to tail on top and on bottom and then cut around the head," he had instructed.
It sounded so surgical, but there was nothing surgical about what was about to happen. I felt like Rick Moranis chopping up Steve Marten in "Little Shop of Horrors." If there had been enough blood, it would have been spraying about. I did end up finding a few reasonable sized pieces of meat, but not enough to have it make sense to save it for a meal. So I resolved to cook it right then and there. I'd never cooked fresh fish either. I crumbled up Light Pringles in a bowl with onion salt and pepper and tossed in the few chunks of meat I'd managed to scrape off of Steve. The pringles didn't seem to want to stick to the fish, but a few crumbs did and I figured that qualified as breading. (I've since learned about the "coat the fish in egg" trick) Once the oil was heated up in the skillet, I tossed in the chunks and they made a delightful sizzle. I was very proud of that sizzle. It was the best sizzle I'd ever heard.
Once it was done, I ate it and it was actually not bad. I'm thinking of writing a cookbook full of recipes and other applications for pringles. I'm sure wonderful things could be done with the flavored varieties. I'm betting sour creme and onion would add a pleasing zip to fried bass or just think what fried chicken would taste like if breaded in pizza flavored pringles. I know, I know, I'm a genius.
Sunday cleared up and I found myself at the last day of the airshow with my good friends. Kevin and I were both eaten up with chiggers from our fishing trip. It was all Kevin could talk about. His ankles were practically covered in blistery bumps and mine were almost as bad (still are). Wes had the good sense to park in a parking garage overlooking the airport. We watched the whole show from that shaded vantage point. It was perfect. Highlights were the Thunderbirds and the Army skydiving team. Both were awe inspiring.
Last night, we went out to the mall for the local fireworks display, which rocked. Ashley had come to dinner with my mom and brother and I. Then we met up with Kevin after dinner and we caught up with Ashley's folks at the show. By happenstance, it was the first meeting of Ashley's parents and my mom. Mom saw this as good reason to break out the "Adam didn't like to wear underwear as a kid," and "I don't like children," and (my personal favorite) "I had a dead cat in my garage all winter one year," stories. ahhh. It actually seemed to go pretty well. It was one of those evenings that you savor as ideal for the weather and the atmosphere and all the people you care about and even mom's uninhibited story telling. I laughed harder than I have in quite some time. So what if the stories are a bit odd. I'm grateful for the Maule.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
06/22
Howdy. Just sittin' here at the desk. yawn. too early. Worked yesterday too. It was dead. All I did was proctor something like four written exams. It takes about ten minutes to set up an exam and about five to grade. That would mean that during the eight or so hours I was on the clock yesterday, I may have only done about an hour of actual work. ahhh. The rest of the time I pretty much spent reading about sailing and sailboats. Nice diversion. Hold on a sec, I'm gonna go make a cheese sandwich for breakfast... mmmmm. If I think really hard, I can about make myself believe that I am having biscuits and gravy (which everyone knows is the best breakfast food ever conceived). I'm a much happier flight school desk attendant now. Where was I? oh yeah, sailboats. I've been thinking that at some point, I'm going to want to (er.. have to..) move out of mom's house. The options for a poor flight instructor would appear to be limited to:
a.) a crummy roach-infested, thin-walled apartment where I can't play my guitar and can't sleep because of neighbors' loud sex and Disney alarm clocks (the kind that play "Its a Small World After All" in the style of a sadistic calliope at 4 o'clock every morning...)
or,
b.) a crummy roach-infested trailer house with a roommate who gets high and has lots of loud sex-
You can see how both of these "options" are less than ideal for a refined, urbane individual such as myself.
So yesterday as I was satisfying my curiosity about sailing and sailboats, the little voice that always causes trouble and adventure said to me,
"You know, Adam, that all of these boats have beds and bathrooms and even kitchens. You know that you could go wherever you wanted, Adam!"
"But I could never afford a sailboat!" I said to the little voice (let's call him "THE DEVIL").
"Go look on eBay, Adam. Some of them are very affordable!" THE DEVIL urged.
"But I've never sailed!"
"How difficult could it be for a pilot to learn to sail?" THE DEVIL encouraged.
I won't bore you with the whole conversation, but it went on like that with me being practical and skeptical and THE DEVIL trying to make this specious plan seem like a valid and even an appealing option. ha. I won - for now, anyway. THE DEVIL is very persistent. ("My dearest Wormwood...")
Went and played softball last night with the church guys. I play catcher because I don't really know the game and can only throw as far as the pitcher's mound. I'd planned on going home after work to change clothes and grab my glove etc. I got half way there and was called back to the school to proctor another test, so I called mom to have her bring my stuff to the ball field. The test ran long, and I got to the park just in time for the start of the game. Mom had brought my clothes and shoes, but she'd forgotten my glove. I know. I can't believe it either. I caught the first inning in slacks and a polo with a borrowed glove. I was late in the batting order so I had time to change clothes before my turn to bat, but just barely. After walking straight from the bathroom to the plate, I flied out. Got an RBI out of the deal, though.
We spanked the other team the first game. We were just ON. The second game was a different story, though. We couldn't field, the calls weren't going our way, and we just couldn't get anyone on base. I can't speak for my teammates, but my personal lack of performance during the second game may be attributed to the three softballs I caught with my face. One tipped off the bat, and the other two bounced off the ground and up into my face. I've played catcher in quite a few softball games (I've always sucked) and this had never been a problem before. With every mind-jarring blow to the kisser, I became more and more pissed off. So by the end of the game I was playing angry which we all know is terrible for a person's athletic Chi.
My muffler fell off while I was driving to the sports bar after the game. I pulled over and threw it into the trunk. The ol' Supra seems to have a little more pep without it and its not that much louder. If it weren't for the fumes, I'd be tempted to leave it that way.
Ashley had arrived at the ballpark in time to see the second game, so she met mom and David and I at the sports bar. Just after we got there, a big group with a ridiculous crying baby came and nestled in right next to us. grrr. I still enjoyed the tasty beer and burger, but it cut the post dinner conversation a bit short and did nothing to restore my chi.
I called Ashley after I got home and our quiet conversation really helped to calm me down. She has a beautifully subtle way of conveying calming reassurance, which is exactly what I need from time to time. She's definitely my other little voice. I slept very well last night.
a.) a crummy roach-infested, thin-walled apartment where I can't play my guitar and can't sleep because of neighbors' loud sex and Disney alarm clocks (the kind that play "Its a Small World After All" in the style of a sadistic calliope at 4 o'clock every morning...)
or,
b.) a crummy roach-infested trailer house with a roommate who gets high and has lots of loud sex-
You can see how both of these "options" are less than ideal for a refined, urbane individual such as myself.
So yesterday as I was satisfying my curiosity about sailing and sailboats, the little voice that always causes trouble and adventure said to me,
"You know, Adam, that all of these boats have beds and bathrooms and even kitchens. You know that you could go wherever you wanted, Adam!"
"But I could never afford a sailboat!" I said to the little voice (let's call him "THE DEVIL").
"Go look on eBay, Adam. Some of them are very affordable!" THE DEVIL urged.
"But I've never sailed!"
"How difficult could it be for a pilot to learn to sail?" THE DEVIL encouraged.
I won't bore you with the whole conversation, but it went on like that with me being practical and skeptical and THE DEVIL trying to make this specious plan seem like a valid and even an appealing option. ha. I won - for now, anyway. THE DEVIL is very persistent. ("My dearest Wormwood...")
Went and played softball last night with the church guys. I play catcher because I don't really know the game and can only throw as far as the pitcher's mound. I'd planned on going home after work to change clothes and grab my glove etc. I got half way there and was called back to the school to proctor another test, so I called mom to have her bring my stuff to the ball field. The test ran long, and I got to the park just in time for the start of the game. Mom had brought my clothes and shoes, but she'd forgotten my glove. I know. I can't believe it either. I caught the first inning in slacks and a polo with a borrowed glove. I was late in the batting order so I had time to change clothes before my turn to bat, but just barely. After walking straight from the bathroom to the plate, I flied out. Got an RBI out of the deal, though.
We spanked the other team the first game. We were just ON. The second game was a different story, though. We couldn't field, the calls weren't going our way, and we just couldn't get anyone on base. I can't speak for my teammates, but my personal lack of performance during the second game may be attributed to the three softballs I caught with my face. One tipped off the bat, and the other two bounced off the ground and up into my face. I've played catcher in quite a few softball games (I've always sucked) and this had never been a problem before. With every mind-jarring blow to the kisser, I became more and more pissed off. So by the end of the game I was playing angry which we all know is terrible for a person's athletic Chi.
My muffler fell off while I was driving to the sports bar after the game. I pulled over and threw it into the trunk. The ol' Supra seems to have a little more pep without it and its not that much louder. If it weren't for the fumes, I'd be tempted to leave it that way.
Ashley had arrived at the ballpark in time to see the second game, so she met mom and David and I at the sports bar. Just after we got there, a big group with a ridiculous crying baby came and nestled in right next to us. grrr. I still enjoyed the tasty beer and burger, but it cut the post dinner conversation a bit short and did nothing to restore my chi.
I called Ashley after I got home and our quiet conversation really helped to calm me down. She has a beautifully subtle way of conveying calming reassurance, which is exactly what I need from time to time. She's definitely my other little voice. I slept very well last night.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
6-16-04
Howdy. Today was a beautiful day. Ashley and I slept in till 9:30 or 10:00 and then laid around and talked (no, really... talked) till I was late for my noon intro flight. I have to admit that I was less than excited to leave her to go give what would probably be a free airplane ride (CFI's don't get paid for intro flights, but we do them knowing that a percentage will turn into actual students. We call those who do not continue "rides"). I was only about ten minutes late and when I got there Chris (flight school asst manager) was taking the older doctor and his younger wife (nurse) on a tour of KCAC's facilities. phew.
I was bleeding under my right ear. Cut myself shaving. Wouldn't stop. I'd been using a pair of boxer shorts that happened to be in the passenger seat of my car to keep the blood from dripping off my jaw bone and onto my shirt, but I didn't figure I ought to take those into the flight school. So I continued bleeding till just before the couple returned with Chris.
The couple seemed pleasant, but not too interested in actually learning to fly. yep. ride. oh, well. They both had certificates for intro lessons, so after a half hour with the doctor (who seemed really afraid of the controls) I greased on a landing for them and we busted out a little Chinese Firedrill on the ramp. The nurse actually flew a little. I guess she had some experience in sailplanes quite some time ago in Cali. After I told her that the pedals turned the nose wheel, she still wanted to know why the ailerons didn't turn the airplane on the ground. I love being a flight instructor. I had wanted to take them over the city but there was a pretty heavy looking cell a few miles to the north of OJC. It was dumping rain and cutting visibility to what looked like nil. I didn't figure that would be a pleasant introduction to the world of general aviation for the happy couple, so we went back out to the south. Another cell chased us back to the airport from Paola. Kinda fun. Very beautiful.
After we landed (dropped it in a bit that time), they told me how nice it would be to be able to fly themselves to their house in Colorado or to see their kids. I gave them my card and told them to call me when they wanted to go up for another lesson. They laughed and said something about paying for kids' college. I wanted to tell him, "Gimme a break, you're a respiratory effing therapist..." but I just smiled and assured them that I know how expensive college is. Real reason: Guy had no cajones. Whatever.
Then, I left the airport and went to my favorite chinese restaurant- The New Bao Shing in Stanley. Kung Bao chicken kicked ass as usual. Went from there to Borders. Sat and read "What Color Is Your Parachute" for a while. Still don't know the meaning of life. Oh, well. Got a Mocha and Adrienne called. We tried for a while to discover the meaning of life, to no avail. Oh, well. When my dad's brother started showing symptoms of paranoid phsychosis, dad told me that uncle Dan had "always had a fair amount of existencial angst." Who are you? Who told you to read this? Leave me alone.
I was bleeding under my right ear. Cut myself shaving. Wouldn't stop. I'd been using a pair of boxer shorts that happened to be in the passenger seat of my car to keep the blood from dripping off my jaw bone and onto my shirt, but I didn't figure I ought to take those into the flight school. So I continued bleeding till just before the couple returned with Chris.
The couple seemed pleasant, but not too interested in actually learning to fly. yep. ride. oh, well. They both had certificates for intro lessons, so after a half hour with the doctor (who seemed really afraid of the controls) I greased on a landing for them and we busted out a little Chinese Firedrill on the ramp. The nurse actually flew a little. I guess she had some experience in sailplanes quite some time ago in Cali. After I told her that the pedals turned the nose wheel, she still wanted to know why the ailerons didn't turn the airplane on the ground. I love being a flight instructor. I had wanted to take them over the city but there was a pretty heavy looking cell a few miles to the north of OJC. It was dumping rain and cutting visibility to what looked like nil. I didn't figure that would be a pleasant introduction to the world of general aviation for the happy couple, so we went back out to the south. Another cell chased us back to the airport from Paola. Kinda fun. Very beautiful.
After we landed (dropped it in a bit that time), they told me how nice it would be to be able to fly themselves to their house in Colorado or to see their kids. I gave them my card and told them to call me when they wanted to go up for another lesson. They laughed and said something about paying for kids' college. I wanted to tell him, "Gimme a break, you're a respiratory effing therapist..." but I just smiled and assured them that I know how expensive college is. Real reason: Guy had no cajones. Whatever.
Then, I left the airport and went to my favorite chinese restaurant- The New Bao Shing in Stanley. Kung Bao chicken kicked ass as usual. Went from there to Borders. Sat and read "What Color Is Your Parachute" for a while. Still don't know the meaning of life. Oh, well. Got a Mocha and Adrienne called. We tried for a while to discover the meaning of life, to no avail. Oh, well. When my dad's brother started showing symptoms of paranoid phsychosis, dad told me that uncle Dan had "always had a fair amount of existencial angst." Who are you? Who told you to read this? Leave me alone.
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