Satelite Inc. is located in Minneapolis. We can be proud.

There’s nothing like four days of using a port-o-let to raise questions about your fellow man.

First, based on my experience of the past few days, I feel confident that even without a penis I can control the stream of my urine with far more accuracy than most men. Why do they allow their pee to stray so far from the goal? Is it just laziness bred by the knowledge that neither they nor their relatives will ever have to go near it again? Is a port-o-let urinal the broadest target possible? No. But come on, gents. Let’s try to keep it in the general vicinity, huh?

Second, which budding young Basquiats are willing to spend enough time in a port-o-let to draw two people doing it doggy style? I can see scrawling a few initials or maybe one of those anarchy signs, but two-dimensional sexual diagrams? That’s a time commitment. And here’s the kicker: in this particular port-o-let I saw not just one couple going at it, but two! Was this one perfectionist, unhappy enough with the first drawing to remain in a stinking, 90 degree port-o-let to capture more nuance in a second draft? Or did the first graffito inspire a second artiste? If so, was it an ego-driven, “I can top that hack” sort of thing, or was it a more thoughtful commentary on the other one? Like, “I see where my predecessor was coming from, but I think the post-post-modern doggy-style world is crying out for more expression (and bigger noses) on the participants faces.” The mind boggles.

Third, what are people eating? Let’s just all admit, first of all, that a port-o-let gives you no choice but to look at other people’s poo. And I can honestly say that if anything looking like that came out of my body, I would freak out. Are these people on a steady diet of nothing but meat, spray cheese, and Metamucil? Is it IBS? Has it been like that for so long that they aren’t concerned? Because from what I’ve seen, there are hundreds of people out there that desperately need to get in to see an internist.

One thing’s for sure: I love the sound of a flushing toilet.

B'Gosh this B'Blows

The very few things I would like that I can’t buy on Amazon:

• Love
• Happiness
• A professional hit on my dad’s business partner who travels with a case of Yoohoo because he likes to have at least two everyday.

The blush is definitely off the rose in re the Oshkosh Airshow. I would love to just sit in a lawn chair and watch airplanes, but alas, I am all but chained to a 10’x10’ booth in an unairconditioned hangar dealing with the general public. And tonight I’m missing Maritime’s post-bar exam hoopla at McSweeny’s which is just salt in the wound. If I think too much about what I’m doing vs. what I could be doing I start to be a real Negative Norma.

On to happier topics, I got a slew of new pictures of Daisy, the World’s Best Dog, today and the cuteness will not stop. Look at that face!

What?! I feel so betrayed.

Did the rest of you know that Howard Cosell was dead?!

Those AM Radio sportscasting bastards had me believing that the guy with the funny voice they referred to as Mr. C was actually Howard Cosell. That is no longer the best part of the drive to Oshkosh today. The "Milty Wilty" drive-in diner I passed in Wautoma has now, against all odds, been pushed up into the top slot. I bet the "Milty Wilty" feels like the Miss America runner-up from the year Vanessa Williams won.

Outted

I am simultaneously Valerie Plame and the Bush Administration. I let the blog out of the bag at Maritime's last night over tamales and Fat Cat. Oh, but I'm not the only secretive blogger out there, it seems. No, Kovsky and Number 2 promptly (and maybe a bit sheepishly) 'fessed up to clandestine online postings, as well. We all agreed that it's a good way to keep everyone up to date without rehashing details over and over, like in real life.

Oshkosh (or EAA AIrventure 2006! as the people at the Experimental Aircraft Assoc. would like you to believe) kicks off on Monday. Leaving Sunday morning to drive down. Drive down again, that is. Today saw me make the commute in the POSV (piece of shit van, said with some degree of affection) to set up the booth.

Boy, I learned a lot from AM radio today. Like, there is at least one person on the planet who thinks CNN and Al Jazeera are interchangeable as news organizations. There is at least one other who thinks the Israelis are about to start a ground offensive into Libya. And it turns out I like listening to sports casters shoot the shit with Howard Cosell. That was really the highlight of the drive. So, something new everyday.

It's Never a Nice Day for One

Why do weddings have to turn into just seven separate events?!

The Planning Party
The Shower
The Getting to Know People You Will Instantly Forget Party
The Bachelorette Party
The Rehearsal Dinner
The Actual Wedding (total elapsed ceremony time: 15-20 min.)
The Morning After Brunch

And each requires a gift!

JUST FUCKING NAME A TIME AND PLACE TO BIND YOUR LIVES TOGETHER, TELL ANYONE YOU WANT TO WITNESS IT WHERE AND WHEN, DO IT, AND HAVE PEOPLE GO HOME.

Weddings used to be a mechanism for an older generation to bestow wealth on a younger generation for the perpetuation of the community. Now there is absolutely no way that the gifts you recieve from your guests will come close to equaling the cost of the shitty steamtable food that they shovel into their mouths while waiting for the DJ to cue up "The Electric Slide." Stop it. Just fucking stop it. Take your average of $19,000 (!) and make it the downpayment on your house, or kid's college fund, or van load of cocaine. But don't flush it down the toilet through the intermediary step of near-strangers' digestive systems and call it "your special day."

You will not be a princess for a day; you will be a stressed-out, trussed-up, white-clad (and who are you kidding?) pinata to be batted about between people you've never met before and people you'll never talk to again. And those photo-documentary-style pictures you and your parents just dropped eight grand on? You'll look at them exactly twice. Once, when you pick them up, and once more when your kid or dog drags them out of the cupboard in which they've been mouldering since you picked them up. "But my parents were so happy to see me get married in front of all of their friends!" you say. "The tears shining in my mother's eyes were worth it all!" You know what else would've made mom tear up? If you'd slapped her across the face and called the wedding off when she suggested that you put miniture bottles of Tabasco sauce at each place setting to commemorate your Grandpa Ed. And believe me, those tears would have been just as poignant and not nearly as costly.

In the end analysis, there will be no 'memories to treasure for a lifetime' at any event surrounding the five, count 'em, five minutes in which you actually committ spiritually and financially to another person. Here's something for the young lovers to try: use the 12 months you set aside for planning a shitty party to think about those five minutes when you will become someone else's family for the rest of your lives.

I hate weddings.

Don't pull a John Denver

I've just been reading some of the accident reports in General Aviation News. I do this from time to time to try to store away things that I should avoid doing when/if I eventually become a pilot. And because of the aviation-related title of this blog I think maybe I should list out some causes of airplane accidents and their real-life counterparts to avoid:

- The decision to perform a negative G maneuver, which resulted in a loss of engine power due to fuel starvation

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- The decision to show your buddies what wicked fun you are by throwing yourself careening down into a late, booze-filled night, which resulted in a loss of ability to function in the morning due to the fact that your brain hadn't recieved nearly enough oxygen.

- The low-time pilot's failure to follow instrument flight procedures resulting in a collision with trees.

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- The hubristic young woman's failure to slow down when going over an unplowed freeway overpass resulting in a collision with more than one concrete divider and the writing-off of her car.

- The inadvertent deployment of a parachute which resulted in damage tot he right horizontal stabilizer and elevator. (No injuries)

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- The inadvertent-seeming, yet totally intentional bailing-out of a wedding to go home early which resulted in damaging an already so-so friendship. (No real remorse)

As I'm sure pilots will continue to crash planes and I'll continue to screw up, this may become a regular feature. Stay tuned.

Flying the Inquisitive Skies

Spin Recovery Training

Yesterday saw me trying to demonstrate employability while flying back from Canada with an aviation industry mogul. I think I passed the test. Now on to rounds two and three of the process. The whole getting-a-job thing is like a tennis game. I would rate my performance yesterday as on par with a Baghdatis while the mogul was more like a Sampras. I would ideally like to make a Blake-esque mid-career(search) rise and get ahold of something that I would really enjoy doing for the next 3-5 years.

In other news, the Redhead looks fabulous pregnant, Gabby is happy, and Blissa is v. sad. Had a wonderful evening talking with them all at the Redhead's charming Stillwater farmhouse last night.

The day before, 'Kovsky and I got a bit drunk at Minnehaha Falls (but I blame the imbecilic frat boys throwing a nerf football into our pitcher of Summit and forcing me to demand another full one as recompense.) We followed it up with a bit of less-than-stellar kayaking in Calhoun and Lake of the Isles. Maritime joined us later for a table of food at Salut and then after-dinner drinks and a nutella crepe (the Princess) at Barbette. We were really gunning for a mention in "overheard in minneapolis.'

Today is actually the second day of the rest of your life

First: My friend Maritime inspired this blogging nonsense.
Second: I'm suspending disbelief that recording one's thoughts and actions can give one added perspective.
Third: At some future date, I may let others see this ('this' being the disorder and contradictory nature of my written thoughts).
Fourth: I vastly prefer letters, but there may come a day when I can't write to all my loved ones individually.

And I think we'll limit it to just four statements for now and see how it goes. I'm definitely in "dipping-toe-in-blog-water" mode.