I Won the Match in Three

Looks like this girl is moving to ATL.

I got a decent offer from a great company and with a little negotiating/finessing later today, I think I'm going to accept. So here's to the end of the tennis metaphors. Now on to winding down with the family business, packing, moving, etc.

Here's a list of things that I'm looking forward to buying with my newfound salary and benefits:

- A bed. A really good one. And new linens to go with it.
- A new handbag. Perhaps some gorgeous little Celine number.
- A trip to the dentist. I'm overdue.
- A trip to Vietnam. Pressie is in.
- A new hat from Lilliput. I'm going to Toronto tomorrow, so why not? Plus, don't Southerners love hats?
- A bit of laser hair removal. Wouldn't it be lovely not to ever have to worry about it again?
- A trailer ball for the Audi. To haul a wee trailer of my worldly goods down past the Mason-Dixon.
- A new Netflix membership. I've missed adding random Italian movies to my queue.
- A ton of stationary. Since I'll be far away, I can indulge in my favorite hobby of letter-writing to far off loved ones.

Ah, change.

Pressie is officially stateside! I talked to him today and will see him sunday at the latest. After the loss of Maritime, this is the best possible news. When I actually get to talk to him I shall have one proposition to put forward: Vietnam. Not that we get involved in any sort of protracted police action, but that we go as tourists for fun. It's being French-speaking certainly adds to its appeal, but it's also ridiculously cheap, I'm told, and full of wonderful dining, shopping, etc. In short, it's our perfect vacation (Mazatlan Spring Break not included, wink wink).

But now for a lyrical send-off for my dear, departed (not dead) friend:

Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.

Big Sam left Seattle in the year of '92,
With George Pratt, his partner, and brother, Billy, too.
They crossed the Yukon River and found the bonanza gold.
Below that old white mountain just a little south-east of Nome.

Sam crossed the majestic mountains to the valleys far below.
He talked to his team of huskies as he mushed on through the snow.
With the northern lights a-running wild in the land of the midnight sun,
Yes, Sam McCord was a mighty man in the year of nineteen-one.

Where the river is winding,
Big nuggets they're finding.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.

Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.

George turned to Sam with his gold in his hand,
Said: "Sam you're a-lookin'at a lonely, lonely man.
"I'd trade all the gold that's buried in this land,
"For one small band of gold to place on sweet little Ginnie's hand.

"'Cos a man needs a woman to love him all the time.
"Remember, Sam, a true love is so hard to find.
"I'd build for my Ginnie, a honeymoon home.
"Below that old white mountain just a little south-east of Nome."

Where the river is winding,
Big nuggets they're finding.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.

Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
Way up north, (North To Alaska.)

Jonesing for a Cessna 172

If The Instructor doesn't call me back, I won't know if I can go to N. MN tomorrow and continue to learn how to fly. In the City World, hereafter referred to as NORMAL, we call people back. Typically right after recieving a voicemail from them. It is how society functions. In NORMAL, we realize that communication is essential to ongoing commerce and the perpetuation of the Capitalist system. I should probably leave economic systems out of it, though. I'm sure urban Communists have an equally difficult time getting their rural commrades to call them back.

Got back from ATL today. My general sense from the two interviews is that I am currently akin to a top seed in the US Open. But I won't know for sure for the next few weeks. Fingers crossed, friends, this one needs a job.

Oh, let's take some time to rant about flying commercially and how unremittingly stupid the general public is.

1. I get that you're a nervous flyer, old guy, but just because they had to unload some baggage to stay under gross weight isn't a sign that we'll go down in a fiery mass of twisted metal. So stay on the goddamn plane.

2. Moustachioed woman, move your church group/marine recruits away from the escalator. Is marshalling frightened and frightening teens through an overly complex airport process difficult? Sure. But the escalator is not going to stop depositing people at the top even if twelve of your slack-jawed charges are blocking any egress. That's why I just tripped over that expectant mother.

3. The spilled liquid by the security checkpoint: Estee Lauder Gentle Eye Makeup Remover for all skin types, or liquid explosive that smells exactly like Estee Lauder Gentle Eye Makeup Remover for all skin types? You be the judge, HAZMAT Team.

4. Signs that your children are ready for air travel, mother of four: when they are eighteen - or - when they have no vocal cords or limbs.

5. To at least eight people, including my seatmates: I'm giving you monosyllabic answers or nods, even occasionally while wearing earplugs, because I don't want to talk to you or hear anything you have to say.

6. Guess what, TSA! I'll take the terrorists any day of the week. Now give me my shoes back before I contract something fungal.

[Seriously, I'm far more concerned about the devastation of an athlete's foot pandemic than anything terrorists could think up. Wait... maybe that was the plan all along. We are literally walking right into that one.]


I just read through this post and there's absolutely no way that this sucker isn't getting flagged for reading by some poor, beleaguered Homeland Security employee. Sorry, guy or gal. But look on the bright side: you get paid to look at the internet all day. And I'm sure you have some really funny anecdotes that will have people buying you drinks for years to come.

PS- on the off chance you decide to tap my phone after this (legally or not) would you mind sending me a tape (or maybe a .wav file, I'm not sure how far your technological capabilities have come) of my voice sped up to Alvin Chipmunk speed? I would just get a kick out of that.

It wasn't that bad.

The 80's themed wedding was pretty enjoyable, actually. I discovered that even though I look like a chubby nine-year-old in a leotard, there's something very freeing about being in essentially a swimsuit when everyone else around you is fully dressed. There's absolutely no room for posing. Your ass is hanging out, you gotta own it. The girls from the Robert Palmer "Addicted to Love" video, George Michael a la "Faith", and the white guy channeling Michael Jackson were real highlights. I suspect my off-the-cuff maid of honor speech was not. I closed with: "May you have all the time in the world to do justice to all the love in your hearts." Seriously. It was almost as inspired as the time I pleaded explosive diahrrea to get out of a social engagement.

Just got back from a vacation I could take again and again and again. Maritime and her family opened up thier arms and I fell right into thier gracious cabin hospitality. We hiked, introduced the boys to Mille Bornes, and had fabulous meals up and down the north shore. I am now on very intimate terms with Gitchi Gumi both in and out of a kayak. It was the perfect break and a chance for great conversations about life with someone who knows what she's talking about.

Now to sort it all out in my little corner of reality...

They call us 'Citiots'

Finally back. I didn't actually solo due to lack of a medical certificate (they like to know that you won't stop suddenly while flying) and marginal weather. But I did have my first actual in-flight emergency! We were 3 mi. north of the Brainerd airport when I smelled a suspicious burning smell. We couldn't at first diagnose it, but when the Instructor saw a little billow of smoke rise up from under the transponder, she very efficiently and capably declared an emergency and landed. The Brainerd rescue team (I think his name is Don) wasn't exactly Johnny-on-the-spot. Or should it be Donny-on-the-spot in this case? Anyway, it took the guy like 5-10 minutes to roll up in his truck after we landed and were standing, by correct emergency procedures, 50' upwind of the airplane. You hope that announcing that your plane is potentially on fire would have a more galvanizing effect on emergency rescue personnel. All was fine in the end, just a transponder that thought it was a toaster.

The major highlight of being back home so far (and only b/c I haven't yet seen Maritime, Kovsky, or #2): vegetables. I don't know what Northern Minnesota's problem is because they grow plenty of them, but they sure aren't eating many. The entire 4.5 days I was there the only vegetable (and I use the term loosely) I had unless you count pickles was Iceburg lettuce. Seriously, just the bad lettuce and pickles. My colon put the brakes on fast, if you get my meaning. My entire digestive system was thrown for a total loop. And I am developping a theory that long-term constipation, the product of years, even decades without sufficient vegetable intake, results in decorating with tchotchkies and 'collectables'. The Instructor's grandmother's house was like one of those German/Scandanavian restaurant/gift shops. Every single box of tissues was in some sort of cozy. It was like some sort of urgent, snot-driven, Where's Waldo search everytime I needed to blow my nose. And in that sort of frilly environment, just because something has a plume of white material coming out of the top doesn't necessarily mean that it's a kleenex. One cozy was a scale replica of the couch. I'm not even kidding.

Oh! And here's an illustrative tidbit about small-town Northern MN life: I went to the 'fancy' restaurant in town (I can recommend the breaded cheese and black olive mixture) and the entryway glass display case featured a dreamcatcher with a little patch in the middle that simply said 'Diabetes'. It was presented by the Lions Club. There are so many layers to explore in that even aside from the higher incidence of diabetes in both Native Americans and Lions Club members. An absolute dreamcatcher. I'm still just amazed by the whole thing.

Actual Training

Off I go to the wilds of Northern Minnesota to learn once and for all how to fly a plane. Actually, flying is not hard at all, it's the landing that's difficult. There's a double meaning in that. But if I belabor the aviation-as-life metaphor any more I think I'll drive my few readers away en masse.

The goal by the end of this week is to take off, fly, and (keep your fingers crossed, here's the tricky part) land an airplane all by myself. I am trying to be calm and collected and totally nonchalant about this prospect to show how pragmatic and put-together I am. The reality is that I am simultaneously thrilled to death and scared shitless. Which, upon further reflection, would make me cadaver with a clean colon. Wow, what's with my blog and scatology?

Into the wild blue yonder,

M

Game, Set, and...

To carry on with the career-search-as-tennis-match thing: I returned some pretty tough serves and volleys today and think I've at least pushed it into a third set. I wish I could pump a raquet in the air or something to demonstrate my satisfaction with the interview. How weird is it that everything else on the blog has some sort of aviation metaphor, but when it comes time for me to talk about getting a job in aviation I retreat into tennis? And every sport (with the possible exception of midget bowling) lends itself to fairly facile metaphors and similes. I should really have been trying harder. I apologize. But I probably won't stop, so don't bother getting your hopes up.

Ooh, my replacement phone just came!

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.