I was all set to write a witty blog entry about our latest adventures with washing machines when I discovered that something somewhere has changed with my WordPress configuration. I can no longer write images to the blog. This makes me sad.
I’m thinking something has changed on the hosted server so I have opened a trouble ticket. Wish me luck.
Late last night Earl mentioned to me that there was an airplane crash about 15 miles north of the house. He asked if I knew the pilot. When he saw my startled look he realised that I did indeed know the name. Jon was a super nice guy. Soft spoken. A pretty strong advocate for the general aviation community. He did not survive the crash of his ’46 Luscombe yesterday afternoon. May he fly amongst the angels.
The loss of any pilot weighs on my mind, especially if I know the pilot personally. We defy gravity after mitigating any risk to the best of our ability. We should always take that extra step to be as safe as possible as we dance amongst the clouds. When my dad was alive and reviewing crash reports, he’d always say “pilot error, 98% of the time it’s pilot error.”
As pilots we are trained to respond appropriately to catastrophic scenarios while airborne. Our reaction should be instinct. Your airplane has just turned into a big glider and do what you’ve been trained to do to glide safely to the ground. Sometimes there’s simply not enough time to react fast enough. We do what we can do. When we takeoff we know the risk. And yet we defy gravity. Because that’s where our heart leads us.
Jon’s passing yesterday weighed heavily on my mind all day today. I didn’t know him particularly well, but we had chatted many times. He had shared his adventures with the flight club. He had a passion that was very familiar. He seemed like a good sort.
I had an instrument lesson scheduled for today. The weather was clear in every direction. Wind was nearly non-existent. A small part of me was looking for a reason to not fly but a bigger part of my head said, “you have to fly today.” So my instrument instructor and I went up and flew and I nailed the practice instrument approaches to our airport. If I could just get past the book studying and the written exam I’d probably be a hell of an instrument pilot. I’m almost there. Almost.
Determination. It’s like getting up on the horse that’s thrown you across the pasture. We do have what we have to do.
And then we soar some more.
Image courtesy of TMZ through some random Google search.
As a card-carrying, rainbow flag waving gay man I’m going to make an admission to the world right now. I’ve had a few beers, I’ve pulled up on my balls, I’m feeling courageous, so here it is.
I can’t stand Aretha Franklin.
When I hear Aretha Franklin start making some raspy, wailing noises that result in people throwing awards at her I suddenly feel the impulse to slam my balls in a car door so I can wail louder than her and possibly earn a Grammy.
Look it, I will be the first to admit that I might enjoy singing the background vocals to “Who’s Zoomin’ Who” once in a great while after I’ve had a few beers. I learned how to spell respect because she spelled it for us, repeatedly, throughout the 60s and 70s ad nauseum. (I’d rather someone just “sock it to me”.) But the truth of the matter is, I don’t really enjoy her vocal stylings, I don’t care for her diva style and honestly I don’t know what all the hype is about. I think she’s the one that started that whole urban yodeling thing where someone tries to shriek up and down the medley like a stripper working the pole, but I didn’t blame her for that until Christina Aguilera started singing about stars reaming before a football game.
This all being said, the woman (Aretha, not Christina) has earned like 18 Grammys and other awards over the years. She has the balls to take hours to sing the National Anthem and no one bats an eye. She earned her props from the people that enjoy that sort of thing and hey, it might not be my cup of tea but other people groove on it and there’s nothing wrong with that.
The truth of the matter is, it’s Aretha’s wailing and my distaste for it that made me realise that not everyone in the world is going to like what I do, what I write or what I say. I might not win awards and I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever driven anyone to slam their balls in a car door but there’s been plenty of people that have laughed at my jokes, enjoyed the applications I’ve written at work or have enjoyed my DJ skills at clubs over the years. And there’s been plenty of people that couldn’t stand me along the way.
I’m no worse the wear for it. And neither is Aretha. So even though you’re never going to find me at an Aretha Franklin concert screaming “You go ‘Re ‘Re!”, someone somewhere is going to take a hit off a bong and scream it with all their might.
And somewhere else, though I doubt a bong will be involved, someone, somewhere, is going to yell, “you go J.P.!”
When it time for me to move onto whatever lies beyond this life, this photo represents how I want people to remember me: standing happily in an open field, transfixed by something geek worthy, looking off into the distance. People that know me should know that I’m very happy in this photo. I’m by myself but happily in love. Earl is right behind me in this photo, supporting my endeavors and ideas. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Earl took this photo of me back in spring 2016. It was my version of a marketing photo for the local power company back in the 1950s. I posted this photo on Facebook this morning without a caption. And then I decided that my 30 day self-challenge for the month would be to stay away from the platform for the month of July.
I’ve tried to step away from Facebook on a number of occasions in the past. Invariably something happens where I feel compelled to go back and take a peek: I want to share photos from a flight or some family event has taken place or I want to know what’s going on with friends. This month I’m doing my best to contact people through more traditional means, even if that means exchanging emails back and forth. I don’t want to be part of an algorithm. I don’t want some nebulous service deciding what I should see and who’s information is more important to me. I don’t need reminders telling me to contact so and so because they haven’t contributed to Facebook in a while. The service has become too big, too intrusive and too siloed. The cons outweigh the pros on my tally sheet.
This “no Facebook” month goes hand in hand with not placing my iPhone on a restaurant table (even upside-down). I want to be present in the moment. I want to live in the here and now, with my head and heart facing forward, looking for the positive in the future that lies ahead.
I’m hoping that I’ll start some sort of trend, whether it’s shunning Facebook or encouraging people to put their phones down when they’re with friends in a social settings. Yesterday, while out for a ride, Earl and I stopped at a diner for lunch. The two of us talked about a myriad of subjects. The family of five at the next table all picked at their plates while they each looked at their own phones. No words were exchanged. No glances were shared. Mom, dad and the three teenage kids all had their heads buried in their phones. I could see Dad was looking at Facebook. Mom was looking at pinterest. One child had snapchat up.
I just found that whole scenario so sad.
There’s too much in the here and now that warrants our attention. Enjoy the moment. Enjoy the company.
Earl and I were in the mood for something sweet before bedtime. We don’t really have the option of going to a late-night diner in this neck of the woods, as the only diner open at this time of night is Denny’s, and our local Denny’s has security to help control unruly crowds, drug rings and folks that try to leave the building without paying their bill.
This is not our idea of enjoying some time together over a slice of apple pie.
The local convenience store chain, Fastrac, has introduced their weak attempt at being like Wawa or Sheetz. They call their little eateries “Fastrac Café”. They brightly lit and have a kitchen where you can order things on a screen, just like Wawa or Sheetz in Pennsylvania, but that’s not open for the late night crowd. They also have a selection of bakery goods. Earl and I selected a sweet treat, filled up a cup of pop with diet(?) ice and sat down in the little café area to eat our treats.
Many establishments in this area have installed a television in circumstances such as these. The trend started shortly after the attacks of 9/11. Prior to that the only place that really had piped in news was the airport, and even then they showed the “CNN Airport” network. Televisions are found everywhere these days and in this neck of the woods they’re usually tuned to Fox News.
There is no escaping the news in modern America and there’s especially no escaping the likes of Donald Trump. As we sat in the Fastrac Café we were assaulted with debates about how latest belches of tweets on Twitter. People yelling and screaming and laughing. Of course Fox News trotted out a news clip of Joe from Morning Joe saying something derogatory about Melania back in 2007 and said “see, that’s why we have fake news today”.
Fake news. I really, really, really hate that term. It’s such a reductive thing to say. People hear something they don’t like on the news and they belch out “FAKE NEWS!” as loud as they can. It’s the Trump version of putting your fingers in your ears and going LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA.
There is no escaping Trump and there’s no escaping news bias and there’s no escaping idiots that buy this stupid shtick on either side of the aisle these days. You can’t go anywhere without being assaulted by a blaring television. You can’t go online without someone screaming “Fake news!” at one thing or another. You can’t go an hour without someone somewhere mentioning another stupid thing the Trump Administration has done. Anyone that thinks this country is “the greatest country on Earth” is delusional. That country is long part of our past. We should be doing better than this, we are better than this and we deserve better than this.
I’m always bewildered as to why Fastrac advertises that they have “diet ice”. I once asked why they label their ice, which is frozen water in cube form, as “diet ice” and they told me it was so customers would know that the ice was calorie free.
‘Merica.
Speaker Simon Sinek speaks about the benefits of turning your phone off and putting it completely away when you’re interacting with people in real life. I need to do this more. I need to be better at this. This is my July 30 day self-challenge.
Cross-posted from my Facebook account. Yes, I still use Facebook and I have no idea why I do.
I’ve been trying not to make political posts on FB because honestly I’m not going to change anyone’s mind about anything, especially in this “warring factions” mentality we have in our society. But I have to say this: there are a lot of good people that have lived long, productive lives contributing to society. Teachers, counselors, clergy, firefighters, soldiers, people from all walks of life. As they age their bodies start deteriorating in ways that they can not control. In their quest to live as long as they can (just like we all do), they require more and more medical care. That medical care can be expensive. Should these people be denied medical care because they can’t afford insurance? A spokesperson from the Trump administration states that Medicaid recipients should go out and get jobs. Medical insurance should be a reward for working hard at your job. I don’t know too many 80 year old Alzheimer’s patients that could handle that sort of challenge. Is a person battling cancer suppose to work at McDonalds in between radiation treatments? Where would you like a developmentally disabled child to work? Making headlamps at an auto factory?
The Affordable Care Act was not perfect. But repealing it and replacing it later (which is the latest dialog coming out of the White House since they can’t agree on the meanness level of TrumpCare now) is not the answer. A sane person does not plan to replace a refrigerator by burning down the house and then sleeping in the elements for months before starting to build a new house with a new refrigerator in it.
I know it’s ‘fun’ to scream about how awful Hillary was and to throw rocks at people that are different than you and to hoard all your money so you can watch people that are ‘less than you’ suffer on the street. We all get our kicks in our own way. But, c’mon, can we start searching for a common compassion for one another, set aside our differences for just a moment and admit that we are a stronger society, stronger nation when we were together and find a common ground?
In January 1977 we entered room 205 for another Monday of third grade and found a substitute teacher sitting behind the desk. Mrs. Delaney, our regular teacher, would be out sick for the following five weeks as she recovered from emergency gall bladder surgery. Even at age 9 I found this a little surprising since Mrs. Delaney was a young woman. Young pretty teachers don’t get sick. Old people have problems with their gall bladder. She was recently married, in fact, before our class had begun in September she was known as Miss Heilig. She was a pretty blonde woman and she had a tolerance of my odd ways. She accepted the fact that I would speed through every piece of homework and exam at warp speed. She never scolded me for turning in my paper first. She couldn’t figure out why I added numbers the way I did but it worked and she let me do it that way.
Quick aside: posed with a question like “8+7”, I would adjust it to a 10 before blurting out “15”. So in little competitive games to see who could add the fastest, she would say “8+7” and I would yell out “8+7, 9+6, 10+5, 15”. This would bewilder my competitor and while they were trying to count sticks in their head or whatever, I was whipping through this rapid, machine-gun way of adding and I would win a chocolate bar. That was always nifty. This trend sticks with me today.
Anyway, Mrs. Delaney was out sick and behind the desk sat Mrs. Davis. She wore a dress. Her old lady hair was quite red with some help and in the perfect old lady style. Though she retired many years ago she had a reputation throughout the district, young and old, as a taskmistress. She put up with no bunk. She did not tolerate a lack of obedience. Students will keep their desks neat and tidy. Mrs. Delaney had an unused paddle emblazoned with “Board of Education” hanging alongside the chalk board. Mrs. Davis didn’t need such a thing, she just slammed the ruler down if there was any sort of lack of attention. WAP! Even the most misbehaved boy in our class, another boy named John, who in later years would spend some time in prison, wept at the thought of Mrs. Davis teaching for an undetermined amount of time. I just did what I was told.
Mrs. Davis was known as “Dynamite Davis”. The woman could explode. She had a raspy yell that garnered the attention of people within a five mile radius. Even my dad and aunt talked about Dynamite Davis and they had been out of school for many years. The woman was a local legend.
I ran into Dynamite Davis years after I graduated from high school and had a pleasant conversation with her on a Sunday evening in a local restaurant. In elementary school she terrified me (but inspired me to stay the honor student I was at the time) and she was no nonsense but like Mrs. Delaney, she rode with me on my little idiosyncrasies and encouraged me to do what I needed to do to get to the right answer. She never scolded me for being the first one to turn in an exam or quiz. She had a hard look and a scary voice but she was alright. When we chatted years later she remembered me, my aunt and my dad and she had a nice old-lady smile. Like many teachers, she remembered details. “You always watched that clock.”
Inexplicably I enjoyed a very vivid dream about her last night. Like many of my dreams of people that have passed on, it felt uncannily real, she encouraged me to continue to do my best and smirked about the way I still add in my head. (The 8+7, 9+6, 10+5 15 routine drives Earl crazy). We had a normal conversation. I could smell her perfume. Her voice had softened slightly. She told me she doesn’t understand what schools are doing today with our youth and that we need to get back to a more disciplined environment in school districts. I asked her if we could take a selfie together so I could show the community that she is quite happy on The Other Side. She agreed, we laughed, we posed together and of course I couldn’t get my iPhone to work. That always happens when I try to take a selfie in a dream.
I woke up with my iPhone in my hand, camera activated. I was still smiling. The scent of Dynamite’s perfume was dissipating rapidly.
Who knew that the famous Dynamite Davis could make me smile?
With Earl and I getting ready to relocate to the Midwest later this summer we’ve been doing some odds and ends around the house getting it ready to be a market showplace. Every room (except the bathrooms) has a ceiling fan/light fixture on the ceiling. We both agreed that it would probably be best if we didn’t have to show prospective owners of our house how to beat on the kitchen ceiling fan with a broom to cool it down a little.
Enter a ceiling fan installation project.
The instructions on this Harbor Breeze ceiling fan were pretty straightforward and estimated that installation would take 120 minutes. We were able to get it installed in less than 90 minutes. When we fired everything up and confirmed that neither the wall nor ceiling were on fire, we discovered that the original electrician used non-standard color assignments for the wiring so the light switch was operating the fan and the fan switch was operating the light. I opted to just flip the wires at the combo switch and voila, light flicks light and fan spins fan.
We were so elated with our progress that we went crazy and reinstalled the toilet in the downstairs bathroom that had been removed for the floor tile replacement project of last week. Earl and I have seated and reseated toilets in this house so many times that we have it down to a science. The toilet was installed, flushed twice, peed in once and flushed again without a leak (except my power pee) in less than 10 minutes.
A great night of accomplishment.
Just a guy with a husband. We’ve been together 28 years and he still makes me see fireworks on a daily basis. Hiker. Storm Chaser. Private Pilot. Tech Guy. Hackerish.
Weird? Eccentric!
