Posts from — April 2004

Sunny Orlando, Florida. Been there, done it. But it was time to do it again. Brenda’s sister was graduating from school, and becoming a nurse. We went down there, to watch. We went early, to vacation. As I said, been there, done it. All who know me know my distain for the place. A card-carrying Disney hater, I loathe the land of calculated happiness, forced smiles, Olive Gardens, and line length camouflage. But, you know, blood is thicker than water.

So I guess it’s fitting that this time around, Brenda decided that Sea World would be the tourist trap of choice for this visit.

I gotta say, it wasn’t all bad. Now, the $55/person admission fee, that was bad, yes. Very bad. And of course once inside the gates, the little khaki-short-cladded, digital camera wielding minions descended upon us for a picture which Brenda would be sure to purchase prints from (she actually bought two). But the actual park itself was a lot nicer and more fun that what I’m used to down there. Since their schtick is aquatic life forms, up close and personal, the place is basically just a bunch of giant fish tanks with big fish swimming around in them. Since this is not really enough to keep the typical eight year-old interested for more than three seconds, Sea World has specialized in fish that enjoy hamming it up for the kiddies.

The dolphins, well, what can I say? They love to eat little fish. And, as luck would have it, little fish are for sale at the booth right next to the damned tank! And since there are tons of middle-aged parents desperate for little Johnny to take home some quality memories, it’s easy to position yourself near one of these nuclear families with a fresh tray of the dolphin crack, so you can cop a feel on the dolphins whoring themselves for a free mackerel. But they are cute. The dolphins, that is.

Oh, by the way: Sea Lions, after my beloved cat Emma, are now the second-coolest creatures on this planet.

Sea World has added a roller coaster for people like me, who just want to yell and go upside down when they go to amusement parks. It’s not bad, and I went on it twice.

The shows! They have several shows at Sea World. There’s a dolphin show (they get rad air), a sea lion show and of course the killer whale show, featuring Shamu and company. Folks, let me tell ya something. Those killer whales are anything but killer. Shamu thinks she’s all that and can get away with a single jump and a few splashy-splashy routines, but I ain’t buying it. That show sucked ass, and half the attendees at Shamu Theatre agreed with me, based on my impromptu exit polling. My advice is skip that show, and go around for a second stab at the free beer.

Huh? Oh yes, free beer! Nothing hearkens back to the sea like an eight ounce taster of Annheiser-Busch’s finest offerings in a wax-paper cup, and that’s why there’s a whole “exhibit” set up to enthrall park guests with the “process” of beermaking. Again, this is one to skip, unless you like standing in line with a bunch of guys who all look like roadies for a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band. Even I skipped the free beer. Of course it was Budweiser, so that’s kinda like skipping free root canal.

Now, you can still thrill to the delights of the Budweiser Clydesdales pulling a wagon of Budweiser cases through the park a few times a day. Because as you know, when you think of Sea World, you think… horses? It was like a clip-clopping public service announcement.

Oh, by the way: Puffins, after Sea Lions and my beloved cat Emma, are now the third-coolest creatures on this planet.

Did you know that dolphin mother’s milk is 33% fat? It’s to quickly build up the layer of blubber that the dolphin babies need for insulation. It’s one of the few things I learned while at Sea World, since the place is sorely lacking in informational signage. I can’t believe Starbuck’s doesn’t offer dolphin mother’s milk as an option for their coffees. By the way, one of the dolphins was named “Starbuck”. Coincidence? I think not. Look for a bottlenose dolphin’s milk latte supreme ($9.00) at a Starbuck’s near you, soon.

My cynicism aside, it really was the best park I’ve been to in that pit of tourism known as Orlando. With the exception of the Clydesdales, the crass corporate identity and branding love-fest so prevalent at the other Orlando attractions was virtually non-existent. Recommended.

The next day, Brenda paid me back by going to the Fantasy of Flight Museum. This place was fantastic. After paying the $25 admission fee (which anyone who’s been soaked in Orlando recently will agree is quite reasonable), you go through an EXTREMELY cheesy “immersion exhibit”, simulating an Eighth Air Force bomber base in WWII, culminating in the one cool part of that exhibit, an actual walk-through of a B-17G. But after that, we headed to the first of several hangars, full of very nicely restored aircraft (long list, including a B-25, B-24, P51A, P51D, the only P-40 trainer in the world, a Stampe, a Storch, a Laird Super Solution, a Gee Bee replica, etc…). But the best part of this museum is that many of the aircraft you see are FLYING aircraft.

They also have lots of tours. You get to go through the restoration hangar, where one of the guys there shows what he’s working on (currently a Stinson L-1, a Seversky P-35 and a Republic P-47) as well as demonatrating some of the techniques and tools of the process. Another tour took us back through the bulk of museum-owner Kermit Weeks’ collection of stuff, which is unbelievable. One hangar was totally full of engines, mostly from the WWII era; he has used Allison engines shelved thirty feet high. He’s even got one of those 28-cylinder Wrights. In another hangar, he has twelve BRAND NEW pickled Allisons in crates. Oh wait, he only has ten now, because they’ve reserved two of them for their P-38 Lightning restoration they plan to do someday. (!) The P-38’s fuse is sitting in the restoration hangar. Unfortunately the twin booms were SAWED off for transport, adding about 2,000 man-hours to the restoration they estimate.

At the end of the day, they do the “Flight of the Day”. This is where they pull one of the planes out of the museum and go fly it! This was a highlight for many of the assembled museum-goers, myself included.

This place is like a small annex of the National Air & Space Museum, but where most of the exhibits fly. How cool is that? I highly recommend this place, and they have ambitious expansion plans, so it should keep getting better. If you’re ever stuck in the Orlando area—and stuck is really the best word for it—and have time, I suggest you check them out. Highly Recommended.

Finally, Tuesday, it was time to see Mandy get her nurse’s pin, and that was probably the highlight of the whole week, as it should have been. We have to miss her graduation ceremony on Saturday, because instead we will be watching my sister marry Bob. Extremely Recommended.

In honor of the one reporter present at the Presidential press conference last night with the balls to try and get a straight answer out of our fearless leader, I offer this extended dance mix version of Question Number Thirteen:

REPORTER: Mr. President, why are you and the vice president insisting on appearing together before the 9/11 commission?

BUSH: …because the 9/11 commission wants to ask us questions, that’s why we’re meeting. And I look forward to meeting with them and answering their questions.

REPORTER: I was asking why you’re appearing together, rather than separately, which was their request.

BUSH: Because it’s a good chance for both of us to answer questions that the 9/11 Commission is looking forward to asking us. And I’m looking forward to answering them.

REPORTER: OK, Mr. President, perhaps you don’t understand the essence of the question. I know you’re a bit slow, so let me spell this out for you. What I’d like to know is why you refuse to meet with the commission on your own, without Vice President Cheney next to you; why you refuse to simply sit in a chair and answer some questions. You’ve already said you look forward to answering their questions, and you have even surmised that the Commission is looking forward to asking them, though I suspect you just got your script a little mixed up there. So, why not meet with them separately, as they have requested?

BUSH: (Bush stammers and then puffs out his cheeks while the cameras go wild) Uh…

REPORTER: OK, OK, let’s try another approach. Mr. President, are you familiar with the police drama “NYPD Blue”?

BUSH: Ah, I don’t really watch TV. I believe I already mentioned I don’t read the papers, either.

REPORTER: Well, often the detectives will apprehend a pair of suspects. Invariably, they will place the suspects in separate rooms and quesion them separately. This is in the interest of getting at the truth. You see, sometimes people will try to lie about something they did or didn’t do, so the detectives will split up the suspects and have them each tell their stories separately. This way, they can search for any inconsistencies in the two tales, and possibly expose a lie. You see where I’m going with this, Mr. President?

BUSH: Unh huh. I see. Well, there you go, they ask the suspects questions. I believe in asking questions, because, because—no, I look forward to asking questions… and, when others look forward to asking questions… I look forward to answering them.

REPORTER: Mr. President—
BUSH: Take my dog, Barney, for example. Just the other day, Barney began speaking to me. He told me that God is quite pleased with my performance as President, but that he felt the sich…youu…ation, situation, that’s it, is spiraling out of control in Iraq, and Barney asked if he could help me out with anything. So I asked Vice President Cheney what he thought, and we agreed to answer a flat “no”.

REPORTER: Mr. President?

BUSH: Yes?

REPORTER: Are you saying that God speaks to you through your pet dog?

BUSH: Well, I’ll have to refer you to my Vice President for the answer to that question.

REPORTER: OK, don’t worry about that. We already know you’re nuts. Back to this issue of your refusal to be questioned alone with the 9/11 commission. I think the American people deserve a little more candor than you’re displaying to us, given everything that’s been coming to light lately regarding the administration’s intelligence failures. Why won’t you simply grant the commission’s request for a separate closed door session with you?

BUSH: Candor?

REPORTER: Oh, sorry Mr. President. It means honesty, sincerity, impartiality.

BUSH: Im…parsh..ul..ity?

REPORTER: Forget it, Mr. President. Forget it.

BUSH: OK, well I guess that wraps it up here. Thank you all for your time. I really looked forward to answering your questions, and may God bless the United—
REPORTER: Yeah, whatever.

After a promising fall season, wherein I shamelessly gushed about aircraft ownership and looked forward to the months ahead, I was greeted by a particularly pissed off Old Man Winter. This curtailed all flying for months. In fact, my flying has suffered a bit of a crimp even these last few months, as my weblog content clearly shows. Lately, I haven’t seen an aviation article on this site at all, just a lot of bitching and ranting.

Well, these last several weeks have allowed at least a bi-weekly foray onto the skies, and as we set the clocks ahead and the temperatures have climbed in fits and starts, I felt that soon I would resemble a pilot again. Every couple weeks or so, the weather gods acquiesce and grant me a weekend day suitable for a rusty pilot to take to the air, and I’ve been going up and attempting to gain confidence and sharpen my skills.

But every other flight or so, niner three foxtrot decides to throw me a scare.

This started way back at the beginning of our relationship, the first episode happening when I was getting checked out in her with my friend who helped me buy this plane. It seems that every once in a while niner three fox likes to start sputtering and dropping RPMs; the Continental O-200 engine alternates between a steady and confidence-inspiring WHAAAAAA, and a more attention-getting nnnnn, or even a dugga-dugga-dugga. This pitch/tempo change has also had the annoying tendency to happen shortly after takeoff, when we’re both rather close to the ground.

My friend & I have discussed this phenomenon a few times now. Since he was with me the first time this happened, I had the benefit of his experience in identifying the problem. He feels it was water ingestion—water mixing with the fuel/air mixture spraying into the carburetor. Remember the last time you had water go down the wrong pipe? You coughed and sputtered. That’s why planes have drains on each gas tank and other strategic locations along the fuel system, so the pilot can drain out the heavier water that can sometimes accumulate in the fuel system before each flight.

At first, the thought was that I didn’t drain enough fuel, or that the plane wasn’t quite level when I did so, so water in the gas tank was escaping detection during the preflight inspection. So, I have since tried to be ever more diligent in my fuel sampling. But “it” kept happening. Sometimes “it” would be a brief cough, sometimes it would be prolonged. Back around Christmastime “it” happened for so long that it actually scared the crap out of me. And the thing that pissed me off was, I was on my way to deliver a well-earned case of Molson Ice to my friend (his taste, not mine).

I was just a few hundred feet above the ground, having taken off after getting fuel—and yes, I checked the fuel I just put in—and the engine said: “WHAAAAA-nnnnnn-AAAAA-dugga-dugga-dugga-AAAA-nnnn”. I did not like this, what the engine was saying to me. So I kept climbing, and stayed within gliding distance of the airport. After leveling off at 2,000 feet, I circled around for a while, listening carefully. Niner three fox sung a sweet, steady song. So, I climbed up a bit higher and headed west to my friend’s airport, my buttcheeks firmly clenched.

The flight ensued without incident, and the beer was delivered. But we talked about the latest occurrence of “it”™ and my friend pored over niner three fox. His theory, besides that I simply wasn’t dilligent enough about draining fair samples from the tanks, was that water was collecting in a bend in a SCAT tube by the engine air inlet. His theory is that the water pools there after a rainstorm, and sits there idly by while I taxi and start my takeoff roll, but shortly after I pitch the plane up to climb away from the earth, that water flows back into the carburetor and causes “it”™ to happen. The solution was to plug the opening to the SCAT tube while the plane is parked, which I did with a rag for a few weeks and then got fancy cowl plugs to do the same thing later. The next few flights ensued without incident, and I considered my friend’s advice to be the solution to the problem.

Today I learned we have not quite solved it yet.

After an uncharacteristically early awakening sans-alarm clock, and a decent weather briefing, I scooted to the airport this morning in hopes I could get in some airtime before the winds kicked up and the rains followed this evening. A leisurely preflight ensued, and then niner three fox started up easily. After a run-up check we were ready to go.

“Central Jersey traffic, Cessna’s departing runway two-five…” WAAAAAA… “Central Jersey traffic, Cessna’s departing the pattern to the west” …nnnnn…sputter…dugga-dugga…nnnn…dugga-dugga-dugga.

Assuming this was the same water problem, I pitched forward and leveled off, and the engine eventually smoothed out. But I had no interest in leaving the general vicinity of the airport now, at 600 feet above ground level. I began a very shallow climb, which went well. Then to test my friend’s theory I went full power and pitched up again, and “it”™ happened again. So, a slow climb to 2,000 feet, and: “uh, Central Jersey, the Cessna just off is gonna cross midfield at two thousand, rough engine, gonna loiter east of the field.”

The runway slid underneath, looking like Linus’ security blanket. I climbed to 2,500’ and circled around for a spell, and of course in level flight niner three fox ran like a top. But I figured that since my plane is due for an annual inspection and some other work, I’d just head back and wait for my friend to have a look at her.

And here’s what really pissed me off. For the next five minutes, both plane and pilot performed flawlessly.

Still concerned about the rough-running engine, I wanted to stay as high as possible for the duration of the flight, but you really need to be at pattern altitude—generally one thousand above ground level—by the time you arrive at the traffic pattern. So I chopped the throttle, applied carb heat, and started spiraling down, keeping the airport in sight. After two 360s, I was at 1800’ and set up on a perfect 45 degree line for the downwind leg. I announced my approach. I hit pattern altitude about a quarter mile from the downwind leg, and slid right into the pattern. My approach was tighter than normal, again a nod to the idea that the engine may get annoyed at keeping us in the air and go on strike. The view on final approach was unusual, but I realized it was because it was the view I’m supposed to have all the time. My speed was dead on, the descent angle perfect, and the landing, oh lets talk about the landing:

Perfect. Just past the numbers, the main wheels started rolling, because they had just come in slight contact with the runway surface. The only clue that this thing that belongs in the air was now a ground vehicle was a slight vibration in the seat of my pants. I raised the flaps, leaned the mixture and shut off the carb heat all while holding the nosegear off the runway as long as possible. I coasted off the runway at the first turnoff, and listened to the engine purr.

I debated taking off again, to experience that kind of perfect flight one more time. I realized that not only is my engine being balky, there’s no way my next approach & landing would be anywhere as perfect. I chalked up the whole experience to another reason I love aviation: moments of excitement, beauty, satisfaction, uncertainty, and fun.

For example, as I flew around there near my airport, I managed to steal a few glances at the amazing view; from only 2,000 feet I could see Philadelphia and New York City simulataneously.

VVVVVVROOOOMMMM!!… VVVVROOOOOMMMM!!… ”…and Waltrip’s making a move…” VVVVROOOMMMM!!…

(BUZZzzzzzzzz…)

”…don’t forget race fans, Tide gets the stains out, Hummers rule, and if you’re not drinkin’ a Budweiser, you might as well be wearin’ a dress.”

VVVROOOMMM!!… VVVROOOMMM!!… (BUZzzzzz…) “DANG IT!!!!!!” (sound of the one good screen door hinge creaking in agony, then:)

(buzzzz…) chick-chick-BLAM!! (bzzzzz…) chick-chick-BLAM!! (bzzzz…) chick-chick-BLAM! (boom! bzzzz…)

“Heh heh, I got ‘im!” (shaking fist, spilling Coors Light all over himself) “That’ll learn ya!”

This faithful re-enactment of a stupid white person with gun moment was brought to you by Maker’s Mark whiskey, because it took me several belts of the stuff to finally be able to sit down and write about this colossal act of stupidity.

Anthony Gene Moore got pissed, and then got pissed about a light plane flying nearby earning a living—it “was annoying him”—and decided the proper thing to do would be to begin firing a rifle at the airplane.

He hit the plane three times (nice shootin’!); twice the bullets passed harmlessly through the wing, but one bullet hit the battery, causing it to explode, or “blow up real good”. The pilot landed without incident, and told authorities about the location of the festivities directed towards him, and Mister Moore was swiftly greeted by the Lenoir County Sheriff’s Department’s finest.

I hope Mr. Moore gets the maximum penalty for his crime and has to listen to the O’Franken Factor during his entire six month sentence, which by the way is far too light a penalty for FIRING A WEAPON AT A MAN TRYING TO DO HIS JOB, for chrissakes.

Attention all Lenoir County area pilots: Moore is currently being held at the Craven Correctional Institute. Can you think of a better place for a continuous buzz-job than the Craven Correctional Institute?

Buuzzzzzzzzzzzz……………………

Week two of Al Franken’s new radio show brings James Fallows and Ron Suskind to the airwaves, and later this week my beloved Bush basher Molly Ivins will be a guest. I’m enjoying the show. I wish Al & Katherine all the luck in the world, and sincerely hope that their message reaches the voters of this country.

But I started wondering last week, how effective is this format? Clearly, someone needs to respond to these idiots Limbaugh, Hannity, O’Reilly, et al., but sometimes the show just feels like new spin on the old elementary school debate format:

“you suck!” “well, you suck more!”

I’m not sure what else to do, and like I said, at least there’s finally a left-handed voice on radio responding to and disassembling the lies bounding out of the Bush administration. But I just hope that people are listening to Al and his many intelligent guests, taking in the facts and doing their own thinking on these subjects. Anger over the policies of the Bush administration is healthy, but not when it clouds judgement. Blind acceptance of these new voices on Air America Radio makes us no better than the humps who listen to that twit Sean Hannity.

An excellent example of both the ugly practice of right-wing mudslinging, as well as what happens when you blindly take sides without reading & thinking for oneself is what happenned to George Smith. George Smith, a registered Democrat, wrote a piece over a year ago, critical of Richard Clarke. This article ended up being used by the Rush/Hannity/O’Reilly Axis of Evil, as more fodder for their smear campaign of Richard Clarke. In his recent Village Voice article Mr. Smith tells the sad story. Sadder still are the letters he includes in a sidebar, actual emails he recieved in response to this article’s rebirth as right-wing smear-smut.

Let’s be careful out there, OK?

Good evening everyone, and now it’s time for Birthday Report.

That’s right, folks, today’s my birthday. Born on April Fool’s Day. I’m like the Ron Kovic of comedy.

Anyway, the day started out good enough, with PRESENTS. Then, it was off to work, and the train was only ten minutes late, which we are now officially considering “on time”. Late in the afternoon I was treated to CandyCake II.

See, I don’t really like cake or pies. This causes the chocolate-heads in my office no end of grief. So last year, my boss created CandyCake I, a huge success with my dentist. Basically, you create a retaining wall out of jellied fruit slices and fill it with gummy bears, gum drops, skittles, and pure cane sugar. This year, my friend Steve added a custom birthday message in gummy worms, a nice touch indeed. And Sarah went with an aviation motif, fashioning a propeller out of red licorice.

After the inevitable sugar crash, it was off to dinner with friends at Blue Smoke. You walk in this place and you’re hit with a smoky barbecue aroma that has you ready to eat some meat, man! I had the pulled pork platter, which in addition to tasting great, has an alliterative name.

All too soon it was time to go home and here’s where things got really interesting. Rutgers University, a New Jersey institute of higher education, was playing Michigan for the NIT basketball championship tonight. I knew this because Brenda told me all about it. She knew this because the train she rode into the city to meet me for dinner was loaded to the ceiling with a bunch of face-painted, drunken screaming idiots from the aforementioned institute of higher education. They were were shouting things like “YEAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”, “Whooo hoooooooo!!!”, and “Fuckin’-Ayyyyyyy!!!’. (I believe there were one or two CPAs from the class of ‘91 that actually filled Brenda in on the key details.)

The NIT championship was played at Madison Square Garden. Madison Square Garden is located directly above Penn Station, where Brenda & I catch a train outta the city. So when we left Blue Smoke and noted that it was a four point game with 3:48 to play, we knew it could go either way. Either we’d get there just as a train was leaving and we’d ride in late-night, empty-train bliss, or we’d just miss one and have to endure a packed train of rabid basketball fans, possibly coming off a win high.

Yes, I ride these trains every day, and no, I do not have a schedule.

We arrived at 9:12. At that point, the 9:10 express was probably about 200 yards out of the station. Next train out doesn’t leave for half an hour. My phone winks at me; I have a text message from Steve, who I left at the bar at Blue Smoke (he’s a Michigan alumnus): “Melissa says Happy Birthday. Rutgers just lost, good luck.”

Cue Rob’s scream, camera in close on Rob’s mouth, then rapidly pulling back to infinity.

At first, they came in threes and fours. Wearing red, the red of their beloved losers the Scarlet Knights of Rutgers, they seemed mellow and despondent. But as their numbers grew, the concourse became a sea of red, and they started to realize that even though their team lost, it was Thursday night and few had class tomorrow. It was time to party.

When the track was finally announced, one of the reds yelled “hoooooo”, which of course caused all the rest of these idiots to yell “Hooooooo”, united in a common goal of getting on the one train headed toward campus. We were literally swept in a red sea toward the gate. Brenda grabbed my arm, while I skillfully threw my shoulder at people pushing too hard. But we quickly realized that even if we got on this train, it was pretty much the last place on earth we wanted to be. I made like Moses. Hanging a sharp left against the tide of idiots, I pushed my way through with Brenda hanging on tight, parting the red sea of stupidity.

We decided to take a different train, one that was not going to our station, but going close enough to catch a cab from there.

Our cabbie was an inventor and drove with a laptop computer with GPS uplink by his side, but he still got lost on the way to our car at Metropark station. But it was a fun ending to a fun and interesting day, and now it’s over.

Thirty six years old today.