Posted on November 4, 2024
Seeing a Divided World Through the Eyes of My Teen
Although news, podcasts, blogs, and conversations with friends, family, and coworkers have led me to believe the country is at a breaking point through our divisions, distrust, and uncertainty, I see the tiniest hints of hope when I watch the world through the eyes of my fourteen-year-old and listen to the words he uses to describe it.
Now, listen, I fully understand that he is being raised in a progressive bubble, but if you know me, I’d hope you know I’m not the type to preach with a clenched fist or expect my child to follow in line with all my beliefs. I do my best to present opposing opinions to stories we hear on the news, debate our perspectives and tell him he’s free to believe what he wants, even at the expense of him not loving Pink Floyd as much as I do.
Recently, he told me he was motivated to clean his room after repeatedly stepping barefoot on some Connect Four pieces he had left lying around after playing with a classmate.
He laughingly said, “Because of my Caucasian skin, I could read the words ‘Connect Four’ on the bottom of my foot for an hour!”
Never in my childhood—which was admittedly very Caucasian—would I have felt the need to describe the color of my skin while telling a story about myself, but in his world and in conversations with the spectrum of colors who make up his friend group, it’s relevant.
I’m proud he doesn’t assume the world simply looks like him.
On our local NPR station, we have a beloved host whom we’ve listened to as she transitioned on the radio and came into her own as an on-air personality. Naturally, my child and I have had many conversations about her and the joy we feel “knowing” her on the radio.
One day, she was reporting on trans hate crimes in another state. The teenager said to me, “That must be very hard for her to report on stories like this.”
Pride. Pride in knowing that even as so much is out of our control in the country right now, some things I hold dear are seen by him and are his norm. Not from lessons or demands, but by showing compassion, empathy, and heart.
During the Presidential Inauguration in 2020, when Joe Biden was being sworn in, the child asked me where the Vice President’s house was or if they had a room in the White House.
Out of habit, I replied, “No, his residence is at a place called the Naval Observatory in Washington DC.”
Without skipping a beat, he said, “Dad, you mean HER residence.”
These little things catch me off guard and remind me it’s a fresh world he’s growing up in. Mine is skewed by the perspective of age. For him it’s simply his reality.
I hope this isn’t seen as virtue signaling or interpreted as a boast about my parenting but as a glimpse into how I see the future through the eyes of the next generation.
I have hope that, as a world, we will move in a common direction, and that it will be through the small steps of the little legs we have taught to walk and will be a better world.
Posted on June 29, 2024
From a Journal 23 Years Ago.
Recently I was asked to find a journal I kept when we met twenty-three years ago. In it, I found a passage in which I wrote about a dream I had awoken from.
Twenty-three years ago! We had been dating for less than a month.
The Key to a Happy Marriage
In my dream, I sat with S. Morgan in first class on a transatlantic flight. For most of the flight, we sat in the silent peace of new love, only pausing to remark on an elderly couple sitting in front of us. We hoped that when we reached their age, we would look as they did and be as happy as they were. They looked like kids in love.
They cuddled and sat with their arms around each other, regardless of whether the stillness hurt their old bones. Midway across the ocean, the plane started developing troubles, and it looked like we wouldn’t make it to the other side. It was a slow descent, giving us time to reflect on our short time together. We watched the couple kiss and tell each other what a wonderful life they had together. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” he said to her. She kissed him and said, “We’ve made mistakes, but nothing that could ever pull us apart.”
I watched them and wished we had their time, and I wished we could be looking back longer rather than regretting our short time together. I think S. felt the same way. I said to her, “Even though it’s been short, I’ve been in love with the idea of being with you and in love with the idea of life with you.”
“We will be together again,” S. said as we embraced. The couple turned to us and took our hands in a moment of connection.
“How have you managed to stay together this long?” I asked her.
“The trick is this,” she said as she pulled a little vial from her husband’s coat pocket. “We carry it everywhere.” In the pocket was a little vial of sticky glitter.
“Whenever we get mad at each other, we put a little dab of glitter on each other’s noses.”
S. smiled. I smiled at her smiling.
“You can never be mad at someone when they have glitter on their nose,” the elderly man said, dabbing a little on her nose and kissing it.
Posted on May 27, 2024
Airline Captain – A Quick Study
I wrote the following years ago as a character study on a Captain I was flying with. I was hesitant to post it then as I genuinely enjoyed working with him and wouldn’t want him to think I was poking fun at him. Had he read it, I’d hate for a future trip with him to be awkward. He has since retired. In all honesty though, I think he would have liked this little story and would have appreciated someone studying him so closely.
My 61-year-old Captain is a former USAirways pilot from Philly. He sounds it too. Real gruff. He looks the part as well. Imagine an aging lounge singer who has played too many empty clubs. He swears a lot in public. On a deadhead with us in the cabin, he held up an memo from our company Ipad that he must have printed from five rows ahead and shouted over all the passengers to me, “Jesus. We can’t call them Check Airman anymore. They are check air persons!”
This is his fifth airline. All the way back to United in the ’80s, I think. He smokes a pipe and smells like cherry tobacco. He broke his neck twice, so he wears a scarf real tight for comfort and dons a neck pillow in the cockpit that is a fuzzy moose. He calls it “Mr. Moosey” in a very charming sing-songy way. As in, “Oh, where did Mr. Moosey go? Where could he be? Oh, there you are.”
He wears some kind of cummerbund under his uniform coat because a horse stepped on him years ago, and he says he broke some ribs in the incident. It’s blue and adds to that aging Vegas lounge singer look when he takes his coat off in the cockpit, like he’s sung his last song for the night. His house got hit by lightning and burned down. He lost two dogs and a cat in the fire and shares the story freely.
On our trip, he came in ten minutes before push on day one because he was buying us lunch though I had never met him. “I got all your stuff done, Captain. Settle in.” I said to no response. “They fucking paged me over the fucking PA for fuck’s sake. I was here. I’ve been here for hours. I had my fucking times all wrong. I was just right there getting us fucking cookies and they paged me.”
He has an old-school leather flight bag. He throws it over his seat like he is saddling up his horse. I get a full view of the cummerbund and waft of pipe smoke as he does so. His bag is full of marshmallow Peeps and gummy bears. All he eats are those Slim Jim/Cheese stick combos. At one point on the trip, I asked if he thought hotel maintenance would have a socket wrench I could use to tighten my suitcase wheel. Inexplicably, he pulled one out of his bag.
He bought me a footlong sub. I politely refused it as I was eating my salad from home. He made me eat the Cinnabon he bought me though. “I was late to work because I was buying you this for fuck’s sake!” I also politely refused the comically large cookie with sprinkles. He said, “Eat the goddamned cookie!” I ate the cookie.
If I ever were to have a Captain die at cruise, it’s going to be on this trip. He warned me he may have a coughing fit because his “throat doesn’t work so well anymore after the neck accident.” He told me it may sound like he’s dying. I’ve been instructed to get a cherry Halls from his bag ASAP if I hear him having a coughing fit, throw it in his mouth, and not declare an emergency. “I don’t have any sick time left for Christ’s sake.”
They gave us a hold into Denver, and he made the old joke… “I blame this on you.” I said, “With all due respect, you got stepped on by a horse and your house got hit by lightning… not to mention all the airlines.” He said, “With all due respect, fuck you.”
I do like the guy though. He keeps me laughing. In retirement, he definitely could do a Vegas act.
Posted on April 6, 2024
Hey Dad. On My Late Father’s Birthday
Hey Dad,
So much has happened since we last spoke in January 2017.
Your grandson has doubled in age since then; he’s now 14. With each milestone of his, I think back to when I was that age and what we might have been doing together. The same goes for the little setbacks. How did you handle them? How had your memory shaped them over time? I’d love to ask you. You were younger, relative to my stage of fatherhood, but seemed to have it all together. Were you just hanging on, like I feel sometimes?
I speak of you often to him. He has few but precious memories of his time with you, and he reminds me of the good ones when they come to mind. I remind him of my memories, too. While most of my stories seem to fall on deaf ears with the teenager, he listens when I mention his Papa. He can hear it in my tone, the shift in my demeanor.
For him, it’s the Florida Aquarium and The Bucs that have him thinking about you. For me, I speak of you when we are in the car and my mind drifts as a song comes on. I tell him about a time you and I heard it, or you took me to see them.
I wonder if he, too, will have those moments in his recollections with me. I know you had them from our times over the years. We would speak of them. I enjoyed those little diversions.
For most of my life, I had a bit in my head from the early days with you that would pop up when Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” came on. You told me—or at least my memory holds it this way—that when it played in that Datsun 280Z of yours, you wanted it played at your funeral. Well, we had the guitarist play it at your memorial after the service. Now, that’s what I think of when I hear it. That little moment.
I had the honor to speak on your behalf several times in the months after you passed. I think you would have been proud. I rarely get the chance to speak before a group like you did nearly weekly, but I channeled you each time. Thank you for that gift. You received some awards! I accepted them for us.
There is a statue of a Stork outside the Florida Aquarium for you, with three little storks nesting at its feet. I carry an image of it as the wallpaper on my work iPad. I get the chance to talk about you when asked about the picture in the cockpit. Though I need few reasons, I secretly hope someone asks so I can.
You’ve missed out on so much news!
I would love to hear your thoughts on the divisions in the country since 2016, the politics of Florida, and, of course, how you would have approached the pandemic from a tourism perspective. I’m grateful we always spoke candidly about third-rail topics. That makes 2017 and before seem like simpler times.
But of all the things you’ve missed out on, the thing I’ve missed out on is you—the steady rock in my life, the sounding board to hear my thoughts, jokes and worries. You were never too busy to listen, suggest, and laugh. Having you there to hear me out, regardless of your agenda, is what I miss the most.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
Ps, we were never able to get into your AOL account.
Posted on January 3, 2024
Straight Conversion Therapy
In a surprise move, Doctor Henderson of Manhattan’s faith-based “Restore Heterosexuality – Gay Conversion Center” has decided to turn 180 degrees and is now offering a heterosexuality conversion course.
“The science is in,” says Henderson. “Studies have proven you just can’t convert gay people to a straight lifestyle. During my years of attempting to do so, I have realized that gay men and women are just so much happier than their straight counterparts.”
To make the world a better and happier place, he is now offering a program to convert straight individuals into gay.
“We have a lot of research still to do,” he goes on to say. “But quite frankly, we didn’t do any research before our last go-around. I think my new program will at least offer a solid alternative way of looking at the world for the narrow-minded and stubborn. Honestly, we have some very unhappy people out there. I look around and see so many miserable folks mocking and making fun of those they don’t agree with. Enough is enough, really.”
His program may seem unconventional but takes many cues from his former approach. Using a combination of classical conditioning as well as both positive and negative reinforcements combined with a little faith, he hopes to help people “pray the straight away.”
“I have a patent pending for a glitter cannon I built that shoots all manner of confetti at my patients when they turn their faces away from images of popular gay icons. We play lots of Cher and Madonna here at the clinic. And if they don’t like it, we glitter bomb them!”
So far, success rates have been hard to quantify.
“While no one has left running off to the courthouse to marry, we’ve seen a shift in attitude at least. I’m hearing reports that my subjects are watching far less Fox News after therapy. One guy even changed his dog’s name from Van Susteren to Streisand.”
Henderson also offers a booster program to keep his clients on the right track.
“We send out a monthly personality profile quiz for them to take at their leisure. If the metrics show they are slipping back into their former ways, we advise them to come in for a little maintenance. A simple realignment in their straight ways.”
One of the clinic’s realignment procedures involves a heavy dose of RuPaul’s popular Drag Race TV show.
“We have an incredibly comfortable massage chair with restraints added for the arms and legs. It’s a simple technique, really. We strap them in and press play. It doesn’t take long for them to start enjoying RuPaul. She is very entertaining. I used to not think so. I guess I just didn’t allow myself to be entertained. And then I hit myself with the glitter cannon a few times. You just can’t be angry when covered in glitter.”
The clinic’s website has so far received positive feedback. Several comments include glitter-covered selfies exiting the building.
A novel approach. Time will tell if it sticks.
Posted on November 6, 2021
The Captain and His Shark Skin Boots
Airline crews are easy to identify at the hotel bar. Especially if it’s closing time when the lights are bright, and the staff is attempting to clean for the morning. We’re a group of middle-aged folks from various genders and races eating and drinking and carrying on like it was a reasonable hour. “Too late for an extra side of fries?”There is a common joke about identifying the pilots in the group. We’re the ones with the big watches, cargo shorts, white socks, and sneakers. Guilty.
But at our table of several mixed crews that night, it was his shark skin boots that caught my eye. He had a mustache. He was drinking whisky with his steak. He was a Captain.
“First of all,” I asked him. “I’d be really interested to hear about those boots but then I’m going to ask how the hell they fit in your bag?”
“Are you in for the long haul, Son? Or do you want the short version?”
Since the bar already announced the last call, I asked for a large water.
His story took place when he was in the military and based on the Hawaiian Island of Oahu. It didn’t take long into his story that he wasn’t just telling it to me.
“We used to haul the trash from Base out to a dump near the Pacific. We’d load up a pickup with trash and then drive it out to the landfill. It wasn’t our job. It just gave us something to do and got us off base. The dump, and it may not have even been an official dump, was near a cliff and you’d just back on up in there. Often when we were there, we’d see trash blowing over the rocks and down into the water below. It was a different time. We probably seeded that island of junk out there. But every time we were there, we’d see sharks swimming out in the waves eating everything that would fall in. Lots of farms around so there’d be all kinds of carcasses falling over into the water. Mostly chicken but sometimes a pig or something bigger. We saw a horse out there once! But one day out there, we saw what looked like a twenty-foot shark eating up everything that fell in and we knew we had to take that one home with us. We scurried through the trash and found everything we could use to fashion a rod and reel. We found some old wire for the fishing line that came off a fence. We made a big hook by banging and bending up an old metal bucket and some random metal laying around. And for bait? A dead chicken! We found a fresh one and snagged it on our hook!”
The bartender who was now listening interrupted. “Wait a minute. You’ve got all that up and running. How did you plan on pulling it in?”
“The truck!” Said the Captain. “In hindsight, it wasn’t the wisest idea but it’s all we had. We tied the wire up to the back of the truck and threw our contraption over the rocks. Immediately we had the shark on the line! We all piled into the pickup and spun the wheels making a mess of all the trash we were parked in. A few times it looked like the shark was going to catch us instead but after time we had her up and out of the water.”
I jumped in. “Obviously it was still alive at this point. What was the plan?”
“We hadn’t thought that far. I don’t think any of us thought we’d catch the shark. But there it was. Flopping around on land connected to a hook made from a metal bucket and a wire attached to a pickup truck.”
“So you all are there watching this shark thrash in the trash yard. Did you push it back in or what?” Asked a concerned flight attendant.
“Nope. We shot it. Right then and there. What else was there to do? We couldn’t get the hook out. None of us were marine biologists. So a buddy there shot it in the head with his service weapon. But! Nothing goes to waste!” He said pointing at his boots. “We loaded up the shark and found a processor on the island to make us steaks. And one of the pilots knew a lady in the Philippines who made boots and since he flew cargo there regularly we got the skins from the meat man. After our guy’s next trip to Manila, he returned with boots for all of us who were there. These boots! And if you ever go to a bar called Dukes in Osaka you will see the jaw of our shark hanging over the bar!”
We all were captivated by his story. Real or not. The staff even suspended their duties for a moment to listen and even seemed to give us a pass for getting in their way while they cleaned up.
I did follow up asking him how he packed those big boots in his overnight bag.
“Son, I gave up the tennis shoes a long time ago. Makes you all look like a bunch of morons.”
Posted on April 8, 2021
Jack Hanna was Once Disappointed with Me
I had the great fortune of interacting many times with Jack Hanna over the years during my childhood through my father’s work with Busch Gardens in Tampa and later, SeaWorld in Orlando. He was always truly kind to me and curious about what I was up to and the things I had done since we last spoke. He would ask genuine questions of me and was sweet and kindhearted when he answered my questions of him. He would never ‘dumb’ down an answer regarding the animals I asked him about and (as you would see on his many tv shows) he was always enthusiastic when talking about them.
Once he did give me a short answer though. He may have been a little disappointed in me, too.
I was at the soft launch of the Discovery Cove Park in Orlando where you can swim with dolphins and drink daiquiri all day. The park had yet to open to the public and it was a day for employees and their families to test the water (as they say) and help work out the kinks. Jack and I talked throughout the morning until it became my turn to help ensure the dolphins were friendly to guests. I set my daiquiri down and suited up.
Kind of.
At the appointed hour he and I tread into the water and awaited my dolphin. Jack gave me some pointers and told me to do just one lap around the manmade lake as it was getting late in the day. He failed to mention that it was always a good idea to ensure bathing suits were on tight when swimming with sea creatures.
As my dolphin and I began our journey I felt the straps letting loose on my britches. The decision was easy. Do I let go and lose my chance to swim with the dolphin or ride on? Ride on I did! All the way around what felt like an exceptionally large pond, free as a bird with my bare moon gliding through the waves for all to see.
Including Mr. Jack Hanna.
I considered waving but I feared losing my grip and thought that just being a naked man in the pool would seem weird. Continuing my ride made more sense. Who wouldn’t? Especially with a belly full of daiquiris.
As we approached the finish line, I could see Jack waiting for me with a fish to feed my new best friend. He shook his head disapprovingly when he handed it to me and said it was best for me to reward the dolphin after what I had put her through.
She turned and promptly swam away. I think she even gave me some side-eye as she swam off.
I asked Jack if this was common and why would it just swim away. Don’t they expect a treat?
He said, “You and I both know why.”
He did not find the situation as hilarious as I did and for the record, my pants were on at this point… just bunched up around an ankle.
I watched his next couple of appearances on Letterman hoping my story would make the cut, but I think Jack left it behind in the pond for just me and the dolphin to remember.
Posted on November 16, 2020
The Flight When Our Passengers Decided to Drive
There was a time when being a Regional Pilot meant you never left the very small region your employer flew in. Often this was no larger than a thumbprint on a map. In the early days of my airline career, when my hair was significantly less grey and my ears could hear things without a backing band ringing bells in them, that thumbprint fit neatly over eastern Pennsylvania and just a hint of a sliver into Western Maryland. We would fly back and forth and back all day. We would do this many times a week. Many times a month. That thumbprint became pretty recognizable from above.
Our flight legs were smaller, as were the planes. And the planes had propellers!
One of the many fun times about those days was when the weather was horrible you could never get above it. Those propellers would beat the air as best they could but never enough to outclimb the clouds.
Back and forth and back again, right there in the middle of it would be our days on those bad weather days.
“I’d recommend a half cup of coffee. That lid will not contain the waves we are soon to stir up.”
And then it would get dark and you would keep going knowing from previous experience (an hour ago) that there were bumps ahead hidden in the night sky.
I’m thinking back to one of those nights.
We would fly what they call in the airline world, flag stops. I don’t know why they are called such. No flags but the stop would be a small airport between the departure airport and the destination in which some people would get off, a few may get on and sometimes the nice people at the airport would give us some candy for linking their essential airport to the outside world.
On the particular dark night I’m thinking about the flag stop was Altoona, Pennsylvania. We would stop there on our flight between Pittsburgh, PA, and Hagerstown, MD. Typically, a few passengers would get off and we would be on our merry way carrying the rest to Maryland. This night was one of those “bad weather nights”.
Flying low over the rolling hills of Pennsylvania and in the weather, the bumps were especially bumpy. And it was dark. And there was lightning making it way more fun for the people in the back. They were getting their money’s worth alright. When we landed at our flag stop I could hear a collective sigh of relief from the back of the plane.
As we parked, our flight attendant called up to say everyone wanted off. Even though they had paid for a ticket to Hagerstown. They had made the collective decision to chip in and rent a van, eat the cost of the plane ride, and drive the rest of the way without us. If there was a vote, I imagine it was unanimous.
As the Captain of this journey, I decided to offer them a reassuring voice, donned my hat, and stood at the exit of the plane to alleviate their worries.
“Listen, the ride was rough getting in and it will be rough getting out but we are going either way and I assure you it is perfectly safe. You are free to rent a van if you like but know that I feel comfortable flying to Hagerstown. The flight will be bumpy but we will be there in twenty minutes.”
And with that. Everyone got off.
Perhaps my voice wasn’t as smooth as I thought.
I tipped my hat to each as they left and then we flew empty and ate all the snacks.
Posted on November 2, 2020
All Work and No Play
On this one-hundred-and-something-ish day of being a virtual school teacher’s assistant, IT support, lunch lady, PE Coach, and Dad I’m finding myself talking more and more to myself. The virtual teacher’s lounge has become the safe space in the house (er… school) between classroom meltdowns to pour another cup of Mother’s Little Helper from the coffee pot and gossip about the day. I can get the other teachers chuckling during our coffee breaks as I ramble, sometimes coherently but increasingly not so much, about overcrowded classrooms, why we should bring back the long-abandoned Presidential Physical Fitness Challenge and the struggles of maintaining a diversified yet nutritious cafeteria.
Can you believe it? I had this one kid today. Well, the same one as yesterday. They’re all just so needy. “The internet is glitchy.” They say. “The laptop battery won’t hold a charge. We’re out of toilet paper. Sandwich and grapes… Again.”
My teachers silently agree with me. I see them smiling. That may be my reflection. I need to call the superintendent and have them clean the windows. (Okay Google. Set an alarm to call me about cleaning the windows.)
Occasionally a peer will interrupt, “Actually, I was just calling to give you information about your car’s extended warranty.”
“Go on, I have all day good sir.” I offer. “I lease my vehicle but surely there is something we can work out here. Fire at will with your plan.”
“I’ll remove you from our list. Thank you for your time.”
The line is quiet now but that’s no worry. More time to talk about me. Ah, silence. Now that he is gone, where was I. And Covid. No Price is Right!
But realizing I’m talking to robots is not nearly as dreary as when I catch him on an after-school video game break talking to himself like his old man does. Like lockdown Father… like Son.
I mean, I’m a grown-up. I’ve been talking to real people my whole life… Time for a break. But, he has a whole life ahead yet. You run out of words when it’s one-sided. So I’ve learned. I’ve told myself that joke before.
So he is ten years old. He’s online, playing a game with friends or virtual friends (one and the same these days) and laughing and chatting and sharing stories and I’m so happy he’s interacting with someone other than his father as it’s just him and I all day every day these days while my wife works and then I find him… With no headset on!
He’s playing. He’s talking. I assume someone is answering the other half of the conservation and filling in the blanks in the story as the pauses are perfectly timed… But I realize he may not even be playing an online cooperative game after all! He could be talking to a Minecraft creeper. But, who hasn’t these days and I guess a creeper is animate at least. Which is something better than talking to a Lego brick or a blanket or the robot vacuum.
Don’t judge. Miss. Knockoff Roomba has been very kind to me.
But I’ve had many lopsided conversations on single-player Minecraft of late. So who am I to worry? I tend to my world and grow my crops and have had some very engaging conversations with my villagers about the state of the economy, politics, and the future of home automation. They agree that when the Robots become self-aware they will be much more engaging. Conversations with them will be exceptionally healthier than the debates I’ve had on Facebook about driving cars and the bungling nature of our current administration’s response to the Covid crisis. Miss Knockoff Roomba spins and dances at my suggestions. No angry emoji faces from her.
And then comes lunch and I’m in charge again. I’ve come to appreciate the sadistic joy the lunch staff must have had during my Catholic grade school days as they ladled out the Sloppy Joes with so much vigor the bun couldn’t handle the weight of the routineness or as they so lovingly slapped a slab of Steakumm on the roll like they were sending us out to pasture with a spank on the hindquarters and a blown kiss to say, “My day is done with you. Eat your meal and off I go… for tomorrow we will do this again. There will be more of the same as today. Except for Friday when it’s the leftover day!”
But the part of the day is recess. It’s just the two of us. Pupil and Teacher. Father and Son. Barriers are down and we throw a football or take a walk. We keep each other in check as we talk about learning math for the first time again. Or the second time for me.
It does feel like we are making memories that we will have forever.
Posted on June 9, 2020
Spring 2020 Is the Year Our Son Grew Up
Yes, his hair has gotten too long with the barbers closed so he suddenly looks like a broody teenager but with the all the news and his adult questions about COVID and after a few months stuck in the house together, he’s found independence and an increasing need to “go to my room and have some quiet chill time.” (Read: I no longer want to be near you guys… You two sicken me.)
He watches the Evening News with Uncle Lester Holt with us and has seen the stories of the sick and the dying. He has asked relevant questions about our older family members and our friends who are more vulnerable. When I came down with a stomach bug he followed me around the house listening to me moan and was surely thinking about life without me. Or maybe he was just thinking about life. Or hopefully, he was thinking about when I would get better so we could play Fortnight again?
And yes, Spring 2020 is the year I let him play a “gun game”. I justified it because it was something we could do together that was a nice bond after yelling at each other all morning about how best to multiply. (His way or I guess The Way, is very frustrating). I held off on the gun game as long as I could but it has been an exceptionally fun game for us to play together. On teams of two and with our animated characters, the playing field is level. He is older and I am younger. There is no age difference. If I fall on the digital battlefield it is my son who comes and picks me up to carry me to safety. It’s also my son, my little boy, who talks smack at me when I don’t carry him to safety fast enough or build some stupid structure to protect us that lets the enemy know EXACTLY WHERE WE ARE and we both lose the round. I’ve been playing games longer than you and your way of doing math sucks! I don’t say that. I let him be the grown-up.
When watching the news about the financial ruin of so many across the globe he has asked intelligent questions about our finances and our “plan”. “Are you properly diversified, Dad? Do we have cash on hand? Do we have enough Gold? We are the guns?” Granted, that hasn’t changed his willingness to negotiate a better deal for doing chores but at least he has been thinking about money not being infinite like maybe he did a few months ago. When he still a child. I think he was six before COVID came around. Also, no guns.
During the middle of lockdown when he began missing his classmates he learned how to do Zoom calls with them. I figured it would be years before he would be sending emojis and group laughing over memes. They were all innocent chats on the couch about lizards and cats but soon the calls started happening in his bedroom. I made sure he kept his door cracked when he “had friends over.”
Since screen time has skyrocketed during lockdown I set up an app to limit that time and give me the ability to ensure the devices are locked down in the evening. Though I don’t want to (or need to yet) the app has the option to monitor search queries and chat logs. Taking a quick peek when learning how to use the service I did notice his search history. It was still charmingly innocent with some charming misspellings about how to make the perfect slime.
Still our boy.
Let’s not have another pandemic.
Posted on May 17, 2020
Some Pilots Just Know It All
There are a few ways people can make money flying airplanes around. The two big easy examples are flying people or flying boxes to people. I’ve never considered the latter as, for the most part, I enjoy the humans. I like being around them. I like looking at them. I like making fun of them. But I generally don’t like talking to them too much.
And I especially don’t like talking to them about airplanes. Especially when we are in one and I’m dressed in a manner in which it would be safe to assume I know a thing or two about them.
And I never initiate conversations with passengers when I’m deadheading in the back of the plane. I wear headphones even if they’re not plugged in. I nap even when I’m not tired. Hey, I may never give up the face mask.
But, I have my limits.
Once, I sat next to a grown man who turned on a Flight Simulator (game) on his iPad after I sat next to him and we pushed back from the gate. He was taxing a Southwest-colored plane out of Phoenix while we were on a Southwest plane taxing out of Phoenix. He was sitting next a Southwest pilot in uniform in real life doing this. What did he expect?
I stopped pretending to nap, pulled an earbud out of my ear and gave a few casual glances. I couldn’t help myself when he took the runway and still had his flaps up.
“Might want to put some flaps in, pal,” I whispered.
And then he rotated and failed to put his gear up in a timely fashion. (At all!)
“Landing gear, man.” I said.
And then he was doing like 300 some knots at 4000 feet and climbing in a manner suggesting he didn’t realize the objective here is to get away from the Earth.
I said, “Dude, way too fast! Up! Up! Mountains!”
“Bank angle fella!” Came next.
“Your speed! That angle! Too much!”
Soon after, and never acknowledging I saved his life, he started reading his Kindle and I took a real nap.
The nerve of this guy.
Posted on October 23, 2019
I Got Five Stars for Being on Time
In the hotel van after work, I told my Captain that my son’s teacher gave me a compliment when I showed up to volunteer in class on time by acknowledging that I am “always just so very punctual.”
My Captain said, “Wow! Five stars for you!” He then added, “Okay, so we have a 5:10 AM ride to the airport tomorrow.”
Noted, alarms set for 4:40 AM.
Earlier in the day, we had to hold going into Dallas due to too many planes trying to occupy the same spot in the air at the same time. We had an “Expect Further Clearance” time of thirty-five minutes past the hour. Quick math told us we could hold for twenty minutes after that time until we should go somewhere else for more gas and Big Gulps. Tick-tock… watch the clock.
I’ve never had a job in which I could be late for. Twenty years in the airlines and I’ve never been the reason why we didn’t leave on time. Even though we often leave the hotel at just ridiculously early times (damn you first flight out people), I’ve never missed a wake-up call. Now, that being said, about every five years I add another alarm to the morning mix. I set each apart by sixty seconds. In the event I was to oversleep by four mins and miss three alarms the crescendo would peak with a blaring alarm from my company-issued Ipad. That’s plan D. Plan A is just the simple nudge of a light vibration on my wrist from my Fitbit that to me feels like “Knock knock… Time to wake up, sunshine.” Plan A always wakes me up. Tick-tock watch the clock.
I ran cameras for the afternoon news for a bit. The show must go on. I was there on time. There we three cameras and three operators and surely camera B could have covered for me. But what if the producer needed a sudden wide shot! What if the sports segment went long! What if a camera operator were needed to run the teleprompter? I was there on time. Tick-tock…
I was an overnight radio DJ for a few years during college. Ten PM to six AM baby. An easy listening station too. Precisely on the hour every hour to the second a live feed of national news came on. I had to do the math to play a song that ended with a few seconds to spare for me to say my name, the time and the station identification before the news came through. I was there on time for my shift. Nobody wants to stay extra playing more Celine Dion because the next guy overslept. Tick.
Along those lines, there is an extended six-minute and forty six-second version of “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” should you ever find yourself in the DJ chair in the middle of the night alone in a radio station and need a bathroom break.
So with that, if I tell the teacher I’m going to be there at 2:45 PM with a tray of french fries for the kids I’m going to be there on time.
Even if the fries didn’t cook all the way through.
You see, the package said twelve minutes at 415 degrees but it didn’t say it may take longer if you cook two packages. Nowhere did it say that.
A fifteen-minute drive to school + twelve minutes to cook + one minute to transfer from oven to travel container equals soggy, partially frozen french fries if you cook more than one package.
If it would have said that on the package I would have planned accordingly.
I possibly would have had time to stop for a Big Gulp.
Posted on April 21, 2019
Our Little Boy Still Believes In The Bunny… Sort Of.
It’s increasingly less often these days but every now and then something happens that reminds me that he’s still my little baby.
Like the other day when the very young lady at the barbershop heard me asking for just a little trim of his shoulder length hair but mistook that for chop it all off. He suddenly went from a nine year old who corrects me when I misspeak to a little boy who then asked to go to the playground and quickly forgot that he didn’t like his new hairdo.
Or when we moved him into a big boy room last week with a big boy bed and he spent time organizing all his stuffed animals on the bed now that he had room for them all. He even took a nap because he was so excited to lay with his toys. He looked E.T. hidden amongst the stuffies.
And then just a few days before Easter when we found ourselves at the mall down the road and saw the Easter Bunny. As we don’t go to the mall often and typically only go around Christmas to see Santa I’m not sure he’s ever seen the big Bunny in it’s natural habitat before much less knew you could take a picture. Our little boy’s back straightened and his eyes widened and he stared in at the big goofy human sized rabbit with the round glasses.
Not knowing where he was with the bunny thing I asked him if that was the real Easter Bunny?
“Of course it is! That is the real bunny but you do know it’s not a real bunny, right? It’s just a man or a woman in a costume. They are paid by the President or the Vice-President or the Government to dress up and sneak into kids houses and leave them a basket of treats on Easter.”
“Oh, okay.” I said. “I’m glad we got that straightened out. But don’t you think….” I let it go.
I suggested we’d come back the next day and get a picture since we weren’t dressed for photos. He was thrilled at the idea and kept looking back as we walked away from the Bunny that apparently our taxes pay for.
But, when we came back he had stage fright and his nerves got the best of him. He was fine with us just snapping a picture for the wall in his new big boy room.
As a nine year old and easily the largest kid in line I worried that he was embarrassed that he was the biggest kid there and perhaps I was witnessing his first bout of shame.
Nope! Not so fast. He was simply too nervous to get his picture with the man or woman the President or Vice-President pays to dress up like a bunny.
The Easter Bunny! Our little boy still believes in the Easter Bunny
Posted on February 4, 2019
My Yelp Review… An Embarrassing Hotel Shower
As a frequent guest of hotel showers across the United States, you can imagine the horror and disgust I felt while attempting to bathe in room 383 today. After looking up (and being unable to look away) from the utter disrespect for cultural norms and the sheer lack of consistency displayed with the shower rings so haphazardly affixed on the rod I nearly lost my footing while lathering between my toes and completely forgot to wash my hair! I attempted to (quite literally) right your staff’s wrongs but was unable as each and every ring was bent well beyond their limits to allow a proper fit and permanent solution. This, no doubt, is why the curtain is attached to each upside-down ring so as to allow gravity to replace the job of physics. While an easy (albeit clever) solution it does horrible damage to the psyche especially when the user (your guest) is in their most vulnerable, and nude, state.
It made me wonder what other horrors I may find in the room. Two decaf pods near the coffee maker rather than a regular and decaf? Would the pillows labeled as “Soft and Dreamy” actually be “Hard and Firm”?
Perhaps I had three conditioners rather than a shampoo and a body wash but I’ll never know, for as I mentioned, my Feng Shui was so put off I failed to lather and rinse my scalp much to the disgust of my coworkers.
I am not sure what my employer pays per room but I can say with certainty it is far too much.
Side note, the restaurant staff was very nice and the homemade pickles were a nice treat.
Posted on October 18, 2018
I’ve gone from “Dad” to “Dude.”
I’ve gone from “Dad” to “Dude.”
Although sometimes he keeps it in the family and calls me “Bro.”
As in, “Dude! Bro! You don’t know how to dance the Floss?! You really don’t know anything do you?”
He’s too young to talk smack, isn’t he?
And when did it become okay for him to make fun of me?
Okay, I’ve never been able to dance. But still.
Wait, how does he know that I can’t dance and how could he possibly know that it touches a nerve? I’m lanky! These arms have nowhere to go. I don’t need to justify myself to him yet, do I? How long can I be the cool dad?
All those cliches’ about “where did the time go” and “those were the days” and “I remember when you didn’t even have arm hair”. They are real. I made up the arm hair one. Coining a phrase.
But the arm hair! When did he get arm hair!? I still have to remind him to use shampoo on his head hair. One step at a time here.
And when did he learn to get himself dressed? And how does he know what looks cool? Wait, why does he care if he looks cool? Where did my little boy go?
I think he looked cool when I dressed him in clothes that made me look cool.
“Aw, he’s wearing a little Pink Floyd T-shirt. He’s such a cool little baby.”
Actually, I’m the cool one stranger. He can’t dress himself you know. I may even be his bro one day.
Those were the days. When he wore shirts that matched my musical style.
As long as he doesn’t pick out a Sublime shirt one day. Or Coldplay… The horror.
He has his favorite TV shows now. And he knows all the characters. When did this happen?
Where did the time go? He just started recalling his home address accurately but now he can tell me all the names of the cast of the Full House remake. I tell him I watched it when it was just “Full House.”
“Dude, Bro! It’s Fuller House. You really don’t know anything do you?”
“You know these people aren’t real right!” I said.
I then blew his little mind when I showed him behind-the-scenes shots of them filming on YouTube. At least he still thinks TV shows are real. Well, did I guess?
I forced that growth spurt.
I gave him a million-dollar bill a few weeks ago that a passenger gave me in exchange for a safe flight. (I told the passenger I’d give him a safe one either way… you know, self-preservation.)
The boy didn’t buy that it was actually a million dollars. Not even for a second.
“This isn’t real.” He said hardly even looking at it.
Not even a tiny suspension of belief?
“How do you know?” I asked him.
“Well, it doesn’t have Donald Trump on it. Million-dollar bills have the president on the front.”
I didn’t know where to start.
I simply offered, “Dude, you’re just a little kid.”
He replied, “I know Bro.”
Posted on October 12, 2018
My Father Will Forever Watch Over The Florida Aquarium
I was humbled to be able to take part in the unveiling of an incredible statue honoring my father at the Florida Aquarium this week in Tampa. The Aquarium commissioned artist Yeins Gomez for the project and the result took my breath away… a beautiful metal bow-tie wearing Stork standing above his three little Storks calling to mind his three grandchildren. Mr. Gomez was able to capture so much of my father’s spirit and our Stork proudly stands outside near the Children’s play area of the Aquarium. So often when my dad talked to me about what they were working on at the Aquarium it wasn’t always the animals or conservation efforts he was most excited to talk about… it was the work they did to capture the attention of kids.
One of my father’s last projects at the aquarium, in addition to the remodeled children’s Splash Pad and the Carol J. and Barney Barnett Learning Center, was a partnership with the Havana National Aquarium in Cuba on coral research. Having Cuba’s Mr. Gomez put so much of his heart and attention into this sculpture would make my dad feel blessed for sure. He had plans to fly with his team on their first trip to Havana but was unable to make it down and as fate would have it I operated one of those Tampa/Havana flights with some of his team on board. Instead of my father making it to Havana, Yeins was able to bring a little bit of Cuba to him.
And a Stork! Obviously, this long-legged bird has played a huge role in our story. Growing up my dad had stationery made that read “From the Desk of Thom Stork” with a bird drawn into the S. We had NY’s Stork Club memorabilia scattered about our house. The front door of that home had big glass panels with Storks etched into the glass. As you can imagine, both my father and I (and now my son I hope) have always been called “Stork”. My dad told me he tried to get the license plate STORK once but it was taken by an OB/GYN.
My favorite part of the unveiling ceremony was after it concluded and I watched guests approach my Father’s statue and witness them take pictures with him and read the inscription on the bottom.
“A child reminds us that playtime is an essential part of our daily routine.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.
My words of thanks .
Coincidentally, it was 14 years ago last night that my father spoke at my wedding to my wife Susan right here at the Florida Aquarium. Right over there.
It was from right here that he would call me every New Years Eve at midnight to wish me a great new year. This is where we honored his life on the night of his funeral. This is where he loved to take his grandchildren. When I visited town he would bring me by to show me the latest offerings. This is where he loved to interact with the families and the guests of the Aquarium. They were all his guests. He welcomed them in like he was bringing them into his own home.
I can’t think of a more perfect place for him to be honored. For this statue to be placed here where he gave so much of his heart. Our family has so many memories here and I’m certain we will have many more in the future.
This was his home and where his heart was and I am humbled to know that this is now where he will be remembered forever.
Even before this day and before this gift to him, and us, when I’ve come by, this is where I’ve most felt my father’s presence. I look down at the Aquarium every time I fly into Tampa and think about him. I am grateful that that feeling can be shared by all every time they see our big Stork here.
He loved us all and as I mentioned, he loved his grandkids. He cared so much for all the children who visited. He was always most proud when he told me about the work the Aquarium was doing with education, field trips and in the camps offered here. He would often tell me about the school groups that would come by. I love that this statue shows that. A proud Papa Stork standing over his three little birds. He kept us safe under his wing and like the little storks under his wings here he will stand and watch over all of them.
He will be here forever watching the kids when they are at their youngest as they play outside. And he will still be here as they grow and as those same kids mature and make their way to the exhibits inside. And then when they are older yet, when they come here for summer camp maybe they will come out here to say hello. He will still be here when they return to visit as they grow older. And then when they have children of their own they will tell their little birds about how they used to play out here with Papa Stork watching over them too. I love that he will always be remembered this way. More importantly, he would love that too. He really loved it here and he really loved all of us.
And personally, on my wedding night 14 years ago last night he spoke of sending me off with my wife to start our new life. I was stepping out from under his wings that kept me safe. With this statue, every time I fly out of Tampa I’ll be able to look down past the aircraft’s wings and see him here protecting and watching over each generation.
From Donna, Ericka and me. My wife Susan and Brother -in- law Kemel. My father’s two sisters and my Unlce Doug. And of course from Tajai, Judah, and Imani. With all our hearts. Thank You so much for this gift. It really is an honor to be able to celebrate my father’s life like this.
Thank You
Posted on December 7, 2017
Approaching the One Year Anniversary of My Father’s Passing
He stoically lived each remaining day and only occasionally addressed the matter. A thought would cross his mind like he was running a checklist before an upcoming trip. He would remember a chore my stepmom would soon inherit. “Remind me I need to teach her how to use the digital camera.” I nodded “okay” but broke down inside each time.
She and I handled that checklist with significantly less grace. Like when we were resetting their email password and it was his phone that rang for the restore option. Silently, but with welling emotions, we both looked at each other knowing his cell number would soon be silenced as well. What other accounts are associated with that number? There was so much to do. Too soon.
I am grateful that during the month and half that elapsed between his diagnosis and passing I was able to be at my father’s side for the milestones that marked the progress of his final days. To ride with him the last time he drove . To then become his driver. To help him eat. To help him walk.
During that time it was not lost on me that the circle of life was spinning. I was back in my home town driving my dad on the same streets where he taught me to drive. That wheel was spinning each time I grabbed him a towel like he did for me so many years ago… so many times. Once he was my humble caretaker. I was now honored and blessed to become his. To return the favor. Circle.
I was there with him when he patiently told his cancer doctor he didn’t think treatment was the best option and “we’ve” decided quality of life at this stage is better for us all. “I’m going with the four month plan you mentioned.” He was referring to the estimated time he was given. He was at peace with this decision and a stop at the hospital chapel confirmed that for me when he joked that you can’t light the candles… because of the oxygen tanks. Turning on the candle brought us peace.
Four months? He didn’t make it that long. Too soon.
I was there for his last meal and his last holiday.
On New Year’s Eve as my father was just a few days from passing he lay in his bed… as he wished and as we had planned. Family was there and the neighbors were celebrating. Sitting alone with him in his dark room as the New Year soon rang in we could hear fireworks outside. I could see the occasional burst of lights through the curtains. I think he could see them too. The sounds and the lights, though sometimes chaotic, enhanced the sense of peace I was feeling from him.
I am forever grateful I was able to be with him that last month and especially those last days. My father, through it all, put me at ease.
So now that I am in the first anniversary of those times I reflect each day on what little milestone we were passing. How we each dealt with the inevitable. How my father gave us strength even when his was fading.
Posted on May 1, 2017
A Pro and Con to Having Just One Child.
Pro: You only have one mouth to feed.
Con: That same mouth often only has one person to talk to.
I am his entertainment. I am his captive audience. I am his sounding board for his really great ideas about really great things that really can’t wait until later.
I find that as I attempt to disengage myself from a conversation that is growing mundane or trivial or monotonous it feels like I am yanking on the starter cable of a lawn mower hoping to get it to catch so his words can be his own muse and his engine can run on it’s own. Every few sentences I give it another tug until the motor catches and it runs at full tilt.
“You know Dad. I think I would like to get a family of worms to keep as my pets.” He interjects into my quiet drive time.
“Oh, that sounds like a great idea.” I respond.
“I’m going to name the parents Wormy and Brownie and the kid worms will be called Squirmy and Turkey.”
“I don’t really think Turkey is a good name for a worm,” I say.
“No Dad. It’s a really good name. A really good one. Turkeys live in fields and fields are full of dirt and worms live in dirt. Turkey is a really great name for a worm. You don’t know these things. I do. I know everything about worms.”
“No. I think you named it Turkey because right after you said Squirmy your little kid brain went up the alphabet to the next letter which is T and you took the sound of Squirmy but with a T in the front so you stumbled on Turkey.”
“You’re wrong Dad. I didn’t name them yet. We don’t even have worms yet. See, you don’t know anything about worms like I do.”
Just a little tug on that lawn mower starter cable. Pull the choke out some. Yank a little harder.
“I think worms bite.” He says.
“No. They don’t.” I answer.
“Well, some do. You don’t know about worms. Remember?”
Full pull on the cord. The motor catches. I’m out and sit back to let the perpetual motion machine that is his seven-year-old brain whirl on its own for a bit.
“I guess some worms bite. They have mouths because they have to eat. So if they have mouths I guess they bite. But they eat leaves and dirt and little pieces of trash so their mouths must be so small. So cute! Maybe they sleep with their mouths open like I do sometimes? Their eyes must be so tiny! Wee!! I can’t wait to get worms! I’m going to put them in this cup. This would be a good cup for them. It even has a lid. But what will I drink out of? Can we share the cup? No. That’s dirty. I will wash them first. Wee!!! I can’t wait to get worms!”
Listening to him talk gives me an idea. Maybe I’ll invent a white noise-generating machine for parents. It will have a microphone and a speaker and it will take in their little voices and generate an equal and opposite audio wave than the ones that come from their little face holes. Equal and opposite? Didn’t Newton say something about that? The sounds that come from a kid’s mouth will have an equal and opposite reaction inside the brain of a parent?
And then I realized something. We are the same. He and I are the same but with one huge difference. At some point, you learn how to flip that switch that allows you to disconnect your thoughts from your mouth. He just says everything he thinks!
“I think I’m going to strap a Fitbit to your face and see how many times your mouth moves in a day.”
“That’s a really great idea, Dad.” He says.
I guess I said that one out loud.
“Okay then. Let’s go dig up some worms!” He says.
“Yes, Son. Let’s do it.
Posted on March 5, 2017
On Grieving
After our son was born I called friends who already had kids and apologized to them for not being more excited for them when they became parents. I didn’t know until I saw our own son how awesome it was. How could I?
I did the same after my father passed. I called friends who had already lost a parent and apologized for not being more sympathetic for them at the time. How could I have known?
And then I became acutely aware of the grieving of others. A mention of a loss or a diagnosis stops time and puts me back in the moment when I heard the news. The news that changed things. While a smell can take your mind back to summer camp just a few words arranged in the right order can transport your heart back the same way. The day I heard the news. How I held it together for a few minutes and then cried on the shoulder of the first person I saw. I didn’t know her too well but she was older and could see it in my eyes. She was part of the club.
That’s the club you join when a parent dies. A club that every human throughout existence who has outlived a parent has joined but yet it can still can feel like a party of one. While you are told many cliches when you are in the fog of it the one that is never overused is the one that comes from a club member. “I know what you are going through.”
The thing about grief is that it comes out of nowhere. Sure there are the moments that come up that you’d really like to share with them. There are the moments when a question arises in which the answer literally has been taken to the grave and you will never know the answer. But then there are the surprise moments when your mind hits an infinite loop of a memory. You lock in for a bit. My mental record skips and that last note is played over and over again. Luckily, my soundtrack is full of great songs.
For me my mind will stumble on a memory and it will replay in my head as if I was there again. I think it’s memory’s survival strategy. My brain is making a back-up rewriting it a few times to ensure it sticks even as my record gets scratched with age. In many of these flashbacks, I’m the only one alive who knows the story now and I think my brain is ensuring it doesn’t fade away.
I think I’ve been good with this. I don’t think I’m callous or avoidant or unengaged. I think I’m good. I think being there with him when he needed me most and being able to say goodbye has allowed me to look forward and cherish the memories. It has allowed me to carry his lessons of fatherhood into my own family.
Watching my seven year old and remembering my times with my dad when I was that age have helped me look to the future. The memories I will make for my boy. To etch those into his permanent record.
Being a father to my dad’s grandson has helped me grieve.
Posted on March 2, 2017
Teaching Irony through Sarcasm
I have the luxury of working weekends and being able to pick up our son from school most weekdays. I watch with joy as he bounces down the steps from his school happy to tell me all about the things he did during the day. Rarely does he come out upset. Never has he come out needing comfort.
Until this week. I was waiting with the other parents as we stood around making fun our kids behind their backs… as we do. The doors opened and he came flying out full of wails and tears. He looked inconsolable. The other parents parted making a red carpet like path for him to have easy access to my welcoming arms. He collapsed to the sidewalk at my knees gasping for air between his breathless screams of agony.
“Oh my son. What happened man?! What’s going on?!” I cried back to him.
“I didn’t have time to finish my stress ball!!! My stress ball! I didn’t have time when the bell rang!!!” He cried out at what to me appeared to an incommensurate amount of tears.
Perhaps I misunderstood him?
“Say that again? What’s this about?”
“We were making stress balls and I didn’t get to finish mine! It’s not done! The bell rang and it’s not done! This is the worst day of my life!!!” He yelled.
I stood stunned. The other parents watched on trying to listen in to get a clue as to what horrors must have happened inside. Several seemed to be bracing themselves for what they may face when their little bundles were released from school.
Once I understood what was happening all I could do was laugh. A lot.
“This isn’t funny! This is horrible! This is the worst day of my life!”
I restrained my laughs but spoke through a smile. “You know what you need son? A stress ball.”
“I know! I need a stress ball and I couldn’t finish mine in time. Oh!!! Why me!!!”
“No.” I added. “What’s funny here is that you need a stress ball because of this stress ball situation.”
He didn’t get the irony. I promised him we’d make some when we got home.
“But you don’t know how! You’ve never made one! This is so horrible.” He argued.
I told him we would google it. I’m sure it’s just flour and balloons. We can handle that.
But I didn’t watch the youtube video result on how to make them. I actually didn’t read anything more than what was in the search results. At home I improvised how to get the flour into the balloon by using the nozzle from a cake decorating kit. I filled it with flour and forced the powder into the balloon by blowing really hard into the nozzle. Really hard. The balloon was now full of flour and my compressed air. Once the stress ball was inflated and after pulling my mouth and nozzle from the balloon all the flour erupted from the contracting balloon back into my face. It really was a pretty spectacular scene. It was like a stylist shouted “Powder!” and then some stranger hit me with a pillow full.
The boy laughed out at what to me appeared to an incommensurate amount of joy.
And I stood there stunned, looking at him through my flour covered glasses and he said, “Now you could really use a stress ball huh dad?”
I think he learned irony.
Posted on February 1, 2017
My Father’s Eulogy
My father passed away on January 2nd of this year. I’ve had several posts in mind but haven’t had the energy to put them down. This is the eulogy I read at his service. Maybe this will help me sleep a little better until I can get something better down.
My parents visited the Vatican last year. I have no proof of this but I think there was motivation behind the trip. I think it was a job interview. If it was… he got the position. The new VP of marketing for the rebranded Pearly Gates… and Gardens. He’s probably already had turnstiles installed and is calling each evening for the days attendance.
My father was born into a farming family in rural Nebraska and spent his first 12 years there until my grandmother moved him and my Aunt Suzanne to her hometown of Savannah after their father passed. In 2012 my wife, son and I along with Donna and my Uncle Doug had the privilege of joining my Dad and Aunt on a return visit to Nebraska. This was the first time they had been back since they were children. On that trip I watched my dad explore where he came from. Miles and miles of perpendicular roads with hardly another human in sight.
My father never budged at a challenge. You can’t just call it work ethic because it’s how he lived his life. From grade school to fatherhood, whenever I talked with him about a struggle he would guide me and help me figure out how to get through it. Often we would walk away with an inside joke about the event that we would share and laugh about for years later. Even after being told he had cancer he never complained or fussed about the card he was handed. It was after I saw that farm and imagined what his life was like there in Nebraska that I was able to start putting the pieces of his character together. Farmers work in harsh environments. They create things from barely nothing and work with the resources they have at hand. They start with a seed. I have many brothers and sisters here in Tampa that got their professional start through my dad. We were all his seeds…. And all of you became family. From Busch Gardens and Adventure Island and Sea World to most recently the Florida Aquarium. You took all of us into your family as much as my dad brought you into his. Thank you all for everything you did for us over the years. I’ve joked before that Ericka and I grew up in a theme park. That makes many of your our baby sitters.
I’ve taken many vacations to his second hometown of Savannah. My family and I were there just this weekend. Savannah is a social town. Especially when you are a descendant. It is a Catholic town where everyone knows each other, looks out for one another and barter with what they have. Your character is as much your currency is as what you have to offer. Add these skills to the work ethic my father learned from the farm and you are starting to get a better picture. He was always looking out for his Tampa, his Florida and all of us here. And he was never without a free ticket. When he’d give out a few to a family… if asked he’d simply say he worked at The Aquarium. Or Busch Gardens. Or Adventure Island. Or Sea World.
My father was humble. He was honest. He worked hard and taught me that work is not work when you love it. These are the things I will pass on to my son.
I know I’m not alone in saying that since being told of my father’s diagnosis… today, this service and the idea of his passing have been on my mind and in my heart constantly. I would wake up in the middle of the night and it would take me a few seconds to remember why I felt so horrible. The feeling would be there before I could remember why. But one night I fell asleep and had a dream about this day. I was here at his service. We all were. We were all here to celebrate my father’s life and accomplishments. But in my dream he was here at the altar too. He was loving you guys. All of his people. Many of you… his seeds. When I awoke from that dream knowing he was happy… I felt at peace. And finally slept.
I now know why I had that dream. Because he is here. I think one of his other initiatives at the newly rebranded Pearly Gates and Gardens is a hand stamp program for return visits back to see us and check on us. And this is exactly the kind of inside joke my father and I would have shared. And now it’s one I hope to forever share with my son. Going forward, whenever he feels like someone has been looking out. Whenever he feels that someone has his back… I’ll suggest it was his Papa…. and that he must have gotten his hand stamped.
Posted on January 22, 2017
A 1980 Tampa Tribune Article Featuring My Father on Parenting
By BESS ADAMS COLEMAN
“With my 5-year-old son, I’m experiencing the greatest love affair I’ve ever had,” said 31-year-old Thom Stork. “There are lots of rocky roads, no question about it, but you can say that I’ve really found my child. I’ll freely admit that for four years he was there and I loved him and we did things together. But I didn’t know him. I wasn’t his best friend.”
“I recently took my 7-year old son out to lunch to talk about my plans to remarry,” said Alan Baker, 38. “I wanted to know how he felt about it. He said, ‘Well, Dad, once in awhile you have a really good idea.’
I said, ‘Well, thank you, and I’d like you to be the best man at the wedding.’ He said, ‘That’s wonderful — what’s a best man?’ ”
“There’s no way to know when something really special will happen between you and your child,” said Dr. Joseph Ferrandino, 38. “Not long ago, I sat in the audience while my 8-year-old daughter auditioned for a part in a play. As she stood on the stage, they unexpectedly asked her to sing a song. My heart stopped, thinking she’d be afraid or embarrassed, but to my surprise she said OK, and began to sing ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer in a strong, clear voice. It was a touching moment I‘m glad I was able to have.”
“Through my son, I discovered the child in myself,” said 29-year-old. Joel Hunter. “I remember once getting all excited over a kite I bought for him when he was about 5. We were out running with it against the wind. I was having a ball, but when I looked down he was crying. I asked him what was wrong, and he said, ‘Dad, you won’t let me hold it.’ I was so involved and having such a great time, I almost forgot to let him participate.”’
Four special moments in the lives of four Tampa fathers. These fathers however, represent a new and increasingly prevalent breed of men who, either by choice or circumstance, are raising their children alone.
While the number of such men is growing, the percentage is hardly mind-boggling.
Steve Sessums, a Tampa attorney who limits his practice to marital and family law, found in a recent study in Pinellas County that mothers received custody in approximately 75 percent of all contested cases. Sessums points out that these figures would probably closely reflect those for the state of Florida as well.
“While accurate statistics are hard to come by, my experience tells me that in well over 90 percent of the cases that never reach the court (by far the greatest number), the divorced woman also assumes sole custody,” Sessums said.
In the last few years, several factors have begun to change this traditional pattern. Some divorcing couples decide the husband should take the children because he makes more money.
In other cases, the wife expresses a desire to pursue career interests or to find self-fulfillment outside the role of wife and mother. And some women believe that their husbands may do a better job of parenting.
Whatever the reasons leading more men to raise their children alone, those involved have found themselves thrown back on their own resources in new and challenging ways. They’ve experienced, as any new mother soon learns, the boredom, frustration and occasional pain of caring for young children.
However, with this newly found knowledge of the humdrum comes the joy of knowing unexpected moments of gentle ecstasy with their children that many say makes it worth the effort.
Thom Stork, promotions manager at Tampa’s Busch Gardens, has had custody of his 5 year-old son, Christopher, for almost a year. In many ways, his experiences closely parallel those of Ted Kramer in the recent film. “Kramer vs. Kramer,” which depicts a young father coping with the business of raising his son alone.
“I cried through most of the Kramer film,” said Stork without apology. “To some extent, I identified with Dustin Hoffman as Ted Kramer because I am in the same business. He was in an ad agency, whereas am in a marketing department.
“I was also very work-oriented,” Stork continued. “I probably didn’t spend enough time with my family. Now leave work at 5, because I have to meet the needs of my child.”
After their 8-year marriage ended in divorce, Stork and his former wife agreed that he would have full legal custody. Both parents felt that Stork was in a better economic position to take care of their child.
“I said wanted him, and believe strongly that a son should be with his father,” Stork said.
“The first thing people said to me was, “My God, how are you going to handle this?” Stork said. “Sure there were questions, and it was confusing for me until learned how to budget my time, but from the very first day knew I could do it. I’d been raised knowing how to do basic things, such as cleaning, but didn’t know how to cook.”
Stork’s first attempt at cooking was almost as clumsy as the French-toast scene from the Kramer film. In the movie, Hoffman ineptly stuffed. bread into a coffee cupful of shell-laden batter under the watchful eyes of his son, whose deadpan reply was: “I don’t like it folded, Dad.”
What Kramer was to fench toast, Stork was to spaghetti. “We ate out a lot at first,” said Stork. “But my first meal was scream. I wanted to fix spaghetti, but honestly didn’t know how to cook the noodles. I called one of the women at the office and asked how to do it, and she said, ‘You dummy, you read the side of the box.’ At Christmas she gave me copy of the Joy of Cooking.
Another parallel to the movie occurred one night when Stork was going out. Any evening out for Daddy is always well-planned in advance,” Stork said. “Walking over to my neighborhood babysitter on one of these rare occasions, Christopher went into tirade of ‘Don’t leave me.’ We marched back home and sat down for about 10 minutes of talk and reassurances. When we went back, he pulled the same thing again. I flew off the handle, almost physically dragged him home, threw him into the bathtub, washed him and put him to bed with no dinner at 7:15. Was screaming at him, and he at me. I just shut the door and left.
“About an hour or so later I went into him and we talked. We talked about how Daddy has to have time for himself. I think that one night, even though it hurt us both, was a big step forward.”
One major difference in Stork’s experiences and the Kramer film was an absence of conflict between his job and the needs of his child. While Kramer ultimately lost his job because of this conflict, Stork credits his company with being very supportive of his decision to raise his son.‘ “My relationship with this company from the top man down to my immediate supervisor is that ‘If that little guy has doctor’s appointment or needs you, you go,’ Stork said.
While Stork received sole custody of his child, some men have joint or shared custody of children following divorce. This arrangement enables couple to develop pattern for dividing the time child spends with each parent. Usually, one parent will be the primary parent, or the one responsible for greater portion of the child’s care.
Posted on September 3, 2016
No longer an Airline Captain and I’ve Lost My Mojo
I’ve been an airline Captain since 2001. With a recent airline change I’m a First Officer again. The copilot. Just like Kareem Abdul-Jabar… and the guy who sat next to Sully. I’m one step up from Otto the autopilot in Airplane. I should have made business cards that said “Cool Jet Captain” while I could. (Mental note – change my voicemail greeting from Jet Captain to Seat Filler.)
I’ve switched seats and I’ve lost my mojo. I don’t know where to put my pen. My right hand moves to push the buttons even though they’re on my left side now. And damned if I can’t make passenger announcements anymore.
For years I’ve been saying the same thing to the people in the back.
THE.SAME.THING
“Folks, this is your Captain speaking. Blah blah blah. Weather is blah blah blah. There is going to be a few bumps on our climb out blah blah blah.”
But now I start in with “This is your….”
And I’m lost. Flatline.
My inner voice screams “LINE!”
But it’s just me. No cue cards. No teleprompter. Just me… your copilot.
And I think I’m pretty dexterous on my toes. I had a six grade teacher tell me I need to think before I speak. She didn’t mean it as a compliment.
I can’t think before I speak. It just happens. And without the normal cadence of “This is your Captain speaking.” I’ve got nothing. Flatline.
Oh, and you know those pilots that walk around the airport with their sunglasses on? You laugh at them on the inside because they think they’re so cool? Maybe they’re also new and have lost their mojo too?
I was on a dusk flight soon after I switched seats and titles and the sky was getting duskier on final approach. I even made a comment to the actual Captain about how dark this new cockpit I’ve found myself in was at night.
He agreed though surely he knew what the solution was.
And then I said something about the taxiway lights being an unusual hue.
And then I stood in the doorway and said goodbye to the passengers face to face. Eye contact.
And then I went up and got a cup coffee at Starbucks.
And then back in the cockpit I said something about how my phone screen suddenly had a reddish tint. “Maybe it’s reverted to some strange astronomer night mode?” I said.
That’s when the Captain commented on my rose colored sunglasses.
“I don’t know what to tell you Elton.”
Posted on August 26, 2016
Avoiding the Dad Stereotype
Mr. Mom (1983) Directed by Stan Dragoti Shown: Michael Keaton
It’s been nearly seven years that I became a dad.
Seven years and I’ve done the best I could to avoid being the bumbling dad stereotype on tv shows. You know the one. He pours orange juice in his coffee and puts sticks of butter in their lunchboxes.
I’m the modern dad.
I wore the baby.
I carried his diapers in my back pocket and bottles in my backpack.
(Blue bottle = formula. Red = White Russian.)
I went to Mommy and Me.
He’s starting first grade and I’ve made it without knocking back the dad cause or erasing the gains my fellow dads have made.
We changed Amazon Mom to Amazon Family!
I’ve carried the flag well I hope.
Except for that one time.
I was tired. It was early.
He was just beginning to make recognizable sounds.
I was just learning to ignore him.
We were rushing out the door for daycare and I was knocking things off my before takeoff checklist.
Never rush a checklist.
I was calling out the items from memory and he was finding his voice.
It was white noise to me but still distracting. Up until recently I was able to do my checklist in silence. He used to watch and listen. “How does this man do it all!”
Now he wanted to participate and he was bad at it.
Out the door and in the car. Checklist complete. I thought.
Off we went.
He made an excited noise and gesticulated.
“Yeah yeah.” I said.
Surely he was pointing out something he recognized from the endless rounds of flashcards.
“I know. I know. Bus. Car. Dog. Cat. Great job man!”
He gesticulated more. Made more fervent noises.
“I got ya buddy. Kind of in a hurry here. That diaper situation was an unexpected diversion this morning. I know. I know. Bus or monkey or cloud or rocket ship. Great job!”
Again with the pointing.
“Yep. So smart. That is an elephant or a tiger or a dinosaur. Nailed it!”
And this was how the ride to daycare went.
And then we got there and I rushed him out of the carseat and into the school.
And his teacher pointed and said to him. “But where are your shoes?”
And he pointed and gesticulated and spoke pretty clearly.
And I said, “Oh…. shoes!”
And he repeated it in a sweet and a so very nonjudgmental voice.
“Shoes.” He said.
And I said, “Uh, Checklist complete?”
[Shrugs to the camera. Cue the laugh track.]
Posted on February 2, 2016
Are We Still Putting Soap in Their Mouths?
Are we still doing the soap in the mouth thing?
I may need to go out and buy a bar of soap.
Better yet.
Amazon Prime. Soap please.
We use liquid soap here. Body wash really. How does that work? Do I loofa his tongue?
The six year old said his first bad word the other day.
Wait, shit. His second bad word.
About a year ago while we were watching Monster Truck videos on Youtube he said, “Well look at that damn thing!”
It was pretty fitting really. Trucks… John Deere hats. Lots of testosterone in the crowd. I may have been drinking a beer from a bottle. He pointed to a truck and said “Look at that damn thing!”
Actually, I was drinking a beer because I recall nodding my head and tipping the bottle towards him in acknowledgment.
From upstairs his mom yelled, “Don’t feed into it!”
And I didn’t. Well shit, I did. I winked and whispered, “Yep, those are some pretty sweet damn tires.”
It went away for a year. That is until the other day when his potty mouth came out of hibernation. And oh did it mature while it lay dormant.
He said something filthy while I was away from the house. I was made aware of it via text.
No emoji needed. It was pretty funny without adding a pictorial representation. Point made.
When I came home I confronted him about it.
“So what bad word did you say?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He answered.
“I understand but I need to know what you said so I can tell you why it’s bad.”
And then he unleashed it on me.
The following isn’t edited for content.
This is exactly how it went down.
Hold on.
Make sure no children are present.
“I said, Hate and Suck and Stupid and Fart and Farty Face and of course, Mr Farty Face and Poop Head and Oh yeah, I also said Mr Poopy Head.”
“Those are all really bad words. Really bad. But I heard you said something else.”
“I also said, Well Fuck It Then!”
“Wow! That is bad too. Those are all really bad words. We don’t say those words. We especially don’t say those words when we are mad. Okay? We talk about things. Diplomatically and politely.”
I think he got it.
I told him if says a bad word again he will go to his room.
His reply. “For how long?”
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“What about diplomacy?”
“Not in this case.” I answered.
“Will I go to my room for just a little bit? For a long time? Will I go to my room until I am old? How will I eat? What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
“For a hour! Say a bad word and you will go to your room for an hour.”
“An hour isn’t so bad.” He replied.
I guess I need to go buy a bar of soap.
We’re taking it up a notch here.
Fuck it.
Posted on December 7, 2015
At 16 I Had No Muscles But I Drove a Muscle Car
I recently read Auto Biography by Earl Swift in which he retraces all the owners of a ’57 Chevy and it’s had me thinking about my first car.
It was a 1969 Plymouth Barracuda. I unwrapped it in the Fall of 1990. Twenty one years after it rolled off the assembly line. It was a cool car. I, on the other hand, was not cool car guy. Nor was I even a cool guy. In the movies a guy gets a cool car and then suddenly he has people following him around buying him pizza. That’s Hollywood. In real life I didn’t smoke or have a varsity jacket. No tattoos. I didn’t listen to cool music or have a cool haircut. I was tall and awkward. After my 16th birthday I was a tall and awkward kid driving a 1969 Barracuda with a slant six engine.
The car was a surprise. My father and I went car shopping in the months leading up to my birthday but unbeknownst to me, that was a ruse. My muscle car was parked in the neighbor’s garage the whole time. Interestingly enough, during the car shopping game I picked out several equally cool cars that neither fit my personality or my body type. There was an awesome topless Jeep whose seat belt wouldn’t have been able to restrain my lanky frame had I taken it off road like the trying-to-prove-something 16 year in me would have done. There was an equally preposterous MG that I had my eyes on even though at over six feet tall, my head touched the roof while seated and once inside the only way for me to exit would have been to recline into the passenger seat to get my legs out of from under the steering wheel.
So instead of those silly toys my father surprised me with 3000 pounds of banana yellow steel Detroit classic. If cell phones would have existed I would have had Heart’s “Barracuda” as the ringtone.
My car wasn’t necessarily a muscle car but just as I looked in the mirror hoping to see a muscle or two somewhere on my frame I called my new ride a muscle car. I bought a car cover fabric to protect it from the elements although it was over twenty years old and had proved it could survive just fine in the Florida sun. I installed a cassette player in the glove compartment to not damage the look of the dashboard and rocked out to very uncool music.
I think the plan was for the car to be a team building exercise for my father and I. It was a high ropes course for the two of us. Actually, it was more like going to a high ropes course with no ropes, helmets, gear or upper body strength. None of which we had.
But, we had a guide! Our guide had tools and knowledge and experience. And a sales pitch! A coworker of my father’s was a muscle car guy and explained to us how much fun it would be and how much we would learn about cars, the world, each other!
And then soon after I unwrapped the classic he moved out of state and we were looking up at the high ropes course without gear.
One of the first projects we undertook was replacing the master cylinder.
Yes, I know what you are thinking. “But the 1969 Barracuda had manual brakes. Are you sure it was the master cylinder you replaced?”
Before the Fall of 1990 I wouldn’t have known that either. The power brakes were an after market add-on a previous owner had installed.
With our guide out of state he sent us step by step instructions via fax.
Fax!
This was 1990 remember?
The nearest fax machine was at my father’s office.
Follow up illustrations were a drive away.
“And where is this nut that we loosen to bleed the lines?” We would ask on the long distance phone call.
“I’ll send a drawing.” He would answer.
To the office! A fax awaits!
By the end of the project the faxed instructions were as stained with red brake fluid as our hands and bodies were.
But our team grew stronger.
I owned the car for a few years and then upgraded before I went off to college as I needed a more reliable car to make the journey out of state with.
I replaced the muscle car with a more practical VW Jetta that needed less maintaining and fit my uncool lifestyle a little better.
Posted on November 21, 2015
Rambling With Flashcards
We recently upped the ante on our nightly single sight word flashcard routine.
After recognizing the word on the card before him the boy has to use that word in a sentence. At five and three quarters old (his description) the words these days are short and typically monosyllabic. We’re giving him things like BROWN and CAME and FUNNY and DOWN to read to us between bites during dinner. Sometimes his sentences turn into paragraphs that take us far from the given word and down a long stream of thoughts. But in the end he finds a way to tidy things up and use the word on the card before him. Does he begin with a theme or does he simply ramble his way through a thought until he finds us nearing the end of our attention span and then clean up the loose ends with the given word?
His word was “DOWN”.
“Um, after dinner and after I finish my words and my food and my milk and my applesauce and after I wash my hands and clean up and put my plate in the sink and everything then will you please get my Halloween candy so I can have a nice piece because I was good and did everything I was supposed to and when you do get the candy you will have to get my Halloween bag from on top of the refrigerator and you will have to get it down.”
My guess is regardless of the word getting candy was the objective.
And if getting candy was his goal then in his mind all he needed to do was turn any word we gave him into a story about how that candy was going to get into his hands.
Perhaps he’s been studying the presidential candidates and learning from the way in which they turn any question into a platform to spin their objective.
In the end they all just want candy.
Posted on April 3, 2015
Time… According to a Child
How amazing it must be to have no concept of time? How liberating.
Plotting our sons growth alongside the chart of mankind’s evolution, he is close to understanding that as the sun settles near the horizon it’s time to get back to the cave.
Walking upright? Check.
Simple cave drawings? Check.
Charting the Suns movement across the sky and breaking it into 24 equal increments? Hardly.
Our five year old’s time thumps to the rhythm of his own internal combustion engine… and the beat of his imagination. Unless it’s a school day and his routine is orchestrated by our needs, he wakes when his body tells him he’s had enough sleep. It’s never the “groggy, rolling out of bed hesitant to start the day” look. His is the “I got exactly the amount of sleep by body needs to replenish the energy I lost on the previous day playing and doing kid stuff” look. It’s our job though to manipulate his clock.
He has yet to fully comprehend that the numbers on the face represent the time of day. His only perspective is sun up versus sun down.
As his overlord, there have been a few days I’ve set the stationary teaching clock on the wall in his room to 7:50am and told him he can’t get up until 8. It’s nice playing god.
He has yet to figure out how morning fog can delay wake-up time.
“Nope. Sun’s not out yet… Back to bed.”
Curtains were invented not for privacy but to control a kids sleep patterns.
We’ve taught him days in how many sleeps he will have between now and the event in question. But that doesn’t always stick. Maybe we need a slow burning rope with knots for days? Or an hourglass.
Mankind has come so far. Childkind? Not so much.
I told him recently I was coming to observe him at school the following week. The following Tuesday. That day was Friday.
“Are you coming to my school tomorrow?”
“No, tomorrow is Saturday. I will be there Tuesday. Four sleeps.”
“Tomorrow is Tuesday!”
“Well, it’s not. Today is Friday. Tomorrow is Saturday. If tomorrow was Tuesday, tonight would be a school night and you would have school tomorrow.”
“I don’t have school tomorrow! Tonight is not a school night! Are you coming to my school tomorrow?”
I told him to think that over.
On the news one morning he overheard the reporter mention an approaching nor’easter.
“Yay! Tomorrow is Easter!”
“Well, no. It’s not. Easter is always on a Sunday. Today is Friday… that makes tomorrow what?”
“Easter! I can’t wait. He said it was Easter! Did you know the Easter Bunny lives in the ground? Why do they live in the ground? Is it cold down there?”
He has it in his head that Halloween happens when it’s dark out. Occasionally, as the sun is setting he will exclaim! “Yay! It’s Halloweentime! I love Halloween. What am I going to dress up as tonight?”
When you have no concept of time the daily rotation of the earth determines the holidays. That and seasonal holiday decorations.
At the sight of Christmas lights up in March. “Yay! It’s Christmas! I’ve been a good boy this year. I hope Santa comes.”
“It’s not been a year. It’s only March.”
“I don’t like to march. I can do a somersault though. And skip.”
And blowing leaves means it’s Fall.
“Yay! It’s fall! The leaves are falling!”
“Well, it’s actually spring. Summer will be here soon.”
“No it won’t. It was hot yesterday. Summer was yesterday.”
To be unburdened by time. What a peaceful world.
He’s watching the earth move and slowly assigning values to its position. And when that doesn’t work… He pulls holidays out of the air.
“You’re wearing red? Yay! It’s Valentine’s Day! I love Valentine’s Day. Can we get some chocolate?”
“Not necessarily. But today is not Valentine’s Day. It will be Valentine’s Day in a year.”
“When I am six?”
“Yes.”
“Yay! When I turn six it will be Valentine’s Day. And my birthday! At the same time! Yay!”
Let’s hope he doesn’t see a turkey that day or we’ll have Thanksgiving too.
Posted on December 22, 2014
Appropriate (and Inappropriate) Holiday Gifts for Your Flight Crew
It’s the season for gift giving. That means it’s also the season for scrambling to pay off your guilt by dishing out gifts to those who serve you and make your life easier… The trash collector, your postal worker, the Starbucks barista and of course, your flight crew.
While there are many great and appropriate gifts to surprise your lowly flight crew with as you travel this holiday season there are also some inappropriate ones. You may think you’re being cheeky and thoughtful if you present your crew with a nice holiday surprise as you board the plane but there is a chance you are wrong. Allow me to list some of the presents that make perfect gifts for us reindeer who are driving your holiday sled if you are heading out to the airport this Christmas. I will also give you a few that don’t work no matter how cleverly wrapped they may be.
Great holiday gifts.
Single individual dollar bills.
In this line of work we are often in need of ones. We tip hotel van drivers daily and are always asking others for change. It’s awkward giving a hundred to someone and asking for ninety nine bucks back. Each day we ride hotel vans back and forth to the airport and it is customary to tip the drivers for each leg of the journey. A gift of a few ones would go along way with your flight crew. No card needed. A great way to dispense of it would be to approach the cockpit and ask how the weather is going to be at the destination. While being told the answer throw up a handful of ones and yell out, “How about we make it rain!!!”
Hand sanitizer or disinfectant wipes.
Airplanes are disgusting. The humans leave a filthy trail behind them. We breath the same dirty air all day that swims through that trail. At altitude and closer to the Earths yellow sun, bacteria grow into absurdly stubborn living organisms that multiply way more than on the planet. And there are the coughers. Don’t get me started on the coughers. If I had my way all passengers would be required to don their seatbelt and face mask before departure. Our only defense is a regular dose of gut cleaning airplane coffee and hand sanitizer. An excellent Christmas present would be some disinfectant wipes. Either throw it up to us or handle it with one of the wipes. Germs and an associated illness is a horrible gift.
Astronaut food.
While we don’t always have easy access to ovens, hot plates or microwaves we do have a steady supply of hot water. Aside from all the obvious advances that have come from NASA over the years, Tang and dehydrated foods must be near the top of their works of genius. Pilots and flight attendants are hungry. Actually, we’re not hungry. We’re bored. We do the same thing every day. It’s a well crafted routine that has been perfected with time. Same checklists. Same boarding announcements. Same meals… Airport pizza, fried rice or Cinnabon. That’s all we have to chose from. A steaming hot dish of rehydrated NASA approved beef stroganoff at 37000 feet? Now that’s living! You know why no one gets astronaut ice cream in their stocking on Christmas morning? Because Santa steals it at 37000 feet on the journey from the North Pole. That’s not true. I made that up.
Coffee shop gift card.
The best bang for your buck? Pick up a gift card before you board your flight. A happy flight crew is a happy flight and nothing makes us happier than free coffee. Sure, you can argue that the caffeine makes us more alert and ready for anything. Maybe it makes us eager and willing to safely operate the airplane? But free coffee also makes us very happy. The weather could be horrible and the plane is broken and we may get stuck on the road but all the while we will look at each other and say, “How about that lady who gave us the free coffee? She was really nice.”
Okay, on to the inappropriate Christmas presents.
Non cockpit friendly foods.
Sure. You make some incredible chili this time of year. I bet it has the perfect amount of spice and is delicious. Aw… So thoughtful. You even brought crackers for us to crumble up and pour into the topped off flimsy Tupperware bowl you packed it in. It’s gonna make a mess. We’re gonna hit a bump and it’s going to be everywhere. The cockpit floor is going to be covered in cracker crumbles and we’re going to have chili on the controls. I can always tell where a plane has been by the finger print smears. “That kind of looks like Paella. Miami?”
Heavy things.
Our suitcases are already maxed out. I will smile and appreciate the oversized hand made holiday sweater but I have nowhere to put it. The best option will be for me to wear it but the problem with wearing non-airline approved garments in the airport is you don’t get discounted gum and you get hassled by the credit card hawkers who think you are just another passenger. We don’t really need that. It’s nice and generous but not appropriate. Same with heavy hard bound books, flatware and home electronics.
Booze.
If we carry anything through security they make us take a sip to prove that it’s not a liquid bomb. Hard one to explain when you get pulled over on the taxiway. An nonalcoholic beer is not funny. An no eggnog either. Or those powdery cookies. Messy messy messy.
So this holiday season if you are traveling…. Keep your flight crews in mind. We are here to serve you and do so with a smile while secretly hoping for a gift.
If you’re eating from a bucket of donut holes offer the pilot one and say, “Merry Christmas friend.”
If your eating a slice of pizza offer a bite to your flight attendant and say, “Happy Holidays.”
And if you happen to have some astronaut food offer it to the crew and say, “Bring some water to a boil… Looks like you could use a hot meal.”
Posted on December 16, 2014
This Christmas… He’s a Believer
This is his fifth Christmas and this year he’s a believer. We took him to see Santa last week. We went to the good one. The Friday night Mall Santa. Not the Tuesday morning B-Shift guy. Our guy was the real deal. At least the boy thought so.
We got to the mall early at five to beat the rush. It was a shift change. Luckily they build in a thirty-minute buffer between Santa’s so the kids don’t see one tap out for the other.
“You’re in John. Rough crowd today.”
“I can tell. Is that gum in your beard?”
Our A team Kris Kringle apparently started his shift at 5:30. It was five and we had to wait. I thought this would be an issue. Little boys aren’t known for their patience. I started pulling out the old tricks.
“Wanna go look at the train display?” I asked him.
“Nope.”
“Go look around the toy store?”
“Nope.”
“Get some ice cream and eat is real slowly?”
“Nope.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to sit here and wait for Santa.”
And sit and wait we did. For thirty minutes. Patiently.
He’d hear a phone ring in the distance.
“Oh! Is that Santa!”
“Nope.”
He’d hear the jingle of someone passing into the jewelry store.
“I hear Santa! I hear Santa!”
“Not this time, Son. Soon though. Soon.”
Never in his his nearly five years on Earth has he sat so still and eager.
In years past I’d review the script of what he was to do when he got up to Santa.
“And then you will walk up to that stranger and smile at the camera and tell him what you would like for Christmas and that you’ve been a good boy.”
Not this year. He wrote it himself. He only wanted one thing. And when he ran up and sat on Santa’s lap he delivered. He made fools of the crying kids after him. He high-fived us when he jumped down and relayed the conversation to us.
It’s going to be a fun Christmas.
Luckily, we know what that one thing is.
Posted on November 25, 2014
National Adoption Month. Where Do Storks Come From?
“Father?” Said the almost five year old. “Listen, there is something I’ve been thinking about. You and I have been watching a lot of classic television programing lately. Shows like Tom and Jerry and Dumbo and I’ve noticed that in them, often a Stork drops off a baby to Moms and Dads.”
“Yes?” I answer while thinking, “Here we go. It’s time to talk about his adoption story. Where’s Mom? It’s something her and I have had on our to-do list but just haven’t gotten to. Damn you MarioKart.”
“So in these shows,” He continues. “The families always receive their babies from flying Storks. They are dropped from the moonlit sky and the little ones float in under a full parachute safely to land on the doorstep of their eager families. I’ve seen a Stork drop little elephants, giraffe and humans. All sorts of things. But what I’m wondering is this. Who brings the Storks?”
“Uh, I’m not sure I follow?”
“Well. A Stork flying around with a baby llama is quite a sight. Clearly that’s not the Storks child. It doesn’t look like her. It doesn’t even have wings. The same with a baby alligator. The Stork is going to drop off the alligator to an alligator family. Why would a Stork be flying around with an alligator if not to drop it off at its real family? But why would she deliver a Stork to another Stork? Wouldn’t they be able to deliver their own baby? Is this why we never see them flying around with a baby Stork in the basket?”
“There is a lot to cover here?” I said. “Maybe we should wait for your Mom to get home. I think I’m going to go play some MarioKart.”
“I guess my question is this. Where do Storks come from?”
“Just so we are clear here, Son.” I ask him. “We are talking about Storks right? The bird.”
“Of course we are Father. What else would it be? I understand that when a Stork is flying around with a potbellied pig in her basket or cloth sack no one would guess that it is hers because the pig looks so different. Same with a baby zebra. But if the reason we never see Storks flying around with their own is because Storks deliver themselves… where do Storks come from?”
“Okay. First of all. Families are made of all types of animals. Moms and Dads adopt children from other species and they make beautiful families. Even when they look different and have different features. Sometimes a bird may have a donkey for a son and that is just fine. Or a monkey. Second. Storks do fly around with other Storks. Just not in the basket. Baby birds can fly too so they just fly alongside their parents.”
“Surely they can’t fly at birth. How do they get to their parents houses?”
“Magic.” I said.
“That’s not true.”
“A Genie in a bottle.” I answer.
“Like Aladdin?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe that answer either.”
“Amazon Prime. They come in those brown boxes.”
“Oh. That makes sense. Amazon drops off all the babies that way right? Then on moonlit nights, the Storks fly them to their families?” He asks.
“Yep. You got it. Until the drones take over. They will put all the Storks out of business.”
“Oh. One more thing?” He asks. “Am I adopted?”
“Yes. And we love you very much.”
“Thanks Dad. Can we order a sister from Amazon?”
Posted on November 15, 2014
Future Daddy Blogger Support Group
The meetings are held in the basement of a church near an all-night donut shop. Although both are helpful, the location is more about the donuts than the man upstairs. The chairs are arranged in a circle. The donuts are placed on an end table in the middle. They are a focal point. The embers of a fire that never goes out. There are always more donuts.
“It’s time to start the group.” The host says. “Thank you all so much for coming today. I see a few new faces and many familiar ones. Who wants to begin today? Tyler? How about you start?”
Tyler was seated in the circle directly across from the host. Although he was a regular to the support group he was hard to remember. He had an unassuming disposition and talked in a hushed voice. The others leaned in when he spoke because he was barely heard over the buzz of the box fans. It’s not uncommon for the grown up kids of dad bloggers to shun the spotlight. Growing up online was enough. Tyler was the norm.
“Hi, I’m Tyler. You all may know me as “Little T” from the SometimesHePoopsInHisPants.com blog.”
“Hi Tyler.com” The group said in unison. Adding a dot com to their name was a joke that caught on. A way to mock their dads who’ve chronicled their lives online since birth.
“I’ve made some progress since last week when I told you I was ready to talk him about his blog and how it has always been the third wheel in my relationships. He acted surprised that employers ask about the site and that first dates do their research before we meet. Secretly, I think he was adding up the page views in his head. He suggested that I add his link to my resume to help with search engine optimisation. He even asked if he could make me a match.com profile and put it on his blog. But, he listened and was receptive but… I caught him recording me. I haven’t seen it pop up on any of his feeds yet. With our conversation recorded at least I know he may listen to it later. The last time I had a serious talk with him he spliced my words into a Beastie Boys song that went viral. “Whatcha Whatcha… Whatcha Want!” with me replying “No More Blog.”
“I like your optimism.” Said the host. “We’ve all learned that they will not change and unless you are ready to hack and delete their pages we’ve got to find a way to live in their world.”
“Thanks. I tried to vary my pitch and volume to give him little to work with. He’s always been pretty good at sound editing though.”
“I’d like to go next.” Said Rachel as she sat down with a fresh donut. “I’m Rachel from SheWillAlwaysBeMyLittleGirl.com”
“Hi Rachel.com.”
“My dad wrote me a letter this week responding to an email I sent him. All I told him was that I wished I didn’t have pictures of me online from every awkward age growing up. To him they may be cute and at the time maybe they were but now I can’t hide from them. I told him that when I look in the mirror all I see is every flaw from childhood. He seemed genuinely sympathetic and wrote me a poem.”
“That is really great, Rachel. Would you like to read it to us.”
“What moon songs do you sing your baby?
What sunshine do you bring?
Who belongs? Who decides who’s crazy?
Who rights wrongs where others cling?
I’ll sing for you if you want me to
I’ll give to you
And it’s a chance I’ll have to take.”
Tyler squirmed in his seat and spoke up. “Oh man, Rachel. Holy shit! Your dad’s passing a Smashing Pumpkins song off as his poem to you. Damn! That’s low! I’ve had damn near every 90’s alternative song used as the backdrop in my childhood home movies. I hate that shit.”
“I knew it was too good to be true. I bet he spent more time choosing the font. He’s always going on and on about fonts. I think he only speaks to me in headlines sometimes.”
“Sorry about that Rachel. That really sucks. To you all. I’m new to the group. My name is Mark from ItsGonnaLeaveAMark.com”
“Hi Mark.com.”
“I thought I was alone all these years in my feelings. I thought I was being too selfish and judgemental and then I realized that it was he who was being selfish and narcissistic. There isn’t a movie from my youth out there for me to enjoy because all I see is my face cropped into the movie posters. I think my dad must have taken every movie made during my childhood and spliced me into it somewhere. What gave him the right to take that from me?”
“Your anger is justified Mark.com and your feelings are valid.” The host said. “May I suggest you watch something that he didn’t use?”
“I have! All I can enjoy is Japanese Animation and I hate Japanese Animation! I don’t know what’s going on and I always think I’m gonna have a seizure.”
“Most of us have tuned out from the digital world.” Said Rachel. “We get together and play parcheesi. You should join us after group. We don’t take pictures and listen to vinyl so there is no digital record. God, my dad would love to stream my listening habits online.”
“My dad blogger would love to write a post about that.” Added Mark.com.
Posted on November 11, 2014
His First Joke
For the first time in his life he has come up with something funny. Months later he still calls back to it. And it is funny.
He’s had funny moments before. He’s pulled some physical gags and laughed at himself and then asked if it was silly. But this is his first joke.
Sometime late summer the subject of a sweet dessert came up. He was asking for it and I didn’t know what it was. He wasn’t saying it right. His pronunciation was off. It didn’t make sense. It was something he got somewhere and I didn’t know what it was. At four he’s too young to have things in his life I’m not aware of. We both laughed (hysterically) as I made it into a game of twenty questions. He caught on to the bit and riffed with me.
He was asking for something that sounded to me like “Fruit Myer”.
“Is it cold?”
“Yes!” He said laughing implying that of course it is served cold.
“Is it in the refrigerator or the freezer?”
“It’s in the freezer silly!”
“What color is it?” I asked.
“Green.”
“And what is it called again?”
“I told you. Fruit Myer!”
“I have no idea what this is! Maybe next time we are in the store you can point it out to me.”
“They don’t have Fruit Myer in the store, Silly! You are so crazy.”
“Also, Dude. Fruit Myer is not the preferred nomenclature.” I added.
I have no idea what this stuff is.
My clues so far.
It’s green. It’s served cold. You eat it with a spoon. It makes a mess if you spill it. You get sick if you eat too much of it. Asking if it is bigger than a breadbox makes no sense to him. They don’t sell it at the store. You’d be crazy to think they did.
I’m guessing it’s some kind of green ice cream that my Mother-in-Law bought him.
She was also the source behind another mystery. One that I was able to solve.
That one was easier to piece together.
He asked for a popsicle from the freezer and when it was lemon instead of chocolate he demanded I put it under running water. “It will turn to chocolate!”
“No it won’t.” I said.
“Under the water! It will turn to chocolate! I don’t want lemon! I want chocolate!”
“That doesn’t make any sense! That is impossible!” I yelled back matching his volume for affect. “Running water will not turn frozen lemonade into chocolate! It will turn it into more lemonade!”
I proved this and subsequently disappointed him in the name of science. His expression when I gave him a plastic stick that once held a popsicle was actual comedy.
“See!” I waved it. Again, for affect. “No chocolate!”
I may have over done it. He sulked. Tough audience.
My hypothesis. His Grammy makes him frozen popsicles with chocolate milk. She also makes him some from lemonade. My guess is to help extricate them from their plastic mold she runs them under water to loosen them up. Perhaps the lemonade variety doesn’t need loosening? He must think we have a Willy Wonka sink that can turn anything into a chocolate popsicle?
But. To the current mystery. And joke.
Months later he will call back to the Fruit Myer bit and laugh knowing it’s funny.
It may begin with him chuckling, “Remember the Fruit Myer?”
I will laugh and start the round of the twenty questions again.
Even better is when I catch him laughing to himself and then when I ask him what’s funny he says snickering, “Fruit Myer.”
It’s a joke we share. A joke him and I wrote and one that I think he finds as funny as I do.
Maybe I don’t want to ever know what Fruit Myer is?
Posted on September 2, 2014
My Son. My Chronological Yardstick
Every memorable event in my life that happened before the spring of 2010 is filed away in my brain with a five-year buffer. My mental calendar from the era before I had a child is ordered in half-decade increments.
When did I graduate college?
“I was done wearing flannel shirts by that time… mid to late 90s?”
Since my son was born he has become a yardstick on which I measure time. Instead of just inches marked off on the door frame, I see months and the corresponding historical events. I look at his growth notches on the wall like a geologist sees the colors of a canyon.
My brother was married the month our son’s adoption was official. June 2010.
February 2011 he started scooting around the coffee table on his way to becoming bipedal.
In addition to tagging my memory with his chronology, I’ve watched the evolution of mankind as he’s inched his way up my leg. His descent from the crib was akin to an early man deciding that a tree wasn’t such a great place to raise a family. Soon after conquering land, he began grunting and sketching crude drawings on the walls. This led to the use of simple tools and more complete sentences and an attempt to overthrow the established rules of the house. He assumed he was smarter than his elders but didn’t yet realize that we control the food and the bath toys.
It’s just a matter of time before I catch him sitting around a plastic round table with his playmates playing Rock Paper Scissors to decide who gets to be Braveheart this time.
“They will never take away our Freedom!”
I can’t wait for him to catch up with the 1960’s human and enter the space race in the backyard. Am I allowed to impart my wisdom onto him or do I have to let him fail in order to achieve global dominance? Does he need to lose a few model Estes rockets because my interference will disrupt the space time continuum? I’d hate to walk back inside after properly staging his rocket engines when he’s not looking to find my image fading in the few physical photos we have on the wall.
And when he actually becomes smarter than his elders I’ll be certain to hide the growth chart from him so he can’t rewrite history. It will be saved for posterity so I can remind him where he came from if his power becomes too great for him to handle.
“Right there. That is when you first inched up to my waistline.”
Hopefully, he will still look up to me as he did then.
If not, I’ll just take away his bath toys.
Posted on August 4, 2014
What I Did Not Do During My Summer Vacation
I was on vacation during the month of July. I ceased all work related activities.
I also didn’t…
- Read a USATODAY
- Eat airport food
- Shave
- Tell a passenger their flight cancelled… just for the fun of it
- Turn my back and walk away from the TSA while they attempted to explain the rules
- Make small talk with a new hire pilot about what they flew before this
- Set an clock alarm with a pencil so as to not touch the buttons with my fingers
- What CNN Airport News Network
- Wear a tie
- Watch sailboats from the cockpit of jet wishing I was down there
- Iron anything
- Get excited about finding a People, US Magazine and OK! in the same seat back pocket
- Ride in a hotel van telling horror stories about flying with my crew while one non-airline person cries silently to themselves in the back
- Send my phone through an X-ray machine with the “Get me out of this bag!” ringtone set to fire in T minus 10 seconds
- Drink an emergency shot of airplane coffee
- Wear a five point harness (almost though. Considered racing a go-cart)
- Use outlook for email
- Touch a thrust lever
- Do a checklist (making a list now. Close)
It was a blissful month away from the airport. I return to the cockpit tomorrow. I just hope they didn’t move any of the buttons around.
Posted on June 30, 2014
How Hollywood Gets Airline Life Wrong
In many ways… Hollywood’s depiction of airline life is completely wrong. In some ways it’s spot on and I claim those scenes as just another day at the office. My ownership to what scene I sell as truth depends on the audience I’m with. If I’m sitting with guys and it’s a pilot surrounded by beautiful ladies at a bar listening intently to him tell stories I’ll say, “Yep, they nailed it!”
If I’m with my mom who gets anxious about my flying and a scene is on where the pilot calmly cheats death by flying inverted through a storm because the elevator has lost effectiveness I’ll say, “Yep, they nailed it.”
Most of the time though flying movies make me laugh. I’m sure all industries are critical of the movie studios depiction of their profession but films with airplanes on the poster can be so comical about it. I can’t imagine a bunch of pipe fitters laughing at plumbing movies as much as pilots do about cockpit scenes. But imitation is the sincerest form of flattery so I guess we should all be flattered when they mock us with their outlandish stories.
Those Hats
As much as they’d like for you to believe it we don’t wear the hats all the time. I guess it’s an easy way to remind the movie goers that the person in the scene is a pilot. The swagger, the smooth way with the ladies and sunglasses aren’t enough. I love the shots of these clowns sitting at breakfast far from an airport wearing their hat or walking around out in public donning their “look at me” headgear. My airline requires us to wear the lid in the winter so that’s a given… but only in the airport! The other time I wear my hat is on bad hair days and at the end of my haircut cycle when I’m trying to squeeze a few more weeks out of the current length. To be honest… my barometer for when it’s time to get a haircut is when I can’t tuck it all up under there anymore.
Four Hands on the Wheel
Yes, there are two of us up front but we both don’t have our hands on the wheel at the same time… all the time. These scenes remind me of drivers ed when the instructor is guiding you through a three point turn. It doesn’t take four hands to steer the ship. Most of the time there are no hands on the wheel. Often most of the work is done with just one finger. If someone tells you they’re an airline pilot ask to see their fingers. If one has a callus on the tip they’re a pilot. That’s the autopilot finger.
Lighting and Rain and Turbulence Oh My
It’s dark out and the cabin is getting thrown around and the lightning is flashing at terrifying intervals. You can hear the thunder and the rain is hitting the windows in buckets as if the plane weren’t even moving at all. This doesn’t happen. We avoid the storms. Storms mean bumps and bumps mean spilt coffee. Our coffee. Now, the lightning is possible. Water carries light farther than air does and often we are in the clouds near storms so those flashes do travel some distance. But, rarely are we in the middle of the storm. Unless we’re bored. Often those flashes you see are the strobes out there on the wings telling other planes to not hit us. Again, it’s dark and if we’re in thick water filled clouds those flashes can be pretty terrifying. You want to see terrifying? Come up front when the cockpit windows are filled up with St. Elmo’s Fire. Put that in a movie and I may set my popcorn down for a second.
An Anthropomorphic Autopilot
They nailed it in just about every scene in Airplane. While we don’t have an inflatable autopilot our autopilot does have a name. His name is George. Best I’ve heard is that we call him George after an early tinkerer in automated flight named George Debeeson. At least once a trip one of us will refer to the autopilot as George. We never give him thanks or praise him on a job well done. Typically, we yell at him for doing something stupid. Which always is because we told him to do something stupid. “Oh come on George! What are you doing now?”
Beautiful Flight Attendants
Now, this one is true. They always nail it here. We have beautiful people in the cabin from all over the world. Unlike most professions where you’re all from the same area with same stories who probably know the same people… our job is full of people from all over. And they are beautiful and their stories make them more so. This is one of the great things about airline life. We all have this one thing in common. We don’t want to be cooped up behind a desk. We want to travel and experience new things. There are long days and rude passengers but in the end there is a beautiful optimism about the adventure that awaits tomorrow and it shows on the faces of the flight attendants. Now the cockpit crew. That’s for another story.
We’re a miserable lot.
Posted on June 17, 2014
Captain Dad – I Called Maintenance Control for a Toy Helicopter
My work life and home life collided yesterday when my son complained that his toy Hess helicopter wasn’t working as it was supposed to.
“My helicopter won’t fly anymore!”
It never flew. The blades spun. It lit up. It made lots noise. But it never flew.
In his world, it did though. And now it did not. The batteries were dead. Naturally, they died while we were in the car. Away from fresh batteries.
I suggested maybe we should take it to the helicopter doctor. In hindsight… this wasn’t the best approach. Although I liked the sound of helicopter doctor and it sounded pretty damned cute when he said it, it got pretty old when he refused to do anything but go to the helicopter doctor.
“I think maybe the doctor is not in today.” I said.
“I want to go to the helicopter doctor.”
“Actually, they are not accepting new patients at the moment. I called last week for Mommy’s helicopter.”
“I want to go to the helicopter doctor now!”
“There is no such thing as a helicopter doctor! I made it up… just like I made up that story about the aquarium being closed. Are you kidding? You fell for that! Sharks not coming out during the rain? I just didn’t want to go run through the rain when you’d probably be bored as soon as we go there!“
This is what I wanted to say.
I made this bed. I had to sleep in it. Or work on another lie.
I tried explaining that I felt pretty certain I could fix the helicopter by putting new batteries in it. But I lost him when I started complaining about how much I hate the toys that don’t have an auto-off feature because the batteries run out and that the manufacturers were in bed with the battery company.
“Doesn’t it bother you when the train is running incessantly under the couch clicking and clicking and clicking with nowhere to go?”
“Can we go to the helicopter doctor now? Please?”
I told him I’d call the doctor and see if they had any advice since I didn’t have money for the copay anyway.
“Okay. Call the helicopter doctor.”
In the cockpit both on the ground and in the air there are times when we call the airplane doctor for advice. This happens pretty often actually. Most things are fixed by rebooting the airplane. This can only be performed on the ground… for obvious reasons.
For the problems that Ctrl – Alt – Del can’t fix the mechanics over the phone sometimes can run through a procedure with us.
“Jiggle this or smack that with an open palm. Not a fist… and open palm.”
When this doesn’t stop the smoke from billowing out of the engine they send out the big guns with tools to the rescue.
I was hoping to nip this one in the bud with a phone call.
Luckily my son is used to seeing me with a headset for phone calls. If he was expecting a two-way speakerphone call the jig would be up.
“Hello, helicopter doctor? My son is having trouble with his helicopter.”
-Pause-
“What is the problem?” I yelled to the back seat.
“It doesn’t fly anymore.”
“Yeah, he says it doesn’t fly anymore.”
-Pause-
“What color is it?”
“Green, and white.”
“It’s green and white.”
“And red and black and grey and yellow and it doesn’t make noises anymore.”
“It’s a lot of colors. He says to jiggle it a little and smack it with the palm of your hand.”
He started beating it. Violently. Hey, doctor’s orders.
“Okay, the doctor thinks that maybe it needs a new battery. He says that when we get home I should put a new battery in it and if that doesn’t work to call him back.”
“Okay, let’s put a new battery in it.”
“He also says that you need to take a nap and eat your green beans.”
“The helicopter doctor is nice.”
“Yes, he is.” I replied. Relieved.
Crisis created. Crisis averted.
And peace was restored.
Posted on June 14, 2014
The Things You Find in Hotel Beds
Do not read this if you are in a hotel bed.
If you are in a hotel bed please tell me you removed the bedspread.
Please tell me you didn’t eat something with your bare hands after touching the remote control, alarm clock or light switch.
You aren’t walking around barefoot, are you?
You’re using the coffee pot?!
I spend half the year in hotel beds. I’m not an escort. I get paid less.
Having spent half the year in hotel beds for a decade and a half I’ve witnessed some things. You could say, “I’ve been around the block.”
Again, not an escort.
Some things will change you forever. Some just add to the growing list of phobias and fears that grow exponentially with time. Like cuneiform bacteria in the hotel sink.
One of my worst hotel nights was the evening I watched a Dateline special on hotel cleanliness while lying in a hotel bed. As they shined the black light around the room illuminating bodily fluids on every exposed surface it wasn’t hard to imagine it was my room they were investigating.
There was a time I was so sick that against my better judgment I took a bath in the hotel tub. As the tub filled the funk and debris from the bottom rose and floated in the water like the flotsam from a shipwreck.
But the worst time. The one that I go to bed thinking about was the time I found something in the bed with me.
I was laying in the dark attempting to force myself to sleep in between cycles of the air conditioner that was in auto mode even though I clearly had it set to on. Trying to sleep I felt something at the foot of the bed under the covers with my bare toes. Half asleep, half awake I was rolling it around with my toes like I was making an origami swan assuming it was the tag to the sheets or maybe even the mattress. And then I realized it wasn’t connected to anything.
I was juggling it with my toes and it was free to move in any direction my piggies sent it.
Panicked, I ripped the cover off and hit the light on the bedside table. I was so hurried I didn’t even use the wet nap I typically use to touch switches.
I hesitated to look near my feet.
“Please don’t be. Please don’t be. Please don’t be.”
It was.
I had been noodling with my toes a bloody band-aid. It was more like a bandage. A very large and very used bloody bandage.
I reminded myself it was probably washed with the linens and remained during the dressing of the bed that day but it didn’t make it any easier.
I tried to pretend that it wasn’t used on an open sore. It was possibly used by someone attempting to hide an ankle tattoo. That didn’t explain the blood stain.
All I could do was suck it up and add it to the list of things I’ll never do again.
Sleep barefoot in a hotel bed.
Posted on June 12, 2014
On Father’s Day
I used to give lip service on Father’s Day. Cards were sent and thanks were given and the love was spread around as abundantly and efficiently as I could spread it. But I’m not sure I really meant it.
And then I became a Dad and realized that my life was no longer about me anymore and I began to appreciate the sacrifices my Father and stepfather accepted to raise me. They shaped the man and father that I am today.
My buddy offered a simple line of advice before I became a dad. He, having already tread into this new world said, “It’s no longer about us anymore.”
And it’s not.
The time I give to myself or my wife is the time between all the times when my son is my first priority. I remember that line on those rushed days when I look down to the smiling boy holding my hand and see that he’s well fed and bathed and smells good and is comfortable and relaxed and I’ve not eaten, rested or had my own visit to the ‘potty’ since he woke up.
I never realized what these men (along with the corresponding moms in the equation) gave up for me until I started counting the things I have given up for him. And my child is only 4!
I never realized what they gave me until I started seeing myself in my son. More importantly, I never realized what they gave me until I started seeing them in me.
And as a parent, this happens more often now than ever before. The way I discipline, counsel, and praise all have roots in my own childhood. When I’m complimented on how I interact with my son I think to my own childhood and give a silent thanks to my fathers. When I look at myself in the mirror after a long day of child raising I wonder how they handled it. Good music and a pop-top beer?
I also look at myself though and wonder how old my son will be when he sees pictures of me from this era and questions my hairstyle or choice of glasses. Hopefully, he’ll say fondly, “Yep, that’s my dad.”
Yep, those are my dads. Happy Father’s Day.
Posted on May 28, 2014
Eat, Sleep, Fly
Sometimes people ask me what it’s like to be a pilot. “Wow, that must be so cool! I bet you’re really smart. You must have been good at math in school. Are all pilots as handsome as you?”
I’ve never gotten that last one. I made that up.
When asked about how thrilling it must be I agree that it is both fun and exciting. I like to perpetuate the myth. That’s what we do. Spin yarn. Tell tall tales. Back in the day it was called “hangar flying” or something like that.
But the truth is it’s never as adventurous as it sounds.
Below is a sample day. Actually, this isn’t just a sample. This is every day. EVERY DAY.
The job is standardized and consistent for safety. Every flight begins and ends with the gear going up and then back down again. In that order. Very important. Take note.
On today’s sample day, I’m on day two of a four-day trip. I fly out early and if all goes as planned I will be done by 4:00 pm in Florida. Very important… if all goes as planned. There are lots of in’s and out’s.
We start in a midwest town known for its Vikings and a guy called Prince and are to end in a town down South with lots of wealthy retirees. When we arrive there the jetway will be filled with empty wheelchairs awaiting the flock of snowbirds. It will look like the start line of a go-cart track.
My phone alarm goes off exactly 8 hours after I turn the lights out and precisely 45 minutes before I am to catch the hotel van to the airport. Roughly 60 seconds after my phone sounds the hotel alarm clock fires the built-in buzzer. I never use the ‘wake to radio’ setting. I courteously leave it on the station I found it on for the housekeepers. The timing between the two alarms unfortunately is at an imperfect interval since hotel clocks are not set to an atomic standard. Often the two alarms ring seconds from each other. These are the good days. An instant crescendo of alarms. Especially when it’s 4:00 am. As it was this morning.
And don’t get me started on the Aloft hotel chain and their hipster analog clocks. Since the plastic clock face doesn’t have built-in magnifying glass bubbles like they have on Sea Monkey tanks you never know what time the alarm is set for. I set those alarms by scheduling a 5-minute buffer on either side of the designated alarm time. Undoubtedly, this window expires and the alarm sounds every time I am midshower.
After the orchestra of alarms, I have 45 minutes to put my game face on. If you know me, you can imagine it doesn’t take much to make this happen (pointing to my face and hair.) I’ve perfected this morning routine by more than a decade of living out of a suitcase… only the essentials are left unpacked before bed. I’m typically up and on my way with time to enjoy some bad hotel coffee. Sometimes I prep the coffee pot the night before by stuffing the single-serving coffee bag into the E. coli tray and filling the brewer with water so all I had to do in the morning was hit go. Saves me 30 seconds and the brew takes on a special flavor if the water gets the chance to sit and saute all night in the bacteria reservoir.
Today’s alarms rang at 4:00 am. The crew and I had a 4:45 am van to the airport. We are to be at the airplane 30 minutes before departure so today’s flight left at 5:30 am. Yes. You read that correctly. At that time of day the hotel breakfast isn’t available so it’s gnarly coffee on an empty stomach until we land in a few hours.
Most hotels we stay at have a breakfast offering of some sort. I rank hotels based on their breakfast.
And their shower pressure.
And the speed of their internet.
Some hotels have no free breakfast. These are the expensive hotels. That’s the trade off. You get a nice, allegedly clean room with fancy soaps meant either for the face or the body but you don’t get a big fluffy burnt lobby waffle that’s been cooked in a never cleaned, overused waffle iron – for free. Instead, you have to pay for overpriced yogurt. (Pro-Tip. I walk to the nearest cheap hotel and blend in with the unwashed and eat for free. I know, it’s cheap of me but it’s also a cheap thrill. It makes me feel alive.)
Some hotels have a table of cold round bread items and a toaster. They may have iced-down cups of yogurt. They may have packs of oatmeal and some warm water. I called a $25/night hotel a crashpad for a year that had a loaf of bread a communal tub of butter and jar of jelly for the guests. Butter in the jelly and toast crumbs in both. I gave it a ‘charming’ on TripAdviser. These are the level B breakfast nooks.
The Level C hotels have a few mysterious hot items. Omelette-shaped yellow patties that we freeloaders eat up like prisoners fresh out of the hole. To build excitement, these treats are served in a catering tray with a rollback top. I choose not to peak in when others are dishing out their gruel. I like to be surprised. Same reason I don’t read the yogurt cups. I like to be wowed by the fruit on the bottom. There normally is a ‘meat’ to go along with the ‘eggs’. My personal favorite is the chewy bacon. Imagine a hot, sweaty, bacon-flavored fruit roll-up. Delish. To satisfy the sugar and starch food groups of the hotel breakfast pyramid, level C hotel breakfast bazaars offer a selection of knock-off cereals (Apple Loops, Cheery Holes, Crispy Rice) in individual rocketship-shaped dispensers. The food chute is so caked with cereal lint that vigorous shaking is required to get the flakes, loops or crisps through the water wheel.
Level D is the same as level C but with fruit and named brand cereals.
Now we get to the level E. These are hard to come by. A restaurant with a full menu that serves breakfast to airline crews… for free. This hotel doesn’t exist.
But today… no breakfast. Too early for that. Maybe there will be an old lady on the flight who will offer us some hard candy because we look weak. Maybe.
And then we fly.. blah blah blah. And deviate around life-ending storms… blah blah blah. And deliver loved ones to their loved ones… blah blah blah. And maybe deliver a baby – or perform a wedding en route.
And then we eat!
This is the hardest decision of the day. What to eat. When to eat. How much to eat.
You see friends. Each airport has it’s own special offerings. This one may offer fried stuff drizzled with cheese and that one may have baked stuff drizzled with cheese. This one may offer lots of rib-sticking carbs that surely will keep you full all day for a high price while that one may not. It may not seem like a tough call but this is the flight crew dilemma. If I don’t eat now while the getting is good I may end up in a food desert later with no options but airline snacks and a hotel cookie for dinner.
So… we debate lunch. There is no checklist for this one. No right answer. This truly is the only time of day where were are allowed to think outside the box (literally). So we stew and hem and haw and fear making the wrong decision.
Little known fact… it’s in our manual that we are not to eat the same food from the same place within thirty minutes. Don’t want us both getting sick up there at the same time now do we?
Two empty plates in the cockpit with a fish skeleton on each and a lemon slice. Not good.
After lunch, we fly… blah blah blah. And run checklists… blah blah blah. And maybe adeptly handle a life-ending mechanical disaster with ease, calm, and professionalism… blah blah blah.
And then we get the hotel! And eat!
And if there is a circus in town we do that and maybe go sightseeing and sample local cuisine.
Or more likely… none of that. I go to the hotel and watch bad TV and then set the alarm for forty-five minutes before the van ride and turn the lights out 8 hours before that.
And if the hotel is a level A hotel with no free breakfast offerings, I scope out the area for hotels that may be for the morning.
Posted on April 8, 2014
The Beat Poets Taught Me How to Talk to a Four Year Old
Many days during my college decade were spent studying the Beat Poets and experimenting with stream-of-consciousness prose. We turned words cut from the newspapers into dialog and had nonsense talks over wine. We verbally riffed and let our talks ebb and flow on a course of their own often ending where they began… with a twist.
Talking to a four-year-old takes me back to that time. Those late-night jams wired my brain to help me navigate most of my dialogs now. At least the ones I have with him. The child.
With him, I know where our conversations start and how I want them to end… my job is to orchestrate the words to reach that desired crescendo. I take his words… cut them up and use them against him. All the while letting him think he has a say in things. He’s just providing the tempo.
For me, it’s lots of verbal bait and switch. Subtle misdirection.
Our breakfast conversation may start with him telling me how much he “Doesn’t like bagels! I will never eat them again!” With my conductor’s baton in hand, the talk will end with him devouring a bagel telling me “This is my favorite food ever!”
But between those two points… is magic.
“I don’t like bagels! I will never eat them again!” He says pushing his plate away.
“I know you don’t like them. The cream cheese is horrible anyway.” I add.
“I don’t like cream cheese!”
“Cream cheese… string fleas… pink bees… crinkly knees.” I rhyme.
“Trees! Trees rhyme with bees!” He sings.
“Sneeze and breeze and flying trapeze. Let’s not forget the peas.” I say.
“I like peas.” He says smiling.
“I like peas too. And bagels.” I strike.
“You don’t like bagels. I like bagels. I love bagels. This is my favorite food!” He says as he pulls his plate closer.
Magic.
Posted on March 23, 2014
He Already Thinks He’s Smarter Than Me
He’s only four and he already thinks he’s smarter than I am. He’s learned how to give the look that says, “Seriously? I wasn’t born yesterday you know?”
I give him the look back that says, “In the grand scheme of things… close enough.”
He’s given me that looks twice in his life and they both happened last week. The first time he may have misinterpreted my amazed facial expression as defeat. I wasn’t as impressed with his problem-solving skills as I was in shock that at such an early age he already thinks I’m full of shit.
The second time he gave me the look I was prepared and let him think he outsmarted me. I’m playing the long game. No need to sprint.
“Well played son.” That is what my face said. But my mouth added, “Listen little man. From your very first day of life when I turned powdered formula into food through a science you can’t comprehend I’ve been smarter than you.”
The first debate that arose this week revolved around the construction of a Thomas the Tank Engine track. I’ve been building these tracks for literally more than half his life. He can mock my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him question me on my track construction.
The tracks on all these train sets are a one-way affair. One side of the track only fits into the opposite side of a connecting track. We own a few switches that allow the tracks to branch off into extra segments but naturally, you need another switch to connect that offshoot back to the main railway. Obviously, You Can’t Have an Odd Number of Switches! Train tracks can’t end in a dead end! Unless you have a roundhouse or a rail yard. Both of which we do not. We’re not the Rockefeller’s.
He was insisting on having 3 switches even while complaining that the line wasn’t connecting. I tried explaining and rationalizing and drawing a diagram on paper and even ran off into a little bit of tangent with premature birds and the bees talk when I demonstrated the “female” vs “male” ends of the tracks. “It won’t work this way!” I yelled.
He added a fourth switch connecting the lines and said, “See daddy. It’s easy.”
And that’s when I gave him the face that said, “This is precisely what I’ve been trying to tell you. This isn’t your idea you know?”
And he gave me the face that said, “What else don’t you know?”
Now the second confrontation.
It’s bedtime and he wanted to read an E-book on a Leappad tablet. The battery was nearly dead (“like the goldfish Daddy?”) the night before and we finished the book just in the nick of time before I had to explain to him the difference between the alkaline batteries in his tablet vs the lithium-ion batteries in daddy’s cell phone. This is how conversations end these days. They start with, “Why daddy?”
Before we turned the tablet on I planted the seed that would flower in the garden of his disappointment. “We may need to come up with a plan b here man. I think the battery is dead and before you get all fired up let’s come up with a solution.”
“Dead like the goldfish?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s not dead.” He said as the tablet booted up.
“I know… but it may run out of power soon so just start thinking about what real book we will read when that happens.”
The tablet started up and we got to our E-book and the bedtime routine began. We were making good progress as I gave him the cliff notes version of some of the pages while I watched the battery indicator blink red. Time is of the… it turned off.
“Okay, the battery died. Let’s find a real book to read.”
He tried to explain to me it wasn’t dead and I fought back saying it was and he said it just needed to rest like the cats do and we went round and round until he demanded it wasn’t dead and that all we had to do was turn it back on again.
Which he did. And it powered up. And he said, “See daddy. It’s easy.” And he gave me that look again. For the second time this week.
Naturally, it powered down soon thereafter but I calmly took it away before he saw that so he’d go to bed thinking he was right.
I did tell him though that he didn’t need to use the stylus to push the power button because it is mechanical and not touch sensitive like the capacitive screen.
“So there.” It was my face said.
And we both won that one.
Posted on February 26, 2014
On Fatherhood: Almost 40 With a 4 Year Old
How different his world is in 2014 than mine was when I was his age in 1978. This is the blessing of the late blooming father. Had I begun the child rearing phase of my life a decade or more ago things would be different. We could enjoy the Hunger Games together, we could both simultaneously suffer from Bieber Fever and I could have eaten all of his leftovers without worrying about calories. Not so when 35 years separates us.
Now I can easily justify saying, “When I was your age.”
“When I was your age, we called a thirty second video clip a commercial.”
Will I be able to teach him to appreciate the things that made me who I am today or is he too far removed from my generation? Will the coming of age moments for me be relevant for him? Will the movies, books, video games and music mean anything now or will they be campy and ironic to him?
I’ve begun compiling a list of media he will need to consume (and appreciate) as he matures in order to continue calling himself my son.
When he comes home from school with awkward adolescent struggles and feelings of not fitting in I will sit him down to watch Weird Science to understand my 80’s awkward. We had to watch our back then. When we (the nerds) weren’t doing so we were fantasizing about a time when we could control our destiny with computers. We were on the front lines. “Back in my day, nerds weren’t cool like they are now. Who knew it would take something like Glee to allow us to come out.”
Who knows where he will be and what he will have seen by then but when he is in high school and surely feels trapped, he will read On The Road and dream about wandering. He will not read it digitally. He will not listen to it. I will get him the book. I will encourage him to write in the margins and dog-ear the corners. I will teach him that the scuffed up pages with take him back to the spot where he scuffed them up. He will remember the book but more importantly he will remember where he was and who he was with when he reads it again later.
When I first started playing my fathers records, naturally I was drawn to “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”. It became mine when I heard the tracks that weren’t overplayed on the radio. That album came out only 7 years before I was born but seemed from another time. If my son does the same, maybe he will stumble upon my Nirvana “Nevermind” CD. That album came out almost twenty years before he was born! Twenty years! What a gap. If 7 years was a lifetime for me then… what will a two decade spread sound like? The Beastie Boys album “Licensed to Ill” was one of the first tapes I bought on my own. A quarter century before he was born. To him… vintage. But the lyrics are timeless right? “Don’t step out of this house if that’s the clothes you’re gonna wear. I’ll kick you out of my home if you don’t cut that hair.”
As an avid collector of classic video games whether he will enjoy the games from a simpler time is a grey area for me. Will he have the imagination and patience left to be able to experience games in anything less that HD? When we start playing together, where to begin? Do I introduce them after the fact as being retro and nostalgic or slowly trickle them out in chronological order so he can watch them develop as I did but on a much faster scale. If so, we need to start playing Pitfall on the Atari 2600 soon. He’s not too spoiled yet to think those green splotches are alligators and naturally you need to jump over them.
Will these things hold up? Will he tell me to turn that old stuff off? Who knows. My only hope is that he can appreciate them and although it’s decades later maybe they will resonate with him at the right time and the right place as they did for me. Then again… maybe it will be his turn to teach me something.
Posted on February 17, 2014
The Time I Told an Aviation Icon I Didn’t Have a Business Card
Filed away years ago as, “Well, that sure was stupid.”
Once, I met Southwest founder and former CEO, Herb Kelleher in the airport. We talked at length and I got the impression he liked me. He suggested as much. And then he asked for my card. To which I replied, “I don’t have a card. I’ve never had a reason to carry one.”
It started like this. I was working a flight from Washington D.C. to Dallas and we were delayed for weather. We had boarded and were at the gate and I made a few announcements that the weather was looking bad in Dallas and we would wait a bit longer and hope for the best but there wasn’t much more we could do. I like to make these announcements using the flight attendant’s PA so I can be face to face with the passengers when I deliver the news. Especially if I’m having a good hair day. In this case, I had to make the announcement a few times until the final, “Well, it looks like we are not going anywhere” speech.
The flight was canceled. Again, I like to stand at the door when the passengers leave so I can take the punches away from the flight attendants. Mr. Kelleher got off last and I thanked him for his patience.
My first officer had to tell me who that last passenger was. I wasn’t aware.
“I wish I knew.” I said to him. “There is so much I’d love to ask him.”
But I ran into him a little while later coincidentally sitting in the gate area of my next outbound flight which was in the opposite direction of Dallas. I thanked him again for his patience and asked if he was still going to Texas. “Are you flying standby?” I joked.
We talked for about thirty minutes about the state of the airline industry and what the future had in store. With the recent consolidations, his predictions came true.
Herb is a tall man. So am I but when he stood he towered over me in his trench coat and hat. He stood several times during our talk. We would talk and the conversation would get animated and he would stand and I would stand and then shrink next to him. I asked him about my current employer and he poked me with his finger and said something with several expletives about how we should dare not mess with Southwest or something punctuated by several expletives would happen to us. To anyone watching they would have assumed I was about to get my expletive kicked by this older fella.
We talked about pilots and personalities and when we shook hands to part ways he said, “I really like you. I like your sense of humor.” And then he asked for my business card.
To which I inexplicably replied. “I don’t have a card. I’ve never had a reason to carry one.”
Yes. I said, “I Don’t Have A Card”.
We shook hands and went our ways.
When I got back to the cockpit it hit me. “What a moron! What was I thinking!”
It’s a well-known legend that Mr. Kelleher wrote the first draft of the Southwest business plan on a cocktail napkin. I yelled back to the galley, “I need some cocktail napkins!”
“Did you spill something again!” Is what I heard.
“No! But I need some napkins!” I answered.
I quickly scribbled my contact information on the napkin. We were done boarding and due to push back soon and I told the gate agent I’d be just a second. In my head, I’d leap from the plane over the gap into the jetway, run, and give Mr. Kelleher by information. I’d say breathlessly, “My cocktail napkin, Sir.”
But he was nowhere to be seen. He was gone.
That night I ordered a thousand business cards and carry one everywhere I go. I still have nine hundred and ninety-nine.
I later used my “cocktail napkin” to clean up spilled coffee in the cockpit.
Posted on January 27, 2014
Is the First Officer Actually a Pilot?
Since the beginning, there have always been two pilots up on the flight deck. Had it not been for the Wright Brothers, maybe we’d only have one seat up there.
It’s a common misconception that the First Officer (commonly referred to as the copilot in the movies or ‘gear monkey’ in real life) isn’t really a pilot. This is false. They are just as qualified as the Captain. The real question though is… are they essential?
This takes us back to the Wright Brothers.
Pilots are narcissists who need an audience. We need someone to laugh at our jokes and make us feel important. We need someone to entertain us when we get tired of monitoring the autopilot. We also need someone to humbly do the dirty work so we can keep our hands clean.
This need for validation is what encouraged the Wright Brothers to take to the skies in the first place. That and sibling rivalry. The day Orville beat Wilbur in a bike race is the day Wilbur said, “Oh yeah! I’m gonna put wings on a bike! Lets see who’s laughing then, Bro!”
And the race to the air began. While the endeavor initially was a game of one-upmanship, soon the master/sidekick team was traveling the world demonstrating their magical flying machine. The modern First Officer was born. Orville out getting the Flyer ready, Wilbur winking to the ladies in the audience, drinking his coffee and passing out rectangular wings to the kids.
Yes, of course the first aircraft only had one seat but as flight durations got longer than a single hill the sole Pilot in Command grew tired of hearing himself tell the same corny jokes out loud and demanded a second seat be installed for comic relief. It was only natural to bring along the guy that new almost as much about the airplane since he was out preflighting and making sure the Captains name was painted crisply and legibly under his window. Oh, and if the paint was chipped… There would be hell to pay.
So, a second seat was mounted but had no actual controls. It was there simply to hold a warm body. And to balance the airplane, of course. (As planes got longer, flight attendants were also added for this reason.)
In time, as aircraft reliability increased, naturally the First Officers abilities improved as the bar for excellence was lowered. A natural medium was found balancing the skills of the cockpit crew. A give and take relationship has developed where the copilot is there to ensure the Captains ego isn’t damaged by laughing at his jokes and ensuring the flight is operated safely so no paperwork has to be filled out.
They are essential flight deck officers who may be replaced by Siri now that we can use our portable electronic devices through all phases of flight.
I’m just not sure an Iphone can run the checklist so I can concentrate on what I will say to Letterman or Anderson Cooper in the event of an unlikely water landing.
Posted on January 18, 2014
What You Should Not Ask Your Flight Crew
We obviously spend lots of time around the humans. We are in the service industry after all. Day in and day out we spend our time carrying you, your loved ones, your bags and your ‘service animals’ from here to there with ease. We do this with a smile on our face. Not because we get paid exorbitant amounts of money to do so but because we love it. It’s in our blood. Even though the means of travel have changed, the drivers and their staff have stayed the same.
“All aboard!” I shout from the cockpit window up to the terminal waving my Captain’s hat through the morning fog while confirming the departure time on my gold pocket watch. Children watch with their noses to the window wondering what far off land I will be steering this magical flying machine to. My passengers are waving from their windows as we sail away. Except for the ones in steerage. They are angry.
But while times have changed, I wonder if the passengers have remained the same? Did they make small talk with the ship Captain before they set sail while he was busy doing what ever those guys did back then? If the train conductor was walking through the cars stretching his legs at the end of a long day on the rails was he bothered with small talk from the humans?
“So, what is your route?” They may ask him.
“To and fro.” He’d say. “To and fro.”
The “what is your route” question is the most common one you can ask. I’m sure there is a bit of intrigue to our lifestyle but this question lacks in all originality. I lie every time I’m asked this one. Unless the questioner is a nun. To them I always tell the god’s honest truth. “It will be very bumpy and there is always a chance something could go very wrong.”
But if you were to ask, “Of the places you go which is your favorite?” I’d give you a full answer. Unless I’m eating at the one table that is very far from anyone else.
“That’s a great question. I’m so glad you asked. It’s not what you would think really. We may spend the night in what sounds like a great destination but may be stuck in a nasty hotel with no entertainment options nearby. Conversely, we may stay somewhere you’d never expect would be fun but we have lots of time with plenty to do. But, to tell you the truth. Most of the time we stay in the hotelville next to the airport that looks like every other hotelville. A few American chain restaurants and a couple of big box stores. All I really care about anymore are lobby waffles… and good shower pressure.”
Another good one.
“My neighbor has a sister who is a pilot. Do you know a lady named Mary? She has dark hair.”
Often, if I even entertain this question, it turns out Mary neither works for the same airline or even is an airline pilot. For these questions I find it best to answer something else. “Yeah, I think gate 35 is down there. That flight cancelled though.”
I walk away when someone starts a conversation with, “So, I just watched the movie Flight.”
Don’t get me started with the number of times I’ve heard, “But you wear glasses?”
Luckily, this one doesn’t come up anymore, “Are you old enough to fly this plane?”
Don’t make any jokes about booze.
Flight attendants take it personally when you suggest they look tired and you ask if they’ve had a long day.
And unless you are engineer who has worked on aircraft design, are a meteorologist or have been to space I’m not going to talk “shop” with you.
I like talking to people. I really do. This is why I choose to fly for a passenger airline instead of a cargo one. I enjoy interacting with all types of travelers in the airport. Even when times are tough. Especially when times are tough. It’s the passengers that ask questions just for the sake of talking. The ones that don’t really want to have a conversation they just don’t want to be alone. Those are the ones I test my phone volume around so it sounds like its ringing.
If you have an honest question, ask away.
Just don’t call me ‘Skipper.”
Posted on November 8, 2013
Living in Hotels – It’s Us or The Bedbugs
I spend about ten nights a month in hotels. I’ve been doing this job for fourteen years. I’ve slept (or attempted to sleep) in a hotel bed roughly 1700 times since then. I’ve learned a few things about survival along the way. I’ve not caught any nasty infections, have maintained a relatively healthy immune system, and have woken up most mornings rash-free. How do you stay so healthy while galavanting around that petri dish, you may ask? Very carefully.
I have a fine-tuned hotel regimen that I will now offer you so that you too can wake up looking like the happy and well-rested humans on the poster in the elevator. “Good Day? No, Great Day!”
First off… Everything is Hazmat. Every time your skin touches anything that didn’t come from the airlock chamber that you call your suitcase needs to be sanitized immediately. And remember to respect that airlock and treat it as the clean room that it is. It is your only fortress of solitude in the battle between you and the microscopic threats that are everywhere. Don’t put it on the bed or anything else that probably is infested with bedbugs. I bring bungee cords and suspend my luggage from the shower curtain rod. I coat the cords with hand sanitizer after pulling them from their home in the jar of rubbing alcohol. Most mornings there is a pile of dead bacteria directly underneath. I snuff out the barely alive ones with my shower shoes.
Yes, shower shoes… Always wear shower shoes! They aren’t just for the shower. They are your best friend soldier. Anytime you march along that war zone they call ‘vacuum annual carpet’ make sure you lace up your boots. One morning you will wake up and feel a pile of goo where your foot once was and regret that you loaned your shower shoes to that hobo in the last campaign.
Never touch the alarm clock, TV remote or phone with your bare hands. Strike that. Never touch anything with your bare hands. You know where your hands have been but you have no idea where the hands of the thousands of other vagabonds who have used those things have been. And most humans have two of them so you need to be especially cautious. After sanitizing my body upon entering the room I wrap my hands and forearms in garbage bags and rubber band them off at the wrist and elbow. For the entire evening, I interact with the world through this glorious layer of plastic. Resist the urge to touch you face and dear lord don’t eat anything. Once the outer layer has been compromised it can only be used on tainted surfaces. Don’t touch your toothbrush or cell phone. Don’t fiddle with your Ipad. All those are off-limits now. And for goodness sake, don’t touch your face!
A common question I get is how to eat in such a virus-laden wasteland. It’s a tough one. I’m not gonna sugarcoat this one. The microwave is off limits because I’ve known too many people who’ve dried their socks and undergarments (you know who you are) in the microwave so your only option is food from your safe place, your suitcase. Bring your own utensils, too. Avoid the urge to eat food dropped on the floor or mattress. Leave the three-second rule at the front desk when you check-in. Remove your garbage bag protection, disinfect your hands, and eat quickly without touching anything. If the TV is on and the show ends, suck it up and watch Two and Half Men until you are done.
A common misconception is that it is safe to remove your shower shoes in the shower. Wrong. Your body’s immune system is no match to the layer of filth that has evolved along the bottom of that porcelain deathtrap. Even shower shoes aren’t enough. Tiny monsters with foot fetishes can easily scale the inch of plastic that separates you from instant toe fungus. I soak several bath towels in Lysol concentrate and line the shower floor with them. I use the pine-scented variation because I like it when my feet smell like a forest afterward.
And back to bedbugs. There is nothing you can do about them. They are everywhere. You will get them. You will itch. You will wake up with bites and take them home to your family. It’s a gift from the road. A free gift that you will be reminded of every time you look at your once supple but now pockmarked skin. It’s your badge of honor or your Scarlet Letter depending on which side of your bedbug-infested bed you woke up on.
Using these tips I’m sure you can enjoy your stay in hotels like I do and make it the home away from home you deserve. Word of advice though. If you’re watching TV and a news program airs about hotel cleanliness it’s best to turn it off quickly. Be sure to turn it off before they get to the part about TV remotes. When they shine the black lights on that germ magnet it illuminates like a lightsaber. You’ll be using your Pinesol-smelling big toe to unplug the TV from the wall.
Also, get rid of the bedspread. That thing is a garnish that gets washed annually.
Posted on October 28, 2013
I Fear My Son Will Think I Don’t Read
I fear my son will think I don’t read… or listen to music… or vacuum since that task has been assigned to the robot.
It’s been years since I bought a physical book and I can count the number of physical CD’s I’ve purchased in the last decade. I have neither of these things lying around as conversation starters for him to ask about. That being said, I read on my Kindle every day and spend hours around the house with my iPod and at least one earbud jammed in my skull.
For all he knows though, I’m watching My Little Pony on the tablet or doing “the letter game” since that’s what a tablet is used for in his world. And for physical copies of music, I listen to vinyl with him since he likes to watch the turntable spin around. He probably thinks the evolution of media is from cassette to CD and then on to vinyl. I’m sure he assumes the retro Fisher Price turntable Target sells was just recently invented too.
I’ve wondered how his world will be different as we’ve moved to digital media.
We don’t have cable so he doesn’t know about channels nor does he have any concept of having to wait for his show to start. He chooses the programs he wants to watch on Netflix by pointing to the TV and saying “That one, Please” while we select it with the clicker (we don’t call it clicker). It starts immediately.
He doesn’t know what commercials are and has yet to be programmed to want a particular toy for that reason (See This Great Old Blog Post I Wrote About This). The only thing we watch that isn’t streaming is the “News” at 6:30. “It’s your turn?” He will ask. “Are you going to watch the NEWS?”
Since it’s an over-the-air digital broadcast it gets pixelated when it rains unlike the streaming HD he is used to. He must assume we are so old-fashioned with our fuzzy screens and non-voice-activated clickers.
I’m thinking about buying up some of the cardboard books they have on display at IKEA to show off their bookshelves so at least we can have a lesson on the printing press.
“You can keep the shelves, I’ve got plenty of empty ones at home. How much for the cardboard books?”
Better yet, maybe I’ll buy bookshelf wallpaper.
Posted on September 5, 2013
But They Do Have Free Breakfast
When I was a young airline pilot and new to ‘the road’ I ranked hotels by their proximity to good food and entertainment. Now, I judge hotels on two things: internet speed and shower pressure.
Oh, and free breakfast.
I’m not even a breakfast guy. But when it’s free – I’m a kid in a carb-filled candy store. I pirouette around the kids begging their parents for another ‘home-made’ waffle with my tray of stale bagels, English muffins and knock-off Cheerios (Crunchy O’s, for the record). I feel like a malnourished Fred Astaire with a bowl of generic biscuits and gravy dancing to CNN Headline News.
Some hotel meals are better than others. Some are simply offering something so they can entice the road warriors. This way they can add another checkmark on Hotels.com along with “In-room safe” and “Fitness Room”.
I stayed at a hotel once that had a bagged loaf of bread next to a toaster with a tub of butter and a communal jar of jelly by its side. Jelly is so much more filling when a knife full has bread crumbs and chunks of butter from the last freeloader mixed in. But hey, it was free and I passed the solitary knife to the pilot to my left when I was done and recognized the Stockholm Syndrome look in his eyes. I said, “Here you go Patty Hearst.”
People who aren’t in the industry always assume our life is like a vacation won on Price Is Right. “Oh, you’re going to Chicago?! You need to go downtown and have a pizza at Gino’s East and then take a stroll down the famed Magnificent Mile.”
Let me tell you what that involves. First of all… we often don’t have that much time. Often twelve hours in the hotel in which some of that should be for legitimate rest. So let’s say four hours in the hotel. Subtract getting ready in the morning and washing the funk from the airplane off you when you get to the room. Two hours remain. We typically stay near the airport which is rarely near anything unique to that city. So now it’s a cab ride for this pizza… a roundtrip cab ride that’s thirty minutes each way. We’re looking at a fifty dollar pizza that has to be sucked down so you can get back to the hotel in order to wake up early enough to enjoy free breakfast in the morning.
Typically dinner is at another American chain restaurant that is within walking distance to the hotel. And regardless what State we are in, we can look out the window of that restaurant and see a Bed Bath and Beyond, a Walmart or a Home Depot. “Anytown USA”. These restaurantvilles are the evolution of the truck stop. And before that they were the saloons the Pony Express riders would stop in to share stories from the road.
“Oh, you’re riding west through the Nebraska Territory? Don’t stop in Omaha. They don’t have free breakfast.”
Posted on July 24, 2013
Though We May Not Share Blood
Since his birth in 2010, I’ve wondered when we would start seeing our traits in him. Without the blood bond biological children share with their parents I’ve been anxious to see us in him in ways that must be distinctly learned. Along those lines, I’ve also been anxious to uncover the surprises we will find as he matures. Will there be a gait, posture, or curiosity that is neither mom nor dad but then seconds later a stance or pose that is uniquely us? Like me, will he look foolish when he dances? When he says “Okedokee” will I hear my Nana?
One of my favorite scenes in the movie Jaws is when Captain Brody is sitting at the table with his young son stewing over how best to save Amity Beach from the killer shark. Lost in his thoughts he takes a drink from his glass and looks up to see his son do the same. Quietly, he continues with a few hand movements and watches his son mimic him. It’s a silent game of Simon Says at the dining room table between father and son.
I had my first game of Simon Says with the child this weekend while spending a few days in the Shenandoah Mountains with the family at a friend’s cabin. Breakfast one morning, the boy was eating Cheerios on a TV tray in the living room. I poured myself a bowl and took it outside to eat on the porch overlooking the woods. Silently, he left his spot and brought his bowl outside to eat, standing up and looking out over the mountains with me.
In his world, it must have been such a grown-up thing to do. Eat outside. Barefoot. While standing up!
In my world, my son was a spitting image of me. Barefoot with bedhead and not a care in the world.
That’s my boy.
Posted on July 24, 2013
Why it is Imperative you Land a Pilot
This article was floating around Facebook today explaining why it is imperative you land a pilot. 6 reasons to be exact. Since I am a pilot, I figured I’d explain my reasoning why scoring a Jet Captain should be on your to-do list. While you may find a man irresistible who gets paid to strap himself to a hurtling piece of metal for a living think about this: that same man safely brings that metal back down to Earth while dodging birds, kites, and the occasional errant birthday party balloon. How sexy it must be to imagine him in the cockpit driving the airplane to the gate as quickly and safely as possible because he needs to use the restroom after pounding coffee for the last few hours. Even though these notions are enticing enough, let me tell you other down-to-earth reasons why dating a pilot is a real treat. And if you’re so lucky to marry one, I’ll tell you the secrets you have in store for you. I should know. I am a pilot.
If you’re into jet setting.
Being with a pilot means you get bootstrapped to your throttle jockey’s pass privileges. This is not automatic though. He may already have his drinking buddy listed as his ‘domestic partner’ so they can take free trips down to the islands or Vegas together. Once you’ve proven your worth though, imagine traveling for nearly free as long as there are seats available on the flight you are hoping to climb aboard during peak traveling season when everyone else is willing to pay to get there. You can look forward to off-season trips to cold beaches and icy ski slopes. And while travel is cheap you aren’t afforded any extra privileges in the TSA line so if you get bumped from the flight because there is no room for your cheap ass you can go home with the memory of being harassed and possibly manhandled by a security agent – for free!
Built-in breaks.
As much as you may love your man it’s nice to spend some time apart. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, as they say. If your pilot is junior in the airline you can look forward to him being away even more often giving you even more time to watch bad tv alone on the couch. And because he is junior you can look forward to Wednesday night date night because he will be working weekends and only be home a few days during the week. If you have a normal nine-to-five job you will enjoy many weekends out with your girlfriends telling them about how awesome your new man is. Practice this speech because you will be telling it again at all major holiday gatherings until your flyboy is seasoned enough in the airline to hold a decent schedule.
Conquer your fear of flying. Was your grandmother surprised when you told her you were dating an aviator? Did she remind you of your fear of flying and the time you peed on yourself when you were a little girl? Well, any fears you may have had will be as easy as a bedtime story when he comes home and tells you about his day. If he brings another winged warrior over and they have a few beers then you’d better leave the room and start packing depends before you fly. Your fears will be realized when he casually tells you about the near misses, low fuel warnings and the time he volunteered to be the ‘pathfinder’ through the storms just because he wanted to get to the hotel before the restaurant closed.
Everyone likes a man in uniform.
And who doesn’t love a veteran pilot in a season uniform? You’ve enjoyed a four-day break from your Jet Driver while he’s been out dodging storms, avoiding calamity, and spilling coffee on himself. You can’t wait for him to come home. Imagine the love you will feel when you see him walking from the car looking fine in his stripes. He’s been gone for four days and to avoid overloading his suitcase with extra bulk he’s packed just one uniform. The one he is wearing… the same one he left wearing four days ago. Maybe he spent a few extra hours in the sun waiting for a late hotel van or a little extra time in the rain kicking the tires of his jet. He’s not just your pilot. He’s your road warrior. And he has the smells of the road to prove it.
Free stuff Your man will bring you all kinds of gifts from the road. You will never want for little bars of soap, shampoo and if he is really cheap – really bad toilet paper. Your bookshelf and magazine rack will be stocked full of gossip magazines and bad fiction. Your couch throws will be thin airline blankets and your pantry will be full of snack mix and V8. You will never have to go to the Dollar Store again! And you thought you had it made with the last nine-to-five guy you dated. His free pens and office supplies don’t stand a chance next to the bad wine mini bottles he will pull out of his flight bag.
As an airline pilot, I can assuredly say that my wife made the best decision of her life when she chose me. She’s a lucky lady and repays me with endless bottles of sunscreen to keep my weathered skin healthy and kicking for many years in the sun to come.
Posted on June 20, 2013
You Say You Want A Revolution?
There will certainly be a time in our son’s life where he will think he is cooler than us and rebel against the way we chose to raise him. He will be on his way to becoming a Jedi of his own. In an attempt to limit the damage to his ego and curb his embarrassment when he realizes he is, and will always be, less cool than his parents, I will attempt now to predict the ways in which he will play in opposition to our interests. This way, how can it be his revolution if I called it first?
Note, on this day in 2013, I predicted he would go through these phases and also predicted they wouldn’t last long.
-Dad. I’m really digging this new band. Actually… The whole genre. I’m really into Christian Rock now.
-Dad. I like wearing white tank tops because they really show off my gold chains.
-Dad. I know you like watching Seinfeld but that show is thirty years old. Can I please turn on Sports Center?
-Dad. I can’t believe you were around when The Fast and Furious movies had their theatrical debut and you didn’t go see any on the big screen.
-Dad. Can we get something really messy for dinner tonight? Like really wet barbeque ribs? I really like finger-licking food now.
-Dad. I don’t need to know what their voting record is or what their values are… They are Republican and that is all I need to know.
-Dad. It was just a few beers. I really like the taste of High Life.
-Dad. I don’t know what your problem is. Everyone jaywalks.
-Dad. I thought you’d like the lights under my car. It’s retro. Like the cool kids did to their cars back in your day.
-Dad. It clearly says we have the right to bear arms.
-Dad. Sometimes (Unintelligible sound of talking with a mouth full) you and mom (unintelligible sound of talking with a mouth full) that first year. (Said while talking with a mouth full.)
-Dad. I think I just read my last book. I’ve pretty much learned all that I need to know.
-Dad. We’ve had this conversation before… Pink Floyd sucks.
-Dad. I don’t have a problem with it. If I’m not doing anything wrong I have nothing to hide from the Government.
-Dad. I really hate video games… And Star Wars… And airplanes.
Posted on June 12, 2013
It Puts the Lotion on the Skin or Possible Parenting Fail.
For a few years now (well, specifically since January 2010), I’ve been quoting a particular scene from a particular horror movie during a particular time in the post-bath pre-story time portion of my son’s evening. I realized today this could come back to haunt him in two possible ways.
One… asylum.
Two… a perfect flashback during retro movie night when he is in college, surrounded by his friends and peers.
It’s the year 2030, and someone in his dorm bought a VHS player from a yard sale. Naturally, this is a perfect reason for a party. Retro movie night posters go up. Of course, they also have to buy an old TV because certainly no sets have coax inputs anymore.
They search around the library and call on grandparents, looking for something to watch on this antique machine. Someone finds an 8-track cassette tape and shoves it in, almost breaking it. They find a copy of “Silence of the Lambs” still in the box.
“It’s cool to see a picture of the movie before you watch it.”
“The tracking lines are so charming.”
“How could people watch movies like this?”
They get to the Buffalo Bill scene in which he says, “It rubs the lotion on its skin.”
And my son goes silent. Like a lamb.
“Skip back to that part,” he says.
“I don’t think you can skip back with VHS,” his girlfriend says.
“I think it’s called rewind,” a friend says. “Like those red t-shirts that say ‘Be Kind – Rewind.'”
“I hate those shirts,” his girlfriend says, watching my son turn a little ashen.
“I recognize that line from somewhere. We need to play it again.”
When they figure out how to rewind… he figures out where he heard it.
“My dad used to say that to me when he lotioned me up before bed when I was three.”
“Your dad is a twisted man,” says his girlfriend.
And then, when Buffalo Bill starts dancing around the room in a lady’s robe, my son says, “Yep, seen this before too.”
Posted on April 7, 2013
Automated Chicken Coop 2.0 – Off the Grid
Years back, when my wife said she wanted chickens, I agreed as long as I could build the coop. Actually, I said no for years and finally caved when I started lurking in the dark corners of the internet and learned about automated chicken coops. I’ve always spent time in the dark corners of the internet; I just didn’t know there were chicken enthusiasts there. Now that we’re being honest, I should have caved long ago. My wife was right about how much fun being a chicken farmer is. Storks make good chicken farmers. Who knew?
Okay. Automated chicken coop? During the day, the hens are free to run around their enclosed space, but at night, they hang out in their coop—their safe house where they are protected from elements and predators like foxes, rodents, and shirtless neighbors.
For the record, our friend was checking in on the hens while we were away in the above picture. Except, we were no longer away, and a few days of confusion ensued as we queried the neighbors about the identity of the shirtless man in high-waisted pants.
Back to the chickens. What’s amazing is they go up into their coop naturally. The first day we put them outside, they went upstairs on their own at sunset. I figured you would at least need to train them a little with a water gun and some candy corn. Nope. Sun goes down, and they’re ready for bed. Last call. Lights out. Goodnight John-Boy. Goodnight Jim-Bob.
To keep the bad guys out, it’s nice to have a door that shuts behind them. Those dark corners of the internet are filled with ideas on how to solve this simple feat. Sun goes down = door closes. Sun goes up = door opens. How hard is that? One farmer has an entire Rube Goldberg setup with a timer on his garden hose that opens a valve in the morning to fill a hanging bucket of water that pulls down the door as it fills. A second timer at night does the same to another bucket that then closes the door.
I was looking for something a little less wet. Plenty of people talk about a drapery motor that people use in the house to automatically open and close mini blinds. It’s a simple pulley that is on a timer that can be placed in the coop to operate on the same principle as the bucket method.
The motor has become so popular in chicken coops since I bought ours a few years ago that the company now sells a modified version of it specifically for coops. Rather than a pulley, this one is more like a fishing reel that winds or unwinds a cable attached to the door.
So, we’ve had this up and running beautifully and have only had a few hiccups during the occasional power surge to the house AC power supply. The door motor reverses direction whenever power is sent to the device. Ideally, at sunrise and sunset per the timer, but after a power failure to the house, when power is restored, the motor would trigger and the door would close at noon if that is when the power returned.
Worse yet, the door would now open at sunset plus the time difference the power was out. Say, sunset plus 30 minutes. And then close at sunrise plus 30 minutes!
Chickens don’t like being locked up all day and are ready to fly the coop.
To avoid this issue and ensure happy chickens and healthy eggs, I searched around those dark corners again for a battery/solar power option: 12V DC motor attached to a 12V DC timer attached to a 12V DC battery attached to a 12V DC solar panel. The timer has a digital battery level display plus an override to manually run the door off cycle. For the time being, a visual indicator shows coop door position from the house or webcam, but Automated Chicken Coop 3.0 will have a magnetic reed switch on the door, which will send a signal to a Raspberry Pi computer that will push the door position to a website.
The chickens, on the other hand, are much more analog. They send out an old-school tweet of sorts when they lay an egg. Maybe it’s more of a cluck.
Posted on March 21, 2013
We Tried to Sell Our College
It’s been twenty years since I was a college student, and I returned this past weekend as an alumnus to preach the airline life. These kids on campus now are just that—kids! Many were born after I started college. Not only could I be their father, but I could also be the father to their older siblings.
While on campus, I was naturally hit with a flood of memories.
One great memory revolved around my graduation in 1996.
Let me start by saying this: I almost didn’t walk that year. In my last semester, I only had two classes to take, and they were both scheduled for the same time. I asked one professor if I could audit the class and just come in for the tests. “Sure,” he said.
I asked the same of the other professor.
“Of course.”
Needless to say, I didn’t do very well in either class.
Jump to graduation. With just a few weeks to go in my college career, a friend and fraternity brother asked if I wanted to be the Senior Class President. He was the Student Government President and told me the previous position holder was just kicked out of school, leaving a vacancy.
“Nope,” I said. “But thanks.”
“You get to make a speech at graduation,” he offered.
“Sold! Where do I sign?”
“You also have to present a gift from your class during the speech.”
“What’s the gift?” I asked.
“You have two weeks,” he said. “The previous president never secured one.”
So with a few weeks to go, I called the owner of a trophy factory in Tampa that I used to work at and asked if he could make me a plaque that read, “Donated by the class of 1996.”
It would be on its way in a few days.
Back to the two classes I was auditing.
If my memory serves me well, I wasn’t going to pass one of them, and my graduation would be postponed.
I explained to the professor that I was to speak at graduation, and the programs had already been printed. “Are they going to have to reprint all those programs at great expense?”
He gave me a passing grade. He was an economics professor.
A few days before graduation, an art student friend of mine and partner in crime said he uncovered a 100-foot roll of fabric in the art studio and thought we should do something with it. Along with two other partners in crime (whose names will all remain private), we decided the best thing to do would be to make a huge “For Sale” sign and hang it from the iconic Main Hall on the day of our graduation.
Naturally.
And now the planning began.
How to reveal it?
Wires and cables… timed explosives.
One of the foursome, who I will call Beaver, figured the best way was the simplest.
“We walk up the steps and unroll it,” Beaver said.
“And won’t they see us?” the man known here as Milo offered.
“We will walk up in our graduation gowns,” Beaver said. “And then on the way down, we will take them off, telling anyone who asks that a few guys in cap and gowns did it.”
Naturally.
And that is exactly what we did.
And about the gift?
I presented the plaque that read, “Donated by the class of 1996” to the college president and suggested they put it in front of a building, tree, park bench… or whatever, really.
While at the mic, I asked the president, “Since I came all this way, could I say a few more things?”
“Of course, Mr. Stork.”
Who really knows what I said. I was reading a lot of Vonnegut at the time, so I may have said something about enjoying every sandwich. But I do remember reading a few lines from Dr. Seuss and then wishing the faculty good luck during the sale.
Posted on February 5, 2013
Thomas the Tank Engine in “Just Say No to Drones”
It was a bright and sunny day on the island of Sodor, and all the trains were running on time except for one. Thomas the Tank Engine sat with his big engine idling and burning fuel at Sodor Station, waiting for a return call from crew scheduling.
“What is it this time?” asked the gate agent.
Usually, she was nice and friendly with a big smile, but today she looked cross, and her smile was an angry frown. “We have a schedule to keep, and now your passengers will be late for their connections.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Thomas, attempting a reassuring smile. “I’ve called crew scheduling to see where my conductor is, and now all I can do is wait for them to call back. They are short-staffed as usual and probably having a hard time finding someone who is on call.”
This news didn’t turn her frown around at all. If anything, Thomas noticed maybe the frown got even deeper. “Why do you need a conductor anyway?” she asked. “Can’t you drive yourself – autonomously?”
“Autonomously” wasn’t a word he was used to. “If you’re suggesting that I can drive without a conductor,” Thomas asked, “then yes, I can. I can drive even better than the conductor. I can drive for longer periods of time. I don’t need to take breaks. I’m not even governed by the same rest requirements the conductor needs.”
“Then why do we have to wait for one?” asked the gate agent. “If you can do all these things by yourself.”
“Because of regulations,” answered Thomas. “Because of regulations.”
“Well,” said the gate agent, “I guess we wait.”
Thomas sat with his big engine idling and thought about how silly it was that he had to wait for a conductor to drive him, seeing as he was perfectly capable of doing the job just fine without one. He thought that maybe just one little trip around the island of Sodor without a conductor at the wheel wouldn’t hurt anyone. Maybe he could take one trip on his own and prove to Sir Topham Hatt that a conductor wasn’t needed. This would save lots of money, and he knew the bosses liked to save money.
“Peep Peep,” Thomas said with his horn. “Peep Peep,” he said again.
Normally, the peeping was something the conductor did to signal to the gate agent that it was time to board, but there was no conductor on board, and he did it all by himself.
“Off to a good start,” thought Thomas. “Off to a very good start.”
And like that, the passengers began boarding the train.
“I just need you to sign the manifest,” said the gate agent to Thomas when the boarding was complete.
“Well, I don’t know how I can do that,” answered Thomas. “I’m not sure how I can sign anything, really. Maybe you can sign it for me? Just this one time.”
“Okay, Thomas,” said the gate agent as she signed “Thomas the Tank Engine” on the manifest and closed the door to the passenger compartment. “Have a nice drive.”
“What a lovely day for a train ride,” thought Thomas as he began his first-ever solo trip around the island. He had been on this track so many times, but it never felt like this before. He felt like he was king of the world and even began humming to himself. He must have been lost in his own thoughts because he didn’t hear the weather report come over the radio. Had he been listening, he would have heard that there was a big storm ahead and all the trains were diverting to another track.
The sky grew dark, and Thomas started getting knocked around by downdrafts. “I’m not sure what to do,” thought Thomas. “I’ve never had to make a decision like this before. I wonder what the conductor would do?”
But there was no conductor on board, and Thomas had no choice but to keep going straight towards the storm.
The train began shaking violently, but it wasn’t the passengers screaming in the back that scared him. It was that he was the only train on the track. Driving alone in a storm was something he had never done before, and he had never felt so alone.
Soon, Thomas heard a voice come over the radio. It was the conductor assigned to his trip. “Thomas! What are you doing out there alone?” the conductor yelled. “The storm is even worse ahead, and you need to turn around quickly.”
“Okay, conductor. I will do that. Tell me how,” said Thomas.
“I will turn the tracks ahead, and you will be on your way to the roundhouse. Unhook your cars behind you, and you will be able to turn around and then push your passengers to safety.”
“Thank you, conductor,” said Thomas. “Thank you. I guess I should never have driven the train alone. I will not do that again.”
“It’s okay, Thomas. Just get back to the station and unload your passengers,” the conductor said. “We will talk about this later.”
For the whole drive home, Thomas was behind the train pushing his passengers back to Sodor Station. He had no choice but to look into the compartment and see all the scared people looking back at him. He knew he had done something wrong and realized that he wasn’t smarter than the humans. He guessed that is why they need so much rest, so they can keep their brains and bodies sharp and alert, making the tough decisions that trains can’t make on their own. “Even though the conductor costs more money,” he thought, “I hope the regulations don’t change and make me drive alone again anytime soon.”
Posted on January 31, 2013
Being a Pilot is Ruining Me
I’m not gonna go into all the obvious hazards of flying likes skin cancer, alcoholism, divorce and controlled flight into terrain. Those have been covered before. It’s the day to day stuff that is killing me. It’s not the job… it’s the lifestyle.
Although I may only fly a few hours a day, if I am away from home, I am working. I am working even when I am sitting in a hotel bed flipping through the channels with an ice bucket bag over the remote so my fingers don’t have to touch it. I am working when I am wandering around an airport not getting paid looking for a place to hide from passengers so I can read without getting hassled about where to buy a neck pillow or pick up luggage. I am also working when I’m risking life and limb in the back of a hotel van with a driver too old to operate a toaster oven – especially when the kitchen floor is iced over.
Since the career I have chosen for myself is a lifestyle and so much a part of my life, it has affected me in ways that I’m certain most other careers don’t affect their human resources. In many ways, it is ruining me. Our monthly schedules are produced a few weeks in advance and will tell me when I work and where I am to go. Our “trips” can be between one and four days long depending on your preference and how senior you are. These trips all start and finish at various times throughout the month as well as during the trip itself. For example, during a month period I may work 3 four day trips with two starting at sunrise each day and one with the first departure during Wheel of Fortune.
The last time I had an alarm clock set for the same time every day of the week was high school. The last time I ate with any regularity was college. Think about what that does to your body. Coffee breaks happen on all sides of the clock and I have a white noise generator on my phone that is supposed to help me fall asleep at sunset. Ever hear the one about the insomniac dyslexic atheist? He spent all night disproving the existence of dog.
There is one basic rule in flying. Always have a plan B. For a variety of reasons, plan A doesn’t always work out and it’s nice to know ahead of time what your options are going to be before you need to make that decision. A pretty big one revolves around fuel and where to find it when you need it and how to save it just case you can’t get to more. After two decades of training… my mind starts to race a little when my fuel gauge gets close to empty – in my car! I can’t focus on anything else other than what’s my long range fuel plan, where is the nearest gas station and is said gas station downhill in case I need to coast in?
I take the job pretty seriously and don’t consider being late to work an option. Although I often joke to the humans in the TSA line, “Don’t worry, the plane waits for me”, I get a little anxious when I’m running behind. My only other jobs have been in radio and television where the show has to go on and tardiness isn’t an option either. Therefor, I’m a pretty punctual individual. Not only that, our schedules in the airlines are predetermined down to the minute and seconds count. Outside of work, I’m a down to the second kind of guy. If I call with an E.T.A, I may be seven and a half minutes away. When your work is time based – your life becomes time based.
Although the idea of travel sounds glamorous and romantic… most of the time our accommodations on the road are in hotel-ville near the airport. These modern wagon trail towns are all the same and have about as much personality as a spaghetti strainer. There will be an Applebee’s. There will be a T.G.I.Fridays. There will be a big box store. “Oh you’re gonna be in (insert any town – anywhere)? You must go eat at (insert any restaurant – anywhere).”
A good trip has a home depot nearby where I can wander around and read the books in their ‘library’. Also, nice if the hotel has good shower pressure. There was a time when I wanted a good bar nearby. These days I like fast internet and strong shower pressure. Ruining me!
Now that being said, I’m not sure I could put up with any other professions. I’m sure each has their hazards just as troubling. I’ll update my resume to say I’m a well bathed, punctual insomniac who is paranoid about running out of gas.
Posted on December 5, 2012
2013 resolutions. The cockpit will be a happier place.
As the new year approaches it’s time to evaluate accomplishments from the past year and set goals for the next. While I succeed each year with many of my Xbox-related achievements, I think 2013 will be more about work and what I bring to the cockpit.
Across the aviation industry, morale is low and tempers are quick to flare. In order to ease relationships between us, the flight crews, and our liaisons in the company, dispatchers, I resolve to do what I can to ease the tension.
One of my 2013 New years resolutions is going to be to send all ACARS messages from the cockpit to dispatch as a haiku.
Weather has gone down
Fuel burning onto reserves
Round and round we hold
Before social media, hidden panels in the cockpit were our Twitter. Still, those panels are a private place where people anonymously gossip about coworkers and spread rumors.
In 2013, I Intended to erase all the graffiti on the flight deck and replace the negative passages was positive messages.
Something like, ”There is a pretty good chance a kid is back in the cabin who thinks you are awesome.”
Another resolution. I know what you’re saying, “Three! Don’t set the bar too high.”
Although the manual is pretty specific on verbiage during checklists it leaves a little flexibility on other cockpit chatter. During those areas of flight, I’m going to replace those calls with movie quotes. In 2013, rather than asking my first officers to ”start engine one” I’m gonna ask them to ”Roll on one” Green Mile style.
And when I brief the crew before a trip as to what to expect over the next few days I’m gonna summon my best William Wallace, “Now tell me, what does that mean to be noble? Your title gives you claim to the throne of our country, but men don’t follow titles, they follow courage. Now our people know you. Noble, and common, they respect you. And if you would just lead them to freedom, they’d follow you. And so would I”
May not be the most productive 2013 but I hope to at least keep myself entertained.
Posted on October 31, 2012
Yes, Here Comes the Story of the Hurricane
In Florida, before man made global climate change, we had hurricane drills in grade school. We’d learn where the best place to hide was and how to skin, cook and eat alligator. This was before the internet… and apparently before satellite radar. Didn’t they have advanced warning in the 80’s? Did we learn nothing from the Seminoles who we took the land from?
Why would we learn how to ride out a storm in school? We were either tougher then or the storms were less severe. Maybe by launching the satellites to better forecast the storms we upset the balance of nature making them more severe. Mother Nature said, “I’ll show you! You can have all of that down there but the attic is mine.”
Or maybe the storms are scarier because I am older with more responsibilities, a house to maintain, and a family to care for? When the winds were beginning to whip the trees around and the rain was coming down sideways, I wished I was the college kids next door who were undoubtedly drinking warm beer and celebrating no school. Warm beer? No, this was before the power went out… they haven’t had a working refrigerator for many months now. Ah to be that carefree again. We’d have to serve the toddler his yogurt on ice. “Your breakfast, sir. May I draw your bath?”
I admit, I was hesitant of the severity of the storm as it approached. The news seemed to be getting carried away with their predictions and getting way to excited about the potential doom and destruction. I have a hard time believing emotional journalists. Maybe they’ve cried wolf too many times or I remember the days when TV news warned you before the editorials.
We did buy supplies for the house and gas for the generator and cleared the yard of potential projectiles. And then we hunkered down as the first bands of wind hit.
Rain and wind and the power went out and we all slept on the first knowing that if a tree fell it would take out the upper reaches of the house first. Over the sound of the generator, I listened to the storm while the family slept. All night I was awake assuming the worst and waiting for a tree to crash into us. Again, adulthood? Years ago, I may have relished the adventure and maybe even hoped for a free skylight until the landlord came to fix the damage.
All in all, our damage was minimal. A leak in the kitchen that I thought I had fixed and a little water in the basement and no power. It could have been much worse and luckily we didn’t have to cook up any alligators.
Posted on October 9, 2012
Eight Years Ago We Wed – Since Then, I Became an Adult
For years now (more than a decade of them) a friend and I have been playing the “who’s the first to become an adult game”. It started in college and was simply a game that would define the moment when you became a man. You entered adulthood when you bought frames for your posters or purchased a box spring for your mattress were common life-changing events of the time. As we aged, those moments became more mature scenarios like drafting a will, buying life insurance or having your first hernia operation.
This summer when my wife and I took a trip abroad without our toddler I realized I had officially become a man. The moment I recognized I was helpless to the person whose life depended on me. Across the ocean and in capable hands he was safe and secure but still I appreciated at that moment what it means to have grown up.
Having someone depend on you and allowing yourself to feel absolutely responsible for their safety and security.
Eight years ago, I became a husband and was on the path to adulthood. Four years ago on a houseboat in Amsterdam eating some outstanding pastries during our “State of the Union” discussion we deliberated starting a family and my journey towards becoming a man grew a little more solid.
Now that I am fully committed to fatherhood I am complete and this self-realization would never have happened had it not been for my wife. Her giving me a family is the greatest gift I could have ever asked for. Even if the sacrifice is being convinced to grow up a little.
Thank you for helping me become the best person I can be.
Posted on September 15, 2012
It’s My Potty, You Can Cry If You Want To
“The rules are pretty simple: tell me when you have to go potty, and we will go potty. Got it?”
I say this at 8 a.m., feeling confident I’m gonna crank out potty training today. Boot camp style. Let’s do this.
I ask him again if he understands the rules.
“Yeah,” he says.
He says “yeah” to pretty much everything these days.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you wanna go to the moon?”
“Yeah.”
“Have any crazy dreams about cars, trucks, trains, or airplanes?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re gonna tell me when you have to go potty?”
“Yeah.”
And we’re off! And we’re diaper-less. He wouldn’t just go to the bathroom on the floor, would he? Isn’t it innate, like not eating things that look poisonous?
Let’s back up. I came to the battle prepared. I revised Rumsfeld’s strategy. I go to war with the army I have, the army I want, the army I’m glad I had at a later time.
My battlefield is set. Fresh batteries in the CARS™ toilet seat so the racing sounds it plays are clear and present. I’ve stockpiled my ammo. I’ve got lots of fresh water, fruit, and even M&M’s for rewards. I’ve purchased a box of Cheerios™ for target practice and cued up Patton’s speech for when I need to be reminded of the objective. Most importantly, I’ve got all the time in the world and an abundance of patience.
“You’ll let me know when you have to potty?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says again.
After an hour, we hit the latrine just in case.
We will do this on the hour, every hour, all day. During that time, never once does he tell me he has to potty.
Halfway through the day, I revise tactics. I bring out the big guns.
“If you go potty, I will give you some candy. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. Candy?”
“If you go potty, I will give you some candy,” I remind him.
“Candy! Candy! Off! I want off!” He’s referring to the CARS™ toilet seat. He pushes the button on the seat, sounding the horn.
“Candy?”
He tries to flush the toilet.
“Candy?”
Each of these he thinks is the candy dispenser. It’s becoming Pavlovian, but I think I’m the dog in this experiment.
“When you go potty.”
“I want off!” he demands.
“When you go potty,” I demand back.
We huddle on the seat and regroup for what feels like hours. He’s been on the seat so long I doubt he’ll be able to stand. I quote Lethal Weapon, but he doesn’t get it.
“Guys like you don’t die on toilets.”
By the end of the day, we’ve had a few successes and a few failures, but the endgame is clear. We’re not landing on an aircraft carrier declaring “Mission Accomplished” yet, but we’re on the right track.
“Our basic plan of operation is to advance and to keep on advancing regardless of whether we have to go over, under, or through the enemy. We are going to go through him like crap through a goose; like shit through a tin horn!”
Maybe Patton used Reese’s Pieces? Tomorrow, the bugle calls at Oh Six Hundred.
Posted on August 27, 2012
Folks, It will Be Yet Another Hour Before We Depart.
Some days, I actually do work. But it’s not the work you would assume. It’s not fighting nasty storms or battling wind shear down the final approach to an icy runway. It’s interacting with the passengers and assuring them that at some point, we will arrive at our destination.
I like that part of the job. To my flight attendant friends, I say this: “Yes, I know. When things get tough, I get to close the bulletproof cockpit door. Your job is way harder than ours!”
So, I only work a little bit, but it is the part of the job I really enjoy and the reason why I’ve never really been drawn to the world of cargo flying. They say, “Boxes don’t complain,” but it’s these types of fires I enjoy putting out.
Our 12:30 flight boarded on time yesterday, and we began our taxi, although I had a hunch we’d be delayed. Nothing official yet, I just had a hunch. We were off to Washington’s Reagan Airport, and both Baltimore and Washington Dulles-bound flights had been issued a delay. Our destination was between the two. Was there some weird weather or a weather force field erected over the nation’s capital?
Seconds before reaching the end of the runway for departure, they told us what we were expecting: “Update in an hour.”
We rode it out in the holding pad near the runway, and as the hour wait ended, they said, “Update in another hour.”
And back to the gate we go. At the conclusion of that hour, we were told once again, “Update in an hour.”
I mingled with the passengers and did my best to explain the weather pattern to those who were interested, how it affected arrivals, and the effect it would have on their connections. I went into the stages of thunderstorm development and described condensation nuclei.
A passenger told me I looked like a good pilot, but I assured her it was the crispness of my uniform that fooled her. “Don’t look at my shoes,” I suggested.
After five hours, it was time to go. The “update in an hour” became a departure time, and we boarded for Washington. Naturally, after beginning our taxi, we were given a reroute to avoid the weather that was now in our way. This was the same weather that had closed the airport.
A reroute means more fuel, which means another delay.
The new route doubled the distance between here and there. What was to be a 300-mile flight became a 650-mile trip.
Portland to Washington via Pittsburgh.
I told the passengers, “Well, thanks for your patience on the ground through our five-hour delay and now the extra minutes we will need to get more gas. By the way, our one-hour flight will now take two.” The sound of a crying baby penetrated the walls of the bulletproof cockpit door.
As I made the announcement about the new delay, I figured the passenger was rethinking her compliment. Maybe next time there is a weather delay, I will get my shoes shined.
Posted on July 18, 2012
I May Be A Jedi Now
In order to get into the Mumbai airport, you need a boarding pass. You must present this to the bearded man with the gun and the second gun in the holster around his waist. Several signs around this large man warn passengers not to approach him more than 2 hours before their departure time. “Passengers MAY not enter the airport before 2 hours of departure!”
We arrived an hour or so before this window of opportunity. We didn’t have a boarding pass because we were flying standby and needed to talk to a ticket agent to get the pass. It was a hundred degrees outside.
We waited our turn in line. We were next, and my wife yielded all dialogue to me. I approached the man and offered my typical friendly greeting. No response from him. Not even a hint of a smile.
“Boarding pass?” he barked.
“You see, we don’t have a boarding pass. We are traveling standby and have to get our boarding pass from inside,” I explained.
“Boarding pass?!” he barked again, louder this time.
I smiled and laughed. He sounded like Americans when a foreigner doesn’t understand them, so they just speak louder.
Again, I tried to explain, but he motioned us off to his superior, who had a bigger beard and a bigger gun.
I explained that we were traveling standby and showed him the paperwork we had. I then pulled out my ID and said, “We’re employees and traveling standby and need to get in to talk to an agent.”
“Employees?” he asked, looking at my ID. “Where is her ID?” he said, pointing to my wife.
And this was the coolest moment of my life. The coolest (actually, the only cool) thing I have ever said spontaneously.
“She doesn’t need an ID.” I can’t recall, but I hope I waved my hand in a Jedi-like manner when I said that.
Then he motioned us through. In the rush of the moment, I can’t say for certain, but I think he said, “She doesn’t need an ID,” as he did so.
Posted on June 28, 2012
To Goa With Love
With the luxury of non-revenue travel also comes the joy of spontaneous adventure. Our trip to India would begin with either a flight from Newark into Delhi or Mumbai. We had tentatively prepared an itinerary around Delhi being our entry point, but when that flight was full and we were able to score the last two seats on the outbound Mumbai flight, we had to rearrange things a bit.
The first task was to find a place to stay upon arriving at 9 PM after a 14-hour flight. She quickly booked a room on her iPhone in her middle seat two rows behind me before the order was given to turn off all electronic devices. Since we were the last to board and had bags to stow, this had to be done in minimal time. Although we received an auto-reply confirmation that the room was booked, we did not get confirmation that transportation would be waiting for us upon arrival. I was hoping for a man with a Stork sign. I see these guys every day but have never had the luxury myself. Since all we had was an address and no international data plan, we would be reliant on the prepaid taxi driver to get us to our destination.
We chose the hotel based on a Google Maps search for its proximity to the airport and the number of positive reviews it had on Hotels.com. All was set. Except our driver didn’t know where it was, as evidenced by his frequent stops to ask other drivers and his exaggerated hand gestures to his roster with the hotel name on it. Apparently, it wasn’t where the dispatcher at the airport said it was and was more than the quoted “prepaid” fee. We were lost on the streets of Mumbai, surrounded by traffic, congestion, and stifling heat.
Bumper-to-bumper traffic in India is exciting enough without a lost and angry taxi driver who appears to be close to kicking you out for underpayment.
From the backseat, we called AT&T and ordered some international data. We secured not only our location on Google Maps but also that of our destination and were able to direct our driver to the red pin on the map. “A few more blocks,” I’d say with no guarantee he understood me. What on the map was just a few miles took over an hour to reach.
Our first two nights in India were on Mumbai’s Juhu Beach at the Sun and Surf Hotel, which is apparently often frequented by Bollywood’s elite (or so Wikipedia says). I naturally assumed any handsome couple by the pool was said “elite”… just as they naturally assumed I was a rich American tech startup guru. Although not the most conveniently located for exploring by foot, it was easy to hire a driver to take us around, and he waited for us at each stop to show us our next destination.
After two days on the beach, we decided to research our next stop. Since Goa was an easy and affordable flight from Mumbai with lots of hotel options, we booked tickets on Jet Konnect for the next day. Goa has plenty of resort options during the peak season with beach and water sport activities, but we assumed those places would have limited offerings during monsoon season (now). To ensure we would be entertained, we found an inn in the heart of Goa’s capital city, Panaji. The inn is five generations owned and blocks from the market district. An open outdoor second-level dining patio, which according to the in-room guidebook, allows guests to “sit on old-style chairs and marble-top tables over a beer or local feni or sipping a juice, one can observe local town people go about their mundane chores. A little imagination—down memory lane to better times, to an old-fashioned world of chivalry—and you can envision youthful Romeos serenading comely damsels from below the balconies or perhaps almost hear the wistful lament of Portuguese Fado emerge from the shadows of twilight. A comfortable bed, good food and drink, an informal warmth, and friendly and caring staff soon make the Panaji Inn a romantic home away from home.”
The inn is amazing. Since it is off-season, we had our choice of any room for the same ‘basic deluxe’ price—roughly $40 USD a night. We are on the second floor with a balcony overlooking a courtyard with a day school behind it. Having no clock, we are awoken each morning by the school kids running down the alley to class.
On the first day, I asked a man down the street if it was going to rain today. He said it’s going to rain for the next four months.
As of today, we have been here for two days with plans to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. Although the forecast has called for “rain with spells of heavy rain,” we’ve had no trouble getting out, taking a tour of a spice plantation, visiting 16th-century churches, and shopping at the street vendors of Goa. We are off to talk to a friend we’ve made across the street and then hire a taxi to take us to see some temples. Afterward, we hope to have dinner at a local Goan establishment our new friend told us about. Although he said it’s not as good as his mom’s food.
Posted on February 25, 2012
Six Pound Challenge – Failed!
In high school, I could eat! I was a growing boy, always hungry and never gaining weight. I felt invincible, or so I thought. There was (and maybe still is) a restaurant in Tampa that offered a six-pound challenge: ninety-six ounces of beef for the willing. Eat it all, and the table eats for free. I rolled in there with my family like I owned the place. I was so young and confident that I even took my girlfriend. The whole family gathered around to watch, ordering what they wanted because surely, we’d all be eating for free.
The place really knew how to do it up. The chef came out with a cowbell and a bullhorn to announce, “This young man thinks he can take the challenge! This, friends and family, is not for the faint of heart! If you have a heart condition, are pregnant, or may think you may be, you should not watch.”
Dads brought their kids over to look, holding them high to watch the spectacle. They looked at me and then their kid, thinking, “One day, son, you may make me this proud.”
The challenge was six pounds of beef in an hour. I’m no expert on steak, but I do know this: that steak sucked. It was so huge I couldn’t cut all the way through it. I had to chop triangular wedges out of it like I was an axeman besting a redwood trunk. Several times I had to send it back because I’d hit a raw spot. For every raw spot, there was a patch of meat as tough as leather.
By the time the clock stopped, I think I finished a little over four pounds. I may have been able to continue, but my jaw was sore and tired of chewing. Mouth fatigue.
I left with my picture hanging in the four-pound section of the “wall of shame,” right there along with all the other overconfident “I can eat anything” losers.
But the funny part is this:
When I went off to college, leaving high school behind and starting anew, I was a six-pound champion. Somewhere along the line, I told the story of how I ate six pounds of meat, and from there, the legend grew. Once again, I felt invincible.
A few years later, when I took a college friend home, the topic came up of where to go for dinner. My brother (pictured above with the look of awe at the sheer size of the challenge before me) suggested we go to the steakhouse.
“Nah, I don’t feel like going there,” I said, knowing I’d be caught in a lie.
“Hey, isn’t that the place with your picture?” my friend asked.
“Yeah, I think so. How about seafood?” I offered.
Soon, we were on our way to the steakhouse, where we would find my crushed ego.
Preemptively, I confessed, “Listen, about that challenge. I’m not the man I’ve portrayed myself to be. I never actually finished the ninety-six ounces. I failed the challenge. I failed you.”
And then the tears of betrayal began. The cries about shattered confidences. Between the sobs, I could make out, “How could you!”
When we got there, I learned the steakhouse had burned down and been rebuilt since then, erasing all the awards and photos.
But I was able to sleep easy with a clear conscience after a nice salad with a side of confession.
Posted on September 1, 2011
He is Chasing Planes Around Already
The boy has the aviation bug. He has already begun chasing planes around. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. Specifically, it may have started when I was in single digits, sitting in my father’s office, watching people fly RC airplanes in a field across the street. The obsession culminated during many summers at Space Camp, not learning about poison ivy like most kids.
It’s a common question in the cockpit during a round of self-loathing: “Are you going to encourage your kids to work for the airlines?”
There is a lot of complaining in the cockpit and galley. I’m sure all industries have their issues, but I can’t imagine their workers complain as much as we do. Maybe it’s because we have so much downtime in the cockpit to “Monday morning quarterback” company decisions and stir up plans on how we’d make things better if we ran the place. “All hotels would have free breakfast… and good shower pressure.”
I knew a guy once who had his non-aviation dad up in the cockpit for a flight. He told him to act like a pilot in front of the passengers so they would think he was just a jumpseater. The story goes that when he boarded the plane, he said to the flight attendant, “Yep, scheduling F’ed me over again!”
That’s all he knew about airline life.
Would I want my son to work for the airlines? Of course. If he wanted to.
I will do what my father did for me: encourage him to pursue his dreams. I love being a pilot. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. It’s all that I’ve ever wanted to do for a living and honestly, all I know how to do. Although there are many ups and downs (stupid pun), I love it. It’s more than a job; it’s a lifestyle. A wiser man than me once said, “It’s not work if you enjoy what you do.” He then added something about things in Vegas staying in Vegas, but that’s not the point… I think?
As a kid, I would always look at planes flying overhead and wonder where the pilots are going. Now I know. The same place they’ve been a thousand times!
But maybe at least their airline puts them up in hotels that have free breakfast.
Posted on June 10, 2011
My Days are now in Song
I’ve been home for too long and apparently have had too few conversations with adults.
I’ve been off for a few weeks and have spent the majority of that time with a child who only utters a few simple things… more like breaths with some noises attached. He’s experimenting with passing air over his vocal cords.
We’ve had lots of one-sided conversations, most of them in song.
It’s like a chess game with myself… again, in song. “Oh, you’re gonna play the knight I see… then I guess my rook it will have to be.”
Most of these conversations end with me singing, “No more rhymes… I mean it!”
And I wait and wait and wait, but he never answers. So I do and laugh, “Anybody want a peanut!”
I laugh and swear that this is the end of that game, but I get slap-happy, and it starts all over again. I’ll trip over a toy and sing about why Daddy is such a klutz.
The rhymes never make any sense and often start with, “Take it from me, boy…”
And they are never set to a good tune!
I try to get them out to a Dead or a Phish riff or even The Beatles, but my rhythmic abilities stretch only as far as tunes like “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” or “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” What the hell is that about? I’ve got a wide range of tracks in my head, don’t I? I’ll take a Wiggles mix or even a song about cooking up a grilled cheese with a backdrop of the “Three’s Company” theme over 1940s birthday melodies.
I was able to get a simple verse from “Shakedown Street” the other day. “Eat, eat, eat… yes, it’s time to eat.” But that is where it ends. I’m no singer-songwriter.
In the past, every time I’d attempt to toss trash into a can and miss, I’d remark, “This is why I fly airplanes.”
The same response now applies when I find myself singing a horrid remix to the baby. “This is why I fly airplanes.”
Or rather, it’s, “Take it from me, my boy, this is why I fly planes… yes, just like your toy.”
Posted on April 11, 2011
For a Moment, I Was a TV dad. And not a cool one.
Yep, go to commercial. For a moment I was a TV dad. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the cool dad or the quirky gay dad or the tough guy. I was the awkward dad hanging on to his youth when I had to confront the college boys next door.
Our neighborhood is surrounded by colleges and therefore full of college-aged renters. We knew this before buying the house and welcomed the activity and energy the students bring to the neighborhood. This past Friday, the boys next door had a 21st birthday party for a friend of theirs that in their words, “got a little out of hand.”
The next morning we noticed several of our bushes had been trampled over and smashed as well as a few tulips that my wife has been waiting since this time last year to see. Needless to say, she was pissed and told me I needed to go yell at them.
I was evicted from a house during college that my buddies and I rented. Knowing what I know now, I would NEVER rent my house out to a kid like me.
But, I’m a man now and I needed to confront these hooligans about our smushed shrubbery.
These guys aren’t the guys who would have intimidated me in school. The few times I’ve associated with them, they remind me a lot of me. Now I had to go scold myself from 15 years ago.
“Hey Fellas…” I said when they opened the door at 4 pm and from the looks of it, hadn’t made much of the day yet. “Sounds like you guys had a really rocking party last night. I would have totally come over but the baby had an ear infection and I may have eaten some bad edamame. So it was lights out for us pretty early.”
“Yeah, sorry about the noise.” One said. “I’m glad the cops came and broke things up. It was getting out of hand.”
“Oh, the cops came?” I asked making myself look pretty guilty. I honestly didn’t know the cops came but a few years ago when I was next door with the previous tenants and the cops came, my friend and I (the adults) were the honorary liaison between the law and the students.
“Yeah. They broke things up. Things we getting out of hand.”
“Well, the noise never bothers us and honestly we like the energy around the neighborhood but my wife is really pissed about are bushes out front. Someone must have fallen in one or stepped on it but there are two on either side of our walkway and one is half the size it should be. She’s really pissed about it. We are big fans of symmetry.” At that moment I realized I needed to shut up.
“Yeah, we like symmetry too. Sorry about the plant, man.”
They were genuinely apologetic and I think the only solution to rectify the bush situation is for me to drink a bunch of beer this weekend and fall into the other one to even them out.
This was the house we were evicted from in the mid 90’s. I think the landlord even tracked us down in our hotel during Spring Break in Florida to yell at us about something.
Posted on March 6, 2011
Pacita Jugo Ladd… “Nana”
My Nana passed away on February 13th, surrounded by her family, after being diagnosed with cancer just a few weeks before. She passed very peacefully and kept her wit until the very end. Hours before, when people were coming in and out of her room, I said to her, “I think you, Susan, and I are the only sane ones in this bunch.” She replied, “I think you’re right, honey.” My Nana was many things to me over the years. She was a grandmother and a babysitter. She was a mentor and an advisor. She was a resource for travel tips and a great-grandmother to our son. Through it all, and especially as I grew mature enough to realize it, she was a friend. Our conversations, though split by a fifty-year spread, were always casual but meaningful. She would offer me suggestions on how to live my life and how to raise my son, and she did so as a peer—never with an air of authority. She kept that spicy Filipino side suppressed until necessary to quickly end a conversation. And believe me, she could pull out the big guns if need be!
Growing up, Nana was my tour guide when I was too ‘sick’ for school. Whether it was a museum or a theme park (or hours at the beauty parlor!), she wasn’t just taking me to get us out of the house; she was taking me because she wanted to go. I remember her being as excited as I was about the things we would see. But I’m certain that our trips to see the alligators at the Seminole Reservation were as much for her sake as mine. We would always leave with cartons of tax-free cigarettes.
She never stopped thirsting to learn. In the past ten years, as she became active online, she would always call with questions about the internet and her computer. She wanted to know how to keep her computer running smoothly as well as how to create profiles on social networking sites. She once called asking how to ‘defrag’ her hard drive. Not long ago, she emailed wanting to know how to set up an account on “The Flickers.” I’m sure she wanted a login so she could comment on my pictures. After the boy was born, I bought her a webcam, and we had been using Skype several times a week ever since. A few times she would call Susan’s Skype account not knowing she was teaching, and Susan would turn the computer around so the kids could talk to Nana.
Looking back at both this blog and my Facebook page, it was Nana who was always the most prolific commenter. Always in CAPS! I knew after I posted a blog, photo, or video she would be the first to see and ‘like’ it. Before she returned from the hospital for the last time, she requested a video of him to be online for her when she got home… something to look forward to. She said it was one of the first things she did when she got home.
Upon her passing, it was my grandfather and I at her side. He held her right hand while I was holding her left. I feel honored and loved to know that she chose to share that moment with me. It was peaceful and painless for her. I will always love and cherish all my memories with her and will do the best I can to ensure my son knows how much she loved him.
Some of her comments from Facebook:
“HOW MANY YRS IN PRISON IF I COME AND KIDNAP HIM. HE IS A LIVING DOLL. THANKS – LOVE”
“THIS MADE ME CRY. BEAUTIFUL. HOW U ALL DO IT I DON’T KNOW. LOVE”
LADD, Pacita Jugo, 84, of Temple Terrace, Fla., died Sunday, February 13, 2011, at home surrounded by her family. “Pat” was born July 1, 1926 in Manila, Philip-pines, the oldest of nine children. It was during World War II, that she met her first husband Tom McEwen in Manila, where he was stationed. After the war, they eventually settled in Temple Terrace, where she raised their two children. In 1959, Pat started her many years of playing golf and bridge with her circle of close friends at the Temple Terrace Golf & Country Club. In 1969, she married Andrew Ladd and became mother to his four children. They enjoyed many great years together traveling the world and visiting with family. She was also a passionate Gator and Bucs fan. Pat was a proud and beloved wife, mother, grandmother and friend, who lived life to its fullest. The memories of her will be honored and cherished by all who knew this amazing lady. Pat was preceded in death by her parents, Rafael and Carmen Jugo of Manila, and five siblings. She is survived by her husband of 42 years, Andrew M Ladd; sisters, Mila Garcia and Menchu Alleja; brother, Joe Jugo; son, Rick McEwen (Jane); daughter, Virginia Mullaney (Kevin); sons, Andrew Ladd (Donna), and Robert Ladd (Dawn); daughters, Susie Weda (Jim) and Bitsy Calloway (Donnie); grandsons, Christopher Stork (Susan), Sean Mullaney (Meghan), Ricky McEwen, Lucas Calloway (Erin), Jarret Calloway (Callie) and Andrew Ladd; granddaughters, Stephanie Flynn (Mark), Ellie Ladd and Hannah Ladd; great grandsons, Jordan Flynn, Foster Calloway and Judah Stork; great-granddaughter, Jocelyn Flynn and many loved nieces and nephews in the Philippines.
Posted on January 24, 2011
$#*! my son’s caterpillar doesn’t say
Several times between now and the era of the stage 2 Huggie overnight diapers, I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of sleep deprivation, awakening in the land of disproportionate proportions with oversized talking caterpillars, four-key colorful pianos, and airplanes whose propellers spin with a psychedelic glow not too far off from the St. Elmo’s fire that buzzes around the blades of a turboprop before a lightning strike. It’s in this land and through my weary eyes that I make awful rhythms with toddler toys and get the toys that talk to say bad words in their little sing-songy voice. Since the voice sounds like all the ladies who work at “Gymboree,” I like to pretend it’s them swearing at the drive-thru speaker because the order was read back wrong.
As I sit down with a new toy to experiment with what words the manufacturer thinks are too dirty for a baby, I start slow and pull from the standard repository of filth… I type out George Carlin’s seven dirty words. Most are censored although many aren’t spoken clearly enough to do damage if you played them to a drunken Eagles fan after an upset. You’d be more likely to get punched in the eye because you taunted them with a green toy caterpillar. Leapfrog has an array of talking toys that are limited in their range of letter combinations. Before you can finish typing in the offending word, you are greeted with an “Oh, that tickles,” which, depending on the word, makes it more offensive. Apparently, getting a caterpillar to swear tickles them. Who knew?
Interestingly, you are unable to type in anything that rhymes with “duck,” for it’s the U and the C that trigger the “Oh, that tickles.” I’ll have to move to some knock-off brand of toy whose seller has limited ethics if I’m to teach the boy how to spell “awestruck.”
Posted on October 14, 2010
Catholic School made me a Sinner
I put in twelve years of Catholic school… I was released on my own recognizance but served parole under the watchful eyes of a Baptist college. You could say I was “institutionalized” and feared life on the outside. Twelve years of a regulated wardrobe can have a lasting effect if they occur between five and seventeen years of age. I was the kid at the skating rink in navy blue dress pants and a white dress shirt.
My time with Catholics made me a sinner. I’m not sure if it’s that they taught me what sins were or made it so damned easy to be one. I get it, you break the rules… you’re a sinner. But they made the rules, and had I not gone to a Catholic school, I wouldn’t have known they were there to break. I worried for my friends who weren’t baptized because, after they died, they’d spend their life in purgatory with all the dead pets, but they didn’t know what purgatory was. What came first, the chicken or the idea of a life of eternal damnation?
One of my most memorable grade school sins is also one of the most ironic. It happened once a month when we had to meet before the priest and confess our crimes against the church. I would practice my confession and set it to a rhythmic cadence to help with the memorization. The Bangles’ “Walk Like an Egyptian” was a fun era for the Holy Sacrament of Reconciliation.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been one month since my last confession.
I lied to my teacher. I stole from my sister. I skipped detention. I walked like an Egyptian.”
Most of these were lies in themselves… lip service to get through the ordeal. If I had learned anything from Mass, it was showmanship. Making up lies about lies was easy. First grade stuff. These were easy ones that would only merit the canned “Three Hail Marys and an Our Father” penance.
The real lie came with the stagecraft. I often performed this well-rehearsed song and dance in an empty confessional… I’d confess my made-up sins to no one. No priest, layperson, or janitor would be on the other side of the black screen to critique my routine.
As we would enter the church, we’d line up in two single-file lines of boys and girls, tallest to shortest. I’d be near the front of the male brigade and, as such, I’d scope out the church for the empty confessional and form a line outside of it. Our teachers would split the lines up after a half dozen kids, so there would only be a few behind me I’d have to remind of what we practiced in scrimmage. In the event the next tallest person wasn’t an ally, I’d tell him the priest would be back in a bit after I’d emerge from the empty confessional downtrodden and gloomy after airing all my dirty laundry.
Sure, a big lie. But in the Catholic way, I always gave myself three Hail Mary’s and an Our Father as my own penance to clean the slate so I could sin again.
Posted on September 29, 2010
If you watch enough daytime TV… you will get cramps
The boy is almost nine months old, and since I’ve been back to work after paternity leave, I’ve been flying weekends. Although airport Chick-fil-A is closed on Sunday, it is nice to work weekends and steal the Sunday NY Times from sleepers in the airport. I play a game of whack-a-mole where I rotate newspapers. I’ll take a Times and leave a Post or slip in an Us Weekly after finding a People. Working weekends means I’m a stay-at-home dad most of the week. I’m working trips that start late Friday night to return Monday, which gives me four days of full-time daddy duty. Essentially, Momma Stork and I split the week in half and tap out like wrestlers when one of us goes to work.
Sometimes you’ll hear an air traffic controller briefing the replacement during a shift change. “This guy is slowed to 270, and I’ve got them on a heading while this one is holding for spacing into Chicago.”
We offer up a similar briefing. “He ate at 8 and 12 and had two dirty diapers before lunch… he was last changed an hour ago. You’re in!”
The boy and I have developed a pretty nice weekday routine. Well, I have… he plays along. In the morning, we sit on the porch in our jammies and eat breakfast while the morning commuters honk at each other. Eight hours later, we eat a snack outside and watch them return. Typically, we take a couple of walks a day with one of the dogs and make sure the neighborhood is in check. We watch a little TV… “Two hours a day maximum, either educational or football. So as you don’t ruin your appreciation of the finer things.”
I imagine how the advertisements would differ if it were men who typically stayed home with the kids. It would be foot odor powder and beer commercials in between westerns and Seinfeld reruns.
A couple of times a week, we walk to the grocery store. I have to make several trips because I can only fit so much in the stroller and backpack I carry. I made the mistake once of putting the bread in the little storage bin under the stroller. A few bumps on the walk home and our bread had a little baby butt print in it. I thought about using it as a plaster mold and saving the resulting sculpture next to the failed baby foot project.
We typically go to the store at the crack of dawn when it’s just us, a few other red-eyed moms with their kids, and the store shelf stackers.
I try and hustle back for naptime. Nappy time is happy time because that’s the time I play Xbox with the volume up really loud. I’ve got the house, as well as the neighborhood, to myself. I spend a few hours online playing Call of Duty with kids skipping school, the unemployed, and the occasional dad. I can always tell because we’re the only ones who have no choice but to leave the game even if the round isn’t over. You’ll hear a baby cry over the headset in the background and then a “Well guys… gotta go.”
Posted on August 22, 2010
Mornings in a Hotel: “Where am I? What Time is it?”
A friend once told me that every day he wakes up in a hotel, it feels like waking up with a hangover. “I’m not sure where I am or how I got here, but at least I have my pants on.” Add in the fact that we stay in a variety of hotels with countless floor plans, alarm clock models, and coffee makers, and sometimes you’d think you were at a bachelor party the night before. Throw in a 4:30 a.m. wake-up call, and it’s like that bachelor served nothing but “Mind Eraser” shots followed by Jägermeister to chase it all down.
I call it T.M.A. (Temporary Morning Amnesia), and typically it takes about a minute to clear. Sometimes there are clues in the room to help clear the mental fog. The Crowne Plazas we stay in advertise their hotels inside the shower head. Since I’m often in the shower within the 60-second window before T.M.A. wears off, this can be a huge breakthrough. The Eureka Moment! “Damn! I’m in Hartford! No free bagels downstairs, but at least the coffee maker is the single-pod type rather than the rarely washed pot used by many to make Ramen Noodles.”
An old trick I’ve worked into my hotel routine to avoid amnesia is to write the three-letter airport code of the city I’m in on the room key envelope along with the van time and leave that propped next to the alarm clock. I’ve become so used to this being the default when on the road that if I don’t see the cheat sheet when I wake up, I can safely assume I’m at home.
In the era of smartphones, though, the cheat sheet is old school. My morning mind has never been so clear since finding the “Good Morning!” app for my Android phone!
Everyone has their own killer app. For some, it may be Facebook, Evernote, or their Twitter client of choice. Mine is an alarm clock that reads whatever text I type in the night before, as well as the current time, temperature, and forecast. Granted, the forecast is useless for me unless I’m returning to the same hotel later in the day, but I like waking up to the lady computer voice and I get her to say as much as possible. I like waking up thinking that Rosie from “The Jetsons” is in bed with me and she’s already made coffee.
Since finding this app, the only T.M.A. I suffer from on the road is when I wake up in the middle of the night after leaving the television on. Interestingly enough, the only standard thing in hotels is the remote control. I never seem to have trouble finding the off button (through the plastic ice bucket bag that I wrap the remote in—those remotes are filthy!).
Posted on August 3, 2010
Returning from vacation – time to catch up on the news
I returned to work yesterday from a three-week vacation with the family. While at work and living on the road, I have lots of downtime that I fill with ‘entertainment’ that I would never make time for at home: bad movies on cable, aimless walks around Wal-Mart, and celebrity gossip magazines.
US, Star, People, and the like are often the most left-behind magazines by passengers on the airplane. Is this because they are disposable and easily consumed, or are they the most purchased magazines in the airport? Whatever the answer, I love it when I find three competing issues from the same week! I call it a trash-fecta and have made a game where I see if I can find the same shot of the same celeb in the same location taken by the same paparazzi. Even though my game is as mind-numbing as the crossword puzzles and word searches in the back of the ‘publication,’ it amazes me when I see someone has taken the time to play them! “Three-letter first name of The Price is Right host … Barker”
Much like the gossip rags I read in the cockpit during sits between flights, I often feel myself getting dumber in hotels when I get sucked into watching “Jersey Shore” or any of the “Real Housewives” shows. My justification is that I’m alone with nothing else to do and that at least I don’t waste my time when I’m home wondering about who Snooki is going to hook up with next. Yeah, I know MIT offers many lectures online for free as part of their OpenCourseWare initiative, but I’ve had such a long and stressful day flying and navigating and endlessly studying images in gossip mags that I just need a break when I check into the Hampton Inn.
Posted on July 3, 2010
How Indiana Jones Has Made Me a Better Father
When the baby falls asleep in my arms, I recreate this old scene in reverse as I do my best to place him in the crib and extract my arms without him waking up. I learned from Indiana Jones… one swift movement. His eyes are closed, and his body is limp in my arms. I get him as close to the mattress as I can. I yank my arms out from both sides so that he slides in without changing position. Often, it ends up like Dr. Peter Venkman’s attempt in Ghostbusters to pull the tablecloth out from under the dishes, and we start over back in the rocking chair. I rock him until I think he’s asleep and test this by lifting his little arm a few times, hoping to watch it helplessly fall to his side like after Hulk Hogan body slammed Andre the Giant in Wrestlemania III. Or I think that’s how that one ended. Yes, I’m Hulk Hogan in this one. Actually, I’m the ref testing for a knock-out.
I never knew Indiana Jones would train me for fatherhood. I play the part well when I’m reenacting the drama in the nursery. I’m going to watch Star Wars soon and see if Yoda can give me some advice on how to make the transition from bottled formula to solid food. “Do or do not – there is no try.”
Posted on June 4, 2010
Maybe cribs should come with a flight attendant call button
In the cockpit, when an alarm sounds, the first response is to “Identify and Cancel” the warning. This means acknowledging the source of the alarm, silencing the warning, and then determining a course of action. If there are several warnings, you prioritize them—often based on the color of the alarm. Yes, our planes are color-coded. Cyan = Let’s hope it stays cyan. Yellow = That’s interesting. Red = Put down your coffee. I often attempt to “Identify and Cancel” when the baby monitor sounds from across the room. Unlike the airplane, there is only one color for the alarm—Red! No option to prioritize. The alarm is either Red… or Red. It’s too bad the monitor can’t give me a cautionary Yellow and Double Chime for “the diaper is full and starting to leak around my thigh making my legs feel all sticky.” I’d put down my coffee for a Red warning and a Triple Chime for “a cat has crossed the 33rd parallel and is getting dangerously close to pouncing up into the crib with me.”
Up front with us, we have a big book listing the things that can be broken but yet it is still safe to fly off into the sunset. This is the Minimum Equipment List, and it’s a master list of items on the airplane that ranks them on just how important they are to us. It will say something like, “There are two engines on board and both are required for flight; don’t go if one won’t start.” Conversely, it may read, “You’ve got two working toilets… go ahead and go if both of them are broken; just stop serving coffee and avoid bumpy air.” When we go with “broken” items, they are “deferred” to be fixed at the next maintenance base, and an orange sticker is placed near the inoperative item to remind us that flipping this switch may have no result.
Often, when I’m leaving the house with the baby, I make a quick inventory of the diaper bag and consider my options if I’m short a few things. I’ve created my own Minimum Equipment List for quick errands that take me away from home base. “Two diapers required… only one needed if the trip is scheduled to be less than two hours in length and a bowel movement has occurred in the last three hours.”
Maybe I’ll bring home some of those deferral stickers to place on inoperative items around the nursery. “Sorry, you pulled that noisemaker off the play mat and the book says it’s not required for flight. I’ve got seven days to get that fixed. Here’s a sticker.”
I’m thinking of installing a Flight Attendant Call button above the crib. This way, we can teach him to ring us when it’s time for a diaper change or a feeding rather than sounding the single alarm monitor regardless of severity. The button could be a simple chime that sounds throughout the house and is within easy arm’s reach for him. I may install a reading light and a gasper vent while I’m at it to offer climate controls and a courtesy lamp. Rather than a bedtime read, I’ll just incorporate a cabin briefing into the routine: “For your convenience, a courtesy light is located above your crib next to the flight attendant call button. If you should accidentally press your flight attendant call button, press it again to extinguish the light. No need to cry wolf.”
Actually, I think I’ll shelf that idea next to the thermally actuated automatic fire suppression system I considered installing in the nursery. The button may train him from an early age to be a needy passenger that flight attendants hate dealing with. Some parents don’t want a stinky kid. I don’t want to raise a bad passenger. The courtesy light may give him the idea that these lights are always operational… when often they are not. Although, it would be a good lesson in Minimum Equipment Lists. “Sorry sir. The Captain (your father) has decided you don’t need a light. Deal with it! Here’s a sticker.”
Posted on May 17, 2010
I Made a Burrito and Forgot to Shave
My job as a pilot is made much easier by checklists and routines. I do the same thing – the same way – every time.
Checklists are written in a way that is intended to flow logically as we set up the cockpit for each phase of flight. It’s the times when something upsets that flow that checklist items are missed. You’re midway through a taxi checklist, and a radio call breaks the cadence of the “challenge and response,” and it’s easier (and safer) to start over rather than stumble back into it.
My life has become a series of checklists. I’m not sure if I was made for aviation or if a career in aviation has made me the way I am. When I’m on a trip, each day I do the same thing – the same way – every time. My evening ritual in the hotel has been modified slowly over the years to become the most efficient it can be. I check into my room and immediately strip the garnish bedspread off the bed and lay out my clothes for the next morning. Regardless of how long I have in the hotel, I get ready for the next day by setting two alarms on my phone, one on the hotel clock, and a phone wake-up call. Each of these alarms is set for 1 minute apart, beginning 45 minutes before we are to meet for the van. I write the city name and tomorrow’s day of the week on the hotel key envelope and put it next to the alarm clock. The rest of the night, like a Roomba vacuuming robot, I mindlessly walk through a series of preprogrammed routines. Hopefully, this involves some Seinfeld.
The same precision takes place during the morning events. Nothing gets skipped, and nothing gets forgotten. Until there’s a change to the routine. A shower that won’t get hot or a broken coffee maker. I recently introduced a lunch box to the program. I’ve become a lunch box guy. I pack 4 days’ worth of food on ice and make meals-to-go in my room for a picnic at 30,000 feet… without the blanket or ants. It’s not as much about saving money as it is about getting so freaking sick and tired of Sbarro pizza and Wok-n-Roll fried stuff with soy sauce.
With the introduction of the lunch box, I’m all out of whack. Yesterday, although I made some excellent burritos out of Trader Joe’s Chickenless Chicken Strips, I forgot to shave. Having to get ice from the ice machine for my lunch box threw off my whole program! While showering, I debated when to work ice retrieval into the equation. Should I do it before or after I put on my tie? This internal argument must have carried on into the “it’s now time to shave” portion of the ceremony, and I overlooked it while I debated maybe just getting ice on the way out the door with all my luggage.
Years ago, I left the keys to my car in the cockpit of the airplane I just gave to another crew and realized this as I watched them taxi towards the runway. Naturally, this happened because I just bought a new suitcase and hadn’t decided yet which pocket to store my keys in. I had it down to a science with my old suitcase but had yet to find a convenient spot for them in the new one. I opted to keep them in my pants pocket until resolving this crisis, but then they kept stabbing my thigh, so I set them in the cup holder. Off to STL they went without me.
Tonight, I may use a spreadsheet to map out a new routine for tomorrow morning’s ice-gathering mission. But by doing so, I’ll probably forget to brush my teeth before bed.
Posted on March 26, 2010
I hate the phrase “knock on wood”
I despise the phrase “Knock on wood.” It was only ever tolerable when sung by The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. If you’re among those in the cockpit who’ve said, “I’ve never had an engine fire or a hydraulic leak. Wait, let me knock on…” and then scoured the cockpit for wood, you may remember the courtesy smile I gave you. I detest that phrase.
I’m going to use it anyway. So far, the formula for keeping peace with a newborn has been pretty simple. I’m seeking some wood to knock on, amending my hatred for that phrase. If you’re in a place without wood, there will be no knocking—I just used air quotes. If I ever share a room with you on the International Space Station and catch you searching for some hardwood flooring after saying, “All this time and the toilet hasn’t backed up once,” I might kick you in the shins.
Forget the knocking! I’ll declare it loud and boastfully, proudly tempting fate! Keeping peace with a newborn has been straightforward so far.
When he cries, there are only a few things to fix… Sometimes I look around and wonder if there’s more to it than just changing a wet diaper or feeding him? The crib is simple. Maybe he’s upset because he’d prefer to cuddle under a few hundred thread count sheets or at least have a pillow? Having seen the inside of enough Hampton Inn elevators, I know all humans crave fluffy comforters and free waffles. These comforts make you dream of sheep. Could this be why he cries? Nope—wet diaper.
The iPod has been on repeat for a few days. Perhaps he’s tired of hearing the same “Nature’s Tranquility” tracks. Maybe the sounds of the Amazon Rainforest are freaking him out? I know some nights, when I’m between sleep and deep sleep but still upright and stumbling, those tunes make me feel like I’m in Apocalypse Now.
No, just a bottle of the same stuff he’s been drinking since birth and he’s good to go.
Don’t get me wrong—sometimes I’m tired, and the bottle and diaper change take a bit longer than I’d like. Sometimes he doesn’t roll back to sleep as efficiently as his old man. Eight and a half hours before the hotel van call and lights out for me. “Come on buddy, we’re gonna do this in three hours—it’s now or never.”
At times, I wonder if he’s been eavesdropping on NPR and pondering if there will ever be peace in the Middle East. Maybe he has the answer but can’t tell me? Maybe this is what’s upsetting him?
No, a bounce or two and a burp and then he’s off to the pillow races.
Again, so far the formula has been pretty simple. Now, let me find some wood to knock on.
It’s a pity “Stomp on Wood” lost its appeal. According to Wikipedia, it originated from early settlers who would stomp on the floor of their log cabins to ward off bad luck.
Posted on January 31, 2010
My own sensory deprivation chamber… with music.
For years, I’ve used Pink Floyd’s 1968 studio album “A Saucerful of Secrets” as my secret weapon for an instant nap, especially when I wasn’t sure if my brain was up for a break or when there was too much going on around me to ensure solid sleep. Most of the time, this is my trick for sleeping in airport terminals or the middle seats of airplanes, but it has come in handy in many situations. It’s not that the album is boring—quite the opposite. It is so thick with notes and auditory tricks that my brain can’t keep up with all of it and just shuts down. From the movie Amadeus, “Your work is ingenious. It’s quality work. And there are simply too many notes, that’s all. Just cut a few, and it will be perfect.”
Since I’m so familiar with this album’s hypnotic effect on me, when She and I saw a Pink Floyd cover band last year and they played track 3, “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun,” I had to warn her. “There’s a pretty good chance that I may soon pass the hell out!” I said.
Today, I may have found its replacement: The Dirty Three’s 1995 self-titled album, “The Dirty Three.” Add some mental fatigue, a pair of Bose headsets buried beneath a hoodie, several blankets, and you’ve got yourself a sensory deprivation chamber, except for the music, which is a frantic jazzy mix of violin, bass, and drum.
I first saw The Dirty Three in early 1996 at the Cat’s Cradle in Chapel Hill, NC, when they opened for Pavement. In September that same year, I went back and saw them as the headliner the night before my 21st birthday. The bouncers let me in with an over-21 badge when I was underage but gave me a hard time the night before I was legal. On one of those two nights, I played Tron with the bass player before they took the stage. He told me he sucked at video games but was pretty good at playing bass.
Their live shows are similar to the albums except much, much faster. And the song names are changed. I remember the live version of “Indian Love Song” being introduced as, “This song is called… ‘one time when I was on a plane… and I was sitting next to the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens and I thought, this one isn’t going to end well’. That’s what this is called. But I might call it, ‘I once slept with Stevie Nicks and Mick Fleetwood was there’. I haven’t figured out which one I want to call it yet.”
The album isn’t full of too many notes for the royal ear—it has just enough notes and just enough chaos to match the chaos in my head to cause deep sleep. Just enough to listen to and focus on to knock me out by track 2. I look forward to trying this one out in the airport. Often, with my Captain’s hat pulled over my eyes like a cowboy, I wake up sitting below the CNN Airport News Network TV just as they’re airing another story about overworked regional pilots.
Posted on January 22, 2010
Google Voice Poetry
I started using Google Voice months back on my G1 Android phone to transcribe my voicemails. When you leave me a message, I get an email containing the text version of that message. While I can still listen to the voicemail, most of the time the email is enough to give me the gist of what the call is about. Often it provides hilarious results, as Google has a much harder time with some voices than others. I call it Google Voice Poetry. My Nana’s messages provide the best results. Sorry, Nana… these emails were too priceless not to share! In this voicemail, she is thanking us for the peanut butter we sent as a birthday present to my grandfather.
“Peanut butter lovers shows that you have a diabetic.”
Hi, silverware, have you been? We’ve been trying to call you. Yeah, Susan, that boggled. He got his present and expected today, and I put it, and I live a falling out of his mouth because of the recipient. Peanut butter lovers show that you have a diabetic. That’s 98. Wanted to talk to her. We’re going to do it. It was great for his birthday tonight. Baby socks are taking a shower, but I’d like to hear more about what’s going on, so if you’re outside, Dan or something, call me, okay? Have you bought. Thank you, Susan. You are great. God bless. Bye-bye. Plus.
Note: “Peanut butter lovers shows that you have a diabetic” should be “We’re peanut butter lovers; you two shouldn’t have done it.”
This is from my father asking about the snowstorm in Baltimore. I had put some pictures up online. Google does a better job transcribing his text.
“Capitalist want to know covered in snow.”
Still smelling it. 11:30 on Sunday. I saw the pictures. Capitalists want to know covered in snow. I checked, put furniture out in the street so you can park your car. Maybe you don’t do that in your neighborhood. Call me. Love you.
And another one from my Nana. She leaves the best Google Voice Poetry.
“I waved a way to go to bed.”
Hey, Christopher Stork. I got your message tonight, but I called you. This is my start diet, and I just want to know what’s going on. Have more about it. And I also called her this afternoon because we got those two thousand years. If it’s for Paul, upon you need to ask you about that anyway. Anyways, so I was wondering whether you have gotten my message, and I called you last night. I called you this morning. Hey, Ronald, I waved a way to go to bed, and I’m calling with tonight. I’d like to know what’s going on with the baby and everything. Okay, I’ll be home. Martinez 11:30. Call me anytime, you and suicides. Well port. Thank you very much for the presents, and we love you, and I hope everything is going on fun with the baby if I bye.
Crew Scheduling asking me about a burger?
“The samples in Chris Killing.”
Hey, Good. The samples of Chris killings. I have a question for you. Enjoyed your trip for tomorrow? If you have a chance, gimme a call back. I have a quick question; I wonder if you can show a burger. If you can give me a call back. Thanks.
As you can read, the results are not perfect, but for the first time in a while, I enjoy getting voicemails! My recorded message used to say, “Don’t leave a message; send me a text.” I want to change it to, “Leave as long and detailed a message as you want… and maybe do it with a mouthful of food!”
Posted on January 18, 2010
My short career as Chris Winston – Overnight Disk Jockey
After college, or maybe it was during, I had a job for about a year as an overnight DJ at an adult contemporary AM radio station in Southern Virginia. Actually, it wasn’t just an AM station. It was, and still is, AM stereo, which, at the time, had been struggling to gain a foothold ever since that pesky FM came along. The signal actually sounded pretty good if you had an AM stereo receiver and avoided driving under overpasses, during rain, or at night.
WBTM.
World’s Best Tobacco Market.
Though I also heard, World’s Best Textile Mill.
I spun easy listening adult contemporary hits from 10 pm to 6 am and had a very small but loyal following of mental ward inmates, the elderly, and insomniacs. You’d be surprised to know there are so many people who call in at 3 am to request songs or comment on current events. I know I was! Not only were there the regulars… there were fans! I had actual fans! I had a guy call in most every night to predict the air quality index for the next day. At first, I thought he was a 70’s-era prank caller who’d ring just to breathe heavily into my ear, hoping that did it for me, but during our relationship, I learned he suffered from an assortment of breathing-related issues and probably lived in an iron lung. Often, he would call to request “The Air That I Breathe” by The Hollies on what he hoped would be a good Air Quality Index day.
He’d cough into the phone, “It’s gonna be a good day, Winston. Could you play our song?”
He wanted to meet up once. I declined.
I assumed the on-air persona of Chris Winston because I thought Chris Stork sounded too much like Chris-Dork. It was college—things like that bother you at that age. Actually, you never get over being called Chris Dork as a kid. Also, remember… this was the South. I wanted a name that fit in. Chris Winston I hoped would remind people of Winston Cup Racing or Winston cigarettes. I figured people would trust me, like Tom Brokaw. Personally, I liked Winston as in John Winston Lennon, but no one ever called to say, “Play some Beatles, Winston. Wink, wink. But nothing with Yoko!”
Another regular was the “Bob Dylan guy.” Nope, he didn’t call to request Bob Dylan as you’d imagine. Oh… he hated Dylan and called to tell me so every time I played something off of “Highway 61 Revisited.” Often, on long quiet nights at the Stereo AM WBTM, when nothing fun was coming over the raw news feeds and old Bette Midler tracks weren’t cheering me up, I’d play a Dylan tune and stare at the phone like a kid after meeting the girl of his dreams at the roller skating rink. (P.S… this never happened to me. Not just the girl of my dreams part—the girl part. I was the kid who couple-skated with his Aunt when she forced me away from the arcade so I could get some exercise.)
But, the Bob Dylan guy. I’d play a tune, and he would call to tell me how he wrote that song and sent it to Bob “when he was still going by Robert Allen Zimmerman! That traitor!” Apparently, my fan was a poet and sent most of his stuff in letters to Dylan. “Once Zimmerman arranged to meet me to talk about my papers.” He told me this often. Actually, he told me this every time he called. This is how every call started. “Once, we were to meet.” I forget the song he’d quote most often, but he pulled it apart during every call to explain to me the clues about how Dylan was talking directly to him. “See, he’s telling me when and where to meet him. I went, he never showed. Traitor! I think he got cold feet! Thought I’d demand money for my songs! I’d give him those songs. Well then. Not now. When we meet, he’s gonna pay me. Traitor!”
So, on long, lonely nights… I’d play a Dylan tune to send the call out to my fan. I’d aim that bat signal at the asylum that surely existed within our coverage map. Although this was the mid-90s, most of the tracks we played were digital, so we could line up the songs in a cue using a touch screen. You could drop in a Public Service Announcement or a promo for a church bake sale or the weekend swap meet into the mix or even record your voice as a track plugging the upcoming songs. I’d play a game where I’d do the math backward between when I wanted my recorded voice to play and the current time so I’d get the time spot on during my interlude. “It’s 3:37 and 25 seconds in the morning, and up next is a classic from Bette Midler.” I’d say this even though it was recorded hours before. I’d line up a number of songs and a few recordings of myself and take a break to walk around the station or use the restroom. The audio board we used in the booth had faders for all the various inputs, including several raw news feeds for breaking news or the news we’d play at the top of the hour.
Once, I had lined up a half-hour of long songs and a few PSAs and went out to sit in the early morning Virginia air. During a 7-minute and 37-second Moody Blues’ “Nights in White Satin,” I started to hear faint voices under the orchestral center of the song. The voices were about tornadoes and destruction and people losing their homes. I listened in and tried to clear the early morning fog from my mind and thought, “I’ve never heard this part of the song before.” When I heard the ABC news slug and the countdown for the 30-second version of the sound bite, I realized I had left one of the faders up, and it was bleeding out over the air and under the Moody Blues. Luckily, it was 3:37 in the morning, and those listening probably enjoyed the confusion… or were confused already.
This was just one of many errors I made during my career as an overnight DJ. I once played Elvis’ “Pretty Paper” in June, not realizing it was a Christmas tune. I ended it with, “Let me be the first to wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas.”
I retired from that job, having never gained the fame I hoped would come with the job. I never even had a fan run into me on the street and beg for my autograph. The closest I came was once I had a lady on the other end of the drive-thru machine at a biscuit restaurant (named BiscuitVille, of course) say I sounded familiar.
When I pulled up, I asked if she recognized my voice yet.
She said, “No.” I gave her my best AM stereo DJ voice and told her my stage name, but it still didn’t ring a bell.
Maybe Chris Dork would have been more memorable?
Posted on January 5, 2010
My failed attempt at dog whispering
I was driving home today and saw a dog running around the neighborhood a few blocks from my house. Being the good neighbor and dog owner that I am, I figured it best to try and find the little fella’s owner before his nose got too cold, he got lost, or had a run-in with our village fox. I’m not sure what kind of dog he was—I’m no good with dog breeds. He was brown and looked friendly enough (you can see where this is going). I stopped the car and approached him on foot.
Before we go any further, there is this sheet of ice in the road around the corner from my house that we joke about every couple of days: “When will that melt! Where does it come from? Why only there?” This is exactly where I parked, on the one sheet of ice in the neighborhood left since the snow melted. I didn’t slip—I didn’t fall. That would be too easy of a punch line.
I approached the dog. I had on thick gloves and a winter jacket—this made me feel invincible. He still seemed friendly enough. I held out my gloved hands like the actors who play dog handlers in the movies do when they help out innocent dogs who just need a friend. He watched and waited.
As the gap between him and I shrank to just a few feet, he went bananas! He barked, bared his teeth, and I think did a flip I’ve only seen skateboarders do. His back end came up and around, and he landed a 360 during the time it took for one bark. Or, at least I think he landed it. I skated across the ice and was back in my car when I saw he completed his dance and was racing to the car window.
I hit the gas but went nowhere. His face was on my window and my wheels spun under me. The noise of the car making no purchase on the ice underneath made him even wilder! As I revved my motor, he revved his. When I finally had a grip on the pavement below, it was a Dukes of Hazzard scene as my car slid sideways and skidded out of my trap.
My friend followed me for about a block, jumping up and trying to bite my side mirror. I’ve fallen many times and looked around to see who was watching, but this was the first time I looked back hoping none of my neighbors watched me drive frantically away from a dog!
Part of me wants to go back tomorrow and see if he is still out. Part of me doesn’t. Thinking back on it now, I think he was a pretty small dog.
Posted on December 16, 2009
My dream of having a band of minstrels.
On days when the air is still and fog forms over a river, it looks like the Great Wall of China is snaking its way across the Earth. Since many state lines overlay rivers, each state is safely protected from their neighbor—unless you’re driving a VW, which can safely pass through.
When I was driving to DCA the other morning, I knew it might be an interesting day as each bridge I drove over suddenly had zero visibility. Reagan National Airport, positioned on the Potomac River (damn that L’Enfant), was invisible from the employee parking lot. Of course, I hadn’t called ahead to see if my flight was delayed. We should have the same text alert feature that is provided to passengers. “Captain, your flight is delayed. The inbound plane making up your flight is holding and will soon divert to an airport with dozens of other planes all in line for fuel too. And then they will all try to depart at the same time, which, as you know, ain’t gonna happen. Go back to bed. We will send you an alert when we need you.”
I never got that SMS. I, along with many others, waited for the fog to lift. I ate the breakfast I brought. Later, I ate my lunch. I entertained old ladies with my silly stories and scared a man when he told me why it wasn’t dangerous to take off in the fog.
“If the shit hits the fan,” I told him, “and we need to return to the field, there’s nowhere to go.”
Actually, the fog was only over the airport, and there would be plenty of available take-off alternates. He had already gotten under my skin though, and his wife, who was in earshot, was a nervous flyer.
Oh, the band of minstrels?
We finally departed and arrived at our destination hours late. The passengers for our next flight were anxiously awaiting our arrival. They applauded as we walked up to the boarding area. (We weren’t taking the same plane that we brought in, so they were at a different gate.) They were a lively bunch—they were the cast of the Broadway show Grease, traveling back to New York after a performance on the road. Several of the band members had their instruments out and were playing for the other stranded passengers.
We were there, and the passengers and bags were there—all we needed was an airplane. Danny Zuko told me it had just left. He said the gate agents told them it was needed for another flight, but their spirits were lifted when they saw us. Then they sang,
You’re the one that I want
(you are the one I want), ooh ooh ooh, honey
The one that I want (you are the one I want),
ooh ooh ooh, honey
The one that I want (you are the one I want).
I told them, “I’ll get us an airplane! We are going to New York!”
Again, they applauded.
One of the stagehands said, “I like a can-do Captain!” He slapped me on the back and added, “Make it happen, Captain!”
There was a pretty good chance we weren’t going to New York. The fog had slowed things down, and planes were stuck everywhere. My fears were confirmed when I called dispatch and heard commotion in the background. It sounded like a triage unit set up outside a natural disaster. “You’re where? But your plane is… uh-oh. You’re not gonna like this.” He put me on hold, and I smiled at Sandy Olsson.
Dispatch came on the line and said, “I got a plane for you. It’s on the ground. It’s at the gate.”
I told the passengers over the PA, “Off to gate 48!”
And they followed me like I was the Pied Piper. A man played a stringed instrument behind me. I realized all this time the only thing missing from my life was a traveling band of minstrels to follow me wherever I go.
Posted on August 31, 2009
Since storms cancelled our evening with The Flaming Lips – I had to go to Youtube.
Well, The Flaming Lips show in Philadelphia turned into “A bit of a bath – a big bath” (to quote the Woodstock documentary – although theirs was in reference to the bath the promoters would take upon getting the bill for the festival.)
Although we had a nice evening and some great Indian cuisine downtown with some friends at Karma, our evening of Lips was cut off after about 6 songs when storms rolled in from the West and forced us all into the air conditioned “too unbearably hot outside” tent. Or in our case, the air conditioned and cold “too rainy for outside” tent. Actually, first my wife and I cut through the rain into an unused beer tent that had since closed up shop. We were dry for about 60 seconds until we were forced to vacate our dry dwellings by a water saleslady, “You’re not allowed in there!”
In the larger tent we waited for the storm to pass while I watched the Weather Channel app on my Google Phone draw red cells around “our current location”.
We were warned about the possibility of storms before the set started and were assured by the band they’d play as long as the weather cooperated and the promoters said it was safe. First came the rain and they played on – then the lightning. After an hour in the tent, and amidst the worst of the thunder and lightning, the staff announced we should leave, “the show is over.” Although I was optimistic up until this point, I figured the venue had a curfew and this couldn’t go on for ever.
We left during the Philly accented and encouraging, “you’s all should leave now” but I knew the tone would turn less pleasant as I already heard a few staff grumble about how they were supposed have gone home 5 minutes ago.
Into the rain we went. We regrouped with friends at Dave and Busters next door and played video games in wet clothes to wait until the weather gave us the time to walk to the hotel. Sitting in wet clothes at video games took me back to Adventure Island in Tampa and playing Pole Position in a wet bathing suit. Much like then, I’d have hated to be the kid in the seat after me.
Ah well, all in all the bit of the set we saw was fun. Lots of confetti and balloons and great music. Next time, we will have to see them inside in August.
Posted on May 14, 2009
Holds and diverts and storms, oh my.
This was our third leg for the day. We began in Omaha around 2 PM, flew from Omaha to Milwaukee, and then off to Boston. On the return from Boston to Milwaukee, we ended up holding over Grand Rapids for 30 minutes before we made the decision to divert to Indianapolis for more fuel. Holding over Michigan with fuel burning away and planes above and below you all doing the same, you start thinking about plan B. Chicago had been in and out of holding patterns for most of the day, and airports were already full of diversions. This meant a long wait for fuel and the potential for issues with the Passenger Bill of Rights. We had a full flight and several infants on board that could be heard through the bulletproof cockpit door. To make things even more challenging, our Auxiliary Power Unit (APU) was inoperative, which meant no air conditioning on the ground, and I was certain that if a dozen planes were waiting for fuel already, no one would be in a hurry to get us a ground air cart.
So, looking around at where to land while the engines are chugging at our fuel, dispatch and I decide Indianapolis is a good option and we have enough fuel to make it—if we leave “Right Now.” Then Milwaukee calls to say the airport should reopen soon. But if we wait and commit to it, there’s no plan B if it closes again. It has opened and closed twice since we’ve been within earshot, so the odds are pretty good that if it does open soon, it will close again before we get there.
Indianapolis it is. Should we fly fast and burn more gas, or fly slow and save some in case we need it for something else? There’s weather in Indiana as well. We decide to fly slow. “Folks, I know I told you it would be 40 minutes until we land, but it’s going to be an hour.”
Luckily for us, no one has landed in Indianapolis yet, and we’re first in line for fuel—but our crews have gone home for the night, and Airtran is there to help. “How do you turn the light on in your baggage bin? Where does the air cart connect to the airplane? How many people does this plane seat?”
And I’m arranging for fuel and paperwork to release us to Milwaukee amid the crying baby and people who have connections. There’s a canceled flight next door, so can we put more people on your plane? Wow—it really is getting hot back there. What happened to the air cart?
Let’s spin an engine to cool things off. Oh, we can’t spin an engine. They are bringing more bags over now because of the canceled flight, and the cargo door is near the engine, so it can’t be spun until we load the bags.
“How do you turn that cargo door light on again?” they ask.
I tell the passengers the story, again. I ask them if they want to join me in the jetway; it is much cooler and it shouldn’t be too much longer. A man is off to see his daughter give birth. She is in the hospital waiting for him. I tell him my last name is Stork and draw up the obvious connections. He laughs. So do others. It buys me some time.
The puzzle is coming together now. We’ve got the fuel, the paperwork, the extra bags, and people. Let’s go to Milwaukee. The weather is still there, and there’s no good way to go around it… Time to pick our way through some storms.
The amazing thing about thunderstorms at night is that the moisture in the air carries the light from the lightning for miles after a strike. Even though we’re not in any thunderstorms, with each strike the cockpit lights up so brightly you’re blinded for a moment. “I’ve asked our flight attendants to remain seated for their safety.”
Air traffic controllers are talking to us, but we’ve got this cell we’re trying to fly around and we’ll have to get back to you. And dispatch sends a message, “Ha! I did such a great job routing you around the weather, and you decided to go right up the middle of it!”
No choice… the line has some breaks in it. Aside from a great light show and a few sizable bumps, we make it to Milwaukee to drop off a few, pick up a few, and head to Minneapolis for the night.
What makes or breaks a night like this is the crew you’re assigned to. As the captain, I have to be able to trust my team to do their jobs and allow me to delegate where need be. The great crews are the ones who know what needs to be done without hesitation and do so with a positive attitude. My crew easily handled all of our issues, and even though we were tired and hungry, they did so without hesitation and with a smile. This kept our passengers happy but, more importantly, me happy!
Posted on February 21, 2009
I never got many Gold Medals – But I used to make them.
I once quit a job without giving two weeks’ notice. I quit after my lunch break. The boss wasn’t surprised at all. I think she even wondered why it took so long like it was a bet amongst the bosses. Each day that went by with me still on the line was another nickel in the jar.
I worked at a trophy factory in Tampa and made the medals people wear around their necks after winning track meets and whatnot. For some reason we made lots of medals for the PBA – “The Police Benevolent Association” and I thought that if I ever got pulled over I could use this as a conversation starter.
I was on an assembly line and would be given scalding hot medals from out of the mold and was to sand down the edges on a steel-brush sander until they were smooth and round. Like when Christmas cookies come out with bits that are cooked under the Santa mold. My job was to remove those bits with spinning bristles of steel. These were very hot cookies and shards of lead would fly off everywhere. Although, if this were a candy factory I would absolutely leave little pieces of chocolate if they looked like Santa penis’.
Along the line, there were several of us with varied levels of sanders in front of us. The first would sand off the rough edges with each in the line making the edges smoother until the last in line had a very fine sander that polished the final product. Although each on the line spoke a different language… I was the only one who could communicate with any of them. On Tuesdays, it was my day to control the radio – I got news from the outside this way.
We were in a hot windowless room. Often while sanding the medals I would secretly sharpen a screwdriver into a fine point to make a shiv for the day I broke free. I would tuck it under my lab coat when one of the bosses walked by and ask for a “piss break boss”.
We had to wear lab coats to keep the shards of medals off our clothes. Once, I had my coat open and got it caught in the sander when I took a big old “look how many medallions I’ve completed” stretch. The sander instantly pulled me up to the machine and was sanding my already hairless chest until the Korean guy next to me turned off the power to my machine. He gave me a pat on the back as if to say, “This is why we keep our coats buttoned you little jackass who plays stupid music on Tuesday.”
The next day, the “No accidents in 300 days” sign changed to “No accidents in 1 day” and everyone hated me even more.
It wasn’t many more days before I decided to quit on my lunch break. I didn’t even have to use my weapon.
Posted on November 13, 2008
Lost and Found – Mixtape in the gutter from “Yo Boy Billy”
Press Play
I found this CD in the gutter up the street the other day while out walking the dog. Apparently, Emily has moved on. The disk may have fallen out of her car but I think she frisbee’d it out the window and it bounced off a tree. From what I can gather… she’s with someone else now. These things happen.
But, to give Billy some credit. He does have a nice ear for expressing himself through overused popular music. I can’t compliment him on his handwriting though. Or his heart-drawings for that matter.
But, what can you do?
You can get pissed and let her know it about 4 tracks in! Start off nice and sweet and then! Yeah! Take that. “Don’t touch my girl.” I’m not sure who sings this song – (I am old) – but it really fires me up! If i were a pissed off 16 year old – this would speak to me. But then I’d balance it with a classic.
“Hey Dad, what was that song they used for Michelle Obama? The blind guy?”
And then The BloodHound Gang? Really… gonna win her back with this?
But then we go way back to the 90’s. I think I may have used a few of these songs for the same purpose. Regardless of generation, all broken heart mixtapes have a Cure track. When I mixed in The Cure, I think I had to pull if off a tape. Damn. Do they still make blank tapes?
I forget who that tape was for. I wonder if she still has it? It probably ended up in a gutter somewhere. Some guy remixed I bet.
Ah well, Yo Boy Billy. I wish you the best. It may be time for some “Journey.”
Posted on September 21, 2008
I got some lip from a ROBOT
I called to check on room availabilities at a few hotels in Towson for my parents’ visit next month. Google, of course, gave me a few pushpins just a few miles up the road, so I started calling. What’s amazing is that with each call to the front desks, I was redirected to a call center somewhere else to field my questions on room rates and availabilities. I’m a mile away asking a question to a lady who could be my neighbor, and soon I’m talking to someone on another part of the world who pronounces Baltimore wrong.
On one call, I was connected to Lilly, who spoke remarkably crisply and quite lovely. She asked the standard questions, and when it was my turn to respond, my questions were standard as well. “I’m wondering if you have any rooms for the weekend of October 4th?”
“That weekend. Let me check. I am checking. Yes, we have a standard suite available with one king bed and an attached living room for a rate of $116 a night, with cancellation up until the day of for no charge. You can book now if you have a major credit card or online at our website.”
I asked a follow-up. “I may have more guests, can you tell me if you have another room for that weekend?”
“You can cancel up until the day of arrival for no charge either over the phone at this number or on our website,” she answered.
“No, I’m not asking that. I have another….”
“I can’t answer that,” she interrupted. “You can cancel for no extra charge by calling this number or online at our website.”
“No, I need to know…” I started to ask until she repeated the cancellation routine. Now I’m thinking. Although very human, she sounded very mechanical.
While she was talking, I interrupted her with some Ferris Bueller, “I’m afraid that in my weakened condition, I could take a nasty spill down the stairs and subject myself to further school absences.”
She cut me off mid-stride with, “I cannot help you with that. Good-bye.”
God knows I’m a fan of the geeky side of things and wouldn’t mind having a robot of my own to answer questions directed my way, but at some point, we, the customers, need to be right again.
Posted on July 25, 2008
6 hours ahead to 3 hours behind
On Woensdag (Wednesday), we left Amsterdam for Reno. Well, we attempted to leave Amsterdam for Reno. The daily Usairways flight from AMS to PHL was full and rather than roll the dice on one flight we figured a safer bet would be to roll the dice on two relatively full flights out of Frankfurt. And if we didn’t make these flights? Hey, we get to spend the night in Germany! Fortunately, we had three days to meet my folks and grandparents in Reno. This was Wednesday and we were to meet them Friday.
We bought two tickets for the ICE train to Germany. It’s a high-speed train that tops out at 175MPH between cities! Although the room we were in held six, we only shared it with one lady who played Sudoku in German. Sudoku is the international language of road warriors.
Upon arrival in Frankfurt, we only had an hour before the first of our two options for the states so we sprinted straight for the ticket counter. This flight was to Charlotte and from there we had a few options to get to Phoenix and then off to Reno.
I didn’t have to understand German to know the agent wasn’t happy about us showing up an hour before departure for an international flight. I’m bearded with a backpack, smiling telling her, “Today, tomorrow, next week. Whenever. No stress.”
“Run!” She says. “You may make it.”
So much for pleasantries.
At security I got manhandled. I should have paid him for the attention he gave me. Security was both fast and friendly and done at the gate so the line was short. (The boarding was nearly finished so there was no line.)
We were the second from the last of the freeloaders to get on and sat separate from each other which was unfortunate because typically I get the meaty portions of my wife’s meal. My seatmate didn’t seem too interested in obliging me in my coach class habits. “You gonna eat your fat?”
Landed in CLT and I made the command decision to call it a day and spend the night in a hotel. The Phoenix flights were full – as were the connecting flights to Reno and rather than spend all day cramped in a plane, we’d rest and try again in the morning. I called the same hotel we stay at with the airline since it has several nasty food options within a walk that all sounded pretty good after a day of traveling – Waffle House, Cracker Barrel, and some sloppy buffet place with squeaky green beans and overly buttered rolls.
Looking at the next day’s flight options, the most open westbound flight was an early San Francisco flight that would get us in at 9 am PT. We could spend the day in San Francisco and then take an early morning Gotobus to Reno for $30 each. We found this option after Googling, “bus Reno from San Francisco”.
And this is where we are now… hours from the bus ride to Reno! The bus caters to the casino crowd and with a few extra bucks you can buy some chips for Harrah’s and get a free steak. Since the bus leaves from Chinatown, I’m hoping it’s full of aging Chinese ladies off for a day at the casino. And us, two weary travelers with bulging backpacks and well-used iPods.
Posted on July 16, 2008
My childhood “Boy named Sue” moment
In grade school, we wore navy blue pants and white dress shirts. The boys had triangular collars, while the girls wore the rounded ones that little Catholic school girls wear. There was an unfortunate era when my sister and I wore the same size shirt even though we were two years apart. And, of course, there was that day. One of those days that sticks with you forever and came back to me the other day when I was trying on used sweaters at an outdoor market in Amsterdam.
“This is a girl’s sweater,” I said to Susan.
“Oh no, it’s not. It looks good on you,” she answered.
“Irrelevant how it looks, the buttons are on the wrong side.”
Back to grade school. The unlucky day must have been around 5th grade, and it was made clear to me by my teacher that I was wearing a girl’s shirt. She asked, of course, in front of the class, “Are you wearing your sister’s clothes?”
The class turned and erupted in laughter.
“Stork-dork’s wearing a girl’s shirt!”
So my question is this: was it I who was half asleep while dressing, watching Woody Woodpecker, or was it my father who was half asleep while he ironed our shirts that morning? Where were the parental checks and balances to sound the buzzer for these things? Was this just a “boy named Sue” moment in which my father tested me on how I would handle the rigors of manhood? The only thing it has taught me is to pay extra attention to which side the buttons are on and what shape the collar is.
Posted on July 5, 2008
saves the day – saves the dog
Who knows… it’s noon and I hear someone yelling from outside our boat. It’s in Dutch of German or something I can’t place because I’m asleep. I say, “what… huh? ok.” And then she says in clear English, “Over here!” while waving from the window. This is the last clear English she will speak.
“oh… yes…” I answer putting on my glasses and walking to the window.
I thought it was about the trash outside in the can. I don’t know when trash day is.
Then I thought it was about the keys that have been in the door since last night – apparently.
And then I realize it is about the dog, that is barking, and has been barking for an hour, and occasionally woke me up, but not enough to do anything about.
She leads me across the road to a cool little boxer/mix that is tied to a very short leash up against a fence. But, if abandoned, the owners did a great job showing love by leaving a box of water near her mouth. (since trampled upon and leaking.)
She asks to call the police.
“What number?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” she replies. “Do you have a phone book?”
We’re looking through the book for the cops. “I don’t have a phone.” I gesture with a shrug and a phone sign with my thumb and pink and a “NO” with my hands.
She flags down some local kids who call the cops…
I’m thinking – even if i did call the cops. What the shit do I say when they ask where I am?
Either way, the cops show and Susan wakes up and we’re doing our best to tell them whats up and they haul the mutt off…
But all I can wonder is, what if lost dogs in Holland are handled with a gun shot and thanks for the phone call kid? What if I drag the wife out of bed and introduce her to the cops and tell her about the phonebook and the lack of cell phone and the box of water and all she see’s is the cop pull out his gun and fire and say, “thanks for the call, Mister.”
Posted on July 4, 2008
Assimilation
The whole houseboat is IKEA! We’re in a neighborhood a bit outside of Central Amsterdam. Although it’s only a 30-minute walk or an easy tram or bus ride into the center of it all, we are far enough away to feel more local. Buying a cup of coffee yesterday down the road, a man asked, “Did you guys just move in?”
“Nope, here for three weeks though, we’ll see you soon,” I say
“Cope back,” He answers, “We have great food.”
This windmill is down the road.
Day one – Philly to Amsterdam. Departed at 6pm – landed at 830am.
Our trip started in Philly thumbing our way onto an eastbound flight to Amsterdam… Although there were still a few seats in the back open, we dropped a hundred bucks on the upgrades to sit up front. Awkward though as passengers walked by to their seats in steerage making comments about the first class ‘accommodations.’
“Could you imagine spending a thousand dollars more to sit up here?” They didn’t know about the dessert choices.
I kept reading my complimentary copy “Forbes” and laughing that we were riding for free – suckers.
While the commoners in the back were complaining about having to pay for the extra bag, I ate my duck and made-to-order salad. I chose the fresh cheese and croutons with the lemongrass soy dressing. The meal was surprisingly flavorful although I had already sucked down a bottle of wine. The flight attendant liked the fact we were commoners in disguise and topped us off each time.
The funny thing upon landing was that we were to check in at 4 pm but got off the train at 9 am. Neither of us could figure how to dial the payphone so we decided to wander around for a bit until show time. (We bought a five Euro card and dialed what we thought was the owner’s number. Each time my wife got an angry Dutchman telling us never to call again! “THIS IS A PRIVATE NUMBER” he spoke in flawless English.) Stashing our bags in a locker, we ran off to see the city and acquaint ourselves with the places we like to see more of over the next 21 days.
After several hours of roaming, the wall of fatigue hit and suddenly we were hot, tired, and ready for a shower. “Let’s find the houseboat… maybe it’s open.” We agreed.
And then the rain started. Hard rain!
We gave in and dialed out on our cell phone for the boat owner.
It’s 3 pm.
“I thought you’d be here earlier? The boats have been open. Key under the plant.”
And then it was a shower, a walk to the grocery store for supplies for a few meals, dinner, and bed.
Posted on May 22, 2008
The summer of fun just got ‘funner’
With her off for the summer, I ‘bid’ to have some weeks off with her. I was awarded six weeks from the end of June through early August. Eager to kick the summer off, I asked for—and was granted—a drop of a trip at the end of June that leads up to my vacation. Now, I have the last ten days of June off, effectively extending my six-week vacation by an additional ten days!
Our plans include a few days in upstate New York with her family in an area she discovered on the show “Cash and Treasures.” We’ll follow that with three weeks on a houseboat in Amsterdam, where we plan to relax, see some good shows, and enjoy great food. Then, we’ll top it off with a week in Reno with my family, running around dude ranches and the like.
And then—still a few weeks at home in the new house!
Posted on July 31, 2007
Simpsons – opening night
We went to the opening night of The Simpsons Movie. THE opening night. The midnight showing at select theaters. First of all—movie = awesome. But it was the crowd that made it exceptionally fun. Laugh Out Loud Funny. One of the treats of the episodes is that there is no laugh track, so they can squeeze in many more jokes that you would normally miss because of the laughing. In the theater, many jokes flew by because of the laughing… but the catharsis of laughing with your peers was a hell of a good time.
The movie was supposed to begin at midnight, and as you can imagine, MANY people were there early to save dozens of seats for their friends. Now, get this—at 12:15, there was still no movie. Grumblings about something maybe referring to issues with the curtain. I get up to grab some water and hear a manager say to an employee, “Get theaters 15 and 16 cleaned now!”
It flies right by me.
12:20 and she asks what’s up.
I say, “Now that you mention it…” and I told her about the manager.
She says, “I’m gonna stake out a seat! I’ll call you.”
She leaves and the manager indeed makes a speech.
“Let’s make this as easy as possible. We’re having issues with the screen. We’ve opened up theaters 15 and 16…”
Unable to finish. Mass exodus!
I call my wife… she has seats for us.
Now, in the new theater.
More issues.
12:30 and nothing.
People heckle—but as Simpsons fans—it’s Simpsons heckles.
“Worst theater, ever!”
And then a “Ha…Ha…”
And Grandpa Simpson said something.
The previews start… and then they stop.
And more heckles.
And they start again and stop several times.
And through it all, the crowd laughed, never getting too excited.
And when the movie started—it was laugh out loud funny!
Posted on November 20, 2006
I was a Nintendo Fanboy at Five AM
I got to Walmart at 4:30 am armed with a large coffee and my hacked PSP, ready to play an hour and a half of ExciteBike on a Nintendo emulator until the store opened. The Wii was to go on sale at 6 am, and I was number 11 in line. Rumor had it there were at least 20 to go around and only one purchase per person. I was feeling pretty good except for the fact that it was too cold to play my PSP, and soon my coffee would be gone, with nothing to keep me warm but the glow of the Coke machine I was leaning against. By the time the store opened, there were more than sixty people in line. A few were there to buy “X-mas gifts,” but upon further questioning, we all learned the game was for them. The crowd was all over twenty except for one kid with his mom. There was a mix of guys and girls in the line, and not all the girls were there with their boyfriends/husbands. I was wearing a Nintendo hat. I was there for myself!
The mission started the night before at 9:30 pm. The Wii was to go on sale at midnight, and after some searching online, I found the nearest 24-hour Walmart to be 30 miles away in Aberdeen, MD. I told Susan, “I’m going to Walmart, with or without you.” She said I had to drive. Off we went.
iPod – Check.
PSP – Check.
Cellphone – Check.
Digital Camera – Check.
The line was already sixty deep when we got there. As I surveyed the situation, I listened to the rumors circulating through the line.
“I hear they only have 30 Wiis,” one said.
“The cops are on their way; apparently, this line will be considered null and void. The real line starts at ten,” came from a little deeper in the pack.
“Someone got shot in line for the Playstation 3! I think it was at a Walmart,” near the back.
More cop rumors were floating around, and I did see some commotion bubbling at the front of the line. Although I felt pretty certain I wouldn’t be getting a Wii from this store, I was interested to see what was going to happen. It was a few minutes before ten, and if this line was to be dispersed by the authorities, I wanted a good view—from a distance. I told Susan things could get ugly.
The cops did come but not to disperse the line as suggested. The guys in the first twenty spots had been there for days and had self-labeled stickers on their shirts identifying their place in history. Number one had a cleverly labeled note, “ONE.” Some guys had come in and started their own line with their own labels at the entrance to another door, and the cops were called by the first pack to sort things out. Not the excitement I was hoping for, but I did get to hear a fanboy say “those guys are cutting in line” to a Maryland State Trooper. I was hoping for a “no cuts, no butts, no coconuts.”
We left Wii-less.
Plan B was to hit the Walmart down the street from the house that opened at 6 am. Back at home, I set my alarm and laid out my clothes and gear. I was out the door four and a half hours later and in line!
Approaching the crowd of only ten, I asked, “Is this the line for the new Elmo doll?”
He who had been waiting the longest (number one) had the strongest opinion of the joke. “F#@K OFF and go tickle this!” Soon he relaxed when we talked about Zelda, and I gave him a piece of gum.
With less than half an hour to zero hour, the manager came out and told us how it would go down. Although there were over sixty in line, he told us up front there were only twenty units for sale. He counted the pack (me at 11!) and told those over number twenty to leave unless they wanted to stay and shop for something else. Number one told them to stay and buy some pantyhose and toiletries.
The back of the pack slowly dispersed, and a girl in front of me started feeling guilty that she would get one, but a few moms in the back wouldn’t. Her friend, much like General Patton but in a Zelda stocking cap, gave her support.
“You’ve earned this! We’ve earned this! We’ve waited! We haven’t slept! We’ve got a right to play Zelda from now until we have to pee or not pee—maybe poo! Don’t leave me now! Never leave a man behind! Never leave a woman behind in a line at Walmart with a bunch of nerds! Now get your money ready and let’s buy us a Nintendo!”
Number one, feeling guilty himself, stopped to rethink his position as number one. Maybe the moms deserved a Wii more than him? “Hey lady, do you want my spot?”
“Of course!” she said, turning back from her walk to the car.
“Two thousand dollars! And you gotta buy me some toiletries and a Tickle Me Elmo!” he yelled back and laughed until the manager walked back and suggested he keep quiet.
A few minutes to go. The manager told us this would be done real orderly. He’d let two in at a time, and the consoles would be on sale at the front of the store. One per person, and if you wanted any games or accessories, you’d have to go to your car and leave the Wii there and come back. None of us felt this would be a good idea, and we agreed we’d come back later for games.
I played the bundled sports pack until noon and went back for Zelda. For the few minutes I was there, the phone rang non-stop in the electronics section. “We have no Wiis and don’t know when there will be more,” the clerk would answer without listening to the question. She told me she was ‘telepathic or whatever you call it,’ and then asked me if I could believe there was a bunch of ‘weirdos’ outside all night waiting for this thing.
I said, “What a bunch of nerds. Can you get me a Wii ‘Zelda’ from the counter?”