"Do y'all mind if I bless the food?"
"Not at all," and various statements of the sort, were the simultaneous responses. Tripp, myself, and John, had gone to eat with the designated pilot examiner and Cracker Barrel for lunch, and he was the one asking our cooperation in his returning thanks for the meal.
"Lord, we thank you for this day," he began. Head bowed, I listened intently as he continued on with the list of his grattitudes. The meal. Our safety. Fellowship. It was a brief and concise acknowledgement for the blessings he'd received. In short order, he wrapped up with one final thank-you to the big man. "And we thank you for Joey's checkride this morning, and for allowing him to pass."
I shot a tremendous grin towards the table. Amen, I thought. Err... I mean, ROGEE!!!
Yep, yesterday I couldn't spell commercial pilot and today I are one. I passed my commerical multi-engine checkride this morning, and the final checkride that I have to complete for this school, my commercial-single add-on, is slated to take place at 9:30 in the morning.
I apologize for the recent silence; I promise that I have not forgotten about y'all. Cross-countries turned out to be a rather grueling experience, and each night I mainly just crashed from the tiring experience. The great news is that assuming I pass tomorrow's checkride, I'm done!!!! Well, at least with this school. The lingering question is, what next? I'm unable to get in contact with several people to whom I need to speak in order to formulate my next plans, but despite that frustration I'm feeling great. Thank y'all so much for sticking with me, and I'll get you an update on the final checkride ASAP.
One last river to cross!!! (For now, at least.)
Joey
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Day 150 - Ridin' The Storm Out
Position Report: Tulsa, Oklahoma
Status: Full of pizza that, despite its place of purchase, tastes suspiciously like it came from the Wal-Mart freezer section.
Mood: Marginal (Redneck colloquialism: “fair to middlin’”)
The delays abound, my friends. Our route yesterday was Concord, North Carolina, to Richmond, Virginia, continuing on to Knoxville, Tennessee, and finally terminating back in Bowling Green last night. Obviously we flew much of the day, stopping only in Knoxville to wait out a thunderstorm for a few hours.
Today was much the same tune, departing from Bowling Green late for weather delay, and then having to wait several hours on a storm in Springfield, Missouri. That storm passed long enough for us to depart, only to have to divert to Tulsa instead of the original planned stop in Dallas. We’re ferrying an aircraft to maintenance, so the flight will continue, most likely in the morning. The show must go on.
During one of our detours around a line of storms today, a song popped into my head; REO Speedwagon’s “Riding the Storm Out.” I watched the cell pass out my window on the left side of the aircraft and hummed the chords, thinking about how that had not only illustrated my last few days’ events, but was also a figurative representation of my current status; imagery befitting my attempts to weather this period of time long enough to get back where I want to be.
Question is, where do I want to be? Home? Back on an ambulance and pursuing my flying on my my off days? Or somewhere else? I’m considering going back to Jasper when I finish here, perhaps on a longer term basis. Obviously it will be outside of school and therefore not subject to their rules, regulations, whims, lies, and general insanity. This will be just as me; Joey. The Lloyd. El conquistador. Scourge of the skies. Conqueror of limousines. There of my own free will and doing what I want to do; all the while surrounded by people I respect, in a place that I love. What do y’all think about this? It has its ups and downs, obviously, as does everything. The great thing is that I’ll gain free experience and flight time there, as well as make great connections! The financial side of it is still “up in the air” (no pun intended), but hopefully that will get hammered down somewhat tomorrow.
Until then, there’s just about 20 more hours to go on cross-countries. It finally feels like I’m getting somewhere (slowly but surely). I have no idea what tomorrow will hold, both figuratively and literally. I’m just hoping for the best, thinking that good things are bound to continue since this is obviously what I’m supposed to do. I’m just trying my best to focus on one thing…
Ridin’ the storm out.
Joey
Status: Full of pizza that, despite its place of purchase, tastes suspiciously like it came from the Wal-Mart freezer section.
Mood: Marginal (Redneck colloquialism: “fair to middlin’”)
The delays abound, my friends. Our route yesterday was Concord, North Carolina, to Richmond, Virginia, continuing on to Knoxville, Tennessee, and finally terminating back in Bowling Green last night. Obviously we flew much of the day, stopping only in Knoxville to wait out a thunderstorm for a few hours.
Today was much the same tune, departing from Bowling Green late for weather delay, and then having to wait several hours on a storm in Springfield, Missouri. That storm passed long enough for us to depart, only to have to divert to Tulsa instead of the original planned stop in Dallas. We’re ferrying an aircraft to maintenance, so the flight will continue, most likely in the morning. The show must go on.
During one of our detours around a line of storms today, a song popped into my head; REO Speedwagon’s “Riding the Storm Out.” I watched the cell pass out my window on the left side of the aircraft and hummed the chords, thinking about how that had not only illustrated my last few days’ events, but was also a figurative representation of my current status; imagery befitting my attempts to weather this period of time long enough to get back where I want to be.
Question is, where do I want to be? Home? Back on an ambulance and pursuing my flying on my my off days? Or somewhere else? I’m considering going back to Jasper when I finish here, perhaps on a longer term basis. Obviously it will be outside of school and therefore not subject to their rules, regulations, whims, lies, and general insanity. This will be just as me; Joey. The Lloyd. El conquistador. Scourge of the skies. Conqueror of limousines. There of my own free will and doing what I want to do; all the while surrounded by people I respect, in a place that I love. What do y’all think about this? It has its ups and downs, obviously, as does everything. The great thing is that I’ll gain free experience and flight time there, as well as make great connections! The financial side of it is still “up in the air” (no pun intended), but hopefully that will get hammered down somewhat tomorrow.
Until then, there’s just about 20 more hours to go on cross-countries. It finally feels like I’m getting somewhere (slowly but surely). I have no idea what tomorrow will hold, both figuratively and literally. I’m just hoping for the best, thinking that good things are bound to continue since this is obviously what I’m supposed to do. I’m just trying my best to focus on one thing…
Ridin’ the storm out.
Joey
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Day 148 - Sweet Home Alabama... Part II
Position Report: Concord, North Carolina
Status: Slightly further progressed, most still delayed
Mood: Remains debatable
Ok you non-commenting bunch of slugs, short and sweet tonight. The issue of the waste of my time becomes paramount as the days progress. As was expected, yesterday was a total waste of oxygen and energy as I basically watched the walls of a company apartment settle into the Jacksonville soil, although I did find great enjoyment in feeding a flock of geese that had visited the complex’s pond. Such beautiful creatures, they truly are. Hunkered down on my heels in the grass, I watched the gorgeous birds peck mere inches from me at the bits of bread that I had offered them. It was funny to me that they could fly anytime they so chose while I had to wait on a pencil-pusher to give the ok. No bother though, they were magnificent animals and having them surrounding me at a range of mere inches truly brightened my day. The only other glimmer of hope came at 1 pm with the notification by the company dispatch office that I would be flying to my beloved Jasper the following day (today).
Naturally I accepted their aeronautical olive branch, and by 9 am this morning we were rocketing toward Alabama. I got the privilege of seeing many of the folks that I have come to love like cherished members of an extended family, and I can’t describe how good that felt. I basically went crazy; like a kid in a candy store. Seeing The Boss and Ed again was like a lifeline in the midst of my frustration; a reason to believe. Two of my staunchest new supporters had come out to see me, and it meant wonders to me. When the Boss pulled his tired old Cadillac up to our aircraft and extended unto me his hand, coupled with one of the most genuine smiles in the history of mankind, my soul warmed while my heart simultaneously shattered in a deeply interesting dichotomy of human emotion. My hero had missed me, and I had surely missed him. I have got to get back here, period.
It has been said that all good things come to an end, and so it happened today. My time in aviation heaven came to a premature close, and I now write you from the confines of yet another non-descript apartment in another equally non-descript city. Concord, North Carolina, to be exact (I did see Jack Roush today, though). It was our next leg after Jasper. We had intended to continue to Richmond, but after a sufficiently nauseating company mix-up, we find ourselves stuck here tonight. Without delving too deeply into the issue of my internal angers and frustrations, we’ll just say that it’s getting harder and harder not to pull the handles and bail out altogether. I’m so tired of having my time wasted by these people that words completely escape me. Exactly how long I will last without having a patented Joey come-apart is anyone's guess. I’m just praying for a swift end to this interminable period of mobile imprisonment, and an agreeable resolution to my internal plight; specifically one that places me back in my…
Sweet home Alabama.
On deck for tomorrow: Richmond, Virginia. It they let us go, that is.
Joey
Status: Slightly further progressed, most still delayed
Mood: Remains debatable
Ok you non-commenting bunch of slugs, short and sweet tonight. The issue of the waste of my time becomes paramount as the days progress. As was expected, yesterday was a total waste of oxygen and energy as I basically watched the walls of a company apartment settle into the Jacksonville soil, although I did find great enjoyment in feeding a flock of geese that had visited the complex’s pond. Such beautiful creatures, they truly are. Hunkered down on my heels in the grass, I watched the gorgeous birds peck mere inches from me at the bits of bread that I had offered them. It was funny to me that they could fly anytime they so chose while I had to wait on a pencil-pusher to give the ok. No bother though, they were magnificent animals and having them surrounding me at a range of mere inches truly brightened my day. The only other glimmer of hope came at 1 pm with the notification by the company dispatch office that I would be flying to my beloved Jasper the following day (today).
Naturally I accepted their aeronautical olive branch, and by 9 am this morning we were rocketing toward Alabama. I got the privilege of seeing many of the folks that I have come to love like cherished members of an extended family, and I can’t describe how good that felt. I basically went crazy; like a kid in a candy store. Seeing The Boss and Ed again was like a lifeline in the midst of my frustration; a reason to believe. Two of my staunchest new supporters had come out to see me, and it meant wonders to me. When the Boss pulled his tired old Cadillac up to our aircraft and extended unto me his hand, coupled with one of the most genuine smiles in the history of mankind, my soul warmed while my heart simultaneously shattered in a deeply interesting dichotomy of human emotion. My hero had missed me, and I had surely missed him. I have got to get back here, period.
It has been said that all good things come to an end, and so it happened today. My time in aviation heaven came to a premature close, and I now write you from the confines of yet another non-descript apartment in another equally non-descript city. Concord, North Carolina, to be exact (I did see Jack Roush today, though). It was our next leg after Jasper. We had intended to continue to Richmond, but after a sufficiently nauseating company mix-up, we find ourselves stuck here tonight. Without delving too deeply into the issue of my internal angers and frustrations, we’ll just say that it’s getting harder and harder not to pull the handles and bail out altogether. I’m so tired of having my time wasted by these people that words completely escape me. Exactly how long I will last without having a patented Joey come-apart is anyone's guess. I’m just praying for a swift end to this interminable period of mobile imprisonment, and an agreeable resolution to my internal plight; specifically one that places me back in my…
Sweet home Alabama.
On deck for tomorrow: Richmond, Virginia. It they let us go, that is.
Joey
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Day 146 - Vic
Position Report: Jacksonville, Florida
Status: Delayed/Neglected
Mood: Debatable
Today was the first day of cross-countries. I’m flying with a pretty cool dude named Tripp, and our flight(s) today consisted of a morning departure from Bowling Green to Charlotte, North Carolina; we then continued on to Jacksonville, Florida, the termination of our day’s routing.
I find myself particularly irritated, because I once again find myself in the fabled position of “hurry up and wait.” You see, I was notified that the Tripp will be flying with another fellow tomorrow while your’s truly will be… Uh…. Well… Let’s just say that it’s a good thing that I have a few movies on my laptop.
Company dispatch was kind enough to advise me of this fact after we had landed, which managed to spin me into a dimension of irritation that we’ll not discuss here. I’m having some major issues here, and I freely admit that they are largely attributable to homesickness. In fact, the desire to be out of here is overwhelming. The issue now is that I’m homesick twice; homesick for my actual home, and homesick for my beloved Jasper. Compounding these issues is the continued (and expected) ration of crap that the company feeds me, thereby prolonging my stay and exacerbating my sadness.
By 6 p.m. I was pacing outside some random apartment complex in which the company had stuck us for the night, spitting nails and breathing fire. All I want to do is finish this mess and go home. A reasonable request, I think. Questions bounced around in my head furiously as I pondered the future. Is this ever going to end? Is there not a better way? And just then I remembered a statement that Mr. Page had once made: “You’re not married to any one flight school.” In a flash my trusty PDA phone was in action, scrolling through the speed dials with fervor and intensity rivaling any bookworm with a slide rule. I scrolled until I found Sara’s number, an instructor/friend from Jasper. After an enriching conversation with her, in which I inquired about returning there to complete all subsequent ratings after I finish this cross-country “training,” I felt somewhat better.
I felt even better when a striped Crown Victoria rounded the corner and halted. Black and white checkers adorned the side, and the word “TAXI” glowed like a beacon from the roof. A mustachioed New Yorker sat behind the wheel; a seemingly blunt and brash fellow named Vic. Vic is an independent contractor that works 7 days a week, and is the exclusive cab driver for the company, so he is directly contacted via cell phone anytime a flight crew needs a ride. He had driven us from the airport to the apartment, and had now returned to take us to supper. The 55-year-old chauffeured us through greater Jacksonville at what seemed like the speed of light, speaking endlessly about a little bit of everything. He was an approachable fellow with one of those natural personalities that you can’t help but like; outwardly gruff but easily approachable and extremely outgoing, despite the frequent, heavily-accented vulgarities that flew from behind his silver mustache. The quintessential Brooklyn native he definitely was.
In fact, he was so pleasant that we invited him to eat with us, and we bought his supper for being so kind and helpful to us. He took us to a hole-in-the-wall sports bar & grill, where we enjoyed shrimp, chicken, and laughter until we were literally in tears. Vic loved every minute of it, putting on a comedy routine that belonged on a stage somewhere.
But there was a distinct sadness about Vic; a hidden loneliness that was apparent to me by the way in which he latched onto people. These suspicions were confirmed as we pulled back into the apartment complex, and Vic began to speak.
“Thank you guys,” he said. “No, really, thank you. You guys have made my day, my week, my month! I’ve had a really #$%^ty week and you guys made me feel good. I was just sitting at home by myself watching 60 Minutes when you guys called. Most of the pilots aren’t nice to me, like they think they’re better than me or something. Like they lost their #$%^ing personality when they learned to fly. You guys are really cool. Thank you for everything.”
My heart melted. I could see that Vic wore no wedding band, and I had the mental image of him spending countless nights alone at his house, watching television, hoping the telephone would summon him to a cab fare, if for no other reason than to give him someone to talk to. I hope I’m incorrect, but the way that it touched him for us to show friendship to him suggested to me that I probably wasn’t.
Sometimes it takes little things like that to remind you of certain blessings in life that other people may not enjoy, something as simple as a friendship. The encounter certainly made me think. It made me think about y’all, my friends that don’t read, and my friends in Jasper; specifically how much I want to see each one of you again. The longing for the presence of my friends and family was made even worse by the realization of Vic’s plight, but it also made me think that sometimes, maybe it’s good to be homesick...
It means that you have a home to go home to.
Until next time,
Joey
Status: Delayed/Neglected
Mood: Debatable
Today was the first day of cross-countries. I’m flying with a pretty cool dude named Tripp, and our flight(s) today consisted of a morning departure from Bowling Green to Charlotte, North Carolina; we then continued on to Jacksonville, Florida, the termination of our day’s routing.
I find myself particularly irritated, because I once again find myself in the fabled position of “hurry up and wait.” You see, I was notified that the Tripp will be flying with another fellow tomorrow while your’s truly will be… Uh…. Well… Let’s just say that it’s a good thing that I have a few movies on my laptop.
Company dispatch was kind enough to advise me of this fact after we had landed, which managed to spin me into a dimension of irritation that we’ll not discuss here. I’m having some major issues here, and I freely admit that they are largely attributable to homesickness. In fact, the desire to be out of here is overwhelming. The issue now is that I’m homesick twice; homesick for my actual home, and homesick for my beloved Jasper. Compounding these issues is the continued (and expected) ration of crap that the company feeds me, thereby prolonging my stay and exacerbating my sadness.
By 6 p.m. I was pacing outside some random apartment complex in which the company had stuck us for the night, spitting nails and breathing fire. All I want to do is finish this mess and go home. A reasonable request, I think. Questions bounced around in my head furiously as I pondered the future. Is this ever going to end? Is there not a better way? And just then I remembered a statement that Mr. Page had once made: “You’re not married to any one flight school.” In a flash my trusty PDA phone was in action, scrolling through the speed dials with fervor and intensity rivaling any bookworm with a slide rule. I scrolled until I found Sara’s number, an instructor/friend from Jasper. After an enriching conversation with her, in which I inquired about returning there to complete all subsequent ratings after I finish this cross-country “training,” I felt somewhat better.
I felt even better when a striped Crown Victoria rounded the corner and halted. Black and white checkers adorned the side, and the word “TAXI” glowed like a beacon from the roof. A mustachioed New Yorker sat behind the wheel; a seemingly blunt and brash fellow named Vic. Vic is an independent contractor that works 7 days a week, and is the exclusive cab driver for the company, so he is directly contacted via cell phone anytime a flight crew needs a ride. He had driven us from the airport to the apartment, and had now returned to take us to supper. The 55-year-old chauffeured us through greater Jacksonville at what seemed like the speed of light, speaking endlessly about a little bit of everything. He was an approachable fellow with one of those natural personalities that you can’t help but like; outwardly gruff but easily approachable and extremely outgoing, despite the frequent, heavily-accented vulgarities that flew from behind his silver mustache. The quintessential Brooklyn native he definitely was.
In fact, he was so pleasant that we invited him to eat with us, and we bought his supper for being so kind and helpful to us. He took us to a hole-in-the-wall sports bar & grill, where we enjoyed shrimp, chicken, and laughter until we were literally in tears. Vic loved every minute of it, putting on a comedy routine that belonged on a stage somewhere.
But there was a distinct sadness about Vic; a hidden loneliness that was apparent to me by the way in which he latched onto people. These suspicions were confirmed as we pulled back into the apartment complex, and Vic began to speak.
“Thank you guys,” he said. “No, really, thank you. You guys have made my day, my week, my month! I’ve had a really #$%^ty week and you guys made me feel good. I was just sitting at home by myself watching 60 Minutes when you guys called. Most of the pilots aren’t nice to me, like they think they’re better than me or something. Like they lost their #$%^ing personality when they learned to fly. You guys are really cool. Thank you for everything.”
My heart melted. I could see that Vic wore no wedding band, and I had the mental image of him spending countless nights alone at his house, watching television, hoping the telephone would summon him to a cab fare, if for no other reason than to give him someone to talk to. I hope I’m incorrect, but the way that it touched him for us to show friendship to him suggested to me that I probably wasn’t.
Sometimes it takes little things like that to remind you of certain blessings in life that other people may not enjoy, something as simple as a friendship. The encounter certainly made me think. It made me think about y’all, my friends that don’t read, and my friends in Jasper; specifically how much I want to see each one of you again. The longing for the presence of my friends and family was made even worse by the realization of Vic’s plight, but it also made me think that sometimes, maybe it’s good to be homesick...
It means that you have a home to go home to.
Until next time,
Joey
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Day 143 - Geeeeear Stop!
Mission accomplished, checkride passed. I had to go fly the exact same off-the-wall approach, but I got it this time. I’m now officially a dually-designated, consummated, consecrated, blessed, and totally insane, multi-engine instrument pilot. Rogee! And as promised, to celebrate the passing of the ride, as well as to commemorate my last flight into Walker County, one final low approach was conducted, as well as one last call of “gear stop” over the radio, with a natural stretching of the “e” sound. And we’re still not exactly sure what “gear stop” even means!
Following my arrival back in Walker County, freshly-minted instrument ticket in hand, I went to lunch with the great Dan “Nasty” McClung to celebrate my ride and discuss future business ventures that he and I have in the works (mostly he). Dan treated me to a meal at the country club, as well as my second major moving experience, when he presented me with my very own Red Eagle Air Sports (Dan’s air show team) challenge coin. I didn’t even know they existed, as I’ve never seen anyone else with one, nor had I seen him present one to anyone else. I honestly don't know of anyone else to whom he has given one, and I would know, considering the fit that everyone else through over my autographed Red Eagle poster. Should another pilot have been given one, I would have seen it right beside the taunting display of an accompanying middle finger of said pilot. Regardless, the glistening half-dollar-sized silver medallion, bearing the Red Eagle logo on front and team motto on back, now has a permanent place in my wallet as the very intent of a challenge coin is that it is to be carried with you at all times. For those unaware, the legend of the challenge coin goes something like this:
“Air warfare was a new phenomenon during World War I. When the army created flying squadrons they were manned with volunteer pilots from every walk of civilian life. While some of the early pilots came from working class or rural backgrounds, many were wealthy Ivy League students who withdrew from classes in the middle of the year, drawn by the adventure and romance of the new form of warfare.
As the legend goes, one such Ivy Leaguer, a wealthy lieutenant, ordered small, solid-bronze medallions (or coins) struck, which he then presented to the other pilots in his squadron as mementos of their service together. The coin was gold-plated, bore the squadron’s insignia, and was quite valuable. One of the pilots in the squadron, who had never owned anything like the coin, placed it in a leather pouch he wore around his neck for safekeeping. A short while later, this pilot’s aircraft was heavily damaged by ground fire (other sources claim it was an aerial dogfight), forcing him to land behind enemy lines and allowing him to be captured by the Germans. The Germans confiscated the personal belongings from his pockets, but they didn’t catch the leather pouch around his neck. On his way to a permanent prisoner of war facility, he was held overnight in a small German-held French village near the front. During the night, the town was bombarded by the British, creating enough confusion to allow the pilot to escape.
The pilot avoided German patrols by donning civilian attire, but all of his identification had been confiscated so he had no way to prove his identity. With great difficulty, he crept across no-man’s land and made contact with a French patrol. Unfortunately for him, the French had been on the lookout for German saboteurs dressed as civilians. The French mistook the American pilot for a German saboteur and immediately prepared to execute him.
This challenge coin commemorates the imminent promotion of Marine Colonel Yurovich to CAG of CVW-9.
Desperate to prove his allegiance and without any identification, the pilot pulled out the coin from his leather pouch and showed it to his French captors. One of the Frenchmen recognized the unit insignia on the coin and delayed the execution long enough to confirm the pilot’s identity.
Once the pilot safely returned to his squadron, it became a tradition for all members to carry their coin at all times. To ensure compliance, the pilots would challenge each other to produce the coin. If the challenged couldn’t produce the coin, he was required to buy a drink of choice for the challenger; if the challenged could produce the coin, the challenger would purchase the drink.”
Thank God for Wikipedia.
Being a former fighter pilot himself, this bit of aviation folklore/military tradition is right up Dan's alley. He made it very clear to me that the presentation of my own Red Eagle coin, unavailable for purchase at any price, symbolized my acceptance into an elite brotherhood of airmen. In fact, he flat refused to simply hand it to me; it had to be palmed from one aviator to the next in the form of a handshake. Folks, he might as well have handed me a million dollars! In fact, the money would have meant less than this token of kinship. When someone of that caliber acknowledges that you are of the same fabric as he, and extends that hand of brotherhood, it's absolutely earth-shaking. No amount of money can purchase that approval. The coin is a symbol of that fellowship which I am so fortunate to enjoy. It is absolutely priceless to me, and will go everywhere with me.
My levity was to be short-lived though, as the day was bittersweet. The afternoon and evening saw the arrival of many of my local friends at the hangar; Pratt, Al, Glenn, etc. Unfortunately, they had come with a melancholy purpose: to say goodbye to me. The company is wanting me out of here and on my way to Bowling Green by tomorrow. I don't know if that will actually happen on their schedule or not, but either way, I'm not happy about it. In fact, I'm downright distraught. The only upside is that I carry with me, now and forever, the support of some of the finest people I've ever met. I don't want to leave them, don't get me wrong, but in a way I feel like they're with me for the rest of my life. Each of them has invested a part of themselves into me, so I never really have to leave them. The friendship and support that has been shown to me, a total stranger, is unlike anything I've ever known. These last few months would have been so different if it weren't for them (and you all as well, but your time for acknowledgement comes later). So it is with infinite love, respect, gratitude and admiration that I acknowledge the cherished members of my Alabama family:
Well, as Porky would say, "Ehh... Th-th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks!" I'll check in with you tomorrow and let you know how and when the final goodbye to Jasper will take place, as well as the plans for my invasion of the Bluegrass State. If history has taught us anything, they're screwed.
Look out Kentucky, the Lloyd's a' comin'.
Joey
Following my arrival back in Walker County, freshly-minted instrument ticket in hand, I went to lunch with the great Dan “Nasty” McClung to celebrate my ride and discuss future business ventures that he and I have in the works (mostly he). Dan treated me to a meal at the country club, as well as my second major moving experience, when he presented me with my very own Red Eagle Air Sports (Dan’s air show team) challenge coin. I didn’t even know they existed, as I’ve never seen anyone else with one, nor had I seen him present one to anyone else. I honestly don't know of anyone else to whom he has given one, and I would know, considering the fit that everyone else through over my autographed Red Eagle poster. Should another pilot have been given one, I would have seen it right beside the taunting display of an accompanying middle finger of said pilot. Regardless, the glistening half-dollar-sized silver medallion, bearing the Red Eagle logo on front and team motto on back, now has a permanent place in my wallet as the very intent of a challenge coin is that it is to be carried with you at all times. For those unaware, the legend of the challenge coin goes something like this:
“Air warfare was a new phenomenon during World War I. When the army created flying squadrons they were manned with volunteer pilots from every walk of civilian life. While some of the early pilots came from working class or rural backgrounds, many were wealthy Ivy League students who withdrew from classes in the middle of the year, drawn by the adventure and romance of the new form of warfare.
As the legend goes, one such Ivy Leaguer, a wealthy lieutenant, ordered small, solid-bronze medallions (or coins) struck, which he then presented to the other pilots in his squadron as mementos of their service together. The coin was gold-plated, bore the squadron’s insignia, and was quite valuable. One of the pilots in the squadron, who had never owned anything like the coin, placed it in a leather pouch he wore around his neck for safekeeping. A short while later, this pilot’s aircraft was heavily damaged by ground fire (other sources claim it was an aerial dogfight), forcing him to land behind enemy lines and allowing him to be captured by the Germans. The Germans confiscated the personal belongings from his pockets, but they didn’t catch the leather pouch around his neck. On his way to a permanent prisoner of war facility, he was held overnight in a small German-held French village near the front. During the night, the town was bombarded by the British, creating enough confusion to allow the pilot to escape.
The pilot avoided German patrols by donning civilian attire, but all of his identification had been confiscated so he had no way to prove his identity. With great difficulty, he crept across no-man’s land and made contact with a French patrol. Unfortunately for him, the French had been on the lookout for German saboteurs dressed as civilians. The French mistook the American pilot for a German saboteur and immediately prepared to execute him.
This challenge coin commemorates the imminent promotion of Marine Colonel Yurovich to CAG of CVW-9.
Desperate to prove his allegiance and without any identification, the pilot pulled out the coin from his leather pouch and showed it to his French captors. One of the Frenchmen recognized the unit insignia on the coin and delayed the execution long enough to confirm the pilot’s identity.
Once the pilot safely returned to his squadron, it became a tradition for all members to carry their coin at all times. To ensure compliance, the pilots would challenge each other to produce the coin. If the challenged couldn’t produce the coin, he was required to buy a drink of choice for the challenger; if the challenged could produce the coin, the challenger would purchase the drink.”
Thank God for Wikipedia.
Being a former fighter pilot himself, this bit of aviation folklore/military tradition is right up Dan's alley. He made it very clear to me that the presentation of my own Red Eagle coin, unavailable for purchase at any price, symbolized my acceptance into an elite brotherhood of airmen. In fact, he flat refused to simply hand it to me; it had to be palmed from one aviator to the next in the form of a handshake. Folks, he might as well have handed me a million dollars! In fact, the money would have meant less than this token of kinship. When someone of that caliber acknowledges that you are of the same fabric as he, and extends that hand of brotherhood, it's absolutely earth-shaking. No amount of money can purchase that approval. The coin is a symbol of that fellowship which I am so fortunate to enjoy. It is absolutely priceless to me, and will go everywhere with me.
My levity was to be short-lived though, as the day was bittersweet. The afternoon and evening saw the arrival of many of my local friends at the hangar; Pratt, Al, Glenn, etc. Unfortunately, they had come with a melancholy purpose: to say goodbye to me. The company is wanting me out of here and on my way to Bowling Green by tomorrow. I don't know if that will actually happen on their schedule or not, but either way, I'm not happy about it. In fact, I'm downright distraught. The only upside is that I carry with me, now and forever, the support of some of the finest people I've ever met. I don't want to leave them, don't get me wrong, but in a way I feel like they're with me for the rest of my life. Each of them has invested a part of themselves into me, so I never really have to leave them. The friendship and support that has been shown to me, a total stranger, is unlike anything I've ever known. These last few months would have been so different if it weren't for them (and you all as well, but your time for acknowledgement comes later). So it is with infinite love, respect, gratitude and admiration that I acknowledge the cherished members of my Alabama family:
Captain Ed Banks
Captain Al Brown
Captain Dan "Nasty" McClung
Captain Glenn Rutland
Sara Rutland
Captain Pratt Sherer
Dennis Smith
Ryan Sox
And, of course, my hero and chief mentor...
Captain Joey "Gordo" Sanders
Well, as Porky would say, "Ehh... Th-th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks!" I'll check in with you tomorrow and let you know how and when the final goodbye to Jasper will take place, as well as the plans for my invasion of the Bluegrass State. If history has taught us anything, they're screwed.
Look out Kentucky, the Lloyd's a' comin'.
Joey
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Day 142 - Countin' On A Miracle
Since I named my last post after a song by Bruce Springsteen (whom happens to be nearly tied for the honor of my favorite singer, running an extremely close second to Elvis Presley), I think I’ll continue that by naming tonight’s after another one that also adequately illustrates what’s going on today. After nearly six weeks of anticipation, agony, and teeth-gnashing, my recheck for the flight that I failed is tomorrow at 9 a.m. And, lucky me, I get to go fly with the same examiner that busted me last time. I have to fly the same approach that got me last time, and since this one is for all the marbles, I basically have to pass or that’s all she wrote. Needless to say, I’m countin' on a miracle.
I spent much of the day talking to Glenn, who was kind enough to go over the approach with me (even he was a bit lost, admitting that in more than four decades of professional aviation he’s never even shot one), and take me down memory lane from his days as a 747 Captain. A little inspiration never hurts, and neither does insight from an obviously experienced pilot. Glenn says that I’m going to be “fine” tomorrow, and I really hope he’s right. Everyone I’ve talked to says that for the DPE to fail me on this approach is a really low blow, but that doesn’t alleviate his right to do so. The fact of the matter is that I should be able to fly the approach, no matter how ignorant and antiquated it is or to what degree the examiner over-complicates it.
I spent much of the day talking to Glenn, who was kind enough to go over the approach with me (even he was a bit lost, admitting that in more than four decades of professional aviation he’s never even shot one), and take me down memory lane from his days as a 747 Captain. A little inspiration never hurts, and neither does insight from an obviously experienced pilot. Glenn says that I’m going to be “fine” tomorrow, and I really hope he’s right. Everyone I’ve talked to says that for the DPE to fail me on this approach is a really low blow, but that doesn’t alleviate his right to do so. The fact of the matter is that I should be able to fly the approach, no matter how ignorant and antiquated it is or to what degree the examiner over-complicates it.
Me and Gordo
And in other news, I had a tremendously moving experience yesterday that I’ll share with you fine folks tonight. As we have previously discussed ad nauseum, I’ve wanted to be an airline pilot for literally as long as I can remember, deciding at a very early age that I wanted to be a FedEx pilot. As I recall I was about eight years young when I made the earth-shattering proclamation. I'll never forget standing at the approach end of Memphis International's runway 27, watching the endless stream of widebodies scream mere feet over my head, deciding then and there that I deserved a purple tail. One day, I thought, that will be me. That dream never faded. As such, whereas most young boys had NFL stars and baseball players for heroes, my heroes wore blue ties and had four-striped Captain’s epaulets on their shoulders. Their's drove racecars, mine flew DC-10s. It worked out nicely.
That admiration has not faded over the years; if anything it has grown now having a true realization and appreciation of that all that accomplishment requires. So needless to say, when the Boss returned from a FedEx trip yesterday, still wearing the coveted uniform, the skies parted and the angels sang. One day, that will be me. What really amazes me is that despite the fact that he is an amazingly successful aviator, he is just one of the guys. He is the nicest, most unpretentious person you will ever meet. He takes outstanding care of me, more-so than he has to, and has become my mentor. I have the deepest respect and admiration for the guy; as much as I've ever had for anyone. His presence has been invaluable to me, and truly given me a reason to believe over the last few months.
The Boss (Joey is his name, better known as "Gordo"), his assistant (Misty), and I (Joey is my name, better known as "Lloyd") were having a conversation yesterday when he was called away on family business. I call Misty his assistant because I really don’t know what her title is, but she handles the operation of Gordo’s non-aviation business ventures on a daily basis and has the opportunity to spend a lot of time with him as a result. Following his departure, Misty and I were discussing the general state of things, as people are apt to do. We discussed my career ambitions, my love for commercial aviation and FedEx, as well as the great things that Gordo has done for me. The conversation moved to the immediate future, specifically my departure, as she was previously unaware that the school had pulled out and that I was being forced to leave.
“Leave?!?” She asked. “But you can’t leave!”
“I know. I don’t want to. I love it here, and I really enjoy working for Gordo.”
“You know he loves you, right?”
Her question elicited a response of laughter from me, but the look on her face was deadly serious. She interrupted me mid-chuckle.
“No, you don’t understand, Lloyd,” she began, her eyes locked on mine. “He talks about you… a lot. I don’t know if he sees himself in you or what, but he doesn’t talk about any of the other guys the way he talks about you, or nearly as often. He mentions them from time to time, but we’ve never had a single conversation where your name didn’t come up. Ever. He loves his two daughters dearly, but I think he sees you as sorta like the son he never had. He knows about all the work you do around here, and he knows how much you care. He believes in you. I don’t know what he’s gonna do without you. He thinks you hung the moon.”
The room was silent. I felt my throat swelling a bit. To have such tremendous approval from someone whom I so deeply admire had left me completely stunned. After a few seconds, I was finally able to force out some semi-intelligible sound. My voice cracked as I managed a single-word response. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Listen, if he says it’s gonna be alright, then trust me it’s gonna be alright. I know you’re having a tough time right now with all this, and it really upsets him to see you get treated this way. But if you can get through it, he’s told me that you are going to be taken care of.”
The Boss had already told me that he would gladly sponsor me at FedEx when the time came, years down the road, to apply for a job there, but I had no idea that he believed in me so much. I was moved literally almost to the point of tears. You can pass all the checkrides you want and have all the alphabet soup you want behind your name, but when Superman stamps you with the seal of approval, then suddenly the other issues seem to shrink considerably. It felt great.
Well folks, bedtime. The return flight from my checkride tomorrow will be my last flight into this airport; at least in one of the company’s aircraft. I’m sure that will be a sad experience for me regardless, but the results of my checkride will greatly determine how exactly I fly the final landing. If I fail, it’ll be a non-descript, low-key arrival. I'll taxi to the ramp and try to figure out where to go next. Passing the ride, on the other hand, will obviously be cause for celebration, and worthy of one last radio call of “geeeeeeeeeear stop!” A requisite pass down the runway will be in order also. I’ll let y’all know which one happens.
Wish me luck!
Joey
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Day 134 - Spare Parts And Broken Hearts
Spare parts. That’s what they’re loading into a cargo truck right now. It arrived at about 10 pm to begin dismantling Mecca. A few odd-and-end airplane parts, the flight simulator, and all the furniture from the school are now piled haphazardly in a giant box truck with “U-HAUL” plastered on the side. Mixed in there somewhere are my joy and contentment. All bound for Indianapolis.
The company headquarters called this morning and, in quite the matter-of-fact manner, advised that they were closing this location. A mere matter of hours later, the phones had been disconnected. And as we speak Matt and a company representative are loading all of the office furniture and training materials into a truck. They’re flying a pilot down to get the Cessna tomorrow, and the Seminole that I’ve been flying will be shortly behind. That’s all, folks. It’s over.
And with the end of this era, so ends some of the happiest, deepest enchantments in my recent memory. I’ve had more fun here than can be described, and it truly breaks my heart that I have to leave. To say that I love it here is a colossal understatement, and I’ve basically been on the verge of depression all day. I simply don’t want to leave. I want to stay with the Boss, Ryan, Ed, Glenn, Sara, Dan, and the rest. It’s no secret that I’ve become completely disillusioned with the school itself, but I love this location. The things that I get to do outside of the school are amazing. My flights with Ed. Flying the Baron with Glenn, as we did today. Enjoying the company of some of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met. Not to mention the daily inspiration I draw from being around the Boss. All of these things do so much for me; more than any ridiculous excuse for a ground lesson. From flying in Big Red, to riding through Jasper with Ryan and the Boss in his Cadillac (windows down) singing George Jones’ “Yabba Dabba Doo” at the top of our collective lungs, these are the things I’ll miss and the lost prospects that leave me with the broken heart that I’m currently suffering. It’s truly like leaving family.
The only silver lining here is that the company offered, as an obvious olive branch, my unquestioned choice of locations to which I may transfer for my cross-country stage. Based on its reputation, as well as its geographic location, I chose Bowling Green, Kentucky. It’s a small location as far as the company is concerned, roughly the same size as the one which I enjoyed here. It’s also actually closer to home, and a stone’s throw from Nashville. I don’t know when I’ll have to go there; in fact, no one seems to know anything. I expect that this will be expected within the next few days, but who knows? They sure don’t. My disenchantment with this company grows exponentially with each passing minute, and this mess sure isn’t helping. I’ve seen train wrecks that were better organized than this.
The sorrow I feel right now is truly indescribable. It’s one of the oldest, corniest lines in the book, but it honestly feels like a part of me is dying. To lose the daily interactions that I enjoy here is devastating to me, and I’m still grappling with that prospect. My resolve has yet to falter; if anything it’s grown stronger just to spite these invisible forces that obviously seek my demise. My morale, however, is on life support now as a result of this. To be so simple a place with such modest accommodations, I love it here; more than I can begin to describe. This airport shone as a beacon of hope after my experiences in Atlanta. My arrival here reminded me that I was meant to fly. The not-so-subtle hints abound; like my intense affection for my mentor, the Boss – who just happens to be a FedEx MD-11 Captain (the dream I’ve held since the age of 8), or the twice-weekly flights that just happen to go to McMinnville, Tennessee, of all places on this earth. Folks, my solo airplane from 2004 even showed up here the other day. I did my first solo in it in 2004, and a few months later it was sold to an attorney in Pensacola, Florida. Somehow, it ended up here a few days ago. Five years after I spread my very own wings (with its help), N548DC is sitting on our ramp right now at this very moment. But above all of these things, the greatest hope and inspirations that I have enjoyed here have come in the human form. The support of my local family, just like the support from my extended family of readers, has been invaluable. These kind, successful people have supported me for more than four months now and I don’t know how I’m going to make it without them. Thankfully, I have a habit of forming fierce loyalties and long-lasting attachments; evidenced with such examples as elementary school teachers that maintain an interest in my progress and well-being. My goal for my airport family is no different. While I may not see them daily anymore, they will always be a part of me. And I’m not going to like it, but I’m going to press on.
I’m not looking forward to saying goodbye to Jasper. I dread it, really. Like I said, with each armload that was carried out of the building, it was like I was watching a component of my very soul walk out of the building for the last time. I just stood in silence and somberly observed the opening minutes of the process. The beginning of the end.
“Lloyd, aren’t you going to help?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head as I dropped it and turned. “I won’t be a part of this funeral.”
And with that, I disappeared into the darkness.
Joey
The company headquarters called this morning and, in quite the matter-of-fact manner, advised that they were closing this location. A mere matter of hours later, the phones had been disconnected. And as we speak Matt and a company representative are loading all of the office furniture and training materials into a truck. They’re flying a pilot down to get the Cessna tomorrow, and the Seminole that I’ve been flying will be shortly behind. That’s all, folks. It’s over.
And with the end of this era, so ends some of the happiest, deepest enchantments in my recent memory. I’ve had more fun here than can be described, and it truly breaks my heart that I have to leave. To say that I love it here is a colossal understatement, and I’ve basically been on the verge of depression all day. I simply don’t want to leave. I want to stay with the Boss, Ryan, Ed, Glenn, Sara, Dan, and the rest. It’s no secret that I’ve become completely disillusioned with the school itself, but I love this location. The things that I get to do outside of the school are amazing. My flights with Ed. Flying the Baron with Glenn, as we did today. Enjoying the company of some of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met. Not to mention the daily inspiration I draw from being around the Boss. All of these things do so much for me; more than any ridiculous excuse for a ground lesson. From flying in Big Red, to riding through Jasper with Ryan and the Boss in his Cadillac (windows down) singing George Jones’ “Yabba Dabba Doo” at the top of our collective lungs, these are the things I’ll miss and the lost prospects that leave me with the broken heart that I’m currently suffering. It’s truly like leaving family.
The only silver lining here is that the company offered, as an obvious olive branch, my unquestioned choice of locations to which I may transfer for my cross-country stage. Based on its reputation, as well as its geographic location, I chose Bowling Green, Kentucky. It’s a small location as far as the company is concerned, roughly the same size as the one which I enjoyed here. It’s also actually closer to home, and a stone’s throw from Nashville. I don’t know when I’ll have to go there; in fact, no one seems to know anything. I expect that this will be expected within the next few days, but who knows? They sure don’t. My disenchantment with this company grows exponentially with each passing minute, and this mess sure isn’t helping. I’ve seen train wrecks that were better organized than this.
The sorrow I feel right now is truly indescribable. It’s one of the oldest, corniest lines in the book, but it honestly feels like a part of me is dying. To lose the daily interactions that I enjoy here is devastating to me, and I’m still grappling with that prospect. My resolve has yet to falter; if anything it’s grown stronger just to spite these invisible forces that obviously seek my demise. My morale, however, is on life support now as a result of this. To be so simple a place with such modest accommodations, I love it here; more than I can begin to describe. This airport shone as a beacon of hope after my experiences in Atlanta. My arrival here reminded me that I was meant to fly. The not-so-subtle hints abound; like my intense affection for my mentor, the Boss – who just happens to be a FedEx MD-11 Captain (the dream I’ve held since the age of 8), or the twice-weekly flights that just happen to go to McMinnville, Tennessee, of all places on this earth. Folks, my solo airplane from 2004 even showed up here the other day. I did my first solo in it in 2004, and a few months later it was sold to an attorney in Pensacola, Florida. Somehow, it ended up here a few days ago. Five years after I spread my very own wings (with its help), N548DC is sitting on our ramp right now at this very moment. But above all of these things, the greatest hope and inspirations that I have enjoyed here have come in the human form. The support of my local family, just like the support from my extended family of readers, has been invaluable. These kind, successful people have supported me for more than four months now and I don’t know how I’m going to make it without them. Thankfully, I have a habit of forming fierce loyalties and long-lasting attachments; evidenced with such examples as elementary school teachers that maintain an interest in my progress and well-being. My goal for my airport family is no different. While I may not see them daily anymore, they will always be a part of me. And I’m not going to like it, but I’m going to press on.
I’m not looking forward to saying goodbye to Jasper. I dread it, really. Like I said, with each armload that was carried out of the building, it was like I was watching a component of my very soul walk out of the building for the last time. I just stood in silence and somberly observed the opening minutes of the process. The beginning of the end.
“Lloyd, aren’t you going to help?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head as I dropped it and turned. “I won’t be a part of this funeral.”
And with that, I disappeared into the darkness.
Joey
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Day 131 - The $100 Hamburger
Me and Ed in his RV-6 I don’t know exactly what the device is called, but it’s a push-button type lock that’s attached to the end of some throttle control sliders. These are actuated by moving a large knob in and out of the dashboard of some airplanes (like a Cessna 172), as opposed to one or more vertical throttle levers. I had only once before flown an aircraft with this type of throttle, and that was for all of a whopping twenty minutes. But that was a 172, and it didn’t have this irritating little knob attached to the end. You have to depress and hold it while manipulating the control otherwise it locks the throttle in place. I silently cursed whoever had originally designed the thing as I cumbersomely advanced the throttle all the way to the stop. The engine roared, shoving the little airplane forward at an acceleration rate that was probably greater than that of any takeoff I’ve flown to date.
Today was my first tail-wheel lesson, and my training ground was Ed’s personal airplane. Ed participates in a phenomenon known in aviation as the $100 hamburger, so he took me along with him today. We had flown to Pell City, Alabama, to eat lunch with several other pilots that all own airplanes just like Ed’s; sporty little winged missiles known as RV’s. The restaurant was one of the coolest things I've seen yet; a totally aviation-themed restaurant located on the airport property. We literally taxiied up to their ramp and walked inside. As is customary with me and Ed, we take turns flying the legs of our trips. Ed had flown the first leg in order to demonstrate to me the finer nuances of tail-wheel aircraft, specifically this one, and had allowed me some stick time in the air so that I could get the feel for it. And now, with lunch behind us, it was my turn to fly.
Thinking with the mindset of a tricycle-gear airplane pilot, I had asked Ed about rotation speed (the point at which I should pull back on the stick to allow the aircraft to take off) as we were pulling onto the runway. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just firewall it and hold it straight. It’ll do the rest.” Ummm…. A’ight. I did exactly as Ed had instructed, and in short order the earth seemed to involuntarily fall away from us. It was a good thing, too, because I couldn’t have looked at the airspeed indicator if I wanted to. All of my attention was directed toward keeping the nose straight; coordinating my eyes and my feet in their constant manipulation of the rudder pedals. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected. It wasn’t effortless either. But it sure was cool.
Good night this thing’s fast! I thought, as I glanced down at the airspeed indicator. Its needle was already heading past the “100” in a matter of mere seconds. We had taken off behind a Piper Cub, which I knew would be moving much slower than us, so I lowered the nose and leveled off a few hundred feet over the runway in order to visualize him. Got him. This also allowed me to see that plenty of runway length remained underneath us. The Cub was making a painfully slow straight-out departure, which now put us in trail of him, though the distance between the two aircraft was closing. On the flight over, I had gotten a feel for just how quick and maneuverable Ed's airplane was. In fact, Ed and I took turns performing rolls as we crossed 5,500 feet over the outskirts of Birmingham (I never, ever get tired of being upside down in airplane). As such, I had a fair idea what the aircraft was capable of, so I decided to have a little fun.
I glanced to the right and depressed the radio transmit button on the top of the control stick. “Four Echo Bravo’s right turn outbound, northeast departure, Pell City.” Simultaneously, I rolled control the stick to the right and pulled back. I’m not sure if I broke the sacred no-more-than-60-degrees-of-bank-in-a-traffic-pattern rule, but if not I came awfully close. The tiny aircraft laid over on its side and blasted away from the airport, skimming over a nearby ridgeline and leaving the Cub in the dust. Once our 90 degree turn on to our course was complete, I leveled back off; a permanent smile now firmly plastered onto my face. Ed giggled as he saw the visible joy that I was experiencing at the controls of his airplane. "Oh I have GOT to get me one of these!!!"
So that was my day. Still no instructor, still no progress. Thus, out of boredom, I’ve decided to pursue things that don’t particularly affect my airline career, but do put hours in my logbook and smiles on my face. That’s why Ed and I undertook the task of working on my tail-wheel endorsement. I’ve also been promised a seaplane lesson, so I think I’ll pursue that rating next. Useless? Yeah. Fun? It’s bound to be.
I’ve still not decided which article to submit, nor to whom I’m going to submit it. I was sorta fishing for a bit a more in the way of suggestions (hint hint). I seriously don’t have a clue. I wish I knew someone in the publishing business; help would be invaluable right about now. And speaking of that, special thanks go out to Hailey and Sandy for responding to my pleas for input. Everyone else… Well, did I happen to mention that you’re cut out of my will?
No, wait a minute. I’m putting you IN my will!
Ha! You’ll owe millions!!!
Joey
Today was my first tail-wheel lesson, and my training ground was Ed’s personal airplane. Ed participates in a phenomenon known in aviation as the $100 hamburger, so he took me along with him today. We had flown to Pell City, Alabama, to eat lunch with several other pilots that all own airplanes just like Ed’s; sporty little winged missiles known as RV’s. The restaurant was one of the coolest things I've seen yet; a totally aviation-themed restaurant located on the airport property. We literally taxiied up to their ramp and walked inside. As is customary with me and Ed, we take turns flying the legs of our trips. Ed had flown the first leg in order to demonstrate to me the finer nuances of tail-wheel aircraft, specifically this one, and had allowed me some stick time in the air so that I could get the feel for it. And now, with lunch behind us, it was my turn to fly.
Thinking with the mindset of a tricycle-gear airplane pilot, I had asked Ed about rotation speed (the point at which I should pull back on the stick to allow the aircraft to take off) as we were pulling onto the runway. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just firewall it and hold it straight. It’ll do the rest.” Ummm…. A’ight. I did exactly as Ed had instructed, and in short order the earth seemed to involuntarily fall away from us. It was a good thing, too, because I couldn’t have looked at the airspeed indicator if I wanted to. All of my attention was directed toward keeping the nose straight; coordinating my eyes and my feet in their constant manipulation of the rudder pedals. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected. It wasn’t effortless either. But it sure was cool.
Good night this thing’s fast! I thought, as I glanced down at the airspeed indicator. Its needle was already heading past the “100” in a matter of mere seconds. We had taken off behind a Piper Cub, which I knew would be moving much slower than us, so I lowered the nose and leveled off a few hundred feet over the runway in order to visualize him. Got him. This also allowed me to see that plenty of runway length remained underneath us. The Cub was making a painfully slow straight-out departure, which now put us in trail of him, though the distance between the two aircraft was closing. On the flight over, I had gotten a feel for just how quick and maneuverable Ed's airplane was. In fact, Ed and I took turns performing rolls as we crossed 5,500 feet over the outskirts of Birmingham (I never, ever get tired of being upside down in airplane). As such, I had a fair idea what the aircraft was capable of, so I decided to have a little fun.
I glanced to the right and depressed the radio transmit button on the top of the control stick. “Four Echo Bravo’s right turn outbound, northeast departure, Pell City.” Simultaneously, I rolled control the stick to the right and pulled back. I’m not sure if I broke the sacred no-more-than-60-degrees-of-bank-in-a-traffic-pattern rule, but if not I came awfully close. The tiny aircraft laid over on its side and blasted away from the airport, skimming over a nearby ridgeline and leaving the Cub in the dust. Once our 90 degree turn on to our course was complete, I leveled back off; a permanent smile now firmly plastered onto my face. Ed giggled as he saw the visible joy that I was experiencing at the controls of his airplane. "Oh I have GOT to get me one of these!!!"
So that was my day. Still no instructor, still no progress. Thus, out of boredom, I’ve decided to pursue things that don’t particularly affect my airline career, but do put hours in my logbook and smiles on my face. That’s why Ed and I undertook the task of working on my tail-wheel endorsement. I’ve also been promised a seaplane lesson, so I think I’ll pursue that rating next. Useless? Yeah. Fun? It’s bound to be.
I’ve still not decided which article to submit, nor to whom I’m going to submit it. I was sorta fishing for a bit a more in the way of suggestions (hint hint). I seriously don’t have a clue. I wish I knew someone in the publishing business; help would be invaluable right about now. And speaking of that, special thanks go out to Hailey and Sandy for responding to my pleas for input. Everyone else… Well, did I happen to mention that you’re cut out of my will?
No, wait a minute. I’m putting you IN my will!
Ha! You’ll owe millions!!!
Joey
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Day 127 - A Democratic Process
Folks I’m considering a foray into the world of criminal justice. I’m not totally unconvinced that I couldn’t single-handedly end the war on crime with one single method of deterrence. The intense boredom and total lack of productivity that I now know are bound to be enough to scare anyone away from prison. As previously discussed, the flight school has reassigned my instructor (as is becoming the norm); only this time they are not replacing him. So here I sit, awaiting word on my fate. Ryan has abandoned ship (I can’t say as I blame him), and the airport has now been established as the Sovereign State of Lloyd. Yippee.
There’s only so much busy work that one can do before he begins to run out of projects to occupy his time. Ask me; I know. I’ve done so much mowing that it’s seriously killed the grass (whoops), every inch of inhabitable space now sports a sterility that would rival any operating room, and I spent the better part of six hours washing, waxing, polishing, vacuuming, and otherwise detailing the Boss’ company truck the other day. I’ve flown the sim and studied as well, but let’s face it; there’s only so much studying one can do before it becomes counterproductive. The brain is literally beaten into submission. It becomes sorta like those stupid rice cake things that people “eat;” it occupies space but there ain’t a whole lot going on inside.
Between my utter boredom and violent disgruntlement, I’ve dredged up a new project; one that requires your input! So in the spirit of democracy, baseball, apple pie, backyard barbeques, the loyalty of a fine dog, and all other things deliciously American, we’re gonna hold a good old-fashioned vote!
There are those among us that labor under this ridiculous notion that I am a talented writer. Let me say immediately, that I do not agree with this assessment, and am undertaking this project under protest. Talent (or lack thereof) not withstanding, I do particularly enjoy writing my little passages, so I figure that it might be worth a try. It has been requested that I submit a sample of my work to various aviation-themed magazines, offering a perspective of the ground-level guy working his way up. I honestly don’t believe myself to be talented, so I’m letting my audience choose the selection that I submit. Here are your marching orders: Pick a post throughout the last four months that you think should be the one to go to the magazines in hopes of garnering attention. If you don’t find a suitable post, suggest a topic. Choose something that you think I should discuss if I have not already written something to suit you. The winning topic (if not an existing post) will elicit a composition that will be posted prior to submission for the approval of the periodical publication gods.
The input of ALL readers is requested, so I expect lots of comments on this post! Non-commenting readers will be abducted and sold to the primitive tribe of my choosing; I'm just letting you know up front here folks. So unless you wanna end up a Darfari shish kabob I suggest you listen up. Aside from your topic choice, please tell me if you have additional suggestions. Who should I send samples to? Should I even do this? Why or why not? Hold nothing back! You my either call, text, email, or post your suggestions and any additional input with regard to this project. If you don’t have my email address or cell phone number but wish to speak to me directly via either method, post here and I’ll send them to you. If you can’t post here, find someone that can. If they can’t… Well, it looks like you’re taking a trip to Jasper. Let nothing stand in the way! I seriously need your help on this one folks. I have no idea if a market even exists for this sort of thing, and frankly I expect total rejection. But then again, who knows? A small tree is some shade (quote Mike Fortune). Either way, I need to make sure that this shot in the dark is as accurately aimed as possible.
Let the discussion begin!
Joey
No purchase necessary to win. Purchase will not improve your chances of winning. Void where prohibited. Details on specially marked boxes at participating retailers only. Sweepstakes is open only to legal residents of the United States and Canada (excluding Quebec) who are 18 years or older at time of entry. Limit one (1) entry per participant. Contains small parts which may be hazardous to children. Some assembly required.
There’s only so much busy work that one can do before he begins to run out of projects to occupy his time. Ask me; I know. I’ve done so much mowing that it’s seriously killed the grass (whoops), every inch of inhabitable space now sports a sterility that would rival any operating room, and I spent the better part of six hours washing, waxing, polishing, vacuuming, and otherwise detailing the Boss’ company truck the other day. I’ve flown the sim and studied as well, but let’s face it; there’s only so much studying one can do before it becomes counterproductive. The brain is literally beaten into submission. It becomes sorta like those stupid rice cake things that people “eat;” it occupies space but there ain’t a whole lot going on inside.
Between my utter boredom and violent disgruntlement, I’ve dredged up a new project; one that requires your input! So in the spirit of democracy, baseball, apple pie, backyard barbeques, the loyalty of a fine dog, and all other things deliciously American, we’re gonna hold a good old-fashioned vote!
There are those among us that labor under this ridiculous notion that I am a talented writer. Let me say immediately, that I do not agree with this assessment, and am undertaking this project under protest. Talent (or lack thereof) not withstanding, I do particularly enjoy writing my little passages, so I figure that it might be worth a try. It has been requested that I submit a sample of my work to various aviation-themed magazines, offering a perspective of the ground-level guy working his way up. I honestly don’t believe myself to be talented, so I’m letting my audience choose the selection that I submit. Here are your marching orders: Pick a post throughout the last four months that you think should be the one to go to the magazines in hopes of garnering attention. If you don’t find a suitable post, suggest a topic. Choose something that you think I should discuss if I have not already written something to suit you. The winning topic (if not an existing post) will elicit a composition that will be posted prior to submission for the approval of the periodical publication gods.
The input of ALL readers is requested, so I expect lots of comments on this post! Non-commenting readers will be abducted and sold to the primitive tribe of my choosing; I'm just letting you know up front here folks. So unless you wanna end up a Darfari shish kabob I suggest you listen up. Aside from your topic choice, please tell me if you have additional suggestions. Who should I send samples to? Should I even do this? Why or why not? Hold nothing back! You my either call, text, email, or post your suggestions and any additional input with regard to this project. If you don’t have my email address or cell phone number but wish to speak to me directly via either method, post here and I’ll send them to you. If you can’t post here, find someone that can. If they can’t… Well, it looks like you’re taking a trip to Jasper. Let nothing stand in the way! I seriously need your help on this one folks. I have no idea if a market even exists for this sort of thing, and frankly I expect total rejection. But then again, who knows? A small tree is some shade (quote Mike Fortune). Either way, I need to make sure that this shot in the dark is as accurately aimed as possible.
Let the discussion begin!
Joey
No purchase necessary to win. Purchase will not improve your chances of winning. Void where prohibited. Details on specially marked boxes at participating retailers only. Sweepstakes is open only to legal residents of the United States and Canada (excluding Quebec) who are 18 years or older at time of entry. Limit one (1) entry per participant. Contains small parts which may be hazardous to children. Some assembly required.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Day 123 - Then and Now
The Alabama sun shone squarely down upon me as I leaned on my Callaway #8 iron. The eagle on my retro-styled American Airlines baseball cap spread his wings defiantly in the afternoon heat, and blades of grass tickled my feet through my standard airport uniform flip-flops. Matt and I had decided to take in an afternoon of golf at our new private resort, and it occurred to me now that, in the history of bad ideas, my selection of a navy blue t-shirt for today’s attire had to rank somewhere in (at least) the top third.
“Fore!” Matt announced.
I stood a fair distance from him, and a good 60-70 degrees offset of his point of aim. He glanced in my direction, making eye contact with me despite his oversized, highly exaggerated aviator sunglasses, which have apparently clawed their way back into contemporary fashion. I never really understood the nomenclature; they seem more like something a highway patrolman from 1973 might wear; or maybe Hunter S. Thompson after a drug binge.
I peered through my much more conservative, much smaller, metal-framed Revo specs and nodded in approval, confident that I was in no danger. This confidence evaporated instantly as he released a furious swing that sent the diminutive white ball rocketing toward my head. In my best Matrix-like response, I rocked backed on my heels and bent aft and left at the waist. Time seemed to slow, the air blurred, and I even performed the melodramatic windmilling of my arms as the ball passed. It inched a long, leaving a trail of wake as it flew by, headed for God knows where. Then all at once, the earth caught back up with my time warp and I stood back up straight.
“Good Lord, Pitts!” I yelled (Pitts is Matt’s last name). Rapidly I glanced around, checking for successive line-drives aimed at my head, and also for witnesses to my spectacular evasive maneuver.
“What?”
“We’re awful!” It was true. I was making a 100% accurate and totally clinical assessment of our respective performances. We each had slices that would make jealous even the most skilled of samurai, and that is only if we actually made connection with the ball. The few that did not slice lacked in other ways. Matt’s skipped across the earth like grounders at a little league tee-ball game, while my shots performed more like bottle rockets: straight up and straight back down, landing merely a few mocking yards in front of me with a sarcastic “thud.” It was sad.
One wrestle with Hola Alpha usually takes us somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 to 30 minutes by the time each of us chase a ball all over the airport, but today we had to modify our game slightly. Someone had arrived overnight in a Diamond DA20, identical to the ones that I had completed my primary training in years before, and parked it next to our Seminole. Unfortunately for us, the crew of this particular aircraft had apparently mistaken this place for an airport. They had maneuvered their airplane to the edge of the ramp in such a manner that the tail now encroached upon the fairway of Hole Alpha. So, being the considerate folks that we are, we had decided to shorten the hole and modify the par accordingly instead of risking damage to the offending Diamond with our wildly unpredictable, drunken-monkey style of golfing.
Though slightly miffed by its insult to our afternoon game, I found the tiny bird to be an interesting sight to behold. It was almost a paradox of “then and now;” my beloved trainer aircraft of yesterday parked beside my current mistress. It made me wonder longingly if one day I would lay eyes upon a Seminole parked beside my next conquest, say, an MD-11 or 757. Would I react the same way upon visualization? Would I ever even reach that point? I certainly hoped so. This vista of encouragement illustrated to me the progress that I had made, with more to hopefully be made in the future. I let out a sigh as the visions of David and Goliath comparisons of Pipers and Boeings ricocheted through my brain. Maybe one day.
“Ya know,” I said to Matt as we set off, side by side, trudging across our makeshift country club. “We’ve really gotta get the golf cart fixed.”
“Yeah, all this walking isn’t healthy.”
“Oh?” His response shocked me. Matt is an avid health nut and connoisseur of finer weightlifting equipment, as has been previously discussed. I couldn’t imagine him finding any form of exertion or exercise repugnant; that was my job! Thus, I could not help but investigate further. “How so?”
“It’s giving me a rash,” was the matter-of-fact response.
“Ah!!!” I reeled from the nauseated amusement at his excessive revelation of information, unsure which to perform more; chuckling or gagging. “Niiiiice…”
So I’m in Montgomery for the weekend. I’ll be staying with my grandfather, so God help the citizens of this fair state as the two grumpiest old codgers ever to unleash their coffee-fueled wrath upon a population have once again been reunited. I’m really looking forward to it, as we always have a great time together. I’ll be returning to the airport on Monday, and I learned this evening that it shall be empty upon my return (or at least the school and pilot quarters will be). Matt is being sent to Las Vegas for a few weeks, leaving me all by my lonesome, and once again on the back burner. In fact, I’ve been taken off the back burner and put all the way back in the cabinet. The back burner would be an improvement. That’s the bad news. The good news is that since single-pilot ops in the twin are prohibited, I’m basically guaranteed that my recheck will be with The Boss, as I had hoped, since I obviously can’t fly anywhere else to take my recheck.
I’m not sure how this is going to work. I just know that the time keeps passing, I’m growing increasingly restless and impatient, and the circus music keeps getting louder. But I guess as Hailey says, “one day at a time.” I don’t know, though. It’s just hard to keep focus when it feels like you’re spinning your wheels. At this rate, I’ll have to go straight into retirement upon graduation. But then again, maybe that’s not such a bad idea after all.
Shuffleboard, anyone?
Joey
“Fore!” Matt announced.
I stood a fair distance from him, and a good 60-70 degrees offset of his point of aim. He glanced in my direction, making eye contact with me despite his oversized, highly exaggerated aviator sunglasses, which have apparently clawed their way back into contemporary fashion. I never really understood the nomenclature; they seem more like something a highway patrolman from 1973 might wear; or maybe Hunter S. Thompson after a drug binge.
I peered through my much more conservative, much smaller, metal-framed Revo specs and nodded in approval, confident that I was in no danger. This confidence evaporated instantly as he released a furious swing that sent the diminutive white ball rocketing toward my head. In my best Matrix-like response, I rocked backed on my heels and bent aft and left at the waist. Time seemed to slow, the air blurred, and I even performed the melodramatic windmilling of my arms as the ball passed. It inched a long, leaving a trail of wake as it flew by, headed for God knows where. Then all at once, the earth caught back up with my time warp and I stood back up straight.
“Good Lord, Pitts!” I yelled (Pitts is Matt’s last name). Rapidly I glanced around, checking for successive line-drives aimed at my head, and also for witnesses to my spectacular evasive maneuver.
“What?”
“We’re awful!” It was true. I was making a 100% accurate and totally clinical assessment of our respective performances. We each had slices that would make jealous even the most skilled of samurai, and that is only if we actually made connection with the ball. The few that did not slice lacked in other ways. Matt’s skipped across the earth like grounders at a little league tee-ball game, while my shots performed more like bottle rockets: straight up and straight back down, landing merely a few mocking yards in front of me with a sarcastic “thud.” It was sad.
One wrestle with Hola Alpha usually takes us somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 to 30 minutes by the time each of us chase a ball all over the airport, but today we had to modify our game slightly. Someone had arrived overnight in a Diamond DA20, identical to the ones that I had completed my primary training in years before, and parked it next to our Seminole. Unfortunately for us, the crew of this particular aircraft had apparently mistaken this place for an airport. They had maneuvered their airplane to the edge of the ramp in such a manner that the tail now encroached upon the fairway of Hole Alpha. So, being the considerate folks that we are, we had decided to shorten the hole and modify the par accordingly instead of risking damage to the offending Diamond with our wildly unpredictable, drunken-monkey style of golfing.
Though slightly miffed by its insult to our afternoon game, I found the tiny bird to be an interesting sight to behold. It was almost a paradox of “then and now;” my beloved trainer aircraft of yesterday parked beside my current mistress. It made me wonder longingly if one day I would lay eyes upon a Seminole parked beside my next conquest, say, an MD-11 or 757. Would I react the same way upon visualization? Would I ever even reach that point? I certainly hoped so. This vista of encouragement illustrated to me the progress that I had made, with more to hopefully be made in the future. I let out a sigh as the visions of David and Goliath comparisons of Pipers and Boeings ricocheted through my brain. Maybe one day.
“Ya know,” I said to Matt as we set off, side by side, trudging across our makeshift country club. “We’ve really gotta get the golf cart fixed.”
“Yeah, all this walking isn’t healthy.”
“Oh?” His response shocked me. Matt is an avid health nut and connoisseur of finer weightlifting equipment, as has been previously discussed. I couldn’t imagine him finding any form of exertion or exercise repugnant; that was my job! Thus, I could not help but investigate further. “How so?”
“It’s giving me a rash,” was the matter-of-fact response.
“Ah!!!” I reeled from the nauseated amusement at his excessive revelation of information, unsure which to perform more; chuckling or gagging. “Niiiiice…”
So I’m in Montgomery for the weekend. I’ll be staying with my grandfather, so God help the citizens of this fair state as the two grumpiest old codgers ever to unleash their coffee-fueled wrath upon a population have once again been reunited. I’m really looking forward to it, as we always have a great time together. I’ll be returning to the airport on Monday, and I learned this evening that it shall be empty upon my return (or at least the school and pilot quarters will be). Matt is being sent to Las Vegas for a few weeks, leaving me all by my lonesome, and once again on the back burner. In fact, I’ve been taken off the back burner and put all the way back in the cabinet. The back burner would be an improvement. That’s the bad news. The good news is that since single-pilot ops in the twin are prohibited, I’m basically guaranteed that my recheck will be with The Boss, as I had hoped, since I obviously can’t fly anywhere else to take my recheck.
I’m not sure how this is going to work. I just know that the time keeps passing, I’m growing increasingly restless and impatient, and the circus music keeps getting louder. But I guess as Hailey says, “one day at a time.” I don’t know, though. It’s just hard to keep focus when it feels like you’re spinning your wheels. At this rate, I’ll have to go straight into retirement upon graduation. But then again, maybe that’s not such a bad idea after all.
Shuffleboard, anyone?
Joey
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Day 121 - Fore!
Me Teeing Off"Now this is beautiful." The Boss stood, handly planted firmly on hips, in the middle of the freshly cut grass between the ramp and the taxiway. His torso oscillating gradually to the left and then right, proudly surveying the latest capital improvement to the facility. We'd worked literally all day on it, and he was right; we didn't do half bad.
It all started at about 8:30 this morning, when I was informed by the Boss that we had a project for the day. I was told that I was to mow and manicure every inch of inhabitable grass that was between the fuel ramp and the taxiway. Ok, simple enough. The Boss strode about the land, gesturing grandly with his arms to illustrate his vision to me.
"I want it to look just like a golf course."
"Ok," I responded. "Why a golf course?""Because we're fixing to make one."
"Wait a minute." My mind processed what he just said. "We're making a golf course? On the airport?"
"Yep. I wanna play by this afternoon," the Boss replied, a slight mischievous grin glowing around his aviator sunglasses.
My smile was much broader and more obvious. And I responded in the best way that I knew how. "Yes, sir!"
"Play it as it lies, Lloyd!"
Yep, we officially opened the Gordo Beach Golf Resort today. Since this is an airport and 
numerical values would just not be appropriate, we've declared the lone hole to be known colloquially as "Hole Alpha." She's a Par Three, complete with tee markers and pin. After a day of mowing, weedeating, and installing the cup on the green, we officially teed off on the inaugural round of golf at 5:30 this afternoon. As one might well imagine from anyone crazy enough to build a private golf course on an airport, we had an absolute blast. Someone once asked me why I worked EMS, and I told them that it was the only place that I could find people that were almost as crazy as me. I now stand corrected; I've found a whole slew of people that are as crazy as me. I'm telling ya folks, we ain't right.
numerical values would just not be appropriate, we've declared the lone hole to be known colloquially as "Hole Alpha." She's a Par Three, complete with tee markers and pin. After a day of mowing, weedeating, and installing the cup on the green, we officially teed off on the inaugural round of golf at 5:30 this afternoon. As one might well imagine from anyone crazy enough to build a private golf course on an airport, we had an absolute blast. Someone once asked me why I worked EMS, and I told them that it was the only place that I could find people that were almost as crazy as me. I now stand corrected; I've found a whole slew of people that are as crazy as me. I'm telling ya folks, we ain't right.So that's how the day went. A day of landscaping followed by a relaxing afternoon of golf at the redneck country club. While "Sweet Home Alabama" boomed out into the air at an earth-shaking volume from the hangar stereo, the four of us teed-off from the road cones at the west ramp like it was Pebble Beach. Today was, for obvious reasons, some of the most fun I've had in a while. Flying is so much fun, but the camaraderie that comes along with it is priceless. I mean seriously, who installs a par three hole of golf on an airport? Who does that???
The recheck situation is still up in the air. We think we have it sorted it out, but I don't wanna get my hopes up too much. The Boss says it's gonna be ok, and I tend to believe a guy that wakes up one day and decides to make his own personal golf course. If it works out the way we plan, I'll be doing my recheck with him early next week. Until then, I suppose I at least have something to do. Lots of practice, that is.
Fore!
Joey
Monday, June 15, 2009
Day 119 - A Tribute To The Fallen
On Friday, June 12th, 2009, one of my faithful supporters was sadly taken from us. Shirley Hoyer, life mate & adored companion of my beloved grandfather, died suddenly and quite unexpectedly of a massive heart attack. Her passing leaves a hole in many hearts, and she will be deeply missed. Shirley was a cherished family member and faithful member of my support staff. She offered frequent encouragement of my aeronautical passions, and assisted other members of the staff by printing the contents of this blog for my less-than-computer-savvy grandfather so that he too could have a glimpse into the daily life a fledgling pilot. So dedicated she was, that with each update she, albeit inadvertently, reprinted the blog in its entirety. This suggests to me that a massive anthology exists somewhere in Mt. Juliet (each stack a little taller than the previous), and that the proprietors of various paper manufacturers and office suppliers are quite pleased with her performance.
Kidding aside though, her passing gives me cause to reflect upon those that have helped, loved, and supported me, and have since departed. In no particular order, the following are brief tributes to the other fans of the Lloyd whom, like Shirley, are no longer with us today.
Mary “Nana” McCormack – My dear grandmother. A staunch supporter of my aviation career, to be sure. Some of the fondest memories I have of my most primal fantasies of aviation revolve around the commuter flights I took to Tuscaloosa to visit my grandmother. Nana was one of my biggest fans; so much so that she thought everyone else was a fan, also. This is how ended up on several memorable adventures, to include breaking in to a closed museum because HER grandson wanted to go in, run-ins with law enforcement for illegally detonating pyrotechnics within the Tuscaloosa city limits because HER grandson wanted to, and getting stranded in Montgomery after I decided that a cross-town bus ride was in order (apparently we didn’t catch the part about it being a one-way trip). It was just beyond Nana’s comprehension that the driver would not go out of his way to return THE Joey to his point of origin. “But this is my grandson! MY grandson!” Do you see where I get my delusions of grandeur come from?
Bob “Papaw” Lee – Avid fan, loyal defender, faithful supporter of my aspirations, and huge contributor to my warped sense of humor and obnoxious-- err, I mean, creative forms of self-expression. Throughout the formative years of my life, Papaw nurtured my eccentricities by purchasing for me the loudest, most obscenely obnoxious toys and gadgets that he could find (a trumpet comes to mind), and providing me an endless stream of grouchy old man-isms to add to my repertoire. After all, what is a pilot without a penchant for toys and noise and the obligatory dry sense of humor? But more than that, he was a devoted advocate of my success, and vicious opponent to any that stood contrary to it. Just ask any one of the endless stream of umpires that he mercilessly heckled, harassed, and berated throughout my Pee Wee baseball career. The only man I ever knew that got thrown out of a Little League baseball game.
Bill Gilley – Without a doubt, one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever met. Truly a genius. Mr. Gilley knew something (usually a lot) about everything, and there was not a day that we were together that I didn’t learn something. Mr. Gilley played a vital role in my continued success by igniting certain flames within me that would eventually grow and manifest themselves in ways that would have far-reaching impacts on my life. Mr. Gilley introduced me to public service through the American Red Cross, and also ignited my enjoyment of teaching by ushering me into service as a Lifeguard Instructor. These pursuits would later serve as a catalyst for my foray into EMS and firefighting. He was also an amazing supporter of my passion for aviation. Whether it be from bringing souvenirs from his annual trip to Sun ‘N Fun, or just endless conversation as we rode all over creation in that little black car, he always evoked my passion for aviation and offered relentless encouragement. His confidence in me was astounding, as he was primarily responsible for the Red Cross (much to their continued dismay) appointing me both the youngest Board Member and Lifeguard Instructor in county history. I point out this fact not to draw attention to myself, but to illustrate the stellar support that I enjoyed from Mr. Gilley. All that happened solely because he went out on a limb and believed in me. Or perhaps it was a subversive plot to exact perpetual retribution on the organization by releasing a madman into the ranks. Either way, I like it!
Jim “Pa Jim” Braxton – The man that taught me how to drive (and operate) a fire engine, and also the first person to ever dub me “Alan” of Two And A Half Men fame. I also suspect him to be the architect of a vast global conspiracy, considering that everyone in the English-speaking world now apparently draws the exact same parallels between me and the fictional character. Thanks, Jim. And while not a direct link to my aviation career, Pa Jim has indirectly impacted it in immeasurable ways. He taught me so many things in the time we spent together. These include, but are not limited to, how to cuss at passing cars on wreck scenes, how to outrage blue-haired old women, how to run a rolling blockade on a highway, and how to sufficiently mortify any curious passerby from ever again inquiring about the severity of a car wreck. (“Yeah, there’s 10 or 12 dead up under there. There’s bodies everywhere. Get on outta here.”). More importantly though, he gave me life lessons. He taught me about calm and calculated control, leadership under pressure, and valiant decision-making against insurmountable odds. This education has been applied to my flying with fantastic results. And as is the case of the other watchdogs, more than one individual met comeuppance and the wrath of Pa Jim after messing with me. Two years departed now, Jim’s spirit and his trademark skid lid hat go everywhere with me. The photo taken of me and the rest of the department honor guard during his funeral is one of my most prized possessions, and sits on my dresser in Jasper at this very moment. And I still hate a paper route.
Ok, so before you condemn me for disrespecting the dead by utilizing humor in their tribute, let me just ask you one question: How exactly do you think I got like this? I didn’t just wake up this warped, it takes the fantastic input of very special people. People like the ones listed above. The aforementioned statements utilized humor because all five of my departed fans would have wanted it that way. They each had a hand in molding the person I am today, and they each would appreciate a light-hearted approach to the amazing lives they led. Besides, this post isn’t for you, anyway. It’s for them.
So anyway, Shirley, we’re gonna miss you. Thank you for everything did for me, and thank you for accomplishing the unimaginable task of keeping my grandfather on the straight and narrow for the last 16 years. He means the world to me, and I thank you for looking after him. I’m sorry that you, Nana, Papaw, Bill, and Jim won’t make it to the finish line with me, but just know that this one’s for y’all.
Joey
AUTHOR'S NOTE: For some reason, in the original post, I stated that Shirley passed away on February 12th. In fact, she passed away this previous Friday; well into the month of June.
Kidding aside though, her passing gives me cause to reflect upon those that have helped, loved, and supported me, and have since departed. In no particular order, the following are brief tributes to the other fans of the Lloyd whom, like Shirley, are no longer with us today.
Mary “Nana” McCormack – My dear grandmother. A staunch supporter of my aviation career, to be sure. Some of the fondest memories I have of my most primal fantasies of aviation revolve around the commuter flights I took to Tuscaloosa to visit my grandmother. Nana was one of my biggest fans; so much so that she thought everyone else was a fan, also. This is how ended up on several memorable adventures, to include breaking in to a closed museum because HER grandson wanted to go in, run-ins with law enforcement for illegally detonating pyrotechnics within the Tuscaloosa city limits because HER grandson wanted to, and getting stranded in Montgomery after I decided that a cross-town bus ride was in order (apparently we didn’t catch the part about it being a one-way trip). It was just beyond Nana’s comprehension that the driver would not go out of his way to return THE Joey to his point of origin. “But this is my grandson! MY grandson!” Do you see where I get my delusions of grandeur come from?
Bob “Papaw” Lee – Avid fan, loyal defender, faithful supporter of my aspirations, and huge contributor to my warped sense of humor and obnoxious-- err, I mean, creative forms of self-expression. Throughout the formative years of my life, Papaw nurtured my eccentricities by purchasing for me the loudest, most obscenely obnoxious toys and gadgets that he could find (a trumpet comes to mind), and providing me an endless stream of grouchy old man-isms to add to my repertoire. After all, what is a pilot without a penchant for toys and noise and the obligatory dry sense of humor? But more than that, he was a devoted advocate of my success, and vicious opponent to any that stood contrary to it. Just ask any one of the endless stream of umpires that he mercilessly heckled, harassed, and berated throughout my Pee Wee baseball career. The only man I ever knew that got thrown out of a Little League baseball game.
Bill Gilley – Without a doubt, one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever met. Truly a genius. Mr. Gilley knew something (usually a lot) about everything, and there was not a day that we were together that I didn’t learn something. Mr. Gilley played a vital role in my continued success by igniting certain flames within me that would eventually grow and manifest themselves in ways that would have far-reaching impacts on my life. Mr. Gilley introduced me to public service through the American Red Cross, and also ignited my enjoyment of teaching by ushering me into service as a Lifeguard Instructor. These pursuits would later serve as a catalyst for my foray into EMS and firefighting. He was also an amazing supporter of my passion for aviation. Whether it be from bringing souvenirs from his annual trip to Sun ‘N Fun, or just endless conversation as we rode all over creation in that little black car, he always evoked my passion for aviation and offered relentless encouragement. His confidence in me was astounding, as he was primarily responsible for the Red Cross (much to their continued dismay) appointing me both the youngest Board Member and Lifeguard Instructor in county history. I point out this fact not to draw attention to myself, but to illustrate the stellar support that I enjoyed from Mr. Gilley. All that happened solely because he went out on a limb and believed in me. Or perhaps it was a subversive plot to exact perpetual retribution on the organization by releasing a madman into the ranks. Either way, I like it!
Jim “Pa Jim” Braxton – The man that taught me how to drive (and operate) a fire engine, and also the first person to ever dub me “Alan” of Two And A Half Men fame. I also suspect him to be the architect of a vast global conspiracy, considering that everyone in the English-speaking world now apparently draws the exact same parallels between me and the fictional character. Thanks, Jim. And while not a direct link to my aviation career, Pa Jim has indirectly impacted it in immeasurable ways. He taught me so many things in the time we spent together. These include, but are not limited to, how to cuss at passing cars on wreck scenes, how to outrage blue-haired old women, how to run a rolling blockade on a highway, and how to sufficiently mortify any curious passerby from ever again inquiring about the severity of a car wreck. (“Yeah, there’s 10 or 12 dead up under there. There’s bodies everywhere. Get on outta here.”). More importantly though, he gave me life lessons. He taught me about calm and calculated control, leadership under pressure, and valiant decision-making against insurmountable odds. This education has been applied to my flying with fantastic results. And as is the case of the other watchdogs, more than one individual met comeuppance and the wrath of Pa Jim after messing with me. Two years departed now, Jim’s spirit and his trademark skid lid hat go everywhere with me. The photo taken of me and the rest of the department honor guard during his funeral is one of my most prized possessions, and sits on my dresser in Jasper at this very moment. And I still hate a paper route.
Ok, so before you condemn me for disrespecting the dead by utilizing humor in their tribute, let me just ask you one question: How exactly do you think I got like this? I didn’t just wake up this warped, it takes the fantastic input of very special people. People like the ones listed above. The aforementioned statements utilized humor because all five of my departed fans would have wanted it that way. They each had a hand in molding the person I am today, and they each would appreciate a light-hearted approach to the amazing lives they led. Besides, this post isn’t for you, anyway. It’s for them.
So anyway, Shirley, we’re gonna miss you. Thank you for everything did for me, and thank you for accomplishing the unimaginable task of keeping my grandfather on the straight and narrow for the last 16 years. He means the world to me, and I thank you for looking after him. I’m sorry that you, Nana, Papaw, Bill, and Jim won’t make it to the finish line with me, but just know that this one’s for y’all.
Joey
AUTHOR'S NOTE: For some reason, in the original post, I stated that Shirley passed away on February 12th. In fact, she passed away this previous Friday; well into the month of June.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Character Analysis - The Last Of The Hangar Kids
"There was a Stearman here earlier." I had walked out the door and onto the ramp just in time to hear Matt say this to two other pilots within the program that had stopped for fuel during their cross-country venture for the day.
"A what?"
"A Stearman," Matt repeated.
"What's a Stearman?" My ears perked, and I devoted full attention to the conversation. The thought of a pilot, much less two, being unfamiliar with a Stearman had completely blown my mind. What planet are these people from?
"It's an old military biplane," Matt responded. "What about a T-6, have you ever seen one in person?"
"What's a T-6?"
Oh for God's sake. "Ok, let's start with something simpler," I interjected. "Are you able to recognize shapes and colors?" My sarcastic jab was met with predictably blank stares. There might as well have been have been electronic signs on their foreheads, each one flashing the phrase "DOES NOT COMPUTE." What didn't compute, to me, was a pilot being unable to visually identify to staples of classic aviation history, not to mention lore. In the aviation community, such an offense is roughly tantamount to the failure to recogize the sky's color to be blue. It was almost apalling. We stood in silence for a moment while they attempted to mentally calculate what exactly a shape and color were, and whether or not they could readily identify subcategories of each with reasonable accuracy. In attempt to prevent mental overload and subsequent vapor lock, I decided to put a stop to it.
"Nevermind."
Somewhere down the line, there is a major hitch in the get-along. These two pilots are not the first two I have seen that are lacking major components of their aviation cultural knowledge, and I assert that these ignorances are a direct result of the fact that many don't seem to actually enjoy flying. They spew flawless procedural knowledge from memory, and perform preflight inspections that would put most A&Ps to shame, but when it comes time to actually get in the airplane I have noticed that many don't appreciate the magic of it. And make no mistake, it is magic for me, no less now than it was 15 years ago. I may not be able to shoot an SDF approach exactly right the first time, nor can I quote the FAR/AIM chapter and verse (That's why there's an index in the back of that thing). And frankly, I don't think that's extremely critical. As I've told many people with regard to medicine and emergency services; if you have the heart for it, then you're fine. Skills and knowledge can be developed. Passion is either preexisting, or absent. Period. You cannot teach someone how to love. It has to be within them. And once its presence is identified, the trick is to merely elicit that portion of their soul and channel it into positive results. This is true of any field. Aviation is no different. Passion is the key. For me, and many others, that passion has always existed. While other 6th graders drew monster trucks in art class, I drew FedEx DC-10s. Some kids wore the t-shirts of their favorite baseball teams; I chose the Blue Angels. While the rest of the teenagers I knew played Grand Theft Auto and other intellectually stimulating video games, I flew Microsoft Flight Simulator in a simulated ATC environment for hundreds and thousands of hours (Yes I'm a nerd, shut up). Most 16 year olds go to the movies or on car dates, while this one drove an hour and a half to flight school. I learned to drink (and eventually love) black coffee. I hung around the airport, and could sit for endless hours watching airplanes takeoff and land (I'm amazed at the pilots around here whom have either never witnessed the nightly FedEx push at Memphis, or don't even know what it is). At any rate, I was, and still am, a hangar kid. Flying is just something I've always wanted to do, and I am truly amazed how few people say that. For a time, I thought that it was just the inherent, almost instinctive desire of every pilot to fly. Almost like sea turtles. The minute you're born, the fire is lit.
For all these reasons, most pilots within my age bracket, and of commensurate experience, think that I'm insane. Now mind you that these are the same people that sleep with a FAR/AIM under their pillows and have Low En Route Charts tacked up on the walls in their room like decoration, but I'm certifiable for pursuing the spirit of aviation more than the logistics. Right. Where have all the hangar kids gone? Who knows. But apparently very few hangar kids actually grow up to become pilots. From the best evidence that I can collect, it seems that most of the people in my demographic literally woke up one day within the last 10-12 months and decided to become a pilot. Seriously.
Make no mistake, the purpose of this analysis is not to belittle those that do not share my obsession. In fact, I feel rather sorry for them. As hard a time as I sometimes have with all of this, I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. Some of the things that I am fortunate enough to be able to do evoke feelings within me that I cannot describe. This little adventure has been one mess after another, but the opportunity to pursue a fantasy that I have held for nearly 23 years makes it all worth while. I put up with all this crap because it's pragmatic to do so. The juice is worth the squeeze, so to speak. How they persevere and put up with the nonsense without displaying any appreciable enjoyment is beyond me. Is it the perceived glamour of being able to say, "I'm a pilot?" The mythical six figure salary? I honestly don't understand. But investing the time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears, without being able to extract that child-like excitement and fulfillment from the backside is what seems crazy to me.
Truly, I am the luckier of the two personalities discussed here tonight. I can retake a checkride. I can study more. I can even flip to the index in my trusty FAR/AIM. But they can't carry spare passion in their flight bag. They can't try again to love this, and they can't get someone to implant the desire within them through extra ground school. But to each his own, I suppose. And even though my road sometimes seems a little rockier, it sure is more fun.
I'll stick with it.
Joey
"A what?"
"A Stearman," Matt repeated.
"What's a Stearman?" My ears perked, and I devoted full attention to the conversation. The thought of a pilot, much less two, being unfamiliar with a Stearman had completely blown my mind. What planet are these people from?
"It's an old military biplane," Matt responded. "What about a T-6, have you ever seen one in person?"
"What's a T-6?"
Oh for God's sake. "Ok, let's start with something simpler," I interjected. "Are you able to recognize shapes and colors?" My sarcastic jab was met with predictably blank stares. There might as well have been have been electronic signs on their foreheads, each one flashing the phrase "DOES NOT COMPUTE." What didn't compute, to me, was a pilot being unable to visually identify to staples of classic aviation history, not to mention lore. In the aviation community, such an offense is roughly tantamount to the failure to recogize the sky's color to be blue. It was almost apalling. We stood in silence for a moment while they attempted to mentally calculate what exactly a shape and color were, and whether or not they could readily identify subcategories of each with reasonable accuracy. In attempt to prevent mental overload and subsequent vapor lock, I decided to put a stop to it.
"Nevermind."
Somewhere down the line, there is a major hitch in the get-along. These two pilots are not the first two I have seen that are lacking major components of their aviation cultural knowledge, and I assert that these ignorances are a direct result of the fact that many don't seem to actually enjoy flying. They spew flawless procedural knowledge from memory, and perform preflight inspections that would put most A&Ps to shame, but when it comes time to actually get in the airplane I have noticed that many don't appreciate the magic of it. And make no mistake, it is magic for me, no less now than it was 15 years ago. I may not be able to shoot an SDF approach exactly right the first time, nor can I quote the FAR/AIM chapter and verse (That's why there's an index in the back of that thing). And frankly, I don't think that's extremely critical. As I've told many people with regard to medicine and emergency services; if you have the heart for it, then you're fine. Skills and knowledge can be developed. Passion is either preexisting, or absent. Period. You cannot teach someone how to love. It has to be within them. And once its presence is identified, the trick is to merely elicit that portion of their soul and channel it into positive results. This is true of any field. Aviation is no different. Passion is the key. For me, and many others, that passion has always existed. While other 6th graders drew monster trucks in art class, I drew FedEx DC-10s. Some kids wore the t-shirts of their favorite baseball teams; I chose the Blue Angels. While the rest of the teenagers I knew played Grand Theft Auto and other intellectually stimulating video games, I flew Microsoft Flight Simulator in a simulated ATC environment for hundreds and thousands of hours (Yes I'm a nerd, shut up). Most 16 year olds go to the movies or on car dates, while this one drove an hour and a half to flight school. I learned to drink (and eventually love) black coffee. I hung around the airport, and could sit for endless hours watching airplanes takeoff and land (I'm amazed at the pilots around here whom have either never witnessed the nightly FedEx push at Memphis, or don't even know what it is). At any rate, I was, and still am, a hangar kid. Flying is just something I've always wanted to do, and I am truly amazed how few people say that. For a time, I thought that it was just the inherent, almost instinctive desire of every pilot to fly. Almost like sea turtles. The minute you're born, the fire is lit.
For all these reasons, most pilots within my age bracket, and of commensurate experience, think that I'm insane. Now mind you that these are the same people that sleep with a FAR/AIM under their pillows and have Low En Route Charts tacked up on the walls in their room like decoration, but I'm certifiable for pursuing the spirit of aviation more than the logistics. Right. Where have all the hangar kids gone? Who knows. But apparently very few hangar kids actually grow up to become pilots. From the best evidence that I can collect, it seems that most of the people in my demographic literally woke up one day within the last 10-12 months and decided to become a pilot. Seriously.
Make no mistake, the purpose of this analysis is not to belittle those that do not share my obsession. In fact, I feel rather sorry for them. As hard a time as I sometimes have with all of this, I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. Some of the things that I am fortunate enough to be able to do evoke feelings within me that I cannot describe. This little adventure has been one mess after another, but the opportunity to pursue a fantasy that I have held for nearly 23 years makes it all worth while. I put up with all this crap because it's pragmatic to do so. The juice is worth the squeeze, so to speak. How they persevere and put up with the nonsense without displaying any appreciable enjoyment is beyond me. Is it the perceived glamour of being able to say, "I'm a pilot?" The mythical six figure salary? I honestly don't understand. But investing the time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears, without being able to extract that child-like excitement and fulfillment from the backside is what seems crazy to me.
Truly, I am the luckier of the two personalities discussed here tonight. I can retake a checkride. I can study more. I can even flip to the index in my trusty FAR/AIM. But they can't carry spare passion in their flight bag. They can't try again to love this, and they can't get someone to implant the desire within them through extra ground school. But to each his own, I suppose. And even though my road sometimes seems a little rockier, it sure is more fun.
I'll stick with it.
Joey
Monday, June 1, 2009
Day 105 - On The Way Down
So, most of you already know that I failed my multi-engine instrument checkride yesterday. I won’t reinvent the wheel there. I was emotionally destroyed yesterday (not much better today) and didn’t feel like writing about it, so I didn’t. I came back to the trailer and threw myself a "pity party," to quote Hailey. Then I got in the sim to practice what I failed. Then came another pity party. It was a good plan, I think. But the question remains, now what?
I am scared to death, folks. I cannot put into words the visceral, crippling fear that has been constant within me since yesterday, but I threw up three times yesterday if that gives you any illustration (Gotta love total honesty and transparency. Gross details. And remember, you heard it here first). I was unsatisfactory on two things during the ride, and those are the two items that I’ll have to repeat. The first was an SDF approach (Mr. Page, that's for you), and the second was a DME arc. A DME arc is really simple, but I was so rattled and upset from busting the ride that I lost my head and turned the wrong way. It was an extremely stupid mistake and 100% my fault. The examiner tried to get me rattled, and I let him. I get one more shot at it, and if I fail that, they kick me out of school. I’m not dealing well at all with that prospect, and am honestly mortified. This is the first checkride that I’ve busted in my burgeoning flying career, and I feel about three inches tall. I’m very angry that I was not taught the approach that I failed, but the overwhelming emotion is quite simple: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of disappointing all of you. Fear of the shame that I will feel if I don’t make it. Fear of being nothing. Fear of having nothing. This is really all I’ve got, and if I fail again it gets taken away from me. Every egg I've got is sitting in a basket with the word "pilot" written on the side of it. My college education, this huge investment that my family and I have made in my training, my hopes and dreams; they all revolve around aviation. I just don’t understand why every time I start to make a little progress I get shoved backwards again. I don’t know what the answer is, or what to do, or think. I just know that I’m scared. I’m waiting to hear what happens to me now, and all I can do is my best if I get to retest. Truly, that’s all I can do. But I’m deeply concerned that it’s not enough.
I spent most of the day today with the boss. He is always a comforting presence to me and tried his best to reassure me, but not even he could assuage the anxiety I’m feeling. I feel just totally hopeless, like it’s already over. Being around him did help, though. I would do anything for the guy and think the world of him, but it is sorta embarassing to ride in a car with an MD-11 Captain when you can't even pass a checkride. I did at least smile and laugh a little bit, though. The boss says it’s going to be ok, but I’m not so sure. I hope he’s right. My emotions run the gamut and undergo complete polar shifts. When I talk to the boss, it sounds so simple: like something I can do. But when I relive what happened and really process what I’m going to have to do to pass, I descend back into total despair. I’m really trying to overcome it, but failure is not easy for anyone; especially when everything is riding on the line this time. That’s what really, really scares me. If I bust, it’s over for me. Over.
I’m still waiting to hear my fate, at least in the interim. All I can do now is sit and stew on what happened, and listen to the stress-induced ulcers develop in my stomach. I’ve started naming them as they develop. As best I can figure, I have three. So far I’m calling them Groucho, Harpo, and Chico. I’ll keep you informed, and please lemme know if you and ulcer-nomenclature suggestions. Please hang in there with me guys. I’m trying.
I promise, I’m trying.
Joey
I am scared to death, folks. I cannot put into words the visceral, crippling fear that has been constant within me since yesterday, but I threw up three times yesterday if that gives you any illustration (Gotta love total honesty and transparency. Gross details. And remember, you heard it here first). I was unsatisfactory on two things during the ride, and those are the two items that I’ll have to repeat. The first was an SDF approach (Mr. Page, that's for you), and the second was a DME arc. A DME arc is really simple, but I was so rattled and upset from busting the ride that I lost my head and turned the wrong way. It was an extremely stupid mistake and 100% my fault. The examiner tried to get me rattled, and I let him. I get one more shot at it, and if I fail that, they kick me out of school. I’m not dealing well at all with that prospect, and am honestly mortified. This is the first checkride that I’ve busted in my burgeoning flying career, and I feel about three inches tall. I’m very angry that I was not taught the approach that I failed, but the overwhelming emotion is quite simple: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of disappointing all of you. Fear of the shame that I will feel if I don’t make it. Fear of being nothing. Fear of having nothing. This is really all I’ve got, and if I fail again it gets taken away from me. Every egg I've got is sitting in a basket with the word "pilot" written on the side of it. My college education, this huge investment that my family and I have made in my training, my hopes and dreams; they all revolve around aviation. I just don’t understand why every time I start to make a little progress I get shoved backwards again. I don’t know what the answer is, or what to do, or think. I just know that I’m scared. I’m waiting to hear what happens to me now, and all I can do is my best if I get to retest. Truly, that’s all I can do. But I’m deeply concerned that it’s not enough.
I spent most of the day today with the boss. He is always a comforting presence to me and tried his best to reassure me, but not even he could assuage the anxiety I’m feeling. I feel just totally hopeless, like it’s already over. Being around him did help, though. I would do anything for the guy and think the world of him, but it is sorta embarassing to ride in a car with an MD-11 Captain when you can't even pass a checkride. I did at least smile and laugh a little bit, though. The boss says it’s going to be ok, but I’m not so sure. I hope he’s right. My emotions run the gamut and undergo complete polar shifts. When I talk to the boss, it sounds so simple: like something I can do. But when I relive what happened and really process what I’m going to have to do to pass, I descend back into total despair. I’m really trying to overcome it, but failure is not easy for anyone; especially when everything is riding on the line this time. That’s what really, really scares me. If I bust, it’s over for me. Over.
I’m still waiting to hear my fate, at least in the interim. All I can do now is sit and stew on what happened, and listen to the stress-induced ulcers develop in my stomach. I’ve started naming them as they develop. As best I can figure, I have three. So far I’m calling them Groucho, Harpo, and Chico. I’ll keep you informed, and please lemme know if you and ulcer-nomenclature suggestions. Please hang in there with me guys. I’m trying.
I promise, I’m trying.
Joey
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Day 101 - Laodicean
I watched Matt gyrate up and down in the living room floor, cranking out one push-up after another. It was about the third exercise in his nightly routine. Experience told me that a highly entertaining round of vigorous shadow-boxing should follow right about... Yep. There it is. Right on schedule. I was sprawled out on one of the couches, wondering what could drive someone to be such a fitness nut. Some mental imbalance? Masochism, maybe? Whatever component it is that motivates such desires, I obviously don’t have it. I reached for the Dr. Pepper can that sat beside my oven-cooked frozen pizza, downing a man-sized portion of the liquid before speaking. “Ya know, you almost make me feel bad,” I said to him; an obvious reference to my laziness in contrast with his determination and physical exertion. For effect, I appropriately punctuated the statement by releasing a loud, Dr. Pepper-fueled belch that echoed through the trailer like a train horn through a tunnel. “Almost.”
The loud bass noise temporarily drowned out the television, which was providing us entertainment in the form of the National Spelling Bee. Who does that, anyway? Who sits around and watches brain-washed middle schoolers attempt to spell ridiculously obscure words? And why on earth did this warrant live broadcast on national television? It seemed to me that the great pride should be found in not knowing how to spell “laodicean,” which apparently means “to be indifferent in politics.” The absence of this knowledge should indicate that one’s brain is hopefully more occupied with knowledge that is actually applicable to real life.
Mine, on the other hand, was just fried. Knowledge and relative applicability not withstanding, mine was abused to the point of surrender or strike, I haven’t decided which. I spent much of the day doing practice tests from an FAA written exam and my eyes are just now starting to uncross. I’ve got to get it knocked out, since my checkride is this weekend. Fortunately it was moved to Sunday, giving me an extra day to get everything ironed out in hopes that some miracle will rain down from heaven, thereby allowing me to pass. That’s the good news.
The bad news is that yours truly is getting shipped back to Atlanta. Imagine that. One would think that a little common sense would come into play when assigning pilots to cross-country airports, but apparently not. No, instead Lloyd the Laodicean Pilot shall be sent head-first into the lion’s den of school politics and cultural nausea. So that’s going to be my cross to bear in the coming days, it seems. This is not confirmed, but strongly implied. If course, this company is such a joke that I’ll not believe anything until it has already happened. There’s no concrete plan for anything involving the cross-country stage, or any scheduling thereof, so who knows. They may decide to send me to New Jersey for all I know. Only the ringmaster knows for sure.
I’m not looking forward to this, as we have spoken about several times, but my mood is gradually shifting from one of complete dread to defiant rage. I’m not looking forward to stomaching this ration of crap, be well-assured of that, and I certainly have no love lost for Atlanta, but at times I think it would be rather nice to stroll proudly through the door and remind them that I have faced down bigger and badder than them, and no one has figured out how to kill me yet. Yet.
So there’s the Thursday report. As more information becomes available, you shall have it. As I say, the school is not very forthcoming with plans or information, but I strongly suspect this to be a byproduct of colossal ignorance. It’s hard to share information when you don’t have a clue yourself. And as long as people like this exist, I’m sure I’ll keep my proud reputation of “contagious negativity.”
Long live the laodicean.
Joey
The loud bass noise temporarily drowned out the television, which was providing us entertainment in the form of the National Spelling Bee. Who does that, anyway? Who sits around and watches brain-washed middle schoolers attempt to spell ridiculously obscure words? And why on earth did this warrant live broadcast on national television? It seemed to me that the great pride should be found in not knowing how to spell “laodicean,” which apparently means “to be indifferent in politics.” The absence of this knowledge should indicate that one’s brain is hopefully more occupied with knowledge that is actually applicable to real life.
Mine, on the other hand, was just fried. Knowledge and relative applicability not withstanding, mine was abused to the point of surrender or strike, I haven’t decided which. I spent much of the day doing practice tests from an FAA written exam and my eyes are just now starting to uncross. I’ve got to get it knocked out, since my checkride is this weekend. Fortunately it was moved to Sunday, giving me an extra day to get everything ironed out in hopes that some miracle will rain down from heaven, thereby allowing me to pass. That’s the good news.
The bad news is that yours truly is getting shipped back to Atlanta. Imagine that. One would think that a little common sense would come into play when assigning pilots to cross-country airports, but apparently not. No, instead Lloyd the Laodicean Pilot shall be sent head-first into the lion’s den of school politics and cultural nausea. So that’s going to be my cross to bear in the coming days, it seems. This is not confirmed, but strongly implied. If course, this company is such a joke that I’ll not believe anything until it has already happened. There’s no concrete plan for anything involving the cross-country stage, or any scheduling thereof, so who knows. They may decide to send me to New Jersey for all I know. Only the ringmaster knows for sure.
I’m not looking forward to this, as we have spoken about several times, but my mood is gradually shifting from one of complete dread to defiant rage. I’m not looking forward to stomaching this ration of crap, be well-assured of that, and I certainly have no love lost for Atlanta, but at times I think it would be rather nice to stroll proudly through the door and remind them that I have faced down bigger and badder than them, and no one has figured out how to kill me yet. Yet.
So there’s the Thursday report. As more information becomes available, you shall have it. As I say, the school is not very forthcoming with plans or information, but I strongly suspect this to be a byproduct of colossal ignorance. It’s hard to share information when you don’t have a clue yourself. And as long as people like this exist, I’m sure I’ll keep my proud reputation of “contagious negativity.”
Long live the laodicean.
Joey
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Day 94 - Lloyd Rides Again... For A While
"The limo is sitting outside the shop, Lloyd." Ryan said to me. "I think it's done." He had just returned from town, and had seen the limo at the auto repair shop. We had dropped it off the day before, requesting that it finally be repaired from its last mishap; the night it caught fire."Well let's go!" I leapt from my chair, discarding my cup of coffee and making quick time for the truck. Finding the parts needed to repair the limo had been an ordeal, and I was so excited to finally have back under my command the embodiment of automotive excellence that had blessed me with my nickname that I could barely contain myself. My limo!
Fifteen minutes later, the four finest wheels to ever skim the surface of an Alabama roadway rumbled across the airport ramp. Loud horn blasts akin to those of a train echoed off the hangars, and one grinning idiot hung out the driver's window like a kid with a new toy. And what better way to break in a new toy than an immediate road trip eh? All was right with the world.
For a while.
"Ya know. It couldn't break down in a parking lot. That would be too easy. It had to take a crap right in the middle of the 5/195 split." Ryan muttered, standing on the side of the road. "I hate that car.""Shut up, Ryan." I barked. "You will not blaspheme the limo."
Although he was right. It picked the absolute worst place to break down. Traffic backed up behind the wounded warrior for hundreds of feet, the occupants of each vehicle apparently unware of their ability to turn that round thing in front of them and circumnavigate the road obstacle. Drivers yelled angrily and horns honked loudly, as if their contemptuous noises would magically heal the tired old Caddy, or at least shove it out of their path. Morons.
I stared helplessly at my proud chariot, which now lay dormant on the side of Highway 5. It had made it all of about five miles and thirty minutes post-repair before totally surrendering. We had traveled just a little ways from the airport, with Matt in the back and Ryan ahead of us in the company truck, when a loud buzzer sounded and a red annunciator light activated: "SERVICE ENGINE NOW." Service engine "NOW." GM engineers must have a flare for the dramatic, I thought. It'll be a'ight. By the way- for future reference, "NOW" means "within the next 100 yards," because that's as far as she made it.
The motor surged, the accelerator pedal went limp, and the vehicle shut of
f all at once, stopping dead center in the road. I'm happy to report, though, that all the resources in our arsenal were immediately brought to bear to rescue the Gordo Limo. This included a scene response by the Boss, as well as my driving the mighty blue Dodge, a.k.a. the "mini-ambulance," to the site of the tragedy (seen at right, jumping off the limo). She's back home with us now, but we're not exactly sure what's wrong with it. The only conclusion that Ryan and I have come to is that perhaps we're missing the bigger picture. We're trying to discover one issue that could have caused all of these problems, which I think is an erroneous approach. Instead of trying to figure out is wrong with it, we're now making a concerted effort to figure what is not wrong with it. It's a short list.
I stared helplessly at my proud chariot, which now lay dormant on the side of Highway 5. It had made it all of about five miles and thirty minutes post-repair before totally surrendering. We had traveled just a little ways from the airport, with Matt in the back and Ryan ahead of us in the company truck, when a loud buzzer sounded and a red annunciator light activated: "SERVICE ENGINE NOW." Service engine "NOW." GM engineers must have a flare for the dramatic, I thought. It'll be a'ight. By the way- for future reference, "NOW" means "within the next 100 yards," because that's as far as she made it.
The motor surged, the accelerator pedal went limp, and the vehicle shut of
f all at once, stopping dead center in the road. I'm happy to report, though, that all the resources in our arsenal were immediately brought to bear to rescue the Gordo Limo. This included a scene response by the Boss, as well as my driving the mighty blue Dodge, a.k.a. the "mini-ambulance," to the site of the tragedy (seen at right, jumping off the limo). She's back home with us now, but we're not exactly sure what's wrong with it. The only conclusion that Ryan and I have come to is that perhaps we're missing the bigger picture. We're trying to discover one issue that could have caused all of these problems, which I think is an erroneous approach. Instead of trying to figure out is wrong with it, we're now making a concerted effort to figure what is not wrong with it. It's a short list.So it's Memorial Day Weekend, which can only mean one thing: Look out McVegas, here comes Lloyd. The Blue Goose will be northbound first thing in the morning, and I'll be kicking off a much-needed three-day weekend. We've not made much "fun" progress, as one might say, it's been mostly books and studying this week. In fact, I've not flown in about a week and I'm starting to get antsy. I seem to be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, so that is always helpful. Checkride is next weekend, so if anyone has any favors with the aviation gods, I do wish you would consider calling them in. Otherwise, that's all there is to say for tonight. If I don't personally see you soon, we'll meet again during next post I'm sure.
Pray for my limo.
Joey
Monday, May 18, 2009
Day 91 - A Community In Mourning
Ok, so I've been quiet again. I can't help it folks, it's been quiet on my end too. The silence is a direct result of a repeated tragic loss suffered recently, and I'm trying to deal with the grief of it all.
I don't know how to tell y'all this, but they closed our grocery store. Abruptly and without warning, they just shut it down. That's right, the days of my bargain-shopping have come to a tragic and painful end. I made my final, melancholy stroll through the hallowed aisles of the Jasper Food World late last week, and was fraught with emotion. Day after day I had sought nutrional refuge within the walls of the building, each time proudly presenting my discount card to the cashier, like so many senior citizens before me, in presumptuous expectation of the coveted $.05 discount on that box of saltines. I had scoured the shelves for the greatest deals and discounts, carefully scrutinizing the seemingly endless supply of junkfood, frozen pizzas, and meat, which have become the staples of our existence here. But now, I stared blankly at barren shelves. It looked like a bomb had been detonated within the store. In fact, the only evidence that a retail established had once flourished were the few cartons and containers that had been carelessly tossed about by the ravenous buggy-pushing vultures that had descended upon the store in order to avail themselves of the deep clearance discounts on the store's inventory. Everything was marked down. Even the appliances and shelves had price tags on them. Everything must go. Geriatrics and soccer moms darted about frantically like sharks in search of prey. Dozens of people crowded around certain displays, creating small-scale riots within the store. It was sad, and I shook my head in disdain. They had reverted to their primitive, animalistic instincts as they fought over bargains, but my mind was focused solely on reflection and mourning. I couldn't see how anyone could be so selfish and uncaring at a time such as this, and how they thought only of bargain shopping while --- Oh look! Snickers bars for $.30 each! Stand aside, plebeians! Back, I say! Back! H-yah!!!
Compounding the catastrophic loss of Food World and her blessed $2 New York strips, Ryan and I also lost Danny last week. That's why I've been so quiet. I've been off since Wednesday, when Danny was reassigned to Tampa, so there's been nothing at all to report. I was, obviously, very sad to see him go as we really hit it off and had a great time. The loss of my first good instructor within the program has weighed heavily on me, as has the revelation that I will be shipped somewhere else for the next stage of my training. I'm not really sure what to think about that, but my mood can best be described as one of tempered optimism. They're not saying where I will be going, but I have been assured that it will probably not be Atlanta (I hate Atlanta). This is a great comfort to me, as I would be concerned about my subsequent escape. I'm just not sure that I would be able to get back out of Atlanta. Others have tried and failed; the entire population, in fact. Thankfully, Atlanta is just one of dozens of possibility. Matt, our new instructor (actually he's just a returning instructor), told me that he was sent to Richmond, Virginia, to complete this stage of his program. I kinda like that idea, although it is a long way to Richmond according to Travis Tritt. I would prefer one of the smaller locations like that, mainly because I want to avoid the predominant, arrogant, and totally nauseating pilot attitude ("Maverick-itis") that I seem to encounter frequently here, but we'll see what happens. And have I mentioned that I hate Atlanta?
So that's our report from the field, back to you in the news room. I've been signed off for my next checkride, so maybe I'll get to do that soon. Matt's a great guy so I'm optimistic about that, and I'm hoping for some good progress this week. I sure am ready to be done with this. As usual, any significant progress will be forthcoming.
Oh, and I hate Atlanta.
Joey
I don't know how to tell y'all this, but they closed our grocery store. Abruptly and without warning, they just shut it down. That's right, the days of my bargain-shopping have come to a tragic and painful end. I made my final, melancholy stroll through the hallowed aisles of the Jasper Food World late last week, and was fraught with emotion. Day after day I had sought nutrional refuge within the walls of the building, each time proudly presenting my discount card to the cashier, like so many senior citizens before me, in presumptuous expectation of the coveted $.05 discount on that box of saltines. I had scoured the shelves for the greatest deals and discounts, carefully scrutinizing the seemingly endless supply of junkfood, frozen pizzas, and meat, which have become the staples of our existence here. But now, I stared blankly at barren shelves. It looked like a bomb had been detonated within the store. In fact, the only evidence that a retail established had once flourished were the few cartons and containers that had been carelessly tossed about by the ravenous buggy-pushing vultures that had descended upon the store in order to avail themselves of the deep clearance discounts on the store's inventory. Everything was marked down. Even the appliances and shelves had price tags on them. Everything must go. Geriatrics and soccer moms darted about frantically like sharks in search of prey. Dozens of people crowded around certain displays, creating small-scale riots within the store. It was sad, and I shook my head in disdain. They had reverted to their primitive, animalistic instincts as they fought over bargains, but my mind was focused solely on reflection and mourning. I couldn't see how anyone could be so selfish and uncaring at a time such as this, and how they thought only of bargain shopping while --- Oh look! Snickers bars for $.30 each! Stand aside, plebeians! Back, I say! Back! H-yah!!!
Compounding the catastrophic loss of Food World and her blessed $2 New York strips, Ryan and I also lost Danny last week. That's why I've been so quiet. I've been off since Wednesday, when Danny was reassigned to Tampa, so there's been nothing at all to report. I was, obviously, very sad to see him go as we really hit it off and had a great time. The loss of my first good instructor within the program has weighed heavily on me, as has the revelation that I will be shipped somewhere else for the next stage of my training. I'm not really sure what to think about that, but my mood can best be described as one of tempered optimism. They're not saying where I will be going, but I have been assured that it will probably not be Atlanta (I hate Atlanta). This is a great comfort to me, as I would be concerned about my subsequent escape. I'm just not sure that I would be able to get back out of Atlanta. Others have tried and failed; the entire population, in fact. Thankfully, Atlanta is just one of dozens of possibility. Matt, our new instructor (actually he's just a returning instructor), told me that he was sent to Richmond, Virginia, to complete this stage of his program. I kinda like that idea, although it is a long way to Richmond according to Travis Tritt. I would prefer one of the smaller locations like that, mainly because I want to avoid the predominant, arrogant, and totally nauseating pilot attitude ("Maverick-itis") that I seem to encounter frequently here, but we'll see what happens. And have I mentioned that I hate Atlanta?
So that's our report from the field, back to you in the news room. I've been signed off for my next checkride, so maybe I'll get to do that soon. Matt's a great guy so I'm optimistic about that, and I'm hoping for some good progress this week. I sure am ready to be done with this. As usual, any significant progress will be forthcoming.
Oh, and I hate Atlanta.
Joey
Monday, May 11, 2009
Day 84 - Lloyd Goes To An Air Park
I strolled out of the hangar into the sunlight. Well, no, I strutted, really. It's amazing how music can alter your mood, and subsequently, your actions and mannerisms. The big dog likes classic rock, and he keeps the stereo system in the hangar at what I would definitely consider to be an acceptable level. The radio station out of Birmingham plays GREAT music, and this was no exception. As if on cue, when I picked up my flight bag and set off toward the aircraft, the unmistakable intro to "Start Me Up" by The Rolling Stones began to play. I'm not typically a huge Stones fan, but it's not a bad song. Plus it has the significance of being the intro song to the Blue Angels routine. It has played during their walk-out and start-up procedures for God knows how long, or at least as long as I can remember. I reminded Ryan of this fact as I walked out onto the ramp, where he was washing his car.
"Ya know, Ryan, since this is the start-up theme for the Blue Angels, I think it's only fitting that we reenact that. As such, I think you should go meet me and Danny at the airplane and salute."
So Ryan, being the good friend and loyal brother pilot that he is, immediately did as I asked and offered a salute. Granted he only used one finger in the salute, but hey, what can ya do?
That was Friday; a gorgeous day to fly. Today was vastly different. Today's weather was polar opposite to Friday's, but I loved it. I'm one of the nutcases that enjoys flying in actual IMC. Translation: Ya can't see nothin'! It's great experience, plus it's strangely peaceful. You're alone, inside a cloud. It's like there's no world beyond the cockpit. A strange, false sense of security is projected upon you. It's almost like you can just go hide for a while.
Our adventure today took us on a top-secret mission for Dan and the boss, and as part of the mission I made my first visit to what is commonly called an "air park." The term defines an unholy marriage between an upscale subdivision and a private airport. It's like any typical community of homes; the only difference is that instead of cars in garages, there are airplanes in hangars. Taxiways replace roads, and a grass landing strip takes the place of tennis courts and swimming pools as social center of the plantation.
It was an intriguing place, to be sure. I didn't know what was more out-of-place in the scene; the hold-short lines painted on the end of each residential driveway, or our Buick Regal flight crew courtesy car as it rambled along the "taxiway" of the subdivision. It was so interesting to see how these people live, from residents that have RV-8s parked in their garage, to the fellow we met who skydives into his front yard. Seriously. He jumps out of his airplane and lands in his front yard, much like some people would play badminton on that same patch of grass. I mean come on, who does that? I don't know, but it must be nice. Well, by that I mean that it must be nice to live in an air park. The notion of jumping out of a perfectly good airplane is not nice, it's just plum stupid.
The progress report since last we spoke is basically unremarkable. I apologize for the silence, but there's really not much to say. We've flown fairly regularly, and I feel pretty good about this stage. I'm still reasonably concerned about the next phase: cross country. The theory is that they build flight time and perform crew training while sending two pilots within the program hopping around the country for one to two weeks. As we have discussed on more than one occasion, the prevailing attitude and social climate among my peers tends to nauseate me, but I suppose I can survive anything for a few weeks. I just wish it would happen and conclude so that I can get on with life. The "hurry up and wait" mentality is killing me.
Well campers, that's the update for the day. I'll try to be more frequent about my posting, and I apologize for growing complacent over the past week. Aside from me having to push the golf cart back to the hangar, and various gems of wisdom from Dennis, our own on-site Redneck Yoda, it's sorta been boring around here. I hope to fly with Ed tomorrow, and our adventures are usually noteworthy, so maybe between that excursion, and my own inherent insanity, we'll have something good to talk about tomorrow night. Cross your fingers.
See ya then.
Joey
"Ya know, Ryan, since this is the start-up theme for the Blue Angels, I think it's only fitting that we reenact that. As such, I think you should go meet me and Danny at the airplane and salute."
So Ryan, being the good friend and loyal brother pilot that he is, immediately did as I asked and offered a salute. Granted he only used one finger in the salute, but hey, what can ya do?
That was Friday; a gorgeous day to fly. Today was vastly different. Today's weather was polar opposite to Friday's, but I loved it. I'm one of the nutcases that enjoys flying in actual IMC. Translation: Ya can't see nothin'! It's great experience, plus it's strangely peaceful. You're alone, inside a cloud. It's like there's no world beyond the cockpit. A strange, false sense of security is projected upon you. It's almost like you can just go hide for a while.
Our adventure today took us on a top-secret mission for Dan and the boss, and as part of the mission I made my first visit to what is commonly called an "air park." The term defines an unholy marriage between an upscale subdivision and a private airport. It's like any typical community of homes; the only difference is that instead of cars in garages, there are airplanes in hangars. Taxiways replace roads, and a grass landing strip takes the place of tennis courts and swimming pools as social center of the plantation.
It was an intriguing place, to be sure. I didn't know what was more out-of-place in the scene; the hold-short lines painted on the end of each residential driveway, or our Buick Regal flight crew courtesy car as it rambled along the "taxiway" of the subdivision. It was so interesting to see how these people live, from residents that have RV-8s parked in their garage, to the fellow we met who skydives into his front yard. Seriously. He jumps out of his airplane and lands in his front yard, much like some people would play badminton on that same patch of grass. I mean come on, who does that? I don't know, but it must be nice. Well, by that I mean that it must be nice to live in an air park. The notion of jumping out of a perfectly good airplane is not nice, it's just plum stupid.
The progress report since last we spoke is basically unremarkable. I apologize for the silence, but there's really not much to say. We've flown fairly regularly, and I feel pretty good about this stage. I'm still reasonably concerned about the next phase: cross country. The theory is that they build flight time and perform crew training while sending two pilots within the program hopping around the country for one to two weeks. As we have discussed on more than one occasion, the prevailing attitude and social climate among my peers tends to nauseate me, but I suppose I can survive anything for a few weeks. I just wish it would happen and conclude so that I can get on with life. The "hurry up and wait" mentality is killing me.
Well campers, that's the update for the day. I'll try to be more frequent about my posting, and I apologize for growing complacent over the past week. Aside from me having to push the golf cart back to the hangar, and various gems of wisdom from Dennis, our own on-site Redneck Yoda, it's sorta been boring around here. I hope to fly with Ed tomorrow, and our adventures are usually noteworthy, so maybe between that excursion, and my own inherent insanity, we'll have something good to talk about tomorrow night. Cross your fingers.
See ya then.
Joey
Monday, May 4, 2009
Day 77 - On The Death of Individuality
"Any power must be an enemy of mankind which enslaves the individual by terror and force, whether it arises under the Fascist or the Communist flag. All that is valuable in human society depends upon the opportunity for development accorded to the individual." - Albert Einstein
It's a 1967 model Baron 55, and it's a LOT different than a Seminole! It's a lot quicker, as you well know, but I really enjoyed flying it. I wasn't a huge fan of the throwover column, but that didn't bother me nearly as much as the center control lever positioning. They're mounted too far forward and up, making their manipulation somewhat cumbersome in relation to the bulky column. Plus the positioning of the throttle levers in the center of the three sets, as opposed to the far left, is just unnatural.
Have you noticed that no one is allowed to be different anymore? It's apparently a mortal sin to have your own identity. Everything, and more importantly, every person, has to be the same. Look around you. This disease of blind conformity has infiltrated every level of society. And it makes me sick. Thoughts on this matter were thrust to the forefront of my mind today during the discovery of things we won't discuss in public forum, but here's the basic gist of it: I realized that I've been labeled an outspoken troublemaker at basically every institution of which I've ever been a part. And it's all for one reason: I'm different.
I don't know if y'all realized this, but I say pretty much whatever I want, admittedly often to my own detriment. But ya know, it'd be a shame if a person had an opinion. Truly. It would be an even bigger shame if not everyone did things the exact same way. You can't say what you want. You can't have an opinion that differs from the realm of comfort. Society dictates that everyone must be on an exactly level playing field, lest you offend someone. Even worse than that, people might not think or act exactly the same way, and then where would we be? This madness is the very reason why Mrs. Page can't teach aerospace to second graders anymore. And it's a good thing too, because look what happened to me! That poison that she fed to a seven-year-old turned him into a pilot more than a decade later. Oh, the horror. The same educational greats that quelled her individualism are the same people that brought you school uniforms, and police officers doing duty as bathroom monitors (There are people out there with chainsaws, and you've got a cop checking hall passes in the guys' john). They removed the Pledge of Allegiance, lest you figure out that "with liberty and justice for all" actually means something. The same geniuses say that kids can't pray anymore. They took away Advanced Placement programs and Top 10 student lists, replacing them with graduating high school classes that have 72 valedictorians, because God forbid one person be recognized. Where does it stop?
So why am I ranting about this? Because, my friends, I am evil. Apparently my individualism can be seen as a "contagious negativity." I don't act like other pilots in this program, as I've told you before, and I don't learn like them. I don't fit into the "professionals in a professional environment" philosophy, which is really just a euphemism for "degenerates in a drunken orgy." I don't dress like them. I don't fly like them. I don't act like them. I don't think like them. I don't learn like them. And I don't want to. Naturally, this makes me a threat, which I don't understand at all. I don't bother anyone here, neither do I tolerate abuse or perceived injustice. I don't jeopardize flight safety (In fact, by comparison to many of the others, I do quite the opposite), and I don't shirk my responsibilities. What DOES happen, is that I get sold out by my peers (remember the post about me almost getting kicked out), because it's easier to scapegoat an individual as opposed to taking responsibility for your own actions. Again, dragging another down to your level. Sadly, integrity issues (stemming from a lack of confident identity) run rampant in this arena. Rather than address this issue personally, I'll merely invite you to watch Al Pacino's famous speech from the movie Scent of a Woman. Buy it, rent it, watch it on YouTube. I don't care. Just watch it, cause it's a great speech with which I agree whole-heartedly. Hoo-ahh!!! Anyway, I just want to do this my way, and I don't see why that's such a problem. There's no reason that this can't be fun.
This mindless banter has not been spawned by any new events or stressors, In fact I had a good day with a great flight. Mainly it was just brought about by a reminder that I received today of some past events. These events are indicative of a global trend in society away from individualism, and a gradual embrace of Marxism. I get so sick of people that want to make everything and everyone the same, and sometimes I just need to preach. SO WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE??? The answer is simple: the slugs of the world are the ones doing this. Rather than develop their own identities through reasonable and intelligent self-expression, or rise to meet a level of happiness and success, they just drag everyone else down to their level. Now, please note that I specified intelligent self-expression. By that I mean individualized and lucid thought processes and critical evaluations; not some idiot with three dozen grotesque facial piercings because he wants the world to know his pain. That's just ignorant. Please don't confuse the points I'm making with some of the outright social atrocities that are routinely committed under the guise of individuality. But back to the point, I figured out that I was letting them make me miserable, and that's exactly what they want. They're not happy 'til you're not happy. So everyone gets to be the same, and the minority rules. Outstanding.
Variety is the spice of life. So I say, dare to be different. Excel in whatever you do, and excel in your own way. Be a trailblazer. There's more than one way to skin a cat (Sorry, Chester). I'm a big-picture kind of person. If you can accomplish excellence in a way other than the norm, then so what? Why do people view individuality as such a threat, and why are they trying so hard to kill it? Do they not understand that they're only destroying our future, by suppressing innovation, invention, ingenuity, or in my case, comedy? Is this not still America? Aren't these some of the very ideals that have made this country great, and continue to do so? To quote Bill Murray, "We're all very different people; we're not watoosie, we're not Spartans. We're Americans, with a capital A, huh? You know what that means? Do ya? That means that our forefathers were kicked out of every out every decent country in the world. We are the wretched refuse. We're underdogs, we're mutts!"
Being the proud mutt that I am, I won't tolerate this plague that they call conformity. And I refuse to accept that you can't have fun!!! Maybe that's why I have relished the reputation that I have developed over the years. I like it. I'm proud of it. I say, dare to be different. I'm going to continue to do idiotic things, simply because I can. I'm going to speak my mind. I'm going to wear blue jeans and polo shirts, and look ten times more professional than the idiots that shun me for wearing them. I'm going to keep holding my aerosol can signal horn (those annoying things that people blow at ball games) out the storm window of the aircraft and honk it while we're taxiing. I'm going to wear my hair like a civilized human, not some reject from a modeling contest. I'm not going to fly a base leg. I'm not going to fly a twin-engine propeller aircraft like a Tomcat because I think that I live inside the movie Top Gun. And just like the other night in Augusta, when Danny and I took a wrong turn on a taxiway, I'm going to yell out the cockpit window to the ramp agents, "It's a'ight, we ain't from around here!" Why? Because it's fun.
Be creative. Be original. Have your own identity. Tell the truth. Don't eat the yellow snow. And above all, have fun.
So sayeth the Lloyd.
Joey
Special Feature: By special request of Mr. Page, here she is:
It's a 1967 model Baron 55, and it's a LOT different than a Seminole! It's a lot quicker, as you well know, but I really enjoyed flying it. I wasn't a huge fan of the throwover column, but that didn't bother me nearly as much as the center control lever positioning. They're mounted too far forward and up, making their manipulation somewhat cumbersome in relation to the bulky column. Plus the positioning of the throttle levers in the center of the three sets, as opposed to the far left, is just unnatural. The biggest issue was right-seat flying. I'm still getting used to that. I'll fly from any seat, don't get me wrong. I'll do so happily. It's just funny how much that slight change in perspective throws you off. In fact, I tend to land an aircraft so far off center on the runway when flying right seat that it's as if there were two lanes of traffic. Slower traffic keep right.
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