DISCLAIMER: Follies may be harmful or fatal is swallowed. May contain material not suitable for children under 13. Parents strongly cautioned. Please do not feed the pilots.
Had vacation. Did Jack shit. Managed not to mow my lawn for 10 days by putting it off an hour at a time. (Use the same technique on exercise or calling about life insurance.) Was a house dad. Did a lot of laundry. Did a lot of cleaning. Even cooked a dinner that didn’t come off the grill.
Celebrated my wife’s birthday the same way we celebrated our 10 year anniversary – with her stuck working at the airport. (The old guys at the American Legion made her a cake and sang Happy Birthday through the karaoke machine. So that’s something.)
Finally saw Transformers 2. Got so spooled up by the limitless budget of Michael Bay burning my retinas, I almost broke my arm during the mandatory Feats of Strength (wrestling) aftermath. Screw plot. If you weren’t engorged stiff by the sheer spectacle of every vehicle in the combined Armed Forces inventory kicking robot ass (and Megan Fox) then you are a gay communist who hates America. Easy test:
‘Did you like Transformers 2?’
“No.”
‘Get him!’
Fixed a leaking tub drain in our master bath. (A 20 minute job that took me 2 days and ruined our vacuum cleaner, but a win’s a win.) Wife’s parents made it in for Halloween, so we got them some head colds the kids weren’t using anymore as souvenirs. Took the kids trick-or-treating in the rain. Tired now. Ready to go back to work.
The wife worked almost the whole time I was home. Drove my car back and forth every day. The speed scrotum vomited coolant and transmission fluid on her hangar floor like one of those 80’s movies where the bad kid with the bad attitude pulls some prank and earns a massive attitude adjustment. Time for a smack down, but good.
She puts it up on the forklift. Repairs the leaking hoses. Refills the exsanguinated juices.
Gets pissed off that the (parking brake is set) beeps won’t go away. Calls Volkswagen and learns there’s another (easily accessible) fuse box directly under the battery box. You just have to take the battery out to get to it. (Who wouldn’t think of that? I mean C’mon!!) That restores the air conditioning, heated seats and puts an end to the fucking “parking brake is set” beeps.
Resets the fault computer, so now the ‘airbag fault’ doesn’t beep every time you turn the car on. (Which it has done for 6 years.) Scrapes all of the Night Train 20/20 midnight purple tint off the windows with a razor blade. (Without nicking the defrost heating elements in the rear window. -Something I wouldn’t have even thought of.) And reattaches the driver’s window to the track.
She even washes it.
Bring it on. I challenge all comers to a “My wife is cooler than yours” cage match. Bring money.
I tell Nadius about the resurrection of the suckmobile. He is disappointed. He has a point. The car is eerily serene. No wind howling. No water dribbling on my crotch. No fogged up windows. No foot wells full of water. No “hit me again, I like it!” beeps. Nothing to write about. I take solace in its stubborn refusal to return to Fahrenheit, and the permanent night in the mostly delaminated rear view mirror.
Day 1:
The busses run every 20 minutes from the employee lot to the concourse. Left the house early. Easy pace to the airport. At the shed with 8 minutes to spare. At 1143 I check the schedule. These drivers are rarely late. There is no 1140 bus. Maybe their reasoning was, “We’ve got a :40 bus on all the other hours, do we really need one at 11:40 too? Isn’t that over kill?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! My fault. On closer inspection, there’s no 1140, 1840 or 0140 bus. Why? For fun! Now instead of being 20 minutes early, I check in 10 minutes late. Always keep ’em guessing.
Backlash for the crew of NW188 over flying MSP by 150 miles and going NORDO (NO RaDiO – lost comms) for 91 minutes on 10/21 is already in my file. (As I’m sure it was for every airline pilot in America.) Not a change so much as a re-emphasis of existing policy: No non-flying activities or materials in the cockpit. Ever.
Maybe if those douchebags had been reading magazines or on their computers (as they claim,) they wouldn’t have fallen asleep, (which they did.) And maybe if they’d nut up and admit it, the rest of us could get back to reading about it in USA Today at cruise.
As it is, this will probably lead to some idiotic sOBAMAlution like cameras in the cockpit. If you want to watch me getting busy with my bad self up in here, you are seriously going to have to pay for the privilege.
Same strip bar-owning sim instructor Capt. as the last Folly. Same basic format too. Off to CUN. Back thru <<HOME>> and end up in BUF. (Instead of LGA.) Then do a Vegas turn over days 2 and 3. Red-eye home. No bad weather though. Queer photo-negative sense of deja vu. This plus the ominous quiet of the Shitbox Royal fills me deep sense of disinterested boredom.
The ant army is scattering efficiency like pixie dust on our aircraft in CUN. I notice a stratification of labor. Supervisors wear black ties, white short-sleeve dress shirts, orange vests and carry clipboards. They have a slight swagger and seem to hang out only with each other. The ratio is roughly 1 supervisor for every 3 workers.
Fuelers and tug men are circling just below on the food chain, wearing blue jumpsuits and green vests. Bag men also wear green vests but don’t get the cool jumpsuits. Cleaners wear all white. When the plane parks, everyone stands on the red line facing the cockpit in a loose parade rest. It’s really is kind of impressive.
Coming out of CUN, we take a bird strike in my windshield out of about 5000 feet and 250 kts. Loud. Sounds like a tee shot into the side of a fiberglass boat. No damage. Big gooey Karo syrup streaks with crunchy bits. Think I’ll hold off on lunch till it dries.
Passing Cuba, the Lead calls up. A leathery melanomamma in 10D wanted to use to lav. Lead told her no, the cart is out, TSA regs. Yadda yadda. 10D sits back down and promptly shits leaky diarrhea all over herself. When the seatbelt sign is finally turned off, 10D confronts the Lead. “Remember when you wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom? Well now look at me!” Shitty about it. (Pun intended.)
Lead is worried. Our General Declaration (customs form) has a specific question (already auto-filled in “no”) asking if we are transporting anyone known to be, or who appears to be sick. We can’t change this in flight. She’s worried customs will quarantine the plane in <<HOME>> due to the H1N1 scare.
I’m not clear on whether 10D is trying to make an impossibly stupid point about a passenger’s right to be impossibly stupid, or if she’s sick and should never have gotten on the plane. Either way she wins.
She seems to be favoring the “dumb as hell” leg. Lead calls up and tells us she overheard The Incontessa joking she has some free tickets coming. Seems like a really gross and humiliating way to discover your rectal shutter speed is rarely the responsibility of the airline whose seats you soil.
It finally comes out that she had seen a doctor in CUN. Montezuma’s Revenge. Other passengers take pity and give her a change of clothes. We hold the passengers on the plane until SOC gives us the ok to release our potentially infected guests. Crapula gets taken off in a wheelchair with her now brown stained dress in a clear plastic bag. She’s wearing an oversized man’s Hawaiian shirt with parrots on it and pink bike shorts. She is somehow lobster red and very pale. Her hair is matted and She looks utterly defeated. I give her my brightest ‘Thanks for flying with us!’ Lots of teeth.
They swap planes on us in <<HOME>>. Plane has to be inspected after a bird strike anyway. New set of FAs. Their nucleus a matronly veteran from Detroit. Her boobular circumference is easily equal to her height in inches. (Picture Russian Nesting Doll, not Barbie.) She has a habit of just sort of steam rolling into any conversation and talking over you until you give up and be quiet. It’s a fun way to be repeatedly interrupted.
Papa Midnight tells me my sole reason for being on this earth (If I join him for beers later) is to distract the matron so he can talk to the other two.
‘Why would I want that job?’
“Because that’s the way you roll bro.”
‘That doesn’t sound like me at all. What’s in it for me?’
“Being a good wing man.”
‘Mmmmmm. That does sound tempting.’
We park in BUF and the marshaler puts on a real show. Tremendous flourish of wands. Crisp movements. Reminds me of the ground crews for the Blue Angels doing flight control checks. Refreshing to see that sort of enthusiasm. Even if it is a little weird.
The BUF hotel has $1 drafts and 50% off on food. I go down for some wings and beer. The Yankees beat the Phillies in game 3. I run interference on the elderly boobstrocity for a little while. It doesn’t take much. All I have to do is prime the carb with a little ‘This one time I…’ and off she goes.
After a while I shove off. I’m coming down with a cold and could really use some sleep. Pay up and abandon the PM to the gravitational drag of her conversation.
Day 2:
Wake up with a sore throat and runny nose. Spend the entire day in bed watching TV. We don’t leave until 1800. Good timing really, because my standards of watchability were dipping into the Judge Judy strata.
I think Capt. Midnight is getting annoyed with my typety typing. It does take a while. And this is his second trip with me in less than a month.
“You finish your fucking memoirs yet bro?”
‘Not yet. Can’t decide if I want to be awesome or amazing.’
Waiting on the plane at the gate in Buffalo, the Capt. shows me a photocopy of the actual Emergency Order of Revocation for the license of NW188’s Captain. Scary. Like looking at an x-ray of a terminally ill cancer patient. Dark shadows of career mortality I pray I never see again.
Full flight to LAS. We have a jumpseater. One of ours. She’s a friend of the Capt. He’s giving her shit for being a lesbian. Which I completely fail to notice until she goes to the lav and he explains it to me.
“You see the ass on that bro?”
‘Hmmmm?’
“What a waste of a woman.”
‘What?’
“What a waste of a woman.”
‘Why?’
“You don’t know?”
‘Know what?’
“She’s a lesbian.”
‘Ah.’
“You know what I don’t get about lesbians?”
‘?’
“They don’t like dick right? But they got these huge fuckin dildos they fuck each other with??”
‘Probably not the dick so much as the dude it’s attached to. Like the inverse with gay dudes and a hole, just not a ‘she’ hole”
“I don’t have any idea what you just said.”
Day 3 & 4:
Wake up to a piece on CNN. A (D) Senator from New England plans to introduce legislation next week to keep computers out of the cockpit, in response to NW 188’s “computer-induced” sillyness on October 21st. Since I haven’t left my hotel room yet, this is easily the stupidest thing I’ve heard all day. Here’s why:
1. Distraction is not the issue. These guys were asleep (in my opinion). But “Asleep” is fatal. “Distracted” may still have a pulse if the union can ply enough leverage.
2. Distraction is already prohibited by Operations Specifications (OpSpecs) which supersede Federal Aviation Regulations (FARs).
3. So since regulatory measures are already in place to prevent these sort of shenanigans, it’s apparently not a legislation issue. Which makes it an enforcement issue. Which means one of two things: political officers on the jumpseat, or cameras.
And cameras. Will. Never. Happen. What’s next? A special branch of the TSA to review cockpit video for possible infractions? Punitive action for extraneous or offensive conversation or looking out the window too long? What about preventive NTSB review boards for “questionable activities?”
What is this? A tight orbital pass of the McCarthy inquisitions? I already proved I’m a proud American. Here, ask me again.
“Did you like Transformers 2?”
‘Hell yes!’
“Welcome aboard.”
The day the first camera is installed is my last as a pilot. Unless, like I said, the want to pay me a plaid amount of money to watch. And then I’m only flying nude. So it’s uncomfortable for everyone, not just me.
I guess I better make with the funny while I still can. I think my shovel is in the garage, I should start working on my farming skills. Or maybe I could join up with the Miracle Whip crowd. They seem like rebels that march to the beat of their own drum. I like that.
By 1300 I’ve had it. Can’t stay inside anymore. Decide to walk up to the strip. Something. Get to the strip, walk a little way and remember the NASCAR cafe is down here somewhere. Wasn’t it right here? Did they tear it down? No no it’s up a few blocks. My passage from boringtown into the suburbs of Please-God-make-it-stop-ville is marked by this billboard.
3 miles later I find it. Some memorabilia. Side dishes sold by the pound. Cars and trucks hanging everywhere. The table tops are track layouts. Order the cheapest thing on the menu – 1/2 lb. basket of fries for $3.95. Eat some. Snap some photos, and walk 3 miles back to the hotel.
Pass the SEMA convention on my way back. Ask a cop if I need a ticket to go in. (Not all that familiar with the purpose or protocol of conventions). The cop laughs at me. Grabs the lanyard of some passing conventioneer and shows it to me. “You need one of these. You needed to register months ago on the Internet. Costs a lot. It’s a big deal.” Wanted to ask him what SEMA stands for, but I’d rather not risk rolling “Rube” twice.
Back at the hotel, it’s time for another exciting episode of “What Fucking Room Am I In?” Try the 5the floor. Know the general area. No joy. Back in the lobby. It takes 5 minutes to look me up. 4th floor. Back to the room. Key is expired. Back to the lobby. Different person. Takes them 5 minutes too. Back to the room for some well-earned door opening and going inside. Another check in the win column. 3 more and I get a comb.
Following my pre red-eye ritual, I try repeatedly to get some sleep and fail. Rationalize it’s only 4 hours of pain. (0100 to 0500 <<HOME>> time, but I wouldn’t worry about that little guy.)
Go to work at midnight <<HOME>> time. The lady van driver notices the NASCAR stickers on my bag.
“Are you a fan?”
‘I am.’
“Me too!”
‘Who’s your guy?’
“I don’t really have one. I like them all. I have a girlfriend who likes racing, and I like men, so it works out well.”
‘I guess it would.’
She rummages through her purse and hands me a sticker and kitchen magnet from the Pepsi 500 a couple months back. ‘Wow! Thanks!’
The flight back is surprisingly easy. Don’t even buy coffee. Still feel blurry, like I packed sand in my eyes, but that’s normal for a Red Eye. Capt. swapped the legs on me so I did the BUF turn and he does the LAS turn. Difference of about 4 hours stick time, but Harvey does the work at cruise anyway.
Capt. goes out to use the lav. Gone for a really long time. I finally ask the FA who’s trapped in here with me to look out the peep hole and see if he’s back there. If not, maybe I should start thinking about diverting or something. I suck down about 500 lbs. of 100% oxygen. Maybe that’s why the flight was so easy.
His landings are incredible. Really. Uses the light-weight landing trick of keeping a little power in, all the time. Truly a thing of beauty. I’m going to have to work that into my routine.
– end of line.