Voids

I left a comment over at Debby's blog about angry people.

I wrote, Several years ago I was talking to one of our senior lead mechanics about one pilot who would throw a tantrum at the drop of a hat. I managed to get along with the guy, largely by steering the conversation toward his grandson. That would always lighten him up.

Anyway, the guy had come close to crossing a line with me. Close enough that I felt quite in touch with my redneck lineage. I was still miffed about the exchange, and mentioned that to our lead mechanic. He paused, and then said, "We grew up in the same town, y'know. I knew his father, and if you had ever met his father, that would explain a lot." Those words stuck with me.

Some people are assholes simply because they're assholes. But then, I believe many people cling to anger because they grew up with too little love in their lives. For them, anger can be strangely comforting. Anger can fill the empty places.

**

I've followed Debby's blog for a while now. I read it before she learned she had breast cancer, and followed her journey through chemo and recovery. Through it all, she never stopped writing.

She recently posted this: People have often asked how I do it. How I manage to post regularly, despite all the things going on in my life. The answer is easy. I get up early to do it. Each morning, I pad around in my bare feet and night gown making coffee. A morning without coffee would be, well, it would still be a morning, but infinitely worse. So I start my day with two cups of cappuccino from my own machine, and I bring my frothy cup into the living room, and I sit down at the computer. I take a few moments to click through the blogs, and then I quickly type up my post. It's part of my morning ritual. If I have to work or if things are especially hectic, I might not take the time to do it, but mostly I do take the time. As the coffee courses through my veins making me feel human, well, connecting with all of you, that makes me feel human too.

Steve Brewer is a novelist and humorist who stayed at home raising his sons while his wife worked as a managing editor of two different newspapers. He lives here in our northern California community of Redding. When I asked him how the heck he managed to publish seventeen books while holding down the fort as a stay-at-home dad, he answered, "I got up at three in the morning." Another writer friend, Alan Rider, is a stay-at-home dad when he isn't traveling for some writing gig, and his wife is also a career woman. When I asked him how he's done it, I pretty much got the same answer: "I get up early in the morning."

My writing output has declined in the last year, and I think it's largely because I no longer wake at four in the morning on my off days. Most of the time, I wake at the same time as the family. My couple of hours of solo time in the morning have largely evaporated. Why am I not waking "naturally" in the wee morning hours anymore? Am I getting abducted by aliens?

So there it is, doggone it. If I want to up my writing output, I'm gonna have to set a damn alarm clock on my off days. That just seems unnatural.

Marital Discourse from 1998

We'd just watched news about Bill Clinton's impeachment.

Me: "Sweetie, I'm curious about something."
Rhonda: "What's that?"
Me: "Well, if you were to learn that some woman gave me oral sex, would you be as upset as if I had full-on sexual intercourse with her?"
Rhonda: "Is there something I need to know?"
Me: "Not unless you want to count the neighbor's dog." That pooch was a crotch-hound if ever I met one.

She rolled her eyes. She thought for a moment.

Rhonda: "Well, I think I'd be upset if I learned that some woman was tooting your horn, but I don't think I'd be as upset as if you were boinking her."

My bride, bless her heart, has so much trouble expressing herself.

She looked at me. I betrayed a mischievous little smile, and raised my eyebrows.

Rhonda: "You shouldn't take my answer as ****ing permission."

Sheesh I laughed hard. I think I almost passed out.

Mileage Games

Okay, I admit it: I'm a frequent flyer slut. I regularly fly on United. Reach frequent flyer status with United, and you'll benefit from more legroom in the coach section, frequent upgrades to first class, and less worry about getting bumped off of a crowded, weather-delayed flight.

PHI's pilot union called for a strike in 2006. From September through the rest of that year, I wasn't flying to work. This put my exalted frequent flyer status at risk. The solution? Well, in December, United had a remarkably cheap fare to Honolulu. So, I flew to Honolulu from Sacramento. I took a taxi from the airport, and had dinner in town. I touched down in Sacramento fourteen hours after my departure. My frequent flyer status was safe for another twelve months.

My bride rolled her eyes at that one, and began referring to my sought-after mileage level as "sexual favor status." I told her that I once saw a movie at a bachelor party where that sort of stuff went on, but it had never happened to me in real life.

I feel guilty about that exchange, though. I didn't tell her the whole truth. The truth was that, although nothing physical went on, a flight attendant did once talk dirty to me. Yep. Down and dirty.

It was prior to take off, and I guess my situational awareness was lacking, because she leaned toward me and said, "Turn off your ****ing cell phone!"

Okay, I made that part up.

Geez, What a Month (or Two)

We cruise through life so much of the time, propped up by routine. But sometimes the road gets rocky.

My friend Jeff lost his wife in early April. She'd had kidney problems, but had been released to go home, and died suddenly after getting back. Jeff seldom referred to her as "my wife." Instead, she was nearly always "Cathy." It's sometimes striking how much you can read from one word. When Jeff said the word "Cathy," what I heard was, "I love her so much." Cathy was only in her fifties. It makes me sad to think that they've been denied the time to grow old together.

My coworker Shaun is one of those guys who seems in rapture over being a dad. He's mentioned the incredible feeling of having his infant son fall asleep on his chest, and of watching the little guy discover life and the world. Now his wife wants a divorce, and Shaun lives away from his son.

My coworker Tim flew regularly to the Deepwater Horizon. He knew several of the folks who worked on the rig personally. It was "his rig" so to speak; he was most often tasked for the crew change flights in and out of there. I haven't asked him if he knew any of the eleven workers presumed killed in the explosion. But, I know that it must weigh on him, knowing that he's been responsible for their safety in the past, while they were passengers on his helicopter. At around the same time as the Deepwater Horizon explosion, Tim learned that he had some major blockage of coronary arteries, and underwent the stent procedure. He'll be grounded for a minimum of six months. Tim was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross while serving as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam. I hope we'll see him back in the cockpit in a few months, and I hope that when he retires, it's on his terms.

**

Bob wrote about cars in a recent blog post. He mentioned how he's always loved driving and working on them. I've never been a big auto enthusiast, and my tastes have tended toward the practical (cheap). But, back in my Army days, I drove a fellow pilot's Corvette around when he'd had a bit too much of the happy sauce. Geez, the older Corvettes were fun to drive, and really comfortable for tall guys.

One day, when I lived in Austin in the early eighties, I found myself at a dealership haggling over the price of a new Corvette. It would have been quite a transition: Toyota Tercel to Corvette. The the price got down to something really attractive, because the dealer wanted to unload his remaining 'Vettes in the old body style to make room for the new, more European-looking model. I was really close to signing on the dotted line. But, I got cold feet at the end, for a reason probably best explained in an old joke. Surely you've heard it.

Q: What's the difference between a Corvette and a porcupine?

A: With a porcupine, the prick is on the outside.