DOAB Week of May 14th, 2001

Disclaimer
The opinions and such expressed below are my own opinions. Feel free to agree or disagree as you wish, and I might publish e-mails to me that I like, and ignore those I don't. If you'd rather I didn't, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. And Thank You for stopping.

Black Monday...

No, their faces haven't frozen like that. Yet.

Happy Mother's Day!
(and no one fell into the pool, either - a miracle!)

I just love the smell... of impending disaster.

Funny, jumping up and landing on my head seemed like a good idea at the time, but boy, that stings.

Finally, proof that sasquatch wanders the woods of Minnesota - and the kids like him!

Yup. The big boss came into town today, and asked the tough questions. "What can I do to fix this?" "Is there anyone here who could take over?" "Would you relocate?" "What would it take to keep you through a shutdown?"

Yeah, all those questions you really want to hear after being out of work for four months.

And just when I start feeling sorry for myself, I look around and find a few good reasons to say hey, there's much worse. I talked to my friend getting the big divorce today. He knew it was no big deal to get back to me a couple of days late. I wasn't sweating it.

I'm sure he doesn't check out this page, and I'm equally certain his soon-to-be-ex-wife is also not coming by here. Which is why I can say there is a special place in hell for women who blindside men after seventeen years with "hey, I'm just fed up and out of here." My friend would have given everything he's got to make it right. And he's been completely, utterly, depressingly blindsided by the whole thing. She's not dealing with reality, and he's got no choice but to deal with it the hard way. Being Dad and Mom to two little girls and a little boy is tough enough - when they're ten, six, and three, it's far beyond difficult.

I've known him for 30 years, and so I told him "look - you need someone to yell at, even in the middle of the night, call me. We're not married, so there's nothing to lose there, we're not family so you don't have to make it sound good - just call, yell, and hang up - I won't blame you. It's what I'm here for." Sometimes you need to listen, and I will, for him. He knows there's a couple of us from college who would run out and do anything for him. But that's the kind of friendship we have. Yeah, it was formed in sandboxes, playing D&D, hauling him around a parking lot while he was drunk, and hundreds of other events that leave you scratching your head and wondering why we ended up as friends at all.

But that's the way it works in my little corner of the weird.

Had a nice long talk with Keri Beland tonight - she's going to be my professional placement counselor this time around - Hopefully I'll do better by her than the last lot that tried to place me. . .

This picture above is from March 11th. Yes, that's right. 60 days ago, give or take a few. And on March 11th, we had plenty of snow cover - still.

Why, you ask, is there a picture of a snow-covered landscape, when I've got all those pretty flower pictures from yesterday?

The answer's very, very simple. We were a whopping 75 yesterday. With a breeze.

Today, parts of the state cleared the 80s in temps and didn't even look back. Parts south of us were in the upper 90s. I saw a thermometer next to 35W on the way home - 35c, if that helps any of you advanced folk using the Metric System (which, I was promised in Grade School, we'd all be using now like civilized people, so sit down, be quiet, and learn your conversions, Mr. Dominik - I would say that occasionally nuns lie, but I'm certain that's not the case.

My biggest fear is that when we go from "gee, that's nice" to the front porch of Hell, we usually get some wonderfully huge thunderstorms. Last time it happened was in May, I looked out a window at 3:10 pm and realized that this was 3:00 in MAY, not 3:00 in December. Pitch black, headlights and all. Shortly after that we got clobbered with hail that ended up about three inches deep (one of the benefits of parking in a ramp on the second level), plus lots of rain and a few tornados. And, of course, power outages.

Don't want that to come through again, especially when the kids got their first strawberries off the plants tonight. Wow. That's got to be some sort of record.

Well, it's hot and sticky, and so am I - a little balcony-sitting and it's off to bed with me. I much prefer job hunting while still working at the one I have. It works.

There's little else to say. It's turning into a very lousy week. On the way home tonight...

DAD : When we get home, I need you guys to put all of your laundry in the hamper.
RHIANNON : But why?
DAD : Because we need to do laundry tomorrow.
RHIANNON : We just did laundry last week!
DAD : Yes, and we'll probably need to do it again next week.
RHIANNON : Why do we have to do laundry all the time?
DAD : Because you wear clothes. If you went naked all the time, it would be a lot easier.
JACK : I'll do it right now!
DAD : JACK! Put your shoes back on!

Well, after spending some time on Hell's front porch this week, we've moved back to the curb - the predicted high today will be eighty, which is good. Because I have to call our apartment office about the busted air-conditioner in the kid's bedroom AGAIN. We had problems with it last fall - the compressor apparently siezed up, and now, when plugged in, gives me great whomping sparks, blinky lights, and blown breakers. Good thing the computers are on a different circuit.

Yes, this week's been hellish. I won't bore you with the details. Let's just say that my friend who's going through the divorce has been slapped around more than enough. And that hurts me, too. Sure, I'm no party to their marriage - there were five people involved, and four others who had massive investments in it (five counting him, her, and the three kids, four counting both their parents). It's just not right. So it goes.

And Mr. Bonehead? Yes, you, that works for Ziegler Catapillar in Bloomington, driving their white GMC Savanna van, license CXZ 626? Cut me off just once more, and you've passed my limit. For good. I'll find out who your boss is and let him know what kind of jerks he has driving for him. Three times in one rush hour is more than enough - and when you do it with witnesses present, well, that's not the smartest move in the world, either.

So, where were we. Mr. Kershner's ordering screws from McFeeleys. Oy, what a setup. If there wasn't an attorney at the man's beck and call, you can rest assured I'd line up for that one.

And Landon turned two yesterday. Ah, poor Tom. And Leah. I remember when my own little monkey boy was two. Had I known then what I know now, I guarantee you that I'd gladly pay for the lobotomy they wanted me to have. As it is, however, that's just water under the bridge.

And, those fine (ahem) folks at NetAddress, where my current e-mail for this site is based, have hosed up for the last time with me. They seemed stable and reliable, but in the seven weeks I've had my mail there, they've been down three times for "upgrades" and many's the time that their servers can't connect to me to deliver my mail. Off to hunt for another free, web-based e-mail provider. Plenty of choices, now to pick one and run it for a week before commiting to it.

And no, I'm not going to go back to hotmail - don't like their policies or the company, and besides, she has an account there, and at yahoo. My goal is to have bookmarks on my primary machines at home so she can click once and check hers, and I can click once and check mine, and not have to worry about snooping. Despite the fact that there's very little privacy left in our marriage (I get some time alone, as does she, but you don't want to know the details).

Though I feel very good today about work - I got our software set up on two different servers - one for half the product, one for the other half, without documentation, without asking anyone (they weren't around anyway - probably interviewing).

Other than that, it's been... a day. No better, no worse. Most of us at work are certain that we'll be closing up shop in the next few months, so this is going to be fun. Not.

On the one hand, if I were offered an 18% raise in a field where jobs were already plentiful, I'd certainly be happy to take it. On the gripping hand, as they say, however, if that field consisted of long hours, the occasional uncontrolled bodily fluid discharge, pain, suffering, and most especially, nights and weekends, I'm pretty sure I'd tell you "start hopping".

And it sounds like that's what our local nursing unions are going to do. We've been hearing calls that there's a nursing shortage, but there are three things that, for me, kinda point this one up - Locally, something like 60% of the currently working nurse staff is planning on retiring in the next five years.

The local goal is to get "Starting salaries" up to $50,000, and more senior people up around $98,000. That's a lot of money. Great bucketloads. Until you consider what these people have to know, what they go through, and just how desperately they're needed. Sure it's going to drive health care costs up. But you know what? I'm feeling better about this than the umpteen billions spent on "health care consultants" wandering back and forth. I like to know what I'm getting, and instead of getting one hand washing the other and both getting stuffed into the pants for a long and happy game of pocket pool, I much prefer those hands getting the money are the ones that are doing the work.

And I see our president, the Dub, dropped in today to expound on his energy policy. Hmmm... There's a little bit of everything in there. I think that we've been far too lazy the last decade or two in sitting around, just waiting for someone else to solve our problems. When you look at the vehicles we drive now, I'm pretty sure that our gas mileage numbers have gone down, as a whole, over the last decade. I think anyone caught in traffic can look around and notice why that's the case - so many very large vehicles with so few people in them comes to the forefront of my mind. Certainly, there are some who have reason to drive such large vehicles. Should we happen to generate yet another mouth to feed around here, we've got very little choice but to move up a class into the dreaded minivan.

I remember the good old days when there was a gentle step between the "sedan" families and the "we need a freaking bus" families. Ah, well. There's also a section in Dub's plan for drilling in ANWR. I hate to admit it, but I think we might need to do so. Let's face it, we need the oil.

"ANWAR can produce 600,000 barrels of oil a day for the next 40 years," Bush said. "That happens to be the exact amount of oil we import from Iraq."

Huh? We're over-flying them, keeping them from bombing and killing their own people, we actively tried to depose their despotic ruler, and we're complaining that they support terrorism, and we're buying oil from them, too? Good thing I don't understand foreign policy, because that little bit right there would have me twisted like a corkscrew. I need to pat myself on the head and nod more often.

And much as the environmentalists will howl, we need to get some new nuclear plants up and running. It would certainly help if the storage for the spent fuel was ready - and while they're at it, build a plant that would use it, rather than sinking it deep under the ground, huh? And when the environmentalists complain about this, ask them how much time they spend sans electrical appliances - and yes, batteries count as electricity, you dolt. Sheesh. Some people like that nitwit in the back really ought to be sent to remedial stupid classes so they can learn how to be dumb right. Oy.

But yes, some of this plan sounds like a great big "cha-ching" in the pockets of some of our esteemed President's friends and former co-workers. You know, it's still tough to remember to spell cow-orker as co-worker. Thanks, Dilbert!

We need to face facts - what's happening in California is partially the fault of their own pie-in-the-sky plans ("let's say that you, Mr. Consumer, only have to pay this much for electricity, but we're going to deregulate the rest of the system so they can buy for less!" Right. That always works. Fix the price in the store, and do nothing to control the price of the stuff it take to make the thing. Yup. Right there, good move. NOT).

But California is only the beginning. Eventually, we're all gonna suffer rolling blackouts, as the heinous and occasionally ridiculous restrictions we've foisted upon ourselves show up as "I'm sorry, you can't turn on that light switch - it might shine bright light into the 'dark-loving adulticus maleae's' eyes, and this is a near-perfect specimen. So sorry, go elsewhere. Don't care if it's your home, get out."

Now, one of the many benefits of living with SWMBO is that one gets to see what she's working on for her site that night before the rest of you fine folks do. And I can assure you, it's a very long, very strange trip. She'll maintain that she's the normal one, and I'm the nutball here, but let's face facts - I came from Minnesota. She's from Iowa. I think we can end the discussion right there.

Today, she's back onto the boob topic. No, not discussing me, mind you, but the anatomical term she's adopted for breasts. She mentions the fact that my SEVEN-YEAR-OLD Daughter, not eight, as my wife has noted (what is it with the standard Iowa education? Do they all start counting at two down there? And I don't mean the age, but the number? I know Mr. Thompson starts at zero, and we've agreed to disagree on the whole "this century/last century" thing that happened last year; my wife, however, seems to believe that once you've celebrated that birthday, you're done with the year. 20 seconds after midnight on my birthday this year, I just know she's going to jab me with some sharp item, pry up my eyelid with one dainty claw, and ask "so, how's it feel to be forty?" Never mind the fact that I am as yet TWO AND A HALF YEARS AWAY FROM THAT DATE. Sheesh).

Then again, I must note, in the interest of fairness, that she was a "political science" major in college. And we all know how they work the numbers.

Her discussion of my daughter wearing a training bra at the age of seven is, I'm certain, calculated to drive my already-high blood pressure right through the roof. As a young feller chasing women whenever he wasn't actively involved in other pursuits, I highly valued and greatly admired women. Most often from afar, with my face on the floor from where I tripped over my tongue. As my lovely bride will gleefully tell you, I was in the Light & Sound Department in high school, specializing in the audio systems. No, I was not an "AV Geek" as she puts it - that was for those poor fellows who couldn't handle microphone details, pickup patterns, and various intricacies of speaker design, placement, and audio amplifier details. Mind you, I'm not talking stuffing this equipment in a vehicle, as many kids do today, but in enabling an entire room (or building) full of people to hear, in full, fine fidelity, the young lady who was singing at the time. Of course, it helped that the young lady who was singing was quite able to bury the needle (look it up, kids, look it up) regularly when she held the small-pickup mike BEHIND HER BACK, and if I wasn't careful, I'd be replacing magnets on more than one speaker after her performances.

But I digress - chasing women was a much-cherished, and nearly-never-successful past-time on my part. Brassieres were something we looked at the way the Jews looked at Jerusalem prior to 1945 - "next year, in the..." And let me tell you, teenaged boys trapped in that hormone jungle can't wait a year. Heck, most of them can't last for the hour-long classes they had to take.

But as an adult, and parent of a little girl, you look at that sub-species you used to be a member of, and you suddenly see THE ENEMY. There's no doubt about it. They are the Enemy. Hormonally imbalanced, derranged, psychotic, and only partially human. And the frightening thing is that, sooner or later, she's going to want to join them.

My wife takes great glee in reminding me that my baby girl will some day be conducting the same sorts of experiments most of the rest of us went through in terms of the old "show me yours and I'll..." game, and she takes great glee in the fact that it never fails to irritate me.

I can't for the life of me figure out why she does it - I mean, you'd think she was coveting an insurance settlement and contemplating becoming a rich widow with plenty of free time and admirers by the dozens... Nah, that couldn't be it, could it?

Tonight was the year-end Brownie picnic - a good time was had by all. And I'm sure there's something I'm forgetting, but this, too, shall pass.

Oh, yeah. Black Friday tomorrow. It's a little easier when you're fairly sure you know what's going to come down. At least Mr. Kershner will be in good company - though it looks like he's got at least until the end of the year. I'm guessing I'll have until mid-August. Again. Sheesh.

"Ears to Brain"
"Brain Here
He's coming this way. Over.
That's OK. Printer's right behind us. Over.
Uh, Brain? He's walking that walk. Over.
Brain to Feet, Over.
Feet Here
We might need to swivel, over.
Okay, just tell us where and when. Feet out.
Ears to Brain, Urgent.
Brain.
He's turned into the cube, over.
Brain to feet, swivel towards him, over.
Feet. Roger.
Brain to mouth - say something.
Mouth, OK.
Ears to Brain.
Brain.
He did say "worst case scenario".
Yeah, I heard.
Brain to Memory Banks.
Memory Banks, Aye?
Report how many times he said "I want" or "I need".
Sorting. Report soonest. Banks Out.
Brain to Mouth. Make soothing noises.
Mouth to Brain - get stuffed.
Brain to mouth - don't push your luck, or you'll get all of us in trouble.
Mouth to Brain - All right, I know.
Stomach to Brain, Emergency Priority
Brain here.
Hey, just what the hell are you folks playing with up there? We just had an acid eruption the likes of which we haven't seen in almost a year.
Brain to Stomach, just calm down. Things will work their way out.
Colon to Stomach, open channel.
Stomach, over.
Do I need to get ready for heavy-duty operation?
Stomach to Colon - no, not yet. But it wouldn't be a bad idea to tell digestive systems to up the intake of fiber for a while.
Colon to Stomach - not again.
Stomach to colon - yes, again.
Memory Banks to Brain.
Brain here.
Brain, the calculation for lost of esteem is five percent for each of the first four times they do it. Ten percent for each of the next four. Twenty points for the four after that, and fifty points for each occurrence thereafter.
Brain to memory banks. How many times did he say it?
Memory banks to brain - eleven.
Brain to calculating centers.
Gonkulators on-line; ready.
Eleven times, five points for first four, ten points for second four, twenty points for four after that. Total?
Gonkulators report one-ten.
Brain to calculating centers. What's seventy minus one-ten?
Gonkulator - minus forty.
Brain to gonkulators, thanks.
Brain to all body functions, clench, please.
Brain to all units, listen in. Ears have just reported that the boss has said that the "worst-worst case scenario" is that the office could be closed within two weeks of Memorial Day.
Gonkulators, priority override.
Brain to Gonkulators, go ahead.
In consultation with Banks, we regret to report that a fast shutdown will likely lead to a very, very small severance package.
Brain to Gonkulator. Thanks, so much. Now shut up.
Gonkulators, shutting up.
Brain to all units. The Boss has promised to write a letter of recommendation. The recruiter we've selected has already called twice for further information after today's meeting. We'll be OK, just a little tight for a while.
Gonkulators to Brain.
Brain to muscle - if Gonkulator doesn't shut up, shut him up.
Muscles to Brain, duh, yeah.
Brain to all units, it could get ugly again, but we'll get through it. We've got plenty of examples of people who've perservered through much, much worse. We'll be fine.
Memory Bank to Brains.
Brains, go ahead.
Brains, we gotta do something about this.

So how was your day? Mine was OK until 3:00 or so, and then went thud. Despite what was said only a week ago, the ninety-day expectation we had is now something in the neighborhood of thirty. And, what's worse, is that the job market here is pretty soft.

So, aside from that winning lottery ticket, which I've yet to find, I'm still plugging away at ... well, stuff. The recruiter was quite encouraging today, and I really think I'll be OK.

But, as we know, beliefs do not equal facts. The Lord helps those that help themselves. Make hay while the sun shines. Etcetera.

I'll do what I can to get me and my family out of this mess. What I really, REALLY, REALLY want is a company I can join, and work until retirement. I'm loyal as a dog, stubborn (with problems) as the day is long, and I don't give people a lot of grief when it comes to getting the job done. I can translate techno-speak into management-speak And I work hard, smart, and I think I'm a fair-to-good leader, too.

I'm laying in bed this morning, feeling the sun on my face, the birds in the trees, and ... a self-petting cat?

Yeah, that's the way it works. I go to sleep, thrash around a lot, and eventually end up on my back with my left hand out from under the blanket. Long about 6:30 am, well after I'm normally up and scratching five days a week, the elder of our two cats has decided that he has practiced enough cat patience. He nudges the side of my hand with his cold, wet little nose, and then as it twitches to get away from whatever mess it's found, he sticks his head under the hand and forces it up. My hand slides along his back, and drops off at the tail. He loops around, and does it again.

No idea how long he'd been doing it when I realized what he was doing, but it's a damned weird feeling to have your hand flopping around without your control over it.

The good news/bad news week is nearly (I hope) over. Ann got her hair done last night, and when she returned home, told me she'd been unaware that the two-toned highlights were a bit more expensive than expected. Hmmm... Let's see, now. That would be the other half of my 80 Gig hard drive, then (first half's sitting on the balcony in pots). Oh well.

Plans for today are very amorphous. Original discussion included a trip downtown to the planetarium, plus other things (actually, the original discussion was to head to a friend's horse farm and see the horses, but her family decided to descend, en masse, so my kids don't get to see the ponies just yet (we've yet to get peonies here, so I can't even make that bad joke work - Ponies/Peonies... never mind), and I don't get to spend a day disinfecting a virus-ridden computer. Hey, it sounded like fun to me, man). More current discussions center around perhaps bike riding (cheaper) and shoes for the kids (since my son has some how managed to de-loop most of the velcro on his Dinosaur shoes we got back in October. I shouldn't complain - he made it through over six months with the same shoes. I'm impressed).

And some more better, not necessarily good, news. The local newspaper no longer provides an "eternal archive" of their want ads. Last fall I would look and generate perhaps 2000 hits on my search phrase ("network or systems or admin or project or Mac"). Last week's listing of only 84 came from 1), only using the first three terms in my list, and 2) they no longer perma-archive. So I'm only getting the new stuff. This is good. This morning's search (over the same list - that's the bad news, they no longer upload during early Saturday AM, and instead do it sometime during Saturday. I'll have to check tonight) turned up 284 matches, of which I got about six good hits.

Sorry, I lied about yesterday's update. I got on-line (in the land of the dial-up, that is sometimes only slightly less work than Hercules' Aegean labors, done with a toothbrush), checked the Star-Trib's want ads last night, and my gut tightened to the point of sheer, abject terror. I found one, precisely, exactly, and specifically one, new ad that fit my search profile. It was "Nanny, live-in ... to work on craft PROJECTS with children."

Didn't precisely cause serious long-term problems to my digestive tract, but it sure was tight last night.

This morning, the far, far more familiar scene - "1-50 of over 500..." It's rather amazing what one takes for victories. Though, this week, I should be happy with the very smallest of positives.

Today is most definitely a chore day - cat boxes, laundry, cleaning about the house, putting away a couple of boxes of new-to-me books and video tapes in their new homes.

Instead, we're going to the airport. There's rumors that they've got a couple of planes you can climb on, in, and around - like a C-130, an SR-71, and a P-51. Yeah, the camera's going. So's the laptop. I only get 48 pictures in that thing at once. This opportunity might not happen again. My son in the cockpit of a vehicle that will do Mach 3. Sometimes that's what I need to keep up with him...

Later: Today was a very, very good day. I got to pull out that list of things I wanted to do in my life and check off one of them. Pictures can't really do the experience justice, but we'll just have to try.

Note: All thumbnails are links to larger pictures, which will open in new windows. The largest picture is 38K.

A panorama of planes...

An SR-71 Blackbird, from the end most pursuers saw it...

Not too tough to catch this baby, though - someone stole the engines!

The kids checking out the Skunkworks Special - the F4D.

A C-130 is not a small plane. At all.

That's why this picture should frighten you.

And this should scare the clothes clean off your nether regions.
Big plane. Small maniac. Frightening equation.

The good news was that we did, eventually, get them out of there.

Yes. I've got one on order. Actually, four.
A pair for each car. With remote actuators.

I'd rather not be in front of this group if they're meaning business...

Yes, that small blip under that inboard engine is my son.
The bigger blob is a C-96, and man, is it big.

And this is my baby. P-51D.

And from behind

I know many little boys who built plastic models as children. My father actually signed me up for a "model of the month club" and every month, without fail, I got some plastic model to assemble. Triremes, Moon Landings, the Space Shuttle, modern naval ships, and many, many airplanes. The first model I made was a P-51B, 1/72nd scale. The best model I built was a 1/24th scale P-51D.

Last night on the news I saw a bit of a piece on the Minnesota Air National Guard doing an "open cockpit" weekend. They showed some kids sitting in the cockpit of an SR-71 Blackbird. And that was it. I knew I had to go. Then, they showed my baby, a P-51D.

If you're ever in the Cities and want to get there, get onto the Crosstown (62) east. Head along until you get to the federal building exit, and then bumble around until you get to the Air Guard gate house. Get a pass from the nice young man at the gate, and head on in, park anywhere that's open near the planes. You can't miss them.

I'd estimate that they had fourteen planes out in the weather today. I couldn't be bothered to count. I was just too excited. Everything from the P-51D and the T33 trainers all the way up to that SR-71. They even had a picture spread showing how they brought the Blackbird home in a C-130 cargo hold - took two trips - one for the fuselage, and one for both wings, removed so the body could fit in the hold. Could have been three planes, as well. Two for the Blackbird, and one for the crew and tools.

The Minnesota Air National Guard started as a fighter/observation wing in the 1920s - the first Air Guard unit from a state. They had been a fighter wing up until the late 40s, and converted to a cargo wing. They now fly C-130s and other large cargo planes for heavy lifting runs and some atmospheric research that they also do.

Since they're based here in Minneapolis, it's also a convenient place for them to have an Air Guard Museum. And that's where we learned quite a bit about our local airport.

Did you know, for example, that thanks to the efforts of a couple of car nuts from Indianapolis, we have an airport so close to our downtown? Wold-Chamberlain field, which is the name of the land under the airport (I don't know why it's significant, but I'm sure it is), started out as the Twin City Motor Speedway.

A couple of investors from Indianapolis joined together with a couple from here, and they built a two-mile oval concrete track where they hoped the fellows from Indianapolis would come up and race on Labor Day to end the motor racing season. The 60,000 seat bleacher stand they built was half-full in the inaugural year of 1915, when they ran a reportedly tremendous race.

Declining attendance and harsh winters proved by 1917 that a concrete oval built in part on swampland and soft ground wasn't going to handle a Minnesota winter well enough to be a cost-effective investment for racing.

However, a two-mile circle with a flat, grassy infield made an easy target from 50 miles away, and pilots began to barnstorm into the area. Taking advantage of the opportunity, a couple of local smart guys built a hanger on part of the remaining concrete track, and an airport was born.

While the concrete oval is no longer there, the folks at the museum built a nice diorama or three with plenty of models, as well. They're also putting together other parts of other airplanes. I had a complete and total mental gap whilst looking at a Spitfire wing (very distinctive shape), and couldn't tell Ann what the heck it was.

They also had perhaps a dozen choppers, everything from good old Hueys to Apaches, sitting on tarmacs.

I think the biggest thing they had was the C-96 Cargo plane. It's their newest acquisition, and by far the largest. You could take the wings off the C-130 and fit it inside the C-96, practically.

To my eternal joy, however, I was standing near the P-51D when the docent (yes, they have them in Military hardware museums) came by and we struck up a short discussion.

I was hesitating putting my hand on the plane, and the fellow came up. He said "I'll have Harold open this thing up for you in a minute."

I think my breath caught in my throat.

I was struck by how small the Mustang seemed, next to those bigger birds. Given the place it had in history, and especially in my own pantheon, I was surprised it wasn't larger.

After making two or three circuits, touching the control surfaces, noticing the extra trim flap in the rudder, putting my hand in the "smile" right below the propeller, and touching that big four-bladed monster, I was nearly in heaven. Touched the muzzles of the six machine guns, the six exhaust ports, way, way over head, corked with corks to keep the air out. I was in heaven.

Then the fellow climbed up, opened the cockpit, and ...

Yes, that's my eldest. At the controls. And me, quivering and drooling. Believe it or not, she was a pretty good fit in there.

Given the way Jack filled it up, I was a bit worried about it. But I was damned if I'd get that close to a P-51D and NOT get into that cockpit. After he got out...

It was a tight fit... But I managed. And frankly, I couldn't tell you what that cockpit looked like. I held the stick in my hand, my left on the throttle, and my feet on the pedals. Absolute heaven, for me, I tell you.

Yeah, that's a huge grin. Biggest I've ever had, really, after my wedding and my kids being born.

Heckuva day. One heckuva day.

The weekly Diary of a PC Geek

Black Monday...