Spouses and Airplanes

We got the bill for the annual. (The aircraft's annual, to be precise.) Ouch. I knew it was going to be bad, and it was a little (but not much) worse than expected. Still, seeing the number was like a fist to the gut - ah, the joys of airplane ownership.

Fiscal matters are at the heart of many a couple's fights, and money is usually the obvious breaking point between many a wife's mock-jealous sufferance of her husband's "other woman - that airplane." and her determination that it needs to stop competing for money, time, and affection. (And threat to her spouse's life?)

So when Calmer Half and I discussed how to settle the bill, and what we could reasonably afford in terms, he reached forward and gently grabbed my shoulders. "With the amount of money that plane is costing us..." He took a breath, and I thought, well, here comes the typical your darned plane fight, "...I want you to fly that thing every chance you get!"

*blink* *blink*

Did I mention I adore this man?

Oops, work and an AR-15 shirt

Oleg has shirts from 1791Apparel.com around his house, as he's been taking photos of them. I needed a shirt at one point, and he offered one of them to me. (Sorry to disappoint the minds in the gutter, but no, not like that. I don't remember, but it wasn't as exciting as the life you think I have.)

Earlier this week, this shirt came up on the top of the stack of clean t-shirts, and in my pre-caffienated state, I put it on without a second thought, shrugged into my safety vest, and continued on with my morning routine. Everything was just fine, until right after the morning meeting, when one of my subordinates came up to me. (Not unusual; I encourage comments and questions to my face, to avoid having to try to answer the rumor chain or clean up the "I tried to figure it out myself" mess later.)

He grinned at me. "Is that an AR-15?"

I blinked, grinned, and shrugged. "Well..." Meaning, huh? What AR-15?

Another subordinate, nearby, chimed in. "What's an AR-15?"

The first one gestured at my chest and said, "It's the rifle the military uses. Those are the sights for an AR-15, aren't they?"

Oh, yeah. That. I grinned wider, and nodded. "Yeah. It's kind of a joke."

"That's pretty awesome! Where did you get that?"

Now, I'd be more inclined to say the military has the M-16 than the AR-15, personally, but this subordinate has never struck me as being one of the many prior-military and reservists among the ranks of my company. (We have lots. I fully endorse this practice, because vets are self-motivated, bright, problem solving, and understand the critical difference between the time to point out there's a better way to do something, and the time to drop everything and do this right now.) Still, he may have been the first to ask me openly, but he wasn't the only one to glance at my chest and grin.

Yeah, that's me. Providing logistics, leadership, and a gun nut in-joke because I didn't check the t-shirt stack for differentiation between work and not-work shirts. I probably should resist the temptation to get a few more, and see if my crew can recognize the rest of the designs. What could possible go wrong with wearing a Gasden snake curled around a AR-15 during meetings?

(As an aside, it's a good shirt, stands up to work and wear really well. Wish it was a little lower-quality in this muggy heat, actually, as a cheaper t-shirt might be a little less... insulating. But it wicks sweat well, and holds up to grime. And FCC, about your disclaimer rules? I got it free, I like it, I plan to buy a replacement. Resign and go do something useful in the real world instead of being a useless parasite on my taxes.)

disquiet

Just went to drop off the comforter and get it cleaned, since I don't have a washer big enough, and it's high past time. It's a gray, chilly Saturday, the kind that inspires baking things and hot tea to warm the house and soul, and the streets were no busier than a middle of the working day on Thursday.

As I parked near the little storefront for the cleaners, a slim, impeccably dressed Asian woman came to the door and watched me. As soon as I opened the back door and got the mass of cloth out, she had the door wide open, letting heat out with a smile on her face. "Welcome in! Welcome in!"

I walked in to find a very neat, clean shop with every spare surface crowded with photographs of family, and the woman whipped behind the counter. She was eager to pull out a pad and get my information, and when I pulled cash out of my wallet to pay, her eyes sparkled. "When do you need it back?" She asked, and her smile grew into a wide grin when I shrugged. "Wednesday, yes? You good customer, in no hurry, I love you! Is first time here?" And insisted on shaking my hand, introducing me to the family in the photographs, and proudly proclaiming her citizenship and her business's history.

I thanked her very much, and walked out smiling, but there was a little chill going up my spine.

More and more, lately, though, business owners and employees alike have been standing at the doors of their empty shops, ready to greet me, welcome me in, help me however I can, and could they carry my items out? For all their helpfulness, their excellent service (whether I want it or not), I find myself reminded of a wake. Where the survivors are saying "See this man, and hear my story, and share this memory, make him real and alive to you as he was to me."

See me, see this business I have built with my own hands, let me shake yours. See my family, I support with it, see how long I have been in business, see how I am part of your community and love your country. See me, and come back, please, and often. Please. Please.

There's a little chill thought that won't go away. A little voice in my head whispers, as grey and aching as my old injuries: This is not a healthy country.

Dehydration in the brain

One of the very cool opportunities from being in the Lower 48 was being invited to spend time with the Baen Barflies at DragonCon. Now, I've heard of Baen's Bar from a good friend and for the last twelve years, but somehow I never quite got 'round to joining - especially when he told me the good stories anyway. This includes moments like watching Mad Mike (Michael Z Williamson, whose books are as great reads as they are politically incorrect) make a drink called "clubbed seal" (and failing to get up off the couch afterward. Tasty and potent!)

It also included meeting Speaker To Lab Rats, who is a real live neuroscientist, and a really great guy. He is not only gracious and generous, he also has a wickedly keen wit and isn't afraid to use it. He keeps a blog that puts mine to shame:Teddy's Rat Lab, which explains very interesting science in ways that let laymen understand.

I was reading the second of his two-part series on Diabetes in the brain, on diabetic neuropathy, and experienced on of those moments in which the perfectly well-put fact suddenly acts like a seed in a supersaturated solution, making fuzzy generalizations, "everybody knows" and "the symptoms are" resolve into a perfectly understandable cause and effect.

As previously mentioned, neurons in the brain are not dependent on insulin for their uptake of glucose from the blood. This is not to say that neurons are insensitive to insulin or that insulin has no effect on neurons...

Thus, in the brain the effects of high blood glucose are largely due to the osmotic properties of the glucose molecule dissolved in the liquid component of blood. In this manner, glucose acts very much like high salt concentrations. It is fairly well known that one means of preserving food is to dehydrate it, quite frequently with salt.

I love learning things. Especially things that help me understand how the world works, and make sense out of the universe. So I dashed downstairs, and excitedly related this to Calmer Half. "So, it's actually the dehydration of nerve cells that poisons and kills them, which is why diabetics end up having problems with vision and feeling in their feet! Isn't that cool?"

Calmer Half, who is still having struggles aplenty with the low-carb diet and blood sugar, didn't look so calm as I name him. In fact, he looked at me with the same face a soldier on patrol turns toward the approaching sandstorm. "No. It's not." He frowned, and it was a frown that made me decide that maybe I better take myself off somewhere else and remove my feet from my mouth.

...And for some reason, the usual sources of carbalicious temptation just weren't as appealing that night.

Here's the holster!

There's a time for shaky cell phone pictures in available light, and there's a time for professionals. Oleg does awesome work - and so does Dragon Leatherworks!

I'm enthusiastic, not excellent

Once upon a time*, a mixed group of draftees and enlistees were in boot. They were lined up one at a time, handed something that went bang**, and pointed at the derelict hulk of a tank resting beneath the spreading branches of a tree. The tank had a big bullseye painted on the very dented front. One of the men involved nailed the center of the bullseye on the first try, resulting in a bang and flying debris, and was feeling fairly proud of himself as he stepped aside.

After him came a young man who was hobbling slightly, still getting used to wearing shoes. This young man took the weapon and stared thoughtfully at the tank, dappled with sunlight and shifting shadows in the breeze. Just before the sergeant lost his temper, he finally fired. The round rebounded off a swaying tree limb and dropped into the open hatch on top, followed by a curiously muffled whumph. As smoke gently wisped out the hatch, he turned to the sergeant and said in a painfully thick and slow drawl, "Well, you wanted me t' kill the people in the tank, right, sir?"

"You! Out of here!"

"Don' I get the other tries, sir?"

The first young man would go on to qualify as expert marksman in every firearm the army had in use*** (and bayonet, too.) However, he never forgot the lesson he learned that day in basic: never get cocky, because there's always someone who is so much better that they're not even in the same league.

Fortunately, he passed this lesson on to me, and I have tried to remember and live by it. I have met some pilots who were good sticks, who could do things near-impossible on a regular basis. I have met great shooters. I am neither - I really enjoy flying and shooting, but I am not that great at either. Keep that in mind when I talk about my plane, or guns, or reviews of anything, really.



*Not that long ago. The difference between war stories and fairy tales is that one begins "Once upon a time", and the other begins "No sh*t, there I was" - being as this was the Vietnam war era, and definitely not my story, I gave it a fairy tale opening.

**Question for the audience - I first heard this one when I was not quite as tall as a rifle with a bayonet, possibly the same day I got bored, lost, and was finally found sitting on a table in the armory, enchanted and excited while a very, very nice man with lots of chevrons on his sleeves showed off his many, many toys (so cool!). Anyone have an idea what sort of weapon was involved? I think I remember it being described as a 50mm shell, but that's really fuzzy.

***Which took quite a few years. In fact, as he was closing in on the goal, his daughter was getting to dating age. And the qualification targets, with their little tombstones, started to go up on the wall in the hall leading to his daughter's bedroom...

Things aren't as bad as they seem

direct link: http://youtu.be/BltRufe5kkI