Slim Buttes
Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, SD
USA 9.09
This fall, when promotion time rolls around, some of you…many of you…well, all of you…are going to wonder why the ‘automatic’ principle doesn’t still apply.
Reason is, is because you simply don’t deserve it. Tell me what you’ve done to deserve it. Go head. Tell me. I want to hear it.
The automatic principle does, in fact, still apply for your wings…16, 16, or six…those who’ve flown 1600 hours, sixteen months, or six shoot-downs, you or them, and you automatically advance from rookie/cadet to full-blown pilot.
That’s standard flight rank/status designation, standard SOP, standard operating procedure. That hasn’t changed. 16, 16, or six, whichever comes first, and you’ve earned your wings.
What has changed, however, is the criteria determining whether or not you advance in pay grade. That’s a whole another story. To advance in pay grade, you must first distinguish yourselves through the performance of meritorious voluntary service to God and your country, in the capacity of ‘combat pilot’* in the Slim Buttes 335th Aviation Detachment.**
Any questions?
Ain’t gonna be no more automatic pay increases like before, just for rolling in for routine maintenance, oil change, lube job, reserve Air National Guard duty, governor, and maybe go on to become president. Those days are over. Just because people die and slots open up, don’t mean you’re automatically getting a promotion.
You might ask why we’re still flying cardboard bi-planes into combat in an age of rockets, shiny robots on Mars, and all kinds of other super-fast shit whizzing in orbit around the earth.
Good question.
Manny always used to say you’ve got to work with what you’ve got, and if you haven’t got any God-given natural talent, you’ve got to buckle down and work hard, and if you’re a lazy-ass, then you’ve got to depend entirely on luck.
If you’re out of luck, or down on your luck, born under a bad sign, or the only luck you’ve got is bad, then you’ve got to go with who you know, or your name. If you don’t know nobody, and your name is mud, then your only option is to go with what you’ve got, or try something else, he used to say.
Does that answer why we’re flying bi-planes?
Ok, then…well, when they flew…back in the day when they flew the machine you’re so fortunate to be flying today, the pilots were cut of a certain uncommon cloth, possessing a certain flair, a certain élan, a certain esprit de corps, a certain elite eche’lon superieur, an esprit de cal, an elle’ gance…an…you get the picture…a whole bunch of French words that describe a pretentious, pompous, affected style.
And that’s why many of you…almost all, I’d say, aren’t receiving a promotion.
No, not because of no style. Wanna know why? Ok. When’s the last time any of you asked about our squadron strength? How many of you asked about those guys who went down? Our guys, not theirs - the Germans, Holtz, or those guys up in Wisconsin working on the trigger mechanism – these were our guys, the 335th, at the air show, and the other two, playing tag. Have I seen any of your names lately on Daily Mission Ops?
Need I say more?
Yeah. So when you’re looking at that pay check, saying, “Hey. I’ve been flying for over a year. Why isn’t it reflected in my pay check?” well, Charlie, you’ve got to do more than barnstorm the family picnic and do kiddie rides at State Fairs.
Or you might say, “Those guys died. The slots were open. I should’ve had the promotion. I was here a full year before Carlson!”
Don’t matter no more. You gotta see the big picture. You gotta look at the war effort, the squadron, the company, the command, the country, inner self, the trees, the forest, the whole mission, beyond your own skin, predicament, what it means for our allies, the other guy.
You gotta do more than just clock in, clock out. You can’t just be sitting around, waiting for slots to open up. You gotta have the drive, the OVERdrive, gotta have ‘what it takes’, the right ‘stuff’, get yo’ mojo working, café latte, double chocolate def wish, double doberman cappuccino, wound up, hopped up, wired, whattimeizzit, meechuatnoon, Go-get-‘em style.
In addition to the necessary combat missions, you must begin to demonstrate an interest in the company. We need ‘company people’ here. We need team players, game-changers. You can ask yourself, ‘am I a team player, or am I out there, a loner, loser, loose cannon floating around in the universe, government salary, flying my little cardboard toy, spinning on a thread?”
UP2U. Gravy train’s over. Get on board.
You might ask, what has any of this to do with style? And you may wonder about the discordant association of cannons, loose or otherwise, to floating. Cannons don’t float. Cannons are found on ramparts, museum displays, and seabeds.
Style?
Well, the style went with a certain artistry. A ballet up there. Spinning and diving and climbing in a spiraling love/hate duel, sometimes two-on-one. You could feel the air, smell the engine, hear the rattle of the guns, cumulus fog on the goggles, sometimes a hot brass bullet casing searing into your flesh.
The very first combat aviators. We actually attended the services for the fallen. And that was the enemy. We knew who we were up against. We could see them. They looked like us.
-end
*As any good self-serving journalist or military officer knows, to advance your career, you need a good war. Not just a skirmish or an obscure and irrelevant military intervention. Peace-keeping force doesn’t cut it. You gotta have a good war.
**abbr. officially, ‘Slim Buttes 335th Post-Modern Contemporary Symmetrical Aviation Detachment, USAF.’
Friday, September 25, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Trigger Gizmo Solved
Pine Ridge, SD
August 2009
Heyyyy Brrrrro,
How do you like your new aircraft? Pretty nice, huh? You can see we worked out your problem with the guns shooting through the propeller. Now you won’t have any more of your people shooting themselves down out of the sky, nor all those wood splinters and bullets ricocheting back at your pilots.
Remember, no shooting over 6,000 rpms. Anything beyond that, and the whole technology goes out the window, and your plane goes down with a prop.
We can’t take credit for the breakthrough, however. Unlike us or the French, the Germans did all their chickenshit testing on the ground, as opposed to live combat, and figured out the mechanics, and then the Brits got it from the Germans when Friedrich Holtz, the Baron’s wing man, got shot down over Alsace, and then we naturally got it from the Brits finally after they naturally sat on the designs for six months. I guess our governments are going to naturally let the French figure it out for themselves.
They, the Germans, synced, sync-ed, sync’d, sinked, synchro…coordinated the engine camshaft and blade with the trigger mechanism gizmo so the guns will fire only when the prop blade is in the horizontal position. What a novel idea! Why didn’t we think of that? I still feel sorry for all your guys. I guess you could call them the original test pilots. Somebody should do something for their families.
We learned that some of your aeroplanes fell into a state of disrepair after impact with the earth, so given the terms of your contract, we can provide supplemental support for your wings, struts, fuselage, and landing gear, but as you know, the one-year, 5,000-hour engine and drive-train warranty has expired.
Anyway, uh, somebody suggested…well…claimed outright that the $499.99 price we were asking for a ‘singleton’ was a bit overpriced. Well, hugely overpriced. They all laughed, the focus group, when I said how much they were. What’s your take on it?
The way I see it, they’re limited edition, right? Gonna stop at 500. That’ll make ‘em more valuable, a future hot ticket item on Craig’s List, say, or among aviation enthusiasts.
“You serious?” Tom asked, seriously, when I told him the production cap at 500,* maybe display ‘em all at once in a big air show, art show, like a big gallery or something, then sell ‘em off, auction ‘em off in a charity event or something. Probably not, though. A children’s hospital or something. They all, the people I ran the idea by, the focus group, looked skeptical when I voiced the concept.
“Nobody’s gonna give you five hundred dollars for one of these,” Tom said, derisively.
“Four ninety-nine, ninety-nine. You know anybody else who’s doing this?” I asked. He and everybody else here at the time all shook their heads no. Manuel, Louie, Bo, Misty, the White Drifter.
“Right!” I exclaimed. “Nobody. I gotta flood the market with these originals before the Chinese get a hold of the design and undercut me at Wal-Mart. These’r made in America, by God! When’s the last time you seen that?”
“That’s four good reasons, isn’t it, Bo?” I asked. “Made in America…one of a kind…limited edition…flood the…what’s the fourth?” I asked, holding up three fingers.
The people sitting here drinking coffee, raised their eyebrows and nodded, like it was worthy of consideration. Tom was wondering how flooding the market would get me my asking price. Bo said he’d give ‘ten, twenty dollars’ for one, a tri-plane, the blue one.
That’s bullshit. That’s ridiculous, don’t you think? The crew is already five bucks under minimum wage. Plasticized cardboard or not, you’ve still got production and shipping costs. Despite NAFTA and a Myanmar refugee labor force, you can’t turn a profit like that.
So, after taking into consideration the feedback, we adjusted the promotional offer so now it’s either $499.99**……or free.*** Most folks, almost everybody…well, everybody, has chosen the second, consumer-friendly option, with one buyer/owner saying he’d get back to us later with the full sticker price, yea.
“I’ll get back to you later with the full sticker price,” he said, going out, flying a brand new Fokker tri-plane, all black. John, a friend of Ted’s. Vietnam vet. Navy man. Pilot, I think. No. He was on river patrol down in the Delta. Now he’s a pilot.
$499.99. That’s for one of our ‘singles’, the singletons. A bi-plane; Sopwiths, DeHavilands and Malibus. The LaRois are out of production, so already, the folks holding one of those have got a little nest egg for their grandkids. Don’t know yet what kind of figure to fix on the Fokker tri-planes or two-plane deals. Gotta be more, right? They’re more than twice as cool.
Last month in a call with Li An Song Nu Kyi, our Myanmar crew boss, you might have met her, I told her, “from now on, we’re going to go strictly with the bi/bi-plane,**** dual, double, two-plane production arrangement,” and she asked, “You say we work two time now, same pay?”
I told her yes.
“Now make two prane for onee one pay?”
I told her yes. She grew quiet as a stone, and shortly thereafter terminated the conversation. It could be problematic later, like, when I get back, especially since the company isn’t picking up the crew lunch anymore, and she’ll have to tell them what I said.
Anyway, half our inventory, except for the Pizza Hut plane, went out this past week, mostly for grandchildren. One adult. And one toddler who probably won’t be able to fly or appreciate it for many years.
Since those horrific but spectacular accidents at the air show, we’re focusing on re-building the squadron back up to strength and getting these punk rookie pilots combat- ready. Did you see the video? The memorial services are on Sunday, if you want to fly in, otherwise I’ll tell the widows the flowers are from all of us.
Later,
Lt. Col. Brovic
Squadron Commander
335th U.S. Aviation Detachment
Slim Buttes, Oglala BIA 41 S.
Pine Ridge Indian Reservation
*500 is the target numerical from the concept boys in the front office, saying we can hit that figure in two years, but just last month the Myanmar crew were rumored to be murmuring about already ‘being sick’ of the project.
**Four ninety-nine ninety-nine. Sounds good, doesn’t it? One potential almost buyer, reaching for his wallet, said, “Sure, I’ll give you five bucks for one of those.” I laughed. “Aha, Sir…” I told him, clearing my throat, “Perhaps you misunderstood. That’s four hundred, ninety nine…dollars, ninety-nine cents.” He decided to take one for free.
***It’s not such a wild idea. The flowers do what they do for free. The birds sing for free. These meadowlarks out here aren’t asking anything for what they do.
****what would you call two bi-planes together? For production crew jargon, we’re saying something like, ‘We need four more bi-plane dualies out here!” but for marketing purposes, something like ‘dual bi-plane mobiles’ would work, don’t you think? They’re telling me I can get my asking price down in Colorado. “OH YEAH! The yuppies will eat this shit up!” Devon, a Boulder resident, said.
Ps. Hey, get a load of Li An’s note:
‘Sawadee Ka, Mr. Big Boss,
When you comeback? I hab someting to tell you already. Reason I goto my home in country papa sick. Close and lock shop already. crew people glap home already same same me being sick. say big boss ding dong. want 2 plane for onee one pay. same same sa-nake. I hab idea already. maybe I nosee you longtime maybe copy idea to China to much. You remember plane pattern I make in dirt? Leum? When you comeback? I hate you already.
Love,
Li An
Nong Sa helf me with letter toyou her say hi.
___
When you say, or hear, ‘mid-air collision’, you sort of naturally think the worst, right? like two aircraft, airliners, impacting one another head-on at five hundred miles an hour. That would be bad. Even the passengers back in the rear wouldn’t make it.
Or maybe getting T-boned by a jet fighter, slicing your 737 wide-body passenger compartment in half. “HEYYYYAAA. WHAT WAS THAT?” That would be bad, too. In fact, almost everything that happens up there is bad. Bad food. Bad seat. Bad air. Bad service. Can’t smoke.
We had one before, and another at the air show, mid-airs. We couldn’t really call them mid-air collisions, per se, even though they were. It was more like a mid-air ‘mishap’, or mid-air ‘encounter’, neither of which by the way, you would want to experience, either as a pilot, or as a passenger.
A mid-air mishap or encounter is just as bad and messy as a collision, and going down in a ball of flame, though spectacular, results in the same end as a loss of power, loss of a wing or tail rudder, fluttering down in a whining spiral, then poof.
Although quite theatrical, having it occur at the air show is embarrassing and not nearly as heroic and final as a clean-cut battle death. There’s always a whale more explaining to do, to many, many more people than just the immediate family. Like, investigators.
Investigators and military aviation authorities. Always got ‘em in a non-combat related aerial mishap, and in this case, two days before the show, a couple of our young punk new guys were horse-assing around playing tag with their girlfriend’s scarves attached to their tail rudders.
The guy who was ‘it’ would chase the other and cut the scarf sheet with his prop. Zzzzzzzzt, “You’re it!”
Well, who knows what really happened up there, but the chase guy chewed up the tail rudder of his buddy and shredded his prop in the process, so they both went down in a tangle. Chewed up and screwed up. These things happen from time to time. Non-combat related aerial fatality. It happens all the time.
Same in the navy. Man overboard. “Go back and get him, Skipper?”
“Screw him. He’s not critical to the mission. You know what it costs to turn an aircraft carrier around?”
But we’re not the navy, and each of our guys, whether they’re married with kids or not, is critical to our mission, not to mention the aircraft they were horse-assing around with.
The other two at the air-show, pilot error, not horse-assing, was really bad, partly because it involved numerous spectators (it’s not entirely our fault. They came to the show, didn’t they?)* and lawsuits, but like I said, these things happen from time to time.
Lookit the Blue Angels. Best in the world. Again, pilot error. Leader took the whole six-bird formation straight into the ground. Lookit Columbia on liftoff and the other one, on re-entry. Same with the Russians. How many guys did they lose? And the French. How many spectators have they killed at their air shows?
Every time you turn around, the French are killing spectators at air shows. You got a better chance running the bulls in Barcelona on a skateboard.
Anyway, a lot of stuff can happen up there in the air…just ask Niel Armstrong and Sergei Whathisname, so it’s not just us, and most of it you can’t blame on the Baron, though we’d like to attribute to him all elements of evil and misfortune, and implicate him as source of all our own stupidity and blunder.
Four aircraft and as many pilots in three days. Bunch of civilians. I don’t know what they came up with for the final tally.
Later.
-end
August 2009
Heyyyy Brrrrro,
How do you like your new aircraft? Pretty nice, huh? You can see we worked out your problem with the guns shooting through the propeller. Now you won’t have any more of your people shooting themselves down out of the sky, nor all those wood splinters and bullets ricocheting back at your pilots.
Remember, no shooting over 6,000 rpms. Anything beyond that, and the whole technology goes out the window, and your plane goes down with a prop.
We can’t take credit for the breakthrough, however. Unlike us or the French, the Germans did all their chickenshit testing on the ground, as opposed to live combat, and figured out the mechanics, and then the Brits got it from the Germans when Friedrich Holtz, the Baron’s wing man, got shot down over Alsace, and then we naturally got it from the Brits finally after they naturally sat on the designs for six months. I guess our governments are going to naturally let the French figure it out for themselves.
They, the Germans, synced, sync-ed, sync’d, sinked, synchro…coordinated the engine camshaft and blade with the trigger mechanism gizmo so the guns will fire only when the prop blade is in the horizontal position. What a novel idea! Why didn’t we think of that? I still feel sorry for all your guys. I guess you could call them the original test pilots. Somebody should do something for their families.
We learned that some of your aeroplanes fell into a state of disrepair after impact with the earth, so given the terms of your contract, we can provide supplemental support for your wings, struts, fuselage, and landing gear, but as you know, the one-year, 5,000-hour engine and drive-train warranty has expired.
Anyway, uh, somebody suggested…well…claimed outright that the $499.99 price we were asking for a ‘singleton’ was a bit overpriced. Well, hugely overpriced. They all laughed, the focus group, when I said how much they were. What’s your take on it?
The way I see it, they’re limited edition, right? Gonna stop at 500. That’ll make ‘em more valuable, a future hot ticket item on Craig’s List, say, or among aviation enthusiasts.
“You serious?” Tom asked, seriously, when I told him the production cap at 500,* maybe display ‘em all at once in a big air show, art show, like a big gallery or something, then sell ‘em off, auction ‘em off in a charity event or something. Probably not, though. A children’s hospital or something. They all, the people I ran the idea by, the focus group, looked skeptical when I voiced the concept.
“Nobody’s gonna give you five hundred dollars for one of these,” Tom said, derisively.
“Four ninety-nine, ninety-nine. You know anybody else who’s doing this?” I asked. He and everybody else here at the time all shook their heads no. Manuel, Louie, Bo, Misty, the White Drifter.
“Right!” I exclaimed. “Nobody. I gotta flood the market with these originals before the Chinese get a hold of the design and undercut me at Wal-Mart. These’r made in America, by God! When’s the last time you seen that?”
“That’s four good reasons, isn’t it, Bo?” I asked. “Made in America…one of a kind…limited edition…flood the…what’s the fourth?” I asked, holding up three fingers.
The people sitting here drinking coffee, raised their eyebrows and nodded, like it was worthy of consideration. Tom was wondering how flooding the market would get me my asking price. Bo said he’d give ‘ten, twenty dollars’ for one, a tri-plane, the blue one.
That’s bullshit. That’s ridiculous, don’t you think? The crew is already five bucks under minimum wage. Plasticized cardboard or not, you’ve still got production and shipping costs. Despite NAFTA and a Myanmar refugee labor force, you can’t turn a profit like that.
So, after taking into consideration the feedback, we adjusted the promotional offer so now it’s either $499.99**……or free.*** Most folks, almost everybody…well, everybody, has chosen the second, consumer-friendly option, with one buyer/owner saying he’d get back to us later with the full sticker price, yea.
“I’ll get back to you later with the full sticker price,” he said, going out, flying a brand new Fokker tri-plane, all black. John, a friend of Ted’s. Vietnam vet. Navy man. Pilot, I think. No. He was on river patrol down in the Delta. Now he’s a pilot.
$499.99. That’s for one of our ‘singles’, the singletons. A bi-plane; Sopwiths, DeHavilands and Malibus. The LaRois are out of production, so already, the folks holding one of those have got a little nest egg for their grandkids. Don’t know yet what kind of figure to fix on the Fokker tri-planes or two-plane deals. Gotta be more, right? They’re more than twice as cool.
Last month in a call with Li An Song Nu Kyi, our Myanmar crew boss, you might have met her, I told her, “from now on, we’re going to go strictly with the bi/bi-plane,**** dual, double, two-plane production arrangement,” and she asked, “You say we work two time now, same pay?”
I told her yes.
“Now make two prane for onee one pay?”
I told her yes. She grew quiet as a stone, and shortly thereafter terminated the conversation. It could be problematic later, like, when I get back, especially since the company isn’t picking up the crew lunch anymore, and she’ll have to tell them what I said.
Anyway, half our inventory, except for the Pizza Hut plane, went out this past week, mostly for grandchildren. One adult. And one toddler who probably won’t be able to fly or appreciate it for many years.
Since those horrific but spectacular accidents at the air show, we’re focusing on re-building the squadron back up to strength and getting these punk rookie pilots combat- ready. Did you see the video? The memorial services are on Sunday, if you want to fly in, otherwise I’ll tell the widows the flowers are from all of us.
Later,
Lt. Col. Brovic
Squadron Commander
335th U.S. Aviation Detachment
Slim Buttes, Oglala BIA 41 S.
Pine Ridge Indian Reservation
*500 is the target numerical from the concept boys in the front office, saying we can hit that figure in two years, but just last month the Myanmar crew were rumored to be murmuring about already ‘being sick’ of the project.
**Four ninety-nine ninety-nine. Sounds good, doesn’t it? One potential almost buyer, reaching for his wallet, said, “Sure, I’ll give you five bucks for one of those.” I laughed. “Aha, Sir…” I told him, clearing my throat, “Perhaps you misunderstood. That’s four hundred, ninety nine…dollars, ninety-nine cents.” He decided to take one for free.
***It’s not such a wild idea. The flowers do what they do for free. The birds sing for free. These meadowlarks out here aren’t asking anything for what they do.
****what would you call two bi-planes together? For production crew jargon, we’re saying something like, ‘We need four more bi-plane dualies out here!” but for marketing purposes, something like ‘dual bi-plane mobiles’ would work, don’t you think? They’re telling me I can get my asking price down in Colorado. “OH YEAH! The yuppies will eat this shit up!” Devon, a Boulder resident, said.
Ps. Hey, get a load of Li An’s note:
‘Sawadee Ka, Mr. Big Boss,
When you comeback? I hab someting to tell you already. Reason I goto my home in country papa sick. Close and lock shop already. crew people glap home already same same me being sick. say big boss ding dong. want 2 plane for onee one pay. same same sa-nake. I hab idea already. maybe I nosee you longtime maybe copy idea to China to much. You remember plane pattern I make in dirt? Leum? When you comeback? I hate you already.
Love,
Li An
Nong Sa helf me with letter toyou her say hi.
___
When you say, or hear, ‘mid-air collision’, you sort of naturally think the worst, right? like two aircraft, airliners, impacting one another head-on at five hundred miles an hour. That would be bad. Even the passengers back in the rear wouldn’t make it.
Or maybe getting T-boned by a jet fighter, slicing your 737 wide-body passenger compartment in half. “HEYYYYAAA. WHAT WAS THAT?” That would be bad, too. In fact, almost everything that happens up there is bad. Bad food. Bad seat. Bad air. Bad service. Can’t smoke.
We had one before, and another at the air show, mid-airs. We couldn’t really call them mid-air collisions, per se, even though they were. It was more like a mid-air ‘mishap’, or mid-air ‘encounter’, neither of which by the way, you would want to experience, either as a pilot, or as a passenger.
A mid-air mishap or encounter is just as bad and messy as a collision, and going down in a ball of flame, though spectacular, results in the same end as a loss of power, loss of a wing or tail rudder, fluttering down in a whining spiral, then poof.
Although quite theatrical, having it occur at the air show is embarrassing and not nearly as heroic and final as a clean-cut battle death. There’s always a whale more explaining to do, to many, many more people than just the immediate family. Like, investigators.
Investigators and military aviation authorities. Always got ‘em in a non-combat related aerial mishap, and in this case, two days before the show, a couple of our young punk new guys were horse-assing around playing tag with their girlfriend’s scarves attached to their tail rudders.
The guy who was ‘it’ would chase the other and cut the scarf sheet with his prop. Zzzzzzzzt, “You’re it!”
Well, who knows what really happened up there, but the chase guy chewed up the tail rudder of his buddy and shredded his prop in the process, so they both went down in a tangle. Chewed up and screwed up. These things happen from time to time. Non-combat related aerial fatality. It happens all the time.
Same in the navy. Man overboard. “Go back and get him, Skipper?”
“Screw him. He’s not critical to the mission. You know what it costs to turn an aircraft carrier around?”
But we’re not the navy, and each of our guys, whether they’re married with kids or not, is critical to our mission, not to mention the aircraft they were horse-assing around with.
The other two at the air-show, pilot error, not horse-assing, was really bad, partly because it involved numerous spectators (it’s not entirely our fault. They came to the show, didn’t they?)* and lawsuits, but like I said, these things happen from time to time.
Lookit the Blue Angels. Best in the world. Again, pilot error. Leader took the whole six-bird formation straight into the ground. Lookit Columbia on liftoff and the other one, on re-entry. Same with the Russians. How many guys did they lose? And the French. How many spectators have they killed at their air shows?
Every time you turn around, the French are killing spectators at air shows. You got a better chance running the bulls in Barcelona on a skateboard.
Anyway, a lot of stuff can happen up there in the air…just ask Niel Armstrong and Sergei Whathisname, so it’s not just us, and most of it you can’t blame on the Baron, though we’d like to attribute to him all elements of evil and misfortune, and implicate him as source of all our own stupidity and blunder.
Four aircraft and as many pilots in three days. Bunch of civilians. I don’t know what they came up with for the final tally.
Later.
-end
Thursday, July 30, 2009
No Floatation Device Under Seat
Pine Ridge, SD
July 2009
Heyyyy Bro,
Your aircraft is just about ready to roll out of the factory, and when I say ‘just about’, I mean, all we’re waiting for are the tires.
She’s ready to fly, man. Beautiful lines. The crew did a nice job on the paint job. Looks cool. Incorporated new design changes to a seamless fuselage construction at the suggestion of the Myanmar crew leader,* and major structural changes in the tail. I think you’ll like it.
Frankel brought his plane in for a thorough overhaul and rehab, after he laughingly said it had crashed. Everybody knows a plane doesn’t survive a crash…there might be a few usable parts, but most of it is scrap, much smaller than a breadbox, so you just can imagine the crew in the maintenance hangar shaking their heads when they saw the old first edition BV33 being dragged in.
Total rehab from head to toe, prop to rudder; new beefed up engine, new landing gear, new rubber, new wing struts, new cowling, rear landing gear, weapons platform, guns,** and new paint job.
I asked him, ‘Do you have any idea of what this is going to cost you?’ and he said to proceed forthright, the sky’s the limit, you know, so that’s what I told the team, and they did a helluva job. You wouldn’t recognize it. Sumbitch is fast.
Well, in the process of firing up the maintenance hangar for Frankel’s extensive rehab job, the crew got started on a couple new planes, primarily because of a recent spike in demand. You remember Alonzo, who shocked me last year by shrugging off an offer for a free, take your pick, plane?
Yeah. Stays with Bo and Misty. Jolted me bolt upright in the seat, causing me to exclaim loudly, “WHAT?”
He sees me this year, and first thing he asks is if I still have the planes.
“Yeah,” I told him. “I still got ‘em.”
And Dewayne, up in Porcupine, he wants one, too. This is after refusing an offer for a plane last year, saying, ‘Nah, I could do that.’
Funny. The two onliest guys who ever refused our aircraft turned around and ended up ordering one a year later.
After countless flight hours amassed over one year, we brought the two LaRois in for routine maintenance, tune up, lube job, wash and wax, armaments check, and new wing supports for one of them.
They looked cool in the squadron lineup with six of the newer Solaris and two Lao Poste ‘close air support’ models,*** sort of like the Pearl Harbor flight line before the attack. Except they’re biplanes, of course. I’ll send a photo.
So, after wrapping up Frankel’s rush job immediately after the sun dance, the crew began construction of a new model with new materials, sleeker and faster, with bigger engines and bigger guns. You’ll see them at the air show.
-end
*Li An Song Nu Kyi. Holding her position only because of her limited knowledge of English, spontaneously came up with the idea of seamless fuselage construction, after constructing several dozen aircraft.
“Maybe can sabe ti,’ she said, squatting, drawing a template in the dirt with her index finger.
“Ahhhh, yeah,” I told her dismissively, thinking that basically, Li An was ignorant of anything close to aeronautical design, having grown up with little schooling in a small village in the sticks where her father carved coral aquarium sea dragons for a living, and had only come to the aircraft factory for the job opportunity.
Also, I didn’t want to relent my superior social standing as Big Boss by acknowledging that she might actually may have something valuable to offer, so I told her to go ahead and have the crew do things the way we always have, since by doing so, admitting she had an idea, would have caused severe loss of face, for me, a terrible thing in Asia, and everyone, the whole crew, was right there, eating and watching. She showed me during their lunch break.
I didn’t have time for bird signs or drawings in the dirt. I needed to fake the appearance of a busy man, and wondered why it appeared the crew was watching us so intently and apparently taking bets.
When she hired on, I asked her where she learned her English already, and she just nodded and smiled with a vacant, unfocused, incomprehensible expression that clearly indicated she was faking it, and kept pointing at the dog. The neighbor told me
later she was asking for one of the pups.
“Pups? She don’t have no pups,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he said. “When she has pups. When she has pups, she wants one.”
Anyway, when I got home, here, I traced out that pattern she showed me one night out of boredom, and for crying out loud, we tried it, and she was right, it saves time. The planes are more stable, stronger, and easier to construct, cutting the production time by a third. We should have been doing it this way from the start, sixty aircraft ago.
Same way with the tail section. Suddenly, the solution to an inherent and historical design flaw was astonishing and excruciatingly apparent, just today during the construction of a Solari. “Hold it!” I told the crew. “Hold everything.”
Everybody put down their cutting torches and just stood there. Me too. I just stood there.
**You might ask, ‘Why’s he gotta have guns?’
Are you kidding? Everybody up there has got a gun. What are you gonna do, send him out there without a gun???
***That’s ‘one Solari, two Solaris’, a sleek version of the old LaRois (that’s one LaRoi, two LaRois). The Lao Poste is the ‘workhorse’ of the squadron; slower, heavier, and more cumbersome than the fighter aircraft, but reliable, so far.
Unfortunately, shortly after the photo of the lineup, one of the Solaris was damaged in a near mid-air...if there is such a thing…sure, you can ALMOST have a mid-air, but in this case, it wasn’t head-on, but rather, the wing tips touching ever so slightly in close formation during preparation for the show, just enough to cause one of the team of Solaris, flown by one of our young punk cadets, flying cover for the Lao Poste aircraft, to spin out of control and go crashing to the ground. Officially, we’re saying the accident is still under investigation, but we know already what happened.
Did the pilot survive the crash? Well, technically, yes and no. You know, of course, we’re prop-to-rudder legit, so, no, there aren’t any parachutes.
_____
So now, we’re just training the new punk cadets and working on getting the squadron back up to strength, which in our case means about fourteen, sixteen aircraft. That way, when you lose one or two during operations, you can bounce back next day without missing a beat.
Not the same as when there’s only a half dozen guys in the air. Guy calls in for air support, and the only thing you can tell him is you’re stretched to the limit, your guys are flying on four hour’s sleep, half your birds are shot up, and he’ll need to tell his troops to hunker down and order more body bags.
With a dozen or more aircraft on station and operational, you take a couple of hits, a couple of guys go down, you attend the funeral services, get drunk, tell a few 'remember when' jokes about the deceased, go silent for a while, coulda been you, and next day you’re back up flying missions, get back on the horse that bit you. You got a nation to defend. Baron’s still up there. You think the Baron is taking the day off?
.
July 2009
Heyyyy Bro,
Your aircraft is just about ready to roll out of the factory, and when I say ‘just about’, I mean, all we’re waiting for are the tires.
She’s ready to fly, man. Beautiful lines. The crew did a nice job on the paint job. Looks cool. Incorporated new design changes to a seamless fuselage construction at the suggestion of the Myanmar crew leader,* and major structural changes in the tail. I think you’ll like it.
Frankel brought his plane in for a thorough overhaul and rehab, after he laughingly said it had crashed. Everybody knows a plane doesn’t survive a crash…there might be a few usable parts, but most of it is scrap, much smaller than a breadbox, so you just can imagine the crew in the maintenance hangar shaking their heads when they saw the old first edition BV33 being dragged in.
Total rehab from head to toe, prop to rudder; new beefed up engine, new landing gear, new rubber, new wing struts, new cowling, rear landing gear, weapons platform, guns,** and new paint job.
I asked him, ‘Do you have any idea of what this is going to cost you?’ and he said to proceed forthright, the sky’s the limit, you know, so that’s what I told the team, and they did a helluva job. You wouldn’t recognize it. Sumbitch is fast.
Well, in the process of firing up the maintenance hangar for Frankel’s extensive rehab job, the crew got started on a couple new planes, primarily because of a recent spike in demand. You remember Alonzo, who shocked me last year by shrugging off an offer for a free, take your pick, plane?
Yeah. Stays with Bo and Misty. Jolted me bolt upright in the seat, causing me to exclaim loudly, “WHAT?”
He sees me this year, and first thing he asks is if I still have the planes.
“Yeah,” I told him. “I still got ‘em.”
And Dewayne, up in Porcupine, he wants one, too. This is after refusing an offer for a plane last year, saying, ‘Nah, I could do that.’
Funny. The two onliest guys who ever refused our aircraft turned around and ended up ordering one a year later.
After countless flight hours amassed over one year, we brought the two LaRois in for routine maintenance, tune up, lube job, wash and wax, armaments check, and new wing supports for one of them.
They looked cool in the squadron lineup with six of the newer Solaris and two Lao Poste ‘close air support’ models,*** sort of like the Pearl Harbor flight line before the attack. Except they’re biplanes, of course. I’ll send a photo.
So, after wrapping up Frankel’s rush job immediately after the sun dance, the crew began construction of a new model with new materials, sleeker and faster, with bigger engines and bigger guns. You’ll see them at the air show.
-end
*Li An Song Nu Kyi. Holding her position only because of her limited knowledge of English, spontaneously came up with the idea of seamless fuselage construction, after constructing several dozen aircraft.
“Maybe can sabe ti,’ she said, squatting, drawing a template in the dirt with her index finger.
“Ahhhh, yeah,” I told her dismissively, thinking that basically, Li An was ignorant of anything close to aeronautical design, having grown up with little schooling in a small village in the sticks where her father carved coral aquarium sea dragons for a living, and had only come to the aircraft factory for the job opportunity.
Also, I didn’t want to relent my superior social standing as Big Boss by acknowledging that she might actually may have something valuable to offer, so I told her to go ahead and have the crew do things the way we always have, since by doing so, admitting she had an idea, would have caused severe loss of face, for me, a terrible thing in Asia, and everyone, the whole crew, was right there, eating and watching. She showed me during their lunch break.
I didn’t have time for bird signs or drawings in the dirt. I needed to fake the appearance of a busy man, and wondered why it appeared the crew was watching us so intently and apparently taking bets.
When she hired on, I asked her where she learned her English already, and she just nodded and smiled with a vacant, unfocused, incomprehensible expression that clearly indicated she was faking it, and kept pointing at the dog. The neighbor told me
later she was asking for one of the pups.
“Pups? She don’t have no pups,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he said. “When she has pups. When she has pups, she wants one.”
Anyway, when I got home, here, I traced out that pattern she showed me one night out of boredom, and for crying out loud, we tried it, and she was right, it saves time. The planes are more stable, stronger, and easier to construct, cutting the production time by a third. We should have been doing it this way from the start, sixty aircraft ago.
Same way with the tail section. Suddenly, the solution to an inherent and historical design flaw was astonishing and excruciatingly apparent, just today during the construction of a Solari. “Hold it!” I told the crew. “Hold everything.”
Everybody put down their cutting torches and just stood there. Me too. I just stood there.
**You might ask, ‘Why’s he gotta have guns?’
Are you kidding? Everybody up there has got a gun. What are you gonna do, send him out there without a gun???
***That’s ‘one Solari, two Solaris’, a sleek version of the old LaRois (that’s one LaRoi, two LaRois). The Lao Poste is the ‘workhorse’ of the squadron; slower, heavier, and more cumbersome than the fighter aircraft, but reliable, so far.
Unfortunately, shortly after the photo of the lineup, one of the Solaris was damaged in a near mid-air...if there is such a thing…sure, you can ALMOST have a mid-air, but in this case, it wasn’t head-on, but rather, the wing tips touching ever so slightly in close formation during preparation for the show, just enough to cause one of the team of Solaris, flown by one of our young punk cadets, flying cover for the Lao Poste aircraft, to spin out of control and go crashing to the ground. Officially, we’re saying the accident is still under investigation, but we know already what happened.
Did the pilot survive the crash? Well, technically, yes and no. You know, of course, we’re prop-to-rudder legit, so, no, there aren’t any parachutes.
_____
So now, we’re just training the new punk cadets and working on getting the squadron back up to strength, which in our case means about fourteen, sixteen aircraft. That way, when you lose one or two during operations, you can bounce back next day without missing a beat.
Not the same as when there’s only a half dozen guys in the air. Guy calls in for air support, and the only thing you can tell him is you’re stretched to the limit, your guys are flying on four hour’s sleep, half your birds are shot up, and he’ll need to tell his troops to hunker down and order more body bags.
With a dozen or more aircraft on station and operational, you take a couple of hits, a couple of guys go down, you attend the funeral services, get drunk, tell a few 'remember when' jokes about the deceased, go silent for a while, coulda been you, and next day you’re back up flying missions, get back on the horse that bit you. You got a nation to defend. Baron’s still up there. You think the Baron is taking the day off?
.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Ants Come Marching
30.05.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand
Rainy season
Ants come marching
Read a book
Leave no crumbs
.
KHUK KHAK, Thailand
Rainy season
Ants come marching
Read a book
Leave no crumbs
.
Monday, May 25, 2009
More on Shoes
25.05.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Some of you responded to the shoes topic, so clearly, I'm not the only one who has thought about it.
I meant to ask, how many pairs do you have?
Do you have jogging shoes? Do you have 'everyday' shoes, tennis shoes, ski boots? Do you have 'nice' shoes to go with 'nice' clothes? Do you have shoes to go with this, and shoes to go with that?
What about work shoes? Play shoes. Do you have 'outside shoes' for the garden or barnyard, and 'inside shoes' for around the house, a house shoe? You got a shoe for mowing the yard?
Do you own a snow shoe or boots for winter? Do you own a shoe that goes over another shoe? Do you have more than one of...one pair...of any kind of shoe, like, two or three pairs of golf cleats?
You got a hiking boot?
Do you have dancing shoes, club shoes, or moccasins? You ever own a pair of those calf-high leather mocs? Anybody ever give you a pair of beaded moccasins? Do you have a shoe that you bought just before going on vacation, like one day before?
'Honey, I've got to get some new shoes.'
'Honey, the kids are gonna need new shoes.'
You wearing sandals? Flip-flops or velcro straps? Leather, plastic, or rubber?
You got ice skates? Hockey skates? Figure?
You got a shoe rack, or 'shoe place'?
You ever own an Earth Shoe? Crocs? What color'd you get?
When you think 'Shoes', you think, 'Imelda Marcos', right? You can see how thinking more than one or two or five or a dozen pairs might lead you down that road.
Did you ever wonder, 'Where we going to put all these shoes?' And when you're done with a shoe, what do you do? Throw 'em out, both of them? Get them re-soled? Give them to Goodwill? Put 'em out at a yard sale?
I know, I know, it's a lot of questions about shoes. I was just wondering. I could tell you how many pairs I have, but I'm not going to. You might think...I don't know what you might think.
It's probably funny. Tell me. Go count. Go see.
-end
.
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Some of you responded to the shoes topic, so clearly, I'm not the only one who has thought about it.
I meant to ask, how many pairs do you have?
Do you have jogging shoes? Do you have 'everyday' shoes, tennis shoes, ski boots? Do you have 'nice' shoes to go with 'nice' clothes? Do you have shoes to go with this, and shoes to go with that?
What about work shoes? Play shoes. Do you have 'outside shoes' for the garden or barnyard, and 'inside shoes' for around the house, a house shoe? You got a shoe for mowing the yard?
Do you own a snow shoe or boots for winter? Do you own a shoe that goes over another shoe? Do you have more than one of...one pair...of any kind of shoe, like, two or three pairs of golf cleats?
You got a hiking boot?
Do you have dancing shoes, club shoes, or moccasins? You ever own a pair of those calf-high leather mocs? Anybody ever give you a pair of beaded moccasins? Do you have a shoe that you bought just before going on vacation, like one day before?
'Honey, I've got to get some new shoes.'
'Honey, the kids are gonna need new shoes.'
You wearing sandals? Flip-flops or velcro straps? Leather, plastic, or rubber?
You got ice skates? Hockey skates? Figure?
You got a shoe rack, or 'shoe place'?
You ever own an Earth Shoe? Crocs? What color'd you get?
When you think 'Shoes', you think, 'Imelda Marcos', right? You can see how thinking more than one or two or five or a dozen pairs might lead you down that road.
Did you ever wonder, 'Where we going to put all these shoes?' And when you're done with a shoe, what do you do? Throw 'em out, both of them? Get them re-soled? Give them to Goodwill? Put 'em out at a yard sale?
I know, I know, it's a lot of questions about shoes. I was just wondering. I could tell you how many pairs I have, but I'm not going to. You might think...I don't know what you might think.
It's probably funny. Tell me. Go count. Go see.
-end
.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Couldn't Cry Till I Got Home
23.05.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Be Prepared. Motto of the Boy Scouts. For the first time in a long time, I was prepared, carrying my kit bag beneath my seat.
Just at 5 pm, rush hour for Saturday market in Bang Niang, an ocean of Thai and farang collecting fresh meat and vegetables, the highway a converging hornets' nest of motorbikes, trucks, and speeding vans heading north, the orange cones not slowing them down.
For some reason, I went south toward Khao Lak with my goods in the basket, instead of north to Khuk Khak. A mile down the road, a cluster of people were on the edge of the road.
"Uh oh. I hope this isn't what I think it is."
Three women on a bike, patients #6, 7, and 8, this year, looked to be a grandma, her daughter probably driving, and maybe a granddaughter, about fourteen. The daughter had struck the pavement with her head and a man was holding a towel on it. She was conscious, sitting up, bleeding from her face, and dialing a number on her cell phone. The bike was laying on her legs.
The grandma was sitting up a few feet away, scrapes on her legs, a deep laceration on her heel. The young girl was bruised and scraped on her hands, arms, and legs, sitting up, nervously aware of the growing crowd, afraid to cry, but it hurt anyway. She nodded when I asked her if she was ok.
We used the all baby wipes, gauze bandages and roller gauze on the head patient, and loaded her on the first ambulance, her long black hair matted with blood. Before they closed the door, I told her she was going to be ok.
But her face will never be the same. A deep laceration to her forehead down to the skull, about five inches long. Nasty. A couple inches higher would have peeled back her scalp, but cosmetically more appealing. Relative to her head injury, a concussion probably, her other cuts and scrapes were minimal.
The grandma was okay as long as she kept direct pressure on her wound and stopped looking at it. The young girl was already in the second ambulance when we loaded the old lady. Off they went.
Just one bike. "Probably a dog," said Damon, when I told him about it later.
I never asked what happened, nor hung around the 50-strong crowd there at the scene. Got my gear, shook hands with the two guys who were part of the on-the-scene onlooker instant medical staff, and went back to my bike. I said thanks. They did, too.
With the seat up on my bike, my wallet was exposed, right there. Won't say how much was in it, but it was bigger than a breadbasket, but smaller than a plane ticket. All those folks standing around, nobobdy bothered it.
I never cried for any of my patients in Vietnam. Couldn't. Wouldn't let me. Not until I got home. Not until much, much later, like thirty-five years. After the initial suppression of shock and dismay, the rush of immediate involuntary response treatment, composing the patient, sending them off where somebody else will do the REAL work, there's a gully-wash of adrenaline that a smoke or a drink might calm, and then when you grow quiet and settle down, there's even time for a whimper and a tear.
-end
.
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Be Prepared. Motto of the Boy Scouts. For the first time in a long time, I was prepared, carrying my kit bag beneath my seat.
Just at 5 pm, rush hour for Saturday market in Bang Niang, an ocean of Thai and farang collecting fresh meat and vegetables, the highway a converging hornets' nest of motorbikes, trucks, and speeding vans heading north, the orange cones not slowing them down.
For some reason, I went south toward Khao Lak with my goods in the basket, instead of north to Khuk Khak. A mile down the road, a cluster of people were on the edge of the road.
"Uh oh. I hope this isn't what I think it is."
Three women on a bike, patients #6, 7, and 8, this year, looked to be a grandma, her daughter probably driving, and maybe a granddaughter, about fourteen. The daughter had struck the pavement with her head and a man was holding a towel on it. She was conscious, sitting up, bleeding from her face, and dialing a number on her cell phone. The bike was laying on her legs.
The grandma was sitting up a few feet away, scrapes on her legs, a deep laceration on her heel. The young girl was bruised and scraped on her hands, arms, and legs, sitting up, nervously aware of the growing crowd, afraid to cry, but it hurt anyway. She nodded when I asked her if she was ok.
We used the all baby wipes, gauze bandages and roller gauze on the head patient, and loaded her on the first ambulance, her long black hair matted with blood. Before they closed the door, I told her she was going to be ok.
But her face will never be the same. A deep laceration to her forehead down to the skull, about five inches long. Nasty. A couple inches higher would have peeled back her scalp, but cosmetically more appealing. Relative to her head injury, a concussion probably, her other cuts and scrapes were minimal.
The grandma was okay as long as she kept direct pressure on her wound and stopped looking at it. The young girl was already in the second ambulance when we loaded the old lady. Off they went.
Just one bike. "Probably a dog," said Damon, when I told him about it later.
I never asked what happened, nor hung around the 50-strong crowd there at the scene. Got my gear, shook hands with the two guys who were part of the on-the-scene onlooker instant medical staff, and went back to my bike. I said thanks. They did, too.
With the seat up on my bike, my wallet was exposed, right there. Won't say how much was in it, but it was bigger than a breadbasket, but smaller than a plane ticket. All those folks standing around, nobobdy bothered it.
I never cried for any of my patients in Vietnam. Couldn't. Wouldn't let me. Not until I got home. Not until much, much later, like thirty-five years. After the initial suppression of shock and dismay, the rush of immediate involuntary response treatment, composing the patient, sending them off where somebody else will do the REAL work, there's a gully-wash of adrenaline that a smoke or a drink might calm, and then when you grow quiet and settle down, there's even time for a whimper and a tear.
-end
.
Heaven Through Your Garden
23.05.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Is refinement possible without comb, court, and attendants, Brahmin headdress, advanced practice, country club membership, or decade in a cave?
Would time and austerity justify accomplishment of the inevitable?
Couldn't we just read the book about the guy who did? Were there any angry gods? Can it found within the heart of an earthworm, the lotus blossum, the spectrum of your laughter?
Multiple lifetimes renouncing the world, fortunate birth, admission purchased with a Pilgrim's Prayer, hang from a cross, pull skulls, adorned with gold in a mummy's silence.
Address to the council, spiral through a black hole of doubt and pity, escape the claws of the raptor, king atop a mountain of bones, wake in a horrified sweat. Flames at your back, leap into the void.
Ionized, charging through the ectoplasm, psyche in the stratosphere, oblivious to destiny, the work in-progress, the well-trod path vaporizing in the heart of the woods, footprints swallowed in desert dune, high tide erasing existence, looking outward, looking in.
Those birds sing so merrily at dawn, the ferns so quietly collecting the dew.
-end
.
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Is refinement possible without comb, court, and attendants, Brahmin headdress, advanced practice, country club membership, or decade in a cave?
Would time and austerity justify accomplishment of the inevitable?
Couldn't we just read the book about the guy who did? Were there any angry gods? Can it found within the heart of an earthworm, the lotus blossum, the spectrum of your laughter?
Multiple lifetimes renouncing the world, fortunate birth, admission purchased with a Pilgrim's Prayer, hang from a cross, pull skulls, adorned with gold in a mummy's silence.
Address to the council, spiral through a black hole of doubt and pity, escape the claws of the raptor, king atop a mountain of bones, wake in a horrified sweat. Flames at your back, leap into the void.
Ionized, charging through the ectoplasm, psyche in the stratosphere, oblivious to destiny, the work in-progress, the well-trod path vaporizing in the heart of the woods, footprints swallowed in desert dune, high tide erasing existence, looking outward, looking in.
Those birds sing so merrily at dawn, the ferns so quietly collecting the dew.
-end
.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Man Discovers 47- Million Year Old 'Missing Link' Fossil in Basement
20.05.09
'We never noticed it until just the other day,' says.
.
'We never noticed it until just the other day,' says.
.
Thai Girls Put 'On Ice' For A Few Days
20.05.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Had to put those two Thai tailor girls on ice for a few days after that 2500TB (Thai Baht @ 35TB=1USD) dinner last week. I've got the receipt right here to prove it.
Yeah, one of 'em ordered six giant prawn, a whole platter full, and although I don't speak nor understand that much Thai, I could easily see their order was enough for five or six people, and I wondered at the time, 'Who's going to eat all this food?'
Well, Kip's boyfriend, is who.
After placing our order of another half dozen entrees, An took two calls, directing Mos in from Phuket to a place at our table. Now, for me, there are three or four things going on right there that run coarse against my grain.
One, I absolutely hate people taking a cell phone call in the middle of a conversation, especially at dinner, and especially at dinner in a restaurant, and really especially if I'm paying for it. Hate is a strong word. Detest.
Two, if I've invited someone to dinner, it would seem appropriate that I should be notified beforehand if my guest wishes to invite yet another party. Maybe check and see if it's okay? Maybe that's being unreasonable. Seems to me like on a 'need-to-know' basis, I'd need to know.
Three, I don't like the style. It seemed really underhanded, sly, and presumptuous.
Four, I don't like being played for a chump.
I made my sentiments known after the waitress brought out a fourth table setting, and our table grew quiet and glum. Then all the food arrived. And then Mos arrived, and we had a nice, enjoyable, relaxed meal. And then the check arrived.
During the meal, I made a conscious effort to avoid thinking of the above cited issues of contention, and went along amiably with wherever they took the conversation. We were supposed to be having English class over dinner.
The deal is, I provide private English lessons, and An and Kip drive me to dinner. A two-hour class. I buy dinner.
You might be thinking, 'That's pretty messed up, Bro. You're not getting paid.' And from a logical standpoint, you'd be correct. But I look at it like, 'I get the pleasure of the company of two beautiful Thai girls for dinner once a week.'
Fair enough? Ain't no logic involved.
Ok. But there are some inherent problems, some of which you may have already begun to suspect.
One BIG problem is the assumption that all farang are rich. BIG perceptual problem. They figure if you can visit their country, then you mut hab big mon-eee.
So they test the water to see how big your money is, and how easily they can stretch your neck. It's a country of players. They're all players. Predator/Players. It's a second-world country clashing with the first-world west, a top-five-in-the-world tourist destination, behind Amsterdam, Barcelona, Paris and Rome, providing for European consumers.
Of course they think we have money. They see us come here and spend it. 'What you wan? How mush you need?'
They don't know I live in a trailer in the most poverty-stricken county in my own country. They have no idea of what rez life is like. But for that matter, neither do most Americans.
They don't know we live hoof-to-mouth, and under water, looking for some kinda lifeboat, some kind of bailout. The Thai don't know JACK about America, but they've heard of New York and Los Angeles.
They can't say, 'Colorado'.
Impossible.
But they can say 'Sou Dah-Ko-TAH', with the inevitable emphasis on the last syllable.
I'm not making fun of them; it's just that the French taught them how to speak English. You have to go to Singapore, or next door to Myanmar to hear English spoken as we would say, 'correctly'.
Have I lost the thread of this story, yet?
Let me scroll back up here for a minute and see where this is going.
Ok. They think we're all rich. They're wrong. But they don't know they're wrong until they find out FOR CHUAH. For sure.
Big money would have you on a yacht out on the Andaman Sea. They can see how I live. Big money would have my house on the beach. Big money wouldn't have sarongs for curtains.
Another not altogether incorrect assumption is that old fart Western men are suckers for young beautiful Thai women. I say young, because to me, they are, although An is 42. I'm not interested in anything but dinner company and the opportunity to teach, so they were also wrong on the chump assumption, the chump's motives. Can a person just be a friend?
'No, I don't want to be your business partner. No, I don't want to take you shopping in Phuket. No, I don't want to buy you a new laptop so you can talk to me when I return to Ah-mel-ika.'
So, those girls were testing me, and the test said, "We've pissed him off."
(They surely got the message when they mulled over the extraordinary dinner bill* after I excused myself to go a few doors down to an ATM. It was a quiet drive home).
Ok, cool. Let 'em chill for a few days. Teacher don't show for class. We no hab dinner.
But eventually, I had to come off that attitude and drop by their shop, for two reasons; one, I had to let them know I was chilled, too; and two, I had to do some follow-up on the suit I said I'd take, or tick-tock, tick-tock,** think about it.
Already told you about the problem with the suit and the shoes and everything...and as Bryan pointed out, it's not just the shoes..."Don't get started with that stuff -- leads to the need for ties, shirts, shoes, belts, handkerchieves, topcoats, gloves, etc. etc. It's a slippery slope. Just say no."
Well, I said no to the suit and shirt and pants, and settled on just a jacket, something that will sort of make me look like I could maybe be from France, with the right kind of slacks and shoes, and scarf and shoulderbag. Along with the right kind of stride.
Nah, it's not the France look that I want. You guys know what I'm saying. You wives and girlfirends, too. You know how your man feels and looks when he goes out and buys a new sport coat or suit.
Check yourself out in the mirror.......um hmmmmm. Till you look down at your feet.
'Gonna have to get some new shoes to go with this.'
-end
*When eating with normal people, you could expect to pay about 150-250 baht per head.
**this expression, 'Tick tock, tick tock,' in English, accompanied by the gesture of holding your hand up to your ear like you're holding something about the size of a baseball, and making a rotating, back-and-forth motion, is universally applicable across Thailand, especially with the merchantile class, meaning, 'I'll think about it.'
.
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Had to put those two Thai tailor girls on ice for a few days after that 2500TB (Thai Baht @ 35TB=1USD) dinner last week. I've got the receipt right here to prove it.
Yeah, one of 'em ordered six giant prawn, a whole platter full, and although I don't speak nor understand that much Thai, I could easily see their order was enough for five or six people, and I wondered at the time, 'Who's going to eat all this food?'
Well, Kip's boyfriend, is who.
After placing our order of another half dozen entrees, An took two calls, directing Mos in from Phuket to a place at our table. Now, for me, there are three or four things going on right there that run coarse against my grain.
One, I absolutely hate people taking a cell phone call in the middle of a conversation, especially at dinner, and especially at dinner in a restaurant, and really especially if I'm paying for it. Hate is a strong word. Detest.
Two, if I've invited someone to dinner, it would seem appropriate that I should be notified beforehand if my guest wishes to invite yet another party. Maybe check and see if it's okay? Maybe that's being unreasonable. Seems to me like on a 'need-to-know' basis, I'd need to know.
Three, I don't like the style. It seemed really underhanded, sly, and presumptuous.
Four, I don't like being played for a chump.
I made my sentiments known after the waitress brought out a fourth table setting, and our table grew quiet and glum. Then all the food arrived. And then Mos arrived, and we had a nice, enjoyable, relaxed meal. And then the check arrived.
During the meal, I made a conscious effort to avoid thinking of the above cited issues of contention, and went along amiably with wherever they took the conversation. We were supposed to be having English class over dinner.
The deal is, I provide private English lessons, and An and Kip drive me to dinner. A two-hour class. I buy dinner.
You might be thinking, 'That's pretty messed up, Bro. You're not getting paid.' And from a logical standpoint, you'd be correct. But I look at it like, 'I get the pleasure of the company of two beautiful Thai girls for dinner once a week.'
Fair enough? Ain't no logic involved.
Ok. But there are some inherent problems, some of which you may have already begun to suspect.
One BIG problem is the assumption that all farang are rich. BIG perceptual problem. They figure if you can visit their country, then you mut hab big mon-eee.
So they test the water to see how big your money is, and how easily they can stretch your neck. It's a country of players. They're all players. Predator/Players. It's a second-world country clashing with the first-world west, a top-five-in-the-world tourist destination, behind Amsterdam, Barcelona, Paris and Rome, providing for European consumers.
Of course they think we have money. They see us come here and spend it. 'What you wan? How mush you need?'
They don't know I live in a trailer in the most poverty-stricken county in my own country. They have no idea of what rez life is like. But for that matter, neither do most Americans.
They don't know we live hoof-to-mouth, and under water, looking for some kinda lifeboat, some kind of bailout. The Thai don't know JACK about America, but they've heard of New York and Los Angeles.
They can't say, 'Colorado'.
Impossible.
But they can say 'Sou Dah-Ko-TAH', with the inevitable emphasis on the last syllable.
I'm not making fun of them; it's just that the French taught them how to speak English. You have to go to Singapore, or next door to Myanmar to hear English spoken as we would say, 'correctly'.
Have I lost the thread of this story, yet?
Let me scroll back up here for a minute and see where this is going.
Ok. They think we're all rich. They're wrong. But they don't know they're wrong until they find out FOR CHUAH. For sure.
Big money would have you on a yacht out on the Andaman Sea. They can see how I live. Big money would have my house on the beach. Big money wouldn't have sarongs for curtains.
Another not altogether incorrect assumption is that old fart Western men are suckers for young beautiful Thai women. I say young, because to me, they are, although An is 42. I'm not interested in anything but dinner company and the opportunity to teach, so they were also wrong on the chump assumption, the chump's motives. Can a person just be a friend?
'No, I don't want to be your business partner. No, I don't want to take you shopping in Phuket. No, I don't want to buy you a new laptop so you can talk to me when I return to Ah-mel-ika.'
So, those girls were testing me, and the test said, "We've pissed him off."
(They surely got the message when they mulled over the extraordinary dinner bill* after I excused myself to go a few doors down to an ATM. It was a quiet drive home).
Ok, cool. Let 'em chill for a few days. Teacher don't show for class. We no hab dinner.
But eventually, I had to come off that attitude and drop by their shop, for two reasons; one, I had to let them know I was chilled, too; and two, I had to do some follow-up on the suit I said I'd take, or tick-tock, tick-tock,** think about it.
Already told you about the problem with the suit and the shoes and everything...and as Bryan pointed out, it's not just the shoes..."Don't get started with that stuff -- leads to the need for ties, shirts, shoes, belts, handkerchieves, topcoats, gloves, etc. etc. It's a slippery slope. Just say no."
Well, I said no to the suit and shirt and pants, and settled on just a jacket, something that will sort of make me look like I could maybe be from France, with the right kind of slacks and shoes, and scarf and shoulderbag. Along with the right kind of stride.
Nah, it's not the France look that I want. You guys know what I'm saying. You wives and girlfirends, too. You know how your man feels and looks when he goes out and buys a new sport coat or suit.
Check yourself out in the mirror.......um hmmmmm. Till you look down at your feet.
'Gonna have to get some new shoes to go with this.'
-end
*When eating with normal people, you could expect to pay about 150-250 baht per head.
**this expression, 'Tick tock, tick tock,' in English, accompanied by the gesture of holding your hand up to your ear like you're holding something about the size of a baseball, and making a rotating, back-and-forth motion, is universally applicable across Thailand, especially with the merchantile class, meaning, 'I'll think about it.'
.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
What Your Shoe Say
19.05.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - It is low season here, the shops closed, or open with no customers, the beaches isolated, the restaurants empty. Rain is coming in every afternoon from the Andaman. Everywhere, you can get a good low-season price.
I rode my motorbike right down on the beach, zig-zagging with the waves, and parked it just above high tide mark, putting a sandal under the kickstand to prevent its sinking into the sand.
Did you know a Honda motor will run underwater? I found out today, crossing the river inlet, outlet, at low tide, misjudging the waves, going under, sinking in the sand, un-assing the motorbike and pushing it across, throttle wide open.
"Yeah. You just have to keep the throttle wide open," said Damon, the biker, when I told him.
The tailor lady offered me a suit jacket, pants, and tailored shirt for 2,000 Thai Baht, about seventy dollars. I could go for a deal like that, except I haven't worn a suit in, uh, since I stopped wearing a watch. That was in '91, a court appearance, witness protection. What's that? Eighteen years.
I could wear a suit to the airport for purposes of looking the part of the distinguished elderly gentleman or Japanese businessman, but comfort is the prevailing concern for a 22 hr. flight and 34 total hrs. travel door-to-door, and that just gets you to Denver. Still ain't home yet, so screw the suit.
And besides, if you buy a suit, you must have the proper footwear to accompany it, to be properly attired. And that would require deliberation of a whole nuther universe of options and possibilities about your choice, and what it might say about you.
The choice seems largely dependent on geography and what you're doing, and who you're trying to impress. If you're not trying to impress anybody, that narrows the choice considerably. What are you doing, attending a ball, a formal reception, a funeral, a parking lot? You working a ranch, your garden, ICU, your second serve, the streets?
'Honey, you gonna need a stilletto heel for that job.'
For every job, there is a uniform, and for every uniform, there's a shoe to go with it. Comfort is not a factor. Even when you say there is no uniform, there is a uniform. Take a look around. What is everybody wearing? Is there a concern?
Do these shoes match?
Each other? You mean your outfit? Your personality? Your idea of who you want to be? The ad in GQ? It's a loaded question.
Everybody is wearing them. It's the style.
Ok, Bozo. Get the purple ones.
Haven't worn a workboot in five, six, seven years.
You know they say Jesus bathed his feet two, three times a day? And he was wearing sandals.
Your feet, closed up, dark and damp, are a breeding ground for bacteria, is why, because of gravity pulling all your body's toxins down there, and the sweat glands in your feet. Don't believe me, smell your socks. That's why some people's socks can knock you over, why they sell odor-eaters and odor-absorbent socks, and why in a sweat lodge, you appreciate personal hygenic care of the participants.
Over here, they leave the shoes at the door, consider the feet the dirtiest part of the body, and culturally observe not pointing your feet at others, and especially the Buddha.
Maybe you already knew all that, about Buddha and stinkfoot. What you most certainly do NOT know, is that that black dog got one of my sandals and chewed it almost up.
What that means is yet another trip to the shoe guy at the end of Khao San road in Bangkok for his custom leather sandals. Everybody else, it seems, sells cheap-ass rubber Chinese flip-flops. There are decent sandal shops around, but they don't have your size.
So, for the first time in years, I've the need to contemplate the purchase of shoes, since I'll be headed for Indian Country, and they'll expect me to do some work this year. NOT computer work. REAL work. Outside work. You'll need something besides those sandals.
When you're wearing sandals, people don't take you as seriously as they do when you're wearing a certified workboot, or say, wingtips. You always look like you're on vacation.
In the Nebraska panhandle, people look down at your feet and say, "Hi, Stranger. You're not from around here, are you?"
On the rez, when the guys are ready to put up a 30-foot tipi, they look at my feet and give me a look that says, 'You aren't going to be any help. Better stand back. You might get hurt.'
Well, I have grown an affinity for wearing sandals year round. Your feet spread out and don't like being closed up in a certified shoe. When it gets too cold in S. Dakota to wear sandals, it's time for me to leave. It's not the people or the climate. It's about my toes.
Cold toes, runny nose, summer over, time to close.
Can't get the suit. Don't have the right shoes. Can't help set up camp. Haven't got the right shoe. Sorry, can't help you guys. Haven't got the right shoe.
-end
.
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - It is low season here, the shops closed, or open with no customers, the beaches isolated, the restaurants empty. Rain is coming in every afternoon from the Andaman. Everywhere, you can get a good low-season price.
I rode my motorbike right down on the beach, zig-zagging with the waves, and parked it just above high tide mark, putting a sandal under the kickstand to prevent its sinking into the sand.
Did you know a Honda motor will run underwater? I found out today, crossing the river inlet, outlet, at low tide, misjudging the waves, going under, sinking in the sand, un-assing the motorbike and pushing it across, throttle wide open.
"Yeah. You just have to keep the throttle wide open," said Damon, the biker, when I told him.
The tailor lady offered me a suit jacket, pants, and tailored shirt for 2,000 Thai Baht, about seventy dollars. I could go for a deal like that, except I haven't worn a suit in, uh, since I stopped wearing a watch. That was in '91, a court appearance, witness protection. What's that? Eighteen years.
I could wear a suit to the airport for purposes of looking the part of the distinguished elderly gentleman or Japanese businessman, but comfort is the prevailing concern for a 22 hr. flight and 34 total hrs. travel door-to-door, and that just gets you to Denver. Still ain't home yet, so screw the suit.
And besides, if you buy a suit, you must have the proper footwear to accompany it, to be properly attired. And that would require deliberation of a whole nuther universe of options and possibilities about your choice, and what it might say about you.
The choice seems largely dependent on geography and what you're doing, and who you're trying to impress. If you're not trying to impress anybody, that narrows the choice considerably. What are you doing, attending a ball, a formal reception, a funeral, a parking lot? You working a ranch, your garden, ICU, your second serve, the streets?
'Honey, you gonna need a stilletto heel for that job.'
For every job, there is a uniform, and for every uniform, there's a shoe to go with it. Comfort is not a factor. Even when you say there is no uniform, there is a uniform. Take a look around. What is everybody wearing? Is there a concern?
Do these shoes match?
Each other? You mean your outfit? Your personality? Your idea of who you want to be? The ad in GQ? It's a loaded question.
Everybody is wearing them. It's the style.
Ok, Bozo. Get the purple ones.
Haven't worn a workboot in five, six, seven years.
You know they say Jesus bathed his feet two, three times a day? And he was wearing sandals.
Your feet, closed up, dark and damp, are a breeding ground for bacteria, is why, because of gravity pulling all your body's toxins down there, and the sweat glands in your feet. Don't believe me, smell your socks. That's why some people's socks can knock you over, why they sell odor-eaters and odor-absorbent socks, and why in a sweat lodge, you appreciate personal hygenic care of the participants.
Over here, they leave the shoes at the door, consider the feet the dirtiest part of the body, and culturally observe not pointing your feet at others, and especially the Buddha.
Maybe you already knew all that, about Buddha and stinkfoot. What you most certainly do NOT know, is that that black dog got one of my sandals and chewed it almost up.
What that means is yet another trip to the shoe guy at the end of Khao San road in Bangkok for his custom leather sandals. Everybody else, it seems, sells cheap-ass rubber Chinese flip-flops. There are decent sandal shops around, but they don't have your size.
So, for the first time in years, I've the need to contemplate the purchase of shoes, since I'll be headed for Indian Country, and they'll expect me to do some work this year. NOT computer work. REAL work. Outside work. You'll need something besides those sandals.
When you're wearing sandals, people don't take you as seriously as they do when you're wearing a certified workboot, or say, wingtips. You always look like you're on vacation.
In the Nebraska panhandle, people look down at your feet and say, "Hi, Stranger. You're not from around here, are you?"
On the rez, when the guys are ready to put up a 30-foot tipi, they look at my feet and give me a look that says, 'You aren't going to be any help. Better stand back. You might get hurt.'
Well, I have grown an affinity for wearing sandals year round. Your feet spread out and don't like being closed up in a certified shoe. When it gets too cold in S. Dakota to wear sandals, it's time for me to leave. It's not the people or the climate. It's about my toes.
Cold toes, runny nose, summer over, time to close.
Can't get the suit. Don't have the right shoes. Can't help set up camp. Haven't got the right shoe. Sorry, can't help you guys. Haven't got the right shoe.
-end
.
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