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We're still not yet sure if this thing is a good idea or not.

NOTE: THINKING OUT LOUD IS GOING TO BE UP DATED SPORADICALLY THIS SUMMER AS I'M ON THE ROAD A LOT. IT'LL HAPPEN ABOUT EVERY TEN DAYS THROUGH AUGUST

11 August 08 - Talk to me, dammit!

Doesn’t it drive you nuts that inanimate objects can’t talk and tell you their stories? One of the items I brought back from the Davisson Crap Collection and Goody Bin in Nebraska last month is what appears to be a civil war belt buckle (it’s actually a McKeever box emblem) with a rebel Minie ball stuck half way through it.  Gheez I wish it could tell me where and when this happened and how the young soldier carrying it faired after being hit.

This was located on his hip on his ammunition pouch.

Inasmuch as Minie balls (actually a hollow base, conical bullet, not a ball, Blue and Gray both used them) generally arrived in a cloud of lead, rather than as single shots, did this young blue coat soak up other bullets and die on an unnamed battlefield? Or did he live on and sire a whole line of descendants that settled the West?  Maybe he was related to me. I look at that hunk of brass and lead and can’t help but think, “Talk to me dammit! Talk to me.”
 

Every tree on every Civil War battlefield was filled with lead and shrapnel

Ditto for the piece of branch with a large caliber lead ball stuck in it. At least this has a faded, and obviously ancient, tag on it that reads, “Rebel bullet in shell bark hickory wood, taken from Missionary Ridge. Presented to me by Capt. Cooper.” Missionary Ridge played a major role in the battle for Chattanooga, so at least I know where this piece came from.

It's hard to see, but this old Single Action Army has an even coat of rust over it's entire frame and it's a four-digit pistol. Very old, as single actions go and nothing of its history is known.

But then there is the rusty 7 1⁄2” barrel single action Colt I’ve had forever. It is a four-digit serial number, which puts it in 1874, the first full year of production. Before it was left to rust evenly all over, it was in pretty fair mechanical condition. What had it done in its life and how did it come to be so neglected for so long?
 
I have another single action that was made in 1902. When it was less than two years old someone crudely stamped “May 17,1903” in the frame and there are three equally crude notches in one grip. What does any of this mean? Was it part of something momentous, like the Pinkerton Meat Packing riots in Omaha that same year? Or was it just some kid messing with an old gun?

Great for catching mice. This thing is just under four feet long. Everyone needs at least one. I have two!

And then there’s the oft-mentioned four-foot bear trap we brought back from Alaska half a century ago. You just know it has an interesting history (don’t all bear traps?). But, will we know any of it. Of course, not.

I've worn this same belt buckle every day for 37 years, but others wore it before and I wish I knew who they were.

And last, but not least, is the 1874 cavalry buckle I’ve worn every single day of my life since1971 when I bought it in Oklahoma City for twenty bucks. The original leather belt that came with it has extra holes in it showing it was probably worn by a child while playing. But where did it spend its service years, most of which were dead in the middle of the Indian Wars out west? Did some trooper give his life only to have his belt taken by a victorious Sioux warrior? Or did he simply take it with him after he retired and give it to one of his kids, who gave it to a friend who gave it to another friend who….. I am the latest in its cast of characters, but who came before me?
 
As I’m typing this I’m literally surrounded by dozens, hundreds of items, all of which want to tell me their story, but they can’t. They are forever lost to the silence of time. It drives me nuts. But, I keep listening hoping that one day a faint whisper will reach across the void and connect me with someone who also enjoyed a given artifact. But, I’m not holding my breath waiting for it to happen.
 
PS
I work hard to establish provenance on items, when I can. For instance, I have a signed affidavit from the old gentleman who, as a member of a US patrol in Germany during WWII, got in a fire fight with a Werhmacht patrol. After the fight, he took a P-38 pistol off a dead sergeant he had just shot and I have that pistol. So know its complete life story. A rarity. And a prized possession.
 

5 August 08 - Row 147 at Oshkosh Will Never Be the Same
 
I’m on my way home from the fly-in at Oshkosh, which, for those of you reading this in lower Slobania or the outback of Tanzania who don’t know, is the largest annual outdoor event in the world. It’s airplanes, good friends and a seemingly endless supply of porta-potties. Unfortunately, as I was driving around the far south parking area, there were none close enough to solve a pressing urinary issue. So, I solved it as only a farm kid would and right there, in front of God and everybody, I pee’d on row 147. A personal first.
 
Relax, it’s not as bad as it sounds: this was the day after the show shut down and row 147 was an easy half mile away from civilization so, I offended no one.
 
The same could not be said of my performance at the welding forum. I stood up there for an hour and a half excitedly pontificating about the glories of welding and how zen-like the skill could be. As I finished up, the large crowd applauded, I stepped down off the stage with a triumphal feeling within and someone came up to me and whispered in my ear, “Your pants are unzipped.”  Ah, Man! How stupid can one person be?
 
And then there is the most classic line from the entire fly-in. I had just stepped into a porta-pottie when I heard a loud voice from the one next door. It was a woman scolding her young child. “No, don’t look down in the potty! Don’t look down!”
 
Listen to your mom, kid. It’s good advice. And it put me in mind of the time I saw a guy coming out of a porta-potty holding his wallet by a corner as he shook it off. My mind refused to let the image of the wallet-recovery process play itself on my mental screen. Yeeeeech!

The possible high point of the fly-in, however, was discovering free WiFi at Arbys. It became such an after-fly-in evening ritual for me, that, if anyone was looking for me, they drove over to Arbys. How many office locations have Diet Dr. Pepper on tap, fries and apple turnovers?
 
Still, being on the road is getting really old. In July I spent 22 days on the road, and flew 23 hours of Pitts dual in six days during the short time I was home. I’m pooped! In a good sort of way, of course.
 
PS
Now you see why I write this blog: what legitimate magazine is going to let me write this kind of drivel? :-)
 
PPS
The aerial high points of Oshkosh included a B-52 making a 200 foot, pedal-to-the-metal pass, the majestic Boeing 40A, the similarly configured Zenith and a WACO ZPF (single-place WACO with a sliding canopy) that I’d love to own. I’m certain that when ("if"actually) my brain finally shows up from Oshkosh and I’m no longer in my current zombie-mode, I’ll have other, less biologically-oriented observations to offer.

26 July 08 - Computers, Airlines, Elbows and Outlets
 
As with most folks these days, a disproportionate amount of my time is spent poking my nose into dark corners of airline terminals looking for a place to plug my computer in. When I’m not doing that, I’m trying to find a place for my elbows onboard airliners, while I’m using my computer. The competition in both areas is exhausting me.
 
I’m writing this blog in—you guessed it—tourist class, which is where a lot of these words get their start and yes, I’m engaged in an elbow-fencing match with the gal on my right and the guy on my left. I think I’ve finessed the girl and she realizes that I’m not going to yield easily, so she’s collapsed against the window and taken her elbows with her. The guy, on the other hand, has his computer out too, and right now he’s winning.
 
Oh, wait….he just glanced over at what I’m writing and sucked his right elbow in just enough to give me maneuvering room. Did I win? Did he see I was writing about him and he wanted to affect his image, as I portray him. Or is he just a good guy? Ah, elbow breathing space!
 
The terminal free-for-all in finding an outlet wasn’t as easy. The field seemed to be evenly split between kids in crooked baseball hats playing games and surfing the net and hardcore business types, their eyes sagging and their jaws set. I had passed several of them, their eyes, like mine, flicking back in search of computing power: were the outlets behind the next pole? Nope! How about behind that row of seats against the wall? Yeah, there’s one….damn…that little old lady with the iBook was fast! I’d never actually seen someone that old snarl. She’s definitely not going to share.
 
As if the elbow/power competition isn’t bad enough, this trip started throwing off bad vibes right from the get-go. I returned from Nebraska barely 30 hours ago thinking I had two days at home. Thankfully, a friend called saying he’d meet me in Seattle the next day and I thought “what the hell, it’s not tomorrow? Is it?” It was! I nearly missed my trip!
 
Then, I found I’d booked yet another 0700 flight. When am I going to learn? I’m a fruitcake about showing up early, so that meant an 0500 launch from the house (we’re only 15 minutes from the airport), which in turn meant an 0415 wake-up, which invariably means I wake up periodically all night afraid I’ve missed my alarms. My feet hit the floor at 0317. Yawn!
 
Of course, my wait for the flight was forever long, but it was made much shorter by finding that a good friend, Curtis Clark, one of the local aviation addicts, was going to be driving me and the 737-400 to Seattle. We pass a pleasant half hour talking about airplanes, tanks and hangars, then we board and, as I’m sitting down in my seat, I discover yet another Budd-screwup: my computer bag felt light. Oh, oh! I check and, sure enough, I’ve left it at Security. In my blurry state of mind I somehow managed to leave it in TSA hell. Dammit! I’m going to spend the trip without a computer. I’m positive I can’t endure the damage that would cause to my psyche. A week without a computer? My God, the world would come to an end.
 
I start doing my salmon-up-stream thing through boarding passengers and Curtis spots my head bobbing up and down going the wrong way. Bless his heart, he volunteers to go retrieve my computer, which, I imagine, by that time the TSA bomb-squad had out on the ramp ready to blow up. However, when he delivered it, its lights were glowing, so they must have turned it on, read a couple of my articles and declared the computer to be obviously useless, but not threatening, so they spared its life.
 
At this point, I’m whizzing along five miles above the Earth and life is good. From this point on, it’ll be a great trip, if I can remember to look for outlets as I leave the boarding area in Seattle so I’m ahead of the competition on my return, remember to pick-up my computer at Security and remember to zip my pants, when I dress.
 
PS
While I was typing this, a new kind of airline space competition popped up: the guy behind me just asked if I could put my seat back up because he’s six foot five. I wonder if I can get the old lady in front of me to put her seat up to give me computer-room by explaining that the guy behind me is so tall? Yeah, fat chance.

20 July 08 - Postcards and Such
 
As I was paying my bill at a restaurant in a tourist location, I happened to notice the ever-present rack of postcards and the thought went through my mind: with cell phone cameras, e-mails, etc., does anyone still send post cards? Ditto pay phones. When was the last time you used a pay phone? Technology may be creating lots of new jobs and industries, but it’s also killing others.
 
One of the items we bought back from our trip to Nebraska last month was one of those old fashion crank wall phones. For those who haven’t seen them in action, you turned a crank, that woke up the operator (often Gerty or Betty Lou), you told her what number you wanted and she connected you (or you just ask for old Sam, or the beauty parlor. She knew the numbers). They were crude in the extreme, but not as old as you’d think: The phone we shipped back was one of the hundreds my dad bought from the phone company when they were retired in my old home county: they were still in service in the country when I was in high school in the late 1950’s. Hard to imagine the changes since that time.
 
My dad was always talking about the immense changes he’d seen (Model T’s were new when he was in school, Tri-Five Chevys were new, when I was in school) and I’m now realizing that reminiscing like that is just part of any generation. It helps make us aware of progress and I shouldn’t feel like I’m edging into old-cootdom, when I talk the same way.
 
When it comes to digital stuff, it’s hard to imagine what folks like me have seen. As an engineering student, I was in only the second or third class to have the concept of the computer introduced to us. That would have been about 1963. At the time, my school, the Oklahoma University, had what was reputed to be one of the largest computers in the country. It was called Osage II (if I remember correctly), filled an entire building with air conditioners covering the roof, and was something like 50K. Not Mb, but “k”. We’d spend hours in the all-night computer lab punching Number Nine cards and then feed stacks of the cards, sometimes ten feet tall, through the reader to get the data in. Then we’d wait hours for it to crunch the numbers. What’s important in this is that this is the kind of technology that took us to the moon and back. Every single one of us carried a slide rule on our belt, as that was still the mainstay numbers machine.
 
As I’m writing this, I’m watching a kid play some sort of electronic game in a seat ahead of me and his toy has far more computing power and contains more lines of code than NASA possessed in its entirety, when we went into space. The changes are mind numbing.
 
When I look around, I’d have to say that even though some trades are disappearing, there is more opportunity for a young person today than at any time in the past because every day a new field is created by advancing technology. However, one basic truth still applies: if you are really serious about making money, forget high tech and the professions and become a plumber in a big city. If you don’t believe that, ask any BMW dealer how many of their cars go to plumbers. No don’t! It’ll depress you. Unless, of course, you're a plumber, which case, I'm jealous.
 
 
14 July 08 - Beartraps, TSA and Skycaps

An image popped into my mind as I was packing my four-foot bear trap into a package I planned to take as onboard baggage: A grumpy-looking TSA X-ray operator jumps with surprise and screams at the top of her lungs “BAG CHECK!”  A gruff dude with humorless eyes stares me down and asks, “What’s in the box, sir?” I answer, “A bear trap.” The rest of my imaginary conversation has me wearing handcuffs while I explain.
 
Although I think it rather whimsical to be carrying a full-sized bear trap that folded neatly into a two-foot square box as onboard baggage I was fairly certain the TSA wouldn’t see the humor in it. The “Terrorist With a Bear Trap” scenario is probably so common, they have a section in their training manuals on how to handle it. I finally decided that I really didn’t want to go through a body cavity search and dropped it off at UPS.
 
Why didn’t I just check it? Because this was just after US Airways, along with a bunch of other carriers, decided to whack us $15 for the first bag checked and $50 for the second and we’d already checked one each. My first thought, when they announced their plans to charge us for the first bag was that, considering the pressure the airlines are under from the price of fuel, it was a logical move. Then I thought about the effect it was going to have on Skycaps and curbside check-in: it’s going to be disastrous.
 
I absolutely depend on curbside check-in to avoid the unreal mess that surrounds most airline check-in counters at big airports. I remember one specific situation in Orlando, where, due to cancelled flights and tour groups, the line went completely out of sight.  I’d still be standing there, if I hadn’t had the sense to step outside on the sidewalk and check-in at curbside. Curbside check-in lightens the load on agents and streamlines the process. But that was then, this is now. Today it’s all lumped together and a bad situation has gotten worse. And more expensive.
 
All travelers are bitching about it, but most have missed one real tragedy attached to it: think about the effect on curbside Skycaps. That entire segment of the travel community has essentially been put out of a job. Nationwide, there is simply no use for them because there’s no provision for charging for the bags at their stations, so we all have to go inside to the check-in counters.
 
This all went into effect in the last few days, so the dust hasn’t settled yet, but I hope they figure out a way to do their bag charging at curbside. It’ll make my life a lot easier, but more important, it won’t put thousands of Skycaps out of a job.
 
In the meantime, right now a UPS truck somewhere is carrying my bear trap to its new home. I wonder how the driver would feel if he knew he was carrying such a high profile terrorist weapon. 

6 July 08 - Reborn on the Fourth of July

28 Jun 08—Stephen Stills and me (and Nash and that other guy)

Geezer Rock? No Damn Way!
As a charter member of the Buffalo Springfield fan club (not really, but close), last night I fulfilled a forty-plus year dream and sang For What it’s Worth with Stephen Stills. The fact that 5,500 others decided to join in didn’t diminish the  duet moment one damn bit. It was still magic for me and I didn’t care about the others.

When I bought tickets for us to see Crosby, Stills and Nash it was with more than a little trepidation: the group, which for most of us in the day it was a fluid follow-on to Buffalo Springfield (named after a steam roller company, by the way), redefined musicianship and through their harmony and musical choices, had set a helluva standard. Their harmonies were so tight and complex, even at their peak, if they were having a slightly off night, the music suffered horribly. They took a risk every time they opened their mouths at missing some of the split intervals their music depended on.

As I plunked down more than I thought I would ever pay for a concert ticket, I knew I too was taking a risk: these guys are all collecting social security and have been together for forty years. How good can they possibly still be? Was I going back and looking for my high school prom queen only to be crushed by the toll time has taken? I had only to look in the mirror on the way out the door to the concert to know none of us has improved with age.

The Dodge Theater in Phoenix, is a great venue. Good acoustics and huge jumbotron TV screens on both sides of the stage. Plus, we had good seats. When they came on stage, I immediately wished they didn’t have the jumbotrons because you saw too much of the performers. You could, for instance, clearly see the damage David Crosby’s self-destructive past has carved into his face and body. Balding, with his signature mustache and flowing white hair, his 67 years have been hard ones and and each had left their mark. Graham Nash, looked good for 65 and Stephen Stills, the kid of the group at 63, also had held up well, considering his background. Still, you were looking at guys like me standing on stage and we’d paid more than I’d paid for my first three cars combined to see them. My heroes were becoming wizen caricatures of their former selves. What did I expect?

A little beat-up looking, yes, but as the evening rolled on, your eyes adjusted and you saw past the appearance to the music and he seemed to lose years, at least in my eyes the more they sang. A great evening!

Then, David Crosby played a surprisingly nimble, and very familiar riff on a mid-70’s Martin D-45, barely opened his mouth, his eyes mostly shut, and my night was absolutely made. It wasn’t David Crosby the old guy singing. It was David Crosby the musician I’d always known. Ditto for the rest. And with only few minor exceptions, the harmonies reached inside me and reminded me that it’s about what’s inside the album, not what’s on the cover. These guys were past being great. They were wonderful! They did a couple of near a cappella pieces that actually put tears in my eyes they were so tight and delicate.

Thanks to them, I was once again reminded that gray does not mean you are no longer the person you once were. It just means the album sleeve is showing some wear, and in their case, some abuse, but, if you've been true to your craft, the tracks will still run clean and true.

Most of us have spent a lifetime honing our skills and there’s no reason to believe that because you’ve reached an age society has arbitrarily decreed as “old” that you have to either accept, or act, that label. My attitude, and apparently that of Crosby, Stills and Nash, is screw ‘em all. If some young punk of twenty, thirty or forty, thinks they’re better than you are at what you do, tell ‘em to bring it on. When it comes to applying what a long lifetime has taught us, they'll find that kickin’ butt is NOT an ability possessed by only the young. And we should teach our children well, so they understand that.

Now....where did I put my finger picks?

PS
For What It’s Worth was part of their encore set and I made it a point to look around at the audience, which was surprisingly young. It was gratifying to see hundreds and hundreds, possibly thousands, of twenty-something guys and gals all singing along and not missing a word. I guess classic is classic and good music knows no age boundaries.

21 Jun 08—Warning: Computers are Harmful to your Health
I think I now have a very clear picture of how I'm going to die: I'm going to be sitting at my computer, clutching my chest while my body vascillates between having a stroke and a heart attack. This will be after I've emptied an entire magazine of 9mm into my monitor. I HATE FRIGGING COMPUTERS!

Today is a classic example of why generations that followed my father's, the computer generation that includes even us baby boomers (actually, I'm a pre-boomer, but close) will not live as long as his did. Our computers are going to kill us. I'll shorten this up as much as I can, but it'll still drag on so be patient.

First, Thinking Outloud didn't get updated last week because I was in Oregon playing with tanks and I came back with some photos and videos I couldn't wait to share. But I've spent most of the last week trying to figure out how to do that. The stills coming out of the new cameras, were easy enough to sort out, but my super-sophisticated little hard drive camcorder has absolutely defied easy understanding.

JVC must stand for "Jerk! it's Very Complex" because, after probably ten hours of screwing around, I still haven't gotten it to talk to my computer without hours and hours of file manipulation. Then, this morning I noticd in teeny-tiny mouse type at the bottom of a manual page it says, "to connect to computer use cable PNxxxx, which is optional and must be purchased." YOU HAVE TO BE SH*TTING ME!

First, what kind of computerized anything, especially something with a hard drive, doesn't talk to a computer through a USB cable (it has a USB port right on the camera)? It uses a funky looking cable that plugs into its charging dock, not the camera itself.

And what kind of idiot company comes out with a digital anything and doesn't supply the cable necessary to transfer the files right to the computer in a useful form? Sounds like I need to pay a visit to a JVC product planner and put my rectal cranial crowbar to use.

I ponied up the forty bucks for the cable and two-day freight, but it won't show up until Tuesday so I still don't know if it'll solve the problem. I'm so damn frustrated I can't stand it! I have the files on my hard drive, but the amount of manipulation and new software it has taken to make them even remotely useful is outrageous.

Yeah, I know, this is just me venting about a problem most folks don't have, so they can't identify. But, how about this one:

I'd loaded the Browning in preparation for an iExecution and couldn't wait to blow off the steam by writing this blog. Then, there I am with my brain bulging from excess computer crap and Microsoft Word won't open! GIVE ME A DAMN BREAK! For about 20 minutes it kept telling me that this font and that font were corrupt, and I kept clicking "OK." Then I shut down and went through a bunch of fix-me-ups and it still doesn't work so I'm writing this right in the web software. Damn! That's not the way life is supposed to work!