It's Only Rock and Roll

Noreen's son Dan bought me the new Keith Richards memoir for Christmas. Despite the fact that it's quite a doorstop (564 pages), I gobbled it up in three days. I'm a sucker for these sorts of trashy tell-alls, at least when it comes to rock and rollers. Paris Hilton ... I'll take a pass.

There are people who will turn their noses up at such fare, but will then extoll the virtues of James Joyce's work, which is usually also about Celts gone horribly wrong. Oh, well. To each his own.

Plus, I maintain there are valuable lessons to be learned from Mr. Richards and other rock dinosaurs as they churn out this stuff. To wit:

• Gourmet dope. If you're going to turn yourself into a stark, raving dope fiend, only use the good stuff. Keith attributes the mystery of his continued breathing to his consumption of "clean" and "pharmaceutical quality" dope. Apparently that long list of "died young" rockers were just poor shoppers.
• Write ... the ... songs. As Keith correctly points out, it's the dudes and dudettes with their names on the sheet music who make the real dough and have the staying power. It was Brian Jones's total inability to pen a tune that began his long, ugly spiral to madness and an early grave (see above).
• Don't mess with the drummer. Keith describes an episode where Stones stickman Charlie Watts -- in a perfectly-tailored Savile Row suit no less -- enters a hotel room, walks straight to Mick Jagger and lifts the lippy one off his feet by the lapels. "Don't ever refer to me as MY DRUMMER again," Charlie says menacingly. He then places the lead singer (they do have an ego surplus, don't they?) back on the couch, spins on his heel, and he and his gorgeous banker suit exit the room. I learned this same lesson the hard way in the '60s with my younger brother, who I used to routinely beat up until he learned to play the drum solo of "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" while on his way to rock semi-stardom. I'm telling you, these rock drummers have upper bodies like NFL linebackers.
• Pray for inept cops. Nearly every chapter has Keith getting busted by police of every nation. At various times he gets nailed for all kinds of narcotics and contraband and he has a surprisingly strong affinity for weapons of all kinds, especially guns. Just as Noreen blows a gasket because I get stopped constantly by cops for speeding and never get a ticket (I expect her to shriek some day, "He's GUILTY, officer! I was watching the speedometer!"), Keith ALWAYS skates. Yes, of course he's got terrific, very expensive lawyers, but the cops invariably overreach in their panting desire to nab a legend and the judge ends up rolling his eyes and throwing the whole thing out.
• Tell women that you're actually quite shy. This strategy (he's certainly not the first or last to use it) coupled with being one of the top 10 rock and rollers, has resulted in Keith having had sex with most of the women on the planet born between the years 1940-1990. The biggest howler in the book for me -- I actually guffawed out loud for a bit -- was when Keith put to paper that, most of the time in bed, he prefers cuddling and chatting to actually doing the dirty. Before you guys get too envious, he "cuddled" with the the truly terrifying Anita Pallenberg for quite a few years. I guess unlimited access is no guarantee of taste.

In conclusion ... if you're planning a misspent life or are approaching the end of one and just want a yardstick for comparison, this book is for you. These guys don't usually live long enough to pass this stuff along. Good luck waiting for the Jim Morrison memoir.

Walleye for dinner!

Anyone reading this blog knows fishing has not come easy for me. I've spent an awful lot of time staring at a line going into the water, but nothing ever coming out. So it was very nice tonight to sit down to a dinner of walleye, allegedly caught by me while ice fishing. I say allegedly, because my young fishing companion Zach picked the spot, the bait and practically held my hand. That's OK, I'll take it! The result was the very respectable 19-inch walleye you see above. At least I can take full credit for the cooking and eating you see below.

A good man laid low

You've probably heard the expression, a "nodding acquaintance." That was my relationship with former Detroit Tigers manager Sparky Anderson. We never went to dinner (although I vaguely remembering wolfing down something he was also wolfing down). We never had a drink together. We certainly never socialized. But we were locked, whether we liked it or not, in the complex ballet that was the relationship between the Detroit Tigers and the Detroit media.

When we would pass each other, we would acknowledge that fact with a nod and smile, although I never kidded myself that I was anything more than a spear carrier to his star.

Detroit struggles with its problems. But it's a great sports town. To be a member of a pro sports team, especially during the good times, is to be under a microscope of powerful magnification. Some handle that attention poorly. Some handle it well. Mr. Anderson seemed to be born to it. Like Madonna, he only needed one name ... Sparky.

I usually covered breaking news and the streets of Detroit. But I was sometimes drafted to grumblingly fill gaps in our sports coverage. So it was my job -- occasionally -- to shadow these sports "giants." Many were fools. Many were flaming assholes. Most were just average guys who made the leap from high school/college fame to "the bigs" and seemed almost bewildered by it all. But there was the occasional character like Sparky that made you believe in some of the myths.

He was kind, gentle, shrewd rather than smart, tough when he needed to be and a living encyclopedia of baseball knowledge. At first I didn't understand why his players and staff damn near worshipped him. But several years of watching him in action up close made me understand. He was the real deal, not a product of hype and marketing.

Now he's facing a terrible adversary. It was made public today that his family has been compelled to put him in a care facility that specializes in dementia. My heart aches for him.

Public figures make enemies. Scholars, artists, athletes, actors, authors, politicians grow a crop of hateful adversaries who will miss few opportunities to point out their shortcomings.

I never heard a bad word from anyone about Sparky Anderson.

Happy 10th Birthday to Me

I just passed a milestone that has generated some pondering and reflection. It was 10 years ago on the Fourth of July that I had the plane crash that could very easily have claimed my life. Fortunately, I ended up with a broken back and a laundry list of other lesser injuries, none of which linger today. The photo above was taken of the wreckage an hour or so after the accident, while I was still busy amusing the emergency room personnel at U-M Hospital.

The NTSB cleared me of any blame in the incident and so the FAA took no disciplinary action, but I'm still persuaded that the crash was essentially my fault. Perhaps that's a subject for another day.

When I reappeared at the airport after some recovery and rehabilitation, Eberhard Geyer, who flew FW 190s in the Luftwaffe on the Eastern Front said, "This is your Extra Birthday." I discounted his words at the time, but I must now admit I'm not the same person I was before that brush with the grim reaper.

Initially I insisted that I hadn't changed a bit, but the accumulating evidence said otherwise. Within five years after the crash EVERYTHING in my life had changed. I now concede that the accident was a turning point.

Perhaps the single biggest change was perspective. There's no doubt that you view life -- the time we have on the planet -- differently after a brush with death. Things that were more important lose some urgency and things that were neglected move to front and center.

The sad part of this metamorphosis was that parts of my life that I had treasured ended or were left behind. The happy part is that new doors seemed to open and new challenges appeared.

My personality changed, too. I listen better now. My monumental ego is kept in a stronger cage. It's less important to me now to be "right" or to "win." And I'd like to believe I'm more sensitive, in the good sense of that word rather than the phony, "New Age" meaning.

When the ledger is examined, I hope there are more things on the positive side and I think I can make that case.

So Happy 10th Birthday to me!

Dashing through the snow

From what I hear, Tiger Woods has seen a dip in the number of his product endorsements. In an effort to take up the slack, I thought I'd pass along my opinions on a product I've been impressed with.

Noreen and I are spending much more time at the cottage in the winter than we anticipated. We're up here almost as often as we are in the summer. Between ice fishing, snowshoeing and -- OK, we admit it -- laying around reading and knitting, we find a visit to the north country to be a perfect antidote to the pressures of our city jobs.

One thing that's NOT very relaxing up here in the winter is the roads. They can be a bit scary at times, especially County Road 459, which we take for the final eight miles to the cottage. It occasionally resembles a cross between a cross country ski trail and a luge run.

We can't really blame the various governments up here too much because they're poor as church mice and don't have the resources to maintain the roads like they should. Bottom line is that we've had some interesting driving up here.

Last week we were watching some videos online that showed impressive performance differences on snow and ice between all-season tires and winter tires. We thought "Let's give 'em a try."

I researched winter tires and found that they had changed a great deal from the "snow tires" of my youth. Back then the vast majority of American cars were rear-wheel-drive and folks just put honking big tires with deep, aggressive treads on the rear wheels.

Today's winter tires are not noticeable unless you look close. They have a much more "normal" looking tread and are always put on all four wheels. They also tend to perform fairly normally on warm dry pavement, unlike their predecessors.

We ended up buying Michelin X-Ice Xi2 tires and a set of four wheels to make them easier to swap out. I had already been leaning toward them when a friend with a Consumer Reports membership offered to check their Web site and, lo and behold, they were top rated.

The bad qualities of old snow tires were:

1. Noisy. Often at freeway speeds you couldn't even hold a conversation.
2. Poor tread life. The relatively soft rubber compound wore very quickly.
3. Lousy fuel economy. You might pay a penalty of 20% or more in fuel consumption. Not such a big deal back when gas was 89 cents a gallon, but would be painful now!

Michelin claims to have (mostly) dealt with these issues and, so far, I'm impressed.

Noreen and I drove the 220 miles up here from Detroit at speeds generally between 70 and 80 miles per hour and had no problem holding a normal conversation. We both agreed that if there was any increase in sound level it was minor. Problem number one solved.

We have one of those fuel economy gauges on the dash that we both take with a grain of salt. Of course the manufacturer wants you to believe that you're getting good fuel economy. But the RELATIVE number only dropped one mpg, and we've often seen variations based on a strong headwind, lots of stop and go, etc. Also, when you've made the trip as many times as we have you have a very good sense of how much fuel it takes. The one mile per gallon number looks realistic to us. That would translate into a 4% penalty with the new tires. Not bad. Problem number two addressed.

Tread life remains to be seen and perhaps I'll offer an update at the end of the season. Michelin brags that they're using a new silica-based (?!?!) tire compound that allows a soft winter compound with 75% less wear than their nearest competitor. We'll see.

"What about the performance on snow and ice, dumbbell!" you might ask, and rightfully so. That's the whole point of the exercise, right? So far I've been very impressed. Although the roads up here this weekend don't rank with the worst we've seen, they're spooky enough. We had a day of rain up here this past week, followed by a rapid temperature drop, followed by snow and high winds. The roads are basically glare ice with a thin coating of powdery snow on top. The tires have acquitted themselves quite well with the ABS going on very infrequently and no loss of adhesion in the curves.

All in all, the tires are doing the job they're supposed to do and we feel safer in poor winter driving conditions.

Buckless in Yooperland

In my never-ending efforts to find new outdoor activities to not be good at, I tried deer hunting last year. The 2008 season consisted mostly of me wandering around aimlessly in the woods near Hillman hoping that the world's stupidest (or most suicidal) deer would saunter up to me.

Perhaps taking pity on me, Noreen's brother Norb (the slender guy at left in the picture above) invited me this year to a real deer camp with his friends in Michigan's Upper Peninsula near Au Train. We would be hunting in the magnificent Hiawatha National Forest, which qualifies as wilderness by anyone's measure.

The three other hunters have well over 100 years of deer hunting experience between them. Ted alone, at the tender age of 81, has more than a half century all by himself. I hope that I'm as tough a bird when, and if, I reach that age. So hopefully I could learn something from these guys.

The cabin is right on Lake Superior with a spectacular view of the lake. That's it nestled in the trees at the left of the frame.

The first morning found us trudging through the woods to our blinds with a heavy frost causing the leaves beneath our feet to crunch like potato chips. My headlamp cast a narrow cone of light and I occasionally thought of the many tens of thousands of acres of forest that I COULDN'T see. I sincerely hoped that nothing was hunting me while I was hunting. Once settled in my blind, I opened my small thermos and had my first cup of coffee of the day (Note to experienced deer hunters: I know, I know. The fresh coffee violates the "no odor" rule, but cut me some slack. Addiction is a terrible thing. And it sure tasted wonderful!). One thing I learned over the next couple days was that 2 1/2 hours motionless in a blind is about my limit. Yep. After 150 minutes, I have to start walking or I'll lose my mind.

And beautiful walks they were. It really is a spectacular place. Here's a photo of the lovely pond that Ted had his blind hidden above. Even though it's only mid-November, the pond had a layer of ice on the surface. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan is a harsh place as well as a beautiful one. One of the "thoroughfares" that I walked a couple times was the North Country Pathway, a hiking trail that stretches from the east coast to the Dakotas. I obviously didn't walk THAT far, but I did about seven miles on it the one day with just my rifle and a daypack.

At one point I sat on a log and rested for ten minutes. I was suddenly aware of something approaching. It was a doe. She was wary and moving slowly. My camouflage was effective because she came within 50 feet of me and gave no indication of seeing me. She would pause and lift her head and sniff the air. She couldn't see me, but she seemed to be able to smell me. Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, she left the path and headed east through the woods. As soon as she entered the full cone of my scent downwind, she hastened her pace and disappeared. Where's your boyfriend, I wondered. But he never showed. Nevermind. It was a magic moment in a magic place.

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The danger of fear

As we approach the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing, I'm thinking about the dangers of adventure and whether we, as Americans, have become too risk averse.

Back in the early days of the shuttle program, NASA was taken by surprise by the amount of publicity generated by their "Teacher in Space" program. They found that by reserving one of the seats on the shuttle for an "average" person, they humanized what was starting to look like a dull program.

They cleverly started a follow-on "Journalist in Space" program and I, of course, immediately sent away for the reams of paperwork needed to apply for the slot. I was a licensed pilot with some hours in high-performance military aircraft as a result of covering the military and aerospace (i.e. I wouldn't puke when faced with some Gs or violent maneuvers). Plus, I was a photographer who also could write (a "twofer!") and had a philosophical bent I had demonstrated in my writings. Last -- but definitely not least -- I had grown up and currently lived and worked in a major media market.

For NASA had discovered a way to turn PR straw into media gold.

Months after my application I received a very official-looking document telling me I was a "semi-finalist" for the ride into orbit.

I just about went into orbit when I got the news. It took me a while to realize just how many "semi-finalists" there were. Because, you see, NASA had learned that every paper, TV station and radio station in the "almost a winner's" town would go three shades of batshit in their coverage of the hometown boy or girl. ESPECIALLY if the honoree worked for that media outlet.

At the paper where I worked, which was admittedly very large, there were THREE of us at the paper who had gotten the letter. Now this was a news operation of hundreds of people, but it just seemed a little too good to be true. But we kept telling ourselves that SOMEBODY was going to get to go and that we were special enough to get the nod.

I don't even remember what hoops they had planned for us to jump through for the next stage of the screening process, but they may have involved a singing contest or spelling bee.

Back to the risk issue ...

Not long after we got our letters the day finally came to launch the teacher into orbit. Sadly, we all know what came next.

After the accident, as the media writhed and squirmed to gather every single tidbit of information for their space disaster "packages," some of them began to remember those of us who were supposed to be next in the space publicity pipeline. I, and one of the other two candidates at the paper, were interviewed by the TV networks and splashed on the screen.

My quote was something like "As regrettable as this is, put another shuttle on the pad tomorrow morning and I'll meet you there ready to go." The other guy said something similar and, knowing him, I'm convinced he meant it just as much as I did.

In the early days of airline travel in the 1920s and 1930s aircraft were literally falling out of the sky. It was before the days of good instruments and the beacons to talk to them. Aircraft weren't pressurised, so they had to fly THROUGH the weather instead of over it like we do know. Flying in an airliner was still very, very dangerous. And yet, the numbers of passengers increased every year.

I covered the development of the space shuttle and the first few missions. I remember the engineers and project managers insisting on the record that the program would be very safe. But, off the record, after a couple beers, they were quietly of the opinion that in the total run of the program they would probably lose one shuttle in the boost, or launch, phase and one in the re-entry phase. And now, as the program winds down to its conclusion, after more than 125 missions, that's exactly how it has turned out.

So, was it a dangerous program? Of course! You can't strap millions of tons of thrust to your butt, be hurled into a deadly vacuum, and then return at a speed that would melt lead without incurring risk. Was it an UNREASONABLE risk? No.

Some of us will mark the anniversary of the Apollo 11 landing with a quiet moment or maybe a flute of champagne. Some will ignore it. But way too many Americans believe the entire space program was too risky and unpredictable a venture to have undertaken in the first place.

I think that's a damn shame. And a double damn shame that the next astronauts who try to say something philosophical and portentious when their boots hit moon dust will be speaking Chinese.

Kitten of the Sea

As I mentioned in a previous post, despite a lot of preparation and homework, I had a heckuva time landing my first fish. No matter what I tried, I was just a wannabe fisherman. Then, after years of struggling, suddenly, there he was! I hauled a pretty big smallmouth bass into the boat two weeks ago. What changed, I asked myself?

Not long before my triumphant fishing expedition, the animal rights organization PETA (People for the Eccentric Treatment of Animals) had started a PR campaign involving the oppressed piscine population. They wanted to remind people how cute fish are (like the cuddly guy pictured above) and start fish on the road to being fully-engaged, taxpaying members of society.

I must say, though, that the part of their campaign that affected me the most was their insistence that fish now be referred to as "Sea Kittens." I paid little attention at the time, but I think a seed had been planted -- perhaps subconsciously -- by their clever maneuver. Up until then, I had been INTELLECTUALLY engaged in the pursuit, but not viscerally. When I would think of a captured fish, my digestive juices did not begin to flow. My salivary glands did not work overtime. I didn't have the immediacy, the focus of the subsistence hunter and gatherer.

But the PETA campaign changed all that. Who hasn't had their mouth water at the thought of a breaded, broiled, sauteed or steamed kitten. With hush puppies. And some cole slaw. The next time I went out I was ... I WAS PUMPED! And the result was ... a smallmouth bass.

Thanks PETA!

P.S. I released the bass, so PETA's important work is not entirely done.

Unmasked

The more observant of my thousands of followers point out that I refer to a mystery woman named "Noreen" in my latest entry and want to know if I'm cheating on Ms. X. Actually, no. They are one in the same and my age-addled brain forgot to conceal her identity. When I first started this blog, she was concerned that the notoriety would invade her privacy. A few glances at my readership numbers reassured her on that point.

It also occurs to me that I haven't bandied my first name about either. So from here on, it's Steve and Noreen.

Fish story

I'm collecting cheap or free hobbies to enjoy in retirement. With the cottage such a big part of our lives, Noreen and I decided we needed to learn how to fish. She was actually revisiting a pastime that had been a cherished part of her childhood. Fishing with Dad was a frequent and much-loved activity.

I, on the other hand, was a city boy who had never seriously fished in his life. Piece of cake, I thought. If all those illiterate hillbillies with chaws in their cheeks are pulling 'em in, it'll be a snap for me.

We fished and fished and fished. Weeks went by. Seasons went by. We fished from our boat. We fished from our dock. We fished on the ice.

I occasionally got a nibble or even a bite, but I never landed one. I began to feel like Jeff Daniels, "The Buckless Yooper," in "Escanaba in da Moonlight." This sure is a heckuva lot harder than losing my virginity, I thought. Those hillbillies began to look a lot smarter. Scholarly, even.

I continued to read and watch YouTube videos. I watched shows on the Outdoor Channel. I read columns in Field & Stream by guys named "Buck" and "Red."

Last weekend it finally happened. Noreen and I were sitting in our boat in "The Narrows" on our lake and I felt a tug on my line. It was a good sized smallmouth bass. He pulled. I pulled. I eventually lifted him into the boat. Hurray! I'm glad that's over with. I gently removed the hook, lowered him into the water, swished him around until he wiggled and then watched him swim away. I had long resolved to put back the first fish as an offering to the fish gods and it was easy to keep that vow because, at 12-inches, he wasn't a keeper.

Noreen has often said to me that her father enjoyed fishing whether he was catching them or not. He was a wise man. That's been true for me, too.

But it still felt good to finally catch one!

A Bookish Boy

Although I've spent so much of my life dragging tons -- literally -- of books around behind me, I sometimes forget the powerful influence a select few have had on me. When I moved in with Ms. X earlier this year I promised her I would winnow down what we both thought was probably between 6,000 and 8,000 books to less than 1,000. We immediately started building bookcases at her house. We later determined that I had somewhere between 12,000 and 15,000 books. We gave them away to libraries, colleges and puzzled passersby as quickly as we could, but I still didn't hit my target of 1,000. She's been very patient!

It was very, very difficult to part with them. I've had visitors ask me "How many of these books have you read?" Duh. ALL of them. It's a terrible vice. Try to keep your children illiterate. One of my few innate abilities is speed reading and I used to read one book a night.

Only a handful of them have truly changed my life. The first ones included the scifi adventures that whetted my appetite for a lifelong interest in science. The first ones weren't something literary like Ray Bradbury, they were pure pulp like Tom Swift.

Later came books that had more substance, but were often pretty much ignored. Perhaps the biggest was "The True Believer" by Eric Hoffer. Hoffer had very little education -- he was often called "The Longshoreman Philosopher," but he had a first rate mind and had been deeply influenced by the horrors of the two biggest ideologies of the twentieth century -- fascism and communism. He eventually concluded that the followers of both were essentially the same people. At an age where I was trying to find my ethical footing, the lightbulb that went on in my head as I read has remained as a beacon of common sense for 40 years.

When I look at my shelves, I think I spot the "big influences" pretty easily. But tonight I realized that's not always the case.

It's Halloween. I set up a chair inside the door and scanned the shelves for some "light" reading to sustain me as the ghouls and Princess Leias marched up the walk.

I spotted an old favorite, but one I haven't read in 15 years: "Principles of Performance Driving" by Jackie Stewart (winner of 27 Formula One races. Still a record). I clearly remembered that I learned more about driving from this book than from any other source. I bought it after I was privileged to take a few laps at speed with Jackie back when he was flacking for Ford Motor Company. These were pretty amazing, glassy smooth hot laps on a banked track in a Ford TAURUS! Maybe more on that some other time.

I had been racing myself during two periods in my life. Early '70s and mid '80s. I'm a pretty good pilot, but was middle of the pack as a race driver (that's me in the photo circa 1985). Truth be told ... I could turn pretty hot laps, but was never going to be a winner.

Jackie's book had a big influence on me. As the years went by, that influence seemed to me to be primarily on my (street) driving, my flying and maybe my fairly recent motorcycling. Well and good. Those are pursuits where good advice can keep you healthy. As I reread the beginning of his book, I recognized a number of principles that I use on the road every day. Good stuff.

But as I continued to read the first chapter, I began to see something else. Something much more. I began to realize that this book was one of those that changed my life. A book about driving? Oh yeah.

I was about 33 when I bought the book. And I was trying very hard to grow up. Some of the growing up that people do as they walk across the stage with their high school diplomas still hadn't happened to me (Despite a high grade point average, I didn't bother to attend my graduation. I was in Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco trying to be cool).

But back to Mr. Stewart's "instructional" book. I had a real problem at the time with understanding the risk taking part vs. rational part of my personality. As the people who have REALLY known me will tell you, both traits are deeply ingrained. The fact that they are sometimes directly contradictory ... well, that was a real problem for me.

But Jackie layed it all out. There it was. A life that had no trouble reconciling these two fire and ice characteristics.

Jackie is dyslexic. He can barely read and in his foreword talks about what torture writing his first book "Faster" was. All I can say is, he may have to use a tape recorder to write, but he is truly a brilliant guy. Step by step, he walked me through how to make it work. If you have a personality conflict like mine, just read Chapter One. You'll be all better. I can't drive like he can, but I can approach some puzzles like he does.

I still have a dozen or so books that changed my life, but that's the only one written by a race driver.

Special, huh?

I want to take a Louisville Slugger and pound somebody with it.

This week the veneration and worship of Yankee Stadium is reaching its feverish peak. They need to hurry up and get this over with so they can TEAR IT DOWN!

What is it about we Americans that makes us so quick to discard the important things that make us American. Whether it's our neglect of jazz and blues when the artists are huge stars elsewhere or our headlong rush to destroy the origins of our greatest homegrown sport, we sure love to leave smoking craters where cultural icons used to stand.

I thought I was over the pain of the abandonment of great Tiger Stadium (every inch the equal or superior of Yankee Stadium) for the abomination of The Bank That Left Michigan Field, but this sad turn of events has ripped open the scab.

The Curse of the Bambino on all their heads! Especially the two chief idiots: George Steinbrenner and Michael Bloomberg.

And a baseball novena for the vigilant fans who keep Wrigley Field and Fenway Park so vibrantly alive.

The miracle of wings

The generous and thoughtful Ms. X just presented me with an early Christmas gift. We were in the mood to watch a movie, so she unveiled "One Six Right: The Romance of Flying."

It's a documentary look at a single airport and what it has meant to the pilots who fly out of it. I highly recommend it.

The film started me thinking about my many experiences around just such airports over 30 years as a pilot and the wonderful experiences I've had in the air. It also made me explore some of my deeper feelings about flight and what it's meant to my life.

It always brings me back to earth when I try to philosophise about flying. And I'm not alone. One of the old coots interviewed in the film says it's virtually impossible to describe piloting to someone who hasn't done it and I reluctantly agree. We've had very few "pilot philosophers" or "pilot poets" and they unfortunately tended to die young (think Antoine St. Exupery or John Magee).

Of the many, many feelings flying has produced in me, I'll offer a puzzling contrast for your consideration:

Often when flying a single seater, especially a high performance sailplane, you're faced with a sweet and sour or yin and yang sensation. As you listen to your slow breathing in the oxygen mask. As you scrape a light frost off the inside of the canopy for a better view of the earth far below. As you raise your hand to shield your eyes from the sun that seems so much brighter, more piercing than down below, you feel a terrible loneliness and unbridgeable separation from your fellow humans. And you also feel like a god.

I'll leave you with the most famous work of the aforementioned John Magee, an American who died flying for the RAF in World War II. He was nineteen when he died.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

An old problem

I just want to put everyone on notice.

After a weekend of grunting and straining up at the cottage and enduring the aches and pains that come afterward for a man in his 50s, I was reminded that I've been meaning to say this.

I'm planning on being old. If I'm lucky.

Not a "senior citizen." Not a "golden ager." One editor of a magazine for the elderly even suggested "polygenerarians." I hope he was joking.

Oh. And one more thing. I won't "pass on." I plan on dying. Lord knows I've tried enough times already, usually by interesting and dramatic methods, but no luck so far. But I will succeed eventually!

So, all you young whippersnappers take note of the new instructions.

Mission improbable

I was scouting possibilities for the fall turkey hunting season. For reasons known only to the Department of Natural Resources, the northern Michigan county that our cottage is in will not have a turkey season this fall. This will force me to move one county west, which is no great hardship because the Pigeon River area is very beautiful. Beautiful, but somewhat unfamiliar to me.

So I made my way over to Otsego County to sniff around for good turkey habitat. I took a number of obscure roads to get to the general area that looked promising on a topo map. The roads kept getting less and less civilized as I moved farther away from the "real" roads. Soon I turned north on the quaintly named "Tin Shanty Bridge Road." Either the Tin Shanty Bridge is long gone or it's too obscure to notice, but I never saw it. What I did see was a road that kept diminishing until it was little more than a sandy two-track. I could feel my little two-wheel-drive Pontiac Vibe getting nervous.

The road twisted and turned through some beautiful country, with higher glacial moraine hills to the east filled with mature hardwoods (Acorns! Mmmm turkey food!) and cedar swamp and pine marsh to the west. If I was a chubby tom turkey I'd hang around here, I thought.

I occasionally had to decide whether to take a left fork or an equally unpromising right fork. I apparently kept guessing correctly because I didn't come to a dead end. No road signs, of course.

I realized at some point that I better stop and take some notes, or I would never remember any of this in November. I pulled over, as much as I could, off the road and stopped. I felt a little foolish pulling over, because not only had I not seen another vehicle the whole time, I hadn't even seen the TRACK of another vehicle (we'd just had a couple days of rain and the sand was a blank canvas at this point).

I had been scribbling for a minute or two when I became aware of a vehicle approaching. Hmmm, I guess there IS somebody else in these deep woods, I thought.

A silver late model minivan slowly passed me and then stopped slightly past my vehicle. A well-dressed woman in a skirt, blouse and nice shoes (!!!) approached my window. As I rolled it down, I was struck by how much she looked like the fresh-faced, wholesome movie star of the 1950s, June Allyson.

JA: Are you lost?
Me: No, are you?
JA: We just thought you might need some help.
Me: Nope, but thank you for stopping.
JA: Would you like to know how to have a happier marriage?
Me: Huh?
JA: A happier marriage. This brochure (whipped out from her secret brochure holster) will help you and your wife live the way the Lord intended. By following these simple biblical principles the two of you can get more out of life and be assured of a happy hereafter, too.
Me: I ain't married.
JA: Oh ... oh ... well.
Long pause.
JA: (Again dipping into the brochure holster) Here's something about how to deal with loss of a loved one. In a biblical way.
Me: Thanks.
Long pause.
Me: Say, have you seen any turkeys around here?

Man, those Jehovah's Witnesses really get around.

The conversation kind of fizzled out at that point and she wished me well and got back in her vehicle to continue searching the woods for converts. She apparently hasn't seen the movie "Deliverance."

I must say, though, that the chat ended more quickly and on a more friendly note than most I've had with religious proselytizers. Another life lesson learned. When feeling cornered, inquire about turkeys.

Bird Brains Part 2

As if Godzilla wasn't bad enough, they now have bird problems in Tokyo. According to a story in The New York Times, the Japanese are beside themselves as they battle an invasion of crows. The birds are spreading garbage, cutting fiber optic cable to use in their nests and causing major power outages by committing seppuku on high-tension power lines.


The Japanese have declared war on the birds, but so far are losing that war. From the Times piece:

"Some steps taken to reduce crows include putting garbage into yellow plastic bags, a color the birds supposedly cannot see through, and covering trash with fine-mesh netting, to prevent large beaks from reaching the goodies within.

Still, the crows have proven clever at foiling human efforts to control them. In Kagoshima, they are even trying to outsmart the Crow Patrol. The birds have begun building dummy nests as decoys to draw patrol members away from their real nests.

'They are trying to outfox us,' said Kazuhide Kyutoku, deputy chief of Kyushu Electric’s facilities safety group, which conducts the patrols. 'They aren’t willing to give up territory to humans.'

The birds seem to be winning. Mr. Kyutoku said despite the twice-weekly patrols, which have removed 600 nests since they began three years ago, the number of nests keeps increasing, as have blackouts."

While I sympathize with our Far Eastern brethren, I've been busy with my own "bird problem" for the past three weeks. Yes, folks, it's spring turkey hunting season in Michigan.

After weeks of scouting near our cottage in northern Michigan, I returned two weeks ago to actually hunt the wily gobblers. Because it's not uncommon to see a turkey walking along the road in this state, many of my non-hunting acquaintances ridicule this pursuit. "I saw 10 turkeys in a mall parking lot yesterday!" they mock. Yes, I answer patiently, but local law enforcement and the DNR frown on me hunting in mall parking lots.

And don't think the birds don't know it.

Two hunter friends joined me for the expedition and each morning we slouched out to the woods to watch the sun come up from our separate spots in the Mackinaw State Forest. We made funny noises for a couple hours while we stared at maddeningly empty clearings. In the evenings, some serious beer drinking and card playing was accomplished, but no birds were harmed in the making of the production.

It's a humbling experience to be outsmarted by a bird, but I think it's good for the human psyche. And one reason, I've found, why most hunters have a better understanding of nature than their non-hunting brethren

The Japanese are now wrestling with whether to employ "lethal means" to reduce the crow population. All I can tell them is that a loaded 12-gauge is no guarantee of sending a bird to meet his ancestors.

For another take on crows from a respected news source, click here.

Don't die before you pass the cash register

Is anyone out there in my vast listening audience becoming a bit uncomfortable with the increasingly cozy relationship between physicians and the pharmaceutical companies?

We trust these doctors -- literally -- with our lives and we'd like to think that the treatment decisions they make are based on our best interests.

But there's increasing evidence that those decisions are shaded, or worse, by financial considerations that have little to do with the quality or the outcome of the treatment.

My significant other, Madame X, and I were visiting her mother recently when mom whipped out a home blood pressure measurement cuff. Being a pilot, my blood pressure is checked obsessively by Father Fed. I've always been very proud of my blood pressure, the positive result of which tends to drive my flight surgeon batty. He and I are both stocky, to use a polite, if not very pilot-ese, expression. My blood pressure was always great and his sucked. After his nurse would measure mine, I would tell him that he wasn't drinking enough beer, laying around enough, etc. This would always send him off grumbling under his breath.

Mom's blood pressure cuff spit out a result I was not happy with. What? What's that number again?

This set me off on a research jag to determine what the right number should be for a fossilized specimen like myself and that led to ...

... a dandy piece of journalism by Seattle Times reporter Duff Wilson.

As part of a series by his paper, Wilson explores the sometimes questionable, perhaps a bit shady, relationship between the medical profession and big, BIG drug companies. How ironic it is that, in year 35 of our ridiculously expensive war on drugs, the biggest pushers of drugs of all are supported by the government. And that means us.

At a time when there is an increasing sentiment for letting government manage our health care system, it's wise to remember that quasi-public, or even governmental agencies are not immune to being manipulated by big money.

But, back to my blood pressure.

I knew that the "standards" for such things had changed in recent years. At one time, older folks like myself could have higher numbers and it was considered to be OK. At some point, we were all expected to log 120/80 or else. For many years, I not only hit that number, I beat it.

So I was all in a panic when the number was higher. I'm still concerned because the number has risen, but after reading Duff's piece, I now realize I'm being "played" as the youngsters say.

To read Mr. Wilson's excellent article, click here.

Michigan, My Michigan

If you ever casually insult Texas in front of a Texan, be prepared to put up your dukes. Most Texans have a passionate pride in their state that makes them react strongly – even violently – to a perceived slight. Though portions of their state are dusty eyesores filled with semi-literate yahoos, Texans puff their chests out at the sight of the Texas flag or the lilting strains of the “Yellow Rose of Texas.”

Michigan, on the other hand, is timidly supported by even her strongest adherents. For reasons I don’t understand, the fair peninsulas seem to stir only tepid emotions, at least publicly.

I’m guilty as the rest and have less excuse because I know better. With one brief exception I’ve lived here all my life and have seen just about every nook and cranny of the state. With all due respect to our Texan cousins, the Lone Star state doesn’t hold a candle to Michigan.

Ms. X has been a big, big influence in reawakening my long buried feelings about Michigan, especially the north country. She loves the state dearly and is not shy about it. We now spend a lot of vacation time (and dollars) right here and enjoy it immensely. The (now) resort home and, hopefully, some day retirement home we’re sharing on every spare weekend and vacation day was her idea. And a great idea it was.

Jeff Daniels of Hollywood fame has also influenced me to wear my Michigan love more on my sleeve. His unabashed and open love for his state should be an example for us all. If you ARE a closet Michigan lover, just listen to his beautiful rendition of the Civil War-era song “Michigan, My Michigan” for proof of his devotion. Makes me cry every time I hear it. Click here to listen.

But back to that resort home. Right now I’m looking out the window at a beautiful scene of brilliant white snow and the muted browns and greens of pines and cedars. The lake we enjoy so much during the warmer months is in its long frozen slumber. As the seasons change, and even day to day, the view offers a constantly changing kaleidoscope of beauty.

And water is, to a great extent, the secret of Michigan’s beauty. A sizeable chunk of all the fresh water on Earth surrounds the state and is sprinkled across it like jewels in the form of countless small lakes like the one I’m gazing at. If you like water, you’ll love Michigan.

But it’s not just the water. Ms. X and I enjoy the rolling terrain and gentle vistas as we make the trek up M-33 toward the cottage. The American Midwest may not have some of the drama of the west and east, but its serene beauty is a wonderful antidote to the pressures of the week.

And, lastly, the people are special, too. Maybe one of the reasons that Michiganders don’t spend more time bragging about their state is that, by nature, they tend to be quiet compared to a Texan, a New Yorker or a Californian. And more genuine to my eyes, too. No empty L.A. air kisses behind the ears or Bronx Cheers or cowboy hats with no cattle.

Maybe I should be glad that Michigan doesn’t get more attention. Places like southern California, Florida and Texas have arguably been spoiled by their own success. Anyone who has spent a few hours on a California freeway or in a crowded Florida park knows what I mean.

Those of us in the know will keep Michigan our little secret for a while longer.

The perils of forgiveness

There's been a lot of forgiving going on lately. Serial killers, political and religious crooks, dictators and even pumped-up, steroid-assisted athletes have all been very publicly forgiven, usually with the cameras rolling.

Somehow, probably because of propaganda from feel good philosophers and clerics, forgiveness has become de rigeur after horrible betrayals and sinister acts. You can almost set your watch by it.

Much of the time, it's a bad idea.

When we first roamed the savannas with our clubs and spears, the idea of forgiveness would've seemed far fetched. If 'ol Murg was a bad dude who frequently hit people on the back of the head to steal their share of a mammoth haunch, the group just quietly (or noisily) did him in. Forgiveness and rehabilitation were luxuries that subsistence hunters could ill afford.

At some point homo sapiens, in his new found wisdom, invented war. Oh, it probably wasn't MUCH of a war back then. It was probably more akin to The Bloods and The Crips on the streets of L.A. This group of 157 people really didn't like this group of 124 people. So let's pound on each other for a while.

But when the dispute, whether territorial or otherwise, was settled, a peace of some sort must be made. Otherwise you condemn yourselves to perpetual war. And once the peace was made, some forgiving (if not forgetting) must be done so that simple trade and free passage can resume.

So forgiving -- both individual and collective -- was born. And, like other sensible behaviors that eventually made it into the holy books, like prohibitions on eating pork and incest, it had a very sensible and practical origin.

The problem with forgiving is that it is affirmative. In subtle ways, it states that a behavior is in some way condoned or allowed. Too much forgiving can gently steer a society toward a swamp where scary things howl in the night.

Of course, some evil is so horrendous and monumental that forgiveness is not only inappropriate, but it's deplorable. Think Hitler or Stalin.

So, what is my ethic on the subject? Pretty simple really:

• Private Forgiveness -- Always granted after a suitable period. This is necessary for mental health and is really a self-defense mechanism of sorts. There is no acid more corrosive than hatred and bitterness and it only consumes the hater, not the hated.


• Public Forgiveness -- This should be doled out much more sparingly, for the reasons stated above. When evil acts take place they should be noted as such, sometimes forever. Only children and the feeble-minded or insane get a free pass. And Hitler, by the way, was not insane. That particular free pass is WAY overused.


• Blanket Forgiveness -- So idiotic as to be beneath contempt for any thinking person.

To preserve and promote the good, there must be a bad.