A Political Glimpse from Ireland

Bird Dog at pointed me to this story about a very experienced pilot who was injured doing routine maneuvers. He was practicing dogfighting with his wingman when he blew a disc in his neck:

The 9-G turn pushed Johnston, who stands 6-foot-3 and weighs 200 pounds, into the fighter’s seat, a sensation not much different from hundreds of other times during his 2,500 hours in F-16s.

Then something snapped.

Near the top of Johnston’s spine, the disk between the fifth and sixth vertebra suddenly popped out of place, pinching the nerves that connect his brain with his feet and hands.

Lt. Col. Johnson managed to get his aircraft back to Ellington Field near Houston. For this feat of airmanship, he was awarded the Kolligian Trophy. It was also his last flight.

The ANG unit at Ellington Field is George W. Bush’s old outfit. What happened to Lt. Col Johnson is a reminder of how risky it is to fly fighter aircraft. It’s become safer in the last four decades; before that, fighter pilots couldn’t buy life insurance at any price. But even today, with aircraft that are much more reliable than the widowmakers they flew in the 1950s and 60s, you’re still pushing your body into very hazardous situations.

I’m mostly over my malaria-like virus. Yesterday I actually felt pretty good, but at bedtime I spiked a fever again. That meant another night of fever dreams. I’ll have the same dream over and over again. It’s always a frustrating dream. One involved me helping my wife ship some items; I managed to get the postage label on one package, but I couldn’t get the last package labelled. It didn’t help that all of the labels had Barack Obama’s face on them.

Freudians, amateur and professional, are welcome to comment on my deliria. I’m just trying to catch up on work.

I’ve seen this term tossed around a couple of times, especially in relation to Rush Limbaugh, who barely made it out of high school, and flunked out after one year in college. I know it’s not a logical argument to deride Limbaugh because he doesn’t have a college degree; it’s an elitist argument. But I think the time has come to reveal to one and all: I’m undereducated.

I made it out of high school easily enough. In fact, I probably spent less than 20 hours in four years actually studying. If I was in the room where the lecture took place, I absorbed it, and could regurgitate the information as needed (mostly, I already knew the information anyway). But I was very lazy about doing homework, and a look at the grade book would show a series of zeros for homework, interspersed with 100 percent scores on the tests. It didn’t do anything for my class rank; I was solidly in the middle of my group of 160.

College (the first time) was definitely a waste of time. I’d qualified for a minor scholarship just by showing up and taking a test (and making up the answers). I probably could have earned a lot more, if I had the gumption to bother; there was a “National Math Test” my sophomore year where our school’s winner went on to a full ride at MIT. He was a senior, and I tied his score (oh yes, quite a few dropped jaws during that award assembly).

But I showed up at the local state university, and quickly learned that no one cared if I showed up for class. Certainly I didn’t; class was boring, and I had other interests to pursue (tail). I, like Limbaugh, flunked out after one year.

One of the features of my high school years was that my family owned the local daily newspaper (and a few county weeklies nearby). I started working in the darkroom when I was 15 on Saturdays, and within a year I was also working early mornings, doing sports writing and editing, and eventually filling the city editor (the one who decides what stories go in, where they go, and who gets sent to cover stories) position part-time. I was not a natural writer; my first story published had three consecutive words that I recognized after the editor rewrote it. But I learned quickly, and it never occurred to me that it was unusual for a 16-year old kid to be giving assignments to staff more than twice my age, or to carefully (and with much unhappiness) unteach the college journalism interns what they thought they knew, and replace it with what they needed to know.

So, I could have continued on at the newspaper, fat, dumb and happy. One event made that impossible; my older brother returned from his time in the wilderness (managing a grocery store, doing some ranch work, doing a bit of pro rodeo). He was ready to settle down and get serious, and it quickly became clear that he and I couldn’t work together. Quirks of my personality that others tolerated drove him up the wall, and one of us had to go, and well, he was ready to settle and get serious.

So I headed out into the wilderness myself. First, I did some time as a roughneck in the oilfields. Oil was booming in the late 1970s, and there was plenty of work even if you knew nothing about drilling rigs. Unfortunately, drilling rigs are very dangerous devices that can quickly injure or kill the unwary, and I was just unwary enough to be in maximum danger.

The Air Force recruiting office was open, and I thought I fancied myself a pilot. Not having a four-year degree lowered my expectations, and after some testing I was enlisted with plans to go to language school to learn Russian after basic training. The Russian didn’t take (I really didn’t study hard enough) so I was shuffled off to weather school instead, which was a subject that interested me enough that I paid attention, and soon I was off to RAF Fairfield in Gloustershire, my first duty station.

My Air Force mini-career was undistinguished. I did my job well, very well, in fact, but I didn’t have the right personality to be a great airman. I knew I’d be getting out after my six-year term. I decided to take college classes in the meantime, but that didn’t work. See, a really smart guy would have chosen a non-thinking job like the motor pool, where they’d let you work overnights forever, and you could take classes during the day. If you were on day shifts, there were night classes. If you were pulling 72-hour rotations in the missile fields or on the alert pad, there were special classes just for you.

But if you are working three-on, two-off rotating shifts (and often enough, two-on, two-off 12-hour shifts), then you constantly have to beg your fellows to trade shifts or at least come in and cover you for a couple of hours so you can get to class. I was also tired; I thought it was the rotating shifts screwing with my circadian rhythms (it wasn’t). I got in a few lower level classes, but not nearly as much as I would have liked.

Along the way I met and married a local girl, and we agreed I would go to college full-time upon my discharge. I did, and for the first 18 months I burned through the lower-level courses for engineering and computer science. There was one oddity; anytime I had an afternoon class, I did badly; I blamed it on poorly ventilated rooms.

Then my wife lost her job, and she decided to go back to school full-time. That meant I needed to start bringing home more money, and I wound up working about 60 hours a week. My grades collapsed, and I was out of college once more, with about two-thirds of my degree finished. I continued to work in whatever jobs I could find. Fargo-Moorhead, with two large universities and a distinguished private college, was chock full of underemployed people, and a bachelor’s degree was considered a basic requirement for a receptionist’s job. If you had no degree, you did blue-collar work. That’s what I did, to keep food on the table.

But in one of my jobs, I was having real difficulty doing anything that required me to work on a computer. No matter how much coffee I drank, I was so drowsy I was useless. Someone suggested to me a possible diagnosis: sleep apnea, a condition where the person stops breathing many times during the night, followed by a gasping restart. With sleep apnea, the person never gets any deep sleep. So I scheduled the sleep study, and did it.

The result was that I didn’t have sleep apnea. I wasn’t narcoleptic, either; but that was a matter of technical definition. I was just very sleepy, all the time, no matter how much sleep I got the night before. What’s more, it was congenital and idiopathic; it had been with me all of my life. That certainly explained a lot.

The great thing was, there was a pill for it; Ritalin. Just enough (5 mg) to cancel out the drowsiness, it was like my brain was laser-powered. I could think clearly, concentrate easily, and didn’t yawn my way through meetings.

Unfortunately, there are also some side effects. Some consider them minor, but I disliked them enough that I’ve gone off Ritalin several times, and gone back to work that lets me keep on my feet. I enjoy that kind of work, even though it pays less than other jobs. But I’m getting older and creakier, and my body will tolerate less and less of the battering.

So, I’m going to go back on the Ritalin, and I’ll probably be soon helming a desk and a computer. This time around, I’ll probably hook up with one of the local colleges, and finish up my bachelor’s degree; math sounds like it would be fun. I’d also like to do some graduate study in economics. Money is an odd concept, and very few people really understand it. I would like to understand it better. And did I mention languages? Irish, and Scots Gaelic for comparison. My wife has a lifelong love of German, and it would be nice to give her someone to talk with. Latin, just to impress the toffs.

And then I shall be less undereducated.

That’s change you can believe in, baby!

(Thanks to Nice Deb)

UPDATE: I’ve been informed by the conscience of the Left that the above poster with Barack Obama’s face photoshopped onto the poster for the movie Air Force One is racist, or mean, or something. However, this, apparently, is perfectly acceptable:

Lefty-approved image of Ann Coulter

As is this one:

I’ll be anxiously awaiting the judgement of enlightened lefties as to any other standards of illustration!

end update

It could be a harbinger of things to come.

$329,000 for this little photo op. Just imagine if GWB had done this.

UPDATE: Here’s what $329,000 $357,000 allegedly bought:

I find that pretty hard to believe. It’s a badly framed, badly lighted photo. The Air Force has people who can do absolutely amazing, stunning photography. They don’t produce work that looks like it was taken with the escort pilot’s digital pocket camera. Further, the commenters at Althouse’s place suggest that the EXIM data shows that this picture was photoshopped.

They did not spend a third of a million dollars to get crappy shots from the cockpit of an F-16. So what were they really doing?

end update

And they knew it would cause panic! And still they went ahead.

(editor’s note: Yes, I know that it’s not Air Force One when the president isn’t aboard. It’s merely a VC-25. Of course, it’s one of two VC-25s that carry the presidential colors. But some are asking: just who was aboard?)

Iowahawk has a special award for the president in honor of Earth Day!

I’ve thought a lot about the Miss USA contest recently, and the reactions among the left, and the Miss California officials. I know that the purpose of these pageants is to make money for the organizers via corporate sponsorships, and that they are all about the business, not virtue and fair play. Still, the amazing nastiness directed at (for now) Miss California Carrie Prejean for honestly answering a question that should never have been asked, by a man who should never have been chosen as a judge, is quite amazing.

In the days following the pageant, I expected the Miss USA officials to come out and say something like, “gosh, what were we thinking, naming a vulgar gossipmonger as a judge for a beauty pageant?” Instead, the other judges fell in line behind the jerk, and even Donald Trump, who owns the pageant, issued a statement in support of the judges. The message was clear: We’re not about promoting beautiful women with admirable qualities. Lie in order to win, and everything will be fine.

Worse was the unsubtle sniping campaign from the officials of the Miss California pageant, whom one would normally presume to defend their pageant winner. Instead, they have tried to force her to apologize, and then they leaked information that the CA pageant had paid for a boob job for Carrie (I’m old enough to remember when the rumor of a boob job would disqualify a contestant; these days they’re mandatory). Now they have a mildly racy (you see more on the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition cover) photo of Prejean, and are making noises that the existence of the photo is enough to take back her Miss California crown.

This is a bit rich, considering that one of the officials is Shanna Moakler, a former pageant competitor who hasn’t been shy about posing fully nude. I was also surprised to learn that at least half the judges in the Miss USA pageant were gay, as is the director of the Miss California pageant. I guess I shouldn’t have been; where there are tall, leggy women in designer clothes strutting around on stage, there will be gay men, and lots of them.

So I was relieved to discover that some folks agree with me, and their take on it is better than mine.

StraightShooter:

You know, there are days when you just have to say to other poofs “fuck off, you self-centred, self-absorbed, nasty and arrogant shits.”

(via Tim Blair)

Better yet, Alison illustrates the total moral bankruptcy of the feminist movement, which long ago abandoned its principles for the illusion of political power:

She should be a feminist hero. Carrie Prejean in that moment, was the silly pretty little woman being ridden roughshot over by a hyper-sexual mysoginist in full powerplay. Deeply ironic when you consider the contest she was in. But then transferring the reigns to gay men to judge that crap never really changed the goalposts for me. And liberals have never really been at the heart of “feminism”.

Both are good essays worthy of a complete read.

On the one hand, when you hang yourself out to be judged in public, you have to expect that a few slings and arrows may come your way. But Carrie Prejean just answered a question honestly and truthfully. She has handled all of the controversy since in a remarkably graceful way, unlike the pageant officials or the judges. Bravo, Carrie; for that.

Of course, the really interesting question is: who actually won the pageant? Can you remember either the state, or the name of the contestant? Poor gal; she’ll always be remembered as the girl who won because an obnoxious gay rumormonger trashed the girl who should have won. If she had any integrity, she would have given up the crown when she learned what happened.

But as we’ve seen, integrity is not a hallmark of the pageant world.

UPDATE: Malaria, eh? Well, it fits the symptoms, except for my lack of jaundice. And the fact that my first bout of this happened in that third-world haven of Anopheles known as Fargo, North Dakota…well, it could have arrived in a mosquito hiding in a bunch of bananas.

You’d want it to be malaria, wouldn’t you? Then I’d be reduced to sitting in some joint in the tropics, drinking gin and tonic, and filing dispatches to London. I’m heading to Goodwill later to look for a white linen suit.

The gin would be an issue. I do still get migraines from alcohol. But the ibuprofen I’m taking for the knee pain would help with the migraines, wouldn’t it? I’d just get mild headaches, and be generally irascible.

In truth I haven’t been to the doctor this time around, because last time the doctor acknowledged what I already knew; it was viral, and thus not treatable with antibiotics. And it’s apparently not contagious. So I just have to drip and shiver a while longer, and then I’ll be back to my sunny self. Really, it just looks scary.

And thank you all for your good wishes.

end update

I’ve managed to reacquire a persistent little virus that I last saw about 15 years ago. The symptoms are fairly simple; a week or so of increasing malaise, followed by a week or so of alternating bouts of clothes-soaking sweats, and paralyzing chills and shivering. This time around, my knees are aching badly enough to keep me awake at night, but I’m not sure if that’s the virus, or just the fact I’ve been doing a lot of work on low shelves on concrete in the last month.

Ibuprofen solves the knees, for three hours at a time. For the rest of it, the way to cure is to endure. No pill is going to cure my ill. In the meantime, it can be really annoying to those around me; I can be sitting indoors wearing a coat and hat, with my arms wrapped around me, and fifteen minutes later sweat is running down my face and I need to sit on a towel to protect the furniture.

These images disturb some folks. I understand why. The interesting thing is that it’s not contagious; no one around me has gotten it. I can actually even work while I have it; I’m not as productive, but if people don’t mind the sweaty shivery guy nearby, then the work can get done.

Everyone seems to believe that they themselves are a good driver. It’s everyone else that’s a maniac, or a grandmother. I don’t have that problem. I know I’m adequately skilled, but I’m not a great driver.

And because of that, I drive carefully. A really skilled driver can take a lot of chances, like tailgaiting a semi at 70 mph, or passing on the right in an intersection because the driver ahead is stopped waiting to turn left. Those razor-sharp reflexes and mad handling skilz really come in handy when the truck driver has to stand on the brakes because some other good driver has cut into the trucker’s lane in an attempt to shave 4.3 seconds off the commute.

One can always tell the good drivers, because they pay high insurance premiums. I haven’t had a moving violation since 1978, and it shows in my insurance rates. I don’t have that pride that some drivers demonstrate when they brag about how many hundred dollars a month they have to pay. My rate is just a hair over $50 a month (full coverage); and I don’t get any multi-policy discounts. Its a source of shame for me, but not enough of one to make me do something about it like get a few speeding tickets.

I watch the lights ahead, and adjust my speed to anticipate changes. If there’s a series of synchronized lights, I’ll figure out the optimum speed and drive it. It’s not that my truck doesn’t have some pep, or good brakes. It does. But I’m cheap, and I like to stretch my mileage. I succeed, too; I generally get ten percent better than the EPA highway ratings for my truck even in city driving.

I do admire the good drivers. When a good driver pulls up to within five feet of my rear bumper at highway speed, I’ll enjoy watching the driver twitch and grind his teeth. It can’t be good for that driver’s blood pressure, but I appreciate how the driver will sacrifice good health in order to arrive at that next light five seconds before I do.

I don’t use my horn much, either. I know, it’s a hallmark of good driving ability to lay on the horn a half-second after the light turns green. I guess I’m too lazy to reach my thumb over to hit the button. That, and I think we already have quite enough noise in the city without me adding to it.

Are you a good driver?

While I was looking around for some data on the spread of the plague in 14th century Europe, I found a nice little site that collects interesting charts and graphs. It’s called Urban Cartography, and the owner does a nice job of gathering interesting stuff. Here’s the plague chart I mentioned:

Apparently Milan lacked the WHO gentle approach; the Milanese solution was to wall up everyone inside any house with an outbreak. Crude, but it worked.

While I was looking around, I found a longer post on the Amtrak Capital Corridor, a train service that runs from the SF bay area to Sacramento, the state capital of California. This service is partially subsidized by the state, as well as having a federal subsidy

The host loves the concept of riding the train, but laments that the execution is poor. The employees are surly at best, the food is horrible, the trains indeed do not run on time, and the parking situation is expensive as well as punitive. Worse, it’s cheaper to drive an SUV! He compares it unfavorably to Korea’s and Germany’s services, as well as the east coast service of Amtrak itself.

His very next post is on the tea party protest in Sacramento. He characterizes the protesters as “mostly rich or otherwise upper-middle-class white folks from the suburbs who don’t usually deign to mix with the working folks downtown.” He then goes on to blame Republicans for all of our economic woes, including attributing subsidies and earmarks for Wall Street entirely to the Republicans (a myth that persists despite ample evidence to the contrary).

He also claims that such earmarks add up to 98 trillion dollars over 50 years. I’d be surprised if we had spent 98 trillion in total over 50 years. There’s also a cute cartoon that suggests conservatives live in Somalia, if we like lack of government so much.

Because he doesn’t think, but instead just feels, he demonstrates that inability to draw an insight from his two posts. It’s not that conservatives want no government at all, or that conservatives are unwilling to fund a certain amount of government.

What we object to is heavily subsidizing his hobby of feeling smug by riding the train. I wouldn’t mind a smaller subsidy for that train–if it worked well. But we’re shelling out a lot of money for bad food and surly staff. Amtrak California knows it’s going to get the subsidy, year in and year out, and doesn’t even bother to try to make the service work.

How about we cut Amtrak out of the picture? Sure, we can offer a subisidy; but let’s make it half of what it is now, and we’ll put the job out to competitive bid. Let’s find some hard-working enterpreneur out there who believes he or she can offer better service and still make money. That’s the conservative way; our urban host gets his train ride, and he gets to enjoy it, instead of enduring it.

Daphne had a great post on how some very decent guys get rolled by the women they marry. The comments are very illuminating also; read the whole thing if you haven’t already (she adds some humorous fuel to the fire here; don’t miss it).

Just lately Elizabeth Edwards has broken her silence to go out on the chat shows and tell us all how shocked she was to discover her husband, former senator and vice-presidential and presidential candidate John Edwards, is a shallow, manipulative liar and cheater.

Now there’s a lot of us who saw him for that pretty much from day one of his national career. But there are millions of people who felt differently, and who thought he was sensitive, caring and thoughtful. It’s very similar to the self-deception people practice with President Obama; despite ample (and growing) evidence that he’s a ruthless, opportunistic, narcissistic bully, millions continue to insist he’s some sort of higher being.

Kurt Schlicter, writing at Big Hollywood, says that Elizabeth Edwards, far from being a victim, is instead an enabler (if not a co-conspirator). I know what he means; I’ve thought the same thing about Hilary Clinton and her husband’s repeated indiscretions. She knew, early and before she married him, what sort of guy he was.

Is it something about the liberal female mindset?

I’m working some very long hours right now, and there ain’t gonna be no posts or replies to comments for a few days.