I created a Blogger account some time ago; now I've finally gotten around to moving some of my stuff over there. I still have some old posts to move, and some of the photos may go missing until I move them to a new host. But from here on I will start posting there instead.

So, without fanfare, I ask my small but cherished readership to redirect your links to the new:

Dave's Logbook

Where you will find the usual assortment of flying stories, news of family and friends, and goofy pictures of my cat.

Thank you!

...about American Idol. I did watch it this week, on tape on Wednesday afternoon just before the hatchet show. I'm not going to rehash the whole show, just report on my impressions. I'm saving the tape for Gail, because some of the performances were rather good.

There is a lot of consensus that Bo Bice was the standout of the final three competition; I agree. He took the assigned songs and sung them with clear originality, and looked relaxed and confident on stage. For his song choice, he threw all caution to the wind: no backup band. Taking the stage in silence, he stood in a lone spotlight and sung a capella; and his voice alone, in near-perfect time and tune, filled the hall. Gutsy; and proof that he is truly a musician. His voice has a soulful texture, and an honesty that increasingly makes him seem out of place in this pop-music "competition".

Vonzell Solomon was voted off, and I was sorry to see her go. She seems sweet and likable, and has a vulnerability about her; yet her voice is so powerful. In the first few weeks she seemed to be struggling, and she still is; but I think with each performance her confidence and skill were growing. Look at the shoes she slipped on for this week's three songs: Dionne Warwick, Aretha Franklin and Donna Summer! Three of the greatest female vocalists of all time. And Vonzell did all of them proud, in my opinion; heck, if she released that performance of "On the Radio", I'd pick up a copy.

Carrie Underwood seemed nervous and uncomfortable this week. Her voice was clear and in tune, as always; but the oft-repeated criticism, that she lacks emotion, was laid more bare than in any of the previous shows. "Wooden"; "robotic"; "stiff" - all quotes from the judges, on her various performances. The two songs she was assigned seemed tailor-made to help her break out of this colorlessness: "Crying" by Roy Orbison - my gosh, Roy could actually make people cry with this heartbreaking ballad, but Carrie sat and delivered it staring ahead like an eye test. And "Man, I Feel Like a Woman" by Shania Twain is silly, sassy fun with a country twang - it should have been right across the plate for Carrie, yet it was her third strike of the evening.

So the "winner" (I'm inclined to use quotes where the notion of competition is concerned; since eight of the "contestants" are touring together this summer, and nearly all are already under some kind of recording contract) ...the "winner" of American Idol will be either Bo or Carrie. Not all that surprising; they both have the kind of middle-American heartland* appeal that got George W. Bush reinstalled. Personally, I would much rather watch Bo perform; I think he is a natural entertainer and musician. But Carrie is blonde and has straight teeth, and can parrot songs in the current country & western style with tape-recorder precision.

So there's no telling whom the voters will choose, if in fact the voters are determining the outcome. Simon Cowell should get a dramatic Emmy, just for showing up every week and acting like it makes a difference.

*So named because the brain isn't there.

My C.A.P. squadron had a major activity Monday - we went to the Pocono Elementary Center in Tannersville, PA to teach their students about aviation. We have done this twice before, in the last three years, but with much smaller groups of students. Aerospace education is one of the functions of the Civil Air Patrol, along with our search-and-rescue mission and our cadet program.

The principal, Catherine Sweeney, allowed us to fill four long periods through the school day, for all 950 (!) of the students, so we had our work cut out for us. We marshalled all of our cadets, and all of our best classroom materials and activities, and spent a long time working out the schedule and practicing the lessons. Many of our younger cadets were getting their first experience teaching classes, and in front of some big groups! This was a maximum effort; we had less than twenty of our kids and seven CAP officers to take on this large student body.

We also brought in some help, as we have before, from the local aviation community. Carl House and Dave Zahorsky from the Waymart Wings model airplane club set up a model airstrip and flight line, and brought an impressive little fleet of airplanes, gliders and helicopters. John Vogler, a retired gentleman from the Stroudsburg chapter of the EAA, graciously agreed to trailer his full-scale homebuilt aircraft to the school and give a presentation. He put in a hard day's work in the sun behind the school, describing his partly-completed Pietenpol Aircamper - a beautiful design from the 1930s, crafted mostly of wood.

In previous years, we had flown in helicopters; and also done candy parachute drops, to start the day off on a high note. The school staff was concerned about the liability of landing the helos, though, so I opened the day by flying over the school in the C.A.P. Cessna. The airport is only seven miles from the school, so I took off and circled until the appointed time; at 9:29, I dove on the school from the north and let the airspeed build up. At 9:30 exactly, I skimmed over the school, where the first classes were gathering outside. I did a low pass at high speed, over 150 m.p.h., and pulled up into a maximum-performance turn to the left. Not that amazing in airshow terms, but a decent little demonstration, and I climbed to orbit the school and take a few snapshots.

After landing back at the airport I drove over to the school, where our cadets were already at work teaching a variety of subjects. The most ambitious was the rocketry presentation behind the school, set up by our very advanced 13-year old Frankie Arnold. Cadet Arnold brought his model rocket launch pads, and made some impressive visual aids out of found materials; he taught four long classes, and at the conclusion of each called for volunteers from the Pocono kids to help him launch a few rockets. The kids were awestruck, of course, and today in our first batch of thank-you cards many of them mentioned his class as their favorite.

Three of our young lady cadets - Annalea Littleton, Julia Rasely and Grace Tighe - took on the task of preparing lessons for the youngest classes, the kindergarten and first grades. They adapted some lesson plans we got from NASA, which has many excellent resources for teachers. Using streamers, balloons and straws, they demonstrated that air is a substance and has pressure, and can do work. They bubbled with energy and did a great job of connecting with the kids, as good as any college student teachers.

Juan Montealegre, one of the youngest but most enthusiastic of our cadets, headed the class on parachutes; he and his comrades worked hard in the preceding days making dozens of small clothespin parachutes. They filled the second half of their allotted time with "AlkaFuji" rockets, made from film canisters and powered by Alka-Seltzer tablets. (They pop off the desk, surprisingly high, in a lovely frothy mess!)

Some of the older cadets gave presentations on the Civil Air Patrol and our search-and-rescue missions, demonstrated radio direction-finding, and our field gear. I took the last segment of the day to teach the fifth and sixth grades about the basic physics of flying, the "four forces", and concluded with a Q&A period. Afterwards, I had a semicircle of fifth and sixth graders around me, asking about our cadet program and how they can get involved.

All in all, the day went off as seamlessly as we could have hoped. The weather was beautiful, the school kids had a ball, and the faculty was very appreciative. I couldn't be prouder of the officers and cadets in my unit; they all worked hard to make this happen. I've uploaded some pictures of the day in my Flickr album here.

Yesterday I took a break from painting for an hour to mow the lawn, then went back to work. It's slow going, because there are lots of angles and corners and little pieces that don't lend themselves to the roller. I suppose they have lots of fancy corner-and-angle tools at the hardware store, but I am working with a plain old 2" brush.

And there are a lot of dark stains that are hard to cover up. When the previous owner stained the woodwork around the windows and doors (a very dark brown) he didn't mask the wallboard around them; figuring, I guess, that they were going to wallpaper over it anyway.

I'll probably lay on a third coat of white primer tonight and start the color tomorrow morning. I'm still trying to find a good material to cover the burnt orange backsplash, short-term, since I don't want to pull down the cupboards to remove it. But the kitchen is definitely looking less kitsch.

I just got back from my C.A.P. meeting, and rewound the tape to zip through American Idol. I'll write my report on the performances now, while they are ringing in my ears, for better or worse.

The two themes for the show were based on two distinctly American cities - Philadelphia and Nashville. For the Luther Vandross/Patti LaBelle Philadelphia sound, the contestants could pick from the songs of Gamble and Huff, who were present at the taping. I didn't catch any rules for the Nashville songs, other than the country theme. The Nashville round was first, and who could be happier that the first contestant...

Carrie, who sang the Dixie Chicks' "Sin Wagon" - and yeeee-haw, ain't nobody more country than her! The vocals and arrangement were as deep-south as collard greens, and Carrie grinned and showboated through it. An up-tempo song, and her vocals were perfect; the crowd was hooting in appreciation, and even Simon allowed that she sang great "...and we saw personality, too." In case anyone can't tell yet, Carrie is a great country singer.

Bo may be a rocker, but he's a good ol' boy, too; he sang Travis Tritt's "It's A Great Day To Be Alive". Upbeat and sunny lyrics but kind of a slow, lazy song; I thought he was drowned out by the band a few times. Natural, no mistakes and the crowd liked it, but Simon used the same word I wrote down - lazy, and he added boring. I just think this is a tough place to bring a slow song.

Something apparently happened to Vonzell the day of the performance; she was obviously nervous, and Paula and Simon both seemed to know about it. Her song was Tricia Yearwood's "How Do I", and her performance was obviously affected by something - her voice wobbled, she went flat twice, and even forgot a line of the lyrics. But she did fight through it, and the judges were obviously being gentle with her; she was crying as Ryan Seacrest talked her off.

Anthony sang the vastly overplayed "Already There" by Lone Star. A challenging vocal, and he barely carried it off; but the cheesy, phony choreography made the song totally unbelievable. Pleading eyebrows, reaching for the camera... gack. Simon called it "gooey", and that's the kindest thing he could have said.

Next it was off to Philadelphia; Seacrest takes a few moments to welcome songwriters Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff, who defined the Philadelphia Sound from the sixties well into the eighties. They wish the contestants well, and are happy that a new generation is appreciating their music.

Carrie led off again, and in the next two minutes proved the same point as her first song - she is a country singer. She chose "If You Don't Know Me By Now", by Teddy Pendergrass (and many others). It was awful. As confident as she was in the first number, in the second she looked like she strayed into the wrong neighborhood. The timing was all wrong, and Carrie seemed to look around the room wishing it was over. All three judges - even Paula - agreed that it didn't work.

Bo thundered into the O'Jays classic "For The Love Of Money," now famous again as the theme of the Donald Trump show "The Apprentice". I thought it was great; Bo really sold it, hair and mike stand swinging, sunglasses on. He put his own stamp on the song; kind of Soul Train meets the Allman Brothers. The crowd agreed - they went NUTS, it was a long time before Randy could begin his comments.

Vonzell was far more in control for the second song, "Dont Leave Me This Way," made famous by Thelma Houston; a tall act to follow. But Vonzell started off well, and swelled with energy as she worked through the song. When she hit the chorus, her voice just exploded into a premium-quality growl... "BAY-BEE! My heart is full of love, and DESIRE FOR YOU!" Then, almost recklessly - she went up an octave, and did it again! She might have been shaken up today, but her voice and that song just overpowered and made a great impression. All the judges agreed that this performance was much better, although Simon thought it was a little frantic.

Anthony sang... uh, the same song as Carrie? Yes, he also launched into "If You Don't Know Me By Now". Rather than sing it with style and emotion, like - oh, Simply Red, or anyone else who has covered the song - Anthony decided that maybe angry shouting was the way to go. He seemed to glare into the camera and pound every line convulsively, in all the wrong places. Simon stated that Anthony had "no soul", and was again too kind by far.

My Prediction: Oh, please, please, please... get Anthony out of there. I can't imagine that even the "votefortheworst" crowd can sustain him past this week.

In our kitchen, anyway. Friday afternoon I began one of the projects I planned when I bought this house four years ago; to do away with the Very Brady Kitchen.

I began by stripping off the funky, brown-and-burnt-orange, flower-and-bamboo (!) wallpaper that was lurking on the walls. I hardly needed the wallpaper removal solvent; the stuff practically disintegrated when I began tugging at it. When I was down to bare wallboard, I found that there were several repairs needed, so I went to work with spackle and blade.

While the repairs cured, I started painting out the red-with-black-mortar, amazingly-faux brick that covers two of the walls. (I have posted some before pictures, lest you think I am embellishing on the awfulness of this decor.) This dungeon theme was applied painstakingly, brick-by-fake-brick with epoxy glue onto the bare sheetrock, so there was no way to remove it short of a sledgehammer. The brickesque surface is taking forever, as the paint has to be teased down into all of the mortar lines with a 2" brush, and the ersatz bricks soak it up like Old Milwaukee at a frat party.

By Saturday night, I had one side of the fake brick done and most of the kitchen dressed and ready for paint. I'm doing the brick in semigloss white, which looks good so far and makes the brick look substantially less faux. The remaining walls will be a cheery pale yellow, "Summer Sun" I think, and then we will decide what to do with the cabinets. The lurid orange formica backsplash (sorry, hope you haven't just eaten) will have to go, but we haven't decided whether to paint the cabinets, or leave them for now and just replace 'em all later. They are not of any great quality, plywood and particle board, but we're saving up for more important stuff (wedding, honeymoon) at the moment. This is a low-budget, emergency decor adjustment, not a major renovation.

I'll post updates as work progresses. Those who are studying design trends of the Nixon era, or the morbidly curious, may inquire about the powder room or - gulp - the carpeting in the third bedroom. Gay males with diagnosed heart conditions may be asked to sign a waiver.

Sunday morning I met one of my cadets at the airport for an orientation flight; one of the hour-long rides that are a perq of the CAP cadet program for teens. The air was totally clear, but the winds were quite strong and getting stronger. I warned Justin that the ride would be bumpy, but he assured me that he was up for it, and further that he had not eaten a big breakfast. (I'm proud to say that in over 230 such flights, I have only had two regurgatory incidents, and one of those was a college kid with a hangover.)

The wind was 20 degrees off the runway, at 10 knots gusting to 21. An eleven-knot gust factor is considerable, for a plane that stalls at around 40 knots, so I made a shallow climb and kept the airspeed up. I climbed to 6,500 feet, just above some lingering daubs of cloud, guessing that the air would smooth out at that height. Justin (age 16) was able to take the controls and accomplish some turns, and we explored the turning errors of the magnetic compass and the relationship of pitch, power and airspeed.

When we descended again on our way home, over the Pocono Raceway, the air turned rocky again and Justin asked me to take the controls. I checked the automated weather on the radio, the wind was now at 16 gusting to 24, and fluctuating over a sixty degree arc. I tightened my seatbelt and had my passenger do the same, and we entered the traffic pattern for landing. I used half the normal flap setting, and kept about 15 extra knots of airspeed; having flown there for a decade, I know too well the built-in wind shear on the south end of the Mount Pocono airport.

All my hours of Tri-Pacer time must have me in good shape; we got down to a smooth touchdown despite the raging, invisible rapids of wind. The Cessna is larger and heavier, and rides the bumps a little better, but doesn't have the snappy control response of Zero-two Papa. We taxied back, slowly, as the wind was still trying to flip us over; on days like this, you don't stop flying the plane until it's tied down. Justin resumed his normal stream of chatter, and said that he enjoyed the ride; I did, too. As my primary instructor used to say "You can't learn to fly on the calm days!"

Since Gail has gone back to Canadia for a while, there to await her visa, she and I won't be watching the last few weeks of American Idol together. Gail has been blogging our reluctant foray into the world of Fox programming, through last week when she reported on the "Vote for the Worst" theory. Since Fox is not broadcast freely in British Columbia (and gosh, doesn't it sound better every day) it falls to me to tape the remaining episodes and file our reports.

We did manage to watch this week's episode together while Gail packed for her trip. Since the number of contestants is dwindling, there was time in Tuesday's show for each to do two songs, with a verse or two snipped from each. The two given themes were "Lieber and Stoller", picking songs from the five-decade songbook of that rock 'n roll songwriting duo; and "This Week’s Top 40 Hits", allowing any song currently on any of the current Billboard charts.

ROUND ONE: LIEBER AND STOLLER, WITH NO APOLOGIES

Anthony got the show off to a dull, colorless start with his L&S pick, "Poison Ivy". My impression was that he took a playful, fun song and sung it in the same cheesy, boy-band delivery that he struggles each week to perfect. He was wearing his glasses again this week, so he no doubt saw clearly the bored looks on the judges' faces.

Scott was up next with "On Broadway", which suited the booming alto of his voice, and with most appropriate lyrics; he defiantly pointed to Simon as he sang "...oh, but they're wrong - I know they are!" Scott actually delivered a credibly good performance of the song and had the crowd's approval.

Vonzell seems to gain confidence in her voice every week, and it is a great instrument; powerful and brassy. She turned it to the Elvis classic "Treat Me Nice", and gosh, why wouldn't you? Vonzell is just so darn nice herself. Simon was the only one in the room who wasn't impressed, and was loudly booed for saying so.

As he must always be titled, Rocker Bo was up next with "Stand By Me". It's been sung by better singers, but Bo showed that he can sing melodically when he tries. He was relaxed and largely on-key, connected with the audience - and left the mike stand on the floor, to the delight of the stagehand who has to wax it every week.

Carrie tried to stir up some "Trouble", another Elvis classic; but it just doesn't play, somehow. She can growl, furrow her little eyebrows and kick the mike stand over - sorry, stagehand - but she's still just a nice little blonde girl, although certainly one with a clear, dazzling voice. Carrie can't get in any trouble at this point, and the judges agree.

ROUND TWO: CURRENT TOP 40

Anthony sang some crappy Backstreet Boys song, without their harmonies and with the emotional depth of an Earl Scheib paintjob. Gail and I discussed the merits of our reheated Indian meal and waited patiently, with the audience, for the next act.

Scott proved that even with your eyes closed, he is still in fact a Caucasian. He took a swing at Brian McKnight's "Every Time You Go Away", but stumbled through the quicker hip-hop riffs. Randy says he pulled it off, but Randy is wrong.

Vonzell took "When You Tell Me That You Love Me", recorded by the American Idol kids as a group effort, and presented it as a powerful solo piece. The crowd was cheering loudly, we thought it was good, but Simon shook his head and declared her "vulnerable". (I don't think he really likes music, necessarily.)

Bo... sorry, Rocker Bo sang "How Far Is Heaven" by Los Lonely Boys, delivered in the southern-fried growl that comes so easily to him. Even Simon admits that it was a professional effort, saying that Bo made the others look like amateurs.

Carrie stayed in her safe place with "Broken Road", from the Country charts; I don't know whose song it is, but I've heard it, it's a male artist. Carrie sung it flawlessly, with the commercially-perfect level of country twang, but palpably lacking in emotion. Simon hit the nail on the head, acknowledging that it was beautiful if a little "robotic".

WEDNESDAY: A LONG TIME IN COMING

Brickable Ryan Seacrest tried his best to stretch 15 seconds' worth of drama into a 22-minute show, but no one (except Scott) was fooled when he sent the lowest two scorers to the couch and left the top three on stage. So Vonzell, Bo and Carrie stood up, and Anthony and Scott sat down on the couch. Gail and I have been raging at the screen for long weeks, pleading for the removal of Anthony and Scott, respectively; so one of us was about to be rewarded.

And this week, it was me - brutish, inarticulate, alleged domestic-abuser Scott Savol was finally shown the door. I'll admit, he has a fine singing voice; but I never could reconcile the rich, warm music that comes out of him with the mumbling ghettospeak and the prison scowl. I don't know if the beauty of his singing is something he merely parrots, or is really hidden beneath all the urban-Ohio trash talk; but in any case, he's all gone now. With any luck, the wardrobe people are sewing a target onto Anthony Federov's pastel shirt for next week, and Gail will get her wish.

(A bit of history geeking.)

While looking around the web for facts about the National Mall in Washington, I ran across the story of Pierre Charles L'Enfant, the namesake of the L'Enfant Plaza, among other things. His story, and the story of the genesis of Washington, D.C. are quite interesting, but I won't recount it all here.

Pierre Charles L'Enfant was a French-born Major in the United States Army, under General George Washington. He was hired by Washington to be the architect of the new nation's capital city in 1791, and in the next six months created a grand plan for the city. Six months after that, he was fired by Washington because he "forged ahead regardless of his orders, the budget, or landowners with prior claims."

Apparently, L'Enfant was a difficult genius; he envisioned that the United States would one day be a giant empire, and the reports of his original plan indicate that it was rather more baroque and imperial than the city which eventually emerged, being compared to Versailles and Paris. As his name suggests, upon being relieved he childishly took all of the plans for the city and returned to France, although he came back to end his days in the U.S., in disrepute and petitioning Congress for back pay.

With the plans gone, commissioner Andrew Ellicott would have been in trouble, but for one of his assistants: Benjamin Banneker, son of a former slave and a free black woman. Most unusual for a black man in that time and place, he was a highly educated mathematician, astronomer and publisher - even held in high esteem by Thomas Jefferson, who sent along Banneker's astronomical almanac to the French Academy of Sciences. Banneker saved the capital project by reproducing the plans in their entirety from his own memory, which were subsequently improved on to create the modern city in place today.

So the capital city of the United States of America was designed by a rude Frenchman - and a brilliant black man, in between two of the biggest slaveowning states in the country, Maryland and Virginia.

Late Sunday morning we headed into D.C. again, but at the Smithsonian Metro station Gail hopped off the train, while I rode on for a sidebar of my own - The National Postal Museum. It's located in the old Post Office building next to Union Station, which is a grand place that I will have to go back and revisit.

The Postal Museum is not that big, and lightly attended, as you might imagine. It takes up one floor and a courtyard, and documents the U.S. Postal Service of course; most of the exhibits would only be of interest to philatelists. (Among them: "The History of the Envelope!" Whee!) But in the courtyard they have three old airplanes suspended from the ceiling; in the center is an Air Mail D.H. 4 biplane, the significance of which I describe in my photo caption. It wouldn't draw much attention in the Air & Space Museum, just an old dun-colored biplane with no guns or bombs or famous pilots. So it resides quietly here, along with an old mail truck and a horse-drawn delivery wagon; I photographed it from every angle, in my own unique awe. I've read everything I could find about the exploits of the Air Mail fliers, and I imagined what it must have been like to pilot a machine like this, through all kinds of weather, across the nation. It was difficult and dangerous, and I'm glad I fly with the benefit of modern technology - innovations these pilots came up with to save their own necks. From everything that I've read, most of them did it for their love of flying, and I guess that's why I feel a kinship with them.

Having figured out the Metro system, I gave it a miss and walked back to the National Mall, crossing in front of the Capitol dome. My path to the Hirshhorn Museum, where I was to meet Gail, took me by the Museum of the American Indian, which I had never seen. It opened on September 21, 2004, and is a fascinating building to behold. The architecture is like a stylized Pueblo village; it was designed with Native American consultants, and incorporates a creek that was in place at the site. For such a large building, it is very organic; almost no straight lines, and well integrated with the ground beneath it. The redirected creek flows down the side of the building and splashes over massive natural rocks, before flowing around to the front of the building.

Continuing past the Air & Space Museum (which I've explored many times, natch) I came to the Hirshhorn, one of the Smithsonian's art museums, this one devoted to contemporary art. It too is an architectural wonder, built as an upright tube; the gallery floors are circular, and consist of an inner ring looking on the courtyard and an outer with natural light. The whole building seems to float in the air, as it is built on tapered pillars that lift it a full two stories off the street level; the space created under and around the building is unique and ultra-modern, yet very comfortable. in the center is a tall fountain, and sculpture gardens line the perimeter. I walked around it once, then went inside to find Gail, who was just finishing her trip through the exhibits.

We went next door to the Air & Space Museum for the last hour before it closed; Gail explored the machines that interested her, and I revisited my old favorites. Then we finished the day on the Mall in front of the Capitol, trying to snap photos of the seagulls and exploring the older fountains and sculptures at that end.

We will surely be back; we have only begun to explore all the sights in Washington. What's not to love - clean public transit, free museums and tapas!

Scranton, despite being nestled in the Pennsylvania hills, is well-positioned for day trips to some of the biggest cities in the northeast. Over the past few months I've been happily re-exploring my region with Gail, my peripatetic paramour. Last weekend we turned south to enjoy the spring weather in Washington, D.C. for a few days.

Washington would have been a short flight, under two hours, but the Baltimore/Washington airspace is still somewhat restricted; all flights must be filed ahead of time and flown precisely as filed. The penalties for deviation range from the severe (loss of flying privileges) to the extreme (interception!), considerations which take some of the lighthearted fun out of private aviation. Besides, the old problem of transportation; there are no longer any easy-access general aviation airports near the capitol.

A far easier matter to drive - less than 3-1/2 hours to New Carrollton, Maryland, where there was a reasonably-priced Ramada and a MetroRail stop. Washington has one of the nicest subway/rail systems in the country, so we were able to leave the car and zip into town, cheaply and in about 20 minutes. (What we didn't find out until the next day is that for only $6.50, we could have purchased unlimited-travel weekend passes! Oh well, that's what I get for not reading the machine carefully.)

Thus delivered via Metro to the downtown area, we emerged soon after lunchtime Saturday from the L'Enfant Plaza station - named, no doubt, after some French toddler who was somehow a key figure in the American Revolution. (Research is not my long suit.) We made our way to the main building of the Smithsonian Institution, the castle, and spent some time exploring the beautiful flower gardens in the cool sunshine.

Looking over the plentiful signage outside, we decided to make our first visit to the Museum of Heritage and Culture; to indulge our avid interest in things cultural, and because Kermit the Frog is there. He was, as promised, along with many other fascinating exhibits - such as Julia Child's kitchen, transplanted from her New England home. Admission is free, by the way, to all of the Smithsonian museums; and they are among the best anywhere in the nation.

After the museums closed, we spent some time walking up and down the huge National Mall, taking pictures and watching the sun set. At the new World War II Memorial, a school band played patriotic music, and we explored the area in photos. The new monument is smaller than I imagined, at least on the scale of the other landmarks on the Mall, and somewhat fragmented - it feels like they tried to put in a lot of ideas and detail about the great conflict, an impossible task. But it works well, very approachable on a human scale; and the complexity of it reflects the many facets of American involvement in the war - one which still shapes this nation's view of the itself and the world, sixty years later.

As the sun set, we realized that we had wandered a long way from the commercial sections of town, so we hailed a cab and asked to go to Chinatown. The driver left us in front of a chophouse which looked okay, but we walked two blocks farther and I spotted a sign: La Tasca, a Spanish tapas bar and restaurant. Tapas! Gail's favorite way to eat, and we had missed out on tapas and sangria when I was in Vancouver. We made a beeline for the door, right across 7th Street. We ordered two sangrias while we waited for the table, which was ready almost immediately; the dishes were all fabulous, and the restaurant has a great atmosphere and decor. A keeper!

I was idly searching for references to my Flickr photos on the internet; most of them are from Gail's site, naturally. But then I came across this entry from a blogger in Japan, and laughed out loud. Seeing Hugh's face among all that Kanji script was funny enough, but then I fed the link into Babelfish for a translation.

The headline: "The, the nose it is huge the !"

The caption: "When... with you thought, it was pattern."

Hugh is now officially world-famous! My thanks to the person who posted his photo - and to all his fans out there.

We wrapped up the weekend at our home base, bucolic Cherry Ridge airport. The weather was still unreasonably great, so I took my mother for a short ride over Lake Wallenpaupack - which was deserted, this early in the season. One sailboat and a lone fisherman were the only human presence on the long lake, not even worth going down for a buzz.

Gail took some more video, including my version of a high-speed pass; I made a low approach at cruise speed and flew down the runway at about 125 m.p.h., which is as fast as I care to go in my 50-year old plane. Then I topped off the tanks and put 02P in the hangar, and went to join Gail and Mom in the airport café for a buffet dinner, before the Cherry Ridge Pilots' Association meeting. This august body meets once a month to discuss matters of import to the pilots based here, such as maintenance and improvements to the runway, fuel costs, et cetera.

When possible, we have a guest speaker at the meetings; Sunday we met Bill Starr, a private pilot who is spending his retirement years as a volunteer copilot on a vintage C-54 transport. The plane, named "Spirit of Freedom", is a 4-engined airliner built in 1945 as a transport for the US military, and one which participated in the historic Berlin Airlift during 1948 and 1949. The interior of the plane has been remodeled as a museum, and tours the country and world to commemorate the event.

Starr gave an abbreviated version of a PowerPoint presentation about the Airlift, and told us about what it's like to fly the vintage machine. When he was finished, Gail prompted me to ask Bill for a copy of his presentation, which he cheerfully shared with us; Gail copied it to her Powerbook, along with all the period videos.

Later at my mother's house we looked over the weekend's flying pictures and video, and enjoyed our increasingly-competitive 3-way Scrabble game. (Read that as, "Mom and I are not getting beaten quite so soundly by Gail lately!) The three of us are also playing online games during the week at The Pixie Pit.

Saturday we slept late and lazed around the house until afternoon, then headed back out to the airport, as the great weather continued to beckon. I suggested heading south; we could look up some 'net friends, and/or visit my old chum Chris. Which is what we did, as it happened; Gail and I had dinner with Chris and his wife Carrie, and their little girl Kyra, who was pleasant company despite being not quite over an earache. We didn't get any other replies to our short-notice invite, so when we left Allentown we decided to go east and have another look at Manhattan from the air - at night!

My flying comrade Dale had recommended the Hudson River flight at night; it's certainly one of the most striking sights in the country, and we arrived at the Verrazano Bridge in less than an hour. Rather than go through Air Traffic Control as we did last time, I descended to below 1,100 feet to scurry under Newark's airspace, and we skimmed low over New Jersey and out across the dark water. (As I checked out all my gauges, to see that our trusty Lycoming engine was ticking away happily.)

The VFR-legal airspace is a narrow layer between 800 and 1,100 feet, and the uprights of the Verrazano bridge reach almost that high. I approached the bridge on an oblique from the southwest, then flew right between the goalposts and turned north towards Manhattan. The water below was dark, but everywhere there were lights; cars, highways, buildings and even the ships on the bay shone like diamonds. As we crossed Governor's Island I slowed the engine, flipped on our landing light and announced our position on the radio, as Gail carefully worked the video camera. (Some stills from the video are in my album here; Gail's journal entry is here.)

Air traffic was light in our immediate area, although helicopters crisscrossed the city and international jet traffic swam far overhead. I was busy keeping an accurate course and watching for traffic, but I still had opportunity to boggle at the massive city on my right wing. At 950 feet, several of the skyscrapers reached higher than we were. Seen from our vantage point, the city was a brilliant crosshatch of lights and glowing towers, with traffic flowing in the streets like molten lava. When we passed downwind of the tallest buildings, we were rocked by some light turbulence, and I held tight to the reins so that Gail could keep filming.

We kept on all the way up the west side of Manhattan, and after a while we crossed the George Washington bridge and passed east of Teterboro. I increased the power again and turned west, and waited until we were clear of the New York airspace before climbing up to 4,500 feet. The night was brilliantly clear, though moonless, and Gail dozed as we droned over the mountains. In 35 minutes we were back over Honesdale, and I circled and keyed my transmitter to turn on the runway lights. (Or what's left of them; many of the marker lights are out, mostly on the east side.) I eased us lower until the landing light picked out the trees, slipped into the dark clearing and touched down.

Spring has well and truly sprung here in the northeast - this weekend was beautiful, perfect flying weather. And fly we did...

Our Tri-Pacer had some attention from the mechanic last week, for a weak left magneto (there are two separate ignition systems on the engine, as a backup. Normally both work at the same time, but before takeoff it's standard procedure to run the engine on each side separately to test them.) The mechanical trouble turned out to be minor, and 02P was pronounced fit to fly. Still, I don't like to expose my passengers to unnecessary risk; so I decided to take the plane up for a short solo flight to make sure everything was in order.

Gail wanted to try out my old video camera anyway, so she stayed on the ramp to take pictures of me and the plane in action. The resulting video was neat to see; I've never been able to see myself fly from the outside, or my plane in the air. (Of course, when I'm out on the ramp, I always watch the other guys, and silently rate their landing technique!) The most striking thing was how slowly the plane seems to be moving on landing, and it does land slower than more modern planes. It was built in the grass-strip era, and like its ancestor the Piper Cub it can alight very sedately, at around 50 miles per hour.

The plane was running great, and apparently is making a bit more power now that the ignition is timed correctly. So I picked Gail up and we headed out for a flight around the area. We landed at the International airport in Scranton for some oil, then took off again to watch the sunset. Coming back north to Cherry Ridge, we did a touch-and-go landing back at Scranton - then, I had an opportunity to scare myself a bit. Climbing out of Scranton, I reached down to switch fuel tanks; the valve is out of sight next to my left knee, and invisible in the dark cockpit. About 30 seconds later, a most unsettling phenomenon - the engine quit! Bad news, since there's only one... Training kicked in and I pushed the nose down for best glide, and turned back to the runway, still well within gliding range behind us.

I got on the radio and called for an emergency, and was given clearance to land on any runway. I switched back to the left tank and pushed the fuel mixture to full rich, and the engine caught again; I kept on course for the airport until I was satisfied that we had power restored, and could run on either tank; apparently I had overswitched the valve in the dark, and the handle was leaning towards the "off" position. Feeling a bit foolish, I told the controller that we were OK and turned back north for home.

Gail wasn't too shaken up by the incident; unflappable as always. I'm just glad that I reacted as I was supposed to do, and that if had been a more serious problem we would have gotten down safely. And now, one more factoid is programmed into me: grab a flashlight and LOOK at the valve, when flying at night. I'm already in the good habit of only switching tanks near a runway; that little brass valve could always break or jam when you turn it. Healthy pilot paranoia...

We flew again Saturday and Sunday; I'll post separately, more flying stories to come. (They get better than this one!)

OK, it's Monday, but I got these from Mick's journal:

1) What's the one movie you've seen more times than any other?
Hard to say, but my hunch is that Casablanca edges out Star Wars by several dozen viewings.

2) If you could turn one book, comic book or other print story into a feature-length movie, what story would you pick and why?
One book that I've always thought would make a great Sci-Fi movie is Ringworld by Larry Niven. With today's CGI, it would be tremendous visually; and it features some great alien-race characters in lead roles, which would be an interesting acting challenge. But hey - we all believed Gollum, right?

My favorite books of all time are Asimov's Foundation series; but some Hollywood vandals destroyed I, Robot. And George Lucas shamelessly harvested a lot of ideas from Foundation for his disastrously dull Star Wars Episodes I-III.

3) Whom would you cast?
Hum - the lead character is Louis Wu, a 200-year-old (but young-looking) human. Described in the book as multiracial, a worldweary guy with a sense of humor - I dunno, Bruce Willis would be fun. There's action in the role, too. How about Samuel L. Jackson as Speaker-to-Animals?

4) What one movie would you like to see "updated for the year 2005"? (IE, a remake)
Gosh, it seems that everything out lately is a remake or sequel; almost always disappointing, with a few notable exceptions. I'm more likely to hope that they don't have a go at one of my favorites, as a vehicle for whatever emaciated hack is hot that week. (Please, please, please - stay away from Casablanca!)

Hey, I thought of one: The Flying Tigers. It's a true story, and a good one. It would be great to see it treated dramatically, without John Wayne's bombastic lurching around.

5) What one movie are you most looking forward to this year?
I'm with Mick - The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Pennsylvania has four distinct seasons, each of approximately 3 months duration. Around here, March generally conforms to the old maxim "in like a lion, out like a lamb" - and was showing every sign of doing just that. Until yesterday...

What if a mass of moist air came up from the southwest? What if it chilled down to around the freezing point, right where ice cream keeps the best? What if every area meteorologist mistakenly forecast it as an afternoon rain shower?

What if it descended as a wet blizzard - AT RUSH HOUR?

Here the trailer fades to black for a moment, then the first clip hits for maximum impact - oh, say, a semi truck toppling sideways over an embankment. That scene, and many like it, were part of my drive home from work yesterday. I've been doing the same 15-mile commute since 1997, and I have never seen such a godawful mess on the roads.

The precipitation started as sleet and freezing rain, then changed to fat, wet snowflakes, falling at the rate of 2 inches an hour. It coated the roads with an inch-thick sheet of ice, overlaid with slush, about the same as driving on axle grease. I left my office at 4:00, stopped at the store for a few items, then set about the grim task of picking my way home - along with ten thousand or so of my fellow commuters. What follows is an exercise in winter motoring survival.

My first choice was Interstate 81, my normal route and the most direct. The traffic report on my favorite FM station is no help: the reporter just made the blanket statement "Every road in the area is awful". Great. I tried anyway, but as I turned up the long ramp to the interstate, I saw a line of parked traffic over a mile long; I wheeled around and headed towards the mid-valley. It took me over thirty minutes just to go around the mall and hospital, about half a mile; in front of me was a logjam of cars, including two ambulances with their lights and sirens going; they were stuck fast, and I hoped there weren't critical patients on board.

At last moving away from the mall, I had to choose between the local Route 11 which runs along the river, and Route 315 which parallels I-81 and leads to the turnpike. Still no help from the radio; after five tries I get a cellphone call through to tell Gail not to wait for dinner. I briefly considered checking into a nearby freeway motel, while there were still rooms to be had; but hell, I'm a northerner - I resolved to push on. I chose 315, since in four miles it would reach a junction with the PA Turnpike and I-81; the 'pike is generally better-maintained than the Interstates, so I would have at least two choices.

315 rises and falls over the hills like a rollercoaster, was slick as Teflon, and bumper-to-bumper. Snow was falling at whiteout-rate. At every uphill stretch, we lost a few more vehicles - first, someone in a New Bug gave up. Then a two-wheel-drive pickup with an empty bed could go no farther. A new Lexus slid off the right shoulder - don't those things have traction control? Then the damnedest one, a big brand-new semi rig going the other direction. The trucker was sliding left and right, desperately trying to keep moving; then he dropped the outboard wheels over the shoulder, and the whole truck toppled sideways into the ditch like an oak. I boggled, wondering why he didn't prudently park his rig in the center and wait it out, as many of the other drivers did.

Amazingly, my little front-drive Ford Focus wagon continued to scrabble up the hills. It took almost exactly an hour to go those four miles. When I reached the highway exchange I saw that traffic was stopped going southbound, but creeping steadily north on 81. I joined the parade and made good progress, although at anything over 25 m.p.h. the car began fishtailing in the heavy ice and slush - the median and shoulders were littered with vehicles driven by the less prudent. I didn't see anyone stranded or injured, though; those who ditched were being picked up by the next vehicle along. I also didn't see any snowplows or PennDOT trucks!

Eventually I arrived at my exit and stood at the bottom of my hill, the last steep half-mile to my abode. There is another way to reach my neighborhood by circling around Lake Scranton, but it too was a stopped line of cars, so I shifted into low gear and pointed the Focus upslope. Following a minivan, we weaved around two more mired vehicles, and I managed to make it to my block! With a grin I skidded askew into my garage and switched off the ignition.

At ten-to-seven. Two hours and fifty minutes, for a drive that takes 20 minutes on a dry day. Phew! I've had some tough commutes, but this one deserves a folk song.

"I knew I should have listened to Artemidorus. Cassius is watching me like a hawk, and Brutus says I scratched his new Portia. And I can't decide to have roast chicken for lunch, or just a salad. If only I could combine them somehow..."

- Julius Caesar

Well, the ides of March are here, and I believe there are forces conspiring against me too. Gail and I had a nice weekend, watched the St. Pat's parade downtown and went for a short flight Saturday. Sunday evening things started to fall apart, though, starting with me. Hungry after our walk around Lake Scranton, I dipped into a dish of very old hard candy, and broke a tooth. No pain, since I had had a root canal on that one; but a sharp kick in the checkbook, as I will have to get a porcelain crown. Damn. This on top of car, garage and fridge repairs over the last few weeks.

And yesterday my mother went in for a minor surgery. So I took the day off from work to take her to the hospital and get her checked in, and Gail and I and my mother's friend Dave waited there until she was out of surgery. I slipped out for an hour to get my tooth looked at, since I had a dentist appointment scheduled anyway. I'm happy to report that the surgery went well and that Mom is recovering; today I'm at work trying to chip away at the backlog of projects on my desk.

Tonight I will be on the treadmill again - race up to my mother's place to feed her cat, swing by the hospital, then go home and change into my uniform for the CAP meeting. I'll have to wear my dress blues, because we are having a change of command ceremony; my squadron commander is stepping down after six years due to career considerations. Who's the lucky stiff to take his place on the hot-seat?

Yes, that's right, me. I have successfully fended off two previous attempts to install me as a squadron commander, but this time there is no escaping it. (Gads, didn't Caesar refuse the crown three times? This metaphor is getting scary.) I'll take the reins and do my best to keep the squadron running, but it's just awful timing what with everything else I'm trying to juggle. I expect to do a lot of delegating! Hopefully the officers won't slip me the shiv straight away; ambition should be made of sterner stuff, indeed.

Last night, Gail and I went to see a concert at the Scranton Cultural Center: Enter the Haggis*, a Celtic/Rock/Bluegrass fusion band. It was a last-minute decision, but tickets were available and inexpensive. It was a great show! The band played in the ballroom rather than the theatre, so seating was informal - around tables with refreshments available. (Bubbly, brewed refreshments - it is St. Pat's weekend, after all.)

Gail stayed up late to post the pictures and write about the show, I fell asleep - TGIF!

* Haggis is a Scottish dish consisting of a mixture of the minced heart, lungs, and liver of a sheep or calf mixed with suet, onions, oatmeal, and seasonings and boiled in the stomach of the slaughtered animal. This is considered by Scots to be not only a proud tradition, but actually edible.

I've had Hugh since he was a newborn kitten, just a handful of snoozing fur. I got him from a farmer friend of mine in the springtime; his mother was a little black barn cat, and his father was a "travelin' man". Despite having a tiny mother, Hugh grew to over 18 musclebound pounds.

In his salad days he was quite an athlete - he could snatch a flying toy mouse out of the air, four feet off the ground, in a vertical 360. Nowadays he's not so quick and lithe, although he's still playful for his age. He's sprained his back a few times, his right ear is withered from an old injury, and to my chagrin he has become incontinent - he pees in his sleep. This has resulted in his being evicted from our new bed, poor chap.

He has always been friendly and social, with everyone except toddlers and dogs. All his life he has followed me around the house like my shadow, and still parks himself on my person for naps at every opportunity. In every way, a most agreeable little companion.

Gail and Hugh have been getting to know each other, over the past few months. It's going well so far; it's a novelty for him to have someone around during the day to complain to when he's hungry (always) and to allow him a foray outside to blink at the sun, when the weather is fair. (He's declawed in the front, so I can't let him run free; he couldn't fight a fully-armed cat, if the need arose.) I'm glad to report that Gail likes him too, and has been kind and patient with the old bean.

He has certainly never been photographed so much! And Gail has really been able to capture his personality; Her Flickr album of his pictures is hilarious, and has drawn many comments; he is easily the most popular subject among my photos too. Last night Gail posted a photo of Hugh sitting at the table, looking at her Powerbook; within hours someone posted this picture of their cat, watching Hugh's picture on their laptop! Gail and I were in stitches.