Can't leave this scene behind

If I was going to play a joke on somebody, I would ask them to take my shift for "ordering open office hours" and tell them its up in room 749 and then laugh as they sit there alone in a conference room with their laptop.

Actually maybe these office hours are real; someone else just came in. But that's not important. I got to program something really cool at the end of last week, so my job isn't too bad.

Flying is, for the moment, pretty cool. I flew from Seattle to some place on the coast called Hoqium, and it was awesome because I was alone. I didn't have someone asking me questions every two seconds, and nobody knew when I screwed up, and I didn't get a lecture after each landing. And when I was maneuvering to enter the traffic pattern, I got a spare second to glance down at the tiny cars on the ground. They looked like toys, as if part of an elaborate train set.

When I got to Hoqium there was such an incredible headwind that when I landed, the plane looked as if it was just barely crawling over the runway. In reality is was going about...23 miles per hour relative to the ground, but that's pretty slow for a landing. It was fun. Then, after landing, I was waiting at the threshold of the runway to takeoff again, with a plane just coming up behind me, and I notice the baggage door was open. I wasn't sure what to hope for--whether I should hope the guy behind me didn't notice the baggage door, or that he did notice and thus wouldn't wonder why I suddenly taxied onto the grass and stopped my engine. There is a possibility that the baggage door was open the whole flight, but it might have simply popped open on the landing--it was a bouncy one.

Then I got a haircut because I had a date that night. I somewhat offended the person cutting my hair because I told him I worked at Union Station, and he thought my building has a glass roof with a waterfall, and I told him it doesn't. I've since identified a building nearby that looks like the one he was talking about, but I've never been inside.

Then I met up with some girl from the internet. We met at a bar in yet another town around here that I'd never heard of. Like every other girl that has given me directions, she gave them in the form of "get off the highway, turn right, go through 2.5 traffic lights, stop on the corner and talk to a guy named Pete, he'll point which way to go..." while, like most guys that I know, I prefer to know where something is. I prefer to give and receive directions in the form of addresses, lat/long coordinates, and recently, radials from airports. Unfortunately neither method worked; google didn't know where this place was, and she told me the wrong road in her directions, and my GPS thought the bar was inside a middle school. I circled a confusing five block radius for an hour looking for a road that didn't really exist. On the bright side, she turned out to be an actual girl.

I think I'm going to try to have a life while finishing these flying lessons. I'm accustomed to focusing on one thing at a time. It helps that it will be cloudy this week. Might try to go salsa dancing again--hopefully all of my moves haven't gone stale.

Oh, also during my haircut I made two discoveries that cancled each other out: apparently I have a receding hairline, and also apparently someone invented shampoo that prevents hair loss. I would tell you the chemicals/hormones involved, but to spell them right I'd have to read them directly off the bottle, so just take my word for it. The hair cutter person could have been lying, but he suggested this nioxy stuff before I told him my office didn't have a waterfall in the roof, so I think he was being straight with me. Good thing, too. I recently watched some French movie called Last Tango in Paris, where this old guy with a receded hairline has a really creepy affair with some French girl, who shoots him at the end of the movie because he asked what her name was. I don't want to end up like him. Seriously? I shouldn't be allowed to edit my netflix queue unsupervised.

In summary, I feel like I am kind of having a life again, even if its marginal. I am technically meeting new people, and am sort of staying on top of the whole grooming/clean apartment thing. If I could just spare some time to buy a real coffee table, I'd be in good shape.

Stage Check Fail

I arrived at the airport is good spirits, mostly because New Divide was playing on the radio. I don't know if you've ever been in a Subaru STI with your foot holding the accelerator all the way while a Linkin Park song is playing, but if you haven't, you should put that on your list of things to do be for you die, or turn 30.

I noted, as I unlocked the cabin door of Cessna '139, that for the first time I was actually feeling confident about flying. Usually I'm extremely nervous or in a hurry, or any thing but confident. Today was confident. It is important that you understand that, because shortely thereafter I failed my second Stage Check, and I find that quite ironic. The Stage Check was going well at first, or so I thought, and started to go bad when the check instructor told me to pretend I had an engine fire. Engine fire's are kind of fun because we hurtle ourselves towards the ground in an attempt to either put out the imaginary flames or just get on the ground and out of the airplane. I screwed that maneuver up. Then we went to Bremeteron airport, and things really fell apart.

The north end of Bremerton's runway is closed, currently. Now, when I say the north end, I mean most of the runway, with a tiny little open area on the southern end. It wasn't so much a runway as a runway-tipped stretch of asphalt. Technically not a problem, because a test pilot can land a brand new Cessna in 600-900 feet depending on conditions. I, personally, have taken about three thousand feet, in any condition, to do a go around. And thats for the 1 out of 2 times I actually make the landing. Honestly I'd prefer a runway the size of Florida. I'm pretty sure I could land on that. Anyway, I'll skip the play by play but I made a number of mistakes that would have had my normal instructor, Matt, yelling at me, literally, especially taking off with 30 degrees of flaps in. There isn't really a direct vehicular analogy I can make to taking off with 30 degrees of flaps, but it would be somewhat like getting chased by a velociraptor in a convertible and only using second gear...with someone in the passenger seat yelling "Don't ever do that!" Actually the check instructor didn't mind so much.

This is the paragraph where I was going to complain about flying, but on the way up the stairs to my apartment I went over all of the whiny things I was going to say, and thoroughly depressed myself. So we'll skip that part. I don't know whats going to happen though. The theory that I would actually complete my training was based on the idea that I would have passed the stage check on monday.

I'm going to go play Rock Band by myself and then see District 9 with some friends. I don't really want to see District 9 again, but I do want my friends to think I don't hate them, and I do need to hang out with people. The voices in my head are always bitching that I need to be more social.

"Don't Taxi Anywhere Near That F****er"

It is a strange sight indeed, to be at the threshold of the taxiway in a tiny Cessna and watch a heavy jet with four turbines roll by. When I was five I had no interest in passenger jets: it was all attack helicopters and F-14s with the movable wings in my fantasies, however now that I've grown older there is a certain majesty to the big jets. For starters, they're big. They are also oddly graceful. Mostly big, though, and powerful. The jet that passed us had its turbines spinning so it could taxi, and we actually had to pause before following it because the jetwash from its probably idle engines would have been enough to...disturb our tiny airplane. It was an experience that I have nothing to compare to.

I think I'm getting better at reading body language. I think the cute girl that works at the font desk has no interest in talking to me. Sad.

My Rock Band guitar came, finally. It looks totally ridiculous next to my real guitars, which, by the way, I've started playing again. In fact, with a little more work hopefully I'll be able to record that parady of Taylor Swift's Love Story that I wrote. But I digress. Rock Band. It's really not that fun all by yourself. Kinda mellows you out. Playing the real guitar is stressful because it is a lot of work and I don't know many songs yet. Playing the plastic, toy guitar game is not stressful at all; I just watch the colors on the screen. I don't even have to pay that much attention to what I'm doing. Ironic I'd consider that to be a bonus in a video game.

Yeah. I didn't really have much to write about. I was just stressed about flying and couldn't sleep.

Rizo was in town for PAX, which I missed out on because I was "on call" and flying and also didn't realize it would get sold out. Penny Arcade is popular; who knew?

Did wrangle up some time to hang out with him Sunday night. We went to a show for some band called Freeze Pop. Or...no I think it was freezepop. That sounds right. Anyway, I had a good time and I realized I really need to get out more. I also remembered how cool some geeks are. Like, I was actually sad when we parted ways and I wouldn't see them again because they were that much fun to hang out with. I wasn't totally into freeze pop, but I am a fan of the whole small but alchohol-providing music venue idea. I bet there are some with music I like. I also realized I want to be in a rock band that played in a venue like that. I told people that night that I would choose which genre I played based on the kind of girls (and how many) listen to that kind of music. They thought I was joking :)

On that subject, I ran into this girl Stef who works at the Starbucks that I visit every day, not because I like coffee but because I need to get out of the office. And I'm falling asleep at my desk. She has tatoos on her wrists so when she puts her arms together it looks like an original nintendo controller. Rizo took a picture of me pretending to play her. It's on my phone. I was going to post the picture here, but the last time I connected my phone to my computer (to download pics of my car) some of my phone numbers disappeared for a few weeks, only to reappear after I recollected them all. So just imagine it.

Eight days of September have gone by. Time is running out for me to get my license. I still have to do three cross country solos, with one of them being a 4 hour, 100 nautical mile ordeal, two stage checks and a end-of-course check and before most of that: a bunch of solo flights. Plus, somewhere in all of that, I also have to learn how to do all these maneuvers like "slow flight" and "power off stall" and "s-turns across a road" well enough to actually pass my checkride. My intructor is already talking about scheduling the checkride examiner.

The World is my Playground

I found an awesome coffee/donut shop a block or two away. It has excellent ambiance: wood floors, big glass windows, and bookshelves lining the two story loft design. It is the kind of place tv people would use to emphasize something taking place in a city. In fact, when I sat down on the upper level and looked outside, I couldn't help thinking "wow I feel like I'm in a city." Then I realized how ridiculous that sounded, since I live two blocks away and am actually in the city all the time. Hey, I never promised to make sense.

I think I am going to hang out there more often. Not only can I just take a break from boring federal aviation regulations by looking outside, but they have donuts. I've also been doing some studying down in the lounge of my apartment building. I'd be there now, actually, reading this thrilling literary tour de force called "Part 91 General Operating and Flight Rules" however I glanced in there on my way in and there was just a guy watching tennis on the tv. I have no interest in meeting guys, and tennis has to be one of the most boring sports to watch. I actually found it boring while playing it, back in high school. I only did it to keep my parents happy. For some reason my mom thought that coming home from school and playing Starcraft for 5 hours was a poor use of my time. Parents.

Actually, and I hate to admit this, she was right. I can't believe I'm admiting that. I absolutely hated her harassing me about joining team sports and all that stupid afterschool activity crap, especially since I was already in marching band which took up all my time. Playing starcraft and diablo for hours on end hasn't really helped me. I know this because I still suck at starcraft. A South Korean player could probably beat me even if she was blindfolded and with her hands tied behind her back, and had to rely on moving the mouse with her nose. The only videogame I ever dominated at was Descent III. I was, literally, the king. I would fight everyone at once and win. Thats not really good for anything other than telling people I used to be good at Descent III. If I had spent all that time on worthwhile things, I probably could have become an expert salsa dancer, and taken a few flight lessons, and learned to rally race and learned conversational Spanish by the time I was out of high school. Oh, and learned the guitar. Then in college, I could have creaked along with the flight training and had a bunch of adventures going to Mexico and playing "All the Small Things" for girls in my dorm room instead of sitting around in my boxers playing Warcraft III. I'm just kidding, actually: I mostly played Unreal Tournament.

However the past can't be changed. I can't go back in time and use my time better. All I can do is look forward. I have decided the world is my playground. There are good times and adventures to be had. One of the first things I'm going to do when I have time for a social life, is overdress for drinking in super awesome suits and go out drinking with Luke. Actually first I am going to get a haircut and buy pants that fit. Then I and Luke and hopefully a third man are going to dress like James Bond and go out drinking hard liquor on the rocks, like in these vodka commercials. I mostly like those commercials because they use an awesome Black Rebel Motorcycle Club song. It is hard for me to take those commercials seriously, and I actually burst into laughter every time I hear the line "there was a time when men were men" but I nonetheless want to be like those guys in the commercials. Yes, I have been watching too much tv; thanks for noticing. Also, I'm going to be drinking more captain than vodka. And I'll probably be ordering Malibu Bay Breezes and drinking them on my way back to the table.

I also plan to go out salsa dancing a lot, and I pla...ok the only point of this paragraph was going to be to work in those captain morgan commercials, and to say that I want a night of dancing worthy of having this techno song for a soundtrack. According to you tube that is "Pjanoo club mix" by Eric Prydz. I knew a girl once who, like me, had a soundtrack to her life. She yelled at me for still wanting to date her though. Her fault for being interesting.

Oh, and nascent desire to have sex on a roller coaster is being added to my list of womanly traits that indicate marriage potential.

Oh please don't, not on my account

I think I've discovered a new way to spend my time. I always knew I could write a lot. I have a live journal, a xanga, four blogger (google) journals and an collection of blog-like facebook notes. Normally I order them so that the blogs with the most posts are the least likely to be seen, and blogs that are viewed the most (like my facebook notes) are what I hope are the most interesting. If you think I write a lot now, you should see the stuff I used post in my xanga. I wrote 19 pages about a girl once. I wan't even done, too. I started to realize that doing that kind of thing is creepy and unhealthy, so I stopped. I probably could have gotten that story up to about 21 pages, and this is all before double-spacing and wider margins.

Imagine if I could put all this literary energy to good use! Maybe I could actually meet people, real people, on the internet, just by typing words into my computer. Of course as I say this it is 1:18 AM local time on a Friday night, which means I should be in a bar, but I am too exhausted from my flight today. At least, I thought I was. I went to bed at 10:30 but it didn't take.

Oooh! My flight. I realize that hearing me talk about flying all the time might not be that interesting, but it is my life right now, and I really wanted to share this: I did a cross country flight and actually enjoyed it. I didn't get enormously stressed out and I wasn't sick of being in the airplane. During this flight my instructor mentioned he was evaluating my competance for doing solo cross country flights. This included things like making sure I wouldn't die if a storm rolled in and I had to divert to a different airport. Unfortunately, it also included things like not answering questions I asked. When you take ground school they constantly mention this thing called "using all available resources" which means knowing where you can get information, whether its from passengers, from someone on the radio, or from books and charts you bring along. I don't know about the next guy, but I consider a commercial and instrument rated flight instructor sitting right next to me to be a damn good "available resource." However sometimes when I ask a question he just shrugs and says "pretend I'm not here." It reminds me of people on the internet who tell you to google something because they are too busy looking at funny pictures of cats to answer your question. Often, the phrase "pretend I'm not here" is a euphemism for "call the tower and ask a dumb question." I don't like to do this, so my latest strategy is to just guess the answer to my question and roll with it until my instructor may or may not intervene by telling me the answer or telling me to call the tower with my dumb question. It's like a dangerous game of chicken, and I play it well.

I just plugged my camera into my computer in an attempt to copy some pictures off of it. That should be pretty easy in linux, right? Cameras implement the usb-storage interface, and most linux boxes...oh look, my Ubuntu computer just mounted my camera to some secret location other than /mnt or /media. This is a problem for me because I wanted to copy my pictures onto my computer using the command line. I believe that moving files from one location to another under normal circumstances does not demand such cognitive activity as to require a graphical interface, like the one Ubuntu just shoved in my face. Wow I really need to stop whinning about Ubuntu on here. I bet most of my friends stop reading at these points. The camera isn't even showing up with the df command. So my camera is mounted (twice, actually), but its not mounted--oh great it just shut itself off. Ok I turned it back on, and according to Ubuntu I just plugged in three cameras. I see nothing helpful in the df output, or in mtab, or in /mnt or /media. Ubuntu wants me to use some program called F-Spot to look at my pictures, but I can't bring myself to do it, because I know that F-Spot will probably try to copy them to some folder in my home directory I never wanted but which starts with a capital letter, and also because I know that my photos are stored as files on my camera, and I want to copy them as files. Copying files isn't difficult; I think we've been copying files since like 1976. We should have a pretty good handle on it now. Ha! I .... oh thats wierd. My photos, apparently, are stored in gphoto2://[usb:001,009]/store_00010001. I hate this. I hate it so much. I don't know what I hate, or who I hate for it, but I hate something. I hate it a lot. So my pictures are not files, but instead some kind of...resource to be accessed via a URI? Really? They look more like files to me. Like this one; this is a picture I took after a rousing game of Settlers which is definitely not as interesting as I thought it would be and it is named "100_0128.JPG" Who thinks that's a jpg file? So what I understand is, I can't access my pictures from the command line. We have an operating system here that can run on almost every device sporting an "on" button, but if I want to copy a file, that requires a mouse and monitor and an entire graphical windowing system. I've heard Ubuntu has a server version. I wonder if it just blue screens when you plug in a camera. I know of another operating system that did that....

Clearly, I should have stayed in bed. It was really boring though. Sleeping alone has always bothered me, not only for the loneliness but for the boredom. Maybe I should play video games while I'm waiting to fall asleep. Or I could put a coffee table next to my bed with a collection of beat up, month old magazines like the dentist office has. I think I may have insomnia. I've been thinking about taking sleeping pills, or just half a dose of benadryl, which I bet does a better job. I've heard you become dependent on them though. Of course, if the alternative is not sleeping I suppose it isn't such a bad idea. This is depressing: I think I just spent an hour writing this entry and it is so dumb I don't even want to post it. The only thing that can save this is finding a good James Bond quote for the title.

Goodnight

I just survived a cross country night flight. I never explained what "cross country" means, did I? Cross country does not imply you are flying across a political country, like the United States of America. It's more like flying across the...countryside. A cross country flight is any flight that departs one airport and lands at another. For student pilots, cross country also means going to an airport at least 50 nautical miles away, because otherwise it doesn't count towards your merit-badge-like requirements for getting your license.

So tonight we flew from Boeing field to some airport called Skaggit which was 50 miles away, and I actually planned the route myself. The workload in the cockpit was, once again, super busy and annoying. My instructor kept asking what we were supposed to do, and I'd take, I don't know, a whole second to answer, and then right as I was about to start doing it, or still looking up the radio frequency to use, he would point out something else I needed to do. Maintain altitude--do we climb yet? and where are we? and shouldn't we be calling Paine field because we're going right up against their airspace and we should have called seattle departure for flight following and mark off the time to the checkpoint do we climb here? That, right there, happened in about 5 minutes. Maybe 10.

Never got around to calling Seattle approach, or Paine field. Also there is this buzz phrase called "using all available resources." This means that when I finally understand how to use one of the navigation instruments, and start using it all the time, I am told to pretend its broken and use a different one, like the ridiculously complicated GPS unit. If you have a GPS in your car, there is a good chance you have no idea how hard it is to use an airplane GPS. Perhaps the best description is for me to say this: I've been using the GPS unit for a while now, and I'm still now sure how to get the screen that shows a little airplane on a map, marking your location. I think you turn one of the big knobs. Could

And then on the way back we had to pretend to get lost, and then we had to pretend to divert to an alternate airport. This was fun, because we were actually five thousand feet directly above our alternate airport while doing all this pretending. Unfortunately for me, my instructor told me I wasn't allowed to use the conveniently placed airport, though.

I have to actually do one of these ridiculous flights by myself. I think I am going to plan on going as slow as I safely can, just so I have time to think. I already tried to make it easy on myself; when you make a flight plan, you have to draw your course and mark all of these checkpoints, and mark where you start and stop climbing to different altitudes. I purposely chose the airport and path and checkpoints so that they would be as few and far as possible, and I would have the least amount of work to do.

Speaking of work, I need to go to bed.