Splitty The Maul Goes Sightseeing

One thing about travelling with Splitty the Maul, it's never dull.

Saturday mid morning Splitty and I hit the road heading back to New Jersey. My best friend was able to sell the salvage rights to the barn. He asked if Splitty and I were available to help oversee the project since he would be at work for some of the project.

My older brother had healed sufficiently to where I was comfortable leaving him to be on his own during the day.

I told Pat I'd have to check with Splitty and see if his schedule was clear.


Splitty was outside bringing in the trashcan.

Splitty's helpful like that.

I told him our services were needed back on the farm if his schedule would permit it.


Splitty jumped into the truck. He was ready to go immediately.

I informed him it would be in a week's time.


Splitty returned to the rocking chair muttering something about giving him all the facts at once.

Splitty is always in a position to help on a moments notice.

So we hit the road the next Saturday morning.


Splitty jumped in the "shotgun seat" and said, "Hit IT!!!!".

We took off like a bat out of Purgatory.


Splitty was not impressed.

I reminded him that I was the owner and operator of the truck and that I'd drive it in the manner of my choosing.


Splitty was still not impressed.

We were making good time. We had crossed over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel onto the Delmarva peninsula. About 20 miles north of there Splitty yelled, "Turn left here!!!!".

I thought we were about to hit something.

I cranked it. We didn't cut anyone off in the southbound lanes, but we sure as Hell didn't hit anything either.


Splitty took it all in stride.

I was out of breath from panic when I asked Splitty, "What in the cornbread Hell was THAT all about???!!!!".


Splitty said, "Go straight ahead. I want to check something out.".

Hey, I'm game for a side trip. I figured correctly that Splitty had seen something on our last journey.


Splitty was mum about the whole thing.

At least until we got there.

As usual, I told you that story to tell you this one.

Without question, Arlington National Cemetary is probably the most hallowed ground in America. I have no need to say anything more on the topic of hallowed ground. However I will delve into the history of the property for just a bit. The name "Arlington" comes from the name of the house. The property was settled by the Custis family in the 1700's. The house was built in the late 1700's in honor of George Washington. Gen. Washington, who passed in 1799, would not live to see its completion.

Excuse me. Splitty has something to add.


"Had George Washington survived he'd have been 277 this year!"

Thanks Splitty.


"Anytime ATM."

Mauls know their history, who knew?

Anyway, George's wife Mary was Mary Custis prior to being Mrs. George Washington. George Washington Parke Custis was the son of John Parke Custis. John Parke Custis was the son of Mary Washington from her previous marriage.

So how does this all tie together?

Simple.

When it came time to name the house it came down to two names. One was Mount Washington for obvious reasons. The second name, Arlington House won out.

Why?

It was the name of the ORIGINAL Custis house built in the tidewaters of southern Virginia.

The scion of the Custis brood, his son and daughter, are buried on the grounds.


Splitty had seen the historical marker on the way down on Rte. 13.

He was saving it for our next trip to Jersey.

We headed down the remarkably coincidentally named "Arlington Road". It runs on the west side of the highway.

Soon enough, we came upon it.


Splitty was feeling good about the whole thing.

We got out and walked over to the gravesite.


Splitty ran ahead and read the sign.



Try as he might, Splitty couldn't see over the wall. We went inside the brick fencing.









It was a neat side trip.


Splitty was pretty pleased with himself.

It was a longer trip than normal coming back up this time. The Nationwide series NASCAR race at the "Monster Mile" of Dover Downs had things sort of slow in Delaware.


Splitty was taking a nap for most of the ride through Delaware.

It has been a busy couple of days here. I spent today cutting three acres or so of grass. When your lawn mowing is measured in miles that's just the way it is.

Tomorrow, tire repair, log splitting and stacking, weed whacking, and whatever else needs to be done.

In the meantime, Splitty made Dr. Lloyd and I both "honorary Mauls" of the first order.


Splitty knows wood splitting talent when he sees it.

Until the next time, all y'all and all y'mauls take care.


Splitty's ready to roll.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

Jurisprudence

***WARNING! NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH OR THOSE UNDER 21 YEARS OF AGE! CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT!!!***

Editor's Note: Normally I keep the material here to an average of *PG13/R* rating.

There's no porn here to see, never will be.

However, this story is just too bizarre to pass up.

Especially when you read the matter of fact arguments, statements from both sides, and the basis for throwing out what has to be one of the most disturbing things I've read in some time.

I condone none of the behaviors documented in the article.

Personally, I hope he fries for the charges that remain.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

*****************************



Just keep this picture in mind.

Okay, now I believe I have heard it all.

Had this been some little known newspaper, with an even lesser known reputation, reporting this story I might have dismissed it.

As it was, I had to read it twice to make sure it wasn't some kind of a sick joke.

It's no joke mind you, it's just sick.

I'm still not sure how a judge could render a descision like this while maintaining a straight face or without vomiting.

It brings a new meanings to the terms "fresh churned butter" and "heavy cream".

From today's Philadelphia Inquirer this ruling from a Superior Court Judge in Burlington County, Pennsylvania.

Formulate your own opinions. Mine are reflected in the tags below.

Otherwise, I'm speechless.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

Ole Miss Chokes On Cocks

The practice of creating rankings in any NCAA sport prior to midseason should be ceased immediately. The numbers that come out are almost always wrong, are extremely subjective in nature, and ultimately are based on future outcomes. The nicest thing I can say about them is that they're arbitrary at best.

Let's take last night's game where the "#4 Ranked Ole Miss Rebels" took on SEC rival "unranked University of South Carolina Gamecocks" on ESPN.

The "#4 Ranked Ole Miss Rebels" fans were ready for some SEC blood. They were anointed by the "preseason football Gods". Who cares if it was a road game? Who cares if their opponent was coached by Steve Spurrier? Mr. Spurrier can get on your last nerve (and often does), but give the Devil his due. He gets the job done. Still, who cares? Not "#4 Ranked Ole Miss Rebels" nor their fans.

They're #4 in the nation. It ,MUST be true. It is in the newspapers and all over television.

Sadly, it wasn't true then and it's not true now. They reached #4 status, not based on their accomplishments, but based on the losses of others. After all, beating mid major level football teams such as the University of Memphis Tigers and the Southeastern Louisiana Lions is hardly the resume legends are made of.

Did that matter to the "#4 Ranked Ole Miss Rebels"? No.

Did it matter to the "#4 Ranked Ole Miss Rebels" that the "unranked University of South Carolina Gamecocks" had played the Wolfpack of North Carolina State and SEC rival University of Georgia in their last two games? It should have. NC State plays in a very tough Atlantic Coast Conference. The University of Georgia has been a SEC powerhouse for some time. Little old "unranked University of South Carolina Gamecocks" should have won over Georgia. However they had a touchdown called back on a penalty. Georgia went on to win the game 41-37.

Such is the nature of the game.

Guess who was more prepared for the third game of the season? Was it the "#4 Ranked Ole Miss Rebels"?

No.

A true #4 ranked team would have shown a lot more poise under the pressure. The coach of a true #4 ranked team would have made adjustments earlier in the game to get the ball to his best offensive player outside of his quarterback. Houston Nutt finally made adjustments in the fourth quarter but it was too late. The #4 ranking went up in smoke.

Sadly, it was "smoke" all along.

Sorry Ole Miss fans, at no point in this season have you been a #4 ranked college football team. Honestly, you probably aren't even a top 10 ranked football team at this point.

That's the way it is when your rankings are based on your last season, your upcoming schedule, the perceived potential of your returning players as predicted by "experts", without giving any weight as to whom you've played to date.

Is Ole Miss a good football team? Yes, I believe they are. They showed flashes of brilliance off and on last night.

Can they finish the season as a Top 10 team? Yes, if they run the board. I'm pretty confident they will beat Vanderbilt, UAB, Northern Arizona, and Mississippi State. The rest of the schedule is tough. It's conference games against some of the best in the conference. Beat every one of them and you have a legitimate BCS bowl team. It would be a compelling resume to present come post season bowl game time.

Unfortunately that's the future.

We'll see.

Now then, back to yesterday's game and the problem of unfounded rankings. It creates an atmosphere where reality can be hard to swallow. I offer up this exchange from a Facebook posting by a friend of mine. I've redacted the last names as a matter of courtesy.

Robert Q. : Are You READY!!! Hotty Toddy

Mike W.(me): Now leaving the TOP 10.

Robert Q.: NOT

Mike W. (me): The only thing worse than being overrated is being way overrated.

Get back to me when their ranking is based on who they've beaten , not who others have lost to.

I got "The Visor" by 5.

Robert Q.: Don't Loose the house...

Mike W. (me): Don't cry a river...Memphis can't take much more water.

Tell ya what. Bet ya a beer on it even up. i should be back in town mid to late Oct.

Okay, so far a typical exchange between an alumni (Robert Q.) and a realist (me) who happen to be friends. Alumni can, and often do, get caught up in the excitement. Unfortunately the excitement here was built on hype not on fact. I'm not an Ole Miss alumni and I don't get excited over hype.

I made a joke about the river flooding. Memphis has had a ton of rain the last few weeks. My friend lives in downtown like I do. He gets to see the river every day. I'm pretty sure he understood the joke.

I then offered up a friendly wager waiving any points the bookies are posting. A "beer and bragging rights" wager is pretty standard where I come from when a bet arises from friend to friend banter.

What happened next is a byproduct of believing hype and the mild superiority complex that comes along with it. A guy named, "Joe S." chimes in. I'm sure he's an educated man. I'm not so sure that the water from "the fountain of hype" wasn't the only thing he was drinking. So here it is in his own words.

Joe S.: Easy big spender... Q - Don't take that bet.. It sounds like a beer from him would be too watered down from all the tears in it..

Others soon responded to the post.

Dave B.: should be a good game------pulling for the rebels, want them to be undefeated for the hogs.

Kathy S.: Ready for a cocktail yes, game no. I'm assuming their playing tonight. Enjoy. Tell the girls we said hello.

It was nice to see others check in after Joe S. made his interjection into the banter Q. and I were engaging in.

Anyone who knows me knows I don't back down from a challenge of any sort. You want to play games with me? Game on.

Mike W. (me): Gee Joe, sorry you find the bet unacceptable.

Maybe next time I'll offer it to you.

Q knows us 48 year old retires have to live within our means....

Joe S.: Wow Mike! I feel for ya! If you can only afford to retire your car every 48 years, I can see it might be difficult to live within your means. That being said, I will have to decline the offer of your bet, as you obviously can't afford to lose the money. As a token of my appreciation, I will mail you a pack of kleenex so that you don't water down your beer during the game...

All the best!

Joe S. was still buying into the hype. Hey, the guy WAS excited. I didn't have time to play any longer. I was in the process of getting dinner ready for my brother and his family.

A quick Bruce update: His surgical wound is healing nicely. He should have the wound pack off by Monday. With any luck, we'll have him back in chemotherapy by November.

Anyway, with dinner out of the way I figured it would be best to put one more post on Q's thread. I wanted to reiterate my stance on the game and laugh off any hard feelings that might have developed. Seriously. I don't know "Joe S." and he doesn't know me. Hard feelings have arisen over less. If he's a friend of Q. then I have to assume he has some redeeming qualities, hence the following:

Mike W. (me): LOL Joe, save the kleenex.

Q's gonna need them to clean up his six o'clock after the game.

Thanks for the kind offer to help save money, but I'm doing just fine.

Just do old Mike a favor. Keep paying your Social Security taxes because I'm done.

Vindication would be mine by the end of the game. I decided I'd go back and "kick the bear" one time just to celebrate.

Mike W. (me): AHHHHH......HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!

Okay, so it is not the most eloquent response I've ever written.

It barely beat out, "Who's your daddy?".

My hat's off to both teams. It was an entertaining game. I don't think South Carolina is a better team than Ole Miss, but at this point they're no worse.

Last night they were better prepared.

Something the rankings don't take into account.

"Splitty the Maul" hits the road tomorrow!

Can an episode of "Splitty In The City" be far off?

Will it look like this?

God, I hope not.

More on that either late tomorrow night or early Sunday morning.

Until then, all y'all take care.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

Another Call To 1-800-BAD-IDEA

Let's play a game of "Let's Just Say A Guy....", okay?

Good.

Okay, let's just say a guy goes into school one day. He's in the special education classes. Suffice it to say he's not going to be a captain of industry any time soon. For the sake of this excercise we'll call our boy by the name of "Special Ed".

One day, our hero decides to skip class. It's his decision. As we all know our decisions come with consequences both good or bad depending on the decison and the outcome.

Obviously very few good consequences come from skipping a class in high school.

The teacher does what she's obligated to do by the terms of her employment. She writes up our good friend, "Special Ed".

So what does "Special Ed" do? He could:

1. Accept responsibilty for his actions.

2. Drop out of school and avoid the penalty.

3. Apologize profusely, swearing it will never happen again and attempt to charm his way out of punishment.

4. CALL 1-800-BAD-IDEA.

Here's the result.

As you could have easily guessed by the title, "Special Ed" made the call.

He decided he would take a gun to school and threaten the teacher.

Sheer brilliance.

But wait, there's more.

"Special Ed" had to make yet another call to CALL 1-800-BAD-IDEA.

"Special Ed" decided that he would buy ammunition at Wal-Mart before the fact.

Like an old friend of mine from New Orleans said about handguns once, "It aint a "heater" without the coal.".

Fortunately the Wal-Mart employees were able to see "Special Ed" wasn't the sort of guy who should be owning ammunition.

So now, there's our hero, fresh out of morals, self respect, and ammunition. He STILL has the chance to revisit his decision. Did our hero take the opportunity to calm down and look at the situation rationally?

Not a chance.

"Hello, is this 1-800-BAD-IDEA?"

Why yes "Special Ed", yes it is indeed.

"Special Ed" takes the gun to school with the predictable results.

He's held without bond, gets an attorney, and some forensic psychiatric evaluations.

As you can see from the next section, "Ed" got his test results back.

He also got a court date for a bail hearing.

He also had the presence of mind to call 1-800-BAD-IDEA.

He should have probably called his attorney instead.

From the news article written by Kate Howard, published by tennessean.com:

"He continued to talk about wanting his teacher dead, a threat he voiced to jail staff over the course of months. He told the doctor he liked killing people and murder. He wanted her to know he played with real guns.

"He was very angry," Brown said. "He wants everyone's attention."

And in court for a bond hearing on his attempted murder case Wednesday, Al-Mosawi wore the yellow jumpsuit of the Davidson County jail's special management unit — with "Thug Life" and "(Expletive) The Police" handwritten in pen on the back."

"Thug Life"?

"Fuck The Police"?

Tupac Shakur, please meet your newest bestest friend "Special Ed". Careful Tupac, he's an angry young man.

Oops. My bad. Tupac made his phone call to 1-800-BAD-IDEA back in September, 1996. Seems he was an angry young man too. Maybe "Ed" and Tupac will meet one day soon.

In the meantime, that's okay Tupac, no need to be "Special Ed"'s guardian angel. He's got peeps. He's says he's a member of the "Kurdish Pride Gang".

That, and a lot of cigarettes should keep him safe in jail.

If not, he'll always be in demand for decorating jumpsuits.

Sounds like a nice hobby for him while he spends time being some guy's girlfriend.

I'm guessing his next design for the back of jail clothes will be for himself and the other "girls" in prison. A nice orange one piece with the slogan "This Side Up" or "Parking In The Rear" written on the back of his designer line of jailed men's wear.

He's bound to be a hit with all the guys.

Bye bye "Special Ed".

Don't forget to call.

Until next time all y'all take care.

Air traffic Mike, ret.

Memphis Mayor Myron Lowery Disses The Dalai Lama

Just when I thought it was impossible.

Just when things SEEMED to be calming down.

Just when it seemed like all the ways the Mayor of Memphis office could POSSIBLY embarrass the city in front of the world were exhausted, Mayor Pro Tem Myron Lowery goes and does this:



He "fist bumped" the Dalai Lama who arrived in town to receive the National Civil Rights Museum's International Freedom Award. You know, the prestigious medal presented to folks such as Coretta Scott King, Thurgood Marshall, Rosa Parks, Jimmy Carter, Nelson Mandela, Harry Belafonte, Gen. Colin Powell, Andrew Young, Lech Walesa. Here's the list from the National Civil Rights Museum's website.

Apparently Mr. Lowery thinks "protocol" is a phrase used when calling in an expert.

Moron or a buffoon, you decide.

Either way it was an ignorant display. Shelby County Mayor A. C. Wharton conducted himself much better.

Oh, and if the fist bump wasn't a big enough breach of decency and good manners one should show a prominent world figure, listen to what he says next:



"I've always wanted to say, "Hello Dalai"."

Seriously?

What's next Myron, a wedgie for Pope Benedict XVI and ask if you can call him "Pimp Bennie"?

What about the second coming of Jesus? Are you going to grab a compressed air nail gun, tack him up to the train trestles on Riverside Drive, and tell him you just want him to feel at home?

The Dalai Lama is considered a deity among his people.

Jesus was a deity among his.

You DO know what "deity" means, right Mr. Mayor Pro Tem?

Well, at least Mr. Lowery didn't put the Dalai Lama in a headlock and give him a "noogie".

Maybe, just maybe, the National Civil Rights Museum can create a one time off medal for Mayor Lowery and call it, the "Memphis Freedumb Award".

This is America, you're free to be dumb. Even if you're representing a major city on a world stage.

I'm sure the Chinese government will be splashing this all over their network for the billion citizens to see.

They get to see how little respect the Dalai Lama gets in America.

Congratulations again Mayor Pro Tem Lowery, "Imbecillic Display" now has a new low.

Oh, and Mr. Mayor? Make sure you put that on your resume when applying for your next job.

Your next job sure as Hell won't be "Mayor of Memphis" pal.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

The Boys Of Fall

I didn't coin that phrase.

I wish I had.

It's late September. All of the Major League baseball teams have between 11 and 14 games before the season is over.

Today, starting around 5:18 pm EDT, Fall begins.

*sigh*

The season, long before I became a fan courtesy of not having been born yet, used to end on Labor Day. Then, as teams were added, in mid September.

Still, they were the "Boys of Summer".

Now the regular season won't be over until October 7.

Championship Series play is scheduled to start October 15.

World series play is scheduled to start October 28.

That used to be prime football time of the year. The weather up home in South Jersey would be crisp. Not the blasting, icy cold weather of late November through January. Crisp, like a good fresh Winesap apple from Sunny Slopes Orchard. Crisp, like a good light jacket over a hoodie day where the Sun warms your face just enough to make it a refreshing sort of cool.

Baseball should not be played on days as such. Baseball is the ultimate hot weather sport. Baseball is hot dogs, snow cones, ice cream, and cold beer. It's Fourth of July fireworks, doubleheaders, and Labor Day pennant races that mean something.

I'm sorry. That should have been written in the past tense. That's what baseball was.

Television revenues have reduced it to a reality series.

Sort of like "Survivor", but without the cheesy host.

What would Abner Doubleday think of the current incarnation of his little game?



"Damn it Air Traffic Mike, I should have retained some of the rights!!!!!!!! F*ck!!!!!!!"

Okay, maybe besides something like that.

Although I still call myself a fan, the baseball of my youth is no longer. I used to be able to name all the Phillies starters year in, year out. Today, I can name but a few.

Few players changed teams back then. Even after free agency first came into play, many players stayed on the same team for most of their career.

Trades were big news and happened almost exclusively in the off season. Farm league teams were closely monitored, players groomed to be a member of the franchise. The Yankees farm league team players were expected to "act like a Yankee" upon their arrival to "the Show".

Farm league teams these days are more like chicken farms. Yeah, you grow them, but in a generic sort of way.

Still, I have a soft spot for minor league baseball. The players are, in most cases, still persuing the dream of dreams. Lacing 'em up and playing in "The Show".

Sadly, "The Show" is more like a soap opera these days.

In the off season, the big revenue clubs spend like drunken sailors (Hello New York Yankees). The small revenue clubs sell the bodies they can, trade the ones they can't sign, keep the budget in between the lines, and pray for a miracle season (Hello Tampa Bay Rays).

The really shitty thing about the current game is how the playoff bound teams are allowed to load up on the available good players from teams going nowhere. It has further bastardized an already bastardized game (Hello designated hitter).

My solution?

Whatever you have on your rosters, from single A ball to the Major League team, is all you have to work with for that season.

Hey, Steinbrenner family, looking for a big gun to get you over the edge in the late season? Go to you friggin' minor league system. Let us know how that works out, m'kay?

Imagine what the late season would look like if the playoff teams couldn't load up thier rosters with the All Stars from the other teams and had to play what they have in stock.

It would level out the playing field (no pun intended) pretty quickly in my opinion.

It would also make the big market clubs pay more attention to the farm league system again.

I remember as a small lad, my maternal Grandfather who was a Phillies season ticket holder and a huge fan of the game, talking about these two kids that had just left Reading (Double A minor league) for Eugene, OR (Triple A PCL). It was an infielding combo that the Phillies had been working on for a couple years. They weren't great hitters, most middle infielders of the day weren't. However, they were a WALL up the middle and turned double plays like crazy.

The kid's names? Larry Bowa and Denny Doyle. From Reading, PA in 1968, to Eugene, OR in 1969, to their debut as the starting SS/2B combo in 1970, Philadelphia fans followed them as closely as they did the big club.

Unfortunately, Denny Doyle never quite fit in at second base, but Larry Bowa was a fixture at shortstop until the 1981 season.

For the record, DEFENSE matters in pro baseball. Mr. Bowa has a career .980 fielding percentage.

Told you he was a wall.

The man needs to be enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame yestersday.

Another kid would catch our attention in 1971. A big, hard hitting kid out of Ohio with the soft hands necessary to handle the "Hot Corner" and the gun to get it to first base in a hurry. We got a glimpse of what was to be in late 1972 and the 1973 season.

In 1974, Mike Schmidt hit stride, hit 28 doubles, hit 7 triples, and hit 36 home runs. To a fan base, starving for good news for over a decade, he was a Godsend.

In a couple years the Phillies returned to the playoffs. By 1980 they were World Champions.

I was there all the way. Watching games at Connie Mack Stadium at age 6. Walking into the Vet on opening weekend with my Grandfather, both of us thinking we've just walked into a palace. I listened to games on the radio. I watched games on Channel 17 out of Philadelphia. By Saam, Harry Kalas, Richie Ashburn became part of my extended family via the media. I just about broke down when the Phillies let Danny Ozark go as manager. Danny got us to the gates, but couldn't get us in. It took an aging, but rejuvenated Pete Rose acquired through free agency and a cranky, blunt, and occasionally sullen fellow named Dallas Green as manager. We missed Ozark, especially some of his quotes.

"Half this game is 90% mental".

Ask me about the Phillies from about 1985 on and I couldn't tell you much. The players changed out faster and faster. Opening Day rosters had become a joke. Game wide the sport started becoming a millionaire's game of musical chairs.

Sure, there were some bright spots. Cal Rpiken, Jr. was a class act from the day he hit the big leagues to the day he took his curtain call. I sat and cried watching the game he broke Lou Gehrig's record. Not for the fact that he did it, impressive though it may be. I cried watching the guy take a victory lap around the field, stopping to shake hands and sign autographs for the fans.

FACT: Cal Ripken has never charged a dime for, or refused unnecessarily, to sign an autograph for a fan.

He has refused to sign for those who were asking for multiples on memorabillia and other obvious "non fan" requests. I have never, ever known of him to refuse a child's request for an autograph.

Thanks for raising a good kid Mom and Dad Ripken.

Alan "Tram" Trammell and "Sweet" Lou Whitaker, the longest running double play tandem ever to play the game from 1977 until 1995, will always be one of my fondest memories of the sport. Detroit fans back then got to see some of the true greats.

This infielding combo was the last of a true breed. I pray we do, but doubt we'll ever, see something like that in the game ever again.

Today's game seems a bit hollow to me.

The Phillies are the reigning World Champions. I watched the 2008 Series because there's always going to be a part of me that is the little kid, walking hand in hand with his beloved Grandfather on Opening Day at the Vet.

The Phillies are currently leading the NL East by a comfortable margin.

I just can't get too excited.

There's too much baseball left.

We all remembered what happened to the Phillies in 1964. "The Phold" is still the worst recorded "choke" in baseball history

Maybe I'll get more excited as the World Series starts around Halloween.

*sigh*

Until then, all y'all take care.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

Writer's Block

Late Edit:

One of the many reasons why I miss the downtown gang. They are a talented and funny group of people.

Thanks to Harmony, Ryan, and the quintessential pitchman we all know as Mikey!

Ass Now!



Now, back to my original post frome earlier this morning.

ATM, ret.

I can't think of anything to blog about this morning.

I've seen it coming for a couple of days or so.

Even the gang over at Air Traffic Mike Heavy Industries, LLC. (the official social think tank of Air Traffic Mike) is at a loss as to what they'd like to comment on.

That won't last for very long I assure you. We're watching developing issues on the Memphis homefront. Standby to be entertained as we send up some local officials.

In the meantime, you can almost hear the crickets chirping.

So then, in order to give my readers something to do in the meantime, I'm going to send you over to a website I really love. They have games. Lots and lots of games.

www.bored.com has a number of things besides games, but they have three of my favorites.

Ever feel like travelling back in time to the Middle Ages and throwing things from a trebuchet? Hey, who doesn't like tearing down castles for entertainment? "Crush the Castle" is well suited for that.

Let's face it, Mel Brooks was right. It IS good to be the king.

Another favorite of mine is "Balloon Invasion". All the fun of World War One blimp bombing attack with the ability for you to shoot them out of the sky.

You might be thinking, "Air Traffic Mike, these games seem a bit violent. Are you feeling a bit homicidy today?".

No. Not more than usual.

I keeeeeeeed, I keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I like any good game of strategy. That's what both of these games are.

But then, there's one more game. It has no redeeming value whatsoever except that it is fun in a sort of sick way.

Still, it will occupy your time during times of sheer boredom.

It will also give you something to talk to your therapist about.

"Kitten Cannon" might just be the most vile of topics to base a game on. However, I must say, it is also VERY entertaining.

Now don't just stop there. www.bored.com has a ton of games, puzzles, quizzes, humor, and other stuff to pique the interest of most folks.

Me included.

Today's a good day for it too. Sis has a doctor's appointment, Bruce has the wound nurse coming this afternoon, and the refrigerator is full of leftovers.

A full refrigerator means only one thing. We're having "Fenfor" for dinner.

What's Fenfor? It's is when your dinner is going to the refrigerator, grabbing the leftover you covet the most, and fend for yourself.

It was one of Mom's specialties, especially when us boys got into all the extracurricullar activities that teenage children do.

In the meantime go to www.bored.com.

You'll be glad you did.

NOTE: As always, I have no financial or other vested interest in that website. I'm just a huge fan.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

That's Why The Phone Call To 1-800-BAD-IDEA Is Free

I'm not sure how many times I used that phrase in 25+ years of air traffic control.

I DO know that I meant it sincerely every time.

Sincere sarcasm is truly a gift.

There's not much going on today. The older brother is still in the process of healing, there's not a lot of news to comment on, even former Mayor Herenton back in Memphis is keeping a low pofile.

Preparations are well underway for Downtown Olympics 2009 (DTO 2009 in parlance). With any luck, I'll be able to get home to watch.

How could anything POSSIBLY go wrong when you combine tricycles and beer?

See what I mean about "sincere sarcasm"?

But I'm not here to pimp out the DTO 2009.

I'm taking today to post up mistakes, most easily avoided, caught on video.

First let's take a look at what happens when a pilot overestimates his ability and underestimates the facts at hand.

FACT: He's landing "upwind". Translated, that means he's landing with a tailwind. A very strong one to be precise.

FACT: Turbojet operations were NOT authorized by the airport nor the FAA due to the very short length of the runways and the height of the nearby casinos on the Atlantic City Boardwalk.

FACT: The pilot still had a window of opportunity to execute a "go around" and abandon the landing.

Sadly, none of those facts mattered as you can see in the video below. Make sure you take note of the windsock. It'll show you the direction of the winds and approximate speed.



"That's why the phone call to 1-800-BAD-IDEA is free."

Fortunately, only the airplane was damaged. Major Air Traffic Mike props to the men recording it calling 9-1-1 and to the fishermen rendering immediate assistance.

The next guy wasn't so lucky.

He installed two very powerful engines on his small airplane. The aircraft is a Partenavia P68.

FACT: Generally speaking it is a fine little aircraft when used in accordance with the manufacturer's instructions.

FACT: Apparently, he overesimated his engineering skills.

FACT: He definitely overestimated the "G-Force" loads the wings of his aircraft could bear.

Once again, the toll free phone call goes out to "1-800-BAD-IDEA" with predictable results.



Just a timely reminder about stunts. Just because it worked once, doesn't necessarily mean it's safe.

Sometimes it is the airplane, sometimes, as in this case, it's pilot error.

We use checklists in aviation for specific functions and for specific reasons. They help prevent oversights.

Sadly, in this case it didn't. Whether the crew used a checklist is open to debate. There's no cockpit voice recorder required in this case. All occupants of the aircraft were killed taking what happened just prior to the accident to their graves.

What we do know is that by not removing the yoke locking mechanism prior to departure, the toll free phone call to, "1-800-BAD-IDEA" was made.



I've heard some say the cameraman didn't do anything. I'm pretty sure that the fellow is in complete shock. I'm also sure that the ensuing fire is sufficient to keep anyone at a safe distance.

Now then, again I'd like to point out that not all "phone calls" result in fatalities.

Sometimes they just embarass the heck out of the caller.

Such is the case here.

FACT: The helicopter is tied down in plain sight.

FACT: This would have been the perfect time to request a wing walker to aid in parking the aircraft.

FACT: The pilot overestimated his skills.



"Hello, is this 1-800-BAD-IDEA?"

Why, yes it is.

This next clip is puzzling. I'm not sure who's at fault here. All I do know is that cow's are quite possibly the dumbest animals God ever created.

Am I saying even God makes the occasional phone call to "1-800-BAD-IDEA"?

Oh HELL no.

Flying in the face of God ranks as one of the biggest of such phone calls.

God made cows dumb for a reason. He also made them out of beef.

I'm emminently grateful for the latter.

So without further ado, "Cow vs. Biplane".



Next time Bossy, moooooove.

Another one bites the dust.



And another one's gone.



And another one's gone.



Another one bites the dust.

I'm beginning to think, after just a tiny bit of reseach, that cow's live their lives via "1-800-BAD-IDEA" daily.

With the exception of the "needs more cow" finish, I think you get my point here.

I fully subscribe to the theory that "aviation isn't inherently dangerous, but it's terribly unforgiving of mistakes".

I'm also beginning to think that God doesn't like cows.

That bears some more research.

Until the next time, all y'all take care.

I'm off to make myself a cheeseburger.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

Stooges Rejected By Hall Of Fame

This is just unacceptable.

Mind you, I'm a Roman Catholic kid not of the Jewish faith.

I can state that I have one cousin who converted to Judaism years ago in order to marry the woman he couldn't live without.

Mazel Tov, Jason!

But there I go off on another Air Traffic Mike tangent.

These men:



Jerome Horwitz, Moses Horwitz, and Louis Feinberg, better known to the world as Curly Howard, Moe Howard, and Larry Fine. Collectively known as "The Three Stooges", they were recently denied entry into a newly established Jewish Hall of Fame in Philadelphia.

Einstein rightfully made it in. That guy could play the living Hell out of the fiddle.



Well, and there was that "Theory of Relativity" thingy, too.

Barbara Streisand made the cut.

No, I'm not going to post a picture of her.

She's a self absorbed prima donna.

Screw her.

They passed over(no pun intended) the Three Stooges for her? Really?

Now granted the term "Three Stooges" certainly (or more correctly "Soitinly") covers more than three men. Originally the group was Moe, Larry, and Shemp (Samuel Horwitz). Shemp left the group to persue a solo career. After Curly was permanently disabled with a stroke, Shemp returned to the group until he died courtesy of a heart attack. Joe Besser and Joe DeRita rounded out the troupe's line up.

Unfortunately, regardless of whether they were inducted in the first place, Joe DeRita would not be elegible for induction.

In the words of Adam Sandler, Joe DeRita.......not a Jew.

So the case for enshrining the "Three Stooges" does have some tangles. You could make the case for inducting five of the "Three Stooges", or make the case that Joe DeRita was Jewish by association and induct him as an honorary Jew, or you could do the right thing.

Induct the core Stooges. Nothing against Joe Besser or Curly Joe DeRita, but when I'm thinking "Stoogery" I'm thinking Moe, Larry, Curly, and Shemp.

Being a real Stooge junkie I can even discard Shemp if they could only induct three.

Who wouldn't take Curly over Shemp? Curly was a comedic genius. His timing was impeccable.

My case for the Three Stooges? Here you go.



They were educators.



They knew their geography.



They were innovators in the art/science of flying pastry.

For the record, Moe Howard threw around 85% of the pies during productions. His aim was just about perfect.

How do I know that? Read the book written by his daughter Joan Howard Maurer. It has a number of family pictures and gives a true look behind the scenes at the Stooges. You'll also find the Moe was one of the kindest and gentlest of souls to ever grace the Earth.

Back to my basis for The Stooges getting into the Hall.



The sheer brilliance of Curly.



They took on topical events in days when the world was at its darkest hour and made the world laugh.

The Stooges in their own words:

The video can not be embedded, but here's one of Larry's last interviews. Note the picture on the wall to the left. Moe made sure Larry was taken care of after he suffered a stroke by getting him into the Motion Picture Country Home.



Moe Howard on the Mike Douglas Show. The Mike Douglas show was an afternoo talk/variety show broadcast from the studios of KYW Channel 3 in Philadelphia. My brothers Kevin, Gary, and I watched this show in its entirety.

It would be one of his most comprehensive interviews with regards to the Stooges.

Sadly, all things and people must pass. Comedic geniuses included.

Curly, the youngest, would pass away on January 18, 1952 after a series of strokes silenced and permanently seated arguably the most brilliant physical comedian ever.

Shemp would follow his little brother on November 23, 1955 having suffered a heart attack after a night out.

Larry would live through all the incarnations of the Three Stooges. It was his stroke that ended the group's remarkable run. On January 24, 1975 he took his curtain call. I kept his obituary in my bedroom desk for years. I wish Mom hadn't cleaned out my desk while I was off in college.

Moe the leader, the angry, frustrated, pie throwing, eye gouging, loud mouthed, on film personna who in real life was as gentle as a lamb and a doting father sucumbed to lung cancer on May 4, 1975.

Ladies and gentlemen of the National Museum of American Jewish History are these men not of sufficient merit to warrant induction? Barbara Streisand's body of work is undoubtedly one of the finest in show business, but show a picture of her and a picture of the Stooges to a stranger in Thailand, and guess who's going to be recognized EVERY TIME!

It ain't Bab's chavers and chaverahs.

On a personal note, my brothers Kevin, Bruce, Gary, and I always identified with Moe, Larry, Curly, and Shemp.

Kevin, our oldest, was Moe Howard in a Catholic kid's body. Bossy, stubborn, the leader of the pack hands down.

Bruce was, and is just like Shemp. Boisterous, gregarious, the life of the party. He can cut up and cut a rug with the best of them (when he's feeling well).

If our late brother Gary wasn't our Curly, I'll eat this laptop computer. He was a portly sort with a well developed internal "little Kid". He was popular with everybody and was the fastest wit in the family.

Me? I was, and will always be the "Larry" of the gang. Believe it or not, I've always been the quiet one. My late maternal grandmother might tell you "He's the glue that holds it all together." and I wouldn't necessarily disagree.

Our brother John would undobtedly have to be both Joe Besser and Joe DeRita combined. He's sort of part of the group but seems at a distance from the main theme. Sadly, that's all his doing.

But that's a story for another time.

Until next time all y'all take care of yourselves.

Here's one link for the road. It'll take you to a site full of some of the best of the Stooge's one liners and bits.

"If at first you don't succeed...." from page four still rates as the dirtiest line ever uttered in a Stooges short. It's also one of my favorites. How it got past the censors of the day is beyond me.

You know, maybe I should hang a pie off my brother's mush just for shits and grins.

I'll let yhou know how that turns out.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

"My Wife's A Grizzly Bear"

Such was my brother's pronouncement at 10:48 pm last evening.

Taken out of context it's a pretty harsh statement.

Did he mean she's got a foul temper and angry disposition?

No. Sis is many things. Two of those are she's generally a very happy and easy going sort.

Is she protective of her offspring to the point of ripping you into shreds and then feeding you to the family?

I'm positive she'd protect the kids to the point of death, but what mother wouldn't?

Is she 8 feet tall and covered in thick, bristly, brown fur?

Not unless we're all blind.

Like I said, out of context it is a pretty harsh statement.

Fortunately here at Memphis Mike's, we have plenty of context to spare.

So what in the cornbread Hell was he talking about?


SNORING


Bruce had developed a small problem the night before last. His wound had started to bleed. The last time this happened we spent the weekend at the hospital courtesy of an emergency room admission. Sis was up most of the night changing gauze and taping the wound pack. By morning she had removed the wound pack, cleaned the wound thoroughly, and packed it. The bleeding had stopped. With a scheduled visit to the surgeon today, and after consulting with the wound nurse via telephone, it was decided that the day off the vacuum pack would be okay. Sis would just have to keep close eyes on his situation.

Obviously, she didn't get a lot of sleep that night. By mid morning Bruce was fine. The bleeding had stopped and he was asleep. No such luck for Donna. September is her busy month at work. Her division at the Department of Defense is closing out their books for fiscal year 2009. She just stayed up and started working from the house here.

That's a distinct advantage accounting has over air traffic control.

By midday she had to get some stuff at work to bring home. I told her to just go ahead and stay at work. If something happened to Bruce I'd call her and the wound nurse for guidance. She took off, still on zero sleep, and stayed until the shift normally ended.

Bruce slept most of the day. He had a bit of discomfort, but overall had a good day.

I had a ham dinner well underway by the time she got home. Everybody ate, settled in, and called it a day.

Bruce went to bed early. Sis went to bed around 9:45 pm. I sat here and surfed the Internet looking for a couple of pieces of guitar equipment and passing the time playing $.10/.25 Omaha High poker on Full Tilt Poker.

About 10:45 pm I hear the back bedroom door open, followed by a sigh, and the sound of shuffling feet. Bruce was up and heading towards the kitchen here. I got up to help him to the living room and asked why he was back up.

Actually, I knew why he was up. The Virginia Lottery has two daily drawings in the Pick 3 and Pick 4. He's always up for it unless completely out due to the illness or associated medicines. Still, I posed the question.

"My wife's a grizzly bear.", the response.

He went on, "She came to bed and has been snoring ever since." I reminded him of the day Sis had and that her sleeping hard was a result of tending to him through the previous night.

He muttered something. I didn't catch what he said. He mutters a lot these days.

Remarkably, just after the lottery numbers were drawn, he went back to bed and stayed put.

Sis hadn't stopped snoring, he just had the last piece of info he needed for the day.

For the record, the boy snores like a freight train that just left the rails at a high rate of speed, and is presently trying to navigate a field of large rocks.

Sadly, his is not the loudest snore I've heard in person.

My ex-wife snored at a decibel level slightly louder than conversational yelling.

How loud is that?

She could actually wake me up from the master suite with me trying to sleep in the guest bedroom.

But that's a story for another time.

For the record, I too snore. I've awakened myself many times. It usually happens when I sleep on my back, especially on any comfy sofa.

Comfy sofa, snory naps are some of the best.

A night of trying to sleep next to a snoring partner is the worst.

Does a bear snore in the woods?

I'm not sure, but I'll be damned if I want to find out.

Yesterday Sis put in a full 24 hour day complete with sleep deficit.

He's retired like me. He napped.

So, if Sis is snoring because she spent the night awake tending to my brother, she gets a Mulligan.

Every time.

Until the next time all y'all take care.

Air traffic Mike, ret.

Yappy Dogs

Yappy dogs piss me off.

They're little "shit talkers". God knows they can't back up their bark.

The folks next door to my brother and sister in laws have two of them. They'd have to grow three times over just to be a couple of runts.

Mind you the neighbor across the street has a full sized mutt. Looks like a lab mix of some sort, but mostly he looks just like every other mutt. He's friendly to all and seems sort of happy to be where he is.

That's my knid of dog.

These fucking rug running, shit talking, nervous dogs next door are not.

There's no fence between my brother's home and theirs. There is a common fence that separates the backyards from the front, but the dogs have free reign of the two back yards. Bruce and Donna don't mind. Their owners are quite responsible and clean up the "dog dirt" they deposit.

Responsible owners aside, they're still annoying little shits. They eyed the dog across the street this morning and let loose a tirade of yappy little shit dog barks. The mutt did what any other big dog will do when shitty little dogs bark at them. He barked back.

Did that dissuaude the little dogs from continuing their lines of shit? Not a chance. Why would they? They have the safety of two fences, one street, distance, and a doggy door on their side.

I was just about to honor their request by picking them up and tossing them into the big dog's yard when common sense took hold.

I figured it would be my luck that the big dog would get one in his mouth, loose control of the flailing little shit yappy dog, and get it lodged in his throat.

With the demise of the bigger dog, there'd be no shutting them up.

I guess I'll just have to bear with them until I leave or they die of their nervous conditions.

In the meantime, I'll just have to soothe my nerves with this song by "The Arrogant Worms":



The Arrogant Worms, saving little, yappy, shit talking mutts from the ire of Air Traffic Mike since 1998 when I saw them play live in Memphis.

As an added bonus, I offer up this little Christmas ditty they recorded a few years back, called "Dad Threw Up On Christmas Day" or this song "Carfull of Pain" . While you're there, take a look around their site.

It's a mood lifter.

Until next time, all y'all take care.

Air Traffic Mike, ret

"Go play with your brother."

It is a very quiet morning here in Virginia Beach. Quiet both outside and inside.

Bruce began running a fever yesterday. Looks like it is just the "Fall Crud" that seems to be affecting most everybody here locally. He's always had allergy problems so that seems to be exacerbating his condition. He's spent most of the last two days in bed, save for a few brief moments out of it to eat and sit up for a few minutes.

Sis and I are both keeping very close tabs on it for obvious reasons.

So this morning I've been sitting here in the kitchen, surfing the Internet, checking on Bruce, and reminiscing about the days when we were young children.

Because we were so close in age and exposed to so many other children, we all shared the common childhood diseases. That's not Earth shaking news to the AMA or anybody else really. It was just funny how our parents managed them as we grew up.

Kevin was first, coming home one fine April day with the measles. Mom and Dad sat down and came up with a plan to manage this event. It would become the "blueprint" for managing infectious disease in the Walker household.

So what did they do? Did our parents quarantine the infectious young lad, hoping against hope to spare the rest of the brood? Not enough room. Maybe send us to our relatives' houses until the illness passed? No way. They had children too and likely we had already been exposed. Besides, Bruce and I were both in school with Kevin.

Now then, Dad always was one to get things done quickly and efficiently. One sick child at home or five? The math seemed pretty easy. Get us all sick, take some time from work to help Mom, and get it out of the way.

All they needed was a manner in which we'd be willing and able to spend hours with each other, distracted to the point of not fighting, and quiet so Mom and Dad could get ready to go into the nursing mode.

What magical device could do all that?

The slot car racing set.

Usually it came down during the Christmas holidays. I'm not sure how that tradition started, but come Thanksgiving, it was down from the attic and all set up. We'd play it for hours taking turns with the winner staying on until defeated.

No fussing, no "You cheated"'s, just grab the trigger and hang on.

Honestly, we should have known SOMETHING was up when the slot cars came down just after Easter. We didn't though. We were excited just to see it make an unexpected appearance on a folding table in Kevin and Bruce's room.

Dad's cover story?

"Your brother will be able to sit up in bed and play it. Now go upstairs and play cars with Kevin, it'll make him feel better."

We weren't in the habit yet of talking back to our parents or questioning orders. Off we went to make our older brother feel better.

It wasn't long before Bruce, Gary, and I all had the measles. Funny thing is we never put one and one together. We all just chalked it up to bad luck.

We returned to health and school. We soon forgot all about it.

The next year I came down with chicken pox. I didn't know what in the Hell was wrong, all I knew was that I felt horrible. Dr. Davidson came over to the house, examined me, and gave my parents the news.

Dr. Davidson wasn't out of the driveway when I heard Dad say, "Looks like we'll be needing the slot cars again.".

The next day was a Saturday. I woke up sometime mid-morning to the sound of Dad setting up the slot car set in my room. I was the only one of us with my very own room to myself. It was a small room, but plenty big for the table and cars.

Sure enough, Mom and Dad sent Kevin, Bruce, Gary, and John in to play race cars. Sure enough too, the other four boys got the chicken pox.

I think we were all starting to get a little suspicious of the slot cars.

Like almost all the other kids, we would complete the trinity of childhood diseases the following year. Gary came home from school midday. He was running a big fever. Dr. Davidson came to the house and examined Gary. He gave Mom the news. Mom called Dad at work.

By the time we got home from school the slot car set was down from the attic sitting in Mom and Dad's room.

Kevin had pretty much figured out something was afoot. "Mom, what's wrong with Gary?", he asked.

"He's got the mumps.", Mom replied.

Kevin sighed, "I guess we're going racing, huh?".

Once again, we all took to the course, and shortly later in the week took to bed.

It would be the last time that trick would work, but it wouldn't be needed. We'd covered the major childhood illnesses.

Or so we thought.

Christmas 1974, I got an "N" scale train set that I had wanted for two years. It had a really neat plastic base with all the buildings, roads, cars, people, and a really nifty layout for the track.

Unfortunately, I also got rubella (the German Measles) that year.

Dad put the now assembled train set on the folding table in my bedroom.

I played with it alone for the first week.

None of the other guys got rubella.

Smart kids in my opinion.

That was the end of the childhood disease phase of our lives. We survived unscathed which is more than some people can say. For the first four of us, I think I can say that one of the biggest lessons we learned was no matter how bad it gets we knew we could always count on each other. John, sadly, is living in his own world at his own choosing. Gary left us in 1987 but undoubtedly would be here. Kev keeps in regular touch and recently came to spend the weekend with Bruce. Obviously, I'm here.

It has crossed my mind to get a slot car set for Bruce and I to play with. His disease is obviously non communicable. Still, I think he'd get the joke and have a laugh at it.

If only he'd be better in two weeks.

Just some reminiscing on a quiet morning waiting for the home nurse to come.

Until next time, all y'all take care.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

Last Minute Substitution

Some days I just can't help but over achieve.

I had today's blog written and edited by 6:00 pm last evening. Normally, I write them first thing in the morning and post them up immediately.

Sometimes that can lead to problems. I have, in the past, posted things without thinking of what the fallout might be. Not that I'm particularly afraid of controversy. Controversy is a part of the human existence. It exists wether I wish it to or not. Still, sometimes it is best to mitigate it if at all possible.

That brings me to this morning.

Last night, I was feeling quite frustrated. Okay, extremely frustrated. I had to vent somewhere. I took it to the machine here. It ended up being quite a long piece.

Very long.

So long, in fact, that even I got tired of reading it. Not that it was a bad piece mind you. It was quite raw, no holds barred, and brutally honest. The former and the latter of which made it intensely personal. Too personal to post.

That's saying a lot given the nature of this blog from time to time.

Therefore, I took the liberty of deleting the piece from my *draft* file here. Not before I saved it to another file on my laptop computer. I meant every word I typed. Maybe someday I'll post it up, but not today.

The reasons will remain solely with me.

So then, in the meantime, I offer up this ditty taken at the farm early this month. I call the piece this:

"WATERMELON: Dessert or Death?"

Okay, so it won't win an Oscar for "Best New Film Shot From An Iphone".

Doesn't matter to me. It was funny as shit when it happened.

I apologize in advance for the poor video quality. Iphones make lousy video cameras, especially when used at a safe distance from exploding fruit.

I promise better video quality in the near future.

Until then:



The pink mist is just about my favorite part.

We're available for catering.

Until the next time, all y'all take care of yourselves.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

I Gotta Get Me One Of These.....

The last four words of a Redneck before he dies:

"Hey y'all, watch this!!!!!

- Author Unkonwn, Believed Deceased

Now then, keeping that in mind......

We've all played "Slip and Slide" as kids. It remains one of the simplest and fun of the children's games. I can honestly say we had one as kids. Even Dad took a run at it.

Like many games, we played it until it broke, and with our honed in attention skills, immediately moved on to something else.

In college, we modified it to a game of human shuffleboard we called "Carrier Landings". We took tables (or a handy bar top at the Chalet), covered it with taped down trash bags, and tossed some soapy water and beer on it. Closest drunk college student to the end without going off wins.

The winner usually received either a small sum of cash, maybe a pitcher of cheap beer (the official fuel of "Carrier Landings"), or at the least, bragging rights.

For the losers, assorted bruises, scrapes, and the occasional broken rib were the prize categories.

I went years thinking we'd mastered the concept of "Slip and Slide" with the "Carrier Landing" version until I received this video this morning:



I doff my cap, and salute, the new King.

Cheers lads.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.

Don't Pity Splitty

Sooner or later it had to happen.

Let me set the scene for you.

As you read yesterday, I decided that against my better judgement I'd go clothes shopping.

I promised Splitty the Maul we'd go to the oceanfront and have lunch afterwards.



Splitty was so excited, he ran out to the front porch and waited impatiently for me to get my shower.

What can I say? He likes the water.

I got out of the shower, got dressed, and off we went.



Splitty was in the truck and belted in before I could get my door closed.

I noticed my fuel gauge was at about the 1/4 full mark. Our first stop would have to be at the nearest gas station.



Splitty did the honors.

We took off for the store.

Now one thing about Virginia. They tax the living shit out of everything. Income, property, food, cars, planes, boats, you name it.

However, they're pretty smart in finding other ways to get you to part with your money. They make vanity tags pretty reasonable. It is the same principle used when giving a dolt a shiny object. They end up focused on the shiny object as you rob them blind.



Splitty was on the lookout for some funny vanity plates. It wouldn't be long before he pointed a couple out:



Gotta admit, I really liked this one.



Obviously owned by a guitar player. "EADGBE" is the standard tuning for a six string guitar.

Suddenly, Splitty got ALL excited!



He thought John D. was in town, but it turned out just to be a party truck.



Splitty got back to scanning for more funny license plates.

Pretty soon we arrived at the mall. Now I have to warn you. This is where Splitty's day started to head south. When I told him we were going to the mall, he thought I said, "We're going to see mauls.". He asked, "What in the cornbread Hell is this?" as we pulled to a stop in the parking lot. I had to explain what he was looking at.



Splitty was not happy and began to sulk.

He opted to stay put in the car while I went shopping.

Being a typical guy, I was in and out in about 45 minutes armed with three new pairs of Levi's, three new Polo shirts, two rugby shirts, two pair of flannel house pants, and a new pair of shoes.

Splitty was done sulking (for the moment) and was ready to hit the beach.



Now I have a high regard for any public servants, especially those who put their lives on the line every day. Splitty and I had arrived at the beach. We were just starting towards the oceanfront restaurant when a nice young policewoman stopped us.

I explained the situation, but she was concerned that others might not understand.

As I said before, who am I to argue with local customs?

Splitty and I went back to the truck and headed out to seek a more "maul friendly" place.



Splitty hardly said a word.

We came back towards home. I spied a place that I've eaten at a time or two. They have really good burgers and it wouldn't be too busy on a Saturday afternoon.

By this point, Splitty was ready for lunch and a beer.



Splitty beat me to the door by yards.

We went inside. I told our server of our dilemma. She said, "Make yourselves at home!".

Splitty did, and then some.

I ordered a burger and fries off the menu.



Splitty ordered a Miller Lite and shot of Jagermeister.

Quickly, it went to his head. Soon he forgot about food. The maul in various forms dates back to the Middle Ages.

Splitty was ready to party like it was 1499.



He had another.



And another.



He started playing songs on the jukebox. Splitty was pissed to find that the Jonny Ash song, "(Because You're Mine), I Split The Pine" was not one of the selections.



He celebrated by ordering another round.

I was ignoring Splitty by this point. He was geting obstinate drunk, and I was enjoying my cheeseburger.

Then it happened.

Splitty crossed the line.



Splitty propositioned our server.





Splitty got his answer.

The bartender told Splitty he'd have to finish his drink and get on his way.

She cut him off.....



Sadly, not in time.

I paid our bill, got Splitty off the floor, and took him to the truck.



Splitty demanded the keys.

No way. Friends don't let mauls drive drunk.

I shouldered Splitty up and got him to the passenger side of the truck for the short ride home.



Splitty showed his appreciation by reliving himself on my tire.

I got Splitty home without further incident, rinsed off my wheel, and called it a day.

I've been up now since 6:00 am.

Splitty has been passed out since yesterday. I'm pretty sure he's not going to want any beer for today's football festivities.

Serves him right if you ask me.

See y'all tomorrow.

Until then, all y'all take care.

Air Traffic Mike, ret.