I have only a few little thoughts about this afternoon’s Air France crash at CYYZ.

I’m awestruck that scheduled airlines fly in the sorts of absolutey crappy weather that hit Toronto today. There was a continuously moving/growing thunderstorm cell right over and east of Pearson. It was there the whole afternoon. Realizing the dangers, smaller airplanes would not have flown today. Yet commercial airline traffic did not stop, merely steered around the worst of it if they could. The following picture is a rough, hand-made overlay of an aviation map and weather radar images at the time.

On LiveATC, there are some recordings of air traffic communications in the area. The recorded sector’s controller talked to the troubled flight in the 15:30-16:00 time slot, last about three minutes before the crash. Nothing sounded out of the ordinary (for a lousy dangerous weather day). Early in the next time slot, one can hear the controller informing flights of the accident, and directing them to break off approaches and head off to their alternate airports. Everyone sounded cool and calm.

One weird bit was to hear some other flight declare a “(low) fuel emergency”, then asking to be directed to Syracuse, NY (probably half an hour’s flying away even with a fast jet), rather than landing at the immediately nearby Hamilton or London airports. Very strange – I’ve been waiting to hear of a second airplane crash today.

Our town’s Special mayor found opportunity to speak on a series of recent shootings.

David Miller was quoted on television that “… The problem is the guns. All those American guns that are smuggled across the border. Half the gun crimes are committed with American guns…”

Hug the criminals! Seal the borders! Alarm! Alarm!

Most importantly, don’t look at the sidearms issued to Metro Toronto Police units, who happen to use the very fine Glock 22. It is slightly smaller than our own “his & her” pair of Glock 35s. It is manufactured in Austria, and also in … wait for it … the fine State of Georgia, USA.

Broccoli leads people to ponder the pointlessness of their lives. This applies especially to nine-month-old people, who, after being offered said vegetable smush, immediately push and nearly topple their high chairs. Juimiin’s heroic jumper-catching maneuver saved Eric from a code 17, until next time…

These politically correct days, it may seem like the anniversary of the Hiroshima atomic bomb is something to get all depressed and guilty about. Nonsense.

Everyone’s in on the act. CBC headlines Canadians remember horror of atomic blast. CNN headlines Doves, silence for Hiroshima victims. They also share the dimly lit mutterings of one John Schuchardt, a tourist from Massachusetts.

Our goal is to apologize to those who suffered and are still suffering the horrible, unspeakable atrocity of the atomic bomb,

This gentleman represents the cream of the pacifist left, chanting about peace, disarmament, gun control, while clinging to an invincible ignorance about the realities of conflict. They bemoan the deaths of those Japanese city-dwellers, while refusing to contemplate who started the war (Pearl Harbour is not just a crappy disney movie), and how many American (and Japanese) lives were saved by the abrupt end to the war brought about by this show of force. To them, to this day, the use of force is by definition wrong, especially if it is a western democratic nation doing the forcing.

After WW1, just such intellectual onanism by the naive populations of Britain and elsewhere led directly to the conditions that made WW2 inevitable. Winston Churchill’s book The Gathering Storm goes into detail about the astonishing negligence and shortsightedness of all the western governments, which were no match for the evil but clear-headed scheming of Hitler. The parallels to today’s “war on (islamic fascist) terror” are brutally clear.

UPDATE: This Washington Post article presents the cliche “human side” of the atomic bombs, in a fairer way than I expected. Here is another good essay from Victor David Hanson.

If it were not for one redeeming feature, today’s visit to the taste of the danforth would have been a total loss.

As a synopsys, this event is an annual public gathering on one of Toronto’s main streets, pedestrians and peddlers replacing cars for about a one-kilometer stretch in “greektown”. It is supposed to give the visitors a taste of greek this and that.

The greek part was not actually bad. The greek language street signs reminded the resident of the many valuable (?) projects their municipal taxes pay for. The vendors (official and not) selling water at usurious rates were just fleecing the silly members of the public. The restauranteurs providing meal morsels (at nearly full-meal prices) were in a way teaching about capitalism. The mob provided a metaphoric biology lesson, recreating the mad rush of sperm on the way to an absent utopia. Their robotic faces hid the deeper current of bewildered inner monologue: “is that all there is?”. Yes, that’s all there was.

The redeeming feature? One of Trenton’s C-130 Hercules aircraft did a low pass over the area. Other than ourselves, I saw no one look up at it. Maybe those four turboprop engines are too quiet. When the CWHM Lancaster flies by, people look up.

Paul Martin’s choice of governor-generals continues to entertain. I wonder if the Queen approves of being represented here by a self-declared gift to humanity.

I am a fan of Thousand Island salad dressing. It makes most dry foods go down really easily. Its sweet tang has graced my fridge for years.

However, I have a problem. Juimiin brought home an unopened gallon of this stuff. Obviously one can’t eat that much by the time an opened container rots.

So I’m looking for ideas. What to do with a gallon of tasty stuff that can’t be opened, for fear of wasting 99%?

Two weeks ago today, that troubled magneto has started to disintegrate during a series of flights.

When the problem became obvious, I grounded the plane. There it has stayed since, waiting for overhaul of that one and inspections of the three others. In one week, the airplane must go down for a few-week annual inspection also. So, it looks like 4-6 weeks of the summer flying season will be lost this year.

These airplanes are down a lot in any year. Some of the time is voluntary – a month on some voluntary upgrade, but the rest is for scheduled inspections and unscheduled (emergency) repairs. Of the first 12 months after buying GXRP, I think it was under maintenance for at least 4 of them in total – bringing it up to a higher level of snuff than its previous owner would. We still managed to put around 200 hours into the logbook. This second 12 months has been better, but this current repair may push it from 2 to 3 months in total downtime. With the avionics stack now finished to dreamy specifications, I anticipate no voluntary (upgrade-oriented) downtime next year, so hope to get the total downtime closer to one month.

Congratulations to Andrew and Stephanie Overholt on their recently commenced marriage. Good luck!

A block away from our home lies a little shop named “Altitude Bakery”. Until about a year ago, this was run by a gentleman named Dennis Findlay, and produced sumptuous snacks. Then, he sold the store to someone else.

At first, not much changed, other than the loss of a friendly and familiar face. The menu remained mostly the same. But gradually, things started to get worse. The business hours shortened; it was no longer open during the early or late dog-walking hours. A regular customer, arriving literally within a minute outside the posted closing/opening hours, could not get any attention from the staff in plain view. Then the the prices started increasing.

Then the worst of all: the product has started to decline in quality. The recipes must have gotten simplified, tasty ingredients omitted, shortcuts taken. The “eat more drug” has left the building. Cheesecakes are mellow, damply sweet instead of tangy. Tortes are sometimes overbaked, and the icing became just plain sugar/butter filler. Croissants barely flake, and subtleties are gone.

The only thing still heavenly there are their Linzer squares. And at least the prices still include tax and are rounded to multiples of $0.25.

Come back, Dennis!

Two days ago, GXRP’s repaired magnetos were reinstalled. Yesterday, the last day of its active airworthiness certificate, I flew it eventlessly to its inspection shop. Today I again start weeks of waiting to fly again.

This afternoon, the following verbal interchange took place.

A (entering B’s office): She’s not blowing.
B: She’s not turned on.
B (after a pause): But she has a button on the front.
A: She’s too easy.

Yes, you are correct, we were talking about a desk air fan.

The social event planned for this location took place as scheduled.

The building is newly built but is of a faux classical design. From the outside, one may be forgiven for thinking it’s a sepulchre surrounded by industrial warehouse/shop structures, and for giving the name a double-take since it uses American spelling. The inside is decorated with carpeting, windows, plastic “plants”, inoffensive and uninspiring paintings, and a glittering metal thing sticking out of the ground. It’s not a bad place to spend a few hours and a few thousand (?) dollars.

Seeing Lane Smith’s lovely performance as the fictional science journalist Emmett Seaborn in the 1998 miniseries From the Earth to the Moon makes me wonder: where are such people today?

Not exposed in mass media. Instead, on the tube we see beautiful nobodies talk nonsense about nothing. We hear press releases from drug companies, think tanks, political groups, research nuggeteers. The parroted messages are decontextualized, intended to emote, not educate. I find myself barely bearing even radio these days. The “instant gratification culture” is cripplingly tangible to me: the dumbing down and chopping up of meaningful information into noise that fills airtime and satiates the tired and ignorant. ARGH. News is a waste of time. Chances are I’ll rant about this again some time in April 2006; others will write longer essays on the same topic.

There must be no shortage of material that speaks to me, but I have to invest volumes of time that modern ratracers/parents can little afford. The same way I try to justify my flying, I plan to continue reading history books, and seek out only thoughtful films, to help regain the youthful sharpness I feel being blunted by age and circumstance.

If you sleep in a ditch, don’t be surprised to wake up wet.