Archive Logo.jpg

June 21, 2005

Live from Dayton!

Heh. Well, aside from visiting the Air Force museum, and reconfirming my MBTI type, and discovering that some of my co-workers think I don't manage disagreement well (though they do like my integrity, technical and functional expertise, and the fact that I coach and develop (although it seems I must channel Bobby Knight at times), I'm also driving a tank.

Well, a Ford Expedition, but the distinction is meaningless. When I arrived at Dayton International (a grand name for an airport with exactly *two* aircraft at the myriad of empty gates... I think Cincy has been stealing their business) I trundled off to Avis, where they treat me right (because the company pays 'em to) and I walk out to my space... only to find that the keys don't work in the car there. Now, I *could* read the tag and do all that, but let's face it - it's just easier to be like Jason Bourne in the Bourne Supremacy and just start pushing the lock button on the keyfob until something squawks.

That works - it's the car three spaces to the left. So, I maneuver my now-sweaty bulk to the rear of that machine (a nice, gold, Grand Am) pop the trunk, drop in the overnighter... and note that the left rear bumper seems to be a *bit* near the streetlight stanchion base. As in, rubbed up against, indented, and otherwise folded, spindled, and mutilated.

So I wave over the little guy sitting at the Avis shack - who determines from my body language that I am a "Customer with a Problem" and promptly spies a young managerial type to deal with it.

We wander over to the wounded steed and he has some trouble understanding my odd midwestern dialect as I describe the problem. This could be because I *have* an odd midwestern dialect, but I'm thinking it has more to do that he wasn't from around Dayton himself, probably having come into this world in a nice sub-saharan African country once severely damaged with a French presence. Well, that and the fact that I'm half deaf, which wasn't helping.

Anyway - I finally get tired of saying "eh?" (he's trying hard, at this point it really *is* me with the problem) and wave my hand so he'll focus on it and then move it to the wounded area of my offered steed. And his eyes get big, understanding dawns, and well, the story is comical but repetetive and makes for a better video than novel. Sooooo, to make a long story short - I'm back at the terminal, speaking to another nice young man, who also doesn't understand my odd midwestern accent very well, because, well, let's just say he is from a country (a different one, I asked) that was also abused and saddled with a French administrative structure for a period of years, before being allowed to resume self-abuse, like we enjoy here!

And all that's left (I was perfectly happy with the still-hale, if flesh-wounded mount, but no, we can't have that!) is this parking lot behemoth, the Expedition. Which, if I might note, has a surprisingly pedestrian interior for what it costs, and is a voracious consumer of fossil distillates. But it *is* a nice bright Artillery Scarlet in color, so it ain't all bad, and all the little munchkin cars like Sions look even smaller and are more intimidated, too.

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah - I've got some responsiblities!

For those who have never seen a militant Canadian other than the Castle's mole in Lord Raglan's, er, Strathcona's Horse, CAPT H - there is in fact a whole mob of Canadian bloggers who remember when Canada had an aircraft carrier. In fact, more than one. The Red Ensign Brigade, and their bi-weekly link-fest is up - I strongly encourage you to visit - there's a reason so many good comedians come from Canada - I don't know what it is - but it affects many of the members of the Brigaded Blogs - this week ably hosted by A Chick Named Marzi!

Castle Security Guy and Assistant Armorer Sergeant B is considering joining the Washington National Guard... some old warhorses still paw the ground when they hear the bugle... slightly younger ones can still answer the call and keep the pace we glue-factorys-on-legs just can't quite muster anymore. Yes, I'm envious, I won't lie.

SGT B sent us to Froggy Ruminations, who essentially suggests we quit coddling terrorists in our custody, and send 'em to Boot Camp, instead.

Via CAPT H, small cracks in the edifice...

In other international news, Ry forwards this bit about tolerance in Sweden. Don't let your dislike of the US blind you to the fact that the kids involved don't like or respect you, either, fellas.

On a lighter and far-more-important note, Say Uncle has created a Gunbloggers Community over at the Truth Laid Bear. Some of us were apparently drafted in, but I'm sure we're taking volunteers, too!

Speaking of guns... via Mathew Maynard we come to Boots and Sabers, with a little tutorial on "How Not To Shoot Your Anti-Tank Gun." I make that distinction, because Jed dedicates it to we cannoneers, when it's, well, it's infantrymen in this little movie (at least in the US Army it would be...).

Jeff Quinton reports that Senator Durbin apologized, tears in his eyes, for comparing Guantanamo Bay to Gulags, Vernichtungslagers, and other fine places of incarceration.

His voice quaking and tears welling in his eyes, the No. 2 Democrat in the Senate also apologized to any soldiers who felt insulted by his remarks.

"They're the best. I never, ever intended any disrespect for them," he said.

Feh, Senator. Just, feh.

Oh, and I should note - I pretty much agree with what my co-workers said about me; the bad stuff anyway. The good stuff - well, that just shows that some of 'em are scared of the basement...