Erica Jong predicts that, should her favored presidential candidate not win? Blood in the streets. A second civil war. You’ve got to wonder how people – even shallow, inconsequential pornography writers – become so damned infantilized. Come to think that their preferences are discovered writ. Sound so fricken’ stupid. I mean, there was a twenty minute period back there at the end of the 70′s where Erica Jong was actually famous.
It was a strange time.
There are election promises that everyone knows no one is going to keep. And then there are those we desperately wish some one would keep. Susan Sarandon, Michael Stipe, one of those Baldwin people, Heidi Klum and Seal – Seal – promise to leave America if McCain wins, and settle somewhere else.
(Who knew that Seal was still here?)
More of that, “I’ll love you if” passive aggressive emotional abuse.
Just don’t question their patriotism.
One of those who wrote me privately after my “Dream Machines” post recommended ferrying sport divers to their drop-off points. There’s a little bit of money in it, and I’m sure it’d be fun. For a while.
But I had to tell him:
Ferrying jumpers hither and yon is a good way to build hours, but I’ve already got a lot of those, and I’m certain it would become repetitive after a while, at least for me. Hell, towards the end of my active flying career I was already bored to tears with flying red air missions, not to mention carrier landing practice. And that was in FA-18s. God’s jet.
One of the things I dream about is simply the freedom of flight. Getting up and just. Going. Somewhere. Those light utilities appeal to me because they promise access to forgotten, out of the way places. There’s mystery and adventure in that.
Flying is a great good in its own right, but it has to have a purpose. And perhaps sadly, at this point in life, it has to have a purpose greater than throwing another hundred hours in the log book, or even earning a buck or two (although paid flight time is surely welcome). Seeing the light come into somebody’s eye when he gets it does that. As does squeaking a pair of fatties into some gravel bar on a river bend, just for the challenge that’s in it. Going somewhere, doing something. That’s the ticket.
People around here make a huge fuss over Hallowe’en. Street decorations, light shows. We have need of our celebrations of course. Something engrained in us, communal. It helps that it’s “for the kids.”
Still, looking forward a bit to our next set of ACLU lawsuits over the abomination of créches situated on public property, the next person who kindly tells me, “Happy Hollidays” as I buy my Christmas tree, I can’t help thinking that Hallowee’n celebrations are essentially meaningless, ephemeral. Shallow. That it supplants something sacred that used to exist in our lives, something we felt proud about, rather than being furtive over.
Things move in cycles, I guess. Hallowe’en is a survivor or the pagan Celtic tradition of Samhain, subsumed by the early Christian church in much the same way that Christmas took the place of ancient Roman solar festivals.
Now it’s back again.
More US Marines died in motorcycle crashes in the US last year than died in Iraq.
Pensive, tonight. As if you couldn’t tell.
Did you ever fall in love and buy something, only to be faced with buyer’s remorse afterwards? Wondered if you’d made the correct choice?
I’m a subscriber to an email distribution called “NAVNET,” essentially a networking organization for transitioning service members. Guy knows of a job somewhere with skills sets gained in the Navy, and he forwards it to this other guy, who forwards it to all the rest of us. There’s a job on the wire in Fort Worth that looks tailor made for your correspondent’s skills. Setting up the tactical training of junior F-35 jocks. Points on for instructional experience and weapons school cred.
I’ve got some of that.
We could sell the manse here in Sandy Eggo, buy something ret nice with acreage and never a mortgage payment to make, no state taxes and have a little left over for both a horse and an airplane. Rather than living from paycheck to paycheck on what ought to be an objectively absurd amount of money, and cringing in the corner, awaiting the blow of my middle class “tax cut.”
But that’d mean tearing a 14-year old girl away from her friends, which we’ve done enough of that in our time to last us forever.
I’ve often wished that you could split at each important choice in life. Go both ways, each time a fork in the road came up. Compare notes at the end, those of us that made it to the clearing at the end of the path. Tell it all over a tumbler of smokey, single malt.
But you only get to play one quarter, and you balance what’s wanted with what’s needed. You do the best you can.
If I ever did make it to that clearing, I’d tell the myriad me of those uncertain futures that at this moment in my life, I had to push away from the keyboard because the doorbell was ringing, and kids were singing “trick or treat!”
Pagans or not, they will not be denied.
Have a great weekend.