Much Ado About Porcine Flu

HOT NEWS FLASH for those who thought swine flu originated in Mexico, that pigs cause it and calling the horrible disease H1N1 would make Easterners love Westerners:  The sun does not revolve around the planet Earth, there is no Peter Cotton Tail hoppin’ down the bunny trail, and your world is not flat, no matter what your religion says. While this news comes as a shock — less so to Honey & Quinine readers I hope — to many who take issue with such revelations, they remain true. Also true is that swine flu by any other name is still swine flu. Don’t blame me.

Blame us.

The great American men and women of porcine proclivities, who raise pigs on large farms where most of the inhabitants’ (owners and operators generally excepted) feces and urine fill large ponds  have proven less concerned with causing their neighbors to wretch from the stench of it all and the harm they are causing to the subterranean water supply than they are about the evil term “swine flu” inhibiting their sales of “the other white meat.” The term “swine flu” was also declared “OFFENSIVE” to our religious brothers and sisters who don’t believe in Pork.  If it were named cow flu, the Hindi would be wailing at the World Health Organization for insulting the sacred four-legged bovines who roam their streets at will. The very public attempt by nervous Westerners who have witnessed the cost of scorn directed East,  to atone for the heartless disconsideration of the Mighty OFFENDED united as bretheren and sistern in vociferous opposition to a NAME has come to (almost) nothing and gladly so. If humanity were as collectively adept at working together as we are at working against each other, we might still be in Eden . . . . . or at least Tahiti.

H1N1 has not been embraced by the public. The  news media in its many forms have come up short in their vital role as “Messengers of the Peeved” in setting the record straight for the  insensitive unholy masses of us. It’s about time!

Bravo the media for opting out of the frenzy!

In the few reports I’ve heard in the last week or so, the terms swine flu and H1N1 have been used interchangably, often in the same sentences. A fictional example similiar to what I’ve heard:

Physicians have declared swine flu a world pandemic in their efforts to arrest H1N1′s spread in Asian countries, though swine flu cases resported in the US are in decline.

Ah, the curious antic of pleasing everyone and pleasing no one at the same time. Ain’t the languidge bootyfull?

We’re almost back to calling Native Americans “Indians” again. And if you don’t like it, don’t blame me, and don’t blame Shawn Hannity.

Blame PBS.

But that’s another story.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

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Strangers’ Smiles

Strangers’ Smiles
by Job Conger

Reveries of long lost loves fill my head . . .
occasionally . . . . .
I have been lucky in bed . . .
occasionally . . . . . .
yet, in days of un-sought solitude,
the cherished memories, in pensive interlude,
are not the under-cover wild sensations
from thrashing passionate gyrations.
Though I’m grateful to the warm sweethearts who cared,
I miss the most, the smiles that strangers shared.

Exquisite eyes met in a glance . . .
occasionally . . . . . .
a nod, a grin, a laugh, but not a chance . . .
occasionally . . . . . .
Not even a fast exchange of names,
nor sparks on kindling, hopes for flames.
No kiss of heaven’s mandate to us all:
“Surremder to true love’s redeeming call.”
Apocalyptic release to nature’s strident plea
denied
to fast-scanned hearts throughout eternity.

Yet, to the hollow place . . .
occasionally . . . . .
comes the memory of a face . . .
occasionally . . . . . .
and women I have hardly met
have given joys I won’t forget:
the timeless, reflected return
of my own unconscious essence burn,
and sustained a dreaming wanderer long miles
with the hope and strength that come from strangers’ smiles.

written October 10, 1995
============================
I wrote the poem above about a year into my halcyon days with Poets & Writers Literary Forum (of Springfield, Illinois) and memorizing everything I presented during the wonderful Thursday nights at Springfield’s Barnes & Noble Coffeeshop.  I would not know the like of those magic years  (1994 to about 1999) again.

Live long . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  and proper.

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An Hour of Solace at Midnight:Thirty

It’s been two weeks since “Lenore” blew away from mon casa leaving a lot of her clothes, personal care items and food behind. It’s been 13 days since she e’d me “good bye” and 12 days since I had the locks re-keyed and told her she would not spend another minute alone in my house. In that e I (“ee aye, ee aye oh” — from Old MacDonald Had a Farm) told her I would gladly permit her to retreive the goods, but I intended to eat what I could of the considerable consumables remaining  in the kitchen before they spoiled. Since then . . . .

nothing.

The house is pretty much as she left it: the dishes she had washed still in the drying rack in the sink and on the counter top towel, her cutting board with scraps of fresh garlic also untouched on the counter, sofa based blankets and pillows still where she left them when she arose two Wednesdays ago; a chest of drawers of foldeds and “frillies” (her term; not mine) largely untouched in the interim. The nights since have been nutty and sleep has come  in doses of three or four hours at a time.  It was with considerable relief and solace that for the first time since she left, last night I did NOT spend hours of my evening wasting my time on the Internet sublimating shattered expectations into meaningless and counterfeit consolation.  Instead I returned to my friends at Scrubs where I laughed heartily for the first time in two weeks.

I don’t know how and why I avoided this series until earlier this year. It’s still in first run production at ABC, but past episodes also air, two to a set, contiguously, on Channel 55 WRSP Fox TV Monday through Friday from 12:30 to 1:30 am. Most likely it’s because what seems flippant and banal (the magic formula for Two and a Half Men which I avoid like pro-choice assassins) at 7 pm on Thursdays becomes somehow useful, meaningful at midnight:thirty. Not since M.A.S.H.  and Northern Exposure have I enjoyed a sitcom as consistently as Scrubs.  Sex and the City comes close. Two episodes follow Scrubs at 1:30, but they’re-rerunning the re-runs I totally enjoyed for the first time earlier and most repeats to this show I’ve seen before are like left over fried chicken that’s languished in the fridge two days too long. They”re not as much fun the second go round. So generally, Casa de H&Q-guy goes dark at 1:35.  I intend to make the most of Scrubs as I ease into phase two of the grief process over eviscerated expectations. If you’ve never watched the show, I heart-ily recommend it. It’s a solid bet Zach Braff, Sarah Chalke and the whole delightful emsemble (not a dull penny in the roll)  will redeem your outlook. They sure help redeem mine.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

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The Sham of TV 20/15-ABC//55-Fox and Why I’ll Stick with the State Journal-Register Any Day of the Week

Monday night’s Channel 55 Fox TV local news ran a story about a Danville woman who died.  This is a story which would not have appeared on the then-NBC Channel 20 10 o’clock news 10 years ago, and the fact Springfield viewers were asked to swallow it irks me.  All the surveys tell us most people are getting their news from TV these days, and thanks to bean counters at Channel 20 and viewers who don’t know bull waste from shoe polish, the public becomes less served by “local” TV news by the day. It’s getting worse.

The Fox station has no news department, so in the course of the 9:00 news, viewers see a cacophony of logos for Fox News, Channel 15 (the Channel 20 sister station in Danville) and of course what I can the “Apocalypse New Steam” crew at Channel 20 which was once a beacon of solid Springfield-area news. In days past, Danville on-camera reporters signed off saying “For Channel 20 News this is (name). Today the news producers don’t insist on that. We are as likely to hear “This is (name) reporting for Channel 15 news.” The crime of it, the sham of it is  that many Springfield viewers think the pap that is injected into the moving picture opiate “News” pipeline to nourish the masses’ passive intellect is nothing more than powdered plaster of Paris instead of the real thing!

How many charity three-legged races in Champaign and Danville do Springfield viewers have to see in a week when we should be watching what happened in Springfield? Channel 20/15/55 doesn’t cover much Decatur news for Springfield viewers because Channel 17 NBC — “da unholy  compitishen” as 20 producers might say — covers Decatur news, and a smattering of Springfield as well, based on the times I’ve watched the station. Anyone’s death in Danville or Champaign is a loss to our common humanity (meaning it’s sorrowful when anyone dies because people are loved by those who know them)  but anyone’s death, and any walk-a-thon for the Danville DAR Auxilliary Quilting Club is community news that should be shared with the community of origin. If anyone with the Federal Communications Commission ever asked me if I think Channel 20/15/55 serves the public with their community news about Springfield, you can be sure of my response.

Channel 20 news coverage is pathetic (pathetique if you dig the Tchaikovsky symphony of the same name). Springfield TV news should be about Springfield and surrounding communities. Channel 20 is a sham, wrapped in bull waste, shrouded by a mist of cynical disrespect for the public good.

That’s why I gladly subscribe to the State Journal-Register. You can be certain that unless the woman who died in Danville lived in Springfield for decades or had major ties to this city, she didn’t net a line of type in the SJ-R. My attention is not imprisoned by the two minutes it takes for Champaign-Urbana LOCAL news to trample time I’d rather not waste watching it. I glance at the excellent headlines and read what appeals. I read about charity events of interest to me and ponder the deaths of Springfieldians whose lives meant something to me. No one delivers local news like the State Journal-Register. That is why I am a big fan. That is why YOU should be a big fan as well.

Monday’s 9:00 Fox news cast is the last one I have watched.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

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So I promised the guy from Dick van Dyke . . .

I’d mention him in my blog. 

I’ll be surprised if more than 50 percent of you reading these words know who Dick Van Dyke, start of the Disney movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Dick Van Dyke Show was/is (he’s alive, he’s ALIVE!) and for purpose of this post, IF you don’t,  it’s just as well that you don’t. It would only confuse you. That Dick Van Dyke and his brother Jerry who starred in a fab TV sit com called My Mother, the Car, hailed from Danville, Illinois. The Dick van Dyke connected to this post is from and continues to live in Springfield. Decades ago, Springfield Dick’e launched “Dick Van Dyke Maytag . . . .Dependably dependable for you” the radio adverts sang — at Sixth at North Grand which grew rapidly (perhaps because of his Danville namesake) and relocated across the street from White Oaks Mall in the 80s.

I don’t know what happened to the founder’s part of the business and why he separated himself from it, but Springfield Dick’e ceased doing radio commercials for the appliance store, long since re-named Dick van Dycke Appliances, and began appearing with a business partner in TV commercials for what appeared to be a whiz-bang used car dealership on the city’s east side. After that, he began advertising his financial planning business at Walnut at Allen. I’m telling you all I know about the man (Editor if you’re reading this, I would LEAP to write his story in the next Business Journal) because I sense it is a success story, and I like success stories.  The rest of the post relates to my washing machine that stopped in its tracks as the upstairs residents were doing laundry Sunday night.

First thing I did when Mindy called me with the unhappy news was try to fix it myself: checked the circuit breaker because sometimes one pops when washer loads are extra large and the spin cycle starts. Negative; there was power to the dryer so it could not have been a blown circuit which I could easily have restored. I unplugged the washer and plugged it back in. Nothing. Tried starting the washer at the start of a cycle just to see if anything would revive it. Nothing. So I called Mindy back and promised I’d call Dick’e Appliances first thing Monday.

Which I did about 9:10 from work. Yes, they had time to visit the house today. Yes, they would call me 20 minutes before heading over to fix and explained my payment options. No prob.

About 11:40, the service man called to say he was 20 minutes away. I boogied out of Rock City, arrived home where he was waiting, and 20 minutes later, the washer was back in action. He even set it so it would finish the spin cycle interrupted last night. I was incredibly impressed with the fast turn around. So I promised the guy from Dick van Dyke . . . . .

Live long . . . . . and proper.

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Wells Breakfast Retrospective

The raison detre of my life so far hasn’t been the care and feeding of a wife and kids, or making melodies in Nashville; it has been learning about, and telling the world about, airplanes. One way I do this is by displaying accurately finished model airplanes built from ploastic kits at public events:  airshows, fly-ins, shopping centers and libraries. Saturday and Sunday, with the help of friend Kevin Panting, I displayed 50 models at the Charlie Wells Aviation Scholarship Breakfast Fundraising Fly-in/Drive-in (or words to that effect) at Abraham Lincoln Capital Airport, Springfield.

Job Conger poses with part of the model display.

The models were delivered to the event hangar Friday after work and arranged starting about 6:30 a Saturday. They had been selected from boxes of models stored at the collection and a few larger examples usually part of the everyday display where the collection resides. Arranging them required removing most of the smaller ones from plastic sandwich and freezer bags and placing them in chronological order on their extended landing gear or styrofoam cup “stands.” The chronology begins with models of aircraft flown during World War I and culminates in a modern B-2 stealth bomber. Key to the success of the display is to be standing, ready to talk with visitors who come by and have questions. Typically, that person has been yours truly alone, but this year Kevin’s enthusiasm and considerable knowledge of aviation history helped a lot.

future pilots?

Weather was excellent Saturday, but the constant threat of rain Sunday reduced numbers to a third of what had come through the day before.

The purpose of it all was pancakes and sausage, and the dedicated volunteers of the Springfield Chapter Illinois Pilots Association came through like gangbusters as they do every year. Most of the local group pitches in and makes light work of it all. Most arrive before 6:30 and don’t leave the hangar until 12:30 or 1:00 after shutting things down. Cooking equipment, owned by the Springfield chapter is stored at member homes. Dining and display tables are also owned by the chapter and borrowed from friends. On Sunday, all the equipment was cleared from the hangar
and transported home.

Pictured above are cars from the Route 66 Cruisers car club which displayed more than 30 of their cars Saturday morning. In the background is the Liberty Belle Foundation’s B-17 “Liberty Belle.” It was on display throughout the event and flew rides Sunday afternoon. I will post more pictures atAeroKnow.com and the Springfield Chapter IPA web site which I also host. I will advise here when the pictures are up.

Thanks to Landmark Avaition who loaned us their hangar and Springfield Airport Authority who extended cost savings measures to “Liberty Bell” and to the Ozark Airlines Museum’s C-47 which was also displayed during the event. Thanks also to all who attended and supported a worthy cause.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

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If You Like Pancakes and/or Airplanes June 6 & 7 . . .

Boogie out to Landmark Aviation via the main entrance to Abraham Lincoln Capital Airport from 7 a through 12 p Saturday & Sunday June 6 & 7 for some of the best pancakes, sausage and/or airplanes you have tasted and/or seen. The event is the annual Charlie Wells Aviation Scholarship Breakfast, sponsored by the Springfield Chapter Illinois Pilots Association IPASPI.  This is THE major fundraiser for the schoarship named in honor of Charlie Wells, a local Illinois Division of Aeronautics aviation safety inspector and airshow pilot.  It’s an all-you-can-eat event.

Several restored military aircraft will be on display for you to see up close: among them Liberty Belle Foundation’s Boeing B-17 G Flying Fortress. Rides, $430 per person, will be offered in this nicely restored classic warbird. The Ozark Airline Museum’s C-47 will be on static display, and there will be opportunities for rides in the ex-Israeli Air Force flying machine on SUNDAY. This is the same design that dropped thousands of brave paratrooper soldiers during the D-Day invasion of France which took place, coincidentally June 6, 1944.  Greg Vallero’s North American AT-6F Texan in Illinois Air National Guard markings, possibly Clyde Zeller’s SNJ-5, and God only knows what else. An assortment of general aviation pilots are sure to fly in for breakfast, and their birds will decorate the tarmac as well. Rides in a Cessna 172 and a Cessna 210 will also be offered for sale, with proceeds to the Wells Scholarship Fund. Inside there will be educational displays including tables of 1/72 scale plastic model planes from the AeroKnow collection, Civil Air Patrol, Lincoln Land Community College’s School of Aviation, the Fly a World War II Veteran to visit the World War II Memorial in Washington DC organization and more.

I will also be talking with anyone with memories to share and photographs of Charlie Wells. I’ve volunteered to produce a biography of Charlie to sell at future IPASPI events. If you know the man or have pictures of him, his Pitts Special. or memories of him professionally or during air show performances, come talk to me.  I’ll be with the model airplanes display along with my friend Kevin Panting who can tell you almost as much about AeroKnow as I can.

This will be great fun.

Live long . . . . . . and proper

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Obituary for a Time-honored Nomenclature

I’ve been a privileged, at the invitation of the American Aviation Historical Society, to serve on the organization’s publications editorial board of three. About two weeks before issues of  the quarterly AAHS Newsletter and AAHS Journal go to the printer, the editor sends “blue lines” to the two proofreaders (of which I am one) for careful scrutiny. It involves more than catching mis-spelled names and inappropriate punctuation. Often there are serious historical flubs which are better caught in blue line than distributed publication. An example: an article author’s statement that Northrop P-61 Black Widow night fighters tallied five enemy kills during the D-Day landings on the French coast. Some historians, including me, know the famous design saw no operational service until after the D-Day assault. Part of my task is to catch this kind of thing and “recommend” rephrasing it to reflect facts. Sometimes this means I cite a reputable source that confirms the date and results of the fighter’s operational debut and substituting a sentence that states the truth. Sometimes it means simply deleting the inaccurate sentence because it’s not important to the rest of the article. I base my role with the Society on a foundation of grammar, spelling and syntax maintained fastidiously as writer and editor for years and the study of aviation that has occupied more of my time as an adult than anything except the intense study of the nude female form.  Yesterday, I received an editorial change advisory from the editor. It explained we will no longer italicize the officially designated names of airplanes. Furthermore, we — the editorial board — will no longer require airplane nicknames to be placed in quotes (” “).  The change has been made (I was told) because none of the other aviation press is doing it; we (spelled AAHS) won’t continue either.

To understand my disappointment, consider the purpose of italicizing official aircraft names. You remember what we have been taught about book titles. The book Gone With The Wind and other book titles have been italicized this way since I was in grade school (early 1950s). Most of us didn’t question why for the same reason we didn’t question why sentences begin with a capital letter and end with a period or exclamation point and questions end with a question mark.  Later we learned book titles are italicized so readers know we’re talking about a book title; not an element within the book. If I talk about The Congo,  based on the italics, you know it’s Vachel Lindsay’s book. If  I mention “The Congo” you know it’s the poem of the same.

In aviation, it used to be a similar distinction. The British built a terrific fighter they designated/officially named Spitfire.  Martin in the US made a plane officially designated B-26 and officially named Marauder.  During the combat career of that remarkable bird, it acquired unofficial names including “Widow Maker” because of the high numbers lost during crew training and “Flying Prostitute” because its wings were so small compared with the rest of the airplane, it was considered to have “no visible means of support.” At the same time, crews flying Marauders would give their individual aircraft nicknames that included “Flak Bait,” “Impatient Virgin,” “Duck’s Butt” and others. An affectionate wife may nickname her husband “Mr. Steel” or “Reliable Richard” but would never compromise his dignity and integrity by calling him a nickname at the employee Christmas picnic.  So it was with official names for airplanes: they gave a degree of dignity and pride. The modern Rockwell B-1 swing-wing bomber was officially named Excalibur until someone pointed out that Excalibur is the brand name of a popular latex prophylactic, and it was re-named Lancer.Future issues of AAHS publications will describe a Martin B-26 Widow Maker and readers who don’t remember the “old days” will assume that’s what B-26s were called. In a sense, they will be right, but in a more important sense — the sense of understanding the actual designated name of the airplane — they will be wrong.  I believe the change is unfortunate and ill-advised from an editorial management point of view, but I will accept it and remember it when I proofread the next AAHS Journal which is coming to me an article at a time as I write this posting.

 

Change in grammar, spelling and syntax is inevitable though not always best for the language. I will miss the distinction between italics and “quotes” for names in the pages of American Aviation Historical Society publications, but I will continue to be happy and honored to serve as part of the editorial board. I will continue to make the distinction I feel is worthwhile in my other writings. 

A tradition is dead. Long live tradition.

Write well . . . . . . and properly.

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Consideration of a Well-Sequenced Consumption of a Vending Machine Pack of Chex Mix Traditional

Chex Mix Traditional is part of a tray of candy bars, gum and salty snacks that serves hungry employees with 75 cents and time on their hands. For me, on more than one occasion, it has been my breakfast which I almost never eat at home. In the course of getting to understand the chemistry and dynamic of the consumption of Chex Mix optimized for maximum satisfaction, I’ve concluded that like any tasty pleasure (dinner and making whoopee come to mind) sequence is everything.  Before desert, the foreplay as someone must have once said.

First priority for me when considering the contents of a Chex Mix packet spread out on a plate at my office desk is to lose the frikking pretzels, both forms: the ovals and the squares. They must be separated from the rest because they just don’t look particularly appetizing, and they’re easier to eat when they’re easier to reach and ingest in multiples.

Next comes the sliced dried bread. Today’s bag included three dark grain and five white grain. These are the toughest “chews” in the bag, and must be eliminated (by consuming) early in the game as we build to the eagerly anticipated ecstasy coming up fast, especially when you’re really hungry. And if I wasn’t really REALLY hungry this morning, I dang sure wouldn’t be munching Chex Mix.

There are five or six things which, when placed horizontally on the paper, look like squiggely em-dashes. I don’t know what they are, but if they were brown with salt grains and straight, I’d call them pretzel sticks. But they’re whitish, and a little denser than pretzels. They are next down the hatch.

The point of all the initial messing with the previous “endurables” is to get to the point of the process: the CHEX.  They loook like the same Chex in their excellent Wheat and Corn Chex, but they seem smaller and have absolutely no distinct flavors of their own despite differing colors of brown and a yellow ochre. This is an ecstasy of texture shared by teeth and tongue. Describing the FLAVOR in the Chex Mix breakfast experience is like describing the sound of a HUM.  This is in marked contrast to most dinners and all the making whoopie I’ve enjoyed.  Even so, the Chex Mix breakfast experience is a significant part of my mornings, occasionally,  thanks in part to sensible sequencing. There is a place for each element to be savored to the max, and I consider it absolutely essential for maximum satisfaction. At the conclusion, you will be satisfied.  And when it comes to Chex, sex and a good meal, that’s what make makes the effort so worthwhile, don’t you think?

Love long . . . . . and proper.

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11th Street, Springfield’s Unsung Artery

I’m still going a little bit nuts over you-know-whum. Had the locks re-keyed because my sanity matters more than hers (now) and to conclude our star-crossed  aftermath, we will do it when it’s convenient for me. In the meantime, the house remains largely as she left it last week, a testament to what is until she removes it from my life. All this was heavy on my heart as I departed the barbershop after a fine summer trim. It’s located at the corner of 11th and Stanford Streets on Springfield’s near southeast side. I decided rather than fight metro traffic on more-travelled thoroughfares to work this morning, I’d take 11th Street, the route less travelled, to see how far it could take me to where I wanted to go.

On the south, it ends just a flew blocks south of the barber shop at Stevenson Drive, a street which if taken east long enough takes you by the city power plant, and blends into East Lake Drive which wends around Lake Springfield.  I thought that if I took 11th north, it would end near Lanphier High. To get that far I’d have to drive 11th along the eastern edge of downtown and into the near north side where Lanphier is located. Going north past Cook Street today, the view of what’s ahead expanded into a broader vista, thanks to no buildings crowding curbsides in that part of the city, and in that vista, the humid air obliterated the distant view in haze. For the first time I’ve driven any city street, I could not see to the horizon.

What do you do when you cannot see the horizon as you travel? (Can you feel the allegory approaching a mile a minute here? I can.) You go as far as you can see and don’t worry about what’s beyond. There will be time to pull off the street to get your bearings if the haze really intensifies, but as long as you’re okay with where you think you’re going there’s little point in getting paranoid and anxious about the murk beyond.  The air was crazy air as I wheeled northbound with occasional rays of sun illuminating streaks of haze in the distance, then disappearing as other clouds intervened. By the time I crossed North Grand at Lanphier, all the haze was behind me, and I continued north into new territory for me.  The street cranks obliquely to the right at a four-way stop sign several blocks north of Lanphier after passing some ball diamonds and dilapidated store fronts, remants of an industrial age in this town when Pillsbury and Sangamon Electric reigned supreme in these neighborhoods.  Jagging right and heading northeast, the street rmained as wide as it had been since the barbershop, but was lined by newer homes built in the 50s. That’s when I realized I was on 19th Street.  How did that happen? Beats the heq outa moi.

A few minutes later, the street ended at a T. Crossing north on the T would put me into a shopping center on the north side of Sangamon Avenue, a thoroughly modern array that included a Schnuck’s where I shop often. Instead, I turned right to go east on Sangamon, turn left onto Dirksen Parkway and arrive at work after an easier trek than anticipated when I left the barbershop. I was amazed that I had accidentally discovered a new way to work and back.

I shall  no longer have to deal with mid-city congestion in transit from “Rock City and taking a right off 11th at Cook will give me coordinated stop lights all the way to Spring which is an easy shot the few further blocks south to home.

Anyone considering a drive from central Springfield to the northeast should consider 11th Street. It worked out nicely for me, and I am confident you too will be as satisfied.

Drive long . . . . . . and proper.

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