In time to enjoy 110 degree weather, that is. When I rolled in tonight, for my last night on the dark shift, the first thing out of peoples’ wasn’t “hi” or “what’s up”, but “DAMN, it was hot today!” I looked at the thermometer we keep by the back door which shows the highest temperature reached during the last 24 hours. That was a glorious 105 degrees – in the shade. Yep, it’s about time to go home.
So yes, back to days I go. But not before I got to fly once more into
Our flight was uneventful up to the end, when, as we neared the field and contacted base to tell them we were inbound, base duly informed us that Michael Jackson had died. My copilot was so distraught that he almost balled up the landing, forcing me to wade through my anguish and save us in the hover. Once we shut down we talked it out as a squadron, and after a great deal of soul-searching agreed that our hearts would go on. We turned on the TV, and the inevitable media lovefest was well under way. A great deal of soul-searching was going on in the MSM too, with the Reverend Al Sharpton declaring MJ to be pop music’s Jackie Robinson and CNN featuring an introspective on the King of Pop’s ‘eccentricities’. These eccentricities include a lifestyle of perpetual adolescence, reckless endangerment of his children, a perverse obsession with young boys, and the grotesque mutilation of his own body. I know, I should not speak ill of the dead, and I hope his family is granted grace in this difficult time. But it’s a sign of how infantile are the times we live in when a disturbed pop singer is airbrushed into a saint and revolutionary simply because his face appeared on tabloid covers with astounding regularity. I hope the networks can press through the usual fawn-idolize-talk-very-seriously-about-the-end-of-an-era phase quickly and get back to issues that may actually have a real impact on our lives, like the unprecedented rebellions in Iran or the massive, possibly economy-changing global warming bill getting pushed through Congress right now with elected representatives scarcely glancing at the table of contents, much less the 1200-odd pages of this ponderous tome.
All right, enough of that before I get bent out of shape again, a habit (usually triggered by work, not the passing of faded celebrities) which apparently my co-workers think has gotten stronger out here. I need to woo-sah and focus on the fact that while I won’t be home for the 4th of July, the leftovers and beer should still be in the fridge on my return.