Flying Objects

150 Flying Objects

Identified and semi-unidentified flying objects just can’t seem to satay away fom Kathleen Caronna.

Who?

Kathleen Caronna, the woman hit by the “Cat In The Hat” balloon during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in 1997.

First, the “Cat,” now Cirrus SR20. What’s that? It’s the airplane that smacked into her bedroom the other day, killing owner Cory Lidle, the Yankees pitcher, among others.

No, she wasn’t home at 20 to 3 that afternoon. But ordinarily she would have been, and that day, she was heading there right about when the plane hit. Good timing. But it does make you wonder.

First a renegade balloon, now a badly flown private plane.

Someone should drop a light-weight and inconsequential object on her pretty soon, to get past the “things happen in threes” scare.

At least do it before the autumn of 2015. Since the first two incidents were spaced nine years apart, Kathleen has about nine years before there’s a potential third incident. Get it over with.

This woman was in a coma for a month after the balloon thing. This time, she’s conscious, of course. But she’ll probably be pretty rattled for the same one month.

The New York papers and television and radio stations are reporting that Caronna visited her bedroom after the fire was extinguished. But there aren’t a lot of quotes from her floating around… nor her husband nor her son.

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All of a sudden, this Lidle fella’s become a hero. And famous. What about the other guy in the plane? You don’t see his name much. It was Tyler Stranger. He’s dead, too. Don’t bother Googling him. You won’t find much. Here’s a quote, though: “the most dangerous thing about flying is driving to the airport.” The source of that is not exactly reliable. It’s from “Vivablog,” whatever that is. It gives no source and no context. But it sounds like the authentic thought of a Single Engine Cowboy. Even if it was made up (which it might have been.)

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The whole thing sent a collective shiver through New York. We’ve developed a kind of aversion to planes hitting buildings, even insignificant planes hitting insignificant buildings. Our famously thick hide is not yet thick enough to shrug this off as we do power failures, transit mini strikes, traffic jams, high prices and each other.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2006 WJR

The Martians Have Landed

149 The Martians Have Landed

This is unfair to Martians. To smear them with what you’re about to hear, that’s really libelous. But they won’t sue.

This is about a guy named Rod Brady, who had some kind of terminal degree where you thought you should call him “doctor,” and he could smile and say “just call me Rod.”

At the time, Rod was the head of Bonneville Broadcasting, which is owned by the Mormon Church and run from Utah. They had a radio station in Manhattan. Corner of Madison and 52^nd.

Rod was new on the job, and he went around the country to all their radio and television stations and had staff meetings. We never had staff meetings before that. Now, we had staff meetings, seminars, all kinds of great wasters. Apparently, out there in the boonies, they have time for all that.

Rod gets up at the meeting and he says “I walked here from my hotel and saw maybe 200 or 300 business on the way, and thought ‘those are 200 or 300 businesses which probably don’t advertise with us. We should get their business.’”

Harvey was there. He was a salesman. Very successful. Just sorta smirked at the comment. Gordie was there. He was a salesman. Very successful. Just sorta rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Ed was a salesman. Very successful. Missed the meeting. Was out somewhere, selling. Or maybe at the movies.

Dr. Rod? He taught us a thing or two, having had the experience of visiting New York once with his family and now, in the second day of his two-day “getting to know you” tour.

All this happened in the mid 1980s. By the late-1980s, Rod and the California ditz (can a guy be a ditz? Yes.) Anyway, Rod and this ditz put the very successful operation so deep into the hole they never did get to dig out. Ditz got fired, the station got sold, Rod was kicked upstairs so he could work his magic on the church’s other businesses.

They didn’t get New York and didn’t get that they didn’t get New York.

So if all this happened decades ago, why tell the story now?

Because it’s happening again.

K-Mart/Sears, Wal-Mart and Kohl’s have opened “design offices” in Manhattan.

All three weren’t accustomed to and couldn’t believe that the Big Guys of Seventh Avenue wouldn’t come out to the sticks to do business with them. They couldn’t believe it for so long that went it continued not to happen they figured (they always do this) “who needs ‘em. They were astonished that the top guys not only didn’t want to go to Arkansas and Minnesota and Michigan and Illinois, they didn’t need to.

Half the manufacturers who do business with Wal-Mart are in effect captive subsidiaries. It was simply stunning that someone – anyone – said “no,” and survived.

So Wal has a suite of offices. Two floors. Walk through Wal’s and see if you think they get it. Ditto the other guys.

When those leases are up, they’ll renew them once to save face. But somewhere in the middle of the renewal term, they’ll sublet the space and get out. And no one will notice.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2006 WJR

Wash The Water

148 Wash The Water

If there were a way to wash the water, the Queen of Clean would find it. Water, after all, comes out of the ground and is therefore dirty. If it’s dirty, it has to be cleaned. Thoroughly. Often.

Alas, all one can do is add chemicals (yech!) or run the stuff through filters (they, too, need cleaning.) And that’s not nearly enough.

She’s a one-woman autoclave, and the house sparkles.

We had a deal when we moved here. We’ll do a little every day, not try to clean every room every day. That went out the window on Day Two.

You can use a full can of Pledge in two weeks if you work at it. Around here, that’s hardly the heavy lifting. Around here that happened before there was a stick of wood furniture in the place.

We’ve already worn out the stainless steel sink in the kitchen. (It’s actually two sinks and, says the Queen of Clean, it should have two sets of faucets. But up in the bathroom, where there ARE two sinks with two sets of faucets, “that’s one too many.”)

The washer and dryer downstairs? They cower when they hear the basement door open. If they could run and hide under something, they would. They want to unionize. Say they’re overworked. You say you didn’t know appliances could talk? They can. They do.

Just the other day, the stove was overheard saying “cook all you want, but PLEASE stop with the steel wool when there’s nothing there to scrape off.”

We have an outdoor deck that gets a good breeze most days. But not enough to get rid of dust no one can see. A broom resides out there permanently. We’re going to get it a coat for the winter.

The walkway was put in poorly and that resulted in a nice multicolored Alexander Calder-like pattern. But the builder covered it over in a nice shiny white after five months of nagging.

Back in Manhattan, you couldn’t leave a single crumb in sight, else the roaches would march. There are no roaches here. But heaven forbid the crumb radar sounds a warning.

Then there’s the dining room table. It’s a beautiful, almost-hand-made light cherry thing with matching chairs. Very expensive. Impossible to hurt. Sturdy.

And it’s a sore point. It’s TOO nice. Requires too many steps to clean.

Last night, we signed a post-nup. It included a promise that if either of us is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, this hard-to-maintain table and all other items of clutter would be disposed of before the full thrall of the disease.

A legal contract, witnesses and all.

And it will be broken. Count on it.

In the meantime, if anyone knows how to wash water, please let the rest of us in on the secret.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2006 WJR

Eat Your Heart Out, Felix

147 Eat Your Heart Out, Felix

Only in America. A cat that doesn’t make you sneeze. Eight grand and you have to wait a year for yours- and answer a lot of questions about how you’re going to make a home for him.

Well, him or her, since you can’t choose gender, fur length or much of anything else. And they might put a computer ID chip in your pet. Or is it you “animal companion?”

Let’s here it for the geniuses of Allerca, a company in California (where else?) that’s come up with genetically engineered kittens that don’t give off the stuff that make people sneeze and their eyes water and swell and itch.

Poor Felix. A simple ally cat, possibly relegated to the Great Litter Box in the Sky.

Or Sylvester. At least now Tweety won’t sneeze and give his position away during Sylvester’s battle for survival (namely eating birds.)

Or Garfield. Alas, poor Garfield. Second class cat, along with Felix and Sylvester. After all those years of feline glory.

You have to wonder about paying four grand for a cat, plus shipping and handling (a charter jet ride to an “authorized” veterinarian in your area. Two thousand more for that, in round figures. And two thousand more if you want a better spot on the waiting list. The Alerca website says this can save you months – even years of waiting.

Oh, and they’ll throw in a bunch of “superior” cat food for your trouble.

Mice, birds and cicadas worked for millennia. But not for these cuties.

Most people found their cats at the animal shelter – or were found by kitties in the neighborhood.

But, of course, the faint of heart were unable to put up with an occasional sneeze or watery eye.

So, what’s eight grand among friends, right?

If you want a cat, you can get one any day of the week. No waiting.

For eight thousand dollars you can get the best home theater system made. And a cat.

For eight thousand dollars, you can get a house full of semi-decent furniture. And a cat.

For eight thousand dollars, you can pay for your freshman year’s tuition at most of the community colleges in America. And a cat.

For eight thousand dollars you can buy the services of a cleaning man or woman who’ll do a much better job than you will. And a cat. And you’ll have plenty left over.

For eight grand you can help a New Orleans family of 12 rebuild. And a cat.

For eight grand you can probably buy a judge or congressman. And a cat.

For eight grand you can buy a fallout shelter just in case North Korea decides to use the A-bomb it says it has. And a radioactive cat.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2006 WJR

A Year of Retirement

146 A Year of Retirement

The first rule in this space is “don’t write in the first person singular.” That’s been broken only once previously and will be for the second time now.

I retired on October 11, 2005, and it’s now about one year later.

Retirement is a killer, so ‘tis said.

But I’m not yet dead.

Slower of wit, perhaps. Slower of gait because of a bum knee, which also is observing its first anniversary, sure.

But none of the personally defining characteristics have changed so’s you’d notice. I still get cranky over very little – and do so very quickly.

But what the hell.

Parkinson’s Law: Work expands to fill the time available. That’s for sure. Things that used to be done from a corner of the desk now occupy its center. Things that I never before thought of doing have become major skills. Things that used to be major skills have been shoveled to the desk corner.

I’m playing a lot less guitar these days, watching a lot more television. I’m better read than at any previous time since my youth and I know how to (1) change the filter on a gas furnace, (2) remove a “permanently” installed air conditioner, (3) wire a wireless home network, (4) polish and touch up furniture, (6) make a plant grow even when it says it doesn’t want to (anyone remember “talk to your plants?”)

My grocery shopping skills, always excellent, have become finely honed.

I have learned that New York City really IS another planet to those out here in the country. And I have learned that real country people think of Moote Pointe as “the city.”

I have learned that Newsday and the New York Times and even the New York Post are far better newspapers than regular readers realize, that New York radio and television really are better than regular listeners and viewers realize.

I have re-learned how spaced out academia can be, how brutal are its politics, how underworked so many in that trade can be.

I have learned not to miss the ocean or the subway and to appreciate the beauty of the mountains. They aren’t the Rockies, but they’re just fine, thank you.

Every day is pretty much like every other day, and sometimes I have to check the calendar to know what day it IS. A disease of the retired.

But there are a lot of advantages. I can choose the particular imbeciles for whom I do piece work. I can sit in the sunroom and watch some of the most beautiful leaves I’ve ever seen. I can (and sometimes even DO) sleep until 9 in the morning.

There are a LOT of advantages. There are a lot of people who probably would do the world a favor by climbing aboard this bandwagon.

The President and Vice President come quickly to mind. The Speaker of the House and his Public Morals Management team. Bernie Kerik. The guy running CBS Radio, and his boss. It’s a long list. But guys, you can jump with your golden parachutes and stop doing harm by merely signing a couple of pieces of paper. You’d do us all a favor.

Apologies for all the capital “I’s” in this item.

Or as they say in the typical Consent Agreement “I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’ll never do it again.”

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2006 WJR

On The Bus

145 On The Bus

Nice bus. Modern. Runs on “clean natural gas.” Directly in front is a sanitation truck owned by the same municipality, Moote Pointe, PA. It runs on not-so-clean, unnatural diesel. It belches black soot back at us the whole way. The two engines cancel each other out. The air remains unchanged.

Uncle Hog is the bus driver. He’s about 5’5” x 5’5”, bearded, shorts, tee shirt and is listening to Jesus-FM. That means the rest of us are, too.

The Mormon Tabernacle Choir takes a break after “Rejoice, Rejoice!” We get traffic and weather together. The road to hell is moderate to heavy and moving freely in both directions. The forecast is forecast calls for rain on earth. They used to give the weather only when it was “good.” Now, they’re moving into the new century by giving actual weather forecasts. Rain on earth, hot and humid on the Lake of Fire. 72 degrees and sunny in heaven.

Commercial for “My Father’s Place,” which used to be a saloon on Long Island but now is the Throne Room at Heaven’s Gate Apartments. And then there’s the commercial for Motel 666. (We’ll leave the firelight on for you.)

Back to music. A rousing bluegrass selection from the Nickel Mountain Boys, “Schoolhouse Breakdown” featuring Pop Granger’s lightening fast mandolin solo.

Just as we segue to “Jesus Loves You,” we swing into the parking lot of America’s One True Church, Wal-Mart, where worshippers get off and new ones get on.

Uncle Hog is whistling with the song.

Then it’s off to the America’s Second True Church, Moote Pointe State University, where this morning, they are giving out Bibles. Green bound Bibles. Passing them out to students, most of whom reject the offer.

You might, too.

Uncle Hog has stopped the bus long enough for us to note that the Bible guys are characters you’d best avoid.

One has that drugged-up evangelists’ smile/smirk/sneer. He’s in a suit. His jacket is buttoned. He must be the senior guy here. One of his companions, also in a suit, with less of that evango-look on his face, is digging more books out of a carton. The third guy looks like a New York detective with a bad hangover.

This morning’s paper has a letter from student saying these guys make her uncomfortable and they disrupt kids on their way to class. Ordinarily, the discomfort defense doesn’t sit well. This time, you have to agree. These guys would make a corpse twitch.

Uncle Hog returns from a side trip to the coffee shop, but he’s not carrying coffee. He gets back on the bus and we’re off to catch up with the garbage truck.

Most of the passengers at this point are elderly women who ride for free. Good thing, too. The got on carrying armloads of stuff from the Church of Wal-Mart and would take forever to put them down, rifle through their purses for the fare ($1.25, exact change only) delaying the race with the toxic fume-mobile.

And Uncle Hog just HATES to be late.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2006 WJR

Left Out -- Again

144 Left Out – Again

Always the last to be picked for basketball. Baseball. Even hide-n-seek.

Usually voted for the losing candidate.

Never had a stolen identity.

And here it is once more. Left out.

The battery in this laptop computer refuses to catch fire.

And, yes, it IS a Sony battery.

Tried everything. Left it on for a week. Put it near the stove. Loaded every program in the machine and had them all running at once.

No fire.

Not even close.

Yeah, it’s warm. But not firetrap warm.

Can’t cook eggs on it. Can’t even keep the coffee warm.

Left out again.

Our ever-vigilant Homeland Security Department is likely to ban laptop computers and iPods from flights for awhile. Or at least, they may ban the batteries. That’s the bad news. The good news is that you probably can use that little space where the battery is supposed to fit for some of the newly re-cleared carry on items, like hair gel and Listerine and goo for the baby’s diaper.

Conspiracy theorists believe the burning batteries are part of, well, a conspiracy.

The logic goes like this: if the Shah of Iran hadn’t been such a crook, we wouldn’t have gotten a radical Islamaniac regime in Iran which would mean gasoline was only $1.00 a gallon and batteries wouldn’t explode.

The connection? It’s the middle east, it’s the conspiracy theorists. It’s the Department of Homeland Insecurity. You want logic?

Now to the safety issue: if Lithium Ion batteries in computers can catch fire, explode, melt down, should we be watching out for other devices they power?

Digital cameras: “Say Cheese!” Grilled cheese.

iPods: Hotter songs than ever.

Calculators: Here’s a hot number.

Hearing aides, LCD flashlights, nightlights and heaven knows what-all else get these batteries.

Wristwatches: Salvador Dali comes back to life. The melting watches in the pictures have nothing on the real thing, especially if it melts while on your wrist.

And those of us picked last for basketball would at last belong.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2006 WJR