McGruff Duty

So I flew McGruff the Crime Dog around all this past week while the Boss was out of town. I got roped into it last year when the Boss generously donated the use of the helicopter to the local county Sheriff’s Department while he was also out of town. They were doing an anti-drug presentation at various local elementary schools and thought it would be neat if McGruff could arrive by helicopter. My boss thought it would be neat too.

The police do this in conjunction with “Red Ribbon Week.” They've been using a helicopter to transport McGruff for three years now. Escambia County (Alabama) Sheriff Grover Smith puts the show on, and it is emceed by the capable, enthusiastic Chief Deputy Mike Lambert who does a great job. Basically, they give a couple of short anti-drug speeches, a drug-dog demo, then show a video of an exciting local police car chase filmed by one of the dash-cams.

The kids either got to see McGruff arrive or leave the school (sometimes both). I gave them a demonstration of how the helicopter can hover in one spot, then move sideways and backwards. No airshow, no funny stuff. The last thing in the world I want is to have a couple of hundred kids seeing McGruff die in the flaming wreckage of a helicopter. Oh, the headlines...

The first year, they used a local operator who is no longer around. The second year, they came to us. And when the police ask for a favor, whaddya gonna say, no?

Atmore P.D. Officer Matt Rabren and his partner, Avalon

That year, I had big “POLICE” decals made up and stuck on the side of the ship. The cops gave me a blue jumpsuit (but no gun, dammit) and asked me to give a talk to each assembly about police aviation. Like an idiot, I said yes. We were all a big hit. But when the Boss got back from vacation and heard about it, he was not pleased. He said we’d missed a golden marketing opportunity with all those potential customers (teachers) in the audience.

My phony police helicopter

So this year, no decals and no jumpsuit. I wore a polo shirt with the company logo so there was no confusion that I was a civilian. In their speeches the cops gave us props for our part in making it all happen, which was nice. I thought I could weasel my way out of giving the kids the police-aviation talk, but no such luck.

When you stand up in front of a roomful of hundred kids or so, it’s short-attention-span theatre, baby. The first year I was pretty nervous, and from their blank stares I realized that some of the things I was telling them were way over their heads, so to speak. During the course of that week I tailored and refined (and shortened) the talk. But it was hardly riveting.

This year I decided to try comedy. I’m a frustrated stand-up comic anyway, and here was a perfect opportunity. I started off making jokes about McGruff, and what he was like as a puppy…e.g. chasing his tail instead of bad guys, “taking a bite out of…” the cat, and solving the mystery of my missing goldfish by pointing out to me the tiny paw prints of the cat on the side of the fishbowl. The teachers were all laughing, but the kids still looked back at me with that now-familiar blank stare.

Finally, at the last school I decided to speak their language. “My name is Bob Barbanes,” I announced. “But my friends all call me Sponge Bob.” (Uproariously laughter.) “They call me that because I’m always sponging off them…like, ‘Hey, you gonna finish those fries?’” (Blank stare/stony silence.)

Ah, well. So I’m no Mr. Rogers or Captain Kangaroo. But I'll do better next year, you just wait! I'm working on new material, and I'll have those little bastards laughing or my name aint Sponge Bob.

Balloon Boy

It’s not that I’m clairvoyant, but I am a big ol’ skeptic. I figured something was up. I mean, it didn't take a geeeeeenius to see through this one. And who names their kid “Falcon” anyway?

First we heard the alarming news that some sort of helium balloon...kind of a homemade flying saucer...had gotten loose from somebody's backyard in Colorado and there might be a boy inside it. Dear God! Edge-of-seat stuff! Another national emergency of the “baby falls down well” type we seem to do so well. News helicopters circled military helicopters who could only stand-by and do…well...nothing but watch with the rest of us.

Shortly thereafter the craft came down and lo and behold, no boy in the balloon. Did he fall out? Dear God! We were on the edge of our seats yet again. Turned out he’d been hiding in the attic over the garage all along, they said. Next, we heard that the parents had been on ABC-TV’s “Wife Swap” show.

Twice.

And that they were now "storm chasers."

Publicity stunt, said I.

And that’s all it was.

The sad thing is that the boy, already saddled with the unfortunate moniker, “Falcon” will now and forever be known as “Balloon Boy.” Just say those words and everyone knows who/what you’re talking about. Ain’t the media wonderful!

My youngest sister Eleanor tweeted, “Developing…Jon Gosselin to adopt Balloon Boy in advance of new poor parenting reality show.” I thought it was funny.

But seriously, who names their kid, “Falcon,” anyway?

"Catch The Wind" Again!

Two things: I heard an old song on the radio the other day and saw a new TV commercial. Both brought back a flood of memories.

Some time ago I wrote a post about two companies that used the old Donovan song, “Catch The Wind” in their television commercials. Volvo used it quite effectively; GE, not so much.

Now along comes the Massachusetts Mutual Life Insurance Company. Founded in 1851, it has long been known familiarly as “Mass Mutual.” Coincidentally, that is the marketing name they’ve taken on now: Odd how that works, eh? Of course they are more than just a life insurance company. These days, it’s the “MassMutual Financial Group.”

Okay, they needed a TV commercial. They wanted to stress family values in these troubled times, because that is what every insurance company/bank/investment company/big corporation wants you to feel when you think of them.

So the new MassMutual commercial begins at night with a shot of guy in a huge office. It must be late at night because it’s very dark outside and none of the surrounding buildings have many lights on (so it’s not just 5:30 on a winter’s day). We wonder: What kind of miserable, slave-driving company would pressure an employee to work those kinds of hours? Oh yeah – heh- an investment company! The phone rings, and the poor, overworked bastard looks down at a picture of his daughter on his desk - a daughter he probably hasn't seen much of lately.

The next shot is during the day, ostensibly the weekend. The guy is still in his office, still hard at work. But it is a home office now, and the only view he has is of his small backyard with its tiny pool in which his young daughter and a friend(?) are playing. We wonder: Was he terminated from his investment company job? A sign drawn in a child’s scrawl says, “Daddy’s Office.” Is he into Network Marketing now? Amway, perhaps? There is no dialogue. In the background, some smooth-talking voice-over announcer is saying something about decisions and policy-holders and...some other forgettable crap.

Throughout the commercial, Donovan’s “Catch The Wind” is playing. It must mean something. Is it a metaphor for the guy’s failing career? We don’t know.

If I were doing that spot, they would still show the home office and the sign his daughter made for it. But he would be in in the pool with her, not watching her play while he’s too busy “working.” And in the background, an unanswered phone would be heard faintly ringing…

I love when TV commercials use the right music, images and words. When it happens, it’s magical. Below, you can watch the new MassMutual commercial and decide for yourself whether it works for you or not. I think it is merely average, not very inspiring, and hardly magical. And alright already, I also think we’ve overused “Catch The Wind,” thank you very friggin much.





Okay, so much for that. Next, I heard an old Nick Drake song on Sirius/XM radio that I now cannot get out of my head. It was, naturally, in an advertisement where I first heard it.

So please watch what is probably the best commercial in the history of television commercials. Notice there is no narration. Notice how the people in the ad don't speak either. Notice how you cannot even see the product clearly. Notice the wonderfully appropriate soundtrack song. Notice how unlike a commercial it is and rather more like a little minature drama. But when the company's logo lights up at the very end of the spot, I want one!





I can watch that commercial over and over. One YouTube commenter called it ":59 seconds of art." And I agree! How do you say so much in quick, little shots? I love the part when you just see the backup lights come on, then the next shot is the car driving off down the road. They made their decision! I love the questions the spot raises about the relationship of the couple in the backseat: The way the boy looks at the girl early on - first date, perhaps? And I love how she looks at him at the very end. Car? It's about a car? Who car? What car?

Volkswagen has always put out creative, fun commercials, even today. But this old one for the Cabrio was just the best.



DISCLAIMER: My family has always owned Volkswagens. Many years ago I bought a white Cabriolet for my mom in California, and drove it out to her from Florida. I loved that car - I think my sister in Albany, NY still has it. And I currently own an '85 VW Camper which is (patiently) awaiting a new engine - coming soon!

Too Funny

I don't often laugh out loud at things I see on the internet (other than Scott Meyers' "Basic Instructions" of course). But I could not resist posting this.

People. Feh- Who Needs 'Em?

We Harley riders like to tell you that our bikes have “personality.” We especially like to tell you this when they break down and strand us out in the middle of nowhere. As mine did today.

Ah, did not know I had a(nother) motorcycle, eh? It’s a long story. A three-part story actually, which you’ll read some day if I ever could get the pictures off my old computer that died so bad that it won’t even turn on now. It’s on my list...

But I digress.

Today was a gorgeous day for a ride. I didn’t have to go up to Brewton, but it seemed like a good excuse to roll the bike out of the garage, as if I needed one. “Work” completed (hah), I was on the way home, taking the long way/scenic route as usual. We’re talking back roads. And I was just cruising along, not a care in the world…fat, dumb and happy, singing out loud.

Going down that long, lonesome hiway
Bound for the mountains and the…

Then the engine died.

Crikey! Or words to that effect.

Oddly, the engine didn’t completely quit. It kept running at idle or just a little above, but would not accept any throttle (an important piece of troubleshooting information that would come in handy). And it kept backfiring. And all my electrical devices were dead. It was like somebody sort of shut the key off. But not.

I stopped in the driveway of a farm, a million miles from nowhere. The bike continued to idle, and I did not shut it off, oh no! Over the years, I’ve learned this the hard way. When something is wrong and you pull over by the side of the road, DO NOT SHUT THE FRICKEN ENGINE OFF! Believe me, it will *not* restart. Just ask my friends Greg and Chuck about the time I got the “Alternator” light in my Jetta on I-10 and pulled over to the side to look under the hood. Out of habit, I threw it in “Park” and shut the ignition off. As soon as I did, we all three looked at each other with that, “Oh shit,” expression. I screwed up. Coulda just left it running and drove to the nearest exit to check things out, but noooooooooooooooooo. I had to strand us on the Interstate for a couple of hours. I am moron.

Anyway, lesson learned, as I said.

On the Harley today, I did not see anything obviously wrong, nor did I expect to. It was an electrical problem to be sure. But what? I knew there was a convenience store about five miles ahead, so I limped on down the road at about 15 mph, idling in second gear, which is all I could get out of it. Many things go through your mind at a time like this. Mainly, how much is it gonna cost me to flatbed this sonovabitch piece of junk home from here? $100? Probably.

Coughing and spitting and popping, I made it to the convenience store. As luck would have it there was another motorcycle parked outside. Turned out that it belonged to the slightly scary-looking bestudded and “gauged” teenage clerk inside with the unnaturally black hair. I switched the bike off and, sure enough, it would not restart. When I turned the key back on, no juice at all. It was almost as if…thinking now…the battery…had…completely…died. But that usually doesn’t happen. Plus it’s a relatively new battery.

I pulled the left sidecover off, exposing said battery. On the inside of the cover there was a little decal with a diagram that showed the negative cable from the battery and the location where it attached to the engine. Why this diagram is there, I have no idea. (Or…maybe I do now.) When I looked at the connector post on the back of the engine where the negative battery cable was supposed to be, it was empty – nothing attached to it. What the…?

Probing a little further, I found the wayward negative cable. The terminal end had cracked cleanly off, and then the cable had fallen down among some others that are clumped there between the engine and the frame. Harleys do vibrate a bit. Even modern ones. They’ve rubber-mounted the engine now to keep the vibrations away from the rider, but the engine itself still jumps around like a hardware store paint shaker.

So it was just a broken electrical connection. All breakdowns should be this easy! On the other hand, I had not brought along even one lousy tool, not a pair of pliers or a screwdriver, not even my trusty Leatherman which I usually never leave home without, except for today. As I said, I am a moron.

The store manager, a short, heavyset, pleasant woman named Kathy came outside for a smoke. She was about my age. And she noticed me standing there over my motorcycle, scratching my head.

“Got a problem?” she asked.

“Well, it is a Harley…” I cracked. “And it is broke.”

She chuckled. “Is there anything I can do to help?” She came over and bent down over the engine, probing in a way that said it wasn’t the first dead Harley she’d ever troubleshot by the side of the road. I explained what had happened, and showed her the naked terminal post. She fished around for the cable like she knew what she was doing. And to my surprise she discovered it without me having to point it out.

“Well, what do you need, hon?”

“A length of wire would do it, I suppose.” All convenience stores these days have a selection of automotive supplies. I figured that they’d have something I could make work. I pointed inside the store. “I’ll find something in there. I needed to stop for a cold drink anyway.” I was very affecting an air of Ah can do this ma-self, ma’am, thankyouverymuch.

Kathy wasn’t having it. She marched me inside with an odd sense of urgency. She disappeared into a back office, then came right back out with some old computer power cords they weren’t using anymore. In her hands were a pair of scissors and a razor knife. “Will this work?”

Man, I laughed. I didn’t know what to say. Of course it would work! It was exactly what I needed. So I sat down at a table and in a couple of minutes had fashioned me a new wire that I was able to splice between the old, broken one and a (different) grounding point on the engine. I knew it would get me home. I went outside, hooked everything together and the bike started right up as if it had never missed a beat. I had been there less than fifteen minutes, total. I killed the engine and went back inside.

“I don’t know how to thank you, ma’am,” I said, sincerely. (Actually, I do, and I will.)

”Bahhh, don’t worry about it, hon,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ve watched plenty of Harleys get worked on in plenty of strange places. Things are always vibrating loose and breaking on ‘em. You just be careful riding home.”

The absolute, incredible kindness and generosity of complete strangers is one thing that constantly amazes and delights me about people. I did not know this Kathy from Adam. Yet she jumped right in to solve my little problem as if it were her own…as if I were 2,000 light-years from home, not 20.

One of the nice things about being a motorcyclist is that you get to interact with people in interesting ways. People still seem to be drawn to and friendly to motorcyclists for some reason. And when the motorcycle you ride is a Harley, you often get to interact with them under…well, unusual…circumstances. (Although having said, that, Harleys are waaaaaay more reliable than they used to be.)

In my short, sweet life, I have had far more rewarding and positive experiences with people than bad ones. And it is these positive experiences that keep me coming back for more (or is it “going out for more?"), seeking out all the good Kathys of the world so I can talk to them, even just for a little bit.

I love people. What a dreadful place this planet would be without them.

We Made Southwest Airlines Go Around

Friday night, on our way home from Pennsylvania we had to stop in Birmingham, Alabama to drop off one passenger. We found ourselves in a bit of a race. Us and the thunderstorms: Who would get to Birmingham first? This King Air has two sources of weather: Onboard weather-radar that looks forward but only at short ranges; and for strategic planning a satellite-based Nexrad weather that shows a bigger picture.

The Nexrad was showing a solid line of east-west thunderstorms south of Birmingham. In the official jargon of aviation, it was what we pilots call a “line of shit.” Like the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes, the storms were marching inexorably northbound, kicking everything in their path. From our vantage point, it appeared that we and the thunderstorms would arrive at the Birmingham Airport at roughly the same time. We watched them with concern, and formulated a plan to reverse course and high-tail it outta there to Huntsville (which was still in the clear) if we lost the race.

Approach Control kept us high…too high, really. We found ourselves inside of ten miles from the airport, still up at 5,000 feet, still hauling ass. Not a terrible situation, but at night you should take your time and fly more conservatively. Normally, Approach would have had us lower by then. No pilot likes being rushed. Ben was torn between slowing down and keeping the speed up. We couldn’t see the airport visually, because the clouds below us offered only temporary glimpses of the ground. But we certainly had it on the moving map display and could see how close we were getting.

A Southwest Airlines plane checked in on the frequency behind us. The pilot said, “…we have the King Air in sight.” So we knew that they were #2 behind us on the approach. And we knew that they were probably looking at the same weather we were. They knew that the airport was fixing to get pounded, and that our “window” was closing…fast.

Just as the Southwest pilot said she had us in sight we entered a cloud deck with rain. So she could not have kept us in sight very well. I wondered about that. We popped out the bottom of the cloud just as we intercepted the final approach course for runway 24, landing to the southwest. Ben had his competent hands full slowing down and staying on the glideslope. The King Air really puts on the brakes when you pull the power back and throw the flaps and the landing gear out. Maaaaaaarvelous plane! Things were working out nicely…for us.

Now, air traffic controllers do keep airplanes apart, you know that, but when you get close to landing things change a bit. If you say that you have the airplane in front of you in sight, then it becomes up to you to maintain a speed and separation and spacing that will allow you both to land. If you get too slow and too far behind the traffic, ATC might ask you to speed up. If you get too close, ATC might tell you that you are closing-in on your traffic and might suggest you slow to your minimum approach speed, but they will not command you to slow down. There’s a reason and I’ll get to it in a second.

Birmingham Airport sits in a big valley. As we eased down the final approach we could see the storms crossing the ridgeline just south of the airport. It was close, but we were winning. The Tower controller was squawking about windshear and stuff at the far end of the runway. It was raining pretty good ahead of the storms themselves and the runway was already wet. Final checklists complete, everything was looking good. Ben slid it on smoothly and we had good traction as we slowed.

The Runway 24 at KBHM is 12,000 feet long. Plenty of room. But the turnoffs for the FBO (fixed-base operator, or "terminal for small planes") we were parking at were using are more than halfway down. In good weather (e.g. daytime, not raining) we might have "landed long" to minimize our time on the runway. On a dark and rainy night however, you shoot a standard approach, which puts your wheels on the pavement about 1,000 feet down from the near end. This means that small, relatively slow airplanes like the King Air (compared to a 737) have a long roll-out. Tower asked us to exit the runway at taxiway H-2, which was still a ways up ahead. He matter-of-factly mentioned that there was a Southwest Airlines 737 on “short-final.” We knew the big Boeing had to be close.

Off to my right I saw the sign for taxiway H-3 and asked if we could take that? Tower said okay. But in the darkness and rain, I noticed too late that the turn onto H3 would be more than ninety degrees, and the taxiway led back to who-knows-where. On a wet runway in gusty winds and rain, the last thing you want to be doing is horsing an airplane around trying to make sharp turns while still slowing down from landing. Ben, who could see less from his side, decided to just continue down to H2, which was only slightly further ahead. I told the Tower we’d take H2 instead.

From the Southwest plane we now heard an urgent male voice. “Now!” he said. We angled over and got off the runway as expeditiously as we could. The next voice we heard was the Tower controller.

“Southwest 480, go around. Traffic on the runway.”

As we turned to get off the runway I looked back. The Southwest plane was literally over the threshold of the runway, in the flare (round-out), about to touch down. They had cut it too close on us. The Tower guy let it go as far as he could, but rulez is rulez. You can’t land if there’s already a plane on the runway.

The captain of the airliner acknowledged the go-around, and he clearly was not happy. They were probably cursing us mightily as they went by. The Tower asked them if they could just “make closed-traffic,” which is to say just swing around and come in for another landing? But the female pilot, back on the radios now, sighed and said no, they would not be able to keep the airport in sight and would need to go out and get sequenced-in again for another ILS approach. Which is what they did.

When we switched to Ground Control, I told the controller, “Well, we tried.” And he said, “Not your fault, guys,” which we knew to be true. In their haste to get on the ground, Southwest had simply followed too closely behind us. (They landed about ten minutes later – how, I do not know as it was raining and lightninging and thundering the whole time.) We got soaked just running the short distance from the plane into the FBO.

What we didn’t know at the time but found out later was that Southwest was ahead of us and originally going to approach and land on Runway 6. But storms in that direction forced them to circle and backtrack, looping around to set up to land on Runway 24, which put them behind us in the sequence. So they must have been anxious, figuring that they only had a short time to get on the ground. Any delay would cause them to have to go somewhere and “hold” (fly in a circle) while the storms passed. And then they would be faced with having to penetrate and pass through that very same line to get to the airport. Sometimes we get pinned between rocks and hard places in the air. Lines of thunderstorms can sometimes extend for 100 miles or more.

The Southwest pilot tried, but he just misjudged the spacing. We normally come “over the fence” at around 120 knots. When we were two miles from the end of the runway, we had slowed to 147 knots, still faster than normal and slowing further. The Southwest plane was now only four miles behind us and closing fast. They were doing 200 knots – more than fifty knots faster than us. And they wouldn’t be able to go much slower than that.

Ben and I talked about it in the FBO during the half-hour we waited for the storms to pass. Had we been able to fly a more normal approach profile (i.e. slower), it would have been obvious sooner that Southwest was too close. The controller would have said something, and perhaps Southwest would have increased their spacing. But they were burning toward the runway just like we were, fully aware that things were about to get ugly.

It would be great if we all flew on nice, clear days, with blue skies and birds chirping and flute music playing, when everything is easy and no tough decisions need to be made. But that’s not how it is in real life. Sometimes you do what you’ve got to do to make things work. And sometimes you mess up. We did the best we could. We did not rush or take unnecessary risks in conditions that were less than ideal. We felt badly that Southwest had to go around, but that little “deal” was on them, not us.

The rest of the flight back home was under beautifully clear, starry skies.

Fish Out Of Water

I don’t like motels. But lately I’ve been spending a lot of time in them, as our airplane and helicopter venture hither and yon. Last weekend I spent two miserable days in a motel in Livingston, Alabama – which is about as far out in the middle of nowhere as you can get. Couple of days later it was another overnight in Birmingham, Alabama. Last night it was a motel in Latrobe, Pennsylvania where today our passengers are playing a round of golf with some guy named Arnold Palmer. (I hear he’s an avid pilot, but he may have some other claim to fame as well.)

Latrobe…which they seem to pronounce LAY-trobe is an interesting place. It’s pretty. I initially thought it was out in the boonies, but it turns out that Pittsburgh is only about 40 miles to the west. And while the residents of Latrobe probably think they live “out in the country,” it seems pretty crowded to me.

I grew up in New York City, but have been living in the south since 1987. A strange feeling comes over me when I come back north. It’s hard to explain. It is a subtle but palpable tightness of my gut and overall feeling of dread. I feel out of my element, like I don’t belong here.

I think it is the density of population that makes me uneasy. Things are much more crowded here in the north. Businesses are clumped together with little space between. Additionally, they are built close to the roadway, crammed into smaller lots, with commensurately small parking lots. Everywhere you look you see houses and buildings and people.

From a driver’s perspective, the roads are narrow, the lanes are narrow, and there are few turn lanes - not much space to get off the lane of traffic to turn into where you’re going. Drivers are more aggressive.

In the south things are more spread-out. There’s more room. It’s odd that I feel this way now, considering where I grew up. But being in the north just makes me claustrophobic. I could never live in “the north” again.

We’re supposed to leave LAYtrobe around 4:30 this afternoon, headed home. I’m looking forward to it.