Julie R. Neidlinger: Lone Prairie Flying

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The four heat settings of the airplane.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

This did not actually happen, verbatim, but came about in a sort of collection of occurrences.

First, there was the chilling experience of a recent cross-country flight.

Then, in talking to dad about it on the phone, he commented that a funny cartoon could emerge from the experience.

Then, on the most recent flying lesson in which I learned that yes, I did indeed wrongly manipulate the heat knob which I found out after saying not 30 seconds into the airplane before even getting the radios set that I was cold could we turn on some heat. I had barely pulled the knob from being flush from the surface. My instructor later turned the heat down commenting that it seemed to come out all on his side and that meant when I was comfortable he was baking.

Hence, the realization that heat in mechanized vehicles always ends up to be the same: variable, with a chance for disagreement.

Sort of like riding in the Suburban with dad, who has all the temperature controls (of which there seems to be an excessive amount, both for the front and back half of the vehicle) set like a finely tuned orchestration. I'm sure it annoys him when I reach over and roughly twist a knob for more heat or air depending on my current status.

In the airplane, there are none of those complex heat adjustments and automatic settings. There are, in fact, only four heat settings, which I have illustrated here for your convenience.

Labels: cartoons, dad, humor

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We're gonna die!

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

::My father has told me several humorous stories involving a seasoned flight instructor and pilot from some years back. This story, in particular, had us both dying of laughter as he related it to me.::

The flight instructor in question was on vacation in Arizona one winter, and decided to check out the local flight schools. Perhaps it was simple curiosity, or perhaps he had tired of his vacation a bit and wanted to spice things up. He signed up for an introductory flight lesson without divulging his status as pilot and flight instructor and hopped into the airplane with a young flight instructor. Things started out fine, apparently, and I imagine the poor fellow who was giving that introductory flight lesson had no idea just who was sitting so innocently next to him at the controls.

At some point, during this lofty experience, the older flight instructor managed to get the airplane into a spin while either wedging his feet and hands in such a way -- somehow locking the controls -- so that the young fellow giving the flight had no working yoke or rudder pedals. Try as he might, the young flight instructor could not get the plane out of the spin.

After struggling with the controls for a while, the young instructor, an unknowing victim in the prank, looked over to the old gent, his supposed client, with a huge eyes. "We're gonna die!" he said.

Perhaps having tired of the fun and of the spin, or maybe experiencing a bit of mercy, the older flight instructor got the plane out of the spin and the two headed back towards terra firma in a more controlled fashion. With the plane fully shut down, parked, and chocked, the young flight instructor (as was described by the prankster) staggered back to the building, white-faced and shaken.

I'm curious to hear his side of the story, and to know how long he remained a flight instructor.

Labels: cartoons, humor

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IFR flying.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Click image.

I was talking to dad on the phone yesterday, telling him it looked like I'd be doing my first cross-country solo soon, possibly even on Sunday. We talked briefly about it, and then he made a joke about how he flew IFR.

"IFR?" I asked. Dad isn't instrument rated.

"I follow roads," he joked.

I guess that's a pretty old joke in the flying community, from what he said after that, but it got me to thinking. Which, of course, led to debasement by cartooning.

And so, there you have it. The latest cartoon.

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Buy the original ink and marker drawing. I need the money. Flying lessons are expensive.
Materials: Pigment and permanent inks on 8.5x11 super slick 80 lb. UV protected (archival) paper. Unframed
Cost: $20 (plus S&H)

*This cartoon is also featured on the ProPilotWorld.com forums.

Labels: cartoons, cross country, flying stuff, humor

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Balance.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

I remember enjoying balancing equations in chemistry in high school. There's a whole post there about my social life in high school, but I think it could be summed in saying that while the rest of my class danced to Cheap Trick and White Snake at the prom, I thrilled myself with 4Al+3O2=2Al2O3. The moment of balance or canceling out is a beautiful thing.

As we were flying during the cross country trip, one of the towns I'd picked as a checkpoint was less a town and more a disturbance of rocks and asphalt.

"That's it?" I asked into the headset, checking my sectional in slight disbelief. I'm no stranger to small towns, but I just expected so much more along the interstate.

"Yes," my instructor replied. "There's probably a church and a bar and little else."

"Well, that's a nice equilibrium," I said.

Labels: cross country, humor, lessons

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Cartoon: The dry run.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

Click image to see cartoon.

Today is the day we do the actual cross country flight, but on Friday, we did a dry run. We flew a little west of Bismarck and, using the navigation log I had filled out, practiced finding the checkpoints I'd located on the sectional and using a timer to see if the numbers I'd calculated worked out or not.

Or something like that.

It sounds so much neater than the actual process.

"Most of my students have the plane going all over the place when we do this the first time," my instructor said.

Boy, do they.

Up and down, and veering this way and that, as I tried to both look down to find the checkpoints and maintain altitude and course and and and...

I always thought I had plenty of lap, but I sure had a hard time finding a place to put all the stuff (papers, map, flight computer...). Talk about trying to divert your attention in many places.

I do have to say that the instructor in this cartoon seems a little brutal. It wasn't really like that, though there was a lot of "watch your altitude" and throwing out of questions to keep me on my toes and learn to fly while many things were going on at once.

As we were back at Bismarck and in the traffic pattern getting ready to land, my instructor asked me a question which, while trying to think of the answer, I climbed 200 feet above traffic pattern altitude.

"Watch your altitude," he said. "That was a diversion."

Curses.

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Labels: cartoons, cross country, humor, lessons

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Turn off the oven; she's done.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

I was in WalMart today to pick up a small kitchen timer. Weather permitting, we will fly the first cross-country trip of my training (Bismarck, Dickinson, Hazen, Bismarck). The timer is used in conjunction with the pre-trip planning.

I guess I was in a bit of a daze. I have been, lately.

After waiting in a long line at the checkout to pay for my timer, I realized, moments before being rung up, that I had mistakenly grabbed a digital meat thermometer. It was quite a vicious-looking device.

What, praytell, do I plan on doing with this? I thought to myself. I could think of little aeronautical application for a digital meat thermometer. I turned to the woman at the register and apologized. I left the line and wandered back into the canyons of the Super WalMart to find a timer.

I guess, instead of using my shirt for weather forecasting purposes, I could shove the thermometer in my leg. It has been pretty hot up there in the plane, in this summer heat.

I just think that would be messy, though, and of little help during a cross-country trip.

I got the timer instead.

Labels: humor, lessons, stupidity

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Bitchin' Betty.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

I can appreciate the female-voiced* warning provided by the nav equipment in the airplane, but hearing "Warning! Terrain ahead!" does very little to calm me as I am on final approach for a landing.

I am very aware of the proximity of the terrain.

Very. Aware.

It's one of the reasons I tend to come in too high: heightened awareness of the ever-approaching terrain. Obviously, there had better be terrain ahead, or landing will be difficult.

So, between the helpful voice admonishments and a rather regular beeping (which sounds like some kind of life support system in a hospital, yet another unnerving message for an already nervous person), I only appreciate that system on a particular level.

My instructor said they referred to her as "Bitchin' Betty."

I laughed.

"I'm not sure why they made it a female voice," he said.

"I'm guessing it's because men are used to women nagging at them," I replied.

That, however, brought to mind Dick. Or, I should say, Richard.

"Richard" was the voice I selected for the TomTom GPS device on the trip to Knoxville this past May. As you may or may not recall, that trip was highlighted by my calm demeanor while driving the family around large cities. (I even illustrated it here.) Richard, not Betty, was the annoyance. Like any regular guy (including a few actually in the vehicle), he refused to believe his directions were anything but correct. There was no veering from Richard's chosen route.

It's one of the reasons I chose a male voice for the TomTom. As you know, men are never lost and always know the best route to take. Women are accustomed to men hollering out directions that may or may not make sense.

So I guess Betty bitches at the pilots because women do nag, and Richard is a bit of a...

* On a side note, the best recorded female voice I have ever heard is the voice on the Minneapolis airport tram. I could ride in that tram all day and listen to her call out the stops.

Labels: humor, landings, lessons

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Cartoon: Any landing you walk away from...

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

Click image to see cartoon.

I think I've beaten the Bad Landings dead horse enough on this blog.

Oh, what the heck.

One more.

This little cartoon is only slightly exaggerated.

For example, I do not really know if a Russian satellite has ever crushed a cow like that.

But the rest is pretty accurate, including the weird ET-like expression I have when we "land."

Note: The first three panels are not things I've seen while flying, but are, instead, part of a family of "things that fall heavily." That's the general theme here.

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Buy the original ink and marker drawing. I need the money. Flying lessons are expensive.
Materials: Pigment and permanent inks on 9x12 super slick 100 lb. UV protected (archival) paper. Unframed. Signed.
Cost: $20 (plus S&H)

Labels: cartoons, humor, landings, lessons

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Cartoon: Left-turning tendencies.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Click image to see cartoon.

Airplanes have left-turning tendencies.

So do I.

And actually, there's a little error in this cartoon, because at the end I am using both hands when the right one would normally be down on the throttle.

Which is probably why I over-correct and pull to the left. The left hand is doing all the work. It's a glory hog. Also, what seems to me like lining up with the middle of the runway is, apparently, not. When we're on the correct and actual center, it seems like we're far to the side. Overcorrection commences.

When my instructor joked that we would have to cut my left hand off, a couple of thoughts went through my head, but the first, and most prevalent, was: That would at least take care of playing the violin for all these events. The second involved a related, disheartening idea in which I wondered if, sans left hand, the quality of my violin playing would really be noticeably worse.

I have such a bad attitude.

And I can't say I've cured the pull to the left yet.

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Labels: cartoons, humor, lessons

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Cartoon: Lights would be nice.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Click image to see cartoon.

Pride goeth before a fall.

This cartoon is actually pretty accurate, with very little exaggeration.

Yes, I did indeed forget to check the lights.

Yes, I vowed -- Vowed! -- not to do it again.

Yes, I verbally made note of my skill at turning on the battery.

Yes, I did walk out to check the lights and realized...

...well, you can read the cartoon.

And, oddly enough, I actually did this twice.

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Labels: cartoons, humor, lessons, stupidity

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Cartoon: Some concerns.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Click image to see cartoon.

"I have some concerns about your takeoffs," my instructor said.

Only about the takeoffs? There's not enough paper in the world to write down my concerns, I wanted to reply, but, in my usual manner of answering intelligently on the matter at hand, I said, "Ok."

I think, since I drew this cartoon a few weeks back, I've gotten these a bit more under control and less Cape Canaveral-ish, but apparently I liked to pull back and aim for the sky.

The sky is a good thing to aim for, when flying, but maybe not taking it in all at once.

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Here's an Idea: Buy the original ink and marker drawing. It looks cool, and I need the money. Flying lessons are expensive.

Materials: Pigment and permanent inks on 9x12 super slick 100 lb. UV protected (archival) paper. Unframed. Signed.

Cost: SOLD

Labels: cartoons, humor, lessons

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Cartoon: Fuel Vent

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Click image to see cartoon.

This cartoon essentially proves that memory loss is a terrible thing.

Some things I hear and remember and learn after just one mention. Other things seem to take me a bit longer.

"Seem."

"Bit longer."

Subjective quantities.

The fuel vent, on the wing, was something I could never quite latch onto. I understood what it was for and could tell a little about it, but I could never name it, even after being told what it was called numerous times.

I called it the fuel valve, the fuel vacuum -- anything that started with a "v" -- but never remembered vent. I mean, I vented plenty, on my own in the privacy of my room about my inability to remember, but I never remembered the word "vent" when it came time to answer.

I literally went back to my room one night and wrote "fuel vent" on an entire sheet of paper. I don't forget it now.

(I think it's called the fuel vent, right? Because I'd feel really silly if I still had it wrong...)

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Labels: cartoons, humor, lessons

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Aviation medical exam for kids.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

A couple of weeks ago, I went to the doctor to get my aviation medical exam (AME). I generally don't like medical stuff, but with the past few years' exploits at Pracs, in which I earn travelin' money, I'm at least not alarmed around the white jackets anymore.

Also thanks to Pracs, I am used to the desperation caused by drinking tons of water so that a urine sample can be left, but having to suffer until that moment. So, as I was sitting in the exam room with the nurse (who was extremely pleasant, I might add), I was really, really, really dying to go.

Finally, I ever-so-politely asked her if I was supposed to leave a urine sample. I thought I was, but if I wasn't, there was no way I'd sit here in agony for nothing.

"Yes, you do have to leave one," she said.

I smiled and said "I thought so."

"Do you have to go potty?" she asked me sweetly.

That took me by surprise.

Potty? Did I stumble into the pediatric ward? Who says that? I could be a grandmother at my age, had I made some seriously different choices earlier in life. Potty?

"Um...I do need to use the restroom, but I can certainly wait. It's no problem."

"OK, sweetie. I'll try to hurry this along. It won't be much longer before you can go potty."

Potty?

Do I look like I answer to "potty"?

Labels: humor

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Montana, the hard way.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

I decided to take a little trip to Montana today, with the airplane.

Now, you might think that sounds just fine. What better way to visit the Big Sky than in a vehicle meant to traverse it? But, since the method I chose to travel west was immediately after landing while still careening down the runway, it was really not ideal.

I think, when the flight instructor is yelling "left rudder! left! left!" I need to think "Julie, the other left!"

I had that right rudder pedal mashed to the floor as the grass on the side of the runway loomed before me. Montana, here I come! I can't explain how it was that I thought I was pushing the left rudder pedal. Weirdest thing.

I am a little mortified that I have so much material to fill a blog category entitled "stupidity" and nowhere near enough -- not even a hint! -- to fill something called "genius" or even "evidence of DNA."

I do, however, have opposable thumbs. They even had white knuckles, earlier today.

Labels: humor, landings, lessons, stupidity

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Technical difficulties.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

After sumping the gas tanks, I am to pour the gas back in the tank up atop the wing. Previously, it was disposed of in a different way which allowed me to have my hands free when I checked the fuel level in the tanks.

This hands-free method involved opening the door, climbing up on the strut with one foot, hoisting myself up by grasping through the open door, standing on one tip-toe (that short factor again), reaching up and across the wing to unscrew the cap and, since I can't really see the level, I would stick my finger in and feel it.

This probably looked a little like Ben and Jerry's mythical Chunky Monkey grappling up the side of an otherwise perfectly decent airplane. Gracefulness has never been one of my selling points.

No piece of equipment deserves such disrespect.

So, a collapsible wooden stool is now in use. This should be a simple device to use in comparison with the much more complicated airplane, seeing as how the stool consists of wood, a few metal hinges, and a small wire locking pin.

It is because of this deceptive simplicity that I found myself inwardly cursing yet again as I could not figure out how to unfold the stool.

First one way. Then another. Then I wedged my finger in between two sides just in time to pinch it into oblivion. I wondered if I should look in the baggage compartment for any kind of accompanying literature, such as a Stool Operator's Handbook, or some such equivalent.

"How do you work this thing?" I asked my instructor in exasperation, having absolutely no pride left in my body. I mean, it's a wooden stool.

Wooden. Stool. Julie. Wooden. Stool.

As I was shown how to gently -- key word there, since I am bull-in-china-shop-ish -- pull the pin out and then insert it into the proper locking position, I wondered about a few things.

Like how I ever made it through college, or manage to fill my car with gas without an indexed instructional manual. I've already told you about the cyclopean struggles I had with the time card at work.

I felt like saying something like "I'm not stupid!" but I think the prosecution has already rested its case on that one.

Speaking of cars, I'm finding that I periodically struggle with an inability to compartmentalize. I call it "knowledge bleed", and it is very similar to what happened back in May when I started to learn to play the guitar. Then, I began confusing my guitar fingerings with my violin fingerings, creating general musical havoc.

Tonight, at the stoplight at the intersection of the Bismarck Expressway and Washington, as I was turning to go back to where I live, I found myself with both feet on the pedals about to attempt to make the right turn as if they were rudder pedals. That could have been an interesting visual as I jammed the accelerator down on the bottom and tapped at the top.

I can only imagine the fun places that this new problem is going to take me. Jail and the hospital mainly come to mind.

Labels: humor, stupidity

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Song dedication.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 5 comments link this post

I can appreciate that my friend Will is trying to be kind by dedicating Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" to me on Facebook, but in light of the description of my landings...IS THAT REALLY APPROPRIATE, WILL?!!

Geez.

Labels: humor

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I think I might throw up.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Just because a person leaves Nicaragua doesn't mean Nicaragua leaves that person. That's the preface to saying that that was how I found myself, last week, dying.

I probably wasn't dying, but I wished I were. I'm not going to go into detail, since those details are the kind my friend Molly specializes in. I'm not generally a sickly person. I never get sick. This was a new experience for me.

So, after imagining all the ways I could end my misery, my family arrived in town.

(Possibly some kind of connection there.)

I had mentioned to my dad that I would be flying that evening (this was before I knew my internal organs were going to go to war with each other). I gave him directions to the location of where he could meet me after flying, and meet my instructor. I figured he could catch one of my meteor-like landings, shake his head, and use it as ammunition the next time I was annoying him while he was trying to watch the History Channel.

"But don't bring the whole family there," I had said in an email. I didn't want my sister and her family, and my brother and his family, and my mom (who is delightfully inquisitive and never goes anywhere without a camera) there. This was not to be unkind to them, but merely a matter of self-preservation. I have a quota on how many people I allow to see me perform dastardly deeds.

I mentioned to my instructor that my dad might be there when we got back.

"Maybe your dad would like to go up with you when we are done," he said.

Um...

I certainly wouldn't have gone flying had I known internal things would take such a down turn, for I thought I had beat the monster earlier in the day. As it was, at this point, I'm performing internal triage on my "Nicaragua won't let you go!" churnings, and trying to find a place for the "dad is going to see you implode!" churnings. There's only so much room inside for all that activity.

"Um, I don't know about that," I said. I mean, my landings suck. Books could be written about them, and they would be heavy on adjectives such as bone-crunching, bouncing, and horrifying.

"I'll let you think about it," he said.

Sure. I'll add that to the list of things I'm already thinking about, like trying to remember that throttle in makes things go faster and throttle out does the opposite, or nose down trim up and vice versa.

So, after some "fabulous" landings and go-arounds at the Mandan airport, which probably permanently emotionally scarred any young birds who were watching and will keep them on the ground indefinitely, we get back to the building and I see my kindly mother waving from the window having just shot off her camera.

That's just swell.

Kind of like what my stomach was doing.

Dear God in heaven, have some compassion.

The plane is stopped and turned off, and I decide to take dad up. "But just one traffic pattern. Please don't let me look bad," I say to my instructor as we walk away from the airplane toward the building.

It is not easy to keep me from looking bad, in any setting. I'm probably not paying enough for that kind of image control.

Inside we go, me leaving my booster seat* out in the plane.

"Hey, where's your booster seat?!" my brother Jerry, who is quite tall, hollers out two feet inside the door. Yes, my brother and his family and both my parents were there. It was a really special time.

I won't bore you with all the internal squalls, both mental and stomach-related, but I will say that I was very appreciative of how my instructor conversed with my dad while I white-knuckled my way through the pattern and landing; my instructor very subtly suggested things on the controls without verbalizing them into the headset so that my father never realized he was sitting in the back of an airplane piloted by the human equivalent of a smoked ham.

When we got back, dad inquired as to whether I landed the airplane, or whether my instructor did. I can understand his curiosity, seeing as how we didn't break apart at the end of the runway. Frankly, I was pretty curious myself. I don't remember it.

As I staggered back into the building and everyone was congenial and normal, I muttered something stellar to my instructor like "I think I about threw up" and "I need a drink of water."

Afterwards, since mom wanted to see where I lived, probably to take a photo of my badly made bed as proof of failure of due diligence, she rode with me down the road while the rest went back to their hotel. I didn't get past two stoplights before I pulled off and made her drive.

It takes a lot for me to turn the wheel over to my mother, who is known for square corners and rolling the very Jeep I now drive into the ditch not 20 yards from the driveway, but I was seriously sick.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?! Strike me with lightning! I thought. Pure agony, not to mention still being a nervous wreck with the shakes from having my excellent-pilot father ride with me. "Drive faster!" I hollered at my mom.

Yes, that's right, I hollered at my mom. That's the kind of daughter I am.

In the end, I was OK. (Pun intended.)

Dad and I talked airplane stuff later that evening at their hotel, and that was actually pretty cool. It was totally worth it, despite finding myself curled up on in my rented room on my bed later, my feet and leg muscles cramping up from severe dehydration, slurping down Pedialyte.

Oh, the personal glories in life.

* Because I am so short, I had a problem seeing over the dash and reaching the rudder pedals. So, I bought an "elevator cushion" which, despite the kind terminology, is really like a high chair for short people. The extra padding comes in handy for when I attempt to land, however.

Labels: dad, humor, lessons, stupidity

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Ten degrees decapitation.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

During the preflight check, in which I do many stupid things which I attribute to the fact that I'm a huge dork, I tend to smack my head on the flaps.

Normally, since I'm short, I could probably do a waltz beneath the wings and not worry about it. However, once I put in ten degrees of flaps, the problem begins. I walk into the edge of the flap and smack my forehead.

Bam!

@$*!?!&!!

And then, coming back the other way....

Bam!

&@#!$&!!!

And then, one more time as I pass beneath the wing...

Bam!

!%@?$#!!@

Oh, what the heck. Do it again! And I do.

Bam!

What the @!?$!! is wrong with me? I shriek inwardly.

"Ow. That must have hurt," my instructor might say.

On so many levels, I'd like to say. On so many levels. "Oh, I'm used to it by now."

I should, at some point, remember that I am going to hit my head on a hard piece of metal, but no. If I were a Klingon (and I'll have the forehead of one, if I don't start remembering to duck), I would bring dishonor to my family just by getting out of bed.*

* And now that I've made a Star Trek reference, my dork status is sealed.

Labels: humor, lessons, stupidity

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I swear I'm not stupid.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 7 comments link this post

I think it took about five minutes into the initial conversation with the instructor before I blurted something grown-up and professional like "I'm not stupid. Really."

Here is where Shakespeare and Hamlet comes in, about ladies who protest too much.

I mean, really, I'm not stupid.

I know lots of meaningless trivia which sometimes causes my sister Janet to call me on the phone and ask me random questions for a crossword puzzle she's doing at work, or to settle a debate with her co-workers. I've astonished (and frightened, probably) fellow postal workers when the crossword clue had everyone stumped and I walked into the break room and hollered it out ("Hey, Julie, can you finish this clue? ''Twas brillig and the...'?" "Easy," I said. "It's the opening line from Carroll's Jabberwocky. ''Twas brillig and the slithy toves.")

But, to get a sample of how well I learn things, I can tell you honestly that I've been slogging through the FAR/AIM in an attempt to grasp pertinent information. What I've managed to pull away from it can be found in section 91.19, where I noticed that "marijuana" was spelled with an "h" instead of a "j."

Yeah.

So you can imagine how it's going.

During elementary and high school, when we took tests that covered everything from math to reading to being able to grasp patterns and correct analogies, I always bogged down on the spatial section. The rest was easy, but the spatial problems killed me. This section contained a crazy geometric figure, and then four similar figures tipped at different angles. We were supposed to choose the one that matched the original. I always found myself sliding low in my chair, glancing about, and then turning my test booklet in all directions to try to find the match.

Those test creators were fascists.

Spatial stuff messes with my head.

I also can't estimate.

But I'm not stupid.

I swear.

I found out a few years ago that my classmates would get into my locker during their study hall and steal my geometry and algebra II homework, and copy it. I have to cling to the fading memory of that previous intellectual prowess as I realize that I again can't remember that the little tube poking off the bottom of the wing is called the "fuel vent."

I'm just "smart" at things that won't apply much to flying.

Did you know, for example, that Niagara Falls has moved about seven miles upstream from its original location over time, due to erosion? I also can tell you about the interesting connection between British Petroleum (BP), Iran, the CIA, and Teddy Roosevelt's grandson, who was sadly named Kermit.

And also, that the feds spell it "marihuana" now.

None of this, however, puts a plane in the air and brings it down in one recognizable piece.

Labels: humor, lessons, stupidity