Sunday, May 4, 2014

Unknown to Everyone

What's up world? How's everyone doing tonight? Good? Good. Well I've been studying my ass off all day and that's a trend that's certain to continue over the next few days as we head into finals week. But soon finals will be over and the best summer I have yet lived will begin. For those of you not keeping track, in just 8 days from now I'll be in the beautiful city of Miami shortly followed by Rio de Janeiro. This summer's going to be intense. It's the most expensive, most dangerous, most traveled, and all around most intense summer many people will ever experience. Hopefully I make it out alive.

All of our trips are booked. All but one or two hotels are reserved. We've chosen our seats on every single flight we'll be on, all 16 of them. Everything is in check for this summer to be amazing, and it blows my mind that it's only a week away.

Last night I did some calculations. We will be sitting in airports (during layovers, this doesn't include time in our arrival/departure airport) for 28 hours this summer. We will happily be seated over the wing for a grand total of 77 hours. We'll hit three continents, five countries, and 11 cities. We will travel more over the next three months than most of the world's population will ever do in their life. It's literally one flight, city, and trip after another until August 6th.

And that's how it should be. I'm finally starting to live the life I've dreamed of when I was younger. There are countless posts in this blog that talk about the endless list of locations I wish I could jump between on a daily basis, and now I'm slowly starting to making it real.

I spent quite a bit of time reading this evening. You're probably aware that reading isn't one of my strong points in life, and I absolutely hate fiction (it's fucking made up, why would I want to read something that didn't happen?) but I still enjoy it. Instead of wasting my time reading some old wive's tale that, if it's any good, will end up in a movie that I can knock out in two hours, I prefer reading science articles and research papers and spend the time learning something. I stumbled upon a goldmine when I found a website that has 100 of the most interesting Wikipedia articles. Naturally, I read them all. Almost every single one is so compelling (and true!) that I couldn't help but mutter "wow" under my breath.

One of my favorites, one that really ignited my imagination, was about the Poles of Inaccessibility. In case you're too damn lazy to read it even after I've graciously hyperlinked it right fucking there, the poles of inaccessibility are location on Earth which are considered the most remote and hardest to get to. Many are in the oceans, far far away from the nearest speck of land. Obviously there's one at the North Pole and one at the South, and others are really really far inland marking the farthest point from the sea. You can probably figure out where this is going...

The second I figured out what the poles of inaccessibility were, I couldn't ignore the craving to go. It's a feeling that surfaces very frequently in my life. Whether it's reading a Wikipedia article like tonight, noticing a beautiful landscape on a desktop background, watching National Geographic, or simply hearing about a new place, I almost always end up challenging myself to go out and find it. It's easy to describe, it's a craving to go. The same way one would crave junk food, vices, or knowledge, I almost always have an uncontrollable desire to go out as far as I can in search of whatever I can find. It's the reason I'll be in the cabin of an airliner for 77 hours this summer.

The idea of a single pinpoint on the world being the furthest from home and hardest to reach makes me wish I could hop on a boat with my crew and start paddling directly towards it. Imagine the experiences I'd log along the way! Battling storms and navigating around continents! And when we finally arrive I picture it being a surreal encounter knowing with full consciousness and reality that it is literally impossible to travel any further away. It would be equally satisfying, depressing, and exhilarating; that which so few individuals, past and present, will ever assimilate.

In the Wikipedia entry, the last line correctly predicts my excitement: "Subject to varying definitions, it is of interest mostly to explorers." I then read the article on Exploration. Exploration is such a fascinating endeavor. I honestly wish I were born several centuries earlier so there would still be pieces of the globe for me to find before anyone else. Imagine leaving home on a wooden ship with the intention of ending up somewhere that to everyone's knowledge does not exist. I really envy anyone who's seized the opportunity to do that.

Think about it. If wherever you end up is not currently on your map, it's yours. You are the first person, in 4.5 BILLION years, to walk along the sands of those shores. Everything you touch, everything you see, for hundreds of miles, would be touched and seen by only you. I can't even begin to fathom what that must be like.

But unfortunately the chances of me ever becoming an explorer and being the first person to set foot somewhere are seemingly slim. Who knows, though. It could happen. Regardless, I'm going to explore as much of the world as I possibly can despite not being the first. The places I hope to find in my life are still going to be unknown to close to 100% of everyone in the world, and I suppose that's a fair compromise.

Well I'm done blogging tonight. I hope you enjoyed reading a little more about what makes me tick. Until next time...

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

A completely made-up story about Miami

Good afternoon readers. Happy Wednesday. I decided to sit down and put down a nice blog post so here we are. The week's going well; in a few hours I have to counsel one of my cadets, which is always fun. More for me to learn as a leader. Oh and by the way my public speaking ability has gone through the roof since I've gotten this flight commander gig. I can whip up a speech on the spot and fucking deliver, like, impromptu. It's great. Anyway, that's not what this blog post is about.

DISCLAIMER: NOTHING WRITTEN IN THIS POST IS TRUE. YUP. MADE IT ALL UP. EVERYTHING YOU ARE READING IS COMPLETELY MADE UP. LITERATURE. FAN FICTION.

I gotta start doing that from now on. My stories (while completely, 100% fabricated) are crazy. What if my blog gets super popular one day and everyone reads stories that probably shouldn't be put on the internet? Exactly... hence the disclaimer. It's all bullshit. I swear.

Anyway sit down, strap in, and shut up because I'm about to take you on a domestic route straight to Miami. Beautiful M-I-to-the-A. SoBe, KMIA. My single favorite location on Earth. Yup, it's gonna be one of those posts.

This story in particular took place during my fourth or fifth trip to Miami, I think, I've honestly lost count. Whichever one is the most recent, the time we went right after field training, that's the trip I'm talking about. Everything went pretty damn well that trip. Getting upgraded to the top floor, corner room, master-suite of our 7th and Ocean hotel; free drinks everywhere we went; and not to mention the dramatic delta of being on South Beach immediately after Field Training.

Now I'm sure you've heard me talk of the club promoters who aren't uncommon in the area. If you're a family, or if you look broke, or if you're just not that cool look looking, you will probably never notice a club promoter regardless of how many times you visit Miami. However, Karen and I must've made the cut because our beach lounging was frequently interrupted by some 30-year-old European wearing Carrera sunglasses.

We never took the promoters up on their offers. Usually we'd find ourselves returning to the hotel with a collection of wristbands inviting us to clubs all over Collins, but by nightfall we'd end up intimidated and just throw them all away. But by like the fourth or fifth time it happened, we decided we might as well go along with it and see what happens.

Enter Alessandro. He slickly cruised up to us on the beach while we were finishing off a few Limearitas. He was wearing the promoter uniform, and spoke the promoter lingo. "Hey you too party right? I'm Alessandro and saw you two just chillin'. You wanna party with Alessandro tonight?" Granted it sounds really weird out of context, and in pretty much ANYWHERE but Miami this would be creepy as hell. But that's how partying gets done on South Beach, it's all part of the game. The only difference was that this time we played back.

So we chatted, found our options (Mansion, Dream, Set, every venue was famous and very exclusive) and started talking pricing. It was ninety bucks, $30 for Karen, and $60 for me and that's when I was like no fucking way. The sticker price included: a limo ride from our hotel, a private pregame party at a 4-star luxury bar, UNLIMITED PREMIUM LIQUOR at said bar, a limo ride from the bar to the club, and wristbands for the VIP line at Mansion. Depending on how much we drank at the open bar, this $90 experience would easily end up costing  us well over one or two grand if we hadn't been hunted by the promoter. Mansion is usually at least a $100 to get in, and reservations start at I think like five k min? This was not the kiddie pool.

I exchanged numbers with Alessandro and took his card. I had no clue the social protocol on dealing with your promoter either. It's like it's back to high school ("do I text him now or wait a few hours?") but Karen and I got it all figured out and had our plans for the night set in stone. There was only one problem... We weren't exactly old enough to drink. (Don't forget this whole story is made up. It's all a funny hypothetical situation.)

We had class passes to keep us entertained at the liq stores, restaurants, and smaller joints like Clevelander, but this was Mansion we were venturing towards. This nightclub is mentioned by name in rap songs. There's a top-charting house music song literally named after this place. This type of club simply does not react well with class passes. Regardless, we thought to go ahead and try since they've always worked up to that point.

So 9:00 rolled around, both of us dressed to kill, and as promised we were picked up by Alessandro enroute to the Whitelaw. The $90 was paid, tips given of course, and we spent an hour or two drinking Grey Goose and 1800. Yeah, our bill would've easily been in the hundreds had we not been hooked up by Alessandro.

11:00 then rolled around. A limo comes, we get in, and off we go to Mansion. Now I'm not sure if you've ever rolled into the VIP line of Mansion after just getting out of a limousine, but I would highly recommend it. People from down the block and across the street were looking a little excessively with that classic touristy "I wonder who THAT is" face. We quickly progressed up the line (the regular line, for the peons, extended around the corner) and whipped out our class passes. Go big or go home, right?

The giant, and I mean GIANT, bouncers glanced at them for a split second..."Nope." Well, fuck. They didn't work. I mean they didn't even come close to working. We tried to talk our way in, but that didn't work either. The two bouncers pointed out about seven discrepancies on our beloved American Express cards and guided us away from the door. All that buildup, and we didn't get in. We were three feet from the door! We could practically see Scott Disick inside, drinking to excess and cheating on Kourtney! Despite the disappointment, we accepted defeat, took back our cheat sheets, and walked away. Then we went back to the fucking kiddie pool and enjoyed the rest of our night. And the truth of the matter was we STILL only spent $90 for around a very very expensive night.

But there are two things that really crack me up over this story. First, was the look on everyone's face in the peon line who saw two young people get out of A LIMO, the walk right up to THE VIP LINE of fucking MANSION, and then get rejected and turned away. The confusion amidst all of those tourists watching from  across the street was prevalent and priceless.

Second, was the reaction of poor Alessandro. He'd been pulling strings and gracing us with wristbands and limos and free booze. Then, when we finally get to Mansion, we don't get in! I can only imagine, "Wait, they're not 21? What the hell!?" Fortunately however this must have not been the case because 36 hours later I received yet another text from Alessandro, "Hey man anywhere you and your girl trying to party tonight? I can do $20 for her and $40 for you tonight."

Not only did we get offered more wristbands and limos and free booze, he gave us a bigger discount! Didn't SOMEONE tell Alessandro that we aren't 21!? Oh well, I just saved his number for next time.

Anyway, that's the completely made-up story of how Karen and I took a limo to Mansion and didn't get in. I hope you enjoyed it. Well I gotta shower and get ready for this meeting. Until next time...

Saturday, April 19, 2014

My Life, My Love, and My Lady

Hello everybody. It's a nice quiet Saturday in the early afternoon, a nice time for a blog. Karen's out of town at the Arnold Air Society and Silver Wings National Conclave. Whatever the hell a conclave is, I guess calling it anything else was too . . . conventional (engage sunglasses). Either way I'm all by myself this weekend. There's been a song stuck in my head intermittently for the past several weeks so I thought it may be worth blogging about. You've probably heard the song before, it's called Brandy by the Looking Glass. The song tells a sad tale, one which I hope never hits too close to home for me. Allow me to explain and over-analyze like I do best...

The song describes Brandy, a cute young bombshell who works at a harbor as a bartender. It's a town defined by it's shores; the way Pittsburgh is the city of steel or how bourbon puts the smallest counties of Kentucky on the map. The town that Brandy calls home is one that likely wouldn't be there without the harbor. Every night, life is delivered to the sprawl of quiet streets when a new fleet of ships from all over the world come to moor at the docks of this small port-town to restock. 

They never say where exactly the harbor is. Part of what makes the song so enjoyable to me is how the lyrics are filled with unanswered questions and holes for your mind to fill with whatever content you feel fit. Brandy could be a NorCalanese brunette, working nights at one of the several bars which line the docks deep in the San Francisco Bay to pay off student debt. Some may picture Brandy being the only American on staff at an island dive in the Caribbean, a place where only the cruise ship crews go to avoid the tourists. Hell she could be in Höfn, Iceland for all we know; hosting idle chitchat with Sean O'Connell and Walter Mitty.

"There's a port on a western bay, and it serves a hundred ships a day. Lonely sailors 
pass the time away and talk about their homes."
It reminds me of how much I love hubs. Whether a seaport or an airport, anywhere that connects the long line between two far-away lands is a place in which I couldn't mind spending  layover*, enjoying a drink. Airport bars that seat thousands of pilots trying to jumpseat home for the holidays, the heavily used Marriott hotels with crew vans lining the valet drive, or the humble watering-holes lining the docks of Höfn; the places that host people from all over the world on a daily basis are the places in which I typically feel most at home. And that is exactly the type of harbor-town I picture when I listen to the song.

Brandy is hot, that much we do know. She's very popular among the sailors who never see her no more than a few times a year. She gets them drunk for cheap and enjoys hearing about all the distant places her patrons have seen. Brandy probably has a studio apartment within walking distance from the bar filled with trinkets and oddities the sailors bring her. I picture a bunch of socially awkward old men trying to impress a a beautiful young girl with an array of crap. 

"This is a machete from the Island of Roatán! I know there's no rainforests around here, but if there were you'd be prepared, Brandy!"
"This bottle of Port came from a port in Portugal that's literally called Port! And you work at a port! Funny huh? It's actually really gross and you wouldn't like it, but I heard fancy people drink it!"
"It's authentic Moroccan leather, they make it with bird shit in a bacteria ridden cesspit in the middle of the medina, but it's softer than any other leather!"

Although among the ranks of desperate men crying for her attention, there does seem to be one sailor who stands out. She always looks forward to seeing him over the thousands of bachelors she serves. Gifts from this charming sailor are different than the rest. She wears the jewelry he brings her, drinks the overseas wine he chooses for her, and keeps every reminder of him nearby.

The young seaman falls pretty hard for her. His whole life he's never questioned spending his life on the water. He's one of us who, at the most fundamental level, possess whatever gene it is that draws our undivided attention to the vastness of the globe and our need to conquer it. It's the only thing that matters in life, going completely unquestioned for most of it, and only ever possibly changed by a girl: Brandy, whose "eyes could steal a sailor from the sea."


"Brandy wears a braided chain made of the finest silver
from the north of Spain; a locket, that bears the name,
of the man that Brandy loves."
Any man who travels can relate. Every time we leave the continent, the availability of the coolest shit in the world skyrockets. The jewelry, the highest quality fabric and leather, the hand-painted artifacts, all only come to those who leave home. However more often than not, leaving home also means leaving your sweetheart for longer than we'd like. Despite wanting nothing more than to bring her along, the best we can do as sailors, pilots, and adventurers is "bring gifts from far away, and make it clear we couldn't stay, as no harbor is our home." The sailors can give her such amazing jewelry from all over the world. They can browse through a Turkish bazaar and come out with hundreds of dollars of gems and diamonds. But the gentleman who loves Brandy the most will never be able to get her the diamond ring she wants the to wear most.

It's a decision we all have to make as men of the sea, the sky, and the road. Secure our angel for good and implant our roots into the soil of a single town, or make do with the one or two weeks out of each month we can actually spend with her. Some blame it on the stubbornness of man or the lack of compassion for our families, but almost all of us choose the latter without much thought. "The sailor said 'Brandy, you're a fine girl, what a good wife you would be. But my life, my love, and my lady is the sea.'"  The man stays a sailor, and Brandy stays in her harbor by herself.

Of course we can bring our companions along for the journey every now and then, or craftily set our schedule up to maximize the our time on the ground, but the heart-sinking reality is never forgotten. We will spend far more time holding the yoke or the helm than our sweethearts at night, we will playfully flirt with chop and turbulence more than our wives and children, and the wings pinned to our chest or the curl sewn to our sleeves will feel like a promise harder to uphold than the rings on our finger. It may seem selfish, but the euphoria given to us from the clouds and waves outweigh the guilt of leaving her at home for weeks at a time.

"Brandy used to watch his eyes when he told his sailor stories. 
She could feel the ocean fall and rise, she saw its raging glory." 
Brandy spends everyday alone, laying whisky down for hundreds of other sailors who rarely spend more than a night in town. It's monotonous and empty for her until her man finally returns, and she's blessed and overly thankful for the 36 hours she gets to spend with him. He'd spend the layover catching her up on stories and reveal a new set of presents to hold her over until next month.  Then he would leave with his crew, leaving poor Brandy behind in the harbor for an indefinite amount of time. 

And that's the awful part: feeling overjoyed as you rotate your 800,000 pound mistress to part ways with land, and simultaneously nauseated as your Brandy, proudly waving from the fence, fades from view. I imagine it doesn't matter how much adoration you have for flight, contacting your domicile's approach will always feel a thousand times better than switching from it's tower to departure. 


I'd really hate to imagine living a life like Brandy and the sailor. I hope my life doesn't have to be torn between the sky and my loved ones. It seems like the happiest people we know are the guys who say their family is all that's important to them; but that's what separates sailors and aviators from the average man. Unfortunately, the life of an airline pilot isn't much negotiable. Christmases will be spent in hotels, birthdays will be celebrated via Skype, and the master schedule is made without taking into account how little time you spent at home last month. The one thing that is promised when the schedule comes out, is that a pilot's incessant need to fly will be satisfied for another month. 

I hate admitting it, but I'm no different than the sailor in the song. Every pilot in the world will come to the point where he feels the same way. Flight is what drives us, and spending another month on the line is the priority for everyone like me. It'd be blatantly false to say we don't love the people we are forced leave at home; but the even the most love-struck sailor will soon kiss Brandy goodbye and a reluctantly confess to her "my life, my love, and my lady, is the sea."

And Brandy, just like any woman who shares her husband with his wings, "does her best to understand."

*This does not include the city of Memphis.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Time to Find My Riot Shield

Well it's Championship Day again. Every couple of years it seems the UK basketball team makes it to the championship and Lexington makes the national news for rioting in the streets until 5am after we win. I've been to only two of these riots, but good lord I have never seen anything that comes even close to the level of insanity State Street establishes.

Every high school and college student who actively participates in western nightlife culture has seen the movie Project X. I'd recommend checking it out whenever you get a cheap chance to do so. It basically shadows the experiences of a partying amateur who gets in way over his head upon throwing a little soiree at his parents house. It turned out to be massive; like excessively colossal. The poor kid had no chance. In his circle of friends was a serious marketing genius who had radio stations and television ads promoting this house party. The entire student body of all the nearby universities heard about it through word of mouth, and by Friday evening everyone in the city and even the surrounding counties knew about and were ready to attend this party.

You can kind of see where this is going. Thousands of people showed up, including celebrities and riot police. No one was less than blackout drunk. Everything ended up on fire. Cars were flipped. People went home with gunshot wounds. It got out of hand pretty fast. The movie ends when the Saturday morning sun rises, shedding light upon the widespread carnage.

When the movie gained some major popularity, of course all of the buzz-kill police commissioners and political officials came out with statements about how terrible the movie is because it actually makes the young members America's party-scene feel the absolute need to attend such a crazy party. I'd hate to say it, but the only thing on my mind as I left the movie theater was partying harder than ever. The buzz-kills all over T.V. were exactly right; everyone who saw Project X wanted nothing more but to destroy a city in an out-of-hand party.

Of course the months following were filled with news stories about idiot teenagers attempting to recreate the movie and causing thousands of dollars of unnecessary damage. It happened every weekend somewhere in the first world; someone would sacrifice their parents house, invite everyone with a pulse, and try to create the opportunity to experience what Project X was all about. Unfortunately though, every single imitation attempt honestly ended up being the Great Value brand of Project X.

That held true until March 31st, 2012 in Lexington Kentucky. Just like the rest of the nation, Project X was fresh in our minds here at the University of Kentucky. When our team beat our most-hate rival, Louisville, in the Final Four, all the reagents for a recipe for disaster were present and abundant. Tens of thousands of very drunk people ran out into the streets abeam campus, setting anything and everything on fire, flipping cars, uprooting traffic signs, getting girls to flash, and fending off riot police. It took every factor that made Project X the most potentially desirable event any of us could imagine, and amplified the effect of it.

It's something every club-dwelling party connoisseur wishes they could experience just once. Seeing pillars of smoke rise above the shoulder-to-shoulder crowed from the scattered distribution of furniture fires; having a police officer dressed in full riot gear shield bash the person in front of you who just chucked a beer bottle into the swarm; getting tear gassed or feeling a rubber pellet bounce off of you as the riot police demonstrate their ability to open fire when it gets too rough; the lingering feeling that you might not make it out alive; everything we saw in Project X and daydreamed about ended up being reality. In fact, I watched the movie shortly after surviving what would forever be known as Project Lex and I actually felt like the party portrayed in the movie was a little on the calm side. I can't even find a way to exaggerate what I'm trying to describe, it's literally the craziest night of partying you could ever imagine.

And it happened again! And again! And again! There have been like four of these riots! I have yet to stumble upon anything on the internet that suggests a crazier party has been had. The closest thing I can come up with is the nonstop week-long fiesta that was produced in order to film the movie that I just described as calm by comparison. I'm sure that at some time in history there has been something to top Lexington after winning a championship. Regardless, I feel safe to say almost everyone who's ever existed on Earth, save the 20,000 UK students out there with me, will never experience a night even remotely similar to what I get to partake in about three hours from now.

So wish me luck. It kind of feels like the apocalypse; it's as if there's not a soul in this city who believes there will be a tomorrow. Hopefully I make it out unscathed—understand that not everyone does. Until next time...

On Lock like Fort Knox

What's up world. I'm back in the blogpit. Hold on hold on hold on. Pause. Let's take a moment or two to really appreciate the amount of wit it took to just gracefully concatenate of the words blog and cockpit out of no where. I'm so freaking clever.

So last time I rambled for what seemed like hours about something to do with DLX and Field Training. All necessary shit to include in my life's documentation. I apologize if it was a shitty read, my shoulder was killing me so I took some pain meds and long story short my literary capacity wasn't exactly at full-scale deflect. The good news is that I get to attempt to redeem myself with today's post; the bad news is I took more pain meds so it may be more of the same.

I think last time I promised I was going to tell you more about DLX. More specifically, the plan was to tell you about some of the fairly amusing stories. My drug-induced attention span is really the limiting factor as far as the quality of anything I put out right now, so bare with me and understand I'm trying my hardest (something that 75% of my professors are just completely fucking incapable of doing). So with that, let's dive right in.

When most people think of Fort Knox, they think of one of the most fortified buildings on Earth, a massive fleet of tanks practicing convoys through miles of MOA, America's most high-tech combat training simulation facilities, or whatever else your average educated person has seen on Modern Marvels in the past 20 years. The base's reputation is similar to something like Alcatraz. It's just one of those places that has a rather fierce impression on the public; so much so that the term "Fort Knox" has become a pretty common cliche.

It's safe to say you've probably heard someone exaggerating the power and security of something, nonchalantly using Fort Knox as an exact synonym to describe the ridiculous measures you're willing to go to to protect something, typically something really stupid. (E.g. "Someone stole my sandwich right out of the break-room fridge again. I'm done playing games with Professor Five Fingers. We're at DEFCON 1 now. My lunchbox is on Fort Knox status. Maximum security 24/7/365. Starting tomorrow all shields are going all the way up. Step 1:  zip-tie the zipper on my lunchbox. Let's see Sargent Shithead steal my food now. Checkmate bitch.") It all clearly shows that Fort Knox has figured out the whole Public Affairs of establishing the base as a high-priority NFA (not fucking around) zone. Like I said, pretty much every average person thinks of it as this bad-ass military super-complex.

Then there's the POC at Det 290. All we think of when we hear "Fort Knox" are shitty barracks with some sewage problems easily identifiable by smell, a depressing and embarrassing attempt at a 'club' (which becomes even sadder when you realize it's the best option you have to get your drink on at Fort Knox), and poorly maintained training equipment. Oh, and gold. We still think of the gold too; I can't say we don't still respect that fortress—the vault's always gonna be cool as hell. But with the exception of the Bullion Depository, the occasional Humvee or Apache you may see, and some of the weapon simulators, Fort Knox is kind of an armpit compared to the somewhat high standard Air Force officers tend to develop. I really hate bashing the other branches but honestly I'm being pretty optimistic by saying it's only "kind of" an armpit. And I pretty much speak for everyone who's been to an Air Force base and Fort Knox in the same year.

It's not without reason though. The intellectual, classy, and more professional breed of officers that make up the Air Force are used to the Air Force bases. The Air Force typically design the bases to match the attributes of the smart and classy population living there. This works very nicely for us in the Air Force. But unfortunately for soldiers, the Army bases also match the culture of the people, which I have personally found to be a little higher in the physical and manly column and a little lower in the classy and cunning column. Air Force bases pretty closely resemble that really nice gated neighborhood in the affluent side of town that has like three golf courses and a country club, while Army bases seem like that part of the city where there's more tattoo parlors than banks. The Army bases are like that part of the city where in the event you have to drive through it for some reason, you make sure you don't take your Audi because of the overly abundant potholes. Fort Knox is no different to an airman.

But that's enough on the unfortunate level of appeal Fort Knox provides to us pompous bitches in the Air Force. It was a long weekend and we ended up spending 3/4ths of DLX cold and wet and wondering what the hell we were doing there since the reason we all committed to Air Force instead of Army was so we'd never have to put up with that shit soldiers do their whole life. Luckily Fort Knox was saving the best for last and gave me some really great fodder to blog about.

Our final training session was in the EST facility, which is a big place with a lot of toys to get soldiers who are going into infantry to get some practice outside of combat as effectively and affordably as possible. EST stands for Engagement Skills Training, which in is just a more structured name for practicing and perfecting the art of blowing shit up. The EST program at Fort Knox is actually one of the more intense weapons simulator the US military uses.

It's actually been on documentaries and Military/History Channel more than once. I haven't looked into it myself but apparently it's America's most expensive and technologically advanced weapons training simulator. I was pretty surprised when I saw it on Modern Marvels and saw on T.V. a demonstration of the Mk 19 fully-functional mockup—the same exact one I've used in past DLX's to blow the turban off of some virtual Taliban bad guys. Twenty-first century grenade launchers aren't exactly small or quiet, a Mk 19 will fire off six explosive boom balls a second and anything and anyone within a half a mile is completely certain to be obliterated if the gunman chooses to do so. Needless to say it's pretty damn cool.

Sometime between March 2013 and March 2014 congress shelled out a cool million dollars on an even newer toy, and get this, they were gracious enough to send us through some training ops. It's called DSTS or Dismounted Soldier Training System. It's basically a virtual reality machine like one that you see in movies, except that DSTS was real life and it worked and most importantly we got to play with it! It was just like you would imagine a virtual reality system to be like; you strapped sensors and a backpack holding a 20lb super computer, then you have a weapon such as an M16 that is all rigged out to be just like a real rifle, and the last piece of equipment that really makes it like the stereotypical virtual reality suit is the helmet with the visor that flips down over your eyes. So then you stand on this black rubber circle and move around just like you would in real life except you just a joystick to walk.

Unfortunately I didn't get the opportunity to play Robocop because my shoulder would've made it too difficult. However, I ended up doing something way more fun. A control center running the whole network of supercomputers was set up in the corner of the room with some army-style portable desks. After a little joking around with the sim-tech and making friends with him, the Wing King (Cadet Garnick) and I earned some playtime on the admin computers.

To help you imagine the setup, picture a big open space with nine rubber pads each holstering a future-tech soldier virtually conducting combat. Then off to the side were some green desks, servers, and three more computer stations with at least two monitors each. The sim-tech was wired into his little command center that looked like the virtual cockpit of something nasty, and he graciously let Garnick and I hook into the silicon-battlefield and go nuts with guns and rocket launchers.

After a little poking around, we—two experienced electrical engineering students—figured out how to tamper with the user interface and make shit happen in the simulation. It started with simply granting us god-like abilities such as teleportation and immortality, but we soon became bored with the minor hacks and more experienced with the programming. One thing lead to another and within an hour the poor, confused, and blindsided GMC cadets who were suited up and in the game were barraged with levitating camels, superhero Taliban, and Humvees falling from the sky; all of which were controlled directly by the role models in the command module.

You can imagine the humor behind a bunch of college kids coming to the world's most advanced combat training system, learning how to use it to fuck with 200s, and doing just that. They don't seem to include much about that on the History Channel. Anyway, another storybook to archive in the National Library of Decker's Life. I'm sure it will be told over many scotches during length layovers to come. Hopefully you enjoyed it. Now I gotta get to work on this Programming Assignment. Until next time...

Monday, March 31, 2014

DLX: Dicking-around a Little Excessively

Good evening Internet. My time of useful consciousness towards studying for this probability exam has been reached. Thus, it's time to transition over into blog time. It's kind of a nice routine, especially since I've pretty much completely adapted to life as becoming one of Dr. Donegan's orthopedic experiments. I just have to tough out the pain for class and a lengthy study sesh, but once I've hit my mark I can take my pills and enjoy blogging in the great mood I always end up earning.

DLX was last weekend. For those of you who don't know, including but not limited to my distant-future self who may start to forget all the details of my current youth, DLX is the Air Force training exercise in which we travel to Fort Knox and play Army for a couple days. During my GMC (underclassman) years, it was a major pain in my ass that I ended up completely dreading and just had to embrace the suck immediately following one of my ever-successful Spring Breaks. The days are long, only dwarfed by the 28 happily spent at Field Training. We wake up at 5 something, train nonstop until noon, break for lunch, train more until 4:00, and then finish the day off with some R&R at Fort Knox's classiest all-ranks club (which is very similar in style and appeal to the classiest civilian club found in someplace like Macon, Georgia). The next day is more of the same, just enduring nine more hours of good ol' fashion training.

This was my first DLX as a POC (upperclassman), which granted a vast difference in experience. As a POC, 100% of your training comes in the form of leading the GMC. Every POC spent a full month doing the exact same shit for 17 hours each day that we do at DLX. The POC have gone through so much of that type of training that there is absolutely no challenge to any of it. As a result, the POC spend all of DLX teaching, mentoring, evaluating—essentially we're giving the training rather than receiving it. In fact, the POC actually end up learning more critical lessons and gaining more valuable experience than the GMC. It's one of the many reasons the GMC just can't fucking wait to become one of us. It's awesome.

I obviously knew that; it's safe to say all GMC do. What I didn't know however, was the ridiculous level of enjoyment DLX becomes once you're no longer 200 scum or an excessively naive 100. I mean the amount of fun you have at Fort Knox goes through a big multiplier when you've earned your spot in the POC. I actually found it extremely interesting once I started to really ponder the reasons a weekend trip I used to dread literally more than any other aspect of Air Force ROTC (save Field Training, but even that was great compared to the GMC version of DLX) suddenly becomes a vacation filled with laughing with my friends and truly enjoying myself. 

The first and simplest is what I've been describing already. As a POC you don't do any of the unpleasant shit you did the whole time as a GMC. You don't need to embrace the suck or tell yourself for weeks leading up to it that the dread is worse than the deed. Your time is spent doing a job, which is just delightful in comparison and really only takes up a small fraction of the trip. The majority of DLX becomes down time. 

That leads me to the second factor involved. So much of your time is spent not doing anything, i.e. supervising. If there's nothing to supervise, the down time becomes chill time. And the best part, that which amplifies the good time, is when the GMC aren't around. Once the AOR has been claimed, governed, and restricted by the POC; there's no one looking up at us, no one needing us to set the example, and any sense of professionalism is no longer necessary nor practiced. Over a quarter of DLX becomes casual dicking around with your best friends. This alone is enough to get me actually looking forward to it. DLX goes from being a miserable weekend to resembling a High School field trip a right after the state-wide testing.

But what I found to be the most interesting, and the key source behind the transformation to a psychologically blissful experience, is the flashback to field training. It's such a counter-intuitive notion but not many POC can deny it. Almost everyone who's been through what was expected to be an awful month of Field Training can't help but admit that the enjoyable parts of field training greatly outweighed the miserable. You bond with almost everyone around you to an unimaginable extent. The circumstances and challenges you face every minute of every day eventually pushes the mind to create joy out of what should be the most terrible experience and hopeless part of your life. While the CTAs and FTOs and MTIs are doing everything they can to take the joy away from you, your mind will utilize the deep friendships you've formed with other miserable cadets and send the extremely little amount optimism through an amplifier. Since there's no television, internet, or any other possible source of happiness to put your mind at ease; laughter and joy will only come with a much lower standard. 

Once everyone hits a certain point in the latter half of the game, it no longer takes an R-rated Will Ferrell movie or a brand new episode of South Park to end up laughing and happy. The conditions required to bring laughter and a good mood  are reduced to practically nothing. Any combination of the stupidest shit you'd expect to find in a 3rd grade classroom becomes more than enough to satisfy the desperate desire for any short-lived relief from the melancholy anxiety that never seems to end. Fart jokes, poop jokes, goofing around, poor impersonations of the poor cadet who's voice cracked during retreat on like TD-13 which is still the funniest fucking thing anyone on Earth has ever heard by TD-27; seemingly standard occurrences throughout the day become hilarious. The sense of humor is pretty malleable. If you go a week or two without laughing, the bar gets lowered and it's almost embarrassing what you find end up laughing at uncontrollably. It's like your slap happy. Someone will ask the time, for example, and whoever it is will check their watch with their hand in a fist but with the pinky finger extended; the whole flight cracks up. Factor in not being allowed to laugh or even smile while in formation and it's no surprise that the most pathetic fart by American standards is a game you just aren't going to win.

That's what I miss the most about field training. The blessing of finding everyday interactions hilarious. Imagine laughing at that Will Ferrell movie I mentioned, just a solid two hours of laughing at the well-thought-out comedy, and consistent humor behind everything you've been presented with. Now imagine if typical daily life was as funny as that movie, except it continues 18 hours a day for weeks without losing its charm. In fact the further you get from TD-0, the less it takes to bring you the same amount of amusement. It was so much fun! From TD-whatever onward I almost spent more time laughing than I did not laughing. When you spend that much time laughing, it's impossible to ignore the fact that you're happier at Field Training than semester after semester of college stressing about everything involved while no finite amount of internet could yield anything even close to the comical satisfaction of the person across from you farting in the middle of a standby inspection. If you lay it all out, I'd opt for the altered mentality instilled by Field Training than the lackluster atmosphere that fades in and out of my mindset as I force my way through college. Yeah I'd pick Field Training in a majority of the circumstances, as long as I could skip like the first two thirds of it. Whenever it comes up in conversation among the POC, it becomes pretty evident that I'm not the only one who's come to this conclusion.

It ties in pretty well with DLX and adds to the content of the POC by a fair degree. Those three days of exercise puts us POC right back into that euphoric perspective we so fondly remember from Field Training. Everything we do at Fort Knox quickly forms a dense accumulation of nostalgia: going to sleep way to early for college students, waking up way too early for college students, sleeping in PTUs, sharing rooms with ten other cadets, always hungry, always tired, always in a uniform, always dying to escape the strict professionalism, always knowing whether it's morning, afternoon or evening; noticing the current time of day is morning 100% of the time you check despite the statistical impossibility of that, the heated training forced on the GMC, the school buses jumping us around base, the compulsory lack of alcohol despite for some reason feeling an irrational desire to get hammered, casually talking with other cadets concerning the best of the available options if we were to get hammered, thinking almost single activity you do is a complete waste of time, realizing several hours later that you actually learned a lot from that 'waste of time'; it all takes us POC right back to Camp Shelby.

The parallels to field training are strangely comforting. I couldn't help but enjoy myself and treat it as a weekend getaway to the peculiar realm of Field Training. What really made it so much more fun, is that the POC were lucky enough to repeat the elation that came with the mental switch to robotic training mode. The high we felt several times a day at field training over something stupid like a fart or changing step every other second while marching came back! It was such a treat! Once a group of POC were alone, a hidden side of our military's most capable future leaders came out.

I almost feel guilty knowing that almost everyone in the world won't know what it's like to go through something like Field Training and consequently won't understand what it's like to have such a different outlook on happiness in a miserable situation.

Well I've put like three and a half hours into this blog post. I don't think I can finish what I was trying to get to; I'll have to finish it up next time and convert a memory into a permanent entity outlining one of the countless products, and adding to the massive array of experiences, both which fill my external identity with substance and  comprehensively make up My Awesome Life.

That was a pretty poetic sign-off. It's a little out of place... I'm probably going to use that again, just a warning. And don't act like recycling your work is a fucking abomination punishable by death. Everyone does it. I bet you've done it before. Its' not a big deal. I wrote the damn thing, I'll copy and paste it wherever the hell I want. You can't plagiarise yourself so don't make a scene or anything because all you're gonna end up doing is make an ass out of yourself. Until next time...

Monday, March 10, 2014

Labral Pains

What's up world? Thank God it's Monday, right? Last week before Spring Break. That's pretty nice when you disregard the fact I'm not fucking going anywhere for the first time in like literally six years. It's unfortunate but with this surgery bullshit I gotta deal with I guess I'm glad I'm not wasting a trip over it.

Wow I just got side-tracked from blogging and spent a half hour doing flight commander shit. Now I'm not really in the mood to blog. I hate it when that happens.

One of the benefits of having a really painful surgery and being a crippled little asshole walking around in a $120 sling all day is that I get pain killers. I mean I pretty much have a bottomless orange prescription bottle of oxycodone; if I do get to the bottom of it, which happens occasionally, I just shoot an email to Nurse Sandy and within a few hours she hooks me up with more drugs. It's pretty nice. I've kind of been using them every other day so I'm able to shit more than once a week and to keep me from getting a tolerance and then getting addicted and then having to inevitably go through the hell of weening myself off. I've heard oxycodone withdrawal is like the nastiest shit you could go through so I'm really trying to avoid it. But what sucks is I try my best to keep my oxy intake on the low end, and then I think "oh cool my shoulder doesn't hurt anymore I could totally just not take any and be fine." And at first it's totally cool, but sooner or later my shoulder decides to throw a fucking temper tantrum and if I'm not within a minutes reach of my meds then I have to spend more time than I'd like to dealing with the nerves in my labrum kicking over chairs and shit.

I assure you, however, it's all good. I'm pretty good at covering up everything and going about as my normal charismatic self. The true bullshit of having surgery in the middle of the semester is having to catch up on two weeks worth of engineering classes. That type of bullshit can't be muted by getting high on narcotics. In fact, while getting high off narcotics is a nice euphoric little escape from it all, it really makes learning quantum mechanics quite a bit more difficult than it already is. I mean I've been back for a week and I'm still fairly behind. Of course it's not like I'll be far from my textbooks over Spring Break so it all evens out.

Oh by the way in the past few days I've made a nice chunk of change in my trading. I really like making money. The Wolf of Wall Street sums it up nicely in the opening monologue of the movie by blatantly admitting the most addicting drug of them all is money. The only difference of course is there's no hangover or withdrawal, until you lose it, so as long as you keep making more and more of it your joyride continues. Oh I just thought of a nice little side story to write about.

So last semester I made sure I was the first POC of the academic year to give the "Every Cadet has a Story" brief. The "Every Cadet has a Story" idea is that if you put a sharp POC in front of the entire wing and have him speak about what drives him, all of the young little GMC (who are always finding role models to look up to) will get motivated. In fact depending on what the POC speaks about, a few cadets will personally relate and hopefully be inspired. By doing these "Every Cadet has a Story" briefings occasionally, it gives over-confident upperclassman an outlet, and over time each underclassmen will have someone to look up to and as a side effect they try harder and get a lot more out of their training.

By doing the first personal brief of the year, I hoped to capture the imagination of the 100 class early on when they're at maximum naivete. As for my actually presentation, I spoke for a full five minutes about how fucking awesome I am. I talked about the flying, the travel, money; I threw the fuck down on the 290th Cadet Wing with all I had. It seemed pretty certain that I touched at least one young mind, which was enough for me.

So in my briefing I talked about stocks, how I love money and have a knack for analyzing so why not try to become a millionaire? As it turns out, I inspired a senior to get in the market. He asked me right after the brief, "So you actually own stocks? And like, make money?" To my delight I told him all of my successes and that I taught myself everything I needed to know.

Well, several months later he pulled me aside again. He told me he's been looking into it, and the way I talked about it in my presentation just kind of got him into it. So he took my advice and did some reading, set aside some coin, and opened up an account for trading. So far it sounds like he's making some profit too! Good for him, right!? Of course when he makes a profit it's almost laughable to me, "Dude I made like $30! By doing nothing! That's awesome!" while I'm over here tossing around hundreds of thousands of shares. Oh wow, thirty dollars, is that before tax? Either way that's enough to eat at Applebee's!

I shouldn't laugh; I remember when I invested $80 in a bankrupt American Airlines and to my amusement I turned it into like a whole 130 dollars. But that's how rich people get there, you gotta start somewhere. Hundred dollar trades turn into several hundred dollar trades which turns into an order for $500. And then it really scary because you're just like holy shit I might lose $500, but then after a stressful few weeks or months you execute a sell worth like $750 and shit gets real.

Despite the profit not even covering rent, seeing such a big number in green letters is what fuels the addiction. At this point you've accumulated enough off of those little hundred buck gains, you consider it safe to throw a grand, then two grand, or whatever is necessary to get quadruple digit returns. The snowball continues to grow as long as you keep selling higher than you buy and this is supposedly how rich people are made.

Anyway, that senior I inspired is currently in the "cool I made thirty dollars" phase which I think is adorable. And a few weeks after he started playing the market another POC came to me for some initial advice. He was all like "Yo Decks I heard you are the person to talk to when it comes to stocks" and I was all like "What do ya wanna know?"

So once again I'm setting the trend, it's just this time it might lose my friends a lot of money. I've kind of become a guru in ROTC as far as stocks are concerned, and once Hundley makes a single profit and gets all excited and tells everyone he knows about making $30 before tax I'll probably get another pupil to show the ropes.

Anyway I think I spat out of enough assorted shit for you to read. Enjoy your Spring Break, I'll be at home. Hopefully whoever's reading this has some better plans. Until next time...

Monday, February 17, 2014

Doctorate Level

Good evening everyone. Idk if there's anyone else who still reads this. I think I've lost a fair amount of my subscribers due largely in part to my inactivity on the blogosphere. Either way I'm here now.

So I don't think I've told the story about how I ended up with Badger Flight (aka Beast Flight, Best Flight, Stacked Flight, or my personal favorite: Loyd's List of MotherFuckers) but considering I'm these cadets' flight commander and they have 100% access to reading this blog, I'm planning on holding off for a while. But one day I'll share the story with the world and hopefully it will be hilarious.

Anyway, one of my more high-caliber cadets is a pilot and was at Safecats with me for five hours last night. We got to talking and it turns out he's the only pilot I've yet met who's anywhere close to my level on the simulator. Contrary to what I'm used to, there were things about commercial aviation that he knew which I didn't! I actually learned something about the 737-NG! Imagine going your whole semi-adult life passionately knowing something inside and out, and always excitedly trying to share you wealth of fun facts about what you love with everyone, but no one ever cares. You almost always get tuned out because no one gives a shit about the flaws in the 747 automated fuel system. The only person who really at least attempts to listen is my girlfriend and my dad (which probably accounts for my deep-rooted relationship with them both). But then a strong cadet in YOUR flight, who's looking at YOU as a role model, all of the sudden can't get off the subject because he's the same as you.

It really adds to the join of being a flight commander, knowing that I am at the very least able to share a simple passion with someone who's position I was in two years ago, and then get the opportunity to build them up. I like to think that  my cadets are excessively eager to become a POC and be just like Cadet Loyd. If I've implanted that thought or even that goal then I've done enough to make myself proud. My job description is to train freshman cadets to master the basics of leadership. If they think of me as a competent leader and a role model, then I have done my job in the best possible manner. Anyone can get a dozen freshman to study a few pages in a handbook and go through the steps that make you a  "leader" on paper. But if you give them a firmly-held desire to stay in the program and work hard to develop themselves into the role model they saw in their freshman flight commander, then you've done far more than just teaching them the basics. Hopefully I provide that for Badger Flight.

Last night while talking with my cadet it felt almost as if I was talking to myself from two years ago. I remember how intensely I wanted to get to the POC level and be a flight commander. I remember the never-ending excitement to be a pilot in a guild of aviators and the thrill of getting to wear wings. I remember everything my cadet was talking about experiencing as a freshman who's just dying to fly. But I also remember, as a 100, dying to talk about airplanes with someone who knew more about it than me. And I wasn't overly fazed by the stagnant chit-chat with the seniors who couldn't get passed the basics of "oh yeah, flying's cool. 80 hours in a Warrior". No, that didn't satisfy me at all. I wanted to talk specifics, like advanced ATP-theory shit, but I was the only one in the wing who knew enough. So even as a GMC I always ended up hosting a fun fact session with slotted POC about stuff I learned when I was 14. I never had the enjoyment of throwing down fly-by-wire SOP's and terminal procedures into cool airports with the several people I couldn't wait to emulate as a POC.

FINALLY however, after being the only person on my flight-level save Col. Franklin for years, I end up finding myself wearing my flight commander crown and sitting on my flight commander throne overlooking my top-ranked, 1-seed team of knowledgeable aviators, one of which who can actually hold his own in good-ole flight sim. I could not be happier with the way that panned out.

That particular cadet and I talked for a couple of hours about the ins and outs of hardcore aviation. We both know a hell of a lot about airplanes. We both have thousands of hours logged in the most realistic simulation software. We both have read thousands of pages of manuals and carry out procedures to the tee. We both know how to get around most Class B airports without needing a map. As my good friend Alex K. once said, we both are at the doctorate level of flight simulator and the only room for reasonable improvement would be by practicing in an actual, working Boeing. Like I said, I was talking to a younger version of me.

It sounds hokey, but it overjoys me to finally have someone to share the enthusiasm with. For once I don't have to be alone at the top and can talk to someone about planes who can actually talk back. It's what I've quietly been waiting for since high school. My Badger subordinate is quite the expert on the 737NG. I know my way around the 737 pretty well, but not like I know some of my favorites like the T7. What a treat for me right!?

And I learned something yesterday! And I didn't learn it in an official manual or technical documentation! My cadet taught me something I didn't know before! What a game changer! Mentorship goes both ways; I can use that stupid overused cliche about how it's my job to teach my cadets, but my cadets teach me far more!

It's fairly interesting too, allow me to explain. Somewhere hidden in its magic, the 737-800 has an quirk about it's aerodynamics/weight characteristics causing it to have a ton of trouble in slow, controlled, steep descents. Pilots almost always pull the spoilers to full-deflect under normal conditions (weight distribution is fine, perfect amount of landing fuel) because the little fucker just can't get enough air time. For some strange physical reason, which I'm sure engineers are aware of, the ambitious little worker-bee wants to hang out at 30,000ft all day and refuses to come back down to earth without throwing a little temper tantrum and speeding up to 300kts. If you're descending on a tail-wind, forget about it  go on and ask ATC for some more room before approach because you're gonna need it. Even though I'm sure the run-and-gun NG would love an extra five minutes in the air, a spacing circle just wastes everyone's time.

 It's inherently velcroed to the sky, which I guess makes it a lot like myself.

Well I'm done blogging. Not feeling the best due to the pain killers I occasional take for my shoulder. I hope you enjoyed reading. Until next time...

Saturday, February 8, 2014

Globes Everywhere, My Propeller, and Scotch

What up universe? It has been way too long since I've blogged last so I thought ya know what? I'm gonna fucking blog. 

I feel kinda shitty for not blogging as much in the past few months as I usually do. Having this blog for like three years is very nice; it documents absolutely everything. But when I sit back and don't blog for a while, I feel as if every thing that's been on my mind just get's flushed down the toilet and wasted. I think I'm just gonna force myself to blog. Even if it's just a quick ten minute check-up it's better than nothing.

Today's Friday. Friday's are great now that I have an apartment with Karen. Actually every day is great now that I don't have to put up with ResLife anymore. The RA gig was fun while it lasted but good lord Kirwan Tower has just gone to shit. Now I have my virtual cockpit, globes everywhere, my propeller and scotch and girlfriend and it just creates a much happier environment. 

There's no more staff nights or power weekends to worry about. No more need to find another RA to sit in the building for you to get fucking lunch. The lack of daily bullshit has really rejuvenated me over the past two months. Leaving that cesspool was a fine choice, I must say. 

Yes, nowadays it's just a peaceful bus ride on a Friday afternoon to our humble little domain after class that separates me from drafting a 777 long haul. No more rushing a departure out of Miami in order to get to my desk shift on time. Now life is just relaxed with my buddy all day and night. Still have money, still have a flawless career ahead, still have a motorcycle, just no more dormitory bullshit.

Anyway, right now I'm almost to TOD into San Francisco from LAX in a 7-3. Since purchasing the PMDG T7 I've been doing just flight after flight in it. I did something like 37 flights in a row in nothing but the triple. I took a break about a week ago and tried my hand at the 744 with a ridiculous takeoff weight. It was fun. I really like the 7-4 better than the T7 because of how much heavier it is; plus it flies like it's heavier and the challenge in that is just a blast. Unfortunately however PMDG made their T7 product waaaaaay more impressive than just about any other aircraft in terms of simulation and that makes it really hard to go back to anything else, especially after paying $100. 

Earlier today Karen and I did some heavy domestic action with MIA-LAX. When the 777 is that light it flies like a fucking falcon except it's a lot harder to taxi. Once safely nestled in Terminal 4 I realized my flying thirst for the night had not yet been satiated. So I decided to load up the 738 (after not flying it for like eight months and not even being able to recall the panel layout). It's always nice to go back to the domestics every now and again to remember what 75% of commercial aviation is all about. Once I'm finished writing this cute little blog post I'll pretty much be ready to descend on down into Silicon Valley. 

In other news, Rio is still waiting for me on the other side of this semester. I also injured my arm at PT last week. I might need surgery for it, probably won't though. So I've just been enjoying my pain medication in the evenings and taking it easy. 

Oh and I'm now the valiant commander of Bravo Flight in the Air Force world. I felt pretty honored to receive that position. I have a really really kick-ass flight too. Like, you gotta see them to fully understand how fucking awesome Bravo Flight is. I ended up getting like the top 6 freshman in the program. All the other commanders are jealous. I mean fuck, most of the POC are like how the hell did you get such a stacked flight? And I'm just all, "that's a secret I'll never tell". Actually I'll probably eventually write a story about it on this blog: the story of how C/Captain Loyd drafted fucking Seal Team 6 into Bravo Flight. 

I also have to write down a comical narrative of my separation from ResLife. That one will be: the story of how Decker Loyd formed a mutiny and played hardball in Kirwan Tower. 

These are all good stories. I'm just not able to perfectly craft them onto paper until enough time has passed. The Norton Commons story, which I wrote four months after the fact, is a perfect example. So I'll try to blog more, and you crazy readers have that to look forward to.

I should probably get back to my flight and land so I can get to bed before like 5am. If I don't get a pilot slot next year then I'm fucked. It's just too much fun. Anyway, until next time. Enjoy your weekend or vacation or whatever's going on when and where you're reading this.