An Early Father's Day Present From M&M

I have the sweetest, smartest little girl in the world. M&M and The Queen were out shopping on Friday as they killed time before Niece Twig's high school graduation.

Somewhere in that sea of 1400 kids is my niece Twig

Amazingly enough, Twig was able to spot us in the crowd and wave to us. It was cute.

Anycrowd, The Queen and M&M picked me up at the office so we could all travel to American Airlines Center together for the graduation ceremony. As they arrived, I was handed a bag with small gift and card. The Queen advised me that M&M picked out both.

First, the gift.

M&M knows Daddy Hawk loves him some airplanes. She picked this one out especially for me, and she could not have done better. The Chance Vought F4U Corsair just happens to be one of my all time favorite aircraft from when I was growing up. The gull wings...the big radial engine...one of the fastest planes of its time...what's not to like? Now that I'm older and have actually flown planes, I know what's not to like. It's still a gorgeous aircraft though. Skipper sits on my desk here at the office now.

But wait...M&M also selected a card for Daddy Hawk. Before I show it to you, you have to know that M&M really did select this one. The Queen showed her a lot of cards, and M&M insisted that THIS card was the one she wanted to get me. Remember...she is still only two and a half years old.

Since she can't read yet, I feel safe in saying that she was thinking that the donkey with the googley eyes was funny.

So, there you have it. Father's Day came early for me. I couldn't be happier (well...short of M&M giving me a 1911...which will require her to have money of her own...which is a ways off). 

You Can't Handle the Cuteness!!

Okay, I know there are some out there who are just dying for their latest fix of The Cutest Little Girl in the World (TM). And, as the keeper of The Cuteness, who am I to deny you.

Zonked in the back seat of Daddy Hawk's car. She wasted no time kicking off her shoes and socks before getting down to some serious snoozing.

Chilling in the shopping cart with a 'nana. Who doesn't want to kick back and be chauffeured around Whole Foods?

M&M and her little Mona Lisa smile.

No cavities? Check. Nostrils clean? Check. Sound asleep? Yep, you betcha.

And, so it begins with the fifth generation.

Dead to the world. One of these days, I'm going to have to put a chalk outline around her.

Ride 'em....giraffe??

One Of These Days...

..., I'll get around to telling the story that goes with this picture.

One family. Four generations. All pilots.

I'll save you the trouble of guessing, the tall, skinny kid second from the left is Daddy Hawk on the day he soloed an airplane for the first time.

Where's Waldo?

Daddy Hawk is laying his head in Alexandria, LA tonight out of town on a quick overnighter for business. I miss my girls already, and I know I will be home tomorrow night.

The pilot on the flight in said it was six degrees cooler here than in Dallas. I wouldn't have guessed that stepping off the plane into the jetway/sauna. I did enjoy the gate guards outside the airport which is a former air base though. An F-105, an A-10, an F-86 and a couple of others that I didn't get a good enough look at to ID in five seconds or less. The there was the F-104 Starfighter outside the credit union in town. Sweet. I'll try to get photos tomorrow if possible.

A quick note on dinner. If you can find the place, Tunk's Cypress Inn grills up a mean ribeye. The decor and atmosphere is not up to Zagat standards, but who really cares about that.

That's all for now. G'night y'all.

Burning Candles and Other Stuff

...Not necessarily burning other stuff. I just mean that this post will cover other stuff besides burning candles. Sort of. You'll get the idea.

Three years ago yesterday, this little corner of the blogger world was turned loose on an unsuspecting and largely non-existent audience for the first time. Not unlike a blind man tossing a hand grenade, but it was a start. In the three years since, the blind man got a pair of eye glasses, dropped his cane a few times, had Lasix surgery and then stared at the sun too long. Now, he's busy looking for the pin to the live grenade in his hand and wondering if the counting has already gone past three.

I don't have anything special prepared to help celebrate my little blogiversary other than another whirlwind round up of stuff that's happened since last we spoke.

First up, I've been traveling more lately. Like a lot more. I get to spend next week in town all week which will be a refreshing change. The Queen is kinda partial to the idea of me being home for a change too. Seems she wants help with the kids or something. Having my smiling face nearby is a secondary bonus apparently.

On a recent business trip to lovely San Antonio, I had a couple of firsts. On the flight there from Dallas, I had my first experience with "new plane" smell. Southwest Airlines rolled out a brand, spanking new airplane for us. It was literally the first fare carrying flight for this bird which was one of their new WIFI equipped Boeing 737-800s. All that plastic, leather and adhesives off gassing together is pretty intoxicating...in a "when do we land so my headache will go away?" sort of way. Nonetheless, it was a nice plane and felt a who heck of a lot more comfortable than the little American Eagle regional jet that I was shoe horned into earlier in the week.

The next little story comes from the return leg of the San Antonio checking in for my return flight. I was talking with my business associate when a whiff of Hoppe's No. 9 reached out and rudely assaulted my hind brain. A quick search of the area spotted a Glock in a well cared for tan leather holster. The gun and holster were attached to a gentleman in line ahead of us to check in for our flights. Further examination revealed that the gun and holster were attached to a man in his mid to late 50s wearing brown cowboy boots, pressed tan colored denim pants, brown belt, earth toned button down shirt with a black ribbon string tie, a white cookie duster mustache and a huge straw cowboy hat. Did I forget to mention the Texas Ranger badge and handcuffs?

Why do I mention this? Well, for starters, it's rare enough to see a Texas Ranger out in the wild so to speak much less checking in for a flight at the airport since there are only 216 of them by statute. Second, Ranger rocked his Glock with a very tasteful miniature Ranger badge on the magazine floor plate. I'd be willing to give 50/50 odds that his duty issue hollow points have little Ranger badges on them too. You know...so that the bad guys will know that they've been put down hard by a real American bad ass.

I'd also give 100% odds that no one even thought about jacking with his flight. Because he didn't have to check that heater at the counter and wore it proudly through security.

Now, on to the kid update.

First, a little vignette from a phone conversation between The Queen and I five minutes before I had to start a conference call.

Me: Hello?

The Queen: Hi honey. How is your day going?

[lots of pleasantries, idle talk and lead up later]

The Queen: How do you feel about respiting a four year old boy for two weeks?

Me: It's probably not the best idea we've had lately.

The Queen: But he would give Mini Me someone to play with and make things easier on me.

Me: It's your call. You have to decide if you are up to handling another kiddo. I've got to go for my call now.

The Queen: Okay, see you later.

Five Hours Later...walking in the door at Castle Erickson.

The Queen: It's Daddy. Daddy meet [Insert Name Here].

Me: Hi [Insert Name Here].

[Insert Name Here] has a few issues not the least of which is an incomplete grasp on toilet training. He knows how. He just chooses not to. Perhaps more frustrating than that is trying to communicate with him. I am not sure how best to describe it. There really is no frame of reference. If I didn't know better, I'd say hallucinogenic drugs were involved.


So, to recap. Four kids. Two four year old boys. Two infant girls. No sanity.

Mini Me and The Banshee are still here. The Banshee is still a Banshee. Mini Me has had a few adjustment issues with the new boy in the house. Otherwise, situation normal. Their bio momma is continuing her efforts to get her kids back. She just started a new job. She is getting some out patient help for certain issues. All in all, she is working hard. We are guesstimating she will get her kids back sometime in November. Maybe.

That leaves M&M's situation. We are back in limbo waiting on word for the state where bio mom's mom lives to get the home study back to Texas CPS. We did get word that grandma either has or had brain cancer recently. This may or may not be an issue with respect to her home study depending what kind of drugs she is on and what her treatment status and prognosis are.

Last we heard, the next hearing is still set in mid October. Until we hear different, we continue to treat M&M like our own.

Hope all is well with you all. More to follow when I can.

Randomness

I'm hoping there are still folks out there in the ether seeing this. I've gotten used to the comments, and it'd be a shame to start over whistling in the wind to no one. The excuse/explanation is the same...kids, wife, life. 

Before proceeding with the post, I'd like to welcome the two newest members of the congregation. Maddog of Maddog's Farms and David from Musings Over a Pint decided to check their sanity at the door and swell my ego by hitting the follower button. Welcome both of you. I'd say help yourself to anything in the fridge, but pickin's are slim. I need to go shopping for groceries. 

First in the random, stream of unconsciousness mental musings, I have a question for my Colorado acquaintances: Just what the heck is up with Rich Wyatt at Gunsmoke in Denver? I've been watching American Guns for a while...'cause it's about guns. Duh. But, asking $3000 for a Springfield Armory 1911? Letting your teenage daughter out in public looking like a hooker? Seriously??? Someone needs to explain what he is thinking. More importantly, what are people who pay these prices thinking?

Next up, I present the following...

Here, let me help you get a closer look...

I'm not sure this falls into the crimes against humanity category, but it was definitely distinctive. Also, I didn't get a look at the owner, but I'd be willing to bet that her body had some work done to it as well. Oh, and it had metal flake in the paint. So, it SPARKLED in the sun. Like Edward Cullen. Or so I'm told. 

I saw a guy riding one of those Can Am Spyder's the other day in rush hour traffic with no protective gear whatsoever. Not really abnormal around here. What drew my attention in the first place was the pair of crutches strapped to the back. Okay. I can see that. Then, upon closer inspection, I noted the reason for the crutches....an above the knee leg amputation. Oh. Dear. Lord. You're missing half your leg, and you are going to ride around DFW in traffic with no helmet. Dude, there are easier ways to commit suicide. 

I had to take a day trip to Houston the other day. The client offered to pick me and my senior claims rep up in Dallas...in their corporate jet. I have a photo taken by the iLeash that really does not do it justice. There is a great photo on the net that I don't want to use as it belongs to someone else. Do a search on Cessna Citation CJ2+ on Google. That was my ride for the day. It beats flying commercial with an ugly stick any day. No TSA. No perv-o-scan. No taking shoes off. No cockpit door between me and the view out the front. Hated every minute of it. If you believe that, I have some lovely beach front property for sale that you might be interested in. 

So, the other night, The Queen and I were lounging around after a long, hard battle getting The Banshee to bed. A couple of hippies decided to invade the castle and start talking about how great New York is and other liberal twaddle. The Queen and I looked at them like they were the unwashed heathen that they were. There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Then, The Banshee cried out in her sleep. The Queen and I snapped, and it was on like Donkey Kong. They needed killin' is a valid defense here. Of course, we had to eat the evidence anyway. 

They won't be coming around here anymore.

Mini Me has an adult tooth coming in surprisingly enough. Two weeks after surgery. Ain't that something?

The Banshee continues to be a living, breathing testament for birth control. She has her precious moments like last night when we were leaving the restaurant after dinner. She was dead tired. I stroked her cheek. She closed her eyes and looked positively angelic. I stopped stroking. Her eyes popped open. Lather, rinse, repeat a few times. Then, she leaned her head into my hand. It was priceless. In case you are wondering, no, it does not make up for the the screaming and shrieking. 

M&M remains as adorable as ever; however, the roller coaster ride continues. Birth momma's momma has now come out of the woodwork claiming she wants M&M and has wanted her since she was born. Uh huh. I'm buying that. It's REAL convenient that she just happens to surface a couple of weeks after the birth parents find out that their first choice is out of the picture. Where the heck has she been hiding the last eight months? God will have to handle this part too. If He leaves it up to me, things might get messy. I don't want that. It's kinda hard to explain to your daughter why her bio parents vanished from the face of the earth for no apparent reason and keep a straight face. Or so I've been told. 

Other than all that, life continues to treat me better than I deserve. I continue to wake up in the morning. People pay me good money to do what I do. I have a roof over my head and food on the table. I have a wife who loves me despite the fact that I'm a goob. I got blessings a plenty and not much really worth complaining about. 

Here's hoping your life is the same.

What Five?

Okay, before I start sipping my kool-aid to keep up with all the other kids on the block, I would like to take a moment to welcome some new followers to the fold. In fact, as of now, I've hit another arbitrary milestone with the addition of my 50th and 51st official followers. We The People of the self titled blog has the honor of being the 50th person to click the follower button. He was closely followed a day or so later by TOGBlog of The Old Geezer Blog. Welcome both of you. Don't bother trying to save me from myself. It hasn't worked yet. I'd admonish you from stealing my stuff, but there's not much to steal. So, why bother?

Now, a new meme has surfaced amongst the cool kids (notably Tam, Borepatch and several others) asking people what five firearms they would purchase if money and legality were no object. I am normally immune to this sort of thing; however, since I've published my gunnie wish list on a couple of ocassions, I really can't pass this one up.

So, without further adieu...

1) I am going to flatter/shamelessly steal Borepatch's idea with this one. He suggested obtaining a Browning M-2 .50 cal machine gun. Six of them actually nicely packaged in a North American P-51 Mustang. There is no doubt that the Mustang is a sexy beast; however, it is not my first choice in the warbird department. Not even first among the WWII birds of prey still in flying condition. My choice here is the brutally effective GAU-8/A Avenger 30mm Gatling-type cannon mounted to the Fairchild A-10 Thunderbolt. If former Dallas Cowboy defensive back (at 6 foot 4 inches and 250 pounds) and Air Force Academy graduate Chad Hennings can shoe horn himself into one, I know I can. Can you imagine throwing depleted uranium bullets over an inch thick at a rounds per minute rate faster than most small armies and flying gracefully (if not in the most sexy of machines) through the air with the greatest of ease...where do I sign up?

2) CoH Craig Harrison's L115A3 Long Range Rifle in .338 Lapua Magnum. As a student of history and one fascinated with snipers, I think having the rifle that made the shot currently holding the longest distance sniper kill record would be awesome.

3) Perhaps the only single rifle more awesome than CoH Harrison's rifle would be Simo Hayha's M28 Mosin-Nagant Rifle in 7.62x54R. To have the rifle that killed more enemies on the field of battle than any other rifle in recorded history...that would be both chilling and thrilling all at the same time.

4) Any single firearm personally owned and used by John Moses Browning. Does anything else even come close to approaching reliquery status in the gunnie world?

5) A one of a kind, deep blued, engraved, custom 1911 made to my specs by John Moses Browning himself. I know this one is bending the rules just a little bit since it involves rewriting the laws of time, space and nature and is not in the spirit of the meme given the fact that the gun itself does not currently exist...but, I think those are minor issues.

My list. My grail guns. Deal with it or make your own list.

A View From The Exit Row

After the mercifully short first leg of my return flight home last night on a Boeing 737 crammed to the gills with 137 fellow travelers and me stuck in a middle seat between two gentlemen who were fortunately not nearly as broad shouldered as I am or more girthy around the middle than me, I was able to bask in the luxurious comfort of this glorious emergency exit row seat on the final leg back into Dallas Love Field.

All hail Southwest Airlines' most recent seating configuration.

Be it known, if given the opportunity, I will, without any sign of remorse or regret, throw small children and little old ladies out of my way to get this seat. If necessary, I will resort to bribery and shameless blackmail. Short people should not even THINK of sitting in this seat as it will not even cause me a moment's hesitation to sit all 240 pounds of my slightly overweight frame on your lap to enjoy the TWO FULL ROWS of abundant leg room without fear of some morbidly obese whale reclining his or her seat into my already shot knees.

When you are 6 foot 4 inches tall flying on ANY airline these days, you will resort to any measures to achieve even the slightest bit of comfort.

Wanted - Dead or Alive...Preferably Dead

To the insensitive, inconsiderate, degenerate walking turd that boarded Southwest Airlines flight 15 out of Dallas Love Field for Houston Hobby Airport this morning and cracked off not one but three extremely noxious farts in the presence of a captive audience of over 90 fellow travelers, I wish to warn you that you have been marked for death for your crimes against humanity and my nasal passages since you are clearly an Al-Qaeda operative engaged in terrorist activities on American soil.

I mean, seriously, do you not understand the physics and chemistry of life aboard a pressurized aluminum can traveling at an altitude of over 30,000 feet above sea level moving at a speed of approximately 75% of the speed of sound. Under those conditions, it is not possible to escape your foul stench. There is no place for it to go but into the nostrils of your cabin mates.

Could you not wait 50 short minutes to unleash your gas attack in the terminal building where the air is not trapped and recirculated? Are you so out of shape that you can’t clench your anal muscles enough to pinch off that air biscuit before it makes a break for it? Was it too much trouble to stop off at the restrooms before the flight to drop the load that was so desperately trying to escape your body? Or were you self conscious about making use of the two conveniently located aircraft lavatories? I can certainly understand bashful bowels; butt, please, have some common courtesy. If you don’t want to hover over the flying port-a-potty for fear of contracting some unknown microbes with a serious stash of frequent flier miles, at least have the human decency to step in, close the door and allow your aroma the freedom it so richly deserves in a place where it’s expected to smell foul.

Be it known, that you will be tortured extensively before being summarily executed. We will find the most lactose intolerant, bean burrito freaks there are and lock you in a small room whose only air source is  a room full of those freaks eating from an extensive Mexican food buffet. There will only be milk to drink in that room.

You will tell us who the other members of your cell are and what plans you have made for gassing unsuspecting travelers. You will tell us who is financing your organization, and who is supplying you with the ingredients for your weapons of mass nausea. Then you will be slathered in barbeque sauce and staked in a pen of hungry pigs to be eaten alive in a fit of irony that would surely be struck down by the Supreme Court as cruel and unusual punishment if anyone where to consult them before carrying out your sentence. Which we won’t. ‘Cause your appeal has been summarily denied…dirt bag. Go bust a fluffy somewhere else.

Pavlov Would be Proud

Do you remember those hot, summer days when you were a kid? The days here in Texas seemed endless because, in fact, the sun never set until after your bedtime, and you weren't really sure it went down then either. It felt like you were living on Hell's back porch because the temperature got up to "Dante's Inferno staged inside the sun's corona" hot without even trying hard.


But, no matter how hot it was or how tired you were, there was always one thing that would make you come running. It was a sound that you could hear blocks away, and you'd go crazy trying to figure out which way it was coming and how many stops it would make before it got to your street. You'd also have to play "beat the clock" with your mom or dad if you had already spent your allowance to get a buck or two before it passed your house; and your parents, being the sick and twisted creatures that they were, would hold out until the last possible second when it was directly in front of your house headed for the neighbor's place. You'd run out the front door waving whatever cash you had scrounged, begged, borrowed or liberated from whatever source was handy hoping that the ice cream truck driver saw you before he made the turn and dropped out of sight up the next street.


The ice cream truck doesn't bring me running anymore as I much prefer a pint of Ben & Jerry's to offerings of your garden variety mobile ice cream vendor who in all probability was a child molester cruising for his next victim, but there is still one sound that brings me running outside like that pre-teen kid I used to be looking for another sugar fix. I heard it again yesterday while I was trying to multi task between real work, Netflix, cooking lunch and taking care of the Queen. I can't help myself. It's downright freakishly Pavlovian.

The sound that gets me every time is the sound of an airplane flying over head. But not just any airplane mind you. It has to be the sound of a big, fat radial engine to get me to come running out into the Texas heat like a 6' 4" radar dish turning every which way to find the source of the noise. I'm not talking about a little 7 or 9 cylinder radial that pulls some of the old biplanes around either. Don't get me wrong. Those are nice, too; but, if you want to see me slobbering like Snoopy waiting on a Scooby snack, it has to be one of the monster Pratt & Whitney radials that they used to hang off the front end of planes back in World War II.

Yesterday was a feast for the eyes and ears alike. As I mentioned, I was knee deep in several crucial tasks all at once when I heard the unmistakable sounds of big, beefy radials growling fairly low above my house. I tried to use a little will power, be a responsible adult and not go running outside with my tongue hanging out yelling "Airpane!!! Boss! De plane, de plane." I'm sure the neighbors find it amusing. The queen just rolls her eyes and sighs. But, I digress.

I ran out the office door into the backyard and looked towards the sound at which point I was briefly rewarded with having my retinas seared because the sound happened to be where the sun was in the sky at that point. Once I remembered to squint and raise a hand, I had the pleasure of seeing not one but four WWII vintage warbirds flying formation headed for points unknown. At least two of those glorious birds were North American AT-6's. One of the birds might have been a P-51 or a P-39 (neither of which has a radial engine, but both still make a lovely noise). I didn't get a good enough look before I lost sight of them behind the trees to say for sure. The last of the four was a smallish, twin engine that I had never seen before, but it didn't matter one bit because of the sounds made by those beautiful, throaty radial engines.

I am not entirely sure fortune smiled on me when the queen and I chose to live nearby to a modestly sized airport. One of these days, I know what's going to happen. I'll be in the middle of a conference call when one or more of those birds decides to make a pass over the house. It'll be interesting to see if the 12 year old boy hiding inside my older, wiser self wins the fight.