Dave and Mark.

Two of my colleagues were killed in a plane crash early Tuesday evening just a little north of here.

I knew Dave for two years, as it was two years ago Tuesday that I began in my current position with my company, and Dave's was the first program I took fiduciary responsibility for.  The day I met this retired Navy pilot with a Cheshire cat smile, I had him pegged for a crazy old man who wasn't terribly enamored with us pesky financial types nosing around in his program. The more time I spent with him, the more I realized that I couldn't have been more incorrect.  Dave respected my work, respected what I provided him - and I think he respected me.  (He respected me enough to call me a bean-counter at every opportunity, and I relished the jibing, wore the playful insult like a badge of honor.)

Dave had little tolerance for bullshit, and as such, he forced me to up my game, so to speak.  When I took the position, I knew very little about government contracts and the quirky financial issues sometimes tied up in them, and as such, tried to cover my ignorance with BS.  Dave saw through it, and as such, I owe him much for where I am today, because if he hadn't asked the probing questions, if he hadn't made me learn quickly about the financial side of his very difficult-to-manage contract, I doubt that I would have lasted this long - and for that, Dave, I thank you from the very bottom of my heart.

About a year and half ago, I went into Dave's office to discuss an issue on his contract, only to encounter a loud, gregarious, incredibly friendly man - and that was when I met Mark for the first time.  Dave had brought the former Navy chopper pilot on as his deputy, and it was evident within a short time that Dave had made a spot-on hire.  Mark became a rising star in the company in the short time he was with us - hell, the dude had a corner office on the bottom floor of the new building (although he insisted that he wasn't too impressed with it, because it was right next to an outside door, and they could boot him out on a moment's notice). 

At least every other day, we'd have the same conversation:  "Hey Mark, how's it going?"  "Livin' the dream, man." 

Corny, right?  Thing is, Mark was being sincere about it.  Always cheerful, always smiling - and I can probably count on one hand the number of times since I met him that I'd gone through a day without seeing a look of pure happiness on his face.  What an amazing attitude he brought to his job, and how sad that I've only really appreciated it in the face of his loss, in the aftermath of the tragedy that struck in a Greene County soybean field on Tuesday night.

God, what a couple of characters we lost last night.  They will be terribly missed in these quarters, both on a personal and professional level.  I pray that their families will eventually find peace.

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Because everything I own is crap.

As you may or may not know, I've been essentially sans phone the last few days, conserving the last few droplets of battery juice as if I had to make it last me the rest of my life. Charging pod came in today, and my phone now sits happily, reinvigorated with life-sustaining lithium or whatever they are putting in batteries these days.

But it almost didn't quite end so well.  A few months ago, I bought a long-life battery for my phone.  Long-life = thicker battery, and thicker battery = different battery cover to accommodate it.

Naturally, when I placed the phone on the charging pod and nothing was happening, I was slightly furious.  "Yeah, that's about f***ing right," I thought to myself.

Fortunately, removal of battery cover was all it took for the phone to sit properly on its charging contacts.  We are both satiated.

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Isn't it ironic? Or is it?

While performing preventative (or is it preventive? hell if i know) maintenance on my phone last week, I inadvertently have prevented it from being able to charge through its USB port anymore.  Idiot.

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After this post, I'll be off to write a song about Michael Jackson. Cause I'm inspired now.

News item:  A rollercoaster in Virginia will be named after the still-dead Dale Earnhardt. Just hope it don't get too loose in 3 and get all boogered up but go get'em next week.

On the "Dear Jesus God, are we ever gonna let that guy die?" scale, would a rollercoaster named after the still-dead Dale Earnhardt rate above or below the song about the still-dead Dale Earnhardt that I wrote shortly after he died?  It was called (wait for it ......) "Dale Earnhardt."  Here's a sample:

Dale Earnhardt
Drove race cars
His first name was D-A-L-E
And his last name E-A-R-N-H-A-R-D-T

I don't know.  Again, to borrow a phrase used earlier in this blog tonight: it's a toss-up.

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When she says "alot," then we're gonna have issues.

My Son Cool's kindergarten teacher is fresh out of college.  This is her first teaching job, and so as such, she hasn't been beaten down by unruly kids, unruly school bureaucracy, unruly parents and the like.  She seems to bring an actual enthusiasm to the task at hand.

This is a good thing.

My Son Cool's kindergarten teacher also used the not-word "boughten" last week at the open house.

So it's a toss-up.

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How much difference does it make?

Tonight was the first time I'd listened to Pearl Jam's Ten from start to finish in years. I remember waiting in line at the Den in Bloomington for the follow-up at midnight on a Monday night in 1993 or whatever year it was. (Do stores still do that anymore - open at midnight for a highly anticipated new music release? I don't see it happening just because our music and our culture is so fractured anymore, that there's not a unifying musical movement as a cultural undercurrent.)

Anyway, that's another album I haven't listened to start-to-finish in years. Kinda looking forward to seeing how it holds up.

Update:  not terrible. There were a few moments - and it might be due to the production - where I said to myself: "Wow ... that sounds like (insert name of any mid-to-late 90s alt-rock band here)."  I rated all the songs in Windows Media, and whereas Ten didn't have any songs that rated fewer than four stars, only four of the 12 songs on Vs. rated four or higher, and two of them ("W.M.A.", "Rats") rated only two stars.

Long story short: Ten was lightning in a bottle. And no matter what PJ has done in the ensuing years, I can forgive any of it because of how close that album is to my heart.

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Now playing: Pearl Jam - Release
via FoxyTunes

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Eye appointment today. It was My Son Cool's first visit to the eye doctor.

A few months ago, he had his 5-year checkup at his pediatrician's, and he took a quickie eye test in the hallway. Seemed to have passed with flying colors, and I was thrilled because Daddy has terrible vision - without glasses or contacts, my vision is somewhere around 20/400. Bats look at me and say, "Wow. We thought *we* were blind! Sorry, pal." And the last thing I wanted was for him to inherit my eyes because having poor vision is a grand pain in the ass on so many levels.

(Editor's note: The writer's usage of the word "seemed" in the last paragraph ought to serve as foreshadowing as to how this story ends.)

So My Son Cool needs glasses, and it's a little heartbreaking, really. Not because of the social stigma attached to glasses, because that doesn't really exist anymore. (Eye doctor said it was because everyone has glasses now because we're a reading society, while I contend that it's more to do with our reliance on computers, PDAs and the like. The truth falls somewhere in between, I'm sure.) Rather, I wished wholeheartedly - and thought before today that this was the case - that he had inherited my wife's eyes instead of mine. Her vision isn't perfect, by any stretch, though it's a hell of a sight better than mine (no pun intended).

Instead, the eye doctor said, "Yep. He's definitely your son."

Hopefully, instead of crying over spilled lemonade, we can make the lemons into a nice meringue. Maybe the fact that he can't see close up (are you sure he's my son? He's far-sighted!) makes everything a blur, makes it hard to concentrate on coloring or whatever kindergarten tasks he undertakes. And, as I mentioned on Twitter this week, he's not been the best-behaved child in his class since school started. Maybe this might help?

Please, God?

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Now playing: Sloan - Cheap Champagne
via FoxyTunes

Next thing you know, she'll be twittering: 10:30am - walked dog. 12:15pm - walked dog. 2:58pm - walked dog.

I found out something mildly disconcerting today.

My mom has a Facebook page.

Somehow, this knocked me over. It caught me completely unaware, shocked me in much the same way as it would have if you had told me she was having an affair or tortured animals.

I don't do Facebook. Which makes me feel as though I'm creeping ever more toward the edge of complete social obsolescence.

(Which is fine, because I'm going for the Obsolescence Daily Double: hello, dial-up!)

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Now playing: Ben Folds - Trusted
via FoxyTunes

For what it's worth, my dear friend The Captain has carved out for himself A Fantastic New Internet Blog Site. You can find it at Forever Since Breakfast.

I hesitate to point you there, only because he writes circles around me.

I bet I can still drink him under the table, though.

Oh yeah. I went there.

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Now playing: The Beatles - Eleanor Rigby
via FoxyTunes

All good things ......... well, you know how it goes.

Every now and again - it was every few minutes in the immediate aftermath of the accident, but two and a half weeks later it's now only every 4 or 5 hours - my mind flashes back to the moment that I knew I had lost her.

On a drenched Wednesday morning a couple of weeks ago, I was heading to work. I'd dropped my rugrat off at the daycare and was merrily on my way in the downpour, perhaps a bit too cautious. I crested a hill and started down it when I felt her slip out from underneath me. I tapped the brake gently, and off to the right I went, then back across the center line, facing back up the hill on the left hand edge of the road -

And that's the moment I knew it was over. It still stops me dead in my tracks - like I'm a rubberband tensed to its utmost before it either snaps or you release me, or like I'm leaning back in a chair on its two hind legs before I feel the floor begin to pull me down.

That moment. That instant before chaos.

For some reason, I looked down at the radio. Hell, I was only a passenger at this point anyway.

Belle snapped back around and started down an embankment - was I sideways? was i pointed forward? i don't recall - and I braced myself as she smashed her beautiful front end against a tree.


I guess I must have been sideways, but I sure as hell don't remember how I got there. (This picture was taken from the direction I was driving.)

Yes, I made it through OK with only a place on my hand where the airbag went off. And I guess if there's any sort of pet peeve I've gained over the last two weeks, it's this: "Well, at least you weren't hurt. Cars can be replaced. People can't. etc etc etc"

I'm completely aware that maybe I shouldn't be here talking to you right now. But I am. I walked away, and that part is behind me. I was over that part about 20 seconds after the accident, despite the people who thought my hand was broken.

Here's my thing. I've heard what I wanted to hear from, I believe, exactly one person. Someone who actually said, "That sucks about your car."

And that person has no idea how eternally fucking grateful I am to hear that.

Seriously.

Here's why.

I've finally gotten to a point in my life where I can have something nice. Something I want to drive for my own enjoyment, not because it was the only financially feasible option at the time. I endured a steady diet of unexciting, unreliable automobiles the last 19 years. The names ring hollow like a veritable Murderer's Row of shite - an Escort, a Metro, a Corolla, a station wagon I bought for $100 whose make and model escapes me right now, and an Escape, which I was driving before Belle. The only other vehicle I held even a twinge of emotion for was a Ranger, which was also totaled in an accident (not my fault!).

Belle was the first car I ever loved. Hell, Belle was the first car I ever named.

"Well, you can always get another one," well-meaning people would tell me.

OK, I'll do that - only if you do one thing for me. When your pet that you've loved for months or years ups and dies from cancer or gets hit or whatever, why don't you go out and get another one right away? Like, the day you bury it.

Do you understand now???

***

We had her towed home for reasons still completely unclear to me, and I was miserable for the next two days looking at this:


It doesn't look *that* bad in the pics, though it was much worse in 3-D. Still, the tow truck driver offered a glimmer of hope when he came by to pick her up from the house (WTF?) - "I think she's fixable." And I was giddy.

Till the following Monday, when they called and told me she was a total loss.

And now she's gone. And I am crushed. I am heartbroken. Still, two weeks after the fact. And I cry a little bit on the inside every morning when I leave the house for work and get back into the soulless small SUV that I was driving before I fell in love.

I think it's a metaphor for something that I don't want to put to words yet.

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Now playing: The Beatles - She Loves You
via FoxyTunes