The Coffee Guy's blog

Regain Reagan’s Rehires at Reagan

How sweet it is that the love continues.  One lonely Air Traffic Controller falls asleep at the Yoke at Reagan International Airport with two Commercial jets on the approach.

Are these not the same people Reagan let go while on strike then rehired all anew after applying?  Ironic it happens at Ronald Reagan International.

Now the new rule is that there will be 2 controllers on the aptly named graveyard shift.  Almost a graveyard for a couple if jets full of unsuspecting flyers.  So now Ragan regains twice the depth of control sought after constraints imposed by Reagan.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5JSToyiyr8

Now Ronny had a few good liners.  The State of these United and American airlines planes could have been dire.  These birds are essentially landing on instruments and are in total belief and trust of the controllers.

Last night I purloined that link from my meta search.  It was on the first page of my search.  This morning not 8 hours later my search it's buried some 20 pages into the search for the same inventory of words.

Now the best line in this whole foisted fiasco is the last line in this clip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRUbwnkEPqc&feature=related

While even the regal Reagan was asleep at the wheel for most of his terms in office, we knew he was not a high flyer.  In fact his wife was known to ensure that he zipped when needed to.

Ronny has his fans to this day.  4 huge turbo fans adorn this Boeing Air force one plane recently restored by said company and on display at the namesakes Presidential library.

They really Knute Rockne’d this one out of the ole Control Tower today!

Coffey by Air, Ronny by Gum

 

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

 

The Watched Pot Never Grows, But Springs Ahead

In Greenwich they nominated for Spring coffee on February 25^th.  The earth shook, and the ground trembled.  But not in that sleepy town where whatnot turned to not what they did not do.  Nobody had a posting for the Spring Coffee Guy.  I toss my hat belatedly in that direction.

Now with more postings than I can be banned for, the last one only had a warning, Germany is still rated highest on my banned videos list, should I and perhaps not in jest this time, protesteth my abolishment for posting a family viddy?

Or perhaps find new ways of bolstering my position so couched in obscurity not to be found by the whole of Washington’s alphabet soup?  As I had doth and will further,  all the proclivities people have toward assuming that their non or real progeny or siblings or any other form or familia or genus might or might not be presently engrossed in Face Plant, I proffer my viddy materiel on every subscribed format  and media I am a member to.  (Never end a sentence prepositionally)

It’s a sad state of xenophobia when Demand Media drops my writing application like a Hot Banana.  However, I could conger a position in that less than esteemed habitué and sit back into a life of Reilly as I surf and write my way to the bottom of the lowest common denominator.  Pith and vinegar are obviously not on the menu at the Demanded writings of the “How To” crowds most desirous wants.

After all, I have been unacceptable, persona non grata, unwanted, superfluous to their needs, de trop, unseemly, invidious, unneeded, over the top, possibly not what we need, not a good fit, inessential, non-essential,  bombastic, unsought, supererogatory, unallowable, just plain unwanted, malapropos, and mostly palaverous and pleonastic at many a web site’s applications center.

Does that bother me?  Nopers.  It’s a cuz’in I can blather together my own straw man argument.  Do I need their 3 cents a word for contentious crap?  Nopers again on that account.  Thinkin’ I am un-connecting myself to the Guru as well.  Have offered a many proposal for scribbles and scribes, and with the odd negotiational e mail back and forth, nadda to come of it.

So I depart again from the unctuous trodding to the bottom of the lowest common denominator well of worthless content.  Past offers of guest columnists to this forum have also come up shy of a rational number.

Perhaps it’s back to Haiku on coffee?

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

 

 

Silvertipped, Silverlined, Sliverstar and Revy

Champagne by any other name is the powder we seek.  Knee-deep and more than you can keep.  One’s waist not wasted on plumes of crystals pushing up under the arms of merry.  Between Spruce and Fir, Alder and Birch, lay swaths of flakes so deep your pole gropes for a purchase on the bottom at length.

From One Tree Pony to the next Dead Head, skis Gratefully submarine through the depths.  Once in a flash of brilliance do the tips slither to the surface only to dive a meter back through the fluff.  Not a sound of silence but for a whoosh and a prayer on the 60-degree pitch while pulled to the bottom by the orbs gravity.  So much snow, so little time.

Silverstar compulsed new snow, dropped and laid on paths lined with trees.  Glades abound, uncut by boards or sticks.  Hidden mounds of hidden snow upon small hillocks of snow beneath.  Wading like geese into the pond up to our down.  It’s not oft that I have snow inside.  But the driving depths of snow perforates under our outers, crystals finding nooks never known.  Grinned and gunning for the next run.  Riding to the top on euphoric adrenaline.  Tow lines direct to the top skied onto without a wait. 

Private runs held at bay just for us.  Not a soul to be neither seen nor heard; like children.  If one pauses, the wait is endless for the next intrepid skier, but rather not wait, as the next will probably be us anyway.  Cut a new untracked slash through the glades, trees, or middle of any run.  Follow the deepest, explode through the highest mounds of white crystals.

Paradise serves the best lunch on the mountain.  In the back, in the back, it gets as hot as it can get.  When it’s snowing cats and dogs, and you can’t stand rolling balls, it gets about as deep as it can get.  Wine and fire, fire and ice, ice and snow and nowhere to go but down.  Sewing machine knees rest while the body is refuelled for another plunge into the fluffy depths of the Three Wise Men or Gowabunga, maybe even a hidden Spirit Bowl off Bob’s Not Here.

The run-out takes the same track as the run in; through the trees.  Glade skiing in that much snow has the world in “slow motion, you can stop on a dime”.  Last slip down the hill reveals deepness so near the verge, populations on boards and sticks have not found it.  Frontal attacks by neophyte skiers avoid the trees leaving untracked wilderness within easy reach of the last spike.  Also passed on this venture.

“Champagne powder, wine with dinner, and after dinner drinks”

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.