Some days I think I can’t do anything wrong, and other days it seems as if nothing goes right. I suppose the trick is to have more of the former than the latter, but the reality is that most days have a bit of both in them. My recent trip to Holloman Air Force Base is a good illustration:

Needing to wake up at 4 a.m. to get to LAX to make my flight, I knew the next day was going to be a long one when I finally got to sleep at 1:30. I don’t know about you, but I’m one of those 7-8 hours of sleep per day people. Two-and-a-half just doesn’t cut it. Sleeping on the plane was difficult, as I had a one-hour layover in Phoenix, and each leg of the flight was 90 minutes or less. I did grab a half hour worth of nap, which didn’t do a damn thing to make me feel any better. Once I landed in El Paso, my buddy, Major Anthony Puente, was there to pick me up. He had just flown back from Elmendorf, Alaska, and was pretty tired himself. We drove the 90 miles back to his place and each grabbed an hour of sleep. Again, that was no improvement for my physical state. I was feeling a bit lightheaded and struggling to think clearly, perfect for giving speeches to nearly 400 people! It was quite an honor to be part of the 49th Fighter Wing’s annual awards ceremony, and I really loved being able to share a bit of my life and wisdom with all of the airmen. I just wish I could recall any of what I said … it was all a bit of a blur to me. I was presented with a plaque, or “tail-flash” (a facsimile of their new F-22 Raptor vertical stabilizer) by wing commander Colonel Torres and enlisted boss Chief Master Cline to commemorate my visit, and I got to spend time with and thank many of our soldiers. Sorry about the photo quality, but I haven’t received any of the professional shots yet.

As the next day was Jason’s birthday, I woke up at 5:30 to head back to the El Paso airport. Technically I got up at 4:30 a.m., as my Blackberry automatically updated to Daylight Saving Time during the night and robbed me of an hour. I didn’t realize my error until after I was dressed and ready to go, and trying to get that extra hour nap was fruitless. Did I mention that Anthony and I stayed up until 1:30 a.m. reminiscing about old times? Yeah, I was feeling rather “punchy” by this time. On the way to the airport, I received a call from US Airways with some wonderful news: my outbound flight was going to be delayed, and there was a good chance that I wasn’t going to make my connection in Phoenix. Not to worry, the lady assured me I could get on the next flight and be in to LAX by 3p.m. Wonderful, except Jason’s party begins at noon! She sounded incredibly sympathetic (I’m being very sarcastic), so I just had to keep my fingers crossed that we made it into Arizona with enough time. I still don’t understand why we sat in Texas for 20 minutes AFTER everyone was on board, but it did give me good material for this blog.

Having already been informed that my connecting flight was leaving from the same terminal that we were heading to, at least I wouldn’t have to run very far once we deplaned. That is, until we were routed to a different gate. Have you ever tried to run through the airport when you’re too tired to even walk? Well, it sucks. 80-year-old ladies were passing me, and I so wanted to hop on those “golf carts” that shuttle the old folks and handicapped people around. After being whacked by some old dude’s cane and nearly pulling the oxygen mask off an old gal, I went back to my jogging pace. The good news is that I made it with several minutes to spare, and airport security couldn’t match the bruise on my forehead to the old guy’s walker, so I was well on my way home! I was so beside myself about the potential of not being there for Jason’s birthday, and now I could relax. I had cleverly planned my egress path from LAX, including parking directly across from the terminal door in short term parking. Short term parking is clearly the business to get into. Short term parking is Latin for “first born child” (as in, “this will cost you your first born child”). Short term parking should be against the law. I thought it ironic that the amount of money I had to spend for the convenience of parking my truck was probably more than the truck was worth. It was tempting to just leave it and walk, but I had a party to attend. Kind of reminded me of that credit card commercial, “airfare: $287.90, parking: $57.00, not being late to your son’s second birthday party: PRICELESS!

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I’ve been counting down the days until I can get back into the Valvoline/Mail Terminal Services Charger, and Thursday I hop back on a plane to head to Gainesville. We haven’t been sitting idle (no pun intended) in the meantime, though all three of us are currently feeling the effects of whatever is going around. Poor Jenna has a red nose and sounds like Barry White. Jason cries a lot and has been crapping his pants every day. Come to think of it, that’s normal (for Jason, not Jenna). I’ve been a little lightheaded (yeah, probably normal for me, too).

We headed back out to look at more houses in the Norco area. For those of you not familiar with that region, it’s just south of where Sir Edmund Hillary learned to climb mountains, slightly east of the spot where the Peary-Cook controversy all began (Okay, that’s a reach. The Hillary one you ought to be able to figure out. Robert Peary has been given the “classical” credit for being the first to the North Pole, though there is substantial evidence that his former partner, Frederick Cook, actually beat him there by nearly a year. And if this epiphany causes you loss of sleep, Roald Amundsen was the dude that found the South Pole, though I didn’t know that anyone had lost it). I’m being funny, but Norco is quite a clip from the San Fernando Valley, about 80 miles. It’s actually NORth COrona, quite clever of its founders. I wonder if “J. Lo.” lives there. Wow, another witty joke! We really want RV access, and a bigger place. And we really don’t want to spend $600,000 in the L.A. area, hence our voyage east. We have seen some pretty enticing places, but the property taxes concern me. I currently pay about 1.25 percent all told, and because I’ve lived in this house for more than 16 years (and taxes are based on purchase price plus a minimal yearly increase), we pay right at $3,000 each year. Some of these newer homes, with a clever side-step of California’s Prop 13 from 1978 charge a “legal” fee known as Mello-Roos. In 1982, Henry Mello and Mike Roos (a State Senator and an Assemblyman) should have picked something better to carry their names into immortality, which is spelled very much like immorality … but I digress. “Community Facilities Districts” (or CFDs) is the way the state gets into your pocketbook year after year, and you get to grin and bear it. Anyway, some of these homes now carry yearly taxes of $8,000-plus, and that’s after they have depreciated about 50 percent! Yeah, some of these folks had to pay 12-15,000 a year just in property taxes when their homes were at peak value! And these aren’t necessarily “rich folks,” witnessed by the amount of bank-owned houses in the area currently. I’m just curious what California did with the revenue that was streaming in the past 5 years, when property tax proceeds were huge, gas tax revenues nearly tripled in many counties, and sales tax is amongst the highest in the nation. I sure wish I could spend every dime I ever earn, and then plead “broke” and ask everyone for more money when times aren’t perfect! Hold on, Jenna is helping me off of my soapbox. Okay, enough politics.

The bad news is that Jason thinks that his toilet insert is a party hat. The good news is he hasn't used his little commode the correct way, yet. That would be tough on the hairdo, and the carpet

Remember how I led the blog off with good/bad days, and how most are a bit of each? Here’s another good example: I decided to take the motorcycle out for an errand yesterday, but I noticed that the clutch lever was “mushy,” and I knew exactly how to fix it with my mechanical mastery. Heck, I even glanced at my watch (2:10 p.m.) and thought to myself, “20 minutes, tops.” I removed the side cover (well, I actually couldn’t get it all the way off unless I removed one exhaust pipe, and I had to take one foot peg loose just to pull the cover out of the way of the bleeder), leveled the bike with a 2x6 under the kickstand so the reservoir for the hydraulic clutch was level (the center stand was removed from this bike when the aftermarket exhaust was added … more on that later), and got busy. I bled the clutch system and was well on my way to getting the bike back together when disaster struck. I wouldn’t recommend pushing on the side of the bike when it’s not on the center stand, as tipping over becomes a sudden reality! That’s the bad news. The good news is that the Nissan was able to catch the bike without any damage … to the bike. Now there is only one undamaged body part left on the pickup, but it could have been worse. I’m telling you, all that working out really paid off this time. Wrestling that bike back up was really a treat, especially with all of that nasty brake fluid all over everything. Oh, I forgot to mention that I hadn’t capped off the reservoir (that’s French for “tank,” and that’s about how heavy it felt … as in Abrams M1A1 Tank). So, besides adding a couple of extra dents to the trusty Nissan, the brilliant fire engine red paint is a bit worse for wear. After the cleanup, the watch now read 3 …15!

Last blog I was talking about how awesome Tom Bayer’s season has been so far, and he currently is leading the Super Comp National standings. However, Rich Camou (the guy I teach surfing to each time we paddle out) is sizzling right now, too. He just locked up the Jegs Allstars slot for Division 7 in just his second full year! He currently leads the division and is 5th in the nation … great job!

Okay, I gotta go. American Idol is coming on, and I’m not allowed to miss it. Truth be told, I actually do enjoy that show, though the same can’t be said for me about nearly all reality television. Jenna and Cindy love Dancing with the Stars, and I don’t. Occasionally I just can’t escape the room when it’s on, so I got stuck watching part of the first episode this season. Seems that one of the contestants is a country singer, and his partner/instructor is his girlfriend. Dude, what the HELL are you thinking? I know that any guy reading this agrees with me, that relationship is a goner … who wants the “over/under” on when he gets kicked off the show AND booted out of the relationship? I’ll guaran-damn-tee Jenna and I won’t be entering any dance competitions in the near future.

All right, that’s it from North Hills for now (or shall we say, “NorHi”?). Be good, and “aufenthalt stimmte” (that would be German for, “stay tuned”).