- Tainted Love, Marilyn Manson. No one has been angrier, for a longer period of time, than Marilyn. But if you want to see a moment of quiet introspection from him, watch his cameo in Bowling for Columbine.
- Waiting for the Summer, Yeasayer. Consistently eclectic, and generally melodic indie music.
- High School Art Class, Pretty Lights. A little bit of Moby, combined with the funk of Gorillaz.
- With You In My Head (feat. The Black Angels), UNKLE. Edgy psychedelic dance music, with a lead singer that sounds a little like Ministry's, and a backup singer that sounds suspiciously like Grace Slick.
- Miami, Foals. Mainline indie, of the Modest Mouse ilk.
Two Paragraph Book Report: The Fear Of Physics
I just finished the audio book The Fear of Physics by Dr. Lawrence Krauss. It is fascinating to me that I was able to listen for the better part of 6 hours (during trips between home and Cannes, typically), comprehending at times next to nothing, and yet I was still captivated. I almost understood Einstein's theory of relativity at the end of it, but not the concept time being relative. Still blows my mind. And the fact that merely observing a particle can change its behavior, an idea I cannot yet comprehend no matter how much I think about it, and yet...fascinating.
It is humbling that this book is often used as a physics primer in college, presumably for students far smarter than I and that are headed off to distinguished science careers. Which is fine, I have accepted my lot in life, but the uncaring, undirected yet magical universe never fails to impress in both its simplicity and strangeness. Recommendation: two rotors up.
Christmas 2005
This photo was taken somewhere along the Sunrise Highway, the main road snaking up through the mountains east of San Diego. (Yes, it does get cold (and occasionally snow) in San Diego, you just have to get high enough up.) I thought it apropos as Heidi and Greg will be traveling to Italy next week to spend Christmas with us, so perhaps we can recreate this photo somewhere in the Italian Alps, ten years later.
I also enjoy this picture because of Stewart's off-handed resemblance to Rick Nielsen of Cheap Trick.
Rope Of The Ship
“The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; the attorney a statute-book; the mechanic a machine; the sailor a rope of the ship.”
Army-Navy, Take 14
Part of the holiday tradition at our home is the Army-Navy game, Stewart being an alumni of West Point and a 26-year Army veteran. One might think with my 8 years in the Navy there might be a rivalry amongst us, but I didn't graduate from the Naval Academy and I don't understand or appreciate people's obsession with sports in general. That, and the game has turned into an annual day of tragedy in an otherwise enjoyable December, with the Navy on an utterly humiliating 13-year winning streak.
It's made all the worse because the USMA makes such an enormous deal out of the matchup. It is their ultimate prize of the season, more than bowl championships or overall win-loss records, or winning against the Air Force. It is the most emotionally invested they and their alumni get all year, their battle cries heard all over social media and the news. The football coach's reputation pivots on his success or failure in this single game, and the unending string of losses has resulted in a cacophoinc call to arms, to identify the team's weaknesses and to right the ship. Or tank, whatever.
The USNA takes a slightly more casual stance, but perhaps their own battle cries have become more muted over the years, as with each successive victory over Army they become a little more embarrassed for their rivals, a little less eager to claim victory over their compatriots.
For both of their sakes, let's hope the Army can pull off a victory this year.
Post Game Update: good grief.
Christmas 2006
Stewart and grandson Grayson, somewhere around the Spokane environs. A moment after this photo was taken Grayson bent over and planted his face in the snow, presumably to better experience it, and to make it more real, as the rest of his insulated body wasn't quite able to absorb the full effect of Winter. Or he could have been hungry, who knows.
Christmas 2013
So here is most of the Bornhoft crew, way back in 2013, assembled in Salt Lake City. We'll start at the figurative top: hopefully you'll recognize Stewart in the middle left. His brother Greg is immediately to his right, and Greg's wife Heidi is the woman on the far left of the picture. That's layer one. Layer two: Stewart's son Chris is on the far right, and Chris' wife Marianne is to his immediate right. Stewart's daughter Caroline is more to the left, with both of her hands underneath her chin. Greg's two kids are Stephen (nice name) and Andi, both flanking Caroline. That's layer two. Layer three: Caroline's son Liam (Stewart's grandson, if you've lost track) is the one with the Santa hat, and Mary, daughter of Marianne, is to Stewart's left.
Missing: Stewart and Greg's sister Mel and her wife Kai, Marianne's daughter Allison and son Andrew, and Chris' two sons Ethan and Grayson.
European Catch Up, Part 1
In February Stewart and I were, more or less, retired. I was continuing to fly and consult, although the work ebbed more than it flowed. Stewart was supporting his environmental remediation company with a handful of hours each week, but otherwise we were living routine if not contented lives.
On the 27th a friend e-mailed me out of the blue. A Captain position was opening up at his company: yacht-based, hi-tempo, flying a twin-engine, instrument-capable executive helicopter. It was based in Europe, meaning I would be, too. It sounded exciting to us, and a little exotic; we had barely even thought about vacationing in Europe, much less living there and me leaving retirement and taking up a new full time position. And so after some brief contemplation, a little soul-searching and some wide-eyed discussions between us, I submitted my CV.
Weeks went by, and we heard nothing. I halfway forgot about it.
And then I received an official e-mail. The Company had pared the applicant field down to ten, and I had made the cut. I completed an online interview that involved extemporary speaking and personal character discussions, two things (among others) that I am uniformly terrible at. That and the San Diego sun, the arc of which I had miscalculated when selecting the spot in my home to set up the videocam, gave me the impression that I hadn’t made such a great impression.
But two days later I was notified that I had been one of three candidates selected, and that I was being flown to London for the final round of interviews. It was, needless to say, a little nerve-racking, and Stewart’s and my decision to pursue what was for us such an unorthodox path was now feeling very real. I flew to the UK, and met with the interview team the next morning. If I recall correctly the meeting took the better part of four hours, after which they thanked me and I returned to my hotel room.
A few hours later the Chief Pilot called me, and indicated they would like to fly me to the Isle of Man to meet the CEO. And so, after an early-morning flight the next day and several hours of discussions, introductions, and lunch, I was offered the job.
I was elated, and shell-shocked. But I accepted.
And then the race was on, a thousand things to do before it all started. I won’t enumerate everything here, but suffice it to say we worked full tilt, nonstop, to get all of our worldly belongings stored (we only took clothes, more or less, to Europe), our home rented, and the mountain of paperwork processed before our one way flight to Nice, France. With the help of our good friend Mark, and our neighbors, we kept from losing our minds completely during the process, although I had to leave Stewart to wrap up all the loose ends when I left for Europe early for training. And there were a lot of loose ends: for weeks on end all he did, from the time he woke to time he went to bed, was work on the move. By the time he drove away from our home for the last time, he was mentally and physically exhausted.
But finally, on the 24th of July, Stewart landed in Nice and we were on our way, on our European adventure.
Fast forward through lots of crazy stuff that would take entirely too long to describe in this narrative, but we are now settled in our good friends’ home in Ponterania, Italy, just outside of Bergamo, which is just outside of Milan. I travel for work, often to Cannes, France, but as I am yacht-based it might as easily be Spain or Southern Italy, or…wherever. During my off time Stewart and I have been traveling as well, to Aberdeen/Edinburgh; Venice/Florence/Milan and many local sights around Bergamo; London; and Munich/Innsbruck/Vipiteno.
So much to see, and to experience, it has been a great ride so far.
Modest Mouse
“Someday you will die and somehow something’s going to steal your carbon.”
Prancer
Christmas Cheer
Stewart and I have been careful in the purchasing of non-consumable things while in Europe, with the expectation that we would eventually be returning to the States and would, subsequently, have to schlep all of our collective crap back.
We made an exception to our cautious purchasing habits this week, though. I really enjoy the Christmas season, more than any other occasion of the year, and so we bought a live Christmas tree, lights, and some ornaments. Plus some small decorations to put around the home. And a German Christmas pyramid, lol.
It's all been worth it. Our home has a little bit of that holiday feel, and given the lull in my job during the past month I have been home quite a lot and have been able to enjoy it with Stewart. And perhaps more importantly, our whole journey to Europe has been about creating memories, about experiencing new things but also finding out what grounds us from day to day. And Christmas, and the memories of Christmas past, are one of my unique connections that I want to keep hold of.
Plus who knew IKEA sold live Christmas trees for 14 Euros.
Imperius Googlus
This was going to be a post extolling the wonders of Google Maps. It is, even in 2015, an amazing achievement, both in its worldwide breadth and functionality. Plus the fact that it's free, and that its nearest competitor Apple Maps is so god-awful terrible, gives it an enduring wow factor. So I am loathe to criticize.
And yet.
And yet on numerous occasions--today for example--Stewart and I have found ourselves in the Google Maps deception zone: those areas of smaller, typically older European villages where Google knows where the roads are, and their names and directionality, but doesn't know that they aren't used for autos anymore, or at least that being the case a good portion of the time. This afternoon we found ourselves on a cobblestone street in Vipiteno, Italy, that was packed with pedestrians shopping and celebrating the season, but not a single car in sight, and clearly no room for any. But there we were, popped out of a narrow alleyway and nowhere to go. Heads bowed and no other option before us, we continued. It took us nearly ten minutes to travel the 150 meters of shame, with all those pedestrians staring coldly and disapprovingly at us, to get to a normal roadway.
Google doesn't let on that it knows where the deception zones are, and so it doesn't route you around them or otherwise provide warning. You have to be on high alert, keenly sensitive to the often subtle changes of pedestrian traffic, the asphalt turning into brick or cobblestone, or the already narrow streets of Europe getting progressively more narrow. That's the other thing Google seems not to be aware of: the width of streets. We have been on more than one street in Italy, following the direction of the Google Maps Lady, when we got so nervous that we had to pull in the side-view mirrors on our Toyota YARIS. A YARIS.
One additional critique, speaking of the Google Maps Lady. She is always polite, never shrill, and she never lets doubt creep into her voice. She is prompt, and she unfailingly states what her algorithm tells her is the correct route to go. But to her, every word is an English word, pronounced using English grammar rules. And so with every trip I take with her, she is a constant reminder of what I must sound like to the Europeans who silently wince as I butcher my way through their their language.
All right, that's it. I do not want to bite the hand that navigates me, because Google Maps has saved my collective and figurative bacon on innumerable occasions. Despite her flaws she knows far more than I do--most of the time--about where I am and what lies ahead. But I've now developed a healthy suspicion, a cautious tone to counterbalance the undeniably confident voice emanating from my iPhone. Because the deception zone is not a good place to be.