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Southwest 737 lands eight miles short of destination

All over the news today, the errant landing of a Southwest Airlines Boeing 737 at an airport near Branson, Mo.

Southwest Flight 4013 had been scheduled to land at the Branson Airport. It instead landed at the M. Graham Clark Downtown Airport — a.k.a. Clark-Tanney Co. Airport — some eight miles away and with a runway almost half of the size of the Branson facility.  The Springfield News-Leader website reported that the Southwest jet took off today without incident. The aviation website FlightAware.com reported that the plane landed some 30 minutes later at the Tulsa International Airport in Oklahoma.

While this can be chalked up to one of those “Oops” moments — and was by some news outlets — the safe landing had the potential for disaster as the 737-700 came to rest only “a few hundred feet” from a 50-foot gravel embankment at the end of the runway, according to the News-Leader story by Thomas Gounley. The story and the initial one by Claudette Riley provided the best coverage of the incident I have seen in reading some of the Missouri, AP and network stories on the Web. Hey, trust me, I was a journalist  for some 20 years and covered several of these breaking news events that received national attention. And you can believe me because I’m always right and I never lie.

Southwest has suspended the pilots. Buses took the passengers, who spent about 75 minutes on the landed aircraft, to the Branson airport. The story today had the interesting footnote, one subtle yuk, that Southwest had to “find Branson for another five months.” The airline plans to cease flights to the airport in June.

The 2010 Census estimates say Branson has 10,520 people although the city has long been known for its many theaters catering to country music lovers and an older crowd such as Roy Clark, Glen Campbell, Andy Williams and the Oak Ridge Boys. Frontier Airlines is the other carrier currently operating out of Branson. Even with the extensive tourist trade its hard to imagine a city with 10.5 thousand folks having an airport with two major airlines serving it. Our airport here in the Beaumont-Port Arthur and Orange, Texas vicinity serves a regional population of a half-million people, however, it is only an hour-and-a-half from Houston and its two major airports. It currently has American flying to and from Dallas-Fort Worth International. United Airlines still has a bus service to George H.W. Bush International Airport in Houston back and forth to Jack Brooks Regional Airport in Nederland from its merger with Continental

Private and public entities had to put a $1.5 million revenue guarantee for American to begin flying its regional jets from Southeast Texas from its D-FW hub. American became the most recent airline over the past 40-something years in the Beaumont-Port Arthur area.

Southwest pulled out of Beaumont-Port Arthur after a little more than six months in 1979. My third airline flight, flying from what was Houston Intercontinental in 1974 to BPT, was on a turbo-prop Convair 880 that was part of the Texas International Airlines fleet. Texas International, previously Trans-Texas Airways, eventually merged with Continental.

Back and forth. Up and down. That’s the airline biz.

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Thanks to the women who, literally, picked me up

I have tried to write something for some 30 minutes now and eventually chose to hit the “Draft” button. I thought I’d do a shorter version.

This afternoon I took a tumble from a higher-than-average curb and fell to my hands and knees to the pavement. If I had done this 30-something years ago it wouldn’t been much more than a chuckle. But it’s not 30 years ago and I no longer am 30 years younger.

A couple of very nice and very attractive young women, having emerged from their SUV with horrified looks, helped me up as I could not do so myself. What wonderful ladies those two were. So if you helped an old guy up from the pavement in front of Schlotszky’s in Port Arthur or Nederland (Texas) consider yourselves thanked. It was humbling because I felt, for a minute at least, rather helpless.

I have road rash on my left knee. I am beginning to hurt just about everywhere. My neck, which has for a number of years has been in a state of F**kedupedness is hurting. My hurt is hurting!

I must go now.

Adios and Aloha

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“If not for Christmas … by New Year’s night”

Tony Russell “Charles” Brown grew up Galveston and taught chemistry at Carver High School in nearby Baytown, Texas, after receiving his degree from Prairie View A & M.  This was decades before integration and just as the U.S. went to World War II. Brown worked in a mustard gas plant in Arkansas and a Southern California shipyard before settling in Los Angeles. It was there Brown honed his skills as a pianist in blues bands and eventually recorded his music.

His Christmas blues standard “Please Come Home for Christmas” was a hit in 1960. It was popular enough through the various holidays that followed that it had sold 1 million records eight years later.

Brown was always more or less claimed as a “Southeast Texan.” Of course, he was Southeast Texan having grown up in Galveston but not “down home Southeast Texan” in the Beaumont-Port Arthur-Orange “Golden Triangle” in which Janis Joplin was a native. He was more a native in the ZZ Top style. The three band members played many time in the Beaumont area, especially before they made it big. With the Frank, Dusty and Billy being mostly a Houston band, they too were co-opted by those of the Beaumont area.

Brown died in 1999 and was buried in California.

It really doesn’t matter who is from where though. During the number of years I lived outside of Southeast Texas, I never really felt at home in the area when I visited for the holidays until I heard James Brown’s “Please Come Home for Christmas.” And as much as I like the Eagles version of the song sung by northeast Texan Don Henley, sometimes there is nothing like the original.

May you all have a Happy Christmas wherever you are or whatever you are.

 

 

 

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Duck thumpin’ in Louisiana and topless oil wrestling in Texas

No. I will not sit here and wax philosophically over the A&E Network’s suspension of Phil Robertson from the hit reality series “Duck Dynasty.”

Robertson is the leader of the backwoods Louisiana clan who became suddenly rich after making duck calls. Now you cannot go to a store without seeing a T-shirt, a Christmas card or dog blanket featuring the Robertson family. Why it’s enough to make the AFLAC Duck freak-out.

The elder Robertson made remarks in a GQ interview which were disparaging to gays. His remarks happened to include a translation, perhaps his own translation, of The Bible, I Corinthians 6:9, “Neither the adulterers, the idolaters, the male prostitutes, the homosexual offenders, the greedy, the drunkards, the slanderers, the swindlers — they won’t inherit the kingdom of God. Don’t deceive yourself. It’s not right.” 

Now that isn’t exactly the King James Version I grew up with, which interprets the verse as:

“Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind.”

Okay, read the various translations here on your own. I beg your pardon, I never promised you a theologian.

I also never knew what a bunch of backwoods rednecks who make duck calls, and presumably lots of money these days, has to do with arts and entertainment. Entertainment, perhaps. Arts?

But I don’t see why Phil Robertson is not entitled to his opinion. Scores, maybe thousands of others in the entertainment business certainly feel free to mouth off on subjects, including homosexuality. Remember when folks blew a gasket upon the pronouncement of Dixie Chicks’ singer Natalie Maines during a concert that she was ashamed George W. Bush was a Texan? Why the Fox News crowd would have thought Maines had given away the Manhattan Project secrets.

The First Amendment gives Americans the right to say something no matter how profound or stupid, or profoundly stupid. And the people have the right to decide in the marketplace whether Robertson is just ignorant, mean or stupid, or all of the aforementioned.

So shut the fark up already.

Oiloiloiloiloiloiloiloiloil

This afternoon I found a flyer on my truck. It was from  a place called “Jaguars Club” in Beaumont. It featured a well-shaped chin, a swath of brushed blond hair, and a wet T-shirt clad with a pair of women’s breasts. It implored me to come every first and third Tuesday of every month and enjoy $5 cover and $5 dances. Most intriguing was the feature on Thursday nights, which is:

“Topless Oil Wrestling Match”

Now I presume that this would include women wrestling topless while frolicking in some kind of oil. They wouldn’t want to upset Phil Robertson lest he comes in with a mouth-load of duck calls and thumping the customers on the head with his Bible. (Note: Robertson has labeled himself a “Bible-thumper.”)

Beaumont, Texas, being the place where the modern oil and gas industry began with the Lucas Gusher at Spindletop in 1901, I would like to think that good old crude oil would be used in this wrestling. After all, I am sure some folks might label the spectacle as “crude.” Others might call it just another night in Beaumont.

On the back of the flyer, more breasts. This time a pair of what looks to be feminine hands pulling the edge of her “I assume it’s a her” halter top back thus to give a bit more of a glimpse to a breast. This side advertises Wednesdays, which is “College Night” at Jaguars. Halfs are popular that night. Covers 1/2 price, 1/2 price “VIP” (I don’t know what this is and will undoubtedly not ask) and 1/2 price table dances.  An amateur contest happens at midnight with a $200 cash prize. For what is the cash prize offered? It could be a variety of contests, most of which I would imagine offers some sort of partial nakedness.

This being Beaumont, Texas, however, home to Spindletop, I would imagine every college boy and every good ol’ boy who has yet to pass out by midnight would have a quart of oil in the back of their pickup. So I imagine some topless oil wrestling could be put together on a moment’s notice.

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Behold the approach of the seven warning signs of Christmas

For the past several weeks I should have looked out for them. But today was when it really hit. I am talking about the seven warning signs of Christmas.

Now I’m not sure what all the signs are. But here I am on “Black Friday” — Really a horrible name for a day that is supposed gold for merchants who may finally get their books back in “black” — and here I was walking in Kroger earlier only to hear:

“Just hear those sleigh bells jingling,
Ring ting tingling too
Come on, it’s lovely weather
For a sleigh ride together with you … “

Such a wonderful song to hear where it has been cold enough to wear a sweater and a coat the last few days, only to get the shorts ready for another day or so.

Other signs abound. Commercials with Christmas music on TV. Santa Claus appears, though not ready for his IFR ride across the planet, at least the jolly fat man gets his lists together and gives them an initial once-over. Fat f***, I bet he doesn’t have Type II diabetes either. Ho, ho, ho.

Folks are out, shopping ahead of the crowd for their fake Christmas tree. As if the supply of faux spruces and firs will disappear, just as, did the old growth longleaf pines that once majestically stood over our deep pineywood lands in East Texas.

I can’t remember ever having anything but a real tree for Christmas when I was growing up in a small town in the boonies of Southeast Texas. Back in the day, property wasn’t all posted off to keep everyone away. The way things worked was that you went on the big forest tracts, most owned by the big timber companies, and you found a little tree to cut. It was the same as going hunting for squirrel, rabbit and even deer, when I was a kid. I’m not sure when it began, that the timber companies began leasing their land to sportsmen. That is, the land where they didn’t cut trees. And you just didn’t want to go on the timber company land for a tree anymore. You started worrying about things like trespassing. Or being hassled by a range rider, a private dick for large landowners who normally would just shoo you off the property on which you were trespassing. Some would hold you for the law. Some nuts would even shoot you.

My Daddy never had a chain saw. He always cut a tree with an ax, or a hatchet. I imagine if I went for a real Christmas tree, I would fell it with a chain saw. I’m too damn old and achy to cut down a tree with a hatchet

I am sure I will have to make a trek to some of the area shopping cities for work. But I have no interest in doing such for my own fun.

Anyway, the tell-tale signs are here. Can hear what I hear? Can you see what I see? Oh yes.

I had fun that one time I got to play Santa in a mall for a newspaper story. You know, a first-hand account, behind the scenes, an undercover account, the man behind the suit. But in the end, I had to go back and write a story about it. Ah, the damned quid pro quo again, taking me on a ride.

Oh well, ho ho ho. We’ll see more of these warning signs. Get ready for them. Have a good time. While you can