Weird News
Emu appears in Alabama man's yard
CHUNCHULA, Ala. (UPI) -- A Chunchula, Ala., man says an emu, a large Australian bird, mysteriously appeared one morning in his front yard. Greg Ritchie said the ostrich-cousin showed up in his yard Tuesday and thus far he has been unable to determine the bird's origins, WALA-TV in Mobile, Ala., reported Wednesday. "He showed up yesterday around 11:00 and has been here since," Ritchie said of the emu. "Just trying to keep him here and keep him out of the highway and getting injured." Ritchie said he has been feeding the emu cracked corn and keeping it at a distance with a rake. However, he said he is worried the big bird will wander onto the highway before he can find its owner. "He's been around for two days now. Hopefully he'll still be here when the owner comes to claim him," he said.
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114-year-old cairn held time capsule
QUINCY, Mass. (UPI) -- Workers taking apart a cairn in Quincy, Mass., said they discovered a time capsule they believe was from when the rocks were first piled 114 years ago. The masonry team working to restore the structure said they found a box inside the Abigail Adams Cairn that was inside a brick-lined chamber at the landmark's center and covered with a slab of granite, the Quincy Patriot Ledger reported Wednesday. The time capsule was taken to the historical society at the Adams Academy to determine the best way to open the soldered-shut metal box. "Usually it's everyday materials; it's not like we're going to find the secret of the ages in there or anything like that," said Ed Fitzgerald, director of the Quincy Historical Society. "Purely things of historical interest, not anything of value. No one is going to put their diamonds in there." However, Quincy Mayor Thomas Koch expressed excitement at the find. "What started as sort of a mundane project has now got some excitement to it,'' he said. "I'm anxious to see what kind of items would be included. It's kind of fascinating."
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Police chase monkey in Tokyo subway
TOKYO (UPI) -- Tokyo police have chased a monkey out of a subway station, marking the third time a monkey has been spotted inside the city this month, authorities said. The spectacle of a monkey, usually in the mountains and hills outside of the city, perched atop the arrivals and departures board at one of Tokyo's busiest subway stations led many commuters to gather and take cell phone pictures of the animal while police roped off the area, CNN reported Wednesday. About 30 police officers wielding green nets and tarps attempted to trap the monkey, but the spry simian jumped into the assembled crowd and outran the pursuing officers outside the station. Monkeys were previously spotted in Tokyo Aug. 12 and Monday, but authorities said they do not know whether all three sightings were of the same animal.
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Lawyer Dad
Two small boys, not yet old enough to be in school, were overheard talking at the zoo one day. "My name is Billy. What's yours?" asked the first boy. "Tommy," replied the second. "My Daddy's an accountant. What does your Daddy do for a living?" asked Billy. Tommy replied, "My Daddy's a lawyer." "Honest?" asked Billy. "No, just the regular kind", replied Tommy.
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SR-71 Pilots
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but
we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding
our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if,
because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would
not be the first word I would use to describe flying this
plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day
in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was
pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a
moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training
sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our
training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over
Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the
turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My
gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to
feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would
soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a
great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten
months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below
us, I could already see the coast of California from the
Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months
of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back
seat. There he was, with no really good view of the
incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four
different radios. This was good practice for him for when we
began flying real missions, when a priority transmission
from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult,
too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during
my entire flying career I had controlled my own
transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in
this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on
talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however.
Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my
expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had
been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the
slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He
understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a
sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio
toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with
him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles
Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their
sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly),
we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk
to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked
Center for a readout of his ground speed.
Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at
ninety knots on the ground."
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was
that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a
Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact
same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel
important. I referred to it as the "HoustonCenterVoice." I
have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on
this country's space program and listening to the calm and
distinct voice of the HoustonCenterControllers, that all
other controllers since then wanted to sound like that...
and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what
sector of the country we would be flying in, it always
seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that
tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to
pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always
wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like
Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die
than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped
up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his
ground speed.
"Ah, Twin Beach: I have you at one hundred and twenty-five
knots of ground speed."
Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is
dazzling his Cessna brethren.
Then out of the blue, a Navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore
came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock
because he sounded very cool on the radios.
"Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check."
Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey,
Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million dollar
cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I
got it -- ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug
smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true
speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he
just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his
new Hornet.
And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more
distinct alliteration than emotion:
"Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what?
As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had
to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios.
Still, I thought, it must be done -- in mere seconds we'll
be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That
Hornet must die, and die now.
I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it
was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump
in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that
we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13
miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his
space helmet.
Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back
seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had
become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion,
Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us
a ground speed check?"
There was no hesitation, and the reply came as if was an
everyday request: "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand
eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so
accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information
without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But
the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going
to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed
the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like
voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks. We're showing closer to
nineteen hundred on the money."
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little
crack in the armor of the HoustonCenterVoice, when L.A. came
back with, "Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably
more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one."
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short,
memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been
flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow
before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I
had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's
work.
We never heard another transmission on that frequency all
the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun
being the fastest guys out there.
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