TheList 5326

The List 5326 TGB




To All,

Good Thursday Afternoon May 14

The earlier List was incorrectly labeled 5324.vice 5325. Apologize for My mistake.

Regards,

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The passing of Rear Admiral Thomas Francis Brown III, United States Navy (Retired)



Thanks to the Bear for passing this on. Admiral Brown was a contributing member of the List for many years



John...Thanks for passing ...

I am proud to belong to the long blue and gold line of tailhookers who this day and forever will cherish our individual memories of Tom Brown... We will miss him and remember him with unbounded admiration, affection and respect for what he was to us: the epitome of a United States naval officer and aviator; an inspirational leader of warriors in combat, and in peace; a friend in deed; a steady mentor and guide for those of us who followed in his wake; a God fearing and God loving human being whose life was governed by the Gospel—foremost, the 23rd Psalm; and a patriot who loved and served our country with all his heart. Tom now rests in peace, glory gained and duty done, and we of the blue and gold line can count as a glorious blessing our time on earth in the company of Thomas Francis Brown, III, Light Attack Tailhooker Extraordinaire...

God bless Marty and the Brown clan as they press on....

Bear🇺🇸⚓️🐻

http://www.rollingthunderremembered.com/



Tom passed last night in Madera, CA after a long bout with Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. May he rest in peace.

More to follow as plans become available



Sadly,

Dick



Marty Brown

3707 Buena Vista Ct

Madera, CA 93637



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Now on the lighter side



Thanks to Micro Now I understand it!!!



Subject: Oil Futures



Oil Futures



I have a nephew who is in the oil business in Houston, and I sent the lesson below to him for comment. He said, "Lofty treatises have been written trying to explain oil futures pricing and trading. None capture its essence as clearly as this fine analogy below. I feel certain this quality product must have originated at The University of Chicago, given its position as the world's leading university in the field of economics."



Here is the lesson ...



Economics 101.

For my friends who ask how oil trading could be negative $37- 40/bbl.

Imagine the following scenario: You pay $500 today and commit to receiving a hooker at your house in 15 days because your wife will be traveling. This is called a Futures Contract.

Unfortunately, lockdown came and you are locked down with your wife at home for the next 60 days. This is called "now you are fu**ed," and you cannot fulfill the escort company's Futures Contract.

So now you do not want this woman to show up at your house at all, and try to find anyone of your friends to pass off this futures contract, any neighbors, or anybody. But you find no takers because now everybody is under lockdown with their wives and families. You find you cannot sell this hooker commitment because nobody can take delivery of the girl, and there is no where to stash her. Nobody can receive the hooker at home anymore. Everyone is in full storage.

To make matters worse, not even the pimp (Chicago Mercantile exchange) who sold you the hooker contract has more room to receive girls because his house is full of girls out of work under lockdown.

So now you will have to pay anyone just to take the girl off your hands. So someone tells you I will take the girl off your hands but you pay me $37 to do it.

This is called negative price when you deliver the girl that cost you $500 to the willing buyer and pay him $37 to take delivery.

Got it?

This in, a nutshell, is what happened to the Oil Futures Market.





As I told Micro,

I must be a fighter pilot because since he explained it using sex I fully understand.

Just like the Intel guys would spike up the boring intel briefs



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Thanks to Shadow



Random Thoughts



Gonna cover a range of thoughts… from science to climate change to socialism and rants in between. Gonna start out with science and repeat something I wrote about a couple of weeks ago, only in a little more depth and how it relates to a modern version of the so called, "Urban Legend"; which we all know isn't truth. Might sound like it's true, until you stepped back and thought it through. But then we realized there were so many gullible human beings that didn't take the time to think it through… or sadly weren't capable of using simple logic and common sense to debunk it in their own minds. How do you handle that? I also told you that when I would discuss "Global Warming/Climate Change" with true believers; I would always respond to their mantra of there was a consensus among scientists the world over, that Global Warming/Climate Change was real and an existential threat to our planet and the survival of humankind. I would simply respond with… "Consensus is not science… if it were, then the world would still be flat". Amazing how befuddled some would look at me when I'd say that... and honestly, I think it went right over most of their heads. How dare you counter the beliefs of highly educated scientists around the world with such an elementary and simple thought?



Tell a lie often enough and with conviction and eventually most will believe it!



Politicians and would be totalitarians the world over, were quick to grasp onto this concept conceived by the infamous Joseph Goebbels and his mentor Adolph Hitler and used it as device to create a means to an end. This concept was quickly and easily embraced by Leftists around the world, including a favorite disciple of Democratic politicians; one Saul Alinsky. According to old Saul, it was fair game to ridicule, defame and lie about your political opponents, as long as it helped you to gain an upper hand. Now if you think I would be so bold as to claim that is exactly what has been going on in our country vis a vis Donald Trump over these last almost four years… let me give you a hint… I'm not claiming it… I know it! And if you'd use just a twit of common sense, you'd know it too.



Let's go back to the science of things. My favorite little rejoinder was my own. But recently a dear friend (Burt Rutan… look him up)… shared with me what another friend of his came up with and how he took a shared thought… to a much higher level. But even then it was honesty in its' simplest form. Here's what he said:



Science by consensus is politics. Science by belief is religion. Science by climate code is computer gaming. Science by story is science fiction.

On the other hand, science by logic and evidence is science!



The author of that statement is one Gordon Faulks, world renowned scientist and physicist! God, I was so pleased that such a brilliant mind could reduce what seemed to be a complicated thing into simple logic, that even a half intelligent person like myself could grasp and understand it. The more I thought of it, the more I felt the need to break it down even further and expand on it. I'd like to share my thoughts.



1.) There is a nexus between two of his statements… I kinda wished they had been presented side by side. First is that science by consensus is politics and second, science by climate code is computer gaming. To anyone familiar with the scientific method of proof, one can see the fallacy in "consensus" right away. You can come up with any theory you want, but until you can prove it beyond a doubt, it is nothing more than theory... or put more bluntly, nothing but a WAG (Wild Ass Guess). From time immemorial, accepted 'truths" have been proven false by science. The world isn't flat, the sun doesn't rotate around the earth and frogs don't cause warts… I could go on. Co-joined at the hip of the "Global Warming/Climate Change" theorists is computer modeling… or as Faulks describes it… computer gaming. The brainchild of questionable academics and so called scientists with a vested interest (read that money), claiming they have proof that man is the cause of Global Warming and Climate change. Two things are never mentioned… first is the acknowledgement of the fact that our climate is always changing, whether or not mankind even existed. Next is the truism that when using computers to affirm a theory, the very basic concept acknowledged since computers were invented is… garbage in… garbage out. Simply put, you can virtually get a computer to support any conclusion or theory that you can come up with, by simply manipulating the data you put into it. And you can get away with it as long as you restrict that data from being analyzed by third parties who aren't fellow travelers. Hence, the Global Warming/Climate Change hoax goes on, surviving through "consensus"! Think about it.



And now we arrive at science by belief is religion… You gotta admit… the fervor and dogmatic approach to Global Warming/Climate Change by true believers is nothing less than akin to religious dogma. If you question or don't ascribe to their theory… You are ridiculed as a "Denier"… an infidel; someone to be shunned and ostracized. When you get down to it… it's nothing but faux science, embracing the political theory of Goebbels and Alinsky… tell a lie, long enough and strident enough… you can get fools to believe you.



To illustrate the fallacy of accepting computer modeling as fact… the recent coronavirus gives us perfect examples of how incredibly inaccurate computer modeling can be. And how damaging they are to decision making when they are wrong! Based on computer modeling… bureaucrats (not political appointees by Trump) convinced our President to take draconian steps in shutting down our economy, based on computer modeling/projections of massive deaths and calamity. In the millions they projected! One model projected over 200,000 deaths per month! The pandemic became a national hysteria. Trillions of dollars were spent. The military was mobilized to build hospitals and move hospital ships into affected areas to handle the expected overflow of patients… and what happened? None of it materialized! Those hospitals and ships went unused… actually, because of the panic, most damn existing hospitals went unused. And then they played games with the numbers… virtually any death was being ascribed to the virus in the cities, especially any city controlled by Democratic Party politicians. "This guy was morbidly obese, had congestive heart failure, Type I Diabetes and he croaked in a rest home… Shit, the virus did him in"! Personally, I wouldn't trust Fauci as far as I could throw the son of a bitch! He's a political hack, swap dweller who can't be fired and his predictions have ranged from "no problem"... to the end of the world as we know it. He is about as reliable as the computer models he relies so heavily on. At least Brix seems to be starting to get it… she was quoted the other day of saying she couldn't rely on anything coming out of the CDC, that their predictions had been so flawed. We're in a hell of a mess! Whatever the President does… there will be a dozen Democratic Party hacks on TV that night blasting him for doing the "wrong" thing. Driving emotions up the wall! Doesn't matter what he does; whatever it is, it's wrong.



Let's shift to this… when Pelosi and the House Democrat's extorted the Trump Administration into giving in on the bailout… we find that they slipped in millions, if not billions of dollars to fund Democratic Party friends and pet projects that had absolutely nothing to do with the Coronavirus! The Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, NPR, everything from minority outreach to women's causes (pardon me, but I don't think the virus gives a chit whether you or a minority, woman, transgender or just a white angel-saxon mope… and it certainly doesn't give a damn if you are artistically inclined). More of our taxpayer dollars wasted.



Well, I think I may have gone on long enough to start losing your attention… so I'm gonna end this for now with one last thought that has been percolating in my mind lately… and that is socialism (the new euphemism for communism in today's world). I think I have finally figured it out and have determined that those who embrace it fall into two categories…. First, there are those who wish to control the lives of others through supreme authority… from cradle to grave. The other segment of society that embraces it are those who wish to get something for nothing…. Simple as that!



Shadow



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Most of us have stories of taking our trusty aircraft low and fast. I remember listening to my father's pilot friends from WWII telling tales of low and fast exploits that just thrilled me. With that in my background I also have a few that I am still not sure the statute of limitations is long enough.

But YP just has a way of relating his exploits so pick up "The Breaks of Naval Air: The Further Adventures of Youthly Pursesome"



Thanks to YP



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Statute of Limitations #106

The Whoostling of Jim Willy



Back in the days before Mr. OPEC cornered the JP-5 jet fuel market and

before the Rooskies started swapping MiGs for Levis 401 blue jeans, it was

acceptable practice for Naval Aviators to growl menacingly and belch lots of petrol

out of tailpipes. Steely knives were expected to be held between white teeth, and

gas chits were liberally expended at exotic Air Force bases and naval air stations

on opposite coasts during "cross-country training flights." Life was good.

Puresome's only problem in the Naval Reservista squadron was that the

legendary 55-ft.-long, swept-wing, supersonic F-8 Crusader was often bent. Pilots

were frequently treated to the spectacle of teams of frustrated maintenance troops

standing in pools of red hydraulic fluid as they madly cranked speed-handles,

trying to undo hundreds of dzus fasteners to get at hydraulic leaks. Or pilots

listening to their UHF radio make a zishing sound like a cigar being stubbed out in

a coffee mug and the subsequent silence of the lambs. Or the Tacan needle refusing

to point to any station. Or the generator going "clunk," most of the instruments

going dead and holding one's breath to see if anything on the ram air turbine

circuit was going to work.

If an aircraft was lucky enough to get airborne, there were lots of radar

vector requests by frustrated pilots and inquiries on guard channel by worried

controllers and exasperated fliers. No one was ever complacent enough to launch

without an ONC chart or Texaco road map for visual navigation.

But for a bagger like Puresome, it was "no hill for a stepper." The object was

to get airborne, then improvise. Radars were for F-4 pukes and didn't work

anyway. IFR flights became "I Follow Roads," and section and sometimes division

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launches often became solo launches. The situation made for interesting and

sometimes hairy flights, but of course it had to be done.

Launching on a Strike-Ex

Today's early morning launch was no different. Puresome's fearless leader

had gone through two aircraft before launching his nav bag at maintenance control

in frustration, and Puresome had cheerfully put thumb to nose and waggled his

fingers at his dejected lead as he blew an arrogant raspberry as he taxied by.

"I got mine—pull up the anchor!" Youthly thought joyously as the burner

thumped him in the butt.

Of course, Puresome had a plan. Rocketing into a beautiful, clear Texas sky,

he was on a Victor Foxtrot Romero flight plan and, as long as he stayed an

acceptable distance from the gaily painted airliners converging on the international

airport where the big jet engines whined, he was on his own and didn't have to talk

to anyone.

Puresome's complex mission was a high-low-high navigational exercise that

included an attack on a hostile ranch house and cow lot belonging to a pal. Since

the area of positive control started at 24,000 feet, Puresome leveled off at 23,500

feet and turned west. Even though it was the wrong altitude for the direction, he

felt at least semi-virtuous for staying out of high altitude airliner country.

Puresome enjoyed the scenery, confident that he would have no trouble in finding

the difficult first check point, the city of Lubbock, Texas.

At nine miles a minute, it didn't take long. Puresome passed over the city,

going all squinty-eyed at the unsuspecting white T-38 and T-37 grapes flitting

about the Air Force base on the far side of town. Following a westbound highway,

Puresome readied himself for the bend in the road that marked his swoop from

altitude toward the target. He noted with satisfaction that he would be attacking out

of the sun.

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Finally, Puresome eased out of altitude, leaving the throttle up and picking

up airspeed. He looked around the gunsight, wet compass and angle of attack

indicator that cluttered up the front windscreen as he looked for the ranch house,

barns and cow lots that constituted an oasis in the New Mexico desert. With any

luck, the enemy rancher would be drinking coffee while the cattle munched hightech

fat-pills in their troughs, marbling up their t-bones.

"Ya haha ha!" Puresome chortled as he picked up the target, simultaneously

picking up the leading edge droops, advancing the throttle to full military and

opening the oil cooler door, which was known to cause a whoostling noise at high

speed that was known to cause organisms or soiled knickers in susceptible people.

Just for drill, Puresome cranked the gunsight rheostat up to max bright.

Noisy at Jim Willy's

At 550 knots and 50 feet, Puresome delivered his simulated ordnance against

the completely unsuspecting Jim Willy Cattle Company. Not a No. 4 shotgun

pellet was fired or cow flop was hurled. He could only guess at the psychological

effect that his great, screaming war bird had on his victims, but he figgered "that

ought to get them out of the house!" as he swooped up in a giant oblique egg for

the re-attack.

As he zoomed for space, Puresome sucked the throttle to idle and popped the

speedbrakes. As the airspeed decayed, he re-extended the cruise droops, dropped

the gear and raised the wing, pointing the nose down again back toward the target.

For added flair, he put out the refueling probe and dropped the tailhook. When

Puresome went by the front yard again at 50 feet and 150 knots, the whole family

was in the front yard, waving madly.

Puresome rocked his wings in acknowledgment of their adulation, then lit

the burner, sucked up the gear, lowered the wing, pulled in the refueling probe and

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upped the tailhook as the fighter accelerated. Picking up smash, the "Meanest

Mother in the Valley" rolled in again.

The only reason Puresome could afford to violate the "only-an-ass-makes-asecond-

pass" rule was that the only witnesses within a hundred sections were Jim

Willy and his family, a bunch of notably inarticulate Hereford cattle, plus various

jackrabbits and rattlesnakes. And the entire Jim Willy bunch liked having their

coffee spilled and wild-eyed cows bellowing and trying to organize a stampede.

"Damn, Jim Willy!" a worried Puresome axed following his first such

mission many months ago. "Doesn't that abort your cows or make them

permanently batshit?"

"Naw! They love it! Besides, if they give me any trouble, I'll turn 'em into

baloney!"

Thus assured, Puresome worked in re-strikes whenever he could. And as he

had the flathatting franchise in this, his home state, re-strikes happened fairly often.

He even worked out some codes. If Puresome left the area in a northerly direction,

it meant "I'm going to Desert Hole Air Force Base—call my folks to come get

me." And if he left in any other direction, it meant "See ya another time!"

One-v-Many Stearmans

But the high point in the campaign against the Jim Willy complex came

when Puresome called up his pal the night before a planned mission to see if a

suitable audience would be present.

"Yessir!" was the answer. "Not only will we be around, we got a bunch of

spray plane guys here who are putting Agent Orange on my scrub oak. What time

you gonna be here?" Jim Willy and Puresome locked in a hard time-on-target.

As fate and some luck would have it, Puresome roared out of the sun at the

appointed time and thoroughly thrashed the joint. The spray-plane guys enjoyed it

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so much that they invited Puresome to come fly their mighty Stearman shrubbusters.

But Puresome knew his days were numbered, the clock was ticking and he

was pushing the envelope. The circle of witnesses had expanded, and there had

been a bit of a near thing when he had gone to nearby Desert Hole AFB after an

attack.

Busy in the Cockpit

Since Puresome was honor-bound to do some impressive flying for the Air

Force pukes, he zipped into the break as fast as the Crusader would go in basic

engine, yanked and banked to the downwind at idle, hit the speedbrakes and

grabbed six g's or so. He took pains to keep the nose of the aircraft on the horizon,

which was barely discernible through the fog of the g forces. Naturally, he was still

at the speed of heat when he called abeam for landing clearance. He was real busy

dropping gear, raising the wing, slowing down and aiming at a suitable impact

point when the tower cleared him to land.

"Alpha Fox 112, cleared to land, wind 220 at 15 knots, be advised, mumble

mumble."

"Roger, Alpha Fox 112 cleared to land," responded the busy Puresome.

With things more or less under control as he bracketed the final approach rails,

Puresome's hemorrhoidal sense fired a question mark to his brain. "Whut was that

mumble mumble?"

"Desert Hole tower, Alpha Fox 112, say again mumble mumble," Puresome

axed.

"Alpha Fox 112, be advised the approach barrier is up," tower responded.

"Boy, a barrier engagement on the approach end might ruin your whole

day," Puresome mused just about the time he happened to glance at his hook

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handle, which was ....down! He'd put it there for the air show dirty-configuration

pass and not retracted it! Yaaaaaaa!

Puresome had just enough time to do his thousand-mile-an-hour hands thing

to raise the hook handle, do an excess airspeed zoom over the clearly visible

barrier and land further down the customary 12,000-ft. Air Force runway. Thus his

day was not ruined, but his flight suit nearly was.

Then there was the high-speed pass by completely irresponsible and

unknown militarists over his mother-in-law's farm house that, inexplicably, broke

windows. And it had to be made by some totally deranged F-100 driver from the

Air Corps base that probably had gotten disoriented one night, turned off all his

navigation lights and lit his afterburner 50 feet above the house of COL and Miz

P.A. Puresome in a dusty New Mexican town. Youthly's parents totally agreed

with their neighbors who blamed the ruckus on the Air Force.

End of an Era

Somewhere in a dusty dossier with his name on it, Puresome knew the

circumstantial evidence was accumulating.

But it was a highly publicized single-plane Alpha Strike on a defenseless

Indian pueblo that permanently shut down the "Rolling Thunder East" campaign.

Everybody knew that the culprit had to be Puresome. Only hard photographic

evidence of the real culprit gave Youthly's child bride any respite from the many

sympathy calls for her husband's impending execution.

Puresome had not been raised a totally stupid boy. He knew for whom the

bell tolled—that the hell-bent usually got where they were going, and the times,

they were a'changing. This insight was soon strengthened by an imperial edict

from all-highest Oscar Foxtrot Naval Persons that it was illegal and immoral to fly

in visual conditions without a formal instrument clearance, the better to monitor by

radar one's position, altitude and hat-size. It was great for the Canugie Retention

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Program, and there was a certain amount of joy to be derived from telling some

stressed-out air traffic controller that you were low fuel state and were going

straight home.

Clearly an era had passed, and something wild and free had gone away.

Elliot Ness and the Internal Revenue Service had come to Dodge City. Puresome

sensed that there was lots more to come. But he knew that, in the countryside, the

campesinos whispered that the Portales Gonsleenger was not dead, but was hiding

out in the hills waiting to appear on a black horse on the darkest nights in the most

unexpected places. Youthly bided his time, prayed for stealth technology and

vowed not to disappoint them.

And on some nights in smoky bars where spray pilots congregate, a grizzled

old Stearman jockey will get a far-away look in his eye and remember that he was

there the day the Jim Willy ranch was whoostled.





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Thanks to Dr. Rich





I want to share this wonderful one-minute clip filmed in Glasgow, Scotland

Full of wisdom and very brief.
It's not a joke.

it's not religious.

it's not political

It's just very special





https://www.youtube.com/embed/Hzgzim5m7oU