Sparrow Aviation Administration Blames Collision On Failure To Detect Pane Of Glass (from The Onion)

PIERRE, SD—Sparrow Aviation Administration officials are calling the Monday collision of a westbound sparrow with the window of a Mitchell, SD home a clear case of "controlled flight into glass," after the bird failed to detect a transparent windowpane directly in his flight path.

SAA officials describe the crash at a press conference.

Howard R. Trojanowski, a Pierre-bound 2-year-old field sparrowwho had been licensed to fly since two weeks after he was hatched and had logged over 60,000 flying hours, departed from a ledge near Sioux Falls Regional Airport at 11:04 a.m. CST. Trojanowski never reached his intended tree branch, instead striking a tempered-glass picture window 2.5 miles northwest of Mitchell 74 minutes after takeoff at an estimated speed of 39 mph.

There were no survivors.

SAA Commissioner Vincent Stivolo said the crash was likely due to glass, a "common, yet not fully understood phenomenon" in which an area normally blocked by such barriers as curtains, blinds, or shutters suddenly appears to be an open passage to an indoor facility or an unobstructed extension of the outdoor environment.

Conclusive explanations have historically eluded sparrow-crash investigators, some of whom have themselves apparently fallen victim to the phenomenon. Three investigators dispatched to the Mitchell site failed to show up and have since been reported missing.

"Flight records indicate that Mr. Trojanowski unexpectedly diverted his route above the corner of St. Ray Street and Longfellow Drive, and began a slow descent when he noticed a colorful hanging potted plant about 15 feet below SAA-regulated minimum flying altitude," said Stivolo, a sparrow. "It is at this point that we believe he made the fatal decision to make an unscheduled landing on the plant."

A chart of Trojanowski's flight path.

"Our thoughts and prayers go out to Mr. Trojanowski's wife and four eggs," Stivolo added.

The SAA has officially ruled out sparrow error, finding no evidence that Trojanowski tried to swerve out of the way. Additionally, his Glass Proximity Warning System failed to activate until 0.001 seconds after he came into contact with the glass.

An autopsy performed late Monday evening suggests that Trojanowski's crown struck the impenetrable transparent terrain first, followed by the left wing, which snapped in half on impact.

According to sparrow coroner Stephanie Barlow, an inspection of the scattered wreckage at the crash site revealed no prior damage to the wings, tail, or any other part of Trojanowski.

"This bird was in good, airworthy condition before takeoff for this routine flight—one that he had made literally thousands of times before," Barlow said. "But unfortunately, this happens all too often, even with the most experienced fliers."

"Should birds stop flying? No. But we need to raise awareness of this invisible killer."

Since the advent of the clear glass window in the 16th century, untold billions of birds have been lost or severely injured in similar incidents. In the early 1940s, thousands of brave bluebirds were sent on risky solo missions to break the glass barrier, resulting in the largest full-scale loss of bird life in over 50 years.

The worst individual crash, however, came in 1896, when a flock of migrating birds collided with the bay window of an East Texas mansion, killing all 167 passenger pigeons.

In a ceremony scheduled for Friday, a red and green plastic seed dispenser hanging on a tree at the crash site will be renamed "The Howard R. Trojanowski Memorial Feeder."

As news of the tragedy spread, the SAA reported no drop-off in sparrow flights since the fatal crash.

"Of course it's scary, but I'm not going to stop flying because of it," sparrow Darryl Beardsley said, echoing the apparent sentiment of millions of other sparrows worldwide. "I guess it's just my nature."

Christmas muzak

'The Little Drummer Boy'. How pleased Mary must have been to have a small boy playing a drum in the stable. Perhaps he was the innkeeper's son and she didn't like to say anything.

They're made out of meat - by Terry Bisson

“They’re made out of meat.”

“Meat?”

“Meat. They’re made out of meat.”

“Meat?”

“There’s no doubt about it. We picked up several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, and probed them all the way through. They’re completely meat.”

“That’s impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars?”

“They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don’t come from them. The signals come from machines.”

“So who made the machines? That’s who we want to contact.”

“They made the machines. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Meat made the machines.”

“That’s ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You’re asking me to believe in sentient meat.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in that sector and they’re made out of meat.”

“Maybe they’re like the orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that goes through a meat stage.”

“Nope. They’re born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn’t take long. Do you have any idea what’s the life span of meat?”

“Spare me. Okay, maybe they’re only part meat. You know, like the weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside.”

“Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads, like the weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They’re meat all the way through.”

“No brain?”

“Oh, there’s a brain all right. It’s just that the brain is made out of meat! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“So . . . what does the thinking?”

“You’re not understanding, are you? You’re refusing to deal with what I’m telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat.”

“Thinking meat! You’re asking me to believe in thinking meat!”

“Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is the whole deal! Are you beginning to get the picture or do I have to start all over?”

“Omigod. You’re serious then. They’re made out of meat.”

“Thank you. Finally. Yes. They are indeed made out of meat. And they’ve been trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years.”

“Omigod. So what does this meat have in mind?”

“First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the Universe, contact other sentiences, swap ideas and information. The usual.”

“We’re supposed to talk to meat.”

“That’s the idea. That’s the message they’re sending out by radio. ‘Hello. Anyone out there? Anybody home?’ That sort of thing.”

“They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?”

“Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat.”

“I thought you just told me they used radio.”

“They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how when you slap or flap meat, it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat.”

“Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?”

“Officially or unofficially?”

“Both.”

“Officially, we are required to contact, welcome, and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear, or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

“It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact with meat?”

“I agree one hundred percent. What’s there to say? ‘Hello, meat. How’s it going?’ But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?”

“Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but they can’t live on them. And being meat, they can only travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact.”

“So we just pretend there’s no one home in the Universe.”

“That’s it.”

“Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you probed? You’re sure they won’t remember?”

“They’ll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and smoothed out their meat so that we’re just a dream to them.”

“A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat’s dream.”

“And we marked the entire sector unoccupied.”

“Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?”

“Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen-core cluster intelligence in a class-nine star in G445 zone was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to be friendly again.”

“They always come around.”

“And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the Universe would be if one were all alone . . . ”

La route est dure

La route est dure - by Richard Holmes
Georgia Brown

La route est dure, la vie est morne.

Mon âme est sûre d'aucune borne.

Que dois-je faire avec ma vie

Quand toute la terre s'est endurcie ? 

Les mains se tendent de tous côtés --

Les chaînes sont lourdes, puis-je les ôter ?

Un seul pas contre la tyrannie ;

Une raison d'être dans toute ma vie.

La route est dure mais je suis forte.

Mon âme est sûre, la peur est morte.

Je sais quoi faire avec la vie

Quand toute la terre sera affranchie.

-

The road is hard, life is bleak.

My soul is not sure of any milestone.

What should I do with my life

When all the earth is hardened?

The hands are reaching from every side -

The chains are heavy, can I remove them?

One single step against tyranny;

A reason for being in my life.

The road is hard but I am strong.

My soul is safe, fear is dead.

I know what to do with life

When the whole earth shall be liberated.

Ironing - from a friend

Must tell you an Alex-and-Austin story. Thought these days were long gone!

Alex, in his new role as kindly young archivist, has to wear a shirt. He bought 4 new shirts (really new, not charity) and brought them home to ask for ironing advice. Austin, King of Steam thanks to his army training, came over to give a masterclass. He began by giving Alex advice about buying an iron (‘don’t buy a really cheap iron – you’ll regret it’).  Alex stood by nodding. Austin then launched into a demonstration, which included the following advice:

Austin: Don’t be tempted to iron the clothes while you’re wearing them. You get quite nasty burns, especially around your neck.

Alex: Okay. Never iron clothes while you’re wearing them. Got it.

Austin: When you fill your iron up, only use water. Don’t use fruit juice.

Me: Why would you want to fill up the iron with fruit juice?

Austin: Ah! Some people think that fruit juice would make their clothes smell nice. The sugar in the juice burns. It’s a nightmare.

This is the sort of invaluable advice that a normal woman would never think of giving. Hurrah for the army!

Holgate Windmill opening

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l1aJWjb0g6U

It was really exciting!

My camera memory card got full with the video, and then I couldn't take photos CHIZ CHIZ. We went into the Mill for a reception (I was invited as I'm a volunteer) and the Waits came in too and played. There was wine, snacks, Mill bread, and beer from our milkman's microbrewery. The machinery in the cap and on the stones floor was working (but not in gear with the stones yet) with a wonderful gentle tuckety sound coming from the great brake wheel behind the sails, which turns the main shaft. I was on the top floor when the Mayor came up and I was talking to him about the works, and he was looking out trying to see where his childhood home was. He was very jolly. It was fun seeing the ladies of the civic party, dressed up to the nines and with their chains on, climbing the last ladder to peer into the cap.

Another photo I couldn't get was the beautiful shadow of the turning sails, over the houses, when the sun came out.

Little Bob the waiter

From a review of Jerry White's 'London in the Eighteenth Century: A Great and Monstrous Thing' -
There aren't many lighter stories in this remarkable book, but I liked the one about the Cherokee chiefs who were invited to London by the government in 1762 and whose wives all left Marylebone pregnant "by little Bob the waiter to whom they took a fancy".