Two jetliners explode almost simultaneously in a country having its problems with separatists, on a suspicious date, and one gets a distress signal off first. The most obvious suspects deny culpability, and 24 hours later, black boxes found, the best anybody can do is scratch heads and say huh.
Life sure is weird sometimes.
Of course, the Russians are saying the most likely cause is terrorism — planes just don’t blow up like that, except when they do, which is probably more than we’d like to think. I think about this stuff whenever I fly — maintenance, i-dotting and t-crossing, little stuff like metal fatigue.
“Relax,” people say. “You’re safer in a plane than in a car.” True. But being in a car crash is like being in a knife fight, whereas being in a plane crash is like someone firing a shotgun at your face. Don’t tell me about that Sioux City crash where people walked away; when you go down in a plane, you’re not getting back up.
Speaking of that Sioux City crash, did anyone here see “Fearless”? Or read the book? Boy, you could do a lot worse than either one of those. Great novel; great movie, starring the great, great Jeff Bridges and easily the most terrifying on-screen depiction of a plane crash I’ve ever seen, and yes, I’m including “Cast Away.”
Did you know there’s a website that contains transcripts and some MP3 recordings of the last moments of doomed flights? Nervous fliers, stay away.
Well, on THAT cheery note…
I have nothing to talk about because my life is a boring blur this week. Lately we’ve been watching the Olympics as a family in that half hour between bathtime and bedtime known as storytime until the Olympics started. Kate gets into it, far more than I thought she would — mainly she likes to figure out who’s from what country and watch the super slo-mo track replays, after which she turns to us and manipulates her cheek tissue to resemble the athletes’ slo-mo bobbling flesh. No one looks good in super slo-mo.
There were some nice moments this week, though. When Rulon Gardner retired and put his shoes on the mat — that was sweet. (Even though he didn’t show us his missing toe.) This big ox of a guy, crying — it’s an emotional moment. Who removes the shoes? How long do they stay there? Are the shoes then enshrined somewhere, or are you free to take them home? Gardner amazes me because he grabs big, sweaty men in extended bear hugs and isn’t grossed out. As someone who doesn’t like to be touched when she’s in athletic extremis — no sex jokes, please — I wonder how they do it. I guess you just get used to it. That was the part about all that exulting in beach volleyball the other night that sort of weirded me out, the rolling around in the sand with the stuff sticking everywhere and probably going right down everyone’s crack and into their noses and mouths.
Am I tired? Boy am I tired. Best cut this short. You all discuss plane crashes, Olympics and sand in the crack in my absence.