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     Slipping on a pair of comfortable black leather sneakers I picked up in Seoul, Korea, a few years ago, then a black windbreaker and ball cap - I fill my pockets with money, wallet and plastic room key - and I’m good to go.  Glancing at the phone next to the bed, as an after thought, I also take the PARC 55 notepad and pen; dropping them into the left inside breast pocket of my windbreaker. 

     Riding the elevator down to the mezzanine - I make my second mistake of the evening.  I decide to start my birthday celebration at the Barley ‘N Hops - an intimate little cocktail lounge – where I slide onto my favorite stool at the end of the bar.

     From 1987 to ’92, I was under contract with Singapore Airlines as a First Officer (co-pilot) on the Boeing 747, and once every three months I’d regularly layover at the PARC 55; using this normally quiet bar as a regular pit stop.  So it’s an old, familiar haven. 

     I order a shot of bourbon, with a beer chaser, as I fully intend to get “wasted” this evening.  While the friendly, Black bartender fills my order...I complete my third mistake of the evening by glancing up at the television that’s always been mounted on the wall behind the bar.  Being autumn it’s ordinarily tuned to a football game, but tonight some joker has left it on CNN, which just happens to be doing a re-cap on the terrorist attack thirty-five days ago, September 11^th, in New York City.

     As I focus on the TV, a sleek, twin-engine Boeing jetliner slams into the World Trade Center’s south tower...evaporating into a fireball...followed by a sparkling shower of exploding glass windows and debris.  It’s United Airlines Flight 175, and this moving image produces an almost uncontrollable rage boiling up within my chest.  The bartender brings my drinks...I don’t even notice.

     Okay, dear reader, let’s hit “Pause” and stop the tape.

     I began flying forty-one years ago at the tender age of eighteen. At twenty-two, with the abrupt death of my father, I discovered that people can die in aircraft, leaving behind a chaotic, ugly aftermath.  In my thirty-six years of commercial flying that followed, I’ve flown for nineteen aviation companies; twelve of which have been airlines.  Compiling nearly 20,000 hours in my checkered aviation career, I’ve walked off the job several times for reasons of safety; either the flight operations were illegal and dangerous, or the equipment wasn’t being maintained, or both.  Needless to say this has cost me job security and marriages, not to mention damaging my wallet. 

     The only personal satisfaction I’ve achieved was this: of all the thousands of passengers I’ve moved around the world, not one of them has been injured or killed while aboard an aircraft that I’ve operated.  As with most professional pilots worth their salt, I’ve always viewed the protection of passengers in my care as a sacred trust.  Even though it’s dropped me into the classification of “air-whore,” moving from job to job, similar to any other cockpit tramp.

     Now I’m forced to observe a perfectly good, well-maintained Boeing 767 being used as a weapon - to deliberately kill passengers and people on the ground - which is against everything I’ve ever believed in or fought for.  I take this affront personally...as I’m certain every commercial pilot does who’s witnessed this taped atrocity; hence my rage.

     However, there’s one more item that fuels my rage.  While on a layover for Singapore Airlines, I sat on this very same bars tool and watched President George Bush Sr. respond on TV to the terrorist bombing of Pan Am Flight 103, which came down at Lockerbie, Scotland, on 21^st December 1988. 

        I remembered him fumbling out: “We will pursue these terrorists hard...” 

     Which, on that occasion, caused me to snicker for I felt this statement was Presidential double talk, meaning: “We ain’t gonna do a damn thing about it.”  Bush Sr. didn’t disappoint me; nor did the Clinton Administration that followed.

     Getting head from Lewinsky, dear reader, was far more important to “Slick Willy.”

     Both administrations possessed intelligence on these various terrorist groups and could have easily shut them down before they united, but apparently surmised they weren’t worth the bother.  I’m no longer snickering; instead tears of rage currently fill my eyes.

     President George Bush Jr. appears next on the TV screen.  It’s a replay of his response to the 9/11 terrorist attack; he fumbles exactly like his old man did back in ‘88, and he sweats; his fear-laden beady eyes reminding me of a deer caught in the headlights.

     The sins of the father are visited upon the son.  Jesus Horowitz Christ, dear reader, is this country ever in trouble.

     My rage peaks.  There isn’t one good-goddamn thing I can do to sort out this mess.  I feel as though I’m standing all alone in the middle of a shit storm...shaking my fist at God!

     I discover my drinks.  Bumping back the shot of bourbon in one gulp...I then chug-a-lug the beer...seriously damaging it.  Setting the frosted mug down, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and then pinch the tears from my eyes.  Standing up I drop money on the bar and, upon quickly vacating the premises, vow never to return; this joint’s got too many bad memories.     

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