Paragliders are, simplest put, are oh so especially made flying parachutes. Because of their construction they have the flight enabling properties of an airplane. EXCEPT: they have no on-board engines. Like gliders, to move forward they dive gently or are driven by the wind. To stay aloft, to go up, they must find rising air. Two sources. Air rises when it is driven against something vertical, like a mountain, or when it rises by being warmer than the air around it, as in a thermal.

That is the game. The exciting game. No, football field. No spectator sport. Just the wind and I. Find the rising air or sink. Sinking is OK if you want to end your flight AND you sink to land in the right place. To really get my drift, or in this case my sink, consider for a moment some of the things in some of the places on earth you would not like to land on, arse first, id est derriere down.

A good place to start a flight is from a mountain. Why? You are already up. From a mile high mountain, you can normally glide seven miles.

I have flown in most countries in Europe, most place in the US where flying is possible and permitted, and in several other countries.

Crashes happen. I have crashed. But for 16 years I managed not to hit my head. When I did, I did so in a little crash that, were it not for a bad stumble, would have been insignificant. The bad stumble resulted in bashing my head on a boulder. So they say. My last memory is 30 seconds before smash down.

My next memory is five days later. I wondered who I was visiting in the hospital. Then I discovered I was the guy wearing the hospital gown with the inevitable derriere peaking out the back thing.

Different pilots have different opinions. But, compared to the brain stew crash, looking back, I would have preferred the busted knee crash in Austria, or Andalusian 90 foot wind shear plummet cut shorter by blowing the ankle out of the left foot with assorted other damages that kept me hospitalized for three months with the cheerful German medical experts telling me I would probably never walk again.

Programming computers was impossible. Multi-tasking was a Laurel and Hardy fiasco. Typing wasn't too bad. But, a lot of pages were typed with one or more of my hands off column.

But, amazingly, my writing style got better! See? Content too! See? And more prolific! Probably attributable to my wife keeping me at the work station to prevent my babbling to neighbors and passers by.

Annnnnnnnnd, my giving a great deal of thought to the experiences of other people with brain injuries. If you have not been down that road, I think I can truly tell you on behalf of all who have, you really, really, really do not want to.

Some situations are avoidable. My approach to crash prevention was attitude: remember two things. One, all crashes are due to pilot error. Two, do not make the pilot error.

But, I had made the error. The opportunity to make the error, though, had been avoidable. I could have flown on out to the plain but, I had been determined to work my way back up to the ridge despite the tricky wind over the rough, steep hillside.

But, I could have been patient. I could have waited to launch until the wind condition was a little better. See what impatience can do, I told myself. I spent a hard year relearning skills I had taken for granted. Healing and retraining a brain I had taken for granted. A mind can be a terrible thing to waste. A mind can be a terrible thing.

I did not have to start that flight.

George Bush did not have to start that war. No reason to start that war. Reason and Dubya don't belong in the same sentence.

Stupidity started that war. Stupidity propelled by the psychopathic maneuvering of his sick and greedy advisors.

That does not mean Dubya should not be hanged a thousand times for war crimes, one hanging for each thousand lives he had ruined. For premeditated genocide of a people guilty of nothing but having the wrong religion and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Set aside for a moment the hundreds of children radiated from playing on the abandoned, depleted uranium missile filled junk yards of Dubya's daddy's war.

Think with me of all the people Dubya was responsible for leading and protecting who have suffered brain injuries. Think with me about all those injuries that those people have had to struggle so hard to overcome. Think about all those who cannot recover, who will never be able to think and function as they did before.

Think about the malfunctioning psyches of the mad monsters of malevolence and their continuing psychopathic lives and all the further damage they will do while our brain injured compatriots struggle to deal with the pain and dysfunction they will always have with them.

And when you finish using your break to think about all that, we can get back to extrapolating all the damage done by the oil driven, oil spilling psychopaths who poison little pieces of the Earth such as the gulf and gulf states.

How long will we allow the nuts to run the asylum?

"No sudden impacts," said the neurologist. My flying days were over.

"No sudden impacts," said the neurologist. My flying days were over.

Paragliders are, simplest put, are oh so especially made flying parachutes. Because of their construction they have the flight enabling properties of an airplane. EXCEPT: they have no on-board engines. Like gliders, to move forward they dive gently or are driven by the wind. To stay aloft, to go up, they must find rising air. Two sources. Air rises when it is driven against something vertical, like a mountain, or when it rises by being warmer than the air around it, as in a thermal.

That is the game. The exciting game. No, football field. No spectator sport. Just the wind and I. Find the rising air or sink. Sinking is OK if you want to end your flight AND you sink to land in the right place. To really get my drift, or in this case my sink, consider for a moment some of the things in some of the places on earth you would not like to land on, arse first, id est derriere down.

A good place to start a flight is from a mountain. Why? You are already up. From a mile high mountain, you can normally glide seven miles.

I have flown in most countries in Europe, most place in the US where flying is possible and permitted, and in several other countries.

Crashes happen. I have crashed. But for 16 years I managed not to hit my head. When I did, I did so in a little crash that, were it not for a bad stumble, would have been insignificant. The bad stumble resulted in bashing my head on a boulder. So they say. My last memory is 30 seconds before smash down.

My next memory is five days later. I wondered who I was visiting in the hospital. Then I discovered I was the guy wearing the hospital gown with the inevitable derriere peaking out the back thing.

Different pilots have different opinions. But, compared to the brain stew crash, looking back, I would have preferred the busted knee crash in Austria, or Andalusian 90 foot wind shear plummet cut shorter by blowing the ankle out of the left foot with assorted other damages that kept me hospitalized for three months with the cheerful German medical experts telling me I would probably never walk again.

Programming computers was impossible. Multi-tasking was a Laurel and Hardy fiasco. Typing wasn't too bad. But, a lot of pages were typed with one or more of my hands off column.

But, amazingly, my writing style got better! See? Content too! See? And more prolific! Probably attributable to my wife keeping me at the work station to prevent my babbling to neighbors and passers by.

Annnnnnnnnd, my giving a great deal of thought to the experiences of other people with brain injuries. If you have not been down that road, I think I can truly tell you on behalf of all who have, you really, really, really do not want to.

Some situations are avoidable. My approach to crash prevention was attitude: remember two things. One, all crashes are due to pilot error. Two, do not make the pilot error.

But, I had made the error. The opportunity to make the error, though, had been avoidable. I could have flown on out to the plain but, I had been determined to work my way back up to the ridge despite the tricky wind over the rough, steep hillside.

But, I could have been patient. I could have waited to launch until the wind condition was a little better. See what impatience can do, I told myself. I spent a hard year relearning skills I had taken for granted. Healing and retraining a brain I had taken for granted. A mind can be a terrible thing to waste. A mind can be a terrible thing.

I did not have to start that flight.

George Bush did not have to start that war. No reason to start that war. Reason and Dubya don't belong in the same sentence.

Stupidity started that war. Stupidity propelled by the psychopathic maneuvering of his sick and greedy advisors.

That does not mean Dubya should not be hanged a thousand times for war crimes, one hanging for each thousand lives he had ruined. For premeditated genocide of a people guilty of nothing but having the wrong religion and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Set aside for a moment the hundreds of children radiated from playing on the abandoned, depleted uranium missile filled junk yards of Dubya's daddy's war.

Think with me of all the people Dubya was responsible for leading and protecting who have suffered brain injuries. Think with me about all those injuries that those people have had to struggle so hard to overcome. Think about all those who cannot recover, who will never be able to think and function as they did before.

Think about the malfunctioning psyches of the mad monsters of malevolence and their continuing psychopathic lives and all the further damage they will do while our brain injured compatriots struggle to deal with the pain and dysfunction they will always have with them.

And when you finish using your break to think about all that, we can get back to extrapolating all the damage done by the oil driven, oil spilling psychopaths who poison little pieces of the Earth such as the gulf and gulf states.

How long will we allow the nuts to run the asylum?

--CanDoJack