By the end of the day, the full scope of what had happened began to settle over them. Several of the staff and escrow agents had lost portions of their homes, or had relatives wiped out. Others took in friends that lost everything.

Their world is normally one of taking chaos and making it streamlined – corralling loose ends and details and making our aircraft buying and selling transactions a miracle of competence.

Today, their personal lives are utterly disrupted.

CNN photo

The story is the same for people at other escrow and title companies in OKC, for workers at the FAA or aviation companies in the area – FBOs, airport staff and others.

The friends we depend on at aviation firms in OKC need our help!

The OKC Aviation Community Fund will donate all monies received through June 1, 2013, directly to the victims who are a part of the aviation community. “The generosity of the aviation community is amazing,” adds Robin Eissler, Sky Hope Network Founder and President. “Now, it’s time to give back to this incredible community and help our friends in need. If you have ever bought or sold an airplane, you have worked with these professionals in Oklahoma City, and now it’s our turn to support them.”

The fund is being managed by Sky Hope Network – a business aviation non-profit that responds to crisis and disasters with aviation resources. Sky Hope will lead the effort to provide direct and immediate assistance to those aviation industry workers that need assistance. With the larger relief response underway on the ground in the region, the fund allows us to take care of our own during this disaster.

Donations can be made via www.sky-hope.org or by mail at: Sky Hope Network, PO Box 1459, Georgetown, TX 78627. Please contact Sky Hope Network directly at 561-714-3070 for large donations.

Any amount will add up as we work together to help our aviation community. PLEASE DONATE NOW!

The real nature of the aircraft market of the past few years goes well beyond the apparent driver: The economy.

No, the aircraft market is not too bad. The bloodbath occurred during the first six months or so of the post-2007 economic collapse. Owners that had to sell dumped their aircraft and, in doing so, took big losses. After that, the sellers dug in and prices stabilized.

While the economy depressed prices, certainly, the real push down has come from more natural market forces.

The roots of today’s “buyer’s market” begin in the late 1980s when the manufacturers stopped producing new airplanes. Product liability insurance costs were out of control and Cessna, Piper and Beech responded by quitting or curtailing production. Until Congressional relief on tort reform in the mid ’90s, the lack of new aircraft meant supply-and-demand forces pushed used aircraft prices up — every year.

Owners of the era became used to the idea that they could buy an aircraft and within a few years, sell it for more that they paid. By the end of the ’90s, a Cessna 182 that was bought for $40,000 in the mid ’80s — one that was already 10 years old — could fetch about $100,000 on the used market when it was now 20 years old.

The owners had a mindset of entitlement in this regard. They thought their aircraft, a device for converting money into noise, was an investment.

When the “new” Cessnas were re-tooled and production was re-started in the late ’90s, followed shortly thereafter by the advent of Cirrus and others, the die was cast for a disruption in value for the older airframes. Cirrus had fantastic success in the 2000s, building and selling more than 6,000 aircraft in Duluth and pushing them through a brass-ball sales organization to a new generation of pilots. The new flyers and those being introduced to general aviation as a business tool were repulsed by old steam gauge panels. New technology, glass panels and modern creature comforts were the pull towards where the money gravitated.

The old airframes, still in the hands of the old guard owners, began to systematically unravel. In the whole, they simply have become so long-in-the-tooth that they seem more like a run-out used car than the pride of the patch.

Fast forward to the present. Not the end of the world, but the end of the road for the values of the old ’60s, ’70s and ’80s airframes. There is an abundant supply of more modern, low-time airframes that have now depreciated into the $100,000 to $250,000 price range. The Cirrus bubble aircraft — those built between 2003 and 2007 — are numerous and values have pushed down into the realm of the old guard planes that occupied that price range in the past. The Bonanzas and 210s and Lances that demanded prices in the high 100s or more now sag below $100K on some models.

You can buy a fast, modern 180 kt Cirrus for under $150,000. The old guard turn their noses up at the design and construction. Who cares. The Young Turks have shown that this is what the real market wants: Fixed gear, glass panels, speed and sexiness.

Without a fresh population of pilots coming up the ranks who demand a worn out, beat up, frayed, dinged, dirty, smelly Cherokee 140 or Cessna Skyhawk, the economics of correcting the long list of discrepancies that come with these airplanes is becoming Draconian. How can a new paint job, new engine and new avionics fit into an airframe that in itself isn’t even worth $30,000? Ain’t gonna hap’n, Cap’n.

For every pristine, lovingly cared for relic of the past, where a devoted owner pats, pets and polishes his prehistoric bird, there are 10 stuck away behind closed doors or inelegantly tied to the ramp, rotting away without even routine maintenance. There are more and more derelicts all the time.

What this means for market prognosticators is that the low-end guys are going to be able to buy an airplane for a little while longer. Then those birds will be gone. And the supply of later models will not be plentiful, so prices for them will first stabilize and then go up. And voila, it will be a seller’s market.

For those in the know, it is already happening. The very scarcity of some late model types are pushing those values up or, at least, slowing the depreciation.

Of course, this take on the issue largely focuses on the single-engine market. There are variances across the board within singles, of course – certain makes and models do better, others worse. The twins are down in the dumpster and are not coming out of it. Jets operate under a different model, although the really older jets are subject to a new paradigm, too, but one driven by lenders lack of interest.

Bottom line here, for those wanna-be buyers who think they are in control of the market at this point, my advice is to go buy another pair of walking shoes.

Todd Huvard, president of AircraftMerchants, a North Carolina-based aircraft brokerage, is a commercial pilot with multi-engine, instrument and seaplane ratings and is typed in Cessna 500 and Falcon 20 jets. He was founding editor and publisher of The Southern Aviator.

People who read this article also read articles on airparks, airshow, airshows, avgas, aviation fuel, aviation news, aircraft owner, avionics, buy a plane, FAA, fly-in, flying, general aviation, learn to fly, pilots, Light-Sport Aircraft, LSA, and Sport Pilot.

I tried again. I dialed 1-800-WX-BRIEF because of a TFR — I wanted to make sure my flight wouldn’t conflict with the edges of the VIP barricade. The Lockheed Martin associate (we used to call them briefers and we loved them) spent the first several minutes telling me all the reasons he and his company would not be liable for anyone so stupid as to fly an airplane or for any mistakes, transgressions or blunders such an idiot might make. He finished off by advising me with the standard “VFR NOT RECOMMENDED” and threw in an exclamation about turbulence for good measure.

Having been insufficiently frightened by his windowless world view, I turned to my laptop to divine my own aerial prognostications. It wasn’t always like this.

When I learned to fly, I revered Flight Service Station briefers. They were friendly and wise — they would talk to you about your route and help you see a path ahead. They knew when you didn’t know and taught you. And they knew when you did know and treated you with collegial respect.

On my first cross-county solo, I got damned near my goal — Danville, Va. — but the last few miles were tough. The visibility was poor and I had not yet mastered that tricky VOR needle, which danced from side to side as I flew nearer to the station. As I wandered about, chasing the needle, I remembered my instructor telling me to call on 122.1, and a reassuring voice from the Danville FSS provided me with on-the-job training about how to fly a DF Steer. (You old codgers know I am talking about a Direction Finder Steer – getting vectors provided by a station using triangulation of the ship’s radio transmissions. They have you fly a heading and transmit, then give you a few turns for positive identification.)

Lo and behold, I was only a mile or so away from the field when the station manager figured out my location and gave me the heading to the airport. I landed and the FSS guy lauded me for my effort, restoring my confidence for the return flight.

Of course, these days, the equipment and the stations that housed it have all been consigned to the scrapbook of aviation technology.

It has been 20 years since the first Automated Flight Service Stations became the PacMan of the FAA, gobbling up the familiar Flight Service Stations manned by equally familiar faces and voices — places like Danville and Macon and Jacksonville. At the time, in the early 1990s, the advent of the Internet had not foretold the direction of our online, plugged-in approach to getting briefings. The pilot community then warned of the consequences of losing the local knowledge that skilled briefers could relay to them. The FAA claimed that no matter where the briefing came from, the quality would be the same.

This never played out and pilots turned away from calling in person because of the poor and uneven experiences they were having with the AFSS system. First, by using dial-up modems and DUATS and, today, by using an array of online presentations of weather information, pilots depend on their own knowledge, experience and insight to judge the weather. In flight, we rely on NEXRAD and METARS piped into the cockpit from the satellites looking down on us like guardian angels.

Meanwhile, Lockheed Martin won the contract to privatize flight service and ensure its ultimate demise. They might as well send the jobs to India, because at least then the customer service component would not be so surly.

I suppose the old guard Flight Service Specialists have long since retired or simply quit in disgust. The new breed seems intent only in warning off pilots that are naturally looking to them for fraternal guidance. The GPS-bred Generation Z pilots aren’t going to find any empathy, sympathy or solace from Lockheed Martin — they’ll get more warmth from their iPads.

Lockheed Martin may as well just change the phone number to 1-800-DON’T-FLY.

My normal course of work involves the drudgery of flying different airplanes around the country, delivering the newly purchased gems to excited buyers or moving a planes to our base in North Carolina to prepare for sale. Not too much happens on these ferry flights — the idea is to safely get the airplane to wherever it is going without pranging it, denting it, or blowing it up.

Sometimes, though, entropy gets the best of me and chaos is my co-pilot.

I recently ferried a real nice F33A Bonanza to West Texas from our place at Smithfield, N.C. (JNX). I was behind schedule on what was planned to be a long day of flying into a west wind. I usually empty my pockets before settling into the flying chair and this day I robotically removed my wallet to put it into my flight bag. For some reason, I was distracted — I don’t remember why, but I do remember that I put my wallet on the top of the plane.

I was off and winging. As I neared the Appalachians, Atlanta Center descended me to 6,000 feet and right into the turbulent zone. I also slowed considerably and figured to be just crawling along.

As the prop stopped in front of the FBO, I reached for my cell phone and wallet. My phone was right there, but there was no wallet. It dawned on me that it was likely in the swamp at the end of runway 3 at JNX.

I called back to the home drome and learned that Mark Huddleston, co-owner of Sparkchasers Avionics at JNX, had found my wallet — with about $500 cash and all of my ID, pilot and medical certificates, credit cards and baby photos – in front of my hangar. He just happened to be moving another aircraft and saw it from a distance before the guys with the weed-eaters did.

While Mark arranged to send the wallet via FedEx to the buyer in Odessa, I was standing on the ramp at Bessemer with no money or identification and cursing my own stupidity.

The gal working the desk listened to my story and, after a call to the airport manager, arranged for me to be topped and then gave me a crisp $20 bill so I would have some money in my pocket.

I was still about six or seven hours from Odessa. I had planned to stop at Texarkana for fuel, but as I flew toward the afternoon sun, I realized that I might have the legs for the whole distance. The F33A was equipped with 20 gallon tip tanks and I began furiously calculating the fuel burn. The Garmin and the Shadin were smoking from all the knob-twisting and as I ciphered the time remaining in the tanks, it seemed I would still have reserves on landing. I didn’t want to shuffle through the whole song and dance about not having my wallet — and if I stopped I would certainly get to Odessa well after dark.

When I got back home, I sent a check for the $20 floater to the airport manager at Bessemer and thanked them all for their kindness. Those are great folks! Had I not spontaneously decided to head there I might still be wandering the taxiways somewhere looking for handouts.

After Thanksgiving, I had to fetch a 210 from Kentucky and move it back to Raleigh. When I got my clearance from Evansville Approach, the squawk code was 6661. Southbound, I was immediately handed off to Ft. Campbell Approach and I requested a different code. I am not too superstitious, but I figured I was already testing the Gods by flying a strange single-engine airplane across the mountains. Who needs the excess baggage a code like 6661 might bring?

The guy at Campbell Approach seemed to understand and gave me a fresh code that was not so laden with devilish connotation.

My work is hell.

In 1926, a group of farsighted Outer Bankers recognized the importance of a solitary sand dune called Kill Devil Hill. The dune rose above a barren, wind-swept strip of sand that barely kept the Atlantic Ocean and the Pamlico Sound separated, the site where man first took to blustery skies at the controls of a powered heavier-than-air machine on Dec. 17, 1903.

It was the Kill Devil Hill Memorial Society that took up the challenge of preserving the site of the first flights and pushed forward the goal of erecting a monument to the memory of Wilbur and Orville Wright’s achievements. It was because of this group’s dedication that the Wright Brothers Memorial Park came into being in 1927.

By 1932, the now-familiar Wright Brothers Monument stood powerfully above the Outer Banks, its massive granite form gracefully turned into a wing against the steady winds. At night, its high power beacon was a brilliant guidepost on an otherwise featureless black coast.

In 1948, the local park was transferred to the U.S. Parks Service and became a national park, where today it provides an inspirational legacy for more than 600,000 visitors each year.

In 1966, the society’s original goals were expanded by the incorporation of the First Flight Society, a non-profit memorial, educational and historical organization that has continued the good work of preserving, protecting and promoting the origin and history of flight. On Dec. 17 of each year, the First Flight Society celebrates the anniversary of the first flights by honoring aviation pioneers and recognizing an array of aviators who have accomplished significant firsts.

Big doings for the 100th anniversary of flight saw huge crowds, but the annual ceremony has settled back into its old-fashioned roots, with usually no more than a few hundred hardy disciples on hand to hear the story of that first epic moment in the history of flight. At precisely 10:35 a.m., there is a thrilling series of flyovers by military, commercial and general aviation aircraft. It is a worthwhile experience – and an intimate gathering of like-minded aviators.

The night before, on Dec. 16, is the annual The Man Will Never Fly Memorial Society Internationale fete. This group continues its time-honored tradition of publicizing the hoax they believe has been perpetrated on modern life. “Birds Fly, Men Drink” is their motto, along with other words of wisdom: “Given the choice, we will never fly. Given no choice, we will never fly sober.”

The pilgrimage to the Wright Brothers National Memorial is always a standout moment in any pilot’s flying career. But to visit in the cold wind of an Outer Banks December makes the occasion even more memorable. For more information on this year’s festivities and schedules, see the First Flight Society website

When aircraft buyers and sellers are afoot, there’s one place their paths cross: online valuation guides. They work up wrinkled brows on the webpage, entering values willy-nilly until the program submits to their wills. Sellers include every upgrade and wire while buyers tend to limit what they add for just about anything attached to the airplane.

It is a conundrum for the bewildered, an exercise in futility augmented with The Fine Print. Seldom do combatants meet in the right place. And the most woeful onlooker is the hapless, unappreciated professional aircraft broker. His opinion is relegated to the junk pile of snide remarks, his motives suspect and tarnished.

That is life for those Buyers and Sellers wandering in the desert of the aircraft market, left thirsty for an understanding as to why the object of their passion has been neither bought nor sold in the past eight months of trying.

Others, however, are winging their way happily on high, content with a fair deal — a good price for a good airplane — brought to them by an earnest broker.

Allow me to pontificate. As a full-time, dedicated, hustling, busy aircraft broker, I have come to certain conclusions about aircraft valuation, which I am happy to share with you.

The worst offenders in setting wrong prices or price expectations are casual users of AOPA’s online version of the vRef valuation guide. The data and format is truncated from vRef’s normal subscription service used by professionals in the aircraft sale, financing and insurance markets. The AOPA version is a membership benefit, subject to a contracted service level, and it is fraught with mistakes, misinformation and misdirection.

Novice users seldom get the input correct due to using incorrect data — the wrong model, the wrong serial number range, the wrong year — and are returned bad pricing from the beginning.

The errors compound with improper addition for avionics upgrades. For example, as a rule of thumb, a brand new Garmin 430 WAAS installation, the day you fly it away from the avionics shop, is only valued at about 60% of its retail cost. But we often see users adding avionics premiums for radios that are three, four, five or even many more years old. The amounts added by these folks are often as much as 50% too high. The online tool on the AOPA site is simply too limited to be effective. It does not take into account the nuances of the condition of the aircraft or its maintenance, the actual effect of damage history or type of damage, or the vagaries of an ever-changing marketplace.

“The vRef product offered to members is not intended to be a complete service. It is a reference tool only, and is not offered as a substitute for a professional appraisal,” wrote an AOPA official responding to industry complaints about the vRef service on its site.

Most professionals — brokers, dealers, lenders, and insurers — depend on expensive subscriptions to the industry-standard Aircraft Bluebook Price Digest for developing a baseline value for an aircraft. The data comes from actual report sales, and even though it is typical for the market to lag or lead the valuations, the pricing is more dependable and thorough.

The National Aircraft Appraisers Association tool is a proprietary software product to which only members of the NAAA are privy. I think the NAAA model is cumbersome, archaic and does not work very well. I have seen many NAAA “professional” appraisals using this software that are totally off the charts against the real market value of an aircraft.

The NAAA organization is a for-profit enterprise that actively recruits self-described aviation experts and bestows the vestments of a NAAA Appraiser upon them — as soon as their check for a $1,350 membership clears. The NAAA is a business-opportunity business designed to create the air of legitimacy for its minions. While many NAAA appraisers are certainly qualified and knowledgeable, there are others that spend time decrying other independent appraisal methods that are just as legitimate.

Here are some other often-overlooked areas of the valuation process:

Paint and interior: If the paint job is less than six months old, you may generally add around 60% of the cost when it rolls out of the paint shop. If the paint is older than that, it is not considered new and you add bupkis.

Engine time and overhaul type: Buyers tend to think factory remanufactured engines are superior, but this is not necessarily true. The actual condition of the engine is what is important. A field overhaul that is carefully documented by a reputable shop or engine facility won’t detract from the value. An obvious shade tree job might.

Damage: In general, damage that is well documented and properly repaired, with complete log entries and FAA Form 337s, should not be a factor when the incident is more than eight years old. But some damage, depending on the make and model, can be treated more serious. A wheels-in-the-wells gear up, where some belly skin is replaced, is a lot different from a moving gear collapse with wing damage. The true nature of the damage — and the corrections made — determine whether there is nothing to deduct or if a 20% hit to the base value is called for.

Condition adjustment: On the other hand, some airplanes are head-and-shoulders above the rest and deserve a premium adjustment for excellent condition. I have seen aircraft clearly superior to average and these beautiful birds are worth more than their nondescript counterparts.

For what it’s worth:
My claim of expertise is derived solely from my 31 years in general aviation and time working in flying, reviewing, financing and selling aircraft and avionics. My opinion is an informed one, but not an infallible one, and I don’t claim to know it all. I am a student of the art — as many professional aircraft brokers are — and spend a significant amount of time assessing a specific aircraft in trying to “price it right.”

When the time comes to figure out what to sell your current airplane for, or what to pay for your next one, take it slowly and make sure you have considered the genuine condition of the airplane, using pricing guidelines, market trends and common sense to set the price. If you are unsure, the market at large knows. Or you can do what smart buyers and sellers do: Ask a professional aircraft broker — Bob Barker can’t help you.

It is a sticky web indeed when the unsuspecting airman flies too near to the spidery reach of the FAA’s Aeromedical Certification Division. Once caught in the trap, a slow and anguishing process begins that has only a bureaucrat’s timeline to meet.

This story began as a joust with high blood pressure. For several years my BP readings were edging toward the Twilight Zone as my weight inched upward and outward. Finally, I submitted to the white-coats’ wishes and began taking medication. When it was time to renew my Class II medical, my trusted aeromedical examiner of the past 20-odd summers gave me a list of items I would have to submit with my application.

This time, I would have to provide a fresh EKG, fresh blood work, blood pressure readings and a narrative from my primary care doctor about my general health and family history. Well, I figured, fair enough. All the tests were normal and at my exam the AME issued me a fresh Class II. He then sent the details to the MedFeds in Oklahoma City.

This is when the plot, or at least the web, thickened.

My primary doctor had included a few pages of his office notes with the general narrative. These showed the last several blood pressure readings since I had begun taking the BP medication. As it turned out, there was more in the notes than necessary. Earlier in the spring, at a routine office visit, I had an innocuous conversation with him about my occasional loud snoring. At the time I had hit an apex in my personal weight and I figured if I lost some heft I would lose some volume. Not for nothing did my quack go to med school. He jotted down the fateful comment: “possible sleep apnea, refer for sleep evaluation.” Naturally, this scrawl was embedded in the notes sent to the FAA.

Some weeks after receiving my medical certificate, an ominous letter from the FAA Aerospace Medical Certification Division arrived at the house. “Based upon our review of the information submitted, we are unable to establish your eligibility to hold an airman medical certificate at this time.”

It was a 95° July day and this one line sent an ice-cold chill coursing down my spine.

An overly astute clerk had combed though the doctor’s office notes and stumbled upon sleep apnea remark. The faceless, featureless, emotionless, unassailable, omnipotent FAA now demanded to know more about my sleep apnea and to see the results of a sleep evaluation. And they wanted the answer in 30 days — or else.

Of course, I had never been diagnosed with sleep apnea nor had I undergone a sleep test. It was just a simple, casual conversation with my doctor. Not anymore. The letter from the FAA lit off a series of events that would leave me sucking air from a machine — and more.

My immediate reaction to the letter was doom-and-gloom. And anger that some bureaucrat in Oklahoma could so easily pencil whip me out of the air. A total disruption to my life was about to ensue, and I was pissed off that the person causing the disturbance was just “doing a job.” Yeah, right. Doing a job on me.

My first call was to my AME. He was sorry to have missed the notes in the reports, but told me that the FAA would not be likely to let go of my leg over sleep apnea. He told me to go get a sleep test – very casually, of course. No big deal. Yeah, right. No big deal for him.

Then I went to my quack, who would not retreat on ordering the tests. I had no say in this unless I just did not want to fly anymore. Pure CYA. I was really irritated, but succumbed to the inevitable. I scheduled the test.

Allow me to describe a sleep evaluation: Show up at a hospital room, allow a way-too-happy technician to apply enough wiring to your face, skull, chest and legs to power a small city. A strange techno-reggae transformation occurs. And here’s some advice: Avoid mirrors.

The process takes about 30 minutes, during which time various straps, sensors and clamps are placed on your chest, belly and hands. Naturally, there is no way anyone can sleep under these conditions. Strange bed. Hooked up like a Rube Goldberg contraption. Under video surveillance.

Nighty-night.

Apparently, the term sleep evaluation is a misnomer. In fact, no one really cares if you get any rest at all. But if you do manage to fall asleep for any period of time, they can snatch the data they need from the barrage of sensors. Eye twitches, leg twitches, flip-flopping. Whatever.

Of course, you can’t possibly sleep — and a diagnosis of sleep apnea is almost always made. With something like an estimated 18 million Americans suffering from the condition, it dawns on one that the whole reason the sleep disorder center exists is to drive revenue to the for-profit hospital’s bottom line. I slept a total of 4.4 hours out of nine hours in bed. I received a bill for $3,065 for the one-evening study.

A huge bill and bad news: I have mild to moderate sleep apnea. And while I do not suffer from daytime hypersomnolence — sleepiness — I wondered out loud to myself why there are snooze rooms at every airport for pilots to catch catnaps. For years, I trained myself to be able to steal bits of sleep here and there between flights.

Now I had to go back to the sleep center and undergo a CPAP trial. CPAP stands for Constant Positive Airway Pressure, and the machine blows a constant stream of air through the nasal passage to keep the airway open.

To get a feel for what this is like, take two two-liter plastic Coke bottles, cut them in half and jam them up your nostrils. Then take a Hoover, plug the hose into the reverse hole, turn the dial to jet stream or speed of sound, and let that hurricane into your skull while you try to sleep. That, my friend, makes for a miserable friggin’ evening. The hose, hooked to the whirring dervish, prevents you from rolling over to get comfortable. But at just $1,495 plus tax, what do you expect?

So I gathered all of the incriminating evidence from the study. Three reports by people I have never met, whose qualifications I will never know, and whose opinions I don’t give a damn about. I stuffed all of that and a meek salutation in an overnight envelope and posted it to the FAA in OK City. I would have to wait and see if they’d continue to place hoops between me and my medical.

Meanwhile, I was prescribed a CPAP machine and found a chop-licking medical hardware dealer from which to order it.

About six weeks after the first spirit-dampening missive from the FAA, I filed with the Aeromedical Certification Division a battery of reports, test results, testimonials, and a page of personal whimpering. Several weeks passed and another letter arrived. This was a thick packet of documents that began by informing me that I was ineligible to hold a medical certificate, but that the Division, in its wisdom and its knack for divining the true condition of applicants 900 miles away, had granted me a six-year Authorization for Special Issuance of Medical Certification. This glorious letter, so long as I subscribe to an annual review of my sleep apnea and hypertension, provided me with my a 2nd Class medical certificate and gave me my wings back.

And to think, it only cost about $8,000 to be restored to my original configuration as a rated pilot. Excuse me, but I need a nap. This BS just wears me out!

EPILOGUE
This all happened a few years ago. The story is about the real fears we face when confronted with the possibility of losing our medical certificates and the reaction to the system that would deny you the privilege of flying.

As it turns out, I have grown to love my CPAP machine. Now I plug into that thing every night and conk out, seldom waking and getting great sleep. I would never have thought it possible to adapt to it, but if you flop around at night or your wife complains about your snoring, do yourself a favor and learn more about sleep apnea, the risks of doing nothing, and the benefits of CPAP.

And those quacks at Oklahoma City? Turns out they do know what they hell they’re talking about.

It has been reported that the FAA will soon publish a Notice of Proposed Rulemaking to require your photograph and some sort of biometric data on your pilot’s license. The NPRM has been slow in coming, even though a 2004 law – the Intelligence Reform and Terrorism Prevention Act – requires the change in format.

This is one of the more stupid and invasive ideas foisted upon us as an extension of the Sept. 11 homeland security knee-jerk that we are still seeing flail about. What on earth is the purpose of the extra hassle and expense of revising the pilot’s license when you must already carry government-issued photo identification to exercise your privileges?

“It is mind-boggling that six years, after spending millions of dollars, the FAA license still does not have a photograph,” wrote Rep. John Mica, (R-Florida) complaining of the lapse. This from the same lame brain that suggested that Air Traffic Controllers were to blame for not seeing the birds on their radar that landed Sully and company in the Hudson. Mica is deservedly reputed for being an inept, bungling incompetent in Congress. Just who we need on the Aviation subcommittee.

What is actually mind-boggling is that such a lame-brain idea ever got written into law. It serves no real purpose and does not secure any aspect of aviation – or national – security.

Just how often are you called upon to produce your pilot’s license or accompanying medical certificate? And what self-respecting sociopath would bother to have any such valid document if intending to break the law using an aircraft?

This will be yet another overreaching, intrusive and dumb regulation that accomplishes nothing but costing you money. Not to mention kicking your civil rights to the curb by requiring your fingerprints or other personal biometric information to be embedded on the new tickets.

AOPA, EAA and the other alphabet groups are not nearly strident enough in lobbying against this dumb idea. But if we don’t start heckling loudly now to get it stopped, get out your best smiles. And your wallets.

It has been a while since I have lifted the poison pen to joust at the windmill of the FAA bureaucracy. But, Sancho, the work of the weary pilot is never done.

When an airplane needs to be moved and it is broken or suspect, or it is simply out of annual inspection, a process exists for having a Special Flight Permit authorized by the local FSDO. This is a routine exercise for maintenance shops and hundreds of ferry permits are issued every week around the country. In the interests of safety, the process calls for an aircraft mechanic to inspect the airplane and certify that is it airworthy for the intended flight. Simple enough.

No where in the regulations for issuing the permit does it call for the local FAA maintenance inspector to become belligerent or obstructionist in the process. But the rules seem to be interpreted differently at the Atlanta FSDO, where the pawns have become the kings.

When I called the ATL FSDO recently to secure a ferry permit I found a Airworthiness Inspector on a mission – which was simply to cover his own ass. Never mind that other people are actually trying to make a living, conduct business and create tax base. This guy goes by the book – but edits the book at the same time.

And he had the temerity to hang up on me when I asked why he felt so empowered. Now, I admit that I am the type of guy you might want to hang up on sometimes. But this time, I was all peaches and cream when I called for the permit. And he reasoned that if he did not want to talk to a customer, hell, he could just hang up.

At issue was the AD on the Beech electrical switches – AD 2008-17 – which was foisted on an entire fleet because one switch failed. All Bonanza owners can testify that the very expensive solution of installing a dozen or so new switches was further made a pain by not having a supply of them available, resulting in long waits for parts. The local FSDO could authorize airplanes to keep flying while they waited for parts by issuing an AMOC, or letter of Alternative Method of Compliance.

OK. We all know about that. Except this one guy at the Atlanta FSDO. In order to issue the permit, he wanted the A&P/IA to certify the airplane had the AD compliance before issuing the permit. In spite of the fact that such ferry flights were anticipated by the guy that actually wrote the AD.

First, a permit is issued and then, as a condition of the permit, the inspection is made and a log book entry completed. Then flight can occur. That’s how it works.

Except in Atlanta, where the guy you call turns out to be an avionics inspector, has never issued a ferry permit and is too self-important to acknowledge he just may not know what he is doing.

We eventually got the ferry permit from another inspector. And I finally got a call from the culprit’s team leader apologizing for his rude behavior. But at issue is that in 2010, the tail is still wagging the dog at the FAA. There is no system for standardizing how the rules are interpreted and each fiefdom makes its own policies and practices. If you have to do business across the boundaries, you never know what to expect.

At least the FAA website works OK. AND IT CAN’T HANG UP ON YOU.