Skip to main content

Save the Museum

Podcast - Save the Museum . . .

You may have heard by now that the Flying Leatherneck Aviation Museum in San Diego, CA. is closing? What can you do to help?

Join the grassroots effort! Sign the Petition.

After more than 20 years of sharing the legacy and history of Marine Corps Aviation with local citizens and countless visitors to San Diego, California, the Flying Leatherneck Aviation Museum is scheduled to be permanently closed on March 31, 2021.

The Flying Leatherneck Aviation Museum shares Marine Corps Aviation history with visitors from around the world.

Visitors come for different reasons. Parents bring their children to see amazing aircraft and to hear stories of the brave men and women who maintained and flew these aircraft. Veterans come to see the aircraft that saved their lives. And still, others come to pay their respects to the aviators who served to protect our great nation.

Nevertheless, the leadership at Headquarters Marine Corps (HQMC) has decided to close the Museum.

This decision is particularly painful to countless veterans and citizens that value our celebrated Marine Corps Aviation history and support this unique, national treasure.

The non-profit organization that helps run the Museum, the Flying Leatherneck Historical Foundation, was told that this decision was based on financial considerations even though the Foundation Board volunteered to assume all operating and maintenance costs.

A great many people, including veterans who serve as volunteers at the museum, were stunned by this decision.

These brave men and women fought for our freedom; they fought alongside others who died for our freedom. And to see them brushed aside with an explanation that doesn’t make sense is heartbreaking.

As news of the museum’s plight has begun to circulate San Diegans and aviation enthusiasts around the globe are expressing their dissatisfaction and sorrow.

Please help us stand up for these honorable veterans and help protect the place where they can still share their stories, their humanity, and their wisdom. They fought for us. Let's fight for them.

You can contact HQMC and the Commandant of the Marine Corps and/or the Secretary of the Navy at the following addresses:

Commandant of the Marine Corps
Headquarters, US Marine Corps 3000 Marine Corps, Pentagon
Washington, DC 20350-3000

MARINE.MAIL.FCT@USMC.MIL


Office of the Secretary of the Navy

1000 Navy Pentagon, Room 4D652

Washington, DC 20350


https://www.navy.mil/Resources/Contact-Us/


Select: Public Inquiries (Navy Programs and Current Navy Issues)


The Flying Leatherneck Aviation Museum needs your voice of support now more than ever! Please take action today!

If you enjoy our weekly visits, please share them with a friend.

This is Patrick Ball, thanks for listening, see you in the next episode.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Miss Murphy

Most Popular of All Time

Confidently Wrong: The Art of the AI Tall Tale

In this episode, A chat with Adamas the Chef on hidden recipes causing digital hallucinations. Pull up a chair and pour yourself a fresh cup of coffee—and please, for your own sake, taste it first. We need to have a quiet chat about why your computer sometimes decides to reinvent reality with the confidence of a five-star chef who has clearly lost his mind. In the world of technology, we call it a  hallucination . It sounds pretty dramatic, doesn’t it? As if the computer decided to ignore your instructions altogether in favor of a vivid, technicolor imagination that simply hasn’t met reality yet. But in truth, an AI hallucination isn’t a breakdown; it’s just a very confident, very polite mistake. Think of it like our friend Adamas , the Chef. Adamas is a master of the kitchen, but he is also a bit of a romantic who refuses to say “I don’t know.” When you ask him for a classic recipe he hasn’t made in years, he doesn’t stop to consult a cookbook—that’s far too pedestrian. Instead, ...

Ode To Gemology

For over 80 years, students of gemology have struggled with spectrums, bewildered by birefringence, and simply plagued by pleochroism. The following sonnet is guaranteed to bring a smile to your face, a glow to your heart, and a simple reminder that students of life and gemology rediscover nature's gifts every day.  Ode to Gemology , by a GIA on-campus student. Dispersion, fire, adventurescence. Orient, sheen, or iridescence. Refractive index, high or low. The luster should indicate that, you know. Polarization, double or single. What to do now, they intermingle. Pleochroic colors you really should see. Was that only two, or actually three? Birefringence should help you a lot. Use your polarizer and watch the spot. Now, did it jump most on low or high? Sure, you can get it if you really try! Your liquids should be an aid, I think. Does it float, suspend, or slowly sink? Just use your imagination now. (He doesn't see me wiping my brow.) Solid inclusions or only bubbles? Huh, th...

The Cowardice of Corporate Jargon

Picture this: an email lands in your inbox. A colleague—maybe even a friend—needs a favor, a second set of eyes, a moment of your time. You sigh, stare at the glow of your monitor, and type: “I’d love to help, but I just don’t have the bandwidth right now.” Hit send. Problem solved. Conscience clear. Except it shouldn’t be. Most of us have said or sent that line at least once, hoping it would land gently. On the surface, it’s perfect—efficient, polite, even self-aware. And that’s exactly the problem. It lets you decline without ever quite telling the truth. You didn’t just say no; you softened the discomfort of being human until it barely felt like a feeling at all. Instead of admitting, I’m overwhelmed , or I don’t have the energy , you reach for the sterile vocabulary of a server room. You turn a feeling into a metric. A boundary into a system limitation. Apologies, my data transfer rate is capped. Please submit a ticket to my emotional help desk. It’s a clever little trick—and an un...

Opening Day Magic 2026 . . .

It’s back. Baseball—yes, baseball ! If you’re someone who finds themselves inexplicably drawn to this peculiar ritual, let’s be honest with each other: it’s a bit odd, right? I mean, 162 games. That’s a lot of hot dogs, a lot of standing around, and a lot of grown men in oddly tailored trousers spitting with remarkable precision. And yet, here we are, poised on the precipice of another season. Thursday, March 26, 2026, to be precise—Opening Day. It’s a curious thing, this Opening Day. You walk into a stadium, or turn on the TV, and suddenly, everyone is infected with a highly contagious strain of . . . Optimism . It’s a spectacular form of collective amnesia. All of last year’s fumbles, the endless losing streaks, the existential dread of watching your bullpen implode in the eighth inning—poof. Gone. It’s entirely replaced by a wide-eyed, childlike belief that this year, finally, the baseball gods will smile upon us. The Cycle of Hope and Despair As a Cubs fan, I know this cycle intim...