In-Flight Blog...
** This entry is written while in transit from Honolulu to Los Angeles.
There’s something about being on an airplane that makes one introspective. It might have to do with the fact that on this plane ride the VCR ate “Hidalgo” the in-flight movie (I watched them pry it out with a screwdriver, magnetic tape dangling like a party streamer). I and my cabin mates are forced to sleep, read magazines or just think (really think) about where our lives have been and where they are headed. And that’s reason for this soul-searching in-flight composition.
As a quick side note, an Australian woman two seats down from me is talking about her upcoming vacation in Los Angeles. I’m so used to associating the Aussie accent with the “Crocodile Hunter” that it sounds quite odd coming out of such a sweet female voice.
I lean over several others and get her attention.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Would you be able to do me a favor?”
“What’s that?” she says happily.
“Would you please say the sentence: “That dingo ate my baby”?
Okay, so I didn’t really do it, but the idea of asking her made me chuckle.
But then I think that maybe it’s not so funny. This might make her angry, or worse, cause her to start balling hysterically.
“A dingo really did eat my baby!” she’d cry.
I don’t know nuthin’ about Australia. For all I know, dingoes are pacing outside the maternity ward of Australian hospitals, sniffing the air and licking their chops. It’s probably a culturally sensitive topic and not a safe thing to joke about at all. My self-censorship probably saved me from being the plane pariah. What a fall from grace this would be since yours truly has the responsibility of being the uber male of the exit row.
That’s right. In the event of an emergency, I will leap into position, muscles flexing, pull the proper handles and allow everyone on the plane to leap to safety. This assuming, of course, that leaping out will be safe. Heaven forbid there is a fire involved, perhaps right on the aircraft wing (assuming the wing is still there).
Then again, with all of our flight being over the Pacific Ocean, there is the likelihood of a water landing. As I think about it, if the plane is submerged, my pulling off the exit door might elicit some panic as tons of salt water (and probably sharks) would start pouring into the aircraft. But how was I supposed to know that removing the exit door would be a bad thing in this particular circumstance? Suddenly I feel my exit row briefing was woefully incomplete. They want me able-bodied, and I have to THINK too??
Regardless, I am in charge of the aircraft’s starboard side exit door. I cannot be responsible for those unlucky sobs on the aircraft’s port side. They are on their own! The gentleman there appears to be in his 70’s. I’m not sure he could renew his driver’s license, much less lead the exit door brigade.
But hey, good luck with that! The Aussie tourist will be on his conscience.
I saw something on “20/20” years ago about a plane crash where the survivors had to use their exit door. After watching this, horrified, I’ve been wracked with fear that someone will do what occurred on that flight and throw the exit door in the aisle, leaving the rest of us climbing over it and losing precious seconds that could save our lives. Since then, I trust exit door duty to no one but myself.
When most people get their seat assignments and hear the term “exit row” they just assume it’s all fun and games. They daydream about the extra legroom, easy access to the lavatory and those cool tray tables that “transform” out of your armrests. The responsibilities of life and death just whiz past them.
If they would stop for an hour or so to really obsess about the possibilities, they would know that if we do crash, the strangers around them will suddenly be the most important people in our lives for the rest of our living days.
It’s true. If I and my travel mates survive a plane crash we’ll suddenly be alienated from our own families, instead seeking the comfort of those who survived with us. We’ll meet first in the presence of psychologists, then have each other over for bittersweet Christmases and Thanksgivings, punctuated by our tear filled reminiscing about the guy in 21E who urged us to leave him behind. “I can’t make it,” he said as sharks bore down on him from the overhead bin. “Save yourself!”
“It’s a good thing Cody was there,” the Aussie woman will tell Diane Sawyer. “Heaven brought us an angel when he put Cody in the exit row. Lord knows that old man on the port side was of no use at all. It was all about the legroom for him.”
It might even be reasonable to think that the lovely Aussie tourist and I would fall in love and be married. Every day I would look into her eyes and see myself reflected: the hero of flight 266 who guided all of the starboard side (coach only) to safety by being a beacon out the exit door.
In me, she might find the strength to have another child, replacing the baby she lost to the dingo all those years ago.
Wait a minute, where was I?
Oh yes, I was reflecting on life… Well, crap, what happened to the laptop battery??
I’m not sure why, but on long flights like this I often feel quite satisfied with myself and yet a little sick at the same time.
Is the VHS for “Hidalgo” really trashed? Did they try that thing where you take the tape apart with a screwdriver and rethread it?
There’s something about being on an airplane that makes one introspective. It might have to do with the fact that on this plane ride the VCR ate “Hidalgo” the in-flight movie (I watched them pry it out with a screwdriver, magnetic tape dangling like a party streamer). I and my cabin mates are forced to sleep, read magazines or just think (really think) about where our lives have been and where they are headed. And that’s reason for this soul-searching in-flight composition.
As a quick side note, an Australian woman two seats down from me is talking about her upcoming vacation in Los Angeles. I’m so used to associating the Aussie accent with the “Crocodile Hunter” that it sounds quite odd coming out of such a sweet female voice.
I lean over several others and get her attention.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Would you be able to do me a favor?”
“What’s that?” she says happily.
“Would you please say the sentence: “That dingo ate my baby”?
Okay, so I didn’t really do it, but the idea of asking her made me chuckle.
But then I think that maybe it’s not so funny. This might make her angry, or worse, cause her to start balling hysterically.
“A dingo really did eat my baby!” she’d cry.
I don’t know nuthin’ about Australia. For all I know, dingoes are pacing outside the maternity ward of Australian hospitals, sniffing the air and licking their chops. It’s probably a culturally sensitive topic and not a safe thing to joke about at all. My self-censorship probably saved me from being the plane pariah. What a fall from grace this would be since yours truly has the responsibility of being the uber male of the exit row.
That’s right. In the event of an emergency, I will leap into position, muscles flexing, pull the proper handles and allow everyone on the plane to leap to safety. This assuming, of course, that leaping out will be safe. Heaven forbid there is a fire involved, perhaps right on the aircraft wing (assuming the wing is still there).
Then again, with all of our flight being over the Pacific Ocean, there is the likelihood of a water landing. As I think about it, if the plane is submerged, my pulling off the exit door might elicit some panic as tons of salt water (and probably sharks) would start pouring into the aircraft. But how was I supposed to know that removing the exit door would be a bad thing in this particular circumstance? Suddenly I feel my exit row briefing was woefully incomplete. They want me able-bodied, and I have to THINK too??
Regardless, I am in charge of the aircraft’s starboard side exit door. I cannot be responsible for those unlucky sobs on the aircraft’s port side. They are on their own! The gentleman there appears to be in his 70’s. I’m not sure he could renew his driver’s license, much less lead the exit door brigade.
But hey, good luck with that! The Aussie tourist will be on his conscience.
I saw something on “20/20” years ago about a plane crash where the survivors had to use their exit door. After watching this, horrified, I’ve been wracked with fear that someone will do what occurred on that flight and throw the exit door in the aisle, leaving the rest of us climbing over it and losing precious seconds that could save our lives. Since then, I trust exit door duty to no one but myself.
When most people get their seat assignments and hear the term “exit row” they just assume it’s all fun and games. They daydream about the extra legroom, easy access to the lavatory and those cool tray tables that “transform” out of your armrests. The responsibilities of life and death just whiz past them.
If they would stop for an hour or so to really obsess about the possibilities, they would know that if we do crash, the strangers around them will suddenly be the most important people in our lives for the rest of our living days.
It’s true. If I and my travel mates survive a plane crash we’ll suddenly be alienated from our own families, instead seeking the comfort of those who survived with us. We’ll meet first in the presence of psychologists, then have each other over for bittersweet Christmases and Thanksgivings, punctuated by our tear filled reminiscing about the guy in 21E who urged us to leave him behind. “I can’t make it,” he said as sharks bore down on him from the overhead bin. “Save yourself!”
“It’s a good thing Cody was there,” the Aussie woman will tell Diane Sawyer. “Heaven brought us an angel when he put Cody in the exit row. Lord knows that old man on the port side was of no use at all. It was all about the legroom for him.”
It might even be reasonable to think that the lovely Aussie tourist and I would fall in love and be married. Every day I would look into her eyes and see myself reflected: the hero of flight 266 who guided all of the starboard side (coach only) to safety by being a beacon out the exit door.
In me, she might find the strength to have another child, replacing the baby she lost to the dingo all those years ago.
Wait a minute, where was I?
Oh yes, I was reflecting on life… Well, crap, what happened to the laptop battery??
I’m not sure why, but on long flights like this I often feel quite satisfied with myself and yet a little sick at the same time.
Is the VHS for “Hidalgo” really trashed? Did they try that thing where you take the tape apart with a screwdriver and rethread it?
posted by "Harold" at 8:31 PM
1 Comments:
Hilarious!
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