Random writings

The Thought Instigator

I have a rule for flight attendants. But first, I feel compelled to offer a definition of “flight attendant.”

The generic name came about as males joined females in the role of the stewardess – or, for the males, steward. (Interestingly, according to a variety of online sources, females replaced original male stewards early in commercial aviation – how things circle back!) 

So, for the sake of simplicity, the use of the generic “flight attendant” replaced the gender-specific steward and stewardess. And also, in this day of gender identity awareness, the term “flight attendant” works for any person, regardless of gender association. 

So, my definition of “flight attendant” is “one who attends to passengers on an airplane.” Simple, right? It’s almost a “duh” definition. Okay, it is a “duh” definition.

On my first flights of memory, in the ‘60s, we had stewardesses exclusively – I recall them offering pillows and passing out three-packs of L&Ms (to be consumed on the flight). They had requirements to hold their jobs, such as being trim and single and on the younger side of adult. They would actually be dismissed if they married and when they hit their mid-30s. That, of course, changed as we (read: commercial airline management, under the influence of increasingly intelligent consumers) matured. Now middle-aged women and fat guys and significantly othered others commonly attend to passengers. 

I leave it to Wikipedia to explain further, as needed: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flight_attendant. 

Nowadays all flight attendants are younger than I, and I’d bet most have a more desirable body mass index, regardless of gender. Don’t get me started on BMI – those calculators are clearly the products of pencil-thin geeks with nothing better to do than harass those of us who claim the system falls short. 

See what your BMI is here (https://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health/educational/lose_wt/BMI/bmicalc.htm) and tell me you disagree. 

And now for my rule for flight attendants.

My rule for flight attendants, regardless of stature, age or marital status, is this: They must enunciate. Yes, you heard it here. They must enunciate. 

My dear wife, Leigh (who, FYI, aces her BMI, even after gaining a few vacation pounds), and I flew to Boston recently from Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport (AKA San Juan Airport) in Puerto Rico. We were returning home from a relaxing stay on the Puerto Rican island of Vieques – the principal of the so-called Spanish Virgin Islands (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish_Virgin_Islands). 

After a low-altitude flight to San Juan (mostly around 500 feet over water, up to 1,000 feet over land, instead of the usual 2,000-2,500 feet; why, I don’t know, but I opted to not ask the pilot, who had volunteered that he was enjoying his temporary assignment in the Caribbean) on Cape Air’s work horse nine-passenger Cessna 402 (same as their Hyannis to Nantucket flights), we had a short wait for our flight to Boston. Settled into the Jet Blue Airbus A321 – possibly the same plane we flew down on – a young guy came on the audio system to do his safety routine.

He should have enunciated.

Now I get that plane safety directions are not at all likely to have to be followed, and I get that most passengers don’t pay any attention to them. But I do, no matter how many times I’ve heard the patter. I’m one of the minority of plane passengers who thinks what the flight attendant has to say is important. But I had no idea what he said. I could not understand the fellow. He spoke fast and unclearly. I found myself marveling that he was the choice of the flight attendant squad to communicate our instructions. Maybe they were simply confident the instructions would not have to be followed. 

Now, let me note that I was not concerned for our safety. Air travel is incredibly safe. Far, far safer than automobile travel. I just wanted to understand our attendant. Oh well. It was a great flight. Now, where will we fly to next?

The Thought Instigator

I recall my first time encountering a self-service gas station. I was in Charlotte, North Carolina, and I had been propositioned by a hooker at the hotel the night before. A not attractive hooker. A significantly overweight, not attractive hooker who apparently was working the hotel dining room targeting guys dining by their lonely lonesome. Well, I was alone, though not lonely. I liked my own company. 

That evening, however, being inexperienced in such worldly ways, I felt trapped, back to the wall, cornered, and doubtful of my ability to flee past this foreboding figure I thought would have made a fine addition to the interior of the defensive line of a semi-pro football team. Happily for me – as I mumbleingly declined her offer of company, she was already looking about for her next target and moving on. Playing the odds, I thought – hit on a hundred to score one? Like telemarketing? I wondered which field had a better success rate.

I resumed my meal, shoveling my chow while trying to tell myself to slow down and be cool, nevertheless avoiding all eye contact. And chuckling that I had actually just been propositioned for my first time. The further away she waddled, the braver I became. 

But then the reality of the situation jumped in front of my down-cast eyes and swayed side to side before me. This person was freely, casually, roaming the room. What self-respecting hotel would allow that? I gazed about and decided I saw a wait staffer with a keen build and dark, imposing mustache nonchalantly following her movements as he fiddled with his hands in a stack of dishes, making little if any progress. 

Aha! I decided that the fellow must be running the room, and her. No one else garbed in hotel gear stopped, looked, or listened – or, apparently, cared. This gringo was a random mark. As were the other solos scattered about the vinyl-clad seats. No, the rest of the staff lumbered about their business ignorant of, bored with, or disinterested in the goings on that had teetered inches from my face. 

Time finally came to settle my bill and I caught myself as I was about to jot the room number on the check. Um, uh uh. I could hear the southern belle’s knock at my door from her casual glance at the bill I’d have just left behind. I rifled about in my wallet, knowing that neither did I want to run a credit card transaction that could have my name on it, and breathed more slowly on learning I had enough cash to include a reasonable tip. For some reason I couldn’t quite fathom but somehow made sense, I felt the need to reward someone for my successful escape from who knew what end. 

Or would I! I deftly slalomed though the tables feeling increasingly vulnerable as I aimed, determined, for the elevators, up which I’d flee to the safety and anonymity of my room. But as I stood before them waiting for the painfully slow elevator to arrive, I thought I felt the whisper of a sleeve against my arm and my new friend’s presence at my side. Did she intend to ride up with me? Was I cornered, again? Would I have to flee? 

I turned on my peripheral vision and slowly scanned, motionless, for her presence – and found none of her imposing self nearby. Either my imagination or a swinging kitchen door from across the room created a breath of air that rustled my sleeve. I looked back at the elevator and saw the floor counter perched above the doors – and as I casually gazed back toward the dining room caught a glance from an otherwise innocuous, skinny bus boy. The image of that dark, imposing mustache loomed over me. “This guy must be running the room,” I’d thought. Therefore, the skinny bus boy had to be a lieutenant, if that’s the correct terminology. Or perhaps a soldier. That had to be it; he was too young to be a lieutenant. 

I entered the empty elevator and quickly punched at the “Close” button a dozen times until the door closed with no one joining me. I just knew the lad would wander over to watch for the room number to display when I reached my floor, so I immediately flailed at the buttons and pushed each one two floors below mine and four above, as well as my own. I disembarked at the first floor we stopped at, the elevator and I, and ran out and searched for the stairs. I was not disappointed. I flew up the two flights as the elevator stopped at each floor, opening its doors at mine as I finished fumbling for my key several doors down the hall. It continued on its way as I quietly flipped the latch and left the lights off. I sat staring out the window in the dark for a while, eventually laughing at my idiocy. Or was it vast vigilance? 

So, I recall my first time encountering a self-service gas station. I was in Charlotte, North Carolina, as noted, and I was caught off guard by the “Pay, then pump” sign on the machine. I got out and looked around, and no one came to see me. “Pay, then pump.” Huh, that’s so not homelike, I thought. That’s so – southern? Or was I a gringo, a mere gringo, a stranger in another land, isolated from the real world, a world of not attractive, overweight hookers and self-serve gas stations? A world of imposing mustaches and unknowing ways? 

I went inside and didn’t know what to give the guy. How much to fill it? I had no idea. What was the protocol? If I paid too much would I have to go back in for change? Would I even get change? 

I handed the guy a 20, went back and pumped 20 dollars of gas, slowly at the end, careful to not go over, not knowing it would stop at 20. I thought I’d have to go back in to pay the extra 23 cents if I over pumped. What did I know? What did I really know about anything? I got on the highway in my three-quarters full rental car, the nondescript, bland, safe  highway. Black top and white stripes, like anywhere else. I kept thinking I’d have to pull off eventually, and what would that world be like? I drove in silence wondering where I was and what the hell I was doing there. I felt like I was supposed to want to go home – yet I was too jazzed, too jacked to do anything other than reflect that there were actually worlds beyond my own.

The Thought Instigator

I’ve gone back and forth on this one. A few times, and then some more. Would it serve a purpose? Would people think it weird? Was I even sure of the point?

I decided yes – on all three questions. I decided it would serve a purpose if it inspired thought. I decided at least some people would consider it weird, but that’s okay; I’m not going to say anything based on anticipated response. And yes, I decided I was sure of the point. Even though this is mostly composed of symbolism emerged from a dream state, it is nevertheless a consideration of current times. And even from throughout history. 

Background

The image you see in this post emerged from a dream I had recently. The dream began as forms presented, moving, each turning, end over end, in its own flow pattern. The images were the softly rounded shapes you see, as if boat fenders designed to protect topsides from contact with a dock in rough water. Each slowly tumbled in its own random direction, though in uniform pace with the others, as if in a slow choreographed dance. These five fender-like objects, along with a few in other colors, began to connect. It took some doing, but eventually the five you see here won position and the other fenders floated away. 

But then the order had to arrange and rearrange, in slow, swirling motion, until this final formation – red, white and blue, top down and left to right – locked into place. The colors and order leave nothing to the imagination, except that the “US” at the top right means “us” not “U.S.” The capitalization is apparently for emphasis. 

Had to recreate

I don’t know why I dreamed this, but I did, and it stood out clearly when I awoke, unlike most dreams, which dissipate into the vapor upon opening my eyes. It lingered as I went through my early morning routine of making coffee, reading news and checking email. I wondered why and decided to create the image and made what you see here (originally setting succeeding images afire in varying degrees, and then recovering, and tying them together with the sound of a ticking clock – just as in the dream – but I opted to not show that violence and deleted those frames). 

I hope I’m not the only one who has weird dreams. But, here are brief descriptions of the seven images:

• US
• US imploding
• US exploding
• US on fire
• US extinguishing the flames
• Hope for US as the flames recede
• US surviving, though those words drip red, white and blue blood

So, is US really U.S.? It’s certainly us, society, and maybe U.S., the nation. We know that nations exist through history because of and to a degree in spite of violence – war, insurrection, terrorism, territorial domination, cruelty. That list goes on and on. Fact is, we live in violent times, and humankind has always lived in violent times. Read your history; war and expansion and domination dominate the narrative. Whether it’s the Crusades or Al Capone, settling the New World or Napoleon, enlarging this or that empire or Hitler. There have to be a thousand examples of people/nations attempting to dominate others via violence. 

Violence, a way of life

We are violent to attain freedom. We are violent to prevent freedom. We are violent because we can be. 9-11. Jan. 6. 30 Years War. Ukraine. 

I recall reading the fascinating Zealot, The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth and being reality slapped with descriptions of the horrific violence of 2,000 years ago. I connected the dots of the various histories I’ve read and wars I’ve witnessed from the safety of my living room, depicted on television and in Life magazine. Did you know that somewhere between 50 million and 80 million people died in World War II?  

Somewhere between 618,000 and 850,000 people died in our Civil War. Close to 4 million people died in our VietNam war (not France’s), which was my coming-of-age conflict, as were the Watts riots of 1965 (34 deaths), nevermind the assassinations of the ‘60s. These last events were brought to us vividly on TV and, for  me, especially in Life magazine. What a great medium that was. Pouring through its pages, over and over, got me wanting to pursue a career in journalism.

And now we have politicians warring with each other, attempting to wrest power instead of sharing it. Misstating, misrepresenting, misinterpreting. Bizarro, delusional psychwads attempt to rule the day. More and more, it’s my way or no way!  And not just the office holders – I mean, who actually elects these people?

What’s the fix?

Futurists Heidi and Alvin Toffler are famous for writing a lot of books about society. Alvin’s big book of 1970 was Future Shock, all about the impact of the acceleration of change on society. It was the rage, sold millions. The couple also published, among many others, a small book called Creating a New Civilization, The Politics of the Third Wave. It came out in 1995; I read it in 2002. Their buddy Newt Gingrich (intellectual pals if not political) wrote the forward – at the time of his putting his Contract With America thumbprint on congressional politics. Among many points made in the book, the biggie came at the end, when the couple famously stated that the ideal president was the liberal Republican. Remember them? Fiscally constrained, progressively minded?

Where, oh where, did Eliot Richardson go? Statesman, stood up to Nixon, Brahmin, principled. Author of Reflections of a Radical Moderate. A fiscal conservative, he asks: “Since when has it been conservative for Americans to turn their backs on the poor?” My all time favorite politician.

And I have to give now former Massachusetts governor, Charlie Baker, a hearty nod. There’s a strong message in realizing that he was considered the most popular governor in the country for all eight years of his service. Why? He’s a statesman. He worked respectfully with all parties to accomplish the most good for his state that he could. I think his successor, Maura Healy, will also be statesmanlike. 

But – who are the other standout statesmen today? Statesmen are the leaders we rely on to put out the flames and give us hope, and there are a few. Contemporary flamethrowers don’t give us hope; they offer fear. We all know who they are; why do we allow them to have power? The obvious answer is that many of us like that. Many of us like powermongers on the same side – the end justifies the means. Some of us think the rioters who stormed the Capitol were patriots. Others of us consider them terrorists. I think they were mob-mentality thugs who considered themselves patriots, but also devoted followers of delusional pied pipers begging to be whipped up. Mob rule is contagious. And then the next wave tries to out mob the last. And more, and more, in geometric progression. It’s so predictable. 

As Pogo so famously said, “We have met the enemy, and he is us.” We could aspire to rise above. We could choose not to implode, or not to allow imploders, except that time and time again history shows us that only when pushed to its brink does society respond and deal with its turmoil. I think that’s the message in my still video. I think that’s what my dream was all about. That, and no matter that we do get better, we’re still left maimed.

Can we keep coming back?

I fear that one of these times the few good guys will be caught up in the flame. So, maybe we can say and do enough now and not wait till the shit has hit the fan more than it already has. In many ways – aggression and war, terrorism, racism, holier-than-thou religious fanatics, filthy rich nazi lovers, white nationalists – it breeds feelings of helplessness and even eventuality. But then, so far, anyway, we do rebound. We rely on hope and translate that into action. On the other hand, nothing necessarily lasts forever. If only we could see the future.

But we can’t. What we can do is decide: What do we want, and to what degree are we willing to work for it? I’d love to see this evolve top down – you know, national leadership and all that. Wide circle of inclusion. Acceptance. Tolerance. Doing the right thing. Elliot, where are you when we need you? Liz, you sacrificed your political self for principle; thank you. Anyone else willing to give leadership a shot? 

Daniel Stid is the recent program director of U.S. Democracy at the William and Flora Hewlett Foundation. In an essay he wrote in 2021 about political leadership for National Affairs, titled A Time for Statesmanship (https://nationalaffairs.com/publications/detail/a-time-for-statesmanship), Stid concludes with the following: 

“In the coming years, our democracy will either rise to the occasion, or slip faster toward something that no longer resembles democracy – at least not as Americans have inherited, practiced, or improved upon it from Jefferson’s day to our own. What will determine the outcome will not be the policies and reforms we adopt (or fail to adopt) in response to the challenges we face, but whether a new generation of leaders can manage to recover and renew the practice of American statesmanship. If they succeed, we can take on a range of challenges. If they fail, all bets are off.”

Perhaps it’s up to us to drive it from the bottom up. Thankfully, we have loads of local leaders, local statesmen. Maybe there is hope for US. 

What do you think? Comments welcome.