It’s Time to Take Out the Aerotrash, Can First-Class Warfare be Far Behind?

Living in Paris for three weeks is something that I will never forget. Using an airplane to get there and back is something that will also remain lodged in my memory bank for a long time, although it would be preferable to have it surgically excised.

Except for maybe driving a car, a world war, or the “Jerry Springer Show,” there seems to be nothing that brings out the worst in human behavior more than flying. To begin with, the prime directive of all plane passengers is to be both the first person on and off the plane, a mission that even the formidable captain Kirk would deem unrealistic.

Initially, I was lulled into a sense of well-being and, paradoxically, even a sort of foxhole camaraderie, since, to me, being 25,000 feet up in the air in essentially a giant winged coffin, means that the bloated sales rep obsessed with his Blackberry, the teenager chewing gum with bovine proficiency, and the mother who is obviously force-feeding her one year old something the saw on the “Anthony Bourdain Show” may all be sharing our last moments together. Sitting there at gate four of Dulles International, everything seemed copasetic as Barbara and I struck up a conversation with a seemingly pleasant Australian man headed to Paris to see the World Soccer Cup. But once the announcement that the plane was ready to board first-class passengers was made, it was every man and woman for themselves, and I cursed audibly as this same man transmogrified into some sort of George Romero creation and stomped down on my foot, as he lurched wildly toward the boarding area, even though I learned later that he was in economy class with us. But he was only one of hundreds of fellow concourse zombies who were starting to crowd the boarding area despite the heedless pleas of the public address announcers to go back to their seats.

In my opinion, it’s time for the FAA to get tough with these people: Water hoses, cattle prods, tasers? Not tough enoucn. These people—lets’ call them Aerotrash instead of zombies, since the latter may be dangerous, but not necessarily ill-mannered and obnoxious—are not easily deterred, but I think I’ve got the answer, and a timely one at that.

If these people are pursuing plane-boarding as a major life goal, maybe they’ll be up for a little water-boarding. You simply put up a sign, “Line A, immediate boarding. Guaranteed to get you there first, even ahead of those pushy wheelchair people.” Then, instead of entering the plane, they tumble down a chute at the bottom of which they are greeted by three burly, ‘roid-crazed (that’s “ste-“ not “hemorrh-“ but perhaps both) Blackwater employees standing under a snarling (smiling while snarling) picture of Dick Cheney. “Welcome awater-board,” they chime creepily. These people will be guaranteed to wait their turns in the future.

Of course, the reason for the “board first” mania is not to get the best seat, since they’ve all been pre-assigned, it’s to lay claim to the overhead storage compartment, which usually has a number on it corresponding to the one on your seat, but these yahoos ignore this, so a good deterrent might be tagging the carry-on baggage with number, and if the numbers do not match, the flight attendant would open a compartment outer door and the offending baggage would be flung out onto the tarmac. But not so fast. Just in case that piece of Aerotrash is inclined to try to retrieve it, all tarmac baggage would become the property of the Concourse Gorilla, who, incidentally, would be a very cost-effective TSA employee (no wages, health benefits, or paid holidays, just a hundred or so pounds of bananas a day, and not even a tire, since he’s got the luggage to toss around.) And to avoid the torture overload label—we’ve already got water-boarding—each violator will be given a key to the cage and five minutes to convince the hirsute no-so-civil servant to return it.

To deal with the stampede to get off the plane first (To deplane, as the Aeronerds call it, and quite frankly, a term for which they should be paying royalties to the estate of Herve Villechaize), all passengers should be required to stand and get their luggage out of the overhead compartments in turn, from the front to back. Those not in compliance will have all their luggage, including check-in, sent to Basra, Iraq. And the only way ti can be gotten back is for the owner to join the armed forces and be immediately deployed there—no time for training, of course. This certainly is guaranteed to get the ringing endorsement of our president as a bold new recruiting tool. Incidentally, once the enlistee completes a three-hour IED disarming course and successfully deactivates six of them during combat, he/she will have their luggage returned.

Another manifestation of Aero-trash is the selfish asshole who takes up overhead compartment space with items that could be kept in one’s lap: coats, handbags, scarves, etc. These people will be strapped to their checked luggage and made to ride the baggage carousel for six hours with a sign pinned to them saying, “I was tricked into thinking this was going to be a merry-go-round. I want my money back, or, least my dignity, only if it’s worth more, of course.”

I think that will take care of the Aero-trash but, before I end, a word about those supercilious divas and divos in first class, who lounge like Jabbas the Hut, as we economy-class clods trudge timidly by. I can always feel their disdainful glances as I pass by clutching my pitiful belongings like some airborne hobo. It would not surprise me if the airlines eventually assign an attendant-at-arms to that section, barking orders out to us such as, “Avert your eyes!” or “Touch nothing!” interspersed with the occasional command from the pompous potentates themselves: “Peel me a grape, vassal!” Talk about the gap between the middle and upper classes.

I feel the time is ripe for me to take a Spartacus-like action. On my next flight, instead of passing sheepishly by these obnoxious Queens-and-Kings-for-a-Flight, I will incite an economy-class rebellion as I bravely shout from the back of the plane, “I’m talking over First Class! Are you with me?” Or I might reduce it to the more succinct, but perhaps more powerful, “Freedom!” as I easily win over the already half-crazed Aerotrash to help me defeat these pampered patricians. However, in a tear-evoking display of humanity, I do not remove these people from their cushy thrones but, instead, inflict a more subtle punishment that may even result in rehabilitation, simply by compelling them to identify themselves in the future by wearing a sign around their necks that says: “I’m a First-class asshole.”

So you see, with a few adjustments here and there, maybe all of us will be able to fly the friendly skies once again.

Nerd-Up Time

I’m a Nerdophile. At least, I’ve said it, announced what I have felt for over 40 years. Yes, I have a profound fondness for Nerds, those people that my dictionary cruelly describes as “unstylish, unattractive, or socially inept persons, especially those slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits.” I did not always feel this way I can remember making fun of the ones in my high school. Yes, I was one of those Troglodytes you saw in that series of Nerd movies, only worse. I did it behind their backs, fearing I’d get a compass jammed in my ear, or a protractor flung at me like one of those throwing stars, if I dared a confrontation.

But a few years after high school, after I had taken my first involuntary respite from college, I was introduced by a non-nerdish friend to a group of people, all of whom had a few, or some cases all, of the above-mentioned nerdish qualities. In fact, for a while, I had two groups of friends, the Ivy League-clad (see early Preppie), beer-swilling, Mash Potato-dancing, live-for-the-day, hedonistic Cool Guys and the fashion conscious—make that comatose—beer/wine-swilling, folk song-singing, life-is-art, intellectuals, a few of whom were of the pseudo variety, a lot like me, in other words.

It was difficult functioning in these two distinct and incompatible worlds and, in retrospect, I wonder if either or both groups ever thought I was working undercover for the other side. I recall one of my Cool Guy friends mocking me about being “In with the out crowd,” in a reference to Ramsey Lewis’s hit, although that same friend had no problem crossing over when it was libidinously expedient, such as the time we had two female Nerds over to my apartment. Nothing happened, as usual, and from this experience I learned that Nerds, for the most part, had moral standards, while the Cool Guys had not yet evolved to that point, and were actually proud of it. (Most of them, as you might expect, grew up to be Republicans.) However, when I experimented with going out drinking with this same friend, whom I shall refer to as “M,” and a male Nerd—let’s call him “H”—an evening of unpleasantness ensued in the form of H’s paranoia regarding M, whom he considered dangerous based on M’s reputation. My earnest explanation that M had been rehabilitated fell on deaf ears and all my efforts at rapprochement were failures. Of course, this was over 40 years ago and I’m sure significant inroads between the groups have been made since that time, though never, unfortunately between H and M.

I think, in those days, I may have had more of an affinity toward the Cool Guys, especially since I always dressed like they did, even in Nerd territory, and it is important to note that the Nerds never made an issue of this, but I feel certain that if I had ever—as a sociological study—affected the dress of the Nerd world within Cool Guy confines, I would have been ridiculed mercilessly, perhaps even exiled. It’s also significant to note that during that period of rampaging hormones, mainstream females, for the most part, were a lot better looking than their Nerdish counterparts. Maybe it was the make-up.

These two groups did, however, have something in common in those days: Big John’s Tavern, where the common denominator of beer enabled the two sides to frequent the premises simultaneously, and even though each group pretty much stayed to itself, there was a definite air of civility, which I’m sure continues till this day unless any in the groups have entered politics.

I continued my double life until I got married, started a real job, and drifted away from Big John’s and the Nerds. All the Cool Guys just became Regular Guys, but the Nerds, they remained Nerds, because that’s who they genuinely were, while Cool Guys, on the other hand, were and still are deeply shallow, with solid commitments only to those things that will enhance their coolness factor. I did maintain a close friendship with H, who incidentally married a Nerd. Nerds, at least the ones I’ve known, are a bit clannish, perhaps based on the safety in numbers theory.

I still continued to encounter and interact with Nerds the rest of my life, but it was only during a recent evening on the computer that I experienced the epiphany that I really liked, admired and, more important, missed my contact with these people. In other words, I found out I’m a Nerd’s Nerd. I, out of curiosity, was doing a search on the comedian Gilbert Gottfried. If his name does not ring a bell with you, he’s the one whose voice you hear as the duck in the Aflac commercials. He’s also on the Jay Leno show frequently and he used to be the host of the USA channel’s “Up All Night” program. When I found his website and began reading his bio and surprisingly long list of credits, I came upon the site for his fan club and immediately joined. The next line should read, “I woke up to my wife dumping a bucket of ice-water on my head, followed by the jamming of Prolixin-filled syringe in my buttocks,” but let’s just say I was stunned by my impulsive behavior, though even more so, I was amazed that I had joined anyone’s fan club, much less Gilbert Gottfried’s. Then, it hit me like a ton of pocket protectors: I was unconsciously showing my love and support for Nerddom by making a virtual connection to their only comedian. (Well, maybe Emo, but he’s not relevant anymore.) If you’ve never seen Gilbert before, he’s socially dysfunctional, despite being an entertainer, is built like a flabby pear, and wears his pants so high, he has zipper scars on his bottom lip.

Then I began to think why would I not like Nerds, I don’t think I’ve ever had a bad experience with one, except for that situation when H got paranoid about M, however, in retrospect, he may have had a point. And I’ve always had a proclivity toward people who not only mock, in a passive, innocuous way, in their case, but are somewhat blissfully oblivious to the self-aggrandizing, back-stabbing society swirling around them.

I offer as an example Radio Shack, one of my absolute favorite places to shop, although, ironically, I don’t go there a whole lot, simply because the world of electronics is one which I flounder about in like a thawed out caveman in Times Square. But if anyone close to a Nerd Central exists, it’s definitely right there. All the employees, even the females, wear short-sleeve dress shirts, even in winter, with clip-on ties, and pants so high they nearly cover their well-stocked pocket protectors, but they are always extremely polite and helpful. They also have a good sense of humor, contrary to popular belief, and, unlike a lot of Regular Guys, these people know and love their jobs. If you’ve got an electronics question, these guys are nearly stroking off (that’s stroking off as in a cardiovascular accident, for any of my prurient-minded readers) to give you the answer, even if you have no comprehension of what they are saying, and you are awed by their infectious enthusiasm, which is undaunted by the continuous stream of absurd queries by dumb-asses like myself.

“Hey, which weights more, an I-pod or a DVD player?”

If it weren’t for our charmingly misfit Nerd brothers, we would be in a worse situation than we are now, if the human imagination can even conjure that up. Where do you think we get all our doctors and scientists? Pick a well-known brilliant person in the scientific field: Albert Einstein, Werner von Braun, Albert Schweitzer, Stephen Hawking, Mr. Wizard, or Louis Pasteur. Nerds all. And by God, let us not forget the incomparable Nerd King, Bill Gates, who’s not only the world’s richest person (depending on whether the Sultan of Brunei’s son makes a weekend trip to Vegas or not), but with his life-saving philanthropy, its secular savior.

Of course, I would be intellectually dishonest if I did not admit to the presence of the Nerd elephant in the room, the smart Nerd’s short-bussed cousin, the Star Trek Nerd, that inferior subculture creature that even James Tiberius Kirk himself repudiated on SNL. Perhaps if they beat their plastic light sabers into slide rules (I may have dated myself there) or learned to speak ancient Sumerian in place of Klingon, they would join Bill and his high achievers. Yet, I like these lesser Nerds, too, along with the Sports Nerds, those sad being masquerading in their heroes’ uniforms, and the 40-year-old Pop Culture Nerds, who dank bathroom walls are dripping—yes, dripping—with autographed glossies of their idols.

Yes, all these Nerds are fine people, a little out of step with the status quo, but in my book, that’s a good thing, and they not only give back to their communities—Typhoid Mary could do that, for God’s sake—but to all of society.

As a somewhat lugubrious post script, I confess that I no longer have a Nerd buddy, my good friend, H, having died 7 years ago, and joining the Gilbert Gottfried fan club is a pathetic substitute, even with the weekly email and photograph. So if you’re unstylish, unattractive, and socially inept, and are slavishly devoted to either or both of my favorite pursuits of comedy-writing or New York City, write me care of Charleston’s Free Time. If you’re a Radio Shack employee, that’s just icing on my cake!