We’re paying attention to the choppah pilot and the boat, as is appropriate, of course, but let’s take a moment to consider: The Man With the Flags. We could call him the Landing Signal Officer, but where’s the fun in that? He’s The Man With the Flags to us. It’s much jauntier, don’t you think?
I don’t think it would be a very pleasant place to stand, that spot that The Man With the Flags stands in. The pilot at least has a windshield between him and Armageddon. The boat captain is wearing a very big suit of armor indeed. But The Man With the Flags is just out there in his uni, waving his arms around and muttering to himself like a man with Tourette’s, hoping that dang flier doesn’t sneeze at an inopportune moment and send The Man With the Flags into an improvised heli-patrolboat cuisinart.
Here’s to you, Man With the Flags. We salute you! But don’t salute back just now, or Orville will ditch it in the Atlantic and you’ll get busted back to swabbie.
People seem to have a lot of trouble on airlines these days. I don’t get it.
I think problems mostly arise because travelers have an outdated version of what it means to travel by airplane. Americans are especially prone to misapprehensions about flying from here to there. I think it’s because they’ve seen too many Doris Day movies where the svelte stewardess, wearing a pillbox hat, pumps, and a matching Jackie O skirt and tunic mixes you a gin and tonic while you pick out your meal from a giant restaurant menu. It hasn’t been like that for fifty years or more, but we can’t get it out of our heads.
Even before the airport experience morphed into a pantomime of an arrest, complete with cavity searches for grandmas and toddlers alike, flying was still pretty inelegant, if you ask me. I flew in Europe a couple of times, and all the stewardesses looked like sexy Bond villains, but the planes sounded like they were built in the Soviet bloc, and there were too many bolts showing inside the cabin for my taste. In America, the planes were better, but even the hot stewardesses looked more like Rose Marie than Honor Blackman.
My name is Max Power, and if you study with my eight-week program you will learn a system of pleasing all the ladies that I developed over two seasons of making hot chicks teeter on the edge of hysteria. It’s called Max Power Kwon Do! After one week with me in my eight-week program, you’ll be prepared to defend your airspace with the strength of a grizzly, the reflexes of a puma, and the wisdom of a man.
My name is Dillon, and if you study with my eight-week program you will learn a system of picking up chick that I developed over two seasons of flying over California. It’s called Dillon Kwon Do! After one week with me in my eight-week program, you’ll be prepared to fly with the strength of an osprey, the reflexes of a cockatoo, and the wisdom of a man.