As part of yesterday’s discussion, tim offered lyrics by Loudon Wainwright III to a song called Plane, Too, from his second album, Album 2.
There was a hipster on the plane
There was a sailor, too
Big business man on the plane
Stewardess, too
I saw a movie on the plane
Grand Canyon, too
Earphone music on the plane
Time magazine, too
Airplane food was on the plane
Airplane coffee, too
Airplane booze was on the plane
Tea and milk was, too
Reclining seats were on the plane
Seatbelts, too
“No Smoking” sign was on the plane
In French and English, too
Hostess button on the plane
Ventilator, too
Vomit bag was on the plane
Oxygen, too
There was a bathroom on the plane
A flushing toilet, too
There was a mirror on the plane
Me, too
Wainwright’s Album 2 was released in 1971. The big airplane news in the early 70’s was the introduction of the still impressive Boeing 747, the first of which was named the Juan T. Trippe (after the Boeing CEO), commissioned in October 1970.
That once proud jet, a marvel in its day, is now an empty hulk, rusting by a roadside in South Korea. I’m not permitted to post a photo of it here but you can see it by following this link to a website called airliners.net, where there is a gallery of photos taken of the same plane in different places all over the world through it’s working life. The aircraft is a superstar, fallen on hard times.
The big concept was to operate the fuselage as a restaurant, thinking that people might find it charming to eat on a plane. But no one who has ever eaten anything on a plane could possibly think it would be fun or worthwhile to climb into an aircraft to receive a meal of any kind. The airlines created a reality too stark to overcome, and this marketing idea flopped.
Though apparently the notion still has some lift in Germany, where this unique dining experience awaits.
Cafe' Restaurant Silbervogel
Please fasten your seatbelt and share your most memorable (for whatever reason) restaurant stories.
Teenagers live such anguished lives. Here’s the latest quandary from perennial sophomore Bubby Spamden.
Hey Mr. C.,
I was talking to my friend Doug about music yesterday and he said we should form a band. Not just the two of us, but us and a few other people. I said that sounded cool even though I don’t know how to play any kind of instrument and am not a very good singer, but he said that’s all right you don’t have to be a good singer to be in a band.
What you have to have is a good name with enough attitude that people will remember it. He said a good name for our band would be “The Flaming Sacks of Poop”, because it’s something shocking that you can picture and it’s real hard to forget. At first you might even want to stomp on it to make it go away but then, if you think for even a moment, you realize you’d better not. So it’s got a special appeal for the brainy audience too.
I said I did not want to be known as “A Flaming Sack of Poop”, and was thinking that a better name would be “The Kings of Seduction”, because that sounds smooth and classy.
He said “Kings of Seduction” is the kind of name people forget as soon as they hear it. They’d be left wondering if we were in charge of Seduction or Romance or Chocolates, whereas “Flaming Sacks of Poop” is the kind of name that creates a lasting memory.
We decided to let the new members of the band figure it out, so we invited Brandon and Heather to join us and we told them what the name choices were. Brandon liked the “Flaming Sacks of Poop”, and Heather was for “Kings of Seduction”, even though she is more Queen-like, personally. That didn’t really accomplish anything.
So then Doug said let’s find a middle ground just like the president did on the rich people tax and call our band “The Kings of Poop”. But then Heather said what about “The Flaming Sacks of Seduction”? This went on for a while. Compromise is hard.
Now it looks like our group is going to be called “Dung Love Combustion”, which I really hate. But unless I agree I guess our careers will never get started, and this may be my only chance to be in a band – ever. Because I still don’t know how to play anything.
Should I go along with a decision that feels ridiculous, or stand my ground?
Your rockin’ pal,
Bubby
I told Bubby he should address a more fundamental question. Can a non-musical person make a meaningful contribution to a band? Making a compromise to get the band up and running may turn out to be a mistake if the result is bad music and embarrassment. Perhaps the time spent arguing over a name could’ve been put to better use studying the guitar.
But learning things is also difficult, and inventing names is fun!
What’s the best band name you ever heard? Or would like to hear?
Recently, while going through some family papers that had been collected by my late brother, I discovered a 1902 newspaper account of a relative who died after being hit by a train. The headline read:
GROUND BENEATH CARS
Sad Death of Lola Irving Leonard
Lola Leonard
It tells the story of an 18-year-old high school senior in Yonkers, New York who was on her way home after school one rainy December afternoon. Apparently she slipped and fell while trying to board a train and the wheels of the last car ran over her legs. After an emergency amputation and four and a half hours of suffering, she passed away.
The “unfortunate girl”, as the article described her, was my great grandmother’s sister, but this was not a story I grew up with. In fact, the only “Lola Leonard” I knew of was not my great grand-aunt, but my grandmother, born in 1905, just a few years after the train station tragedy. Clearly she was named for her mother’s lost sibling. You’d think such a story would become family legend, but the episode might have been too painful pass along. I literally heard it for the first time a few weeks ago. I’m glad someone decided to save the article, and that I had a chance to see the yellowed newsprint before it crumbled away to nothing.
All of that came to mind yesterday when I spotted a You Tube video which has since traveled around the world several million times. If you haven’t seen it yet you should take a look, especially if you admire courage and like happy endings. Spoiler Alert – A man in Madrid falls off a station platform on to some railroad tracks and another man pulls him out of the way at the last possible moment.
I’ll be interested to read the complete story when someone manages to tell it. Some accounts have said the man who fell on the rails was drunk. That’s possible. Being drunk would certainly explain what happened, though there are other ways to topple off a platform.
Another account said the off duty policeman who performed the rescue ran to the spot where he jumped down on the tracks to help. Maybe so, but he seems awfully relaxed as he approaches the scene. Maybe he’s not relaxed, but exhausted, or scared. Another story claimed the rescuer’s name was “Angel”. Perhaps it was. If not, it’s possible his name will be “Angel” by the time the Hallmark TV special is filmed.
If you watch the video, note the reaction of the people in the station. Clearly they are concerned. Man on the tracks! They want to save him and they try to flag down the onrushing train. Some turn away at the last moment because they can’t bear to watch what they fear is about to happen. I understand all of that completely. I think we’d all like to be the strong person of action who moves quickly and decisively in a moment of crisis, but if I was put in the same situation I’m pretty sure I would be one of the well-meaning people who stayed on the platform, and not the hero who faced the danger.
A salute to the Spanish policeman for his physical courage!
And in the lesser category of linguistic feats, I commend one of the commentators following this story in the online edition of London’s Daily Mail.
A typographically challenged reader named Jeremy remarked about the hero:
“And he was so clam doing it!”
To which another reader named “K” responded:
“It would be difficult to accuse that bloke of being shellfish.”
What a brave bit of wordplay. My hero!
What’s the most courageous thing you’ve ever seen?
Once legitimate and now somewhat sensational journalist Bud Buck has decided to turn his limited attention to Minnesota’s Gubernatorial Race. He sent a note yesterday promising a story that would “break the recount wide open”. Bud told me to watch for his “bombshell”. Naturally I was suspicious. Bud has a tendency to rely on a single source for his reporting. A single source if you don’t count his vivid imagination. When the story arrived this morning I saw proof positive that I had good reason to be concerned.
Galactic Fraud Hinted At!
By Bud Buck
Scientists studying the galaxies have reached a startling conclusion that should cause Minnesota election officials to re-examine their methodology and data.
In a paper published this week in the science journal “Nature”, researchers have determined that there has been a massive undercounting of the number of stars in the sky. Previous assumptions made about star populations based on the density of our own Milky Way may have led enumerators to overlook gazillions of faint stars known as “Red Dwarves”. New scholarship suggests there could be trillions of these uncounted furnaces in some elliptical shaped galaxies alone.
This revelation was eagerly seized by activists following the re-count in Minnesota’s Gubernatorial race. “Note that these stars are categorized by cosmologists as “red”,” said Julius Blustering, a self-described ‘constitutional astronomer’ who has been camped in front of the Secretary of State’s office since mid-November. “There was no mention in the paper of any undercounting of “blue” stars.”
Standing in front of his three cornered tent that mimics the design of the well-known Patriot hat style, Blustering pointing out that conditions in the larger universe are often mirrored on a much smaller scale here below. He demanded that the Minnesota Secretary of State use a similar methodology to the one used in the star study to cross check the gubernatorial ballots from last month’s election.
“The scientists figured out they had something wrong in the count when they examined the temperature of distant galaxies. There were differences in the readings that could only be explained by the presence of a larger than expected number of red stars,” said Blustering. “I call on the election officials to use the last remaining Shuttle launch in conjunction with the Hubble Space Telescope to train those same scientific instruments on every Minnesota precinct. If the temperature readings mirror the actual division of votes, no problem. But if things don’t match up, that’ll be a clear sign there are more red votes than the ‘official’ tallies indicate!”
Blustering’s demand was dismissed by election officials as impractical, unscientific, unconstitutional, and possibly a delaying tactic intended to create a political advantage for one side in the dispute.
“Nonsense.” said Blustering. “We’ve been looking at the stars for several thousands of years and are just now getting the count right. What I’m proposing will take less than half that time.”
Late yesterday Ben revealed this interesting bit of information in the comments:
“Had a dream last night about two bears fighting and ripping themselves apart– complete with sound effects. Had to get up and take a walk to try and shake the images… Thanks gang.”
Naturally I found this disturbing, so I texted it to a friend who I thought could offer some advice. Here’s his reply from the deep woods, translated from the original Ursus Textish.
Hey, Bart here.
Thanks for sending that strange comment from your reader “Ben”. I don’t know what his dream was really about, but I have heard that humans named “Ben” have more than their share of bear-related identity issues. Guys named “Smokey” and “Yogi” also suffer, I’m told.
People get weird ideas about bears. Either we’re crazed killing machines or we’re dancing tangos and having a picnic down in the glade. Cruel or cute, with no middle ground. That’s us.
The truth is – most bears are boring. Really, really dull. They’re like your fat Uncle Ralph sleeping in front of the TV, without the recliner, or the TV. A lot of us are set in our ways and not at all interested in stuff outside our own little world. Plus, we’re dirty and smelly and not very good company, even for our own kind.
And you know that question people are always asking, wondering if bears do some basic biological stuff in the woods? Well we do, and it’s not pretty.
So I could see why a person with the same name as a famous bear would have dreams where bears are violently erasing themselves from the picture. That’s the fantasy of someone trying to find himself – someone who needs to get a hairy obstacle out of the way before he starts.
It’s not about us, it’s about YOU, Buddy. I’m just sayin’. I hope you can work out your problems. Almost time to hibernate. See ya’ in the spring!
Your pal,
Bart
Bart may be right, or perhaps Ben fell asleep with the TV on and subliminally ingested this advertisement for a British Salmon processor:
Thanksgiving was a little tense this year because some relative I won’t identify saw fit to “leak” a large number of confidential text messages that I had written regarding certain specific personalities and delicate situations inside the family circle.
Dr. Babooner, I’m appalled at this betrayal of trust!
When I called Aunt Julia as “fat as a beer swilling Sasquatch” and said that my sweet little nephew Mikey will probably wind up on death row someday and observed that cousin Oswald “has sex appeal, but not to members of our species,” I was not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings! Rather, I was attempting to paint an accurate picture of our real-life family dynamic. And why? To make getting along with others a simpler task for others who are, frankly, inept when it comes to interpersonal relationships.
I should have known that these unnamed people (OK, person) were (was), in fact, so totally clueless about relationships that they (Uncle Louie) would not see the harm in releasing these very sensitive, intensely private communiqués as “interesting reading”. But even in my most cynical dreams I could not have imagined that he would print my words on tiny Post-It notes and stick these notes to the backs of the name cards I propped up against each plate at the Thanksgiving table.
That’s reverse diplomacy – targeting destructive messages for certain audiences with intent to destabilize the balance of power. And I thought my Uncle Louie understood that! I’m not saying Uncle Louie did it. Only that Uncle Louie is exactly the sort who would try to explain it all away with a stupidly earnest cliché like “the truth will set you free.”
That’s false. Now that the truth is out, I do not feel liberated. In my opinion, real freedom happens when everyone can stick to the same comfortable lies that make it possible for us to all get along.
Now just about everyone in the family wants an apology from me before we can get together for the next holiday. I will make the necessary gesture, Dr. Babooner, by putting a personal note inside a select group of Christmas cards. But can I also take advantage of this opportunity to defend myself by placing some of the blame where it so clearly belongs?
People already know I’m a loose cannon. What could it hurt?
Sincerely,
Honest 2 A Fault
I told H2aF that she (he) would be wise to treat every apology as a stand-alone event, and not to clutter it up with extra accusations. Putting your note of remorse inside a Christmas card is bad enough, but weighing it down with snarky comments about Uncle Louie is unforgiveable, even if he is a dirty, thieving leaker.
Diplomacy demands restraint on the public side of the curtain, and frankness on the other. Earnestness on the surface, and dark humor on the backside. Take your lumps, you whiney coward!
I mean, be brave.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
You may have enjoyed a peaceful holiday, but for trend watcher and idea man Spin Williams, the work never stops. He is firmly focused on a future too far off for most of us to see clearly. His brain has been churning since before Thanksgiving with the news that military minds are hard at work on the next leap forward. Spin’s New Investment Techno Weekly Internet Transcript (NITWIT) arrived on schedule, early this morning.
I pass it along as a public service:
Here at The Meeting That Never Ends we were thrilled to see that our own Department of Defense is studying the Flying Snakes of Asia. Never mind why! All Defense Department research is Top Secret, or ought to be. Let our military leaders issue their usual bland denials about what they’re up to. They’ll never tell us what it’s really about, and they shouldn’t. Besides, it’s more fun to make something up!
Here’s a video of the snakes in question, just to show you what we’re talking about. I have no idea what is being said. It might be a foreign language or just people muttering nonsense syllables sparked by tongue paralyzing fear, but if you look at the images it’s obvious the snakes aren’t flying, they’re just falling in a very, very creepy way.
Simply terrifying. But a simple thing can be more than enough to change the world. Or if it doesn’t change the world, it can be enough to send the world running for its life into the underbrush, screaming and blubbering with panic and astonishment. I know that’s how I’d respond to a flying snake!
You may say “Why, Spin, would our Department of Defense want to be involved with such a mortifying creature?” I say “Why not?” It’s the Defense Department, after all. Horrible stuff is their business.
And next you might say, “But Spin, why are you sharing this grotesque news with me?”
Because, dear reader, we at The Meeting That Never Ends believe this is the first step in the eventual design and construction of military Slithercraft. I say this because I know scientists are already studying all the different ways nature has shaped animals to create the most efficient systems possible. In fact, some researchers are now convinced the most economical kind of flying machine will be rounder and stubbier than our current air fleet – something shaped more like a fluffy robin than a sleek missile. But when it comes to building a potentially pants-wetting fighter that would be hard to shoot down, the Slithercraft is (or will be) man’s most unbeatable rip-off of nature ever.
Ultimately, Defense related technical advances lead to commercial uses (Velcro, anyone?) At T.M.T.N.E. we think Slithercraft technology will find its way into our commercial air fleet, and within 30 years we’ll all be wiggling our way across the sky in large, very flexible vehicles. In fact, within 100 years I predict that our atmosphere will be crowded with writhing, speeding air carriers – so much so that from a distance of several thousand light years, it will appear that our planet is nothing more than a spinning ball of serpents.
What does our Department of Defense know that would lead them to try to create such an image for distant observers? Let your imagination run wild.
The question of the moment is this: What does the Slithercraft mean for today’s investor? Plastics, of course, and Dramamine. Any company specializing in one (or both) of those areas is one you should look at very closely.
Your Insightful Pal,
Spin
Although Spin has lots of experience and a great imagination, I’m not ready to put all the family savings into motion sickness stocks. But would I bet against Spin’s vision?
No I would not.
Other than man, what is the most terrifying natural creature?
The Seed Saver’s Exchange was started by Kent and Diane Whealy with some seeds that
came from Diane’s grandfather. Kent and Diane realized these seeds would be lost if they didn’t save them and pass them on to other people. The first meeting was held in the Whealy’s home. SSE now has more than 13,000 members with a core group of about 800 who collect, produce and distribute rare seeds to other SSE members. I have been part of SSE for many years and I think makes gardeners more aware of issues related to the breeding and conservation of cultivated plants.
Several years ago I volunteered to write an article about Mary Shultz for an SSE newsletter. Mary was an SSE member with an unusually high dedication to seed saving. I was aware of her efforts from seeing her listings in the SSE Year Book, which is an annual summary of the all the seeds that members are willing to send to other members. Lettuce was her specialty. I have the seed of a few very nice kinds of lettuce that Mary sent to me at my request.
I wanted to interview Mary, but her health had been failing for several years and she wasn’t able to speak on the phone. Fortunately I was able to contact her husband, Arthur, and her daughter, Laurie. They sent me some articles written by and about Mary. The SSE office also shared some of her correspondence. I learned that Mary did all the garden planning. Arthur provided most of the labor. One year they grew 153 kinds of lettuce. They also sold to restaurants where the chefs altered their menus to include these high quality vegetables from Mary and Arthur. One of my favorite kinds of lettuce is a variety called Becker, which I grow using seed sent to me by Mary. A note was included with this seed indicating that Mary thought I should have it because it came from a Minnesota family. I told Laurie that this lettuce seed was an unexpected gift from her mother, and she said Mary was known for doing things like that.
Mary also wrote newspaper articles about gardening, and in one of them she stated that it was her hope that she had been able to encourage others to grow more of their own vegetables and become less dependent on getting them from large scale, highly industrialized farms. In a letter Mary said that she found comfort in her contacts with members of SSE because her great dedication to gardening and seed saving was not understood by most of the people she knew. When I talked to Arthur he said that Mary was still making gardening plans and she had given him a list of things she wanted him to plant.
Mary was in hospice care toward the end of her life and passed away a short time after my article was published. She had a very large and generous personality that matched the large size of her seed collection. I think we can learn a lot from people like Mary who make big efforts to conserve valuable resources and to pass on important information and ideas. Although I don’t expect that I will be able to follow directly in Mary’s footsteps, the example she set has inspired me to continue to add to my seed saving efforts and to expand other work that I value.
Just one week until our annual pageant of turkey, trimmings and trying to get along with the relatives. I consider Thanksgiving to be the least compromised national holiday, staying closest to its original intent – gratitude – probably because it uses a timeless vehicle of expression – food. No matter what you might try to add to the festivities, it all comes back to a common table and an attitude of thankfulness. Even “Black Friday” pales by comparison.
It's Not Personal.
Now might be a good time to take a nice, long walk with your turkey to explain the beauty and cruelty of the circle of life. This is still one of my favorite pictures in the whole blogging photo album – two friends take a stroll through the woods to commiserate about some impending bad news.
Of course, it’s guests that make Thanksgiving a time for sharing, so during the lead-up to the big day, I’ll be welcoming guest bloggers to Trail Baboon. Madislandgirl, Renee, Joanne, Jim, Sherrilee and tim have agreed to attend this time and they are each bringing a special dish. I won’t give it away completely, but expect lettuce, steak, bird a la grease, a chunk of old barn and one live elk. Mmm!
As always please be kind to our guests. After all, the only difference between you and them is that they volunteered this time. Next time the “cake catastrophe” (Joanne’s) could be on another foot – yours!
And speaking of being a guest writer, I’m making my first post-MPR appearance in another online venue this week with an article in The Line. If you sign up to receive this free, weekly online magazine, they will be forced to conclude that I am a genius. Just put your e-mail address next to the gray box halfway down the right side of the opening page. Simple.
As humans, we are surprisingly adept at not noticing things. But just to prove it, researchers occasionally get the funding to conduct wonderfully entertaining studies that prove just how oblivious we can be. One involved getting people half drunk – just enough to miss seeing a stranger in a bear suit, but not quite drunk enough to definitely see Joe Biden in an elephant costume. That’s a fine distinction that’s not easy to duplicate in the lab.
The idea of doing a can-you-see-the-dude-in-an-animal-suit study goes back to a famous trial in 1999, where subjects were asked to count the number of times the people wearing white passed the basketball. Here’s the video:
Half the participants in the study didn’t see the simian. The conclusion drawn from this is that people misjudge their own ability to notice significant, unexpected events while they are are concentrating on a task. It’s called “Inattentional Blindness”.
As far as I can figure, this type of blindness is inattentional, unintentional, and surprisingly conventional. No matter how you re-arrange that sentence, it’s fun to say, although most people will totally miss it if you try to make it a punch line.
A couple of weeks ago, I took my wife’s Toyota to the priciest, slickest car wash in our part of town – the closest thing we have to a spa for automobiles. I signed the vehicle up for an exterior / interior makeover. On the outside it got a nice thorough cleaning and a thick coat of wax. On the inside, it was given the brisk but professional attention of a swarm of guys with vacuums and polishing cloths. It’s not as indulgent as sending the thing off to a luxury retreat in the Sonoran Desert for a crude oil bath and new-car-smell aromatherapy, but if I were a 2009 coupe, I would feel rejuvenated.
Of course, if I were an automobile that incorporated even a few of my human personality traits, I would be the subject of a very expensive lawsuit right now.
When I walked out into the drying-off area to re-claim the vehicle, I noticed the emergency flashers had been turned on. “Nice touch”, I thought. “They’re concerned about safety.” Plus, it gave the impression to everyone nearby that something significant had just happened. When I slid behind the wheel I couldn’t immediately see how to turn the flashers off and more cars were coming out of the wash line behind me, so I drove out to the street and parked, blinking all the way.
It's in this area ... somewhere.
Looking over the dashboard, I checked the area around the radio, near the temperature controls, all the way down the console to the gearshift. Nothing. I tried the stalks on either side of the steering column. One controlled the lights, the other the windshield washers. Nope. I looked around the cruise control buttons, the instrument cluster, overhead where the sunroof switches are located. No emergency flasher button. Weird. By its very nature of being a necessary feature in times of stress, the emergency button should be easy to find. I looked at all the places again and again with the same result each time. I pulled out the owners manual and found no listing under “Emergency” or “Warning”. I looked through the “lights” section. I checked out the dashboard illustration. Why weren’t they telling me anything about the dang flashers?
Time was running out. The car was due back at home ten minutes ago, but I didn’t want to drive it with my blinkers going, so I swallowed my pride and walked back up to the car wash exit where the same platoon of guys were busily polishing and drying off the next and the next in an endless stream of vehicles.
“You guys turned on my emergency flashers,” I yelled to a manger-type over the sound of the mechanical drying equipment, “and I know I should be able to find the switch, but I can’t.”
He didn’t roll his eyes, but I could tell he wanted to.
Hidden in Plain Sight
We walked out to the car. He opened the door, reached in, and without looking, tapped a HUGE button in the middle of the dashboard. The button bore a mammoth red triangle large enough to post as a warning sign on the back of an Amish mega-bus.
I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all, and thanked him. He said nothing, and just walked away, shaking his head. “Jerk,” I thought. “I just gave you a great story about a numbskull with inattentional blindness, and for this I get no gratitude.”
Now that I think back on it, he might have been wearing a gorilla suit.
When have you suffered from Inattentional Blindness?
Trail Baboon 
