Tagged: edlines.co
In defense of cargo shorts
I’ve been choking on my Sunday morning oatmeal reading blasphemous blather in the Detroit Free Press decrying one of my favorite warm weather garments as, “dumpy and dorky, silly and bulky.” It’s all in the context of what clothes guys shouldn’t wear if they want to charm women into dating them this summer.
I do not want to charm any women into dating me but I do want to charm my attractive wife of almost 45 years into not averting her eyes or wearing an “I’m with dumpy and dorky” t-shirt when we’re together in public.
In fact, when discussing this post with her, she assured me that I look just fine in cargo shorts. Who else looks just fine in cargo shorts? 
My daughter, in her late 20’s, assures me “Survivor” host Jeff Probst is definitely “hot” in his cargo shorts. I imagine he hides dozens of disgusting bugs and Kit Kat bars with which to torture and entice starving “Survivor” contestants, which just proves how both stylish and utilitarian they can be.
Let me continue my defense of the demeaned garment by pointing out the author’s assertion that “the shorts are completely inauthentic in that nobody, except maybe MacGyver or Indiana Jones, needs that many pockets and the men who insist on these shorts are, alas, neither,” is just as inauthentic.
I can’t even count the number of times my wife will ask me “honey, do you have any galvanized nails on you? I need one to repair one of my patio planters.” Are you kidding? I almost have to smoke a cigarette with satisfaction after fishing deep into one of my cargo shorts’s 9 pockets and coming up with a handful of various gleaming fasteners and asking her, “sure honey. what size?” Gonna be a big night.
I’ve worn cargo shorts on several assignments when covering floods or some other natural disaster in warm weather. It’s like having a cotton filing cabinet attached to your butt. Pens, pencils, pads, business cards, tissues, sunglasses, smartphone, half a donut…all arranged perfectly in my awesome cargo shorts’s pockets. I especially love it when my shorts have one of those deep, deep pockets. They always remind me of one of my late, funny father’s favorite putdowns regarding cheap guys. “Ha! He’s got short hands and long pockets!” I make sure I keep my spare change in those pockets.
While I’m definitely not the target audience for the Free Press story, I would maintain the writer missed an important point. Cargo shorts are perfect for young, horny guys. Do you know how many condoms you could stash in those things? Think outside the box, madam reporter, will ya?
I’m proud to say I own at least four pair of cargo shorts, thanks to the huge selection one can find in total testosterone places like Cabelas and Bass Pro Shops. They offer so many varieties of cargo shorts you could stock your entire closet with them. Hey…they even sell long pants that convert to cargo shorts when you unzip the bottom portion of each leg..so ..you can effectively wear cargo shorts all year long.
Don’t listen to the naysayer’s guys. Cargo shorts are manly as hell. Put on a pair. You’ll soon have the object of your affection, right in your deepest pocket.
Got a thought..partner?
Exactly a week ago I covered the news conference where Ford Executive Chairman Bill Ford announced the bloodletting naming of new CEO Jim Hackett and other management changes at the Blue Oval. What struck me, besides how fast the deposed CEO, Mark Fields was shown the door to the Glass House, was one of the roles Ford said he would play in the new regime. Ford put it succinctly in a story for my current workplace Automotive News, saying “”I plan to be very active with Jim as a thought-partner.”
A few years ago, when I headed Fiat Chrysler Automobiles digital communications team, I was asked to appear on a panel in Chicago to discuss “thought leaders.” Now I’m not sure that “thought partner” and “thought leader” are much different from each other except a “thought partner” may not have cogent enough thoughts to be a “thought leader,” although I would think as executive chairman of a giant automaker, Bill Ford’s thoughts must be considered “leading.” One of the reasons given for the dismissal of Mark Fields was the nearly 40 percent drop in Ford’s share price since he took over a little more than three years ago. One would think the man whose name is on the building would have contributed some leading thoughts on how to stop that slide. Apparently not. But as a “thought partner” to the new CEO perhaps it means he will now share the responsibility of thinking up stuff to keep the automaker afloat.
Honestly, a term such as “thought partner” reminds me of when I gave my “thought leaders” presentation. I refused to use that term because to me it’s just another one of those cute little phrases those who consider themselves leaders in thinking think up to build themselves up and then write books that are obsolete by the time they are published. See my previous blog post re self-help books.
I like to encourage those who work for me and with me to always be thinking of new, better and more creative ways to accomplish our goals. Some are stronger thinking artistically while others are especially adept on the business side. There are some folks who can think in pictures and abstract concepts. You’ll always find people who seem to be more literal but are nonetheless leading thinkers on that plane. That’s why you have to empower colleagues and teammates to come forth with their thoughts since it’s not uncommon for the best, fully-baked ideas to rise from a recipe that includes combining dollops of collective thoughts. If you can make that happen, then the true “thought leaders” are actually groups of “thought partners” working together.
Ya think?
Pippa’s wedding: A view from the rear
A lot of attention was paid this weekend to Pippa Middleton’s wedding. I suppose there would have been some attention paid to her nuptials since she’s the sister of Prince William’s wife, Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. Realistically, however, I’m convinced the attention would have been scant, if the comely royal sibling had not graced us with the contours of her shapely derriere as she emerged from a car, arriving at her sister’s wedding in her clingy bridesmaid’s confection. 
Tabloids mooned over Pippa’s apparent, and unintentional momentary eclipsing of her sister’s big day. Indeed, one was hard pressed to immediately find photos of the face of that belonged to the gluteus fabulous. It turned out the camera loved Pippa’s entire package, and compared to her attractive royal sister, she is certainly no Joanie comely lately.
Still, looking at the scores of images and videos of Pippa’s big day one cannot wonder if those online photo galleries and front page play would have existed at all had she not exited that car back in 2011, in reverse, setting off her seismic ass-cent into the public consciousness. We found out she’s a party planner, had lots of boyfriends and has plenty of quid thanks to her wealthy parents and an earnest work ethic. We even were treated to photos of her from the front..but only begrudgingly, by supermarket tabloids that earned their publisher’s megabucks by featuring photos of mega butts.
The demand for her flattering dress spiked almost immediately as well as the popularity of diet and exercise programs aimed at emulating Pippa’s curvy hindquarter geometry.
I still couldn’t tell you what Pippa’s voice sounds like since I’ve never heard it. Then again, I neither encountered nor sought any recordings of it. Nothing personal. Just not interested.
I’m hoping now that both sides of the lovely Pippa are committed in matrimony this will be pretty much the last we’ll hear of her. Considering the source of her original notoriety, it’s time the world turned the other cheek. Then again, while she seems harmless enough there are plenty of asses in D.C., who should, perhaps, never show their faces.
If we all could call in a Closer
He sat in front of his locker with a towel on his head and took no questions. It was the man the Detroit Tigers depend upon to successfully seal the deal when they’re ahead in a game. The “closer.” Two nights in a row Francisco Rodriquez, K-Rod, did not seal the deal. He did not close the door. He made enough mistakes to allow the team the Tigers were beating to beat them instead. It made me think about this particular arrangement where we call on someone else to finish the job we started then allow them to suffer loathing, both self and external, when they can’t quite get it done.
Let’s say we’re writing a news story. I make the calls, do the research and start to write. I’m almost done but I’m outta gas. The words aren’t coming to me and my fingers are tired from typing. I could also use a stiff drink and a hot dog. No problem. I call in “the closer” who is tasked with finishing my story in such a way it not only the front page lead but is so amazing it goes viral and CNN employs a panel of 27 pundits to parse it and assigns it a dramatic theme song and spooky graphics.
But that’s not the way it goes down. The closer is fatigued from bailing out a half-dozen of my colleagues and depleting his hyperbole supply. By the time I call him into my game he’s got nothin’. He gamely takes the assignment anyway because closers never say “no” when their number comes up or they’re offered single malt Scotch. He taps and taps on the keyboard and I feel editorial victory is imminent. It’ll be my byline all over the paper and CNN will ask me to do a Skype interview with Anderson Cooper who will compliment my journalistic enterprise, and cuff links, while privately I will know it was the Closer who won the day for me. But that’s not the way it went down. The Closer falls short. Working on no day’s rest he coughs up three errors of fact and two blatant personal biases. I’m called on the carpet by the Managing Editor and ordered to personally write the corrections and an apology to the readers for allowing bias to breach the body of my story.
Damn Closer! It was his job to complete my assignment, make me look good and pave the way to that Pulitzer. He apologized profusely and promised to pull himself together for the next assignment. I just don’t know if I can trust him anymore. For now on I’ll have to pitch a complete game..from lead to nut graph to conclusion. But I can’t go on indefinitely like this. In a pique of frustration I stole the one thing that would get the newsroom’s attention and hit my colleagues the hardest. When one hapless scribe padded up to the kitchenette looking to fill his empty mug, he was greeted with Alec Baldwin’s greatest line. “Coffee is for Closers.”
My White House Correspondents Assn. Dinner Monologue
I wasn’t invited to the White House Correspondents Association Dinner, but then again, the President wasn’t there either. So I thought I’d’ make believe I was invited to give the closing monologue. I expect the same uncomfortable silence the actual comedian usually receives.
Good evening everyone. As I stand here at the podium I can only imagine you’re thinking to yourselves, “jeez, give the poor midget a box to stand on.” That, followed by “uh…like, who the hell is he?” I’ll help you out on that one. Well, no I won’t. You’re all reporters. Figure it out yourselves. Perhaps you can file a Freedom of Infotainment request for the anti-Semitic consultants report on me when I was a weatherman at KGUN in Tucson, Arizona that complained when I used the word “spritz” on the air, it was, uh, “too Eastern.” Yeah…Eastern European. Ashkinazi.
Of course the real reason we’re here tonight is to celebrate the First Amendment and denigrate those who would impose limits on this most basic inalienable right. That would be the current occupant of the Oval Office. It’s the perfect place for him since he’s absolutely obtuse.
I won’t waste precious time and space taking repeated shots at the President although it would be somewhat satisfying seeing him bleed from his heart or his, wherever.
I would like to spend my time with you tonight to discuss the the First Amendment and how similar abuses of it are eerily similar to the way the Second Amendment is misinterpreted and bent to suit the desires of some.
The First Amendment says we’re guaranteed freedom of speech, press, assembly and religion. The Second Amendment says no law can “infringe” on the right to form a “well-regulated” militia or on the right to keep and bear arms.
OK. Both good laws. The first one guarantees the right for us to shoot off our mouths, even if we sound like incoherent or insulting idiots. The second protects our right to own weapons of crass reduction, and strict constructionists might argue it gives us the right to shoot off someone’s else’s mouth, in self-defense.
Many people who do not own guns do own mouths. In some cases, they are the more harmful since they often indiscriminately fire off volleys of invective, bigotry, lies and pervasive puns without regard as to whose ears they may land upon and cause great emotional harm. Perhaps they should not leave the house before putting on an oral safety. On the other hand, there are those who own both guns and mouths. I’m guessing the vast majority are sports men and women and use their mouths to holler, “Ah seen a buck. Bang! Deaaaaddd!” However there are others who use both the First and Second Amendments as the means to advocate putting no limits on what types of weapons can be sold, especially those with the sole purpose of hunting humans, for which there is no designated season or license you can buy at Walmart or sporting goods stores. You are permitted to wear blaze orange at will, but not really cool at a Bar Mitzvah.
I have been a journalist in TV, radio, wires, newspapers, and the web for 45 years and can honestly I never felt my First Amendment rights were being infringed upon even when an editor slaughtered what I thought was frothy word play. I’ve never owned a gun, other than a Daisy air rifle and it was pulled from my cold, muddy hands by my mother because I kept using it to shoot dirt clods at the kid next door because he had a horrible crew cut and thought he was Leslie Gore.
So I close reminding all of you we must never loosen our grip on the freedoms given to us by men with wooden teeth and steel balls. Should those rights be threatened by someone, do not hesitate to raise your Daisy air rifle, and fill their pants with dirt. Thank you.
Knowing Lucy from a hole in the ground
Haven’t written for a bit. That’s because I was on vacation so I let my brain take a breather too…while marinating in various brown elixirs that generally mix well with pretzels and smoked meats.
With that in mind, I want to discuss holes in the ground. Specifically, the holes we stick people in when they draw the ultimate short straw. This macabre subject came to mind as our travels took us to Jamestown, New York. It’s where Lucille Ball was from and where she currently, and eternally, resides. We noticed the cemetery where she’s buried is right off the Interstate 86 so we decided to pay homage.
A series of red hearts helpfully painted on the cemetery road directs you to the Ball family plot. I didn’t get a photo of that because it was too silly. 
If you look closely, there is humility in death. Though Lucy was a huge star, she does not warrant top billing on the family stone since she was not the first to “arrive” at this spot, preceded by her parents, grandparents and father’s brother.
Indeed, when she died on April 26, 1989, she was cremated and first interred in Forest Lawn Cemetery in California, but in 2002 her kids moved her ashes to the family plot in Jamestown.
As we quietly stood by the plot and thought about how much laughter Lucy had given the world I couldn’t help wonder about this whole business of visiting graves. We use the euphemism of a person’s “final resting place,” but if they were actually “resting” does that mean when the person is refreshed they’d get up and go to dinner or take a walk? Of course not. A half-empty approach would be to quote Newton’s First Law of Motion that states “a body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it.” I have a feeling there is no outside force that will reverse the effects of one’s final “rest.” Push it, pull it, cajole it, sneak up on it. Nothing’s happening.
Then I wonder what’s really down there that we’re visiting. Lucy’s ashes, someone else’s bones, worms, bugs?
I live in Michigan. My parents are both buried in Florida. 
Every year I travel down there and “visit” them. It makes me feel better even though I know the scientific truth of what lays below my feet. I let them know what’s happened in the family over the past year and I imagine them either smiling, frowning or asking me if I’ve eaten. It’s OK. To not visit would seem like I was abandoning them and that, I just couldn’t do. You don’t think of what’s in the box, because that would be horrible. But you know that’s as close as you’re gonna get to their last known location and somehow that’s comforting.
By visiting Lucy’s last stop, it was a way to honor a talent…someone who made the world a happy place and deliver your thanks for the laughs..in person. 
Revenge Rewards
I never fly United. Not because I fear a couple of guys will suddenly wrench me out of my seat, knocking out a few teeth and putting an overall damper on my traveler-as-livestock experience. I never fly United because the nearest airport to where I live is a Delta hub and I’m a sucker for hoarding that airline’s frequent flyer miles so I can be treated like a Holstein by that carrier without paying for it. I tell you this to establish the fact I have nothing personal against United Airlines, so when I comment about that airline’s recent spectacular PR fails I do so without any baggage, thereby avoiding additional exorbitant fees.
Actually, I’m not going to pick on United. I’m going to pick on the basic business model airlines operate under. They sell more tickets than seats available as insurance against no-shows. If everyone shows up they’ve got to figure out a way to placate the pissed-off passengers for whom a seat isn’t available. Their first tactic is to offer a small bribe that gradually escalates in value until they get enough volunteers. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. In United’s case, they needed to make room for their employees and not paying customers. So they made the perfectly logical decision to wrench a paying customer from his seat, mashing his face and providing fodder for a hugely embarrassing video that would go viral within moments of it being posted. The passenger will most likely sue for a much larger amount than United would have had to pay to convince him to change flights.
I’d like to propose another way to reward air travelers for the regular abuse they suffer. Introducing TLS Rewards. TLS being an acronym for Treated Like Shit. Each time a passenger submits an instance of being treated like shit by an airline, they accrue a number of points that’s in proportion to the abuse. Lost bag? 100 points. Whacked in the head by a passing beverage cart? 150 points. Hoping for those yummy Biscoff cookies but all they have is peanuts with your coffee? 50 points. Grabbed from your seat by a couple of security guys and your head bashed into the armrest resulting in lost teeth? 10,000 points and first class seating for life with the firm promise that once seating you won’t be brutally un-seated. Plus unlimited Biscoff cookies. When you accrue enough TLS points you become entitled to various rewards such as the chance to chase baggage handlers with the Jetway, unlimited vouchers for that all- Slim Jim snack box, permission to use a pillow to suffocate the guy hogging both arm rests and the chance to use the plane’s PA system to entertain the other passengers with your impressions of indecipherable gate agent announcements. Perks like these would seem to be just the type of mood changers that could offset the otherwise unpleasant aspects of flying, while not compromising safety. You can still earn free flights and upgrades through existing frequent traveler programs. Under TLS Rewards, you can also earn fun opportunities for revenge…and everyone knows, that’s what we all really want.
From shirtless Lambs to a Hall of Fame dumping..memories of the Palace and Joe
Most every sports fan around here has personal memories of Joe Louis Arena and The Palace of Auburn Hills so I’d like to share some that mostly have nothing to do with attending events but range from almost upstaging a Hall of Fame Red Wing to dealing with a Detroit Piston who couldn’t keep his shirt on. Here goes.
I was transferred to Detroit in 1989 by CNN from Atlanta. The timing was awful. Living in Atlanta for 8 years I had become quite the Hawks fan and grew a healthy hatred for the Detroit Pistons who had regularly beaten the Hawks and were in their Bad Boys phase, meaning, to opposing fans, they were loutish jerks–especially Bill Laimbeer.
After they won their second consecutive NBA championship in 1990 I was assigned to a rather slim story as to whether the Pistons were outgrowing their Bad Boys image and were ready to move on. I attended an afternoon shootaround at the Palace then sought some player interviews in the locker room. I had been warned about the Pistons and that they could be rough on reporters. After all, a female producer at our bureau told me how Dennis Rodman dropped his pants in front of her which, I suppose, would be classified a technical foul. I found Bill Laimbeer and he consented to the interview, which surprised me because he was about the baddest of the Bad Boys. He answered all my questions and I thanked him. Holding to his reputation he informs me “you can’t use anything you shot because I didn’t have a shirt on.” Huh? His team mate, former Atlanta Hawk Scott Hastings hears this and says to Laimbeer, “don’t be an asshole. They’re from CNN.” Laimbeer puts his shirt back on and says, OK roll. Now what did you want to know?” I gamely re-asked a couple of the questions just to get a soundbite for my story but I couldn’t escape him. A few months later I’m in line at the local car wash and there’s a guy in big Mercedes-Benz in front of me giving the attendant a hard time. At least he had his shirt on.
I had much better memories at The Joe. This time as an actual player. For our 25th anniversary my wife sent me to the Detroit Red Wings Fantasy Camp. It was September, 1998, a few months after they won their second straight Stanley Cup. The camp was run by assistant coach Dave Lewis. I hadn’t played hockey in over 20 years and my skates showed it. They were Bobby…not Brett..Hull CCM Tacks, which I bought while I was in college in 1972. After posing for the team photo Darren McCarty said, “hey, my father had those same skates!”
But what a thrill to come through the tunnel from the visitors locker room onto the Joe Louis Arena ice and skate over the Hockeytown logo. The big finish to the week was a game to benefit the Save the Children charity. In this video clip, during the introductions, I almost skated onto the blue line when they were talking about Hall of Famer Ted Lindsay. When it was finally my turn, it was awesome to have “Terrible Ted” give me a little pat.
Later in the game I would get an assist on a goal by Chris Osgood, who was skating on my line with Lindsey. Goosebumps.
My second best memory at The Joe was in 2013 while I was working for Fiat Chrysler. We played games against Red Wings alumni to benefit the United Way. The first part of this one being defended by Hall of Famer Larry Murphy. As I’m bringing the puck across the blue line, he whispers to me “take your shot!” I do, but the goalie saves it. But…even better, later in the game, as I was being defended by another Hall of Famer, Dino Ciccarelli, he playfully puts me down on the ice and I’m awarded a penalty shot. The goalie came out to cut my angle but I slipped the puck to my backhand and roofed it home. You can see it all in this video shot with a GoPro mounted on my helmet.
How can I forget what happened at the Palace in 1998? That’s when we scored tickets to see the Spice Girls. I was covering a long strike against General Motors in Flint but CNN was nice enough to get Gary Tuchman to fill in for me so I could run down I-75 to take my family to the show. My ears are still ringing from being among 20.000 screaming 10-year old girls and a thousand shell-shocked dads. When I got back to the picket lines Flint Congressman Dale Kildee tried his best in asking me “How were those Spice Babies?”
But my best memory of all was during the 1990 NBA finals at the Palace. I was given two tickets behind the Los Angeles Lakers bench. My father-in-law was in town from Rochester, N.Y. He’d never before attended an NBA game so who else would I take? Right before our eyes there was Magic and Kareem and James Worthy and down the line all the defending champ Pistons–Isaiah Thomas, Joe Dumars et.al. My father-in-law’s eyes lit up, seeing these famous athletes close up. It was a night we both cherished and I always will.
Prompt recollections
Since taking on a part-time position as a video reporter at Automotive News I’ve found myself filling in every few weeks for the regular anchor of our daily afternoon newscast, AutoNews Now. I hadn’t anchored any sort of newscast since 1988 when I anchored Newsnight Update for awhile on CNN. If you’re not familiar with that show, that’s because it aired 1:30 a.m.-2:30 a.m. Eastern time and was aimed at west coast viewers and those in other time zones working off a hard night of drinking bad muscatel.
The absence of 29 years from the anchor desk was quite an awakening, especially when it comes to that thing called a teleprompter. Oh, I guess technically I’m supposed to spell it TelePrompTer since it’s a brand name that’s become generic like Kleenex for tissues.
My first anchor experience was in the late 1970’s at KGUN-TV in Tucson, Arizona where I’d occasionally handle “Good Morning Tucson,” the local cut-ins during “Good Morning America.” 
Back then the prompter was simply a little conveyer belt onto which the operator loaded the script pages end to end. The operator would then use a little thumbwheel to get the conveyer belt moving, passing each page under a small camera, which sent the image of the script to a monitor placed under the anchor’s camera lens, reflecting it onto a two-way mirror over the lens so the anchor could look directly into it and make people believe they either memorized the whole thing or made it up on the spot.
This simple technology worked for a long time, but had it’s limitations. At KGUN the prompter was located next to a door that led from the studio to the parking lot. Every time someone went in or out during a newscast, all the script pages would go flying off the belt and the poor operator was stuck trying to gather them up and place them back on the belt in the correct order. This almost never was successful causing the anchor to deliver such non sequiturs as “A plane crash near Phoenix today resulted in lower than expected attendance at the 4H Club’s bake sale. The city council voted unanimously to plead guilty to sexual harassment charges.”
By the time I anchored at CNN the technology had actually not changed one bit. The difference at CNN is, due to the nature of its 24-hour broadcast schedule, scripts were constantly being written and delivered to the prompter and the rest of the crew just moments before they were to be read.
One night the scripts were running particularly late and the production assistant charged with delivering the scripts was running like crazy and became completely unhinged. In her rush she simply tossed the pile of scripts to the prompter operator and, as you might expect, they immediately were shuffled out of order. All I could see from the anchor desk was a young person behind the prompter mouthing, “oh crap oh crap oh crap!” while the fallen pages remained on the ground.
I should interject at this point, anchors are also provided hard copies of scripts just in case there should be an unfortunate prompter problem. The trick is, turning the pages of your hard copy in sync with the prompter so, if needed, you can dive down to the hard copy and continue reading. It’s tougher than it looks and many anchors simply use their hard copies as placemats for the coffee and danish they bring on the set, just out of view.
Now fast forward to 2012. By then I was head of digital communications at Fiat Chrysler Automobiles. A good part of my duties involved setting up a video operation at the automaker and that included having a small studio built for recording and transmitting executive interviews. The long time gap since my last studio experience became quickly apparent when the prompter was installed. I looked high and low but couldn’t find the conveyer belt/camera apparatus. When I asked someone about it, the much-younger person laughed at me as she said, “are you, like 100?” before explaining prompters had long before moved to the digital age where all you had to do was load a Word file of the script into a laptop that’s connected to the monitor/two-way mirror set up on the camera.
This worked very well except for when, in the spirit of teamwork, I ran the prompter for one of our Italian executives who needed to record a message totally in Spanish. Not being able to understand a word of the script I just kept moving the lines up at the executive’s pace. He finally stopped in frustration and said to me, in perfect English, “you suck!” Ah, the joys of multi-linguilism.
I retired from FCA at the end of July, 2016, but was offered the part-time job I have now at Automotive News, which I enjoy very much. Every so often, as I mentioned at the start, I fill in for our regular anchor. The first time he showed me the studio the issue of the prompter came up. He smiled as he handed me the thumb-operated controller and informed me there weren’t enough people on the team to have a prompter operator so anchors were on their own.
If you watch any of our newscasts, you’ll notice we keep one hand, the hand operating the prompter, out of view. I’ve gotten the hang of it pretty well. It just takes a little practice. It seems to be a problem for some of our viewers however, since they have no idea what’s going on under the table and it’s prompted a few to ask some inappropriate questions. Let’s just say my thumb’s pretty busy.
A legging to stand on
I get the reason United Airlines didn’t let two legging-wearing young ladies aboard one of their planes, but let’s think about this. 
Indeed, my wife and I had just such a discussion during our recent trip to Florida. We recalled a time when travelers got all gussied up for air travel, not only to impress the other travelers, but in hopes the flight attendant might comp them a scotch on the rocks, or move them up to first class. Nowadays you can pretty much wear a sack and flip flops when jetting from A to B. Have people simply become slobs or too arrogant to care how they appear in public? That may be part of the answer, but I believe what’s really going on is we’re dressing for duress. During those days when air travel was considered something special, a privilege, a treat, passengers were treated as such. Airlines cheerfully checked our luggage as part of the price of a ticket and the boarding process was orderly and humane. There was plenty of overhead bin space in which to store one’s coat or brief case. One barely broke a sweat.
Air travel now? I’d rather get caught in the middle of the stampede during Free Depends Day in Delray Beach. Dress up? Are you kidding? The exorbitant fees to check a bag mean added incentive to schlep it through the airport, onto the plane and wishing and hoping for some precious overhead bin space into which you can wrestle it. I’m already schvitzing thinking about it.
Then there’s the whole process of simply getting on the plane. Because overhead space is such a premium, passengers who were either too cheap, too stubborn or simply couldn’t handle the bag check fees, crowd to the frontlines of the battle, ready to elbow, body check or step on the feet of fellow competitors who just want a spot to store their bag. It’s a contact sport, baby, and formal wear is not the uniform!
When you’re finally on the plane, if not fortunate enough to be sitting in the relative luxury of first class, you’re stuffed into a seat roughly the width of a toothpick. You squeeze yourself in as best you can, wishing you had three knees per leg so as best to adequately fold them into the stingy space in front of you, then play to the death that game of “the arm rest is mine, sucka!”
So it’s no wonder fliers choose to wear clothing more appropriate for battle on land, seat and air as opposed to the sky salons of the past. I personally don’t care if you wear leggings, leotards or liederhosen as long as you act like a human, haven’t drenched yourself with Axe, don’t try to hog both arm rests and never, ever, ask me “so..whatcha gonna do when we get to Cleveland?” I’ll explain the terms of my parole.
edLINES 