COME FLY THE FRIENDLY SKIES

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When I was a kid, I used to love flying on airplanes. Of course, when I was a kid, I also thought Knight Rider could really talk, so I was obviously a pretty dumb kid.

But now that I am older, I rank commercial flying on the fun scale just above being Mike Tyson’s cellmate.

And you can tell me all of the statistics you want regarding the safety of flying. It doesn’t matter. I look at an airplane and I see a giant bus with wings. I have ridden a bus before. Slap a couple of wings on that sucker and pin a set of plastic wings on the driver, and it ain’t flying, pal. So what makes you think this thing should be any different?

Recently, I took a flight up to Washington, D.C. I flew into Dulles International airport, where flights from around the globe come and go each day. After spending about 10 minutes in Dulles, it dawned on me why so many people around the world hate Americans -- because they stop at Dulles first. Dulles is to airports what Michael Irvin is to football. Sure it does the job, but it still makes you loathe airports in general.

Another problem with Dulles is that it is comparable in size to Idaho. Now, I understand that airports have to be big. No problem. Hartsfield in Atlanta is big. But it has those nice little trains that zip you from concourse to concourse with a computerized voice that says things like, "The doors are closing" and "Please stand back" and "Mr. Gibbons, do you really think you’re gonna catch your connecting flight? Ha!"

But not at Dulles. No, sir. Instead, you and the rest of Western Europe have to board these modified cattle cars they call shuttles, and they zip you across the runways -- in between planes, mind you -- to another gigantic section of the airport, which, allegedly, houses the exit. I can just imagine what some poor Dutch child must think when he’s cruising through the runways, dodging 747s. He’s probably thinking, "Why do they call us Dutch? We’re from Holland, for crying out loud. How about Hollanders? Or Hollandish? Or Hollandaise?" But he also may be thinking, "I have been on American soil for seven minutes, and I am about to be crushed by a Boeing. Mental note -- hate all Americans forever."

(Editor’s note: We would like to take this moment to apologize to all Dutch people for the last remark. Mike has nothing against the Dutch. He even likes Rik Smits. He just has some jetlag.)

Despite the international horror that was Dulles, to me, nothing can top the flying part itself for sheer discomfort. The whole concept of flying doesn’t make sense. The way I see it, if God had wanted us to fly, he would have had no need to invent air sickness bags.

On my last flight, I was probably as nervous as I have ever been on a flight. And I blame the media. You see, my last flight left the day after John F. Kennedy Jr.’s plane went down. Prior to boarding my flight, I made the moronic move of picking up a newspaper, where I could read such inspiring and reassuring articles with headlines such as "JFK’s Final Fatal Moments" and "Air Tragedy Consumes America Again" and "Mike Gibbons Could Be Next to Go." (For the record, I don’t know if the last one was an actual headline, because I had to stop reading. That and I had to turn to the comics, which begs the question: Why don’t people call them funny pages anymore? And why doesn’t anyone use the phrase filling station anymore? Just curious.) I was not the only passenger who felt the media’s coverage of this tragedy did not need to extend to airports. In fact, about 200 of us sat in the boarding area and stared in group amazement as CNN aired footage from other airplane disasters. Uplifting!

Another thing that made my flight as enjoyable as oral surgery was the fact that it was delayed for several hours. Because of thunderstorms, we had to sit in the plane on the runway, waiting for the friendly skies to clear up. This wasn’t the ideal way to travel, but I had a couple of magazines and a newspaper with graphic descriptions of air disasters, so I could sit back and read. And then She spoke up.

She had been sitting next to me, quietly for the first 10 minutes or so. And then She started. She didn’t talk so much as She broadcast, to no one in particular, her general feelings about anything and everything. "It is so hot in here! Are we gonna ever get off the ground? Why is this plane late? Shouldn’t we be taking off? Why is everyone looking at me like they are going to beat me to death with their Sky magazines?"

And this went on and on and on. For a while, she was stuck on the whole taking off thing, and why it was ridiculous that these pilots didn’t have us in the air and blah blah blah. You know, if a trained commercial airline pilot doesn’t think the weather is suited for flying, I’m going to side with him, not Queen of the Loud, Unnecessary Commentary. Quite frankly, I don’t want Capt. Evel Knievel in the cockpit, turning to his co-pilot and saying, "Hey, Bob -- you think we can make it? Let’s try it!"

Fortunately, however, I made it back safe and sound, albeit a little bit weary from the trip. As I was curling up into my own bed in my own home, I began to reflect on the trip, thinking to myself, They could always change the country name to Dutchland.