A Misanthrope At The Airport

Let me begin by saying that I accept full responsibility for the series of events that landed me in the Port Columbus International Airport (Columbus, OH) for 8 hours yesterday. Lest the good people of Columbus take the following observations of their airport the wrong way, I encourage you all the consider the source of these observations. To wit:

* I am a procrastinator, and bought my plane ticket to my brother’s graduation last minute. Also,
* I am broke, so I bought the tickets on a discount airfare website,which booked the tickets on two different airlines
* I am stupid, and went to JFK instead of LaGuardia on my way to St. Louis, consequently missed my flight, which resulted in various re-bookings, expensive new ticket purchases, and cancellations of previous itineraries, which, to make a long story short, meant that yesterday from 9:15 a.m. to 5:10 p.m., I was stuck in the airport of Columbus, Ohio and feeling particularly spiteful and misanthropic.

So, before anyone takes offense at my spiteful tales of Port Columbus International, please remember that I am a self-proclaimed meanie who is unpunctual, mentally addled and has no money, and that making fun of the people around me is my only source of joy.

But I digress.

When one sees a full work day stretching before them at a U.S. airport, there are a few options of how to spend the day.
a.) you can spend money – get drunk at the airport bar, buy the latest Secret to Success type book and some souvenir magnets, etc.
b.) you can read.
c.) you can walk around and marvel at the special kind of tacky that is Airport Commerce.

I realize that more fun-loving types who are apt to make lemonade when life hands them lemons etc. might choose to hop in a taxi and visit one of Columbus’ fine art galleries or take a stroll along the riverfront, but for the reasons listed above, this is simply not an option for a person of my termperment, and I chose instead to wander the airport feeling sorry for myself and taking inventory of the ways in which airports in general and airport commerce in particular are terrible.

My first venture was into the Broad and High shop, which had the usual airport merchandise. There was a special – 50% off luggage sets, the type designed for people who prefer to carry 7 small-to-medium sized bags with matching print rather than one large suitcase or duffel bag. The hand luggage sets were available in black and white floral, tastefull brown and tan checks, and – for the fun, young-at-heart yet monied travelers – pink with white polka dots! Hooray! I don’t think I have ever seen someone carrying one of these luggage sets in real life. But didn’t the evil woman who was going to marry the Dad in the Parent Trap movie bring this kind of luggage on the camping trip, thus tipping us off that she was frivolous, selfish, and not to be trusted? That aside, the luggage sets were 50% off, so, I don’t know, maybe the connotations would be worth it.

Also available at Broad and High was a line of costume jewelry (”Cool Jewels for a Cool World”) which featured rhinestone crucifix earrings for a cool $7.99. These were beside two of my favorite items in the entire airport: the wooden roses and the career coffee mugs. Roses first. They were pretty much exactly what they sound like. Roses carved from wood. Remarkably lifelike, even to this jaded and angry airport observer. Available in a wide range of colors, for $29.99 a dozen. Then there was the career coffee mug rack, where you buy gifts for people you barely know, clearly hate, but for some reason feel compelled to buy a souvenir mug inscribed with some witticism about their chosen career. Examples? Of course:

Insurance Agent – “Proud to be a risk covering, property protecting, policy issuing, no claims bonus INSURANCE AGENT!”
(They forgot “gerund loving,” but ok.)

Domestic Diva - “Just because I’m a family raising, meal cooking, homemaking phenomenon doens’t mean I’m a DESPERATE HOUSEWIFE!”

Corrections Officer – “Just because I’m in Prison Services doesn’t mean I DON’T GET OUT once in a while!”

After spending about 7 minutes in Broad and High being bombarded with shit I don’t need, I realized that by spending such a large amount of time in an airport I had planted myself squarely in that most coveted of demographic/consumer groups – Americans With Disposable Income. You can tell a lot about a group of people by what other people try to sell them. Looking closely at the merchandise for a particular group can tell you a lot about what those people need. For example, if you watch Grey’s Anatomy you will quickly realize from the advertisements that you are in the company of a group of women, let’s say 25-55 years of age, and that what this group needs is Crystal Light, cellulite reducing creams, Match.com, and eye wrinkle serum. In other words, health, beauty, love, and youth.

It became clear within the first hour at the PCIA Town Center Shops that one of the things that Americans With Disposable Income need most are Puns/Plays on Words.

Broad and High, for example, is the store of a fictional character named Sue Venir, a cartoon woman who is even at this moment “travelling the globe to bring you great designs at great prices.” Posters around B&H show Sue to be a slender yet busty gal with impressively sculpted arms, which are displayed as she flexes, holding several shopping bags in each arm. Sue wears a tasteful red sundress and enormous matching hat (presumably she is just back from scouring the Kentucky Derby to bring us back great gift items at excellent prices), along with classic pearls and oversized sunglasses. She is a paragon of style, taste, and wordplay.

Having had quite enough of Sue and her somehow very disturbing coffee mugs, I wandered into the airport Bath and Body Works to ask them how the liquid ban had affected their business. It seemed to me a miracle that they had not already gone under, since the whole purpose of the store is to sell liquids to people about to board planes. But I found a bustling center of commerce that had adapted quite smoothly to the new liquid-free-carry-on world (they ship for free to anywhere in the US, and focus heavily on selling travel-size [less than 3.0 oz] versions of their products, and provide customers with free quart size ziplock bags to bring their new loot onto their flights). In addition to Puns, they were also catering to two of the Disposable Income crowd’s most pressing needs: Time, and Relaxation.

The Relaxation, of course, took the form of lavendar-vanilla scented linen sprays, soothing gardenia body butters, and a line of cosmetic bags with the following commands emblazoned on them: “CHILL out,” “Calm,” and “good NIGHT” (irregular capitalization from the originals). Time is a little harder to bottle, but they have done it, with products like “Just a Minute” a hand-scrub that boasts that after just one minute of vigorous exfoliation, your hands “will look they spent all day at a spa.” There are also several products that double task, allowing you to disinfect your hands while reinvigorating your spirit, condition your hair while rejuvinating your soul, and even a lip balm that purports to freshen your breath, allowing you to substitute a nice lip conditioning for that pesky tooth brushing that takes up so much time. But most impressive, to my mind, were the puns. Favorites included “Bring Up The Rear” booty-firming potion and “Be More Pacific” a shower gel that smells like a beach. The geniuses behind this word fun should really look into writing headlines at the NY Post.

There was also an up-market line of products made from BBW’s exclusive marine complex, including a Coral Facial Polish which, in case there were any concerned marine biologists about to cause a scene, noted “no coral was harvested or utilized in the making of this product.” (Insert collective sigh of relief from eco-minded BBW shoppers with poorly developed senses of irony here.)

I left BBW, marching past “First Class Seats,” large massage chairs parked in the middle of the shopping area which exhort weary, time-pressed travellers to “RELAX IN A HURRY” by getting an electric massage in front of curious passers-by. At 3 minutes for $1 and 15 minutes for $5, you need only get over the anxiety around being massaged by a chair as busy people walk by and stare at you, and you can be granted both Time and Relaxation at once.

Tempted by the chairs (the 3 minute option being well within my allotted airport funds) but unable to stomach the idea of being so relaxed in such a public spot, I headed outside for some cigarette smoking.

The designated smoking area is truly the highlight of PCIA, and I say this with much sincerity and admiration. The smoking area is located across the street from the entrance, and the good smokers of Columbus endured their exile with minimal bitching. The area is equipped with three comfortable benches and two large ashtrays. But most importantly, there were lighters everywhere. Anyone who has tried to have a cigarette at an airport in the last year will appreciate this for the manifestation of kindness that it is. The kind-hearted smokers of Ohio, knowing they are about to have their lighters confiscated at security, leave them behind, allowing those of us stranded at the airport all day to venture out, have a smoke, and not have to walk around all stressed out, hunting for other smokers to ask for their lighter, only to find that the stranger’s lighter was also left at the previous airport, and awkwardly lighting our cigarette from theirs, a gesture that is somehow un poco too intimate a transaction for two complete strangers. No, no, not in Columbus. There you will find a pile of lighters distributed on the benches of the designated smoking area, providing not only much-needed fire but also a great up-beat conversation starter, should you choose to interact with your fellow exiles.

Returning to the interior in a much nicer mood, I noticed that the Port Columbus International Airport is in fact a very pleasant building. It is large and open, with very modern construction, all done up in white and very pale grays, with lots of glass. There are huge columnar spaces with skylights at the top that make it feel very breezy and the natural light is really just a treat. Also, in front of the main entrance is a large crystal obelisk, about 4 feet tall, on loan from the Columbus Ohio Art Museum. The obelisk is a piece by America sculptor Christopher Ries, and is called “Afterglow.” It catches the lovely natural light from the skylight and creates a pleasant prismatic rainbow effect.

The floor tile is also worth noting. It is white, but has flecks of colored glass embedded throughout, giving the floor a very playful feel. Adding to the playful fun atmosphere of the airport interior are Kids Color Columbus posters, 18×24 enlargements of children’s drawings of interesting sites in the city, accompanied by charming write-ups of the zoo, the jazz festival, etc. written by 8-10 year olds. Even I cannot hate that. There is also a police officer who rides a bicycle slowly up and down the ticketing area, picking up speed when foot traffic allows. What a place.

I ventured to Heritage Books, this time not to make fun of the merchandise, but with a mind to actually buy something. Specifically, I was hoping for a notebook. Heritage delivered. This is also a pretty big deal – I have had considerable trouble getting blank notebooks at other airport bookshops in the past. For example, the international departures terminal at JFK has no notebooks for sale. In the entire terminal! In addition, the very nice cashier pointed out that I need not buy a commemorative Columbus Ohio pen ($3.99) but that I could in fact purchase a $0.99 Papermate instead. Good people.

Next I visit the Nutcracker Suite, a shop that sells primarily bulk candy. I realize that I am fully pun-saturated when I find myself mentally congratulating Nutcracker Suite management for the restraint they showed in not dubbing their store Nutcracker Sweet. The sign outside the shop announced that they sell Candy, Ice Cream, Balloons, Souvenirs and Necessities. Intrigued by the “necessities,” I go inside. I find the following items, which are demonstrably not candy, ice crea, balloons, or souvenirs, and therefore must fall into the Necessities category: an Art Deco Box ($125), small plates decorated like Easter eggs (on sale for $8), and an enormous Chocolate Octopus, which may not have been for sale as it was truly enormous and a price tag was no visible.

I move on, sitting down near the First Rate Seats, ogling those souls daring enough to sit down and get their public electronic quick and relaxing massage. (To discourage loiterers who only want to sit in the cushy chairs without paying for the massage, the chairs have pressure-activated recordings that shout “THANK YOU FOR VISITING FIRST CLASS SEATS. PLEASE DEPOSIT CASH OR CREDIT CARD,” repeatedly as soon as anyone sits down. I scribble down information from my trips to B&H, Heritage, Nutcracker, and BBW in my notebook, not wanting to forget the rhinestone crucifix earrings or the troubling mugs. I notice that in the several hours I have spent at the airport thus far, I have only heard 2 voice recordings reminding me that the Dept of Homeland Security has declared the nation to be at Threat Level Midnight, I mean, Orange, and am also pleased with this. (It should be noted though that I spent a considerable amount of time in the designated smoking area and thus my announcement tally may be considerably off.)

I ready myself to go through the security gates and see what treasures await me within the concourse. (There will be a live massuese who gives back rubs in a specially designed chair for $19 for 15 minutes, and I will watch enviously as fellow passengers indulge and RELAX IN A HURRY at her pleasant station, which is located in the middle of the concourse but surrounded by soothing New Age instrumental music.) Cell phone transferred from pocket to purse. Liquids in plastic bag. Flip-flops ready to be removed. Boarding pass and photo identification out for inspection. And then I remember. The callus shaver. That’s right, during my trip I purchased, at the Dollar General store in Quincy, Illinois, a brand new callus shaver. For those of you not in the know, a callus shaver is a little device for scraping calluses off of feet and is absolutely essential for preserving youth and beauty. Used correctly, it may even produce feet that look as though “they have spent all day in a spa.” It is a small tool with a small razor embedded in a little round holder, attached to a handle. While it would be of no use to an assailant, unless you were able to convince your victim to sit still while you scrape them with it for a while, I am sure that it is prohibited by TSA regulations. I do not have checked luggage and so have no option but to continue to conceal the scraper in my backpack.

Now I am overtaken by a fit of paranoia, sure that my behavior is betraying my nervousness and that my deceit is visible to the trained security checkpoint personnel the moment they look into my beady little eyes. Furthermore, I have a notebook full of scribbling that would certainly make me look like a madman. There are coffemug jokes and lists like “art deco box, easter egg plates, chocolate octopus” scrawled on the pages of my fresh steno, which while they are clearly material for a very humorous blog post, admittedly look more like the “notes” from an asylum escapee. Along with notes about the bike-riding police officer and the frequency of the TSA announcements, the notebook is sure to peg me as a pedicure-tool-wielding terrorist, should anyone take the time to look carefully through my things.

So distressed I am by the imagined interrogations I am about to undergo, I barely notice the Security Checkpoint Booties that are for sale in a vending machine midway through the queue maze, which, for the bargain price of one dollar will keep your feet germ free while the TSA x-rays your strappy sandals. Perhaps distracted by the woman behind me who is making a big stink about not having placed her mascara into her liquids bag (fool!), the x-ray operator does not notice my callus scraper, and I continue to the gate with my brand new pedicure tool safely buried in my bag.

A scant few hours later I was back in New York, relaxed and positively giddy with pun enundation. P.S. my feet look great and callus-free.

Women Aren’t Funny; Neither is Christopher Hitchens

In last month’s Vanity Fair, Christopher Hitchens wrote a “Provocation” piece called “Why Women Aren’t Funny.”  His investigation of “the humor gap” is just about as insightful as it sounds.  Get excited, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the drawing of incredibly broad generalizations about personality and gender always make for excellent journalism! 

I was pleased to find that the essay opened with some horrible writing and obtuse observations.  Why is it that women always cite their boyfriends’ humor as a top quality – right up there with intelligence – while men never mention humor as a trait in their mates, Hitchens wonders.  He concludes that it is because men are funny and women aren’t, not even pausing to consider that there might be some social constructs at play here.  Excellent; if he’s this stupid, I don’t even have to bother to get offended, and everyone wins. 

I was stopped in my skeptical tracks in the fourth paragraph of the article, when Hitchens cited a study from Stanford Medical School, which he used as evidence that women are not funny.  Here’s what the study said:

“Women appeared to have less expectation of a reward, which in this case was the punch line of the cartoon,” said the report’s author, Dr. Allan Reiss. “So when they got to the joke’s punch line, they were more pleased about it.” The report also found that “women were quicker at identifying material they considered unfunny.”

I am a person who believes in scientific studies, so I was dismayed to see this being presented as evidence.  Then I actually read the citation above, which is more than Hitchens could be bothered to do.  Here is Hitchens’ interpretation of that study:

“Slower to get it, more pleased when they do, and swift to locate the unfunny—for this we need the Stanford University School of Medicine?”

Take a second to actually read the quote from the study, and you’ll notice that the first item in Hitchens’ triad – “slower to get it” – is not a conclusion from the study.  How he is able to extrapolate from “less expectation of a reward” to “slower to get it,” is beyond me.  But then let’s give Christopher the benefit of the doubt on this one, because after all I am a woman, and lest you forget, we are not just unfunny, we also suck at science.

After some really stupid paragraphs about how Jewish humor is inherently male and how poop jokes really are hilarious, there is a glimmer of intelligent analysis:

 ”Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not want women to be funny. They want them as an audience, not as rivals.”

Imagine that!  A difference between the sexes that is attributable to societal expectations and mores, not to inherent gender differences!  Golly!  Maybe I am being overly sarcastic here (make that bitchy, come to think of it, me being a lady and all), but you must forgive me if this is all just a little bit too obvious.  Hitchens comes so close to making a valid point that you just want to reach out and shake his big, fat, hilarious joke-writing, male head.  He devotes a few sentences to the fact that men think that penis jokes and prostate cancer jokes are just great, and then writes,

“This is funny only in male company. For some reason, women do not find their own physical decay and absurdity to be so riotously amusing.”

Anyone with an ounce of analytical talent would at least try to isolate the variables here.  Men think that jokes about their bodies are hilarious, but only in male company.  Women, apparently, do not joke about their bodies at all.  Does Hitchens wonder if perhaps women do have analogous humor, but that – like men saving prostate jokes for other dudes - they prefer not to tell menstruation jokes in mixed company?  Or, use the concept a little more broadly – men and women behave differently when they are surrounded by members of their own gender.  Hitchens himself introduces this idea.  Is it so unreasonable to think that, in a society where (Hitchens also introduced this himself, at the start of the piece) women’s primary role, traditionally, is as a visually pleasing sexual object to be impressed by male humor, we ladies might be funnier around each other than in the presence of lugs like Hitchens?  In science, we call this the “uncertainty principle” or the “observer effect” – the idea that by watching something you may very well change it. 

But Hitchens is clearly not a scientist, he’s a wonderful comedian!

The article, which by the way is speckled with such horrible attempts at humor as “wouldn’t know a joke if it came served on a bed of lettuce with sauce bearnaise,” leaves one with the impression that, women could be telling hilarious jokes to Hitchens all day long, but the old blowhard he wouldn’t shut up long enough to notice.