Airport Apparel – Part Three

In this investigative series on the fashions foibles found in our flight facilities, we have ignored “Those Whom I Didn’t Even Notice” and over-analyzed the “Over Dressed.” Now let’s take a queasy look at those who don’t know the difference between airport apparel and clothing to which Goodwill would say good riddance. I am talking about the “Under Dressed.”

We’ve all been there. I can’t tell you how many times I have been invited to a fancy dinner party and have shown up wearing cut-offs, tank top and a do-rag. I can’t tell you that because I never get invited fancy dinner parties. It may have something to do with the do-rag but I’m not sure. There is a big difference between what you wear to mow the lawn and what you wear as you travel on a plane…for most of us. Then there are those referred to by Jeff Foxworthy as having a “glorious absence of sophistication.” Yes, I refer to the rednecks among us. I have some members of my family who could qualify for Rednecks Anonymous based on that definition. You have to admire someone who can dress like Larry the Cable Guy and not feel self-conscious.

Since I had the opportunity to revel in my ADD nature and watch those who were meandering, merging and marching past the airport lounge, it was inevitable that a few less than savory individuals would be wayward wanders. I think I saw Larry the Cable Guy’s sister. She had a shirt with the sleeves cut off. I’m not talking about a sleeveless shirt. This was a shirt that had the sleeves severed with a dull, rusty machete. It was not the most attractive look for this particular (and I use this word loosely) lady. There is something to be said for Daisy Duke cutoffs. Yes, she was wearing a pair of these very short shorts. Catherine Bach or Jessica Simpson can make those work. Many of the women passing by that day could make them work. Wearing Daisy Dukes was probably not the most fashion conscious move that woman could have made since she had never used a razor on her legs. Indiana Jones with a machete may have been able to trim the gore on these gams, but I don’t think he would be brave enough to try! (I know you don’t believe me on this one and I wish I’d had a camera on my phone to prove it.)

Since this was a Southern airport, I expected to find even more people dressed like that Daisy Duke wannabe. Surprisingly, it was difficult to find anyone like the previous woman. I knew that no one would be able to under-dress her. (I wish hadn’t tried to create the particular mental image. Nightmares again tonight!) Just as I was giving up, I saw something that made me do a double take, triple take, and even a quadruple take. Then I just stared with a look on my face that said, “This can’t be real.” I’m not sure what happened to this poor, pathetic, shell of a man. My best guess is that an airplane toilet suffered an extreme malfunction. He was blue. I’m not referring to his mental state (although it would be an accurate assessment). His clothing was splattered with some kind of blue dye like the kind you see when you flush one of the toilets on a plane. Any other day, this man would have easily fit into the nondescript first group of people. Today, he was the star of the “Under Dressed” stage. Let’s call him Mark.

I have an image of Mark’s maltreatment in the presence of a perturbed potty. After one too many of the complementary drinks offered on every flight except the ones I choose to fly, Mark feels the bulging of his bladder that cannot wait for a happy landing. He then excuses himself as he climbs from his window seat over the two others in his row. Not expecting any problems, Mark takes a less than leisurely stroll to the front of the plane where the lightly lit vacancy sign offers a glorious glow. Imagine the relief on his face as his business is completed. The subtle smile begins to grow as he (imagine the theme from Jaws – da dump, da dump) reaches for the handle. Nothing happens. (Now imagine an ominous silence.) He does what anyone would have done in the same situation. When the toilet doesn’t work, jiggle the handle.

Amazingly, for the remainder of the sold-out flight he gets a row all to himself. There are people sitting on laps all over the plane in an attempt to avoid contact with this blue skinned leper. The jiggling of a handle in a pressurized cabin with high velocity blue cleansing liquid can have some fascinating effects. As the liquid squirts out, it needs a place to go. If the bottom section of the toilet is somehow jammed shut (I don’t even like to consider how that could happen), there is only one way for the liquid to go – UP! Mark is now marked for as long as that blue dye lasts.

And I thought airports were boring. Next time we’ll take a look, so to speak, at the “Nearly Dressed”.

Airport Apparel – Part Two

Last time we chatted I brought up the subject of the clothing people wear as they walk, jog, run or make a manic march through an airport. If you haven’t read Part One yet, you may want to start there. It won’t help you make sense of this one but at least you will be reading them in the correct order.

Last time I told you about looking at people in airports. Most fit into the first category of “Those Whom I Didn’t Even Notice.” Since I didn’t notice them, I can’t really think of anything to write. So let’s keep ignoring them and move on to the next group called the “Over Dressed.” I have flown many times in my life and have even flown from the United States to Europe and back. Even though I am not an everyday or everyweek flier, I do have some experience. That experience has taught me a few critical criteria for fun filled flying. The most important is that airplanes, for all their wonders, are not all that comfortable for those of us who fly back in 7^th class. This is just a little bit better than the luggage. Since most of us do not get to fly in first or even business class there is a requirement that we dress accordingly. (Or is that accordianly since you get folded up as you try to squeeze a 73” body into a seat designed to comfortably fit preschoolers). The rule for most of us is to dress for distress. Simple and comfortable is the rule.

You can probably imagine my surprise when I saw a couple who were dressed as if they were going to the Opera. The woman was wearing an evening gown that had all kinds of sparkly things. This attractive, middle aged woman was casually strolling down the center of the concourse as if she were on a runway in Paris instead of near a runway in Charlotte. The man walking nearby was well dressed, too (although he didn’t have sparkly things) with a look on his face that was somewhere between the pain associated with a root canal and the discomfort of extreme constipation. It is the same look I would have on my face if I was forced to go the opera. I can only assume this overdressed couple was planning to watch a live version “The Barber of Seville” as they sipped Napoleon brandy in the Deluxe, Royal Treatment, You-May-Not-Even-Look-Past-the-Curtain, First Class cabin.

There was another woman who seemed to be either lost, nervous or putting on a show. She passed by my table five times as if she wanted all of us in the lounge to notice that she had on Versace, Armani and Gucci and a few other expensive-looking, Italian-sounding names. I guess it worked because I noticed. She was almost as good looking as her designer clothing. Sadly, I think she took the Tammy Faye Baker Home Cosmetics Course when it came to makeup choices and amounts. I really expected small children to run in fear from the makeup monster as she meandered. There was the one young teen who – I could see it in his eyes – was considering the consequences of carving his initials in the base on her face. Overdressed and over makeuped.

I saw countless suits and business attire that I personally would not wear on a plane; but I suppose those business people needed to make a good impression. Even though they were not technically “Over Dressed” they did have my sympathy until I remembered how much more leg room they get in Business Class. And don’t even get me started on how much more butt room they get! They get the better food too! It serves them right having to wear those suits on those long flights. On second thought, they are “over dressed”.

Next time we will look at the “Under Dressed”.

Airport Apparel – Part One

Some time ago I had the astonishing opportunity to sit around an airport for what seemed like three weeks. Really it was only three hours; but those of you who’ve had a long layover know what I’m talking about. You can only make so many laps around the terminal before you are arrested in this post-911 world. When the TSA agents started pointing at me and murmuring into walkie-talkies that was my cue to sit back and have a refreshing adult beverage and try to read my book. Normally this would be no problem. Beer and a Patrick McManus book is as close to heaven on earth that can be achieved while sitting in an airport waiting for your next flight. Then my ADD kicked into high gear.

This time I have to say it wasn’t my fault…mostly. I was sitting outside the airport “lounge” when I was distracted. By the way, the only people I ever see lounging in these airport BARS are people who have had too many mojitos while jet lagged. Anyway, I was sitting there, minding my own business or at least minding my book, when a flash of fabric caught my eye. It was one of those shear blouses like Bridget Jones wore to catch Hugh Grants eye. Of course I averted my eyes. I cannot be blamed if the blouse happened to be moving in the same direction as my averting eyes. It was at this point that I noticed that this shear blouse was the only upper apparel being worn! That would have been even more to my amazement had it been on someone of the female persuasion. Alas, it was not meant to be. The guy did manage to pull off the look as well as any guy could.  

My book was set aside for the actual flight as I began a casual course of people perusal. Honestly, I was looking for the most interesting people I could see. Dressed as I was in black jeans and my Benjamin Franklin beer t-shirt, I felt fairly nondescript. I faded into the woodwork – or metal-work at this airport – and began to make mental notes of the most curiously dressed of all the passersby.

They fit into four categories. The first is what I affectionately refer to as “Those Whom I Didn’t Even Notice.” They were a lot like me. They were wearing something that was appropriate. To be honest, most of the people fit into this category. I would glance at the millions milling past and not even notice the dull, drab and dreary decor they dared to don. If you were one of those people, I apologize for not noticing your nondescript nature; however, I wouldn’t have even noticed myself.

The other three categories are where it gets interesting. The second I named the “Over Dressed.” The third group is for those who were “Under Dressed.” And then there was the fourth which will have to be called “Nearly Dressed.” Tune in next time those who look way too good to be crammed into an airplane.

Around the Block

If you’ve read my blog you know that there seems to be no end to the topics upon which I can pontificate; but even I get writer’s block upon occasion. Finding a way around a blocked situation is something that I am notorious for doing. It is easier to ask forgiveness than beg permission. Or another way, in business classes they taught us that management is the art of working with, through and sometimes around others. Going around a road block is not a problem in most situations. But writing is different.

If I let my mind wander and see where it takes me then my A.D.D. kicks in. Watching the fire with the flames licking the fake logs makes me think of camp fires and campers and towing the camper and tow ropes of skiers to snow skiing to near death experiences while snow skiing to finding missing snow skiers to Saint Bernard’s with barrels of brandy to cherry brandy to cherry liquors to liquor stores to driving home from a liquor store to driving using a GPS to listening to the GPS tell you where to drive to using a female British voice on the GPS to British accents to Australian accents to Australia to the Great Barrier Reef to reef diving to sky diving to flying to jets to the Concord to condors to dodo birds to cuckoo birds to cuckoo clocks to grandfather clocks back to the fireplace that is three feet away from the clock. Even people with A.D.D. get back around to the original topic again. And no I did not plan that out. That is how my mind works when I let it wander. I’m just glad it came back.

Maybe writer’s block isn’t quite so bad.

Who is That Strange Guy?

Last night I went for a walk downtown. Knoxville has many places that are fun and safe after dark. My choice was Market Square. For those of you who do not know, it is a block of stores and restaurants that has no street to get in the way. Yep, drivers have to find another way to get to the other side. It is a cool place to hang out and watch people.

Yes, I am a people watcher. Last night I watched a lot of people with my notebook in hand. Oh the sights, sounds and smells I discovered. It seems only right that I share the writer’s perspective on a warm evening in Knoxville.

• A couple was sitting in the outdoor seating of a restaurant. This looked to me like a first date because the woman was trying to get the man to look at her cleavage. Then she got made when he did. Been there. Done that. Looked down the t-shirt.

• The strong smell of a cigarette invaded my nostrils as a man was puffing away on his Camel passing by, oblivious to the disgust on the face of woman walking with him. At least he didn’t fart.

• There was a group of twenty-something guys walking along, looking at the woman who had been trying to get her date to notice her low cut shirt. They also noticed a guy sitting alone at a picnic table writing in a notebook. Once they passed by, one asked if they thought the man was writing about them. I was after they said that.

 

• A bird was chattering overhead, obviously upset by the invasion of humans into this domain it had claimed as its own. I was hoping it was going to dive bomb someone. That would be really hilarious as long it was not me.

 

• A woman sat off to the side, watching the people passing by, wanting solitude while still having the company of others. Or was that my reflection in a store window?

 

• A face appeared in a second story window, disappearing as soon as someone noticed. It was either a kidnap victim, a shy person who wanted to look out a window, or a master spy seeking the sleeper cell of the Latverian death squad. Wait, that last one was from a comic book.

This are just my observations. I wonder what they were really doing.

Do You Like Squid, Too?

It was a sad day around my house when the announcement was made. Sponge Bob was cancelled. The celebration went on for hours! We were sad that we ran out of ice for the margaritas. Then the news came in that it was all just another internet rumor. We continued drinking without the ice at that news. On the bright side, Squidward is safe from the hands of sushi chefs throughout the land for at least one more season.

After careful research that I made up just now, there is a conspiracy theory that the word sushi has a hidden meaning in Japanese that is unknown outside the confines of the Land of the Rising Run. The Oxford Dictionary defines sushi as “a Japanese dish consisting of small balls or rolls of vinegar-flavored cold cooked rice served with a garnish of raw fish, vegetables, or egg.” A simpler definition says that it means “sour tasting”. The secret hidden meaning according to the conspiracy theorists in my head is defined as follows: “Stupid American who actually ate the raw fish!” I must admit to being a stupid American, but that has nothing to do with the fact I like raw fish with my rice. My stupidity is all my own.

My favorite sushi place is right down the road from me. It has tasty rice (tasty is code for “vinegary”), shrimp tempura (which as far as I can tell means “deep fried”), seared tuna (it is seared with a tiny flame thrower), snow crab (that is fresh enough to walk off the roll), salmon (pretty, pink and cold) and crunchy. I have no idea what the crunchy is and I am too scared to ask. Sometimes you’re better off not knowing what is on the plate.

The sushi chef there has some special rolls that he makes for those of us who are stupid enough to come around often. There is one that he had on the special board a couple years ago called a Chocolate City Roll. I have no idea why it is called that. There is absolutely no chocolate in it. It has shrimp and crab and tuna and avocado and rice and some sauces that I also have no idea what they are. It is very tasty for a combination of cooked shellfish and raw regular fish.

Now I want you to know that here in east Tennessee we do have some cooked sushi for the barbarians (read that as “smart”) among us who prefer their fish cooked. There is this one restaurant that serves stuff that is similar to the crunchies found in my favorite sushi place rolled in a ball and deep fried. I think it’s called a hushpuppy. They also serve their fish batter-dipped and deep fried. Hey, it’s east Tennessee. What did you expect? That particular place is named after a great literary character from Robert Louis Stevenson’s writings.

 

Let’s make a deal. I won’t bug you to eat raw fish if you don’t bug me about eating raw fish. Now let’s talk about the real meaning in the word sashimi…