Mad Media and the Plane Truth

Originally published October 15, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1352

As I sit here in the shelter constructed for refugees, huddling to avoid the wrath of Hurricane Floyd, I wonder how I will find the strength to go on. Everything that we own, gone. Everything we…

Nah, I’m kidding. We were lucky. By the time the hurricane got to our neck of the woods, it barely qualified as a squall. We had some wind, some rain, and that was about it. The only real impact the storm had on us was that it botched our flight to Madison, Wisconsin.

Last year, we had one of the best times we ever had at a convention, when we attended the Mad Media convention in the cheesiest state in the country. I was literally dragged there by Harlan Ellison, who was one of the guests along with Neil Gaiman (about whom I should really do a column; he was, after all, a “topic,” and he’s done me enough good turns that I owe it to him; OK, next week, I’ll talk about Neil). Harlan said, “I’ll be there, Neil’ll be there, it’ll be great! We’ll hang together!” As it turned out, our schedule was so busy that we hardly had any time together at all. But it was a pleasant, albeit small, convention. They invited me back for this year and offered to fly out not only me, but Gwen, Ariel, and Kathleen. That’s pretty much a guaranteed way to get me to go to a con: offer to bring my family. They were also supposed to have Warwick Davis (“Willow”) at this year’s con, but he canceled at the last moment. We decided to go anyway, though.

Originally, they were going to book us on a flight Friday morning, but I was reluctant to have the girls miss school. So, instead, they got us seats on a flight scheduled to leave LaGuardia at 6:45 in the evening. I was actually patting myself on the back over that one, especially considering that the hurricane had only just passed out of our area early that morning, so I was certain that the morning flight would be delayed. By that evening, though, naturally, everything would be back on track.

We arrived at the airport to discover that the plane was running three hours late. Three. Hours. Late. “It’s the weather,” they explained to us, stating that left-over high winds had made it impossible for planes to take off or land.

“Just out of curiosity,” I asked, “when did the 11:30 flight take off?”

“Actually, that one left on time,” said the ticket seller.

While Kathleen was busy prying away the knife I was endeavoring to slit my wrists with, the ticket guy gave us even more good news. Until that moment, I was telling myself that the one good thing to come out of this mess was that we didn’t have to worry about missing our connecting flight from Milwaukee to Madison; although we had a layover, we didn’t have to change planes. Except, as it turned out, since we were getting into Milwaukee so late, the airport in Madison was closed. Oh, yes. That’s definitely what I want to see in a state’s capital city: an airport that rolls up the runway at 10 p.m. But, hey, no problem! They were planning to stick us on a bus that would take a mere (we were told) two and a half hours to get to Madison.

Fortunately enough, I managed to get in touch with the nice folks at Mad Media, and they said they would come pick us up at the Milwaukee airport, bless their hearts.

All flight delay problems aside, the airline itself—Midwest Express—has a hell of a lot going for it. Its philosophy is that the entirety of the airplane is first class, and it does everything it can to live up to that. The seats are wide and cushy; the food that it serves is unquestionably first-class level. I was, I have to say, very impressed.

However…

I felt bad for this woman.

She was seated one row ahead of us and on the left. She had two seats. She had two small children. Do the math.

One of the kids couldn’t have been more than 2. The other had to be about 1. They were both boys. And they cried. The. Whole. Way.

Not simultaneously, mind you. They tag-teamed. When the 1-year-old would get worn out, the 2-year-old would step in to fill the gap. Once the 2-year-old became exhausted, the 1-year-old picked up the slack. Mom kept a stiff upper lip, but it was really very sad. There was that little kid, squirming around on her lap, clearly uncomfortable, nowhere to sit.

This is something that I simply do not understand. I mean, there’s lots of stuff about air travel that I don’t understand. For example, I still don’t get how a pilot can fly a plane coast-to-coast at hundreds of miles per hour and find his way—and yet, once he’s on the ground and going at two miles an hour, he needs a guy with little red cones pointing and shouting, “The terminal’s over there!” in order to complete the trip.

Anyway, here’s another thing I don’t understand. You can be in an automobile going five miles an hour, and, if you don’t have your infant buckled in a heavy-duty car seat, you’re breaking the law.

But climb into an airplane that’s going to be going at hundreds of miles an hour, and you can clutch your child to your bosom with impunity. What the hell is up with that? One serious dose of windshear, one unexpected and abrupt tilt of the plane, and this kid suddenly becomes a human projectile. Of course, if there’s a real emergency, you shouldn’t have to worry about the child’s fate, because when the oxygen masks come down, there ain’t gonna be one for him! Wheeee! What fun!

Then, of course, there’s all the embarrassment that mothers have to deal with when their children start screeching and bleating to the annoyance of other passengers. Understand, it doesn’t bother me personally. I’ve had three children. If someone’s kid starts howling, all I do is sit there calmly, smugly, thinking, “Glad it’s not mine.” I’ve even sat next to children who spit up on me and just shrugged it off. But what about all the disapproving glares that moms and dads have to put up with from passengers who are far less understanding that I?

It’s all so unnecessary to subject parents to the humiliation and children to the hazards when there are perfectly good overhead baggage compartments going unused.

Think about it: Aren’t they the perfect size? It would be so easy. Just drill air holes in the doors of the compartments, add belts or even simple plastic mesh to stop the kids from sliding around, and you’ve got the perfect means of transporting any infant thousands of miles. To say nothing of the fact that those compartments look pretty heavy-duty to me in terms of soundproofing. Let the kid scream his lungs out there. No one’s going to hear him.

It would work for older kids, as well. The 3- and 4-year-olds love to hide in small, enclosed places. Inside closets, under beds, inside refrigerator cartons. They’ll love it! And, if they don’t love it, then—as noted—no one will hear them complaining about it.

Now, sure, there may be some of you who consider the entire notion cruel. But how much more cruel is it to risk a child’s life by having him traveling in unsafe conditions? And, if the kid does get a little scared or spooked by being enclosed in a dark place for hours on end, well, heck. Years from now they won’t even remember it. How much stuff do you remember from your infancy or from when you were 3? Sure, sure, it might instill a fear of small, enclosed spaces. So they won’t grow up to become astronauts or spelunkers. Big deal. At least they’ll be alive, thanks to my infinitely compassionate plan. The FAA and all major airlines are more than welcome to utilize my (admittedly ground-breaking) suggestion.

Oh, yes. The convention itself was quite nice, too. People were still talking about the whole “guava paste is people” gag from last year. I’m told this may be the last Mad Media, and I certainly hope that’s not the case. I think it might have a shot a growing into something major, provided it gets the opportunity.

On the flight home, a child was whimpering nearby. I caught his eye, then pointed at the overhead compartment, and nodded significantly. He immediately quieted down. His mother saw, however, and tried to have me arrested.

True visionaries are always misunderstood.

 (Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)