To Air Is Human? Our Love Hate Relationship with Planes Could Use Some Lovin’

When I was a kid Dad would drive my brother and I to a small grass strip at the end of the runway at the Winnipeg airport so we could watch the planes land. They literally felt like they would sit on you…something you could almost touch…a fire breathing dragon of the sky. Heh – I was a kid – I had a better imagination than my now 43 year-ragged conception of a plane as a tin sausage minus the actual sausage because the only semblance of food left is:

• what I can scrape off the bottom of my shoe
• abscond from the corner of a mouth of a snoozing senior, or
• dig out of the food droppings groove that’s setting seats adrift on American Airlines planes.

I particularly loved the Canadian Forces 707, a dark grey sky beast that rattled the body-topped melon with its decibel level. I’ve just aged myself – no one under 30 will know what a 707 is, and so for your ilk: It had flapping wings and made this awful sound when it attacked you and the people riding it were none too happy when it attacked stuff.

I was always reminded of those young journeys by an eight-sided clear cube that sat in Mom and Dad’s house. The cube held Polaroid pictures. The cube was one of those kitschy cool 70’s objects – not quite as visually impacting as the green and black shag carpet that hung on our living room wall – but more memory inducing. On one of the sides is a pic of my brother and I in nuclear orange shirts looking ready for a Bee Gee’s concert, standing in the grass.

We always think we’ll never grow up to be like our parents. But after all this time I find I’m a snowflake…different but the same. Traditions are established in habit, and just like birds teach their young to fly south for the winter, we are destined to repeat patterns established in our youth.

Thirty years later circa 2012, I take my kids to the parking area to the side of the main runway at the Calgary Airport so my kids can watch the planes. There’s something magical about planes. They are an enabler for Dr. Seuss: “Oh the places you’ll go!” A heavier than air feat of engineering ignores the boundary of mental physics. We can wonder about passenger lives being lived in the tube strapped to rockets.

That being said I’m also more cynical these days. I wonder if someone is still in the washroom while the plane is landing despite the warnings, or more mischievously whether anyone has mis-judged entry into the mile high club and is becoming a member of the 20 foot club (which makes it no different than second floor sex at home). I wonder if anyone will rebel yell with an unbuckling of their seatbelt before taxi to the gate is complete.

When I see a plane my specific travel experiences bump to the top of memory:

• traveling beside a 90 year old woman on her first flight shocked into screaming by subtleties like reclining seats;
• sitting with 10 others on a Hawaiian Airlines DC-9 late night flight with a pilot communing with the intercom to ask those in the back (four people) to please move to the front, causing me to wonder if moving 700 lbs from plane booty to plane melon was the difference between lift off or face off in fiery crash;
• always hearing the buckle up for turbulence notices only to have it crystallize one day with memory of car crash commercials and Kleenex boxes in back window that became 8 lb decapitators…married to image of very large person beside me one day refusing to buckle up…thinking of an errant 500 mph propelled 1200 pound arm crushing my ribs through my heart with an air hiccup;
• a massive 777 that lurched to a halt in Bali…with a pilot telling us a dog was on the runway, conjuring an image of a dog having to figure out which one of 14 tires to chase.

I think the mashed potatoes of hope and sarcasm wrapped around plane travel reflects two businesses airports and airlines are in: 1) get business traveler from Point A to Point B; and 2) don’t wreck the dream of the pleasure traveler in the midst of a deeper journey.

With the bowling ball of two types of business in my head, I recently worked via Twist Marketing to create a West Kootenay Regional Airport website.

Typical airport websites feel fairly cold – a celebration of building and plane engineering. Websites are dominated by pictures of planes on tarmacs. Many websites are rather devoid of human life. They reflect business #1. In this scenario we “live the dream” as a cow in a herd.

The City of Castlegar, which owns the airport, has a personality-driven brand that demands a more friendly introduction to the West Kootenay in the genre of business #2. In this scenario we have our imagination, our 550 mph connectivity, and a body cavity search at the airport take us somewhere special. I know what you’re thinking….the holiday scamper to the in-laws on wings of steel is not the stuff of legend…more like a pee shiver, but in our fleshy pupils there is a twinkle in everybody’s eye about the world of possibility a departure lounge presents (note: a “lounge” doesn’t quite capture the spirit these days….how about something more quirky like “The Last Right” café).

To fulfill the optimism embedded in business #2 I went back to my own travel experiences as a kid. I thought about the romantic notion we still cling to…how travel can enable hope and realize a dream. Getting from Point A to Point B remains important in an airport website. New conveniences like a Flight Tracker to determine if flights are on time address what locals said was a priority need. There is the usual content that helps you get around the airport, and prepare for a flight. These bring efficiency and reliability cornerstones to consumer travel.

But the website goes a little further. As Lisa St. Aubin de Teran said, “Travelling is like flirting with life. It’s like saying, ‘I would stay and love you, but I have to go; this is my station.’” Being an ass in an article aside, travel disrupts routine, opens the eyes and heart to the world, and nurtures wisdom far beyond the immediacy of a trip. And so whether it’s a “For Fun” section, a funky Top 10 things to do in the West Kootenay, or the youth-related imagery that exemplifies optimism and imagination, the WKRA website exudes the warm, happy, cultural brand of Castlegar. At its most strategic, the new website is an investment in convincing key audiences that the West Kootenay is under-serviced, and contributes to brand development focused on enhancement of a commercial service centre role in the West Kootenay.

And so with a website we have welded the two solitudes we all live with in our heads: a reality that may not be ideal but is necessary as a matter of getting from A to B, with a romantic buzz delivered by the promise of what we don’t know about what lies on a horizon line.

A new airport website embeds a glass half full spirit, enough below the brim to avoid spillage in the turbulence.

Ban the “Man” Movement Needed

Neither of the sexes should own “the manhole.”

I would like to start a “Ban the Man” movement. It’s not for the reason you might think. Furry brethren everywhere, it’s not that we lack a rationale to be present on this big blue orb. We produce progeny. We are hunters, albeit of the grocery store variety and a little less visceral than our cave-dwelling days. We are reasonably confident, until our wives stand between us and the TV demanding to be heard (which is the way we know it’s important and we’re in trouble for tuning out). We are stoic and macho in a Statue of David kind of way, well until we are made to watch a Sleepless in Seattle rerun and be asked (by said spouse) to provide social commentary on deeper meaning post show.

Back in the day, man’s role was a little more linear. Picture a cave living room circa 24000 B.C. Brab is the nester – making the cave cozy, keeping the fire going, raising Neb and Nad. Bor has two functions: produce progeny, and drag home mammoth (around 20000 B.C. a smarter Bor stopped trying to push large dead mammoth through small cave opening and opted for open air meat processing). Creative Bor that drew gazelles on the cave wall was highly sought after by the female species – the birth of our genetic lineage of artists and creative talent. And I digress but I believe around 10000 B.C. a cave philosopher decided that henceforth all first names should be reversed to modernize name sounds – resulting in a more modern family unit of Barb, Ben, Dan, and Rob.

Even as recently as the 50’s our cave lineage was among us. Leave it to Beaver, My Three Sons, Happy Days – our social structure saw the man of the house leave for work every day with lunch bag in hand, and come home to Rockwellian scene of nattily dressed children sitting around fire, and polished housewife at the door to greet with kiss and announcement of “dinner’s ready.”

Man has the world changed in a hurry. The good fight has been fought about equality in society and the workplace. Men and women are by and large equal in western society. Some (well all men) might say the totter has teetered in favour of the lasses. While I would argue it’s made society a much better place, it leaves most men rather stunned looking and precarious in their existence. We’re genetically wired to scratch n sniff; we’re being asked to look fight ready for the hot look and cry during Terms of Endearment rerun. We are to be provider and nurturer. We are to manscape – deforesting ourselves with infomercial-advertised Ronco hair and ear-trimmers (which we buy because we also get a free beer can labeller). Simply put, our role is confusing; we’re testosterone and androgyny. We’re fight and cry. We’re rock of Gibraltar and vulnerable. We’re Corvette and mini-van. Perhaps the only thing women might agree on re our role is that there’s no such thing as a buffed and chiseled beer belly.

If equality is the foundation of societal epiphany and our ability to measure progress as a species, then we need to step into the fire with both feet blazing.

There are a number of “man” terms I don’t like for marketing reasons. They don’t shine and buff manly men to the stature they deserve as being reasonably equal (look guys all things being equal women give birth. I’ve seen that happen, and women win out on the equality front because I can’t imagine ripping my lip over my face).

Aldermen around North America have been converting to the androgynous “councillors” for years. We’ve been removing bias phrases as a matter of social consideration – and all credit to women for dropping sticky notes into naming convention suggestion boxes. Men, it’s time to stand up for our close to equal rights. So here goes with a few suggestions:

• Manslaughter: funny phrase this one. Slaughter sounds much worse than murder. Slaughter sounds plural, and like one used a dull sword to paper cut the masses to death. Let’s get rid of the “man” pre-amble. Let’s just call it “Oopsydeath.”
• Man-eaters: the poor shark apparently only gets to eat men, though I would argue women are less furry and to a shark given the choice I would vote for the de-feathered chickens. But I digress. The phrase is scary and angry sounding. Let’s just go for “People-eaters.” Then even the shark benefits. It’s a softer phrase that sounds more like the shark is making a product choice – like boston cream or raspberry filled donut.
• Manhole: it’s an entry to the sewer system. Maybe we can call them “Sewer Caps.” Men – we just shouldn’t have to own this one anymore.
• Manhandled: it’s like stick-handling with humans. I can’t think of a positive interpretation. How about just plain “Bum-Steered”? It contains human-related anatomy and it’s more fun anyway.
• Manicure: what a strange phrase – to cure oneself of the male affliction, and failing that a means to buff up the ends of our digits. Why is this not a “Girlicure”? We’re going too far here attaching cuticle health to the already confused male species.
• Manhunt: I’ve watched Cops enough to know women deserve respect for their ability to run from the law. I know person hunt doesn’t sound cool. How about something creative like “Smackdown”?
• Maniac: again this sounds just too frantic to belong to only one side of the species. How about “Womaniac”? Then we get man and woman in the word. Same goes for “manic”.
• Womanizer: playing the female deck is something that’s not so cool in the word meaning. So let’s be fair and add “Manizer”.
• Mankind: well I like this one. The occasional man is kind, but even here guys we have lost toehold. The politically correct call this humankind. I always liked Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey. He thought mankind consisted of two words: mank and ind. Perhaps this resolves any potential for dispute.
• Mangled: It’s like the mank and ind thing. It doesn’t sound so bad at first, but let it linger on your eyes and it’s a word that is troubled. We have enough synonyms. Let’s drop this one.

To be fair to both sexes, there are 30 compound words that start with woman, and 406 with man – http://www.morewords.com/starts-with/man/. I think it’s time we worked to even the number count.

A New York grocery store recently created a “man aisle” stocked with condoms, beer, beef jerky, and all the other trappings of a scratch n sniff male existence: http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/man-aisle-163405559.html. A rather novel idea, I think if we can’t make progress on some word changes, then at least give us a grocery store aisle where we can revel in our “manhood.”

And while we’re at it, a man exceptionally attractive to women is – you guessed it – a lady killer.

Men could use a word break. Ladies – please approve of giving men a break.

What Love Is: Father Daughter Relationship Needs Marketing Touch

September, 2000

Nicole is now 7 days old. Blue eyes look more blue, developing strawberry blond hair, up to just over 7 lbs now – just above her birth weight. Oh, and by the way – the poop has turned to yellow now – just like the books say, she’s had her first diaper rash, she spent some time on her front today so she doesn’t have to wear one of those plastic helmets to re-shape her head because we kept her on her back for months on end, she’s a bit persnickety (if this isn’t the right spelling sue me but I dare you to get it right) in the evenings, she’s a bit piggish feeding, and Deb and I love her to pieces. I’ve been thinking that the kiddo likes Deb better than me, but then I had some more deep thoughts and I realized that the fish like me better than Deb because they know their food source. Life’s funny.

 

Last Night

Nicole – Venice, Italy 2005

My daughter the pre-teen has harder edges these days. The mop top hair and leap of joy onto lap that was never ready has been replaced by a more cautious voice…a voice that’s rising to meet days with challenge to rules, parental authority…and boundaries.

The wonder of…touching the sky…individual blades of grass…catching snowflakes with open mouth…is being replaced by measure of cynicism. The hardening is the humanity – the real world – the tough life lessons that tell us life isn’t all gum drops and lollipops. I wish gum drops and lollipops was more enduring.

I’m selfish. As much as I want her to know her Dad is around whenever she needs to talk…a ride somewhere….some soccer tips, I simply crave a glimpse back to a time when she loved me with such an unconditional explosion of smile energy. I want to love my daughter the way I used to…hang her upside down by feet and sweep the floor with strawberry blond curls….lick the cookie dough beaters together beside the sink…visualize that unrestrained wave back and blown kiss before getting on the school bus

This past Father’s Day I thought about what I wanted most. What I most wanted was time. You can’t get it back. It moves forward, and the momentum gets louder the further my daughter’s eyes look beyond the door to things, friends and attachments that aren’t me.

I know, don’t romanticize. A father-daughter relationship is like a constantly changing recipe. Kids have to grow up. It’s been said there are two things you can give to your children: one is to give them roots, the other is to give them wings. While I know I’ve gone from provider to nurturer….from diapers to huffing and puffing the breeze under the butterfly’s wings….love feels different. It feels less sure of itself, more insecure about its future, and less visible. I have to tell myself that love changes, and it grows in different ways. Those ways simply become a little more complex, a little less light on the air.

With these thoughts run amok in my head, tonight I tried to get close. It’s a bit like trying to get close to a wild deer. A pre-teen is a bit skittish and doesn’t want you to do unexpected things like put your soul into a hug. As an aside I’m reminded by the one-liner: “Never go into a hug off balance.” Definitely don’t do that with your pre-teen, and especially in public, because the more invisible you are to their friends the better. I sought a tether – a kindred connection that reminds me, in a glimpse of smile or “my Dad is a dork” look, that she is me, and I her.

I wedged Nicole’s bedroom door across the flotsam of clothes, petri dish of old yoghurt bowl, and wet towel that had at least recently been the recipient of a shower dry-off – and stepped into the abyss.

Music is our common touch point. We both love it in all forms. Thankfully she’s no Bieber fan. She loves 80’s music…for her it’s retro…for me it’s a smelling of the roses of my formative years.

I tell Nicole I have a few new songs and I start to play one on the iPad. It’s Madilyn Bailey’s version of David Guetta’s song Titanium: I’m bulletproof, nothing to lose fire away, fire away ricochet, you take your aim fire away, fire away you shoot me down, but I won’t fall I am titanium….an oddly affirmative message for my little girl that is about to enter Junior High. She had shown me the video the previous day. I scrambled like a couch potato avoiding the potato chip factory to download the song to show her I was hip, happening, and cool to the touch. Yes reader – I really am a Dad Dork.

She’s writing something and has ear plugs wired to her iPod music, but I think détente has found a pathway. An eye looks sideways at me…to see if I’m going to stick it out. I don’t budge. It’s quiet. One must be quiet to keep the animal calm while you raise the camera….SNAP….a global warming. She slowly moves down the bunk bed steps. She’s the rabbit; I’m holding out a plump carrot.

And so we begin to talk….about a school day, a funny story, how soccer is going, what colour to paint her room. For a moment we are, in the words of Forrest Gump, “like peas and carrots.” We’ll never know ‘the why’ of it all, but my hope is that our bond will continue to be the joy of compelling stories to tell about ‘the what’ that constitute the sand in the hourglass we have left together.

Therein lies a key marketing insight: always seek to find a point of connection. Use good content to make that connection. Use that point of connection to open the deeper soul of connection. Whether it’s seven degrees of Kevin Bacon separation, or Cookie Monster’s rendition of Call Me, Maybe, we all have a bond, no matter how remote it might seem. Those bonds bring us closer together. Those bonds lie at the heart of making the world move in magical ways.

As I pulled the door closed and said goodnight, I said something to my daughter I’ve said since she learned to walk: “I love you as big as the sky.” It’s the only universal truth I will always know. She responded: “I know.” Good days or bad, happy or sad as the song goes, all that matters to me is that she “knows.”