Oh, if only U.S. District Judge Kathryn Kimball Mizelle had struck down the airplane mask mandate a week ago, ideally in mid-flight, the skies might have gotten much friendlier that day.
Flying out of Newark to Kansas City, I drew as seat mate in our two-across alignment a Karen right out of central casting: 60-ish, skittish, frumpy. I did not expect resistance. I had made close to 20 round trips during the mask era without encountering such a creature.
Most of those trips had been in and out of Tampa, arguably the sanest big city in America. It seems only fitting that the lawsuit that led to Mizelle’s decision was filed last year in Tampa.
There is something in the Florida air. When I spoke to my 9-year-old granddaughter just yesterday she was bewailing the fact that Gov. Ron DeSantis showed up at her church on Easter Sunday, and she had gone to the wrong mass. She is a big DeSantis fan.
My daughter and I live in demographically comparable neighborhoods, but as late as a month ago, 80% of the shoppers at my neighborhood market showed up in masks. In my daughter’s local Publix, that number is under 20% and has been for a year or so.
At the Tampa airport a few weeks ago, I woud guess that 50% of the people walking around the terminal were either wearing their masks badly or not wearing a mask at all.
I almost always fly Southwest. I’ve heard about Stasi flight attendants, but I’ve not seen one. I buy a bottle of water before boarding and sip on it throughout the whole flight, even when it is empty. No one has bugged me.
What likely made last week’s flight different from flights past was that it originated in Newark, a major airport that serves New York City as well as New Jersey. During the first year or so of the COVID mania, no area in the United States was locked down tighter.
In my sister’s pleasant New Jersey suburb, authorities closed the parks. All along the New Jersey Shore, they closed the beaches. Although some of the people with whom I spoke chafed at the restrictions, many accepted them without complaint, even welcomed them.
Now, the Karens feel compelled to rationalize their self-destructive behavior. I overheard one conversation in which the general theme was “better safe than sorry.” The secondary theme was ‘how were we to know?’ These people will continue to wear masks. For the time being, at least, the masks make them feel less foolish.
But foolish they were. Their media betrayed them. More than a year into the mania Gallup asked 35,000 Americans, “What are the chances someone with COVID must be hospitalized?” Of Democrats, 41% said more than 50%. Another 28% of Democrats said between 20 and 50%.
The correct answer was 1-5%. What this means is that 69% of Democrats massively overestimated the risks of COVID, and the government rooted its COVID policies in their shocking ignorance. I’ve raised this issue with a few Democrats, but they typically default to “But I know a person who died!” Logic is not their strong suit.
In any case, I was in Newark doing research for my next book: “The Dispossessed: The Untold Story of America’s Great Ethnic Diaspora.” By the way, if anyone has a story they would like to share about being driven from their urban neighborhood, please contact me though my website, www.cashill.com.
Newark Airport is not Tampa. The paranoia is still palpable. I saw no one without a mask in the terminal. United Airlines is not Southwest. The one flight attendant reminded me of my second-grade nun. If she had been carrying a yardstick, I would not have been surprised.
As soon as the flight attendants were seated I pulled down my mask and took out my water bottle. From the look of horror on my seatmate, you would have thought I pulled down my pants and took out my membrum virile. Every time I took a sip she shot me a stink eye and cowered further into the corner.
Oddly, though, she took the little pretzel bag the flight attendant offered. Given that her mask could have been lifted from a Hazmat suit, I wondered how she was going to negotiate the pretzel eating. She had obviously been down this road before. One by one, she smuggled them under her mask.
On the positive side, this Karen didn’t rat me out. That job was left to the day’s next Karen – another skittish, frumpy, 60-something. As I was boarding the bus to take me to my car, I was dialing ahead to make sure the car would be ready.
The ticket in my right hand, the phone in my left, the bag over my shoulder, I did not have time to put my mask on – not that I would have anyhow. “Put your mask on!” shouted Karen. “Cut me some slack, ma’am,” I said. “I’m calling for my car.”
“Stop the bus,” she yelled. “I’m not going to sit next to him.” The driver obliged, and she stomped off to the back of the bus. “Thanks, ma’am,” I said, “now I get to be the first one off.”
Even in little ways, Karens end up hurting themselves.
Please see www.cashill.com for more info.
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