This is a new discovery for me. But before I explain, let me pause for a moment to put this irritable epiphany in perspective.
I just returned from a (business) trip to Orlando last week. For a while now, I’ve known that business travelers are some of the most miserable, slimy, bitter, and generally tactless creatures on the polished face of our bubbling planet; in fact, they might be one of the most socially degenerate classes in human history. (Dante would’ve devoted one of his circles to them.) A more favorable view would cast them in the light of new age, middle-class pioneers far away from home and perennially endangered by the threats of their estranged cohabitants. But I prefer to think of them as somewhat akin to modern day sailors, hopping from port to port to inflict debauchery and baseless, antagonistic narcissism on unsuspecting civilians. Mayhem is their currency.
In case you need evidence (you probably don’t) of the world-weary desperation that unites these transient professionals, just flip through the in-flight magazine on your next plane ride and see who advertising executives think these consumers are (or more precisely: what the advertisers think they want). The most common and prominent pieces showcase dating services, the Blue Man Group, and national steakhouse chains; physical therapy, “world-class” hospitals, and a whole host of pain treatment centers; discount cigars, wax museums, exercise machines, cheap bourbon, plastic surgery, overseas manufacturing, casinos in New Mexico . . . And what is the common thread that ties this all together to make one captive, monolithic opportunity for these marketers? It's the business travelers.
One full page ad was was devoted to a cosmetic dentistry enterprise, whose practitioners boasted the following:
■ Dental implants
■ In-house ceramist
■ Advanced sedation alternatives [Personally, I’d prefer the “advanced sedation alternatives” to be administered on the tarmac shortly before takeoff]
■ 48 hr turnaround [. . . in case you want to squeeze in some dental work while you’re briefly in town on business?]
■ Limousine service for out-of-town guests
All that should be enough to persuade you about these coarse, frightening people whose spectral bodies are forever steeped in the chemical pungency of jet fuel exhaust.
But now I'm convinced business travelers might have found their match in the Geezer set, a rival tribe who roams the terminal (albeit more slowly) and tries my patience in new and creative ways. Quite distinct from the uptight and angst-ridden wandering capitalists, the senior citizens’ strategy is to deploy an unbearable smugness, and they do so to great effect. Although they can get rowdy and cranky sometimes too, they are normally characterized by the serene, unending respite they project. They show total disregard for the rules long-established by the mile-accruing business elite – namely, the tepid, atomized social distance demanded of others.
First among a long list of complaints: their conversations involve too much volume. (Only the naive would reduce this to a symptom of old-age hearing loss; that’s just an excuse to put their oh-so-idyllic lifestyle on flagrant display). They’re either on the phone with a sister, broadcasting their private predicaments and counseling clichés, or they’ve just bumped into another dreamy retiree couple and they’re sharing in life's achievements. (It usually starts out innocently enough: "I just love that book you’re reading. Don’t you just love that book? My book club read it a few months ago! I hear Oprah loved it – she said it was the emotional masterpiece of the century and it just moved her to tears. Don’t you know that’s just exactly the way it used to be? I can remember when I was a little girl growing up on a farm in Pennsylvania. . .")
Despite the swooning, newfound kinship among strangers, it’s hardly surprising that their book clubs shared a best-selling autobiography in common – but that’s not the point, of course. The book is but a Trojan horse in their bombastic subterfuge, a vehicle for a ceaseless chain of anecdotes, philosophies, and self-adoration. We'd be all too fortunate if the heartfelt commonalities began and ended with the book, but don’t forget that these are seasoned experts, trained in the very sort of conversational acrobatics that allow them to deftly segue from the autobiography to their nostalgic morals to the subtle psychological sensitivities of their Boston Terrier vs. their Bichon Frise (not to be mistaken for a kind of lettuce).
And then, within minutes, they 've reached the promiseland, having at some point found an excuse to show cell phone pictures of their grandchildren drooling so heavily that you wonder what exactly accounts for the shimmer on the keypad below. They talk about the fateful eminence of their children (casually trotting out proof like a five-bedroom house in the hills or ownership of a popular city-wide pizza franchise that's the "best in town”). This was where it was headed from the start, and all parties involved knew that all along.
The last retired couple I came across even went so far as to hand out their own glossy “business” cards with grainy images of bluebonnets in the background behind their names. They looked like they came from a dot-matrix printer, but stopped short of serrated edges. Since these people are retired and don’t really have a business to promote, however, I guess they're more accurately called “social cards” – a medium for social networking, like the closest old people could ever get to Facebook. But they’ll never see these strangers again; they'll never follow up with them, they'll never cross paths again. And that’s what’s so mystical to me, to see how largely
positioning figures into even the most fleeting, purposeless interactions, when nothing's at stake.
As if all that wasn’t enough, I have one more illustration of the nuisance that stems from retirees and their glib, publically-aired hedonism: Can anyone tell me why they must always dress like they’re headed to the Bahamas? What leads to such an in-grained affinity for pastel polos, khaki shorts, Cuban shirts and anything saturated with caricatured hibiscus flowers? Clearly, hats, caps and sunglasses are also a must. I would wager that the Bahamas are rarely their true destination – only a small fraction of passengers in an any given airport end up in beachside towns. Truth be told, they’re returning from a mundane visit to see their grandchildren, or even if the ocean was at some point involved, they're probably just coming back from their timeshare in Panama City or a geriatric cruise to the Keys . . . nothing nearly as adventurous or as glamorous as they’d have you believe.
Given this torrent of deception, I'm forced to assume their clothes have very little practical utility and are instead a taunting token of merciless, intergenerational vitriol: "Keep toiling away you young and pathetic peasants, we're on a perpetual vacation!" It’s just one more way in which they subject the rest of us to a steady, self-satisfied deluge of their manufactured enthusiasm. But of course, I can't pretend their tactics are ineffective -- after all, I'm truly envious, and more than a bit resentful, of their relaxation.
I’m here to tell you there’s simply no refuge in America’s airports. Whether it’s the hostile vigor of business travelers or the saccharine braggadocio of nomadic retirees, it all makes for a very toxic social combination. But far beyond the security check points, baggage carousels, and Terminal Es, I don’t think an entire generation of senior citizens is lost. I find hope in my two 80-year old grandmothers, who I don’t think have travelled anywhere outside of a three-hour car drive in the last decade or two. Now there's a humble, honorable lifestyle for the elderly -- my grandmothers are like visionaries, investing only in their local community, keeping their carbon footprints miniscule . . . of course, it’d be nice to think that this spartan behavior could be explained by deeply-held convictions about social responsibility, but instead, they’re more like the inverse of compassionate yuppies: they have all the behavioral trappings of an ethical, non-materialistic lifestyle without the dogmatic foundation on which to base it.
I can understand how it might benefit a kid to inculcate their imaginations with somewhat cartoonish figures – people in children’s books are much more colorful and caricatured than their three-dimensional counterparts, and toymakers seem to find a degree of alien patina irresistible. Perhaps the imagery imbues our younger versions with a psychologically-constructive openness that frolicks in the face of an otherwise hostile world. I'm sure the likes of Peter Singer rejoice when animals are anthropomorphized to inspire empathy among their prospective masters and oppressors. 
Not everyone can claim to be named after an action-movie celebrity from the 60s and 70s. But, in a moment of boundless and breathtaking inspiration, my parents decided to name me after Sean Connery. They were moved by his deep and introspective work in classic arthouse films like GoldFinger, Dr. No, and Thunderball. What better way to motivate a child to the zenith of human achievement, those two crowning experiences of all great figures: philandery and international crimefighting intrigue. Naturally, I was hoping that we could continue this meaningful tradition by giving our firstborn child a name from the subsequent generation of action heroes. I even had a shortlist:
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