Your diarist is filing this dispatch from Dyess Air Force Base, in Abeline, Tex. I’ve been invited here by the Air Force to fly on a B-1 supersonic bomber in order to help flesh out the characters in the screenplay I’ve been working on. So far, as movie-business perks go, this one ain’t bad-and it should more than make up for the vile morning some 18 months from now when the star will appear on the Today show, blathering on about how he created his character’s role.
But in the meantime, the trip down gave me the chance to think about the stock market madness-and to come up with a few suggestions for dealing with our own Manhattan-based, ego-driven characters during these first few days of the Post-I.P.O. era:
(1) Anyone caught at a dinner party, or in any form of media, using the phrase, “I told you this was going to happen,” will be summarily shot.
(2) Anyone found bragging about how much they lost-while also managing to infer how far they’re still ahead-will be immediately drawn and quartered.
(3) Anyone overheard claiming, “I got out of tech stocks last December,” will not only be shot, drawn and quartered-but also tarred and feathered, live on CNBC.
(4) Right here and right now, I’m personally placing a $10,000 bounty on the head of the first editor at any Manhattan-based publication who assigns the piece: “What does the stock market crash do to summer rental prices in the Hamptons?”
My day at Dyess Air Force Base began at 6:30 this morning, when I was examined by a flight surgeon who cheerfully informed me that 80 percent of the civilians who take one of these orientation flights throw up in the cockpit.
(Hearing this, I immediately made two mental notes. First, to the Male Pride Lobe: You will not throw up. Second, to the Malevolent Screenwriter Lobe: Suggest to the star that he take one of these flights. Encourage him to eat a huge breakfast beforehand.)
Next, it was off to “life support,” where I was issued a full flight suit-boots, survival vest, jumpsuit, helmet, oxygen mask-and given 90 minutes of intense instruction about how to operate the ejector seat without losing my limbs or my life.
“If we punch out and when you come down, your chute gets snagged in a power line, do not let some damn farmer try to help, as he’ll only get both of you electrocuted,” a major explained, detailing just one of the 2,687 ways I could get killed in the next few hours. “And if you’re coming down into trees, remember to tuck your head. Otherwise the branches will slit your throat.” (Hearing this, I made two more mental notes: First, the Air Force has learned this stuff because it happened to somebody. And second: Next time, let the movie star go first.)
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the pilot’s seat of a B-1 bomber, staring out at two miles of white concrete runway under a cloudless Texas sky. I’m strapped into the ejector seat harness in so many different ways and places that even a New York City dominatrix would be awed.
“Turn the ejector seat switch from manual to automatic,” the flight instructor tells me from the co-pilot’s seat. He’s a major, in his 30’s, who vaguely resembles George Clooney. He’s spent the last few minutes detailing our mission: “Gentlemen, we’ve learned that T.W.A. Flight 800 was an act of Libyan terrorism. In retaliation, our targets today are two bridges in western Libya.” I watch the throttles move forward; I feel the engines start to rumble; I see the runway disappearing underneath us.
And 15 seconds later, it feels as if a gorilla has stepped off my chest when the bomber levels out at 17,000 feet, and we’re no longer pulling 2.5 Gs.
“So I hear that your movie is supposed to be about those cushy Stealth pilots,” the major remarks with a poker face as he eases the plane over into a vertigo-inducing bank. “Any chance we can get you to reconsider?”
“I’m thinking about it right now,” I click back over the radio. “Particularly since my life does seem to be in your ever-so-capable hands.”
“Excellent observation,” comes the voice of the weapons specialist from deeper in the plane.
Over the next two hours, we go on the simulated bombing run; we dive down-nose first-to 500 feet, where the terrain-following radar kicks in, flying us, twisting and turning, in, around, above and below mountains and mesas, and finally I have a front-row seat as we refuel in midair.
I do not throw up.
“It’s a great victory for mankind,” the pilot deadpans. “You’ve earned our eternal respect,” the weapons officer chimes in.
Two hours later, we celebrate our triumph over Libya and air-sickness at a barbecue joint outside Abilene. We banter about cars, planes, sports and the stock market-with the occasional question about movie stars tossed in. It becomes obvious that they’re curious about celebrities, but not really impressed by them.
Sitting there, something crystallizes that’s been gnawing at me for a while: The mindset, here in New York, that nothing means anything unless a celebrity’s name is attached to it. It’s the mindset that gives us Leo DiCaprio interviewing President Clinton for Earth Day; the mindset that decides the story of the universe at the Hayden Planetarium isn’t enough on its own, but needs Tom Hanks’ narration to make it really special; the mindset that gives us pictures of Alec Baldwin as the reason for contributing to WNET. It’s a mindset that sells us all short. And it speaks volumes about the people who make these choices: shallow, insecure, untrusting of the worth of their own work.
“So is there anything else we can do for you?” the major asked at the end of lunch.
“Drop me off at La Guardia?”
The major furrowed his brow. “Is that part of America?”
I smiled. “Sometimes I wonder.”
