I just landed in Toronto and got settled in the Air Canada lounge (which is sweet).

On the flight over we were seated in front of a family with a cute young podling. He was behind me, with curly blond whisps, and — wouldn’t — stop — kicking.

The flight attendant, kindly, moved me up to an exit row to avoid the onslaught. I saw that my new seatmate-to-be was a fat man with muscles and a crew cut. His legs were crossed across the empty seat, now mine.

Me: Hey, I’m your new seatmate.
Hurly: Why?
Me: There was a kid behind me, kicking my chair. The hostess moved me.
Burly: Bad luck for me. Why didn’t you tell him to stop?

He uncrossed his legs, finally letting me sit. He appraised me, looked at my beard and long hair.

Hurly: No chance you’re in the army, eh?
Me: I thought about it out of high school, but I don’t take direction very well.
Burly: See that? Right there — that’s why our country is going down the tubes.

Uncomfortable! He continued:

Hurly: It’s because of your parents. They raised you with too much freedom.
Me: Excuse me.

At that I turned on (the screen), tuned in (my headphones), and dropped out (of the conversation).

I actually felt bad for him: so full of repression and hate, filled with longing for a country that either never existed, or that we’ve left behind. He’s still fighting a half-century-old culture war, and the sign said long-haired freaky people now run the show.

Get with the program, Marine! Drop acid and give me twenty poems, STAT!