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Don't Talk to Strangers

Obsessive Readers of this Blog Will Remember

That I'm a big fan of the rock band The Beau Brummels. If you're a thousand of my millireaders with a memory not filled with a decade-plus my goofy detritus, you might remember my blog entitled The Beau Brummels Incident I perpetrated 17 years ago. That blogitem, while declaiming that it had nothing to do with The Beau Brummels themselves, was dependent upon their song Don't Talk to Strangers, which was played without authorization on a major radio station. It's a wonderful song, as are many Beau Brummels hits and obscurities. However, as with my previous blog, this one has nothing to do with The Beau Brummels. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, it also has nothing to do with the Beau Brummel's 1965 very minor hit record Don't Talk to Strangers, either. Rather, as the title hints, it has to do with talking to strangers.

And with flying. And with the pandemic. And with an article by one Professor Nicholas Epley in yesterday's Wall Street Journal.

According to Dr. Epley, I Am Failing

I consider one of my personal goals to take reasonable steps to increment my own happiness, and—not being psychotic—increment the happiness of others.* Epley's article, entitled The Science of Talking to Strangers, in many more words than the following, explains how talking to strangers brings many benefits. People, he researches, are pessimistic about the benefits of doing so, and unjustifiably so. I have had many occasions to agree with him and none that I recall about any detriments. In fact, I don't remember a single conversation, at least that I initiated, that meandered below a five on the usual one-to-ten spectrum of appalling to outstanding.

And yet, in the half-decade since the COVID pandemic, I might as well have been a clam. I live in Arizona and my place of striving remains in New Jersey. I make the pilgrimage and its reverse approximately triannually on a scheduled airline. Each two-way trip entails about eleven hours of sitting next to a stranger. 33 hours per year, perhaps as many as 180 hours since 2020. I cannot recall a single conversation I had with a single seatmate. Many flights would have passed without a single word were it not for the flight attendant asking us individually about our choice of beverage.** .

In the blessed pre-pandemic years, I recall any number of times I've chatted with a seatmate. If they were reading a book and I could see the title, I'd occasionally ask about it. Or offer help or, worse, free advice on aviation subjects. It makes the tedium of flying less vexing, far more entertaining, and occasionally fruitful. Once, very long ago, it even resulted in an exchange of telephone numbers!

Was it the pandemic? Is it politics or polarization? I can't ascribe it solely to the other passengers since I'm just as guilty. I think a main reason is our "devices." People rarely read books with covers, and it's difficult to discern what they are reading without being obtrusive. With our noise-canceling headsets and insular habits, it seems to be the way of future travel. Sad.

My Newfound Freedom

If you look below at today's T-shirt, you will note that I ended a sentence with a preposition. I'm sure I've done that accidentally, but this was deliberate. I've accepted authorities more recent than those of my early, alleged, education and have decided that there's no justification for that rule. One of those authorities—responsible for The Grammar Table—will appear in a a forthcoming blogitem.