I just found out that the Mile High Club is a term applied to individuals who engaged in hanky panky while on board an airplane in flight. I thought it was an actual club, with dues to pay and a membership card to carry. Was I wrong! Mammy and I wanted to become members when we went to the Joe Zerbey International Airport to take the fall foliage tour over the county three years ago. We went on the cheaper flight which also featured dust cropping over the Hegins Valley. When we got off the plane we were so proud that we would become members of such a prestigious group, as we needed to have some club to be mentioned in our obituaries when the time came for that.
But we were flabbergasted that there was no ceremony for us when we alighted from the aircraft. No fan fare whatsoever, just yawns and strange looks. I remember getting a hole in one at Heisler’s golf course and receiving great adulation from the crowd, and everyone hooping and hollering, and me buying milk shakes for everyone. There was none of that getting off the plane; just the stewardess calling for some disinfectant spray. Later in the Joe Zerbey International Airport cocktail lounge, we found out that the Mile High Club is so passé, so utterly '70s. In fact nearly everyone on the fall foliage flight boasted of being members of the club -even those who flew alone.
I did some research and discovered that there is no formally constituted Mile High Club, so membership is in the eye of the beholder. It is not like the Moose, Elks, Masons, Eagles, Hibernians or Illuminati by any means. I know as I am a member of all of the foregoing. I remember joining the Pottsville Moose Lodge decades ago when it was located on South Centre Street. The building is now a bank located across the street from one of Pottsville’s finest parking lots. Yes, I remember the Grand High Exalted Bull Moose Leader blindfolding me and making me walk barefoot on egg shells before I could become a member. Afterwards I was given the official Moose double-breasted jacket and given the official club greeting which was a handshake involving touching elbows (first right, then left). None of that occurred with the Mile High Club. It was a real disappointment. Even when Mammy was initiated as a Vulcanette in the Pottsville Winter Carnival she got a nifty uniform and a button to wear.
Some people attribute the allure of the Mile High Club to the lower atmospheric pressure. Others boast that the vibration of the plane intensifies the experience. Still others the mystique is the thrill of doing something taboo and the risk of being discovered. I think it’s the latter; it is similar to leaving your cell phone turned on (with an obnoxious ringtone waiting to blast some insipid hip hop song) while standing in a county courtroom waiting to have your ARD approved. Or sneaking in line at the bleenie stand.
In any event Mammy and I heard rumors that there was a Mile Low Club at the Pioneer Tunnel in Ashland. So, once again we thought we would give it a try. We paid the nine dollar admission -
despite our attempts to get it lowered by flashing our AARP and AAA cards. Again, we faced disappointment. No discounts for us. Once inside Mammy began complaining that the tunnel was too cold and the coal car too bumpy. I complained about all of the cub scouts and brownies that were traveling with us. I ended up giving her my double-breasted Moose jacket that I was wearing, just too keep her warm. When we left the tunnel, we headed to the Ashland High Uppers Park, and like a couple of kids we unfolded the Moose jacket and used it as a picnic blanket, sprawled out, and finished off a six pack of Pepper’s Ginger Ale and ate some ring bologna before heading home.
But we were flabbergasted that there was no ceremony for us when we alighted from the aircraft. No fan fare whatsoever, just yawns and strange looks. I remember getting a hole in one at Heisler’s golf course and receiving great adulation from the crowd, and everyone hooping and hollering, and me buying milk shakes for everyone. There was none of that getting off the plane; just the stewardess calling for some disinfectant spray. Later in the Joe Zerbey International Airport cocktail lounge, we found out that the Mile High Club is so passé, so utterly '70s. In fact nearly everyone on the fall foliage flight boasted of being members of the club -even those who flew alone.
I did some research and discovered that there is no formally constituted Mile High Club, so membership is in the eye of the beholder. It is not like the Moose, Elks, Masons, Eagles, Hibernians or Illuminati by any means. I know as I am a member of all of the foregoing. I remember joining the Pottsville Moose Lodge decades ago when it was located on South Centre Street. The building is now a bank located across the street from one of Pottsville’s finest parking lots. Yes, I remember the Grand High Exalted Bull Moose Leader blindfolding me and making me walk barefoot on egg shells before I could become a member. Afterwards I was given the official Moose double-breasted jacket and given the official club greeting which was a handshake involving touching elbows (first right, then left). None of that occurred with the Mile High Club. It was a real disappointment. Even when Mammy was initiated as a Vulcanette in the Pottsville Winter Carnival she got a nifty uniform and a button to wear.
Some people attribute the allure of the Mile High Club to the lower atmospheric pressure. Others boast that the vibration of the plane intensifies the experience. Still others the mystique is the thrill of doing something taboo and the risk of being discovered. I think it’s the latter; it is similar to leaving your cell phone turned on (with an obnoxious ringtone waiting to blast some insipid hip hop song) while standing in a county courtroom waiting to have your ARD approved. Or sneaking in line at the bleenie stand.
In any event Mammy and I heard rumors that there was a Mile Low Club at the Pioneer Tunnel in Ashland. So, once again we thought we would give it a try. We paid the nine dollar admission -
despite our attempts to get it lowered by flashing our AARP and AAA cards. Again, we faced disappointment. No discounts for us. Once inside Mammy began complaining that the tunnel was too cold and the coal car too bumpy. I complained about all of the cub scouts and brownies that were traveling with us. I ended up giving her my double-breasted Moose jacket that I was wearing, just too keep her warm. When we left the tunnel, we headed to the Ashland High Uppers Park, and like a couple of kids we unfolded the Moose jacket and used it as a picnic blanket, sprawled out, and finished off a six pack of Pepper’s Ginger Ale and ate some ring bologna before heading home. It was a great day to be alive, club or no club.
this is my 100th blog!
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