#FlashbackFriday - WATCH: Pan Am Training Video: "This is MY Galley" (1980's)

#FlashbackFriday – WATCH: Pan Am Training Video: “This is MY Galley” (1980’s)

Filmed inside the aircraft mockup training classroom at the Pan Am Flight Academy in Miami, Florida. This video was played during purser training on how to handle difficult situations and diffusing workplace conflict. Starring Pan Am’s own Cheri Leonhart, Linda Reynolds, and Joan Nell Bernstein.

Whatever you do. Don’t mess with Linda!

1 thought on “#FlashbackFriday – WATCH: Pan Am Training Video: “This is MY Galley” (1980’s)

  1. Studio54 opened after I had already acquired the disco bug of night crawling in downtown underground clubs in 1976 at the age of 18, stripping and hustling at the Gaiety Male Burlesque Theater on weekends, and attending classes as a full-time student at Stony Brook University during the week. I never had the occasion to go to the internationally infamous TV studio turned disco that the paparazzi guaranteed free publicity every day to the media: Studio54. I was not an uptown guy. In 1980, my first boyfriend took me with some of his charmed flight attendant colleagues from PanAm to Studio54. Even though I considered myself an experienced nightclubber, the press on Studio54, its celebrities, uptown swagger, and discriminating door policy made me nervous about approaching the unmanageable crowd at the 54th St. entrance begging to get in. I had no patience to be kept waiting outside of a club when I was already high on drugs and just wanted to dance, or the self-esteem to have made the trip uptown to be rejected. But being gay had panache at Studio54, as I found mattered in all future networking in NYC. Steve Rubell was not at the door that night, but as soon as the four of us W.Village styled gay men emerged from our checkered cab, the doorman lead us by his finger to the opening in the velvet rope that took us into the sanctioned halls of the historical & now infamous theater on 54thSt. I felt very validated by the instant approval of the club based on the assumption that I sucked dick, probably danced & dressed satisfactorily, took drugs, and would know how to behave around the celebrities. As I walked along the long elegantly carpeted and mirrored hallway that led from 54th St. to the vortex of the club deep in the center of this midtown city block, a stage with theatrical backdrops changing images while multiple light systems like spaceships dropped from above, suspending themselves inches from the landscape of the dancefloor before returning to the ceiling like scenery on a movie set. The lights from these extraterrestrial lanterns flashed across the faces of the most beautiful&famous people in the world, dancing with each other like it was the happiest night of their lives and everyone was the best of friends. It was Shangri La. It was all so staged. The authentic theater mezzanine overhanging the dancefloor was, like in any theater, steep stairs making it all the more difficult to find a vacant original velvet fold down theater seat to watch the production of Studio54 from above like a Broadway show. Anybody&everybody on that dancefloor could feel like a star on a stage giving the performance of a lifetime. There was a large circular bar that kept the crowd that was afraid to dance alcoholically impaired. These bar flies would hang onto the bar and their expensive cocktails all night. It was the first time I had ever been to a disco in NYC that had a cash bar. I was too poor and timid to approach the bar to buy a drink at Studio54 for the few years I was able to go there until it closed. I was no longer a dancer for hire at the Gaiety Male Burlesque with a disposable income from the hustling that made the stripping pay seem paltry. Now my life included the responsibilities of rent, student loans, bills, drugs, pets, and commuting to and from my domestic home in Brooklyn. But I worked a professional job so I could receive a respectable paycheck to pay for my obsession to escape from reality in discos under the influence of mind-altering illicit drugs to dance, my ultimate euphoria, every weekend. I was a weekend warrior. Studio54 did not exactly play the most progressive music or permit the DJ to artistically alter the original vinyl song. But we went because it was historic. My boyfriend and I would find a safe place to dance far from the lip of the dance floor of the original floor plan of Studio54, while celebrities and show-offs would carry on in the VIP banquettes for the benefit of the paparazzi taking group celebrity photographs that circulated around the world the next day. BrookeShields, CherylTiegs, PeterAllen, MargaretTrudeau,& ElizabethTaylor all wanted press shots to let the public know that they were having a grand old-time at Studio54 (ergo:not in the obituaries). My boyfriend&I found dancing around this publicly stunt like being an extra on a movie set; moving in and out of camera range for a fleeting second while trying to look like we were normal active partygoers and not spectators. We saw more celebrity faux pas that the cameras of the paparazzi never caught. We were fixtures to fill space safely and with grace, as we dressed, danced, and behaved in a non-threatening manner to the real stars of the club. We were backup dancers, extras, who never planned or aspired to be a star on this dancefloor. We were just happy to be there, watching CalvinKlein sulk around the corners, chasing after hot young boys. Halston on his hands and knees searching for spilled pills. LizaMinelli pawning over whatever gay man she could attach herself to,and possibly marry. MichaelJackson acting absurdly timid, like a young black version of AndyWarhol. DianaRoss invading the DJ booth to get her star kick from grabbing a microphone to sing a Capello over her disco mantra to love,“The Boss”. BiancaJaggar in the bathroom mirror frowning at her messy reflection. Celebrity narcissism, sexuality, drug abuse, vanity&insecurity performed live, for the Studio54 price of admission. http://www.christopherduquette.com

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