Where is Con Air when you need it?

Televisions all over North America were turned to the big plane with little bad wheels trying to land in LAX. They really do not have much choice; “up-to-the-minute” “breaking story” just took over their electron guns and shot out nail-biting all-consuming empathy. It finally ended in a collective exhale at the anti-climax: nobody was hurt; they did not even bother to use the escape chute. You could hear the desperation in the reporters’ voices after the landing, saying that within the minute the stewardesses would open the doors and deploy the chute. Minutes and then minutes, still the doors were not opened. The disembodied voices finally resigned to a complete waste of time, the endless-ness of the non-event. We too were disappointed but dare not admit it. We had been waiting all this time for a giant fireball and heroic rescue. Sure, we had fire but little more than the fire from a home kitchen crème brulé torch. We did not want to see people hurt, not really, but we did want a nice crash, like the one in Toronto last month. We want suspense and we want a good Jerry Bruckheimer ending. We wish we could combine the beginning of this landing and the ending of the one in Toronto. Then, we have a complete narrative. We are all such idiotic Richard Roeper critics on everything!