July 13, 2003

What are you, a comedian?

Yes, says Southwest Airlines flight attendant Jeff Simpson. Welcome to the mile-high comedy club.

By Melanie D.G. Kaplan

Jeff Simpson holds the mic close to his lips as the lights flicker around him. He tries to gauge his unusually small weeknight audience. Tough crowd, but this comedian knows his lines. "We'll be dimming the lights in the cabin," he says quickly. "Pushing the light-bulb button will turn your reading light on. However, pushing the flight-attendant button will not turn your flight attendant on."

With a full house that joke might have generated laughs, even knee slaps. But on this evening, passengers flying from Albany, N.Y., to Baltimore aren't in the mood for humor, what with the ongoing conflict in Iraq. So Simpson, a Southwest Airlines flight attendant and professional comic, has to settle for a few smirks.

In an age that finds passengers grumbling about security officers rifling through their drawers, flight attendants are constantly reminded that their jobs are no joking matter. After Sept. 11, 2001, Southwest officially grounded its humor, but passengers wrote in to complain that they missed the jokes, so now the carrier has resumed lightening the air at 31,000 feet.

Founded in 1971, Southwest cruised into the industry with stewardesses, as they were then called, dressed in hot pants and lace-up boots. The airline was built on a culture of playfulness that is evident in the company's comical commercials, like the one in which people are practicing their "Baahston" accents for a trip to Beantown or the "Wanna get away?" campaign (think: nosy woman who breaks the medicine cabinet).

Stories about Southwest flight crews zip around like urban legends. There's the one about peanuts rolling down the aisle after takeoff, and another about an attendant surfing past rows of passengers on a plastic drink tray. Simpson himself has been known to carry a tray full of (empty) coffee cups and purposely trip, sending them flying.

He applied for the job while still in college, because he needed health insurance after knee surgery. When he was hired, in spring 1999, Simpson went through training that focused on the parts of the job regulated by the Federal Aviation Administration, such as safety briefings. "They didn't get up there and say, 'OK, we want everyone to joke around,' " he says. "But then they'd interrupt our training on vacuuming the aisles -- we use this carpet sweeper called a Hoky -- and they'd come in and do the hokey-pokey with a Hoky."

The son of a Lockheed Martin engineer and a cartoonist who dressed up as Priscilla the Pig for children's parties, Simpson, 30, is a self-described dork with a round face and long sideburns who says things like "holy cannoli" and plays up his Southern drawl. He grew up in Arlington, Texas, and Camden, Ark., before graduating from a Baptist high school and enrolling at Texas Tech University in Lubbock. His favorite movies are Animal House and Planes, Trains and Automobiles. His comedic idol is the late John Candy. For two years during college, he co-hosted a sing-along show at Kyle's 88-Key Café, where he once ran around in a skin-toned body suit, between tables and in and out of the club, while Kyle played The Streak. He was briefly pursued by a police officer.

Last December, Simpson graduated from the Second City Conservatory, the renowned comedy school in Chicago, where he developed his off-the-cuff humor in improv classes. He recently performed in a show called "The Real World for Real," a spoof on MTV's popular series. He played an effeminate heterosexual mama's boy who everyone thinks is gay.

He isn't afraid to make fun of himself, or others, for a laugh. Before the Boeing 737 leaves Albany, a flight attendant named Rebecca Nedler, who's marrying Simpson July 27, steps into a lavatory behind the cockpit. Simpson picks up the intercom handset and announces loudly to his counterpart in the back, "Ramsey, can we get some extra toilet paper up front?" Nedler -- shy, pretty and admittedly not funny -- exits the lavatory glaring at Simpson. A woman in an aisle seat muffles her laughter.

Simpson and his co-workers know that on a flight, unlike in a venue where people pay for comedy, not everyone is looking for laughs. They might have just lost money in Vegas, or maybe they're on their way to a funeral. Colleen Barrett, president and chief operating officer, says the carrier has a few guidelines: no jokes about politics, religion or national origin. (The FAA even advocates using humor if it makes safety announcements more memorable.)

Simpson's longtime dream has been to appear on Saturday Night Live. He'd like to play "Joe Bob," a redneck in overalls (Simpson says half his family is redneck) who can riff on anything from Washington to wallpaper -- always inaccurately. But en route to his "live from New York" big moment, he says he'd consider a job in talk radio.

Talk comes so easily to Simpson that he sometimes forgets to breathe. Once, he says, on a flight with Shirley MacLaine, the actress repeatedly told Simpson to slow down during his announcements. So he did the final one extra-fast, auctioneer-style, to heckle her back. MacLaine laughed. Now that was a good flight.

PUNCH LINES WITH YOUR PEANUTS?

Southwest frequent favorites:

1. This will be a non-smoking flight. However, if you still wish to smoke, you are welcome to step out to our lounge on the wing, where if you can light 'em you can smoke 'em.

2. (After a hard landing) Folks, that wasn't the first officer's fault; it wasn't the captain's fault. It was the asphalt.

3. (Pushing back from the gate) Everyone on the right side, lean over to the window and wave. We just want to show Delta what a full flight looks like.