And thus begins another installment of ‘People Jackie Meets on Planes’. We had the-world-is-gonna-end-I-know-I-work-for-FEMA guy, Noam Chomsky’s old colleague, Heliberto, the ridiculously profound and affluent Merck representative, the photographer, the dude from Michigan whose career I can’t remember, and now we have the dog trainer from LA.
…The dog trainer from LA.
Tell me you’re thinking something along these lines:
Well, you’d be pretty much right. Sarah, the 26-year-old born and raised in LA county, had 4 orgasms in a round of dry humping last week.
Do people do that? Not the orgasms part (hello, self-proclaimed proprietor of the coregasm here) but tell people strangers these kinds of things? I mean, I suppose that makes more sense than telling an acquaintance – after all, she’s never gonna see me again; what does it matter? And I’m totally cool with it…I’m just a little taken aback, if you will. I thought about plugging her website in here, but I don’t think I gave her the best (or most appropriate) introduction--as much as I yearn for the opportunity to blog, “Does your dog pee on your bedsheets? Can’t take it any longer? If you’re in the LA area and would like the chaos and misery to cease, Sarah is the answer! Perky, audacious, open, fertile, and full of bravado, she can Pavlov the crap outta your pooch (and into a non-toxic, disposable container)!”
Plane ride aside, trip #7 to Californ-i-a was pretty great. I met a bird on the beach. She was super duper hungry. This is that bird, eating the hot dog I made for her:
I named her Sue because her life looked hard. And you know what they say: life ain’t easy for a bird named Sue.
OH. Another highlight I almost forgot about. On Saturday night, my mother and I ventured into the LA metro area to go to Hollywood Grove (super neat). Mexicantown turns into Koreatown seamlessly; after Koreatown, the houses get nicer by the block by the digit until you’re surrounded by…
…
…
Yarmulkes (yamakas?).
Seriously. The average property value of a house on any given block is directly related to the number of yarmulkes within hearing distance. This is when my mom interjected with a racist, yet informative, quip about how, back in the day, they would say, “Can I Jew ya down?” Well, I suppose that depends on if I can Catholic your balls.
And now I’m going to end this post with examples of how goddamn polite I am. I know you were hankering for this moment. Before Sarah and I were speaking, I went to take a little in-flight nappy-poo. I set down the book I was reading (‘Bringing Down the House’—the book version of ‘21’; it’s obviously better than the movie, though I do enjoy the majority of Kevin Spacey’s work.), turned my iPod on and shut the window. Two seconds passed and I realized Sarah was reading (Skipping Christmas by John Grisham) so I opened it back up for her lighting needs (once you damage your retinas, you ain’t gettin’ new ones) and did not get my desired rest (but I did, however, get to learn about her sex habits).
On my next flight, I got to my seat before my seat buddy. I’m reading my book, I’m totes hogging the arm rest (armrest?), I’m having a good time, and then my seat partner arrives so I systematically move my arm to establish a peaceful treaty and make her feel welcomed. And, lo and behold, that bitch takes full advantage of the opportunity to relax her elbows. She bogarted that 9-inch block of plastic like it was her first-born son and she just ran out of lamb’s blood. I’m not saying I wanted the whole armrest (arm rest?), but sharing is caring, kids. Just because I’m not using it doesn’t mean I enjoy bearing the burden of supporting the weight of my right arm, thanks. Which brings me to an episode that happened on the flight back from A*dam: I’m chilling with Jim Henson. I get my vegetarian lasagna while Jim Henson remains foodless. And foodless. And still foodless. I’m waiting. The lasagna is getting cold. The stewardess comes up to tell Jim what’s taking so long and notices that I’m not eating and offers to take my food to warm it and bring them both out simultaneously, which I gratefully accept. Sans hyperbole, Jim seemed a little creeped out. He kept on going about how no one does that (Jim and I do have a very odd dynamic, sure, but we’re ‘friends’ nonetheless) and that struck me as super weird.
That is how polite I am. I personally think I sound like an awesome seat-buddy. If you would like to take me on any flights with you (destination permitting, though I’m pretty open minded), just give me a week’s notice or so. The only thing I require is the window seat.
