Tag Archives: jetblue

Lame Adventure 264: Don’t Mind the Nude Guy

JetBlue Snooze Kit

I ventured my way East via the JetBlue red eye out of Oakland, not my preferred flight, but it was at my preferred price: cheap.  The midnight hour flight boarded and took off on time.  The crew was the usual, pleasant and professional.  There were not any whiny toddlers or crying babies.  All was looking great.

I was sitting in the aisle seat.  There was an empty seat between me and the other passenger in my three-seat row.  He was a guy around 30 give or take five years.  His was the window seat.  He was a handsome, buff, well-groomed, coffee color chap with an elaborate sleeve tattoo on at least one of his arms.  I only like men for their minds, so I don’t look that closely at guys.  It’s possible that both of his arms could have been tatted.  He was taking forever to shove his carry-on crap in three of the overhead bins. I found that annoying. He seemed oblivious to blocking the aisle for a million waiting passengers.

Me:  Are you ready to sit down yet?

He sat.

Also, he was reeking of pot, but that doesn’t faze me.  He did have the munchies.  Typical.

As the plane takes off, he keeps grabbing his tee shirt and fanning it like he’s a blast furnace.  I ignore his antics.  After the captain gives the okay to reactivate electronic devices, he plays with his iPad.  He had every iGadget going — the MacBook Air, the iPhone.  It’s late. I’m tired.  The crew shut off the cabin lights so we’re flying in the dark.  I close my eyes.  When I open them I notice that he’s stripped down to just his tighty whities.

I think:  What the hell is this about?

I say nothing.  There are no small fry running around or are there any kids on this flight, but Jesus H. Christ, no way would I exhibit myself on a commercial flight.  I don’t even like my Special Someone to look at me when we get horizontal, upright, sideways, on the ceiling, etc.  So, is Mr. Natural intentionally trying to freak me out because he assumes I’m a demure middle age woman?  Is he blind to my motorcycle boots, the telltale sign that I’m not quite yet the Little Old Lady from Pasadena?  I do what I always do when I encounter some idiot clamoring for attention.

I ignore him.

When the flight attendants hand out snacks and beverages, they can fully see this guy is practically naked.  When one asks him what he wants, Mr. Natural chirps:

Mr. Natural:  Cookies!

I used to eat Cap’n Crunch when I got stoned.  The attendants, three women, act like everything’s cool with this nearly naked guy in our presence.  Do they know something I don’t?  Is he our Air Marshall?  Part of me think that by keeping cool about this situation it might be for the best.  Do I want JetBlue to land the plane in Wyoming to place Mr. Natural under arrest and then I don’t get home until five in the afternoon instead of nine in the morning?  Next, I wonder:

Me:  Am I being punked?

Yet, Ashton Kutcher seems to have other things going on.  I also wonder if Mr. Natural looked like Sydney Greenstreet, would his being nearly nude then be an issue?

Sydney Greetstreet aka "The Fat Man".

After a while, I need to pee.  When I return to my seat, Mr. Natural’s in his clothes again.  Great, this aberrant episode is behind us.  He needs to get up, so he does.  He returns with two fistfuls of more cookies.  I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.  When I open them and stir, I see on my TV screen showing our route that we’re leaving Iowa and entering Illinois.  And, oh yeah, Mr. Natural’s now napping STARK NAKED with his mitts covering the sausage.

Inside my head, I’m screaming:

Me (screaming):  What the fuck is going on here?

I long to take a picture of Mr. Natural for Lame Adventures, but I’m too intimidated.  He’s clearly a gym rat with biceps the size of cantaloupes.  If he hit me he’d probably knock me straight through my seat and through the seats of all the passengers sitting behind me.  Plus, the lighting is too low.  I know I’ll need to use my flash, and that could wake him if he really is asleep.  In addition, this guy is possibly just messing with my head.  What do I do here along side a naked man sitting next to me on a commercial jet?

I resume doing nothing.

Actually, I drift back off to sleep.  When I wake, we’re exiting Pennsylvania, and he’s clothed again.  I’m now wondering if I’ve made this all up in my mind?  My shoulder was hurting before I boarded, and I considered popping an Aleve, but I was concerned that it might make me feel loopy at 35,000 feet in the air.  I’m completely drug-free and I doubt I had any contact high from the pot field Mr. Natural surely smoked before boarding.  Later, when I encounter him again standing several feet away from me at the luggage carousel, he’s staring at me.  Even though I feel his stare, I act like he’s not there.  I get my bag first and split.

When I return home, I share this tale with my buddy Coco.  She’s super straight so I figure if anyone can explain to me what was going on here with Mr. Natural, she’s the source:

Coco: Who gets naked on a plane?!?!?!!! Who strips to their underwear!??!!! How are the stewardess’s ok with this? I have never heard of anything more inappropriate! Gross! Bare ass cheeks on the seat!!!!  Maybe he was a stripper. He obviously smoked some excellent pot because he did not give a rat’s ass about anything …. except for cookies.  This is total LA!!!! That is insane! I am speechless.

I could not have surmised this better myself.

Lame Adventure 145: Summarizing the First Year of Lame

Over the weekend I was busy multitasking; celebrating the New Year while mourning the impending death of my 17-day vacation when WordPress, this blog’s Content Management System, sent me an email called “Your 2010 year in blogging.”  This immediately added to my overall feelings of malaise, but after downing a glass of liquid courage that tasted a bit like Pinot Noir flavored Palmolive, I belched a soap bubble, and then read their missive.

Between late January, when I launched this site through December, WordPress calculated that I have had enough page views to fill thirty 747’s, but since I prefer to fly JetBlue, I recrunched their numbers and calculated that my audience can actually fill 83.706666 Airbus A320’s out of JetBlue’s fleet of 115 Airbus aircraft.  They rated my blog’s health a “wow” and said, “We think you did great!”

Really?  I did great.  Hm.  Last week’s blizzard that engulfed New York canceled more than 4000 flights.  That’s a very humbling statistic as I consider my blog only accounts for 83 of those planes.  Therefore, I suspected that they massaged every blogger’s fragile ego with airplane spin.  I asked Milton if he received a similar email:

Me:  Did you hear from WordPress about your 2010 stats?

Milton:  Why would WordPress contact me?

Me:  To praise you about how well your blog did.

Milton:  I wrote four posts.

As usual, Milton was exaggerating; I am quite sure he published closer to fourteen posts, rating at least a helicopter’s or hang glider’s level of back pat in my opinion.  He has yet to receive his email, and I felt a bit sheepish mentioning mine to him, so we quickly changed the topic when he started giggling:

Me:  What’s so funny?

Milton:  They thought I was in here jerking off.

“They” is a reference to his colleagues.  Milton was in his conference room at work in lower Manhattan talking to me on his cell phone.

Me:  Why would they think that?

Milton:  Didn’t I tell you about him?

Me:  There’s a guy in your office that spanks the monkey in the conference room, and you can hear the slapping sounds?

Milton:  Yes, and leave it to you to add an audio cue to that description.

The top five most popular search terms that visitors used to find my site are in descending order:

5.  brunhilde:  This smells like my buddy, Martini Max, in a tribute I wrote to him on his birthday recounting his ex-wife, Bruni, a lass that despised us all.


4. courtney love:  For all you Courtney fans, you may or may not be disappointed when you see Lame Adventures Courtney, a scantily dressed drag queen that does bear a distinct resemblance to the rocker, especially after she kicked … cheese.  Click #3’s link below and scroll through the pictures for a glimpse of the she-male version of the notorious chanteuse.

3.  sexy boys:  This, Milton and I both knew would be one of my more viewed posts when we went out of our minds photographing 2010’s Gay Pride parade.  To my gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender audience, thanks.  To all you horny young straight dudes that drool over that post, what the hell, thank you, too.


2. plate of spaghetti: This is a complete head-scratcher to me.  Last February, I snagged a picture of a plate of spaghetti off the web, and every day someone out there accesses my site via that image.  I wonder what might overtake it in 2011, images of foot fungus, glitter (that will surely come via another Milton contribution), Mr. Bill, Thurber, etc?

Thurber sinking his teeth into Mr. Bill, "Oh noooooooooo!"

For plate of spaghetti fans, click on the link below for a fix:


1. marvin:  Yes, marvin is my #1 search term thanks to Milton referring to my tennis hero, Rafael Nadal, as Marvin the Martian, due to his oversized US Open sneakers:


Next post, I will recount what life is like as I enter my seventh year of checking my dreams at the door of the tile and bath fixture showroom where I oversee labeling and early onset misery amongst my dedicated peers Lame Adventures 2011-style.

Lame Adventure 144: Back in the Snowy Apple

Flying JetBlue out of SFO five days after Christmas was a far less stressful experience, once I finally located hidden underground gate A1A, than my narrow escape from a body cavity search conducted by Francina, the JFK TSA screener who had half the poise and none of the cheer of a concentration camp guard.  At SFO I was subject to a full body screen, albeit not one of my favorite joys in life.  Yet, when I compare that indignation to being pat down by a woman resembling Don Knotts cross-bred with Lassie I welcome being viewed front and back in naked x-ray by a cluster of bleary-eyed strangers.

On my return flight, my seatmates were 8-year-old Wyatt and 6-year-old Adelaide, two California kids who were visiting their Uncle Travis in New York City.  At first, when I saw that I was going to be flying six hours across country with unaccompanied small fry, I thought:

Me:  Ugh, kids.

Very Considerate Woman, who was seated adjacent from me, looked back, smiled and said, “They’re so sweet.”  I considered replying:

Me:  Wanna trade seats?

I reasoned that my young seatmates would be completely preoccupied with the excellent in-flight entertainment system.  Therefore, I’d be able to read my book, Tinkers, essentially undisturbed.  Then, a member of the flight crew announced:

Member of Flight Crew:  Folks, we’re real sorry to have to tell you this, but the in-flight entertainment system is not working on this aircraft.  We’ll give you a $15 voucher for the inconvenience.

Immediately, I revised my thinking:

Me:  Jesus Christ, I’m going to fly six hours across the country with two rugrats denied Nickelodeon!  This is cruel!  This is torture!  This is inhumane!

Adelaide:  Does that mean the TV doesn’t work?

Me:  Yes.

Adelaide:  Will they fix it so we can watch it later?

Me:  I don’t think so.

Wyatt:  Are we not gonna have TV when we fly back?

Me:  Let’s hope that you’ll fly back on an airplane where the TV works.  JetBlue has a lot of airplanes, so hopefully, when you guys fly back, you’ll be on a better one.

Adelaide:  I hope so, too!

Following that exchange, the three of us hit it off quite well.

For a while Wyatt, who is a very artistic, somewhat shy boy, drew in his diary, and he also made a paper airplane with nice lift, but we only flew it amongst ourselves.  Child expert me laid the ground rules:

Me:  Let’s not do anything too stupid that gets us in trouble, but a little stupid’s okay, all right?

We were all in agreement and I was Marshall of Stupidity, a role I was born to play.

Adelaide, who has endless personality, confided that her brother’s nickname is “Quiet Wyatt” and she’s “Applelady Adelaide.”  I resisted the urge to deliver a boring lecture about Wyatt Earp and the Broadway musical Guys and Dolls featuring a character called Miss Adelaide.

Adelaide wove a worm into her wooden apple toy during take-off.  We played with Wyatt’s stuffed blue dog, Spots, and Adelaide’s elephant, Stuffy.  I pointed out that Stuffy and I had comparably sized noses.  I taught Adelaide the word ‘tomato’ off the beverage card.  I got one of the crewmembers to give airplane-loving Wyatt a copy of Popular Mechanics to peruse, but explained to him that the $7 in his pocket was not quite enough to purchase the $54 million helicopter that caught his eye.  They used their useless headphones to play racecar.  Adelaide had the card game War in her backpack, but they converted it to Go Fish and cheated each other ruthlessly, reminding me of when I played cards with my brother, Axel.

I regretted not buying a fresh pack of gum when I picked up a New York Times pre-flight.  I always purchase fresh gum when I fly, but I still had a few pieces of the stale stuff from six months ago, and figured I’d make due since I am not a gum chewer.  I felt selfish sneaking a piece into my mouth as we took off, but when we were descending Very Considerate Woman offered her gum.  I handed it to the kids.  Wyatt took a piece and shouted, “Thank you!”

Adelaide the Alpha took four pieces, prompting me to gasp in a voice worthy of Dave, the Chipmunks handler:

Me (as Dave):  Adelaide!

Adelaide (as Alvin):  They’re for my uncle!

I mouthed “real sorry about that” to Very Considerate Woman.

Very Considerate Woman:  It’s fine.

Upon landing, Adelaide announced triumphantly:

Adelaide:  I was bored the entire time!

I was primarily focused on the kids throughout the flight, but I did notice the guy sitting across the narrow aisle from me praying silently and deeply into the religious medallion around his neck during takeoff and landing, prompting me to think, “Like that’s gonna spare us from doom bub.”  Possibly, Adelaide noticed him, too.  I am by nature fatalistic, except when Adelaide asked me if we could crash.  Then, I dug out a degree of moldy optimism that had gathered cobwebs in my mind over the course of the last 40 years, dusted it off and assured her:

Me:  We’re going to arrive New York safe and sound.

Apparently, Very Considerate Woman glanced back at us so often, it prompted Adelaide to ask me:

Adelaide:  Is that lady your mom?  She keeps looking back at you!

Very Considerate Woman was easily five or ten years my junior.  At that moment, I felt so flattered I would have voted charming little pistol Adelaide for mayor – and I am sure she would have taken the recent epic snowstorm that buried New York City far more seriously than a guy named Bloomberg.

Welcome home.