I’m the Emergency Row Counselor on the Jet Blue flight I’m on right now.  Everyone should start panicking.  In my defense, I’m more concerned about the lady in the window seat who asked the flight attendant:  “What do we do with the door?  Do we just throw it out?”  See, I figure if we wind up in a situation where we’ve got to open the emergency exit doors, the last thing I’m thinking is: “Where’s the best place for this airplane door I’m holding?”  I forsee getting very Almost Famous and suddenly shouting out personal secrets to a plane full of people: “On Passover, I have coffee during the day!” “I slept with someone who was on Big Brother!” “I put little heels inside my Converse to make me taller!”

I’m distracting myself by watching back to back episodes of NCIS.  It’s such a dude show.  Which is good, because it’s making me feel pumped up in case I have to become a doorman on this flight.  Or if I have to save a guy being held against his will in a log cabin that’s in the middle of nowhere and wired to blow.  This seems fairly specific but I like some take away from any show I watch.  So, I’m happy.

Since we’re on distracting myself, last night I went to a strip club in Stamford, Connecticut.  And it was called Beamers.  Oh, America.  I love you.  A bunch of us went after a Wrap Party.  The reason we chose Beamers?  We were told it was a very divey, terrible place.  Once inside, I saw a travel size Johnson’s Baby Powder on one of the cocktail tables and thought, these people were not liars and also, time to post my Yelp review.  But – and I don’t like burying the lead – we’d also been told that if you approach a bouncer and say, “Uh, I heard that this club was nice?”  He points you to a second door and says “Fifty Bucks each.”  You go in the next door and it’s a way nicer club, better clientle, prettier dancers. No baby powder.  You guys, it’s the Alice In Wonderland of strip clubs.   It’s Narnia-Come-To-Stamford.  I envision a third door, where you pay $100 and just sit in a very beautiful parking lot.  We stayed long enough to make it rain and then went to Taco Bell.

I’m realizing that I’ve flown eight times in the last couple of months and I think I’m going to start requesting the non-dose of radiation method of getting through Security.  I feel like I’m going to a Cancer Drive-Thru every time I have to leave town.   It’s starting to really creep me out.  Plus, I like to find one opportunity to wink at the TSA agent during the girl on girl pat down.  Isn’t it weird that it wasn’t so long ago when Girl on Girl Pat Down was just an innocent name for the bulk of the Cinemax’s library (Girl on Girl Pat Down 2, Girl on Girl Pat Down This Time They’re Not Taking No For an Answer and the less successful Girl on Girl Pat Down: I Think I Feel a Lump).

I write about travel a lot, don’t I?  In a non-exotic-destination-more-anxiety-based way.  This has got to be a huge turn on for most readers.   That said, the King and Queen of PDA In The Sky are in the middle and window seat next to me.  They are particularly hairy people who also enjoy talking very loud but also intermittently whispering to each other.  They keep kissing and caressing each other, to boot.  He has just rolled up her sweatpants and kissed her shin.  Who does that?  I want to go home.  Update:  She has now gone from sitting on his lap in the middle seat to laying across his lap.  Some of her hair as well as some of his arm hair are touching me.  This is the worst three way I’ve ever had.

I think it’s time to land this puppy.