Me:  Never trust a woman that can pee standing up!

Although I now completely draw a blank about what we were discussing that I was so vehemently compelled to deliver that particular declaration at the top of my lungs, I clearly recall that at that very moment of me babbling, our boss, Elsbeth, entered.  I was instantly motivated to hit my mute button and change the subject to floor and wall tile, my specialty in her employ.

Before my Lord and Master’s presence pulled the plug on the lively conversation with the Gang of Two (note: our beloved colleagues, The Quiet Man, moved on last fall, and my buddy, Ling, received her Get Out of Jail Free card last Friday), (not) Under Ling (anymore) casually mentioned that she had read in the New York Daily News that tourists rank New York as the Number One city in rudeness.

This detonated Greg and I.  We trampled each other coming to Gotham City’s defense.  I concur with Greg’s blanket assessment:

Greg:  New Yorkers aren’t rude!  They’re aggressive!

And sometimes, first thing in the morning, just too damn loud.

My next career move, gluing sticky notes onto miniature wooden pallets.

New snow boots. Ugly style. Great price.

I figured that was easily a month before I could possibly need them.  My new boots had shipped October 24^th but I did not receive them until two days after that storm on October 31^st.  Happy Halloween to me.

Fast forward to the present when I can finally wear my new Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boots.  I break them in when I drop a lit match on my kitchen floor and I stomp it out with my left boot.  The match is swallowed whole into the deep grooves of the boot.  Fearing that very soon my left foot will ignite, I risk an expensive neck injury and contort myself Cirque du Soleil-style to examine the boot’s grooves for signs of flame, or at least signs of the expired match.  There’s no sign of fire or any match detritus whatsoever.  I think:

Me:  Well, that’s odd.

Apparently my new Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boots have some appetite, or else my foot could spontaneously burst fully into flames and then cough up the remains of that missing match.  I’ll keep you posted.

Foot in Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boot with power to devour lit matches whole.

Since there’s nothing unusual about snow in January in New York City I venture outdoors to check out the action in Riverside Park.

Currier and Ives-y looking southern entrance to Riverside Park.

Eleanor Roosevelt statue wearing a shawl of snow as well as an insulting splat in the eye.

I imagine that kids that had been aching for an opportunity to go sledding down the park’s hills all winter are now in their bliss, but I notice this sign.

Shirley, you jest!

Upper West Side kids and their parents are clearly undaunted.

"We will not be denied!"

As I trek through my neighborhood I see more familiar sights of the season.

Unhappy Vespa, "Someone please tell my owner it's winter!"

Unhappier bike, "Why the hell can't you take the rest of me inside?"

Uncollected trash, "If bags had middle fingers we'd flash them at that annoying blogger-photographer in those Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boots."

This activates my ire as well as my gastritis.  Logically, I know it would benefit my overall health and well-being if I were not inclined to not “sweat the small stuff” .   It would also behoove me  to make a genuine effort to leave earlier, but I don’t have a choice in this matter.  If I recall correctly, my astrological sign is Disgruntled.

Furthermore, on Terrible Tuesday, as my practically paralyzed express train was doing the equivalent of Tai Chi moves from one station to the next, it dawned on me that in my haste to get out the door, I forgot to bring the quart of skim milk I pour on the bowl of organic, lightly sweetened tree bark-flavored cereal I had planned to eat at my desk.  Inside my head, I used the Lord’s name in vain — such a convenient time to be an atheist.

When I finally arrived at my place of employ, We’re Not Happy Until You’re Unhappy, a full half hour late, the first person I encounter is my musician sidekick, Greg. He’s looking cheerful.  I announce:

Me:  Signal problems!

Greg:  Sure, that’s what they all say.

I growl at him.

Greg:  I got you something.

Me:  I hope it’s a quart of watery skim milk!

I approach my desk and see this welcome sight.

Herbal essence?

My foul mood instantly evaporates.  Greg is looking at me, smiling slyly.

Greg:  You know, it’s that tea I told you about last week, Assam Hazelbank.

Me:  Oh, yes, that tea … my second guess!

The Dylan vino, horribly photographed.

I held off drinking it for I recalled Zimmerman’s advice:

Zimmerman: Don’t drink it right away.

I am sure that Zimmerman did not intend that I should hold off drinking it for almost twelve years and spend the vast majority of those years completely forgetting about it.  He also gifted my former colleague and dear friend, Martini Max, with a bottle.  While sharing beverages with Max at the Emerald Inn, our favorite Upper West Side no-nonsense watering hole, I asked Max if he could recall what he did with his bottle.

Me:  Max, did you take Zimmerman’s advice and hold off drinking it?

Max:  I probably quaffed it in one sitting as soon as I got home.

Me:  I researched it online and discovered that it’s now worth $149.56.

Max winced as if he got hit in the head with an oak barrel.  Later, I called Coco.

Me:  Hey Coke, it seems like I’ve had a $150 bottle of wine sitting in my cupboard for almost a dozen years.  Do you think it’s any good?

Coco:  There’s only one way to find out!

That weekend we decided to guzzle this possible nectar of the Gods.  I hightailed downtown to Coco’s lair.  She had a backup bottle of Wyatt Pinot Noir on hand just in case our nectar tasted more akin to swill.

2009 Wyatt aka backup reserve.

Pictured below are the results of our taste test.

Whenever you chow at Coco's, you chow in style.

Holiday wrapped!

Holy crap, is that cork?

"Yes, it's cork. Nurse, hand me the knife."

"Let's try the old coffee filter trick."

"At this rate we'll have a glass by next Christmas."

"Maybe the flour sifter is a better way to go?"

"Much better way to go!"

First glass about to go down the hatch!

"This tastes like ammonia! Is my tongue stained?"

"Are you sure this is meant for tongue stains and when did you drink ammonia -- high school or NYUseless?"

Wyatt to the rescue!

Obedient Wyatt cork.

Happy Coco guzzling Wyatt!

I would like to conclude with two observations.  I recently discovered that a bottle of this Bob Dylan wine that was removed “from a temperature and humidity controlled wine cellar” unlike my cupboard that was completely lacking both temperature and humidity control over the past twelve years — sold at auction on January 12^th of this year for $5.  The second observation is that Coco, even after an hour of floor scrubbing and vacuuming is continuing to step on pieces of cork.

The cork bits that refuse to leave until they're all completely embedded in Coco's foot.

Ole!

After we paid, the waiter returned with our change which included a Where’s George? dollar bill.

Dollar bill with Where's George? stamps.

For those unfamiliar with Where’s George?, it’s a geek web site that tracks currency.  The site has been investigated by the US Secret Service because they used to sell rubber stamps and it’s illegal to deface currency.  The Secret Service informed Hank Eskin, who started the site in 1998, that the stamps are considered advertising.   That motivated him to  stop selling them, the Secret Service got off his back, and the site continues.

A not too big big deal to the Secret Service.

More Where’s George? trivia is that users are considered Georgers.  Apparently, unstamped currency may also be registered on the site.  These unstamped bills  are known as stealths in George-speak.  I imagine the vast majority of stamped or stealth Where’s George? currency has been entered by procrastinating students or glazed-eye types that work soul-sucking, get rich poor quick  office grinds.  Hm, what must that be like?  I don’t think anyone would take a pause during foreplay and suggest this buzz-kill:

Foreplay Pauser:  Hey, what do you say, let’s climb off each other and track all the cash in our wallets now?

I had encountered another Where’s George? single a few years ago shortly before visiting my niece, Sweet Pea, in the San Francisco Bay Area.  I thought that Sweet Pea might like to go online and track the bill.  She found that idea about as enticing as watching grass grow, but still wanted the bill.  Since I have such a winning way with children, I vaguely recall barking:

Me:  If we don’t track it, you’re not going to inherit it!

Although I was carrying my current Where’s George? dollar in my wallet (tucked in a side pocket) during my most recent visit West, I completely forgot about it since I’m infected with the same sky-size hole in my memory as my boss, Elsbeth, who recently asked me:

Elsbeth:  What day is it?

Me:  Thursday.

Elsbeth:  I meant to look at my calendar, but I forgot.

Me:  That’s why you have me.  [pause] What were we talking about, Boss?

Well stamped single.

According to Wikipedia, “As of December 19, 2011, Where’s George? is tracking 200,768,040 bills totaling $1,081,902,862.”

I looked at my bill and wondered where it might have been, so I went online to check it out.  First, I looked at some of the top 20 traveled bills.  One bill has traveled 24,000 miles since its initial entry in Newport, Vermont in November 2008.  I wondered:

Me:  Huh.  Will my bill top that?

Off to a snail slow start.

My Where’s George? bill was entered in Scarsdale, New York in November 2011.  Thus far, it’s traveled 17 miles to reach me.  Clearly, this Lame Adventures single has exited the starting gate at a crawl.

Ever since my salary entered freefall I do my best to steer clear of processed food and that includes my beloved Life cereal. Life contains two yellow food dyes # 5 and #6 and the additive, BHT — butylated hydroxytoluene.

The facts of Life.

According to Wikipedia, BHT is “a lipophilic (fat-soluble) organic compound that is primarily used as an antioxidant food additive (E number E321) as well as an antioxidant additive in cosmetics, pharmaceuticals, jet fuels, rubber, petroleum products, electrical transformer oil and [my personal favorite] embalming fluid.”

Wow, talk about an appetite suppressant!

I make a conscious effort to only eat cereals that are organic and produced without preservatives.

Twigs, Flakes, Clusters and (they forgot to mention) No Flavor!

That same Wikipedia article about BHT cautions, “Some foods labeled as “no preservatives” or “no preservatives added” actually contain BHT that was present in the ingredients used to make the product but which does not require disclosure on the label.”

Huh, sneaky.

I had reasoned that eating better is one way to avoid having to see a doctor. Ironically, eight months into the horror of The Big Negative when I had assumed the diet of a self-denying ascetic that whips herself raw with a cat-o’-nine-tails and then cannonballs into an acid bath, I was diagnosed with such debilitating gastrointestinal disease, an illness I initially confused with tree pollen and grass allergies, it’s remarkable that I’m still alive.  Through medication I was able to quit taking in 2010, and a diet that has now removed almost every food with a hint of flavor from my menu, I have fully regained my health.   I’ll drink to that — even though I’ve been advised not to (as if that will ever happen).

Following my recent vacation where I allowed myself many lethal indulgences including bacon, brandy-filled chocolate, and a bottomless pit of fat and carbs, I returned home with such a prominent abdominal bulge I suspected that I was either transforming into a kangaroo or had swallowed my young.  In my case, that would be Thurber, the family dog, since my niece, Sweet Pea, is my height.

"Look at me ignore you."

What has any of this blathering got to do with Life cereal?  Since I’ve been feeling so full of figure, I have resumed my regular diet of steamed leaves sans stems seasoned with air, but one night after work, I popped into my market, Fairway, where I noticed they had Life cereal on sale.  Even though holiday season is once again history, I was overcome with temptation and I threw caution to the wind.  With a sweaty mitt I nabbed a box of the favorite cereal of my youth, declaring (inside my head):

Me:  To hell with the horrors of food dyes and BHT!  I’m destined to croak of something!  I’ll return to eating organic fortified mulch and wood shavings the rest of the year!

With a bounce in my step and a satisfied smile on my face that brings to mind the aftermath of carnal pleasure with a rare breed of romantic partner, a special someone not blind, brain damaged and added bonus, willing, I avidly anticipated the next morning’s breakfast when I would dive my spoon deeply into a heaping pile of Life.  I did just that and chowed down that bowl of sweet and bland fake colored oat squares with gusto.

An hour later, I was in the bathroom suffering what can best be described as a near-death experience that continued off and on throughout the entirety of the day.  I concluded that this might have been a side effect in a body that was a born-again BHT and food dye virgin.  Although I had some trepidation eating another bowl of Life the next day, I seem to have reestablished a rapport with toxic food chemicals, but once I polish off this box of Life, I’m going to resume my daily morning duet with Trader Joe’s Organic High Fiber O’s.  That cereal tastes much more like tree bark, but I doubt that it will expedite my visit to the crematorium.

I lean heavily left.

My sister, Dovima, ordered my brother-in-law, Herb (with a silent h) to think of what we could do during my last day of freeloading visit.  Herb sat at the computer and began doing research.  She went out leaving Herb and I alone with Thurber, the family dog.

"I'm depressed. I like having you around."

Herb:  How do you feel about going to Bodega Bay?

Me:  Didn’t Hitchcock film The Birds there?

Herb (enthused):  Yeah!

Me (enthused):  Sure!  Let’s go!

Fast forward 24-hours later.

Dovima:  Bodega Bay!  Ugh!  Who wants to go there?  They’re screening animated films at the Exploratorium in the city!  You love animation!

Me:  Ugh!  I don’t wanna go into San Francisco!  It’s such a schlep!

Subtext dialogue:

Me:  Ugh!  I don’t wanna go into San Francisco and run the risk of encountering more exes I hope to never see again.  I have enough of a problem with that in New York.  Hey, I’m on vacation!

Dovima:  Why wouldn’t you want to go to San Francisco?  Everyone wants to go to San Francisco!

Me:  Don’t equate me with them.  I want to go to Bodega Bay!

Dovima:  You’re being ridiculous!  What’s even in Bodega Bay?

Sweet Pea:  Mom, didn’t they film The Birds there?

Dovima:  Don’t tell me that you want to go to Bodega Bay, too, Sweet Pea!

Sweet Pea knows she holds the deciding vote. Herb and I look at the resident teenager longingly.  Dovima looks at the fruit of her loins, threateningly.  I scream inside my head:

Me:  Remember, you’re my sole heir!

Herb screams inside his head:

Herb:  Bodega Bay is great!  What’s the problem?

Dovima screams inside her head:

Dovima:  I’m your mother.  You’re obligated to side with me!

Sweet Pea considers her options. The atmosphere in the house is tense.

Sweet Pea:  Yeah, I want to go to Bodega Bay.

Dovima groans.  I’m relieved.  Sweet Pea high-fives Herb who appears a little stunned to have won a round.  She sets him straight.

Sweet Pea:  You owe me.

Off we go to Bodega Bay – a car ride that according to MapQuest is fifteen miles longer than if we traveled to San Francisco, but I’m in my bliss for every mile we drive further away from Baghdad by the Bay, that’s every mile I’m further away from possibly seeing the conquests of my youth — Lila Floot, Jo-Bang Kramp, Darlene Cunnilackus, et al.

The car ride is pleasant for the most part excluding Sweet Pea repeatedly asking Herb two questions that he completely ignores but his almost inaudible sighs of exasperation indicates that he hears:

Question One:  How long before we get there?

Question Two:  Do you even know how to get there?

We finally arrive.  Dovima, who was still feeling residually foul losing the vote, anticipates that her One True Love is taking us to The Grease and Slop Diner, but Herb has another place in mind, an upscale restaurant called The Tides – that coincidentally is also the location where The Birds’ restaurant and boat dock scenes were filmed.  Today’s Tides were rebuilt in the 1990s.

The Tides

Both Dovima and Sweet Pea are very impressed with this choice – and they’re a tough crowd.  Herb told me that he recalled eating at The Tides in his youth and always wanted to return.

The restaurant is crowded so Herb gives his name.  When a table is ready his name will be announced over a loud speaker giving us time to wander around.  Sweet Pea is determined to find sites that Hitchcock used in filming so she and her mother take off in search of someone that knows.

Lobby card from The Birds with Suzanne Pleshette and Tippi Hedren autographs.

Framed Kyle B. Counts definitive story* about the filming of The Birds.

*To access Kyle B. Counts definitive article click this link, The Making of the Birds.

Herb and I do our own thing.

Enter at your own risk. We didn't.

Herb making friends with Neptune.

Herb and I think we hear his name so we find Dovima and Sweet Pea and approach the host who looks at Herb and asks:

Host:  Are you Marv party of four?

Sweet Pea (loud stage whisper):  Say you are, I’m hungry!

Herb (ignoring Sweet Pea):  No, I must have misheard you.

Marv, who looks like a middle linebacker appears with his party, three burly guys that bring to mind lumberjacks that left their axes in the car trunk, reinforcing the old adage that honesty is the best policy no matter what your kid wants you to do.

Finally, Herb’s name is called – and they get it right:

Host: Herb (with a silent h) party of four!

Dovima and Sweet Pea both order what I really want, fish and chips, but since I am scheduled to fly the red eye later that night and I have a delicate stomach, I deem it best to go with the broiled snapper.  Herb orders a mushroom omelet.

Dovima:  Are you going to get a glass of wine?

Me:  No.  I avoid alcohol whenever I fly.

My sister, who always assumed she knew me as well as herself, faints.  Sweet Pea springs into action and revives her mother.

Sweet Pea:  Auntie didn’t say she was going on the wagon, Mom!

We enjoy our meal as well as the lovely surroundings – huge glass windows with an expansive view of the bay.  Afterward, we go site seeing outside.

Direct descendant of birdy extras?

Fishing vessel returning with a fresh catch.

Birds of (fish) prey perched on rooftop salivating.

Docked fishing vessel.

Pelican hanging out literally and figuratively.

Dovima, Herb and Sweet Pea

It’s possible that I went a little crazy photographing seagulls.

Seagull posing.

"Whatever you do, do not photograph my left side!"

Nice ass ... if you're into feathers.

Seagull-style presidential pose ... possibly the next GOP presidential candidate front-runner.

There are also several whaling artifacts on the grounds.

Whale bone.

Whale jawbone.

Whale jawbone legend.

Unidentified big whale-thing, probably a hangnail.

Whaling pot the size of my bathroom.

You'd surely feel this if it fell on you.

We then pile into the car where Sweet Pea takes over as back seat navigator, hell-bent on finding the schoolhouse used in the filming of The Birds.  She and Dovima were told that it’s in the center of town, but determining which way to turn is a little confusing.  Dovima thinks we should go one way, but Sweet Pea insists with such commanding authority we go the other even Dovima urges Herb the Beleaguered:

Dovima:  Ignore me, listen to Sweet Pea.

He does and sure enough, my heir is right!

The Wooden Duck antique shop across street from ...

The schoolhouse filmed in The Birds! Coincidence that it's painted in the same colorway as The Tides?

The schoolhouse is now a private residence but I’ve read mixed messages on the Internet about the current owner allowing tours.  When these tours happen, if they do still happen, I don’t know.  It was closed when we visited, possibly because the owner knew that Lame Adventures was in the hood.

During my absence my sidekick, Greg, has been in touch with me via email.  He informed me that a surprise awaits me.  I hope the surprise is not that my desk caught fire and my copious notes are now reduced to ash or Elsbeth has changed her name to something like Judith.  How could I possibly remember that?

I have a surprise for Greg as well as our colleague, Ling.  While away, I got us a box of my favorite childhood candy, See’s Molasses Chips.

A box of dark chocolate Heaven from my childhood but hopefully produced in 2011.

I figure the sugar buzz will get us through our first morning back en masse, but by noon I’ll probably be the first to crash with a loud thud.

Yet, even though I am back in the workplace on a day when the temperature in The Big Apple is bitterly cold, here in the alternative universe that is Lame Adventureland, we’re going to resume vacation and visit the Petrified Forest in Calistoga, California with my best friend from college, the nature lover, BatPat.  This place has nothing to do with the 1936 film, The Petrified Forest, starring Humphrey Bogart, Bette Davis and Leslie Howard.  There is also the Petrified Forest National Park in Northeastern Arizona.  That’s not the park we visited.  We were at California’s registered landmark # 915.  This Petrified Forest is a three million year old nature preserve of giant petrified redwood trees.

The simpleton story about what happened here was that over three million years ago there was a massive volcanic eruption that toppled the forest and buried the redwoods deep in lava and ash as an on again and off again ocean saturated the area.  Over time molecules of crystallized silica replaced the molecules of decomposing wood. Although the uncovered trees with their perfectly preserved appearance of bark look like wood, they’ve actually been turned into stone.  This made me reflect on a member of the 1%’s heart.

I bought a sample of the petrified wood for Milton, knowing how much gay men appreciate good wood.  BatPat reminded me that straight women share the same affinity.  During an earlier visit some years back, she purchased a boulder size piece of it for herself to rest on her bookcase.

BatPat's hunk of petrified wood for personal use.

In comparison what I gave Milton in a little velvet souvenir sack looks more like a shard.

BatPat and I walked the trail.  Here are the photos I took illustrating our hike.

Veer left.

Translation: don't touch anything or do anything stupid.

Good to know.

You'd think this would be a no brainer in this place.

"I'm perfectly cool with waiting in the car."

These mossy moose-shaped branches brought Bullwinkle to my mind.

No argument from me if it lessens the possiblity of encountering a rattlesnake, mountain lion or GOP candidate for president.

California Laurel Tree or as BatPat explained ...

BatPat: This is a Bay Leaf tree!  Think spaghetti sauce.

Bay Leaf. We did not swipe any.

Pit Pine Tree measuring 2 feet in diameter; 43 feet of it exposed: big mother tree.

Rear entry view of the Pit Pine Tree.

Mossy petrified wood pile explanation.

Mossy petrified wood ready for their close up.

Cheesy miner & burro sculptures that I initially mistook for Juan Valdez and his donkey.

More back story.

See next image.

The Giant. Massive. Not the sort of thing you'd want to fall on your foot.

Cluster of five petrified wood stumps under a White Oak tree.

Freakin' tall White Oak tree.

Close up stump that looks like tree bark on the outside but solid rock on the inside. Perfect Land of the Giants paperweight, too.

We got the message and bowed before it.

The Queen, petrified royalty, with another tree growing out of it.

Not exactly a do-it-yourself procedure.

"Hey Mom, look what I dug up in the back yard!" ... Not quite.

Preserved nerds.

What will they think of next? A petrified tree in a tunnel!

Frame left Monarch Tree -- petrified behemoth emerging from tunnel.

Frame left still submerged in tunnel portion of Monarch Tree with bonus BatPat-ian shadow.

Rocks of Ages, exposed ends of trees mistakenly confused with current Broadway musical and upcoming film adaptation starring Tom Cruise (in my mind).

Sound advice.

Madrone Tree brought to mind an expression my father uses whenever I share one of my brainstorms, "Marrone!"

We liked this rock. It's not on the trail map, but we resisted pulling a Lucy & Ethel by trying to sneak it into the trunk of BatPat's car.

Some pretty popular rocks on the trail.

Back by popular demand, more Rocks of Ages.

I bleated, "What idiot would run here?" Minutes later, I was nearly trampled by a hyperactive running 9-year-old.

Robert Louis Stevenson Tree.

Writer Robert Louis Stevenson immortalized his 1880 meeting with “Petrified Charlie”, Charles Evans, in his book, The Silverado Squatters.  Petrified Charlie found the first stump of petrified wood while tending his cows in 1871.  It seems highly unlikely that any newly discovered trees in this forest will bear the honorific, the Lame Adventures Tree, for being mentioned in this blog.

Commemorative plaque depicting meeting between Petrified Charlie and Robert Louis Stevenson.

Go Vegan Bench, another site omitted from the trail map.

Translation: time to buy stuff.

Petrified Wood Pile -- not for sale.

Gift shop fireplace; resisted the urge to pull out the center piece in the center section.

A dozen years into this not so new millennium, I pronounce 2012 the year we divorce ourselves from the tired cliché of New Year’s Resolutions.  Let’s decree 2012 the Year of Realistic Resolutions!  If you are unsure how to proceed with traveling this uncharted course, allow Lame Adventures to be your guide.  Illustrated below are my own resolutions from 2011 as compared with those from 2012:

2011                                                                       2012

1.  Appreciate those with opinions that         1.  Avoid idiots.

differ from your own.

2.  Exercise a minimum of five times a          2.  Quit riding the elevator from

week.                                                                       the second to the first floor.

3.  Eliminate profanity from your                    3.  Substitute asshole for

vocabulary.                                                            motherfucker.

4.  Embrace aging.                                         4.  Dye hair monthly.

5.  Swim twice a week.                                   5.  Drink more water.

6.  Complete writing your opus.                  6.  Invest in a shredder.

7.  Learn a new language.                              7.  Learn proper use of the semicolon.

8.  Run the New York City                              8.  Walk more in Central Park.

Marathon.

9.  Stop cornering Milton into doing                9.  Start cornering Coco into doing

humiliating antics.                                               more humiliating antics.

Milton: "I'll drink to that!"

10.  Be a better person.                                 10.  See number 1.

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.